Dramatic Lyrics by Robert Browning

Source of book: I own this.

As part of my poetry project, I am trying to systematically work my way through my increasingly extensive collection. In the case of Robert Browning, I own a Modern Library hardback from 1951. While it does not contain the complete Browning, it checks in at more than 700 pages, and contains pretty much all of his best works. You can read my thoughts on Pippa Passes here. 

Browning is probably best known for a handful of poems, many of which are contained in this collection, entitled Dramatic Lyrics. Most of these are “dramatic monologues,” poems in the first person that tell a story, often lurid or disturbing. This is intentional. Two of the poems were originally grouped as “Madhouse Cells” - that is, the tales told by inmates at an asylum. Others, while not specifically characterized, concern murders, grudges, and military action. 

The most famous, probably, of the poems, is “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” which is a long narrative poem rather than a monologue. I read it with the kids some years ago, having first read it as a kid, and enjoyed re-reading it in this case. It is one of the timeless tales, and Browning’s use of language is delightful. Since I already wrote about it here, I won’t say any more in this most. 

I’ll also briefly mention a few others. “My Last Duchess” is a breezily chilling monologue by the Duke, who has murdered the Duchess and put a painting of her behind a curtain, so that none can see her without his permission. I read this one in high school. It is based on a real life person, which makes it even more chilling. 

Lucrezia di Cosimo de' Medici, probably the "last duchess" of the poem. 

Portrait by Bronzino

Paired with this is “Count Gismond,” a monologue by a lady whose virtue has been questioned, after which a duel is fought over her honor. The strength of that poem is its ambiguity: is the lady being truthful, or is she not as pure as she claims? 

There is the nastiness of “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister,” another one I read in high school. The unnamed narrator, a monk, pours out his hatred for Brother Lawrence, listing his faults, and plotting his murder - or worse, damnation. Browning definitely paints an interesting and memorable picture. I suspect all of us have felt similar feelings at one time or another - even if we refused to admit it to ourselves. 

Another poem deals with a deeply religious person: “Johannes Agricola in Meditation.” The narrator believes in a particularly unpleasant form of Calvinism. Namely, that he, being one of the elect, can sin with impunity, while the unwashed masses, chosen for damnation, cannot find salvation no matter how they try or how pure their motives. I personally believe Calvinism to be a particularly loathsome form of Christianity, especially in our own times, where it usually comes paired with social darwinist politics and a general arrogance and hatred toward everyone outside the tribe. Browning’s poem definitely captures all of this in an unforgettable form. 

The other “madhouse” poem is “Porphyria’s Lover,” told by a man who murders his lover to preserve her in her perfect state. As with “Count Gismond,” though, there are multiple interpretations. The name itself suggests that the poem may be a metaphorical depiction of a disease which had recently been classified when the poem was written. Browning was known to have a fascination with medicine, and he at minimum drew the name from it. 

I do want to quote a few things that I particularly liked. The first is from the opening poem set, entitled “Cavalier Tunes.” I enjoyed the way Browning makes the words dance when read aloud. Here is a bit:

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Rescue my Castle, before the hot day

Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;

Many's the friend there, will listen and pray

"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:

Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,

Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!

I've better counsellors; what counsel they?"

(Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

Possibly my favorite from this collection (at least of the ones I hadn’t read before) is “Artemis Prologizes.” Browning captures a brief moment in the Theseus myth - the revenge of Aphrodite against Hippolytus - through the eyes of Artemis. The opening lines are breathtaking:

I am a goddess of the ambrosia courts,

And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed

By none whose temples whiten this the world.

Through heaven I roll my lucid moon along;

I shed in hell o'er my pale people peace;

On earth I, caring for the creatures, guard

Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek,

And every feathered mother's callow brood,

And all that love green haunts and loneliness.

Were I an ancient Greek, I might have been a follower of Artemis - I am one who loves “green haunts and loneliness.” The whole poem is worth reading. It is definitely one of my favorite retellings of a myth. 

Another poem which reads as a bit insanely obsessed is “Cristina.” As one of the lesser known poems, I found it memorable. 

     I.

She should never have looked at me

If she meant I should not love her!

There are plenty ... men, you call such,

I suppose ... she may discover

All her soul to, if she pleases,

And yet leave much as she found them:

But I'm not so, and she knew it

When she fixed me, glancing round them,

    II.

What? To fix me thus meant nothing?

But I can't tell (there's my weakness)

What her look said!---no vile cant, sure,

About ``need to strew the bleakness

“Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed.

“That the sea feels''---no strange yearning

“That such souls have, most to lavish

“Where there's chance of least returning.''

    III.

Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows!

But not quite so sunk that moments,

Sure tho' seldom, are denied us,

When the spirit's true endowments

Stand out plainly from its false ones,

And apprise it if pursuing

Or the right way or the wrong way,

To its triumph or undoing.

    IV.

There are flashes struck from midnights,

There are fire-flames noondays kindle,

Whereby piled-up honours perish,

Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle,

While just this or that poor impulse,

Which for once had play unstifled,

Seems the sole work of a life-time

That away the rest have trifled.

    V.

Doubt you if, in some such moment,

As she fixed me, she felt clearly,

Ages past the soul existed,

Here an age 'tis resting merely,

And hence fleets again for ages,

While the true end, sole and single,

It stops here for is, this love-way,

With some other soul to mingle?

    VI.

Else it loses what it lived for,

And eternally must lose it;

Better ends may be in prospect,

Deeper blisses (if you choose it),

But this life's end and this love-bliss

Have been lost here. Doubt you whether

This she felt as, looking at me,

Mine and her souls rushed together?

    VII.

Oh, observe! Of course, next moment,

The world's honours, in derision,

Trampled out the light for ever:

Never fear but there's provision

Of the devil's to quench knowledge

Lest we walk the earth in rapture!

---Making those who catch God's secret

Just so much more prize their capture!

    VIII.

Such am I: the secret's mine now!

She has lost me, I have gained her;

Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect,

I shall pass my life's remainder.

Life will just hold out the proving

Both our powers, alone and blended:

And then, come next life quickly!

This world's use will have been ended. 

I’ll end by coming full circle to the beginning. “Through The Metidja To Abd-El-Kadr” is based on the historical Abd-El-Kadr, an Algerian resistance fighter in the early 19th Century. Like the song that opens the collection, this poem demands to be read aloud. The relentless rhyme - and the internal repetitions and rhymes evoke the endless rhythm of the horse as he rides on. It’s a classic example of how a skilled wordsmith can make the very sound of words paint a picture that the meanings themselves cannot fully capture. This is one reason that I love poetry: it is a kin to music, where sound and meaning and rhythm and motion and time all blend into one. 

I.

As I ride, as I ride,

With a full heart for my guide,

So its tide rocks my side,

As I ride, as I ride,

That, as I were double-eyed,

He, in whom our Tribes confide,

Is descried, ways untried

As I ride, as I ride.

    II.

As I ride, as I ride

To our Chief and his Allied,

Who dares chide my heart's pride

As I ride, as I ride?

Or are witnesses denied---

Through the desert waste and wide

Do I glide unespied

As I ride, as I ride?

    III.

As I ride, as I ride,

When an inner voice has cried,

The sands slide, nor abide

(As I ride, as I ride)

O'er each visioned homicide

That came vaunting (has he lied?)

To reside---where he died,

As I ride, as I ride.

    IV.

As I ride, as I ride,

Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,

Yet his hide, streaked and pied,

As I ride, as I ride,

Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,

---Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed---

How has vied stride with stride

As I ride, as I ride!

    V.

As I ride, as I ride,

Could I loose what Fate has tied,

Ere I pried, she should hide

(As I ride, as I ride)

All that's meant me---satisfied

When the Prophet and the Bride

Stop veins I'd have subside

As I ride, as I ride! 

Sonnets from the Portuguese by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Source of book: I own this – and so should all poetry lovers

Copyright information: Public Domain

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

This line is one of the best known, and most clichéd lines in all of English poetry. This is unfortunate, as the sonnet from which it comes is much deeper than the misuse of its opening line would suggest.

For those who have followed my continuing posts on poetry, a few things have probably become obvious. First, I am a hopeless romantic. Second, I am partial to poetry written by women. (Emily Dickenson was my first love, followed by Christina Rossetti.)

It was natural, then, that this collection should become one of my most read and most treasured volumes. Elizabeth’s musings on her legendary romance with Robert Browning feel deeper and more delicious every time I read them.

How legendary was her romance? It puzzles me that, so far as I can determine, Hollywood has ignored the story since the 1930s, making only a single movie about her life.

How can this be? All the ingredients are there. Elizabeth Barrett’s tyrannical father forbade all of his children from marrying. Indeed, he disinherited and disowned those who did. Elizabeth was a bit of a prodigy, writing her first poems around age 6, and becoming fluent in Greek and Latin by her early teens. She then contracted an unknown illness at age 15 which left her practically an invalid, and continued to affect her throughout her life.

She continued to live at home, her poetry gaining in both popularity and critical praise. All expected that she would remain an old maid. However, in 1844, when she was 38, a rising young poet named Robert Browning read her latest collection, and was smitten. He began a correspondence with her, meeting her in person a few months later.

Elizabeth had difficulty believing that Robert was sincere. After all, he was 6 years younger, and she was hardly beautiful. Sincere it was, however, and they eloped against her father’s wishes. He promptly disinherited her, and never saw her again. Robert and Elizabeth were married, happily by all accounts, until her death 15 years later.

Sonnets from the Portuguese was written during the courtship and presented to Robert by Elizabeth soon after their marriage.

I will assume my readers are familiar with the sonnet form. (An explanation follows as a footnote.)

The collection originally numbered 43 sonnets, but one additional poem was added in the last edition before Elizabeth’s death, numbered XLII. The poems trace the progression of the romance from its first stirrings until it blossoms into an intertwining of the two lives. Thus, although most of the sonnets can stand alone, they form an arc which is best read in the order presented.

In the first sonnet, the poet describes how her life seemed destined to end in sorrow, until she was grabbed from behind by a figure she assumed to be Death. However, she is soon informed that she has been captured by, “Not Death, but Love.”

Elizabeth fights her feelings, being sure that love is not for her, that she is too flawed to be loveable. However, she finds that she has become entangled. In sonnet VI, she writes,

                                                            What I do

            And what I dream include thee, as the wine

            Must taste of its own grapes.

Furthermore, she discovers that love is beautiful in and of itself, regardless of her perceived worthiness.

                                                X

            Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed

            And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright

            Let temple burn, or flax. An equal light

            Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed.

As she comes to accept love, she writes some of the most poignant and deeply true sentiments about love honestly felt and lived. Witness sonnet XXI on love as both words and silence.

                                                XXI

           

            Say over again, and yet once over again,

That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated

Should seem a “cuckoo-song,” as thou dost treat it.

Remember, never to the hill or plain,

Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain

Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed.

Belovèd, I, amid the darkness greeted

By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain

Cry, “Speak once more—thou lovest!” Who can fear

Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,

Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?

Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll

The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,

To love me also in silence with thy soul.

Mixed with the ecstasy of love is also contemplation of her dreams, her disappointments, and her fears. She realizes that what she has been given far exceeds all of these. (From sonnet XXVI)

            Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.

These poems remain relevant today for any of us who have or aspire to have, true love. Deep love comes from a place unknown to the popular culture of the last several generations. Love cannot be based solely on surface considerations, and cannot be conditioned on what the beloved has to offer. Love is somehow bigger than all these – it cannot be entirely explained.

From the ancient:

            “My lover is mine and I am his.” Song of Solomon

To the modern:

            “If your heart settles on me, I’m for the taking:

            Take me for longing, or leave me behind.”

                        Alison Krauss and Union Station

This truth has been acknowledged. Elizabeth Barrett Browning states it beautifully in one of my favorites.

                                                XIV

            If thou must love me, let it be for nought

Except for love's sake only. Do not say

'I love her for her smile—her look—her way

Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'—

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may

Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,—

A creature might forget to weep, who bore

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!

But love me for love's sake, that evermore

Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity.  

Finally, let us put to rest the cliché and the trite misuse of sonnet XLIII. This is not a dreamy minded teen playing with flowers. This is not a flippant list. This is a noble attempt to express the intertwining of two souls who shall part only by death.

                                    XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Footnote on the Sonnet form:

The sonnet is my favorite poetic form, both for its intrinsic beauty and for its requirement of rigid discipline.

A sonnet has 14 lines of 5 feet and 10 syllables each. (Iambic pentameter) There are two basic forms for the rhyme scheme.

In the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet, used by Browning in this collection, the first 8 lines are rhymed abbaabba, with the second section of 6 lines rhymed in one of several variations. The most common are cdecde and cdcdcd. Browning’s sonnets are generally the second of these.

The first part of the poem typically balances the second. For example, the first may pose a question which is answered by the second. They may provide a contrast.

In the Shakespearian sonnet, there are three groups of four lines each, followed by a two line group. These are rhymed abab cdcd efef gg. The usual format presents an idea in each of the quatrains, with a conclusion stated in the closing couplet.

While the form may seem stifling, some of the greatest poets of the English language have found inspiration in its very rigidity. Milton and Shakespeare in particular mastered the form. I would certainly add Elizabeth Barrett Browning to that list.