Verse > Anthologies > T. H. Ward, ed. > The English Poets > Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
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Thomas Humphry Ward, ed.  The English Poets.  1880–1918.
Vol. V. Browning to Rupert Brooke
 
Rabbi Ben Ezra
By Robert Browning (1812–1889)
 
I
        GROW old along with me!
        The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
        Our times are in His hand
        Who saith “A whole I planned,        5
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!”
 
II
        Not that, amassing flowers,
        Youth sighed “Which rose make ours,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?”
        Not that, admiring stars,        10
        It yearned, “Nor Jove, nor Mars;
Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!”
 
III
        Not for such hopes and fears
        Annulling youth’s brief years,
Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!        15
        Rather I prize the doubt
        Low kinds exist without,
Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
 
IV
        Poor vaunt of life indeed,
        Were man but formed to feed        20
On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:
        Such feasting ended, then
        As sure an end to men;
Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?
 
V
        Rejoice we are allied
        25
        To That which doth provide
And not partake, effect and not receive!
        A spark disturbs our clod;
        Nearer we hold of God
Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.        30
 
VI
        Then, welcome each rebuff
        That turns earth’s smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
        Be our joys three-parts pain!
        Strive, and hold cheap the strain;        35
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
 
VII
        For thence,—a paradox
        Which comforts while it mocks,—
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
        What I aspired to be,        40
        And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i’ the scale.
 
VIII
        What is he but a brute
        Whose flesh has soul to suit,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?        45
        To man, propose this test—
        Thy body at its best,
How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
 
IX
        Yet gifts should prove their use:
        I own the Past profuse        50
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
        Eyes, ears took in their dole,
        Brain treasured up the whole;
Should not the heart beat once “How good to live and learn?”
 
X
        Not once beat “Praise be Thine!
        55
        I see the whole design,
I, who saw power, see now love perfect too:
        Perfect I call Thy plan:
        Thanks that I was a man!
Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!”        60
 
XI
        For pleasant is this flesh;
        Our soul, in its rose-mesh
Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:
        Would we some prize might hold
        To match those manifold        65
Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!
 
XII
        Let us not always say
        “Spite of this flesh to-day
I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!”
        As the bird wings and sings,        70
        Let us cry “All good things
Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!”
 
XIII
        Therefore I summon age
        To grant youth’s heritage,
Life’s struggle having so far reached its term:        75
        Thence shall I pass, approved
        A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.
 
XIV
        And I shall thereupon
        Take rest, ere I be gone        80
Once more on my adventure brave and new:
        Fearless and unperplexed,
        When I wage battle next,
What weapons to select, what armour to indue.
 
XV
        Youth ended, I shall try
        85
        My gain or loss thereby:
Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:
        And I shall weigh the same,
        Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.        90
 
XVI
        For, note when evening shuts,
        A certain moment cuts
The deed off, calls the glory from the grey:
        A whisper from the west
        Shoots—“Add this to the rest,        95
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day.”
 
XVII
        So, still within this life,
        Though lifted o’er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
        “This rage was right i’ the main,        100
        That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past.”
 
XVIII
        For more is not reserved
        To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:        105
        Here, work enough to watch
        The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play.
 
XIX
        As it was better, youth
        Should strive, through acts uncouth,        110
Toward making, than repose on aught found made:
        So, better, age, exempt
        From strife, should know, than tempt
Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid!
 
XX
        Enough now, if the Right
        115
        And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou call’st thy hand thine own,
        With knowledge absolute,
        Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.        120
 
XXI
        Be there, for once and all,
        Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the Past!
        Was I, the world arraigned,
        Were they, my soul disdained,        125
Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!
 
XXII
        Now, who shall arbitrate?
        Ten men love what I hate,
Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;
        Ten, who in ears and eyes        130
        Match me: we all surmise,
They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?
 
XXIII
        Not on the vulgar mass
        Called “work,” must sentence pass,
Things done, that took the eye and had the price;        135
        O’er which, from level stand,
        The low world laid its hand,
Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:
 
XXIV
        But all, the world’s coarse thumb
        And finger failed to plumb,        140
So passed in making up the main account:
        All instincts immature
        All purposes unsure,
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man’s amount:
 
XXV
        Thoughts hardly to be packed
        145
        Into a narrow act,
Fancies that broke through language and escaped:
        All I could never be,
        All, men ignored in me,
This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.        150
 
XXVI
        Ay, note that Potter’s wheel,
        That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—
        Thou, to whom fools propound
        When the wind makes its round,        155
“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!”
 
XXVII
        Fool! All that is, at all,
        Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
        What entered into thee,        160
        That was, is, and shall be:
Time’s wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
 
XXVIII
        He fixed thee mid this dance
        Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:        165
        Machinery just meant
        To give thy soul its bent,
Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.
 
XXIX
        What though the earlier grooves
        Which ran the laughing loves        170
Around thy base, no longer pause and press?
        What though, about thy rim,
        Skull-things in order grim
Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?
 
XXX
        Look not thou down but up!
        175
        To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s peal,
        The new wine’s foaming flow,
        The Master’s lips a-glow!
Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what need’st thou with earth’s wheel?        180
 
XXXI
        But I need, now as then,
        Thee, God, who mouldest men!
And since, not even while the whirl was worst,
        Did I,—to the wheel of life
        With shapes and colours rife,        185
Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:
 
XXXII
        So, take and use Thy work,
        Amend what flaws may lurk,
What strain o’ the stuff, what warpings past the aim!
        My times be in Thy hand!        190
        Perfect the cup as planned!
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!
(1864.)    
 
 
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