Pomegranates from an English Garden - Robert Browning 3 стр.

Morning, evening, noon and night,
Praise God! sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;
Oer his work the boys curls fell.

But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, Praise God!

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Popes great way.

This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peters dome.

Said Theocrite, Would God that I
Might praise Him, that great way, and die!

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight.

Then Gabriel, like a rainbows birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the striplings hue:

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

And ever oer the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did Gods will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:

So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.

Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss my little human praise.

Then forth sprang Gabriels wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

Twas Easter Day: He flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peters dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And, rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

I bore thee from thy craftsmans cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year.

Thy voices praise seemed weak; it dropped
Creations chorus stopped!

Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain.

With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creations pausing strain.

Back to the cell and poor employ:
Resume the craftsman and the boy!

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peters dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, Good folk, mere noise repels
But give me your sun from yonder skies!
They had answered And afterward, what else?

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Nought man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

Theres nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles Gate or, better yet,
By the very scaffolds foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind,
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my years misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me? God might question; now instead,
Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, Good folk, mere noise repels
But give me your sun from yonder skies!
They had answered And afterward, what else?

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Nought man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

Theres nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles Gate or, better yet,
By the very scaffolds foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind,
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my years misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me? God might question; now instead,
Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

Of the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,
One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.

I struck him, he grovelled of course
For, what was his force?
I pinned him to earth with my weight
And persistence of hate;
And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,
As his lot might be worse.

Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand!
For obscurity helps him, and blots
The hole where he squats.
So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw
Still he couched there perdue;
I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,
Choicest cates and the flagons best spilth
Still he kept to his filth.

Had he kith now or kin, were access
To his heart, did I press
Just a son or a mother to seize!
No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue
Mid my million or two,
Who could pay me, in person or pelf,
What he owes me himself!
No: I could not but smile through my chafe:
For the fellow lay safe
As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
 Through minuteness, to wit.

Then a humour more great took its place
At the thought of his face:
The droop, the low cares of the mouth,
The trouble uncouth
Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain
To put out of its pain.
And, no! I admonished myself,
Is one mocked by an elf,
Is one baffled by toad or by rat?
The gravamens in that!
How the lion, who crouches to suit
His back to my foot,
Would admire that I stand in debate!
But the small turns the great
If it vexes you,  that is the thing!
Toad or rat vex the king?
Though I waste half my realm to unearth
Toad or rat, tis well worth!

So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break
Ran my fires for his sake;
Over-head, did my thunder combine
With my under-ground mine:
Till I looked from my labour content
To enjoy the event.

When sudden how think ye, the end?
Did I say without friend?
Say rather from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the suns self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see! Just my vengeance complete,
The man sprang to his feet,
Stood erect, caught at Gods skirts, and prayed!
 So, I was afraid!