THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY

Let us begin and carry up this corpse,Singing together.Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpesEach in its tetherSleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,Cared-for till cock-crow:Look out if yonder be not day againRimming the rock-row!That 's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,Rarer, intenser,Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,Chafes in the censer.Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;Seek we sepultureOn a tall mountain, citied to the top,Crowded with culture!All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels;Clouds overcome it;No! yonder sparkle is the citadel'sCircling its summit.Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights;Wait ye the warning?Our low life was the level's and the night's;He 's for the morning.Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,'Ware the beholders!This is our master, famous, calm and dead,Borne on our shoulders.Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,Safe from the weather!He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,Singing together,He was a man born with thy face and throat,Lyric Apollo!Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take noteWinter would follow?Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!Cramped and diminished,Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!My dance is finished"?No, that 's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,Make for the city!)He knew the signal, and stepped on with prideOver men's pity;Left play for work, and grappled with the worldBent on escaping:"What 's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled?Show me their shaping,Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,—Give!"—So, he gowned him,Straight got by heart that book to its last page:Learned, we found him.Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,Accents uncertain:"Time to taste life," another would have said,"Up with the curtain!"This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?Patience a moment!Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,Still there 's the comment.Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,Painful or easy!Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast,Ay, nor feel queasy."Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,When he had learned it,When he had gathered all books had to give!Sooner, he spurned it.Image the whole, then execute the parts—Fancy the fabricQuite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,Ere mortar dab brick!(Here 's the town-gate reached: there 's the market-placeGaping before us.)Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace(Hearten our chorus!)That before living he 'd learn how to live—No end to learning:Earn the means first—God surely will contriveUse for our earning.Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:Live now or never!"He said, "What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!Man has Forever."Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:Calculusracked him:Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:Tussisattacked him."Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!(Caution redoubled,Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)Not a whit troubled,Back to his studies, fresher than at first,Fierce as a dragonHe (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)Sucked at the flagon.Oh, if we draw a circle premature,Heedless of far gain,Greedy for quick returns of profit, sureBad is our bargain!Was it not great? did not he throw on God,(He loves the burthen)—God's task to make the heavenly periodPerfect the earthen?Did not he magnify the mind, show clearJust what it all meant?He would not discount life, as fools do here,Paid by instalment.He ventured neck or nothing—heaven's successFound, or earth's failure:"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes!Hence with life's pale lure!"That low man seeks a little thing to do,Sees it and does it:This high man, with a great thing to pursue,Dies ere he knows it.That low man goes on adding one to one,His hundred 's soon hit:This high man, aiming at a million,Misses an unit.That, has the world here—should he need the next,Let the world mind him!This, throws himself on God, and unperplexedSeeking shall find him.So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,Ground he at grammar;Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife:While he could stammerHe settledHoti'sbusiness—let it be!—Properly basedOun—Gave us the doctrine of the encliticDe,Dead from the waist down.Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place:Hail to your purlieus,All ye highfliers of the feathered race,Swallows and curlews!Here 's the top-peak; the multitude belowLive, for they can, there:This man decided not to Live but Know—Bury this man there?Here—here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,Lightnings are loosened,Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,Peace let the dew send!Lofty designs must close in like effects:Loftily lying,Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,Living and dying.

Let us begin and carry up this corpse,

Singing together.

Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes

Each in its tether

Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain,

Cared-for till cock-crow:

Look out if yonder be not day again

Rimming the rock-row!

That 's the appropriate country; there, man's thought,

Rarer, intenser,

Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,

Chafes in the censer.

Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;

Seek we sepulture

On a tall mountain, citied to the top,

Crowded with culture!

All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels;

Clouds overcome it;

No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's

Circling its summit.

Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights;

Wait ye the warning?

Our low life was the level's and the night's;

He 's for the morning.

Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,

'Ware the beholders!

This is our master, famous, calm and dead,

Borne on our shoulders.

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,Safe from the weather!He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,Singing together,He was a man born with thy face and throat,Lyric Apollo!Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take noteWinter would follow?Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!Cramped and diminished,Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!My dance is finished"?No, that 's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,Make for the city!)He knew the signal, and stepped on with prideOver men's pity;Left play for work, and grappled with the worldBent on escaping:"What 's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled?Show me their shaping,Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,—Give!"—So, he gowned him,Straight got by heart that book to its last page:Learned, we found him.Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,Accents uncertain:"Time to taste life," another would have said,"Up with the curtain!"This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?Patience a moment!Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,Still there 's the comment.Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,Painful or easy!Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast,Ay, nor feel queasy."Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,When he had learned it,When he had gathered all books had to give!Sooner, he spurned it.Image the whole, then execute the parts—Fancy the fabricQuite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,Ere mortar dab brick!

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,

Safe from the weather!

He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft,

Singing together,

He was a man born with thy face and throat,

Lyric Apollo!

Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take note

Winter would follow?

Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!

Cramped and diminished,

Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon!

My dance is finished"?

No, that 's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side,

Make for the city!)

He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride

Over men's pity;

Left play for work, and grappled with the world

Bent on escaping:

"What 's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled?

Show me their shaping,

Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,—

Give!"—So, he gowned him,

Straight got by heart that book to its last page:

Learned, we found him.

Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead,

Accents uncertain:

"Time to taste life," another would have said,

"Up with the curtain!"

This man said rather, "Actual life comes next?

Patience a moment!

Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text,

Still there 's the comment.

Let me know all! Prate not of most or least,

Painful or easy!

Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast,

Ay, nor feel queasy."

Oh, such a life as he resolved to live,

When he had learned it,

When he had gathered all books had to give!

Sooner, he spurned it.

Image the whole, then execute the parts—

Fancy the fabric

Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz,

Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here 's the town-gate reached: there 's the market-placeGaping before us.)Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace(Hearten our chorus!)That before living he 'd learn how to live—No end to learning:Earn the means first—God surely will contriveUse for our earning.Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:Live now or never!"He said, "What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!Man has Forever."Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:Calculusracked him:Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:Tussisattacked him."Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!(Caution redoubled,Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)Not a whit troubled,Back to his studies, fresher than at first,Fierce as a dragonHe (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)Sucked at the flagon.Oh, if we draw a circle premature,Heedless of far gain,Greedy for quick returns of profit, sureBad is our bargain!Was it not great? did not he throw on God,(He loves the burthen)—God's task to make the heavenly periodPerfect the earthen?Did not he magnify the mind, show clearJust what it all meant?He would not discount life, as fools do here,Paid by instalment.He ventured neck or nothing—heaven's successFound, or earth's failure:"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes!Hence with life's pale lure!"That low man seeks a little thing to do,Sees it and does it:This high man, with a great thing to pursue,Dies ere he knows it.That low man goes on adding one to one,His hundred 's soon hit:This high man, aiming at a million,Misses an unit.That, has the world here—should he need the next,Let the world mind him!This, throws himself on God, and unperplexedSeeking shall find him.So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,Ground he at grammar;Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife:While he could stammerHe settledHoti'sbusiness—let it be!—Properly basedOun—Gave us the doctrine of the encliticDe,Dead from the waist down.Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place:Hail to your purlieus,All ye highfliers of the feathered race,Swallows and curlews!Here 's the top-peak; the multitude belowLive, for they can, there:This man decided not to Live but Know—Bury this man there?Here—here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,Lightnings are loosened,Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,Peace let the dew send!Lofty designs must close in like effects:Loftily lying,Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,Living and dying.

(Here 's the town-gate reached: there 's the market-place

Gaping before us.)

Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace

(Hearten our chorus!)

That before living he 'd learn how to live—

No end to learning:

Earn the means first—God surely will contrive

Use for our earning.

Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes:

Live now or never!"

He said, "What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes!

Man has Forever."

Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head:

Calculusracked him:

Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead:

Tussisattacked him.

"Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he!

(Caution redoubled,

Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!)

Not a whit troubled,

Back to his studies, fresher than at first,

Fierce as a dragon

He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst)

Sucked at the flagon.

Oh, if we draw a circle premature,

Heedless of far gain,

Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure

Bad is our bargain!

Was it not great? did not he throw on God,

(He loves the burthen)—

God's task to make the heavenly period

Perfect the earthen?

Did not he magnify the mind, show clear

Just what it all meant?

He would not discount life, as fools do here,

Paid by instalment.

He ventured neck or nothing—heaven's success

Found, or earth's failure:

"Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes!

Hence with life's pale lure!"

That low man seeks a little thing to do,

Sees it and does it:

This high man, with a great thing to pursue,

Dies ere he knows it.

That low man goes on adding one to one,

His hundred 's soon hit:

This high man, aiming at a million,

Misses an unit.

That, has the world here—should he need the next,

Let the world mind him!

This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed

Seeking shall find him.

So, with the throttling hands of death at strife,

Ground he at grammar;

Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife:

While he could stammer

He settledHoti'sbusiness—let it be!—

Properly basedOun—

Gave us the doctrine of the encliticDe,

Dead from the waist down.

Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place:

Hail to your purlieus,

All ye highfliers of the feathered race,

Swallows and curlews!

Here 's the top-peak; the multitude below

Live, for they can, there:

This man decided not to Live but Know—

Bury this man there?

Here—here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,

Lightnings are loosened,

Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,

Peace let the dew send!

Lofty designs must close in like effects:

Loftily lying,

Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects,

Living and dying.

A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE

Rosa Mundi; seu, fulcite me Floribus. A Conceit of Master Gysbrecht, Canon-Regular of Saint Jodocus-by-the-Bar, Ypres City.Cantuque, Virgilius.And hath often been sung at Hock-tide and Festivals.Gavisus eram, Jessides.

(It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris,A. D.1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries. R. B.)

PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAETTheLord, we look to once for all,Is the Lord we should look at, all at once:He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul,Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce.See him no other than as he is!Give both the infinitudes their due—Infinite mercy, but, I wis,As infinite a justice too.[Organ: plagal-cadence.As infinite a justice too.ONE SINGETHJohn, Master of the Temple of God,Falling to sin the Unknown Sin,What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod,He sold it to Sultan Saladin:Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there,Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive,And clipt of his wings in Paris square,They bring him now to be burned alive.[And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth—We bring John now to be burned alive.In the midst is a goodly gallows built;'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck;But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt,Make a trench all round with the city muck;Inside they pile log upon log, good store;Fagots not few, blocks great and small,Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,—For they mean he should roast in the sight of all.Cho.—We mean he should roast in the sight of all.Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith;Billets that blaze substantial and slow;Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith;Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow:Then up they hoist me John in a chafe,Sling him fast like a hog to scorch,Spit in his face, then leap back safe,Sing "Laudes" and bid clap-to the torch.Cho.—Laus Deo—who bids clap-to the torch.John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged,Is burning alive in Paris square!How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged?Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there?Or heave his chest, which a band goes round?Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced?Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound?—Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ.[Here one crosseth himself.Jesus Christ—John had bought and sold,Jesus Christ—John had eaten and drunk;To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold.(Salva reverentia.)Now it was, "Saviour, bountiful lamb,I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me!See thy servant, the plight wherein I am!Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!"Cho.—'T is John the mocker cries, "Save thou me!"Who maketh God's menace an idle word?—Saith, it no more means what it proclaims,Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird?—For she too prattles of ugly names.—Saith, he knoweth but one thing,—what he knows?That God is good and the rest is breath;Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose?Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith.Cho.—Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith!Alack, there be roses and roses, John!Some, honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue:Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!)Their tree struck root in devil's dung.When Paul once reasoned of righteousnessAnd of temperance and of judgment to come,Good Felix trembled, he could no less:John, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb.Cho.—What cometh to John of the wicked thumb?Ha ha, John plucketh now at his roseTo rid himself of a sorrow at heart!Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose;Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart;And with blood for dew, the bosom boils;And a gust of sulphur is all its smell;And lo, he is horribly in the toilsOf a coal-black giant flower of hell!Cho.—What maketh heaven, That maketh hell.So, as John called now, through the fire amain,On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life—To the Person, he bought and sold again—For the Face, with his daily buffets rife—Feature by feature It took its place:And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark,At the steady whole of the Judge's face—Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark.SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAETGod help all poor souls lost in the dark!

PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET

TheLord, we look to once for all,Is the Lord we should look at, all at once:He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul,Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce.See him no other than as he is!Give both the infinitudes their due—Infinite mercy, but, I wis,As infinite a justice too.[Organ: plagal-cadence.As infinite a justice too.

TheLord, we look to once for all,

Is the Lord we should look at, all at once:

He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul,

Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce.

See him no other than as he is!

Give both the infinitudes their due—

Infinite mercy, but, I wis,

As infinite a justice too.

[Organ: plagal-cadence.

As infinite a justice too.

ONE SINGETH

John, Master of the Temple of God,Falling to sin the Unknown Sin,What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod,He sold it to Sultan Saladin:Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there,Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive,And clipt of his wings in Paris square,They bring him now to be burned alive.[And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth—We bring John now to be burned alive.

John, Master of the Temple of God,

Falling to sin the Unknown Sin,

What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod,

He sold it to Sultan Saladin:

Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there,

Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive,

And clipt of his wings in Paris square,

They bring him now to be burned alive.

[And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth—

We bring John now to be burned alive.

In the midst is a goodly gallows built;'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck;But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt,Make a trench all round with the city muck;Inside they pile log upon log, good store;Fagots not few, blocks great and small,Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,—For they mean he should roast in the sight of all.Cho.—We mean he should roast in the sight of all.

In the midst is a goodly gallows built;

'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck;

But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt,

Make a trench all round with the city muck;

Inside they pile log upon log, good store;

Fagots not few, blocks great and small,

Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,—

For they mean he should roast in the sight of all.

Cho.—We mean he should roast in the sight of all.

Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith;Billets that blaze substantial and slow;Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith;Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow:Then up they hoist me John in a chafe,Sling him fast like a hog to scorch,Spit in his face, then leap back safe,Sing "Laudes" and bid clap-to the torch.Cho.—Laus Deo—who bids clap-to the torch.

Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith;

Billets that blaze substantial and slow;

Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith;

Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow:

Then up they hoist me John in a chafe,

Sling him fast like a hog to scorch,

Spit in his face, then leap back safe,

Sing "Laudes" and bid clap-to the torch.

Cho.—Laus Deo—who bids clap-to the torch.

John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged,Is burning alive in Paris square!How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged?Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there?Or heave his chest, which a band goes round?Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced?Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound?—Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ.[Here one crosseth himself.

John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged,

Is burning alive in Paris square!

How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged?

Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there?

Or heave his chest, which a band goes round?

Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced?

Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound?

—Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ.

[Here one crosseth himself.

Jesus Christ—John had bought and sold,Jesus Christ—John had eaten and drunk;To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold.(Salva reverentia.)Now it was, "Saviour, bountiful lamb,I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me!See thy servant, the plight wherein I am!Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!"Cho.—'T is John the mocker cries, "Save thou me!"

Jesus Christ—John had bought and sold,

Jesus Christ—John had eaten and drunk;

To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold.

(Salva reverentia.)

Now it was, "Saviour, bountiful lamb,

I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me!

See thy servant, the plight wherein I am!

Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!"

Cho.—'T is John the mocker cries, "Save thou me!"

Who maketh God's menace an idle word?—Saith, it no more means what it proclaims,Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird?—For she too prattles of ugly names.—Saith, he knoweth but one thing,—what he knows?That God is good and the rest is breath;Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose?Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith.Cho.—Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith!

Who maketh God's menace an idle word?

—Saith, it no more means what it proclaims,

Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird?—

For she too prattles of ugly names.

—Saith, he knoweth but one thing,—what he knows?

That God is good and the rest is breath;

Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose?

Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith.

Cho.—Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith!

Alack, there be roses and roses, John!Some, honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue:Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!)Their tree struck root in devil's dung.When Paul once reasoned of righteousnessAnd of temperance and of judgment to come,Good Felix trembled, he could no less:John, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb.Cho.—What cometh to John of the wicked thumb?

Alack, there be roses and roses, John!

Some, honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue:

Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!)

Their tree struck root in devil's dung.

When Paul once reasoned of righteousness

And of temperance and of judgment to come,

Good Felix trembled, he could no less:

John, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb.

Cho.—What cometh to John of the wicked thumb?

Ha ha, John plucketh now at his roseTo rid himself of a sorrow at heart!Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose;Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart;And with blood for dew, the bosom boils;And a gust of sulphur is all its smell;And lo, he is horribly in the toilsOf a coal-black giant flower of hell!Cho.—What maketh heaven, That maketh hell.

Ha ha, John plucketh now at his rose

To rid himself of a sorrow at heart!

Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose;

Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart;

And with blood for dew, the bosom boils;

And a gust of sulphur is all its smell;

And lo, he is horribly in the toils

Of a coal-black giant flower of hell!

Cho.—What maketh heaven, That maketh hell.

So, as John called now, through the fire amain,On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life—To the Person, he bought and sold again—For the Face, with his daily buffets rife—Feature by feature It took its place:And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark,At the steady whole of the Judge's face—Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark.

So, as John called now, through the fire amain,

On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life—

To the Person, he bought and sold again—

For the Face, with his daily buffets rife—

Feature by feature It took its place:

And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark,

At the steady whole of the Judge's face—

Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark.

SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET

God help all poor souls lost in the dark!

ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCED TO ATTEND AN ANNUAL CHRISTIAN SERMON IN ROME

The passage from a mock-historic Diary which follows is by Browning himself.

"Now was come about Holy-Cross Day, and now must my lord preach his first sermon to the Jews: as it was of old cared for in the merciful bowels of the Church, that, so to speak, a crumb at least from her conspicuous table here in Rome should be, though but once yearly, cast to the famishing dogs, under-trampled and bespitten-upon beneath the feet of the guests. And a moving sight in truth, this, of so many of the besotted blind restif and ready-to-perish Hebrews! now maternally brought—nay, (for He saith, 'Compel them to come in') haled, as it were, by the head and hair, and against their obstinate hearts, to partake of the heavenly grace. What awakening, what striving with tears, what working of a yeasty conscience! Nor was my lord wanting to himself on so apt an occasion; witness the abundance of conversions which did incontinently reward him: though not to my lord be altogether the glory."—Diary by the Bishop's Secretary, 1600.

What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect:—

Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!Blessedest Thursday 's the fat of the week.Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough,Stinking and savory, smug and gruff,Take the church-road, for the bell's due chimeGives us the summons—'t is sermon-time!Boh, here 's Barnabas! Job, that 's you?Up stumps Solomon—bustling too?Shame, man! greedy beyond your yearsTo handsel the bishop's shaving-shears?Fair play 's a jewel! Leave friends in the lurch?Stand on a line ere you start for the church!Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie,Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty,Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve.Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbsAnd buzz for the bishop—here he comes.Bow, wow, wow—a bone for the dog!I liken his Grace to an acorned hog.What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass,To help and handle my lord's hour-glass!Didst ever behold so lithe a chine?His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine.Aaron's asleep—shove hip to haunch,Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch!Look at the purse with the tassel and knob,And the gown with the angel and thingumbob!What's he at, quotha? reading his text!Now you've his curtsey—and what comes next?See to our converts—you doomed black dozen—No stealing away—nor cog nor cozen!You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly;You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely;You took your turn and dipped in the hat,Got fortune—and fortune gets you; mind that!Give your first groan—compunction's at work;And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk.Lo, Micah,—the selfsame beard on chinHe was four times already converted in!Here's a knife, clip quick—it's a sign of grace—Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.Whom now is the bishop a-leering at?I know a point where his text falls pat.I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just nowWent to my heart and made me vowI meddle no more with the worst of trades—Let somebody else pay his serenades.Groan all together now, whee—hee—hee!It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me!It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed,Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist;Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spentTo usher in worthily Christian Lent.It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds,Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds:It got to a pitch, when the hand indeedWhich gutted my purse would throttle my creed:And it overflows, when, to even the odd,Men I helped to their sins help me to their God.But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock,And the rest sit silent and count the clock,Since forced to muse the appointed timeOn these precious facts and truths sublime,—Let us fitly employ it, under our breath,In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death.For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died,Called sons and sons' sons to his side,And spoke, "This world has been harsh and strange;Something is wrong: there needeth a change.But what, or where? at the last or first?In one point only we sinned, at worst."The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet.And again in his border see Israel set.When Judah beholds Jerusalem,The stranger-seed shall be joined to them:To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave.So the Prophet saith and his sons believe."Ay, the children of the chosen raceShall carry and bring them to their place:In the land of the Lord shall lead the same,Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame.When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'erThe oppressor triumph forevermore?"God spoke, and gave us the word to keep:Bade never fold the hands nor sleep'Mid a faithless world,—at watch and ward,Till Christ at the end relieve our guard.By his servant Moses the watch was set:Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet."Thou! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came,By the starlight, naming a dubious name!And if, too heavy with sleep—too rashWith fear—O thou, if that martyr-gashFell on thee coming to take thine own,And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne—"Thou art the Judge. We are bruisèd thus.But, the Judgment over, join sides with us!Thine too is the cause! and not more thineThan ours, is the work of these dogs and swine,Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed,Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed!"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful howAt least we withstand Barabbas now!Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared,To have called these—Christians, had we dared!Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee,And Rome make amends for Calvary!"By the torture, prolonged from age to age.By the infamy, Israel's heritage,By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace,By the badge of shame, by the felon's place,By the branding-tool, the bloody whip,And the summons to Christian fellowship,—"We boast our proof that at least the JewWould wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew.Thy face took never so deep a shadeBut we fought them in it, God our aid!A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band,South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!"[4]

Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak!

Blessedest Thursday 's the fat of the week.

Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough,

Stinking and savory, smug and gruff,

Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime

Gives us the summons—'t is sermon-time!

Boh, here 's Barnabas! Job, that 's you?Up stumps Solomon—bustling too?Shame, man! greedy beyond your yearsTo handsel the bishop's shaving-shears?Fair play 's a jewel! Leave friends in the lurch?Stand on a line ere you start for the church!

Boh, here 's Barnabas! Job, that 's you?

Up stumps Solomon—bustling too?

Shame, man! greedy beyond your years

To handsel the bishop's shaving-shears?

Fair play 's a jewel! Leave friends in the lurch?

Stand on a line ere you start for the church!

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie,Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty,Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve.Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbsAnd buzz for the bishop—here he comes.

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie,

Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty,

Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve,

Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve.

Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs

And buzz for the bishop—here he comes.

Bow, wow, wow—a bone for the dog!I liken his Grace to an acorned hog.What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass,To help and handle my lord's hour-glass!Didst ever behold so lithe a chine?His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine.

Bow, wow, wow—a bone for the dog!

I liken his Grace to an acorned hog.

What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass,

To help and handle my lord's hour-glass!

Didst ever behold so lithe a chine?

His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine.

Aaron's asleep—shove hip to haunch,Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch!Look at the purse with the tassel and knob,And the gown with the angel and thingumbob!What's he at, quotha? reading his text!Now you've his curtsey—and what comes next?

Aaron's asleep—shove hip to haunch,

Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch!

Look at the purse with the tassel and knob,

And the gown with the angel and thingumbob!

What's he at, quotha? reading his text!

Now you've his curtsey—and what comes next?

See to our converts—you doomed black dozen—No stealing away—nor cog nor cozen!You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly;You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely;You took your turn and dipped in the hat,Got fortune—and fortune gets you; mind that!

See to our converts—you doomed black dozen—

No stealing away—nor cog nor cozen!

You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly;

You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely;

You took your turn and dipped in the hat,

Got fortune—and fortune gets you; mind that!

Give your first groan—compunction's at work;And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk.Lo, Micah,—the selfsame beard on chinHe was four times already converted in!Here's a knife, clip quick—it's a sign of grace—Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

Give your first groan—compunction's at work;

And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk.

Lo, Micah,—the selfsame beard on chin

He was four times already converted in!

Here's a knife, clip quick—it's a sign of grace—

Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at?I know a point where his text falls pat.I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just nowWent to my heart and made me vowI meddle no more with the worst of trades—Let somebody else pay his serenades.

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at?

I know a point where his text falls pat.

I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just now

Went to my heart and made me vow

I meddle no more with the worst of trades—

Let somebody else pay his serenades.

Groan all together now, whee—hee—hee!It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me!It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed,Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist;Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spentTo usher in worthily Christian Lent.

Groan all together now, whee—hee—hee!

It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me!

It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed,

Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist;

Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spent

To usher in worthily Christian Lent.

It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds,Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds:It got to a pitch, when the hand indeedWhich gutted my purse would throttle my creed:And it overflows, when, to even the odd,Men I helped to their sins help me to their God.

It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds,

Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds:

It got to a pitch, when the hand indeed

Which gutted my purse would throttle my creed:

And it overflows, when, to even the odd,

Men I helped to their sins help me to their God.

But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock,And the rest sit silent and count the clock,Since forced to muse the appointed timeOn these precious facts and truths sublime,—Let us fitly employ it, under our breath,In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death.

But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock,

And the rest sit silent and count the clock,

Since forced to muse the appointed time

On these precious facts and truths sublime,—

Let us fitly employ it, under our breath,

In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death.

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died,Called sons and sons' sons to his side,And spoke, "This world has been harsh and strange;Something is wrong: there needeth a change.But what, or where? at the last or first?In one point only we sinned, at worst.

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died,

Called sons and sons' sons to his side,

And spoke, "This world has been harsh and strange;

Something is wrong: there needeth a change.

But what, or where? at the last or first?

In one point only we sinned, at worst.

"The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet.And again in his border see Israel set.When Judah beholds Jerusalem,The stranger-seed shall be joined to them:To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave.So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.

"The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet.

And again in his border see Israel set.

When Judah beholds Jerusalem,

The stranger-seed shall be joined to them:

To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave.

So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.

"Ay, the children of the chosen raceShall carry and bring them to their place:In the land of the Lord shall lead the same,Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame.When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'erThe oppressor triumph forevermore?

"Ay, the children of the chosen race

Shall carry and bring them to their place:

In the land of the Lord shall lead the same,

Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame.

When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er

The oppressor triumph forevermore?

"God spoke, and gave us the word to keep:Bade never fold the hands nor sleep'Mid a faithless world,—at watch and ward,Till Christ at the end relieve our guard.By his servant Moses the watch was set:Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet.

"God spoke, and gave us the word to keep:

Bade never fold the hands nor sleep

'Mid a faithless world,—at watch and ward,

Till Christ at the end relieve our guard.

By his servant Moses the watch was set:

Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet.

"Thou! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came,By the starlight, naming a dubious name!And if, too heavy with sleep—too rashWith fear—O thou, if that martyr-gashFell on thee coming to take thine own,And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne—

"Thou! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came,

By the starlight, naming a dubious name!

And if, too heavy with sleep—too rash

With fear—O thou, if that martyr-gash

Fell on thee coming to take thine own,

And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne—

"Thou art the Judge. We are bruisèd thus.But, the Judgment over, join sides with us!Thine too is the cause! and not more thineThan ours, is the work of these dogs and swine,Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed,Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed!

"Thou art the Judge. We are bruisèd thus.

But, the Judgment over, join sides with us!

Thine too is the cause! and not more thine

Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine,

Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed,

Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed!

"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful howAt least we withstand Barabbas now!Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared,To have called these—Christians, had we dared!Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee,And Rome make amends for Calvary!

"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful how

At least we withstand Barabbas now!

Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared,

To have called these—Christians, had we dared!

Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee,

And Rome make amends for Calvary!

"By the torture, prolonged from age to age.By the infamy, Israel's heritage,By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace,By the badge of shame, by the felon's place,By the branding-tool, the bloody whip,And the summons to Christian fellowship,—

"By the torture, prolonged from age to age.

By the infamy, Israel's heritage,

By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace,

By the badge of shame, by the felon's place,

By the branding-tool, the bloody whip,

And the summons to Christian fellowship,—

"We boast our proof that at least the JewWould wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew.Thy face took never so deep a shadeBut we fought them in it, God our aid!A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band,South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!"[4]

"We boast our proof that at least the Jew

Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew.

Thy face took never so deep a shade

But we fought them in it, God our aid!

A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band,

South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!"[4]

Among these latter busts we count by scores,Half-emperors and quarter-emperors.Bach with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,Lorie and low-browed Gorgon on the breast,—One loves a baby face, with violets there,Violets instead of laurel in the hair,As those were all the little locks could bear.Now read here. "Protus ends a periodOf empery beginning with a god;Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant,Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant:And if he quickened breath there, 't would like firePantingly through the dim vast realm transpire.A fame that he was missing spread afar:The world, from its four corners, rose in war,Till he was borne out on a balconyTo pacify the world when it should see.The captains ranged before him, one, his handMade baby points at, gained the chief command.And day by day more beautiful he grewIn shape, all said, in feature and in hue,While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the childBecame with old Greek sculpture reconciled.Already sages labored to condenseIn easy tomes a life's experience:And artists took grave counsel to impartIn one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art—To make his graces prompt as blossomingOf plentifully-watered palms in spring:Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne,For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone,And mortals love the letters of his name."—Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the sameNew reign, same date. The scribe goes on to sayHow that same year, on such a month and day,"John the Pannonian, groundedly believedA blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprievedThe Empire from its fate the year before,—Came, had a mind to take the crown, and woreThe same for six years (during which the HunsKept off their fingers from us), till his sonsPut something in his liquor"—and so forth.Then a new reign. Stay—"Take at its just worth"(Subjoins an annotator) "what I giveAs hearsay. Some think, John let Protus liveAnd slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's ageAt some blind northern court; made, first a page,Then tutor to the children; last, of useAbout the hunting-stables. I deduceHe wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,'Whereof the name in sundry cataloguesIs extant yet. A Protus of the raceIs rumored to have died a monk in Thrace,—And if the same, he reached senility."Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite canTo give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

Among these latter busts we count by scores,

Half-emperors and quarter-emperors.

Bach with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,

Lorie and low-browed Gorgon on the breast,—

One loves a baby face, with violets there,

Violets instead of laurel in the hair,

As those were all the little locks could bear.

Now read here. "Protus ends a periodOf empery beginning with a god;Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant,Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant:And if he quickened breath there, 't would like firePantingly through the dim vast realm transpire.A fame that he was missing spread afar:The world, from its four corners, rose in war,Till he was borne out on a balconyTo pacify the world when it should see.The captains ranged before him, one, his handMade baby points at, gained the chief command.And day by day more beautiful he grewIn shape, all said, in feature and in hue,While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the childBecame with old Greek sculpture reconciled.Already sages labored to condenseIn easy tomes a life's experience:And artists took grave counsel to impartIn one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art—To make his graces prompt as blossomingOf plentifully-watered palms in spring:Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne,For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone,And mortals love the letters of his name."

Now read here. "Protus ends a period

Of empery beginning with a god;

Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant,

Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant:

And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire

Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire.

A fame that he was missing spread afar:

The world, from its four corners, rose in war,

Till he was borne out on a balcony

To pacify the world when it should see.

The captains ranged before him, one, his hand

Made baby points at, gained the chief command.

And day by day more beautiful he grew

In shape, all said, in feature and in hue,

While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child

Became with old Greek sculpture reconciled.

Already sages labored to condense

In easy tomes a life's experience:

And artists took grave counsel to impart

In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art—

To make his graces prompt as blossoming

Of plentifully-watered palms in spring:

Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne,

For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone,

And mortals love the letters of his name."

—Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the sameNew reign, same date. The scribe goes on to sayHow that same year, on such a month and day,"John the Pannonian, groundedly believedA blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprievedThe Empire from its fate the year before,—Came, had a mind to take the crown, and woreThe same for six years (during which the HunsKept off their fingers from us), till his sonsPut something in his liquor"—and so forth.Then a new reign. Stay—"Take at its just worth"(Subjoins an annotator) "what I giveAs hearsay. Some think, John let Protus liveAnd slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's ageAt some blind northern court; made, first a page,Then tutor to the children; last, of useAbout the hunting-stables. I deduceHe wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,'Whereof the name in sundry cataloguesIs extant yet. A Protus of the raceIs rumored to have died a monk in Thrace,—And if the same, he reached senility."Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite canTo give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

—Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same

New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say

How that same year, on such a month and day,

"John the Pannonian, groundedly believed

A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved

The Empire from its fate the year before,—

Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore

The same for six years (during which the Huns

Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons

Put something in his liquor"—and so forth.

Then a new reign. Stay—"Take at its just worth"

(Subjoins an annotator) "what I give

As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live

And slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's age

At some blind northern court; made, first a page,

Then tutor to the children; last, of use

About the hunting-stables. I deduce

He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,'

Whereof the name in sundry catalogues

Is extant yet. A Protus of the race

Is rumored to have died a monk in Thrace,—

And if the same, he reached senility."

Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye,

Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can

To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

This poem was published first in 1855 as an independent issue. A correspondent of an American paper once asked the following questions respecting this poem:—

"1. When, how, and where did it happen? Browning's divine vagueness lets one gather only that the lady's husband was a Riccardi. 2. Who was the lady? who the duke? 3. The magnificent house wherein Florence lodges her préfet is known to all Florentine ball-goers as the Palazzo Riccardi. It was bought by the Riccardi from the Medici in 1659. From none of its windows did the lady gaze at her more than royal lover. From what window, then, if from any? Are the statue and the bust still in their original positions?"

The letter fell into the hands of Mr. Thomas J. Wise, who sent it to Mr. Browning, and received the following answer.

Jan. 8, 1887.

Dear Mr. Wise,—I have seldom met with, such a strange inability to understand what seems the plainest matter possible: 'ball-goers' are probably not history-readers, but any guide-book would confirm what is sufficiently stated in the poem. I will append a note or two, however. 1. 'This story the townsmen tell;' 'when, how, and where,' constitutes the subject of the poem. 2. The lady was the wife of Riccardi; and the duke, Ferdinand, just as the poem says. 3. As it was built by, and inhabited by, the Medici till sold, long after, to the Riccardi, it was not from the duke's palace, but a window in that of the Riccardi, that the lady gazed at her lover riding by. The statue is still in its place, looking at the window under which 'now is the empty shrine.' Can anything be clearer? My 'vagueness' leaves what to be 'gathered' when all these things are put down in black and white? Oh, 'ball-goers'!"

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,And a statue watches it from the square,And this story of both do our townsmen tell.Ages ago, a lady there,At the farthest window facing the EastAsked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased;She leaned forth, one on either hand;They saw how the blush of the bride increased—They felt by its beats her heart expand—As one at each ear and both in a breath"Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."That selfsame instant, underneath,The Duke rode past in his idle way,Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,Till he threw his head back—"Who is she?"—"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."Hair in heaps lay heavilyOver a pale brow spirit-pure—Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,Crisped like a war-steed's encolure—And vainly sought to dissemble her eyesOf the blackest black our eyes endure,And lo, a blade for a knight's empriseFilled the fine empty sheath of a man,—The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.He looked at her, as a lover can;She looked at him, as one who awakes:The past was a sleep, and her life began.Now, love so ordered for both their sakes,A feast was held that selfsame nightIn the pile which the mighty shadow makes.(For Via Larga is three-parts light,But the palace overshadows one,Because of a crime, which may God requite!To Florence and God the wrong was done,Through the first republic's murder thereBy Cosimo and his cursed son.)The Duke (with the statue's face in the square)Turned in the midst of his multitudeAt the bright approach of the bridal pair.Face to face the lovers stoodA single minute and no more,While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued;—Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor—For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred,As the courtly custom was of yore.In a minute can lovers exchange a word?If a word did pass, which I do not think,Only one out of a thousand heard.That was the bridegroom. At day's brinkHe and his bride were alone at lastIn a bed chamber by a taper's blink.Calmly he said that her lot was cast,That the door she had passed was shut on herTill the final catafalk repassed.The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,Through a certain window facing the EastShe could watch like a convent's chronicler.Since passing the door might lead to a feast,And a feast might lead to so much beside,He, of many evils, chose the least."Freely I choose too," said the bride—"Your window and its world suffice,"Replied the tongue, while the heart replied—"If I spend the night with that devil twice,May his window serve as my loop of hellWhence a damned soul looks on paradise!"I fly to the Duke who loves me well,Sit by his side and laugh at sorrowEre I count another ave-bell."'T is only the coat of a page to borrow,And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim.And I save my soul—but not to-morrow"—(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)"My father tarries to bless my state:I must keep it one day more for him."Is one day more so long to wait?Moreover the Duke rides past, I know;We shall see each other, sure as fate."She turned on her side and slept. Just so!So we resolve on a thing and sleep:So did the lady, ages ago.That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheapAs the cost of this cup of bliss may proveTo body or soul, I will drain it deep."And on the morrow, bold with love,He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove)And smiled "'T was a very funeral,Your lady will think, this feast of ours,—A shame to efface, whate'er befall!"What if we break from the Arno bowers,And try if Petraja, cool and green,Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"The bridegroom, not a thought to be seenOn his steady brow and quiet mouth,Said, "Too much favor for me so mean!"But, alas! my lady leaves the South;Each wind that comes from the ApennineIs a menace to her tender youth:"Nor a way exists, the wise opine,If she quits her palace twice this year,To avert the flower of life's decline."Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear.Moreover Petraja is cold this spring:Be our feast to-night as usual here!"And then to himself—"Which night shall bringThy bride to her lover's embraces, fool—Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool—For to-night the Envoy arrives from FranceWhose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool."I need thee still and might miss perchance.To-day is not wholly lost, beside,With its hope of my lady's countenance:"For I ride—what should I do but ride?And passing her palace, if I list,May glance at its window—well betide!"So said, so done: nor the lady missedOne ray that broke from the ardent brow,Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.Be sure that each renewed the vow,No morrow's sun should arise and setAnd leave them then as it left them now.But next day passed, and next day yet,'With still fresh cause to wait one day moreEre each leaped over the parapet.And still, as love's brief morning wore,With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,They found love not as it seemed before.They thought it would work infallibly,But not in despite of heaven and earth:The rose would blow when the storm passed by.Meantime they could profit in winter's dearthBy store of fruits that supplant the rose:The world and its ways have a certain worth:And to press a point while these opposeWere simple policy; better wait:We lose no friends and we gain no foes.Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate,Who daily may ride and pass and lookWhere his lady watches behind the grate!And she—she watched the square like a bookHolding one picture and only one,Which daily to find she undertook:When the picture was reached the book was done,And she turned from the picture at night to schemeOf tearing it out for herself next sun.So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleamThe glory dropped from their youth and love,And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;Which hovered as dreams do, still above:But who can take a dream for a truth?Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!One day as the lady saw her youthDepart, and the silver thread that streakedHer hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,—And wondered who the woman was,Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,Fronting her silent in the glass—"Summon here," she suddenly said,"Before the rest of my old self pass,"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid,Who fashions the clay no love will change,And fixes a beauty never to fade."Let Robbia's craft so apt and strangeArrest the remains of young and fair,And rivet them while the seasons range."Make me a face on the window there,Waiting as ever, mute the while,My love to pass below in the square!"And let me think that it may beguileDreary days which the dead must spendDown in their darkness under the aisle,"To say, 'What matters it at the end?I did no more while my heart was warmThan does that image, my pale-faced friend.'"Where is the use of the lip's red charm,The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,And the blood that blues the inside arm—"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,The earthly gift to an end divine?A lady of clay is as good, I trow."But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,Was set where now is the empty shrine—(And, leaning out of a bright blue space,As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,The passionate pale lady's face—Eying ever, with earnest eyeAnd quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,Some one who ever is passing by—)The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretchIn Florence, "Youth—my dream escapes!Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetchSome subtle moulder of brazen shapes—"Can the soul, the will, die out of a manEre his body find the grave that gapes?"John of Douay shall effect my plan,Set me on horseback here aloft,Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,"In the very square I have crossed so oft:That men may admire, when future sunsShall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—Admire and say, 'When he was aliveHow he would take his pleasure once!'"And it shall go hard but I contriveTo listen the while, and laugh in my tombAt idleness which aspires to strive."So! While these wait the trump of doom,How do their spirits pass, I wonder,Nights and days in the narrow room?Still, I suppose, they sit and ponderWhat a gift life was, ages ago,Six steps out of the chapel yonder.Only they see not God, I know,Nor all that chivalry of his,The soldier-saints who, row on row,Burn upward each to his point of bliss—Since, the end of life being manifest,He had burned his way through the world to this.I hear you reproach, "But delay was best,For their end was a crime."—Oh, a crime will doAs well, I reply, to serve for a test,As a virtue golden through and through,Sufficient to vindicate itselfAnd prove its worth at a moment's view!Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?Where a button goes, 't were an epigramTo offer the stamp of the very Guelph.The true has no value beyond the sham:As well the counter as coin, I submit,When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram.Stake your counter as boldly every whit,Venture as warily, use the same skill,Do your best, whether winning or losing it,If you choose to play!—is my principle.Let a man contend to the uttermostFor his life's set prize, be it what it will!The counter our lovers staked was lostAs surely as if it were lawful coin:And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghostIs—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.You of the virtue (we issue join)How strive you?De te, fabula!

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,And a statue watches it from the square,And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,

And a statue watches it from the square,

And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

Ages ago, a lady there,At the farthest window facing the EastAsked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"

Ages ago, a lady there,

At the farthest window facing the East

Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased;She leaned forth, one on either hand;They saw how the blush of the bride increased—

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased;

She leaned forth, one on either hand;

They saw how the blush of the bride increased—

They felt by its beats her heart expand—As one at each ear and both in a breath"Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

They felt by its beats her heart expand—

As one at each ear and both in a breath

"Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

That selfsame instant, underneath,The Duke rode past in his idle way,Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

That selfsame instant, underneath,

The Duke rode past in his idle way,

Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,Till he threw his head back—"Who is she?"—"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay,

Till he threw his head back—"Who is she?"

—"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."

Hair in heaps lay heavilyOver a pale brow spirit-pure—Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,

Hair in heaps lay heavily

Over a pale brow spirit-pure—

Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure—And vainly sought to dissemble her eyesOf the blackest black our eyes endure,

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure—

And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes

Of the blackest black our eyes endure,

And lo, a blade for a knight's empriseFilled the fine empty sheath of a man,—The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise

Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,—

The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.

He looked at her, as a lover can;She looked at him, as one who awakes:The past was a sleep, and her life began.

He looked at her, as a lover can;

She looked at him, as one who awakes:

The past was a sleep, and her life began.

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes,A feast was held that selfsame nightIn the pile which the mighty shadow makes.

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes,

A feast was held that selfsame night

In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.

(For Via Larga is three-parts light,But the palace overshadows one,Because of a crime, which may God requite!

(For Via Larga is three-parts light,

But the palace overshadows one,

Because of a crime, which may God requite!

To Florence and God the wrong was done,Through the first republic's murder thereBy Cosimo and his cursed son.)

To Florence and God the wrong was done,

Through the first republic's murder there

By Cosimo and his cursed son.)

The Duke (with the statue's face in the square)Turned in the midst of his multitudeAt the bright approach of the bridal pair.

The Duke (with the statue's face in the square)

Turned in the midst of his multitude

At the bright approach of the bridal pair.

Face to face the lovers stoodA single minute and no more,While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued;—

Face to face the lovers stood

A single minute and no more,

While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued;—

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor—For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred,As the courtly custom was of yore.

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor—

For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred,

As the courtly custom was of yore.

In a minute can lovers exchange a word?If a word did pass, which I do not think,Only one out of a thousand heard.

In a minute can lovers exchange a word?

If a word did pass, which I do not think,

Only one out of a thousand heard.

That was the bridegroom. At day's brinkHe and his bride were alone at lastIn a bed chamber by a taper's blink.

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink

He and his bride were alone at last

In a bed chamber by a taper's blink.

Calmly he said that her lot was cast,That the door she had passed was shut on herTill the final catafalk repassed.

Calmly he said that her lot was cast,

That the door she had passed was shut on her

Till the final catafalk repassed.

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,Through a certain window facing the EastShe could watch like a convent's chronicler.

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir,

Through a certain window facing the East

She could watch like a convent's chronicler.

Since passing the door might lead to a feast,And a feast might lead to so much beside,He, of many evils, chose the least.

Since passing the door might lead to a feast,

And a feast might lead to so much beside,

He, of many evils, chose the least.

"Freely I choose too," said the bride—"Your window and its world suffice,"Replied the tongue, while the heart replied—

"Freely I choose too," said the bride—

"Your window and its world suffice,"

Replied the tongue, while the heart replied—

"If I spend the night with that devil twice,May his window serve as my loop of hellWhence a damned soul looks on paradise!

"If I spend the night with that devil twice,

May his window serve as my loop of hell

Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!

"I fly to the Duke who loves me well,Sit by his side and laugh at sorrowEre I count another ave-bell.

"I fly to the Duke who loves me well,

Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow

Ere I count another ave-bell.

"'T is only the coat of a page to borrow,And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim.And I save my soul—but not to-morrow"—

"'T is only the coat of a page to borrow,

And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim.

And I save my soul—but not to-morrow"—

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)"My father tarries to bless my state:I must keep it one day more for him.

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim)

"My father tarries to bless my state:

I must keep it one day more for him.

"Is one day more so long to wait?Moreover the Duke rides past, I know;We shall see each other, sure as fate."

"Is one day more so long to wait?

Moreover the Duke rides past, I know;

We shall see each other, sure as fate."

She turned on her side and slept. Just so!So we resolve on a thing and sleep:So did the lady, ages ago.

She turned on her side and slept. Just so!

So we resolve on a thing and sleep:

So did the lady, ages ago.

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheapAs the cost of this cup of bliss may proveTo body or soul, I will drain it deep."

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap

As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove

To body or soul, I will drain it deep."

And on the morrow, bold with love,He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove)

And on the morrow, bold with love,

He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,

As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove)

And smiled "'T was a very funeral,Your lady will think, this feast of ours,—A shame to efface, whate'er befall!

And smiled "'T was a very funeral,

Your lady will think, this feast of ours,—

A shame to efface, whate'er befall!

"What if we break from the Arno bowers,And try if Petraja, cool and green,Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"

"What if we break from the Arno bowers,

And try if Petraja, cool and green,

Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seenOn his steady brow and quiet mouth,Said, "Too much favor for me so mean!

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen

On his steady brow and quiet mouth,

Said, "Too much favor for me so mean!

"But, alas! my lady leaves the South;Each wind that comes from the ApennineIs a menace to her tender youth:

"But, alas! my lady leaves the South;

Each wind that comes from the Apennine

Is a menace to her tender youth:

"Nor a way exists, the wise opine,If she quits her palace twice this year,To avert the flower of life's decline."

"Nor a way exists, the wise opine,

If she quits her palace twice this year,

To avert the flower of life's decline."

Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear.Moreover Petraja is cold this spring:Be our feast to-night as usual here!"

Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear.

Moreover Petraja is cold this spring:

Be our feast to-night as usual here!"

And then to himself—"Which night shall bringThy bride to her lover's embraces, fool—Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!

And then to himself—"Which night shall bring

Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool—

Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool—For to-night the Envoy arrives from FranceWhose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool.

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool—

For to-night the Envoy arrives from France

Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool.

"I need thee still and might miss perchance.To-day is not wholly lost, beside,With its hope of my lady's countenance:

"I need thee still and might miss perchance.

To-day is not wholly lost, beside,

With its hope of my lady's countenance:

"For I ride—what should I do but ride?And passing her palace, if I list,May glance at its window—well betide!"

"For I ride—what should I do but ride?

And passing her palace, if I list,

May glance at its window—well betide!"

So said, so done: nor the lady missedOne ray that broke from the ardent brow,Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.

So said, so done: nor the lady missed

One ray that broke from the ardent brow,

Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.

Be sure that each renewed the vow,No morrow's sun should arise and setAnd leave them then as it left them now.

Be sure that each renewed the vow,

No morrow's sun should arise and set

And leave them then as it left them now.

But next day passed, and next day yet,'With still fresh cause to wait one day moreEre each leaped over the parapet.

But next day passed, and next day yet,

'With still fresh cause to wait one day more

Ere each leaped over the parapet.

And still, as love's brief morning wore,With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,They found love not as it seemed before.

And still, as love's brief morning wore,

With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh,

They found love not as it seemed before.

They thought it would work infallibly,But not in despite of heaven and earth:The rose would blow when the storm passed by.

They thought it would work infallibly,

But not in despite of heaven and earth:

The rose would blow when the storm passed by.

Meantime they could profit in winter's dearthBy store of fruits that supplant the rose:The world and its ways have a certain worth:

Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth

By store of fruits that supplant the rose:

The world and its ways have a certain worth:

And to press a point while these opposeWere simple policy; better wait:We lose no friends and we gain no foes.

And to press a point while these oppose

Were simple policy; better wait:

We lose no friends and we gain no foes.

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate,Who daily may ride and pass and lookWhere his lady watches behind the grate!

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate,

Who daily may ride and pass and look

Where his lady watches behind the grate!

And she—she watched the square like a bookHolding one picture and only one,Which daily to find she undertook:

And she—she watched the square like a book

Holding one picture and only one,

Which daily to find she undertook:

When the picture was reached the book was done,And she turned from the picture at night to schemeOf tearing it out for herself next sun.

When the picture was reached the book was done,

And she turned from the picture at night to scheme

Of tearing it out for herself next sun.

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleamThe glory dropped from their youth and love,And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam

The glory dropped from their youth and love,

And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;

Which hovered as dreams do, still above:But who can take a dream for a truth?Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

Which hovered as dreams do, still above:

But who can take a dream for a truth?

Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

One day as the lady saw her youthDepart, and the silver thread that streakedHer hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,

One day as the lady saw her youth

Depart, and the silver thread that streaked

Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,—And wondered who the woman was,Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,—

And wondered who the woman was,

Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,

Fronting her silent in the glass—"Summon here," she suddenly said,"Before the rest of my old self pass,

Fronting her silent in the glass—

"Summon here," she suddenly said,

"Before the rest of my old self pass,

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid,Who fashions the clay no love will change,And fixes a beauty never to fade.

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid,

Who fashions the clay no love will change,

And fixes a beauty never to fade.

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strangeArrest the remains of young and fair,And rivet them while the seasons range.

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange

Arrest the remains of young and fair,

And rivet them while the seasons range.

"Make me a face on the window there,Waiting as ever, mute the while,My love to pass below in the square!

"Make me a face on the window there,

Waiting as ever, mute the while,

My love to pass below in the square!

"And let me think that it may beguileDreary days which the dead must spendDown in their darkness under the aisle,

"And let me think that it may beguile

Dreary days which the dead must spend

Down in their darkness under the aisle,

"To say, 'What matters it at the end?I did no more while my heart was warmThan does that image, my pale-faced friend.'

"To say, 'What matters it at the end?

I did no more while my heart was warm

Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.'

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm,The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,And the blood that blues the inside arm—

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm,

The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow,

And the blood that blues the inside arm—

"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,The earthly gift to an end divine?A lady of clay is as good, I trow."

"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how,

The earthly gift to an end divine?

A lady of clay is as good, I trow."

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,Was set where now is the empty shrine—

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine,

With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace,

Was set where now is the empty shrine—

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space,As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,The passionate pale lady's face—

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space,

As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky,

The passionate pale lady's face—

Eying ever, with earnest eyeAnd quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,Some one who ever is passing by—)

Eying ever, with earnest eye

And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch,

Some one who ever is passing by—)

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretchIn Florence, "Youth—my dream escapes!Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch

In Florence, "Youth—my dream escapes!

Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes—"Can the soul, the will, die out of a manEre his body find the grave that gapes?

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes—

"Can the soul, the will, die out of a man

Ere his body find the grave that gapes?

"John of Douay shall effect my plan,Set me on horseback here aloft,Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,

"John of Douay shall effect my plan,

Set me on horseback here aloft,

Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,

"In the very square I have crossed so oft:That men may admire, when future sunsShall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,

"In the very square I have crossed so oft:

That men may admire, when future suns

Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—Admire and say, 'When he was aliveHow he would take his pleasure once!'

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze—

Admire and say, 'When he was alive

How he would take his pleasure once!'

"And it shall go hard but I contriveTo listen the while, and laugh in my tombAt idleness which aspires to strive."

"And it shall go hard but I contrive

To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb

At idleness which aspires to strive."

So! While these wait the trump of doom,How do their spirits pass, I wonder,Nights and days in the narrow room?

So! While these wait the trump of doom,

How do their spirits pass, I wonder,

Nights and days in the narrow room?

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponderWhat a gift life was, ages ago,Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder

What a gift life was, ages ago,

Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Only they see not God, I know,Nor all that chivalry of his,The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Only they see not God, I know,

Nor all that chivalry of his,

The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Burn upward each to his point of bliss—Since, the end of life being manifest,He had burned his way through the world to this.

Burn upward each to his point of bliss—

Since, the end of life being manifest,

He had burned his way through the world to this.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best,For their end was a crime."—Oh, a crime will doAs well, I reply, to serve for a test,

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best,

For their end was a crime."—Oh, a crime will do

As well, I reply, to serve for a test,

As a virtue golden through and through,Sufficient to vindicate itselfAnd prove its worth at a moment's view!

As a virtue golden through and through,

Sufficient to vindicate itself

And prove its worth at a moment's view!

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?Where a button goes, 't were an epigramTo offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf?

Where a button goes, 't were an epigram

To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham:As well the counter as coin, I submit,When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram.

The true has no value beyond the sham:

As well the counter as coin, I submit,

When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit,Venture as warily, use the same skill,Do your best, whether winning or losing it,

Stake your counter as boldly every whit,

Venture as warily, use the same skill,

Do your best, whether winning or losing it,

If you choose to play!—is my principle.Let a man contend to the uttermostFor his life's set prize, be it what it will!

If you choose to play!—is my principle.

Let a man contend to the uttermost

For his life's set prize, be it what it will!

The counter our lovers staked was lostAs surely as if it were lawful coin:And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

The counter our lovers staked was lost

As surely as if it were lawful coin:

And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.You of the virtue (we issue join)How strive you?De te, fabula!

Is—the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin,

Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

You of the virtue (we issue join)

How strive you?De te, fabula!

First printed in Mr. Fox'sMonthly Repositoryin 1836, under the signature Z. When issued inBells and Pomegranatesit was grouped withJohannes Agricola in Meditationas No. II. ofMadhouse Cells. The poem has an interest as the earliest, apparently, of Browning's monologues.

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