Robert Browning: How to Know Him Part 7

FROM JAMES LEE'S WIFE

1864

I

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

II

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows.

If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes!

Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

A FACE

1864

If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!

No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.

Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver on the pale gold ground Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

I know, Correggio loves to ma.s.s, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only ma.s.sed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

One of the most original and powerful of Browning's lyrical pieces comes just where we should least expect it, at the end of that dark, dreary, and all but impenetrable wilderness of verse, _Fifine at the Fair_. It serves as an _Epilogue_, but it would be difficult and unprofitable to attempt to discover its connection with the poem to which is appended. Its metre is unique in Browning, and stirs the heart with inexpressible force. In music it most closely resembles the swift thrilling roll of a snare drum, and can be read aloud in exact accord with that instrument. Browning calls it _The Householder_, and of course it represents in his own life the antic.i.p.ated moment when the soul leaves its house to unite with its mate. Out of the catastrophe of death appears a radiant vision which really seems too good to be true.

"What, and is it really you again?" quoth I: "I again, what else did you expect?" quoth She.

The man is weary of his old patched up body, now no longer needed: weary of the noisy nuisances of life, and the tiresome and futile gabble of humanity: resentful, now that his spirit has actually survived death, when he remembers the scientific books he had read which almost struck despair in him. He petulantly says,

"If you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I: "And was I so better off up there?" quoth She.

He is for immediate departure, leaving his empty carca.s.s where it lies; but she reminds him of the necessity for decent burial. Much is to be done before they can begin to enjoy together their new and freer existence. There is the body to be buried; the obituary notices to be written for the papers: the parson and undertaker to be summoned: the formalities of the funeral: the selection of a proper tombstone, with care for the name and accurate carving of the date of death thereupon: and finally a bit of verse in the way of final flourish. So these two spirits look on with impatience at the funeral exercises, at the weeping friends left behind, and not until the coffin is under ground, are they at liberty to depart from terrestial scenes. If we do survive the death of the body, with what curious sensations must we regard the solemn ceremonies of its interment!

EPILOGUE TO FIFINE

1872

THE HOUSEHOLDER

I

Savage I was sitting in my house, late, lone: Dreary, weary with the long day's work: Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a stone: Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming like a Turk; When, in a moment, just a knock, call, cry, Half a pang and all a rapture, there again were we!-- "What, and is it really you again?" quoth I: "I again, what else did you expect?" quoth She.

II

"Never mind, hie away from this old house-- Every crumbling brick embrowned with sin and shame!

Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes arouse!

Let them--every devil of the night--lay claim, Make and mend, or rap and rend, for me! Good-bye!

G.o.d be their guard from disturbance at their glee, Till, crash, comes down the carca.s.s in a heap!" quoth I: "Nay, but there's a decency required!" quoth She.

III

"Ah, but if you knew how time has dragged, days, nights!

All the neighbour-talk with man and maid--such men!

All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, window-sights; All the worry of flapping door and echoing roof; and then, All the fancies ... Who were they had leave, dared try Darker arts that almost struck despair in me?

If you knew but how I dwelt down here!" quoth I: "And was I so better off up there?" quoth She,

IV

"Help and get it over! _Re-united to his wife_ (How draw up the paper lets the parish-people know?) _Lies M., or N., departed from this life, Day the this or that, month and year the so and so_.

What i' the way of final flourish? Prose, verse? Try!

_Affliction sore long time he bore_, or, what is it to be?

_Till G.o.d did please to grant him ease_. Do end!" quoth I: "I end with--Love is all and Death is nought!" quoth She.

The same thought--the dramatic contrast between the free spirit and its prison-house--is the basis of the two lyrics that serve as prologues to _Pacchiarotto_ and to _La Saisiaz_. As Dryden's prefaces are far better than his plays, so Browning's _Prologues_ to _Pacchiarotto_, to _La Saisiaz_, to _The Two Poets of Croisic_, to _Jocoseria_ are decidedly superior in poetic art and beauty to the volumes they introduce. Indeed the prologue to _The Two Poets of Croisic_ is one of the most beautiful and perfect lyrics in the English language.

PROLOGUE

1878

I

Such a starved bank of moss Till that May-morn, Blue ran the flash across: Violets were born!

II

Sky--what a scowl of cloud Till, near and far, Ray on ray split the shroud.

Splendid, a star!