Sordello. Robert Browning

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      Book the First

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      BOOK THE FIRST. Who will, may hear Sordello's story told: His story? Who believes me shall behold The man, pursue his fortunes to the end, Like me: for as the friendless-people's friend Spied from his hill-top once, despite the din And dust of multitudes, Pentapolin Named o' the Naked Arm, I single out Sordello, compassed murkily about With ravage of six long sad hundred years. Only believe me. Ye believe? Appears Verona … Never—I should warn you first— Of my own choice had this, if not the worst Yet not the best expedient, served to tell A story I could body forth so well By making speak, myself kept out of view, The very man as he was wont to do, And leaving you to say the rest for him. Since, though I might be proud to see the dim Abysmal past divide its hateful surge, Letting of all men this one man emerge Because it pleased me, yet, that moment past, I should delight in watching first to last His progress as you watch it, not a whit More in the secret than yourselves who sit Fresh-chapleted to listen. But it seems Your setters-forth of unexampled themes, Makers of quite new men, producing them, Would best chalk broadly on each vesture's hem The wearer's quality; or take their stand, Motley on back and pointing-pole in hand, Beside him. So, for once I face ye, friends, Summoned together from the world's four ends, Dropped down from heaven or cast up from hell, To hear the story I propose to tell. Confess now, poets know the dragnet's trick, Catching the dead, if fate denies the quick, And shaming her; 't is not for fate to choose Silence or song because she can refuse Real eyes to glisten more, real hearts to ache Less oft, real brows turn smoother for our sake: I have experienced something of her spite; But there 's a realm wherein she has no right And I have many lovers. Say; but few Friends fate accords me? Here they are: now view The host I muster! Many a lighted face Foul with no vestige of the grave's disgrace; What else should tempt them back to taste our air Except to see how their successors fare? My audience! and they sit, each ghostly man Striving to look as living as he can, Brother by breathing brother; thou art set, Clear-witted critic, by … but I 'll not fret A wondrous soul of them, nor move death's spleen Who loves not to unlock them. Friends! I mean The living in good earnest—ye elect Chiefly for love—suppose not I reject Judicious praise, who contrary shall peep, Some fit occasion, forth, for fear ye sleep, To glean your bland approvals. Then, appear, Verona! stay—thou, spirit, come not near Now—not this time desert thy cloudy place To scare me, thus employed, with that pure face! I need not fear this audience, I make free With them, but then this is no place for thee! The thunder-phrase of the Athenian, grown Up out of memories of Marathon, Would echo like his own sword's griding screech Braying a Persian shield—the silver speech Of Sidney's self, the starry paladin, Turn intense as a trumpet sounding in The knights to tilt—wert thou to hear! What heart Have I to play my puppets, bear my part Before these worthies? Lo, the past is hurled In twain: up-thrust, out-staggering on the world, Subsiding into shape, a darkness rears Its outline, kindles at the core, appears Verona. 'T is six hundred years and more Since an event. The Second Friedrich wore The purple, and the Third Honorius filled The holy chair. That autumn eve was stilled: A last remains of sunset dimly burned O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame turned By the wind back upon its bearer's hand In one long flare of crimson; as a brand, The woods beneath lay black. A single eye From all Verona cared for the soft sky. But, gathering in its ancient market-place, Talked group with restless group; and not a face But wrath made livid, for among them were Death's staunch purveyors, such as have in care To feast him. Fear had long since taken root In every breast, and now these crushed its fruit, The ripe hate, like a wine: to note the way It worked while each grew drunk! Men grave and grey Stood, with shut eyelids, rocking to and fro, Letting the silent luxury trickle slow About the hollows where a heart should be; But the young gulped with a delirious glee Some foretaste of their first debauch in blood At the fierce news: for, be it understood, Envoys apprised Verona that her prince Count Richard of Saint Boniface, joined since A year with Azzo, Este's Lord, to thrust Taurello Salinguerra, prime in trust With Ecelin Romano, from his seat Ferrara—over zealous in the feat And stumbling on a peril unaware, Was captive, trammelled in his proper snare, They phrase it, taken by his own intrigue. Immediate succour from the Lombard League Of fifteen cities that affect the Pope, For Azzo, therefore, and his fellow-hope Of the Guelf cause, a glory overcast! Men's faces, late agape, are now aghast. "Prone is the purple pavis; Este makes "Mirth for the devil when he undertakes "To play the Ecelin; as if it cost "Merely your pushing-by to gain a post "Like his! The patron tells ye, once for all, "There be sound reasons that preferment fall "On our beloved" … "Duke o' the Rood, why not?" Shouted an Estian, "grudge ye such a lot? "The hill-cat boasts some cunning of her own, "Some stealthy trick to better beasts unknown, "That quick with prey enough her hunger blunts, "And feeds her fat while gaunt the lion hunts." "Taurello," quoth an envoy, "as in wane "Dwelt at Ferrara. Like an osprey fain "To fly but forced the earth his couch to make "Far inland, till his friend the tempest wake, "Waits he the Kaiser's coming; and as yet "That fast friend sleeps, and he too sleeps: but let "Only the billow freshen, and he snuffs "The aroused hurricane ere it enroughs "The sea it means to cross because of him. "Sinketh the breeze? His hope-sick eye grows dim; "Creep closer on the creature! Every day "Strengthens the Pontiff; Ecelin, they say, "Dozes now at Oliero, with dry lips "Telling upon his perished finger-tips "How many ancestors are to depose "Ere he be Satan's Viceroy when the doze "Deposits him in hell. So, Guelfs rebuilt "Their houses; not a drop of blood was spilt "When Cino Bocchimpane chanced to meet "Buccio Virtù—God's wafer, and the street "Is narrow! Tutti Santi, think, a-swarm "With Ghibellins, and yet he took no harm! "This could not last. Off Salinguerra went "To Padua, Podestà, 'with pure intent,' "Said he, 'my presence, judged the single bar "'To permanent tranquillity, may jar "'No longer'—so! his back is fairly turned? "The pair of goodly palaces are burned, "The gardens ravaged, and our Guelfs laugh, drunk "A week with joy. The next, their laughter sunk "In sobs of blood, for they found, some strange way, "Old Salinguerra back again—I say, "Old Salinguerra in the town once more "Uprooting, overturning, flame before, "Blood fetlock-high beneath him. Azzo fled; "Who 'scaped the carnage followed; then the dead "Were pushed aside from Salinguerra's throne, "He ruled once more Ferrara, all alone, "Till Azzo, stunned awhile, revived, would pounce "Coupled with Boniface, like lynx and ounce, "On the gorged bird. The burghers ground their teeth "To see troop after troop encamp beneath "I' the standing corn thick o'er the scanty patch "It took so many patient months to snatch "Out of the СКАЧАТЬ