  AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER WITH OTHER POEMS PROLOGUEOh, the old wall here! How I could pass Life in a long midsummer day, My feet confined to a plot of grass, My eyes from a wall not once away! And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green: Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between. Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims The body,—the house, no eye can probe,— Divined as, beneath a robe, the limbs? And there again! But my heart may guess Who tripped behind; and she sang perhaps: So, the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess Died out and away in the leafy wraps! Wall upon wall are between us: life And song should away from heart to heart! I—prison-bird, with a ruddy strife At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start— Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing That 's spirit: though cloistered fast, soar free; Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring Of the rueful neighbors, and—forth to thee! OF PACCHIAROTTO, AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPERI Query: was ever a quainter Crotchet than this of the painter Giacomo Pacchiarotto Who took "Reform" for his motto? II He, pupil of old Fungaio, Is always confounded (heigho!) With Pacchia, contemporaneous No question, but how extraneous In the grace of soul, the power Of hand,—undoubted dower Of Pacchia who decked (as we know, My Kirkup!) San Bernardino, Turning the small dark Oratory To Siena's Art-laboratory, As he made its straitness roomy And glorified its gloomy, With Bazzi and Beccafumi. (Another heigho for Bazzi: How people miscall him Razzi!) III This Painter was of opinion Our earth should be his dominion Whose Art could correct to pattern What Nature had slurred—the slattern! And since, beneath the heavens, Things lay now at sixes and sevens, Or, as he said, sopra-sotto— Thought the painter Pacchiarotto Things wanted reforming, therefore. "Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore? When earth held one so ready As he to step forth, stand steady In the middle of God's creation And prove to demonstration What the dark is, what the light is, What the wrong is, what the right is, What the ugly, what the beautiful, What the restive, what the dutiful, In Mankind profuse around him? Man, devil as now he found him, Would presently soar up angel At the summons of such evangel, And owe—what would Man not owe To the painter Pacchiarotto? Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto! IV But Man, he perceived, was stubborn, Grew regular brute, once cub born; And it struck him as expedient— Ere he tried, to make obedient The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey By piping advice in one key,— That his pipe should play a prelude To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued, Something not harsh but docile, Man-liquid, not Man-fossil— Not fact, in short, but fancy. By a laudable necromancy He would conjure up ghosts—a circle Deprived of the means to work ill Should his music prove distasteful And pearls to the swine go wasteful. To be rent of swine—that was hard! With fancy he ran no hazard: Pact might knock him o'er the mazard. V So, the painter Pacchiarotto Constructed himself a grotto In the quarter of Stalloreggi— As authors of note allege ye. And on each of the whitewashed sides of it He painted—(none far and wide so fit As he to perform in fresco)— He painted nor cried quiesco Till he peopled its every square foot With Man—from the Beggar barefoot To the Noble in cap and feather; All sorts and conditions together. The Soldier in breastplate and helmet Stood frowningly—hail fellow well met— By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle. Nor did he omit to handle The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer: Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor— He diversified too his Hades Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease, With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies. VI Which work done, dry,—he rested him, Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him Of the apron that suits frescanti, And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty, This hand upon hip well planted, That, free to wave as it wanted, He addressed in a choice oration His folk of each name and nation, Taught its duty to every station. The Pope was declared an arrant Impostor at once, I warrant. The Emperor—truth might tax him With ignorance of the maxim "Shear sheep but nowise flay them!" And the Vulgar that obey them, The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling, They failed not of wholesome schooling On their knavery and their fooling. As for Art—where 's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties, And Painters that pester with nudities! VII Now, your rater and debater Is balked by a mere spectator Who simply stares and listens Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens Nor brow grows hot and twitchy, Nor mouth, for a combat itchy, Quivers with some convincing Reply—that sets him wincing? Nay, rather—reply that furnishes Your debater with just what burnishes The crest of him, all one triumph, As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph! Convinced am I? This confutes me? Receive the rejoinder that suits me! Confutation of vassal for prince meet— Wherein all the powers that convince meet, And mash my opponent to mincemeat!" VIII So, off from his head flies the bonnet, His hip loses hand planted on it, While t' other hand, frequent in gesture, Slinks modestly back beneath vesture, As—hop, skip and jump,—he 's along with Those weak ones he late proved so strong with! Pope, Emperor, lo, he 's beside them, Friendly now, who late could not abide them, King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess; And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges, How minikin-mildly it urges In accents how gentled and gingered Its word in defence of the injured! "Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff! Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if Ye take into con-si-der-ation What dangers attend elevation! The Priest—who expects him to descant On duty with more zeal and less cant? He preaches but rubbish he 's reared in. The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling And what not of vice while a stripling. The Lawyer—his lies are conventional. And as for the Poor Sort—why mention all Obstructions that leave barred and bolted Access to the brains of each dolt-head?" IX He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet? Precedence to males in the alphabet! Still, disposed of Man's A B C, there 's X Y Z want assistance,—the Fair Sex! How much may be said in excuse of Those vanities—males see no use of— From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood! What 's their frailty beside our own falsehood? The boldest, most brazen of ... trumpets, How kind can they be to their dumb pets! Of their charms—how are most frank, how few venal! While as for those charges of Juvenal— QuÆ nemo dixisset in toto Nisi (Ædepol) ore illoto— He dismissed every charge with an "Apage!" X Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee, Right hand disengaged from the doublet —Like landlord, in house he had sublet Resuming of guardianship gestion, To call tenants' conduct in question— Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed With such transformation of visage As fitted the censor of this age. No longer an advocate tepid Of frailty, but champion intrepid Of strength,—not of falsehood but verity,— He, one after one, with asperity Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses, Disposed of sophistic excuses, Forced folly each shift to abandon, And left vice with no leg to stand on. So crushing the force he exerted, That Man at his foot lay converted! XI True—Man bred of paint-pot and mortar! But why suppose folks of this sort are More likely to hear and be tractable Than folks all alive and, in fact, able To testify promptly by action Their ardor, and make satisfaction For misdeeds non verbis sed factis? "With folks all alive be my practice Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O, Farewell to ye!" cried Pacchiarotto, "Let only occasion intÉrpose!" XII It did so: for, pat to the purpose Through causes I need not examine, There fell upon Siena a famine. In vain did the magistrates busily Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily, Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open— Such misery followed as no pen Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter, Emboldened by triumph of recency, How could he do other with decency Than rush in this strait to the rescue, Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue To each and all slips in Man's spelling The law of the land?—slips now telling With monstrous effect on the city, Whose magistrates moved him to pity As, bound to read law to the letter, They minded their hornbook, no better. XIII I ought to have told you, at starting, How certain, who itched to be carting Abuses away clean and thorough From Siena, both province and borough, Had formed themselves into a company Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any Obstruction of scruple, provoking The nicer throat's coughing and choking: Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified Of "Freed Ones"—"Bardotti"—which signified "Spare-Horses" that walk by the wagon The team has to drudge for and drag on. This notable Club Pacchiarotto Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to, As free and accepted "Bardotto." The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye The outrage thus done to society, And noted the advent especially Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally. XIV These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled: Neighed words whereat citizens trembled As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by The Duomo, proposed a way whereby The city were cured of disaster. "Just substitute servant for master, Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty, Unloose Man from overt and covert tie, And straight out of social confusion True Order would spring!" Brave illusion— Aims heavenly attained by means earthy! XV Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,— Brain practised and tongue no less tutored, In argument's armor accoutred,— Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed Proposals like those to which "Yes" said So glibly each personage painted O' the wall-side where with you 're acquainted. He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick: "Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick, If wealth would become but interfluous, Fill voids up with just the superfluous; If ignorance gave way to knowledge —Not pedantry picked up at college From Doctors, Professors et cÆtera— (They say: 'kai ta loipa'—like better a Long Greek string of kappas, taus, lambdas, Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)— No knowledge we want of this quality, But knowledge indeed—practicality Through insight's fine universality! If you shout 'Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie, Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi, Who shieldest the rogue and the clotpoll!' If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas—" (Whoever to scan this is ill able Forgets the town's name 's a dissyllable)— "If, this done, ye did—as ye might—place For once the right man in the right place, If you listened to me" ... XVI At which last "If" There flew at his throat like a mastiff One Spare-Horse—another and another! Such outbreak of tumult and pother, Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering, Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering, Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff Whose impudence ventured the late "If"— That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe, Away from the scene o£ discomfiture— Had he stood there stock-still in a dumb fit—sure Am I he had paid in his person Till his mother might fail to know her son, Though she gazed on him never so wistful, In the figure so tattered and tristful. Each mouth full of curses, each fist full Of cuffings—behold, Pacchiarotto, The pass which thy project has got to, Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot—tow! (The paraphrase—which I much need—is From Horace "per ignes incedis.") XVII Right and left did he dash helter-skelter In agonized search of a shelter. No purlieu so blocked and no alley So blind as allowed him to rally His spirits and see—nothing hampered His steps if he trudged and not scampered Up here and down there in a city That 's all ups and downs, more the pity For folks who would outrun the constable. At last he stopped short at the one stable And sure place of refuge that 's offered Humanity. Lately was coffered A corpse in its sepulchre, situate By St. John's Observance. "Habituate Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows, And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!" So Misery counselled the craven. At once he crept safely to haven Through a hole left unbricked in the structure. Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your Poor client and left him conterminous With—pah!—the thing fetid and verminous! (I gladly would spare you the detail, But History writes what I retail.) XVIII Two days did he groan in his domicile: "Good Saints, set me free and I promise I 'll Abjure all ambition of preaching Change, whether to minds touched by teaching —The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments Created by plaster and pigments,— Or to minds that receive with such rudeness Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness, —The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens Of mind—'hand in posse sed esse mens' As it was, is, and shall be forever Despite of my utmost endeavor. O live foes I thought to illumine, Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in! I need my own light, every spark, as I couch with this sole friend—a carcase!" XIX Two days thus he maundered and rambled; Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled From out his receptacle loathsome. "A spectre!"—declared upon oath some Who saw him emerge and (appalling To mention) his garments a-crawling With plagues far beyond the Egyptian. He gained, in a state past description, A convent of months, the Observancy. XX Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy For Fancy's more proper employment: And now she waves wing with enjoyment, To tell ye how preached the Superior, When somewhat our painter's exterior Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing The matter) much soaking and rinsing, Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous, Till, rid of his garments pestiferous, And, robed by the help of the Brotherhood In odds and ends,—this gown and t' other hood,— His empty inside first well-garnished,— He delivered a tale round, unvarnished. XXI "Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment, "Thine error scarce moves my astonishment. For—why shall I shrink from asserting?— Myself have had hopes of converting The foolish to wisdom, till, sober, My life found its May grow October. I talked and I wrote, but, one morning, Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning: 'Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be! Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.' Man's work is to labor and leaven— As best he may—earth here with heaven; 'T is work for work's sake that he 's needing: Let, him work on and on as if speeding Work's end, but not dream of succeeding! Because if success were intended, Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended. A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse, Or—what 's the plain truth—just a mill-horse! Earth 's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers: A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging At what don't advance for their tugging. Though round goes the mill, we must still post On and on as if moving the mill-post. So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise, Do all that we can to make men wise! And if men prefer to be foolish, Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish: Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper, And worked as the Master thought proper. Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot; Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot! But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot? Though cured of thy plague, there may linger A pimple I fray with rough finger? So soon could my homily transmute Thy brass into gold? Why, the man 's mute!" XXII "Ay, Father, I 'm mute with admiring How Nature's indulgence untiring Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's Best rhetoric—clutch at all seasons And hold fast to what 's proved untenable! Thy maxim is—Man 's not amenable To argument: whereof by consequence— Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence! Yet blush not discouraged, O Father! I stand unconverted, the rather That nowise I need a conversion. No live man (I cap thy assertion) By argument ever could take hold Of me. 'T was the dead thing, the clay-cold, Which grinned 'Art thou so in a hurry That out of warm light thou must scurry And join me down here in the dungeon Because, above, one 's Jack and one—John, One 's swift in the race, one—a hobbler, One 's a crowned king and one—a capped cobbler, Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious? Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious That all 's for an hour of essaying Who 's fit and who 's unfit for playing His part in the after-construction —Heaven's Piece whereof Earth 's the Induction? Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal. Wait patient the change universal, And act, and let act, in existence! For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence, Thou hast thy promotion or otherwise. And why must wise thou have thy brother wise Because in rehearsal thy cue be To shine by the side of a booby? No polishing garnet to ruby! All 's well that ends well—through Art's magic. Some end, whether comic or tragic, The Artist has purposed, be certain! Explained at the fall of the curtain— In showing thy wisdom at odds with That folly: he tries men and gods with No problem for weak wits to solve meant, But one worth such Author's evolvement. So, back nor disturb play's production By giving thy brother instruction To throw up his fool's-part allotted! Lest haply thyself prove besotted When stript, for thy pains, of that costume Of sage, which has bred the imposthume I prick to relieve thee of,—Vanity!' XXIII "So, Father, behold me in sanity! I 'm back to the palette and mahlstick: And as for Man—let each and all stick To what was prescribed them at starting! Once planted as fools—no departing From folly one inch, sÆculorum In sÆcula! Pass me the jorum, And push me the platter—my stomach Retains, through its fasting, still some ache— And then, with your kind Benedicite, Good-by!" XXIV I have told with simplicity My tale, dropped those harsh analytics, And tried to content you, my critics, Who greeted my early uprising! I knew you through all the disguising, Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried "Heyday! This Monday is—what else but May-day? And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows, Are surely the privileged fellows. So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!" (I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?" XXV Then he who directed the measure— An old friend—put leg forward nimbly, "We critics as sweeps out your chimbly! Much soot to remove from your flue, sir! Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir! And neighbors complain it 's no joke, sir, —You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!" XXVI Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you— Is confident oft she detects you In bringing more filth into my house Than ever you found there! I 'm pious, However: 't was God made you dingy And me—with no need to be stingy Of soap, when 't is sixpence the packet. So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket, Bang drum and blow fife—ay, and rattle Your brushes, for that 's half the battle! Don't trample the grass,—hocus-pocus With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,— And, what with your rattling and tinkling, Who knows but you give me an inkling How music sounds, thanks to the jangle Of regular drum and triangle? Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 't is proven I break rule as bad as Beethoven. "That chord now—a groan or a grunt is 't? Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled— He thought that he sung while he whistled!" XXVII So, this time I whistle, not sing at all, My story, the largess I fling at all And every the rough there whose aubade Did its best to amuse me,—nor so bad! Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper! You 've Monday, your one day, your fun-day, While mine is a year that 's all Sunday. I 've seen you, times—who knows how many?— Dance in here, strike up, play the zany, Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning You 'll find him decamped next May-morning; Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence With—kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence! Mine 's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord Who lets out the ground here,—my landlord: To him I pay quit-rent—devotion; Nor hence shall I budge, I 've a notion, Nay, here shall my whistling and singing Set all his street's echoes a-ringing Long after the last of your number Has ceased my front-court to encumber While, treading down rose and ranunculus, You Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle us! Troop, all of you—man or homunculus, Quick march! for Xanthippe, my housemaid, If once on your pates she a souse made With what, pan or pot, bowl or skoramis, First comes to her hand—things were more amiss! I would not for worlds be your place in— Recipient of slops from the basin! You, Jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness! While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there, Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there— He 'll think as the pickle he curses, I 've discharged on his pate his own verses! "Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in Your own sauce, XXVIII But, back to my Knight of the Pencil, Dismissed to his fresco and stencil! Whose story—begun with a chuckle, And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,— To small enough purpose were studied If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied. Come, critics,—not shake hands, excuse me! But—say have you grudged to amuse me This once in the forty-and-over Long years since you trampled my clover And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow I never once harmed by that arrow Of song, karterotaton belos, (Which Pindar declares the true melos,) I was forging and filing and finishing, And no whit my labors diminishing Because, though high up in a chamber Where none of your kidney may clamber Your hullabaloo would approach me? Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me— You,—pacing in even that paddock Of language allotted you When sanctioning a volume of Selections from his poems, Browning made a third of Pisgah-Sights to consist of the Proem to La Saisiaz. I Over the ball of it, Peering and prying, How I see all of it, Life there, outlying! Roughness and smoothness, Shine and defilement, Grace and uncouthness: One reconcilement. Orbed as appointed, Sister with brother Joins, ne'er disjointed One from the other. All 's lend-and-borrow; Good, see, wants evil, Joy demands sorrow, Angel weds devil! "Which things must—why be?" Vain our endeavor! So shall things aye be As they were ever. "Such things should so be!" Sage our desistence! Rough-smooth let globe be, Mixed—man's existence! Man—wise and foolish, Lover and scorner, Docile and mulish— Keep each his corner! Honey yet gall of it! There 's the life lying, And I see all of it, Only, I 'm dying! II Could I but live again Twice my life over, Would I once strive again? Would not I cover Quietly all of it— Greed and ambition— So, from the pall of it, Pass to fruition? "Soft!" I 'd say, "Soul mine! Three-score and ten years, Let the blind mole mine Digging out deniers! Let the dazed hawk soar, Claim the sun's rights too! Turf 't is thy walk 's o'er, Foliage thy flight 's to." Only a learner, Quick one or slow one, Just a discerner, I would teach no one. I am earth's native: No rearranging it! I be creative, Chopping and changing it? March, men, my fellows! Those who, above me, (Distance so mellows) Fancy you love me: Those who, below me, (Distance makes great so) Free to forego me, Fancy you hate so! Praising, reviling, Worst head and best head, Past me defiling, Never arrested, Wanters, abounders, March, in gay mixture, Men, my surrounders! I am the fixture. So shall I fear thee, Mightiness yonder! Mock-sun—more near thee, What is to wonder? So shall I love thee, Down in the dark,—lest Glowworm I prove thee, Star that now sparklest! FEARS AND SCRUPLESIn answer to a letter of inquiry, addressed to him by Mr. W. G. Kingsland, Browning wrote the following in regard to the meaning of this poem: "I think, that the point I wanted to illustrate was this: Where there is a genuine love of the 'letters' and 'actions' of the invisible 'friend,'—however these may be disadvantaged by an inability to meet the objections to their authenticity or historical value urged by 'experts' who assume the privilege of learning over ignorance,—it would indeed be a wrong to the wisdom and goodness of the 'friend' if he were supposed capable of overlooking the actual 'love' and only considering the 'ignorance' which, failing to in any degree affect 'love,' is really the highest evidence that 'love' exists. So I meant, whether the result be clear or no." Here's my case. Of old I used to love him, This same unseen friend, before I knew: Dream there was none like him, none above him,— Wake to hope and trust my dream was true. Loved I not his letters full of beauty? Not his actions famous far and wide? Absent, he would know I vowed him duty; Present, he would find me at his side. Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters, Only knew of actions by hearsay: He himself was busied with my betters; What of that? My turn must come some day. "Some day" proving—no day! Here 's the puzzle. Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain? He 's so busied! If I could but muzzle People's foolish mouths that give me pain! "Letters?" (hear them!) "You a judge of writing? Ask the experts! How they shake the head O'er these characters, your friend's inditing— Call them forgery from A to Z! "Actions? Where 's your certain proof" (they bother) "He, of all you find so great and good, He, he only, claims this, that, the other Action—claimed by men, a multitude?" I can simply-wish. I might refute you, Wish my friend would,—by a word, a wink,— Bid me stop that foolish mouth,—you brute you! He keeps absent,—why, I cannot think. Never mind! Though foolishness may flout me, One thing 's sure enough: 't is neither frost, No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me Thanks for truth—though falsehood, gained—though lost. All my days, I 'll go the softlier, sadlier, For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill Through and through me as I thought "The gladlier Lives my friend because I love him still!" Ah, but there 's a menace some one utters! "What and if your friend at home play tricks? Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters? Mean your eyes should pierce through solid bricks? "What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy? Lay on you the blame that bricks—conceal? Say 'At least I saw who did not see me, Does see now, and presently shall feel'?" "Why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you: "Had his house no window? At first nod, Would you not have hailed him?" Hush, I pray you! What if this friend happened to be—God? NATURAL MAGICAll I can say is—I saw it! The room was as bare as your hand. I locked in the swarth little lady,—I swear, From the head to the foot of her—well, quite as bare! "No Nautch shall cheat me," said I, "taking my stand At this bolt which I draw!" And this bolt—I withdraw it, And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered With—who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered? Impossible! Only—I saw it! All I can sing is—I feel it! This life was as blank as that room; I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed? Walls, ceiling and floor,—not a chance for a weed! Wide opens the entrance; where 's cold now, where 's gloom? No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it, Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing, These fruits of your bearing—nay, birds of your winging! A fairy-tale! Only—I feel it! MAGICAL NATUREFlower—I never fancied, jewel—I profess you! Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower. Save but glow inside and—jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower. You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel— Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel, Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time! BIFURCATIONWe were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe— "I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe Of rose and lily when each path diverged, And either I must pace to life's far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood: 'How I loathe a flower, How prize the pavement!' still caressed his ear— The deafish friend's—through life's day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) 'Ay, it would appear!' But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did, When love from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broad way, were the best— Who doubts? But one or other was to choose, I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest In that new world where light and darkness fuse." Inscribe on mine—"I loved her: love's track lay O'er sand and pebble, as all travellers know. Duty led through a smiling country, gay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. 'Our roads are diverse: farewell, love!' said she: ''T is duty I abide by: homely sward And not the rock-rough picturesque for me! Above, where both roads join, I wait reward. Be you as constant to the path whereon I leave you planted!' But man needs must move, Keep moving—whither, when the star is gone Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love? No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock, Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried 'All's well! Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust, And two halves make that whole, whereof—since here One must suffice a man—why, this one must!'" Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple—which holds sinner, which holds saint! NUMPHOLEPTOSThe Browning Society became so puzzled over the interpretation of this poem that through Dr. Furnivall it applied to the poet for an explanation and he replied: "Is not the key to the meaning of the poem in its title ??f???pt?? [caught or rapt by a nymph] not ???a??e?ast?? [a woman lover]? An allegory, that is, of an impossible ideal object of love, accepted conventionally as such by a man who, all the while, cannot quite blind himself to the demonstrable fact that the possessor of knowledge and purity obtained without the natural consequences of obtaining them by achievement—not inheritance,—such a being is imaginary, not real, a nymph and no woman; and only such an one would be ignorant of and surprised at the results of a lover's endeavor to emulate the qualities which the beloved is entitled to consider as pre-existent to earthly experience, and independent of its inevitable results. I had no particular woman in my mind; certainly never intended to personify wisdom, philosophy, or any other abstraction; and the orb, raying color out of whiteness, was altogether a fancy of my own. The 'seven spirits' are in the Apocalypse, also in Coleridge and Byron,—a common image." Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! Still melts your moonbeam through me, white awhile, Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past The pallid limit, lies, transformed at last To sunlight and salvation—warms the soul It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal, Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge, And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawn!—true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action-time, By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow Of gold above my clay—I scarce should know From gold's self, thus suffused! For gold means love. What means the sad slow silver smile above My clay but pity, pardon?—at the best, But acquiescence that I take my rest, Contented to be clay, while in your heaven The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven Companioning God's throne they lamp before, —Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such, the boon I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this—just this Supreme endeavor! As my lips now kiss Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe, My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe Your eyes above for—what, if born, would blind Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb, Bid with life's ecstasy sense overbrim And suck back death in the resurging joy— Love, the love whole and sole without alloy! Vainly! The promise withers! I employ Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word, Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, And none the more is changed your calm regard: Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh, and hard— Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. Avert the rest! I rise, see!—make, again Once more, the old departure for some track Untried, yet through a world which brings me back Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet, To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet Which smile there—take from his new pilgrimage Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage With love—not placid pardon now—his thirst For a mere drop from out the ocean erst He drank at! Well, the quest shall be renewed. Fear nothing! Though I linger, unembued With any drop, my lips thus close. I go! So did I leave you, I have found you so, And doubtlessly, if fated to return, So shall my pleading persevere and earn Pardon—not love—in that same smile, I learn, And lose the meaning of, to learn once more, Vainly! What fairy track do I explore? What magic hall return to, like the gem Centuply-angled o'er a diadem? You dwell there, hearted; from your midmost home Rays forth—through that fantastic world I roam Ever—from centre to circumference, Shaft upon colored shaft: this crimsons thence, That purples out its precinct through the waste. Surely I had your sanction when I faced, Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day Where they began, before your feet, beneath Your eyes, your smile: the blade is shut in sheath, Fire quenched in flint; irradiation, late Triumphant through the distance, finds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow: divorce Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared, Treading the lambent flamelet: little cared If now its flickering took the topaz tint, If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint Of subterranean rage—no stay nor stint To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe In yellow license. Here I reek suffused With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show Scarce recognition, no approval, some Mistrust, more wonder at a man become Monstrous in garb, nay—flesh disguised as well, Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell, I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain Earth's sombre stretch beyond your midmost place Of vantage,—trode that tinct whereof the trace On garb and flesh repel you! Yes, I plead Your own permission—your command, indeed, That who would worthily retain the love Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds O' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge Plainer his foot its pathway all distinct From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked With fear, as exploration manifests What agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wildflower, soon protruding grew Portentous 'mid the sands, as when his hue Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through; Till, last ... but why parade more shame and pain? Are not the proofs upon me? Here again I pass into your presence, I receive Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave ... No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet again adventure, tread, from source To issue, one more ray of rays which course Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear Dark of the world,—you promise shall return Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops o' the urn The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud-pall Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word Tries the adventure: and returns—absurd As frightful—in that sulphur-steeped disguise Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize The arch-heretic was wont to bear away Until he reached the burning. No, I say: No fresh adventure! No more seeking love At end of toil, and finding, calm above My passion, the old statuesque regard, The sad petrific smile! O you—less hard And hateful than mistaken and obtuse Unreason of a she-intelligence! You very woman with the pert pretence To match the male achievement! Like enough! Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff Grind down and grow a whisper,—did man's truth Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, Its rapier-edge to suit the bulrush-spear Womanly falsehood fights with! O that ear All fact pricks rudely, that thrice-superfine Feminity of sense, with right divine To waive all process, take result stain-free From out the very muck wherein ... Ah me! The true slave's querulous outbreak! All the rest Be resignation! Forth at your behest I fare. Who knows but this—the crimson-quest— May deepen to a sunrise, not decay To that cold sad sweet smile?—which I obey. APPEARANCESAnd so you found that poor room dull, Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear? Its features seemed unbeautiful: But this I know—'t was there, not here, You plighted troth to me, the word Which—ask that poor room how it heard. And this rich room obtains your praise Unqualified,—so bright, so fair, So all whereat perfection stays? Ay, but remember—here, not there, The other word was spoken!—Ask This rich room how you dropped the mask! ST. MARTIN'S SUMMERNo protesting, dearest! Hardly kisses even! Don't we both know how it ends? How the greenest leaf turns serest, Bluest outbreak—blankest heaven, Lovers—friends? You would build a mansion, I would weave a bower —Want the heart for enterprise. Walls admit of no expansion: Trellis-work may haply flower Twice the size. What makes glad Life's Winter? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing "How suspect Beams would ere mid-Autumn splinter, Rooftree scarce support a rafter, Walls lie wrecked?" You are young, my princess! I am hardly older: Yet—I steal a glance behind! Dare I tell you what convinces Timid me that you, if bolder, Bold—are blind? Where we plan our dwelling Glooms a graveyard surely! Headstone, footstone moss may drape,— Name, date, violets hide from spelling,— But, though corpses rot obscurely, Ghosts escape. Ghosts! O breathing Beauty, Give my frank word pardon! What if I—somehow, somewhere— Pledged my soul to endless duty Many a time and oft? Be hard on Love—laid there? Nay, blame grief that 's fickle, Time that proves a traitor, Chance, change, all that purpose warps,— Death who spares to thrust the sickle Laid Love low, through flowers which later Shroud the corpse! And you, my winsome lady, Whisper with like frankness! Lies nothing buried long ago? Are yon—which shimmer 'mid the shady Where moss and violet run to rankness— Tombs or no? Who taxes you with murder? My hands are clean—or nearly! Love being mortal needs must pass. Repentance? Nothing were absurder. Enough: we felt Love's loss severely; Though now—alas! Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love's ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable mansionry; that's wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant —Life, to law. The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If bower stand firm at Autumn's close, Beyond my hope,—why, boughs were agile; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing—rose! So, truce to the protesting, So, muffled be the kisses! For, would we but avow the truth, Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! Ask else Penelope, Ulysses— Old in youth! For why should ghosts feel angered? Let all their interference Be faint march-music in the air! "Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard! Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, Laggard pair!" The while you clasp me closer, The while I press you deeper, As safe we chuckle,—under breath, Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,— "So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, Stolen from death!" Ah me—the sudden terror! Hence quick—avaunt, avoid me, You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised! Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error! So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me, Loved—and lied! Ay, dead loves are the potent! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but substance they! Build we no mansion, weave we no tent! Mere flesh—their spirit interfused you! Hence, I say! All theirs, none yours the glamour! Theirs each low word that won me, Soft look that found me Love's, and left What else but you—the tears and clamor That 's all your very own! Undone me— Ghost-bereft! HERVÉ RIELThis ballad was printed first in the Cornhill Magazine for March, 1871. In a letter to Mr. George Smith, one of the publishers of the magazine, Browning stated that he intended to devote the proceeds of the poem to the aid of the people of Paris suffering from the Franco-German war. The publisher generously seconded his resolve and paid one hundred pounds for the poem. I On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,—woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view. II 'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick—or, quicker still, Here 's the English can and will!" III Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the 'Formidable' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!" IV Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here 's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech). "Not a minute more to wait! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate. V "Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these —A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate—first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, HervÉ Riel the Croisickese. VI And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries HervÉ Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and GrÈve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying 's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there 's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this 'Formidable' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past GrÈve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, —Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I 've nothing but my life,—here 's my head!" cries HervÉ Riel. VII Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound! See, safe through shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as HervÉ Riel hollas "Anchor!"—sure as fate, Up the English come—too late! VIII So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking GrÈve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "HervÉ Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before. IX Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Damfreville." X Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty 's done. And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?— Since 't is ask and have, I may— Since the others go ashore— Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,—nothing more. XI Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to HervÉ Riel. So, for better and for worse, HervÉ Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, HervÉ Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore! A FORGIVENESSOgni cencio vuol entrare in bucato.—Italian Proverb. Mr. Buxton Forman, the editor of Shelley, upon asking Browning the precise value attached to the terminal aja in the title of his poem, received the following answer:— "19 Warwick Crescent, W., July 27, '76. "Dear Mr. Buxton Forman: There can be no objection to such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'—a bundle of rags—a trifle. The proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (The Ring and the Book) [rather the 'old square yellow book' from which the details were taken] has a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam Beatricem (he declares) poen ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non probavi tibi. Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit.' That is, she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not: in conformity with her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja! "Yours very sincerely, Robert Browning." May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass That when your Beatrice seemed—by lapse Of many a long month since her sentence fell— Assured of pardon for the parricide— By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,— Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew "Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent, But said these three words coldly 'She must die;' Subjoining 'Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother also yestereve. And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!'" —So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before me, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievement by a rescued anecdote, No great things, only new and true beside? As if some mere familiar of a house Should venture to accost the group at gaze Before its Titian, famed the wide world through, And supplement such pictured masterpiece By whisper, "Searching in the archives here, I found the reason of the Lady's fate, And how by accident it came to pass She wears the halo and displays the palm: Who, haply, else had never suffered—no, Nor graced our gallery, by consequence." Who loved the work would like the little news: Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me Relating how the penalty was paid By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise, For his complicity in matricide With Paolo his own brother,—he whose crime And flight induced "those three words—She must die." Thus I unroll you then the manuscript. "God's justice"—(of the multiplicity Of such communications extant still, Recording, each, injustice done by God In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)— "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease Of Paolo Santa Croce." Many times The youngster,—having been importunate That Marchesine Costanza, who remained His widowed mother, should supplant the heir Her elder son, and substitute himself In sole possession of her faculty,— And meeting just as often with rebuff,— Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady—thus. He first, to cover his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination—wrought Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House By dissoluteness and abandonment Of soul and body to impure delight. Moreover, since she suffered from disease, Those symptoms which her death made manifest Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin About to bring confusion and disgrace Upon the ancient lineage and high fame O' the family, when published. Duty bound, He asked his brother—what a son should do? Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard By letter, being absent at his land Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: "It must behoove a son,—things haply so,— To act as honor prompts a cavalier And son, perform his duty to all three, Mother and brothers"—here advice broke off. By which advice informed and fortified As he professed himself—since bound by birth To hear God's voice in primogeniture— Paolo, who kept his mother company In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared His whole enormity of enterprise, And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead; Whose death demonstrated her innocence, And happened,—by the way,—since Jesus Christ Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years. Costanza was of aspect beautiful Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age Sixty about, to far surpass her peers The coËtaneous dames, in youth and grace. Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, Foiling thereby the justice of the world: Not God's however,—God, be sure, knows well The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here! The present sinner, when he least expects, Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate, Stumbles upon his death by violence. A man of blood assaults a man of blood And slays him somehow. This was afterward: Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, And, ending thus, permits we end with him, And push forthwith to this important point— His matricide fell out, of all the days, Precisely when the law-procedure closed Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife. "Thus patricide was matched with matricide," A poet not inelegantly rhymed: Nay, fratricide—those Princes Massimi!— Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope That all the likelihood Rome entertained Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight, And she endured the piteous death. Now see The sequel—what effect commandment had For strict inquiry into this last case, When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great His efficacy—nephew to the Pope!) Was bidden crush—ay, though his very hand Got soil i' the act—crime spawning everywhere! Because, when all endeavor had been used To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain— "Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence, "Throughout his now deserted domicile! Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find If haply any scrap of writing, hid In nook or corner, may convict—who knows?— Brother Onofrio of intelligence With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere." And, every cranny searched accordingly, There comes to light—O lynx-eyed Cardinal!— Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer, The word of counsel that—things proving so, Paolo should act the proper knightly part, And do as was incumbent on a son, A brother—and a man of birth, be sure! Whereat immediately the officers Proceeded to arrest Onofrio—found At football, child's play, unaware of harm, Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat Monte Giordano; as he left the house He came upon the watch in wait for him Set by the Barigel,—was caught and caged. News of which capture being, that same hour, Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, To have the process in especial care, Be, first to last, not only president In person, but inquisitor as well, Nor trust the by-work to a substitute: Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub The floor of Justice, so to speak,—go try His best in prison with the criminal: Promising, as reward for by-work done Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained And crime avowed, or such connivency With crime as should procure a decent death— Himself will humbly beg—which means, procure— The Hat and Purple from his relative The Pope, and so repay a diligence Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat. Whereupon did my lord the Governor So masterfully exercise the task Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week By week, and month by month, from first to last Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place, Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, Inquisitor—pressed cushion and scoured plank. Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill, Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends! So that observers laughed as, many a day, He left home, in July when day is flame, Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged Into a vault where daylong night is ice, There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, Examining Onofrio: all the stress Of all examination steadily Converging into one pin-point,—he pushed Tentative now of head and now of heart. As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut This side and that side till the kernel sound,— So did he press the sole and single point —What was the very meaning of the phrase "Do as beseems an honored cavalier"? Which one persistent question-torture,—plied Day by day, week by week, and month by month, Morn, noon and night,—fatigued away a mind Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, And one vivacious memory gnawing there As when a corpse is coffined with a snake: —Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem Admission that perchance his judgment groped So blindly, feeling for an issue—aught With semblance of an issue from the toils Cast of a sudden round feet late so free, He possibly might have envisaged, scarce Recoiled from—even were the issue death —Even her death whose life was death and worse! Always provided that the charge of crime, Each jot and tittle of the charge were true. In such a sense, belike, he might advise His brother to expurgate crime with ... well, With Wood, if blood must follow on "the course Taken as might beseem a cavalier." Whereupon process ended, and report Was made without a minute of delay To Clement, who, because of those two crimes O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late, Must needs impatiently desire result. Result obtained, he bade the Governor Summon the Congregation and despatch. Summons made, sentence passed accordingly —Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all Man could do—that did he to save himself. 'Twas much, the having gained for his defence The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help Of many noble friendly persons fain To disengage a man of family, So young too, from his grim entanglement: But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled There must be no diversion of the law. Justice is justice, and the magistrate Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die. So, the Marchese had his head cut off, With Rome to see, a concourse infinite, In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge: Where, demonstrating magnanimity Adequate to his birth and breed,—poor boy!— He made the people the accustomed speech, Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works, And special good behavior as regards A parent of no matter what the sex, Bidding each son take warning from himself. Truly, it was considered in the boy Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore By such an angler as the Cardinal! Why make confession of his privity To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips— Or, better, saying "When I counselled him 'To do as might beseem a cavalier,' What could I mean but 'Hide our parent's shame As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church! Bury it in a convent—ay, beneath Enough dotation to prevent its ghost From troubling earth!'" Mere saying thus,—'t is plain, Hot only were his life the recompense. But he had manifestly proved himself True Christian, and in lieu of punishment Got praise of all men!—so the populace. Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good (That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much, A Cardinal's equipment, some such word As this from mouth to ear went saucily: "Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world. I add: Onofrio left one child behind, A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace Abundantly of soul and body, doomed To life the shorter for her father's fate. By death of her, the Marquisate returned To that Orsini House from whence it came: Oriolo having passed as donative To Santa Croce from their ancestors. And no word more? By all means! Would you know The authoritative answer, when folk urged "What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch, Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?" The answer was—"Hatred implacable, By reason they were rivals in their love." The Cardinal's desire was to a dame Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride, The simpleton must ostentatiously Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift, Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage; Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young; Whereon a fury entered him—the fire He quenched with what could quench fire only—blood. Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then, To put a face upon the incident, Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend, Ye youth, by this example how may greed Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!" So ends the chronicler, beginning with "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never till it reach delinquency." Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome? FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIALA REMINISCENCE OF A. D. 1676 erse mleft1">I fear me much I scarce have boughtA Titian) Master Buti's flaws Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!' "So, with a scowl, it darkens door— This bulk—no longer! Buti makes Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes From what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to ground The bold bad mouth that dared advance Such doctrine the reverse of sound! "Was magic here? Most like! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and our Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. 'T is 'Live And let live! Languidly repress The Dissident! In short,—contrive Christians must bear with Jews: no less!' "The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,—pishes, poohs, Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose! In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! In Mary's bosom, one more sword! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?" EPILOGUE?????? ... ?? ?' ??????? ????? ??????? ????????? "The poets pour us wine—" Said the dearest poet I ever knew, Dearest and greatest and best to me. You clamor athirst for poetry— We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"— You cry—"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw. Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine? That were indeed the wine!" One pours your cup—stark strength, Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood Of the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good! For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood; Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!" So, down, with a wry face, goes at length The liquor: stuff for strength. One pours your cup—sheer sweet, The fragrant fumes of a year condensed: Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe, From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe. "We suck mere milk of the seasons," saith A curl of each nostril—"dew, dispensed Nowise for nerving man to feat: Boys sip such honeyed sweet!" And thus who wants wine strong, Waves each sweet smell of the year away; Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuse His train with a mixture of beams and dews Turned syrupy drink—rough strength eschews: "What though in our veins your wine-stock stay? The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong. Give us wine sweet, not strong!" Yet wine is—some affirm— Prime wine is found in the world somewhere, Of portable strength with sweet to match. You double your heart its dose, yet catch— As the draught descends—a violet-smatch, Softness—however it came there, Through drops expressed by the fire and worm: Strong sweet wine—some affirm. Body and bouquet both? 'T is easy to ticket a bottle so; But what was the case in the cask, my friends? Cask? Nay, the vat—where the maker mends His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends His rough with his smooth, till none can know How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth, Body and bouquet both. "You" being just—the world. No poets—who turn, themselves, the winch Of the press; no critics—I 'll even say, (Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,) Who for love of the work have learned the way Till themselves produce home-made, at a pinch: No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purled Except to please the world! "For, oh the common heart! And, ah the irremissible sin Of poets who please themselves, not us! Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus, How please still—Pindar and Æschylus!— Drink—dipt into by the bearded chin Alike and the bloomy lip—no part Denied the common heart! "And might we get such grace, And did you moderns but stock our vault With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul, How would seniors indulge at a hearty pull While juniors tossed off their thimbleful! Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault, So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker race That wants the ancient grace!" If I paid myself with words (As the French say well) I were dupe indeed! I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsed At your Shakespeare the whole day long, caroused In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed A moment of night—toped on, took heed Of nothing like modern cream-and-curds. Pay me with deeds, not words! For—see your cellarage! There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand. Some five or six are abroach: the rest Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test What yourselves call best of the very best! How comes it that still untouched they stand? Why don't you try tap, advance a stage With the rest in cellerage? For—see your cellarage! There are four big butts of Milton's brew. How comes it you make old drips and drops Do duty, and there devotion stops? Leave such an abyss of malt and hops Embellied in butts which bungs still glue? |
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