Sordello. Robert Browning

rarely the serene cloud where he dwells Whose looks enjoin, whose lightest words are spells On the obdurate! That right arm indeed Has thunder for its slave; but where 's the need Of thunder if the stricken multitude Hearkens, arrested in its angriest mood, While songs go up exulting, then dispread, Dispart, disperse, lingering overhead Like an escape of angels? 'T is the tune, Nor much unlike the words his women croon Smilingly, colourless and faint-designed Each, as a worn-out queen's face some remind Of her extreme youth's love-tales. "Eglamor "Made that!" Half minstrel and half emperor, What but ill objects vexed him? Such he slew. The kinder sort were easy to subdue By those ambrosial glances, dulcet tones; And these a gracious hand advanced to thrones Beneath him. Wherefore twist and torture this, Striving to name afresh the antique bliss, Instead of saying, neither less nor more, He had discovered, as our world before, Apollo? That shall be the name; nor bid Me rag by rag expose how patchwork hid The youth—what thefts of every clime and day Contributed to purfle the array He climbed with (June at deep) some close ravine Mid clatter of its million pebbles sheen, Over which, singing soft, the runnel slipped Elate with rains: into whose streamlet dipped He foot, yet trod, you thought, with unwet sock— Though really on the stubs of living rock Ages ago it crenelled; vines for roof, Lindens for wall; before him, aye aloof, Flittered in the cool some azure damsel-fly, Born of the simmering quiet, there to die. Emerging whence, Apollo still, he spied Mighty descents of forest; multiplied Tuft on tuft, here, the frolic myrtle-trees, There gendered the grave maple stocks at ease. And, proud of its observer, straight the wood Tried old surprises on him; black it stood A sudden barrier ('twas a cloud passed o'er) So dead and dense, the tiniest brute no more Must pass; yet presently (the cloud dispatched) Each clump, behold, was glistering detached A shrub, oak-boles shrunk into ilex-stems! Yet could not he denounce the stratagems He saw thro', till, hours thence, aloft would hang White summer-lightnings; as it sank and sprang To measure, that whole palpitating breast Of heaven, 't was Apollo, nature prest At eve to worship. Time stole: by degrees The Pythons perish off; his votaries Sink to respectful distance; songs redeem Their pains, but briefer; their dismissals seem Emphatic; only girls are very slow To disappear—his Delians! Some that glow O' the instant, more with earlier loves to wrench Away, reserves to quell, disdains to quench; Alike in one material circumstance— All soon or late adore Apollo! Glance The bevy through, divine Apollo's choice, His Daphne! "We secure Count Richard's voice "In Este's counsels, good for Este's ends "As our Taurello," say his faded friends, "By granting him our Palma!"—the sole child, They mean, of Agnes Este who beguiled Ecelin, years before this Adelaide Wedded and turned him wicked: "but the maid "Rejects his suit," those sleepy women boast. She, scorning all beside, deserves the most Sordello: so, conspicuous in his world Of dreams sat Palma. How the tresses curled Into a sumptuous swell of gold and wound About her like a glory! even the ground Was bright as with spilt sunbeams; breathe not, breathe Not!—poised, see, one leg doubled underneath, Its small foot buried in the dimpling snow, Rests, but the other, listlessly below, O'er the couch-side swings feeling for cool air, The vein-streaks swollen a richer violet where The languid blood lies heavily; yet calm On her slight prop, each flat and outspread palm, As but suspended in the act to rise By consciousness of beauty, whence her eyes Turn with so frank a triumph, for she meets Apollo's gaze in the pine glooms. Time fleets: That 's worst! Because the pre-appointed age Approaches. Fate is tardy with the stage And crowd she promised. Lean he grows and pale, Though restlessly at rest. Hardly avail Fancies to soothe him. Time steals, yet alone He tarries here! The earnest smile is gone. How long this might continue matters not; —For ever, possibly; since to the spot None come: our lingering Taurello quits Mantua at last, and light our lady flits Back to her place disburthened of a care. Strange—to be constant here if he is there! Is it distrust? Oh, never! for they both Goad Ecelin alike, Romano's growth Is daily manifest, with Azzo dumb And Richard wavering: let but Friedrich come, Find matter for the minstrelsy's report —Lured from the Isle and its young Kaiser's court To sing us a Messina morning up, And, double rillet of a drinking cup, Sparkle along to ease the land of drouth, Northward to Provence that, and thus far south The other! What a method to apprise Neighbours of births, espousals, obsequies, Which in their very tongue the Troubadour Records! and his performance makes a tour, For Trouveres bear the miracle about, Explain its cunning to the vulgar rout, Until the Formidable House is famed Over the country—as Taurello aimed, Who introduced, although the rest adopt, The novelty. Such games, her absence stopped, Begin afresh now Adelaide, recluse No longer, in the light of day pursues Her plans at Mantua: whence an accident Which, breaking on Sordello's mixed content Opened, like any flash that cures the blind, The veritable business of mankind.