The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning
“Nor stir — should fate defraud him of a shred
“Of his son’s infancy? much less his youth!”
(Laughingly all this) — ”which to aid, in truth,
“Himself, reserved on purpose, had not grown
“Old, not too old — ’t was best they kept alone
“Till now, and never idly met till now;”
— Then, in the same breath, told Sordello how
All intimations of this eve’s event
Were lies, for Friedrich must advance to Trent,
Thence to Verona, then to Rome, there stop,
Tumble the Church down, institute a-top
The Alps a Prefecture of Lombardy:
— ”That ‘s now! — no prophesying what may be
“Anon, with a new monarch of the clime,
“Native of Gesi, passing his youth’s prime
“At Naples. Tito bids my choice decide
“On whom…”
”Embrace him, madman!” Palma cried,
Who through the laugh saw sweat-drops burst apace,
And his lips blanching: he did not embrace
Sordello, but he laid Sordello’s hand
On his own eyes, mouth, forehead.
Understand,
This while Sordello was becoming flushed
Out of his whiteness; thoughts rushed, fancies rushed;
He pressed his hand upon his head and signed
Both should forbear him. “Nay, the best ‘s behind!”
Taurello laughed — not quite with the same laugh:
“The truth is, thus we scatter, ay, like chaff
“These Guelfs, a despicable monk recoils
“From: nor expect a fickle Kaiser spoils
“Our triumph! — Friedrich? Think you, I intend
“Friedrich shall reap the fruits of blood I spend
“And brain I waste? Think you, the people clap
“Their hands at my out-hewing this wild gap
“For any Friedrich to fill up? ‘T is mine —
“That ‘s yours: I tell you, towards some such design
“Have I worked blindly, yes, and idly, yes,
“And for another, yes — but worked no less
“With instinct at my heart; I else had swerved,
“While now — look round! My cunning has preserved
“Samminiato — that ‘s a central place
“Secures us Florence, boy, — in Pisa’s case.
“By land as she by sea; with Pisa ours,
“And Florence, and Pistoia, one devours
“The land at leisure! Gloriously dispersed —
“Brescia, observe, Milan, Piacenza first
“That flanked us (ah, you know not!) in the March;
“On these we pile, as keystone of our arch,
“Romagna and Bologna, whose first span
“Covered the Trentine and the Valsugan;
“Sofia’s Egna by Bolgiano ‘s sure!”…
So he proceeded: half of all this, pure
Delusion, doubtless, nor the rest too true,
But what was undone he felt sure to do,
As ring by ring he wrung off, flung away
The pauldron-rings to give his sword-arm play —
Need of the sword now! That would soon adjust
Aught wrong at present; to the sword intrust
Sordello’s whiteness, undersize: ‘t was plain
He hardly rendered right to his own brain —
Like a brave hound, men educate to pride
Himself on speed or scent nor aught beside,
As though he could not, gift by gift, match men!
Palma had listened patiently: but when
‘T was time expostulate, attempt withdraw
Taurello from his child, she, without awe
Took off his iron arms from, one by one,
Sordello’s shrinking shoulders, and, that done,
Made him avert his visage and relieve
Sordello (you might see his corslet heave
The while) who, loose, rose — tried to speak, then sank:
They left him in the chamber. All was blank.
And even reeling down the narrow stair
Taurello kept up, as though unaware
Palma was by to guide him, the old device
— Something of Milan — ”how we muster thrice
“The Torriani’s strength there; all along
“Our own Visconti cowed them” — thus the song
Continued even while she bade him stoop,
Thrid somehow, by some glimpse of arrow-loop,
The turnings to the gallery below,
Where he stopped short as Palma let him go.
When he had sat in silence long enough
Splintering the stone bench, braving a rebuff
She stopped the truncheon; only to commence
One of Sordello’s poems, a pretence
For speaking, some poor rhyme of “Elys’ hair
“And head that ‘s sharp and perfect like a pear,
“So smooth and close are laid the few fine locks
“Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks
“Sun-blanched the livelong summer” — from his worst
Performance, the Goito, as his first:
And that at end, conceiving from the brow
And open mouth no silence would serve now,
Went on to say the whole world loved that man
And, for that matter, thought his face, tho’ wan,
Eclipsed the Count’s — he sucking in each phrase
As if an angel spoke. The foolish praise
Ended, he drew her on his mailed knees, made
Her face a framework with his hands, a shade,
A crown, an aureole: there must she remain
(Her little mouth compressed with smiling pain
As in his gloves she felt her tresses twitch)
To get the best look at, in fittest niche
Dispose his saint. That done, he kissed her brow,
— ”Lauded her father for his treason now,”
He told her, “only, how could one suspect
“The wit in him? — whose clansman, recollect,
`Was ever Salinguerra — she, the same,
“Romano and his lady — so,