The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
“Fools ‘t is not safe to stray within claw’s reach
“Ere Salinguerra’s final gasp be blown?
“Those mere convulsive scratches find the bone.
“Who bade him bloody the spent osprey’s nare?”
The carrochs halted in the public square.
Pennons of every blazon once a-flaunt,
Men prattled, freelier than the crested gaunt
White ostrich with a horse-shoe in her beak
Was missing, and whoever chose might speak
“Ecelin” boldly out: so, — ”Ecelin
“Needed his wife to swallow half the sin
“And sickens by himself: the devil’s whelp,
“He styles his son, dwindles away, no help
“From conserves, your fine triple-curded froth
“Of virgin’s blood, your Venice viper-broth —
“Eh? Jubilate!” — ”Peace! no little word
“You utter here that ‘s not distinctly heard
“Up at Oliero: he was absent sick
“When we besieged Bassano — who, i’ the thick
“O’ the work, perceived the progress Azzo made,
“Like Ecelin, through his witch Adelaide?
“She managed it so well that, night by night
“At their bedfoot stood up a soldier-sprite,
“First fresh, pale by-and-by without a wound,
“And, when it came with eyes filmed as in swound,
“They knew the place was taken.” — ”Ominous
“That Ghibellins should get what cautelous
“Old Redbeard sought from Azzo’s sire to wrench
“Vainly; Saint George contrived his town a trench
“O’ the marshes, an impermeable bar.”
“ — Young Ecelin is meant the tutelar
“Of Padua, rather; veins embrace upon
“His hand like Brenta and Bacchiglion.”
What now? — ”The founts! God’s bread, touch not a plank!
“A crawling hell of carrion — every tank
“Choke-full! — found out just now to Cino’s cost —
“The same who gave Taurello up for lost,
“And, making no account of fortune’s freaks,
“Refused to budge from Padua then, but sneaks
“Back now with Concorezzi: ‘faith! they drag
“Their carroch to San Vitale, plant the flag
“On his own palace, so adroitly razed
“He knew it not; a sort of Guelf folk gazed
“And laughed apart; Cino disliked their air —
“Must pluck up spirit, show he does not care —
“Seats himself on the tank’s edge — will begin
“To hum, za, za, Cavaler Ecelin —
“A silence; he gets warmer, clinks to chime,
“Now both feet plough the ground, deeper each time,
“At last, za, za and up with a fierce kick
“Comes his own mother’s face caught by the thick
“Grey hair about his spur!”
Which means, they lift
The covering, Salinguerra made a shift
To stretch upon the truth; as well avoid
Further disclosures; leave them thus employed.
Our dropping Autumn morning clears apace,
And poor Ferrara puts a softened face
On her misfortunes. Let us scale this tall
Huge foursquare line of red brick garden-wall
Bastioned within by trees of every sort
On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short;
Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped,
The figtree reared itself, — but stark and cramped,
Made fools of, like tamed lions: whence, on the edge,
Running ‘twixt trunk and trunk to smooth one ledge
Of shade, were shrubs inserted, warp and woof,
Which smothered up that variance. Scale the roof
Of solid tops, and o’er the slope you slide
Down to a grassy space level and wide,
Here and there dotted with a tree, but trees
Of rarer leaf, each foreigner at ease,
Set by itself: and in the centre spreads,
Borne upon three uneasy leopards’ heads,
A laver, broad and shallow, one bright spirt
Of water bubbles in. The walls begirt
With trees leave off on either hand; pursue
Your path along a wondrous avenue
Those walls abut on, heaped of gleamy stone,
With aloes leering everywhere, grey-grown
From many a Moorish summer: how they wind
Out of the fissures! likelier to bind
The building than those rusted cramps which drop
Already in the eating sunshine. Stop,
You fleeting shapes above there! Ah, the pride
Or else despair of the whole countryside!
A range of statues, swarming o’er with wasps,
God, goddess, woman, man, the Greek rough-rasps
In crumbling Naples marble — meant to look
Like those Messina marbles Constance took
Delight in, or Taurello’s self conveyed
To Mantua for his mistress, Adelaide, —
A certain font with caryatides
Since cloistered at Goito; only, these
Are up and doing, not abashed, a troop
Able to right themselves — who see you, stoop
Their arms o’ the instant after you! Unplucked
By this or that, you pass; for they conduct
To terrace raised on terrace, and, between,
Creatures of brighter mould and braver mien
Than any yet, the choicest of the Isle
No doubt. Here, left a sullen breathing-while,
Upgathered on himself the Fighter stood
For his last fight, and, wiping treacherous blood
Out of the eyelids just held ope beneath
Those shading fingers in their iron sheath,
Steadied his strengths amid the buzz and stir
Of the dusk hideous amphitheatre
At the announcement of his overmatch
To wind the day’s diversion up, dispatch
The pertinactious Gaul: while, limbs one heap,