Abt Vogler

 

Alexander Jansson

 Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build,

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work,

Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed

Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk,

Man, brute, reptile, fly,—alien of end and of aim,

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,—

Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name,

And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine,

This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise!

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine,

Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise!

And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell,

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things,

Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well,

Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was,

Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest,

Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass,

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest:

For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire,

When a great illumination surprises a festal night—

Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire)

Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight.

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth,

Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I;

And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth,

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky:

Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine,

Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star;

Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine,

For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.

Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow,

Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast,

Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow,

Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last;

Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone,

But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new:

What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon;

And what is,—shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too.

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul,

All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth,

All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole,

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth:

Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds from cause,

Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told;

It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws,

Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:—

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can,

Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are!

And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man,

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star.

Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought;

It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said:

Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought:

And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared;

Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow;

For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared,

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go.

Never to be again! But many more of the kind

As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me?

To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind

To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name?

Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands!

What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same?

Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands?

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before;

The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound;

What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more;

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round.

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist;

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power

Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour.

The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard;

Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence

For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized?

Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence?

Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized?

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:

But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;

The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know.

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign:

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce.

Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again,

Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,—yes,

And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground,

Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep;

Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found,

The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.

ROBERT BROWNING

Rabbi Ben Ezra

 

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, 

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'' 

Not that, amassing flowers, 

Youth sighed "Which rose make ours, 

Which lily leave and then as best recall?" 

Not that, admiring stars, 

It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; 

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" 

Not for such hopes and fears 

Annulling youth's brief years, 

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 

Rather I prize the doubt 

Low kinds exist without, 

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 

Poor vaunt of life indeed, 

Were man but formed to feed 

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? 

Rejoice we are allied 

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. 

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; 

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! 

For thence,—a paradox 

Which comforts while it mocks,— 

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: 

What I aspired to be, 

And was not, comforts me: 

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 

What is he but a brute 

Whose flesh has soul to suit, 

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? 

To man, propose this test— 

Thy body at its best, 

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? 

Yet gifts should prove their use: 

I own the Past profuse 

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?" 

Not once beat "Praise be Thine! 

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!" 

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 

Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best! 

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, 

Let us cry "All good things 

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" 

Therefore I summon age 

To grant youth's heritage, 

Life's struggle having so far reached its term: 

Thence shall I pass, approved 

A man, for aye removed 

From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. 

And I shall thereupon 

Take rest, ere I be gone 

Once more on my adventure brave and new: 

Fearless and unperplexed, 

When I wage battle next, 

What weapons to select, what armour to indue. 

Youth ended, I shall try 

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. 

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, 

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." 

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, 

That acquiescence vain: 

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 

For more is not reserved 

To man, with soul just nerved 

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: 

Here, work enough to watch 

The Master work, and catch 

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 

As it was better, youth 

Should strive, through acts uncouth, 

Toward making, than repose on aught found made: 

So, better, age, exempt 

From strife, should know, than tempt 

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid! 

Enough now, if the Right 

And Good and Infinite 

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own 

With knowledge absolute, 

Subject to no dispute 

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 

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, 

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! 

Now, who shall arbitrate? 

Ten men love what I hate, 

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 

Ten, who in ears and eyes 

Match me: we all surmise, 

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe? 

Not on the vulgar mass 

Called "work," must sentence pass, 

Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 

O'er which, from level stand, 

The low world laid its hand, 

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: 

But all, the world's coarse thumb 

And finger failed to plumb, 

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: 

Thoughts hardly to be packed 

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. 

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 wine makes its round, 

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" 

Fool! All that is, at all, 

Lasts ever, past recall; 

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 

What entered into thee, 

That was, is, and shall be: 

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. 

He fixed thee mid this dance 

Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: 

Machinery just meant 

To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

What though the earlier grooves, 

Which ran the laughing loves 

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? 

Look not thou down but up! 

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? 

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, 

Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst: 

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! 

Perfect the cup as planned! 

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 

ROBERT BROWNING

Abt Vogler

 

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, 

Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, 

Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed 

Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, 

Man, brute, reptile, fly,—alien of end and of aim, 

Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,— 

Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, 

And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! 

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, 

This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! 

Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, 

Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! 

And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, 

Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, 

Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, 

Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, 

Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, 

Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, 

Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: 

For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, 

When a great illumination surprises a festal night— 

Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 

Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. 

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, 

Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; 

And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, 

As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: 

Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, 

Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; 

Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, 

For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. 

Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, 

Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, 

Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, 

Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last; 

Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, 

But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: 

What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; 

And what is,—shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too. 

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, 

All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, 

All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, 

Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: 

Had I written the same, made verse—still, effect proceeds from cause, 

Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; 

It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, 

Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:— 

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 

Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! 

And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, 

That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. 

Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought; 

It is everywhere in the world—loud, soft, and all is said: 

Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: 

And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! 

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; 

Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; 

For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, 

That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 

Never to be again! But many more of the kind 

As good, nay, better, perchance: is this your comfort to me? 

To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 

To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be. 

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? 

Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! 

What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? 

Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? 

There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; 

The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; 

What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; 

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. 

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; 

Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power 

Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist 

When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 

The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 

The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, 

Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; 

Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by. 

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 

For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? 

Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? 

Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? 

Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, 

Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: 

But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; 

The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know. 

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: 

I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 

Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, 

Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,—yes, 

And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, 

Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; 

Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, 

The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. 

ROBERT BROWNING

O Amante de Porfíria

 

Chegou ligeira a chuva à noite,
         E alçou-se logo o triste vento,
Que os olmos pune em seu açoite
         E vexa o lago com contento:
         Eu escutava em desalento.
Foi quando entrou Porfíria; logo
         Botando fora a chuva e o frio,
Aquece o chalé com o fogo
         Que aviva, ajoelhada e gentil;
         Depois, pondo-se em pé, despiu
As luvas sujas, a sua capa
         E o xale então encharcado;
Do chapéu seu cabelo escapa,
         E enfim sentou-se ao meu lado
         E me chamou. Quando o chamado
Não respondi, meu braço pôs
         Em seu quadril, o ombro nu em pelo,
E a loura coma ela dispôs,
         E ali me pôs, como um apelo,
         E espalhou seu louro cabelo,
Murmurando que me amava —
         Tão fraca, queria somente
Livrar do peito, que lutava,
         Do vão orgulho que se sente,
         E dar-se a mim eternamente.
E às vezes a paixão domina,
         E o festim desta noite bela
Não freia a ideia repentina
         De alguém palente de amor: ela,
         Pois,viera sob vento e procela.
Certo é que em seu olho eu olhava
         Feliz e orgulhoso; pois vi
Que Porfíria me idolatrava:
         Co’o choque, o coração, senti,
         Crescia, e eu me decidi.
Perfeita e pura: no momento,
         Pois, ela era minha, minha,
E o seu cabelo, em meu intento
         Passei em uma áurea linha
         Três vezes por sua gargantinha,
E a estrangulei. Foi indolor;
         Foi indolor, disso estou certo.
Como uma abelha presa em flor,
         Abri os olhos azuis de perto:
         E riram, puros e abertos.
Soltei do pescoço a trança
         E a face outra vez corava,
Rubente ao meu beijo em ânsia:
         Eu a ergui como costumava,
         Só que meu ombro segurava
Sua cabecinha ainda pendente:
         Feliz co’o desejo cumprido,
A fronte rósea e sorridente,
         Que o que desprezava é fugido,
         E eu, seu amor, possuído!
O amor de Porfíria: insciente
         De sua vontade realizada.
E assim sentamos juntos, rente,
         E eis-nos quietos na madrugada,
         E ainda Deus não disse nada!

(tradução de Adriano Scandolara)

 


   
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 through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
         Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped 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!




Robert Browning