Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

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by Robert Browning


  If blooms thus large this Cæsar to myself

  — Of senatorial rank and somebody —

  How must he strike the vulgar nameless crowd,

  In numerous swarm that’s nobody at all?

  Why, — for an instance, — much as yon gold shape

  Crowned, sceptred, on the temple opposite —

  Fulgurant Jupiter — must daze the sense

  Of — say, yon outcast begging from its step!

  “What, Anti-Cæsar, monarch in the mud,

  As he is pinnacled above thy pate?

  Ay, beg away! thy lot contrasts full well

  With his whose bounty yields thee this support —

  Our Holy and Inviolable One,

  Cæsar, whose bounty built the fane above!

  Dost read my thought? Thy garb, alack, displays

  Sore usage truly in each rent and stain —

  Faugh! Wash though in Suburra! ‘Ware the dogs

  Who may not so disdain a meal on thee!

  What, stretchest forth a palm to catch my alms?

  Aha, why yes: I must appear — who knows? —

  I, in my toga, to thy rags and thee —

  Quæstor — nay, Ædile, Censor — Pol! perhaps

  The very City-Prætor’s noble self!

  As to me Cæsar, so to thee am I?

  Good: nor in vain shall prove thy quest, poor rogue!

  Hither — hold palm out — take this quarter — as!”

  And who did take it? As he raised his head,

  (My gesture was a trifle — well — abrupt,)

  Back fell the broad flap of the peasant’s-hat,

  The homespun cloak that muffled half his check

  Dropped somewhat, and I had a glimpse — just one!

  One was enough. Whose — whose might be the face?

  That unkempt careless hair — brown, yellowish —

  Those sparkling eyes beneath their eyebrows’ ridge

  (Each meets each, and the hawk-nose rules between)

  — That was enough, no glimpse was needed more!

  And terrifyingly into my mind

  Came that quick-hushed report was whispered us,

  “They do say, once a year in sordid garb

  He plays the mendicant, sits all day long,

  Asking and taking alms of who may pass,

  And so averting, if submission help,

  Fate’s envy, the dread chance and change of things

  When Fortune — for a word, a look, a naught —

  Turns spiteful and — the petted lioness —

  Strikes with her sudden paw, and prone falls each

  Who patted late her neck superiorly,

  Or trifled with those claw-tips velvet-sheathed.”

  “He’s God!” shouts Lucius Varius Rufus: “Man

  And worms’-meat any moment!” mutters low

  Some Power, admonishing the mortal-born.

  Ay, do you mind? There’s meaning in the fact

  That whoso conquers, triumphs, enters Rome,

  Climbing the Capitolian, soaring thus

  To glory’s summit, — Publius, do you mark —

  Ever the same attendant who, behind,

  Above the Conqueror’s head supports the crown

  All-too-demonstrative for human wear,

  — One hand’s employment — all the while reserves

  Its fellow, backward flung, to point how, close

  Appended from the car, beneath the foot

  Of the up-borne exulting Conqueror,

  Frown — half-descried — the instruments of shame,

  The malefactor’s due. Crown, now — Cross, when?

  Who stands secure? Are even Gods so safe?

  Jupiter that just now is dominant —

  Are not there ancient dismal tales how once

  A predecessor reigned ere Saturn came,

  And who can say if Jupiter be last?

  Was it for nothing the gray Sibyl wrote

  “Cæsar Augustus regnant, shall be born

  In blind Judæa — one to master him,

  Him and the universe? An old-wife’s tale?

  Bath-drudge! Here, slave! No cheating! Our turn next.

  No loitering, or be sure you taste the lash!

  Two strigils, two oil-drippers, each a sponge!

  Development

  MY FATHER was a scholar and knew Greek.

  When I was five years old, I asked him once

  “What do you read about?”

  ”The siege of Troy.”

  “What is a siege, and what is Troy?”

  Whereat

  He piled up chairs and tables for a town,

  Set me a-top for Priam, called our cat

  — Helen, enticed away from home (he said)

  By wicked Paris, who couched somewhere close

  Under the footstool, being cowardly,

  But whom — since she was worth the pains, poor puss —

  Towzer and Tray, — our dogs, the Atreidai, — sought

  By taking Troy to get possession of

  — Always when great Achilles ceased to sulk,

  (My pony in the stable) — forth would prance

  And put to flight Hector — our page-boy’s self.

  This taught me who was who and what was what:

  So far I rightly understood the case

  At five years old; a huge delight it proved

  And still proves — thanks to that insructor sage

  My Father, who knew better than turn straight

  Learning’s full flare on weak-eyed ignorance,

  Or, worse yet, leave weak eyes to grow sand-blind,

  Content with darkness and vacuity.

  It happened, two or three years afterward

  That — I and playmates playing at Troy’ Siege —

  My Father came upon our make-believe.

  “How would you like to read yourself the tale

  Properly told, of which I gave you first

  Merely such notion as a boy could bear?

  Pope, now, would give you the precise account

  Of what, some day, by dint of scholarship

  You’ll hear — who knows? — from Homer’ very mouth.

  Learn Greek by all means, read the “Blind Old Man,

  Sweetest of Singers’ — tuphlos which means ‘blind,’

  Hedistos which means ‘sweetest.’ Time enough!

  Try, anyhow, to master him some day;

  Until when, take what serves for substitute,

  Read Pope, by all means!”

  So I ran through Pope,

  Enjoyed the tale — what history so true?

  Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged,

  Grew fitter thus for what was promised next —

  The very thing itself, the actual words,

  When I could turn — say, Buttmann to account.

  Time passed, I ripened somewhat: one fine day,

  “Quite ready for the Iliad, nothing less?

  There’s Heine, where the big books block the shelf:

  Don’t skip a word, thumb well the Lexicon!”

  I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I learned

  Who was who, what was what, from Homer’s tongue,

  And there an end of learning. Had you asked

  The all-accomplished scholar, twelve years old,

  “Who was it wrote the Iliad?” — what a laugh

  “Why, Homer, all the world knows: of his life

  Doubtless some facts exist: it’s everywhere:

  We have not settled, though, his place of birth:

  He begged, for certain, and was blind beside:

  Seven cities claimed him — Scio, with best right,

  Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those Hymns we have.

  Then there’s the ‘Battle of the Frogs and Mice,’

  That’s all — unless they dig ‘Margites’ up

  (I’d like that) nothing more remains to know.”

  Thus did youth spend a
comfortable time;

  Until — ”What’s this the Germans say in fact

  That Wolf found out first? It’s unpleasant work

  Their chop and change, unsettling one’s belief:

  All the same, where we live, we learn, that’s sure.”

  So, I bent brow o’er Prolegomena.

  And after Wolf, a dozen of his like

  Proved there was never any Troy at all,

  Neither Besiegers nor Besieged, nay, worse, —

  No actual Homer, no authentic text,

  No warrant for the fiction I, as fact,

  Had treasured in my heart and soul so long —

  Ay, mark you! and as fact held still, still hold,

  Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of hearts

  And soul of souls, fact’s essence freed and fixed

  From accidental fancy’s guardian sheath.

  Assuredly thenceforward — thank my stars! —

  However it got there, deprive who could —

  Wring from the shrine my precious tenantry,

  Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse,

  Achilles and his Friend? — though Wolf — ah, Wolf!

  Why must he needs come doubting, spoil a dream?

  But then, “No dream’s worth waking” — Browning says:

  And here’s the reason why I tell thus much.

  I, now mature man, you anticipate,

  May blame my Father justifiably

  For letting me dream out my nonage thus,

  And only by such slow and sure degrees

  Permitting me to sift the grain from chaff,

  Get truth and falsehood known and named as such.

  Why did he ever let me dream at all,

  Not bid me taste the story in its strength?

  Suppose my childhood was scarce qualified

  To rightly understand mythology,

  Silence at least was in his power to keep:

  I might have — somehow — correspondingly —

  Well, who knows by what method, gained my gains,

  Been taught, by forthrights not meanderings,

  My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus’ son,

  A lie as Hell’s Gate, love my wedded wife,

  Like Hector, and so on with all the rest.

  Could not I have excogitated this

  Without believing such man really were?

  That is — he might have put into my hand

  The “Ethics”? In translation, if you please,

  Exact, no pretty lying that improves,

  To suit the modern taste: no more, no less —

  The “Ethics:” ‘tis a treatise I find hard

  To read aright now that my hair is gray,

  And I can manage the original.

  At five years old — how ill had fared its leaves!

  Now, growing double o’er the Stagirite,

  At least I soil no page with bread and milk,

  Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface — boys’ way.

  Rephan

  Suggested by a very early recollection of a prose story by the noble woman and imaginative writer, Jane Taylor, of Norwich, (more correctly, of Ongar]. R. B.

  HOW I lived, ere my human life began

  In this world of yours, — like you, made man, —

  When my home was the Star of my God Rephan?

  Come then around me, close about,

  World-weary earth-born ones! Darkest doubt

  Or deepest despondency keeps you out?

  Nowise! Before a word I speak,

  Let my circle embrace your worn, your weak,

  Brow-furrowed old age, youth’s hollow cheek —

  Diseased in the body, sick in soul,

  Pinched poverty, satiate wealth, your whole

  Array of despairs! Have I read the roll?

  All here? Attend, perpend! O Star

  Of my God Rephan, what wonders are

  In thy brilliance fugitive, faint and far!

  Far from me, native to thy realm,

  Who shared its perfections which o’erwhelm

  Mind to conceive. Let drift the helm,

  Let drive the sail, dare unconfined

  Embark for the vastitude, O Mind,

  Of an absolute bliss! Leave earth behind!

  Here, by extremes, at a mean you guess:

  There, all’s at most — not more, not less:

  Nowhere deficiency nor excess.

  No want — whatever should be, is now:

  No growth — that’s change, and change comes — how

  To royalty born with crown on brow?

  Nothing begins — so needs to end:

  Where fell it short at first? Extend

  Duly the same, no change can mend!

  I use your language: mine — no word

  Of its wealth would help who spoke, who heard,

  To a gleam of intelligence. None preferred,

  None felt distaste when better and worse

  Were uncontrastable: bless or curse

  What — in that uniform universe?

  Can your world’s phrase, your sense of things

  Forth-figure the Star of my God? No springs,

  No winters throughout its space. Time brings

  No hope, no fear: as to-day, shall be

  To-morrow: advance or retreat need we

  At our stand-still through eternity?

  All happy: needs must we so have been,

  Since who could be otherwise? All serene:

  What dark was to banish, what light to screen?

  Earth’s rose is a bud that’s checked or grows

  As beams may encourage or blasts oppose:

  Our lives leapt forth, each a full-orbed rose —

  Each rose sole rose in a sphere that spread

  Above and below and around — rose-red:

  No fellowship, each for itself instead.

  One better than I — would prove I lacked

  Somewhat: one worse were a jarring fact

  Disturbing my faultlessly exact.

  How did it come to pass there lurked

  Somehow a seed of change that worked

  Obscure in my heart till perfection irked? —

  Till out of its peace at length grew strife —

  Hopes, fears, loves, hates, — obscurely rife, —

  My life grown a-tremble to turn your life?

  Was it Thou, above all lights that are,

  Prime Potency, did Thy hand unbar

  The prison-gate of Rephan my Star?

  In me did such potency wake a pulse

  Could trouble tranquillity that lulls

  Not lashes inertion till throes convulse

  Soul’s quietude into discontent?

  As when the completed rose bursts, rent

  By ardors till forth from its orb are sent

  New petals that mar — unmake the disk —

  Spoil rondure: what in it ran brave risk,

  Changed apathy’s calm to strife, bright, brisk,

  Pushed simple to compound, sprang and spread

  Till, fresh-formed, faceted, floreted,

  The flower that slept woke a star instead?

  No Mimic of Star Rephan! How long

  I stagnated there where weak and strong,

  The wise and the foolish, right and wrong,

  Are merged alike in a neutral Best,

  Can I tell? No more than at whose behest

  The passion arose in my passive breast,

  And I yearned for no sameness but difference

  In thing and thing, that should shock my sense

  With a want of worth in them all, and thence

  Startle me up, by an Infinite

  Discovered above and below me — height

  And depth alike to attract my flight,

  Repel my descent: by hate taught love.

  Oh, gain were indeed to see above

  Supremacy ever — to move, remove,

  Not reach — aspire yet never attain
r />   To the object aimed at! Scarce in vain, —

  As each stage I left nor touched again.

  To suffer, did pangs bring the loved one bliss,

  Wring knowledge from ignorance, — just for this —

  To add one drop to a love-abyss!

  Enough: for you doubt, you hope, O men,

  You fear, you agonize, die: what then?

  Is an end to your life’s work out of ken?

  Have you no assurance that, earth at end,

  Wrong will prove right? Who made shall mend

  In the higher sphere to which yearnings tend?

  Why should I speak? You divine the test.

  When the trouble grew in my pregnant breast

  A voice said, “So wouldst thou strive, not rest?

  “Burn and not smoulder, win by worth,

  Not rest content with a wealth that’s dearth?

  Thou art past Rephan, thy place be Earth!”

  Reverie

  I KNOW there shall dawn a day

  — Is it here on homely earth?

  Is it yonder, worlds away,

  Where the strange and new have birth,

  That Power comes full in play?

  Is it here, with grass about,

  Under befriending trees,

  When shy buds venture out,

  And the air by mild degrees

  Puts winter’s death past doubt?

  Is it up amid whirl and roar

  Of the elemental flame

  Which star-flecks heaven’s dark floor,

  That, new yet still the same,

  Full in play comes Power once more?

  Somewhere, below, above,

  Shall a day dawn — this I know —

  When Power, which vainly strove

  My weakness to o’erthrow,

  Shall triumph. I breathe, I move,

  I truly am, at last!

  For a veil is rent between

  Me and the truth which passed

  Fitful, half-guessed, half-seen,

  Grasped at — not gained, held fast.

  I for my race and me

  Shall apprehend life’s law:

  In the legend of man shall see

  Writ large what small I saw

  In my life’s; tale both agree.

  As the record from youth to age

  Of my own, the single soul —

  So the world’s wide book: one page

  Deciphered explains the whole

  Of our common heritage.

  How but from near to far

  Should knowledge proceed, increase?

  Try the clod ere test the star!

  Bring our inside strife to peace

  Ere we wage, on the outside, war!

  So, my annals thus begin:

  With body, to life awoke

  Soul, the immortal twin

  Of body which bore soul’s yoke

  Since mortal and not akin.

  By means of the flesh, grown fit.

 

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