The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning

The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition - Robert  Browning


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helplessness and utter want

       Of means to worthily be ministrant

       To what it worships, do but fan the more

       Its flame, exalt the idol far before

       Itself as it would have it ever be.

       Souls like Sordello, on the contrary,

       Coerced and put to shame, retaining will,

       Care little, take mysterious comfort still,

       But look forth tremblingly to ascertain

       If others judge their claims not urged in vain,

       And say for them their stifled thoughts aloud.

       So, they must ever live before a crowd:

       — ”Vanity,” Naddo tells you.

      Whence contrive

       A crowd, now? From these women just alive,

       That archer-troop? Forth glided — not alone

       Each painted warrior, every girl of stone,

       Nor Adelaide (bent double o’er a scroll,

       One maiden at her knees, that eve, his soul

       Shook as he stumbled through the arras’d glooms

       On them, for, ‘mid quaint robes and weird perfumes,

       Started the meagre Tuscan up, — her eyes,

       The maiden’s, also, bluer with surprise)

       — But the entire out-world: whatever, scraps

       And snatches, song and story, dreams perhaps,

       Conceited the world’s offices, and he

       Had hitherto transferred to flower or tree,

       Not counted a befitting heritage

       Each, of its own right, singly to engage

       Some man, no other, — such now dared to stand

       Alone. Strength, wisdom, grace on every hand

       Soon disengaged themselves, and he discerned

       A sort of human life: at least, was turned

       A stream of lifelike figures through his brain.

       Lord, liegeman, valvassor and suzerain,

       Ere he could choose, surrounded him; a stuff

       To work his pleasure on; there, sure enough:

       But as for gazing, what shall fix that gaze?

       Are they to simply testify the ways

       He who convoked them sends his soul along

       With the cloud’s thunder or a dove’s brood-song?

       — While they live each his life, boast each his own

       Peculiar dower of bliss, stand each alone

       In some one point where something dearest loved

       Is easiest gained — far worthier to be proved

       Than aught he envies in the forest-wights!

       No simple and self-evident delights,

       But mixed desires of unimagined range,

       Contrasts or combinations, new and strange,

       Irksome perhaps, yet plainly recognized

       By this, the sudden company — loves prized

       By those who are to prize his own amount

       Of loves. Once care because such make account,

       Allow that foreign recognitions stamp

       The current value, and his crowd shall vamp

       Him counterfeits enough; and so their print

       Be on the piece, ‘t is gold, attests the mint,

       And “good,” pronounce they whom his new appeal

       Is made to: if their casual print conceal —

       This arbitrary good of theirs o’ergloss

       What he has lived without, nor felt the loss —

       Qualities strange, ungainly, wearisome,

       — What matter? So must speech expand the dumb

       Part-sigh, part-smile with which Sordello, late

       Whom no poor woodland-sights could satiate,

       Betakes himself to study hungrily

       Just what the puppets his crude phantasy

       Supposes notablest, — popes, kings, priests, knights, —

       May please to promulgate for appetites;

       Accepting all their artificial joys

       Not as he views them, but as he employs

       Each shape to estimate the other’s stock

       Of attributes, whereon — a marshalled flock

       Of authorized enjoyments — he may spend

       Himself, be men, now, as he used to blend

       With tree and flower — nay more entirely, else

       ‘T were mockery: for instance, “How excels

       “My life that chieftain’s?” (who apprised the youth

       Ecelin, here, becomes this month, in truth,

       Imperial Vicar?) “Turns he in his tent

       “Remissly? Be it so — my head is bent

       “Deliciously amid my girls to sleep.

       “What if he stalks the Trentine-pass? Yon steep

       “I climbed an hour ago with little toil:

       “We are alike there. But can I, too, foil

       “The Guelf’s paid stabber, carelessly afford

       “Saint Mark’s a spectacle, the sleight o’ the sword

       “Baffling the treason in a moment?” Here

       No rescue! Poppy he is none, but peer

       To Ecelin, assuredly: his hand,

       Fashioned no otherwise, should wield a brand

       With Ecelin’s success — try, now! He soon

       Was satisfied, returned as to the moon

       From earth; left each abortive boy’s-attempt

       For feats, from failure happily exempt,

       In fancy at his beck. “One day I will

       “Accomplish it! Are they not older still

       “ — Not grown-up men and women? ‘T is beside

       “Only a dream; and though I must abide

       “With dreams now, I may find a thorough vent

       “For all myself, acquire an instrument

       “For acting what these people act; my soul

       “Hunting a body out may gain its whole

       “Desire some day!” How else express chagrin

       And resignation, show the hope steal in

       With which he let sink from an aching wrist

       The rough-hewn ash-bow? Straight, a gold shaft hissed

       Into the Syrian air, struck Malek down

       Superbly! “Crosses to the breach! God’s Town

       “Is gained him back!” Why bend rough ash-bows more?

      Thus lives he: if not careless as before,

       Comforted: for one may anticipate,

       Rehearse the future, be prepared when fate

       Shall have prepared in turn real men whose names

      


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