Part 4 — ROBERT BROWNING

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smear’d with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain. And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian’s fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unroll’d; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vow’d, With moth’d and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young.

OVER the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave— A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail’d all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows’ game; So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view. But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop’d the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-shine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawn’d, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day’s voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch’d along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam’d soft light and curl’d rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel’d round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast! Now, one morn, land appear’d—a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky— ‘Avoid it,’ cried our pilot, ‘check The shout, restrain the eager eye!’ But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steer’d right into the harbour thus, With pomp and pæan glorious. A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for every one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! ‘Our isles are just at hand,’ they cried, ‘Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open’d wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms’—they cried. O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call’d out—‘Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,’—we cried.

THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep’s no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate’er befall. Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee.... And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they; Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne’er so still.

THE year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven— All’s right with the world!

YOU’ll love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love’s protracted growing: June rear’d that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April’s sowing. I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield—what you’ll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like. You’ll look at least on love’s remains, A grave’s one violet: Your look?—that pays a thousand pains. What’s death? You’ll love me yet!

THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listen’d with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneel’d and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soil’d gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call’d me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me—she Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I look’d up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipp’d me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laugh’d the blue eyes without a stain. And I untighten’d next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush’d bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp’d her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorn’d at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain’d instead! Porphyria’s love: she guess’d not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr’d, And yet God has not said a word!

NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall? Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!

THERE’s a woman like a dewdrop, she’s so purer than the purest; And her noble heart’s the noblest, yes, and her sure faith’s the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i’ the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck’s rose-misted marble: Then her voice’s music ... call it the well’s bubbling, the bird’s warble! And this woman says, ‘My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parch’d the pleasant April herbage, and the lark’s heart’s outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!’ And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

THE moth’s kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made me believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst. The bee’s kiss, now! Kiss me as if you enter’d gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is render’d up, And passively its shatter’d cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro’ its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look’d over the mountain’s rim And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

ALL’s over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, ’tis the sparrows’ good-night twitter About your cottage eaves! And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully —You know the red turns gray. To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign: For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart’s endeavour,— Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever!— Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

I SAID—Then, dearest, since ’tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem’d meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me. My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix’d me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish’d me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night? Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom’d, over-bow’d By many benedictions—sun’s And moon’s and evening-star’s at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and linger’d—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast. Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth’d itself out, a long-cramp’d scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I. Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seem’d my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush’d by on either side. I thought,—All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride. What hand and brain went ever pair’d? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There’s many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier’s doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave. What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express’d You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. ’Tis something, nay ’tis much: but then, Have you yourself what’s best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn’d a rhyme? Sing, riding’s a joy! For me, I ride. And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that’s your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, ‘Greatly his opera’s strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!’ I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine. Who knows what’s fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I sign’d the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life’s best, with our eyes upturn’d Whither life’s flower is first discern’d, We, fix’d so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to! This is a heart the Queen leant on, Thrill’d in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love’s regal dalmatic. O, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on— Love to be saved for it, proffer’d to, spent on!

O TO be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge— That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray; ‘Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?’—say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.