The Norton Anthology of English literature. Volume 2

9 Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,

50 Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

10 55 And all I remember is�friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 60 Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ca. 1844 1845

The Bishop Orders His Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church'

Rome, 15�

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!2 Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews�sons mine .. . ah God, I know not! Well� She, men would have to be your mother once,

5 Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream,

io Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;

15 And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: �Old Gandolf cozened" me, despite my care; cheated

1. In "Fra Lippo Lippi" Browning represents the dawn of the Renaissance in Italy, with its fresh zest for human experiences in this world. In this monologue he portrays a later stage of the Renaissance when such worldliness, full-blown, had infected some of the leading clergy of Italy. Browning's portrait of the dying bishop is, however, not primarily a satire against corruption in the church. It is a brilliant exposition of the workings of a mind, a mind that has been conditioned by special historical circumstances. The Victorian historian of art John Ruskin said of this poem: I know of no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there is so much told.

as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit�its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all that 1 have said of the central Renaissance in thirty pages of the Stones of Venice, put into as many lines, Browning's also being the antecedent work.

St. Praxed's Church was named in honor of St. Praxedes, a Roman virgin of the 2nd century who gave her riches to poor Christians. Both the bishop and his predecessor, Gandolf, are imaginary persons.

2. Cf. Ecclesiastes 1.2.

 .

126 0 / ROBERT BROWNING

Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south He graced his carrion with,3 God curse the same!

20 Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle side,4 And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk:

25 And I shall fill my slab of basalt5 there, And 'neath my tabernacle6 take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe

30 As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.7 �Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,8 Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church

35 �What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! . . .

40 Bedded in store of rotten fig leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail,9 Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,1 Big as a jew's head cut off at the nape,2 Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . .

45 Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati3 villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church4 so gay,

50 For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years:5 Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black6� 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else

55 Shall ye contrast my frieze7 to come beneath? The bas-relief8 in bronze ye promised me,

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot� of, and perchance know