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

      SORDELLO BOOK THE SECOND.

       Table of Contents

      The woods were long austere with snow: at last

       Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast

       Larches, scattered through pinetree solitudes,

       Brightened, “as in the slumbrous heart o’ the woods

       “Our buried year, a witch, grew young again

       “To placid incantations, and that stain

       “About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent

       “With those black pines” — so Eglamor gave vent

       To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke

       From his companion; brother Naddo shook

       The solemnest of brows: “Beware,” he said,

       “Of setting up conceits in nature’s stead!”

       Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure

       As that to-day’s adventure will secure

       Palma, the visioned lady — only pass

       O’er you damp mound and its exhausted grass,

       Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks

       Of withered fern with gold, into those walks

       Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went.

       Again his stooping forehead was besprent

       With dewdrops from the skirting ferns. Then wide

       Opened the great morass, shot every side

       With flashing water through and through; a-shine,

       Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine,

       Quivered i’ the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced

       Athwart the flying herons? He advanced,

       But warily; though Mincio leaped no more,

       Each footfall burst up in the marish-floor

       A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick

       Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick,

       And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach,

       A sudden pond would silently encroach

       This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge

       Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge

       Flushed, now, and panting, — crowds to see, — will own

       She loves him — Boniface to hear, to groan,

       To leave his suit! One screen of pinetrees still

       Opposes: but — the startling spectacle —

       Mantua, this time! Under the walls — a crowd

       Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud

       Round a pavilion. How he stood!

      In truth

       No prophecy had come to pass: his youth

       In its prime now — and where was homage poured

       Upon Sordello? — born to be adored,

       And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made

       To cope with any, cast into the shade

       By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick

       And tingle in his blood; a sleight — a trick —

       And much would be explained. It went for nought —

       The best of their endowments were ill bought

       With his identity: nay, the conceit,

       That this day’s roving led to Palma’s feet

       Was not so vain — list! The word, “Palma!” Steal

       Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real,

       And this — abjure!

      What next? The curtains see

       Dividing! She is there; and presently

       He will be there — the proper You, at length —

       In your own cherished dress of grace and strength:

       Most like, the very Boniface!

      Not so.

       It was a showy man advanced; but though

       A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound

       Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around,

       — ”This is not he,” Sordello felt; while, “Place

       “For the best Troubadour of Boniface!”

       Hollaed the Jongleurs, — ”Eglamor, whose lay

       “Concludes his patron’s Court of Love to-day!”

       Obsequious Naddo strung the master’s lute

       With the new lute-string, “Elys,” named to suit

       The song: he stealthily at watch, the while,

       Biting his lip to keep down a