Robert Browning - The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition

“His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang

“To answer yours! nay, sing them!” And he sang

Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait

His coming, zealous to congratulate;

But, to a man — so quickly runs report —

Could do no less than leave him, and escort

His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought:

What must his future life be? was he brought

So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn?

At length he said, “Best sleep now with my scorn,

“And by tomorrow I devise some plain

“Expedient!” So, he slept, nor woke again.

They found as much, those friends, when they returned

O’erflowing with the marvels they had learned

About Sordello’s paradise, his roves

Among the hills and vales and plains and groves,

Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast,

Polished by slow degrees, completed last

To Eglamor’s discomfiture and death.

Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath,

They lay the beaten man in his abode,

Naddo reciting that same luckless ode,

Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore

By means of it, however, one step more

In joy; and, mastering the round at length,

Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength,

When from his covert forth he stood, addressed

Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest,

Primæval pines o’ercanopy his couch,

And, most of all, his fame — (shall I avouch

Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look,

And laughed as from his brow Sordello took

The crown, and laid on the bard’s breast, and said

It was a crown, now, fit for poet’s head?)

— Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell.

A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell

Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails

Till evening; evening gives it to her gales

To clear away with such forgotten things

As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings

Him to their mind, and bears his very name.

So much for Eglamor. My own month came;

‘T was a sunrise of blossoming and May.

Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay

Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars

That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars

Dug up at Baiæ, when the south wind shed

The ripest, made him happier; filleted

And robed the same, only a lute beside

Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide

The country stretched: Goito slept behind

— The castle and its covert, which confined

Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old

To leave the story of his birth untold.

At intervals, ‘spite the fantastic glow

Of his Apollo-life, a certain low

And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss,

Admonished, no such fortune could be his,

All was quite false and sure to fade one day:

The closelier drew he round him his array

Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when

A reason for his difference from men

Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest

While aught of that old life, superbly dressed

Down to its meanest incident, remained

A mystery: alas, they soon explained

Away Apollo! and the tale amounts

To this: when at Vicenza both her counts

Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin,

Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin,

Reviled him as he followed; he for spite

Must fire their quarter, though that selfsame night

Among the flames young Ecelin was born

Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn

From the roused populace hard on the rear,

By a poor archer when his chieftain’s fear

Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt,

Saved her, and died; no creature left except

His child to thank. And when the full escape

Was known — how men impaled from chine to nape

Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned

Bishop Pistore’s concubines, and burned

Taurello’s entire household, flesh and fell,

Missing the sweeter prey — such courage well

Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since,

Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince

Within a blind retreat where Adelaide —

(For, once this notable discovery made,

The past at every point was understood)

— Might harbour easily when times were rude,

When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve

That pledge of Agnes Este — loth to leave

Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye,

While there Taurello bode ambiguously —

He who could have no motive now to moil

For his own fortunes since their utter spoil —

As it were worth while yet (went the report)

To disengage himself from her. In short,

Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named

His lady’s minstrel, was to be proclaimed

— How shall I phrase it? — Monarch of the World!

For, on the day when that array was furled

Forever, and in place of one a slave

To longings, wild indeed, but longings save

In dreams as wild, suppressed — one daring not

Assume the mastery such dreams allot,

Until a magical equipment, strength,

Grace, wisdom, decked him too, — he chose at length,

Content with unproved wits and failing frame,

In virtue of his simple will, to claim

That mastery, no less — to do his best

With means so limited, and let the rest

Go by, — the seal was set: never again

Sordello could in his own sight remain

One of the many, one with hopes and cares

And interests nowise distinct from theirs,

Only peculiar in a thriveless store

Of fancies, which were fancies and no more;

Never again for him and for the crowd

A common law was challenged and allowed

If calmly reasoned of, howe’er denied

By a mad impulse nothing justified

Short of Apollo’s presence. The divorce

Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course

By any known example? Men no more

Compete with him than tree and flower before.

Himself, inactive, yet is greater far

Than such as act, each stooping to his star,

Acquiring thence his function; he has gained

The same result with meaner mortals trained

To strength or beauty, moulded to express

Each the idea that rules him; since no less

He comprehends that function, but can still

Embrace the others, take of might his fill

With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix

Their qualities, or for a moment fix

On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped

By any partial organ, never stamped

Strong, and to strength turning all energies —

Wise, and restricted to becoming wise —

That is, he loves not, nor possesses One

Idea that, starlike over, lures him on

To its exclusive purpose. “Fortunate!

“This flesh of mine ne’er strove to emulate

“A soul so various — took no casual mould

“Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold,

“Clogged her forever — soul averse to change

“As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range,

“Remains itself a blank, cast into shade,

“Encumbers little, if it cannot aid.

“So, range, free soul! — who, by self-consciousness,

“The last drop of all beauty dost express —

“The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence

“For thee: while for the world, that can dispense

“Wonder on men who, themselves, wonder — make

“A shift to love at second-hand, and take

“For idols those who do but idolize,

“Themselves, — the world that counts men strong or wise,

“Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom, — it shall bow

“Surely in unexampled worship now,

“Discerning me!” —

(Dear monarch, I beseech,

Notice how lamentably wide a breach