My Last Duchess and Other Poems

DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS

GENERAL EDITOR: STANLEY APPELBAUM

EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: SHANE WELLER

Copyright

Copyright © 1993 by Dover Publications, Inc. All rights reserved under Pan American and International Copyright Conventions.

Bibliographical Note

This Dover edition, first published in 1993, is a new selection of poems, reprinted from Poems of Robert Browning, published by Thomas Y. Crowell & Company, New York, in 1896; and The Poems of Robert Browning, published by Oxford University Press, London, in 1905. The Note, footnotes and the alphabetical lists of titles and first lines have been prepared specially for the present edition.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Browning, Robert, 1812—1889.

My last duchess, and other poems / Robert Browning.

p. cm.—(Dover thrift editions)

9780486114255

I. Title. II. Series.

PR4202.D68 1993
821’.8—dc20

93-22085

CIP

Manufactured in the United States of America
Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501

Note

ROBERT BROWNING (1812—1889) stands alongside Tennyson as one of the colossi of Victorian poetry; yet, owing partly to the formal and linguistic complexity of his work, partly to his use of rich topographical and historical detail, he achieved recognition only late in life, with the publication of the dauntingly elaborate The Ring and the Book (1868— 69), an ambitious fusion of novel, drama and epic poem. Among his most noteworthy collections of shorter verse are Dramatic Lyrics (1842), Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845), Men and Women (1855) and Dramatis Personae (1864). Browning began his literary career as a dramatist, and although his plays are now little read, he is celebrated for having created the poetic form known as the dramatic monologue, among which some of his best known are “My Last Duchess,” “Fra Lippo Lippi” and “Andrea del Sarto.” Besides these poems, the present selection also includes many of the other high points from throughout the writers creative life, among which are the narrative children’s poem “The Pied Piper of Hamelin”; the famous attack on Wordsworth, “The Lost Leader”; the love poems “Meeting at Night” and “The Last Ride Together”; and the lyric “Home-Thoughts from Abroad.” The song from Pippa Passes, perhaps Browning’s most well-known piece of verse, is the only extract included here.

Table of Contents

Title Page
Copyright Page
Note
My Last Duchess and Other Poems
Alphabetical List of Titles
Alphabetical List of First Lines

My Last Duchess and Other Poems

Song

The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hill-side’s dew-pearled;
The lark’s on the wing;
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world!

My Last Duchess

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will ’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design: for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’t was not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:” such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate‘er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ’t was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—at! and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
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
With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Incident of the French Camp

I

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

II

Just as perhaps he mused “My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder watt”—
Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bounds
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.

III

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
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.

IV

“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 vans1
Where I, to heart’s desire,
Perched him!” The chief’s eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

V

The chief’s eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle’s eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes.
“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” the soldiers pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
“I’m killed, Sire!” And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.

Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister

I

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!

II

At the meal we sit together:
Salve tibi!2 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?3

III

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 ’t is fit to touch our chaps—
Marked with L for our initial!
(He-he! There his lily snaps!)

IV

Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha, telling stories,
Steeping tresses in the tank,
Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horse hairs,
—Can’t I see his dead eye glow,
Bright as ’t were a Barbary corsair’s?
(That is, if he’d let it show!)

V

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 Arian4 frustrate;
While he drains his at one gulp.

VI

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!

VII

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?

VIII

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?

IX

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!5 Gr-r-r—you swine!

Johannes Agricola in Meditation6

There’s heaven above, and night by night,
I look right through its gorgeous roof;
No suns and moons though e‘er so bright
Avail to stop me; splendour-proof
I keep the broods of stars aloof:
For I intend to get to God,
For ’tis to God I speed so fast,
For in God’s breast, my own abode,
Those shoals of dazzling glory, past,
I lay my spirit down at last.