# Sordello/Book the Second

BOOK THE SECOND.
The woods were long austere with snow: at last Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes, Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods "Our buried year, a witch, grew young again "To placid incantations, and that stain "About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent "With those black pines"—so Eglamor gave vent To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke From his companion; brother Naddo shook The solemnest of brows: "Beware," he said, "Of setting up conceits in nature's stead!" Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure As that to-day's adventure will secure Palma, the visioned lady—only pass O'er you damp mound and its exhausted grass, Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks Of withered fern with gold, into those walks Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went. Again his stooping forehead was besprent With dew-drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide Opened the great morass, shot every side With flashing water through and through; a-shine, Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine, Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, But warily; though Mincio leaped no more, Each foot-fall burst up in the marish-floor A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick, And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach, A sudden pond would silently encroach This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge Flushed, now, and panting,—crowds to see,—will own She loves him—Boniface to hear, to groan, To leave his suit! One screen of pine-trees still Opposes: but—the startling spectacle— Mantua, this time! Under the walls—a crowd Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud Round a pavilion. How he stood!
 In truth No prophecy had come to pass: his youth In its prime now—and where was homage poured Upon Sordello?—born to be adored, And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made To cope with any, cast into the shade By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick And tingle in his blood; a sleight—a trick— And much would be explained. It went for nought— The best of their endowments were ill bought With his identity: nay, the conceit, That this day's roving led to Palma's feet Was not so vain—list! The word, "Palma!" Steal Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real, And this—abjure!
 What next? The curtains see Dividing! She is there; and presently He will be there—the proper You, at length— In your own cherished dress of grace and strength: Most like, the very Boniface!
 Not so. It was a showy man advanced; but though A glad cry welcomed him, then every sound Sank and the crowd disposed themselves around, —"This is not he," Sordello felt; while, "Place "For the best Troubadour of Boniface!" Hollaed the Jongleurs,—"Eglamor, whose lay "Concludes his patron's Court of Love to-day!" Obsequious Naddo strung the master's lute With the new lute-string, "Elys," named to suit The song: he stealthily at watch, the while, Biting his lip to keep down a great smile Of pride: then up he struck. Sordello's brain Swam; for he knew a sometime deed again; So, could supply each foolish gap and chasm The minstrel left in his enthusiasm, Mistaking its true version—was the tale Not of Apollo? Only, what avail Luring her down, that Elys an he pleased, If the man dared no further? Has he ceased And, lo, the people's frank applause half done, Sordello was beside him, had begun (Spite of indignant twitchings from his friend The Trouvere) the true lay with the true end, Taking the other's names and time and place For his. On flew the song, a giddy race, After the flying story; word made leap Out word, rhyme—rhyme; the lay could barely keep Pace with the action visibly rushing past: Both ended. Back fell Naddo more aghast Than some Egyptian from the harassed bull That wheeled abrupt and, bellowing, fronted full His plague, who spied a scarab 'neath the tongue, And found 't was Apis' flank his hasty prong Insulted. But the people—but the cries, The crowding round, and proffering the prize! —For he had gained some prize. He seemed to shrink Into a sleepy cloud, just at whose brink One sight withheld him. There sat Adelaide, Silent; but at her knees the very maid Of the North Chamber, her red lips as rich, The same pure fleecy hair; one weft of which, Golden and great, quite touched his cheek as o'er She leant, speaking some six words and no more. He answered something, anything; and she Unbound a scarf and laid it heavily Upon him, her neck's warmth and all. Again Moved the arrested magic; in his brain Noises grew, and a light that turned to glare, And greater glare, until the intense flare Engulfed him, shut the whole scene from his sense. And when he woke 't was many a furlong thence, At home; the sun shining his ruddy wont; The customary birds'-chirp; but his front Was crowned—was crowned! Her scented scarf around His neck! Whose gorgeous vesture heaps the ground? A prize? He turned, and peeringly on him Brooded the women-faces, kind and dim, Ready to talk—"The Jongleurs in a troop "Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe "And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent "In taking, well for him, so brave a bent! "Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite, "And Palma chose him for her minstrel."
 Light Sordello rose—to think, now; hitherto He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew Out of it all! Best live from first to last The transport o'er again. A week he passed, Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance, From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man Recounted an adventure, but began Imperfectly; his own task was to fill The frame-work up, sing well what he sung ill, Supply the necessary points, set loose As many incidents of little use —More imbecile the other, not to see Their relative importance clear as he! But, for a special pleasure in the act Of singing—had he ever turned, in fact, From Elys, to sing Elys?—from each fit Of rapture to contrive a song of it? True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind Into a treasure, helped himself to find A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard Of fancies; as some falling cone bears soft The eye along the fir-tree-spire, aloft To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause Why such performance should exact applause From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate Decree they found a beauty separate In the poor snatch itself?—"Take Elys, there, "—'Her head that 's sharp and perfect like a pear, "'So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks "'Coloured like honey oozed from topmost rocks "'Sun-blanched the livelong summer'—if they heard "Just those two rhymes, assented at my word, "And loved them as I love them who have run "These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun "Into the white cool skin—who first could clutch, "Then praise—I needs must be a god to such. "Or what if some, above themselves, and yet "Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set "An impress on our gift? So, men believe "And worship what they know not, nor receive "Delight from. Have they fancies—slow, perchance, "Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance "Until, by song, each floating part be linked "To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?" He pondered this.
 Meanwhile, sounds low and drear Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near And nearer, while the underwood was pushed Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid; Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade Came o'er the sky although 't was midday yet: You saw each half-shut downcast floweret Flutter—"a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart "Her unbound tresses with the Sabine dart, "Holding that famous rape in memory still, "Felt creep into her curls the iron chill, "And looked thus," Eglamor would say—indeed 'T is Eglamor, no other, these precede Home hither in the woods. "'T were surely sweet "Far from the scene of one's forlorn defeat "To sleep!" judged Naddo, who in person led Jongleurs and Trouveres, chanting at their head, A scanty company; for, sooth to say, Our beaten Troubadour had seen his day. Old worshippers were something shamed, old friends Nigh weary; still the death proposed amends. "Let us but get them safely through my song "And home again!" quoth Naddo.
 All along, This man (they rest the bier upon the sand) —This calm corpse with the loose flowers in his hand, Eglamor, lived Sordello's opposite. For him indeed was Naddo's notion right, And verse a temple-worship vague and vast, A ceremony that withdrew the last Opposing bolt, looped back the lingering veil Which hid the holy place: should one so frail Stand there without such effort? or repine If much was blank, uncertain at the shrine He knelt before, till, soothed by many a rite, The power responded, and some sound or sight Grew up, his own forever, to be fixed, In rhyme, the beautiful, forever!—mixed With his own life, unloosed when he should please, Having it safe at hand, ready to ease All pain, remove all trouble; every time He loosed that fancy from its bonds of rhyme, (Like Perseus when he loosed his naked love) Faltering; so distinct and far above Himself, these fancies! He, no genius rare, Transfiguring in fire or wave or air At will, but a poor gnome that, cloistered up In some rock-chamber with his agate cup, His topaz rod, his seed-pearl, in these few And their arrangement finds enough to do For his best art. Then, how he loved that art! The calling marking him a man apart From men—one not to care, take counsel for Cold hearts, comfortless faces—(Eglamor Was neediest of his tribe)—since verse, the gift, Was his, and men, the whole of them, must shift Without it, e'en content themselves with wealth And pomp and power, snatching a life by stealth. So, Eglamor was not without his pride! The sorriest bat which cowers throughout noontide While other birds are jocund, has one time When moon and stars are blinded, and the prime Of earth is his to claim, nor find a peer; And Eglamor was noblest poet here— He well knew, 'mid those April woods he cast Conceits upon in plenty as he passed, That Naddo might suppose him not to think Entirely on the coming triumph: wink At the one weakness! 'T was a fervid child, That song of his; no brother of the guild Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know, The exaltation and the overthrow: Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank, His life—to that it came. Yet envy sank Within him, as he heard Sordello out, And, for the first time, shouted—tried to shout Like others, not from any zeal to show Pleasure that way: the common sort did so, What else was Eglamor? who, bending down As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown, Printed a kiss on his successor's hand, Left one great tear on it, then joined his band —In time; for some were watching at the door: Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er, "Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied And disengaged the withered crown)—"Beside "His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang "To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait His coming, zealous to congratulate; But, to a man—so quickly runs report— Could do no less than leave him, and escort His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought: What must his future life be? was he brought So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn? At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn, "And by to-morrow I devise some plain "Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again. They found as much, those friends, when they returned O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned About Sordello's paradise, his roves Among the hills and vales and plains and groves, Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast, Polished by slow degrees, completed last To Eglamor's discomfiture and death.
Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath, They lay the beaten man in his abode, Naddo reciting that same luckless ode, Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore By means of it, however, one step more In joy; and, mastering the round at length, Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength, When from his covert forth he stood, addressed Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest, Primæval pines o'ercanopy his couch, And, most of all, his fame—(shall I avouch Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look, And laughed as from his brow Sordello took The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?) —Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell. A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails Till evening; evening gives it to her gales To clear away with such forgotten things As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings Him to their mind, and bears his very name.
So much for Eglamor. My own month came; 'T was a sunrise of blossoming and May. Beneath a flowering laurel thicket lay Sordello; each new sprinkle of white stars That smell fainter of wine than Massic jars Dug up at Baiæ, when the south wind shed The ripest, made him happier; filleted And robed the same, only a lute beside Lay on the turf. Before him far and wide The country stretched: Goito slept behind —The castle and its covert, which confined Him with his hopes and fears; so fain of old To leave the story of his birth untold. At intervals, 'spite the fantastic glow Of his Apollo-life, a certain low And wretched whisper, winding through the bliss, Admonished, no such fortune could be his, All was quite false and sure to fade one day: The closelier drew he round him his array Of brilliance to expel the truth. But when A reason for his difference from men Surprised him at the grave, he took no rest While aught of that old life, superbly dressed Down to its meanest incident, remained A mystery: alas, they soon explained Away Apollo! and the tale amounts To this: when at Vicenza both her counts Banished the Vivaresi kith and kin, Those Maltraversi hung on Ecelin, Reviled him as he followed; he for spite Must fire their quarter, though that self-same night Among the flames young Ecelin was born Of Adelaide, there too, and barely torn From the roused populace hard on the rear, By a poor archer when his chieftain's fear Grew high; into the thick Elcorte leapt, Saved her, and died; no creature left except His child to thank. And when the full escape Was known—how men impaled from chine to nape Unlucky Prata, all to pieces spurned Bishop Pistore's concubines, and burned Taurello's entire household, flesh and fell, Missing the sweeter prey—such courage well Might claim reward. The orphan, ever since, Sordello, had been nurtured by his prince Within a blind retreat where Adelaide— (For, once this notable discovery made, The past at every point was understood) —Might harbour easily when times were rude, When Azzo schemed for Palma, to retrieve That pledge of Agnes Este—loth to leave Mantua unguarded with a vigilant eye, While there Taurello bode ambiguously— He who could have no motive now to moil For his own fortunes since their utter spoil— As it were worth while yet (went the report) To disengage himself from her. In short, Apollo vanished; a mean youth, just named His lady's minstrel, was to be proclaimed —How shall I phrase it?—Monarch of the World! For, on the day when that array was furled Forever, and in place of one a slave To longings, wild indeed, but longings save In dreams as wild, suppressed—one daring not Assume the mastery such dreams allot, Until a magical equipment, strength, Grace, wisdom, decked him too,—he chose at length, Content with unproved wits and failing frame, In virtue of his simple will, to claim That mastery, no less—to do his best With means so limited, and let the rest Go by,—the seal was set: never again Sordello could in his own sight remain One of the many, one with hopes and cares And interests nowise distinct from theirs, Only peculiar in a thriveless store Of fancies, which were fancies and no more; Never again for him and for the crowd A common law was challenged and allowed If calmly reasoned of, howe'er denied By a mad impulse nothing justified Short of Apollo's presence. The divorce Is clear: why needs Sordello square his course By any known example? Men no more Compete with him than tree and flower before. Himself, inactive, yet is greater far Than such as act, each stooping to his star, Acquiring thence his function; he has gained The same result with meaner mortals trained To strength or beauty, moulded to express Each the idea that rules him; since no less He comprehends that function, but can still Embrace the others, take of might his fill With Richard as of grace with Palma, mix Their qualities, or for a moment fix On one; abiding free meantime, uncramped By any partial organ, never stamped Strong, and to strength turning all energies— Wise, and restricted to becoming wise— That is, he loves not, nor possesses One Idea that, star-like over, lures him on To its exclusive purpose. "Fortunate! "This flesh of mine ne'er strove to emulate "A soul so various—took no casual mould "Of the first fancy and, contracted, cold, "Clogged her forever—soul averse to change "As flesh: whereas flesh leaves soul free to range, "Remains itself a blank, cast into shade, "Encumbers little, if it cannot aid. "So, range, free soul!—who, by self-consciousness, "The last drop of all beauty dost express— "The grace of seeing grace, a quintessence "For thee: while for the world, that can dispense "Wonder on men who, themselves, wonder—make "A shift to love at second-hand, and take "For idols those who do but idolize, "Themselves,—the world that counts men strong or wise, "Who, themselves, court strength, wisdom,—it shall bow "Surely in unexampled worship now, "Discerning me!"—
 (Dear monarch, I beseech, Notice how lamentably wide a breach Is here: discovering this, discover too What our poor world has possibly to do With it! As pigmy natures as you please— So much the better for you; take your ease, Look on, and laugh; style yourself God alone; Strangle some day with a cross olive-stone! All that is right enough: but why want us To know that you yourself know thus and thus?) "The world shall bow to me conceiving all "Man's life, who see its blisses, great and small, "Afar—not tasting any; no machine "To exercise my utmost will is mine: "Be mine mere consciousness! Let men perceive "What I could do, a mastery believe, "Asserted and established to the throng "By their selected evidence of song "Which now shall prove, whate'er they are, or seek "To be, I am—whose words, not actions speak, "Who change no standards of perfection, vex "With no strange forms created to perplex, "But just perform their bidding and no more, "At their own satiating-point give o'er, "While each shall love in me the love that leads "His soul to power's perfection." Song, not deeds, (For we get tired) was chosen. Fate would brook Mankind no other organ; he would look For not another channel to dispense His own volition by, receive men's sense Of its supremacy—would live content, Obstructed else, with merely verse for vent. Nor should, for instance, strength an outlet seek And, striving, be admired: nor grace bespeak Wonder, displayed in gracious attitudes: Nor wisdom, poured forth, change unseemly moods; But he would give and take on song's one point. Like some huge throbbing stone that, poised a-joint, Sounds, to affect on its basaltic bed, Must sue in just one accent; tempests shed Thunder, and raves the windstorm: only let That key by any little noise be set— The far benighted hunter's halloo pitch On that, the hungry curlew chance to scritch Or serpent hiss it, rustling through the rift, However loud, however low—all lift The groaning monster, stricken to the heart.
Lo ye, the world's concernment, for its part, And this, for his, will hardly interfere! Its businesses in blood and blaze this year But wile the hour away—a pastime slight Till he shall step upon the platform: right! And, now thus much is settled, cast in rough, Proved feasible, be counselled! thought enough,— Slumber, Sordello! any day will serve: Were it a less digested plan! how swerve To-morrow? Meanwhile eat these sun-dried grapes, And watch the soaring hawk there! Life escapes Merrily thus.
 He thoroughly read o'er His truchman Naddo's missive six times more, Praying him visit Mantua and supply A famished world.
 The evening star was high When he reached Mantua, but his fame arrived Before him: friends applauded, foes connived, And Naddo looked an angel, and the rest Angels, and all these angels would be blest Supremely by a song—the thrice-renowned Goito-manufacture. Then he found (Casting about to satisfy the crowd) That happy vehicle, so late allowed, A sore annoyance; 't was the song's effect He cared for, scarce the song itself: reflect! In the past life, what might be singing's use? Just to delight his Delians, whose profuse Praise, not the toilsome process which procured That praise, enticed Apollo: dreams abjured, No overleaping means for ends—take both For granted or take neither! I am loth To say the rhymes at last were Eglamor's; But Naddo, chuckling, bade competitors Go pine; "the master certes meant to waste "No effort, cautiously had probed the taste "He 'd please anon: true bard, in short,—disturb "His title if they could; nor spur nor curb, "Fancy nor reason, wanting in him; whence "The staple of his verses, common sense: "He built on man's broad nature—gift of gifts, "That power to build! The world contented shifts "With counterfeits enough, a dreary sort "Of warriors, statesmen, ere it can extort "Its poet-soul—that 's, after all, a freak "(The having eyes to see and tongue to speak) "With our herd's stupid sterling happiness "So plainly incompatible that—yes— "Yes—should a son of his improve the breed "And turn out poet, he were cursed indeed!" "Well, there 's Goito and its woods anon, "If the worst happen; best go stoutly on "Now!" thought Sordello.
 Ay, and goes on yet! You pother with your glossaries to get A notion of the Troubadour's intent In rondel, tenzon, virlai or sirvent— Much as you study arras how to twirl His angelot, plaything of page and girl Once; but you surely reach, at last,—or, no! Never quite reach what struck the people so, As from the welter of their time he drew Its elements successively to view, Followed all actions backward on their course, And catching up, unmingled at the source, Such a strength, such a weakness, added then A touch or two, and turned them into men. Virtue took form, nor vice refused a shape; Here heaven opened, there was hell agape, As Saint this simpered past in sanctity, Sinner the other flared portentous by A greedy people. Then why stop, surprised At his success? The scheme was realized Too suddenly in one respect: a crowd Praising, eyes quick to see, and lips as loud To speak, delicious homage to receive, The woman's breath to feel upon his sleeve, Who said, "But Anafest—why asks he less "Than Lucio, in your verses? how confess, "It seemed too much but yestereve!"—the youth, Who bade him earnestly, "Avow the truth! "You love Bianca, surely, from your song; "I knew I was unworthy!"—soft or strong, In poured such tributes ere he had arranged Ethereal ways to take them, sorted, changed, Digested. Courted thus at unawares, In spite of his pretensions and his cares, He caught himself shamefully hankering After the obvious petty joys that spring From true life, fain relinquish pedestal And condescend with pleasures—one and all To be renounced, no doubt; for, thus to chain Himself to single joys and so refrain From tasting their quintessence, frustrates, sure, His prime design; each joy must he abjure Even for love of it.
 He laughed: what sage But perishes if from his magic page He look because, at the first line, a proof 'T was heard salutes him from the cavern roof? "On! Give yourself, excluding aught beside, "To the day's task; compel your slave provide "Its utmost at the soonest; turn the leaf "Thoroughly conned. These lays of yours, in brief— "Cannot men bear, now, something better?—fly "A pitch beyond this unreal pageantry "Of essences? the period sure has ceased "For such: present us with ourselves, at least, "Not portions of ourselves, mere loves and hates "Made flesh: wait not!"
 Awhile the poet waits However. The first trial was enough: He left imagining, to try the stuff That held the imaged thing, and, let it writhe Never so fiercely, scarce allowed a tithe To reach the light—his Language. How he sought The cause, conceived a cure, and slow re-wrought That Language,—welding words into the crude Mass from the new speech round him, till a rude Armour was hammered out, in time to be Approved beyond the Roman panoply Melted to make it,—boots not. This obtained With some ado, no obstacle remained To using it; accordingly he took An action with its actors, quite forsook Himself to live in each, returned anon With the result—a creature, and, by one And one, proceeded leisurely to equip Its limbs in harness of his workmanship. "Accomplished! Listen, Mantuans!" Fond essay! Piece after piece that armour broke away, Because perceptions whole, like that he sought To clothe, reject so pure a work of thought As language: thought may take perception's place But hardly co-exist in any case, Being its mere presentment—of the whole By parts, the simultaneous and the sole By the successive and the many. Lacks The crowd perception? painfully it tacks Thought to thought, which Sordello, needing such, Has rent perception into: it's to clutch And reconstruct—his office to diffuse, Destroy: as hard, then, to obtain a Muse As to become Apollo. "For the rest, "E'en if some wondrous vehicle expressed "The whole dream, what impertinence in me "So to express it, who myself can be "The dream! nor, on the other hand, are those "I sing to, over-likely to suppose "A higher than the highest I present "Now, which they praise already: be content "Both parties, rather—they with the old verse, "And I with the old praise—far go, fare worse!" A few adhering rivets loosed, upsprings The angel, sparkles off his mail, which rings Whirled from each delicatest limb it warps; So might Apollo from the sudden corpse Of Hyacinth have cast his luckless quoits. He set to celebrating the exploits Of Montfort o'er the Mountaineers.
 Then came The world's revenge: their pleasure, now his aim Merely,—what was it? "Not to play the fool "So much as learn our lesson in your school!" Replied the world. He found that, every time He gained applause by any ballad-rhyme, His auditory recognized no jot As he intended, and, mistaking not Him for his meanest hero, ne'er was dunce Sufficient to believe him—all, at once. His will... conceive it caring for his will! —Mantuans, the main of them, admiring still How a mere singer, ugly, stunted, weak, Had Montfort at completely (so to speak) His fingers' ends; while past the praise-tide swept To Montfort, either's share distinctly kept: The true meed for true merit!—his abates Into a sort he most repudiates, And on them angrily he turns. Who were The Mantuans, after all, that he should care About their recognition, ay or no? In spite of the convention months ago, (Why blink the truth?) was not he forced to help This same ungrateful audience, every whelp Of Naddo's litter, make them pass for peers With the bright band of old Goito years, As erst he toiled for flower or tree? Why, there Sat Palma! Adelaide's funereal hair Ennobled the next corner. Ay, he strewed A fairy dust upon that multitude, Although he feigned to take them by themselves; His giants dignified those puny elves, Sublimed their faint applause. In short, he found Himself still footing a delusive round, Remote as ever from the self-display He meant to compass, hampered every way By what he hoped assistance. Wherefore then Continue, make believe to find in men A use he found not?
 Weeks, months, years went by And lo, Sordello vanished utterly, Sundered in twain; each spectral part at strife With each; one jarred against another life; The Poet thwarting hopelessly the Man— Who, fooled no longer, free in fancy ran Here, there: let slip no opportunities As pitiful, forsooth, beside the prize To drop on him some no-time and acquit His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit— That waiving any compromise between No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen Beyond most methods)—of incurring scoff From the Man-portion—not to be put off With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme, Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream, Dressed any how, nor waited mystic frames, Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims, But just his sorry self?—who yet might be Sorrier for aught he in reality Achieved, so pinioned Man's the Poet-part, Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art Developing his soul a thousand ways— Potent, by its assistance, to amaze The multitude with majesties, convince Each sort of nature that the nature's prince Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew Into a bravest of expedients, too; Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent— So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge A minute's toil that missed its due reward! But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard, John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land, That on the sea, with, open in his hand, A bitter-sweetling of a book—was gone.
Then, if internal struggles to be one, Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal, Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call To action while he pondered, once for all, Which looked the easier effort—to pursue This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through The present ill-appreciated stage Of self-revealment, and compel the age Know him—or else, forswearing bard-craft, wake From out his lethargy and nobly shake Off timid habits of denial, mix With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared For his perplexity! Thus unprepared, The obvious if not only shelter lay In deeds, the dull conventions of his day Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad 'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad, Submits to this and that established rule? Let Vidal change, or any other fool, His murrey-coloured robe for filamot, And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not, Such vigour? Then, a sorrow to the heart, His talk! Whatever topics they might start Had to be groped for in his consciousness Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess. Only obliged to ask himself, "What was," A speedy answer followed; but, alas, One of God's large ones, tardy to condense Itself into a period; answers whence A tangle of conclusions must be stripped At any risk ere, trim to pattern clipped, They matched rare specimens the Mantuan flock Regaled him with, each talker from his stock Of sorted-o'er opinions, every stage, Juicy in youth or desiccate with age, Fruits like the fig-tree's, rathe-ripe, rotten-rich, Sweet-sour, all tastes to take: a practice which He too had not impossibly attained, Once either of those fancy-flights restrained; (For, at conjecture how might words appear To others, playing there what happened here, And occupied abroad by what he spurned At home, 't was slipped, the occasion he returned To seize he 'd strike that lyre adroitly—speech, Would but a twenty-cubit plectre reach; A clever hand, consummate instrument, Were both brought close; each excellency went For nothing, else. The question Naddo asked, Had just a lifetime moderately tasked To answer, Naddo's fashion. More disgust And more: why move his soul, since move it must At minute's notice or as good it failed To move at all? The end was, he retailed Some ready-made opinion, put to use This quip, that maxim, ventured reproduce Gestures and tones—at any folly caught Serving to finish with, nor too much sought If false or true 't was spoken; praise and blame Of what he said grew pretty nigh the same —Meantime awards to meantime acts: his soul, Unequal to the compassing a whole, Saw, in a tenth part, less and less to strive About. And as for men in turn... contrive Who could to take eternal interest In them, so hate the worst, so love the best, Though, in pursuance of his passive plan, He hailed, decried, the proper way.
 As Man So figured he; and how as Poet? Verse Came only not to a stand-still. The worse, That his poor piece of daily work to do Was—not sink under any rivals; who Loudly and long enough, without these qualms, Turned, from Bocafoli's stark-naked psalms, To Plara's sonnets spoilt by toying with, "As knops that stud some almug to the pith "Prickèd for gum, wry thence, and crinklèd worse "Than pursèd eyelids of a river-horse "Sunning himself o' the slime when whirrs the breese"— Gad-fly, that is. He might compete with these! But—but—
 "Observe a pompion-twine afloat; "Pluck me one cup from off the castle-moat! "Along with cup you raise leaf, stalk and root, "The entire surface of the pool to boot. "So could I pluck a cup, put in one song "A single sight, did not my hand, too strong, "Twitch in the least the root-strings of the whole. "How should externals satisfy my soul?" "Why that's precise the error Squarcialupe" (Hazarded Naddo) "finds; 'the man can't stoop "'To sing us out,' quoth he, 'a mere romance; "'He'd fain do better than the best, enhance "'The subjects' rarity, work problems out "'Therewith.' Now, you 're a bard, a bard past doubt, "And no philosopher; why introduce "Crotchets like these? fine, surely, but no use "In poetry—which still must be, to strike, "Based upon common sense; there's nothing like "Appealing to our nature! what beside "Was your first poetry? No tricks were tried "In that, no hollow thrills, affected throes! "'The man,' said we, 'tells his own joys and woes: "'We'll trust him.' Would you have your songs endure? "Build on the human heart!—why, to be sure "Yours is one sort of heart—but I mean theirs, "Ours, every one's, the healthy heart one cares "To build on! Central peace, mother of strength, "That's father of... nay, go yourself that length, "Ask those calm-hearted doers what they do "When they have got their calm! And is it true, "Fire rankles at the heart of every globe? "Perhaps. But these are matters one may probe "Too deeply for poetic purposes: "Rather select a theory that... yes, "Laugh! what does that prove?—stations you midway "And saves some little o'er-refining. Nay, "That's rank injustice done me! I restrict "The poet? Don't I hold the poet picked "Out of a host of warriors, statesmen... did "I tell you? Very like! As well you hid "That sense of power, you have! True bards believe "All able to achieve what they achieve— "That is, just nothing—in one point abide "Profounder simpletons than all beside. "Oh, ay! The knowledge that you are a bard "Must constitute your prime, nay sole, reward!" So prattled Naddo, busiest of the tribe Of genius-haunters—how shall I describe What grubs or nips or rubs or rips—your louse For love, your flea for hate, magnanimous, Malignant, Pappacoda, Tagliafer, Picking a sustenance from wear and tear By implements it sedulous employs To undertake, lay down, mete out, o'er-toise Sordello? Fifty creepers to elude At once! They settled staunchly; shame ensued: Behold the monarch of mankind succumb To the last fool who turned him round his thumb, As Naddo styled it! 'T was not worth oppose The matter of a moment, gainsay those He aimed at getting rid of; better think Their thoughts and speak their speech, secure to slink Back expeditiously to his safe place, And chew the cud—what he and what his race Were really, each of them. Yet even this Conformity was partial. He would miss Some point, brought into contact with them ere Assured in what small segment of the sphere Of his existence they attended him; Whence blunders, falsehoods rectified—a grim List—slur it over! How? If dreams were tried, His will swayed sicklily from side to side, Nor merely neutralized his waking act But tended e'en in fancy to distract The intermediate will, the choice of means. He lost the art of dreaming: Mantuan scenes Supplied a baron, say, he sang before, Handsomely reckless, full to running-o'er Of gallantries; "abjure the soul, content "With body, therefore!" Scarcely had he bent Himself in dream thus low, when matter fast Cried out, he found, for spirit to contrast And task it duly; by advances slight, The simple stuff becoming composite, Count Lori grew Apollo: best recall His fancy! Then would some rough peasant-Paul, Like those old Ecelin confers with, glance His gay apparel o'er; that countenance Gathered his shattered fancies into one, And, body clean abolished, soul alone Sufficed the grey Paulician: by and by, To balance the ethereality, Passions were needed; foiled he sank again.
Meanwhile the world rejoiced ('t is time explain) Because a sudden sickness set it free From Adelaide. Missing the mother-bee, Her mountain-hive Romano swarmed; at once A rustle-forth of daughters and of sons Blackened the valley. "I am sick too, old, "Half-crazed I think; what good's the Kaiser's gold "To such an one? God help me! for I catch "My children's greedy sparkling eyes at watch— "'He bears that double breastplate on,' they say, "'So many minutes less than yesterday!' "Beside, Monk Hilary is on his knees "Now, sworn to kneel and pray till God shall please "Exact a punishment for many things "You know, and some you never knew; which brings "To memory, Azzo's sister Beatrix "And Richard's Giglia are my Alberic's "And Ecelin's betrothed; the Count himself "Must get my Palma: Ghibellin and Guelf "Mean to embrace each other." So began Romano's missive to his fighting man Taurello—on the Tuscan's death, away With Friedrich sworn to sail from Naples' bay Next month for Syria. Never thunder-clap Out of Vesuvius' throat, like this mishap Startled him. "That accursed Vicenza! I "Absent, and she selects this time to die! "Ho, fellows, for Vicenza!" Half a score Of horses ridden dead, he stood before Romano in his reeking spurs: too late— "Boniface urged me, Este could not wait," The chieftain stammered; "let me die in peace— "Forget me! Was it I who craved increase "Of rule? Do you and Friedrich plot your worst "Against the Father: as you found me first "So leave me now. Forgive me! Palma, sure, "Is at Goito still. Retain that lure— "Only be pacified!"
 The country rung With such a piece of news: on every tongue, How Ecelin's great servant, congeed off, Had done a long day's service, so, might doff The green and yellow, and recover breath At Mantua, whither,—since Retrude's death, (The girlish slip of a Sicilian bride From Otho's house, he carried to reside At Mantua till the Ferrarese should pile A structure worthy her imperial style, The gardens raise, the statues there enshrine, She never lived to see)—although his line Was ancient in her archives and she took A pride in him, that city, nor forsook Her child when he forsook himself and spent A prowess on Romano surely meant For his own growth—whither he ne'er resorts If wholly satisfied (to trust reports) With Ecelin. So, forward in a trice Were shows to greet him. "Take a friend's advice," Quoth Naddo to Sordello, "nor be rash "Because your rivals (nothing can abash "Some folks) demur that we pronounced you best "To sound the great man's welcome; 't is a test, "Remember! Strojavacca looks asquint, "The rough fat sloven; and there 's plenty hint "Your pinions have received of late a shock— "Outsoar them, cobswan of the silver flock! "Sing well!" A signal wonder, song 's no whit Facilitated.
 Fast the minutes flit; Another day, Sordello finds, will bring The soldier, and he cannot choose but sing; So, a last shift, quits Mantua—slow, alone: Out of that aching brain, a very stone, Song must be struck. What occupies that front? Just how he was more awkward than his wont The night before, when Naddo, who had seen Taurello on his progress, praised the mien For dignity no crosses could affect— Such was a joy, and might not he detect A satisfaction if established joys Were proved imposture? Poetry annoys Its utmost: wherefore fret? Verses may come Or keep away! And thus he wandered, dumb Till evening, when he paused, thoroughly spent, On a blind hill-top: down the gorge he went, Yielding himself up as to an embrace. The moon came out; like features of a face, A querulous fraternity of pines, Sad blackthorn clumps, leafless and grovelling vines Also came out, made gradually up The picture; 't was Goito's mountain-cup And castle. He had dropped through one defile He never dared explore, the Chief erewhile Had vanished by. Back rushed the dream, enwrapped Him wholly. 'T was Apollo now they lapped, Those mountains, not a pettish minstrel meant To wear his soul away in discontent, Brooding on fortune's malice. Heart and brain Swelled; he expanded to himself again, As some thin seedling spice-tree starved and frail, Pushing between cat's head and ibis' tail Crusted into the porphyry pavement smooth, —Suffered remain just as it sprung, to soothe The Soldan's pining daughter, never yet Well in her chilly green-glazed minaret,— When rooted up, the sunny day she died, And flung into the common court beside Its parent tree. Come home, Sordello! Soon Was he low muttering, beneath the moon, Of sorrow saved, of quiet evermore,— Since from the purpose, he maintained before, Only resulted wailing and hot tears. Ah, the slim castle! dwindled of late years, But more mysterious; gone to ruin—trails Of vine through every loop-hole. Nought avails The night as, torch in hand, he must explore The maple chamber: did I say, its floor Was made of intersecting cedar beams? Worn now with gaps so large, there blew cold streams Of air quite from the dungeon; lay your ear Close and 't is like, one after one, you hear In the blind darkness water drop. The nests And nooks retain their long ranged vesture-chests Empty and smelling of the iris root The Tuscan grated o'er them to recruit Her wasted wits. Palma was gone that day, Said the remaining women. Last, he lay Beside the Carian group reserved and still.
The Body, the Machine for Acting Will, Had been at the commencement proved unfit; That for Demonstrating, Reflecting it, Mankind—no fitter: was the Will Itself In fault?
 His forehead pressed the moonlit shelf Beside the youngest marble maid awhile; Then, raising it, he thought, with a long smile, "I shall be king again!" as he withdrew The envied scarf; into the font he threw His crown
 Next day, no poet! "Wherefore?" asked Taurello, when the dance of Jongleurs, masked As devils, ended; "don't a song come next?" The master of the pageant looked perplexed Till Naddo's whisper came to his relief. "His Highness knew what poets were: in brief, "Had not the tetchy race prescriptive right "To peevishness, caprice? or, call it spite, "One must receive their nature in its length "And breadth, expect the weakness with the strength!" —So phrasing, till, his stock of phrases spent, The easy-natured soldier smiled assent, Settled his portly person, smoothed his chin, And nodded that the bull-bait might begin.