A Sequence Of Sonnets On The Death Of Robert Browning

I1.
The clearest eyes in all the world they read
.
With sense more keen and spirit of sight more true
.
Than burns and thrills in sunrise, when the dew
.
Flames, and absorbs the glory round it shed,
.
As they the light of ages quick and dead,
.
Closed now, forsake us: yet the shaft that slew
.
Can slay not one of all the works we knew,
.
Nor death discrown that many-laurelled head.
.
The works of words whose life seems lightning wrought,
.

And moulded of unconquerable thought,
.

And quickened with imperishable flame,
.

Stand fast and shine and smile, assured that nought
.

May fade of all their myriad-moulded fame,
.

Nor England's memory clasp not Browning's name.[Composition Date:] December 13, 1889.II2.
Death, what hast thou to do with one for whom
.
Time is not lord, but servant? What least part
.
Of all the fire that fed his living heart,
.
Of all the light more keen that sundawn's bloom
.
That lit and led his spirit, strong as doom
.
And bright as hope, can aught thy breath may dart
.
Quench? Nay, thou knowest he knew thee what thou art,
.
A shadow born of terror's barren womb,
.
That brings not forth save shadows. What art thou,
.

To dream, albeit thou breathe upon his brow,
.

That power on him is given thee,--that thy breath
.

Can make him less than love acclaims him now,
.

And hears all time sound back the word it saith?
.

What part hast thou then in his glory, Death?III3.
A graceless doom it seems that bids us grieve:
.
Venice and winter, hand in deadly hand,
.
Have slain the lover of her sunbright strand
.
And singer of a stormbright Christmas Eve.
.
A graceless guerdon we that loved receive
.
For all our love, from that the dearest land
.
Love worshipped ever. Blithe and soft and bland,
.
Too fair for storm to scathe or fire to cleave,
.
Shone on our dreams and memories evermore
.

The domes, the towers, the mountains and the shore
.

That gird or guard thee, Venice: cold and black
.

Seems now the face we loved as he of yore.
.

We have given thee love--no stint, no stay, no lack:
.

What gift, what gift is this thou hast given us back?IV4.
But he--to him, who knows what gift is thine,
.
Death? Hardly may we think or hope, when we
.
Pass likewise thither where to-night is he,
.
Beyond the irremeable outer seas that shine
.
And darken round such dreams as half divine
.
Some sunlit harbour in that starless sea
.
Where gleams no ship to windward or to lee,
.
To read with him the secret of thy shrine.4.
There too, as here, may song, delight, and love,
.

The nightingale, the sea-bird, and the dove,
.

Fulfil with joy the splendour of the sky
.

Till all beneath wax bright as all above:
.

But none of all that search the heavens, and try
.

The sun, may match the sovereign eagle's eye.[Composition Date:] December 14[, 1889]
V5.
Among the wondrous ways of men and time
.
He went as one that ever found and sought
.
And bore in hand the lamp-like spirit of thought
.
To illume with instance of its fire sublime
.
The dusk of many a cloud-like age and clime.
.
No spirit in shape of light and darkness wrought,
.
No faith, no fear, no dream, no rapture, nought
.
That blooms in wisdom, naught that burns in crime,
.
No virtue girt and armed and helmed with light,
.

No love more lovely than the snows are white,
.

No serpent sleeping in some dead soul's tomb,
.

No song-bird singing from some live soul's height,
.

But he might hear, interpret, or illume
.

With sense invasive as the dawn of doom.VI6.
What secret thing of splendour or of shade
.
Surmised in all those wandering ways wherein
.
Man, led of love and life and death and sin,
.
Strays, climbs, or cowers, allured, absorbed, afraid,
.
Might not the strong and sun-like sense invade
.
Of that full soul that had for aim to win
.
Light, silent over time's dark toil and din,
.
Life, at whose touch death fades as dead things fade?
.
O spirit of man, what mystery moves in thee
.

That he might know not of in spirit, and see
.

The heart within the heart that seems to strive,
.

The life within the life that seems to be,
.

And hear, through all thy storms that whirl and drive,
.

The living sound of all men's souls alive?VII7.
He held no dream worth waking: so he said,
.
He who stands now on death's triumphal steep,
.
Awakened out of life wherein we sleep
.
And dream of what he knows and sees, being dead.
.
But never death for him was dark or dread:
.
"Look forth" he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep,
.
All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep
.
Vain memory's vision of a vanished head
.
As all that lives of all that once was he
.

Save that which lightens from his word: but we,
.

Who, seeing the sunset-coloured waters roll,
.

Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea,
.

Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole,
.

And life and death but shadows of the soul.[Composition Date:] December 15, 1890.Credits and CopyrightTogether with the editors, the Department ofEnglish (University of Toronto), and the University of Toronto Press,the following individuals share copyright for the work that wentinto this edition:Screen Design (Electronic Edition): Sian Meikle (University ofToronto Library)Scanning: Sharine Leung (Centre for Computing in the Humanities)

IN the fair days when God
By man as godlike trod,
And each alike was Greek, alike was free,
God’s lightning spared, they said,
Alone the happier head
Whose laurels screened it; fruitless grace for thee,
To whom the high gods gave of right
Their thunders and their laurels and their light.

Sunbeams and bays before
Our master’s servants wore,
For these Apollo left in all men’s lands;
But far from these ere now
And watched with jealous brow
Lay the blind lightnings shut between God’s hands,
And only loosed on slaves and kings
The terror of the tempest of their wings.

Born in those younger years
That shone with storms of spears
And shook in the wind blown from a dead world’s pyre,
When by her back-blown hair
Napoleon caught the fair
And fierce Republic with her feet of fire,
And stayed with iron words and hands
Her flight, and freedom in a thousand lands:

Thou sawest the tides of things
Close over heads of kings,
And thine hand felt the thunder, and to thee
Laurels and lightnings were
As sunbeams and soft air
Mixed each in other, or as mist with sea
Mixed, or as memory with desire,
Or the lute’s pulses with the louder lyre.

For thee man’s spirit stood
Disrobed of flesh and blood,
And bare the heart of the most secret hours;
And to thine hand more tame
Than birds in winter came
High hopes and unknown flying forms of powers,
And from thy table fed, and sang
Till with the tune men’s ears took fire and rang.

Even all men’s eyes and ears
With fiery sound and tears
Waxed hot, and cheeks caught flame and eyelids light,
At those high songs of thine
That stung the sense like wine,
Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night,
Or wailed as in some flooded cave
Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we
Whose hearts, uplift to thee,
Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song,
We ask not nor await
From the clenched hands of fate,
As thou, remission of the world’s old wrong;
Respite we ask not, nor release;
Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope
Storm heaven, to set wide ope
The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars
All feet of men, all eyes—
The old night resumes her skies,
Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars,
Where nought save these is sure in sight;
And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be
Awhile, as men may, free;
But not by hope or pleasure the most stern
Goddess, most awful-eyed,
Sits, but on either side
Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn,
Sad faith that cannot hope or fear,
And memory grey with many a flowerless year.

Not that in stranger’s wise
I lift not loving eyes
To the fair foster-mother France, that gave
Beyond the pale fleet foam
Help to my sires and home,
Whose great sweet breast could shelter those and save
Whom from her nursing breasts and hands
Their land cast forth of old on gentler lands.

Not without thoughts that ache
For theirs and for thy sake,
I, born of exiles, hail thy banished head;
I whose young song took flight
Toward the great heat and light
On me a child from thy far splendour shed,
From thine high place of soul and song,
Which, fallen on eyes yet feeble, made them strong.

Ah, not with lessening love
For memories born hereof,
I look to that sweet mother-land, and see
The old fields and fair full streams,
And skies, but fled like dreams
The feet of freedom and the thought of thee;
And all between the skies and graves
The mirth of mockers and the shame of slaves.

She, killed with noisome air,
Even she! and still so fair,
Who said “Let there be freedom,” and there was
Freedom; and as a lance
The fiery eyes of France
Touched the world’s sleep and as a sleep made pass
Forth of men’s heavier ears and eyes
Smitten with fire and thunder from new skies.

Are they men’s friends indeed
Who watch them weep and bleed?
Because thou hast loved us, shall the gods love thee?
Thou, first of men and friend,
Seest thou, even thou, the end?
Thou knowest what hath been, knowest thou what shall be?
Evils may pass and hopes endure;
But fate is dim, and all the gods obscure.

O nursed in airs apart,
O poet highest of heart,
Hast thou seen time, who hast seen so many things?
Are not the years more wise,
More sad than keenest eyes,
The years with soundless feet and sounding wings?
Passing we hear them not, but past
The clamour of them thrills us, and their blast.

Thou art chief of us, and lord;
Thy song is as a sword
Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers;
Thou art lord and king; but we
Lift younger eyes, and see
Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours;
Hours that have borne men down so long,
Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.

But thine imperial soul,
As years and ruins roll
To the same end, and all things and all dreams
With the same wreck and roar
Drift on the dim same shore,
Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams
Tracks the fresh water-spring to be
And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea.

As once the high God bound
With many a rivet round
Man’s saviour, and with iron nailed him through,
At the wild end of things,
Where even his own bird’s wings
Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew,
From Caucasus beheld below
Past fathoms of unfathomable snow;

So the strong God, the chance
Central of circumstance,
Still shows him exile who will not be slave;
All thy great fame and thee
Girt by the dim strait sea
With multitudinous walls of wandering wave;
Shows us our greatest from his throne
Fate-stricken, and rejected of his own.

Yea, he is strong, thou say’st,
A mystery many-faced,
The wild beasts know him and the wild birds flee;
The blind night sees him, death
Shrinks beaten at his breath,
And his right hand is heavy on the sea:
We know he hath made us, and is king;
We know not if he care for anything.

Thus much, no more, we know;
He bade what is be so,
Bade light be and bade night be, one by one;
Bade hope and fear, bade ill
And good redeem and kill,
Till all men be aweary of the sun
And his world burn in its own flame
And bear no witness longer of his name.

Yet though all this be thus,
Be those men praised of us
Who have loved and wrought and sorrowed and not sinned
For fame or fear or gold,
Nor waxed for winter cold,
Nor changed for changes of the worldly wind;
Praised above men of men be these,
Till this one world and work we know shall cease.

Yea, one thing more than this,
We know that one thing is,
The splendour of a spirit without blame,
That not the labouring years
Blind-born, nor any fears,
Nor men nor any gods can tire or tame;
But purer power with fiery breath
Fills, and exalts above the gulfs of death.

Praised above men be thou,
Whose laurel-laden brow,
Made for the morning, droops not in the night;
Praised and beloved, that none
Of all thy great things done
Flies higher than thy most equal spirit’s flight;
Praised, that nor doubt nor hope could bend
Earth’s loftiest head, found upright to the end