It is right to say that Mr. Browning has given his kind permission for the publication in the United States of this Selection, and also of the Notes, for which, however, as for the selection itself, he is in no wise responsible.
HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD
Oh, to be in England now that Aprils there,
And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent sprays edge
Thats the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little childrens dower
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey;
Here and here did England help me: how can I help England? say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Joves planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
The former of these companion poems may have been written from Italy or the south of Spain, as would appear from the last line of it. Mr. E. C. Stedman, one of the severest of Brownings appreciative critics, commenting (in his Victorian Poets) on the lines beginning Thats the wise thrush, says: Having in mind Shakespeare and Shelley, I nevertheless think these three lines the finest ever written touching the song of a bird.
In the latter poem, the course is from the southern point of Portugal through the Straits. Here and here the reference is to the battles of Cape St. Vincent (1796) and Trafalgar (1805), and perhaps to the defence of Gibraltar (1782).
HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD
NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.
[16 .]II 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 girths 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 thro 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 upwards 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 buffcoat, 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 voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.
The indefiniteness of the date at the head of this poem will be best explained by the following extract from a letter of Mr. Brownings, published in 1881 in the Boston Literary World:
There is no sort of historical foundation about Good News From Ghent. I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse York, then in my stable at home.
This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages no page in particular of Motley.
As parallels in American literature, reference may be made to Paul Reveres Ride, by Longfellow, and Sheridans Ride, by T. B. Reade.
ECHETLOS
Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone,
Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on,
Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon!
No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away
In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down was the spear-arm play:
Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day!
But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear,
As a flashing came and went, and a form i the van, the rear,
Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.
Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear,
Like a tiller of the soil, with a clowns limbs broad and bare,
Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughmans share.
Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark
Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark
On his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch?
Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need,
The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed,
As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede.
But the deed done, battle won, nowhere to be descried
On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, look far and wide
From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side,
Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown,
Shearing and clearing still with the share before which down
To the dust went Persias pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown!
How spake the Oracle? Care for no name at all!
Say but just this: We praise one helpful whom we call
The Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed neer grows small.
Not the great name! Sing woe for the great name Míltiadés,
And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles
Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!
The name, Echetlos, is derived from χτλη, a plough handle. It is not strictly a proper name, but an appellative, meaning the Holder of the Ploughshare. The story is found in Pausanias, author of the Itinerary of Greece (1, 15, 32). Nothing further is necessary in order to understand this little poem and appreciate its rugged strength than familiarity with the battle of Marathon, and some knowledge of Miltiades and Themistocles, the one known as the hero of Marathon, and the other as the hero of Salamis. The lesson of the poem (The great deed neer grows small, not the great name!) is taught in a way not likely to be forgotten. One is reminded of another, who wished to be nameless, heard only as the voice of one crying in the wilderness!
The name, Echetlos, is derived from χτλη, a plough handle. It is not strictly a proper name, but an appellative, meaning the Holder of the Ploughshare. The story is found in Pausanias, author of the Itinerary of Greece (1, 15, 32). Nothing further is necessary in order to understand this little poem and appreciate its rugged strength than familiarity with the battle of Marathon, and some knowledge of Miltiades and Themistocles, the one known as the hero of Marathon, and the other as the hero of Salamis. The lesson of the poem (The great deed neer grows small, not the great name!) is taught in a way not likely to be forgotten. One is reminded of another, who wished to be nameless, heard only as the voice of one crying in the wilderness!
The ellipsis in thought between the eighth and ninth stanzas is so easily supplied that it is noticed here only as a simple illustration of what is sometimes the occasion of difficulty (see Introduction, p. iii). It would only have lengthened the poem and weakened it to have inserted a stanza telling in so many words that when the hero could not be found, a message was sent to the Oracle to enquire who it could be.
As a companion to Echetlos may be read the stirring poem of Hervé Riel.
HELENS TOWER
λνη π πργWho hears of Helens Tower, may dream perchance,
How the Greek Beauty from the Scæan Gate
Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate,
Death-doomd because of her fair countenance.
Hearts would leap otherwise, at thy advance,
Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate:
Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate,
Yet, unlike hers, was blessd by every glance.
The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange:
A transitory shame of long ago,
It dies into the sand from which it sprang:
But thine, Loves rock-built Tower, shall fear no change:
Gods self laid stable Earths foundations so,
When all the morning-stars together sang.
The tower is one built by Lord Dufferin, in memory of his mother Helen, Countess of Gifford, on one of his estates in Ireland. The Greek Beauty is, of course, Helen of Troy, and the reference in the alternative heading is apparently to that fine passage in the third book of the Iliad, where Helen meets the Trojan chiefs at the Scæan Gate (see line 154, which speaks of Helen at the Tower).
On the last two lines, founded of course on the well-known passage in Job (xxxviii. 4-7), compare Dante:
E il sol montava in su con quelle stelle
Cheran con lui, quando lAmor Divino
Mosse da prima quelle cose belle.
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars
That with him rose, when Love Divine first moved
Those its fair works.
Inferno I. 38-40.
SHOP
ISo, friend, your shop was all your house!
Its front, astonishing the street,
Invited view from man and mouse
To what diversity of treat
Behind its glass the single sheet!
What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:
Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:
Queer names, too, such a catalogue!
I thought And he who owns the wealth
Which blocks the windows vastitude,
Ah, could I peep at him by stealth
Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude
On house itself, what scenes were viewed!
If wide and showy thus the shop,
What must the habitation prove?
The true house with no name a-top
The mansion, distant one remove,
Once get him off his traffic groove!
Pictures he likes, or books perhaps;
And as for buying most and best,
Commend me to these city chaps.
Or else hes social, takes his rest
On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.
Some suburb-palace, parked about
And gated grandly, built last year:
The four-mile walk to keep off gout;
Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer:
But then he takes the rail, thats clear.
Or, stop! I wager, taste selects
Some out o the way, some all-unknown
Retreat: the neighbourhood suspects
Little that he who rambles lone
Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!
Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence
Fit to receive and entertain,
Nor Hampstead villas kind defence
From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,
Nor country-box was souls domain!
Nowise! At back of all that spread
Of merchandize, woes me, I find
A hole i the wall where, heels by head,
The owner couched, his ware behind,
In cupboard suited to his mind.
For, why? He saw no use of life
But, while he drove a roaring trade,
To chuckle Customers are rife!
To chafe So much hard cash outlaid
Yet zero in my profits made!
This novelty costs pains, but takes?
Cumbers my counter! Stock no more!
This article, no such great shakes,
Fizzes like wild fire? Underscore
The cheap thing thousands to the fore!
Twas lodging best to live most nigh
(Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be)
Receipt of Custom; ear and eye
Wanted no outworld: Hear and see
The bustle in the shop! quoth he.
My fancy of a merchant-prince
Was different. Through his wares we groped
Our darkling way to not to mince
The matter no black den where moped
The master if we interloped!
Shop was shop only: household-stuff?
What did he want with comforts there?
Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough,
So goods on sale show rich and rare!
Sell and scud home, be shops affair!
What might he deal in? Gems, suppose!
Since somehow business must be done
At cost of trouble, see, he throws
You choice of jewels, everyone
Good, better, best, star, moon and sun!
Which lies within your power of purse?
This ruby that would tip aright
Solomons sceptre? Oh, your nurse
Wants simply coral, the delight
Of teething baby, stuff to bite!
Howeer your choice fell, straight you took
Your purchase, prompt your money rang
On counter, scarce the man forsook
His study of the Times, just swang
Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,
Then off made buyer with a prize,
Then seller to his Times returned,
And so did day wear, wear, till eyes
Brightened apace, for rest was earned:
He locked door long ere candle burned.
And whither went he? Ask himself,
Not me! To change of scene, I think.
Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf,
Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink,
Nor all his music money-chink.
Because a man has shop to mind
In time and place, since flesh must live,
Needs spirit lack all life behind,
All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive,
All loves except what trade can give?
I want to know a butcher paints,
A baker rhymes for his pursuit,
Candlestick-maker much acquaints
His soul with song, or, haply mute,
Blows out his brains upon the flute!
But shop each day and all day long!
Friend, your good angel slept, your star
Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!
From where these sorts of treasures are,
There should our hearts be Christ, how far!
There ought to be far more in a man than can be put into a front window. This man had all sorts of curios in his shop window, but there was nothing rich or rare in his soul; and so there was room for all of him in a den which would not have held the hundredth part of his wares. The contemptible manner of the mans life is strikingly brought out by the various suppositions (stanzas 5, 6, 7) so different from the poor reality (8-9). All he cared for was business, which made him chuckle on the one hand or chafe on the other, according as times were good or bad (10). Even in his business it was not the real excellence of his wares he cared for, only their saleability (11). A merchant prince is a very different person (13-19). The last three stanzas give the lesson in a style partly humorous, but passing in the end to an impressive solemnity.