Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
To turn from _My Last Duchess_ to _Count Gismond_ is like coming out
of a damp cellar into God's own sunshine. Originally Browning called
these two poems _Italy_ and _France_; but he later fell madly in
love with Italy, and I suppose could not bear to have so
cold-blooded a tragedy represent the country graven on his heart.
The charm and brightness of _Count Gismond_ are properly connected
with one of the loveliest towns in the world, the old city of Aix in
Provence, a jewel on the hills rising from the Mediterranean Sea.
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