The Project Gutenberg EBook of Browning's Shorter Poems, by Robert Browning

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Title: Browning's Shorter Poems

Author: Robert Browning

Editor: Franklin T. Baker

Release Date: July 28, 2005 [EBook #16376]

Language: English

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BROWNING'S

SHORTER POEMS



SELECTED AND EDITED

BY

FRANKLIN T. BAKER, A.M.

PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN TEACHERS COLLEGE,
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

FOURTH EDITION. REVISED AND ENLARGED

New York

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

LONDON; MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.

1917

COPYRIGHT 1899,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

       *       *       *       *       *

Set up and electrotyped October, 1899. Reprinted January, 1901;
April, 1902; May, 1903; May, 1904; January, 1905; January, June,
1906; January, July, 1907; February, 1908; September, 1909;
February, 1910; March, 1911; July, 1912; July, 1913; January, July,
1915; July, 1916; January, September, 1917.


Norwood Press
J.S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.,
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

       *       *       *       *       *




PREFACE

These selections from the poetry of Robert Browning have been made
with especial reference to the tastes and capacities of readers of the
high-school age. Every poem included has been found by experience to
be within the grasp of boys and girls. Most of Browning's best poetry
is within the ken of any reader of imagination and diligence. To the
reader who lacks these, not only Browning, but the great world of
literature, remains closed: Browning is not the only poet who requires
close study. The difficulties he offers are, in his best poems, not
more repellent to the thoughtful reader than the nut that protects and
contains the kernel. To a boy or girl of active mind, the difficulty
need rarely be more than a pleasant challenge to the exercise of a
little patience and ingenuity.

Browning, when at his best in vigor, clearness, and beauty, is
peculiarly a poet for young people. His freedom from sentimentality,
his liveliness of conception and narration, his high optimism, and his
interest in the things that make for the life of the soul, appeal to
the imagination and the feelings of youth.

The present edition, attempts but little in the way of criticism. The
notes cover such matters as are not readily settled by an appeal to
the dictionary, and suggest, in addition, questions that are designed
to help in interpretation and appreciation.

TEACHERS' COLLEGE, NEW YORK,

_July_, 1899.





CONTENTS


LIFE OF BROWNING
BROWNING AS POET
APPRECIATIONS
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF BROWNING'S WORKS
BIBLIOGRAPHY

The Pied Piper of Hamelin
Tray
Incident of the French Camp
"How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix"
Hervé Riel
Pheidippides
My Star
Evelyn Hope
Love among the Ruins
Misconceptions
Natural Magic
Apparitions
A Wall
Confessions
A Woman's Last Word
A Pretty Woman
Youth and Art
A Tale
Cavalier Tunes
Home-Thoughts, from the Sea
Summum Bonum
A Face
Songs from Pippa Passes
The Lost Leader
Apparent Failure
Fears and Scruples
Instans Tyrannus
The Patriot
The Boy and the Angel
Memorabilia
Why I am a Liberal
Prospice
Epilogue to "Asolando"
"De Gustibus--"
The Italian in England
My Last Duchess
The Bishop Orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church
The Laboratory
Home Thoughts, from Abroad
Up at a Villa--Down in the City
A Toccata of Galuppi's
Abt Vogler
Rabbi Ben Ezra
A Grammarian's Funeral
Andrea del Sarto
Caliban upon Setebos
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came"
An Epistle
Saul
One Word More

NOTES






INTRODUCTION


LIFE OF BROWNING

Robert Browning was born in Camberwell, London, May 7, 1812. He was
contemporary with Tennyson, Dickens, Thackeray, Lowell, Emerson,
Hawthorne, Darwin, Spencer, Huxley, Dumas, Hugo, Mendelssohn, Wagner,
and a score of other men famous in art and science.

Browning's good fortune began with his birth. His father, a clerk in
the Bank of England, possessed ample means for the education of his
children. He had artistic and literary tastes, a mind richly stored
with philosophy, history, literature, and legend, some repute as a
maker of verses, and a liberality that led him to assist his gifted
son in following his bent. From his father Robert inherited his
literary tastes and his vigorous health; in his father he found a
critic and companion. His mother was described by Carlyle as a type
of the true Scotch gentlewoman. Her "fathomless charity," her love of
music, and her deep religious feeling reappear in the poet.

Free from struggles with adversity, and devoid of public or stirring
incidents, the story of Browning's life is soon told. It was the life
of a scholar and man of letters, devoted to the study of poetry,
philosophy, history; to the contemplation of the lives of men and
women; and to the exercise of his chosen vocation.

His school life was of meagre extent. He attended a private academy,
read at home under a tutor, and for two years attended the University
of London. When asked in his later life whether he had been to Oxford
or Cambridge, he used to say, "Italy was my University," And, indeed,
his many poems on Italian themes bear testimony to the profound
influence of Italy upon him. In his teens, he came under the influence
of Pope and Byron, and wrote verses after their styles. Then Shelley
came by accident in his way, and became to the boy the model of poetic
excellence.

In 1838 appeared his first published poem, _Pauline_. It bears
the marks of his peculiar genius; it has the germs of his merits and
his defects. Though not widely read, it received favorable notice
from some of the critics. In 1835 appeared _Paracelsus_, in 1837
_Strafford_, in 1840 _Sordello_. From this time on, for the
fifty remaining years of his life, his poetic activity hardly ceased,
though his poetry was of uneven excellence. The middle period of his
work, beginning with _Bells and Pomegranates_ in 1842, and
ending with _Balaustion's Adventure_ (a transcript of Euripides'
_Alcestis_) in 1871, was by far the richest in poetic value.

In 1846 he married Elizabeth Barrett, the poet. They left England for
Italy, where, because of Mrs. Browning's feeble health, they continued
to reside until her death in 1861. The remainder of his life was
divided between England and Italy, with frequent visits to southern
France. His reputation as a poet had steadily grown. He was now one of
the best known men in England. His mental activity continued unabated
to the end. Within the last thirty years of his life he wrote _The
Ring and the Book_--his longest work, one of the longest and,
intellectually, one of the greatest, of English poems; translated the
_Agamemnon_ of Æschylus and the _Alcestis_ of Euripides;
published many shorter poems; kept up the studies which had always
been his labor and his pastime; and found leisure also to know a wide
circle of men and women. William Sharp gives a pleasing picture of the
last years of his life: "Everybody wished him to come and dine; and he
did his utmost to gratify Everybody. He saw everything; read all the
notable books; kept himself acquainted with the leading contents of
the journals and magazines; conducted a large correspondence; read
new French, German, and Italian books of mark; read and translated
Euripides and Æschylus: knew all the gossip of the literary clubs,
salons, and the studios; was a frequenter of afternoon tea-parties;
and then, over and above it, he was Browning: the most profoundly
subtle mind that has exercised itself in poetry since Shakespeare."[1]

He died in Venice, on December 12, 1889, and was buried in the poet's
corner of Westminster Abbey.

  [Footnote 1: Sharp's _Life of Browning_.]


BROWNING AS POET

The three generations of readers who have lived since Browning's first
publication have seen as many attitudes taken toward one of the ablest
poetic spirits of the century. To the first he appeared an enigma, a
writer hopelessly obscure, perhaps not even clear in his own mind,
as to the message he wished to deliver; to the second he appeared a
prophet and a philosopher, full of all wisdom and subtlety, too deep
for common mortals to fathom with line and plummet,--concealing below
green depths of ocean priceless gems of thought and feeling; to the
third, a poet full of inequalities in conception and expression, who
has done many good things well and has made many grave failures.

No poet in our generation has fared so ill at the hands of the
critics. Already the Browning library is large. Some of the criticism
is good; much of it, regarding the author as philosopher and
symbolist, is totally askew. Reams have been written in interpretation
of _Childe Roland_, an imaginative fantasy composed in one day.
Abstruse ideas have been wrested from the simple story of _My Last
Duchess_. His poetry has been the stamping-ground of theologians
and the centre of prattling literary circles. In this tortuous maze of
futile criticism the one thing lost sight of is the fact that a poet
must be judged by the standards of art. It must be confessed, however,
that Browning is himself to blame for much of the smoke of commentary
that has gathered round him. He has often chosen the oblique
expression where the direct would serve better; often interpolated
his own musing subtleties between the reader and the life he would
present; often followed his theme into intricacies beyond his own
power to resolve into the simple forms of art. Thus it has come about
that misguided readers became enigma hunters, and the poet their
Sphinx.

The real question with Browning, as with any poet, is, What is his
work and worth as an artist? What of human life has he presented,
and how clear and true are his presentations? What passions, what
struggles, what ideals, what activities of men has he added to the art
world? What beauty and dignity, what light, has he created? How does
he view life: with what of hope, or aspiration, or strength? These
questions may be discussed under his sense and mastery of form, and
under his views of human life.

Browning's sense of form has often been attacked and defended. The
first impression upon reading him is of harshness amounting to the
grotesque. Rhymes often clash and jangle like the music of savages.
Such rhymes as

  "Fancy the fabric...
  Ere mortar dab brick,"

strain dignity and beauty to the breaking-point. Archaic and bizarre
words are pressed into service to help out the rhyme and metre;
instead of melodic rhythm there are harsh and jolting combinations;
until the reader brought up in the traditions of Shakespeare, Milton,
and Tennyson, is fain to cry out, This is not poetry!

In internal form, as well, Browning often defies the established laws
of literature. Distorted and elliptical sentences, long and irrelevant
parentheses, curious involutions of thought, and irregular or
incoherent development of the narrative or the picture, often leave
the reader in despair even of the meaning. Nor can these departures
from orderly beauty always be defended by the exigencies of the
subjects. They do not fit the theme. They are the discords of a
musician who either has not mastered his instrument or is not
sensitive to all the finer effects. Some of his work stands out
clear from these faults: _A Toccata of Galuppi's_, _Love Among the
Ruins_, the Songs from _Pippa Passes_, _Apparitions_, _Andrea del
Sarto_, and a score of others might be cited to show that Browning
could write with a sense of form as true, and an ear as delicate, as
could any poet of the century, except Tennyson.

To Browning belongs the credit of having created a new poetic
form,--the dramatic monologue. In this form the larger number of his
poems are cast. Among the best examples in this volume are _My
Last Duchess_, _The Bishop Orders his Tomb_, _The Laboratory_, and
_Confessions_. One person only is speaking, but reveals the
presence, action, and thoughts of the others who are in the scene at
the same time that he reveals his own character, as in a conversation
in which but one voice is audible. The dramatic monologue has in a
peculiar degree the advantages of compression and vividness, and is,
in Browning's hands, an instrument of great power.

The charge of obscurity so often made against Browning's poetry must
in part be admitted. As has been said above he is often led off by his
many-sided interests into irrelevancies and subtleties that interfere
with simplicity and beauty. His compressed style and his fondness
for unusual words often make an unwarranted demand upon the reader's
patience. Such passages are a challenge to his admirers and a repulse
to the indifferent. Sometimes, indeed, the ore is not worth the
smelting; often it yields enough to reward the greatest patience.

Browning, like all great poets, knew life widely and deeply through
men and books. He was born in London, near the great centres of the
intellectual movements of his time; he travelled much, especially in
Italy and France; he read widely in the literatures and philosophies
of many ages and many lands; and so grew into the cosmopolitanism of
spirit that belonged to Chaucer and to Shakespeare.

In all art human life is the matter of ultimate interest. To Browning
this was so in a peculiar degree. In the epistolary preface to
_Sordello_, written thirty years after its first publication, he
said: "My stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul:
little else is worth study." This interest in "the development of
a soul" is the keynote of nearly all his work. To it are directly
traceable many of the most obvious excellences and defects of his
poetry. He came to look below the surfaces of things for the soul
beneath them. He came to be "the subtlest assertor of the Soul in
Song," and like his own pair of lovers on the Campagna, "unashamed of
soul." His early preference of Shelley to Keats indicated this bent.
His readers are conscious always of revelations of the souls of the
men and women he portrays; the sweet and tender womanhood of the
Duchess, the sordid and material soul of the old Bishop of St.
Praxed's, the devoted and heroic soul of Napoleon's young soldier, the
weary and despairing soul of Andrea del Sarto,--and a host of others
stand before us cleared of the veil of habit and convention. The
souls of men appear as the victors over all material and immaterial
obstacles. Human affection transforms the bare room to a bower of
fruits and flowers; human courage and resolution carry Childe Roland
victoriously past the threats and terrors of malignant nature, and
the despair from accumulated memories of failure; death itself is
described in _Evelyn Hope_, in _Prospice_, in _Rabbi Ben
Ezra_, as a phase, a transit of the soul, wherein the material
aspects and the physical terrors disappear. In Browning's poetry, the
one real and permanent thing is the world of ideas, the world of the
spirit. He is in this one of the truest Platonists of modern times.

To many young readers this method in art comes like a revelation.
Other poets also portray the souls of men; but Browning does it
more obviously, more intentionally, more insistently. It is well,
therefore, to have read Browning. To learn to read him aright is to
enter the gateway to other good and great poetry.

Out of this predominating interest in the souls of men, and out of his
intense intellectual activity and scientific curiosity, grows one of
Browning's greatest defects. He is often led too far afield, into
intricacies and anomalies of character beyond the range of common
experience and sympathy. The criminal, the "moral idiot," belong to
the alienist rather than to the poet. The abnormalities of nature
have no place in the world of great art; they do not echo the common
experience of mankind. Already the interest is decreasing in that part
of his poetry which deals with such themes. Bishop Blougram and Mr.
Sludge will not take place in the ranks of artistic creations. Nor can
the poet's "special pleading" for such types, however ingenious it
may be, whatever philanthropy of soul it may imply, be regarded as
justification. Sometimes, indeed, the poet is led by his sympathy and
his intellectual ingenuity into defences that are inconsistent with
his own standards of the true and the beautiful.

The trait in Browning which appeals to the largest number of readers
is his strenuous optimism. He will admit no evil or sorrow too
great to be borne, too irrational to have some ultimate purpose of
beneficence. "There shall never be one lost good," says Abt Vogler.
The suicides in the morgue only serve to call forth his declaration:--

  "My own hope is, a sun will pierce
  The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;

         *       *       *       *       *

  That what began best can't end worst,
  Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst."

He has no fear of death; he will face it gladly, in confidence of the
life beyond. His Grammarian is content to assume an order of things
which will justify in the next life his ceaseless toil in this, merely
to learn how to live. Rabbi Ben Ezra's old age is serene in the hope
of the continuity of life and the eternal development of character; he
finds life good, and the plan of things perfect. In brief, Browning
accepts life as it is, and believes it good, piecing out his
conception of the goodness of life by drawing without limit upon his
hopes of the other world. With the exception of a few poems like
_Andrea del Sarto_, this is the unbroken tone of his poetry.
Calvinism, asceticism, pessimism in any form, he rejects. He sustains
his position not by argument, but by hope and assertion. It is a
matter of temperament: he is optimistic because he was born so.
Different from the serene optimism of Shakespeare's later life, in
_The Tempest_ and _The Winter's Tale_, in that it is
not, like Shakespeare's, born of long and deep suffering from the
contemplation of the tragedies of human life, it bears, in that
degree, less of solace and conviction.

To Browning's temperament, also, may be ascribed another prominent
trait in his work. He steadily asserts the right of the individual to
live out his own life, to be himself in fulfilling his desires and
aspirations. _The Statue and the Bust_ is the famous exposition
of this doctrine. It is a teaching that neither the poet's optimism
nor his acumen has justified in the minds of men. It is a return to
the unbridled freedom of nature advocated by Whitman and Rousseau;
an extreme assertion of the value of the individual man, and of
unregulated democracy; an outgrowth, it may be, of the robustness and
originality of Browning's nature, and interesting--not as a clew to
his life, which conformed to that of organized society--but as a
clew to his independence of classical and conventional forms in the
exercise of his art.

Creative energy Browning has in high degree. With the poet's insight
into character and motives, the poet's grasp of the essential laws of
human life, the poet's vividness of imagination, he has portrayed a
host of types distinct from each other, true to life, strongly marked
and consistent. With fine dramatic instinct he has shown these
characters in true relation to the facts of life and to each other. In
this respect he has satisfied the most exigent demands of art, and
has already taken rank as one of the great creative minds of the
nineteenth century.

True poet he is, also, in his depth of feeling and range of sympathy.
Beneath a ruggedness of intellect, like his landscape in _De
Gustibus_, there is always sympathy and tenderness. It is, indeed,
more like the serenity of Chaucer's emotions than like the tragic
fervor of Shakespeare's. Mrs. Browning's estimate of him in _Lady
Geraldine's Courtship_,--

  "Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle,
  Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity,"

is true criticism.

His love of nature, and his sense of the joy and beauty of it, appear
often in his poetry; but not with the same insistence as in Wordsworth
and Burns, and seldom with the same pervasiveness, or with the same
beauty, as in Tennyson. He was rather the poet of men's souls. When
he does use nature, it is generally to illustrate some phase or
experience of the soul, and not for the sake of its beauty. He has,
however, some nature-descriptions so exquisite that English poetry
would be the poorer for their loss. Witness _De Gustibus_, _Up at a
Villa_, _Home Thoughts from Abroad_, _Pippa's Songs_, and _Saul_.

It is too early to guess at Browning's permanent place in our
literature. But his vigor of intellect, his insight into the human
heart, his originality in phrase and conception, his unquenchable and
fearless optimism, and his grasp of the problems of his century, make
him beyond question one of its greatest figures.


APPRECIATIONS

  Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
  Therefore, on him no speech! and brief for thee,
  Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale
  No man has walked along our roads with step
  So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
  So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
  Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
  Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
  Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
  The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

--WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.


Tennyson has a vivid feeling of the dignity and potency of
_law_.... Browning vividly feels the importance, the greatness
and beauty of passions and enthusiasms, and his imagination
is comparatively unimpressed by the presence of law and its
operations.... It is not the order and regularity in the processes of
the natural world which chiefly delight Browning's imagination, but
the streaming forth of power, and will, and love from the whole face
of the visible universe....

Tennyson considers the chief instruments of human progress to be a
vast increase of knowledge and of political organization. Browning
makes that progress dependent on the production of higher passions,
and aspirations,--hopes, and joys, and sorrows; Tennyson finds the
evidence of the truth of the doctrine of progress in the universal
presence of a self-evolving law. Browning obtains his assurance of
its truth from inward presages and prophecies of the soul, from
anticipations, types, and symbols of a higher greatness in store for
man, which even now reside within him, a creature ever unsatisfied,
ever yearning upward in thought, feeling, and endeavour.

... Hence, it is not obedience, it is not submission to the law
of duty, which points out to us our true path of life, but rather
infinite desire and endless aspiration. Browning's ideal of manhood
in this world always recognizes the fact that it is the ideal of a
creature who never can be perfected on earth, a creature whom other
and higher lives await in an endless hereafter....

The gleams of knowledge which we possess are of chief value because
they "sting with hunger for full light." The goal of knowledge, as of
love, is God himself. Its most precious part is that which is least
positive--those momentary intuitions of things which eye hath not seen
nor ear heard. The needs of the highest parts of our humanity cannot
be supplied by ascertained truth, in which we might rest, or which we
might put to use for definite ends; rather by ventures of faith, which
test the courage of the soul, we ascend from surmise to assurance, and
so again to higher surmise.--Condensed from EDWARD DOWDEN, _Studies
in Literature_.

... Browning has not cared for that poetic form which bestows
perennial charm, or else he was incapable of it. He fails in beauty,
in concentration of interest, in economy of language, in selection of
the best from the common treasure of experience. In those works where
he has been most indifferent, as in the _Red Cotton Night-Cap
Country_, he has been merely whimsical and dull; in those works
where the genius he possessed is most felt, as in _Saul_, _A Toccata
of Galuppi's_, _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, _The Flight of the Duchess_, _The Bishop
Orders his Tomb in Saint Praxed's Church_, _Hervé Riel_, _Cavalier Tunes_,
_Time's Revenges_, and many more, he achieves beauty, or nobility,
or fitness of phrase such as only a poet is capable of. It is in these
last pieces and their like that his fame lies for the future. It
was his lot to be strong as the thinker, the moralist, with "the
accomplishment of verse," the scholar interested to rebuild the past
of experience, the teacher with an explicit dogma in an intellectual
form with examples from life, the anatomist of human passions,
instincts, and impulses in all their gamut, the commentator on his own
age; he was weak as the artist, often unnecessarily and by choice, in
the repulsive form,--in the awkward, the obscure, the ugly. He belongs
with Jonson, with Dryden, with the heirs of the masculine intellect,
the men of power not unvisited by grace, but in whom mind is
predominant. Upon the work of such poets time hesitates, conscious
of their mental greatness, but also of their imperfect art, their
heterogeneous matter; at last the good is sifted from that whence
worth has departed.--From GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY'S _Studies in
Letters and Life_.

When it is urged that for a poet the intellectual energies are too
strong in Browning, that for poetry the play of intellectual interests
and activities is too great in his work, and that Browning often and
at times ruthlessly sacrifices the requirements and effects of art
for the expression of thought, that "though he refreshes the heart he
tires the brain," we should admit this with regard to a good deal of
the work of the third period. We should allow that this is the side
to which he leans generally, but still hold that, though to many his
intellectual quality and energy may well seem excessive, yet in great
part of his work, and that of course, his best, the passion of the
poet and his kind of imagination are just as fresh and powerful as
the intellectual force and subtlety are keen and abundant.--JAMES
FROTHINGHAM, _Studies of the Mind and Art of Robert Browning_.

  Now dumb is he who waked the world to speak,
  And voiceless hangs the world beside his bier,
  Our words are sobs, our cry or praise a tear:
  We are the smitten mortal, we the weak.
  We see a spirit on earth's loftiest peak
  Shine, and wing hence the way he makes more clear:
  See a great Tree of Life that never sere
  Dropped leaf for aught that age or storms might wreak;
  Such ending is not death: such living shows
  What wide illumination brightness sheds
  From one big heart,--to conquer man's old foes:
  The coward, and the tyrant, and the force
  Of all those weedy monsters raising heads
  When Song is muck from springs of turbid source.

--GEORGE MEREDITH.

       *       *       *       *       *




CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF BROWNING'S WORKS

1833. Pauline.
1835. Paracelsus.
1837. Strafford (A tragedy).
1840. Sordello.
1841. Bells and Pomegranates, No I.,
         Pippa Passes.
1842. Bells and Pomegranates, No. II.,
         King Victor and King Charles.
1842. Bells and Pomegranates, No. III.,
         Dramatic Lyrics.
      Cavalier Tunes.
      Italy and France.
      Camp and Cloister.
      In a Gondola.
      Artemis Prologises.
      Waring.
      Queen Worship.
      Madhouse Cells.
      Through the Metidja.
      The Pied Piper of Hamelin.
1843. Bells and Pomegranates, No. IV.,
         The Return of the Druses (A tragedy).
1843. Bells and Pomegranates, No. V.,
         A Blot In the 'Scutcheon (A tragedy).
1844. Bells and Pomegranates, No. VI.,
         Colombe's Birthday (A play).
1845. Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII.
         "How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix."
      Pictor Ignotos.
      The Italian in England.
      The Englishman in Italy.
      The Lost Leader.
      The Lost Mistress.
      Home Thoughts from Abroad.
      The Bishop Orders his Tomb.
      Garden Fancies.
      The Laboratory.
      The Confessional.
      The Flight of the Duchess.
      Earth's Immortalities.
      Song: "Nay, but you,--who do not love her."
      The Boy and the Angel.
      Night and Morning.
      Claret and Tokay.
      Saul.
      Time's Revenges.
      The Glove.
1846. Bells and Pomegranates, No. VIII.,
         Luria, and A Soul's Tragedy.
1850. Christmas Eve and Easterday.
1852. Introductory Essay to Shelley's Letters.
1855. Men and Women.


      VOLUME I.

      Love among the Ruins.
      A Lover's Quarrel.
      Evelyn Hope.
      Up at a Villa--Down in the City.
      A Woman's Last Word.
      Fra Lippo Lippi.
      A Toccata of Galuppi's.
      By the Fireside.
      Any Wife to Any Husband.
      An Epistle (Karshish).
      Mesmerism.
      A Serenade at the Villa.
      My Star.
      Instans Tyrannus.
      A Pretty Woman.
      "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came."
      Respectability.
      A Light Woman.
      The Statue and the Bust.
      Love in a Life.
      Life in a Love.
      How it Strikes a Contemporary.
      The Last Ride Together.
      The Patriot.
      Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha.
      Bishop Blougram's Apology.
      Memorabilia.


      VOLUME II.

      Andrea del Sarto.
      Before and After.
      In Three Days.
      In a Year.
      Old Pictures in Florence.
      In a Balcony.
      Saul.
      "De Gustibus--."
      Women and Roses.
      Protus.
      Holy-Cross Day.
      The Guardian Angel.
      Cleon.
      The Twins.
      Popularity.
      The Heretic's Tragedy.
      Two in the Campagna.
      A Grammarian's Funeral.
      One Way of Love.
      Another Way of Love.
      "Transcendentalism."
      Misconceptions.
      One Word More.
1864. Dramatis Personæ.
      James Lee.
      Gold Hair.
      The Worst of It.
      Dîs Aliter Visum.
      Too Late.
      Abt Vogler.
      Rabbi Ben Ezra.
      A Death in the Desert.
      Caliban upon Setebos.
      Confessions.
      May and Death.
      Prospice.
      Youth and Art.
      A Face.
      A Likeness.
      Mr. Sludge, "The Medium."
      Apparent Failure.
      Epilogue.
1868-69. The Ring and the Book.
1871. Balaustion's Adventure.
1871. Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau.
1872. Fifine at the Fair.
1873. Red Cotton Night-Cap Country.
1875. Aristophanes' Apology.
1875. The Inn Album.
1876. Pacchiarotto, and other Poems
         (including Natural Magic and Hervé Riel).
1877. The Agamemnon of Æschylus.
1878. La Saisiaz, and The Two Poets of Croisic.
1879-80. Dramatic Idyls.
1883. Jocoseria.
1884. Ferishtah's Fancies.
1887. Parleyings with Certain People.
1890. Asolando.



BIBLIOGRAPHY

The Poetical Works of Robert Browning (The Macmillan Company,
    ten vols.).
Browning's Complete Poetical Works, Cambridge Edition (Houghton,
    Mifflin & Co., one vol.).
Selections from Browning (Crowell & Co., one vol.).
Life of Browning, by William Sharp.
Life of Browning, by Mrs. Sutherland Orr.
Introduction to Browning, by Hiram Corson.
Guide Book to Browning, by George Willis Cook.
Browning Cyclopædia, by Edward Berdoe.
Literary Studies, by Walter Bagehot.
Studies in Literature, by Edward Dowden.
Makers of Literature, by George Edward Woodberry (New York, 1901).
Boston Browning Society Papers.
A Handbook to the Works of Robert Browning, by Mrs Sutherland Orr.
Robert Browning: Personalia, by Edmund Gosse.
Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poets, by Vida D. Scudder.
Victorian Poetry, by Edmund Clarence Stedman.
Studies of the Mind and Art of Robert Browning, by James Fotheringham.
Browning Society Papers.
Our Living Poets, by H. Buxton Forman.
Browning's Message to his Times, by Edward Berdoe (London, 1897).
Browning Studies, by Edward Berdoe (London, 1895).
The Poetry of Robert Browning, by Stopford Brooke (New York, 1902).
Browning, Poet and Man, by E.L. Cary (New York, 1899).
(An extensive bibliography, biographical and critical, is given in the
    Appendix to Sharp's Life of Browning; London, Walter Scott, 1890.)

       *       *       *       *       *



THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

A CHILD'S STORY
_(Written for, and inscribed to W. M. the Younger)_


I

Hamelin° town's in Brunswick,                                                °1
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its walls on either 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!                                                                      10
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 ladles,
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.                                         20

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                                   30
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,                                           40
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                                   50
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,                                       60
With 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 my great grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,
Had walked his way from his painted tombstone!"

VI

He advanced to the council-table:                                            70
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                                        80
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of self-same cheque:
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,°                                               °89
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;                                    90
I eased in Asia the Nizam°                                                  °91
Of a monstrous brood of vampire-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                                              100
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.                               110
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,                                    120
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished!
--Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he, 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;                                                 130
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 drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!'                                       140
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
Already 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,                                       150
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°;                              °158
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish°.                                 °160
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                                      170
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 dinner-time
Bagdat, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph's° kitchen,                                 °179
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor:                                         180
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 after 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!"                                       190

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,                         200
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                                               210
To the children merrily skipping by,
--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 bosom beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters,
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However, he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,                                 220
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 were suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced, and the children followed,
And when all were in, to the very last,                                     230
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.                                   240
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,                                       250
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
  Opes to the rich at as easy a rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in!                                       260
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                                     270
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 labour.                                 280
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                                        290
Of alien people who ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous 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 me and you be wipers                                         300
Of scores out with all men--especially pipers!
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

       *       *       *       *       *




TRAY

Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst
Of soul, ye bards!
                   Quoth Bard the first:
"Sir Olaf,° the good knight, did don                                         °3
His helm, and eke his habergeon ..."
Sir Olaf and his bard----!

"That sin-scathed brow"° (quoth Bard the second),                            °6
"That eye wide ope as tho' Fate beckoned
My hero to some steep, beneath
Which precipice smiled tempting Death ..."
You too without your host have reckoned!                                     10

"A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!)
"Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird
Sang to herself at careless play,
And fell into the stream. 'Dismay!
Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred.

"Bystanders reason, think of wives
And children ere they risk their lives.
Over the balustrade has bounced
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced
Plumb on the prize. 'How well he dives!                                      20

"'Up he comes with the child, see, tight
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite
A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet!
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet
Another child to save? All right!

"'How strange we saw no other fall!
It's instinct in the animal.
Good dog! But he's a long while under:
If he got drowned I should not wonder--
Strong current, that against the wall!                                       30

"'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time
--What may the thing be? Well, that's prime!
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns
In man alone, since all Tray's pains
Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!'

"And so, amid the laughter gay,
Trotted my hero off,--old Tray,--
Till somebody, prerogatived
With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived,
His brain would show us, I should say.                                       40

"'John, go and catch--or, if needs be,
Purchase that animal for me!
By vivisection, at expense
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence,
How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'"

       *       *       *       *       *




INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon°:                                       °1
  A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
  Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
  Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
  Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans
  That soar, to earth may fall,                                              10
Let once my army-leader Lannes°                                             °11
  Waver at yonder wall"--
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
  A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
  Until he reached the mound,

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
  And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
  You hardly could suspect°--                                               °20
(So tight he kept his lips compressed.
  Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
  Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
  We've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal's in the market-place,
  And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
  Where I, to heart's desire,                                                30
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
  Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
  Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
  When her bruised eaglet breathes.
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
  Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
  Smiling, the boy fell dead.                                                40

       *       *       *       *       *




"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX"

[16--]


I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,                        10
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren°, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear:                         °14
At Boom°, a great yellow star came out to see;                              °15
At Düffeld°, 'twas morning as plain as could be;                            °16
And from Mecheln° church-steeple we heard the half-chime,                   °17
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot° up leaped of a sudden the sun,                                  °19
And against him the cattle stood black every one,                            20
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.                               30

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;                 40
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,                           50
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length, into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is,--friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.                   60

       *       *       *       *       *




HERVÉ RIEL

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety two,
Did the English fight the French,--woe to France!
And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue.
Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
  Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,°                      °5
With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
  First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville;
    Close on him fled, great and small,
    Twenty-two good ships in all;                                            10
And they signalled to the place
"Help the winners of a race!
  Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still,
  Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
  "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they:
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored,
Shall the '_Formidable_' here, with her twelve and eighty guns
  Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way,
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,               20
    And with flow at full beside?
    Now 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
  Reach the mooring? Rather say,
While rock stands or water runs,
Not a ship will leave the bay!"

Then was called a council straight.
Brief and bitter the debate:
"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
For a prize to Plymouth Sound?                                               30
Better run the ships aground!"
  (Ended Damfreville his speech).
Not a minute more to wait!
  "Let the Captains all and each
  Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
France must undergo her fate.

"Give the word!" But no such word
Was ever spoke or heard;
  For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these
--A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third?                     40
  No such man of mark, and meet
  With his betters to compete!
  But a simple Breton sailor pressed° by Tourville for the fleet,           °43
A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.°                      °44

And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:
  "Are you mad, you Malouins°? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues?           °46
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell
  'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?                  50
    Morn and eve, night and day,
    Have I piloted your bay,
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
  Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues!
    Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way!
Only let me lead the line,
  Have the biggest ship to steer,
  Get this '_Formidable_' clear,
Make the others follow mine,
And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,                   60
  Right to Solidor past Grève,
    And there lay them safe and sound;
  And if one ship misbehave,
    --Keel so much as grate the ground.
Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait.
"Steer us in then, small and great!
  Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief.
Captains, give the sailor place!
  He is Admiral, in brief.                                                   70

Still the north-wind, by God's grace!
See the noble fellow's face
As the big ship, with a bound,
Clears the entry like a hound,
Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound!
  See, safe thro' shoal and rock,
  How they follow in a flock,
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
  Not a spar that comes to grief!
The peril, see, is past,                                                     80
All are harboured to the last,
And just as Hervé Kiel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate
Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm:
  They see the green trees wave
  On the heights o'erlooking Grève.
Hearts that bled are staunched with balm.
"Just our rapture to enhance,
  Let the English rake the bay,
Gnash their teeth and glare askance                                          90
  As they cannonade away!
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!
Out burst all with one accord,
  "This is Paradise for Hell!
    Let France, let France's King
    Thank the man that did the thing!"
What a shout, and all one word,
    "Hervé Riel!"
As he stepped in front once more,                                           100
  Not a symptom of surprise
  In the frank blue Breton eyes,
Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
I must speak out at the end,
  Tho' I find the speaking hard.
Praise is deeper than the lips:
You have saved the King his ships,
  You must name your own reward,
'Faith our sun was near eclipse!                                            110
Demand whate'er you will,
France remains your debtor still.
Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke
On the bearded mouth that spoke,
As the honest heart laughed through
Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
"Since I needs must say my say,
  Since on board the duty's done,
  And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?--             120
Since 'tis ask and have, I may--
Since the others go ashore--
Come! A good whole holiday!
  Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost:
Not a pillar nor a post
  In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
Not a head in white and black
On a single fishing smack,                                                  130
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
  All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell.
Go to Paris: rank on rank.
  Search, the heroes flung pell-mell
On the Louvre,° face and flank!                                            °135
  You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.
So, for better and for worse,
Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!           140

       *       *       *       *       *




PHEIDIPPIDES

[Greek: Chairete, nikômen]°

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock!
Gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honour to all!
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise
--Ay, with Zeus° the Defender, with Her° of the ægis and spear!              °4
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin,° praised be your peer,                   °5

Now, henceforth, and forever,--O latest to whom I upraise
Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock!
Present to help, potent to save, Pan°--patron I call!                        °8
Archons° of Athens, topped by the tettix,° see, I return!                    °9
See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks!                10
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you,
"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid!
Persia has come,° we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed,        °13
Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through,
Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come!
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth°;               °18
Razed to the ground is Eretria.°--but Athens, shall Athens sink,            °19
Drop into dust and die--the flower of Hellas° utterly die,                  °20
Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by°?    °21
Answer me quick,--what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's brink?
How,--when? No care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some--
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!"

O my Athens--Sparta love thee? did Sparta respond?
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust,
Malice,--each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate!
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood
Quivering,--the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry wood:
"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate?                    30
Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos° and Artemis,° clang them 'Ye must'!"           °32

No bolt launched from Olumpos°! Lo, their answer at last!                   °33
"Has Persia come,--does Athens ask aid,--may Sparta befriend?
Nowise precipitate judgment--too weighty the issue at stake!
Count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the Gods!
Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds
In your favour, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take
Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast:
Athens must wait, patient as we--who judgment suspend."                      40

Athens,--except for that sparkle,--thy name, I had mouldered to ash!
That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back,
--Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile!
Yet "O Gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain,
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again,
"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honours we paid you erewhile?
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack!

"Oak and olive and bay,--I bid you cease to en-wreathe
Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot,                    50
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave!
Rather I hail thee, Parnes,°--trust to thy wild waste tract!                °52
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave
No deity deigns to drape with verdure?--at least I can breathe,
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!"

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge;
Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way.
Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across:              60
"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse?
Athens to aid? Tho' the dive were thro' Erebos,° thus I obey--              °62
Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge
Better!"--when--ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are?

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he--majestical Pan!
Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof;
All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly--the curl
Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe
As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw.
"Halt, Pheidippides!"--halt I did, my brain of a whirl:                      70
"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?"! he gracious began:
"How is it,--Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof?

"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast!
Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old?
Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me!
Go bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith
In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith:
When Persia--so much as strews not the soil--Is cast in the sea,
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least,
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!'     80

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'"
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear
--Fennel,--I grasped it a-tremble with dew--whatever it bode),
"While, as for thee..." But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto--
Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew.
Parnes to Athens--earth no more, the air was my road;
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge!
Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare!

       *       *       *       *       *

Then spoke Miltiades.° "And thee, best runner of Greece,                    °89
Whose limbs did duty indeed,--what gift is promised thyself?                 90
Tell it us straightway,--Athens the mother demands of her son!"
Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his strength
Into the utterance--"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done
Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release
From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!'

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind!
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,--
Pound--Pan helping us--Persia to dust, and, under the deep,
Whelm her away forever; and then,--no Athens to save,--                     100
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,--
Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep
Close to my knees,--recount how the God was awful yet kind,
Promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day:
So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis°!                        °106
Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due!
'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield,
Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field°            °109
And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through,            110
Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay,
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss!

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute
Is still "Rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed.
So is Pheidippides happy forever,--the noble strong man
Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so well,
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began,
So to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute:
"Athens is saved!"--Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed.            120

       *       *       *       *       *




MY STAR

All that I know
  Of a certain star
Is, it can throw
  (Like the angled spar°)                                                    °4
Now a dart of red,
  Now a dart of blue;
Till my friends have said
  They would fain see, too,
My star that dartles the red and the blue!

Then it stops like a bird; like a flower, hangs furled:                      10
They must solace themselves with the Saturn° above it.                      °11
What matter to me if their star is a world?
Mine has opened its soul to me; therefore I love it.

       *       *       *       *       *




EVELYN HOPE

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
  Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
  She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
  Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
  Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died!
  Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;                                    10
It was not her time to love; beside,
  Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
  And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,--
  And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
  What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
  Made you of spirit, fire and dew--                                         20
And just because I was thrice as old
  And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told?
  We were fellow mortals, naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above
  Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
  I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
  Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few:                                  30
Much is to learn, much, to forget
  Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come, at last it will,
  When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth in the years long still,
  That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
  And your mouth of your own geranium's red--
And what would you do with me, in fine,
  In the new life come in the old one's stead.                               40

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
  Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
  Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
  Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
  What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!
  My heart seemed full as it could hold;                                     50
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
  And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep:
  See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
  You will wake, and remember, and understand.

       *       *       *       *       *




LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles
    Miles and miles
On the solitary pastures where our sheep
    Half-asleep
Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
    As they crop--
Was the site once of a city great and gay,
    (So they say)
Of our country's very capital, its prince
    Ages since                                                               10
Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
    Peace or war.

Now,--the country does not even boast a tree,
    As you see,
To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
   From the hills
Intersect and give a name to (else they run
    Into one),
Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
    Up like fires                                                            20
O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
    Bounding all,
Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
    Twelve abreast.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
    Never was!
Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
    And embeds
Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
    Stock or stone--                                                         30
Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
    Long ago;
Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
    Struck them tame;
And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
    Bought and sold.

Now,--the single little turret that remains
    On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
    Overscored,                                                              40
While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks
    Thro' the chinks--
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
    Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
    As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
    Viewed the games.

And I know--while thus the quiet-coloured eve
    Smiles to leave                                                          50
To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece
    In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray
    Melt away--
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
    Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
    For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb
    Till I come,                                                             60

But he looked upon the city, every side,
    Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades'
    Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,--and then,
    All the men!
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
    Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
    Of my face,                                                              70
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
    Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
    South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
    As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force--
    Gold, of course.
Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns!
    Earth's returns                                                          80
For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin!
    Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!
    Love is best.

       *       *       *       *       *




MISCONCEPTIONS

This is a spray the bird clung to,
  Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
  Fit for her nest and her treasure.
  Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,--
So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on,
  Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,                                              10
  Meet for love's regal dalmatic.°                                          °11
  Oh, what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on--
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

       *       *       *       *       *




NATURAL MAGIC

All I can say is--I saw it!
The room was as bare as your hand.
I locked in the swarth little lady,--I swear,
From the head to the foot of her--well, quite as bare!
"No Nautch° shall cheat me," said I, "taking my stand                        °5
At this bolt which I draw!" And this bolt--I withdraw it,
And there laughs the lady, not bare, but embowered
With--who knows what verdure, o'erfruited, o'erflowered?
Impossible! Only--I saw it!

All I can sing is--I feel it!                                                10
This life was as blank as that room;
I let you pass in here. Precaution, indeed?
Walls, ceiling, and floor,--not a chance for a weed!
Wide opens the entrance: where's cold, now, where's gloom?
No May to sow seed here, no June to reveal it,
Behold you enshrined in these blooms of your bringing,
These fruits of your bearing--nay, birds of your winging!
A fairy-tale! Only--I feel it!

       *       *       *       *       *




APPARITIONS

(_Prologue to "The Two Poets of Croisic."_)

Such a starved bank of moss
  Till, that May-morn,
Blue ran the flash across:
  Violets were born!

Sky--what a scowl of cloud
  Till, near and far,
Ray on ray split the shroud:
  Splendid, a star!

World--how it walled about
  Life with disgrace,                                                        10
Till God's own smile came out:
  That was thy face!

       *       *       *       *       *




A WALL

O the old wall here! How I could pass
  Life in a long midsummer day,
My feet confined to a plot of grass,
  My eyes from a wall not once away!

And lush and lithe do the creepers clothe
  Yon wall I watch, with a wealth of green:
Its bald red bricks draped, nothing loath,
  In lappets of tangle they laugh between.

Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe?
  Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims                                10
The body,--the house no eye can probe,--
  Divined, as beneath a robe, the limbs?

And there again! But my heart may guess
  Who tripped behind; and she sang, perhaps:
So the old wall throbbed, and its life's excess
  Died out and away in the leafy wraps.

Wall upon wall are between us: life
  And song should away from heart to heart!
I--prison-bird, with a ruddy strife
  At breast, and a lip whence storm-notes start--                            20

Hold on, hope hard in the subtle thing
  That's spirit: tho' cloistered fast, soar free;
Account as wood, brick, stone, this ring
  Of the rueful neighbours, and--forth to thee!

       *       *       *       *       *




CONFESSIONS

What is he buzzing in my ears?
  "Now that I come to die,
Do I view the world as a vale of tears?"
  Ah, reverend sir, not I!

What I viewed there once, what I view again
  Where the physic bottles stand
On the table's edge,--is a suburb lane,
  With a wall to my bedside hand.

That lane sloped, much as the bottles do,
  From a house you could descry                                              10
O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue
  Or green to a healthy eye?

To mine, it serves for the old June weather
  Blue above lane and wall;
And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether"
  Is the house o'er-topping all.

At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper,
  There watched for me, one June,
A girl: I know, sir, it's improper,
  My poor mind's out of tune.                                                20

Only, there was a way ... you crept
  Close by the side, to dodge
Eyes in the house, two eyes except:
  They styled their house "The Lodge."

What right had a lounger up their lane?
  But, by creeping very close,
With the good wall's help,--their eyes might strain
  And stretch themselves to Oes,

Yet never catch her and me together,
  As she left the attic, there,                                              30
By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether,"
  And stole from stair to stair

And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas,
  We loved, sir--used to meet;
How sad and bad and mad it was--
  But then, how it was sweet!

       *       *       *       *       *




A WOMAN'S LAST WORD

Let's contend no more, Love,
  Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
  --Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?
  I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
  Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking
  While we speak!                                                            10
Hush and hide the talking,
  Cheek on cheek.

What so false as truth is,
  False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is,
  Shun the tree--

Where the apple reddens,
  Never pry--
Lest we lose our Edens,
  Eve and I.                                                                 20

Be a god and hold me
  With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
  With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love!
  As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
  Think thy thought--

Meet, if thou require it,
  Both demands,                                                              30
Laying flesh and spirit
  In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow,
  Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
  Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,
  (Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
  Loved by thee.                                                             40

       *       *       *       *       *




A PRETTY WOMAN

That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,
    And the blue eye
    Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers!

To think men cannot take you, Sweet,
    And infold you,
    Ay, and hold you,
And so keep you what they make you, Sweet!

You like us for a glance, you know--
    For a word's sake                                                        10
    Or a sword's sake:
All's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

And in turn we make you ours, we say--
    You and youth too,
    Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.

All's our own, to make the most of, Sweet--
    Sing and say for,
    Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet!                                         20

But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,
    Tho' we prayed you,
    Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar--for you could not, Sweet!

So, we leave the sweet face fondly there,
    Be its beauty
    Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there!

And while the face lies quiet there,
    Who shall wonder                                                         30
    That I ponder
A conclusion? I will try it there.

As,--why must one, for the love foregone
    Scout mere liking?
    Thunder-striking
Earth,--the heaven, we looked above for, gone!

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,
    Love with liking?
    Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey-bee?                                          40

May not liking be so simple-sweet,
    If love grew there
    'Twould undo there
All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

Is the creature too imperfect, say?
    Would you mend it
    And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye!

Or is it of its kind, perhaps,
    Just perfection--                                                        50
    Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps?

Shall we burn up, tread that face at once
    Into tinder,
    And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

Or else kiss away one's soul on her?
    Your love-fancies!
    --A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!                                        60

Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,--
    Plucks a mould-flower
    For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose.

Rosy rubies make its cup more rose.
    Precious metals
    Ape the petals,--
Last, some old king locks it up, morose!

Then how grace a rose? I know a way!
    Leave it, rather.                                                        70
    Must you gather?
Smell, kiss, wear it--at last, throw away.

       *       *       *       *       *




YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only:
  We lodged in a street together,
You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,
  I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay,
  You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished,
Then laughed "They will see some day,
  Smith made, and Gibson° demolished."                                       °8

My business was song, song, song;
  I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered,                                10
"Kate Brown's on the boards ere long,
  And Grisi's° existence embittered!"                                       °12

I earned no more by a warble
  Than you by a sketch in plaster;
You wanted a piece of marble,
  I needed a music-master.

We studied hard in our styles,
  Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,°                                    °18
For air, looked out on the tiles,
  For fun, watched each other's windows.                                     20

You lounged, like a boy of the South,
  Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard too;
Or you got it, rubbing your mouth
  With fingers the clay adhered to.

And I--soon managed to find
  Weak points in the flower-fence facing,
Was forced to put up a blind
  And be safe in my corset-lacing.

No harm! It was not my fault
  If you never turned your eye's tail up                                     30
As I shook upon E _in alt_,
  Or ran the chromatic scale up:

For spring bade the sparrows pair.
  And the boys and girls gave guesses,
And stalls in our street looked rare
  With bulrush and watercresses.

Why did not you pinch a flower
  In a pellet of clay and fling it?
Why did not I put a power
  Of thanks in a look or sing it?                                            40

I did look, sharp as a lynx,
  (And yet the memory rankles)
When models arrived, some minx
  Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles.

But I think I gave you as good!
  "That foreign fellow,--who can know
How she pays, in a playful mood,
  For his tuning her that piano?"

Could you say so, and never say
  "Suppose we join hands and fortunes,                                       50
And I fetch her from over the way,
  Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?"

No, no: you would not be rash,
  Nor I rasher and something over;
You've to settle yet Gibson's hash,
  And Grisi yet lives in clover.

But you meet the Prince at the Board,
  I'm queen myself at _bals-parés_,°                                        °58
I've married a rich old lord,
  And you're dubbed knight and an R.A.                                       60

Each life unfulfilled, you see;
  It hangs still, patchy and scrappy:
We have not sighed deep, laughed free,
  Starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy

And nobody calls you a dunce,
  And people suppose me clever;
This could but have happened once,
  And we missed it, lost it forever.

       *       *       *       *       *




A TALE

(_Epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic."_)

What a pretty tale you told me
  Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
  Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
  This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
  Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,                                           10
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
  Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
  Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
  Held the judges round,                                                     20
--Judges able, I should mention,
  To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
  Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
  Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile "In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!"                                         30

When, a mischief! Were they seven
  Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
  Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
  (What "cicada"? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
  For mere love of music--flew                                               40
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
  For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
  What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,
  Cricket chirps at need,                                                    50
Executes the hand's intending,
  Promptly, perfectly,--indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges
  Cry with one assent
"Take the prize--a prize who grudges
  Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"                                            60

Did the conqueror spurn the creature
  Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
  In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's° power too spent                                          °65
For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning
  Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning:
   (Sir, I hope you understand!)                                             70
--Said "Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue:
   Marble stood, life size;
On the lyre, he pointed at you,
   Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?
   Somebody I know                                                           80
Hopes one day for reputation
  Thro' his poetry that's--Oh,
All so learned and so wise
And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket
   When his statue's built,
Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket
   Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt
Sweet and low, when strength usurped
Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?                                   90

"For as victory was nighest,
  While I sang and played,--
With my lyre at lowest, highest,
   Right alike,--one string that made
'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain
Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered,
   Perched upon the place
Vacant left, and duly uttered
   'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass                                    100
Asked the treble to atone
For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore
   Keep on casting pearls
To a--poet? All I care for
   Is--to tell him that a girl's
"Love" comes aptly in when gruff
Grows his singing, (There, enough!)

       *       *       *       *       *




CAVALIER TUNES

I. MARCHING ALONG

Kentish Sir Byng° stood for his King,                                        °1
Bidding the crop-headed° Parliament swing:                                   °2
And, pressing a troop unable to stoop
And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop,
Marched them along, fifty score strong,
Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

God for King Charles!° Pym° and such carles                                  °7
To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!
Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,
Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup                                  10
Till you're--

CHORUS.--Marching along, fifty score strong,
         Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

Hampden° to hell, and his obsequies knell.                                  °14
Serve Hazelrig,° Fiennes,° and young Harry° as well!                        °15
England, good cheer! Rupert° is near!                                       °16
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,

CHO.--Marching along, fifty score strong,
      Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls                               20
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!
Hold by the right, you double your might;
So, onward to Nottingham,° fresh for the fight,                             °23

CHO.--March we along, fifty score strong,
      Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!




II. GIVE A ROUSE

I

King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,
King Charles!

II

Who gave me the goods that went since?
Who raised me the house that sank once?
Who helped me to gold I spent since?
Who found me in wine you drank once?

CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
      King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?                            10
      Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,
      King Charles!

III

To whom used my boy George quaff else,
By the old fool's side that begot him?
For whom did he cheer and laugh else,
While Noll's° damned troopers shot him?                                     °16

CHO.--King Charles, and who'll do him right now?
      King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?
      Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now,
      King Charles!                                                          20




III. BOOT AND SADDLE

I

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

III

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:                              10
Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

CHO.--Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

IV

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

CHO.-- Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

      *       *       *       *       *




HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly, Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar° lay;                  °3

In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar° grand and gray;          °4
"Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?"--say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God and pray,
While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

       *       *       *       *       *




SUMMUM BONUM

All the breath and the bloom of the year in the bag of one bee:
All the wonder and wealth of the mine in the heart of one gem:
In the core of one pearl all the shade and the shine of the sea:
Breath and bloom, shade and shine,--wonder, wealth, and--how far above them--
   Truth, that's brighter than gem,
   Trust, that's purer than pearl,--
Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe,--all were for me
   In the kiss of one girl.

       *       *       *       *       *




A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's
Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

       *       *       *       *       *




SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES

Day!
Faster and more fast,
O'er night's brim, day boils at last:
Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim.
Where spurting and suppressed it lay,
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,                                10
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.


    All service ranks the same with God:
    If now, as formerly He trod
    Paradise, His presence fills
    Our earth, each only as God wills
    Can work--God's puppets, best and worst,
    Are we: there is no last nor first.

      The year's at the spring
      And day's at the morn:                                                 20
      Morning's at seven;
      The hillside's dew-pearled;
      The lark's on the wing;
      The snail's on the thorn:
      God's in His heaven--
      All's right with the world!



Give her but a least excuse to love me!
  When--where--
How--can this arm establish her above me,
  If fortune fixed her as my lady there,                                     30
There already, to eternally reprove me?
  ("Hist!"--said Kate the queen;
But "Oh," cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
  "'Tis only a page that carols unseen,
Crumbling your hounds their messes!")

Is she wronged?--To the rescue of her honour,
  My heart!
Is she poor?--What costs it to be styled a donor?
  Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.
But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!
  ("Nay, list!"--bade Kate the queen;                                        41
And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
  "'Tis only a page that carols unseen,
Fitting your hawks their jesses!")

      *       *       *       *       *




THE LOST LEADER

Just for a handful of silver he left us,
  Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
  Lost all the others she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
  So much was theirs who so little allowed;
How all our copper had gone for his service!
  Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
  Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,                                     10
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
  Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare° was of us, Milton° was for us,                                 °13
  Burns,° Shelley,° were with us,--they watch from their graves!            °14
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
  He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering--not through his presence;
  Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre:
Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
  Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:                            20
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
  One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
  One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
  There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,
Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
  Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
  Menace our heart ere we master his own;                                    30
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
  Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

       *       *       *       *       *




APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."
                     --_Paris Newspaper_.


No, for I'll save it! Seven years since
  I passed through Paris, stopped a day
To see the baptism of your Prince,°                                          °3
  Saw, made my bow, and went my way:
Walking the heat and headache off,
  I took the Seine-side, you surmise,
Thought of the Congress,° Gortschakoff,°                                     °7
  Cavour's° appeal and Buol's° replies,                                      °8
  So sauntered till--what met my eyes?

Only the Doric little Morgue!                                                10
  The dead-house where you show your drowned:
Petrarch's Vaucluse° makes proud the Sorgue,°                               °12
  Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt° in such a case;                                        °14
  I plucked up heart and entered,--stalked,
Keeping a tolerable face
  Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked:
  Let them! No Briton's to be balked!

First came the silent gazers; next,
  A screen of glass, we're thankful for;                                     20
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
  The three men who did most abhor
Their life in Paris yesterday,
  So killed themselves: and now, enthroned
Each on his copper couch, they lay
  Fronting me, waiting to be owned.
  I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.

Poor men, God made, and all for that!
  The reverence struck me; o'er each head
Religiously was hung its hat,                                                30
  Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,
Sacred from touch: each had his berth,
  His bounds, his proper place of rest,
Who last night tenanted on earth
  Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,--
  Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.

How did it happen, my poor boy?
  You wanted to be Buonaparte
And have the Tuileries° for toy,                                            °39
 And could not, so it broke your heart?                                      40
You, old one by his side, I judge,
  Were, red as blood, a socialist,
A leveller! Does the Empire grudge
  You've gained what no Republic missed?
  Be quiet, and unclench your fist!

And this--why, he was red in vain,
  Or black,--poor fellow that is blue°!                                     °47
What fancy was it, turned your brain?
  Oh, women were the prize for you!
Money gets women, cards and dice                                             50
  Get money, and ill-luck gets just
The copper couch and one clear nice
  Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,
  The right thing to extinguish lust!

It's wiser being good than bad;
  It's safer being meek than fierce:
It's fitter being sane than mad.
  My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;
  That, after Last, returns the First,                                       60
Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;
  That what began best, can't end worst,
  Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

       *       *       *       *       *




FEARS AND SCRUPLES

Here's my case. Of old I used to love him.
  This same unseen friend, before I knew:
Dream there was none like him, none above him,--
  Wake to hope and trust my dream was true.

Loved I not his letters° full of beauty?                                     °5
  Not his actions famous far and wide?
Absent, he would know I vowed him duty,
  Present, he would find me at his side.

Pleasant fancy! for I had but letters,
  Only knew of actions by hearsay:                                           10
He himself was busied with my betters;
  What of that? My turn must come some day.

"Some day" proving--no day! Here's the puzzle.
  Passed and passed my turn is. Why complain?
He's so busied! If I could but muzzle
  People's foolish mouths that give me pain!

"Letters?" (hear them!) "You a judge of writing?
  Ask the experts!--How they shake the head
O'er these characters, your friend's inditing--
  Call them forgery from A to Z°!                                           °20

"Actions? Where's your certain proof" (they bother)
  "He, of all you find so great and good,
He, he only, claims this, that, the other
  Action--claimed by men, a multitude?"

I can simply wish I might refute you,
  Wish my friend would,--by a word, a wink,--
Bid me stop that foolish mouth,--you brute you!
  He keeps absent,--why, I cannot think.

Never mind! Tho' foolishness may flout me.
  One thing's sure enough; 'tis neither frost,                               30
No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me
  Thanks for truth--tho' falsehood, gained--tho' lost.

All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier,
  For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill
Thro' and thro' me as I thought, "The gladlier
  Lives my friend because I love him still!"

Ah, but there's a menace some one utters!
  "What and if your friend at home play tricks?
Peep at hide-and-seek behind the shutters?
  Mean your eyes should pierce thro' solid bricks?                           40

'What and if he, frowning, wake you, dreamy?
  Lay on you the blame that bricks--conceal?
Say '_At least I saw who did not see me,
  Does see now, and presently shall feel_'?"

"Why, that makes your friend a monster!" say you;
  "Had his house no window? At first nod,
Would you not have hailed him?" Hush, I pray you!
  What if this friend happen to be--God?

       *       *       *       *       *




INSTANS TYRANNUS

Of the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,
One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.

I struck him, he grovelled of course--
For, what was his force?
I pinned him to earth with my weight
And persistence of hate;
And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,
As his lot might be worse.                                                   10

"Were the object less mean? would he stand
At the swing of my hand!
For obscurity helps him, and blots
The hole where he squats."
So, I set my five wits on the stretch.
To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,
Still he couched there perdue;
I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,                                                        20
Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:
Still he kept to his filth.

Had he kith now or kin, were access
To his heart, did I press:
Just a son or a mother to seize!
No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue
'Mid my million or two,
Who could pay me, in person or pelf,
What he owes me himself!                                                     30
No: I could not but smile thro' my chafe:
For the fellow lay safe
As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
--Thro' minuteness, to wit.

Then a humour more great took its place
At the thought of his face:
The droop, the low cares of the mouth,
The trouble uncouth
'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain
To put out of its pain,                                                      40
And, "no!" I admonished myself,
"Is one mocked by an elf.
Is one baffled by toad or by rat?
The gravamen's° in that!                                                    °44
How the lion, who crouches to suit
His back to my foot,
Would admire that I stand in debate!
But the small turns the great
If it vexes you,--that is the thing!
Toad or rat vex the king?                                                    50
Tho' I waste half my realm to unearth
Toad or rat, 'tis well worth!"

So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break
Ran my fires for his sake;
Overhead, did my thunder combine
With my under-ground mine:
Till I looked from my labour content
To enjoy the event.                                                          60

When sudden ... how think ye, the end?
Did I say "without friend?"
Say rather, from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the sun's self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast!
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see! Just my vengeance complete,                                     °69
The man sprang to his feet,                                                  70
Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!
--So, _I_ was afraid!

       *       *       *       *       *




THE PATRIOT

AN OLD STORY

It was roses, roses, all the way,
  With myrtle mixed in my path like mad;
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
  The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,
  The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels--
  But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had answered "And afterward, what else?"                                10

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
  To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
  And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the house-tops now--
  Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
  At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet,
By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.                                         20

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
  A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
  For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
  In triumphs, people have dropped down dead,
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
  Me? "--God might question; now instead,
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.                                         30

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

Morning, evening, noon, and night,
"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;
O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.                                            10

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-day
Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I
Might praise Him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.                                                      20

With God a day endures alway,
A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night
Now brings the voice of my delight."°                                       °24

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,
Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,
Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon, and night,
Praised God in place of Theocrite.                                           30

And from a boy, to youth he grew:
The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,
And ever lived on earth content.

(He did God's will; to him, all one
If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;
There is no doubt in it, no fear:                                            40

"So sing old worlds, and so
New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways:
I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell
The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'Twas Easter day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,                                                     50

With his holy vestments dight,
Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past career
Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,
Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,
An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear,
He grew a priest, and now stood here.                                        60

To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,
And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
Vain was thy dream of many a year,

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped--
Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again
The early way, while I remain.                                               70

"With that weak voice of our disdain,
Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ:
Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;
A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.

       *       *       *       *       *



MEMORABILIA

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
  And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
  How strange it seems and new!

But you were living before that,
  And also you are living after;
And the memory I started at--
  My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor with a name of its own
  And a certain use in the world, no doubt,                                  10
Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
  'Mid the blank miles round about.

For there I picked upon the heather
  And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
  Well, I forget the rest.

       *       *       *       *       *




WHY I AM A LIBERAL

"Why?" Because all I haply can and do,
  All that I am now, all I hope to be,--
  Whence comes it save from fortune setting free
Body and soul the purpose to pursue,
God traced for both? If fetters, not a few,
  Of prejudice, convention, fall from me,
  These shall I bid men--each in his degree
Also God-guided--bear, and gayly too?
  But little do or can the best of us:
That little is achieved thro' Liberty.                                       10
  Who then dares hold, emancipated thus,
His fellow shall continue bound? not I,
  Who live, love, labour freely, nor discuss
A brother's right to freedom. That is "Why."

       *       *       *       *       *




PROSPICE

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
  The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
  I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
  The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
  Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
  And the barriers fall,                                                     10
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
  The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,
  The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
  And bade me creep past,
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
  The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
  Of pain, darkness, and cold.                                               20
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
  The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
  Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
  Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
  And with God be the rest!

       *       *       *       *       *




EPILOGUE TO "ASOLANDO"

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
  When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where--by death, fools think, imprisoned--
Low he lies who once so loved you whom you loved so,
        --Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken!
  What had I on earth to do
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly?
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel
          --Being--who?                                                      10

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
  Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, tho' right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
  Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
          Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time
  Greet the unseen with a cheer!
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
  "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,--fight on, fare ever
          There as here!"                                                    20

       *       *       *       *       *




"DE GUSTIBUS--"

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
    (If our loves remain)
    In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies.
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice--
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
    Making love, say,--
    The happier they!
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon.
And let them pass, as they will too soon,                                    10
    With the beanflower's boon,
    And the blackbird's tune,
    And May, and June!

What I love best in all the world
Is a castle, precipice-encurled,
In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine.
Or look for me, old fellow of mine,
(If I get my head from out the mouth
O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands,
And come again to the land of lands)--                                       20
In a sea-side house to the farther South,
Where the baked cicala dies of drouth,
And one sharp tree--'tis a cypress--stands,
By the many hundred years red-rusted,
Bough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted,
My sentinel to guard the sands
To the water's edge. For, what expands
Before the house, but the great opaque
Blue breadth of sea without a break?
While, in the house, forever crumbles                                        30
Some fragment of the frescoed walls,
From blisters where a scorpion sprawls.
A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles
Down on the pavement, green-flesh melons,
And says there's news to-day--the king
Was shot at, touched in the liver-wing,
Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling:
--She hopes they have not caught the felons.
Italy, my Italy!
Queen Mary's saying serves for me--                                          40
    (When fortune's malice
    Lost her, Calais)
Open my heart and you will see
Graved inside of it, "Italy."
Such lovers old are I and she:
So it always was, so shall ever be!

       *       *       *       *       *




THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
Breathed hot an instant on my trace,--
I made, six days, a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles,° when boys, have plucked                                °8
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping thro' the moss they love:                                    10
--How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed, and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires. Well, there I lay
Close covered o'er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress.
Thinking on Metternich,° our friend,                                        °19
And Charles's miserable end,                                                 20
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize: you know,
With us in Lombardy,° they bring                                            °25
Provisions packed on mules, a string,
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line;                                           30
And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew. When these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
One instant rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground.                                           40
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast:
Then I drew breath; they disappeared:
It was for Italy I feared.

  An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me
Rested the hopes of Italy.                                                   50
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy's own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,                                     60
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm--
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
"I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us; the State
Will give you gold--oh, gold so much!--
If you betray me to their clutch.
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.                                       70
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you'll reach at night
Before the duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebrae° begin;                                              °76
Walk to the third confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And kneeling whisper, _Whence comes peace?_
Say it a second time, then cease;                                            80
And if the voice inside returns,
_From Christ and Freedom; what concerns
The cause of Peace?_--for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service--I, the son,
As you the daughter of our land!"

  Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sun-rise                                                   90
Than of her coming. We conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover--stout and tall,
She said--then let her eyelids fall,
"He could do much"--as if some doubt
Entered her heart,--then, passing out,
"She could not speak for others, who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew;"
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued                                         100
Another path; at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head--"This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother; she
Uses my hand and blesses thee."
She followed down to the sea-shore;
I left and never saw her more.                                              110

  How very long since I have thought
Concerning--much less wished for--aught
Beside the good of Italy,
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, what shall now convince
My inmost heart I have a friend?
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself--say, three--
I know at least what one should be.                                         120
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood thro' these two hands. And next,
--Nor much for that am I perplexed--
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers. Last
--Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.
If I resolved to seek at length                                             130
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay
--Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so--perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine--
Are turning wise: while some opine
"Freedom grows license," some suspect
"Haste breeds delay," and recollect                                         140
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen "All's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles,
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt: what harm                                     150
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes--just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.                                            160

  So much for idle wishing--how
It steals the time! To business now.

       *       *       *       *       *




MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

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                               °3
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 and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)                                     10
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough                                  20
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace--all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,                              30
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked
Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set                                      40
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping: and I choose
Never to stoop. 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                         °46
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                                       50
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!                            °56

       *       *       *       *       *




THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

ROME, 15--

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well,
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf° envied me, so fair she was!                                     °5
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since.
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie                                      10
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence                              20
One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side,
And som