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

Of his own soul demanding exercise.

It followed naturally, through no claim

On their part, which made virtue of the aim

At serving them, on his, — that, past retrieve,

He felt now in their toils, theirs — nor could leave

Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule,

Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!)

Had never even entertained the thought

That this his last arrangement might be fraught

with incidental good to them as well,

And that mankind’s delight would help to swell

His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly

Because the merry time of life must fleet,

‘T was deeplier now, — for could the crowds repeat

Their poor experiences? His hand that shook

Was twice to be deplored. “The Legate, look!

“With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread,

“Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head,

“Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while

“That owner of the idiotic smile

“Serves them!”

He fortunately saw in time

His fault however, and since the office prime

Includes the secondary — best accept

Both offices; Taurello, its adept,

Could teach him the preparatory one,

And how to do what he had fancied done

Long previously, ere take the greater task.

How render first these people happy? Ask

The people’s friends: for there must be one good

One way to it — the Cause! He understood

The meaning now of Palma; why the jar

Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far

Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope

And Rome’s despair? — ’twixt Emperor and Pope

The confused shifting sort of Eden tale —

Hardihood still recurring, still to fail —

That foreign interloping fiend, this free

And native overbrooding deity:

Yet a dire fascination o’er the palms

The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms

Of paradise; or, on the other hand,

The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand,

One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground,

Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound

Some saving tree — which needs the Kaiser, dressed

As the dislodging angel of that pest:

Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold,

With coruscating dower of dyes. “Behold

“The secret, so to speak, and master-spring

“O’ the contest! — which of the two Powers shall bring

“Men good, perchance the most good: ay, it may

“Be that! — the question, which best knows the way.”

And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past

Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last

Of archers, slingers: and our friend began

To recollect strange modes of serving man —

Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel,

And more. “This way of theirs may, — who can tell? —

“Need perfecting,” said he: “let all be solved

“At once! Taurello ‘t is, the task devolved

“On late: confront Taurello!”

And at last

He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past

When forth Sordello came, older by years

Than at his entry. Unexampled fears

Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute

And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute,

Into Ferrara — not the empty town

That morning witnessed: he went up and down

Streets whence the veil had been stript shred by shred,

So that, in place of huddling with their dead

Indoors, to answer Salinguerra’s ends,

Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends

With any one. A woman gave him choice

Of her two daughters, the infantile voice

Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat

Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat —

Its blue cross and eight lilies, — bade beware

One dogging him in concert with the pair

Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife.

Night set in early, autumn dews were rife,

They kindled great fires while the Leaguers’ mass

Began at every carroch: he must pass

Between the kneeling people. Presently

The carroch of Verona caught his eye

With purple trappings; silently he bent

Over its fire, when voices violent

Began, “Affirm not whom the youth was like

“That struck me from the porch: I did not strike

“Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin

“Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin.

“Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take

“My glove for guerdon!” And for that man’s sake

He turned: “A song of Eglamor’s!” — scarce named,

When, “Our Sordello’s rather!” — all exclaimed;

“Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?”

He had been happy to deny, this time, —

Profess as heretofore the aching head

And failing heart, — suspect that in his stead

Some true Apollo had the charge of them,

Was champion to reward or to condemn,

So his intolerable risk might shift

Or share itself; but Naddo’s precious gift

Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close —

“I made that,” said he to a youth who rose

As if to hear: ‘t was Palma through the band

Conducted him in silence by her hand.

Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent

Gave place to Palma and her friend, who went

In turn at Montelungo’s visit: one

After the other were they come and gone, —

These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope,

This incarnation of the People’s hope,

Sordello, — all the say of each was said;

And Salinguerra sat, — himself instead

Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet.

‘T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set

In order for the morning’s use; full face,

The Kaiser’s ominous sign-mark had first place,

The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked

With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked

Romano’s green and yellow either side;

But the new token Tito brought had tried

The Legate’s patience — nay, if Palma knew

What Salinguerra almost meant to do

Until the sight of her restored his lip

A certain half-smile, three months’ chieftainship

Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found

No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound

And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief

Silent as when our couple left, whose brief

Encounter wrought so opportune effect

In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject,

Though time ‘t was now if ever, to pause — fix

On any sort of ending: wiles and tricks

Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town,

Just managed to be hindered crashing down —

His last sound troops ranged — care observed to post

His best of the maimed soldiers innermost —

So much was plain enough, but somehow struck

Him not before. And now with this strange luck

Of Tito’s news, rewarding his address

So well, what thought he of? — how the success

With Friedrich’s rescript there, would either hush

Old Ecelin’s scruples, bring the manly flush

To his young son’s white cheek, or, last, exempt

Himself from telling what there was to tempt?

No: that this minstrel was Romano’s last

Servant — himself the first! Could he contrast

The whole! — that minstrel’s thirty years just spent

In doing nought, their notablest event

This morning’s journey hither, as I told —

Who yet was lean, outworn and really old,

A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise

His eye before the magisterial gaze —

And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes

Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes,

Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say,

‘T was a youth nonchalantly looked away