He raised his hand . . . Hast seen, when drinking out the night.
And in, the day, earth grow another something quite
Under the sun’s first stare? I stood a very stone.
“ ‘ “Woman!” (a fiery tear he put in every tone), 150
“How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport,
Violence — trade? Too true! I trust no vague report.
Her angel’s hands, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear
The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear.
What has she heard! — which, heard shall never be again.
Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the — wain
Or reign or train — of Charles!” (His language was not ours:
‘T is my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers.)
“Bread, only bread they bring — my laces: if we broke
Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf’s first crumb would choke!” 160
“ ‘Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he:
His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see:
Up went his hands: “Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul!
So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole,
Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound
With dreriment about, within may life be found,
A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before,
Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core,
Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found?
Who says ‘How save it?’ — nor ‘Why cumbers it the ground?’ 170
Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf,
Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf!
Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl
Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle
Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof!
And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof,
Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by,
Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die!
What then? ‘Look unto me and be ye saved!’ saith God:
‘I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod! 180
Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, — although
As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!’ “
“ ‘There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand
Is — that, if I reached home, ‘t was through the guiding hand
Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets
And out of town and up to door again. What greets
First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon?
A book — this Book she gave at parting. “Father’s boon —
The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself:
He cannot preach in bonds, so, — take it down from shelf 190
When you want counsel, — think you hear his very voice!”
“ ‘Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice!
Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more,
Be saved like me, bald trunk! There’s greenness yet at core.
Sap under slough! Read, read!’
”Let me take breath, my lords!
I’d like to know, are these — hers, mine, or Bunyan’s words?
I’m ‘wildered — scarce with drink, — nowise with drink alone!
You’ll say, with heat: but heat’s no stuff to split a stone
Like this black boulder — this flint heart of mine: the Book —
That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here’s the fist that shook 200
His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear!
You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware
Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back,
Good Master Christmas? Nay, — yours was that Joseph’s sack,
— Or whose it was, — which held the cup, — compared with mine!
Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine,
Adultery . . . nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung!
One word, I’ll up with fist . . . No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue!
“I’m hasting to the end. The Book, sirs — take and read!
You have my history in a nutshell, — ay, indeed! 210
It must off, my burden! See, — slack straps and into pit,
Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there — a plague on it!
For a mountain’s sure to fall and bury Bedford Town,
‘Destruction’ — that’s the name, and fire shall burn it down!
O ‘scape the wrath in time! Time’s now, if not too late.
How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate?
Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull
Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful —
But it’s late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago
Town, wife, and children dear . . . Well, Christmas did, you know! — 220
Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel’s strength
On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length!
Have at his horns, thwick — thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof —
Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love’s sake, keep aloof
Angels! I’m man and match, — this cudgel for my flail, —
To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat’s wing and serpent’s tail!
A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding
Into the deafest ear except — hope, hope’s the thing?
Too late i’ the day for me to thrid the windings: but
There’s still a way to win the race by death’s short cut! 230
Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts?
No, straight to Vanity Fair, — a fair, by all accounts,
Such as is held outside, — lords, ladies, grand and gay, —
Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say.
And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out
To die in the market-place — St. Peter’s Green’s about
The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives,
Pricked him with swords, — I’ll swear, he’d full a cat’s nine lives, —
So to his end at last came Faithful, — ha, ha, he!
Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see, 240
Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all:
He’s in, he’s off, he’s up, through clouds, at trumpet-call,
Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate! Odds my life —
Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife?
Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab — do the same by her!
O Master Worldly-Wiseman . . . that’s Master Interpreter,
Take the will, not the deed! Our gibbet’s handy close:
Forestall Last Judgment-Day! Be kindly, not morose!
There wants no earthly judge-and-jurying: here we stand —
Sentence our guilty selves: so, hang us out of hand! 250
Make haste for pity’s sake! A single moment’s loss
Means — Satan’s lord once more: his whisper shoots across
All singing in my heart, all praying in my brain,
‘It comes of heat and beer!’ — hark how he guffaws plain!
‘To-morrow you’ll wake bright, and, in a safe skin, hug
Your sound selves, Tab and you, over a foaming jug!
You’ve had such qualms before, time out of mind!’ He’s right!
Did not we kick and cuff and curse away, that night
When home we blindly reeled, and left poor humpback Joe
I’ the lurch to pay for what . . . somebody did, you know! 260
&nb
sp; Both of us maundered then ‘Lame humpback, — never more
Will he come limping, drain his tankard at our door!
He’ll swing, while — somebody . . .’ Says Tab, ‘No, for I’ll peach!’
‘I’m for you, Tab,’ cries I, ‘there’s rope enough for each!’
So blubbered we, and bussed, and went to bed upon
The grace of Tab’s good thought: by morning, all was gone!
We laughed — ‘What’s life to him, a cripple of no account?’
Oh, waves increase around — I feel them mount and mount!
Hang us! To-morrow brings Tom Bearward with his bears:
One new black-muzzled brute beats Sackerson, he swears: 270
(Sackerson, for my money!) And, baiting o’er, the Brawl
They lead on Turner’s Patch, — lads, lasses, up tails all, —
I’m i’ the thick o’ the throng! That means the Iron Cage,
— Means the Lost Man inside! Where’s hope for such as wage
War against light? Light’s left, light’s here, I hold light still.
So does Tab — make but haste to hang us both! You will?”
I promise, when he stopped you might have heard a mouse
Squeak, such a death-like hush sealed up the old Mote House.
But when the mass of man sank meek upon his knees,
While Tab, alongside, wheezed a hoarse “Do hang us, please!” 280
Why, then the waters rose, no eye but ran with tears,
Hearts heaved, heads thumped, until, paying all past arrears
Of pity and sorrow, at last a regular scream outbroke
Of triumph, joy and praise.
My Lord Chief Justice spoke,
First mopping brow and cheek, where still, for one that budged,
Another bead broke fresh: “What Judge, that ever judged
Since first the world began, judged such a case as this?
Why, Master Bratts, long since, folk smelt you out, I wis!
I had my doubts, i’ faith, each time you played the fox
Convicting geese of crime in yonder witness-box — 290
Yea, much did I misdoubt, the thief that stole her eggs
Was hardly goosey’s self at Reynard’s game, i’ feggs!
Yet thus much was to praise — you spoke to point, direct —
Swore you heard, saw the theft: no jury could suspect —
Dared to suspect, — I’ll say, — a spot in white so clear:
Goosey was throttled, true: but thereof godly fear
Came of example set, much as our laws intend;
And, though a fox confessed, you proved the Judge’s friend.
What if I had my doubts? Suppose I gave them breath,
Brought you to bar: what work to do, ere ‘Guilty, Death,’ — 300
Had paid our pains! What heaps of witnesses to drag
From holes and corners, paid from out the County’s bag!
Trial three dog-days long! Amicus Curiæ — that’s
Your title, no dispute — truth-telling Master Bratts!
Thank you, too, Mistress Tab! Why doubt one word you say?
Hanging you both deserve, hanged both shall be this day!
The tinker needs must be a proper man. I’ve heard
He lies in Jail long since: if Quality’s good word
Warrants me letting loose, — some householder, I mean —
Freeholder, better still, — I don’t say but — between 310
Now and next Sessions . . . Well! Consider of his case,
I promise to, at least: we owe him so much grace.
Not that — no, God forbid! — I lean to think, as you,
The grace that such repent is any jail-bird’s due:
I rather see the fruit of twelve years’ pious reign —
Astræa Redux, Charles restored his rights again!
— Of which, another time! I somehow feel a peace
Stealing across the world. May deeds like this increase!
So, Master Sheriff, stay that sentence I pronounced
On those two dozen odd: deserving to be trounced 320
Soundly, and yet . . . well, well, at all events despatch
This pair of — shall I say, sinner-saints? — ere we catch
Their jail-distemper too. Stop tears, or I’ll indite
All weeping Bedfordshire for turning Bunyanite!”
So, forms were galloped through. If Justice, on the spur,
Proved somewhat expeditious, would Quality demur?
And happily hanged were they, — why lengthen out my tale? —
Where Bunyan’s Statue stands facing where stood his Jail.
DRAMATIC IDYLLS: SECOND SERIES
CONTENTS
You are sick, that’s sure
Echetlos
Clive
Muléykeh
Pietro of Abano
Doctor — —
Pan and Luna
Touch him ne’er so lightly
You are sick, that’s sure
Prologue to Dramatic Idyls, Second Series
“You are sick, that’s sure,” — they say:
”Sick of what?” — they disagree.
“ ‘T is the brain,” — thinks Doctor A;
” ‘T is the heart,” — holds Doctor B;
“The liver — my life I’d lay!”
”The lungs!” “The lights!”
Ah me!
So ignorant of man’s whole
Of bodily organs plain to see —
So sage and certain, frank and free,
About what’s under lock and key —
Man’s soul!
Echetlos
Here is a story shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone,
Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on,
Did the deed and saved the world, for the day was Marathon!
No man but did bis manliest, kept rank and fought away
In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down — was the spear-arm play:
Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day!
But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear,
As a flashing came and went, and a form i’ the van, the rear,
Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.
Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear,
Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown’s limbs broad and bare,
Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman’s share.
Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark
Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark
On his heap of slain lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch?
Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,
The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,
As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede.
But the deed done, battle won, — nowhere to be descried
On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, look far and wide
From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed seaside, —
Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown,
Shearing and clearing still with the share before which — down
To the dust went Persia’s pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown!
How spake the Oracle? “Care for no name at all!
Say but just this: ‘We praise one helpful whom we call
The Holder of the Ploughshare.’ The great deed ne’er grows small.”
Not the great name! Sing woe — for the great name Miltiades
And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles
— Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!
Clive
I and Clive were friends — and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad.
Clive it was gave England India, while your fathe
r gives — egad,
England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak —
“Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades — ” with a tongue thrust in your cheek!
Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world’s eyes, Clive was man,
I was, am, and ever shall be — mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan
Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen’s estimate for fame;
While the man Clive — he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game,
Conquered and annexed and Englished!
Never mind! As o’er my punch
(You away) I sit of evenings, — silence, save for biscuit crunch, 10
Black, unbroken, — thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years,
Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life appears
Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood,
Once, and well remembered still: I’m startled in my solitude
Ever and anon by — what’s the sudden mocking light that breaks
On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes
While I ask — aloud, I do believe, God help me! — ”Was it thus?
Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us — ”
(Us, — you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be)
“ — One bold step had gained a province” (figurative talk, you see) 20
“Got no end of wealth and honour, — yet I stood stock-still no less?”
— ”For I was not Clive,” you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess
Wealth were handy, honour ticklish, did no writing on the wall
Warn me “Trespasser, ‘ware man-traps!” Him who braves that notice — call
Hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words,
Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says the land’s the Lord’s:
Louts then — what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring,
All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king?
Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before
T’ other in that dark direction, though I stand for evermore 30
Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By-and-by
Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I.
Don’t object “Why call him friend, then?” Power is power, my boy, and still
Marks a man, — God’s gift magnific, exercised for good or ill.
You’ve your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger’s skin:
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 203