I.
Stand still, true poet that you are!I know you; let me try and draw you.Some night you’ll fail us: when afarYou rise, remember one man saw you,Knew you, and named a star! 1 II.
My star, God’s glow-worm! Why extendThat loving hand of His which leads you,Yet locks you safe from end to endOf this dark world, unless He needs you,Just saves your light to spend?
III.
His clenched hand shall unclose at last,I know, and let out all the beauty:My poet holds the future fast,Accepts the coming ages’ duty,Their present for this past.
IV.
That day, the earth’s feast-master’s browShall clear, to God the chalice raising;“Others give best at first, but ThouForever set’st our table praising,Keep’st the good wine till now!”
V.
Meantime, I’ll draw you as you stand,With few or none to watch and wonder:I’ll say—a fisher, on the sandBy Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder,A netful, brought to land.
VI.
Who has not heard how Tyrian shellsEnclosed the blue, that dye of dyesWhereof one drop worked miracles,And colored like Astarte’s eyesRaw silk the merchant sells?
VII.
And each by-stander of them allCould criticise, and quote traditionHow depths of blue sublimed some pall—To get which, pricked a king’s ambition;Worth sceptre, crown, and ball.
VIII.
Yet there’s the dye, in that rough mesh,The sea has only just o’er-whispered!Live whelks, each lip’s beard dripping fresh,As if they still the water’s lisp heardThrough foam the rock-weeds thresh.
IX.
Enough to furnish SolomonSuch hangings for his cedar-house,That, when gold-robed he took the throneIn that abyss of blue, the SpouseMight swear his presence shone
X.
Most like the centre-spike of goldWhich burns deep in the blue-bell’s wombWhat time, with ardors manifold,The bee goes singing to her groom,Drunken and overbold.
XI.
Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof!Till cunning come to pound and squeezeAnd clarify,—refine to proof 2The liquor filtered by degrees,While the world stands aloof. XII.
And there’s the extract, flasked and fine,And priced and salable at last!And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes, and Nokes combineTo paint the future from the past,Put blue into their line. 3 XIII.
Hobbs hints blue,—straight he turtle eats:Nobbs prints blue,—claret crowns his cup:Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,—Both gorge. Who finished the murex up?What porridge had John Keats?
—1 named: Announced.2 Original reading:—“Till art comes,—comes to pound and squeezeAnd clarify,—refines to proof.”3 “Line” is perhaps meant to be used equivocally,—their line of business or line of their verse.— The spiritual ebb and flow exhibited in English poetry (the highest tide being reached in Tennyson and Browning) which I have endeavored cursorily to present, bear testimony to the fact that human nature WILL assert its wholeness in the civilized man. And there must come a time, in the progress of civilization, when this ebb and flow will be less marked than it has been heretofore, by reason of a better balancing, which will be brought about, of the intellectual and the spiritual. Each will have its due activity. The man of intellectual pursuits will not have a starved spiritual nature; and the man of predominant spiritual functions will not have an intellect weakened into a submissiveness to formulated, stereotyped, and, consequently, lifeless dogmas.
Robert Browning is in himself the completest fulfilment of this equipoise of the intellectual and the spiritual, possessing each in an exalted degree; and his poetry is an emphasized expression of his own personality, and a prophecy of the ultimate results of Christian civilization.
II. The Idea of Personality and of Art as an intermediate agency of Personality, as embodied in Browning’s Poetry.