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

“Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks

“Sun-blanched the livelong summer,” — all that’s left

Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft,

Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect

He sleeps, the feverish poet — I suspect

Not utterly companionless; but, friends,

Wake up! The ghost’s gone, and the story ends

I’d fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul,

That spirits are conjectured fair or foul,

Evil or good, judicious authors think,

According as they vanish in a stink

Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff

Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough!

Merely the savour’s rareness; any nose

May ravage with impunity a rose:

Rifle a musk-pod and ‘t will ache like yours!

I’d tell you that same pungency ensures

An after-gust, but that were overbold.

Who would has heard Sordello’s story told.

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Cavalier Tunes I. Marching Along

Cavalier Tunes II. Give a Rouse

Cavalier Tunes III. Boot and Saddle

My Last Duchess

Count Gismond

Incident of the French Camp

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

In a Gondola

Artemis Prologuizes

Waring

Warning II

Rudel to the Lady of Tripoli

Cristina

Johannes Agricola in Meditation I. — Madhouse Cell

Johannes Agricola in Meditation II. — Madhouse Cell

Porphyria’s Lover

Through the Metidja to Abd-El-Kadr

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

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I.

KENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King,

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing:

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,

Marched them along, fifty score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

II.

God for King Charles! Pym and such carles

To the Devil that prompts ’em their treasonous parles!

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup

Till you’re (Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

III.

Hampden to hell, and his obsequies’ knell.

Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!

England, good cheer! Rupert is near!

Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here

(Chorus) Marching along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?

IV.

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls

To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!

Hold by the right, you double your might;

So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight,

(Chorus) March we along, fifty-score strong,

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!

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I.

KING CHARLES, and who’ll do him right now?

King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?

Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,

King Charles!

II.

Who gave me the goods that went since?

Who raised me the house that sank once?

Who helped me to gold I spent since?

Who found me in wine you drank once?

(Chorus.) King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?

King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?

Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,

King Charles!

III.

To whom used my boy George quaff else,

By the old fool’s side that begot him?

For whom did he cheer and laugh else,

While Noll’s damned troopers shot him?

(Chorus.) King Charles, and who’ll do him right now?

King Charles, and who’s ripe for fight now?

Give a rouse: here’s, in hell’s despite now,

King Charles!

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I.

BOOT, saddle, to horse, and away!

Rescue my castle before the hot day

Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus). — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II.

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say;

Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray

“God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus). — ”Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

III.

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads’ array:

Who laughs, “Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus). — ”Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

IV.

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,

Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!

“I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?

(Chorus). — ”Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

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FERRARA

THAT’S my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps

“Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

“Must never hope to reproduce the faint

“Half-flush that dies along her throat;” such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart … how shall I say? … too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace — all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good; but thanked

Somehow … I know not how … as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

“Or there exceed the mark” — and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

— E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

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