BOOK THE FOURTH

And the font took them: let our laurels lie!Braid moonfern now with mystic trifolyBecause once more Goito gets, once more,Sordello to itself! A dream is o'er,And the suspended life begins anew;Quiet those throbbing temples, then, subdueNature may triumph therefore;That cheek's distortion! Nature's strict embrace,Putting aside the past, shall soon effaceIts print as well—factitious humors grownOver the true—loves, hatreds not his own—And turn him pure as some forgotten vestWoven of painted byssus, silkiestTufting the Tyrrhene whelk's pearl-sheeted lip,Left welter where a trireme let it slipI' the sea, and vexed a satrap; so the stainO' the world forsakes Sordello, with its pain,Its pleasure: how the tinct loosening escapes,Cloud after cloud! Mantua's familiar shapesDie, fair and foul die, fading as they flit,Men, women, and the pathos and the wit,Wise speech and foolish, deeds to smile or sighFor, good, bad, seemly or ignoble, die.The last face glances through the eglantines,The last voice murmurs, 'twixt the blossomed vines,Of Men, of that machine supplied by thoughtTo compass self-perception with, he soughtBy forcing half himself—an insane pulseOf a god's blood, on clay it could convulse,Never transmute—on human sights and sounds,To watch the other half with; irksome boundsIt ebbs from to its source, a fountain sealedForever. Better sure be unrevealedThan part revealed: Sordello well or illIs finished: then what further use of Will,Point in the prime idea not realized,An oversight? inordinately prized,No less, and pampered with enough of eachDelight to prove the whole above its reach."To need become all natures, yet retainThe law of my own nature—to remainMyself, yet yearn ... as if that chestnut, think,Should yearn for this first larch-bloom crisp and pink,Or those pale fragrant tears where zephyrs stanchMarch wounds along the fretted pine-tree branch!Will and the means to show will, great and small,Material, spiritual,—abjure them allSave any so distinct, they may be leftTo amuse, not tempt become! and, thus bereft,Just as I first was fashioned would I be!Nor, moon, is it Apollo now, but meFor her son, lately alive, dies again,Thou visitest to comfort and befriend!Swim thou into my heart, and there an end,Since I possess thee!—nay, thus shut mine eyesAnd know, quite know, by this heart's fall and rise,When thou dost bury thee in clouds, and whenOut-standest: wherefore practise upon menTo make that plainer to myself?"Slide hereOver a sweet and solitary yearWasted; or simply notice change in him—How eyes, once with exploring bright, grew dimAnd satiate with receiving. Some distressWas caused, too, by a sort of consciousnessUnder the imbecility,—naught keptThat down; he slept, but was aware he slept,So, frustrated: as who brainsick made pactErst with the overhanging cataractTo deafen him, yet still distinguished plainHis own blood's measured clicking at his brain.To finish. One declining Autumn day—Few birds about the heaven chill and gray,No wind that cared trouble the tacit woods—He sauntered home complacently, their moodsAccording, his and nature's. Every sparkWas found and is lost.Of Mantua life was trodden out; so darkThe embers, that the Troubadour, who sungHundreds of songs, forgot, its trick his tongue,Its craft his brain, how either brought to passSinging at all; that faculty might classWith any of Apollo's now. The yearBegan to find its early promise sereAs well. Thus beauty vanishes; thus stoneOutlingers flesh: nature's and his youth gone,They left the world to you, and wished you joy,When, stopping his benevolent employ,A presage shuddered through the welkin; harshThe earth's remonstrance followed. 'T was the marshGone of a sudden. Mincio, in its place,Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face,And, where the mists broke up immense and whiteI' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of lightOut of the crashing of a myriad stars.And here was nature, bound by the same barsOf fate with him!But nature is one thing, man another—"No! youth once gone is gone:Deeds let escape are never to be done.Leaf-fall and grass-spring for the year; for us—Oh forfeit I unalterably thusMy chance? nor two lives wait me, this to spend,Learning save that? Nature has time, may mendMistake, she knows occasion will recur;Landslip or seabreach, how affects it herWith her magnificent resources?—IMust perish once and perish utterly.Not any strollings now at even-closeDown the field-path, Sordello! by thorn-rowsAlive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fireAnd dew, outlining the black cypress' spireShe waits you at, Elys, who heard you firstWoo her, the snow-month through, but ere she durstAnswer 't was April. Linden-flower-time-longHer eyes were on the ground; 't is July, strongNow; and because white dust-clouds overwhelmThe woodside, here or by the village elmThat holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale,But letting you lift up her coarse flax veilAnd whisper (the damp little hand in yours)Of love, heart's love, your heart's love that enduresTill death. Tush! No mad mixing with the routOf haggard ribalds wandering aboutThe hot torchlit wine-scented island-houseWhere Friedrich holds his wickedest carouse,Parading,—to the gay Palermitans,Soft Messinese, dusk Saracenic clansHaving multifarious sympathies,Nuocera holds,—those tall grave dazzling Norse,High-cheeked, lank-haired, toothed whiter than the morse,Queens of the caves of jet stalactites,He sent his barks to fetch through icy seas,The blind night seas without a saving star,And here in snowy birdskin robes they are,Sordello!—here, mollitious alcoves giltSuperb as Byzant domes that devils built!—Ah, Byzant, there again! no chance to goEver like august cheery Dandolo,Worshipping hearts about him for a wall,Conducted, blind eyes, hundred years and all,Through vanquished Byzant where friends note for himWhat pillar, marble massive, sardius slim,'T were fittest he transport to Venice' Square—Flattered and promised life to touch them thereSoon, by those fervid sons of senators!No more lifes, deaths, loves, hatreds, peaces, wars!Ah, fragments of a whole ordained to be,Points in the life I waited! what are yeBut roundels of a ladder which appearedAwhile the very platform it was rearedTo lift me on?—that happiness I findProofs of my faith in, even in the blindInstinct which bade forego you all unlessYe led me past yourselves. Ay, happinessHe may neither renounce nor satisfy;Awaited me; the way life should be usedWas to acquire, and deeds like you conducedTo teach it by a self-revealment, deemedLife's very use, so long! Whatever seemedProgress to that, was pleasure; aught that stayedMy reaching it—no pleasure. I have laidThe ladder down; I climb not; still, aloftThe platform stretches! Blisses strong and soft,I dared not entertain, elude me; yetNever of what they promised could I getA glimpse till now! The common sort, the crowd,Exist, perceive; with Being are endowed,However slight, distinct from what they See,However bounded; Happiness must be,To feed the first by gleanings from the last,Attain its qualities, and slow or fastBecome what they behold; such peace-in-strifeBy transmutation, is the Use of Life,The Alien turning Native to the soulOr body—which instructs me; I am wholeThere and demand a Palma; had the worldBeen from my soul to a like distance hurled,'T were Happiness to make it one with me:Whereas I must, ere I begin to Be,Include a world, in flesh, I comprehendIn spirit now; and this done, what 's to blendWith? Naught is Alien in the world—my WillIn the process to which is pleasure,Owns all already; yet can turn it—stillLess—Native, since my Means to correspondWith Will are so unworthy, 't was my bondTo tread the very joys that tantalizeMost now, into a grave, never to rise.I die then! Will the rest agree to die?Next Age or no? Shall its Sordello tryClue after clue, and catch at last the clueI miss?—that 's underneath my finger too,Twice, thrice a day, perhaps,—some yearning tracedDeeper, some petty consequence embracedCloser! Why fled I Mantua, then?—complainedSo much my Will was fettered, yet remainedContent within a tether half the rangeI could assign it?—able to exchangeMy ignorance (I felt) for knowledge, andIdle because I could thus understand—Could e'en have penetrated to its coreOur mortal mystery, yet—fool—forbore,Preferred elaborating in the darkMy casual stuff, by any wretched sparkBorn of my predecessors, though one strokeOf mine had brought the flame forth! Mantua's yoke,My minstrel's-trade, was to behold mankind,—My own concern was just to bring my mindBehold, just extricate, for my acquist,Each object suffered stifle in the mistWhich hazard, custom, blindness interposeBetwixt things and myself."Whereat he rose.The level wind carried above the firsClouds, the irrevocable travellers,Onward."Pushed thus into a drowsy copse,Arms twine about my neck, each eyelid dropsUnder a humid finger; while there fleets,Outside the screen, a pageant time repeatsNever again! To be deposed, immuredWhile renunciation ensures despair.Clandestinely—still petted, still assuredTo govern were fatiguing work—the SightFleeting meanwhile! 'T is noontide: wreak ere nightSomehow my will upon it, rather! SlakeThis thirst somehow, the poorest impress takeThat serves! A blasted bud displays you, torn,Faint rudiments of the full flower unborn;But who divines what glory coats o'erclaspOf the bulb dormant in the mummy's graspTaurello sent?" ..."Taurello? Palma sentYour Trouvere," (Naddo interposing leantOver the lost bard's shoulder)—"and, believe,You cannot more reluctantly receiveThan I pronounce her message: we departTogether. What avail a poet's heartVerona's pomps and gauds? five blades of grassSuffice him. News? Why, where your marish was,On its mud-banks smoke rises after smokeI' the valley, like a spout of hell new-broke.Oh, the world's tidings! small your thanks, I guess,For them. The father of our PatronessHas played Taurello an astounding trick,Parts between Ecelin and AlbericHis wealth and goes into a convent: bothWed Guelfs: the Count and Palma plighted trothA week since at Verona: and they wantYou doubtless to contrive the marriage-chantEre Richard storms Ferrara." Then was toldThe tale from the beginning—how, made boldBy Salinguerra's absence, Guelfs had burnedAnd pillaged till he unawares returnedTo take revenge: how Azzo and his friendWere doing their endeavor, how the endO' the siege was nigh, and how the Count, releasedFrom further care, would with his marriage-feastThere is yet a way of escaping this;Inaugurate a new and better rule,Absorbing thus Romano."Shall I schoolMy master," added Naddo, "and suggestHow you may clothe in a poetic vestThese doings, at Verona? Your responseTo Palma! Wherefore jest? 'Depart at once?'A good resolve! In truth, I hardly hopedSo prompt an acquiescence. Have you gropedOut wisdom in the wilds here?—Thoughts may beOver-poetical for poetry.Pearl-white, you poets liken Palma's neck;And yet what spoils an orient like some speckOf genuine white, turning its own white gray?You take me? Curse the cicala!"One more day,One eve—appears Verona! Many a group,(You mind) instructed of the osprey's swoopOn lynx and ounce, was gathering—ChristendomSure to receive, whate'er the end was, fromThe evening's purpose cheer or detriment,Since Friedrich only waited some eventLike this, of Ghibellins establishingThemselves within Ferrara, ere, as KingOf Lombardy, he 'd glad descend there, wageOld warfare with the Pontiff, disengageHis barons from the burghers, and restoreThe rule of Charlemagne, broken of yoreBy Hildebrand.Which he now takes by obeying Palma:I' the palace, each by each,Sordello sat and Palma: little speechAt first in that dim closet, face with face(Despite the tumult in the market-place)Exchanging quick low laughters: now would rushWord upon word to meet a sudden flush,A look left off, a shifting lips' surmise—But for the most part their two historiesWho thereupon becomes his associate.Ran best through the locked fingers and linked arms.And so the night flew on with its alarmsTill in burst one of Palma's retinue;"Now, Lady!" gasped he. Then arose the twoAnd leaned into Verona's air, dead-still.A balcony lay black beneath untilOut, 'mid a gush of torchfire, gray-haired menCame on it and harangued the people: thenSea-like that people surging to and froShouted, "Hale forth the carroch—trumpets, ho,A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves!Back from the bell! Hammer—that whom behoovesMay hear the League is up! Peal—learn who list,Verona means not first of towns break trystTo-morrow with the League!"Enough. Now turn—Over the eastern cypresses: discern!Is any beacon set a-glimmer?RangThe air with shouts that overpowered the clangOf the incessant carroch, even: "Haste—The candle 's at the gateway! ere it waste,Each soldier stand beside it, armed to marchWith Tiso Sampier through the eastern arch!"Ferrara 's succored, Palma!Once againThey sat together; some strange thing in trainTo say, so difficult was Palma's placeIn taking, with a coy fastidious graceLike the bird's flutter ere it fix and feed.But when she felt she held her friend indeedSafe, she threw back her curls, began implantHer lessons; telling of another wantAs her own history will account for,Goito's quiet nourished than his own;Palma—to serve him—to be served, aloneImporting; Agnes' milk so neutralizedThe blood of Ecelin. Nor be surprisedIf, while Sordello fain had captive ledNature, in dream was Palma subjectedTo some out-soul, which dawned not though she pinedDelaying till its advent, heart and mind,Their life. "How dared I let expand the forceWithin me, till some out-soul, whose resourceIt grew for, should direct it? Every lawOf life, its every fitness, every flaw,Must One determine whose corporeal shapeWould be no other than the prime escapeAnd revelation to me of a WillOrb-like o'ershrouded and inscrutableAbove, save at the point which, I should know,Shone that myself, my powers, might overflowSo far, so much; as now it signifiedWhich earthly shape it henceforth chose my guide,Whose mortal lip selected to declareIts oracles, what fleshly garb would wear—The first of intimations, whom to love;The next, how love him. Seemed that orb, aboveThe castle-covert and the mountain-close,Slow in appearing,—if beneath it roseCravings, aversions,—did our green precinctTake pride in me, at unawares distinctWith this or that endowment,—how, repressedAt once, such jetting power shrank to the rest!Was I to have a chance touch spoil me, leaveMy spirit thence unfitted to receiveThe consummating spell?—that spell so nearMoreover! 'Waits he not the waking year?His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripeBy this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripeThe thawed ravines; because of him, the windWalks like a herald. I shall surely findHim now!'"And chief, that earnest April mornOf Richard's Love-court, was it time, so wornA reverse to, and completion of, his.And white my cheek, so idly my blood beat,Sitting that morn beside the Lady's feetAnd saying as she prompted; till outburstOne face from all the faces. Not then firstI knew it; where in maple chamber glooms,Crowned with what sanguine-heart pomegranate bloomsAdvanced it ever? Men's acknowledgmentSanctioned my own: 't was taken, Palma's bent,—Sordello,—recognized, accepted."DumbSat she still scheming. Ecelin would comeGaunt, scared, 'Cesano baffles me,' he 'd say:'Better I fought it out, my father's way!Strangle Ferrara in its drowning flats,And you and your Taurello yonder!—what 'sRomano's business there?' An hour's concernTo cure the froward Chief!—induce returnAs heartened from those overmeaning eyes,Wound up to persevere,—his enterpriseMarked out anew, its exigent of witApportioned,—she at liberty to sitAnd scheme against the next emergence, I—To covet her Taurello-sprite, made flyOr fold the wing—to con your horoscopeFor leave command those steely shafts shoot ope,Or straight assuage their blinding eagernessIn blank smooth snow. What semblance of successTo any of my plans for making youHow she ever aspired for his sake,Mine and Romano's? Break the first wall through,Tread o'er the ruins of the Chief, supplantHis sons beside, still, vainest were the vaunt:There, Salinguerra would obstruct me sheer,And the insuperable Tuscan, here,Stay me! But one wild eve that Lady diedIn her lone chamber: only I beside:Taurello far at Naples, and my sireAt Padua, Ecelin away in ireWith Alberic. She held me thus—a clutchCircumstances helping or hindering.To make our spirits as our bodies touch—And so began flinging the past up, heapsOf uncouth treasure from their sunless sleepsWithin her soul; deeds rose along with dreams,Fragments of many miserable schemes,Secrets, more secrets, then—no, not the last—'Mongst others, like a casual trick o' the past,How ... ay, she told me, gathering up her face,All left of it, into one arch-grimaceTo die with ..."Friend, 't is gone! but not the fearOf that fell laughing, heard as now I hear.Nor faltered voice, nor seemed her heart grow weakWhen i' the midst abrupt she ceased to speak—Dead, as to serve a purpose, mark!—for inRushed o' the very instant Ecelin(How summoned, who divines?)—looking as ifHe understood why Adelaide lay stiffAlready in my arms; for, 'Girl, how mustI manage Este in the matter thrustUpon me, how unravel your bad coil?—Since' (he declared) ''t is on your brow—a soilLike hers there!' then in the same breath, 'he lackedNo counsel after all, had signed no pactWith devils, nor was treason here or there,Goito or Vicenza, his affair:He buried it in Adelaide's deep grave,Would begin life afresh, now,—would not slaveFor any Friedrich's nor Taurello's sake!What booted him to meddle or to makeIn Lombardy?' And afterward I knewThe meaning of his promise to undoAll she had done—why marriages were made,New friendships entered on, old followers paidWith curses for their pains,—new friends' amazeAt height, when, passing out by Gate Saint Blaise,He stopped short in Vicenza, bent his headOver a friar's neck,—'had vowed,' he said,'Long since, nigh thirty years, because his wifeAnd child were saved there, to bestow his lifeOn God, his gettings on the Church.'"ExiledWithin Goito, still one dream beguiledHow success at last seemed possible,My days and nights; 't was found, the orb I soughtTo serve, those glimpses came of Fomalhaut,No other: but how serve it?—authorizeYou and Romano mingled destinies?And straight Romano's angel stood besideMe who had else been Boniface's bride,For Salinguerra 't was, with neck low bent,And voice lightened to music, (as he meantTo learn, not teach me,) who withdrew the pallFrom the dead past and straight revived it all,Making me see how first Romano waxed,Wherefore he waned now, why, if I relaxedMy grasp (even I!) would drop a thing effete,Frayed by itself, unequal to completeIts course, and counting every step astrayBy the intervention of Salinguerra:A gain so much. Romano, every wayStable, a Lombard House now—why start backInto the very outset of its track?This patching principle which late alliedOur House with other Houses—what besideConcerned the apparition, the first KnightWho followed Conrad hither in such plightHis utmost wealth was summed in his one steed?For Ecelo, that prowler, was decreedA task, in the beginning hazardousTo him as ever task can be to us;But did the weather-beaten thief despairWhen first our crystal cincture of warm air,That binds the Trevisan,—as its spice-belt(Crusaders say) the tract where Jesus dwelt,—Furtive he pierced, and Este was to face—Despaired Saponian strength of Lombard grace?Tried he at making surer aught made sure,Maturing what already was mature?No; his heart prompted Ecelo, 'ConfrontEste, inspect yourself. What 's nature? Wont.Discard three-parts your nature, and adoptWho remedied ill wrought by Ecelin,The rest as an advantage!' Old strength proppedThe man who first grew Podesta amongThe Vicentines, no less than, while there sprungHis palace up in Padua like a threat,Their noblest spied a grace, unnoticed yetIn Conrad's crew. Thus far the object gained,Romano was established—has remained—'For are you not Italian, truly peersWith Este? "Azzo" better soothes our earsThan "Alberic"? or is this lion's-crineFrom over-mounts' (this yellow hair of mine)'So weak a graft on Agnes Este's stock?'(Thus went he on with something of a mock)'Wherefore recoil, then, from the very fateConceded you, refuse to imitateYour model farther? Este long since leftBeing mere Este: as a blade its heft,Este required the Pope to further him;And you, the Kaiser—whom your father's whimForegoes or, better, never shall foregoIf Palma dare pursue what EceloCommenced, but Ecelin desists from: justAs Adelaide of Susa could intrustHer donative,—her Piedmont given the Pope,Her Alpine-pass for him to shut or ope'Twixt France and Italy,—to the superbMatilda's perfecting,—so, lest aught curbOur Adelaide's great counter-project forGiving her Trentine to the EmperorWith passage here from Germany,—shall youTake it,—my slender plodding talent, too!'—Urged me Taurello with his half-smile."HeAs Patron of the scattered familyConveyed me to his Mantua, kept in bruitAzzo's alliances and Richard's suitUntil, the Kaiser excommunicate,'Nothing remains,' Taurello said, 'but waitSome rash procedure: Palma was the link,As Agnes' child, between us, and they shrinkAnd had a project for her own glory,From losing Palma: judge if we advance,Your father's method, your inheritance!'The day I was betrothed to BonifaceAt Padua by Taurello's self, took placeThe outrage of the Ferrarese: again,The day I sought Verona with the trainAgreed for,—by Taurello's policyConvicting Richard of the fault, since weWere present to annul or to confirm,—Richard, whose patience had outstayed its term,Quitted Verona for the siege."And nowWhat glory may engird Sordello's browThrough this? A month since at Oliero slunkAll that was Ecelin into a monk;But how could Salinguerra so forgetHis liege of thirty years as grudge even yetOne effort to recover him? He sentForthwith the tidings of this last eventTo Ecelin—declared that he, despiteThe recent folly, recognized his rightTo order Salinguerra: 'Should he wringIts uttermost advantage out, or flingThis chance away? Or were his sons now HeadO' the House?' Through me Taurello's missive sped;My father's answer will by me return.Behold! 'For him,' he writes, 'no more concernWith strife than, for his children, with fresh plotsOf Friedrich. Old engagements out he blotsFor aye: Taurello shall no more subserve,Nor Ecelin impose.' Lest this unnerveTaurello at this juncture, slack his gripOf Richard, suffer the occasion slip,—I, in his sons' default (who, mating withEste, forsake Romano as the frithIts mainsea for that firmland, sea makes headAgainst) I stand, Romano,—in their steadAssume the station they desert, and giveStill, as the Kaiser's representative,Taurello license he demands. Midnight—Morning—by noon to-morrow, making lightWhich she would change to Sordello's.Of the League's issue, we, in some gay weedLike yours, disguised together, may precedeThe arbitrators to Ferrara: reachHim, let Taurello's noble accents teachThe rest! Then say if I have misconceivedYour destiny, too readily believedThe Kaiser's cause your own!"And Palma 's fled.Though no affirmative disturbs the head,A dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er,Like the alighted planet Pollux wore,Until, morn breaking, he resolves to beGate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy,Soul of this body—to wield this aggregateOf souls and bodies, and so conquer fateThough he should live—a centre of disgustEven—apart, core of the outward crustHe vivifies, assimilates. For thusI bring Sordello to the rapturousThus then, having completed a circle,Exclaim at the crowd's cry, because one roundOf life was quite accomplished; and he foundNot only that a soul, whate'er its might,Is insufficient to its own delight,Both in corporeal organs and in skillBy means of such to body forth its Will—And, after, insufficient to appriseMen of that Will, oblige them recognizeThe Hid by the Revealed—but that, the lastNor lightest of the struggles overpast,Will he bade abdicate, which would not voidThe throne, might sit there, suffer he enjoyedMankind, a varied and divine arrayIncapable of homage, the first way,Nor fit to render incidentallyTribute connived at, taken by the by,In joys. If thus with warrant to rescindThe ignominious exile of mankind—Whose proper service, ascertained intactAs yet, (to be by him themselves made act,Not watch Sordello acting each of them)Was to secure—if the true diademSeemed imminent while our Sordello drankThe wisdom of that golden Palma,—thankVerona's Lady in her citadelFounded by Gaulish Brennus, legends tell:And truly when she left him, the sun rearedA head like the first clamberer's who peeredA-top the Capitol, his face on flameWith triumph, triumphing till Manlius came.Nor slight too much my rhymes—that spring, dispread,Dispart, disperse, lingering overheadLike an escape of angels! Rather say,The poet may pause and breathe,My transcendental platan! mounting gay(An archimage so courts a novice-queen)With tremulous silvered trunk, whence branches sheenLaugh out, thick foliaged next, a-shiver soonWith colored buds, then glowing like the moonOne mild flame,—last a pause, a burst, and allHer ivory limbs are smothered by a fall,Bloom-flinders and fruit-sparkles and leaf-dust,Ending the weird work prosecuted justFor her amusement; he decrepit, stark,Dozes; her uncontrolled delight may markApart—Yet not so, surely never so!Only, as good my soul were suffered goO'er the lagune: forth fare thee, put aside—Entrance thy synod, as a god may glideOut of the world he fills, and leave it muteFor myriad ages as we men compute,Returning into it without a breakBeing really in the flesh at Venice.O' the consciousness! They sleep, and I awakeO'er the lagune, being at Venice.Note,In just such songs as Eglamor (say) wroteWith heart and soul and strength, for he believedHimself achieving all to be achievedBy singer—in such songs you find aloneCompleteness, judge the song and singer one,And either purpose answered, his in itOr its in him: while from true works (to witSordello's dream-performances that willNever be more than dreamed) escapes there stillSome proof, the singer's proper life was 'neathThe life his song exhibits, this a sheathTo that; a passion and a knowledge farTranscending these, majestic as they are,Smouldered; his lay was but an episodeIn the bard's life: which evidence you owedTo some slight weariness, some looking-offOr start-away. The childish skit or scoffIn "Charlemagne," (his poem, dreamed divineIn every point except one silly lineAbout the restiff daughters)—what may lurkIn that? "My life commenced before this work,"(So I interpret the significanceOf the bard's start aside and look askance)—"My life continues after: on I fareWith no more stopping, possibly, no careAnd watching his own life sometimes,To note the undercurrent, the why and how,Where, when, o' the deeper life, as thus just now.But, silent, shall I cease to live? AlasFor you! who sigh, 'When shall it come to passWe read that story? How will he compressThe future gains, his life's true business,Into the better lay which—that one flout,Howe'er inopportune it be, lets out—Engrosses him already, though professedTo meditate with us eternal rest,And partnership in all his life has found?'"'T is but a sailor's promise, weather-bound:"Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be mooredFor once, the awning stretched, the poles assured!Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash,Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash,The margin 's silent: out with every spoilMade in our tracking, coil by mighty coil,This serpent of a river to his headI' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spreadThe bank, to help us tell our historyAright: give ear, endeavor to descryThe groves of giant rushes, how they grewLike demons' endlong tresses we sailed through,What mountains yawned, forests to give us ventOpened, each doleful side, yet on we wentTill ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attestThe springing of a land-wind from the West!"—Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day!To-morrow, and, the pageant moved awayDown to the poorest tent-pole, we and youPart company: no other may pursueEastward your voyage, be informed what fateIntends, if triumph or decline awaitThe tempter of the everlasting steppe.I muse this on a ruined palace-stepAt Venice: why should I break off, nor sitLonger upon my step, exhaust the fitEngland gave birth to? Who 's adorableEnough reclaim a——no Sordello's WillAlack!—be queen to me? That BassaneseBusied among her smoking fruit-boats? ThesePerhaps from our delicious AsoloWho twinkle, pigeons o'er the porticoNot prettier, bind June lilies into sheavesTo deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leavesBecause it is pleasant to be young,Soiled by their own loose gold-meal?Ah, beneathThe cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreathEndures a month—a half month—if I makeA queen of her, continue for her sakeSordello's story? Nay, that Paduan girlSplashes with barer legs where a live whirlIn the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weedDrifting has sucked down three, four, all indeedSave one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned postFor gondolas.You sad dishevelled ghostThat pluck at me and point, are you advisedI breathe? Let stay those girls (e'en her disguised—Jewels i' the locks that love no crownet likeTheir native field-buds and the green wheat-spike,So fair!—who left this end of June's turmoil,Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil,Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and freeIn dream, came join the peasants o'er the sea).Look they too happy, too tricked out? ConfessThere is such niggard stock of happinessTo share, that, do one's uttermost, dear wretch,One labors ineffectually to stretchWould but suffering humanity allow!It o'er you so that mother and children, bothMay equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth!Divide the robe yet farther: be contentWith seeing just a score pre-eminentThrough shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights,Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights!For, these in evidence, you clearlier claimA like garb for the rest,—grace all, the sameAs these my peasants. I ask youth and strengthAnd health for each of you, not more—at lengthGrown wise, who asked at home that the whole raceMight add the spirit's to the body's grace,And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards.But in this magic weather one discardsMuch old requirement. Venice seems a typeOf Life—'twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe,As Life, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught:'T is Venice, and 't is Life—as good you soughtTo spare me the Piazza's slippery stoneOr keep me to the unchoked canals alone,As hinder Life the evil with the goodWhich make up Living, rightly understood.Which instigates to tasks like this,Only, do finish something! Peasants, queens,Take them, made happy by whatever means,Parade them for the common credit, vouchThat a luckless residue, we send to crouchIn corners out of sight, was just as framedFor happiness, its portion might have claimedAs well, and so, obtaining joy, had stalkedFastuous as any!—such my project, balkedAlready; I hardly venture to adjustThe first rags, when you find me. To mistrustMe!—nor unreasonably. You, no doubt,Have the true knack of tiring suitors outWith those thin lips on tremble, lashless eyesInveterately tear-shot—there, be wise,Mistress of mine, there, there, as if I meantYou insult!—shall your friend (not slave) be shentFor speaking home? Beside, care-bit erasedBroken-up beauties ever took my tasteSupremely; and I love you more, far moreThan her I looked should foot Life's temple-floor.Years ago, leagues at distance, when and whereA whisper came, "Let others seek!—thy careAnd doubtlessly compensates them,Is found, thy life's provision; if thy raceShould be thy mistress, and into one faceThe many faces crowd?" Ah, had I, judge,Or no, your secret? Rough apparel—grudgeAll ornaments save tag or tassel wornTo hint we are not thoroughly forlorn—Slouch bonnet, unloop mantle, careless goAlone (that 's saddest, but it must be so)Through Venice, sing now and now glance aside,Aught desultory or undignified,—Then, ravishingest lady, will you passOr not each formidable group, the massBefore the Basilic (that feast gone by,God's great day of the Corpus Domini)And, wistfully foregoing proper men,Come timid up to me for alms? And thenThe luxury to hesitate, feign doSome unexampled grace!—when, whom but youDare I bestow your own upon? And hearFurther before you say, it is to sneerI call you ravishing; for I regretLittle that she, whose early foot was setForth as she 'd plant it on a pedestal,Now, i' the silent city, seems to fallToward me—no wreath, only a lip's unrestTo quiet, surcharged eyelids to be pressedDry of their tears upon my bosom. StrangeSuch sad chance should produce in thee such change,My love! Warped souls and bodies! yet God spokeOf right-hand, foot and eye—selects our yoke,Sordello, as your poetship may find!So, sleep upon my shoulder, child, nor mindTheir foolish talk; we 'll manage reinstateYour old worth; ask moreover, when they prateOf evil men past hope, "Don't each contrive,Despite the evil you abuse, to live?—Keeping, each losel, through a maze of lies,His own conceit of truth? to which he hiesBy obscure windings, tortuous, if you will,But to himself not inaccessible;He sees truth, and his lies are for the crowdWho cannot see; some fancied right allowedHis vilest wrong, empowered the losel clutchOne pleasure from a multitude of suchAs those who desist should remember.Denied him." Then assert, "All men appearTo think all better than themselves, by hereTrusting a crowd they wrong; but really," say,"All men think all men stupider than they,Since, save themselves, no other comprehendsThe complicated scheme to make amends—Evil, the scheme by which, through Ignorance,Good labors to exist." A slight advance,—Merely to find the sickness you die through,And naught beside! but if one can't eschewOne's portion in the common lot, at leastOne can avoid an ignorance increasedTenfold by dealing out hint after hintHow naught were like dispensing without stintThe water of life—so easy to dispenseBeside, when one has probed the centre whenceCommotion 's born—could tell you of it all!"—Meantime, just meditate my madrigalO' the mugwort that conceals a dewdrop safe!"What, dullard? we and you in smothery chafe,Babes, baldheads, stumbled thus far into ZinThe Horrid, getting neither out nor in,A hungry sun above us, sands that bungOur throats,—each dromedary lolls a tongue,Each camel churns a sick and frothy chap,And you, 'twixt tales of Potiphar's mishap,And sonnets on the earliest ass that spoke,—Remark, you wonder any one needs chokeWith founts about! Potsherd him, Gibeonites!While awkwardly enough your Moses smitesThe rock, though he forego his Promised LandThereby, have Satan claim his carcass, andFigure as Metaphysic Poet ... ah,Mark ye the dim first oozings? Meribah!Then, quaffing at the fount my courage gained,Recall—not that I prompt ye—who explained ..."Presumptuous!" interrupts one. You, not I'T is, brother, marvel at and magnifyLet the poet take his own part, then,Such office: "office," quotha? can we getTo the beginning of the office yet?What do we here? simply experimentEach on the other's power and its intentWhen elsewhere tasked,—if this of mine were truckedFor yours to either's good,—we watch construct,In short, an engine: with a finished one,What it can do, is all,—naught, how 't is done.But this of ours yet in probation, duskA kernel of strange wheelwork through its huskGrows into shape by quarters and by halves;Remark this tooth's spring, wonder what that valve'sFall bodes, presume each faculty's device,Make out each other more or less precise—The scope of the whole engine 's to be proved;We die: which means to say, the whole 's removed,Dismounted wheel by wheel, this complex gin,—To be set up anew elsewhere, beginA task indeed, but with a clearer climeThan the murk lodgment of our building-time.And then, I grant you, it behoves forgetHow 't is done—all that must amuse us yetSo long: and, while you turn upon your heel,Pray that I be not busy slitting steelShould any object that he was dullOr shredding brass, camped on some virgin shoreUnder a cluster of fresh stars, beforeI name a tithe o' the wheels I trust to do!So occupied, then, are we: hitherto,At present, and a weary while to come,The office of ourselves,—nor blind nor dumb,And seeing somewhat of man's state,—has been,For the worst of us, to say they so have seen;For the better, what it was they saw; the bestImpart the gift of seeing to the rest:"So that I glance," says such an one, "around,And there 's no face but I can read profoundDisclosures in; this stands for hope, that—fear,And for a speech, a deed in proof, look here!'Stoop, else the strings of blossom, where the nutsO'erarch, will blind thee! Said I not? She shutsBoth eyes this time, so close the hazels meet!Thus, prisoned in the Piombi, I repeatEvents one rove occasioned, o'er and o'er,Putting 'twixt me and madness evermoreThy sweet shape, Zanze! Therefore stoop!''That's truth!'(Adjudge you) 'the incarcerated youthWould say that!'Youth? Plara the bard? Set downThat Plara spent his youth in a grim townWhose cramped ill-featured streets huddled aboutThe minster for protection, never outOf its black belfry's shade and its bells' roar.The brighter shone the suburb,—all the moreUgly and absolute that shade's reproofOf any chance escape of joy,—some roof,Taller than they, allowed the rest detect,—Before the sole permitted laugh (suspectWho could, 't was meant for laughter, that ploughed cheek'sRepulsive gleam!) when the sun stopped both peaksOf the cleft belfry like a fiery wedge,Then sank, a huge flame on its socket edge,With leavings on the gray glass oriel-paneGhastly some minutes more. No fear of rain—The minster minded that! in heaps the dustLay everywhere. This town, the minster's trust,Beside his sprightlier predecessors.Held Plara; who, its denizen, bade hailIn twice twelve sonnets, Tempe's dewy vale.""'Exact the town, the minster and the street!'""As all mirth triumphs, sadness means defeat:Lust triumphs and is gay, Love 's triumphed o'erAnd sad: but Lucio 's sad. I said before,Love 's sad, not Lucio; one who loves may beAs gay his love has leave to hope, as heDowncast that lusts' desire escapes the springe:'T is of the mood itself I speak, what tingeDetermines it, else colorless,—or mirth,Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth.""'Ay, that's the variation's gist!'Indeed?Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed!And having seen too what I saw, be boldAnd next encounter what I do behold(That 's sure) but bid you take on trust!"AttackThe use and purpose of such sights? Alack,Not so unwisely does the crowd dispenseOn Salinguerras praise in preferenceOne ought not blame but praise this;To the Sordellos: men of action, these!Who, seeing just as little as you please,Yet turn that little to account,—engageWith, do not gaze at,—carry on, a stage,The work o' the world, not merely make reportThe work existed ere their day! In short,When at some future no-time a brave bandSees, using what it sees, then shake my handIn heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where 's the hurtOf keeping the Makers-see on the alert,At whose defection mortals stare aghastAs though heaven's bounteous windows were slammed fastIncontinent? Whereas all you, beneath,Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teethWho ply the pullies, for neglecting you:And therefore have I moulded, made anewA Man, and give him to be turned and tried,Be angry with or pleased at. On your side,Have ye times, places, actors of your own?At all events, his own audience may:Try them upon Sordello when full-grown,And then—ah then! If Hercules first parchedHis foot in Egypt only to be marchedA sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit,What chance have I? The demigod was muteTill, at the altar, where time out of mindSuch guests became oblations, chaplets twinedHis forehead long enough, and he beganSlaying the slayers, nor escaped a man.Take not affront, my gentle audience! whomNo Hercules shall make his hecatomb,Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend—That's your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend,Whose great verse blares unintermittent onLike your own trumpeter at Marathon,—You who, Platæa and Salamis being scant,Put up with Ætna for a stimulant—And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomedOver the midland sea last month, presumedLong, lay demolished in the blazing WestAt eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressedLike Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wearA crest proud as desert while I declareHad I a flawless ruby fit to wringTears of its color from that painted kingWho lost it, I would, for that smile which wentTo my heart, fling it in the sea, content,What if things brighten, who knows?Wearing your verse in place, an amuletSovereign against all passion, wear and fret!My English Eyebright, if you are not gladThat, as I stopped my task awhile, the sadDishevelled form, wherein I put mankindTo come at times and keep my pact in mind,Renewed me,—hear no crickets in the hedge,Nor let a glowworm spot the river's edgeAt home, and may the summer showers gushWithout a warning from the missel thrush!So, to our business, now—the fate of suchAs find our common nature—overmuchDespised because restricted and unfitTo bear the burden they impose on it—Cling when they would discard it; craving strengthTo leap from the allotted world, at lengthThey do leap,—flounder on without a term,Each a god's germ, doomed to remain a germIn unexpanded infancy, unless ...But that 's the story—dull enough, confess!There might be fitter subjects to allure;Still, neither misconceive my portraitureNor undervalue its adornments quaint:What seems a fiend perchance may prove a saint.Ponder a story ancient pens transmit,Then say if you condemn me or acquit.John the Beloved, banished AntiochFor Patmos, bade collectively his flockWhereupon, with a story to the point,Farewell, but set apart the closing eveTo comfort those his exile most would grieve,He knew: a touching spectacle, that houseIn motion to receive him! Xanthus' spouseYou missed, made panther's meat a month since; butXanthus himself (his nephew 't was, they shut'Twixt boards and sawed asunder), Polycarp,Soft Charicle, next year no wheel could warpTo swear by Cæsar's fortune, with the restWere ranged; through whom the gray disciple pressed,Busily blessing right and left, just stoppedTo pat one infant's curls, the hangman croppedSoon after, reached the portal. On its hingeThe door turns and he enters: what quick twingeRuins the smiling mouth, those wide eyes fixWhereon, why like some spectral candlestick'sBranch the disciple's arms? Dead swooned he, wokeAnon, heaved sigh, made shift to gasp, heartbroke,"Get thee behind me, Satan! Have I toiledTo no more purpose? Is the gospel foiledHere too, and o'er my son's, my Xanthus' hearth,Portrayed with sooty garb and features swarth—Ah, Xanthus, am I to thy roof beguiledTo see the—the—the Devil domiciled?"Whereto sobbed Xanthus, "Father, 't is yourselfInstalled, a limning which our utmost pelfWent to procure against to-morrow's loss;He takes up the thread of discourse.And that's no twy-prong, but a pastoral cross,You're painted with!"His puckered brows unfold—And you shall hear Sordello's story told.

And the font took them: let our laurels lie!

Braid moonfern now with mystic trifoly

Because once more Goito gets, once more,

Sordello to itself! A dream is o'er,

And the suspended life begins anew;

Quiet those throbbing temples, then, subdue

Nature may triumph therefore;

That cheek's distortion! Nature's strict embrace,

Putting aside the past, shall soon efface

Its print as well—factitious humors grown

Over the true—loves, hatreds not his own—

And turn him pure as some forgotten vest

Woven of painted byssus, silkiest

Tufting the Tyrrhene whelk's pearl-sheeted lip,

Left welter where a trireme let it slip

I' the sea, and vexed a satrap; so the stain

O' the world forsakes Sordello, with its pain,

Its pleasure: how the tinct loosening escapes,

Cloud after cloud! Mantua's familiar shapes

Die, fair and foul die, fading as they flit,

Men, women, and the pathos and the wit,

Wise speech and foolish, deeds to smile or sigh

For, good, bad, seemly or ignoble, die.

The last face glances through the eglantines,

The last voice murmurs, 'twixt the blossomed vines,

Of Men, of that machine supplied by thought

To compass self-perception with, he sought

By forcing half himself—an insane pulse

Of a god's blood, on clay it could convulse,

Never transmute—on human sights and sounds,

To watch the other half with; irksome bounds

It ebbs from to its source, a fountain sealed

Forever. Better sure be unrevealed

Than part revealed: Sordello well or ill

Is finished: then what further use of Will,

Point in the prime idea not realized,

An oversight? inordinately prized,

No less, and pampered with enough of each

Delight to prove the whole above its reach.

"To need become all natures, yet retain

The law of my own nature—to remain

Myself, yet yearn ... as if that chestnut, think,

Should yearn for this first larch-bloom crisp and pink,

Or those pale fragrant tears where zephyrs stanch

March wounds along the fretted pine-tree branch!

Will and the means to show will, great and small,

Material, spiritual,—abjure them all

Save any so distinct, they may be left

To amuse, not tempt become! and, thus bereft,

Just as I first was fashioned would I be!

Nor, moon, is it Apollo now, but me

For her son, lately alive, dies again,

Thou visitest to comfort and befriend!

Swim thou into my heart, and there an end,

Since I possess thee!—nay, thus shut mine eyes

And know, quite know, by this heart's fall and rise,

When thou dost bury thee in clouds, and when

Out-standest: wherefore practise upon men

To make that plainer to myself?"

Slide here

Over a sweet and solitary year

Wasted; or simply notice change in him—

How eyes, once with exploring bright, grew dim

And satiate with receiving. Some distress

Was caused, too, by a sort of consciousness

Under the imbecility,—naught kept

That down; he slept, but was aware he slept,

So, frustrated: as who brainsick made pact

Erst with the overhanging cataract

To deafen him, yet still distinguished plain

His own blood's measured clicking at his brain.

To finish. One declining Autumn day—

Few birds about the heaven chill and gray,

No wind that cared trouble the tacit woods—

He sauntered home complacently, their moods

According, his and nature's. Every spark

Was found and is lost.

Of Mantua life was trodden out; so dark

The embers, that the Troubadour, who sung

Hundreds of songs, forgot, its trick his tongue,

Its craft his brain, how either brought to pass

Singing at all; that faculty might class

With any of Apollo's now. The year

Began to find its early promise sere

As well. Thus beauty vanishes; thus stone

Outlingers flesh: nature's and his youth gone,

They left the world to you, and wished you joy,

When, stopping his benevolent employ,

A presage shuddered through the welkin; harsh

The earth's remonstrance followed. 'T was the marsh

Gone of a sudden. Mincio, in its place,

Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face,

And, where the mists broke up immense and white

I' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of light

Out of the crashing of a myriad stars.

And here was nature, bound by the same bars

Of fate with him!

But nature is one thing, man another—

"No! youth once gone is gone:

Deeds let escape are never to be done.

Leaf-fall and grass-spring for the year; for us—

Oh forfeit I unalterably thus

My chance? nor two lives wait me, this to spend,

Learning save that? Nature has time, may mend

Mistake, she knows occasion will recur;

Landslip or seabreach, how affects it her

With her magnificent resources?—I

Must perish once and perish utterly.

Not any strollings now at even-close

Down the field-path, Sordello! by thorn-rows

Alive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fire

And dew, outlining the black cypress' spire

She waits you at, Elys, who heard you first

Woo her, the snow-month through, but ere she durst

Answer 't was April. Linden-flower-time-long

Her eyes were on the ground; 't is July, strong

Now; and because white dust-clouds overwhelm

The woodside, here or by the village elm

That holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale,

But letting you lift up her coarse flax veil

And whisper (the damp little hand in yours)

Of love, heart's love, your heart's love that endures

Till death. Tush! No mad mixing with the rout

Of haggard ribalds wandering about

The hot torchlit wine-scented island-house

Where Friedrich holds his wickedest carouse,

Parading,—to the gay Palermitans,

Soft Messinese, dusk Saracenic clans

Having multifarious sympathies,

Nuocera holds,—those tall grave dazzling Norse,

High-cheeked, lank-haired, toothed whiter than the morse,

Queens of the caves of jet stalactites,

He sent his barks to fetch through icy seas,

The blind night seas without a saving star,

And here in snowy birdskin robes they are,

Sordello!—here, mollitious alcoves gilt

Superb as Byzant domes that devils built!

—Ah, Byzant, there again! no chance to go

Ever like august cheery Dandolo,

Worshipping hearts about him for a wall,

Conducted, blind eyes, hundred years and all,

Through vanquished Byzant where friends note for him

What pillar, marble massive, sardius slim,

'T were fittest he transport to Venice' Square—

Flattered and promised life to touch them there

Soon, by those fervid sons of senators!

No more lifes, deaths, loves, hatreds, peaces, wars!

Ah, fragments of a whole ordained to be,

Points in the life I waited! what are ye

But roundels of a ladder which appeared

Awhile the very platform it was reared

To lift me on?—that happiness I find

Proofs of my faith in, even in the blind

Instinct which bade forego you all unless

Ye led me past yourselves. Ay, happiness

He may neither renounce nor satisfy;

Awaited me; the way life should be used

Was to acquire, and deeds like you conduced

To teach it by a self-revealment, deemed

Life's very use, so long! Whatever seemed

Progress to that, was pleasure; aught that stayed

My reaching it—no pleasure. I have laid

The ladder down; I climb not; still, aloft

The platform stretches! Blisses strong and soft,

I dared not entertain, elude me; yet

Never of what they promised could I get

A glimpse till now! The common sort, the crowd,

Exist, perceive; with Being are endowed,

However slight, distinct from what they See,

However bounded; Happiness must be,

To feed the first by gleanings from the last,

Attain its qualities, and slow or fast

Become what they behold; such peace-in-strife

By transmutation, is the Use of Life,

The Alien turning Native to the soul

Or body—which instructs me; I am whole

There and demand a Palma; had the world

Been from my soul to a like distance hurled,

'T were Happiness to make it one with me:

Whereas I must, ere I begin to Be,

Include a world, in flesh, I comprehend

In spirit now; and this done, what 's to blend

With? Naught is Alien in the world—my Will

In the process to which is pleasure,

Owns all already; yet can turn it—still

Less—Native, since my Means to correspond

With Will are so unworthy, 't was my bond

To tread the very joys that tantalize

Most now, into a grave, never to rise.

I die then! Will the rest agree to die?

Next Age or no? Shall its Sordello try

Clue after clue, and catch at last the clue

I miss?—that 's underneath my finger too,

Twice, thrice a day, perhaps,—some yearning traced

Deeper, some petty consequence embraced

Closer! Why fled I Mantua, then?—complained

So much my Will was fettered, yet remained

Content within a tether half the range

I could assign it?—able to exchange

My ignorance (I felt) for knowledge, and

Idle because I could thus understand—

Could e'en have penetrated to its core

Our mortal mystery, yet—fool—forbore,

Preferred elaborating in the dark

My casual stuff, by any wretched spark

Born of my predecessors, though one stroke

Of mine had brought the flame forth! Mantua's yoke,

My minstrel's-trade, was to behold mankind,—

My own concern was just to bring my mind

Behold, just extricate, for my acquist,

Each object suffered stifle in the mist

Which hazard, custom, blindness interpose

Betwixt things and myself."

Whereat he rose.

The level wind carried above the firs

Clouds, the irrevocable travellers,

Onward.

"Pushed thus into a drowsy copse,

Arms twine about my neck, each eyelid drops

Under a humid finger; while there fleets,

Outside the screen, a pageant time repeats

Never again! To be deposed, immured

While renunciation ensures despair.

Clandestinely—still petted, still assured

To govern were fatiguing work—the Sight

Fleeting meanwhile! 'T is noontide: wreak ere night

Somehow my will upon it, rather! Slake

This thirst somehow, the poorest impress take

That serves! A blasted bud displays you, torn,

Faint rudiments of the full flower unborn;

But who divines what glory coats o'erclasp

Of the bulb dormant in the mummy's grasp

Taurello sent?" ...

"Taurello? Palma sent

Your Trouvere," (Naddo interposing leant

Over the lost bard's shoulder)—"and, believe,

You cannot more reluctantly receive

Than I pronounce her message: we depart

Together. What avail a poet's heart

Verona's pomps and gauds? five blades of grass

Suffice him. News? Why, where your marish was,

On its mud-banks smoke rises after smoke

I' the valley, like a spout of hell new-broke.

Oh, the world's tidings! small your thanks, I guess,

For them. The father of our Patroness

Has played Taurello an astounding trick,

Parts between Ecelin and Alberic

His wealth and goes into a convent: both

Wed Guelfs: the Count and Palma plighted troth

A week since at Verona: and they want

You doubtless to contrive the marriage-chant

Ere Richard storms Ferrara." Then was told

The tale from the beginning—how, made bold

By Salinguerra's absence, Guelfs had burned

And pillaged till he unawares returned

To take revenge: how Azzo and his friend

Were doing their endeavor, how the end

O' the siege was nigh, and how the Count, released

From further care, would with his marriage-feast

There is yet a way of escaping this;

Inaugurate a new and better rule,

Absorbing thus Romano.

"Shall I school

My master," added Naddo, "and suggest

How you may clothe in a poetic vest

These doings, at Verona? Your response

To Palma! Wherefore jest? 'Depart at once?'

A good resolve! In truth, I hardly hoped

So prompt an acquiescence. Have you groped

Out wisdom in the wilds here?—Thoughts may be

Over-poetical for poetry.

Pearl-white, you poets liken Palma's neck;

And yet what spoils an orient like some speck

Of genuine white, turning its own white gray?

You take me? Curse the cicala!"

One more day,

One eve—appears Verona! Many a group,

(You mind) instructed of the osprey's swoop

On lynx and ounce, was gathering—Christendom

Sure to receive, whate'er the end was, from

The evening's purpose cheer or detriment,

Since Friedrich only waited some event

Like this, of Ghibellins establishing

Themselves within Ferrara, ere, as King

Of Lombardy, he 'd glad descend there, wage

Old warfare with the Pontiff, disengage

His barons from the burghers, and restore

The rule of Charlemagne, broken of yore

By Hildebrand.

Which he now takes by obeying Palma:

I' the palace, each by each,

Sordello sat and Palma: little speech

At first in that dim closet, face with face

(Despite the tumult in the market-place)

Exchanging quick low laughters: now would rush

Word upon word to meet a sudden flush,

A look left off, a shifting lips' surmise—

But for the most part their two histories

Who thereupon becomes his associate.

Ran best through the locked fingers and linked arms.

And so the night flew on with its alarms

Till in burst one of Palma's retinue;

"Now, Lady!" gasped he. Then arose the two

And leaned into Verona's air, dead-still.

A balcony lay black beneath until

Out, 'mid a gush of torchfire, gray-haired men

Came on it and harangued the people: then

Sea-like that people surging to and fro

Shouted, "Hale forth the carroch—trumpets, ho,

A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves!

Back from the bell! Hammer—that whom behooves

May hear the League is up! Peal—learn who list,

Verona means not first of towns break tryst

To-morrow with the League!"

Enough. Now turn—

Over the eastern cypresses: discern!

Is any beacon set a-glimmer?

Rang

The air with shouts that overpowered the clang

Of the incessant carroch, even: "Haste—

The candle 's at the gateway! ere it waste,

Each soldier stand beside it, armed to march

With Tiso Sampier through the eastern arch!"

Ferrara 's succored, Palma!

Once again

They sat together; some strange thing in train

To say, so difficult was Palma's place

In taking, with a coy fastidious grace

Like the bird's flutter ere it fix and feed.

But when she felt she held her friend indeed

Safe, she threw back her curls, began implant

Her lessons; telling of another want

As her own history will account for,

Goito's quiet nourished than his own;

Palma—to serve him—to be served, alone

Importing; Agnes' milk so neutralized

The blood of Ecelin. Nor be surprised

If, while Sordello fain had captive led

Nature, in dream was Palma subjected

To some out-soul, which dawned not though she pined

Delaying till its advent, heart and mind,

Their life. "How dared I let expand the force

Within me, till some out-soul, whose resource

It grew for, should direct it? Every law

Of life, its every fitness, every flaw,

Must One determine whose corporeal shape

Would be no other than the prime escape

And revelation to me of a Will

Orb-like o'ershrouded and inscrutable

Above, save at the point which, I should know,

Shone that myself, my powers, might overflow

So far, so much; as now it signified

Which earthly shape it henceforth chose my guide,

Whose mortal lip selected to declare

Its oracles, what fleshly garb would wear

—The first of intimations, whom to love;

The next, how love him. Seemed that orb, above

The castle-covert and the mountain-close,

Slow in appearing,—if beneath it rose

Cravings, aversions,—did our green precinct

Take pride in me, at unawares distinct

With this or that endowment,—how, repressed

At once, such jetting power shrank to the rest!

Was I to have a chance touch spoil me, leave

My spirit thence unfitted to receive

The consummating spell?—that spell so near

Moreover! 'Waits he not the waking year?

His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripe

By this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripe

The thawed ravines; because of him, the wind

Walks like a herald. I shall surely find

Him now!'

"And chief, that earnest April morn

Of Richard's Love-court, was it time, so worn

A reverse to, and completion of, his.

And white my cheek, so idly my blood beat,

Sitting that morn beside the Lady's feet

And saying as she prompted; till outburst

One face from all the faces. Not then first

I knew it; where in maple chamber glooms,

Crowned with what sanguine-heart pomegranate blooms

Advanced it ever? Men's acknowledgment

Sanctioned my own: 't was taken, Palma's bent,—

Sordello,—recognized, accepted.

"Dumb

Sat she still scheming. Ecelin would come

Gaunt, scared, 'Cesano baffles me,' he 'd say:

'Better I fought it out, my father's way!

Strangle Ferrara in its drowning flats,

And you and your Taurello yonder!—what 's

Romano's business there?' An hour's concern

To cure the froward Chief!—induce return

As heartened from those overmeaning eyes,

Wound up to persevere,—his enterprise

Marked out anew, its exigent of wit

Apportioned,—she at liberty to sit

And scheme against the next emergence, I—

To covet her Taurello-sprite, made fly

Or fold the wing—to con your horoscope

For leave command those steely shafts shoot ope,

Or straight assuage their blinding eagerness

In blank smooth snow. What semblance of success

To any of my plans for making you

How she ever aspired for his sake,

Mine and Romano's? Break the first wall through,

Tread o'er the ruins of the Chief, supplant

His sons beside, still, vainest were the vaunt:

There, Salinguerra would obstruct me sheer,

And the insuperable Tuscan, here,

Stay me! But one wild eve that Lady died

In her lone chamber: only I beside:

Taurello far at Naples, and my sire

At Padua, Ecelin away in ire

With Alberic. She held me thus—a clutch

Circumstances helping or hindering.

To make our spirits as our bodies touch—

And so began flinging the past up, heaps

Of uncouth treasure from their sunless sleeps

Within her soul; deeds rose along with dreams,

Fragments of many miserable schemes,

Secrets, more secrets, then—no, not the last—

'Mongst others, like a casual trick o' the past,

How ... ay, she told me, gathering up her face,

All left of it, into one arch-grimace

To die with ...

"Friend, 't is gone! but not the fear

Of that fell laughing, heard as now I hear.

Nor faltered voice, nor seemed her heart grow weak

When i' the midst abrupt she ceased to speak

—Dead, as to serve a purpose, mark!—for in

Rushed o' the very instant Ecelin

(How summoned, who divines?)—looking as if

He understood why Adelaide lay stiff

Already in my arms; for, 'Girl, how must

I manage Este in the matter thrust

Upon me, how unravel your bad coil?—

Since' (he declared) ''t is on your brow—a soil

Like hers there!' then in the same breath, 'he lacked

No counsel after all, had signed no pact

With devils, nor was treason here or there,

Goito or Vicenza, his affair:

He buried it in Adelaide's deep grave,

Would begin life afresh, now,—would not slave

For any Friedrich's nor Taurello's sake!

What booted him to meddle or to make

In Lombardy?' And afterward I knew

The meaning of his promise to undo

All she had done—why marriages were made,

New friendships entered on, old followers paid

With curses for their pains,—new friends' amaze

At height, when, passing out by Gate Saint Blaise,

He stopped short in Vicenza, bent his head

Over a friar's neck,—'had vowed,' he said,

'Long since, nigh thirty years, because his wife

And child were saved there, to bestow his life

On God, his gettings on the Church.'

"Exiled

Within Goito, still one dream beguiled

How success at last seemed possible,

My days and nights; 't was found, the orb I sought

To serve, those glimpses came of Fomalhaut,

No other: but how serve it?—authorize

You and Romano mingled destinies?

And straight Romano's angel stood beside

Me who had else been Boniface's bride,

For Salinguerra 't was, with neck low bent,

And voice lightened to music, (as he meant

To learn, not teach me,) who withdrew the pall

From the dead past and straight revived it all,

Making me see how first Romano waxed,

Wherefore he waned now, why, if I relaxed

My grasp (even I!) would drop a thing effete,

Frayed by itself, unequal to complete

Its course, and counting every step astray

By the intervention of Salinguerra:

A gain so much. Romano, every way

Stable, a Lombard House now—why start back

Into the very outset of its track?

This patching principle which late allied

Our House with other Houses—what beside

Concerned the apparition, the first Knight

Who followed Conrad hither in such plight

His utmost wealth was summed in his one steed?

For Ecelo, that prowler, was decreed

A task, in the beginning hazardous

To him as ever task can be to us;

But did the weather-beaten thief despair

When first our crystal cincture of warm air,

That binds the Trevisan,—as its spice-belt

(Crusaders say) the tract where Jesus dwelt,—

Furtive he pierced, and Este was to face—

Despaired Saponian strength of Lombard grace?

Tried he at making surer aught made sure,

Maturing what already was mature?

No; his heart prompted Ecelo, 'Confront

Este, inspect yourself. What 's nature? Wont.

Discard three-parts your nature, and adopt

Who remedied ill wrought by Ecelin,

The rest as an advantage!' Old strength propped

The man who first grew Podesta among

The Vicentines, no less than, while there sprung

His palace up in Padua like a threat,

Their noblest spied a grace, unnoticed yet

In Conrad's crew. Thus far the object gained,

Romano was established—has remained—

'For are you not Italian, truly peers

With Este? "Azzo" better soothes our ears

Than "Alberic"? or is this lion's-crine

From over-mounts' (this yellow hair of mine)

'So weak a graft on Agnes Este's stock?'

(Thus went he on with something of a mock)

'Wherefore recoil, then, from the very fate

Conceded you, refuse to imitate

Your model farther? Este long since left

Being mere Este: as a blade its heft,

Este required the Pope to further him;

And you, the Kaiser—whom your father's whim

Foregoes or, better, never shall forego

If Palma dare pursue what Ecelo

Commenced, but Ecelin desists from: just

As Adelaide of Susa could intrust

Her donative,—her Piedmont given the Pope,

Her Alpine-pass for him to shut or ope

'Twixt France and Italy,—to the superb

Matilda's perfecting,—so, lest aught curb

Our Adelaide's great counter-project for

Giving her Trentine to the Emperor

With passage here from Germany,—shall you

Take it,—my slender plodding talent, too!'

—Urged me Taurello with his half-smile.

"He

As Patron of the scattered family

Conveyed me to his Mantua, kept in bruit

Azzo's alliances and Richard's suit

Until, the Kaiser excommunicate,

'Nothing remains,' Taurello said, 'but wait

Some rash procedure: Palma was the link,

As Agnes' child, between us, and they shrink

And had a project for her own glory,

From losing Palma: judge if we advance,

Your father's method, your inheritance!'

The day I was betrothed to Boniface

At Padua by Taurello's self, took place

The outrage of the Ferrarese: again,

The day I sought Verona with the train

Agreed for,—by Taurello's policy

Convicting Richard of the fault, since we

Were present to annul or to confirm,—

Richard, whose patience had outstayed its term,

Quitted Verona for the siege.

"And now

What glory may engird Sordello's brow

Through this? A month since at Oliero slunk

All that was Ecelin into a monk;

But how could Salinguerra so forget

His liege of thirty years as grudge even yet

One effort to recover him? He sent

Forthwith the tidings of this last event

To Ecelin—declared that he, despite

The recent folly, recognized his right

To order Salinguerra: 'Should he wring

Its uttermost advantage out, or fling

This chance away? Or were his sons now Head

O' the House?' Through me Taurello's missive sped;

My father's answer will by me return.

Behold! 'For him,' he writes, 'no more concern

With strife than, for his children, with fresh plots

Of Friedrich. Old engagements out he blots

For aye: Taurello shall no more subserve,

Nor Ecelin impose.' Lest this unnerve

Taurello at this juncture, slack his grip

Of Richard, suffer the occasion slip,—

I, in his sons' default (who, mating with

Este, forsake Romano as the frith

Its mainsea for that firmland, sea makes head

Against) I stand, Romano,—in their stead

Assume the station they desert, and give

Still, as the Kaiser's representative,

Taurello license he demands. Midnight—

Morning—by noon to-morrow, making light

Which she would change to Sordello's.

Of the League's issue, we, in some gay weed

Like yours, disguised together, may precede

The arbitrators to Ferrara: reach

Him, let Taurello's noble accents teach

The rest! Then say if I have misconceived

Your destiny, too readily believed

The Kaiser's cause your own!"

And Palma 's fled.

Though no affirmative disturbs the head,

A dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er,

Like the alighted planet Pollux wore,

Until, morn breaking, he resolves to be

Gate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy,

Soul of this body—to wield this aggregate

Of souls and bodies, and so conquer fate

Though he should live—a centre of disgust

Even—apart, core of the outward crust

He vivifies, assimilates. For thus

I bring Sordello to the rapturous

Thus then, having completed a circle,

Exclaim at the crowd's cry, because one round

Of life was quite accomplished; and he found

Not only that a soul, whate'er its might,

Is insufficient to its own delight,

Both in corporeal organs and in skill

By means of such to body forth its Will—

And, after, insufficient to apprise

Men of that Will, oblige them recognize

The Hid by the Revealed—but that, the last

Nor lightest of the struggles overpast,

Will he bade abdicate, which would not void

The throne, might sit there, suffer he enjoyed

Mankind, a varied and divine array

Incapable of homage, the first way,

Nor fit to render incidentally

Tribute connived at, taken by the by,

In joys. If thus with warrant to rescind

The ignominious exile of mankind—

Whose proper service, ascertained intact

As yet, (to be by him themselves made act,

Not watch Sordello acting each of them)

Was to secure—if the true diadem

Seemed imminent while our Sordello drank

The wisdom of that golden Palma,—thank

Verona's Lady in her citadel

Founded by Gaulish Brennus, legends tell:

And truly when she left him, the sun reared

A head like the first clamberer's who peered

A-top the Capitol, his face on flame

With triumph, triumphing till Manlius came.

Nor slight too much my rhymes—that spring, dispread,

Dispart, disperse, lingering overhead

Like an escape of angels! Rather say,

The poet may pause and breathe,

My transcendental platan! mounting gay

(An archimage so courts a novice-queen)

With tremulous silvered trunk, whence branches sheen

Laugh out, thick foliaged next, a-shiver soon

With colored buds, then glowing like the moon

One mild flame,—last a pause, a burst, and all

Her ivory limbs are smothered by a fall,

Bloom-flinders and fruit-sparkles and leaf-dust,

Ending the weird work prosecuted just

For her amusement; he decrepit, stark,

Dozes; her uncontrolled delight may mark

Apart—

Yet not so, surely never so!

Only, as good my soul were suffered go

O'er the lagune: forth fare thee, put aside—

Entrance thy synod, as a god may glide

Out of the world he fills, and leave it mute

For myriad ages as we men compute,

Returning into it without a break

Being really in the flesh at Venice.

O' the consciousness! They sleep, and I awake

O'er the lagune, being at Venice.

Note,

In just such songs as Eglamor (say) wrote

With heart and soul and strength, for he believed

Himself achieving all to be achieved

By singer—in such songs you find alone

Completeness, judge the song and singer one,

And either purpose answered, his in it

Or its in him: while from true works (to wit

Sordello's dream-performances that will

Never be more than dreamed) escapes there still

Some proof, the singer's proper life was 'neath

The life his song exhibits, this a sheath

To that; a passion and a knowledge far

Transcending these, majestic as they are,

Smouldered; his lay was but an episode

In the bard's life: which evidence you owed

To some slight weariness, some looking-off

Or start-away. The childish skit or scoff

In "Charlemagne," (his poem, dreamed divine

In every point except one silly line

About the restiff daughters)—what may lurk

In that? "My life commenced before this work,"

(So I interpret the significance

Of the bard's start aside and look askance)—

"My life continues after: on I fare

With no more stopping, possibly, no care

And watching his own life sometimes,

To note the undercurrent, the why and how,

Where, when, o' the deeper life, as thus just now.

But, silent, shall I cease to live? Alas

For you! who sigh, 'When shall it come to pass

We read that story? How will he compress

The future gains, his life's true business,

Into the better lay which—that one flout,

Howe'er inopportune it be, lets out—

Engrosses him already, though professed

To meditate with us eternal rest,

And partnership in all his life has found?'"

'T is but a sailor's promise, weather-bound:

"Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored

For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured!

Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash,

Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash,

The margin 's silent: out with every spoil

Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil,

This serpent of a river to his head

I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread

The bank, to help us tell our history

Aright: give ear, endeavor to descry

The groves of giant rushes, how they grew

Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through,

What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent

Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went

Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest

The springing of a land-wind from the West!"

—Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day!

To-morrow, and, the pageant moved away

Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you

Part company: no other may pursue

Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate

Intends, if triumph or decline await

The tempter of the everlasting steppe.

I muse this on a ruined palace-step

At Venice: why should I break off, nor sit

Longer upon my step, exhaust the fit

England gave birth to? Who 's adorable

Enough reclaim a——no Sordello's Will

Alack!—be queen to me? That Bassanese

Busied among her smoking fruit-boats? These

Perhaps from our delicious Asolo

Who twinkle, pigeons o'er the portico

Not prettier, bind June lilies into sheaves

To deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leaves

Because it is pleasant to be young,

Soiled by their own loose gold-meal?

Ah, beneath

The cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreath

Endures a month—a half month—if I make

A queen of her, continue for her sake

Sordello's story? Nay, that Paduan girl

Splashes with barer legs where a live whirl

In the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weed

Drifting has sucked down three, four, all indeed

Save one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned post

For gondolas.

You sad dishevelled ghost

That pluck at me and point, are you advised

I breathe? Let stay those girls (e'en her disguised

—Jewels i' the locks that love no crownet like

Their native field-buds and the green wheat-spike,

So fair!—who left this end of June's turmoil,

Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil,

Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free

In dream, came join the peasants o'er the sea).

Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess

There is such niggard stock of happiness

To share, that, do one's uttermost, dear wretch,

One labors ineffectually to stretch

Would but suffering humanity allow!

It o'er you so that mother and children, both

May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth!

Divide the robe yet farther: be content

With seeing just a score pre-eminent

Through shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights,

Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights!

For, these in evidence, you clearlier claim

A like garb for the rest,—grace all, the same

As these my peasants. I ask youth and strength

And health for each of you, not more—at length

Grown wise, who asked at home that the whole race

Might add the spirit's to the body's grace,

And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards.

But in this magic weather one discards

Much old requirement. Venice seems a type

Of Life—'twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe,

As Life, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught:

'T is Venice, and 't is Life—as good you sought

To spare me the Piazza's slippery stone

Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone,

As hinder Life the evil with the good

Which make up Living, rightly understood.

Which instigates to tasks like this,

Only, do finish something! Peasants, queens,

Take them, made happy by whatever means,

Parade them for the common credit, vouch

That a luckless residue, we send to crouch

In corners out of sight, was just as framed

For happiness, its portion might have claimed

As well, and so, obtaining joy, had stalked

Fastuous as any!—such my project, balked

Already; I hardly venture to adjust

The first rags, when you find me. To mistrust

Me!—nor unreasonably. You, no doubt,

Have the true knack of tiring suitors out

With those thin lips on tremble, lashless eyes

Inveterately tear-shot—there, be wise,

Mistress of mine, there, there, as if I meant

You insult!—shall your friend (not slave) be shent

For speaking home? Beside, care-bit erased

Broken-up beauties ever took my taste

Supremely; and I love you more, far more

Than her I looked should foot Life's temple-floor.

Years ago, leagues at distance, when and where

A whisper came, "Let others seek!—thy care

And doubtlessly compensates them,

Is found, thy life's provision; if thy race

Should be thy mistress, and into one face

The many faces crowd?" Ah, had I, judge,

Or no, your secret? Rough apparel—grudge

All ornaments save tag or tassel worn

To hint we are not thoroughly forlorn—

Slouch bonnet, unloop mantle, careless go

Alone (that 's saddest, but it must be so)

Through Venice, sing now and now glance aside,

Aught desultory or undignified,—

Then, ravishingest lady, will you pass

Or not each formidable group, the mass

Before the Basilic (that feast gone by,

God's great day of the Corpus Domini)

And, wistfully foregoing proper men,

Come timid up to me for alms? And then

The luxury to hesitate, feign do

Some unexampled grace!—when, whom but you

Dare I bestow your own upon? And hear

Further before you say, it is to sneer

I call you ravishing; for I regret

Little that she, whose early foot was set

Forth as she 'd plant it on a pedestal,

Now, i' the silent city, seems to fall

Toward me—no wreath, only a lip's unrest

To quiet, surcharged eyelids to be pressed

Dry of their tears upon my bosom. Strange

Such sad chance should produce in thee such change,

My love! Warped souls and bodies! yet God spoke

Of right-hand, foot and eye—selects our yoke,

Sordello, as your poetship may find!

So, sleep upon my shoulder, child, nor mind

Their foolish talk; we 'll manage reinstate

Your old worth; ask moreover, when they prate

Of evil men past hope, "Don't each contrive,

Despite the evil you abuse, to live?—

Keeping, each losel, through a maze of lies,

His own conceit of truth? to which he hies

By obscure windings, tortuous, if you will,

But to himself not inaccessible;

He sees truth, and his lies are for the crowd

Who cannot see; some fancied right allowed

His vilest wrong, empowered the losel clutch

One pleasure from a multitude of such

As those who desist should remember.

Denied him." Then assert, "All men appear

To think all better than themselves, by here

Trusting a crowd they wrong; but really," say,

"All men think all men stupider than they,

Since, save themselves, no other comprehends

The complicated scheme to make amends

—Evil, the scheme by which, through Ignorance,

Good labors to exist." A slight advance,—

Merely to find the sickness you die through,

And naught beside! but if one can't eschew

One's portion in the common lot, at least

One can avoid an ignorance increased

Tenfold by dealing out hint after hint

How naught were like dispensing without stint

The water of life—so easy to dispense

Beside, when one has probed the centre whence

Commotion 's born—could tell you of it all!

"—Meantime, just meditate my madrigal

O' the mugwort that conceals a dewdrop safe!"

What, dullard? we and you in smothery chafe,

Babes, baldheads, stumbled thus far into Zin

The Horrid, getting neither out nor in,

A hungry sun above us, sands that bung

Our throats,—each dromedary lolls a tongue,

Each camel churns a sick and frothy chap,

And you, 'twixt tales of Potiphar's mishap,

And sonnets on the earliest ass that spoke,

—Remark, you wonder any one needs choke

With founts about! Potsherd him, Gibeonites!

While awkwardly enough your Moses smites

The rock, though he forego his Promised Land

Thereby, have Satan claim his carcass, and

Figure as Metaphysic Poet ... ah,

Mark ye the dim first oozings? Meribah!

Then, quaffing at the fount my courage gained,

Recall—not that I prompt ye—who explained ...

"Presumptuous!" interrupts one. You, not I

'T is, brother, marvel at and magnify

Let the poet take his own part, then,

Such office: "office," quotha? can we get

To the beginning of the office yet?

What do we here? simply experiment

Each on the other's power and its intent

When elsewhere tasked,—if this of mine were trucked

For yours to either's good,—we watch construct,

In short, an engine: with a finished one,

What it can do, is all,—naught, how 't is done.

But this of ours yet in probation, dusk

A kernel of strange wheelwork through its husk

Grows into shape by quarters and by halves;

Remark this tooth's spring, wonder what that valve's

Fall bodes, presume each faculty's device,

Make out each other more or less precise—

The scope of the whole engine 's to be proved;

We die: which means to say, the whole 's removed,

Dismounted wheel by wheel, this complex gin,—

To be set up anew elsewhere, begin

A task indeed, but with a clearer clime

Than the murk lodgment of our building-time.

And then, I grant you, it behoves forget

How 't is done—all that must amuse us yet

So long: and, while you turn upon your heel,

Pray that I be not busy slitting steel

Should any object that he was dull

Or shredding brass, camped on some virgin shore

Under a cluster of fresh stars, before

I name a tithe o' the wheels I trust to do!

So occupied, then, are we: hitherto,

At present, and a weary while to come,

The office of ourselves,—nor blind nor dumb,

And seeing somewhat of man's state,—has been,

For the worst of us, to say they so have seen;

For the better, what it was they saw; the best

Impart the gift of seeing to the rest:

"So that I glance," says such an one, "around,

And there 's no face but I can read profound

Disclosures in; this stands for hope, that—fear,

And for a speech, a deed in proof, look here!

'Stoop, else the strings of blossom, where the nuts

O'erarch, will blind thee! Said I not? She shuts

Both eyes this time, so close the hazels meet!

Thus, prisoned in the Piombi, I repeat

Events one rove occasioned, o'er and o'er,

Putting 'twixt me and madness evermore

Thy sweet shape, Zanze! Therefore stoop!'

'That's truth!'

(Adjudge you) 'the incarcerated youth

Would say that!'

Youth? Plara the bard? Set down

That Plara spent his youth in a grim town

Whose cramped ill-featured streets huddled about

The minster for protection, never out

Of its black belfry's shade and its bells' roar.

The brighter shone the suburb,—all the more

Ugly and absolute that shade's reproof

Of any chance escape of joy,—some roof,

Taller than they, allowed the rest detect,—

Before the sole permitted laugh (suspect

Who could, 't was meant for laughter, that ploughed cheek's

Repulsive gleam!) when the sun stopped both peaks

Of the cleft belfry like a fiery wedge,

Then sank, a huge flame on its socket edge,

With leavings on the gray glass oriel-pane

Ghastly some minutes more. No fear of rain—

The minster minded that! in heaps the dust

Lay everywhere. This town, the minster's trust,

Beside his sprightlier predecessors.

Held Plara; who, its denizen, bade hail

In twice twelve sonnets, Tempe's dewy vale."

"'Exact the town, the minster and the street!'"

"As all mirth triumphs, sadness means defeat:

Lust triumphs and is gay, Love 's triumphed o'er

And sad: but Lucio 's sad. I said before,

Love 's sad, not Lucio; one who loves may be

As gay his love has leave to hope, as he

Downcast that lusts' desire escapes the springe:

'T is of the mood itself I speak, what tinge

Determines it, else colorless,—or mirth,

Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth."

"'Ay, that's the variation's gist!'

Indeed?

Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed!

And having seen too what I saw, be bold

And next encounter what I do behold

(That 's sure) but bid you take on trust!"

Attack

The use and purpose of such sights? Alack,

Not so unwisely does the crowd dispense

On Salinguerras praise in preference

One ought not blame but praise this;

To the Sordellos: men of action, these!

Who, seeing just as little as you please,

Yet turn that little to account,—engage

With, do not gaze at,—carry on, a stage,

The work o' the world, not merely make report

The work existed ere their day! In short,

When at some future no-time a brave band

Sees, using what it sees, then shake my hand

In heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where 's the hurt

Of keeping the Makers-see on the alert,

At whose defection mortals stare aghast

As though heaven's bounteous windows were slammed fast

Incontinent? Whereas all you, beneath,

Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teeth

Who ply the pullies, for neglecting you:

And therefore have I moulded, made anew

A Man, and give him to be turned and tried,

Be angry with or pleased at. On your side,

Have ye times, places, actors of your own?

At all events, his own audience may:

Try them upon Sordello when full-grown,

And then—ah then! If Hercules first parched

His foot in Egypt only to be marched

A sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit,

What chance have I? The demigod was mute

Till, at the altar, where time out of mind

Such guests became oblations, chaplets twined

His forehead long enough, and he began

Slaying the slayers, nor escaped a man.

Take not affront, my gentle audience! whom

No Hercules shall make his hecatomb,

Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend—

That's your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend,

Whose great verse blares unintermittent on

Like your own trumpeter at Marathon,—

You who, Platæa and Salamis being scant,

Put up with Ætna for a stimulant—

And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomed

Over the midland sea last month, presumed

Long, lay demolished in the blazing West

At eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressed

Like Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wear

A crest proud as desert while I declare

Had I a flawless ruby fit to wring

Tears of its color from that painted king

Who lost it, I would, for that smile which went

To my heart, fling it in the sea, content,

What if things brighten, who knows?

Wearing your verse in place, an amulet

Sovereign against all passion, wear and fret!

My English Eyebright, if you are not glad

That, as I stopped my task awhile, the sad

Dishevelled form, wherein I put mankind

To come at times and keep my pact in mind,

Renewed me,—hear no crickets in the hedge,

Nor let a glowworm spot the river's edge

At home, and may the summer showers gush

Without a warning from the missel thrush!

So, to our business, now—the fate of such

As find our common nature—overmuch

Despised because restricted and unfit

To bear the burden they impose on it—

Cling when they would discard it; craving strength

To leap from the allotted world, at length

They do leap,—flounder on without a term,

Each a god's germ, doomed to remain a germ

In unexpanded infancy, unless ...

But that 's the story—dull enough, confess!

There might be fitter subjects to allure;

Still, neither misconceive my portraiture

Nor undervalue its adornments quaint:

What seems a fiend perchance may prove a saint.

Ponder a story ancient pens transmit,

Then say if you condemn me or acquit.

John the Beloved, banished Antioch

For Patmos, bade collectively his flock

Whereupon, with a story to the point,

Farewell, but set apart the closing eve

To comfort those his exile most would grieve,

He knew: a touching spectacle, that house

In motion to receive him! Xanthus' spouse

You missed, made panther's meat a month since; but

Xanthus himself (his nephew 't was, they shut

'Twixt boards and sawed asunder), Polycarp,

Soft Charicle, next year no wheel could warp

To swear by Cæsar's fortune, with the rest

Were ranged; through whom the gray disciple pressed,

Busily blessing right and left, just stopped

To pat one infant's curls, the hangman cropped

Soon after, reached the portal. On its hinge

The door turns and he enters: what quick twinge

Ruins the smiling mouth, those wide eyes fix

Whereon, why like some spectral candlestick's

Branch the disciple's arms? Dead swooned he, woke

Anon, heaved sigh, made shift to gasp, heartbroke,

"Get thee behind me, Satan! Have I toiled

To no more purpose? Is the gospel foiled

Here too, and o'er my son's, my Xanthus' hearth,

Portrayed with sooty garb and features swarth—

Ah, Xanthus, am I to thy roof beguiled

To see the—the—the Devil domiciled?"

Whereto sobbed Xanthus, "Father, 't is yourself

Installed, a limning which our utmost pelf

Went to procure against to-morrow's loss;

He takes up the thread of discourse.

And that's no twy-prong, but a pastoral cross,

You're painted with!"

His puckered brows unfold—

And you shall hear Sordello's story told.

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