The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
Place was grudged to the silver-grey 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 staunch
To the stone where they root and bear berries, —
And … what shows a branch
Coral-coloured, 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, — half way
On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses —
No farther to-day,
Tho’ 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, tho’ unseen,
That ruffle the grey 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 gloom
And flutters it o’er the mount’s summit
In airy gold fume.
All is over! Look out, see the gipsy,
Our tinker and smith,
Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,
And down-squatted 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, thro’ locks of curled wire,
Is watching how sleek
Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall
— An 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.
Tomorrow’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
A-blaze 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
Thro’ 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,