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My Last Duchess and Other Poems

My Last Duchess and Other Poems

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by Robert Browning, Shane Weller (Editor)

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The Victorian poet Robert Browning (1812 –1889) is perhaps most admired today for his inspired development of the dramatic monologue. In this compelling poetic form, he sought to reveal his subjects' true natures in their own, often self-justifying, accounts of their lives and affairs. A number of these vivid monologues, including the famed "Fra Lippo Lippi,"


The Victorian poet Robert Browning (1812 –1889) is perhaps most admired today for his inspired development of the dramatic monologue. In this compelling poetic form, he sought to reveal his subjects' true natures in their own, often self-justifying, accounts of their lives and affairs. A number of these vivid monologues, including the famed "Fra Lippo Lippi," "How It Strikes a Contemporary," and "The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church," are included in this selection of forty-two poems.
Here, too, are the famous "My Last Duchess," dramatic lyrics such as "Memorabilia" and "Love among the Ruins," and well-known shorter works: "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," "Home-Thoughts, from Abroad," "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," and more. Together these poems reveal Browning's rare gifts as both a lyric poet and a monologist of rare psychological insight and dramatic flair.

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Dover Publications
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My Last Duchess, and Other Poems

By Robert Browning, Shane Weller

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 1993 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-11425-5


My Last Duchess and Other Poems


    The year's at the spring,
    And day's at the morn;
    Morning's at seven;
    The hill-side's dew-pearled;
    The lark's on the wing;
    The snail's on the thorn;
    God's in His heaven—
    All's right with the world!

    My Last Duchess


    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 favour 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—at! 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!

    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 watt"—
    Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
    A rider, bound on bounds
    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 soldiers pride
    Touched to the quick, he said:
    "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
    Smiling the boy fell dead.

    Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister


    Gr-r-r—there go, my heart's abhorrence!
    Water your damned flower-pots, do!
    If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence,
    God's blood, would not mine kill you!
    What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming?
    Oh, that rose has prior claims—
    Needs its leaden vase filled brimming?
    Hell dry you up with its flames!


    At the meal we sit together:
    Salve tibi! I must hear
    Wise talk of the kind of weather,
    Sort of season, time of year:
    Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely
    Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt:
    What's the Latin name for "parsley"?

    What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout?


    Whew! We'll have our platter burnished,
    Laid with care on our own shelf!
    With a fire-new spoon we're furnished,
    And a goblet for ourself,
    Rinsed like something sacrificial
    Ere 't is fit to touch our chaps—
    Marked with L for our initial!
    (He-he! There his lily snaps!)


    Saint, forsooth! While brown Dolores
    Squats outside the Convent bank
    With Sanchicha, telling stories,
    Steeping tresses in the tank,
    Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horse hairs,
    —Can't I see his dead eye glow,
    Bright as 't were a Barbary corsair's?
    (That is, if he'd let it show!)


    When he finishes refection,
    Knife and fork he never lays
    Cross-wise, to my recollection,
    As do I, in Jesu's praise.
    I the Trinity illustrate,
    Drinking watered orange-pulp—
    In three sips the Arian frustrate;
    While he drains his at one gulp.


    Oh, those melons? If he's able
    We're to have a feast: so nice!
    One goes to the Abbot's table,
    All of us get each a slice.
    How go on your flowers? None double?
    Not one fruit-sort can you spy?
    Strange!—And I, too, at such trouble
    Keep them close-nipped on the sly!


    There's a great text in Galatians
    Once you trip on it, entails
    Twenty-nine distinct damnations
    One sure, if another fails:
    If I trip him just a-dying,
    Sure of heaven as sure can be,
    Spin him round and send him flying
    Off to hell, a Manichee?


    Or, my scrofulous French novel
    On gray paper with blunt type!
    Simply glance at it, you grovel
    Hand and foot in Belial's gripe:
    If I double down its pages
    At the woeful sixteenth print,
    When he gathers his greengages,
    Ope a sieve and slip it in 't?


    Or, there's Satan!—one might venture
    Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave
    Such a flaw in the indenture
    As he'd miss, till, past retrieve,
    Blasted lay that rose-acacia
    We're so proud of! Hy, Zy, Hine ...
    'St, there's Vespers! Plena gratiâ
    Ave, Virgo!
Gr-r-r—you swine!

    Johannes Agricola in Meditation

    There's heaven above, and night by night,
    I look right through its gorgeous roof;
    No suns and moons though e'er so bright
    Avail to stop me; splendour-proof
    I keep the broods of stars aloof:
    For I intend to get to God,
    For 'tis to God I speed so fast,
    For in God's breast, my own abode,
    Those shoals of dazzling glory, past,
    I lay my spirit down at last.
    I lie where I have always lain,
    God smiles as He has always smiled;
    Ere suns and moons could wax and wane,
    Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled
    The heavens, God thought on me His child;
    Ordained a life for me, arrayed
    Its circumstances, every one
    To the minutest; ay, God said
    This head this hand should rest upon
    Thus, ere He fashioned star or sun.
    And having thus created me,
    Thus rooted me, He bade me grow,
    Guiltless for ever, like a tree
    That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know
    The law by which it prospers so:
    But sure that thought and word and deed
    All go to swell His love for me,
    Me, made because that love had need
    Of something irrevocably
    Pledged solely its content to be.
    Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend,
    No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop!
    I have God's warrant, could I blend
    All hideous sins, as in a cup,
    To drink the mingled venoms up,
    Secure my nature will convert
    The draught to blossoming gladness fast,
    While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt,
    And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast,
    As from the first its lot was cast.
    For as I lie, smiled on, full fed
    By unexhausted power to bless,
    I gaze below on Hell's fierce bed,
    And those its waves of flame oppress,
    Swarming in ghastly wretchedness;
    Whose life on earth aspired to be
    One altar-smoke, so pure!—to win
    If not love like God's love to me,
    At least to keep His anger in;
    And all their striving turned to sin.
    Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white
    With prayer, the broken-hearted nun,
    The martyr, the wan acolyte,
    The incense-swinging child,—undone
    Before God fashioned star or sun!
    God, whom I praise; how could I praise,
    If such as I might understand,
    Make out and reckon on His ways,
    And bargain for His love, and stand,
    Paying a price, at His right hand?

    Porphyria's Lover


    The rain set early in to-night,
    The sullen wind was soon awake,
    It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
    And did its worst to vex the lake:
    I listened with heart fit to break.


    When glided in Porphyria; straight
    She shut the cold out and the storm,
    And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
    Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
    Which done, she rose, and from her form


    Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
    And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
    Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
    And, last, she sat down by my side
    And called me. When no voice replied,


    She put my arm about her waist,
    And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
    And all her yellow hair displaced,
    And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
    And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,


    Murmuring how she loved me—she
    Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
    To set its struggling passion free
    From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
    And give herself to me for ever.


    But passion sometimes would prevail,
    Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
    A sudden thought of one so pale
    For love of her, and all in vain:
    So, she was come thro' wind and rain.


    Be sure I looked up at her eyes
    Happy and proud; at last I knew
    Porphyria worshiped me; surprise
    Made my heart swell, and still it grew
    While I debated what to do.


    That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
    Perfectly pure and good: I found
    A thing to do, and all her hair
    In one long yellow string I wound
    Three times her little throat around,


    And strangled her. No pain felt she;
    I am quite sure she felt no pain.
    As a shut bud that holds a bee,
    I warily oped her lids: again
    Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.


    And I untightened next the tress
    About her neck; her cheek once more
    Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
    I propped her head up as before.
    Only, this time my shoulder bore


    Her head, which droops upon it still:
    The smiling rosy little head,
    So glad it has its utmost will,
    That all it scorned at once is fled,
    And I, its love, am gained instead!


    Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
    Her darling one wish would be heard.
    And thus we sit together now.
    And all night long we have not stirred,
    And yet God has not said a word!

    The Pied Piper of Hamelin


    (Written for, and inscribed to, W M. the Younger)


    Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,
    By famous Hanover city;
    The river Weser, deep and wide,
    Washes its wall on the southern side;
    A pleasanter spot you never spied;
    But, when begins my ditty,
    Almost five hundred years ago,
    To see the townsfolk suffer so
    From vermin, was a pity.


    They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
    And bit the babies in the cradles,
    And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
    And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,
    Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
    Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
    And even spoiled the women's chats,
    By drowning their speaking
    With shrieking and squeaking
    In fifty different sharps and flats.


    At last the people in a body
    To the Town Hall came flocking:
    ' 'Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy;
    And as for our Corporation—shocking
    To think we buy gowns lined with ermine
    For dolts that can't or won't determine
    What's best to rid us of our vermin!
    You hope, because you're old and obese,
    To find in the furry civic robe ease?
    Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking
    To find the remedy we're lacking,
    Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'
    At this the Mayor and Corporation
    Quaked with a mighty consternation.


    An hour they sate in council,
    At length the Mayor broke silence:
    'For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;
    I wish I were a mile hence!
    It's easy to bid one rack one's brain—
    I'm sure my poor head aches again
    I've scratched it so, and all in vain.
    Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!'
    Just as he said this, what should hap
    At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
    'Bless us,' cried the Mayor, 'what's that?'
    (With the Corporation as he sat,
    Looking little though wondrous fat;
    Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister
    Than a too-long-opened oyster,
    Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous
    For a plate of turtle green and glutinous)
    'Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
    Anything like the sound of a rat
    Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!'


Excerpted from My Last Duchess, and Other Poems by Robert Browning, Shane Weller. Copyright © 1993 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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My Last Duchess and Other Poems 5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
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