Dramatic Idyls
Category: Verse
Genres: Epic poem
Level 8.16 2:44 h
Dramatic Idyls is an 1879 collection of poems by Robert Browning. The collection is comprised of two series.

Dramatic Idyls

Robert Browning

Dramatic Idyls

First Series

The Dramatic Idyls, a group of poems which indicated a return to Browning’s earlier manner, furnished the title for two successive volumes, the first series published in 1879, the second the year following. The poems in the first series were composed while Browning and his sister were sojourning in a mountain hotel near the summit of the Splügen Pass in the summer of 1878. So stimulated was Browning by the mountain air that he composed with extraordinary rapidity, even for him, bringing down upon himself his sister’s determined caution.

Martin Relph

My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago,
On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow,
Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe,
And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason — so!

If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself:
But — God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph,
As coward, coward I call him — him, yes, him! Away from me!
Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue?
People have urged, “You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young!
You were taken aback, poor boy,” they urge, “no time to regain your wits:
Besides it had maybe cost your life.” Ay, there is the cap which fits!

So, cap me, the coward, — thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good:
The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food.
See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends,
The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I,
Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why,
When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite
Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!

I’ll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped
Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped
By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight
And take the example, — see, not speak, for speech was the Captain’s right.

“You clowns on the slope, beware!” cried he: “This woman about to die
Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy.
Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn
That peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King’s concern.

“Here’s a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes:
What call has a man of your kind — much less, a woman — to interpose?
Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes — so much the worse!
The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

“Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago,
And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know.
Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news,
From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

“All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do!
Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too.
Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure
Betokens the finger foul with ink: ‘t is a woman who writes, be sure!

“Is it ‘Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!’ — good natural stuff, she pens?
Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens,
How ‘robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief
Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.’

“But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into ‘Horrid the place is grown
With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own:
And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek
For the second Company sure to come (‘t is whispered) on Monday week.’

‘And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out:
Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about!
Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign:
But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

“That traitors had played us false, was proved — sent news which fell so pat:
And the murder was out — this letter of love, the sender of this sent that!
‘T is an ugly job, though, all the same — a hateful, to have to deal
With a case of the kind, when a woman’s in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

“So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes
Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King’s own clerks,
Ay, kept by the King’s own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp:
A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort — the scamp!

“‘If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks,
And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels’ books,
Come quick,’ said I, ‘and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime,
Or martial law must take its course: this day next week’s the time!’

“Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice!
He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice!
His own neck free, but his partner’s fast in the noose still, here she stands
To pay for her fault. ‘T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

“And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share
The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware!
Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives —
Or sweethearts or what they may be — from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!”

Black? but the Pit’s own pitch was white to the Captain’s face — the brute
With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit!
He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear;
He had but a handful of men, that’s true, — a riot might cost him dear.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face
Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party’s firing-place.
I hope she was wholly with God: I hope ‘t was his angel stretched a hand
To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes,
No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies —
“Why did you leave me to die?” — “Because” … Oh, fiends, too soon you grin
At merely a moment of hell, like that — such heaven as hell ended in!

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line.
Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb, — for, of all eyes, only mine
Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer,
Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group:
I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop!
From head to foot in a serpent’s twine am I tightened: I touch ground?
No more than a gibbet’s rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst — aught else but see, see, only see?
And see I do — for there comes in sight — a man, it sure must be! —
Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight
On and on, anyhow onward — a man that’s mad he arrives too late!

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head?
Why does not he call, cry, — curse the fool! — why throw up his arms instead?
O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout “Stay!
Here’s a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he’s mad to say”?

And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain,
And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven, — time’s over, repentance vain!
They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more
Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb,
Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come!
Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast?
Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both,
Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth.
“Till death us do part?” Till death us do join past parting — that sounds like
Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers!
There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers
She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King’s Arms broad engraved:
No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she’s saved!

And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break — plain it grew
How the week’s delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true.
It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then
Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions’ den!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms —
The license and leave: I make no doubt — what wonder if passion warms
The pulse in a man if you play with his heart? — he was something hasty in speech;
Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp, — what followed but fresh delays?
For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways!
And ‘t was “Halt there!” at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick
Of the redcoats: what did they care for him and his “Quick, for God’s sake, quick!”

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked “You brag
Yourself a friend of the King’s? then lend to a King’s friend here your nag!”
Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still,
With their “Wait you must, — no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!”

And a borough there was — I forget the name — whose Mayor must have the bench
Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for “Vincent,” thinks he, sounds French!
It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly know
Is — rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror — so!

When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm begins
At his work once more. Had cowardice proved — that only — my sin of sins!
Friends, look you here! Suppose … suppose … But mad I am, needs must be!
Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!

Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamed
In the heart of me “She were better dead than happy and his!” — while gleamed
A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace,
He the savior and she the saved, — bliss born of the very murder-place!

No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse!
Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! ‘T was ever the coward’s curse
That fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still,
— A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes, — loved Vincent, if you will!

And her — why, I said “Good morrow” to her, “Good even,” and nothing more:
The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before.
So, coward it is and coward shall be! There’s a friend, now! Thanks! A drink
Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.


Χαίρετε, νικῶμεν.

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
Gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honor to all!
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise
— Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear!
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be, your peer.
Now, henceforth and forever, — O latest to whom I upraise
Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!
Present to help, potent to save, Pan — patron I call!

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return!
See, ‘tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks!
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,
“Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!
Persia has come, we are here, where is She?” Your command I obeyed,
Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,
Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for “Persia has come!
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves’-tribute, water and earth;
Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink,
Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die,
Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by?
Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o’er destruction’s brink?
How, — when? No care for my limbs! — there’s lightning in all and some —
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!”

O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond?
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust,
Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood
Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:
“Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?
Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them ‘Ye must’!”

No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last!
“Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta befriend?
Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake!
Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the gods!
Ponder that precept of old, ‘No warfare, whatever the odds
In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take
Full-circle her state in the sky!’ Already she rounds to it fast:
Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment suspend.”

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had mouldered to ash!
That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I back,
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!
Yet “O gods of my land!” I cried, as each hillock and plain,
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again,
“Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile?
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!

“Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to enwreathe
Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian’s foot,
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract!
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave
No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe,
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!”

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes’ ridge;
Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way.
Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:
“Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?
Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I obey —
Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge
Better!” — when — ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan!
Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof:
All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl
Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal’s awe,
As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw.
“Halt, Pheidippides!” — halt I did, my brain of a whirl:
“Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?” he gracious began:
“How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?

“Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!
Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?
Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith
In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, ‘The Goat-God saith:
When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea,
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!’

“Say Pan saith: ‘Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!’”
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear
— Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — whatever it bode)
“While, as for thee” … But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto —
Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.
Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road:
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor’s edge!
Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

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