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

“Grey hair about his spur!”

Which means, they lift

The covering, Salinguerra made a shift

To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid

Further disclosures; leave them thus employed.

Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,

And poor Ferrara puts a softened face

On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall

Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall

Bastioned within by trees of every sort

On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;

Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,

The figtree reared itself, — but stark and cramped,

Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,

Running ‘twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge

Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,

Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof

Of solid tops, and o’er the slope you slide

Down to a grassy space level and wide,

Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees

Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,

Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,

Borne upon three uneasy leopards’ heads,

A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt

Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt

With trees leave off on either hand; pursue

Your path along a wondrous avenue

Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,

With aloes leering everywhere, grey-grown

From many a Moorish summer: how they wind

Out of the fissures! likelier to bind

The building than those rusted cramps which drop

Already in the eating sunshine. Stop,

You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride

Or else despair of the whole countryside!

A range of statues, swarming o’er with wasps,

God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps

In crumbling Naples marble — meant to look

Like those Messina marbles Constance took

Delight in, or Taurello’s self conveyed

To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, —

A certain font with caryatides

Since cloistered at Goito; only, these

Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop

Able to right themselves — who see you, stoop

Their arms o’ the instant after you! Unplucked

By this or that, you pass; for they conduct

To terrace raised on terrace, and, between,

Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien

Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle

No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,

Upgathered on himself the Fighter stood

For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood

Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath

Those shading fingers in their iron sheath,

Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir

Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre

At the announcement of his overmatch

To wind the day’s diversion up, dispatch

The pertinactious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,

The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap

Dart after dart forth, as her hero’s car

Clove dizzily the solid of the war

— Let coil about his knees for pride in him.

We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim

San Pietro Palace stops us.

Such the state

Of Salinguerra’s plan to emulate

Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife

Retrude still might lead her ancient life

In her new home: whereat enlarged so much

Neighbours upon the novel princely touch

He took, — who here imprisons Boniface.

Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;

And here, emerging from the labyrinth

Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth

Of the door-pillar.

He had really left

Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft

From the morass) where Este’s camp was made;

The Envoys’ march, the Legate’s cavalcade —

All had been seen by him, but scarce as when, —

Eager for cause to stand aloof from men

At every point save the fantastic tie

Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry, —

He made account of such. A crowd, — he meant

To task the whole of it; each part’s intent

Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,

The less became Sordello satisfied

With his own figure at the moment. Sought

He respite from his task? Descried he aught

Novel in the anticipated sight

Of all these livers upon all delight?

This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,

Whereby he still had imaged the mankind

His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,

His age — in plans to prove at least such thing

Had been so dreamed, — which now he must impress

With his own will, effect a happiness

By theirs, — supply a body to his soul

Thence, and become eventually whole

With them as he had hoped to be without —

Made these the mankind he once raved about?

Because a few of them were notable,

Should all be figured worthy note? As well

Expect to find Taurello’s triple line

Of trees a single and prodigious pine.

Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,

Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng

Of shrubs, he saw, — a nameless common sort

O’erpast in dreams, left out of the report

And hurried into corners, or at best

Admitted to be fancied like the rest.

Reckon that morning’s proper chiefs — how few!

And yet the people grew, the people grew,

Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,

More left behind and most who should succeed, —

Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,

Petty enjoyments and huge miseries, —

Mingled with, and made veritably great

Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard’s state

Nor Concorezzi’s station, but instead

Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head

Of infinite and absent Tyrolese

Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these

Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,

Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)

Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays

And out of store of robes must wear, all days,

One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,

‘T is commonly some tarnished gay brocade

Fit for a feast-night’s flourish and no more:

Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store

Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled

For common wear as she goes through the world,

The faint remainder of some worn-out smile

Meant for a feast-night’s service merely. While

Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus, —

(Crowds no way interfering to discuss,

Much less dispute, life’s joys with one employed

In envying them, — or, if they aught enjoyed,

Where lingered something indefinable

In every look and tone, the mirth as well

As woe, that fixed at once his estimate

Of the result, their good or bad estate) —

Old memories returned with new effect:

And the new body, ere he could suspect,

Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,

The new self seemed impatient to be used

By him, but utterly another way

Than that anticipated: strange to say,

They were too much below him, more in thrall

Than he, the adjunct than the principal.

What booted scattered units? — here a mind

And there, which might repay his own to find,

And stamp, and use? — a few, howe’er august,

If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?

No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,

Should he establish, privilege procure

For all, the few had long possessed! He felt

An error, an exceeding error melt:

While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,

Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,

Such as he now distinguished every side,

As his own want which might be satisfied, —

And, after that, think of rare qualities