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Apr 1: BROWNING'S POEMS Vol. 42, pp. 1068-1074
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661 Home-thoughts, from Abroad
O, TO be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge— That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 662 Home-thoughts, from the Sea NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray; ‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 663 Parting at Morning ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me. 664 The Lost Mistress ALL’S over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully —You know the red turns gray. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign: For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,— Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever! Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer! 665 The Last Ride Together I SAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix’d me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish’d me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’d By many benedictions—sun’s And moon’s and evening-star’s at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush’d by on either side. I thought,—All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. What hand and brain went ever pair’d? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There’s many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier’s doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express’d You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. ’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then, Have you yourself what’s best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn’d a rhyme? Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that’s your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, ‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend, Put in music we know how fashions end!’ I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine. Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I sign’d the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life’s best, with our eyes upturn’d Whither life’s flower is first discern’d, We, fix’d so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride? 666 Pippa’s Song THE YEAR’S at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven— All’s right with the world! 667 You’ll Love Me Yet YOU’LL love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing: June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April’s sowing. I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like. You’ll look at least on love’s remains, A grave’s one violet: Your look?—that pays a thousand pains. What’s death? You’ll love me yet! 668 My Last Duchess 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 favor 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! |