Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 133

But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop'd the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-s.h.i.+ne Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement.

When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful sh.o.r.e; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each s.h.i.+p was sailing fast!

Now, one morn, land appear'd--a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky-- 'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'check The shout, restrain the eager eye!'

But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck!

We shouted, every man of us, And steer'd right into the harbour thus, With pomp and paean glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone!

All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for ever one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs!

What laughter all the distance stirs!

A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders!

'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried, 'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open'd wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms'--they cried.

O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call'd out--'Depart!

Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,'--we cried.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

717. Thus the Mayne glideth

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

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

718. Pippa's Song

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

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

719. You'll love Me yet

YOU'LL love me yet!--and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield--what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave 's one violet: Your look?--that pays a thousand pains.

What 's death? You'll love me yet!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

720. Porphyria's Lover

THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listen'd with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call'd me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling pa.s.sion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever.

But pa.s.sion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I look'd up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria wors.h.i.+pp'd me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untighten'd next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp'd her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorn'd at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain'd instead!

Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr'd, And yet G.o.d has not said a word!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

721. Song

NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress?

Holds earth aught--speak truth--above her?

Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall?

Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught--speak truth--above her?

Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

722. Earl Mertoun's Song

THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest; And her n.o.ble heart 's the n.o.blest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of l.u.s.tre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cl.u.s.ter, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!

And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-- I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

723. In a Gondola

THE moth's kiss, first!

Kiss me as if you made me believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now!

Kiss me as if you enter'd gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is render'd up, And pa.s.sively its shatter'd cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

724. Meeting at Night

THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pus.h.i.+ng prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

725. Parting at Morning