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About this poet

Robert Browning was born on May 7, 1812, in Camberwell, England. His mother was an accomplished pianist and a devout evangelical Christian. His father, who worked as a bank clerk, was also an artist, scholar, antiquarian, and collector of books and pictures. His rare book collection of more than 6,000 volumes included works in Greek, Hebrew, Latin, French, Italian, and Spanish. Much of Browning's education came from his well-read father. It is believed that he was already proficient at reading and writing by the age of five. A bright and anxious student, Browning learned Latin, Greek, and French by the time he was fourteen. From fourteen to sixteen he was educated at home, attended to by various tutors in music, drawing, dancing, and horsemanship. At the age of twelve he wrote a volume of Byronic verse entitled Incondita, which his parents attempted, unsuccessfully, to have published. In 1825, a cousin gave Browning a collection of Percy Bysshe Shelleys poetry; Browning was so taken with the book that he asked for the rest of Shelley's works for his thirteenth birthday, and declared himself a vegetarian and an atheist in emulation of the poet. Despite this early passion, he apparently wrote no poems between the ages of thirteen and twenty. In 1828, Browning enrolled at the University of London, but he soon left, anxious to read and learn at his own pace. The random nature of his education later surfaced in his writing, leading to criticism of his poems' obscurities.

In 1833, Browning anonymously published his first major published work, Pauline, and in 1840 he published Sordello, which was widely regarded as a failure. He also tried his hand at drama, but his plays, including Strafford, which ran for five nights in 1837, and the Bells and Pomegranates series, were for the most part unsuccessful. Nevertheless, the techniques he developed through his dramatic monologues—especially his use of diction, rhythm, and symbol—are regarded as his most important contribution to poetry, influencing such major poets of the twentieth century as Ezra Pound, T. S. Eliot, and Robert Frost.

After reading Elizabeth Barrett’Poems (1844) and corresponding with her for a few months, Browning met her in 1845. They were married in 1846, against the wishes of Barrett's father. The couple moved to Pisa and then Florence, where they continued to write. They had a son, Robert "Pen" Browning, in 1849, the same year his Collected Poems was published. Elizabeth inspired Robert's collection of poems Men and Women (1855), which he dedicated to her. Now regarded as one of Browning's best works, the book was received with little notice at the time; its author was then primarily known as Elizabeth Barrett's husband.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning died in 1861, and Robert and Pen Browning soon moved to London. Browning went on to publish Dramatis Personae (1863), and The Ring and the Book (1868). The latter, based on a seventeenth-century Italian murder trial, received wide critical acclaim, finally earning a twilight of reknown and respect in Browning's career. The Browning Society was founded while he still lived, in 1881, and he was awarded honorary degrees by Oxford University in 1882 and the University of Edinburgh in 1884. Robert Browning died on the same day that his final volume of verse, Asolando, was published, in 1889.


A Selected Bibliography

Poetry

Asolando: Fancies and Facts (1889)
Christmas-Eve and Easter-Day (1850)
Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning (1895)
Dramatic Idyls (1879)
Dramatic Idyls: Second Series (1880)
Ferishtah's Fancies (1884)
Jocoseria (1883)
La Saisiaz, and The Two Poets of Croisicv (1878)
Men and Women (1855)
New Poems by Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1914)
Pacchiarotto and How He Worked in Distemper, with Other Poems (1876)
Paracelsus (1835)
Parleyings with Certain People of Importance in Their Day (1887)
Pauline: A Fragment of a Confession (1833)
Red Cotton Night-Cap Country; or, Turf and Towers (1873)
Robert Browning: The Poems (1981)
Robert Browning: The Ring and the Book (1971)
Sordell (1840)
The Brownings to the Tennysons (1971)
The Complete Works of Robert Browning (1898)
The Inn Album (1875)
The Poetical Works of Robert Browning (1868)
The Ring and the Book (1868)
The Works of Robert Browning (1912)
Two Poems (1854)

Prose

Browning to His American Friends (1965)
Dearest Isa: Browning's Letters to Isa Blagden (1951)
Learned Lady: Letters from Robert Browning to Mrs. Thomas FitzGerald 1876-1889 (1966)
Letters of Robert Browning Collected by Thomas J. Wise (1933)
New Letters of Robert Browning (1950)
Robert Browning and Julia Wedgwood: A Broken Friendship as Revealed in Their Letters (1937)
The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett, 1845-1846 (1969)
Thomas Jones, The Divine Order: Sermons (1884)

Anthology

The Agamemnon of Aeschylus (1877)

Drama

Aristophanes' Apology (1875)
Balaustion's Adventure, Including a Transcript from Euripides (1871)
Bells and Pomegranates, No. IV - The Return of the Druses: A Tragedy in Five Acts (1943)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. I - Pippa Passes (1841)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. II - King Victor and King Charles (1842)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. III - Dramatic Lyrics (1842)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. V - A Blot in the 'Scutcheon: A Tragedy in Five Acts (1843)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. V - Colombe's Birthday: A Play in Five Acts (1844)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. VII - Dramatic Romances & Lyrics (1845)
Bells and Pomegranates. No. VIII - and Last, Luria; and A Soul's Tragedy (1846)
Dramatis Personae (1864)
Fifine at the Fair (1872)
Poems: A New Edition (1849)
Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society (1871)
Strafford: An Historical Tragedy (1837)

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Robert Browning, 1812 - 1889

I

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, 
By famous Hanover city; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its wall on the southern side; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied; 
But, when begins my ditty, 
Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin, was a pity.

 
II

Rats! 
They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 
And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladle's, 
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women's chats 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different sharps and flats.

 
III

At last the people in a body 
To the town hall came flocking: 
"'Tis clear," cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy; 
And as for our Corporation--shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin! 
You hope, because you're old and obese, 
To find in the furry civic robe ease? 
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we're lacking, 
Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

 
IV

An hour they sat in council, 
At length the Mayor broke silence: 
"For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, 
I wish I were a mile hence!
It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- 
I'm sure my poor head aches again, 
I've scratched it so, and all in vain 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!"
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap? 
"Bless us,' cried the Mayor, "what's that?" 
(With the Corporation as he sat, 
Looking little though wondrous fat; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister 
Than a too-long-opened oyster, 
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 
For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous) 
"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

 
V

"Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 
And in did come the strangest figure! 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yellow and half of red 
And he himself was tall and thin, 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, 
No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 
But lips where smiles went out and in--
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire 
The tall man and his quaint attire. 
Quoth one:  "It's as if my great-grandsire, 
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, 
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

 
VI

He advanced to the council-table: 
And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, 
By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep or swim or fly or run, 
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm, 
The mole and toad and newt and viper; 
And people call me the Pied Piper." 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
To match with his coat of the self-same check; 
And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying 
As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
"Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, 
In Tartary I freed the Cham, 
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; 
I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: 
And as for what your brain bewilders--
If I can rid your town of rats 
Will you give me a thousand guilders?" 
"One? Fifty thousand!" was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

 
VII

Into the street the Piper stept, 
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept 
In his quiet pipe the while; 
Then, like a musical adept, 
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; 
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, 
You heard as if an army muttered; 
And the muttering grew to a grumbling; 
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; 
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, 
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped advancing, 
And step for step they followed dancing, 
Until they came to the river Weser 
Wherein all plunged and perished! 
‹Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, 
Swam across and lived to carry 
(As the manuscript he cherished) 
To Rat-land home his commentary: 
Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
Into a cider-press's gripe: 
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, 
And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, 
And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: 
And it seemed as if a voice 
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! 
The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery! 
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, 
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!' 
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, 
All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said 'Come bore me!' 
-- I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

 
VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people 
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. 
Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes! 
Consult with carpenters and builders 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats!"-- when suddenly, up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

 
IX

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 
So did the Corporation too. 
For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; 
And half the money would replenish 
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. 
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! 
"Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, 
"Our business was done at the river's brink; 
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 
And what's dead can't come to life, I think. 
So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink 
From the duty of giving you something for drink, 
And a matter of money to put in your poke; 
But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!

 
X

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,
"No trifling! I can't wait! Beside,
I've promised to visit by dinnertime 
Bagdad, and accept the prime 
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, 
For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, 
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor--
With him I proved no bargain-driver, 
With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion."

 
XI

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook 
Being worse treated than a Cook? 
Insulted by a lazy ribald 
With idle pipe and vesture piebald? 
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, 
Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

 
XII

Once more he stept into the street 
And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 
Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air) 
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling 
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, 
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, 
Out came the children running. 
All the little boys and girls, 
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, 
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

 
XIII

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood, 
Unable to move a step or cry, 
To the children merrily skipping by--
And could only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
But how the Mayor was on the rack 
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, 
As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the Weser rolled its water's 
Right in the way of their sons and daughters! 
However he turned from South to West 
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 
And after him the children pressed; 
Great was the joy in every breast.
"He never can cross that mighty top! 
He's forced to let the piping drop 
And we shall see our children stop! 
When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, 
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; 
And the Piper advanced and the children followed, 
And when all were in to the very last, 
The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
Did I say all? No! One was lame, 
And could not dance the whole of the way; 
And in after years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say,-- 
"It's dull in our town since my playmates left! 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of all the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the Piper also promised me. 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 
And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings, 
And horses were born with eagles' wings: 
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the hill, 
Left alone against my will, 
To go now limping as before, 
And never hear of that country more!

 
XIV

Alas, alas for Hamelin! 
There came into many a burgher's pate 
A text which says that heaven's gate 
Opens to the rich at as easy rate 
As the needle's eye takes a camel in! 
The mayor sent East, West, North and South, 
To offer the Piper, by word of mouth 
Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went, 
And bring the children behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And Piper and dancers were gone forever, 
They made a decree that lawyers never 
Should think their records dated duly 
If, after the day of the month and year, 
These words did not as well appear:
"And so long after what happened here 
On the twenty-second of July, 
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six;"
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the children's last retreat, 
They called it the Pied Piper's Street,
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
To shock with mirth a street so solemn, 
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away, 
And there it stands to this very day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That, in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people who ascribe 
To the outlandish ways and dress 
On which their neighbors lay such stress, 
To their fathers and mothers having risen 
Out of some subterranean prison 
Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
But how or why they don't understand.

 
XV

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 
Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! 
And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice, 
If we've promised them ought, let us keep our promise.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Robert Browning

Robert Browning

Although playwright and poet Robert Browning was slow to receive acclaim for his work, his later work earned him renown and respect in his career, and the techniques he developed through his dramatic monologues—especially his use of diction, rhythm, and symbol—are regarded as his most important contribution to poetry, influencing such major poets of the twentieth century as Ezra Pound...

by this poet

poem
The gray sea and the long black land;  
And the yellow half-moon large and low:  
And the startled little waves that leap  
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,  
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.  
  
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;  
Three fields to cross till
poem
That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said
'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth
poem

                Wanting is — what?
                Summer redundant,
                Blueness abundant,
                — Where is the blot?
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same,
— Framework which waits for a picture to frame:
What of the leafage, what of the flower?
Roses