Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series Read online

  “Yet I aim not even to catch a tone

  “Of all the harmonies which he called up,

  “So one gleam still remains, altho’ the last”

  Remember me — who praise thee e’en with tears,

  For never more shall I walk calm with thee;

  Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,

  A melody, some wond’rous singer sings,

  Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,

  They dream not to essay; yet it no less,

  But more is honored. I was thine in shame,

  And now when all thy proud renown is out,

  I am a watcher, whose eyes have grown dim

  With looking for some star — which breaks on him,

  Altered and worn, and weak, and full of tears.

  Autumn has come — like Spring returned to us,

  Won from her girlishness — like one returned

  A friend that was a lover — nor forgets

  The first warm love, but full of sober thoughts

  Of fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yet

  With the old smile — but yet so changed and still!

  And here am I the scoffer, who have probed

  Life’s vanity, won by a word again

  Into my old life — for one little word

  Of this sweet friend, who lives in loving me,

  Lives strangely on my thoughts, and looks, and words,

  As fathoms down some nameless ocean thing

  Its silent course of quietness and joy

  O dearest, if indeed, I tell the past,

  May’st thou forget it as a sad sick dream;

  Or if it linger — my lost soul too soon

  Sinks to itself, and whispers, we shall be

  But closer linked — two creatures whom the earth

  Bears singly — with strange feelings, unrevealed

  But to each other; or two lonely things

  Created by some Power, whose reign is done,

  Having no part in God, or his bright world,

  I am to sing; whilst ebbing day dies soft,

  As a lean scholar dies, worn o’er his book,

  And in the heaven stars steal out one by one,

  As hunted men steal to their mountain watch.

  I must not think — lest this new impulse die

  In which I trust. I have no confidence,

  So I will sing on — fast as fancies come

  Rudely — the verse being as the mood it paints.

  I strip my mind bare — whose first elements

  I shall unveil — not as they struggled forth

  In infancy, nor as they now exist,

  That I am grown above them, and can rule them,

  But in that middle stage when they were full,

  Yet ere I had disposed them to my will;

  And then I shall show how these elements

  Produced my present state, and what it is.

  I am made up of an intensest life,

  Of a most clear idea of consciousness

  Of self — distinct from all its qualities,

  From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;

  And thus far it exists, if tracked in all,

  But linked in me, to self-supremacy,

  Existing as a centre to all things,

  Most potent to create, and rule, and call

  Upon all things to minister to it;

  And to a principle of restlessness

  Which would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all —

  This is myself; and I should thus have been,

  Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.

  And of my powers, one springs up to save

  From utter death a soul with such desires

  Confined to clay — which is the only one

  Which marks me — an imagination which

  Has been an angel to me — coming not

  In fitful visions, but beside me ever,

  And never failing me; so tho’ my mind

  Forgets not — not a shred of life forgets —

  Yet I can take a secret pride in calling

  The dark past up — to quell it regally.

  A mind like this must dissipate itself,

  But I have always had one lode-star; now,

  As I look back, I see that I have wasted,

  Or progressed as I looked toward that star —

  A need, a trust, a yearning after God,

  A feeling I have analysed but late,

  But it existed, and was reconciled

  With a neglect of all I deemed His laws,

  Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.

  I felt as one beloved, and so shut in

  From fear — and thence I date my trust in signs

  And omens — for I saw God everywhere;

  And I can only lay it to the fruit

  Of a sad after-time that I could doubt

  Even His being — having always felt

  His presence — never acting from myself,

  Still trusting in a hand that leads me through

  All dangers; and this feeling still has fought

  Against my weakest reason and resolves.

  And I can love nothing — and this dull truth

  Has come the last — but sense supplies a love

  Encircling me and mingling with my life.

  These make myself — for I have sought in vain

  To trace how they were formed by circumstance,

  For I still find them — turning my wild youth

  Where they alone displayed themselves, converting

  All objects to their use — now see their course!

  They came to me in my first dawn of life,

  Which passed alone with wisest ancient books,

  All halo-girt with fancies of my own,

  And I myself went with the tale, — a god,

  Wandering after beauty — or a giant,

  Standing vast in the sunset — an old hunter,

  Talking with gods — or a high-crested chief,

  Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos; —

  I tell you, nought has ever been so clear

  As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives.

  I had not seen a work of lofty art,

  Nor woman’s beauty, nor sweet nature’s face,

  Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those

  On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea:

  The deep groves, and white temples, and wet caves —

  And nothing ever will surprise me now —

  Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,

  Who bound my forehead with Proserpine’s hair.

  An’ strange it is, that I who could so dream,

  Should e’er have stooped to aim at aught beneath —

  Aught low, or painful, but I never doubted;

  So as I grew, I rudely shaped my life

  To my immediate wants, yet strong beneath

  Was a vague sense of power folded up —

  A sense that tho’ those shadowy times were past,

  Their spirit dwelt in me, and I should rule.

  Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down

  My soul, till it was changed. I lost myself,

  And were it not that I so loathe that time,

  I could recall how first I learned to turn

  My mind against itself; and the effects,

  In deeds for which remorse were vain, as for

  The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence

  Came cunning, envy, falsehood, which so long

  Have spotted me — at length I was restored,

  Yet long the influence remained; and nought

  But the still life I led, apart from all,

  Which left my soul to seek its old delights,

  Could e’er have brought me thus far back to peace.

  As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit:

  And song rose — no new impulse — but the one<
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  With which all others best could be combined.

  My life has not been that of those whose heaven

  Was lampless, save where poesy shone out;

  But as a clime, where glittering mountain-tops,

  And glancing sea, and forests steeped in light,

  Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;

  For music, (which is earnest of a heaven,

  Seeing we know emotions strange by it,

  Not else to be revealed) is as a voice,

  A low voice calling Fancy, as a friend,

  To the green woods in the gay summer time.

  And she fills all the way with dancing shapes,

  Which have made painters pale; and they go on

  While stars look at them, and winds call to them,

  As they leave life’s path for the twilight world,

  Where the dead gather. This was not at first,

  For I scarce knew what I would do. I had

  No wish to paint, no yearning — but I sang.

  And first I sang, as I in dream have seen,

  Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,

  Yet singing to herself until it came.

  I turned to those old times and scenes, where all

  That’s beautiful had birth for me, and made

  Rude verses on them all; and then I paused —

  I had done nothing, so I sought to know

  What mind had yet achieved. No fear was mine

  As I gazed on the works of mighty bards,

  In the first joy at finding my own thoughts

  Recorded, and my powers exemplified,

  And feeling their aspirings were my own.

  And then I first explored passion and mind;

  And I began afresh; I rather sought

  To rival what I wondered at, than form

  Creations of my own; so much was light

  Lent back by others, yet much was my own

  I paused again — a change was coming on,

  I was no more a boy — the past was breaking

  Before the coming, and like fever worked.

  I first thought on myself — and here my powers

  Burst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazed

  On all things: schemes and systems went and came,

  And I was proud (being vainest of the weak),

  In wandering o’er them, to seek out some one

  To be my own; as one should wander o’er

  The white way for a star.

  . . . . .

  On one, whom praise of mine would not offend,

  Who was as calm as beauty — being such

  Unto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,

  Believing in them, and devoting all

  His soul’s strength to their winning back to peace;

  Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,

  Clothed in all passion’s melodies, which first

  Caught me, and set me, as to a sweet task,

  To gather every breathing of his songs,

  And woven with them there were words, which seemed

  A key to a new world; the muttering

  Of angels, of something unguessed by man.

  How my heart beat, as I went on, and found

  Much there! I felt my own mind had conceived,

  But there living and burning; soon the whole

  Of his conceptions dawned on me; their praise

  Is in the tongues of men; men’s brows are high

  When his name means a triumph and a pride;

  So my weak hands may well forbear to dim

  What then seemed my bright fate: I threw myself

  To meet it. I was vowed to liberty,

  Men were to be as gods, and earth as heaven.

  And I — ah! what a life was mine to be,

  My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,

  I shall go mad if I recall that time.

  . . . . .

  O let me look back, e’er I leave for ever

  The time, which was an hour, that one waits

  For a fair girl, that comes a withered hag.

  And I was lonely — far from woods and fields,

  And amid dullest sights, who should be loose

  As a stag — yet I was full of joy — who lived

  With Plato — and who had the key to life.

  And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,

  And many a thought did I build up on thought,

  As the wild bee hangs cell to cell — in vain;

  For I must still go on: my mind rests not.

  ‘Twas in my plan to look on real life,

  Which was all new to me; my theories

  Were firm, so I left them, to look upon

  Men, and their cares, and hopes, and fears, and joys;

  And, as I pondered on them all, I sought

  How best life’s end might be attained — an end

  Comprising every joy. I deeply mused.

  And suddenly, without heart-wreck, I awoke

  As from a dream — I said, ‘twas beautiful,

  Yet but a dream; and so adieu to it.

  As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadow

  Strange towers, and walled gardens, thick with trees,

  Where singing goes on, and delicious mirth,

  And laughing fairy creatures peeping over,

  And on the morrow, when he comes to live

  For ever by those springs, and trees, fruit-flushed

  And fairy bowers — all his search is vain.

  Well I remember . . .

  First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,

  And faith in them — then freedom in itself,

  And virtue in itself — and then my motives’ ends,

  And powers and loves; and human love went last.

  I felt this no decay, because new powers

  Rose as old feelings left — wit, mockery,

  And happiness; for I had oft been sad.

  Mistrusting my resolves: but now I cast

  Hope joyously away — I laughed and said,

  “No more of this” — I must not think; at length

  I look’d again to see how all went on.

  My powers were greater — as some temple seemed

  My soul, where nought is changed, and incense rolls

  Around the altar — only God is gone,

  And some dark spirit sitteth in His seat!

  So I passed through the temple: and to me

  Knelt troops of shadows; and they cried, “Hail, king!

  “We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more!

  “Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!”

  And I said, “Are ye strong — let fancy bear me

  “Far from the past.” — And I was borne away

  As Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,

  O’er deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm;

  And I said, “I have nursed up energies,

  “They will prey on me.” And a band knelt low,

  And cried, “Lord, we are here, and we will make

  “A way for thee — in thine appointed life

  “O look on us!” And I said, “Ye will worship

  “Me; but my heart must worship too.” They shouted,

  “Thyself — thou art our king!” So I stood there

  Smiling . . .

  And buoyant and rejoicing was the spirit

  With which I looked out how to end my days;

  I felt once more myself — my powers were mine;

  I found that youth or health so lifted me,

  That, spite of all life’s vanity, no grief

  Came nigh me — I must ever be light-hearted;

  And that this feeling was the only veil

  Betwixt me and despair: so if age came,

  I should be as a wreck linked to a soul

  Yet fluttering, or mind-broken, and aware

  Of my decay. So a long summer morn

  Found me; and e’er noon ca
me, I had resolved

  No age should come on me, ere youth’s hopes went,

  For I would wear myself out — like that morn

  Which wasted not a sunbeam — every joy

  I would make mine, and die; and thus I sought

  To chain my spirit down, which I had fed

  With thoughts of fame. I said, the troubled life

  Of genius seen so bright when working forth

  Some trusted end, seems sad, when all in vain —

  Most sad, when men have parted with all joy

  For their wild fancy’s sake, which waited first,

  As an obedient spirit, when delight

  Came not with her alone, but alters soon,

  Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart,

  Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.

  But I shall never lose her; she will live

  Brighter for such seclusion — I but catch

  A hue, a glance of what I sing; so pain

  Is linked with pleasure, for I ne’er may tell

  The radiant sights which dazzle me; but now

  They shall be all my own, and let them fade

  Untold — others shall rise as fair, as fast.

  And when all’s done, the few dim gleams transferred, —

  (For a new thought sprung up — that it were well

  To leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such lays

  As would encircle me with praise and love;

  So I should not die utterly — I should bring

  One branch from the gold forest, like the night

  Of old tales, witnessing I had been there,) —

  And when all’s done, how vain seems e’en success,

  And all the influence poets have o’er men!

  ‘Tis a fine thing that one, weak as myself,

  Should sit in his lone room, knowing the words

  He utters in his solitude shall move

  Men like a swift wind — that tho’ he be forgotten,

  Fair eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreams

  Of love come true in happier frames than his.

  Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but morn

  Came, and the mockery again laughed out

  At hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers;

  And my soul’s idol seemed to whisper me

  To dwell with him and his unhonoured name —

  And I well knew my spirit, that would be

  First in the struggle, and again would make

  All bow to it; and I would sink again.

  . . . . .

  And then know that this curse will come on us,

  To see our idols perish — we may wither,

  Nor marvel — we are clay; but our low fate

  Should not extend them, whom trustingly,

  We sent before into Time’s yawning gulf,

  To face what e’er may lurk in darkness there —

  To see the painter’s glory pass, and feel