How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix by Robert Browning COMPLIMENTS OF WIKISOURCE I have an old essay written by a lad of fourteen years on How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. I should judge from this essay that any boy at that age would like the poem, even if he had not himself been over the ground as this boy had. (1812-89.) I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; Good speed! cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew; Speed! echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girth tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffeld, twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, So Joris broke silence with, Yet there is time! At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eyes black intelligence,—ever that glance Oer its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the faults not in her, Well remember at Aix—for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And Gallop, gasped Joris, for Aix is in sight! How theyll greet us!—and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets rim. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is—friends flocking round As I sat with his head twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voting by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought the good news from Ghent. Pictor Ignotus by Robert Browning 1845 ;Florence, 15— I could have painted pictures like that youths Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar Stayed me—ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! —Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night with all my gift Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan 10 The license and the limit, space and bound, Allowed to truth made visible in man. And like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Over the canvas could my hand have flung, Each face obedient to its passions law, Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Pull down the nesting doves heart to its place; 20 Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,— O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going—I, in each new picture,—forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly-satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, 30 Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!— Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earths every man my friend,— The thought grew frightful, twas so wildly dear! 40 But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites! This world seemed not the world it was before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped ...Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me...enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, 50 Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,—This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less! Wherefore I choose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint, 60 With the same cold calm beautiful regard,— At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuarys gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, They moulder on the damp walls travertine, Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! O youth, men praise so—holds their praise its worth? 70 Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth? The Italian in England by Robert Browning That second time they hunted me From hill to plain, from shore to sea, And Austria, hounding far and wide Her blood-hounds thro the country-side, Breathed hot and instant on my trace,-- I made six days a hiding-place Of that dry green old aqueduct Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked The fire-flies from the roof above, Bright creeping thro the moss they love: --How long it seems since Charles was lost! Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed The country in my very sight; And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismay With signal fires; well, there I lay Close covered oer in my recess, Up to the neck in ferns and cress, Thinking on Metternich our friend, And Charless miserable end, And much beside, two days; the third, Hunger overcame me when I heard The peasants from the village go To work among the maize; you know, With us in Lombardy, they bring Provisions packed on mules, a string With little bells that cheer their task, And casks, and boughs on every cask To keep the suns heat from the wine; These I let pass in jingling line, And, close on them, dear noisy crew, The peasants from the village, too; For at the very rear would troop Their wives and sisters in a group To help, I knew. When these had passed, I threw my glove to strike the last, Taking the chance: she did not start, Much less cry out, but stooped apart, One instant rapidly glanced round, And saw me beckon from the ground. A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; She picked my glove up while she stripped A branch off, then rejoined the rest With that; my glove lay in her breast. Then I drew breath; they disappeared: It was for Italy I feared. An hour, and she returned alone Exactly where my glove was thrown. Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me Rested the hopes of Italy. I had devised a certain tale Which, when twas told her, could not fail Persuade a peasant of its truth; I meant to call a freak of youth This hiding, and give hopes of pay, And no temptation to betray. But when I saw that womans face, Its calm simplicity of grace, Our Italys own attitude In which she walked thus far, and stood, Planting each naked foot so firm, To crush the snake and spare the worm-- At first sight of her eyes, I said, I am that man upon whose head They fix the price, because I hate The Austrians over us: the State Will give you gold--oh, gold so much! If you betray me to their clutch, And be your death, for aught I know, If once they find you saved their foe. Now, you must bring me food and drink, And also paper, pen and ink, And carry safe what I shall write To Padua, which youll reach at night Before the duomo shuts; go in, And wait till Tenebrae begin; Walk to the third confessional, Between the pillar and the wall, And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace? Say it a second time, then cease; And if the voice inside returns, From Christ and Freedom; what concerns The cause of Peace?--for answer, slip My letter where you placed your lip; Then come back happy we have done Our mother service--I, the son, As you the daughter of our land! Three mornings more, she took her stand In the same place, with the same eyes: I was no surer of sun-rise Than of her coming. We conferred Of her own prospects, and I heard She had a lover--stout and tall, She said--then let her eyelids fall, He could do much--as if some doubt Entered her heart,--then, passing out She could not speak for others, who Had other thoughts; herself she knew, And so she brought me drink and food. After four days, the scouts pursued Another path; at last arrived The help my Paduan friends contrived To furnish me: she brought the news. For the first time I could not choose But kiss her hand, and lay my own Upon her head--This faith was shown To Italy, our mother; she Uses my hand and blesses thee. She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more. How very long since I have thought Concerning--much less wished for--aught Beside the good of Italy, For which I live and mean to die! I never was in love; and since Charles proved false, what shall now convince My inmost heart I have a friend? However, if I pleased to spend Real wishes on myself--say, three-- I know at least what one should be. I would grasp Metternich until I felt his red wet throat distil In blood thro these two hands. And next, --Nor much for that am I perplexed-- Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, Should die slow of a broken heart Under his new employers. Last --Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast Do I grow old and out of strength. If I resolved to seek at length My fathers house again, how scared They all would look, and unprepared! My brothers live in Austrias pay --Disowned me long ago, men say; And all my early mates who used To praise me so-perhaps induced More than one early step of mine-- Are turning wise: while some opine Freedom grows license, some suspect Haste breeds delay, and recollect They always said, such premature Beginnings never could endure! So, with a sullen Alls for best, The land seems settling to its rest. I think then, I should wish to stand This evening in that dear, lost land, Over the sea the thousand miles, And know if yet that woman smiles With the calm smile; some little farm She lives in there, no doubt: what harm If I sat on the door-side bench, And, while her spindle made a trench Fantastically in the dust, Inquired of all her fortunes--just Her childrens ages and their names, And what may be the husbands aims For each of them. Id talk this out, And sit there, for an hour about, Then kiss her hand once more, and lay Mine on her head, and go my way. So much for idle wishing--how It steals the time! To business now. NOTES: The Italian in England. An Italian patriot who has taken part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian dominance, reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life helped him to escape. Though there is no exact historical incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a historical background. The Charles referred to (lines 8, 11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of the younger branch of the house of Savoy. His having played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he made his secretary. As indicated in the poem, Charles at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin. But when the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the new government, Charles Albert succumbed to the kings threats and left his friends in the lurch. Later the Austrians marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged to fly from Italy. 19. Metternich: the distinguished Austrian diplomatist and determined enemy of Italian independence. 76. Tenebrae: darkness. The office of matins and lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week. Fifteen lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle is left at the top of the triangle. The extinction of the other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the world at the time of the Crucifixion. The last candle (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death could not prevail. (Dr. Berdoe)
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 21:16:05 +0000
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