part I

play. I claim no property you speak about. You might as well address the park-keeper, Harangue him on some plan advisable For covering the park with cottage-plots. He is the servant, no proprietor, His business is to see the sward kept trim, Untrespassed over by the indiscreet: Beyond that, he refers you to myself-- Another servant of another kind-- Who again--quite as limited in act-- Refer you, with your projects,--can I else? To who in mastery is ultimate, The Church. The Church is sole administrant, Since sole possessor of what worldly wealth Monsieur Léonce Miranda late possessed. Often enough has he attempted, nay, Forced me, wellnigh, to occupy the post You seemingly suppose I fill,--receive As gift the wealth intrusted me as grace. This--for quite other reasons than appear So cogent to your perspicacity-- This I refused; and, firm as you could wish, Still was my answer, 'We two understand Each one the other. I am intimate --As how can be mere fools and knaves--or, say, Even your Cousins?--with your love to me, Devotion to the Church. Would Providence Appoint, and make me certain of the same, That I survive you (which is little like, Seeing you hardly overpass my age And more than match me in abundant health) In such case, certainly I would accept Your bounty: better I than alien hearts Should execute your planned benevolence To man, your proposed largess to the Church, But though I be survivor,--weakly frame, With only woman's wit to make amends,-- When I shall die, or while I am alive, Cannot you figure me an easy mark For hypocritical rapacity, Kith, kin and generation, crouching low, Ever on the alert to pounce on prey? Far be it I should say they profited By that first frenzy-fit themselves induced,-- Cold-blooded scenical buffoons at sport With horror and damnation o'er a grave: That were too shocking--I absolve them there! Nor did they seize the moment of your swoon To rifle pocket, wring a paper thence, Their Cousinly dictation, and enrich Thereby each mother's son as heart could wish, Had nobody supplied a codicil. But when the pain, poor friend! had prostrated Your body, though your soul was right once more, I fear they turned your weakness to account! Why else to me, who agonizing watched, Sneak, cap in hand, now bribe me to forsake My maimed Léonce, now bully, cap on head, The impudent pretension to assuage Such sorrows as demanded Cousins' care?-- _For you rejected, hated, fled me, far_ _In foreign lands you laughed at me!_--they judged. And, think you, will the unkind one hesitate To try conclusions with my helplessness,-- To pounce on and misuse your derelict, Helped by advantage that bereavement lends Folk, who, while yet you lived, played tricks like these? You only have to die, and they detect, In all you said and did, insanity! Your faith was fetish-worship, your regard For Christ's prime precept which endows the poor And strips the rich, a craze from first to last! They so would limn your likeness, paint your life, That if it ended by some accident,-- For instance, if, attempting to arrange The plants below that dangerous Belvedere I cannot warn you from sufficiently, You lost your balance and fell headlong--fine Occasion, such, for crying _Suicide!_ _Non compos mentis_, naturally next, Hands over Clairvaux to a Cousin-tribe Who nor like me nor love The Ravissante: Therefore be ruled by both! Life-interest In Clairvaux,--conservation, guardianship Of earthly good for heavenly purpose,--give Such and no other proof of confidence! Let Clara represent The Ravissante!' --To whom accordingly, he then and there Bequeathed each stick and stone, by testament In holograph, mouth managing the quill: Go, see the same in Londres, if you doubt!"

Then smile grew laugh, as sudden up she stood And out she spoke: intemperate the speech!

"And now, sirs, for your special courtesy, Your candle held up to the character Of Lucie Steiner, whom you qualify As coming short of perfect womanhood. Yes, kindly critics, truth for once you tell! True is it that through childhood, poverty, Sloth, pressure of temptation, I succumbed, And, ere I found what honor meant, lost mine. So was the sheep lost, which the Shepherd found And never lost again. My friend found me; Or better say, the Shepherd found us both-- Since he, my friend, was much in the same mire, When first we made acquaintance. Each helped each,-- A twofold extrication from the slough; And, saving me, he saved himself. Since then, Unsmirched we kept our cleanliness of coat. It is his perfect constancy, you call My friend's main fault--he never left his love! While as for me, I dare your worst, impute One breach of loving bond, these twenty years. To me whom only cobwebs bound, you count! 'He was religiously disposed in youth!' That may be, though we did not meet at church. Under my teaching did he, like you scamps, Become Voltairian--fools who mock his faith? 'Infirm of body!' I am silent there: Even yourselves acknowledge service done, Whatever motive your own souls supply As inspiration. Love made labor light."

Then laugh grew frown, and frown grew terrible. Do recollect what sort of person shrieked-- "Such was I, saint or sinner, what you please: And who is it casts stone at me but you? By your own showing, sirs, you bought and sold, Took what advantage bargain promised bag, Abundantly did business, and with whom? The man whom you pronounce imbecile, push Indignantly aside if he presume To settle his affairs like other folk! How is it you have stepped into his shoes, And stand there, bold as brass, 'Miranda, late; Now, Firm-Miranda'? Sane, he signed away That little birthright, did he? Hence to trade! I know and he knew who 't was dipped and ducked, Truckled and played the parasite in vain, As now one, now the other, here you cringed, Were feasted, took our presents, you--those drops, Just for your wife's adornment! you--that spray Exactly suiting, as most diamonds would, Your daughter on her marriage! No word then Of somebody the wanton! Hence, I say, Subscribers to the 'Siècle,' every snob-- For here the post brings me the 'Univers'! Home and make money in the Place Vendôme, Sully yourselves no longer by my sight, And, when next Schneider wants a new _parure_, Be careful lest you stick there by mischance That stone beyond compare intrusted you To kindle faith with, when, Miranda's gift, Crowning the very crown, The Ravissante Shall claim it! As to Clairvaux--talk to Her! She answers by the Chapter of Raimbaux!" Vituperative, truly! All this wrath Because the man's relations thought him mad! Whereat, I hope you see the Cousinry Turn each to other, blankly dolorous, Consult a moment, more by shrug and shrug Than mere man's language,--finally conclude To leave the reprobate untroubled now In her unholy triumph, till the Law Shall right the injured ones; for gentlemen Allow the female sex, this sort at least. Its privilege. So, simply "Cockatrice!"-- "Jezebel!"--"Queen of the Camellias!"--cried Cousin to cousin, as yon hinge a-creak Shut out the party, and the gate returned To custody of Clairvaux. "Pretty place! What say you, when it proves our property, To trying a concurrence with La Roche, And laying down a rival oyster-bed? Where the park ends, the sea begins, you know." So took they comfort till they came to Vire.

But I would linger, fain to snatch a look At Clara as she stands in pride of place, Somewhat more satisfying than my glance So furtive, so near futile, yesterday, Because one must be courteous. Of the masks That figure in this little history, She only has a claim to my respect, And one-eyed, in her French phrase, rules the blind. Miranda hardly did his best with life: He might have opened eye, exerted brain, Attained conception as to right and law In certain points respecting intercourse Of man with woman--love, one likes to say; Which knowledge had dealt rudely with the claim Of Clara to play representative And from perdition rescue soul, forsooth! Also, the sense of him should have sufficed For building up some better theory Of how God operates in heaven and earth, Than would establish Him participant In doings yonder at The Ravissante. The heart was wise according to its lights And limits; but the head refused more sun, And shrank into its mew, and craved less space. Clara, I hold the happier specimen,-- It may be, through that artist-preference For work complete, inferiorly proposed, To incompletion, though it aim aright. Morally, no! Aspire, break bounds! I say, Endeavor to be good, and better still, And best! Success is naught, endeavor 's all. But intellect adjusts the means to ends, Tries the low thing, and leaves it done, at least; No prejudice to high thing, intellect Would do and will do, only give the means. Miranda, in my picture-gallery, Presents a Blake; be Clara--Meissonnier! Merely considered so by artist, mind! For, break through Art and rise to poetry, Bring Art to tremble nearer, touch enough The verge of vastness to inform our soul What orb makes transit through the dark above, And there 's the triumph!--there the incomplete, More than completion, matches the immense,-- Then, Michelagnolo against the world! With this proviso, let me study her Approvingly, the finished little piece! Born, bred, with just one instinct,--that of growth,-- Her quality was, caterpillar-like, To all-unerringly select a leaf And without intermission feed her fill, Become the Painted Peacock, or belike The Brimstone-wing, when time of year should suit; And 't is a sign (say entomologists) Of sickness, when the creature stops its meal One minute, either to look up at heaven, Or turn aside for change of aliment. No doubt there was a certain ugliness In the beginning, as the grub grew worm: She could not find the proper plant at once, But crawled and fumbled through a whole parterre. Husband Muhlhausen served for stuff not long: Then came confusion of the slimy track From London, "where she gave the tone awhile," To Paris: let the stalks start up again, Now she is off them, all the greener they! But, settled on Miranda, how she sucked, Assimilated juices, took the tint, Mimicked the form and texture of her food! Was he for pastime? Who so frolic-fond As Clara? Had he a devotion-fit? Clara grew serious with like qualm, be sure! In health and strength he,--healthy too and strong, She danced, rode, drove, took pistol-practice, fished, Nay, "managed sea-skiff with consummate skill." In pain and weakness, he,--she patient watched And whiled the slow drip-dropping hours away. She bound again the broken self-respect, She picked out the true meaning from mistake, Praised effort in each stumble, laughed "Well climbed!" When others groaned "None ever grovelled so!" "Rise, you have gained experience!" was her word: "Lie satisfied, the ground is just your place!" They thought appropriate counsel. "Live, not die, And take my full life to eke out your own: That shall repay me and with interest! Write!--is your mouth not clever as my hand? Paint!--the last Exposition warrants me, Plenty of people must ply brush with toes. And as for music--look, what folk nickname A lyre, those ancients played to ravishment,-- Over the pendule, see, Apollo grasps A three-stringed gimcrack which no Liszt could coax Such music from as jew's-harp makes to-day! Do your endeavor like a man, and leave The rest to 'fortune who assists the bold'-- Learn, you, the Latin which you taught me first, You clever creature--clever, yes, I say!"

If he smiled "Let us love, love's wrong comes right, Shows reason last of all! Necessity Must meanwhile serve for plea--so, mind not much Old Fricquot's menace!"--back she smiled "Who minds?" If he sighed "Ah, but She is strict, they say, For all Her mercy at The Ravissante, She scarce will be put off so!"--straight a sigh Returned "My lace must go to trim Her gown!" I nowise doubt she inwardly believed Smiling and sighing had the same effect Upon the venerated image. What She did believe in, I as little doubt, Was--Clara's self's own birthright to sustain Existence, grow from grub to butterfly, Upon unlimited Miranda-leaf; In which prime article of faith confirmed, According to capacity, she fed On and on till the leaf was eaten up, That April morning. Even then, I praise Her forethought which prevented leafless stalk Bestowing any hoarded succulence On earwig and black-beetle squat beneath;-- Clairvaux, that stalk whereto her hermitage She tacked by golden throw of silk, so fine, So anything but feeble, that her sleep Inside it, through last winter, two years long, Recked little of the storm and strife without. "But--loved him?" Friend, I do not praise her love! True love works never for the loved one so, Nor spares skin-surface, smoothening truth away. Love bids touch truth, endure truth, and embrace Truth, though, embracing truth, love crush itself. "Worship not me, but God!" the angels urge: That is love's grandeur: still, in pettier love The nice eye can distinguish grade and grade. Shall mine degrade the velvet green and puce Of caterpillar, palmer-worm--or what-- Ball in and out of ball, each ball with brush Of Venus' eye-fringe round the turquoise egg That nestles soft,--compare such paragon With any scarabæus of the brood Which, born to fly, keeps wing in wing-case, walks Persistently a-trundling dung on earth?

Egypt may venerate such hierophants, Not I--the couple yonder, Father Priest And Mother Nun, who came and went and came, Beset this Clairvaux, trundled money-muck To midden and the main heap oft enough, But never bade unshut from sheath the gauze, Nor showed that, who would fly, must let fall filth, And warn "Your jewel, brother, is a blotch: Sister, your lace trails ordure! Leave your sins, And so best gift with Crown and grace with Robe!"

The superstition is extinct, you hope? It were, with my good will! Suppose it so, Bethink you likewise of the latest use Whereto a Night-cap is convertible, And draw your very thickest, thread and thrum, O'er such a decomposing face of things, Once so alive, it seemed immortal too!

This happened two years since. The Cousinry Returned to Paris, called in help from Law, And in due form proceeded to dispute Monsieur Léonce Miranda's competence, Being insane, to make a valid Will.

Much testimony volunteered itself; The issue hardly could be doubtful--but For that sad 'Seventy which must intervene, Provide poor France with other work to mind Than settling lawsuits, even for the sake Of such a party as The Ravissante. It only was this Summer that the case Could come and be disposed of, two weeks since, At Vire--Tribunal Civil--Chamber First.

Here, issued with all regularity, I hold the judgment--just, inevitable, Nowise to be contested by what few Can judge the judges; sum and substance, thus:--

"Inasmuch as we find, the Cousinry, During that very period when they take Monsieur Léonce Miranda for stark mad, Considered him to be quite sane enough For doing much important business with-- Nor showed suspicion of his competence Until, by turning of the tables, loss Instead of gain accrued to them thereby,-- Plea of incompetence we set aside.

--"The rather, that the dispositions, sought To be impugned, are natural and right, Nor jar with any reasonable claim Of kindred, friendship, or acquaintance here. Nobody is despoiled, none overlooked; Since the testator leaves his property To just that person whom, of all the world, He counted he was most indebted to. In mere discharge, then, of conspicuous debt, Madame Muhlhausen has priority, Enjoys the usufruct of Clairvaux.

"Next, Such debt discharged, such life determining, Such earthly interest provided for, Monsieur Léonce Miranda may bequeath, In absence of more fit recipient, fund And usufruct together to the Church Whereof he was a special devotee.

"--Which disposition, being consonant With a long series of such acts and deeds Notorious in his lifetime, needs must stand, Unprejudiced by eccentricity Nowise amounting to distemper: since, In every instance signalized as such, We recognize no overleaping bounds, No straying out of the permissible: Duty to the Religion of the Land,-- Neither excessive nor inordinate.

"The minor accusations are dismissed; They prove mere freak and fancy, boyish mood In age mature of simple kindly man. Exuberant in generosities To all the world: no fact confirms the fear He meditated mischief to himself That morning when he met the accident Which ended fatally. The case is closed."

How otherwise? So, when I grazed the skirts, And had the glimpse of who made, yesterday,-- Woman and retinue of goats and sheep,-- The sombre path one whiteness, vision-like, As out of gate, and in at gate again, They wavered,--she was lady there for life: And, after life--I hope, a white success Of some sort, wheresoever life resume School interrupted by vacation--death; Seeing that home she goes with prize in hand, Confirmed the Châtelaine of Clairvaux.

True, Such prize fades soon to insignificance. Though she have eaten her Miranda up, And spun a cradle-cone through, which she pricks Her passage, and proves peacock-butterfly, This Autumn--wait a little week of cold! Peacock and death's-head-moth end much the same. And could she still continue spinning,--sure, Cradle would soon crave shroud for substitute, And o'er this life of hers distaste would drop Red-cotton-Nightcap-wise.

* * * * *

How say you, friend? Have I redeemed my promise? Smile assent Through the dark Winter-gloom between us both! Already, months ago and miles away, I just as good as told you, in a flash, The while we paced the sands before my house, All this poor story--truth and nothing else. Accept that moment's flashing, amplified, Impalpability reduced to speech, Conception proved by birth,--no other change! Can what Saint-Rambert flashed me in a thought, Good gloomy London make a poem of? Such ought to be whatever dares precede, Play ruddy herald-star to your white blaze About to bring us day. How fail imbibe Some foretaste of effulgence? Sun shall wax, And star shall wane: what matter, so star tell The drowsy world to start awake, rub eyes, And stand all ready for morn's joy a-blush?

THE INN ALBUM

The story told in this poem was suggested to Browning, but not followed in all its details, by an adventure of Lord De Ros, a friend of Wellington's and mentioned frequently by Greville in his _Memoirs_. The circumstances of De Ros's villainy were much talked of in London at the time of their occurrence, just before the middle of this century.

I

"That oblong book 's the Album; hand it here! Exactly! page on page of gratitude For breakfast, dinner, supper, and the view! I praise these poets, they leave margin-space; Each stanza seems to gather skirts around, And primly, trimly, keep the foot's confine, Modest and maidlike; lubber prose o'ersprawls And straddling stops the path from left to right. Since I want space to do my cipher-work, Which poem spares a corner? What comes first? '_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!_' (Open the window, we burn daylight, boy!) Or see--succincter beauty, brief and bold--' _If a fellow can dine On rump-steaks and port wine,_ _He needs not despair Of dining well here_'-- '_Here!_' I myself could find a better rhyme! That bard 's a Browning; he neglects the form: But ah, the sense, ye gods, the weighty sense! Still, I prefer this classic. Ay, throw wide! I 'll quench the bits of candle yet unburnt. A minute's fresh air, then to cipher-work! Three little columns hold the whole account: _Ecarté_, after which Blind Hookey, then Cutting-the-Pack, five hundred pounds the cut. 'T is easy reckoning: I have lost, I think."

Two personages occupy this room Shabby-genteel, that 's parlor to the inn Perched on a view-commanding eminence; --Inn which may be a veritable house Where somebody once lived and pleased good taste Till tourists found his coigne of vantage out, And fingered blunt the individual mark, And vulgarized things comfortably smooth. On a sprig-pattern-papered wall there brays Complaint to sky Sir Edwin's dripping stag; His couchant coast-guard creature corresponds; They face the Huguenot and Light o' the World. Grim o'er the mirror on the mantelpiece, Varnished and coffined, _Salmo ferox_ glares, --Possibly at the List of Wines which, framed And glazed, hangs somewhat prominent on peg.

So much describes the stuffy little room-- Vulgar flat smooth respectability: Not so the burst of landscape surging in, Sunrise and all, as he who of the pair Is, plain enough, the younger personage Draws sharp the shrieking curtain, sends aloft The sash, spreads wide and fastens back to wall Shutter and shutter, shows you England's best. He leans into a living glory-bath Of air and light where seems to float and move The wooded watered country, hill and dale And steel-bright thread of stream, a-smoke with mist, A-sparkle with May morning, diamond drift O' the sun-touched dew. Except the red-roofed patch Of half a dozen dwellings that, crept close For hillside shelter, make the village-clump, This inn is perched above to dominate-- Except such sign of human neighborhood, "And this surmised rather than sensible" There 's nothing to disturb absolute peace, The reign of English nature--which means art And civilized existence. Wildness' self Is just the cultured triumph. Presently Deep solitude, be sure, reveals a Place That knows the right way to defend itself: Silence hems round a burning spot of life. Now, where a Place burns, must a village brood, And where a village broods, an inn should boast-- Close and convenient: here you have them both. This inn, the Something-arms--the family's-- (Don't trouble Guillim: heralds leave out half!) Is dear to lovers of the picturesque, And epics have been planned here; but who plan Take holy orders and find work to do. Painters are more productive, stop a week, Declare the prospect quite a Corot,--ay, For tender sentiment,--themselves incline Rather to handsweep large and liberal; Then go, but not without success achieved --Haply some pencil-drawing, oak or beech, Ferns at the base and ivies up the bole, On this a slug, on that a butterfly. Nay, he who hooked the _salmo_ pendent here, Also exhibited, this same May-month, "_Foxgloves: a study_"--so inspires the scene, The air, which now the younger personage Inflates him with till lungs o'erfraught are fain Sigh forth a satisfaction might bestir Even those tufts of tree-tops to the South I' the distance where the green dies off to gray, Which, easy of conjecture, front the Place; He eyes them, elbows wide, each hand to cheek. His fellow, the much older--either say A youngish-old man or man oldish-young-- Sits at the table: wicks are noisome-deep In wax, to detriment of plated ware; Above--piled, strewn--is store of playing-cards, Counters and all that 's proper for a game. He sets down, rubs out figures in the book, Adds and subtracts, puts back here, carries there, Until the summed-up satisfaction stands Apparent, and he pauses o'er the work: Soothes what of brain was busy under brow, By passage of the hard palm, curing so Wrinkle and crowfoot for a second's space; Then lays down book and laughs out. No mistake, Such the sum-total--ask Colenso else!

Roused by which laugh, the other turns, laughs too-- The youth, the good strong fellow, rough perhaps.

"Well, what 's the damage--three, or four, or five? How many figures in a row? Hand here! Come now, there's one expense all yours not mine-- Scribbling the people's Album over, leaf The first and foremost too! You think, perhaps, They 'll only charge you for a brand-new book Nor estimate the literary loss? Wait till the small account comes! '_To one night's_ _Lodging_,' for--'beds' they can't say,--'_pound or so;_ _Dinner, Apollinaris,--what they please,_ _Attendance not included;_' last looms large '_Defacement of our Album, late enriched_ _With_'--let 's see what! Here, at the window, though! Ay, breathe the morning and forgive your luck! Fine enough country for a fool like me To own, as next month I suppose I shall! Eh? True fool's-fortune! so console yourself, Let 's see, however--hand the book, I say! Well, you 've improved the classic by romance. Queer reading! Verse with parenthetic prose-- '_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!_' (Three-two fives) '_life how profitably spent_' (Five-naught, five-nine fives) '_yonder humble cot_,' (More and more naughts and fives) '_in mild content;_ _And did my feelings find the natural vent_ _In friendship and in love, how blest my lot!_' Then follow the dread figures--five! '_Content?_' That 's appetite! Are you content as he-- Simpkin the sonneteer? _Ten thousand pounds_ Give point to his effusion--by so much Leave me the richer and the poorer you After our night's play; who 's content the most, If, you, or Simpkin?" So the polished snob. The elder man, refinement every inch From brow to boot-end, quietly replies:

"Simpkin 's no name I know. I had my whim."

"Ay, had you! And such things make friendship thick. Intimates, I may boast we were; henceforth, Friends--shall it not be?--who discard reserve, Use plain words, put each dot upon each i, Till death us twain do part? The bargain 's struck! Old fellow, if you fancy--(to begin--) I failed to penetrate your scheme last week, You wrong your poor disciple. Oh, no airs! Because you happen to be twice my age And twenty times my master, must perforce No blink of daylight struggle through the web There 's no unwinding? You entoil my legs, And welcome, for I like it: blind me,--no! A very pretty piece of shuttle-work Was that--your mere chance question at the club-- _'Do you go anywhere this Whitsuntide?_ _I'm off for Paris, there 's the Opera--there 's_ _The Salon, there 's a china-sale,--beside_ _Chantilly; and, for good companionship,_ _There 's Such-and-such and So-and-so. Suppose_ _We start together?' 'No such holiday!'_ I told you: _'Paris and the rest be hanged!_ _Why plague me who am pledged to home-delights?_ _I 'm the engaged now; through whose fault but yours?_ _On duty. As you well know. Don't I drowse_ _The week away down with the Aunt and Niece?_ _No help: it 's leisure, loneliness, and love._ _'Wish I could take you; but fame travels fast,--_ _A man of much newspaper-paragraph,_ _You scare domestic circles; and beside_ _Would not you like your lot, that second taste_ _Of nature and approval of the grounds!_ _You might walk early or lie late, so shirk_ _Week-day devotions: but stay Sunday o'er,_ _And morning church is obligatory:_ _No mundane garb permissible, or dread_ _The butler's privileged monition! ~No~!_ _Pack off to Paris, nor wipe tear away!'_ Whereon how artlessly the happy flash Followed, by inspiration! '_'Tell you what--_ _Let 's turn their flank, try things on t' other side!_ _Inns for my money! Liberty 's the life!_ _We 'll lie in hiding: there 's the crow-nest nook,_ _The tourist's joy, the Inn they rave about,_ _Inn that 's out--out of sight and out of mind_ _And out of mischief to all four of us--_ _Aunt and niece, you and me. At night arrive;_ _At morn, find time for just a Pisgah-view_ _Of my friend's Land of Promise; then depart._ _And while I'm whizzing onward by first train,_ _Bound for our own place (since my Brother sulks_ _And says I shun him like the plague) yourself--_ _Why, you have stepped thence, start from platform, gay_ _Despite the sleepless journey,--love lends wings,--_ _Hug aunt and niece who, none the wiser, wait_ _The faithful advent! Eh?' 'With all my heart,'_ Said I to you; said I to mine own self: '_Does he believe I fail to comprehend_ _He wants just one more final friendly snack_ _At friend's exchequer ere friend runs to earth,_ _Marries, renounces yielding friends such sport?_' And did I spoil sport, pull face grim,--nay, grave? Your pupil does you better credit! No! I parleyed with my pass-book,--rubbed my pair At the big balance in my banker's hands,-- Folded a check cigar-case-shape,--just wants Filling and signing,--and took train, resolved To execute myself with decency And let you win--if not Ten thousand quite, Something by way of wind-up-farewell burst Of firework-nosegay! Where 's your fortune fled? Or is not fortune constant after all? You lose ten thousand pounds: had I lost half Or half that, I should bite my lips, I think. You man of marble! Strut and stretch my best On tiptoe, I shall never reach your height. How does the loss feel! Just one lesson more!"

The more refined man smiles a frown away.

"The lesson shall be--only boys like you Put such a question at the present stage. I had a ball lodge in my shoulder once, And, full five minutes, never guessed the fact; Next day, I felt decidedly: and still, At twelve years' distance, when I lift my arm A twinge reminds me of the surgeon's probe. Ask me, this day month, how I feel my luck! And meantime please to stop impertinence, For--don't I know its object? All this chaff Covers the corn, this preface leads to speech, This boy stands forth a hero. '_There, my lord!_ _Our play was true play, fun not earnest! I_ _Empty your purse, inside out, while my poke_ _Bulges to bursting? You can badly spare_ _A doit, confess now, Duke though brother be!_ _While I 'm gold-daubed so thickly, spangles drop_ _And show my father's warehouse-apron: pshaw!_ _Enough! We 've had a palpitating night!_ _Good morning! Breakfast and forget our dreams!_ _My mouth 's shut, mind! I tell nor man nor mouse._' There, see! He don't deny it! Thanks, my boy! Hero and welcome--only, not on me Make trial of your 'prentice-hand! Enough! We 've played, I 've lost and owe ten thousand pounds, Whereof I muster, at the moment,--well, What 's for the bill here and the back to town. Still, I 've my little character to keep; You may expect your money at month's end."

The young man at the window turns round quick-- A clumsy giant handsome creature; grasps In his large red the little lean white hand Of the other, looks him in the sallow face.

"I say now--is it right to so mistake A fellow, force him in mere self-defence To spout like Mister _Mild Acclivity_ In album-language? You know well enough Whether I like you--_like_ 's no album-word, Anyhow: point me to one soul beside In the wide world I care one straw about! I first set eyes on you a year ago; Since when you 've done me good--I 'll stick to it-- More than I got in the whole twenty-five That make my life up, Oxford years and all-- Throw in the three I fooled away abroad, Seeing myself and nobody more sage Until I met you, and you made me man Such as the sort is and the fates allow. I do think, since we two kept company, I 've learnt to know a little--all through you! It 's nature if I like you. Taunt away! As if I need you teaching me my place-- The snob I am, the Duke your brother is, When just the good you did was--teaching me My own trade, how a snob and millionaire May lead his life and let the Duke's alone, Clap wings, free jackdaw, on his steeple-perch, Burnish his black to gold in sun and air, Nor pick up stray plumes, strive to match in strut Regular peacocks who can't fly an inch Over the courtyard-paling. Head and heart (That 's album-style) are older than you know, For all your knowledge: boy, perhaps--ay, boy Had his adventure, just as he were man-- His ball-experience in the shoulder-blade, His bit of life-long ache to recognize, Although he bears it cheerily about, Because you came and clapped him on the back, Advised him '_Walk and wear the aching off!_' Why, I was minded to sit down for life Just in Dalmatia, build a seaside tower High on a rock, and so expend my days Pursuing chemistry or botany Or, very like, astronomy because I noticed stars shone when I passed the place. Letting my cash accumulate the while In England--to lay out in lump at last As Ruskin should direct me! All or some Of which should I have done or tried to do, And preciously repented, one fine day, Had you discovered Timon, climbed his rock And scaled his tower, some ten years thence, suppose, And coaxed his story from him! Don't I see The pair conversing! It 's a novel writ Already, I 'll be bound,--our dialogue! _'What?' cried the elder and yet youthful man--_ _So did the eye flash 'neath the lordly front,_ _And the imposing presence swell with scorn,_ _As the haught high-bred bearing and dispose_ _Contrasted with his interlocutor_ _The flabby low-born who, of bulk before,_ _Had steadily increased, one stone per week,_ _Since his abstention from horse-exercise:--_ _'What? you, as rich as Rothschild, left, you say_ _London the very year you came of age,_ _Because your father manufactured goods--_ _Commission-agent hight of Manchester--_ _Partly, and partly through a baby case_ _Of disappointment I've pumped out at last--_ _And here you spend life 's prime in gaining flesh_ _And giving science one more asteroid?'_ Brief, my dear fellow, you instructed me, At Alfred's and not Istria! proved a snob May turn a million to account although His brother be no Duke, and see good days Without the girl he lost and some one gained. The end is, after one year's tutelage, Having, by your help, touched society, Polo, Tent-pegging, Hurlingham, the Rink-- I leave all these delights, by your advice, And marry my young pretty cousin here Whose place, whose oaks ancestral you behold. (Her father was in partnership with mine-- Does not his purchase look a pedigree?) My million will be tails and tassels smart To this plump-bodied kite, this house and land Which, set a-soaring, pulls me, soft as sleep, Along life's pleasant meadow,--arm left free To lock a friend's in,--whose, but yours, old boy? Arm in arm glide we over rough and smooth, While hand, to pocket held, saves cash from cards. Now, if you don't esteem ten thousand pounds (--Which I shall probably discover snug Hid somewhere in the column-corner capped With '_Credit_,' based on '_Balance_,'--which, I swear, By this time next month I shall quite forget Whether I lost or won--ten thousand pounds, Which at this instant I would give ... let 's see, For Galopin--nay, for that Gainsborough Sir Richard won't sell, and, if bought by me, Would get my glance and praise some twice a year,--) Well, if you don't esteem that price dirt-cheap For teaching me Dalmatia was mistake-- Why then, my last illusion-bubble breaks, My one discovered phœnix proves a goose, My cleverest of all companions--oh, Was worth nor ten pence nor ten thousand pounds! Come! Be yourself again! So endeth here The morning's lesson! Never while life lasts Do I touch card again. To breakfast now! To bed--I can't say, since you needs must start For station early--oh, the down-train still, First plan and best plan--townward trip be hanged! You 're due at your big brother's--pay that debt, Then owe me not a farthing! Order eggs-- And who knows but there 's trout obtainable?"

The fine man looks wellnigh malignant: then--

"Sir, please subdue your manner! Debts are debts: I pay mine--debts of this sort--certainly. What do I care how you regard your gains, Want them or want them not? The thing _I_ want Is--not to have a story circulate From club to club--how, bent on clearing out, Young So-and-so, young So-and-so cleaned me, Then set the empty kennel flush again, Ignored advantage and forgave his friend-- For why? There was no wringing blood from stone! Oh, don't be savage! You would hold your tongue, Bite it in two, as man may; but those small Hours in the smoking-room, when instance apt Rises to tongue's root, tingles on to tip, And the thinned company consists of six Capital well-known fellows one may trust! Next week, it 's in the 'World.' No, thank you much. I owe ten thousand pounds: I 'll pay them!"

"Now,-- This becomes funny. You 've made friends with me: I can't help knowing of the ways and means! Or stay! they say your brother closets up Correggio's long lost Leda: if he means To give you that, and if you give it me" ...

"_I_ polished snob off to aristocrat? You compliment me! father's apron still Sticks out from son's court-vesture; still silk purse Roughs finger with some bristle sow-ear-born! Well, neither I nor you mean harm at heart! I owe you and shall pay you: which premised, Why should what follows sound like flattery? The fact is--you do compliment too much Your humble master, as I own I am; You owe me no such thanks as you protest. The polisher needs precious stone no less Than precious stone needs polisher: believe I struck no tint from out you but I found Snug lying first 'neath surface hairbreadth-deep! Beside, I liked the exercise: with skill Goes love to show skill for skill's sake. You see, I 'm old and understand things: too absurd It were you pitched and tossed away your life, As diamond were Scotch-pebble! all the more, That I myself misused a stone of price. Born and bred clever--people used to say Clever as most men, if not something more-- Yet here I stand a failure, cut awry Or left opaque,--no brilliant named and known. Whate'er my inner stuff, my outside 's blank; I 'm nobody--or rather, look that same-- I 'm--who I am--and know it; but I hold _What_ in my hand out for the world to see? What ministry, what mission, or what book --I 'll say, book even? Not a sign of these! I began--laughing--'_All these when I like!_' I end with--well, you 've hit it!--'_This boy's check_ _For just as many thousands as he he 'll spare!_' The first--I could, and would not; your spare cash I would, and could not: have no scruple, pray, But, as I hoped to pocket yours, pouch mine --When you are able!"

"Which is--when to be? I 've heard, great characters require a fall Of fortune to show greatness by uprise: _They touch the ground to jollily rebound_, Add to the Album! Let a fellow share Your secret of superiority! I know, my banker makes the money breed Money; I eat and sleep, he simply takes The dividends and cuts the coupons off, Sells out, buys in, keeps doubling, tripling cash, While I do nothing but receive and spend. But you, spontaneous generator, hatch A wind-egg; cluck, and forth struts Capital As Interest to me from egg of gold. I am grown curious: pay me by all means! How will you make the money?"

"Mind your own-- Not my affair. Enough: or money, or Money's worth, as the case may be, expect Ere month's end,--keep but patient for a month! Who 's for a stroll to station? Ten 's the time; Your man, with my things, follow in the trap; At stoppage of the down-train, play the arrived On platform, and you 'll show the due fatigue Of the night-journey,--not much sleep,--perhaps, Your thoughts were on before you--yes, indeed, You join them, being happily awake With thought's sole object as she smiling sits At breakfast-table. I shall dodge meantime In and out station-precinct, wile away The hour till up my engine pants and smokes. No doubt, she goes to fetch you. Never fear! She gets no glance at me, who shame such saints!"

II

So, they ring bell, give orders, pay, depart Amid profuse acknowledgment from host Who well knows what may bring the younger back. They light cigar, descend in twenty steps The "_calm acclivity_," inhale--beyond Tobacco's balm--the better smoke of turf And wood fire,--cottages at cookery I' the morning,--reach the main road straightening on 'Twixt wood and wood, two black walls full of night Slow to disperse, though mists thin fast before The advancing foot, and leave the flint-dust fine Each speck with its fire-sparkle. Presently The road's end with the sky's beginning mix In one magnificence of glare, due East, So high the sun rides,--May 's the merry month.

They slacken pace: the younger stops abrupt, Discards cigar, looks his friend full in face.

"All right; the station comes in view at end; Five minutes from the beech-clump, there you are! I say: let 's halt, let 's borrow yonder gate Of its two magpies, sit and have a talk! Do let a fellow speak a moment! More I think about and less I like the thing-- No, you must let me! Now, be good for once! Ten thousand pounds be done for, dead and damned! We played for love, not hate: yes, hate! I hate Thinking you beg or borrow or reduce To strychnine some poor devil of a lord Licked at Unlimited Loo. I had the cash To lose--you knew that!--lose and none the less Whistle to-morrow: it 's not every chap Affords to take his punishment so well! Now, don't be angry with a friend whose fault Is that he thinks--upon my soul, I do-- Your head the best head going. Oh, one sees Names in the newspaper--great This, great That, Gladstone, Carlyle, the Laureate:--much I care! Others have their opinion, I keep mine: Which means--by right you ought to have the things I want a head for. Here 's a pretty place, My cousin's place, and presently my place, Not yours! I 'll tell you how it strikes a man. My cousin 's fond of music and of course Plays the piano (it won't be for long!) A brand-new bore she calls a '_semi-grand_' Rosewood and pearl, that blocks the drawing-room, And cost no end of money. Twice a week Down comes Herr Somebody and seats himself, Sets to work teaching--with his teeth on edge-- I 've watched the rascal. '_Does he play first-rate?_' I ask: '_I rather think so_,' answers she-- '_He's What's-his-Name!_'--'_Why give you lessons then?_'-- '_I pay three guineas and the train beside._'-- '_This instrument, has he one such at home?_'-- '_He? Has to practise on a table-top,_ _When he can't hire the proper thing._'--'_I see!_ _You 've the piano, he the skill, and God_ _The distribution of such gifts._' So here: After your teaching, I shall sit and strum Polkas on this piano of a Place You 'd make resound with '_Rule Britannia_'!"

"Thanks! I don't say but this pretty cousin's place, Appendaged with your million, tempts my hand As key-board I might touch with some effect."

"Then, why not have obtained the like? House, land, Money, are things obtainable, you see, By clever head-work: ask my father else! You, who teach me, why not have learned, yourself? Played like Herr Somebody with power to thump And flourish and the rest, not bend demure Pointing out blunders--'_Sharp, not natural!_ _Permit me--on the black key use the thumb!_' There 's some fatality, I 'm sure! You say '_Marry the cousin, that's your proper move!_' And I do use the thumb and hit the sharp: You should have listened to your own head's hint, As I to you! The puzzle 's past my power, How you have managed--with such stuff, such means-- Not to be rich nor great nor happy man: Of which three good things where 's a sign at all? Just look at Dizzy! Come,--what tripped your heels? Instruct a goose that boasts wings and can't fly! I wager I have guessed it!--never found The old solution of the riddle fail! '_Who was the woman?_' I don't ask, but--'_Where_ _I' the path of life stood she who tripped you?_'"

"Goose You truly are! I own to fifty years. Why don't I interpose and cut out--you? Compete with five-and-twenty? Age, my boy!"

"Old man, no nonsense!--even to a boy That 's ripe at least for rationality Rapped into him, as maybe mine was, once! I 've had my small adventure lesson me Over the knuckles!--likely, I forget The sort of figure youth cuts now and then, Competing with old shoulders but young head Despite the fifty grizzling years!"

"Aha? Then that means--just the bullet in the blade Which brought Dalmatia on the brain,--that, too, Came of a fatal creature? Can't pretend Now for the first time to surmise as much! Make a clean breast! Recount! a secret 's safe 'Twixt you, me, and the gate-post!"

"--Can't pretend, Neither, to never have surmised your wish! It 's no use,--case of unextracted ball-- Winces at finger-touching. Let things be!"

"Ah, if you love your love still! I hate mine."

"I can't hate."

"I won't teach you; and won't tell You, therefore, what you please to ask of me: As if I, also, may not have my ache!"

"My sort of ache? No, no! and yet--perhaps! All comes of thinking you superior still. But live and learn! I say! Time 's up! Good jump! You old, indeed! I fancy there 's a cut Across the wood, a grass-path: shall we try? It 's venturesome, however!"

"Stop, my boy! Don't think I 'm stingy of experience! Life --It 's like this wood we leave. Should you and I Go wandering about there, though the gaps We went in and came out by were opposed As the two poles still, somehow, all the same By nightfall we should probably have chanced On much the same main points of interest-- Both of us measured girth, of mossy trunk, Stript ivy from its strangled prey, clapped hands At squirrel, sent a fir-cone after crow, And so forth,--never mind what time betwixt. So in our lives; allow I entered mine Another way than you: 't is possible I ended just by knocking head against That plaguy low-hung branch yourself began By getting bump from; as at last you too May stumble o'er that stump which first of all Bade me walk circumspectly. Head and feet Are vulnerable both, and I, foot-sure, Forgot that ducking down saves brow from bruise. I, early old, played young man four years since And failed confoundedly: so, hate alike Failure and who caused failure,--curse her cant!"

"Oh, I see! You, though somewhat past the prime, Were taken with a rosebud beauty! Ah-- But how should chits distinguish? She admired Your marvel of a mind, I 'll undertake! But as to body ... nay, I mean ... that is, When years have told on face and figure" ...

"Thanks, Mister _Sufficiently-Instructed!_ Such No doubt was bound to be the consequence To suit your self-complacency: she liked My head enough, but loved some heart beneath Some head with plenty of brown hair a-top After my young friend's fashion! What becomes Of that fine speech you made a minute since About the man of middle age you found A formidable peer at twenty-one? So much for your mock-modesty! and yet I back your first against this second sprout Of observation, insight, what you please. My middle age, Sir, had too much success! It 's odd: my case occurred four years ago-- I finished just while you commenced that turn I' the wood of life that takes us to the wealth Of honeysuckle, heaped for who can reach. Now, I don't boast: it 's bad style, and beside, The feat proves easier than it looks: I plucked Full many a flower unnamed in that bouquet (Mostly of peonies and poppies, though!) Good-nature sticks into my buttonhole. Therefore it was with nose in want of snuff Rather than Ess or Psidium, that I chanced On what--so far from '_rosebud beauty_' ... Well-- She 's dead: at least you never heard her name; She was no courtly creature, had nor birth Nor breeding--mere fine-lady-breeding; but Oh, such a wonder of a woman! Grand As a Greek statue! Stick fine clothes on that, Style that a Duchess or a Queen,--you know, Artists would make an outcry: all the more, That she had just a statue's sleepy grace Which broods o'er its own beauty. Nay, her fault (Don't laugh!) was just perfection: for suppose Only the little flaw, and I had peeped Inside it, learned what soul inside was like. At Rome some tourist raised the grit beneath A Venus' forehead with his whittling-knife-- I wish--now--I had played that brute, brought blood To surface from the depths I fancied chalk! As it was, her mere face surprised so much That I stopped short there, struck on heap, as stares The cockney stranger at a certain bust With drooped eyes,--she 's the thing I have in mind,-- Down at my Brother's. All sufficient prize-- Such outside! Now,--confound me for a prig!-- Who cares? I 'll make a clean breast once for all! Beside, you 've heard the gossip. My life long I 've been a woman-liker,--liking means Loving and so on. There 's a lengthy list By this time I shall have to answer for-- So say the good folk: and they don't guess half-- For the worst is, let once collecting-itch Possess you, and, with perspicacity, Keeps growing such a greediness that theft Follows at no long distance,--there 's the fact! I knew that on my Leporello-list Might figure this, that, and the other name Of feminine desirability, But if I happened to desire inscribe, Along with these, the only Beautiful-- Here was the unique specimen to snatch Or now or never. 'Beautiful' I said-- 'Beautiful' say in cold blood,--boiling then To tune of '_Haste, secure whatever the cost_ _This rarity, die in the act, be damned,_ _So you complete collection, crown your list!_' It seemed as though the whole world, once aroused By the first notice of such wonder's birth, Would break bounds to contest my prize with me The first discoverer, should she but emerge From that safe den of darkness where she dozed Till I stole in, that country-parsonage Where, country-parson's daughter, motherless, Brotherless, sisterless, for eighteen years She had been vegetating lily-like. Her father was my brother's tutor, got The living that way: him I chanced to see-- Her I saw--her the world would grow one eye To see, I felt no sort of doubt at all! '_Secure her!_' cried the devil: '_afterward_ _Arrange for the disposal of the prize!_' The devil's doing! yet I seem to think-- Now, when all 's done,--think with '_a head reposed_' In French phrase--hope I think I meant to do All requisite for such a rarity When I should be at leisure, have due time To learn requirement. But in evil day-- Bless me, at week's end, long as any year, The father must begin, '_Young Somebody,_ _Much recommended--for I break a rule--_ _Comes here to read, next Long Vacation._'--'_Young!_' That did it. Had the epithet been '_rich_,' '_Noble_,' '_a genius_,' even '_handsome_,'--but --'_Young_'!"

"I say--just a word! I want to know-- You are not married?"

"I?"

"Nor ever were?"

"Never! Why?"

"Oh, then--never mind! Go on! I had a reason for the question."

"Come,-- You could not be the young man?"

"No, indeed! Certainly--if you never married her!"

"That I did not: and there 's the curse, you 'll see! Nay, all of it 's one curse, my life's mistake Which nourished with manure that 's warranted To make the plant bear wisdom, blew out full In folly beyond fieldflower-foolishness! The lies I used to tell my womankind! Knowing they disbelieved me all the time Though they required my lies, their decent due, This woman--not so much believed, I 'll say, As just anticipated from my mouth: Since being true, devoted, constant--she Found constancy, devotion, truth, the plain And easy commonplace of character. No mock-heroics but seemed natural To her who underneath the face, I knew Was fairness' self, possessed a heart, I judged Must correspond in folly just as far Beyond the common,--and a mind to match,-- Not made to puzzle conjurers like me Who, therein, proved the fool who fronts you, Sir, And begs leave to cut short the ugly rest! '_Trust me!_' I said: she trusted. '_Marry me!_' Or rather, '_We are married: when, the rite?_' That brought on the collector's next-day qualm At counting acquisition's cost. There lay My marvel, there my purse more light by much Because of its late lie-expenditure: Ill-judged such moment to make fresh demand-- To cage as well as catch my rarity! So, I began explaining. At first word Outbroke the horror. '_Then, my truths were lies!_' I tell you, such an outbreak, such new strange All-unsuspected revelation--soul As supernaturally grand as face Was fair beyond example--that at once Either I lost--or, if it please you, found My senses,--stammered somehow--'_Jest! and now,_ _Earnest! Forget all else but--heart has loved,_ _Does love, shall love you ever! take the hand!_' Not she! no marriage for superb disdain, Contempt incarnate!"

"Yes, it 's different,-- It 's only like in being four years since. I see now!"

"Well, what did disdain do next, Think you?"

"That's past me: did not marry you!--- That 's the main thing I care for, I suppose. Turned nun, or what?"

"Why, married in a month Some parson, some smug crop-haired smooth-chinned sort Of curate-creature, I suspect,--dived down, Down, deeper still, and came up somewhere else-- I don't know where--I 've not tried much to know,-- In short, she 's happy: what the clodpoles call 'Countrified' with a vengeance! leads the life Respectable and all that drives you mad: Still--where, I don't know, and that 's best for both."

"Well, that she did not like you, I conceive. But why should you hate her, I want to know?"

"My good young friend,--because or her or else Malicious Providence I have to hate. For, what I tell you proved the turning-point Of my whole life and fortune toward success Or failure. If I drown, I lay the fault Much on myself who caught at reed not rope, But more on reed which, with a packthread's pith, Had buoyed me till the minute's cramp could thaw And I strike out afresh and so be saved. It 's easy saying--I had sunk before, Disqualified myself by idle days And busy nights, long since, from holding hard On cable, even, had fate cast me such! You boys don't know how many times men fail Perforce o' the little to succeed i' the large, Husband their strength, let slip the petty prey, Collect the whole power for the final pounce! My fault was the mistaking man's main prize For intermediate boy's diversion; clap Of boyish hands here frightened game away Which, once gone, goes forever. Oh, at first I took the anger easily, nor much Minded the anguish--having learned that storms Subside, and teapot-tempests are akin. Time would arrange things, mend whate'er might be Somewhat amiss; precipitation, eh? Reason and rhyme prompt--reparation! Tiffs End properly in marriage and a dance! I said 'We 'll marry, make the past a blank'-- And never was such damnable mistake! That interview, that laying bare my soul, As it was first, so was it last chance--one And only. Did I write? Back letter came Unopened as it went. Inexorable She fled, I don't know where, consoled herself With the smug curate-creature: chop and change! Sure am I, when she told her shaveling all His Magdalen's adventure, tears were shed, Forgiveness evangelically shown, 'Loose hair and lifted eye,'--as some one says. And now, he 's worshipped for his pains, the sneak!"

"Well, but your turning-point of life,--what 's here To hinder you contesting Finsbury With Orton, next election? I don't see" ...

"Not you! But _I_ see. Slowly, surely, creeps Day by day o'er me the conviction--here Was life's prize grasped at, gained, and then let go! --That with her--maybe, for her--I had felt Ice in me melt, grow steam, drive to effect Any or all the fancies sluggish here I' the head that needs the hand she would not take And I shall never lift now, Lo, your wood-- Its turnings which I likened life to! Well,-- There she stands, ending every avenue, Her visionary presence on each goal I might have gained had we kept side by side! Still string nerve and strike foot? Her frown forbids: The steam congeals once more: I 'm old again! Therefore I hate myself--but how much worse Do not I hate who would not understand, Let me repair things--no, but sent a-slide My folly falteringly, stumblingly Down, down, and deeper down until I drop Upon--the need of your ten thousand pounds And consequently loss of mine! I lose Character, cash, nay, common-sense itself Recounting such a lengthy cock-and-bull Adventure, lose my temper in the act" ...

"And lose beside,--if I may supplement The list of losses,--train and ten-o'clock! Hark, pant and puff, there travels the swart sign! So much the better! You 're my captive now! I 'm glad you trust a fellow: friends grow thick This way--that 's twice said; we were thickish, though, Even last night, and, ere night comes again, I prophesy good luck to both of us! For see now!--back to '_balmy eminence_' Or '_calm acclivity_' or what 's the word! Bestow you there an hour, concoct at ease A sonnet for the Album, while I put Bold face on, best foot forward, make for house, March in to aunt and niece, and tell the truth-- (Even white-lying goes against my taste After your little story.) Oh, the niece Is rationality itself! The aunt-- If she 's amenable to reason too-- Why, you stopped short to pay her due respect, And let the Duke wait (I 'll work well the Duke). If she grows gracious, I return for you; If thunder 's in the air, why--bear your doom, Dine on rump-steaks and port, and shake the dust Of aunty from your shoes as off you go By evening-train, nor give the thing a thought How you shall pay me--that 's as sure as fate. Old fellow! Off with you, face left about! Yonder 's the path I have to pad. You see, I 'm in good spirits, God knows why! Perhaps Because the woman did not marry you --Who look so hard at me,--and have the right, One must be fair and own."

The two stand still Under an oak.

"Look here!" resumes the youth. "I never quite knew how I came to like You--so much--whom I ought not court at all: Nor how you had a leaning just to me Who am assuredly not worth your pains. For there must needs be plenty such as you Somewhere about,--although I can't say where,-- Able and willing to teach all you know; While--how can you have missed a score like me With money and no wit, precisely each A pupil for your purpose, were it--ease Fool's poke of tutor's _honorarium_-fee? And yet, howe'er it came about, I felt At once my master: you as prompt descried Your man, warrant, so was bargain struck. Now, these same lines of liking, loving, run Sometimes so close together they converge-- Life's great adventures--you know what I mean-- In people. Do you know, as you advanced, It got to be uncommonly like fact We two had fallen in with--liked and loved Just the same woman in our different ways? I began life--poor groundling as I prove-- and ambitious to fly high: why not? There 's something in 'Don Quixote' to the point, My shrewd old father used to quote and praise-- '_Am I born man?_' asks Sancho; '_being man,_ _By possibility I may be Pope!_' So, Pope I meant to make myself, by step And step, whereof the first should be to find A perfect woman; and I tell you this-- If what I fixed on, in the order due Of undertakings, as next step, had first Of all disposed itself to suit my tread, And I had been, the day I came of age, Returned at head of poll for Westminster --Nay, and moreover summoned by the Queen At week's end, when my maiden-speech bore fruit, To form and head a Tory ministry-- It would not have seemed stranger, no, nor been More strange to me, as now I estimate, Than what did happen--sober truth, no dream. I saw my wonder of a woman,--laugh, I'm past that!--in Commemoration-week. A plenty have I seen since, fair and foul,-- With eyes, too, helped by your sagacious wink; But one to match that marvel--no least trace, Least touch of kinship and community! The end was--I did somehow state the fact, Did, with no matter what imperfect words, One way or other give to understand That woman, soul and body were her slave Would she but take, but try them--any test Of will, and some poor test of power beside: So did the strings within my brain grow tense And capable of ... hang similitudes! She answered kindly but beyond appeal. '_No sort of hope for me, who came too late._ _She was another's. Love went--mine to her,_ _Hers just as loyally to some one else._' Of course! I might expect it! Nature's law-- Given the peerless woman, certainly Somewhere shall be the peerless man to match! I acquiesced at once, submitted me In something of a stupor, went my way. I fancy there had been some talk before Of somebody--her father or the like-- To coach me in the holidays,--that's how I came to get the sight and speech of her,-- But I had sense enough to break off sharp, Save both of us the pain."

"Quite right there!"

"Eh? Quite wrong, it happens! Now comes worst of all! Yes, I did sulk aloof and let alone The lovers--_I_ disturb the angel-mates?"

"Seraph paired off with cherub!"

"Thank you! While I never plucked up courage to inquire Who he was, even,--certain-sure of this, That nobody I knew of had blue wings And wore a star-crown as he needs must do,-- Some little lady,--plainish, pock-marked girl,-- Finds out my secret in my woeful face, Comes up to me at the Apollo Ball, And pityingly pours her wine and oil This way into the wound: '_Dear f-f-friend,_ _Why waste affection thus on--must I say,_ _A somewhat worthless object? Who's her choice--_ _Irrevocable as deliberate--_ _Out of the wide world? I shall name no names--_ _But there's a person in society,_ _Who, blessed with rank and talent, has grown gray_ _In idleness and sin of every sort_ _Except hypocrisy: he's thrice her age,_ _A byword for 'successes with the sex'_ _As the French say--and, as we ought to say._ _Consummately a liar and a rogue,_ _Since--show me where's the woman won without_ _The help of this one lie which she believes--_ _That--never mind how things have come to pass,_ _And let who loves have loved a thousand times--_ _All the same he now loves her only, loves_ _Her ever! if by 'won' you just mean 'sold,'_ _That's quite another compact. Well, this scamp,_ _Continuing descent from bad to worse,_ _Must leave his fine and fashionable prey_ _(Who--fathered, brothered, husbanded,--are hedged_ _About with thorny danger) and apply_ _His arts to this poor country ignorance_ _Who sees forthwith in the first rag of man_ _Her model hero! Why continue waste_ _On such a woman treasures of a heart_ _Would yet find solace,--yes, my f-f-friend--_ _In some congenial_--fiddle-diddle-dee?'"

"Pray, is the pleasant gentleman described Exact the portrait which my '_f-f-friends_' Recognize as so like? 'Tis evident You half surmised the sweet original Could be no other than myself, just now! Your stop and start were flattering!"

"Of course Caricature's allowed for in a sketch! The longish nose becomes a foot in length, The swarthy cheek gets copper-colored,--still, Prominent beak and dark-hued skin are facts: And '_parson's daughter_'--'_young man coachable_'-- '_Elderly party_'--'_four years since_'--were facts To fasten on, a moment! Marriage, though-- That made the difference, I hope."

"All right! I never married; wish I had--and then Unwish it: people kill their wives, sometimes! I hate my mistress, but I'm murder-free. In your case, where's the grievance? You came last, The earlier bird picked up the worm. Suppose You, in the glory of your twenty-one, Had happened to precede myself! 'tis odds But this gigantic juvenility, This offering of a big arm's bony hand-- I'd rather shake than feel shake me, I know-- Had moved _my_ dainty mistress to admire An altogether new Ideal--deem Idolatry less due to life's decline Productive of experience, powers mature By dint of usage, the made man--no boy That's all to make! I was the earlier bird-- And what I found, I let fall; what you missed, Who is the fool that blames you for?"

"Myself-- For nothing, everything! For finding out She, whom I worshipped, was a worshipper In turn of ... but why stir up settled mud? She married him--the fifty-years-old rake-- How you have teased the talk from me! At last My secret's told you. I inquired no more, Nay, stopped ears when informants unshut mouth; Enough that she and he live, deuce take where, Married and happy, or else miserable-- It's 'Cut-the-pack;' she turned up ace or knave, And I left Oxford, England, dug my hole Out in Dalmatia, till you drew me thence Badger-like,--'_Back to London_' was the word-- '_Do things, a many, there, you fancy hard,_ _I'll undertake are easy!_'--the advice. I took it, had my twelvemonth's fling with you-- (Little hand holding large hand pretty tight For all its delicacy--eh, my lord?) Until when, t'other day, I got a turn Somehow and gave up tired: and '_Rest!_' bade you, '_Marry your cousin, double your estate,_ _And take your ease by all means!_' So, I loll On this the springy sofa, mine next month-- Or should loll, but that you must needs beat rough The very down you spread me out so smooth. I wish this confidence were still to make! Ten thousand pounds? You owe me twice the sum For stirring up the black depths! There's repose Or, at least, silence when misfortune seems All that one has to bear; but folly--yes, Folly, it all was! Fool to be so meek, So humble,--such a coward rather say! Fool, to adore the adorer of a fool! Not to have faced him, tried (a useful hint) My big and bony, here, against the bunch Of lily-colored five with signet-ring, Most like, for little-finger's sole defence-- Much as you flaunt the blazon there! I grind My teeth, that bite my very heart, to think-- To know I might have made that woman mine But for the folly of the coward--know-- Or what's the good of my apprenticeship This twelvemonth to a master in the art? Mine--had she been mine--just one moment mine For honor, for dishonor--anyhow, So that my life, instead of stagnant ... Well, You've poked and proved stagnation is not sleep-- Hang you!"

"Hang _you_ for an ungrateful goose! All this means--I who since I knew you first Have helped you to conceit yourself this cock O' the dunghill with all hens to pick and choose-- Ought to have helped you when shell first was chipped By chick that wanted prompting '_Use the spur!_' While I was elsewhere putting mine to use. As well might I blame you who kept aloof, Seeing you could not guess I was alive, Never advised me '_Do as I have done--_ _Reverence such a jewel as your luck_ _Has scratched up to enrich unworthiness!_' As your behavior was, should mine have been, --Faults which we both, too late, are sorry for: Opposite ages, each with its mistake: '_If youth but would--if age but could_,' you know. Don't let us quarrel! Come, we're--young and old-- Neither so badly off. Go you your way, Cut to the Cousin! I'll to Inn, await The issue of diplomacy with Aunt, And wait my hour on '_calm acclivity_' In rumination manifold--perhaps About ten thousand pounds I have to pay!"

III

Now, as the elder lights the fresh cigar Conducive to resource, and saunteringly Betakes him to the left-hand backward path,-- While, much sedate, the younger strides away To right and makes for--islanded in lawn And edged with shrubbery--the brilliant bit Of Barry's building that's the Place,--a pair Of women, at this nick of time, one young, One very young, are ushered with due pomp Into the same Inn-parlor--"_disengaged_ _Entirely now!_" the obsequious landlord smiles, "_Since the late occupants--whereof but one_ _Was quite a stranger_"--(smile enforced by bow) "_Left, a full two hours since, to catch the train,_ _Probably for the stranger's sake!_" (Bow, smile, And backing out from door soft-closed behind.)

Woman and girl, the two, alone inside, Begin their talk: the girl, with sparkling eyes-- "Oh, I forewent him purposely! but you, Who joined at--journeyed from the Junction here-- I wonder how he failed your notice. Few Stop at our station: fellow-passengers Assuredly you were--I saw indeed His servant, therefore he arrived all right. I wanted, you know why, to have you safe Inside here first of all, so dodged about The dark end of the platform; that's his way-- To swing from station straight to avenue And stride the half a mile for exercise. I fancied you might notice the huge boy. He soon gets o'er the distance; at the house He'll hear I went to meet him and have missed; He'll wait. No minute of the hour's too much Meantime for our preliminary talk: First word of which must be--oh, good beyond Expression of all goodness--you to come!"

The elder, the superb one, answers slow.

"There was no helping that. You called for me, Cried, rather: and my old heart answered you. Still, thank me! since the effort breaks a vow-- At least, a promise to myself."

"I know! How selfish get you happy folk to be! If I should love my husband, must I needs Sacrifice straightway all the world to him, As you do? Must I never dare leave house On this dread Arctic expedition, out And in again, six mortal hours, though you, You even, my own friend forevermore, Adjure me--fast your friend till rude love pushed Poor friendship from her vantage--just to grant The quarter of a whole day's company And counsel? This makes counsel so much more Need and necessity. For here's my block Of stumbling: in the face of happiness So absolute, fear chills me. If such change In heart be but love's easy consequence, Do I love? If to marry mean--let go All I now live for, should my marriage be?"

The other never once has ceased to gaze On the great elm-tree in the open, posed Placidly full in front, smooth bole, broad branch, And leafage, one green plenitude of May. The gathered thought runs into speech at last.

"O you exceeding beauty, bosomful Of lights and shades, murmurs and silences, Sun-warmth, dew-coolness,--squirrel, bee and bird, High, higher, highest, till the blue proclaims '_Leave earth, there's nothing better till next step_ _Heavenward!_'--so, off flies what has wings to help!"

And henceforth they alternate. Says the girl--

"That's saved then: marriage spares the early taste."

"Four years now, since my eye took note of tree!"

"If I had seen no other tree but this My life long, while yourself came straight, you said, From tree which overstretched you and was just One fairy tent with pitcher-leaves that held Wine, and a flowery wealth of suns and moons, And magic fruits whereon the angels feed-- I looking out of window on a tree Like yonder--otherwise well-known, much-liked, Yet just an English ordinary elm-- What marvel if you cured me of conceit My elm's bird-bee-and-squirrel tenantry Was quite the proud possession I supposed? And there is evidence you tell me true. The fairy marriage-tree reports itself Good guardian of the perfect face and form, Fruits of four years' protection! Married friend, You are more beautiful than ever!"

"Yes: I think that likely. I could well dispense With all thought fair in feature, mine or no, Leave but enough of face to know me by-- With all found fresh in youth except such strength As lets a life-long labor earn repose Death sells at just that price, they say; and so, Possibly, what I care not for, I keep."

"How you must know he loves you! Chill, before, Fear sinks to freezing. Could I sacrifice-- Assured my lover simply loves my soul-- One nose-breadth of fair feature? No, indeed! Your own love" ...

"The preliminary hour-- Don't waste it!"

"But I can't begin at once! The angel's self that comes to hear me speak Drives away all the care about the speech. What an angelic mystery you are-- Now--that is certain! when I knew you first, No break of halo and no bud of wing! I thought I knew you, saw you, round and through, Like a glass ball; suddenly, four years since, You vanished, how and whither? Mystery! Wherefore? No mystery at all: you loved, Were loved again, and left the world of course: Who would not? Lapped four years in fairyland, Out comes, by no less wonderful a chance, The changeling, touched athwart her trellised bliss Of blush-rose bower by just the old friend's voice That's now struck dumb at her own potency. _I_ talk of my small fortunes? Tell me yours Rather! The fool I ever was--I am, You see that: the true friend you ever had, You have, you also recognize. Perhaps, Giving you all the love of all my heart, Nature, that's niggard in me, has denied The after-birth of love there 's some one claims, --This huge boy, swinging up the avenue; And I want counsel: is defect in me, Or him who has no right to raise the love? My cousin asks my hand: he's young enough, Handsome,--my maid thinks,--manly's more the word: He asked my leave to '_drop_' the elm-tree there, Some morning before breakfast. Gentleness Goes with the strength, of course. He's honest too, Limpidly truthful. For ability-- All's in the rough yet. His first taste of life Seems to have somehow gone against the tongue: He travelled, tried things--came back, tried still more-- He says he 's sick of all. He 's fond of me After a certain careless-earnest way I like: the iron 's crude,--no polished steel Somebody forged before me. I am rich-- That 's not the reason, he 's far richer: no, Nor is it that he thinks me pretty,--frank Undoubtedly on that point! He saw once The pink of face-perfection--oh, not you-- Content yourself, my beauty!--for she proved So thoroughly a cheat, his charmer ... nay, He runs into extremes, I 'll say at once, Lest you say! Well, I understand he wants Some one to serve, something to do: and both Requisites so abound in me and mine That here 's the obstacle which stops consent-- The smoothness is too smooth, and I mistrust The unseen cat beneath the counterpane. Therefore I thought--'_Would she but judge for me,_ _Who, judging for herself succeeded so!_' Do I love him, does he love me, do both Mistake for knowledge--easy ignorance? Appeal to its proficient in each art! I got rough-smooth through a piano-piece, Rattled away last week till tutor came, Heard me to end, then grunted '_Ach, mein Gott!_ _Sagen Sie "easy"? Every note is wrong!_ _All thumped mit wrist--we 'll trouble fingers now._ _The Fräulein will please roll up Raff again_ _And exercise at Czerny for one month!_' Am I to roll up cousin, exercise At Trollope's novels for one month? Pronounce!"

"Now, place each in the right position first, Adviser and advised one! I perhaps Am three--nay, four years older; am, beside, A wife: advantages--to balance which, You have a full fresh joyous sense of life That finds you out life's fit food everywhere, Detects enjoyment where I, slow and dull, Fumble at fault. Already, these four years, Your merest glimpses at the world without Have shown you more than ever met my gaze; And now, by joyance you inspire joy,--learn While you profess to teach, and teach, although Avowedly a learner. I am dazed Like any owl by sunshine which just sets The sparrow preening plumage! Here 's to spy --Your cousin! You have scanned him all your life, Little or much; I never saw his face. You have determined on a marriage--used Deliberation therefore--I 'll believe No otherwise, with opportunity For judgment so abounding! Here stand I-- Summoned to give my sentence, for a whim, (Well, at first cloud-fleck thrown athwart your blue,) Judge what is strangeness' self to me,--say '_Wed!_' Or '_Wed not!_' whom you promise I shall judge Presently, at propitious lunch-time, just While he carves chicken! Sends he leg for wing? That revelation into character And conduct must suffice me! Quite as well Consult with yonder solitary crow That eyes us from your elm-top!"

"Still the same! Do you remember, at the library We saw together somewhere, those two books Somebody said were notice-worthy? One Lay wide on table, sprawled its painted leaves For all the world's inspection; shut on shelf Reclined the other volume, closed, clasped, locked-- Clear to be let alone. Which page had we Preferred the turning over of? You were, Are, ever will be the locked lady, hold Inside you secrets written,--soul absorbed, My ink upon your blotting-paper. _I_-- What trace of you have I to show in turn? Delicate secrets! No one juvenile Ever essayed at croquet and performed Superiorly but I confided you The sort of hat he wore and hair it held. While you? One day a calm note comes by post-- '_I am just married, you may like to hear._' Most men would hate you, or they ought; we love What we fear,--_I_ do! '_Cold_' I shall expect My cousin calls you. I--dislike not him, But (if I comprehend what loving means) Love you immeasurably more--more--more Than even he who, loving you his wife, Would turn up nose at who impertinent, Frivolous, forward--_loves_ that excellence Of all the earth he bows in worship to! And who 's this paragon of privilege? Simply a country parson: his the charm That worked the miracle! Oh, too absurd-- But that you stand before me as you stand! Such beauty does prove something, everything! Beauty 's the prize-flower which dispenses eye From peering into what has nourished root-- Dew or manure: the plant best knows its place. Enough, from teaching youth and tending age And hearing sermons,--haply writing tracts,-- From such strange love-besprinkled compost, lo, Out blows this triumph! Therefore love 's the soil Plants find or fail of. You, with wit to find, Exercise wit on the old friend's behalf, Keep me from failure! Scan and scrutinize This cousin! Surely he 's as worth your pains To study as my elm-tree, crow and all, You still keep staring at. I read your thoughts."

"At last?"

"At first! '_Would, tree, a-top of thee_ _I wingèd were, like crow perched moveless there,_ _And so could straightway soar, escape this bore,_ _Back to my nest where broods whom I love best--_ _The parson o'er his parish--garish--rarish_,'-- Oh, I could bring the rhyme in if I tried: The Album here inspires me! Quite apart From lyrical expression, have I read The stare aright, and sings not soul just so?"

"Or rather _so?_ '_Cool comfortable elm_ _That men make coffins out of,--none for me_ _At thy expense, so thou permit I glide_ _Under thy ferny feet, and there sleep, sleep,_ _Nor dread awaking though in heaven itself!_'"

The younger looks with face struck sudden white. The elder answers its inquiry.

"Dear, You are a guesser, not a '_clairvoyante_.' I 'll so far open you the locked and shelved Volume, my soul, that you desire to see, As let you profit by the title-page"--

"_Paradise Lost?_"

"_Inferno!_--All which comes Of tempting me to break my vow. Stop here! Friend, whom I love the best in the whole world, Come at your call, be sure that I will do All your requirement--see and say my mind. It may be that by sad apprenticeship I have a keener sense: I 'll task the same. Only indulge me,--here let sight and speech Happen,--this Inn is neutral ground, you know! I cannot visit the old house and home, Encounter the old sociality Abjured forever. Peril quite enough In even this first--last, I pray it prove-- Renunciation of my solitude! Back, you, to house and cousin! Leave me here, Who want no entertainment, carry still My occupation with me. While I watch The shadow inching round those ferny feet, Tell him '_A school-friend wants a word with me_ _Up at the inn: time, tide, and train won't wait:_ _I must go see her--on and off again--_ _You 'll keep me company?_' Ten minutes' talk, With you in presence, ten more afterward With who, alone, convoys me station-bound, And I see clearly--and say honestly To-morrow: pen shall play tongue's part, you know. Go--quick! for I have made our hand-in-hand Return impossible. So scared you look,-- If cousin does not greet you with '_What ghost_ _Has crossed your path?_' I set him down obtuse."

And after one more look, with face still white, The younger does go, while the elder stands Occupied by the elm at window there.

IV

Occupied by the elm; and, as its shade Has crept clock-hand-wise till it ticks at fern Five inches further to the South,--the door Opens abruptly, some one enters sharp, The elder man returned to wait the youth: Never observes the room's new occupant, Throws hat on table, stoops quick, elbow propped Over the Album wide there, bends down brow A cogitative minute, whistles shrill, Then,--with a cheery-hopeless laugh-and-lose Air of defiance to fate visibly Casting the toils about him--mouths once more '_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!_' Then clasps-to cover, sends book spinning off T' other side table, looks up, starts erect Full-face with her who--roused from that abstruse Question '_Will next tick tip the fern or no?_'-- Fronts him as fully.

All her languor breaks, Away withers at once the weariness From the black-blooded brow, anger and hate Convulse. Speech follows slowlier, but at last--

"You here! I felt, I knew it would befall! Knew, by some subtle undivinable Trick of the trickster, I should, silly-sooth, Late or soon, somehow be allured to leave Safe hiding and come take of him arrears, My torment due on four years' respite! Time To pluck the bird's healed, breast of down o'er wound! Have your success! Be satisfied this sole Seeing you has undone all heaven could do These four years, puts me back to you and hell! What will next trick be, next success? No doubt When I shall think to glide into the grave, There will you wait disguised as beckoning Death, And catch and capture me forevermore! But, God, though I am nothing, be thou all! Contest him for me! Strive, for he is strong!"

Already his surprise dies palely out In laugh of acquiescing impotence. He neither gasps nor hisses: calm and plain--

"I also felt and knew--but otherwise! _You_ out of hand and sight and care of me These four years, whom I felt, knew, all the while ... Oh, it 's no superstition! It 's a gift O' the gamester that he snuffs the unseen powers Which help or harm him. Well I knew what lurked, Lay perdue paralyzing me,--drugged, drowsed And damnified my soul and body both! Down and down, see where you have dragged me to, You and your malice! I was, four years since, --Well, a poor creature! I became a knave. I squandered my own pence: I plump my purse With other people's pounds. I practised play Because I liked it: play turns labor now Because there 's profit also in the sport. I gamed with men of equal age and craft: I steal here with a boy as green as grass Whom I have tightened hold on slow and sure This long while, just to bring about to-day When the boy beats me hollow, buries me In ruin who was sure to beggar him. Oh, time indeed I should look up and laugh '_Surely she closes on me!_' Here you stand!"

And stand she does: while volubility, With him, keeps on the increase, for his tongue After long locking-up is loosed for once.

"Certain the taunt is happy!" he resumes: "So, I it was allured you--only I --I, and none other--to this spectacle-- Your triumph, my despair--you woman-fiend That front me! Well, I have my wish, then! See The low wide brow oppressed by sweeps of hair Darker and darker as they coil and swathe The crowned corpse-wanness whence the eyes burn black, Not asleep now! not pin-points dwarfed beneath Either great bridging eyebrow--poor blank beads-- Babies, I 've pleased to pity in my time: How they protrude and glow immense with hate! The long-triumphant nose attains--retains Just the perfection; and there 's scarlet-skein My ancient enemy, her lip and lip, Sense-free, sense-frighting lips clenched cold and bold Because of chin, that based resolve beneath! Then the columnar neck completes the whole Greek-sculpture-baffling body! Do I see? Can I observe? You wait next word to come? Well, wait and want! since no one blight I bid Consume one least perfection. Each and all, As they are rightly shocking now to me, So may they still continue! Value them? Ay, as the vendor knows the money-worth O£ his Greek statue, fools aspire to buy, And he to see the back of! Let as laugh! You have absolved me from my sin at least! You stand stout, strong, in the rude health of hate, No touch of the tame timid nullity My cowardice, forsooth, has practised on! Ay, while you seemed to hint some fine fifth act Of tragedy should freeze blood, end the farce, I never doubted all was joke. I kept, Maybe, an eye alert on paragraphs, Newspaper-notice,--let no inquest slip, Accident, disappearance: sound and safe Were you, my victim, not of mind to die! So, my worst fancy that could spoil the smooth Of pillow, and arrest descent of sleep, Was '_Into what dim hole can she have dived,_ _She and her wrongs, her woe that 's wearing flesh_ _And blood away?_' Whereas, see, sorrow swells! Or, fattened, fulsome, have you fed on me, Sucked out my substance? How much gloss, I pray, O'erbloomed those hair-swathes when there crept from you To me that craze, else unaccountable, Which urged me to contest our county-seat With whom but my own brother's nominee? Did that mouth's pulp glow ruby from carmine While I misused my moment, pushed,--one word,-- One hair's-breadth more of gesture,--idiot-like Past passion, floundered on to the grotesque, And lost the heiress in a grin? At least, You made no such mistake! You tickled fish, Landed your prize the true artistic way! How did the smug young curate rise to tune Of '_Friend, a fatal fact divides us. Love_ _Suits me no longer. I have suffered shame,_ _Betrayal: past is past; the future--yours--_ _Shall never be contaminate by mine!_ _I might have spared me this confession, not_ _--Oh, never by some hideousest of lies,_ _Easy, impenetrable! No! but say,_ _By just the quiet answer--"I am cold."_ _Falsehood avaunt, each shadow of thee, hence!_ _Had happier fortune willed ... but dreams are vain._ _Now, leave me--yes, for pity's sake!_' Aha, Who fails to see the curate as his face Reddened and whitened, wanted handkerchief At wrinkling brow and twinkling eye, until Out burst the proper '_Angel, whom the fiend_ _Has thought to smirch,--thy whiteness, at one wipe_ _Of holy cambric, shall disgrace the swan!_ _Mine be the task_' ... and so forth! Fool? not he! Cunning in flavors, rather! What but sour Suspected makes the sweetness doubly sweet, And what stings love from faint to flamboyant But the fear-sprinkle? Even horror helps-- _Love's flame in me by such recited wrong_ _Drenched, quenched, indeed? It burns the fiercelier thence!_' Why, I have known men never love their wives Till somebody--myself, suppose--had '_drenched_ _And quenched love_,' so the blockheads whined: as if The fluid fire that lifts the torpid limb Were a wrong done to palsy. But I thrilled No palsied person: half my age, or less, The curate was, I 'll wager: o'er young blood Your beauty triumphed! Eh, but--was it _he?_ Then, it _was_ he, I heard of! None beside! How frank you were about the audacious boy Who fell upon you like a thunderbolt-- Passion and protestation! He it was Reserved _in petto!_ Ay, and '_rich_' beside-- '_Rich_'--how supremely did disdain curl nose! All that I heard was--'_wedded to a priest;_' Informants sunk youth, riches and the rest. And so my lawless love disparted loves, That loves might come together with a rush! Surely this last achievement sucked me dry: Indeed, that way my wits went. Mistress-queen, Be merciful and let your subject slink Into dark safety! He 's a beggar, see-- Do not turn back his ship, Australia-bound, And bid her land him right amid some crowd Of creditors, assembled by your curse! Don't cause the very rope to crack (you can!) Whereon he spends his last (friend's) sixpence, just The moment when he hoped to hang himself! Be satisfied you beat him!"

She replies--

"Beat him! I do. To all that you confess Of abject failure, I extend belief. Your very face confirms it: God is just! Let my face--fix your eyes!--in turn confirm What I shall say. All-abject's but half truth; Add to all-abject knave as perfect fool! _So_ is it you probed human nature, _so_ Prognosticated of me? Lay these words To heart then, or where God meant heart should lurk! That moment when you first revealed yourself, My simple impulse prompted--end forthwith The ruin of a life uprooted thus To surely perish! How should such spoiled tree Henceforward balk the wind of its worst sport, Fail to go falling deeper, falling down From sin to sin until some depth were reached Doomed to the weakest by the wickedest Of weak and wicked human-kind? But when, That self-display made absolute,--behold A new revealment!--round you pleased to veer, Propose me what should prompt annul the past, Make me '_amends by marriage_'--in your phrase, Incorporate me henceforth, body and soul, With soul and body which mere brushing past Brought leprosy upon me--'_marry_' these! Why, then despair broke, reassurance dawned, Clear-sighted was I that who hurled contempt As I--thank God!--at the contemptible, Was scarce an utter weakling. Rent away By treason from my rightful pride of place, I was not destined to the shame below. A cleft had caught me: I might perish there, But thence to be dislodged and whirled at last Where the black torrent sweeps the sewage--no! '_Bare breast be on hard rock_,' laughed out my soul In gratitude, '_howe'er rock's grip may grind!_ _The plain, rough, wretched holdfast shall suffice_ _This wreck of me!_' The wind,--I broke in bloom At passage of,--which stripped me bole and branch, Twisted me up and tossed me here,--turns back, And, playful ever, would replant the spoil? Be satisfied, not one least leaf that's mine Shall henceforth help wind's sport to exercise! Rather I give such remnant to the rock Which never dreamed a straw would settle there. Rock may not thank me, may not feel my breast, Even: enough that _I_ feel, hard and cold, Its safety my salvation. Safe and saved, I lived, live. When the tempter shall persuade His prey to slip down, slide off, trust the wind,-- Now that I know if God or Satan be Prince of the Power of the Air,--then, then, indeed, Let my life end and degradation too!"

"Good!" he smiles, "true Lord Byron!" '_Tree and rock:_ _Rock_,'--there's advancement! He's at first a youth, Rich, worthless therefore; next he grows a priest: Youth, riches prove a notable resource, When to leave me for their possessor gluts Malice abundantly; and now, last change, The young rich parson represents a rock --Bloodstone, no doubt. He's Evangelical? Your Ritualists prefer the Church for spouse!"

She speaks.

"I have a story to relate. There was a parish-priest, my father knew, Elderly, poor: I used to pity him Before I learned what woes are pity-worth. Elderly was grown old now, scanty means Were straitening fast to poverty, beside The ailments which await in such a case. Limited every way, a perfect man Within the bounds built up and up since birth Breast-high about him till the outside world Was blank save o'erhead one blue bit of sky-- Faith: he had faith in dogma, small or great, As in the fact that if he clave his skull He'd find a brain there: who proves such a fact No falsehood by experiment at price Of soul and body? The one rule of life Delivered him in childhood was '_Obey!_ _Labor!_' He had obeyed and labored--tame, True to the mill-track blinked on from above. Some scholarship he may have gained in youth: Gone--dropt or flung behind. Some blossom-flake, Spring's boon, descends on every vernal head, I used to think; but January joins December, as his year had known no May; Trouble its snow-deposit,--cold and old! I heard it was his will to take a wife, A helpmate. Duty bade him tend and teach-- How? with experience null, nor sympathy Abundant,--while himself worked dogma dead, Who would play ministrant to sickness, age, Womankind, childhood? These demand a wife. Supply the want, then! theirs the wife; for him-- No coarsest sample of the proper sex But would have served his purpose equally With God's own angel,--let but knowledge match Her coarseness: zeal does only half the work. I saw this--knew the purblind honest drudge Was wearing out his simple blameless life, And wanted help beneath a burden--borne To treasure-house or dust-heap, what cared I? Partner he needed: I proposed myself, Nor much surprised him--duty was so clear! Gratitude? What for? Gain of Paradise-- Escape, perhaps, from the dire penalty Of who hides talent in a napkin? No: His scruple was--should I be strong enough --In body? since of weakness in the mind, Weariness in the heart--no fear of these? He took me as these Arctic voyagers Take an aspirant to their toil and pain: Can he endure them?--that 's the point, and not --Will he? Who would not, rather! Whereupon, I pleaded far more earnestly for leave To give myself away, than you to gain What you called priceless till you gained the heart And soul and body! which, as beggars serve Extorted alms, you straightway spat upon. Not so my husband,--for I gained my suit, And had my value put at once to proof. Ask him! These four years I have died away In village-life. The village? Ugliness At best and filthiness at worst, inside. Outside, sterility--earth sown with salt Or what keeps even grass from growing fresh. The life? I teach the poor and learn, myself, That commonplace to such stupidity Is all-recondite. Being brutalized Their true need is brute-language, cheery grunts And kindly cluckings, no articulate Nonsense that 's elsewhere knowledge. Tend the sick, Sickened myself at pig-perversity, Cat-craft, dog-snarling--maybe, snapping" ...

"Brief: You eat that root of bitterness called Man --Raw: I prefer it cooked, with social sauce! So, he was not the rich youth after all! Well, I mistook. But somewhere needs must be The compensation. If not young nor rich" ...

"You interrupt!"

"Because you 've daubed enough Bistre for background. Play the artist now, Produce your figure well-relieved in front! The contrast--do not I anticipate? Though neither rich nor young--what then? 'T is all Forgotten, all this ignobility, In the dear home, the darling word, the smile, The something sweeter" ...

"Yes, you interrupt. I have my purpose and proceed. Who lives With beasts assumes beast-nature, look and voice, And, much more, thought, for beasts think. Selfishness In us met selfishness in them, deserved Such answer as it gained. My husband, bent On saving his own soul by saving theirs,-- They, bent on being saved if saving soul Included body's getting bread and cheese Somehow in life and somehow after death,-- Both parties were alike in the same boat, One danger, therefore one equality. Safety induces culture: culture seeks To institute, extend and multiply The difference between safe man and man, Able to live alone now; progress means What but abandonment of fellowship? We were in common danger, still stuck close. No new books,--were the old ones mastered yet? No pictures and no music: these divert --What from? the staving danger off! You paint The waterspout above, you set to words The roaring of the tempest round you? Thanks! Amusement? Talk at end of the tired day Of the more tiresome morrow! I transcribed The page on page of sermon-scrawlings--stopped Intellect's eye and ear to sense and sound-- Vainly: the sound and sense would penetrate To brain and plague there in despite of me Maddened to know more moral good were done Had we two simply sallied forth and preached I' the '_Green_' they call their grimy,--I with twang Of long-disused guitar,--with cut and slash Of much-misvalued horsewhip he,--to bid The peaceable come dance, the peace-breaker Pay in his person! Whereas--Heaven and Hell, Excite with that, restrain with this!--so dealt His drugs my husband; as he dosed himself, He drenched his cattle: and, for all my part Was just to dub the mortar, never fear But drugs, hand pestled at, have poisoned nose! Heaven he let pass, left wisely undescribed: As applicable therefore to the sleep I want, that knows no waking--as to what 's Conceived of as the proper prize to tempt Souls less world-weary: there, no fault to find! But Hell he made explicit. After death, Life: man created new, ingeniously Perfect for a vindictive purpose now, That man, first fashioned in beneficence, Was proved a failure; intellect at length Replacing old obtuseness, memory Made mindful of delinquent's bygone deeds Now that remorse was vain, which life-long lay Dormant when lesson might be laid to heart; New gift of observation up and down And round man's self, new power to apprehend Each necessary consequence of act In man for well or ill--things obsolete-- Just granted to supplant the idiocy Man's only guide while act was yet to choose, With ill or well momentously its fruit; A faculty of immense suffering Conferred on mind and body,--mind, erewhile Unvisited by one compunctious dream During sin's drunken slumber, startled up, Stung through and through by sin's significance Now that the holy was abolished--just As body which, alive, broke down beneath Knowledge, lay helpless in the path to good, Failed to accomplish aught legitimate, Achieve aught worthy,--which grew old in youth, And at its longest fell a cut-down flower,-- Dying, this too revived by miracle To bear no end of burden now that back Supported torture to no use at all, And live imperishably potent--since Life's potency was impotent to ward One plague off which made earth a hell before. This doctrine, which one healthy view of things, One sane sight of the general ordinance-- Nature--and its particular object--man,-- Which one mere eye-cast at the character Of Who made these and gave man sense to boot, Had dissipated once and evermore,-- This doctrine I have dosed our flock withal. Why? Because none believed it. _They_ desire Such Heaven and dread such Hell, whom every day The alehouse tempts from one, a dog-fight bids Defy the other? All the harm is done Ourselves--done my good husband who in youth Perhaps read Dickens, done myself who still Could play both Bach and Brahms. Such life I lead-- Thanks to you, knave! You learn its quality-- Thanks to me, fool!"

He eyes her earnestly, But she continues.

"--Life which, thanks once more To you, arch-knave as exquisitest fool, I acquiescingly--I gratefully Take back again to heart! and hence this speech Which yesterday had spared you. Four years long Life--I began to find intolerable, Only this moment. Ere your entry just, The leap of heart which answered, spite of me, A friend's first summons, first provocative, Authoritative, nay, compulsive call To quit, though for a single day, my house Of bondage--made return seem horrible. I heard again a human lucid laugh All trust, no fear; again saw earth pursue Its narrow busy way amid small cares, Smaller contentments, much weeds, some few flowers,-- Never suspicious of a thunderbolt Avenging presently each daisy's death. I recognized the beech-tree, knew the thrush Repeated his old music-phrase,--all right, How wrong was I, then! But your entry broke Illusion, bade me back to bounds at once. I honestly submit my soul: which sprang At love, and losing love lies signed and sealed '_Failure._' No love more? then, no beauty more Which tends to breed love! Purify my powers, Effortless till some other world procures Some other chance of prize! or, if none be,-- Nor second world nor chance,--undesecrate Die then this aftergrowth of heart, surmised Where May's precipitation left June blank! Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked, I do not! Ugliness Had I called beauty, falsehood--truth, and you-- My lover! No--this earth's unchanged for me, By his enchantment whom God made the Prince O' the Power o' the Air, into a Heaven: there is Heaven, since there is Heaven's simulation--earth. I sit possessed in patience; prison-roof Shall break one day and Heaven beam overhead."

His smile is done with; he speaks bitterly.

"Take my congratulations, and permit I wish myself had proved as teachable! --Or, no! until you taught me, could I learn, A lesson from experience ne'er till now Conceded? Please you listen while I show How thoroughly you estimate my worth And yours--the immeasurably superior! I Believed at least in one thing, first to last,-- Your love to me: I was the vile and you The precious; I abused you, I betrayed, But doubted--never! Why else go my way Judas-like plodding to this Potters' Field Where fate now finds me? What has dinned my ear And dogged my step? The spectre with the shriek '_Such she was, such were you, whose punishment_ _Is just!_' And such she was not, all the while! She never owned a love to outrage, faith To pay with falsehood! For, my heart knows this-- Love once and you love always. Why, it 's down Here in the Album: every lover knows Love may use hate but--turn to hate, itself-- Turn even to indifference--no, indeed! Well, I have been spellbound, deluded like The witless negro by the Obeah-man Who bids him wither: so, his eye grows dim, His arm slack, arrow misses aim and spear Goes wandering wide,--and all the woe because He proved untrue to Fetish, who, he finds, Was just a feather-phantom! I wronged love, Am ruined,--and there was no love to wrong!"

"No love? Ah, dead love! I invoke thy ghost To show the murderer where thy heart poured life At summons of the stroke he doubts was dealt On pasteboard and pretence! Not love, my love? I changed for you the very laws of life: Made you the standard of all right, all fair. No genius but you could have been, no sage, No sufferer--which is grandest--for the truth! My hero--where the heroic only hid To burst from hiding, brighten earth one day! Age and decline were man's maturity; Face, form were nature's type: more grace, more strength, What had they been but just superfluous gauds, Lawless divergence? I have danced through day On tiptoe at the music of a word, Have wondered where was darkness gone as night Burst out in stars at brilliance of a smile! Lonely, I placed the chair to help me seat Your fancied presence; in companionship, I kept my finger constant to your glove Glued to my breast; then--where was all the world? I schemed--not dreamed--how I might die some death Should save your finger aching! Who creates Destroys, he only: I had laughed to scorn Whatever angel tried to shake my faith And make you seem unworthy: you yourself Only could do that! With a touch 't was done. '_Give me all, trust me wholly!_' At the word, I did give, I did trust--and thereupon The touch did follow. Ah, the quiet smile, The masterfully-folded arm in arm, As trick obtained its triumph one time more! In turn, my soul too triumphs in defeat: Treason like faith moves mountains: love is gone!"

He paces to and fro, stops, stands quite close And calls her by her name. Then--

"God forgives: Forgive you, delegate of God, brought near As never priests could bring him to this soul That prays you both--forgive me! I abase-- Know myself mad and monstrous utterly In all I did that moment; but as God Gives me this knowledge--heart to feel and tongue To testify--so be you gracious too! Judge no man by the solitary work Of--well, they do say and I can believe-- The devil in him: his, the moment,--mine The life--your life!"

He names her name again.

"You were just--merciful as just, you were In giving me no respite: punishment Followed offending. Sane and sound once more, The patient thanks decision, promptitude, Which flung him prone and fastened him from hurt, Haply to others, surely to himself. I wake and would not you had spared one pang. All's well that ends well!"

Yet again her name.

"Had _you_ no fault? Why must you change, forsooth, Parts, why reverse positions, spoil the play? Why did your nobleness look up to me, Not down on the ignoble thing confessed? Was it your part to stoop, or lift the low? Wherefore did God exalt you? Who would teach The brute man's tameness and intelligence Must never drop the dominating eye: Wink--and what wonder if the mad fit break, Followed by stripes and fasting? Sound and sane, My life, chastised now, couches at your foot. Accept, redeem me! Do your eyes ask '_How?_' I stand here penniless, a beggar; talk What idle trash I may, this final blow Of fortune fells me. _I_ disburse, indeed, This boy his winnings? when each bubble-scheme That danced athwart my brain, a minute since, The worse the better,--of repairing straight My misadventure by fresh enterprise, Capture of other boys in foolishness His fellows,--when these fancies fade away At first sight of the lost so long, the found So late, the lady of my life, before Whose presence I, the lost, am also found Incapable of one least touch of mean Expedient, I who teemed with plot and wile-- That family of snakes your eye bids flee! Listen! Our troublesomest dreams die off In daylight: I awake, and dream is--where? I rouse up from the past: one touch dispels England and all here. I secured long since A certain refuge, solitary home To hide in, should the head strike work one day, The hand forget its cunning, or perhaps Society grow savage,--there to end My life's remainder, which, say what fools will, Is or should be the best of life,--its fruit, All tends to, root and stem and leaf and flower. Come with me, love, loved once, loved only, come, Blend loves there! Let this parenthetic doubt Of love, in me, have been the trial test Appointed to all flesh at some one stage Of soul's achievement,--when the strong man doubts His strength, the good man whether goodness be, The artist in the dark seeks, fails to find Vocation, and the saint forswears his shrine. What if the lover may elude, no more Than these, probative dark, must search the sky Vainly for love, his soul's star? But the orb Breaks from eclipse: I breathe again: I love! Tempted, I fell; but fallen--fallen lie Here at your feet, see! Leave this poor pretence Of union with a nature and its needs Repugnant to your needs and nature! Nay, False, beyond falsity you reprehend In me, is such mock marriage with such mere Man-mask as--whom you witless wrong, beside, By that expenditure of heart and brain He recks no more of than would yonder tree If watered with your life-blood: rains and dews Answer its ends sufficiently, while me One drop saves--sends to flower and fruit at last The laggard virtue in the soul which else Cumbers the ground! Quicken me! Call me yours-- Yours and the world's--yours and the world's and God's! Yes, for you can, you only! Think! Confirm Your instinct! Say, a minute since, I seemed The castaway you count me,--all the more Apparent shall the angelic potency Lift me from out perdition's deep of deeps To light and life and love!--that's love for you-- Love that already dares match might with yours. You loved one worthy,--in your estimate,-- When time was; you descried the unworthy taint, And where was love then? No such test could e'er Try my love: but you hate me and revile; Hatred, revilement--had you these to bear, Would you, as I do, nor revile, nor hate, But simply love on, love the more, perchance? Abide by your own proof! '_Your love was love:_ _Its ghost knows no forgetting!_' Heart of mine, Would that I dared remember! Too unwise Were he who lost a treasure, did himself Enlarge upon the sparkling catalogue Of gems to her his queen who trusted late The keeper of her caskets! Can it be That I, custodian of such relic still As your contempt permits me to retain, All I dare hug to breast is--'_How your glove_ _Burst and displayed the long thin lily streak!_' What may have followed--that is forfeit now! I hope the proud man has grown humble! True-- One grace of humbleness absents itself-- Silence! yet love lies deeper than all words, And not the spoken but the speechless love Waits answer ere I rise and go my way."

Whereupon, yet one other time the name.

To end she looks the large deliberate look, Even prolongs it somewhat; then the soul Bursts forth in a clear laugh that lengthens on, On, till--thinned, softened, silvered, one might say The bitter runnel hides itself in sand, Moistens the hard gray grimly comic speech.

"Ay--give the baffled angler even yet His supreme triumph as he hales to shore A second time the fish once 'scaped from hook-- So artfully has new bait hidden old Blood-imbrued iron! Ay, no barb's beneath The gilded minnow here! You bid break trust, This time, with who trusts me,--not simply bid Me trust you, me who ruined but myself, In trusting but myself! Since, thanks to you, I know the feel of sin and shame,--be sure, I shall obey you and impose them both On one who happens to be ignorant Although my husband--for the lure is love, Your love! Try other tackle, fisher-friend! Repentance, expiation, hopes and fears, What you had been, may yet be, would I but Prove helpmate to my hero--one and all These silks and worsteds round the hook seduce Hardly the late torn throat and mangled tongue. Pack up, I pray, the whole assortment prompt! Who wonders at variety of wile In the Arch-cheat? You are the Adversary! Your fate is of your choosing: have your choice! Wander the world,--God has some end to serve, Ere he suppress you! He waits: I endure, But interpose no finger-tip, forsooth, To stop your passage to the pit. Enough That I am stable, uninvolved by you In the rush downwards: free I gaze and fixed; Your smiles, your tears, prayers, curses move alike My crowned contempt. You kneel? Prostrate yourself! To earth, and would the whole world saw you there!"

Whereupon--"All right!" carelessly begins Somebody from outside, who mounts the stair, And sends his voice for herald of approach: Half in half out the doorway as the door Gives way to push.

"Old fellow, all's no good! The train's your portion! Lay the blame on me! I'm no diplomatist, and Bismarck's self Had hardly braved the awful Aunt at broach Of proposition--so has world-repute Preceded the illustrious stranger! Ah!"--

Quick the voice changes to astonishment, Then horror, as the youth stops, sees, and knows.

The man who knelt starts up from kneeling, stands Moving no muscle, and confronts the stare.

One great red outbreak buries--throat and brow-- The lady's proud pale queenliness of scorn: Then her great eyes that turned so quick, become Intenser:--quail at gaze, not they indeed!

V

It is the young man shatters silence first.

"Well, my lord--for indeed my lord you are, I little guessed how rightly--this last proof Of lordship-paramount confounds too much My simple headpiece! Let's see how we stand Each to the other! how we stood i' the game Of life an hour ago,--the magpies, stile, And oak-tree witnessed. Truth exchanged for truth-- My lord confessed his four-years-old affair-- How he seduced and then forsook the girl Who married somebody and left him sad. My pitiful experience was--I loved A girl whose gown's hem had I dared to touch My finger would have failed me, palsy-fixed. She left me, sad enough, to marry--whom? A better man,--then possibly not you! How does the game stand? Who is who and what Is what, o' the board now, since an hour went by? My lord 's '_seduced_, _forsaken_, _sacrificed_,' Starts up, my lord's familiar instrument, Associate and accomplice, mistress-slave-- Shares his adventure, follows on the sly! --Ay, and since 'bag and baggage' is a phrase-- Baggage lay hid in carpet-bag belike, Was but unpadlocked when occasion came For holding council, since my back was turned, On how invent ten thousand pounds which, paid, Would lure the winner to lose twenty more, Beside refunding these! Why else allow The fool to gain them? So displays herself The lady whom my heart believed--oh, laugh! Noble and pure: whom my heart loved at once, And who at once did speak truth when she said '_I am not mine now but another's_'--thus Being that other's! Devil's-marriage, eh? '_My lie weds thine till lucre us do part?_' But pity me the snobbish simpleton, You two aristocratic tiptop swells At swindling! Quits, I cry! Decamp content With skin I 'm peeled of: do not strip bones bare-- As that you could, I have no doubt at all! O you two rare ones! Male and female, Sir! The male there smirked, this morning, '_Come, my boy--_ _Out with it! You've been crossed in love, I think:_ _I recognize the lover's hangdog look;_ _Make a clean breast and match my confidence,_ _For, I'll be frank, I too have had my fling,_ _Am punished for my fault, and smart enough!_ _Where now the victim hides her head, God knows!_' Here loomed her head, life-large, the devil knew! Look out, Salvini! Here 's your man, your match! He and I sat applauding, stall by stall, Last Monday--'_Here 's Othello_' was our word, '_But where 's Iago?_' Where? Why, there! And now The fellow-artist, female specimen-- Oh, lady, you must needs describe yourself! He 's great in art, but you--how greater still --(If I can rightly, out of all I learned, Apply one bit of Latin that assures '_Art means just art's concealment_')--tower yourself! For he stands plainly visible henceforth-- Liar and scamp: while you, in artistry Prove so consummate--or I prove perhaps So absolute an ass--that--either way-- You still do seem to me who worshipped you And see you take the homage of this man, Your master, who played slave and knelt, no doubt, Before a mistress in his very craft ... Well, take the fact, I nor believe my eyes, Nor trust my understanding! Still you seem Noble and pure as when we had the talk Under the tower, beneath the trees, that day. And there 's the key explains the secret: down He knelt to ask your leave to rise a grade I' the mystery of humbug: well he may! For how you beat him! Half an hour ago, I held your master for my best of friends; And now I hate him! Four years since, you seemed My heart's one love: well, and you so remain! What 's he to you in craft?"

She looks him through.

"My friend, 't is just that friendship have its turn-- Interrogate thus me whom one, of foes The worst, has questioned and is answered by. Take you as frank an answer! answers both Begin alike so far, divergent soon World-wide--I own superiority Over you, over him. As him I searched, So do you stand seen through and through by me Who, this time, proud, report your crystal shrines A dewdrop, plain as amber prisons round A spider in the hollow heart his house! Nowise are you that thing my fancy feared When out you stepped on me, a minute since, --This man's confederate! no, you step not thus Obsequiously at beck and call to help At need some second scheme, and supplement Guile by force, use my shame to pinion me From struggle and escape! I fancied that! Forgive me! Only by strange chance,--most strange In even this strange world,--you enter now, Obtain your knowledge. Me you have not wronged Who never wronged you--least of all, my friend, That day beneath the College tower and trees, When I refused to say,--'_not friend, but love!_' Had I been found as free as air when first We met, I scarcely could have loved you. No-- For where was that in you which claimed return Of love? My eyes were all too weak to probe This other's seeming, but that seeming loved The soul in me, and lied--I know too late! While your truth was truth: and I knew at once My power was just my beauty--bear the word-- As I must bear, of all my qualities, To name the poorest one that serves my soul And simulates myself! So much in me You loved, I know: the something that 's beneath Heard not your call,--uncalled, no answer comes! For, since in every love, or soon or late, Soul must awake and seek out soul for soul, Yours, overlooking mine then, would, some day, Take flight to find some other; so it proved-- Missing me, you were ready for this man. I apprehend the whole relation: his-- The soul wherein you saw your type of worth At once, true object of your tribute. Well Might I refuse such half-heart's homage! Love Divining, had assured you I no more Stand his participant in infamy Than you--I need no love to recognize As simply dupe and nowise fellow-cheat! Therefore accept one last friend's-word,--your friend's, All men's friend, save a felon's. Ravel out The bad embroilment howsoe'er you may, Distribute as it please you praise or blame To me--so you but fling this mockery far-- Renounce this rag-and-feather hero-sham, This poodle clipt to pattern, lion-like! Throw him his thousands back, and lay to heart The lesson I was sent,--if man discerned Ever God's message,--just to teach. I judge-- To far another issue than could dream Your cousin,--younger, fairer, as befits-- Who summoned me to judgment's exercise. I find you, save in folly, innocent. And in my verdict lies your fate; at choice Of mine your cousin takes or leaves you. '_Take!_' I bid her--for you tremble back to truth! She turns the scale,--one touch of the pure hand Shall so press down, emprison past relapse Farther vibration 'twixt veracity-- That 's honest solid earth--and falsehood, theft And air, that 's one illusive emptiness! That reptile capture you? I conquered him: You saw him cower before me! Have no fear He shall offend you farther. Spare to spurn-- Safe let him slink hence till some subtler Eve Than I, anticipate the snake--bruise head Ere he bruise heel--or, warier than the first, Some Adam purge earth's garden of its pest Before the slaver spoil the Tree of Life!

"You! Leave this youth, as he leaves you, as I Leave each! There 's caution surely extant yet Though conscience in you were too vain a claim. Hence quickly! Keep the cash but leave unsoiled The heart I rescue and would lay to heal Beside another's! Never let her know How near came taint of your companionship!"

"Ah"--draws a long breath with a new strange look The man she interpellates--soul astir Under its covert, as, beneath the dust, A coppery sparkle all at once denotes The hid snake has conceived a purpose.

"Ah-- Innocence should be crowned with ignorance? Desirable indeed, but difficult! As if yourself, now, had not glorified Your helpmate by imparting him a hint Of how a monster made the victim bleed Ere crook and courage saved her--hint, I say,-- Not the whole horror,--that were needless risk,-- But just such inkling, fancy of the fact, As should suffice to qualify henceforth The shepherd, when another lamb would stray, For warning '_'Ware the wolf!_' No doubt at all, Silence is generosity,--keeps wolf Unhunted by flock's warder! Excellent, Did--generous to me, mean--just to him! But, screening the deceiver, lamb were found Outraging the deceitless! So,--he knows! And yet, unharmed I breathe--perchance, repent-- Thanks to the mercifully-politic!"

"Ignorance is not innocence but sin-- Witness yourself ignore what after-pangs Pursue the plague-infected. Merciful Am I? Perhaps! the more contempt, the less Hatred; and who so worthy of contempt As you that rest assured I cooled the spot I could not cure, by poisoning, forsooth, Whose hand I pressed there? Understand for once That, sick, of all the pains corroding me This burnt the last and nowise least--the need Of simulating soundness. I resolved-- No matter how the struggle tasked weak flesh-- To hide the truth away as in a grave From--most of all--my husband: he nor knows Nor ever shall be made to know your part, My part, the devil's part,--I trust, God's part In the foul matter. Saved, I yearn to save And not destroy: and what destruction like The abolishing of faith in him, that's faith In me as pure and true? Acquaint some child Who takes yon tree into his confidence, That, where he sleeps now, was a murder done, And that the grass which grows so thick, he thinks, Only to pillow him is product just Of what lies festering beneath! 'T is God Must bear such secrets and disclose them. Man? The miserable thing _I_ have become By dread acquaintance with my secret--_you_-- That thing had he become by learning _me_-- The miserable, whom his ignorance Would wrongly call the wicked: ignorance Being, I hold, sin ever, small or great. No, he knows nothing!"

"He and I alike Are bound to you for such discreetness, then. What if our talk should terminate awhile? Here is a gentleman to satisfy, Settle accounts with, pay ten thousand pounds Before we part--as, by his face, I fear, Results from your appearance on the scene. Grant me a minute's parley with my friend Which scarce admits of a third personage! The room from which you made your entry first So opportunely--still untenanted-- What if you please return there? Just a word To my young friend first--then, a word to you, And you depart to fan away each fly From who, grass-pillowed, sleeps so sound at home!"

"So the old truth comes back! A wholesome change,-- At last the altered eye, the rightful tone! But even to the truth that drops disguise And stands forth grinning malice which but now Whined so contritely--I refuse assent Just as to malice. I, once gone, come back? No, my lord! I enjoy the privilege Of being absolutely loosed from you Too much--the knowledge that your power is null Which was omnipotence. A word of mouth, A wink of eye would have detained me once, Body and soul your slave; and now, thank God, Your fawningest of prayers, your frightfulest Of curses--neither would avail to turn My footstep for a moment!"

"Prayer, then, tries No such adventure. Let us cast about For something novel in expedient: take Command,--what say you? I profess myself One fertile in resource. Commanding, then, I bid--not only wait there, but return Here, where I want you! Disobey and--good! On your own head the peril!"

"Come!" breaks in The boy with his good glowing face. "Shut up! None of this sort of thing while I stand here --Not to stand that! No bullying, I beg! I also am to leave you presently And never more set eyes upon your face-- You won't mind that much; but--I tell you frank-- I do mind having to remember this For your last word and deed--my friend who were! Bully a woman you have ruined, eh? Do you know,--I give credit all at once To all those stories everybody told And nobody but I would disbelieve: They all seem likely now,--nay, certain, sure! I daresay you did cheat at cards that night The row was at the Club: '_sauter la coupe_'-- That was your 'cut,' for which your friends 'cut' you; While I, the booby, 'cut'--acquaintanceship With who so much as laughed when I said '_luck!_' I daresay you had bets against the horse They doctored at the Derby; little doubt, That fellow with the sister found you shirk His challenge and did kick you like a ball, Just as the story went about! Enough: It only serves to show how well advised, Madam, you were in bidding such a fool As I, go hang. You see how the mere sight And sound of you suffice to tumble down Conviction topsy-turvy: no,--that 's false,-- There 's no unknowing what one knows; and yet Such is my folly that, in gratitude For ... well, I 'm stupid; but you seemed to wish I should know gently what I know, should slip Softly from old to new, not break my neck Between beliefs of what you were and are. Well then, for just the sake of such a wish To cut no worse a figure than needs must In even eyes like mine, I 'd sacrifice Body and soul! But don't think danger--pray!-- Menaces either! He do harm to us? Let me say 'us' this one time! You 'd allow I lent perhaps my hand to rid your ear Of some cur's yelping--hand that 's fortified, Into the bargain, with a horsewhip? Oh, One crack and you shall see how curs decamp!-- My lord, you know your losses and my gains. Pay me my money at the proper time! If cash be not forthcoming--well, yourself Have taught me, and tried often, I 'll engage, The proper course: I post you at the Club, Pillory the defaulter. Crack, to-day, Shall, slash, to-morrow, slice through flesh and bone! There, Madam, you need mind no cur, I think!"

"Ah, what a gain to have an apt no less Thou grateful scholar! Nay, he brings to mind My knowledge till he puts me to the blush, So long has it lain rusty! Post my name! That were indeed a wheal from whipcord! Whew! I wonder now if I could rummage out --Just to match weapons--some old scorpion-scourge! Madam, you hear my pupil, may applaud His triumph o'er the master. I--no more Bully, since I 'm forbidden: but entreat-- Wait and return--for my sake, no! but just To save your own defender, should he chance Get thwacked through awkward flourish of his thong. And what if--since all waiting 's weary work-- I help the time pass 'twixt your exit now And entry then? for--pastime proper--here 's The very thing, the Album, verse and prose To make the laughing minutes launch away! Each of us must contribute. I 'll begin-- '_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!_' I 'm confident I beat the bard,--for why? My young friend owns me an Iago--him Confessed, among the other qualities, A ready rhymer. Oh, he rhymed! Here goes! --Something to end with '_horsewhip!_' No, that rhyme Beats me; there 's '_cowslip_,' '_boltsprit_,' nothing else! So, Tennyson take my benison,--verse for bard, Prose suits the gambler's book best! Dared and done!"

Wherewith he dips pen, writes a line or two, Closes and clasps the cover, gives the book, Bowing the while, to her who hesitates, Turns half away, turns round again, at last Takes it as you touch carrion, then retires. The door shuts fast the couple.

VI

With a change Of his whole manner, opens out at once The Adversary.

"Now, my friend, for you! You who, protected late, aggressive grown, Brandish, it seems, a weapon I must 'ware! Plain speech in me becomes respectable Henceforth because courageous; plainly, then-- (Have lash well loose, hold handle tight and light!) Throughout my life's experience, you indulged Yourself and friend by passing in review So courteously but now, I vainly search To find one record of a specimen So perfect of the pure and simple fool As this you furnish me. Ingratitude I lump with folly,--all 's one lot,--so--fool! Did I seek you or you seek me? Seek? sneak For service to, and service you would style-- And did style--godlike, scarce an hour ago! Fool, there again, yet not precisely there First-rate in folly: since the hand you kissed Did pick you from the kennel, did plant firm Your footstep on the pathway, did persuade Your awkward shamble to true gait and pace, Fit for the world you walk in. Once a-strut On that firm pavement which your cowardice Was for renouncing as a pitfall, next Came need to clear your brains of their conceit They cleverly could distinguish who was who, Whatever folk might tramp the thoroughfare. Men, now--familiarly you read them off, Each phiz at first sight! Oh, you had an eye! Who couched it? made you disappoint each fox Eager to strip my gosling of his fluff So golden as he cackled 'Goose trusts lamb'? '_Ay, but I saved you--wolf defeated fox--_ _Wanting to pick your bones myself?_' then, wolf Has got the worst of it with goose for once. I, penniless, pay you ten thousand pounds (--No gesture, pray! I pay ere I depart!) And how you turn advantage to account Here 's the example! Have I proved so wrong In my peremptory '_debt must be discharged_'? Oh, you laughed lovelily, were loth to leave The old friend out at elbows, pooh, a thing Not to be thought of! I must keep my cash, And you forget your generosity! Ha ha! I took your measure when I laughed My laugh to that! First quarrel--nay, first faint Pretence at taking umbrage--'_Down with debt,_ _Both interest and principal!--The Club,_ _Exposure and expulsion!--stamp me out!_' That 's the magnanimous magnificent Renunciation of advantage! Well, But whence and why did you take umbrage, Sir? Because your master, having made you know Somewhat of men, was minded to advance, Expound you women, still a mystery! My pupil pottered with a cloud, on brow, A clod in breast: had loved, and vainly loved: Whence blight and blackness, just for all the world As Byron used to teach us boys. Thought I-- '_Quick rid him of that rubbish! Clear the cloud,_ _And set the heart a-pulsing!_'--heart, this time: 'T was nothing but the head I doctored late For ignorance of Man; now heart 's to dose, Palsied by over-palpitation due To Woman-worship--so, to work at once On first avowal of the patient's ache! This morning you described your malady,-- How you dared love a piece of virtue--lost To reason, as the upshot showed: for scorn Fitly repaid your stupid arrogance; And, parting, you went two ways, she resumed Her path--perfection, while forlorn you paced The world that 's made for beasts like you and me. My remedy was--tell the fool the truth! Your paragon of purity had plumped Into these arms at their first outspread--'_fallen_ _My victim_,' she prefers to turn the phrase-- And, in exchange for that frank confidence, Asked for my whole life present and to come-- Marriage: a thing uncovenanted for! Never so much as put in question! Life-- Implied by marriage--throw that trifle in And round the bargain off, no otherwise Than if, when we played cards, because you won My money you should also want my head! That, I demurred to: we but played '_for love_'-- She won my love; had she proposed for stakes, '_Marriage_,'--why, that 's for whist, a wiser game. Whereat she raved at me, as losers will, And went her way. So far the story 's known, The remedy 's applied, no farther--which Here 's the sick man's first _honorarium_ for-- Posting his medicine-monger at the Club! That being, Sir, the whole you mean my fee-- In gratitude for such munificence I 'm bound in common honesty to spare No droplet of the draught: so,--pinch your nose, Pull no wry faces!--drain it to the dregs! I say '_She went off_'--'_went off_,' you subjoin, '_Since not to wedded bliss, as I supposed,_ _Sure to some convent: solitude and peace_ _Help her to hide the shame from mortal view,_ _With prayer and fasting._' No, my sapient Sir! Far wiselier, straightway she betook herself To a prize-portent from the donkey-show Of leathern long-ears that compete for palm In clerical absurdity: since he, Good ass, nor practises the shaving-trick, The candle-crotchet, nonsense which repays When you 've young ladies congregant,--but schools The poor,--toils, moils, and grinds the mill, nor means To stop and munch one thistle in this life Till next life smother him with roses: just The parson for her purpose! Him she stroked Over the muzzle; into mouth with bit, And on to back with saddle,--there he stood, The serviceable beast who heard, believed And meekly bowed him to the burden,--borne Off in a canter to seclusion--ay, The lady 's lost! But had a friend of mine --While friend he was--imparted his sad case To sympathizing counsellor, full soon One cloud at least had vanished from his brow. '_Don't fear!_' had followed reassuringly-- _The lost will in due time turn up again,_ _Probably just when, weary of the world,_ _You think of nothing less than settling-down_ _To country life and golden days, beside_ _A dearest best and brightest virtuousest_ _Wife: who needs no more hope to hold her own_ _Against the naughty-and-repentant--no,_ _Than water-gruel against Roman punch!_' And as I prophesied, it proves! My youth,-- Just at the happy moment when, subdued To spooniness, he finds that youth fleets fast, That town-life tires, that men should drop boys'-play, That property, position have, no doubt, Their exigency with their privilege, And if the wealthy wed with wealth, how dire The double duty!--in, behold, there beams Our long-lost lady, form and face complete! And where 's my moralizing pupil now, Had not his master missed a train by chance? But, by your side instead of whirled away, How have I spoiled scene, stopped catastrophe, Struck flat the stage-effect I know by heart! Sudden and strange the meeting--improvised? Bless you, the last event she hoped or dreamed! But rude sharp stroke will crush out fire from flint-- Assuredly from flesh. '_'T is you?_' '_Myself!_' '_Changed?_' '_Changeless!_' '_Then, what's earth to me?_' '_To me_ _What 's heaven?_' '_So,--thine!_' '_And thine!_' '_And likewise mine!_' Had laughed '_Amen_' the devil, but for me Whose intermeddling hinders this hot haste, And bids you, ere concluding contract, pause-- Ponder one lesson more, then sign and seal At leisure and at pleasure,--lesson's price Being, if you have skill to estimate, --How say you?--I 'm discharged my debt in full! Since paid you stand, to farthing uttermost, Unless I fare like that black majesty A friend of mine had visit from last Spring. Coasting along the Cape-side, he 's becalmed Off an uncharted bay, a novel town Untouched at by the trader: here 's a chance! Out paddles straight the king in his canoe, Comes over bulwark, says he means to buy Ship's cargo--being rich and having brought A treasure ample for the purpose. See! Four dragons, stalwart blackies, guard the same Wrapped round and round: its hulls, a multitude,-- Palm-leaf and cocoa-mat and goat's-hair cloth All duly braced about with bark and board,-- Suggest how brave, 'neath coat, must kernel be! At length the peeling is accomplished, plain The casket opens out its core, and lo --A brand-new British silver sixpence--bid That 's ample for the Bank,--thinks majesty! You are the Captain; call my sixpence cracked Or copper; '_what I 've said is calumny;_ _The lady 's spotless!_' Then,--I 'll prove my words, Or make you prove them true as truth--yourself, Here, on the instant! I 'll not mince my speech, Things at this issue. When she enters, then, Make love to her! No talk of marriage now-- The point-blank bare proposal! Pick no phrase-- Prevent all misconception! Soon you 'll see How different the tactics when she deals With an instructed man, no longer boy Who blushes like a booby. Woman's wit! Man, since you have instruction, blush no more! Such your five minutes' profit by my pains, 'T is simply now,--demand and be possessed! Which means--you may possess--may strip the tree Of fruit desirable to make one wise! More I nor wish nor want: your act 's your act, My teaching is but--there 's the fruit to pluck Or let alone at pleasure. Next advance In knowledge were beyond you! Don't expect I bid a novice--pluck, suck, send sky-high Such fruit, once taught that neither crab nor sloe Falls readier prey to who but robs a hedge, Than this gold apple to my Hercules. Were you no novice but proficient--then, Then, truly, I might prompt you--Touch and taste, Try flavor and be tired as soon as I! Toss on the prize to greedy mouths agape, Betake yours, sobered as the satiate grow, To wise man's solid meal of house and land, Consols and cousin! but, my boy, my boy, Such lore 's above you!

Here 's the lady back! So, Madam, you have conned the Album-page And come to thank its last contributor? How kind and condescending! I retire A moment, lest I spoil the interview, And mar my own endeavor to make friends-- You with him, him with you, and both with me! If I succeed--permit me to inquire Five minutes hence! Friends bid good-by, you know."-- And out he goes.

VII

She, face, form, bearing, one Superb composure--

"He has told you all? Yes, he has told you all, your silence says-- What gives him, as he thinks, the mastery Over my body and my soul!--has told That instance, even, of their servitude He now exacts of me? A silent blush! That 's well, though better would white ignorance Beseem your brow, undesecrate before-- Ay, when I left you! I too learn at last --Hideously learned as I seemed so late-- What sin may swell to. Yes,--I needed learn That, when my prophet's rod became the snake I fled from, it would, one day, swallow up --Incorporate whatever serpentine Falsehood and treason and unmanliness Beslime earth's pavement: such the power of Hell, And so beginning, ends no otherwise The Adversary! I was ignorant, Blameworthy--if you will; but blame I take Nowise upon me as I ask myself --_You_--how can you, whose soul I seemed to read The limpid eyes through, have declined so deep, Even with him for consort? I revolve Much memory, pry into the looks and words Of that day's walk beneath the College wall, And nowhere can distinguish, in what gleams Only pure marble through my dusky past, A dubious cranny where such poison-seed Might harbor, nourish what should yield to-day This dread ingredient for the cup I drink. Do not I recognize and honor truth In seeming?--take your truth, and for return, Give you my truth, a no less precious gift? You loved me: I believed you. I replied --How could I other?--'_I was not my own_,' No longer had the eyes to see, the ears To hear, the mind to judge, since heart and soul Now were another's. My own right in me, For well or ill, consigned away--my face Fronted the honest path, deflection whence Had shamed me in the furtive backward look At the late bargain--fit such chapman's phrase!-- As though--less hasty and more provident-- Waiting had brought advantage. Not for me The chapman's chance! Yet while thus much was true, I spared you--as I knew you then--one more Concluding word which, truth no less, seemed best Buried away forever. Take it now, Its power to pain is past! Four years--that day-- Those limes that make the College avenue! I would that--friend and foe--by miracle, I had, that moment, seen into the heart Of either, as I now am taught to see! I do believe I should have straight assumed My proper function, and sustained a soul, --Nor aimed at being just sustained myself By some man's soul--the weaker woman's-want! So had I missed the momentary thrill Of finding me in presence of a god, But gained the god's own feeling when he gives Such thrill to what turns life from death before. '_Gods many and Lords many_,' says the Book: You would have yielded up your soul to me --Not to the false god who has burned its clay In his own image. I had shed my love Like Spring dew on the clod all flowery thence, Not sent up a wild vapor to the sun That drinks and then disperses. Both of us Blameworthy,--I first meet my punishment-- And not so hard to bear. I breathe again! Forth from those arms' enwinding leprosy At last I struggle--uncontaminate: Why must I leave _you_ pressing to the breast That 's all one plague-spot? Did you love me once? Then take love's last and best return! I think, Womanliness means only motherhood; All love begins and ends there,--roams enough, But, having run the circle, rests at home. Why is your expiation yet to make? Pull shame with your own hands from your own head Now,--never wait the slow envelopment Submitted to by unelastic age! One fierce throe frees the sapling: flake on flake Lull till they leave the oak snow-stupefied. Your heart retains its vital warmth--or why That blushing reassurance? Blush, young blood! Break from beneath this icy premature Captivity of wickedness--I warn Back, in God's name! No fresh encroachment here! This May breaks all to bud--no winter now! Friend, we are both forgiven! Sin no more! I am past sin now, so shall you become! Meanwhile I testify that, lying once, My foe lied ever, most lied last of all. He, waking, whispered to your sense asleep The wicked counsel,--and assent might seem; But, roused, your healthy indignation breaks The idle dream-pact. You would die--not dare Confirm your dream-resolve,--nay, find the word That fits the deed to bear the light of day! Say I have justly judged you! then farewell To blushing--nay, it ends in smiles, not tears! Why tears now? I have justly judged, thank God!"

He does blush boy-like, but the man speaks out, --Makes the due effort to surmount himself.

"I don't know what he wrote--how should I? Nor How he could read my purpose, which, it seems, He chose to somehow write--mistakenly Or else for mischief's sake. I scarce believe My purpose put before you fair and plain Would need annoy so much; but there's my luck-- From first to last I blunder. Still, one more Turn at the target, try to speak my thought! Since he could guess my purpose, won't you read Right what he set down wrong? He said--let 's think! Ay, so!--he did begin by telling heaps Of tales about you. Now, you see--suppose Any one told me--my own mother died Before I knew her--told me--to his cost!-- Such tales about my own dead mother: why, You would not wonder surely if I knew, By nothing but my own heart's help, he lied, Would you? No reason 's wanted in the case. So with you! In they burnt on me, his tales, Much as when madhouse-inmates crowd around, Make captive any visitor and scream All sorts of stories of their keeper--he 's Both dwarf and giant, vulture, wolf, dog, cat, Serpent and scorpion, yet man all the same; Sane people soon see through the gibberish! I just made out, you somehow lived somewhere A life of shame--I can't distinguish more-- Married or single--how, don't matter much: Shame which himself had caused--that point was clear, That fact confessed--that thing to hold and keep. Oh, and he added some absurdity --That you were here to make me--ha, ha, ha!-- Still love you, still of mind to die for you, Ha, ha--as if that needed mighty pains! Now, foolish as ... but never mind myself; --What I am, what I am not, in the eye Of the world, is what I never cared for much. Fool then or no fool, not one single word In the whole string of lies did I believe, But this--this only--if I choke, who cares?-- I believe somehow in your purity Perfect as ever! Else what use is God? He is God, and work miracles he can! Then, what shall I do? Quite as clear, my course! They 've got a thing they call their Labyrinth I' the garden yonder: and my cousin played A pretty trick once, led and lost me deep Inside the briery maze of hedge round hedge; And there might I be staying now, stock-still, But that I laughing bade eyes follow nose And so straight pushed my path through let and stop And soon was out in the open, face all scratched, But well behind my back the prison-bars In sorry plight enough, I promise you! So here: I won my way to truth through lies-- Said, as I saw light,--if her shame be shame I 'll rescue and redeem her,--shame 's no shame? Then, I 'll avenge, protect--redeem myself The stupidest of sinners! Here I stand! Dear,--let me once dare call you so,--you said, Thus ought you to have done, four years ago, Such things and such! Ay, dear, and what ought I? You were revealed to me: where 's gratitude, Where 's memory even, where the gain of you Discernible in my low after-life Of fancied consolation? why, no horse Once fed on corn, will, missing corn, go munch Mere thistles like a donkey! I missed you, And in your place found--him, made him my love, Ay, did I,--by this token, that he taught So much beast-nature that I meant ... God knows Whether I bow me to the dust enough! .. To marry--yes, my cousin here! I hope That was a master-stroke! Take heart of hers, And give her hand of mine with no more heart Than now you see upon this brow I strike! What atom of a heart do I retain Not all yours? Dear, you know it! Easily May she accord me pardon when I place My brow beneath her foot, if foot so deign, Since uttermost indignity is spared-- Mere marriage and no love! And all this time Not one word to the purpose! Are you free? Only wait! only let me serve--deserve Where you appoint and how you see the good! I have the will--perhaps the power--at least Means that have power against the world. For time-- Take my whole life for your experiment! If you are bound--in marriage, say--why, still, Still, sure, there 's something for a friend to do, Outside? A mere well-wisher, understand! I 'll sit, my life long, at your gate, you know, Swing it wide open to let you and him Pass freely,--and you need not look, much less Fling me a '_Thank you--are you there, old friend?_' Don't say that even: I should drop like shot! So I feel now at least: some day, who knows? After no end of weeks and months and years You might smile '_I believe you did your best!_' And that shall make my heart leap--leap such leap As lands the feet in Heaven to wait you there! Ah, there 's just one thing more! How pale you look! Why? Are you angry? If there 's, after all, Worst come to worst--if still there somehow be The shame--I said was no shame,--none, I swear!-- In that case, if my hand and what it holds,-- My name,--might be your safeguard now--at once-- Why, here 's the hand--you have the heart! Of course-- No cheat, no binding you, because I'm bound, To let me off probation by one day, Week, month, year, lifetime! Prove as you propose! Here 's the hand with the name to take or leave! That 's all--and no great piece of news, I hope!"

"Give me the hand, then!" she cries hastily. "Quick, now! I hear his footstep!"

Hand in hand The couple face him as he enters, stops Short, stands surprised a moment, laughs away Surprise, resumes the much-experienced man.

"So, you accept him?"

"Till us death do part!"

"No longer? Come, that 's right and rational! I fancied there was power in common sense, But did not know it worked thus promptly. Well-- At last each understands the other, then? Each drops disguise, then? So, at supper-time These masquerading people doff their gear, Grand Turk his pompous turban, Quakeress Her stiff-starched bib and tucker,--make-believe That only bothers when, ball-business done, Nature demands champagne and _mayonnaise_. Just so has each of us sage three abjured His and her moral pet particular Pretension to superiority, And, cheek by jowl, we henceforth munch and joke! Go, happy pair, paternally dismissed To live and die together--for a month, Discretion can award no more! Depart From whatsoe'er the calm sweet solitude Selected--Paris not improbably-- At month's end, when the honeycomb 's left wax, --You, daughter, with a pocketful of gold Enough to find your village boys and girls In duffel cloaks and hobnailed shoes from May To--what 's the phrase?--Christmas-come-never-mas! You, son and heir of mine, shall reappear Ere Spring-time, that 's the ring-time, lose one leaf, And--not without regretful smack of lip The while you wipe it free of honey-smear-- Marry the cousin, play the magistrate, Stand for the county, prove perfection's pink-- Master of hounds, gay-coated dine--nor die Sooner than needs of gout, obesity, And sons at Christ Church! As for me,--ah me, I abdicate--retire on my success, Four years well occupied in teaching youth --My son and daughter the exemplary! Time for me to retire now, having placed Proud on their pedestal the pair: in turn, Let them do homage to their master! You,-- Well, your flushed cheek and flashing eye proclaim Sufficiently your gratitude: you paid The _honorarium_, the ten thousand pounds To purpose, did you not? I told you so! And you,--but, bless me, why so pale--so faint At influx of good fortune? Certainly, No matter how or why or whose the fault, I save your life--save it, nor less nor more! You blindly were resolved to welcome death In that black boor-and-bumpkin-haunted hole Of his, the prig with all the preachments! _You_ Installed as nurse and matron to the crones And wenches, while there lay a world outside Like Paris (which again I recommend), In company and guidance of--first, this, Then--all in good time--some new friend as fit-- What if I were to say, some fresh myself, As I once figured? Each dog has his day, And mine 's at sunset: what should old dog do But eye young litters' frisky puppyhood? Oh, I shall watch this beauty and this youth Frisk it in brilliance! But don't fear! Discreet, I shall pretend to no more recognize My quondam pupils than the doctor nods When certain old acquaintances may cross His path in Park, or sit down prim beside His plate at dinner-table: tip nor wink Scares patients he has put, for reason good, Under restriction,--maybe, talked sometimes Of douche or horsewhip to,--for why? because The gentleman would crazily declare His best friend was--Iago! Ay, and worse-- The lady, all at once grown lunatic, In suicidal monomania vowed, To save her soul, she needs must starve herself! They 're cured now, both, and I tell nobody. Why don't you speak? Nay, speechless, each of you Can spare--without unclasping plighted troth-- At least one hand to shake! Left-hands will do-- Yours first, my daughter! Ah, it guards--it gripes The precious Album fast--and prudently! As well obliterate the record there On page the last: allow me tear the leaf! Pray, now! And afterward, to make amends, What if all three of us contribute each A line to that prelusive fragment,--help The embarrassed bard who broke out to break down Dumfoundered at such unforeseen success? '_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot_' You begin--_place aux dames!_ I 'll prompt you then! '_Here do I take the good the gods allot!_' Next you, Sir! What, still sulky? Sing, O Muse! '_Here does my lord in full discharge his shot!_' Now for the crowning flourish! mine shall be" ...

"Nothing to match your first effusion, mar What was, is, shall remain your masterpiece! Authorship has the alteration-itch! No, I protest against erasure. Read, My friend!" (she gasps out). "Read and quickly read '_Before us death do part_,' what made you mine And made me yours--the marriage-license here! Decide if he is like to mend the same!"

And so the lady, white to ghastliness, Manages somehow to display the page With left-hand only, while the right retains The other hand, the young man's,--dreaming-drunk He, with this drench of stupefying stuff, Eyes wide, mouth open,--half the idiot's stare And half the prophet's insight,--holding tight, All the same, by his one fact in the world-- The lady's right-hand: he but seems to read-- Does not, for certain; yet, how understand Unless he reads?

So, understand he does, For certain. Slowly, word by word, _she_ reads Aloud that license--or that warrant, say.

"_One against two--and two that urge their odds_ _To uttermost--I needs must try resource!_ _Madam, I laid me prostrate, bade you spurn_ _Body and soul: you spurned and safely spurned_ _So you had spared me the superfluous taunt_ _'Prostration means no power to stand erect,_ _Stand, trampling on who trampled--prostrate now!'_ _So, with my other fool-foe: I was fain_ _Let the boy touch me with the buttoned foil._ _And him the infection gains, he too must needs_ _Catch up the butcher's cleaver. Be it so!_ _Since play turns earnest, here 's my serious fence._ _He loves you; he demands your love: both know_ _What love means in my language. Love him then!_ _Pursuant to a pact, love pays my debt:_ _Therefore, deliver me from him, thereby_ _Likewise delivering from me yourself!_ _For, hesitate--much more, refuse consent--_ _I tell the whole truth to your husband. Flat_ _Cards lie on table, in our gamester-phrase!_ _Consent--you stop my mouth, the only way._"

"I did well, trusting instinct: knew your hand Had never joined with his in fellowship Over this pact of infamy. You known-- As he was known through every nerve of me. Therefore I '_stopped his mouth the only way_' But _my_ way! none was left for you, my friend-- The loyal--near, the loved one! No--no--no! Threaten? Chastise? The coward would but quail. Conquer who can, the cunning of the snake! Stamp out his slimy strength from tail to head, And still you leave vibration of the tongue. His malice had redoubled--not on me Who, myself, choose my own refining fire-- But on poor unsuspicious innocence; And,--victim,--to turn executioner Also--that feat effected, forky tongue Had done indeed its office! Once snake's '_mouth_' Thus '_open_'--how could mortal '_stop it_'?"

"So!"

A tiger-flash--yell, spring, and scream: halloo! Death 's out and on him, has and holds him--ugh! But _ne trucidet coram populo_ _Juvenis senem!_ Right the Horatian rule!

There, see how soon a quiet comes to pass!

VIII

The youth is somehow by the lady's side. His right-hand grasps her right-hand once again. Both gaze on the dead body. Hers the word.

"And that was good but useless. Had I lived, The danger was to dread: but, dying now-- Himself would hardly become talkative, Since talk no more means torture. Fools--what fools These wicked men are! Had I borne four years, Four years of weeks and months and days and nights, Inured me to the consciousness of life Coiled round by his life, with the tongue to ply,-- But that I bore about me, for prompt use At urgent need, the thing that '_stops the mouth_' And stays the venom? Since such need was now Or never,--how should use not follow need? Bear witness for me, I withdraw from life By virtue of the license--warrant, say, That blackens yet this Album--white again, Thanks still to my one friend who tears the page! Now, let me write the line of supplement, As counselled by my foe there: '_each a line!_'"

And she does falteringly write to end.

"_I die now through the villain who lies dead,_ _Righteously slain. He would have outraged me,_ _So, my defender slew him. God protect_ _The right! Where wrong lay, I bear witness now._ _Let man believe me, whose last breath is spent_ _In blessing my defender from my soul!_"

And so ends the Inn Album.

As she dies, Begins outside a voice that sounds like song, And is indeed half song though meant for speech Muttered in time to motion--stir of heart That unsubduably must bubble forth To match the fawn-step as it mounts the stair.

"All 's ended and all 's over! Verdict found '_Not guilty_'--prisoner forthwith set free, 'Mid cheers the Court pretends to disregard! Now Portia, now for Daniel, late severe. At last appeased, benignant! '_This young man--_ _Hem--has the young man's foibles but no fault._ _He 's virgin soil--a friend must cultivate._ _I think no plant called "love" grows wild--a friend_ _May introduce, and name the bloom, the fruit!_' Here somebody dares wave a handkerchief-- She 'll want to hide her face with presently! Good-by then! '_Cigno fedel, cigno fedel,_ _Addio!_' Now, was ever such mistake-- Ever such foolish ugly omen? Pshaw! Wagner, beside! '_Amo te solo, te_ _Solo amai!_' That 's worth fifty such! But, mum, the grave face at the opened door!"

And so the good gay girl, with eyes and cheeks Diamond and damask,--cheeks so white erewhile Because of a vague fancy, idle fear Chased on reflection!--pausing, taps discreet; And then, to give herself a countenance, Before she comes upon the pair inside, Loud--the oft-quoted, long-laughed-over line-- "'_Hail, calm acclivity, salubrious spot!_' Open the door!"

No: let the curtain fall!

PACCHIAROTTO

AND

HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER

WITH OTHER POEMS

PROLOGUE

Oh, 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 loth, In lappets of tangle they laugh between.

Now, what is it makes pulsate the robe? Why tremble the sprays? What life o'erbrims 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--

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

OF PACCHIAROTTO, AND HOW HE WORKED IN DISTEMPER

I

Query: was ever a quainter Crotchet than this of the painter Giacomo Pacchiarotto Who took "Reform" for his motto?

II

He, pupil of old Fungaio, Is always confounded (heigho!) With Pacchia, contemporaneous No question, but how extraneous In the grace of soul, the power Of hand,--undoubted dower Of Pacchia who decked (as _we_ know, My Kirkup!) San Bernardino, Turning the small dark Oratory To Siena's Art-laboratory, As he made its straitness roomy And glorified its gloomy, With Bazzi and Beccafumi. (Another heigho for Bazzi: How people miscall him Razzi!)

III

This Painter was of opinion Our earth should be his dominion Whose Art could correct to pattern What Nature had slurred--the slattern! And since, beneath the heavens, Things lay now at sixes and sevens, Or, as he said, _sopra-sotto_-- Thought the painter Pacchiarotto Things wanted reforming, therefore. "Wanted it"--ay, but wherefore? When earth held one so ready As he to step forth, stand steady In the middle of God's creation And prove to demonstration What the dark is, what the light is, What the wrong is, what the right is, What the ugly, what the beautiful, What the restive, what the dutiful, In Mankind profuse around him? Man, devil as now he found him, Would presently soar up angel At the summons of such evangel, And owe--what would Man _not_ owe To the painter Pacchiarotto? Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!

IV

But Man, he perceived, was stubborn, Grew regular brute, once cub born; And it struck him as expedient-- Ere he tried, to make obedient The wolf, fox, bear, and monkey By piping advice in one key,-- That his pipe should play a prelude To something heaven-tinged not hell-hued, Something not harsh but docile, Man-liquid, not Man-fossil-- Not fact, in short, but fancy. By a laudable necromancy He would conjure up ghosts--a circle Deprived of the means to work ill Should his music prove distasteful And pearls to the swine go wasteful. To be rent of swine--that _was_ hard! With fancy he ran no hazard: Pact might knock him o'er the mazard.

V

So, the painter Pacchiarotto Constructed himself a grotto In the quarter of Stalloreggi-- As authors of note allege ye. And on each of the whitewashed sides of it He painted--(none far and wide so fit As he to perform in fresco)-- He painted nor cried _quiesco_ Till he peopled its every square foot With Man--from the Beggar barefoot To the Noble in cap and feather; All sorts and conditions together. The Soldier in breastplate and helmet Stood frowningly--hail fellow well met-- By the Priest armed with bell, book, and candle. Nor did he omit to handle The Fair Sex, our brave distemperer: Not merely King, Clown, Pope, Emperor-- He diversified too his Hades Of all forms, pinched Labor and paid Ease, With as mixed an assemblage of Ladies.

VI

Which work done, dry,--he rested him, Cleaned palette, washed brush, divested him Of the apron that suits _frescanti_, And, bonnet on ear stuck jaunty, This hand upon hip well planted, That, free to wave as it wanted, He addressed in a choice oration His folk of each name and nation, Taught its duty to every station. The Pope was declared an arrant Impostor at once, I warrant. The Emperor--truth might tax him With ignorance of the maxim "Shear sheep but nowise flay them!" And the Vulgar that obey them, The Ruled, well-matched with the Ruling, They failed not of wholesome schooling On their knavery and their fooling. As for Art--where 's decorum? Pooh-poohed it is By Poets that plague us with lewd ditties, And Painters that pester with nudities!

VII

Now, your rater and debater Is balked by a mere spectator Who simply stares and listens Tongue-tied, while eye nor glistens Nor brow grows hot and twitchy, Nor mouth, for a combat itchy, Quivers with some convincing Reply--that sets him wincing? Nay, rather--reply that furnishes Your debater with just what burnishes The crest of him, all one triumph, As you see him rise, hear him cry "Humph! Convinced am I? This confutes me? Receive the rejoinder that suits me! Confutation of vassal for prince meet-- Wherein all the powers that convince meet, And mash my opponent to mincemeat!"

VIII

So, off from his head flies the bonnet, His hip loses hand planted on it, While t' other hand, frequent in gesture, Slinks modestly back beneath vesture, As--hop, skip and jump,--he 's along with Those weak ones he late proved so strong with! Pope, Emperor, lo, he 's beside them, Friendly now, who late could not abide them, King, Clown, Soldier, Priest, Noble, Burgess; And his voice, that out-roared Boanerges, How minikin-mildly it urges In accents how gentled and gingered Its word in defence of the injured! "Oh, call him not culprit, this Pontiff! Be hard on this Kaiser ye won't if Ye take into con-si-der-ation What dangers attend elevation! The Priest--who expects him to descant On duty with more zeal and less cant? He preaches but rubbish he 's reared in. The Soldier, grown deaf (by the mere din Of battle) to mercy, learned tippling And what not of vice while a stripling. The Lawyer--his lies are conventional. And as for the Poor Sort--why mention all Obstructions that leave barred and bolted Access to the brains of each dolt-head?"

IX

He ended, you wager? Not half! A bet? Precedence to males in the alphabet! Still, disposed of Man's A B C, there 's X Y Z want assistance,--the Fair Sex! How much may be said in excuse of Those vanities--males see no use of-- From silk shoe on heel to laced poll's-hood! What 's their frailty beside our own falsehood? The boldest, most brazen of ... trumpets, How kind can they be to their dumb pets! Of their charms--how are most frank, how few venal! While as for those charges of Juvenal-- _Quæ nemo dixisset in toto_ _Nisi (ædepol) ore illoto_-- He dismissed every charge with an "_Apage!_"

X

Then, cocking (in Scotch phrase) his cap a-gee, Right hand disengaged from the doublet --Like landlord, in house he had sublet Resuming of guardianship gestion, To call tenants' conduct in question-- Hop, skip, jump, to inside from outside Of chamber, he lords, ladies, louts eyed With such transformation of visage As fitted the censor of this age. No longer an advocate tepid Of frailty, but champion intrepid Of strength,--not of falsehood but verity,-- He, one after one, with asperity Stripped bare all the cant-clothed abuses, Disposed of sophistic excuses, Forced folly each shift to abandon, And left vice with no leg to stand on. So crushing the force he exerted, That Man at his foot lay converted!

XI

True--Man bred of paint-pot and mortar! But why suppose folks of this sort are More likely to hear and be tractable Than folks all alive and, in fact, able To testify promptly by action Their ardor, and make satisfaction For misdeeds _non verbis sed factis?_ "With folks all alive be my practice Henceforward! O mortar, paint-pot O, Farewell to ye!" cried Pacchiarotto, "Let only occasion intérpose!"

XII

It did so: for, pat to the purpose Through causes I need not examine, There fell upon Siena a famine. In vain did the magistrates busily Seek succor, fetch grain out of Sicily, Nay, throw mill and bakehouse wide open-- Such misery followed as no pen Of mine shall depict ye. Faint, fainter Waxed hope of relief: so, our painter, Emboldened by triumph of recency, How could he do other with decency Than rush in this strait to the rescue, Play schoolmaster, point as with fescue To each and all slips in Man's spelling The law of the land?--slips now telling With monstrous effect on the city, Whose magistrates moved him to pity As, bound to read law to the letter, They minded their hornbook, no better.

XIII

I ought to have told you, at starting, How certain, who itched to be carting Abuses away clean and thorough From Siena, both province and borough, Had formed themselves into a company Whose swallow could bolt in a lump any Obstruction of scruple, provoking The nicer throat's coughing and choking: Fit Club, by as fit a name dignified Of "Freed Ones"--"_Bardotti_"--which signified "Spare-Horses" that walk by the wagon The team has to drudge for and drag on. This notable Club Pacchiarotto Had joined long since, paid scot and lot to, As free and accepted "Bardotto." The Bailiwick watched with no quiet eye The outrage thus done to society, And noted the advent especially Of Pacchiarotto their fresh ally.

XIV

These Spare-Horses forthwith assembled: Neighed words whereat citizens trembled As oft as the chiefs, in the Square by The Duomo, proposed a way whereby The city were cured of disaster. "Just substitute servant for master, Make Poverty Wealth and Wealth Poverty, Unloose Man from overt and covert tie, And straight out of social confusion True Order would spring!" Brave illusion-- Aims heavenly attained by means earthy!

XV

Off to these at full speed rushed our worthy,-- Brain practised and tongue no less tutored, In argument's armor accoutred,-- Sprang forth, mounted rostrum, and essayed Proposals like those to which "Yes" said So glibly each personage painted O' the wall-side where with you 're acquainted. He harangued on the faults of the Bailiwick: "Red soon were our State-candle's paly wick, If wealth would become but interfluous, Fill voids up with just the superfluous; If ignorance gave way to knowledge --Not pedantry picked up at college From Doctors, Professors _et cætera_-- (_They_ say: '_kai ta loipa_'--like better a Long Greek string of _kappas_, _taus_, _lambdas_, Tacked on to the tail of each damned ass)-- No knowledge we want of this quality, But knowledge indeed--practicality Through insight's fine universality! If you shout '_Bailiffs, out on ye all! Fie,_ _Thou Chief of our forces, Amalfi,_ _Who shieldest the rogue and the clotpoll!_' If you pounce on and poke out, with what pole I leave ye to fancy, our Siena's Beast-litter of sloths and hyenas--" (Whoever to scan this is ill able Forgets the town's name 's a dissyllable)-- "If, this done, ye did--as ye might--place For once the right man in the right place, If you listened to me" ...

XVI

At which last "If" There flew at his throat like a mastiff One Spare-Horse--another and another! Such outbreak of tumult and pother, Horse-faces a-laughing and fleering, Horse-voices a-mocking and jeering, Horse-hands raised to collar the caitiff Whose impudence ventured the late "If"-- That, had not fear sent Pacchiarotto Off tramping, as fast as could trot toe, Away from the scene o£ discomfiture-- Had he stood there stock-still in a dumb fit--sure Am I he had paid in his person Till his mother might fail to know her son, Though she gazed on him never so wistful, In the figure so tattered and tristful. Each mouth full of curses, each fist full Of cuffings--behold, Pacchiarotto, The pass which thy project has got to, Of trusting, nigh ashes still hot--tow! (The paraphrase--which I much need--is From Horace "_per ignes incedis_.")

XVII

Right and left did he dash helter-skelter In agonized search of a shelter. No purlieu so blocked and no alley So blind as allowed him to rally His spirits and see--nothing hampered His steps if he trudged and not scampered Up here and down there in a city That 's all ups and downs, more the pity For folks who would outrun the constable. At last he stopped short at the one stable And sure place of refuge that 's offered Humanity. Lately was coffered A corpse in its sepulchre, situate By St. John's Observance. "Habituate Thyself to the strangest of bedfellows, And, kicked by the live, kiss the dead fellows!" So Misery counselled the craven. At once he crept safely to haven Through a hole left unbricked in the structure. Ay, Misery, in have you tucked your Poor client and left him conterminous With--pah!--the thing fetid and verminous! (I gladly would spare you the detail, But History writes what I retail.)

XVIII

Two days did he groan in his domicile: "Good Saints, set me free and I promise I 'll Abjure all ambition of preaching Change, whether to minds touched by teaching --The smooth folk of fancy, mere figments Created by plaster and pigments,-- Or to minds that receive with such rudeness Dissuasion from pride, greed and lewdness, --The rough folk of fact, life's true specimens Of mind--'_hand in posse sed esse mens_' As it was, is, and shall be forever Despite of my utmost endeavor. O live foes I thought to illumine, Henceforth lie untroubled your gloom in! I need my own light, every spark, as I couch with this sole friend--a carcase!"

XIX

Two days thus he maundered and rambled; Then, starved back to sanity, scrambled From out his receptacle loathsome. "A spectre!"--declared upon oath some Who saw him _emerge_ and (appalling To mention) his garments a-crawling With plagues far beyond the Egyptian. He gained, in a state past description, A convent of months, the Observancy.

XX

Thus far is a fact: I reserve fancy For Fancy's more proper employment: And now she waves wing with enjoyment, To tell ye how preached the Superior, When somewhat our painter's exterior Was sweetened. He needed (no mincing The matter) much soaking and rinsing, Nay, rubbing with drugs odoriferous, Till, rid of his garments pestiferous, And, robed by the help of the Brotherhood In odds and ends,--this _gown_ and t' other hood,-- His empty inside first well-garnished,-- He delivered a tale round, unvarnished.

XXI

"Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment, "Thine error scarce moves my astonishment. For--why shall I shrink from asserting?-- Myself have had hopes of converting The foolish to wisdom, till, sober, My life found its May grow October. I talked and I wrote, but, one morning, Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning: '_Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be!_ _Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be._' Man's work is to labor and leaven-- As best he may--earth here with heaven; 'T is work for work's sake that he 's needing: Let, him work on and on as if speeding Work's end, but not dream of succeeding! Because if success were intended, Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended. A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse, Or--what 's the plain truth--just a mill-horse! Earth 's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers: A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging At what don't advance for their tugging. Though round goes the mill, we must still post On and on as if moving the mill-post. So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise, Do all that we can to make men wise! And if men prefer to be foolish, Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish: Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper, And worked as the Master thought proper. Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot; Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot! But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot? Though cured of thy plague, there may linger A pimple I fray with rough finger? So soon could my homily transmute Thy brass into gold? Why, the man 's mute!"

XXII

"Ay, Father, I 'm mute with admiring How Nature's indulgence untiring Still bids us turn deaf ear to Reason's Best rhetoric--clutch at all seasons And hold fast to what 's proved untenable! Thy maxim is--Man 's not amenable To argument: whereof by consequence-- Thine arguments reach me: a non-sequence! Yet blush not discouraged, O Father! I stand unconverted, the rather That nowise I need a conversion. No live man (I cap thy assertion) By argument ever could take hold Of me. 'T was the dead thing, the clay-cold, Which grinned '_Art thou so in a hurry_ _That out of warm light thou must scurry_ _And join me down here in the dungeon_ _Because, above, one 's Jack and one--John,_ _One 's swift in the race, one--a hobbler,_ _One 's a crowned king and one--a capped cobbler,_ _Rich and poor, sage and fool, virtuous, vicious?_ _Why complain? Art thou so unsuspicious_ _That all 's for an hour of essaying_ _Who 's fit and who 's unfit for playing_ _His part in the after-construction_ _--Heaven's Piece whereof Earth 's the Induction?_ _Things rarely go smooth at Rehearsal._ _Wait patient the change universal,_ _And act, and let act, in existence!_ _For, as thou art clapped hence or hissed hence,_ _Thou hast thy promotion or otherwise._ _And why must wise thou have thy brother wise_ _Because in rehearsal thy cue be_ _To shine by the side of a booby?_ _No polishing garnet to ruby!_ _All 's well that ends well--through Art's magic._ _Some end, whether comic or tragic,_ _The Artist has purposed, be certain!_ _Explained at the fall of the curtain--_ _In showing thy wisdom at odds with_ _That folly: he tries men and gods with_ _No problem for weak wits to solve meant,_ _But one worth such Author's evolvement._ _So, back nor disturb play's production_ _By giving thy brother instruction_ _To throw up his fool's-part allotted!_ _Lest haply thyself prove besotted_ _When stript, for thy pains, of that costume_ _Of sage, which has bred the imposthume_ _I prick to relieve thee of,--Vanity!_'

XXIII

"So, Father, behold me in sanity! I 'm back to the palette and mahlstick: And as for Man--let each and all stick To what was prescribed them at starting! Once planted as fools--no departing From folly one inch, _sæculorum_ _In sæcula!_ Pass me the jorum, And push me the platter--my stomach Retains, through its fasting, still some ache-- And then, with your kind _Benedicite_, Good-by!"

XXIV

I have told with simplicity My tale, dropped those harsh analytics, And tried to content you, my critics, Who greeted my early uprising! I knew you through all the disguising, Droll dogs, as I jumped up, cried "Heyday! This Monday is--what else but May-day? And these in the drabs, blues, and yellows, Are surely the privileged fellows. So, saltbox and bones, tongs and bellows!" (I threw up the window) "Your pleasure?"

XXV

Then he who directed the measure-- An old friend--put leg forward nimbly, "We critics as sweeps out your chimbly! Much soot to remove from your flue, sir! Who spares coal in kitchen an't you, sir! And neighbors complain it 's no joke, sir, --You ought to consume your own smoke, sir!"

XXVI

Ah, rogues, but my housemaid suspects you-- Is confident oft she detects you In bringing more filth into my house Than ever you found there! I 'm pious, However: 't was God made you dingy And me--with no need to be stingy Of soap, when 't is sixpence the packet. So, dance away, boys, dust my jacket, Bang drum and blow fife--ay, and rattle Your brushes, for that 's half the battle! Don't trample the grass,--hocus-pocus With grime my Spring snowdrop and crocus,-- And, what with your rattling and tinkling, Who knows but you give me an inkling How music sounds, thanks to the jangle Of regular drum and triangle? Whereby, tap-tap, chink-chink, 't is proven I break rule as bad as Beethoven. "That chord now--a groan or a grunt is 't? Schumann's self was no worse contrapuntist. No ear! or if ear, so tough-gristled-- He thought that he sung while he whistled!"

XXVII

So, this time I whistle, not sing at all, My story, the largess I fling at all And every the rough there whose _aubade_ Did its best to amuse me,--nor _so_ bad! Take my thanks, pick up largess, and scamper Off free, ere your mirth gets a damper! You 've Monday, your one day, your fun-day, While mine is a year that 's all Sunday. I 've seen you, times--who knows how many?-- Dance in here, strike up, play the zany, Make mouths at the Tenant, hoot warning You 'll find him decamped next May-morning; Then scuttle away, glad to 'scape hence With--kicks? no, but laughter and ha'pence! Mine 's freehold, by grace of the grand Lord Who lets out the ground here,--my landlord: To him I pay quit-rent--devotion; Nor hence shall I budge, I 've a notion, Nay, here shall my whistling and singing Set all his street's echoes a-ringing Long after the last of your number Has ceased my front-court to encumber While, treading down rose and ranunculus, You _Tommy-make-room-for-your-Uncle_ us! Troop, all of you--man or homunculus, Quick march! for Xanthippe, my housemaid, If once on your pates she a souse made With what, pan or pot, bowl or _skoramis_, First comes to her hand--things were more amiss! I would not for worlds be your place in-- Recipient of slops from the basin! You, Jack-in-the-Green, leaf-and-twiggishness Won't save a dry thread on your priggishness! While as for Quilp-Hop-o'-my-thumb there, Banjo-Byron that twangs the strum-strum there-- He 'll think as the pickle he curses, I 've discharged on his pate his own verses! "Dwarfs are saucy," says Dickens: so, sauced in Your own sauce,[5] ...

XXVIII

But, back to my Knight of the Pencil, Dismissed to his fresco and stencil! Whose story--begun with a chuckle, And throughout timed by raps of the knuckle,-- To small enough purpose were studied If it ends with crown cracked or nose bloodied. Come, critics,--not shake hands, excuse me! But--say have you grudged to amuse me This once in the forty-and-over Long years since you trampled my clover And scared from my house-eaves each sparrow I never once harmed by that arrow Of song, _karterotaton belos_, (Which Pindar declares the true _melos_,) I was forging and filing and finishing, And no whit my labors diminishing Because, though high up in a chamber Where none of your kidney may clamber Your hullabaloo would approach me? Was it "grammar" wherein you would "coach" me-- You,--pacing in even that paddock Of language allotted you _ad hoc_, With a clog at your fetlocks,--you--scorners Of me free of all its four corners? Was it "clearness of words which convey thought"? Ay, if words never needed enswathe aught But ignorance, impudence, envy And malice--what word-swathe would then vie With yours for a clearness crystalline? But had you to put in one small line Some thought big and bouncing--as noddle Of goose, born to cackle and waddle And bite at man's heel as goose-wont is, Never felt plague its puny _os frontis_-- You 'd know, as you hissed, spat and sputtered, Clear cackle is easily uttered!

XXIX

Lo, I 've laughed out my laugh on this mirth-day! Beside, at week's end, dawns my birthday, That _hebdome, hieron emar_-- (More things in a day than you deem are!) --_Tei gar Apollona chrusaora_ _Egeinato Leto._ So, gray or ray Betide me, six days hence, I 'm vexed here By no sweep, that 's certain, till next year! "Vexed?"--roused from what else were insipid ease! Leave snoring abed to Pheidippides! We 'll up and work! won't we, Euripides?

AT THE "MERMAID"

The figure that thou here seest ... Tut! Was it for gentle Shakespeare put? B. JONSON. (_Adapted._)

I--"Next Poet?" No, my hearties, I nor am nor fain would be! Choose your chiefs and pick your parties, Not one soul revolt to me! I, forsooth, sow song-sedition? I, a schism in verse provoke? I, blown up by bard's ambition, Burst--your bubble-king? You joke.

Come, be grave! The sherris mantling Still about each mouth, mayhap, Breeds you insight--just a scantling-- Brings me truth out--just a scrap. Look and tell me! Written, spoken, Here 's my life-long work: and where --Where 's your warrant or my token I 'm the dead king's son and heir?

Here 's my work: does work discover-- What was rest from work--my life? Did I live man's hater, lover? Leave the world at peace, at strife? Call earth ugliness or beauty? See things there in large or small? Use to pay its Lord my duty? Use to own a lord at all?

Blank of such a record, truly, Here 's the work I hand, this scroll, Yours to take or leave; as duly, Mine remains the unproffered soul. So much, no whit more, my debtors-- How should one like me lay claim To that largess elders, betters Sell you cheap their souls for--fame?

Which of you did I enable Once to slip inside my breast, There to catalogue and label What I like least, what love best, Hope and fear, believe and doubt of, Seek and shun, respect--deride? Who has right to make a rout of Rarities he found inside?

Rarities or, as he 'd rather, Rubbish such as stocks his own: Need and greed (oh, strange) the Father Fashioned not for him alone! Whence--the comfort set a-strutting, Whence--the outcry "Haste, behold! Bard's breast open wide, past shutting, Shows what brass we took for gold!"

Friends, I doubt not he 'd display you Brass--myself call orichale,-- Furnish much amusement; pray you Therefore, be content I balk Him and you, and bar my portal! Here 's my work outside: opine What 's inside me mean and mortal! Take your pleasure, leave me mine!

Which is--not to buy your laurel As last king did, nothing loth. Tale adorned and pointed moral Gained him praise and pity both. Out rushed sighs and groans by dozens, Forth by scores oaths, curses flew: Proving you were cater-cousins, Kith and kindred, king and you!

Whereas do I ne'er so little (Thanks to sherris), leave ajar Bosom's gate--no jot nor tittle Grow we nearer than we are. Sinning, sorrowing, despairing, Body-ruined, spirit-wrecked,-- Should I give my woes an airing,-- Where 's one plague that claims respect?

Have you found your life distasteful? My life did and does smack sweet. Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? Mine I saved and hold complete. Do your joys with age diminish? When mine fail me, I 'll complain. Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.

What, like you, he proved--your Pilgrim-- This our world a wilderness, Earth still gray and heaven still grim, Not a hand there his might press, Not a heart his own might throb to, Men all rogues and women--say, Dolls which boys' heads duck and bob to, Grown folk drop or throw away?

My experience being other, How should I contribute verse Worthy of your king and brother? Balaam-like I bless, not curse. I find earth not gray but rosy, Heaven not grim but fair of hue. Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. Do I stand and stare? All 's blue.

Doubtless I am pushed and shoved by Rogues and fools enough: the more Good luck mine, I love, am loved by Some few honest to the core. Scan the near high, scout the far low! "But the low come close:" what then? Simpletons? My match is Marlowe; Sciolists? My mate is Ben.

Womankind--"the cat-like nature, False and fickle, vain and weak"-- What of this sad nomenclature Suits my tongue, if I must speak? Does the sex invite, repulse so, Tempt, betray, by fits and starts? So becalm but to convulse so, Decking heads and breaking hearts?

Well may you blaspheme at fortune! I "threw Venus" (Ben, expound!) Never did I need importune Her, of all the Olympian round. Blessings on my benefactress! Cursings suit--for aught I know-- Those who twitched her by the back tress, Tugged and thought to turn her--so!

Therefore, since no leg to stand on Thus I 'm left with,--joy or grief Be the issue,--I abandon Hope or care you name me Chief! Chief and king and Lord's anointed, I?--who never once have wished Death before the day appointed: Lived and liked, not poohed and pished!

"Ah, but so I shall not enter, Scroll in hand, the common heart-- Stopped at surface: since at centre Song should reach _Welt-schmerz_, world-smart!" "Enter in the heart?" Its shelly Cuirass guard mine, fore and aft! Such song "enters in the belly And is cast out in the draught."

Back then to our sherris-brewage! "Kingship" quotha? I shall wait-- Waive the present time: some new age ... But let fools anticipate! Meanwhile greet me--"friend, good fellow, Gentle Will," my merry men! As for making Envy yellow With "Next Poet"--(Manners, Ben!)

HOUSE

Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself? Do I live in a house you would like to see? Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf? "Unlock my heart with a sonnet-key?"

Invite the world, as my betters have done? "Take notice: this building remains on view, Its suites of reception every one, Its private apartment and bedroom too;

"For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." No: thanking the public, I must decline. A peep through my window, if folk prefer; But, please you, no foot over threshold of mine!

I have mixed with a crowd and heard free talk In a foreign land where an earthquake chanced And a house stood gaping, naught to balk Man's eye wherever he gazed or glanced.

The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, The inside gaped: exposed to day, Right and wrong and common and queer, Bare, as the palm of your hand, it lay.

The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, no doubt! "Odd tables and chairs for a man of wealth! What a parcel of musty old books about! He smoked,--no wonder he lost his health!

"I doubt if he bathed before he dressed. A brasier?--the pagan, he burned perfumes! You see it is proved, what the neighbors guessed: His wife and himself had separate rooms."

Friends, the goodman of the house at least Kept house to himself till an earthquake came: 'T is the fall of its frontage permits you feast On the inside arrangement you praise or blame.

Outside should suffice for evidence: And whoso desires to penetrate Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense-- No optics like yours, at any rate!

"Hoity-toity! A street to explore, Your house the exception! '_With this same key_ _Shakespeare unlocked his heart_,' once more!" Did Shakespeare? If so, the less Shakespeare he!

SHOP

So, friend, your shop was all your house! Its front, astonishing the street, Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass--the single sheet!

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog; Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog: Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

I thought "And he who owns the wealth Which blocks the window's vastitude, --Ah, could I peep at him by stealth Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude On house itself, what scenes were viewed!

"If wide and showy thus the shop, What must the habitation prove? The true house with no name a-top-- The mansion, distant one remove, Once get him off his traffic-groove!

"Pictures he likes, or books perhaps; And as for buying most and best, Commend me to these city chaps! Or else he 's social, takes his rest On Sundays, with a Lord for guest.

"Some suburb-palace, parked about And gated grandly, built last year: The four-mile walk to keep off gout; Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer: But then he takes the rail, that 's clear.

"Or, stop! I wager, taste selects Some out-o'-the-way, some all-unknown Retreat: the neighborhood suspects Little that he who rambles lone Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne!"

Nowise! Nor Mayfair residence Fit to receive and entertain,-- Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,-- Nor country-box was soul's domain!

Nowise! At back of all that spread Of merchandise, woe 's me, I find A hole i' the wall where, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware behind, --In cupboard suited to his mind.

For why? He saw no use of life But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle "Customers are rife!" To chafe "So much hard cash outlaid, Yet zero in my profits made!

"This novelty costs pains, but--takes? Cumbers my counter! Stock no more! This article, no such great shakes, Fizzes like wildfire? Underscore The cheap thing--thousands to the fore!"

'T was lodging best to live most nigh (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom; ear and eye Wanted no outworld: "Hear and see The bustle in the shop!" quoth he.

My fancy of a merchant-prince Was different. Through his wares we groped Our darkling way to--not to mince The matter--no black den where moped The master if we interloped!

Shop was shop only: household-stuff? What did he want with comforts there? "Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, So goods on sale show rich and rare! '_Sell and scud home_,' be shop's affair!"

What might he deal in? Gems, suppose! Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble,--see, he throws You choice of jewels, every one, Good, better, best, star, moon, and sun!

Which lies within your power of purse? This ruby that would tip aright Solomon's sceptre? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby,--stuff to bite!

Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter,--scarce the man forsook His study of the "Times," just swang Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang,--

Then off made buyer with a prize, Then seller to his "Times" returned; And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned: He locked door long ere candle burned.

And whither went he? Ask himself, Not me! To change of scene, I think. Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, Nor all his music--money-chink.

Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since flesh must live, Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive, All loves except what trade can give?

I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute!

But--shop each day and all day long! Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be--Christ, how far!

PISGAH-SIGHTS

When sanctioning a volume of _Selections_ from his poems, Browning made a third of _Pisgah-Sights_ to consist of the _Proem_ to _La Saisiaz_.

I

Over the ball of it, Peering and prying, How I see all of it, Life there, outlying! Roughness and smoothness, Shine and defilement, Grace and uncouthness: One reconcilement.

Orbed as appointed, Sister with brother Joins, ne'er disjointed One from the other. All 's lend-and-borrow; Good, see, wants evil, Joy demands sorrow, Angel weds devil!

"Which things must--_why_ be?" Vain our endeavor! So shall things aye be As they were ever. "Such things should so be!" Sage our desistence! Rough-smooth let globe be, Mixed--man's existence!

Man--wise and foolish, Lover and scorner, Docile and mulish-- Keep each his corner! Honey yet gall of it! There 's the life lying, And I see all of it, Only, I 'm dying!

II

Could I but live again Twice my life over, Would I once strive again? Would not I cover Quietly all of it-- Greed and ambition-- So, from the pall of it, Pass to fruition?

"Soft!" I 'd say, "Soul mine! Three-score and ten years, Let the blind mole mine Digging out deniers! Let the dazed hawk soar, Claim the sun's rights too! Turf 't is thy walk 's o'er, Foliage thy flight 's to."

Only a learner, Quick one or slow one, Just a discerner, I would teach no one. I am earth's native: No rearranging it! I be creative, Chopping and changing it?

March, men, my fellows! Those who, above me, (Distance so mellows) Fancy you love me: Those who, below me, (Distance makes great so) Free to forego me, Fancy you hate so!

Praising, reviling, Worst head and best head, Past me defiling, Never arrested, Wanters, abounders, March, in gay mixture, Men, my surrounders! I am the fixture.

So shall I fear thee, Mightiness yonder! Mock-sun--more near thee, What is to wonder? So shall I love thee, Down in the dark,--lest Glowworm I prove thee, Star that now sparklest!

FEARS AND SCRUPLES

In answer to a letter of inquiry, addressed to him by Mr. W. G. Kingsland, Browning wrote the following in regard to the meaning of this poem: "I think, that the point I wanted to illustrate was this: Where there is a genuine love of the 'letters' and 'actions' of the invisible 'friend,'--however these may be disadvantaged by an inability to meet the objections to their authenticity or historical value urged by 'experts' who assume the privilege of learning over ignorance,--it would indeed be a wrong to the wisdom and goodness of the 'friend' if he were supposed capable of overlooking the actual 'love' and only considering the 'ignorance' which, failing to in any degree affect 'love,' is really the highest evidence that 'love' exists. So I _meant_, whether the result be clear or no."

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? 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: 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!

"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! Though foolishness may flout me, One thing 's sure enough: 't is neither frost, No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from out me Thanks for truth--though falsehood, gained--though lost.

All my days, I 'll go the softlier, sadlier, For that dream's sake! How forget the thrill Through and through 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 through solid bricks?

"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 happened to be--God?

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 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! 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!

MAGICAL NATURE

Flower--I never fancied, jewel--I profess you! Bright I see and soft I feel the outside of a flower. Save but glow inside and--jewel, I should guess you, Dim to sight and rough to touch: the glory is the dower.

You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, a jewel-- Jewel at no mercy of a moment in your prime! Time may fray the flower-face: kind be time or cruel, Jewel, from each facet, flash your laugh at time!

BIFURCATION

We were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe-- "I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe Of rose and lily when each path diverged, And either I must pace to life's far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the worn causeway arm-in-arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood: '_How I loathe a flower,_ _How prize the pavement!_' still caressed his ear-- The deafish friend's--through life's day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) '_Ay, it would appear!_' But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did, When love from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broad way, were the best-- Who doubts? But one or other was to choose, I chose the darkling half, and wait the rest In that new world where light and darkness fuse."

Inscribe on mine--"I loved her: love's track lay O'er sand and pebble, as all travellers know. Duty led through a smiling country, gay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. '_Our roads are diverse: farewell, love!_' said she: '_'T is duty I abide by: homely sward_ _And not the rock-rough picturesque for me!_ _Above, where both roads join, I wait reward._ _Be you as constant to the path whereon_ _I leave you planted!_' But man needs must move, Keep moving--whither, when the star is gone Whereby he steps secure nor strays from love? No stone but I was tripped by, stumbling-block But brought me to confusion. Where I fell, There I lay flat, if moss disguised the rock, Thence, if flint pierced, I rose and cried '_All's well!_ _Duty be mine to tread in that high sphere_ _Where love from duty ne'er disparts, I trust,_ _And two halves make that whole, whereof--since here_ _One must suffice a man--why, this one must!_'"

Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple--which holds sinner, which holds saint!

NUMPHOLEPTOS

The Browning Society became so puzzled over the interpretation of this poem that through Dr. Furnivall it applied to the poet for an explanation and he replied: "Is not the key to the meaning of the poem in its title νυμφόληπτος [caught or rapt by a nymph] not γυναικεραστής [a woman lover]? An allegory, that is, of an impossible ideal object of love, accepted conventionally as such by a man who, all the while, cannot quite blind himself to the demonstrable fact that the possessor of knowledge and purity obtained without the natural consequences of obtaining them by achievement--not inheritance,--such a being is imaginary, not real, a nymph and no woman; and only such an one would be ignorant of and surprised at the results of a lover's endeavor to emulate the qualities which the beloved is entitled to consider as pre-existent to earthly experience, and independent of its inevitable results. I had no particular woman in my mind; certainly never intended to personify wisdom, philosophy, or any other abstraction; and the orb, raying color out of whiteness, was altogether a fancy of my own. The 'seven spirits' are in the Apocalypse, also in Coleridge and Byron,--a common image."

Still you stand, still you listen, still you smile! Still melts your moonbeam through me, white awhile, Softening, sweetening, till sweet and soft Increase so round this heart of mine, that oft I could believe your moonbeam-smile has past The pallid limit, lies, transformed at last To sunlight and salvation--warms the soul It sweetens, softens! Would you pass that goal, Gain love's birth at the limit's happier verge, And, where an iridescence lurks, but urge The hesitating pallor on to prime Of dawn!--true blood-streaked, sun-warmth, action-time, By heart-pulse ripened to a ruddy glow Of gold above my clay--I scarce should know From gold's self, thus suffused! For gold means love. What means the sad slow silver smile above My clay but pity, pardon?--at the best, But acquiescence that I take my rest, Contented to be clay, while in your heaven The sun reserves love for the Spirit-Seven Companioning God's throne they lamp before, --Leaves earth a mute waste only wandered o'er By that pale soft sweet disempassioned moon Which smiles me slow forgiveness! Such, the boon I beg? Nay, dear, submit to this--just this Supreme endeavor! As my lips now kiss Your feet, my arms convulse your shrouding robe, My eyes, acquainted with the dust, dare probe Your eyes above for--what, if born, would blind Mine with redundant bliss, as flash may find The inert nerve, sting awake the palsied limb, Bid with life's ecstasy sense overbrim And suck back death in the resurging joy-- Love, the love whole and sole without alloy!

Vainly! The promise withers! I employ Lips, arms, eyes, pray the prayer which finds the word, Make the appeal which must be felt, not heard, And none the more is changed your calm regard: Rather, its sweet and soft grow harsh, and hard-- Forbearance, then repulsion, then disdain. Avert the rest! I rise, see!--make, again Once more, the old departure for some track Untried, yet through a world which brings me back Ever thus fruitlessly to find your feet, To fix your eyes, to pray the soft and sweet Which smile there--take from his new pilgrimage Your outcast, once your inmate, and assuage With love--not placid pardon now--his thirst For a mere drop from out the ocean erst He drank at! Well, the quest shall be renewed. Fear nothing! Though I linger, unembued With any drop, my lips thus close. I go! So did I leave you, I have found you so, And doubtlessly, if fated to return, So shall my pleading persevere and earn Pardon--not love--in that same smile, I learn, And lose the meaning of, to learn once more, Vainly!

What fairy track do I explore? What magic hall return to, like the gem Centuply-angled o'er a diadem? You dwell there, hearted; from your midmost home Rays forth--through that fantastic world I roam Ever--from centre to circumference, Shaft upon colored shaft: this crimsons thence, That purples out its precinct through the waste. Surely I had your sanction when I faced, Fared forth upon that untried yellow ray Whence I retrack my steps? They end to-day Where they began, before your feet, beneath Your eyes, your smile: the blade is shut in sheath, Fire quenched in flint; irradiation, late Triumphant through the distance, finds its fate, Merged in your blank pure soul, alike the source And tomb of that prismatic glow: divorce Absolute, all-conclusive! Forth I fared, Treading the lambent flamelet: little cared If now its flickering took the topaz tint, If now my dull-caked path gave sulphury hint Of subterranean rage--no stay nor stint To yellow, since you sanctioned that I bathe, Burnish me, soul and body, swim and swathe In yellow license. Here I reek suffused With crocus, saffron, orange, as I used With scarlet, purple, every dye o' the bow Born of the storm-cloud. As before, you show Scarce recognition, no approval, some Mistrust, more wonder at a man become Monstrous in garb, nay--flesh disguised as well, Through his adventure. Whatsoe'er befell, I followed, wheresoe'er it wound, that vein You authorized should leave your whiteness, stain Earth's sombre stretch beyond your midmost place Of vantage,--trode that tinct whereof the trace On garb and flesh repel you! Yes, I plead Your own permission--your command, indeed, That who would worthily retain the love Must share the knowledge shrined those eyes above, Go boldly on adventure, break through bounds O' the quintessential whiteness that surrounds Your feet, obtain experience of each tinge That bickers forth to broaden out, impinge Plainer his foot its pathway all distinct From every other. Ah, the wonder, linked With fear, as exploration manifests What agency it was first tipped the crests Of unnamed wildflower, soon protruding grew Portentous 'mid the sands, as when his hue Betrays him and the burrowing snake gleams through; Till, last ... but why parade more shame and pain? Are not the proofs upon me? Here again I pass into your presence, I receive Your smile of pity, pardon, and I leave ... No, not this last of times I leave you, mute, Submitted to my penance, so my foot May yet again adventure, tread, from source To issue, one more ray of rays which course Each other, at your bidding, from the sphere Silver and sweet, their birthplace, down that drear Dark of the world,--you promise shall return Your pilgrim jewelled as with drops o' the urn The rainbow paints from, and no smatch at all Of ghastliness at edge of some cloud-pall Heaven cowers before, as earth awaits the fall O' the bolt and flash of doom. Who trusts your word Tries the adventure: and returns--absurd As frightful--in that sulphur-steeped disguise Mocking the priestly cloth-of-gold, sole prize The arch-heretic was wont to bear away Until he reached the burning. No, I say: No fresh adventure! No more seeking love At end of toil, and finding, calm above My passion, the old statuesque regard, The sad petrific smile!

O you--less hard And hateful than mistaken and obtuse Unreason of a she-intelligence! You very woman with the pert pretence To match the male achievement! Like enough! Ay, you were easy victors, did the rough Straightway efface itself to smooth, the gruff Grind down and grow a whisper,--did man's truth Subdue, for sake of chivalry and ruth, Its rapier-edge to suit the bulrush-spear Womanly falsehood fights with! O that ear All fact pricks rudely, that thrice-superfine Feminity of sense, with right divine To waive all process, take result stain-free From out the very muck wherein ...

Ah me! The true slave's querulous outbreak! All the rest Be resignation! Forth at your behest I fare. Who knows but this--the crimson-quest-- May deepen to a sunrise, not decay To that cold sad sweet smile?--which I obey.

APPEARANCES

And so you found that poor room dull, Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear? Its features seemed unbeautiful: But this I know--'t was there, not here, You plighted troth to me, the word Which--ask that poor room how it heard.

And this rich room obtains your praise Unqualified,--so bright, so fair, So all whereat perfection stays? Ay, but remember--here, not there, The other word was spoken!--Ask This rich room how you dropped the mask!

ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER

No protesting, dearest! Hardly kisses even! Don't we both know how it ends? How the greenest leaf turns serest, Bluest outbreak--blankest heaven, Lovers--friends?

You would build a mansion, I would weave a bower --Want the heart for enterprise. Walls admit of no expansion: Trellis-work may haply flower Twice the size.

What makes glad Life's Winter? New buds, old blooms after. Sad the sighing "How suspect Beams would ere mid-Autumn splinter, Rooftree scarce support a rafter, Walls lie wrecked?"

You are young, my princess! I am hardly older: Yet--I steal a glance behind! Dare I tell you what convinces Timid me that you, if bolder, Bold--are blind?

Where we plan our dwelling Glooms a graveyard surely! Headstone, footstone moss may drape,-- Name, date, violets hide from spelling,-- But, though corpses rot obscurely, Ghosts escape.

Ghosts! O breathing Beauty, Give my frank word pardon! What if I--somehow, somewhere-- Pledged my soul to endless duty Many a time and oft? Be hard on Love--laid there?

Nay, blame grief that 's fickle, Time that proves a traitor, Chance, change, all that purpose warps,-- Death who spares to thrust the sickle Laid Love low, through flowers which later Shroud the corpse!

And you, my winsome lady, Whisper with like frankness! Lies nothing buried long ago? Are yon--which shimmer 'mid the shady Where moss and violet run to rankness-- Tombs or no?

Who taxes you with murder? My hands are clean--or nearly! Love being mortal needs must pass. Repentance? Nothing were absurder. Enough: we felt Love's loss severely; Though now--alas!

Love's corpse lies quiet therefore, Only Love's ghost plays truant, And warns us have in wholesome awe Durable mansionry; that's wherefore I weave but trellis-work, pursuant --Life, to law.

The solid, not the fragile, Tempts rain and hail and thunder. If bower stand firm at Autumn's close, Beyond my hope,--why, boughs were agile; If bower fall flat, we scarce need wonder Wreathing--rose!

So, truce to the protesting, So, muffled be the kisses! For, would we but avow the truth, Sober is genuine joy. No jesting! Ask else Penelope, Ulysses-- Old in youth!

For why should ghosts feel angered? Let all their interference Be faint march-music in the air! "Up! Join the rear of us the vanguard! Up, lovers, dead to all appearance, Laggard pair!"

The while you clasp me closer, The while I press you deeper, As safe we chuckle,--under breath, Yet all the slyer, the jocoser,-- "So, life can boast its day, like leap-year, Stolen from death!"

Ah me--the sudden terror! Hence quick--avaunt, avoid me, You cheat, the ghostly flesh-disguised! Nay, all the ghosts in one! Strange error! So, 't was Death's self that clipped and coyed me, Loved--and lied!

Ay, dead loves are the potent! Like any cloud they used you, Mere semblance you, but substance they! Build we no mansion, weave we no tent! Mere flesh--their spirit interfused you! Hence, I say!

All theirs, none yours the glamour! Theirs each low word that won me, Soft look that found me Love's, and left What else but you--the tears and clamor That 's all your very own! Undone me-- Ghost-bereft!

HERVÉ RIEL

This ballad was printed first in the _Cornhill Magazine_ for March, 1871. In a letter to Mr. George Smith, one of the publishers of the magazine, Browning stated that he intended to devote the proceeds of the poem to the aid of the people of Paris suffering from the Franco-German war. The publisher generously seconded his resolve and paid one hundred pounds for the poem.

I

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 through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

II

'T was 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; 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!"

III

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 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

IV

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? 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.

V

"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? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

VI

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? 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? 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, 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.

VII

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. 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 through 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, All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate, Up the English come--too late!

VIII

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance 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, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

IX

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though 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! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name 's not Damfreville."

X

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?-- Since 't is 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.

XI

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, 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! 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, honor France, love thy wife the Belle Aurore!

A FORGIVENESS

I am indeed the personage you know. As for my wife,--what happened long ago-- You have a right to question me, as I Am bound to answer.

("Son, a fit reply!" The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth, At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.)

Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place I had as still I have. I ran life's race, With the whole world to see, as only strains His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains Of good appall him: happy to excess,-- Work freely done should balance happiness Fully enjoyed; and, since beneath my roof Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof I went forth every day, and all day long Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song Cheers him! Thus sang my soul, at each sharp throe Of laboring flesh and blood--"She loves me so!"

One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve That work grew play and vanished. "I deserve Haply my heaven an hour before the time!" I laughed, as silverly the clockhouse-chime Surprised me passing through the postern-gate --Not the main entry where the menials wait And wonder why the world's affairs allow The master sudden leisure. That was how I took the private garden-way for once.

Forth from the alcove, I saw start, ensconce Himself behind the porphyry vase, a man.

My fancies in the natural order ran: "A spy,--perhaps a foe in ambuscade,-- A thief,--more like, a sweetheart of some maid Who pitched on the alcove for tryst perhaps."

"Stand there!" I bid.

Whereat my man but wraps His face the closelier with uplifted arm Whereon the cloak lies, strikes in blind alarm This and that pedestal as,--stretch and stoop,-- Now in, now out of sight, he thrids the group Of statues, marble god and goddess ranged Each side the pathway, till the gate's exchanged For safety: one step thence, the street, you know!

Thus far I followed with my gaze. Then, slow, Near on admiringly, I breathed again, And--back to that last fancy of the train-- "A danger risked for hope of just a word With--which of all my nest may be the bird This poacher covets for her plumage, pray? Carmen? Juana? Carmen seems too gay For such adventure, while Juana's grave --Would scorn the folly. I applaud the knave! He had the eye, could single from my brood His proper fledgeling!"

As I turned, there stood In face of me, my wife stone-still stone-white. Whether one bound had brought her,--at first sight Of what she judged the encounter, sure to be Next moment, of the venturous man and me,-- Brought her to clutch and keep me from my prey: Whether impelled because her death no day Could come so absolutely opportune As now at joy's height, like a year in June Stayed at the fall of its first ripened rose; Or whether hungry for my hate--who knows?-- Eager to end an irksome lie, and taste Our tingling true relation, hate embraced By hate one naked moment:--anyhow There stone-still stone-white stood my wife, but now The woman who made heaven within my house. Ay, she who faced me was my very spouse As well as love--you are to recollect!

"Stay!" she said. "Keep at least one soul unspecked With crime, that 's spotless hitherto--your own! Kill me who court the blessing, who alone Was, am, and shall be guilty, first to last! The man lay helpless in the toils I cast About him, helpless as the statue there Against that strangling bell-flower's bondage: tear Away and tread to dust the parasite, But do the passive marble no despite! I love him as I hate you. Kill me! Strike At one blow both infinitudes alike Out of existence--hate and love! Whence love? That 's safe inside my heart, nor will remove For any searching of your steel, I think. Whence hate? The secret lay on lip, at brink Of speech, in one fierce tremble to escape, At every form wherein your love took shape, At each new provocation of your kiss. Kill me!"

We went in.

Next day after this, I felt as if the speech might come. I spoke-- Easily, after all.

"The lifted cloak Was screen sufficient: I concern myself Hardly with laying hands on who for pelf-- Whate'er the ignoble kind--may prowl and brave Cuffing and kicking proper to a knave Detected by my household's vigilance. Enough of such! As for my love-romance-- I, like our good Hidalgo, rub my eyes And wake and wonder how the film could rise Which changed for me a barbers' basin straight Into--Mambrino's helm? I hesitate Nowise to say--God's sacramental cup! Why should I blame the brass which, burnished up, Will blaze, to all but me, as good as gold? To me--a warning I was overbold In judging metals. The Hidalgo waked Only to die, if I remember,--staked His life upon the basin's worth, and lost: While I confess torpidity at most In here and there a limb; but, lame and halt, Still should I work on, still repair my fault Ere I took rest in death,--no fear at all! Now, work--no word before the curtain fall!"

The "curtain"? That of death on life, I meant: My "word," permissible in death's event, Would be--truth, soul to soul; for, otherwise, Day by day, three years long, there had to rise And, night by night, to fall upon our stage-- Ours, doomed to public play by heritage-- Another curtain, when the world, perforce Our critical assembly, in due course Came and went, witnessing, gave praise or blame To art-mimetic. It had spoiled the game If, suffered to set foot behind our scene, The world had witnessed how stage-king and queen, Gallant and lady, but a minute since Enarming each the other, would evince No sign of recognition as they took His way and her way to whatever nook Waited them in the darkness either side Of that bright stage where lately groom and bride Had fired the audience to a frenzy-fit Of sympathetic rapture--every whit Earned as the curtain fell on her and me, --Actors. Three whole years, nothing was to see But calm and concord: where a speech was due There came the speech; when the smiles were wanted too, Smiles were as ready. In a place like mine, Where foreign and domestic cares combine, There 's audience every day and all day long; But finally the last of the whole throng Who linger lets one see his back. For her-- Why, liberty and liking: I aver, Liking and liberty! For me--I breathed, Let my face rest from every wrinkle wreathed Smile-like about the mouth, unlearned my task Of personation till next day bade mask, And quietly betook me from that world To the real world, not pageant: there unfurled In work, its wings, my soul, the fretted power. Three years I worked, each minute of each hour Not claimed by acting:--work I may dispense With talk about, since work in evidence, Perhaps in history; who knows or cares?

After three years, this way, all unawares, Our acting ended. She and I, at close Of a loud night-feast, led, between two rows Of bending male and female loyalty, Our lord the king down staircase, while, held high At arm's length did the twisted tapers' flare Herald his passage from our palace, where Such visiting left glory evermore. Again the ascent in public, till at door As we two stood by the saloon--now blank And disencumbered of its guests--there sank A whisper in my ear, so low and yet So unmistakable!

"I half forget The chamber you repair to, and I want Occasion for one short word--if you grant That grace--within a certain room you called Our 'Study,' for you wrote there while I scrawled Some paper full of faces for my sport. That room I can remember. Just one short Word with you there, for the remembrance' sake!"

"Follow me thither!" I replied.

We break The gloom a little, as with guiding lamp I lead the way, leave warmth and cheer, by damp Blind disused serpentining ways afar From where the habitable chambers are,-- Ascend, descend stairs tunnelled through the stone,-- Always in silence,--till I reach the lone Chamber sepulchred for my very own Out of the palace-quarry. When a boy, Here was my fortress, stronghold from annoy, Proof-positive of ownership; in youth I garnered up my gleanings here--uncouth But precious relics of vain hopes, vain fears; Finally, this became in after-years My closet of entrenchment to withstand Invasion of the foe on every hand--The multifarious herd in bower and hall, State-room,--rooms whatsoe'er the style, which call On masters to be mindful that, before Men, they must look like men and something more. Here,--when our lord the king's bestowment ceased To deck me on the day that, golden-fleeced, I touched ambition's height,--'t was here, released From glory (always symbolled by a chain!) No sooner was I privileged to gain My secret domicile than glad I flung That last toy on the table--gazed where hung On hook my father's gift, the arquebus-- And asked myself, "Shall I envisage thus The new prize and the old prize, when I reach Another year's experience?--own that each Equalled advantage--sportsman's--statesman's tool? That brought me down an eagle, this--a fool!"

Into which room on entry, I set down The lamp, and turning saw whose rustled gown Had told me my wife followed, pace for pace. Each of us looked the other in the face. She spoke. "Since I could die now "...

(To explain Why that first struck me, know--not once again Since the adventure at the porphyry's edge Three years before, which sundered like a wedge Her soul from mine,--though daily, smile to smile, We stood before the public,--all the while Not once had I distinguished, in that face I paid observance to, the faintest trace Of feature more than requisite for eyes To do their duty by and recognize: So did I force mine to obey my will And pry no further. There exists such skill,-- Those know who need it. What physician shrinks From needful contact with a corpse? He drinks No plague so long as thirst for knowledge--not An idler impulse--prompts inquiry. What, And will you disbelieve in power to bid Our spirit back to bounds, as though we chid A child from scrutiny that's just and right In manhood? Sense, not soul, accomplished sight, Reported daily she it was--not how Nor why a change had come to cheek and brow.)

"Since I could die now of the truth concealed, Yet dare not, must not die,--so seems revealed The Virgin's mind to me,--for death means peace Wherein no lawful part have I, whose lease Of life and punishment the truth avowed May haply lengthen,--let me push the shroud Away, that steals to muffle ere is just My penance-fire in snow! I dare--I must Live, by avowal of the truth--this truth-- I loved you! Thanks for the fresh serpent's tooth That, by a prompt new pang more exquisite Than all preceding torture, proves me right! I loved you yet I lost you! May I go Burn to the ashes, now my shame you know?"

I think there never was such--how express?-- Horror coquetting with voluptuousness, As in those arms of Eastern workmanship-- Yataghan, kandjar, things that rend and rip, Gash rough, slash smooth, help hate so many ways, Yet ever keep a beauty that betrays Love still at work with the artificer Throughout his quaint devising. Why prefer, Except for love's sake, that a blade should writhe And bicker like a flame?--now play the scythe As if some broad neck tempted,--now contract And needle off into a fineness lacked For just that puncture which the heart demands? Then, such adornment! Wherefore need our hands Enclose not ivory alone, nor gold Roughened for use, but jewels? Nay, behold! Fancy my favorite--which I seem to grasp While I describe the luxury. No asp Is diapered more delicate round throat Than this below the handle! These denote --These mazy lines meandering, to end Only in flesh they open--what intend They else but water-purlings--pale contrast With the life-crimson where they blend at last? And mark the handle's dim pellucid green, Carved, the hard jadestone, as you pinch a bean, Into a sort of parrot-bird! He pecks A grape-bunch; his two eyes are ruby-specks Pure from the mine: seen this way,--glassy blank, But turn them,--lo, the inmost fire, that shrank From sparkling, sends a red dart right to aim! Why did I choose such toys? Perhaps the game Of peaceful men is warlike, just as men War-wearied get amusement from that pen And paper we grow sick of--statesfolk tired Of merely (when such measures are required) Dealing out doom to people by three words, A signature and seal: we play with swords Suggestive of quick process. That is how I came to like the toys described you now, Store of which glittered on the walls and strewed The table, even, while my wife pursued Her purpose to its ending. "Now you know This shame, my three years' torture, let me go, Burn to the very ashes! You--I lost, Yet you--I loved!"

The thing I pity most In men is--action prompted by surprise Of anger: men? nay, bulls--whose onset lies At instance of the firework and the goad! Once the foe prostrate,--trampling once bestowed,-- Prompt follows placability, regret, Atonement. Trust me, blood-warmth never yet Betokened strong will! As no leap of pulse Pricked me, that first time, so did none convulse My veins at this occasion for resolve. Had that devolved which did not then devolve Upon me, I had done--what now to do Was quietly apparent.

"Tell me who The man was, crouching by the porphyry vase!" "No, never! All was folly in his case, All guilt in mine. I tempted, he complied."

"And yet you loved me?"

"Loved you. Double-dyed In folly and in guilt, I thought you gave Your heart and soul away from me to slave At statecraft. Since my right in you seemed lost, I stung myself to teach you, to your cost, What you rejected could be prized beyond Life, heaven, by the first fool I threw a fond Look on, a fatal word to."

"And you still Love me? Do I conjecture well or ill?"

"Conjecture--well or ill! I had three years To spend in learning you."

"We both are peers In knowledge, therefore: since three years are spent Ere thus much of yourself _I_ learn--who went Back to the house, that day, and brought my mind To bear upon your action, uncombined Motive from motive, till the dross, deprived Of every purer particle, survived At last in native simple hideousness, Utter contemptibility, nor less Nor more. Contemptibility--exempt How could I, from its proper due--contempt? I have too much despised you to divert My life from its set course by help or hurt Of your all-despicable life--perturb The calm I work in, by--men's mouths to curb, Which at such news were clamorous enough-- Men's eyes to shut before my broidered stuff With the huge hole there, my emblazoned wall Blank where a scutcheon hung,--by, worse than all, Each day's procession, my paraded life Robbed and impoverished through the wanting wife --Now that my life (which means--my work) was grown Riches indeed! Once, just this worth alone Seemed work to have, that profit gained thereby Of good and praise would--how rewardingly!-- Fall at your feet,--a crown I hoped to cast Before your love, my love should crown at last. No love remaining to cast crown before, My love stopped work now: but contempt the more Impelled me task as ever head and hand, Because the very fiends weave ropes of sand Rather than taste pure hell in idleness. Therefore I kept my memory down by stress Of daily work I had no mind to stay For the world's wonder at the wife away. Oh, it was easy all of it, believe, For I despised you! But your words retrieve Importantly the past. No hate assumed The mask of love at any time! There gloomed A moment when love took hate's semblance, urged By causes you declare; but love's self purged Away a fancied wrong I did both loves --Yours and my own: by no hate's help, it proves, Purgation was attempted. Then, you rise High by how many a grade! I did despise-- I do but hate you. Let hate's punishment Replace contempt's! First step to which ascent-- Write down your own words I re-utter you! '_I loved my husband and I hated--who_ _He was, I took up as my first chance, mere_ _Mud-ball to fling and make love foul with!_' Here Lies paper!"

"Would my blood for ink suffice!"

"It may: this minion from a land of spice, Silk, feather--every bird of jewelled breast-- This poniard's beauty, ne'er so lightly prest Above your heart there"...

"Thus?"

"It flows, I see. Dip there the point and write!"

"Dictate to me! Nay, I remember."

And she wrote the words, I read them. Then--"Since love, in you, affords License for hate, in me, to quench (I say) Contempt--why, hate itself has passed away In vengeance--foreign to contempt. Depart Peacefully to that death which Eastern art Imbued this weapon with, if tales be true! Love will succeed to hate. I pardon you-- Dead in our chamber!"

True as truth the tale. She died ere morning; then, I saw how pale Her cheek was ere it wore day's paint-disguise, And what a hollow darkened 'neath her eyes, Now that I used my own. She sleeps, as erst Beloved, in this your church: ay, yours!

Immersed In thought so deeply, Father? Sad, perhaps? For whose sake, hers or mine or his who wraps --Still plain I seem to see!--about his head The idle cloak,--about his heart (instead Of cuirass) some fond hope he may elude My vengeance in the cloister's solitude? Hardly, I think! As little helped his brow The cloak then, Father--as your grate helps me now!

CENCIAJA

Ogni cencio vuol entrare in bucato.--_Italian Proverb._

Mr. Buxton Forman, the editor of Shelley, upon asking Browning the precise value attached to the terminal _aja_ in the title of his poem, received the following answer:--

"19 WARWICK CRESCENT, W., _July 27, '76_.

"DEAR MR. BUXTON FORMAN: There can be no objection to such a simple statement as you have inserted, if it seems worth inserting. 'Fact,' it is. Next: 'aia' is generally an accumulative yet depreciative termination: 'Cenciaja'--a bundle of rags--a trifle. The proverb means 'every poor creature will be pressing into the company of his betters,' and I used it to deprecate the notion that I intended anything of the kind. Is it any contribution to 'all connected with Shelley,' if I mention that my 'Book' (_The Ring and the Book_) [rather the 'old square yellow book' from which the details were taken] has a reference to the reason given by Farinacci, the advocate of the Cenci, of his failure in the defence of Beatrice? 'Fuisse punitam Beatricem (he declares) poenâ ultimi supplicii, non quia ex intervallo occidi mandavit insidiantem suo honori, sed quia ejus exceptionem non probavi tibi. _Prout, et idem firmiter sperabatur de sorore Beatrice si propositam excusationem probasset, prout non probavit._' That is, she expected to avow the main outrage, and did not: in conformity with her words, 'That which I ought to confess, that will I confess; that to which I ought to assent, to that I assent; and that which I ought to deny, that will I deny.' Here is another Cenciaja!

"Yours very sincerely, ROBERT BROWNING."

May I print, Shelley, how it came to pass That when your Beatrice seemed--by lapse Of many a long month since her sentence fell-- Assured of pardon for the parricide-- By intercession of stanch friends, or, say, By certain pricks of conscience in the Pope Conniver at Francesco Cenci's guilt,-- Suddenly all things changed and Clement grew "Stern," as you state, "nor to be moved nor bent, But said these three words coldly '_She must die;_' Subjoining '_Pardon? Paolo Santa Croce_ _Murdered his mother also yestereve._ _And he is fled: she shall not flee at least!_'" --So, to the letter, sentence was fulfilled? Shelley, may I condense verbosity That lies before me, into some few words Of English, and illustrate your superb Achievement by a rescued anecdote, No great things, only new and true beside? As if some mere familiar of a house Should venture to accost the group at gaze Before its Titian, famed the wide world through, And supplement such pictured masterpiece By whisper, "Searching in the archives here, I found the reason of the Lady's fate, And how by accident it came to pass She wears the halo and displays the palm: Who, haply, else had never suffered--no, Nor graced our gallery, by consequence." Who loved the work would like the little news: Who lauds your poem lends an ear to me Relating how the penalty was paid By one Marchese dell' Oriolo, called Onofrio Santa Croce otherwise, For his complicity in matricide With Paolo his own brother,--he whose crime And flight induced "those three words--She must die." Thus I unroll you then the manuscript.

"God's justice"--(of the multiplicity Of such communications extant still, Recording, each, injustice done by God In person of his Vicar-upon-earth, Scarce one but leads off to the selfsame tune)-- "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency. In proof I cite the ease Of Paolo Santa Croce."

Many times The youngster,--having been importunate That Marchesine Costanza, who remained His widowed mother, should supplant the heir Her elder son, and substitute himself In sole possession of her faculty,-- And meeting just as often with rebuff,-- Blinded by so exorbitant a lust Of gold, the youngster straightway tasked his wits, Casting about to kill the lady--thus.

He first, to cover his iniquity, Writes to Onofrio Santa Croce, then Authoritative lord, acquainting him Their mother was contamination--wrought Like hell-fire in the beauty of their House By dissoluteness and abandonment Of soul and body to impure delight.

Moreover, since she suffered from disease, Those symptoms which her death made manifest Hydroptic, he affirmed were fruits of sin About to bring confusion and disgrace Upon the ancient lineage and high fame O' the family, when published. Duty bound, He asked his brother--what a son should do?

Which when Marchese dell' Oriolo heard By letter, being absent at his land Oriolo, he made answer, this, no more: "It must behoove a son,--things haply so,-- To act as honor prompts a cavalier And son, perform his duty to all three, Mother and brothers"--here advice broke off.

By which advice informed and fortified As he professed himself--since bound by birth To hear God's voice in primogeniture-- Paolo, who kept his mother company In her domain Subiaco, straightway dared His whole enormity of enterprise, And, falling on her, stabbed the lady dead; Whose death demonstrated her innocence, And happened,--by the way,--since Jesus Christ Died to save man, just sixteen hundred years. Costanza was of aspect beautiful Exceedingly, and seemed, although in age Sixty about, to far surpass her peers The coëtaneous dames, in youth and grace.

Done the misdeed, its author takes to flight, Foiling thereby the justice of the world: Not God's however,--God, be sure, knows well The way to clutch a culprit. Witness here! The present sinner, when he least expects, Snug-cornered somewhere i' the Basilicate, Stumbles upon his death by violence. A man of blood assaults a man of blood And slays him somehow. This was afterward: Enough, he promptly met with his deserts, And, ending thus, permits we end with him, And push forthwith to this important point-- His matricide fell out, of all the days, Precisely when the law-procedure closed Respecting Count Francesco Cenci's death Chargeable on his daughter, sons and wife. "Thus patricide was matched with matricide," A poet not inelegantly rhymed: Nay, fratricide--those Princes Massimi!-- Which so disturbed the spirit of the Pope That all the likelihood Rome entertained Of Beatrice's pardon vanished straight, And she endured the piteous death.

Now see The sequel--what effect commandment had For strict inquiry into this last case, When Cardinal Aldobrandini (great His efficacy--nephew to the Pope!) Was bidden crush--ay, though his very hand Got soil i' the act--crime spawning everywhere! Because, when all endeavor had been used To catch the aforesaid Paolo, all in vain-- "Make perquisition," quoth our Eminence, "Throughout his now deserted domicile! Ransack the palace, roof and floor, to find If haply any scrap of writing, hid In nook or corner, may convict--who knows?-- Brother Onofrio of intelligence With brother Paolo, as in brotherhood Is but too likely: crime spawns everywhere."

And, every cranny searched accordingly, There comes to light--O lynx-eyed Cardinal!-- Onofrio's unconsidered writing-scrap, The letter in reply to Paolo's prayer, The word of counsel that--things proving so, Paolo should act the proper knightly part, And do as was incumbent on a son, A brother--and a man of birth, be sure!

Whereat immediately the officers Proceeded to arrest Onofrio--found At football, child's play, unaware of harm, Safe with his friends, the Orsini, at their seat Monte Giordano; as he left the house He came upon the watch in wait for him Set by the Barigel,--was caught and caged.

News of which capture being, that same hour, Conveyed to Rome, forthwith our Eminence Commands Taverna, Governor and Judge, To have the process in especial care, Be, first to last, not only president In person, but inquisitor as well, Nor trust the by-work to a substitute: Bids him not, squeamish, keep the bench, but scrub The floor of Justice, so to speak,--go try His best in prison with the criminal: Promising, as reward for by-work done Fairly on all-fours, that, success obtained And crime avowed, or such connivency With crime as should procure a decent death-- Himself will humbly beg--which means, procure-- The Hat and Purple from his relative The Pope, and so repay a diligence Which, meritorious in the Cenci-case, Mounts plainly here to Purple and the Hat.

Whereupon did my lord the Governor So masterfully exercise the task Enjoined him, that he, day by day, and week By week, and month by month, from first to last Toiled for the prize: now, punctual at his place, Played Judge, and now, assiduous at his post, Inquisitor--pressed cushion and scoured plank. Early and late. Noon's fervor and night's chill, Naught moved whom morn would, purpling, make amends! So that observers laughed as, many a day, He left home, in July when day is flame, Posted to Tordinona-prison, plunged Into a vault where daylong night is ice, There passed his eight hours on a stretch, content, Examining Onofrio: all the stress Of all examination steadily Converging into one pin-point,--he pushed Tentative now of head and now of heart. As when the nut-hatch taps and tries the nut This side and that side till the kernel sound,-- So did he press the sole and single point --What was the very meaning of the phrase "_Do as beseems an honored cavalier_"?

Which one persistent question-torture,--plied Day by day, week by week, and month by month, Morn, noon and night,--fatigued away a mind Grown imbecile by darkness, solitude, And one vivacious memory gnawing there As when a corpse is coffined with a snake: --Fatigued Onofrio into what might seem Admission that perchance his judgment groped So blindly, feeling for an issue--aught With semblance of an issue from the toils Cast of a sudden round feet late so free, He possibly might have envisaged, scarce Recoiled from--even were the issue death --Even her death whose life was death and worse! Always provided that the charge of crime, Each jot and tittle of the charge were true. In such a sense, belike, he might advise His brother to expurgate crime with ... well, With Wood, if blood must follow on "_the course_ _Taken as might beseem a cavalier_."

Whereupon process ended, and report Was made without a minute of delay To Clement, who, because of those two crimes O' the Massimi and Cenci flagrant late, Must needs impatiently desire result.

Result obtained, he bade the Governor Summon the Congregation and despatch. Summons made, sentence passed accordingly --Death by beheading. When his death-decree Was intimated to Onofrio, all Man could do--that did he to save himself. 'Twas much, the having gained for his defence The Advocate o' the Poor, with natural help Of many noble friendly persons fain To disengage a man of family, So young too, from his grim entanglement: But Cardinal Aldobrandini ruled There must be no diversion of the law. Justice is justice, and the magistrate Bears not the sword in vain. Who sins must die.

So, the Marchese had his head cut off, With Rome to see, a concourse infinite, In Place Saint Angelo beside the Bridge: Where, demonstrating magnanimity Adequate to his birth and breed,--poor boy!-- He made the people the accustomed speech, Exhorted them to, true faith, honest works, And special good behavior as regards A parent of no matter what the sex, Bidding each son take warning from himself. Truly, it was considered in the boy Stark staring lunacy, no less, to snap So plain a bait, be hooked and hauled ashore By such an angler as the Cardinal! Why make confession of his privity To Paolo's enterprise? Mere sealing lips-- Or, better, saying "When I counselled him '_To do as might beseem a cavalier_,' What could I mean but '_Hide our parent's shame_ _As Christian ought, by aid of Holy Church!_ _Bury it in a convent--ay, beneath_ _Enough dotation to prevent its ghost_ _From troubling earth!_'" Mere saying thus,--'t is plain, Hot only were his life the recompense. But he had manifestly proved himself True Christian, and in lieu of punishment Got praise of all men!--so the populace.

Anyhow, when the Pope made promise good (That of Aldobrandini, near and dear) And gave Taverna, who had toiled so much, A Cardinal's equipment, some such word As this from mouth to ear went saucily: "Taverna's cap is dyed in what he drew From Santa Croce's veins!" So joked the world.

I add: Onofrio left one child behind, A daughter named Valeria, dowered with grace Abundantly of soul and body, doomed To life the shorter for her father's fate. By death of her, the Marquisate returned To that Orsini House from whence it came: Oriolo having passed as donative To Santa Croce from their ancestors.

And no word more? By all means! Would you know The authoritative answer, when folk urged "What made Aldobrandini, hound-like stanch, Hunt out of life a harmless simpleton?" The answer was--"Hatred implacable, By reason they were rivals in their love." The Cardinal's desire was to a dame Whose favor was Onofrio's. Pricked with pride, The simpleton must ostentatiously Display a ring, the Cardinal's love-gift, Given to Onofrio as the lady's gage; Which ring on finger, as he put forth hand To draw a tapestry, the Cardinal Saw and knew, gift and owner, old and young; Whereon a fury entered him--the fire He quenched with what could quench fire only--blood. Nay, more: "there want not who affirm to boot, The unwise boy, a certain festal eve, Feigned ignorance of who the wight might be That pressed too closely on him with a crowd. He struck the Cardinal a blow: and then, To put a face upon the incident, Dared next day, smug as ever, go pay court I' the Cardinal's antechamber. Mark and mend, Ye youth, by this example how may greed Vainglorious operate in worldly souls!"

So ends the chronicler, beginning with "God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never till it reach delinquency." Ay, or how otherwise had come to pass That Victor rules, this present year, in Rome?

FILIPPO BALDINUCCI ON THE PRIVILEGE OF BURIAL

A REMINISCENCE OF A. D. 1676

"No, boy, we must not"--so began My Uncle (he's with God long since), A-petting me, the good old man! "We must not"--and he seemed to wince, And lost that laugh whereto had grown His chuckle at my piece of news, How cleverly I aimed my stone-- "I fear we must not pelt the Jews!

"When I was young indeed,--ah, faith Was young and strong in Florence too! We Christians never dreamed of scathe Because we cursed or kicked the crew. But now--well, well! The olive-crops Weighed double then, and Arno's pranks Would always spare religious shops Whenever he o'erflowed his banks!

"I 'll tell you"--and his eye regained Its twinkle--"tell you something choice Something may help you keep unstained Your honest zeal to stop the voice Of unbelief with stone-throw--spite Of laws, which modern fools enact, That we must suffer Jews in sight Go wholly unmolested! Fact!

"There was, then, in my youth, and yet Is, by our San Frediano, just Below the Blessed Olivet, A wayside ground wherein they thrust Their dead,--these Jews,--the more our shame! Except that, so they will but die, Christians perchance incur no blame In giving hogs a hoist to sty.

"There, anyhow, Jews stow away Their dead; and--such their insolence-- Slink at odd times to sing and pray As Christians do--all make-pretence!-- Which wickedness they perpetrate Because they think no Christians see. They reckoned here, at any rate, Without their host: ha, ha! he, he!

"For, what should join their plot of ground But a good Farmer's Christian field? The Jews had hedged their corner round With bramble-bush to keep concealed Their doings: for the public road Ran betwixt this their ground and that The Farmer's, where he ploughed and sowed, Grew corn for barn and grapes for vat.

"So, properly to guard his store And gall the unbelievers too, He builds a shrine and, what is more, Procures a painter whom I knew, One Buti (he 's with God), to paint A holy picture there--no less Than Virgin Mary free from taint Borne to the sky by angels: yes!

"Which shrine he fixed,--who says him nay?-- A-facing with its picture-side Not, as you 'd think, the public way, But just where sought these hounds to hide Their carrion from that very truth Of Mary's triumph: not a hound Could act his mummeries uncouth But Mary shamed the pack all round!

"Now, if it was amusing, judge! --To see the company arrive, Each Jew intent to end his trudge And take his pleasure (though alive) With all his Jewish kith and kin Below ground, have his venom out, Sharpen his wits for next day's sin, Curse Christians, and so home, no doubt!

"Whereas, each phiz upturned beholds Mary, I warrant, soaring brave! And in a trice, beneath the folds Of filthy garb which gowns each knave, Down drops it--there to hide grimace, Contortion of the mouth and nose At finding Mary in the place They 'd keep for Pilate, I suppose!

"At last, they will not brook--not they!-- Longer such outrage on their tribe: So, in some hole and corner, lay Their heads together--how to bribe The meritorious Farmer's self To straight undo his work, restore Their chance to meet and muse on pelf-- Pretending sorrow, as before!

"Forthwith, a posse, if you please, Of Rabbi This and Rabbi That Almost go down upon their knees To get him lay the picture flat. The spokesman, eighty years of age, Gray as a badger, with a goat's Not only beard but bleat, 'gins wage War with our Mary. Thus he dotes:--

"'_Friends, grant a grace! How Hebrews toil_ _Through life in Florence--why relate_ _To those who lay the burden, spoil_ _Our paths of peace? We bear our fate._ _But when with life the long toil ends,_ _Why must you--the expression craves_ _Pardon, but truth compels me, friends!--_ _Why must you plague us in our graves?_

"'_Thoughtlessly plague, I would believe!_ _For how can you--the lords of ease_ _By nurture, birthright--e'en conceive_ _Our luxury to lie with trees_ _And turf,--the cricket and the bird_ _Left for our last companionship:_ _No harsh deed, no unkindly word,_ _No frowning brow nor scornful lip!_

"'_Death's luxury, we now rehearse_ _While, living, through your streets we fare_ _And take your hatred: nothing worse_ _Have we, once dead and safe, to bear!_ _So we refresh our souls, fulfil_ _Our works, our daily tasks; and thus_ _Gather you grain--earth's harvest--still_ _The wheat for you, the straw for us._

"'What flouting in a face, what harm, In just a lady borne from bier By boys' heads, wings for leg and arm?' _You question. Friends, the harm is here--_ _That just when our last sigh is heaved,_ _And we would fain thank God and you_ _For labor done and peace achieved,_ _Back comes the Past in full review!_

"'_At sight of just that simple flag,_ _Starts the foe-feeling serpent-like_ _From slumber. Leave it lulled, nor drag--_ _Though fangless--forth what needs must strike_ _When stricken sore, though stroke be vain_ _Against the mailed oppressor! Give_ _Play to our fancy that we gain_ _Life's rights when once we cease to live!_

"'_Thus much to courtesy, to kind,_ _To conscience! Now to Florence folk!_ _There 's core beneath this apple-rind,_ _Beneath this white-of-egg there 's yolk!_ _Beneath this prayer to courtesy,_ _Kind, conscience--there 's a sum to pouch!_ _How many ducats down will buy_ _Our shame's removal, sirs? Avouch!_

"'_Removal, not destruction, sirs!_ _Just turn your picture! Let it front_ _The public path! Or memory errs,_ _Or that same public path is wont_ _To witness many a chance befall_ _Of lust, theft, bloodshed--sins enough,_ _Wherein our Hebrew part is small._ _Convert yourselves!_'--he cut up rough.

"Look you, how soon a service paid Religion yields the servant fruit! A prompt reply our Farmer made So following: '_Sirs, to grant your suit_ _Involves much danger! How? Transpose_ _Our Lady? Stop the chastisement,_ _All for your good, herself bestows?_ _What wonder if I grudge consent?_

"'--_Yet grant it: since, what cash I take_ _Is so much saved from wicked use._ _We know you! And, for Mary's sake,_ _A hundred ducats shall induce_ _Concession to your prayer. One day_ _Suffices: Master Buti's brush_ _Turns Mary round the other way,_ _And deluges your side with slush._

"'_Down with the ducats therefore!_' Dump, Dump, dump it falls, each counted piece, Hard gold. Then out of door they stump, These dogs, each brisk as with new lease Of life, I warrant,--glad he 'll die Henceforward just as he may choose, Be buried and in clover lie! Well said Esaias--'_stiff-necked Jews!_'

"Off posts without a minute's loss Our Farmer, once the cash in poke, And summons Buti--ere its gloss Have time to fade from off the joke-- To chop and change his work, undo The done side, make the side, now blank, Recipient of our Lady--who, Displaced thus, had these dogs to thank!

"Now, boy, you 're hardly to instruct In technicalities of Art! My nephew's childhood sure has sucked Along with mother's-milk some part Of painter's-practice--learned, at least, How expeditiously is plied A work in fresco--never ceased When once begun--a day, each side.

"So, Buti--(he 's with God)--begins: First covers up the shrine all round With hoarding; then, as like as twins, Paints, t' other side the burial-ground, New Mary, every point the same; Next, sluices over, as agreed, The old; and last--but, spoil the game By telling you? Not I, indeed!

"Well, ere the week was half at end, Out came the object of this zeal, This fine alacrity to spend Hard money for mere dead men's weal! How think you? That old spokesman Jew Was High Priest, and he had a wife As old, and she was dying too, And wished to end in peace her life!

"And he must humor dying whims, And soothe her with the idle hope They 'd say their prayers and sing their hymns As if her husband were the Pope! And she did die--believing just --This privilege was purchased! Dead In comfort through her foolish trust! '_Stiff-necked ones_,' well Esaias said!

"So, Sabbath morning, out of gate And on to way, what sees our arch Good Farmer? Why, they hoist their freight-- The corpse--on shoulder, and so, march! '_Now for it, Buti!_' In the nick Of time 't is pully-hauly, hence With hoarding! O'er the wayside quick There 's Mary plain in evidence!

"And here 's the convoy halting: right! Oh, they are bent on howling psalms And growling prayers, when opposite! And yet they glance, for all their qualms, Approve that promptitude of his, The Farmer's--duly at his post To take due thanks from every phiz, Sour smirk--nay, surly smile almost!

"Then earthward drops each brow again; The solemn task 's resumed; they reach Their holy field--the unholy train: Enter its precinct, all and each, Wrapt somehow in their godless rites; Till, rites at end, up-waking, lo, They lift their faces! What delights The mourners as they turn to go?

"Ha, ha! he, he! On just the side They drew their purse-strings to make quit Of Mary,--Christ the Crucified Fronted them now--these biters bit! Never was such a hiss and snort, Such screwing nose and shooting lip! Their purchase--honey in report-- Proved gall and verjuice at first sip!

"Out they break, on they bustle, where, A-top of wall, the Farmer waits With Buti: never fun so rare! The Farmer has the best: he rates The rascal, as the old High Priest Takes on himself to sermonize-- Nay, sneer, '_We Jews supposed, at least,_ _Theft was a crime in Christian eyes!_'

"'_Theft?_' cries the Farmer. '_Eat your words!_ _Show me what constitutes a breach_ _Of faith in aught was said or heard!_ _I promised you in plainest speech_ _I 'd take the thing you count disgrace_ _And put it here--and here 't is put!_ _Did you suppose I 'd leave the place_ _Blank therefore, just your rage to glut?_

"'_I guess you dared not stipulate_ _For such a damned impertinence!_ _So, quick, my graybeard, out of gate_ _And in at Ghetto! Haste you hence!_ _As long as I have house and land,_ _To spite you irreligious chaps,_ _Here shall the Crucifixion stand--_ _Unless you down with cash, perhaps!_'

"So snickered he and Buti both. The Jews said nothing, interchanged A glance or two, renewed their oath To keep ears stopped and hearts estranged From grace, for all our Church can do; Then off they scuttle: sullen jog Homewards, against our Church to brew Fresh mischief in their synagogue.

"But next day--see what happened, boy! See why I bid you have a care How you pelt Jews! The knaves employ Such methods of revenge, forbear No outrage on our faith, when free To wreak their malice! Here they took So base a method--plague o' me If I record it in my Book!

"For, next day, while the Farmer sat Laughing with Buti, in his shop, At their successful joke,--rat-tat,-- Door opens, and they 're like to drop Down to the floor as in there stalks A six-feet-high herculean-built Young he-Jew with a beard that balks Description. '_Help ere blood be spilt!_'

--"Screamed Buti: for he recognized Whom but the son, no less no more, Of that High Priest his work surprised So pleasantly the day before! Son of the mother, then, whereof The bier he lent a shoulder to, And made the moans about, dared scoff At sober Christian grief--the Jew!

"'_Sirs, I salute you! Never rise!_ _No apprehension!_' (Buti, white And trembling like a tub of size, Had tried to smuggle out of sight The picture's self--the thing in oils, You know, from which a fresco 's dashed Which courage speeds while caution spoils) '_Stay and be praised, sir, unabashed!_

"'_Praised,--ay, and paid too: for I come_ _To buy that very work of yours._ _My poor abode, which boasts--well, some_ _Few specimens of Art, secures,_ _Haply, a masterpiece indeed_ _If I should find my humble means_ _Suffice the outlay. So, proceed!_ _Propose--ere prudence intervenes!_'

"On Buti, cowering like a child, These words descended from aloft, In tone so ominously mild, With smile terrifically soft To that degree--could Buti dare (Poor fellow) use his brains, think twice? He asked, thus taken unaware, No more than just the proper price!

"'_Done!_' cries the monster. '_I disburse_ _Forthwith your moderate demand._ _Count on my custom--if no worse_ _Your future work be, understand,_ _Than this I carry off! No aid!_ _My arm, sir, lacks nor bone nor thews:_ _The burden 's easy, and we 're made,_ _Easy or hard, to bear--we Jews!_'

"Crossing himself at such escape, Buti by turns the money eyes And, timidly, the stalwart shape Now moving doorwards; but, more wise, The Farmer--who, though dumb, this while Had watched advantage--straight conceived A reason for that tone and smile So mild and soft! The Jew--believed!

"Mary in triumph borne to deck A Hebrew household! Pictured where No one was used to bend the neck In praise or bow the knee in prayer! Borne to that domicile by whom? The son of the High Priest! Through what? An insult done his mother's tomb! Saul changed to Paul--the case came pat!

"'_Stay, dog-Jew ... gentle sir, that is!_ _Resolve me! Can it be, she crowned,--_ _Mary, by miracle,--oh bliss!--_ _My present to your burial-ground?_ _Certain, a ray of light has burst_ _Your vale of darkness! Had you else,_ _Only for Mary's sake, unpursed_ _So much hard money? Tell--oh, tell's!_'

"Round--like a serpent that we took For worm and trod on--turns his bulk About the Jew. First dreadful look Sends Buti in a trice to skulk Out of sight somewhere, safe--alack! But our good Farmer faith made bold: And firm (with Florence at his back) He stood, while gruff the gutturals rolled--

"'_Ay, sir, a miracle was worked,_ _By quite another power, I trow._ _Than ever yet in canvas lurked,_ _Or you would scarcely face me now!_ _A certain impulse did suggest_ _A certain grasp with this right-hand,_ _Which probably had put to rest_ _Our quarrel,--thus your throat once spanned!_

"'_But I remembered me, subdued_ _That impulse, and you face me still!_ _And soon a philosophic mood_ _Succeeding (hear it, if you will!)_ _Has altogether changed my views_ _Concerning Art. Blind prejudice!_ _Well may you Christians tax us Jews_ _With scrupulosity too nice!_

"'_For, don't I see,--let 's issue join!--_ _Whenever I 'm allowed pollute_ _(I--and my little bag of coin)_ _Some Christian palace of repute,--_ _Don't I see stuck up everywhere_ _Abundant proof that cultured taste_ _Has Beauty for its only care,_ _And upon Truth no thought to waste?_

"''Jew, since it must be, take in pledge Of payment'--_so a Cardinal_ _Has sighed to me as if a wedge_ _Entered his heart_--'this best of all My treasures!' _Leda, Ganymede_ _Or Antiope: swan, eagle, ape,_ _(Or what 's the beast of what 's the breed,)_ _And Jupiter in every shape!_

"'_Whereat if I presume to ask_ 'But, Eminence, though Titian's whisk Of brush have well performed its task, How comes it these false godships frisk In presence of--what yonder frame Pretends to image? Surely, odd It seems, you let confront The Name Each beast the heathen called his god!'

"'_Benignant smiles me pity straight_ _The Cardinal._' 'Tis Truth, we prize! Art 's the sole question in debate! These subjects are so many lies. We treat them with a proper scorn When we turn lies--called gods forsooth-- To lies' fit use, now Christ is born. Drawing and coloring are Truth.

"''Think you I honor lies so much As scruple to parade the charms Of Leda--Titian, every touch-- Because the thing within her arms Means Jupiter who had the praise And prayer of a benighted world? He would have mine too, if, in days Of light, I kept the canvas furled!'

"'_So ending, with some easy gibe._ _What power has logic! I, at once,_ _Acknowledged error in our tribe_ _So squeamish that, when friends ensconce_ _A pretty picture in its niche_ _To do us honor, deck our graves,_ _We fret and fume and have an itch_ _To strangle folk--ungrateful knaves!_

"'_No, sir! Be sure that--what 's its style,_ _Your picture?--shall possess ungrudged_ _A place among my rank and file_ _Of Ledas and what not--be judged_ _Just as a picture! and (because_ _I fear me much I scarce have bought_ _A Titian) Master Buti's flaws_ _Found there, will have the laugh flaws ought!_'

"So, with a scowl, it darkens door-- This bulk--no longer! Buti makes Prompt glad re-entry; there 's a score Of oaths, as the good Farmer wakes From what must needs have been a trance, Or he had struck (he swears) to ground The bold bad mouth that dared advance Such doctrine the reverse of sound!

"Was magic here? Most like! For, since, Somehow our city's faith grows still More and more lukewarm, and our Prince Or loses heart or wants the will To check increase of cold. 'T is '_Live_ _And let live! Languidly repress_ _The Dissident! In short,--contrive_ _Christians must bear with Jews: no less!_'

"The end seems, any Israelite Wants any picture,--pishes, poohs, Purchases, hangs it full in sight In any chamber he may choose! In Christ's crown, one more thorn we rue! In Mary's bosom, one more sword! No, boy, you must not pelt a Jew! O Lord, how long? How long, O Lord?"

EPILOGUE

μεστοι ... οἱ δ' ἀμφορῆς οἴνου μέλανος ἀνθοσμίου

"The poets pour us wine--" Said the dearest poet I ever knew, Dearest and greatest and best to me. You clamor athirst for poetry-- We pour. "But when shall a vintage be"-- You cry--"strong grape, squeezed gold from screw. Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine? That were indeed the wine!"

One pours your cup--stark strength, Meat for a man; and you eye the pulp Strained, turbid still, from the viscous blood Of the snaky bough: and you grumble "Good! For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood; Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp!" So, down, with a wry face, goes at length The liquor: stuff for strength.

One pours your cup--sheer sweet, The fragrant fumes of a year condensed: Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe, From the bud on branch to the grass in swathe. "We suck mere milk of the seasons," saith A curl of each nostril--"dew, dispensed Nowise for nerving man to feat: Boys sip such honeyed sweet!"

And thus who wants wine strong, Waves each sweet smell of the year away; Who likes to swoon as the sweets suffuse His train with a mixture of beams and dews Turned syrupy drink--rough strength eschews: "What though in our veins your wine-stock stay? The lack of the bloom does our palate wrong. Give us wine sweet, not strong!"

Yet wine is--some affirm-- Prime wine is found in the world somewhere, Of portable strength with sweet to match. You double your heart its dose, yet catch-- As the draught descends--a violet-smatch, Softness--however it came there, Through drops expressed by the fire and worm: Strong sweet wine--some affirm.

Body and bouquet both? 'T is easy to ticket a bottle so; But what was the case in the cask, my friends? Cask? Nay, the vat--where the maker mends His strong with his sweet (you suppose) and blends His rough with his smooth, till none can know How it comes you may tipple, nothing loth, Body and bouquet both.

"You" being just--the world. No poets--who turn, themselves, the winch Of the press; no critics--I 'll even say, (Being flustered and easy of faith, to-day,) Who for love of the work have learned the way Till themselves produce home-made, at a pinch: No! You are the world, and wine ne'er purled Except to please the world!

"For, oh the common heart! And, ah the irremissible sin Of poets who please themselves, not us! Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring thus, How please still--Pindar and Æschylus!-- Drink--dipt into by the bearded chin Alike and the bloomy lip--no part Denied the common heart!

"And might we get such grace, And did you moderns but stock our vault With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul, How would seniors indulge at a hearty pull While juniors tossed off their thimbleful! Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped your fault, So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker race That wants the ancient grace!"

If I paid myself with words (As the French say well) I were dupe indeed! I were found in belief that you quaffed and bowsed At your Shakespeare the whole day long, caroused In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed A moment of night--toped on, took heed Of nothing like modern cream-and-curds. Pay me with deeds, not words!

For--see your cellarage! There are forty barrels with Shakespeare's brand. Some five or six are abroach: the rest Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test What yourselves call best of the very best! How comes it that still untouched they stand? Why don't you try tap, advance a stage With the rest in cellerage?

For--see your cellarage! There are four big butts of Milton's brew. How comes it you make old drips and drops Do duty, and there devotion stops? Leave such an abyss of malt and hops Embellied in butts which bungs still glue? You hate your bard! A fig for your rage! Free him from cellarage!

'T is said I brew stiff drink, But the deuce a flavor of grape is there. Hardly a May-go-down, 't is just A sort of a gruff Go-down-it-must-- No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust Commingles the racy with Springtide's rare! "What wonder," say you, "that we cough, and blink At Autumn's heady drink?"

Is it a fancy, friends? Mighty and mellow are never mixed, Though mighty and mellow be born at once. Sweet for the future,--strong for the nonce! Stuff you should stow away, ensconce In the deep and dark, to be found fast-fixed At the century's close: such time strength spends A-sweetening for my friends!

And then--why, what you quaff With a smack of lip and a cluck of tongue, Is leakage and leavings--just what haps From the tun some learned taster taps With a promise "Prepare your watery chaps! Here 's properest wine for old and young! Dispute its perfection--you make us laugh! Have faith, give thanks, but--quaff!"

Leakage, I say, or--worse-- Leavings suffice pot-valiant souls. Somebody, brimful, long ago, Frothed flagon he drained to the dregs; and, lo, Down whisker and beard what an overflow! Lick spilth that has trickled from classic jowls, Sup the single scene, sip the only verse-- Old wine, not new and worse!

I grant you: worse by much! Renounce that new where you never gained One glow at heart, one gleam at head, And stick to the warrant of age instead! No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed! _You_ fatten, with oceans of drink undrained? _You_ feed--who would choke did a cobweb smutch The Age you love so much?

A mine's beneath a moor: Acres of moor roof fathoms of mine Which diamonds dot where you please to dig; Yet who plies spade for the bright and big? Your product is--truffles, you hunt with a pig! Since bright-and-big, when a man would dine, Suits badly: and therefore the Koh-i-noor May sleep in mine 'neath moor!

Wine, pulse in might from me! It may never emerge in must from vat, Never fill cask nor furnish can, Never end sweet, which strong began-- God's gift to gladden the heart of man; But spirit 's at proof, I promise that! No sparing of juice spoils what should be Fit brewage--mine for me.

Man's thoughts and loves and hates! Earth is my vineyard, these grew there: From grape of the ground, I made or marred My vintage; easy the task or hard, Who set it--his praise be my reward! Earth's yield! Who yearn for the Dark Blue Sea's, Let them "lay, pray, bray"--the addle-pates! Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, hates!

But some one says, "Good Sir!" ('T is a worthy versed in what concerns The making such labor turn out well,) "You don't suppose that the nosegay-smell Needs always come from the grape? Each bell At your foot, each bud that your culture spurns, The very cowslip would act like myrrh On the stiffest brew--good Sir!

"Cowslips, abundant birth O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard too, --Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and out Distasteful lesson-book--all about Greece and Rome, victory and rout-- Love-verses instead of such vain ado! So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth Where thoughts have rightlier birth.

"Nay, thoughtlings they themselves: Loves, hates--in little and less and least! Thoughts? '_What is a man beside a mount!_' Loves? '_Absent--poor lovers the minutes count!_' Hates? '_Fie--Pope's letters to Martha Blount!_' These furnish a wine for a children's-feast: Insipid to man, they suit the elves Like thoughts, loves, hates themselves."

And, friends, beyond dispute I too have the cowslips dewy and dear. Punctual as Springtide forth peep they: I leave them to make my meadow gay. But I ought to pluck and impound them, eh? Not let them alone, but deftly shear And shred and reduce to--what may suit Children, beyond dispute?

And, here 's May-month, all bloom, All bounty: what if I sacrifice? If I out with shears and shear, nor stop Shearing till prostrate, lo, the crop? And will you prefer it to ginger-pop When I 've made you wine of the memories Which leave as bare as a churchyard tomb My meadow, late all bloom?

Nay, what ingratitude Should I hesitate to amuse the wits That have pulled so long at my flask, nor grudged The headache that paid their pains, nor budged From bunghole before they sighed and judged "Too rough for our taste, to-day, befits The racy and right when the years conclude!" Out on ingratitude!

Grateful or ingrate--none, No cowslip of all my fairy crew Shall help to concoct what makes you wink, And goes to your head till you think you think! I like them alive: the printer's ink Would sensibly tell on the perfume too. I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done; But of cowslips--friends get none!

Don't nettles make a broth Wholesome for blood grown lazy and thick? Maws out of sorts make mouths out of taste. My Thirty-four Port--no need to waste On a tongue that 's fur and a palate--paste! A magnum for friends who are sound! the sick-- I 'll posset and cosset them, nothing loth, Henceforward with nettle-broth!

THE AGAMEMNON OF ÆSCHYLUS

May I be permitted to chat a little, by way of recreation, at the end of a somewhat toilsome and perhaps fruitless adventure?

If, because of the immense fame of the following Tragedy, I wished to acquaint myself with it, and could only do so by the help of a translator, I should require him to be literal at every cost save that of absolute violence to our language. The use of certain allowable constructions which, happening to be out of daily favor, are all the more appropriate to archaic workmanship, is no violence: but I would be tolerant for once--in the case of so immensely famous an original--of even a clumsy attempt to furnish me with the very turn of each phrase in as Greek a fashion as English will bear: while, with respect to amplifications and embellishments,--anything rather than, with the good farmer, experience that most signal of mortifications, "to gape for Æschylus and get Theognis." I should especially decline--what may appear to brighten up a passage--the employment of a new word for some old one,--πόνος, or μέγας, or τέλοσ, with its congeners, recurring four times in three lines: for though such substitution may be in itself perfectly justifiable, yet this exercise of ingenuity ought to be within the competence of the unaided English reader if he likes to show himself ingenious. Learning Greek teaches Greek, and nothing else: certainly not common sense, if that have failed to precede the teaching. Further,--if I obtained a mere strict bald version of thing by thing, or at least word pregnant with thing, I should hardly look for an impossible transmission of the reputed magniloquence and sonority of the Greek; and this with the less regret, inasmuch as there is abundant musicality elsewhere, but nowhere else than in his poem the ideas of the poet. And lastly, when presented with these ideas, I should expect the result to prove very hard reading indeed if it were meant to resemble Æschylus, ξυμβαλεῖν οὐ ῥᾴδιος, "not easy to understand," in the opinion of his stoutest advocate among the ancients; while, I suppose, even modern scholarship sympathizes with that early declaration of the redoubtable Salmasius, when, looking about for an example of the truly obscure for the benefit of those who found obscurity in the sacred books, he protested that this particular play leaves them all behind in this respect, with their "Hebraisms, Syriasms, Hellenisms, and the whole of such bag and baggage."[6] For, over and above the proposed ambiguity of the Chorus, the text is sadly corrupt, probably interpolated, and certainly mutilated; and no unlearned person enjoys the scholar's privilege of trying his fancy upon each obstacle whenever he comes to a stoppage, and effectually clearing the way by suppressing what seems to lie in it.

All I can say for the present performance is, that I have done as I would be done by, if need were. Should anybody, without need, honor my translation by a comparison with the original, I beg him to observe that, following no editor exclusively, I keep to the earlier readings so long as sense can be made out of them, but disregard, I hope, little of importance in recent criticism so far as I have fallen in with it. Fortunately, the poorest translation, provided only it be faithful,--though it reproduce all the artistic confusion of tenses, moods, and persons, with which the original teems,--will not only suffice to display what an eloquent friend maintains to be the all-in-all of poetry--"the action of the piece"--but may help to illustrate his assurance that "the Greeks are the highest models of expression, the unapproached masters of the grand style: their expression is so excellent because it is so admirably kept in its right degree of prominence, because it is so simple and so well subordinated, because it draws its force directly from the pregnancy of the matter which it conveys ... not a word wasted, not a sentiment capriciously thrown in, stroke on stroke"[7] So may all happen!

Just a word more on the subject of my spelling--in a transcript from the Greek and there exclusively--Greek names and places precisely as does the Greek author. I began this practice, with great innocency of intention, some six-and-thirty years ago. Leigh Hunt, I remember, was accustomed to speak of his gratitude, when ignorant of Greek, to those writers (like Goldsmith) who had obliged him by using English characters, so that he might relish, for instance, the smooth quality of such a phrase as "hapalunetai galené;" he said also that Shelley was indignant at "Firenze" having displaced the Dantesque "Fiorenza," and would contemptuously English the intruder "Firence." I supposed I was doing a simple thing enough: but there has been till lately much astonishment at _os_ and _us_, _ai_ and _oi_, representing the same letters in Greek. Of a sudden, however, whether in translation or out of it, everybody seems committing the offence, although the adoption of _u_ for υ still presents such difficulty that it is a wonder how we have hitherto escaped "Eyripides." But there existed a sturdy Briton who, Ben Jonson informs us, wrote "The Life of the Emperor Anthony Pie"--whom we now acquiesce in as Antoninus Pius: for "with time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes satin." Yet there is on all sides much profession of respect for what Keats called "vowelled Greek"--"consonanted," one would expect; and, in a criticism upon a late admirable translation of something of my own, it was deplored that, in a certain verse corresponding in measure to the fourteenth of the sixth Pythian Ode, "neither Professor Jebb in his Greek, nor Mr. Browning in his English, could emulate that matchlessly musical γόνον ἰδὼν κάλλιστον ἀνδρῶν." Now, undoubtedly, "Seeing her son the fairest of men" has more sense than sound to boast of: but then, would not an Italian roll us out "Rimirando il figliuolo bellissimo degli uomini?" whereat Pindar, no less than Professor Jebb and Mr. Browning, τριακτῆρος οἴχεται τυχών.

It is recorded in the Annals of Art[8] that there was once upon a time, practising so far north as Stockholm, a painter and picture-cleaner--sire of a less unhappy son--Old Muytens: and the annalist, Baron de Tessé, has not concealed his profound dissatisfaction at Old Muytens' conceit "to have himself had something to do with the work of whatever master of eminence might pass through his hands." Whence it was--the Baron goes on to deplore--that much detriment was done to that excellent piece "The Recognition of Achilles," by Rubens, through the perversity of Old Muytens, "who must needs take on him to beautify every nymph of the twenty by the bestowment of a widened eye and an enlarged mouth." I, at least, have left eyes and mouths everywhere as I found them, and this conservatism is all that claims praise for--what is, after all ἀκέλευστος ἄμισθος ἀοιδά. No, neither "uncommanded" nor "unrewarded:" since it was commanded of me by my venerated friend Thomas Carlyle, and rewarded will it indeed become, if I am permitted to dignify it by the prefatory insertion of his dear and noble name.

R. B.

LONDON, _October 1, 1877_.

AGAMEMNON

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA

WARDER. CHOROS OF OLD MEN. KLUTAIMNESTRA. TALTHUBIOS, _Herald_. AGAMEMNON. AIGISTHOS. KASSANDRA.

_Warder._ The gods I ask deliverance from these labors, Watch of a year's length whereby, slumbering through it On the Atreidai's roofs on elbow,--dog-like-- I know of nightly star-groups the assemblage, And those that bring to men winter and summer, Bright dynasts, as they pride them in the æther --Stars, when they wither, and the uprisings of them. And now on ward I wait the torch's token, The glow of fire, shall bring from Troia message And word of capture: so prevails audacious The man's-way-planning hoping heart of woman. But when I, driven from night-rest, dew-drenched, hold to This couch of mine--not looked upon by visions, Since fear instead of sleep still stands beside me, So as that fast I fix in sleep no eyelids-- And when to sing or chirp a tune I fancy, For slumber such song-remedy infusing, I wail then, for this House's fortune groaning, Not, as of old, after the best ways governed. Now, lucky be deliverance from these labors, At good news--the appearing dusky fire! O hail, thou lamp of night, a day-long lightness Revealing, and of dances the ordainment! Halloo, halloo! To Agamemnon's wife I show, by shouting, That, from bed starting up at once, i' the household Joyous acclaim, good-omened to this torch-blaze, She send aloft if haply Ilion's city Be taken, as the beacon boasts announcing. Ay, and, for me, myself will dance a prelude, For, that my masters' dice drop right, I 'll reckon: Since thrice-six has it thrown to me, this signal. Well, may it hap that, as he comes, the love hand O' the household's lord I may sustain with this hand! As for the rest, I 'm mute: on tongue a big ox Has trodden. Yet this House, if voice it take should, Most plain would speak. So, willing I myself speak To those who know: to who know not--I 'm blankness.

_Choros._ The tenth year this, since Priamos' great match, King Menelaos, Agamemnon King, --The strenuous yoke-pair of the Atreidai's honor Two-throned, two-sceptred, whereof Zeus was donor-- Did from this land the aid, the armament dispatch, The thousand-sailored force of Argives clamoring "Ares" from out the indignant breast, as fling Passion forth vultures which, because of grief Away,--as are their young ones,--with the thief, Lofty above their brood-nests wheel in ring, Row round and round with oar of either wing, Lament the bedded chicks, lost labor that was love: Which hearing, one above --Whether Apollon, Pan or Zeus--that wail, Sharp-piercing bird-shriek of the guests who fare Housemates with gods in air-- Such-an-one sends, against who these assail, What, late-sent, shall not fail Of punishing--Erinus. Here as there, The Guardian of the Guest Zeus, the excelling one, Sends against Alexandros either son Of Atreus: for that wife, the many-husbanded, Appointing many a tug that tries the limb, While the knee plays the prop in dust, while, shred To morsels, lies the spear-shaft; in those grim Marriage-prolusions when their Fury wed Danaoi and Troes, both alike. All 's said: Things are where things are, and, as fate has willed, So shall they be fulfilled. Not gently-grieving, not just doling out The drops of expiation--no, nor tears distilled-- Shall he we know of bring the hard about To soft--that intense ire At those mock rites unsanctified by fire. But we pay naught here: through our flesh, age-weighed, Left out from who gave aid In that day,--we remain, Staying on staves a strength The equal of a child's at length. For when young marrow in the breast doth reign, That 's the old man's match,--Ares out of place In either: but in oldest age's case, Foliage a-fading, why, he wends his way On three feet, and, no stronger than a child, Wanders about gone wild, A dream in day. But thou, Tundareus' daughter, Klutaimnestra queen, What need? What new? What having heard or seen, By what announcement's tidings, everywhere Settest thou, round about, the sacrifice aflare? For, of all gods the city-swaying, Those supernal, those infernal, Those of the fields', those of the mart's obeying,-- The altars blaze with gifts; And here and there, heaven-high the torch uplifts Flame--medicated with persuasions mild, With foul admixture unbeguiled-- Of holy unguent, from the clotted chrism Brought from the palace, safe in its abysm. Of these things, speaking what may be indeed Both possible and lawful to concede, Healer do thou become!--of this solicitude Which, now, stands plainly forth of evil mood, And, then ... but from oblations, hope, to-day Gracious appearing, wards away From soul the insatiate care, The sorrow at my breast, devouring there!

Empowered am I to sing The omens, what their force which, journeying, Rejoiced the potentates: (For still, from God, inflates My breast, song-suasion: age, Born to the business, still such war can wage) --How the fierce bird against the Teukris land Dispatched, with spear and executing hand, The Achaian's two-throned empery--o'er Hellas' youth Two rulers with one mind: The birds' king to these kings of ships, on high, --The black sort, and the sort that's white behind,-- Appearing by the palace, on the spear-throw side, In right sky-regions, visible far and wide,-- Devouring a hare-creature, great with young, Balked of more racings they, as she from whom they sprung! Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail! But may the good prevail!

The prudent army-prophet seeing two The Atreidai, two their tempers, knew Those feasting on the hare The armament-conductors were; And thus he spoke, explaining signs in view. "In time, this outset takes the town of Priamos: But all before its towers,--the people's wealth that was, Of flocks and herds,--as sure, shall booty-sharing thence Drain to the dregs away, by battle violence. Only, have care lest grudge of any god disturb With cloud the unsullied shine of that great force, the curb Of Troia, struck with damp Beforehand in the camp! For envyingly is The virgin Artemis Toward--her father's flying hounds--this House-- The sacrificers of the piteous And cowering beast, Brood and all, ere the birth: she hates the eagles' feast. Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail! But may the good prevail!

"Thus ready is the beauteous one with help To those small dewdrop things fierce lions whelp, And udder-loving litter of each brute That roams the mead; and therefore makes she suit, The fair one, for fulfilment to the end Of things these signs portend-- Which partly smile, indeed, but partly scowl-- The phantasms of the fowl. I call Ieïos Paian to avert She work the Danaoi hurt By any thwarting waftures, long and fast Holdings from sail of ships: And sacrifice, another than the last, She for herself precipitate-- Something unlawful, feast for no man's lips, Builder of quarrels, with the House cognate-- Having in awe no husband: for remains A frightful, backward-darting in the path, Wily house-keeping chronicler of wrath, That has to punish that old children's fate!" Such things did Kalchas,--with abundant gains As well,--vociferate, Predictions from the birds, in journeying, Above the abode of either king. With these, symphonious, sing-- Ah, Linos, say--ah, Linos, song of wail! But may the good prevail!

Zeus, whosoe'er he be,--if that express Aught dear to him on whom I call-- So do I him address. I cannot liken out, by all Admeasurement of powers, Any but Zeus for refuge at such hours, If veritably needs I must From off my soul its vague care-burden thrust.

Not--whosoever was the great of yore, Bursting to bloom with bravery all round-- Is in our mouths: he was, but is no more. And who it was that after came to be, Met the thrice-throwing wrestler,--he Is also gone to ground. But "Zeus"--if any, heart and soul, that name-- Shouting the triumph-praise--proclaim, Complete in judgment shall that man be found. Zeus, who leads onward mortals to be wise, Appoints that suffering masterfully teach, in sleep, before the heart of each, A woe-remembering travail sheds in dew Discretion,--ay, and melts the unwilling too By what, perchance, may be a graciousness Of gods, enforced no less,-- As they, commanders of the crew, Assume the awful seat.

And then the old leader of the Achaian fleet, Disparaging no seer-- With bated breath to suit misfortune's inrush here --(What time it labored, that Achaian host, By stay from sailing,--every pulse at length Emptied of vital strength,-- Hard over Kalchis shore-bound, current-crost In Aulis station,--while the winds which post From Strumon, ill-delayers, famine-fraught, Tempters of man to sail where harborage is naught, Spendthrifts of ships and cables, turning time To twice the length,--these carded, by delay, To less and less away The Argeians' flowery prime: And when a remedy more grave and grand Than aught before--yea, for the storm and dearth-- The prophet to the foremost in command Shrieked forth, as cause of this Adducing Artemis, So that the Atreidai striking staves on earth Could not withhold the tear)-- Then did the king, the elder, speak this clear.

"Heavy the fate, indeed--to disobey! Yet heavy if my child I slay, The adornment of my household: with the tide Of virgin-slaughter, at the altar-side, A father's hands defiling: which the way Without its evils, say? How shall I turn fleet-fugitive, Failing of duty to allies? Since for a wind-abating sacrifice And virgin blood,--'t is right they strive, Nay, madden with desire. Well may it work them--this that they require!"

But when he underwent necessity's Yoke-trace,--from soul blowing unhallowed change Unclean, abominable,--thence--another man-- The audacious mind of him began Its wildest range. For this it is gives mortals hardihood-- Some vice-devising miserable mood Of madness, and first woe of all the brood. The sacrificer of his daughter--strange!-- He dared become, to expedite Woman-avenging warfare,--anchors weighed With such prelusive rite!

Prayings and callings "Father"--naught they made Of these, and of the virgin-age,-- Captains heart-set on war to wage! His ministrants, vows done, the father bade-- Kid-like, above the altar, swathed in pall, Take her--lift high, and have no fear at all, Head-downward, and the fair mouth's guard And frontage hold,--press hard From utterance a curse against the House By dint of bit--violence bridling speech. And as to ground her saffron-vest she shed, She smote the sacrificers all and each With arrow sweet and piteous, From the eye only sped,-- Significant of will to use a word, Just as in pictures: since, full many a time, In her sire's guest-hall, by the well-heaped board Had she made music,--lovingly with chime Of her chaste voice, that unpolluted thing, Honored the third libation,--paian that should bring Good fortune to the sire she loved so well.

What followed--those things I nor saw nor tell. But Kalchas' arts--whate'er they indicate-- Miss of fulfilment never: it is fate. True, justice makes, in sufferers, a desire To know the future woe preponderate. But--hear before is need! To that, farewell and welcome! 't is the same, indeed, As grief beforehand: clearly, part for part, Conformably to Kalchas' art, Shall come the event. But be they as they may, things subsequent,-- What is to do, prosperity betide E'en as we wish it!--we, the next allied, Sole guarding barrier of the Apian land.

I am come, reverencing power in thee, O Klutaimnestra! For 't is just we bow To the ruler's wife,--the male-seat man-bereaved. But if thou, having heard good news,--or none,-- For good news' hope dost sacrifice thus wide, I would hear gladly: art thou mute,--no grudge!

_Klutaimnestra._ Good-news-announcer, may--as is the by-word-- Morn become, truly,--news from Night his mother! But thou shalt learn joy past all hope of hearing. Priamos' city have the Argeioi taken.

_Cho._ How sayest? The word, from want of faith, escaped me.

_Klu._ Troia the Achaioi hold: do I speak plainly?

_Cho._ Joy overcreeps me, calling forth the tear-drop.

_Klu._ Right! for, that glad thou art, thine eye convicts thee.

_Cho._ For--what to thee, of all this, trusty token?

_Klu._ What 's here! how else? unless the god have cheated.

_Cho._ Haply thou flattering shows of dreams respectest?

_Klu._ No fancy would I take of soul sleep-burdened.

_Cho._ But has there puffed thee up some un-winged omen?

_Klu._ As a young maid's my mind thou mockest grossly.

_Cho._ Well, at what time was--even sacked, the city?

_Klu._ Of this same mother Night--the dawn, I tell thee.

_Cho._ And who of messengers could reach this swiftness?

_Klu._ Hephaistos--sending a bright blaze from Idé. Beacon did beacon send, from fire the poster, Hitherward: Idé to the rock Hermaian Of Lemnos: and a third great torch o' the island Zeus' seat received in turn, the Athoan summit. And,--so upsoaring as to stride sea over, The strong lamp-voyager, and all for joyance-- Did the gold-glorious splendor, any sun like, Pass on--the pine-tree--to Makistos' watch-place; Who did not,--tardy,--caught, no wits about him, By sleep,--decline his portion of the missive. And far the beacon's light, on stream Euripos Arriving, made aware Messapios' warders. And up they lit in turn, played herald onwards, Kindling with flame a heap of gray old heather. And, strengthening still, the lamp, decaying nowise, Springing o'er Plain Asopos,--fullmoon-fashion Effulgent,--toward the crag of Mount Kithairon, Roused a new rendering-up of fire the escort-- And light, far escort, lacked no recognition O' the guard--as burning more than burnings told you. And over Lake Gorgopis light went leaping, And, at Mount Aigiplanktos safe arriving, Enforced the law--"to never stint the fire-stuff." And they send, lighting up with ungrudged vigor, Of flame a huge beard, ay, the very foreland So as to strike above, in burning onward, The look-out which commands the Strait Saronic, Then did it dart until it reached the outpost Mount Arachnaios here, the city's neighbor; And then darts to this roof of the Atreidai This light of Idé's fire not unforefathered! Such are the rules prescribed the flambeau-bearers: He beats that 's first and also last in running. Such is the proof and token I declare thee, My husband having sent me news from Troia.

_Cho._ The gods, indeed, anon will I pray, woman! But now, these words to hear, and sate my wonder Thoroughly, I am fain--if twice thou tell them.

_Klu._ Troia do the Achaioi hold, this same day. I think a noise--no mixture--reigns i' the city. Sour wine and unguent pour thou in one vessel-- Standers-apart, not lovers, would'st thou style them: And so, of captives and of conquerors, partwise The voices are to hear, of fortune diverse. For those, indeed, upon the bodies prostrate Of husbands, brothers, children upon parents --The old men, from a throat that 's free no longer, Shriekingly wail the death-doom of their dearest: While these--the after-battle hungry labor, Which prompts night-faring, marshals them to breakfast On the town's store, according to no billet Of sharing, but as each drew lot of fortune. In the spear-captured Troic habitations House they already: from the frosts upæthral And dews delivered, will they, luckless creatures, Without a watch to keep, slumber all night through. And if they fear the gods, the city-guarders, And if the gods' structures of the conquered country, They may not--capturers--soon in turn be captive. But see no prior lust befall the army To sack things sacred--by gain-cravings vanquished! For there needs homeward the return's salvation, To round the new limb back o' the double race-course. And guilty to the gods if came the army, Awakened up the sorrow of those slaughtered Might be--should no outbursting evils happen. But may good beat--no turn to see i' the balance! For, many benefits I want the gain of.

_Cho._ Woman, like prudent man thou kindly speakest. And I, thus having heard thy trusty tokens, The gods to rightly hail forthwith prepare me; For, grace that must be paid has crowned our labors.

O Zeus the king, and friendly Night Of these brave boons bestower-- Thou who didst fling on Troia's every tower The o'er-roofing snare, that neither great thing might, Nor any of the young ones, overpass Captivity's great sweep-net--one and all Of Até held in thrall! Ay, Zeus I fear--the guest's friend great--who was The doer of this, and long since bent The bow on Alexandros with intent That neither wide o' the white Nor o'er the stars the foolish dart should light. The stroke of Zeus--they have it, as men say! This, at least, from the source track forth we may! As he ordained, so has he done. "No"--said some one-- "The gods think fit to care Nowise for mortals, such As those by whom the good and fair Of things denied their touch Is trampled!" but he was profane. That they do care, has been made plain To offspring of the over-bold, Outbreathing "Ares" greater than is just-- Houses that spill with more than they can hold. More than is best for man. Be man's what must Keep harm off, so that in himself he find Sufficiency--the well-endowed of mind! For there 's no bulwark in man's wealth to him Who, through a surfeit, kicks--into the dim And disappearing--Right's great altar.

Yes-- It urges him, the sad persuasiveness, Até's insufferable child that schemes Treason beforehand: and all cure is vain. It is not hidden: out it glares again, A light dread-lamping-mischief, just as gleams The badness of the bronze; Through rubbing, puttings to the touch, Black-clotted is he, judged at once. He seeks--the boy--a flying bird to clutch, The insufferable brand Setting upon the city of his land Whereof not any god hears prayer; While him who brought about such evils there, That unjust man, the god in grapple throws. Such an one, Paris goes Within the Atreidai's house-- Shamed the guest's board by robbery of the spouse.

And, leaving to her townsmen throngs a-spread With shields, and spear-thrusts of sea-armament, And bringing Ilion, in a dowry's stead, Destruction--swiftly through the gates she went, Daring the undareable. But many a groan outbroke From prophets of the House as thus they spoke. "Woe, woe the House, the House and Rulers,--woe The marriage-bed and dints A husband's love imprints! There she stands silent! meets no honor--no Shame--sweetest still to see of things gone long ago! And, through desire of one across the main, A ghost will seem within the house to reign: And hateful to the husband is the grace Of well-shaped statues: from--in place of eyes, Those blanks--all Aphrodité dies.

"But dream-appearing mournful fantasies-- There they stand, bringing grace that's vain. For vain 't is, when brave things one seems to view: The fantasy has floated off, hands through; Gone, that appearance,--nowise left to creep,-- On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep!" Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are such As these--and woes surpassing these by much. But not these only: everywhere-- For those who from the land Of Hellas issued in a band, Sorrow, the heart must bear, Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there. Many a circumstance, at least, Touches the very breast. For those Whom any sent away,--he knows: And in the live man's stead, Armor and ashes reach The house of each.

For Ares, gold-exchanger for the dead, And balance-holder in the fight o' the spear, Due-weight from Ilion sends-- What moves the tear on tear-- A charred scrap to the friends: Filling with well-packed ashes every urn, For man--that was--the sole return. And they groan--praising much, the while, Now this man as experienced in the strife, Now that, fallen nobly on a slaughtered pile, Because of--not his own--another's wife. But things there be, one barks, When no man harks: A surreptitious grief that 's grudge Against the Atreidai who first sought the judge. But some there, round the rampart, have In Ilian earth, each one his grave: All fair-formed as at birth, It hid them--what they have and hold--the hostile earth.

And big with anger goes the city's word, And pays a debt by public curse incurred. And ever with me--as about to hear A something night-involved--remains my fear: Since of the many-slayers--not Unwatching are the gods. The black Erinues, at due periods-- Whoever gains the lot Of fortune with no right-- Him, by life's strain and stress Back-again-beaten from success, They strike blind: and among the out-of-sight For who has got to be, avails no might. The being praised outrageously Is grave, for at the eyes of such an one Is launched, from Zeus, the thunder-stone. Therefore do I decide For so much and no more prosperity Than of his envy passes unespied. Neither a city-sacker would I be, Nor life, myself by others captive, see.

A swift report has gone our city through, From fire, the good-news messenger: if true, Who knows? Or is it not a god-sent lie? Who is so childish and deprived of sense That, having, at announcements of the flame Thus novel, felt his own heart fired thereby, He then shall, at a change of evidence, Be worsted just the same? It is conspicuous in a woman's nature, Before its view to take a grace for granted: Too trustful,--on her boundary, usurpature Is swiftly made; But swiftly, too, decayed, The glory perishes by woman vaunted.

_Klu._ Soon shall we know--of these light-bearing torches, And beacons and exchanges, fire with fire-- If they are true, indeed, or if, dream-fashion, This gladsome light came and deceived our judgment. Yon herald from the shore I see, o'ershadowed With boughs of olive: dust, mud's thirsty brother, Close neighbors on his garb, thus testify me That neither voiceless, nor yet kindling for thee Mountain-wood-flame, shall he explain by fire-smoke: But either tell out more the joyance, speaking ... Word contrary to which, I ought but love it! For may good be--to good that 's known--appendage!

_Cho._ Whoever prays for aught else to this city --May he himself reap fruit of his mind's error!

_Herald._ Ha, my forefathers' soil of earth Argeian! Thee, in this year's tenth light, am I returned to-- Of many broken hopes, on one hope chancing; For never prayed I, in this earth Argeian Dying, to share my part in tomb the dearest. Now, hail thou earth, and hail thou also, sunlight, And Zeus, the country's lord, and king the Puthian From bow no longer urging at us arrows! Enough, beside Skamandros, cam'st thou adverse: Now, contrary, be saviour thou and healer, O king Apollon! And gods conquest-granting, All--I invoke too, and my tutelary Hermes, dear herald, heralds' veneration,-- And Heroes our forthsenders,--friendly, once more The army to receive, the war-spear's leavings! Ha, mansions of my monarchs, roofs beloved, And awful seats, and deities sun-fronting-- Receive with pomp your monarch, long time absent! For he comes bringing light in night-time to you, In common with all these--king Agamemnon. But kindly greet him--for clear shows your duty-- Who has dug under Troia with the mattock Of Zeus the Avenger, whereby plains are out-ploughed, Altars unrecognizable, and god's shrines, And the whole land's seed thoroughly has perished. And such a yoke-strap having cast round Troia, The elder king Atreides, happy man--he Comes to be honored, worthiest of what mortals Now are. Nor Paris nor the accomplice-city Outvaunts their deed as more than they are done-by: For, in a suit for rape and theft found guilty, He missed of plunder and, in one destruction, Fatherland, house and home has mowed to atoms: Debts the Priamidai have paid twice over.

_Cho._ Hail, herald from the army of Achaians!

_Her._ I hail:--to die, will gainsay gods no longer!

_Cho._ Love of this fatherland did exercise thee?

_Her._ So that I weep, at least, with joy, my eyes full.

_Cho._ What, of this gracious sickness were ye gainers?

_Her._ How now? instructed, I this speech shall master.

_Cho._ For those who loved you back, with longing stricken.

_Her._ This land yearned for the yearning army, say'st thou?

_Cho._ So as to set me oft, from dark mind, groaning.

_Her._ Whence came this ill mind--hatred to the army?

_Cho._ Of old, I use, for mischief's physic, silence.

_Her._ And how, the chiefs away, did you fear any?

_Cho._ So that now--late thy word--much joy were--dying!

_Her._ For well have things been worked out: these,--in much time, Some of them, one might say, had luck in falling, While some were faulty: since who, gods excepted, Goes, through the whole time of his life, ungrieving? For labors should I tell of, and bad lodgments, Narrow deckways ill-strewn, too,--what the day's woe We did not groan at getting for our portion? As for land-things, again, on went more hatred! Since beds were ours hard by the foemen's ramparts, And, out of heaven and from the earth, the meadow Dews kept a-sprinkle, an abiding damage Of vestures, making hair a wild-beast matting. Winter, too, if one told of it--bird-slaying-- Such as, unbearable, Idaian snow brought-- Or heat, when waveless, on its noontide couches Without a wind, the sea would slumber falling --Why must one mourn these? O'er and gone is labor: O'er and gone is it, even to those dead ones, So that no more again they mind uprising. Why must we tell in numbers those deprived ones, And the live man be vexed with fate's fresh outbreak? Rather, I bid full farewell to misfortunes! For us, the left from out the Argeian army, The gain beats, nor does sorrow counterbalance. So that 't is fitly boasted of, this sunlight, By us, o'er sea and land the aery flyers, "Troia at last taking, the band of Argives Hang up such trophies to the gods of Hellas Within their domes--new glory to grow ancient!" Such things men having heard must praise the city And army-leaders: and the grace which wrought them-- Of Zeus, shall honored be. Thou hast my whole word.

_Cho._ O'ercome by words, their sense I do not gainsay. For, aye this breeds youth in the old--"to learn well." But these things most the house and Klutaimnestra Concern, 't is likely: while they make me rich, too.

_Klu._ I shouted long ago, indeed, for joyance, When came that first night-messenger of fire Proclaiming Ilion's capture and dispersion. And some one, girding me, said, "Through fire-bearers Persuaded--Troia to be sacked now, thinkest? Truly, the woman's way,--high to lift heart up!" By such words I was made seem wit-bewildered: Yet still I sacrificed; and,--female-song with,-- A shout one man and other, through the city, Set up, congratulating in the gods' seats, Soothing the incense-eating flame right fragrant. And now, what 's more, indeed, why need'st thou tell me? I of the king himself shall learn the whole word: And,--as may best be,--I my revered husband Shall hasten, as he comes back, to receive: for-- What 's to a wife sweeter to see than this light (Her husband, by the god saved, back from warfare) So as to open gates? This tell my husband-- To come at soonest to his loving city. A faithful wife at home may he find, coming! Such an one as he left--the dog o' the household-- Trusty to him, adverse to the ill-minded, And, in all else, the same: no signet-impress Having done harm to, in that time's duration. I know nor pleasure, nor blameworthy converse With any other man more than--bronze-dippings!

_Her._ Such boast as this--brimful of the veracious-- Is for a high-born dame not bad to send forth!

_Cho._ Ay, she spoke thus to thee--that hast a knowledge From clear interpreters--a speech most seemly! But speak, thou, herald! Menelaos I ask of: If he, returning, back in safety also Will come with you--this land's beloved chieftain?

_Her._ There's no way I might say things false and pleasant For friends to reap the fruits of through a long time.

_Cho._ How then, if, speaking good, things true thou chance on?

_Her._ For not well-hidden things become they, sundered. The man has vanished from the Achaic army, He and his ship too. I announce no falsehood.

_Cho._ Whether forth-putting openly from Ilion, Or did storm--wide woe--snatch him from the army?

_Her._ Like topping bowman, thou hast touched the target, And a long sorrow hast succinctly spoken.

_Cho._ Whether, then, of him, as a live or dead man Was the report by other sailors bruited?

_Her._ Nobody knows so as to tell out clearly Excepting Helios who sustains earth's nature.

_Cho._ How say'st thou then, did storm the naval army Attack and end, by the celestials' anger?

_Her._ It suits not to defile a day auspicious With ill-announcing speech: distinct each god's due: And when a messenger with gloomy visage To a city bears a fall'n host's woes--God ward off!-- One popular wound that happens to the city, And many sacrificed from many households-- Men, scourged by that two-thonged whip Ares loves so, Double spear-headed curse, bloody yoke-couple,-- Of woes like these, doubtless, whoe'er comes weighted, Him does it suit to sing the Erinues' paian. But who, of matters saved a glad-news-bringer, Comes to a city in good estate rejoicing.... How shall I mix good things with evil, telling Of storm against the Achaioi, urged by gods' wrath? For they swore league, being arch-foes before that, Fire and the sea: and plighted troth approved they, Destroying the unhappy Argeian army, At night began the bad-wave-outbreak evils; For, ships against each other Threkian breezes Shattered: and these, butted at in a fury By storm and typhoon, with surge rain-resounding,-- Oft they went, vanished, through a bad herd's whirling. And, when returned the brilliant light of Helios, We view the Aigaian sea on flower with corpses Of men Achaian and with naval ravage. But us indeed, and ship, unhurt i' the hull too, Either some one outstole us or outprayed us-- Some god--no man it was the tiller touching. And Fortune, savior, willing on our ship sat. So as it neither had in harbor wave-surge Nor ran aground against a shore all rocky. And then, the water-Haides having fled from In the white day, not trusting to our fortune, We chewed the cud in thoughts--this novel sorrow O' the army laboring and badly pounded. And now--if any one of them is breathing-- They talk of us as having-perished: why not? And we--that they the same fate have, imagine. May it be for the best! Meneleos, then, Foremost and specially to come, expect thou! If (that is) any ray o' the sun reports him Living and seeing too--by Zeus' contrivings, Not yet disposed to quite destroy the lineage-- Some hope is he shall come again to household. Having heard such things, know, thou truth art hearing!

_Cho._ Who may he have been that named thus wholly with exactitude-- (Was he some one whom we see not, by forecastings of the future Guiding tongue in happy mood?) --Her with battle for a bridegroom, on all sides contention-wooed, Helena? Since--mark the suture!-- Ship's-Hell, Man's-Hell, City's-Hell, From the delicately--pompous curtains that pavilion well, Forth, by favor of the gale Of earth-born Zephuros did she sail. Many shield-bearers, leaders of the pack, Sailed too upon their track, Theirs who had directed oar, Then visible no more, To Simois' leaf-luxuriant shore-- For sake of strife all gore!

To Ilion Wrath, fulfilling her intent, This marriage-care--the rightly named so--sent: In after-time, for the tables' abuse And that of the hearth-partaker Zeus, Bringing to punishment Those who honored with noisy throat The honor of the bride, the hymenæal note Which did the kinsfolk then to singing urge. But, learning a new hymn for that which was, The ancient city of Priamos Groans probably a great and general dirge, Denominating Paris "The man that miserably marries:"-- She who, all the while before, A life, that was a general dirge For citizens' unhappy slaughter, bore,

And thus a man, by no milk's help, Within his household reared a lion's whelp That loved the teat In life's first festal stage: Gentle as yet, A true child-lover, and, to men of age, A thing whereat pride warms; And oft he had it in his arms Like any new-born babe, bright-faced, to hand Wagging its tail, at belly's strict command.

But in due time upgrown, The custom of progenitors was shown: For--thanks for sustenance repaying With ravage of sheep slaughtered-- It made unbidden feast; With blood the house was watered, To household came a woe there was no staying: Great mischief many-slaying! From God it was--some priest Of Até, in the house, by nurture thus increased.

At first, then, to the city of Ilion went A soul, as I might say, of windless calm-- Wealth's quiet ornament, An eyes'-dart bearing balm, Love's spirit-biting flower. But--from the true course bending-- She brought about, of marriage, bitter ending: Ill-resident, ill-mate, in power Passing to the Priamidai--by sending Of Hospitable Zeus-- Erinus for a bride,--to make brides mourn, her dower.

Spoken long ago Was the ancient saying Still among mortals staying: "Man's great prosperity at height of rise Engenders offspring nor unchilded dies; And, from good fortune, to such families, Buds forth insatiate woe." Whereas, distinct from any, Of my own mind I am: For 't is the unholy deed begets the many, Resembling each its dam. Of households that correctly estimate, Ever a beauteous child is born of Fate. But ancient Arrogance delights to generate Arrogance, young and strong 'mid mortals' sorrow, Or now, or then, when comes the appointed morrow. And she bears young Satiety; And, fiend with whom nor fight nor war can be, Unholy Daring--twin black Curses Within the household, children like their nurses.

But Justice shines in smoke-grimed habitations, And honors the well-omened life; While,--gold-besprinkled stations Where the hands' filth is rife, With backward-turning eyes Leaving,--to holy seats she hies, Not worshipping the power of wealth Stamped with applause by stealth: And to its end directs each thing begun.

Approach then, my monarch, of Troia the sacker, of Atreus the son! How ought I address thee, how ought I revere thee,--nor yet overhitting Nor yet underbending the grace that is fitting? Many of mortals hasten to honor the seeming-to-be-- Passing by justice: and, with the ill-faring, to groan as he groans all are free. But no bite of the sorrow their liver has reached to: They say with the joyful,--one outside on each, too, As they force to a smile smileless faces. But whoever is good at distinguishing races In sheep of his flock--it is not for the eyes Of a man to escape such a shepherd's surprise, As they seem, from a well-wishing mind, In watery friendship to fawn and be kind. Thou to me, then, indeed, sending an army for Helena's sake, (I will not conceal it,) wast--oh, by no help of the Muses!--depicted Not well of thy midriff the rudder directing,--convicted Of bringing a boldness they did not desire to the men with existence at stake. But now--from no outside of mind, nor unlovingly--gracious thou art To those who have ended the labor, fulfilling their part; And in time shalt thou know, by inquiry instructed, Who of citizens justly, and who not to purpose, the city conducted.

_Agamemnon._ First, indeed, Argos, and the gods, the local, 'T is right addressing--those with me the partners In this return and right things done the city Of Priamos: gods who, from no tongue hearing The rights o' the cause, for Ilion's fate man-slaught'rous Into the bloody vase, not oscillating, Put the vote-pebbles, while, o' the rival vessel, Hope rose up to the lip-edge: filled it was not. By smoke the captured city is still conspicuous: Até's burnt-offerings live: and, dying with them, The ash sends forth the fulsome blasts of riches. Of these things, to the gods grace many-mindful 'T is right I render, since both nets outrageous We built them round with, and, for sake of woman, It did the city to dust--the Argeian monster, The horse's nestling, the shield-bearing people That made a leap, at setting of the Pleiads, And, vaulting o'er the tower, the raw-flesh-feeding Lion licked up his fill of blood tyrannic. I to the gods indeed prolonged this preface; But--as for _thy_ thought, I remember hearing-- I say the same, and thou co-pleader hast me. Since few of men this faculty is born with To honor, without grudge, their friend successful. For moody, on the heart, a poison seated Its burden doubles to who gained the sickness: By his own griefs he is himself made heavy, And out-of-door prosperity seeing groans at. Knowing, I 'd call (for well have I experienced) "Fellowship's mirror," "phantom of a shadow," Those seeming to be mighty gracious to me: While just Odusseus--he who sailed not willing-- When joined on, was to me the ready trace-horse. This of him, whether dead or whether living, I say. For other city-and-gods' concernment-- Appointing common courts, in full assemblage We will consult. And as for what holds seemly How it may lasting stay well, must be counselled: While what has need of medicines Paionian We, either burning or else cutting kindly, Will make endeavor to turn pain from sickness. And now into the domes and homes by altar Going, I to the gods first raise the right-hand-- They who, far sending, back again have brought me. And Victory, since she followed, fixed remain she!

_Klu._ Men, citizens, Argeians here, my worships! I shall not shame me, consort-loving manners To tell before you: for in time there dies off The diffidence from people. Not from others Learning, I of myself will tell the hard life I bore so long as this man was 'neath Ilion. First: for a woman, from the male divided, To sit at home alone, is monstrous evil-- Hearing the many rumors back-revenging: And for now This to come, now That bring after Woe, and still worse woe, bawling in the household! And truly, if so many wounds had chanced on My husband here, as homeward used to dribble Report, he's pierced more than a net to speak of! While, were he dying (as the words abounded) A triple-bodied Geruon the Second, Plenty above--for loads below I count not-- Of earth a three-share cloak he'd boast of taking, Once only dying in each several figure! Because of such-like rumors back-revenging, Many the halters from my neck, above head, Others than _I_ loosed--loosed from neck by main force! From this cause, sure, the boy stands not beside me-- Possessor of our troth-plights, thine and mine too-- As ought Orestes: be not thou astonished! For, him brings up our well-disposed guest-captive Strophios the Phokian--ills that told on both sides To me predicting--both of thee 'neath Ilion The danger, and if anarchy's mob-uproar Should overthrow thy council; since 'tis born with Mortals,--whoe'er has fallen, the more to kick him. Such an excuse, I think, no cunning carries! As for myself--why, of my wails the rushing Fountains are dried up: not in them a drop more! And in my late-to-bed eyes I have damage Bewailing what concerned thee, those torch-holdings Forever unattended to. In dreams--why, Beneath the light wing-beats o' the gnat, I woke up As he went buzzing--sorrows that concerned thee Seeing, that filled more than their fellow-sleep-time. Now, all this having suffered, from soul grief-free I would style this man here the dog o' the stables, The savior forestay of the ship, the high roof's Ground-prop, son sole-begotten to his father, --Ay, land appearing to the sailors past hope, Loveliest day to see after a tempest, To the wayfaring-one athirst a well-spring, --The joy, in short, of 'scaping all that's--fatal! I judge him worth addresses such as these are --Envy stand off!--for many those old evils We underwent. And now, to me--dear headship!-- Dismount thou from this car, not earthward setting The foot of thine, O king, that's Ilion's spoiler! Slave-maids, why tarry?--whose the task allotted To strew the soil o' the road with carpet-spreadings. Immediately be purple-strewn the pathway, So that to home unhoped may lead him--Justice! As for the rest, care shall--by no sleep conquered-- Dispose things--justly (gods to aid!) appointed.

_Aga._ Offspring of Leda, of my household warder, Suitably to my absence hast thou spoken, For long the speech thou didst outstretch! But aptly To praise--from others ought to go this favor. And for the rest,--not me, in woman's fashion, Mollify, nor--as mode of barbarous man is-- To me gape forth a groundward-failing clamor! Nor, strewing it with garments, make my passage Envied! Gods, sure, with these behooves we honor: But, for a mortal on these varied beauties To walk--to me, indeed, is nowise fear-free. I say--as man, not god, to me do homage! Apart from foot-mats both and varied vestures Renown is loud, and--not to lose one's senses, God's greatest gift. Behooves we him call happy Who has brought life to end in loved wellbeing. If all things I might manage thus--brave man, I!

_Klu._ Come now, this say, nor feign a feeling to me!

_Aga._ With feeling, know indeed, I do not tamper!

_Klu._ Vowed'st thou to the gods, in fear, to act thus?

_Aga._ If any, _I_ well knew resolve I outspoke.

_Klu._ What think'st thou Priamos had done, thus victor?

_Aga._ On varied vests--I do think--he had passaged.

_Klu._ Then, do not, struck with awe at human censure....

_Aga._ Well, popular mob-outcry much avails too!

_Klu._ Ay, but the unenvied is not the much valued.

_Aga._ Sure, 't is no woman's part to long for battle!

_Klu._ Why, to the prosperous, even suits a beating!

_Aga._ What? thou this beating us in war dost prize too?

_Klu._ Persuade thee! power, for once, grant _me_--and willing!

_Aga._ But if this seem so to thee--shoes, let some one Loose under, quick--foot's serviceable carriage! And me, on these sea-products walking, may no Grudge from a distance, from the god's eye, strike at! For great shame were my strewment-spoiling--riches! Spoiling with feet, and silver-purchased textures! Of these things, thus then. But this female-stranger Tenderly take inside! Who conquers mildly God, from afar, benignantly regardeth. For, willing, no one wears a yoke that's servile: And she, of many valuables, outpicked The flower, the army's gift, myself has followed. So--since to hear thee, I am brought about thus,-- I go into the palace--purples treading.

_Klu._ There is the sea--and what man shall exhaust it?-- Feeding much purple's worth-its-weight-in-silver Dye, ever fresh and fresh, our garments' tincture; At home, such wealth, king, we begin--by gods' help-- With having, and to lack, the household knows not. Of many garments had I vowed a treading (In oracles if fore-enjoined the household) Of this dear soul the safe-return-price scheming! For, root existing, foliage goes up houses, O'erspreading shadow against Seirios dog-star; And, thou returning to the hearth domestic, Warmth, yea, in winter dost thou show returning. And when, too, Zeus works, from the green-grape acrid, Wine--then, already, cool in houses cometh-- The perfect man his home perambulating! Zeus, Zeus Perfecter, these my prayers perfect thou! --Thy care be--yea--of things thou mayst make perfect!

_Cho._ Wherefore to me, this fear-- Groundedly stationed here Fronting my heart, the portent-watcher--flits she? Wherefore should prophet-play The uncalled and unpaid lay, Nor--having spat forth fear, like bad dreams--sits she On the mind's throne beloved--well-suasive Boldness? For time, since, by a throw of all the hands, The boat's stern-cables touched the sands, Has passed from youth to oldness,-- When under Ilion rushed the ship-borne bands.

And from my eyes I learn-- Being myself my witness--their return. Yet, all the same, without a lyre, my soul, Itself its teacher too, chants from within Erinus' dirge, not having now the whole Of Hope's dear boldness: nor my inwards sin-- The heart that's rolled in whirls against the mind Justly presageful of a fate behind. But I pray--things false, from my hope, may fall Into the fate that's not-fulfilled-at-all!

Especially at least, of health that's great The term's insatiable: for, its weight --A neighbor, with a common wall between-- Ever will sickness lean; And destiny, her course pursuing straight, Has struck man's ship against a reef unseen. Now, when a portion, rather than the treasure, Fear casts from sling, with peril in right measure, It has not sunk--the universal freight, (With misery freighted over-full,) Nor has fear whelmed the hull. Then too the gift of Zeus, Two-handedly profuse, Even from the furrows' yield for yearly use Has done away with famine, the disease; But blood of man to earth once falling,--deadly, black,-- In times ere these,-- Who may, by singing spells, call back? Zeus had not else stopped one who rightly knew The way to bring the dead again. But, did not an appointed Fate constrain The Fate from gods, to bear no more than due, My heart, outstripping what tongue utters, Would have all out: which now, in darkness, mutters Moodily grieved, nor ever hopes to find How she a word in season may unwind From out the enkindling mind.

_Klu._ Take thyself in, thou too--I say, Kassandra! Since Zeus--not angrily--in household placed thee Partaker of hand-sprinklings, with the many Slaves stationed, his the Owner's altar close to. Descend from out this car, nor be high-minded! And truly they do say Alkmene's child once Bore being sold, slaves' barley-bread his living. If, then, necessity of this lot o'erbalance, Much is the favor of old-wealthy masters: For those who, never hoping, made fine harvest Are harsh to slaves in all things, beyond measure, Thou hast--with us--such usage as law warrants.

_Cho._ To thee it was, she paused plain speech from speaking. Being inside the fatal nets--obeying, Thou mayst obey: but thou mayst disobey too!

_Klu._ Why, if she is not, in the swallow's fashion, Possessed of voice that 's unknown and barbaric, I, with speech--speaking in mind's scope--persuade her.

_Cho._ Follow! The best--as things now stand--she speaks of. Obey thou, leaving this thy car-enthronement!

_Klu._ Well, with this thing at door, for me no leisure To waste time: as concerns the hearth mid-navelled, Already stand the sheep for fireside slaying By those who never hoped to have such favor. If thou, then, aught of this wilt do, delay not! But if thou, being witless, tak'st no word in, Speak thou, instead of voice, with hand as Kars do!

_Cho._ She seems a plain interpreter in need of, The stranger! and her way--a beast's new-captured!

_Klu._ Why, she is mad, sure,--hears her own bad senses,-- Who, while she comes, leaving a town new-captured, Yet knows not how to bear the bit o' the bridle Before she has out-frothed her bloody fierceness. Not I--throwing away more words--will shamed be!

_Cho._ But I,--for I compassionate,--will chafe not. Come, O unhappy one, this car vacating, Yielding to this necessity, prove yoke's use!

_Kassandra._ Otototoi, Gods, Earth--Apollon, Apollon!

_Cho._ Why didst thou "ototoi" concerning Loxias? Since he is none such as to suit a mourner.

_Kas._ Otototoi, Gods, Earth, --Apollon, Apollon!

_Cho._ Ill-boding here again the god invokes she --Nowise empowered in woes to stand by helpful.

_Kas._ Apollon, Apollon, Guard of the ways, my destroyer! For thou hast quite, this second time, destroyed me.

_Cho._ To prophesy she seems of her own evils: Remains the god-gift to the slave-soul present.

_Kas._ Apollon, Apollon, Guard of the ways, my destroyer! Ha, whither hast thou led me? to what roof now?

_Cho._ To the Atreidai's roof: if this thou know'st not, I tell it thee, nor this wilt thou call falsehood.

_Kas._ How! how! God-hated, then! Of many a crime it knew-- Self-slaying evils, halters too: Man's-shambles, blood-besprinkler of the ground!

_Cho._ She seems to be good-nosed, the stranger: dog-like, She snuffs indeed the victims she will find there.

_Kas._ How! how! By the witnesses here I am certain now! These children bewailing their slaughters--flesh dressed in the fire And devoured by their sire!

_Cho._ Ay, we have heard of thy soothsaying glory, Doubtless: but prophets none are we in scent of!

_Kas._ Ah, gods, what ever does she meditate? What this new anguish great? Great in the house here she meditates ill Such as friends cannot bear, cannot cure it: and still Off stands all Resistance Afar in the distance!

_Cho._ Of these I witless am--these prophesyings. But those I knew: for the whole city bruits them.

_Kas._ Ah, unhappy one, this thou consummatest? Thy husband, thy bed's common guest, In the bath having brightened.... How shall I declare Consummation? It soon will be there: For hand after hand she outstretches, At life as she reaches!

_Cho._ Nor yet I 've gone with thee! for--after riddles-- Now, in blind oracles, I feel resourceless.

_Kas._ Eh, eh, papai, papai, What this, I espy? Some net of Haides undoubtedly! Nay, rather, the snare Is she who has share In his bed, who takes part in the murder there! But may a revolt-- Unceasing assault-- On the Race, raise a shout Sacrificial, about A victim--by stoning-- For murder atoning!

_Cho._ What this Erinus which i' the house thou callest To raise her cry? Not me thy word enlightens! To my heart has run A drop of the crocus-dye: Which makes for those On earth by the spear that lie, A common close With life's descending sun. Swift is the curse begun!

_Kas._ How! how! See--see quick! Keep the bull from the cow! In the vesture she catching him, strikes him now With the black-horned trick, And he falls into the watery vase! Of the craft-killing caldron I tell thee the case!

_Cho._ I would not boast to be a topping critic Of oracles: but to some sort of evil I liken these. From oracles, what good speech To mortals, beside, is sent? It comes of their evils: these arts word-abounding that sing the event Bring the fear 't is their office to teach.

_Kas._ Ah me, ah me-- Of me unhappy, evil-destined fortunes! For I bewail my proper woe As, mine with his, all into one I throw. Why hast thou hither me unhappy brought? --Unless that I should die with him--for naught! What else was sought?

_Cho._ Thou art some mind-mazed creature, god-possessed: And all about thyself dost wail A lay--no lay! Like some brown nightingale Insatiable of noise, who--well away!-- From her unhappy breast Keeps moaning Itus, Itus, and his life With evils, flourishing on each side, rife.

_Kas._ Ah me, ah me, The fate o' the nightingale, the clear resounder! For a body wing-borne have the gods cast round her, And sweet existence, from misfortunes free: But for myself remains a sundering With spear, the two-edged thing!

_Cho._ Whence hast thou this on-rushing god-involving pain And spasms in vain? For, things that terrify, With changing unintelligible cry Thou strikest up in tune, yet all the while After that Orthian style! Whence hast thou limits to the oracular road, That evils bode?

_Kas._ Ah me, the nuptials, the nuptials of Paris, the deadly to friends! Ah me, of Skamandros the draught Paternal! There once, to these ends, On thy banks was I brought, The unhappy! And now, by Kokutos and Acheron's shore I shall soon be, it seems, these my oracles singing once more!

_Cho._ Why this word, plain too much, Hast thou uttered? A babe might learn of such! I am struck with a bloody bite--here under-- At the fate woe-wreaking Of thee shrill-shrieking: To me who hear--a wonder!

_Kas._ Ah me, the toils--the toils of the city The wholly destroyed: ah, pity, Of the sacrificings my father made In the ramparts' aid-- Much slaughter of grass-fed flocks--that afforded no cure That the city should not, as it does now, the burthen endure! But I, with the soul on fire, Soon to the earth shall cast me and expire!

_Cho._ To things, on the former consequent, Again hast thou given vent: And 't is some evil-meaning fiend doth move thee, Heavily falling from above thee, To melodize thy sorrows--else, in singing, Calamitous, death-bringing! And of all this the end I am without resource to apprehend.

_Kas._ Well then, the oracle from veils no longer Shall be outlooking, like a bride new-married: But bright it seems, against the sun's uprisings Breathing, to penetrate thee: so as, wave-like, To wash against the rays a woe much greater Than this. I will no longer teach by riddles. And witness, running with me, that of evils Done long ago, I nosing track the footstep! For, this same roof here--never quits a Choros One-voiced, not well-tuned since no "well" it utters: And truly having drunk, to get more courage, Man's blood--the Komos keeps within the household --Hard to be sent outside--of sister Furies: They hymn their hymn--within the house close sitting-- The first beginning curse: in turn spit forth at The Brother's bed, to him who spurned it hostile. Have I missed aught, or hit I like a bowman? False prophet am I,--knock at doors, a babbler? Henceforward witness, swearing now, I know not By other's word the old sins of this household!

_Cho._ And how should oath, bond honorably binding, Become thy cure? No less I wonder at thee --That thou, beyond sea reared, a strange-tongued city Shouldst hit in speaking, just as if thou stood'st by!

_Kas._ Prophet Apollon put me in this office.

_Cho._ What, even though a god, with longing smitten?

_Kas._ At first, indeed, shame was to me to say this.

_Cho._ For, more relaxed grows every one who fares well.

_Kas._ But he was athlete to me--huge grace breathing!

_Cho._ Well, to the work of children, went ya law's way?

_Kas._ Having consented, I played false to Loxias.

_Cho._ Already when the wits inspired possessed of?

_Kas._ Already townsmen all their woes I foretold.

_Cho._ How wast thou then unhurt by Loxias' anger?

_Kas._ I no one aught persuaded, when I sinned thus.

_Cho._ To us, at least, now sooth to say thou seemest.

_Kas._ Halloo, halloo, ah, evils! Again, straightforward foresight's fearful labor Whirls me, distracting with prelusive last-lays! Behold ye those there, in the household seated,-- Young ones,--of dreams approaching to the figures? Children, as if they died by their beloveds-- Hands they have rilled with flesh, the meal domestic-- Entrails and vitals both, most piteous burthen, Plain they are holding!--which their father tasted! For this, I say, plans punishment a certain Lion ignoble, on the bed that wallows, House-guard (ah, me!) to the returning master --Mine, since to bear the slavish yoke behooves me! The ships' commander, Ilion's desolator, Knows not what things the tongue of the lewd she-dog Speaking, outspreading, shiny-souled, in fashion Of Até hid, will reach to, by ill fortune! Such things she dares--the female, the male's slayer! She is ... how calling her the hateful bite-beast May I hit the mark? Some amphisbaina--Skulla Housing in rocks, of mariners the mischief, Revelling Haides' mother,--curse, no truce with, Breathing at friends! How piously she shouted, The all-courageous, as at turn of battle! She seems to joy at the back-bringing safety! Of this, too, if I naught persuade, all 's one! Why? What is to be will come! And soon thou, present, "True prophet all too much" wilt pitying style me!

_Cho._ Thuestes' feast, indeed, on flesh of children, I went with, and I shuddered. Fear too holds me Listing what 's true as life, nowise out-imaged!

_Kas._ I say, thou Agamemnon's fate shalt look on!

_Cho._ Speak good words, O unhappy! Set mouth sleeping!

_Kas._ But Paian stands in no stead to the speech here.

_Cho._ Nay, if the thing be near: but never be it!

_Kas._ Thou, indeed, prayest: they to kill are busy!

_Cho._ Of what man is it ministered, this sorrow?

_Kas._ There again, wide thou look'st of my foretellings.

_Cho._ For, the fulfiller's scheme I have not gone with.

_Kas._ And yet too well I know the speech Hellenic.

_Cho._ For Puthian oracles, thy speech, and hard too!

_Kas._ Papai: what fire this! and it comes upon me! Ototoi, Lukeion Apollon, ah me--me! She, the two-footed lioness that sleeps with The wolf, in absence of the generous lion, Kills me the unhappy one: and as a poison Brewing, to put my price too in the anger, She vows, against her mate this weapon whetting To pay him back the bringing me, with slaughter. Why keep I then these things to make me laughed at, Both wands and, round my neck, oracular fillets? Thee, at least, ere my own fate will I ruin: Go, to perdition falling! Boons exchange we-- Some other Até in my stead make wealthy! See there--himself, Apollon stripping from me The oracular garment! having looked upon me --Even in these adornments, laughed by friends at, As good as foes, i' the balance weighed: and vainly-- For, called crazed stroller,--as I had been gypsy, Beggar, unhappy, starved to death,--I bore it. And now the Prophet--prophet me undoing, Has led away to these so deadly fortunes! Instead of my sire's altar, waits the hack-block She struck with first warm bloody sacrificing! Yet nowise unavenged of gods will death be: For there shall come another, our avenger, The mother-slaying scion, father's doomsman: Fugitive, wanderer, from this land an exile, Back shall he come,--for friends, copestone these curses! For there is sworn a great oath from the gods that Him shall bring hither his fallen sire's prostration. Why make I then, like an indweller, moaning? Since at the first I foresaw Ilion's city Suffering as it has suffered: and who took it, Thus by the judgment of the gods are faring. I go, will suffer, will submit to dying! But, Haides' gates--these same I call, I speak to, And pray that on an opportune blow chancing, Without a struggle,--blood the calm death bringing In easy outflow,--I this eye may close up!

_Cho._ O much unhappy, but, again, much learned Woman, long hast thou outstretched! But if truly Thou knowest thine own fate, how comes that, like to A god-led steer, to altar bold thou treadest?

_Kas._ There 's no avoidance,--strangers, no! Some time more!

_Cho._. He last is, anyhow, by time advantaged.

_Kas._ It comes, the day: I shall by flight gain little.

_Cho._ But know thou patient art from thy brave spirit!

_Kas._ Such things hears no one of the happy-fortuned.

_Cho._ But gloriously to die--for man is grace, sure!

_Kas._ Ah, sire, for thee and for thy noble children!

_Cho._ But what thing is it? What fear turns thee backwards?

_Kas._ Alas, alas!

_Cho._ Why this "alas"? if 't is no spirit's loathing ...

_Kas._ Slaughter blood-dripping does the household smell of!

_Cho._ How else? This scent is of hearth-sacrifices.

_Kas._ Such kind of steam as from a tomb is proper!

_Cho._ No Surian honor to the House thou speak'st of!

_Kas._ But I will go,--even in the household wailing My fate and Agamemnon's. Life suffice me! Ah, strangers! I cry not "ah"--as bird at bush--through terror Idly! to me, the dead thus much bear witness: When, for me--woman, there shall die a woman, And, for a man ill-wived, a man shall perish! This hospitality I ask as dying.

_Cho._ O sufferer, thee--thy foretold fate I pity.

_Kas._ Yet once for all, to speak a speech, I fain am: No dirge, mine for myself! The sun I pray to, Fronting his last light!--to my own avengers-- That from my hateful slayers they exact too Pay for the dead slave--easy-managed hand's work!

_Cho._ Alas for mortal matters! Happy-fortuned,-- Why, any shade would turn them: if unhappy, By throws the wetting sponge has spoiled the picture! And more by much in mortals this I pity. The being well-to-do-- Insatiate a desire of this Born with all mortals is, Nor any is there who Well-being forces off, aroints From roofs whereat a finger points, "No more come in!" exclaiming. This man, too, To take the city of Priamos did the celestials give, And, honored by the god, he homeward comes; But now if, of the former, he shall pay The blood back, and, for those who ceased to live, Dying, for deaths in turn new punishment he dooms-- Who, being mortal, would not pray With an unmischievous Daimon to have been born---who would not, hearing thus?

_Aga._ Ah me! I am struck--a right-aimed stroke within me!

_Cho._ Silence! Who is it shouts "stroke"--"right-aimedly," a wounded one?

_Aga._ Ah me! indeed again,--a second, struck by!

_Cho._ This work seems to me completed by this "Ah me" of the king's; But we somehow may together share in solid counsellings.

_Cho. 1._ I, in the first place, my opinion tell you: --To cite the townsmen, by help-cry, to house here.

_Cho. 2._ To me, it seems we ought to fall upon them At quickest--prove the fact by sword fresh-flowing!

_Cho. 3._ And I, of such opinion the partaker, Vote--to do something: not to wait--the main point!

_Cho. 4._ 'T is plain to see: for they prelude as though of A tyranny the signs they gave the city.

_Cho. 5._ For we waste time; while they,--this waiting's glory Treading to ground,--allow the hand no slumber.

_Cho. 6._ I know not--chancing on some plan --to tell it: 'T is for the doer to plan of the deed also.

_Cho. 7._ And I am such another: since I 'm schemeless How to raise up again by words--a dead man!

_Cho. 8._ What, and, protracting life, shall we give way thus To the disgracers of our home, these rulers?

_Cho. 9._ Why, 't is unbearable: but to die is better: For death than tyranny is the riper finish!

_Cho. 10._ What, by the testifying "Ah me" of him, Shall we prognosticate the man as perished?

_Cho. 11._ We must quite know ere speak these things concerning: For to conjecture and "quite know" are two things.

_Cho. 12._ This same to praise I from all sides abound in-- Clearly to know, Atreides, what he 's doing!

_Klu._ Much having been before to purpose spoken, The opposite to say I shall not shamed be: For how should one, to enemies,--in semblance, Friends,--enmity proposing,--sorrow's net-frame Enclose, a height superior to outleaping? To me, indeed, this struggle of old--not mindless Of an old victory--came: with time, I grant you! I stand where I have struck, things once accomplished: And so have done,--and this deny I shall not,-- As that his fate was nor to fly nor ward off. A wrap-round with no outlet, as for fishes, I fence about him--the rich woe of the garment: I strike him twice, and in a double "Ah-me!" He let his limbs go-- _there!_ And to him, fallen, The third blow add I, giving--of Below-ground Zeus, guardian of the dead--the votive favor Thus in the mind of him he rages, falling, And blowing forth a brisk blood-spatter, strikes me With the dark drop of slaughterous dew,--rejoicing No less than, at the god-given dewy-comfort, The sown-stuff in its birth-throes from the calyx. Since so these things are,--Argives, my revered here,-- Ye may rejoice--if ye rejoice: but I--boast! If it were fit on corpse to pour libation, That would be right--right over and above, too! The cup of evils in the house he, having Filled with such curses, himself coming drinks of.

_Cho._ We wonder at thy tongue: since bold-mouthed truly Is she who in such speech boasts o'er her husband!

_Klu._ Ye test me as I were a witless woman: But I--with heart intrepid--to you knowers Say (and thou--if thou wilt or praise or blame me, Comes to the same)--this man is Agamemnon, My husband, dead, the work of the right hand here, Ay, of a just artificer: so things are.

_Cho._ What evil, O woman, food or drink, earth-bred Or sent from the flowing sea, Of such having fee Didst thou set on thee This sacrifice And popular cries Of a curse on thy head? Off thou hast thrown him, off hast cut The man from the city: but Off from the city thyself shalt be Cut--to the citizens A hate immense!

_Klu._ Now, indeed, thou adjudgest exile to me, And citizens' hate, and to have popular curses: Nothing of this against the man here bringing, Who, no more awe-checked than as 't were a beast's fate,-- With sheep abundant in the well-fleeced graze-flocks,-- Sacrificed _his_ child,--dearest fruit of travail To me,--as song-spell against Threkian blowings. Not _him_ did it behoove thee hence to banish --Pollution's penalty? But hearing _my_ deeds Justicer rough thou art! Now, this I tell thee: To threaten thus--me, one prepared to have thee (On like conditions, thy hand conquering) o'er me Rule: but if God the opposite ordain us, Thou shalt learn--late taught, certes--to be modest.

_Cho._ Greatly-intending thou art: Much-mindful, too, hast thou cried (Since thy mind, with its slaughter-outpouring part, Is frantic) that over the eyes, a patch Of blood--with blood to match Is plain for a pride! Yet still, bereft of friends, thy fate Is--blow with blow to expiate!

_Klu._ And this thou hearest--of my oaths, just warrant! By who fulfilled things for my daughter, Justice, Até, Erinus,--by whose help I slew him,-- Not mine the fancy--Fear will tread my palace So long as on my hearth there burns a fire, Aigisthos as before well-caring for me; Since he to me is shield, no small, of boldness. Here does he lie--outrager of this female, Dainty of all the Chruseids under Ilion; And she--the captive, the soothsayer also And couchmate of this man, oracle-speaker, Faithful bedfellow,--ay, the sailors' benches They wore in common, nor unpunished did so, Since he is--thus! While, as for her,--swan-fashion, Her latest having chanted,--dying wailing She lies,--to him, a sweetheart: me she brought to My bed's by-nicety, the whet of dalliance.

_Cho._ Alas, that some Fate would come Upon us in quickness-- Neither much sickness Neither bed-keeping-- And bear unended sleeping, Now that subdued Is our keeper, the kindest of mood! Having borne, for a woman's sake, much strife-- By a woman he withered from life! Ah me! Law-breaking Helena who, one, Hast many, so many souls undone 'Neath Troia! and now the consummated Much-memorable curse Hast thou made flower-forth, red With the blood no rains disperse, That which was then in the House-- Strife all-subduing, the woe of a spouse.

_Klu._ Nowise, of death the fate-- Burdened by these things--supplicate! Nor on Helena turn thy wrath As the man-destroyer, as "she who hath, Being but one, Many and many a soul undone Of the men, the Danaoi"-- And wrought immense annoy!

_Cho._ Daimon, who fallest Upon this household and the double-raced Tantalidai, a rule, minded like theirs displaced, Thou rulest me with, now, Whose heart thou gallest! And on the body, like a hateful crow, Stationed, all out of tune, his chant to chant Doth Something vaunt!

_Klu._ Now, of a truth, hast thou set upright Thy mouth's opinion,-- Naming the Sprite, The triply-gross, O'er the race that has dominion: For through him it is that Eros The carnage-licker In the belly is bred: ere ended quite Is the elder throe--new ichor!

_Cho._ Certainly, great of might And heavy of wrath, the Sprite Thou tellest of, in the palace (Woe, woe!) --An evil tale of a fate By Até's malice Rendered insatiate! Oh, oh,-- King, king, how shall I beweep thee? From friendly soul what ever say? Thou liest where webs of the spider o'ersweep thee In impious death, life breathing away. O me--me! This couch, not free! By a slavish death subdued thou art, From the hand, by the two-edged dart.

_Klu._ Thou boastest this deed to be mine: But leave off styling me "The Agamemnonian wife!" For, showing himself in sign Of the spouse of the corpse thou dost see, Did the ancient bitter avenging-ghost Of Atreus, savage host, Pay the man here as price-- A full-grown for the young one's sacrifice.

_Cho._ That no cause, indeed, of this killing art thou, Who shall be witness-bearer? How shall he bear it--how? But the sire's avenging-ghost might be in the deed a sharer. He is forced on and on By the kin-born flowing of blood, --Black Ares: to where, having gone, He shall leave off, flowing done, At the frozen-child's-flesh food. King, king, how shall I beweep thee! From friendly soul what ever say? Thou liest where webs of the spider o'ersweep thee, In impious death, life breathing away. Oh, me--me! This couch not free! By a slavish death subdued thou art, From the hand, by the two-edged dart.

_Klu._ No death "unfit for the free" Do I think this man's to be: For did not himself a slavish curse To his household decree? But the scion of him, myself did nurse-- That much-bewailed Iphigeneia, he Having done well by,--and as well, nor worse, Been done to,--let him not in Haides loudly Bear himself proudly! Being by sword-destroying death amerced For that sword's punishment himself inflicted first.

_Cho._ I at a loss am left-- Of a feasible scheme of mind bereft-- Where I may turn: for the house is falling: I fear the bloody crash of the rain That ruins the roof as it bursts amain: The warning-drop Has come to a stop. Destiny doth Justice whet For other deed of hurt, on other whetstones yet. Woe, earth, earth--would thou hadst taken _me_ Ere I saw the man I see, On the pallet-bed Of the silver-sided bath-vase, dead' Who is it shall bury him, who Sing his dirge? Can it be true That _thou_ wilt dare this same to do--- Having slain thy husband, thine own, To make his funeral moan: And for the soul of him, in place Of his mighty deeds, a graceless grace To wickedly institute? By whom Shall the tale of praise o'er the tomb At the god-like man be sent-- From the truth of his mind as he toils intent?

_Klu._ It belongs not to thee to declare This object of care! By us did he fall--down there! Did he die--down there! and down, no less, We will bury him there, and not beneath The wails of the household over his death: But Iphigeneia,--with kindliness,-- His daughter,--as the case requires, Facing him full, at the rapid-flowing Passage of Groans shall--both hands throwing Around him--kiss that kindest of sires!

_Cho._ This blame comes in the place of blame: Hard battle it is to judge each claim. "He is borne away who bears away: And the killer has all to pay." And this remains while Zeus is remaining, "The doer shall suffer in time"--for, such his ordaining. Who may cast out of the House its cursed brood? The race is to Até glued!

_Klu._ Thou hast gone into this oracle With a true result. For me, then,--I will --To the Daimon of the Pleisthenidai Making an oath--with all these things comply Hard as they are to bear. For the rest-- Going from out this House, a guest, May he wear some other family To naught, with the deaths of kin by kin! And--keeping a little part of my goods-- Wholly am I contented in Having expelled from the royal House These frenzied moods The mutually-murderous.

_Aigisthos._ O light propitious of day justice-bringing! I may say truly, now, that men's avengers, The gods from high, of earth behold the sorrows-- Seeing, as I have, i' the spun robes of the Erinues, This man here lying,--sight to me how pleasant!-- His father's hands' contrivances repaying. For Atreus, this land's lord, of this man father, Thuestes, my own father--to speak clearly-- His brother too,--being i' the rule contested,-- Drove forth to exile from both town and household: And, coming back, to the hearth turned, a suppliant, Wretched Thuestes found the fate assured him --Not to die, bloodying his paternal threshold Just there: but host-wise this man's impious father Atreus, soul-keenly more than kindly,--seeming To joyous hold a flesh-day,--to my father Served up a meal, the flesh of his own children. The feet indeed and the hands' top divisions He hid, high up and isolated sitting: But, their unshowing parts in ignorance taking, He forthwith eats food--as thou seest--perdition To the race: and then, 'ware of the deed ill-omened, He shrieked O!--falls back, vomiting, from the carnage, And fate on the Pelopidai past hearing He prays down--putting in his curse together The kicking down o' the feast--that so might perish The race of Pleisthenes entire: and thence is That it is given thee to see this man prostrate. And I was rightly of this slaughter stitch-man: Since me,--being third from ten,--with my poor father He drives out--being then a babe in swathe-bands: But, grown up, back again has justice brought me: And of this man I got hold--being without-doors-- Fitting together the whole scheme of ill-will. So, sweet, in fine, even to die were to me, Seeing as I have, this man i' the toils of justice!

_Cho._ Aigisthos, arrogance in ills I love not. Dost thou say--willing, thou didst kill the man here, And, alone, plot this lamentable slaughter? I say--thy head in justice will escape not The people's throwing--know that!--stones and curses!

_Aig._ Thou such things soundest--seated at the lower Oarage to those who rule at the ship's mid-bench? Thou shalt know, being old, how heavy is teaching To one of the like age--bidden be modest! But chains and old age and the pangs of fasting Stand out before all else in teaching,--prophets At souls'-cure! Dost not, seeing aught, see this too? Against goads kick not, lest tript-up thou suffer!

_Cho._ Woman, thou,--of him coming new from battle Houseguard--thy husband's bed the while disgracing,-- For the Army-leader didst thou plan this fate too?

_Aig._ These words too are of groans the prime-begetters! Truly a tongue opposed to Orpheus hast thou: For he led all things by his voice's grace-charm, But thou, upstirring them by these wild yelpings, Wilt lead them! Forced, thou wilt appear the tamer!

_Cho._ So--thou shalt be my king then of the Argeians-- Who, not when for this man his fate thou plannedst, Daredst to do this deed--thyself the slayer!

_Aig._ For, to deceive him was the wife's part, certes: _I_ was looked after--foe, ay, old-begotten! But out of this man's wealth will I endeavor To rule the citizens: and the no-man-minder --Him will I heavily yoke--by no means trace-horse, A corned-up colt! but that bad friend in darkness, Famine its housemate, shall behold him gentle.

_Cho._ Why then, this man here, from a coward spirit, Didst not thou slay thyself? But,--helped,--a woman, The country's pest, and that of gods o' the country, Killed him! Orestes, where may he see light now? That coming hither back, with gracious fortune, Of both these he may be the all-conquering slayer?

_Aig._ But since this to do thou thinkest--and not talk--thou soon shalt know! Up then, comrades dear! the proper thing to do--not distant this!

_Cho._ Up then! hilt in hold, his sword let every one aright dispose!

_Aig._ Ay, but I myself too, hilt in hold, do not refuse to die!

_Cho._ Thou wilt die, thou say'st, to who accept it. We the chance demand!

_Klu._ Nowise, O belovedest of men, may we do other ills! To have reaped away these, even, is a harvest much to me! Go, both thou and these the old men, to the homes appointed each, Ere ye suffer! It behooved one do these things just as we did: And if of these troubles, there should be enough--we may assent --By the Daimon's heavy heel unfortunately stricken ones! So a woman's counsel hath it--if one judge it learning-worth.

_Aig._ But to think that these at me the idle tongue should thus o'erbloom, And throw out such words--the Daimon's power experimenting on-- And, of modest knowledge missing,--me, the ruler,...

_Cho._ Ne'er may this befall Argeians--wicked man to fawn before!

_Aig._ Anyhow, in after-days, will I, yes, I, be at thee yet!

_Cho._ Not if hither should the Daimon make Orestes straightway come!

_Aig._ Oh, I know, myself, that fugitives on hopes are pasture-fed!

_Cho._ Do thy deed, get fat, defiling justice, since the power is thine!

_Aig._ Know that thou shalt give me satisfaction for this folly's sake!

_Cho._ Boast on, bearing thee audacious, like a cock his females by!

_Klu._ Have not thou respect for these same idle yelpings! I and thou Will arrange it, o'er this household ruling excellently well.

LA SAISIAZ

DEDICATED TO MRS. SUTHERLAND ORR

Miss A. Egerton-Smith was, at the time of her death, one of Browning's oldest women friends. "He first met her," says Mrs. Sutherland Orr, "as a young woman in Florence when she was visiting there; and the love for and proficiency in music soon asserted itself as a bond of sympathy between them. They did not, however, see much of each other till he had finally left Italy, and she also had made her home in London.... Mr. Browning was one of the very few persons whose society she cared to cultivate: and for many years the common musical interest took the practical, and for both of them convenient, form, of their going to concerts together." Browning was at La Saisiaz, under the Salève, when Miss Egerton-Smith, who was also domiciled there, died suddenly in the autumn of 1877, and it was after the shock of her loss that he composed the poem to which he gave the title of their summer resort. The poem is dated November 9, 1877.

Good, to forgive; Best, to forget! Living, we fret; Dying, we live. Fretless and free, Soul, clap thy pinion! Earth have dominion, Body, o'er thee!

Wander at will, Day after day,-- Wander away, Wandering still-- Soul that canst soar! Body may slumber: Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more.

Waft of soul's wing! What lies above? Sunshine and Love, Skyblue and Spring! Body hides--where? Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather, Yours be the care!

LA SAISIAZ

A. E. S. SEPTEMBER 14, 1877.

Dared and done: at last I stand upon the summit, Dear and True! Singly dared and done; the climbing both of us were bound to do. Petty feat and yet prodigious: every side my glance was bent O'er the grandeur and the beauty lavished through the whole ascent. Ledge by ledge, out broke new marvels, now minute and now immense: Earth's most exquisite disclosure, heaven's own God in evidence! And no berry in its hiding, no blue space in its outspread, Pleaded to escape my footstep, challenged my emerging head, (As I climbed or paused from climbing, now o'erbranched by shrub and tree, Now built round by rock and boulder, now at just a turn set free, Stationed face to face with--Nature? rather with Infinitude,) --No revealment of them all, as singly I my path pursued, But a bitter touched its sweetness, for the thought stung "Even so Both of us had loved and wondered just the same, five days ago!" Five short days, sufficient hardly to entice, from out its den Splintered in the slab, this pink perfection of the cyclamen; Scarce enough to heal and coat with amber gum the sloe-tree's gash, Bronze the clustered wilding apple, redden ripe the mountain-ash: Yet of might to place between us--Oh the barrier! Yon Profound Shrinks beside it, proves a pin-point: barrier this, without a bound! Boundless though it be, I reach you: somehow seem to have you here --Who are there. Yes, there you dwell now, plain the four low walls appear; Those are vineyards, they enclose from; and the little spire which points --That's Collonge, henceforth your dwelling. All the same, howe'er disjoints Past from present, no less certain you are here, not there: have dared, Done the feat of mountain-climbing;,--five days since, we both prepared Daring, doing, arm in arm, if other help should haply fail. For you asked, as forth we sallied to see sunset from the vale, "Why not try for once the mountain,--take a foretaste, snatch by stealth Sight and sound, some unconsidered fragment of the hoarded wealth? Six weeks at its base, yet never once have we together won Sight or sound by honest climbing: let us two have dared and done Just so much of twilight journey as may prove to-morrow's jaunt Not the only mode of wayfare--wheeled to reach the eagle's haunt!" So, we turned from the low grass-path you were pleased to call "your own," Set our faces to the rose-bloom o'er the summit's front of stone Where Salève obtains, from Jura and the sunken sun she hides, Due return of blushing "Good Night," rosy as a borne-off bride's, For his masculine "Good Morrow" when, with sunrise still in hold, Gay he hails her, and, magnific, thrilled her black length burns to gold. Up and up we went, how careless--nay, how joyous! All was new, All was strange. "Call progress toilsome? that were just insulting you! How the trees must temper noontide! Ah, the thicket's sudden break! What will be the morning glory, when at dusk thus gleams the lake? Light by light puts forth Geneva: what a land--and, of the land, Can there be a lovelier station than this spot where now we stand? Is it late, and wrong to linger? True, to-morrow makes amends. Toilsome progress? child's play, call it--specially when one descends! There, the dread descent is over--hardly our adventure, though! Take the vale where late we left it, pace the grass-path, 'mine,' you know! Proud completion of achievement!" And we paced it, praising still That soft tread on velvet verdure as it wound through hill and hill; And at very end there met us, coming from Collonge, the pair --All our people of the Chalet--two, enough and none to spare. So, we made for home together, and we reached it as the stars One by one came lamping--chiefly that prepotency of Mars-- And your last word was "I owe you this enjoyment!"--met with "Nay: With yourself it rests to have a month of morrows like to-day!" Then the meal, with talk and laughter, and the news of that rare nook Yet untroubled by the tourist, touched on by no travel-book, All the same--though latent--patent, hybrid birth of land and sea, And (our travelled friend assured you)--if such miracle might be-- Comparable for completeness of both blessings--all around Nature, and, inside her circle, safety from world's sight and sound-- Comparable to our Saisiaz. "Hold it fast and guard it well! Go and see and vouch for certain, then come back and never tell Living soul but us; and haply, prove our sky from cloud as clear, There may we four meet, praise fortune just as now, another year!"

Thus you charged him on departure: not without the final charge, "Mind to-morrow's early meeting! We must leave our journey marge Ample for the wayside wonders: there 's the stoppage at the inn Three-parts up the mountain, where the hardships of the track begin; There 's the convent worth a visit; but, the triumph crowning all-- There 's Saleve's own platform facing glory which strikes greatness small, --Blanc, supreme above his earth-brood, needles red and white and green, Horns of silver, fangs of crystal set on edge in his demesne. So, some three weeks since, we saw them: so, to-morrow we intend You shall see them likewise; therefore Good Night till to-morrow, friend!" Last, the nothings that extinguish embers of a vivid day: "What might be the Marshal's next move, what Gambetta's counter-play?" Till the landing on the staircase saw escape the latest spark: "Sleep you well!" "Sleep but as well, you!"--lazy love quenched, all was dark.

Nothing dark next day at sundawn! Up I rose and forth I fared: Took my plunge within the bath-pool, pacified the watch-dog scared, Saw proceed the transmutation--Jura's black to one gold glow, Trod your level path that let me drink the morning deep and slow, Reached the little quarry--ravage recompensed by shrub and fern-- Till the overflowing ardors told me time was for return. So, return I did, and gayly. But, for once, from no far mound Waved salute a tall white figure. "Has her sleep been so profound? Foresight, rather, prudent saving strength for day's expenditure! Ay, the chamber-window 's open: out and on the terrace, sure!"

No, the terrace showed no figure, tall, white, leaning through the wreaths, Tangle-twine of leaf and bloom that intercept the air one breathes, Interpose between one's love and Nature's loving, hill and dale Down to where the blue lake's wrinkle marks the river's inrush pale --Mazy Arve: whereon no vessel but goes sliding white and plain, Not a steamboat pants from harbor but one hears pulsate amain, Past the city's congregated peace of homes and pomp of spires --Man's mild protest that there 's something more than Nature, man requires, And that, useful as is Nature to attract the tourist's foot, Quiet slow sure money-making proves the matter's very root,-- Need for body,--while the spirit also needs a comfort reached By no help of lake or mountain, but the texts whence Calvin preached. "Here 's the veil withdrawn from landscape: up to Jura and beyond, All awaits us ranged and ready; yet she violates the bond, Neither leans nor looks nor listens: why is this?" A turn of eye Took the whole sole answer, gave the undisputed reason "why"!

This dread way you had your summons! No premonitory touch, As you talked and laughed ('t is told me) scarce a minute ere the clutch Captured you in cold forever. Cold? nay, warm you were as life When I raised you, while the others used, in passionate poor strife, All the means that seemed to promise any aid, and all in vain. Gone you were, and I shall never see that earnest face again Grow transparent, grow transfigured with the sudden light that leapt At the first word's provocation, from the heart-deeps where it slept.

Therefore, paying piteous duty, what seemed You have we consigned Peacefully to--what I think were, of all earth-beds, to your mind Most the choice for quiet, yonder: low walls stop the vines' approach, Lovingly Salève protects you; village-sports will ne'er encroach On the stranger lady's silence, whom friends bore so kind and well Thither "just for love's sake,"--such their own word was: and who can tell? You supposed that few or none had known and loved you in the world: Maybe! flower that 's full-blown tempts the butterfly, not flower that 's furled. But more learned sense unlocked you, loosed the sheath and let expand Bud to bell and outspread flower-shape at the least warm touch of hand --Maybe, throb of heart, beneath which--quickening farther than it knew-- Treasure oft was disembosomed, scent all strange and unguessed hue. Disembosomed, re-embosomed,--must one memory suffice, Prove I knew an Alpine-rose which all beside named Edelweiss?

Rare thing, red or white, you rest now: two days slumbered through; and since One day more will see me rid of this same scene whereat I wince, Tetchy at all sights and sounds and pettish at each idle charm Proffered me who pace now singly where we two went arm in arm,-- I have turned upon my weakness: asked, "And what, forsooth, prevents That, this latest day allowed me, I fulfil of her intents One she had the most at heart--that we should thus again survey From Salève Mont Blanc together?" Therefore,--dared and done to-day Climbing,--here I stand: but you--where?

If a spirit of the place Broke the silence, bade me question, promised answer,--what disgrace Did I stipulate "Provided answer suit my hopes, not fears!" Would I shrink to learn my lifetime's limit--days, weeks, months or years? Would I shirk assurance on each point whereat I can but guess-- "Does the soul survive the body? Is there God's self, no or yes?" If I know my mood, 't were constant--come in whatsoe'er uncouth Shape it should, nay, formidable--so the answer were but truth.

Well, and wherefore shall it daunt me, when 't is I myself am tasked, When, by weakness weakness questioned, weakly answers--weakly asked? Weakness never needs be falseness: truth is truth in each degree --Thunder-pealed by God to Nature, whispered by my soul to me. Nay, the weakness turns to strength and triumphs in a truth beyond: "Mine is but man's truest answer--how were it did God respond?" I shall no more dare to mimic such response in futile speech, Pass off human lisp as echo of the sphere-song out of reach, Than,--because it well may happen yonder, where the far snows blanch Mute Mont Blanc, that who stands near them sees and hears an avalanche,-- I shall pick a clod and throw,--cry, "Such the sight and such the sound! What though I nor see nor hear them? Others do, the proofs abound!" Can I make my eye an eagle's, sharpen ear to recognize Sound o'er league and league of silence? Can I know, who but surmise? If I dared no self-deception when, a week since, I and you Walked and talked along the grass-path, passing lightly in review What seemed hits and what seemed misses in a certain fence-play,--strife Sundry minds of mark engaged in "On the Soul and Future Life,"-- If I ventured estimating what was come of parried thrust, Subtle stroke, and, rightly, wrongly, estimating could be just --Just, though life so seemed abundant in the form which moved by mine, I might well have played at feigning, fooling,--laughed "What need opine Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain, And this first life claims a second, else I count its good no gain?"-- Much less have I heart to palter when the matter to decide Now becomes "Was ending ending once and always, when you died?" Did the face, the form I lifted as it lay, reveal the loss Not alone of life but soul? A tribute to yon flowers and moss, What of you remains beside? A memory! Easy to attest "Certainly from out the world that one believes who knew her best Such was good in her, such fair, which fair and good were great perchance Had but fortune favored, bidden each shy faculty advance; After all--who knows another? Only as I know, I speak." So much of you lives within me while I live my year or week. Then my fellow takes the tale up, not unwilling to aver Duly in his turn, "I knew him best of all, as he knew her: Such he was, and such he was not, and such other might have been But that somehow every actor, somewhere in this earthly scene, Fails." And so both memories dwindle, yours and mine together linked, Till there is but left for comfort, when the last spark proves extinct, This--that somewhere new existence led by men and women new Possibly attains perfection coveted by me and you; While ourselves, the only witness to what work our life evolved, Only to ourselves proposing problems proper to be solved By ourselves alone,--who working ne'er shall know if work bear fruit Others reap and garner, heedless how produced by stalk and root,-- We who, darkling, timed the day's birth,--struggling, testified to peace,-- Earned, by dint of failure, triumph,--we, creative thought, must cease In created word, thought's echo, due to impulse long since sped! Why repine? There 's ever some one lives although ourselves be dead!

Well, what signifies repugnance? Truth is truth howe'er it strike. Fair or foul the lot apportioned life on earth, we bear alike. Stalwart body idly yoked to stunted spirit, powers, that fain Else would soar, condemned to grovel, groundlings through the fleshly chain,-- Help that hinders, hindrance proved but help disguised when all too late,-- Hindrance is the fact acknowledged, howsoe'er explained as Fate, Fortune, Providence: we bear, own life a burden more or less. Life thus owned unhappy, is there supplemental happiness Possible and probable in life to come? or must we count Life a curse and not a blessing, summed-up in its whole amount, Help and hindrance, joy and sorrow? Why should I want courage here? I will ask and have an answer,--with no favor, with no fear,-- From myself. How much, how little, do I inwardly believe True that controverted doctrine? Is it fact to which I cleave, Is it fancy I but cherish, when I take upon my lips Phrase the solemn Tuscan fashioned, and declare the soul's eclipse Not the soul's extinction? take his "I believe and I declare-- Certain am I--from this life I pass into a better, there Where that lady lives of whom enamored was my soul"--where this Other lady, my companion dear and true, she also is?

I have questioned and am answered. Question, answer presuppose Two points: that the thing itself which questions, answers,--_is_, it knows; As it also knows the thing perceived outside itself,--a force Actual ere its own beginning, operative through its course, Unaffected by its end,--that this thing likewise needs must be; Call this--God, then, call that--soul, and both--the only facts for me. Prove them facts? that they o'erpass my power of proving, proves them such: Fact it is I know I know not something which is fact as much. What before caused all the causes, what effect of all effects Haply follows,--these are fancy. Ask the rush if it suspects Whence and how the stream which floats it had a rise, and where and how Falls or flows on still! What answer makes the rush except that now Certainly it floats and is, and, no less certain than itself, _Is_ the everyway external stream that now through shoal and shelf Floats it onward, leaves it--maybe--wrecked at last, or lands on shore There to root again and grow and flourish stable evermore. --Maybe! mere surmise not knowledge: much conjecture styled belief, What the rush conceives the stream means through the voyage blind and brief. Why, because I doubtless am, shall I as doubtless be? "Because God seems good and wise." Yet under this our life's apparent laws Reigns a wrong which, righted once, would give quite other laws to life. "He seems potent." Potent here, then: why are right and wrong at strife? Has in life the wrong the better? Happily life ends so soon! Right predominates in life? Then why two lives and double boon? "Anyhow, we want it: wherefore want?" Because, without the want, Life, now human, would be brutish: just that hope, however scant, Makes the actual life worth leading; take the hope therein away, All we have to do is surely not endure another day. This life has its hopes for this life, hopes that promise joy: life done-- Out of all the hopes, how many had complete fulfilment? None. "But the soul is not the body:" and the breath is not the flute; Both together make the music: either marred and all is mute. Truce to such old sad contention whence, according as we shape Most of hope or most of fear, we issue in a half-escape: "We believe" is sighed. I take the cup of comfort proffered thus, Taste and try each soft ingredient, sweet infusion, and discuss What their blending may accomplish for the cure of doubt, till--slow, Sorrowful, but how decided! needs must I o'erturn it--so! Cause before, effect behind me--blanks! The midway point I am, Caused, itself--itself efficient: in that narrow space must cram All experience--out of which there crowds conjecture manifold, But, as knowledge, this comes only--things may be as I behold, Or may not be, but, without me and above me, things there are; I myself am what I know not--ignorance which proves no bar To the knowledge that I am, and, since I am, can recognize What to me is pain and pleasure: this is sure, the rest--surmise. If my fellows are or are not, what may please them and what pain,-- Mere surmise: my own experience--that is knowledge, once again!

I have lived, then, done and suffered, loved and hated, learnt and taught This--there is no reconciling wisdom with a world distraught, Goodness with triumphant evil, power with failure in the aim, If--(to my own sense, remember! though none other feel the same!) If you bar me from assuming earth to be a pupil's place, And life, time--with all their chances, changes--just probation-space, Mine, for me. But those apparent other mortals--theirs, for them? Knowledge stands on my experience: all outside its narrow hem, Free surmise may sport and welcome! Pleasures, pains affect mankind Just as they affect myself? Why, here 's my neighbor color-blind, Eyes like mine to all appearance: "green as grass" do I affirm? "Red as grass" he contradicts me;--which employs the proper term? Were we two the earth's sole tenants, with no third for referee, How should I distinguish? Just so, God must judge 'twixt man and me. To each mortal peradventure earth becomes a new machine, Pain and pleasure no more tally in our sense than red and green; Still, without what seems such mortal's pleasure, pain, my life were lost --Life, my whole sole chance to prove--although at man's apparent cost-- What is beauteous and what ugly, right to strive for, right to shun, Fit to help and fit to hinder,--prove my forces every one, Good and evil,--learn life's lesson, hate of evil, love of good, As 't is set me, understand so much as may be understood-- Solve the problem: "From thine apprehended scheme of things, deduce Praise or blame of its contriver, shown a niggard or profuse In each good or evil issue! nor miscalculate alike Counting one the other in the final balance, which to strike, Soul was born and life allotted: ay, the show of things unfurled For thy summing-up and judgment,--thine, no other mortal's world!"

What though fancy scarce may grapple with the complex and immense --"His own world for every mortal?" Postulate omnipotence! Limit power, and simple grows the complex: shrunk to atom size, That which loomed immense to fancy low before my reason lies,-- I survey it and pronounce it work like other work: success Here and there, the workman's glory,--here and there, his shame no less, Failure as conspicuous. Taunt not "Human work ape work divine?" As the power, expect performance! God's be God's as mine is mine! God whose power made man and made man's wants, and made, to meet those wants, Heaven and earth which, through the body, prove the spirit's ministrants, Excellently all,--did he lack power or was the will in fault When he let blue heaven be shrouded o'er by vapors of the vault, Gay earth drop her garlands shrivelled at the first infecting breath Of the serpent pains which herald, swarming in, the dragon death? What, no way but this that man may learn and lay to heart how rife Life were with delights would only death allow their taste to life? Must the rose sigh "Pluck--I perish!" must the eve weep "Gaze--I fade!" --Every sweet warn "'Ware my bitter!" every shine bid "Wait my shade"? Can we love but on condition, that the thing we love must die? Needs there groan a world in anguish just to teach us sympathy-- Multitudinously wretched that we, wretched too, may guess What a preferable state were universal happiness? Hardly do I so conceive the outcome of that power which went To the making of the worm there in yon clod its tenement, Any more than I distinguish aught of that which, wise and good, Framed the leaf, its plain of pasture, dropped the dew, its fineless food. Nay, were fancy fact, were earth and all it holds illusion mere, Only a machine for teaching love and hate and hope and fear To myself, the sole existence, single truth 'mid falsehood,--well! If the harsh throes of the prelude die not off into the swell Of that perfect piece they sting me to become a-strain for,--if Roughness of the long rock-clamber lead not to the last of cliff, First of level country where is sward my pilgrim-foot can prize,-- Plainlier! if this life's conception new life fail to realize,-- Though earth burst and proved a bubble glassing hues of hell, one huge Reflex of the devil's doings--God's work by no subterfuge-- (So death's kindly touch informed me as it broke the glamour, gave Soul and body both release from life's long nightmare in the grave)-- Still,--with no more Nature, no more Man as riddle to be read, Only my own joys and sorrows now to reckon real instead,-- I must say--or choke in silence--"Howsoever came my fate, Sorrow did and joy did nowise--life well weighed--preponderate." By necessity ordained thus? I shall bear as best I can; By a cause all-good, all-wise, all-potent? No, as I am man! Such were God: and was it goodness that the good within my range Or had evil in admixture or grew evil's self by change? Wisdom--that becoming wise meant making slow and sure advance From a knowledge proved in error to acknowledged ignorance? Power! 't is just the main assumption reason most revolts at! power Unavailing for bestowment on its creature of an hour, Man, of so much proper action rightly aimed and reaching aim, So much passion,--no defect there, no excess, but still the same,-- As what constitutes existence, pure perfection bright as brief For yon worm, man's fellow-creature, on yon happier world--its leaf! No, as I am man, I mourn the poverty I must impute: Goodness, wisdom, power, all bounded, each a human attribute!

But, O world outspread beneath me! only for myself I speak, Nowise dare to play the spokesman for my brothers strong and weak, Full and empty, wise and foolish, good and bad, in every age, Every clime, I turn my eyes from, as in one or other stage Of a torture writhe they, Job-like couched on dung and crazed with blains --Wherefore? whereto? ask the whirlwind what the dread voice thence explains! I shall "vindicate no way of God's to man," nor stand apart, "Laugh, be candid," while I watch it traversing the human heart! Traversed heart must tell its story uncommented on: no less Mine results in, "Only grant a second life; I acquiesce In this present life as failure, count misfortune's worst assaults Triumph, not defeat, assured that loss so much the more exalts Gain about to be. For at what moment did I so advance Near to knowledge as when frustrate of escape from ignorance? Did not beauty prove most precious when its opposite obtained Rule, and truth seem more than ever potent because falsehood reigned? While for love--Oh how but, losing love, does whoso loves succeed By the death-pang to the birth-throe--learning what is love indeed? Only grant my soul may carry high through death her cup unspilled, Brimming though it be with knowledge, life's loss drop by drop distilled, I shall boast it mine--the balsam, bless each kindly wrench that wrung From life's tree its inmost virtue, tapped the root whence pleasure sprung, Barked the bole, and broke the bough, and bruised the berry, left all grace Ashes in death's stern alembic, loosed elixir in its place!"

Witness, Dear and True, how little I was 'ware of--not your worth --That I knew, my heart assures me--but of what a shade on earth Would the passage from my presence of the tall white figure throw O'er the ways we walked together! Somewhat narrow, somewhat slow, Used to seem the ways, the walking: narrow ways are well to tread When there 's moss beneath the footstep, honeysuckle overhead: Walking slow to beating bosom surest solace soonest gives, Liberates the brain o'erloaded--best of all restoratives. Nay, do I forget the open vast where soon or late converged Ways though winding?--world-wide heaven-high sea where music slept or surged As the angel had ascendant, and Beethoven's Titan mace Smote the immense to storm, Mozart would by a finger's lifting chase? Yes, I knew--but not with knowledge such as thrills me while I view Yonder precinct which henceforward holds and hides the Dear and True. Grant me (once again) assurance we shall each meet each some day, Walk--but with how bold a footstep! on a way--but what a way! --Worst were best, defeat were triumph, utter loss were utmost gain. Can it be, and must, and will it?

Silence! Out of fact's domain, Just surmise prepared to mutter hope, and also fear--dispute Fact's inexorable ruling, "Outside fact, surmise be mute!" Well! Ay, well and best, if fact's self I may force the answer from! 'T is surmise I stop the mouth of! Not above in yonder dome All a rapture with its rose-glow,--not around, where pile and peak Strainingly await the sun's fall,--not beneath, where crickets creak, Birds assemble for their bedtime, soft the treetop swell subsides,-- No, nor yet within my deepest sentient self the knowledge hides. Aspiration, reminiscence, plausibilities of trust --Now the ready "Man were wronged else," now the rash "and God unjust"-- None of these I need. Take thou, my soul, thy solitary stand, Umpire to the champions Fancy, Reason, as on either hand Amicable war they wage and play the foe in thy behoof! Fancy thrust and Reason parry! Thine the prize who stand aloof!

FANCY

I concede the thing refused: henceforth no certainty more plain Than this mere surmise that after body dies soul lives again. Two, the only facts acknowledged late, are now increased to three-- God is, and the soul is, and, as certain, after death shall be. Put this third to use in life, the time for using fact!

REASON

I do: Find it promises advantage, coupled with the other two. Life to come will be improvement on the life that 's now; destroy Body's thwartings, there 's no longer screen betwixt soul and soul's joy. Why should we expect new hindrance, novel tether? In this first Life, I see the good of evil, why our world began at worst: Since time means amelioration, tardily enough displayed, Yet a mainly onward moving, never wholly retrograde. We know more though we know little, we grow stronger though still weak,

## Partly see though all too purblind, stammer though we cannot speak.

There is no such grudge in God as scared the ancient Greek, no fresh Substitute of trap for drag-net, once a breakage in the mesh. Dragons were, and serpents are, and blindworms will be: ne'er emerged Any new-created python for man's plague since earth was purged. Failing proof, then, of invented trouble to replace the old, O'er this life the next presents advantage much and manifold: Which advantage--in the absence of a fourth and farther fact Now conceivably surmised, of harm to follow from the act-- I pronounce for man's obtaining at this moment. Why delay? Is he happy? happiness will change: anticipate the day! Is he sad? there 's ready refuge: of all sadness death 's prompt cure! Is he both, in mingled measure? cease a burden to endure! Pains with sorry compensations, pleasures stinted in the dole, Power that sinks and pettiness that soars, all halved and nothing whole, Idle hopes that lure man onward, forced back by as idle fears-- What a load he stumbles under through his glad sad seventy years, When a touch sets right the turmoil, lifts his spirit where, flesh-freed, Knowledge shall be rightly named so, all that seems be truth indeed! Grant his forces no accession, nay, no faculty's increase, Only let what now exists continue, let him prove in peace Power whereof the interrupted unperfected play enticed Man through darkness, which to lighten any spark of hope sufficed,-- What shall then deter his dying out of darkness into light? Death itself perchance, brief pain that 's pang, condensed and infinite? But at worst, he needs must brave it one day, while, at best, he laughs-- Drops a drop within his chalice, sleep not death his science quaffs! Any moment claims more courage, when, by crossing cold and gloom, Manfully man quits discomfort, makes for the provided room Where the old friends want their fellow, where the new acquaintance wait, Probably for talk assembled, possibly to sup in state! I affirm and reaffirm it therefore: only make as plain As that man now lives, that, after dying, man will live again,-- Make as plain the absence, also, of a law to contravene Voluntary passage from this life to that by change of scene,-- And I bid him--at suspicion of first cloud athwart his sky, Flower's departure, frost's arrival--never hesitate, but die!

FANCY

Then I double my concession: grant, along with new life sure This same law found lacking now: ordain that, whether rich or poor Present life is judged in aught man counts advantage--be it hope, Be it fear that brightens, blackens most or least his horoscope,-- He, by absolute compulsion such as made him live at all, Go on living to the fated end of life whate'er befall. What though, as on earth he darkling grovels, man descry the sphere, Next life's--call it, heaven of freedom, close above and crystal-clear? He shall find--say, hell to punish who in aught curtails the term, Fain would act the butterfly before he has played out the worm! God, soul, earth, heaven, hell,--five facts now: what is to desiderate?

REASON

Nothing! Henceforth man's existence bows to the monition "Wait! Take the joys and bear the sorrows--neither with extreme concern! Living here means nescience simply: 't is next life that helps to learn. Shut those eyes, next life will open,--stop those ears, next life will teach Hearing's office,--close those lips, next life will give the power of speech! Or, if action more amuse thee than the passive attitude, Bravely bustle through thy being, busy thee for ill or good, Reap this life's success or failure! Soon shall things be unperplexed And the right and wrong, now tangled, lie unravelled in the next."

FANCY

Not so fast! Still more concession! not alone do I declare Life must needs be borne,--I also will that man become aware Life has worth incalculable, every moment that he spends So much gain or loss for that next life which on this life depends. Good, done here, be there rewarded,--evil, worked here, there amerced! Six facts now, and all established, plain to man the last as first.

REASON

There was good and evil, then, defined to man by this decree? _Was_--for at its promulgation both alike have ceased to be. Prior to this last announcement, "Certainly as God exists, As He made man's soul, as soul is quenchless by the deathly mists, Yet is, all the same, forbidden premature escape from time To eternity's provided purer air and brighter clime,-- Just so certainly depends it on the use to which man turns Earth, the good or evil done there, whether after death he earns Life eternal,--heaven, the phrase be, or eternal death,--say, hell. As his deeds, so proves his portion, doing ill or doing well!" --Prior to this last announcement, earth was man's probation-place: Liberty of doing evil gave his doing good a grace; Once lay down the law, with Nature's simple "Such effects succeed Causes such, and heaven or hell depends upon man's earthly deed Just as surely as depends the straight or else the crooked line On his making point meet point or with or else without incline,"-- Thenceforth neither good nor evil does man, doing what he must. Lay but down that law as stringent "Wouldst thou live again, be just!" As this other "Wouldst thou live now, regularly draw thy breath! For, suspend the operation, straight law's breach results in death"-- And (provided always, man, addressed this mode, be sound and sane) Prompt and absolute obedience, never doubt, will law obtain! Tell not me "Look round us! nothing each side but acknowledged law, Now styled God's--now, Nature's edict!" Where's obedience without flaw Paid to either? What 's the adage rife in man's mouth? Why, "The best I both see and praise, the worst I follow "--which, despite professed Seeing, praising, all the same he follows, since he disbelieves In the heart of him that edict which for truth his head receives. There 's evading and persuading and much making law amends Somehow, there 's the nice distinction 'twixt fast foes and faulty friends, --Any consequence except inevitable death when, "Die, Whoso breaks our law!" they publish, God and Nature equally. Law that 's kept or broken--subject to man's will and pleasure! Whence? How comes law to bear eluding? Not because of impotence: Certain laws exist already which to hear means to obey; Therefore not without a purpose these man must, while those man may Keep and, for the keeping, haply gain approval and reward. Break through this last superstructure, all is empty air--no sward Firm like my first fact to stand on, "God there is, and soul there is," And soul's earthly life-allotment: wherein, by hypothesis, Soul is bound to pass probation, prove its powers, and exercise Sense and thought on fact, and then, from fact educing fit surmise, Ask itself, and of itself have solely answer, "Does the scope Earth affords of fact to judge by warrant future fear or hope?"

Thus have we come back full circle: fancy's footsteps one by one Go their round conducting reason to the point where they begun, Left where we were left so lately, Dear and True! When, half a week Since, we walked and talked and thus I told you, how suffused a cheek You had turned me had I sudden brought the blush into the smile By some word like "Idly argued! you know better all the while!" Now, from me--Oh not a blush, but, how much more, a joyous glow, Laugh triumphant, would it strike did your "Yes, better I do know" Break, my warrant for assurance! which assurance may not be If, supplanting hope, assurance needs must change this life to me. So, I hope--no more than hope, but hope--no less than hope, because I can fathom, by no plumb-line sunk in life's apparent laws, How I may in any instance fix where change should meetly fall Nor involve, by one revisal, abrogation of them all: --Which again involves as utter change in life thus law-released, Whence the good of goodness vanished when the ill of evil ceased. Whereas, life and laws apparent reinstated,--all we know, All we know not,--o'er our heaven again cloud closes, until, lo,-- Hope the arrowy, just as constant, comes to pierce its gloom, compelled By a power and by a purpose which, if no one else beheld, I behold in life, so--hope!

Sad summing-up of all to say! _Athanasius contra mundum_, why should he hope more than they? So are men made notwithstanding, such magnetic virtue darts From each head their fancy haloes to their unresisting hearts! Here I stand, methinks a stone's throw from yon village I this morn Traversed for the sake of looking one last look at its forlorn Tenement's ignoble fortune: through a crevice, plain its floor Piled with provender for cattle, while a dungheap blocked the door. In that squalid Bossex, under that obscene red roof, arose, Like a fiery flying serpent from its egg, a soul--Rousseau's. Turn thence! Is it Diodati joins the glimmer of the lake? There I plucked a leaf, one week since,--ivy, plucked for Byron's sake. Famed unfortunates! And yet, because of that phosphoric fame Swathing blackness' self with brightness till putridity looked flame, All the world was witched: and wherefore? what could lie beneath, allure Heart of man to let corruption serve man's head as cynosure? Was the magic in the dictum "All that 's good is gone and past; Bad and worse still grows the present, and the worst of all comes last: Which believe--for I believe it"? So preached one his gospel-news; While melodious moaned the other, "dying day with dolphin-hues! Storm, for loveliness and darkness like a woman's eye! Ye mounts Where I climb to 'scape my fellow, and thou sea wherein he counts Not one inch of vile dominion! What were your especial-worth Failed ye to enforce the maxim 'Of all objects found on earth Man is meanest, much too honored when compared with--what by odds Beats him--any dog: so, let him go a-howling to his gods!' Which believe--for I believe it!" Such the comfort man received Sadly since perforce he must: for why? the famous bard believed!

Fame! Then, give me fame, a moment! As I gather at a glance Human glory after glory vivifying yon expanse, Let me grasp them altogether, hold on high and brandish well Beacon-like above the rapt world ready, whether heaven or hell Send the dazzling summons earthward, to submit itself the same, Take on trust the hope or else despair flashed full on face by--Fame! Thanks, thou pine-tree of Makistos, wide thy giant torch I wave! Know ye whence I plucked the pillar, late with sky for architrave? This the trunk, the central solid Knowledge, kindled core, began Tugging earth-deeps, trying heaven-heights, rooted yonder at Lausanne. This which flits and spits, the aspic,--sparkles in and out the boughs Now, and now condensed, the python, coiling round and round allows Scarce the bole its due effulgence, dulled by flake on flake of Wit-- Laughter so bejewels Learning,--what but Ferney nourished it? Nay, nor fear--since every resin feeds the flame--that I dispense With yon Bossex terebinth-tree's all-explosive Eloquence: No, be sure! nor, any more than thy resplendency, Jean-Jacques, Dare I want thine, Diodati! What though monkeys and macaques Gibber "Byron"? Byron's ivy rears a branch beyond the crew, Green forever, no deciduous trash macaques and monkeys chew! As Rousseau, then, eloquent, as Byron prime in poet's power,-- Detonations, fulgurations, smiles--the rainbow, tears--the shower,-- Lo, I lift the coruscating marvel--Fame! and, famed, declare --Learned for the nonce as Gibbon, witty as wit's self Voltaire ... Oh, the sorriest of conclusions to whatever man of sense 'Mid the millions stands the unit, takes no flare for evidence! Yet the millions have their portion, live their calm or troublous day, Find significance in fireworks: so, by help of mine, they may Confidently lay to heart and lock in head their life long--this: "He there with the brand flamboyant, broad o'er night's forlorn abyss, Crowned by prose and verse; and wielding, with Wit's bauble, Learning's rod" ... Well? Why, he at least believed in Soul, was very sure of God!

* * * * *

So the poor smile played, that evening: pallid smile long since extinct Here in London's mid-November! Not so loosely thoughts were linked, Six weeks since as I, descending in the sunset from Salève, Found the chain I seemed to forge there, flawless till it reached your grave,-- Not so filmy was the texture, but I bore it in my breast Safe thus far. And since I found a something in me would not rest Till I, link by link, unravelled any tangle of the chain, --Here it lies, for much or little! I have lived all o'er again That last pregnant hour: I saved it, just as I could save a root Disinterred for reinterment when the time best helps to shoot. Life is stocked with germs of torpid life; but may I never wake Those of mine whose resurrection could not be without earthquake! Rest all such, unraised forever! Be this, sad yet sweet, the sole Memory evoked from slumber! Least part this: then what the whole?

THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC

Written immediately after _La Saisiaz_, being dated January 15, 1878.

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 Till God's own smile came out: That was thy face!

I

"Fame!" Yes, I said it and you read it. First, Praise the good log-fire! Winter howls without. Crowd closer, let us! Ha, the secret nursed Inside yon hollow, crusted roundabout With copper where the clamp was,--how the burst Vindicates flame the stealthy feeder! Spout Thy splendidest--a minute and no more? So soon again all sobered as before?

II

Nay, for I need to see your face! One stroke Adroitly dealt, and lo, the pomp revealed! Fire in his pandemonium, heart of oak Palatial, where he wrought the works concealed Beneath the solid-seeming roof I broke, As redly up and out and off they reeled Like disconcerted imps, those thousand sparks From fire's slow tunnelling of vaults and arcs!

III

Up, out, and off, see! Were you never used,-- You now, in childish days or rather nights,-- As I was, to watch sparks fly? not amused By that old nurse-taught game which gave the sprites Each one his title and career,--confused Belief 't was all long over with the flights From earth to heaven of hero, sage, and bard, And bade them once more strive for Fame's award?

IV

New long bright life! and happy chance befell-- That I know--when some prematurely lost Child of disaster bore away the bell From some too-pampered son of fortune, crossed Never before my chimney broke the spell! Octogenarian Keats gave up the ghost, While--never mind Who was it cumbered earth-- Sank stifled, span-long brightness, in the birth.

V

Well, try a variation of the game! Our log is old ship-timber, broken bulk. There 's sea-brine spirits up the brimstone flame, That crimson-curly spiral proves the hulk Was saturate with--ask the chloride's name From somebody who knows! I shall not sulk If yonder greenish tonguelet licked from brass Its life, I thought was fed on copperas.

VI

Anyhow, there they flutter! What may be The style and prowess of that purple one? Who is the hero other eyes shall see Than yours and mine? That yellow, deep to dun-- Conjecture how the sage glows, whom not we But those unborn are to get warmth by! Son O' the coal,--as Job and Hebrew name a spark,-- What bard, in thy red soaring, scares the dark?

VII

Oh and the lesser lights, the dearer still That they elude a vulgar eye, give ours The glimpse repaying astronomic skill Which searched sky deeper, passed those patent powers Constellate proudly,--swords, scrolls, harps, that fill The vulgar eye to surfeit,--found best flowers Hid deepest in the dark,--named unplucked grace Of soul, ungathered beauty, form or face!

VIII

Up with thee, mouldering ash men never knew, But I know! flash thou forth, and figure bold, Calm and columnar as yon flame I view! Oh and I bid thee,--to whom fortune doled Scantly all other gifts out--bicker blue, Beauty for all to see, zinc's uncontrolled Flake-brilliance! Not my fault if these were shown, Grandeur and beauty both, to me alone.

IX

No! as the first was boy's play, this proves mere Stripling's amusement: manhood's sport be grave! Choose rather sparkles quenched in mid career, Their boldness and their brightness could not save (In some old night of time on some lone drear Sea-coast, monopolized by crag or cave) --Save from ignoble exit into smoke, Silence, oblivion, all death-damps that choke!

X

Launched by our ship-wood, float we, once adrift In fancy to that land-strip waters wash, We both know well! Where uncouth tribes made shift Long since to just keep life in, billows dash Nigh over folk who shudder at each lift Of the old tyrant tempest's whirlwind-lash Though they have built the serviceable town Tempests but tease now, billows drench, not drown.

XI

Croisic, the spit of sandy rock which juts Spitefully northward, bears nor tree nor shrub To tempt the ocean, show what Guérande shuts Behind her, past wild Batz whose Saxons grub The ground for crystals grown where ocean gluts Their promontory's breadth with salt: all stub Of rock and stretch of sand, the land's last strife To rescue a poor remnant for dear life.

XII

And what life! Here was, from the world to choose, The Druids' chosen chief of homes: they reared --Only their women,--'mid the slush and ooze Of yon low islet,--to their sun, revered In strange stone guise,--a temple. May-dawn dews Saw the old structure levelled; when there peered May's earliest eve-star, high and wide once more Up towered the new pile perfect as before:

XIII

Seeing that priestesses--and all were such-- Unbuilt and then rebuilt it every May, Each alike helping--well, if not too much! For, 'mid their eagerness to outstrip day And get work done, if any loosed her clutch And let a single stone drop, straight a prey Herself fell, torn to pieces, limb from limb, By sisters in full chorus glad and grim.

XIV

And still so much remains of that gray cult, That even now, of nights, do women steal To the sole Menhir standing, and insult The antagonistic church-spire by appeal To power discrowned in vain, since each adult Believes the gruesome thing she clasps may heal Whatever plague no priestly help can cure: Kiss but the cold stone, the event is sure!

XV

Nay more: on May-morns, that primeval rite Of temple-building, with its punishment For rash precipitation, lingers, spite Of all remonstrance; vainly are they shent, Those girls who form a ring and, dressed in white, Dance round it, till some sister's strength be spent: Touch but the Menhir, straight the rest turn roughs From gentles, fall on her with fisticuffs.

XVI

Oh and, for their part, boys from door to door Sing unintelligible words to tunes As obsolete: "scraps of Druidic lore," Sigh scholars, as each pale man importunes Vainly the mumbling to speak plain once more. Enough of this old worship, rounds and runes! They serve my purpose, which is but to show Croisic to-day and Croisic long ago.

XVII

What have we sailed to see, then, wafted there By fancy from the log that ends its days Of much adventure 'neath skies foul or fair, On waters rough or smooth, in this good blaze We two crouch round so closely, bidding care Keep outside with the snow-storm? Something says "Fit time for story-telling!" I begin-- Why not at Croisic, port we first put in?

XVIII

Anywhere serves: for point me out the place Wherever man has made himself a home, And there I find the story of our race In little, just at Croisic as at Rome. What matters the degree? the kind I trace. Druids their temple, Christians have their dome: So with mankind; and Croisic, I 'll engage, With Rome yields sort for sort, in age for age.

XIX

No doubt, men vastly differ: and we need Some strange exceptional benevolence Of nature's sunshine to develop seed So well, in the less-favored clime, that thence We may discern how shrub means tree indeed Though dwarfed till scarcely shrub in evidence. Man in the ice-house or the hot-house ranks With beasts or gods: stove-forced, give warmth the thanks!

XX

While, is there any ice-checked? Such shall learn I am thankworthy, who propose to slake His thirst for tasting how it feels to turn Cedar from hyssop-on-the-wall. I wake No memories of what is harsh and stern In ancient Croisic-nature, much less rake The ashes of her last warmth till out leaps Live Hervé Riel, the single spark she keeps.

XXI

Take these two, see, each outbreak,--spirt and spirt Of fire from our brave billet's either edge Which--call maternal Croisic ocean-girt! These two shall thoroughly redeem my pledge. One flames fierce gules, its feebler rival--vert, Heralds would tell you: heroes, I allege, They both were: soldiers, sailors, statesmen, priests, Lawyers, physicians--guess what gods or beasts!

XXII

None of them all, but--poets, if you please! "What, even there, endowed with knack of rhyme, Did two among the aborigines Of that rough region pass the ungracious time Suiting, to rumble-tumble of the sea's, The songs forbidden a serener clime? Or had they universal audience--that's To say, the folk of Croisic, ay, and Batz?"

XXIII

Open your ears! Each poet in his day Had such a mighty moment of success As pinnacled him straight, in full display, For the whole world to worship--nothing less! Was not the whole polite world Paris, pray? And did not Paris, for one moment--yes, Worship these poet-flames, our red and green, One at a time, a century between?

XXIV

And yet you never heard their names! Assist, Clio, Historic Muse, while I record Great deeds! Let fact, not fancy, break the mist And bid each sun emerge, in turn play lord Of day, one moment! Hear the annalist Tell a strange story, true to the least word! At Croisic, sixteen hundred years and ten Since Christ, forth flamed yon liquid ruby, then.

XXV

Know him henceforth as René Gentilhomme --Appropriate appellation! noble birth And knightly blazon, the device wherefrom Was "Better do than say"! In Croisic's dearth Why prison his career while Christendom Lay open to reward acknowledged worth? He therefore left it at the proper age And got to be the Prince of Condé's page.

XXVI

Which Prince of Condé, whom men called "The Duke," --Failing the king, his cousin, of an heir, (As one might hold hap, would, without rebuke, Since Anne of Austria, all the world was ware, Twenty-three years long sterile, scarce could look For issue)--failing Louis of so rare A godsend, it was natural the Prince Should hear men call him "Next King" too, nor wince.

XXVII

Now, as this reasonable hope, by growth Of years, nay, tens of years, looked plump almost To bursting,--would the brothers, childless both, Louis and Gaston, give but up the ghost-- Condé, called "Duke" and "Next King," nothing loth Awaited his appointment to the post, And wiled away the time, as best he might, Till Providence should settle things aright.

XXVIII

So, at a certain pleasure-house, withdrawn From cities where a whisper breeds offence, He sat him down to watch the streak of dawn Testify to first stir of Providence; And, since dull country life makes courtiers yawn, There wanted not a poet to dispense Song's remedy for spleen-fits all and some, Which poet was Page René Gentilhomme.

XXIX

A poet born and bred, his very sire A poet also, author of a piece Printed and published, "Ladies--their attire:" Therefore the son, just born at his decease, Was bound to keep alive the sacred fire, And kept it, yielding moderate increase Of songs and sonnets, madrigals, and much Rhyming thought poetry and praised as such.

XXX

Rubbish unutterable (bear in mind!) Rubbish not wholly without value, though, Being to compliment the Duke designed And bring the complimenter credit so,-- Pleasure with profit happily combined. Thus René Gentilhomme rhymed, rhymed till--lo, This happened, as he sat in an alcove Elaborating rhyme for "love"--_not_ "dove."

XXXI

He was alone: silence and solitude Befit the votary of the Muse. Around, Nature--not our new picturesque and rude, But trim tree-cinctured stately garden-ground-- Breathed polish and politeness. All-imbued With these, he sat absorbed in one profound Excogitation, "Were it best to hint Or boldly boast 'She loves me--Araminte'?"

XXXII

When suddenly flashed lightning, searing sight Almost, so close to eyes; then, quick on flash, Followed the thunder, splitting earth downright Where René sat a-rhyming: with huge crash Of marble into atoms infinite-- Marble which, stately, dared the world to dash The stone-thing proud, high-pillared, from its place: One flash, and dust was all that lay at base.

XXXIII

So, when the horrible confusion loosed Its wrappage round his senses, and, with breath, Seeing and hearing by degrees induced Conviction what he felt was life, not death-- His fluttered faculties came back to roost One after one, as fowls do: ay, beneath, About his very feet there, lay in dust Earthly presumption paid by heaven's disgust.

XXXIV

For, what might be the thunder-smitten thing But, pillared high and proud, in marble guise, A ducal crown--which meant "Now Duke: Next, King"? Since such the Prince was, not in his own eyes Alone, but all the world's. Pebble from sling Prostrates a giant; so can pulverize Marble pretension--how much more, make moult A peacock-prince his plume--God's thunderbolt!

XXXV

That was enough, for René, that first fact Thus flashed into him. Up he looked: all blue And bright the sky above; earth firm, compact Beneath his footing, lay apparent too; Opposite stood the pillar: nothing lacked There, but the Duke's crown: see, its fragments strew The earth,--about his feet lie atoms fine Where he sat nursing late his fourteenth line!

XXXVI

So, for the moment, all the universe Being abolished, all 'twist God and him,-- Earth's praise or blame, its blessing or its curse. Of one and the same value,--to the brim Flooded with truth, for better or for worse,-- He pounces on the writing-paper, prim Keeping its place on table: not a dint Nor speck had damaged "Ode to Araminte."

XXXVII

And over the neat crowquill calligraph His pen goes blotting, blurring, as an ox Tramples a flower-bed in a garden,--laugh You may!--so does not he, whose quick heart knocks Audibly at his breast: an epitaph On earth's break-up, amid the falling rocks, He might be penning in a wild dismay, Caught with his work half-done on Judgment Day.

XXXVIII

And what is it so terribly he pens, Ruining "Cupid, Venus, wile and smile, Hearts, darts," and all his day's _divinior mens_ Judged necessary to a perfect style? Little recks René, with a breast to cleanse, Of Rhadamanthine law that reigned erewhile: Brimful of truth, truth's outburst will convince (Style or no style) who bears truth's brunt--the Prince.

XXXIX

"Condé, called 'Duke,' be called just 'Duke,' not more, To life's end! 'Next King' thou forsooth wilt be? Ay, when this bauble, as it decked before Thy pillar, shall again, for France to see, Take its proud station there! Let France adore No longer an illusive mock-sun--thee-- But keep her homage for Sol's self, about To rise and put pretenders to the rout!

XL

"What? France so God-abandoned that her root Regal, though many a Spring it gave no sign, Lacks power to make the bole, now branchless, shoot Greenly as ever? Nature, though benign, Thwarts ever the ambitious and astute. In store for such is punishment condign: Sure as thy Duke's crown to the earth was hurled, So sure, next year, a Dauphin glads the world!"

XLI

Which penned--some forty lines to this effect-- Our René folds his paper, marches brave Back to the mansion, luminous, erect, Triumphant, an emancipated slave. There stands the Prince. "How now? My Duke's-crown wrecked? What may this mean?" The answer René gave Was--handing him the verses, with the due Incline of body: "Sir, God's word to you!"

XLII

The Prince read, paled, was silent; all around, The courtier-company, to whom he passed The paper, read, in equal silence bound. René grew also by degrees aghast At his own fit of courage--palely found Way of retreat from that pale presence: classed Once more among the cony-kind. "Oh, son, It is a feeble folk!" saith Solomon.

XLIII

Vainly he apprehended evil: since, When, at the year's end, even as foretold, Forth came the Dauphin who discrowned the Prince Of that long-craved mere visionary gold, 'T was no fit time for envy to evince Malice, be sure! The timidest grew bold: Of all that courtier-company not one But left the semblance for the actual sun.

XLIV

And all sorts and conditions that stood by At René's burning moment, bright escape Of soul, bore witness to the prophecy. Which witness took the customary shape Of verse; a score of poets in full cry Hailed the inspired one. Nantes and Tours agape, Soon Paris caught the infection; gaining strength, How could it fail to reach the Court at length?

XLV

"O poet!" smiled King Louis, "and besides, O prophet! Sure, by miracle announced, My babe will prove a prodigy. Who chides Henceforth the unchilded monarch shall be trounced For irreligion: since the fool derides Plain miracle by which this prophet pounced Exactly on the moment I should lift Like Simeon, in my arms, a babe, 'God's gift!'

XLVI

"So call the boy! and call this bard and seer By a new title! him I raise to rank Of 'Royal Poet:' poet without peer! Whose fellows only have themselves to thank If humbly they must follow in the rear My René. He 's the master: they must clank Their chains of song, confessed his slaves; for why? They poetize, while he can prophesy!"

XLVII

So said, so done; our René rose august, "The Royal Poet;" straightway put in type His poem-prophecy, and (fair and just Procedure) added,--now that time was ripe For proving friends did well his word to trust,-- Those attestations, tuned to lyre or pipe, Which friends broke out with when he dared foretell The Dauphin's birth: friends trusted, and did well.

XLVIII

Moreover he got painted by Du Pré, Engraved by Daret also; and prefixed The portrait to his book: a crown of bay Circled his brows, with rose and myrtle mixed; And Latin verses, lovely in their way, Described him as "the biforked hill betwixt: Since he hath scaled Parnassus at one jump, Joining the Delphic quill and Getic trump."

XLIX

Whereof came ... What, it lasts, our spirt, thus long --The red fire? That 's the reason must excuse My letting flicker René's prophet-song No longer; for its pertinacious hues Must fade before its fellow joins the throng Of sparks departed up the chimney, dues To dark oblivion. At the word, it winks, Rallies, relapses, dwindles, deathward sinks.

L

So does our poet. All this burst of fame, Fury of favor, Royal Poetship, Prophetship, book, verse, picture--thereof came --Nothing! That 's why I would not let outstrip Red his green rival flamelet: just the same Ending in smoke waits both! In vain we rip The past, no further faintest trace remains Of René to reward our pious pains.

LI

Somebody saw a portrait framed and glazed At Croisic. "Who may be this glorified Mortal unheard-of hitherto?" amazed That person asked the owner by his side, Who proved as ignorant. The question raised Provoked inquiry; key by key was tried On Croisic's portrait-puzzle, till back flew The wards at one key's touch, which key was--Who?

LII

The other famous poet! Wait thy turn, Thou green, our red's competitor! Enough Just now to note 't was he that itched to learn (A hundred years ago) how fate could puff Heaven-high (a hundred years before), then spurn To suds so big a bubble in some huff: Since green too found red's portrait,--having heard Hitherto of red's rare self not one word.

LIII

And he with zeal addressed him to the task Of hunting out, by all and any means, --Who might the brilliant bard be, born to bask Butterfly-like in shine which kings and queens And baby-dauphins shed? Much need to ask! Is fame so fickle that what perks and preens The eyed wing, one imperial minute, dips Next sudden moment into blind eclipse?

LIV

After a vast expenditure of pains, Our second poet found the prize he sought: Urged in his search by something that restrains From undue triumph famed ones who have fought, Or simply, poetizing, taxed their brains: Something that tells such--dear is triumph bought If it means only basking in the midst Of fame's brief sunshine, as thou, René, didst.

LV

For, what did searching find at last but this? Quoth somebody, "I somehow somewhere seem To think I heard one old De Chevaye is Or was possessed of René's works!" which gleam Of light from out the dark proved not amiss To track, by correspondence on the theme; And soon the twilight broadened into day, For thus to question answered De Chevaye.

LVI

"True it is, I did once possess the works You want account of--works--to call them so,-- Comprised in one small book: the volume lurks (Some fifty leaves _in duodecimo_) 'Neath certain ashes which my soul it irks Still to remember, because long ago That and my other rare shelf-occupants Perished by burning of my house at Nantes.

LVII

"Yet of that