Analysis of Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came
Robert Browning 1812 (Camberwell) – 1889 (Venice)
My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored
Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.
What else should he be set for, with his staff?
What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare
All travellers who might find him posted there,
And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh
Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph
For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,
If at his counsel I should turn aside
Into that ominous tract which, all agree,
Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed: neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
For, what with my whole world-wide wandering,
What with my search drawn out thro' years, my hope
Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring,
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring
My heart made, finding failure in its scope.
As when a sick man very near to death
Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end
The tears and takes the farewell of each friend,
And hears one bid the other go, draw breath
Freelier outside, (``since all is o'er,'' he saith,
``And the blow falIen no grieving can amend;'')
While some discuss if near the other graves
Be room enough for this, and when a day
Suits best for carrying the corpse away,
With care about the banners, scarves and staves:
And still the man hears all, and only craves
He may not shame such tender love and stay.
Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest,
Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ
So many times among ``The Band''---to wit,
The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed
Their steps---that just to fail as they, seemed best,
And all the doubt was now---should I be fit?
So, quiet as despair, I turned from him,
That hateful cripple, out of his highway
Into the path he pointed. All the day
Had been a dreary one at best, and dim
Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim
Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.
For mark! no sooner was I fairly found
Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two,
Than, pausing to throw backward a last view
O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round:
Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound.
I might go on; nought else remained to do.
So, on I went. I think I never saw
Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve:
For flowers---as well expect a cedar grove!
But cockle, spurge, according to their law
Might propagate their kind, with none to awe,
You'd think; a burr had been a treasure-trove.
No! penury, inertness and grimace,
In some strange sort, were the land's portion. ``See
``Or shut your eyes,'' said nature peevishly,
``It nothing skills: I cannot help my case:
``'Tis the Last judgment's fire must cure this place,
``Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.''
If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk
Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents
Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents
In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to baulk
All hope of greenness?'tis a brute must walk
Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.
As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair
In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud
Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood.
One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare,
Stood stupefied, however he came there:
Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!
Alive? he might be dead for aught I know,
With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain,
And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane;
Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;
I never saw a brute I hated so;
He must be wicked to deserve such pain.
I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart.
As a man calls for wine before he fights,
I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights,
Ere fitly I could hope to play my part.
Think first, fight afterwards---the soldier's art:
One taste of the old time sets all to rights.
Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face
Beneath its garniture of curly gold,
Dear fellow, till
Scheme | ABBCCB DEEDDE FGHFAG IJJIIJ KLLKKL MNNMMN OPPOOP QNNQQE RSSRRS XTTHXT XMHUUG VMWIVW EXXEEX YZZYYZ 1 2 2 1 1 2 UXH |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 11111101001 1101010101 0111010111 1101110101 0101011101 1111110111 1111111111 111111101 11001111101 0101111111 111111110 11001010 1111011101 01110011101 1011011 1111110101 110101011 111111111 1111111100 1111111111 1001011111 11010010111 1101110101 1111010011 1101110111 1101010101 010101111 0111010111 111111111 0011110101 1101110101 1101110101 1111000101 1101010101 0101110101 1111110101 1111110011 110101111 1101011111 01110110101 1111111111 0101111111 1101011111 110101111 0101110101 1101011101 11001111111 111101111 1111011101 1101100111 1101110011 10011111111 1011100101 1111110111 1111111101 1101010101 11011010101 1101010111 110111111 1101110101 1100010010 0111001101 11111101 1101110111 1011101111 1110111001 1111010101 0111011101 0101111101 0011111111 1111010111 111110101 1101111111 0100111101 10111111 11111100101 1110111 1111010101 0111111111 111101101 011010101 10111111 1101011101 1111010111 1111011111 1011110111 111111001001 111111111 1111000101 1110111111 11110111 01111101 1101 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,166 |
Words | 765 |
Sentences | 47 |
Stanzas | 16 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 3 |
Lines Amount | 93 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 199 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 47 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 18, 2023
- 3:53 min read
- 255 Views
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"Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 6 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/30334/childe-roland-to-the-dark-tower-came>.
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