Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Page 114
You think he could barter and cheat
As vulgar diplomates use,
With the people’s heart in his breast?
Prate a lie into shape
Lest truth should cumber the road;
Play at the fast and loose
Till the world is strangled with tape;
Maim the soul’s complete
To fit the hole of a toad;
And filch the dogman’s meat
To feed the offspring of God?
XVI.
Nay, but he, this wonder,
He cannot palter nor prate,
Though many around him and under,
With intellects trained to the curve,
Distrust him in spirit and nerve
Because his meaning is straight.
Measure him ere he depart
With those who have governed and led;
Larger so much by the heart,
Larger so much by the head.
Emperor
Evermore.
XVII.
He holds that, consenting or dissident,
Nations must move with the time;
Assumes that crime with a precedent
Doubles the guilt of the crime;
— Denies that a slaver’s bond,
Or a treaty signed by knaves
(Quorum magna pars, and beyond
Was one of an honest name),
Gives an inexpugnable claim
To abolish men into slaves.
Emperor
Evermore.
XVIII.
He will not swagger nor boast
Of his country’s meeds, in a tone
Missuiting a great man most
If such should speak of his own;
Nor will he act, on her side,
From motives baser, indeed,
Than a man of a noble pride
Can avow for himself at need;
Never, for lucre or laurels,
Or custom, though such should be rife,
Adapting the smaller morals
To measure the larger life.
He, though the merchants persuade,
And the soldiers are eager for strife,
Finds not his country in quarrels
Only to find her in trade, —
While still he accords her such honour
As never to flinch for her sake
Where men put service upon her,
Found heavy to undertake
And scarcely like to be paid:
Believing a nation may act
Unselfishly — shiver a lance
(As the least of her sons may, in fact)
And not for a cause of finance.
Emperor
Evermore.
XIX.
Great is he
Who uses his greatness for all.
His name shall stand perpetually
As a name to applaud and cherish,
Not only within the civic wall
For the loyal, but also without
For the generous and free.
Just is he,
Who is just for the popular due
As well as the private debt.
The praise of nations ready to perish
Fall on him, — crown him in view
Of tyrants caught in the net,
And statesmen dizzy with fear and doubt!
And though, because they are many,
And he is merely one,
And nations selfish and cruel
Heap up the inquisitor’s fuel
To kill the body of high intents,
And burn great deeds from their place,
Till this, the greatest of any,
May seem imperfectly done;
Courage, whoever circumvents!
Courage, courage, whoever is base!
The soul of a high intent, be it known,
Can die no more than any soul
Which God keeps by Him under the throne;
And this, at whatever interim,
Shall live, and be consummated
Into the being of deeds made whole.
Courage, courage! happy is he,
Of whom (himself among the dead
And silent) this word shall be said:
— That he might have had the world with him,
But chose to side with suffering men,
And had the world against him when
He came to deliver Italy.
Emperor
Evermore.
THE DANCE.
I.
You remember down at Florence our Cascine,
Where the people on the feast-days walk and drive,
And, through the trees, long-drawn in many a green way,
O’er-roofing hum and murmur like a hive,
The river and the mountains look alive?
II.
You remember the piazzone there, the stand-place
Of carriages a-brim with Florence Beauties,
Who lean and melt to music as the band plays,
Or smile and chat with someone who a-foot is,
Or on horseback, in observance of male duties?
III.
‘T is so pretty, in the afternoons of summer,
So many gracious faces brought together!
Call it rout, or call it concert, they have come here,
In the floating of the fan and of the feather,
To reciprocate with beauty the fine weather.
IV.
While the flower-girls offer nosegays (because they too
Go with other sweets) at every carriage-door;
Here, by shake of a white finger, signed away to
Some next buyer, who sits buying score on score,
Piling roses upon roses evermore.
V.
And last season, when the French camp had its station
In the meadow-ground, things quickened and grew gayer
Through the mingling of the liberating nation
With this people; groups of Frenchmen everywhere,
Strolling, gazing, judging lightly— “who was fair.”
VI.
Then the noblest lady present took upon her
To speak nobly from her carriage for the rest:
“Pray these officers from France to do us honour
By dancing with us straightway.” The request
Was gravely apprehended as addressed.
VII.
And the men of France, bareheaded, bowing lowly,
Led out each a proud signora to the space
Which the startled crowd had rounded for them — slowly,
Just a touch of still emotion in his face,
Not presuming, through the symbol, on the grace.
VIII.
There was silence in the people: some lips trembled,
But none jested. Broke the music, at a glance:
And the daughters of our princes, thus assembled,
Stepped the measure with the gallant sons of France,
Hush! it might have been a Mass, and not a dance.
IX.
And they danced there till the blue that overskied us
Swooned with passion, though the footing seemed sedate;
And the mountains, heaving mighty hearts beside us,
Sighed a rapture in a shadow, to dilate,
And touch the holy stone where Dante sate.
X.
Then the sons of France, bareheaded, lowly bowing,
Led the ladies back where kinsmen of the south
Stood, received them; till, with burst of overflowing
Feeling — husbands, brothers, Florence’s male youth,
Turned, and kissed the martial strangers mouth to mouth.
XI.
And a cry went up, a cry from all that people!
— You have heard a people cheering, you suppose,
For the Member, mayor ... with chorus from the steeple?
This was different: scarce as loud, perhaps (who knows?),<
br />
For we saw wet eyes around us ere the close.
XII.
And we felt as if a nation, too long borne in
By hard wrongers, — comprehending in such attitude
That God had spoken somewhere since the morning,
That men were somehow brothers, by no platitude, —
Cried exultant in great wonder and free gratitude.
A TALE OF VILLAFRANCA.
TOLD IN TUSCANY.
I.
My little son, my Florentine,
Sit down beside my knee,
And I will tell you why the sign
Of joy which flushed our Italy
Has faded since but yesternight;
And why your Florence of delight
Is mourning as you see.
II.
A great man (who was crowned one day)
Imagined a great Deed:
He shaped it out of cloud and clay,
He touched it finely till the seed
Possessed the flower: from heart and brain
He fed it with large thoughts humane,
To help a people’s need.
III.
He brought it out into the sun —
They blessed it to his face:
“O great pure Deed, that hast undone
So many bad and base!
O generous Deed, heroic Deed,
Come forth, be perfected, succeed,
Deliver by God’s grace.”
IV.
Then sovereigns, statesmen, north and south,
Rose up in wrath and fear,
And cried, protesting by one mouth,
“What monster have we here?
A great Deed at this hour of day?
A great just Deed — and not for pay?
Absurd, — or insincere.”
V.
“And if sincere, the heavier blow
In that case we shall bear,
For where’s our blessed ‘status quo,’
Our holy treaties, where, —
Our rights to sell a race, or buy,
Protect and pillage, occupy,
And civilize despair?”
VI.
Some muttered that the great Deed meant
A great pretext to sin;
And others, the pretext, so lent,
Was heinous (to begin).
Volcanic terms of “great” and “just”?
Admit such tongues of flame, the crust
Of time and law falls in.
VII.
A great Deed in this world of ours?
Unheard of the pretence is:
It threatens plainly the great Powers;
Is fatal in all senses.
A just Deed in the world? — call out
The rifles! be not slack about
The national defences.
VIII.
And many murmured, “From this source
What red blood must be poured!”
And some rejoined, “‘T is even worse;
What red tape is ignored!”
All cursed the Doer for an evil
Called here, enlarging on the Devil, —
There, monkeying the Lord!
IX.
Some said it could not be explained,
Some, could not be excused;
And others, “Leave it unrestrained,
Gehenna’s self is loosed.”
And all cried “Crush it, maim it, gag it!
Set dog-toothed lies to tear it ragged,
Truncated and traduced!”
X.
But HE stood sad before the sun
(The peoples felt their fate).
“The world is many, — I am one;
My great Deed was too great.
God’s fruit of justice ripens slow:
Men’s souls are narrow; let them grow.
My brothers, we must wait.”
XI.
The tale is ended, child of mine,
Turned graver at my knee.
They say your eyes, my Florentine,
Are English: it may be.
And yet I’ve marked as blue a pair
Following the doves across the square
At Venice by the sea.
XII.
Ah child! ah child! I cannot say
A word more. You conceive
The reason now, why just to-day
We see our Florence grieve.
Ah child, look up into the sky!
In this low world, where great Deeds die,
What matter if we live?
A COURT LADY.
I.
Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark,
Her cheeks’ pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark.
II.
Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race;
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face.
III.
Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife,
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life.
IV.
She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens “Bring
That silken robe made ready to wear at the Court of the King.
V.
“Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote,
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the
throat.
VI.
“Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves,
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the
eaves.”
VII.
Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame,
While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came.
VIII.
In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end,
“Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend.”
IX.
Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man’s bed:
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head.
X.
“Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou,” she cried,
And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and died.
XI.
Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second:
He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned.
XII.
Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer.
“Art thou a Romagnole?” Her eyes drove lightnings before her.
XIII.
“Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord
Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the stroke of a sword.
XIV.
“Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast
To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past.”
XV.
Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl’s,
Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole in the curls.
XVI.
“Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain,
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the List of the slain?”
XVII.
Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands:
“Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she
stands.”
XVIII.
On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball:
Kneeling,— “O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?
XIX.
“Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line,
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.
XX.
“Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed.
But blessed are those among nations w
ho dare to be strong for the
rest!”
XXI.
Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.
XXII.
Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name,
But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came.
XXIII.
Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion and loss,
And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing
the cross.
XXIV.
Faint with that strain of heart she moved on then to another,
Stern and strong in his death. “And dost thou suffer, my brother?”
XXV.
Holding his hands in hers:— “Out of the Piedmont lion
Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on.”
XXVI.
Holding his cold rough hands,— “Well, oh well have ye done
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone.”
XXVII.
Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, —
“That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court of the King.”
AN AUGUST VOICE.
“Una voce augusta.” — Monitore Toscano.