The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
That, as I stopped my task awhile, the sad
Dishevelled form, wherein I put mankind
To come at times and keep my pact in mind,
Renewed me, — hear no crickets in the hedge,
Nor let a glowworm spot the river’s edge
At home, and may the summer showers gush
Without a warning from the missel thrush!
So, to our business, now — the fate of such
As find our common nature — overmuch
Despised because restricted and unfit
To bear the burthen they impose on it —
Cling when they would discard it; craving strength
To leap from the allotted world, at length
They do leap, — flounder on without a term,
Each a god’s germ, doomed to remain a germ
In unexpanded infancy, unless …
But that ‘s the story — dull enough, confess!
There might be fitter subjects to allure;
Still, neither misconceive my portraiture
Nor undervalue its adornments quaint:
What seems a fiend perchance may prove a saint.
Ponder a story ancient pens transmit,
Then say if you condemn me or acquit.
John the Beloved, banished Antioch
For Patmos, bade collectively his flock
Farewell, but set apart the closing eve
To comfort those his exile most would grieve,
He knew: a touching spectacle, that house
In motion to receive him! Xanthus’ spouse
You missed, made panther’s meat a month since; but
Xanthus himself (his nephew ‘t was, they shut
‘Twixt boards and sawed asunder) Polycarp,
Soft Charicle, next year no wheel could warp
To swear by Cæsar’s fortune, with the rest
Were ranged; thro’ whom the grey disciple pressed,
Busily blessing right and left, just stopped
To pat one infant’s curls, the hangman cropped
Soon after, reached the portal. On its hinge
The door turns and he enters: what quick twinge
Ruins the smiling mouth, those wide eyes fix
Whereon, why like some spectral candlestick’s
Branch the disciple’s arms? Dead swooned he, woke
Anon, heaved sigh, made shift to gasp, heart-broke,
“Get thee behind me, Satan! Have I toiled
“To no more purpose? Is the gospel foiled
“Here too, and o’er my son’s, my Xanthus’ hearth,
“Portrayed with sooty garb and features swarth —
“Ah Xanthus, am I to thy roof beguiled
“To see the — the — the Devil domiciled?”
Whereto sobbed Xanthus, “Father, ‘t is yourself
“Installed, a limning which our utmost pelf
“Went to procure against tomorrow’s loss;
“And that’s no twy-prong, but a pastoral cross,
“You ‘re painted with!”
His puckered brows unfold —
And you shall hear Sordello’s story told.
SORDELLO BOOK THE FOURTH.
Meantime Ferrara lay in rueful case;
The lady-city, for whose sole embrace
Her pair of suitors struggled, felt their arms
A brawny mischief to the fragile charms
They tugged for — one discovering that to twist
Her tresses twice or thrice about his wrist
Secured a point of vantage — one, how best
He ‘d parry that by planting in her breast
His elbow spike — each party too intent
For noticing, howe’er the battle went,
The conqueror would but have a corpse to kiss.
“May Boniface be duly damned for this!”
— Howled some old Ghibellin, as up he turned,
From the wet heap of rubbish where they burned
His house, a little skull with dazzling teeth:
“A boon, sweet Christ — let Salinguerra seethe
“In hell for ever, Christ, and let myself
“Be there to laugh at him!” — moaned some young Guelf
Stumbling upon a shrivelled hand nailed fast
To the charred lintel of the doorway, last
His father stood within to bid him speed.
The thoroughfares were overrun with weed
— Docks, quitchgrass, loathy mallows no man plants.
The stranger, none of its inhabitants
Crept out of doors to taste fresh air again,
And ask the purpose of a splendid train
Admitted on a morning; every town
Of the East League was come by envoy down
To treat for Richard’s ransom: here you saw
The Vicentine, here snowy oxen draw
The Paduan carroch, its vermilion cross
On its white field. A-tiptoe o’er the fosse
Looked Legate Montelungo wistfully
After the flock of steeples he might spy
In Este’s time, gone (doubts he) long ago
To mend the ramparts: sure the laggards know
The Pope’s as good as here! They paced the streets
More soberly. At last, “Taurello greets
“The League,” announced a pursuivant, — ”will match
“Its courtesy, and labours to dispatch
“At earliest Tito, Friedrich’s Pretor, sent
“On pressing matters from his post at Trent,
“With Mainard Count of Tyrol, — simply waits
“Their going to receive the delegates.”
“Tito!” Our delegates exchanged a glance,
And, keeping the main way, admired askance
The lazy engines of outlandish birth,
Couched like a king each on its bank of earth —
Arbalist, manganel and catapult;
While stationed by, as waiting a result,
Lean silent gangs of mercenaries ceased
Working to watch the strangers. “This, at least,
“Were better spared; he scarce presumes