The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning / Cambridge Edition

DRAMATIC LYRICS

The third number of Bells and Pomegranates, published in 1842, contained a collection of short poems under the general head of Dramatic Lyrics. When Browning made his first collective edition, he redistributed all his groups of poems, retaining this title and making it cover some of the poems included in the original group, but many more first published under other headings. The arrangement here given is that adopted finally by Browning. "Such Poems," he says, "as the majority in this volume (Dramatic Lyrics) might also come properly enough, I suppose, under the head of Dramatic Pieces; being, though often Lyric in expression, always Dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine. Part of the Poems were inscribed to my dear friend, John Kenyon; I hope the whole may obtain the honor of an association with his memory."

The third of the Cavalier Tunes was originally entitled My Wife Gertrude. The three songs have been set to music by Dr. Villiers Stanford.

CAVALIER TUNES

THE LOST LEADER

Browning was beset with questions by people asking if he referred to Wordsworth in this poem. He answered the question more than once, as an artist would: the following letter to Rev. A. B. Grosart, the editor of Wordsworth's Prose Works, sufficiently states his position.

"19 Warwick-Crescent, W., Feb. 24, '75.

"Dear Mr. Grosart,—I have been asked the question you now address me with, and as duly answered it, I can't remember how many times; there is no sort of objection to one more assurance or rather confession, on my part, that I did in my hasty youth presume to use the great and venerated personality of Wordsworth as a sort of painter's model; one from which this or the other particular feature may be selected and turned to account; had I intended more, above all, such a boldness as portraying the entire man, I should not have talked about 'handfuls of silver and bits of ribbon.' These never influenced the change of politics in the great poet, whose defection, nevertheless, accompanied as it was by a regular face-about of his special party, was to my juvenile apprehension, and even mature consideration, an event to deplore. But just as in the tapestry on my wall I can recognize figures which have struck out a fancy, on occasion, that though truly enough thus derived, yet would be preposterous as a copy, so, though I dare not deny the original of my little poem, I altogether refuse to have it considered as the 'very effigies' of such a moral and intellectual superiority.

"Faithfully yours,
"Robert Browning."

Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat—

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others she lets us devote;

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us,—they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

—He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,—not through his presence;

Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his quiescence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,

One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,

Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"

Browning wrote to an American inquirer about this poem: "There is no sort of historical foundation for the poem 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. It was written in pencil on the fly-leaf of Bartoli's Simboli, I remember."

[16—]

I 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.

'T was 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, 't was 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 through 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 eye's black intelligence,—ever that glance

O'er 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 fault 's not in her,

We'll 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 they'll 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.

THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR

As I ride, as I ride,

With a full heart for my guide,

So its tide rocks my side,

As I ride, as I ride,

That, as I were double-eyed,

He, in whom our Tribes confide,

Is descried, ways untried,

As I ride, as I ride.

As I ride, as I ride

To our Chief and his Allied,

Who dares chide my heart's pride

As I ride, as I ride?

Or are witnesses denied—

Through the desert waste and wide

Do I glide unespied

As I ride, as I ride?

As I ride, as I ride,

When an inner voice has cried,

The sands slide, nor abide

(As I ride, as I ride)

O'er each visioned homicide

That came vaunting (has he lied?)

To reside—where he died,

As I ride, as I ride.

As I ride, as I ride,

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,

Yet his hide, streaked and pied,

As I ride, as I ride,

Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,

—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—

How has vied stride with stride

As I ride, as I ride!

As I ride, as I ride,

Could I loose what Fate has tied,

Ere I pried, she should hide

(As I ride, as I ride)

All that 's meant me—satisfied

When the Prophet and the Bride

Stop veins I 'd have subside

As I ride, as I ride!

NATIONALITY IN DRINKS

The first two of this group, under the titles Claret and Tokay, were published in Hood's Magazine, June, 1844, at the request of Richard Monckton Milnes, who was editing the magazine during Hood's illness. The third, first entitled Beer, was called out by the description of Nelson's coat at Greenwich, given by the captain of the vessel in which Browning was sailing to Italy.

My heart sank with our Claret-flask,

Just now, beneath the heavy sedges

That serve this pond's black face for mask;

And still at yonder broken edges

O' the hole, where up the bubbles glisten,

After my heart I look and listen.

Our laughing little flask, compelled

Through depth to depth more bleak and shady;

As when, both arms beside her held,

Feet straightened out, some gay French lady

Is caught up from life's light and motion,

And dropped into death's silent ocean!

—Up jumped Tokay on our table,

Like a pygmy castle-warder,

Dwarfish to see, but stout and able,

Arms and accoutrements all in order;

And fierce he looked North, then, wheeling South,

Blew with his bugle a challenge to Drouth,

Cocked his flap-hat with the tosspot-feather,

Twisted his thumb in his red moustache,

Jingled his huge brass spurs together,

Tightened his waist with its Buda sash,

And then, with an impudence naught could abash,

Shrugged his hump-shoulder, to tell the beholder,

For twenty such knaves he should laugh but the bolder:

And so, with his sword-hilt gallantly jutting,

And dexter-hand on his haunch abutting,

Went the little man, Sir Ausbruch, strutting!

III

—Here's to Nelson's memory!

'T is the second time that I, at sea,

Right off Cape Trafalgar here,

Have drunk it deep in British Beer.

Nelson forever—any time

Am I his to command in prose or rhyme!

Give me of Nelson only a touch,

And I save it, be it little or much:

Here 's one our Captain gives, and so

Down at the word, by George, shall it go!

He says that at Greenwich they point the beholder

To Nelson's coat, "still with tar on the shoulder:

For he used to lean with one shoulder digging,

Jigging, as it were, and zig-zag-zigging

Up against the mizzen-rigging!"

GARDEN FANCIES

These two poems also appeared in Hood's Magazine, July, 1844.

I. THE FLOWER'S NAME

Here's the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since:

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince!

She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,

As back with that murmur the wicket swung;

For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,

To feed and forget it the leaves among.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box:

And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.

Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by!

She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;

Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,

Its soft meandering Spanish name:

What a name! Was it love or praise?

Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?

I must learn Spanish, one of these days,

Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her, one of these days,

To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;

But do not detain me now; for she lingers

There, like sunshine over the ground,

And ever I see her soft white fingers

Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,

Stay as you are and be loved forever!

Bud, if I kiss you 't is that you blow not,

Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!

For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,

Twinkling the audacious leaves between,

Till round they turn and down they nestle—

Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;

Whither I follow her, beauties flee;

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June 's twice June since she breathed it with me?

Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!

—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—

Roses, you are not so fair after all!

II. SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS

Plague take all your pedants, say I!

He who wrote what I hold in my hand,

Centuries back was so good as to die,

Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land;

This, that was a book in its time,

Printed on paper and bound in leather,

Last month in the white of a matin-prime,

Just when the birds sang all together.

Into the garden I brought it to read,

And under the arbute and laurustine

Read it, so help me grace in my need,

From title-page to closing line.

Chapter on chapter did I count,

As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge;

Added up the mortal amount;

And then proceeded to my revenge.

Yonder 's a plum-tree with a crevice

An owl would build in, were he but sage;

For a lap of moss, like a fine pont-levis

In a castle of the Middle Age,

Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber;

When he'd be private, there might he spend

Hours alone in his lady's chamber:

Into this crevice I dropped our friend.

Splash, went he, as under he ducked,

—At the bottom, I knew, rain-drippings stagnate;

Next, a handful of blossoms I plucked

To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate;

Then I went in-doors, brought out a loaf,

Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis;

Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf

Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais.

Now, this morning, betwixt the moss

And gum that locked our friend in limbo,

A spider had spun his web across,

And sat in the midst with arms akimbo:

So, I took pity, for learning's sake,

And, de profundis, accentibus lœtis,

Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake;

And up I fished his delectable treatise.

Here you have it, dry in the sun,

With all the binding all of a blister,

And great blue spots where the ink has run,

And reddish streaks that wink and glister

O'er the page so beautifully yellow:

Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks!

Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow?

Here's one stuck in his chapter six!

How did he like it when the live creatures

Tickled and toused and browsed him all over,

And worm, slug, eft, with serious features,

Came in, each one, for his right of trover?

—When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face

Made of her eggs the stately deposit,

And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface

As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet?

All that life and fun and romping,

All that frisking and twisting and coupling,

While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping

And clasps were cracking and covers suppling!

As if you had carried sour John Knox

To the play-house at Paris, Vienna or Munich,

Fastened him into a front-row box,

And danced off the ballet with trousers and tunic.

Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it?

Back to my room shall you take your sweet self.

Good-bye, mother-beetle; husband-eft, sufficit!

See the snug niche I have made on my shelf!

A's book shall prop you up, B's shall cover you,

Here's C to be grave with, or D to be gay,

And with E on each side, and F right over you,

Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day!

SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER

When first printed in Bells and Pomegranates, this poem was the second of a group of two bearing the general title Camp and Cloister, the first of the two being Incident of the French Camp.

Gr-r-r—there go, my heart's abhorrence!

Water your damned flower-pots, do!

If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,

God's blood, would not mine kill you!

What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?

Oh, that rose has prior claims—

Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?

Hell dry you up with its flames!

At the meal we sit together:

Salve tibi! I must hear

Wise talk of the kind of weather,

Sort of season, time of year:

Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely

Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:

What's the Latin name for "parsley"?

What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?

Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,

Laid with care on our own shelf!

With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,

And a goblet for ourself,

Rinsed like something sacrificial

Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps—

Marked with L for our initial!

(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores

Squats outside the Convent bank

With Sanchicha, telling stories,

Steeping tresses in the tank,

Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs,

—Can't I see his dead eye glow,

Bright as 't were a Barbary corsair's?

(That is, if he 'd let it show!)

When he finishes refection,

Knife and fork he never lays

Cross-wise, to my recollection,

As do I, in Jesu's praise.

I the Trinity illustrate,

Drinking watered orange-pulp—

In three sips the Arian frustrate;

While he drains his at one gulp.

Oh, those melons! If he's able

We 're to have a feast! so nice!

One goes to the Abbot's table,

All of us get each a slice.

How go on your flowers? None double?

Not one fruit-sort can you spy?

Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble

Keep them close-nipped on the sly!

There's a great text in Galatians,

Once you trip on it, entails

Twenty-nine distinct damnations,

One sure, if another fails:

If I trip him just a-dying,

Sure of heaven as sure can be,

Spin him round and send him flying

Off to hell, a Manichee?

Or, my scrofulous French novel

On gray paper with blunt type!

Simply glance at it, you grovel

Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:

If I double down its pages

At the woeful sixteenth print,

When he gathers his greengages,

Ope a sieve and slip it in 't?

Or, there's Satan!—one might venture

Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave

Such a flaw in the indenture

As he'd miss till, past retrieve,

Blasted lay that rose-acacia

We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...

'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ,

Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r—you swine!

THE LABORATORY
ANCIEN RÉGIME

Published first in Hood's Magazine, June, 1844. In Bells and Pomegranates it was grouped with The Confessional under the title France and Spain.

Now that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,

May gaze through these faint smokes curling whitely,

As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy—

Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?

He is with her, and they know that I know

Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow

While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear

Empty church, to pray God in, for them!—I am here.

Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,

Pound at thy powder,—I am not in haste!

Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,

Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.

That in the mortar—you call it a gum?

Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!

And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,

Sure to taste sweetly,—is that poison too?

Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,

What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!

To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,

A signet, a fan-mount, a filigree basket!

Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give,

And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!

But to light a pastile, and Elise, with her head

And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!

Quick—is it finished? The color's too grim!

Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?

Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,

And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!

What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me!

That's why she ensnared him: this never will free

The soul from those masculine eyes,—say, "no!"

To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.

For only last night, as they whispered, I brought

My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought

Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall

Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does it all!

Not that I bid you spare her the pain;

Let death be felt and the proof remain:

Brand, burn up, bite into its grace—

He is sure to remember her dying face!

Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose;

It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:

The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee!

If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?

Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,

You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!

But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings

Ere I know it—next moment I dance at the King's!

THE CONFESSIONAL
SPAIN

It is a lie—their Priests, their Pope,

Their Saints, their ... all they fear or hope

Are lies, and lies—there! through my door

And ceiling, there! and walls and floor,

There, lies, they lie—shall still be hurled

Till spite of them I reach the world!

You think Priests just and holy men!

Before they put me in this den

I was a human creature too,

With flesh and blood like one of you,

A girl that laughed in beauty's pride

Like lilies in your world outside.

I had a lover—shame avaunt!

This poor wrenched body, grim and gaunt,

Was kissed all over till it burned,

By lips the truest, love e'er turned

His heart's own tint: one night they kissed

My soul out in a burning mist.

So, next day when the accustomed train

Of things grew round my sense again,

"That is a sin," I said: and slow

With downcast eyes to church I go,

And pass to the confession-chair,

And tell the old mild father there.

But when I falter Beltran's name,

"Ha!" quoth the father; "much I blame

The sin; yet wherefore idly grieve?

Despair not—strenuously retrieve!

Nay, I will turn this love of thine

To lawful love, almost divine;

"For he is young, and led astray,

This Beltran, and he schemes, men say,

To change the laws of church and state;

So, thine shall be an angel's fate,

Who, ere the thunder breaks, should roll

Its cloud away and save his soul.

"For, when he lies upon thy breast,

Thou mayest demand and be possessed

Of all his plans, and next day steal

To me, and all those plans reveal,

That I and every priest, to purge

His soul, may fast and use the scourge."

That father's beard was long and white,

With love and truth his brow seemed bright;

I went back, all on fire with joy,

And, that same evening, bade the boy

Tell me, as lovers should, heart-free,

Something to prove his love of me.

He told me what he would not tell

For hope of heaven or fear of hell;

And I lay listening in such pride!

And, soon as he had left my side,

Tripped to the church by morning-light

To save his soul in his despite.

I told the father all his schemes,

Who were his comrades, what their dreams;

"And now make haste," I said, "to pray

The one spot from his soul away;

To-night he comes, but not the same

Will look!" At night he never came.

Nor next night: on the after-morn,

I went forth with a strength new-born.

The church was empty; something drew

My steps into the street; I knew

It led me to the market-place:

Where, lo, on high, the father's face!

That horrible black scaffold dressed,

That stapled block ... God sink the rest!

That head strapped back, that blinding vest,

Those knotted hands and naked breast,

Till near one busy hangman pressed,

And, on the neck these arms caressed ...

No part in aught they hope or fear!

No heaven with them, no hell!—and here,

No earth, not so much space as pens

My body in their worst of dens

But shall bear God and man my cry.

Lies—lies, again—and still, they lie!

CRISTINA

In Bells and Pomegranates, this poem was the second of a group headed Queen-Worship, the first being Rudel and the Lady of Tripoli.

She should never have looked at me

If she meant I should not love her!

There are plenty ... men, you call such,

I suppose ... she may discover

All her soul to, if she pleases,

And yet leave much as she found them:

But I'm not so, and she knew it

When she fixed me, glancing round them.

What? To fix me thus meant nothing?

But I can't tell (there's my weakness)

What her look said!—no vile cant, sure,

About "need to strew the bleakness

Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed,

That the sea feels"—no "strange yearning

That such souls have, most to lavish

Where there's chance of least returning."

Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows!

But not quite so sunk that moments,

Sure though seldom, are denied us,

When the spirit's true endowments

Stand out plainly from its false ones,

And apprise it if pursuing

Or the right way or the wrong way,

To its triumph or undoing.

There are flashes struck from midnights,

There are fire-flames noondays kindle,

Whereby piled-up honors perish,

Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle,

While just this or that poor impulse,

Which for once had play unstifled,

Seems the sole work of a lifetime,

That away the rest have trifled.

Doubt you if, in some such moment,

As she fixed me, she felt clearly,

Ages past the soul existed,

Here an age 't is resting merely,

And hence fleets again for ages,

While the true end, sole and single,

It stops here for is, this love-way,

With some other soul to mingle?

Else it loses what it lived for,

And eternally must lose it;

Better ends may be in prospect,

Deeper blisses (if you choose it),

But this life's end and this love-bliss

Have been lost here. Doubt you whether

This she felt as, looking at me,

Mine and her souls rushed together?

Oh, observe! Of course, next moment,

The world's honors, in derision,

Trampled out the light forever:

Never fear but there's provision

Of the devil's to quench knowledge

Lest we walk the earth in rapture!

—Making those who catch God's secret

Just so much more prize their capture!

Such am I: the secret 's mine now!

She has lost me, I have gained her;

Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect,

I shall pass my life's remainder.

Life will just hold out the proving

Both our powers, alone and blended:

And then, come the next life quickly!

This world's use will have been ended.

THE LOST MISTRESS

All 's over, then: does truth sound bitter

As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter

About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly,

I noticed that, to-day;

One day more bursts them open fully

—You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest

Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black

Though I keep with heart's endeavor,—

Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back,

Though it stay in my soul forever!—

Yet I will but say what mere friends say,

Or only a thought stronger;

I will hold your hand but as long as all may,

Or so very little longer!

EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES

FAME

The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning / Cambridge Edition

About This Book

DRAMATIC LYRICS

CAVALIER TUNES

I. MARCHING ALONG

II. GIVE A ROUSE

III. BOOT AND SADDLE

THE LOST LEADER

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"

THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD-EL-KADR

NATIONALITY IN DRINKS

GARDEN FANCIES

SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER

THE LABORATORY ANCIEN RÉGIME

THE CONFESSIONAL SPAIN

CRISTINA

THE LOST MISTRESS

EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES

THE LABORATORY
ANCIEN RÉGIME

THE CONFESSIONAL
SPAIN