Bells and Pomegranates, Second Series/Italy in England

by Robert Browning

ITALY IN ENGLAND

That second time they hunted meFrom hill to plain, from shore to sea,And Austria, hounding far and wideHer blood-hounds thro' the country-side,Breathed hot and instant on my trace,I made six days a hiding-placeOf that dry green old aqueductWhere I and Charles, when boys, have pluckedThe fire-flies from the roof above,Bright creeping thro' the moss they love.—How long it seems since Charles was lost!Six days the soldiers crossed and crossedThe country in my very sight;And when that peril ceased at night, The sky broke out in red dismayWith signal fires; well, there I layClose covered o'er in my recess,Up to the neck in ferns and cress,Thinking on Metternich our friend,And Charles's miserable end,And much beside, two days; the third,Hunger o'ercame me when I heardThe peasants from the village goTo work among the maize; you know,With us in Lombardy, they bringProvisions packed on mules, a stringWith little bells that cheer their task,And casks, and boughs on every caskTo keep the sun's heat from the wine;These I let pass in jingling line,And, close on them, dear noisy crew,The peasants from the village, too;For at the very rear would troopTheir wives and sisters in a groupTo help, I knew. When these had passed,I threw my glove to strike the last,Taking the chance: she did not start,Much less cry out, but stooped apartOne instant, rapidly glanced round,And saw me beckon from the ground:A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;She picked my glove up while she strippedA branch off, then rejoined the restWith that; my glove lay in her breast:Then I drew breath; they disappeared:It was for Italy I feared.

 An hour, and she returned aloneExactly where my glove was thrown.Meanwhile came many thoughts; on meRested the hopes of Italy;I had devised a certain taleWhich, when 'twas told her, could not failPersuade a peasant of its truth;I meant to give her hopes of pay,And no temptation to betray.But when I saw that woman's face,Its calm simplicity of grace,Our Italy's own attitudeIn which she walked thus far, and stood,Planting each naked foot so firm,To crush the snake and spare the worm—At first sight of her eyes, I said,"I am that person on whose head"They fix the price because I hate"The Austrians over us: the State"Will give you gold—oh, gold so much,"If you betray me to their clutch!"And be your death, for aught I know,"If once they find you saved their foe."Now, you must bring me food and drink,"And also paper, pen and ink,"And carry safe what I shall write"To Padua, which you'll reach at night"Before the Duomo shuts; go in,"And wait till Tenebræ begin;"Walk to the Third Confessional,"Between the pillar and the wall, "And kneeling whisper whence comes peace?"Say it a second time; then cease;"And if the voice inside returns,"From Christ and Freedom; what concerns"The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip"My letter where you placed your lip;"Then come back happy we have done"Our mother service—I, the son,"As you the daughter of our land!"

 Three mornings more, she took her standIn the same place, with the same eyes:I was no surer of sun-riseThan of her coming: we conferredOf her own prospects, and I heardShe had a lover—stout and tall,She said—then let her eyelids fall,"He could do much"—as if some doubtEntered her heart,—then, passing out,"She could not speak for others—whoHad other thoughts; herself she knew:"And so she brought me drink and food.After four days the scouts pursuedAnother path: at last arrivedThe help my Paduan friends contrivedTo furnish me: she brought the news:For the first time I could not chooseBut kiss her hand and lay my ownUpon her head—"This faith was shown"To Italy, our mother;—she"Uses my hand and blesses thee!"She followed down to the sea-shore; I left and never saw her more.

 How very long since I have thoughtConcerning—much less wished for—aughtBeside the good of ItalyFor which I live and mean to die!In love I never was; and sinceCharles proved false, what could convinceMy inmost heart I had a friend;However, if I pleased to spendReal wishes on myself—say, Three—I know at least what one should be;I would grasp Metternich untilI felt his red wet throat distilIn blood thro' these two hands: and next,—Nor much for that am I perplexed—Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,Should die slow of a broken heartUnder his new employers—last—Ah, there, what should one wish? For fastDo I grow old and out of strength;If I resolved to seek at lengthMy father's house again, how scaredThey all would look, and unprepared!My brothers live in Austria's pay—Disowned me long ago, men say;And all my early mates who usedTo praise me so—perhaps inducedMore than one early step of mine—Are turning wise: while part opine"Freedom grows License," part suspect"Haste breeds Delay," and recollect They always said such prematureBeginnings never could endure:So, with a sullen "All's for best,"The land seems settling to its rest.I think, then, I should wish to standThis evening in that dear, lost land,Over the sea the thousand miles,And know if yet that woman smilesWith the calm smile—some little farmShe lives in there, no doubt—what harmIf I sate on the door-side bench,And, while her spindle made a trenchFantastically in the dust,Inquired of all her fortunes—justHer children's ages and their names,And what may be the husband's aimsFor each of them—I'd talk this out,And sit there, for an hour about,Then kiss her hand once more, and layMine on her head, and go my way.

 So much for idle wishing—howIt steals the time! To business now!