 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
|
|
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII, IX, X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Browning |  |
XI.
This aloneComes of my tiresome talking: Music's throne
235
And whom in turn—by who knows what new feats
Of strength,—shall somebody as sure push down,
Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown,
And orb imperial—whereto?—Never dream
That what once lived shall ever die! They seem
Dead—do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? Bring
Our life to kindle theirs, and straight each king
Starts, you shall see, stands up, from head to foot
No inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (Suit
Measure to subject, first—no marching on
Yet in thy bold C major, Avison,
As suited step a minute since: no: wait—
Into the minor key first modulate—
Gently with A, now—in the Lesser Third!)
| The Poetical Works of Robert Browning | |