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

The country in my very sight;

And when that peril ceased at night,

The sky broke out in red dismay

With signal fires; well, there I lay

Close covered o’er in my recess,

Up to the neck in ferns and cress,

Thinking on Metternich our friend,

And Charles’s miserable end,

And much beside, two days; the third,

Hunger o’ercame me when I heard

The peasants from the village go

To work among the maize; you know,

With us in Lombardy, they bring

Provisions packed on mules, a string

With little bells that cheer their task,

And casks, and boughs on every cask

To keep the sun’s heat from the wine;

These I let pass in jingling line,

And, close on them, dear noisy crew,

The peasants from the village, too;

For at the very rear would troop

Their wives and sisters in a group

To help, I knew. When these had passed,

I threw my glove to strike the last,

Taking the chance: she did not start,

Much less cry out, but stooped apart,

One instant rapidly glanced round,

And saw me beckon from the ground:

A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;

She picked my glove up while she stripped

A branch off, then rejoined the rest

With that; my glove lay in her breast:

Then I drew breath: they disappeared:

It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone

Exactly where my glove was thrown.

Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me

Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when ’twas told her, could not fail

Persuade a peasant of its truth;

I meant to call a freak of youth

This hiding, and give hopes of pay,

And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman’s face,

Its calm simplicity of grace,

Our Italy’s own attitude

In which she walked thus far, and stood,

Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm —

At first sight of her eyes, I said,

“I am that man upon whose head

“They fix the price, because I hate

“The Austrians over us: the State

“Will give you gold — oh, gold so much! —

“If you betray me to their clutch,

“And be your death, for aught I know,

“If once they find you saved their foe.

“Now, you must bring me food and drink,

“And also paper, pen and ink,

“And carry safe what I shall write

“To Padua, which you’ll reach at night

“Before the Duomo shuts; go in,

“And wait till Tenebræ begin;

“Walk to the third confessional,

“Between the pillar and the wall,

“And kneeling whisper, whence comes peace?

“Say it a second time, then cease;

“And if the voice inside returns,

“From Christ and Freedom; what concerns

“The cause of Peace? — for answer, slip

“My letter where you placed your lip;

“Then come back happy we have done

“Our mother service — I, the son,

“As you the daughter of our land!”

Three mornings more, she took her stand

In the same place, with the same eyes:

I was no surer of sunrise

That of her coming. We conferred

Of her own prospects, and I heard

She had a lover — stout and tall,

She said — then let her eyelids fall,

“He could do much” — as if some doubt

Entered her heart, — then, passing out,

“She could not speak for others — who

“Had other thoughts; herself she knew:”

And so she brought me drink and food.

After four days, the scouts pursued

Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived

To furnish me: she brought the news.

For the first time I could not choose

But kiss her hand, and lay my own

Upon her head — ”This faith was shown

“To Italy, our mother; — she

“Uses my hand and blesses thee.”

She followed down to the sea-shore;

I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought

Concerning — much less wished for — aught

Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, what shall now convince.

My inmost heart I have a friend?

However, if I pleased to spend

Real wishes on myself — say, Three —

I know at least what one should be.

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distil

In blood thro’ these two hands: and next,

— Nor much for that am I perplexed —

Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,

Should die slow of a broken heart

Under his new employer: last

— Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast

Do I grow old and out of strength.

If I resolved to seek at length

My father’s house again, how scared

They all would look, and unprepared!

My brothers live in Austria’s pay

— Disowned me long ago, men say;

And all my early mates who used

To praise me so — perhaps induced

More than one early step of mine —

Are turning wise: while some opine

“Freedom grows License,” some suspect

“Haste breeds Delay,” and recollect

They always said, such premature

Beginnings never could endure!

So, with a sullen “All’s for best,”

The land seems settling to its rest.

I think then, I should wish to stand

This evening in that dear, lost land,

Over the sea the thousand miles,

And know if yet that woman smiles

With the calm smile; some little farm

She lives in there, no doubt: what harm

If I sat on the door-side bench,

And, while her spindle made a trench

Fantastically in the dust,

Inquired of all her fortunes — just

Her children’s ages and their names,

And what may be the husband’s aims

For each of them — I’d talk this out,

And sit there, for an hour about,

Then kiss her hand once more, and lay

Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing — how

It steals the time! To business now.

Table of Contents

[PIANO DI SORRENTO]

FORTÙ, Fortù, my beloved one,

Sit here by my side,

On my knees put up both little feet!

I was sure, if I tried,

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco:

Now, open your eyes,

Let me keep you amused till he vanish

In black from the skies,

With telling my memories over

As you tell your beads;

All the memories plucked at Sorrento

— The flowers, or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn

Had networked with brown

The white skin of each grape on the bunches,

Marked like a quail’s crown,

Those creatures you make such account of,

Whose heads, — speckled with white

Over brown like a great spider’s back,

As I told you last night, —

Your mother bites off for her supper;

Red-ripe as could be,

Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

In halves on the tree:

And betwixt the loose walls of great flint-stone,

Or in the thick dust

On the path, or straight out of the rock-side,

Wherever could thrust

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower

Its yellow face up,

For the prize were great butterflies fighting,

Some five for one cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,

What change was in store,

By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets

Which woke me before

I could open my shutter, made fast

With a bough and a stone,

And look thro’ the twisted dead vine-twigs,

Sole lattice that’s known!