Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  “Eh? Jubilate!” — ”Peace! no little word

  “You utter here that ‘s not distinctly heard

  “Up at Oliero: he was absent sick

  “When we besieged Bassano — who, i’ the thick

  “O’ the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,

  “Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?

  “She managed it so well that, night by night

  “At their bed-foot stood up a soldier-sprite,

  “First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,

  “And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,

  “They knew the place was taken.” — ”Ominous

  “That Ghibellins should get what cautelous

  “Old Redbeard sought from Azzo’s sire to wrench

  “Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench

  “O’ the marshes, an impermeable bar.”

  “ — Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar

  “Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon

  “His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion.”

  What now? — ”The founts! God’s bread, touch not a plank!

  “A crawling hell of carrion — every tank

  “Choke-full! — found out just now to Cino’s cost —

  “The same who gave Taurello up for lost,

  “And, making no account of fortune’s freaks,

  “Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks

  “Back now with Concorezzi: ‘faith! they drag

  “Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag

  “On his own palace, so adroitly razed

  “He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed

  “And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air —

  “Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care —

  “Seats himself on the tank’s edge — will begin

  “To hum, za, za, Cavaler Ecelin —

  “A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,

  “Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,

  “At last, za, za and up with a fierce kick

  “Comes his own mother’s face caught by the thick

  “Grey hair about his spur!”

  Which means, they lift

  The covering, Salinguerra made a shift

  To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid

  Further disclosures; leave them thus employed.

  Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,

  And poor Ferrara puts a softened face

  On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall

  Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall

  Bastioned within by trees of every sort

  On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;

  Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,

  The fig-tree reared itself, — but stark and cramped,

  Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,

  Running ‘twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge

  Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,

  Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof

  Of solid tops, and o’er the slope you slide

  Down to a grassy space level and wide,

  Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees

  Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,

  Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,

  Borne upon three uneasy leopards’ heads,

  A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt

  Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt

  With trees leave off on either hand; pursue

  Your path along a wondrous avenue

  Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,

  With aloes leering everywhere, grey-grown

  From many a Moorish summer: how they wind

  Out of the fissures! likelier to bind

  The building than those rusted cramps which drop

  Already in the eating sunshine. Stop,

  You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride

  Or else despair of the whole country-side!

  A range of statues, swarming o’er with wasps,

  God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps

  In crumbling Naples marble — meant to look

  Like those Messina marbles Constance took

  Delight in, or Taurello’s self conveyed

  To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, —

  A certain font with caryatides

  Since cloistered at Goito; only, these

  Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop

  Able to right themselves — who see you, stoop

  Their arms o’ the instant after you! Unplucked

  By this or that, you pass; for they conduct

  To terrace raised on terrace, and, between,

  Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien

  Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle

  No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,

  Up-gathered on himself the Fighter stood

  For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood

  Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath

  Those shading fingers in their iron sheath,

  Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir

  Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre

  At the announcement of his over-match

  To wind the day’s diversion up, dispatch

  The pertinactious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,

  The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap

  Dart after dart forth, as her hero’s car

  Clove dizzily the solid of the war

  — Let coil about his knees for pride in him.

  We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim

  San Pietro Palace stops us.

  Such the state

  Of Salinguerra’s plan to emulate

  Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife

  Retrude still might lead her ancient life

  In her new home: whereat enlarged so much

  Neighbours upon the novel princely touch

  He took, — who here imprisons Boniface.

  Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace;

  And here, emerging from the labyrinth

  Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth

  Of the door-pillar.

  He had really left

  Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft

  From the morass) where Este’s camp was made;

  The Envoys’ march, the Legate’s cavalcade —

  All had been seen by him, but scarce as when, —

  Eager for cause to stand aloof from men

  At every point save the fantastic tie

  Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry, —

  He made account of such. A crowd, — he meant

  To task the whole of it; each part’s intent

  Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried,

  The less became Sordello satisfied

  With his own figure at the moment. Sought

  He respite from his task? Descried he aught

  Novel in the anticipated sight

  Of all these livers upon all delight?

  This phalanx, as of myriad points combined,

  Whereby he still had imaged the mankind

  His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling,

  His age — in plans to prove at least such thing

  Had been so dreamed, — which now he must impress

  With his own will, effect a happiness

  By theirs, — supply a body to his soul

  Thence, and become eventually whole

  With them as he had hoped to be without —

  Made these the mankind he once raved about?

  Because a few of them were notable,

  Should all be figured worthy note? As well

  Expect to find Taurello’s triple line

  Of trees a single and prodigious pine.

  Real pines rose here and there; but, close among,


  Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng

  Of shrubs, he saw, — a nameless common sort

  O’erpast in dreams, left out of the report

  And hurried into corners, or at best

  Admitted to be fancied like the rest.

  Reckon that morning’s proper chiefs — how few!

  And yet the people grew, the people grew,

  Grew ever, as if the many there indeed,

  More left behind and most who should succeed, —

  Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes,

  Petty enjoyments and huge miseries, —

  Mingled with, and made veritably great

  Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard’s state

  Nor Concorezzi’s station, but instead

  Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head

  Of infinite and absent Tyrolese

  Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these

  Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for,

  Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor)

  Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays

  And out of store of robes must wear, all days,

  One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade,

  ‘T is commonly some tarnished gay brocade

  Fit for a feast-night’s flourish and no more:

  Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store

  Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled

  For common wear as she goes through the world,

  The faint remainder of some worn-out smile

  Meant for a feast-night’s service merely. While

  Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus, —

  (Crowds no way interfering to discuss,

  Much less dispute, life’s joys with one employed

  In envying them, — or, if they aught enjoyed,

  Where lingered something indefinable

  In every look and tone, the mirth as well

  As woe, that fixed at once his estimate

  Of the result, their good or bad estate) —

  Old memories returned with new effect:

  And the new body, ere he could suspect,

  Cohered, mankind and he were really fused,

  The new self seemed impatient to be used

  By him, but utterly another way

  Than that anticipated: strange to say,

  They were too much below him, more in thrall

  Than he, the adjunct than the principal.

  What booted scattered units? — here a mind

  And there, which might repay his own to find,

  And stamp, and use? — a few, howe’er august,

  If all the rest were grovelling in the dust?

  No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure,

  Should he establish, privilege procure

  For all, the few had long possessed! He felt

  An error, an exceeding error melt:

  While he was occupied with Mantuan chants,

  Behoved him think of men, and take their wants,

  Such as he now distinguished every side,

  As his own want which might be satisfied, —

  And, after that, think of rare qualities

  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 tr
appings; 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 —