Browning's Shorter Poems Part 9

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose.

Precious metals Ape the petals,-- Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!

Leave it, rather. 70 Must you gather?

Smell, kiss, wear it--at last, throw away.

YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only: We lodged in a street together, You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay, You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, Then laughed "They will see some day, Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 8

My business was song, song, song; I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, 10 "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, And Grisi's existence embittered!" 12

I earned no more by a warble Than you by a sketch in plaster; You wanted a piece of marble, I needed a music-master.

We studied hard in our styles, Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, 18 For air, looked out on the tiles, For fun, watched each other's windows. 20

You lounged, like a boy of the South, Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too; Or you got it, rubbing your mouth With fingers the clay adhered to.

And I--soon managed to find Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind And be safe in my corset-lacing.

No harm! It was not my fault If you never turned your eye's tail up 30 As I shook upon E _in alt_, Or ran the chromatic scale up:

For spring bade the sparrows pair.

And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and watercresses.

Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it?

Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look or sing it? 40

I did look, sharp as a lynx, (And yet the memory rankles) When models arrived, some minx Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles.

But I think I gave you as good!

"That foreign fellow,--who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?"

Could you say so, and never say "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, 50 And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"

No, no: you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over; You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover.

But you meet the Prince at the Board, I'm queen myself at _bals-pares_, 58 I've married a rich old lord, And you're dubbed knight and an R.A. 60

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and sc.r.a.ppy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy

And n.o.body calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever; This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.

A TALE

(_Epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic."_)

What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 10 Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, 20 --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!" 30

When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew 40 With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, 50 Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one a.s.sent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument?

Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" 60

Did the conqueror spurn the creature Once its service done?

That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent 65 For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir, I hope you understand!) 70 --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?

Somebody I know 80 Hopes one day for reputation Thro' his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? 90

"For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the ba.s.s 100 Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing, (There, enough!)