THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

I've a Friend, over the sea;I like him, but he loves me.It all grew out of the books I write;They find such favor in his sightThat he slaughters you with savage looksBecause you don't admire my books.He does himself though,—and if some veinWere to snap to-night in this heavy brain,To-morrow month, if I lived to try,Round should I just turn quietly,Or out of the bedclothes stretch my handTill I found him, come from his foreign landTo be my nurse in this poor place,And make my broth and wash my faceAnd light my fire and, all the while,Bear with his old good-humored smileThat I told him "Better have kept awayThan come and kill me, night and day,With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,The creaking of his clumsy boots."I am as sure that this he would do,As that Saint Paul's is striking two.And I think I rather ... woe is me!—Yes, rather should see him than not see,If lifting a hand could seat him thereBefore me in the empty chairTo-night, when my head aches indeed,And I can neither think nor read,Nor make these purple fingers holdThe pen; this garret's freezing cold!And I 've a Lady—there he wakes,The laughing fiend and prince of snakesWithin me, at her name, to prayFate send some creature in the wayOf my love for her, to be down-torn,Upthrust and outward-borne,So I might prove myself that seaOf passion which I needs must be!Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaintAnd my style infirm and its figures faint,All the critics say, and more blame yet,And not one angry word you get.But, please you, wonder I would putMy cheek beneath that lady's footRather than trample under mineThe laurels of the Florentine,And you shall see how the devil spendsA fire God gave for other ends!I tell you, I stride up and downThis garret, crowned with love's best crown,And feasted with love's perfect feast,To think I kill for her, at least,Body and soul and peace and fame,Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,—So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,Filled full, eaten out and inWith the face of her, the eyes of her,The lips, the little chin, the stirOf shadow round her mouth; and she—I'll tell you—calmly would decreeThat I should roast at a slow fire,If that would compass her desireAnd make her one whom they inviteTo the famous ball to-morrow night.There may be heaven; there must be hell;Meantime, there is our earth here—well!

I've a Friend, over the sea;

I like him, but he loves me.

It all grew out of the books I write;

They find such favor in his sight

That he slaughters you with savage looks

Because you don't admire my books.

He does himself though,—and if some vein

Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain,

To-morrow month, if I lived to try,

Round should I just turn quietly,

Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand

Till I found him, come from his foreign land

To be my nurse in this poor place,

And make my broth and wash my face

And light my fire and, all the while,

Bear with his old good-humored smile

That I told him "Better have kept away

Than come and kill me, night and day,

With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,

The creaking of his clumsy boots."

I am as sure that this he would do,

As that Saint Paul's is striking two.

And I think I rather ... woe is me!

—Yes, rather should see him than not see,If lifting a hand could seat him thereBefore me in the empty chairTo-night, when my head aches indeed,And I can neither think nor read,Nor make these purple fingers holdThe pen; this garret's freezing cold!

—Yes, rather should see him than not see,

If lifting a hand could seat him there

Before me in the empty chair

To-night, when my head aches indeed,

And I can neither think nor read,

Nor make these purple fingers hold

The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

And I 've a Lady—there he wakes,The laughing fiend and prince of snakesWithin me, at her name, to prayFate send some creature in the wayOf my love for her, to be down-torn,Upthrust and outward-borne,So I might prove myself that seaOf passion which I needs must be!Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaintAnd my style infirm and its figures faint,All the critics say, and more blame yet,And not one angry word you get.But, please you, wonder I would putMy cheek beneath that lady's footRather than trample under mineThe laurels of the Florentine,And you shall see how the devil spendsA fire God gave for other ends!I tell you, I stride up and downThis garret, crowned with love's best crown,And feasted with love's perfect feast,To think I kill for her, at least,Body and soul and peace and fame,Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,—So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,Filled full, eaten out and inWith the face of her, the eyes of her,The lips, the little chin, the stirOf shadow round her mouth; and she—I'll tell you—calmly would decreeThat I should roast at a slow fire,If that would compass her desireAnd make her one whom they inviteTo the famous ball to-morrow night.

And I 've a Lady—there he wakes,

The laughing fiend and prince of snakes

Within me, at her name, to pray

Fate send some creature in the way

Of my love for her, to be down-torn,

Upthrust and outward-borne,

So I might prove myself that sea

Of passion which I needs must be!

Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint

And my style infirm and its figures faint,

All the critics say, and more blame yet,

And not one angry word you get.

But, please you, wonder I would put

My cheek beneath that lady's foot

Rather than trample under mine

The laurels of the Florentine,

And you shall see how the devil spends

A fire God gave for other ends!

I tell you, I stride up and down

This garret, crowned with love's best crown,

And feasted with love's perfect feast,

To think I kill for her, at least,

Body and soul and peace and fame,

Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,

—So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,

Filled full, eaten out and in

With the face of her, the eyes of her,

The lips, the little chin, the stir

Of shadow round her mouth; and she

—I'll tell you—calmly would decree

That I should roast at a slow fire,

If that would compass her desire

And make her one whom they invite

To the famous ball to-morrow night.

There may be heaven; there must be hell;Meantime, there is our earth here—well!

There may be heaven; there must be hell;

Meantime, there is our earth here—well!

Both this poem and the following were written after Browning's visit to Italy in 1844. As originally published they were entitledItaly in EnglandandEngland in Italy. The dramatic incident in the former poem was not a rescript of a particular historic incident.

That second time they hunted meFrom hill to plain, from shore to sea,And Austria, hounding far and wideHer blood-hounds through the country-side,Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—I made six days a hiding-placeOf that dry green old aqueductWhere I and Charles, when boys, have pluckedThe fire-flies from the roof above,Bright creeping through the moss they love:—How long it seems since Charles was lost!Six days the soldiers crossed and crossedThe country in my very sight;And when that peril ceased at night,The sky broke out in red dismayWith signal fires; well, there I layClose covered o'er in my recess,Up to the neck in ferns and cress,Thinking on Metternich our friend,And Charles's miserable end,And much beside, two days; the third,Hunger o'ercame me when I heardThe peasants from the village goTo work among the maize; you know,With us in Lombardy, they bringProvisions packed on mules, a stringWith little bells that cheer their task,And casks, and boughs on every caskTo keep the sun's heat from the wine;These I let pass in jingling line,And, close on them, dear noisy crew,The peasants from the village, too;For at the very rear would troopTheir wives and sisters in a groupTo help, I knew. When these had passed,I threw my glove to strike the last,Taking the chance: she did not start,Much less cry out, but stooped apart,One instant rapidly glanced round,And saw me beckon from the ground;A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;She picked my glove up while she strippedA branch off, then rejoined the restWith that; my glove lay in her breast.Then I drew breath: they disappeared:It was for Italy I feared.An hour, and she returned aloneExactly where my glove was thrown.Meanwhile came many thoughts; on meRested the hopes of Italy;I had devised a certain taleWhich, when 't was told her, could not failPersuade a peasant of its truth;I meant to call a freak of youthThis hiding, and give hopes of pay,And no temptation to betray.But when I saw that woman's face,Its calm simplicity of grace,Our Italy's own attitudeIn which she walked thus far, and stood,Planting each naked foot so firm,To crush the snake and spare the worm—At first sight of her eyes, I said,"I am that man upon whose headThey fix the price, because I hateThe Austrians over us: the StateWill give you gold—oh, gold so much!—If you betray me to their clutch,And be your death, for aught I know,If once they find you saved their foe.Now, you must bring me food and drink,And also paper, pen and ink,And carry safe what I shall writeTo Padua, which you'll reach at nightBefore the duomo shuts; go in,And wait till Tenebræ begin;Walk to the third confessional,Between the pillar and the wall,And kneeling whisper,Whence comes peace?Say it a second time, then cease;And if the voice inside returns,From Christ and Freedom; what concernsThe cause of Peace?—for answer, slipMy letter where you placed your lip;Then come back happy we have doneOur mother service—I, the son,As you the daughter of our land!"Three mornings more, she took her standIn the same place, with the same eyes:I was no surer of sunriseThan of her coming. We conferredOf her own prospects, and I heardShe had a lover—stout and tall,She said—then let her eyelids fall,"He could do much"—as if some doubtEntered her heart,—then, passing out,"She could not speak for others, whoHad other thoughts; herself she knew:"And so she brought me drink and food.After four days, the scouts pursuedAnother path; at last arrivedThe help my Paduan friends contrivedTo furnish me: she brought the news.For the first time I could not chooseBut kiss her hand, and lay my ownUpon her head—"This faith was shownTo Italy, our mother; sheUses my hand and blesses thee."She followed down to the sea-shore;I left and never saw her more.How very long since I have thoughtConcerning—much less wished for—aughtBeside the good of Italy,For which I live and mean to die!I never was in love; and sinceCharles proved false, what shall now convinceMy inmost heart I have a friend?However, if I pleased to spendReal wishes on myself—say, three—I know at least what one should be.I would grasp Metternich untilI felt his red wet throat distilIn blood through these two hands. And next,—Nor much for that am I perplexed—Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,Should die slow of a broken heartUnder his new employers. Last—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fastDo I grow old and out of strength.If I resolved to seek at lengthMy father's house again, how scaredThey all would look, and unprepared!My brothers live in Austria's pay—Disowned me long ago, men say;And all my early mates who usedTo praise me so—perhaps inducedMore than one early step of mine—Are turning wise: while some opine"Freedom grows license," some suspect"Haste breeds delay," and recollectThey always said, such prematureBeginnings never could endure!So, with a sullen "All's for best,"The land seems settling: to its rest.I think then, I should wish to standThis evening in that dear, lost land,Over the sea the thousand miles,And know if yet that woman smilesWith the calm smile; some little farmShe lives in there, no doubt: what harmIf I sat on the door-side bench,And, while her spindle made a trenchFantastically in the dust,Inquired of all her fortunes—justHer children's ages and their names,And what may be the husband's aimsFor each of them. I'd talk this out,And sit there, for an hour about,Then kiss her hand once more, and layMine on her head, and go my way.So much for idle wishing—howIt steals the time! To business now.

That second time they hunted me

From hill to plain, from shore to sea,

And Austria, hounding far and wide

Her blood-hounds through the country-side,

Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—

I made six days a hiding-place

Of that dry green old aqueduct

Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked

The fire-flies from the roof above,

Bright creeping through the moss they love:

—How long it seems since Charles was lost!

Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed

The country in my very sight;

And when that peril ceased at night,

The sky broke out in red dismay

With signal fires; well, there I lay

Close covered o'er in my recess,

Up to the neck in ferns and cress,

Thinking on Metternich our friend,

And Charles's miserable end,

And much beside, two days; the third,

Hunger o'ercame me when I heard

The peasants from the village go

To work among the maize; you know,

With us in Lombardy, they bring

Provisions packed on mules, a string

With little bells that cheer their task,

And casks, and boughs on every cask

To keep the sun's heat from the wine;

These I let pass in jingling line,

And, close on them, dear noisy crew,

The peasants from the village, too;

For at the very rear would troop

Their wives and sisters in a group

To help, I knew. When these had passed,

I threw my glove to strike the last,

Taking the chance: she did not start,

Much less cry out, but stooped apart,

One instant rapidly glanced round,

And saw me beckon from the ground;

A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;

She picked my glove up while she stripped

A branch off, then rejoined the rest

With that; my glove lay in her breast.

Then I drew breath: they disappeared:

It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned aloneExactly where my glove was thrown.Meanwhile came many thoughts; on meRested the hopes of Italy;I had devised a certain taleWhich, when 't was told her, could not failPersuade a peasant of its truth;I meant to call a freak of youthThis hiding, and give hopes of pay,And no temptation to betray.But when I saw that woman's face,Its calm simplicity of grace,Our Italy's own attitudeIn which she walked thus far, and stood,Planting each naked foot so firm,To crush the snake and spare the worm—At first sight of her eyes, I said,"I am that man upon whose headThey fix the price, because I hateThe Austrians over us: the StateWill give you gold—oh, gold so much!—If you betray me to their clutch,And be your death, for aught I know,If once they find you saved their foe.Now, you must bring me food and drink,And also paper, pen and ink,And carry safe what I shall writeTo Padua, which you'll reach at nightBefore the duomo shuts; go in,And wait till Tenebræ begin;Walk to the third confessional,Between the pillar and the wall,And kneeling whisper,Whence comes peace?Say it a second time, then cease;And if the voice inside returns,From Christ and Freedom; what concernsThe cause of Peace?—for answer, slipMy letter where you placed your lip;Then come back happy we have doneOur mother service—I, the son,As you the daughter of our land!"

An hour, and she returned alone

Exactly where my glove was thrown.

Meanwhile came many thoughts; on me

Rested the hopes of Italy;

I had devised a certain tale

Which, when 't was told her, could not fail

Persuade a peasant of its truth;

I meant to call a freak of youth

This hiding, and give hopes of pay,

And no temptation to betray.

But when I saw that woman's face,

Its calm simplicity of grace,

Our Italy's own attitude

In which she walked thus far, and stood,

Planting each naked foot so firm,

To crush the snake and spare the worm—

At first sight of her eyes, I said,

"I am that man upon whose head

They fix the price, because I hate

The Austrians over us: the State

Will give you gold—oh, gold so much!—

If you betray me to their clutch,

And be your death, for aught I know,

If once they find you saved their foe.

Now, you must bring me food and drink,

And also paper, pen and ink,

And carry safe what I shall write

To Padua, which you'll reach at night

Before the duomo shuts; go in,

And wait till Tenebræ begin;

Walk to the third confessional,

Between the pillar and the wall,

And kneeling whisper,Whence comes peace?

Say it a second time, then cease;

And if the voice inside returns,

From Christ and Freedom; what concerns

The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip

My letter where you placed your lip;

Then come back happy we have done

Our mother service—I, the son,

As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her standIn the same place, with the same eyes:I was no surer of sunriseThan of her coming. We conferredOf her own prospects, and I heardShe had a lover—stout and tall,She said—then let her eyelids fall,"He could do much"—as if some doubtEntered her heart,—then, passing out,"She could not speak for others, whoHad other thoughts; herself she knew:"And so she brought me drink and food.After four days, the scouts pursuedAnother path; at last arrivedThe help my Paduan friends contrivedTo furnish me: she brought the news.For the first time I could not chooseBut kiss her hand, and lay my ownUpon her head—"This faith was shownTo Italy, our mother; sheUses my hand and blesses thee."She followed down to the sea-shore;I left and never saw her more.

Three mornings more, she took her stand

In the same place, with the same eyes:

I was no surer of sunrise

Than of her coming. We conferred

Of her own prospects, and I heard

She had a lover—stout and tall,

She said—then let her eyelids fall,

"He could do much"—as if some doubt

Entered her heart,—then, passing out,

"She could not speak for others, who

Had other thoughts; herself she knew:"

And so she brought me drink and food.

After four days, the scouts pursued

Another path; at last arrived

The help my Paduan friends contrived

To furnish me: she brought the news.

For the first time I could not choose

But kiss her hand, and lay my own

Upon her head—"This faith was shown

To Italy, our mother; she

Uses my hand and blesses thee."

She followed down to the sea-shore;

I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thoughtConcerning—much less wished for—aughtBeside the good of Italy,For which I live and mean to die!I never was in love; and sinceCharles proved false, what shall now convinceMy inmost heart I have a friend?However, if I pleased to spendReal wishes on myself—say, three—I know at least what one should be.I would grasp Metternich untilI felt his red wet throat distilIn blood through these two hands. And next,—Nor much for that am I perplexed—Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,Should die slow of a broken heartUnder his new employers. Last—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fastDo I grow old and out of strength.If I resolved to seek at lengthMy father's house again, how scaredThey all would look, and unprepared!My brothers live in Austria's pay—Disowned me long ago, men say;And all my early mates who usedTo praise me so—perhaps inducedMore than one early step of mine—Are turning wise: while some opine"Freedom grows license," some suspect"Haste breeds delay," and recollectThey always said, such prematureBeginnings never could endure!So, with a sullen "All's for best,"The land seems settling: to its rest.I think then, I should wish to standThis evening in that dear, lost land,Over the sea the thousand miles,And know if yet that woman smilesWith the calm smile; some little farmShe lives in there, no doubt: what harmIf I sat on the door-side bench,And, while her spindle made a trenchFantastically in the dust,Inquired of all her fortunes—justHer children's ages and their names,And what may be the husband's aimsFor each of them. I'd talk this out,And sit there, for an hour about,Then kiss her hand once more, and layMine on her head, and go my way.

How very long since I have thought

Concerning—much less wished for—aught

Beside the good of Italy,

For which I live and mean to die!

I never was in love; and since

Charles proved false, what shall now convince

My inmost heart I have a friend?

However, if I pleased to spend

Real wishes on myself—say, three—

I know at least what one should be.

I would grasp Metternich until

I felt his red wet throat distil

In blood through these two hands. And next,

—Nor much for that am I perplexed—

Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,

Should die slow of a broken heart

Under his new employers. Last

—Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast

Do I grow old and out of strength.

If I resolved to seek at length

My father's house again, how scared

They all would look, and unprepared!

My brothers live in Austria's pay

—Disowned me long ago, men say;

And all my early mates who used

To praise me so—perhaps induced

More than one early step of mine—

Are turning wise: while some opine

"Freedom grows license," some suspect

"Haste breeds delay," and recollect

They always said, such premature

Beginnings never could endure!

So, with a sullen "All's for best,"

The land seems settling: to its rest.

I think then, I should wish to stand

This evening in that dear, lost land,

Over the sea the thousand miles,

And know if yet that woman smiles

With the calm smile; some little farm

She lives in there, no doubt: what harm

If I sat on the door-side bench,

And, while her spindle made a trench

Fantastically in the dust,

Inquired of all her fortunes—just

Her children's ages and their names,

And what may be the husband's aims

For each of them. I'd talk this out,

And sit there, for an hour about,

Then kiss her hand once more, and lay

Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing—howIt steals the time! To business now.

So much for idle wishing—how

It steals the time! To business now.

PIANO DI SORRENTO

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,Sit here by my side,On my knees put up both little feet!I was sure, if I tried,I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.Now, open your eyes,Let me keep you amused till he vanishIn black from the skies,With telling my memories overAs you tell your beads;All the Plain saw me gather, I garland—The flowers or the weeds.Time for rain! for your long hot dry AutumnHad net-worked with brownThe white skin of each grape on the bunches,Marked like a quail's crown,Those creatures you make such account of,Whose heads,—speckled whiteOver brown like a great spider's back,As I told you last night,—Your mother bites off for her supper.Red-ripe as could be,Pomegranates were chapping and splittingIn halves on the tree:And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,Or in the thick dustOn the path, or straight out of the rock-side,Wherever could thrustSome burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flowerIts yellow face up,For the prize were great butterflies fighting,Some five for one cup.So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,What change was in store,By the quick rustle-down of the quail-netsWhich woke me beforeI could open my shutter, made fastWith a bough and a stone,And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs,Sole lattice that's known.Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,While, busy beneath,Your priest and his brother tugged at them,The rain in their teeth.And out upon all the flat house-roofsWhere split figs lay drying,The girls took the frails under cover:Nor use seemed in tryingTo get out the boats and go fishing,For, under the cliff,Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock,No seeing our skiffArrive about noon from Amalfi,—Our fisher arrive,And pitch down his basket before us,All trembling aliveWith pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit;You touch the strange lumps,And mouths gape there, eyes open, all mannerOf horns and of humps,Which only the fisher looks grave at,While round him like impsCling screaming the children as nakedAnd brown as his shrimps;Himself too as bare to the middle—You see round his neckThe string and its brass coin suspended,That saves him from wreck.But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,So back, to a roan.Came our friends, with whose help in the vine-yardsGrape-harvest began.In the vat, halfway up in our house-side,Like blood the juice spins,While your brother all bare-legged is dancingTill breathless he grinsDead-beaten in effort on effortTo keep the grapes under,Since still when he seems all but master,In pours the fresh plunderFrom girls who keep coming and goingWith basket on shoulder,And eyes shut against the rain's driving;Your girls that are older,—For under the hedges of aloe,And where, on its bedOf the orchard's black mould, the love-appleLies pulpy and red,All the young ones are kneeling and fillingTheir laps with the snailsTempted out by this first rainy weather,—Your best of regales,As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,When, supping in state,We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,Three over one plate)With lasagne so tempting to swallowIn slippery ropes,And gourds fried in great purple slices,That color of popes.Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:The rain-water slipsO'er the heavy blue bloom on each globeWhich the wasp to your lipsStill follows with fretful persistence:Nay, taste, while awake,This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ballThat peels, flake by flake,Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;Next, sip this weak wineFrom the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,A leaf of the vine;And end with the prickly-pear's red fleshThat leaves through its juiceThe stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.Scirocco is loose!Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olivesWhich, thick in one's track,Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,Though not yet half black!How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,The medlars let fallTheir hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-treesSnap off, figs and all,For here comes the whole of the tempest!No refuge, but creepBack again to my side and my shoulder,And listen or sleep.Oh, how will your country show next week,When all the vine-boughsHave been stripped of their foliage to pastureThe mules and the cows?Last eve, I rode over the mountains;Your brother, my guide,Soon left me, to feast on the myrtlesThat offered, each side,Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,—Or strip from the sorbsA treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,Those hairy gold orbs!But my mule picked his sure sober path out,Just stopping to neighWhen he recognized down in the valleyHis mates on their wayWith the faggots and barrels of water;And soon we emergedFrom the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;And still as we urgedOur way, the woods wondered, and left us,As up still we trudged,Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,And place was e'en grudged'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stonesLike the loose broken teethOf some monster which climbed there to dieFrom the ocean beneath—Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weedThat clung to the path,And dark rosemary ever a-dyingThat, 'spite the wind's wrath,So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,And lentisks as stanchTo the stone where they root and bear berries,And ... what shows a branchCoral-colored, transparent, with circletsOf pale seagreen leaves;Over all trod my mule with the cautionOf gleaners o'er sheaves,Still, foot after foot like a lady,Till, round after round,He climbed to the top of Calvano,And God's own profoundWas above me, and round me the mountains,And under, the sea,And within me my heart to bear witnessWhat was and shall be.Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!No rampart excludesYour eye from the life to be livedIn the blue solitudes.Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!Still moving with you;For, ever some new head and breast of themThrusts into viewTo observe the intruder; you see itIf quickly you turnAnd, before they escape you, surprise them.They grudge you should learnHow the soft plains they look on, lean overAnd love (they pretend)—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,The wild fruit-trees bend,E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:All is silent and grave:'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,How fair! but a slave.So, I turned to the sea; and there slumberedAs greenly as everThose isles of the siren, your Galli;No ages can severThe Three, nor enable their sisterTo join them,—halfwayOn the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—No farther to-day,Though the small one, just launched in the waveWatches breast-high and steadyFrom under the rock, her bold sisterSwum halfway already.Fortù, shall we sail there togetherAnd see from the sidesQuite new rocks show their faces, new hauntsWhere the siren abides?Shall we sail round and round them, close overThe rocks, though unseen,That ruffle the gray glassy waterTo glorious green?Then scramble from splinter to splinter,Reach land and explore,On the largest, the strange square black turretWith never a door,Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;Then, stand there and hearThe birds' quiet singing, that tells usWhat life is, so clear?—The secret they sang to UlyssesWhen, ages ago,He heard and he knew this life's secretI hear and I know.Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;He strikes the great gloomAnd flutters it o'er the mount's summitIn airy gold fume.All is over. Look out, see the gypsy,Our tinker and smith,Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,And down-squatted forthwithTo his hammering, under the wall there;One eye keeps aloofThe urchins that itch to be puttingHis jews'-harps to proof,While the other, through locks of curled wire,Is watching how sleekShines the hog, come to share in the windfall—Chew abbot's own cheek!All is over. Wake up and come out now,And down let us go,And see the fine things got in orderAt church for the show.Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening;To-morrow's the FeastOf the Rosary's Virgin, by no meansOf Virgins the least,As you'll hear in the off-hand discourseWhich (all nature, no art)The Dominican brother, these three weeks,Was getting by heart.Not a pillar nor post but is dizenedWith red and blue papers;All the roof waves with ribbons, each altarAblaze with long tapers;But the great masterpiece is the scaffoldRigged glorious to holdAll the fiddlers and fifers and drummersAnd trumpeters bold,Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,Who, when the priest's hoarse,Will strike us up something that's briskFor the feast's second course.And then will the flaxen-wigged ImageBe carried in pompThrough the plain, while in gallant processionThe priests mean to stomp.All round the glad church lie old bottlesWith gunpowder stopped,Which will be, when the Image re-enters,Religiously popped;And at night from the crest of CalvanoGreat bonfires will hang,On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,And more poppers bang.At all events, come—to the gardenAs far as the wall;See me tap with a hoe on the plasterTill out there shall fallA scorpion with wide angry nippers!—"Such trifles!" you say?Fortù, in my England at home,Men meet gravely to-dayAnd debate, if abolishing Corn-lawsBe righteous and wise—If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanishIn black from the skies.'

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,

Sit here by my side,

On my knees put up both little feet!

I was sure, if I tried,

I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.

Now, open your eyes,

Let me keep you amused till he vanish

In black from the skies,

With telling my memories over

As you tell your beads;

All the Plain saw me gather, I garland

—The flowers or the weeds.

Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn

Had net-worked with brown

The white skin of each grape on the bunches,

Marked like a quail's crown,

Those creatures you make such account of,

Whose heads,—speckled white

Over brown like a great spider's back,

As I told you last night,—

Your mother bites off for her supper.

Red-ripe as could be,

Pomegranates were chapping and splitting

In halves on the tree:

And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,

Or in the thick dust

On the path, or straight out of the rock-side,

Wherever could thrust

Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower

Its yellow face up,

For the prize were great butterflies fighting,

Some five for one cup.

So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,

What change was in store,

By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets

Which woke me before

I could open my shutter, made fast

With a bough and a stone,

And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs,

Sole lattice that's known.

Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,

While, busy beneath,

Your priest and his brother tugged at them,

The rain in their teeth.

And out upon all the flat house-roofs

Where split figs lay drying,

The girls took the frails under cover:

Nor use seemed in trying

To get out the boats and go fishing,

For, under the cliff,

Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock,

No seeing our skiff

Arrive about noon from Amalfi,

—Our fisher arrive,

And pitch down his basket before us,

All trembling alive

With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit;

You touch the strange lumps,

And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner

Of horns and of humps,

Which only the fisher looks grave at,

While round him like imps

Cling screaming the children as naked

And brown as his shrimps;

Himself too as bare to the middle

—You see round his neck

The string and its brass coin suspended,

That saves him from wreck.

But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,

So back, to a roan.

Came our friends, with whose help in the vine-yards

Grape-harvest began.

In the vat, halfway up in our house-side,

Like blood the juice spins,

While your brother all bare-legged is dancing

Till breathless he grins

Dead-beaten in effort on effort

To keep the grapes under,

Since still when he seems all but master,

In pours the fresh plunder

From girls who keep coming and going

With basket on shoulder,

And eyes shut against the rain's driving;

Your girls that are older,—

For under the hedges of aloe,

And where, on its bed

Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple

Lies pulpy and red,

All the young ones are kneeling and filling

Their laps with the snails

Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—

Your best of regales,

As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,

When, supping in state,

We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,

Three over one plate)

With lasagne so tempting to swallow

In slippery ropes,

And gourds fried in great purple slices,

That color of popes.

Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:

The rain-water slips

O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe

Which the wasp to your lips

Still follows with fretful persistence:

Nay, taste, while awake,

This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball

That peels, flake by flake,

Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;

Next, sip this weak wine

From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,

A leaf of the vine;

And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh

That leaves through its juice

The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.

Scirocco is loose!

Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives

Which, thick in one's track,

Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,

Though not yet half black!

How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,

The medlars let fall

Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees

Snap off, figs and all,

For here comes the whole of the tempest!

No refuge, but creep

Back again to my side and my shoulder,

And listen or sleep.

Oh, how will your country show next week,When all the vine-boughsHave been stripped of their foliage to pastureThe mules and the cows?Last eve, I rode over the mountains;Your brother, my guide,Soon left me, to feast on the myrtlesThat offered, each side,Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,—Or strip from the sorbsA treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,Those hairy gold orbs!But my mule picked his sure sober path out,Just stopping to neighWhen he recognized down in the valleyHis mates on their wayWith the faggots and barrels of water;And soon we emergedFrom the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;And still as we urgedOur way, the woods wondered, and left us,As up still we trudged,Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,And place was e'en grudged'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stonesLike the loose broken teethOf some monster which climbed there to dieFrom the ocean beneath—Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weedThat clung to the path,And dark rosemary ever a-dyingThat, 'spite the wind's wrath,So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,And lentisks as stanchTo the stone where they root and bear berries,And ... what shows a branchCoral-colored, transparent, with circletsOf pale seagreen leaves;Over all trod my mule with the cautionOf gleaners o'er sheaves,Still, foot after foot like a lady,Till, round after round,He climbed to the top of Calvano,And God's own profoundWas above me, and round me the mountains,And under, the sea,And within me my heart to bear witnessWhat was and shall be.Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!No rampart excludesYour eye from the life to be livedIn the blue solitudes.Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!Still moving with you;For, ever some new head and breast of themThrusts into viewTo observe the intruder; you see itIf quickly you turnAnd, before they escape you, surprise them.They grudge you should learnHow the soft plains they look on, lean overAnd love (they pretend)—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,The wild fruit-trees bend,E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:All is silent and grave:'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,How fair! but a slave.So, I turned to the sea; and there slumberedAs greenly as everThose isles of the siren, your Galli;No ages can severThe Three, nor enable their sisterTo join them,—halfwayOn the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—No farther to-day,Though the small one, just launched in the waveWatches breast-high and steadyFrom under the rock, her bold sisterSwum halfway already.Fortù, shall we sail there togetherAnd see from the sidesQuite new rocks show their faces, new hauntsWhere the siren abides?Shall we sail round and round them, close overThe rocks, though unseen,That ruffle the gray glassy waterTo glorious green?Then scramble from splinter to splinter,Reach land and explore,On the largest, the strange square black turretWith never a door,Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;Then, stand there and hearThe birds' quiet singing, that tells usWhat life is, so clear?—The secret they sang to UlyssesWhen, ages ago,He heard and he knew this life's secretI hear and I know.

Oh, how will your country show next week,

When all the vine-boughs

Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture

The mules and the cows?

Last eve, I rode over the mountains;

Your brother, my guide,

Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles

That offered, each side,

Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,—

Or strip from the sorbs

A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,

Those hairy gold orbs!

But my mule picked his sure sober path out,

Just stopping to neigh

When he recognized down in the valley

His mates on their way

With the faggots and barrels of water;

And soon we emerged

From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;

And still as we urged

Our way, the woods wondered, and left us,

As up still we trudged,

Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,

And place was e'en grudged

'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones

Like the loose broken teeth

Of some monster which climbed there to die

From the ocean beneath—

Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed

That clung to the path,

And dark rosemary ever a-dying

That, 'spite the wind's wrath,

So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,

And lentisks as stanch

To the stone where they root and bear berries,

And ... what shows a branch

Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets

Of pale seagreen leaves;

Over all trod my mule with the caution

Of gleaners o'er sheaves,

Still, foot after foot like a lady,

Till, round after round,

He climbed to the top of Calvano,

And God's own profound

Was above me, and round me the mountains,

And under, the sea,

And within me my heart to bear witness

What was and shall be.

Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!

No rampart excludes

Your eye from the life to be lived

In the blue solitudes.

Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!

Still moving with you;

For, ever some new head and breast of them

Thrusts into view

To observe the intruder; you see it

If quickly you turn

And, before they escape you, surprise them.

They grudge you should learn

How the soft plains they look on, lean over

And love (they pretend)

—Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,

The wild fruit-trees bend,

E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:

All is silent and grave:

'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,

How fair! but a slave.

So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered

As greenly as ever

Those isles of the siren, your Galli;

No ages can sever

The Three, nor enable their sister

To join them,—halfway

On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—

No farther to-day,

Though the small one, just launched in the wave

Watches breast-high and steady

From under the rock, her bold sister

Swum halfway already.

Fortù, shall we sail there together

And see from the sides

Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts

Where the siren abides?

Shall we sail round and round them, close over

The rocks, though unseen,

That ruffle the gray glassy water

To glorious green?

Then scramble from splinter to splinter,

Reach land and explore,

On the largest, the strange square black turret

With never a door,

Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;

Then, stand there and hear

The birds' quiet singing, that tells us

What life is, so clear?

—The secret they sang to Ulysses

When, ages ago,

He heard and he knew this life's secret

I hear and I know.

Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;He strikes the great gloomAnd flutters it o'er the mount's summitIn airy gold fume.All is over. Look out, see the gypsy,Our tinker and smith,Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,And down-squatted forthwithTo his hammering, under the wall there;One eye keeps aloofThe urchins that itch to be puttingHis jews'-harps to proof,While the other, through locks of curled wire,Is watching how sleekShines the hog, come to share in the windfall—Chew abbot's own cheek!All is over. Wake up and come out now,And down let us go,And see the fine things got in orderAt church for the show.Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening;To-morrow's the FeastOf the Rosary's Virgin, by no meansOf Virgins the least,As you'll hear in the off-hand discourseWhich (all nature, no art)The Dominican brother, these three weeks,Was getting by heart.Not a pillar nor post but is dizenedWith red and blue papers;All the roof waves with ribbons, each altarAblaze with long tapers;But the great masterpiece is the scaffoldRigged glorious to holdAll the fiddlers and fifers and drummersAnd trumpeters bold,Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,Who, when the priest's hoarse,Will strike us up something that's briskFor the feast's second course.And then will the flaxen-wigged ImageBe carried in pompThrough the plain, while in gallant processionThe priests mean to stomp.All round the glad church lie old bottlesWith gunpowder stopped,Which will be, when the Image re-enters,Religiously popped;And at night from the crest of CalvanoGreat bonfires will hang,On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,And more poppers bang.At all events, come—to the gardenAs far as the wall;See me tap with a hoe on the plasterTill out there shall fallA scorpion with wide angry nippers!

Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;

He strikes the great gloom

And flutters it o'er the mount's summit

In airy gold fume.

All is over. Look out, see the gypsy,

Our tinker and smith,

Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,

And down-squatted forthwith

To his hammering, under the wall there;

One eye keeps aloof

The urchins that itch to be putting

His jews'-harps to proof,

While the other, through locks of curled wire,

Is watching how sleek

Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall

—Chew abbot's own cheek!

All is over. Wake up and come out now,

And down let us go,

And see the fine things got in order

At church for the show.

Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening;

To-morrow's the Feast

Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means

Of Virgins the least,

As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse

Which (all nature, no art)

The Dominican brother, these three weeks,

Was getting by heart.

Not a pillar nor post but is dizened

With red and blue papers;

All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar

Ablaze with long tapers;

But the great masterpiece is the scaffold

Rigged glorious to hold

All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers

And trumpeters bold,

Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,

Who, when the priest's hoarse,

Will strike us up something that's brisk

For the feast's second course.

And then will the flaxen-wigged Image

Be carried in pomp

Through the plain, while in gallant procession

The priests mean to stomp.

All round the glad church lie old bottles

With gunpowder stopped,

Which will be, when the Image re-enters,

Religiously popped;

And at night from the crest of Calvano

Great bonfires will hang,

On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,

And more poppers bang.

At all events, come—to the garden

As far as the wall;

See me tap with a hoe on the plaster

Till out there shall fall

A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

—"Such trifles!" you say?Fortù, in my England at home,Men meet gravely to-dayAnd debate, if abolishing Corn-lawsBe righteous and wise—If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanishIn black from the skies.'

—"Such trifles!" you say?

Fortù, in my England at home,

Men meet gravely to-day

And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws

Be righteous and wise

—If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish

In black from the skies.'

In a letter to Miss Haworth, Browning writes, "I am getting to love painting as I did once.... I chanced to call on Forster the other day, and he pressed me into committing verse on the instant, not the minute, in Maclise's behalf, who has wrought a divine Venetian work, it seems, for the British Institution. Forster described it well—but I could do nothing better than this wooden ware—(all the 'properties,' as we say, were given and the problem was how to catalogue them in rhyme and unreason.)" Thereupon followed the first stanza of the following poem; but after seeing the picture he was moved to go on and carry the poem through to a real end.

He sings.I send my heart up to thee, all my heartIn this my singing.For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;The very night is clingingCloser to Venice' streets to leave one spaceAbove me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling place.She speaks.Say after me, and try to sayMy very words, as if each wordCame from you of your own accord,In your own voice, in your own way:"This woman's heart and soul and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear; which" (say again)"I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring."And yet once more say ... no word more!Since words are only words. Give o'er!Unless you call me, all the same,Familiarly by my pet name,Which if the Three should hear you call.And me reply to, would proclaimAt once our secret to them all.Ask of me, too, command me, blame—Do, break down the partition-wall'Twixt us, the daylight world beholdsCurtained in dusk and splendid folds!What's left but—all of me to take?I am the Three's: prevent them, slakeYour thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,In practising with gems, can looseTheir subtle spirit in his cruceAnd leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,Leave them my ashes when thy useSucks out my soul, thy heritage!He sings.Past we glide, and past, and past!What's that poor Agnese doingWhere they make the shutters fast?Gray Zanobi's just a-wooingTo his couch the purchased bride:Past we glide!Past we glide, and past, and past!Why's the Pucci Palace flaringLike a beacon to the blast?Guests by hundreds, not one caringIf the dear host's neck were wried:Past we glide!She sings.The moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up,And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.He sings.What are we two?I am a Jew,And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,To a feast of our tribe;Where they need thee to bribeThe devil that blasts them unless he imbibeThy ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,As of old, I am I, thou art thou!Say again, what we are?The sprite of a star,I lure thee above where the destinies barMy plumes their full playTill a ruddier rayThan my pale one announce there is withering awaySome ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,As of old, I am I, thou art thou!He muses.Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?The land's lap or the water's breast?To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,Or swim in lucid shallows justEluding water-lily leaves,An inch from Death's black fingers, thrustTo lock you, whom release he must;Which life were best on Summer eves?He speaks, musing.Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world!Rescue me thou, the only real!And scare away this mad idealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!Still he muses.What if the Three should catch at lastThy serenader? While there's castPaul's cloak about my head, and fastGian pinions me, Himself has pastHis stylet through my back; I reel;And ... is it thou I feel?They trail me, these three godless knaves,Past every church that saints and saves,Nor stop till, where the cold sea ravesBy Lido's wet accursed graves,They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,And ... on thy breast I sink!She replies, musing.Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grassTo plait in where the foolish jewel was,I flung away: since you have praised my hair,'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.He speaks.Row home? must we row home? Too surelyKnow I where its front's demurelyOver the Giudecca piled;Window just with window mating,Door on door exactly waiting,All's the set face of a child:But behind it, where's a traceOf the staidness and reserve,And formal lines without a curve,In the same child's playing-face?No two windows look one wayO'er the small sea-water threadBelow them. Ah, the autumn dayI, passing, saw you overhead!First, out a cloud of curtain blew,Then a sweet cry, and last came you—To catch your lory that must needsEscape just then, of all times then,To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,And make me happiest of men.I scarce could breathe to see you reachSo far back o'er the balconyTo catch him ere he climbed too highAbove you in the Smyrna peach,That quick the round smooth cord of gold,This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,Fell down you like a gorgeous snakeThe Roman girls were wont, of old,When Rome there was, for coolness' sakeTo let lie curling o'er their bosoms.Dear lory, may his beak retainEver its delicate rose stainAs if the wounded lotus-blossomsHad marked their thief to know again!Stay longer yet, for others' sakeThan mine! What should your chamber do?—With all its rarities that acheIn silence while day lasts, but wakeAt night-time and their life renew,Suspended just to pleasure youWho brought against their will togetherThese objects, and, while day lasts, weaveAround them such a magic tetherThat dumb they look: your harp, believe,With all the sensitive tight stringsWhich dare not speak, now to itselfBreathes slumberously, as if some elfWent in and out the chords, his wingsMake murmur wheresoe'er they graze,As an angel may, between the mazeOf midnight palace-pillars, onAnd on, to sow God's plagues, have goneThrough guilty glorious Babylon.And while such murmurs flow, the nymphBends o'er the harp-top from her shellAs the dry limpet for the lymphCome with a tune he knows so well.And how your statues' hearts must swell!And how your pictures must descendTo see each other, friend with friend!Oh, could you take them by surprise,You 'd find Schidone's eager DukeDoing the quaintest courtesiesTo that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!And, deeper into her rock den,Bold Castelfranco's MagdalenYou 'd find retreated from the kenOf that robed counsel-keeping Ser—As if the Tizian thinks of her,And is not, rather, gravely bentOn seeing for himself what toysAre these, his progeny invent,What litter now the board employsWhereon he signed a documentThat got him murdered! Each enjoysIts night so well, you cannot breakThe sport up, so, indeed must makeMore stay with me, for others' sake.She speaks.To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,Is used to tie the jasmine backThat overfloods my room with sweets,Contrive your Zorzi somehow meetsMy Zanze! If the ribbon's black,The Three are watching: keep away!Your gondola—let Zorzi wreatheA mesh of water-weeds aboutIts prow, as if he unawareHad struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!That I may throw a paper outAs you and he go underneath.There 's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we.Only one minute more to-night with me?Resume your past self of a month ago!Be you the bashful gallant, I will beThe lady with the colder breast than snow.Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my handMore than I touch yours when I step to land,And say, "All thanks, Siora!"—Heart to heartAnd lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!Heissurprised, and stabbed.It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and bestComes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! CareOnly to put aside thy beauteous hairMy blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scornTo death, because they never lived: but IHave lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!

He sings.

I send my heart up to thee, all my heartIn this my singing.For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;The very night is clingingCloser to Venice' streets to leave one spaceAbove me, whence thy faceMay light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling place.

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart

In this my singing.

For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;

The very night is clinging

Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space

Above me, whence thy face

May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling place.

She speaks.

Say after me, and try to sayMy very words, as if each wordCame from you of your own accord,In your own voice, in your own way:"This woman's heart and soul and brainAre mine as much as this gold chainShe bids me wear; which" (say again)"I choose to make by cherishingA precious thing, or choose to flingOver the boat-side, ring by ring."And yet once more say ... no word more!Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Say after me, and try to say

My very words, as if each word

Came from you of your own accord,

In your own voice, in your own way:

"This woman's heart and soul and brain

Are mine as much as this gold chain

She bids me wear; which" (say again)

"I choose to make by cherishing

A precious thing, or choose to fling

Over the boat-side, ring by ring."

And yet once more say ... no word more!

Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Unless you call me, all the same,Familiarly by my pet name,Which if the Three should hear you call.And me reply to, would proclaimAt once our secret to them all.Ask of me, too, command me, blame—Do, break down the partition-wall'Twixt us, the daylight world beholdsCurtained in dusk and splendid folds!What's left but—all of me to take?I am the Three's: prevent them, slakeYour thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,In practising with gems, can looseTheir subtle spirit in his cruceAnd leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,Leave them my ashes when thy useSucks out my soul, thy heritage!

Unless you call me, all the same,

Familiarly by my pet name,

Which if the Three should hear you call.

And me reply to, would proclaim

At once our secret to them all.

Ask of me, too, command me, blame—

Do, break down the partition-wall

'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds

Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!

What's left but—all of me to take?

I am the Three's: prevent them, slake

Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage,

In practising with gems, can loose

Their subtle spirit in his cruce

And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,

Leave them my ashes when thy use

Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

He sings.

Past we glide, and past, and past!What's that poor Agnese doingWhere they make the shutters fast?Gray Zanobi's just a-wooingTo his couch the purchased bride:Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past!

What's that poor Agnese doing

Where they make the shutters fast?

Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing

To his couch the purchased bride:

Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past!Why's the Pucci Palace flaringLike a beacon to the blast?Guests by hundreds, not one caringIf the dear host's neck were wried:Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past!

Why's the Pucci Palace flaring

Like a beacon to the blast?

Guests by hundreds, not one caring

If the dear host's neck were wried:

Past we glide!

She sings.

The moth's kiss, first!Kiss me as if you made believeYou were not sure, this eve,How my face, your flower, had pursedIts petals up; so, here and thereYou brush it, till I grow awareWho wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made believe

You were not sure, this eve,

How my face, your flower, had pursed

Its petals up; so, here and there

You brush it, till I grow aware

Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now!Kiss me as if you entered gayMy heart at some noonday,A bud that dares not disallowThe claim, so all is rendered up,And passively its shattered cupOver your head to sleep I bow.

The bee's kiss, now!

Kiss me as if you entered gay

My heart at some noonday,

A bud that dares not disallow

The claim, so all is rendered up,

And passively its shattered cup

Over your head to sleep I bow.

He sings.

What are we two?I am a Jew,And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,To a feast of our tribe;Where they need thee to bribeThe devil that blasts them unless he imbibeThy ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

What are we two?

I am a Jew,

And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue,

To a feast of our tribe;

Where they need thee to bribe

The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe

Thy ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are?The sprite of a star,I lure thee above where the destinies barMy plumes their full playTill a ruddier rayThan my pale one announce there is withering awaySome ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are?

The sprite of a star,

I lure thee above where the destinies bar

My plumes their full play

Till a ruddier ray

Than my pale one announce there is withering away

Some ... Scatter the vision forever! And now,

As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

He muses.

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?The land's lap or the water's breast?To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,Or swim in lucid shallows justEluding water-lily leaves,An inch from Death's black fingers, thrustTo lock you, whom release he must;Which life were best on Summer eves?

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest?

The land's lap or the water's breast?

To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves,

Or swim in lucid shallows just

Eluding water-lily leaves,

An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust

To lock you, whom release he must;

Which life were best on Summer eves?

He speaks, musing.

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?From this shoulder let there springA wing; from this, another wing;Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!Snow-white must they spring, to blendWith your flesh, but I intendThey shall deepen to the end,Broader, into burning gold,Till both wings crescent-wise enfoldYour perfect self, from 'neath your feetTo o'er your head, where, lo, they meetAs if a million sword-blades hurledDefiance from you to the world!

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you?

From this shoulder let there spring

A wing; from this, another wing;

Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you!

Snow-white must they spring, to blend

With your flesh, but I intend

They shall deepen to the end,

Broader, into burning gold,

Till both wings crescent-wise enfold

Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet

To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet

As if a million sword-blades hurled

Defiance from you to the world!

Rescue me thou, the only real!And scare away this mad idealThat came, nor motions to depart!Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

Rescue me thou, the only real!

And scare away this mad ideal

That came, nor motions to depart!

Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

Still he muses.

What if the Three should catch at lastThy serenader? While there's castPaul's cloak about my head, and fastGian pinions me, Himself has pastHis stylet through my back; I reel;And ... is it thou I feel?

What if the Three should catch at last

Thy serenader? While there's cast

Paul's cloak about my head, and fast

Gian pinions me, Himself has past

His stylet through my back; I reel;

And ... is it thou I feel?

They trail me, these three godless knaves,Past every church that saints and saves,Nor stop till, where the cold sea ravesBy Lido's wet accursed graves,They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,And ... on thy breast I sink!

They trail me, these three godless knaves,

Past every church that saints and saves,

Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves

By Lido's wet accursed graves,

They scoop mine, roll me to its brink,

And ... on thy breast I sink!

She replies, musing.

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep,

As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep,

Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel,

Or poison doubtless; but from water—feel!

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grassTo plait in where the foolish jewel was,I flung away: since you have praised my hair,'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There!

Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass

To plait in where the foolish jewel was,

I flung away: since you have praised my hair,

'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.

He speaks.

Row home? must we row home? Too surelyKnow I where its front's demurelyOver the Giudecca piled;Window just with window mating,Door on door exactly waiting,All's the set face of a child:But behind it, where's a traceOf the staidness and reserve,And formal lines without a curve,In the same child's playing-face?No two windows look one wayO'er the small sea-water threadBelow them. Ah, the autumn dayI, passing, saw you overhead!First, out a cloud of curtain blew,Then a sweet cry, and last came you—To catch your lory that must needsEscape just then, of all times then,To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,And make me happiest of men.I scarce could breathe to see you reachSo far back o'er the balconyTo catch him ere he climbed too highAbove you in the Smyrna peach,That quick the round smooth cord of gold,This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,Fell down you like a gorgeous snakeThe Roman girls were wont, of old,When Rome there was, for coolness' sakeTo let lie curling o'er their bosoms.Dear lory, may his beak retainEver its delicate rose stainAs if the wounded lotus-blossomsHad marked their thief to know again!

Row home? must we row home? Too surely

Know I where its front's demurely

Over the Giudecca piled;

Window just with window mating,

Door on door exactly waiting,

All's the set face of a child:

But behind it, where's a trace

Of the staidness and reserve,

And formal lines without a curve,

In the same child's playing-face?

No two windows look one way

O'er the small sea-water thread

Below them. Ah, the autumn day

I, passing, saw you overhead!

First, out a cloud of curtain blew,

Then a sweet cry, and last came you—

To catch your lory that must needs

Escape just then, of all times then,

To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds,

And make me happiest of men.

I scarce could breathe to see you reach

So far back o'er the balcony

To catch him ere he climbed too high

Above you in the Smyrna peach,

That quick the round smooth cord of gold,

This coiled hair on your head, unrolled,

Fell down you like a gorgeous snake

The Roman girls were wont, of old,

When Rome there was, for coolness' sake

To let lie curling o'er their bosoms.

Dear lory, may his beak retain

Ever its delicate rose stain

As if the wounded lotus-blossoms

Had marked their thief to know again!

Stay longer yet, for others' sakeThan mine! What should your chamber do?—With all its rarities that acheIn silence while day lasts, but wakeAt night-time and their life renew,Suspended just to pleasure youWho brought against their will togetherThese objects, and, while day lasts, weaveAround them such a magic tetherThat dumb they look: your harp, believe,With all the sensitive tight stringsWhich dare not speak, now to itselfBreathes slumberously, as if some elfWent in and out the chords, his wingsMake murmur wheresoe'er they graze,As an angel may, between the mazeOf midnight palace-pillars, onAnd on, to sow God's plagues, have goneThrough guilty glorious Babylon.And while such murmurs flow, the nymphBends o'er the harp-top from her shellAs the dry limpet for the lymphCome with a tune he knows so well.And how your statues' hearts must swell!And how your pictures must descendTo see each other, friend with friend!Oh, could you take them by surprise,You 'd find Schidone's eager DukeDoing the quaintest courtesiesTo that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!And, deeper into her rock den,Bold Castelfranco's MagdalenYou 'd find retreated from the kenOf that robed counsel-keeping Ser—As if the Tizian thinks of her,And is not, rather, gravely bentOn seeing for himself what toysAre these, his progeny invent,What litter now the board employsWhereon he signed a documentThat got him murdered! Each enjoysIts night so well, you cannot breakThe sport up, so, indeed must makeMore stay with me, for others' sake.

Stay longer yet, for others' sake

Than mine! What should your chamber do?

—With all its rarities that ache

In silence while day lasts, but wake

At night-time and their life renew,

Suspended just to pleasure you

Who brought against their will together

These objects, and, while day lasts, weave

Around them such a magic tether

That dumb they look: your harp, believe,

With all the sensitive tight strings

Which dare not speak, now to itself

Breathes slumberously, as if some elf

Went in and out the chords, his wings

Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze,

As an angel may, between the maze

Of midnight palace-pillars, on

And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone

Through guilty glorious Babylon.

And while such murmurs flow, the nymph

Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell

As the dry limpet for the lymph

Come with a tune he knows so well.

And how your statues' hearts must swell!

And how your pictures must descend

To see each other, friend with friend!

Oh, could you take them by surprise,

You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke

Doing the quaintest courtesies

To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke!

And, deeper into her rock den,

Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen

You 'd find retreated from the ken

Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser—

As if the Tizian thinks of her,

And is not, rather, gravely bent

On seeing for himself what toys

Are these, his progeny invent,

What litter now the board employs

Whereon he signed a document

That got him murdered! Each enjoys

Its night so well, you cannot break

The sport up, so, indeed must make

More stay with me, for others' sake.

She speaks.

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,Is used to tie the jasmine backThat overfloods my room with sweets,Contrive your Zorzi somehow meetsMy Zanze! If the ribbon's black,The Three are watching: keep away!

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say,

Is used to tie the jasmine back

That overfloods my room with sweets,

Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets

My Zanze! If the ribbon's black,

The Three are watching: keep away!

Your gondola—let Zorzi wreatheA mesh of water-weeds aboutIts prow, as if he unawareHad struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!That I may throw a paper outAs you and he go underneath.

Your gondola—let Zorzi wreathe

A mesh of water-weeds about

Its prow, as if he unaware

Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair!

That I may throw a paper out

As you and he go underneath.

There 's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we.Only one minute more to-night with me?Resume your past self of a month ago!Be you the bashful gallant, I will beThe lady with the colder breast than snow.Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my handMore than I touch yours when I step to land,And say, "All thanks, Siora!"—Heart to heartAnd lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!

There 's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we.

Only one minute more to-night with me?

Resume your past self of a month ago!

Be you the bashful gallant, I will be

The lady with the colder breast than snow.

Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand

More than I touch yours when I step to land,

And say, "All thanks, Siora!"—

Heart to heart

And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part,

Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!

Heissurprised, and stabbed.

It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and bestComes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! CareOnly to put aside thy beauteous hairMy blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scornTo death, because they never lived: but IHave lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!

It was ordained to be so, sweet!—and best

Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast.

Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care

Only to put aside thy beauteous hair

My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn

To death, because they never lived: but I

Have lived indeed, and so—(yet one more kiss)—can die!

An account of Alfred Domett, Browning's early friend, who was the occasion of this poem, will be found in the notes.

IWhat 's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and downAny longer London town?IIWho'd have guessed it from his lipOr his brow's accustomed bearing,On the night he thus took shipOr started landward?—little caringFor us, it seems, who supped together(Friends of his too, I remember)And walked home through the merry weather,The snowiest in all December.I left his arm that night myselfFor what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poetWho wrote the book there, on the shelf—How, forsooth, was I to know itIf Waring meant to glide awayLike a ghost at break of day?Never looked he half so gay!IIIHe was prouder than the devil:How he must have cursed our revel!Ay and many other meetings,Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,As up and down he paced this London,With no work done, but great works undone,Where scarce twenty knew his name.Why not, then, have earlier spoken,Written, bustled? Who 's to blameIf your silence kept unbroken?"True, but there were sundry jottings,Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,Certain first steps were achievedAlready which"—(is that your meaning?)"Had well borne out whoe'er believedIn more to come!" But who goes gleaningHedgeside chance-blades, while full-sheavedStand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweeningPride alone, puts forth such claimsO'er the day's distinguished names.IVMeantime, how much I loved him,I find out now I 've lost him.I who cared not if I moved him,Who could so carelessly accost him,Henceforth never shall get freeOf his ghostly company.His eyes that just a little winkAs deep I go into the meritOf this and that distinguished spirit—His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink,As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman's latest piece of graphic.Nay, my very wrist grows warmWith his dragging weight of arm.E'en so, swimmingly appears,Through one's after-supper musings,Some lost lady of old yearsWith her beauteous vain endeavorAnd goodness unrepaid as ever;The face, accustomed to refusings,We, puppies that we were ... Oh neverSurely, nice of conscience, scrupledBeing aught like false, forsooth, to?Telling aught but honest truth to?What a sin, had we centupledIts possessor's grace and sweetness!No! she heard in its completenessTruth, for truth 's a weighty matter,And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!Well, 't is done with; she 's exemptFrom damning us through such a sally;And so she glides, as down a valley,Taking up with her contempt,Past our reach; and in, the flowersShut her unregarded hours.VOh, could I have him back once more,This Waring, but one half-day more!Back, with the quiet face of yore,So hungry for acknowledgmentLike mine! I'd fool him to his bent.Feed, should not he, to heart's content?I 'd say, "to only have conceived,Planned your great works, apart from progress,Surpasses little works achieved!"I 'd lie so, I should be believed.I 'd make such havoc of the claimsOf the day's distinguished namesTo feast him with, as feasts an ogressHer feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!Or as one feasts a creature rarelyCaptured here, unreconciledTo capture; and completely givesIts pettish humors license, barelyRequiring that it lives.VIIchabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed!Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a god,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfallsOver the Kremlin's pavement brightWith serpentine and syenite,Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughAnd kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuffTo hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring in Moscow, to those roughCold northern natures born perhaps,Like the lambwhite maiden dearFrom the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alwayMingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beachAs pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy landsRapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cryAmid their barbarous twitter!In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 't is in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave MadridAll fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slidIts stiff gold blazing pallFrom some black coffin-lid.Or, best of all,I love to thinkThe leaving us was just a feint;Back here to London did he slink,And now works on without a winkOf sleep, and we are on the brinkOf something great in fresco-paint:Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,Up and down and o'er and o'erHe splashes, as none splashed beforeSince great Caldara Polidore.Or Music means this land of oursSome favor yet, to pity wonBy Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,—"Give me my so-long promised son,Let Waring end what I begun!"Then down he creeps and out he stealsOnly when the night concealsHis face; in Kent 't is cherry-time,Or hops are picking: or at primeOf March he wanders as, too happy,Years ago when he was young,Some mild eve when woods grew sappyAnd the early moths had sprungTo life from many a trembling sheathWoven the warm boughs beneath;While small birds said to themselvesWhat should soon be actual song,And young gnats, by tens and twelves,Made as if they were the throngThat crowd around and carry aloftThe sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure.Out of a myriad noises soft,Into a tone that can endureAmid the noise of a July noonWhen all God's creatures crave their boon,All at once and all in tune,And get it, happy as Waring then,Having first within his kenWhat a man might do with men:And far too glad, in the even-glow.To mix with the world he meant to takeInto his hand, he told you, so—And out of it his world to make,To contract and to expandAs he shut or oped his hand.O Waring, what 's to really be?A clear stage and a crowd to see!Some Garrick, say, out shall not heThe heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuckHis sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!Some Chatterton shall have the luckOf calling Rowley into life!Some one shall somehow run a-muckWith this old world for want of strifeSound asleep. Contrive, contriveTo rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive?Our men scarce seem in earnest now.Distinguished names!—but 't is, somehow,As if they played at being namesStill more distinguished, like the gamesOf children. Turn our sport to earnestWith a visage of the sternest!Bring the real times back, confessedStill better than our very best!

What 's become of WaringSince he gave us all the slip,Chose land-travel or seafaring,Boots and chest or staff and scrip,Rather than pace up and downAny longer London town?

What 's become of Waring

Since he gave us all the slip,

Chose land-travel or seafaring,

Boots and chest or staff and scrip,

Rather than pace up and down

Any longer London town?

Who'd have guessed it from his lipOr his brow's accustomed bearing,On the night he thus took shipOr started landward?—little caringFor us, it seems, who supped together(Friends of his too, I remember)And walked home through the merry weather,The snowiest in all December.I left his arm that night myselfFor what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poetWho wrote the book there, on the shelf—How, forsooth, was I to know itIf Waring meant to glide awayLike a ghost at break of day?Never looked he half so gay!

Who'd have guessed it from his lip

Or his brow's accustomed bearing,

On the night he thus took ship

Or started landward?—little caring

For us, it seems, who supped together

(Friends of his too, I remember)

And walked home through the merry weather,

The snowiest in all December.

I left his arm that night myself

For what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poet

Who wrote the book there, on the shelf—

How, forsooth, was I to know it

If Waring meant to glide away

Like a ghost at break of day?

Never looked he half so gay!

III

He was prouder than the devil:How he must have cursed our revel!Ay and many other meetings,Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,As up and down he paced this London,With no work done, but great works undone,Where scarce twenty knew his name.Why not, then, have earlier spoken,Written, bustled? Who 's to blameIf your silence kept unbroken?"True, but there were sundry jottings,Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,Certain first steps were achievedAlready which"—(is that your meaning?)"Had well borne out whoe'er believedIn more to come!" But who goes gleaningHedgeside chance-blades, while full-sheavedStand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweeningPride alone, puts forth such claimsO'er the day's distinguished names.

He was prouder than the devil:

How he must have cursed our revel!

Ay and many other meetings,

Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,

As up and down he paced this London,

With no work done, but great works undone,

Where scarce twenty knew his name.

Why not, then, have earlier spoken,

Written, bustled? Who 's to blame

If your silence kept unbroken?

"True, but there were sundry jottings,

Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings,

Certain first steps were achieved

Already which"—(is that your meaning?)

"Had well borne out whoe'er believed

In more to come!" But who goes gleaning

Hedgeside chance-blades, while full-sheaved

Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening

Pride alone, puts forth such claims

O'er the day's distinguished names.

Meantime, how much I loved him,I find out now I 've lost him.I who cared not if I moved him,Who could so carelessly accost him,Henceforth never shall get freeOf his ghostly company.His eyes that just a little winkAs deep I go into the meritOf this and that distinguished spirit—His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink,As long I dwell on some stupendousAnd tremendous (Heaven defend us!)Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ousDemoniaco-seraphicPenman's latest piece of graphic.Nay, my very wrist grows warmWith his dragging weight of arm.E'en so, swimmingly appears,Through one's after-supper musings,Some lost lady of old yearsWith her beauteous vain endeavorAnd goodness unrepaid as ever;The face, accustomed to refusings,We, puppies that we were ... Oh neverSurely, nice of conscience, scrupledBeing aught like false, forsooth, to?Telling aught but honest truth to?What a sin, had we centupledIts possessor's grace and sweetness!No! she heard in its completenessTruth, for truth 's a weighty matter,And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!Well, 't is done with; she 's exemptFrom damning us through such a sally;And so she glides, as down a valley,Taking up with her contempt,Past our reach; and in, the flowersShut her unregarded hours.

Meantime, how much I loved him,

I find out now I 've lost him.

I who cared not if I moved him,

Who could so carelessly accost him,

Henceforth never shall get free

Of his ghostly company.

His eyes that just a little wink

As deep I go into the merit

Of this and that distinguished spirit—

His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink,

As long I dwell on some stupendous

And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous

Demoniaco-seraphic

Penman's latest piece of graphic.

Nay, my very wrist grows warm

With his dragging weight of arm.

E'en so, swimmingly appears,

Through one's after-supper musings,

Some lost lady of old years

With her beauteous vain endeavor

And goodness unrepaid as ever;

The face, accustomed to refusings,

We, puppies that we were ... Oh never

Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled

Being aught like false, forsooth, to?

Telling aught but honest truth to?

What a sin, had we centupled

Its possessor's grace and sweetness!

No! she heard in its completeness

Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter,

And truth, at issue, we can't flatter!

Well, 't is done with; she 's exempt

From damning us through such a sally;

And so she glides, as down a valley,

Taking up with her contempt,

Past our reach; and in, the flowers

Shut her unregarded hours.

Oh, could I have him back once more,This Waring, but one half-day more!Back, with the quiet face of yore,So hungry for acknowledgmentLike mine! I'd fool him to his bent.Feed, should not he, to heart's content?I 'd say, "to only have conceived,Planned your great works, apart from progress,Surpasses little works achieved!"I 'd lie so, I should be believed.I 'd make such havoc of the claimsOf the day's distinguished namesTo feast him with, as feasts an ogressHer feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!Or as one feasts a creature rarelyCaptured here, unreconciledTo capture; and completely givesIts pettish humors license, barelyRequiring that it lives.

Oh, could I have him back once more,

This Waring, but one half-day more!

Back, with the quiet face of yore,

So hungry for acknowledgment

Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent.

Feed, should not he, to heart's content?

I 'd say, "to only have conceived,

Planned your great works, apart from progress,

Surpasses little works achieved!"

I 'd lie so, I should be believed.

I 'd make such havoc of the claims

Of the day's distinguished names

To feast him with, as feasts an ogress

Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child!

Or as one feasts a creature rarely

Captured here, unreconciled

To capture; and completely gives

Its pettish humors license, barely

Requiring that it lives.

Ichabod, Ichabod,The glory is departed!Travels Waring East away?Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,Reports a man upstartedSomewhere as a god,Hordes grown European-hearted,Millions of the wild made tameOn a sudden at his fame?In Vishnu-land what Avatar?Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,With the demurest of footfallsOver the Kremlin's pavement brightWith serpentine and syenite,Steps, with five other GeneralsThat simultaneously take snuff,For each to have pretext enoughAnd kerchiefwise unfold his sashWhich, softness' self, is yet the stuffTo hold fast where a steel chain snaps,And leave the grand white neck no gash?Waring in Moscow, to those roughCold northern natures born perhaps,Like the lambwhite maiden dearFrom the circle of mute kingsUnable to repress the tear,Each as his sceptre down he flings,To Dian's fane at Taurica,Where now a captive priestess, she alwayMingles her tender grave Hellenic speechWith theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beachAs pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy landsRapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strandsWhere breed the swallows, her melodious cryAmid their barbarous twitter!In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!Ay, most likely 't is in SpainThat we and Waring meet againNow, while he turns down that cool narrow laneInto the blackness, out of grave MadridAll fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slidIts stiff gold blazing pallFrom some black coffin-lid.Or, best of all,I love to thinkThe leaving us was just a feint;Back here to London did he slink,And now works on without a winkOf sleep, and we are on the brinkOf something great in fresco-paint:Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,Up and down and o'er and o'erHe splashes, as none splashed beforeSince great Caldara Polidore.Or Music means this land of oursSome favor yet, to pity wonBy Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,—"Give me my so-long promised son,Let Waring end what I begun!"Then down he creeps and out he stealsOnly when the night concealsHis face; in Kent 't is cherry-time,Or hops are picking: or at primeOf March he wanders as, too happy,Years ago when he was young,Some mild eve when woods grew sappyAnd the early moths had sprungTo life from many a trembling sheathWoven the warm boughs beneath;While small birds said to themselvesWhat should soon be actual song,And young gnats, by tens and twelves,Made as if they were the throngThat crowd around and carry aloftThe sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure.Out of a myriad noises soft,Into a tone that can endureAmid the noise of a July noonWhen all God's creatures crave their boon,All at once and all in tune,And get it, happy as Waring then,Having first within his kenWhat a man might do with men:And far too glad, in the even-glow.To mix with the world he meant to takeInto his hand, he told you, so—And out of it his world to make,To contract and to expandAs he shut or oped his hand.O Waring, what 's to really be?A clear stage and a crowd to see!Some Garrick, say, out shall not heThe heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuckHis sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!Some Chatterton shall have the luckOf calling Rowley into life!Some one shall somehow run a-muckWith this old world for want of strifeSound asleep. Contrive, contriveTo rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive?Our men scarce seem in earnest now.Distinguished names!—but 't is, somehow,As if they played at being namesStill more distinguished, like the gamesOf children. Turn our sport to earnestWith a visage of the sternest!Bring the real times back, confessedStill better than our very best!

Ichabod, Ichabod,

The glory is departed!

Travels Waring East away?

Who, of knowledge, by hearsay,

Reports a man upstarted

Somewhere as a god,

Hordes grown European-hearted,

Millions of the wild made tame

On a sudden at his fame?

In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar,

With the demurest of footfalls

Over the Kremlin's pavement bright

With serpentine and syenite,

Steps, with five other Generals

That simultaneously take snuff,

For each to have pretext enough

And kerchiefwise unfold his sash

Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff

To hold fast where a steel chain snaps,

And leave the grand white neck no gash?

Waring in Moscow, to those rough

Cold northern natures born perhaps,

Like the lambwhite maiden dear

From the circle of mute kings

Unable to repress the tear,

Each as his sceptre down he flings,

To Dian's fane at Taurica,

Where now a captive priestess, she alway

Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech

With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach

As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands

Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands

Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry

Amid their barbarous twitter!

In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter!

Ay, most likely 't is in Spain

That we and Waring meet again

Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane

Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid

All fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slid

Its stiff gold blazing pall

From some black coffin-lid.

Or, best of all,

I love to think

The leaving us was just a feint;

Back here to London did he slink,

And now works on without a wink

Of sleep, and we are on the brink

Of something great in fresco-paint:

Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor,

Up and down and o'er and o'er

He splashes, as none splashed before

Since great Caldara Polidore.

Or Music means this land of ours

Some favor yet, to pity won

By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,—

"Give me my so-long promised son,

Let Waring end what I begun!"

Then down he creeps and out he steals

Only when the night conceals

His face; in Kent 't is cherry-time,

Or hops are picking: or at prime

Of March he wanders as, too happy,

Years ago when he was young,

Some mild eve when woods grew sappy

And the early moths had sprung

To life from many a trembling sheath

Woven the warm boughs beneath;

While small birds said to themselves

What should soon be actual song,

And young gnats, by tens and twelves,

Made as if they were the throng

That crowd around and carry aloft

The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure.

Out of a myriad noises soft,

Into a tone that can endure

Amid the noise of a July noon

When all God's creatures crave their boon,

All at once and all in tune,

And get it, happy as Waring then,

Having first within his ken

What a man might do with men:

And far too glad, in the even-glow.

To mix with the world he meant to take

Into his hand, he told you, so—

And out of it his world to make,

To contract and to expand

As he shut or oped his hand.

O Waring, what 's to really be?

A clear stage and a crowd to see!

Some Garrick, say, out shall not he

The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck?

Or, where most unclean beasts are rife,

Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuck

His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife!

Some Chatterton shall have the luck

Of calling Rowley into life!

Some one shall somehow run a-muck

With this old world for want of strife

Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive

To rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive?

Our men scarce seem in earnest now.

Distinguished names!—but 't is, somehow,

As if they played at being names

Still more distinguished, like the games

Of children. Turn our sport to earnest

With a visage of the sternest!

Bring the real times back, confessed

Still better than our very best!

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