Browning's Shorter Poems Part 15

MY LAST d.u.c.h.eSS

FERRARA

That's my last d.u.c.h.ess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands 3 Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design: for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and pa.s.sion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10 And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the d.u.c.h.ess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30 Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40 Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping: and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 46 As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence 50 Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 56

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

ROME, 15--

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?

Nephews--sons mine ... ah G.o.d, I know not! Well, She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! 5 What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since.

And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.

Life, how and what is it? As here I lie 10 In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.

Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that s.n.a.t.c.h from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, G.o.d curse the same!

Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 20 One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse, 30 --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, 31 Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!

Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!

My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find... Ah G.o.d, I know not, I!...

Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 40 And corded up in a tight olive-frail, 41 Some lump, ah G.o.d, of _lapis lazuli_, 42 Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast...

Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa, with its bath, 46 So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like G.o.d the Father's globe on both his hands Ye wors.h.i.+p in the Jesu Church, so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! 50 Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?

Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?

The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 60 Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables ... but I know 62 Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!

Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!

'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! 70 One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek ma.n.u.scripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs?

--That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, 77 No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! 79 And then how I shall lie thro' centuries, 80 And hear the blessed mutter of the ma.s.s, And see G.o.d made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!

For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: 90 And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? 99 No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! 100 Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.

All _lapis_, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?

Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul.

Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, 110 To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!

For ye have stabbed me with ingrat.i.tude To death--ye wish it--G.o.d, ye wish it! stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no more _lapis_ to delight the world!

Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 120 --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch, at leisure if he leers-- Old Gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

THE LABORATORY

ANCIEN ReGIME

Now that I, tying thy gla.s.s mask tightly, May gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely, As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy-- Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear Empty church, to pray G.o.d in, for them!--I am here!

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste, Pound at thy powder, I am not in haste! 10 Better sit thus and observe thy strange things, Than go where men wait me, and dance at the King's.

That in the mortar--you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue, Sure to taste sweetly,--is that poison, too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures, What a wild crowd of Invisible pleasures!

To carry pure death in an earring, a casket, A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket! 20

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!

But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick--is it finished? The colour's too grim!

Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?

Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir, And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me!

That's why she ensnared him: this never will free 30 The soul from those masculine eyes,--say "No!"

To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought My own eyes to bear on her so that I thought Could I keep them one half-minute fixed, she would fall Shrivelled; she fell not: yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain; Let death be felt and the proof remain: Brand, burn up, bite into its grace-- He is sure to remember her dying face! 40

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose; It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close: The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee!

If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill, You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings Ere I know it--next moment I dance at the King's!

HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD

Oh, 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!

And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! 10 Hark I where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge-- That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with h.o.a.ry dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The b.u.t.tercups, the little children's dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 20