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Showing posts with label Poet: Robert Browning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poet: Robert Browning. Show all posts

Meeting at Night -- Robert Browning

Guest poem sent in by "Kamalika Chowdhury"
(Poem #1736) 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 pushing 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
Late last night I was dusting down my old volume of Browning, when on
an impulse I decided to google on whether you have "Meeting at Night"
on the archive. Picture my surprise when I realised that you'd almost
run it, but not quite! (Refer Poem #814 - Parting at Morning.)

Both poems were first published in Dramatic Romances and Lyrics, 1845,
as "I Night, II Morning," and given the present titles in 1849.

The richness of visual detail captured in these few lines is as grand
as any story Browning told. The rhyme - abccba - is carried off
effortlessly, unnoticed in the building rhythm of the narrative. I
particularly love the momentum and anticipation of the final stanza.
And there is something especially exciting about the cadence of the
lovely lines "And the startled little waves that leap/ In fiery
ringlets from their sleep".

Kamalika

The Lost Mistress -- Robert Browning

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul :
(Poem #1721) 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 today;
 One day more bursts them open fully
 -You know the red turns grey.

 Tomorrow 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 that 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
For sheer dramatic brilliance, there are few poets to match Browning. He has
an unparalleled ability to create an image, a scene, which is not simply
vivid and moving, but also somehow psychologically accurate. At their best,
his poems have this lived-in quality, so that they feel not like visions
from some higher plane but rather like things that could happen to you;
that, in fact, may already have happened.

Today's poem is an excellent example. There are no high thoughts here, no
particularly startling word play, no evocation of wondrous images. It's a
simple enough poem, the language plain, the tone conversational. And yet it
manages to capture and convey such a range of emotions.

To begin with, there's the sheer breadth of action and information that
these simple lines convey. Browning gives us only a few scattered musings,
yet (as in all his greatest poems, see My Last Duchess, Poem #104 or
Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, Poem #635) these are enough to lay before
us the entire history of the romance and its possible future.

What makes this poem truly brilliant, though is the way in which Browning's
simple lines manage to convey a number of different emotional states. That
abrupt first line conveys the sense of shock, the feeling of having come
upon the end of the relationship so abruptly, and what follows is the numbed
aftermath of that explosion, in which the lover re-adjusts his shattered
senses to the smallness and the silence of the world around him and is
amazed to find that, despite everything, the world goes on. This knowledge
is what gives him the courage to broach (in the third stanza) the
possibility of continued interaction, yet no sooner has he brought this up
than the heart within him rebels at the notion of love being so easily
changed to friendship, so that the next stanza gives us an unforgettable
struggle between longing and restraint, between timidity and scorn, between
the desire to survive and the desire to be annhilated. Finally, in the last
stanza, the lover comes to terms with this contradiction between the
ephemeral and the eternal, arriving at an almost pitiful compromise,
ensuring that he will be forever both included and excluded.

Overall, then, this is a simple, beautiful poem about coming to terms with
the transitory nature of relationships on the one hand and the longevity of
the feelings that go with them on the other.

Aseem.

Love among the Ruins -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #1273) Love among the Ruins
 Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
       Miles and miles
 On the solitary pastures where our sheep
       Half-asleep
 Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
       As they crop--
 Was the site once of a city great and gay,
       (So they say)
 Of our country's very capital, its prince
       Ages since
 Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
       Peace or war.

 Now the country does not even boast a tree,
       As you see,
 To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
       From the hills
 Intersect and give a name to, (else they run
       Into one)
 Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
       Up like fires
 O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
       Bounding all
 Made of marble, men might march on nor be prest
       Twelve abreast.

 And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
       Never was!
 Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er-spreads
       And embeds
 Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
       Stock or stone--
 Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
       Long ago;
 Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
       Struck them tame;
 And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
       Bought and sold.

 Now--the single little turret that remains
       On the plains,
 By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
       Overscored,
 While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
       Through the chinks--
 Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
       Sprang sublime,
 And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
       As they raced,
 And the monarch and his minions and his dames
       Viewed the games.

 And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve
       Smiles to leave
 To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
       In such peace,
 And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
       Melt away--
 That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
       Waits me there
 In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
       For the goal,
 When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
       Till I come.

 But he looked upon the city, every side,
       Far and wide,
 All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
       Colonnades,
 All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then
       All the men!
 When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
       Either hand
 On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
       Of my face,
 Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
       Each on each.

 In one year they sent a million fighters forth
       South and North,
 And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
       As the sky
 Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force--
       Gold, of course.
 O heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
       Earth's returns
 For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin!
       Shut them in,
 With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
       Love is best.
-- Robert Browning
Note: First published in volume I of Men and Women, 1855, in fourteen
 six-line stanzas; changed to present seven twelve-line stanzas in 1863.
 Written in January 1852. There has been much learned and irrelevant
 argument [nicely put - martin] about the supposed location of the ruins
 Browning is describing.
    -- RPO (http://eir.library.utoronto.ca/rpo/display/poem283.html)

A charming and somewhat quirky poem, though the quirkiness lies more in the
form than in the content. The tripping metre, with its interspersed long and
short lines, is a bold but successful experiment; it is in a sense a little
too obtrusive, in that it draws attention away from what the poem is
actually saying, but once the initial novelty wears off, it fits the tone of
the poem nicely, and adds greatly to the reader's pleasure in the pure sound
of the words.

Apart from the poem's beautiful imagery, I love the way in which Browning
weaves the narrator's twin reveries together. In particular, I love the
sequence

   When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
       Till I come.

   But he looked upon the city, every side...

with its altogether unexpected segue from love back to history. Indeed,
although the narrator wraps up the poem with a very final "love is best", he
spends far more time musing about the ruins than about his waiting love, so
that when he says "love is best" he is making a passionate choice, not just
mouthing an idle platitude.

The other thing I love about the poem is its extravagaince - Browning could
be a beautifully controlled poet, but he was seldom a restrained one. Of
course, extravagance by itself is more likely to produce a bad poem than a
good one; it is the mixture of extravagance and perfect control that makes
Browning one of the greats.

martin

Home-thoughts, from the Sea -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #1117) Home-thoughts, from the Sea
 Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away;
 Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
 Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
 In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar grand and gray;
 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'--say,
 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
 While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
-- Robert Browning
Today's poem is vintage Browning, from the effortlessly flowing rhythm to
the intensity and sheer energy of the imagery. It's a rare poet who can get
away with a line as florid as

 Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz bay

but Browning unquestionably does, sweeping the reader along with his
vivider-than-life visions. True, the poem does falter a bit towards the
end, where the transition in mood from beauty-struck to contemplative isn't
quite as smooth as one might have wished, but that is a minor detail that it
soon recovers from.

It's also impressive that the entire poem is written with a single
end-rhyme, without the fact becoming at any time obtrusive (except at the
end, where Africa no longer rhymes with 'pray'[1]). The metre makes the poem
fall naturally and fairly tightly into couplets, so that the fact that
successive couplets have the same rhyme does not push itself forth as the
main feature of the verse. (Compare 'Sonnet With a Different Letter at the
End of Every Line' [Poem #194], where the whole point of the poem was the
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa rhyme scheme; here it is just an incidental detail).

Another wonderful thing about the poem is its metre, a strong, confident set
of trochaics in what UTEL calls[2] "the old 'fifteener' line of fifteen
syllables". Browning made use of it in several of his poems; I do not know
of anyone who does it better.

[1] I'm assuming it did at one point, since I can't really see Browning
deliberately spoiling the rhyme.
[2] in the commentary to Tennyson's "Locksley Hall"

martin

Porphyria's Lover -- Robert Browning

A Halloween guest poem sent in by David Wright
(Poem #1109) Porphyria's Lover
 The rain set early in tonight,
 The sullen wind was soon awake,
 It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
 And did its worst to vex the lake:
 I listened with heart fit to break.
 When glided in Porphyria; straight
 She shut the cold out and the storm,
 And kneeled 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 soiled gloves by, untied
 Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
 And, last, she sat down by my side
 And called 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 endeavor,
 To set its struggling passion free
 From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
 And give herself to me forever.
 But passion sometimes would prevail,
 Nor could tonight'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 looked up at her eyes
 Happy and proud; at last l knew
 Porphyria worshiped 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
 Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
 And I untightened next the tress
 About her neck; her cheek once more
 Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
 I propped 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 scorned at once is fled,
 And I, its love, am gained instead!
 Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
 Her darling one wish would be heard.
 And thus we sit together now,
 And all night long we have not stirred,
 And yet God has not said a word!
-- Robert Browning
    This early dramatic monologue by Robert Browning is just such a ghastly
delight!  It has few of the subtleties of the later monologues, and the
macabre melodrama of it really runs the risk of becoming comic at one or two
points, but even some of this is intentional, I think.  (The pathetic little
clarifying aside "Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head", for instance -
the matter-of-factness of that detail and the narrator’s attention to it
just thrusts his madness fully home.)

    Of course the main treat, or trick, for readers new to this poem is that
shocking change of direction, such a violent swerve in the middle of the
poem.  Compare to the line in ‘My Last Duchess’ - "This grew; I gave
commands; Then all smiles stopped together." So much more left to the
imagination in that, and a much more chilling poem.

    Still, I love this earlier poem, with its sensationalistic gothic
effect, its enthusiasm for the perverse.  And Browning’s great skill, even
here, with the narrative voice - the natural flow of thought and direction
of attention over the line-breaks, that enjoyable Browning tension between
the rigorous structure and the conversational voice.  The prevalent pathetic
fallacy in which the narrator's feelings completely color everything he
views.  The narrator's methodical progress in telling the story, his
defensiveness about disputable points ('No pain felt she, I am quite sure
she felt no pain.') his desperate attempt to justify, to explain the
rightness of what he has done, even going so far as to impute thoughts to
the lolling head of his corpse-lover, I suppose the ultimate fulfillment for
a control-freak.

    But then the crack in the narrator's facade - that last line, which just
looms out of the chasm, and goes echoing around the empty heavens of this
irredeemable sinner’s lost world - the worst horror of all: that the
narrator may indeed have a conscience somewhere that appreciates his act.
Strong echoes of Othello, and you know the narrator will hurl himself from
some precipice or overdose on some opiate, or worse - wind up a raver in
Bedlam.  Shiver!

David Wright
Seattle Public Library

Prospice -- Robert Browning

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian
(Poem #1103) Prospice
 Fear death? -- to feel the fog in my throat,
 The mist in my face,
 When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
 I am nearing the place,
 The power of the night, the press of the storm,
 The post of the foe;
 Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
 Yet the strong man must go:
 For the journey is done and the summit attained,
 And the barriers fall.
 Tho' a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
 The reward of it all.
 I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more,
 The best and the last!
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore,
 And bade me creep past.
 No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
 The heroes of old,
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
 Of pain, darkness and cold.
 For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
 The black minute's at end,
 And the elements' rage, the friend-voices that rave,
 Shall dwindle, shall blend,
 Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
 Then a light, then thy breast,
 O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
 And with God be the rest.
-- Robert Browning
"Prospice" (pro~spik'e~) means "Look Forward".  Browning wrote this shortly
after Elizabeth Barrett Browning's death in 1861.   The "soul of my soul" in
the last two lines is Elizabeth Barrett Browning in fact ...

This poem ranks with William Ernest Henley's "Invictus" and Tennyson's
"Crossing the Bar" as one of my favorite poems about men facing death with
sheer courage.

    "I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more,
        The best and the last! "

A fight he knows he cannot win, and doesn't care, eagerly looking forward to
death.

-suresh

Parting at Morning -- Robert Browning

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:
(Poem #814) Parting at Morning
 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
I don't know about other people, but every time I think of sending in a
guest poem to the Minstrels, I'm beset by this feeling that all my favourite
poems have already been done (dammit, you even have Desolation Row!!). So
it's a smugly surprised me who's sending in these two Browning poems [one of
which - "Meeting at Night" - has been set aside for later - t.] which I
simply worship but which, for all my ardent searching, I can't find in the
archives.

Anyway, the poems. Both are incredibly visual - to a point where you have
only to shut your eyes to see the scene described blaze before you in
gorgeous technicolour. And both have an almost magically musical quality
that is so typical of Browning (see for instance, "A Toccata of Gallupi's",
Minstrels poem #526). But most importantly, I think, both have a concise
directness that would be the envy of many a modern poet, let alone of the
Victorians. Perhaps you can imagine a poem that says less and expresses
greater feeling with more vividness than "Parting at Morning". I can't.

Aseem.

[Minstrels Links]

Browning Poems:
Poem #65, Home Thoughts From Abroad
Poem #104, My Last Duchess
Poem #130, The Lost Leader
Poem #133, Song, from Pippa Passes
Poem #242, The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Poem #352, My Star
Poem #364, The Patriot
Poem #425, Memorabilia
Poem #526, A Toccata of Galuppi's
Poem #635, Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
Poem #778, Incident of the French Camp

Incident of the French Camp -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #778) Incident of the French Camp
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
    A mile or so away
 On a little mound, Napoleon
    Stood on our storming-day;
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
    Legs wide, arms locked behind,
 As if to balance the prone brow
    Oppressive with its mind.

 Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
    That soar, to earth may fall,
 Let once my army-leader Lannes
    Waver a yonder wall," --
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
    A rider, bound on bound
 Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
    Until he reached the mound.

 Then off there flung in smiling joy,
    And held himself erect
 By just his horse's mane, a boy:
    You hardly could suspect --
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed,
    Scarce any blood came through)
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast
    Was all but shot in two.

 "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
    We've got you Ratisbon!
 The Marshal's in the market-place,
    And you'll be there anon
 To see your flag-bird flap his vans
    Where I, to heart's desire,
 Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
    Soared up again like fire.

 The chief's eye flashed; but presently
    Softened itself, as sheathes
 A film the mother-eagle's eye
    When her bruised eaglet breathes:
 "You're wounded!" "Nay", the soldier's pride
    Touched to quick, he said:
 "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
    Smiling the boy fell dead.
-- Robert Browning
A rather straightforward tale of adventure, but one that's given additional
strength by the vigour of its verse. Browning's metrical skill and command
of the spoken voice save the poem from mediocrity, though some of the
passages do seem a bit strained (especially the eagle metaphor, which,
though it might be apt, I do not much care for).

Pay special attention to the first and last lines: the former converts what
would ordinarily have been a common-or-garden variety ballad into the form
so beloved of Browning, the dramatic monologue, while the latter is (though
predictable) justly celebrated for its portrayal of courage and dedication
to duty. A bit dated, perhaps, but enjoyable nonetheless.

thomas.

[On the events described]

Regensburg: also called Ratisbon, city, Bavaria Land (state), southeastern
Germany, on the right bank of the Danube River at its most northerly course,
where it is joined by the Regen River. In the area of the old city was a
Celtic settlement (Radasbona), which later became the site of a Roman
stronghold and legionary camp, Castra Regina (founded AD 179). The Roman
north gate (Porta Praetoria) and parts of the walls survive. The capital of
the dukes of Bavaria from 530, it was made a bishopric in 739 and shortly
afterward became a capital of the Carolingians. The only imperial free city
in the Duchy of Bavaria from 1245, Regensburg was exceedingly prosperous in
the 12th-13th century. It was taken by the Swedes and later by imperial
troops in the Thirty Years' War (17th century) and was destroyed by the
French in 1809. It passed to Bavaria in 1810. The astronomer Johannes Kepler
died there (1630), and the painter Albrecht Altdorfer (d. 1538) was both a
city architect and counselor.

        -- EB

It was during the artillery bombardment at Ratisbon that Napoleon was
wounded for the first and only time in his military career: a bullet struck
the Emperor on the right heel as he was giving instructions to Marshal
Lannes. Word of the wounding spread rapidly, and the French army is said to
have been on the verge of panic until the Emperor showed himself on
horseback.

        -- [broken link] http://www.miniatures.de/html/int/campaigns/1809Regensburg.html

Google[Napoleon Ratisbon 1809] has more.

[Minstrels Links]

Browning poems:
Poem #65, "Home Thoughts From Abroad"
Poem #104, "My Last Duchess"
Poem #130, "The Lost Leader"
Poem #133, "Song, from Pippa Passes"
Poem #242, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin"
Poem #352, "My Star"
Poem #364, "The Patriot"
Poem #425, "Memorabilia"
Poem #526, "A Toccata of Galuppi's"
Poem #635, "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister"

Napoleon poems:
Poem #272, "Napoleon", Walter de la Mare
Poem #258, "Macavity: The Mystery Cat", T. S. Eliot

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #635) Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister
 GR-R-R--there go, my heart's abhorrence!
   Water your damned flower-pots, do!
 If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
   God's blood, would not mine kill you!
 What? Your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
   Oh, that rose has prior claims--
 Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
   Hell dry you up with its flames!

 At the meal we sit together;
   _Salve tibi_! I must hear
 Wise talk of the kind of weather,
   Sort of season, time of year:
 "Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
   Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
 What's the Latin name for parsley?"
   What's the Greek name for swine's snout?

 Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
   Laid with care on our own shelf!
 With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
   And a goblet for ourself,
 Rinsed like something sacrificial
   Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps--
 Marked with L. for our initial!
   (He-he! There his lily snaps!)

 _Saint_, forsooth! While Brown Dolores
   Squats outside the Convent bank
 With Sanchicha, telling stories,
   Steeping tresses in the tank,
 Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,
   ---Can't I see his dead eye glow,
 Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's?
   (That is, if he'd let it show!)

 When he finishes refection,
   Knife and fork he never lays
 Cross-wise, to my recollection,
   As I do, in Jesu's praise.
 I the Trinity illustrate,
   Drinking watered orange-pulp--
 In three sips the Arian frustrate;
   While he drains his at one gulp!

 Oh, those melons! if he's able
   We're to have a feast; so nice!
 One goes to the Abbot's table,
   All of us get each a slice.
 How go on your flowers? None double?
   Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
 Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble,
   Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

 There's a great text in Galatians,
   Once you trip on it, entails
 Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
   One sure, if another fails;
 If I trip him just a-dying,
   Sure of heaven as sure can be,
 Spin him round and send him flying
   Off to hell, a Manichee?

 Or, my scrofulous French novel
   On gray paper with blunt type!
 Simply glance at it, you grovel
   Hand and foot in Belial's gripe;
 If I double down the pages
   At the woeful sixteenth print,
 When he gathers his greengages,
   Ope a sieve and slip it in't?

 Or, there's Satan!--one might venture
   Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
 Such a flaw in the indenture
   As he'd miss till, past retrieve,
 Blasted lay that rose-acacia
   We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...
 'St, there's Vespers! _Plena gratia
   Ave, Virgo_! Gr-r-r--you swine!
-- Robert Browning
This is my favourite of Browning's dramatic monologues, and has been so ever
since I first read a snatch of it -
    "There's a great text in Galatians,
       Once you trip on it, entails
     Twenty-nine distinct damnations,
       One sure, if another fails;"
in Kipling's brilliant school story, 'Stalky & co.' [1]. I read the rest of
the poem much later, and I must say it has more than lived up to the promise
of that first excerpt.

Browning's monologues are never easy, though, and today's is no exception. A
major part of the difficulty (and one that has been commented on before on
the Minstrels; see Poem #526) is that his speakers are far removed from the
heroic 'I' who bestrides the world of the earlier Romantics - indeed, more
often than not they're villains of the first order. This makes it necessary
to peel away several layers of self-justification and empty rhetoric
(combined with the occasional overt glorying in wickedness) in order to
arrive at the 'truth' of the situation, i.e., the poet's own view of the
matter.

In today's poem, for example, the speaker is a monk, working in the garden
of a monastery (the Spanish cloister of the title); in his (silent)
monologue, all the pent-up frustrations and petty jealousies arising from
years of confinement in the company of the hated Brother Lawrence boil forth
in righteous indignation. But (and the irony here is delicious) the
speaker's many arguments serve merely to convict himself of the crimes he
lays at Lawrence's doorstep. For instance: his description of brown Dolores
and her lustrous, blue-black tresses reflects, not Lawrence's roving eye,
but his own; his rebuke of Lawrence's 'impious' table manners illustrates
the tawdry nature of his own faith; his wild accusations of heresy ought to
draw the Inquisitor's attention, not to Lawrence, but to himself. The
malicious cataloguing of vices goes on; the reductio ad absurdum is reached
when the speaker plans to corrupt the good Lawrence by tempting him with his
own copy of a salacious French novel - and then has the gall to accuse the
latter of the sin of Lust!

Questions of casuistry apart, the Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister also
showcases Browning's remarkable technical skills. His mastery of what I like
to call 'the speaking voice' is as effortless as it is absolute: today's
monologue is perfectly rhymed and perfectly metrical, yet it does not seem
the least bit stilted or unnatural. And as always, his poetry is imbued with
a wonderful richness of texture [2] - the simultaneous threads of gardening
and Church politics that are woven into the soliloquy put the speaker firmly
into context, both locally and within the warp and weft of history on a
larger scale.

I could go on and on about this poem, but I think that's enough for the day.
Enjoy!

thomas.

[1] The lines are quoted by 'that mad Irishman', McTurk. Stalky's memorable
response is, "Browning's an ass". McTurk replies by quoting from another
Browning monologue, 'Caliban upon Setebos':
    "Setebos, Setebos and Setebos
     Thinketh he liveth in the cold of the moon"
Sadly, the rest of the Caliban poem isn't quite as good as this (utterly
brilliant) couplet.

[2] This too has been commented on before on the Minstrels; see Poem #526 in
our archives.

[Notes]

As I mentioned in my commentary above, Browning uses a number of phrases and
expressions that confirm the monastic setting of the poem. Herewith, a brief
explication:

Salve tibi - Good health to thee.

Arian -  a follower of the doctrine of Arius, a presbyter of Alexandria in
the 4th century, who denied the divinity of Christ and hence (implicitly)
denied the Trinity. His opinions were embraced by large sections of
Christendom, and the dissensions by which the church was rent lasted for
nearly a century. (OED)

Manichee - An adherent of a religious system widely accepted from the third
to the fifth century, composed of Gnostic Christian, Mazdean and pagan
elements. The special feature of the system which the name chiefly suggests
to medern readers is the dualistic theorogy, according to which Satan was
represented as being co-eternal with God. (OED)

Belial - The spirit of evil personified; used from early times as a name for
the Devil or one of the fiends, and by Milton as the name of one of the
fallen angels. (OED)

Hy, Zy, Hine  - perhaps the beginning of a necromantic spell for summoning
Satan.

Vespers - The sixth of the Canonical hours of the breviary, said or
celebrated towards evening; evensong. (OED)

Plena gratia ave Virgo - Hail, Virgin, full of grace, a version of opening
lines of the Ave Maria, an invocation to the Virgin Mary.

Galatians - Paul's epistle to the Galatians, from the New Testament. The
passage that the speaker is referring to is probably this, from the fifth
chapter of the letter:
"[19] Now the works of the flesh are manifest, which are these: Adultery,
fornication, uncleanness, lasciviousness, [20] idolatry, witchcraft, hatred,
variance, emulations, wrath, strife, seditions, heresies, [21]envyings,
murders, drunkenness, revellings, and such like."

[Links]

Both Martin and myself (not to mention several list subscribers, judging
from our guest poem submissions) happen to like Browning; as a result
there's a fair bit of his work in the Minstrels archive:

Home Thoughts From Abroad, Poem #65
My Last Duchess, Poem #104
The Lost Leader, Poem #130
Song, from Pippa Passes, Poem #133
The Pied Piper of Hamelin, Poem #242
My Star, Poem #352
The Patriot, Poem #364
Memorabilia, Poem #425
A Toccata of Galuppi's, Poem #526

Of these, only the second and the last can properly be called dramatic
monologues, though nearly all share some (if not all) of the qualities I
talked about in my commentary.

Click on [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet to see a list
of all the poems in our archive, sorted by poet name. You might also want to
check out the works of Browning's wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning - their
love for each other produced some of the most celebrated romantic lyrics
ever written.

A Toccata of Galuppi's -- Robert Browning

After a long and weary journey, we come at last to Venice, western terminus of
the fabled Silk Road.
(Poem #526) A Toccata of Galuppi's
 Oh Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find!
 I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;
 But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

 Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.
 What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,
 Where Saint Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

 Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arched by... what you call...
 Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival:
 I was never out of England--it's as if I saw it all.

 Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?
 Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day,
 When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,--
 On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,
 O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

 Well, and it was graceful of them--they'd break talk off and afford
 --She, to bite her mask's black velvet--he, to finger on his sword,
 While you sat and played Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

 What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminished, sigh on sigh,
 Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions--"Must we die?"
 Those commiserating sevenths--"Life might last! we can but try!

 "Were you happy?"--"Yes."--"And are you still as happy?"--"Yes. And you?"
 --"Then, more kisses!"--"Did I stop them, when a million seemed so few?"
 Hark, the dominant's persistence till it must be answered to!

 So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, they praised you, I dare say!
 "Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!
 "I can always leave off talking when I hear a master play!"

 Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time, one by one,
 Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,
 Death stepped tacitly and took them where they never see the sun.

 But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand nor swerve,
 While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close reserve,
 In you come with your cold music till I creep thro' every nerve.

 Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burned:
 "Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earned.
 "The soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned.

 "Yours for instance: you know physics, something of geology,
 "Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;
 "Butterflies may dread extinction,--you'll not die, it cannot be!

 "As for Venice and her people, merely born to bloom and drop,
 "Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop:
 "What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

 "Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.
 Dear dead women, with such hair, too--what's become of all the gold
 Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.
-- Robert Browning
Not for nothing is Browning considered the master of the dramatic monologue;
poems such as today's are brilliant showcases for his skill at capturing the
staccato patterns of everyday speech while never sacrificing the melody or
rhythm of his own verse. I also like the various musical conceits, which are
phrased in beautifully self-referential verses... marvellously done.

The poem itself is not an easy one to follow [1]; it deals (primarily) with the
tyranny of time, as seen through the eyes of an old Venetian. I'm not going to
explicate it in full; however, I will point out, in passing, the resonance with
Thomas Hardy's poem 'The Roman Road', which Martin ran just a few days ago - the
sense of a link between present and past is conveyed most strongly in Browning's
verse. Nice.

thomas.

[1] See the critical assessment below for more on why Browning's works are often
considered 'difficult'

[Credits]

Many thanks to Paul Malin, who responded to our query on
alt.quotations and pointed us to this poem.

[On the theme]

What a long strange trip it's been!

We started our journey in 8th century China, home of Li Po and his friend Tu Fu.
Our caravan then crossed the endless steppes of Central Asia, where we
encountered Tamburlaine and his mighty armies on the way to his capital, golden
Samarkand of story and song. Next, we climbed the high Pamirs and descended into
the orchards and meadows of Rumi's Persia. From Persia, we made our way across
the deserts of Araby to the very gates of Damascus. We set sail from a Syrian
harbour a few days ago, and now, laden with silk and spice, porcelain and
perfume, jade and jewels, we cast anchor in sight of our home port, Venice.

You can revisit all the above people, places and times, at the Minstrels
archive, http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

Li Po, 'About Tu Fu', Poem #505
Christopher Marlowe, 'Lament for Zenocrate', Poem #507
James Elroy Flecker, 'The Golden Road to Samarkand', Poem #510
Jalaluddin Rumi, 'The Tavern', Poem #514
Robert Graves, 'The Persian Version', Poem #516
James Elroy Flecker, 'The Gates of Damascus' (a guest submission), Poem #519
Constantine Cavafy, 'In Harbor', Poem #523
Robert Browning, 'A Toccata of Galuppi's', Poem #526

As you can see, we've covered a fair bit of ground - historically,
geographically, and poetically. I hope you've enjoyed the theme; please do write
in with your comments and suggestions, about both this and future themes.

Next up: Around the World in Eighty Days (ha ha, just kidding!).

[Moreover]

"And the end of our journeying will be to return to the place from which we
started, and know it for the first time".

Could some kind reader enlighten me as to where this quote is originally from?
It's been running through my head for some time now; I think it's Eliot, but I'm
not quite sure...

[Links]

There's a nice essay on Venice - specifically, about its influence on literature
- at http://www.friendsofvenice.org/excerpts/churchill.html

Our search for Venice poems also threw up

Canto IV of 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', by Byron:
http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/byron11.html

Wordsworth's 'On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic, 1802:
http://www.bartleby.com/101/522.html

and the aptly titled 'Venice' by Susan Mitchell:
[broken link] http://www.poems.com/venicmit.htm

Thanks to Ben Trovato , William C. Waterhouseand Lizard for suggesting these.

A Browning biography can be found accompanying 'The Patriot', archived at
poem #364

Another very famous Browning monologue is 'My Last Duchess', which you can
read at poem #364.

[Critical Assessment]

Few poets have suffered more than Browning from hostile incomprehension or
misplaced admiration, both arising very often from a failure to recognize the
predominantly dramatic nature of his work. The bulk of his writing before 1846
was for the theatre; thereafter his major poems showed his increasing mastery of
the dramatic monologue. This consists essentially of a narrative spoken by a
single character and amplified by his comments on his story and the
circumstances in which he is speaking. From his own knowledge of the historical
or other events described, or else by inference from the poem itself, the reader
is eventually enabled to assess the intelligence and honesty of the narrator and
the value of the views he expresses. This type of dramatic monologue, since it
depends on the unconscious provision by the speaker of the evidence by which the
reader is to judge him, is eminently suitable for the ironist. Browning's
fondness for this form has, however, encouraged the two most common
misconceptions of the nature of his poetry--that it is deliberately obscure and
that its basic "message" is a facile optimism. Neither of these criticisms is
groundless; both are incomplete.

Browning is not always difficult. In many poems, especially short lyrics, he
achieves effects of obvious felicity. Nevertheless, his superficial
difficulties, which prevent an easy understanding of the sense of a passage, are
evident enough: his attempts to convey the broken and irregular rhythms of
speech make it almost impossible to read the verse quickly; his elliptical
syntax sometimes disconcerts and confuses the reader but can be mastered with
little effort; certain poems, such as Sordello or "Old Pictures in Florence,"
require a considerable acquaintance with their subjects in order to be
understood; and his fondness for putting his monologues into the mouths of
charlatans and sophists, such as Mr. Sludge or Napoleon III, obliges the reader
to follow a chain of subtle or paradoxical arguments. All these characteristics
stand in the way of easy reading.

But even when individual problems of style and technique have been resolved, the
poems' interest is seldom exhausted. First, Browning often chooses an unexpected
point of view, especially in his monologues, thus forcing the reader to accept
an unfamiliar perspective. Second, he is capable of startling changes of focus
within a poem. For example, he chooses subjects in themselves insignificant, as
in "Fra Lippo Lippi" and "Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha," and treats through them
the eternal themes of poetry. This transition from particular observation to
transcendental truth presents much the same challenge to the reader as do the
metaphysical poets of the 17th century and much the same excitement. Third,
because Browning seldom presents a speaker without irony, there is a constant
demand on the reader to appreciate exactly the direction of satiric force in the
poem. Even in a melodious poem such as "A Toccata of Galuppi's," the valid
position must be distinguished from the false at every turn of the argument,
while in the major casuistic monologues, such as "Bishop Blougram's Apology,"
the shifts of sympathy are subtler still.

It has also been objected that Browning uses his poetry as a vehicle for his
philosophy, which is not of itself profound or interesting, being limited to an
easy optimism. But Browning's dramatic monologues must, as he himself insisted,
be recognized as the utterances of fictitious persons drawing their strength
from their appropriateness in characterizing the speaker, and not as expressions
of Browning's own sentiments. Thus his great gallery of imagined characters is
to be regarded as an exhaustive catalog of human motives, not as a series of
self-portraits.

Nevertheless, certain fundamental assumptions are made so regularly that they
may be taken to represent Browning's personal beliefs, such as his Christian
faith. In matters of human conduct his sympathies are with those who show loving
hearts, honest natures, and warmth of feeling; certainly these qualities are
never satirized. He is in general on the side of those who commit themselves
wholeheartedly to an ideal, even if they fail. By itself this might suggest
rather a naive system of values, yet he also, sometimes even in the same poem,
shows his understanding of those who have been forced to lower their standards
and accept a compromise. Thus, although Browning is far from taking a cynical or
pessimistic view of man's nature or destiny, his hopes for the world are not
simple and unreasoning.

During Browning's lifetime, critical recognition came rapidly after 1864; and,
although his books never sold as well as his wife's or Tennyson's, he thereafter
acquired a considerable and enthusiastic public. In the 20th century his
reputation, along with those of the other great Victorians, declined, and his
work did not enjoy a wide reading public, perhaps in part because of increasing
skepticism of the values implied in his poetry. He has, however, influenced many
modern poets, such as Robert Frost and Ezra Pound, partly through his
development of the dramatic monologue, with its emphasis on the psychology of
the individual and his stream of consciousness, but even more through his
success in writing about the variety of modern life in language that owed
nothing to convention. As long as technical accomplishment, richness of texture,
sustained imaginative power, and a warm interest in humanity are counted
virtues, Browning will be numbered
among the great English poets.

        -- EB

Memorabilia -- Robert Browning

Many thanks to Divya Sampath for suggesting this poem:
(Poem #425) Memorabilia
 Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
 And did he stop and speak to you?
 And did you speak to him again?
 How strange it seems, and new!

 But you were living before that,
 And you are living after,
 And the memory I started at--
 My starting moves your laughter!

 I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
 And a certain use in the world no doubt,
 Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
 'Mid the blank miles round about:

 For there I picked up on the heather
 And there I put inside my breast
 A moulted feather, an eagle-feather--
 Well, I forget the rest.
-- Robert Browning
Percy Shelley's been getting a fair bit of coverage on the Minstrels lately [1],
so it comes as a bit of a relief to know that I'm not alone in disliking his
verse [2].

Actually, I can't name too many parodies written by well-known poets [3] - this
is a pretty rare example of one. Maybe the originality that is the mark of any
great poet prevents him (or her) from ever writing a true parody... I don't
know.

Be that as it may, I think Browning does an excellent job of capturing the exact
tone of voice and style of imagery used by the Romantics... indeed, I must
confess that this poem (especially the last stanza) had me laughing out loud.

thomas.
(still grinning)

[1] see poem #22 for a rave, and poem #399 for a hatchet job.
[2] Not that he's a bad poet, mind you. It's just that _I_ don't like his
work. Your mileage may vary.
[3] Lewis Carroll, of course, is the exception that proves the rule.

The Patriot -- Robert Browning

Many thanks to Suresh Ramasubramanian, for reminding me of the anthology
wherein I first read this poem.
(Poem #364) The Patriot
 - An Old Story

I

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day!

II

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries.
Had I said, "Good folks, mere noise repels -
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

III

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun,
To give it my loving friends to keep.
Nought man could do have I left undone,
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

IV

There's nobody on the house-tops now -
Just a palsied few at the windows set -
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles' Gate - or, better yet,
By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

V

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind,
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

VI

Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go!
In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
"Thou, paid by the World, - what dost thou owe
Me?" God might have questioned; but now instead
'Tis God shall requite! I am safer so.
-- Robert Browning
A poignant depiction of the fickleness of public opinion; this poem
ranks with the best of Empson and Auden in cataloguing the ebb and flow
of human affairs (specifically, politics). The first line has, of
course, passed into the language, but the entire poem is skilfully and
delicately constructed. The fifth stanza, I think, is my especial
favourite - simple, yet remarkably touching. One could say the same
about the poem as a whole.

thomas.

[Assessment]

Few poets have suffered more than Browning from hostile incomprehension
or misplaced admiration, both arising very often from a failure to
recognize the predominantly dramatic nature of his work. The bulk of his
writing before 1846 was for the theatre; thereafter his major poems
showed his increasing mastery of the dramatic monologue. This consists
essentially of a narrative spoken by a single character and amplified by
his comments on his story and the circumstances in which he is speaking.
From his own knowledge of the historical or other events described, or
else by inference from the poem itself, the reader is eventually enabled
to assess the intelligence and honesty of the narrator and the value of
the views he expresses.

...

During Browning's lifetime, critical recognition came rapidly after
1864; and, although his books never sold as well as his wife's or
Tennyson's, he thereafter acquired a considerable and enthusiastic
public. In the 20th century his reputation, along with those of the
other great Victorians, declined, and his work did not enjoy a wide
reading public, perhaps in part because of increasing skepticism of the
values implied in his poetry. He has, however, influenced many modern
poets, such as Robert Frost and Ezra Pound, partly through his
development of the dramatic monologue, with its emphasis on the
psychology of the individual and his stream of consciousness, but even
more through his success in writing about the variety of modern life in
language that owed nothing to convention. As long as technical
accomplishment, richness of texture, sustained imaginative power, and a
warm interest in humanity are counted virtues, Browning will be numbered
among the great English poets.

        -- EB

[Biography]

Browning, Robert

  b. May 7, 1812, London
  d. Dec. 12, 1889, Venice

The son of a clerk in the Bank of England in London, Browning received
only a slight formal education, although his father gave him a grounding
in Greek and Latin. In 1828 he attended classes at the University of
London but left after half a session. Apart from a journey to St.
Petersburg in 1834 with George de Benkhausen, the Russian consul
general, and two short visits to Italy in 1838 and 1844, he lived with
his parents in London until 1846, first at Camberwell and after 1840 at
Hatcham.

During this period (1832-46) he wrote his early long poems and most of
his plays. Browning's first published work, Pauline: A Fragment of a
Confession (1833, anonymous), although formally a dramatic monologue,
embodied many of his own adolescent passions and anxieties. Although it
received some favourable comment, it was attacked by John Stuart Mill,
who condemned the poet's exposure and exploitation of his own emotions
and his "intense and morbid self-consciousness." It was perhaps Mill's
critique that determined Browning never to confess his own emotions
again in his poetry but to write objectively. In 1835 he published
Paracelsus and in 1840 Sordello, both poems dealing with men of great
ability striving to reconcile the demands of their own personalities
with those of the world. Paracelsus was well received, but Sordello,
which made exacting demands on its reader's knowledge, was almost
universally declared incomprehensible.

Encouraged by the actor Charles Macready, Browning devoted his main
energies for some years to verse drama, a form that he had already
adopted for Strafford (1837). Between 1841 and 1846, in a series of
pamphlets under the general title of Bells and Pomegranates, he
published seven more plays in verse, including Pippa Passes (1841), A
Blot in the 'Scutcheon (produced in 1843), and Luria (1846). These, and
all his earlier works except Strafford, were printed at his family's
expense. Although Browning enjoyed writing for the stage, he was not
successful in the theatre, since his strength lay in depicting, as he
had himself observed of Strafford, "Action in Character, rather than
Character in Action."

By 1845 the first phase of Browning's life was near its end. In that
year he met Elizabeth Barrett. In her Poems (1844) Barrett had included
lines praising Browning, who wrote to thank her (January 1845). In May
they met and soon discovered their love for each other. Barrett had,
however, been for many years an invalid, confined to her room and
thought incurable. Her father, moreover, was a dominant and selfish man,
jealously fond of his daughter, who in turn had come to depend on his
love. When her doctors ordered her to Italy for her health and her
father refused to allow her to go, the lovers, who had been
corresponding and meeting regularly, were forced to act. They were
married secretly in September 1846; a week later they left for Pisa.

Throughout their married life, although they spent holidays in France
and England, their home was in Italy, mainly at Florence, where they had
a flat in Casa Guidi. Their income was small, although after the birth
of their son, Robert, in 1849 Mrs. Browning's cousin John Kenyon made
them an allowance of £100 a year, and on his death in 1856 he left them
£11,000.

Browning produced comparatively little poetry during his married life.
Apart from a collected edition in 1849 he published only Christmas-Eve
and Easter-Day (1850), an examination of different attitudes toward
Christianity, perhaps having its immediate origin in the death of his
mother in 1849; an introductory essay (1852) to some spurious letters of
Shelley, Browning's only considerable work in prose and his only piece
of critical writing; and Men and Women (1855). This was a collection of
51 poems--dramatic lyrics such as "Memorabilia," "Love Among the Ruins,"
and "A Toccata of Galuppi's"; the great monologues such as "Fra Lippo
Lippi," "How It Strikes a Contemporary," and "Bishop Blougram's
Apology"; and a very few poems in which implicitly ("By the Fireside")
or explicitly ("One Word More") he broke his rule and spoke of himself
and of his love for his wife. Men and Women, however, had no great sale,
and many of the reviews were unfavourable and unhelpful. Disappointed
for the first time by the reception of his work, Browning in the
following years wrote little, sketching and modeling in clay by day and
enjoying the society of his friends at night.

At last Mrs. Browning's health, which had been remarkably restored by
her life in Italy, began to fail. On June 29, 1861, she died in her
husband's arms. In the autumn he returned slowly to London with his
young son.

His first task on his return was to prepare his wife's Last Poems for
the press. At first he avoided company, but gradually he accepted
invitations more freely and began to move in society. Another collected
edition of his poems was called for in 1863, but Pauline was not
included. When his next book of poems, Dramatis Personae
(1864)--including "Abt Vogler," "Rabbi Ben Ezra," "Caliban upon
Setebos," and "Mr. Sludge, The Medium' "--reached two editions, it was
clear that Browning had at last won a measure of popular recognition.

In 1868-69 he published his greatest work, The Ring and the Book, based
on the proceedings in a murder trial in Rome in 1698. Grand alike in
plan and execution, it was at once received with enthusiasm, and
Browning was established as one of the most important literary figures
of the day. For the rest of his life he was much in demand in London
society. He spent his summers with friends in France, Scotland, or
Switzerland or, after 1878, in Italy.

The most important works of his last years, when he wrote with great
fluency, were the long narrative or dramatic poems, often dealing with
contemporary themes, such as Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau (1871), Fifine
at the Fair (1872), Red Cotton Night-Cap Country (1873), The Inn Album
(1875), and the two series of Dramatic Idyls (1879 and 1880). He wrote a
number of poems on classical subjects, including Balaustion's Adventure
(1871) and Aristophanes' Apology (1875). In addition to many collections
of shorter poems--Pacchiarotto and How He Worked in Distemper (1876),
Jocoseria (1883), Ferishtah's Fancies (1884), and Asolando: Fancies and
Facts (1889)--Browning published toward the end of his life two books of
unusually personal origin--La Saisiaz (1878), at once an elegy for his
friend Anne Egerton-Smith and a meditation on mortality, and Parleyings
with Certain People of Importance in Their Day (1887), in which he
discussed books and ideas that had influenced him since his youth.

While staying in Venice in 1889, Browning caught cold, became seriously
ill, and died on December 12. He was buried in Westminster Abbey.

        -- EB

My Star -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #352) My Star
 All that I know
       Of a certain star
 Is, it can throw
       (Like the angled spar)
 Now a dart of red,
       Now a dart of blue;
 Till my friends have said
       They would fain see, too,
 My star that dartles the red and the blue!
 Then it stops like a bird; like a flower hangs furled:
       They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
 What matter to me if their star is a world?
       Mine has opened its soul to me, therefore I love it.
-- Robert Browning
A highly uncharacteristic poem by Browning - so much so, in fact, that I
would not have guessed it for one of his. Absent is the sheer energy that
spills out from so many of his poems - 'My Star' is an altogether quieter,
more reflective, almost mystical poem of the sort far more characteristic of
Blake[1] or possibly one of the Romantics in an abstract mood. There is also
a rather charming naivete about it - the use of the diminutive 'dartle', the
easy enthusiasm, the ingenuousness inherent in 'what matter to me if their
star is a world?', the pathetic fallacy[2] - that is, again, so
uncharacteristic of Browning that I have to wonder if the poem was mainly a
stylistic experiment.

Experiment or not, though, it is a perfectly nice poem - the word 'pretty'
springs to mind. It also displays, in full measure, Browning's almost
uncanny ear for rhythm - the combination of irregularity and flawlessness,
the seamless way in which the transitions between different metrical
patterns are handled is truly amazing; and the last four lines are pure
music.

[1] indeed, the first time I read this poem I took it for one of his, though
that probably bespeaks nothing more than my unfamiliarity with Blake's work

[2]Pathetic fallacy: A term used by John Ruskin to decry the ascription of
human attributes, traits, feelings, and so forth to nonhuman objects. Such
ascriptions, he argues, "produce in us a falseness in all our impressions of
external things." The term is also used nonpejoratively to denote a common
feature of descriptive poetry; it is related to but somewhat less formal
than the rhetorical trope of prosopopoeia, or personification.
    -- http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/glossary/Pathetic_fallacy.html

Links:

Never has Bierce's summation seemed apter: poem #148

We've had a number of Browning poems appear on Minstrels -
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html

And for the biography, see poem #65

The Pied Piper of Hamelin -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #242) The Pied Piper of Hamelin
    A Child's Story
    (Written for, and inscribed to, W.M. the Younger)

            I

 Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
 By famous Hanover city;
 The river Weser, deep and wide,
 Washes its wall on the southern side;
 A pleasanter spot you never spied;
 But, when begins my ditty,
 Almost five hundred years ago,
 To see the townsfolk suffer so
 From vermin, was a pity.

          II

 Rats!
 They fought the dogs and killed the cats,
 And bit the babies in the cradles,
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
 And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladle's,
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
 And even spoiled the women's chats
 By drowning their speaking
 With shrieking and squeaking
 ln fifty different sharps and flats.

          III

 At last the people in a body
 To the town hall came flocking:
 "Tis clear," cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy;
 And as for our Corporation--shocking
 To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
 For dolts that can't or won't determine
 What's best to rid us of our vermin!
 You hope, because you're old and obese,
 To find in the furry civic robe ease?
 Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking
 To find the remedy we're lacking,
 Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!"
 At this the Mayor and Corporation
 Quaked with a mighty consternation.

          IV

 An hour they sat in council,
 At length the Mayor broke silence:
 "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell,
 I wish I were a mile hence!
 It's easy to bid one rack one's brain--
 I'm sure my poor head aches again,
 I've scratched it so, and all in vain
 Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
 Just as he said this, what should hap
 At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
 "Bless us,' cried the Mayor, "what's that?"
 (With the Corporation as he sat,
 Looking little though wondrous fat;
 Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
 Than a too-long-opened oyster,
 Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
 For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
 "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
 Anything like the sound of a rat
 Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

          V

 "Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger:
 And in did come the strangest figure!
 His queer long coat from heel to head
 Was half of yellow and half of red
 And he himself was tall and thin,
 With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,
 And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
 No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,
 But lips where smiles went out and in;
 There was no guessing his kith and kin:
 And nobody could enough admire
 The tall man and his quaint attire.
 Quoth one:"It's as my great-grandsire,
 Starting up at the trump of doom's tone,
 Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

          VI

 He advanced to the council-table:
 And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able,
 By means of a secret charm, to draw
 All creatures living beneath the sun,
 That creep or swim or fly or run,
 After me so as you never saw
 And I chiefly use my charm
 On creatures that do people harm,
 The mole and toad and newt and viper;
 And People call me the Pied Piper."
 (And here they noticed round his neck
 A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
 To match with his coat of the self-same check;
 And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;
 And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
 As if impatient to be playing
 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
 Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
 "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am,
 In Tartary I freed the Cham,
 Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;
 I eased in Asia the Nizam
 Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
 And as for what your brain bewilders--
 If I can rid your town of rats
 Will you give me a thousand guilders?"
 "One? Fifty thousand!" was the exclamation
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

          VII

 Into the street the Piper stept,
 Smiling first a little smile,
 As if he knew what magic slept
 In his quiet pipe the while;
 Then, like a musical adept,
 To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
 And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
 Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
 And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
 You heard as if an army muttered;
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
 And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
 Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
 Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
 Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
 Families by tens and dozens,
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--
 Followed the Piper for their lives.
 From street to street he piped advancing,
 And step for step they followed dancing,
 Until they came to the river Weser
 Wherein all plunged and perished!
 Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,
 Swam across and lived to carry
 (As the manuscript he cherished)
 To Rat-land home his commentary:
 Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
 Into a cider-press's gripe:
 And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
 And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks:
 And it seemed as if a voice
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
 Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice!
 The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery!
 So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'
 And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
 All ready staved, like a great sun shone
 Glorious scarce an inch before me,
 Just as methought it said 'Come bore me!'
 --I found the Weser rolling o'er me."


          VIII

 You should have heard the Hamelin people
 Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
 Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles!
 Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
 Consult with carpenters and builders
 And leave in our town not even a trace
 Of the rats!"-- when suddenly, up the face
 Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
 With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"


          IX

 A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
 So did the Corporation too.
 For council dinners made rare havoc
 With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
 And half the money would replenish
 Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
 With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
 "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
 "Our business was done at the river's brink;
 We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
 And what's dead can't come to life, I think.
 So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink
 From the duty of giving you something for drink,
 And a matter of money to put in your poke;
 But as for the guilders, what we spoke
 Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
 Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
 A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!

          X

 The Piper's face fell, and he cried
 No trifling! I can't wait beside!
 I've promised to visit by dinnertime
 Bagdat, and accept the prime
 Of the Head-Cooks pottage, all he's rich in,
 For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:
 With him I proved no bargain-driver,
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!
 And folks who put me in a passion
 May find me pipe after another fashion,

          XI

 "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook
 Being worse treated than a Cook?
 Insulted by a lazy ribald
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
 You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
 Blow your pipe there till you burst!

 XII

 Once more he stept into the street
 And to his lips again
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
 And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
 Soft notes as yet musician's cunning
 Never gave the enraptured air)
 There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
 Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering,
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
 Out came the children running.
 All the little boys and girls,
 With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
 The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

          XIII

 The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
 As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
 Unable to move a step or cry,
 To the children merrily skipping by,
 --Could only follow with the eye
 That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
 But how the Mayor was on the rack
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
 As the Piper turned from the High Street
 To where the Weser rolled its water's
 Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
 However he turned from South to West
 And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
 And after him the children pressed--
 Great was the joy in every breast.
 "He never can cross that mighty top!
 He's forced to let the piping drop
 And we shall see our children stop!
 When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side,
 A wondrous portal opened wide,
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
 And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
 And when all were in to the very last,
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
 Did I say all? No! One was lame,
 And could not dance the whole of the way;
 And in after years, if you would blame
 His sadness, he was used to say,--
 "It¹s dull in our town since my playmates left!
 I can¹t forget that I'm bereft
 Of all all the pleasant sights they see,
 Which the Piper also promised me.
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,
 Joining the town and just at hand,
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
 And everything was strange and new
 The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,
 And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
 And honey-bees had lost their stings,
 And horses were born with eagles' wings:
 And just as I became assured
 My lame foot would be speedily cured,
 The music stopped and I stood still,
 And found myself outside the hill,
 Left alone against my will,
 To go now limping as before,
 And never hear of that country more!"

          XIV

 Alas, alas for Hamelin!
 There came into many a burgher's pate
 A text which says that heaven¹s gate
 Opes to the rich at as easy rate
 As the needle's eye takes a camel in!
 The mayor sent East, West, North and South,
 To offer the Piper, by word of mouth
 Wherever it was men's lot to find him
 Silver and gold to his heart¹s content
 If he'd only return the way he went,
 And bring the children behind him.
 But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor,
 and Piper and dancers were gone forever,
 They made a decree that lawyers never
 Should think their records dated duly
 If, after the day of the month and year,
 These words did not as well appear,
 And so long after what happened here
 On the Twenty-second of July,
 Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:
 And the better in memory to fix
 The place of the children's last retreat,
 They called it, the Pied Piper's Street--
 Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
 Was sure for the future to lose his labor.
 Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
 To shock with mirth a street so solemn,
 But opposite the place of the cavern
 They wrote the story on a column,
 And on the great church-window painted
 The same, to make the world acquainted
 How their children were stolen away,
 And there it stands to this very day.
 And I must not omit to say
 That, in Transylvania there's a tribe
 Of alien people who ascribe
 The outlandish ways and dress
 On which their neighbors lay such stress,
 To their fathers and mothers having risen
 Out of some subterraneous prison
 Into which they were trepanned
 Long time ago in a mighty band
 Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
 But how or why they don't understand.

          XV

 So, Willy, let you and me be wipers
 Of scores out with all men -- especially pipers!
 And, whether pipe us free from rats or from mice,
 If we've promised them ought, let us keep our promise.
-- Robert Browning
This was the first Browning poem I ever read, and it has never ceased to
delight me. The versification is, as always, nothing short of superb, with a
pattering metre well in keeping with the spirit of the fairy tale, and
playfully clever rhymes.

Indeed, I think 'The Pied Piper' comes close to the ideal of what a
childrens' poem should be. It tells a gripping story, and tells it well; the
verse is a pleasure both to memorise and to recite, and perhaps most
importantly, Browning does not write down to his audience. Notice that at no
point has he shied away from the difficult word, the complex construction -
indeed, the poem was responsible for adding several words to my
vocabulary[1].

I wish, though, that Browning had resisted the temptation to add a moral to
the tale. (And it seems anthologists agree - most places I've seen the poem,
the last verse is omitted).

[1] and, more recently, I was reading the poem when I was suddenly struck by
the real meaning of 'outlandish'. Think about it.

Links:

See the previous Browning poems in the Minstrels archive,
<http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/>

Song, from Pippa Passes -- Robert Browning

       
(Poem #133) Song, from Pippa Passes
 The year's at the spring,
 And day's at the morn;
 Morning's at seven;
 The hill-side's dew-pearled;
 The lark's on the wing;
 The snail's on the thorn;
 God's in his Heaven -
 All's right with the world!
-- Robert Browning
Another of Browning's simple but beautiful lyrics. The language is
uncomplicated, simple descriptive statements unadorned by comparison and
unveiled in allusion, yet dense with imagery and wonderfully evocative.
Browning had a marvellous facility for turning cliched images into poetry,
and for finding what is unmistakably the right way to phrase them - as
witnessed by the way this little fragment has enriched the language.

See also the somewhat similar 'Home Thoughts from Abroad', poem #65

The Lost Leader -- Robert Browning

Sorry about the 'Arz kiya hai.....' post, people - it was, as you've
doubtless deduced, someone forging Thomas's address. Anyway, on with the
poem...
(Poem #130) The Lost Leader
 Just for a handful of silver he left us,
   Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
 Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
   Lost all the others she lets us devote;
 They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
   So much was theirs who so little allowed:
 How all our copper had gone for his service!
   Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
 We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
   Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
 Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
   Made him our pattern to live and to die!
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
   Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!
 He alone breaks from the van and the free-men,
   --He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

 We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence;
   Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre;
 Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
   Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:
 Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
   One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod,
 One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,
   One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
 Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
   There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
 Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
   Never glad confident morning again!
 Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
   Menace our heart ere we master his own;
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
   Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
-- Robert Browning
Note: The Dover Thrift Edition offers the note, presumably from the editor,
  Shane Weller, that the poem refers to "William Wordsworth, who, a
  political radical in his early years, became increasingly conservative and
  was named Poet Laureate in 1843."

This is a wonderfully declaimable poem - flowing rhythms, strong masculine
rhymes, a predominantly triple metre, and just enough variation to prevent
monotony. Browning's verse has an energy reminiscent of Kipling's - like the
latter, he attempted to capture the somewhat irregular rhythms of speech,
and integrate them smoothly with the demands of metrical poetry. With, IMHO,
considerable success - his poetry is a joy both to read and to recite.

Background:

  It is generally accepted that the quality of [Wordsworth's] verse fell off
  as he grew more distant from the sources of his inspiration and as his
  Anglican and Tory sentiments hardened into orthodoxy. Today many readers
  discern two Wordsworths, the young Romantic revolutionary and the aging
  Tory humanist, risen into what John Keats called the "Egotistical
  Sublime." Little of Wordsworth's later verse matches the best of his
  earlier years.

        -- EB

Postscripts:

- The theme can be carried another step: see
  <http://library.utoronto.ca/www/utel/rp/poems/stephen8.html>

- There have been other poems in tribute to poets on Minstrels ere this -
  Auden's "In memory of W.B.Yeats" poem #50 and what is surely the
  greatest of the lot, Keat's sublime "On First Looking into Chapman's
  Homer", poem #12

m.

My Last Duchess -- Robert Browning

Guest poem sent in by Pavithra Krishnan
(Poem #104) My Last Duchess
    That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
    Looking as if she were alive. I call
    That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
    Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
    Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
    "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
    Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
    The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
    But to myself they turned (since none puts by
   The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
   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 Duchess' cheek: perhaps
   Frà 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
   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,
   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
   Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
   --E'en then would be some stooping; and I chuse
   Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,
   Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
   Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
   Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
   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
   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.
-- Robert Browning
I think this one is Great. A dramatic monologue and also the aristocratic,
unapologetic explanation of a poikilothermic  murderer. You read this poem
as partial victim of the Duke's chillingly warped sense of reality. This is
not Evil revelling in itself- but Evil masquerading as Righteousness...
Deliciously creepy. The brutal arrogance of the supremely egotistical Duke
and his veneer of consummate refinement are brought out masterfully in that
telling line- "..and I choose/ Never to stoop." The 'inconclusive-ness' of
the piece leaves the reader in horrified suspense (a pretty innovative
decision on Browning's part- the use of open-endings as a technique had yet
to catch on). A virtuoso performance by a fascinating character,an
exquisitely handled script, and a title that is a dangerous revelation in
itself.

Pavithra Krishnan