To abolish the scribe’s work — blur, blunder and blot!
[The doors open, and the Press is discovered in operation.
Brave full-bodied birth of this brain that conceived thee
In splendour and music, — sustained the slow drag
Of the days stretched to years dim with doubt, — yet believed thee,
Had faith in thy first leap of life! Pulse might flag —
— Mine fluttered how faintly! — Arch-moment might lag
Its longest — I bided, made light of endurance,
Held hard by the hope of an advent which — dreamed,
Is done now: night yields to the dawn’s reassurance:
I have thee — I hold thee — my fancy that seemed,
My fact that proves palpable! Ay, Sirs, I schemed
Completion that’s fact: see this Engine — be witness
Yourselves of its working! Nay, handle my Types!
Each block bears a Letter: in order and fitness
I range them. Turn, Peter, the winch! See, it gripes
What’s under! Let loose — draw! In regular stripes
Lies plain, at one pressure, your poem — touched, tinted,
Turned out to perfection! The sheet, late a blank,
Filled — ready for reading, — not written but Printed !
Omniscient omnipotent God, Thee I thank,
Thee ever, Thee only! — Thy creature that shrank
From no task Thou, Creator, imposedst! Creation
Revealed me no object, from insect to Man,
But bore Thy hand’s impress: earth glowed with salvation:
”Hast sinned? Be thou saved, Fust! Continue my plan,
Who spake and earth was: with my word things began.
“As sound so went forth, to the sight be extended
Word’s mission henceforward! The task I assign,
Embrace — thy allegiance to evil is ended!
Have cheer, soul impregnate with purpose! Combine
Soul and body, give birth to my concept — called thine!
“Far and wide, North and South, East and West, have dominion
O’er thought, winged wonder, O Word! Traverse world
In sun-flash and sphere-song! Each beat of thy pinion
Bursts night, beckons day: once Truth’s banner unfurled,
Where’s Falsehood? Sun-smitten, to nothingness hurled!”
More humbly — so, friends, did my fault find redemption.
I sinned, soul-entoiled by the tether of sense:
My captor reigned master: I plead no exemption
From Satan’s award to his servant: defence
From the fiery and final assault would be — whence?
By making — as man might — to truth restitution!
Truth is God: trample lies and lies’ father, God’s foe!
Fix fact fast: truths change by an hour’s revolution:
What deed’s very doer, unaided, can show
How ‘t was done a year — month — week — day — minute ago?
At best, he relates it — another reports it —
A third — nay, a thousandth records it: and still
Narration, tradition, no step but distorts it,
As down from truth’s height it goes sliding until
At the low level lie-mark it stops — whence no skill
Of the scribe, intervening too tardily, rescues
— Once fallen — lost fact from lie’s fate there. What scribe
— Eyes horny with poring, hands crippled with desk-use,
Brains fretted by fancies — the volatile tribe
That tease weary watchers — can boast that no bribe
Shuts eye and frees hand and remits brain from toiling?
Truth gained — can we stay, at whatever the stage,
Truth a-slide, — save her snow from its ultimate soiling
In mire, — by some process, stamp promptly on page
Fact spoiled by pen’s plodding, make truth heritage
Not merely of clerics, but poured out, full measure,
On clowns — every mortal endowed with a mind?
Read, gentle and simple! Let labour win leisure
At last to bid truth do all duty assigned,
Not pause at the noble but pass to the hind!
How bring to effect such swift sure simultaneous
Unlimited multiplication? How spread
By an arm-sweep a hand-throw — no helping extraneous —
Truth broadcast o’er Europe? “The goldsmith,” I said,
“Graves limning on gold: why not letters on lead?”
So, Tuscan artificer, grudge not thy pardon
To me who played false, made a furtive descent,
Found the sly secret workshop, — thy genius kept guard on
Too slackly for once, — and surprised thee low-bent
O’er thy labour — some chalice thy tool would indent
With a certain free scroll-work framed round by a border
Of foliage and fruitage: no scratching so fine,
No shading so shy but, in ordered disorder,
Each flourish came clear, — unbewildered by shine,
On the gold, irretrievably right, lay each line.
How judge if thy hand worked thy will? By reviewing,
Revising again and again, piece by piece,
Tool’s performance, — this way, as I watched. ‘T was through glueing
A paper-like film-stuff — thin, smooth, void of crease,
On each cut of the graver: press hard! at release,
No mark on the plate, but the paper showed double:
His work might proceed: as he judged — space or speck
Up he filled, forth he flung — was relieved thus from trouble
Lest wrong — once — were right never more: what could check
Advancement, completion? Thus lay at my beck —
At my call — triumph likewise! “For,” cried I, “what hinders
That graving turns Printing? Stamp one word — not one
But fifty such, phoenix-like, spring from death’s cinders, —
Since death is word’s doom, clerics hide from the sun
As some churl closets up this rare chalice.” Go, run
Thy race now, Fust’s child! High, O Printing, and holy
Thy mission! These types, see, I chop and I change
Till the words, every letter, a pageful, not slowly
Yet surely lies fixed: last of all, I arrange
A paper beneath, stamp it, loosen it! FIRST FRIEND.
Strange!
SECOND FRIEND.
How simple exceedingly! FUST.
Bustle, my Schoeffer!
Set type, — quick, Genesheim! Turn screw now! THIRD FRIEND
Just that! FOURTH FRIEND.
And no such vast miracle! FUST.
“Plough with my heifer,
Ye find out my riddle,” quoth Samson, and pat
He speaks to the purpose. Grapes squeezed in the vat
Yield to sight and to taste what is simple — a liquid
Mere urchins may sip: but give time, let ferment —
You’ve wine, manhood’s master! Well, “rectius si quid
Novistis im-per-ti-te!” Wait the event,
Then weigh the result! But whate’er Thy intent,
O Thou, the one force in the whole variation
Of visible nature, — at work — do I doubt? —
From Thy first to our last, in perpetual creation —
A film hides us from Thee — ’twixt inside and out,
A film, on this earth where Thou bringest about
New marvels, new forms of the glorious, the gracious,
We bow to, we bless for: no star bursts heaven’s dome
But Thy finger impels it, no weed peeps audacious
Earth’s clay-floor from out, but Thy finger makes room
For one world’s-want the more in Thy Cosmos: presume<
br />
Shall Man, Microcosmos, to claim the conception
Of grandeur, of beauty, in thought, word or deed?
I toiled, but Thy light on my dubiousest step shone:
If I reach the glad goal, is it I who succeed
Who stumbled at starting tripped up by a reed,
Or Thou? Knowledge only and absolute, glory
As utter be Thine who concedest a spark
Of Thy spheric perfection to earth’s transitory
Existences! Nothing that lives, but Thy mark
Gives law to — life’s light: what is doomed to the dark?
Where’s ignorance? Answer, creation! What height,
What depth has escaped Thy commandment — to Know?
What birth in the ore-bed but answers aright
Thy sting at its heart which impels — bids “E’en so,
Not otherwise move or be motionless, — grow,
“Decline, disappear!” Is the plant in default
How to bud, when to branch forth? The bird and the beast
— Do they doubt if their safety be found in assault
Or escape? Worm or fly, of what atoms the least
But follows light’s guidance, — will famish, not feast?
In such various degree, fly and worm, ore and plant,
All know, none is witless: around each, a wall
Encloses the portion, or ample or scant,
Of Knowledge: beyond which one hair’s breadth, for all
Lies blank — not so much as a blackness — a pall
Some sense unimagined must penetrate: plain
Is only old licence to stand, walk or sit,
Move so far and so wide in the narrow domain
Allotted each nature for life’s use: past it
How immensity spreads does he guess? Not a whit.
Does he care? Just as little. Without? No, within
Concerns him? he Knows. Man Ignores — thanks to Thee
Who madest him know, but — in knowing — begin
To know still new vastness of knowledge must be
Outside him — to enter, to traverse, in fee
Have and hold! “Oh, Man’s ignorance!” hear the fool whine!
How were it, for better or worse, didst thou grunt
Contented with sapience — the lot of the swine
Who knows he was born for just truffles to hunt? —
Monks’ Paradise — ”Semper sint res uti sunt!”
No, Man’s the prerogative — knowledge once gained —
To ignore, — find new knowledge to press for, to swerve
In pursuit of, no, not for a moment: attained —
Why, onward through ignorance! Dare and deserve!
As still to its asymptote speedeth the curve,
So approximates Man — Thee, who, reachable not,
Hast formed him to yearningly follow Thy whole
Sole and single omniscience!
Such, friends, is my lot:
I am back with the world: one more step to the goal
Thanks for reaching I render — Fust’s help to Man’s soul!
Mere mechanical help? So the hand gives a toss
To the falcon, — aloft once, spread pinions and fly,
Beat air far and wide, up and down and across!
My Press strains a-tremble: whose masterful eye
Will be first, in new regions, new truth to descry?
Give chase, soul! Be sure each new capture consigned
To my Types will go forth to the world, like God’s bread
— Miraculous food not for body but mind,
Truth’s manna! How say you? Put case that, instead
Of old leasing and lies, we superiorly fed
These Heretics, Hussites . . .
FIRST FRIEND.
First answer my query!
If saved, art thou happy? FUST.
I was and I am. FIRST FRIEND.
Thy visage confirms it: how comes, then, that — weary
And woe-begone late — was it show, was it sham? —
We found thee sunk thiswise? SECOND FRIEND.
— In need of the dram
From the flask which a provident neighbour might carry! FUST.
Ah, friends, the fresh triumph soon flickers, fast fades!
I hailed Word’s dispersion: could heartleaps but tarry!
Through me does Print furnish Truth wings? The same aids
Cause Falsehood to range just as widely. What raids
On a region undreamed of does Printing enable
Truth’s foe to effect! Printed leasing and lies
May speed to the world’s farthest corner — gross fable
No less than pure fact — to impede, neutralize,
Abolish God’s gift and Man’s gain! FIRST FRIEND.
Dost surmise
What struck me at first blush? Our Beghards, Waldenses,
Jeronimites, Hussites — does one show his head,
Spout heresy now? Not a priest in his senses
Deigns answer mere speech, but piles faggots instead,
Refines as by fire, and, him silenced, all’s said.
Whereas if in future I pen an opuscule
Defying retort, as of old when rash tongues
Were easy to tame, — straight some knave of the Huss-School
Prints answer forsooth! Stop invisible lungs?
The barrel of blasphemy broached once, who bungs?
SECOND FRIEND.
Does my sermon, next Easter, meet fitting acceptance?
Each captious disputative boy has his quirk
“An cuique credendum sit?” Well the Church kept “ ans “
In order till Fust set his engine at work!
What trash will come flying from Jew, Moor and Turk
When, goosequill, thy reign o’er the world is abolished!
Goose — ominous name! With a goose woe began:
Quoth Huss — which means “goose” in his idiom unpolished —
”Ye burn now a Goose: there succeeds me a Swan
Ye shall find quench your fire!” FUST.
I foresee such a man.
ASOLANDO
CONTENTS
Asolando. Prologue
Rosny
Dubiety
Now
Humility
Poetics
Summum Bonum
A Pearl, a Girl
Speculative
White Witchcraft
Bad Dreams I
Bad Dreams II
Bad Dreams III
Bad Dreams IV
Inapprehensiveness
Which?
The Cardinal and the Dog
The Pope and the Net
The Bean-Feast
Muckle-Mouth Meg
Arcades Ambo
The Lady and the Painter
Ponte Dell’ Angelo, Venice
Beatrice Signorini
Flute-Music, with an Accompaniment
Imperante Augusto Natus Est —
Development
Rephan
Reverie
Asolando. Epilogue
DEDICATION
TO MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON
To whom but you, dear Friend, should I dedicate verses — some few written, all of them supervised, in the comfort of your presence, and with yet another experience of the gracious hospitality now bestowed on me since so many a year, — adding a charm even to my residences at Venice, and leaving me little regret for the surprise and delight at my visits to Asolo in bygone days?
I unite, you will see, the disconnected poems by a title-name popularly ascribed to the inventiveness of the ancient secretary of Queen Cornaro whose palace-tower still over-looks us: Asolare — ”to disport in the open air, amuse one’s self at random.” The objection that such a word nowhere occurs in the works of the Cardinal is hardly important — Bembo was too thorough a purist to conserve in print a term which in talk he might possibly toy with: but the word is more likely deri
ved from a Spanish source. I use it for love of the place, and in reqital of your pleasant assurance that an early poem of mine first attracted you thither — where and elsewhere, at Mura as Cà Alvisi, may all happiness attend you!
Gratefully and affectionately yours,
R. B.
Asolo: October 15,1889
Asolando. Prologue
“THE Poet’s age is sad: for why?
In youth, the natural world could show
No common object but his eye
At once involved with alien glow —
His own soul’s iris-bow.
“And now a flower is just a flower:
Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man —
Simply themselves, uncinct by dower
Of dyes which, when life’s day began,
Round each in glory ran.”
Friend, did you need an optic glass,
Which were your choice? A lens to drape
In ruby, emerald, chrysopras,
Each object — or reveal its shape
Clear outlined, past escape,
The naked very thing? — so clear
That, when you had the chance to gaze,
You found its inmost self appear
Through outer seeming — truth ablaze,
Not falsehood’s fancy-haze?
How many a year, my Asolo,
Since — one step just from sea to land —
I found you, loved yet feared you so —
For natural objects seemed to stand
Palpably fire-clothed! No —
No mastery of mine o’er these!
Terror with beauty, like the Bush
Burning but unconsumed. Bend knees,
Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush!
Silence ‘tis awe decrees.
And now? The lambent flame is — where?
Lost from the naked world: earth, sky,
Hill, vale, tree, flower, — Italia’s rare
O’er-running beauty crowds the eye —
But flame? The Bush is bare.
Hill, vale, tree, flower — they stand distinct
Nature to know and name. What then?
A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinked
Fancy from fact: see, all’s in ken:
Has once my eyelid winked?
No, for the purged ear apprehends
Earth’s import, not the eye late dazed.
The Voice said, “Call my works thy friends!
At Nature dost thou shrink amazed?
God is it who transcends.”
Asolo: September 6, 1889.
Rosny
WOE, he went galloping into the war,
Clara, Clara!
Let us two dream: shall he ‘scape with a scar?
Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace
Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Page 229