Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 134

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

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

726. The Lost Mistress

ALL 's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully --You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour,-- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

727. The Last Ride together

I SAID--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix'd me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenish'd me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hus.h.!.+ if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your pa.s.sion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-s.h.i.+ne too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and linger'd--joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush'd by on either side.

I thought,--All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever pair'd?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshly screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There 's many a crown for who can reach.

Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!

The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.

My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.

'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men?

Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme?

Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that 's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn!

You acquiesce, and shall I repine?

What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, 'Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fas.h.i.+ons end!'

I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being--had I sign'd the bond-- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.

This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test!

I sink back shuddering from the quest.

Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?

Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long!

What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd Whither life's flower is first discern'd, We, fix'd so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,-- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

728. Misconceptions

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure.

O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,-- So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on, Thrill'd in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic.

O, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on-- Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

729. Home-thoughts, from Abroad

O, TO be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!