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Pomegranates from an English Garden
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TOUCH HIM NE’ER SO LIGHTLY
“Touch him ne’er so lightly, into song he broke:
Soil so quick-receptive, – not one feather-seed,
Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke
Vitalizing Virtue: song would song succeed
Sudden as spontaneous – prove a poet-soul!”
Indeed?
Rock’s the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:
Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage
Vainly both expend, – few flowers awaken there:
Quiet in its cleft broods – what the after age
Knows and names a pine, a nation’s heritage.
These lines appeared first as the Epilogue to the second series of Dramatic Idyls, published in 1880. In October of the same year, the poet wrote, in the Album of a young American lady, a sequel to them, which appeared (in fac-simile) in the Century Magazine of November, 1882. They are given here, with the kind consent of the publishers of that magazine: —
Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,
Poets dead and gone: and lo, the critics cried
“Out on such a boast!” – as if I dreamed that fetters
Binding Dante, bind up – me! as if true pride
Were not also humble!
So I smiled and sighed
As I ope’d your book in Venice this bright morning,
Sweet new friend of mine! and felt tho’ clay or sand —
Whatsoe’er my soil be, – break – for praise or scorning —
Out in grateful fancies – weeds, but weeds expand
Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand!
POPULARITY
I
Stand still, true poet that you are!
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you’ll fail us: when afar
You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!
II
My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extend
That loving hand of His which leads you,
Yet locks you safe from end to end
Of this dark world, unless He needs you,
Just saves your light to spend?
III
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,
I know, and let out all the beauty:
My poet holds the future fast,
Accepts the coming ages’ duty,
Their present for this past.
IV
That day, the earth’s feast-master’s brow
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;
“Others give best at first, but Thou
“Forever set’st our table praising,
“Keep’st the good wine till now!”
V
Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,
With few or none to watch and wonder:
I’ll say – a fisher, on the sand
By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,
A netful, brought to land.
VI
Who has not heard how Tyrian shells
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes
Whereof one drop worked miracles,
And coloured like Astarte’s eyes
Raw silk the merchant sells?
VII
And each bystander of them all
Could criticize, and quote tradition
How depths of blue sublimed some pall
– To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;
Worth sceptre, crown and ball.
VIII
Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,
The sea has only just o’er-whispered!
Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,
As if they still the water’s lisp heard
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.
IX
Enough to furnish Solomon
Such hangings for his cedar-house,
“Touch him ne’er so lightly, into song he broke:
Soil so quick-receptive, – not one feather-seed,
Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke
Vitalizing Virtue: song would song succeed
Sudden as spontaneous – prove a poet-soul!”
Indeed?
Rock’s the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:
Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage
Vainly both expend, – few flowers awaken there:
Quiet in its cleft broods – what the after age
Knows and names a pine, a nation’s heritage.
These lines appeared first as the Epilogue to the second series of Dramatic Idyls, published in 1880. In October of the same year, the poet wrote, in the Album of a young American lady, a sequel to them, which appeared (in fac-simile) in the Century Magazine of November, 1882. They are given here, with the kind consent of the publishers of that magazine: —
Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,
Poets dead and gone: and lo, the critics cried
“Out on such a boast!” – as if I dreamed that fetters
Binding Dante, bind up – me! as if true pride
Were not also humble!
So I smiled and sighed
As I ope’d your book in Venice this bright morning,
Sweet new friend of mine! and felt tho’ clay or sand —
Whatsoe’er my soil be, – break – for praise or scorning —
Out in grateful fancies – weeds, but weeds expand
Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand!
POPULARITY
I
Stand still, true poet that you are!
I know you; let me try and draw you.
Some night you’ll fail us: when afar
You rise, remember one man saw you,
Knew you, and named a star!
II
My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extend
That loving hand of His which leads you,
Yet locks you safe from end to end
Of this dark world, unless He needs you,
Just saves your light to spend?
III
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,
I know, and let out all the beauty:
My poet holds the future fast,
Accepts the coming ages’ duty,
Their present for this past.
IV
That day, the earth’s feast-master’s brow
Shall clear, to God the chalice raising;
“Others give best at first, but Thou
“Forever set’st our table praising,
“Keep’st the good wine till now!”
V
Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,
With few or none to watch and wonder:
I’ll say – a fisher, on the sand
By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,
A netful, brought to land.
VI
Who has not heard how Tyrian shells
Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes
Whereof one drop worked miracles,
And coloured like Astarte’s eyes
Raw silk the merchant sells?
VII
And each bystander of them all
Could criticize, and quote tradition
How depths of blue sublimed some pall
– To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;
Worth sceptre, crown and ball.
VIII
Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,
The sea has only just o’er-whispered!
Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,
As if they still the water’s lisp heard
Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.
IX
Enough to furnish Solomon
Such hangings for his cedar-house,
Другие электронные книги автора Robert Browning
Последний отзыв
Книгу прочитать не могу, везде ЛитРес свой нос сунул, как и где скачать полную версию бесплатно!?!?