Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 24

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 seemed 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, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished 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-bosomed, over-bowed 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 lingered--joy and fear!

Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped 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 seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,--All labor, 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 paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshy 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 expressed 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 have never turned 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 signed 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 upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide?

What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever 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, forever ride?

Adequate rendering of this poem requires a very decided touch upon the strong foot, that is, an accentuation of the iambic movement. Notice also the two, three, or four long syllables at the first of many lines (such as lines six, seven, and eight), showing the pa.s.sion and the intense control.

Observe the almost completely spondaic line, indicating deliberation, patient waiting, or intense, pent-up feeling held in poise:

"Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs,"

and then the short syllables and lyric effect in the next line. Note the strong isolation of the word "right" at the end of the fifth line, stanza two.

Notice that in stanza four, when the ride begins, the first foot is not iambic, but choriambic; yet all through the poem where manly resolution and confidence is a.s.serted and expressed, the iambic movement is strong.

Tennyson's "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" (p. 50) expresses the severity and earnestness of the speaker by the predominance of iambic feet, while the sudden uneasiness, or burst of pa.s.sion, is best expressed by trochaic feet. Note the effect of the first line of most of the stanzas, then the quick change to iambic movement expressing the rebuke which is the real theme of the poem.

The spondee is found in solemn hymns or in any verse expressing reverence and awe. It is contemplative and poised, and is frequently blended with other feet, especially with iambic, to express deliberation.

In Browning's "Prospice," the iambus predominates, and expresses heroic endurance and courage in meeting death; but the first foot--"Fear death"--is a spondee, and indicates the deliberative realization of the situation. It is the straightening up, as it were, of the whole manhood of the soldier before he begins his battle with death.

Very forcible are the occasional spondees in "Abt Vogler." These give dignity and weight and sustain the contemplative and reverent meditations.

It will be noted that the dactyl is very closely related in expression to the trochee, and the anapest to the iambic. Triple rhythm or metre, however, implies a more circular and flowing movement. The dactyl is used in some of the most pathetic and pa.s.sionate monologues of the language.

Notice the fine use of it in Hood's "Bridge of Sighs."

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

One more unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her death! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fas.h.i.+on'd so slenderly, young, and so fair!

Look at her garments clinging like cerements, whilst the wave constantly drips from her clothing; take her up instantly, loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; think of her mournfully, gently and humanly; not of the stains of her--all that remains of her now, is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful: past all dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, for all slips of hers, one of Eve's family--wipe those poor lips of hers oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb, her fair auburn tresses; whilst wonderment guesses where was her home?

Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a brother? Or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than all other? Alas! for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun! O!

it was pitiful! near a whole city full, home she had none. Sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence; even G.o.d's providence seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light, from window and cas.e.m.e.nt, from garret to bas.e.m.e.nt, she stood, with amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March made her tremble and s.h.i.+ver; but not the dark arch, or the black, flowing river; mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be hurl'd--anywhere, anywhere out of the world! In she plunged boldly, no matter how coldly the rough river ran, over the brink of it,--picture it, think of it, dissolute Man! lave in it, drink of it, then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fas.h.i.+on'd so slenderly, young and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, decently, kindly, smooth and compose them; and her eyes close them, staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, as when with the daring last look of despairing fix'd on futurity.

Peris.h.i.+ng gloomily, spurr'd by contumely, cold inhumanity burning insanity into her rest.--Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly, over her breast! Owning her weakness, her evil behavior, and leaving, with meekness, her sins to her Saviour!

Some persons may not regard this poem as a monologue. But if not rendered by a union of dramatic and lyric elements, it will be given, as it often is, as a kind of a stump speech to an audience on the banks of the Thames over the body of some poor, betrayed woman, who has ended her life in that murky stream.

It is true that we are little concerned with the character of the speaker, and the feeling is intensely lyric and universal. But the situation is so definite, and the "One more unfortunate" is so vividly portrayed to us, that it is, at least, partly dramatic. Even those who are caring for the body are directly addressed:

"Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care."