To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent Hold by the right, you double your might; II. GIVE A ROUSE King Charles, and who 'll do him right now? Who gave me the goods that went since? Who helped me to gold spent since? King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight Give a rouse: here 's, in hell's despite To whom used my boy George quaff else, King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight Give a rouse: here 's, in hell's despite III. BOOT AND SADDLE Boot, saddle, to horse and away! Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his Many's the friend there, will listen and pray snarls 1 impressing, enlisting 2 parleys, debates 3 may it serve "God's luck to gallants that strike up the layCHO.-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"' Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, These songs are meant to portray the spirit of Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 4 Oliver's (i. e.. Cromwell's) 1642, marking the beginning of the Civil War. 600 CHO.-Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!'' Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 5 A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; Just as perhaps he mused "My plans Let once my army-leader Lannes Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect(So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal 's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20 16 For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad. 24 Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 30 Or blush, at least. She thanked men,-good! but thanked Somehow I know not how-as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name Perched him!'' The chief's eye flashed; his In speech-(which I have not)—to make your plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently will Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes; "You're wounded!" “Nay,’ the soldier's A Duke of Ferrara stands before a portrait of his deceased Duchess, talking coolly with the envoy of a Count whose daughter he seeks to marry. The poem is a study in the heartThe less jealousy of supreme selfishness. nature of the commands (line 45) which such a man might give, living at the time of the Italian Renaissance, may be left to the imagi nation. as Browning leaves it. The artists mentioned (lines 3. 56) are imaginary. On the monologue form, see Eng. Lit., p. 301. In this my singing. And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, He sings Past we glide, and past, and past! Past we glide, and past, and past! Like a beacon to the blast? Guests by hurdreds, not one caring For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; If the dear host's neck were wried: The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face Past we glide! She sings May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling The moth's kiss, first! place. 30 40 And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, Where they need thee to bribe Written for a picture, "The Serenade," by Daniel Maclise. The characters are imaginary. So also are the pictures mentioned in lines 183202, though the painters are well known. The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Haste-thee-Luke was a nickname for the Neapolitan, Luca Giordano. Castelfranco is Thy Giorgione. Tizian we know best as Titian, .. Scatter the vision forever! now, and his "Ser" (Sir) would be the portrait of As of old, I am I, thou art thou! an Italian gentleman. And 70 Say again, what we are? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray She replies, musing Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, Than my pale one announce there is withering Or poison doubtless; but from water-feel! away Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust He speaks, musing 80 Go find the bottom! There! Would you stay me? 120 Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass I flung away: since you have praised my hair, "T is proper to be choice in what I wear. He speaks Row home? must we row home? Too surely Lie back; could thought of mine improve you? And formal lines without a curve, A wing; from this, another wing; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! 90 Till both wings crescent-wise enfold Rescue me thou, the only real! Still he muses What if the Three should catch at last They trail me, these three godless knaves, 1 A long sandy bar lying off Venice. Jewish cemetery there. 100 In the same child's playing-face? I scarce could breathe to see you reach That quick the round smooth cord of gold, As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 110 Stay longer yet, for others' sake There is a These objects, and, while day lasts, weave And while such murmurs flow, the nymph And how your statues' hearts must swell! To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke! That got him murdered! Each enjoys She speaks To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Your gondola-let Zorzi wreathe Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! As you and he go underneath. And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, It was ordained to be so, sweet!-and best 180 My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn To death, because they never lived: but I 230 Have lived indeed, and so— -(yet one more kiss) 210 There's Zanze's vigilant taper; safe are we. Only one minute more to-night with me? 4 Supply "which" before "his". And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 10 And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, III At last the people in a body 20 To the Town Hall came flocking: This poem was written by Browning to amuse the little son of the actor, William Macready, and furnish him a subject for drawings. The legend is an old one. John Fiske is disposed to identify it with various myths: "Goethe's Erlking is none other than the Piper of Hamelin. And the piper, in turn, is the classic Hermes or Orpheus. His wonderful pipe is the horn of Oberon, the lyre of Apollo (who, like the piper, was a rat-killer), the harp stolen by Jack when he climbed the bean-stalk to the ogre's castle." |