202. John of Douay [Giovanni of Bologna], sculptor (1524-1608).

The statue is one of his finest works.

250. De te, fabula! Concerning thee, this fable!

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form 10 Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 20 Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling pa.s.sion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever.

But pa.s.sion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. 30

Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, 40 And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore 50 Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet G.o.d has not said a word! 60

NOTES: "Porphyria's Lover" relates how, by strangling Porphyria with her own yellow hair, the lover seized and preserved the moment of perfect love when, pure and good, Porphyria left the world she could not forego for his sake, and came to him, for once conquered by her love. A latent misgiving as to his action is intimated in the closing line of the poem.

Remarking upon the fact that Browning removed the original t.i.tle, "Madhouse Cells," which headed this poem, and "Johannes Agricola in Meditation," Mrs. Orr says: "Such a crime might be committed in a momentary aberration, or even intense excitement of feeling. It is characterized here by a matter-of-fact simplicity, which is its sign of madness. The distinction, however, is subtle; and we can easily guess why this and its companion poem did not retain their t.i.tle. A madness which is fit for dramatic treatment is not sufficiently removed from sanity."

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME."

(See Edgar's song in "LEAR.")

I

My first thought was, he lied in every word, That h.o.a.ry cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

II

What else should he be set for, with his staff?

What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, 10 And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

III

If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried So much as gladness that some end might be.

IV

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope 20 Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

V

As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside ("since all is o'er," he saith, "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend"); 30

VI

While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.

VII

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among "The Band"--to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed 40 Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

VIII

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

IX

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, 50 Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.

I might go on; nought else remained to do.

X

So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ign.o.ble nature; nothing throve: For flowers-as well expect a cedar grove!

But c.o.c.kle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. 60

XI

No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

XII

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk 70 All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

XIII

As for the gra.s.s, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades p.r.i.c.ked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.

One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

XIV

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, 80 And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe; I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

XV

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.

As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.

Think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights. 90

XVI

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!