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    Dramatic Romances: "So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!"
    Dramatic Romances: "So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!"
    Dramatic Romances: "So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!"
    Ebook171 pages1 hour

    Dramatic Romances: "So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!"

    By Robert Browning

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    About this ebook

    Robert Browning is one of the most significant Victorian Poets and, of course, English Poetry.

    Much of his reputation is based upon his mastery of the dramatic monologue although his talents encompassed verse plays and even a well-regarded essay on Shelley during a long and prolific career.

    He was born on May 7th, 1812 in Walmouth, London. Much of his education was home based and Browning was an eclectic and studious student, learning several languages and much else across a myriad of subjects, interests and passions.

    Browning's early career began promisingly. The fragment from his intended long poem Pauline brought him to the attention of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and was followed by Paracelsus, which was praised by both William Wordsworth and Charles Dickens. In 1840 the difficult Sordello, which was seen as willfully obscure, brought his career almost to a standstill.

    Despite these artistic and professional difficulties his personal life was about to become immensely fulfilling. He began a relationship with, and then married, the older and better known Elizabeth Barrett. This new foundation served to energise his writings, his life and his career.

    During their time in Italy they both wrote much of their best work. With her untimely death in 1861 he returned to London and thereafter began several further major projects.

    The collection Dramatis Personae (1864) and the book-length epic poem The Ring and the Book (1868-69) were published and well received; his reputation as a venerated English poet now assured.

    Robert Browning died in Venice on December 12th, 1889.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPortable Poetry
    Release dateJan 1, 2018
    ISBN9781787376311
    Dramatic Romances: "So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!"

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      Book preview

      Dramatic Romances - Robert Browning

      Dramatic Romances by Robert Browning

      Bells and Pomegranates Number VII

      Robert Browning is one of the most significant Victorian Poets and, of course, English Poetry.

      Much of his reputation is based upon his mastery of the dramatic monologue although his talents encompassed verse plays and even a well-regarded essay on Shelley during a long and prolific career.

      He was born on May 7th, 1812 in Walmouth, London.  Much of his education was home based and Browning was an eclectic and studious student, learning several languages and much else across a myriad of subjects, interests and passions.

      Browning's early career began promisingly. The fragment from his intended long poem Pauline brought him to the attention of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and was followed by Paracelsus, which was praised by both William Wordsworth and Charles Dickens. In 1840 the difficult Sordello, which was seen as willfully obscure, brought his career almost to a standstill.

      Despite these artistic and professional difficulties his personal life was about to become immensely fulfilling.  He began a relationship with, and then married, the older and better known Elizabeth Barrett. This new foundation served to energise his writings, his life and his career.

      During their time in Italy they both wrote much of their best work. With her untimely death in 1861 he returned to London and thereafter began several further major projects.

      The collection Dramatis Personae (1864) and the book-length epic poem The Ring and the Book (1868-69) were published and well received; his reputation as a venerated English poet now assured.

      Robert Browning died in Venice on December 12th, 1889.

      Index of Contents

      DRAMATIC ROMANCES

      NOTE

      INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

      THE PATRIOT

      MY LAST DUCHESS

      COUNT GISMOND

      THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

      INSTANS TYRANNUS

      MESMERISM

      THE GLOVE

      TIME'S REVENGES

      THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

      THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY

      IN A GONDOLA

      WARING

      THE TWINS

      A LIGHT WOMAN

      THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

      THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

      THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS

      A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 

      THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY

      HOLY-CROSS DAY

      PROTUS

      THE STATUE AND THE BUST

      PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

      CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME

      ROBERT BROWNING – A SHORT BIOGRAPHY

      ROBERT BROWNING – A CONCISE BIBLIOGRAPHY

      DRAMATIC ROMANCES

      NOTE

      The seventh number of Bells and Pomegranates was entitled Dramatic Romances and Lyrics. In the redistribution of his shorter poems when he collected his writings, Browning having already a group of Dramatic Lyrics made a second of Dramatic Romances, taking the occasion to make a little nicer discrimination. Thus some of the poems originally included under the combined title were distributed among the Lyrics, and some at first grouped under Lyrics were transferred to this division of Romances. The first poem in the group was originally contained in Dramatic Lyrics along with Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister under the general title of Camp and Cloister, this poem representing the camp.

      INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

      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.

      Just as perhaps he mused "My plans

      That soar, to earth may fall,

      Let once my army-leader Lannes

      Waver at yonder wall,"―

      Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

      A rider, bound on bound

      Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

      Until he reached the mound.

      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.

      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,

      Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

      Soared up again like fire.

      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 soldier's pride

      Touched to the quick, he said:

      I'm killed, Sire! And his chief beside,

      Smiling the boy fell dead.

      THE PATRIOT

      AN OLD STORY

      Mr. Browning has denied that this poem refers to Arnold of Brescia. It is imaginative, not historical in its dramatic action. It was possibly to relieve the poem of its apparent distinct reference to history that he removed the name of Brescia, which was used in the poem in its first form.

      It was roses, roses, all the way,

      With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:

      The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

      The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,

      A year ago on this very day.

      The air broke into a mist with bells,

      The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

      Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels―

      But give me your sun from yonder skies!"

      They had answered, And afterward, what else?

      Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

      To give it my loving friends to keep!

      Naught man could do, have I left undone:

      And you see my harvest, what I reap

      This very day, now a year is run.

      There's nobody on the house-tops now―

      Just a palsied few at the windows set;

      For the best of the sight is, all allow,

      At the Shambles' Gate―or, better yet,

      By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

      I go in the rain, and, more than needs,

      A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

      And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,

      For they fling, whoever has a mind,

      Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

      Thus I entered, and thus I go!

      In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

      "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

      Me?"―God might question; now instead,

      'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

      MY LAST DUCHESS

      FERRARA

      In Dramatic Lyrics this was entitled Italy, and grouped with Count Gismond under the head Italy and France.

      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 favor 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―all 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!

      COUNT GISMOND

      AIX IN PROVENCE

      Christ God who savest man, save most

      Of men Count Gismond who saved me!

      Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,

      Chose time and place and company

      To suit it; when he struck at length

      My honor, 't was with all his strength.

      And doubtlessly ere he could draw

      All points to one, he must have schemed!

      That miserable morning saw

      Few half so happy as I seemed,

      While being dressed in queen's array

      To give our tourney prize away.

      I thought they loved me, did me grace

      To please themselves; 't was all their deed,

      God makes, or fair or foul, our face;

      If showing mine so caused to bleed

      My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped

      A word, and straight the play had stopped.

      They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen

      By virtue of her brow and breast;

      Not needing to be crowned, I mean,

      As I do. E'en when I was dressed,

      Had either of them spoke, instead

      Of glancing sideways with still head!

      But no: they let me laugh,

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