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

Is here: discovering this, discover too

What our poor world has possibly to do

With it! As pigmy natures as you please —

So much the better for you; take your ease,

Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone;

Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone!

All that is right enough: but why want us

To know that you yourself know thus and thus?)

“The world shall bow to me conceiving all

“Man’s life, who see its blisses, great and small,

“Afar — not tasting any; no machine

“To exercise my utmost will is mine:

“Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive

“What I could do, a mastery believe,

“Asserted and established to the throng

“By their selected evidence of song

“Which now shall prove, whate’er they are, or seek

“To be, I am — whose words, not actions speak,

“Who change no standards of perfection, vex

“With no strange forms created to perplex,

“But just perform their bidding and no more,

“At their own satiating-point give o’er,

“While each shall love in me the love that leads

“His soul to power’s perfection.” Song, not deeds,

(For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook

Mankind no other organ; he would look

For not another channel to dispense

His own volition by, receive men’s sense

Of its supremacy — would live content,

Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent.

Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek

And, striving, be admired: nor grace bespeak

Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes:

Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods;

But he would give and take on song’s one point.

Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint,

Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed,

Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed

Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let

That key by any little noise be set —

The far benighted hunter’s halloo pitch

On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch

Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift,

However loud, however low — all lift

The groaning monster, stricken to the heart.

Lo ye, the world’s concernment, for its part,

And this, for his, will hardly interfere!

Its businesses in blood and blaze this year

But wile the hour away — a pastime slight

Till he shall step upon the platform: right!

And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough,

Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough, —

Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve:

Were it a less digested plan! how swerve

Tomorrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes,

And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes

Merrily thus.

He thoroughly read o’er

His truchman Naddo’s missive six times more,

Praying him visit Mantua and supply

A famished world.

The evening star was high

When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived

Before him: friends applauded, foes connived,

And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest

Angels, and all these angels would be blest

Supremely by a song — the thrice-renowned

Goito-manufacture. Then he found

(Casting about to satisfy the crowd)

That happy vehicle, so late allowed,

A sore annoyance; ‘t was the song’s effect

He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect!

In the past life, what might be singing’s use?

Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse

Praise, not the toilsome process which procured

That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured,

No overleaping means for ends — take both

For granted or take neither! I am loth

To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor’s;

But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors

Go pine; “the master certes meant to waste

“No effort, cautiously had probed the taste

“He ‘d please anon: true bard, in short, — disturb

“His title if they could; nor spur nor curb,

“Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence

“The staple of his verses, common sense:

“He built on man’s broad nature — gift of gifts,

“That power to build! The world contented shifts

“With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort

“Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort

“Its poet-soul — that ‘s, after all, a freak

“(The having eyes to see and tongue to speak)

“With our herd’s stupid sterling happiness

“So plainly incompatible that — yes —

“Yes — should a son of his improve the breed

“And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!”

“Well, there ‘s Goito and its woods anon,

“If the worst happen; best go stoutly on

“Now!” thought Sordello.

Ay, and goes on yet!

You pother with your glossaries to get

A notion of the Troubadour’s intent

In rondel, tenzon, virlai or sirvent —

Much as you study arras how to twirl

His angelot, plaything of page and girl

Once; but you surely reach, at last, — or, no!

Never quite reach what struck the people so,

As from the welter of their time he drew

Its elements successively to view,

Followed all actions backward on their course,

And catching up, unmingled at the source,

Such a strength, such a weakness, added then

A touch or two, and turned them into men.

Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape;

Here heaven opened, there was hell agape,

As Saint this simpered past in sanctity,

Sinner the other flared portentous by

A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised

At his success? The scheme was realized

Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd

Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud

To speak, delicious homage to receive,

The woman’s breath to feel upon his sleeve,

Who said, “But Anafest — why asks he less

“Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess,

“It seemed too much but yestereve!” — the youth,

Who bade him earnestly, “Avow the truth!

“You love Bianca, surely, from your song;

“I knew I was unworthy!” — soft or strong,

In poured such tributes ere he had arranged

Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed,

Digested. Courted thus at unawares,

In spite of his pretensions and his cares,

He caught himself shamefully hankering

After the obvious petty joys that spring

From true life, fain relinquish pedestal

And condescend with pleasures — one and all

To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain

Himself to single joys and so refrain

From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure,

His prime design; each joy must he abjure

Even for love of it.

He laughed: what sage

But perishes if from his magic page

He look because, at the first line, a proof

‘T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof?

“On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside,

“To the day’s task; compel your slave provide

“Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf

“Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief —

“Cannot men bear, now, something better? — fly

“A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry

“Of essences? the period sure has ceased

“For such: present us with ourselves, at least,

“Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates

“Made flesh: wait not!”

Awhile the poet waits

However. The first trial was enough:

He left imagining, to try the stuff

That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe

Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe

To reach the light — his Language. How he sought

The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought

That Language, — welding words into the crude