Get Your Premium Membership



What's become of Waring
Since he gave us all the slip,
Chose land-travel or seafaring,
Boots and chest, or staff and scrip,
Rather than pace up and down
Any longer London-town?

Who'd have guessed it from his lip,
Or his brow's accustomed bearing,
On the night he thus took ship,
Or started landward?—little caring
For us, it seems, who supped together,
(Friends of his too, I remember)
And walked home through the merry weather,
The snowiest in all December;
I left his arm that night myself
For what's-his-name's, the new prose-poet,
That wrote the book there, on the shelf— 
How, forsooth, was I to know it
If Waring meant to glide away
Like a ghost at break of day?
Never looked he half so gay!

He was prouder than the devil:
How he must have cursed our revel!
Ay, and many other meetings,
Indoor visits, outdoor greetings,
As up and down he paced this London,
With no work done, but great works undone,
Where scarce twenty knew his name.
Why not, then, have earlier spoken, Written, bustled? Who's to blame If your silence kept unbroken? "True, but there were sundry jottings, Stray-leaves, fragments, blurrs and blottings, Certain first steps were achieved Already which—(is that your meaning?) Had well borne out whoe'er believed In more to come!" But who goes gleaning Hedge-side chance-blades, while full-sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening Pride alone, puts forth such claims O'er the day's distinguished names.
Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I've lost him: I, who cared not if I moved him, Henceforth never shall get free Of his ghostly company, His eyes that just a little wink As deep I go into the merit Of this and that distinguished spirit— His cheeks' raised colour, soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic.
Nay, my very wrist grows warm With his dragging weight of arm! E'en so, swimmingly appears, Through one's after-supper musings, Some lost Lady of old years, With her beauteous vain endeavour, And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, We, puppies that we were.
Oh never Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, to? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin, had we centupled Its possessor's grace and sweetness! No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth's a weighty matter, And, truth at issue, we can't flatter! Well, 'tis done with: she's exempt From damning us through such a sally; And so she glides, as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours.
Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one half-day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent! Feed, should not he, to heart's content? I'd say, "to only have conceived Your great works, though they ne'er make progress, Surpasses all we've yet achieved!" I'd lie so, I should be believed.
I'd make such havoc of the claims Of the day's distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress Her sharp-toothed golden-crowned child! Or, as one feasts a creature rarely Captured here, unreconciled To capture; and completely gives Its pettish humours licence, barely Requiring that it lives.
Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a God, Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or who, in Moscow, toward the Czar, With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin's pavement, bright With serpentine and syenite, Steps, with five other generals, That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough To kerchiefwise unfurl his sash Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? Waring, in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures borne, perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden dear From the circle of mute kings, Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, To Dian's fane at Taurica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach, As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where bred the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely, 'tis in Spain That we and Waring meet again— Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shine—abrupt as when there's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid.
Or, best of all, I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink; And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore: Or Music means this land of ours Some favour yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,— "Give me my so long promised son, Let Waring end what I begun!" Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals His face—in Kent 'tis cherry-time, Or, hops are picking; or, at prime Of March, he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy, And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure, Out of a myriad noises soft, Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon, When all God's creatures crave their boon, All at once and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, Having first within his ken What a man might do with men, And far too glad, in the even-glow, To mix with your world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so— And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand.
Oh, Waring, what's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! Some Garrick—say—out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius—am I right?—shall tuck His sleeve, and out with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life! Some one shall somehow run amuck With this old world, for want of strife Sound asleep: contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who's alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now: Distinguished names!—but 'tis, somehow As if they played at being names Still more distinguished, like the games Of children.
Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best! II "When I last saw Waring.
" (How all turned to him who spoke— You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel, or seafaring?) ".
We were sailing by Triest, Where a day or two we harboured: A sunset was in the West, When, looking over the vessel's side, One of our company espied A sudden speck to larboard.
And, as a sea-duck flies and swins At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a fish it curled, And drew itself up close beside, Its great sail on the instant furled, And o'er its planks, a shrill voice cried (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 'Buy wine of us, you English Brig? Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A Pilot for you to Triest? Without one, look you ne'er so big, They'll never let you up the bay! We natives should know best.
' I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' Our captain said, 'The long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves.
' "In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; And one, half-hidden by his side Under the furled sail, soon I spied, With great grass hat, and kerchief black, Who looked up, with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee Into the weather, cut somehow Her sparkling path beneath our bow; And so went off, as with a bound, Into the rose and golden half Of the sky, to overtake the sun, And reach the shore, like the sea-calf Its singing cave; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last Of Waring!"—You? Oh, never star Was lost here, but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

Poem by Robert Browning
Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem - WaringEmail Poem | Create an image from this poem

Poems are below...

More Poems by Robert Browning

Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on Waring

Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Waring here.

Commenting turned off, sorry.