I've a Friend, over the sea;I like him, but he loves me.It all grew out of the books I write;They find such favour in his sightThat he slaughters you with savage looksBecause you don't admire my books.He does himself though,—and if some veinWere to snap tonight in this heavy brain,To-morrow month, if I lived to try,Round should I just turn quietly, 10Or out of the bedclothes stretch my handTill I found him, come from his foreign landTo be my nurse in this poor place,And make my broth and wash my faceAnd light my fire and, all the while,Bear with his old good-humoured smileThat I told him "Better have kept awayThan come and kill me, night and day,With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,The creaking of his clumsy boots." 20I am as sure that this he would do,As that Saint Paul's is striking two.And I think I rather... woe is me!—Yes, rather would see him than not see,If lifting a hand could seat him thereBefore me in the empty chairTo-night, when my head aches indeed,And I can neither think nor readNor make these purple fingers holdThe pen; this garret's freezing cold! 30And I've a Lady—there he wakes,The laughing fiend and prince of snakesWithin me, at her name, to prayFate send some creature in the wayOf my love for her, to be down-torn,Upthrust and outward-borne,So I might prove myself that seaOf passion which I needs must be!Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaintAnd my style infirm and its figures faint, 40All the critics say, and more blame yet,And not one angry word you get.But, please you, wonder I would putMy cheek beneath that lady's footRather than trample under mineThat laurels of the Florentine,And you shall see how the devil spendsA fire God gave for other ends!I tell you, I stride up and downThis garret, crowned with love's best crown, 50And feasted with love's perfect feast,To think I kill for her, at least,Body and soul and peace and fame,Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,—So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,Filled full, eaten out and inWith the face of her, the eyes of her,The lips, the little chin, the stirOf shadow round her mouth; and she—I'll tell you,—calmly would decree 60That I should roast at a slow fire,If that would compass her desireAnd make her one whom they inviteTo the famous ball to-morrow night.There may be heaven; there must be hell;Meantime, there is our earth here—well!NOTES:"Time's Revenges." An author soliloquizes in his garretover the fact that he possesses a friend who loves him andwould do anything in his power to serve him, but forwhom he cares almost nothing. At the same time hehimself loves a woman to such distraction that he countshimself crowned with love's best crown while sacrificinghis soul, his body, his peace, and his fame in brooding onhis love, while she could calmly decree that he shouldroast at a slow fire if it would compass her frivolouslyambitious designs. Thus his indifference to his friend isavenged by the indifference the lady shows toward him.46. The Florentine: Dante. Used here, seemingly, asa symbol of the highest attainments in poesy, his (thespeaker's) reverence for which is so great that he wouldrather put his cheek under his lady's foot than that poetryshould suffer any indignity at his hands; yet in spite ofall the possibilities open to him through his enthusiasm forpoetry, he prefers wasting his entire energies upon oneunworthy of him.
THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND
That second time they hunted meFrom hill to plain, from shore to sea,And Austria, hounding far and wideHer blood-hounds thro' the country-side,Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—I made six days a hiding-placeOf that dry green old aqueductWhere I and Charles, when boys, have pluckedThe fire-flies from the roof above,Bright creeping thro' the moss they love: 10—How long it seems since Charles was lost!Six days the soldiers crossed and crossedThe country in my very sight;And when that peril ceased at night,The sky broke out in red dismayWith signal fires; well, there I layClose covered o'er in my recess,Up to the neck in ferns and cress,Thinking on Metternich our friend,And Charles's miserable end, 20And much beside, two days; the third,Hunger overcame me when I heardThe peasants from the village goTo work among the maize; you know,With us in Lombardy, they bringProvisions packed on mules, a stringWith little bells that cheer their task,And casks, and boughs on every caskTo keep the sun's heat from the wine;These I let pass in jingling line, 30And, close on them, dear noisy crew,The peasants from the village, too;For at the very rear would troopTheir wives and sisters in a groupTo help, I knew. When these had passed,I threw my glove to strike the last,Taking the chance: she did not start,Much less cry out, but stooped apart,One instant rapidly glanced round,And saw me beckon from the ground. 40A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;She picked my glove up while she strippedA branch off, then rejoined the restWith that; my glove lay in her breast.Then I drew breath; they disappeared:It was for Italy I feared.An hour, and she returned aloneExactly where my glove was thrown.Meanwhile came many thoughts: on meRested the hopes of Italy. 50I had devised a certain taleWhich, when 'twas told her, could not failPersuade a peasant of its truth;I meant to call a freak of youthThis hiding, and give hopes of pay,And no temptation to betray.But when I saw that woman's face,Its calm simplicity of grace,Our Italy's own attitudeIn which she walked thus far, and stood, 60Planting each naked foot so firm,To crush the snake and spare the worm—At first sight of her eyes, I said,"I am that man upon whose headThey fix the price, because I hateThe Austrians over us: the StateWill give you gold—oh, gold so much!If you betray me to their clutch,And be your death, for aught I know,If once they find you saved their foe. 70Now, you must bring me food and drink,And also paper, pen and ink,And carry safe what I shall writeTo Padua, which you'll reach at nightBefore the duomo shuts; go in,And wait till Tenebrae begin;Walk to the third confessional,Between the pillar and the wall,And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace?Say it a second time, then cease; 80And if the voice inside returns,From Christ and Freedom; what concernsThe cause of Peace?—for answer, slipMy letter where you placed your lip;Then come back happy we have doneOur mother service—I, the son,As you the daughter of our land!"Three mornings more, she took her standIn the same place, with the same eyes:I was no surer of sun-rise 90Than of her coming. We conferredOf her own prospects, and I heardShe had a lover—stout and tall,She said—then let her eyelids fall,"He could do much"—as if some doubtEntered her heart,—then, passing out"She could not speak for others, whoHad other thoughts; herself she knew,"And so she brought me drink and food.After four days, the scouts pursued 100Another path; at last arrivedThe help my Paduan friends contrivedTo furnish me: she brought the news.For the first time I could not chooseBut kiss her hand, and lay my ownUpon her head—"This faith was shownTo Italy, our mother; sheUses my hand and blesses thee."She followed down to the sea-shore;I left and never saw her more. 110How very long since I have thoughtConcerning—much less wished for—aughtBeside the good of Italy,For which I live and mean to die!I never was in love; and sinceCharles proved false, what shall now convinceMy inmost heart I have a friend?However, if I pleased to spendReal wishes on myself—say, three—I know at least what one should be. 120I would grasp Metternich untilI felt his red wet throat distilIn blood thro' these two hands. And next,—Nor much for that am I perplexed—Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,Should die slow of a broken heartUnder his new employers. Last—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fastDo I grow old and out of strength.If I resolved to seek at length 130My father's house again, how scaredThey all would look, and unprepared!My brothers live in Austria's pay—Disowned me long ago, men say;And all my early mates who usedTo praise me so-perhaps inducedMore than one early step of mine—Are turning wise: while some opine"Freedom grows license," some suspect"Haste breeds delay," and recollect 140They always said, such prematureBeginnings never could endure!So, with a sullen "All's for best,"The land seems settling to its rest.I think then, I should wish to standThis evening in that dear, lost land,Over the sea the thousand miles,And know if yet that woman smilesWith the calm smile; some little farmShe lives in there, no doubt: what harm 150If I sat on the door-side bench,And, while her spindle made a trenchFantastically in the dust,Inquired of all her fortunes—justHer children's ages and their names,And what may be the husband's aimsFor each of them. I'd talk this out,And sit there, for an hour about,Then kiss her hand once more, and layMine on her head, and go my way. 160So much for idle wishing—howIt steals the time! To business now.NOTES:"The Italian in England." An Italian patriot who has takenpart in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian dominance,reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight fromItaly to the end that if he ever should have a thoughtbeyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for thediscomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see oncemore the noble woman who at the risk of her own lifehelped him to escape. Though there is no exact historicalincident upon which this poem is founded, it has ahistorical background. The Charles referred to (lines 8,11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, ofthe younger branch of the house of Savoy. His havingplayed with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, isquite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simplecitizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends wasAlberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom hemade his secretary. As indicated in the poem, Charlesat first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhatlukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa againstAustrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication ofVictor Emanuel he became regent of Turin. But whenthe king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against thenew government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king'sthreats and left his friends in the lurch. Later the Austriansmarched into the country, Santa Rosa was forcedto retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who mightwell have been the very patriot of the poem was obligedto fly from Italy.19. Metternich: the distinguished Austrian diplomatistand determined enemy of Italian independence.76. Tenebrae: darkness. "The office of matins andlauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteenlighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at theconclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candleis left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of theother candles is said to figure the growing darkness of theworld at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle(which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altarfor a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Deathcould not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)
Piano di SorrentoFortù, Fortù, my beloved one,Sit here by my side,On my knees put up both little feet!I was sure, if I tried,I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.Now, open your eyes,Let me keep you amused till he vanishIn black from the skies,With telling my memories overAs you tell your beads; 10All the Plain saw me gather, I garland—The flowers or the weeds.Time for rain! for your long hot dry AutumnHad net-worked with brownThe white skin of each grape on the bunches,Marked like a quail's crown,Those creatures you make such account of,Whose heads—speckled whiteOver brown like a great spider's back,As I told you last night— 20Your mother bites off for her supper.Red-ripe as could be,Pomegranates were chapping and splittingIn halves on the tree:And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,Or in the thick dustOn the path, or straight out of the rockside,Wherever could thrustSome burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flowerIts yellow face up, 30For the prize were great butterflies fighting,Some five for one cup.So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,What change was in store,By the quick rustle-down of the quail-netsWhich woke me beforeI could open my shutter, made fastWith a bough and a stone,And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs,Sole lattice that's known. 40Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,While, busy beneath,Your priest and his brother tugged at them,The rain in their teeth.And out upon all the flat house-roofsWhere split figs lay drying,The girls took the frails under cover:Nor use seemed in tryingTo get out the boats and go fishing,For, under the cliff, 50Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock.No seeing our skiffArrive about noon from Amalfi,—Our fisher arrive,And pitch down his basket before us,All trembling aliveWith pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit;You touch the strange lumps,And mouths gape there, eyes open, all mannerOf horns and of humps, 60Which only the fisher looks grave at,While round him like impsCling screaming the children as nakedAnd brown as his shrimps;Himself too as bare to the middle—You see round his neckThe string and its brass coin suspended,That saves him from wreck.But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,So back, to a man, 70Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyardsGrape-harvest began.In the vat, halfway up in our houseside,Like blood the juice spins,While your brother all bare-legged is dancingTill breathless he grinsDead-beaten in effort on effortTo keep the grapes under,Since still when he seems all but master,In pours the fresh plunder 80From girls who keep coming and goingWith basket on shoulder,And eyes shut against the rain's driving;Your girls that are older,—For under the hedges of aloe,And where, on its bedOf the orchard's black mould, the love-appleLies pulpy and red,All the young ones are kneeling and fillingTheir laps with the snails 90Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—Your best of regales,As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,When, supping in state,We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,Three over one plate)With lasagne so tempting to swallow,In slippery ropes,And gourds fried in great purple slices,That colour of popes. 100Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:The rain-water slipsO'er the heavy blue bloom on each globeWhich the wasp to your lipsStill follows with fretful persistence:Nay, taste, while awake,This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ballThat peels, flake by flake,Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;Next, sip this weak wine 110From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,A leaf of the vine;And end with the prickly-pear's red fleshThat leaves thro' its juiceThe stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.Scirocco is loose!Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olivesWhich, thick in one's track,Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,Tho' not yet half black! 120How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,The medlars let fallTheir hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-treesSnap off, figs and all,For here comes the whole of the tempest!No refuge, but creepBack again to my side and my shoulder,And listen or sleep.O how will your country show next week,When all the vine-boughs 130Have been stripped of their foliage to pastureThe mules and the cows?Last eve, I rode over the mountains,Your brother, my guide,Soon left me, to feast on the myrtlesThat offered, each side,Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,—Or strip from the sorbsA treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,Those hairy gold orbs! 140But my mule picked his sure sober path out,Just stopping to neighWhen he recognized down in the valleyHis mates on their wayWith the faggots and barrels of water;And soon we emergedFrom the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;And still as we urgedOur way, the woods wondered, and left us,As up still we trudged 150Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,And place was e'en grudged'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stonesLike the loose broken teethOf some monster which climbed there to dieFrom the ocean beneath—Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weedThat clung to the path,And dark rosemary ever a-dyingThat, 'spite the wind's wrath, 160So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,And lentisks as staunchTo the stone where they root and bear berries,And... what shows a branchCoral-coloured, transparent, with circletsOf pale seagreen leaves;Over all trod my mule with the cautionOf gleaners o'er sheaves,Still, foot after foot like a ladTill, round after round, 170He climbed to the top of Calvano,And God's own profoundWas above me, and round me the mountains,And under, the sea,And within me my heart to bear witnessWhat was and shall be.Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!No rampart excludesYour eye from the life to be livedIn the blue solitudes. 180Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!Still moving with you;For, ever some new head and breast of themThrusts into viewTo observe the intruder; you see itIf quickly you turnAnd, before they escape you surprise them.They grudge you should learnHow the soft plains they look on, lean overAnd love (they pretend) 190—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,The wild fruit-trees bend,E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:All is silent and grave:'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,How fair! but a slave.So, I turned to the sea; and there slumberedAs greenly as everThose isles of the siren, your Galli;No ages can sever 200The Three, nor enable their sisterTo join them,—halfwayOn the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—No farther to-day,Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave,Watches breast-high and steadyFrom under the rock, her bold sisterSwum halfway already.Fortù, shall we sail there togetherAnd see from the sides 210Quite new rocks show their faces, new hauntsWhere the siren abides?Shall we sail round and round them, close overThe rocks, tho' unseen,That ruffle the grey glassy waterTo glorious green?Then scramble from splinter to splinter,Reach land and explore,On the largest, the strange square black turretWith never a door, 220Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;Then, stand there and hearThe birds' quiet singing, that tells usWhat life is, so clear?—The secret they sang to UlyssesWhen, ages ago,He heard and he knew this life's secretI hear and I know.Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;He strikes the great gloom 230And flutters it o'er the mount's summitIn airy gold fume.All is over. Look out, see the gipsy,Our tinker and smith,Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,And down-squatted forthwithTo his hammering, under the wall there;One eye keeps aloofThe urchins that itch to be puttingHis jews'-harps to proof, 240While the other, thro' locks of curled wire,Is watching how sleekShines the hog, come to share in the windfall—Chew, abbot's own cheek!All is over. Wake up and come out now,And down let us go,And see the fine things got in orderAt church for the showOf the Sacrament, set forth this evening.To-morrow's the Feast 250Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no meansOf Virgins the least,As you'll hear in the off-hand discourseWhich (all nature, no art)The Dominican brother, these three weeks,Was getting by heart.Not a pillar nor post but is dizenedWith red and blue papers;All the roof waves with ribbons, each altarA-blaze with long tapers; 260But the great masterpiece is the scaffoldRigged glorious to holdAll the fiddlers and fifers and drummersAnd trumpeters bold,Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,Who, when the priest's hoarse,Will strike us up something that's briskFor the feast's second course.And then will the flaxen-wigged ImageBe carried in pomp 270Thro' the plain, while in gallant processionThe priests mean to stomp.All round the glad church lie old bottlesWith gunpowder stopped,Which will be, when the Image re-enters,Religiously popped;And at night from the crest of CalvanoGreat bonfires will hang,On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,And more poppers bang. 280At all events, come-to the gardenAs far as the wall;See me tap with a hoe on the plasterTill out there shall fallA scorpion with wide angry nippers!—"Such trifles!" you say?Fortù, in my England at home,Men meet gravely to-dayAnd debate, if abolishing Corn-lawsBe righteous and wise 290—If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanishIn black from the skies!NOTES:"The Italian in England." An Italian patriot who has takenpart in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian dominance,reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight fromItaly to the end that if he ever should have a thoughtbeyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for thediscomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see oncemore the noble woman who at the risk of her own lifehelped him to escape. Though there is no exact historicalincident upon which this poem is founded, it has ahistorical background. The Charles referred to (lines 8,11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, ofthe younger branch of the house of Savoy. His havingplayed with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, isquite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simplecitizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends wasAlberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom hemade his secretary. As indicated in the poem, Charlesat first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhatlukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa againstAustrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication ofVictor Emanuel he became regent of Turin. But whenthe king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against thenew government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king'sthreats and left his friends in the lurch. Later the Austriansmarched into the country, Santa Rosa was forcedto retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who mightwell have been the very patriot of the poem was obligedto fly from Italy.19. Metternich: the distinguished Austrian diplomatistand determined enemy of Italian independence.76. Tenebrae: darkness. "The office of matins andlauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteenlighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at theconclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candleis left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of theother candles is said to figure the growing darkness of theworld at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle(which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altarfor a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Deathcould not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)
He sings.I send my heart up to thee, all my heartIn this my singing.For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;The very night is clingingCloser to Venice' streets to leave one spaceAbove me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.She speaks.Say after me, and try to sayMy very words, as if each wordCame from you of your own accord, 10In your own voice, in your own way:"This woman's heart and soul and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear, which (say again)I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring."And yet once more say... no word more!Since words are only words. Give o'er!Unless you call me, all the same, 20Familiarly by my pet name,Which if the Three should hear you call,And me reply to, would proclaimAt once our secret to them all.Ask of me, too, command me, blame—Do, break down the partition-wall'Twixt us, the daylight world beholdsCurtained in dusk and splendid folds!What's left but—all of me to take?I am the Three's: prevent them, slake 30Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,In practising with gems, can looseTheir subtle spirit in his cruceAnd leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,Leave them my ashes when thy useSucks out my soul, thy heritage!
He sings.IPast we glide, and past, and past!What's that poor Agnese doingWhere they make the shutters fast?Grey Zanobi's just a-wooing 40To his couch the purchased bride:Past we glide!IIPast we glide, and past, and past!Why's the Pucci Palace flaringLike a beacon to the blast?Guests by hundreds, not one caringIf the dear host's neck were wried:Past we glide!She sings.IThe moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believe 50You were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst..IIThe bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up, 60And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.He sings.IWhat are we two?I am a Jew,And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,To a feast of our tribe;Where they need thee to bribeThe devil that blasts them unless he imbibe.Thy... Scatter the vision for ever! And nowAs of old, I am I, thou art thou! 70IISay again, what we are?The sprite of a star,I lure thee above where the destinies barMy plumes their full playTill a ruddier rayThan my pale one announce there is withering awaySome... Scatter the vision forever! And now,As of old, I am I, thou art thou!He muses.Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?The land's lap or the water's breast? 80To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,Or swim in lucid shallows justEluding water-lily leaves,An inch from Death's black fingers, thrustTo lock you, whom release he must;Which life were best on Summer eves?He speaks, musing.Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 90Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world!Rescue me thou, the only real! 100And scare away this mad idealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!Still he muses.IWhat if the Three should catch at lastThy serenader? While there's castPaul's cloak about my head, and fastGian pinions me, Himself has pastHis stylet thro' my back; I reel;And... is it thou I feel?IIThey trail me, these three godless knaves, 110Past every church that saints and saves,Nor stop till, where the cold sea ravesBy Lido's wet accursed graves,They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,And... on thy breast I sink!She replies, musing.Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! 120Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grassTo plait in where the foolish jewel was,I flung away: since you have praised my hair,'Tis proper to be choice in what I wear.He speaks.Row home? must we row home? Too surelyKnow I where its front's demurelyOver the Giudecca piled;Window just with window mating,Door on door exactly waiting,All's the set face of a child: 130But behind it, where's a traceOf the staidness and reserve,And formal lines without a curve,In the same child's playing-face?No two windows look one wayO'er the small sea-water threadBelow them. Ah, the autumn dayI, passing, saw you overhead!First, out a cloud of curtain blew,Then a sweet cry, and last came you— 140To catch your lory that must needsEscape just then, of all times then,To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,And make me happiest of men.I scarce could breathe to see you reachSo far back o'er the balconyTo catch him ere he climbed too highAbove you in the Smyrna peachThat quick the round smooth cord of gold,This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 150Fell down you like a gorgeous snakeThe Roman girls were wont, of old,When Rome there was, for coolness' sakeTo let lie curling o'er their bosoms.Dear lory, may his beak retainEver its delicate rose stainAs if the wounded lotus-blossomsHad marked their thief to know again!Stay longer yet, for others' sakeThan mine! What should your chamber do? 160—With all its rarities that acheIn silence while day lasts, but wakeAt night-time and their life renew,Suspended just to pleasure youWho brought against their will togetherThese objects, and, while day lasts, weaveAround them such a magic tetherThat dumb they look: your harp, believe,With all the sensitive tight stringsWhich dare not speak, now to itself 170Breathes slumberously, as if some elfWent in and out the chords, his wingsMake murmur wheresoe'er they graze,As an angel may, between the mazeOf midnight palace-pillars, onAnd on, to sow God's plagues, have goneThrough guilty glorious Babylon.And while such murmurs flow, the nymphBends o'er the harp-top from her shellAs the dry limpet for the nymph 180Come with a tune he knows so well.And how your statues' hearts must swell!And how your pictures must descendTo see each other, friend with friend!Oh, could you take them by surprise,You'd find Schidone's eager DukeDoing the quaintest courtesiesTo that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!And, deeper into her rock den,Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 190You'd find retreated from the kenOf that robed counsel-keeping Ser—As if the Tizian thinks of her,And is not, rather, gravely bentOn seeing for himself what toysAre these, his progeny invent,What litter now the board employsWhereon he signed a documentThat got him murdered! Each enjoysIts night so well, you cannot break 200The sport up, so, indeed must makeMore stay with me, for others' sake.She speaks.ITo-morrow, if a harp-string, say,Is used to tie the jasmine backThat overfloods my room with sweets,Contrive your Zorzi somehow meetsMy Zanze! If the ribbon's black,The Three are watching: keep away!IIYour gondola—let Zorzi wreatheA mesh of water weeds about 210Its prow, as if he unawareHad struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!That I may throw a paper outAs you and he go underneath.There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we.Only one minute more to-night with me?Resume your past self of a month ago!Be you the bashful gallant, I will beThe lady with the colder breast than snow.Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand 220More than I touch yours when I step to land,And say, "All thanks, Siora!"—Heart to heartAnd lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art![He is surprised, and stabbed.It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and bestComes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! CareOnly to put aside thy beauteous hairMy blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scornTo death, because they never lived: but I 230Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!NOTES:"In a Gondola" is a lyric dialogue between two Venetianlovers who have stolen away in a gondola spite of "thethree"—"Himself'," perhaps a husband, and "Paul"and "Gian," her brothers—whose vengeance discoversthem at the end, but not before their love and dangerhave moved them to weave a series of lyrical fancies, andled them to a climax of emotion which makes Life sodeep a joy that Death is of no account."The first stanza was written,'' writes Browning,"to illustrate Maclise's picture, for which he was anxiousto get some line or two. I had not seen it, but fromForster's description, gave it to him in his roomimpromptu.... When I did see it I thought the serenadetoo jolly, somewhat, for the notion I got from Forster,and I took up the subject in my own way.''113. Lido's... graves: Jewish tombs were there.127. Giudecca: a canal of Venice.155. Lory: a kind of parrot.186. Schidone's eager Duke: an imaginary painting byBartolommeo Schidone of Modena (1560-1616).188. Haste-thee-Luke: the English form of the nickname,Luca-fà-presto, given Luca Giordano (1632-1705),a Neapolitan painter, on account of his constantly beinggoaded on in his work by his penurious and avariciousfather.190. Castelfranco: the Venetian painter, Giorgione,called Castelfranco, because born there, 1478, died 1511.193. Tizian: (1477-1516). The pictures are all imaginary,but suggestive of the style of each of these artists.
[Mr. Alfred Domett, C.M.G., author of"Ranolf and Amohia," full of descriptions ofNew Zealand scenery.]IWhat's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and downAny longer London town?IIWho'd have guessed it from his lipOr his brow's accustomed bearing,On the night he thus took shipOr started landward?—little caring 10For us, it seems, who supped together(Friends of his too, I remember)And walked home thro' the merry weather,The snowiest in all December.I left his arm that night myselfFor what's-his-name's, the new prose-poetWho wrote the book there, on the shelf—How, forsooth, was I to know itIf Waring meant to glide awayLike a ghost at break of day? 20Never looked he half so gay!IIIHe was prouder than the devil:How he must have cursed our revel!Ay and many other meetings,Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,As up and down he paced this London,With no work done, but great works undone,Where scarce twenty knew his name.Why not, then, have earlier spoken,Written, bustled? Who's to blame 30If your silence kept unbroken?"True, but there were sundry jottings,Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,Certain first steps were achievedAlready which (is that your meaning?)Had well borne out whoe'er believedIn more to come!" But who goes gleaningHedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheavedStand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweeningPride alone, puts forth such claims 40O'er the day's distinguished names.IVMeantime, how much I loved him,I find out now I've lost him.I who cared not if I moved him,Who could so carelessly accost him,Henceforth never shall get freeOf his ghostly company,His eyes that just a little winkAs deep I go into the meritOf this and that distinguished spirit— 50His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink,As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman's latest piece of graphic.Nay, my very wrist grows warmWith his dragging weight of arm.E'en so, swimmingly appears,Through one's after-supper musings, 60Some lost lady of old yearsWith her beauteous vain endeavourAnd goodness unrepaid as ever;The face, accustomed to refusings,We, puppies that we were... Oh neverSurely, nice of conscience, scrupledBeing aught like false, forsooth, to?Telling aught but honest truth to?What a sin, had we centupledIts possessor's grace and sweetness! 70No! she heard in its completenessTruth, for truth's a weighty matter,And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!Well, 'tis done with; she's exemptFrom damning us thro' such a sally;And so she glides, as down a valley,Taking up with her contempt,Past our reach; and in, the flowersShut her unregarded hours.VOh, could I have him back once more, 80This Waring, but one half-day more!Back, with the quiet face of yore,So hungry for acknowledgmentLike mine! I'd fool him to his bent.Feed, should not he, to heart's content?I'd say, "to only have conceived,Planned your great works, apart from progress,Surpasses little works achieved!"I'd lie so, I should be believed.I'd make such havoc of the claims 90Of the day's distinguished namesTo feast him with, as feasts an ogressHer feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!Or as one feasts a creature rarelyCaptured here, unreconciledTo capture; and completely givesIts pettish humours license, barelyRequiring that it lives.VIIchabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed! 100Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a god,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfalls 110Over the Kremlin's pavement brightWith serpentine and syenite,Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughAnd kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuffTo hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring in Moscow, to those rough 120Cold northern natures born perhaps,Like the lamb-white maiden dearFrom the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alwayMingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beachAs pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands 130Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cryAmid their barbarous twitter!In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 'tis in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave MadridAll fire and shine, abrupt as when there's slidIts stiff gold blazing pall 140From some black coffin-lid.Or, best of all,I love to thinkThe leaving us was just a feint;Back here to London did he slink,And now works on without a winkOf sleep, and we are on the brinkOf something great in fresco-paint:Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,Up and down and o'er and o'er 150He splashes, as none splashed beforeSince great Caldara Polidore.Or Music means this land of oursSome favour yet, to pity wonBy Purcell from his Rosy Bowers—"Give me my so-long promised son,Let Waring end what I begun!"Then down he creeps and out he stealsOnly when the night concealsHis face; in Kent 'tis cherry-time, 160Or hops are picking: or at primeOf March he wanders as, too happy,Years ago when he was young,Some mild eve when woods grew sappyAnd the early moths had sprungTo life from many a trembling sheathWoven the warm boughs beneath;While small birds said to themselvesWhat should soon be actual song,And young gnats, by tens and twelves, 170Made as if they were the throngThat crowd around and carry aloftThe sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure,Out of a myriad noises soft,Into a tone that can endureAmid the noise of a July noonWhen all God's creatures crave their boon,All at once and all in tune,And get it, happy as Waring then,Having first within his ken 180What a man might do with men:And far too glad, in the even-glow,To mix with the world he meant to takeInto his hand, he told you, so—And out of it his world to make,To contract and to expandAs he shut or oped his hand.Oh Waring, what's to really be?A clear stage and a crowd to see!Some Garrick, say, out shall not he 190The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuckHis sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!Some Chatterton shall have the luckOf calling Rowley into life!Some one shall somehow run a muckWith this old world for want of strifeSound asleep. Contrive, contriveTo rouse us, Waring! Who's alive? 200Our men scarce seem in earnest now.Distinguished names!—but 'tis, somehow,As if they played at being namesStill more distinguished, like the gamesOf children. Turn our sport to earnestWith a visage of the sternest!Bring the real times back, confessedStill better than our very best!III"When I last saw Waring..."(How all turned to him who spoke! 210You saw Waring? Truth or joke?In land-travel or sea-faring?)II"We were sailing by TriestWhere a day or two we harboured:A sunset was in the West,When, looking over the vessel's side,One of our company espiedA sudden speck to larboard.And as a sea-duck flies and swimsAt once, so came the light craft up, 220With its sole lateen sail that trimsAnd turns (the water round its rimsDancing, as round a sinking cup)And by us like a fish it curled,And drew itself up close beside,Its great sail on the instant furled,And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried,(A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's)'Buy wine of us, you English Brig?Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? 230A pilot for you to Triest?Without one, look you ne'er so big,They'll never let you up the bay!We natives should know best.'I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,'Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thievesAre laughing at us in their sleeves.'III"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back;And one, half-hidden by his sideUnder the furled sail, soon I spied, 240With great grass hat and kerchief black,Who looked up with his kingly throat,Said somewhat, while the other shookHis hair back from his eyes to lookTheir longest at us; then the boat,I know not how, turned sharply round,Laying her whole side on the seaAs a leaping fish does; from the leeInto the weather, cut somehowHer sparkling path beneath our bow 250And so went off, as with a bound,Into the rosy and golden halfO' the sky, to overtake the sunAnd reach the shore, like the sea-calfIts singing cave; yet I caught oneGlance ere away the boat quite passed,And neither time nor toil could marThose features: so I saw the lastOf Waring!"—You? Oh, never starWas lost here but it rose afar! 260Look East, where whole new thousands are!In Vishnu-land what Avatar?NOTES:"Waring." In recounting the sudden disappearance fromamong his friends of a man proud and sensitive, who withfine powers of intellect yet incurred somewhat of disdainbecause of his failure to accomplish anything permanent,expression is given to the deep regret experienced by hisfriends now that he has left them, his absence havingbrought them to a truer realization of his worth. If onlyWaring would come back, the speaker, at least, wouldgive him the sympathy and encouragement he cravedinstead of playing with his sensibilities as he had done.Conjectures are indulged in as to Waring's whereabouts.The speaker prefers to think of him as back in Londonpreparing to astonish the world with some great masterpiecein art, music, or literature. Another speaker surprises allby telling how he had seen the "last of Waring" in amomentary meeting at Trieste, but the first speaker iscertain that the star of Waring is destined to rise againabove their horizon.1. Waring: Alfred Domett (born at CamberwellGrove, Surrey, May 20, 1811), a friend of Browning's,distinguished as a poet and as a Colonial statesman andruler. His first volume of poems was published in 1832.Some verses of his in Blackwood's, 1837, attracted muchattention to him as a rising young poet. In 1841 hewas called to the bar, and in 1841 went out to NewZealand among the earliest settlers. There he lived forthirty years, filling several important official positions.His unceremonious departure for New Zealand with noleave-takings was the occasion of Browning's poem, whichis said by Mrs. Orr to give a lifelike sketch of Domett'scharacter. His "star" did, however, rise again for hisEnglish friends, for he returned to London in 1871. Theyear following saw the publication of his "Ranolf andAmohia," a New Zealand poem, in the course of whichhe characterizes Browning as "Subtlest Asserter of theSoul in Song." He met Browning again in London, andwas one of the vice-presidents of the London BrowningSociety. Died Nov.12, 1877.15. I left his arm that night myself: George W. Cookepoints out that in his Living Authors of EnglandThomas Powell describes this incident, the "young author"mentioned being himself: "We have a vividrecollection of the last time we saw him. It was atan evening party, a few days before he sailed fromEngland; his intimate friend, Mr. Browning, was alsopresent. It happened that the latter was introduced thatevening for the first time to a young author who had justthen appeared in the literary world. This, consequently,prevented the two friends from conversation, and theyparted from each other without the slightest idea on Mr.Browning's part that he was seeing his old friend Domettfor the last time. Some days after, when he found thatDomett had sailed, he expressed in strong terms to thewriter of this sketch the self-reproach he felt at havingpreferred the conversation of a stranger to that of hisold associate."54. Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous: a slight transpositionof part of a line in Virgil describing Polyphemus,"Monstrum horrendum informe ingens," a monster horrid,misshapen, huge.55. Demoniaco-seraphic: these two lines form a compoundof adjectives humorously used by Browning to expressthe inferiority of the writers he praised to Waring.99. Ichabod: "Ichabod, the glory is departed." I SamuelIV. 21.112. syenite: Egyptian granite122. Lamb-white maiden: Iphigenia, who was borneaway to Taurus by Diana, when her father, Agamemnon,was about to sacrifice her to obtain favorable winds forhis expedition to Troy.152. Caldara Polidore: Surnamed da Caravaggio. He wasborn in Milan in 1492, went to Rome and was employed byRaphael to paint the friezes in the Vatican. He was murderedby a servant in Messina, 1543.155. Purcell: an eminent English musician, composerof church music, operas, songs, and instrumental music.(1658-1695).—Rosy Bowers: One of Purcell's mostcelebrated songs. "'From Rosie Bowers' is said tohave been set in his last sickness, at which time he seemsto have realized the poetical fable of the Swan and to havesung more sweetly as he approached nearer his dissolution,for it seems to us as if no one of his productions wasso elevated, so pleasing, so expressive, and throughout soperfect as this" (Rees's Cyclopaedia, 1819).190. Garrick: David, an English actor, celebratedespecially for his Shakespearian parts (1716-1779).193. Junius: the assumed name of a political writerwho in 1769 began to issue in London a series of famousletters which opposed the ministry in power, and denouncedseveral eminent persons with severe invective and pungentsarcasm.195. Some Chatterton shall have the luck of callingRowley into life: the chief claim to celebrity of ThomasChatterton (1752-1770) is the real or pretended discoveryof poems said to have been written in the fifteenth centuryby Thomas Rowley, a priest of Bristol, and foundin Radcliffe church, of which Chatterton's ancestors hadbeen sextons for many years. They are now generallyconsidered Chatterton's own.