book one

strange particular Still stays in mind with me"--and thereupon Followed the story. "Few the poems are; The book was two-thirds filled up with this one, And sundry witnesses from near and far That here at least was prophesying done By prophet, so as to preclude all doubt, Before the thing he prophesied about."

LVIII

That 's all he knew, and all the poet learned, And all that you and I are like to hear Of René; since not only book is burned But memory extinguished,--nay, I fear, Portrait is gone too: nowhere I discerned A trace of it at Croisic. "Must a tear Needs fall for that?" you smile. "How fortune fares With such a mediocrity, who cares?"

LIX

Well, I care--intimately care to have Experience how a human creature felt In after-life, who bore the burden grave Of certainly believing God had dealt For once directly with him: did not rave --A maniac, did not find his reason melt --An idiot, but went on, in peace or strife, The world's way, lived an ordinary life.

LX

How many problems that one fact would solve! An ordinary soul, no more, no less, About whose life earth's common sights revolve, On whom is brought to bear, by thunder-stress, This fact--God tasks him, and will not absolve Task's negligent performer! Can you guess How such a soul--the task performed to point-- Goes back to life nor finds things out of joint?

LXI

Does he stand stock-like henceforth? or proceed Dizzily, yet with course straightforward still, Down-trampling vulgar hindrance?--as the reed Is crushed beneath its tramp when that blind will Hatched in some old-world beast's brain bids it speed Where the sun wants brute-presence to fulfil Life's purpose in a new far zone, ere ice Enwomb the pasture-tract its fortalice.

LXII

I think no such direct plain truth consists With actual sense and thought and what they take To be the solid walls of life: mere mists-- How such would, at that truth's first piercing, break Into the nullity they are!--slight lists Wherein the puppet-champions wage, for sake Of some mock-mistress, mimic war: laid low At trumpet-blast, there 's shown the world, one foe!

LXIII

No, we must play the pageant out, observe The tourney-regulations, and regard Success--to meet the blunted spear nor swerve, Failure--to break no bones yet fall on sward; Must prove we have--not courage? well then--nerve! And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award-- Be warranted as promising to wield Weapons, no sham, in a true battlefield.

LXIV

Meantime, our simulated thunderclaps Which tell us counterfeited truths--these same Are--sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps? --Sight, beauty, every dart of every aim That touches just, then seems, by strange relapse, To fall effectless from the soul it came As if to fix its own, but simply smote And startled to vague beauty more remote?

LXV

So do we gain enough--yet not too much-- Acquaintance with that outer element Wherein there 's operation (call it such!) Quite of another kind than we the pent On earth are proper to receive. Our hutch Lights up at the least chink: let roof be rent-- How inmates huddle, blinded at first spasm, Cognizant of the sun's self through the chasm!

LXVI

Therefore, who knows if this our René's quick Subsidence from as sudden noise and glare Into oblivion was impolitic? No doubt his soul became at once aware That, after prophecy, the rhyming-trick Is poor employment: human praises scare Rather than soothe ears all a-tingle yet With tones few hear and live, but none forget.

LXVII

There 's our first famous poet! Step thou forth Second consummate songster! See, the tongue Of fire that typifies thee, owns thy worth In yellow, purple mixed its green among, No pure and simple resin from the North, But composite with virtues that belong To Southern culture! Love not more than hate Helped to a blaze ... But I anticipate.

LXVIII

Prepare to witness a combustion rich And riotously splendid, far beyond Poor René's lambent little streamer which Only played candle to a Court grown fond By baby-birth: this soared to such a pitch, Alternately such colors doffed and donned, That when I say it dazzled Paris--please Know that it brought Voltaire upon his knees!

LXIX

Who did it, was a dapper gentleman, Paul Desforges Maillard, Croisickese by birth, Whose birth that century ended which began By similar bestowment on our earth Of the aforesaid René. Cease to scan The ways of Providence! See Croisic's dearth-- Not Paris in its plenitude--suffice To furnish France with her best poet twice!

LXX

Till he was thirty years of age, the vein Poetic yielded rhyme by drops and spirts: In verses of society had lain His talent chiefly; but the Muse asserts Privilege most by treating with disdain Epics the bard mouths out, or odes he blurts Spasmodically forth. Have people time And patience nowadays for thought in rhyme?

LXXI

So, his achievements were the quatrain's inch Of homage, or at most the sonnet's ell Of admiration: welded lines with clinch Of ending word and word, to every belle In Croisic's bounds; these, brisk as any finch, He twittered till his fame had reached as well Guérande as Batz; but there fame stopped, for--curse On fortune--outside lay the universe!

LXXII

That 's Paris. Well,--why not break bounds, and send Song onward till it echo at the gates Of Paris whither all ambitions tend, And end too, seeing that success there sates The soul which hungers most for fame? Why spend A minute in deciding, while, by Fate's Decree, there happens to be just the prize Proposed there, suiting souls that poetize?

LXXIII

A prize indeed, the Academy's own self Proposes to what bard shall best indite A piece describing how, through shoal and shelf, The Art of Navigation; steered aright, Has, in our last king's reign,--the lucky elf,-- Reached, one may say, Perfection's haven quite, And there cast anchor. At a glance one sees The subject's crowd of capabilities!

LXXIV

Neptune and Amphitrité! Thetis, who Is either Tethys or as good--both tag! Triton can shove along a vessel too: It 's Virgil! Then the winds that blow or lag,-- De Maille, Vendôme, Vermandois! Toulouse blew Longest, we reckon: he must puff the flag To fullest outflare; while our lacking nymph Be Anne of Austria, Regent o'er the lymph!

LXXV

Promised, performed! Since _irritabilis gens_ Holds of the feverish impotence that strives To stay an itch by prompt resource to pen's Scratching itself on paper; placid lives, Leisurely works mark the _divinior mens:_ Bees brood above the honey in their hives; Gnats are the busy bustlers. Splash and scrawl,-- Completed lay thy piece, swift penman Paul!

LXXVI

To Paris with the product! This dispatched, One had to wait the Forty's slow and sure Verdict, as best one might. Our penman scratched Away perforce the itch that knows no cure But daily paper-friction: more than matched His first feat by a second--tribute pure And heartfelt to the Forty when their voice Should peal with one accord "Be Paul our choice!"

LXXVII

Scratch, scratch went much laudation of that sane And sound Tribunal, delegates august Of Phœbus and the Muses' sacred train-- Whom every poetaster tries to thrust From where, high-throned, they dominate the Seine: Fruitless endeavor,--fail it shall and must! Whereof in witness have not one and all The Forty voices pealed "Our choice be Paul"?

LXXVIII

Thus Paul discounted his applause. Alack For human expectation! Scarcely ink Was dry when, lo, the perfect piece came back Rejected, shamed! Some other poet's clink "Thetis and Tethys" had seduced the pack Of pedants to declare perfection's pink A singularly poor production. "Whew! The Forty are stark fools, I always knew!"

LXXIX

First fury over (for Paul's race--to wit, Brain-vibrios--wriggle clear of protoplasm Into minute life that 's one fury-fit), "These fools shall find a bard's enthusiasm Comports with what should counterbalance it-- Some knowledge of the world! No doubt, orgasm Effects the birth of verse which, born, demands Prosaic ministration, swaddling-bands!

LXXX

"Verse must be cared for at this early stage, Handled, nay dandled even. I should play Their game indeed if, till it grew of age, I meekly let these dotards frown away My bantling from the rightful heritage Of smiles and kisses! Let the public say If it be worthy praises or rebukes, My poem, from these Forty old perukes!"

LXXXI

So, by a friend, who boasts himself in grace With no less than the Chevalier La Roque,-- Eminent in those days for pride of place, Seeing he had it in his power to block The way or smooth the road to all the race Of literators trudging up to knock At Fame's exalted temple-door--for why? He edited the Paris "Mercury:"--

LXXXII

By this friend's help the Chevalier receives Paul's poem, prefaced by the due appeal To Cæsar from the Jews. As duly heaves A sigh the Chevalier, about to deal With case so customary--turns the leaves, Finds nothing there to borrow, beg, or steal-- Then brightens up the critic's brow deep-lined. "The thing may be so cleverly declined!"

LXXXIII

Down to desk, out with paper, up with quill, Dip and indite! "Sir, gratitude immense For this true draught from the Pierian rill! Our Academic clodpoles must be dense Indeed to stand unirrigated still. No less, we critics dare not give offence To grandees like the Forty: while we mock, We grin and bear. So, here 's your piece! La Roque."

LXXXIV

"There now!" cries Paul: "the fellow can't avoid Confessing that my piece deserves the palm; And yet he dares not grant me space enjoyed By every scribbler he permits embalm His crambo in the Journal's corner! Cloyed With stuff like theirs, no wonder if a qualm Be caused by verse like mine: though that 's no cause For his defrauding me of just applause.

LXXXV

"Aha, he fears the Forty, this poltroon? First let him fear _me!_ Change smooth speech to rough! I 'll speak my mind out, show the fellow soon Who is the foe to dread: insist enough On my own merits till, as clear as noon, He sees I am no man to take rebuff As patiently as scribblers may and must! Quick to the onslaught, out sword, cut and thrust!"

LXXXVI

And thereupon a fierce epistle flings Its challenge in the critic's face. Alack! Our bard mistakes his man! The gauntlet rings On brazen visor proof against attack. Prompt from his editorial throne up springs The insulted magnate, and his mace falls, thwack, On Paul's devoted brainpan,--quite away From common courtesies of fencing-play!

LXXXVII

"Sir, will you have the truth? This piece of yours Is simply execrable past belief. I shrank from saying so; but, since naught cures Conceit but truth, truth 's at your service! Brief, Just so long as 'The Mercury' endures, So long are you excluded by its Chief From corner, nay, from cranny! Play the cock O' the roost, henceforth, at Croisic!" wrote La Roque.

LXXXVIII

Paul yellowed, whitened, as his wrath from red Waxed incandescent. Now, this man of rhyme Was merely foolish, faulty in the head Not heart of him: conceit 's a venial crime. "Oh by no means malicious!" cousins said: Fussily feeble,--harmless all the time, Piddling at so-called satire--well-advised, He held in most awe whom he satirized.

LXXXIX

Accordingly his kith and kin--removed From emulation of the poet's gift By power and will--these rather liked, nay, loved The man who gave his family a lift Out of the Croisic level; disapproved Satire so trenchant." Thus our poet sniffed Home-incense, though too churlish to unlock "The Mercury's" box of ointment was La Roque.

XC

But when Paul's visage grew from red to white, And from his lips a sort of mumbling fell Of who was to be kicked,--"And serve him right!" A gay voice interposed, "Did kicking well Answer the purpose! Only--if I might Suggest as much--a far more potent spell Lies in another kind of treatment. Oh, Women are ready at resource, you know!

XCI

"Talent should minister to genius! good: The proper and superior smile returns. Hear me with patience! Have you understood The only method whereby genius earns Fit guerdon nowadays? In knightly mood You entered lists with visor up; one learns Too late that, had you mounted Roland's crest, 'Room!' they had roared--La Roque with all the rest!

XCII

"Why did you first of all transmit your piece To those same priggish Forty unprepared Whether to rank you with the swans or geese By friendly intervention? If they dared Count you a cackler,--wonders never cease! I think it still more wondrous that you bared Your brow (my earlier image) as if praise Were gained by simple fighting nowadays!

XCIII

"Your next step showed a touch of the true means Whereby desert is crowned: not force but wile Came to the rescue. 'Get behind the scenes!' Your friend advised: he writes, sets forth your style And title, to such purpose intervenes That you get velvet-compliment three-pile; And, though 'The Mercury' said 'nay,' nor stock Nor stone did his refusal prove La Roque.

XCIV

"Why must you needs revert to the high hand, Imperative procedure--what you call 'Taking on merit your exclusive stand'? _Stand_, with a vengeance! Soon you went to wall. You and your merit! Only fools command When folks are free to disobey them, Paul! You 've learnt your lesson, found out what 's o'clock, By this uncivil answer of La Roque.

XCV

"Now let me counsel! Lay this piece on shelf --Masterpiece though it be! From out your desk Hand me some lighter sample, verse the elf Cupid inspired you with, no god grotesque Presiding o'er the Navy! I myself Hand-write what 's legible yet picturesque; I 'll copy fair and femininely frock Your poem masculine that courts La Roque!

XCVI

"Deidamia he--Achilles thou! Ha, ha, these ancient stories come so apt! My sex, my youth, my rank I next avow In a neat prayer for kind perusal. Sapped I see the walls which stand so stoutly now! I see the toils about the game entrapped By honest cunning! Chains of lady's-smock, Not thorn and thistle, tether fast La Roque!"

XCVII

Now, who might be the speaker sweet and arch That laughed above Paul's shoulder as it heaved With the indignant heart?--bade steal a march And not continue charging? Who conceived This plan which set our Paul, like pea you parch On fire-shovel, skipping, of a load relieved, From arm-chair moodiness to escritoire Sacred to Phœbus and the tuneful choir?

XCVIII

Who but Paul's sister! named of course like him "Desforges;" but, mark you, in those days a queer Custom obtained,--who knows whence grew the whim?-- That people could not read their title clear To reverence till their own true names, made dim By daily mouthing, pleased to disappear, Replaced by brand-new bright ones: Arouet, For instance, grew Voltaire; Desforges--Malcrais.

XCIX

"Demoiselle Malcrais de la Vigne"--because The family possessed at Brederac A vineyard,--few grapes, many hips-and-haws,-- Still a nice Breton name. As breast and back Of this vivacious beauty gleamed through gauze, So did her sprightly nature nowise lack Lustre when draped, the fashionable way, In "Malcrais de la Vigne,"--more short, "Malcrais."

C

Out from Paul's escritoire behold escape The hoarded treasure! verse falls thick and fast, Sonnets and songs of every size and shape. The lady ponders on her prize; at last Selects one which--O angel and yet ape!-- Her malice thinks is probably surpassed In badness by no fellow of the flock, Copies it fair, and "Now for my La Roque!"

CI

So, to him goes, with the neat manuscript, The soft petitionary letter. "Grant A fledgeling novice that with wing unclipt She soar her little circuit, habitant Of an old manor; buried in which crypt, How can the youthful châtelaine but pant For disemprisonment by one _ad hoc_ Appointed 'Mercury's' Editor, La Roque?"

CII

'T was an epistle that might move the Turk! More certainly it moved our middle-aged Pen-driver drudging at his weary work, Raked the old ashes up and disengaged The sparks of gallantry which always lurk Somehow in literary breasts, assuaged In no degree by compliments on style; Are Forty wagging beards worth one girl's smile?

CIII

In trips the lady's poem, takes its place Of honor in the gratified Gazette, With due acknowledgment of power and grace; Prognostication, too, that higher yet The Breton Muse will soar: fresh youth, high race. Beauty and wealth have amicably met That Demoiselle Malcrais may fill the chair Left vacant by the loss of Deshoulières.

CIV

"There!" cried the lively lady. "Who was right-- You in the dumps, or I the merry maid Who know a trick or two can baffle spite Tenfold the force of this old fool's? Afraid Of Editor La Roque? But come! next flight Shall outsoar--Deshoulières alone? My blade, Sappho herself shall you confess outstript! Quick, Paul, another dose of manuscript!"

CV

And so, once well a-foot, advanced the game: More and more verses, corresponding gush On gush of praise, till everywhere acclaim Rose to the pitch of uproar. "Sappho? Tush! Sure 'Malcrais on her Parrot' puts to shame Deshoulières' pastorals, clay not worth a rush Beside this find of treasure, gold in crock, Unearthed in Brittany,--nay, ask La Roque!"

CVI

Such was the Paris tribute. "Yes," you sneer, "Ninnies stock Noodledom, but folk more sage Resist contagious folly, never fear!" Do they? Permit me to detach one page From the huge Album which from far and near Poetic praises blackened in a rage Of rapture! and that page shall be--who stares Confounded now, I ask you?--just Voltaire's!

CVII

Ay, sharpest shrewdest steel that ever stabbed To death Imposture through the armor-joints! How did it happen that gross Humbug grabbed Thy weapons, gouged thine eyes out? Fate appoints That pride shall have a fall, or I had blabbed Hardly that Humbug, whom thy soul aroints, Could thus cross-buttock thee caught unawares, And dismalest of tumbles proved--Voltaire's!

CVIII

See his epistle extant yet, wherewith "Henri" in verse and "Charles" in prose he sent To do her suit and service! Here 's the pith Of half a dozen stanzas--stones which went To build that simulated monolith-- Sham love in due degree with homage blent As sham--which in the vast of volumes scares The traveller still: "That stucco-heap--Voltaire's?"

CIX

"O thou, whose clarion-voice has overflown The wilds to startle Paris that 's one ear! Thou who such strange capacity hast shown For joining all that 's grand with all that 's dear, Knowledge with power to please--Deshoulières grown Learned as Dacier in thy person! mere Weak fruit of idle hours, these crabs of mine I dare lay at thy feet, O Muse divine!

CX

"Charles was my task-work only; Henri trod My hero erst, and now, my heroine--she Shall be thyself! True--is it true, great God! Certainly love henceforward must not be! Yet all the crowd of Fine Arts fail--how odd!-- Tried turn by turn, to fill a void in me! There 's no replacing love with these, alas! Yet all I can I do to prove no ass.

CXI

"I labor to amuse my freedom; but Should any sweet young creature slavery preach, And--borrowing thy vivacious charm, the slut!-- Make me, in thy engaging words, a speech, Soon should I see myself in prison shut With all imaginable pleasure." Reach The washhand-basin for admirers! There 's A stomach-moving tribute--and Voltaire's!

CXII

Suppose it a fantastic billet-doux, Adulatory flourish, not worth frown! What say you to the Fathers of Trévoux? These in their Dictionary have her down Under the heading "Author:" "Malcrais, too, Is 'Author' of much verse that claims renown." While Jean-Baptiste Rousseau ... but why proceed? Enough of this--something too much, indeed!

CXIII

At last La Roque, unwilling to be left Behindhand in the rivalry, broke bounds Of figurative passion hilt and heft, Plunged his huge downright love through what surrounds The literary female bosom; reft Away its veil of coy reserve with "Zounds! I love thee, Breton Beauty! All 's no use! Body and soul I love,--the big word 's loose!"

CXIV

_He 's greatest now and to de-struc-ti-on_ _Nearest._ Attend the solemn word I quote, O Paul! _There 's no pause at per-fec-ti-on._ Thus knolls thy knell the Doctor's bronzèd throat! _Greatness a period hath, no sta-ti-on!_ Better and truer verse none ever wrote (Despite the antique outstretched _a-i-on_) Than thou, revered and magisterial Donne!

CXV

Flat on his face, La Roque, and--pressed to heart His dexter hand--Voltaire with bended knee! Paul sat and sucked-in triumph; just apart Leaned over him his sister. "Well?" smirks he, And "Well?" she answers, smiling--woman's art To let a man's own mouth, not hers, decree What shall be next move which decides the game: Success? She said so. Failure? His the blame.

CXVI

"Well!" this time forth affirmatively comes With smack of lip, and long-drawn sigh through teeth Close clenched o'er satisfaction, as the gums Were tickled by a sweetmeat teased beneath Palate by lubricating tongue: "Well! crumbs Of comfort these, undoubtedly! no death Likely from famine at Fame's feast! 't is clear I may put claim in for my pittance, Dear!

CXVII

"La Roque, Voltaire, my lovers? Then disguise Has served its turn, grows idle; let it drop! I shall to Paris, flaunt there in men's eyes My proper manly garb and mount a-top The pedestal that waits me, take the prize Awarded Hercules. He threw a sop To Cerberus who let him pass, you know, Then, following, licked his heels: exactly so!

CXVIII

"I like the prospect--their astonishment, Confusion: wounded vanity, no doubt, Mixed motives; how I see the brows quick bent! 'What, sir, yourself, none other, brought about This change of estimation? Phœbus sent His shafts as from Diana?' Critic pout Turns courtier smile: 'Lo, him we took for her! Pleasant mistake! You bear no malice, sir?'

CXIX

"Eh, my Diana?" But Diana kept Smilingly silent with fixed needle-sharp Much-meaning eyes that seemed to intercept Paul's very thoughts ere they had time to warp From earnest into sport the words they leapt To life with--changed as when maltreated harp Renders in tinkle what some player-prig Means for a grave tune though it proves a jig.

CXX

"What, Paul, and are my pains thus thrown away, My lessons end in loss?" at length fall slow The pitying syllables, her lips allay The satire of by keeping in full flow, Above their coral reef, bright smiles at play: "Can it be, Paul thus fails to rightly know And altogether estimate applause As just so many asinine hee-haws?

CXXI

"I thought to show you" ... "Show me," Paul inbroke, "My poetry is rubbish, and the world That rings with my renown a sorry joke! What fairer test of worth than that, form furled, I entered the arena? Yet you croak Just as if Phœbé and not Phœbus hurled The dart and struck the Python! What, he crawls Humbly in dust before your feet, not Paul's?

CXXII

"Nay, 't is no laughing matter though absurd If there 's an end of honesty on earth! La Roque sends letters, lying every word! Voltaire makes verse, and of himself makes mirth To the remotest age! Rousseau's the third Who, driven to despair amid such dearth Of people that want praising, finds no one More fit to praise than Paul the simpleton!

CXXIII

"Somebody says--if a man writes at all It is to show the writer's kith and kin He was unjustly thought a natural; And truly, sister, I have yet to win Your favorable word, it seems, for Paul Whose poetry you count not worth a pin Though well enough esteemed by these Voltaires, Rousseaus and such-like: let them quack, who cares?"

CXXIV

"--To Paris with you, Paul! Not one word's waste Further: my scrupulosity was vain! Go triumph! Be my foolish fears effaced From memory's record! Go, to come again With glory crowned,--by sister re-embraced, Cured of that strange delusion of her brain Which led her to suspect that Paris gloats On male limbs mostly when in petticoats!"

CXXV

So laughed her last word, with the little touch Of malice proper to the outraged pride Of any artist in a work too much Shorn of its merits. "By all means, be tried The opposite procedure! Cast your crutch Away, no longer crippled, nor divide The credit of your march to the World's Fair With sister Cherry-cheeks who helped you there!"

CXXVI

Crippled, forsooth! What courser sprightlier pranced Paris-ward than did Paul? Nay, dreams lent wings: He flew, or seemed to fly, by dreams entranced. Dreams? wide-awake realities: no things Dreamed merely were the missives that advanced The claim of Malcrais to consort with kings Crowned by Apollo--not to say with queens Cinctured by Venus for Idalian scenes.

CXXVII

Soon he arrives, forthwith is found before The outer gate of glory. Bold tic-toc Announces there's a giant at the door. "Ay, sir, here dwells the Chevalier La Roque." "Lackey! Malcrais--mind, no word less nor more!-- Desires his presence. I've unearthed the brock: Now, to transfix him!" There stands Paul erect, Inched out his uttermost, for more effect.

CXXVIII

A bustling entrance: "Idol of my flame! Can it be that my heart attains at last Its longing? that you stand, the very same As in my visions?... Ha! hey, how?" aghast Stops short the rapture. "Oh, my boy's to blame! You merely are the messenger! Too fast My fancy rushed to a conclusion. Pooh! Well, sir, the lady's substitute is--who?"

CXXIX

Then Paul's smirk grows inordinate. "Shake hands! Friendship not love awaits you, master mine, Though nor Malcrais nor any mistress stands To meet your ardor! So, you don't divine Who wrote the verses wherewith ring the land's Whole length and breadth? Just he whereof no line Had ever leave to blot your Journal--eh? Paul Desforges Maillard--otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXX

And there the two stood, stare confronting smirk, A while uncertain which should yield the _pas_. In vain the Chevalier beat brain for quirk To help in this conjuncture; at length, "Bah! Boh! Since I've made myself a fool, why shirk The punishment of folly? Ha, ha, ha, Let me return your handshake!" Comic sock For tragic buskin prompt thus changed La Roque.

CXXXI

"I'm nobody--a wren-like journalist; You've flown at higher game and winged your bird, The golden eagle! That's the grand acquist! Voltaire's sly Muse, the tiger-cat, has purred. Prettily round your feet; but if she missed Priority of stroking, soon were stirred The dormant spitfire. To Voltaire! away, Paul Desforges Maillard, otherwise Malcrais!"

CXXXII

Whereupon, arm in arm, and head in air, The two begin their journey. Need I say, La Roque had felt the talon of Voltaire, Had a long-standing little debt to pay, And pounced, you may depend, on such a rare Occasion for its due discharge? So, gay And grenadier-like, marching to assault, They reach the enemy's abode, there halt.

CXXXIII

"I'll be announcer!" quoth La Roque: "I know, Better than you, perhaps, my Breton bard, How to procure an audience! He's not slow To smell a rat, this scamp Voltaire! Discard The petticoats too soon,--you'll never show Your _haut-de-chausses_ and all they've made or marred In your true person. Here's his servant. Pray, Will the great man see Demoiselle Malcrais?"

CXXXIV

Now, the great man was also, no whit less, The man of self-respect,--more great man he! And bowed to social usage, dressed the dress, And decorated to the fit degree His person; 't was enough to bear the stress Of battle in the field, without, when free From outside foes, inviting friends' attack By--sword in hand? No,--ill-made coat on back.

CXXXV

And, since the announcement of his visitor Surprised him at his toilet,--never glass Had such solicitation! "Black, now--or Brown be the killing wig to wear? Alas, Where's the rouge gone, this cheek were better for A tender touch of? Melted to a mass, All my pomatum! There 's at all events A devil--for he's got among my scents!"

CXXXVI

So, "barbered ten times o'er," as Antony Paced to his Cleopatra, did at last Voltaire proceed to the fair presence: high In color, proud in port, as if a blast Of trumpet bade the world "Take note! draws nigh To Beauty, Power! Behold the Iconoclast, The Poet, the Philosopher, the Rod Of iron for imposture! Ah my God!"

CXXXVII

For there stands smirking Paul, and--what lights fierce The situation as with sulphur flash-- There grinning stands La Roque! No carte-and-tierce Observes the grinning fencer, but, full dash From breast to shoulder-blade, the thrusts transpierce That armor against which so idly clash The swords of priests and pedants! Victors there, Two smirk and grin who have befooled--Voltaire!

CXXXVIII

A moment's horror; then quick turn-about On high-heeled shoe,--flurry of ruffles, flounce Of wig-ties and of coat-tails,--and so out Of door banged wrathfully behind, goes--bounce-- Voltaire in tragic exit! vows, no doubt, Vengeance upon the couple. Did he trounce Either, in point of fact? His anger's flash subsided if a culprit craved his cash.

CXXXIX

As for La Roque, he having laughed his laugh To heart's content,--the joke defunct at once, Dead in the birth, you see,--its epitaph Was sober earnest. "Well, sir, for the nonce, You 've gained the laurel; never hope to graff A second sprig of triumph there! Ensconce Yourself again at Croisic: let it be Enough you mastered both Voltaire and--me!

CXL

"Don't linger here in Paris to parade Your victory, and have the very boys Point at you! 'There 's the little mouse which made Believe those two big lions that its noise, Nibbling away behind the hedge, conveyed Intelligence that--portent which destroys All courage in the lion's heart, with horn That's fable--there lay couched the unicorn!'

CXLI

"Beware us, now we 've found who fooled us! Quick To cover! 'In proportion to men's fright, Expect their fright's revenge!' quoth politic Old Macchiavelli. As for me,--all's right: I'm but a journalist. But no pin's prick The tooth leaves when Voltaire is roused to bite! So, keep your counsel, I advise! Adieu! Good journey I Ha, ha, ha, Malcrais was--you!"

CXLII

"--Yes, I 'm Malcrais, and somebody beside, You snickering monkey!" thus winds up the tale Our hero, safe at home, to that black-eyed Cherry-cheeked sister, as she soothes the pale Mortified poet. "Let their worst be tried, I'm their match henceforth--very man and male! Don't talk to me of knocking-under! man And male must end what petticoats began!

CXLIII

"How woman-like it is to apprehend The world will eat its words! why, words transfixed To stone, they stare at you in print,--at end, Each writer's style and title! Choose betwixt Fool and knave for his name, who should intend To perpetrate a baseness so unmixed With prospect of advantage! What is writ Is writ: they've praised me, there's an end of it!

CXLIV

"No, Dear, allow me! I shall print these same Pieces, with no omitted line, as Paul's. Malcrais no longer, let me see folk blame What they--praised simply?--placed on pedestals, Each piece a statue in the House of Fame! Fast will they stand there, though their presence galls The envious crew: such show their teeth, perhaps, And snarl, but never bite! I know the chaps!"

CXLV

O Paul, oh, piteously deluded! Pace Thy sad sterility of Croisic flats, Watch, from their southern edge, the foamy race Of high-tide as it heaves the drowning mats Of yellow-berried web-growth from their place, The rock-ridge, when, rolling as far as Batz, One broadside crashes on it, and the crags, That needle under, stream with weedy rags!

CXLVI

Or, if thou wilt, at inland Bergerac, Rude heritage but recognized domain, Do as two here are doing: make hearth crack With logs until thy chimney roar again Jolly with fire-glow! Let its angle lack No grace of Cherry-cheeks thy sister, fain To do a sister's office and laugh smooth Thy corrugated brow--that scowls forsooth!

CXLVII

Wherefore? Who does not know how these La Roques, Voltaires, can say and unsay, praise and blame, Prove black white, white black, play at paradox And, when they seem to lose it, win the game? Care not thou what this badger, and that fox, His fellow in rascality, call "fame!" Fiddlepin's end! Thou hadst it,--quack, quack, quack! Have quietude from geese at Bergerac!

CXLVIII

Quietude! For, be very sure of this! A twelvemonth hence, and men shall know or care As much for what to-day they clap or hiss As for the fashion of the wigs they wear, Then wonder at. There's fame which, bale or bliss,-- Got by no gracious word of great Voltaire Or not-so-great La Roque,--is taken back By neither, any more than Bergerac!

CXLIX

Too true! or rather, true as ought to be! No more of Paul the man, Malcrais the maid, Thenceforth forever! One or two, I see, Stuck by their poet: who the longest stayed Was Jean-Baptiste Rousseau, and even he Seemingly saddened as perforce he paid A rhyming tribute: "After death, survive-- He hoped he should: and died while yet alive!"

CL

No, he hoped nothing of the kind, or held His peace and died in silent good old age. Him it was, curiosity impelled To seek if there were extant still some page Of his great predecessor, rat who belled The cat once, and would never deign engage In after-combat with mere mice,--saved from More sonneteering.--René Gentilhomme.

CLI

Paul's story furnished forth that famous play Of Piron's "Métromanie:" there you 'll find He 's Francaleu, while Demoiselle Malcrais Is Demoiselle No-end-of-names-behind! As for Voltaire, he's Damis. Good and gay The plot and dialogue, and all 's designed To spite Voltaire: at "Something" such the laugh Of simply "Nothing!" (see his epitaph).

CLII

But truth, truth, that's the gold! and all the good I find in fancy is, it serves to set Gold's inmost glint free, gold which comes up rude And rayless from the mine. All fume and fret Of artistry beyond this point pursued Brings out another sort of burnish: yet Always the ingot has its very own Value, a sparkle struck from truth alone.

CLIII

Now, take this sparkle and the other spirt Of fitful flame,--twin births of our gray brand That 's sinking fast to ashes! I assert, As sparkles want but fuel to expand Into a conflagration no mere squirt Will quench too quickly, so might Croisic strand, Had Fortune pleased posterity to chowse, Boast of her brace or beacons luminous.

CLIV

Did earlier Agamemnons lack their bard? But later bards lacked Agamemnon too! How often frustrate they of fame's award Just because Fortune, as she listed, blew Some slight bark's sails to bellying, mauled and marred And forced to put about the First-rate True, Such tacks but for a time: still--small-craft ride At anchor, rot while Beddoes breasts the tide!

CLV

Dear, shall I tell you? There 's a simple test Would serve, when people take on them to weigh The worth of poets. "Who was better, best, This, that, the other bard?" (Bards none gainsay As good, observe! no matter for the rest.) "What quality preponderating may Turn the scale as it trembles?" End the strife By asking "Which one led a happy life?"

CLVI

If one did, over his antagonist That yelled or shrieked or sobbed or wept or wailed Or simply had the dumps,--dispute who list,-- I count him victor. Where his fellow failed, Mastered by his own means of might,--acquist Of necessary sorrows,--he prevailed, A strong since joyful man who stood distinct Above slave-sorrows to his chariot linked.

CLVII

Was not his lot to feel more? What meant "feel" Unless to suffer! Not, to see more? Sight-- What helped it but to watch the drunken reel Of vice and folly round him, left and right, One dance of rogues and idiots! Not, to deal More with things lovely? What provoked the spite Of filth incarnate, like the poet's need Of other nutriment than strife and greed!

CLVIII

Who knows most, doubts most; entertaining hope, Means recognizing fear; the keener sense Of all comprised within our actual scope Recoils from aught beyond earth's dim and dense. Who, grown familiar with the sky, will grope Henceforward among groundlings? That's offence Just as indubitably: stars abound O'erhead, but then--what flowers make glad the ground!

CLIX

So, force is sorrow, and each sorrow, force: What then? since Swiftness gives the charioteer The palm, his hope be in the vivid horse Whose neck God clothed with thunder, not the steer Sluggish and safe! Yoke Hatred, Crime, Remorse, Despair: but ever 'mid the whirling fear, Let, through the tumult, break the poet's face Radiant, assured his wild slaves win the race!

CLX

Therefore I say ... no, shall not say, but think, And save my breath for better purpose. White From gray our log has burned to: just one blink That quivers, loth to leave it, as a sprite The outworn body. Ere your eyelids' wink Punish who sealed so deep into the night Your mouth up, for two poets dead so long,-- Here pleads a live pretender: right your wrong!

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue 's built, Tell the gazer "'T was a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

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

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

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

OH LOVE! LOVE

Translation of a lyric in the _Hyppolytus_ of Euripides, and printed by J. P. Mahaffy in his _Euripides_, 1879. Mr. Mahaffy writes: "Mr. Browning has honored me with the following translation of these stanzas, so that the general reader may not miss the meaning or the spirit of the ode. The English metre, though not a strict reproduction, gives an excellent idea of the original."

I

Oh Love! Love, thou that from the eyes diffusest Yearning, and on the soul sweet grace inducest-- Souls against whom thy hostile march is made-- Never to me be manifest in ire, Nor, out of time and tune, my peace invade! Since neither from the fire-- No, nor from the stars--is launched a bolt more mighty Than that of Aphrodité Hurled from the hands of Love, the boy with Zeus for sire.

II

Idly, how idly, by the Alpheian river And in the Pythian shrines of Phœbus, quiver Blood-offerings from the bull, which Hellas heaps: While Love we worship not--the Lord of men! Worship not him, the very key who keeps Of Aphrodité, when She closes up her dearest chamber-portals: --Love, when he comes to mortals, Wide-wasting, through those deeps of woes beyond the deep!

DRAMATIC IDYLS

FIRST SERIES

The _Dramatic Idyls_, a group of poems which indicated a return to Browning's earlier manner, furnished the title for two successive volumes, the first series published in 1879, the second the year following. The poems in the first series were composed while Browning and his sister were sojourning in a mountain hotel near the summit of the Splügen Pass in the summer of 1878. So stimulated was Browning by the mountain air that he composed with extraordinary rapidity, even for him, bringing down upon himself his sister's determined caution.

MARTIN RELPH

_My grandfather says he remembers he saw, when a youngster long ago,_ _On a bright May day, a strange old man, with a beard as white as snow,_ _Stand on the hill outside our town like a monument of woe,_ _And, striking his bare bald head the while, sob out the reason--so!_

If I last as long as Methuselah I shall never forgive myself: But--God forgive me, that I pray, unhappy Martin Relph, As coward, coward I call him--him, yes, him! Away from me! Get you behind the man I am now, you man that I used to be!

What can have sewed my mouth up, set me a-stare, all eyes, no tongue? People have urged, "You visit a scare too hard on a lad so young! You were taken aback, poor boy," they urge, "no time to regain your wits: Besides it had maybe cost your life." Ay, there is the cap which fits!

So, cap me, the coward,--thus! No fear! A cuff on the brow does good: The feel of it hinders a worm inside which bores at the brain for food. See now, there certainly seems excuse: for a moment, I trust, dear friends, The fault was but folly, no fault of mine, or if mine, I have made amends!

For, every day that is first of May, on the hill-top, here stand I, Martin Relph, and I strike my brow, and publish the reason why, When there gathers a crowd to mock the fool. No fool, friends, since the bite Of a worm inside is worse to bear: pray God I have balked him quite!

I 'll tell you. Certainly much excuse! It came of the way they cooped Us peasantry up in a ring just here, close huddling because tight-hooped By the red-coats round us villagers all: they meant we should see the sight And take the example,--see, not speak, for speech was the Captain's right.

"You clowns on the slope, beware!" cried he: "This woman about to die Gives by her fate fair warning to such acquaintance as play the spy. Henceforth who meddle with matters of state above them perhaps will learn That peasants should stick to their ploughtail, leave to the King the King's concern.

"Here 's a quarrel that sets the land on fire, between King George and his foes: What call has a man of your kind--much less, a woman--to interpose? Yet you needs must be meddling, folk like you, not foes--so much the worse! The many and loyal should keep themselves unmixed with the few perverse.

"Is the counsel hard to follow? I gave it you plainly a month ago, And where was the good? The rebels have learned just all that they need to know. Not a month since in we quietly marched: a week, and they had the news, From a list complete of our rank and file to a note of our caps and shoes.

"All about all we did and all we were doing and like to do! Only, I catch a letter by luck, and capture who wrote it, too. Some of you men look black enough, but the milk-white face demure Betokens the finger foul with ink: 't is a woman who writes, be sure!

"Is it 'Dearie, how much I miss your mouth!'--good natural stuff, she pens? Some sprinkle of that, for a blind, of course: with talk about cocks and hens, How 'robin has built on the apple-tree, and our creeper which came to grief Through the frost, we feared, is twining afresh round casement in famous leaf.'

"But all for a blind! She soon glides frank into 'Horrid the place is grown With Officers here and Privates there, no nook we may call our own: And Farmer Giles has a tribe to house, and lodging will be to seek For the second Company sure to come ('t is whispered) on Monday week.'

'And so to the end of the chapter! There! The murder, you see, was out: Easy to guess how the change of mind in the rebels was brought about! Safe in the trap would they now lie snug, had treachery made no sign: But treachery meets a just reward, no matter if fools malign!

"That traitors had played us false, was proved--sent news which fell so pat: And the murder was out--this letter of love, the sender of this sent that! 'T is an ugly job, though, all the same--a hateful, to have to deal With a case of the kind, when a woman 's in fault: we soldiers need nerves of steel!

"So, I gave her a chance, despatched post-haste a message to Vincent Parkes Whom she wrote to; easy to find he was, since one of the King's own clerks, Ay, kept by the King's own gold in the town close by where the rebels camp: A sort of a lawyer, just the man to betray our sort--the scamp!

"'If her writing is simple and honest and only the lover-like stuff it looks, And if you yourself are a loyalist, nor down in the rebels' books, Come quick,' said I, 'and in person prove you are each of you clear of crime, Or martial law must take its course: this day next week 's the time!'

"Next week is now: does he come? Not he! Clean gone, our clerk, in a trice! He has left his sweetheart here in the lurch: no need of a warning twice! His own neck free, but his partner's fast in the noose still, here she stands To pay for her fault. 'T is an ugly job: but soldiers obey commands.

"And hearken wherefore I make a speech! Should any acquaintance share The folly that led to the fault that is now to be punished, let fools beware! Look black, if you please, but keep hands white: and, above all else, keep wives-- Or sweethearts or what they may be--from ink! Not a word now, on your lives!"

Black? but the Pit's own pitch was white to the Captain's face--the brute With the bloated cheeks and the bulgy nose and the bloodshot eyes to suit! He was muddled with wine, they say: more like, he was out of his wits with fear; He had but a handful of men, that 's true,--a riot might cost him dear.

And all that time stood Rosamund Page, with pinioned arms and face Bandaged about, on the turf marked out for the party's firing-place. I hope she was wholly with God: I hope 't was his angel stretched a hand To steady her so, like the shape of stone you see in our church-aisle stand.

I hope there was no vain fancy pierced the bandage to vex her eyes, No face within which she missed without, no questions and no replies-- "Why did you leave me to die?"--"Because" ... Oh, fiends, too soon you grin At merely a moment of hell, like that--such heaven as hell ended in!

Let mine end too! He gave the word, up went the guns in a line. Those heaped on the hill were blind as dumb,--for, of all eyes, only mine Looked over the heads of the foremost rank. Some fell on their knees in prayer, Some sank to the earth, but all shut eyes, with a sole exception there.

That was myself, who had stolen up last, had sidled behind the group: I am highest of all on the hill-top, there stand fixed while the others stoop! From head to foot in a serpent's twine am I tightened: _I_ touch ground? No more than a gibbet's rigid corpse which the fetters rust around!

Can I speak, can I breathe, can I burst--aught else but see, see, only see? And see I do--for there comes in sight--a man, it sure must be!-- Who staggeringly, stumblingly rises, falls, rises, at random flings his weight On and on, anyhow onward--a man that's mad he arrives too late!

Else why does he wave a something white high-flourished above his head? Why does not he call, cry,--curse the fool!--why throw up his arms instead? O take this fist in your own face, fool! Why does not yourself shout "Stay! Here's a man comes rushing, might and main, with something he 's mad to say"?

And a minute, only a moment, to have hell-fire boil up in your brain, And ere you can judge things right, choose heaven,--time 's over, repentance vain! They level: a volley, a smoke and the clearing of smoke: I see no more Of the man smoke hid, nor his frantic arms, nor the something white he bore.

But stretched on the field, some half-mile off, is an object. Surely dumb, Deaf, blind were we struck, that nobody heard, not one of us saw him come! Has he fainted through fright? One may well believe! What is it he holds so fast? Turn him over, examine the face! Heyday! What, Vincent Parkes at last?

Dead! dead as she, by the selfsame shot: one bullet has ended both, Her in the body and him in the soul. They laugh at our plighted troth. "Till death us do part?" Till death us do join past parting--that sounds like Betrothal indeed! O Vincent Parkes, what need has my fist to strike?

I helped you: thus were you dead and wed: one bound, and your soul reached hers! There is clenched in your hand the thing, signed, sealed, the paper which plain avers She is innocent, innocent, plain as print, with the King's Arms broad engraved: No one can hear, but if any one high on the hill can see, she 's saved!

And torn his garb and bloody his lips with heart-break--plain it grew How the week's delay had been brought about: each guess at the end proved true. It was hard to get at the folk in power: such waste of time! and then Such pleading and praying, with, all the while, his lamb in the lions' den!

And at length when he wrung their pardon out, no end to the stupid forms-- The license and leave: I make no doubt--what wonder if passion warms The pulse in a man if you play with his heart?--he was something hasty in speech; Anyhow, none would quicken the work: he had to beseech, beseech!

And the thing once signed, sealed, safe in his grasp,--what followed but fresh delays? For the floods were out, he was forced to take such a roundabout of ways! And 't was "Halt there!" at every turn of the road, since he had to cross the thick Of the redcoats: what did they care for him and his "Quick, for God's sake, quick!"

Horse? but he had one: had it how long? till the first knave smirked "You brag Yourself a friend of the King's? then lend to a King's friend here your nag!" Money to buy another? Why, piece by piece they plundered him still, With their "Wait you must,--no help: if aught can help you, a guinea will!"

And a borough there was--I forget the name--whose Mayor must have the bench Of Justices ranged to clear a doubt: for "Vincent," thinks he, sounds French! It well may have driven him daft, God knows! all man can certainly know Is--rushing and falling and rising, at last he arrived in a horror--so!

When a word, cry, gasp, would have rescued both! Ay, bite me! The worm begins At his work once more. Had cowardice proved--that only--my sin of sins! Friends, look you here! Suppose ... suppose ... But mad I am, needs must be! Judas the Damned would never have dared such a sin as I dream! For, see!

Suppose I had sneakingly loved her myself, my wretched self, and dreamed In the heart of me "She were better dead than happy and his!"--while gleamed A light from hell as I spied the pair in a perfectest embrace, He the savior and she the saved,--bliss born of the very murder-place!

No! Say I was scared, friends! Call me fool and coward, but nothing worse! Jeer at the fool and gibe at the coward! 'T was ever the coward's curse That fear breeds fancies in such: such takes their shadow for substance still, --A fiend at their back. I liked poor Parkes,--loved Vincent, if you will!

And her--why, I said "Good morrow" to her, "Good even," and nothing more: The neighborly way! She was just to me as fifty had been before. So, coward it is and coward shall be! There's a friend, now! Thanks! A drink Of water I wanted: and now I can walk, get home by myself, I think.

PHEIDIPPIDES

Χαίρετε, νικῶμεν.

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! Gods of my birthplace, dæmons and heroes, honor to all! Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise --Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the ægis and spear! Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be, your peer. Now, henceforth and forever,--O latest to whom I upraise Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! Present to help, potent to save, Pan--patron I call!

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HALBERT AND HOB

Here is a thing that happened. Like wild beasts whelped, for den, In a wild part of North England, there lived once two wild men Inhabiting one homestead, neither a hovel nor hut, Time out of mind their birthright: father and son, these--but-- Such a son, such a father! Most wildness by degrees Softens away: yet, last of their line, the wildest and worst were these.

Criminals, then? Why, no: they did not murder and rob; But, give them a word, they returned a blow--old Halbert as young Hob: Harsh and fierce of word, rough and savage of deed, Hated or feared the more--who knows?--the genuine wild-beast breed.

Thus were they found by the few sparse folk of the countryside; But how fared each with other? E'en beasts couch, hide by hide, In a growling, grudged agreement: so, father and son aye curled The closelier up in their den because the last of their kind in the world.

Still, beast irks beast on occasion. One Christmas night of snow, Came father and son to words--such words! more cruel because the blow To crown each word was wanting, while taunt matched gibe, and curse Competed with oath in wager, like pastime in hell,--nay, worse: For pastime turned to earnest, as up there sprang at last The son at the throat of the father, seized him and held him fast.

"Out of this house you go!" (there followed a hideous oath)-- "This oven where now we bake, too hot to hold us both! If there's snow outside, there's coolness: out with you, bide a spell In the drift and save the sexton the charge of a parish shell!"

Now, the old trunk was tough, was solid as stump of oak Untouched at the core by a thousand years: much less had its seventy broke One whipcord nerve in the muscly mass from neck to shoulder-blade Of the mountainous man, whereon his child's rash hand like a feather weighed.

Nevertheless at once did the mammoth shut his eyes, Drop chin to breast, drop hands to sides, stand stiffened--arms and thighs All of a piece--struck mute, much as a sentry stands, Patient to take the enemy's fire: his captain so commands.

Whereat the son's wrath flew to fury at such sheer scorn Of his puny strength by the giant eld thus acting the babe new-born: And "Neither will this turn serve!" yelled he. "Out with you! Trundle, log! If you cannot tramp and trudge like a man, try all-fours like a dog!"

Still the old man stood mute. So, logwise,--down to floor Pulled from his fireside place, dragged on from hearth to door,-- Was he pushed, a very log, staircase along, until A certain turn in the steps was reached, a yard from the house-door-sill.

Then the father opened eyes--each spark of their rage extinct,-- Temples, late black, dead-blanched,--right-hand with left-hand linked,-- He faced his son submissive; when slow the accents came, They were strangely mild though his son's rash hand on his neck lay all the same.

"Hob, on just such a night of a Christmas long ago, For such a cause, with such a gesture, did I drag--so-- My father down thus far: but, softening here, I heard A voice in my heart, and stopped: you wait for an outer word,

"For your own sake, not mine, soften you too! Untrod Leave this last step we reach, nor brave the finger of God! I dared not pass its lifting: I did well. I nor blame Nor praise you. I stopped here: and, Hob, do you the same!"

Straightway the son relaxed his hold of the father's throat. They mounted, side by side, to the room again: no note Took either of each, no sign made each to either: last As first, in absolute silence, their Christmas-night they passed.

At dawn, the father sate on, dead, in the selfsame place, With an outburst blackening still the old bad fighting-face: But the son crouched all a-tremble like any lamb new-yeaned.

When he went to the burial, some one's staff he borrowed,--tottered and leaned. But his lips were loose, not locked,--kept muttering, mumbling. "There! At his cursing and swearing!" the youngsters cried: but the elders thought "In prayer." A boy threw stones: he picked them up and stored them in his vest.

So tottered, muttered, mumbled he, till he died, perhaps found rest. "Is there a reason in nature for these hard hearts?" O Lear, That a reason out of nature must turn them soft, seems clear!

IVÀN IVÀNOVITCH

"They tell me, your carpenters," quoth I to my friend the Russ, "Make a simple hatchet serve as a tool-box serves with us. Arm but each man with his axe, 'tis a hammer and saw and plane And chisel, and--what know I else? We should imitate in vain The mastery wherewithal, by a flourish of just the adze, He cleaves, clamps, dovetails in,--no need of our nails and brads,-- The manageable pine: 'tis said he could shave himself With the axe,--so all adroit, now a giant and now an elf, Does he work and play at once!"

Quoth my friend the Russ to me, "Ay, that and more beside on occasion! It scarce may be You never heard tell a tale told children, time out of mind, By father and mother and nurse, for a moral that's behind, Which children quickly seize. If the incident happened at all, We place it in Peter's time when hearts were great not small, Germanized, Frenchified. I wager 'tis old to you As the story of Adam and Eve, and possibly quite as true."

* * * * *

In the deep of our land, 't is said, a village from out the woods Emerged on the great main-road 'twixt two great solitudes. Through forestry right and left, black verst and verst of pine, From village to village runs the road's long wide bare line. Clearance and clearance break the else-unconquered growth Of pine and all that breeds and broods there, leaving loth Man's inch of masterdom,--spot of life, spirt of fire,-- To star the dark and dread, lest right and rule expire Throughout the monstrous wild, a-hungered to resume Its ancient sway, suck back the world into its womb: Defrauded by man's craft which clove from North to South This highway broad and straight e'en from the Neva's mouth To Moscow's gates of gold. So, spot of life and spirt Of fire aforesaid, burn, each village death-begirt By wall and wall of pine--unprobed undreamed abyss.

Early one winter morn, in such a village as this, Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the hole Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. About him, watched the work his neighbors sheepskin-clad; Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play, Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge Of the hamlet--horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? What's here?" cried all as--in, up to the open space, Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,-- Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, A horse: and, at his heels, a sledge held--"Dmìtri's wife! Back without Dmitri too! and children--where are they? Only a frozen corpse!"

They drew it forth: then--"Nay, Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: Home again, this rough jaunt--alone through night and snow-- What can the cause be? Hark--Droug, old horse, how he groans: His day's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends For outside cold,--sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares Up at us in your face? You know friends--which is which? I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"--

At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard, Took in full light and sense and--torn to rags, some dream Which hid the naked truth--O loud and long the scream She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed-- "Loukèria, Loùscha!"--still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. At last her lips formed speech.

"Ivàn, dear--you indeed! You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede, Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty--let his might Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you, A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, A babe inside my arms, close to my heart--that's lost In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, Cannot you bring again my blessed yesterday?"

When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way.

"Maybe, a month ago,--was it not?--news came here, They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' So, friends here helped us off--Ivàn, dear, you the first! How gay we jingled forth, all five--(my heart will burst)-- While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track!

"Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, When yesterday--behold, the village was on fire! Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat Each building in its path,--I needs must stay for that,-- But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, Cover the couple close,--you'll have the babe to hug. No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch, All's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all's right with me, So I but find as safe you and our precious three! Off, Droug!'--because the flames had reached us, and the men Shouted 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri--as good as ten!'

"So, in we bundled--I, and those God gave me once; Old Droug, that's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red In that unnatural day--yes, daylight, bred between Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow, Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind While we escaped outside their border!

"Was that--wind? Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, Snorts,--never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough's Only the wind: yet, no--our breath goes up too straight! Still the low sound,--less low, loud, louder, at a rate There's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out--look--learn The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn--

"'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of the life in the sledge! An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the pine-trunks ranged each side, Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide The four-footed steady advance. The foremost--none may pass: They are elders and lead the line, eye and eye--green-glowing brass! But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,--one reaches ... How utter the rest? O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls out the length of his tongue, How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! He is on me, his paws pry among The wraps and the rags! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, lie still and seem dead! Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,--here's your mother instead! No, he will not be counselled--must cry, poor Stiòpka, so foolish! though first Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors have called him the worst: He was puny, an undersized slip,--a darling to me, all the same! But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. I loved him with heart and soul, yes---but deal him a blow for a fault, He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! lie still or the villain will vault, Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, screams,--who can hold Fast a boy in a frenzy of fear! It follows--as I foretold! The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore--and then His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst Or two, or three--God sends we beat them, arrive the first! A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,--God knows which Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine!

"O misery! for while I settle to what near seems Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams-- Point and point--the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire The furies? And yet I think--I am certain the race is slack, And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why? We'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,--gallop, reach home, and die, Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap For life--we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap! Yes, I'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings Here--of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ... Flings? I flung? Never! But think!--a woman, after all, Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, Terentiì! "How now? What, you still head the race, Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, Satan-face? There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! Flash again? All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! My fist--why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God, Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod The earth till out they scratch some corpse--mere putrid flesh! Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? Terentiì--God, feel!--his neck keeps fast thy bag Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared The relics were to save from danger!

"Spurned, not spared! 'Twas through my arms, crossed arms, he--nuzzling now with snout, Now ripping, tooth and claw--plucked, pulled Terentiì out, A prize indeed! I saw--how could I else but see?-- My precious one--I bit to hold back--pulled from me! Up came the others, fell to dancing--did the imps!-- Skipped as they scampered round. There's one is gray, and limps: Who knows but old bad Màrpha--she always owed me spite And envied me my births--skulks out of doors at night And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, Squats down at door by dawn, spins there demure as erst --No strength, old crone,--not she!--to crawl forth half a verst!

"Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes The endmost snow: 'tis dawn, 'tis day, 'tis safe at home! We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,-- Forgetful, in your greed, our finest off we hear, Tough Droug and I,--my babe, my boy that shall be man, My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! 'Take that!' we'll stab you with,--'the tenderness we met When, wretches, you danced round,--not this, thank God--not this! Hellhounds, we balk you!'

"But--Ah, God above!--Bliss, bliss,-- Not the band, no! And yet--yes, for Droug knows him! One-- This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!' His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: He 's off and after us,--one speck, one spot, one ball Grows bigger, bound on bound,--one wolf as good as all! Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! Now for it--now! Ah me! I know him--thrice-accurst Satan-face,--him to the end my foe!

"All fight 's in vain: This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. I fall--fall as I ought--quite on the babe I guard: I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I--one inch! Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!--see! It grinds--it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me, Could I do more? Besides he knew wolf's way to win: I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in, Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels, Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf And bloom and seed unborn?

"That slew me: yes, in brief, I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped Thus,--how or when or why--I know not. Tell me, friends, All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you 'd see the roof Which holds my three--my two--my one--not one?

"Life 's mixed With misery, yet we live--must live. The Satan fixed His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling. Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears --What good they do! Life 's sweet, and all its after-years, Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! May God reward you, dear!"

Down she sank. Solemnly Ivàn rose, raised his axe,--for fitly, as she knelt, Her head lay: well-apart, each side, her arms hung,--dealt Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow--no need of more! Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound at core (Neighbors were used to say)--cast-iron-kernelled--which Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch.

The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" Then stooping, peering round--what is it now he lacks? A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe. Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps.

At length, still mute, all move: one lifts--from where it steeps Redder each ruddy rag of pine--the head: two more Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends Opposite to the church; where halting,--who suspends, By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife And mother, loved until this latest of her life. Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place!

Presently all the souls, man, woman, child, which make The village up, are found assembling for the sake Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,--none breathes.

Anon from out the church totters the Pope--the priest-- Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, Stàrosta, that 's his style,--like Equity Judge with you,-- Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, Pomeschìk,--Lord of the Land, who wields--and none demurs-- A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse.

Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta--the thorpe's Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard, From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word-- "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!"

Silence--the Pomeschìk broke with "A wild wrong way Of righting wrong--if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! Why was not law observed? What article allows Whoso may please to play the judge, and, judgment dealt, Play executioner, as promptly as we pelt To death, without appeal, the vermin whose sole fault Has been--it dared to leave the darkness of its vault, Intrude upon our day! Too sudden and too rash! What was this woman's crime? Suppose the church should crash Down where I stand, your lord: bound are my serfs to dare Their utmost that I 'scape: yet, if the crashing scare My children--as you are,--if sons fly, one and all, Leave father to his fate,--poor cowards though I call The runaways, I pause before I claim their life Because they prized it more than mine. I would each wife Died for her husband's sake, each son to save his sire: 'T is glory, I applaud--scarce duty, I require. Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that 's named Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!"

All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old-- How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw And paid obedience to man's visionary law: 'Your old men shall dream dreams:' and, in my age, a hand Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand Firm on its base,--know cause, who, before, knew effect.

"The world lies under me: and nowhere I detect So great a gift as this--God's own--of human life. 'Shall the dead praise thee?' No! 'The whole live world is rife, God, with thy glory,' rather! Life then, God's best of gifts, For what shall man exchange? For life--when so he shifts The weight and turns the scale, lets life for life restore God's balance, sacrifice the less to gain the more, Substitute--for low life, another's or his own-- Life large and liker God's who gave it: thus alone May life extinguish life that life may trulier be! How low this law descends on earth, is not for me To trace: complexed becomes the simple, intricate The plain, when I pursue law's winding. 'T is the straight Outflow of law I know and name: to law, the fount Fresh from God's footstool, friends, follow while I remount.

"A mother bears a child: perfection is complete So far in such a birth. Enabled to repeat The miracle of life,--herself was born so just A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust Her with the holy task of giving life in turn. Crowned by this crowning pride, how say you, should she spurn Regality--discrowned, unchilded, by her choice Of barrenness exchanged for fruit which made rejoice Creation, though life's self were lost in giving birth To life more fresh and fit to glorify God's earth? How say you, should the hand God trusted with life's torch Kindled to light the world--aware of sparks that scorch, Let fall the same? Forsooth, her flesh a fire-flake stings: The mother drops the child! Among what monstrous things Shall she he classed? Because of motherhood, each male Yields to his partner place, sinks proudly in the scale: His strength owned weakness, wit--folly, and courage--fear, Beside the female proved male's mistress--only here. The fox-dam, hunger-pined, will slay the felon sire Who dares assault her whelp: the beaver, stretched on fire, Will die-without a groan: no pang avails to wrest Her young from where they hide--her sanctuary breast. What 's here then? Answer me, thou dead one, as, I trow, Standing at God's own bar, he bids thee answer now! Thrice crowned wast thou--each crown of pride, a child--thy charge! Where are they? Lost? Enough: no need that thou enlarge On how or why the loss: life left to utter 'lost' Condemns itself beyond appeal. The soldier's post Guards from the foe's attack the camp he sentinels: That he no traitor proved, this and this only tells-- Over the corpse of him trod foe to foe's success. Yet--one by one thy crowns torn from thee--thou no less To scare the world, shame God,--livedst! I hold he saw The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, Whereof first instrument was first intelligence Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found A man and mar enough, head-sober and heart-sound, Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, Moses when he made known the purport of that flow Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!"

At which name Uprose that creepy whisper from out the crowd, is wont, To swell and surge and sink when fellow-men confront A punishment that falls on fellow flesh and blood, Appallingly beheld--shudderingly understood, No less, to be the right, the just, the merciful. "God's servant!" hissed the crowd.

When the Amen grew dull And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There 's none shall say I grudged Escape from punishment in such a novel case. Deferring to old age and holy life,--be grace Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense Firmer than I boast mine. Law 's law, and evidence Of breach therein lies plain,--blood-red-bright,--all may see! Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!

"And next--as mercy rules the hour--methinks 't were well You signify forthwith its sentence, and dispel The doubts and fears, I judge, which busy now the head Law puts a halter round--a halo--you, instead! Ivàn Ivànovitch--what think you he expects Will follow from his feat? Go, tell him--law protects Murder, for once: no need he longer keep behind The Sacred Pictures--where skulks Innocence enshrined, Or I missay! Go, some! You others, haste and hide The dismal object there: get done, whate'er betide!"

So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped, Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, Stood in the murderer's presence.

Ivàn Ivànovitch Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head, Was just in act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,--each a dome,-- The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, --An acorn-cup--was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch Turned with it in his mouth.

They told him he was free As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he.

TRAY

This poem describes an actual incident witnessed in Paris by a friend of Browning's, and with accuracy of detail. The poem was written as a protest against vivisection, which the poet called "an infamous practice." He was early associated with Miss Frances Power Cobbe in her efforts to prevent vivisection; and he was a vice-president of the "Victoria Street Society for the Protection of Animals." Dr. Berdoe says, "He always expressed the utmost abhorrence of the practices which it opposes." To Miss Cobbe he wrote in 1874: "You have heard, 'I take an equal interest with yourself in the effort to suppress vivisection.' I dare not so honor my mere wishes and prayers as to put them for a moment beside your noble acts; but this I know, I would rather submit to the worst of deaths, so far as pain goes, than have a single dog or cat tortured on the pretence of sparing me a twinge or two." He goes even so far as to say that the person not willing to sign the petition against vivisection certainly could not be numbered among his friends. To Miss Stackpoole he wrote in April, 1883: "I despise and abhor the pleas on behalf of that infamous practice, vivisection." G. W. COOKE.

Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst Of soul, ye bards!

Quoth Bard the first: "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don His helm and eke his habergeon" ... Sir Olaf and his bard ----!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NED BRATTS

Written from memory of Bunyan's story of old Tod in _The Life and Death of Mr. Badman_.

'T was Bedford Special Assize, one daft Midsummer's Day: A broiling blasting June,--was never its like, men say. Corn stood sheaf-ripe already, and trees looked yellow as that; Ponds drained dust-dry, the cattle lay foaming around each flat. Inside town, dogs went mad, and folk kept bibbing beer, While the parsons prayed for rain. 'T was horrible, yes--but queer: Queer--for the sun laughed gay, yet nobody moved a hand To work one stroke at his trade: as given to understand That all was come to a stop, work and such worldly ways, And the world's old self about to end in a merry blaze, Midsummer's day moreover was the first of Bedford Fair; With Bedford Town's tag-rag and bobtail a-bowsing there.

But the Court House, Quality crammed: through doors ope, windows wide, High on the Bench you saw sit Lordships side by side. There frowned Chief Justice Jukes, fumed learned Brother Small, And fretted their fellow Judge: like threshers, one and all, Of a reek with laying down the law in a furnace. Why? Because their lungs breathed flame--the regular crowd forbye-- From gentry pouring in--quite a nosegay, to be sure! How else could they pass the time, six mortal hours endure Till night should extinguish day, when matters might haply mend? Meanwhile no bad resource was--watching begin and end Some trial for life and death, in a brisk five minutes' space, And betting which knave would 'scape, which hang, from his sort of face.

So, their Lordships toiled and moiled, and a deal of work was done (I warrant) to justify the mirth of the crazy sun, As this and t' other lout, struck dumb at the sudden show Of red robes and white wigs, boggled nor answered "Boh!" When asked why he, Tom Styles, should not--because Jack Nokes Had stolen the horse--be hanged: for Judges must have their jokes, And louts must make allowance--let 's say, for some blue fly Which punctured a dewy scalp where the frizzles stuck awry-- Else Tom had fleered scot-free, so nearly over and done Was the main of the job. Full-measure, the gentles enjoyed their fun, As a twenty-five were tried, rank puritans caught at prayer In a cow-house and laid by the heels,--have at 'em, devil may care!-- And ten were prescribed the whip, and ten a brand on the cheek, And five a slit of the nose--just leaving enough to tweak.

Well, things at jolly high-tide, amusement steeped in fire, While noon smote fierce the roof's red tiles to heart's desire, The Court a-simmer with smoke, one ferment of oozy flesh, One spirituous humming musk mount-mounting until its mesh Entoiled all heads in a fluster, and Serjeant Postlethwayte --Dashing the wig oblique as he mopped his oily pate-- Cried "Silence, or I grow grease! No loophole lets in air? Jurymen,--Guilty, Death! Gainsay me if you dare!" --Things at this pitch, I say,--what hubbub without the doors? What laughs, shrieks, hoots and yells, what rudest of uproars?

Bounce through the barrier throng a bulk comes rolling vast! Thumps, kicks,--no manner of use!--spite of them rolls at last Into the midst a ball, which, bursting, brings to view Publican Black Ned Bratts and Tabby his big wife too: Both in a muck-sweat, both ... were never such eyes uplift At the sight of yawning hell, such nostrils--snouts that sniffed Sulphur, such mouths agape ready to swallow flame! Horrified, hideous, frank fiend-faces! yet, all the same, Mixed with a certain ... eh? how shall I dare style--mirth The desperate grin of the guess that, could they break from earth, Heaven was above, and hell might rage in impotence Below the saved, the saved!

"Confound you! (no offence!) Out of our way,--push, wife! Yonder their Worships be!" Ned Bratts has reached the bar, and "Hey, my Lords," roars he, "A Jury of life and death, Judges the prime of the land, Constables, javelineers,--all met, if I understand, To decide so knotty a point as whether 't was Jack or Joan Robbed the henroost, pinched the pig, hit the King's Arms with a stone, Dropped the baby down the well, left the tithesman in the lurch, Or, three whole Sundays running, not once attended church! What a pother--do these deserve the parish-stocks or whip, More or less brow to brand, much or little nose to snip,-- When, in our Public, plain stand we--that 's we stand here I and my Tab, brass-bold, brick-built of beef and beer, --Do not we, slut? Step forth and show your beauty, jade! Wife of my bosom--that 's the word now! What a trade We drove! None said us nay: nobody loved his life So little as wag a tongue against us,--did they, wife? Yet they knew us all the while, in their hearts, for what we are --Worst couple, rogue and quean, unhanged--search near and far! Eh, Tab? The peddler, now--o'er his noggin--who warned a mate To cut and run, nor risk his pack where its loss of weight Was the least to dread,--aha, how we two laughed a-good As, stealing round the midden, he came on where I stood With billet poised and raised,--you, ready with the rope,-- Ah, but that 's past, that 's sin repented of, we hope! Men knew us for that same, yet safe and sound stood we! The lily-livered knaves knew too (I 've balked a d----) Our keeping the 'Pied Bull' was just a mere pretence: Too slow the pounds make food, drink, lodging, from out the pence! There 's not a stoppage to travel has chanced, this ten long year, No break into hall or grange, no lifting of nag or steer, Not a single roguery, from the clipping of a purse To the cutting of a throat, but paid us toll. Od's curse! When Gypsy Smouch made bold to cheat us of our due, --Eh, Tab? the Squire's strong-box we helped the rascal to-- I think he pulled a face, next Sessions' swinging-time! He danced the jig that needs no floor,--and, here 's the prime, 'T was Scroggs that houghed the mare! Ay, those were busy days!

"Well, there we flourished brave, like scripture-trees called bays, Faring high, drinking hard, in money up to head --Not to say, boots and shoes, when ... Zounds, I nearly said-- Lord, to unlearn one's language! How shall we labor, wife? Have you, fast hold, the Book? Grasp, grip it, for your life! See, sirs, here 's life, salvation! Here 's--hold but out my breath-- When did I speak so long without once swearing? 'Sdeath, No, nor unhelped by ale since man and boy! And yet All yesterday I had to keep my whistle wet While reading Tab this Book: book? don't say 'book'--they 're plays, Songs, ballads, and the like: here 's no such strawy blaze, But sky wide ope, sun, moon, and seven stars out full-flare! Tab, help and tell! I 'm hoarse. A mug! or --no, a prayer! Dip for one out of the Book! Who wrote it in the Jail --He plied his pen unhelped by beer, sirs, I 'll be bail!

"I 've got my second wind. In trundles she--that 's Tab. 'Why, Gammer, what 's come now, that--bobbing like a crab On Yule-tide bowl--your head 's a-work and both your eyes Break loose? Afeard, you fool? As if the dead can rise! Say--Bagman Dick was found last May with fuddling-cap Stuffed in his month: to choke 's a natural mishap!' 'Gaffer, be--blessed,' cries she, 'and Bagman Dick as well! I, you, and he are damned: this Public is our hell: We live in fire: live coals don't feel!--once quenched, they learn-- Cinders do, to what dust they moulder while they burn!'

"'If you don't speak straight out,' says I--belike I swore-- 'A knobstick, well you know the taste of, shall, once more, Teach you to talk, my maid!' She ups with such a face, Heart sunk inside me. 'Well, pad on, my prate-apace!'

"'I 've been about those laces we need for ... never mind! If henceforth they tie hands, 't is mine they 'll have to bind. You know who makes them best--the Tinker in our cage, Pulled-up for gospelling, twelve years ago: no age To try another trade,--yet, so he scorned to take Money he did not earn, he taught himself the make Of laces, tagged and tough--Dick Bagman found them so! Good customers were we! Well, last week, you must know, His girl,--the blind young chit, who hawks about his wares,-- She takes it in her head to come no more--such airs These hussies have! Yet, since we need a stoutish lace,-- "I 'll to the jail-bird father, abuse her to his face!" So, first I filled a jug to give me heart, and then, Primed to the proper pitch, I posted to their den-- _Patmore_, they style their prison! I tip the turnkey, catch My heart up, fix my face, and fearless lift the latch-- Both arms akimbo, in bounce with a good round oath Ready for rapping out: no "Lawks" nor "By my troth!"

"'There sat my man, the father. He looked up: what one feels When heart that leapt to mouth drops down again to heels! He raised his hand ... Hast seen, when drinking out the night, And in, the day, earth grow another something quite Under the sun's first stare? I stood a very stone.

"'"Woman!" (a fiery tear he put in every tone), "How should my child frequent your house where lust is sport, Violence--trade? Too true! I trust no vague report. Her angel's hand, which stops the sight of sin, leaves clear The other gate of sense, lets outrage through the ear. What has she heard!--which, heard shall never be again. Better lack food than feast, a Dives in the--wain Or reign or train--of Charles!" (His language was not ours: 'T is my belief, God spoke: no tinker has such powers.) "Bread, only bread they bring--my laces: if we broke Your lump of leavened sin, the loaf's first crumb would choke!"

"'Down on my marrow-bones! Then all at once rose he: His brown hair burst a-spread, his eyes were suns to see: Up went his hands: "Through flesh, I reach, I read thy soul! So may some stricken tree look blasted, bough and bole, Champed by the fire-tooth, charred without, and yet, thrice-bound With dreriment about, within may life be found, A prisoned power to branch and blossom as before, Could but the gardener cleave the cloister, reach the core, Loosen the vital sap: yet where shall help be found? Who says 'How save it?'--nor 'Why cumbers it the ground?' Woman, that tree art thou! All sloughed about with scurf, Thy stag-horns fright the sky, thy snake-roots sting the turf! Drunkenness, wantonness, theft, murder gnash and gnarl Thine outward, case thy soul with coating like the marle Satan stamps flat upon each head beneath his hoof! And how deliver such? The strong men keep aloof, Lover and friend stand far, the mocking ones pass by, Tophet gapes wide for prey: lost soul, despair and die! What then? 'Look unto me and be ye saved!' saith God: 'I strike the rock, outstreats the life-stream at my rod![9] Be your sins scarlet, wool shall they seem like, --although As crimson red, yet turn white as the driven snow!'"

"'There, there, there! All I seem to somehow understand Is--that, if I reached home, 't was through the guiding hand Of his blind girl which led and led me through the streets And out of town and up to door again. What greets First thing my eye, as limbs recover from their swoon? A book--this Book she gave at parting. "Father's boon-- The Book he wrote: it reads as if he spoke himself: He cannot preach in bonds, so,--take it down from shelf When you want counsel,--think you hear his very voice!

"'Wicked dear Husband, first despair and then rejoice! Dear wicked Husband, waste no tick of moment more, Be saved like me, bald trunk! There 's greenness yet at core, Sap under slough! Read, read!'

"Let me take breath, my lords! I 'd like to know, are these--hers, mine, or Bunyan's words? I 'm 'wildered--scarce with drink,--nowise with drink alone! You 'll say, with heat: but heat 's no stuff to split a stone Like this black boulder--this flint heart of mine: the Book-- That dealt the crashing blow! Sirs, here 's the fist that shook His beard till Wrestler Jem howled like a just-lugged bear! You had brained me with a feather: at once I grew aware Christmas was meant for me. A burden at your back, Good Master Christmas? Nay,--yours was that Joseph's sack, --Or whose it was,--which held the cup,--compared with mine! Robbery loads my loins, perjury cracks my chine, Adultery ... nay, Tab, you pitched me as I flung! One word, I 'll up with fist ... No, sweet spouse, hold your tongue!

"I 'm hasting to the end. The Book, sirs--take and read! You have my history in a nutshell,--ay, indeed! It must off, my burden! See,--slack straps and into pit, Roll, reach the bottom, rest, rot there--a plague on it! For a mountain 's sure to fall and bury Bedford Town, 'Destruction'--that 's the name, and fire shall burn it down! Oh, 'scape the wrath in time! Time 's now, if not too late. How can I pilgrimage up to the wicket-gate? Next comes Despond the slough: not that I fear to pull Through mud, and dry my clothes at brave House Beautiful-- But it 's late in the day, I reckon: had I left years ago Town, wife, and children dear ... Well, Christmas did, you know!-- Soon I had met in the valley and tried my cudgel's strength On the enemy horned and winged, a-straddle across its length! Have at his horns, thwick--thwack: they snap, see! Hoof and hoof-- Bang, break the fetlock-bones! For love's sake, keep aloof Angels! I 'm man and match,--this cudgel for my flail,-- To thresh him, hoofs and horns, bat's wing and serpent's tail! A chance gone by! But then, what else does Hopeful ding Into the deafest ear except--hope, hope 's the thing? Too late i' the day for me to thrid the windings: but There 's still a way to win the race by death's short cut! Did Master Faithful need climb the Delightful Mounts? No, straight to Vanity Fair,--a fair, by all accounts, Such as is held outside,--lords, ladies, grand and gay,-- Says he in the face of them, just what you hear me say. And the Judges brought him in guilty, and brought him out To die in the market-place--St. Peter's Green 's about The same thing: there they flogged, flayed, buffeted, lanced with knives, Pricked him with swords,--I 'll swear, he 'd full a cat's nine lives,-- So to his end at last came Faithful,--ha, ha, he! Who holds the highest card? for there stands hid, you see, Behind the rabble-rout, a chariot, pair and all: He 's in, he 's off, he 's up, through clouds, at trumpet-call, Carried the nearest way to Heaven-gate-! Odds my life-- Has nobody a sword to spare? not even a knife? Then hang me, draw and quarter! Tab--do the same by her! O Master Worldly-Wiseman ... that 's Master Interpreter, Take the will, not the deed! Our gibbet 's handy, close: Forestall Last Judgment-Day! Be kindly, not morose! There wants no earthly judge-and-jurying: here we stand-- Sentence our guilty selves: so, hang us out of hand! Make haste for pity's sake! A single moment's loss Means--Satan 's lord once more: his whisper shoots across All singing in my heart, all praying in my brain, 'It comes of heat and beer!'--hark how he guffaws plain! 'To-morrow you 'll wake bright, and, in a safe skin, hug Your sound selves, Tab and you, over a foaming jug! You 've had such qualms before, time out of mind!' He 's right! Did not we kick and cuff and curse away, that night When home we blindly reeled, and left poor humpback Joe I' the lurch to pay for what ... somebody did, you know! Both of us maundered then, 'Lame humpback, --never more Will he come limping, drain his tankard at our door! He 'll swing, while--somebody' ... Says Tab, 'No, for I 'll peach!' 'I 'm for you, Tab,' cries I, 'there 's rope enough for each!' So blubbered we, and bussed, and went to bed upon The grace of Tab's good thought: by morning, all was gone! We laughed--'What 's life to him, a cripple of no account?' Oh, waves increase around--I feel them mount and mount! Hang us! To-morrow brings Tom Bearward with his bears: One new black-muzzled brute beats Sackerson, he swears: (Sackerson, for my money!) And, baiting o'er, the Brawl They lead on Turner's Patch,--lads, lasses, up tails all,-- I 'm i' the thick o' the throng! That means the Iron Cage, --Means the Lost Man inside! Where 's hope for such as wage War against light? Light 's left, light 's here, I hold light still, So does Tab--make but haste to hang us both! You will?"

I promise, when he stopped you might have heard a mouse Squeak, such a death-like hush sealed up the old Mote House. But when the mass of man sank meek upon his knees, While Tab, alongside, wheezed a hoarse "Do hang us, please!" Why, then the waters rose, no eye but ran with tears, Hearts heaved, heads thumped, until, paying all past arrears Of pity and sorrow, at last a regular scream outbroke Of triumph, joy, and praise.

My Lord Chief Justice spoke, First mopping brow and cheek, where still, for one that budged, Another bead broke fresh: "What Judge, that ever judged Since first the world began, judged such a case as this? Why, Master Bratts, long since, folks smelt you out, I wis! I had my doubts, i' faith, each time you played the fox Convicting geese of crime in yonder witness-box-- Yea, much did I misdoubt, the thief that stole her eggs Was hardly goosey's self at Reynard's game, i' feggs! Yet thus much was to praise--you spoke to point, direct-- Swore you heard, saw the theft: no jury could suspect-- Dared to suspect,--I 'll say,--a spot in white so clear: Goosey was throttled, true: but thereof godly fear Came of example set, much as our laws intend; And, though a fox confessed, you proved the Judge's friend. What if I had my doubts? Suppose I gave them breath, Brought you to bar: what work to do, ere 'Guilty, Death' Had paid our pains! What heaps of witnesses to drag From holes and corners, paid from out the County's bag! Trial three dog-days long! _Amicus Curiæ_--that 's Your title, no dispute--truth-telling Master Bratts! Thank you, too, Mistress Tab! Why doubt one word you say? Hanging you both deserve, hanged both shall be this day! The tinker needs must be a proper man. I 've heard He lies in Jail long since: if Quality's good word Warrants me letting loose,--some householder, I mean-- Freeholder, better still,--I don't say but--between Now and next Sessions ... Well! Consider of his case, I promise to, at least: we owe him so much grace. Not that--no, God forbid!--I lean to think as you, The grace that such repent is any jail-bird's due: I rather see the fruit of twelve years' pious reign-- Astræa Redux, Charles restored his rights again! --Of which, another time! I somehow feel a peace Stealing across the world. May deeds like this increase! So, Master Sheriff, stay that sentence I pronounced On those two dozen odd: deserving to be trounced Soundly, and yet ... well, well, at all events dispatch This pair of--shall I say, sinner-saints?--ere we catch Their jail-distemper too. Stop tears, or I 'll indite All weeping Bedfordshire for turning Bunyanite!"

So, forms were galloped through. If Justice, on the spur, Proved somewhat expeditious, would Quality demur? And happily hanged were they,--why lengthen out my tale?-- Where Bunyan's Statue stands facing where stood his Jail.

SECOND SERIES

"You are sick, that 's sure,"--they say: "Sick of what?"--they disagree. "'T is the brain,"--thinks Doctor A; "'T is the heart,"--holds Doctor B; "The liver--my life I 'd lay!" "The lungs!" "The lights!" Ah me! So ignorant of man's whole Of bodily organs plain to see-- So sage and certain, frank and free, About what 's under lock and key-- Man's soul!

ECHETLOS

Here is a story, shall stir you! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone, Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, for the day was Marathon!

No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file: up, back, out, down--was the spear-arm play: Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day!

But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here.

Nor helmed nor shielded, he! but, a goat-skin all his wear, Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on: he pushed with a ploughman's share.

Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch?

Did the steady phalanx falter? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed, As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede.

But the deed done, battle won,--nowhere to be descried On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, --look far and wide From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last blood-plashed sea-side,--

Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown, Shearing and clearing still with the share before which--down To the dust went Persia's pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown!

How spake the Oracle? "Care for no name at all! Say but just this: 'We praise one helpful whom we call The Holder of the Ploughshare.' The great deed ne'er grows small."

Not the great name! Sing--woe for the great name Miltiadés And its end at Paros isle! Woe for Themistokles --Satrap in Sardis court! Name not the clown like these!

CLIVE

Browning had this story from Mrs. Jameson as early as 1846, she in turn having just heard Macaulay tell it. Browning's own narrative preceded Clive's death by a week only.

I and Clive were friends--and why not? Friends! I think you laugh, my lad. Clive it was gave England India, while your father gives--egad, England nothing but the graceless boy who lures him on to speak-- "Well, Sir, you and Clive were comrades--" with a tongue thrust in your cheek! Very true: in my eyes, your eyes, all the world's eyes, Clive was man, I was, am, and ever shall be--mouse, nay, mouse of all its clan Sorriest sample, if you take the kitchen's estimate for fame; While the man Clive--he fought Plassy, spoiled the clever foreign game, Conquered and annexed and Englished!

Never mind! As o'er my punch (You away) I sit of evenings,--silence, save for biscuit crunch, Black, unbroken,--thought grows busy, thrids each pathway of old years, Notes this forthright, that meander, till the long-past life appears Like an outspread map of country plodded through, each mile and rood, Once, and well remembered still,--I 'm startled in my solitude Ever and anon by--what 's the sudden mocking light that breaks On me as I slap the table till no rummer-glass but shakes While I ask--aloud, I do believe, God help me!--"Was it thus? Can it be that so I faltered, stopped when just one step for us--" (Us,--you were not born, I grant, but surely some day born would be) "--One bold step had gained a province" (figurative talk, you see) "Got no end of wealth and honor,--yet I stood stock-still no less?" --"For I was not Clive," you comment: but it needs no Clive to guess Wealth were handy, honor ticklish, did no writing on the wall Warn me "Trespasser, 'ware man-traps!" Him who braves that notice--call Hero! none of such heroics suit myself who read plain words, Doff my hat, and leap no barrier. Scripture says, the land 's the Lord's: Louts then--what avail the thousand, noisy in a smock-frocked ring, All-agog to have me trespass, clear the fence, be Clive their king? Higher warrant must you show me ere I set one foot before T' other in that dark direction, though I stand forevermore Poor as Job and meek as Moses. Evermore? No! By and by Job grows rich and Moses valiant, Clive turns out less wise than I. Don't object "Why call him friend, then?" Power is power, my boy, and still Marks a man,--God's gift magnific, exercised for good or ill. You 've your boot now on my hearth-rug, tread what was a tiger's skin: Rarely such a royal monster as I lodged the bullet in! True, he murdered half a village, so his own death came to pass; Still, for size and beauty, cunning, courage--ah, the brute he was! Why, that Clive,--that youth, that greenhorn, that quill-driving clerk, in fine,-- He sustained a siege in Arcot ... But the world knows! Pass the wine.

Where did I break off at? How bring Clive in? Oh, you mentioned "fear"! Just so: and, said I, that minds me of a story you shall hear.

We were friends then, Clive and I: so, when the clouds, about the orb Late supreme, encroaching slowly, surely, threatened to absorb Ray by ray its noontide brilliance,--friendship might, with steadier eye Drawing near, bear what had burned else, now no blaze--all majesty. Too much bee's-wing floats my figure? Well, suppose a castle 's new: None presume to climb its ramparts, none find foothold sure for shoe 'Twixt those squares and squares of granite plating the impervious pile As his scale-mail's warty iron cuirasses a crocodile. Reels that castle thunder-smitten, storm-dismantled? From without Scrambling up by crack and crevice, every cockney prates about Towers--the heap he kicks now! turrets--just the measure of his cane! Will that do? Observe moreover--(same similitude again)-- Such a castle seldom crumbles by sheer stress of cannonade: 'T is when foes are foiled and fighting 's finished that vile rains invade, Grass o'ergrows, o'ergrows till night-birds congregating find no holes Fit to build in like the topmost sockets made for banner-poles. So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last.

A week before, Dining with him,--after trying churchyard chat of days of yore,-- Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, headpiece, foot-piece, when they lean Each to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o'er a coffined Past between. As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul's extinguishment By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers went Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,--"One more throw Try for Clive!" thought I: "Let 's venture some good rattling question!" So-- "Come Clive, tell us"--out I blurted--"what to tell in turn, years hence, When my boy--suppose I have one--asks me on what evidence I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every whit Worth your Alexanders, Cæsars, Marlboroughs and--what said Pitt?-- Frederick the Fierce himself! Clive told me once"--I want to say-- "Which feat out of all those famous doings bore the bell away --In his own calm estimation, mark you, not the mob's rough guess-- Which stood foremost as evincing what Clive called courageousness! Come! what moment of the minute, what speck-centre in the wide Circle of the action saw your mortal fairly deified? (Let alone that filthy sleep-stuff, swallow bold this wholesome Port!) If a friend has leave to question,--when were you most brave, in short?"

Up he arched his brows o' the instant--formidably Clive again. "When was I most brave? I 'd answer, were the instance half as plain As another instance that 's a brain-lodged crystal --curse it!--here Freezing when my memory touches--ugh!--the time I felt most fear. Ugh! I cannot say for certain if I showed fear--anyhow, Fear I felt, and, very likely, shuddered, since I shiver now."

"Fear!" smiled I. "Well, that 's the rarer: that 's a specimen to seek, Ticket up in one's museum, _Mind-Freaks, Lord Clive's Fear, Unique!_"

Down his brows dropped. On the table painfully he pored as though Tracing, in the stains and streaks there, thoughts encrusted long ago. When he spoke 't was like a lawyer reading word by word some will, Some blind jungle of a statement,--beating on and on until Out there leaps fierce life to fight with.

"This fell in my factor-days. Desk-drudge, slaving at Saint David's, one must game, or drink, or craze. I chose gaming: and,--because your high-flown gamesters hardly take Umbrage at a factor's elbow if the factor pays his stake,-- I was winked at in a circle where the company was choice, Captain This and Major That, men high of color, loud of voice, Yet indulgent, condescending to the modest juvenile Who not merely risked but lost his hard-earned guineas with a smile.

"Down I sat to cards, one evening,--had for my antagonist Somebody whose name 's a secret--you 'll know why--so, if you list, Call him Cock o' the Walk, my scarlet son of Mars from head to heel! Play commenced: and, whether Cocky fancied that a clerk must feel Quite sufficient honor came of bending over one green baize, I the scribe with him the warrior, guessed no penman dared to raise Shadow of objection should the honor stay but playing end More or less abruptly,--whether disinclined he grew to spend Practice strictly scientific on a booby born to stare At--not ask of--lace-and-ruffles if the hand they hide plays fair,-- Anyhow, I marked a movement when he bade me 'Cut!'

"I rose. 'Such the new manœuvre, Captain? I'm a novice: knowledge grows. What, you force a card, you cheat, Sir?'

"Never did a thunder-clap Cause emotion, startle Thyrsis locked with Chloe in his lap, As my word and gesture (down I flung my cards to join the pack) Fired the man of arms, whose visage, simply red before, turned black.

When he found his voice, he stammered 'That expression once again!'

"'Well, you forced a card and cheated!'

"'Possibly a factor's brain, Busied with his all-important balance of accounts, may deem Weighing words superfluous trouble: _cheat_ to clerkly ears may seem Just the joke for friends to venture: but we are not friends, you see! When a gentleman is joked with,--if he 's good at repartee, He rejoins, as do I--Sirrah, on your knees, withdraw in full! Beg my pardon, or be sure a kindly bullet through your skull Lets in light and teaches manner to what brain it finds! Choose quick-- Have your life snuffed out or, kneeling, pray me trim yon candle-wick!'

"'Well, you cheated!' "Then outbroke a howl from all the friends around. To his feet sprang each in fury, fists were clenched and teeth were ground. 'End it! no time like the present! Captain, yours were our disgrace! No delay, begin and finish! Stand back, leave the pair a space! Let civilians be instructed: henceforth simply ply the pen, Fly the sword! This clerk 's no swordsman? Suit him with a pistol, then! Even odds! A dozen paces 'twixt the most and least expert Make a dwarf a giant's equal: nay, the dwarf, if he 's alert, Likelier hits the broader target!'

"Up we stood accordingly. As they handed me the weapon, such was my soul's thirst to try Then and there conclusions with this bully, tread on and stamp out Every spark of his existence, that,--crept close to, curled about By that toying tempting teasing fool-forefinger's middle joint,-- Don't you guess?--the trigger yielded. Gone my chance! and at the point Of such prime success moreover: scarce an inch above his head Went my ball to hit the wainscot. He was living, I was dead.

"Up he marched in flaming triumph--'t was his right, mind!--up, within Just an arm's length. 'Now, my clerkling,' chuckled Cocky with a grin As the levelled piece quite touched me, 'Now, Sir Counting-House, repeat That expression which I told you proved bad manners! Did I cheat?'

"'Cheat you did, you knew you cheated, and, this moment, know as well. As for me, my homely breeding bids you--fire and go to Hell!'

"Twice the muzzle touched my forehead. Heavy barrel, flurried wrist, Either spoils a steady lifting. Thrice: then, 'Laugh at Hell who list, I can't! God 's no fable either. Did this boy's eye wink once? No! There 's no standing him and Hell and God all three against me,--so, I did cheat!'

"And down he threw the pistol, out rushed--by the door Possibly, but, as for knowledge if by chimney, roof or floor, He effected disappearance--I 'll engage no glance was sent That way by a single starer, such a blank astonishment Swallowed up their senses: as for speaking--mute they stood as mice.

"Mute not long, though! Such reaction, such a hubbub in a trice! 'Rogue and rascal! Who 'd have thought it? What 's to be expected next, When His Majesty's Commission serves a sharper as pretext For ... But where 's the need of wasting time now? Naught requires delay: Punishment the Service cries for: let disgrace be wiped away Publicly, in good broad daylight! Resignation? No, indeed! Drum and fife must play the Rogue's-March, rank and file be free to speed Tardy marching on the rogue's part by appliance in the rear --Kicks administered shall right this wronged civilian,--never fear, Mister Clive, for--though a clerk--you bore yourself--suppose we say-- Just as would beseem a soldier?

"'Gentlemen, attention--pray! First, one word!'

"I passed each speaker severally in review. When I had precise their number, names and styles, and fully knew Over whom my supervision thenceforth must extend,--why, then--

"'Some five minutes since, my life lay--as you all saw, gentlemen-- At the mercy of your friend there. Not a single voice was raised In arrest of judgment, not one tongue--before my powder blazed-- Ventured "Can it be the youngster blundered, really seemed to mark Some irregular proceeding? We conjecture in the dark, Guess at random,--still, for sake of fair play--what if for a freak, In a fit of absence,--such things have been!--if our friend proved weak --What 's the phrase?--corrected fortune! Look into the case, at least!" Who dared interpose between the altar's victim and the priest? Yet he spared me! You eleven! Whosoever, all or each, To the disadvantage of the man who spared me, utters speech --To his face, behind his back,--that speaker has to do with me: Me who promise, if positions change and mine the chance should be, Not to imitate your friend and waive advantage!'

"Twenty-five Years ago this matter happened: and 't is certain," added Clive, "Never, to my knowledge, did Sir Cocky have a single breath Breathed against him: lips were closed throughout his life, or since his death, For if he be dead or living I can tell no more than you. All I know is--Cocky had one chance more; how he used it,--grew Out of such unlucky habits, or relapsed, and back again Brought the late-ejected devil with a score more in his train,-- That 's for you to judge. Reprieval I procured, at any rate. Ugh--the memory of that minute's fear makes gooseflesh rise! Why prate Longer? You 've my story, there 's your instance: fear I did, you see!"

"Well"--I hardly kept from laughing--"if I see it, thanks must be Wholly to your Lordship's candor. Not that --in a common case-- When a bully caught at cheating thrusts a pistol in one's face, I should under-rate, believe me, such a trial to the nerve! 'T is no joke, at one-and-twenty, for a youth to stand nor swerve. Fear I naturally look for--unless, of all men alive, I am forced to make exception when I come to Robert Clive. Since at Arcot, Plassy, elsewhere, he and death--the whole world knows-- Came to somewhat closer quarters."

Quarters? Had we come to blows, Clive and I, you had not wondered--up he sprang so, out he rapped Such a round of oaths--no matter! I 'll endeavor to adapt To our modern usage words he--well, 't was friendly license--flung At me like so many fire-balls, fast as he could wag his tongue.

"You--a soldier? You--at Plassy? Yours the faculty to nick Instantaneously occasion when your foe, if lightning-quick, --At his mercy, at his malice,--has you, through some stupid inch Undefended in your bulwark? Thus laid open,--not to flinch --That needs courage, you 'll concede me. Then, look here! Suppose the man. Checking his advance, his weapon still extended, not a span Distant from my temple,--curse him!--quietly had bade me, 'There! Keep your life, calumniator!--worthless life I freely spare: Mine you freely would have taken--murdered me and my good fame Both at once--and all the better! Go, and thank your own bad aim Which permits me to forgive you!' What if, with such words as these, He had cast away his weapon? How should I have borne me, please? Nay, I 'll spare you pains and tell you. This, and only this, remained-- Pick his weapon up and use it on myself. If so had gained Sleep the earlier, leaving England probably to pay on still Rent and taxes for half India, tenant at the Frenchman's will."

"Such the turn," said I, "the matter takes with you? Then I abate --No, by not one jot nor tittle,--of your act my estimate. Fear--I wish I could detect there: courage fronts me, plain enough-- Call it desperation, madness--never mind! for here 's in rough Why, had mine been such a trial, fear had overcome disgrace. True, disgrace were hard to bear: but such a rush against God's face --None of that for me, Lord Plassy, since I go to church at times, Say the creed my mother taught me! Many years in foreign climes Rub some marks away--not all, though! We poor sinners reach life's brink, Overlook what rolls beneath it, recklessly enough, but think There 's advantage in what 's left us--ground to stand on, time to call 'Lord, have mercy!' ere we topple over--do not leap, that 's all!"

Oh, he made no answer, re-absorbed into his cloud. I caught Something like "Yes--courage: only fools will call it fear."

If aught Comfort you, my great unhappy hero Clive, in that I heard, Next week, how your own hand dealt you doom, and uttered just the word "Fearfully courageous!"--this, be sure, and nothing else I groaned. I 'm no Clive, nor parson either: Clive's worst deed--we 'll hope condoned.

MULÉYKEH

If a stranger passed the tent of Hóseyn, he cried "A churl's!" Or haply "God help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" --"Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, --Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn.

"What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinán? They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 'God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, Muléykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!'

"So in the pride of his soul laughs Hóseyn--and right, I say. Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all, Ever Muléykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hóseyn, I say, to laugh!"

"Boasts he Muléykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: "Be sure On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both On Duhl the son of Sheybán, who withers away in heart For envy of Hóseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 'For the vulgar--flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize apart.'"

Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoséyn's tent, And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" bids he. "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 'T is said of your Pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too long."

Said Hóseyn, "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Múzennem: There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. But I love Muléykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels--go gaze on them! Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still."

A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. "You are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift,'"

Said Hóseyn, "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muléykeh lives. Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muléykeh died? It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?"

Another year, and--hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines With the robber--and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, Must wring from Hóseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench.

"He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store, And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew? Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son.

"I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: Let him die, then,--let me live: Be bold--but not too rash! I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy!

"As he said--there lies in peace Hóseyn--how happy! Beside Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: 'T is therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, Buhéyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels.

"No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape." Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape.

He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from bow. Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, He is out and off and away on Buhéyseh, whose worth we know!

And Hóseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, And Buhéyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Dárraj to cross and quit, And to reach the ridge El-Sabán,--no safety till that be spied! And Buhéyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit.

She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: Buhéyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must, Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. She is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! What folly makes Hóseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust, Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!"

And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muléykeh as prompt perceived Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished forevermore. And Hóseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: Then he turned Buhéyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore.

And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hóseyn upon the ground Weeping: and neighbors came, the tribesmen of Bénu-Asád In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! And how Buhéyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief.

And they jeered him, one and all: "Poor Hóseyn is crazed past hope! How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? To have simply held the tongue were a task for boy or girl, And here were Muléykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- "And the beaten in speed!" wept Hóseyn. "You never have loved my Pearl."

PIETRO OF ABANO

_Petrus Aponensis_--there was a magician! When that strange adventure happened, which I mean to tell my hearers, Nearly had he tried all trades--beside physician, Architect, astronomer, astrologer,--or worse: How else, as the old books warrant, was he able, All at once, through all the world, to prove the promptest of appearers Where was prince to cure, tower to build as high as Babel, Star to name or sky-sign read,--yet pouch, for pains, a curse?

--Curse: for when a vagrant,--foot-sore, travel-tattered, Now a young man, now an old man, Turk or Arab, Jew or Gypsy,-- Proffered folk in passing--Oh, for pay, what mattered?-- "I 'll be doctor, I 'll play builder, star I 'll name--sign read!" Soon as prince was cured, tower built, and fate predicted, "Who may you be?" came the question; when he answered "_Petrus ipse_," "Just as we divined!" cried folk--"A wretch convicted Long ago of dealing with the devil---you indeed!"

So, they cursed him roundly, all his labor's payment, Motioned him--the convalescent prince would--to vacate the presence: Babylonians plucked his beard and tore his raiment, Drove him from that tower he built: while, had he peered at stars, Town howled "Stone the quack who styles our Dog-star--Sirius!" Country yelled "Aroint the churl who prophesies we take no pleasance Under vine and fig-tree, since the year 's delirious, Bears no crop of any kind,--all through the planet Mars!"

Straightway would the whilom youngster grow a grisard, Or, as case might hap, the hoary eld drop off" and show a stripling. Town and country groaned--indebted to a wizard! "Curse--nay, kick and cuff him--fit requital of his pains! Gratitude in word or deed were wasted truly! Rather make the Church amends by crying out on, cramping, crippling One who, on pretence of serving man, serves duly Man's arch foe: not ours, be sure, but Satan's--his the gains!"

Peter grinned and bore it, such disgraceful usage: Somehow, cuffs and kicks and curses seem ordained his like to suffer: Prophet's pay with Christians, now as in the Jews' age, Still is--stoning: so, he meekly took his wage and went, --Safe again was found ensconced in those old quarters, Padua's blackest blindest by-street,--none the worse, nay, somewhat tougher: "Calculating," quoth he, "soon I join the martyrs, Since, who magnify my lore on burning me are bent."[10]

Therefore, on a certain evening, to his alley Peter slunk, all bruised and broken, sore in body, sick in spirit, Just escaped from Cairo where he launched a galley Needing neither sails nor oars nor help of wind or tide, --Needing but the fume of fire to set a-flying Wheels like mad which whirled you quick--North, South, where'er you pleased require it,-- That is--would have done so had not priests come prying, Broke his engine up and bastinadoed him beside.

As he reached his lodging, stopped there unmolested, (Neighbors feared him, urchins fled him, few were bold enough to follow) While his fumbling fingers tried the lock and tested Once again the queer key's virtue, oped the sullen door,-- Some one plucked his sleeve, cried, "Master, pray your pardon! Grant a word to me who patient wait you in your archway's hollow! Hard on you men's hearts are: be not your heart hard on Me who kiss your garment's hem, O Lord of magic lore!

"Mage--say I, who no less, scorning tittle-tattle, To the vulgar give no credence when they prate of Peter's magic, Deem his art brews tempest, hurts the crops and cattle, Hinders fowls from laying eggs and worms from spinning silk, Rides upon a he-goat, mounts at need a broomstick: While the price he pays for this (so turns to comic what was tragic) Is--he may not drink--dreads like the Day of Doom's tick-- One poor drop of sustenance ordained mere men--that 's milk!

"Tell such tales to Padua! Think me no such dullard! Not from these benighted parts did I derive my breath and being! I am from a land whose cloudless skies are colored Livelier, suns orb largelier, airs seem incense,--while, on earth-- What, instead of grass, our fingers and our thumbs cull, Proves true moly! sounds and sights there help the body's hearing, seeing, Till the soul grows godlike: brief,--you front no numskull Shaming by ineptitude the Greece that gave him birth!

"Mark within my eye its iris mystic-lettered-- That 's my name! and note my ear--its swan-shaped cavity, my emblem! Mine 's the swan-like nature born to fly unfettered Over land and sea in search of knowledge--food for song. Art denied the vulgar! Geese grow fat on barley, Swans require ethereal provend, undesirous to resemble 'em-- Soar to seek Apollo--favored with a parley Such as, Master, you grant me--who will not hold you long.

"Leave to learn to sing--for that your swan petitions: Master, who possess the secret, say not nay to such a suitor! All I ask is--bless mine, purest of ambitions! Grant me leave to make my kind wise, free, and happy! How? Just by making me--as you are mine--their model! Geese have goose-thoughts: make a swan their teacher first, then coadjutor,-- Let him introduce swan-notions to each noddle,-- Geese will soon grow swans, and men become what I am now!

"That 's the only magic--had but fools discernment, Could they probe and pass into the solid through the soft and seeming! Teach me such true magic--now, and no adjournment! Teach your art of making fools subserve the man of mind! Magic is the power we men of mind should practice, Draw fools to become our drudges--docile henceforth, never dreaming-- While they do our hests for fancied gain--the fact is What they toil and moil to get proves falsehood: truth 's behind!

"See now! you conceive some fabric--say, a mansion Meet for monarch's pride and pleasure: this is truth--a thought has fired you, Made you fain to give some cramped concept expansion, Put your faculty to proof, fulfil your nature's task. First you fascinate the monarch's self: he fancies He it was devised the scheme you execute as he inspired you: He in turn sets slaving insignificances Toiling, moiling till your structure stands there--all you ask!

"Soon the monarch 's known for what he was--a ninny: Soon the rabble-rout leave labor, take their work-day wage and vanish: Soon the late puffed bladder, pricked, shows lank and skinny-- 'Who was its inflator?' ask we, 'whose the giant lungs' _Petri en pulmones!_ What though men prove ingrates? Let them--so they stop at crucifixion--buffet, ban and banish! Peter's power's apparent: human praise--its din grates Harsh as blame on ear unused to aught save angels' tongues.

"Ay, there have been always, since our world existed, Mages who possessed the secret--needed but to stand still, fix eye On the foolish mortal: straight was he enlisted Soldier, scholar, servant, slave--no matter for the style! Only through illusion; ever what seemed profit-- Love or lucre--justified obedience to the _Ipse dixi:_ Work done--palace reared from pavement up to soffit-- Was it strange if builders smelt out cheating all the while?

"Let them pelt and pound, bruise, bray you in a mortar! What 's the odds to you who seek reward of quite another nature? You 've enrolled your name where sages of your sort are, --Michael of Constantinople, Hans of Halberstadt! Nay and were you nameless, still you 've your conviction You it was and only you--what signifies the nomenclature?-- Ruled the world in fact, though how you ruled be fiction Fit for fools: true wisdom's magic you--if e'er man--had 't!

"But perhaps you ask me, 'Since each ignoramus While he profits by such magic persecutes the benefactor, What should I expect but--once I render famous You as Michael, Hans, and Peter--just one ingrate more? If the vulgar prove thus, whatsoe'er the pelf be, Pouched through my beneficence--and doom me dungeoned, chained, or racked, or Fairly burned outright--how grateful will yourself be When, his secret gained, you match your--master just before?'

"That 's where I await you! Please, revert a little! What do folk report about you if not this--which, though chimeric, Still, as figurative, suits you to a tittle-- That,--although the elements obey your nod and wink, Fades or flowers the herb you chance to smile or sigh at, While your frown bids earth quake palled by obscuration atmospheric,-- Brief, although through nature naught resists your _fiat_, There 's yet one poor substance mocks you--milk you may not drink!

"Figurative language! Take my explanation! Fame with fear, and hate with homage, these your art procures in plenty. All 's but daily dry bread: what makes moist the ration? Love, the milk that sweetens man his meal--alas, you lack: I am he who, since he fears you not, can love you. Love is born of heart not mind, _de corde natus haud de mente;_ Touch my heart and love 's yours, sure as shines above you Sun by day and star by night though earth should go to wrack!

"Stage by stage you lift me--kiss by kiss I hallow Whose but your dear hand my helper, punctual as at each new impulse I approach my aim? Shell chipped, the eaglet callow Needs a parent's pinion-push to quit the eyrie's edge: But once fairly launched forth, denizen of ether, While each effort sunward bids the blood more freely through each limb pulse, Sure the parent feels, as gay they soar together, Fully are all pains repaid when love redeems its pledge!"

Then did Peter's tristful visage lighten somewhat, Vent a watery smile as though inveterate mistrust were thawing. "Well, who knows?" he slow broke silence. "Mortals--come what Come there may--are still the dupes of hope there 's luck in store. Many scholars seek me, promise mounts and marvels: Here stand I to witness how they step 'twixt me and clapper-clawing! Dry bread,--that I 've gained me: truly I should starve else: But of milk, no drop was mine! Well, shuffle cards once more!"

At the word of promise thus implied, our stranger-- What can he but cast his arms, in rapture of embrace, round Peter? "Hold! I choke!" the mage grunts. "Shall I in the manger Any longer play the dog? Approach, my calf, and feed! _Bene_ ... won't you wait for grace?" But sudden incense Wool-white, serpent-solid, curled up--perfume growing sweet and sweeter Till it reached the young man's nose and seemed to win sense Soul and all from out his brain through nostril: yes, indeed!

Presently the young man rubbed his eyes. "Where am I? Too much bother over books! Some reverie has proved amusing. What did Peter prate of? 'Faith, my brow is clammy! How my head throbs, how my heart thumps! Can it be I swooned? Oh, I spoke my speech out--cribbed from Plato's tractate, Dosed him with 'the Fair and Good,' swore--Dog of Egypt--I was choosing Plato's way to serve men! What 's the hour? Exact eight! Home now, and to-morrow never mind how Plato mooned!

"Peter has the secret! Fair and Good are products (So he said) of Foul and Evil: one must bring to pass the other. Just as poisons grow drugs, steal through sundry odd ducts Doctors name, and ultimately issue safe and changed. You 'd abolish poisons, treat disease with dainties Such as suit the sound and sane? With all such kickshaws vain you pother! Arsenic 's the stuff puts force into the faint eyes, Opium sets the brain to rights--by cark and care deranged.

"What, he 's safe within door?--would escape--no question-- Thanks, since thanks and more I owe, and mean to pay in time befitting. What most presses now is--after night's digestion, Peter, of thy precepts!--promptest practice of the same. Let me see! The wise man, first of all, scorns riches: But to scorn them must obtain them: none believes in his permitting Gold to lie ungathered: who picks up, then pitches Gold away--philosophizes: none disputes his claim.

"So with worldly honors: 't is by abdicating, Incontestably he proves he could have kept the crown discarded. Sulla cuts a figure, leaving off dictating: Simpletons laud private life? 'The grapes are sour,' laugh we. So, again--but why continue? All 's tumultuous Here: my head 's a-whirl with knowledge. Speedily shall be rewarded He who taught me! Greeks prove ingrates? So insult you us? When your teaching bears its first-fruits, Peter--wait and see!"

As the word, the deed proved; ere a brief year's passage, Fop--that fool he made the jokes on--now he made the jokes for, _gratis:_ Hunks--that hoarder, long left lonely in his crass age-- Found now one appreciative deferential friend: Powder-paint-and-patch, Hag Jezebel--recovered, Strange to say, the power to please, got courtship till she cried _Jam satis!_ Fop be-flattered. Hunks be-friended, Hag be-lovered-- Nobody o'erlooked, save God--he soon attained his end.

As he lounged at ease one morning in his villa, (Hag's the dowry) estimated (Hunks' bequest) his coin in coffer, Mused on how a fool's good word (Fop's word) could fill a Social circle with his praise, promote him man of mark,-- All at once--"An old friend fain would see your Highness!" There stood Peter, skeleton and scarecrow, plain writ _Phi-lo-so-pher_ In the woe-worn face--for yellowness and dryness, Parchment--with, a pair of eyes--one hope their feeble spark.

"Did I counsel rightly? Have you, in accordance, Prospered greatly, dear my pupil? Sure, at just the stage I find you, When your hand may draw me forth from the mad war-dance Savages are leading round your master--down, not dead. Padua wants to burn me: balk them, let me linger Life out--rueful though its remnant--hid in some safe hold behind you! Prostrate here I lie: quick, help with but a finger Lest I house in safety's self--a tombstone o'er my head!

"Lodging, bite and sup, with--now and then--a copper --Alms for any poorer still, if such there be,--is all my asking. Take me for your bedesman,--nay, if you think proper, Menial merely,--such my perfect passion for repose! Yes, from out your plenty Peter craves a pittance --Leave to thaw his frozen hands before the fire whereat you 're basking! Double though your debt were, grant this boon--remittance He proclaims of obligation: 't is himself that owes!"

"Venerated Master--can it be, such treatment Learning meets with, magic fails to guard you from, by all appearance? Strange! for, as you entered,--what the famous feat meant, I was full of,--why you reared that fabric, Padua's boast. Nowise for man's pride, man's pleasure, did you slyly Raise it, but man's seat of rule whereby the world should soon have clearance (Happy world) from such a rout as now so vilely Handles you--and hampers me, for which I grieve the most.

"Since if it got wind you now were my familiar, How could I protect you--nay, defend myself against the rabble? Wait until the mob, now masters, willy-nilly are Servants as they should be: then has gratitude full play! Surely this experience shows how unbefitting 'T is that minds like mine should rot in ease and plenty. Geese may gabble, Gorge, and keep the ground: but swans are soon for quitting Earthly fare--as fain would I, your swan, if taught the way.

"Teach me, then, to rule men, have them at my pleasure! Solely for their good, of course,--impart a secret worth rewarding, Since the proper life's--prize! Tantalus's treasure Aught beside proves, vanishes, and leaves no trace at all. Wait awhile, nor press for payment prematurely! Over-haste defrauds you. Thanks! since,--even while I speak,--discarding Sloth and vain delights, I learn how--swiftly, surely-- Magic sways the sceptre, wears the crown and wields the ball!

"Gone again--what, is he? 'Faith, he 's soon disposed of! Peter's precepts work already, put within my lump their leaven! Ay, we needs must don glove would we pluck the rose--doff Silken garment would we climb the tree and take its fruit. Why sharp thorn, rough rind? To keep unviolated Either prize! We garland us, we mount from earth to feast in heaven, Just because exist what once we estimated Hindrances which, better taught, as helps we now compute.

"Foolishly I turned disgusted from my fellows! Pits of ignorance--to fill, and heaps of prejudice--to level-- Multitudes in motley, whites and blacks and yellows-- What a hopeless task it seemed to discipline the host! Now I see my error. Vices act like virtues --Not alone because they guard--sharp thorns--the rose we first dishevel, Not because they scrape, scratch--rough rind--through the dirt-shoes Bare feet cling to bole with, while the half-mooned boot we boast.

"No, my aim is nobler, more disinterested! Man shall keep what seemed to thwart him, since it proves his true assistance, Leads to ascertaining which head is the best head, Would he crown his body, rule its members--lawless else. Ignorant the horse stares, by deficient vision Takes a man to be a monster, lets him mount, then, twice the distance Horse could trot unridden, gallops--dream Elysian!-- Dreaming that his dwarfish guide's a giant,--jockeys tell 's."

Brief, so worked the spell, he promptly had a riddance: Heart and brain no longer felt the pricks which passed for conscience-scruples: Free henceforth his feet,--_Per Bacco_, how they did dance Merrily through lets and checks that stopped the way before! Politics the prize now,--such adroit adviser. Opportune suggester, with the tact that triples and quadruples Merit in each measure,--never did the Kaiser Boast as subject such a statesman, friend, and something more!

As he, up and down, one noonday, paced his closet --Council o'er, each spark (his hint) blown flame, by colleagues' breath applauded, Strokes of statecraft hailed with "_Salomo si nôsset!_" (His the nostrum)--every throw for luck come double-six,-- As he, pacing, hugged himself in satisfaction, Thump--the door went. "What, the Kaiser? By none else were I defrauded Thus of well-earned solace. Since 't is fate's exaction,-- Enter, Liege my Lord! Ha, Peter, you here? _Teneor vix!_"

"Ah, Sir, none the less, contain you, nor wax irate! You so lofty, I so lowly,--vast the space which yawns between us! Still, methinks, you--more than ever--at a high rate Needs must prize poor Peter's secret since it lifts you thus. Grant me now the boon whereat before you boggled! Ten long years your march has moved--one triumph--(though _e_ 's short)--_hactēnus_, While I down and down disastrously have joggled Till I pitch against Death's door, the true _Nec Ultra Plus_.

"Years ago--some ten 't is--since I sought for shelter, Craved in your whole house a closet, out of all your means a comfort. Now you soar above these: as is gold to spelter So is power--you urged with reason--paramount to wealth. Power you boast in plenty: let it grant me refuge! House-room now is out of question: find for me some stronghold--some fort-- Privacy wherein, immured, shall this blind deaf huge Monster of a mob let stay the soul I 'd save by stealth!

"Ay, for all too much with magic have I tampered! --Lost the world, and gained, I fear, a certain place I 'm to describe loth! Still, if prayer and fasting tame the pride long pampered, Mercy may be mine: amendment never comes too late. How can I amend beset by cursers, kickers? Pluck this brand from out the burning! Once away, I take my Bible-oath, Never more--so long as life's weak lamp-flame flickers-- No, not once I 'll tease you, but in silence bear my fate!"

"Gently, good my Genius, Oracle unerring! Strange now! can you guess on what--as in you peeped--it was I pondered? You and I are both of one mind in preferring Power to wealth, but--here 's the point--what sort of power, I ask? Ruling men is vulgar, easy, and ignoble: Rid yourself of conscience, quick you have at beck and call the fond herd. But who wields the crozier, down may fling the crow-bill: That 's the power I covet now; soul's sway o'er souls--my task!

"'Well but,' you object, 'you have it, who by glamour Dress up lies to look like truths, mask folly in the garb of reason: Your soul acts on theirs, sure, when the people clamor, Hold their peace, now fight now fondle,--earwigged through the brains.' Possibly! but still the operation 's mundane, Grosser than a taste demands which--craving manna--kecks at peason-- Power o'er men by wants material: why should one deign Rule by sordid hopes and fears--a grunt for all one's pains?

"No, if men must praise me, let them praise to purpose! Would we move the world, not earth but heaven must be our fulcrum--_pou sto!_ Thus I seek to move it: Master, why intérpose-- Balk my climbing close on what 's the ladder's topmost round? Statecraft 't is I step from: when by priestcraft hoisted Up to where my foot may touch the highest rung which fate allows toe, Then indeed ask favor. On you shall be foisted No excuse: I 'll pay my debt, each penny of the pound!

"Ho, my knaves without there! Lead this worthy downstairs! No farewell, good Paul--nay, Peter--what 's your name remembered rightly? Come, he 's humble: out another would have flounced--airs Suitors often give themselves when our sort bow them forth. Did I touch his rags? He surely kept his distance: Yet, there somehow passed to me from him--where'er the virtue might lie-- Something that inspires my soul--Oh, by assistance Doubtlessly of Peter!--still, he 's worth just what he 's worth!

"'T is my own soul soars now: soaring--how? By crawling! I 'll to Rome, before Rome's feet the temporal-supreme lay prostrate! 'Hands' (I 'll say) 'proficient once in pulling, hauling This and that way men as I was minded--feet now clasp!' Ay, the Kaiser's self has wrung them in his fervor! Now--they only sue to slave for Rome, nor at one doit the cost rate. Rome's adopted child--no bone, no muscle, nerve or Sinew of me but I 'll strain, though out my life I gasp!"

As he stood one evening proudly--(he had traversed Rome on horseback--peerless pageant!--claimed the Lateran as new Pope)-- Thinking "All 's attained now! Pontiff! Who could have erst Dreamed of my advance so far when, some ten years ago, I embraced devotion, grew from priest to bishop, Gained the Purple, bribed the Conclave, got the Two-thirds, saw my coop ope, Came out--what Rome hails me! O were there a wish-shop, Not one wish more would I purchase--lord of all below!

"Ha--who dares intrude now--puts aside the arras? What, old Peter, here again, at such a time, in such a presence? Satan sends this plague back merely to embarrass Me who enter on my office--little needing you! 'Faith, I 'm touched myself by age, but you look Tithon! Were it vain to seek of you the sole prize left--rejuvenescence? Well, since flesh is grass which time must lay his scythe on, Say your say and so depart and make no more ado!"

Peter faltered--coughing first by way of prologue-- "Holiness, your help comes late: a death at ninety little matters. Padua, build poor Peter's pyre now, on log roll log, Burn away--I 've lived my day! Yet here 's the sting in death-- I 've an author's pride: I want my Book's survival: See, I 've hid it in my breast to warm me 'mid the rags and tatters! Save it--tell next age your Master had no rival! Scholar's debt discharged in full, be 'Thanks' my latest breath!"

"Faugh, the frowsy bundle--scribblings harum-scarum Scattered o'er a dozen sheepskins! What 's the name of this farrago? Ha--'_Conciliator Differentiarum_'-- Man and book may burn together, cause the world no loss! Stop--what else? A tractate--eh, '_De Speciebus_ _Ceremonialis Ma-gi-æ?_' I dream sure! Hence, away, go, Wizard,--quick avoid me! Vain you clasp my knee, buss Hand that bears the Fisher's ring or foot that boasts the Cross!

"Help! The old magician clings like an octopus! Ah, you rise now--fuming, fretting, frowning, if I read your features! Frown, who cares? We 're Pope--once Pope, you can't unpope us! Good--you muster up a smile: that 's better! Still so brisk? All at once grown youthful? But the case is plain! Ass-- Here I dally with the fiend, yet know the Word--compels all creatures Earthly, heavenly, hellish. _Apage, Sathanas_ _Dicam verbum Salomonis_--" "_dicite!_" When--whisk!--

What was changed? The stranger gave his eyes a rubbing: There smiled Peter's face turned back a moment at him o'er the shoulder, As the black-door shut, bang! "So he 'scapes a drubbing!" (Quoth a boy who, unespied, had stopped to hear the talk.) "That 's the way to thank these wizards when they bid men _Benedicite!_ What ails you? You, a man, and yet no bolder? Foreign Sir, you look but foolish!" "_Idmen, idmen!_" Groaned the Greek. "O Peter, cheese at last I know from chalk!"

Peter lived his life out, menaced yet no martyr, Knew himself the mighty man he was--such knowledge all his guerdon, Left the world a big book--people but in part err When they style a true _Scientiæ Com-pen-di-um:_ "_Admirationem incutit_" they sourly Smile, as fast they shut the folio which myself was somehow spurred on Once to ope: but love--life's milk which daily, hourly, Blockheads lap--O Peter, still thy taste of love 's to come!

Greek, was your ambition likewise doomed to failure? True, I find no record you wore purple, walked with axe and fasces, Played some antipope's part: still, friend, don't turn tail, you 're Certain, with but these two gifts, to gain earth's prize in time! Cleverness uncurbed by conscience--if you ransacked Peter's book you 'd find no potent spell like these to rule the masses; Nor should want example, had I not to transact Other business. Go your ways, you 'll thrive! So ends my rhyme.

* * * * *

When these parts Tiberius--not yet Cæsar--travelled, Passing Padua, he consulted Padua's Oracle of Geryon (God three-headed, thrice wise) just to get unravelled Certain tangles of his future. "Fling at Abano Golden dice," it answered: "dropt within the fount there, Note what sum the pips present!" And still we see each die, the very one, Turn up, through the crystal,--read the whole account there Where 't is told by Suetonius,--each its highest throw.

Scarce the sportive fancy-dice I fling show "Venus:" Still--for love of that dear land which I so oft in dreams revisit-- I have--oh, not sung! but lilted (as--between us-- Grows my lazy custom) this its legend. What the lilt?

[Music]

DOCTOR ----

A Rabbi told me: On the day allowed Satan for carping at God's rule, he came, Fresh from our earth, to brave the angel-crowd.

"What is the fault now?" "This I find to blame: Many and various are the tongues below, Yet all agree in one speech, all proclaim

"'Hell has no might to match what earth, can show: Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yet Stronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know.'

"Is it a wonder if I fume and fret-- Robbed of my rights, since Death am I, and mine The style of Strongest? Men pay Nature's debt

"Because they must at my demand; decline To pay it henceforth surely men will please, Provided husbands with bad wives combine

"To baffle Death. Judge between me and these!" "Thyself shalt judge. Descend to earth in shape Of mortal, marry, drain from froth to lees

"The bitter draught, then see if thou escape Concluding, with men sorrowful and sage, A Bad Wife's strength Death's self in vain would ape!"

How Satan entered on his pilgrimage, Conformed himself to earthly ordinance, Wived and played husband well from youth to age

Intrepidly--I leave untold, advance Through many a married year until I reach A day when--of his father's countenance

The very image, like him too in speech As well as thought and deed,--the union's fruit Attained maturity. "I needs must teach

"My son a trade: but trade, such son to suit, Needs seeking after. He a man of war? Too cowardly! A lawyer wins repute--

"Having to toil and moil, though--both which are Beyond this sluggard. There 's Divinity: No, that 's my own bread-winner--that be far

"From my poor offspring! Physic? Ha, we 'll try If this be practicable. Where 's my wit? Asleep?--since, now I come to think ... Ay, ay!

"Hither, my son! Exactly have I hit On a profession for thee. _Medicus_-- Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit

"Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thus That henceforth not this human form I wear Shalt thou perceive alone, but--one of us

"By privilege--thy fleshly sight shall bear Me in my spirit-person as I walk The world and take my prey appointed there.

"Doctor once dubbed--what ignorance shall balk Thy march triumphant? Diagnose the gout As colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk--

"No matter! All 's one: cure shall come about And win thee wealth--fees paid with such a roar Of thanks and praise alike from lord and lout

"As never stunned man's ears on earth before. 'How may this be?' Why, that 's my skeptic! Soon Truth will corrupt thee, soon thou doubt'st no more!

"Why is it I bestow on thee the boon Of recognizing me the while I go Invisibly among men, morning, noon,

"And night, from house to house, and--quick or slow-- Take my appointed prey? They summon thee For help, suppose: obey the summons! so!

"Enter, look round! Where 's Death? Know--I am he, Satan who work all evil: I who bring Pain to the patient in whate'er degree.

"I, then, am there: first glance thine eye shall fling Will find me--whether distant or at hand, As I am free to do my spiriting.

"At such mere first glance thou shalt understand Wherefore I reach no higher up the room Than door or window, when my form is scanned.

"Howe'er friends' faces please to gather gloom, Bent o'er the sick,--howe'er himself desponds,-- In such case Death is not the sufferer's doom.

"Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bonds Are broken, does the captive in his turn Crow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds

"Of hope a-sprout, if haply thou discern Me at the head--my victim's head, be sure! Forth now! This taught thee, little else to learn!"

And forth he went. Folk heard him ask demure, "How do you style this ailment? (There he peeps, My father through the arras!) Sirs, the cure

"Is plain as A B C! Experience steeps Blossoms of pennyroyal half an hour In sherris. _Sumat!_--Lo, how sound he sleeps--

"The subject you presumed was past the power Of Galen to relieve!" Or else, "How 's this? Why call for help so tardily? Clouds lour

"Portentously indeed, Sirs! (Naught 's amiss: He 's at the bed-foot merely.) Still, the storm May pass averted--not by quacks, I wis,

"Like you, my masters! You, forsooth, perform A miracle? Stand, sciolists, aside! Blood, ne'er so cold, at ignorance grows warm!"

Which boasting by result was justified, Big as might words be: whether drugged or left Drugless, the patient always lived, not died.

Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereft Of all he prized in this world: sweet the smile Of disconcerted rivals: "Cure?--say, theft

"From Nature in despite of Art--so style This off-hand kill-or-cure work! You did much, I had done more: folk cannot wait awhile!"

But did the case change? was it--"Scarcely such The symptoms as to warrant our recourse To your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch

"Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the force With you of long investigation claimed By others,--tracks an ailment to its source

"Intuitively,--may we ask unblamed What from this pimple you prognosticate?" "Death!" was the answer, as he saw and named

The coucher by the sick man's head. "Too late You send for my assistance. I am bold Only by Nature's leave, and bow to Fate!

"Besides, you have my rivals: lavish gold! How comfortably quick shall life depart Cosseted by attentions manifold!

"One day, one hour ago, perchance my art Had done some service. Since you have yourselves Chosen--before the horse--to put the cart,

"Why, Sirs, the sooner that the sexton delves Your patient's grave the better! How you stare --Shallow, for all the deep books on your shelves!

"Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declare What name and fame, what riches recompensed The Doctor's practice? Never anywhere

Such an adept as daily evidenced Each new vaticination! Oh, not he Like dolts who dallied with their scruples, fenced

With subterfuge, nor gave out frank and free Something decisive! If he said "I save The patient," saved he was: if "Death will be

"His portion," you might count him dead. Thus brave, Behold our worthy, sans competitor Throughout the country, on the architrave

Of Glory's temple golden-lettered for Machaon _redivivus!_ So, it fell That, of a sudden, when the Emperor

Was smit by sore disease, I need not tell If any other Doctor's aid was sought To come and forthwith make the sick Prince well.

"He will reward thee as a monarch ought. Not much imports the malady; but then, He clings to life and cries like one distraught

"For thee--who, from a simple citizen, Mayst look to rise in rank,--nay, haply wear A medal with his portrait,--always when

"Recovery is quite accomplished. There! Pass to the presence!" Hardly has he crossed The chamber's threshold when he halts, aware

Of who stands sentry by the head. All 's lost. "Sire, naught avails my art: you near the goal, And end the race by giving up the ghost."

"How?" cried the monarch: "Names upon your roll Of half my subjects rescued by your skill-- Old and young, rich and poor--crowd cheek by jowl

"And yet no room for mine? Be saved I will! Why else am I earth's foremost potentate? Add me to these and take as fee your fill

"Of gold--that point admits of no debate Between us: save me, as you can and must,-- Gold, till your gown's pouch cracks beneath the weight!"

This touched the Doctor. "Truly a home-thrust, Parent, you will not parry! Have I dared Entreat that you forego the meal of dust

"--Man that is snake's meat--when I saw prepared Your daily portion? Never! Just this once, Go from his head, then,--let his life be spared!"

Whisper met whisper in the gruff response; "Fool, I must have my prey: no inch I budge From where thou see'st me thus myself ensconce."

"Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judge Wealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors prove More efficacious? Naught to him I grudge

"Who saves me. Only keep my head above The cloud that 's creeping round it--I 'll divide My empire with thee! No? What 's left but--love?

"Does love allure thee? Well then, take as bride My only daughter, fair beyond belief! Save me--to-morrow shall the knot be tied!"

"Father, you hear him! Respite ne'er so brief Is all I beg: go now and come again Next day, for aught I care: respect the grief

"Mine will be if thy first-born sues in vain!" "Fool, I must have my prey!" was all he got In answer. But a fancy crossed his brain.

"I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shot Just now across the heavens and neutralized Jove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot

"Plumb are you placed now: well that I surmised The cause of failure! Knaves, reverse the bed!" "Stay!" groaned the monarch, "I shall be capsized--

"Jolt--jolt--my heels uplift where late my head Was lying--sure I 'm turned right round at last! What do you say now, Doctor?" Naught he said,

For why? With one brisk leap the Antic passed From couch-foot back to pillow,--as before, Lord of the situation. Long aghast

The Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial more Is left me" inwardly he uttered. "Shame Upon thy flinty heart! Do I implore

"This trifling favor in the idle name Of mercy to the moribund? I plead The cause of all thou dost affect: my aim

"Befits my author! Why would I succeed? Simply that by success I may promote The growth of thy pet virtues--pride and greed.

"But keep thy favors!--curse thee! I devote Henceforth my service to the other side. No time to lose: the rattle 's in his throat.

"So,--not to leave one last resource untried,-- Run to my house with all haste, somebody! Bring me that knobstick thence, so often plied

"With profit by the astrologer--shall I Disdain its help, the mystic Jacob's-Staff? Sire, do but have the courage not to die

"Till this arrive! Let none of you dare laugh! Though rugged its exterior, I have seen That implement work wonders, send the chaff

"Quick and thick flying from the wheat--I mean, By metaphor, a human sheaf it threshed Flail-like. Go fetch it! Or--a word between

Just you and me, friend!--go bid, unabashed, My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stick Herself--herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashed

Zealous upon the errand. Craft and trick Are meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned --How else?--at an excuse so politic

For failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescind Fate's firm decree! And ever as he neared The agonizing one, his breath like wind

Froze to the marrow, while his eye-flash seared Sense in the brain up: closelier and more close Pressing his prey, when at the door appeared

--Who but his Wife the Bad? Whereof one dose, One grain, one mite of the medicament, Sufficed him. Up he sprang. One word, too gross

To soil my lips with,--and through ceiling went Somehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersed We know for certain by the sulphury scent!

"Hail to the Doctor! Who but one so versed In all Dame Nature's secrets had prescribed The staff thus opportunely? Style him first

"And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibed Elixir surely," smiled the prince,--"have gained New lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed

"Death to forego me, boots not: you 've obtained My daughter and her dowry. Death, I 've heard, Was still on earth the strongest power that reigned,

"Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurred Nowise the Doctor, so refused the fee --No dowry, no bad wife!

"You think absurd This tale?"--the Rabbi added: "True, our Talmud Boasts sundry such: yet--have our elders erred In thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?" I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me.

PAN AND LUNA

Si credere dignum est.--_Georgic_, III. 390.

Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was, Virgil, your legend in those strange three lines! No question, that adventure came to pass One black night in Arcadia: yes, the pines, Mountains and valleys mingling made one mass Of black with void black heaven: the earth's confines, The sky's embrace,--below, above, around, All hardened into black without a bound.

Fill up a swart stone chalice to the brim With fresh-squeezed yet fast-thickening poppy-juice: See how the sluggish jelly, late a-swim, Turns marble to the touch of who would loose The solid smooth, grown jet from rim to rim, By turning round the bowl! So night can fuse Earth with her all-comprising sky. No less. Light, the least spark, shows air and emptiness.

And thus it proved when--diving into space, Stript of all vapor, from each web of mist Utterly film-free--entered on her race The naked Moon, full-orbed antagonist Of night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base, Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissed To sudden life, lay silver-bright: in air Flew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare.

Still as she fled, each depth--where refuge seemed-- Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinct Those limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemed Herself with whiteness,--virginal, uncinct By any halo save what finely gleamed To outline not disguise her: heaven was linked In one accord with earth to quaff the joy, Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy.

Whereof she grew aware. What help? When, lo, A succorable cloud with sleep lay dense: Some pinetree-top had caught it sailing slow, And tethered for a prize: in evidence Captive lay fleece on fleece of piled-up snow Drowsily patient: flake-heaped how or whence, The structure of that succorable cloud, What matter? Shamed she plunged into its shroud.

Orbed--so the woman-figure poets call Because of rounds on rounds--that apple-shaped Head which its hair binds close into a ball Each side the curving ears--that pure undraped Pout of the sister paps--that ... Once for all, Say--her consummate circle thus escaped With its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed, Safe in the cloud--O naked Moon full-orbed!

But what means this? The downy swathes combine, Conglobe, the smothery coy-caressing stuff Curdles about her! Vain each twist and twine Those lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluff Fitting as close as fits the dented spine Its flexible ivory outside-flesh: enough! The plumy drifts contract, condense, constringe, Till she is swallowed by the feathery springe.

As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foam Churned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceits Herself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,-- If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meets What most she loathes and leaps from,--elf from gnome No gladlier,--finds that safest of retreats Bubble about a treacherous hand wide ope To grasp her--(divers who pick pearls so grope)--

So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caught By rough red Pan, the god of all that tract: He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wrought With simulated earth-breath,--wool-tufts packed Into a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-sought For spotless shearings yield such: take the fact As learned Virgil gives it,--how the breed Whitens itself forever: yes, indeed!

If one forefather ram, though pure as chalk From tinge on fleece, should still display a tongue Black 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balk The propagating plague: he gets no young: They rather slay him,--sell his hide to calk Ships with, first steeped in pitch,--nor hands are wrung In sorrow for his fate: protected thus, The purity we love is gained for us.

So did Girl-Moon, by just her attribute Of unmatched modesty betrayed, lie trapped, Bruised to the breast of Pan, half god half brute, Raked by his bristly boar-sward while he lapped --Never say, kissed her! that were to pollute Love's language--which moreover proves unapt To tell now she recoiled--as who finds thorns Where she sought flowers--when, feeling, she touched--horns!

Then--does the legend say?--first moon-eclipse Happened, first swooning-fit which puzzled sore The early sages? Is that why she dips Into the dark, a minute and no more, Only so long as serves her while she rips The cloud's womb through and, faultless as before, Pursues her way? No lesson for a maid Left she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed?

Ha, Virgil? Tell the rest, you! "To the deep Of his domain the wildwood, Pan forthwith Called her, and so she followed"--in her sleep, Surely?--"by no means spurning him." The myth Explain who may! Let all else go, I keep --As of a ruin just a monolith-- Thus much, one verse of five words, each a boon: Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon.

* * * * *

The first ten lines that follow were printed as epilogue to the second series of _Dramatic Idyls;_ the second ten were added to them by Browning in the album of a young American girl in Venice, October, 1880. See _The Century_ for November, 1882.

"Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke: Soil so quick-receptive,--not one feather-seed, Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke Vitalizing virtue: song would song succeed Sudden as spontaneous--prove a poet-soul!" Indeed? Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare: Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage Vainly both expend,--few flowers awaken there: Quiet in its cleft broods--what the after-age Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage.

* * * * *

Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried, "Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fetters Binding Dante bind up--me! as if true pride Were not also humble! So I smiled and sighed As I oped your book in Venice this bright morning, Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand, Whatsoe'er my soil be, break--for praise or scorning-- Out in grateful fancies--weeds; but weeds expand Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand.

THE BLIND MAN TO THE MAIDEN

Browning translated the following from a German poem in Wilhelmine von Hillern's novel _The Hour Will Come_ at the request of Mrs. Clara Bell, the translator of the novel. It there appeared as the work of an anonymous friend, but was reprinted as Browning's in _The Whitehall Review_ for March 1, 1883.

The blind man to the maiden said, "O thou of hearts the truest, Thy countenance is hid from me; Let not my question anger thee! Speak, though in words the fewest.

"Tell me, what kind of eyes are thine? Dark eyes, or light ones rather?" "My eyes are a decided brown-- So much, at least, by looking down, From the brook's glass I gather."

"And is it red--thy little month? That too the blind must care for." "Ah! I would tell it soon to thee, Only--none yet has told it me. I cannot answer, therefore.

"But dost thou ask what heart I have-- There hesitate I never. In thine own breast 't is borne, and so 'T is thine in weal, and thine in woe, For life, for death--thine ever!"

GOLDONI

The following sonnet was written by Browning for the album of the Committee of the Goldoni monument, erected in Venice in 1883.

Goldoni--good, gay, sunniest of souls,-- Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,-- What though it just reflect the shade and shine Of common life, nor render, as it rolls, Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoals Was Carnival; Parini's depths enshrine Secrets unsuited to that opaline Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls. There throng the people: how they come and go, Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,--see,-- On Piazza, Calle, under Portico And over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy, Be honored! thou that didst love Venice so, Venice, and we who love her, all love thee!

VENICE, _November 27, 1883._

JOCOSERIA

This collection of poems was published in 1883. The title of the volume is mentioned in a foot-note to the _Note_ at the end of _Paracelsus_, where the poet speaks of "such rubbish as Melander's _Jocoseria_." In a letter, accompanying a copy of the volume, sent to a friend, Browning wrote: "The title is taken from the work of Melander (Schwartzmann), reviewed, by a curious coincidence, in the _Blackwood_ of this month [February, 1883]. I referred to it in a note to _Paracelsus_. The two Hebrew quotations [in the note to Jochanan Hakkadosh] (put in to give a grave look to what is mere fun and invention) being translated amount to (1) 'A Collection of Lies'; and (2), an old saying, 'From Moses to Moses arose none like Moses.'"

WANTING IS--WHAT?

This is in the nature of a prelude to the entire group of poems.

Wanting is--what? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, --Where is the blot? Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, --Framework which waits for a picture to frame: What of the leafage, what of the flower? Roses embowering with naught they embower! Come then, complete incompletion, O comer, Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! Breathe but one breath Rose-beauty above, And all that was death Grows life, grows love, Grows love!

DONALD

This story which Browning had from the lips of the hero has also been told in prose by Sir Walter Scott.

"Will you hear my story also, --Huge Sport, brave adventure in plenty?" The boys were a band from Oxford, The oldest of whom was twenty.

The bothy we held carouse in Was bright with fire and candle; Tale followed tale like a merry-go-round Whereof Sport turned the handle.

In our eyes and noses--turf-smoke: In our ears a tune from the trivet, Whence "Boiling, boiling," the kettle sang, "And ready for fresh Glenlivet."

So, feat capped feat, with a vengeance: Truths, though,--the lads were loyal: Grouse, five-score brace to the bag! Deer, ten hours' stalk of the Royal!"

Of boasting, not one bit, boys! Only there seemed to settle Somehow above your curly heads, --Plain through the singing kettle,

Palpable through the cloud, As each new-puffed Havana Rewarded the teller's well-told tale,-- This vaunt "To Sport--Hosanna!

"Hunt, fish, shoot, Would a man fulfil life's duty! Not to the bodily frame alone Does Sport give strength and beauty,

"But character gains in--courage? Ay, Sir, and much beside it! You don't sport, _more 's the pity;_ You soon would find, if you tried it,

"Good sportsman means good fellow, Sound-hearted he, to the centre; Your mealy-mouthed mild milksops --There 's where the rot can enter!

"There 's where the dirt will breed, The shabbiness Sport would banish! Oh no, Sir, no! In your honored case All such objections vanish.

"'T is known how hard you studied: A Double-First--what, the jigger! Give me but half your Latin and Greek, I 'll never again touch trigger!

"Still, tastes are tastes, allow me! Allow, too, where there 's keenness For Sport, there 's little likelihood Of a man's displaying meanness!"

So, put on my mettle, I interposed. "Will you hear my story?" quoth I. Never mind how long since it happed, I sat, as we sit, in a bothy;

"With as merry a band of mates, too, Undergrads all on a level: (One 's a Bishop, one 's gone to the Bench, And one's gone--well, to the Devil.)

"When, lo, a scratching and tapping! In hobbled a ghastly visitor. Listen to just what he told us himself --No need of our playing inquisitor!"

* * * * *

Do you happen to know in Ross-shire Mount Ben ... but the name scarce matters: Of the naked fact I am sure enough, Though I clothe it in rags and tatters.

You may recognize Ben by description; Behind him--a moor's immenseness: Up goes the middle mount of a range, Fringed with its firs in denseness.

Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind! For an edge there is, though narrow; From end to end of the range, a strip Of path runs straight as an arrow.

And the mountaineer who takes that path Saves himself miles of journey He has to plod if he crosses the moor Through heather, peat, and burnie.

But a mountaineer he needs must be, For, look you, right in the middle Projects bluff Ben--with an end in _ich_-- Why planted there, is a riddle:

Since all Ben's brothers little and big Keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder, And only this burliest out must bulge Till it seems--to the beholder

From down in the gully,--as if Ben's breast, To a sudden spike diminished, Would signify to the boldest foot "All further passage finished!"

Yet the mountaineer who sidles on And on to the very bending, Discovers, if heart and brain be proof, No necessary ending.

Foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt Having trod, he, there arriving, Finds--what he took for a point was breadth, A mercy of Nature's contriving.

So, he rounds what, when 't is reached, proves straight, From one side gains the other: The wee path widens--resume the march, And he foils you, Ben my brother!

But Donald--(that name, I hope, will do)-- I wrong him if I call "foiling" The tramp of the callant, whistling the while As blithe as our kettle's boiling.

He had dared the danger from boyhood up, And now,--when perchance was waiting A lass at the brig below,--'twixt mount And moor would he stand debating?

Moreover this Donald was twenty-five, A glory of bone and muscle: Did a fiend dispute the right of way, Donald would try a tussle.

Lightsomely marched he out of the broad On to the narrow and narrow; A step more, rounding the angular rock, Reached the front straight as an arrow.

He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood, When--whom found he full-facing? What fellow in courage and wariness too, Had scouted ignoble pacing,

And left low safety to timid mates, And made for the dread dear danger, And gained the height where--who could guess He would meet with a rival ranger?

'T was a gold-red stag that stood and stared, Gigantic and magnific, By the wonder--ay, and the peril--struck Intelligent and pacific:

For a red deer is no fallow deer Grown cowardly through park-feeding; He batters you like a thunderbolt If you brave his haunts unheeding.

I doubt he could hardly perform _volte-face_ Had valor advised discretion: You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope No Blondin makes profession.

Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit, Though pride ill brooks retiring: Each eyed each--mute man, motionless beast-- Less fearing than admiring.

These are the moments when quite new sense, To meet some need as novel, Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource: --"Nor advance nor retreat but--grovel!"

And slowly, surely, never a whit Relaxing the steady tension Of eye-stare which binds man to beast,-- By an inch and inch declension,

Sank Donald sidewise down and down: Till flat, breast upwards, lying At his six-foot length, no corpse more still, --"If he cross me! The trick 's worth trying."

Minutes were an eternity; But a new sense was created In the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure, With eye-stare unabated,

Feelingly he extends a foot Which tastes the way ere it touches Earth's solid and just escapes man's soft, Nor hold of the same unclutches

Till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk, Lands itself no less finely: So a mother removes a fly from the face Of her babe asleep supinely.

And now 't is the haunch and hind-foot's turn --That 's hard: can the beast quite raise it? Yes, traversing half the prostrate length, His hoof-tip does not graze it.

Just one more lift! But Donald, you see, Was sportsman first, man after: A fancy lightened his caution through, --He wellnigh broke into laughter:

"It were nothing short of a miracle! Unrivalled, unexampled-- All sporting feats with this feat matched Were down and dead and trampled!"

The last of the legs as tenderly Follows the rest: or never Or now is the time! His knife in reach, And his right-hand loose--how clever!

For this can stab up the stomach's soft, While the left-hand grasps the pastern. A rise on the elbow, and--now 's the time Or never: this turn 's the last turn!

I shall dare to place myself by God Who scanned--for he does--each feature Of the face thrown up in appeal to him By the agonizing creature.

Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!" Up he sprang, back he staggered, Over he fell, and with him our friend --At following game no laggard.

Yet he was not dead when they picked next day From the gully's depth the wreck of him; His fall had been stayed by the stag beneath Who cushioned and saved the neck of him.

But the rest of his body--why, doctors said, Whatever could break was broken; Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast In a tumbler of port-wine soaken.

"That your life is left you, thank the stag!" Said they when--the slow cure ended-- They opened the hospital-door, and thence --Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended,

And minor damage left wisely alone,-- Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled, Out--what went in a Goliath wellnigh,-- Some half of a David hobbled.

"You must ask an alms from house to house: Sell the stag's head for a bracket, With its grand twelve tines--I 'd buy it myself-- And use the skin for a jacket!"

He was wiser, made both head and hide His win-penny: hands and knees on, Would manage to crawl--poor crab--by the roads In the misty stalking-season.

And if he discovered a bothy like this, Why, harvest was sure: folk listened. He told his tale to the lovers of Sport: Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened.

And when he had come to the close, and spread His spoils for the gazers' wonder, With "Gentlemen, here 's the skull of the stag I was over, thank God, not under!"--

The company broke out in applause; "By Jingo, a lucky cripple! Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread, And a tug, besides, at our tipple!"

And "There 's my pay for your pluck!" cried This, "And mine for your jolly story!" Cried That, while T' other--but he was drunk-- Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!"

I hope I gave twice as much as the rest; For, as Homer would say, "within grate Though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled, "Rightly rewarded,--Ingrate!"

SOLOMON AND BALKIS

Solomon King of the Jews and the Queen of Sheba, Balkis, Talk on the ivory throne, and we well may conjecture their talk is Solely of things sublime: why else has she sought Mount Zion, Climbed the six golden steps, and sat betwixt lion and lion?

She proves him with hard questions: before she has reached the middle He smiling supplies the end, straight solves them riddle by riddle; Until, dead-beaten at last, there is left no spirit in her, And thus would she close the game whereof she was first beginner:

"O wisest thou of the wise, world's marvel and wellnigh monster, One crabbed question more to construe or _vulgo_ conster! Who are those, of all mankind, a monarch of perfect wisdom Should open to, when they knock at _spheteron do_--that 's, his dome?"

The King makes tart reply: "Whom else but the wise his equals Should he welcome with heart and voice?--since, king though he be, such weak walls Of circumstance--power and pomp--divide souls each from other That whoso proves kingly in craft I needs must acknowledge my brother.

"Come poet, come painter, come sculptor, come builder--whate'er his condition, Is he prime in his art? We are peers! My insight has pierced the

## partition

And hails--for the poem, the picture, the statue, the building--my fellow! Gold 's gold though dim in the dust: court-polish soon turns it yellow.

"But tell me in turn, O thou to thy weakling sex superior, That for knowledge hast travelled so far yet seemest nowhit the wearier,-- Who are those, of all mankind, a queen like thyself, consummate In wisdom, should call to her side with an affable 'Up hither, come, mate'?"

"The Good are my mates--how else? Why doubt it?" the Queen upbridled: "Sure even above the Wise,--or in travel my eyes have idled,-- I see the Good stand plain: be they rich, poor, shrewd, or simple, If Good they only are.... Permit me to drop my wimple!"

And, in that bashful jerk of her body, she--peace, thou scoffer!-- Jostled the King's right-hand stretched courtously help to proffer, And so disclosed a portent: all unaware the Prince eyed The Ring which bore the Name--turned outside now from inside!

The truth-compelling Name!--and at once, "I greet the Wise--oh, Certainly welcome such to my court--with this proviso: The building must be my temple, my person stand forth the statue, The picture my portrait prove, and the poem my praise--you cat, you!"

But Solomon nonplussed? Nay! "Be truthful in turn!" so bade he: "See the Name, obey its hest!" And at once subjoins the lady, --"Provided the Good are the young, men strong and tall and proper, Such servants I straightway enlist,--which means" ... But the blushes stop her.

"Ah, Soul," the Monarch sighed, "that wouldst soar yet ever crawlest, How comes it thou canst discern the greatest yet choose the smallest, Unless because heaven is far, where wings find fit expansion, While creeping on all-fours suits, suffices the earthly mansion?

"Aspire to the Best! But which? There are Bests and Bests so many, With a _habitat_ each for each, earth's Best as much Best as any! On Lebanon roots the cedar--soil lofty, yet stony and sandy-- While hyssop, of worth in its way, on the wall grows low but handy.

"Above may the Soul spread wing, spurn body and sense beneath her; Below she must condescend, to plodding unbuoyed by ether. In heaven I yearn for knowledge, account all else inanity; On earth I confess an itch for the praise of fools--that 's Vanity.

"It is naught, it will go, it can never presume above to trouble me; But here,--why, it toys and tickles and teases, howe'er I redouble me In a doggedest of endeavors to play the indifferent. Therefore, Suppose we resume discourse? Thou hast travelled thus far: but wherefore?

"Solely for Solomon's sake, to see whom earth styles Sagest?" Through her blushes laughed the Queen. "For the sake of a Sage? The gay jest! On high, be communion with Mind--there, Body concerns not Balkis: Down here,--do I make too bold? Sage Solomon,--one fool's small kiss!"

CRISTINA AND MONALDESCHI

Ah, but how each loved each, Marquis! Here 's the gallery they trod Both together, he her god, She his idol,--lend your rod, Chamberlain!--ay, there they are--"_Quis_ _Separabit?_"--plain those two Touching words come into view, Apposite for me and you:

Since they witness to incessant Love like ours: King Francis, he-- Diane the adored one, she-- Prototypes of you and me. Everywhere is carved her Crescent With his Salamander-sign-- Flame-fed creature: flame benign To itself or, if malign,

Only to the meddling curious, --So, be warned, Sir! Where 's my head? How it wanders! What I said Merely meant--the creature, fed Thus on flame, was scarce injurious Save to fools who woke its ire, Thinking fit to play with fire. 'T is the Crescent you admire?

Then, be Diane! I 'll be Francis. Crescents change,--true!--wax and wane, Woman-like: male hearts retain Heat nor, once warm, cool again. So, we figure--such our chance is-- I as man and you as ... What? Take offence? My Love forgot He plays woman, I do not?

I--the woman? See my habit, Ask my people! Anyhow, Be we what we may, one vow Binds us, male or female. Now,-- Stand, Sir! Read! "_Quis separabit?_" Half a mile of pictured way Past these palace-walls to-day Traversed, this I came to say.

You must needs begin to love me; First I hated, then, at best, --Have it so!--I acquiesced; Pure compassion did the rest. From below thus raised above me, Would you, step by step, descend, Pity me, become my friend, Like me, like less, loathe at end?

That 's the ladder's round you rose by! That--my own foot kicked away, Having raised you: let it stay, Serve you for retreating? Nay. Close to me you climbed: as close by, Keep your station, though the peak Reached proves somewhat bare and bleak! Woman 's strong if man is weak.

Keep here, loving me forever! Love's look, gesture, speech, I claim:

## Act love, lie love, all the same--

Play as earnest were our game! Lonely I stood long: 't was clever When you climbed, before men's eyes, Spurned the earth and scaled the skies, Gained my peak and grasped your prize.

Here you stood, then, to men's wonder; Here you tire of standing? Kneel! Cure what giddiness you feel, This way! Do your senses reel? Not unlikely! What rolls under? Yawning death in yon abyss Where the waters whirl and hiss Round more frightful peaks than this.

Should my buffet dash you thither ... But be sage! No watery grave Needs await you: seeming brave Kneel on safe, dear timid slave! You surmised, when you climbed hither, Just as easy were retreat Should you tire, conceive unmeet Longer patience at my feet?

Me as standing, you as stooping,-- Who arranged for each the pose? Lest men think us friends turned foes, Keep the attitude you chose! Men are used to this same grouping-- I and you like statues seen. You and I, no third between, Kneel and stand! That makes the scene.

Mar it--and one buffet ... Pardon! Needless warmth--wise words in waste! 'T was prostration that replaced Kneeling, then? A proof of taste. Crouch, not kneel, while I mount guard on Prostrate love--become no waif, No estray to waves that chafe Disappointed--love 's so safe!

Waves that chafe? The idlest fancy! Peaks that scare? I think we know Walls enclose our sculpture: so Grouped, we pose in Fontainebleau. Up now! Wherefore hesitancy? Arm in arm and cheek by cheek, Laugh with me at waves and peak! Silent still? Why, pictures speak.

See, where Juno strikes Ixion, Primatice speaks plainly! Pooh-- Rather, Florentine Le Roux! I 've lost head for who is who-- So it swims and wanders! Fie on What still proves me female! Here, By the staircase!--for we near That dark "Gallery of the Deer."

Look me in the eyes once! Steady! Are you faithful now as erst On that eve when we two first Vowed at Avon, blessed and cursed Faith and falsehood? Pale already? Forward! Must my hand compel Entrance--this way? Exit--well, Somehow, somewhere. Who can tell?

What if to the selfsame place in Rustic Avon, at the door Of the village church once more, Where a tombstone paves the floor By that holy-water basin You appealed to--"As, below. This stone hides its corpse, e'en so I your secrets hide"? What ho!

Friends, my four! You, Priest, confess him! I have judged the culprit there: Execute my sentence! Care For no mail such cowards wear! Done, Priest? Then, absolve and bless him! Now--you three, stab thick and fast, Deep and deeper! Dead at last? Thanks, friends--Father, thanks! Aghast?

What one word of his confession Would you tell me, though I lured With that royal crown abjured Just because its bars immured Love too much? Love burst compression, Fled free, finally confessed All its secrets to that breast Whence ... let Avon tell the rest!

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT AND FUSELI

Oh, but is it not hard, Dear? Mine are the nerves to quake at a mouse: If a spider drops I shrink with fear: I should die outright in a haunted house; While for you--did the danger dared bring help-- From a lion's den I could steal his whelp, With a serpent round me, stand stock-still, Go sleep in a churchyard,--so would will Give me the power to dare and do Valiantly--just for you!

Much amiss in the head, Dear, I toil at a language, tax my brain Attempting to draw--the scratches here! I play, play, practise, and all in vain: But for you--if my triumph brought you pride, I would grapple with Greek Plays till I died, Paint a portrait of you--who can tell? Work my fingers off for your "Pretty well:" Language and painting and music too, Easily done--for you!

Strong and fierce in the heart, Dear, With--more than a will--what seems a power To pounce on my prey, love outbroke here In flame devouring and to devour. Such love has labored its best and worst To win me a lover; yet, last as first, I have not quickened his pulse one beat, Fixed a moment's fancy, bitter or sweet: Yet the strong fierce heart's love's labor's due, Utterly lost, was--you!

ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE

One day, it thundered and lightened. Two women, fairly frightened, Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed, At the feet of the man who sat betwixt; And "Mercy!" cried each--"if I tell the truth Of a passage in my youth!"

Said This: "Do you mind the morning I met your love with scorning? As the worst of the venom left my lips, I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips The mask from my soul with a kiss--I crawl His slave,--soul, body, and all!'"

Said That: "We stood to be married; The priest, or some one, tarried; 'If Paradise-door prove locked?' smiled you. I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 'Did one, that 's away, arrive--nor late Nor soon should unlock Hell's gate!'"

It ceased to lighten and thunder. Up started both in wonder, Looked round and saw that the sky was clear, Then laughed "Confess you believed us, Dear!" "I saw through the joke!" the man replied They re-seated themselves beside.

IXION

High in the dome, suspended, of Hell, sad triumph, behold us! Here the revenge of a God, there the amends of a Man. Whirling forever in torment, flesh once mortal, immortal Made--for a purpose of hate--able to die and revive, Pays to the uttermost pang, then, newly for payment replenished, Doles out--old yet young--agonies ever afresh; Whence the result above me: torment is bridged by a rainbow,-- Tears, sweat, blood,--each spasm, ghastly once, glorified now. Wrung, by the rush of the wheel ordained my place of reposing, Off in a sparklike spray,--flesh become vapor through pain,-- Flies the bestowment of Zeus, soul's vaunted bodily vesture, Made that his feats observed gain the approval of Man,-- Flesh that he fashioned with sense of the earth and the sky and the ocean, Framed should pierce to the star, fitted to pore on the plant,-- All, for a purpose of hate, re-framed, re-fashioned, re-fitted, Till, consummate at length,--lo, the employment of sense! Pain's mere minister now to the soul, once pledged to her pleasure-- Soul, if untrammelled by flesh, unapprehensive of pain! Body, professed soul's slave, which serving beguiled and betrayed her, Made things false seem true, cheated through eye and through ear, Lured thus heart and brain to believe in the lying reported,-- Spurn but the trait'rous slave, uttermost atom, away, What should obstruct soul's rush on the real, the only apparent? Say I have erred,--how else? Was I Ixion or Zeus? Foiled by my senses I dreamed; I doubtless awaken in wonder: This proves shine, that--shade? Good was the evil that seemed? Shall I, with sight thus gained, by torture be taught I was blind once? Sisuphos, teaches thy stone--Tantalos, teaches thy thirst Aught which unaided sense, purged pure, less plainly demonstrates? No, for the past was dream: now that the dreamers awake, Sisuphos scouts low fraud, and to Tantalos treason is folly. Ask of myself, whose form melts on the murderous wheel, What is the sin which throe and throe prove sin to the sinner! Say the false charge was true,--thus do I expiate, say, Arrogant thought, word, deed,--mere man who conceited me godlike, Sat beside Zeus, my friend--knelt before Heré, my love! What were the need but of pitying power to touch and disperse it, Film-work--eye's and ear's--all the distraction of sense? How should the soul not see, not hear,--perceive and as plainly Render, in thought, word, deed, back again truth--not a lie? "Ay, but the pain is to punish thee!" Zeus, once more for a pastime, Play the familiar, the frank! Speak and have speech in return! I was of Thessaly king, there ruled and a people obeyed me: Mine to establish the law, theirs to obey it or die: Wherefore? Because of the good to the people, because of the honor Thence accruing to me, king, the king's law was supreme. What of the weakling, the ignorant criminal? Not who, excuseless, Breaking my law braved death, knowing his deed and its due-- Nay, but the feeble and foolish, the poor transgressor, of purpose No whit more than a tree, born to erectness of bole, Palm or plane or pine, we laud if lofty, columnar-- Loathe if athwart, askew,--leave to the axe and the flame! Where is the vision may penetrate earth and beholding acknowledge Just one pebble at root ruined the straightness of stem? Whose fine vigilance follows the sapling, accounts for the failure, --Here blew wind, so it bent: there the snow lodged, so it broke? Also the tooth of the beast, bird's bill, mere bite of the insect Gnawed, gnarled, warped their worst: passive it lay to offence. King--I was man, no more: what I recognized faulty I punished, Laying it prone: be sure, more than a man had I proved, Watch and ward o'er the sapling at birthtime had saved it, nor simply Owned the distortion's excuse,--hindered it wholly: nay, more-- Even a man, as I sat in my place to do judgment, and pallid Criminals passing to doom shuddered away at my foot, Could I have probed through the face to the heart, read plain a repentance, Crime confessed fools' play, virtue ascribed to the wise, Had I not stayed the consignment to doom, not dealt the renewed ones Life to retraverse the past, light to retrieve the misdeed? Thus had I done, and thus to have done much more it behooves thee, Zeus who madest man--flawless or faulty, thy work! What if the charge were true, as thou mouthest,--Ixion the cherished Minion of Zeus grew vain, vied with the godships and fell, Forfeit through arrogance? Stranger! I clothed, with the grace of our human, Inhumanity--gods, natures I likened to ours. Man among men I had borne me till gods forsooth must regard me --Nay, must approve, applaud, claim as a comrade at last. Summoned to enter their circle, I sat--their equal, how other? Love should be absolute love, faith is in fulness or naught. "I am thy friend, be mine!" smiled Zeus: "If Heré attract thee," Blushed the imperial cheek, "then--as thy heart may suggest!" Faith in me sprang to the faith, my love hailed love as its fellow, "Zeus, we are friends--how fast! Heré, my heart for thy heart!" Then broke smile into fury of frown, and the thunder of "Hence, fool!" Then through the kiss laughed scorn "Limbs or a cloud was to clasp?" Then from Olumpos to Erebos, then from the rapture to torment, Then from the fellow of gods--misery's mate, to the man! --Man henceforth and forever, who lent from the glow of his nature Warmth to the cold, with light colored the black and the blank. So did a man conceive of your passion, you passion-protesters! So did he trust, so love--being the truth of your lie! You to aspire to be Man! Man made you who vainly would ape him: You are the hollowness, he--filling you, falsifies void. Even as--witness the emblem, Hell's sad triumph suspended, Born of my tears, sweat, blood--bursting to vapor above-- Arching my torment, an iris ghostlike startles the darkness, Cold white--jewelry quenched--justifies, glorifies pain. Strive, mankind, though strife endure through endless obstruction, Stage after stage, each rise marred by as certain a fall! Baffled forever--yet never so baffled but, e'en in the baffling, When Man's strength proves weak, checked in the body or soul, Whatsoever the medium, flesh or essence,--Ixion's Made for a purpose of hate,--clothing the entity Thou, --Medium whence that entity strives for the Not-Thou beyond it, Fire elemental, free, frame unencumbered, the All,-- Never so baffled but--when, on the verge of an alien existence, Heartened to press, by pangs burst to the infinite Pure, Nothing is reached but the ancient weakness still that arrests strength, Circumambient still, still the poor human array, Pride and revenge and hate and cruelty--all it has burst through, Thought to escape,--fresh formed, found in the fashion it fled, Never so baffled but--when Man pays the price of endeavor, Thunderstruck, downthrust, Tartaros-doomed to the wheel,-- Then, ay, then, from the tears and sweat and blood of his torment, E'en from the triumph of Hell, up let him look and rejoice! What is the influence, high o'er Hell, that turns to a rapture Pain--and despair's murk mist blends in a rainbow of hope? What is beyond the obstruction, stage by stage though it baffle? Back must I fall, confess "Ever the weakness I fled"? No, for beyond, far, far is a Purity all-unobstructed! Zeus was Zeus--not Man: wrecked by his weakness, I whirl. Out of the wreck I rise--past Zeus to the Potency o'er him! I--to have hailed him my friend! I--to have clasped her--my love! Pallid birth of my pain,--where light, where light is, aspiring Thither I rise, whilst thou--Zeus, keep the godship and sink!

JOCHANAN HAKKADOSH

"This now, this other story makes amends And justifies our Mishna," quoth the Jew Aforesaid. "Tell it, learnedest of friends!"

* * * * *

A certain morn broke beautiful and blue O'er Schiphaz city, bringing joy and mirth, --So had ye deemed; while the reverse was true,

Since one small house there gave a sorrow birth In such black sort that, to each faithful eye, Midnight, not morning settled on the earth.

How else, when it grew certain thou wouldst die, Our much-enlightened master, Israel's prop, Eximious Jochanan Ben Sabbathai?

Old, yea, but, undiminished of a drop, The vital essence pulsed through heart and brain; Time left unsickled yet the plenteous crop

On poll and chin and cheek, whereof a skein Handmaids might weave--hairs silk-soft, silver-white, Such as the wool-plant's; none the less in vain

Had Physic striven her best against the spite Of fell disease: the Rabbi must succumb; And, round the couch whereon in piteous plight

He lay a-dying, scholars,--awe-struck, dumb Throughout the night-watch,--roused themselves and spoke One to the other: "Ere death's touch benumb

"His active sense,--while yet 'neath Reason's yoke Obedient toils his tongue,--befits we claim The fruit of long experience, bid this oak

"Shed us an acorn which may, all the same, Grow to a temple-pillar,--dear that day!-- When Israel's scattered seed finds place and name

"Among the envious nations. Lamp us, pray, Thou the Enlightener! Partest hence in peace? Hailest without regret--much less, dismay--

"The hour of thine approximate release From fleshly bondage soul hath found obstruct? Calmly envisagest the sure increase

"Of knowledge? Eden's tree must hold unplucked Some apple, sure, has never tried thy tooth, Juicy with sapience thou hast sought, not sucked?

"Say, does age acquiesce in vanished youth? Still towers thy purity above--as erst-- Our pleasant follies? Be thy last word--truth!"

The Rabbi groaned; then, grimly, "Last as first The truth speak I--in boyhood who began Striving to live an angel, and, amerced

"For such presumption, die now hardly man. What have I proved of life? To live, indeed, That much I learned: but here lies Jochanan

"More luckless than stood David when, to speed His fighting with the Philistine, they brought Saul's harness forth: whereat, 'Alack, I need

"Armor to arm me, but have never fought With sword and spear, nor tried to manage shield, Proving arms' use, as well-trained warrior ought,

"'Only a sling and pebbles can I wield!' So he: while I, contrariwise, 'No trick Of weapon helpful on the battlefield

"'Comes unfamiliar to my theoric: But, bid me put in practice what I know, Give me a sword--it stings like Moses' stick,

"'A serpent I let drop apace.' E'en so, I,--able to comport me at each stage Of human life as never here below

"Man played his part,--since mine the heritage Of wisdom carried to that perfect pitch, Ye rightly praise,--I, therefore, who, thus sage,

"Could sure act man triumphantly, enrich Life's annals, with example how I played Lover, Bard, Soldier, Statist,--(all of which

"Parts in presentment failing, cries invade The world's ear--'Ah, the Past, the pearl-gift thrown To hogs, time's opportunity we made

"'So light of, only recognized when flown! Had we been wise!')---in fine, I--wise enough,-- What profit brings me wisdom never shown

"Just when its showing would from each rebuff Shelter weak virtue, threaten back to bounds Encroaching vice, tread smooth each track too rough

"For youth's unsteady footstep, climb the rounds Of life's long ladder, one by slippery one, Yet make no stumble? Me hard fate confounds

"With that same crowd of wailers I outrun By promising to teach another cry Of more hilarious mood than theirs, the sun

"I look my last at is insulted by. What cry,--ye ask? Give ear on every side! Witness yon Lover! 'How entrapped am I!

"'Methought, because a virgin's rose-lip vied With ripe Khubbezleh's, needs must beauty mate With meekness and discretion in a bride:

"'Bride she became to me who wail--too late-- _Unwise I loved!_' That 's one cry. 'Mind 's my gift: I might have loaded me with lore, full weight

"'Pressed down and running over at each rift O' the brain-bag where the famished clung and fed. I filled it with what rubbish!--would not sift

"'The wheat from chaff, sound grain from musty--shed Poison abroad as oft as nutriment-- And sighing say but as my fellows said,

"'_Unwise I learned!_' That 's two. 'In dwarfs-play spent Was giant's prowess: warrior all unversed In war's right waging, I struck brand, was lent

"'For steel's fit service, on mere stone--and cursed Alike the shocked limb and the shivered steel, Seeing too late the blade's true use which erst

"How was I blind to! My cry swells the peal-- _Unwise I fought!_' That 's three. But wherefore waste Breath on the wailings longer? Why reveal

"A root of bitterness whereof the taste Is noisome to Humanity at large? First we get Power, but Power absurdly placed

"In Folly's keeping, who resigns her charge To Wisdom when all Power grows nothing worth: Bones marrowless are mocked with helm and targe

"When, like your Master's, soon below the earth With worms shall warfare only be. Farewell, Children! I die a failure since my birth!"

"Not so!" arose a protest, as, pell-mell, They pattered from his chamber to the street, Bent on a last resource. Our Targums tell

That such resource there is. Put case, there meet The Nine Points of Perfection--rarest chance-- Within some saintly teacher whom the fleet

Years, in their blind implacable advance, O'ertake before fit teaching born of these Have magnified his scholars' countenance,--

If haply folk compassionating please To render up--according to his store, Each one--a portion of the life he sees

Hardly worth saving when 't is set before Earth's benefit should the Saint, Hakkadosh, Favored thereby, attain to full fourscore--

If such contribute (Scoffer, spare thy "Bosh!") A year, a month, a day, an hour--to eke Life out,--in him away the gift shall wash

That much of ill-spent time recorded, streak The twilight of the so-assisted sage With a new sunrise: truth, though strange to speak!

Quick to the doorway, then, where youth and age, All Israel, thronging, waited for the last News of the loved one. "'T is the final stage:

"Art's utmost done, the Rabbi's feet tread fast The way of all flesh!" So announced that apt Olive-branch Tsaddik: "Yet, O Brethren, east

"No eye to earthward! Look where heaven has clapped Morning's extinguisher--yon ray-shot robe Of sun-threads--on the constellation mapped

"And mentioned by our Elders,--yea, from Job Down to Satam,--as figuring forth--what? Perpend a mystery! Ye call it _Dob_,

"'The Bear': I trow, a wiser name than that Were _Aish_--'The Bier': a corpse those four stars hold, Which--are not those Three Daughters weeping at

"_Banoth?_ I judge so: list while I unfold The reason. As in twice twelve hours this Bier Goes and returns, about the east-cone rolled,

"So may a setting luminary here Be rescued from extinction, rolled anew Upon its track of labor, strong and clear,

"About the Pole--that Salem, every Jew Helps to build up when thus he saves some Saint Ordained its architect. Ye grasp the clue

"To all ye seek? The Rabbi's lamp-flame faint Sinks: would ye raise it? Lend then life from yours, Spare each his oil-drop! Do I need acquaint

"The Chosen how self-sacrifice ensures Tenfold requital?--urge ye emulate The fame of those Old Just Ones death procures

"Such praise for, that 't is now men's sole debate Which of the Ten, who volunteered at Rome To die for glory to our Race, was great

"Beyond his fellows? Was it thou--the comb Of iron carded, flesh from bone, away, While thy lips sputtered through their bloody foam

"Without a stoppage (O brave Akiba!) 'Hear, Israel, our Lord God is One'? Or thou, Jischab?--who smiledst, burning, since there lay,

"Burning along with thee, our Law! I trow, Such martyrdom might tax flesh to afford: While that for which I make petition now,

"To what amounts it? Youngster, wilt thou hoard Each minute of long years thou look'st to spend In dalliance with thy spouse? Hast thou so soared,

"Singer of songs, all out of sight of friend And teacher, warbling like a woodland bird, There 's left no Selah, 'twixt two psalms, to lend

"Our late-so-tuneful quirist? Thou, averred The fighter born to plant our lion-flag Once more on Zion's mount,--doth all-unheard,

"My pleading fail to move thee? Toss some rag Shall stanch our wound, some minute never missed From swordsman's lustihood like thine! Wilt lag

"In liberal bestowment, show close fist When open palm we look for,--thou, wide-known For statecraft? whom, 't is said, and if thou list,

"The Shah himself would seat beside his throne, So valued were advice from thee" ... But here He stopped short: such a hubbub! Not alone

From those addressed, but far as well as near The crowd brought into clamor: "Mine, mine, mine-- Lop from my life the excrescence, never fear!

"At me thou lookedst, markedst me! Assign To me that privilege of granting life-- Mine, mine!" Then he: "Be patient! I combine

"The needful portions only, wage no strife With Nature's law nor seek to lengthen out The Rabbi's day unduly. 'T is the knife

"I stop,--would eat its thread too short. About As much as helps life last the proper term, The appointed Fourscore,--that I crave, and scout

"A too-prolonged existence. Let the worm Change at fit season to the butterfly! And here a story strikes me, to confirm

"This judgment. Of our worthies, none ranks high As Perida who kept the famous school: None rivalled him in patience: none! For why?

"In lecturing it was his constant rule, Whatever he expounded, to repeat --Ay, and keep on repeating, lest some fool

"Should fail to understand him fully--(feat Unparalleled, Uzzean!)--do ye mark?-- Five hundred times! So might he entrance beat

"For knowledge into howsoever dark And dense the brain-pan. Yet it happed, at close Of one especial lecture, not one spark

"Of light was found to have illumed the rows Of pupils round their pedagogue. 'What, still Impenetrable to me? Then--here goes!'

"And for a second time he sets the rill Of knowledge running, and five hundred times More re-repeats the matter--and gains _nil_.

"Out broke a voice from heaven: 'Thy patience climbs Even thus high. Choose! Wilt thou, rather, quick Ascend to bliss--or, since thy zeal sublimes

"'Such drudgery, will thy back still bear its crick, Bent o'er thy class,--thy voice drone spite of drouth,-- Five hundred years more at thy desk wilt stick?'

"'To heaven with me!' was in the good man's mouth, When all his scholars--cruel-kind were they!-- Stopped utterance, from East, West, North and South,

"Rending the welkin with their shout of 'Nay-- No heaven as yet for our instructor! Grant Five hundred years on earth for Perida!'

"And so long did he keep instructing! Want Our Master no such misery! I but take Three months of life marital. Ministrant

"Be thou of so much, Poet! Bold I make, Swordsman, with thy frank offer!--and conclude, Statist, with thine! One year,--ye will not shake

"My purpose to accept no more. So rude? The very boys and girls, forsooth, must press And proffer their addition? Thanks! The mood

"Is laudable, but I reject, no less, One month, week, day of life more. Leave my gown, Ye overbold ones! Your life's gift, you guess,

"Were good as any? Rudesby, get thee down! Set my feet free, or fear my staff! Farewell, Seniors and saviors, sharers of renown

"With Jochanan henceforward!" Straightway fell Sleep on the sufferer; who awoke in health, Hale everyway, so potent was the spell.

* * * * *

O the rare Spring-time! Who is he by stealth Approaches Jochanan?--embowered that sits Under his vine and figtree 'mid the wealth

Of garden-sights and sounds, since intermits Never the turtle's coo, nor stays nor stints The rose her smell. In homage that befits

The musing Master, Tsaddik, see, imprints A kiss on the extended foot, low bends Forehead to earth, then, all-obsequious, hints

"What if it should be time? A period ends-- That of the Lover's gift--his quarter-year Of lustihood: 't is just thou make amends,

"Return that loan with usury: so, here Come I, of thy Disciples delegate, Claiming our lesson from thee. Make appear

"Thy profit from experience! Plainly state How men should Love!" Thus he: and to him thus The Rabbi: "Love, ye call it?--rather, Hate!

"What wouldst thou? Is it needful I discuss Wherefore new sweet wine, poured in bottlescaked With old strong wine's deposit, offers us

"Spoilt liquor we recoil from, thirst-unslaked? Like earth-smoke from a crevice, out there wound-- Languors and yearnings: not a sense but ached

"Weighed on by fancied form and feature, sound Of silver word and sight of sunny smile: No beckoning of a flower-branch, no profound

"Purple of noon-oppression, no light wile O' the West wind, but transformed itself till--brief-- Before me stood the phantasy ye style

"Youth's love, the joy that shall not come to grief, Born to endure, eternal, unimpaired By custom the accloyer, time the thief.

"Had Age's hard cold knowledge only spared That ignorance of Youth! But now the dream, Fresh as from Paradise, alighting fared

"As fares the pigeon, finding what may seem Her nest's safe hollow holds a snake inside Coiled to enclasp her. See, Eve stands supreme

"In youth and beauty! Take her for thy bride! What Youth deemed crystal, Age finds out was dew Morn set a-sparkle, but which noon quick dried

"While Youth bent gazing at its red and blue Supposed perennial,--never dreamed the sun Which kindled the display would quench it too.

"Graces of shape and color--every one With its appointed period of decay When ripe to purpose! 'Still, these dead and done,

"'Survives the woman-nature--the soft sway Of undefinable omnipotence O'er our strong male-stuff, we of Adam's clay.'

"Ay, if my physics taught not why and whence The attraction! Am I like the simple steer Who, from his pasture lured inside the fence,

"Where yoke and goad await him, holds that mere Kindliness prompts extension of the hand Hollowed for barley, which drew near and near

"His nose--in proof that, of the hornèd band, The farmer best affected him? Beside, Steer, since his calfhood, got to understand

"Farmers a many in the world so wide Were ready with a handful just as choice Or choicer--maize and cummin, treats untried.

"Shall I wed wife, and all my days rejoice I gained the peacock? 'Las me, round I look, And lo--'With me thou wouldst have blamed no voice

"'Like hers that daily deafens like a rook: I am the phœnix!'--'I, the lark, the dove, --The owl,' for aught knows he who blindly took

"Peacock for partner, while the vale, the grove, The plain held bird-mates in abundance. There! Youth, try fresh capture! Age has found out Love

"Long ago. War seems better worth man's care. But leave me! Disappointment finds a balm Haply in slumber." "This first step o' the stair

"To knowledge fails me, but the victor's palm Lies on the next to tempt him overleap A stumbling-block. Experienced, gather calm,

"Thou excellence of Judah, cured by sleep Which ushers in the Warrior, to replace The Lover! At due season I shall reap

"Fruit of my planting!" So, with lengthened face, Departed Tsaddik: and three moons more waxed And waned, and not until the summer-space

Waned likewise, any second visit taxed The Rabbi's patience. But at three months' end Behold, supine beneath a rock, relaxed

The sage lay musing till the noon should spend Its ardor. Up comes Tsaddik, who but he, With "Master, may I warn thee, nor offend,

"That time comes round again? We look to see Sprout from the old branch--not the youngling twig-- But fruit of sycamine: deliver me,

"To share among my fellows, some plump fig Juicy as seedy! That same man of war, Who, with a scantling of his store, made big

"Thy starveling nature, caused thee, safe from scar, To share his gains by long acquaintanceship With bump and bruise and all the knocks that are

"Of battle dowry,--he bids loose thy lip, Explain the good of battle! Since thou know'st, Let us know likewise! Fast the moments slip,

"More need that we improve them!"--"Ay, we boast, We warriors in our youth, that with the sword Man goes the swiftliest to the uttermost--

"Takes the straight way through lands yet unexplored To absolute Right and Good,--may so obtain God's glory and man's weal too long ignored,

"Too late attained by preachments all in vain-- The passive process. Knots get tangled worse By toying with: does cut cord close again?

"Moreover there is blessing in the curse Peace-praisers call war. What so sure evolves All the capacities of soul, proves nurse

"Of that self-sacrifice in men which solves The riddle--_Wherein differs Man from beast?_ Foxes boast cleverness and courage wolves:

"Nowhere but in mankind is found the least Touch of an impulse 'To our fellows--good I' the highest!--not diminished but increased

"'By the condition plainly understood --Such good shall be attained at price of hurt I' the highest to ourselves!' Fine sparks that brood

"Confusedly in Man, 't is war bids spurt Forth into flame: as fares the meteor-mass, Whereof no particle but holds inert

"Some seed of light and heat, however crass The enclosure, yet avails not to discharge Its radiant birth before there come to pass

"Some push external,--strong to set at large Those dormant fire-seeds; whirl them in a trice Through heaven, and light up earth from marge to marge:

"Since force by motion makes--what erst was ice-- Crash into fervency and so expire, Because some Djinn has hit on a device

"For proving the full prettiness of fire! Ay, thus we prattle--young: but old--why, first, Where 's that same Right and Good--(the wise inquire)--

"So absolute, it warrants the outburst Of blood, tears, all war's woeful consequence, That comes of the fine flaring? Which plague cursed

"The more your benefited Man--offence, Or what suppressed the offender? Say it did-- Show us the evil cured by violence,

"Submission cures not also! Lift the lid From the maturing crucible, we find Its slow sure coaxing-out of virtue, hid

"In that same meteor-mass, hath uncombined Those particles and, yielding for result Gold, not mere flame, by so much leaves behind

"The heroic product. E'en the simple cult Of Edom's children wisely bids them turn Cheek to the smiter with '_Sic Jesus vult._'

"Say there 's a tyrant by whose death we earn Freedom, and justify a war to wage: Good!--were we only able to discern

"Exactly how to reach and catch and cage Him only and no innocent beside! Whereas the folk whereon war wreaks its rage

"--How shared they his ill-doing? Far and wide The victims of our warfare strew the plain, Ten thousand dead, whereof not one but died

"In faith that vassals owed their suzerain Life: therefore each paid tribute--honest soul-- To that same Right and Good ourselves are fain

"To call exclusively our end. From bole (Since ye accept in me a sycamine) Pluck, eat, digest a fable--yea, the sole

"Fig I afford you! 'Dost thou dwarf my vine?' (So did a certain husbandman address The tree which faced his field.) 'Receive condign

"'Punishment, prompt removal by the stress Of axe I forthwith lay unto thy root!' Long did he hack and hew, the root no less

"As long defied him, for its tough strings shoot As deep down as the boughs above aspire: All that he did was--shake to the tree's foot

"Leafage and fruitage, things we most require For shadow and refreshment: which good deed Thoroughly done, behold the axe-haft tires

"His hand, and he desisting leaves unfreed The vine he hacked and hewed for. Comes a frost, One natural night's work, and there 's little need

"Of hacking, hewing: lo, the tree 's a ghost! Perished it starves, black death from topmost bough To farthest-reaching fibre! Shall I boast

"My rough work--warfare--helped more? Loving, now-- That, by comparison, seems wiser, since The loving fool was able to avow

"He could effect his purpose, just evince Love's willingness,--once 'ware of what she lacked, His loved one,--to go work for that, nor wince

"At self-expenditure: he neither hacked Nor hewed, but when the lady of his field Required defence because the sun attacked,

"He, failing to obtain a fitter shield, Would interpose his body, and so blaze, Blest in the burning. Ah, were mine to wield

"The intellectual weapon--poet-lays,-- How preferably had I sung one song Which ... but my sadness sinks me: go your ways!

"I sleep out disappointment." "Come along, Never lose heart! There 's still as much again Of our bestowment left to right the wrong

"Done by its earlier moiety--explain Wherefore, who may! The Poet's mood comes next. Was he not wishful the poetic vein

"Should pulse within him? Jochanan, thou reck'st Little of what a generous flood shall soon Float thy clogged spirit free and unperplexed

"Above dry dubitation! Song 's the boon Shall make amends for my untoward mistake That Joshua-like thou couldst bid sun and moon--

"Fighter and Lover,--which for most men make All they descry in heaven,--stand both stock-still And lend assistance. Poet shalt thou wake!"

Autumn brings Tsaddik. "Ay, there speeds the rill Loaded with leaves: a scowling sky, beside: The wind makes olive-trees up yonder hill

"Whiten and shudder--symptoms far and wide Of gleaning-time's approach; and glean good store May I presume to trust we shall, thou tried

"And ripe experimenter! Three months more Have ministered to growth of Song: that graft Into thy sterile stock has found at core

"Moisture, I warrant, hitherto unquaffed By boughs, however florid, wanting sap Of prose-experience which provides the draught

"Which song-sprouts, wanting, wither: vain we tap A youngling stem all green and immature; Experience must secrete the stuff, our hap

"Will be to quench Man's thirst with, glad and sure That fancy wells up through corrective fact: Missing which test of truth, though flowers allure

"The goodman's eye with promise, soon the pact Is broken, and 'tis flowers--mere words--he finds When things--that's fruit--he looked for. Well, once cracked

"The nut, how glad my tooth the kernel grinds! Song may henceforth boast substance! Therefore, hail Proser and poet, perfect in both kinds!

"Thou from whose eye hath dropped the envious scale Which hides the truth of things and substitutes Deceptive show, unaided optics fail

"To transpierce,--hast entrusted to the lute's Soft but sure guardianship some unrevealed Secret shall lift mankind above the brutes

"As only knowledge can?" "A fount unsealed" (Sighed Jochanan) "should seek the heaven in leaps To die in dew-gems--not find death, congealed

"By contact with the cavern's nether deeps, Earth's secretest foundation where, enswathed In dark and fear, primeval mystery sleeps--

"Petrific fount wherein my fancies bathed And straight turned ice. My dreams of good and fair In soaring upwards had dissolved, unscathed

"By any influence of the kindly air, Singing, as each took flight, 'The Future--that's Our destination, mists turn rainbows there,

"'Which sink to fog, confounded in the flats O' the Present! Day's the song-time for the lark, Night for her music boasts but owls and bats.

"'And what's the Past but night--the deep and dark Ice-spring I speak of, corpse-thicked with its drowned Dead fancies which no sooner touched the mark

"'They aimed at--fact--than all at once they found Their film-wings freeze, henceforth unfit to reach And roll in ether, revel--robed and crowned

"'As truths confirmed by falsehood all and each-- Sovereign and absolute and ultimate! Up with them, skyward, Youth, ere Age impeach

"'Thy least of promises to reinstate Adam in Eden!' Sing on, ever sing, Chirp till thou burst!--the fool cicada's fate,

"Who holds that after Summer next comes Spring, Than Summer's self sun-warmed, spice-scented more. Fighting was better! There, no fancy-fling

"Pitches you past the point was reached of yore By Samsons, Abners, Joabs, Judases, The mighty men of valor who, before

"Our little day, did wonders none profess To doubt were fable and not fact, so trust By fancy-flights to emulate much less.

"Were I a Statesman, now! Why, that were just To pinnacle my soul, mankind above, A-top the universe: no vulgar lust

"To gratify--fame, greed, at this remove Looked down upon so far--or overlooked So largely, rather--that mine eye should rove

"World-wide and rummage earth, the many-nooked, Yet find no unit of the human flock Caught straying but straight comes back hooked and crooked

"By the strong shepherd who, from out his stock Of aids proceeds to treat each ailing fleece, Here stimulate to growth, curtail and dock

"There, baldness or excrescence,--that, with grease, This, with up-grubbing of the bristly patch Born of the tick-bite. How supreme a peace

"Steals o'er the Statist,--while, in wit, a match For shrewd Ahithophel, in wisdom ... well, His name escapes me--somebody, at watch

"And ward, the fellow of Ahithophel In guidance of the Chosen!"--at which word Eyes closed and fast asleep the Rabbi fell.

"Cold weather!" shivered Tsaddik. "Yet the hoard Of the sagacious ant shows garnered grain, Ever abundant most when fields afford

"Least pasture, and alike disgrace the plain Tall tree and lowly shrub. 'T is so with us Mortals: our age stores wealth ye seek in vain

"While busy youth culls just what we discuss At leisure in the last days: and the last Truly are these for Jochanan, whom thus

"I make one more appeal to! Thine amassed Experience, now or never, let escape Some portion of! For I perceive aghast

"The end approaches, while they jeer and jape, These sons of Shimei: 'Justify your boast! What have ye gained from Death by twelve months' rape?'

"Statesman, what cure hast thou for--least and most-- Popular grievances? What nostrum, say, Will make the Rich and Poor, expertly dosed,

"Forget disparity, bid each go gay, That, with his bauble,--with his burden, this? Propose an alkahest shall melt away

"Men's lacquer, show by prompt analysis Which is the metal, which the make-believe, So that no longer brass shall find, gold miss

"Coinage and currency? Make haste, retrieve The precious moments, Master!" Whereunto There snarls an "Ever laughing in thy sleeve,

"Pert Tsaddik? Youth indeed sees plain a clue To guide man where life's wood is intricate: How shall he fail to thrid its thickest through

"When every oak-trunk takes the eye? Elate He goes from hole to brushwood, plunging finds-- Smothered in briers--that the small's the great!

"All men are men: I would all minds were minds! Whereas 't is just the many's mindless mass That most needs helping: laborers and hinds

"We legislate for--not the cultured class Which law-makes for itself nor needs the whip And bridle,--proper help for mule and ass,

"Did the brutes know! In vain our statesmanship Strives at contenting the rough multitude: Still the ox cries ''T is me thou shouldst equip

"'With equine trappings!' or, in humbler mood, 'Cribful of corn for me! and, as for work-- Adequate rumination o'er my food!'

"Better remain a Poet! Needs it irk Such an one if light, kindled in his sphere, Fail to transfuse the Mizraim cold and murk

"Round about Goshen? Though light disappear, Shut inside,--temporary ignorance Got outside of, lo, light emerging clear

"Shows each astonished starer the expanse Of heaven made bright with knowledge! That's the way, The only way--I see it at a glance--

"To legislate for earth! As poet ... Stay! What is ... I would that ... were it ... I had been ... O sudden change, as if my arid clay

"Burst into bloom!" ... "A change indeed, I ween, And change the last!" sighed Tsaddik as he kissed The closing eyelids. "Just as those serene

"Princes of Night apprised me! Our acquist Of life is spent, since corners only four Hath Aisch, and each in turn was made desist

"In passage round the Pole (O Mishna's lore-- Little it profits here!) by strenuous tug Of friends who eked out thus to full fourscore

"The Rabbi's years. I see each shoulder shrug! What have we gained? Away the Bier may roll! To-morrow, when the Master's grave is dug,

"In with his body I may pitch the scroll I hoped to glorify with, text and gloss, My Science of Man's Life: one blank's the whole!

"Love, war, song, statesmanship--no gain, all loss, The stars' bestowment! We on our return To-morrow merely find--not gold but dross,

"The body not the soul. Come, friends, we learn At least thus much by our experiment-- That--that ... well, find what, whom it may concern!"

But next day through the city rumors went Of a new persecution; so, they fled All Israel, each man,--this time,--from his tent,

Tsaddik among the foremost. When, the dread Subsiding, Israel ventured back again Some three months after, to the cave they sped

Where lay the Sage,--a reverential train! Tsaddik first enters. "What is this I view? The Rabbi still alive? No stars remain

"Of Aisch to stop within their courses. True, I mind me, certain gamesome boys must urge Their offerings on me: can it be--one threw

"Life at him and it stuck? There needs the scourge To teach that urchin manners! Prithee, grant Forgiveness if we pretermit thy dirge

"Just to explain no friend was ministrant, This time, of life to thee! Some jackanapes, I gather, has presumed to foist his scant

"Scurvy unripe existence--wilding grapes Grass-green and sorrel-sour--on that grand wine, Mighty as mellow, which, so fancy shapes

"May fitly image forth this life of thine Fed on the last low fattening lees--condensed Elixir, no milk-mildness of the vine!

"Rightly with Tsaddik wert thou now incensed Had he been witting of the mischief wrought When, for elixir, verjuice he dispensed!"

And slowly woke,--like Shushan's flower besought By over-curious handling to unloose The curtained secrecy wherein she thought

Her captive bee, 'mid store of sweets to choose, Would loll, in gold pavilioned lie unteased, Sucking on, sated never,--whose, O whose

Might seem that countenance, uplift, all eased Of old distraction and bewilderment, Absurdly happy? "How ye have appeased

"The strife within me, bred this whole content, This utter acquiescence in my past, Present and future life,--by whom was lent

"The power to work this miracle at last,-- Exceeds my guess. Though--_ignorance confirmed_ _By knowledge_ sounds like paradox, I cast

"Vainly about to tell you--fitlier termed-- Of calm struck by encountering opposites, Each nullifying either! Henceforth wormed

"From out my heart is every snake that bites The dove that else would brood there: doubt, which kills With hiss of 'What if sorrows end delights?'

"Fear which stings ease with 'Work the Master wills!' Experience which coils round and strangles quick Each hope with 'Ask the Past if hoping skills

"'To work accomplishment, or proves a trick Wiling thee to endeavor! Strive, fool, stop Nowise, so live, so die--that's law! why kick

"'Against the pricks?' All out-wormed! Slumber, drop Thy films once more and veil the bliss within! Experience strangle hope? Hope waves a-top

"Her wings triumphant! Come what will, I win, Whoever loses! Every dream's assured Of soberest fulfilment. Where's a sin

"Except in doubting that the light, which lured The unwary into darkness, meant no wrong Had I but marched on bold, nor paused immured

"By mists I should have pressed through, passed along My way henceforth rejoicing? Not the boy's Passionate impulse he conceits so strong,

"Which, at first touch, truth, bubble-like, destroys,-- Not the man's slow conviction 'Vanity Of vanities--alike my griefs and joys!'

"Ice!--thawed (look up) each bird, each insect by-- (Look round) by all the plants that break in bloom, (Look down) by every dead friend's memory

"That smiles 'Am I the dust within my tomb?' Not either, but both these--amalgam rare-- Mix in a product, not from Nature's womb,

"But stuff which He the Operant--who shall dare Describe His operation?--strikes alive And thaumaturgic. I nor know nor care

"How from this tohu-bohu--hopes which dive, And fears which soar--faith, ruined through and through By doubt, and doubt, faith treads to dust?--revive

"In some surprising sort,--as see, they do!-- Not merely foes no longer but fast friends. What does it mean unless--O strange and new

"Discovery!--this life proves a wine-press--blends Evil and good, both fruits of Paradise, Into a novel drink which--who intends

"To quaff, must bear a brain for ecstasies Attempered, not this all-inadequate Organ which, quivering within me, dies

"--Nay, lives!--what, how,--too soon, or else too late-- I was--I am" ... ("He babbleth!" Tsaddik mused) "O Thou Almighty, who canst reinstate

"Truths in their primal clarity, confused By man's perception, which is man's and made To suit his service,--how, once disabused

"Of reason which sees light half shine half shade, Because of flesh, the medium that adjusts Purity to his visuals, both an aid

"And hindrance,--how to eyes earth's air encrusts, When purged and perfect to receive truth's beam Pouring itself on the new sense it trusts

"With all its plenitude of power,--how seem The intricacies now, of shade and shine, Oppugnant natures--Right and Wrong, we deem

"Irreconcilable? O eyes of mine, Freed now of imperfection, ye avail To see the whole sight, nor may uncombine

"Henceforth what, erst divided, caused you quail-- So huge the chasm between the false and true, The dream and the reality! All hail,

"Day of my soul's deliverance--day the new, The never-ending! What though every shape Whereon I wreaked my yearning to pursue

"Even to success each semblance of escape From my own bounded self to some all-fair All-wise external fancy, proved a rape

"Like that old giant's, feigned of fools--on air, Not solid flesh? How otherwise? To love-- That lesson was to learn not here--but there--

"On earth, not here! 'Tis there we learn,--there prove Our parts upon the stuff we needs must spoil, Striving at mastery, there bend above

"The spoiled clay potsherds, many a year of toil Attests the potter tried his hand upon, Till sudden he arose, wiped free from soil

"His hand, cried 'So much for attempt--anon Performance! Taught to mould the living vase, What matter the cracked pitchers dead and gone?'

"Could I impart and could thy mind embrace The secret, Tsaddik!" "Secret none to me!" Quoth Tsaddik, as the glory on the face

Of Jochanan was quenched. "The truth I see Of what that excellence of Judah wrote, Doughty Halaphta. This a case must be

"Wherein, though the last breath, have passed the throat, So that 'The man is dead' we may pronounce, Yet is the Ruach--(thus do we denote

"The imparted Spirit)--in no haste to bounce From its entrusted Body,--some three days Lingers ere it relinquish to the pounce

"Of hawk-clawed Death his victim. Further says Halaphta, 'Instances have been, and yet Again may be, when saints, whose earthly ways

"'Tend to perfection, very nearly get To heaven while still on earth: and, as a fine Interval shows where waters pure have met

"'Waves brackish, in a mixture, sweet with brine, That's neither sea nor river but a taste Of both--so meet the earthly and divine

"'And each is either.' Thus I hold him graced-- Dying on earth, half inside and half out, Wholly in heaven, who knows? My mind embraced

"Thy secret, Jochanan, how dare I doubt? Follow thy Ruach, let earth, all it can, Keep of the leavings!" Thus was brought about

The sepulture of Rabbi Jochanan: Thou hast him,--sinner-saint, live-dead, boy-man,-- Schiphaz, on Bendimir, in Farzistan!

* * * * *

NOTE.--This story can have no better authority than that of the treatise, existing dispersedly in fragments, of Rabbinical writing, משׁך של דבים בדים, from which I might have helped myself more liberally. Thus, instead of the simple reference to "Moses' stick,"--but what if I make amends by attempting three illustrations, when some thirty might be composed on the same subject, equally justifying that pithy proverb םםשה עד םשה לא קם בםשה.

I

Moses the Meek was thirty cubits high, The staff he strode with--thirty cubits long; And when he leapt, so muscular and strong Was Moses that his leaping neared the sky By thirty cubits more: we learn thereby He reached full ninety cubits--am I wrong?-- When, in a fight slurred o'er by sacred song, With staff outstretched he took a leap to try The just dimensions of the giant Og. And yet he barely touched--this marvel lacked Posterity to crown earth's catalogue Of marvels--barely touched--to be exact-- The giant's ankle-bone, remained a frog That fain would match an ox in stature: fact!

II

And this same fact has met with unbelief! How saith a certain traveller? "Young, I chanced To come upon an object--if thou canst, Guess me its name and nature! 'Twas, in brief, White, hard, round, hollow, of such length, in chief, --And this is what especially enhanced My wonder--that it seemed, as I advanced, Never to end. Bind up within thy sheaf Of marvels, this--Posterity! I walked From end to end,--four hours walked I, who go A goodly pace,--and found--I have not balked Thine expectation, Stranger? Ay or No?-- 'T was but Og's thighbone, all the while, I stalked Alongside of: respect to Moses, though!

III

Og's thighbone--if ye deem its measure strange, Myself can witness to much length of shank Even in birds. Upon a water's bank Once halting, I was minded to exchange Noon heat for cool. Quoth I, "On many a grange I have seen storks perch--legs both long and lank: Yon stork's must touch the bottom of this tank, Since on its top doth wet no plume derange Of the smooth breast. I'll bathe there!" "Do not so!" Warned me a voice from heaven. "A man let drop His axe into that shallow rivulet-- As thou accountest--seventy years ago: It fell and fell and still without a stop Keeps falling, nor has reached the bottom yet."

NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE

Never the time and the place And the loved one all together! This path--how soft to pace! This May--what magic weather! Where is the loved one's face? In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, But the house is narrow, the place is bleak Where, outside, rain and wind combine With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak, With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, With a malice that marks each word, each sign! O enemy sly and serpentine, Uncoil thee from the waking man! Do I hold the Past Thus firm and fast Yet doubt if the Future hold I can? This path so soft to pace shall lead Through the magic of May to herself indeed! Or narrow if needs the house must be, Outside are the storms and strangers: we-- Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, --I and she!

PAMBO

Suppose that we part (work done, comes play) With a grave tale told in crambo --As our hearty sires were wont to say-- Whereof the hero is Pambo?

Do you happen to know who Pambo was? Nor I--but this much have heard of him: He entered one day a college-class, And asked--was it so absurd of him?--

"May Pambo learn wisdom ere practise it? In wisdom I fain would ground me: Since wisdom is centred in Holy Writ, Some psalm to the purpose expound me!"

"That psalm," the Professor smiled, "shall be Untroubled by doubt which dirtieth Pellucid streams when an ass like thee Would drink there--the Nine-and-thirtieth.

"Verse First: _I said I will look to my ways_ _That I with my tongue offend not._ How now? Why stare? Art struck in amaze? Stop, stay! The smooth line hath an end knot!

"He's gone!--disgusted my text should prove Too easy to need explaining? Had he waited, the blockhead might find I move To matter that pays remaining!"

Long years went by, when--"Ha, who's this? Do I come on the restive scholar I had driven to Wisdom's goal, I wis, But that he slipped the collar?

"What? Arms crossed, brow bent, thought-immersed? A student indeed! Why scruple To own that the lesson proposed him first Scarce suited so apt a pupil?

"Come back! From the beggarly elements To a more recondite issue We pass till we reach, at all events, Some point that may puzzle.... Why 'pish' you?"

From the ground looked piteous up the head: "Daily and nightly, Master, Your pupil plods through that text you read, Yet gets on never the faster.

"At the selfsame stand,--now old, then young! _I will look to my ways_--were doing As easy as saying!--_that I with my tongue_ _Offend not_--and 'scape pooh-poohing

"From sage and simple, doctor and dunce? Ah, nowise! Still doubts so muddy The stream I would drink at once,--but once! That--thus I resume my study!"

Brother, brother, I share the blame, _Arcades sumus ambo!_ Darkling, I keep my sunrise-aim, Lack not the critic's flambeau, And _look to my ways_, yet, much the same, _Offend with my tongue_--like Pambo!

FERISHTAH'S FANCIES

His genius was jocular, but, when disposed, he could be very serious.--Article "Shakespear," JEREMY COLLIER'S _Historical etc. Dictionary_, 2d edition, 1701.

You, Sir, I entertain you for one of my Hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments: you will say they are Persian: but let them be changed.--_King Lear_, Act III. Sc. 6.

There is a loose connection between this group of poems and certain forms of Oriental literature, notably _The Fables of Bidpai_ or Pilpay, Firdausi's _Sháh-Námeh_, and the _Book of Job;_ specific instances may easily be noted; but Browning himself said in a letter to a friend, written soon after the publication of _Ferishtah's Fancies:_ "I hope and believe that one or two careful readings of the Poem will make its sense clear enough. Above all, pray allow for the Poet's inventiveness in any case, and do not suppose there is more than a thin disguise of a few Persian names and allusions. There was no such person as Ferishtah--the stories are all inventions.... The Hebrew quotations are put in for a purpose, as a direct acknowledgment that certain doctrines may be found in the Old Book, which the Concoctors of Novel Schemes of Morality put forth as discoveries of their own."

PROLOGUE

Pray, Reader, have you eaten ortolans Ever in Italy? Recall how cooks there cook them: for my plan 's To--Lyre with Spit ally. They pluck the birds,--some dozen luscious lumps, Or more or fewer,-- Then roast them, heads by heads and rumps by rumps, Stuck on a skewer. But first,--and here 's the point I fain would press,-- Don't think I 'm tattling!-- They interpose, to curb its lusciousness, --What, 'twixt each fatling? First comes plain bread, crisp, brown, a toasted square: Then, a strong sage-leaf: (So we find books with flowers dried here and there Lest leaf engage leaf.) First, food--then, piquancy--and last of all Follows the thirdling: Through wholesome hard, sharp soft, your tooth must bite Ere reach the birdling. Now, were there only crust to crunch, you 'd wince: Unpalatable! Sage-leaf is bitter-pungent--so 's a quince: Eat each who 's able! But through all three bite boldly--lo, the gust! Flavor--no fixture-- Flies permeating flesh and leaf and crust In fine admixture. So with your meal, my poem: masticate Sense, sight, and song there! Digest these, and I praise your peptics' state, Nothing found wrong there. Whence springs my illustration who can tell? --The more surprising That here eggs, milk, cheese, fruit suffice so well For gormandizing. A fancy-freak by contrast born of thee, Delightful Gressoney! Who laughest "Take what is, trust what may be!" That 's Life's true lesson,--eh?

MAISON DELAPIERRE, Gressoney St. Jean, Val d'Aosta, _September 12, '83_.

I. THE EAGLE

This poem is drawn quite closely from _The Fables of Bidpai_.

Dervish--(though yet un-dervished, call him so No less beforehand: while he drudged our way, Other his worldly name was: when he wrote Those versicles we Persians praise him for, --True fairy-work--Ferishtah grew his style)-- Dervish Ferishtah walked the woods one eve, And noted on a bough a raven's nest Whereof each youngling gaped with callow beak Widened by want; for why? beneath the tree Dead lay the mother-bird. "A piteous chance! How shall they 'scape destruction?" sighed the sage --Or sage about to be, though simple still. Responsive to which doubt, sudden there swooped An eagle downward, and behold he bore (Great-hearted) in his talons flesh wherewith He stayed their craving, then resought the sky. "Ah, foolish, faithless me!" the observer smiled, "Who toil and moil to eke out life, when, lo, Providence cares for every hungry mouth!" To profit by which lesson, home went he, And certain days sat musing,--neither meat Nor drink would purchase by his handiwork. Then--for his head swam and his limbs grew faint-- Sleep overtook the unwise one, whom in dream God thus admonished: "Hast thou marked my deed? Which part assigned by providence dost judge Was meant for man's example? Should he play The helpless weakling, or the helpful strength That captures prey and saves the perishing? Sluggard, arise: work, eat, then feed who lack!"

Waking, "I have arisen, work I will, Eat, and so following. Which lacks food the more, Body or soul in me? I starve in soul: So may mankind: and since men congregate In towns, not woods,--to Ispahan forthwith!"

* * * * *

Round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, Underfoot the moss-tracks,--life and love with these! I to wear a fawn-skin, thou to dress in flowers: All the long lone summer-day, that greenwood life of ours!

Rich-pavilioned, rather,--still the world without,-- Inside--gold-roofed silk-walled silence round about! Queen it thou on purple,--I, at watch, and ward Couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy slave, love's guard!

So, for us no world? Let throngs press thee to me! Up and down amid men, heart by heart fare we! Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, hateful face! God is soul, souls I and thou: with souls should souls have place.

II. THE MELON-SELLER

Going his rounds one day in Ispahan,-- Halfway on Dervishhood, not wholly there,-- Ferishtah, as he crossed a certain bridge, Came startled on a well-remembered face. "Can it be? What, turned melon-seller--thou? Clad in such sordid garb, thy seat yon step Where dogs brush by thee and express contempt? Methinks, thy head-gear is some scooped-out gourd! Nay, sunk to slicing up, for readier sale, One fruit whereof the whole scarce feeds a swine? Wast thou the Shah's Prime Minister, men saw Ride on his right-hand while a trumpet blew And Persia hailed the Favorite? Yea, twelve years Are past, I judge, since that transcendency, And thou didst peculate and art abased; No less, twelve years since, thou didst hold in hand Persia, couldst halve and quarter, mince its pulp As pleased thee, and distribute--melon-like-- Portions to whoso played the parasite, Or suck--thyself--each juicy morsel. How Enormous thy abjection,--hell from heaven, Made tenfold hell by contrast! Whisper me! Dost thou curse God for granting twelve years' bliss Only to prove this day 's the direr lot?"

Whereon the beggar raised a brow, once more Luminous and imperial, from the rags. "Fool, does thy folly think my foolishness Dwells rather on the fact that God appoints A day of woe to the unworthy one, Than that the unworthy one, by God's award, Tasted joy twelve years long? Or buy a slice, Or go to school!" To school Ferishtah went; And, schooling ended, passed from Ispahan To Nishapur, that Elburz looks above --Where they dig turquoise: there kept school himself, The melon-seller's speech, his stock in trade. Some say a certain Jew adduced the word Out of their book, it sounds so much the same. אח־הטוב נקבל מאח האלהים ואח־הדע לא נקבל ׃ In Persian phrase, "Shall we receive good at the hand of God And evil not receive?" But great wits jump.

* * * * *

Wish no word unspoken, want no look away! What if words were but mistake, and looks--too sudden, say! Be unjust for once, Love! Bear it--well I may!

Do me justice always? Bid my heart--their shrine-- Render back its store of gifts, old looks and words of thine --Oh, so all unjust--the less deserved, the more divine?

III. SHAH ABBAS

Anyhow, once full Dervish, youngsters came To gather up his own-words, 'neath a rock Or else a palm, by pleasant Nishapur.

Said some one, as Ferishtah paused abrupt, Reading a certain passage from the roll Wherein is treated of Lord Ali's life: "Master, explain this incongruity! When I dared question 'It is beautiful, But is it true?'--thy answer was 'In truth Lives beauty.' I persisting--'Beauty--yes, In thy mind and in my mind, every mind That apprehends: but outside--so to speak-- Did beauty live in deed as well as word, Was this life lived, was this death died--not dreamed?' 'Many attested it for fact,' saidst thou. 'Many!' but mark, Sir! Half as long ago As such things were,--supposing that they were,-- Reigned great Shah Abbas: he too lived and died --How say they? Why, so strong of arm, of foot So swift, he stayed a lion in his leap On a stag's haunch,--with one hand grasped the stag, With one struck down the lion: yet, no less, Himself, that same day, feasting after sport. Perceived a spider drop into his wine, Let fall the flagon, died of simple fear. So all say,--so dost thou say?"

"Wherefore not?" Ferishtah smiled: "though strange, the story stands Clear-chronicled: none tells it otherwise: The fact's eye-witness bore the cup, beside."

"And dost thou credit one cup-bearer's tale, False, very like, and futile certainly, Yet hesitate to trust what many tongues Combine to testify was beautiful In deed as well as word? No fool's report, Of lion, stag and spider, but immense With meaning for mankind, thy race, thyself?"

Whereto the Dervish: "First amend, my son, Thy faulty nomenclature, call belief Belief indeed, nor grace with such a name The easy acquiescence of mankind In matters nowise worth dispute, since life Lasts merely the allotted moment. Lo-- That lion-stag-and-spider tale leaves fixed The fact for us that somewhen Abbas reigned, Died, somehow slain,--a useful registry,-- Which therefore we--'believe'? Stand forward, thou, My Yakub, son of Yusuf, son of Zal! I advertise thee that our liege, the Shah Happily regnant, hath become assured, By opportune discovery, that thy sires, Son by the father upwards, track their line To--whom but that same bearer of the cup Whose inadvertency was chargeable With what therefrom ensued, disgust and death To Abbas Shah, the over-nice of soul? Whence he appoints thee,--such his clemency,-- Not death, thy due, but just a double tax To pay, on thy particular bed of reeds Which flower into the brush that makes a broom Fit to sweep ceilings clear of vermin. Sure, Thou dost believe the story nor dispute That punishment should signalize its truth? Down therefore with some twelve dinars! Why start, --The stag's way with the lion hard on haunch? 'Believe the story?'--how thy words throng fast!-- 'Who saw this, heard this, said this, wrote down this, That and the other circumstance to prove So great a prodigy surprised the world? Needs must thou prove me fable can be fact Or ere thou coax one piece from out my pouch!'"

"There we agree, Sir: neither of us knows, Neither accepts that tale on evidence Worthy to warrant the large word--belief. Now I get near thee! Why didst pause abrupt, Disabled by emotion at a tale Might match--be frank!--for credibility The figment of the spider and the cup? --To wit, thy roll 's concerning Ali's life, Unevidenced--thine own word! Little boots Our sympathy with fiction! When I read The annals and consider of Tahmasp And that sweet sun-surpassing star his love, I weep like a cut vine-twig, though aware Zurah's sad fate is fiction, since the snake He saw devour her,--how could such exist, Having nine heads? No snake boasts more than three! I weep, then laugh--both actions right alike. But thou, Ferishtah, sapiency confessed, When at the Day of Judgment God shall ask 'Didst thou believe?'--what wilt thou plead? Thy tears? (Nay, they fell fast and stain the parchment still.) What if thy tears meant love? Love lacking ground --Belief,--avails thee as it would avail My own pretence to favor since, forsooth, I loved the lady--I who needs must laugh To hear a snake boasts nine heads: they have three!"

"Thanks for the well-timed help that 's born, behold, Out of thy words, my son,--belief and love! Hast heard of Ishak son of Absal? Ay, The very same we heard of, ten years since, Slain in the wars: he comes back safe and sound,-- Though twenty soldiers saw him die at Yezdt,-- Just as a single mule-and-baggage boy Declared 't was like he some day would,--for why? The twenty soldiers lied, he saw him stout, Cured of all wounds at once by smear of salve, A Mubid's manufacture: such the tale. Now, when his pair of sons were thus apprised Effect was twofold on them. 'Hail!' crowed This: 'Dearer the news than dayspring after night! The cure-reporting youngster warrants me Our father shall make glad our eyes once more, For whom, had outpoured life of mine sufficed To bring him back, free broached were every vein!' 'Avaunt, delusive tale-concocter, news Cruel as meteor simulating dawn!' Whimpered the other: 'Who believes this boy, Must disbelieve his twenty seniors: no, Return our father shall not! Might my death Purchase his life, how promptly would the dole Be paid as due!' Well, ten years pass,--aha, Ishak is marching homeward,--doubts, not he, Are dead and done with! So, our townsfolk straight Must take on them to counsel. 'Go thou gay, Welcome thy father, thou of ready faith! Hide thee, contrariwise, thou faithless one, Expect paternal frowning, blame and blows!' So do our townsfolk counsel: dost demur?"

"Ferishtah like those simpletons--at loss In what is plain as pikestaff? Pish! Suppose The trustful son had sighed 'So much the worse! Returning means--retaking heritage Enjoyed these ten years, who should say me nay?' How would such trust reward him? Trustlessness --O' the other hand--were what procured most praise To him who judged return impossible, Yet hated heritage procured thereby. A fool were Ishak if he failed to prize Mere head's work less than heart's work: no fool he!"

"Is God less wise? Resume the roll!" They did.

* * * * *

You groped your way across my room i' the drear dark dead of night; At each fresh step a stumble was: but, once your lamp alight, Easy and plain you walked again: so soon all wrong grew right!

What lay on floor to trip your foot? Each object, late awry, Looked fitly placed, nor proved offence to footing free--for why? The lamp showed all, discordant late, grown simple symmetry.

Be love your light and trust your guide, with these explore my heart! No obstacle to trip you then, strike hands and souls apart! Since rooms and hearts are furnished so,--light shows you,--needs love start?

IV. THE FAMILY

A certain neighbor lying sick to death, Ferishtah grieved beneath a palm-tree, whence He rose at peace: whereat objected one "Gudarz our friend gasps in extremity. Sure, thou art ignorant how close at hand Death presses, or the cloud, which fouled so late Thy face, had deepened down not lightened off."

"I judge there will be respite, for I prayed."

"Sir, let me understand, of charity! Yestereve, what was thine admonishment? 'All-wise, all-good, all-mighty--God is such!' How then should man, the all-unworthy, dare Propose to set aside a thing ordained? To pray means--substitute man's will for God's: Two best wills cannot be: by consequence, What is man bound to but--assent, say I? Rather to rapture of thanksgiving; since That which seems worst to man to God is best, So, because God ordains it, best to man. Yet man--the foolish, weak, and wicked--prays! Urges 'My best were better, didst Thou know'!"

"List to a tale, A worthy householder Of Shiraz had three sons, beside a spouse Whom, cutting gourds, a serpent bit, whereon The offended limb swelled black from foot to fork. The husband called in aid a leech renowned World-wide, confessed the lord of surgery, And bade him dictate--who forthwith declared 'Sole remedy is amputation.' Straight The husband sighed 'Thou knowest: be it so!' His three sons heard their mother sentenced: 'Pause!' Outbroke the elder: 'Be precipitate Nowise, I pray thee! Take some gentler way, Thou sage of much resource! I will not doubt But science still may save foot, leg, and thigh!' The next in age snapped petulant: 'Too rash! No reason for this maiming! What, Sir Leech, Our parent limps henceforward while we leap? Shame on thee! Save the limb thou must and shalt!' 'Shame on yourselves, ye bold ones!' followed up The brisk third brother, youngest, pertest too: 'The leech knows all things, we are ignorant; What he proposes, gratefully accept! For me, had I some unguent bound to heal Hurts in a twinkling, hardly would I dare Essay its virtue and so cross the sage By cure his skill pronounces folly. Quick! No waiting longer! There the patient lies: Out then with implements and operate!'"

"Ah, the young devil!"

"Why, his reason chimed Right with the Hakim's."

"Hakim's, ay--but chit's? How? what the skilled eye saw and judged of weight To overbear a heavy consequence, That--shall a sciolist affect to see? All he saw--that is, all such oaf should see, Was just the mother's suffering."

"In my tale, Be God the Hakim: in the husband's case, Call ready acquiescence--aptitude Angelic, understanding swift and sure: Call the first son--a wise humanity, Slow to conceive but duteous to adopt: See in the second son--humanity, Wrong-headed yet right-hearted, rash but kind. Last comes the cackler of the brood, our chit Who, aping wisdom all beyond his years, Thinks to discard humanity itself: Fares like the beast which should affect to fly Because a bird with wings may spurn the ground, So, missing heaven and losing; earth--drops how But hell-ward? No, be man and nothing more-- Man who, as man conceiving, hopes and fears, And craves and deprecates, and loves, and loathes, And bids God help him, till death touch his eyes And show God granted most, denying all."

* * * * *

Man I am and man would be, Love--merest man and nothing more. Bid me seem no other! Eagles boast of pinions--let them soar! I may put forth angel's plumage, once unmanned, but not before.

Now on earth, to stand suffices,--nay, if kneeling serves, to kneel: Here you front me, here I find the all of heaven that earth can feel: Sense looks straight,--not over, under,--perfect sees beyond appeal.

Good you are and wise, full circle: what to me were more outside? Wiser wisdom, better goodness? Ah, such want the angel's wide Sense to take and hold and keep them! Mine at least has never tried.

V. THE SUN

"And what might that bold man's announcement be"-- Ferishtah questioned--"which so moved thine ire That thou didst curse, nay, cuff and kick--in short, Confute the announcer? Wipe those drops away Which start afresh upon thy face at mere Mention of such enormity: now, speak!"

"He scrupled not to say--(thou warrantest, O patient Sir, that I unblamed repeat Abominable words which blister tongue?) God once assumed on earth a human shape: (Lo, I have spitten!) Dared I ask the grace, Fain would I hear, of thy subtility, From out what hole in man's corrupted heart Creeps such a maggot: fancies verminous Breed in the clots there, but a monster born Of pride and folly like this pest--thyself Only canst trace to egg-shell it hath chipped."

The sun rode high. "During our ignorance"-- Began Ferishtah--"folk esteemed as God Yon orb: for argument, suppose him so,-- Be it the symbol, not the symbolized, I and thou safelier take upon our lips. Accordingly, yon orb that we adore --What is he? Author of all light and life: Such one must needs be somewhere: this is he. Like what? If I may trust my human eyes, A ball composed of spirit-fire, whence springs --What, from this ball, my arms could circle round? All I enjoy on earth. By consequence, Inspiring me with--what? Why, love and praise. I eat a palatable fig--there's love In little: who first planted what I pluck, Obtains my little praise, too: more of both Keeps due proportion with more cause for each: So, more and ever more, till most of all Completes experience, and the orb, descried Ultimate giver of all good, perforce Gathers unto himself all love, all praise, Is worshipped--which means loved and praised at height. Back to the first good: 'twas the gardener gave Occasion to my palate's pleasure: grace, Plain on his part, demanded thanks on mine. Go up above this giver,--step by step, Gain a conception of what--(how and why, Matters not now)--occasioned him to give, Appointed him the gardener of the ground,-- I mount by just progression slow and sure To some prime giver--here assumed yon orb-- Who takes my worship. Whom have I in mind, Thus worshipping, unless a man, my like Howe'er above me? Man, I say--how else, I being man who worship? Here's my hand Lifts first a mustard-seed, then weight on weight Greater and ever greater, till at last It lifts a melon, I suppose, then stops-- Hand-strength expended wholly: so, my love First lauds the gardener for the fig his gift, Then, looking higher, loves and lauds still more, Who hires the ground, who owns the ground, Sheikh, Shah, On and away, away and ever on, Till, at the last, it loves and lauds the orb Ultimate cause of all to laud and love. Where is the break, the change of quality In hand's power, soul's impulsion? Gift was grace, The greatest as the smallest. Had I stopped Anywhere in the scale, stayed love and praise As so far only fit to follow gift, Saying, 'I thanked the gardener for his fig, But now that, lo, the Shah has filled my purse With tomans which avail to purchase me A fig-tree forest, shall I pay the same With love and praise, the gardener's proper fee?' Justly would whoso bears a brain object, 'Giving is giving, gift claims gift's return, Do thou thine own part, therefore: let the Shah Ask more from one has more to pay.' Perchance He gave me from his treasure less by much Than the soil's servant: let that be! My part Is plain--to meet and match the gift and gift With love and love, with praise and praise, till both Cry 'All of us is thine, we can no more!' So shall I do man's utmost--man to man: For as our liege the Shah's sublime estate Merely enhaloes, leaves him man the same, So must I count that orb I call a fire (Keep to the language of our ignorance) Something that 's fire and more beside: mere fire --Is it a force which, giving, knows it gives, And wherefore, so may look for love and praise From me, fire's like so far, however less In all beside? Prime cause this fire shall be, Uncaused, all-causing: hence begin the gifts, Thither must go my love and praise--to what? Fire? Symbol fitly serves the symbolized Herein,--that this same object of my thanks, While to my mind nowise conceivable Except as mind no less than fire, refutes Next moment mind's conception: fire is fire-- While what I needs must thank, must needs include Purpose with power,--humanity like mine, Imagined, for the dear necessity, One moment in an object which the next Confesses unimaginable. Power! --What need of will, then? Naught opposes power: Why, purpose? any change must be for worse: And what occasion for beneficence When all that is, so is and so must be? Best being best now, change were for the worse. Accordingly discard these qualities Proper to imperfection, take for type Mere fire, eject the man, retain the orb,-- The perfect and, so, inconceivable,-- And what remains to love and praise? A stone Fair-colored proves a solace to my eye, Rolled by my tongue brings moisture curing drouth, And struck by steel emits a useful spark: Shall I return it thanks, the insentient thing? No,--man once, man forever--man in soul As man in body: just as this can use Its proper senses only, see and hear, Taste, like or loathe according to its law And not another creature's,--even so Man's soul is moved by what, if it in turn Must move, is kindred soul: receiving good --Man's way--must make man's due acknowledgment, No other, even while he reasons out Plainly enough that, were the man unmanned, Made angel of, angelic every way, The love and praise that rightly seek and find Their man-like object now,--instructed more, Would go forth idly, air to emptiness. Our human flower, sun-ripened, proffers scent Though reason prove the sun lacks nose to feed On what himself made grateful: flower and man, Let each assume that scent and love alike Being once born, must needs have use! Man's part Is plain--to send love forth,--astray, perhaps: No matter, he has done his part."

"Wherefrom What is to follow--if I take thy sense-- But that the sun--the inconceivable Confessed by man--comprises, all the same, Man's every-day conception of himself-- No less remaining unconceived!"

"Agreed!"

"Yet thou, insisting on the right of man To feel as man, not otherwise,--man, bound By man's conditions neither less nor more, Obliged to estimate as fair or foul, Right, wrong, good, evil, what man's faculty Adjudges such,--how canst thou,--plainly bound To take man's truth for truth and only truth,-- Dare to accept, in just one case, as truth Falsehood confessed? Flesh simulating fire-- Our fellow-man whom we his fellows know For dust--instinct with fire unknowable! Where 's thy man-needed truth--its proof, nay print Of faintest passage on the tablets traced By man, termed knowledge? 'T is conceded thee, We lack such fancied union--fire with flesh: But even so, to lack is not to gain Our lack's suppliance: where 's the trace of such Recorded?"

"What if such a tracing were? If some strange story stood,--whate'er its worth,-- That the immensely yearned-for, once befell, --The sun was flesh once?--(keep the figure!)"

"How? An union inconceivable was fact?"

"Son, if the stranger have convinced himself Fancy is fact--the sun, besides a fire, Holds earthly substance somehow fire pervades And yet consumes not,--earth, he understands, With essence he remains a stranger to,-- Fitlier thou saidst 'I stand appalled before Conception unattainable by me Who need it most'--than this--'What? boast he holds Conviction where I see conviction's need, Alas,--and nothing else? then what remains But that I straightway curse, cuff, kick the fool!'"

* * * * *

Fire is in the flint: true, once a spark escapes, Fire forgets the kinship, soars till fancy shapes Some befitting cradle where the babe had birth-- Wholly heaven 's the product, unallied to earth. Splendors recognized as perfect in the star!-- In out flint their home was, housed as now they are.

VI. MIHRAB SHAH

Quoth an inquirer, "Praise the Merciful! My thumb which yesterday a scorpion nipped-- (It swelled and blackened)--lo, is sound again! By application of a virtuous root The burning has abated: that is well. But now methinks I have a mind to ask,-- Since this discomfort came of culling herbs Nor meaning harm,--why needs a scorpion be? Yea, there began, from when my thumb last throbbed, Advance in question-framing, till I asked Wherefore should any evil hap to man-- From ache of flesh to agony of soul-- Since God's All-mercy mates All-potency? Nay, why permits he evil to himself-- Man's sin, accounted such? Suppose a world Purged of all pain, with fit inhabitant-- Man pure of evil in thought, word, and deed-- Were it not well? Then, wherefore otherwise? Too good result? But he is wholly good! Hard to effect? Ay, were he impotent! Teach me, Ferishtah!"

Said the Dervish: "Friend, My chance, escaped to-day, was worse than thine: I, as I woke this morning, raised my head, Which never tumbled but stuck fast on neck. Was not I glad and thankful!"

"How could head Tumble from neck, unchopped--inform me first! Unless we take Firdausi's tale for truth, Who ever heard the like?"

"The like might hap By natural law: I let my staff fall thus-- It goes to ground, I know not why. Suppose, Whene'er my hold was loosed, it skyward sprang As certainly, and all experience proved That, just as staves when unsupported sink, So, unconfined, they soar?"

"Let such be law-- Why, a new chapter of sad accidents Were added to humanity's mischance, No doubt at all, and as a man's false step Now lays him prone on earth, contrariwise, Removal from his shoulder o£ a weight Might start him upwards to perdition. Ay! But, since such law exists in just thy brain, I shall not hesitate to doff my cap For fear my head take flight."

"Nor feel relief Finding it firm on shoulder. Tell me, now! What were the bond 'twixt man and man, dost judge, Pain once abolished? Come, be true! Our Shah-- How stands he in thy favor? Why that shrug? Is not he lord and ruler?"

"Easily! His mother bore him, first of those four wives Provided by his father, such his luck: Since when his business simply was to breathe And take each day's new bounty. There he stands-- Where else had I stood, were his birth-star mine? No, to respect men's power, I needs must see Men's bare hands seek, find, grasp and wield the sword Nobody else can brandish! Bless his heart, 'Tis said, he scarcely counts his fingers right!"

"Well, then--his princely doles! from every feast Off go the feasted with the dish they ate And cup they drank from,--nay, a change besides Of garments" ...

"Sir, put case, for service done,-- Or best, for love's sake,--such and such a slave Sold his allowance of sour lentil-soup To herewith purchase me a pipe-stick,--nay, If he, by but one hour, cut short his sleep To clout my shoe,--that were a sacrifice!"

"All praise his gracious bearing."

"All praise mine-- Or would praise did they never make approach Except on all-fours, crawling till I bade, 'Now that with eyelids thou hast touched the earth, Come close and have no fear, poor nothingness!' What wonder that the lady-rose I woo And palisade about from every wind, Holds herself handsomely? The wilding, now, Ruffled outside at pleasure of the blast, That still lifts up with something of a smile Its poor attempt at bloom" ...

"A blameless life, Where wrong might revel with impunity-- Remember that!"

"The falcon on his fist-- Reclaimed and trained and belled and beautified Till she believes herself the Simorgh's match-- She only deigns destroy the antelope, Stoops at no carrion-crow: thou marvellest?

"So be it, then! He wakes no love in thee For any one of divers attributes Commonly deemed love-worthy. All the same, I would he were not wasting, slow but sure, With that internal ulcer" ...

"Say'st thou so? How should I guess? Alack, poor soul! But stay-- Sure in the reach of art some remedy Must lie to hand: or if it lurk,--that leech Of fame in Tebriz, why not seek his aid? Couldst not thou, Dervish, counsel in the case?"

"My counsel might be--what imports a pang The more or less, which puts an end to one Odious in spite of every attribute Commonly deemed love-worthy?"

"Attributes? Faugh!--nay, Ferishtah,--'tis an ulcer, think! Attributes, quotha? Here 's poor flesh and blood, Like thine and mine and every man's, a prey To hell-fire! Hast thou lost thy wits for once?"

"Friend, here they are to find and profit by! Put pain from out the world, what room were left For thanks to God, for love to Man? Why thanks,-- Except for some escape, whatever the style, From pain that might be, name it as thou mayst? Why love,--when all thy kind, save me, suppose, Thy father, and thy son, and ... well, thy dog, To eke the decent number out--we few Who happen--like a handful of chance stars From the unnumbered host--to shine o'erhead And lend thee light,--our twinkle all thy store,-- We only take thy love! Mankind, forsooth? Who sympathizes with their general joy Foolish as undeserved? But pain--see God's Wisdom at work!--man's heart is made to judge Pain deserved nowhere by the common flesh Our birthright,--bad and good deserve alike No pain, to human apprehension! Lust, Greed, cruelty, injustice crave (we hold) Due punishment from somebody, no doubt: But ulcer in the midriff! that brings flesh Triumphant from the bar whereto arraigned Soul quakes with reason. In the eye of God Pain may have purpose and be justified: Man's sense avails to only see, in pain, A hateful chance no man but would avert Or, failing, needs must pity. Thanks to God And love to man,--from man take these away, And what is man worth? Therefore, Mihrab Shah, Tax me my bread and salt twice over, claim Laila my daughter for thy sport,--go on! Slay my son's self, maintain thy poetry Beats mine,--thou meritest a dozen deaths! But--ulcer in the stomach,--ah, poor soul, Try a fig-plaster: may it ease thy pangs!"

* * * * *

So, the head aches and the limbs are faint! Flesh is a burden--even to you! Can I force a smile with a fancy quaint? Why are my ailments none or few?

In the soul of me sits sluggishness; Body so strong and will so weak: The slave stands fit for the labor--yes, But the master's mandate is still to seek.

You, now--what if the outside clay Helped, not hindered the inside flame? My dim to-morrow--your plain to-day, Yours the achievement, mine the aim?

So were it rightly, so shall it be! Only, while earth we pace together For the purpose apportioned you and me, Closer we tread for a common tether.

You shall sigh, "Wait for his sluggish soul! Shame he should lag, not lamed as I!" May not I smile, "Ungained her goal: Body may reach her--by and by"?

VII. A CAMEL-DRIVER

"How of his fate, the Pilgrims' soldier-guide Condemned" (Ferishtah questioned), "for he slew The merchant whom he convoyed with his bales --A special treachery?"

"Sir, the proofs were plain: Justice was satisfied: between two boards The rogue was sawn asunder, rightly served."

"With all wise men's approval--mine at least."

"Himself, indeed, confessed as much. 'I die Justly' (groaned he) 'through over-greediness Which tempted me to rob: but grieve the most That he who quickened sin at slumber,--ay, Prompted and pestered me till thought grew deed,-- The same is fled to Syria and is safe, Laughing at me thus left to pay for both. My comfort is that God reserves for him Hell's hottest'" ...

"Idle words."

"Enlighten me! Wherefore so idle? Punishment by man Has thy assent,--the word is on thy lips. By parity of reason, punishment By God should likelier win thy thanks and praise."

"Man acts as man must: God, as God beseems. A camel-driver, when his beast will bite, Thumps her athwart the muzzle; why?"

"How else Instruct the creature--mouths should munch not bite?"

"True, he is man, knows but man's trick to teach. Suppose some plain word, told her first of all, Had hindered any biting?"

"Find him such, And fit the beast with understanding first! No understanding animals like Rakhsh Nowadays, Master! Till they breed on earth, For teaching--blows must serve."

"Who deals the blow-- What if by some rare method,--magic, say,-- He saw into the biter's very soul, And knew the fault was so repented of It could not happen twice?"

"That 's something: still, I hear, methinks, the driver say, 'No less Take thy fault's due! Those long-necked sisters, see, Lean all a-stretch to know if biting meets Punishment or enjoys impunity. For their sakes--thwack!'"

"The journey home at end, The solitary beast safe-stabled now, In comes the driver to avenge a wrong Suffered from six months since,--apparently With patience, nay, approval: when the jaws Met i' the small o' the arm. 'Ha, Ladykin, Still at thy frolics, girl of gold?' laughed he: 'Eat flesh? Rye-grass content thee rather with, Whereof accept a bundle!' Now,--what change! Laughter by no means! Now 't is, 'Fiend, thy frisk Was fit to find thee provender, didst judge? Behold this red-hot twy-prong, thus I stick To hiss i' the soft of thee!'"

"Behold? behold A craxy noddle, rather! Sure the brute Might wellnigh have plain speech coaxed out of tongue, And grow as voluble as Rakhsh himself At such mad outrage. 'Could I take thy mind, Guess thy desire? If biting was offence, Wherefore the rye-grass bundle, why each day's Patting and petting, but to intimate My playsomeness had pleased thee? Thou endowed With reason, truly!'"

"Reason aims to raise Some makeshift scaffold-vantage midway, whence Man dares, for life's brief moment, peer below: But ape omniscience? Nay! The ladder lent To climb by, step and step, until we reach The little foothold-rise allowed mankind To mount on and thence guess the sun's survey-- Shall this avail to show us world-wide truth Stretched for the sun's descrying? Reason bids, 'Teach, Man, thy beast his duty first of all Or last of all, with blows if blows must be,-- How else accomplish teaching?' Reason adds, 'Before man's First, and after man's poor Last, God operated and will operate.' --Process of which man merely knows this much,-- That nowise it resembles man's at all, Teaching or punishing."

"It follows, then, That any malefactor I would smite With God's allowance, God himself will spare Presumably. No scapegrace? Then, rejoice Thou snatch-grace safe in Syria!"

"Friend, such view Is but man's-wonderful and wide mistake. Man lumps his kind i' the mass: God singles thence Unit by unit. Thou and God exist-- So think!--for certain: think the mass--mankind-- Disparts, disperses, leaves thyself alone! Ask thy lone soul what laws are plain to thee,-- Thee and no other,--stand or fall by them! That is the part for thee: regard all else For what it may be--Time's illusion. This Be sure of--ignorance that sins, is safe. No punishment like knowledge! Instance, now! My father's choicest treasure was a book Wherein he, day by day and year by year, Recorded gains of wisdom for my sake When I should grow to manhood. While a child, Coming upon the casket where it lay Unguarded,---what did I but toss the thing Into a fire to make more flame therewith, Meaning no harm? So acts man three-years-old! I grieve now at my loss by witlessness, But guilt was none to punish. Man mature-- Each word of his I lightly held, each look I turned from--wish that wished in vain--nay, will That willed and yet went all to waste--'t is these Rankle like fire. Forgiveness? rather grant Forgetfulness! The past is past and lost. However near I stand in his regard, So much the nearer had I stood by steps Offered the feet which rashly spurned their help That I call Hell; why further punishment?"

* * * * *

When I vexed you and you chid me, And I owned my fault and turned My cheek the way you bid me, And confessed the blow well earned,--

My comfort all the while was --Fault was faulty--near, not quite! Do you wonder why the smile was? O'erpunished wrong grew right.

But faults, you ne'er suspected, Nay, praised, no faults at all,-- Those would you had detected-- Crushed eggs whence snakes could crawl!

VIII. TWO CAMELS

Quoth one: "Sir, solve a scruple! No true sage I hear of, but instructs his scholar thus: 'Wouldst thou be wise? Then mortify thyself! Balk of its craving every bestial sense! Say, "If I relish melons--so do swine! Horse, ass, and mule consume their provender Nor leave a pea-pod: fasting feeds the soul."' Thus they admonish: while thyself, I note, Eatest thy ration with an appetite, Nor fallest foul of whoso licks his lips And sighs--'Well-saffroned was that barley-soup!' Can wisdom coexist with--gorge-and-swill, I say not,--simply sensual preference For this or that fantastic meat and drink? Moreover, wind blows sharper than its wont This morning, and thou hast already donned Thy sheepskin over-garment: sure the sage Is busied with conceits that soar above A petty change of season and its chance Of causing ordinary flesh to sneeze? I always thought, Sir" ...

"Son," Ferishtah said, "Truth ought to seem as never thought before. How if I give it birth in parable? A neighbor owns two camels, beasts of price And promise, destined each to go, next week, Swiftly and surely with his merchandise From Nishapur to Sebzevar, no truce To tramp, but travel, spite of sands and drouth, In days so many, lest they miss the Fair. Each falls to meditation o'er his crib Piled high with provender before the start. Quoth this: 'My soul is set on winning praise From goodman lord and master,--hump to hoof, I dedicate me to his service. How? Grass, purslane, lupines, and I know not what, Crammed in my manger? Ha, I see--I see! No, master, spare thy money! I shall trudge The distance and yet cost thee not a doit Beyond my supper on this mouldy bran.' 'Be magnified, O master, for the meal So opportunely liberal!' quoth that. 'What use of strength in me but to surmount Sands and simooms, and bend beneath thy bales No knee until I reach the glad bazaar? Thus I do justice to thy fare: no sprig Of toothsome chervil must I leave unchewed! Too bitterly should I reproach myself Did I sink down in sight of Sebzevar, Remembering how the merest mouthful more Had heartened me to manage yet a mile!' And so it proved: the too-abstemious brute Midway broke down, his pack rejoiced the thieves, His carcass fed the vultures: not so he The wisely thankful, who, good market-drudge, Let down his lading in the market-place, No damage to a single pack. Which beast, Think ye, had praise and patting and a brand Of good-and-faithful-servant fixed on flank? So, with thy squeamish scruple. What imports Fasting or feasting? Do thy day's work, dare Refuse no help thereto, since help refused Is hindrance sought and found. Win but the race-- Who shall object 'He tossed three wine-cups off, And, just at starting, Lilith kissed his lips'?

"More soberly,--consider this, my Son! Put case I never have myself enjoyed, Known by experience what enjoyment means, How shall I--share enjoyment?--no, indeed!-- Supply it to my fellows,--ignorant, As so I should be of the thing they crave, How it affects them, works for good or ill. Style my enjoyment self-indulgence--sin-- Why should I labor to infect my kind With sin's occasion, bid them too enjoy, Who else might neither catch nor give again Joy's plague, but live in righteous misery? Just as I cannot, till myself convinced, Impart conviction, so, to deal forth joy Adroitly, needs must I know joy myself. Renounce joy for my fellows' sake? That 's joy Beyond joy; but renounced for mine, not theirs? Why, the physician called to help the sick, Cries 'Let me, first of all, discard my health!' No, Son: the richness hearted in such joy Is in the knowing what are gifts we give, Not in a vain endeavor not to know! Therefore, desire joy and thank God for it! The Adversary said,--a Jew reports,-- החנם רא איוב אלהים ׃ In Persian phrase, 'Does Job fear God for naught?' Job's creatureship is not abjured, thou fool! He nowise isolates himself and plays The independent equal, owns no more Than himself gave himself, so why thank God? A proper speech were this מאלהים 'Equals we are, Job, labor for thyself, Nor bid me help thee: bear, as best flesh may, Pains I inflict not nor avail to cure: Beg of me nothing thou thyself mayst win By work, or waive with magnanimity, Since we are peers acknowledged,--scarcely peers, Had I implanted any want of thine Only my power could meet and gratify.' No: rather hear, at man's indifference-- 'Wherefore did I contrive for thee that ear Hungry for music, and direct thine eye To where I hold a seven-stringed instrument, Unless I meant thee to beseech me play?'"

* * * * *

Once I saw a chemist take a pinch of powder --Simple dust it seemed--and half-unstop a phial: --Out dropped harmless dew. "Mixed nothings make" (quoth he) "Something!" So they did: a thunderclap, but louder-- Lightning-flash, but fiercer--put spectators' nerves to trial: Sure enough, we learned what was, imagined what might be.

Had I no experience how a lip's mere tremble, Look's half hesitation, cheek's just change of color, These effect a heartquake,--how should I conceive What a heaven there may be? Let it but resemble Earth myself have known! No bliss that's finer, fuller, Only--bliss that lasts, they say, and fain would I believe.

IX. CHERRIES

"What, I disturb thee at thy morning-meal: Cherries so ripe already? Eat apace! I recollect thy lesson yesterday. Yet--thanks, Sir, for thy leave to interrupt" ...

"Friend, I have finished my repast, thank God!"

"There now, thy thanks for breaking fast on fruit!-- Thanks being praise, or tantamount thereto. Prithee consider, have not things degree, Lofty and low? Are things not great and small. Thence claiming praise and wonder more or less? Shall we confuse them, with thy warrant too, Whose doctrine otherwise begins and ends With just this precept, 'Never faith enough In man as weakness, God as potency'? When I would pay soul's tribute to that same, Why not look up in wonder, bid the stars Attest my praise of the All-mighty One? What are man's puny members and as mean Requirements weighed with Star-King Mushtari? There is the marvel!"

"Not to man--that 's me. List to what happened late, in fact or dream. A certain stranger, bound from far away, Still the Shah's subject, found himself before Ispahan palace-gate. As duty bade, He enters in the courts, will, if he may, See so much glory as befits a slave Who only comes, of mind to testify How great and good is shown our lord the Shah. In he walks, round he casts his eye about, Looks up and down, admires to heart's content, Ascends the gallery, tries door and door, None says his reverence nay: peeps in at each, Wonders at all the unimagined use, Gold here and jewels there,--so vast, that hall-- So perfect yon pavilion!--lamps above Bidding look up from luxuries below,-- Evermore wonder topping wonder,--last-- Sudden he comes upon a cosy nook, A nest-like little chamber, with his name, His own, yea, his and no mistake at all, Plain o'er the entry,--what, and he descries Just those arrangements inside,--oh, the care!-- Suited to soul and body both,--so snug The cushion--nay, the pipe-stand furnished so! Whereat he cries aloud,--what think'st thou, Friend? 'That these my slippers should be just my choice, Even to the color that I most affect, Is nothing: ah, that lamp, the central sun, What must it light within its minaret I scarce dare guess the good of! Who lives there? That let me wonder at,--no slipper toys Meant for the foot, forsooth, which kicks them--thus!'

"Never enough faith in omnipotence,-- Never too much, by parity, of faith In impuissance, man's--which turns to strength When once acknowledged weakness every way. How? Hear the teaching of another tale.

"Two men once owed the Shah a mighty sum, Beggars they both were: this one crossed his arms And bowed his head,--'whereof,' sighed he, 'each hair Proved it a jewel, how the host's amount Were idly strewn for payment at thy feet!'

'Lord, here they lie, my havings poor and scant! All of the berries on my currant-bush, What roots of garlic have escaped the mice, And some five pippins from the seedling tree,-- Would they were half-a-dozen! Anyhow, Accept my all, poor beggar that I am!' 'Received in full of all demands!' smiled back The apportioner of every lot of ground From inch to acre. Littleness of love Befits the littleness of loving thing. What if he boasted 'Seeing I am great, Great must my corresponding tribute be'? Mushtari,--well, suppose him seven times seven The sun's superior, proved so by some sage: Am I that sage? To me his twinkle blue Is all I know of him and thank him for, And therefore I have put the same in verse-- 'Like yon blue twinkle, twinks thine eye, my Love!'

Neither shalt thou be troubled overmuch Because thy offering--littleness itself-- Is lessened by admixture sad and strange Of mere man's motives,--praise with fear, and love With looking after that same love's reward. Alas, Friend, what was free from this alloy,-- Some smatch thereof,--in best and purest love Proffered thy earthly father? Dust thou art, Dust shalt be to the end. Thy father took The dust, and kindly called the handful--gold, Nor cared to count what sparkled here and there Sagely unanalytic. Thank, praise, love (Sum up thus) for the lowest favors first, The commonest of comforts! aught beside Very omnipotence had overlooked Such needs, arranging for thy little life. Nor waste thy power of love in wonderment At what thou wiselier lettest shine unsoiled By breath of word. That this last cherry soothes A roughness of my palate, that I know: His Maker knows why Mushtari was made."

* * * * *

Verse-making was least of my virtues: I viewed with despair Wealth that never yet was but might be--all that verse-making were If the life would but lengthen to wish, let the mind be laid bare. So I said "To do little is bad, to do nothing is worse"-- And made verse.

Love-making,--how simple a matter! No depths to explore, No heights in a life to ascend! No disheartening Before, No affrighting Hereafter,--love now will be love evermore. So I felt "To keep silence were folly:"--all language above, I made love.

X. PLOT-CULTURE

"Ay, but, Ferishtah,"--a disciple smirked,-- "That verse of thine 'How twinks thine eye, my Love, Blue as yon star-beam!' much arrides myself Who haply may obtain a kiss therewith This eve from Laila where the palms abound-- My youth, my warrant--so the palms be close! Suppose when thou art earnest in discourse Concerning high and holy things,--abrupt I out with--'Laila's lip, how honey-sweet!'-- What say'st thou, were it scandalous or no? I feel thy shoe sent flying at my mouth For daring--prodigy of impudence-- Publish what, secret, were permissible. Well,--one slide further in the imagined slough,-- Knee-deep therein, (respect thy reverence!)-- Suppose me well aware thy very self Stooped prying through the palm-screen, while I dared Solace me with caressings all the same? Unutterable, nay--unthinkable, Undreamable a deed of shame! Alack, How will it fare shouldst thou impress on me That certainly an Eye is over all And each, to mark the minute's deed, word, thought, As worthy of reward or punishment? Shall I permit my sense an Eye-viewed shame, Broad daylight perpetration,--so to speak,-- I had not dared to breathe within the Ear, With black night's help about me? Yet I stand A man, no monster, made of flesh not cloud: Why made so, if my making prove offence To Maker's eye and ear?"

"Thou wouldst not stand Distinctly Man,"--Ferishtah made reply, "Not the mere creature,--did no limit-line Round thee about, apportion thee thy place Clean-cut from out and off the illimitable,-- Minuteness severed from immensity. All of thee for the Maker,--for thyself, Workings inside the circle that evolve Thine all,--the product of thy cultured plot. So much of grain the ground's lord bids thee yield: Bring sacks to granary in Autumn! spare Daily intelligence of this manure, That compost, how they tend to feed the soil: There thou art master sole and absolute --Only, remember doomsday! Twit'st thou me Because I turn away my outraged nose Shouldst thou obtrude thereon a shovelful Of fertilizing kisses? Since thy sire Wills and obtains thy marriage with the maid, Enough! Be reticent, I counsel thee, Nor venture to acquaint him, point by point, What he procures thee. Is he so obtuse? Keep thy instruction to thyself! My ass-- Only from him expect acknowledgment, The while he champs my gift, a thistle-bunch, How much he loves the largess: of his love I only tolerate so much as tells By wrinkling nose and inarticulate grunt, The meal, that heartens him to do my work, Tickles his palate as I meant it should."

* * * * *

Not with my Soul, Love!--bid no soul like mine Lap thee around nor leave the poor Sense room! Soul,--travel-worn, toil-weary,--would confine Along with Soul, Soul's gains from glow and gloom, Captures from soarings high and divings deep. Spoil-laden Soul, how should such memories sleep? Take Sense, too--let me love entire and whole-- Not with my Soul!

Eyes shall meet eyes and find no eyes between, Lips feed on lips, no other lips to fear! No past, no future--so thine arms but screen The present from surprise! not there, 't is here-- Not then, 't is now:--back, memories that intrude! Make, Love, the universe our solitude, And, over all the rest, oblivion roll-- Sense quenching Soul!

XI. A PILLAR AT SEBZEVAR

"Knowledge deposed, then!"--groaned whom that most grieved As foolishest of all the company. "What, knowledge, man's distinctive attribute, He doffs that crown to emulate an ass Because the unknowing long-ears loves at least Husked lupines, and belike the feeder's self --Whose purpose in the dole what ass divines?"

"Friend," quoth Ferishtah, "all I seem to know Is--I know nothing save that love I can Boundlessly, endlessly. My curls were crowned In youth with knowledge,--off, alas, crown slipped Next moment, pushed by better knowledge still Which nowise proved more constant: gain, to-day, Was toppling loss to-morrow, lay at last --Knowledge, the golden?--lacquered ignorance! As gain--mistrust it! Not as means to gain: Lacquer we learn by: cast in fining-pot, We learn, when what seemed ore assayed proves dross,-- Surelier true gold's worth, guess how purity I' the lode were precious could one light on ore Clarified up to test of crucible. The prize is in the process: knowledge means Ever-renewed assurance by defeat That victory is somehow still to reach, But love is victory, the prize itself: Love--trust to! Be rewarded for the trust In trust's mere act. In love success is sure, Attainment--no delusion, whatsoe'er The prize be: apprehended as a prize, A prize it is. Thy child as surely grasps An orange as he fails to grasp the sun Assumed his capture. What if soon he finds The foolish fruit unworthy grasping? Joy In shape and color,--that was joy as true-- Worthy in its degree of love--as grasp Of sun were, which had singed his hand beside. What if he said the orange held no juice Since it was not that sun he hoped to suck? This constitutes the curse that spoils our life And sets man maundering of his misery, That there 's no meanest atom he obtains Of what he counts for knowledge but he cries 'Hold here,--I have the whole thing,--know, this time, Nor need search farther!' Whereas, strew his path With pleasures, and he scorns them while he stoops: 'This fitly call'st thou pleasure, pick up this And praise it, truly? I reserve my thanks For something more substantial.' Fool not thus In practising with life and its delights! Enjoy the present gift, nor wait to know The unknowable. Enough to say 'I feel Love's sure effect, and, being loved, must love The love its cause behind,--I can and do!' Nor turn to try thy brain-power on the fact, (Apart from as it strikes thee, here and now-- Its how and why, i' the future and elsewhere) Except to--yet once more, and ever again, Confirm thee in thy utter ignorance: Assured that, whatsoe'er the quality Of love's cause, save that love was caused thereby, This--nigh upon revealment as it seemed A minute since--defies thy longing looks, Withdrawn into the unknowable once more. Wholly distrust thy knowledge, then, and trust As wholly love allied to ignorance! There lies thy truth and safety. Love is praise, And praise is love! Refine the same, contrive An intellectual tribute--ignorance Appreciating ere approbative Of knowledge that is infinite? With us, The small, who use the knowledge of our kind Greater than we, more wisely ignorance Restricts its apprehension, sees and knows No more than brain accepts in faith of sight, Takes first what comes first, only sure so far. By Sebzevar a certain pillar stands So aptly that its gnomon tells the hour; What if the townsmen said 'Before we thank Who placed it, for his serviceable craft, And go to dinner since its shade tells noon, Needs must we have the craftsman's purpose clear On half a hundred more recondite points Than a mere summons to a vulgar meal!' Better they say 'How opportune the help! Be loved and praised, thou kindly-hearted sage Whom Hudhud taught,--the gracious spirit-bird,-- How to construct the pillar, teach the time!' So let us say--not 'Since we know, we love,' But rather 'Since we love, we know enough.' Perhaps the pillar by a spell controlled Mushtari in his courses? Added grace Surely I count it that the sage devised, Beside celestial service, ministry To all the land, by one sharp shade at noon Falling as folk foresee. Once more, then, Friend-- (What ever in those careless ears of thine Withal I needs must round thee)--knowledge doubt Even wherein it seems demonstrable! Love,--in the claim for love, that 's gratitude For apprehended pleasure, nowise doubt! Pay its due tribute,--sure that pleasure is, While knowledge may be, at the most. See, now! Eating my breakfast, I thanked God.--'For love Shown in the cherries' flavor? Consecrate So petty an example?' There 's the fault! We circumscribe omnipotence. Search sand To unearth water: if first handful scooped Yields thee a draught, what need of digging down Full fifty fathoms deep to find a spring Whereof the pulse might deluge half the land? Drain the sufficient drop, and praise what checks The drouth that glues thy tongue,--what more would help A brimful cistern? Ask the cistern's boon When thou wouldst solace camels: in thy case, Relish the drop and love the lovable!"

"And what may be unlovable?"

"Why, hate! If out of sand comes sand and naught but sand, Affect not to be quaffing at mirage, Nor nickname pain as pleasure. That, belike, Constitutes just the trial of thy wit And worthiness to gain promotion,--hence, Proves the true purpose of thine actual life. Thy soul's environment of things perceived, Things visible and things invisible, Fact, fancy--all was purposed to evolve This and this only--was thy wit of worth To recognize the drop's use, love the same, And loyally declare against mirage Though all the world asseverated dust Was good to drink? Say, 'what made moist my lip, That I acknowledged moisture:' thou art saved!

For why? The creature and creator stand Rightly related so. Consider well! Were knowledge all thy faculty, then God Must be ignored: love gains him by first leap. Frankly accept the creatureship: ask good To love for: press bold to the tether's end Allotted to this life's intelligence! 'So we offend?' Will it offend thyself If--impuissance praying potency-- Thy child beseech that thou command the sun Rise bright to-morrow--thou, he thinks supreme In power and goodness, why shouldst thou refuse? Afterward, when the child matures, perchance The fault were greater if, with wit full-grown, The stripling dared to ask for a dinar, Than that the boy cried 'Pluck Sitara down And give her me to play with!' 'T is for him To have no bounds to his belief in thee: For thee it also is to let her shine Lustrous and lonely, so best serving him!"

* * * * *

Ask not one least word of praise! Words declare your eyes are bright? What then meant that summer day's Silence spent in one long gaze? Was my silence wrong or right?

Words of praise were all to seek! Face of you and form of you, Did they find the praise so weak When my lips just touched your cheek-- Touch which let my soul come through?

XII. A BEAN-STRIPE: ALSO APPLE-EATING

"Look, I strew beans" ...

(Ferishtah, we premise, Strove this way with a scholar's cavilment Who put the peevish question: "Sir, be frank! A good thing or a bad thing--Life is which? Shine and shade, happiness and misery Battle it out there: which force beats, I ask? If I pick beans from out a bushelful-- This one, this other,--then demand of thee What color names each justly in the main,-- 'Black' I expect, and 'White' ensues reply: No hesitation for what speck, spot, splash Of either color's opposite, intrudes To modify thy judgment. Well, for beans Substitute days,--show, ranged in order, Life-- Then, tell me its true color! Time is short, Life's days compose a span,--as brief be speech! Black I pronounce for, like the Indian Sage,-- Black--present, past, and future, interspersed With blanks, no doubt, which simple folk style Good Because not Evil: no, indeed? Forsooth, Black's shade on White is White too! What's the worst Of Evil but that, past, it overshades The else-exempted, present?--memory, We call the plague! 'Nay, but our memory fades And leaves the past unsullied!' Does it so? Why, straight the purpose of such breathing-space, Such respite from past ills, grows plain enough! What follows on remembrance of the past? Fear of the future! Life, from birth to death, Means--either looking back on harm escaped, Or looking forward to that harm's return With tenfold power of harming. Black, not White, Never the whole consummate quietude Life should be, troubled by no fear!--nor hope-- I 'll say, since lamplight dies in noontide, hope Loses itself in certainty. Such lot Man's might have been: I leave the consequence To bolder critics or the Primal Cause; Such am not I: but, man--as man I speak: Black is the bean-throw: evil is the Life!")

"Look, I strew beans,"--resumed Ferishtah,--"beans Blackish and whitish; what they figure forth Shall be man's sum of moments, bad and good, That make up Life,--each moment when he feels Pleasure or pain, his poorest fact of sense, Consciousness anyhow: there 's stand the first; Whence next advance shall be from points to line, Singulars to a series, parts to whole, And moments to the Life. How look they now, Viewed in the large, those little joys and griefs Ranged duly all a-row at last, like beans --These which I strew? This bean was white, this--black, Set by itself,--but see if good and bad Each following either in companionship, Black have not grown less black and white less white, Till blackish seems but dun, and whitish--gray, And the whole line turns--well, or black to thee Or white belike to me--no matter which: The main result is--both are modified According to our eye's scope, power of range Before and after. Black dost call this bean? What, with a whiteness in its wake, which--see-- Suffuses half its neighbor?--and, in turn, Lowers its pearliness late absolute, Frowned upon by the jet which follows hard-- Else wholly white my bean were. Choose a joy! Bettered it was by sorrow gone before, And sobered somewhat by the shadowy sense Of sorrow which came after or might come. Joy, sorrow,--by precedence, subsequence-- Either on each, make fusion, mix in Life That 's both and neither wholly: gray or dun? Dun thou decidest? gray prevails, say I: Wherefore? Because my view is wide enough, Reaches from first to last nor winks at all: Motion achieves it: stop short--fast we stick,-- Probably at the bean that 's blackest.

"Since-- Son, trust me,--this I know and only this-- I am in motion, and all things beside That circle round my passage through their midst,-- Motionless, these are, as regarding me: --Which means, myself I solely recognize. They too may recognize themselves, not me, For aught I know or care: but plain they serve This, if no other purpose--stuff to try And test my power upon of raying light And lending hue to all things as I go Moonlike through vapor. Mark the flying orb! Think'st thou the halo, painted still afresh At each new cloud-fleece pierced and passaged through, This was and is and will be evermore Colored in permanence? The glory swims Girdling the glory-giver, swallowed straight By night's abysmal gloom, unglorified Behind as erst before the advancer: gloom? Faced by the onward-faring, see, succeeds From the abandoned heaven a next surprise, And where 's the gloom now?--silver-smitten straight, One glow and variegation! So with me, Who move and make--myself--the black, the white, The good, the bad, of life's environment. Stand still! black stays black: start again! there 's white Asserts supremacy: the motion 's all That colors me my moment: seen as joy?-- I have escaped from sorrow, or that was Or might have been: as sorrow?--thence shall be Escape as certain: white preceded black, Black shall give way to white as duly,--so, Deepest in black means white most imminent, Stand still,--have no before, no after!--life Proves death, existence grows impossible To man like me. 'What else is blessed sleep But death, then?' Why, a rapture of release From toil,--that 's sleep's approach: as certainly, The end of sleep means, toil is triumphed o'er: These round the blank inconsciousness between Brightness and brightness, either pushed to blaze Just through that blank's interposition. Hence The use of things external: man--that 's I-- Practise thereon my power of casting light, And calling substance,--when the light I cast Breaks into color,--by its proper name --A truth and yet a falsity: black, white, Names each bean taken from what lay so close And threw such tint: pain might mean pain indeed Seen in the passage past it,--pleasure prove No mere delusion while I pause to look,-- Though what an idle fancy was that fear Which overhung and hindered pleasure's hue! While how, again, pain's shade enhanced the shine Of pleasure, else no pleasure! Such effects Came of such causes. Passage at an end,-- Past, present, future pains and pleasures fused So that one glance may gather blacks and whites Into a lifetime,--like my bean-streak there, Why, white they whirl into, not black--for me!"

"Ay, but for me? The indubitable blacks, Immeasurable miseries, here, there And everywhere i' the world--world outside thine Paled off so opportunely,--body's plague, Torment of soul,--where 's found thy fellowship With wide humanity all round about Reeling beneath its burden? What 's despair? Behold that man, that woman, child--nay, brute! Will any speck of white unblacken life Splashed, splotched, dyed hell-deep now from end to end For him or her or it--who knows? Not I!"

"Nor I, Son! 'It' shall stand for bird, beast, fish, Reptile, and insect even: take the last! There 's the palm-aphis, minute miracle As wondrous every whit as thou or I: Well, and his world's the palm-frond, there he 's born, Lives, breeds, and dies in that circumference, An inch of green for cradle, pasture-ground, Purlieu and grave: the palm's use, ask of him! 'To furnish these,' replies his wit: ask thine-- Who see the heaven above, the earth below, Creation everywhere,--these, each and all Claim certain recognition from the tree For special service rendered branch and bole, Top-tuft and tap-root:--for thyself, thus seen, Palms furnish dates to eat, and leaves to shade, --Maybe, thatch huts with,--have another use Than strikes the aphis. So with me, my Son! I know my own appointed patch i' the world, What pleasures me or pains there; all outside-- How he, she, it, and even thou, Son, live, Are pleased or pained, is past conjecture, once I pry beneath the semblance,--all that 's fit, To practise with,--reach where the fact may lie Fathom-deep lower. There 's the first and last Of my philosophy. Blacks blur thy white? Not mine! The aphis feeds, nor finds his leaf Untenable, because a lance-thrust, nay, Lightning strikes sere a moss-patch close beside, Where certain other aphids live and love. Restriction to his single inch of white, That's law for him, the aphis: but for me, The man, the larger-souled, beside my stretch Of blacks and whites, I see a world of woe All round about me: one such burst of black Intolerable o'er the life I count White in the main, and, yea--white's faintest trace Were clean abolished once and evermore. Thus fare my fellows, swallowed up in gloom So far as I discern: how far is that? God's care be God's! 'T is mine--to boast no joy Unsobered by such sorrows of my kind As sully with their shade my life that shines."

"Reflected possibilities of pain, Forsooth, just chasten pleasure! Pain itself,-- Fact and not fancy, does not this affect The general color?"

"Here and there a touch Taught me, betimes, the artifice of things-- That all about, external to myself, Was meant to be suspected,--not revealed Demonstrably a cheat,--but half seen through, Lest white should rule unchecked along the line Therefore white may not triumph. All the same, Of absolute and irretrievable And all-subduing black,--black's soul of black Beyond white's power to disintensify,-- Of that I saw no sample: such may wreck My life and ruin my philosophy To-morrow, doubtless: hence the constant shade Cast on life's shine,--the tremor that intrudes When firmest seems my faith in white. Dost ask 'Who is Ferishtah, hitherto exempt From black experience? Why, if God be just, Were sundry fellow-mortals singled out To undergo experience for his sake, Just that the gift of pain, bestowed on them, In him might temper to the due degree Joy's else-excessive largess?' Why, indeed! Back are we brought thus to the starting-point-- Man's impotency, God's omnipotence, These stop my answer. Aphis that I am, How leave my inch-allotment, pass at will Into my fellow's liberty of range, Enter into his sense of black and white, As either, seen by me from outside, seems Predominatingly the color? Life, Lived by my fellow, shall I pass into And myself live there? No--no more than pass From Persia, where in sun since birth I bask Daily, to some ungracious land afar, Told of by travellers, where the night of snow Smothers up day, and fluids lose themselves Frozen to marble. How I bear the sun, Beat though he may unduly, that I know: How blood once curdled ever creeps again, Baffles conjecture: yet since people live Somehow, resist a clime would conquer me, Somehow provided for their sake must dawn Compensative resource. 'No sun, no grapes,-- Then, no subsistence!'--were it wisely said? Or this well-reasoned--'Do I dare feel warmth And please my palate here with Persia's vine, Though, over-mounts,--to trust the traveller,-- Snow, feather-thick, is falling while I feast? What if the cruel winter force his way Here also?' Son, the wise reply were this: When cold from over-mounts spikes through and through Blood, bone and marrow of Ferishtah,--then, Time to look out for shelter--time, at least, To wring the hands and cry 'No shelter serves!' Shelter, of some sort, no experienced chill Warrants that I despair to find."

"No less, Doctors have differed here; thou say'st thy say; Another man's experience masters thine, Flat controverted by the sourly-Sage, The Indian witness who, with faculty Fine as Ferishtah's, found no white at all Chequer the world's predominating black, No good oust evil from supremacy, So that Life's best was that it led to death. How of his testimony?"

"Son, suppose My camel told me: 'Threescore days and ten I traversed hill and dale, yet never found Food to stop hunger, drink to stay my drouth; Yet, here I stand alive, which take in proof That to survive was found impossible!' 'Nay, rather take thou, non-surviving beast,' (Reply were prompt,) 'on flank this thwack of staff Nowise affecting flesh that 's dead and dry! Thou wincest? Take correction twice, amend Next time thy nomenclature! Call white--white!' The sourly-Sage, for whom life's best was death, Lived out his seventy years, looked hale, laughed loud. Liked--above all--his dinner,--lied, in short."

"Lied is a rough phrase: say he fell from truth In climbing towards it!--sure less faulty so Than had he sat him down and stayed content With thy safe orthodoxy, 'White, all white, White everywhere for certain I should see Did I but understand how white is black, As clearer sense than mine would.' Clearer sense,-- Whose may that be? Mere human eyes I boast, And such distinguish colors in the main, However any tongue, that 's human too, Please to report the matter. Dost thou blame A soul that strives but to see plain, speak true, Truth at all hazards? Oh, this false for real, This emptiness which feigns solidity,-- Ever some gray that 's white and dun that 's black,-- When shall we rest upon the thing itself Not on its semblance?--Soul--too weak, forsooth, To cope with fact--wants fiction everywhere! Mine tires of falsehood: truth at any cost!"

"Take one and try conclusions--this, suppose! God is all-good, all-wise, all-powerful: truth? Take it and rest there. What is man? Not God: None of these absolutes therefore,--yet himself, A creature with a creature's qualities. Make them agree, these two conceptions! Each Abolishes the other. Is man weak, Foolish and bad? He must be Ahriman, Co-equal with an Ormuzd, Bad with Good, Or else a thing made at the Prime Sole Will, Doing a maker's pleasure--with results Which--call, the wide world over, 'what must be'-- But, from man's point of view, and only point Possible to his powers, call--evidence Of goodness, wisdom, strength? we mock ourselves In all that 's best of us,--man 's blind but sure Craving for these in very deed not word, Reality and not illusions. Well,-- Since these nowhere exist--nor there where cause Must have effect, nor here where craving means Craving unfollowed by fit consequence And full supply, aye sought for, never found-- These--what are they but man's own rule of right? A scheme of goodness recognized by man, Although by man unrealizable,-- Not God's with whom to will were to perform: Nowise performed here, therefore never willed. What follows but that God, who could the best, Has willed the worst,--while man, with power to match Will with performance, were deservedly Hailed the supreme--provided ... here 's the touch That breaks the bubble ... this concept of man's Were man's own work, his birth of heart and brain, His native grace, no alien gift at all. The bubble breaks here. Will of man create? No more than this my hand which strewed the beans Produced them also from its finger-tips. Back goes creation to its source, source prime And ultimate, the single and the sole."

"How reconcile discordancy,--unite Notion and notion--God that only can Yet does not,--man that would indeed But just as surely cannot,--both in one? What help occurs to thy intelligence?"

"Ah, the beans,--or,--example better yet,-- A carpet-web I saw once leave the loom And lie at gorgeous length in Ispahan! The weaver plied his work with lengths of silk Dyed each to match some jewel as it might, And wove them, this by that. 'How comes it, friend,'-- (Quoth I)--'that while, apart, this fiery hue, That watery dimness, either shocks the eye, So blinding bright, or else offends again, By dulness,--yet the two, set each by each, Somehow produce a color born of both, A medium profitable to the sight?' 'Such medium is the end whereat I aim,'-- Answered my craftsman: 'there 's no single tinct Would satisfy the eye's desire to taste The secret of the diamond: join extremes Results a serviceable medium-ghost, The diamond's simulation. Even so I needs must blend the quality of man With quality of God, and so assist Mere human sight to understand my Life, What is, what should be,--understand thereby Wherefore I hate the first and love the last,-- Understand why things so present themselves To me, placed here to prove I understand. Thus, from beginning runs the chain to end, And binds me plain enough. By consequence, I bade thee tolerate,--not kick and cuff The man who held that natures did in fact Blend so, since so thyself must have them blend In fancy, if it take a flight so far."

"A power, confessed past knowledge, nay, past thought, --Thus thought thus known!"

"To know of, think about-- Is all man's sum of faculty effects When exercised on earth's least atom, Son! What was, what is, what may such atom be? No answer! Still, what seems it to man's sense? An atom with some certain properties Known about, thought of as occasion needs, --Man's--but occasions of the universe? Unthinkable, unknowable to man. Yet, since to think and know fire through and through Exceeds man, is the warmth of fire unknown, Its uses--are they so unthinkable? Pass from such obvious power to powers unseen, Undreamed of save in their sure consequence: Take that, we spoke of late, which draws to ground The staff my hand lets fall: it draws, at least-- Thus much man thinks and knows, if nothing more."

"Ay, but man puts no mind into such power! He neither thanks it, when an apple drops, Nor prays it spare his pate while underneath. Does he thank Summer though it plumped the rind? Why thank the other force--whate'er its name-- Which gave him teeth to bite and tongue to taste And throat to let the pulp pass? Force and force, No end of forces! Have they mind like man?"

"Suppose thou visit our lord Shalim-Shah, Bringing thy tribute as appointed. 'Here Come I to pay my due!' Whereat one slave Obsequious spreads a carpet for thy foot, His fellow offers sweetmeats, while a third Prepares a pipe: what thanks or praise have they? Such as befit prompt service. Gratitude Goes past them to the Shah whose gracious nod Set all the sweet civility at work; But for his ordinance, I much suspect, My scholar had been left to cool his heels Uncarpeted, or warm them--likelier still-- With bastinado for intrusion. Slaves Needs must obey their master: 'force and force, No end of forces,' act as bids some force Supreme o'er all and each: where find that one? How recognize him? Simply as thou didst The Shah--by reasoning 'Since I feel a debt, Behooves me pay the same to one aware I have my duty, he his privilege.' Didst thou expect the slave who charged thy pipe Would serve as well to take thy tribute-bag And save thee further trouble?"

"Be it so! The sense within me that I owe a debt Assures me--somewhere must be somebody Ready to take his due. All comes to this-- Where due is, there acceptance follows: find Him who accepts the due! and why look far? Behold thy kindred compass thee about! Ere thou wast born and after thou shalt die, Heroic man stands forth as Shahan-Shah. Rustem and Gew, Gudarz and all the rest, How come they short of lordship that 's to seek? Dead worthies! but men live undoubtedly Gifted as Sindokht, sage Sulayman's match, Valiant like Kawah: ay, and while earth lasts Such heroes shall abound there--all for thee Who profitest by all the present, past, And future operation of thy race. Why, then, o'erburdened with a debt of thanks, Look wistful for some hand from out the clouds To take it, when, all round, a multitude Would ease thee in a trice?"

"Such tendered thanks Would tumble back to who craved riddance, Son! --Who but my sorry self? See! stars are out-- Stars which, unconscious of thy gaze beneath, Go glorifying, and glorify thee too --Those Seven Thrones, Zurah's beauty, weird Parwin! Whether shall love and praise to stars be paid Or--say--some Mubid who, for good to thee Blind at thy birth, by magic all his own Opened thine eyes, and gave the sightless sight, Let the stars' glory enter? Say his charm Worked while thyself lay sleeping: as he went Thou wakedst: 'What a novel sense have I! Whom shall I love and praise?' 'The stars, each orb Thou standest rapt beneath,' proposes one: 'Do not they live their life, and please themselves, And so please thee? What more is requisite?' Make thou this answer: 'If indeed no mage Opened my eyes and worked a miracle, Then let the stars thank me who apprehend That such an one is white, such other blue! But for my apprehension both were blank. Cannot I close my eyes and bid my brain Make whites and blues, conceive without stars' help, New qualities of color? were my sight Lost or misleading, would yon red--I judge A ruby's benefaction--stand for aught But green from vulgar glass? Myself appraise Lustre and lustre: should I overlook Fomalhaut and declare some fen-fire king, Who shall correct me, lend me eyes he trusts No more than I trust mine? My mage for me! I never saw him: if he never was, I am the arbitrator!' No, my Son! Let us sink down to thy similitude: I eat my apple, relish what is ripe-- The sunny side, admire its rarity Since half the tribe is wrinkled, and the rest Hide commonly a maggot in the core,-- And down Zerdusht goes with due smack of lips: But--thank an apple? He who made my mouth To masticate, my palate to approve, My maw to further the concoction--Him I thank,--but for whose work, the orchard's wealth Might prove so many gall-nuts--stocks or stones For aught that I should think, or know, or care."

* * * * *

"Why from the world," Ferishtah smiled, "should thanks Go to this work of mine? If worthy praise, Praised let it be and welcome: as verse ranks, So rate my verse: if good therein outweighs Aught faulty judged, judge justly! Justice says; Be just to fact, or blaming or approving: But--generous? No, nor loving!

"Loving! what claim to love has work of mine? Concede my life were emptied of its gains To furnish forth and fill work's strict confine, Who works so for the world's sake--he complains With cause when hate, not love, rewards his pains. I looked beyond the world for truth and beauty: Sought, found, and did my duty."

EPILOGUE

Oh, Love--no, Love! All the noise below, Love, Groanings all and moanings--none of Life I lose! All of Life's a cry just of weariness and woe, Love-- "Hear at least, thou happy one!" How can I, Love, but choose?

Only, when I do hear, sudden circle round me --Much as when the moon's might frees a space from cloud-- Iridescent splendors: gloom--would else confound me-- Barriered off and banished far--bright-edged the blackest shroud!

Thronging through the cloud-rift, whose are they, the faces Faint revealed yet sure divined, the famous ones of old? "What"--they smile--"our names, our deeds so soon erases Time upon his tablet where Life's glory lies enrolled?

"Was it for mere fool's-play, make-believe and mumming, So we battled it like men, not boylike sulked or whined? Each of us heard clang God's 'Come!' and each was coming: Soldiers all, to forward-face, not sneaks to lag behind!

"How of the field's fortune? That concerned our Leader! Led, we struck our stroke nor cared for doings left and right: Each as on his sole head, failer or succeeder, Lay the blame or lit the praise: no care for cowards: fight!"

Then the cloud-rift broadens, spanning earth that 's under, Wide our world displays its worth, man's strife and strife's success; All the good and beauty, wonder crowning wonder, Till my heart and soul applaud perfection, nothing less.

Only, at heart's utmost joy and triumph, terror Sudden turns the blood to ice: a chill wind disencharms All the late enchantment! What if all be error-- If the halo irised round my head were, Love, thine arms?

Palazzo Giustinian-Recanati, VENICE: _December 1, 1883_.

RAWDON BROWN

"Tutti ga i so gusti, e mi go i mii." (_Venetian saying._)

Mr. Rawdon Brown was an Englishman who went to Venice on some temporary errand, and lived there for forty years, dying in that city in the summer of 1883. He had an enthusiastic love for Venice, and is mentioned in books of travel as one who knew the city thoroughly. The Venetian saying means that "everybody follows his taste as I follow mine." Toni was the gondolier and attendant of Brown. The inscription on Brown's tomb is given in the third and fourth lines. G. W. COOKE.

Sighed Rawdon Brown: "Yes, I 'm departing, Toni! I needs must, just this once before I die, Revisit England: _Anglus_ Brown am I, Although my heart 's Venetian. Yes, old crony-- Venice and London--London 's 'Death the bony' Compared with Life--that 's Venice! What a sky, A sea, this morning! One last look! Good-by, Cà Pesaro! No, lion--I 'm a coney To weep! I 'm dazzled; 't is that sun I view Rippling the ... the ... _Cospetto_, Toni! Down With carpet-bag, and off with valise-straps! _Bella Venezia, non ti lascio più!_" Nor did Brown ever leave her: well, perhaps Browning, next week, may find himself quite Brown!

_November 28, 1883._

THE FOUNDER OF THE FEAST

Inscribed in an Album presented to Mr. Arthur Chappell, of the Saint James Hall Saturday and Monday popular concerts.

"Enter my palace," if a prince should say-- "Feast with the Painters! See, in bounteous row, They range from Titian up to Angelo!" Could we be silent at the rich survey? A host so kindly, in as great a way Invites to banquet, substitutes for show Sound that 's diviner still, and bids us know Bach like Beethoven; are we thankless, pray?

Thanks, then, to Arthur Chappell,--thanks to him Whose every guest henceforth not idly vaunts "Sense has received the utmost Nature grants, My cup was filled with rapture to the brim, When, night by night,--ah, memory, how it haunts!-- Music was poured by perfect ministrants, By Halle, Schumann, Piatti, Joachim.

_April 5, 1884._

THE NAMES

At Dr. F. J. Furnivall's suggestion, Browning was asked to contribute a sonnet to the _Shakesperean Show-Book_ of the "Shakesperean Show" held in Albert Hall, London, on May 29-31, 1884, to pay off the debt on the Hospital for Women, in Fulham Road. The poet sent to the committee a sonnet on the names of Jehovah and Shakespeare.

Shakespeare!--to such name's sounding, what succeeds Fitly as silence? Falter forth the spell,-- Act follows word, the speaker knows full well, Nor tampers with its magic more than needs. Two names there are: That which the Hebrew reads With his soul only: if from lips it fell, Echo, back thundered by earth, heaven and hell, Would own "Thou didst create us!" Naught impedes We voice the other name, man's most of might, Awesomely, lovingly: let awe and love Mutely await their working, leave to sight All of the issue as--below--above-- Shakespeare's creation rises: one remove, Though dread--this finite from that infinite.

_March 12, 1884._

EPITAPH

ON LEVI LINCOLN THAXTER

Born in Watertown, Massachusetts, February 1, 1824. Died May 31, 1884.

Mr. Thaxter was early a student of Browning's genius and in his later years gave readings from his poems, which were singularly interpretative. The boulder over his grave bears these lines.

Thou, whom these eyes saw never! Say friends true Who say my soul, helped onward by my song, Though all unwittingly, has helped thee too? I gave of but the little that I knew: How were the gift requited, while along Life's path I pace, couldst thou make weakness strong! Help me with knowledge--for Life's Old--Death's New!

R. B. to L. L. T., _April_, 1885.

WHY I AM A LIBERAL

Contributed to a volume edited by Andrew Reid, in which a number of leaders of English thought answered the question, "Why I am a Liberal?"

"Why?" Because all I haply can and do, All that I am now, all I hope to be,-- Whence comes it save from fortune setting free Body and soul the purpose to pursue, God traced for both? If fetters, not a few, Of prejudice, convention, fall from me, These shall I bid men--each in his degree Also God-guided--bear, and gayly, too?

But little do or can the best of us: That little is achieved through Liberty. Who, then, dares hold, emancipated thus, His fellow shall continue bound? Not I, Who live, love, labor freely, nor discuss A brother's right to freedom. That is "Why."

PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE IN THEIR DAY

IN MEMORIAM J. MILSAND, OBIIT IV. SEPTEMBER, MDCCCLXXXVI.

_Absens Absentem Auditque Videtque._

APOLLO AND THE FATES

A PROLOGUE

(Hymn in Mercurium, v. 559. Eumenides, vv. 693-4, 697-8. Alcestis, vv. 12, 33.)

_Apollo._ (_From above._) Flame at my footfall, Parnassus! Apollo, Breaking ablaze on thy topmost peak, Burns thence, down to the depths--dread hollow-- Haunt of the Dire Ones. Haste! They wreak Wrath on Admetus whose respite I seek.

* * * * *

_The Fates._ (_Below. Darkness._) Dragonwise couched in the womb of our Mother, Coiled at thy nourishing heart's core, Night! Dominant Dreads, we, one by the other, Deal to each mortal his dole of light On earth--the upper, the glad, the bright.

_Clotho._ Even so: thus from my loaded spindle Plucking a pinch of the fleece, lo, "Birth" Brays from my bronze lip: life I kindle: Look, 't is a man! go, measure on earth The minute thy portion, whatever its worth!

* * * * *

_Lachesis._ Woe-purfled, weal-prankt,--if it speed, if it linger,-- Life's substance and show are determined by me, Who, meting out, mixing with sure thumb and finger, Lead life the due length: is all smoothness and glee, All tangle and grief? Take the lot, my decree!

* * * * *

_Atropos._--Which I make an end of: the smooth as the tangled My shears cut asunder: each snap shrieks "One more Mortal makes sport for us Moirai who dangled The puppet grotesquely till earth's solid floor Proved film he fell through, lost in Naught as before."

* * * * *

_Clo._ I spin thee a thread. Live, Admetus! Produce him!

_Lac._ Go,--brave, wise, good, happy! Now chequer the thread! He is slaved for, yet loved by a god. I unloose him A goddess-sent plague. He has conquered, is wed, Men crown him, he stands at the height,--

_Atr._ He is ...

_Apollo._ (_Entering: Light._) "Dead?"

Nay, swart spinsters! So I surprise you Making and marring the fortunes of Man? Huddling--no marvel, your enemy eyes you-- Head by head bat-like, blots under the ban Of daylight earth's blessing since time began!

* * * * *

_The Fates._ Back to thy blest earth, prying Apollo! Shaft upon shaft transpierce with thy beams Earth to the centre,--spare but this hollow Hewn out of Night's heart, where our mystery seems Mewed from day's malice: wake earth from her dreams!

* * * * *

_Apol._ Crones, 't is your dusk selves I startle from slumber: Day's god deposes you--queens Night-crowned! --Plying your trade in a world ye encumber, Fashioning Man's web of life--spun, wound, Left the length ye allot till a clip strews the ground!

Behold I bid truce to your doleful amusement-- Annulled by a sunbeam!

_The Fates._ Boy, are not we peers?

_Apol._ You with the spindle grant birth: whose inducement But yours--with the niggardly digits--endears To mankind chance and change, good and evil? Your shears ...

* * * * *

_Atr._ Ay, mine end the conflict: so much is no fable. We spin, draw to length, cut asunder: what then? So it was, and so is, and so shall be: art able To alter life's law for ephemeral men?

_Apol._ Nor able nor willing. To threescore and ten

Extend but the years of Admetus! Disaster O'ertook me, and, banished by Zeus, I became A servant to one who forbore me though master: True lovers were we. Discontinue your game, Let him live whom I loved, then hate on, all the same!

* * * * *

_The Fates._ And what if we granted--law-flouter, use-trampler-- His life at the suit of an upstart? Judge, thou-- Of joy were it fuller, of span because ampler? For love's sake, not hate's, end Admetus--ay, now-- Not a gray hair on head, nor a wrinkle on brow!

For, boy, 't is illusion: from thee comes a glimmer Transforming to beauty life blank at the best. Withdraw--and how looks life at worst, when to shimmer Succeeds the sure shade, and Man's lot frowns--confessed Mere blackness chance-brightened? Whereof shall attest

The truth this same mortal, the darling thou stylest, Whom love would advantage,--eke out, day by day, A life which 't is solely thyself reconcilest Thy friend to endure,--life with hope: take away Hope's gleam from Admetus, he spurns it. For, say--

What 's infancy? Ignorance, idleness, mischief: Youth ripens to arrogance, foolishness, greed: Age--impotence, churlishness, rancor: call _this_ chief Of boons for thy loved one? Much rather bid speed Our function, let live whom thou hatest indeed!

Persuade thee, bright boy-thing! Our eld be instructive!

_Apol._ And certes youth owns the experience of age. Ye hold then, grave seniors, my beams are productive --They solely--of good that 's mere semblance, engage Man's eye--gilding evil, Man's true heritage?

* * * * *

_The Fates._ So, even so! From without,--at due distance If viewed,--set a-sparkle, reflecting thy rays,-- Life mimics the sun: but withdraw such assistance, The counterfeit goes, the reality stays-- An ice-ball disguised as a fire-orb.

_Apol._ What craze

Possesses the fool then whose fancy conceits him As happy?

_The Fates._ Man happy?

_Apol._ If otherwise--solve This doubt which besets me! What friend ever greets him Except with "Live long as the seasons revolve," Not "Death to thee straightway"? Your doctrines absolve

Such hailing from hatred: yet Man should know best. He talks it, and glibly, as life were a load Man fain would be rid of: when put to the test, He whines "Let it lie, leave me trudging the road That is rugged so far, but methinks" ...

_The Fates._ Ay, 't is owed

To that glamour of thine, he bethinks him "Once past The stony, some patch, nay, a smoothness of swarth Awaits my tired foot: life turns easy at last"-- Thy largess so lures him, he looks for reward Of the labor and sorrow.

_Apol._ It seems, then--debarred

Of illusion--(I needs must acknowledge the plea) Man desponds and despairs. Yet,--still further to draw Due profit from counsel,--suppose there should be Some power in himself, some compensative law By virtue of which, independently ...

* * * * *

_The Fates._ Faugh! Strength hid in the weakling! What bowl-shape hast there, Thus laughingly proffered? A gift to our shrine? Thanks--worsted in argument! Not so? Declare Its purpose!

_Apol._ I proffer earth's product, not mine. Taste, try, and approve Man's invention of--WINE!

* * * * *

_The Fates._ We feeding suck honeycombs.

_Apol._ Sustenance meagre! Such fare breeds the fumes that show all things amiss. Quaff wine,--how the spirits rise nimble and eager, Unscale the dim eyes! To Man's cup grant one kiss Of your lip, then allow--no enchantment like this!

* * * * *

_Clo._ Unhook wings, unhood brows! Dost hearken?

_Lach._ I listen: I see--smell the food these fond mortals prefer To our feast, the bee's bounty!

_Atr._ The thing leaps! But--glisten Its best, I withstand it--unless all concur In adventure so novel.

_Apol._ Ye drink?

_The Fates._ We demur.

* * * * *

_Apol._ Sweet Trine, be indulgent nor scout the contrivance Of Man--Bacchus-prompted! The juice, I uphold, Illuminates gloom without sunny connivance, Turns fear into hope and makes cowardice bold,-- Touching all that is leadlike in life turns it gold!

* * * * *

_The Fates._ Faith foolish as false!

_Apol._ But essay it, soft sisters! Then mock as ye may. Lift the chalice to lip! Good: thou next--and thou! Seems the web, to you twisters Of life's yarn, so worthless?

_Clo._ Who guessed that one sip Would impart such a lightness of limb?

_Lach._ I could skip

In a trice from the pied to the plain in my woof! What parts each from either? A hair's breadth, no inch. Once learn the right method of stepping aloof, Though on black next foot falls, firm I fix it, nor flinch, --Such my trust white succeeds!

_Atr._ One could live--at a pinch!

* * * * *

_Apol._ What, beldames? Earth's yield, by Man's skill, can effect Such a cure of sick sense that ye spy the relation Of evil to good? But drink deeper, correct Blear sight more convincingly still! Take your station Beside me, drain dregs! Now for edification!

Whose gift have ye gulped? Thank not me but my brother, Blithe Bacchus, our youngest of godships. 'T was he Found all boons to all men, by one god or other Already conceded, so judged there must be New guerdon to grace the new advent, you see!

Else how would a claim to Man's homage arise? The plan lay arranged of his mixed woe and weal, So disposed--such Zeus' will--with design to make wise The witless--that false things were mingled with real, Good with bad: such the lot whereto law set the seal.

Now, human of instinct--since Semele's son, Yet minded divinely--since fathered by Zeus, With naught Bacchus tampered, undid not things done, Owned wisdom anterior, would spare wont and use, Yet change--without shock to old rule--introduce.

Regard how your cavern from crag-tip to base Frowns sheer, height and depth adamantine, one death! I rouse with a beam the whole rampart, displace No splinter--yet see how my flambeau, beneath And above, bids this gem wink, that crystal unsheathe!

Withdraw beam--disclosure once more Night forbids you Of spangle and sparkle--Day's chance-gift, surmised Rock's permanent birthright: my potency rids you No longer of darkness, yet light--recognized-- Proves darkness a mask: day lives on though disguised.

If Bacchus by wine's aid avail so to fluster Your sense, that life's fact grows from adverse and thwart To helpful and kindly by means of a cluster-- Mere hand-squeeze, earth's nature sublimed by Man's art-- Shall Bacchus claim thanks wherein Zeus has no part?

Zeus--wisdom anterior? No, maids, be admonished! If morn's touch at base worked such wonders, much more Had noontide in absolute glory astonished Your den, filled a-top to o'erflowing. I pour No such mad confusion. 'T is Man's to explore

Up and down, inch by inch, with the taper his reason: No torch, it suffices--held deftly and straight. Eyes, purblind at first, feel their way in due season, Accept good with bad, till unseemly debate Turns concord--despair, acquiescence in fate.

Who works this but Zeus? Are not instinct and impulse, Not concept and incept his work through Man's soul On Man's sense? Just as wine ere it reach brain must brim pulse, Zeus' flash stings the mind that speeds body to goal, Bids pause at no part but press on, reach the whole.

For petty and poor is the part ye envisage When--(quaff away, cummers!)--ye view, last and first, As evil Man's earthly existence. Come! _Is_ age, _Is_ infancy--manhood--so uninterspersed With good--some faint sprinkle?

_Clo._ I 'd speak if I durst.

* * * * *

_Apol._ Draughts dregward loose tongue-tie.

_Lach._ I 'd see, did no web Set eyes somehow winking.

_Apol._ Drains-deep lies their purge --True collyrium!

_Atr._ Words, surging at high-tide, soon ebb From starved ears.

_Apol._ Drink but down to the source, they resurge. Join hands! Yours and yours too! A dance or a dirge?

* * * * *

_Cho._ Quashed be our quarrel! Sourly and smilingly, Bare and gowned, bleached limbs and browned, Drive we a dance, three and one, reconcilingly, Thanks to the cup where dissension is drowned, Defeat proves triumphant and slavery crowned.

Infancy? What if the rose-streak of morning Pale and depart in a passion of tears? Once to have hoped is no matter for scorning! Love once--e'en love's disappointment endears! A minute's success pays the failure of years.

Manhood--the actual? Nay, praise the potential! (Bound upon bound, foot it around!) What _is?_ No, what _may_ be--sing! that 's Man's essential! (Ramp, tramp, stamp and compound Fancy with fact--the lost secret is found!)

Age? Why, fear ends there: the contest concluded, Man _did_ live his life, _did_ escape from the fray: Not scratchless but unscathed, he somehow eluded Each blow fortune dealt him, and conquers to-day: To-morrow--new chance and fresh strength,--might we say?

Laud then Man's life--no defeat but a triumph! [_Explosion from the earth's centre._ _Clo._ Ha, loose hands!

_Lach._ I reel in a swound.

_Atro._ Horror yawns under me, while from on high--humph! Lightnings astound, thunders resound, Vault-roof reverberates, groans the ground! [_Silence._

_Apol._ I acknowledge.

_The Fates._ Hence, trickster! Straight sobered are we! The portent assures 't was our tongue spoke the truth, Not thine. While the vapor encompassed us three We conceived and bore knowledge--a bantling uncouth, Old brains shudder back from: so--take it, rash youth!

Lick the lump into shape till a cry comes!

_Apol._ I hear.

_The Fates_. Dumb music, dead eloquence! Say it, or sing! What was quickened in us and thee also?

_Apol._ I fear.

_The Fates._ Half female, half male--go, ambiguous thing! While we speak--perchance sputter--pick up what we fling!

Known yet ignored, nor divined nor unguessed, Such is Man's law of life. Do we strive to declare What is ill, what is good in our spinning? Worst, best, Change hues of a sudden: now here and now there Flits the sign which decides: all about yet nowhere.

'T is willed so,--that Man's life be lived, first to last, Up and down, through and through--not in portions, forsooth, To pick and to choose from. Our shuttles fly fast, Weave living, not life sole and whole: as age--youth, So death completes living, shows life in its truth.

Man learningly lives: till death helps him--no lore! It is doom and must be. Dost submit?

_Apol._ I assent-- Concede but Admetus! So much if no more Of my prayer grant as peace-pledge! Be gracious, though, blent, Good and ill, love and hate streak your life-gift!

_The Fates._ Content!

Such boon we accord in due measure. Life's term We lengthen should any be moved for love's sake To forego life's fulfilment, renounce in the germ Fruit mature--bliss or woe--either infinite. Take Or leave thy friend's lot: on his head be the stake!

* * * * *

_Apol._ On mine, griesly gammers! Admetus, I know thee! Thou prizest the right these unwittingly give Thy subjects to rush, pay obedience they owe thee! Importunate one with another they strive For the glory to die that their king may survive.

Friends rush: and who first in all Pheræ appears But thy father to serve as thy substitute?

_Clo._ Bah!

_Apol._ Ye wince? Then his mother, well stricken in years, Advances her claim--or his wife--

_Lach._ Tra-la-la!

_Apol._ But he spurns the exchange, rather dies!

_Atro._ Ha, ha, ha! [_Apollo ascends. Darkness._

WITH BERNARD DE MANDEVILLE

I

Ay, this same midnight, by this chair of mine, Come and review thy counsels: art thou still Stanch to their teaching?--not as fools opine Its purport might be, but as subtler skill Could, through turbidity, the loaded line Of logic casting, sound deep, deeper, till It touched a quietude and reached a shrine And recognized harmoniously combine Evil with good, and hailed truth's triumph.--thine, Sage dead long since, Bernard de Mandeville!

II

Only, 't is no fresh knowledge that I crave, Fuller truth yet, new gainings from the grave; Here we alive must needs deal fairly, turn To what account Man may Man's portion, learn Man's proper play with truth in part, before Entrusted with the whole. I ask no more Than smiling witness that I do my best With doubtful doctrine: afterwards the rest! So, silent face me while I think and speak! A full disclosure? Such would outrage law. Law deals the same with soul and body: seek Full truth my soul may, when some babe, I saw A new-born weakling, starts up strong--not weak-- Man every whit, absolved from earning awe, Pride, rapture, if the soul attains to wreak Its will on flesh, at last can thrust, lift, draw, As mind bids muscle--mind which long has striven, Painfully urging body's impotence To effort whereby--once law's barrier riven, Life's rule abolished--body might dispense With infancy's probation, straight be given --Not by foiled darings, fond attempts back-driven, Fine faults of growth, brave sins which saint when shriven-- To stand full-statured in magnificence.

III

No: as with body so deals law with soul That 's stung to strength through weakness, strives for good Through evil,--earth its race-ground, heaven its goal, Presumably: so far I understood Thy teaching long ago. But what means this --Objected by a mouth which yesterday Was magisterial in antithesis To half the truths we hold, or trust we may, Though tremblingly the while? "No sign"--groaned he-- "No stirring of God's finger to denote He wills that right should have supremacy On earth, not wrong! How helpful could we quote But one poor instance when he interposed Promptly and surely and beyond mistake Between oppression and its victim, closed Accounts with sin for once, and bade us wake From our long dream that justice bears no sword, Or else forgets whereto its sharpness serves! So might we safely mock at what unnerves Faith now, be spared the sapping fear's increase That haply evil's strife with good shall cease Never on earth. Nay, after earth, comes peace Born out of life-long battle? Man's lip curves With scorn: there, also, what if justice swerves From dealing doom, sets free by no swift stroke Right fettered here by wrong, but leaves life's yoke-- Death should loose man from--fresh laid, past release?"

IV

Bernard de Mandeville, confute for me This parlous friend who captured or set free Thunderbolts at his pleasure, yet would draw Back, panic-stricken by some puny straw Thy gold-rimmed amber-headed cane had whisked Out of his pathway if the object risked Encounter, 'scaped thy kick from buckled shoe! As when folk heard thee in old days pooh-pooh Addison's tye-wig preachment, grant this friend-- (Whose groan I hear, with guffaw at the end Disposing of mock-melancholy)--grant His bilious mood one potion, ministrant Of homely wisdom, healthy wit! For, hear! "With power and will, let preference appear By intervention ever and aye, help good When evil's mastery is understood In some plain outrage, and triumphant wrong Tramples weak right to nothingness: nay, long Ere such sad consummation brings despair To right's adherents, ah, what help it were If wrong lay strangled in the birth--each head Of the hatched monster promptly crushed, instead Of spared to gather venom! We require No great experience that the inch-long worm, Free of our heel, would grow to vomit fire, And one day plague the world in dragon form. So should wrong merely peep abroad to meet Wrong's due quietus, leave our world's way safe For honest walking."

V

Sage, once more repeat Instruction! 'T is a sore to soothe not chafe. Ah, Fabulist, what luck, could I contrive To coax from thee another "Grumbling Hive"! My friend himself wrote fables short and sweet: Ask him--"Suppose the Gardener of Man's ground Plants for a purpose, side by side with good, Evil--(and that he does so--look around! What does the field show?)--were it understood That purposely the noxious plant was found Vexing the virtuous, poison close to food, If, at first stealing-forth of life in stalk And leaflet-promise, quick his spud should balk Evil from budding foliage, bearing fruit? Such timely treatment of the offending root Might strike the simple as wise husbandry, But swift sure extirpation would scarce suit Shrewder observers. Seed once sown thrives: why Frustrate its product, miss the quality Which sower binds himself to count upon? Had seed fulfilled the destined purpose, gone Unhindered up to harvest--what know I But proof were gained that every growth of good Sprang consequent on evil's neighborhood?" So said your shrewdness: true--so did not say That other sort of theorists who held Mere unintelligence prepared the way For either seed's upsprouting: you repelled Their notion that both kinds could sow themselves. True! but admit 't is understanding delves And drops each germ, what else but folly thwarts The doer's settled purpose? Let the sage Concede a use to evil, though there starts Full many a burgeon thence, to disengage With thumb and finger lest it spoil the yield Too much of good's main tribute! But our main Tough-tendoned mandrake-monster--purge the field Of him for once and all? It follows plain Who set him there to grow beholds repealed His primal law: his ordinance proves vain: And what beseems a king who cannot reign, But to drop sceptre valid arm should wield?

VI

"Still there 's a parable"--retorts my friend-- "Shows agriculture with a difference! What of the crop and weeds which solely blend Because, once planted, none may pluck them thence? The Gardener contrived thus? Vain pretence! An enemy it was who unawares Ruined the wheat by interspersing tares. Where 's our desiderated forethought? Where 's Knowledge, where power and will in evidence? 'T is Man's-play merely! Craft foils rectitude, Malignity defeats beneficence. And grant, at very last of all, the feud 'Twixt good and evil ends, strange thoughts intrude Though good be garnered safely, and good's foe Bundled for burning. Thoughts steal: 'Even so-- Why grant tares leave to thus o'ertop, o'ertower Their field-mate, boast the stalk and flaunt the flower, Triumph one sunny minute? Knowledge, power, And will thus worked?' Man's fancy makes the fault! Man, with the narrow mind, must cram inside His finite God's infinitude,--earth's vault He bids comprise the heavenly far and wide, Since Man may claim a right to understand What passes understanding. So, succinct And trimly set in order, to be scanned And scrutinized, lo--the divine lies linked Fast to the human, free to move as moves Its proper match: awhile they keep the grooves, Discreetly side by side together pace, Till sudden comes a stumble incident Likely enough to Man's weak-footed race, And he discovers--wings in rudiment, Such as he boasts, which full-grown, free-distent Would lift him skyward, fail of flight while pent Within humanity's restricted space. Abjure each fond attempt to represent The formless, the illimitable! Trace No outline, try no hint of human face Or form or hand!"

VII

Friend, here 's a tracing meant To help a guess at truth you never knew. Bend but those eyes now, using mind's eye too, And note--sufficient for all purposes-- The ground-plan--map you long have yearned for--yes, Make out in markings--more what artist can?-- Goethe's Estate in Weimar,--just a plan! _A_ is the House, and _B_ the Garden-gate, And _C_ the Grass-plot--you 've the whole estate Letter by letter, down to _Y_ the Pond, And _Z_ the Pigsty. Do you look beyond The algebraic signs, and captions say "Is _A_ the House? But where 's the Roof to _A_, Where 's Door, where 's Window? Needs must House have such!" Ay, that were folly. Why so very much More foolish than our mortal purblind way Of seeking in the symbol no mere point To guide our gaze through what were else inane, But things--their solid selves? "Is, joint by joint, Orion man-like,--as these dots explain His constellation? Flesh composed of suns-- How can such be?" exclaim the simple ones. Look through the sign to the thing signified-- Shown nowise, point by point at best descried, Each an orb's topmost sparkle: all beside Its shine is shadow: turn the orb one jot-- Up flies the new flash to reveal 't was not The whole sphere late flamboyant in your ken!

VIII

"What need of symbolizing? Fitlier men Would take on tongue mere facts--few, faint and far, Still facts not fancies: quite enough they are, That Power, that Knowledge, and that Will,--add then Immensity, Eternity: these jar Nowise with our permitted thought and speech. Why human attributes?"

A myth may teach: Only, who better would expound it thus Must be Euripides, not Æschylus.

IX

Boundingly up through Night's wall dense and dark, Embattled crags and clouds, outbroke the Sun Above the conscious earth, and one by one Her heights and depths absorbed to the last spark His fluid glory, from the far fine ridge Of mountain-granite which, transformed to gold, Laughed first the thanks back, to the vale's dusk fold On fold of vapor-swathing, like a bridge Shattered beneath some giant's stamp. Night wist Her work done and betook herself in mist To marsh and hollow, there to bide her time Blindly in acquiescence. Everywhere Did earth acknowledge Sun's embrace sublime, Thrilling her to the heart of things: since there No ore ran liquid, no spar branched anew, No arrowy crystal gleamed, but straightway grew Glad through the inrush--glad nor more nor less Than, 'neath his gaze, forest and wilderness, Hill, dale, land, sea, the whole vast stretch and spread, The universal world of creatures bred By Sun's munificence, alike gave praise-- All creatures but one only: gaze for gaze, Joyless and thankless, who--all scowling can-- Protests against the innumerous praises? Man, Sullen and silent.

Stand thou forth then, state Thy wrong, thou sole aggrieved--disconsolate-- While every beast, bird, reptile, insect, gay And glad acknowledges the bounteous day!

X

Man speaks now: "What avails Sun's earth-felt thrill To me? Sun penetrates the ore, the plant-- They feel and grow: perchance with subtler skill He interfuses fly, worm, brute, until Each favored object pays life's ministrant By pressing, in obedience to his will, Up to completion of the task prescribed, So stands and stays a type. Myself imbibed Such influence also, stood and stand complete-- The perfect Man,--head, body, hands and feet, True to the pattern: but does that suffice? How of my superadded mind which needs --Not to be, simply, but to do, and pleads For--more than knowledge that by some device Sun quickens matter: mind is nobly fain To realize the marvel, make--for sense As mind--the unseen visible, condense --Myself--Sun's all-pervading influence So as to serve the needs of mind, explain What now perplexes. Let the oak increase His corrugated strength on strength, the palm Lift joint by joint her fan-fruit, ball and balm,-- Let the coiled serpent bask in bloated peace,-- The eagle, like some skyey derelict, Drift in the blue, suspended, glorying,-- The lion lord it by the desert-spring,-- What know or care they of the power which pricked Nothingness to perfection? I, instead, When all-developed still am found a thing All-incomplete: for what though flesh had force Transcending theirs--hands able to unring The tightened snake's coil, eyes that could out-course The eagle's soaring, voice whereat the king Of carnage couched discrowned? Mind seeks to see, Touch, understand, by mind inside of me, The outside mind--whose quickening I attain To recognize--I only. All in vain Would mind address itself to render plain The nature of the essence. Drag what lurks Behind the operation--that which works Latently everywhere by outward proof-- Drag that mind forth to face mine? No! aloof I solely crave that one of all the beams Which do Sun's work in darkness, at my will Should operate--myself for once have skill To realize the energy which streams Flooding the universe. Above, around, Beneath--why mocks that mind my own thus found Simply of service, when the world grows dark, To half-surmise--were Sun's use understood, I might demonstrate him supplying food, Warmth, life, no less the while? To grant one spark Myself may deal with--make it thaw my blood And prompt my steps, were truer to the mark Of mind's requirement than a half-surmise That somehow secretly is operant, A power all matter feels, mind only tries To comprehend! Once more--no idle vaunt 'Man comprehends the Sun's self!' Mysteries At source why probe into? Enough: display, Make demonstrable, how, by night as day, Earth's centre and sky's outspan, all 's informed Equally by Sun's efflux!--source from whence If just one spark I drew, full evidence Were mine of fire ineffably enthroned-- Sun's self made palpable to Man!"

XI

Thus moaned Man till Prometheus helped him,--as we learn,-- Offered an artifice whereby he drew Sun's rays into a focus,--plain and true, The very Sun in little: made fire burn And henceforth do Man service--glass-conglobed Though to a pin-point circle--all the same Comprising the Sun's self, but Sun disrobed Of that else-unconceived essential flame Borne by no naked sight. Shall mind's eye strive Achingly to companion as it may The supersubtle effluence, and contrive To follow beam and beam upon their way Hand-breadth by hand-breadth, till sense faint--confessed Frustrate, eluded by unknown unguessed Infinitude of action? Idle quest! Rather ask aid from optics. Sense, descry The spectrum--mind, infer immensity! Little? In little, light, warmth, life are blessed-- Which, in the large, who sees to bless? Not I More than yourself: so, good my friend, keep still Trustful with--me? with thee, sage Mandeville!

WITH DANIEL BARTOLI

I

Don, the divinest women that have walked Our world were scarce those saints of whom we talked. My saint, for instance--worship if you will! 'T is pity poets need historians' skill: What legendary 's worth a chronicle?

II

Come, now! A great lord once upon a time Visited--oh a king, of kings the prime, To sign a treaty such as never was: For the king's minister had brought to pass That this same duke--so style him--must engage Two of his dukedoms as an heritage After his death to this exorbitant Craver of kingship. "Let who lacks go scant, Who owns much, give the more to!" Why rebuke? So bids the devil, so obeys the duke.

III

Now, as it happened, at his sister's house --Duchess herself--indeed the very spouse Of the king's uncle,--while the deed of gift Whereby our duke should cut his rights adrift Was drawing, getting ripe to sign and seal-- What does the frozen heart but uncongeal And, shaming his transcendent kin and kith, Whom do the duke's eyes make acquaintance with? A girl. "What, sister, may this wonder be?" "Nobody! Good as beautiful is she, With gifts that match her goodness, no faint flaw I' the white: she were the pearl you think you saw, But that she is--what corresponds to white? Some other stone, the true pearl's opposite, As cheap as pearls are costly. She 's--now, guess Her parentage! Once--twice--thrice? Foiled, confess! Drugs, duke, her father deals in--faugh, the scents!-- Manna and senna--such medicaments For payment he compounds you. Stay--stay--stay! I 'll have no rude speech wrong her! Whither away, The hot-head? Ah, the scapegrace! She deserves Respect--compassion, rather! right it serves My folly, trusting secrets to a fool! Already at it, is he? She keeps cool-- Helped by her fan's spread. Well, our state atones For thus much license, and words break no bones!" (Hearts, though, sometimes.)

IV

Next morn 't was "Reason, rate, Rave, sister, on till doomsday! Sure as fate, I wed that woman--what a woman is Now that I know, who never knew till this!" So swore the duke. "I wed her: once again-- Rave, rate, and reason--spend your breath in vain!"

V

At once was made a contract firm and fast, Published the banns were, only marriage, last, Required completion when the Church's rite Should bless and bid depart, make happy quite The coupled man and wife forevermore: Which rite was soon to follow. Just before-- All things at all but end--the folk o' the bride Flocked to a summons. Pomp the duke defied: "Of ceremony--so much as empowers, Naught that exceeds, suits best a tie like ours"-- He smiled--"all else were mere futility. We vow, God hears us: God and you and I-- Let the world keep at distance! This is why We choose the simplest forms that serve to bind Lover and lover of the human kind, No care of what degree--of kings or clowns-- Come blood and breeding. Courtly smiles and frowns Miss of their mark, would idly soothe or strike My style and yours--in one style merged alike-- God's man and woman merely. Long ago 'T was rounded in my ears 'Duke, wherefore slow To use a privilege? Needs must one who reigns Pay reigning's due: since statecraft so ordains-- Wed for the commonweal's sake! law prescribes One wife: but to submission license bribes Unruly nature: mistresses accept --Well, at discretion!' Prove I so inept A scholar, thus instructed? Dearest, be Wife and all mistresses in one to me, Now, henceforth, and forever!" So smiled he.

VI

Good: but the minister, the crafty one, Got ear of what was doing--all but done-- Not sooner, though, than the king's very self, Warned by the sister on how sheer a shelf Royalty's ship was like to split. "I bar The abomination! Mix with muck my star? Shall earth behold prodigiously enorbed An upstart marsh-born meteor sun-absorbed? Nuptial me no such nuptials!" "Past dispute, Majesty speaks with wisdom absolute," Admired the minister: "yet, all the same, I would we may not--while we play his game, The ducal meteor's--also lose our own. The solar monarch's: we relieve your throne Of an ungracious presence, like enough: Balked of his project he departs in huff, And so cuts short--dare I remind the king?-- Our not so unsuccessful bargaining. The contract for eventual heritage Happens to _pari passu_ reach the stage Attained by just this other contract,--each Unfixed by signature though fast in speech. Off goes the duke in dudgeon--off withal Go with him his two dukedoms past recall. You save a fool from tasting folly's fruit, Obtain small thanks thereby, and lose to boot Sagacity's reward. The jest is grim: The man will mulct you--for amercing him? Nay, for ... permit a poor similitude! A witless wight in some fantastic mood Would drown himself: you plunge into the wave, Pluck forth the undeserving: he, you save, Pulls you clean under also for your pains. Sire, little need that I should tax my brains To help your inspiration!" "Let him sink! Always contriving"--hints the royal wink-- "To keep ourselves dry while we claim his clothes."

VII

Next day, the appointed day for plighting troths At eve,--so little time to lose, you see, Before the Church should weld, indissolubly Bond into bond, wed these who, side by side, Sit each by other, bold groom, blushing bride,-- At the preliminary banquet, graced By all the lady's kinsfolk come in haste To share her triumph,--lo, a thunderclap! "Who importunes now?" "Such is my mishap-- In the king's name! No need that any stir Except this lady!" bids the minister: "With her I claim a word apart, no more: For who gainsays--a guard is at the door. Hold, duke! Submit you, lady, as I bow To him whose mouthpiece speaks his pleasure now! It well may happen I no whit arrest Your marriage: be it so,--we hope the best! By your leave, gentles! Lady, pray you, hence! Duke, with my soul and body's deference!"

VIII

Doors shut, mouth opens and persuasion flows Copiously forth. "What flesh shall dare oppose The king's command? The matter in debate --How plain it is! Yourself shall arbitrate, Determine. Since the duke affects to rate His prize in you beyond all goods of earth, Accounts as naught old gains of rank and birth, Ancestral obligation, recent fame, (We know his feats)--nay, ventures to disclaim Our will and pleasure almost--by report-- Waives in your favor dukeliness, in short,-- We--('t is the king speaks)--who might forthwith stay Such suicidal purpose, brush away A bad example shame would else record,-- Lean to indulgence rather. At his word We take the duke: allow him to complete The cession of his dukedoms, leave our feet Their footstool when his own head, safe in vault, Sleeps sound. Nay, would the duke repair his fault Handsomely, and our forfeited esteem Recover,--what if wisely he redeem The past,--in earnest of good faith, at once Give us such jurisdiction for the nonce As may suffice--prevent occasion slip-- And constitute our actual ownership? Concede this--straightway be the marriage blessed By warrant of this paper! Things at rest, This paper duly signed, down drops the bar, To-morrow you become--from what you are, The druggist's daughter--not the duke's mere spouse, But the king's own adopted: heart and house Open to you--the idol of a court 'Which heaven might copy'--sing our poet-sort. In this emergency, on you depends The issue: plead what bliss the king intends! Should the duke frown, should arguments and prayers, Nay, tears if need be, prove in vain,--who cares? We leave the duke to his obduracy, Companionless,--you, madam, follow me Without, where divers of the body-guard Wait signal to enforce the king's award Of strict seclusion: over you at least Vibratingly the sceptre threats increased Precipitation! How avert its crash?"

IX

"Re-enter, sir! A hand that 's calm, not rash, Averts it!" quietly the lady said. "Yourself shall witness." At the table's head Where, mid the hushed guests, still the duke sat glued In blank bewilderment, his spouse pursued Her speech to end--syllabled quietude.

X

"Duke, I, your duchess of a day, could take The hand you proffered me for love's sole sake, Conscious my love matched yours; as you, myself Would waive, when need were, all but love--from pelf To potency. What fortune brings about Haply in some far future, finds me out, Faces me on a sudden here and now. The better! Read--if beating heart allow-- Read this, and bid me rend to rags the shame! I and your conscience--hear and grant our claim! Never dare alienate God's gift you hold Simply in trust for him! Choose muck for gold? Could you so stumble in your choice, cajoled By what I count my least of worthiness --The youth, the beauty,--you renounce them--yes, With all that's most too: love as well you lose, Slain by what slays in you the honor! Choose! Dear--yet my husband--dare I love you yet?"

XI

How the duke's wrath o'erboiled,--words, words, and yet More words,--I spare you such fool's fever-fret. They were not of one sort at all, one size, As souls go--he and she. 'T is said, the eyes Of all the lookers-on let tears fall fast. The minister was mollified at last: "Take a day,--two days even, ere through pride You perish,--two days' counsel--then decide!"

XII

"If I shall save his honor and my soul? Husband,--this one last time,--you tear the scroll? Farewell, duke! Sir, I follow in your train!"

XIII

So she went forth: they never met again, The duke and she. The world paid compliment (Is it worth noting?) when, next day, she sent Certain gifts back--"jewelry fit to deck Whom you call wife." I know not round what neck They took, to sparkling, in good time--weeks thence.

XIV

Of all which was the pleasant consequence, So much and no more--that a fervid youth, Big-hearted boy,--but ten years old, in truth-- Laid this to heart and loved, as boyhood can, The unduchessed lady: boy and lad grew man: He loved as man perchance may: did meanwhile Good soldier-service, managed to beguile The years, no few, until he found a chance: Then, as at trumpet-summons to advance, Outbroke the love that stood at arms so long, Brooked no withstanding longer. They were wed. Whereon from camp and court alike he fled, Renounced the sun-king, dropped off into night, Evermore lost, a ruined satellite: And, oh, the exquisite deliciousness That lapped him in obscurity! You guess Such joy is fugitive: she died full soon. He did his best to die--as sun, so moon Left him, turned dusk to darkness absolute. Failing of death--why, saintship seemed to suit: Yes, your sort, Don! He trembled on the verge Of monkhood: trick of cowl and taste of scourge He tried: then, kicked not at the pricks perverse, But took again, for better or for worse, The old way in the world, and, much the same Man o' the outside, fairly played life's game.

XV

"Now, Saint Scholastica, what time she fared In Paynimrie, behold, a lion glared Right in her path! Her waist she promptly strips Of girdle, binds his teeth within his lips, And, leashed all lamblike, to the Soldan's court Leads him." Ay, many a legend of the sort Do you praiseworthily authenticate: Spare me the rest. This much of no debate Admits: my lady flourished in grand days When to be duchess was to dance the hays Up, down, across the heaven amid its host: While to be hailed the sun's own self almost-- So close the kinship--was--was--

Saint, for this. Be yours the feet I stoop to--kneel and kiss! So human? Then the mouth too, if you will! Thanks to no legend but a chronicle.

XVI

One leans to like the duke, too: up we 'll patch Some sort of saintship for him--not to match Hers--but man's best and woman's worst amount So nearly to the same thing, that we count In man a miracle of faithfulness If, while unfaithful somewhat, he lay stress On the main fact that love, when love indeed, Is wholly solely love from first to last-- Truth--all the rest a lie. Too likely, fast Enough that necklace went to grace the throat --Let 's say, of such a dancer as makes doat The senses when the soul is satisfied-- _Trogalia_, say the Greeks--a sweetmeat tried Approvingly by sated tongue and teeth, Once body's proper meal consigned beneath Such unconsidered munching.

XVII

Fancy's flight Makes me a listener when, some sleepless night, The duke reviewed his memories, and aghast Found that the Present intercepts the Past With such effect as when a cloud enwraps The moon and, moon-suf£used, plays moon perhaps To who walks under, till comes, late or soon, A stumble: up he looks, and lo, the moon Calm, clear, convincingly herself once more! How could he 'scape the cloud that thrust between Him and effulgence? Speak, fool--duke, I mean!

XVIII

"Who bade you come, brisk-marching bold she-shape, A terror with those black-balled worlds of eyes, That black hair bristling solid-built from nape To crown its coils about? O dread surmise! Take, tread on, trample under past escape Your capture, spoil and trophy! Do--devise Insults for one who, fallen once, ne'er shall rise!

"Mock on, triumphant o'er the prostrate shame! Laugh 'Here lies he among the false to Love-- Love's loyal liegeman once: the very same Who, scorning his weak fellows, towered above Inconstancy: yet why his faith defame? Our eagle's victor was at least no dove, No dwarfish knight picked up our giant's glove--

"'When, putting prowess to the proof, faith urged Her champion to the challenge: had it chanced That merely virtue, wisdom, beauty--merged All in one woman--merely these advanced Their claim to conquest,--hardly had he purged His mind of memories, dearnesses enhanced Rather than harmed by death, nor, disentranced,

"'Promptly had he abjured the old pretence To prove his kind's superior--first to last Display erect on his heart's eminence An altar to the never-dying Past. For such feat faith might boast fit play of fence And easily disarm the iconoclast Called virtue, wisdom, beauty: impudence

"'Fought in their stead, and how could faith but fall? There came a bold she-shape brisk-marching, bent No inch of her imperious stature, tall As some war-engine from whose top was sent One shattering volley out of eye's black ball, And prone lay faith's defender!' Mockery spent? Malice discharged in full? In that event,

"My queenly impudence, I cover close, I wrap me round with love of your black hair, Black eyes, black every wicked inch of those Limbs' war-tower tallness: so much truth lives there 'Neath the dead heap of lies. And yet--who knows? What if such things are? No less, such things were, Then was the man your match whom now you dare

"Treat as existent still. A second truth! They held--this heap of lies you rightly scorn-- A man who had approved himself in youth More than a match for--you? for sea-foam born Venus herself: you conquer him forsooth? 'T is me his ghost: he died since left and lorn, As needs must Samson when his hair is shorn.

"Some day, and soon, be sure himself will rise, Called into life by her who long ago Left his soul whiling time in flesh-disguise. Ghosts tired of waiting can play tricks, you know! Tread, trample me--such sport we ghosts devise, Waiting the morn-star's reappearance--though You think we vanish scared by the cock's crow."

WITH CHRISTOPHER SMART

I

It seems as if ... or did the actual chance Startle me and perplex? Let truth be said! How might this happen? Dreaming, blindfold led By visionary hand, did soul's advance Precede my body's, gain inheritance Of fact by fancy--so that when I read At length with waking eyes your Song, instead Of mere bewilderment, with me first glance Was but full recognition that in trance Or merely thought's adventure some old day Of dim and done-with boyishness, or--well, Why might it not have been, the miracle Broke on me as I took my sober way Through veritable regions of our earth And made discovery, many a wondrous one?

II

Anyhow, fact or fancy, such its birth: I was exploring some huge house, had gone Through room and room complacently, no dearth Anywhere of the signs of decent taste, Adequate culture: wealth had run to waste Nowise, nor penury was proved by stint: All showed the Golden Mean without a hint Of brave extravagance that breaks the rule. The master of the mansion was no fool Assuredly, no genius just as sure! Safe mediocrity had scorned the lure Of now too much and now too little cost, And satisfied me sight was never lost Of moderate design's accomplishment In calm completeness. On and on I went With no more hope than fear of what came next, Till lo, I push a door, sudden uplift A hanging, enter, chance upon a shift Indeed of scene! So--thus it is thou deck'st High heaven, our low earth's brick-and-mortar work?

III

It was the Chapel. That a star, from murk Which hid, should flashingly emerge at last, Were small surprise: but from broad day I passed Into a presence that turned shine to shade. There fronted me the Rafael Mother-Maid, Never to whom knelt votarist in shrine By Nature's bounty helped, by Art's divine More varied--beauty with magnificence-- Than this: from floor to roof one evidence Of how far earth may rival heaven. No niche Where glory was not prisoned to enrich Man's gaze with gold and gems, no space but glowed With color, gleamed with carving--hues which owed Their outburst to a brush the painter fed With rainbow-substance--rare shapes never wed To actual flesh and blood, which, brain-born once, Became the sculptor's dowry, Art's response To earth's despair. And all seemed old yet new: Youth,--in the marble's curve, the canvas' hue, Apparent,--wanted not the crowning thrill Of age the consecrator. Hands long still Had worked here--could it be, what lent them skill Retained a power to supervise, protect, Enforce new lessons with the old, connect Our life with theirs? No merely modern touch Told me that here the artist, doing much, Elsewhere did more, perchance does better, lives-- So needs must learn.

IV

Well, these provocatives Having fulfilled their office, forth I went Big with anticipation--well-nigh fear-- Of what next room and next for startled eyes Might have in store, surprise beyond surprise. Next room and next and next--what followed here? Why, nothing! not one object to arrest My passage--everywhere too manifest The previous decent null and void of best And worst, mere ordinary right and fit, Calm commonplace which neither missed, nor hit Inch-high, inch-low, the placid mark proposed.

V

Armed with this instance, have I diagnosed Your case, my Christopher? The man was sound And sane at starting: all at once the ground Gave way beneath his step, a certain smoke Curled up and caught him, or perhaps down broke A fireball wrapping flesh and spirit both In conflagration. Then--as heaven were loth To linger--let earth understand too well How heaven at need can operate--off fell The flame-robe, and the untransfigured man Resumed sobriety,--as he began, So did he end nor alter pace, not he!

VI

Now, what I fain would know is--could it be That he--whoe'er he was that furnished forth The Chapel, making thus, from South to North, Rafael touch Leighton, Michelagnolo Join Watts, was found but once combining so The elder and the younger, taking stand On Art's supreme,--or that yourself who sang A Song where flute-breath silvers trumpet-clang, And stations you for once on either hand With Milton and with Keats, empowered to claim Affinity on just one point--(or blame Or praise my judgment, thus it fronts you full)-- How came it you resume the void and null, Subside to insignificance,--live, die --Proved plainly two mere mortals who drew nigh One moment--that, to Art's best hierarchy, This, to the superhuman poet-pair? What if, in one point only, then and there The otherwise all-unapproachable Allowed impingement? Does the sphere pretend To span the cube's breadth, cover end to end The plane with its embrace? No, surely! Still, Contact is contact, sphere's touch no whit less Than cube's superimposure. Such success Befell Smart only out of throngs between Milton and Keats that donned the singing-dress-- Smart, solely of such songmen, pierced the screen 'Twixt thing and word, lit language straight from soul,-- Left no fine film-flake on the naked coal Live from the censer--shapely or uncouth, Fire-suffused through and through, one blaze of truth Undeadened by a lie,--(you have my mind)-- For, think! this blaze outleapt with black behind And blank before, when Hayley and the rest ... But let the dead successors worst and best Bury their dead: with life be my concern-- Yours with the fire-flame: what I fain would learn Is just--(suppose me haply ignorant Down to the common knowledge, doctors vaunt) Just this--why only once the fire-flame was: No matter if the marvel came to pass The way folk judged--if power too long suppressed Broke loose and maddened, as the vulgar guessed Or simply brain-disorder (doctors said), A turmoil of the particles disturbed, Brain's workaday performance in your head, Spurred spirit to wild action health had curbed, And so verse issued in a cataract Whence prose, before and after, unperturbed Was wont to wend its way. Concede the fact That here a poet was who always could-- Never before did--never after would-- Achieve the feat: how were such fact explained?

VII

Was it that when, by rarest chance, there fell Disguise from Nature, so that Truth remained Naked, and whoso saw for once could tell Us others of her majesty and might In large, her lovelinesses infinite In little,--straight you used the power wherewith Sense, penetrating as through rind to pith Each object, thoroughly revealed might view And comprehend the old things thus made new, So that while eye saw, soul to tongue could trust Thing which struck word out, and once more adjust Real vision to right language, till heaven's vault Pompous with sunset, storm-stirred sea's assault On the swilled rock-ridge, earth's embosomed brood Of tree and flower and weed, with all the life That flies or swims or crawls, in peace or strife, Above, below,--each had its note and name For Man to know by,--Man who, now--the same As erst in Eden, needs that all he sees Be named him ere he note by what degrees Of strength and beauty to its end Design Ever thus operates--(your thought and mine, No matter for the many dissident)-- So did you sing your Song, so truth found vent In words for once with you?

VIII

Then--back was furled The robe thus thrown aside, and straight the world Darkened into the old oft-catalogued Repository of things that sky, wave, land, Or show or hide, clear late, accretion-clogged Now, just as long ago, by tellings and Re-tellings to satiety, which strike Muffled upon the ear's drum. Very like None was so startled as yourself when friends Came, hailed your fast-returning wits: "Health mends Importantly, for--to be plain with you-- This scribble on the wall was done--in lieu Of pen and paper--with--ha, ha!--your key Denting it on the wainscot! Do you see How wise our caution was? Thus much we stopped Of babble that had else grown print: and lopped From your trim bay-tree this unsightly bough-- Smart's who translated Horace! Write us now" ... Why, what Smart did write--never afterward One line to show that he, who paced the sward, Had reached the zenith from his madhouse cell.

IX

Was it because you judged (I know full well You never had the fancy)--judged--as some-- That who makes poetry must reproduce Thus ever and thus only, as they come, Each strength, each beauty, everywhere diffuse Throughout creation, so that eye and ear, Seeing and hearing, straight shall recognize, At touch of just a trait, the strength appear,-- Suggested by a line's lapse see arise All evident the beauty,--fresh surprise Startling at fresh achievement? "So, indeed, Wallows the whale's bulk in the waste of brine, Nor otherwise its feather-tufts make fine Wild Virgin's Bower when stars faint off to seed!" (My prose--your poetry I dare not give, Purpling too much my mere gray argument.) --Was it because you judged--when fugitive Was glory found, and wholly gone and spent Such power of startling up deaf ear, blind eye, At truth's appearance,--that you humbly bent The head and, bidding vivid work good-by, Doffed lyric dress and trod the world once more A drab-clothed decent proseman as before? Strengths, beauties, by one word's flash thus laid bare --That was effectual service: made aware Of strengths and beauties, Man but hears the text, Awaits your teaching. Nature? What comes next? Why all the strength and beauty?--to be shown Thus in one word's flash, thenceforth let alone By Man who needs must deal with aught that 's known Never so lately and so little? Friend, First give us knowledge, then appoint its use! Strength, beauty are the means: ignore their end? As well you stopped at proving how profuse Stones, sticks, nay stubble lie to left and right Ready to help the builder,--careless quite If he should take, or leave the same to strew Earth idly,--as by word's flash bring in view Strength, beauty, then bid who beholds the same Go on beholding. Why gains unemployed? Nature was made to be by Man enjoyed First; followed duly by enjoyment's fruit, Instruction--haply leaving joy behind: And you, the instructor, would you slack pursuit Of the main prize, as poet help mankind Just to enjoy, there leave them? Play the fool, Abjuring a superior privilege? Please simply when your function is to rule-- By thought incite to deed? From edge to edge Of earth's round, strength and beauty everywhere Pullulate--and must you particularize All, each and every apparition? Spare Yourself and us the trouble! Ears and eyes Want so much strength and beauty, and no less Nor more, to learn life's lesson by. Oh, yes-- The other method 's favored in our day! The end ere the beginning: as you may Master the heavens before you study earth, Make you familiar with the meteor's birth Ere you descend to scrutinize the rose! I say, o'erstep no least one of the rows That lead man from the bottom where he plants Foot first of all, to life's last ladder-top: Arrived there, vain enough will seem the vaunts Of those who say--"We scale the skies, then drop To earth--to find, how all things there are loth To answer heavenly law: we understand The meteor's course, and lo, the rose's growth-- How other than should be by law's command!" Would not you tell such--"Friends, beware lest fume Offuscate sense: learn earth first ere presume To teach heaven legislation. Law must be

## Active in earth or nowhere: earth you see,--

Or there or not at all, Will, Power and Love Admit discovery,--as below, above Seek next law's confirmation! But reverse The order, where 's the wonder things grow worse Than, by the law your fancy formulates, They should be? Cease from anger at the fates Which thwart themselves so madly. Live and learn, Not first learn and then live, is our concern.

WITH GEORGE BUBB DODINGTON

I

Ah, George Bubb Dodington Lord Melcombe,--no, Yours was the wrong way!--always understand, Supposing that permissibly you planned How statesmanship--your trade--in outward show Might figure as inspired by simple zeal For serving country, king and commonweal, (Though service tire to death the body, tease The soul from out an o'ertasked patriot-drudge) And yet should prove zeal's outward show agrees In all respects--right reason being judge-- With inward care that, while the statesman spends Body and soul thus freely for the sake Of public good, his private welfare take No harm by such devotedness. Intends Scripture aught else--let captious folk inquire-- Which teaches "Laborers deserve their hire, And who neglects his household bears the bell Away of sinning from an infidel"? Wiselier would fools that carp bestow a thought How birds build nests; at outside, roughly wrought, Twig knots with twig, loam plasters up each chink, Leaving the inmate rudely lodged--you think? Peep but inside! That specious rude-and-rough Covers a domicile where downy fluff Embeds the ease-deserving architect, Who toiled and moiled not merely to effect 'Twixt sprig and spray a stop-gap in the teeth Of wind and weather, guard what swung beneath From upset only, but contrived himself A snug interior, warm and soft and sleek. Of what material? Oh, for that, you seek How nature prompts each volatile! Thus--pelf Smoothens the human mudlark's lodging, power Demands some hardier wrappage to embrace Robuster heart-beats: rock, not tree nor tower, Contents the building eagle: rook shoves close To brother rook on branch, while crow morose Apart keeps balance perched on topmost bough. No sort of bird but suits his taste somehow: Nay, Darwin tells of such as love the bower-- His bower-birds opportunely yield us yet The lacking instance when at loss to get A feathered parallel to what we find The secret motor of some mighty mind That worked such wonders--all for vanity! Worked them to haply figure in the eye Of intimates as first of--doers' kind? Actors', that work in earnest sportively, Paid by a sourish smile. How says the Sage? Birds born to strut prepare a platform-stage With sparkling stones and speckled shells, all sorts Of slimy rubbish, odds and ends and orts, Whereon to pose and posture and engage The priceless female simper.

II

I have gone Thus into detail, George Bubb Dodington, Lest, when I take you presently to task For the wrong way of working, you should ask "What fool conjectures that profession means Performance? that who goes behind the scenes Finds,--acting over,--still the soot-stuff screens Othello's visage, still the self-same cloak's Bugle-bright-blackness half reveals half chokes Hamlet's emotion, as ten minutes since?" No, each resumes his garb, stands--Moor or prince-- Decently draped: just so with statesmanship! All outside show, in short, is sham--why wince? Concede me--while our parley lasts! You trip Afterwards--lay but this to heart! (there lurks Somewhere in all of us a lump which irks Somewhat the spriteliest-scheming brain that 's bent On brave adventure, would but heart consent!) --Here trip you, that--your aim allowed as right-- Your means thereto were wrong. Come, we, this night, Profess one purpose, hold one principle, Are at odds only as to--not the will But way of winning solace for ourselves --No matter if the ore for which zeal delves Be gold or coprolite, while zeal's pretence Is--we do good to men at--whose expense But ours? who tire the body, tease the soul, Simply that, running, we may reach fame's goal And wreathe at last our brows with bay--the State's Disinterested slaves, nay--please the Fates-- Saviors and nothing less: such lot has been! Statesmanship triumphs pedestalled, serene,-- O happy consummation!--brought about By managing with skill the rabble-rout For which we labor (never mind the name-- People or populace, for praise or blame) Making them understand--their heaven, their hell, Their every hope and fear is ours as well. Man's cause--what other can we have at heart? Whence follows that the necessary part High o'er Man's head we play,--and freelier breathe Just that the multitude which gasps beneath May reach the level where unstifled stand Ourselves at vantage to put forth a hand, Assist the prostrate public. 'T is by right Merely of such pretence, we reach the height Where storms abound, to brave--nay, court their stress, Though all too well aware--of pomp the less, Of peace the more! But who are we, to spurn For peace' sake, duty's pointing? Up, then--earn Albeit no prize we may but martyrdom! Now, such fit height to launch salvation from, How get and gain? Since help must needs be craved By would-be saviours of the else-unsaved, How coax them to co-operate, lend a lift, Kneel down and let us mount?

III

You say, "Make shift By sham--the harsh word: preach and teach, persuade Somehow the Public--not despising aid Of salutary artifice--we seek Solely their good: our strength would raise the weak, Our cultivated knowledge supplement Their rudeness, rawness: why to us were lent Ability except to come in use? Who loves his kind must by all means induce That kind to let his love play freely, press In Man's behalf to full performance!"

IV

Yes-- Yes, George, we know!--whereat they hear, believe, And bend the knee, and on the neck receive Who fawned and cringed to purpose? Not so, George! Try simple falsehood on shrewd folk who forge Lies of superior fashion day by day And hour by hour? With craftsmen versed as they What chance of competition when the tools Only a novice wields? Are knaves such fools? Disinterested patriots, spare your tongue The tones thrice-silvery, cheek save smiles it flung Pearl-like profuse to swine--a herd, whereof No unit needs be taught, his neighbor's trough Scarce holds for who but grunts and whines the husks Due to a wrinkled snout that shows sharp tusks. No animal--much less our lordly Man-- Obeys its like: with strength all rule began, The stoutest awes the pasture. Soon succeeds Discrimination,--nicer power Man needs To rule him than is bred of bone and thew: Intelligence must move strength's self. This too Lasts but its time: the multitude at length Looks inside for intelligence and strength And finds them here and there to pick and choose: "All at your service, mine, see!" Ay, but who 's My George, at this late day, to make his boast "In strength, intelligence, I rule the roast, Beat, all and some, the ungraced who crowd your ranks?" "Oh, but I love, would lead you, gain your thanks By unexampled yearning for Man's sake-- Passion that solely waits your help to take Effect in action!" George, which one of us But holds with his own heart communion thus: "I am, if not of men the first and best, Still--to receive enjoyment--properest: Which since by force I cannot, nor by wit Most likely--craft must serve in place of it. Flatter, cajole! If so I bring within My net the gains which wit and force should win, What hinders?" 'T is a trick we know of old: Try, George, some other of tricks manifold! The multitude means mass and mixture--right! Are mixtures simple, pray, or composite? Dive into Man, your medley: see the waste! Sloth-stifled genius, energy disgraced By ignorance, high aims with sorry skill, Will without means and means in want of will --Sure we might fish, from out the mothers' sons That welter thus, a dozen Dodingtons! Why call up Dodington, and none beside, To take his seat upon our backs and ride As statesman conquering and to conquer? Well, The last expedient, which must needs excel Those old ones--this it is,--at any rate To-day's conception thus I formulate: As simple force has been replaced, just so Must simple wit be: men have got to know Such wit as what you boast is nowise held The wonder once it was, but, paralleled Too plentifully, counts not,--puts to shame Modest possessors like yourself who claim, By virtue of it merely, power and place --Which means the sweets of office. Since our race Teems with the like of you, some special gift, Your very own, must coax our hands to lift, And backs to bear you: is it just and right To privilege your nature?

V

"State things quite Other than so"--make answer! "I pretend No such community with men. Perpend My key to domination! Who would use Man for his pleasure needs must introduce The element that awes Man. Once for all, His nature owns a Supernatural In fact as well as phrase--which found must he --Where, in this doubting age? Old mystery Has served its turn--seen through and sent adrift To nothingness: new wizard-craft makes shift Nowadays shorn of help by robe and book,-- Otherwise, elsewhere, for success must look Than chalked-ring, incantation-gibberish. Somebody comes to conjure: that 's he? Pish! He 's like the roomful of rapt gazers,--there 's No sort of difference in the garb he wears From ordinary dressing,--gesture, speech, Deportment, just like those of all and each That eye their master of the minute. Stay! What of the something--call it how you may-- Uncanny in the--quack? That 's easy said! Notice how the Professor turns no head And yet takes cognizance of who accepts, Denies, is puzzled as to the adept's Supremacy, yields up or lies in wait To trap the trickster! Doubtless, out of date Are dealings with the devil: yet, the stir Of mouth, its smile half smug half sinister, Mock-modest boldness masked in diffidence,-- What if the man have--who knows how or whence?-- Confederate potency unguessed by us-- Prove no such cheat as he pretends?"

VI

Ay, thus Had but my George played statesmanship's new card That carries all! "Since we"--avers the Bard-- "All of us have one human heart"--as good As say--by all of us is understood Right and wrong, true and false--in rough, at least, We own a common conscience. God, man, beast-- How should we qualify the statesman-shape I fancy standing with our world agape? Disguise, flee, fight against with tooth and nail The outrageous designation! "Quack" men quail Before? You see, a little year ago They heard him thunder at the thing which, lo, To-day he vaunts for unscathed, while what erst Heaven-high he lauded, lies hell-low, accursed! And yet where 's change? Who, awe-struck, cares to point Critical finger at a dubious joint In armor, true _æs triplex_, breast and back Binding about, defiant of attack, An imperturbability that 's--well, Or innocence or impudence--how tell One from the other? Could ourselves broach lies, Yet brave mankind with those unaltered eyes, Those lips that keep the quietude of truth? Dare we attempt the like? What quick uncouth Disturbance of thy smug economy, O coward visage! Straight would all descry Back on the man's brow the boy's blush once more! No: he goes deeper--could our sense explore-- Finds conscience beneath conscience such as ours. Genius is not so rare,--prodigious powers-- Well, others boast such,--but a power like this Mendacious intrepidity--_quid vis?_ Besides, imposture plays another game, Admits of no diversion from its aim Of captivating hearts, sets zeal aflare In every shape at every turn,--nowhere Allows subsidence into ash. By stress Of what does guile succeed but earnestness, Earnest word, look and gesture? Touched with aught But earnestness, the levity were fraught With ruin to guile's film-work. Grave is guile; Here no act wants its qualifying smile, Its covert pleasantry to neutralize The outward ardor. Can our chief despise Even while most he seems to adulate? As who should say "What though it be my fate To deal with fools? Among the crowd must lurk Some few with faculty to judge my work Spite of its way which suits, they understand, The crass majority:--the Sacred Band, No duping them forsooth!" So tells a touch Of subintelligential nod and wink-- Turning foes friends. Coarse flattery moves the gorge: Mine were the mode to awe the many, George! They guess you half despise them while most bent On demonstrating that your sole intent Strives for their service. Sneer at them? Yourself 'T is you disparage,--tricksy as an elf, Scorning what most you strain to bring to pass, Laughingly careless,--triply cased in brass,-- While pushing strenuous to the end in view. What follows? Why, you formulate within The vulgar headpiece this conception: "Win A master-mind to serve us needs we must, One who, from motives we but take on trust, Acts strangelier--haply wiselier than we know Stronglier, for certain. Did he say 'I throw Aside my good for yours, in all I do Care nothing for myself and all for you'-- We should both understand and disbelieve: Said he, 'Your good I laugh at in my sleeve, My own it is I solely labor at, Pretending yours the while'--that, even that, We, understanding well, give credence to, And so will none of it. But here 't is through Our recognition of his service, wage Well earned by work, he mounts to such a stage Above competitors as all save Bubb Would agonize to keep. Yet--here 's the rub-- So slightly does he hold by our esteem Which solely fixed him fast there, that we seem Mocked every minute to our face, by gibe And jest--scorn insuppressive: what ascribe The rashness to? Our pay and praise to boot-- Do these avail him to tread under foot Something inside us all and each, that stands Somehow instead of somewhat which commands 'Lie not'? Folk fear to jeopardize their soul, Stumble at times, walk straight upon the whole,-- That 's nature's simple instinct: what may be The portent here, the influence such as we Are strangers to?"--

VII

Exact the thing I call Man's despot, just the Supernatural Which, George, was wholly out of--far beyond Your theory and practice. You had conned But to reject the precept "To succeed In gratifying selfishness and greed, Asseverate such qualities exist Nowise within yourself! then make acquist By all means, with no sort of fear!" Alack, That well-worn lie is obsolete! Fall back On still a working pretext--"Hearth and Home, The Altar, love of England, hate of Rome"-- That 's serviceable lying--that perchance Had screened you decently: but 'ware advance By one step more in perspicacity Of these our dupes! At length they get to see As through the earlier, this the latter plea-- And find the greed and selfishness at source! _Ventum est ad triarios:_ last resource Should be to what but--exquisite disguise Disguise-abjuring, truth that looks like lies, Frankness so sure to meet with unbelief? Say--you hold in contempt--not them in chief-- But first and foremost your own self! No use In men but to make sport for you, induce The puppets now to dance, now stand stock-still, Now knock their heads together, at your will For will's sake only--while each plays his part Submissive: why? through terror at the heart: "Can it be--this bold man, whose hand we saw Openly pull the wires, obeys some law Quite above Man's--nay, God's?" On face fall they. This was the secret missed, again I say, Out of your power to grasp conception of, Much less employ to purpose. Hence the scoff That greets your very name: folk see but one Fool more, as well as knave, in Dodington.

WITH FRANCIS FURINI

I

Nay, _that_, Furini, never I at least Mean to believe! What man you were I know, While you walked Tuscan earth, a painter-priest, Something about two hundred years ago. Priest--you did duty punctual as the sun That rose and set above Saint Sano's church, Blessing Mugello: of your flock not one But showed a whiter fleece because of smirch, Your kind hands wiped it clear from: were they poor? Bounty broke bread apace,--did marriage lag For just the want of moneys that ensure Fit hearth-and-home provision?--straight your bag Unplumped itself,--reached hearts by way of palms Goodwill's shake had but tickled. All about Mugello valley, felt some parish qualms At worship offered in bare walls without The comfort of a picture?--prompt such need Our painter would supply, and throngs to see Witnessed that goodness--no unholy greed Of gain--had coaxed from Don Furini--he Whom princes might in vain implore to toil For worldly profit--such a masterpiece. Brief--priest, you poured profuse God's wine and oil Praiseworthily, I know: shall praising cease When, priestly vesture put aside, mere man, You stand for judgment? Rather--what acclaim --"Good son, good brother, friend in whom we scan No fault nor flaw"--salutes Furini's name, The loving as the liberal! Enough: Only to ope a lily, though for sake Of setting free its scent, disturbs the rough Loose gold about its anther. I shall take No blame in one more blazon, last of all-- Good painter were you: if in very deed I styled you great--what modern art dares call My word in question? Let who will take heed Of what he seeks and misses in your brain To balance that precision of the brush Your hand could ply so deftly: all in vain Strives poet's power for outlet when the push Is lost upon a barred and bolted gate Of painter's impotency. Agnolo-- Thine were alike the head and hand, by fate Doubly endowed! Who boasts head only--woe To hand's presumption should brush emulate Fancy's free passage by the pen, and show Thought wrecked and ruined where the inexpert Foolhardy fingers half grasped, half let go Film-wings the poet's pen arrests unhurt! No--painter such as that miraculous Michael, who deems you? But the ample gift Of gracing walls else blank of this our house Of life with imagery, one bright drift Poured forth by pencil,--man and woman mere, Glorified till half owned for gods,--the dear Fleshly perfection of the human shape,-- This was apportioned you whereby to praise Heaven and bless earth. Who clumsily essays, By slighting painter's craft, to prove the ape Of poet's pen-creation, just betrays Twofold ineptitude.

II

By such sure ways Do I return, Furini, to my first And central confidence--that he I proved Good priest, good man, good painter, and rehearsed Praise upon praise to show--not simply loved For virtue, but for wisdom honored too Needs must Furini be,--it follows--who Shall undertake to breed in me belief That, on his death-bed, weakness played the thief With wisdom, folly ousted reason quite? List to the chronicler! With main and might-- So fame runs--did the poor soul beg his friends To buy and burn his hand-work, make amends For having reproduced therein--(Ah me! Sighs fame--that's friend Filippo)--nudity! Yes, I assure you; he would paint--not men Merely--a pardonable fault--but when He had to deal with--oh, not mother Eve Alone, permissibly in Paradise Naked and unashamed,--but dared achieve Dreadful distinction, at soul-safety's price, By also painting women--(why the need?) Just as God made them: there, you have the truth! Yes, rosed from top to toe in flush of youth, One foot upon the moss-fringe, would some Nymph Try, with its venturous fellow, if the lymph Were chillier than the slab-stepped fountain-edge; The while a-heap her garments on its ledge Of boulder lay within hand's easy reach, --No one least kid-skin cast around her! Speech Shrinks from enumerating case and case Of--were it but Diana at the chase, With tunic tucked discreetly hunting-high! No, some Queen Venus set our necks awry, Turned faces from the painter's all-too-frank Triumph of flesh! For--whom had he to thank --This self-appointed nature-student? Whence Picked he up practice? By what evidence Did he unhandsomely become adept In simulating bodies? How except By actual sight of such? Himself confessed The enormity: quoth Philip, "When I pressed The painter to acknowledge his abuse Of artistry else potent--what excuse Made the infatuated man? I give His very words: 'Did you but know, as I, --O scruple-splitting sickly-sensitive Mild-moral-monger, what the agony Of Art is ere Art satisfy herself In imitating Nature--(Man, poor elf, Striving to match the finger-mark of Him The immeasurably matchless)--gay or grim, Pray, would your smile be? Leave mere fools to tax Art's high-strung brain's intentness as so lax That, in its mid-throe, idle fancy sees The moment for admittance!' Pleadings these-- Specious, I grant." So adds, and seems to wince Somewhat, our censor--but shall truth convince Blockheads like Baldinucci?

III

I resume My incredulity: your other kind Of soul, Furini, never was so blind, Even through death-mist, as to grope in gloom For cheer beside a bonfire piled to turn Ashes and dust all that your noble life Did homage to life's Lord by,--bid them burn --These Baldinucci blockheads--pictures rife With record, in each rendered loveliness, That one appreciative creature's debt Of thanks to the Creator, more or less, Was paid according as heart's-will had met Hand's-power in Art's endeavor to express Heaven's most consummate of achievements, bless Earth by a semblance of the seal God set On woman his supremest work. I trust Rather, Furini, dying breath had vent In some fine fervor of thanksgiving just For this--that soul and body's power you spent-- Agonized to adumbrate, trace in dust That marvel which we dream the firmament Copies in star-device when fancies stray Outlining, orb by orb, Andromeda-- God's best of beauteous and magnificent Revealed to earth--the naked female form. Nay, I mistake not: wrath that's but lukewarm Would boil indeed were such a critic styled Himself an artist: artist! Ossa piled Topping Olympus--the absurd which crowns The extravagant--whereat one laughs, not frowns. Paints he? One bids the poor pretender take His sorry self, a trouble and disgrace, From out the sacred presence, void the place Artists claim only. What--not merely wake Our pity that suppressed concupiscence-- A satyr masked as matron--makes pretence To the coarse blue-fly's instinct--can perceive No better reason why she should exist-- --God's lily-limbed and blushrose-bosomed Eve-- Than as a hot-bed for the sensualist To fly-blow with his fancies, make pure stuff Breed him back filth--this were not crime enough? But further--fly to style itself--nay, more-- To steal among the sacred ones, crouch down Though but to where their garments sweep the floor-- --Still catching some faint sparkle from the crown Crowning transcendent Michael, Leonard, Rafael,--to sit beside the feet of such, Unspurned because unnoticed, then reward Their toleration--mercy overmuch-- By stealing from the throne-step to the fools Curious outside the gateway, all-agape To learn by what procedure, in the schools Of Art, a merest man in outward shape May learn to be Correggio! Old and young, These learners got their lesson: Art was just A safety-screen--(Art, which Correggio's tongue Calls "Virtue")--for a skulking vice: mere lust Inspired the artist when his Night and Morn Slept and awoke in marble on that edge Of heaven above our awe-struck earth: lust-born His Eve low bending took the privilege Of life from what our eyes saw--God's own palm That put the flame forth--to the love and thanks Of all creation save this recreant!

IV

Calm Our phrase, Furini! Not the artist-ranks Claim riddance of an interloper: no-- This Baldinucci did but grunt and sniff Outside Art's pale--ay, grubbed, where pine-trees grow, For pignuts only.

V

You the Sacred! If Indeed on you has been bestowed the dower Of Art in fulness, graced with head and hand, Head--to lookup not downwards, hand--of power To make head's gain the portion of a world Where else the uninstructed ones too sure Would take all outside beauty--film that's furled About a star--for the star's self, endure No guidance to the central glory,--nay, (Sadder) might apprehend the film was fog, Or (worst) wish all but vapor well away, And sky's pure product thickened from earth's bog-- Since so, nor seldom, have your worthiest failed To trust their own soul's insight--why? except For warning that the head of the adept May too much prize the hand, work unassailed By scruple of the better sense that finds An orb within each halo, bids gross flesh Free the fine spirit-pattern, nor enmesh More than is meet a marvel, custom blinds Only the vulgar eye to. Now, less fear That you, the foremost of Art's fellowship, Will oft--will ever so offend! But--hip And thigh--smite the Philistine! _You_--slunk here-- Connived at, by too easy tolerance, Not to scrape palette simply or squeeze brush, But dub your very self an Artist? Tush-- You, of the daubings, is it, dare advance This doctrine that the Artist-mind must needs Own to affinity with yours--confess Provocative acquaintance, more or less, With each impurely-peevish worm that breeds Inside your brain's receptacle?

VI

Enough. Who owns "I dare not look on diadems Without an itch to pick out, purloin gems Others contentedly leave sparkling"--gruff Answers the guard of the regalia: "Why-- Consciously kleptomaniac--thrust yourself Where your illicit craving after pelf Is tempted most--in the King's treasury? Go elsewhere! Sort with thieves, if thus you feel-- When folk clean-handed simply recognize Treasure whereof the mere sight satisfies-- But straight your fingers are on itch to steal! Hence with you!" Pray, Furini!

VII

"Bounteous God, Deviser and dispenser of all gifts To soul through sense,--in Art the soul uplifts Man's best of thanks! What but thy measuring-rod Meted forth heaven and earth? more intimate, Thy very hands were busied with the task Of making, in this human shape, a mask-- A match for that divine. Shall love abate Man's wonder? Nowise! True--true--all too true-- No gift but, in the very plenitude Of its perfection, goes maimed, misconstrued By wickedness or weakness: still, some few Have grace to see thy purpose, strength to mar Thy work by no admixture of their own, --Limn truth not falsehood, bid us love alone The type untampered with, the naked star!"

VIII

And, prayer done, painter--what if you should preach? Not as of old when playing pulpiteer To simple-witted country folk, but here In actual London try your powers of speech On us the cultured, therefore skeptical-- What would you? For, suppose he has his word In faith's behalf, no matter how absurd, This painter-theologian? One and all We lend an ear--nay, Science takes thereto-- Encourages the meanest who has racked Nature until he gains from her some fact, To state what truth is from his point of view, Mere pin-point though it be: since many such Conduce to make a whole, she bids our friend Come forward unabashed and haply lend His little life-experience to our much Of modern knowledge. Since she so insists, Up stands Furini.

IX

"Evolutionists! At truth I glimpse from depths, you glance from heights, Our stations for discovery opposites,-- How should ensue agreement? I explain: 'T is the tip-top of things to which you strain Your vision, until atoms, protoplasm, And what and whence and how may be the spasm Which sets all going, stop you: down perforce Needs must your observation take its course, Since there 's no moving upwards: link by link You drop to where the atoms somehow think. Feel, know themselves to be: the world 's begun, Such as we recognize it. Have you done Descending? Here's ourself,--Man, known to-day, Duly evolved at last,--so far, you say, The sum and seal of being's progress. Good! Thus much at least is clearly understood-- Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge--just so much as shows that still It ends in ignorance on every side: But righteousness--ah, Man is deified Thereby, for compensation! Make survey Of Man's surroundings, try creation--nay, Try emulation of the minimized Minuteness fancy may conceive! Surprised Reason becomes by two defeats for one-- Not only power at each phenomenon Baffled, but knowledge also in default-- Asking what _is_ minuteness--yonder vault Speckled with suns, or this the millionth--thing, How shall I call?--that on some insect's wing Helps to make out in dyes the mimic star? Weak, ignorant, accordingly we are: What then? The worse for Nature! Where began Righteousness, moral sense except in Man? True, he makes nothing, understands no whit: Had the initiator-spasm seen fit Thus doubly to endow him, none the worse And much the better were the universe. What does Man see or feel or apprehend Here, there, and everywhere, but faults to mend, Omissions to supply,--one wide disease Of things that are, which Man at once would ease Had will but power and knowledge? failing both-- Things must take will for deed--Man, nowise loth, Accepts pre-eminency: mere blind force-- Mere knowledge undirected in its course By any care for what is made or marred In either's operation--_these_ award The crown to? Rather let it deck thy brows, Man, whom alone a righteousness endows Would cure the wide world's ailing! Who disputes Thy claim thereto? Had Spasm more attributes Than power and knowledge in its gift, before Man came to pass? The higher that we soar, The less of moral sense like Man's we find: No sign of such before,--what comes behind, Who guesses! But until there crown our sight The quite new--not the old mere infinite Of changings,--some fresh kind of sun and moon,-- Then, not before, shall I expect a boon Of intuition just as strange, which turns Evil to good, and wrong to right, unlearns All Man's experience learned since Man was he. Accept in Man, advanced to this degree, The Prime Mind, therefore! neither wise nor strong-- Whose fault? but were he both, then right, not wrong As now, throughout the world were paramount According to his will,--which I account The qualifying faculty. He stands Confessed supreme--the monarch whose commands Could he enforce, how bettered were the world! He's at the height this moment--to be hurled Next moment to the bottom by rebound Of his own peal of laughter. All around Ignorance wraps him,--whence and how and why Things are,--yet cloud breaks and lets blink the sky Just overhead, not elsewhere! What assures His optics that the very blue which lures Comes not of black outside it, doubly dense? Ignorance overwraps his moral sense, Winds him about, relaxing, as it wraps, So much and no more than lets through perhaps The murmured knowledge--'Ignorance exists.'

X

"I at the bottom, Evolutionists, Advise beginning, rather. I profess To know just one fact--my self-consciousness,-- 'Twixt ignorance and ignorance enisled,-- Knowledge: before me was my Cause--that 's styled God: after, in due course succeeds the rest,-- All that my knowledge comprehends--at best-- At worst, conceives about in mild despair. Light needs must touch on either darkness: where? Knowledge so far impinges on the Cause Before me, that I know--by certain laws Wholly unknown, whate'er I apprehend Within, without me, had its rise: thus blend I, and all things perceived, in one Effect. How far can knowledge any ray project On what comes after me--the universe? Well, my attempt to make the cloud disperse Begins--not from above but underneath: I climb, you soar,--who soars soon loses breath And sinks, who climbs keeps one foot firm on fact Ere hazarding the next step: soul's first act (Call consciousness the soul--some name we need) Getting itself aware, through stuff decreed Thereto (so call the body)--who has stept So far, there let him stand, become adept In body ere he shift his station thence One single hair's breadth. Do I make pretence To teach, myself unskilled in learning? Lo, My life's work! Let my pictures prove I know Somewhat of what this fleshly frame of ours Or is or should be, how the soul empowers The body to reveal its every mood Of love and hate, pour forth its plenitude Of passion. If my hand attained to give Thus permanence to truth else fugitive, Did not I also fix each fleeting grace Of form and feature--save the beauteous face-- Arrest decay in transitory might Of bone and muscle--cause the world to bless Forever each transcendent nakedness Of man and woman? Were such feats achieved By sloth, or strenuous labor unrelieved, --Yet lavished vainly? Ask that underground (So may I speak) of all on surface found Of flesh-perfection! Depths on depths to probe Of all-inventive artifice, disrobe Marvel at hiding under marvel, pluck Veil after veil from Nature--were the luck Ours to surprise the secret men so name, That still eludes the searcher--all the same, Repays his search with still fresh proof--'Externe, Not inmost, is the Cause, fool! Look and learn!' Thus teach my hundred pictures: firm and fast There did I plant my first foot. And the next? Nowhere! 'T was put forth and withdrawn, perplexed At touch of what seemed stable and proved stuff Such as the colored clouds are: plain enough There lay the outside universe: try Man-- My most immediate! and the dip began From safe and solid into that profound Of ignorance I tell you surges round My rock-spit of self-knowledge. Well and ill, Evil and good irreconcilable Above, beneath, about my every side,-- How did this wild confusion far and wide Tally with my experience when my stamp-- So far from stirring--struck out, each a lamp, Spark after spark of truth from where I stood-- Pedestalled triumph? Evil there was good, Want was the promise of supply, defect Ensured completion,--where and when and how? Leave that to the First Cause! Enough that now, Here where I stand, this moment's me and mine, Shows me what is, permits me to divine What shall be. Wherefore? Nay, how otherwise? Look at my pictures! What so glorifies The body that the permeating soul Finds there no particle elude control Direct, or fail of duty,--most obscure When most subservient? Did that Cause ensure The soul such raptures as its fancy stings Body to furnish when, uplift by wings Of passion, here and now, it leaves the earth, Loses itself above, where bliss has birth-- (Heaven, be the phrase)--did that same Cause contrive Such solace for the body, soul must dive At drop of fancy's pinion, condescend To bury both alike on earth, our friend And fellow, where minutely exquisite Low lie the pleasures, now and here--no herb But hides its marvel, peace no doubts perturb In each small mystery of insect life-- --Shall the soul's Cause thus gift the soul, yet strife Continue still of fears with hopes,--for why? What if the Cause, whereof we now descry So far the wonder-working, lack at last Will, power, benevolence--a protoplast, No consummator, sealing up the sum Of all things,--past and present and to come-- Perfection? No, I have no doubt at all! There's my amount of knowledge--great or small, Sufficient for my needs: for see! advance Its light now on that depth of ignorance I shrank before from--yonder where the world Lies wreck-strewn,--evil towering, prone good--hurled From pride of place, on every side. For me (Patience, beseech you!) knowledge can but be Of good by knowledge of good's opposite-- Evil,--since, to distinguish wrong from right, Both must be known in each extreme, beside-- (Or what means knowledge--to aspire or bide Content with half-attaining? Hardly so!) Made to know on, know ever, I must know All to be known at any halting-stage Of my soul's progress, such as earth, where wage War, just for soul's instruction, pain with joy, Folly with wisdom, all that works annoy With all that quiets and contents,--in brief, Good strives with evil.

"Now then for relief, Friends, of your patience kindly curbed so long. 'What?' snarl you, 'is the fool's conceit thus strong-- Must the whole outside world in soul and sense Suffer, that he grow sage at its expense?' By no means! 'T is by merest touch of toe I try--not trench on--ignorance, just know-- And so keep steady footing: how you fare, Caught in the whirlpool--that 's the Cause's care, Strong, wise, good,--this I know at any rate In my own self,--but how may operate With you--strength, wisdom, goodness--no least blink Of knowledge breaks the darkness round me. Think! Could I see plain, be somehow certified All was illusion,--evil far and wide Was good disguised,--why, out with one huge wipe Goes knowledge from me. Type needs antitype: As night needs day, as shine needs shade, so good Needs evil: how were pity understood Unless by pain? Make evident that pain Permissibly masks pleasure--you abstain From outstretch of the finger-tip that saves A drowning fly. Who proffers help of hand To weak Andromeda exposed on strand At mercy of the monster? Were all true, Help were not wanting: 'But 't is false,' cry you, 'Mere fancy-work of paint and brush!' No less, Were mine the skill, the magic, to impress Beholders with a confidence they saw Life,--veritable flesh and blood in awe Of just as true a sea-beast,--would they stare Simply as now, or cry out, curse and swear, Or call the gods to help, or catch up stick And stone, according as their hearts were quick Or sluggish? Well, some old artificer Could do as much,--at least, so books aver,-- Able to make believe, while I, poor wight, Make fancy, nothing more. Though wrong were right, Could we but know--still wrong must needs seem wrong To do right's service, prove men weak or strong, Choosers of evil or of good. 'No such Illusion possible!' Ah, friends, you touch Just here my solid standing-place amid The wash and welter, whence all doubts are bid Back to the ledge they break against in foam, Futility: my soul, and my soul's home This body,--how each operates on each, And how things outside, fact or feigning, teach What good is and what evil,--just the same, Be feigning or be fact the teacher,--blame Diffidence nowise if, from this I judge My point of vantage, not an inch I budge. All--for myself--seems ordered wise and well Inside it,--what reigns outside, who can tell? Contrariwise, who needs be told 'The space Which yields thee knowledge,--do its bounds embrace Well-willing and wise-working, each at height? Enongh: beyond thee lies the infinite-- Back to thy circumscription!'

"Back indeed! Ending where I began--thus: retrocede, Who will,--what comes first, take first, I advise! Acquaint you with the body ere your eyes Look upward: this Andromeda of mine-- Gaze on the beauty, Art hangs out for sign There 's finer entertainment underneath. Learn how they ministrate to life and death-- Those incommensurably marvellous Contrivances which furnish forth the house Where soul has sway! Though Master keep aloof, Signs of his presence multiply from roof To basement of the building. Look around, Learn thoroughly,--no fear that you confound Master with messuage! He 's away, no doubt, But what if, all at once, you come upon A startling proof--not that the Master gone Was present lately--but that something--whence Light comes--has pushed him into residence? Was such the symbol's meaning,--old, uncouth-- That circle of the serpent, tail in mouth? Only by looking low, ere looking high, Comes penetration of the mystery."

XI

Thanks! After sermonizing, psalmody! Now praise with pencil, Painter! Fools attaint Your fame, forsooth, because its power inclines To livelier colors, more attractive lines Than suit some orthodox sad sickly saint --Gray male emaciation, haply streaked Carmine by scourgings--or they want, far worse-- Some self-scathed woman, framed to bless not curse Nature that loved the form whereon hate wreaked The wrongs you see. No, rather paint some full Benignancy, the first and foremost boon Of youth, health, strength,--show beauty's May, ere June Undo the bud's blush, leave a rose to cull --No poppy, neither! yet less perfect-pure, Divinely-precious with life's dew besprent. Show saintliness that's simply innocent Of guessing sinnership exists to cure All in good time! In time let age advance And teach that knowledge helps--not ignorance-- The healing of the nations. Let my spark Quicken your tinder! Burn with--Joan of Arc! Not at the end, nor midway when there grew The brave delusions, when rare fancies flew Before the eyes, and in the ears of her Strange voices woke imperiously astir: No,--paint the peasant girl all peasant-like, Spirit and flesh--the hour about to strike When this should be transfigured, that inflamed, By heart's admonishing "Thy country shamed, Thy king shut out of all his realm except One sorry corner!" and to life forth leapt The indubitable lightning "Can there be Country and king's salvation--all through me?" Memorize that burst's moment, Francis! Tush-- None of the nonsense-writing! Fitlier brush Shall clear off fancy's film-work and let show Not what the foolish feign but the wise know-- Ask Sainte-Beuve else!--or better, Quicherat, The downright-digger into truth that's--Bah, Bettered by fiction? Well, of fact thus much Concerns you, that "of prudishness no touch From first to last defaced the maid; anon, Camp-use compelling"--what says D'Alençon Her fast friend?--"though I saw while she undressed How fair she was--especially her breast-- Never had I a wild thought!"--as indeed I nowise doubt. Much less would she take heed-- When eve came, and the lake, the hills around Were all one solitude and silence,--found Barriered impenetrably safe about,-- Take heed of interloping eyes shut out, But quietly permit the air imbibe Her naked beauty till ... but hear the scribe! _Now as she fain would bathe, one even-tide,_ _God's maid, this Joan, from the pool's edge she spied_ _The fair blue bird clowns call the Fisher-king:_ _And "'Las, sighed she, my Liege is such a thing_ _As thou, lord but of one poor lonely place_ _Out of his whole wide France: were mine the grace_ _To set my Dauphin free as thou, blue bird!"_ Properly Martin-fisher--that's the word, Not yours nor mine: folk said the rustic oath In common use with her was--"By my troth"? No,--"By my Martin"! Paint this! Only, turn Her face away--that face about to burn Into an angel's when the time is ripe! That task's beyond you. Finished, Francis? Wipe Pencil, scrape palette, and retire content! "_Omnia non omnibus_"--no harm is meant!

WITH GERARD DE LAIRESSE

_The Art of Painting_ by Gerard le Lairesse, translated by J. F. Fritsch, was the "tome" to which Browning refers as having interested him when he was a boy and so given rise to this poem. The song at the end of the poem was first printed in a small volume called _The New Amphion_, published for the Edinburgh University Union Fancy Fair in 1886.

I

Ah, but--because you were struck blind, could bless Your sense no longer with the actual view Of man and woman, those fair forms you drew In happier days so duteously and true,-- Must I account my Gerard de Lairesse All sorrow-smitten? He was hindered too --Was this no hardship?--from producing, plain To us who still have eyes, the pageantry Which passed and passed before his busy brain And, captured on his canvas, showed our sky Traversed by flying shapes, earth stocked with brood Of monsters,--centaurs bestial, satyrs lewd,-- Not without much Olympian glory, shapes Of god and goddess in their gay escapes From the severe serene: or haply paced The antique ways, god-counselled, nymph-embraced, Some early human kingly personage. Such wonders of the teeming poet's-age Were still to be: nay, these indeed began-- Are not the pictures extant?--till the ban Of blindness struck both palette from his thumb And pencil from his finger.

II

Blind--not dumb, Else, Gerard, were my inmost bowels stirred With pity beyond pity: no, the word Was left upon your unmolested lips: Your mouth unsealed, despite of eyes' eclipse, Talked all brain's yearning into birth. I lack Somehow the heart to wish your practice back Which boasted hand's achievement in a score Of veritable pictures, less or more, Still to be seen: myself have seen them,--moved To pay due homage to the man I loved Because of that prodigious book he wrote On Artistry's Ideal, by taking note, Making acquaintance with his artist-work. So my youth's piety obtained success Of all too dubious sort: for, though it irk To tell the issue, few or none would guess From extant lines and colors, De Lairesse, Your faculty, although each deftly-grouped And aptly-ordered figure-piece was judged Worthy a prince's purchase in its day. Bearded experience bears not to be duped Like boyish fancy: 'twas a boy that budged No foot's breath from your visioned steps away The while that memorable "Walk" he trudged In your companionship,--the Book must say Where, when and whither,--"Walk," come what come may, No measurer of steps on this our globe Shall ever match for marvels. Faustus' robe, And Fortunatus' cap were gifts of price: But--oh, your piece of sober sound advice That artists should descry abundant worth In trivial commonplace, nor groan at dearth If fortune bade the painter's craft be plied In vulgar town and country! Why despond Because hemmed round by Dutch canals? Beyond The ugly actual, lo, on every side Imagination's limitless domain Displayed a wealth of wondrous sounds and sights Ripe to be realized by poet's brain

## Acting on painter's brush! "Ye doubt? Poor wights,

What if I set example, go before, While you come after, and we both explore Holland turned Dreamland, taking care to note Objects whereto my pupils may devote Attention with advantage?"

III

So commenced That "Walk" amid true wonders--none to you, But huge to us ignobly common-sensed, Purblind, while plain could proper optics view In that old sepulchre by lightning split, Whereof the lid bore carven,--any dolt Imagines why,--Jove's very thunderbolt: You who could straight perceive, by glance at it, This tomb must needs be Phaeton's! In a trice, Confirming that conjecture, close on hand, Behold, half out, half in the ploughed-up sand, A chariot-wheel explained its bolt-device: What other than the Chariot of the Sun Ever let drop the like? Consult the tome-- I bid inglorious tarriers-at-home-- For greater still surprise the while that "Walk" Went on and on, to end as it begun, Chokefull of chances, changes, every one No whit less wondrous. What was there to balk Us, who had eyes, from seeing? You with none Missed not a marvel: wherefore? Let us talk.

IV

Say am I right? Your sealed sense moved your mind, Free from obstruction, to compassionate Art's power left powerless, and supply the blind With fancies worth all facts denied by fate. Mind could invent things, add to--take away, At pleasure, leave out trifles mean and base Which vex the sight that cannot say them nay But, where mind plays the master, have no place. And bent on banishing was mind, be sure, All except beauty from its mustered tribe Of objects apparitional which lure Painter to show and poet to describe-- That imagery of the antique song Truer than truth's self. Fancy's rainbow-birth Conceived 'mid clouds in Greece, could glance along Your passage o'er Dutch veritable earth, As with ourselves, who see, familiar throng About our pacings men and women worth Nowise a glance--so poets apprehend-- Since naught avails portraying them in verse: While painters turn upon the heel, intend To spare their work the critic's ready curse Due to the daily and undignified.

V

I who myself contentedly abide Awake, nor want the wings of dream,--who tramp Earth's common surface, rough, smooth, dry or damp, --I understand alternatives, no less Conceive your soul's leap, Gerard de Lairesse! How were it could I mingle false with true, Boast, with the sights I see, your vision too? Advantage would it prove or detriment If I saw double? Could I gaze intent On Dryope plucking the blossoms red, As you, whereat her lote-tree writhed and bled! Yet lose no gain, no hard fast wide-awake Having and holding nature for the sake Of nature only--nymph and lote-tree thus Gained by the loss of fruit not fabulous, Apple of English homesteads, where I see Nor seek more than crisp buds a struggling bee Uncrumples, caught by sweet he clambers through? Truly, a moot point: make it plain to me, Who, bee-like, sate sense with the simply true, Nor seek to heighten that sufficiency By help of feignings proper to the page-- Earth's surface-blank whereon the elder age Put color, poetizing--poured rich life On what were else a dead ground--nothingness-- Until the solitary world grew rife With Joves and Junos, nymphs and satyrs. Yes, The reason was, fancy composed the strife 'Twixt sense and soul: for sense, my De Lairesse, Cannot content itself with outward things, Mere beauty: soul must needs know whence there springs-- How, when and why--what sense but loves, nor lists To know at all.

VI

Not one of man's acquists Ought he resignedly to lose, methinks: So, point me out which was it of the links Snapt first, from out the chain which used to bind Our earth to heaven, and yet for you, since blind, Subsisted still efficient and intact? Oh, we can fancy too! but somehow fact Has got to--say, not so much push aside Fancy, as to declare its place supplied By fact unseen but no less fact the same, Which mind bids sense accept. Is mind to blame, Or sense,--does that usurp, this abdicate? First of all, as you "walked"--were it too late For us to walk, if so we willed? Confess We have the sober feet still, De Lairesse! Why not the freakish brain too, that must needs Supplement nature--not see flowers and weeds Simply as such, but link with each and all The ultimate perfection--what we call Rightly enough the human shape divine? The rose? No rose unless it disentwine From Venus' wreath the while she bends to kiss Her deathly love?

VII

Plain retrogression, this! No, no: we poets go not back at all: What you did we could do--from great to small Sinking assuredly: if this world last One moment longer when Man finds its Past Exceed its Present--blame the Protoplast! If we no longer see as you of old, 'Tis we see deeper. Progress for the bold! You saw the body, 'tis the soul we see. Try now! Bear witness while you walk with me, I see as you: if we loose arms, stop pace, 'Tis that you stand still, I conclude the race Without your company. Come, walk once more The "Walk:" if I to-day as you of yore See just like you the blind--then sight shall cry --The whole long day quite gone through--victory!

VIII

Thunders on thunders, doubling and redoubling Doom o'er the mountain, while a sharp white fire Now shone, now sheared its rusty herbage, troubling Hardly the fir-boles, now discharged its ire Full where some pine-tree's solitary spire Crashed down, defiant to the last: till--lo, The motive of the malice!--all aglow, Circled with flame there yawned a sudden rift I' the rock-face, and I saw a form erect Front and defy the outrage, while--as checked, Chidden, beside him dauntless in the drift-- Cowered a heaped creature, wing and wing outspread In deprecation o'er the crouching head Still hungry for the feast foregone awhile. O thou, of scorn's unconquerable smile, Was it when this--Jove's feathered fury--slipped Gore-glutted from the heart's core whence he ripped-- This eagle-hound--neither reproach nor prayer-- Baffled, in one more fierce attempt to tear Fate's secret from thy safeguard,--was it then That all these thunders rent earth, ruined air To reach thee, pay thy patronage of men? He thundered,--to withdraw, as beast to lair, Before the triumph on thy pallid brow. Gather the night again about thee now, Hate on, love ever! Morn is breaking there-- The granite ridge pricks through the mist, turns gold As wrong turns right. O laughters manifold Of ocean's ripple at dull earth's despair!

IX

But morning's laugh sets all the crags alight Above the baffled tempest: tree and tree Stir themselves from the stupor of the night, And every strangled branch resumes its right To breathe, shakes loose dark's clinging dregs, waves free In dripping glory. Prone the runnels plunge, While earth, distent with moisture like a sponge, Smokes up, and leaves each plant its gem to see, Each grass-blade's glory-glitter. Had I known The torrent now turned river?--masterful Making its rush o'er tumbled ravage--stone And stub which barred the froths and foams: no bull Ever broke bounds in formidable sport More overwhelmingly, till lo, the spasm Sets him to dare that last mad leap: report Who may--his fortunes in the deathly chasm That swallows him in silence! Rather turn Whither, upon the upland, pedestalled Into the broad day-splendor, whom discern These eyes but thee, supreme one, rightly called Moon-maid in heaven above and, here below, Earth's huntress-queen? I note the garb succinct Saving from smirch that purity of snow From breast to knee--snow's self with just the tinct Of the apple-blossom's heart-blush. Ah, the bow Slack-strung her fingers grasp, where, ivory-linked Horn curving blends with horn, a moonlike pair Which mimic the brow's crescent sparkling so-- As if a star's live restless fragment winked Proud yet repugnant, captive in such hair! What hope along the hillside, what far bliss Lets the crisp hair-plaits fall so low they kiss Those lucid shoulders? Must a morn so blithe Needs have its sorrow when the twang and hiss Tell that from out thy sheaf one shaft makes writhe Its victim, thou unerring Artemis? Why did the chamois stand so fair a mark Arrested by the novel shape he dreamed Was bred of liquid marble in the dark Depths of the mountain's womb which ever teemed With novel births of wonder? Not one spark Of pity in that steel-gray glance which gleamed At the poor hoof's protesting as it stamped Idly the granite? Let me glide unseen From thy proud presence: well mayst thou be queen Of all those strange and sudden deaths which damped So oft Love's torch and Hymen's taper lit For happy marriage till the maidens paled And perished on the temple-step, assailed By--what except to envy must man's wit Impute that sure implacable release Of life from warmth and joy? But death means peace.

X

Noon is the conqueror,--not a spray, nor leaf, Nor herb, nor blossom but has rendered up Its morning dew: the valley seemed one cup Of cloud-smoke, but the vapor's reign was brief; Sun-smitten, see, it hangs--the filmy haze-- Gray-garmenting the herbless mountain-side, To soothe the day's sharp glare: while far and wide Above unclouded burns the sky, one blaze With fierce immitigable blue, no bird Ventures to spot by passage. E'en of peaks Which still presume there, plain each pale point speaks In wan transparency of waste incurred By over-daring: far from me be such! Deep in the hollow, rather, where combine Tree, shrub and brier to roof with shade and cool The remnant of some lily-strangled pool, Edged round with mossy fringing soft and fine. Smooth lie the bottom slabs, and overhead Watch elder, bramble, rose, and service-tree And one beneficent rich barberry Jewelled all over with fruit-pendants red. What have I seen! O Satyr, well I know How sad thy case, and what a world of woe Was hid by the brown visage furry-framed Only for mirth: who otherwise could think-- Marking thy mouth gape still on laughter's brink, Thine eyes a-swim with merriment unnamed But haply guessed at by their furtive wink? And all the while a heart was panting sick Behind that shaggy bulwark of thy breast-- Passion it was that made those breath-bursts thick I took for mirth, subsiding into rest. So, it was Lyda--she of all the train Of forest-thridding nymphs,--'twas only she Turned from thy rustic homage in disdain, Saw but that poor uncouth outside of thee, And, from her circling sisters, mocked a pain Echo had pitied--whom Pan loved in vain-- For she was wishful to partake thy glee, Mimic thy mirth--who loved her not again, Savage for Lyda's sake. She crouches there-- Thy cruel beauty, slumberously laid Supine on heaped-up beast-skins, unaware Thy steps have traced her to the briery glade, Thy greedy hands disclose the cradling lair, Thy hot eyes reach and revel on the maid!

XI

Now, what should this be for? The sun's decline Seems as he lingered lest he lose some act Dread and decisive, some prodigious fact Like thunder from the safe sky's sapphirine About to alter earth's conditions, packed With fate for nature's self that waits, aware What mischief unsuspected in the air Menaces momently a cataract. Therefore it is that yonder space extends Untrenched upon by any vagrant tree, Shrub, weed well-nigh; they keep their bounds, leave free The platform for what actors? Foes or friends, Here come they trooping silent: heaven suspends Purpose the while they range themselves. I see! Bent on a battle, two vast powers agree This present and no after-contest ends One or the other's grasp at rule in reach Over the race of man--host fronting host, As statue statue fronts--wrath-molten each, Solidified by hate,--earth halved almost, To close once more in chaos. Yet two shapes Show prominent, each from the universe Of minions round about him, that disperse Like cloud-obstruction when a bolt escapes. Who flames first? Macedonian, is it thou? Ay, and who fronts thee, King Darius, drapes His form with purple, fillet-folds his brow.

XII

What, then the long day dies at last? Abrupt The sun that seemed, in stooping, sure to melt Our mountain-ridge, is mastered: black the belt Of westward crags, his gold could not corrupt, Barriers again the valley, lets the flow Of lavish glory waste itself away --Whither? For new climes, fresh eyes breaks the day! Night was not to be baffled. If the glow Were all that's gone from us! Did clouds, afloat So filmily but now, discard no rose, Sombre throughout the fleeciness that grows A sullen uniformity. I note Rather displeasure,--in the overspread Change from the swim of gold to one pale lead Oppressive to malevolence,--than late Those amorous yearnings when the aggregate Of cloudlets pressed that each and all might sate Its passion and partake in relics red Of day's bequeathment: now, a frown instead Estranges, and affrights who needs must fare On and on till his journey ends: but where? Caucasus? Lost now in the night. Away And far enough lies that Arcadia. The human heroes tread the world's dark way No longer. Yet I dimly see almost-- Yes, for my last adventure! 'Tis a ghost. So drops away the beauty! There he stands Voiceless, scarce strives with deprecating hands ...

XIII

Enough! Stop further fooling, De Lairesse! My fault, not yours! Some fitter way express Heart's satisfaction that the Past indeed Is past, gives way before Life's best and last, The all-including Future! What were life Did soul stand still therein, forego her strife Through the ambiguous Present to the goal Of some all-reconciling Future? Soul, Nothing has been which shall not bettered be Hereafter,--leave the root, by law's decree Whence springs the ultimate and perfect tree! Busy thee with unearthing root? Nay, climb-- Quit trunk, branch, leaf and flower--reach, rest sublime Where fruitage ripens in the blaze of day! O'erlook, despise, forget, throw flower away, Intent on progress? No whit more than stop Ascent therewith to dally, screen the top Sufficiency of yield by interposed Twistwork bold foot gets free from. Wherefore glozed The poets--"Dream afresh old godlike shapes, Recapture ancient fable that escapes, Push back reality, repeople earth With vanished falseness, recognize no worth In fact new-born unless 't is rendered back Pallid by fancy, as the western rack Of fading cloud bequeaths the lake some gleam Of its gone glory!"

XIV

Let things be--not seem, I counsel rather,--do, and nowise dream! Earth's young significance is all to learn: The dead Greek lore lies buried in the urn Where who seeks fire finds ashes. Ghost, forsooth! What was the best Greece babbled of as truth? "A shade, a wretched nothing,--sad, thin, drear, Cold, dark, it holds on to the lost loves here, If hand have haply sprinkled o'er the dead Three charitable dust-heaps, made mouth red One moment by the sip of sacrifice: Just so much comfort thaws the stubborn ice Slow-thickening upward till it choke at length The last faint flutter craving--not for strength, Not beauty, not the riches and the rule O'er men that made life life indeed." Sad school Was Hades! Gladly,--might the dead but slink To life back,--to the dregs once more would drink Each interloper, drain the humblest cup Fate mixes for humanity.

XV

Cheer up,-- Be death with me, as with Achilles erst, Of Man's calamities the last and worst: Take it so! By proved potency that still Makes perfect, be assured, come what come will, What once lives never dies--what here attains To a beginning, has no end, still gains And never loses aught: when, where, and how-- Lies in Law's lap. What 's death then? Even now With so much knowledge is it hard to bear Brief interposing ignorance? Is care For a creation found at fault just there-- There where the heart breaks bond and outruns time, To reach not follow what shall be?

XVI

Here 's rhyme Such as one makes now,--say, when Spring repeats That miracle the Greek Bard sadly greets: "Spring for the tree and herb--no Spring for us!" Let Spring come: why, a man salutes her thus:

Dance, yellows and whites and reds,-- Lead your gay orgy, leaves, stalks, heads Astir with the wind in the tulip-beds!

There 's sunshine; scarcely a wind at all Disturbs starved grass and daisies small On a certain mound by a churchyard wall.

Daisies and grass be my heart's bedfellows On the mound wind spares and sunshine mellows: Dance you, reds and whites and yellows!

WITH CHARLES AVISON

The manuscript of the _Grand March_ written by Avison was in the possession of Browning's father, and a copy is given at the end of the poem. The _Relfe_ who is two or three times mentioned was Browning's teacher of music, who was a learned contrapuntist.

I

How strange!--but, first of all, the little fact Which led my fancy forth. This bitter morn Showed me no object in the stretch forlorn Of garden-ground beneath my window, backed By yon worn wall wherefrom the creeper, tacked To clothe its brickwork, hangs now, rent and racked By five months' cruel winter,--showed no torn And tattered ravage worse for eyes to see Than just one ugly space of clearance, left Bare even of the bones which used to be Warm wrappage, safe embracement: this one cleft-- --Oh, what a life and beauty filled it up Startlingly, when methought the rude clay cup Ran over with poured bright wine! 'T was a bird Breast-deep there, tugging at his prize, deterred No whit by the fast-falling snow-flake: gain Such prize my blackcap must by might and main-- The cloth-shred, still a-flutter from its nail That fixed a spray once. Now, what told the tale To thee,--no townsman but born orchard-thief,-- That here--surpassing moss-tuft, beard from sheaf Of sun-scorched barley, horsehairs long and stout, All proper country-pillage--here, no doubt, Was just the scrap to steal should line thy nest Superbly? Off he flew, his bill possessed The booty sure to set his wife's each wing Greenly a-quiver. How they climb and cling, Hang parrot-wise to bough, these blackcaps! Strange Seemed to a city-dweller that the finch Should stray so far to forage: at a pinch, Was not the fine wool's self within his range --Filchings on every fence? But no: the need Was of this rag of manufacture, spoiled By art, and yet by nature near unsoiled, New-suited to what scheming finch would breed In comfort, this uncomfortable March.

II

Yet--by the first pink blossom on the larch!-- This was scarce stranger than that memory,-- In want of what should cheer the stay-at-home, My soul,--must straight clap pinion, well-nigh roam A century back, nor once close plume, descry The appropriate rag to plunder, till she pounced-- Pray, on what relic of a brain long still? What old-world work proved forage for the bill Of memory the far-flyer? "March" announced, I verily believe, the dead and gone Name of a music-maker: one of such In England as did little or did much, But, doing, had their day once. Avison! Singly and solely for an air of thine, Bold-stepping "March," foot stept to ere my hand Could stretch an octave, I o'erlooked the band Of majesties familiar, to decline On thee--not too conspicuous on the list Of worthies who by help of pipe or wire Expressed in sound rough rage or soft desire-- Thou, whilom of Newcastle organist!

III

So much could one--well, thinnish air effect! Am I ungrateful? for, your March, styled "Grand," Did veritably seem to grow, expand, And greaten up to title as, unchecked, Dream-marchers marched, kept marching, slow and sure, In time, to tune, unchangeably the same, From nowhere into nowhere,--out they came, Onward they passed, and in they went. No lure Of novel modulation pricked the flat Forthright persisting melody,--no hint That discord, sound asleep beneath the flint, Struck--might spring spark-like, claim due tit-for-tat, Quenched in a concord. No! Yet, such the might Of quietude's immutability, That somehow coldness gathered warmth, well-nigh Quickened--which could not be!--grew burning-bright With fife-shriek, cymbal-clash and trumpet-blare, To drum-accentuation: pacing turned Striding, and striding grew gigantic, spurned At last the narrow space 'twixt earth and air, So shook me back into my sober self.

IV

And where woke I? The March had set me down There whence I plucked the measure, as his brown Frayed flannel-bit my blackcap. Great John Relfe, Master of mine, learned, redoubtable, It little needed thy consummate skill To fitly figure such a bass! The key Was--should not memory play me false--well, C. Ay, with the Greater Third, in Triple Time, Three crochets to a bar: no change, I grant, Except from Tonic down to Dominant. And yet--and yet--if I could put in rhyme The manner of that marching!--which had stopped --I wonder, where?--but that my weak self dropped From out the ranks, to rub eyes disentranced And feel that, after all the way advanced, Back must I foot it, I and my compeers, Only to reach, across a hundred years, The bandsman Avison whose little book And large tune thus had led me the long way (As late a rag my blackcap) from to-day And to-day's music-manufacture,--Brahms, Wagner, Dvorak, Liszt,--to where--trumpets, shawms, Show yourselves joyful!--Handel reigns--supreme? By no means! Buononcini's work is theme For fit laudation of the impartial few: (We stand in England, mind you!) Fashion too Favors Geminiani--of those choice Concertos: nor there wants a certain voice Raised in thy favor likewise, famed Pepusch Dear to our great-grandfathers! In a bush Of Doctor's wig, they prized thee timing beats While Greenway trilled "Alexis." Such were feats Of music in thy day--dispute who list-- Avison, of Newcastle organist!

V

And here 's your music all alive once more-- As once it was alive, at least: just so The figured worthies of a waxwork-show Attest--such people, years and years ago, Looked thus when outside death had life below, --Could say "We are now" not "We were of yore," --"Feel how our pulses leap!" and not "Explore-- Explain why quietude has settled o'er Surface once all awork!" Ay, such a "Suite" Roused heart to rapture, such a "Fugue" would catch Soul heavenwards up, when time was: why attach Blame to exhausted faultlessness, no match For fresh achievement? Feat once--ever feat! How can completion grow still more complete? Hear Avison! He tenders evidence That music in his day as much absorbed Heart and soul then as Wagner's music now, Perfect from centre to circumference-- Orbed to the full can be but fully orbed: And yet--and yet--whence comes it that "O Thou"-- Sighed by the soul at eve to Hesperus-- Will not again take wing and fly away (Since fatal Wagner fixed it fast for us) In some unmodulated minor? Nay, Even by Handel's help!

VI

I state it thus: There is no truer truth obtainable By Man than comes of music. "Soul"--(accept A word which vaguely names what no adept In word-use fits and fixes so that still Thing shall not slip word's fetter and remain Innominate as first, yet, free again, Is no less recognized the absolute Fact underlying that same other fact Concerning which no cavil can dispute Our nomenclature when we call it "Mind"-- Something not Matter)--"Soul," who seeks shall find Distinct beneath that something. You exact An illustrative image? This may suit.

VII

We see a work: the worker works behind, Invisible himself. Suppose his act Be to o'erarch a gulf: he digs, transports, Shapes and, through enginery--all sizes, sorts, Lays stone by stone until a floor compact Proves our bridged causeway. So works Mind--by stress Of faculty, with loose facts, more or less, Builds up our solid knowledge: all the same, Underneath rolls what Mind may hide not tame, An element which works beyond our guess, Soul, the unsounded sea--whose lift of surge, Spite of all superstructure, lets emerge, In flower and foam, Feeling from out the deeps Mind arrogates no mastery upon-- Distinct indisputably. Has there gone To dig up, drag forth, render smooth from rough Mind's flooring,--operosity enough? Still the successive labor of each inch, Who lists may learn: from the last turn of winch That let the polished slab-stone find its place, To the first prod of pickaxe at the base Of the unquarried mountain,--what was all Mind's varied process except natural, Nay, easy even, to descry, describe, After our fashion? "So worked Mind: its tribe Of senses ministrant above, below, Far, near, or now or haply long ago Brought to pass knowledge." But Soul's sea,--drawn whence, Fed how, forced whither,--by what evidence Of ebb and flow, that 's felt beneath the tread, Soul has its course 'neath Mind's work overhead,-- Who tells of, tracks to source the founts of Soul? Yet wherefore heaving sway and restless roll This side and that, except to emulate Stability above? To match and mate Feeling with knowledge,--make as manifest Soul's work as Mind's work, turbulence as rest, Hates, loves, joys, woes, hopes, fears, that rise and sink Ceaselessly, passion's transient flit and wink, A ripple's tinting or a spume-sheet's spread Whitening the wave,--to strike all this life dead, Run mercury into a mould like lead, And henceforth have the plain result to show-- How we Feel, hard and fast as what we Know-- This were the prize and is the puzzle!--which Music essays to solve: and here 's the hitch That balks her of full triumph else to boast.

VIII

All Arts endeavor this, and she the most Attains thereto, yet fails of touching: why? Does Mind get Knowledge from Art's ministry? What 's known once is known ever: Arts arrange, Dissociate, re-distribute, interchange Part with part, lengthen, broaden, high or deep Construct their bravest,--still such pains produce Change, not creation: simply what lay loose At first lies firmly after, what design Was faintly traced in hesitating line Once on a time, grows firmly resolute Henceforth and evermore. Now, could we shoot Liquidity into a mould,--some way Arrest Soul's evanescent moods, and keep Unalterably still the forms that leap To life for once by help of Art!--which yearns To save its capture: Poetry discerns, Painting is 'ware of passion's rise and fall, Bursting, subsidence, intermixture--all A-seethe within the gulf. Each Art a-strain Would stay the apparition,--nor in vain: The Poet's word-mesh, Painter's sure and swift Color-and-line-throw--proud the prize they lift! Thus felt Man and thus looked Man,--passions caught I' the midway swim of sea,--not much, if aught, Of nether-brooding loves, hates, hopes and fears, Enwombed past Art's disclosure. Fleet the years, And still the Poet's page holds Helena At gaze from topmost Troy--"But where are they, My brothers, in the armament I name Hero by hero? Can it be that shame For their lost sister holds them from the war?" --Knowing not they already slept afar Each of them in his own dear native land. Still on the Painter's fresco, from the hand Of God takes Eve the life-spark whereunto She trembles up from nothingness. Outdo Both of them, Music! Dredging deeper yet, Drag into day,--by sound, thy master-net,-- The abysmal bottom-growth, ambiguous thing Unbroken of a branch, palpitating With limbs' play and life's semblance! There it lies. Marvel and mystery, of mysteries And marvels, most to love and laud thee for! Save it from chance and change we most abhor! Give momentary feeling permanence, So that thy capture hold, a century hence, Truth's very heart of truth as, safe to-day, The Painter's Eve, the Poet's Helena Still rapturously bend, afar still throw The wistful gaze! Thanks, Homer, Angelo! Could Music rescue thus from Soul's profound, Give feeling immortality by sound, Then were she queenliest of Arts! Alas-- As well expect the rainbow not to pass! "Praise 'Radamisto'--love attains therein To perfect utterance! Pity--what shall win Thy secret like 'Rinaldo'?"--so men said: Once all was perfume--now, the flower is dead-- They spied tints, sparks have left the spar! Love, hate, Joy, fear, survive,--alike importunate As ever to go walk the world again, Nor ghost-like pant for outlet all in vain Till Music loose them, fit each filmily With form enough to know and name it by For any recognizer sure of ken And sharp of ear, no grosser denizen Of earth than needs be. Nor to such appeal Is Music long obdurate: off they steal-- How gently, dawn-doomed phantoms! back come they Full-blooded with new crimson of broad day-- Passion made palpable once more. Ye look Your last on Handel? Gaze your first on Gluck! Why wistful search, O waning ones, the chart Of stars for you while Haydn, while Mozart Occupies heaven? These also, fanned to fire, Flamboyant wholly,--so perfections tire,-- Whiten to wanness, till ... let others note The ever-new invasion!

IX

I devote Rather my modicum of parts to use What power may yet avail to re-infuse (In fancy, please you!) sleep that looks like death With momentary liveliness, lend breath To make the torpor half inhale. O Relfe, An all-unworthy pupil, from the shelf Of thy laboratory, dares unstop Bottle, ope box, extract thence pinch and drop Of dusts and dews a many thou didst shrine Each in its right receptacle, assign To each its proper office, letter large Label and label, then with solemn charge, Reviewing learnedly the list complete Of chemical reactives, from thy feet Push down the same to me, attent below, Power in abundance: armed wherewith I go To play the enlivener. Bring good antique stuff! Was it alight once? Still lives spark enough For breath to quicken, run the smouldering ash Red right-through. What, "stone-dead" were fools so rash As style my Avison, because he lacked Modern appliance, spread out phrase unracked By modulations fit to make each hair Stiffen upon his wig? See there--and there! I sprinkle my reactives, pitch broadcast Discords and resolutions, turn aghast Melody's easy-going, jostle law With license, modulate (no Bach in awe) Change enharmonically (Hudl to thank) And lo, upstart the flamelets,--what was blank Turns scarlet, purple, crimson! Straightway scanned By eyes that like new lustre--Love once more Yearns through the Largo, Hatred as before Rages in the Rubato: e'en thy March, My Avison, which, sooth to say--(ne'er arch Eyebrows in anger!)--timed, in Georgian years The step precise of British Grenadiers To such a nicety,--if score I crowd, If rhythm I break, if beats I vary,--tap At bar's off-starting turns true thunder-clap, Eyer the pace augmented till--what 's here? Titanic striding toward Olympus!

X

Fear No such irreverent innovation! Still Glide on, go rolling, water-like, at will-- Nay, were thy melody in monotone, The due three-parts dispensed with!

XI

This alone Comes of my tiresome talking: Music's throne Seats somebody whom somebody unseats, And whom in turn--by who knows what new feats Of strength--shall somebody as sure push down, Consign him dispossessed of sceptre, crown, And orb imperial--whereto? Never dream That what once lived shall ever die! They seem Dead--do they? lapsed things lost in limbo? Bring Our life to kindle theirs, and straight each king Starts, you shall see, stands up, from head to foot No inch that is not Purcell! Wherefore? (Suit Measure to subject, first--no marching on Yet in thy bold C major, Avison, As suited step a minute since: no: wait-- Into the minor key first modulate-- Gently with A, now--in the Lesser Third!)

XII

Of all the lamentable debts incurred By Man through buying knowledge, this were worst: That he should find his last gain prove his first Was futile--merely nescience absolute, Not knowledge in the bud which holds a fruit Haply undreamed of in the soul's Spring-tide, Pursed in the petals Summer opens wide, And Autumn, withering, rounds to perfect ripe,-- Not this,--but ignorance, a blur to wipe From human records, late it graced so much. "Truth--this attainment? Ah, but such and such Beliefs of yore seemed inexpugnable When we attained them! E'en as they, so will This their successor have the due morn, noon, Evening and night--just as an old-world tune Wears out and drops away, until who hears Smilingly questions--'This it was brought tears Once to all eyes,--this roused heart's rapture once?' So will it be with truth that, for the nonce, Styles itself truth perennial: 'ware its wile! Knowledge turns nescience,--foremost on the file, Simply proves first of our delusions."

XIII

Now-- Blare it forth, bold C major! Lift thy brow, Man, the immortal, that wast never fooled With gifts no gifts at all, nor ridiculed-- Man knowing--he who nothing knew! As Hope, Fear, Joy, and Grief,--though ampler stretch and scope They seek and find in novel rhythm, fresh phrase,-- Were equally existent in far days Of Music's dim beginning--even so, Truth was at full within thee long ago, Alive as now it takes what latest shape May startle thee by strangeness. Truths escape Time's insufficient garniture: they fade, They fall--those sheathings now grown sere, whose aid Was infinite to truth they wrapped, saved fine And free through March frost: May dews crystalline Nourish truth merely,--does June boast the fruit As--not new vesture merely but, to boot, Novel creation? Soon shall fade and fall Myth after myth--the husk-like lies I call New truth's corolla-safeguard: Autumn comes, So much the better!

XIV

Therefore--bang the drums, Blow the trumpets, Avison! March-motive? that's Truth which endures resetting. Sharps and flats, Lavish at need, shall dance athwart thy score When ophicleide and bombardon's uproar Mate the approaching trample, even now Big in the distance--or my ears deceive-- Of federated England, fitly weave March-music for the Future!

XV

Or suppose Back, and not forward, transformation goes? Once more some sable-stoled procession--say, From Little-ease to Tyburn--wends its way, Out of the dungeon to the gallows-tree Where heading, hacking, hanging is to be Of half-a-dozen recusants--this day Three hundred years ago! How duly drones Elizabethan plain-song--dim antique Grown clarion-clear the while I humbly wreak A classic vengeance on thy March! It moans-- Larges and Longs and Breves displacing quite Crotchet-and-quaver pertness--brushing bars Aside and filling vacant sky with stars Hidden till now that day return to night.

XVI

Nor night nor day: one purpose move us both, Be thy mood mine! As thou wast minded, Man 's The cause our music champions: I were loth To think we cheered our troop to Preston Pans Ignobly: back to times of England's best! Parliament stands for privilege--life and limb Guards Hollis, Haselrig, Strode, Hampden, Pym, The famous Five. There 's rumor of arrest. Bring up the Train Bands, Southwark! They protest: Shall we not all join chorus? Hark the hymn, --Rough, rude, robustious--homely heart a-throb, Harsh voice a-hallo, as beseems the mob! How good is noise! what 's silence but despair Of making sound match gladness never there? Give me some great glad "subject," glorious Bach, Where cannon-roar not organ-peal we lack! Join in, give voice robustious rude and rough,-- Avison helps--so heart lend noise enough!

Fife, trump, drum, sound! and singers then Marching say "Pym, the man of men!" Up, heads, your proudest,--out throats, your loudest-- "Somerset's Pym!"

Strafford from the block, Eliot from the den, Foes, friends, shout "Pym, our citizen!" Wail, the foes he quelled,--hail, the friends he held, "Tavistock's Pym!"

Hearts prompt heads, hands that ply the pen Teach babes unborn the where and when. --Tyrants, he braved them,--patriots, he saved them-- "Westminster's Pym!"

[Music]

FUST AND HIS FRIENDS

AN EPILOGUE

(_Inside the House of Fust, Mayence, 1457._)

_First Friend._ Up, up, up--next step of the staircase Lands us, lo, at the chamber of dread!

_Second Friend._ Locked and barred?

_Third Friend._ Door open--the rare case!

_Fourth Friend._ Ay, there he leans--lost wretch!

_Fifth Friend._ His head Sunk on his desk 'twixt his arms outspread!

* * * * *

_Sixth Friend._ Hallo,--wake, man, ere God thunderstrike Mayence --Mulct for thy sake who art Satan's, John Fust! Satan installed here, God's rule in abeyance, Mayence some morning may crumble to dust. Answer our questions thou shalt and thou must!

_Seventh Friend._ Softly and fairly! Wherefore a-gloom? Greet us, thy gossipry, cousin and sib! Raise the forlorn brow, Fust! Make room-- Let daylight through arms which, enfolding thee, crib From those clenched lids the comfort of sunshine!

_First Friend._ So glib

Thy tongue slides to "comfort" already? Not mine! Behoove us deal roundly: the wretch is distraught --Too well I guess wherefore! Behooves a Divine --Such as I, by grace, boast me--to threaten one caught In the enemy's toils,--setting "comfort" at naught.

_Second Friend._ Nay, Brother, so hasty? I heard--nor long since-- Of a certain Black Art'sman who,--helplessly bound By rash pact with Satan,--through paying--why mince The matter?--fit price to the Church,--safe and sound Full a year after death in his grave-clothes was found.

Whereas 't is notorious the Fiend claims his due During lifetime,--comes clawing, with talons aflame, The soul from the flesh-rags left smoking and blue: So it happed with John Faust; lest John Fust fare the same,-- Look up, I adjure thee by God's holy name!

For neighbors and friends--no foul hell-brood flock we! Saith Solomon "Words of the wise are as goads:" Ours prick but to startle from torpor, set free Soul and sense from death's drowse!

_First Friend._ And soul, wakened, unloads Much sin by confession: no mere palinodes!

--"I was youthful and wanton, am old yet no sage: When angry I cursed, struck and slew: did I want? Right and left did I rob: though no war I dared wage With the Church (God forbid!)--harm her least ministrant-- Still I outraged all else. Now that strength is grown scant,

"I am probity's self"--no such bleatings as these! But avowal of guilt so enormous, it balks Tongue's telling. Yet penitence prompt may appease God's wrath at thy bond with the Devil who stalks --Strides hither to strangle thee!

_Fust._ Childhood so talks.--

Not rare wit nor ripe age--ye boast them, my neighbors!-- Should lay such a charge on your townsman, this Fust Who, known for a life spent in pleasures and labors If freakish yet venial, could scarce be induced To traffic with fiends.

_First Friend._ So, my words have unloosed

A plie from those pale lips corrugate but now?

_Fust._ Lost count me, yet not as ye lean to surmise.

_First Friend._ To surmise? to establish! Unbury that brow! Look up, that thy judge may read clear in thine eyes!

_Second Friend._ By your leave, Brother Barnabite! Mine to advise!

--Who arraign thee, John Fust! What was bruited erewhile Now bellows through Mayence. All cry--thou hast trucked Salvation away for lust's solace! Thy smile Takes its hue from hell's smoulder!

_Fust._ Too certain! I sucked --Got drunk at the nipple of sense.

_Second Friend._ Thou hast ducked--

Art drowned there, say rather! Faugh--fleshly disport! How else but by help of Sir Belial didst win That Venus-like lady, no drudge of thy sort Could lure to become his accomplice in sin? Folk nicknamed her Helen of Troy!

_First Friend._ Best begin

At the very beginning. Thy father,--all knew, A mere goldsmith ...

_Fust._ Who knew him, perchance may know this-- He dying left much gold and jewels no few: Whom these help to court with, but seldom shall miss The love of a leman: true witchcraft, I wis!

* * * * *

_First Friend_. Dost flout me? 'T is said, in debauchery's guild Admitted prime guttler and guzzler--O swine!-- To honor thy headship, those tosspots so swilled That out of their table there sprouted a vine Whence each claimed a cluster, awaiting thy sign

To out knife, off mouthful: when--who could suppose Such malice in magic?--each sot woke and found Cold steel but an inch from the neighbor's red nose He took for a grape-bunch!

_Fust._ Does that so astound Sagacity such as ye boast,--who surround

Your mate with eyes staring, hairs standing erect At his magical feats? Are good burghers unversed In the humors of toping? Full oft, I suspect, Ye, counting your fingers, call thumbkin their first, And reckon a groat every guilder disbursed.

What marvel if wags, while the skinker fast brimmed Their glass with rare tipple's enticement, should gloat --Befooled and beflustered--through optics drink-dimmed-- On this draught and that, till each found in his throat Our Rhenish smack rightly as Raphal? For, note--

They fancied--their fuddling deceived them so grossly-- That liquor sprang out of the table itself Through gimlet-holes drilled there,--nor noticed how closely The skinker kept plying my guests, from the shelf O'er their heads, with the potable madness. No elf

Had need to persuade them a vine rose umbrageous, Fruit-bearing, thirst-quenching! Enough! I confess To many such fool-pranks, but none so outrageous That Satan was called in to help me: excess I own to, I grieve at--no more and no less.

* * * * *

_Second Friend._ Strange honors were heaped on thee--medal for breast, Chain for neck, sword for thigh: not a lord of the land But acknowledged thee peer! What ambition possessed A goldsmith by trade, with craft's grime on his hand, To seek such associates?

_Fust._ Spare taunts! Understand--

I submit me! Of vanities under the sun, Pride seized me at last as concupiscence first, Crapulosity ever: true Fiends, every one, Haled this way and that my poor soul: thus amerced-- Forgive and forget me!

_First Friend._ Had flesh sinned the worst,

Yet help were in counsel: the Church could absolve: But say not men truly thou barredst escape By signing and sealing ...

_Second Friend._ On me must devolve The task of extracting ...

_First Friend._ Shall Barnabites ape Us Dominican experts?

_Seventh Friend._ Nay, Masters,--agape

When Hell yawns for a soul, 't is myself claim the task Of extracting, by just one plain question, God's truth! Where 's Peter Genesheim thy partner? I ask Why, cloistered up still in thy room, the pale youth Slaves tongue-tied--thy trade brooks no tattling forsooth!

No less he, thy _famulus_, suffers entrapping, Succumbs to good fellowship: barrel a-broach Runs freely nor needs any subsequent tapping: Quoth Peter, "That room, none but I dare approach, Holds secrets will help me to ride in my coach."

He prattles, we profit: in brief, he assures Thou hast taught him to speak so that all men may hear --Each alike, wide world over, Jews, Pagans, Turks, Moors, The same as we Christians--speech heard far and near At one and the same magic moment!

_Fust._ That 's clear!

Said he--how?

_Seventh Friend._ Is it like he was licensed to learn? Who doubts but thou dost this by aid of the Fiend? Is it so? So it is, for thou smilest! Go, burn To ashes, since such proves thy portion, unscreened By bell, book and candle! Yet lately I weened

Balm yet was in Gilead,--some healing in store For the friend of my bosom. Men said thou wast sunk In a sudden despondency: not, as before, Fust gallant and gay with his pottle and punk, But sober, sad, sick as one yesterday drunk!

* * * * *

_Fust._ Spare Fust, then, thus contrite!--who, youthful and healthy, Equipped for life's struggle with culture of mind, Sound flesh and sane soul in coherence, born wealthy, Nay, wise--how he wasted endowment designed For the glory of God and the good of mankind!

That much were misused such occasions of grace Ye well may upbraid him, who bows to the rod. But this should bid anger to pity give place-- He has turned from the wrong, in the right path to plod, Makes amends to mankind and craves pardon of God.

"Yea, friends, even now from my lips the _Heureka_-- Soul saved!" was nigh bursting--unduly elate! Have I brought Man advantage, or hatched--so to speak--a Strange serpent, no cygnet? 'T is this I debate Within me. Forbear, and leave Fust to his fate!

* * * * *

_First Friend._ So abject, late lofty? Methinks I spy respite. Make clean breast, discover what mysteries hide In thy room there!

_Second Friend._ Ay, out with them! Do Satan despite! Remember what caused his undoing was pride!

_First Friend._ Dumb devil! Remains one resource to be tried!

* * * * *

_Second Friend._ Exorcise!

_Seventh Friend._ Nay, first--is there any remembers In substance that potent "_Ne pulvis_"--a psalm Whereof some live spark haply lurks 'mid the embers Which choke in my brain. Talk of "Gilead and balm"? I mind me, sung half through, this gave such a qualm

To Asmodeus inside of a Hussite, that, queasy, He broke forth in brimstone with curses. I'm strong In--at least the commencement: the rest should go easy, Friends helping. "_Ne pulvis et ignis_" ...

_Sixth Friend._ All wrong!

_Fifth Friend._ I 've conned till I captured the whole.

_Seventh Friend._ Get along!

"_Ne pulvis et cinis superbe te geras,_ _Nam fulmina_" ...

_Sixth Friend._ Fiddlestick! Peace, dolts and dorrs! Thus runs it "_Ne Numinis fulmina feras_"-- Then "_Hominis perfidi justa sunt sors_ _Fulmen et grando et horrida mors._"

* * * * *

_Seventh Friend_. You blunder ... "_Irati ne._"

_Sixth Friend._ Mind your own business!

_Fifth Friend._ I do not so badly, who gained the monk's leave To study an hour his choice parchment. A dizziness May well have surprised me. No Christian dares thieve, Or I scarce had returned him his treasure. These cleave:

"_Nos pulvis et cinis, trementes, gementes,_ _Venimus_"--some such word--"_ad te, Domine!_ _Da lumen, juvamen, ut sancta sequentes_ _Cor ... corda_" ... Plague take it!

_Seventh Friend._ --"_erecta sint spe:_" Right text, ringing rhyme, and ripe Latin for me!

* * * * *

_Sixth Friend._ A Canon's self wrote it me fair: I was tempted To part with the sheepskin.

_Seventh Friend._ Didst grasp and let go Such a godsend, thou Judas? My purse had been emptied Ere part with the prize!

_Fust._ Do I dream? Say ye so? Clouds break, then! Move, world! I have gained my "_Pou sto_"!

I am saved: Archimedes, salute me!

_Omnes._ Assistance! Help, Angels! He summons ... Aroint thee!--by name, His familiar!

_Fust._ Approach!

_Omnes._ Devil, keep thy due distance!

_Fust._ Be tranquillized, townsmen! The knowledge ye claim Behold, I prepare to impart. Praise or blame,--

Your blessing or banning, whatever betide me, At last I accept. The slow travail of years, The long-teeming brain's birth--applaud me, deride me,-- At last claims revealment. Wait!

_Seventh Friend._ Wait till appears Uncaged Archimedes cooped-up there?

_Second Friend._ Who fears?

Here 's have at thee!

_Seventh Friend._ Correctly now! "_Pulvis et cinis_" ...

_Fust._ The verse ye so value, it happens I hold In my memory safe from _initium_ to _finis_. Word for word, I produce you the whole, plain enrolled, Black letters, white paper--no scribe's red and gold!

* * * * *

_Omnes._ Aroint thee!

_Fust._ I go and return.

(_He enters the inner room._)

_First Friend._ Ay, 't is "_ibis_" No doubt: but as boldly "_redibis_"--who 'll say? I rather conjecture "_in Orco peribis!_"

_Seventh Friend._ Come, neighbors!

_Sixth Friend._ I 'm with you! Show courage and stay Hell's outbreak? Sirs, cowardice here wins the day!

* * * * *

_Fifth Friend_. What luck had that student of Bamberg who ventured To peep in the cell where a wizard of note Was busy in getting some black deed debentured By Satan? In dog's guise there sprang at his throat A flame-breathing fury. Fust favors, I note,

An ugly huge lurcher!

_Seventh Friend._ If I placed reliance As thou, on the beads thou art telling so fast, I 'd risk just a peep through the keyhole.

_Sixth Friend._ Appliance Of ear might be safer. Five minutes are past.

_Omnes._ Saints, save us! The door is thrown open at last!

* * * * *

_Fust_ (_re-enters, the door closing behind him_). As I promised, behold I perform! Apprehend you The object I offer is poison or pest? Receive without harm from the hand I extend you A gift that shall set every scruple at rest! Shrink back from mere paper-strips? Try them and test!

Still hesitate? Myk,-was it thou who lamentedst Thy five wits clean failed thee to render aright A poem read once and no more?--who repentedst Vile pelf had induced thee to banish from sight The characters none but our clerics indite?

Take and keep! _First Friend._ Blessed Mary and all Saints about her!

_Second Friend._ What imps deal so deftly,--five minutes suffice To play thus the penman?

_Third Friend._ By Thomas the Doubter, Five minutes, no more!

_Fourth Friend._ Out on arts that entice Such scribes to do homage!

_Fifth Friend._ Stay! Once--and now twice--

Yea, a third time, my sharp eye completes the inspection Of line after line, the whole series, and finds Each letter join each--not a fault for detection! Such upstrokes, such downstrokes, such strokes of all kinds In the criss-cross, all perfect!

_Sixth Friend._ There 's nobody minds

His quill-craft with more of a conscience, o'er-scratches A sheepskin more nimbly and surely with ink, Than Paul the Sub-Prior: here 's paper that matches His parchment with letter on letter, no link Overleapt--underlost!

_Seventh Friend._ No erasure, I think--

No blot, I am certain!

_Fust._ Accept the new treasure!

_Sixth Friend._ I remembered full half!

_Seventh Friend._ But who other than I (Bear witness, bystanders!) when he broke the measure Repaired fault with "_fulmen_"?

_Fust._ Put bickerings by! Here 's for thee--thee--and thee, too: at need a supply

(_Distributing Proofs._)

For Mayence, though seventy times seven should muster! How now? All so feeble of faith that no face Which fronts me but whitens--or yellows, were juster? Speak out lest I summon my Spirits!

_Omnes._ Grace--grace! Call none of thy--helpmates! We 'll answer apace!

My paper--and mine--and mine also--they vary In nowise--agree in each tittle and jot! Fust, how--why was this?

_Fust._ Shall such "_Cur_" miss a "_quare_"? Within, there! Throw doors wide! Behold who complot To abolish the scribe's work--blur, blunder and blot!

(_The doors open, and the Press is discovered in operation._)

Brave full-bodied birth of this brain that conceived thee In splendor and music,--sustained the slow drag Of the days stretched to years dim with doubt,--yet believed thee, Had faith in thy first leap of life! Pulse might flag-- --Mine fluttered how faintly!--Arch-moment might lag

Its longest--I bided, made light of endurance, Held hard by the hope of an advent which--dreamed, Is done now: night yields to the dawn's reassurance: I have thee--I hold thee--my fancy that seemed, My fact that proves palpable! Ay, Sirs, I schemed

Completion that 's fact: see this Engine--be witness Yourselves of its working! Nay, handle my Types! Each block bears a Letter: in order and fitness I range them. Turn, Peter, the winch! See, it gripes What 's under! Let loose--? draw! In regular stripes

Lies plain, at one pressure, your poem--touched, tinted, Turned out to perfection! The sheet, late a blank, Filled--ready for reading,--not written but PRINTED! Omniscient omnipotent God, thee I thank, Thee ever, thee only!--thy creature that shrank

From no task thou, Creator, imposedst! Creation Revealed me no object, from insect to Man, But bore thy hand's impress: earth glowed with salvation: "Hast sinned? Be thou saved, Fust! Continue my plan, Who spake and earth was: with my word things began.

"As sound so went forth, to the sight be extended Word's mission henceforward! The task I assign, Embrace--thy allegiance to evil is ended! Have cheer, soul impregnate with purpose! Combine Soul and body, give birth to my concept--called thine!

"Far and wide, North and South, East and West, have dominion O'er thought, wingèd wonder, O Word! Traverse world In sun-flash and sphere-song! Each beat of thy pinion Bursts night, beckons day: once Truth's banner unfurled, Where 's Falsehood? Sun-smitten, to nothingness hurled!"

More humbly--so, friends, did my fault find redemption. I sinned, soul-entoiled by the tether of sense: My captor reigned master: I plead no exemption, From Satan's award to his servant: defence From the fiery and final assault would be--whence?

By making--as man might--to truth restitution! Truth is God: trample lies and lies' father, God's foe! Fix fact fast: truths change by an hour's revolution: What deed's very doer, unaided, can show How 't was done a year--month--week--day--minute ago?

At best, he relates it--another reports it-- A third--nay, a thousandth records it: and still Narration, tradition, no step but distorts it, As down from truth's height it goes sliding until At the low level lie-mark it stops--whence no skill

Of the scribe, intervening too tardily, rescues --Once fallen--lost fact from lie's fate there. What scribe --Eyes horny with poring, hands crippled with desk-use, Brains fretted by fancies--the volatile tribe That tease weary watchers--can boast that no bribe

Shuts eye and frees hand and remits brain from toiling? Truth gained--can we stay, at whatever the stage, Truth a-slide,--save her snow from its ultimate soiling In mire,--by some process, stamp promptly on page Fact spoiled by pen's plodding, make truth heritage

Not merely of clerics, but poured out, full measure, On clowns--every mortal endowed with a mind? Read, gentle and simple! Let labor win leisure At last to bid truth do all duty assigned, Not pause at the noble but pass to the hind!

How bring to effect such swift sure simultaneous Unlimited multiplication? How spread By an arm-sweep a hand-throw--no helping extraneous-- Truth broadcast o'er Europe? "The goldsmith," I said, "Graves limning on gold: why not letters on lead?"

So, Tuscan artificer, grudge not thy pardon To me who played false, made a furtive descent, Found the sly secret workshop,--thy genius kept guard on Too slackly for once,--and surprised thee low-bent O'er thy labor--some chalice thy tool would indent

With a certain free scroll-work framed round by a border Of foliage and fruitage: no scratching so fine, No shading so shy but, in ordered disorder, Each flourish came clear,--unbewildered by shine, On the gold, irretrievably right, lay each line.

How judge if thy hand worked thy will? By reviewing, Revising again and again, piece by piece, Tool's performance,--this way, as I watched. 'T was through glueing A paper-like film-stuff--thin, smooth, void of crease, On each cut of the graver: press hard! at release,

No mark on the plate but the paper showed double: His work might proceed: as he judged--space or speck Up he filled, forth he flung--was relieved thus from trouble Lest wrong--once--were right never more: what could check Advancement, completion? Thus lay at my beck--

At my call--triumph likewise! "For," cried I, "what hinders That graving turns Printing? Stamp one word--not one But fifty such, phœnix-like, spring from death's cinders,-- Since death is word's doom, clerics hide from the sun As some churl closets up this rare chalice." Go, run

Thy race now, Fust's child! High, O Printing, and holy Thy mission! These types, see, I chop and I change Till the words, every letter, a pageful, not slowly Yet surely lies fixed: last of all, I arrange A paper beneath, stamp it, loosen it!

_First Friend._ Strange!

* * * * *

_Second Friend._ How simple exceedingly!

_Fust._ Bustle, my Schœffer! Set type,--quick, Genesheim! Turn screw now!

_Third Friend._ Just that!

_Fourth Friend._ And no such vast miracle!

_Fust._ "Plough with my heifer, Ye find out my riddle," quoth Samson, and pat He speaks to the purpose. Grapes squeezed in the vat

Yield to sight and to taste what is simple--a liquid Mere urchins may sip: but give time, let ferment-- You 've wine, manhood's master! Well, "_rectius si quid_ _Novistis im-per-ti-te!_" Wait the event, Then weigh the result! But, whate'er Thy intent,

O Thou, the one force in the whole variation Of visible nature,--at work--do I doubt?-- From Thy first to our last, in perpetual creation-- A film hides us from Thee--'twixt inside and out, A film, on this earth where Thou bringest about

New marvels, new forms of the glorious, the gracious, We bow to, we bless for: no star bursts heaven's dome But Thy finger impels it, no weed peeps audacious Earth's clay-floor from out, but Thy finger makes room For one world's-want the more in Thy Cosmos: presume

Shall Man, Microcosmos, to claim the conception Of grandeur, of beauty, in thought, word or deed? I toiled, but Thy light on my dubiousest step shone: If I reach the glad goal, is it I who succeed Who stumbled at starting tripped up by a reed,

Or Thou? Knowledge only and absolute, glory As utter be Thine who concedest a spark Of Thy spheric perfection to earth's transitory Existences! Nothing that lives, but Thy mark Gives law to--life's light: what is doomed to the dark?

Where 's ignorance? Answer, creation! What height, What depth has escaped Thy commandment --to Know? What birth in the ore-bed but answers aright Thy sting at its heart which impels--bids "E'en so, Not otherwise more or be motionless,--grow,

"Decline, disappear!" Is the plant in default How to bud, when to branch forth? The bird and the beast --Do they doubt if their safety be found in assault Or escape? Worm or fly, of what atoms the least But follows light's guidance,--will famish, not feast?

In such various degree, fly and worm, ore and plant, All know, none is witless: around each, a wall Encloses the portion, or ample or scant, Of Knowledge: beyond which one hair's breadth, for all Lies blank--not so much as a blackness--a pall

Some sense unimagined must penetrate: plain Is only old license to stand, walk or sit, Move so far and so wide in the narrow domain Allotted each nature for life's use: past it How immensity spreads does he guess? Not a whit.

Does he care? Just as little. Without? No, within Concerns him? he Knows. Man Ignores--thanks to Thee Who madest him know, but--in knowing--begin To know still new vastness of knowledge must be Outside him--to enter, to traverse, in fee

Have and hold! "Oh, Man's ignorance!" hear the fool whine! How were it, for better or worse, didst thou grunt Contented with sapience--the lot of the swine Who knows he was born for just truffles to hunt?-- Monks' Paradise--"_Semper sint res uti sunt!_"

No, Man's the prerogative--knowledge once gained-- To ignore,--find new knowledge to press for, to swerve In pursuit of, no, not for a moment: attained-- Why, onward through ignorance! Dare and deserve! As still to its asymptote speedeth the curve,

So approximates Man--Thee, who, reachable not, Hast formed him to yearningly follow Thy whole Sole and single omniscience! Such, friends, is my lot: I am back with the world: one more step to the goal Thanks for reaching I render--Fust's help to Man's soul!

Mere mechanical help? So the hand gives a toss To the falcon,--aloft once, spread pinions and fly, Beat air far and wide, up and down and across! My Press strains a-tremhle: whose masterful eye Will be first, in new regions, new truth to descry?

Give chase, soul! Be sure each new capture consigned To my Types will go forth to the world, like God's bread --Miraculous food not for body but mind, Truth's manna! How say you? Put case that, instead Of old leasing and lies, we superiorly fed

These Heretics, Hussites ...

_First Friend._ First answer my query! If saved, art thou happy?

_Fust._ I was and I am.

_First Friend._ Thy visage confirms it: how comes, then, that--weary And woe-begone late--was it show, was it sham?-- We found thee sunk thiswise?

_Second Friend._ --In need of the dram

From the flask which a provident neighbor might carry!

_Fust._ Ah, friends, the fresh triumph soon flickers, fast fades! I hailed Word's dispersion: could heartleaps but tarry! Through me does Print furnish Truth wings? The same aids Cause Falsehood to range just as widely. What raids

On a region undreamed of does Printing enable Truth's foe to effect! Printed leasing and lies May speed to the world's farthest corner-- gross fable No less than pure fact--to impede, neutralize, Abolish God's gift and Man's gain!

_First Friend._ Dost surmise

What struck me at first blush? Our Beghards, Waldenses, Jeronimites, Hussites--does one show his head, Spout heresy now? Not a priest in his senses Deigns answer mere speech, but piles fagots instead, Refines as by fire, and, him silenced, all 's said.

Whereas if in future I pen an opuscule Defying retort, as of old when rash tongues Were easy to tame,--straight some knave of the Huss-School Prints answer forsooth! Stop invisible lungs? The barrel of blasphemy broached once, who bungs?

* * * * *

_Second Friend._ Does my sermon, next Easter, meet fitting acceptance? Each captious disputative boy has his quirk "_An cuique credendum sit?_" Well, the Church kept "_ans_" In order till Fust set his engine at work! What trash will come flying from Jew, Moor, and Turk

When, goosequill, thy reign o'er the world is abolished! Goose--ominous name! With a goose woe began: Quoth Huss--which means "goose" in his idiom unpolished-- "Ye burn now a Goose: there succeeds me a Swan Ye shall find quench your fire!"

_Fust._ I foresee such a man.

ASOLANDO

TO MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON

To whom but you, dear Friend, should I dedicate verses--some few written, all of them supervised, in the comfort of your presence, and with yet another experience of the gracious hospitality now bestowed on me since so many a year,--adding a charm even to my residences at Venice, and leaving me little regret for the surprise and delight at my visits to Asolo in bygone days?

I unite, you will see, the disconnected poems by a title-name popularly ascribed to the inventiveness of the ancient secretary of Queen Cornaro whose palace-tower still overlooks us: _Asolare_--"to disport in the open air, amuse one's self at random." The objection that such a word nowhere occurs in the works of the Cardinal is hardly important--Bembo was too thorough a purist to conserve in print a term which in talk he might possibly toy with: but the word is more likely derived from a Spanish source. I use it for love of the place, and in requital of your pleasant assurance that an early poem of mine first attracted you thither--where and elsewhere, at La Mura as Cà Alvisi, may all happiness attend you!

Gratefully and affectionately yours, R. B. ASOLO: _October_ 15, 1889.

* * * * *

The greater part of _Asolando_ was written in 1888-89, though in one instance at least an early poem was included in the collection. The title of the volume is explained in the dedication. The book, by a strange coincidence, was published on the day of Browning's death.

PROLOGUE

"The Poet's age is sad: for why? In youth, the natural world could show No common object but his eye At once involved with alien glow-- His own soul's iris-bow.

"And now a flower is just a flower: Man, bird, beast are but beast, bird, man-- Simply themselves, uncinct by dower Of dyes which, when life's day began, Round each in glory ran."

Friend, did you need an optic glass, Which were your choice? A lens to drape In ruby, emerald, chrysopras, Each object--or reveal its shape Clear outlined, past escape,

The naked very thing?--so clear That, when you had the chance to gaze, You found its inmost self appear Through outer seeming--truth ablaze, Not falsehood's fancy-haze?

How many a year, my Asolo, Since--one step just from sea to land-- I found you, loved yet feared you so-- For natural objects seemed to stand Palpably fire-clothed! No--

No mastery of mine o'er these! Terror with beauty, like the Bush Burning but unconsumed. Bend knees, Drop eyes to earthward! Language? Tush! Silence 'tis awe decrees.

And now? The lambent flame is--where? Lost from the naked world: earth, sky, Hill, vale, tree, flower,--Italia's rare O'er-running beauty crowds the eye-- But flame? The Bush is bare.

Hill, vale, tree, flower--they stand distinct, Nature to know and name. What then? A Voice spoke thence which straight unlinked Fancy from fact: see, all's in ken: Has once my eyelid winked?

No, for the purged ear apprehends Earth's import, not the eye late dazed. The Voice said, "Call my works thy friends! At Nature dost thou shrink amazed? God is it who transcends."

ASOLO: _September_ 6, 1889.

ROSNY

Woe, he went galloping into the war, Clara, Clara! Let us two dream: shall he 'scape with a scar? Scarcely disfigurement; rather a grace Making for manhood which nowise we mar: See, while I kiss it, the flush on his face-- Rosny, Rosny!

Light does he laugh: "With your love in my soul"-- (Clara, Clara!) "How could I other than--sound, safe, and whole-- Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet stand Scatheless beside you, as, touching love's goal, Who won the race kneels, craves reward at your hand-- Rosny, Rosny?"

Ay, but if certain who envied should see! Clara, Clara, Certain who simper: "The hero for me Hardly of life were so chary as miss Death--death and fame--that's love's guerdon when She Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice fell on this Rosny, Rosny!"

So,--go on dreaming,--he lies mid a heap (Clara, Clara,) Of the slain by his hand: what is death but a sleep? Dead, with my portrait displayed on his breast: Love wrought his undoing: "No prudence could keep The love-maddened wretch from his fate." That is best, Rosny, Rosny!

DUBIETY

I will be happy if but for once: Only help me, Autumn weather, Me and my cares to screen, ensconce In luxury's sofa-lap of leather!

Sleep? Nay, comfort--with just a cloud Suffusing day too clear and bright: Eve's essence, the single drop allowed To sully, like milk, Noon's water-white.

Let gauziness shade, not shroud--adjust, Dim and not deaden,--somehow sheathe Aught sharp in the rough world's busy thrust, If it reach me through dreaming's vapor-wreath.

Be life so, all things ever the same! For, what has disarmed the world? Outside, Quiet and peace: inside, nor blame Nor want, nor wish whate'er betide.

What is it like that has happened before? A dream? No dream, more real by much. A vision? But fanciful days of yore Brought many: mere musing seems not such.

Perhaps but a memory, after all! --Of what came once when a woman leant To feel for my brow where her kiss might fall. Truth ever, truth only the excellent!

NOW

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it,--so you ignore, So you make perfect the present,--condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense-- Merged in a moment which gives me at last You around me for once, you beneath me, above me-- Me--sure that despite of time future, time past,-- This tick of our life-time's one moment you love me! How long such suspension may linger? Ah, Sweet-- The moment eternal--just that and no more-- When ecstasy's utmost we clutch at the core While cheeks burn, arms open, eyes shut and lips meet!

HUMILITY

What girl but, having gathered flowers, Stript the beds and spoilt the bowers, From the lapful light she carries Drops a careless bud?--nor tarries To regain the waif and stray: "Store enough for home"--she'll say.

So say I too: give your lover Heaps of loving--under, over, Whelm him--make the one the wealthy! Am I all so poor who--stealthy Work it was!--picked up what fell: Not the worst bud--who can tell?

POETICS

"So say the foolish!" Say the foolish so, Love? "Flower she is, my rose"--or else, "My very swan is she"-- Or perhaps, "Yon maid-moon, blessing earth below, Love, That art thou!"--to them, belike: no such vain words from me.

"Hush, rose, blush! no balm like breath," I chide it: "Bend thy neck its best, swan,--hers the whiter curve!" Be the moon the moon: my Love I place beside it: What is she? Her human self,--no lower word will serve.

SUMMUM BONUM

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

A PEARL, A GIRL

A simple ring with a single stone, To the vulgar eye no stone of price: Whisper the right word, that alone-- Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice, And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern scroll) Of heaven and earth, lord whole and sole Through the power in a pearl.

A woman ('tis I this time that say) With little the world counts worthy praise; Utter the true word--out and away Escapes her soul: I am wrapt in blaze, Creation's lord, of heaven and earth Lord whole and sole--by a minute's birth-- Through the love in a girl!

SPECULATIVE

Others may need new life in Heaven-- Man, Nature, Art--made new, assume! Man with new mind old sense to leaven, Nature,--new light to clear old gloom, Art that breaks bounds, gets soaring-room.

I shall pray: "Fugitive as precious-- Minutes which passed,--return, remain! Let earth's old life once more enmesh us, You with old pleasure, me--old pain, So we but meet nor part again!"

WHITE WITCHCRAFT

When a boy Browning had a humble friend in the person of a toad. "He visited it daily where it burrowed under a white rosetree, announcing himself by a pinch of gravel dropped into its hole; and the creature would crawl forth, allow its head to be gently tickled, and reward the act with a loving glance of its soft full eyes." MRS. ORR.

If you and I could change to beasts, what beast should either be? Shall you and I play Jove for once? Turn fox then, I decree! Shy wild sweet stealer of the grapes! Now do your worst on me!

And thus you think to spite your friend--turned loathsome? What, a toad? So, all men shrink and shun me! Dear men, pursue your road! Leave but my crevice in the stone, a reptile's fit abode!

Now say your worst, Canidia! "He 's loathsome, I allow: There may or may not lurk a pearl beneath his puckered brow: But see his eyes that follow mine--love lasts there, anyhow."

BAD DREAMS

I

Last night I saw you in my sleep: And how your charm of face was changed! I asked, "Some love, some faith you keep?" You answered, "Faith gone, love estranged."

Whereat I woke--a twofold bliss: Waking was one, but next there came This other: "Though I felt, for this, My heart break, I loved on the same."

BAD DREAMS

II

You in the flesh and here-- Your very self! Now, wait! One word! May I hope or fear? Must I speak in love or hate? Stay while I ruminate!

The fact and each circumstance Dare you disown? Not you! That vast dome, that huge dance, And the gloom which overgrew A--possibly festive crew!

For why should men dance at all-- Why women--a crowd of both-- Unless they are gay? Strange ball-- Hands and feet plighting troth, Yet partners enforced and loth!

Of who danced there, no shape Did I recognize: thwart, perverse, Each grasped each, past escape In a whirl or weary or worse; Man's sneer met woman's curse,

While he and she toiled as if Their guardian set galley-slaves To supple chained limbs grown stiff; Unmanacled trulls and knaves-- The lash for who misbehaves!

And a gloom was, all the while, Deeper and deeper yet O'ergrowing the rank and file Of that army of haters--set To mimic love's fever-fret.

By the wall-side close I crept, Avoiding the livid maze, And, safely so far, outstepped On a chamber--a chapel, says My memory or betrays--

Closet-like, kept aloof From unseemly witnessing What sport made floor and roof Of the Devil's palace ring While his Damned amused their king.

Ay, for a low lamp burned, And a silence lay about What I, in the midst, discerned Though dimly till, past doubt, 'T was a sort of throne stood out--

High seat with steps, at least: And the topmost step was filled By--whom? What vestured priest? A stranger to me,--his guild, His cult, unreconciled

To my knowledge how guild and cult Are clothed in this world of ours: I pondered, but no result Came to--unless that Giaours So worship the Lower Powers.

When suddenly who entered? Who knelt--did you guess I saw? Who--raising that face were centred Allegiance to love and law So lately--off-casting awe,

Down-treading reserve, away Thrusting respect ... but mine Stands firm--firm still shall stay! Ask Satan! for I decline To tell--what I saw, in fine!

Yet here in the flesh you come-- Your same self, form and face,-- In the eyes, mirth still at home! On the lips, that commonplace Perfection of honest grace!

Yet your errand is--needs must be-- To palliate--well, explain, Expurgate in some degree Your soul of its ugly stain. Oh, you--the good in grain--

How was it your white took tinge? "A mere dream"--never object! Sleep leaves a door on hinge Whence soul, ere our flesh suspect, Is off and away: detect

Her vagaries when loose, who can! Be she pranksome, be she prude, Disguise with the day began: With the night--ah, what ensued From draughts of a drink hell-brewed?

Then She: "What a queer wild dream! And perhaps the best fun is-- Myself had its fellow--I seem Scarce awake from yet. 'T was this-- Shall I tell you? First, a kiss!

"For the fault was just your own,-- 'T is myself expect apology: You warned me to let alone (Since our studies were mere philology) That ticklish (you said) Anthology.

"So I dreamed that I passed _exam_ Till a question posed me sore: 'Who translated this epigram By--an author we best ignore?' And I answered, 'Hannah More'!"

BAD DREAMS

III

This was my dream: I saw a Forest Old as the earth, no track nor trace Of unmade man. Thou, Soul, explorest-- Though in a trembling rapture--space Immeasurable! Shrubs, turned trees, Trees that touch heaven, support its freize Studded with sun and moon and star: While--oh, the enormous growths that bar Mine eye from penetrating past Their tangled twine where lurks--nay, lives Royally lone, some brute-type cast I' the rough, time cancels, man forgives.

On, Soul! I saw a lucid City Of architectural device Every way perfect. Pause for pity, Lightning! nor leave a cicatrice On those bright marbles, dome and spire, Structures palatial,--streets which mire Dares not defile, paved all too fine For human footstep's smirch, not thine-- Proud solitary traverser, My Soul, of silent lengths of way-- With what ecstatic dread, aver, Lest life start sanctioned by thy stay!

Ah, but the last sight was the hideous! A City, yes,--a Forest, true,-- But each devouring each. Perfidious Snake-plants had strangled what I knew Was a pavilion once: each oak Held on his horns some spoil he broke By surreptitiously beneath Upthrusting: pavements, as with teeth, Griped huge weed widening crack and split In squares and circles stone-work erst. Oh, Nature--good! Oh, Art--no whit Less worthy! Both in one--accurst!

BAD DREAMS

IV

It happened thus: my slab, though new, Was getting weather-stained,--beside, Herbage, balm, peppermint o'ergrew Letter and letter: till you tried Somewhat, the Name was scarce descried.

That strong stern man my lover came: --Was he my lover? Call him, pray, My life's cold critic bent on blame Of all poor I could do or say To make me worth his love one day--

One far day when, by diligent And dutiful amending faults, Foibles, all weaknesses which went To challenge and excuse assaults Of culture wronged by taste that halts--

Discrepancies should mar no plan Symmetric of the qualities Claiming respect from--say--a man That 's strong and stern. "Once more he pries Into me with those critic eyes!"

No question! so--"Conclude, condemn Each failure my poor self avows! Leave to its fate all you contemn! There 's Solomon's selected spouse: Earth needs must hold such maids--choose them!"

Why, he was weeping! Surely gone Sternness and strength: with eyes to ground And voice a broken monotone-- "Only be as you were! Abound In foibles, faults,--laugh, robed and crowned

"As Folly's veriest queen,--care I One feather-fluff? Look pity, Love, On prostrate me--your foot shall try This forehead's use--mount thence above, And reach what Heaven you dignify!"

Now, what could bring such change about? The thought perplexed: till, following His gaze upon the ground,--why, out Came all the secret! So, a thing Thus simple has deposed my king!

For, spite of weeds that strove to spoil Plain reading on the lettered slab, My name was clear enough--no soil Effaced the date when one chance stab Of scorn ... if only ghosts might blab!

INAPPREHENSIVENESS

We two stood simply friend-like side by side, Viewing a twilight country far and wide, Till she at length broke silence. "How it towers Yonder, the ruin o'er this vale of ours! The West's faint flare behind it so relieves Its rugged outline--sight perhaps deceives, Or I could almost fancy that I see A branch wave plain--belike some wind-sown tree Chance-rooted where a missing turret was. What would I give for the perspective glass At home, to make out if 't is really so! Has Ruskin noticed here at Asolo That certain weed-growths on the ravaged wall Seem" ... something that I could not say at all, My thought being rather--as absorbed she sent Look onward after look from eyes distent With longing to reach Heaven's gate left ajar-- "Oh, fancies that might be, oh, facts that are! What of a wilding? By you stands, and may So stand unnoticed till the Judgment Day, One who, if once aware that your regard Claimed what his heart holds,--woke, as from its sward The flower, the dormant passion, so to speak-- Then what a rush of life would startling wreak Revenge on your inapprehensive stare While, from the ruin and the West's faint flare, You let your eyes meet mine, touch what you term Quietude--that 's an universe in germ-- The dormant passion needing but a look To burst into immense life!" "No, the book Which noticed how the wall-growths wave," said she, "Was not by Ruskin." I said, "Vernon Lee."

WHICH?

So, the three Court-ladies began Their trial of who judged best In esteeming the love of a man: Who preferred with most reason was thereby confessed Boy-Cupid's exemplary catcher and eager; An Abbé crossed legs to decide on the wager.

First the Duchesse: "Mine for me-- Who were it but God's for Him, And the King's for--who but he? Both faithful and loyal, one grace more shall brim His cup with perfection: a lady's true lover, He holds--save his God and his king--none above her."

"I require"--outspoke the Marquise-- "Pure thoughts, ay, but also fine deeds: Play the paladin must he, to please My whim, and--to prove my knight's service exceeds Your saint's and your loyalist's praying and kneeling-- Show wounds, each wide mouth to my mercy appealing."

Then the Comtesse: "My choice be a wretch, Mere losel in body and soul, Thrice accurst! What care I, so he stretch Arms to me his sole savior, love's ultimate goal, Out of earth and men's noise--names of 'infidel,' 'traitor,' Cast up at him? Crown me, crown's adjudicator!"

And the Abbé uncrossed his legs, Took snuff, a reflective pinch, Broke silence: "The question begs Much pondering ere I pronounce. Shall I flinch? The love which to one and one only has reference Seems terribly like what perhaps gains God's preference."

THE CARDINAL AND THE DOG

This poem was written in May, 1842, at the same time as the _Pied Piper_, both having been written at the request of Macready's little son, who was confined to the house by illness and wanted Browning to write him some poems for which he could make pictures.

Crescenzio, the Pope's Legate at the High Council, Trent, --Year Fifteen hundred twenty-two, March Twenty-five--intent On writing letters to the Pope till late into the night, Rose, weary, to refresh himself, and saw a monstrous sight: (I give mine Author's very words: he penned, I reindite.)

A black Dog of vast bigness, eyes flaming, ears that hung Down to the very ground almost, into the chamber sprung And made directly for him, and laid himself right under The table where Crescenzio wrote--who called in fear and wonder His servants in the ante-room, commanded every one To look for and find out the beast: but, looking, they found none.

The Cardinal fell melancholy, then sick, soon after died: And at Verona, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried Aloud to drive away the Dog that leapt on his bedside. Heaven keep us Protestants from harm: the rest ... no ill betide!

THE POPE AND THE NET

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.

So much the more his boy minds book, givesproof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal erelong, while no one cries "Unfit!"

But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head: Each winks at each: "I'-faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red?

Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince--it is indeed a rise: So, here 's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!"

And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net!

Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: "The humble holy heart that holds of newborn pride no spice! He 's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, "'T is my advice."

So, Pope he was: and when we flocked--its sacred slipper on-- To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone-- That guarantee of lowlihead,--eclipsed that star which shone!

Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried, "Pish! I 'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish."

THE BEAN-FEAST

He was the man--Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd's son: He knew the right thing, did it, and thanked God when 't was done: But of all he had to thank for, my fancy somehow leans To thinking, what most moved him was a certain meal on beans.

For one day, as his wont was, in just enough disguise As he went exploring wickedness,--to see with his own eyes If law had due observance in the city's entrail dark As well as where, i' the open, crime stood an obvious mark,--

He chanced, in a blind alley, on a tumble-down once house Now hovel, vilest structure in Rome the ruinous: And, as his tact impelled him, Sixtus adventured bold, To learn how lowliest subjects bore hunger, toil, and cold.

There sat they at high-supper--man and wife, lad and lass, Poor as you please, but cleanly all and carefree: pain that was --Forgotten, pain as sure to be let bide aloof its time,-- Mightily munched the brave ones--what mattered gloom or grime?

Said Sixtus, "Feast, my children! who works hard needs eat well. I 'm just a supervisor, would hear what you can tell. Do any wrongs want righting? The Father tries his best, But, since he 's only mortal, sends such as I to test The truth of all that 's told him--how folk like you may fare: Come!--only don't stop eating--when mouth has words to spare--

"You"--smiled he--"play the spokesman, bell-wether of the flock! Are times good, masters gentle? Your grievances unlock! How of your work and wages?--pleasures, if such may be-- Pains, as such are for certain." Thus smiling questioned he.

But somehow, spite of smiling, awe stole upon the group-- An inexpressible surmise: why should a priest thus stoop-- Pry into what concerned folk? Each visage fell. Aware, Cries Sixtus interposing: "Nay, children, have no care!

"Fear nothing! Who employs me requires the plain truth. Pelf Beguiles who should inform me: so, I inform myself. See!" And he drew his hood back, let the close vesture ope, Showed face, and where on tippet the cross lay: 't was the Pope.

Imagine the joyful wonder! "How shall the like of us-- Poor souls--requite such blessing of our rude bean-feast?" "Thus-- Thus amply!" laughed Pope Sixtus. "I early rise, sleep late: Who works may eat: they tempt me, your beans there: spare a plate!"

Down sat he on the door-step: 't was they this time said grace: He ate up the last mouthful, wiped lips, and then, with face Turned heavenward, broke forth thankful: "Not now, that earth obeys Thy word in mine, that through me the peoples know Thy ways--

"But that Thy care extendeth to Nature's homely wants, And, while man's mind is strengthened, Thy goodness nowise scants Man's body of its comfort,--that I whom kings and queens Crouch to, pick crumbs from off my table, relish beans! The thunders I but seem to launch, there plain Thy hand all see: That I have appetite, digest, and thrive--that boon 's for me."

MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG

Frowned the Laird on the Lord: "So, red-handed I catch thee? Death-doomed by our Law of the Border! We 've a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee: Who trespasses--hangs: all 's in order."

He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant: Then the Laird's dame: "Nay, Husband, I beg! He 's comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant --If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!"

"No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry: Grant rather the gallows!" laughed he. "Foul fare kith and kin of you--why do you tarry?" "To tame your fierce temper!" quoth she.

"Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week: Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders: Who lion-like roars now, mouse-fashion will squeak, And 'it rains' soon succeed to 'it thunders.'"

A week did he bide in the cold and the dark --Not hunger: for duly at morning In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lark Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still ye 're scorning?

"Go hang, but here 's parritch to hearten ye first!" "Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast within some Such music as yours, mine should match it or burst: No frog-jaws! So tell folk, my Winsome!"

Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's door set wide, Out he marched, and there waited the lassie: "Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for a bride! Consider! Sky 's blue and turf 's grassy:

"Life 's sweet: shall I say ye wed Muckle-mouth Meg?" "Not I," quoth the stout heart: "too eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's egg; Shall I let it munch mine? Never, Dearie!"

"Not Muckle-mouth Meg? Wow, the obstinate man! Perhaps he would rather wed me!" "Ay, would he--with just for a dowry your can!" "I 'm Muckle-mouth Meg," chirruped she.

"Then so--so--so--so--" as he kissed her apace-- "Will I widen thee out till thou turnest From Margaret Minnikin--mou', by God's grace, To Muckle-mouth Meg in good earnest!"

ARCADES AMBO

_A._ You blame me that I ran away? Why, Sir, the enemy advanced: Balls flew about, and--who can say But one, if I stood firm, had glanced In my direction? Cowardice? I only know we don't live twice, Therefore--shun death, is my advice.

_B._ Shun death at all risks? Well, at some! True, I myself, Sir, though I scold The cowardly, by no means come Under reproof as overbold --I, who would have no end of brutes Cut up alive to guess what suits My case and saves my toe from shoots.

THE LADY AND THE PAINTER

_She._ Yet womanhood you reverence, So you profess! _He._ With heart and soul. _She._ Of which fact this is evidence! To help Art-study,--for some dole Of certain wretched shillings,--you Induce a woman--virgin too-- To strip and stand stark-naked? _He._ True. _She._ Nor feel you so degrade her? _He._ What --(Excuse the interruption)--clings Half-savage-like around your hat? _She._ Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wings! Next season,--Paris-prints assert,-- We must go feathered to the skirt: My modiste keeps on the alert.

Owls, hawks, jays--swallows most approve. _He._ Dare I speak plainly? _She._ Oh, I trust! _He._ Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move In heart and soul of me disgust Did you strip off those spoils you wear, And stand--for thanks, not shillings--bare To help Art like my Model there. _She_ well knew what absolved her--praise In me for God's surpassing good, Who granted to my reverent gaze A type of purest womanhood. _You_--clothed with murder of his best Of harmless beings--stand the test! What is it _you_ know? _She._ That you jest!

PONTE DELL' ANGELO, VENICE

Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals O'er a certain bridge you have to cross That 's named, "Of the Angel:" listen why! The name "Of the Devil" too much appalls Venetian acquaintance, so--his the loss, While the gain goes ... look on high!

An angel visibly guards, yon house: Above each scutcheon--a pair--stands he, Enfolds them with droop of either wing: The family's fortune were perilous Did he thence depart--you will soon agree, If I hitch into verse the thing.

For, once on a time, this house belonged To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare, But also with overmuch lust of gain: In the matter of law you were nowise wronged, But alas for the lucre! He picked you bare To the bone. Did folk complain?

"I exact," growled he, "work's rightful due: 'T is folk seek me, not I seek them. Advice at its price! They succeed or fail, Get law in each case--and a lesson too: Keep clear of the Courts--is advice _ad rem:_ They 'll remember, I 'll be bail!"

So, he pocketed fee without a qualm. What reason for squeamishness? Labor done, To play he betook him with lightened heart, Ate, drank, and made merry with song or psalm, Since the yoke of the Church is an easy one-- Fits neck nor causes smart.

Brief: never was such an extortionate Rascal--the word has escaped my teeth! And yet--(all 's down in a book no ass Indited, believe me!)--this reprobate Was punctual at prayer-time: gold lurked beneath Alloy of the rankest brass.

For, play the extortioner as he might, Fleece folk each day and all day long, There was this redeeming circumstance: He never lay down to sleep at night But he put up a prayer first, brief yet strong, "Our Lady avert mischance!"

Now it happened at close of a fructuous week "I must ask," quoth he, "some Saint to dine: I want that widow well out of my ears With her ailing and wailing. Who bade her seek Redress at my hands? 'She was wronged!' Folk whine If to Law wrong right appears.

"Matteo da Bascio--he 's my man! No less than Chief of the Capucins: His presence will surely suffumigate My house--fools think lies under a ban If somebody loses what somebody wins. Hark, there he knocks at the grate!

"Come in, thou blessed of Mother Church! I go and prepare--to bid, that is, My trusty and diligent servitor Get all things in readiness. Vain the search Through Venice for one to compare with this My model of ministrants: for--

"For--once again, nay, three times over, My helpmate 's an ape! so intelligent, I train him to drudge at household work: He toils and he moils, I live in clover: Oh, you shall see! There 's a goodly scent-- From his cooking, or I 'm a Turk!

"Scarce need to descend and supervise: I 'll do it, however: wait here awhile!" So, down to the kitchen gayly scuttles Our host, nor notes the alarmed surmise Of the holy man. "O depth of guile! He blindly guzzles and guttles,

"While--who is it dresses the food and pours The liquor? Some fiend--I make no doubt-- In likeness of--which of the loathly brutes? An ape! Where hides he? No bull that gores, No bear that hugs--'t is the mock and flout Of an ape, fiend's face that suits.

"So--out with thee, creature, wherever thou hidest! I charge thee, by virtue of ... right do I judge! There skulks he perdue, crouching under the bed. Well done! What, forsooth, in beast's shape thou confidest? I know and would name thee but that I begrudge Breath spent on such carrion. Instead--

"I adjure thee by----" "Stay!" laughed the portent that rose From floor up to ceiling: "No need to adjure! See Satan in person, late ape by command Of Him thou adjurest in vain. A saint's nose Scents brimstone though incense be burned for a lure. Yet, hence! for I 'm safe, understand!

"'T is my charge to convey to fit punishment's place This lawyer, my liegeman, for cruelty wrought On his clients, the widow and orphan, poor souls He has plagued by exactions which proved law's disgrace, Made equity void and to nothingness brought God's pity. Fiends, on with fresh coals!"

"Stay!" nowise confounded, withstands Hell its match: "How comes it, were truth in this story of thine, God's punishment suffered a minute's delay? Weeks, months have elapsed since thou squattedst at watch For a spring on thy victim: what caused thee decline Advantage till challenged to-day?"

"That challenge I meet with contempt," quoth the fiend. "Thus much I acknowledge: the man 's armed in mail: I wait till a joint 's loose, then quick ply my claws. Thy friend's one good custom--he knows not--has screened His flesh hitherto from what else would assail: At 'Save me, Madonna!' I pause.

"That prayer did the losel but once pretermit, My pounce were upon him. I keep me attent: He 's in safety but till he 's caught napping. Enough!" "Ay, enough!" smiles the Saint--"for the biter is bit, The spy caught in somnolence. Vanish! I'm sent To smooth up what fiends do in rough."

"I vanish? Through wall or through roof?" the ripost Grinned gayly. "My orders were--'Leave not unharmed The abode of this lawyer! Do damage to prove 'T was for something thou quittedst the land of the lost-- To add to their number this unit!' Though charmed From descent there, on earth that 's above

"I may haply amerce him." "So do, and begone, I command thee! For, look! Though there 's doorway behind And window before thee, go straight through the wall, Leave a breach in the brickwork, a gap in the stone For who passes to stare at!" "Spare speech! I 'm resigned: Here goes!" roared the goblin, as all--

Wide bat-wings, spread arms and legs, tail out a-stream, Crash obstacles went, right and left, as he soared Or else sank, was clean gone through the hole anyhow. The Saint returned thanks: then a satisfied gleam On the bald polished pate showed that triumph was scored. "To dinner with appetite now!"

Down he trips. "In good time!" smirks the host. "Didst thou scent Rich savor of roast meat? Where hides he, my ape? Look alive, be alert! He 's away to wash plates. Sit down, Saint! What 's here? Dost examine a rent In the napkin thou twistest and twirlest? Agape ... Ha, blood is it drips nor abates

"From thy wringing a cloth, late was lavendered fair? What means such a marvel?" "Just this does it mean: I convince and convict thee of sin!" answers straight The Saint, wringing on, wringing ever--oh, rare!-- Blood--blood from a napery snow not more clean. "A miracle shows thee thy state!

"See--blood thy extortions have wrung from the flesh Of thy clients who, sheep-like, arrived to be shorn, And left thee--or fleeced to the quick or so flayed That, behold, their blood gurgles and grumbles afresh To accuse thee! Ay, down on thy knees, get up sworn To restore! Restitution once made,

"Sin no more! Dost thou promise? Absolved, then, arise! Upstairs follow me! Art amazed at yon breach? Who battered and shattered and scattered, escape From thy purlieus obtaining? That Father of Lies Thou wast wont to extol for his feats, all and each The Devil 's disguised as thine ape!"

Be sure that our lawyer was torn by remorse, Shed tears in a flood, vowed and swore so to alter His ways that how else could our Saint but declare He was cleansed of past sin? "For sin future--fare worse Thou undoubtedly wilt," warned the Saint, "shouldst thou falter One whit!" "Oh, for that have no care!

"I am firm in my purposed amendment. But, prithee, Must ever affront and affright me yon gap? Who made it for exit may find it of use For entrance as easy. If, down in his smithy He forges me fetters--when heated, mayhap, He 'll up with an armful! Broke loose--

"How bar him out henceforth?" "Judiciously urged!" Was the good man's reply. "How to balk him is plain. There 's nothing the Devil objects to so much, So speedily flies from, as one of those purged Of his presence, the angels who erst formed his train-- His, their emperor. Choose one of such!

"Get fashioned his likeness and set him on high At back of the breach thus adroitly filled up: Display him as guard of two scutcheons, thy arms: I warrant no devil attempts to get by And disturb thee so guarded. Eat, drink, dine, and sup, In thy rectitude, safe from alarms!"

So said and so done. See, the angel has place Where the Devil has passage! All 's down in a book. Gainsay me? Consult it! Still faithless? Trust _me?_ Trust Father Boverio who gave me the case In his Annals--gets of it, by hook or by crook, Two confirmative witnesses: three

Are surely enough to establish an act: And thereby we learn--would we ascertain truth-- To trust wise tradition which took, at the time, Note that served till slow history ventured on fact, Though folk have their fling at tradition forsooth! Row, boys, fore and aft, rhyme and chime!

BEATRICE SIGNORINI

This strange thing happened to a painter once: Viterbo boasts the man among her sons Of note, I seem to think: his ready tool Picked up its precepts in Cortona's school-- That 's Pietro Berretini, whom they call Cortona, these Italians: greatish-small, Our painter was his pupil, by repute His match if not his master absolute, Though whether he spoiled fresco more or less, And what 's its fortune, scarce repays your guess. Still, for one circumstance, I save his name --Francesco Romanelli: do the same! He went to Rome and painted: there he knew A wonder of a woman painting too-- For she, at least, was no Cortona's drudge: Witness that ardent fancy-shape--I judge A semblance of her soul--she called, "Desire" With starry front for guide, where sits the fire She left to brighten Buonarroti's house. If you see Florence, pay that piece your vows, Though blockhead Baldinucci's mind, imbued With monkish morals, bade folk "Drape the nude And stop the scandal!" quoth the record prim I borrow this of: hang his book and him! At Rome, then, where these fated ones met first, The blossom of his life had hardly burst While hers was blooming at full beauty's stand: No less Francesco--when half-ripe he scanned Consummate Artemisia--grew one want To have her his and make her ministrant With every gift of body and of soul To him. In vain. Her sphery self was whole-- Might only touch his orb at Art's sole point. Suppose he could persuade her to enjoint Her life--past, present, future--all in his At Art's sole point by some explosive kiss Of love through lips, would love's success defeat Artistry's haunting curse--the Incomplete? Artists no doubt they both were,--what beside Was she? who long had felt heart, soul spread wide Her life out, knowing much and loving well, On either side Art's narrow space where fell Reflection from his own speck: but the germ Of individual genius--what we term The very self, the God-gift whence had grown Heart's life and soul's life--how make that his own? Vainly his Art, reflected, smiled in small On Art's one facet of her ampler ball; The rest, touch-free, took in, gave back heaven, earth, All where he was not. Hope, well-nigh ere birth Came to Desire, died off all-unfulfilled. "What though in Art I stand the abler-skilled," (So he conceited: mediocrity Turns on itself the self-transforming eye) "If only Art were suing, mine would plead To purpose: man--by nature I exceed Woman the bounded: but how much beside She boasts, would sue in turn and be denied! Love her? My own wife loves me in a sort That suits us both: she takes the world's report Of what my work is worth, and, for the rest, Concedes that, while his consort keeps her nest, The eagle soars a licensed vagrant, lives A wide free life which she at least forgives-- Good Beatricé Signorini! Well And wisely did I choose her. But the spell To subjugate this Artemisia--where? She passionless?--she resolute to care Nowise beyond the plain sufficiency Of fact that she is she and I am I --Acknowledged arbitrator for us both In her life as in mine which she were loth Even to learn the laws of? No, and no, Twenty times over! Ay, it must be so: I for myself, alas!" Whereon, instead Of the checked lover's-utterance--why, he said --Leaning over her easel: "Flesh is red" (Or some such just remark)--"by no means white As Guido's practice teaches: you ate right." Then came the better impulse: "What if pride Were wisely trampled on, whate'er betide? If I grow hers, not mine--join lives, confuse Bodies and spirits, gain her not but lose Myself to Artemisia? That were love! Of two souls--one must bend, one rule above: If I crouch under proudly, lord turned slave, Were it not worthier both than if she gave Herself--in treason to herself--to me?"

And, all the while, he felt it could not be. Such love was true love: love that way who can! Some one that 's born half woman, not whole man: For man, prescribed man better or man worse, Why, whether microcosm or universe, What law prevails alike through great and small, The world and man--world's miniature we call? Male is the master. "That way" smiled and sighed Our true male estimator--"puts her pride My wife in making me the outlet whence She learns all Heaven allows: 't is my pretence To paint: her lord should do what else but paint? Do I break brushes, cloister me turned saint? Then, best of all suits sanctity her spouse Who acts for Heaven, allows and disallows At pleasure, past appeal, the right, the wrong In all things. That 's my wife's way. But this strong Confident Artemisia--an adept In Art does she conceit herself? 'Except In just this instance,' tell her, 'no one draws More rigidly observant of the laws Of right design: yet here,--permit me hint.-- If the acromion had a deeper dint, That shoulder were perfection.' What surprise --Nay scorn, shoots black fire from those startled eyes! She to be lessoned in design forsooth! I 'm doomed and done for, since I spoke the truth. Make my own work the subject of dispute-- Fails it of just perfection absolute Somewhere? Those motors, flexors,--don't I know Ser Santi, styled 'Tirititototo The pencil-prig,' might blame them? Yet my wife-- Were he and his nicknamer brought to life, Tito and Titian, to pronounce again-- Ask her who knows more--I or the great Twain, Our colorist and draughtsman! "I help her, Not she helps me; and neither shall demur Because my portion is"--he chose to think-- "Quite other than a woman's: I may drink At many waters, must repose by none-- Rather arise and fare forth, having done Duty to one new excellence the more, Abler thereby, though impotent before So much was gained of knowledge. Best depart, From this last lady I have learned by heart!"

Thus he concluded of himself--resigned To play the man and master: "Man boasts mind: Woman, man's sport calls mistress, to the same Does body's suit and service. Would she claim --My placid Beatricé-wife--pretence Even to blame her lord if, going hence, He wistfully regards one whom--did fate Concede--he might accept queen, abdicate Kingship because of?--one of no meek sort But masterful as he: man's match in short? Oh, there 's no secret I were best conceal! Bicé shall know; and should a stray tear steal From out the blue eye, stain the rose cheek--bah! A smile, a word's gay reassurance--ah, With kissing interspersed,--shall make amends, Turn pain to pleasure." "What, in truth so ends Abruptly, do you say, our intercourse?" Next day, asked Artemisia: "I 'll divorce Husband and wife no longer. Go your ways, Leave Rome! Viterbo owns no equal, says The by-word, for fair women: you, no doubt, May boast a paragon all specks without, Using the painter's privilege to choose Among what 's rarest. Will your wife refuse Acceptance from--no rival--of a gift? You paint the human figure I make shift Humbly to reproduce: but, in my hours Of idlesse, what I fain would paint is--flowers. Look now!" She twitched aside a veiling cloth. "Here is my keepsake--frame and picture both: For see, the frame is all of flowers festooned About an empty space,--left thus, to wound No natural susceptibility: How can I guess? 'T is you must fill, not I, The central space with--her whom you like best! That is your business, mine has been the rest. But judge!" How judge them? Each of us, in flowers, Chooses his love, allies it with past hours, Old meetings, vanished forms and faces: no-- Here let each favorite unmolested blow For one heart's homage, no tongue's banal praise, Whether the rose appealingly bade "Gaze Your fill on me, sultana who dethrone The gaudy tulip!" or 't was "Me alone Rather do homage to, who lily am, No unabashed rose!" "Do I vainly cram My cup with sweets, your jonquil?" "Why forget Vernal endearments with the violet?" So they contested yet concerted, all As one, to circle round about, enthral Yet, self-forgetting, push to prominence The midmost wonder, gained no matter whence.

There 's a tale extant, in a