The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning

each white eye horror-fixed.

       His people, who had witnessed all afar,

       Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos.

       But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced,

       (Indomitable as a man foredoomed)

       That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer,

       I, in a flood of glory visible,

       Stood o’er my dying votary, and deed

       By deed revealed, as all took place, the truth.

       Then Theseus lay the woefullest of men,

       And worthily; but ere the death-veils hid

       His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed

       To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai wails.

       So, I who ne’er forsake my votaries,

       Lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake

       Should tender, nor pour out the dog’s hot life;

       Lest at my fain the priests disconsolate

       Should dress my image with some faded poor

       Few crowns, made favours of, nor dare object

       Such slackness to my worshippers who turn

       The trusting heart and loaded hand elsewhere

       As they had climbed Oulumpos to report

       Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne —

       I interposed: and, this eventful night,

       While round the funeral pyre the populace

       Stood with fierce light on their black robes that blind

       Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped

       O’er the dead body of their withered prince,

       And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated

       On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab

       ’Twas bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief —

       As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed,

       Sending a crowd of sparkles thro’ the night,

       And the gay fire, elate with mastery,

       Towered like a serpent o’er the clotted jars

       Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense,

       And splendid gums, like gold, — my potency

       Conveyed the perished man to my retreat

       In the thrice venerable forest here.

       And this white-bearded Sage who squeezes now

       The berried plant, is Phoibos’ son of fame,

       Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught

       The doctrine of each herb and flower and root,

       To know their secret’st virtue and express

       The saving soul of all — who so has soothed

       With lavers the torn brow and murdered cheeks,

       Composed the hair and brought its gloss again,

       And called the red bloom to the pale skin back,

       And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh

       Even once more, and slacked the sinew’s knot

       Of every tortured limb — that now he lies

       As if mere sleep possessed him underneath

       These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh, cheer,

       Divine presenter of the healing rod

       Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye,

       Twines his lithe spires around! I say, much cheer!

       Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies!

       And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs,

       Ply, as the Sage directs, these buds and leaves

       That strew the turf around the Twain! While I

       Await, in fitting silence, the event.

      Waring

       Table of Contents

      I.

      WHAT’S become of Waring

       Since he gave us all the slip,

       Chose land-travel or seafaring,

       Boots and chest or staff and scrip,

       Rather than pace up and down

       Any longer London town?

      II.

      Who’d have guessed it from his lip

       Or his brow’s accustomed bearing,

       On the night he thus took ship

       Or started landward? — little caring

       For us, it seems, who supped together

       (Friends of his too, I remember)

       And walked home thro’ the merry weather,

       The snowiest in all December.

       I left his arm that night myself

       For what’s-his-name’s, the new prose-poet

       Who wrote the book there, on the shelf —

       How, forsooth, was I to know it

       If Waring meant to glide away

       Like a ghost at break of day?

       Never looked he half so gay!

      III.

      He was prouder than the devil:

       How he must have cursed our revel!

       Ay and many other meetings,

       Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,

       As up and down he paced this London,

       With no work done, but great works undone,

       Where scarce twenty knew his name.

       Why not, then, have earlier spoken,

       Written, bustled? Who’s to blame

       If your silence kept unbroken?

       “True, but there were sundry jottings,

       “Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings,

       “Certain first steps were achieved

       “Already which” — (is that your meaning?)

       “Had well borne out whoe’er believed

       “In more to come!” But who goes gleaning

       Hedgeside chance-glades, while full-sheaved

       Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o’erweening

       Pride alone, puts forth such claims

       O’er the day’s distinguished names.

      IV.

      Meantime, how much I loved him,

       I find out now I’ve lost him.

       I who cared not if I moved him,

       Who could so carelessly accost him,

       Henceforth never shall get free

       Of his ghostly company,

       His eyes that just a little wink

       As deep I go into the merit

       Of this and that distinguished spirit —

       His cheeks’ raised colour, soon to sink,

       As long I dwell on some stupendous