Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

by Robert Browning

  Into the lowest surge, make fearlessly thy launch!

  Whatever storm may threat, some dolphin will be staunch!

  Whatever roughness rage, some exquisite sea-thing

  Will surely rise to save, will bear — palpitating —

  One proud humility of love beneath its load —

  Stem tide, part wave, till both roll on, thy jewell’d road

  Of triumph, and the grim o’ the gulph grow wonder-white

  I’ the phosphorescent wake; and still the exquisite

  Sea-thing stems on, saves still, palpitatingly thus,

  Lands safe at length its load of love at Tænarus,

  True woman-creature!

  LXXIX.

  Man? Ah, would you prove what power

  Marks man, — what fruit his tree may yield, beyond the sour

  And stinted crab, he calls love-apple, which remains

  After you toil and moil your utmost, — all, love gains

  By lavishing manure? — try quite the other plan!

  And, to obtain the strong true product of a man,

  Set him to hate a little! Leave cherishing his root,

  And rather prune his branch, nip off the pettiest shoot

  Superfluous on his bough! I promise, you shall learn

  By what grace came the goat, of all beasts else, to earn

  Such favour with the god o’ the grape: ‘t was only he

  Who, browsing on its tops, first stung fertility

  Into the stock’s heart, stayed much growth of tendriltwine,

  Some faintish flower, perhaps, but gained the indignant wine,

  Wrath of the red press! Catch the puniest of the kind —

  Man-animalcule, starved body, stunted mind,

  And, as you nip the blotch ‘twixt thumb and fingernail,

  Admire how heaven above and earth below avail

  No jot to soothe the mite, sore at God’s prime offence

  In making mites at all, — coax from its impotence

  One virile drop of thought, or word, or deed, by strain

  To propagate for once — which nature rendered vain,

  Who lets first failure stay, yet cares not to record

  Mistake that seems to cast opprobrium on the Lord!

  Such were the gain from love’s best pains! But let the elf

  Be touched with hate, because some real man bears himself

  Manlike in body and soul, and, since he lives, must thwart

  And furify and set a-fizz this counterpart

  O’ the pismire that ‘s surprised to effervescence, if,

  By chance, black bottle come in contact with chalk cliff,

  Acid with alkali! Then thrice the bulk, out blows

  Our insect, does its kind, and cuckoo-spits some rose!

  LXXX.

  No — ’t is ungainly work, the ruling men, at best!

  The graceful instinct ‘s right: ‘t is women stand confessed

  Auxiliary, the gain that never goes away,

  Takes nothing and gives all: Elvire, Fifine, ‘t is they

  Convince, — if little, much, no matter! — one degree

  The more, at least, convince unreasonable me

  That I am, anyhow, a truth, though all else seem

  And be not: if I dream, at least I know I dream.

  The falsity, beside, is fleeting: I can stand

  Still, and let truth come back, — your steadying touch of hand

  Assists me to remain self-centred, fixed amid

  All on the move. Believe in me, at once you bid

  Myself believe that, since one soul has disengaged

  Mine from the shows of things, so much is fact: I waged

  No foolish warfare, then, with shades, myself a shade,

  Here in the world — may hope my pains will be repaid!

  How false things are, I judge: how changeable, I learn

  When, where and how it is I shall see truth return,

  That I expect to know, because Fifine knows me! —

  How much more, if Elvire!

  LXXXI.

  “And why not, only she?

  Since there can be for each, one Best, no more, such Best,

  For body and mind of him, abolishes the rest

  O’ the simply Good and Better. You please select Elvire

  To give you this belief in truth, dispel the fear

  Yourself are, after all, as false as what surrounds;

  And why not be content? When we two watched the rounds

  The boatman made, ‘twixt shoal and sandbank, yesterday,

  As, at dead slack of tide, he chose to push his way,

  With oar and pole, across the creek, and reach the isle

  After a world of pains — my word provoked your smile,

  Yet none the less deserved reply: ‘‘T were wiser wait

  ‘The turn o’ the tide, and find conveyance for his freight —

  ‘How easily — within the ship to purpose moored,

  ‘Managed by sails, not oars! But no, — the man’s allured

  ‘By liking for the new and hard in his exploit!

  ‘First come shall serve! He makes, — courageous and adroit, —

  ‘The merest willow-leaf of boat do duty, bear

  ‘His merchandise across: once over, needs he care

  ‘If folk arrive by ship, six hours hence, fresh and gay?’

  No: he scorns commonplace, affects the unusual way;

  And good Elvire is moored, with not a breath to flap

  The yards of her, no lift of ripple to o’erlap

  Keel, much less, prow. What care? since here’s a cockle-shell,

  Fifine, that’s taut and crank, and carries just as well

  Such seamanship as yours!”

  LXXXII.

  Alack, our life is lent,

  From first to last, the whole, for this experiment

  Of proving what I say — that we ourselves are true!

  I would there were one voyage, and then no more to do

  But tread the firmland, tempt the uncertain sea no more.

  I would we might dispense with change of shore for shore

  To evidence our skill, demonstrate — in no dream

  It was, we tided o’er the trouble of the stream.

  I would the steady voyage, and not the fitful trip, —

  Elvire, and not Fifine, — might test our seamanship.

  But why expend one’s breath to tell you, change of boat

  Means change of tactics too? Come see the same afloat

  To-morrow, all the change, new stowage fore and aft

  O’ the cargo; then, to cross requires new sailor-craft!

  To-day, one step from stern to bow keeps boat in trim.

  To-morrow, some big stone, — or woe to boat and him! —

  Must ballast both. That man stands for Mind, paramount

  Throughout the adventure: ay, howe’er you make account,

  ‘T is mind that navigates, — skips over, twists between

  The bales i’ the boat, — now gives importance to the mean,

  And now abates the pride of life, accepts all fact,

  Discards all fiction, — steers Fifine, and cries, i’ the act,

  “Thou art so bad, and yet so delicate a brown!

  Wouldst tell no end of lies: I talk to smile or frown!

  Wouldst rob me: do men blame a squirrel, lithe and sly,

  For pilfering the nut she adds to hoard? Nor I.

  Elvire is true, as truth, honesty’s self, alack!

  The worse! too safe the ship, the transport there and back

  Too certain! one may loll and lounge and leave the helm,

  Let wind and tide do work: no fear that waves o’erwhelm

  The steady-going bark, as sure to feel her way

  Blindfold across, reach land, next year as yesterday!

  How can I but suspect, the true feat were to slip

  Down side, transfer myself to cockle-shell from ship,
<
br />   And try if, trusting to sea-tracklessness, I class

  With those around whose breast grew oak and triple brass:

  Who dreaded no degree of death, but, with dry eyes,

  Surveyed the turgid main and its monstrosities —

  And rendered futile so, the prudent Power’s decree

  Of separate earth and disassociating sea;

  Since, how is it observed, if impious vessels leap

  Across, and tempt a thing they should not touch — the deep?

  (See Horace to the boat, wherein, for Athens bound,

  When Virgil must embark — Jove keep him safe and sound! —

  The poet bade his friend start on the watery road,

  Much re-assured by this so comfortable ode.)

  LXXXIII.

  Then, never grudge my poor Fifine her compliment!

  The rakish craft could slip her moorings in the tent,

  And, hoisting every stitch of spangled canvas, steer

  Through divers rocks and shoals, — in fine, deposit here

  Your Virgil of a spouse, in Attica: yea, thrid

  The mob of men, select the special virtue hid

  In him, forsooth, and say — or rather, smile so sweet,

  “Of all the multitude, you — I prefer to cheat!

  Are you for Athens bound? I can perform the trip,

  Shove little pinnace off, while yon superior ship,

  The Elvire, refits in port!” So, off we push from beach

  Of Pornic town, and lo, ere eye can wink, we reach

  The Long Walls, and I prove that Athens is no dream,

  For there the temples rise! they are, they nowise seem!

  Earth is not all one lie, this truth attests me true!

  Thanks therefore to Fifine! Elvire, I’m back with you!

  Share in the memories! Embark I trust we shall

  Together some fine day, and so, for good and all,

  Bid Pornic Town adieu, — then, just the strait to cross,

  And we reach harbour, safe, in Iostephanos!

  LXXXIV.

  How quickly night comes! Lo, already ‘t is the land

  Turns sea-like; overcrept by grey, the plains expand,

  Assume significance; while ocean dwindles, shrinks

  Into a pettier bound: its plash and plaint, methinks,

  Six steps away, how both retire, as if their part

  Were played, another force were free to prove her art,

  Protagonist in turn! Are you unterrified?

  All false, all fleeting too! And nowhere things abide,

  And everywhere we strain that things should stay, — the one

  Truth, that ourselves are true!

  LXXXV.

  A word, and I have done.

  Is it not just our hate of falsehood, fleetingness,

  And the mere part, things play, that constitutes express

  The inmost charm of this Fifine and all her tribe?

  Actors! We also act, but only they inscribe

  Their style and title so, and preface, only they,

  Performance with “A lie is all we do or say.”

  Wherein but there can be the attraction, Falsehood’s bribe,

  That wins so surely o’er to Fifine and her tribe

  The liking, nay the love of who hate Falsehood most,

  Except that these alone of mankind make their boast

  “Frankly, we simulate!” To feign, means — to have grace

  And so get gratitude! This ruler of the race,

  Crowned, sceptred, stoled to suit, — ’t is not that you detect

  The cobbler in the king, but that he makes effect

  By seeming the reverse of what you know to be

  The man, the mind, whole form, fashion and quality.

  Mistake his false for true, one minute, — there’s an end

  Of the admiration! Truth, we grieve at or rejoice:

  ‘T is only falsehood, plain in gesture, look and voice,

  That brings the praise desired, since profit comes thereby.

  The histrionic truth is in the natural lie.

  Because the man who wept the tears was, all the time,

  Happy enough; because the other man, a-grime

  With guilt, was, at the least, as white as I and you;

  Because the timid type of bashful maidhood, who

  Starts at her own pure shade, already numbers seven

  Born babes and, in a month, will turn their odd to even;

  Because the saucy prince would prove, could you unfurl

  Some yards of wrap, a meek and meritorious girl —

  Precisely as you see success attained by each

  O’ the mimes, do you approve, not foolishly impeach

  The falsehood!

  LXXXVI.

  That’s the first o’ the truths found: all things, slow

  Or quick i’ the passage, come at last to that, you know!

  Each has a false outside, whereby a truth is forced

  To issue from within: truth, falsehood, are divorced

  By the excepted eye, at the rare season, for

  The happy moment. Life means — learning to abhor

  The false, and love the true, truth treasured snatch by snatch,

  Waifs counted at their worth. And when with strays they match

  I’ the parti-coloured world, — when, under foul, shines fair,

  And truth, displayed i’ the point, flashes forth everywhere

  I’ the circle, manifest to soul, though hid from sense,

  And no obstruction more affects this confidence, —

  When faith is ripe for sight, — why, reasonably, then

  Comes the great clearing-up. Wait threescore years and ten!

  LXXXVII.

  Therefore I prize stage-play, the honest cheating; thence

  The impulse pricked, when fife and drum bade Fair commence,

  To bid you trip and skip, link arm in arm with me,

  Like husband and like wife, and so together see

  The tumbling-troop arrayed, the strollers on their stage

  Drawn up and under arms, and ready to engage.

  And if I started thence upon abstruser themes . . .

  Well, ‘t was a dream, pricked too!

  LXXXVIII.

  A poet never dreams:

  We prose-folk always do: we miss the proper duct

  For thoughts on things unseen, which stagnate and obstruct

  The system, therefore; mind, sound in a body sane,

  Keeps thoughts apart from facts, and to one flowing vein

  Confines its sense of that which is not, but might be,

  And leaves the rest alone. What ghosts do poets see?

  What dæmons fear? what man or thing misapprehend?

  Unchoked, the channel ‘s flush, the fancy ‘s free to spend

  Its special self aright in manner, time and place.

  Never believe that who create the busy race

  O’ the brain, bring poetry to birth, such act performed,

  Feel trouble them, the same, such residue as warmed

  My prosy blood, this morn, — intrusive fancies, meant

  For outbreak and escape by quite another vent!

  Whence follows that, asleep, my dreamings oft exceed

  The bound. But you shall hear.

  LXXXIX.

  I smoked. The webs o’ the weed,

  With many a break i’ the mesh, were floating to re-form

  Cupola-wise above: chased thither by soft warm

  Inflow of air without; since I — of mind to muse, to clench

  The gain of soul and body, got by their noon-day drench

  In sun and sea, — had flung both frames o’ the window wide,

  To soak my body still and let soul soar beside.

  In came the country sounds and sights and smells — that fine

  Sharp needle in the nose from our fermenting wine!

  In came a dragon-fly with whir and stir, then out,<
br />
  Off and away: in came, — kept coming, rather, — pout

  Succeeding smile, and take-away still close on give, —

  One loose long creeper-branch, tremblingly sensitive

  To risks which blooms and leaves, — each leaf tonguebroad, each bloom

  Mid-finger-deep, — must run by prying in the room

  Of one who loves and grasps and spoils and speculates.

  All so far plain enough to sight and sense: but, weights,

  Measures and numbers, — ah, could one apply such test

  To other visitants that came at no request

  Of who kept open house, — to fancies manifold

  From this four-cornered world, the memories new and old,

  The antenatal prime experience — what know I? —

  The initiatory love preparing us to die —

  Such were a crowd to count, a sight to see, a prize

  To turn to profit, were but fleshly ears and eyes

  Able to cope with those o’ the spirit!

  XC.

  Therefore, — since

  Thought hankers after speech, while no speech may evince

  Feeling like music, — mine, o’erburthened with each gift

  From every visitant, at last resolved to shift

  Its burthen to the back of some musician dead

  And gone, who feeling once what I feel now, instead

  Of words, sought sounds, and saved for ever, in the same,

  Truth that escapes prose, — nay, puts poetry to shame.

  I read the note, I strike the key, I bid record

  The instrument — thanks greet the veritable word!

  And not in vain I urge: “O dead and gone away,

  Assist who struggles yet, thy strength become my stay,

  Thy record serve as well to register — I felt

  And knew thus much of truth! With me, must knowledge melt

  Into surmise and doubt and disbelief, unless

  Thy music reassure — I gave no idle guess,

  But gained a certitude I yet may hardly keep!

  What care? since round is piled a monumental heap

  Of music that conserves the assurance, thou as well

  Wast certain of the same! thou, master of the spell,

  Mad’st moonbeams marble, didst record what other men

  Feel only to forget!” Who was it helped me, then?

  What master’s work first came responsive to my call,

  Found my eye, fixed my choice?

  XCI.

  Why, Schumann’s “Carnival!”

  My choice chimed in, you see, exactly with the sounds

  And sights of yestereve when, going on my rounds,

  Where both roads join the bridge, I heard across the dusk

  Creak a slow caravan, and saw arrive the husk

  O’ the spice-nut, which peeled off this morning, and displayed,