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

Each camel churns a sick and frothy chap,

And you, ‘twixt tales of Potiphar’s mishap,

And sonnets on the earliest ass that spoke,

— Remark, you wonder any one needs choke

With founts about! Potsherd him, Gibeonites!

While awkwardly enough your Moses smites

The rock, though he forego his Promised Land

Thereby, have Satan claim his carcass, and

Figure as Metaphysic Poet … ah,

Mark ye the dim first oozings? Meribah!

Then, quaffing at the fount my courage gained,

Recall — not that I prompt ye — who explained …

“Presumptuous!” interrupts one. You, not I

‘T is brother, marvel at and magnify

Such office: “office,” quotha? can we get

To the beginning of the office yet?

What do we here? simply experiment

Each on the other’s power and its intent

When elsewhere tasked, — if this of mine were trucked

For yours to either’s good, — we watch construct,

In short, an engine: with a finished one,

What it can do, is all, — nought, how ‘t is done.

But this of ours yet in probation, dusk

A kernel of strange wheelwork through its husk

Grows into shape by quarters and by halves;

Remark this tooth’s spring, wonder what that valve’s

Fall bodes, presume each faculty’s device,

Make out each other more or less precise —

The scope of the whole engine ‘s to be proved;

We die: which means to say, the whole ‘s removed,

Dismounted wheel by wheel, this complex gin, —

To be set up anew elsewhere, begin

A task indeed, but with a clearer clime

Than the murk lodgment of our building-time.

And then, I grant you, it behoves forget

How ‘t is done — all that must amuse us yet

So long: and, while you turn upon your heel,

Pray that I be not busy slitting steel

Or shredding brass, camped on some virgin shore

Under a cluster of fresh stars, before

I name a tithe o’ the wheels I trust to do!

So occupied, then, are we: hitherto,

At present, and a weary while to come,

The office of ourselves, — nor blind nor dumb,

And seeing somewhat of man’s state, — has been,

For the worst of us, to say they so have seen;

For the better, what it was they saw; the best

Impart the gift of seeing to the rest:

“So that I glance,” says such an one, “around,

“And there ‘s no face but I can read profound

“Disclosures in; this stands for hope, that — fear,

“And for a speech, a deed in proof, look here!

“‘Stoop, else the strings of blossom, where the nuts

“‘O’erarch, will blind thee! Said I not? She shuts

“‘Both eyes this time, so close the hazels meet!

“‘Thus, prisoned in the Piombi, I repeat

“‘Events one rove occasioned, o’er and o’er,

“‘Putting ‘twixt me and madness evermore

“‘Thy sweet shape, Zanze! Therefore stoop!’

”‘That’s truth!’

“(Adjudge you) ‘the incarcerated youth

“‘Would say that!’

”Youth? Plara the bard? Set down

“That Plara spent his youth in a grim town

“Whose cramped ill-featured streets huddled about

“The minster for protection, never out

“Of its black belfry’s shade and its bells’ roar.

“The brighter shone the suburb, — all the more

“Ugly and absolute that shade’s reproof

“Of any chance escape of joy, — some roof,

“Taller than they, allowed the rest detect, —

“Before the sole permitted laugh (suspect

“Who could, ‘t was meant for laughter, that ploughed cheek’s

“Repulsive gleam!) when the sun stopped both peaks

“Of the cleft belfry like a fiery wedge,

“Then sank, a huge flame on its socket edge,

“With leavings on the grey glass oriel-pane

“Ghastly some minutes more. No fear of rain —

“The minster minded that! in heaps the dust

“Lay everywhere. This town, the minster’s trust,

“Held Plara; who, its denizen, bade hail

“In twice twelve sonnets, Tempe’s dewy vale.”

“‘Exact the town, the minster and the street!’“

“As all mirth triumphs, sadness means defeat:

“Lust triumphs and is gay, Love ‘s triumphed o’er

“And sad: but Lucio ‘s sad. I said before,

“Love’s sad, not Lucio; one who loves may be

“As gay his love has leave to hope, as he

“Downcast that lusts’ desire escapes the springe:

“‘T is of the mood itself I speak, what tinge

“Determines it, else colourless, — or mirth,

“Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth.”

“‘Ay, that ‘s the variation’s gist!’

”Indeed?

“Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed!

“And having seen too what I saw, be bold

“And next encounter what I do behold

“(That’s sure) but bid you take on trust!”

Attack

The use and purpose of such sights! Alack,

Not so unwisely does the crowd dispense

On Salinguerras praise in preference

To the Sordellos: men of action, these!

Who, seeing just as little as you please,

Yet turn that little to account, — engage

With, do not gaze at, — carry on, a stage,

The work o’ the world, not merely make report

The work existed ere their day! In short,

When at some future no-time a brave band

Sees, using what it sees, then shake my hand

In heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where’s the hurt

Of keeping the Makers-see on the alert,

At whose defection mortals stare aghast

As though heaven’s bounteous windows were slammed fast

Incontinent? Whereas all you, beneath,

Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teeth

Who ply the pullies, for neglecting you:

And therefore have I moulded, made anew

A Man, and give him to be turned and tried,

Be angry with or pleased at. On your side,

Have ye times, places, actors of your own?

Try them upon Sordello when full-grown,

And then — ah then! If Hercules first parched

His foot in Egypt only to be marched

A sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit,

What chance have I? The demigod was mute

Till, at the altar, where time out of mind

Such guests became oblations, chaplets twined

His forehead long enough, and he began

Slaying the slayers, nor escaped a man.

Take not affront, my gentle audience! whom

No Hercules shall make his hecatomb,

Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend —

That’s your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend,

Whose great verse blares unintermittent on

Like your own trumpeter at Marathon, —

You who, Platæa and Salamis being scant,

Put up with Ætna for a stimulant —

And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomed

Over the midland sea last month, presumed

Long, lay demolished in the blazing West

At eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressed

Like Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wear

A crest proud as desert while I declare

Had I a flawless ruby fit to wring

Tears of its colour from that painted king

Who lost it, I would, for that smile which went

To my heart, fling it in the sea, content,

Wearing your verse in place, an amulet

Sovereign against all passion, wear and fret!

My English Eyebright, if you are not glad

That, as I stopped my task awhile, the sad

Dishevelled form, wherein I put mankind

To come at times and keep my pact in mind,

Renewed me, — hear no crickets in the hedge,

Nor let a glowworm spot the river’s edge

At home, and may the summer showers gush

Without a warning from the missel thrush!

So, to our business, now — the fate of such