Browning's Shorter Poems Part 11

SUMMUM BONUM

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee: All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem: In the core of one pearl all the shade and the s.h.i.+ne of the sea: Breath and bloom, shade and s.h.i.+ne,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them-- Truth, that's brighter than gem, Trust, that's purer than pearl,-- Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me In the kiss of one girl.

A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers Painted upon a background of pure gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!

No shade encroaching on the matchless mould Of those two lips, which should be opening soft In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.

Then her little neck, three fingers might surround, How it should waver on the pale gold ground Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

I know, Correggio loves to ma.s.s, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: But these are only ma.s.sed there, I should think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

SONGS FROM PIPPA Pa.s.sES

Day!

Faster and more fast, O'er night's brim, day boils at last: Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim.

Where spurting and suppressed it lay, For not a froth-flake touched the rim Of yonder gap in the solid gray Of the eastern cloud, an hour away; But forth one wavelet, then another, curled, Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 10 Rose, reddened, and its seething breast Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

All service ranks the same with G.o.d: If now, as formerly He trod Paradise, His presence fills Our earth, each only as G.o.d wills Can work--G.o.d's puppets, best and worst, Are we: there is no last nor first.

The year's at the spring And day's at the morn: 20 Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: G.o.d's in His heaven-- All's right with the world!

Give her but a least excuse to love me!

When--where-- How--can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 30 There already, to eternally reprove me?

("Hist!"--said Kate the queen; But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Crumbling your hounds their messes!")

Is she wronged?--To the rescue of her honour, My heart!

Is she poor?--What costs it to be styled a donor?

Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!

("Nay, list!"--bade Kate the queen; 41 And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, "'Tis only a page that carols unseen, Fitting your hawks their jesses!")

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, 10 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, 13 Burns, Sh.e.l.ley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! 14 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering--not through 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: 20 Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to G.o.d!

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; 30 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."

--_Paris Newspaper_.

No, for I'll save it! Seven years since I pa.s.sed through Paris, stopped a day To see the baptism of your Prince, 3 Saw, made my bow, and went my way: Walking the heat and headache off, I took the Seine-side, you surmise, Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff, 7 Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, 8 So sauntered till--what met my eyes?

Only the Doric little Morgue! 10 The dead-house where you show your drowned: Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue, 12 Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.

One pays one's debt in such a case; 14 I plucked up heart and entered,--stalked, Keeping a tolerable face Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked: Let them! No Briton's to be balked!

First came the silent gazers; next, A screen of gla.s.s, we're thankful for; 20 Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text, The three men who did most abhor Their life in Paris yesterday, So killed themselves: and now, enthroned Each on his copper couch, they lay Fronting me, waiting to be owned.

I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.

Poor men, G.o.d made, and all for that!

The reverence struck me; o'er each head Religiously was hung its hat, 30 Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, Sacred from touch: each had his berth, His bounds, his proper place of rest, Who last night tenanted on earth Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,-- Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

How did it happen, my poor boy?

You wanted to be Buonaparte And have the Tuileries for toy, 39 And could not, so it broke your heart? 40 You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller! Does the Empire grudge You've gained what no Republic missed?

Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

And this--why, he was red in vain, Or black,--poor fellow that is blue! 47 What fancy was it, turned your brain?

Oh, women were the prize for you!

Money gets women, cards and dice 50 Get money, and ill-luck gets just The copper couch and one clear nice Cool squirt of water o'er your bust, The right thing to extinguish l.u.s.t!

It's wiser being good than bad; It's safer being meek than fierce: It's fitter being sane than mad.

My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That, after Last, returns the First, 60 Tho' a wide compa.s.s round be fetched; That what began best, can't end worst, Nor what G.o.d blessed once, prove accurst.