Delphi Complete Works of Robert Browning (Illustrated) E-Book

Robert Browning

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 6350

Beschreibung

The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete works of Robert Browning, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (9MB Version 1)
* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Browning's life and works
* Concise introductions to the poetry and other works
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* The complete poetic plays, with rare works often missed out of collections
* Includes Browning's letters - spend hours exploring the poet's personal correspondence with his beloved wife Elizabeth Barrett
* Features three biographies - discover Browning's literary life
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres
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CONTENTS:
The Poetry Collections
PAULINE: A FRAGMENT OF A CONFESSION
SORDELLO
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. III: DRAMATIC LYRICS
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. VII: DRAMATIC ROMANCES AND LYRICS
CHRISTMAS-EVE AND EASTER-DAY
MEN AND WOMEN
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
THE RING AND THE BOOK
BALAUSTIONS ADVENTURE
PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU, SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY
FIFINE AT THE FAIR
RED COTTON NIGHT-CAP COUNTRY
ARISTOPHANES APOLOGY
THE INN ALBUM
PACCHIAROTTO, AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER
LA SAISIAZ AND THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC
DRAMATIC IDYLLS
DRAMATIC IDYLLS: SECOND SERIES
JOCOSERIA
FERISHTAHS FANCIES
PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE IN THEIR DAY
ASOLANDO
The Poems
LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
The Plays
PARACELSUS
STRAFFORD
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. I: PIPPA PASSES
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. II: KING VICTOR AND KING CHARLES
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. IV: THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. V: A BLOT IN THE SCUTCHEON
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. VI: COLOMBES BIRTHDAY
BELLS AND POMEGRANATES NO. VIII: LURIA AND A SOULS TRAGEDY
HERAKLES
THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLUS
The Letters
LIST OF LETTERS FROM 1845 TO 1846
The Biographies
Robert Browning by G.K. Chesterton
LIFE OF Robert Browning by William Sharp
LIFE AND LETTERS OF Robert Browning by Mrs. Sutherland Orr
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Leseprobe

Robert Browning

(1812–1889)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession

Sordello

Bells and Pomegranates No. III: Dramatic Lyrics

Bells and Pomegranates No. VII: Dramatic Romances and Lyrics

Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day

Men and Women

Dramatis Personae

The Ring and the Book

Balaustion’s Adventure

Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Fifine at the Fair

Red Cotton Night-Cap Country

Aristophanes’ Apology

The Inn Album

Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper

La Saisiaz and the Two Poets of Croisic

Dramatic Idylls

Dramatic Idylls: Second Series

Jocoseria

Ferishtah’s Fancies

Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in Their Day

Asolando

The Poems

List of Poems in Chronological Order

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Plays

Paracelsus

Strafford

Bells and Pomegranates No. I: Pippa Passes

Bells and Pomegranates No. II: King Victor and King Charles

Bells and Pomegranates No. IV: The Return of the Druses

Bells and Pomegranates No. V: A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon

Bells and Pomegranates No. VI: Colombe’s Birthday

Bells and Pomegranates No. VIII: Luria and a Soul’s Tragedy

Herakles

The Agamemnon of Aeschylus

The Letters

List of Letters from 1845 to 1846

The Biographies

Robert Browning by G.K. Chesterton

Life of Robert Browning by William Sharp

Life and Letters of Robert Browning by Mrs. Sutherland Orr

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

©Delphi Classics 2012

Version 1

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Robert Browning

By Delphi Classics, 2012

COPYRIGHT

Robert Browning - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2012 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2012.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

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United Kingdom

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Explore the world of the Victorians at Delphi Classics

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

Southampton Way, Camberwell, London — Browning’s birthplace

A plaque marking the site of the cottage where the poet was born

Southampton Way in 1904

Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession

Due to his mastery of dramatic verse, particularly excelling in the composition of dramatic monologues, Robert Browning (1812-1889) became one of the foremost poets of the Victorian Age.  Born in Camberwell, South London, Browning enjoyed a secure upbringing, his father being a well-paid clerk for the Bank of England, as well as a literary collector, who amassed a library of over 6,000 books, many of them being rare works. Therefore, Robert was immersed in literature from a young age, his father, as well as his mother, a talented musician, encouraging his interest in literature and the arts.

By the age of twelve, Browning had written a book of poetry, which he later destroyed when no publisher could be found. After attending two private schools, revealing an overwhelming dislike for school life, he was educated at home by a tutor, aided also by his father’s extensive library. Aged fourteen, he was fluent in French, Greek, Italian and Latin. He became a great admirer of the Romantic poets, especially Shelley, mirroring his hero by also becoming an atheist and vegetarian, though he renounced these ideas later on. At the age of sixteen, Browning studied Greek at University College London, but left after his first year.  From then on, he refused a formal career, ignoring his parents’ protests and dedicating his life to poetry.

In March of 1833, Browning found a publisher for Pauline, A Fragment of a Confession, which appeared anonymously at the expense of the hopeful poet.  It is a long poem, composed in homage to Shelley, in part emulating the Romantic poet’s style. Originally Browning intended Pauline to be the first of a series of poems written from the viewpoint of different aspects of his personality, but he soon abandoned this idea. 

At the time of its first publication, the poem received some positive attention, though in later years Browning claimed to be embarrassed by it, only including Pauline in his collected poems of 1868 after substantial revisions.

Browning, close to the time of publishing his first poetry collection

PAULINE

Plus ne suis ce que j’ai été,Et ne le sçaurois jamais être. — MAROT.

Non dubito, quip titulus libri nostri raritate suâ quamplurimos alliciat ad legendum: inter quos nonnulli obliquæ opinionis, mente languidi, multi etiam maligni, et in ingenium nostrum ingrati accedent, qui temerariâ suâ ignorantiâ, vix conspecto titulo clamabunt: Nos vetita docere, hæresium semina jacere: piis auribus offendiculo, præclaris ingeniis scandalo esse: . . . adeò conscientiæ suæ consulentes, ut nec Apollo, nec Musæ omnes, neque Angelus de cælo me ab illorum execratione vindicare queant: quibus et ego nunc consulo, ne scripta nostra legant, nec intelligant, nec neminerint: nam noxia sunt, venenosa sunt: Acherontis ostium est in hoc libro, lapides loquitur, caveant, ne cerebrum illis excutiat. Vos autem, qui æquâ mente ad legendum venitis, si tantam prutentiæ discretionem adhibueritis, quantam in melle legendo apes, jam securi legite. Puto namque vos et utilitatis haud parùm et voluptatis plurimùm accepturos. Quod si qua repereritis, quæ vobis non placeant, mittite illa, nec utimini. NAM ET EGO VOBIS ILLA NON PROBO, SED NARRO. Cœtera tamen propterea non respute . . . Ideo, si quid liberius dictum sit, ignoscite adolescentiæ nostræ, qui minor quam adolescens hoc opus composui. — H. Cor. Agrippa, De Occult. Phil.    London, January, 1833.        V. A. XX.

PAULINE, mine own, bend o’er me — thy soft breastShall pant to mine — bend o’er me — thy sweet eyes,And loosened hair, and breathing lips, armsDrawing me to thee — these build up a screenTo shut me in with thee, and from all fear,So that I might unlock the sleepless broodOf fancies from my soul, their lurking place,Nor doubt that each would pass, ne’er to returnTo one so watched, so loved, and so secured.But what can guard thee but thy naked love?Ah, dearest; whoso sucks a poisoned woundEnvenoms his own veins, — thou art so good,So calm — if thou should’st wear a brow less lightFor some wild thought which, but for me, were keptFrom out thy soul, as from a sacred star.Yet till I have unlocked them it were vainTo hope to sing; some woe would light on me;Nature would point at one, whose quivering lipWas bathed in her enchantments — whose brow burnedBeneath the crown, to which her secrets knelt;Who learned the spell which can call up the dead,And then departed, smiling like a fiendWho has deceived God. If such one should seekAgain her altars, and stand robed and crownedAmid the faithful: sad confession first,Remorse and pardon, and old claims renewed,Ere I can be — as I shall be no more.I had been spared this shame, if I had sateBy thee for ever, from the first, in placeOf my wild dreams of beauty and of good,Or with them, as an earnest of their truth.No thought nor hope, having been shut from thee,No vague wish unexplained — no wandering aimSent back to bind on Fancy’s wings, and seekSome strange fair world, where it might be a law;But doubting nothing, had been led by thee,Thro’ youth, and saved, as one at length awaked,Who has slept thro’ a peril. Ah! vain, vain!Thou lovest me — the past is in its grave,Tho’ its ghost haunts us — till this much is ours,To cast away restraint, lest a worse thingWait for us in the darkness. Thou lovest me,And thou art to receive not love, but faith,For which thou wilt be mine, and smile, and takeAll shapes, and shames, and veil without a fearThat form which music follows like a slave;And I look to thee, and I trust in thee,As in a Northern night one looks alwayUnto the East for morn, and spring a joy.Thou seest then my aimless, hopeless state,And resting on some few old feelings, wonBack by thy beauty, would’st that I essayThe task, which was to me what now thou art:And why should I conceal one weakness more?Thou wilt remember one warm morn, when WinterCrept aged from the earth, and Spring’s first breathBlew soft from the moist hills — the black-thorn boughs,So dark in the bare wood; when glisteningIn the sunshine were white with coming buds,Like the bright side of a sorrow — and the banksHad violets opening from sleep like eyes — I walked with thee, who knew not a deep shameLurked beneath smiles and careless words, which soughtTo hide it — till they wandered and were mute;As we stood listening on a sunny moundTo the wind murmuring in the damp copse,Like heavy breathings of some hidden thingBetrayed by sleep — until the feeling rushedThat I was low indeed, yet not so lowAs to endure the calmness of thine eyes;And so I told thee all, while the cool breastI leaned on altered not its quiet beating;And long ere words, like a hurt bird’s complaint,Bade me look up and be what I had been,I felt despair could never live by thee.Thou wilt remember: — thou art not more dearThan song was once to me; and I ne’er sungBut as one entering bright halls, where allWill rise and shout for him Sure I must ownThat I am fallen — having chosen giftsDistinct from theirs — that I am sad — and fainWould give up all to be but where I was;Not high as I had been, if faithful found — But low and weak, yet full of hope, and sureOf goodness as of life — that I would lustAll this gay mastery of mind, to sitOnce more with them, trusting in truth and love.And with an aim — not being what I am.Oh, Pauline! I am ruined! who believedThat tho’ my soul had floated from its sphereOf wide dominion into the dim orbOf self — that it was strong and free as ever: — It has conformed itself to that dim orb,Reflecting all its shades and shapes, and nowMust stay where it alone can be adored.I have felt this in dreams — in dreams in whichI seemed the fate from which I fled; I feltA strange delight in causing my decay;I was a fiend, in darkness chained for everWithin some ocean-cave; and ages rolled,Till thro’ the cleft rock, like a moonbeam, cameA white swan to remain with me; and agesRolled, yet I tired not of my first joyIn gazing on the peace of its pure wings.And then I said, “It is most fair to me,“Yet its soft wings must sure have suffered change“From the thick darkness — sure its eyes are dim — “Its silver pinions must be cramped and numbed“With sleeping ages here; it cannot leave me,“For it would seem, in light, beside its kind,“Withered — tho’ here to me most beautiful.”And then I was a young witch, whose blue eyes,As she stood naked by the river springs,Drew down a god — I watched his radiant formGrowing less radiant — and it gladdened me;Till one morn, as he sat in the sunshineUpon my knees, singing to me of heaven,He turned to look at me, ere I could loseThe grin with which I viewed his perishing.And he shrieked and departed, and sat longBy his deserted throne — but sunk at last,Murmuring, as I kissed his lips and curledAround him, “I am still a god — to thee.”Still I can lay my soul bare in its fall,For all the wandering and all the weaknessWill he a saddest comment on the song.And if, that done, I can be young again,I will give up all gained as willinglyAs one gives up a charm which shuts him outFrom hope, or part, or care, in human kind.As life wanes, all its cares, and strife, and toil,Seem strangely valueless, while the old treesWhich grew by our youth’s home — the waving massOf climbing plants, heavy with bloom and dew — The morning swallows with their songs like words, — All these seem clear and only worth our thoughts.So aught connected with my early life — My rude songs or my wild imaginings,How I look on them — most distinct amidThe fever and the stir of after years!I ne’er had ventured e’en to hope for this,Had not the glow I felt at His award,Assured me all was not extinct within.Him whom all honor — whose renown springs upLike sunlight which will visit all the world;So that e’en they who sneered at him at first,Come out to it, as some dark spider crawlsFrom his foul nest, which some lit torch invades,Yet spinning still new films for his retreat. — Thou didst smile, poet, — but can we forgive?Sun-treader — life and light be thine for ever;Thou art gone from us — years go by — and springGladdens, and the young earth is beautiful,Yet thy songs come not — other bards arise,But none like thee — they stand — thy majesties,Like mighty works which tell some Spirit thereHath sat regardless of neglect and scorn,Till, its long task completed, it hath risenAnd left us, never to return: and allRush in to peer and praise when all in vain.The air seems bright with thy past presence yet,But thou art still for me, as thou hast beenWhen I have stood with thee, as on a throneWith all thy dim creations gathered roundLike mountains, — and I felt of mould like them,And creatures of my own were mixed with them,Like things half-lived, catching and giving life.But thou art still for me, who have adored,Tho’ single, panting but to hear thy name,Which I believed a spell to me alone,Scarce deeming thou wert as a star to men — As one should worship long a sacred springScarce worth a moth’s flitting, which long grasses cross,And one small tree embowers droopingly,Joying to see some wandering insect won.To live in its few rushes — or some locustTo pasture on its boughs — or some wild birdStoop for its freshness from the trackless air,And then should find it but the fountain-head,Long lost, of some great river — washing townsAnd towers, and seeing old woods which will liveBut by its banks, untrod of human foot,Which, when the great sun sinks, lie quiveringIn light as some thing lieth half of lifeBefore God’s foot — waiting a wondrous change — Then girt with rocks which seek to turn or stayIts course in vain, for it does ever spreadLike a sea’s arm as it goes rolling on,Being the pulse of some great country — soWert thou to me — and art thou to the world.And I, perchance, half feel a strange regret,That I am not what I have been to thee:Like a girl one has loved long silently,In her first loveliness, in some retreat,When first emerged, all gaze and glow to viewHer fresh eyes, and soft hair, and lips which bleedLike a mountain berry. Doubtless it is sweetTo see her thus adored — but there have beenMoments, when all the world was in his praise,Sweeter than all the pride of after hours.Yet, Sun-treader, all hail! — from my heart’s heartI bid thee hail! — e’en in my wildest dreams,I am proud to feel I would have thrown up allThe wreaths of fame which seemed o’er-hanging me,To have seen thee, for a moment, as thou art.And if thou livest — if thou lovest, spirit!Remember me, who set this final sealTo wandering thought — that one so pure as thouCould never die. Remember me, who flungAll honor from my soul — yet paused and said,“There is one spark of love remaining yet,“For I have nought in common with him — shapes“Which followed him avoid me, and foul forms“Seek me, which ne’er could fasten on his mind;“And tho’ I feel how low I am to him,“Yet I aim not even to catch a tone“Of all the harmonies which he called up,“So one gleam still remains, altho’ the last”Remember me — who praise thee e’en with tears,For never more shall I walk calm with thee;Thy sweet imaginings are as an air,A melody, some wond’rous singer sings,Which, though it haunt men oft in the still eve,They dream not to essay; yet it no less,But more is honored. I was thine in shame,And now when all thy proud renown is out,I am a watcher, whose eyes have grown dimWith looking for some star — which breaks on him,Altered and worn, and weak, and full of tears.Autumn has come — like Spring returned to us,Won from her girlishness — like one returnedA friend that was a lover — nor forgetsThe first warm love, but full of sober thoughtsOf fading years; whose soft mouth quivers yetWith the old smile — but yet so changed and still!And here am I the scoffer, who have probedLife’s vanity, won by a word againInto my old life — for one little wordOf this sweet friend, who lives in loving me,Lives strangely on my thoughts, and looks, and words,As fathoms down some nameless ocean thingIts silent course of quietness and joyO dearest, if indeed, I tell the past,May’st thou forget it as a sad sick dream;Or if it linger — my lost soul too soonSinks to itself, and whispers, we shall beBut closer linked — two creatures whom the earthBears singly — with strange feelings, unrevealedBut to each other; or two lonely thingsCreated by some Power, whose reign is done,Having no part in God, or his bright world,I am to sing; whilst ebbing day dies soft,As a lean scholar dies, worn o’er his book,And in the heaven stars steal out one by one,As hunted men steal to their mountain watch.I must not think — lest this new impulse dieIn which I trust. I have no confidence,So I will sing on — fast as fancies comeRudely — the verse being as the mood it paints.I strip my mind bare — whose first elementsI shall unveil — not as they struggled forthIn infancy, nor as they now exist,That I am grown above them, and can rule them,But in that middle stage when they were full,Yet ere I had disposed them to my will;And then I shall show how these elementsProduced my present state, and what it is.I am made up of an intensest life,Of a most clear idea of consciousnessOf self — distinct from all its qualities,From all affections, passions, feelings, powers;And thus far it exists, if tracked in all,But linked in me, to self-supremacy,Existing as a centre to all things,Most potent to create, and rule, and callUpon all things to minister to it;And to a principle of restlessnessWhich would be all, have, see, know, taste, feel, all — This is myself; and I should thus have been,Though gifted lower than the meanest soul.And of my powers, one springs up to saveFrom utter death a soul with such desiresConfined to clay — which is the only oneWhich marks me — an imagination whichHas been an angel to me — coming notIn fitful visions, but beside me ever,And never failing me; so tho’ my mindForgets not — not a shred of life forgets — Yet I can take a secret pride in callingThe dark past up — to quell it regally.A mind like this must dissipate itself,But I have always had one lode-star; now,As I look back, I see that I have wasted,Or progressed as I looked toward that star — A need, a trust, a yearning after God,A feeling I have analysed but late,But it existed, and was reconciledWith a neglect of all I deemed His laws,Which yet, when seen in others, I abhorred.I felt as one beloved, and so shut inFrom fear — and thence I date my trust in signsAnd omens — for I saw God everywhere;And I can only lay it to the fruitOf a sad after-time that I could doubtEven His being — having always feltHis presence — never acting from myself,Still trusting in a hand that leads me throughAll dangers; and this feeling still has foughtAgainst my weakest reason and resolves.And I can love nothing — and this dull truthHas come the last — but sense supplies a loveEncircling me and mingling with my life.These make myself — for I have sought in vainTo trace how they were formed by circumstance,For I still find them — turning my wild youthWhere they alone displayed themselves, convertingAll objects to their use — now see their course!They came to me in my first dawn of life,Which passed alone with wisest ancient books,All halo-girt with fancies of my own,And I myself went with the tale, — a god,Wandering after beauty — or a giant,Standing vast in the sunset — an old hunter,Talking with gods — or a high-crested chief,Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos; — I tell you, nought has ever been so clearAs the place, the time, the fashion of those lives.I had not seen a work of lofty art,Nor woman’s beauty, nor sweet nature’s face,Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as thoseOn the dim clustered isles in the blue sea:The deep groves, and white temples, and wet caves — And nothing ever will surprise me now — Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed,Who bound my forehead with Proserpine’s hair.An’ strange it is, that I who could so dream,Should e’er have stooped to aim at aught beneath — Aught low, or painful, but I never doubted;So as I grew, I rudely shaped my lifeTo my immediate wants, yet strong beneathWas a vague sense of power folded up — A sense that tho’ those shadowy times were past,Their spirit dwelt in me, and I should rule.Then came a pause, and long restraint chained downMy soul, till it was changed. I lost myself,And were it not that I so loathe that time,I could recall how first I learned to turnMy mind against itself; and the effects,In deeds for which remorse were vain, as forThe wanderings of delirious dream; yet thenceCame cunning, envy, falsehood, which so longHave spotted me — at length I was restored,Yet long the influence remained; and noughtBut the still life I led, apart from all,Which left my soul to seek its old delights,Could e’er have brought me thus far back to peace.As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit:And song rose — no new impulse — but the oneWith which all others best could be combined.My life has not been that of those whose heavenWas lampless, save where poesy shone out;But as a clime, where glittering mountain-tops,And glancing sea, and forests steeped in light,Give back reflected the far-flashing sun;For music, (which is earnest of a heaven,Seeing we know emotions strange by it,Not else to be revealed) is as a voice,A low voice calling Fancy, as a friend,To the green woods in the gay summer time.And she fills all the way with dancing shapes,Which have made painters pale; and they go onWhile stars look at them, and winds call to them,As they leave life’s path for the twilight world,Where the dead gather. This was not at first,For I scarce knew what I would do. I hadNo wish to paint, no yearning — but I sang.    And first I sang, as I in dream have seen,Music wait on a lyrist for some thought,Yet singing to herself until it came.I turned to those old times and scenes, where allThat’s beautiful had birth for me, and madeRude verses on them all; and then I paused — I had done nothing, so I sought to knowWhat mind had yet achieved. No fear was mineAs I gazed on the works of mighty bards,In the first joy at finding my own thoughtsRecorded, and my powers exemplified,And feeling their aspirings were my own.And then I first explored passion and mind;And I began afresh; I rather soughtTo rival what I wondered at, than formCreations of my own; so much was lightLent back by others, yet much was my own    I paused again — a change was coming on,I was no more a boy — the past was breakingBefore the coming, and like fever worked.I first thought on myself — and here my powersBurst out. I dreamed not of restraint, but gazedOn all things: schemes and systems went and came,And I was proud (being vainest of the weak),In wandering o’er them, to seek out some oneTo be my own; as one should wander o’erThe white way for a star..     .     .     .     .On one, whom praise of mine would not offend,Who was as calm as beauty — being suchUnto mankind as thou to me, Pauline,Believing in them, and devoting allHis soul’s strength to their winning back to peace;Who sent forth hopes and longings for their sake,Clothed in all passion’s melodies, which firstCaught me, and set me, as to a sweet task,To gather every breathing of his songs,And woven with them there were words, which seemedA key to a new world; the mutteringOf angels, of something unguessed by man.How my heart beat, as I went on, and foundMuch there! I felt my own mind had conceived,But there living and burning; soon the wholeOf his conceptions dawned on me; their praiseIs in the tongues of men; men’s brows are highWhen his name means a triumph and a pride;So my weak hands may well forbear to dimWhat then seemed my bright fate: I threw myselfTo meet it. I was vowed to liberty,Men were to be as gods, and earth as heaven.And I — ah! what a life was mine to be,My whole soul rose to meet it. Now, Pauline,I shall go mad if I recall that time..     .     .     .     .    O let me look back, e’er I leave for everThe time, which was an hour, that one waitsFor a fair girl, that comes a withered hag.And I was lonely — far from woods and fields,And amid dullest sights, who should be looseAs a stag — yet I was full of joy — who livedWith Plato — and who had the key to life.And I had dimly shaped my first attempt,And many a thought did I build up on thought,As the wild bee hangs cell to cell — in vain;For I must still go on: my mind rests not.’Twas in my plan to look on real life,Which was all new to me; my theoriesWere firm, so I left them, to look uponMen, and their cares, and hopes, and fears, and joys;And, as I pondered on them all, I soughtHow best life’s end might be attained — an endComprising every joy. I deeply mused.And suddenly, without heart-wreck, I awokeAs from a dream — I said, ’twas beautiful,Yet but a dream; and so adieu to it.As some world-wanderer sees in a far meadowStrange towers, and walled gardens, thick with trees,Where singing goes on, and delicious mirth,And laughing fairy creatures peeping over,And on the morrow, when he comes to liveFor ever by those springs, and trees, fruit-flushedAnd fairy bowers — all his search is vain.Well I remember . . .First went my hopes of perfecting mankind,And faith in them — then freedom in itself,And virtue in itself — and then my motives’ ends,And powers and loves; and human love went last.I felt this no decay, because new powersRose as old feelings left — wit, mockery,And happiness; for I had oft been sad.Mistrusting my resolves: but now I castHope joyously away — I laughed and said,“No more of this” — I must not think; at lengthI look’d again to see how all went on.My powers were greater — as some temple seemedMy soul, where nought is changed, and incense rollsAround the altar — only God is gone,And some dark spirit sitteth in His seat!So I passed through the temple: and to meKnelt troops of shadows; and they cried, “Hail, king!“We serve thee now, and thou shalt serve no more!“Call on us, prove us, let us worship thee!”And I said, “Are ye strong — let fancy bear me“Far from the past.” — And I was borne awayAs Arab birds float sleeping in the wind,O’er deserts, towers, and forests, I being calm;And I said, “I have nursed up energies,“They will prey on me.” And a band knelt low,And cried, “Lord, we are here, and we will make“A way for thee — in thine appointed life“O look on us!” And I said, “Ye will worship“Me; but my heart must worship too.” They shouted,“Thyself — thou art our king!” So I stood thereSmiling . . .And buoyant and rejoicing was the spiritWith which I looked out how to end my days;I felt once more myself — my powers were mine;I found that youth or health so lifted me,That, spite of all life’s vanity, no griefCame nigh me — I must ever be light-hearted;And that this feeling was the only veilBetwixt me and despair: so if age came,I should be as a wreck linked to a soulYet fluttering, or mind-broken, and awareOf my decay. So a long summer mornFound me; and e’er noon came, I had resolvedNo age should come on me, ere youth’s hopes went,For I would wear myself out — like that mornWhich wasted not a sunbeam — every joyI would make mine, and die; and thus I soughtTo chain my spirit down, which I had fedWith thoughts of fame. I said, the troubled lifeOf genius seen so bright when working forthSome trusted end, seems sad, when all in vain — Most sad, when men have parted with all joyFor their wild fancy’s sake, which waited first,As an obedient spirit, when delightCame not with her alone, but alters soon,Coming darkened, seldom, hasting to depart,Leaving a heavy darkness and warm tears.But I shall never lose her; she will liveBrighter for such seclusion — I but catchA hue, a glance of what I sing; so painIs linked with pleasure, for I ne’er may tellThe radiant sights which dazzle me; but nowThey shall be all my own, and let them fadeUntold — others shall rise as fair, as fast.And when all’s done, the few dim gleams transferred, — (For a new thought sprung up — that it were wellTo leave all shadowy hopes, and weave such laysAs would encircle me with praise and love;So I should not die utterly — I should bringOne branch from the gold forest, like the nightOf old tales, witnessing I had been there,) — And when all’s done, how vain seems e’en success,And all the influence poets have o’er men!’Tis a fine thing that one, weak as myself,Should sit in his lone room, knowing the wordsHe utters in his solitude shall moveMen like a swift wind — that tho’ he be forgotten,Fair eyes shall glisten when his beauteous dreamsOf love come true in happier frames than his.Ay, the still night brought thoughts like these, but mornCame, and the mockery again laughed outAt hollow praises, and smiles, almost sneers;And my soul’s idol seemed to whisper meTo dwell with him and his unhonoured name — And I well knew my spirit, that would beFirst in the struggle, and again would makeAll bow to it; and I would sink again..     .     .     .     .And then know that this curse will come on us,To see our idols perish — we may wither,Nor marvel — we are clay; but our low fateShould not extend them, whom trustingly,We sent before into Time’s yawning gulf,To face what e’er may lurk in darkness there — To see the painter’s glory pass, and feelSweet music move us not as once, or worst,To see decaying wits ere the frail bodyDecays. Nought makes me trust in love so really,As the delight of the contented lownessWith which I gaze on souls I’d keep for everIn beauty — I’d be sad to equal them;I’d feed their fame e’en from my heart’s best blood,Withering unseen, that they might flourish still..     .     .     .     .Pauline, my sweet friend, thou dost not forgetHow this mood swayed me, when thou first wert mine,When I had set myself to live this life,Defying all opinion. Ere thou camestI was most happy, sweet, for old delightsHad come like birds again; music, my life,I nourished more than ever, and old loreLoved for itself, and all it shows — the kingTreading the purple calmly to his death, — While round him, like the clouds of eve, all dusk,The giant shades of fate, silently flitting,Pile the dim outline of the coming doom, — And him sitting alone in blood, while friendsAre hunting far in the sunshine; and the boy,With his white breast and brow and clustering curlsStreaked with his mother’s blood, and striving hardTo tell his story ere his reason goes,And when I loved thee, as I’ve loved so oft,Thou lovedst me, and I wondered, and looked inMy heart to find some feeling like such love,Believing I was still what I had been;And soon I found all faith had gone from me,And the late glow of life — changing like clouds,’Twas not the morn-blush widening into day,But evening, coloured by the dying sunWhile darkness is quick hastening: — I will tellSly state as though ‘twere none of mine — despairCannot come near me — thus it is with me.Souls alter not, and mine must progress still;And this I knew not when I flung awayMy youth’s chief aims. I ne’er supposed theOf what few I retained; for no resourceAwaits me — now behold the change of all.I cannot chain my soul, it will not restIn its clay prison; this most narrow sphere — It has strange powers, and feelings, and desires,Which I cannot account for, nor explain,But which I stifle not, being bound to trustAll feelings equally — to hear all sides:Yet I cannot indulge them, and they live,Referring to some state or life unknown. . . .My selfishness is satiated not,It wears me like a flame; my hunger forAll pleasure, howsoe’er minute, is pain;I envy — how I envy him whose mindTurns with its energies to some one end!To elevate a sect, or a pursuit,However mean — so my still baffled hopesSeek out abstractions; I would have but oneDelight on earth, so it were wholly mine;One rapture all my soul could fill — and thisWild feeling places me in dream afar,In some wide country, where the eye can seeNo end to the far hills and dales bestrewnWith shining towers and dwellings. I grow madWell-nigh, to know not one abode but holdsSome pleasure — for my soul could grasp them all,But must remain with this vile form. I lookWith hope to age at last, which quenching much,May let me concentrate the sparks it spares.This restlessness of passion meets in meA craving after knowledge: the sole proofOf a commanding will is in that powerRepressed; for I beheld it in its dawn,That sleepless harpy, with its budding wings,And I considered whether I should yieldAll hopes and fears, to live alone with it,Finding a recompense in its wild eyes;And when I found that I should perish so,I bade its wild eyes close from me for ever; — And I am left alone with my delights, — So it lies in me a chained thing — still readyTo serve me, if I loose its slightest bond — I cannot but be proud of my bright slave.And thus I know this earth is not my sphere,For I cannot so narrow me, but thatI still exceed it; in their elementsMy love would pass my reason — but since hereLove must receive its object from this earth,While reason will be chainless, the few truthsCaught from its wanderings have sufficed to quellAll love below; — then what must be that loveWhich, with the object it demands, would quellReason, tho’ it soared with the seraphim?No — what I feel may pass all human love,Yet fall far short of what my love should be;And yet I seem more warped in this than aughtFor here myself stands out more hideously.I can forget myself in friendship, fame,Or liberty, or love of mighty souls..     .     .     .     .But I begin to know what thing hate is — To sicken, and to quiver, and grow white,And I myself have furnished its first prey.All my sad weaknesses, this wavering will,This selfishness, this still decaying frame . . .But I must never grieve while I can passFar from such thoughts — as now — Andromeda!And she is with me — years roll, I shall change,But change can touch her not — so beautifulWith her dark eyes, earnest and still, and hairLifted and spread by the salt-sweeping breeze;And one red-beam, all the storm leaves in heaven,Resting upon her eyes and face and hair,As she awaits the snake on the wet beach,By the dark rock, and the white wave just breakingAt her feet; quite naked and alone, — a thingYou doubt not, nor fear for, secure that GodWill come in thunder from the stars to save her.Let it pass — I will call another change.I will be gifted with a wond’rous soul,Yet sunk by error to men’s sympathy,And in the wane of life; yet only soAs to call up their fears, and there shall comeA time requiring youth’s best energies;And straight I fling age, sorrow, sickness off,And I rise triumphing over my decay..     .     .     .     .And thus it is that I supply the chasm‘Twixt what I am and all that I would be.But then to know nothing — to hope for nothing — To seize on life’s dull joys from a strange tear,Lest, being them, all’s lost, and nought remains.     .     .     .     .There’s some vile juggle with my reason here — I feel I but explain to my own lossThese impulses — they live no less the same.Liberty! what though I despair — my bloodRose not at a slave’s name proudlier than now,And sympathy obscured by sophistries.Why have not I sought refuge in myself,But for the woes I saw and could not stay — And love! — do I not love thee, my Pauline?.     .     .     .     .I cherish prejudice, lest I be leftUtterly loveless — witness this beliefIn poets, tho’ sad change has come there too;No more I leave myself to follow them:Unconsciously I measure me by them.Let me forget it; and I cherish mostMy love of England — how her name — a wordOf her’s in a strange tongue makes my heart beat! . . ..     .     .     .     .Pauline, I could do any thing — not now — All’s fever — but when calm shall come again — I am prepared — I have made life my own — I would not be content with all the changeOne frame should feel — but I have gone in thoughtThro’ all conjuncture — I have lived all lifeWhen it is most alive — where strangest fateNew shapes it past surmise — the tales of menBit by some curse — or in the grasp of doomHalf-visible and still increasing round,Or crowning their wide being’s general aim. . . ..     .     .     .     .These are wild fancies, but I feel, sweet friend,As one breathing his weakness to the earOf pitying angel — dear as a winter flower.A slight flower growing alone, and offeringIts frail cup of three leaves to the cold sun,Yet and confiding, like the triumphOf a child — and why am I not worthy thee?.     .     .     .     .I can live all the life of plants, and gazeDrowsily on the bees that flit and play,Or bare my breast for sunbeams which will kill,Or open in the night of sounds, to lookFor the dim stars; I can mount with the bird,Leaping airily his pyramid of leavesAnd twisted boughs of some tall mountain tree,Or rise cheerfully springing to the heavens — Or like a fish breathe in the morning airIn the misty sun-warm water — or with flowersAnd trees can smile in light at the sinking sun,Just as the storm comes — as a girl would lookOn a departing lover — most serene.Pauline, come with me — see how I could buildA home for us, out of the world; in thought — I am inspired — come with me, Pauline!Night, and one single ridge of narrow pathBetween the sullen river and the woodsWaving and muttering — for the moonless nightHas shaped them into images of life,Like the upraising of the giant-ghosts,Looking on earth to know how their sons fare.Thou art so close by me, the roughest swellOf wind in the tree-tops hides not the pantingOf thy soft breasts; no — we will pass to morning — Morning — the rocks, and vallies, and old woods.How the sun brightens in the mist, and here, — Half in the air, like creatures of the place,Trusting the element — living on high boughsThat swing in the wind — look at the golden spray,Flung from the foam-sheet of the cataract,Amid the broken rocks — shall we stay hereWith the wild hawks? — no, ere the hot noon comeDive we down — safe; — see this our new retreatWalled in with a sloped mound of matted shrubs,Dark, tangled, old and green — still sloping downTo a small pool whose waters lie asleepAmid the trailing boughs turned water plantsAnd tall trees over-arch to keep us in,Breaking the sunbeams into emerald shafts,And in the dreamy water one small groupOf two or three strange trees are got together,Wondering at all around — as strange beasts herdTogether far from their own land — all wildness — No turf nor moss, for boughs and plants pave all,And tongues of bank go shelving in the waters,Where the pale-throated snake reclines his head,And old grey stones lie making eddies there;The wild mice cross them dry-shod — deeper in — Shut thy soft eyes — now look — still deeper in:This is the very heart of the woods — all round,Mountain-like, heaped above us; yet even hereOne pond of water gleams — far off the riverSweeps like a sea, barred out from land; but one — One thin clear sheet has over-leaped and woundInto this silent depth, which gained, it liesStill, as but let by sufferance; the trees bendO’er it as wild men watch a sleeping girl,And thro’ their roots long creeping plants stretch outTheir twined hair, steeped and sparkling; farther on,Tall rushes and thick flag-knots have combinedTo narrow it; so, at length, a silver threadIt winds, all noiselessly, thro’ the deep wood,Till thro’ a cleft way, thro’ the moss and stone,It joins its parent-river with a shout.Up for the glowing day — leave the old woods:See, they part, like a ruined arch, the sky!Nothing but sky appears, so close the rootAnd grass of the hill-top level with the air — Blue sunny air, where a great cloud floats, ladenWith light, like a dead whale that white birds pick,Floating away in the sun in some north sea.Air, air — fresh life-blood — thin and searching air — The clear, dear breath of God, that loveth us:Where small birds reel and winds take their delight.Water is beautiful, but not like air.See, where the solid azure waters lie,Made as of thickened air, and down below,The fern-ranks, like a forest spread themselves,As tho’ each pore could feel the element;Where the quick glancing serpent winds his way — Float with me there, Pauline, but not like air.Down the hill — stop — a clump of trees, see, setOn a heap of rocks, which look o’er the far plains,And envious climbing shrubs would mount to rest,And peer from their spread boughs. There they wave, lookingAt the muleteers, who whistle as they goTo the merry chime of their morning bells and allThe little smoking cots, and fields, and banks,And copses, bright in the sun; my spirit wanders.Hedge-rows for me — still, living, hedge-rows, whereThe bushes close, and clasp above, and keepThought in — I am concentrated — I feel; — But my soul saddens when it looks beyond;I cannot be immortal, nor taste all.O God! where does this tend — these straggling aims!What would I have? what is this “sleep,” which seemsTo bound all? can there be a “waking” pointOf crowning life? The soul would never rule — It would be first in all things — it would haveIts utmost pleasure filled — but that completeCommanding for commanding sickens it.The last point that I can trace is, rest beneathSome better essence than itself — in weakness;This is “myself” — not what I think should be,And what is that I hunger for but God?My God, my God! let me for once look on theeAs tho’ nought else existed: we alone.And as creation crumbles, my soul’s sparkExpands till I can say, “Even from myself“I need thee, and I feel thee, and I love thee;“I do not plead my rapture in thy works“For love of thee — or that I feel as one“Who cannot die — but there is that in me“Which turns to thee, which loves, or which should love.”Why have I girt myself with this hell-dress?Why have I laboured to put out my life?Is it not in my nature to adore,And e’en for all my reason do I notFeel him, and thank him, and pray to him? Now.Can I forego the trust that he loves me?Do I not feel a love which only ONE . . .O thou pale form, so dimly seen, deep-eyed,I have denied thee calmly — do I notPant when I read of thy consummate deeds,And burn to see thy calm pure truths out-flashThe brightest gleams of earth’s philosophy?Do I not shake to hear aught question thee? . . .If I am erring save me, madden me,Take from me powers, and pleasures — let me dieAges, so I see thee: I am knit roundAs with a charm, by sin and lust and pride,Yet tho’ my wandering dreams have seen all shapesOf strange delight, oft have I stood by thee — Have I been keeping lonely watch with thee,In the damp night by weeping Olivet,Or leaning on thy bosom, proudly less — Or dying with thee on the lonely cross — Or witnessing thy bursting from the tomb!A mortal, sin’s familiar friend doth hereAvow that he will give all earth’s reward,But to believe and humbly teach the faith,In suffering, and poverty, and shame,Only believing he is not unloved. . . .And now, my Pauline, I am thine for ever!I feel the spirit which has buoyed me upDeserting me: and old shades gathering on;Yet while its last light waits, I would say much,And chiefly, I am glad that I have saidThat love which I have ever felt for thee,But seldom told; our hearts so beat together,That speech is mockery, but when dark hours come:And I feel sad; and thou, sweet, deem’st it strange;A sorrow moves me, thou canst not remove.Look on this lay I dedicate to thee,Which thro’ thee I began, and which I end,Collecting the last gleams to strive to tellThat I am thine, and more than ever now — That I am sinking fast — yet tho’ I sinkNo less I feel that thou hast brought me bliss,And that I still may hope to win it back.Thou know’st, dear friend, I could not think all calm,For wild dreams followed me, and bore me off,And all was indistinct. Ere one was caughtAnother glanced: so dazzled by my wealth,Knowing not which to leave nor which to choose,For all my thoughts so floated, nought was fixed — And then thou said’st a perfect bard was oneWho shadowed out the stages of all life,And so thou badest me tell this my first stage: — ’Tis done: and even now I feel all dim the shiftOf thought. These are my last thoughts; I discernFaintly immortal life, and truth, and good.And why thou must be mine is, that e’en now,In the dim hush of night — that I have done — With fears and sad forebodings: I look thro’And say, “E’en at the last I have her still,“With her delicious eyes as clear as heaven,“When rain in a quick shower has beat down mist,“And clouds float white in the sun like broods of swans.”How the blood lies upon her cheek, all spreadAs thinned by kisses; only in her lipsIt wells and pulses like a living thing,And her neck looks, like marble misted o’erWith love-breath, a dear thing to kiss and love,Standing beneath me — looking out to me,As I might kill her and be loved for it.Love me — love me, Pauline, love nought but me;Leave me not. All these words are wild and weak,Believe them not, Pauline. I stooped so lowBut to behold thee purer by my side,To show thou art my breath — my life — a lastResource — an extreme want: never believeAught better could so look to thee, nor seekAgain the world of good thoughts left for me.There were bright troops of undiscovered suns.Each equal in their radiant course. There wereClusters of far fair isles, which ocean keptFor his own joy, and his waves broke on themWithout a choice. And there was a dim crowdOf visions, each a part of the dim whole.And a star left his peers and came with peaceUpon a storm, and all eyes pined for him,And one isle harboured a sea-beaten ship,And the crew wandered in its bowers, and pluckedIts fruits, and gave up all their hopes for home.And one dream came to a pale poet’s sleep,And he said, “I am singled out by God,“No sin must touch me.” I am very weak,But what I would express is, — Leave me not,Still sit by me — with beating breast, and hairLoosened — watching earnest by my side,Turning my books, or kissing me when ILook up — like summer wind. Be still to meA key to music’s mystery, when mind fails,A reason, a solution and a clue,You see I have thrown off my prescribed rules:I hope in myself — and hope, and pant, and love — You’ll find me better — know me more than whenYou loved me as I was. Smile not; I haveMuch yet to gladden you — to dawn on you.No more of the past — I’ll look within no more — I have too trusted to my own wild wants — Too trusted to myself — to intuition.Draining the wine alone in the still night,And seeing how — as gathering films arose,As by an inspiration life seemed bareAnd grinning in its vanity, and endsHard to be dreamed of, stared at me as fixed,And others suddenly became all foul,As a fair witch turned an old hag at night.No more of this — we will go hand in hand,I will go with thee, even as a child,Looking no further than thy sweet commands.And thou hast chosen where this life shall be — The land which gave me thee shall be our home,Where nature lies all wild amid her lakesAnd snow-swathed mountains, and vast pines all girtWith ropes of snow — where nature lies all bare,Suffering none to view her but a raceMost stinted and deformed — like the mute dwarfsWhich wait upon a naked Indian queen.And there (the time being when the heavens are thickWith storms) I’ll sit with thee while thou dost singThy native songs, gay as a desert birdWho crieth as he flies for perfect joy,Or telling me old stories of dead knights,Or I will read old lays to thee — how she,The fair pale sister, went to her chill graveWith power to love, and to be loved, and live.Or will go together, like twin godsOf the infernal world, with scented lampOver the dead — to call and to awake — Over the unshaped images which lieWithin my mind’s cave — only leaving allThat tells of the past doubts. So when spring comes,And sunshine comes again like an old smile,And the fresh waters, and awakened birds,And budding woods await us — I shall bePrepared, and we will go and think again,And all old loves shall come to us — but changedAs some sweet thought which harsh words veiled before;Feeling God loves us, and that all that errs,Is a strange dream which death will dissipate;And then when I am firm we’ll seek againMy own land, and again I will approachMy old designs, and calmly look on allThe works of my past weakness, as one viewsSome scene where danger met him long beforeAh! that such pleasant life should be but dreamed!But whate’er come of it — and tho’ it fade,And tho’ ere the cold morning all be goneAs it will be; — tho’ music wait for me,And fair eyes and bright wine, laughing like sin,Which steals back softly on a soul half saved;And I be first to deny all, and despiseThis verse, and these intents which seem so fair;Still this is all my own, this moment’s pride,No less I make an end in perfect joy.E’en in my brightest time, a lurking fearPossessed me. I well knew my weak resolves,I felt the witchery that makes mind sleepOver its treasures — as one half afraidTo make his riches definite — but nowThese feelings shall not utterly be lost,I shall not know again that nameless care,Lest leaving all undone in youth, some newAnd undreamed end reveal itself too late:For this song shall remain to tell for ever,That when I lost all hope of such a changeSuddenly Beauty rose on me again.No less I make an end in perfect joy,For I, having thus again been visited,Shall doubt not many another bliss awaits,And tho’ this weak soul sink, and darkness come,Some little word shall light it up again,And I shall see all clearer and love better;I shall again go o’er the tracts of thought,As one who has a right; and I shall liveWith poets — calmer — purer still each time,And beauteous shapes will come to me again,And unknown secrets will be trusted me,Which were not mine when wavering — but nowI shall be priest and lover, as of old.Sun-treader, I believe in God, and truth,And love; and as one just escaped from deathWould bind himself in bands of friends to feelHe lives indeed — so, I would lean on thee;Thou must be ever with me — most in gloomWhen such shall come — but chiefly when I die,For I seem dying, as one going in the darkTo fight a giant — and live thou for ever,And be to all what thou hast been to me — All in whom this wakes pleasant thoughts of me,Know my last state is happy — free from doubt,Or touch of fear. Love me and wish me well!        RICHMOND,    October 22, 1832.

Je crains biers que mon pauvre ami ne soit pas toujours parfaitement compris dans ce qui reste à lire de cet étrange fragment — mais it est moins propre que tout autre à éclaircir ce qui de sa nature ne peut jamais être que songe et confusion. D’ailleurs je ne sais trop si en cherchant à mieux co-ordonner certaines parties l’on ne courrait pas le risque de nuire au seul mérite auquel une production si singulière peut prétendre — celui de donner une idée assez précise du genre qu’elle n’a fait que ébaucher. — Ce début sans prétention, ce remuement des passions qui va d’abord en accroissant et puis s’appaise par degrés, ces élans de l’âme, ce retour soudain sur soi-même. — Et par dessus tout, la tournure d’esprit toute particulière de mon ami rendent les changemens presque impossibles. Les raisons qu’il fait valoir ailleurs, et d’autres encore plus puissantes, ont fait trouver grâce à mes yeux pour cet écrit qu’autrement je lui eusse conseillé de jeter au feu. — Je n’en crois pas moins au grand principe de toute composition — à ce principe de Shakespeare, de Raffaelle, de Beethoven, d’où il suit que la concentration des idées est dûe bien plus à leur conception, qu’a leur mise en execution . . . j’ai tout lieu de craindre que la première de ces qualités ne soit encore étrangère à mon ami — et je doute fort qu’un redoublement de travail lui fasse acquérir la seconde. Le mieux serait de brûler ceci; mais que faire?

Je crois que dans ce qui suit il fait allusion à un certain examen qu’il fit autrefois de l’âme ou plutôt de son âme, pour découvrir la suite des objets auxquels il lui serait possible d’atteindre, et dont chacun une fois obtenu devait former une espèce de plateau d’ou l’on pouvait aperçevoir d’autres buts, d’autres projets, d’autres jouissances qui, à leur tour, devaient être surmontés. Il en résultait que l’oubli et le sommeil devaient tout terminer. Cette idée que je ne saisis pas parfaitement lui est peutêtre aussi intelligible qu’à moi.PAULINE.