And new-found agate urns as fresh as day,

And marble’s language, Latin pure, discreet,

— Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend?

No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best!

Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage.

All lapis, all, sons! Else I give the Pope

My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart?

Ever your eyes were as a lizard’s quick,

They glitter like your mother’s for my soul,

Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze,

Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase

With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term,

And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx

That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down,

To comfort me on my entablature

Whereon I am to lie till I must ask

"Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there!

For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude

To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it! Stone—

Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat

As if the corpse they keep were oozing through—

And no more lapis to delight the world!

Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there,

But in a row: and, going, turn your backs

— Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,

And leave me in my church, the church for peace,

That I may watch at leisure if he leers—

Old Gandolf, at me, from his onion-stone,

As still he envied me, so fair she was!

The Pope and The Net

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,

Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:

His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,

Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit

No less than Cardinal ere long, while no one cries "Unfit!"

But someone smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head:

Each winks at each: “I-faith, a rise! Saint Peter’s net, instead

Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!” You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! “Unworthy me!” he sighs:

“From fisher’s drudge to Church’s prince — it is indeed a rise:

So, here’s my way to keep the fact for ever in my eyes!”

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set

Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met

His mean estate’s reminder in his fisher-father’s net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:

“The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!

He’s just the saint to choose for Pope!” Each adds “’’Tis my advice”.

So, Pope he was: and when we flocked — its sacred slipper on —

To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack the thing was gone —

That guarantee of lowlihead, — eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried “Pish!

I’ll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.

Why, Father, is the net removed?” “Son, it hath caught the fish”.

Роберт Браунинг (1812–1889)

Как привезли добрую весть из Гента в Ахен

Я прыгнул в седло, Йорис прыгнул потом,

Дирк прыгнул за нами; помчались втроем.

«Путь добрый!» — нам страж прокричал у ворот;

Лишь замерло эхо, рванулись вперед.

Закрылись ворота; ни звезд, ни огней,

И в ночь мы галопом пустили коней.

И ни слова друг другу; мы ехали так:

Шея в шею, бок о бок, размеривши шаг,

Подпругу стянул я, нагнувшись с седла,

Поправил копье, стремена, удила,

Ремень застегнул, что придерживал шлем,

Но Роланд мой скакал, не тревожим ничем.

Мы в Локерн примчались, как крикнул петух,

И месяц в светлеющем небе потух.

Над Боомом огромная встала звезда,

Проснувшийся Дюффельд был тих, как всегда;

Колокольная в Мехельне грянула медь,

И Йорис сказал: — «Еще можно успеть!»

У Арсхота солнце вдруг прянуло ввысь;

Мы в тумане как черные тени неслись.

И рядом с другими Роланда гоня,

Наконец своего я увидел коня,

Что грудью могучей, храпя, разрывал

Туман, как скала набегающий вал.

И гриву, и кончики острых ушей,

Ожидающих трепетно ласки моей;

И черного глаза разумнейший взгляд,

О глаз этот, жарко косящий назад!

И пены клочки, что, кусая мундштук,

Он с губ окровавленных стряхивал вдруг.

У Хассельта Дирк застонал тяжело;