SCENE II. _The Tower.

STRAFFORD _sitting with his_ Children. _They sing._

O bell' andare Per barca in mare, Verso la sera Di Primavera!

[Music]

_Andante._

O bell' an-da-re, Per bar-ca in ma-re, Ver-so la se-ra, Di pri-ma- ve-ra, O bell' an-da-re,

_slentando e diminuendo._

O bell' an-da - - re.

_William._ The boat 's in the broad moonlight all this while--

Verso la sera Di Primavera!

And the boat shoots from underneath the moon Into the shadowy distance; only still You hear the dipping oar--

Verso la sera,

And faint, and fainter, and then all 's quite gone, Music and light and all, like a lost star.

_Anne._ But you should sleep, father: you were to sleep.

_Straf._ I do sleep, Anne; or if not--you must know There 's such a thing as ...

_Wil._ You 're too tired to sleep?

_Straf._ It will come by-and-by and all day long, In that old quiet house I told you of: We sleep safe there.

_Anne._ Why not in Ireland?

_Straf._ No! Too many dreams!--That song 's for Venice, William: You know how Venice looks upon the map-- Isles that the mainland hardly can let go?

_Wil._ You 've been to Venice, father?

_Straf._ I was young, then.

_Wil._ A city with no King; that 's why I like Even a song that comes from Venice.

_Straf._ William?

_Wil._ Oh, I know why! Anne, do you love the King? But I 'll see Venice for myself one day.

_Straf._ See many lands, boy--England last of all,-- That way you 'll love her best.

_Wil._ Why do men say You sought to ruin her, then?

_Straf._ Ah,--they say that.

_Wil._ Why?

_Straf._ I suppose they must have words to say, As you to sing.

_Anne._ But they make songs beside: Last night I heard one, in the street beneath, That called you ... Oh, the names!

_Wil._ Don't mind her, father! They soon left off when I cried out to them.

_Straf._ We shall so soon be out of it, my boy! 'T is not worth while: who heeds a foolish song?

_Wil._ Why, not the King.

_Straf._ Well: it has been the fate Of better; and yet,--wherefore not feel sure That Time, who in the twilight comes to mend All the fantastic day's caprice, consign To the low ground once more the ignoble Term, And raise the Genius on his orb again,-- That Time will do me right?

_Anne._ (Shall we sing, William? He does not look thus when we sing.)

_Straf._ For Ireland, Something is done: too little, but enough To show what might have been.

_Wil._ (I have no heart To sing now! Anne, how very sad he looks! Oh, I so hate the King for all he says!)

_Straf._ Forsook them? What, the common songs will run That I forsook the People? Nothing more? Ay, Fame, the busy scribe, will pause, no doubt, Turning a deaf ear to her thousand slaves Noisy to be enrolled,--will register The curious glosses, subtle notices, Ingenious clearings-up one fain would see Beside that plain inscription of The Name-- The Patriot Pym, or the Apostate Strafford! [_The_ Children _resume their song timidly, but break off._

(_Enter_ HOLLIS _and an_ Attendant.)

_Straf._ No,--Hollis? in good time!--Who is he?

_Hol._ One That must be present.

_Straf._ Ah--I understand. They will not let me see poor Laud alone. How politic! They 'd use me by degrees To solitude: and, just as you came in, I was solicitous what life to lead When Strafford 's "not so much as Constable In the King's service." Is there any means To keep one's self awake? What would you do After this bustle, Hollis, in my place?

_Hol._ Strafford!

_Straf._ Observe, not but that Pym and you Will find me news enough--news I shall hear Under a quince-tree by a fish-pond side At Wentworth. Garrard must be re-engaged My newsman. Or, a better project now-- What if when all 's consummated, and the Saints Reign, and the Senate's work goes swimingly,-- What if I venture up, some day, unseen, To saunter through the Town, notice how Pym, Your Tribune, likes Whitehall, drop quietly Into a tavern, hear a point discussed, As, whether Strafford's name were John or James-- And be myself appealed to--I, who shall Myself have near forgotten!

_Hol._ I would speak ...

_Straf._ Then you shall speak,--not now. I want just now, To hear the sound of my own tongue. This place Is full of ghosts.

_Hol._ Nay, you must hear me, Strafford!

_Straf._ Oh, readily! Only, one rare thing more,-- The minister! Who will advise the King, Turn his Sejanus, Richelieu and what not, And yet have health--children, for aught I know-- My patient pair of traitors! Ah,--but, William-- Does not his cheek grow thin?

_Wil._ 'T is you look thin, Father!

_Straf._ A scamper o'er the breezy wolds Sets all to-rights.

_Hol._ You cannot sure forget A prison-roof is o'er you, Strafford?

_Straf._ No, Why, no. I would not touch on that, the first. I left you that. Well, Hollis? Say at once, The King can find no time to set me free! A mask at Theobald's?

_Hol._ Hold: no such affair Detains him.

_Straf._ True: what needs so great a matter? The Queen's lip may be sore. Well: when he pleases,-- Only, I want the air: it vexes flesh To be pent up so long.

_Hol._ The King--I bear His message, Strafford: pray you, let me speak!

_Straf._ Go, William! Anne, try o'er your song again! [_The_ Children _retire._ They shall be loyal, friend, at all events. I know your message: you have nothing new To tell me: from the first I guessed as much. I know, instead of coming here himself, Leading me forth in public by the hand, The King prefers to leave the door ajar As though I were escaping--bids me trudge While the mob gapes upon some show prepared On the other side of the river! Give at once His order of release! I 've heard, as well, Of certain poor manœuvres to avoid The granting pardon at his proper risk; First, he must prattle somewhat to the Lords, Must talk a trifle with the Commons first, Be grieved I should abuse his confidence, And far from blaming them, and ... Where 's the order?

_Hol._ Spare me!

_Straf._ Why, he 'd not have me steal away? With an old doublet and a steeple hat Like Prynne's? Be smuggled into France, perhaps? Hollis, 't is for my children! 'T was for them I first consented to stand day by day And give your Puritans the best of words, Be patient, speak when called upon, observe Their rules, and not return them prompt their lie! What 's in that boy of mine that he should prove Son to a prison-breaker? I shall stay And he 'll stay with me. Charles should know as much, He too has children! [_Turning to_ HOLLIS'S _companion._] Sir, you feel for me! No need to hide that face! Though it have looked Upon me from the judgment-seat ... I know Strangely, that somewhere it has looked on me ... Your coming has my pardon, nay, my thanks: For there is one who comes not.

_Hol._ Whom forgive, As one to die!

_Straf._ True, all die, and all need Forgiveness: I forgive him from my soul.

_Hol._ 'T is a world's wonder: Strafford, you must die!

_Straf._ Sir, if your errand is to set me free This heartless jest mars much. Ha! Tears in truth? We 'll end this! See this paper, warm--feel--warm With lying next my heart! Whose hand is there? Whose promise? Read, and loud for God to hear! "Strafford shall take no hurt"--read it, I say! "In person, honor, nor estate"--

_Hol._ The King ...

_Straf._ I could unking him by a breath! You sit Where Loudon sat, who came to prophesy The certain end, and offer me Pym's grace If I 'd renounce the King: and I stood firm On the King's faith. The King who lives ...

_Hol._ To sign The warrant for your death.

_Straf._ "Put not your trust In princes, neither in the sons of men, In whom is no salvation!"

_Hol._ Trust in God! The scaffold is prepared: they wait for you: He has consented. Cast the earth behind!

_Cha._ You would not see me, Strafford, at your foot! It was wrung from me! Only, curse me not!

_Hol._ [_To_ STRAFFORD.] As you hope grace and pardon in your need, Be merciful to this most wretched man. [_Voices from within._

_Verso la sera Di Primavera._

_Straf._ You 'll be good to those children, sir? I know You 'll not believe her, even should the Queen Think they take after one they rarely saw. I had intended that my son should live A stranger to these matters: but you are So utterly deprived of friends! He too Must serve you--will you not be good to him? Or, stay, sir, do not promise--do not swear! You, Hollis--do the best you can for me! I 've not a soul to trust to: Wandesford 's dead, And you 've got Radcliffe safe, Laud's turn comes next: I 've found small time of late for my affairs, But I trust any of you, Pym himself-- No one could hurt them: there 's an infant, too,-- These tedious cares! Your Majesty could spare them. Nay--pardon me, my King! I had forgotten Your education, trials, much temptation, Some weakness: there escaped a peevish word-- 'T is gone: I bless you at the last. You know All 's between you and me: what has the world To do with it? Farewell!

_Cha._ [_at the door._] Balfour! Balfour!

(_Enter_ BALFOUR.)

The Parliament!--go to them: I grant all Demands. Their sittings shall be permanent: Tell them to keep their money if they will: I 'll come to them for every coat I wear And every crust I eat: only I choose To pardon Strafford. As the Queen shall choose! --You never heard the People howl for blood, Beside!

_Balfour._ Your Majesty may hear them now: The walls can hardly keep their murmurs out: Please you retire!

_Cha._ Take all the troops, Balfour!

_Bal._ There are some hundred thousand of the crowd.

_Cha._ Come with me, Strafford! You 'll not fear, at least!

_Straf._ Balfour, say nothing to the world of this! I charge you, as a dying man, forget You gazed upon this agony of one ... Of one ... or if ... why, you may say, Balfour, The King was sorry: 'tis no shame in him: Yes, you may say he even wept, Balfour, And that I walked the lighter to the block Because of it. I shall walk lightly, sir! Earth fades, heaven breaks on me: I shall stand next Before God's throne: the moment 's close at hand When man the first, last time, has leave to lay His whole heart bare before its Maker, leave To clear up the long error of a life And choose one happiness for evermore. With all mortality about me, Charles, The sudden wreck, the dregs of violent death-- What if, despite the opening angel-song, There penetrate one prayer for you? Be saved Through me! Bear witness, no one could prevent My death! Lead on! ere he awake--best, now! All must be ready: did you say, Balfour, The crowd began to murmur? They 'll be kept Too late for sermon at St. Antholin's! Now! But tread softly--children are at play In the next room. Precede! I follow--

(_Enter_ Lady CARLISLE, _with many_ Attendants.)

_Lady Car_ Me! Follow me, Strafford, and be saved! The King? [_To the_ KING.] Well--as you ordered, they are ranged without, The convoy ... [_seeing the_ KING'S _state._] [_To_ STRAFFORD.] You know all, then! Why, I thought It looked best that the King should save you,--Charles Alone; 't is a shame that you should owe me aught. Or no, not shame! Strafford, you 'll not feel shame At being saved by me?

_Hol._ All true! Oh Strafford, She saves you! all her deed! this lady's deed! And is the boat in readiness? You, friend, Are Billingsley, no doubt. Speak to her, Strafford! See how she trembles, waiting for your voice! The world 's to learn its bravest story yet.

_Lady Car._ Talk afterward! Long nights in France enough, To sit beneath the vines and talk of home.

_Straf._ You love me, child? Ah, Strafford can be loved As well as Vane! I could escape, then?

_Lady Car._ Haste! Advance the torches, Bryan!

_Straf._ I will die. They call me proud: but England had no right, When she encountered me--her strength to mine-- To find the chosen foe a craven. Girl, I fought her to the utterance, I fell, I am hers now, and I will die. Beside, The lookers-on! Eliot is all about This place, with his most uncomplaining brow.

_Lady Car._ Strafford!

_Straf._ I think if you could know how much I love you, you would be repaid, my friend!

_Lady Car._ Then, for my sake!

_Straf._ Even for your sweet sake, I stay.

_Hol._ For _their_ sake!

_Straf._ To bequeath a stain? Leave me! Girl, humor me and let me die!

_Lady Car._ Bid him escape--wake, King! Bid him escape!

_Straf._ True, I will go! Die and forsake the King? I 'll not draw back from the last service.

_Lady Car._ Strafford!

_Straf._ And, after all, what is disgrace to me? Let us come, child! That it should end this way!

Lead then! but I feel strangely: it was not To end this way.

_Lady Car._ Lean--lean on me!

_Straf._ My King! Oh, had he trusted me--his friend of friends!

_Lady Car._ I can support him, Hollis!

_Straf._ Not this way! This gate--I dreamed of it, this very gate.

_Lady Car._ It opens on the river: our good boat Is moored below, our friends are there.

_Straf._ The same: Only with something ominous and dark, Fatal, inevitable.

_Lady Car._ Strafford! Strafford!

_Straf._ Not by this gate! I feel what will be there! I dreamed of it, I tell you: touch it not!

_Lady Car._ To save the King,--Strafford, to save the King!

[_As_ STRAFFORD _opens the door,_ PYM _is discovered with_ HAMPDEN, VANE, _etc._ STRAFFORD _falls back:_ PYM _follows slowly and confronts him._

_Pym._ Have I done well? Speak, England! Whose sole sake I still have labored for, with disregard To my own heart,--for whom my youth was made Barren, my manhood waste, to offer up Her sacrifice--this friend, this Wentworth here-- Who walked in youth with me, loved me, it may be, And whom, for his forsaking England's cause, I hunted by all means (trusting that she Would sanctify all means) even to the block Which waits for him. And saying this, I feel No bitterer pang than first I felt, the hour I swore that Wentworth might leave us, but I Would never leave him: I do leave him now. I render up my charge (be witness, God!) To England who imposed it. I have done Her bidding--poorly, wrongly,--it may be, With ill effects--for I am weak, a man: Still, I have done my best, my human best, Not faltering for a moment. It is done. And this said, if I say ... yes, I will say I never loved but one man--David not More Jonathan! Even thus, I love him now And look for my chief portion in that world Where great hearts led astray are turned again, (Soon it may be, and, certes, will be soon: My mission over, I shall not live long,)-- Ay, here I know I talk--I dare and must, Of England, and her great reward, as all I look for there; but in my inmost heart, Believe, I think of stealing quite away To walk once more with Wentworth--my youth's friend Purged from all error, gloriously renewed, And Eliot shall not blame us. Then indeed ... This is no meeting, Wentworth! Tears increase Too hot. A thin mist--is it blood?--enwraps The face I loved once. Then, the meeting be!

_Straf._ I have loved England too; we 'll meet then, Pym; As well die now! Youth is the only time To think and to decide on a great course: Manhood with action follows; but 'tis dreary To have to alter our whole life in age-- The time past, the strength gone! As well die now. When we meet, Pym, I 'd be set right--not now! Best die. Then if there 's any fault, fault too Dies, smothered up. Poor gray old little Laud May dream his dream out, of a perfect Church, In some blind corner. And there 's no one left. I trust the King now wholly to you, Pym! And yet, I know not: I shall not be there: Friends fail--if he have any. And he 's weak, And loves the Queen, and ... Oh, my fate is nothing-- Nothing! But not that awful head--not that!

_Pym_. If England shall declare such will to me ...

_Straf._ Pym, you help England! I, that am to die, What I must see! 'tis here--all here! My God, Let me but gasp out, in one word of fire, How thou wilt plague him, satiating hell! What? England that you help, become through you A green and putrefying charnel, left Our children ... some of us have children, Pym-- Some who, without that, still must ever wear A darkened brow, an over-serious look, And never properly be young! No word? What if I curse you? Send a strong curse forth Clothed from my heart, lapped round with horror till She 's fit with her white face to walk the world Scaring kind natures from your cause and you-- Then to sit down with you at the board-head, The gathering for prayer ... O speak, but speak! ... Creep up, and quietly follow each one home, You, you, you, be a nestling care for each To sleep with,--hardly moaning in his dreams, She gnaws so quietly,--till, lo he starts, Gets off with half a heart eaten away! Oh, shall you 'scape with less if she 's my child? You will not say a word--to me--to Him?

_Pym._ If England shall declare such will to me ...

_Straf._ No, not for England now, not for Heaven now,-- See, Pym, for my sake, mine who kneel to you! There, I will thank you for the death, my friend! This is the meeting: let me love you well!

_Pym_. England,--I am thine own! Dost thou exact That service? I obey thee to the end.

_Straf._ O God, I shall die first--I shall die first!

SORDELLO

Browning began _Sordello_ in 1837, interrupted his work to write the earlier parts of _Bells and Pomegranates_, but resumed it and completed it in 1840, when it was published by Moxon. In 1863, when reprinting the poem, Browning dedicated it as below to M. Milsand, and in his dedication wrote practically a preface to the poem.

TO J. MILSAND, OF DIJON

DEAR FRIEND,--Let the next poem be introduced by your name, therefore remembered along with one of the deepest of my affections, and so repay all trouble it ever cost me. I wrote it twenty-five years ago for only a few, counting even in these on somewhat more care about its subject than they really had. My own faults of expression were many; but with care for a man or book such would be surmounted, and without it what avails the faultlessness of either? I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since; for I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many might--instead of what the few must--like; but after all, I imagined another thing at first, and therefore leave as I find it. The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so; you, with many known and unknown to me, think so; others may one day think so; and whether my attempt remain for them or not, I trust, though away and past it, to continue ever yours,

R. B.

LONDON, _June 9, 1863._

Concerning this revised edition he wrote to a friend:--

"I do not understand what ---- can mean by saying that Sordello has been 'rewritten.' I did certainly at one time intend to rewrite much of it, but changed my mind,--and the edition which I reprinted was the same in all respects as its predecessors--only with an elucidatory heading to each page, and some few alterations, presumably for the better, in the text, such as occur in most of my works. I cannot remember a single instance of any importance that is rewritten, and I only suppose that ---- has taken project for performance, and set down as 'done' what was for a while intended to be done."

For the sake of such elucidation as these head-lines give, they are introduced here as side-notes.

SORDELLO

BOOK THE FIRST

Who will, may hear Sordello's story told: His story? Who believes me shall behold The man, pursue his fortunes to the end, Like me: for as the friendless-people's friend [Sidenote: A Quixotic attempt.] Spied from his hill-top once, despite the din And dust of multitudes, Pentapolin Named o' the Naked Arm, I single out Sordello, compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred years. Only believe me. Ye believe? Appears Verona ... Never, I should warn you first, Of my own choice had this, if not the worst Yet not the best expedient, served to tell A story I could body forth so well By making speak, myself kept out of view, The very man as he was wont to do, And leaving you to say the rest for him. Since, though I might be proud to see the dim Abysmal past divide its hateful surge, Letting of all men this one man emerge Because it pleased me, yet, that moment past, I should delight in watching first to last His progress as you watch it, not a whit More in the secret than yourselves who sit Fresh-chapleted to listen. But it seems Your setters-forth of unexampled themes, Makers of quite new men, producing them, Would best chalk broadly on each vesture's hem The wearer's quality; or take their stand, Motley on back and pointing-pole in hand, Beside him. So, for once I face ye, friends, [Sidenote: Why the Poet himself addresses his audience--] Summoned together from the world's four ends, Dropped down from heaven or cast up from hell, To hear the story I propose to tell. Confess now, poets know the dragnet's trick, Catching the dead, if fate denies the quick, And shaming her; 'tis not for fate to choose Silence or song because she can refuse Real eyes to glisten more, real hearts to ache Less oft, real brows turn smoother for our sake: I have experienced something of her spite; But there 's a realm wherein she has no right And I have many lovers. Say, but few Friends fate accords me? Here they are: now view The host I muster! Many a lighted face Foul with no vestige of the grave's disgrace; What else should tempt them back to taste our air Except to see how their successors fare? My audience! and they sit, each ghostly man Striving to look as living as he can, Brother by breathing brother; thou art set, Clear-witted critic, by ... but I 'll not fret A wondrous soul of them, nor move death's spleen Who loves not to unlock them. Friends! I mean [Sidenote: Few living, many dead.] The living in good earnest--ye elect Chiefly for love--suppose not I reject Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep, Some fit occasion, forth, for fear ye sleep, To glean your bland approvals. Then, appear, [Sidenote: Shelley departing, Verona appears.] Verona! stay--thou, spirit, come not near Now--not this time desert thy cloudy place To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face! I need not fear this audience, I make free With them, but then this is no place for thee! The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown Up out of memories of Marathon, Would echo like his own sword's griding screech Braying a Persian shield,--the silver speech Of Sidney's self, the starry paladin, Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in The knights to tilt,--wert thou to hear! What heart Have I to play my puppets, bear my part Before these worthies? Lo, the past is hurled In twain: up-thrust, out-staggering on the world, Subsiding into shape, a darkness rears Its outline, kindles at the core, appears Verona. 'Tis six hundred years and more Since an event. The Second Friedrich wore The purple, and the Third Honorius filled The holy chair. That autumn eve was stilled: A last remains of sunset dimly burned O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned By the wind back upon its bearer's hand In one long flare of crimson; as a brand, The woods beneath lay black. A single eye From all Verona cared for the soft sky. But, gathering in its ancient market-place, Talked group with restless group; and not a face But wrath made livid, for among them were Death's stanch purveyors, such as have in care To feast him. Fear had long since taken root In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit. The ripe hate, like a wine: to note the way It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and gray Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, [Sidenote: How her Guelfs are discomfited.] Letting the silent luxury trickle slow About the hollows where a heart should be; But the young gulped with a delirious glee Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood At the fierce news: for, be it understood, Envoys apprised Verona that her prince Count Richard of Saint Boniface, joined since A year with Azzo, Este's Lord, to thrust Taurello Salinguerra, prime in trust With Ecelin Romano, from his seat Ferrara,--over-zealous in the feat And stumbling on a peril unaware, Was captive, trammelled in his proper snare, They phrase it, taken by his own intrigue. [Sidenote: Why they entreat the Lombard League,] Immediate succor from the Lombard League Of fifteen cities that affect the Pope, For Azzo, therefore, and his fellow-hope Of the Guelf cause, a glory overcast! Men's faces, late agape, are now aghast. "Prone is the purple pavis; Este makes Mirth for the devil when he undertakes To play the Ecelin; as if it cost Merely your pushing-by to gain a post Like his! The patron tells ye, once for all, There be sound reasons that preferment fall On our beloved" ... "Duke o' the Rood, why not?" Shouted an Estian, "grudge ye such a lot? The hill-cat boasts some cunning of her own, Some stealthy trick to better beasts unknown, That quick with prey enough her hunger blunts, And feeds her fat while gaunt the lion hunts." "Taurello," quoth an envoy, "as in wane Dwelt at Ferrara. Like an osprey fain To fly but forced the earth his couch to make Far inland, till his friend the tempest wake, Waits he the Kaiser 's coming; and as yet That fast friend sleeps, and he too sleeps: but let Only the billow freshen, and he snuffs The aroused hurricane ere it enroughs The sea it means to cross because of him. Sinketh the breeze? His hope-sick eye grows dim; Creep closer on the creature! Every day Strengthens the Pontiff; Ecelin, they say, Dozes now at Oliero, with dry lips Telling upon his perished finger-tips How many ancestors are to depose Ere he be Satan's Viceroy when the doze Deposits him in hell. So, Guelfs rebuilt Their houses; not a drop of blood was spilt When Cino Bocchimpane chanced to meet Buccio Virtù--God's wafer, and the street Is narrow! Tutti Santi, think, a-swarm With Ghibellins, and yet he took no harm! This could not last. Off Salinguerra went To Padua, Podestà, 'with pure intent,' Said he, 'my presence, judged the single bar To permanent tranquillity, may jar No longer'--so! his back is fairly turned? The pair of goodly palaces are burned, The gardens ravaged, and our Guelfs laugh, drunk A week with joy. The next, their laughter sunk In sobs of blood, for they found, some strange way, [Sidenote: In their changed fortune at Ferrara:] Old Salinguerra back again--I say, Old Salinguerra in the town once more Uprooting, overturning, flame before, Blood fetlock-high beneath him. Azzo fled; Who 'scaped the carnage followed; then the dead Were pushed aside from Salinguerra's throne, He ruled once more Ferrara, all alone, Till Azzo, stunned awhile, revived, would pounce Coupled with Boniface, like lynx and ounce, On the gorged bird. The burghers ground their teeth To see troop after troop encamp beneath I' the standing-corn thick o'er the scanty patch It took so many patient months to snatch Out of the marsh; while just within their walls Men fed on men. At length Taurello calls A parley: 'let the Count wind up the war!' Richard, light-hearted as a plunging star, Agrees to enter for the kindest ends Ferrara, flanked with fifty chosen friends, No horse-boy more, for fear your timid sort Should fly Ferrara at the bare report. Quietly through the town they rode, jog-jog; 'Ten, twenty, thirty,--curse the catalogue Of burnt Guelf houses! Strange, Taurello shows Not the least sign of life'--whereat arose A general growl: 'How? With his victors by? I and my Veronese? My troops and I? Receive us, was your word?' So jogged they on, Nor laughed their host too openly: once gone Into the trap!"-- Six hundred years ago! Such the time's aspect and peculiar woe (Yourselves may spell it yet in chronicles, Albeit the worm, our busy brother, drills His sprawling path through letters anciently Made fine and large to suit some abbot's eye) When the new Hohenstauffen dropped the mask, Flung John of Brienne's favor from his casque, Forswore crusading, had no mind to leave Saint Peter's proxy leisure to retrieve Losses to Otho and to Barbaross, Or make the Alps less easy to recross; And, thus confirming Pope Honorius' fear, Was excommunicate that very year. "The triple-bearded Teuton come to life!" Groaned the Great League; and, arming for the strife, [Sidenote: For the times grow stormy again.] Wide Lombardy, on tiptoe to begin, Took up, as it was Guelf or Ghibellin, Its cry; what cry? "The Emperor to come!" His crowd of feudatories, all and some, That leapt down with a crash of swords, spears, shields, One fighter on his fellow, to our fields, Scattered anon, took station here and there, And carried it, till now, with little care-- Cannot but cry for him; how else rebut Us longer? Cliffs, an earthquake suffered jut In the mid-sea, each domineering crest Which naught save such another throe can wrest From out (conceive) a certain chokeweed grown Since o'er the waters, twine and tangle thrown Too thick, too fast accumulating round, Too sure to over-riot and confound Ere long each brilliant islet with itself, Unless a second shock save shoal and shelf, Whirling the sea-drift wide: alas, the bruised And sullen wreck! Sunlight to be diffused For that! Sunlight, 'neath which, a scum at first, The million fibres of our chokeweed nurst Dispread themselves, mantling the troubled main, And, shattered by those rocks, took hold again, So kindly blazed it--that same blaze to brood O'er every cluster of the multitude Still hazarding new clasps, ties, filaments, An emulous exchange of pulses, vents Of nature into nature; till some growth Unfancied yet, exuberantly clothe [Sidenote: The Ghibellins' wish: the Guelfs' wish.] A surface solid now, continuous, one: "The Pope, for us the People, who begun The People, carries on the People thus, To keep that Kaiser off and dwell with us!" See you? Or say, Two Principles that live Each fitly by its Representative. "Hill-cat"--who called him so?--the gracefullest Adventurer, the ambiguous stranger-guest Of Lombardy (sleek but that ruffling fur, Those talons to their sheath!) whose velvet purr Soothes jealous neighbors when a Saxon scout --Arpo or Yoland, is it?--one without A country or a name, presumes to couch Beside their noblest; until men avouch That, of all Houses in the Trevisan, Conrad descries no fitter, rear or van, [Sidenote: How Ecelo's house grew head of those,] Than Ecelo! They laughed as they enrolled That name at Milan on the page of gold, Godego's lord,--Ramon, Marostica, Cartiglion, Bassano, Loria, And every sheep-cote on the Suabian's fief! No laughter when his son, "the Lombard Chief" Forsooth, as Barbarossa's path was bent To Italy along the Vale of Trent, Welcomed him at Roncaglia! Sadness now-- The hamlets nested on the Tyrol's brow, The Asolan and Euganean hills, The Rhetian and the Julian, sadness fills Them all, for Ecelin vouchsafes to stay Among and care about them; day by day Choosing this pinnacle, the other spot, A castle building to defend a cot, A cot built for a castle to defend, Nothing but castles, castles, nor an end To boasts how mountain ridge may join with ridge By sunken gallery and soaring bridge. He takes, in brief, a figure that beseems The griesliest nightmare of the Church's dreams, --A Signory firm-rooted, unestranged From its old interests, and nowise changed By its new neighborhood: perchance the vaunt Of Otho, "my own Este shall supplant Your Este," come to pass. The sire led in A son as cruel; and this Ecelin Had sons, in turn, and daughters sly and tall And curling and compliant; but for all Romano (so they styled him) throve, that neck Of his so pinched and white, that hungry cheek Proved 't was some fiend, not him, the man's-flesh went To feed: whereas Romano's instrument, Famous Taurello Salinguerra, sole I' the world, a tree whose boughs were slipt the bole Successively, why should not he shed blood To further a design? Men understood Living was pleasant to him as he wore His careless surcoat, glanced some missive o'er, Propped on his truncheon in the public way, While his lord lifted writhen hands to pray, Lost at Oliero's convent. Hill-cats, face Our Azzo, our Guelf-Lion! Why disgrace [Sidenote: As Azzo Lord of Este heads these.] A worthiness conspicuous near and far (Atii at Rome while free and consular, Este at Padua who repulsed the Hun) By trumpeting the Church's princely son? --Styled Patron of Rovigo's Polesine, Ancona's march, Ferrara's ... ask, in fine, Our chronicles, commenced when some old monk Found it intolerable to be sunk (Vexed to the quick by his revolting cell) Quite out of summer while alive and well: Ended when by his mat the Prior stood, 'Mid busy promptings of the brotherhood, Striving to coax from his decrepit brains The reason Father Porphyry took pains To blot those ten lines out which used to stand First on their charter drawn by Hildebrand. The same night wears. Verona's rule of yore [Sidenote: Count Richard's Palace at Verona.] Was vested in a certain Twenty-four; And while within his palace these debate Concerning Richard and Ferrara's fate, Glide we by clapping doors, with sudden glare Of cressets vented on the dark, nor care For aught that 's seen or heard until we shut The smother in, the lights, all noises but The carroch's booming: safe at last! Why strange Such a recess should lurk behind a range Of banquet-rooms? Your finger--thus--you push A spring, and the wall opens, would you rush Upon the banqueters, select your prey, Waiting (the slaughter-weapons in the way Strewing this very bench) with sharpened ear A preconcerted signal to appear; Or if you simply crouch with beating heart, [Sidenote: Of the couple found therein,] Bearing in some voluptuous pageant part To startle them. Nor mutes nor masquers now; Nor any ... does that one man sleep whose brow The dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er? What woman stood beside him? not the more Is he unfastened from the earnest eyes Because that arras fell between! Her wise And lulling words are yet about the room, Her presence wholly poured upon the gloom Down even to her vesture's creeping stir. And so reclines he, saturate with her, Until an outcry from the square beneath Pierces the charm: he springs up, glad to breathe, Above the cunning element, and shakes The stupor off as (look you) morning breaks On the gay dress, and, near concealed by it, The lean frame like a half-burnt taper, lit Erst at some marriage-feast, then laid away Till the Armenian bridegroom's dying day, In his wool wedding-robe. For he--for he, Gate-vein of this hearts' blood of Lombardy, (If I should falter now)--for he is thine! Sordello, thy forerunner, Florentine! A herald-star I know thou didst absorb Relentless into the consummate orb That scared it from its right to roll along A sempiternal path with dance and song Fulfilling its allotted period, Serenest of the progeny of God-- Who yet resigns it not! His darling stoops With no quenched lights, desponds with no blank troops Of disenfranchised brilliances, for, blent Utterly with thee, its shy element Like thine upburneth prosperous and clear. Still, what if I approach the august sphere Named now with only one name, disentwine That under-current soft and argentine From its fierce mate in the majestic mass Leavened as the sea whose fire was mixt with glass In John's transcendent vision,--launch once more That lustre? Dante, pacer of the shore Where glutted hell disgorgeth filthiest gloom, Unbitten by its whirring sulphur-spume-- Or whence the grieved and obscure waters slope Into a darkness quieted by hope; Plucker of amaranths grown beneath God's eye In gracious twilights where his chosen lie,-- I would do this! If I should falter now! [Sidenote: One belongs to Dante; his Birthplace.] In Mantua territory half is slough, Half pine-tree forest; maples, scarlet oaks Breed o'er the river-beds; even Mincio chokes With sand the summer through: but 't is morass In winter up to Mantua walls. There was, Some thirty years before this evening's coil, One spot reclaimed from the surrounding spoil, Goito; just a castle built amid A few low mountains; firs and larches hid Their main defiles, and rings of vineyard bound The rest. Some captured creature in a pound, Whose artless wonder quite precludes distress, Secure beside in its own loveliness, So peered with airy head, below, above, The castle at its toils, the lapwings love To glean among at grape-time. Pass within. A maze of corridors contrived for sin, Dusk winding-stairs, dim galleries got past, You gain the inmost chambers, gain at last A maple-panelled room: that haze which seems Floating about the panel, if there gleams A sunbeam over it, will turn to gold And in light-graven characters unfold The Arab's wisdom everywhere; what shade Marred them a moment, those slim pillars made, Cut like a company of palms to prop The roof, each kissing top entwined with top, Leaning together; in the carver's mind Some knot of bacchanals, flushed cheek combined With straining forehead, shoulders purpled, hair Diffused between, who in a goat-skin bear A vintage; graceful sister-palms! But quick To the main wonder, now. A vault, see; thick [Sidenote: A Vault inside the Castle at Goito,] Black shade about the ceiling, though fine slits Across the buttress suffer light by fits Upon a marvel in the midst. Nay, stoop-- A dullish gray-streaked cumbrous font, a group Round it,--each side of it, where'er one sees,-- Upholds it; shrinking Caryatides Of just-tinged marble like Eve's lilied flesh Beneath her maker's finger when the fresh First pulse of life shot brightening the snow. The font's edge burdens every shoulder, so They muse upon the ground, eyelids half closed; Some, with meek arms behind their backs disposed, Some, crossed above their bosoms, some, to veil Their eyes, some, propping chin and cheek so pale, Some, hanging slack an utter helpless length Dead as a buried vestal whose whole strength Goes when the grate above shuts heavily. So dwell these noiseless girls, patient to see, Like priestesses because of sin impure Penanced forever, who resigned endure, Having that once drunk sweetness to the dregs. And every eve, Sordello's visit begs Pardon for them: constant as eve he came To sit beside each in her turn, the same As one of them, a certain space: and awe [Sidenote: And what Sordello would see there.] Made a great indistinctness till he saw Sunset slant cheerful through the buttress-chinks, Gold seven times globed; surely our maiden shrinks And a smile stirs her as if one faint grain Her load were lightened, one shade less the stain Obscured her forehead, yet one more bead slipt From off the rosary whereby the crypt Keeps count of the contritions of its charge? Then with a step more light, a heart more large, He may depart, leave her and every one To linger out the penance in mute stone. Ah, but Sordello? 'T is the tale I mean To tell you. In this castle may be seen, On the hill-tops, or underneath the vines, Or eastward by the mound of firs and pines That shuts out Mantua, still in loneliness, A slender boy in a loose page's dress, Sordello: do but look on him awhile Watching ('t is autumn) with an earnest smile The noisy flock of thievish birds at work Among the yellowing vineyards; see him lurk [Sidenote: His boyhood in the domain of Ecelin.] ('T is winter with its sullenest of storms) Beside that arras-length of broidered forms, On tiptoe, lifting in both hands a light Which makes yon warrior's visage flutter bright --Ecelo, dismal father of the brood, And Ecelin, close to the girl he wooed, Auria, and their Child, with all his wives From Agnes to the Tuscan that survives, Lady of the castle, Adelaide. His face --Look, now he turns away! Yourselves shall trace (The delicate nostril swerving wide and fine, A sharp and restless lip, so well combine With that calm brow) a soul fit to receive Delight at every sense; you can believe Sordello foremost in the regal class Nature has broadly severed from her mass Of men, and framed for pleasure, as she frames Some happy lands, that have luxurious names, For loose fertility; a footfall there Suffices to upturn to the warm air Half-germinating spices; mere decay Produces richer life; and day by day New pollen on the lily-petal grows, And still more labyrinthine buds the rose. You recognize at once the finer dress Of flesh that amply lets in loveliness At eye and ear, while round the rest is furled (As though she would not trust them with her world) A veil that shows a sky not near so blue, And lets but half the sun look fervid through. [Sidenote: How a poet's soul comes into play.] How can such love?--like souls on each full-fraught Discovery brooding, blind at first to aught Beyond its beauty, till exceeding love Becomes an aching weight; and, to remove A curse that haunts such natures--to preclude Their finding out themselves can work no good To what they love nor make it very blest By their endeavor,--they are fain invest The lifeless thing with life from their own soul, Availing it to purpose, to control, To dwell distinct and have peculiar joy And separate interests that may employ That beauty fitly, for its proper sake. Nor rest they here; fresh births of beauty wake Fresh homage, every grade of love is past, With every mode of loveliness: then cast Inferior idols off their borrowed crown Before a coming glory. Up and down Runs arrowy fire, while earthly forms combine To throb the secret forth; a touch divine-- And the scaled eyeball owns the mystic rod; Visibly through his garden walketh God. [Sidenote: What denotes such a soul's progress.] So fare they. Now revert. One character Denotes them through the progress and the stir,-- A need to blend with each external charm, Bury themselves, the whole heart wide and warm,-- In something not themselves; they would belong To what they worship--stronger and more strong Thus prodigally fed--which gathers shape And feature, soon imprisons past escape The votary framed to love and to submit Nor ask, as passionate he kneels to it, Whence grew the idol's empery. So runs A legend; light had birth ere moons and suns, Flowing through space a river and alone, Till chaos burst and blank the spheres were strown Hither and thither, foundering and blind: When into each of them rushed light--to find Itself no place, foiled of its radiant chance. Let such forego their just inheritance! For there 's a class that eagerly looks, too, On beauty, but, unlike the gentler crew, Proclaims each new revealment born a twin With a distinctest consciousness within, Referring still the quality, now first Revealed, to their own soul--its instinct nursed In silence, now remembered better, shown More thoroughly, but not the less their own; A dream come true; the special exercise [Sidenote: How poets class at length--] Of any special function that implies The being fair, or good, or wise, or strong, Dormant within their nature all along-- Whose fault? So, homage, other souls direct Without, turns inward. "How should this deject Thee, soul?" they murmur; "wherefore strength be quelled Because, its trivial accidents withheld, Organs are missed that clog the world, inert, Wanting a will, to quicken and exert, Like thine--existence cannot satiate, Cannot surprise? Laugh thou at envious fate, Who, from earth's simplest combination stampt With individuality--uncrampt By living its faint elemental life, Dost soar to heaven's complexest essence, rife With grandeurs, unaffronted to the last, [Sidenote: For honor,] Equal to being all!" In truth? Thou hast Life, then--wilt challenge life for us: our race Is vindicated so, obtains its place In thy ascent, the first of us; whom we [Sidenote: Or shame--] May follow, to the meanest, finally, With our more bounded wills? Ah, but to find A certain mood enervate such a mind, Counsel it slumber in the solitude Thus reached, nor, stooping, task for mankind's good Its nature just as life and time accord "--Too narrow an arena to reward Emprise--the world's occasion worthless since Not absolutely fitted to evince Its mastery!" Or if yet worse befall, And a desire possess it to put all That nature forth, forcing our straitened sphere Contain it,--to display completely here The mastery another life should learn, Thrusting in time eternity's concern,-- So that Sordello ... [Sidenote: Which may the Gods avert] Fool, who spied the mark Of leprosy upon him, violet-dark Already as he loiters? Born just now, With the new century, beside the glow And efflorescence out of barbarism; Witness a Greek or two from the abysm That stray through Florence-town with studious air, Calming the chisel of that Pisan pair: If Nicolo should carve a Christus yet! While at Siena is Guidone set, Forehead on hand; a painful birth must be Matured ere Saint Eufemia's sacristy Or transept gather fruits of one great gaze At the moon: look you! The same orange haze,-- The same blue stripe round that--and, in the midst, Thy spectral whiteness, Mother-maid, who didst Pursue the dizzy painter! Woe, then, worth Any officious babble letting forth The leprosy confirmed and ruinous To spirit lodged in a contracted house! Go back to the beginning, rather; blend It gently with Sordello's life; the end Is piteous, you may see, but much between Pleasant enough. Meantime, some pyx to screen The full-grown pest, some lid to shut upon The goblin! So they found at Babylon, (Colleagues, mad Lucius and sage Antonine) Sacking the city, by Apollo's shrine, In rummaging among the rarities, A certain coffer; he who made the prize Opened it greedily; and out there curled Just such another plague, for half the world Was stung. Crawl in then, hag, and couch asquat, Keeping that blotchy bosom thick in spot Until your time is ripe! The coffer-lid Is fastened, and the coffer safely hid Under the Loxian's choicest gifts of gold. Who will may hear Sordello's story told, And now he never could remember when He dwelt not at Goito. Calmly, then, [Sidenote: From Sordello, now in childhood.] About this secret lodge of Adelaide's Glided his youth away; beyond the glades On the fir-forest border, and the rim Of the low range of mountain, was for him No other world: but this appeared his own To wander through at pleasure and alone. The castle too seemed empty; far and wide Might he disport; only the northern side Lay under a mysterious interdict-- Slight, just enough remembered to restrict His roaming to the corridors, the vault Where those font-bearers expiate their fault, The maple-chamber, and the little nooks And nests, and breezy parapet that looks Over the woods to Mantua: there he strolled. Some foreign women-servants, very old, Tended and crept about him--all his clue To the world's business and embroiled ado Distant a dozen hill-tops at the most. [Sidenote: The delights of his childish fancy,] And first a simple sense of life engrossed Sordello in his drowsy Paradise; The day's adventures for the day suffice-- Its constant tribute of perceptions strange. With sleep and stir in healthy interchange, Suffice, and leave him for the next at ease Like the great palmer-worm that strips the trees, Eats the life out of every luscious plant, And, when September finds them sere or scant, Puts forth two wondrous winglets, alters quite, And hies him after unforeseen delight. So fed Sordello, not a shard dissheathed; As ever, round each new discovery, wreathed Luxuriantly the fancies infantine His admiration, bent on making fine Its novel friend at any risk, would fling In gay profusion forth; a ficklest king, Confessed those minions!--eager to dispense So much from his own stock of thought and sense As might enable each to stand alone And serve him for a fellow; with his own, Joining the qualities that just before Had graced some older favorite. Thus they wore A fluctuating halo, yesterday Set flicker and to-morrow filched away,-- Those upland objects each of separate name, Each with an aspect never twice the same, Waxing and waning as the new-born host Of fancies, like a single night's hoar-frost, [Sidenote: Which could blow out a great bubble,] Gave to familiar things a face grotesque; Only, preserving through the mad burlesque A grave regard. Conceive! the orpine patch Blossoming earliest on the log-house thatch The day those archers wound along the vines-- Related to the Chief that left their lines To climb with clinking step the northern stair Up to the solitary chambers where Sordello never came. Thus thrall reached thrall; He o'er-festooning every interval, As the adventurous spider, making light Of distance, shoots her threads from depth to height, From barbican to battlement: so flung Fantasies forth and in their centre swung Our architect,--the breezy morning fresh Above, and merry,--all his waving mesh Laughing with lucid dew-drops rainbow-edged. This world of ours by tacit pact is pledged To laying such a spangled fabric low Whether by gradual brush or gallant blow. But its abundant will was balked here: doubt [Sidenote: Being secure awhile from intrusion.] Rose tardily in one so fenced about From most that nurtures judgment, care and pain: Judgment, that dull expedient we are fain, Less favored, to adopt betimes and force Stead us, diverted from our natural course Of joys--contrive some yet amid the dearth, Vary and render them, it may be, worth Most we forego. Suppose Sordello hence Selfish enough, without a moral sense However feeble; what informed the boy Others desired a portion in his joy? Or say a ruthful chance broke woof and warp-- A heron's nest beat down by March winds sharp, A fawn breathless beneath the precipice, A bird with unsoiled breast and unfilmed eyes Warm in the brake--could these undo the trance Lapping Sordello? Not a circumstance That makes for you, friend Naddo! Eat fern-seed And peer beside us and report indeed If (your word) "genius" dawned with throes and stings And the whole fiery catalogue, while springs, Summers and winters quietly came and went. Time put at length that period to content, By right the world should have imposed: bereft Of its good offices, Sordello, left To study his companions, managed rip Their fringe off, learn the true relationship, Core with its crust, their nature with his own: Amid his wild-wood sights he lived alone. As if the poppy felt with him! Though he Partook the poppy's red effrontery Till Autumn spoiled their fleering quite with rain, And, turbanless, a coarse brown rattling crane Lay bare. That 's gone: yet why renounce, for that, His disenchanted tributaries--flat Perhaps, but scarce so utterly forlorn, Their simple presence might not well be borne Whose parley was a transport once: recall The poppy's gifts, it flaunts you, after all, A poppy:--why distrust the evidence Of each soon satisfied and healthy sense? [Sidenote: But it comes; and new-born judgment] The new-born judgment answered, "little boots Beholding other creatures' attributes And having none!" or, say that it sufficed, "Yet, could one but possess, one's self," (enticed Judgment) "some special office!" Naught beside Serves you? "Well then, be somehow justified For this ignoble wish to circumscribe And concentrate, rather than swell, the tribe Of actual pleasures: what, now, from without Effects it?--proves, despite a lurking doubt, Mere sympathy sufficient, trouble spared? That, tasting joys by proxy thus, you fared [Sidenote: Decides that he needs sympathizers.] The better for them?" Thus much craved his soul. Alas, from the beginning love is whole And true; if sure of naught beside, most sure Of its own truth at least; nor may endure A crowd to see its face, that cannot know How hot the pulses throb its heart below. While its own helplessness and utter want Of means to worthily be ministrant To what it worships, do but fan the more Its flame, exalt the idol far before Itself as it would have it ever be. Souls like Sordello, on the contrary, Coerced and put to shame, retaining will, Care little, take mysterious comfort still, But look forth tremblingly to ascertain If others judge their claims not urged in vain, And say for them their stifled thoughts aloud. So, they must ever live before a crowd: --"Vanity," Naddo tells you. Whence contrive A crowd, now? From these women just alive, That archer-troop? Forth glided--not alone Each painted warrior, every girl of stone, Nor Adelaide (bent double o'er a scroll, One maiden at her knees, that eve, his soul Shook as he stumbled through the arras'd glooms On them, for, 'mid quaint robes and weird perfumes, Started the meagre Tuscan up,--her eyes, The maiden's, also, bluer with surprise) --But the entire out-world: whatever, scraps And snatches, song and story, dreams perhaps, Conceited the world's offices, and he Had hitherto transferred to flower or tree, Not counted a befitting heritage Each, of its own right, singly to engage Some man, no other,--such now dared to stand Alone. Strength, wisdom, grace on every hand Soon disengaged themselves, and he discerned A sort of human life: at least, was turned [Sidenote: He therefore creates such a company;] A stream of lifelike figures through his brain. Lord, liegeman, valvassor and suzerain, Ere he could choose, surrounded him; a stuff To work his pleasure on; there, sure enough: But as for gazing, what shall fix that gaze? Are they to simply testify the ways He who convoked them sends his soul along With the cloud's thunder or a dove's brood-song? --While they live each his life, boast each his own [Sidenote: Each of which, leading its own life,] Peculiar dower of bliss, stand each alone In some one point where something dearest loved Is easiest gained--far worthier to be proved Than aught he envies in the forest-wights! No simple and self-evident delights, But mixed desires of unimagined range, Contrasts or combinations, new and strange, Irksome perhaps, yet plainly recognized By this, the sudden company--loves prized By those who are to prize his own amount Of loves. Once care because such make account, Allow that foreign recognitions stamp The current value, and his crowd shall vamp Him counterfeits enough; and so their print Be on the piece, 'tis gold, attests the mint. And "good," pronounce they whom his new appeal Is made to: if their casual print conceal-- This arbitrary good of theirs o'ergloss What he has lived without, nor felt the loss-- Qualities strange, ungainly, wearisome, --What matter? So must speech expand the dumb Part-sigh, part-smile with which Sordello, late Whom no poor woodland-sights could satiate, Betakes himself to study hungrily Just what the puppets his crude fantasy Supposes notablest,--popes, kings, priests, knights,-- May please to promulgate for appetites; Accepting all their artificial joys Not as he views them, but as he employs Each shape to estimate the other's stock Of attributes, whereon--a marshalled flock Of authorized enjoyments--he may spend Himself, be men, now, as he used to blend With tree and flower--nay more entirely, else 'T were mockery: for instance, "How excels My life that chieftain's?" (who apprised the youth Ecelin, here, becomes this month, in truth, Imperial Vicar?) "Turns he in his tent Remissly? Be it so--my head is bent Deliciously amid my girls to sleep. What if he stalks the Trentine-pass? Yon steep I climbed an hour ago with little toil: We are alike there. But can I, too, foil The Guelf's paid stabber, carelessly afford Saint Mark's a spectacle, the sleight o' the sword Baffling the treason in a moment?" Here No rescue! Poppy he is none, but peer To Ecelin, assuredly: his hand, Fashioned no otherwise, should wield a brand With Ecelin's success--try, now! He soon Was satisfied, returned as to the moon From earth: left each abortive boy's attempt [Sidenote: Has qualities impossible to a boy,] For feats, from failure happily exempt, In fancy at his beck. "One day I will Accomplish it! Are they not older still --Not grown up men and women? 'T is beside Only a dream; and though I must abide With dreams now, I may find a thorough vent For all myself, acquire an instrument For acting what these people act; my soul Hunting a body out may gain its whole Desire some day!" How else express chagrin And resignation, show the hope steal in With which he let sink from an aching wrist The rough-hewn ash-bow? Straight, a gold shaft hissed Into the Syrian air, struck Malek down Superbly! "Crosses to the breach! God's Town Is gained him back!" Why bend rough ash-bows more? Thus lives he: if not careless as before, Comforted: for one may anticipate, Rehearse the future, be prepared when fate Shall have prepared in turn real men whose names Startle, real places of enormous fames, Este abroad and Ecelin at home To worship him,--Mantua, Verona, Rome To witness it. Who grudges time so spent? Rather test qualities to heart's content-- Summon them, thrice selected, near and far-- Compress the starriest into one star, [Sidenote: So, only to be appropriated in fancy,] And grasp the whole at once! The pageant thinned Accordingly; from rank to rank, like wind His spirit passed to winnow and divide; Back fell the simpler phantasms; every side The strong clave to the wise; with either classed The beauteous; so, till two or three amassed Mankind's beseemingnesses, and reduced Themselves eventually, graces loosed, Strengths lavished, all to heighten up One Shape Whose potency no creature should escape. Can it be Friedrich of the bowmen's talk? Surely that grape-juice, bubbling at the stalk, Is some gray scorching Sarasenic wine The Kaiser quaffs with the Miramoline-- Those swarthy hazel-clusters, seamed and chapped, Or filberts russet-sheathed and velvet-capped, Are dates plucked from the bough John Brienne sent, To keep in mind his sluggish armament Of Canaan:--Friedrich's, all the pomp and fierce Demeanor! But harsh sounds and sights transpierce So rarely the serene cloud where he dwells, [Sidenote: And practised on till the real come.] Whose looks enjoin, whose lightest words are spells On the obdurate! That right arm indeed Has thunder for its slave; but where 's the need Of thunder if the stricken multitude Hearkens, arrested in its angriest mood, While songs go up exulting, then dispread, Dispart, disperse, lingering overhead Like an escape of angels? 'T is the tune, Nor much unlike the words his women croon Smilingly, colorless and faint-designed Each, as a worn-out queen's face some remind Of her extreme youth's love-tales. "Eglamor Made that!" Half minstrel and half emperor, What but ill objects vexed him? Such he slew. The kinder sort were easy to subdue By those ambrosial glances, dulcet tones; And these a gracious hand advanced to thrones Beneath him. Wherefore twist and torture this, Striving to name afresh the antique bliss, Instead of saying, neither less nor more, [Sidenote: He means to be perfect--say, Apollo;] He had discovered, as our world before, Apollo? That shall be the name; nor bid Me rag by rag expose how patchwork hid The youth--what thefts of every clime and day Contributed to purfle the array He climbed with (June at deep) some close ravine 'Mid clatter of its million pebbles sheen, Over which, singing soft, the runnel slipped Elate with rains: into whose streamlet dipped He foot, yet trod, you thought, with unwet sock-- Though really on the stubs of living rock Ages ago it crenelled; vines for roof, Lindens for wall; before him, aye aloof, Flittered in the cool some azure damsel-fly, Born of the simmering quiet, there to die. Emerging whence, Apollo still, he spied Mighty descents of forest; multiplied Tuft on tuft, here, the frolic myrtle-trees, There gendered the grave maple stocks at ease, And, proud of its observer, straight the wood Tried old surprises on him; black it stood A sudden barrier ('t was a cloud passed o'er) So dead and dense, the tiniest brute no more Must pass; yet presently (the cloud dispatched) Each clump, behold, was glistening detached A shrub, oak-boles shrunk into ilex-stems! Yet could not he denounce the stratagems He saw thro', till, hours thence, aloft would hang White summer-lightnings; as it sank and sprang To measure, that whole palpitating breast Of heaven, 't was Apollo, nature prest At eve to worship. Time stole: by degrees The Pythons perish off; his votaries Sink to respectful distance; songs redeem Their pains, but briefer; their dismissals seem Emphatic; only girls are very slow To disappear--his Delians! Some that glow O' the instant, more with earlier loves to wrench Away, reserves to quell, disdains to quench; Alike in one material circumstance-- All soon or late adore Apollo! Glance The bevy through, divine Apollo's choice, [Sidenote: And Apollo must one day find Daphne.] His Daphne! "We secure Count Richard's voice In Este's counsels, good for Este's ends As our Taurello," say his faded friends, "By granting him our Palma!"--the sole child, They mean, of Agnes Este who beguiled Ecelin, years before this Adelaide Wedded and turned him wicked: "but the maid Rejects his suit," those sleepy women boast. She, scorning all beside, deserves the most Sordello: so, conspicuous in his world Of dreams sat Palma. How the tresses curled Into a sumptuous swell of gold and wound About her like a glory! even the ground Was bright as with spilt sunbeams; breathe not, breathe Not!--poised, see, one leg doubled underneath, Its small foot buried in the dimpling snow, Rests, but the other, listlessly below, O'er the couch-side swings feeling for cool air, The vein-streaks swollen a richer violet where The languid blood lies heavily; yet calm On her slight prop, each flat and outspread palm, As but suspended in the act to rise By consciousness of beauty, whence her eyes [Sidenote: But when will this dream turn truth?] Turn with so frank a triumph, for she meets Apollo's gaze in the pine glooms. Time fleets: That 's worst! Because the pre-appointed age Approaches. Fate is tardy with the stage And crowd she promised. Lean he grows and pale, Though restlessly at rest. Hardly avail Fancies to soothe him. Time steals, yet alone He tarries here! The earnest smile is gone. How long this might continue matters not; [Sidenote: For the time is ripe, and he ready.] --Forever, possibly; since to the spot None come: our lingering Taurello quits Mantua at last, and light our lady flits Back to her place disburdened of a care. Strange--to be constant here if he is there! Is it distrust? Oh, never! for they both Goad Ecelin alike, Romano's growth Is daily manifest, with Azzo dumb And Richard wavering: let but Friedrich come, Find matter for the minstrelsy's report! --Lured from the Isle and its young Kaiser's court To sing us a Messina morning up, And, double rillet of a drinking cup, Sparkle along to ease the land of drouth, Northward to Provence that, and thus far south The other. What a method to apprise Neighbors of births, espousals, obsequies! Which in their very tongue the Troubadour Records; and his performance makes a tour, For Trouveres bear the miracle about, Explain its cunning to the vulgar rout, Until the Formidable House is famed Over the country--as Taurello aimed, Who introduced, although the rest adopt, The novelty. Such games, her absence stopped, Begin afresh now Adelaide, recluse No longer, in the light of day pursues Her plans at Mantua: whence an accident Which, breaking on Sordello's mixed content, Opened, like any flash that cures the blind, The veritable business of mankind.

BOOK THE SECOND

The woods were long austere with snow: at last [Sidenote: This bubble of fancy.] Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast Larches, scattered through pine-tree 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 caldron, 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. Naught so sure As that to-day's adventure will secure Palma, the visioned lady--only pass O'er yon 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 dew-drops 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-vapor, 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 pine-trees 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 [Sidenote: When greatest and brightest, bursts.] 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 naught-- 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 [Sidenote: At a Court of Love a minstrel sings.] The song: he stealthily at watch, the while, Biting his lip to keep down a great smile Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again; So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm The minstrel left in his enthusiasm, Mistaking its true version--was the tale Not of Apollo? Only, what avail Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased, If the man dared no further? Has he ceased? And, lo, the people's frank applause half done, Sordello was beside him, had begun (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end, Taking the other's names and time and place For his. On flew the song, a giddy race, [Sidenote: Sordello, before Palma, conquers him,] After the flying story; word made leap Out word, rhyme--rhyme; the lay could barely keep Pace with the action visibly rushing past: Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue, And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong Insulted. But the people--but the cries, The crowding round, and proffering the prize! --For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide, Silent; but at her knees the very maid Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich, The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which, Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er She leant, speaking some six words and no more. He answered something, anything; and she Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again Moved the arrested magic; in his brain Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare, And greater glare, until the intense flare Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense. And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence, At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont; The customary birds'-chirp; but his front [Sidenote: Receives the prize, and ruminates.] Was crowned--was crowned! Her scented scarf around His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground? A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim, Ready to talk--"The Jongleurs in a troop Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent In taking, well for him, so brave a bent! Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite, And Palma chose him for her minstrel." Light Sordello rose--to think, now; hitherto He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew Out of it all! Best live from first to last The transport o'er again. A week he passed, Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance, From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man Recounted an adventure, but began Imperfectly; his own task was to fill The framework up, sing well what he sung ill, Supply the necessary points, set loose As many incidents of little use --More imbecile the other, not to see Their relative importance clear as he! But, for a special pleasure in the act Of singing--had he ever turned, in fact, From Elys, to sing Elys?--from each fit Of rapture to contrive a song of it? True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind Into a treasure, helped himself to find A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard Of fancies; as some falling cone hears soft The eye along the fir-tree spire, aloft To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause Why such performance should exact applause From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate Decree they found a beauty separate In the poor snatch itself?--"Take Elys, there, --'Her head that's sharp and perfect like a pear, So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks Colored like honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer'--if they heard Just those two rhymes, assented at my word, And loved them as I love them who have run These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun Into the white cool skin--who first could clutch, Then praise--I needs must be a god to such. Or what if some, above themselves, and yet [Sidenote: How had he been superior to Eglamor?] Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set An impress on our gift? So, men believe And worship what they know not, nor receive Delight from. Have they fancies--slow, perchance, Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance Until, by song, each floating part be linked To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?" He pondered this. Meanwhile, sounds low and drear Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near And nearer, while the underwood was pushed Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid; Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade Came o'er the sky although 't was mid-day yet: You saw each half-shut downcast floweret Flutter--"a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart Her unbound tresses with the Sabine dart, Holding that famous rape in memory still, Felt creep into her curls the iron chill, And looked thus," Eglamor would say--indeed [Sidenote: This is answered by Eglamor himself:] 'T is Eglamor, no other, these precede Home hither in the woods. "'T were surely sweet Far from the scene of one's forlorn defeat To sleep!" judged Naddo, who in person led Jongleurs and Trouveres, chanting at their head, A scanty company; for, sooth to say, Our beaten Troubadour had seen his day. Old worshippers were something shamed, old friends Nigh weary; still the death proposed amends. "Let us but get them safely through my song And home again!" quoth Naddo. All along, This man (they rest the bier upon the sand) --This calm corpse with the loose flowers in his hand, Eglamor, lived Sordello's opposite. For him indeed was Naddo's notion right, And verse a temple-worship vague and vast, A ceremony that withdrew the last Opposing bolt, looped back the lingering veil Which hid the holy place: should one so frail Stand there without such effort? or repine If much was blank, uncertain at the shrine He knelt before, till, soothed by many a rite, The power responded, and some sound or sight Grew up, his own forever, to be fixed, In rhyme, the beautiful, forever!--mixed With his own life, unloosed when he should please, [Sidenote: One who belonged to what he loved,] Having it safe at hand, ready to ease All pain, remove all trouble; every time He loosed that fancy from its bonds of rhyme, (Like Perseus when he loosed his naked love) Faltering; so distinct and far above Himself, these fancies! He, no genius rare, Transfiguring in fire or wave or air At will, but a poor gnome that, cloistered up In some rock-chamber with his agate cup, His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few And their arrangement finds enough to do For his best art. Then, how he loved that art! The calling marking him a man apart From men--one not to care, take counsel for Cold hearts, comfortless faces--(Eglamor Was neediest of his tribe)--since verse, the gift, Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth. So, Eglamor was not without his pride! [Sidenote: Loving his art and rewarded by it,] The sorriest bat which cowers throughout noontide While other birds are jocund, has one time When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime Of earth is his to claim, nor find a peer; And Eglamor was noblest poet here-- He well knew, 'mid those April woods, he cast Conceits upon in plenty as he passed, That Naddo might suppose him not to think Entirely on the coming triumph: wink At the one weakness! 'Twas a fervid child, That song of his; no brother of the guild Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know, The exaltation and the overthrow: Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank, His life--to that it came. Yet envy sank Within him, as he heard Sordello out, And, for the first time, shouted--tried to shout Like others, not from any zeal to show Pleasure that way: the common sort did so. What else was Eglamor? who, bending down As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown, Printed a kiss on his successor's hand, Left one great tear on it, then joined his band --In time; for some were watching at the door: Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er, Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied And disengaged the withered crown)--"Beside His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait His coming, zealous to congratulate; But, to a man,--so quickly runs report,-- Could do no less than leave him, and escort His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought: What must his future life be? was he brought So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn? At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn, And by to-morrow I devise some plain Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again. [Sidenote: Ending with what had possessed him.] They found as much, those friends, when they returned O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned About Sordello's paradise, his roves Among the hills and vales and plains and groves, Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast, Polished by slow degrees, completed last To Eglamor's discomfiture and death. Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath, They lay the beaten man in his abode, Naddo reciting that same luckless ode, Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore By means of it, however, one step more In joy; and, mastering the round at length, Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength, When from his covert forth he stood, addressed Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest, Primæval pines o'ercanopy his couch, And, most of all, his fame--(shall I avouch Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look, And laughed as from his brow Sordello took The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?) --Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell, A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails Till evening; evening gives it to her gales To clear away with such forgotten things As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings Him to their mind, and hears his very name. [Sidenote: Eglamor done with, Sordello begins.] So much for Eglamor. My own month came; 'Twas a sunrise of blossoming and May. Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars Dug up at Baiæ, when the south wind shed The ripest, made him happier; filleted And robed the same, only a lute beside Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide The country stretched: Goito slept behind --The castle and its covert, which confined Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old To leave the story of his birth untold. At intervals, 'spite the fantastic glow Of his Apollo-life, a certain low And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss, Admonished, no such fortune could be his, All was quite false and sure to fade one day: The closelier drew he round him his array Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when A reason for his difference from men Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest While aught of that old life, superbly dressed Down to its meanest incident, remained A mystery: alas, they soon explained Away Apollo! and the tale amounts To this: when at Vicenza both her counts [Sidenote: Who he really was, and why at Goito.] Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin, Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin, Reviled him as he followed; he for spite Must fire their quarter, though that self-same night Among the flames young Ecelin was born Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn From the roused populace hard on the rear, By a poor archer when his chieftain's fear Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt, Saved her, and died; no creature left except His child to thank. And when the full escape Was known--how men impaled from chine to nape Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned Bishop Pistore's concubines, and burned Taurello's entire household, flesh and fell, Missing the sweeter prey--such courage well Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since, Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince Within a blind retreat where Adelaide-- (For, once this notable discovery made, The past at every point was understood) --Might harbor easily when times were rude, When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve That pledge of Agnes Este--loth to leave Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye, While there Taurello bode ambiguously-- He who could have no motive now to moil For his own fortunes since their utter spoil-- As it were worth while yet (went the report) To disengage himself from her. In short, Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named His lady's minstrel, was to be proclaimed --How shall I phrase it?--Monarch of the World! [Sidenote: He, so little, would fain be so much:] For, on the day when that array was furled Forever, and in place of one a slave To longings, wild indeed, but longings save In dreams as wild, suppressed--one daring not Assume the mastery such dreams allot, Until a magical equipment, strength, Grace, wisdom, decked him too,--he chose at length, Content with unproved wits and failing frame, In virtue of his simple will, to claim That mastery, no less--to do his best With means so limited, and let the rest Go by,--the seal was set: never again Sordello could in his own sight remain [Sidenote: Leaves the dream he may be something,] One of the many, one with hopes and cares And interests nowise distinct from theirs, Only peculiar in a thriveless store Of fancies, which were fancies and no more; Never again for him and for the crowd A common law was challenged and allowed If calmly reasoned of, howe'er denied By a mad impulse nothing justified Short of Apollo's presence. The divorce Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course By any known example? Men no more Compete with him than tree and flower before. Himself, inactive, yet is greater far Than such as act, each stooping to his star, Acquiring thence his function; he has gained The same result with meaner mortals trained To strength or beauty, moulded to express Each the idea that rules him; since no less He comprehends that function, but can still Embrace the others, take of might his fill With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix Their qualities, or for a moment fix On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped By any partial organ, never stamped Strong, and to strength turning all energies-- Wise, and restricted to becoming wise-- That is, he loves not, nor possesses One Idea that, star-like over, lures him on To its exclusive purpose. "Fortunate! This flesh of mine ne'er strove to emulate A soul so various--took no casual mould Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold, Clogged her forever--soul averse to change As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range, Remains itself a blank, east into shade, Encumbers little, if it cannot aid. [Sidenote: For the fact that he can do nothing,] So, range, free soul!--who, by self-consciousness, The last drop of all beauty dost express-- The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence For thee: while for the world, that can dispense Wonder on men who, themselves, wonder--make A shift to love at second-hand, and take For idols those who do but idolize, Themselves,--the world that counts men strong or wise, Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom,--it shall bow Surely in unexampled worship now, Discerning me!"-- (Dear monarch, I beseech, Notice how lamentably wide a breach Is here: discovering this, discover too What our poor world has possibly to do With it! As pigmy natures as you please-- So much the better for you; take your ease, Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone; Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone! All that is right enough: but why want us To know that you yourself know thus and thus?) "The world shall bow to me conceiving all Man's life, who see its blisses, great and small, Afar--not tasting any; no machine To exercise my utmost will is mine: Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive What I could do, a mastery believe, Asserted and established to the throng By their selected evidence of song Which now shall prove, whate'er they are, or seek To be, I am--whose words, not actions speak, Who change no standards of perfection, vex With no strange forms created to perplex, But just perform their bidding and no more, At their own satiating-point give o'er, While each shall love in me the love that leads His soul to power's perfection." Song, not deeds, (For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook Mankind no other organ; he would look For not another channel to dispense His own volition by, receive men's sense Of its supremacy--would live content, Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent. [Sidenote: Yet is able to imagine everything,] Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek And, striving, be admired; nor grace bespeak Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes; Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods: But he would give and take on song's one point. Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint, Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed, Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let That key by any little noise be set-- The far benighted hunter's halloo pitch On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift, However loud, however low--all lift The groaning monster, stricken to the heart. Lo ye, the world's concernment, for its part, [Sidenote: If the world esteem this equivalent.] And this, for his, will hardly interfere! Its businesses in blood and blaze this year But while the hour away--a pastime slight Till he shall step upon the platform: right! And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough, Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough,-- Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve: Were it a less digested plan! how swerve To-morrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes, And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes Merrily thus. He thoroughly read o'er His truchman Naddo's missive six times more, Praying him visit Mantua and supply A famished world. The evening star was high When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived Before him: friends applauded, foes connived, And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest Angels, and all these angels would he blest Supremely by a song--the thrice-renowned Goito-manufacture. Then he found (Casting about to satisfy the crowd) [Sidenote: He has loved song's results, not song;] That happy vehicle, so late allowed, A sore annoyance; 't was the song's effect He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect! In the past life, what might be singing's use? Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse Praise, not the toilsome process which procured That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured, No overleaping means for ends--take both For granted or take neither! I am loth To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor's; But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors Go pine; "the master certes meant to waste No effort, cautiously had probed the taste He 'd please anon: true bard, in short, disturb His title if they could; nor spur nor curb, Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence The staple of his verses, common sense: He built on man's broad nature--gift of gifts, That power to build! The world contented shifts With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort Its poet-soul--that 's, after all, a freak (The having eyes to see and tongue to speak) With our herd's stupid sterling happiness So plainly incompatible that--yes-- Yes--should a son of his improve the breed And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!" "Well, there 's Goito and its woods anon, If the worst happen; best go stoutly on Now!" thought Sordello. [Sidenote: So, must effect this to obtain those.] Ay, and goes on yet! You pother with your glossaries to get A notion of the Troubadour's intent In rondel, tenzon, virlai, or sirvent-- Much as you study arras how to twirl His angelot, plaything of page and girl Once; but you surely reach, at last,--or, no! Never quite reach what struck the people so, As from the welter of their time he drew Its elements successively to view, Followed all actions backward on their course, And catching up, unmingled at the source, Such a strength, such a weakness, added then A touch or two, and turned them into men. Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape; Here heaven opened, there was hell agape, As Saint this simpered past in sanctity, Sinner the other flared portentous by A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised At his success? The scheme was realized Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud To speak, delicious homage to receive, The woman's breath to feel upon his sleeve, Who said, "But Anafest--why asks he less Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess, It seemed too much but yestereve!"--the youth, Who bade him earnestly, "Avow the truth! You love Bianca, surely, from your song; I knew I was unworthy!"--soft or strong, In poured such tributes ere he had arranged Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed, Digested. Courted thus at unawares, In spite of his pretensions and his cares, He caught himself shamefully hankering After the obvious petty joys that spring From true life, fain relinquish pedestal [Sidenote: He succeeds a little, but fails more;] And condescend with pleasures--one and all To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain Himself to single joys and so refrain From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure, His prime design; each joy must he abjure Even for love of it. He laughed: what sage But perishes if from his magic page He look because, at the first line, a proof 'T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof? "On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside, To the day's task; compel your slave provide Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief-- Cannot men hear, now, something better?--fly A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry Of essences? the period sure has ceased For such: present us with ourselves, at least, Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates Made flesh: wait not!" [Sidenote: Tries again, is no better satisfied,] Awhile the poet waits However. The first trial was enough: He left imagining, to try the stuff That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe To reach the light--his Language. How he sought The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought That Language,--welding words into the crude Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude Armor was hammered out, in time to be Approved beyond the Roman panoply Melted to make it,--boots not. This obtained With some ado, no obstacle remained To using it; accordingly he took An action with its actors, quite forsook Himself to live in each, returned anon With the result--a creature, and, by one And one, proceeded leisurely to equip Its limbs in harness of his workmanship. "Accomplished! Listen, Mantuans!" Fond essay! Piece after piece that armor broke away, Because perceptions whole, like that he sought To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought As language: thought may take perception's place But hardly co-exist in any case, Being its mere presentment--of the whole By parts, the simultaneous and the sole By the successive and the many. Lacks The crowd perception? painfully it tacks Thought to thought, which Sordello, needing such, Has rent perception into: it 's to clutch And reconstruct--his office to diffuse, Destroy: as hard, then, to obtain a Muse As to become Apollo. "For the rest, E'en if some wondrous vehicle expressed The whole dream, what impertinence in me So to express it, who myself can be The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those I sing to, over-likely to suppose [Sidenote: And declines from the ideal of song.] A higher than the highest I present Now, which they praise already: be content Both parties, rather--they with the old verse, And I with the old praise--far go, fare worse!" A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps, So might Apollo from the sudden corpse Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits. He set to celebrating the exploits Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers. Then came The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim Merely,--what was it? "Not to play the fool So much as learn our lesson in your school!" Replied the world. He found that, every time He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme, His auditory recognized no jot As he intended, and, mistaking not Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce Sufficient to believe him--all, at once. His will ... conceive it caring for his will! --Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak, Had Montfort at completely (so to speak) His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept: The true meed for true merit!--his abates [Sidenote: What is the world's recognition worth?] Into a sort he most repudiates, And on them angrily he turns. Who were The Mantuans, after all, that he should care About their recognition, ay or no? In spite of the convention months ago, (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help This same ungrateful audience, every whelp Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers With the bright band of old Goito years, As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed A fairy dust upon that multitude, Although he feigned to take them by themselves; His giants dignified those puny elves, Sublime their faint applause. In short, he found Himself still footing a delusive round, Remote as ever from the self-display He meant to compass, hampered every way By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then Continue, make believe to find in men A use he found not? Weeks, months, years went by, And lo, Sordello vanished utterly, Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife With each; one jarred against another life; [Sidenote: How, poet no longer in unity with man,] The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man, Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran Here, there,--let slip no opportunities As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize To drop on him some no-time and acquit His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit-- That waiving any compromise between No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen Beyond most methods)--of incurring scoff From the Man-portion--not to be put off With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme, Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream, Dressed anyhow, nor waited mystic frames, Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims, But just his sorry self?--who yet might be Sorrier for aught he in reality Achieved, so pinioned Man 's the Poet-part, Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art Developing his soul a thousand ways-- Potent, by its assistance, to amaze The multitude with majesties, convince Each sort of nature, that the nature's prince Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew Into a bravest of expedients, too; Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent-- So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge A minute's toil that missed its due reward! But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard, [Sidenote: The whole visible Sordello goes wrong] John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land, That on the sea, with, open in his hand, A bitter-sweetling of a book--was gone. Then, if internal straggles to be one Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal, Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call To action while he pondered, once for all, Which looked the easier effort--to pursue This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through The present ill-appreciated stage Of self-revealment, and compel the age Know him; or else, forswearing bard-craft, wake From out his lethargy and nobly shake Off timid habits of denial, mix With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared For his perplexity! Thus unprepared, The obvious if not only shelter lay [Sidenote: With those too hard for half of him,] In deeds, the dull conventions of his day Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad 'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad, Submits to this and that established rule? Let Vidal change, or any other fool, His murrey-colored robe for filamot, And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not, Such vigor? Then, a sorrow to the heart, His talk! Whatever topics they might start Had to be groped for in his consciousness Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess. Only obliged to ask himself, "What was," A speedy answer followed; but, alas, One of God's large ones, tardy to condense Itself into a period; answers whence A tangle of conclusions must be stripped At any risk ere, trim to pattern clipped, They matched rare specimens the Mantuan flock Regaled him with, each talker from his stock Of sorted-o'er opinions, every stage, Juicy in youth or desiccate with age, Fruits like the fig-tree's, rathe-ripe, rotten-rich, Sweet-sour, all tastes to take: a practice which He too had not impossibly attained, Once either of those fancy-flights restrained; (For, at conjecture how might words appear To others, playing there what happened here, And occupied abroad by what he spurned At home, 't was slipped, the occasion he returned To seize:) he 'd strike that lyre adroitly--speech, Would but a twenty-cubit plectre reach; A clever hand, consummate instrument, Were both brought close; each excellency went For nothing, else. The question Naddo asked, Had just a lifetime moderately tasked To answer, Naddo's fashion. More disgust [Sidenote: Of whom he is also too contemptuous.] And more: why move his soul, since move it must At minute's notice or as good it failed To move at all? The end was, he retailed Some ready-made opinion, put to use This quip, that maxim, ventured reproduce Gestures and tones--at any folly caught Serving to finish with, nor too much sought If false or true 't was spoken; praise and blame Of what he said grew pretty nigh the same --Meantime awards to meantime acts: his soul, Unequal to the compassing a whole, Saw, in a tenth part, less and less to strive About. And as for men in turn ... contrive Who could to take eternal interest In them, so hate the worst, so love the best! Though, in pursuance of his passive plan, He hailed, decried, the proper way. As Man So figured he; and how as Poet? Verse Came only not to a stand-still. The worse, That his poor piece of daily work to do Was, not sink under any rivals; who [Sidenote: He pleases neither himself nor them:] Loudly and long enough, without these qualms, Turned, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms, To Plara's sonnets spoilt by toying with, "As knops that stud some almug to the pith Prickèd for gum, wry thence, and crinklèd worse Than pursèd eyelids of a river-horse Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breeze"-- _Gad-fly_, that is. He might compete with these! But--but-- "Observe a pompion-twine afloat; Pluck me one cup from off the castle-moat! [Sidenote: Which the best judges account for.] Along with cup you raise leaf, stalk and root, The entire surface of the pool to boot. So could I pluck a cup, put in one song A single sight, did not my hand, too strong, Twitch in the least the root-strings of the whole. How should externals satisfy my soul?" "Why that 's precise the error Squarcialupe" (Hazarded Naddo) "finds; 'the man can't stoop To sing us out,' quoth he, 'a mere romance; He 'd fain do better than the best, enhance The subjects' rarity, work problems out Therewith.' Now, you 're a bard, a bard past doubt, And no philosopher; why introduce Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use In poetry--which still must be, to strike, Based upon common sense; there 's nothing like Appealing to our nature! what beside Was your first poetry? No tricks were tried In that, no hollow thrills, affected throes! 'The man,' said we, 'tells his own joys and woes: We 'll trust him.' Would you have your songs endure? Build on the human heart!--why, to be sure Yours is one sort of heart--but I mean theirs, Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares To build on! Central peace, mother of strength, That 's father of ... nay, go yourself that length, Ask those calm-hearted doers what they do When they have got their calm! And is it true, Fire rankles at the heart of every globe? Perhaps. But these are matters one may probe Too deeply for poetic purposes: Rather select a theory that ... yes, Laugh! what does that prove?--stations you midway And saves some little o'er-refining. Nay, That 's rank injustice done me! I restrict The poet? Don't I hold the poet picked Out of a host of warriors, statesmen ... did I tell you? Very like! As well you hid That sense of power, you have! True bards believe All able to achieve what they achieve-- That is, just nothing--in one point abide Profounder simpletons than all beside. Oh, ay! The knowledge that you are a bard Must constitute your prime, nay sole, reward!" So prattled Naddo, busiest of the tribe Of genius-haunters--how shall I describe What grubs or nips or rubs or rips--your louse For love, your flea for hate, magnanimous, [Sidenote: Their criticisms give small comfort:] Malignant, Pappacoda, Tagliafer, Picking a sustenance from wear and tear By implements it sedulous employs To undertake, lay down, mete out, o'er-toise Sordello? Fifty creepers to elude At once! They settled stanchly: shame ensued: Behold the monarch of mankind succumb To the last fool who turned him round his thumb, As Naddo styled it! 'T was not worth oppose The matter of a moment, gainsay those He aimed at getting rid of; better think Their thoughts and speak their speech, secure to slink Back expeditiously to his safe place, And chew the cud--what he and what his race Were really, each of them. Yet even this Conformity was partial. He would miss Some point, brought into contact with them ere Assured in what small segment of the sphere Of his existence they attended him; Whence blunders, falsehoods rectified--a grim List--slur it over! How? If dreams were tried, His will swayed sicklily from side to side, Nor merely neutralized his waking act But tended e'en in fancy to distract The intermediate will, the choice of means. He lost the art of dreaming: Mantuan scenes Supplied a baron, say, he sang before, Handsomely reckless, full to running o'er Of gallantries; "abjure the soul, content With body, therefore!" Scarcely had he bent Himself in dream thus low, when matter fast Cried out, he found, for spirit to contrast And task it duly; by advances slight, The simple stuff becoming composite, Count Lori grew Apollo--best recall His fancy! Then would some rough peasant-Paul, Like those old Ecelin confers with, glance His gay apparel o'er; that countenance Gathered his shattered fancies into one, And, body clean abolished, soul alone Sufficed the gray Paulieian: by and by, [Sidenote: And his own degradation is complete.] To balance the ethereality, Passions were needed; foiled he sank again. Meanwhile the world rejoiced ('t is time explain) Because a sudden sickness set it free From Adelaide. Missing the mother-bee, Her mountain-hive Romano swarmed; at once A rustle-forth of daughters and of sons Blackened the valley. "I am sick too, old, Half-crazed I think; what good 's the Kaiser's gold To such an one? God help me! for I catch My children's greedy sparkling eyes at watch-- 'He bears that double breastplate on,' they say, 'So many minutes less than yesterday!' Beside, Monk Hilary is on his knees Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please Exact a punishment for many things You know, and some you never knew; which brings To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's And Ecelin's betrothed; the Count himself Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf Mean to embrace each other." So began [Sidenote: Adelaide's death: what happens on it:] Romano's missive to his fighting man Taurello--on the Tuscan's death, away With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay Next month for Syria. Never thunder-clap Out of Vesuvius' throat, like this mishap Startled him. "That accursed Vicenza! I Absent, and she selects this time to die! Ho, fellows, for Vicenza!" Half a score Of horses ridden dead, he stood before Romano in his reeking spurs: too late-- "Boniface urged me, Este could not wait," The chieftain stammered; "let me die in peace-- Forget me! Was it I who craved increase Of rule? Do you and Friedrich plot your worst Against the Father: as you found me first So leave me now. Forgive me! Palma, sure, Is at Goito still. Retain that lure-- Only be pacified!" The country rung With such a piece of news: on every tongue, How Ecelin's great servant, congeed off, Had done a long day's service, so, might doff The green and yellow, and recover breath At Mantua, whither,--since Retrude's death, (The girlish slip of a Sicilian bride From Otho's house, he carried to reside At Mantua till the Ferrarese should pile A structure worthy her imperial style, The gardens raise, the statues there enshrine, She never lived to see)--although his line Was ancient in her archives and she took A pride in him, that city, nor forsook Her child when he forsook himself and spent A prowess on Romano surely meant For his own growth--whither he ne'er resorts If wholly satisfied (to trust reports) With Ecelin. So, forward in a trice Were shows to greet him. "Take a friend's advice," Quoth Naddo to Sordello, "nor be rash Because your rivals (nothing can abash Some folks) demur that we pronounced you best To sound the great man's welcome; 't is a test, Remember! Strojavacca looks asquint, The rough fat sloven; and there 's plenty hint Your pinions have received of late a shock-- Outsoar them, cobswan of the silver flock! [Sidenote: And a trouble it occasions Sordello.] Sing well!" A signal wonder, song 's no whit Facilitated. Fast the minutes flit; Another day, Sordello finds, will bring The soldier, and he cannot choose but sing; So, a last shift, quits Mantua--slow, alone: Out of that aching brain, a very stone, Song must be struck. What occupies that front? Just how he was more awkward than his wont The night before, when Naddo, who had seen Taurello on his progress, praised the mien For dignity no crosses could affect-- Such was a joy, and might not he detect A satisfaction if established joys Were proved imposture? Poetry annoys Its utmost: wherefore fret? Verses may come Or keep away! And thus he wandered, dumb Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent, On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went, Yielding himself up as to an embrace. The moon came out; like features of a face, A querulous fraternity of pines, Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines Also came out, made gradually up The picture; 't was Goito's mountain-cup And castle. He had dropped through one defile He never dared explore, the Chief erewhile [Sidenote: He chances upon his old environment,] Had vanished by. Back rushed the dream, enwrapped Him wholly. 'T was Apollo now they lapped, Those mountains, not a pettish minstrel meant To wear his soul away in discontent, Brooding on fortune's malice. Heart and brain Swelled; he expanded to himself again, As some thin seedling spice-tree starved and frail, Pushing between cat's head and ibis' tail Crusted into the porphyry pavement smooth, --Suffered remain just as it sprung, to soothe The Soldan's pining daughter, never yet Well in her chilly green-glazed minaret,-- When rooted up, the sunny day she died, And flung into the common court beside Its parent tree. Come home, Sordello! Soon Was he low muttering, beneath the moon, Of sorrow saved, of quiet evermore,-- Since from the purpose, he maintained before, Only resulted wailing and hot tears. [Sidenote: Sees but failure in all done since,] Ah, the slim castle! dwindled of late years, But more mysterious; gone to ruin--trails Of vine through every loop-hole. Naught avails The night as, torch in hand, he must explore The maple chamber: did I say, its floor Was made of intersecting cedar beams? Worn now with gaps so large, there blew cold streams Of air quite from the dungeon; lay your ear Close and 't is like, one after one, you hear In the blind darkness water drop. The nests And nooks retain their long ranged vesture-chests Empty and smelling of the iris root The Tuscan grated o'er them to recruit Her wasted wits. Palma was gone that day, Said the remaining women. Last, he lay Beside the Carian group reserved and still. The Body, the Machine for Acting Will, Had been at the commencement proved unfit; That for Demonstrating, Reflecting it, Mankind--no fitter: was the Will Itself In fault? His forehead pressed the moonlit shelf Beside the youngest marble maid awhile; Then, raising it, he thought, with a long smile, [Sidenote: and resolves to desist from the like.] "I shall be king again!" as he withdrew The envied scarf; into the font he threw His crown. Next day, no poet! "Wherefore?" asked Taurello, when the dance of Jongleurs, masked As devils, ended; "don't a song come next?" The master of the pageant looked perplexed Till Naddo's whisper came to his relief. "His Highness knew what poets were: in brief, Had not the tetchy race prescriptive right To peevishness, caprice? or, call it spite, One must receive their nature in its length And breadth, expect the weakness with the strength!" --So phrasing, till, his stock of phrases spent, The easy-natured soldier smiled assent, Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin, And nodded that the bull-bait might begin.

BOOK THE THIRD

And the font took them: let our laurels lie! Braid moonfern now with mystic trifoly Because once more Goito gets, once more, Sordello to itself! A dream is o'er, And the suspended life begins anew; Quiet those throbbing temples, then, subdue [Sidenote: Nature may triumph therefore;] That cheek's distortion! Nature's strict embrace, Putting aside the past, shall soon efface Its print as well--factitious humors grown Over the true--loves, hatreds not his own-- And turn him pure as some forgotten vest Woven of painted byssus, silkiest Tufting the Tyrrhene whelk's pearl-sheeted lip, Left welter where a trireme let it slip I' the sea, and vexed a satrap; so the stain O' the world forsakes Sordello, with its pain, Its pleasure: how the tinct loosening escapes, Cloud after cloud! Mantua's familiar shapes Die, fair and foul die, fading as they flit, Men, women, and the pathos and the wit, Wise speech and foolish, deeds to smile or sigh For, good, bad, seemly or ignoble, die. The last face glances through the eglantines, The last voice murmurs, 'twixt the blossomed vines, Of Men, of that machine supplied by thought To compass self-perception with, he sought By forcing half himself--an insane pulse Of a god's blood, on clay it could convulse, Never transmute--on human sights and sounds, To watch the other half with; irksome bounds It ebbs from to its source, a fountain sealed Forever. Better sure be unrevealed Than part revealed: Sordello well or ill Is finished: then what further use of Will, Point in the prime idea not realized, An oversight? inordinately prized, No less, and pampered with enough of each Delight to prove the whole above its reach. "To need become all natures, yet retain The law of my own nature--to remain Myself, yet yearn ... as if that chestnut, think, Should yearn for this first larch-bloom crisp and pink, Or those pale fragrant tears where zephyrs stanch March wounds along the fretted pine-tree branch! Will and the means to show will, great and small, Material, spiritual,--abjure them all Save any so distinct, they may be left To amuse, not tempt become! and, thus bereft, Just as I first was fashioned would I be! Nor, moon, is it Apollo now, but me [Sidenote: For her son, lately alive, dies again,] Thou visitest to comfort and befriend! Swim thou into my heart, and there an end, Since I possess thee!--nay, thus shut mine eyes And know, quite know, by this heart's fall and rise, When thou dost bury thee in clouds, and when Out-standest: wherefore practise upon men To make that plainer to myself?" Slide here Over a sweet and solitary year Wasted; or simply notice change in him-- How eyes, once with exploring bright, grew dim And satiate with receiving. Some distress Was caused, too, by a sort of consciousness Under the imbecility,--naught kept That down; he slept, but was aware he slept, So, frustrated: as who brainsick made pact Erst with the overhanging cataract To deafen him, yet still distinguished plain His own blood's measured clicking at his brain. To finish. One declining Autumn day-- Few birds about the heaven chill and gray, No wind that cared trouble the tacit woods-- He sauntered home complacently, their moods According, his and nature's. Every spark [Sidenote: Was found and is lost.] Of Mantua life was trodden out; so dark The embers, that the Troubadour, who sung Hundreds of songs, forgot, its trick his tongue, Its craft his brain, how either brought to pass Singing at all; that faculty might class With any of Apollo's now. The year Began to find its early promise sere As well. Thus beauty vanishes; thus stone Outlingers flesh: nature's and his youth gone, They left the world to you, and wished you joy, When, stopping his benevolent employ, A presage shuddered through the welkin; harsh The earth's remonstrance followed. 'T was the marsh Gone of a sudden. Mincio, in its place, Laughed, a broad water, in next morning's face, And, where the mists broke up immense and white I' the steady wind, burned like a spilth of light Out of the crashing of a myriad stars. And here was nature, bound by the same bars Of fate with him! [Sidenote: But nature is one thing, man another--] "No! youth once gone is gone: Deeds let escape are never to be done. Leaf-fall and grass-spring for the year; for us-- Oh forfeit I unalterably thus My chance? nor two lives wait me, this to spend, Learning save that? Nature has time, may mend Mistake, she knows occasion will recur; Landslip or seabreach, how affects it her With her magnificent resources?--I Must perish once and perish utterly. Not any strollings now at even-close Down the field-path, Sordello! by thorn-rows Alive with lamp-flies, swimming spots of fire And dew, outlining the black cypress' spire She waits you at, Elys, who heard you first Woo her, the snow-month through, but ere she durst Answer 't was April. Linden-flower-time-long Her eyes were on the ground; 't is July, strong Now; and because white dust-clouds overwhelm The woodside, here or by the village elm That holds the moon, she meets you, somewhat pale, But letting you lift up her coarse flax veil And whisper (the damp little hand in yours) Of love, heart's love, your heart's love that endures Till death. Tush! No mad mixing with the rout Of haggard ribalds wandering about The hot torchlit wine-scented island-house Where Friedrich holds his wickedest carouse, Parading,--to the gay Palermitans, Soft Messinese, dusk Saracenic clans [Sidenote: Having multifarious sympathies,] Nuocera holds,--those tall grave dazzling Norse, High-cheeked, lank-haired, toothed whiter than the morse, Queens of the caves of jet stalactites, He sent his barks to fetch through icy seas, The blind night seas without a saving star, And here in snowy birdskin robes they are, Sordello!--here, mollitious alcoves gilt Superb as Byzant domes that devils built! --Ah, Byzant, there again! no chance to go Ever like august cheery Dandolo, Worshipping hearts about him for a wall, Conducted, blind eyes, hundred years and all, Through vanquished Byzant where friends note for him What pillar, marble massive, sardius slim, 'T were fittest he transport to Venice' Square-- Flattered and promised life to touch them there Soon, by those fervid sons of senators! No more lifes, deaths, loves, hatreds, peaces, wars! Ah, fragments of a whole ordained to be, Points in the life I waited! what are ye But roundels of a ladder which appeared Awhile the very platform it was reared To lift me on?--that happiness I find Proofs of my faith in, even in the blind Instinct which bade forego you all unless Ye led me past yourselves. Ay, happiness [Sidenote: He may neither renounce nor satisfy;] Awaited me; the way life should be used Was to acquire, and deeds like you conduced To teach it by a self-revealment, deemed Life's very use, so long! Whatever seemed Progress to that, was pleasure; aught that stayed My reaching it--no pleasure. I have laid The ladder down; I climb not; still, aloft The platform stretches! Blisses strong and soft, I dared not entertain, elude me; yet Never of what they promised could I get A glimpse till now! The common sort, the crowd, Exist, perceive; with Being are endowed, However slight, distinct from what they See, However bounded; Happiness must be, To feed the first by gleanings from the last, Attain its qualities, and slow or fast Become what they behold; such peace-in-strife By transmutation, is the Use of Life, The Alien turning Native to the soul Or body--which instructs me; I am whole There and demand a Palma; had the world Been from my soul to a like distance hurled, 'T were Happiness to make it one with me: Whereas I must, ere I begin to Be, Include a world, in flesh, I comprehend In spirit now; and this done, what 's to blend With? Naught is Alien in the world--my Will [Sidenote: In the process to which is pleasure,] Owns all already; yet can turn it--still Less--Native, since my Means to correspond With Will are so unworthy, 't was my bond To tread the very joys that tantalize Most now, into a grave, never to rise. I die then! Will the rest agree to die? Next Age or no? Shall its Sordello try Clue after clue, and catch at last the clue I miss?--that 's underneath my finger too, Twice, thrice a day, perhaps,--some yearning traced Deeper, some petty consequence embraced Closer! Why fled I Mantua, then?--complained So much my Will was fettered, yet remained Content within a tether half the range I could assign it?--able to exchange My ignorance (I felt) for knowledge, and Idle because I could thus understand-- Could e'en have penetrated to its core Our mortal mystery, yet--fool--forbore, Preferred elaborating in the dark My casual stuff, by any wretched spark Born of my predecessors, though one stroke Of mine had brought the flame forth! Mantua's yoke, My minstrel's-trade, was to behold mankind,-- My own concern was just to bring my mind Behold, just extricate, for my acquist, Each object suffered stifle in the mist Which hazard, custom, blindness interpose Betwixt things and myself." Whereat he rose. The level wind carried above the firs Clouds, the irrevocable travellers, Onward. "Pushed thus into a drowsy copse, Arms twine about my neck, each eyelid drops Under a humid finger; while there fleets, Outside the screen, a pageant time repeats Never again! To be deposed, immured [Sidenote: While renunciation ensures despair.] Clandestinely--still petted, still assured To govern were fatiguing work--the Sight Fleeting meanwhile! 'T is noontide: wreak ere night Somehow my will upon it, rather! Slake This thirst somehow, the poorest impress take That serves! A blasted bud displays you, torn, Faint rudiments of the full flower unborn; But who divines what glory coats o'erclasp Of the bulb dormant in the mummy's grasp Taurello sent?" ... "Taurello? Palma sent Your Trouvere," (Naddo interposing leant Over the lost bard's shoulder)--"and, believe, You cannot more reluctantly receive Than I pronounce her message: we depart Together. What avail a poet's heart Verona's pomps and gauds? five blades of grass Suffice him. News? Why, where your marish was, On its mud-banks smoke rises after smoke I' the valley, like a spout of hell new-broke. Oh, the world's tidings! small your thanks, I guess, For them. The father of our Patroness Has played Taurello an astounding trick, Parts between Ecelin and Alberic His wealth and goes into a convent: both Wed Guelfs: the Count and Palma plighted troth A week since at Verona: and they want You doubtless to contrive the marriage-chant Ere Richard storms Ferrara." Then was told The tale from the beginning--how, made bold By Salinguerra's absence, Guelfs had burned And pillaged till he unawares returned To take revenge: how Azzo and his friend Were doing their endeavor, how the end O' the siege was nigh, and how the Count, released From further care, would with his marriage-feast [Sidenote: There is yet a way of escaping this;] Inaugurate a new and better rule, Absorbing thus Romano. "Shall I school My master," added Naddo, "and suggest How you may clothe in a poetic vest These doings, at Verona? Your response To Palma! Wherefore jest? 'Depart at once?' A good resolve! In truth, I hardly hoped So prompt an acquiescence. Have you groped Out wisdom in the wilds here?--Thoughts may be Over-poetical for poetry. Pearl-white, you poets liken Palma's neck; And yet what spoils an orient like some speck Of genuine white, turning its own white gray? You take me? Curse the cicala!" One more day, One eve--appears Verona! Many a group, (You mind) instructed of the osprey's swoop On lynx and ounce, was gathering--Christendom Sure to receive, whate'er the end was, from The evening's purpose cheer or detriment, Since Friedrich only waited some event Like this, of Ghibellins establishing Themselves within Ferrara, ere, as King Of Lombardy, he 'd glad descend there, wage Old warfare with the Pontiff, disengage His barons from the burghers, and restore The rule of Charlemagne, broken of yore By Hildebrand. [Sidenote: Which he now takes by obeying Palma:] I' the palace, each by each, Sordello sat and Palma: little speech At first in that dim closet, face with face (Despite the tumult in the market-place) Exchanging quick low laughters: now would rush Word upon word to meet a sudden flush, A look left off, a shifting lips' surmise-- But for the most part their two histories [Sidenote: Who thereupon becomes his associate.] Ran best through the locked fingers and linked arms. And so the night flew on with its alarms Till in burst one of Palma's retinue; "Now, Lady!" gasped he. Then arose the two And leaned into Verona's air, dead-still. A balcony lay black beneath until Out, 'mid a gush of torchfire, gray-haired men Came on it and harangued the people: then Sea-like that people surging to and fro Shouted, "Hale forth the carroch--trumpets, ho, A flourish! Run it in the ancient grooves! Back from the bell! Hammer--that whom behooves May hear the League is up! Peal--learn who list, Verona means not first of towns break tryst To-morrow with the League!" Enough. Now turn-- Over the eastern cypresses: discern! Is any beacon set a-glimmer? Rang The air with shouts that overpowered the clang Of the incessant carroch, even: "Haste-- The candle 's at the gateway! ere it waste, Each soldier stand beside it, armed to march With Tiso Sampier through the eastern arch!" Ferrara 's succored, Palma! Once again They sat together; some strange thing in train To say, so difficult was Palma's place In taking, with a coy fastidious grace Like the bird's flutter ere it fix and feed. But when she felt she held her friend indeed Safe, she threw back her curls, began implant Her lessons; telling of another want [Sidenote: As her own history will account for,] Goito's quiet nourished than his own; Palma--to serve him--to be served, alone Importing; Agnes' milk so neutralized The blood of Ecelin. Nor be surprised If, while Sordello fain had captive led Nature, in dream was Palma subjected To some out-soul, which dawned not though she pined Delaying till its advent, heart and mind, Their life. "How dared I let expand the force Within me, till some out-soul, whose resource It grew for, should direct it? Every law Of life, its every fitness, every flaw, Must One determine whose corporeal shape Would be no other than the prime escape And revelation to me of a Will Orb-like o'ershrouded and inscrutable Above, save at the point which, I should know, Shone that myself, my powers, might overflow So far, so much; as now it signified Which earthly shape it henceforth chose my guide, Whose mortal lip selected to declare Its oracles, what fleshly garb would wear --The first of intimations, whom to love; The next, how love him. Seemed that orb, above The castle-covert and the mountain-close, Slow in appearing,--if beneath it rose Cravings, aversions,--did our green precinct Take pride in me, at unawares distinct With this or that endowment,--how, repressed At once, such jetting power shrank to the rest! Was I to have a chance touch spoil me, leave My spirit thence unfitted to receive The consummating spell?--that spell so near Moreover! 'Waits he not the waking year? His almond-blossoms must be honey-ripe By this; to welcome him, fresh runnels stripe The thawed ravines; because of him, the wind Walks like a herald. I shall surely find Him now!' "And chief, that earnest April morn Of Richard's Love-court, was it time, so worn [Sidenote: A reverse to, and completion of, his.] And white my cheek, so idly my blood beat, Sitting that morn beside the Lady's feet And saying as she prompted; till outburst One face from all the faces. Not then first I knew it; where in maple chamber glooms, Crowned with what sanguine-heart pomegranate blooms Advanced it ever? Men's acknowledgment Sanctioned my own: 't was taken, Palma's bent,-- Sordello,--recognized, accepted. "Dumb Sat she still scheming. Ecelin would come Gaunt, scared, 'Cesano baffles me,' he 'd say: 'Better I fought it out, my father's way! Strangle Ferrara in its drowning flats, And you and your Taurello yonder!--what 's Romano's business there?' An hour's concern To cure the froward Chief!--induce return As heartened from those overmeaning eyes, Wound up to persevere,--his enterprise Marked out anew, its exigent of wit Apportioned,--she at liberty to sit And scheme against the next emergence, I-- To covet her Taurello-sprite, made fly Or fold the wing--to con your horoscope For leave command those steely shafts shoot ope, Or straight assuage their blinding eagerness In blank smooth snow. What semblance of success To any of my plans for making you [Sidenote: How she ever aspired for his sake,] Mine and Romano's? Break the first wall through, Tread o'er the ruins of the Chief, supplant His sons beside, still, vainest were the vaunt: There, Salinguerra would obstruct me sheer, And the insuperable Tuscan, here, Stay me! But one wild eve that Lady died In her lone chamber: only I beside: Taurello far at Naples, and my sire At Padua, Ecelin away in ire With Alberic. She held me thus--a clutch [Sidenote: Circumstances helping or hindering.] To make our spirits as our bodies touch-- And so began flinging the past up, heaps Of uncouth treasure from their sunless sleeps Within her soul; deeds rose along with dreams, Fragments of many miserable schemes, Secrets, more secrets, then--no, not the last-- 'Mongst others, like a casual trick o' the past, How ... ay, she told me, gathering up her face, All left of it, into one arch-grimace To die with ... "Friend, 't is gone! but not the fear Of that fell laughing, heard as now I hear. Nor faltered voice, nor seemed her heart grow weak When i' the midst abrupt she ceased to speak --Dead, as to serve a purpose, mark!--for in Rushed o' the very instant Ecelin (How summoned, who divines?)--looking as if He understood why Adelaide lay stiff Already in my arms; for, 'Girl, how must I manage Este in the matter thrust Upon me, how unravel your bad coil?-- Since' (he declared) ''t is on your brow--a soil Like hers there!' then in the same breath, 'he lacked No counsel after all, had signed no pact With devils, nor was treason here or there, Goito or Vicenza, his affair: He buried it in Adelaide's deep grave, Would begin life afresh, now,--would not slave For any Friedrich's nor Taurello's sake! What booted him to meddle or to make In Lombardy?' And afterward I knew The meaning of his promise to undo All she had done--why marriages were made, New friendships entered on, old followers paid With curses for their pains,--new friends' amaze At height, when, passing out by Gate Saint Blaise, He stopped short in Vicenza, bent his head Over a friar's neck,--'had vowed,' he said, 'Long since, nigh thirty years, because his wife And child were saved there, to bestow his life On God, his gettings on the Church.' "Exiled Within Goito, still one dream beguiled [Sidenote: How success at last seemed possible,] My days and nights; 't was found, the orb I sought To serve, those glimpses came of Fomalhaut, No other: but how serve it?--authorize You and Romano mingled destinies? And straight Romano's angel stood beside Me who had else been Boniface's bride, For Salinguerra 't was, with neck low bent, And voice lightened to music, (as he meant To learn, not teach me,) who withdrew the pall From the dead past and straight revived it all, Making me see how first Romano waxed, Wherefore he waned now, why, if I relaxed My grasp (even I!) would drop a thing effete, Frayed by itself, unequal to complete Its course, and counting every step astray [Sidenote: By the intervention of Salinguerra:] A gain so much. Romano, every way Stable, a Lombard House now--why start back Into the very outset of its track? This patching principle which late allied Our House with other Houses--what beside Concerned the apparition, the first Knight Who followed Conrad hither in such plight His utmost wealth was summed in his one steed? For Ecelo, that prowler, was decreed A task, in the beginning hazardous To him as ever task can be to us; But did the weather-beaten thief despair When first our crystal cincture of warm air, That binds the Trevisan,--as its spice-belt (Crusaders say) the tract where Jesus dwelt,-- Furtive he pierced, and Este was to face-- Despaired Saponian strength of Lombard grace? Tried he at making surer aught made sure, Maturing what already was mature? No; his heart prompted Ecelo, 'Confront Este, inspect yourself. What 's nature? Wont. Discard three-parts your nature, and adopt [Sidenote: Who remedied ill wrought by Ecelin,] The rest as an advantage!' Old strength propped The man who first grew Podesta among The Vicentines, no less than, while there sprung His palace up in Padua like a threat, Their noblest spied a grace, unnoticed yet In Conrad's crew. Thus far the object gained, Romano was established--has remained-- 'For are you not Italian, truly peers With Este? "Azzo" better soothes our ears Than "Alberic"? or is this lion's-crine From over-mounts' (this yellow hair of mine) 'So weak a graft on Agnes Este's stock?' (Thus went he on with something of a mock) 'Wherefore recoil, then, from the very fate Conceded you, refuse to imitate Your model farther? Este long since left Being mere Este: as a blade its heft, Este required the Pope to further him; And you, the Kaiser--whom your father's whim Foregoes or, better, never shall forego If Palma dare pursue what Ecelo Commenced, but Ecelin desists from: just As Adelaide of Susa could intrust Her donative,--her Piedmont given the Pope, Her Alpine-pass for him to shut or ope 'Twixt France and Italy,--to the superb Matilda's perfecting,--so, lest aught curb Our Adelaide's great counter-project for Giving her Trentine to the Emperor With passage here from Germany,--shall you Take it,--my slender plodding talent, too!' --Urged me Taurello with his half-smile. "He As Patron of the scattered family Conveyed me to his Mantua, kept in bruit Azzo's alliances and Richard's suit Until, the Kaiser excommunicate, 'Nothing remains,' Taurello said, 'but wait Some rash procedure: Palma was the link, As Agnes' child, between us, and they shrink [Sidenote: And had a project for her own glory,] From losing Palma: judge if we advance, Your father's method, your inheritance!' The day I was betrothed to Boniface At Padua by Taurello's self, took place The outrage of the Ferrarese: again, The day I sought Verona with the train Agreed for,--by Taurello's policy Convicting Richard of the fault, since we Were present to annul or to confirm,-- Richard, whose patience had outstayed its term, Quitted Verona for the siege. "And now What glory may engird Sordello's brow Through this? A month since at Oliero slunk All that was Ecelin into a monk; But how could Salinguerra so forget His liege of thirty years as grudge even yet One effort to recover him? He sent Forthwith the tidings of this last event To Ecelin--declared that he, despite The recent folly, recognized his right To order Salinguerra: 'Should he wring Its uttermost advantage out, or fling This chance away? Or were his sons now Head O' the House?' Through me Taurello's missive sped; My father's answer will by me return. Behold! 'For him,' he writes, 'no more concern With strife than, for his children, with fresh plots Of Friedrich. Old engagements out he blots For aye: Taurello shall no more subserve, Nor Ecelin impose.' Lest this unnerve Taurello at this juncture, slack his grip Of Richard, suffer the occasion slip,-- I, in his sons' default (who, mating with Este, forsake Romano as the frith Its mainsea for that firmland, sea makes head Against) I stand, Romano,--in their stead Assume the station they desert, and give Still, as the Kaiser's representative, Taurello license he demands. Midnight-- Morning--by noon to-morrow, making light [Sidenote: Which she would change to Sordello's.] Of the League's issue, we, in some gay weed Like yours, disguised together, may precede The arbitrators to Ferrara: reach Him, let Taurello's noble accents teach The rest! Then say if I have misconceived Your destiny, too readily believed The Kaiser's cause your own!" And Palma 's fled. Though no affirmative disturbs the head, A dying lamp-flame sinks and rises o'er, Like the alighted planet Pollux wore, Until, morn breaking, he resolves to be Gate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy, Soul of this body--to wield this aggregate Of souls and bodies, and so conquer fate Though he should live--a centre of disgust Even--apart, core of the outward crust He vivifies, assimilates. For thus I bring Sordello to the rapturous [Sidenote: Thus then, having completed a circle,] Exclaim at the crowd's cry, because one round Of life was quite accomplished; and he found Not only that a soul, whate'er its might, Is insufficient to its own delight, Both in corporeal organs and in skill By means of such to body forth its Will-- And, after, insufficient to apprise Men of that Will, oblige them recognize The Hid by the Revealed--but that, the last Nor lightest of the struggles overpast, Will he bade abdicate, which would not void The throne, might sit there, suffer he enjoyed Mankind, a varied and divine array Incapable of homage, the first way, Nor fit to render incidentally Tribute connived at, taken by the by, In joys. If thus with warrant to rescind The ignominious exile of mankind-- Whose proper service, ascertained intact As yet, (to be by him themselves made act, Not watch Sordello acting each of them) Was to secure--if the true diadem Seemed imminent while our Sordello drank The wisdom of that golden Palma,--thank Verona's Lady in her citadel Founded by Gaulish Brennus, legends tell: And truly when she left him, the sun reared A head like the first clamberer's who peered A-top the Capitol, his face on flame With triumph, triumphing till Manlius came. Nor slight too much my rhymes--that spring, dispread, Dispart, disperse, lingering overhead Like an escape of angels! Rather say, [Sidenote: The poet may pause and breathe,] My transcendental platan! mounting gay (An archimage so courts a novice-queen) With tremulous silvered trunk, whence branches sheen Laugh out, thick foliaged next, a-shiver soon With colored buds, then glowing like the moon One mild flame,--last a pause, a burst, and all Her ivory limbs are smothered by a fall, Bloom-flinders and fruit-sparkles and leaf-dust, Ending the weird work prosecuted just For her amusement; he decrepit, stark, Dozes; her uncontrolled delight may mark Apart-- Yet not so, surely never so! Only, as good my soul were suffered go O'er the lagune: forth fare thee, put aside-- Entrance thy synod, as a god may glide Out of the world he fills, and leave it mute For myriad ages as we men compute, Returning into it without a break [Sidenote: Being really in the flesh at Venice.] O' the consciousness! They sleep, and I awake O'er the lagune, being at Venice. Note, In just such songs as Eglamor (say) wrote With heart and soul and strength, for he believed Himself achieving all to be achieved By singer--in such songs you find alone Completeness, judge the song and singer one, And either purpose answered, his in it Or its in him: while from true works (to wit Sordello's dream-performances that will Never be more than dreamed) escapes there still Some proof, the singer's proper life was 'neath The life his song exhibits, this a sheath To that; a passion and a knowledge far Transcending these, majestic as they are, Smouldered; his lay was but an episode In the bard's life: which evidence you owed To some slight weariness, some looking-off Or start-away. The childish skit or scoff In "Charlemagne," (his poem, dreamed divine In every point except one silly line About the restiff daughters)--what may lurk In that? "My life commenced before this work," (So I interpret the significance Of the bard's start aside and look askance)-- "My life continues after: on I fare With no more stopping, possibly, no care [Sidenote: And watching his own life sometimes,] To note the undercurrent, the why and how, Where, when, o' the deeper life, as thus just now. But, silent, shall I cease to live? Alas For you! who sigh, 'When shall it come to pass We read that story? How will he compress The future gains, his life's true business, Into the better lay which--that one flout, Howe'er inopportune it be, lets out-- Engrosses him already, though professed To meditate with us eternal rest, And partnership in all his life has found?'" 'T is but a sailor's promise, weather-bound: "Strike sail, slip cable, here the bark be moored For once, the awning stretched, the poles assured! Noontide above; except the wave's crisp dash, Or buzz of colibri, or tortoise' splash, The margin 's silent: out with every spoil Made in our tracking, coil by mighty coil, This serpent of a river to his head I' the midst! Admire each treasure, as we spread The bank, to help us tell our history Aright: give ear, endeavor to descry The groves of giant rushes, how they grew Like demons' endlong tresses we sailed through, What mountains yawned, forests to give us vent Opened, each doleful side, yet on we went Till ... may that beetle (shake your cap) attest The springing of a land-wind from the West!" --Wherefore? Ah yes, you frolic it to-day! To-morrow, and, the pageant moved away Down to the poorest tent-pole, we and you Part company: no other may pursue Eastward your voyage, be informed what fate Intends, if triumph or decline await The tempter of the everlasting steppe. I muse this on a ruined palace-step At Venice: why should I break off, nor sit Longer upon my step, exhaust the fit England gave birth to? Who 's adorable Enough reclaim a----no Sordello's Will Alack!--be queen to me? That Bassanese Busied among her smoking fruit-boats? These Perhaps from our delicious Asolo Who twinkle, pigeons o'er the portico Not prettier, bind June lilies into sheaves To deck the bridge-side chapel, dropping leaves [Sidenote: Because it is pleasant to be young,] Soiled by their own loose gold-meal? Ah, beneath The cool arch stoops she, brownest cheek! Her wreath Endures a month--a half month--if I make A queen of her, continue for her sake Sordello's story? Nay, that Paduan girl Splashes with barer legs where a live whirl In the dead black Giudecca proves sea-weed Drifting has sucked down three, four, all indeed Save one pale-red striped, pale-blue turbaned post For gondolas. You sad dishevelled ghost That pluck at me and point, are you advised I breathe? Let stay those girls (e'en her disguised --Jewels i' the locks that love no crownet like Their native field-buds and the green wheat-spike, So fair!--who left this end of June's turmoil, Shook off, as might a lily its gold soil, Pomp, save a foolish gem or two, and free In dream, came join the peasants o'er the sea). Look they too happy, too tricked out? Confess There is such niggard stock of happiness To share, that, do one's uttermost, dear wretch, One labors ineffectually to stretch [Sidenote: Would but suffering humanity allow!] It o'er you so that mother and children, both May equitably flaunt the sumpter-cloth! Divide the robe yet farther: be content With seeing just a score pre-eminent Through shreds of it, acknowledged happy wights, Engrossing what should furnish all, by rights! For, these in evidence, you clearlier claim A like garb for the rest,--grace all, the same As these my peasants. I ask youth and strength And health for each of you, not more--at length Grown wise, who asked at home that the whole race Might add the spirit's to the body's grace, And all be dizened out as chiefs and bards. But in this magic weather one discards Much old requirement. Venice seems a type Of Life--'twixt blue and blue extends, a stripe, As Life, the somewhat, hangs 'twixt naught and naught: 'T is Venice, and 't is Life--as good you sought To spare me the Piazza's slippery stone Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone, As hinder Life the evil with the good Which make up Living, rightly understood. [Sidenote: Which instigates to tasks like this,] Only, do finish something! Peasants, queens, Take them, made happy by whatever means, Parade them for the common credit, vouch That a luckless residue, we send to crouch In corners out of sight, was just as framed For happiness, its portion might have claimed As well, and so, obtaining joy, had stalked Fastuous as any!--such my project, balked Already; I hardly venture to adjust The first rags, when you find me. To mistrust Me!--nor unreasonably. You, no doubt, Have the true knack of tiring suitors out With those thin lips on tremble, lashless eyes Inveterately tear-shot--there, be wise, Mistress of mine, there, there, as if I meant You insult!--shall your friend (not slave) be shent For speaking home? Beside, care-bit erased Broken-up beauties ever took my taste Supremely; and I love you more, far more Than her I looked should foot Life's temple-floor. Years ago, leagues at distance, when and where A whisper came, "Let others seek!--thy care [Sidenote: And doubtlessly compensates them,] Is found, thy life's provision; if thy race Should be thy mistress, and into one face The many faces crowd?" Ah, had I, judge, Or no, your secret? Rough apparel--grudge All ornaments save tag or tassel worn To hint we are not thoroughly forlorn-- Slouch bonnet, unloop mantle, careless go Alone (that 's saddest, but it must be so) Through Venice, sing now and now glance aside, Aught desultory or undignified,-- Then, ravishingest lady, will you pass Or not each formidable group, the mass Before the Basilic (that feast gone by, God's great day of the Corpus Domini) And, wistfully foregoing proper men, Come timid up to me for alms? And then The luxury to hesitate, feign do Some unexampled grace!--when, whom but you Dare I bestow your own upon? And hear Further before you say, it is to sneer I call you ravishing; for I regret Little that she, whose early foot was set Forth as she 'd plant it on a pedestal, Now, i' the silent city, seems to fall Toward me--no wreath, only a lip's unrest To quiet, surcharged eyelids to be pressed Dry of their tears upon my bosom. Strange Such sad chance should produce in thee such change, My love! Warped souls and bodies! yet God spoke Of right-hand, foot and eye--selects our yoke, Sordello, as your poetship may find! So, sleep upon my shoulder, child, nor mind Their foolish talk; we 'll manage reinstate Your old worth; ask moreover, when they prate Of evil men past hope, "Don't each contrive, Despite the evil you abuse, to live?-- Keeping, each losel, through a maze of lies, His own conceit of truth? to which he hies By obscure windings, tortuous, if you will, But to himself not inaccessible; He sees truth, and his lies are for the crowd Who cannot see; some fancied right allowed His vilest wrong, empowered the losel clutch One pleasure from a multitude of such [Sidenote: As those who desist should remember.] Denied him." Then assert, "All men appear To think all better than themselves, by here Trusting a crowd they wrong; but really," say, "All men think all men stupider than they, Since, save themselves, no other comprehends The complicated scheme to make amends --Evil, the scheme by which, through Ignorance, Good labors to exist." A slight advance,-- Merely to find the sickness you die through, And naught beside! but if one can't eschew One's portion in the common lot, at least One can avoid an ignorance increased Tenfold by dealing out hint after hint How naught were like dispensing without stint The water of life--so easy to dispense Beside, when one has probed the centre whence Commotion 's born--could tell you of it all! "--Meantime, just meditate my madrigal O' the mugwort that conceals a dewdrop safe!" What, dullard? we and you in smothery chafe, Babes, baldheads, stumbled thus far into Zin The Horrid, getting neither out nor in, A hungry sun above us, sands that bung Our throats,--each dromedary lolls a tongue, Each camel churns a sick and frothy chap, And you, 'twixt tales of Potiphar's mishap, And sonnets on the earliest ass that spoke, --Remark, you wonder any one needs choke With founts about! Potsherd him, Gibeonites! While awkwardly enough your Moses smites The rock, though he forego his Promised Land Thereby, have Satan claim his carcass, and Figure as Metaphysic Poet ... ah, Mark ye the dim first oozings? Meribah! Then, quaffing at the fount my courage gained, Recall--not that I prompt ye--who explained ... "Presumptuous!" interrupts one. You, not I 'T is, brother, marvel at and magnify [Sidenote: Let the poet take his own part, then,] Such office: "office," quotha? can we get To the beginning of the office yet? What do we here? simply experiment Each on the other's power and its intent When elsewhere tasked,--if this of mine were trucked For yours to either's good,--we watch construct, In short, an engine: with a finished one, What it can do, is all,--naught, how 't is done. But this of ours yet in probation, dusk A kernel of strange wheelwork through its husk Grows into shape by quarters and by halves; Remark this tooth's spring, wonder what that valve's Fall bodes, presume each faculty's device, Make out each other more or less precise-- The scope of the whole engine 's to be proved; We die: which means to say, the whole 's removed, Dismounted wheel by wheel, this complex gin,-- To be set up anew elsewhere, begin A task indeed, but with a clearer clime Than the murk lodgment of our building-time. And then, I grant you, it behoves forget How 't is done--all that must amuse us yet So long: and, while you turn upon your heel, Pray that I be not busy slitting steel [Sidenote: Should any object that he was dull] Or shredding brass, camped on some virgin shore Under a cluster of fresh stars, before I name a tithe o' the wheels I trust to do! So occupied, then, are we: hitherto, At present, and a weary while to come, The office of ourselves,--nor blind nor dumb, And seeing somewhat of man's state,--has been, For the worst of us, to say they so have seen; For the better, what it was they saw; the best Impart the gift of seeing to the rest: "So that I glance," says such an one, "around, And there 's no face but I can read profound Disclosures in; this stands for hope, that--fear, And for a speech, a deed in proof, look here! 'Stoop, else the strings of blossom, where the nuts O'erarch, will blind thee! Said I not? She shuts Both eyes this time, so close the hazels meet! Thus, prisoned in the Piombi, I repeat Events one rove occasioned, o'er and o'er, Putting 'twixt me and madness evermore Thy sweet shape, Zanze! Therefore stoop!' 'That's truth!' (Adjudge you) 'the incarcerated youth Would say that!' Youth? Plara the bard? Set down That Plara spent his youth in a grim town Whose cramped ill-featured streets huddled about The minster for protection, never out Of its black belfry's shade and its bells' roar. The brighter shone the suburb,--all the more Ugly and absolute that shade's reproof Of any chance escape of joy,--some roof, Taller than they, allowed the rest detect,-- Before the sole permitted laugh (suspect Who could, 't was meant for laughter, that ploughed cheek's Repulsive gleam!) when the sun stopped both peaks Of the cleft belfry like a fiery wedge, Then sank, a huge flame on its socket edge, With leavings on the gray glass oriel-pane Ghastly some minutes more. No fear of rain-- The minster minded that! in heaps the dust Lay everywhere. This town, the minster's trust, [Sidenote: Beside his sprightlier predecessors.] Held Plara; who, its denizen, bade hail In twice twelve sonnets, Tempe's dewy vale." "'Exact the town, the minster and the street!'" "As all mirth triumphs, sadness means defeat: Lust triumphs and is gay, Love 's triumphed o'er And sad: but Lucio 's sad. I said before, Love 's sad, not Lucio; one who loves may be As gay his love has leave to hope, as he Downcast that lusts' desire escapes the springe: 'T is of the mood itself I speak, what tinge Determines it, else colorless,--or mirth, Or melancholy, as from heaven or earth." "'Ay, that's the variation's gist!' Indeed? Thus far advanced in safety then, proceed! And having seen too what I saw, be bold And next encounter what I do behold (That 's sure) but bid you take on trust!" Attack The use and purpose of such sights? Alack, Not so unwisely does the crowd dispense On Salinguerras praise in preference [Sidenote: One ought not blame but praise this;] To the Sordellos: men of action, these! Who, seeing just as little as you please, Yet turn that little to account,--engage With, do not gaze at,--carry on, a stage, The work o' the world, not merely make report The work existed ere their day! In short, When at some future no-time a brave band Sees, using what it sees, then shake my hand In heaven, my brother! Meanwhile where 's the hurt Of keeping the Makers-see on the alert, At whose defection mortals stare aghast As though heaven's bounteous windows were slammed fast Incontinent? Whereas all you, beneath, Should scowl at, bruise their lips and break their teeth Who ply the pullies, for neglecting you: And therefore have I moulded, made anew A Man, and give him to be turned and tried, Be angry with or pleased at. On your side, Have ye times, places, actors of your own? [Sidenote: At all events, his own audience may:] Try them upon Sordello when full-grown, And then--ah then! If Hercules first parched His foot in Egypt only to be marched A sacrifice for Jove with pomp to suit, What chance have I? The demigod was mute Till, at the altar, where time out of mind Such guests became oblations, chaplets twined His forehead long enough, and he began Slaying the slayers, nor escaped a man. Take not affront, my gentle audience! whom No Hercules shall make his hecatomb, Believe, nor from his brows your chaplet rend-- That's your kind suffrage, yours, my patron-friend, Whose great verse blares unintermittent on Like your own trumpeter at Marathon,-- You who, Platæa and Salamis being scant, Put up with Ætna for a stimulant-- And did well, I acknowledged, as he loomed Over the midland sea last month, presumed Long, lay demolished in the blazing West At eve, while towards him tilting cloudlets pressed Like Persian ships at Salamis. Friend, wear A crest proud as desert while I declare Had I a flawless ruby fit to wring Tears of its color from that painted king Who lost it, I would, for that smile which went To my heart, fling it in the sea, content, [Sidenote: What if things brighten, who knows?] Wearing your verse in place, an amulet Sovereign against all passion, wear and fret! My English Eyebright, if you are not glad 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 burden 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 [Sidenote: Whereupon, with a story to the point,] 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; through whom the gray 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, heartbroke, "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 to-morrow's loss; [Sidenote: He takes up the thread of discourse.] 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.

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 [Sidenote: Men suffered much,] 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 forever, 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 [Sidenote: Whichever of the parties was victor.] 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 labors 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 gainsay The League's decision! Get our friend away And profit for the future: how else teach 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 that the crested gaunt [Sidenote: How Guelfs criticise Ghibellin work] 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 bed-foot 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 [Sidenote: As unusually energetic in this case.] 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 Gray 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 [Sidenote: How, passing through the rare garden,] Bastioned within by trees of every sort On three sides, slender, spreading, long and short; Each grew as it contrived, the poplar ramped, The fig-tree 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, gray-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 country-side! A range of statues, swarming o'er with wasps, [Sidenote: Salinguerra contrived for a purpose,] 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, Up-gathered 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 over-match To wind the day's diversion up, dispatch The pertinacious Gaul: while, limbs one heap, The Slave, no breath in her round mouth, watched leap Dart after dart forth, as her hero's car Clove dizzily the solid of the war --Let coil about his knees for pride in him. We reach the farthest terrace, and the grim San Pietro Palace stops us. Such the state Of Salinguerra's plan to emulate Sicilian marvels, that his girlish wife Retrude still might lead her ancient life In her new home: whereat enlarged so much Neighbors upon the novel princely touch He took,--who here imprisons Boniface. Here must the Envoys come to sue for grace; And here, emerging from the labyrinth Below, Sordello paused beside the plinth Of the door-pillar. [Sidenote: Sordello ponders all seen and heard,] He had really left Verona for the cornfields (a poor theft From the morass) where Este's camp was made. The Envoys' march, the Legate's cavalcade-- All had been seen by him, but scarce as when,-- Eager for cause to stand aloof from men At every point save the fantastic tie Acknowledged in his boyish sophistry,-- He made account of such. A crowd,--he meant To task the whole of it; each part's intent Concerned him therefore: and, the more he pried, The less became Sordello satisfied With his own figure at the moment. Sought He respite from his task? Descried he aught Novel in the anticipated sight Of all these livers upon all delight? This phalanx, as of myriad points combined, Whereby he still had imaged the mankind His youth was passed in dreams of rivalling, His age--in plans to prove at least such thing Had been so dreamed,--which now he must impress With his own will, effect a happiness By theirs,--supply a body to his soul Thence, and become eventually whole With them as he had hoped to be without-- [Sidenote: Finds in men no machine for his sake,] Made these the mankind he once raved about? Because a few of them were notable, Should all be figured worthy note? As well Expect to find Taurello's triple line Of trees a single and prodigious pine. Real pines rose here and there; but, close among, Thrust into and mixed up with pines, a throng Of shrubs, he saw,--a nameless common sort O'erpast in dreams, left out of the report And hurried into corners, or at best Admitted to be fancied like the rest. Reckon that morning's proper chiefs--how few! And yet the people grew, the people grew, Grew ever, as if the many there indeed, More left behind and most who should succeed,-- Simply in virtue of their mouths and eyes, Petty enjoyments and huge miseries,-- Mingled with, and made veritably great Those chiefs: he overlooked not Mainard's state Nor Concorezzi's station, but instead Of stopping there, each dwindled to be head Of infinite and absent Tyrolese Or Paduans; startling all the more, that these Seemed passive and disposed of, uncared for, Yet doubtless on the whole (like Eglamor) Smiling; for if a wealthy man decays And out of store of robes must wear, all days, One tattered suit, alike in sun and shade, 'Tis commonly some tarnished gay brocade Fit for a feast-night's flourish and no more: Nor otherwise poor Misery from her store Of looks is fain upgather, keep unfurled For common wear as she goes through the world, The faint remainder of some worn-out smile Meant for a feast-night's service merely. While Crowd upon crowd rose on Sordello thus,-- (Crowds no way interfering to discuss, Much less dispute, life's joys with one employed In envying them,--or, if they aught enjoyed, Where lingered something indefinable In every look and tone, the mirth as well As woe, that fixed at once his estimate Of the result, their good or bad estate)-- [Sidenote: But a thing with life of its own,] Old memories returned with new effect: And the new body, ere he could suspect, Cohered, mankind and he were really fused, The new self seemed impatient to be used By him, but utterly another way Than that anticipated: strange to say, They were too much below him, more in thrall Than he, the adjunct than the principal. What booted scattered units?--here a mind And there, which might repay his own to find, And stamp, and use?--a few, howe'er august, If all the rest were grovelling in the dust? No: first a mighty equilibrium, sure, Should he establish, privilege procure For all, the few had long possessed! He felt An error, an exceeding error melt-- While he was occupied with Mantuan chants, Behoved him think of men, and take their wants, Such as he now distinguished every side, As his own want which might be satisfied,-- And, after that, think of rare qualities Of his own soul demanding exercise. It followed naturally, through no claim On their part, which made virtue of the aim At serving them, on his,--that, past retrieve, He felt now in their toils, theirs,--nor could leave Wonder how, in the eagerness to rule, Impress his will on mankind, he (the fool!) Had never even entertained the thought That this his last arrangement might be fraught With incidental good to them as well, [Sidenote: And rights hitherto ignored by him,] And that mankind's delight would help to swell His own. So, if he sighed, as formerly Because the merry time of life must fleet, 'T was deeplier now,--for could the crowds repeat Their poor experiences? His hand that shook Was twice to be deplored. "The Legate, look! With eyes, like fresh-blown thrush-eggs on a thread, Faint-blue and loosely floating in his head, Large tongue, moist open mouth; and this long while That owner of the idiotic smile [Sidenote: A fault he is now anxious to repair,] Serves them!" He fortunately saw in time His fault however, and since the office prime Includes the secondary--best accept Both offices; Taurello, its adept, Could teach him the preparatory one, And how to do what he had fancied done Long previously, ere take the greater task, How render first these people happy? Ask The people's friends: for there must be one good, One way to it--the Cause!--he understood The meaning now of Palma; why the jar Else, the ado, the trouble wide and far Of Guelfs and Ghibellins, the Lombard hope And Rome's despair?--'twixt Emperor and Pope The confused shifting sort of Eden tale-- Hardihood still recurring, still to fail-- That foreign interloping fiend, this free And native overbrooding deity-- Yet a dire fascination o'er the palms The Kaiser ruined, troubling even the calms Of paradise--or, on the other hand, [Sidenote: Since he apprehends its full extent,] The Pontiff, as the Kaisers understand, One snake-like cursed of God to love the ground, Whose heavy length breaks in the noon profound Some saving tree--which needs the Kaiser, dressed As the dislodging angel of that pest, Yet flames that pest bedropped, flat head, full fold, With coruscating dower of dyes. "Behold The secret, so to speak, and master-spring O' the contest!--which of the two Powers shall bring Men good--perchance the most good--ay, it may Be that!--the question, which best knows the way." And hereupon Count Mainard strutted past Out of San Pietro; never seemed the last Of archers, slingers: and our friend began To recollect strange modes of serving man, Arbalist, catapult, brake, manganel, And more. "This way of theirs may,--who can tell?-- Need perfecting," said he: "let all be solved At once! Taurello 't is, the task devolved On late--confront Taurello!" And at last He did confront him. Scarce an hour had past When forth Sordello came, older by years Than at his entry. Unexampled fears Oppressed him, and he staggered off, blind, mute And deaf, like some fresh-mutilated brute, Into Ferrara--not the empty town That morning witnessed: he went up and down Streets whence the veil had been stripped shred by shred, So that, in place of huddling with their dead Indoors, to answer Salinguerra's ends, Townsfolk make shift to crawl forth, sit like friends With any one. A woman gave him choice Of her two daughters, the infantile voice Or the dimpled knee, for half a chain, his throat Was clasped with; but an archer knew the coat-- Its blue cross and eight lilies,--bade beware One dogging him in concert with the pair Though thrumming on the sleeve that hid his knife. Night set in early, autumn dews were rife, They kindled great fires while the Leaguers' mass Began at every carroch--he must pass Between the kneeling people. Presently The carroch of Verona caught his eye With purple trappings; silently he bent Over its fire, when voices violent Began, "Affirm not whom the youth was like That struck me from the porch, I did not strike Again: I too have chestnut hair; my kin [Sidenote: And would fain have helped some way,] Hate Azzo and stand up for Ecelin. Here, minstrel, drive bad thoughts away! Sing! Take My glove for guerdon!" And for that man's sake He turned: "A song of Eglamor's!"--scarce named, When, "Our Sordello's rather!"--all exclaimed; "Is not Sordello famousest for rhyme?" He had been happy to deny, this time,-- Profess as heretofore the aching head And failing heart,--suspect that in his stead Some true Apollo had the charge of them, Was champion to reward or to condemn, So his intolerable risk might shift Or share itself; but Naddo's precious gift Of gifts, he owned, be certain! At the close-- "I made that," said he to a youth who rose As if to hear: 't was Palma through the band Conducted him in silence by her hand. Back now for Salinguerra. Tito of Trent Gave place to Palma and her friend; who went In turn at Montelungo's visit--one After the other were they come and gone,-- These spokesmen for the Kaiser and the Pope, This incarnation of the People's hope, Sordello,--all the say of each was said; And Salinguerra sat, himself instead Of these to talk with, lingered musing yet. 'T was a drear vast presence-chamber roughly set In order for the morning's use; full face, The Kaiser's ominous sign-mark had first place, The crowned grim twy-necked eagle, coarsely-blacked With ochre on the naked wall; nor lacked Romano's green and yellow either side; But the new token Tito brought had tried The Legate's patience--nay, if Palma knew What Salinguerra almost meant to do Until the sight of her restored his lip A certain half-smile, three months' chieftainship Had banished! Afterward, the Legate found No change in him, nor asked what badge he wound And unwound carelessly. Now sat the Chief [Sidenote: But Salinguerra is also preoccupied;] Silent as when our couple left, whose brief Encounter wrought so opportune effect In thoughts he summoned not, nor would reject, Though time 't was now if ever, to pause--fix On any sort of ending; wiles and tricks Exhausted, judge! his charge, the crazy town, Just managed to be hindered crashing down-- His last sound troops ranged--care observed to post His best of the maimed soldiers innermost-- So much was plain enough, but somehow struck Him not before. And now with this strange luck Of Tito's news, rewarding his address So well, what thought he of?--how the success With Friedrich's rescript there would either hush Old Ecelin's scruples, bring the manly flush To his young son's white cheek, or, last, exempt Himself from telling what there was to tempt? [Sidenote: Resembling Sordello in nothing else.] No: that this minstrel was Romano's last Servant--himself the first! Could he contrast The whole!--that minstrel's thirty years just spent In doing naught, their notablest event This morning's journey hither, as I told-- Who yet was lean, outworn and really old, A stammering awkward man that scarce dared raise His eye before the magisterial gaze-- And Salinguerra with his fears and hopes Of sixty years, his Emperors and Popes, Cares and contrivances, yet, you would say, 'T was a youth nonchalantly looked away Through the embrasure northward o'er the sick Expostulating trees--so agile, quick [Sidenote: How he was made in body and spirit,] And graceful turned the head on the broad chest Encased in pliant steel, his constant vest, Whence split the sun off in a spray of fire Across the room; and, loosened of its tire Of steel, that head let breathe the comely brown Large massive locks discolored as if a crown Encircled them, so frayed the basnet where A sharp white line divided clean the hair; Glossy above, glossy below, it swept Curling and fine about a brow thus kept Calm, laid coat upon coat, marble and sound: This was the mystic mark the Tuscan found, Mused of, turned over books about. Square-faced, No lion more; two vivid eyes, enchased In hollows filled with many a shade and streak Settling from the bold nose and bearded cheek. Nor might the half-smile reach them that deformed A lip supremely perfect else--unwarmed, Unwidened, less or more; indifferent Whether on trees or men his thoughts were bent, Thoughts rarely, after all, in trim and train As now a period was fulfilled again: Of such, a series made his life, compressed In each, one story serving for the rest-- [Sidenote: And what had been his career of old.] How his life-streams rolling arrived at last At the barrier, whence, were it once overpast, They would emerge, a river to the end,-- Gathered themselves up, paused, bade fate befriend, Took the leap, hung a minute at the height, Then fell back to oblivion infinite: Therefore he smiled. Beyond stretched garden-grounds Where late the adversary, breaking bounds, Had gained him an occasion, That above, That eagle, testified he could improve Effectually. The Kaiser's symbol lay Beside his rescript, a new badge by way Of baldric; while,--another thing that marred Alike emprise, achievement and reward,-- Ecelin's missive was conspicuous too. What past life did those flying thoughts pursue? As his, few names in Mantua half so old; But at Ferrara, where his sires enrolled It latterly, the Adelardi spared No pains to rival them: both factions shared Ferrara, so that, counted out, 't would yield A product very like the city's shield, Half black and white, or Ghibellin and Guelf As after Salinguerra styled himself And Este, who, till Marchesalla died, (Last of the Adelardi)--never tried His fortune there: with Marchesalla's child Would pass--could Blacks and Whites be reconciled, And young Taurello wed Linguetta--wealth And sway to a sole grasp. Each treats by stealth Already: when the Guelfs, the Ravennese Arrive, assault the Pietro quarter, seize Linguetta, and are gone! Men's first dismay Abated somewhat, hurries down, to lay The after indignation, Boniface, This Richard's father. "Learn the full disgrace Averted, ere you blame us Guelfs, who rate Your Salinguerra, your sole potentate That might have been, 'mongst Este's valvassors-- Ay, Azzo's--who, not privy to, abhors Our step; but we were zealous." Azzo 's then To do with! Straight a meeting of old men: "Old Salinguerra dead, his heir a boy, What if we change our ruler and decoy The Lombard Eagle of the azure sphere With Italy to build in, fix him here, Settle the city's troubles in a trice? For private wrong, let public good suffice!" [Sidenote: The original check to his fortunes,] In fine, young Salinguerra's stanchest friends Talked of the townsmen making him amends, Gave him a goshawk, and affirmed there was Rare sport, one morning, over the green grass A mile or so. He sauntered through the plain, Was restless, fell to thinking, turned again In time for Azzo's entry with the bride; Count Boniface rode smirking at their side; "She brings him half Ferrara," whispers flew, "And all Ancona! If the stripling knew!" Anon the stripling was in Sicily Where Heinrich ruled in right of Constance; he Was gracious nor his guest incapable; Each understood the other. So it fell, One Spring, when Azzo, thoroughly at ease, Had near forgotten by what precise degrees He crept at first to such a downy seat, The Count trudged over in a special heat To bid him of God's love dislodge from each Of Salinguerra's palaces,--a breach Might yawn else, not so readily to shut, For who was just arrived at Mantua but The youngster, sword on thigh and tuft on chin, [Sidenote: Which he was in the way to retrieve,] With tokens for Celano, Ecelin, Pistore, and the like! Next news,--no whit Do any of Ferrara's domes befit His wife of Heinrich's very blood: a band Of foreigners assemble, understand Garden-constructing, level and surround, Build up and bury in. A last news crowned The consternation: since his infant's birth, He only waits they end his wondrous girth Of trees that link San Pietro with Tomà, To visit Mantua. When the Podestà Ecelin, at Vicenza, called his friend Taurello thither, what could be their end But to restore the Ghibellins' late Head, The Kaiser helping? He with most to dread From vengeance and reprisal, Azzo, there With Boniface beforehand, as aware Of plots in progress, gave alarm, expelled Both plotters: but the Guelfs in triumph yelled Too hastily. The burning and the flight, And how Taurello, occupied that night With Ecelin, lost wife and son, I told: [Sidenote: When a fresh calamity destroyed all:] --Not how he bore the blow, retained his hold, Got friends safe through, left enemies the worst O' the fray, and hardly seemed to care at first: But afterward men heard not constantly Of Salinguerra's House so sure to be! Though Azzo simply gained by the event A shifting of his plagues--the first, content To fall behind the second and estrange So far his nature, suffer such a change That in Romano sought he wife and child And for Romano's sake seemed reconciled To losing individual life, which shrunk As the other prospered--mortised in his trunk, Like a dwarf palm which wanton Arabs foil Of bearing its own proper wine and oil, By grafting into it the stranger-vine, Which sucks its heart out, sly and serpentine, Till forth one vine-palm feathers to the root, And red drops moisten the insipid fruit. Once Adelaide set on,--the subtle mate Of the weak soldier, urged to emulate The Church's valiant women deed for deed, And paragon her namesake, win the meed O' the great Matilda,--soon they overbore The rest of Lombardy,--not as before By an instinctive truculence, but patched The Kaiser's strategy until it matched The Pontiff's, sought old ends by novel means. "Only, why is it Salinguerra screens Himself behind Romano?--him we bade Enjoy our shine i' the front, not seek the shade!" --Asked Heinrich, somewhat of the tardiest To comprehend. Nor Philip acquiesced At once in the arrangement; reasoned, plied His friend with offers of another bride, A statelier function--fruitlessly: 't was plain [Sidenote: He sank into a secondary personage,] Taurello through some weakness must remain Obscure. And Otho, free to judge of both, --Ecelin the unready, harsh and loth, And this more plausible and facile wight With every point a-sparkle--chose the right, Admiring how his predecessors harped On the wrong man: "thus," quoth he, "wits are warped By outsides!" Carelessly, meanwhile, his life Suffered its many turns of peace and strife In many lands--you hardly could surprise The man; who shamed Sordello (recognize!) In this as much beside, that, unconcerned What qualities were natural or earned, With no ideal of graces, as they came He took them, singularly well the same-- Speaking the Greek's own language, just because Your Greek eludes you, leave the least of flaws In contracts with him; while, since Arab lore Holds the stars' secret--take one trouble more And master it! 'Tis done, and now deter Who may the Tuscan, once Jove trined for her, From Friedrich's path!--Friedrich, whose pilgrimage The same man puts aside, whom he'll engage To leave next year John Brienne in the lurch, Come to Bassano, see Saint Francis' church And judge of Guido the Bolognian's piece Which, lend Taurello credit, rivals Greece-- Angels, with aureoles like golden quoits Pitched home, applauding Ecelin's exploits. For elegance, he strung the angelot, [Sidenote: With the appropriate graces of such.] Made rhymes thereto; for prowess, clove he not Tiso, last siege, from crest to crupper? Why Detail you thus a varied mastery But to show how Taurello, on the watch For men, to read their hearts and thereby catch Their capabilities and purposes, Displayed himself so far as displayed these: While our Sordello only cared to know About men as a means whereby he'd show Himself, and men had much or little worth According as they kept in or drew forth That self; the other's choicest instruments Surmised him shallow. Meantime, malcontents Dropped off, town after town grew wiser. "How Change the world's face?" asked people; "as 't is now It has been, will be ever: very fine Subjecting things profane to things divine, In talk! This contumacy will fatigue The vigilance of Este and the League! The Ghibellins gain on us!"--as it happed. Old Azzo and old Boniface, entrapped By Ponte Alto, both in one month's space Slept at Verona: either left a brace Of sons--but, three years after, either's pair Lost Guglielm and Aldobrand its heir: Azzo remained and Richard--all the stay Of Este and Saint Boniface, at bay [Sidenote: But Ecelin, he set in front, falling,] As 't were. Then, either Ecelin grew old Or his brain altered--not o' the proper mould For new appliances--his old palm-stock Endured no influx of strange strengths. He'd rock As in a drunkenness, or chuckle low As proud of the completeness of his woe, Then weep real tears;--now make some mad onslaught On Este, heedless of the lesson taught So painfully,--now cringe for peace, sue peace At price of past gain, bar of fresh increase To the fortunes of Romano. Up at last Rose Este, down Romano sank as fast. And men remarked these freaks of peace and war Happened while Salinguerra was afar: Whence every friend besought him, all in vain, To use his old adherent's wits again. Not he!--"who had advisers in his sons, Could plot himself, nor needed any one's Advice." 'T was Adelaide's remaining stanch Prevented his destruction root and branch Forthwith; but when she died, doom fell, for gay He made alliances, gave lands away To whom it pleased accept them, and withdrew Forever from the world. Taurello, who Was summoned to the convent, then refused A word at the wicket, patience thus abused, Promptly threw off alike his imbecile Ally's yoke, and his own frank, foolish smile. Soon a few movements of the happier sort Changed matters, put himself in men's report As heretofore; he had to fight, beside, And that became him ever. So, in pride [Sidenote: Salinguerra must again come forward,] And flushing of this kind of second youth, He dealt a good-will blow. Este in truth Lay prone--and men remembered, somewhat late, A laughing old outrageous stifled hate He bore to Este--how it would outbreak At times spite of disguise, like an earthquake In sunny weather--as that noted day When with his hundred friends he tried to slay Azzo before the Kaiser's face: and how, On Azzo's calm refusal to allow A liegeman's challenge, straight he too was calmed: As if his hate could bear to lie embalmed, Bricked up, the moody Pharaoh, and survive All intermediate crumblings, to arrive At earth's catastrophe--'t was Este's crash, Not Azzo's he demanded, so, no rash Procedure! Este's true antagonist Rose out of Ecelin: all voices whist, All eyes were sharpened, wits predicted. He 'T was, leaned in the embrasure absently, [Sidenote: Why and how, is let out in soliloquy.] Amused with his own efforts, now, to trace With his steel-sheathed forefinger Friedrich's face I' the dust: but as the trees waved sere, his smile Deepened, and words expressed its thought erewhile. "Ay, fairly housed at last, my old compeer? That we should stick together, all the year I kept Vicenza!--How old Boniface, Old Azzo caught us in its market-place, He by that pillar, I at this,--caught each In mid swing, more than fury of his speech, Egging the rabble on to disavow Allegiance to their Marquis--Bacchus, how They boasted! Ecelin must turn their drudge, Nor, if released, will Salinguerra grudge Paying arrears of tribute due long since-- Bacchus! My man could promise then, nor wince, The bones-and-muscles! Sound of wind and limb, Spoke he the set excuse I framed for him: And now he sits me, slavering and mute, Intent on chafing each starved purple foot Benumbed past aching with the altar slab-- Will no vein throb there when some monk shall blab Spitefully to the circle of bald scalps, [Sidenote: Ecelin, he did all for, is a monk now,] 'Friedrich's affirmed to be our side the Alps' --Eh, brother Lactance, brother Anaclet? Sworn to abjure the world, its fume and fret, God's own now? Drop the dormitory bar, Enfold the scanty gray serge scapular Twice o'er the cowl to muffle memories out! So! But the midnight whisper turns a shout, Eyes wink, mouths open, pulses circulate In the stone walls: the past, the world you hate Is with you, ambush, open field--or see The surging flame--we fire Vicenza--glee! Follow, let Pilio and Bernardo chafe! Bring up the Mantuans--through San Biagio--safe! Ah, the mad people waken? Ah, they writhe And reach us? If they block the gate? No tithe Can pass--keep back, you Bassanese! The edge, Use the edge--shear, thrust, hew, melt down the wedge, Let out the black of those black upturned eyes! Hell--are they sprinkling fire too? The blood fries And hisses on your brass gloves as they tear Those upturned faces choking with despair. Brave! Slidder through the reeking gate! 'How now? You six had charge of her?' And then the vow Comes, and the foam spirts, hair's plucked, till one shriek (I hear it) and you fling--you cannot speak-- Your gold-flowered basnet to a man who haled The Adelaide he dared scarce view unveiled This morn, naked across the fire: how crown The archer that exhausted lays you down Your infant, smiling at the flame, and dies? While one, while mine ... "Bacchus! I think there lies More than one corpse there" (and he paced the room) "--Another cinder somewhere: 't was my doom Beside, my doom! If Adelaide is dead, I live the same, this Azzo lives instead Of that to me, and we pull, any how, Este into a heap: the matter's now [Sidenote: Just when the prize awaits somebody;] At the true juncture slipping us so oft. Ay, Heinrich died and Otho, please you doffed His crown at such a juncture! Still, if holds Our Friedrich's purpose, if this chain enfolds The neck of ... who but this same Ecelin That must recoil when the best days begin! Recoil? that's naught; if the recoiler leaves His name for me to fight with, no one grieves: But he must interfere, forsooth, unlock His cloister to become my stumbling-block Just as of old! Ay, ay, there 't is again-- The land's inevitable Head--explain The reverences that subject us! Count These Ecelins now! Not to say as fount, Originating power of thought,--from twelve That drop i' the trenches they joined hands to delve, Six shall surpass him, but ... why, men must twine Somehow with something! Ecelin's a fine [Sidenote: Himself, if it were only worth while,] Clear name! 'T were simpler, doubtless, twine with me At once our cloistered friend's capacity Was of a sort! I had to share myself In fifty portions, like an o'ertasked elf That's forced illume in fifty points the vast Rare vapor he's environed by. At last My strengths, though sorely frittered, e'en converge And crown ... no, Bacchus, they have yet to urge The man be crowned! "That aloe, an he durst, Would climb! Just such a bloated sprawler first I noted in Messina's castle-court The day I came, when Heinrich asked in sport If I would pledge my faith to win him back His right in Lombardy: 'for, once bid pack Marauders,' he continued, 'in my stead You rule, Taurello!' and upon this head Laid the silk glove of Constance--I see her Too, mantled head to foot in miniver, Retrude following! "I am absolved From further toil: the empery devolved On me, 't was Tito's word: I have to lay For once my plan, pursue my plan my way, Prompt nobody, and render an account Taurello to Taurello! Nay, I mount To Friedrich: he conceives the post I kept, --Who did true service, able or inept, Who's worthy guerdon, Ecelin or I. Me guerdoned, counsel follows: would he vie With the Pope really? Azzo, Boniface Compose a right-arm Hohenstauffen's race Must break ere govern Lombardy. I point How easy 't were to twist, once out of joint, The socket from the bone: my Azzo's stare Meanwhile! for I, this idle strap to wear, Shall--fret myself abundantly, what end To serve? There's left me twenty years to spend [Sidenote: As it may be--but also, as it may not be--] --How better than my old way? Had I one Who labored to o'erthrow my work--a son Hatching with Azzo superb treachery, To root my pines up and then poison me, Suppose--'t were worth while frustrate that! Beside, Another life's ordained me: the world's tide Rolls, and what hope of parting from the press Of waves, a single wave through weariness Gently lifted aside, laid upon shore? My life must be lived out in foam and roar, No question. Fifty years the province held Taurello; troubles raised, and troubles quelled, He in the midst--who leaves this quaint stone place, These trees a year or two, then not a trace Of him! How obtain hold, fetter men's tongues Like this poor minstrel with the foolish songs-- To which, despite our bustle, he is linked? --Flowers one may tease, that never grow extinct. Ay, that patch, surely, green as ever, where I set Her Moorish lentisk, by the stair, To overawe the aloes; and we trod Those flowers, how call you such?--into the sod; A stately foreigner--a world of pain To make it thrive, arrest rough winds--all vain! It would decline; these would not he destroyed: And now, where is it? where can you avoid The flowers? I frighten children twenty years Longer!--which way, too, Ecelin appears To thwart me, for his son's besotted youth Gives promise of the proper tiger-tooth: They feel it at Vicenza! Fate, fate, fate, My fine Taurello! Go you, promulgate Friedrich's decree, and here 's shall aggrandize Young Ecelin--your Prefect's badge! a prize [Sidenote: The supposition he most inclines to;] Too precious, certainly. "How now? Compete With my old comrade? shuffle from their seat His children? Paltry dealing! Don't I know Ecelin? now, I think, and years ago! What's changed--the weakness? did not I compound For that, and undertake to keep him sound Despite it? Here's Taurello hankering After a boy's preferment--this plaything To carry, Bacchus!" And he laughed. Remark Why schemes wherein cold-blooded men embark Prosper, when your enthusiastic sort Fail: while these last are ever stopping short-- (So much they should--so little they can do!) The careless tribe see nothing to pursue If they desist; meantime their scheme succeeds. Thoughts were caprices in the course of deeds Methodic with Taurello; so, he turned, Enough amused by fancies fairly earned Of Este's horror-struck submitted neck, And Richard, the cowed braggart, at his beck, [Sidenote: Being contented with mere vengeance.] To his own petty but immediate doubt If he could pacify the League without Conceding Richard; just to this was brought That interval of vain discursive thought! As, shall I say, some Ethiop, past pursuit Of all enslavers, dips a shackled foot Burnt to the blood, into the drowsy black Enormous watercourse which guides him back To his own tribe again, where he is king; And laughs because he guesses, numbering The yellower poison-wattles on the pouch Of the first lizard wrested from its couch Under the slime (whose skin, the while he strips To cure his nostril with, and festered lips, And eyeballs bloodshot through the desert-blast) That he has reached its boundary, at last May breathe;--thinks o'er enchantments of the South Sovereign to plague his enemies, their mouth, Eyes, nails, and hair; but, these enchantments tried In fancy, puts them soberly aside For truth, projects a cool return with friends, The likelihood of winning mere amends Ere long; thinks that, takes comfort silently, Then, from the river's brink, his wrongs and he, Hugging revenge close to their hearts, are soon Off-striding for the Mountains of the Moon. Midnight: the watcher nodded on his spear, Since clouds dispersing left a passage clear For any meagre and discolored moon To venture forth; and such was peering soon Above the harassed city--her close lanes Closer, not half so tapering her fanes, As though she shrunk into herself to keep What little life was saved, more safely. Heap By heap the watch-fires mouldered, and beside The blackest spoke Sordello and replied Palma with none to listen. "'T is your cause: [Sidenote: Sordello, taught what Ghibellins are,] What makes a Ghibellin? There should be laws-- (Remember how my youth escaped! I trust To you for manhood, Palma; tell me just As any child)--there must be laws at work Explaining this. Assure me, good may lurk Under the bad,--my multitude has part In your designs, their welfare is at heart With Salinguerra, to their interest Refer the deeds he dwelt on,--so divest Our conference of much that scared me. Why Affect that heartless tone to Tito? I Esteemed myself, yes, in my inmost mind This morn, a recreant to my race--mankind O'erlooked till now: why boast my spirit's force, --Such force denied its object? why divorce These, then admire my spirit's flight the same As though it bore up, helped some half-orbed flame Else quenched in the dead void, to living space? That orb cast off to chaos and disgrace, Why vaunt so much my unencumbered dance, Making a feat's facilities enhance Its marvel? But I front Taurello, one Of happier fate, and all I should have done, He does; the people's good being paramount With him, their progress may perhaps account For his abiding still; whereas you heard The talk with Tito--the excuse preferred For burning those five hostages,--and broached By way of blind, as you and I approached, I do believe." She spoke: then he, "My thought Plainlier expressed! All to your profit--naught Meantime of these, of conquests to achieve For them, of wretchedness he might relieve [Sidenote: And what Guelfs, approves of neither.] While profiting your party. Azzo, too, Supports a cause: what cause? Do Guelfs pursue Their ends by means like yours, or better?" When The Guelfs were proved alike, men weighed with men, And deed with deed, blaze, blood, with blood and blaze, Morn broke: "Once more, Sordello, meet its gaze Proudly--the people's charge against thee fails In every point, while either party quails! These are the busy ones: be silent thou! Two parties take the world up, and allow No third, yet have one principle, subsist By the same injustice; whoso shall enlist With either, ranks with man's inveterate foes. So there is one less quarrel to compose: The Guelf, the Ghibellin may be to curse-- I have done nothing, but both sides do worse Than nothing. Nay, to me, forgotten, reft Of insight, lapped by trees and flowers, was left The notion of a service--ha? What lured Me here, what mighty aim was I assured Must move Taurello? What if there remained [Sidenote: Have men a cause distinct from both?] A cause, intact, distinct from these, ordained For me, its true discoverer?" Some one pressed Before them here, a watcher, to suggest The subject for a ballad: "They must know The tale of the dead worthy, long ago Consul of Rome--that 's long ago for us, Minstrels and bowmen, idly squabbling thus In the world's corner--but too late no doubt, For the brave time he sought to bring about. [Sidenote: Who was the famed Roman Crescentius?] --Not know Crescentius Nomentanus?" Then He cast about for terms to tell him, when Sordello disavowed it, how they used Whenever their Superior introduced A novice to the Brotherhood--("for I Was just a brown-sleeve brother, merrily Appointed too," quoth he, "till Innocent Bade me relinquish, to my small content, My wife or my brown sleeves")--some brother spoke Ere nocturns of Crescentius, to revoke The edict issued, after his demise, Which blotted fame alike and effigies, All out except a floating power, a name Including, tending to produce the same Great act. Rome, dead, forgotten, lived at least Within that brain, though to a vulgar priest And a vile stranger,--two not worth a slave Of Rome's, Pope John, King Otho,--fortune gave The rule there: so, Crescentius, haply dressed In white, called Roman Consul for a jest, Taking the people at their word, forth stepped As upon Brutus' heel, nor ever kept Rome waiting,--stood erect, and from his brain Gave Rome out on its ancient place again, Ay, bade proceed with Brutus' Rome, Kings styled Themselves mere citizens of, and, beguiled Into great thoughts thereby, would choose the gem Out of a lapfull, spoil their diadem --The Senate's cypher was so hard to scratch! He flashes like a phanal, all men catch The flame, Rome 's just accomplished! when returned Otho, with John, the Consul's step had spurned, And Hugo Lord of Este, to redress The wrongs of each. Crescentius in the stress Of adverse fortune bent. "They crucified Their Consul in the Forum; and abide E'er since such slaves at Rome, that I--(for I Was once a brown-sleeve brother, merrily Appointed)--I had option to keep wife Or keep brown sleeves, and managed in the strife Lose both. A song of Rome!" And Rome, indeed, Robed at Goito in fantastic weed, The Mother-City of his Mantuan days, Looked an established point of light whence rays Traversed the world; for, all the clustered homes Beside of men, seemed bent on being Romes In their degree; the question was, how each Should most resemble Rome, clean out of reach. [Sidenote: How if, in the reintegration of Rome,] Nor, of the Two, did either principle Struggle to change--but to possess--Rome, still, Guelf Rome or Ghibellin Rome. Let Rome advance! Rome, as she struck Sordello's ignorance-- How could he doubt one moment? Rome 's the Cause! Rome of the Pandects, all the world's new laws-- Of the Capitol, of Castle Angelo; New structures, that inordinately glow, Subdued, brought back to harmony, made ripe By many a relic of the archetype Extant for wonder; every upstart church That hoped to leave old temples in the lurch, Corrected by the Theatre forlorn That,--as a mundane shell, its world late born,-- Lay and o'ershadowed it. These hints combined, [Sidenote: Be typified the triumph of mankind?] Rome typifies the scheme to put mankind Once more in full possession of their rights. "Let us have Rome again! On me it lights To build up Rome--on me, the first and last: For such a future was endured the past!" And thus, in the gray twilight, forth he sprung To give his thought consistency among The very People--let their facts avail Finish the dream grown from the archer's tale.

BOOK THE FIFTH

Is it the same Sordello in the dusk As at the dawn?--merely a perished husk Now, that arose a power fit to build [Sidenote: Mankind triumph of a sudden?] Up Rome again? The proud conception chilled So soon? Ay, watch that latest dream of thine--A Rome indebted to no Palatine-- Drop arch by arch, Sordello! Art possessed Of thy wish now, rewarded for thy quest To-day among Ferrara's squalid sons? Are this and this and this the shining ones Meet for the Shining City? Sooth to say, Your favored tenantry pursue their way After a fashion! This companion slips On the smooth causey, t' other blinkard trips At his mooned sandal. "Leave to lead the brawls Here i' the atria?" No, friend! He that sprawls On aught but a stibadium ... what his dues Who puts the lustral vase to such an use? Oh, huddle up the day's disasters! March, Ye runagates, and drop thou, arch by arch, Rome! Yet before they quite disband--a whim-- Study mere shelter, now, for him, and him, Nay, even the worst,--just house them! Any cave Suffices: throw out earth! A loophole? Brave! They ask to feel the sun shine, see the grass Grow, hear the larks sing? Dead art thou, alas, And I am dead! But here's our son excels At hurdle-weaving any Scythian, fells Oak and devises rafters, dreams and shapes His dream into a door-post, just escapes The mystery of hinges. Lie we both Perdue another age. The goodly growth Of brick and stone! Our building-pelt was rough, But that descendant's garb suits well enough A portico-contriver. Speed the years-- [Sidenote: Why, the work should be one of ages,] What's time to us? At last, a city rears Itself! nay, enter--what's the grave to us? Lo, our forlorn acquaintance carry thus The head! Successively sewer, forum, cirque-- Last age, an aqueduct was counted work, But now they tire the artificer upon Blank alabaster, black obsidion, --Careful, Jove's face be duly fulgurant, And mother Venus' kiss-creased nipples pant Back into pristine pulpiness, ere fixed Above the baths. What difference betwixt This Rome and ours--resemblance what, between That scurvy dumb-show and this pageant sheen-- These Romans and our rabble? Use thy wit! The work marched: step by step,--a workman fit Took each, nor too fit,--to one task, one time,-- No leaping o'er the petty to the prime, [Sidenote: If performed equally and thoroughly;] When just the substituting osier lithe For brittle bulrush, sound wood for soft withe, To further loam-and-roughcast-work a stage,-- Exacts an architect, exacts an age: No tables of the Mauritanian tree For men whose maple log 's their luxury! That way was Rome built. "Better" (say you) "merge At once all workmen in the demiurge, All epochs in a lifetime, every task In one!" So should the sudden city bask I' the day--while those we'd feast there, want the knack Of keeping fresh-chalked gowns from speck and brack, Distinguish not rare peacock from vile swan, Nor Mareotic juice from Cæcuban. "Enough of Rome! 'T was happy to conceive Rome on a sudden, nor shall fate bereave Me of that credit: for the rest, her spite Is an old story--serves my folly right By adding yet another to the dull List of abortions--things proved beautiful Could they be done, Sordello cannot do." He sat upon the terrace, plucked and threw The powdery aloe-cusps away, saw shift Rome's walls, and drop arch after arch, and drift Mist-like afar those pillars of all stripe, Mounds of all majesty. "Thou archetype, Last of my dreams and loveliest, depart!" And then a low voice wound into his heart: "Sordello!" (low as some old Pythoness Conceding to a Lydian King's distress The cause of his long error--one mistake Of her past oracle) "Sordello, wake! God has conceded two sights to a man-- [Sidenote: And a man can do but a man's portion.] One, of men's whole work, time's completed plan, The other, of the minute's work, man's first Step to the plan's completeness: what's dispersed Save hope of that supreme step which, descried Earliest, was meant still to remain untried Only to give you heart to take your own Step, and there stay--leaving the rest alone? Where is the vanity? Why count as one The first step, with the last step? What is gone Except Rome's aëry magnificence, That last step you'd take first?--an evidence You were God: be man now! Let those glances fall! The basis, the beginning step of all, Which proves you just a man--is that gone too? Pity to disconcert one versed as you In fate's ill-nature! but its full extent Eludes Sordello, even: the veil rent, Read the black writing--that collective man Outstrips the individual! Who began [Sidenote: The last of each series of workmen] The acknowledged greatnesses? Ay, your own art Shall serve us: put the poet's mimes apart-- Close with the poet's self, and lo, a dim Yet too plain form divides itself from him! Alcamo's song enmeshes the lulled Isle, Woven into the echoes left erewhile By Nina, one soft web of song: no more Turning his name, then, flower-like o'er and o'er! An elder poet in the younger's place; Nina's the strength, but Alcamo's the grace: Each neutralizes each then! Search your fill; You get no whole and perfect Poet--still New Ninas, Alcamos, till time's midnight Shrouds all--or better say, the shutting light Of a forgotten yesterday. Dissect Every ideal workman--(to reject In favor of your fearful ignorance The thousand phantasms eager to advance, [Sidenote: Sums up in himself all predecessors.] And point you but to those within your reach)-- Were you the first who brought--(in modern speech) The Multitude to be materialized? That loose eternal unrest--who devised An apparition i' the midst? The rout Was cheeked, a breathless ring was formed about That sudden flower: get round at any risk The gold-rough pointel, silver-blazing disk O' the lily! Swords across it! Reign thy reign [Sidenote: We just see Charlemagne, Hildebrand,] And serve thy frolic service, Charlemagne! --The very child of over-joyousness, Unfeeling thence, strong therefore: Strength by stress Of Strength comes of that forehead confident, Those widened eyes expecting heart's content, A calm as out of just-quelled noise; nor swerves For doubt, the ample cheek in gracious curves Abutting on the upthrust nether lip: He wills, how should he doubt then? Ages slip: Was it Sordello pried into the work So far accomplished, and discovered lurk A company amid the other clans, Only distinct in priests for castellans And popes for suzerains (their rule confessed Its rule, their interest its interest, Living for sake of living--there an end,-- Wrapt in itself, no energy to spend In making adversaries or allies),-- Dived you into its capabilities And dared create, out of that sect, a soul Should turn a multitude, already whole, Into its body? Speak plainer! Is 't so sure God's church lives by a King's investiture? Look to last step! A staggering--a shock-- What's mere sand is demolished, while the rock Endures: a column of black fiery dust Blots heaven--that help was prematurely thrust Aside, perchance!--but air clears, naught's erased Of the true outline! Thus much being firm based, The other was a scaffold. See him stand Buttressed upon his mattock, Hildebrand Of the huge brain-mask welded ply o'er ply As in a forge; it buries either eye White and extinct, that stupid brow; teeth clenched, The neck tight-corded, too, the chin deep-trenched, As if a cloud enveloped him while fought Under its shade, grim prizers, thought with thought At dead-lock, agonizing he, until The victor thought leap radiant up, and Will, The slave with folded arms and drooping lids They fought for, lean forth flame-like as it bids. Call him no flower--a mandrake of the earth, Thwarted and dwarfed and blasted in its birth, Rather,--a fruit of suffering's excess, Thence feeling, therefore stronger: still by stress Of Strength, work Knowledge! Full three hundred years Have men to wear away in smiles and tears Between the two that nearly seemed to touch, [Sidenote: In composite work they end and name.] Observe you! quit one workman and you clutch Another, letting both their trains go by-- The actors-out of either's policy, Heinrich, on this hand, Otho, Barbaross, Carry the three Imperial crowns across, Aix' Iron, Milan's Silver, and Rome's Gold-- While Alexander, Innocent uphold On that, each Papal key--but, link on link, Why is it neither chain betrays a chink? How coalesce the small and great? Alack, For one thrust forward, fifty such fall back! Do the popes coupled there help Gregory Alone? Hark--from the hermit Peter's cry At Claremont, down to the first serf that says Friedrich 's no liege of his while he delays Getting the Pope's curse off him! The Crusade-- Or trick of breeding Strength by other aid Than Strength, is safe. Hark--from the wild harangue Of Vimmercato, to the carroch's clang Yonder! The League--or trick of turning Strength Against Pernicious Strength, is safe at length. Yet hark--from Mantuan Albert making cease The fierce ones, to Saint Francis preaching peace Yonder! God's Truce--or trick to supersede The very Use of Strength, is safe. Indeed We trench upon the future. Who is found To take next step, next age--trail o'er the ground-- Shall I say, gourd-like?--not the flower's display Nor the root's prowess, but the plenteous way O' the plant--produced by joy and sorrow, whence Unfeeling and yet feeling, strongest thence? Knowledge by stress of merely Knowledge? No-- E'en were Sordello ready to forego His life for this, 't were overleaping work Some one has first to do, howe'er it irk, Nor stray a foot's breadth from the beaten road. Who means to help must still support the load Hildebrand lifted--'why hast Thou,' he groaned, 'Imposed on me a burden, Paul had moaned, And Moses dropped beneath?' Much done--and yet Doubtless that grandest task God ever set On man, left much to do: at his arm's wrench, Charlemagne's scaffold fell; but pillars blench Merely, start back again--perchance have been Taken for buttresses: crash every screen, Hammer the tenons better, and engage A gang about your work, for the next age Or two, of Knowledge, part by Strength and part By Knowledge! Then, indeed, perchance may start Sordello on his race--would time divulge Such secrets! If one step's awry, one bulge Calls for correction by a step we thought Got over long since, why, till that is wrought, No progress! And the scaffold in its turn Becomes, its service o'er, a thing to spurn. Meanwhile, if your half-dozen years of life In store dispose you to forego the strife, Who takes exception? Only bear in mind, Ferrara's reached, Goito 's left behind: [Sidenote: If associates trouble you, stand off!] As you then were, as half yourself, desist! --The warrior-part of you may, an it list, Finding real falchions difficult to poise, Fling them afar and taste the cream of joys By wielding such in fancy,--what is bard Of you may spurn the vehicle that marred Elys so much, and in free fancy glut His sense, yet write no verses--you have but To please yourself for law, and once could please What once appeared yourself, by dreaming these Rather than doing these, in days gone by. But all is changed the moment you descry Mankind as half yourself,--then, fancy's trade Ends once and always: how may half evade The other half? men are found half of you. Out of a thousand helps, just one or two Can be accomplished presently: but flinch From these (as from the falchion, raised an inch, Elys, described a couplet) and make proof Of fancy,--then, while one half lolls aloof I' the vines, completing Rome to the tip-top-- See if, for that, your other half will stop [Sidenote: Should the new sympathies allow you.] A tear, begin a smile! The rabble's woes, Ludicrous in their patience as they chose To sit about their town and quietly Be slaughtered,--the poor reckless soldiery, With their ignoble rhymes on Richard, how 'Polt-foot,' sang they, 'was in a pitfall now,' Cheering each other from the engine-mounts,-- That crippled sprawling idiot who recounts How, lopped of limbs, he lay, stupid as stone, Till the pains crept from out him one by one, And wriggles round the archers on his head To earn a morsel of their chestnut bread,-- And Cino, always in the self-same place Weeping; beside that other wretch's case, Eyepits to ear, one gangrene since he plied The engine in his coat of raw sheep's hide A double watch in the noon sun; and see Lucchino, beauty, with the favors free, Trim hacqueton, spruce heard and scented hair, Campaigning it for the first time--cut there In two already, boy enough to crawl For latter orpine round the southern wall, Tomà, where Richard's kept, because that whore Marfisa, the fool never saw before, Sickened for flowers this wearisomest siege: And Tiso's wife--men liked their pretty liege, Cared for her least of whims once,--Berta, wed A twelvemonth gone, and, now poor Tiso's dead, Delivering herself of his first child On that chance heap of wet filth, reconciled To fifty gazers!"--(Here a wind below Made moody music augural of woe From the pine barrier)--"What if, now the scene Draws to a close, yourself have really been [Sidenote: Time having been lost, choose quick!] --You, plucking purples in Goito's moss Like edges of a trabea (not to cross Your consul-humor) or dry aloe-shafts For fasces, at Ferrara--he, fate wafts, This very age, her whole inheritance Of opportunities? Yet you advance Upon the last! Since talking is your trade, There 's Salinguerra left you to persuade: Fail! then"-- "No--no--which latest chance secure!" Leaped up and cried Sordello: "this made sure, The past were yet redeemable; its work Was--help the Guelfs, whom I, howe'er it irk, Thus help!" He shook the foolish aloe-haulm [Sidenote: He takes his first step as a Guelf;] Out of his doublet, paused, proceded calm To the appointed presence. The large head Turned on its socket; "And your spokesman," said The large voice, "is Elcorte's happy sprout? Few such"--(so finishing a speech no doubt Addressed to Palma, silent at his side) "--My sober councils have diversified. Elcorte's son! good: forward as you may, Our lady's minstrel with so much to say!" The hesitating sunset floated back, Rosily traversed in the wonted track The chamber, from the lattice o'er the girth Of pines, to the huge eagle blacked in earth Opposite,--outlined sudden, spur to crest, That solid Salinguerra, and caressed Palma's contour; 't was day looped back night's pall; Sordello had a chance left spite of all. And much he made of the convincing speech Meant to compensate for the past and reach Through his youth's daybreak of unprofit, quite To his noon's labor, so proceed till night Leisurely! The great argument to bind Taurello with the Guelf Cause, body and mind, --Came the consummate rhetoric to that? Yet most Sordello's argument dropped flat Through his accustomed fault of breaking yoke, Disjoining him who felt from him who spoke. Was 't not a touching incident--so prompt A rendering the world its just accompt, Once proved its debtor? Who'd suppose, before This proof, that he, Goito's god of yore, At duty's instance could demean himself So memorably, dwindle to a Guelf? Be sure, in such delicious flattery steeped, His inmost self at the out-portion peeped, Thus occupied; then stole a glance at those Appealed to, curious if her color rose Or his lip moved, while he discreetly urged The need of Lombardy becoming purged At soonest of her barons; the poor part Abandoned thus, missing the blood at heart And spirit in brain, unseasonably off Elsewhere! But, though his speech was worthy scoff, Good-humored Salinguerra, famed for tact And tongue, who, careless of his phrase, ne'er lacked The right phrase, and harangued Honorius dumb At his accession,--looked as all fell plumb To purpose and himself found interest In every point his new instructor pressed --Left playing with the rescript's white wax seal To scrutinize Sordello head and heel. He means to yield assent sure? No, alas! All he replied was, "What, it comes to pass That poesy, sooner than politics, Makes fade young hair?" To think such speech could fix Taurello! Then a flash of bitter truth: So fantasies could break and fritter youth That he had long ago lost earnestness, Lost will to work, lost power to express [Sidenote: But to will and to do are different:] The need of working! Earth was turned a grave: No more occasions now, though he should crave Just one, in right of superhuman toil, To do what was undone, repair such spoil, Alter the past--nothing would give the chance! Not that he was to die; he saw askance Protract the ignominious years beyond To dream in--time to hope and time despond, Remember and forget, be sad, rejoice As saved a trouble; he might, at his choice, One way or other, idle life out, drop [Sidenote: He may sleep on the bed he has made.] No few smooth verses by the way--for prop, A thyrsus, these sad people, all the same, Should pick up, and set store by,--far from blame, Plant o'er his hearse, convinced his better part Survived him. "Rather tear men out the heart O' the truth!"--Sordello muttered, and renewed His propositions for the Multitude. But Salinguerra, who at this attack Had thrown great breast and ruffling corselet back To hear the better, smilingly resumed His task; beneath, the carroch's warning boomed; He must decide with Tito; courteously He turned then, even seeming to agree With his admonisher--"Assist the Pope, Extend Guelf domination, fill the scope O' the Church, thus based on All, by All, for All-- Change Secular to Evangelical"-- Echoing his very sentence: all seemed lost, When suddenly he looked up, laughingly almost, To Palma: "This opinion of your friend's-- For instance, would it answer Palma's ends? Best, were it not, turn Guelf, submit our Strength"-- (Here he drew out his baldric to its length) --"To the Pope's Knowledge--let our captive slip, Wide to the walls throw ope our gates, equip Azzo with ... what I hold here! Who'll subscribe To a trite censure of the minstrel tribe Henceforward? or pronounce, as Heinrich used, 'Spear-heads for battle, burr-heads for the joust!' --When Constance, for his couplets, would promote Alcamo, from a parti-colored coat, To holding her lord's stirrup in the wars. Not that I see where couplet-making jars With common sense: at Mantua I had borne This chanted, better than their most forlorn Of bull-baits,--that's indisputable!" Brave! Whom vanity nigh slew, contempt shall save! All's at an end: a Troubadour suppose Mankind will class him with their friends or foes? [Sidenote: Scorn flings cold water in his face,] A puny uncouth ailing vassal think The world and him bound in some special link? Abrupt the visionary tether burst. What were rewarded here, or what amerced If a poor drudge, solicitous to dream Deservingly, got tangled by his theme So far as to conceit the knack or gift Or whatsoe'er it be, of verse, might lift The globe, a lever like the hand and head Of--"Men of Action," as the Jongleurs said, --"The Great Men," in the people's dialect? And not a moment did this scorn affect [Sidenote: Arouses him at last, to some purpose,] Sordello: scorn the poet? They, for once, Asking "what was," obtained a full response. Bid Naddo think at Mantua, he had but To look into his promptuary, put Finger on a set thought in a set speech: But was Sordello fitted thus for each Conjecture? Nowise; since within his soul, Perception brooded unexpressed and whole. A healthy spirit like a healthy frame Craves aliment in plenty--all the same, Changes, assimilates its aliment. Perceived Sordello, on a truth intent? Next day no formularies more you saw Than figs or olives in a sated maw. 'T is Knowledge, whither such perceptions tend; They lose themselves in that, means to an end, The many old producing some one new, A last unlike the first. If lies are true, The Caliph's wheel-work man of brass receives A meal, munched millet grains and lettuce leaves Together in his stomach rattle loose; You find them perfect next day to produce: But ne'er expect the man, on strength of that, Can roll an iron camel-collar flat Like Haroun's self! I tell you, what was stored [Sidenote: And thus gets the utmost out of him.] Bit by bit through Sordello's life, outpoured That eve, was, for that age, a novel thing: And round those three the People formed a ring, Of visionary judges whose award He recognized in full--faces that barred Henceforth return to the old careless life, In whose great presence, therefore, his first strife For their sake must not be ignobly fought; All these, for once, approved of him, he thought, Suspended their own vengeance, chose await The issue of this strife to reinstate Them in the right of taking it--in fact He must be proved king ere they could exact Vengeance for such king's defalcation. Last, A reason why the phrases flowed so fast Was in his quite forgetting for a time Himself in his amazement that the rhyme Disguised the royalty so much: he there-- And Salinguerra yet all unaware Who was the lord, who liegeman! "Thus I lay On thine my spirit and compel obey His lord,--my liegeman,--impotent to build Another Rome, but hardly so unskilled In what such builder should have been, as brook One shame beyond the charge that I forsook His function! Free me from that shame, I bend A brow before, suppose new years to spend,-- Allow each chance, nor fruitlessly, recur-- Measure thee with the Minstrel, then, demur [Sidenote: He asserts the poet's rank and right,] At any crowd he claims! That I must cede Shamed now, my right to my especial meed-- Confess thee fitter help the world than I Ordained its champion from eternity, Is much: but to behold thee scorn the post I quit in thy behalf--to hear thee boast What makes my own despair!" And while he rung The changes on this theme, the roof up-sprung, The sad walls of the presence-chamber died Into the distance, or embowering vied With far-away Goito's vine-frontier; And crowds of faces--(only keeping clear The rose-light in the midst, his vantage-ground To fight their battle from)--deep clustered round Sordello, with good wishes no mere breath, Kind prayers for him no vapor, since, come death, Come life, he was fresh-sinewed every joint, Each bone new-marrowed as whom gods anoint Though mortal to their rescue. Now let sprawl The snaky volumes hither! Is Typhon all For Hercules to trample--good report From Salinguerra only to extort? "So was I" (closed he his inculcating, A poet must be earth's essential king) [Sidenote: Basing these on their proper ground,] "So was I, royal so, and if I fail, 'T is not the royalty, ye witness quail, But one deposed who, caring not exert Its proper essence, trifled malapert With accidents instead--good things assigned As heralds of a better thing behind-- And, worthy through display of these, put forth Never the inmost all-surpassing worth That constitutes him king precisely since As yet no other spirit may evince Its like: the power he took most pride to test, Whereby all forms of life had been professed At pleasure, forms already on the earth, Was but a means to power beyond, whose birth Should, in its novelty, be kingship's proof. Now, whether he came near or kept aloof The several forms he longed to imitate, Not there the kingship lay, he sees too late. Those forms, unalterable first as last, Proved him her copier, not the protoplast Of nature: what would come of being free, By action to exhibit tree for tree, Bird, beast, for beast and bird, or prove earth bore One veritable man or woman more? Means to an end, such proofs are: what the end? Let essence, whatsoe'er it be, extend-- Never contract. Already you include The multitude; then let the multitude Include yourself; and the result were new: Themselves before, the multitude turn you. This were to live and move and have, in them, Your being, and secure a diadem You should transmit (because no cycle yearns Beyond itself, but on itself returns) When, the full sphere in wane, the world o'erlaid Long since with you, shall have in turn obeyed Some orb still prouder, some displayer, still More potent than the last, of human will, [Sidenote: Recognizing true dignity in service,] And some new king depose the old. Of such Am I--whom pride of this elates too much? Safe, rather say, 'mid troops of peers again; I, with my words, hailed brother of the train Deeds once sufficed: for, let the world roll back, Who fails, through deeds howe'er diverse, re-track My purpose still, my task? A teeming crust-- Air, flame, earth, wave at conflict! Then, needs must Emerge some Calm embodied, these refer The brawl to--yellow-bearded Jupiter? No! Saturn; some existence like a pact And protest against Chaos, some first fact I' the faint of time. My deep of life, I know, Is unavailing e'en to poorly show" ... For here the Chief immeasurably yawned) ... "Deeds in their due gradation till Song dawned-- The fullest effluence of the finest mind, All in degree, no way diverse in kind From minds about it, minds which, more or less, Lofty or low, move seeking to impress [Sidenote: Whether successively that of epoist,] Themselves on somewhat; but one mind has climbed Step after step, by just ascent sublimed. Thought is the soul of act, and, stage by stage, Soul is from body still to disengage As tending to a freedom which rejects Such help and incorporeally affects The world, producing deeds but not by deeds, Swaying, in others, frames itself exceeds, Assigning them the simpler tasks it used To patiently perform till Song produced Acts, by thoughts only, for the mind: divest Mind of e'en Thought, and, lo, God's unexpressed Will draws above us! All then is to win Save that. How much for me, then? where begin My work? About me, faces! and they flock, The earnest faces. What shall I unlock By song? behold me prompt, whate'er it be, To minister: how much can mortals see Of Life? No more than so? I take the task And marshal you Life's elemental masque, Show Men, on evil or on good lay stress, [Sidenote: Dramatist, or, so to call him, analyst,] This light, this shade make prominent, suppress All ordinary hues that softening blend Such natures with the level. Apprehend Which sinner is, which saint, if I allot Hell, Purgatory, Heaven, a blaze or blot, To those you doubt concerning! I enwomb Some wretched Friedrich with his red-hot tomb; Some dubious spirit, Lombard Agilulph With the black chastening river I engulf! Some unapproached Matilda I enshrine With languors of the planet of decline-- These, fail to recognize, to arbitrate Between henceforth, to rightly estimate Thus marshalled in the masque! Myself, the while, As one of you, am witness, shrink or smile At my own showing! Next age--what's to do? The men and women stationed hitherto Will I unstation, good and bad, conduct Each nature to its farthest, or obstruct At soonest, in the world: light, thwarted, breaks A limpid purity to rainbow flakes, Or shadow, massed, freezes to gloom: behold How such, with fit assistance to unfold, Or obstacles to crush them, disengage Their forms, love, hate, hope, fear, peace make, war wage, In presence of you all! Myself, implied Superior now, as, by the platform's side, I bade them do and suffer,--would last content The world ... no--that's too far! I circumvent A few, my masque contented, and to these Offer unveil the last of mysteries-- Man's inmost life shall have yet freer play: Once more I cast external things away, And natures composite, so decompose That" ... Why, he writes _Sordello!_ "How I rose, And how have you advanced! since evermore Yourselves effect what I was fain before Effect, what I supplied yourselves suggest, What I leave bare yourselves can now invest. How we attain to talk as brothers talk, In half-words, call things by half-names, no balk From discontinuing old aids. To-day Takes in account the work of Yesterday: Has not the world a Past now, its adept Consults ere he dispense with or accept New aids? a single touch more may enhance, A touch less turned to insignificance Those structures' symmetry the past has strewed The world with, once so bare. Leave the mere rude [Sidenote: Who turns in due course synthetist.] Explicit details! 't is but brother's speech, We need, speech where an accent's change gives each The other's soul--no speech to understand By former audience: need was then to expand, Expatiate--hardly were we brothers! true-- Nor I lament my small remove from you, Nor reconstruct what stands already. Ends Accomplished turn to means: my art intends New structure from the ancient: as they changed The spoils of every clime at Venice, ranged The horned and snouted Libyan god, upright As in his desert, by some simple bright Clay cinerary pitcher--Thebes as Rome, Athens as Byzant rifled, till their Dome From earth's reputed consummations razed A seal, the all-transmuting Triad blazed Above. Ah, whose that fortune? Ne'ertheless E'en he must stoop contented to express No tithe of what's to say--the vehicle Never sufficient: but his work is still For faces like the faces that select [Sidenote: This for one day: now, serve as Guelf!] The single service I am bound effect,-- That bid me cast aside such fancies, bow Taurello to the Guelf cause, disallow The Kaiser's coming--which with heart, soul, strength, I labor for, this eve, who feel at length My past career's outrageous vanity, And would, as it amends, die, even die Now I first estimate the boon of life, If death might win compliance--sure, this strife Is right for once--the People my support." My poor Sordello! what may we extort By this, I wonder? Palma's lighted eyes Turned to Taurello who, long past surprise, Began, "You love him--what you'd say at large Let me say briefly. First, your father's charge To me, his friend, peruse: I guessed indeed You were no stranger to the course decreed. [Sidenote: Salinguerra, dislodged from his post,] He bids me leave his children to the saints: As for a certain project, he acquaints The Pope with that, and offers him the best Of your possessions to permit the rest Go peaceably--to Ecelin, a stripe Of soil the cursed Vicentines will gripe, --To Alberic, a patch the Trevisan Clutches already; extricate, who can, Treville, Villarazzi, Puissolo, Loria and Cartiglione!--all must go, And with them go my hopes. 'T is lost, then! Lost This eve, our crisis, and some pains it cost Procuring; thirty years--as good I'd spent Like our admonisher! But each his bent Pursues: no question, one might live absurd One's self this while, by deed as he by word Persisting to obtrude an influence where 'T is made account of, much as ... nay, you fare With twice the fortune, youngster!--I submit, Happy to parallel my waste of wit With the renowned Sordello's: you decide A course for me. Romano may abide Romano,--Bacchus! After all, what dearth Of Ecelins and Alberies on earth? Say there's a prize in prospect, must disgrace Betide competitors, unless they style Themselves Romano? Were it worth my while To try my own luck! But an obscure place Suits me--there wants a youth to bustle, stalk And attitudinize--some fight, more talk, Most flaunting badges--how, I might make clear Since Friedrich's very purposes lie here --Here, pity they are like to lie! For me, With station fixed unceremoniously Long since, small use contesting; I am but The liegeman--you are born the lieges--shut That gentle mouth now! or resume your kin In your sweet self; were Palma Ecelin For me to work with! Could that neck endure This bauble for a cumbrous garniture, She should ... or might one bear it for her? Stay-- I have not been so flattered many a day As by your pale friend--Bacchus! The least help Would lick the hind's fawn to a lion's whelp: His neck is broad enough--a ready tongue Beside--too writhled--but, the main thing, young-- I could ... why, look ye!" And the badge was thrown [Sidenote: In moving, opens a door to Sordello,] Across Sordello's neck: This badge alone Makes you Romano's Head--becomes superb On your bare neck, which would, on mine, disturb The pauldron," said Taurello. A mad act, Nor even dreamed about before--in fact, Not when his sportive arm rose for the nonce-- But he had dallied overmuch, this once, With power: the thing was done, and he, aware The thing was done, proceeded to declare-- (So like a nature made to serve, excel In serving, only feel by service well!) --That he would make Sordello that and more. "As good a scheme as any. What's to pore At in my face?" he asked--"ponder instead This piece of news; you are Romano's Head! One cannot slacken pace so near the goal, Suffer my Azzo to escape heart-whole This time! For you there's Palma to espouse-- For me, one crowning trouble ere I house Like my compeer." On which ensued a strange And solemn visitation; there came change O'er every one of them; each looked on each: Up in the midst a truth grew, without speech. And when the giddiness sank and the haze Subsided, they were sitting, no amaze, Sordello with the baldric on, his sire [Sidenote: Who is declared Salinguerra's son,] Silent, though his proportions seemed aspire Momently; and, interpreting the thrill Right at its ebb, Palma was found there still Relating somewhat Adelaide confessed A year ago, while dying on her breast,-- Of a contrivance that Vicenza night When Ecelin had birth. "Their convoy's flight, Cut off a moment, coiled inside the flame That wallowed like a dragon at his game The toppling city through--San Biagio rocks! And wounded lies in her delicious locks Retrude, the frail mother, on her face, None of her wasted, just in one embrace Covering her child: when, as they lifted her, Cleaving the tumult, mighty, mightier And mightiest Taurello's cry outbroke, Leapt like a tongue of fire that cleaves the smoke, Midmost to cheer his Mantuans onward--drown His colleague Ecelin's clamor, up and down The disarray: failed Adelaide see then Who was the natural chief, the man of men? Outstripping time, her infant there burst swathe, Stood up with eyes haggard beyond the scathe From wandering after his heritage Lost once and lost for aye--and why that rage, That deprecating glance? A new shape leant On a familiar shape--gloatingly bent O'er his discomfiture; 'mid wreaths it wore, Still one outflamed the rest--her child's before 'T was Salinguerra's for his child: scorn, hate, Rage now might startle her when all too late! Then was the moment!--rival's foot had spurned [Sidenote: Hidden hitherto by Adelaide's policy.] Never that House to earth else! Sense returned-- The act conceived, adventured and complete, They bore away to an obscure retreat Mother and child--Retrude's self not slain" (Nor even here Taurello moved) "though pain Was fled: and what assured them most 't was fled, All pain, was, if they raised the pale hushed head 'T would turn this way and that, waver awhile, And only settle into its old smile-- (Graceful as the disquieted water-flag Steadying itself, remarked they, in the quag On either side their path)--when suffered look Down on her child. They marched: no sign once shook The company's close litter of crossed spears Till, as they reached Goito, a few tears Slipped in the sunset from her long black lash, And she was gone. So far the action rash; No crime. They laid Retrude in the font, Taurello's very gift, her child was wont To sit beneath--constant as eve he came To sit by its attendant girls the same As one of them. For Palma, she would blend With this magnific spirit to the end, That ruled her first; but scarcely had she dared To disobey the Adelaide who scared Her into vowing never to disclose A secret to her husband, which so froze His blood at half-recital, she contrived To hide from him Taurello's infant lived, Lest, by revealing that, himself should mar Romano's fortunes. And, a crime so far, Palma received that action: she was told Of Salinguerra's nature, of his cold Calm acquiescence in his lot! But free To impart the secret to Romano, she [Sidenote: How the discovery moves Salinguerra,] Engaged to repossess Sordello of His heritage, and hers, and that way doff The mask, but after years, long years: while now, Was not Romano's sign-mark on that brow?" Across Taurello's heart his arms were locked: And when he did speak 'twas as if he mocked The minstrel, "who had not to move," he said, "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--'twas 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 [Sidenote: And Sordello the finally-determined,] 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? 'Tis 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 [Sidenote: The devil putting forth his potency:] 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: 'twas 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! [Sidenote: Since Sordello, who began by rhyming,] Palma had listened patiently: but when 'Twas 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 corselet 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 [Sidenote: May, even from the depths of failure] 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, though 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, might claim To know all, as she should"--and thus begun Schemes with a vengeance, schemes on schemes, "not one Fit to be told that foolish boy," he said, "But only let Sordello Palma wed, --Then!" 'T was a dim long narrow place at best: [Sidenote: Yet spring to the summit of success,] Midway a sole grate showed the fiery West, As shows its corpse the world's end some split tomb-- A gloom, a rift of fire, another gloom, Faced Palma--but at length Taurello set Her free; the grating held one ragged jet Of fierce gold fire: he lifted her within The hollow underneath--how else begin Fate's second marvellous cycle, else renew The ages than with Palma plain in view? Then paced the passage, hands clenched, head erect, Pursuing his discourse; a grand unchecked Monotony made out from his quick talk And the recurring noises of his walk; --Somewhat too much like the o'ercharged assent Of two resolved friends in one danger blent, Who hearten each the other against heart; Boasting there 's naught to care for, when, apart The boaster, all 's to care for. He, beside Some shape not visible, in power and pride Approached, out of the dark, ginglingly near, Nearer, passed close in the broad light, his ear Crimson, eyeballs suffused, temples full-fraught, Just a snatch of the rapid speech you caught, And on he strode into the opposite dark, Till presently the harsh heel's turn, a spark I' the stone, and whirl of some loose embossed thong That crashed against the angle aye so long After the last, punctual to an amount Of mailed great paces you could not but count,-- Prepared you for the pacing back again. And by the snatches you might ascertain That, Friedrich's Prefecture surmounted, left By this alone in Italy, they cleft Asunder, crushed together, at command Of none, were free to break up Hildebrand, [Sidenote: If he consent to oppress the world.] Rebuild, he and Sordello, Charlemagne-- But garnished, Strength with Knowledge, "if we deign Accept that compromise and stoop to give Rome law, the Cæsar's Representative." Enough, that the illimitable flood Of triumphs after triumphs, understood In its faint reflux (you shall hear) sufficed Young Ecelin for appanage, enticed Him on till, these long quiet in their graves, He found 't was looked for that a whole life's braves Should somehow be made good; so, weak and worn, Must stagger up at Milan, one gray morn Of the to-come, and fight his latest fight. But, Salinguerra's prophecy at height-- [Sidenote: Just this decided, as it now may be,] He voluble with a raised arm and stiff, A blaring voice, a blazing eye, as if He had our very Italy to keep Or cast away, or gather in a heap To garrison the better--ay, his word Was, "run the cucumber into a gourd, Drive Trent upon Apulia"--at their pitch Who spied the continents and islands which Grew mulberry-leaves and sickles, in the map-- (Strange that three such confessions so should hap To Palma, Dante spoke with in the clear Amorous silence of the Swooning-sphere,-- _Cunizza_, as he called her! Never ask Of Palma more! She sat, knowing her task Was done, the labor of it,--for, success Concerned not Palma, passion's votaress) Triumph at height, and thus Sordello crowned-- Above the passage suddenly a sound Stops speech, stops walk: back shrinks Taurello, bids With large involuntary asking lids, Palma interpret. "'T is his own foot-stamp-- Your hand! His summons! Nay, this idle damp Befits not!" Out they two reeled dizzily. "Visconti 's strong at Milan," resumed he, In the old, somewhat insignificant way-- (Was Palma wont, years afterward, to say) As though the spirit's flight, sustained thus far, Dropped at that very instant. Gone they are-- Palma, Taurello; Eglamor anon, Ecelin,--only Naddo 's never gone! --Labors, this moonrise, what the Master meant-- "Is Squarcialupo speckled?--purulent, I 'd say, but when was Providence put out? He carries somehow handily about His spite nor fouls himself!" Goito's vines Stand like a cheat detected--stark rough lines, The moon breaks through, a gray mean scale against The vault where, this eve's Maiden, thou remain'st Like some fresh martyr, eyes fixed--who can tell? As Heaven, now all 's at end, did not so well, [Sidenote: And we have done.] Spite of the faith and victory, to leave Its virgin quite to death in the lone eve. While the persisting hermit-bee ... ha! wait No longer: these in compass, forward fate!

BOOK THE SIXTH

The thought of Eglamor's least like a thought, [Sidenote: At the close of a day or a life,] And yet a false one, was, "Man shrinks to naught If matched with symbols of immensity; Must quail, forsooth, before a quiet sky Or sea, too little for their quietude:" And, truly, somewhat in Sordello's mood Confirmed its speciousness, while eve slow sank Down the near terrace to the farther bank, And only one spot left from out the night Glimmered, upon the river opposite-- A breadth of watery heaven like a bay, A sky-like space of water, ray for ray, And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendors folded in To die. Nor turned he till Ferrara's din (Say, the monotonous speech from a man's lip Who lets some first and eager purpose slip In a new fancy's birth; the speech keeps on Though elsewhere its informing soul be gone) --Aroused him, surely offered succor. Fate Paused with this eve; ere she precipitate Herself,--best put off new strange thoughts awhile, That voice, those large hands, that portentous smile,-- What help to pierce the future as the past, Lay in the plaining city? And at last The main discovery and prime concern, All that just now imported him to learn, Truth's self, like yonder slow moon to complete Heaven, rose again, and, naked at his feet, Lighted his old life's every shift and change, [Sidenote: Past procedure is fitliest reviewed,] Effort with counter-effort; nor the range Of each looked wrong except wherein it checked Some other--which of these could he suspect, Prying into them by the sudden blaze? The real way seemed made up of all the ways-- Mood after mood of the one mind in him; Tokens of the existence, bright or dim, Of a transcendent all-embracing sense Demanding only outward influence, A soul, in Palma's phrase, above his soul, Power to uplift his power,--such moon's control Over such sea-depths,--and their mass had swept Onward from the beginning and still kept Its course: but years and years the sky above Held none, and so, untasked of any love, His sensitiveness idled, now amort, Alive now, and, to sullenness or sport Given wholly up, disposed itself anew At every passing instigation, grew And dwindled at caprice, in foam-showers spilt, Wedge-like insisting, quivered now a gilt Shield in the sunshine, now a blinding race Of whitest ripples o'er the reef--found place For much display; not gathered up and, hurled Right from its heart, encompassing the world. So had Sordello been, by consequence, Without a function: others made pretence To strength not half his own, yet had some core Within, submitted to some moon, before Them still, superior still whate'er their force,-- Were able therefore to fulfil a course, Nor missed life's crown, authentic attribute. To each who lives must be a certain fruit Of having lived in his degree,--a stage, Earlier or later in men's pilgrimage, To stop at; and to this the spirits tend Who, still discovering beauty without end, Amass the scintillations, make one star --Something unlike them, self-sustained, afar,-- And meanwhile nurse the dream of being blest By winning it to notice and invest Their souls with alien glory, some one day [Sidenote: As more appreciable in its entirety.] Whene'er the nucleus, gathering shape alway, Round to the perfect circle--soon or late; According as themselves are formed to wait; Whether mere human beauty will suffice --The yellow hair and the luxurious eyes, Or human intellect seem best, or each Combine in some ideal form past reach On earth, or else some shade of these, some aim, Some love, hate even, take their place, the same, So to be served--all this they do not lose, Waiting for death to live, nor idly choose What must be Hell--a progress thus pursued Through all existence, still above the food That 's offered them; still fain to reach beyond The widened range, in virtue of their bond Of sovereignty. Not that a Palma's Love, A Salinguerra's Hate, would equal prove To swaying all Sordello: but why doubt [Sidenote: Strong, he needed external strength:] Some love meet for such strength, some moon without Would match his sea?--or fear, Good manifest, Only the Best breaks faith?--Ah, but the Best Somehow eludes us ever, still might be And is not! Crave we gems? No penury Of their material round us! Pliant earth And plastic flame--what balks the mage his birth --Jacinth in balls or lodestone by the block? Flinders enrich the strand, veins swell the rock; Naught more! Seek creatures? Life 's i' the tempest, thought Clothes the keen hill-top, mid-day woods are fraught With fervors: human forms are well enough! But we had hoped, encouraged by the stuff Profuse at nature's pleasure, men beyond These actual men!--and thus are over-fond In arguing, from Good--the Best, from force Divided--force combined, an ocean's course From this our sea whose mere intestine pants Might seem at times sufficient to our wants. External power? If none be adequate, And he stand forth ordained (a prouder fate) Himself a law to his own sphere?--remove All incompleteness, for that law, that love? Nay, if all other laws be feints,--truth veiled Helpfully to weak vision that had failed To grasp aught but its special want,--for lure, Embodied? Stronger vision could endure The unbodied want: no part--the whole of truth! The People were himself; nor, by the ruth At their condition, was he less impelled [Sidenote: Even now, where can he perceive such?] To alter the discrepancy beheld, Than if, from the sound whole, a sickly part Subtracted were transformed, decked out with art, Then palmed on him as alien woe--the Guelf To succor, proud that he forsook himself. [Sidenote: Internal strength must suffice then,] All is himself; all service, therefore, rates Alike, nor serving one part, immolates The rest: but all in time! "That lance of yours Makes havoc soon with Malek and his Moors, That buckler's lined with many a giant's beard, Ere long, our champion, be the lance upreared, The buckler wielded handsomely as now! But view your escort, bear in mind your vow, Count the pale tracts of sand to pass ere that, And, if you hope we struggle through the flat, Put lance and buckler by! Next half-month lacks Mere sturdy exercise of mace and axe To cleave this dismal brake of prickly-pear Which bristling holds Cydippe by the hair, Lames barefoot Agathon: this felled, we'll try The picturesque achievements by and by-- Next life!" Ay, rally, mock, O People, urge Your claims!--for thus he ventured, to the verge, Push a vain mummery which perchance distrust Of his fast-slipping resolution thrust Likewise: accordingly the Crowd--(as yet He had unconsciously contrived forget, I' the whole, to dwell o' the points ... one might assuage The signal horrors easier than engage With a dim vulgar vast unobvious grief Not to be fancied off, nor gained relief In brilliant fits, cured by a happy quirk, But by dim vulgar vast unobvious work To corrrespond ...)--this Crowd then, forth they stood. "And now content thy stronger vision, brood On thy bare want; uncovered, turf by turf, Study the corpse-face through the taint-worms' scurf!" Down sank the People's Then; up-rose their Now These sad ones render service to! And how [Sidenote: His sympathy with the people, to wit;] Piteously little must that service prove --Had surely proved in any case! for, move Each other obstacle away, let youth Become aware it had surprised a truth 'T were service to impart--can truth be seized, Settled forthwith, and, of the captive eased, Its captor find fresh prey, since this alit So happily, no gesture luring it, The earnest of a flock to follow? Vain, Most vain! a life to spend ere this he chain To the poor crowd's complacence: ere the crowd Pronounce it captured, he descries a cloud Its kin of twice the plume; which he, in turn, If he shall live as many lives, may learn How to secure: not else. Then Mantua called Back to his mind how certain bards were thralled --Buds blasted, but of breath more like perfume Than Naddo's staring nosegay's carrion bloom; Some insane rose that burnt heart out in sweets, A spendthrift in the spring, no summer greets; Some Dularete, drunk with truths and wine, Grown bestial, dreaming how become divine. Yet to surmount this obstacle, commence With the commencement, merits crowning! Hence Must truth be casual truth, elicited In sparks so mean, at intervals dispread So rarely, that 'tis like at no one time Of the world's story has not truth, the prime Of truth, the very truth which, loosed, had hurled The world's course right, been really in the world --Content the while with some mean spark by dint Of some chance-blow, the solitary hint Of buried fire, which, rip earth's breast, would stream Sky-ward! Sordello's miserable gleam Was looked for at the moment: he would dash This badge, and all it brought, to earth,--abash Taurello thus, perhaps persuade him wrest The Kaiser from his purpose,--would attest His own belief, in any case. Before [Sidenote: Of which, try now the inherent force!] He dashes it however, think once more! For, were that little, truly service? "Ay, I' the end, no doubt; but meantime? Plain you spy Its ultimate effect, but many flaws Of vision blur each intervening cause. Were the day's fraction clear as the life's sum Of service, Now as filled as teems To-come With evidence of good--nor too minute A share to vie with evil! No dispute, 'Twere fitliest maintain the Guelfs in rule: That makes your life's work: but you have to school Your day's work on these natures circumstanced Thus variously, which yet, as each advanced Or might impede the Guelf rule, must be moved Now, for the Then's sake,--hating what you loved, Loving old hatreds! Nor if one man bore Brand upon temples while his fellow wore The aureole, would it task you to decide: But, portioned duly out, the future vied Never with the unparcelled present! Smite Or spare so much on warrant all so slight? The present's complete sympathies to break, Aversions bear with, for a future's sake So feeble? Tito ruined through one speck. The Legate saved by his sole lightish fleck? This were work, true, but work performed at cost Of other work; aught gained here, elsewhere lost. For a new segment spoil an orb half-done? Rise with the People one step, and sink--one? Were it but one step, less than the whole face Of things, your novel duty bids erase! Harms to abolish! What, the prophet saith, The minstrel singeth vainly then? Old faith, Old courage, only born because of harms, Were not, from highest to the lowest, charms? Flame may persist; but is not glare as stanch? Where the salt marshes stagnate, crystals branch; Blood dries to crimson; Evil's beautified In every shape. Thrust Beauty then aside And banish Evil! Wherefore? After all, Is Evil a result less natural Than Good? For overlook the seasons' strife With tree and flower,--the hideous animal life, (Of which who seeks shall find a grinning taunt [Sidenote: How much of man's ill may be removed?] For his solution, and endure the vaunt Of nature's angel, as a child that knows Himself befooled, unable to propose Aught better than the fooling)--and but care For men, for the mere People then and there,-- In these, could you but see that Good and Ill Claimed you alike! Whence rose their claim but still From Ill, as fruit of Ill? What else could knit You theirs but Sorrow? Any free from it Were also free from you! Whose happiness Could be distinguished in this morning's press Of miseries?--the fool's who passed a gibe 'On thee,' jeered he, so wedded to thy tribe, Thou carriest green and yellow tokens in Thy very face that thou art Ghibellin!' Much hold on you that fool obtained! Nay mount Yet higher--and upon men's own account [Sidenote: How much of ill ought to be removed?] Must evil stay: for, what is joy?--to heave Up one obstruction more, and common leave What was peculiar, by such act destroy Itself; a partial death is every joy; The sensible escape, enfranchisement Of a sphere's essence: once the vexed--content, The cramped--at large, the growing circle--round, All's to begin again--some novel bound To break, some new enlargement to entreat; The sphere though larger is not more complete. Now for Mankind's experience: who alone Might style the unobstructed world his own? Whom palled Goito with its perfect things? Sordello's self: whereas for Mankind springs Salvation by each hindrance interposed. They climb; life's view is not at once disclosed To creatures caught up, on the summit left, Heaven plain above them, yet of wings bereft: But lower laid, as at the mountain's foot. So, range on range, the girdling forests shoot Twixt your plain prospect and the throngs who scale Height after height, and pierce mists, veil by veil, Heartened with each discovery; in their soul, The Whole they seek by Parts--but, found that Whole, Could they revert, enjoy past gains? The space Of time you judge so meagre to embrace The Parts were more than plenty, once attained The Whole, to quite exhaust it: naught were gained But leave to look--not leave to do: Beneath Soon sates the looker--look above, and Death Tempts ere a tithe of Life be tasted. Live First, and die soon enough, Sordello! Give [Sidenote: If removed, at what cost to Sordello?] Body and spirit the first right they claim, And pasture soul on a voluptuous shame That you, a pageant-city's denizen, Are neither vilely lodged 'midst Lombard men-- Can force joy out of sorrow, seem to truck Bright attributes away for sordid muck, Yet manage from that very muck educe Gold; then subject nor scruple, to your cruce The world's discardings! Though real ingots pay Your pains, the clods that yielded them are clay To all beside,--would clay remain, though quenched Your purging-fire; who's robbed then? Had you wrenched An ampler treasure forth!--As 't is, they crave A share that ruins you and will not save Them. Why should sympathy command you quit The course that makes your joy, nor will remit Their woe? Would all arrive at joy? Reverse [Sidenote: Men win little thereby; he loses all:] The order (time instructs you) nor coerce Each unit till, some predetermined mode, The total be emancipate; men's road Is one, men's times of travel many; thwart No enterprising soul's precocious start Before the general march! If slow or fast All straggle up to the same point at last, Why grudge your having gained, a month ago, The brakes at balm-shed, asphodels in blow, While they were landlocked? Speed their Then, but how This badge would suffer you improve your Now!" His time of action for, against, or with Our world (I labor to extract the pith Of this his problem) grew, that even-tide, Gigantic with its power of joy, beside The world's eternity of impotence To profit though at his whole joy's expense. [Sidenote: For he can infinitely enjoy himself,] "Make nothing of my day because so brief? Rather make more: instead of joy, use grief Before its novelty have time subside! Wait not for the late savor, leave untried Virtue, the creaming honey-wine, quick squeeze Vice like a biting spirit from the lees Of life! Together let wrath, hatred, lust, All tyrannies in every shape, be thrust Upon this Now, which time may reason out As mischiefs, far from benefits, no doubt; But long ere then Sordello will have slipped Away; you teach him at Goito's crypt, There 's a blank issue to that fiery thrill. Stirring, the few cope with the many, still: So much of sand as, quiet, makes a mass Unable to produce three tufts of grass, Shall, troubled by the whirlwind, render void The whole calm glebe's endeavor: he employed! And e'en though somewhat smart the Crowd for this, Contribute each his pang to make your bliss, 'T is but one pang--one blood-drop to the bowl Which brimful tempts the sluggish asp uncowl At last, stains ruddily the dull red cape, And, kindling orbs gray as the unripe grape Before, avails forthwith to disentrance The portent, soon to lead a mystic dance Among you! For, who sits alone in Rome? Have those great hands indeed hewn out a home, And set me there to live? Oh life, life-breath, Life-blood,--ere sleep, come travail, life ere death! This life stream on my soul, direct, oblique, But always streaming! Hindrances? They pique: Helps? such ... but why repeat, my soul o'er-tops Each height, then every depth profoundlier drops? Enough that I can live, and would live! Wait For some transcendent life reserved by Fate To follow this? Oh, never! Fate, I trust The same, my soul to; for, as who flings dust, Perchance (so facile was the deed) she checked The void with these materials to affect My soul diversely: these consigned anew To naught by death, what marvel if she threw A second and superber spectacle Before me? What may serve for sun, what still Wander a moon above me? What else wind About me like the pleasures left behind, And how shall some new flesh that is not flesh Cling to me? What 's new laughter? Soothes the fresh Sleep like sleep? Fate 's exhaustless for my sake In brave resource: but whether bids she slake My thirst at this first rivulet, or count No draught worth lip save from some rocky fount Above i' the clouds, while here she 's provident Of pure loquacious pearl, the soft tree-tent Guards, with its face of reate and sedge, nor fail The silver globules and gold-sparkling grail At bottom? Oh, 't were too absurd to slight For the hereafter the to-day's delight! Quench thirst at this, then seek next well-spring: wear Home-lilies ere strange lotus in my hair! Here is the Crowd, whom I with freest heart Offer to serve, contented for my part [Sidenote: Freed from a problematic obligation,] To give life up in service,--only grant That I do serve; if otherwise, why want Aught further of me? If men cannot choose But set aside life, why should I refuse The gift? I take it--I, for one, engage Never to falter through my pilgrimage-- Nor end it howling that the stock or stone Were enviable, truly: I, for one, Will praise the world, you style mere anteroom To palace--be it so! shall I assume --My foot the courtly gait, my tongue the trope, My mouth the smirk, before the doors fly ope One moment? What? with guarders row on row, Gay swarms of varletry that come and go, Pages to dice with, waiting-girls unlace The plackets of, pert claimants help displace, Heart-heavy suitors get a rank for,--laugh At yon sleek parasite, break his own staff 'Cross Beetle-brows the Usher's shoulder,--why, Admitted to the presence by and by, Should thought of having lost these make me grieve Among new joys I reach, for joys I leave? Cool citrine-crystals, fierce pyropus-stone, Are floor-work there! But do I let alone That black-eyed peasant in the vestibule Once and forever?--Floor-work? No such fool! Rather, were heaven to forestall earth, I'd say I, is it, must be blessed? Then, my own way [Sidenote: And accepting life on its own terms,] Bless me! Give firmer arm and fleeter foot, I 'll thank you: but to no mad wings transmute These limbs of mine--our greensward was so soft! Nor camp I on the thunder-cloud aloft: We feel the bliss distinctlier, having thus Engines subservient, not mixed up with us. Better move palpably through heaven: nor, freed Of flesh, forsooth, from space to space proceed 'Mid flying synods of worlds! No: in heaven's marge Show Titan still, recumbent o'er his targe Solid with stars--the Centaur at his game, Made tremulously out in hoary flame! "Life! Yet the very cup whose extreme dull Dregs, even, I would quaff, was dashed, at full, Aside so oft; the death I fly, revealed So oft a better life this life concealed, And which sage, champion, martyr, through each path [Sidenote: Which, yet, others have renounced: how?] Have hunted fearlessly--the horrid bath, The crippling-irons and the fiery chair. 'T was well for them; let me become aware As they, and I relinquish life, too! Let What masters life disclose itself! Forget Vain ordinances, I have one appeal-- I feel, am what I feel, know what I feel; So much is truth to me. What Is, then? Since One object, viewed diversely, may evince Beauty and ugliness--this way attract, That way repel,--why gloze upon the fact? Why must a single of the sides be right? What bids choose this and leave the opposite? Where's abstract Right for me?--in youth endued With Right still present, still to be pursued, Through all the interchange of circles, rife Each with its proper law and mode of life, Each to be dwelt at ease in: where, to sway Absolute with the Kaiser, or obey Implicit with his serf of fluttering heart, Or, like a sudden thought of God's, to start Up, Brutus in the presence, then go shout That some should pick the unstrung jewels out-- Each, well!" And, as in moments when the past Gave partially enfranchisement, he cast Himself quite through mere secondary states Of his soul's essence, little loves and hates, [Sidenote: Because there is a life beyond life,] Into the mid deep yearnings overlaid By these; as who should pierce hill, plain, grove, glade, And on into the very nucleus probe That first determined there exist a globe. As that were easiest, half the globe dissolved, So seemed Sordello's closing-truth evolved By his flesh-half's break up; the sudden swell Of his expanding soul showed Ill and Well, Sorrow and Joy, Beauty and Ugliness, Virtue and Vice, the Larger and the Less, All qualities, in fine, recorded here, Might be but modes of Time and this one sphere, Urgent on these, but not of force to bind Eternity, as Time--as Matter--Mind, If Mind, Eternity, should choose assert Their attributes within a Life: thus girt With circumstance, next change beholds them cinct Quite otherwise--with Good and Ill distinct, Joys, sorrows, tending to a like result-- Contrived to render easy, difficult, This or the other course of ... what new bond In place of flesh may stop their flight beyond Its new sphere, as that course does harm or good To its arrangements. Once this understood, As suddenly he felt himself alone, Quite out of Time and this world: all was known. What made the secret of his past despair? --Most imminent when he seemed most aware Of his own self-sufficiency; made mad By craving to expand the power he had, And not new power to be expanded?--just This made it; Soul on Matter being thrust, Joy comes when so much Soul is wreaked in Time On Matter,--let the Soul's attempt sublime Matter beyond the scheme and so prevent By more or less that deed's accomplishment, And Sorrow follows: Sorrow how avoid? Let the employer match the thing employed, Fit to the finite his infinity. And thus proceed forever, in degree [Sidenote: And with new conditions of success,] Changed but in kind the same, still limited To the appointed circumstance and dead To all beyond. A sphere is but a sphere; Small, Great, are merely terms we bandy here; Since to the spirit's absoluteness all Are like. Now, of the present sphere we call Life, are conditions; take but this among Many; the body was to be so long Youthful, no longer: but, since no control Tied to that body's purposes his soul, She chose to understand the body's trade More than the body's self--had fain conveyed Her boundless, to the body's bounded lot. Hence, the soul permanent, the body not,-- Scarcely its minute for enjoying here,-- The soul must needs instruct her weak compeer, Run o'er its capabilities and wring A joy thence, she held worth experiencing: Which, far from half discovered even,--lo, The minute gone, the body's power let go Apportioned to that joy's acquirement! Broke [Sidenote: Nor such as, in this, produce failure.] Morning o'er earth, he yearned for all it woke-- From the volcano's vapor-flag, winds hoist Black o'er the spread of sea,--down to the moist Dale's silken barley-spikes sullied with rain, Swayed earthwards, heavily to rise again-- The Small, a sphere as perfect as the Great To the soul's absoluteness. Meditate Too long on such a morning's cluster-chord And the whole music it was framed afford,-- The chord's might half discovered, what should pluck One string, his finger, was found palsy-struck. And then no marvel if the spirit, shown A saddest sight--the body lost alone Through her officious proffered help, deprived Of this and that enjoyment Fate contrived,-- Virtue, Good, Beauty, each allowed slip hence,-- Vaingloriously were fain, for recompense, To stem the ruin even yet, protract The body's term, supply the power it lacked From her infinity, compel it learn These qualities were only Time's concern, And body may, with spirit helping, barred-- Advance the same, vanquished--obtain reward, Reap joy where sorrow was intended grow, Of Wrong make Right, and turn Ill Good below. And the result is, the poor body soon Sinks under what was meant a wondrous boon, Leaving its bright accomplice all aghast. So much was plain then, proper in the past; To be complete for, satisfy the whole Series of spheres--Eternity, his soul Needs must exceed, prove incomplete for, each Single sphere--Time. But does our knowledge reach No farther? Is the cloud of hindrance broke [Sidenote: But, even here, is failure inevitable?] But by the failing of the fleshly yoke, Its loves and hates, as now when death lets soar Sordello, self-sufficient as before, Though during the mere space that shall elapse 'Twixt his enthralment in new bonds, perhaps? Must life be ever just escaped, which should Have been enjoyed?--nay, might have been and would, Each purpose ordered right--the soul's no whit Beyond the body's purpose under it-- Like yonder breadth of watery heaven, a bay, And that sky-space of water, ray for ray And star for star, one richness where they mixed As this and that wing of an angel, fixed, Tumultuary splendors folded in To die--would soul, proportioned thus, begin Exciting discontent, or surelier quell The body if, aspiring, it rebel? But how so order life? Still brutalize The soul, the sad world's way, with muffled eyes To all that was before, all that shall be After this sphere--all and each quality Save some sole and immutable Great-Good And Beauteous whither fate has loosed its hood [Sidenote: Or may failure here be success also] To follow? Never may some soul see All --The Great Before and After, and the Small Now, yet be saved by this the simplest lore, And take the single course prescribed before, As the king-bird with ages on his plumes Travels to die in his ancestral glooms? But where descry the Love that shall select That course? Here is a soul whom, to affect, Nature has plied with all her means, from trees And flowers e'en to the Multitude!--and these, Decides he save or no? One word to end! Ah, my Sordello, I this once befriend And speak for you. Of a Power above you still Which, utterly incomprehensible, Is out of rivalry, which thus you can [Sidenote: When induced by love?] Love, though unloving all conceived by man-- What need! And of--none the minutest duct To that out-nature, naught that would instruct And so let rivalry begin to live-- But of a Power its representative Who, being for authority the same, Communication different, should claim A course, the first chose but this last revealed-- This Human clear, as that Divine concealed-- What utter need! What has Sordello found? Or can his spirit go the mighty round, End where poor Eglamor begun? So, says Old fable, the two eagles went two ways About the world: where, in the midst, they met, Though on a shifting waste of sand, men set Jove's temple. Quick, what has Sordello found? [Sidenote: Sordello knows:] For they approach--approach--that foot's rebound Palma? No, Salinguerra though in mail; They mount, have reached the threshold, dash the veil Aside--and you divine who sat there dead, Under his foot the badge: still, Palma said, A triumph lingering in the wide eyes, Wider than some spent swimmer's if he spies Help from above in his extreme despair, And, head far back on shoulder thrust, turns there With short quick passionate cry: as Palma pressed In one great kiss, her lips upon his breast, It beat. By this, the hermit-bee has stopped His day's toil at Goito: the new-cropped Dead vine-leaf answers, now 't is eve, he bit, Twirled so, and filed all day: the mansion's fit, God counselled for. As easy guess the word That passed betwixt them, and become the third To the soft small unfrighted bee, as tax Him with one fault--so, no remembrance racks [Sidenote: But too late: an insect knows sooner.] Of the stone maidens and the font of stone He, creeping through the crevice, leaves alone. Alas, my friend, alas Sordello, whom Anon they laid within that old font-tomb, And, yet again, alas! And now is 't worth Our while bring back to mind, much less set forth How Salinguerra extricates himself Without Sordello? Ghibellin and Guelf May fight their fiercest out? If Richard sulked In durance or the Marquis paid his mulct, Who cares, Sordello gone? The upshot, sure, [Sidenote: On his disappearance from the stage,] Was peace; our chief made some frank overture That prospered; compliment fell thick and fast On its disposer, and Taurello passed With foe and friend for an outstripping soul, Nine days at least. Then,--fairly reached the goal,-- He, by one effort, blotted the great hope Out of his mind, nor further tried to cope With Este, that mad evening's style, but sent Away the Legate and the League, content No blame at least the brothers had incurred, --Dispatched a message to the Monk, he heard Patiently first to last, scarce shivered at, Then curled his limbs up on his wolfskin mat And ne'er spoke more,--informed the Ferrarese He but retained their rule so long as these Lingered in pupilage,--and last, no mode Apparent else of keeping safe the road From Germany direct to Lombardy For Friedrich,--none, that is, to guarantee The faith and promptitude of who should next Obtain Sofia's dowry,--sore perplexed-- (Sofia being youngest of the tribe [Sidenote: The next aspirant can press forward;] Of daughters, Ecelin was wont to bribe The envious magnates with--nor, since he sent Henry of Egna this fair child, had Trent Once failed the Kaiser's purposes--"we lost Egna last year, and who takes Egna's post-- Opens the Lombard gate if Friedrich knock?") Himself espoused the Lady of the Rock In pure necessity, and, so destroyed His slender last of chances, quite made void Old prophecy, and spite of all the schemes Overt and covert, youth's deeds, age's dreams, Was sucked into Romano. And so hushed He up this evening's work, that, when 't was brushed Somehow against by a blind chronicle Which, chronicling whatever woe befell Ferrara, noted this the obscure woe Of "Salinguerra's sole son Giacomo Deceased, fatuous and doting, ere his sire," The townsfolk rubbed their eyes, could but admire Which of Sofia's five was meant. The chaps Of earth's dead hope were tardy to collapse, Obliterated not the beautiful Distinctive features at a crash: but dull And duller these, next year, as Guelfs withdrew Each to his stronghold. Then (securely too Ecelin at Campese slept; close by, Who likes may see him in Solagna lie, With cushioned head and gloved hand to denote The cavalier he was)--then his heart smote Young Ecelin at last; long since adult. And, save Vicenza's business, what result In blood and blaze? (So hard to intercept Sordello till his plain withdrawal!) Stepped [Sidenote: Salinguerra's part lapsing to Ecelin,] Then its new lord on Lombardy. I' the nick Of time when Ecelin and Alberic Closed with Taurello, come precisely news That in Verona half the souls refuse Allegiance to the Marquis and the Count-- Have cast them from a throne they bid him mount, Their Podestà, through his ancestral worth. Ecelin flew there, and the town henceforth Was wholly his--Taurello sinking back From temporary station to a track That suited. News received of this acquist, Friedrich did come to Lombardy: who missed Taurello then? Another year: they took Vicenza, left the Marquis scarce a nook For refuge, and, when hundreds two or three Of Guelfs conspired to call themselves "The Free," Opposing Alberic,--vile Bassanese,-- (Without Sordello!)--Ecelin at ease Slaughtered them so observably, that oft A little Salinguerra looked with soft Blue eyes up, asked his sire the proper age To get appointed his proud uncle's page. More years passed, and that sire had dwindled down To a mere showy turbulent soldier, grown Better through age, his parts still in repute, Subtle--how else?--but hardly so astute As his contemporaneous friends professed; Undoubtedly a brawler: for the rest, Known by each neighbor, and allowed for, let Keep his incorrigible ways, nor fret Men who would miss their boyhood's bugbear: "trap The ostrich, suffer our bald osprey flap A battered pinion!"--was the word. In fine, One flap too much and Venice's marine Was meddled with; no overlooking that! She captured him in his Ferrara, fat And florid at a banquet, more by fraud Than force, to speak the truth; there 's slander laud Ascribed you for assisting eighty years To pull his death on such a man; fate shears The life-cord prompt enough whose last fine thread You fritter: so, presiding his board-head, The old smile, your assurance all went well With Friedrich (as if he were like to tell!) In rushed (a plan contrived before) our friends, Made some pretence at fighting, some amends For the shame done his eighty years--(apart The principle, none found it in his heart To be much angry with Taurello)--gained Their galleys with the prize, and what remained But carry him to Venice for a show? --Set him, as 't were, down gently--free to go His gait, inspect our square, pretend observe The swallows soaring their eternal curve 'Twixt Theodore and Mark, if citizens Gathered importunately, fives and tens, To point their children the Magnifico, [Sidenote: Who, with his brother, played it out,] All but a monarch once in firm-land, go His gait among them now--"it took, indeed, Fully this Ecelin to supersede That man," remarked the seniors. Singular! Sordello's inability to bar Rivals the stage, that evening, mainly brought About by his strange disbelief that aught Was ever to be done,--this thrust the Twain Under Taurello's tutelage,--whom, brain And heart and hand, he forthwith in one rod Indissolubly bound to baffle God Who loves the world--and thus allowed the thin Gray wizened dwarfish devil Ecelin, And massy-muscled big-boned Alberic (Mere man, alas!) to put his problem quick To demonstration--prove wherever 's will To do, there 's plenty to be done, or ill Or good. Anointed, then, to rend and rip-- Kings of the gag and flesh-hook, screw and whip, They plagued the world: a touch of Hildebrand (So far from obsolete!) made Lombards band Together, cross their coats as for Christ's cause, And saving Milan win the world's applause. Ecelin perished: and I think grass grew Never so pleasant as in Valley Rù [Sidenote: And went home duly to their reward.] By San Zenon where Alberic in turn Saw his exasperated captors burn Seven children and their mother; then, regaled So far, tied on to a wild horse, was trailed To death through raunce and bramble-bush. I take God's part and testify that 'mid the brake Wild o'er his castle on the pleasant knoll, You hear its one tower left, a belfry, toll-- The earthquake spared it last year, laying flat The modern church beneath,--no harm in that! Chirrups the contumacious grasshopper, Rustles the lizard and the cushats chirre Above the ravage: there, at deep of day A week since, heard I the old Canon say He saw with his own eyes a barrow burst And Alberic's huge skeleton unhearsed Only five years ago. He added, "June 's The month for carding off our first cocoons The silkworms fabricate"--a double news, Nor he nor I could tell the worthier. Choose! And Naddo gone, all 's gone; not Eglamor! Believe, I knew the face I waited for, A guest my spirit of the golden courts! Oh strange to see how, despite ill-reports, Disuse, some wear of years, that face retained Its joyous look of love! Suns waxed and waned, And still my spirit held an upward flight, Spiral on spiral, gyres of life and light More and more gorgeous--ever that face there The last admitted! crossed, too, with some care As perfect triumph were not sure for all, [Sidenote: Good will--ill luck, get second prize:] But, on a few, enduring damp must fall, --A transient struggle, haply a painful sense Of the inferior nature's clinging--whence Slight starting tears easily wiped away. Fine jealousies soon stifled in the play Of irrepressible admiration--not Aspiring, all considered, to their lot Who ever, just as they prepare ascend Spiral on spiral, wish thee well, impend Thy frank delight at their exclusive track, That upturned fervid face and hair put back! Is there no more to say? He of the rhymes-- Many a tale, of this retreat betimes, Was born: Sordello die at once for men? The Chroniclers of Mantua tired their pen Telling how _Sordello Prince Visconti_ saved Mantua, and elsewhere notably behaved-- Who thus, by fortune ordering events, Passed with posterity, to all intents, For just the god he never could become. As Knight, Bard, Gallant, men were never dumb In praise of him: while what he should have been, Could be, and was not--the one step too mean For him to take,--we suffer at this day Because of: Ecelin had pushed away Its chance ere Dante could arrive and take [Sidenote: What least one may I award Sordello?] That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did much--but Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed--'t was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it --As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at home--one who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth-- A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say [Sidenote: This--that must perforce content him,] He lived for some one better thing? this way.-- Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun 's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of gray maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"--all that 's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poet--I suspect [Sidenote: As no prize at all, has contented me.] Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost 's gone, and the story ends I 'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savor's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I 'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told.

PIPPA PASSES

A DRAMA

_Sordello_ did not prove commercially successful, and Browning was reluctant to go on publishing his poetry at his father's expense. "One day," Mr. Gosse says, "as the poet was discussing the matter with Mr. Edward Moxon, the publisher, the latter remarked that at that time he was bringing out some editions of the old Elizabethan dramatists in a comparatively cheap form, and that if Mr. Browning would consent to print his poems as pamphlets, using this cheap type, the expense would be very inconsiderable." Browning accepted the suggestion at once and began the issue of a cheap series of pamphlets, each sixteen octavo pages in double column, printed on poor paper and sold first for a sixpence each, the price afterward being raised to a shilling and then to half a crown. The series consisted of eight numbers under the general fanciful title _Bells and Pomegranates_. Apparently the passage in Exodus xxviii. 33, "And beneath upon the hem of it [the priest's robe] thou shalt make pomegranates of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof; and bells of gold between them round about," suggested the title, but as all sorts of speculations sprang up about its significance, Browning appended the following note to the eighth and final number of the series:--

"Here ends my first series of _Bells and Pomegranates_, and I take the opportunity of explaining, in reply to inquiries, that I only meant by that title to indicate an endeavor towards something like an alteration, or mixture, of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought; which looks too ambitious, thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. It is little to the purpose, that such is actually one of the most familiar of the many Rabbinical (and Patristic) acceptations of the phrase; because I confess that, letting authority alone, I suppose the bare words, in such juxtaposition, would sufficiently convey the desired meaning. 'Faith and good works' is another fancy, for instance, and perhaps no easier to arrive at; yet Giotto placed a pomegranate fruit in the hand of Dante, and Raffaello crowned his Theology (in the _Camera della Segnatura_) with blossoms of the same; as if the Bellari and Vasari would be sure to come after, and explain that it was merely '_simbolo delle buone opere--il qual Pomogranato fu però usato nelle veste del Pontefice appresso gli Ebrei_.'

"R. B."

The first number of _Bells and Pomegranates_ contained _Pippa Passes_. It was published in 1841 and was introduced by the following dedicatory preface:--

ADVERTISEMENT

Two or three years ago I wrote a Play, about which the chief matter I much care to recollect at present is, that a Pitfull of good-natured people applauded it: ever since, I have been desirous of doing something in the same way that should better reward their attention. What follows, I mean for the first of a series of Dramatical Pieces, to come out at intervals; and I amuse myself by fancying that the cheap mode in which they appear, will for once help me to a sort of Pit-audience again. Of course such a work must go on no longer than it is liked; and to provide against a too certain and but too possible contingency, let me hasten to say now--what, if I were sure of success, I would try to say circumstantially enough at the close--that I dedicate my best intentions most admiringly to the Author of _Ion_--most affectionately to Sergeant Talfourd.

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

The phrases in the closing sentence were afterward used by Browning as a dedication when he discarded the advertisement in the collective editions of his poems.

PERSONS

PIPPA. OTTIMA. SEBALD. Foreign Students. GOTTLIEB. SCHRAMM. JULES. PHENE. Austrian Police. BLUPHOCKS. LUIGI and his mother. Poor Girls. MONSIGNOR and his attendants.

INTRODUCTION

NEW YEAR'S DAY AT ASOLO IN THE TREVISAN

_A large mean airy chamber. A girl_, PIPPA, _from the silk-mills, springing out of bed._

DAY! Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure, The least of thy gazes or glances, (Be they grants thou art bound to or gifts above measure) One of thy choices or one of thy chances, (Be they tasks God imposed thee or freaks at thy pleasure) --My Day, if I squander such labor or leisure, Then shame fall on Asolo, mischief on me!

Thy long blue solemn hours serenely flowing, Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help and good-- Thy fitful sunshine-minutes, coming, going, As if earth turned from work in gamesome mood-- All shall be mine! But thou must treat me not As prosperous ones are treated, those who live At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest; For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,--old-year's sorrow, Cast off last night, will come again to-morrow: Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's sorrow. All other men and women that this earth Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth, Get more joy one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,-- Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's! Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones-- And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window-pane He will but press the closer, breathe more warm Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm? And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom O'er Jules and Phene,--what care bride and groom Save for their dear selves? 'T is their marriage-day; And while they leave church and go home their way, Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee. Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve With mist,--will Luigi and his mother grieve-- The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth, She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close And safe, the sooner that thou art morose, Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak In storm at night on Monsignor, they make Such stir about,--whom they expect from Rome To visit Asolo, his brothers' home, And say here masses proper to release A soul from pain,--what storm dares hurt his peace? Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard. But Pippa--just one such mischance would spoil Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil! And here I let time slip for naught! Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught With a single splash from my ewer! You that would mock the best pursuer, Was my basin over-deep? One splash of water ruins you asleep, And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits Wheeling and counterwheeling, Reeling, broken beyond healing: Now grow together on the ceiling! That will task your wits. Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see Morsel after morsel flee As merrily, as giddily ... Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on, Where settles by degrees the radiant cripple? Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple, Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll! Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple Of ocean, bud there,--fairies watch unroll Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse Thick red flame through that dusk green universe! I am queen of thee, floweret! And each fleshy blossom Preserve I not--(safer Than leaves that embower it, Or shells that embosom) --From weevil and chafer? Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee; Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee, Love thy queen, worship me!

--Worship whom else? For am I not, this day, Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day? My morn, noon, eve and night--how spend my day? To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds silk, The whole year round, to earn just bread and milk: But, this one day, I have leave to go, And play out my fancy's fullest games; I may fancy all day--and it shall be so-- That I taste of the pleasures, am called by the names Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo!

See! Up the hillside yonder, through the morning, Some one shall love me, as the world calls love: I am no less than Ottima, take warning! The gardens, and the great stone house above, And other house for shrubs, all glass in front, Are mine; where Sebald steals, as he is wont, To court me, while old Luca yet reposes: And therefore, till the shrub-house door un-closes, I ... what now?--give abundant cause for prate About me--Ottima, I mean--of late, Too bold, too confident she'll still face down The spitefullest of talkers in our town. How we talk in the little town below! But love, love, love--there's better love, I know! This foolish love was only day's first offer; I choose my next love to defy the scoffer: For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally Out of Possagno church at noon? Their house looks over Orcana valley: Why should not I be the bride as soon As Ottima? For I saw, beside, Arrive last night that little bride-- Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black bright tresses, Blacker than all except the black eyelash; I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses! --So strict was she, the veil Should cover close her pale Pure cheeks--a bride to look at and scarce touch, Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature, As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature? A soft and easy life these ladies lead: Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed. Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, Keep that foot its lady primness, Let those ankles never swerve From their exquisite reserve, Yet have to trip along the streets like me, All but naked to the knee! How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss So startling as her real first infant kiss? Oh, no--not envy, this!

--Not envy, sure!--for if you gave me Leave to take or to refuse, In earnest, do you think I 'd choose That sort of new love to enslave me? Mine should have lapped me round from the beginning; As little fear of losing it as winning: Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate their wives, And only parents' love can last our lives. At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair, Commune inside our turret: what prevents My being Luigi? While that mossy lair Of lizards through the winter-time is stirred With each to each imparting sweet intents For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird-- (For I observe of late, the evening walk Of Luigi and his mother, always ends Inside our ruined turret, where they talk, Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends) --Let me be cared about, kept out of harm, And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm; Let me be Luigi! If I only knew What was my mother's face--my father, too! Nay, if you come to that, best love of all Is God's; then why not have God's love befall Myself as, in the palace by the Dome, Monsignor?--who to-night will bless the home Of his dead brother; and God bless in turn That heart which beats, those eyes which mildly burn With love for all men! I, to-night at least, Would be that holy and beloved priest.

Now wait!--even I already seem to share In God's love: what does New-year's hymn declare? What other meaning do these verses bear?

_All service ranks the same with God: If now, as formerly he trod Paradise, his presence fills Our earth, each only as God wills Can work--God's puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first._

_Say not "a small event!" Why "small"? Costs it more pain that this, ye call A "great event," should come to pass, Than that? Untwine me from the mass Of deeds which make up life, one deed Power shall fall short in or exceed!_

And more of it, and more of it!--oh yes-- I will pass each, and see their happiness, And envy none--being just as great, no doubt, Useful to men, and dear to God, as they! A pretty thing to care about So mightily, this single holiday! But let the sun shine! Wherefore repine? --With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, Down the grass path gray with dew, Under the pine-wood, blind with boughs, Where the swallow never flew Nor yet cicala dared carouse-- No, dared carouse! [_She enters the street._

I. MORNING

_Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house._ LUCA'S _Wife_ OTTIMA, _and her Paramour, the German_ SEBALD.

_Sebald._ [_sings._] _Let the watching lids wink!_ _Day's ablaze with eyes, think!_ _Deep into the night, drink!_

_Ottima._ Night? Such may be your Rhine-land nights, perhaps; But this blood-red beam through the shutter's chink --We call such light, the morning: let us see! Mind how you grope your way, though! How these tall Naked geraniums straggle! Push the lattice Behind that frame!--Nay, do I bid you?--Sebald, It shakes the dust down on me! Why, of course The slide-bolt catches. Well, are you content, Or must I find you something else to spoil? Kiss and be friends, my Sebald! Is 't full morning? Oh, don't speak then!

_Seb._ Ay, thus it used to be! Ever your house was, I remember, shut Till mid-day; I observed that, as I strolled On mornings through the vale here; country girls Were noisy, washing garments in the brook, Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills: But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye! And wisely: you were plotting one thing there, Nature, another outside. I looked up-- Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars, Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. Oh, I remember!--and the peasants laughed And said, "The old man sleeps with the young wife." This house was his, this chair, this window--his.

_Otti,_ Ah, the clear morning! I can see Saint Mark's; That black streak is the belfry. Stop: Vicenza Should lie ... there's Padua, plain enough, that blue! Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger!

_Seb._ Morning? It seems to me a night with a sun added. Where 's dew, where 's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruised In getting through the lattice yestereve, Droops as it did. See, here 's my elbow's mark I' the dust o' the sill.

_Otti._ Oh, shut the lattice, pray!

_Seb._ Let me lean out. I cannot scent blood here, Foul as the morn may be. There, shut the world out! How do you feel now, Ottima? There, curse The world and all outside! Let us throw off This mask: how do you bear yourself? Let 's out With all of it!

_Otti._ Best never speak of it.

_Seb._ Best speak again and yet again of it, Till words cease to be more than words. "His blood," For instance--let those two words mean, "His blood" And nothing more. Notice, I 'll say them now, "His blood."

_Otti._ Assuredly if I repented The deed--

_Seb._ Repent? Who should repent, or why? What puts that in your head? Did I once say That I repented?

_Otti._ No; I said the deed ...

_Seb._ "The deed" and "the event"--just now it was "Our passion's fruit"--the devil take such cant! Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, I am his cut-throat, you are ...

_Otti._ Here 's the wine; I brought it when we left the house above, And glasses too--wine of both sorts. Black? White then?

_Seb._ But am not I his cut-throat? What are you?

_Otti._ There trudges on his business from the Duomo Benet the Capuchin, with his brown hood And bare feet; always in one place at church, Close under the stone wall by the south entry. I used to take him for a brown cold piece Of the wall's self, as out of it he rose To let me pass--at first, I say, I used: Now, so has that dumb figure fastened on me, I rather should account the plastered wall A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. This, Sebald?

_Seb._ No, the white wine--the white wine! Well, Ottima, I promised no new year Should rise on us the ancient shameful way; Nor does it rise. Pour on! To your black eyes! Do you remember last damned New Year's day?

_Otti._ You brought those foreign prints. We looked at them Over the wine and fruit. I had to scheme To get him from the fire. Nothing but saying His own set wants the proof-mark, roused him up To hunt them out.

_Seb._ 'Faith, he is not alive To fondle you before my face.

_Otti._ Do you Fondle me then! Who means to take your life For that, my Sebald?

_Seb._ Hark you, Ottima! One thing to guard against. We 'll not make much One of the other--that is, not make more Parade of warmth, childish officious coil, Than yesterday: as if, sweet, I supposed Proof upon proof were needed now, now first, To show I love you--yes, still love you--love you In spite of Luca and what 's come to him --Sure sign we had him ever in our thoughts, White sneering old reproachful face and all! We 'll even quarrel, love, at times, as if We still could lose each other, were not tied By this: conceive you?

_Otti._ Love!

_Seb._ Not tied so sure! Because though I was wrought upon, have struck His insolence back into him--am I So surely yours?--therefore forever yours?

_Otti._ Love, to be wise, (one counsel pays another,) Should we have--months ago, when first we loved, For instance that May morning we two stole Under the green ascent of sycamores-- If we had come upon a thing like that Suddenly ...

_Seb._ "A thing"--there again--"a thing!"

_Otti._ Then, Venus' body, had we come upon My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered corpse Within there, at his couch-foot, covered close-- Would you have pored upon it? Why persist In poring now upon it? For 't is here As much as there in the deserted house: You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me, Now he is dead I hate him worse: I hate ... Dare you stay here? I would go back and hold His two dead hands, and say, "I hate you worse, Luca, than" ...

_Seb._ Off, off--take your hands off mine, 'T is the hot evening--off! oh, morning is it?

_Otti._ There 's one thing must be done; you know what thing. Come in and help to carry. We may sleep Anywhere in the whole wide house to-night.

_Seb._ What would come, think you, if we let him lie Just as he is? Let him lie there until The angels take him! He is turned by this Off from his face beside, as you will see.

_Otti._ This dusty pane might serve for looking-glass. Three, four--four gray hairs! Is it so you said A plait of hair should wave across my neck? No--this way.

_Seb._ Ottima, I would give your neck, Each splendid shoulder, both those breasts of yours, That this were undone! Killing! Kill the world, So Luca lives again!--ay, lives to sputter His fulsome dotage on you--yes, and feign Surprise that I return at eve to sup, When all the morning I was loitering here-- Bid me dispatch my business and begone. I would ...

_Otti._ See!

_Seb._ No, I 'll finish. Do you think I fear to speak the bare truth once for all? All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fine To suffer; there 's a recompense in guilt; One must be venturous and fortunate: What is one young for, else? In age we 'll sigh O'er the wild reckless wicked days flown over; Still, we have lived: the vice was in its place. But to have eaten Luca's bread, have worn His clothes, have felt his money swell my purse-- Do lovers in romances sin that way? Why, I was starving when I used to call And teach you music, starving while you plucked me These flowers to smell!

_Otti._ My poor lost friend!

_Seb._ He gave me Life, nothing less: what if he did reproach My perfidy, and threaten, and do more-- Had he no right? What was to wonder at? He sat by us at table quietly: Why must you lean across till our cheeks touched? Could he do less than make pretence to strike? 'T is not the crime's sake--I 'd commit ten crimes Greater, to have this crime wiped out, undone! And you--O how feel you? Feel you for me?

_Otti._ Well then, I love you better now than ever, And best (look at me while I speak to you)-- Best for the crime; nor do I grieve, in truth, This mask, this simulated ignorance, This affectation of simplicity, Falls off our crime; this naked crime of ours May not now be looked over: look it down! Great? let it be great; but the joys it brought, Pay they or no its price? Come: they or it! Speak not! The past, would you give up the past Such as it is, pleasure and crime together? Give up that noon I owned my love for you? The garden's silence: even the single bee Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped, And where he hid you only could surmise By some campanula chalice set a-swing. Who stammered--"Yes, I love you?"

_Seb._ And I drew Back; put far back your face with both my hands Lest you should grow too full of me--your face So seemed athirst for my whole soul and body!

_Otti._ And when I ventured to receive you here, Made you steal hither in the mornings--

_Seb._ When I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house here, Till the red fire on its glazed windows spread To a yellow haze?

_Otti._ Ah--my sign was, the sun Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut-tree Nipped by the first frost.

_Seb._ You would always laugh At my wet boots: I had to stride through grass Over my ankles.

_Otti._ Then our crowning night!

_Seb._ The July night?

_Otti._ The day of it too, Sebald! When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed with heat, Its black-blue canopy suffered descend Close on us both, to weigh down each to each, And smother up all life except our life. So lay we till the storm came.

_Seb._ How it came!

_Otti._ Buried in woods we lay, you recollect; Swift ran the searching tempest overhead; And ever and anon some bright white shaft Burned through the pine-tree roof, here burned and there, As if God's messenger through the close wood screen Plunged and replunged his weapon at a venture, Feeling for guilty thee and me: then broke The thunder like a whole sea overhead--

_Seb._ Yes!

_Otti._--While I stretched myself upon you, hands To hands, my mouth to your hot mouth, and shook All my locks loose, and covered you with them-- You, Sebald, the same you!

_Seb._ Slower, Ottima!

_Otti._ And as we lay--

_Seb._ Less vehemently! Love me! Forgive me! Take not words, mere words, to heart! Your breath is worse than wine. Breathe slow, speak slow! Do not lean on me!

_Otti._ Sebald, as we lay, Rising and falling only with our pants, Who said, "Let death come now! 'Tis right to die! Right to be punished! Naught completes such bliss But woe!" Who said that?

_Seb._ How did we ever rise? Was 't that we slept? Why did it end?

_Otti._ I felt you Taper into a point the ruffled ends Of my loose locks 'twixt both your humid lips. My hair is fallen now: knot it again!

_Seb._ I kiss you now, dear Ottima, now and now! This way? Will you forgive me--be once more My great queen?

_Otti._ Bind it thrice about my brow; Crown me your queen, your spirit's arbitress, Magnificent in sin. Say that!

_Seb._ I crown you My great white queen, my spirit's arbitress, Magnificent ...

[_From without is heard the voice of_ PIPPA _singing_--

_The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world!_ [PIPPA _passes._

_Seb._ God's in his heaven! Do you hear that? Who spoke? You, you spoke!

_Otti._ Oh--that little ragged girl! She must have rested on the step: we give them But this one holiday the whole year round. Did you ever see our silk-mills--their inside? There are ten silk-mills now belong to you. She stoops to pick my double heartsease ... Sh! She does not hear: call you out louder!

_Seb._ Leave me! Go, get your clothes on--dress those shoulders!

_Otti._ Sebald?

_Seb._ Wipe off that paint! I hate you.

_Otti._ Miserable!

_Seb._ My God, and she is emptied of it now! Outright now!--how miraculously gone All of the grace--had she not strange grace once? Why, the blank cheek hangs listless as it likes, No purpose holds the features up together, Only the cloven brow and puckered chin Stay in their places: and the very hair, That seemed to have a sort of life in it, Drops, a dead web!

_Otti._ Speak to me--not of me!

_Seb._--That round great full-orbed face, where not an angle Broke the delicious indolence--all broken!

_Otti._ To me--not of me! Ungrateful, perjured cheat! A coward too: but ingrate's worse than all! Beggar--my slave--a fawning, cringing lie! Leave me! Betray me! I can see your drift! A lie that walks and eats and drinks!

_Seb._ My God! Those morbid olive faultless shoulder-blades-- I should have known there was no blood beneath!

_Otti._ You hate me then? You hate me then?

_Seb._ To think She would succeed in her absurd attempt, And fascinate by sinning, show herself Superior--guilt from its excess superior To innocence! That little peasant's voice Has righted all again. Though I be lost, I know which is the better, never fear, Of vice or virtue, purity or lust, Nature or trick! I see what I have done, Entirely now! Oh I am proud to feel Such torments--let the world take credit thence-- I, having done my deed, pay too its price! I hate, hate--curse you! God's in his heaven!

_Otti._ --Me! Me! no, no, Sebald, not yourself--kill me! Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill me--then Yourself--then--presently--first hear me speak! I always meant to kill myself--wait, you! Lean on my breast--not as a breast; don't love me The more because you lean on me, my own Heart's Sebald! There, there, both deaths presently!

_Seb._ My brain is drowned now--quite drowned: all I feel Is ... is, at swift-recurring intervals, A hurry-down within me, as of waters Loosened to smother up some ghastly pit: There they go--whirls from a black fiery sea!

_Otti._ Not me--to him, O God, be merciful!

_Talk by the way, while_ PIPPA _is passing from the hillside to Oreana. Foreign Students of painting and sculpture, from Venice, assembled opposite the house of_ JULES, _a young French statuary, at Passagno._

_1st Student._ Attention! My own post is beneath this window, but the pomegranate clump yonder will hide three or four of you with a little squeezing, and Schramm and his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, five--who's a defaulter? We want everybody, for Jules must not be suffered to hurt his bride when the jest's found out.

_2d Stud._ All here! Only our poet's away--never having much meant to be present, moonstrike him! The airs of that fellow, that Giovacchino! He was in violent love with himself, and had a fair prospect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested was it,--when suddenly a woman falls in love with him, too; and out of pure jealousy he takes himself off to Trieste, immortal poem and all: whereto is this prophetical epitaph appended already, as Bluphocks assures me,--"_Here a mammoth-poem lies, Fouled to death by butterflies._" His own fault, the simpleton! Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife in your entrails, he should write, says Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly.--_Æsculapius, an Epic. Catalogue of the drugs: Hebe's plaister--One strip Cools your lip. Phœbus' emulsion--One bottle Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus--One box Cures ..._

_3d Stud._ Subside, my fine fellow! If the marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will certainly be here in a minute with his bride.

_2d Stud._ Good!--only, so should the poet's muse have been universally acceptable, says Bluphocks, _et canibus nostris_ ... and Delia not better known to our literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino!

_1st Stud._ To the point, now. Where's Gottlieb, the new-comer? Oh,--listen, Gottlieb, to what has called down this piece of friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we now assemble to witness the winding-up. We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury by and by: I am spokesman--the verses that are to undeceive Jules bear my name of Lutwyche--but each professes himself alike insulted by this strutting stone-squarer, who came along from Paris to Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in a day or two alone again--oh, alone indubitably!--to Rome and Florence. He, forsooth, take up his portion with these dissolute, brutalized, heartless bunglers!--so he was heard to call us all. Now, is Schramm brutalized, I should like to know? Am I heartless?

_Gottlieb._ Why, somewhat heartless; for, suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you will have brushed off--what do folks style it?--the bloom of his life. Is it too late to alter? These love-letters now, you call his--I can't laugh at them.

_4th Stud._ Because you never read the sham letters of our inditing which drew forth these.

_Gott._ His discovery of the truth will be frightful.

_4th Stud._ That's the joke. But you should have joined us at the beginning: there's no doubt he loves the girl--loves a model he might hire by the hour!

_Gott._ See here! "He has been accustomed," he writes, "to have Canova's women about him, in stone, and the world's women beside him, in flesh; these being as much below, as those above, his soul's aspiration: but now he is to have the reality." There you laugh again! I say, you wipe off the very dew of his youth.

_1st Stud._ Schramm! (Take the pipe out of his mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose the bloom of his youth?

_Schramm._ Nothing worth keeping is ever lost in this world: look at a blossom--it drops presently, having done its service and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and where would be the blossom's place could it continue? As well affirm that your eye is no longer in your body, because its earliest favorite, whatever it may have first loved to look on, is dead and done with--as that any affection is lost to the soul when its first object, whatever happened first to satisfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep but ever looking, whether with the body's eye or the mind's, and you will soon find something to look on! Has a man done wondering at women?--there follow men, dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done wondering at men?--there's God to wonder at: and the faculty of wonder may be, at the same time, old and tired enough with respect to its first object, and yet young and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its novel one. Thus ...

_1st Stud._ Put Schramm's pipe into his mouth again! There, you see! Well, this Jules ... a wretched fribble--oh, I watched his disportings at Possagno, the other day! Canova's gallery--you know: there he marches first resolvedly past great works by the dozen without vouchsafing an eye: all at once he stops full at the _Psiche-fanciulla_--cannot pass that old acquaintance without a nod of encouragement--"In your new place, beauty? Then behave yourself as well here as at Munich--I see you!" Next he posts himself deliberately before the unfinished _Pietà_ for half an hour without moving, till up he starts of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into--I say, into--the group; by which gesture you are informed that precisely the sole point he had not fully mastered in Canova's practice was a certain method of using the drill in the articulation of the knee-joint--and that, likewise, has he mastered at length! Good-by, therefore, to poor Canova--whose gallery no longer needs detain his successor Jules, the predestinated novel thinker in marble!

_5th Stud._ Tell him about the women: go on to the women!

_1st Stud._ Why, on that matter he could never be supercilious enough. How should we be other (he said) than the poor devils you see, with those debasing habits we cherish? He was not to wallow in that mire, at least: he would wait, and love only at the proper time, and meanwhile put up with the _Psiche-fanciulla_. Now, I happened to hear of a young Greek--real Greek girl at Malamocco; a true Islander, do you see, with Alciphron's "hair like sea-moss"--Schramm knows!--white and quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years old at farthest,--a daughter of Natalia, so she swears--that hag Natalia, who helps us to models at three _lire_ an hour. We selected this girl for the heroine of our jest. So first, Jules received a scented letter--somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Academy, and my picture was nothing to it: a profound admirer bade him persevere--would make herself known to him ere long. (Paolina, my little friend of the _Fenice_, transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the mysterious correspondent gave certain hints of her peculiar charms--the pale cheeks, the black hair--whatever, in short, had struck us in our Malamocco model: we retained her name, too--Phene, which is, by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of Jules finding himself distinguished from the herd of us by such a creature! In his very first answer he proposed marrying his monitress: and fancy us over these letters, two, three times a day, to receive and dispatch! I concocted the main of it: relations were in the way--secrecy must be observed--in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only speak to her when they were indissolubly united? St--st--Here they come!

_6th Stud._ Both of them! Heaven's love, speak softly, speak within yourselves!

_5th Stud._ Look at the bridegroom! Half his hair in storm and half in calm,--patted down over the left temple,--like a frothy cup one blows on to cool it: and the same old blouse that he murders the marble in.

_2d Stud._ Not a rich vest like yours, Hannibal Scratchy!--rich, that your face may the better set it off.

_6th Stud._ And the bride! Yes, sure enough, our Phene! Should you have known her in her clothes? How magnificently pale!

_Gott._ She does not also take it for earnest, I hope?

_1st Stud._ Oh, Natalia's concern, that is! We settle with Natalia.

_6th Stud._ She does not speak--has evidently let out no word. The only thing is, will she equally remember the rest of her lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses which are to break the secret to Jules?

_Gott._ How he gazes on her! Pity--pity!

_1st Stud._ They go in: now, silence! You three,--not nearer the window, mind, than that pomegranate: just where the little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us singing, is seated!

II. NOON

_Over Orcana. The house of_ JULES, _who crosses its threshold with_ PHENE: _she is silent, on which_ JULES _begins_--

Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, you Are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes, If you 'll not die: so, never die! Sit here-- My work-room's single seat. I over-lean This length of hair and lustrous front; they turn Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, last Your chin--no, last your throat turns: 't is their scent Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, look ever This one way till I change, grow you--I could Change into you, beloved!

You by me, And I by you; this is your hand in mine, And side by side we sit: all 's true. Thank God! I have spoken: speak you! O my life to come! My Tydeus must be carved that 's there in clay; Yet how be carved, with you about the room? Where must I place you? When I think that once This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven Without you! Shall I ever work again, Get fairly into my old ways again, Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, My hand transfers its lineaments to stone? Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth-- The live truth, passing and repassing me, Sitting beside me? Now speak! Only first, See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived? Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps Your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost? Ah,--this that swam down like a first moonbeam Into my world! Again those eyes complete Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow, Of all my room holds; to return and rest On me, with pity, yet some wonder too: As if God bade some spirit plague a world, And this were the one moment of surprise And sorrow while she took her station, pausing O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy! What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of; Let your first word to me rejoice them, too: This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red, Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe-- Read this line ... no, shame--Homer's be the Greek First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl! This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page, To mark great places with due gratitude; "_He said, and on Antinous directed A bitter shaft_" ... a flower blots out the rest! Again upon your search? My statues, then! --Ah, do not mind that--better that will look When cast in bronze--an Almaign Kaiser, that, Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized? I thought you would have seen that here you sit As I imagined you,--Hippolyta, Naked upon her bright Numidian horse. Recall you this then? "Carve in bold relief"-- So you commanded--"carve, against I come, A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was, Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch. 'Praise those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests, 'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves As erst above our champion: stand up, all!'" See, I have labored to express your thought. Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms (Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, Only consenting at the branch's end They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face, The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyes Sightless, so bend they back to light inside His brain where visionary forms throng up, Sings, minding not that palpitating arch Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off, Violet and parsley crowns to trample on-- Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, Devoutly their unconquerable hymn. But you must say a "well" to that--say "well!" Because you gaze--am I fantastic, sweet? Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble--marbly Even to the silence! Why, before I found The real flesh Phene, I inured myself To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff For better nature's birth by means of art: With me, each substance tended to one form Of beauty--to the human archetype. On every side occurred suggestive germs Of that--the tree, the flower--or take the fruit,-- Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs, Depending, nestled in the leaves; and just From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang. But of the stuffs one can be master of, How I divined their capabilities! From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk That yields your outline to the air's embrace, Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom; Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure To cut its one confided thought clean out Of all the world. But marble!--'neath my tools More pliable than jelly--as it were Some clear primordial creature dug from depths In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself, And whence all baser substance may be worked; Refine it off to air, you may,--condense it Down to the diamond;--is not metal there, When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips? --Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach, Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep? Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised By the swift implement sent home at once, Flushes and glowings radiate and hover About its track? Phene? what--why is this? That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes! Ah, you will die--I knew that you would die!

PHENE _begins, on his having long remained silent._

Now the end's coming; to be sure, it must Have ended sometime! Tush, why need I speak Their foolish speech? I cannot bring to mind One half of it, beside; and do not care For old Natalia now, nor any of them. Oh, you--what are you?--if I do not try To say the words Natalia made me learn, To please your friends,--it is to keep myself Where your voice lifted me, by letting that Proceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps, Cannot take up, now you have once let fall, The music's life, and me along with that-- No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are: Above the world. You creature with the eyes! If I could look forever up to them, As now you let me,--I believe, all sin, All memory of wrong done, suffering borne, Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth Whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay --Never to overtake the rest of me, All that, unspotted, reaches up to you, Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself, Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink, Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so, Above the world! But you sink, for your eyes Are altering--altered! Stay--"I love you, love" ... I could prevent it if I understood: More of your words to me: was 't in the tone Or the words, your power? Or stay--I will repeat Their speech, if that contents you! Only change No more, and I shall find it presently Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up. Natalia threatened me that harm should follow Unless I spoke their lesson to the end, But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you. Your friends,--Natalia said they were your friends And meant you well,--because, I doubted it, Observing (what was very strange to see) On every face, so different in all else, The same smile girls like me are used to bear, But never men, men cannot stoop so low; Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile, That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit Which seems to take possession of the world And make of God a tame confederate, Purveyor to their appetites ... you know! But still Natalia said they were your friends, And they assented though they smiled the more, And all came round me,--that thin Englishman With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest; He held a paper--"What we want," said he, Ending some explanation to his friends-- "Is something slow, involved and mystical, To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste And lure him on until, at innermost Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find--this! --As in the apple's core, the noisome fly: For insects on the rind are seen at once, And brushed aside as soon, but this is found Only when on the lips or loathing tongue." And so he read what I have got by heart: I'll speak it,--"Do not die, love! I am yours" ... No--is not that, or like that, part of words Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?

_I am a painter who cannot paint; In my life, a devil rather than saint; In my brain, as poor a creature too: No end to all I cannot do! Yet do one thing at least I can-- Love a man or hate a man Supremely: thus my lore began. Through the Valley of Love I went, In the lovingest spot to abide, And just on the verge where I pitched my tent, I found Hate dwelling beside. (Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant, Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!) And further, I traversed Hate's grove, In the hatefullest nook to dwell; But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love Where the shadow threefold fell. (The meaning--those black bride's-eyes above, Not a painter's lip should tell!)_

"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask, 'You have black eyes, Love,--you are, sure enough, My peerless bride,--then do you tell indeed What needs some explanation! What means this?'" --And I am to go on, "without a word--

_So, I grew wise in Love and Hate, From simple that I was of late. Once, when I loved, I would enlace Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face Of her I loved, in one embrace-- As if by mere love I could love immensely! Once, when I hated, I would plunge My sword, and wipe with the first lunge My foe's whole life out like a sponge-- As if by mere hate I could hate intensely! But now I am wiser, know better the fashion How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion: And if I see cause to love more, hate more Than ever man loved, ever hated before-- And seek in the Valley of Love The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove Where my soul may surely reach The essence, naught less, of each, The Hate of all Hates, the Love Of all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,-- I find them the very warders Each of the other's borders. When I love most, Love is disguised In Hate; and when Hate is surprised In Love, then I hate most: ask How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque, Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,-- And how, having hated thee, I sought long and painfully To reach thy heart, nor prick The skin but pierce to the quick-- Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight By thy bride--how the painter Lutwyche can hate!_

JULES _interposes._

Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt, Hated me: they at Venice--presently Their turn, however! You I shall not meet: If I dreamed, saying this would wake me. Keep What's here, the gold--we cannot meet again, Consider! and the money was but meant For two years' travel, which is over now, All chance or hope or care or need of it. This--and what comes from selling these, my casts And books and medals, except ... let them go Together, so the produce keeps you safe Out of Natalia's clutches! If by chance (For all's chance here) I should survive the gang At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.

[_From without is heard the voice of_ PIPPA, _singing--_

_Give her but a least excuse to love me! When--where-- How--can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, There already, to eternally reprove me? ("Hist!"--said Kate the Queen; But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'T is only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!")_

_Is she wronged?--To the rescue of her honor, My heart! Is she poor?--What costs it to be styled a donor? Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! ("Nay, list!"--bade Kate the Queen; And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'T is only a page that carols unseen, Fitting your hawks their jesses!")_ [PIPPA _passes._

JULES _resumes._

What name was that the little girl sang forth? Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced The crown of Cyprus to be lady here At Asolo, where still her memory stays, And peasants sing how once a certain page Pined for the grace of her so far above His power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen-- She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed, "Need him to help her!" Yes, a bitter thing To see our lady above all need of us; Yet so we look ere we will love; not I, But the world looks so. If whoever loves Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper, The blessing or the blest one, queen or page, Why should we always choose the page's part? Here is a woman with utter need of me,-- I find myself queen here, it seems! How strange! Look at the woman here with the new soul, Like my own Psyche,--fresh upon her lips Alit, the visionary butterfly, Waiting my word to enter and make bright, Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. This body had no soul before, but slept Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free From taint or foul with stain, as outward things Fastened their image on its passiveness: Now, it will wake, feel, live--or die again! Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff Be Art--and further, to evoke a soul From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!

Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?--save A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death Without me, from their hooting. Oh, to hear God's voice plain as I heard it first, before They broke in with their laughter! I heard them Henceforth, not God. To Ancona--Greece--some isle! I wanted silence only; there is clay Everywhere. One may do whate'er one likes In Art: the only thing is, to make sure That one does like it--which takes pains to know. Scatter all this, my Phene--this mad dream! Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends, What the whole world except our love--my own, Own Phene? But I told you, did I not, Ere night we travel for your land--some isle With the sea's silence on it? Stand aside-- I do but break these paltry models up To begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I-- And save him from my statue meeting him? Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Like a god going through his world, there stands One mountain for a moment in the dusk, Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow: And you are ever by me while I gaze --Are in my arms as now--as now--as now! Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

_Talk by the way, while_ PIPPA _is passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering with_ BLUPHOCKS, _an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret._

_Bluphocks._[3] So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who passed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's money shall be honestly earned:--now, don't make me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into the business; we know he can have nothing to do with such horrors: we know that he is a saint and all that a bishop should be, who is a great man beside. _Oh were but every worm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough a Christmas fagot, Every tune a jig!_ In fact, I have abjured all religions; but the last I inclined to was the Armenian: for I have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungry sun there), you might remark, over a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 't was the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac--(these are vowels, you dogs,--follow my stick's end in the mud--_Celarent, Darii, Ferio!_) and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, c,--I picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legend of the past, you'll say--"_How Moses hocus-pocussed Egypt's land with fly and locust,_"--or, "_How to Jonah sounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish_,"--or "_How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam_." In no wise! "_Shackabrack--Boach--somebody or other--Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-chan-ger of--Stolen Goods!_" So, talk to me of the religion of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop Beveridge!--mean to live so--and die--_As some Greek dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound in Charon's wherry, With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, And never an obolus_ ... (though thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or this Bishop through his Intendant--I possess a burning pocket-full of _zwanzigers_) ... _To pay the Stygian Ferry!_

_1st Policeman._ There is the girl, then; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his mother. [_To the rest._] I have been noticing a house yonder, this long while: not a shutter unclosed since morning!

_2d Pol._ Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a household, they mean well.

_Blup._ Only, cannot you tell me something of this little Pippa, I must have to do with? One could make something of that name. Pippa--that is, short for Felippa--rhyming to _Panurge consults Hertrippa--Believest thou, King Agrippa?_ Something might be done with that name.

_2d Pol._ Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half a _zwanziger!_ Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon's over or nearly so.

_3d Pol._ Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature? (That English fool's busy watching.)

_2d Pol._ Flourish all round--"Put all possible obstacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end--"Detain him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom--"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above;" ink-spirt on righthand side (which is the case here)--"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna--well and good, the passport deposed with us for our _visa_ is really for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he means well; but let him stay over to-night--there has been the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, to-morrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 3: "He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust."]

III. EVENING

_Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo._ LUIGI _and his_ MOTHER _entering_.

_Mother._ If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing The utmost heaviness of music's heart.

_Luigi._ Here in the archway?

_Mother._ Oh no, no--in farther, Where the echo is made, on the ridge.

_Luigi._ Here surely, then. How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up! Hark--"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voice Whose body is caught and kept by ... what are those? Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead? They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair That lean out of their topmost fortress--look And listen, mountain men, to what we say, Hand under chin of each grave earthy face. Up and show faces all of you!--"All of you!" That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz, Come down and meet your fate? Hark--"Meet your fate!"

_Mother._ Let him not meet it, my Luigi--do not Go to his City! Putting crime aside, Half of these ills of Italy are feigned: Your Pellicos and writers for effect, Write for effect.

_Luigi._ Hush! Say A writes, and B.

_Mother._ These A's and B's write for effect, I say. Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good Is silent; you hear each petty injury, None of his virtues; he is old beside, Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why Do A and B kill not him themselves?

_Luigi._ They teach Others to kill him--me--and, if I fail, Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed, I could not teach that: mine 's the lesser task. Mother, they visit night by night ...

_Mother._ --You, Luigi? Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?

_Luigi._ Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint, You may assure yourself I say and say Ever to myself! At times--nay, even as now We sit--I think my mind is touched, suspect All is not sound: but is not knowing that, What constitutes one sane or otherwise? I know I am thus--so, all is right again. I laugh at myself as through the town I walk, And see men merry as if no Italy Were suffering; then I ponder--"I am rich, Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me, More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble. No, trouble 's a bad word: for as I walk There 's springing and melody and giddiness, And old quaint turns and passages of my youth, Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves, Return to me--whatever may amuse me: And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven Accords with me, all things suspend their strife, The very cicala laughs "There goes he, and there! Feast him, the time is short; he is on his way For the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!" And in return for all this, I can trip Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go This evening, mother!

_Mother._ But mistrust yourself-- Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!

_Luigi._ Oh, there I feel--am sure that I am right!

_Mother._ Mistrust your judgment then, of the mere means To this wild enterprise: say, you are right,-- How should one in your state e'er bring to pass What would require a cool head, a cool heart, And a calm hand? You never will escape.

_Luigi._ Escape? To even wish that, would spoil all. The dying is best part of it. Too much Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine, To leave myself excuse for longer life: Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy, That I might finish with it ere my fellows Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay? I was put at the board-head, helped to all At first; I rise up happy and content. God must be glad one loves his world so much. I can give news of earth to all the dead Who ask me:--last year's sunsets, and great stars Which had a right to come first and see ebb The crimson wave that drifts the sun away-- Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood, Impatient of the azure--and that day In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm-- May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights-- Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!

_Mother._ (He will not go!)

_Luigi._ You smile at me? 'T is true,-- Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness, Environ my devotedness as quaintly As round about some antique altar wreathe The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.

_Mother._ See now: you reach the city, you must cross His threshold--how?

_Luigi._ Oh, that's if we conspired! Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess-- But guess not how the qualities most fit For such an office, qualities I have, Would little stead me, otherwise employed, Yet prove of rarest merit only here. Every one knows for what his excellence Will serve, but no one ever will consider For what his worst defect might serve: and yet Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder In search of a distorted ash?--I find The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow. Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man Arriving-at the palace on my errand! No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up-- White satin here, to set off my black hair; In I shall march--for you may watch your life out Behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you; More than one man spoils everything. March straight-- Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for, Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on Through guards and guards-- I have rehearsed it all Inside the turret here a hundred times. Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe! But where they cluster thickliest is the door Of doors; they'll let you pass--they'll never blab Each to the other, he knows not the favorite, Whence he is bound and what's his business now. Walk in--straight up to him; you have no knife: Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you! Italy, Italy, my Italy! You 're free, you 're free! Oh mother, I could dream They got about me--Andrea from his exile, Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!

_Mother._ Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism The easiest virtue for a selfish man To acquire: he loves himself--and next, the world-- If he must love beyond,--but naught between: As a short-sighted man sees naught midway His body and the sun above. But you Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient To my least wish, and running o'er with love: I could not call you cruel or unkind. Once more, your ground for killing him!--then go!

_Luigi._ Now do you try me, or make sport of me? How first the Austrians got these provinces ... (If that is all, I 'll satisfy you soon) --Never by conquest but by cunning, for That treaty whereby ...

_Mother._ Well?

_Luigi._ (Sure, he 's arrived, The tell-tale cuckoo: spring 's his confidant, And he lets out her April purposes!) Or ... better go at once to modern time. He has ... they have ... in fact, I understand But can't restate the matter; that's my boast: Others could reason it out to you, and prove Things they have made me feel.

_Mother._ Why go to-night? Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now A morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!

_Luigi._ "I am the bright and morning-star," saith God-- And, "to such an one I give the morning-star." The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's gift Of the morning-star?

_Mother._ Chiara will love to see That Jupiter an evening-star next June.

_Luigi._ True, mother. Well for those who live through June! Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps That triumph at the heels of June the god Leading his revel through our leafy world. Yes, Chiara will be here.

_Mother._ In June: remember, Yourself appointed that month for her coming.

_Luigi._ Was that low noise the echo?

_Mother._ The night-wind. She must be grown--with her blue eyes upturned As if life were one long and sweet surprise: In June she comes.

_Luigi._ We were to see together The Titian at Treviso. There, again!

[_From without is heard the voice of_ PIPPA, _singing_--

_A king lived long ago, In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now; And the king's locks curled, Disparting o'er a forehead full As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn Of some sacrificial bull-- Only calm as a babe new-born: For he was got to a sleepy mood, So safe from all decrepitude, Age with its bane, so sure gone by, (The gods so loved him while he dreamed) That, having lived thus long, there seemed No need the king should ever die._

_Luigi._ No need that sort of king should ever die!

_Among the rocks his city was: Before his palace, in the sun, He sat to see his people pass, And judge them every one From its threshold of smooth stone. They haled him many a valley-thief Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat, Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found On the sea-sand left aground; And sometimes clung about his feet, With bleeding lip and burning cheek, A woman, bitterest wrong to speak Of one with sullen thickset brows: And sometimes from the prison-house_ _The angry priests a pale wretch brought, Who through some chink had pushed and pressed On knees and elbows, belly and breast, Worm-like into the temple,--caught He was by the very god, Who ever in the darkness strode Backward and forward, keeping watch O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch! These, all and every one, The king judged, sitting in the sun._

_Luigi._ That king should still judge sitting in the sun!

_His councillors, on left and right, Looked anxious up,--but no surprise Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes Where the very blue had turned to white. 'Tis said, a Python scared one day The breathless city, till he came, With forky tongue and eyes on flame. Where the old king sat to judge alway; But when he saw the sweepy hair Girt with a crown of berries rare Which the god will hardly give to wear To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights, At his wondrous forest rites,-- Seeing this, he did not dare Approach that threshold in the sun, Assault the old king smiling there. Such grace had kings when the world begun!_ [PIPPA _passes._

_Luigi._ And such grace have they, now that the world ends! The Python at the city, on the throne, And brave men, God would crown for slaying him, Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey. Are crowns yet to be won in this late time, Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach? 'T is God's voice calls: how could I stay? Farewell!

_Talk by the way, while_ PIPPA _is passing from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. Poor_ GIRLS _sitting on the steps._

_1st Girl._ There goes a swallow to Venice--the stout seafarer! Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings. Let us all wish; you, wish first!

_2d Girl._ I? This sunset To finish.

_3d Girl._ That old--somebody I know, Grayer and older than my grandfather, To give me the same treat he gave last week-- Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers, Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling The while some folly about how well I fare, Let sit and eat my supper quietly: Since had he not himself been late this morning Detained at--never mind where,--had he not ... "Eh, baggage, had I not!"--

_2d Girl._ How she can lie!

_3d Girl._ Look there--by the nails!

_2d Girl._ What makes your fingers red?

_3d Girl._ Dipping them into wine to write bad words with On the bright table: how he laughed!

_1st Girl._ My turn. Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wear A long loose gown, down to the feet and hands, With plaits here, close about the throat, all day; And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed; And have new milk to drink, apples to eat, Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats ... ah, I should say, This is away in the fields--miles!

_3d Girl._ Say at once You'd be at home: she'd always be at home! Now comes the story of the farm among The cherry orchards, and how April snowed White blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool, They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were, Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage, Made a dung-hill of your garden!

_1st Girl._ They destroy My garden since I left them? well--perhaps I would have done so: so I hope they have! A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall; They called it mine, I have forgotten why, It must have been there long ere I was born: _Cric_--_cric_--I think I hear the wasps o'erhead Pricking the papers strung to flutter there And keep off birds in fruit-time--coarse long papers, And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.

_3d Girl._ How her month twitches! Where was I?--before She broke in with her wishes and long gowns And wasps--would I be such a fool!--Oh, here! This is my way: I answer every one Who asks me why I make so much of him-- (If you say, "you love him"--straight "he 'll not be gulled!") "He that seduced me when I was a girl Thus high--had eyes like yours, or hair like yours, Brown, red, white,"--as the case may be: that pleases! See how that beetle burnishes in the path! There sparkles he along the dust: and, there-- Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled; at least!

_1st Girl._ When I was young, they said if you killed one Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend Up there, would shine no more that day nor next.

_2d Girl._ When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true. How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away! Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still? No matter, so you keep your curious hair. I wish they'd find a way to dye our hair Your color--any lighter tint, indeed, Than black: the men say they are sick of black, Black eyes, black hair!

_4th Girl._ Sick of yours, like enough. Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace, Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice me Polenta with a knife that had cut up An ortolan.

_2d Girl._ Why, there! Is not that Pippa We are to talk to, under the window,--quick!-- Where the lights are?

_1st Girl._ That she? No, or she would sing, For the Intendant said ...

_3d Girl._ Oh, you sing first! Then, if she listens and comes close ... I'll tell you,-- Sing that song the young English noble made, Who took you for the purest of the pure, And meant to leave the world for you--what fun!

_2d. Girl._ [_Sings._]

_You'll love me yet!--and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June reared that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing._

_I plant a heartfull 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!_

_3d Girl._ [_To_ PIPPA _who approaches._] Oh, you may come closer--we shall not eat you! Why, you seem the very person that the great rich handsome Englishman has fallen so violently in love with. I 'll tell you all about it.

IV. NIGHT

_Inside the Palace by the Duomo._ MONSIGNOR, _dismissing his_ Attendants.

_Monsignor._ Thanks, friends, many thanks! I chiefly desire life now, that I may recompense every one of you. Most I know something of already. What, a repast prepared? _Benedicto benedicatur_ ... ugh, ugh! Where was I? Oh, as you were remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very unlike winter-weather: but I am a Sicilian, you know, and shiver in your Julys here. To be sure, when 'twas full summer at Messina, as we priests used to cross in procession the great square on Assumption Day, you might see our thickest yellow tapers twist suddenly in two, each like a falling star, or sink down on themselves in a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go! [_To the_ Intendant.] Not you, Ugo! [_The others leave the apartment._] I have long wanted to converse with you, Ugo.

_Intendant._ Uguccio--

_Mon._ ... 'guccio Stefani, man! of Ascoli, Fermo and Fossombruno;--what I do need instructing about, are these accounts of your administration of my poor brother's affairs. Ugh! I shall never get through a third part of your accounts; take some of these dainties before we attempt it, however. Are you bashful to that degree? For me, a crust and water suffice.

_Inten._ Do you choose this especial night to question me?

_Mon._ This night, Ugo. You have managed my late brother's affairs since the death of our elder brother: fourteen years and a month, all but three days. On the Third of December, I find him ...

_Inten._ If you have so intimate an acquaintance with your brother's affairs, you will be tender of turning so far back: they will hardly bear looking into, so far back.

_Mon._ Ay, ay, ugh, ugh,--nothing but disappointments here below! I remark a considerable payment made to yourself on this Third of December. Talk of disappointments! There was a young fellow here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my utmost to advance, that the Church might be a gainer by us both: he was going on hopefully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to me some marvellous change that has happened in his notions of Art. Here's his letter,--"He never had a clearly conceived Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet since his hand could manage a chisel, he has practised expressing other men's Ideals; and, in the very perfection he has attained to, he foresees an ultimate failure: his unconscious hand will pursue its prescribed course of old years, and will reproduce with a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the novel one appear never so palpably to his spirit. There is but one method of escape: confiding the virgin type to as chaste a hand, he will turn painter instead of sculptor, and paint, not carve, its characteristics,"--strike out, I dare say, a school like Correggio: how think you, Ugo?

_Inten._ Is Correggio a painter?

_Mon._ Foolish Jules! and yet, after all, why foolish? He may--probably will--fail egregiously; but if there should arise a new painter, will it not be in some such way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits who have conceived and perfected an Ideal through some other channel), transferring it to this, and escaping our conventional roads by pure ignorance of them; eh, Ugo? If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo!

_Inten._ Sir, I can submit no longer to this course of yours. First, you select the group of which I formed one,--next you thin it gradually,--always retaining me with your smile,--and so do you proceed till you have fairly got me alone with you between four stone walls. And now then? Let this farce, this chatter end now: what is it you want with me?

_Mon._ Ugo!

_Inten._ From the instant you arrived, I felt your smile on me as you questioned me about this and the other article in those papers--why your brother should have given me this villa, that _podere_,--and your nod at the end meant,--what?

_Mon._ Possibly that I wished for no loud talk here. If once you set me coughing, Ugo!--

_Inten._ I have your brother's hand and seal to all I possess: now ask me what for! what service I did him--ask me!

_Mon._ I would better not: I should rip up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli, (which, I forgot to observe, is your true name,) was the interdict ever taken off you for robbing that church at Cesena?

_Inten._ No, nor needs be: for when I murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, for him ...

_Mon._ Ah, he employed you in that business, did he? Well, I must let you keep, as you say, this villa and that _podere_, for fear the world should find out my relations were of so indifferent a stamp? Maffeo, my family is the oldest in Messina, and century after century have my progenitors gone on polluting themselves with every wickedness under heaven: my own father ... rest his soul!--I have, I know, a chapel to support that it may rest: my dear two dead brothers were,--what you know tolerably well; I, the youngest, might have rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but from my boyhood I came out from among them, and so am not partaker of their plagues. My glory springs from another source; or if from this, by contrast only,--for I, the bishop, am the brother of your employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of their wrong, however; so far as my brother's ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop the consequences of his crime: and not one _soldo_ shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd knaves pick up and commit murders with; what opportunities the virtuous forego, the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure myself apart from other considerations, my food would be millet-cake, my dress sackcloth, and my couch straw,--am I therefore to let you, the off-scouring-of the earth, seduce the poor and ignorant by appropriating a pomp these will be sure to think lessens the abominations so unaccountably and exclusively associated with it? Must I let villas and _poderi_ go to you, a murderer and thief, that you may beget by means of them other murderers and thieves? No--if my cough would but allow me to speak!

_Inten._ What am I to expect? You are going to punish me?

_Mon._ Must punish you, Maffeo. I cannot afford to cast away a chance. I have whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only a month or two of life to do it in. How should I dare to say ...

_Inten._ "Forgive us our trespasses"?

_Mon._ My friend, it is because I avow myself a very worm, sinful beyond measure, that I reject a line of conduct you would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, as it were, a-pardoning?--I?--who have no symptom of reason to assume that aught less than my strenuousest efforts will keep myself out of mortal sin, much less keep others out. No: I do trespass, but will not double that by allowing you to trespass.

_Inten._ And suppose the villas are not your brother's to give, nor yours to take? Oh, you are hasty enough just now!

_Mon._ 1, 2--Nᵒ. 3!--ay, can you read the substance of a letter, Nᵒ. 3, I have received from Rome? It is precisely on the ground there mentioned, of the suspicion I have that a certain child of my late elder brother, who would have succeeded to his estates, was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, at the instigation of my late younger brother--that the Pontiff enjoins on me not merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign punishment, but the taking all pains, as guardian of the infant's heritage for the Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, howsoever, whensoever, and wheresoever. While you are now gnawing those fingers, the police are engaged in sealing up your papers, Maffeo, and the mere raising my voice brings my people from the next room to dispose of yourself. But I want you to confess quietly, and save me raising my voice. Why, man, do I not know the old story? The heir between the succeeding heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, and their complot's effect, and the life of fear and bribes and ominous smiling silence? Did you throttle or stab my brother's infant? Come now!

_Inten._ So old a story, and tell it no better? When did such an instrument ever produce such an effect? Either the child smiles in his face; or, most likely, he is not fool enough to put himself in the employer's power so thoroughly: the child is always ready to produce--as you say--howsoever, wheresoever, and whensoever.

_Mon._ Liar!

_Inten._ Strike me? Ah, so might a father chastise! I shall sleep soundly to-night at least, though the gallows await me to-morrow; for what a life did I lead! Carlo of Cesena reminds me of his connivance, every time I pay his annuity; which happens commonly thrice a year. If I remonstrate, he will confess all to the good bishop--you!

_Mon._ I see through the trick, caitiff! I would you spoke truth for once. All shall be sifted, however--seven times sifted.

_Inten._ And how my absurd riches encumbered me! I dared not lay claim to above half my possessions. Let me but once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and die!

Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like your brother I frightened to death: let us understand one another. Sir, I will make away with her for you--the girl--here close at hand; not the stupid obvious kind of killing; do not speak--know nothing of her nor of me! I see her every day--saw her this morning: of course there is to be no killing; but at Rome the courtesans perish off every three years, and I can entice her thither--have indeed begun operations already. There's a certain lusty blue-eyed florid-complexioned English knave, I and the Police employ occasionally. You assent, I perceive--no, that's not it--assent I do not say--but you will let me convert my present havings and holdings into cash, and give me time to cross the Alps? 'Tis but a little black-eyed pretty singing Felippa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept her out of harm's way up to this present; for I always intended to make your life a plague to you with her. 'T is as well settled once and forever. Some women I have procured will pass Bluphocks, my handsome scoundrel, off for somebody; and once Pippa entangled!--you conceive? Through her singing? Is it a bargain?

[_From without is heard the voice of_ PIPPA, _singing_--

_Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was naught above me, naught below, My childhood had not learned to know: For, what are the voices of birds --Ay, and of beasts,--but words, our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun. But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the seven and one, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges; And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me-- Suddenly God took me._ [PIPPA _passes_.

_Mon._ [_Springing up._] My people--one and all--all--within there! Gag this villain--tie him hand and foot! He dares ... I know not half he dares--but remove him--quick! _Miserere mei, Domine!_ Quick, I say!

PIPPA'S _Chamber again. She enters it._

The bee with his comb, The mouse at her dray, The grub in his tomb, While winter away; But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and lob-worm, I pray, How fare they? Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my Zanze! "Feast upon lampreys, quaff Breganze"-- The summer of life so easy to spend, And care for to-morrow so soon put away! But winter hastens at summer's end, And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, pray, How fare they? No bidding me then to ... what did Zanze say? "Pare your nails pearlwise, get your small feet shoes More like" ... (what said she?)--"and less like canoes!" How pert that girl was!--would I be those pert Impudent staring women! It had done me, However, surely no such mighty hurt To learn his name who passed that jest upon me: No foreigner, that I can recollect, Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect Our silk-mills--none with blue eyes and thick rings Of raw-silk-colored hair, at all events. Well, if old Luca keep his good intents, We shall do better, see what next year brings! I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear More destitute than you perhaps next year! Bluph ... something! I had caught the uncouth name But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter Above us--bound to spoil such idle chatter As ours: it were indeed a serious matter If silly talk like ours should put to shame The pious man, the man devoid of blame, The ... ah but--ah but, all the same, No mere mortal has a right To carry that exalted air; Best people are not angels quite: While--not the worst of people's doings scare The devil; so there 's that proud look to spare! Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for I have just been the holy Monsignor: And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother, And you too, Luigi!--how that Luigi started Out of the turret--doubtlessly departed On some good errand or another, For he passed just now in a traveller's trim, And the sullen company that prowled About his path, I noticed, scowled As if they had lost a prey in him. And I was Jules the sculptor's bride, And I was Ottima beside, And now what am I?--tired of fooling. Day for folly, night for schooling! New year's day is over and spent, Ill or well, I must be content. Even my lily 's asleep, I vow: Wake up--here 's a friend I've plucked you! Call this flower a heart's-ease now! Something rare, let me instruct you, Is this, with petals triply swollen, Three times spotted, thrice the pollen; While the leaves and parts that witness Old proportions and their fitness, Here remain unchanged, unmoved now; Call this pampered thing improved now! Suppose there 's a king of the flowers And a girl-show held in his bowers--- "Look ye, buds, this growth of ours," Says he, "Zanze from the Brenta, I have made her gorge polenta Till both cheeks are near as bouncing As her ... name there 's no pronouncing! See this heightened color too, For she swilled Breganze wine Till her nose turned deep carmine; 'T was but white when wild she grew. And only by this Zanze's eyes Of which we could not change the size, The magnitude of all achieved Otherwise, may be perceived."

Oh what a drear dark close to my poor day! How could that red sun drop in that black cloud? Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, Dispensed with, never more to be allowed! Day's turn is over, now arrives the night's. Oh lark, be day's apostle To mavis, merle and throstle, Bid them their betters jostle From day and its delights! But at night, brother owlet, over the woods, Toll the world to thy chantry; Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods Full complines with gallantry: Then, owls and bats, Cowls and twats, Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry! [_After she has begun to undress herself._ Now, one thing I should like to really know: How near I ever might approach all these I only fancied being, this long day: --Approach, I mean, so as to touch them, so As to ... in some way ... move them--if you please, Do good or evil to them some slight way. For instance, if I wind Silk to-morrow, my silk may bind [_Sitting on the bedside._ And border Ottima's cloak's hem. Ah me, and my important part with them, This morning's hymn half promised when I rose! True in some sense or other, I suppose. [_As she lies down._ God bless me! I can pray no more to-night. No doubt, some way or other, hymns say right.

_All service ranks the same with God-- With God, whose puppets, best and worst, Are we; there is no last nor first._ [_She sleeps._

KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES

A TRAGEDY

This was No. II. of _Bells and Pomegranates_ and was issued in 1842, though it appears to have been written before the publication of _Pippa Passes_. The following is the advertisement prefixed to the tragedy when first published and always afterward retained.

"So far as I know, this tragedy is the first artistic consequence of what Voltaire termed 'a terrible event without consequences;' and although it professes to be historical, I have taken more pains to arrive at the history than most readers would thank me for particularizing: since acquainted, as I will hope them to be, with the chief circumstances of Victor's remarkable European career--nor quite ignorant of the sad and surprising facts I am about to reproduce (a tolerable account of which is to be found, for instance, in Abbe Roman's _Récit_, or even the fifth of Lord Orrery's Letters from Italy)--I cannot expect them to be versed, nor desirous of becoming so, in all the detail of the memoirs, correspondence, and relations of the time. From these only may be obtained a knowledge of the fiery and audacious temper, unscrupulous selfishness, profound dissimulation, and singular fertility in resources, of Victor--the extreme and painful sensibility, prolonged immaturity of powers, earnest good purpose and vacillating will of Charles--the noble and right woman's manliness of his wife--and the ill-considered rascality and subsequent better-advised rectitude of D'Ormea. When I say, therefore, that I cannot but believe my statement (combining as it does what appears correct in Voltaire and plausible in Condorcet) more true to person and thing than any it has hitherto been my fortune to meet with, no doubt my word will be taken, and my evidence spared as readily. R. B."

LONDON, 1842.

PERSONS

VICTOR AMADEUS, first King of Sardinia. CHARLES EMANUEL, his son, Prince of Piedmont. POLYXENA, wife of Charles. D'ORMEA, minister.

FIRST YEAR, 1730.--KING VICTOR