book I

opened keeps a folded leaf, The very chair I sat on, breaks the rank; That is a portrait of me on the wall-- Three lines, my face comes at so slight a call: And for all this, one little hour to thank!

But now, because the hour through years was fixed, Because our inmost beings met and mixed, Because thou once hast loved me--wilt thou dare Say to thy soul and Who may list beside, "Therefore she is immortally my bride; Chance cannot change my love, nor time impair.

"So, what if in the dusk of life that's left, I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft, Look from my path when, mimicking the same, The fire-fly glimpses past me, come and gone? --Where was it till the sunset? Where anon It will be at the sunrise! What's to blame?"

Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou take The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's sake, Put gently by such efforts at a beam? Is the remainder of the way so long, Thou need'st the little solace, thou the strong? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream!

Ah, but the fresher faces! "Is it true," Thou 'lt ask, "some eyes are beautiful and new? Some hair,--how can one choose but grasp such wealth? And if a man would press his lips to lips Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup there slips The dewdrop out of, must it be by stealth?

"It cannot change the love still kept for Her, More than if such a picture I prefer Passing a day with, to a room's bare side: The painted form takes nothing she possessed, Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, A man looks. Once more, what is there to chide?"

So must I see, from where I sit and watch, My own self sell myself, my hand attach Its warrant to the very thefts from me-- Thy singleness of soul that made me proud, Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God see!

Love so, then, if thou wilt! Give all thou canst Away to the new faces--disentranced, (Say it and think it) obdurate no more: Re-issue looks and words from the old mint, Pass them afresh, no matter whose the print Image and superscription once they bore!

Re-coin thyself and give it them to spend,-- It all comes to the same thing at the end, Since mine thou wast, mine art and mine shalt be, Faithful or faithless, sealing up the sum Or lavish of my treasure, thou must come Back to the heart's place here I keep for thee!

Only, why should it be with stain at all? Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of coronal, Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow? Why need the other women know so much, And talk together, "Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, then as now!"

Might I die last and show thee! Should I find Such hardship in the few years left behind, If free to take and light my lamp, and go Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit, Seeing thy face on those four sides of it The better that they are so blank, I know!

Why, time was what I wanted, to turn o'er Within my mind each look, get more and more By heart each word, too much to learn at first: And join thee all the fitter for the pause 'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That were cause For lingering, though thou calledst, if I durst!

And yet thou art the nobler of us two: What dare I dream of, that thou canst not do, Outstripping my ten small steps with one stride? I'll say then, here's a trial and a task-- Is it to bear?--if easy, I'll not ask: Though love fail, I can trust on in thy pride.

Pride?--when those eyes forestall the life behind The death I have to go through!--when I find, Now that I want thy help most, all of thee! What did I fear? Thy love shall hold me fast Until the little minute's sleep is past And I wake saved.--And yet it will not be!

TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA

I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May?

For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalized me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path) for rhymes To catch at and let go.

Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, Some old tomb's ruin: yonder weed Took up the floating weft,

Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,--blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast!

The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air-- Rome's ghost since her decease.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers!

How say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above! How is it under our control To love or not to love?

I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be?

I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs,--your part my part In life, for good and ill.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close. Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth,--I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak-- Then the good minute goes.

Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star?

Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern-- Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

MISCONCEPTIONS

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

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

A SERENADE AT THE VILLA

That was I, you heard last night, When there rose no moon at all, Nor, to pierce the strained and tight Tent of heaven, a planet small: Life was dead and so was light.

Not a twinkle from the fly, Not a glimmer from the worm; When the crickets stopped their cry, When the owls forebore a term, You heard music; that was I.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain, Sultrily suspired for proof: In at heaven and out again, Lightning!--where it broke the roof, Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

What they could my words expressed. O my love, my all, my one! Singing helped the verses best. And when singing's best was done, To my lute I left the rest.

So wore night; the East was gray, White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers; There would be another day; Ere its first of heavy hours Found me, I had passed away.

What became of all the hopes, Words and song and lute as well? Say, this struck you--"When life gropes Feebly for the path where fell Light last on the evening slopes,

"One friend in that path shall be, To secure my step from wrong; One to count night day for me, Patient through the watches long, Serving most with none to see."

Never say--as something bodes-- "So, the worst has yet a worse! When life halts 'neath double loads, Better the task-master's curse Than such music on the roads!

"When no moon succeeds the sun, Nor can pierce the midnight's tent Any star, the smallest one, While some drops, where lightning rent, Show the final storm begun--

"When the fire-fly hides its spot, When the garden-voices fail In the darkness thick and hot,-- Shall another voice avail. That shape be where these are not?

"Has some plague a longer lease, Proffering its help uncouth? Can't one even die in peace? As one shuts one's eyes on youth, Is that face the last one sees?"

Oh, how dark your villa was, Windows fast and obdurate! How the garden grudged me grass Where I stood--the iron gate Ground its teeth to let me pass!

ONE WAY OF LOVE

All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves And strew them where Pauline may pass. She will not turn aside? Alas! Let them lie. Suppose they die? The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suit These stubborn fingers to the lute! To-day I venture all I know. She will not hear my music? So! Break the string; fold music's wing: Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

My whole life long I learned to love. This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my passion--heaven or hell? She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! Lose who may--I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE

June was not over Though past the full, And the best of her roses Had yet to blow, When a man I know (But shall not discover, Since ears are dull, And time discloses) Turned him and said with a man's true air, Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't were,-- "If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"

Well, dear, in-doors with you! True! serene deadness Tries a man's temper. What's in the blossom June wears on her bosom? Can it clear scores with you? Sweetness and redness, _Eadem semper!_ Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly! If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly By plucking the roses,--my June will do rightly.

And after, for pastime, If June be refulgent With flowers in completeness, All petals, no prickles, Delicious as trickles Of wine poured at mass-time,-- And choose One indulgent To redness and sweetness: Or if, with experience of man and of spider, June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder, And stop the fresh film-work,--why, June will consider.

A PRETTY WOMAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RESPECTABILITY

Dear, had the world in its caprice Deigned to proclaim "I know you both, Have recognized your plighted troth, Am sponsor for you: live in peace!"-- How many precious months and years Of youth had passed, that speed so fast, Before we found it out at last, The world, and what it fears!

How much of priceless life were spent With men that every virtue decks, And women models of their sex, Society's true ornament,-- Ere we dared wander, nights like this, Through wind and rain, and watch the Seine, And feel the Boulevard break again To warmth and light and bliss!

I know! the world proscribes not love; Allows my finger to caress Your lips' contour and downiness, Provided it supply a glove. The world's good word!--the Institute! Guizot receives Montalembert! Eh? Down the court three lampions flare: Put forward your best foot!

LOVE IN A LIFE

Room after room, I hunt the house through We inhabit together. Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her-- Next time, herself!--not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume! As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew: Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears, And door succeeds door; I try the fresh fortune-- Range the wide house from the wing to the centre. Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter. Spend my whole day in the quest,--who cares? But 't is twilight, you see,--with such suites to explore, Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

LIFE IN A LOVE

Escape me? Never-- Beloved! While I am I, and you are you, So long as the world contains us both, Me the loving and you the loth, While the one eludes, must the other pursue. My life is a fault at last, I fear: It seems too much like a fate, indeed! Though I do my best I shall scarce succeed. But what if I fail of my purpose here? It is but to keep the nerves at strain, To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall, And baffled, get up and begin again,-- So the chase takes up one's life, that's all. While, look but once from your farthest bound At me so deep in the dust and dark, No sooner the old hope goes to ground Than a new one, straight to the selfsame mark, I shape me-- Ever Removed!

IN THREE DAYS

So, I shall see her in three days And just one night, but nights are short, Then two long hours, and that is morn. See how I come, unchanged, unworn! Feel, where my life broke off from thine, How fresh the splinters keep and fine,-- Only a touch and we combine!

Too long, this time of year, the days! But nights, at least the nights are short. As night shows where her one moon is, A hand's-breadth of pure light and bliss, So life's night gives my lady birth And my eyes hold her! What is worth The rest of heaven, the rest of earth?

O loaded curls, release your store Of warmth and scent, as once before The tingling hair did, lights and darks Outbreaking into fairy sparks, When under curl and curl I pried After the warmth and scent inside, Through lights and darks how manifold-- The dark inspired, the light controlled! As early Art embrowns the gold.

What great fear, should one say, "Three days That change the world might change as well Your fortune; and if joy delays, Be happy that no worse befell!" What small fear, if another says, "Three days and one short night beside May throw no shadow on your ways; But years must teem with change untried, With chance not easily defied, With an end somewhere undescried." No fear!--or if a fear be born This minute, it dies out in scorn. Fear? I shall see her in three days And one night, now the nights are short, Then just two hours, and that is morn.

IN A YEAR

Never any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive: Bitterly we re-embrace, Single still.

Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? Was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange! that very way Love begun: I as little understand Love's decay.

When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sung, --Sweetly too. If I spoke a word, First of all Up his cheek the color sprung, Then he heard.

Sitting by my side, At my feet, So he breathed but air I breathed, Satisfied! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet: I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him.

"Speak, I love thee best!" He exclaimed: "Let thy love my own foretell!" I confessed: "Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine!"

Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth: Since my lover gave me love, I gave these.

That was all I meant, --To be just, And the passion I had raised, To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust, If I gave him what he praised Was it strange?

Would he loved me yet, On and on, While I found some way undreamed --Paid my debt! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone, He should smile "She never seemed Mine before.

"What, she felt the while, Must I think? Love's so different with us men!" He should smile: "Dying for my sake-- White and pink! Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break?"

Dear, the pang is brief, Do thy part, Have thy pleasure! How perplexed Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man's heart: Crumble it, and what comes next? Is it God?

WOMEN AND ROSES

Written on the suggestion of some roses sent Mrs. Browning. At the time of writing, Browning was carrying out a resolve to write a poem a day, a resolve which lasted a fortnight.

I

I dream of a red-rose tree. And which of its roses three Is the dearest rose to me?

II

Round and round, like a dance of snow In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go Floating the women faded for ages, Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages. Then follow women fresh and gay, Living and loving and loved to-day, Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, They circle their rose on my rose tree.

III

Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached: Bees pass it unimpeached.

IV

Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time! How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, Break my heart at your feet to please you? Oh, to possess and be possessed! Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast! Once but of love, the poesy, the passion, Drink but once and die!--In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose tree.

V

Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed, Thy cup is ruby-rimmed, Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.

VI

Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth The bee sucked in by the hyacinth, So will I bury me while burning, Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips! Fold me fast where the cincture slips, Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, Girdle me for once! But no--the old measure, They circle their rose on my rose tree.

VII

Dear rose without a thorn, Thy bud 's the babe unborn: First streak of a new morn.

VIII

Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders, What shall arrive with the cycle's change? A novel grace and a beauty strange. I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind!--Alas! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree.

BEFORE

Let them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far. God must judge the couple: leave them as they are --Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory, And whichever one the guilt 's with, to my story!

Why, you would not bid men, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now, Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment, Heaven with snaky hell, in torture and entoilment?

Who's the culprit of them? How must he conceive God--the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve, "'T is but decent to profess one's self beneath her: Still, one must not be too much in earnest, either!"

Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes; Then go live his life out! Life will try his nerves, When the sky, which noticed all, makes no disclosure, And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.

Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose, Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes! For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden, With the sly mute thing, beside there, for a warden.

What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant at his side, A leer and lie in every eye of its obsequious hide? When will come an end to all the mock obeisance, And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?

So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man? Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can! He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven, Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven!

All or nothing, stake it! Trusts he God or no? Thus far and no farther? farther? be it so! Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses, Sage provisos, sub-intents and saving-clauses!

Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives, Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why, he forgives. But you must not end my friend ere you begin him; Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.

Once more--Will the wronger, at this last of all, Dare to say, "I did wrong," rising in his fall? No?--Let go, then! Both the fighters to their places! While I count three, step you back as many paces!

AFTER

Take the cloak from his face, and at first Let the corpse do its worst!

How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change.

Ha, what avails death to erase His offence, my disgrace? I would we were boys as of old In the field, by the fold: His outrage, God's patience, man's scorn Were so easily borne!

I stand here now, he lies in his place: Cover the face!

THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL

A PICTURE AT FANO

Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending, Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, --And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb--and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door.

I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread?

If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it! All is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared?

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend!)--that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently,--with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach.

We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content --My angel with me too: and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)--

And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong-- I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

MEMORABILIA

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

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

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

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

POPULARITY

As the previous poem was an appreciation of Shelley, so this, of Keats.

Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!

My star, God's glow-worm! Why extend That loving hand of his which leads you, Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless he needs you, Just saves your light to spend?

His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty: My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past.

That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising; "Others give best at first, but thou Forever set'st our table praising, Keep'st the good wine till now!"

Meantime, I'll draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder: I'll say--a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land.

Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And colored like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells?

And each bystander of them all Could criticise, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall --To get which, pricked a king's ambition; Worth sceptre, crown and ball.

Yet there's the dye, in that rough mesh, The sea has only just o'er-whispered! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh.

Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone.

Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the bluebell's womb What time, with ardors manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom, Drunken and overbold.

Mere conchs! not fit for warp or woof! Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify,--refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof.

And there's the extract, flasked and fine, And priced and salable at last! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the future from the past, Put blue into their line.

Hobbs hints blue,--straight he turtle eats: Nobbs prints blue,--claret crowns his cup: Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats,-- Both gorge. Who fished the murex up? What porridge had John Keats?

MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA

Whomever Browning may have had in mind, there was no historical figure with this name and place.

Hist, but a word, fair and soft! Forth and be judged, Master Hugues! Answer the question I've put you so oft: What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we're alone in the loft,--

I, the poor organist here, Hugues, the composer of note, Dead though, and done with, this many a year: Let's have a colloquy, something to quote, Make the world prick up its ear!

See, the church empties apace: Fast they extinguish the lights. Hallo there, sacristan! Five minutes' grace! Here's a crank pedal wants setting to rights, Balks one of holding the base.

See, our huge house of the sounds, Hushing its hundreds at once Bids the last loiterer back to his bounds! --O you may challenge them, not a response Get the church-saints on their rounds!

(Saints go their rounds, who shall doubt? --March, with the moon to admire, Up nave, down chancel, turn transept about, Supervise all betwixt pavement and spire, Put rats and mice to the rout--

Aloys and Jurien and Just-- Order things back to their place, Have a sharp eye lest the candlesticks rust, Rub the church-plate, darn the sacrament-lace, Clear the desk-velvet of dust.)

Here's your book, younger folks shelve! Played I not off-hand and runningly, Just now, your masterpiece, hard number twelve? Here's what should strike, could one handle it cunningly: Help the axe, give it a helve!

Page after page as I played, Every bar's rest where one wipes Sweat from one's brow, I looked up and surveyed, O'er my three claviers, yon forest of pipes Whence you still peeped in the shade.

Sure you were wishful to speak? You, with brow ruled like a score, Yes, and eyes buried in pits on each cheek, Like two great breves, as they wrote them of yore, Each side that bar, your straight beak!

Sure you said--"Good, the mere notes! Still, couldst thou take my intent, Know what procured me our Company's votes-- A master were lauded and sciolists shent, Parted the sheep from the goats!"

Well then, speak up, never flinch! Quick, ere my candle's a snuff --Burnt, do you see? to its uttermost inch-- _I_ believe in you, but that's not enough: Give my conviction a clinch!

First you deliver your phrase --Nothing propound, that I see, Fit in itself for much blame or much praise-- Answered no less, where no answer needs be; Off start the Two on their ways.

Straight must a Third interpose, Volunteer needlessly help; In strikes a Fourth, a Fifth thrusts in his nose. So the cry's open, the kennel's a-yelp, Argument's hot to the close.

One dissertates, he is candid; Two must discept,--has distinguished; Three helps the couple, if ever yet man did; Four protests; Five makes a dart at the thing wished: Back to One, goes the case bandied.

One says his say with a difference; More of expounding, explaining! All now is wrangle, abuse and vociferance; Now there's a truce, all's subdued, self-restraining: Five, though, stands out all the stiffer hence.

One is incisive, corrosive; Two retorts, nettled, curt, crepitant; Three makes rejoinder, expansive, explosive; Four overbears them all, strident and strepitant: Five ... O Danaides, O Sieve!

Now, they ply axes and crowbars; Now, they prick pins at a tissue Fine as a skein of the casuist Escobar's Worked on the bone of a lie. To what issue? Where is our gain at the Two-bars?

_Est fuga, volvitur rota._ On we drift: where looms the dim port? One, Two, Three, Four, Five, contribute their quota; Something is gained, if one caught but the import-- Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha!

What with affirming, denying, Holding, risposting, subjoining, All's like ... it's like ... for an instance I 'm trying ... There! See our roof, its gilt moulding and groining Under those spider-webs lying!

So your fugue broadens and thickens, Greatens and deepens and lengthens, Till we exclaim--"But where's music, the dickens? Blot ye the gold, while your spider-web strengthens --Blacked to the stoutest of tickens?"

I for man's effort am zealous: Prove me such censure unfounded! Seems it surprising a lover grows jealous-- Hopes 'twas for something, his organ-pipes sounded, Tiring three boys at the bellows?

Is it your moral of Life? Such a web, simple and subtle, Weave we on earth here in impotent strife, Backward and forward each throwing his shuttle, Death ending all with a knife?

Over our heads truth and nature-- Still our life's zigzags and dodges, Ins and outs, weaving a new legislature-- God's gold just shining its last where that lodges, Palled beneath man's usurpature.

So we o'ershroud stars and roses, Cherub and trophy and garland; Nothings grow something which quietly closes Heaven's earnest eye: not a glimpse of the far land Gets through our comments and glozes.

Ah, but traditions, inventions, (Say we and make up a visage) So many men with such various intentions, Down the past ages, must know more than this age! Leave we the web its dimensions!

Who thinks Hugues wrote for the deaf, Proved a mere mountain in labor? Better submit; try again; what's the clef? 'Faith, 'tis no trifle for pipe and for tabor-- Four flats, the minor in F.

Friend, your fugue taxes the finger: Learning it once, who would lose it? Yet all the while a misgiving will linger, Truth's golden o'er us although we refuse it-- Nature, through cobwebs we string her.

Hugues! I advise _meâ pœnâ_ (Counterpoint glares like a Gorgon) Bid One, Two, Three, Four, Five, clear the arena! Say the word, straight I unstop the full organ, Blare out the _mode Palestrina_.

While in the roof, if I'm right there, ... Lo you, the wick in the socket! Hallo, you sacristan, show us a light there! Down it dips, gone like a rocket. What, you want, do you, to come unawares, Sweeping the church up for first morning-prayers, And find a poor devil has ended his cares At the foot of your rotten-runged rat-riddled stairs? Do I carry the moon in my pocket?

THE RETURN OF THE DRUSES

A TRAGEDY

Originally published as No. IV. of _Bells and Pomegranates_ in 1843. The manuscript was first named _Mansoor the Hierophant_.

PERSONS

The Grand-Master's Prefect. The Patriarch's Nuncio. The Republic's Admiral. LOYS DE DREUX, _Knight-Novice_. Initiated Druses--DJABAL, KHALIL, ANAEL, MAANI, KARSHOOK, RAGHIB, AYOOB, and others. Uninitiated Druses, Prefect's Guard, Nuncio's Attendants, Admiral's Force.

TIME, 14--.

_PLACE, An Islet of the Southern Sporades, colonised by Druses of Lebanon, and garrisoned by the Knights-Hospitallers of Rhodes._

SCENE, _A Hall in the Prefect's Palace_.

## ACT I

_Enter stealthily_ KARSHOOK, RAGHIB, AYOOB, _and other initiated_ Druses, _each as he enters casting off a robe that conceals his distinctive black vest and white turban; then, as giving a loose to exultation,--_

_Karshook._ The moon is carried off in purple fire: Day breaks at last! Break glory, with the day, On Djabal's dread incarnate mystery Now ready to resume its pristine shape Of Hakeem, as the Khalif vanished erst In what seemed death to uninstructed eyes, On red Mokattam's verge--our Founder's flesh, As he resumes our Founder's function!

_Raghib._ --Death Sweep to the Christian Prefect that enslaved So long us sad Druse exiles o'er the sea!

_Ayoob._--Most joy be thine, O Mother-mount! Thy brood Returns to thee, no outcasts as we left, But thus--but thus! Behind, our Prefect's corse; Before, a presence like the morning--thine, Absolute Djabal late,--God Hakeem now That day breaks!

_Kar._ Off then, with disguise at last! As from our forms this hateful garb we strip, Lose every tongue its glozing accent too, Discard each limb the ignoble gesture! Cry, 'Tis the Druse Nation, warders on our Mount Of the world's secret, since the birth of time, --No kindred slips, no offsets from thy stock, No spawn of Christians are we, Prefect, we Who rise ...

_Ay._ Who shout ...

_Ragh._ Who seize, a first-fruits, ha-- Spoil of the spoiler! Brave!

[_They begin to tear down, and to dispute for, the decorations of the hall._

_Kar._ Hold!

_Ay._ --Mine, I say; And mine shall it continue!

_Kar._ Just this fringe! Take anything beside! Lo, spire on spire, Curl serpentwise wreathed columns to the top O' the roof, and hide themselves mysteriously Among the twinkling lights and darks that haunt Yon cornice! Where the huge veil, they suspend Before the Prefect's chamber of delight, Floats wide, then falls again as if its slave, The scented air, took heart now, and anon Lost heart to buoy its breadths of gorgeousness Above the gloom they droop in--all the porch Is jewelled o'er with frostwork charactery; And, see, yon eight-point cross of white flame, winking Hoar-silvery like some fresh-broke marble stone: Raze out the Rhodian cross there, so thou leav'st me This single fringe!

_Ay._ Ha, wouldst thou, dog-fox? Help! --Three hand-breadths of gold fringe, my son was set To twist, the night he died!

_Kar._ Nay, hear the knave! And I could witness my one daughter borne, A week since, to the Prefect's couch, yet fold These arms, be mute, lest word of mine should mar Our Master's work, delay the Prefect here A day, prevent his sailing hence for Rhodes-- How know I else?--Hear me denied my right By such a knave!

_Ragh._ [_Interposing._] Each ravage for himself! Booty enough! On, Druses! Be there found Blood and a heap behind us; with us, Djabal Turned Hakeem; and before us, Lebanon! Yields the porch? Spare not! There his minions dragged Thy daughter, Karshook, to the Prefect's couch! Ayoob! Thy son, to soothe the Prefect's pride, Bent o'er that task, the death-sweat on his brow, Carving the spice-tree's heart in scroll-work there! Onward in Djabal's name!

(_As the tumult is at height, enter_ KHALIL. _A pause and silence._)

_Khalil._ Was it for this, Djabal hath summoned you? Deserve you thus A portion in to-day's event? What, here-- When most behoves your feet fall soft, your eyes Sink low, your tongues lie still,--at Djabal's side, Close in his very hearing, who, perchance, Assumes e'en now God Hakeem's dreaded shape,-- Dispute you for these gauds?

_Ay._ How say'st thou, Khalil? Doubtless our Master prompts thee! Take the fringe, Old Karshook! I supposed it was a day ...

_Kha._ For pillage?

_Kar._ Hearken, Khalil! Never spoke A boy so like a song-bird; we avouch thee Prettiest of all our Master's instruments Except thy bright twin-sister; thou and Anael Challenge his prime regard: but we may crave (Such nothings as we be) a portion too Of Djabal's favor; in him we believed, His bound ourselves, him moon by moon obeyed, Kept silence till this daybreak--so, may claim Reward: who grudges me my claim?

_Ay._ To-day Is not as yesterday!

_Ragh._ Stand off!

_Kha._ Rebel you? Must I, the delegate of Djabal, draw His wrath on you, the day of our Return?

_Other Druses._ Wrench from their grasp the fringe! Hounds! must the earth Vomit her plagues on us through thee?--and thee? Plague me not, Khalil, for their fault!

_Kha._ Oh, shame! Thus breaks to-day on you, the mystic tribe Who, flying the approach of Osman, bore Our faith, a merest spark, from Syria's ridge, Its birthplace, hither! "Let the sea divide These hunters from their prey," you said; "and safe In this dim islet's virgin solitude Tend we our faith, the spark, till happier time Fan it to fire; till Hakeem rise again, According to his word that, in the flesh Which faded on Mokattam ages since, He, at our extreme need, would interpose, And, reinstating all in power and bliss, Lead us himself to Lebanon once more." Was't not thus you departed years ago, Ere I was born?

_Druses._ 'T was even thus, years ago.

_Kha._ And did you call--(according to old laws Which bid us, lest the sacred grow profane, Assimilate ourselves in outward rites With strangers fortune makes our lords, and live As Christian with the Christian, Jew with Jew Druse only with the Druses)--did you call Or no, to stand 'twixt you and Osman's rage, (Mad to pursue e'en hither through the sea The remnant of our tribe,) a race self vowed To endless warfare with his hordes and him, The White-cross Knights of the adjacent Isle?

_Kar._ And why else rend we down, wrench up, rase out? These Knights of Rhodes we thus solicited For help, bestowed on us a fiercer pest Than aught we fled--their Prefect; who began His promised mere paternal governance, By a prompt massacre of all our Sheikhs Able to thwart the Order in its scheme Of crushing, with our nation's memory, Each chance of our return, and taming us Bondslaves to Rhodes forever--all, he thinks To end by this day's treason.

_Kha._ Say I not? You, fitted to the Order's purposes, Your Sheikhs cut off, your rights, your garb proscribed, Must yet receive one degradation more; The Knights at last throw off the mask--transfer, As tributary now and appanage, This islet they are but protectors of, To their own ever-craving liege, the Church, Who licenses all crimes that pay her thus. You, from their Prefect, were to be consigned (Pursuant of I know not what vile pact) To the Knights' Patriarch, ardent to outvie His predecessor in all wickedness. When suddenly rose Djabal in the midst, Djabal, the man in semblance, but our God Confessed by signs and portents. Ye saw fire Bicker round Djabal, heard strange music flit Bird-like about his brow?

_Druses._ We saw--we heard! Djabal is Hakeem, the incarnate Dread, The phantasm Khalif, King of Prodigies!

_Kha._ And as he said has not our Khalif done, And so disposed events (from land to land Passing invisibly) that when, this morn, The pact of villany complete, there comes This Patriarch's Nuncio with this Master's Prefect Their treason to consummate,--each will face For a crouching handful, an uplifted nation; For simulated Christians, confessed Druses; And, for slaves past hope of the Mother-mount, Freedmen returning there 'neath Venice' flag; That Venice which, the Hospitallers' foe, Grants us from Candia escort home at price Of our relinquished isle, Rhodes counts her own-- Venice, whose promised argosies should stand Toward harbor: is it now that you, and you, And you, selected from the rest to bear The burden of the Khalif's secret, further To-day's event, entitled by your wrongs, And witness in the Prefect's hall his fate-- That you dare clutch these gauds? Ay, drop them!

_Kar._ True, Most true, all this; and yet, may one dare hint, Thou art the youngest of us?--though employed Abundantly as Djabal's confidant, Transmitter of his mandates, even now. Much less, whene'er beside him Anael graces The cedar throne, his queen-bride, art thou like To occupy its lowest step that day! Now, Khalil, wert thou checked as thou aspirest, Forbidden such or such an honor,--say, Would silence serve so amply?

_Kha._ Karshook thinks I covet honors? Well, nor idly thinks! Honors? I have demanded of them all The greatest!

_Kar._ I supposed so.

_Kha._ Judge, yourselves! Turn, thus: 'tis in the alcove at the back Of yonder columned porch, whose entrance now The veil hides, that our Prefect holds his state, Receives the Nuncio, when the one, from Rhodes, The other lands from Syria; there they meet. Now, I have sued with earnest prayers ...

_Kar._ For what Shall the Bride's brother vainly sue?

_Kha._ That mine-- Avenging in one blow a myriad wrongs --Might be the hand to slay the Prefect there! Djabal reserves that office for himself. [_A silence._ Thus far, as youngest of you all, I speak --Scarce more enlightened than yourselves; since, near As I approach him, nearer as I trust Soon to approach our Master, he reveals Only the God's power, not the glory yet. Therefore I reasoned with you: now, as servant To Djabal, bearing his authority, Hear me appoint your several posts! Till noon None see him save myself and Anael: once The deed achieved, our Khalif, casting off The embodied Awe's tremendous mystery, The weakness of the flesh disguise, resumes His proper glory, ne'er to fade again.

(_Enter a_ Druse.)

_The Druse._ Our Prefect lands from Rhodes!--without a sign That he suspects aught since he left our Isle; Nor in his train a single guard beyond The few he sailed with hence: so have we learned From Loys.

_Kar._ Loys? Is not Loys gone Forever?

_Ay._ Loys, the Frank Knight, returned?

_The Druse_. Loys, the boy, stood on the leading prow Conspicuous in his gay attire, and leapt Into the surf the foremost. Since day-dawn I kept watch to the Northward; take but note Of my poor vigilance to Djabal!

_Kha._ Peace! Thou, Karshook, with thy company, receive The Prefect as appointed: see, all keep The wonted show of servitude: announce His entry here by the accustomed peal Of trumpets, then await the further pleasure Of Djabal! (Loys back, whom Djabal sent To Rhodes that we might spare the single Knight Worth sparing!)

(_Enter a second_ Druse.)

_The Druse._ I espied it first! Say, I First spied the Nuncio's galley from the South! Said'st thou a Crossed-keys' flag would flap the mast? It nears apace! One galley and no more. If Djabal chance to ask who spied the flag, Forget not, I it was!

_Kha._ Thou, Ayoob, bring The Nuncio and his followers hither! Break One rule prescribed, ye wither in your blood, Die at your fault!

(_Enter a third_ Druse.)

_The Druse._ I shall see home, see home! --Shall banquet in the sombre groves again! Hail to thee, Khalil! Venice looms afar; The argosies of Venice, like a cloud, Bear up from Candia in the distance!

_Kha._ Joy! Summon our people, Raghib! Bid all forth! Tell them the long-kept secret, old and young! Set free the captive, let the trampled raise Their faces from the dust, because at length The cycle is complete, God Hakeem's reign Begins anew! Say, Venice for our guard, Ere night we steer for Syria! Hear you, Druses? Hear you this crowning witness to the claims Of Djabal? Oh, I spoke of hope and fear, Reward and punishment, because he bade Who has the right: for me, what should I say But, mar not those imperial lineaments, No majesty of all that rapt regard Vex by the least omission! Let him rise Without a check from you!

_Druses._ Let Djabal rise!

(_Enter_ LOYS.--_The_ Druses _are silent_.)

_Loys._ Who speaks of Djabal?--for I seek him, friends! [_Aside._] _Tu Dieu!_ 'T is as our Isle broke out in song For joy, its Prefect-incubus drops off To-day, and I succeed him in his rule! But no--they cannot dream of their good fortune! [_Aloud._] Peace to you, Druses! I have tidings for you, But first for Djabal: where 's your tall bewitcher, With that small Arab thin-lipped silver-mouth?

_Kha._ [_Aside to_ KAR.] Loys, in truth! Yet Djabal cannot err!

_Kar._ [_To_ KHA.] And who takes charge of Loys? That 's forgotten, Despite thy wariness! Will Loys stand And see his comrades slaughtered?

_Loys._ [_Aside._] How they shrink And whisper, with those rapid faces! What? The sight of me in their oppressors' garb Strikes terror to the simple tribe? God's shame On those that bring our Order ill repute! But all's at end now; better days begin For these mild mountaineers from over-sea: The timidest shall have in me no Prefect To cower at thus! [_Aloud._] I asked for Djabal--

_Kar._ [_Aside._] Better One lured him, ere he can suspect, inside The corridor; 't were easy to dispatch A youngster. [_To_ LOYS.] Djabal passed some minutes since Through yonder porch, and ...

_Kha._ [_Aside._] Hold! What, him dispatch? The only Christian of them all we charge No tyranny upon? Who,--noblest Knight Of all that learned from time to time their trade Of lust and cruelty among us,--heir To Europe's pomp, a truest child of pride,-- Yet stood between the Prefect and ourselves From the beginning? Loys, Djabal makes Account of, and precisely sent to Rhodes For safety? I take charge of him! [_To_ LOYS.] Sir Loys,--

_Loys._ There, cousins! Does Sir Loys strike you dead?

_Kha._ [_Advancing._] Djabal has intercourse with few or none Till noontide: but, your pleasure?

_Loys._ "Intercourse With few or none?"--(Ah, Khalil, when you spoke I saw not your smooth face! All health!--and health To Anael! How fares Anael?)--"Intercourse With few or none?" Forget you, I've been friendly With Djabal long ere you or any Druse? --Enough of him at Rennes, I think, beneath The Duke my father's roof! He'd tell by the hour, With fixed white eyes beneath his swarthy brow, Plausiblest stories ...

_Kha._ Stories, say you?--Ah, The quaint attire!

_Loys._ My dress for the last time! How sad I cannot make you understand, This ermine, o'er a shield, betokens me Of Bretagne, ancientest of provinces And noblest; and, what's best and oldest there, See, Dreux', our house's blazon, which the Nuncio Tacks to an Hospitaller's vest to-day!

_Kha._ The Nuncio we await? What brings you back From Rhodes, Sir Loys?

_Loys._ How you island-tribe Forget the world's awake while here you drowse! What brings me back? What should not bring me, rather! Our Patriarch's Nuncio visits you to-day-- Is not my year's probation out? I come To take the knightly vows.

_Kha._ What's that you wear?

_Loys._ This Rhodian cross? The cross your Prefect wore. You should have seen, as I saw, the full Chapter Rise, to a man, while they transferred this cross From that unworthy Prefect's neck to ... (fool-- My secret will escape me!) In a word, My year's probation passed, a Knight ere eve Am I; bound, like the rest, to yield my wealth To the common stock, to live in chastity, (We Knights espouse alone our Order's fame) --Change this gay weed for the black white-crossed gown, And fight to death against the Infidel --Not, therefore, against you, you Christians with Such partial difference only as befits The peacefullest of tribes. But Khalil, prithee, Is not the Isle brighter than wont to-day?

_Kha._ Ah, the new sword!

_Loys._ See now! You handle sword As 't were a camel-staff! Pull! That's my motto, Annealed "_Pro fide_," on the blade in blue.

_Kha._ No curve in it? Surely a blade should curve.

_Loys._ Straight from the wrist! Loose--it should poise itself!

_Kha._ [_Waving with irrepressible exultation the sword._] We are a nation, Loys, of old fame Among the mountains! Rights have we to keep With the sword too! [_Remembering himself._] But I forget--you bid me Seek Djabal?

_Loys._ What! A sword's sight scares you not? (The People I will make of him and them! Oh let my Prefect-sway begin at once!) Bring Djabal--say, indeed, that come he must!

_Kha._ At noon seek Djabal in the Prefect's Chamber, And find ... [_Aside._] Nay, 't is thy cursed race's token, Frank pride, no special insolence of thine! [_Aloud._] Tarry, and I will do your bidding, Loys! [_To the rest aside._] Now, forth you! I proceed to Djabal straight. Leave this poor boy, who knows not what he says! Oh will it not add joy to even thy joy, Djabal, that I report all friends were true?

[KHALIL _goes, followed by the_ Druses.

_Loys._ _Tu Dieu!_ How happy I shall make these Druses! Was 't not surpassingly contrived of me To get the long list of their wrongs by heart, Then take the first pretence for stealing off From these poor islanders, present myself Sudden at Rhodes before the noble Chapter, And (as best proof of ardor in its cause Which ere to-night will have become, too, mine) Acquaint it with this plague-sore in its body, This Prefect and his villanous career? The princely Synod! All I dared request Was his dismissal; and they graciously Consigned his very office to myself-- Myself may cure the Isle diseased! And well For them, they did so! Since I never felt How lone a lot, though brilliant, I embrace, Till now that, past retrieval, it is mine. To live thus, and thus die! Yet, as I leapt On shore, so home a feeling greeted me That I could half believe in Djabal's story, He used to tempt my father with, at Rennes-- And me, too, since the story brought me here-- Of some Count Dreux and ancestor of ours Who, sick of wandering from Bouillon's war, Left his old name in Lebanon. Long days At least to spend in the Isle! and, my news known An hour hence, what if Anael turn on me The great black eyes I must forget? Why, fool, Recall them, then? My business is with Djabal, Not Anael! Djabal tarries: if I seek him?-- The Isle is brighter than its wont to-day!

## ACT II

_Enter_ DJABAL.

_Dja._ That a strong man should think himself a God! I--Hakeem? To have wandered through the world, Sown falsehood, and thence reaped now scorn, now faith, For my one chant with many a change, my tale Of outrage, and my prayer for vengeance--this Required, forsooth, no mere man's faculty, Naught less than Hakeem's? The persuading Loys To pass probation here: the getting access By Loys to the Prefect; worst of all, The gaining my tribe's confidence by fraud That would disgrace the very Frank,--a few Of Europe's secrets which subdue the flame, The wave,--to ply a simple tribe with these, Took Hakeem? And I feel this first to-day! Does the day break, is the hour imminent When one deed, when my whole life's deed, my deed Must be accomplished? Hakeem? Why the God? Shout, rather, "Djabal, Youssof's child, thought slain With his whole race, the Druses' Sheikhs, this Prefect Endeavored to extirpate--saved, a child, Returns from traversing the world, a man, Able to take revenge, lead back the march To Lebanon"--so shout, and who gainsays? But now, because delusion mixed itself Insensibly with this career, all 's changed! Have I brought Venice to afford us convoy? "True--but my jugglings wrought that!" Put I heart Into our people where no heart lurked?--"Ah, What cannot an impostor do!" Not this! Not do this which I do! Not bid avaunt Falsehood! Thou shalt not keep thy hold on me! --Nor even get a hold on me! 'T is now-- This day--hour--minute--'t is as here I stand On the accursed threshold of the Prefect, That I am found deceiving and deceived! And now what do I?--hasten to the few Deceived, ere they deceive the many--shout, "As I professed, I did believe myself! Say, Druses, had you seen a butchery-- If Ayoob, Karshook saw----Maani there Must tell you how I saw my father sink; My mother's arms twine still about my neck; I hear my brother shriek, here's yet the scar Of what was meant for my own death-blow--say, If you had woke like me, grown year by year Out of the tumult in a far-off clime, Would it be wondrous such delusion grew? I walked the world, asked help at every hand; Came help or no? Not this and this? Which helps When I returned with, found the Prefect here, The Druses here, all here but Hakeem's self, The Khalif of the thousand prophecies, Reserved for such a juncture,--could I call My mission aught but Hakeem's? Promised Hakeem More than performs the Djabal--you absolve? --Me, you will never shame before the crowd Yet happily ignorant?--Me, both throngs surround, The few deceived, the many unabused, --Who, thus surrounded, slay for you and them The Prefect, lead to Lebanon? No Khalif, But Sheikh once more! Mere Djabal--not" ...

(_Enter_ KHALIL _hastily_.)

_Kha._ --God Hakeem! 'T is told! The whole Druse nation knows thee, Hakeem, As we! and mothers lift on high their babes Who seem aware, so glisten their great eyes, Thou hast not failed us; ancient brows are proud; Our elders could not earlier die, it seems, Than at thy coming! The Druse heart is thine! Take it! my lord and theirs, be thou adored!

_Dja._ [_Aside_.] Adored!--but I renounce it utterly!

_Kha._ Already are they instituting choirs And dances to the Khalif, as of old 'T is chronicled thou bad'st them.

_Dja._ [_Aside._] I abjure it! 'T is not mine--not for me!

_Kha._ Why pour they wine Flavored like honey and bruised mountain-herbs, Or wear those strings of sun-dried cedar-fruit? Oh, let me tell thee--Esaad, we supposed Doting, is carried forth, eager to see The last sun rise on the Isle: he can see now! The shamed Druse women never wept before: They can look up when we reach home, they say. Smell!--sweet cane, saved in Lilith's breast thus long-- Sweet!--it grows wild in Lebanon. And I Alone do nothing for thee! 'T is my office Just to announce what well thou know'st--but thus Thou bidst me. At this self-same moment tend The Prefect, Nuncio and the Admiral Hither by their three sea-paths: nor forget Who were the trusty watchers!--thou forget? Like me, who do forget that Anael bade ...

_Dja._ [_Aside._] Ay, Anael, Anael--is that said at last? Louder than all, that would be said, I knew! What does abjuring mean, confessing mean, To the people? Till that woman crossed my path, On went I, solely for my people's sake: I saw her, and I then first saw myself, And slackened pace: "If I should prove indeed Hakeem--with Anael by!"

_Kha._ [_Aside._] Ah, he is rapt! Dare I at such a moment break on him Even to do my sister's bidding? Yes: The eyes are Djabal's and not Hakeem's yet, Though but till I have spoken this, perchance.

_Dja._ [_Aside._] To yearn to tell her, and yet have no one Great heart's word that will tell her! I could gasp Doubtless one such word out, and die. [_Aloud._] You said That Anael ...

_Kha._ ... Fain would see thee, speak with thee, Before thou change, discard this Djabal's shape She knows, for Hakeem's shape she is to know. Something to say that will not from her mind! I know not what--"Let him but come!" she said.

_Dja._ [_Half apart._] My nation--all my Druses--how fare they? Those I must save, and suffer thus to save, Hold they their posts? Wait they their Khalif too?

_Kha._ All at the signal pant to flock around That banner of a brow!

_Dja._ [_Aside._] And when they flock, Confess them this: and after, for reward, Be chased with howlings to her feet perchance! --Have the poor outraged Druses, deaf and blind, Precede me there, forestall my story there, Tell it in mocks and jeers! I lose myself! Who needs a Hakeem to direct him now? I need the veriest child--why not this child? [_Turning abruptly to_ KHALIL. You are a Druse too, Khalil; you were nourished Like Anael with our mysteries: if she Could vow, so nourished, to love only one Who should avenge the Druses, whence proceeds Your silence? Wherefore made you no essay, Who thus implicitly can execute My bidding? What have I done, you could not? Who, knowing more than Anael the prostration Of our once lofty tribe, the daily life Of this detested ... Does he come, you say, This Prefect? All's in readiness?

_Kha._ The sword, The sacred robe, the Khalif's mystic tiar, Laid up so long, are all disposed beside The Prefect's chamber.

_Dja._ --Why did you despair?

_Kha._ I know our nation's state? Too surely know, As thou who speak'st to prove me! Wrongs like ours Should wake revenge: but when I sought the wronged And spoke,--"The Prefect stabbed your son-- arise! Your daughter, while you starve, eats shameless bread In his pavilion--then arise!"--my speech Fell idly: 't was, "Be silent, or worse fare! Endure till time 's slow cycle prove complete! Who may'st thou be that takest on thee to thrust Into this peril--art thou Hakeem?" No! Only a mission like thy mission renders All these obedient at a breath, subdues Their private passions, brings their wills to one!

_Dja._ You think so?

_Kha._ Even now--when they have witnessed Thy miracles--had I not threatened all With Hakeem's vengeance, they would mar the work, And couch ere this, each with his special prize, Safe in his dwelling, leaving our main hope To perish. No! When these have kissed thy feet At Lebanon, the past purged off, the present Clear,--for the future, even Hakeem's mission May end, and I perchance, or any youth, Shall rule them thus renewed.--I tutor thee!

_Dja._ And wisely. (He is Anael's brother, pure As Anael's self.) Go say, I come to her. Haste! I will follow you. [KHALIL _goes._ Oh, not confess To these, the blinded multitude--confess, Before at least the fortune of my deed Half authorize its means! Only to her Let me confess my fault, who in my path Curled up like incense from a Mage-king's tomb When he would have the wayfarer descend Through the earth's rift and bear hid treasure forth! How should child's-carelessness prove manhood's crime Till now that I, whose lone youth hurried past, Letting each joy 'scape for the Druses' sake, At length recover in one Druse all joy? Were her brow brighter, her eyes richer, still Would I confess! On the gulf's verge I pause. How could I slay the Prefect, thus and thus? Anael, be mine to guard me, not destroy! [_Goes._

(_Enter_ ANAEL, _and_ MAANI _who is assisting to array her in the ancient dress of the Druses._)

_Anael._ Those saffron vestures of the tabret-girls! Comes Djabal, think you?

_Maani._ Doubtless Djabal comes.

_An._ Dost thou snow-swathe thee kinglier, Lebanon, Than in my dreams?--Nay, all the tresses off My forehead! Look I lovely so? He says That I am lovely.

_Maa._ Lovely: nay, that hangs Awry.

_An._ You tell me how a khandjar hangs? The sharp side, thus, along the heart, see, marks The maiden of our class. Are you content For Djabal as for me?

_Maa._ Content, my child.

_An._ Oh mother, tell me more of him! He comes Even now--tell more, fill up my soul with him!

_Maa._ And did I not ... yes, surely ... tell you all?

_An._ What will be changed in Djabal when the Change Arrives? Which feature? Not his eyes!

_Maa._ 'T is writ Our Hakeem's eyes rolled fire and clove the dark Superbly.

_An._ Not his eyes! His voice perhaps? Yet that's no change; for a grave current lived --Grandly beneath the surface ever lived, That, scattering, broke as in live silver spray While ... ah, the bliss ... he would discourse to me In that enforced still fashion, word on word! 'T is the old current which must swell through that, For what least tone, Maani, could I lose? 'T is surely not his voice will change! --If Hakeem Only stood by! If Djabal, somehow, passed Out of the radiance as from out a robe; Possessed, but was not it! He lived with you? Well--and that morning Djabal saw me first And heard me vow never to wed but one Who saved my People--on that day ... proceed!

_Maa._ Once more, then: from the time of his return In secret, changed so since he left the Isle That I, who screened our Emir's last of sons, This Djabal, from the Prefect's massacre --Who bade him ne'er forget the child he was, --Who dreamed so long the youth he might become-- I knew not in the man that child; the man Who spoke alone of hope to save our tribe, How he had gone from land to land to save Our tribe--allies were sure, nor foes to dread; And much he mused, days, nights, alone he mused: But never till that day when, pale and worn As by a persevering woe, he cried "Is there not one Druse left me?"--and I showed The way to Khalil's and your hiding-place From the abhorred eye of the Prefect here, So that he saw you, heard you speak--till then, Never did he announce--(how the moon seemed To ope and shut, the while, above us both!) --His mission was the mission promised us; The cycle had revolved; all things renewing, He was lost Hakeem clothed in flesh to lead His children home anon, now veiled to work Great purposes: the Druses now would change!

_An._ And they have changed! And obstacles did sink, And furtherances rose! And round his form Played fire, and music beat her angel wings! My people, let me more rejoice, oh more For you than for myself! Did I but watch Afar the pageant, feel our Khalif pass, One of the throng, how proud were I--though ne'er Singled by Djabal's glance! But to be chosen His own from all, the most his own of all, To be exalted with him, side by side, Lead the exulting Druses, meet ... ah, how Worthily meet the maidens who await Ever beneath the cedars--how deserve This honor, in their eyes? So bright are they Who saffron-vested sound the tabret there, The girls who throng there in my dream! One hour And all is over: how shall I do aught That may deserve next hour's exalting?-- How?-- [_Suddenly to_ MAANI. Mother, I am not worthy him! I read it Still in his eyes! He stands as if to tell me I am not, yet forbears. Why else revert To one theme ever?--how mere human gifts Suffice him in myself--whose worship fades, Whose awe goes ever off at his approach, As now, who when he comes ...

(DJABAL _enters_.)

Oh why is it I cannot kneel to you?

_Dja._ Rather, 't is I Should kneel to you, my Anael!

_An._ Even so! For never seem you--shall I speak the truth?-- Never a God to me! 'T is the Man's hand, Eye, voice! Oh, do you veil these to our people, Or but to me? To them, I think, to them! And brightness is their veil, shadow--my truth! You mean that I should never kneel to you --So, thus I kneel!

_Dja._ [_Preventing her._] No--no! [_Feeling the khandjar as he raises her._ Ha, have you chosen ...

_An._ The khandjar with our ancient garb. But, Djabal, Change not, be not exalted yet! Give time That I may plan more, perfect more! My blood Beats, beats! [_Aside._] Oh, must I then--since Loys leaves us Never to come again, renew in me These doubts so near effaced already--must I needs confess them now to Djabal?--own That when I saw that stranger, heard his voice, My faith fell, and the woeful thought flashed first That each effect of Djabal's presence, taken For proof of more than human attributes In him, by me whose heart at his approach Beat fast, whose brain while he was by swam round, Whose soul at his departure died away, --That every such effect might have been wrought In other frames, though not in mine, by Loys Or any merely mortal presence? Doubt Is fading fast: shall I reveal it now? How shall I meet the rapture presently, With doubt unexpiated, undisclosed?

_Dja._ [_Aside._] Avow the truth? I cannot! In what words Avow that all she loved in me was false? --Which yet has served that flower-like love of hers To climb by, like the clinging gourd, and clasp With its divinest wealth of leaf and bloom. Could I take down the prop-work, in itself So vile, yet interlaced and overlaid With painted cups and fruitage--might these still Bask in the sun, unconscious their own strength Of matted stalk and tendril had replaced The old support thus silently withdrawn! But no; the beauteous fabric crushes too. 'T is not for my sake but for Anael's sake I leave her soul this Hakeem where it leans. Oh could I vanish from her, quit the Isle! And yet--a thought comes: here my work is done At every point; the Druses must return-- Have convoy to their birth-place back, whoe'er The leader be, myself or any Druse-- Venice is pledged to that: 't is for myself, For my own vengeance in the Prefect's death, I stay now, not for them: to slay or spare The Prefect, whom imports it save myself? He cannot bar their passage from the Isle; What would his death be but my own reward? Then, mine I will forego. It is foregone! Let him escape with all my House's blood! Ere he can reach land, Djabal disappears, And Hakeem, Anael loved, shall, fresh as first, Live in her memory, keeping her sublime Above the world. She cannot touch that world By ever knowing what I truly am, Since Loys,--of mankind the only one Able to link my present with my past, My life in Europe with my Island life, Thence, able to unmask me,--I 've disposed Safely at last at Rhodes, and ...

(_Enter_ KHALIL.)

_Kha._ Loys greets thee!

_Dja._ Loys? To drag me back? It cannot be!

_An._ [_Aside._] Loys! Ah, doubt may not be stifled so!

_Kha._ Can I have erred that thou so gazest? Yes, I told thee not in the glad press of tidings Of higher import, Loys is returned Before the Prefect, with, if possible, Twice the light-heartedness of old. As though On some inauguration he expects, To-day, the world's fate hung!

_Dja._ --And asks for me?

_Kha._ Thou knowest all things. Thee in chief he greets, But every Druse of us is to be happy At his arrival, he declares: were Loys Thou, Master, he could have no wider soul To take us in with. How I love that Loys!

_Dja._ [_Aside._] Shame winds me with her tether round and round!

_An._ [_Aside._] Loys? I take the trial! it is meet, The little I can do, be done; that faith, All I can offer, want no perfecting Which my own act may compass. Ay, this way All may go well, nor that ignoble doubt Be chased by other aid than mine. Advance Close to my fear, weigh Loys with my Lord, The mortal with the more than mortal gifts!

_Dja._ [_Aside._] Before, there were so few deceived! and now There's doubtless not one least Druse in the Isle But, having learned my superhuman claims, And calling me his Khalif-God, will clash The whole truth out from Loys at first word! While Loys, for his part, will hold me up, With a Frank's unimaginable scorn Of such imposture, to my people's eyes! Could I but keep him longer yet awhile From them, amuse him here until I plan How he and I at once may leave the Isle! Khalil I cannot part with from my side-- My only help in this emergency: There's Anael!

_An._ Please you?

_Dja._ Anael--none but she!

[_To_ ANAEL.] I pass some minutes in the chamber there, Ere I see Loys: you shall speak with him Until I join you. Khalil follows me.

_An._ [_Aside._] As I divined: he bids me save myself, Offers me a probation--I accept! Let me see Loys!

_Loys_. [_Without._] Djabal!

_An._ [_Aside._] 'Tis his voice. The smooth Frank trifler with our people's wrongs, The self-complacent boy-inquirer, loud On this and that inflicted tyranny, --Aught serving to parade an ignorance Of how wrong feels, inflicted! Let me close With what I viewed at distance: let myself Probe this delusion to the core!

_Dja._ He comes. Khalil, along with me! while Anael waits Till I return once more--and but once more!

## ACT III

ANAEL _and_ LOYS.

_An._ Here leave me! Here I wait another. 'T was For no mad protestation of a love Like this you say possesses you, I came.

_Loys_. Love? how protest a love I dare not feel? Mad words may doubtless have escaped me: you Are here--I only feel you here!

_An._ No more!

_Loys._ But once again, whom could you love? I dare, Alas, say nothing of myself, who am A Knight now, for when Knighthood we embrace, Love we abjure: so, speak on safely: speak, Lest I speak, and betray my faith! And yet To say your breathing passes through me, changes My blood to spirit, and my spirit to you, As Heaven the sacrificer's wine to it-- This is not to protest my love! You said You could love one ...

_An._ One only! We are bent To earth--who raises up my tribe, I love; The Prefect bows us--who removes him; we Have ancient rights--who gives them back to us, I love. Forbear me! Let my hand go!

_Loys._ Him You could love only? Where is Djabal? Stay! [_Aside._] Yet wherefore stay? Who does this but myself? Had I apprised her that I come to do Just this, what more could she acknowledge? No, She sees into my heart's core! What is it Feeds either cheek with red, as June some rose? Why turns she from me? Ah fool, over-fond To dream I could call up ...

... What never dream Yet feigned! 'Tis love! Oh Anael, speak to me! Djabal--

_An._ Seek Djabal by the Prefect's chamber At noon! [_She paces the room._

_Loys._ [_Aside._] And am I not the Prefect now? Is it my fate to be the only one Able to win her love, the only one Unable to accept her love? The past Breaks up beneath my footing: came I here This morn as to a slave, to set her free And take her thanks, and then spend day by day Content beside her in the Isle? What works This knowledge in me now? Her eye has broken The faint disguise away: for Anael's sake I left the Isle, for her espoused the cause Of the Druses, all for her I thought, till now, To live without! --As I must live! To-day Ordains me Knight, forbids me ... never shall Forbid me to profess myself, heart, arm, Thy soldier!

_An._ Djabal you demanded, comes!

_Loys._ [_Aside._] What wouldst thou, Loys? see him? Naught beside Is wanting: I have felt his voice a spell From first to last. He brought me here, made known The Druses to me, drove me hence to seek Redress for them; and shall I meet him now, When naught is wanting but a word of his, To--what?--induce me to spurn hope, faith, pride, Honor away,--to cast my lot among His tribe, become a proverb in men's mouths, Breaking my high pact of companionship With those who graciously bestowed on me The very opportunities I turn Against them! Let me not see Djabal now!

_An._ The Prefect also comes!

_Loys._ [_Aside._] Him let me see, Not Djabal! Him, degraded at a word, To soothe me,--to attest belief in me-- And after, Djabal! Yes, ere I return To her, the Nuncio's vow shall have destroyed This heart's rebellion, and coerced this will Forever. Anael, not before the vows Irrevocably fix me ... Let me fly! The Prefect, or I lose myself forever! [_Goes._

_An._ Yes, I am calm now; just one way remains-- One, to attest my faith in him: for, see, I were quite lost else: Loys, Djabal, stand On either side--two men! I balance looks And words, give Djabal a man's preference, No more. In Djabal, Hakeem is absorbed! And for a love like this, the God who saves My race, selects me for his bride? One way!--

(_Enter_ DJABAL.)

_Dja._ [_To himself._] No moment is to waste then; 'tis resolved. If Khalil may be trusted to lead back My Druses, and if Loys can be lured Out of the Isle--if I procure his silence, Or promise never to return at least,-- All's over. Even now my bark awaits: I reach the next wild islet and the next, And lose myself beneath the sun forever. And now, to Anael!

_An._ Djabal, I am thine!

_Dja._ Mine? Djabal's?--As if Hakeem had not been?

_An._ Not Djabal's? Say first, do you read my thought? Why need I speak, if you can read my thought?

_Dja._ I do not, I have said a thousand times.

_An._ (My secret's safe, I shall surprise him yet!) Djabal, I knew your secret from the first: Djabal, when first I saw you ... (by our porch You leant, and pressed the tinkling veil away, And one fringe fell behind your neck--I see!) ... I knew you were not human, for I said "This dim secluded house where the sea beats Is heaven to me--my people's huts are hell To them; this august form will follow me, Mix with the waves his voice will,--I have him; And they, the Prefect! Oh, my happiness Rounds to the full whether I choose or no! His eyes met mine, he was about to speak, His hand grew damp--surely he meant to say He let me love him: in that moment's bliss I shall forget my people pine for home-- They pass and they repass with pallid eyes!" I vowed at once a certain vow; this vow-- Not to embrace you till my tribe was saved. Embrace me!

_Dja._ [_Apart._] And she loved me! Naught remained But that! Nay, Anael, is the Prefect dead?

_An._ Ah, you reproach me! True, his death crowns all, I know--or should know: and I would do much, Believe! but, death! Oh, you, who have known death, Would never doom the Prefect, were death fearful As we report! Death!--a fire curls within us From the foot's palm, and fills up to the brain, Up, out, then shatters the whole bubble-shell Of flesh, perchance! Death!--witness, I would die, Whate'er death be, would venture now to die For Khalil, for Maani--what for thee? Nay, but embrace me, Djabal, in assurance My vow will not be broken, for I must Do something to attest my faith in you, Be worthy you!

_Dja._ [_Avoiding her._] I come for that--to say Such an occasion is at hand: 'tis like I leave you--that we part, my Anael,--part Forever!

_An._ We part? Just so! I have succumbed,-- I am, he thinks, unworthy--and naught less Will serve than such approval of my faith. Then, we part not! Remains there no way short Of that? Oh, not that! Death!--yet a hurt bird Died in my hands; its eyes filmed--"Nay, it sleeps," I said, "will wake to-morrow well:" 't was dead.

_Dja._ I stand here and time fleets. Anael--I come To bid a last farewell to you: perhaps We never meet again. But, ere the Prefect Arrive ...

(_Enter_ KHALIL, _breathlessly_.)

_Kha._ He's here! The Prefect! Twenty guards, No more--no sign he dreams of danger. All Awaits thee only. Ayoob, Karshook, keep Their posts--wait but the deed's accomplishment To join us with thy Druses to a man. Still holds his course the Nuncio--near and near The fleet from Candia steering.

_Dja._ [_Aside._] All is lost! --Or won?

_Kha._ And I have laid the sacred robe, The sword, the head-tiar, at the porch--the place Commanded. Thou wilt hear the Prefect's trumpet.

_Dja._ Then I keep Anael,--him then, past recall, I slay--'tis forced on me! As I began I must conclude--so be it!

_Kha._ For the rest, Save Loys, our foe's solitary sword, All is so safe that ... I will ne'er entreat Thy post again of thee: though danger none, There must be glory only meet for thee In slaying the Prefect!

_An._ [_Aside._] And 'tis now that Djabal Would leave me!--in the glory meet for him!

_Dja._ As glory, I would yield the deed to you Or any Druse; what peril there may be, I keep. [_Aside._] All things conspire to hound me on! Not now, my soul, draw back, at least! Not now! The course is plain, howe'er obscure all else. Once offer this tremendous sacrifice, Prevent what else will be irreparable, Secure these transcendental helps, regain The Cedars--then let all dark clear itself! I slay him!

_Kha._ Anael, and no part for us! [_To_ DJA.] Hast thou possessed her with ...

_Dja._ [_To_ AN.] Whom speak you to? What is it you behold there? Nay, this smile Turns stranger. Shudder you? The man must die, As thousands of our race have died through him. One blow, and I discharge his weary soul From the flesh that pollutes it! Let him fill Straight some new expiatory form, of earth Or sea, the reptile or some aëry thing: What is there in his death?

_An._ My brother said, Is there no part in it for us?

_Dja._ For Khalil,-- The trumpet will announce the Nuncio's entry; Here, I shall find the Prefect hastening In the Pavilion to receive him--here I slay the Prefect; meanwhile Ayoob leads The Nuncio with his guards within: once these Secured in the outer hall, bid Ayoob bar Entry or egress till I give the sign Which waits the landing of the argosies You will announce to me: this double sign That justice is performed and help arrived, When Ayoob shall receive, but not before, Let him throw ope the palace doors, admit The Druses to behold their tyrant, ere We leave forever this detested spot. Go, Khalil, hurry all! No pause, no pause! Whirl on the dream, secure to wake anon!

_Kha._ What sign? and who the bearer?

_Dja._ Who shall show My ring, admit to Ayoob. How she stands! Have I not ... I must have some task for her. Anael, not that way! 'T is the Prefect's chamber! Anael, keep you the ring--give you the sign! (It holds her safe amid the stir.) You will Be faithful?

_An._ [_Taking the ring._] I would fain be worthy. Hark! [_Trumpet without._

_Kha._ He comes!

_Dja._ And I too come.

_An._ One word, but one! Say, shall you be exalted at the deed? Then? On the instant?

_Dja._ I exalted? What? He, there--we, thus--our wrongs revenged, our tribe Set free? Oh, then shall I, assure yourself, Shall you, shall each of us, be in his death Exalted!

_Kha._ He is here!

_Dja._ Away--away! [_They go._

(_Enter the_ PREFECT _with_ GUARDS, _and_ LOYS.)

_The Prefect._ [_To_ Guards.] Back, I say, to the galley every guard! That's my sole care now; see each bench retains Its complement of rowers; I embark O' the instant, since this Knight will have it so. Alas me! Could you have the heart, my Loys! [_To a_ Guard _who whispers_.] Oh, bring the holy Nuncio here forthwith! [_The_ Guards _go_. Loys, a rueful sight, confess, to see The gray discarded Prefect leave his post, With tears i' the eye! So, you are Prefect now? You depose me--you succeed me? Ha, ha!

_Loys._ And dare you laugh, whom laughter less becomes Than yesterday's forced meekness we beheld ...

_Pref._--When you so eloquently pleaded, Loys, For my dismissal from the post? Ah, meek With cause enough, consult the Nuncio else! And wish him the like meekness: for so stanch A servant of the church can scarce have bought His share in the Isle, and paid for it, hard pieces! You 've my successor to condole with, Nuncio! I shall be safe by then i' the galley, Loys!

_Loys._ You make as you would tell me you rejoice To leave your scene of ...

_Pref._ Trade in the dear Druses? Blood and sweat traffic? Spare what yesterday We heard enough of! Drove I in the Isle A profitable game? Learn wit, my son, Which you'll need shortly! Did it never breed Suspicion in you, all was not pure profit, When I, the insatiate ... and so forth--was bent On having a partaker in my rule? Why did I yield this Nuncio half the gain, If not that I might also shift--what on him? Half of the peril, Loys!

_Loys._ Peril?

_Pref._ Hark you! I'd love you if you'd let me--this for reason, You save my life at price of ... well, say risk At least, of yours. I came a long time since To the Isle; our Hospitallers bade me tame These savage wizards, and reward myself--

_Loys._ The Knights who so repudiate your crime?

_Pref_. Loys, the Knights! we doubtless understood Each other; as for trusting to reward From any friend beside myself ... no, no! I clutched mine on the spot, when it was sweet, And I had taste for it. I felt these wizards Alive--was sure they were not on me, only When I was on them: but with age comes caution: And stinging pleasures please less and sting more. Year by year, fear by fear! The girls were brighter Than ever ('faith, there's yet one Anael left, I set my heart upon--Oh, prithee, let That brave new sword lie still!)--These joys looked brighter, But silenter the town, too, as I passed. With this alcove's delicious memories Began to mingle visions of gaunt fathers, Quick-eyed sons, fugitives from the mine, the oar, Stealing to catch me. Brief, when I began To quake with fear--(I think I hear the Chapter Solicited to let me leave, now all Worth staying for was gained and gone!)--I say. Just when, for the remainder of my life, All methods of escape seemed lost--that then Up should a young hot-headed Loys spring, Talk very long and loud,--in fine, compel The Knights to break their whole arrangement, have me Home for pure shame--from this safehold of mine Where but ten thousand Druses seek my life, To my wild place of banishment, San Gines By Murcia, where my three fat manors lying, Purchased by gains here and the Nuncio's gold, Are all I have to guard me,--that such fortune Should fall to me, I hardly could expect. Therefore I say, I 'd love you.

_Loys._ Can it be? I play into your hands then? Oh no, no! The Venerable Chapter, the Great Order Sunk o' the sudden into fiends of the pit? But I will back--will yet unveil you!

_Pref._ Me? To whom?--perhaps Sir Galeas, who in Chapter Shook his white head thrice--and some dozen times My hand next morning shook, for value paid! To that Italian saint, Sir Cosimo?-- Indignant at my wringing year by year A thousand bezants from the coral divers, As you recounted; felt the saint aggrieved Well might he--I allowed for his half-share Merely one hundred! To Sir ...

_Loys._ See! you dare Inculpate the whole Order; yet should I, A youth, a sole voice, have the power to change Their evil way, had they been firm in it? Answer me!

_Pref._ Oh, the son of Bretagne's Duke, And that son's wealth, the father's influence, too, And the young arm, we'll even say, my Loys, --The fear of losing or diverting these Into another channel, by gainsaying A novice too abruptly, could not influence The Order! You might join, for aught they cared, Their red-cross rivals of the Temple! Well, I thank you for my part, at all events. Stay here till they withdraw you! You'll inhabit My palace--sleep, perchance, in the alcove Whither I go to meet our holy friend. Good! and now disbelieve me if you can,-- This is the first time for long years I enter Thus [_lifts the arras_] without feeling just as if I lifted The lid up of my tomb.

_Loys._ They share his crime! God's punishment will overtake you yet.

_Pref._ Thank you it does not! Pardon this last flash: I bear a sober visage presently With the disinterested Nuncio here-- His purchase-money safe at Murcia, too! Let me repeat--for the first time, no draught Coming as from a sepulchre salutes me. When we next meet, this folly may have passed, We'll hope. Ha, ha! [_Goes through the arras._

_Loys._ Assure me but ... he's gone! He could not lie. Then what have I escaped, I, who had so nigh given up happiness Forever, to be linked with him and them! Oh, opportunest of discoveries! I Their Knight? I utterly renounce them all! Hark! What, he meets by this the Nuncio? Yes, The same hyæna groan-like laughter! Quick-- To Djabal! I am one of them at last, These simple-hearted Druses--Anael's tribe! Djabal! She's mine at last. Djabal, I say! [_Goes._

## ACT IV

_Enter_ DJABAL.

_Dja._ Let me but slay the Prefect. The end now! To-morrow will be time enough to pry Into the means I took: suffice, they served, Ignoble as they were, to hurl revenge True to its object. [_Seeing the robe, etc. disposed._ Mine should never so Have hurried to accomplishment! Thee, Djabal, Far other mood befitted! Calm the Robe Should clothe this doom's awarder! [_Taking the robe._] Shall I dare Assume my nation's Robe? I am at least A Druse again, chill Europe's policy Drops from me: I dare take the Robe. Why not The Tiar? I rule the Druses, and what more Betokens it than rule?--yet--yet-- [_Lays down the tiar._ [_Footsteps in the alcove_.] He comes! [_Taking the sword._ If the Sword serve, let the Tiar lie! So, feet Clogged with the blood of twenty years can fall Thus lightly! Round me, all ye ghosts! He'll lift ... Which arm to push the arras wide?--or both? Stab from the neck down to the heart--there stay! Near he comes--nearer--the next footstep! Now! [_As he dashes aside the arras_, ANAEL _is discovered_. Ha! Anael! Nay, my Anael, can it be? Heard you the trumpet? I must slay him here, And here you ruin all. Why speak you not? Anael, the Prefect comes! [ANAEL _screams_.] So slow to feel 'T is not a sight for you to look upon? A moment's work--but such work! Till you go, I must be idle--idle, I risk all! [_Pointing to her hair._ Those locks are well, and you are beauteous thus, But with the dagger 't is, I have to do!

_An._ With mine!

_Dja._ Blood--Anael?

_An._ Djabal, 't is thy deed! It must be! I had hoped to claim it mine-- Be worthy thee--but I must needs confess 'T was not I, but thyself ... not I have ... Djabal! Speak to me!

_Dja._ Oh my punishment!

_An._ Speak to me While I can speak! touch me, despite the blood! When the command passed from thy soul to mine, I went, fire leading me, muttering of thee, And the approaching exaltation,--"make One sacrifice!" I said,--and he sat there, Bade me approach; and, as I did approach, Thy fire with music burst into my brain. 'T was but a moment's work, thou saidst--perchance It may have been so! Well, it is thy deed!

_Dja._ It is my deed!

_An._ His blood all this!--this! and ... And more! Sustain me, Djabal! Wait not--now Let flash thy glory! Change thyself and me! It must be! Ere the Druses flock to us! At least confirm me! Djabal, blood gushed forth-- He was our tyrant--but I looked he'd fall Prone as asleep--why else is death called sleep? Sleep? He bent o'er his breast! 'T is sin, I know,-- Punish me, Djabal, but wilt thou let him? Be it thou that punishest, not he--who creeps On his red breast--is here! 'T is the small groan Of a child--no worse! Bestow the new life, then! Too swift it cannot be, too strange, surpassing! [_Following him up as he retreats._ Now! Change us both! Change me and change thou!

_Dja._ [_Sinks on his knees._] Thus! Behold my change! You have done nobly. I!--

_An._ Can Hakeem kneel?

_Dja._ No Hakeem, and scarce Djabal! I have dealt falsely, and this woe is come. No--hear me ere scorn blast me! Once and ever, The deed is mine! Oh think upon the past!

_An._ [_To herself._] Did I strike once, or twice, or many times?

_Dja._ I came to lead my tribe where, bathed in glooms, Doth Bahumid the Renovator sleep: Anael, I saw my tribe: I said, "Without A miracle this cannot be"--I said "Be there a miracle!"--for I saw you!

_An._ His head lies south the portal!

_Dja._ --Weighed with this The general good, how could I choose my own? What matter was my purity of soul? Little by little I engaged myself-- Heaven would accept me for its instrument, I hoped: I said Heaven had accepted me!

_An._ Is it this blood breeds dreams in me?--Who said You were not Hakeem? And your miracles-- The fire that plays innocuous round your form? [_Again changing her whole manner._ Ah, thou wouldst try me--thou art Hakeem still!

_Dja._ Woe--woe! As if the Druses of the Mount (Scarce Arabs, even there, but here, in the Isle, Beneath their former selves) should comprehend The subtle lore of Europe! A few secrets That would not easily affect the meanest Of the crowd there, could wholly subjugate The best of our poor tribe. Again that eye?

_An._ [_After a pause springs to his neck._] Djabal, in this there can be no deceit! Why, Djabal, were you human only,--think, Maani is but human, Khalil human, Loys is human even--did their words Haunt me, their looks pursue me? Shame on you So to have tried me! Rather, shame on me So to need trying! Could I, with the Prefect And the blood, there--could I see only you? --Hang by your neck over this gulf of blood? Speak, I am saved! Speak, Djabal! Am I saved? [_As_ DJABAL _slowly unclasps her arms, and puts her silently from him_. Hakeem would save me! Thou art Djabal! Crouch! Bow to the dust, thou basest of our kind! The pile of thee, I reared up to the cloud-- Full, midway, of our fathers' trophied tombs, Based on the living rock, devoured not by The unstable desert's jaws of sand,--falls prone! Fire, music, quenched: and now thou liest there A ruin, obscene creatures will moan through! --Let us come, Djabal!

_Dja._ Whither come?

_An._ At once-- Lest so it grow intolerable. Come! Will I not share it with thee? Best at once! So, feel less pain! Let them deride,--thy tribe Now trusting in thee,--Loys shall deride! Come to them, hand in hand, with me!

_Dja._ Where come?

_An._ Where?--to the Druses thou hast wronged! Confess, Now that the end is gained--(I love thee now--) That thou hast so deceived them--(perchance love thee Better than ever!) Come, receive their doom Of infamy! Oh, best of all I love thee! Shame with the man, no triumph with the God, Be mine! Come!

_Dja._ Never! More shame yet? and why? Why? You have called this deed mine--it is mine! And with it I accept its circumstance. How can I longer strive with fate? The past Is past: my false life shall henceforth show true. Hear me! The argosies touch land by this; They bear us to fresh scenes and happier skies: What if we reign together?--if we keep Our secret for the Druses' good?--by means Of even their superstition, plant in them New life? I learn from Europe: all who seek Man's good must awe man, by such means as these. We two will be divine to them--we are! All great works in this world spring from the ruins Of greater projects--ever, on our earth, Babels men block out, Babylons they build. I wrest the weapon from your hand! I claim The deed! Retire! You have my ring--you bar All access to the Nuncio till the forces From Venice land!

_An._ Thou wilt feign Hakeem then?

_Dja._ [_Putting the Tiara of Hakeem, on his head_.] And from this moment that I dare ope wide Eyes that till now refused to see, begins My true dominion: for I know myself, And what am I to personate. No word? [ANAEL _goes_. 'T is come on me at last! His blood on her-- What memories will follow that! Her eye, Her fierce distorted lip and ploughed black brow! Ah, fool! Has Europe then so poorly tamed The Syrian blood from out thee? Thou, presume To work in this foul earth by means not foul? Scheme, as for heaven,--but, on the earth, be glad If a least ray like heaven's be left thee! Thus I shall be calm--in readiness--no way Surprised. [_A noise without._ This should be Khalil and my Druses. Venice is come then! Thus I grasp thee, sword! Druses, 't is Hakeem saves you! In! Behold Your Prefect!

(_Enter_ LOYS. DJABAL _hides the khandjar in his robe_.)

_Loys._ Oh, well found, Djabal!--but no time for words. You know who waits there? [_Pointing to the alcove._ Well!--and that 't is there He meets the Nuncio? Well? Now, a surprise-- He there--

_Dja._ I know--

_Loys._ --is now no mortal's lord, Is absolutely powerless--call him, dead-- He is no longer Prefect--you are Prefect! Oh, shrink not! I do nothing in the dark, Nothing unworthy Breton blood, believe! I understood at once your urgency That I should leave this isle for Rhodes; I felt What you were loath to speak--your need of help. I have fulfilled the task, that earnestness Imposed on me: have, face to face, confronted The Prefect in full Chapter, charged on him The enormities of his long rule; he stood Mute, offered no defence, no crime denied. On which, I spoke of you, and of your tribe, Your faith so like our own, and all you urged Of old to me--I spoke, too, of your goodness, Your patience--brief, I hold henceforth the Isle In charge, am nominally lord,--but you, You are associated in my rule-- Are the true Prefect! Ay, such faith had they In my assurance of your loyalty (For who insults an imbecile old man?) That we assume the Prefecture this hour! You gaze at me? Hear greater wonders yet-- I cast down all the fabric I have built! These Knights, I was prepared to worship ... but Of that another time; what's now to say, Is--I shall never be a Knight! Oh, Djabal, Here first I throw all prejudice aside, And call you brother! I am Druse like you: My wealth, my friends, my power, are wholly yours, Your people's, which is now my people: for There is a maiden of your tribe, I love-- She loves me--Khalil's sister--

_Dja._ Anael?

_Loys._ Start you? Seems what I say, unknightly? Thus it chanced: When first I came, a novice, to the isle ...

(_Enter one of the_ NUNCIO'S Guards _from the alcove_.)

_Guard._ Oh horrible! Sir Loys! Here is Loys! And here-- [_Others enter from the alcove._ [_Pointing to_ DJABAL.] Secure him, bind him--this is he! [_They surround_ DJABAL.

_Loys._ Madmen--what is 't you do? Stand from my friend, And tell me!

_Guard._ Thou canst have no part in this-- Surely no part! But slay him not! The Nuncio Commanded, slay him not!

_Loys._ Speak, or ...

_Guard._ The Prefect Lies murdered there by him thou dost embrace.

_Loys._ By Djabal? Miserable fools! How Djabal?

[_A_ Guard _lifts_ DJABAL'S _robe;_ DJABAL _flings down the khandjar_.

_Loys._ [_After a pause._] Thou hast received some insult worse than all, Some outrage not to be endured-- [_To the_ Guards.] Stand back! He is my friend--more than my friend! Thou hast Slain him upon that provocation!

_Guard._ No! No provocation! 'T is a long devised Conspiracy: the whole tribe is involved. He is their Khalif--'t is on that pretence-- Their mighty Khalif who died long ago, And now comes back to life and light again! All is just now revealed, I know not how, By one of his confederates--who, struck With horror at this murder, first apprised The Nuncio. As 't was said, we find this Djabal Here where we take him.

_Dja._ [_Aside_.] Who broke faith with me?

_Loys._ [_To_ DJABAL.] Hear'st thou? Speak! Till thou speak I keep off these, Or die with thee. Deny this story! Thou A Khalif, an impostor? Thou, my friend, Whose tale was of an inoffensive tribe, With ... but thou know'st--on that tale's truth I pledged My faith before the Chapter: what art thou?

_Dja._ Loys, I am as thou hast heard. All 's true! No more concealment! As these tell thee, all Was long since planned. Our Druses are enough To crush this handful: the Venetians land Even now in our behalf. Loys, we part! Thou, serving much, wouldst fain have served me more; It might not be. I thank thee. As thou hearest, We are a separated tribe: farewell!

_Loys._ Oh, where will truth be found now? Canst thou so Belie the Druses? Do they share thy crime? Those thou professest of our Breton stock, Are partners with thee? Why, I saw but now Khalil, my friend--he spoke with me--no word Of this! and Anael--whom I love, and who Loves me--she spoke no word of this!

_Dja._ Poor boy! Anael, who loves thee? Khalil, fast thy friend? We, offsets from a wandering Count of Dreux? No: older than the oldest, princelier Than Europe's princeliest race, our tribe: enough For thine, that on our simple faith we found A monarchy to shame your monarchies At their own trick and secret of success. The child of this our tribe shall laugh upon The palace-step of him whose life ere night Is forfeit, as that child shall know, and yet Shall laugh there! What, we Druses wait forsooth The kind interposition of a boy --Can only save ourselves if thou concede? --Khalil admire thee? He is my right hand, My delegate!--Anael accept thy love? She is my bride!

_Loys._ Thy bride? She one of them?

_Dja._ My bride!

_Loys._ And she retains her glorious eyes! She, with those eyes, has shared this miscreant's guilt! Ah--who but she directed me to find Djabal within the Prefect's chamber? Khalil Bade me seek Djabal there, too! All is truth! What spoke the Prefect worse of them than this? Did the Church ill to institute long since Perpetual warfare with such serpentry? And I--have I desired to shift my part, Evade my share in her design? 'T is well!

_Dja._ Loys, I wronged thee--but unwittingly: I never thought there was in thee a virtue That could attach itself to what thou deemest A race below thine own. I wronged thee, Loys, But that is over: all is over now, Save the protection I ensure against My people's anger. By their Khalif's side, Thou art secure and may'st depart: so, come!

_Loys._ Thy side? I take protection at thy hand?

(_Enter other_ Guards.)

_Guards._ Fly with him! Fly, Sir Loys! 'T is too true! And only by his side thou may'st escape! The whole tribe is in full revolt: they flock About the palace--will be here--on thee-- And there are twenty of us, we the Guards O' the Nuncio, to withstand them! Even we Had stayed to meet our death in ignorance, But that one Druse, a single faithful Druse, Made known the horror to the Nuncio. Fly! The Nuncio stands aghast. At least let us Escape thy wrath, O Hakeem! We are naught In thy tribe's persecution! [_To_ LOYS.] Keep by him! They hail him Hakeem, their dead Prince returned: He is their God, they shout, and at his beck Are life and death!

[LOYS, _springing at the khandjar_ DJABAL _had thrown down, seizes him by the throat_. Thus by his side am I! Thus I resume my knighthood and its warfare, Thus end thee, miscreant, in thy pride of place! Thus art thou caught. Without, thy dupes may cluster. Friends aid thee, foes avoid thee,--thou art Hakeem, How say they?--God art thou! but also here Is the least, youngest, meanest the Church calls Her servant, and his single arm avails To aid her as she lists. I rise, and thou Art crushed! Hordes of thy Druses flock without: Here thou hast me, who represent the Cross, Honor and Faith, 'gainst Hell, Mahound and thee. Die! [DJABAL _remains calm_.] Implore my mercy, Hakeem, that my scorn May help me! Nay, I cannot ply thy trade; I am no Druse, no stabber: and thine eye, Thy form, are too much as they were--my friend Had such! Speak! Beg for mercy at my foot! [[DJABAL _still silent_. Heaven could not ask so much of me--not, sure, So much! I cannot kill him so! [_After a pause._] Thou art Strong in thy cause, then--dost outbrave us, then. Heardst thou that one of thine accomplices, Thy very people, has accused thee? Meet His charge! Thou hast not even slain the Prefect As thy own vile creed warrants. Meet that Druse! Come with me and disprove him--be thou tried By him, nor seek appeal! Promise me this, Or I will do God's office! What, shalt thou Boast of assassins at thy beck, yet truth Want even an executioner? Consent, Or I will strike--look in my face--I will!

_Dja._ Give me again my khandjar, if thou darest! [LOYS _gives it_. Let but one Druse accuse me, and I plunge This home. A Druse betray me? Let us go! [_Aside._] Who has betrayed me? [_Shouts without._ Hearest thou? I hear No plainer than long years ago I heard That shout--but in no dream now! They return! Wilt thou be leader with me, Loys? Well!

## ACT V

_The uninitiated_ Druses, _filling the hall tumultuously, and speaking together._

Here flock we, obeying the summons. Lo, Hakeem hath appeared, and the Prefect is dead, and we return to Lebanon! My manufacture of goats' fleece must, I doubt, soon fall away there. Come, old Nasif--link thine arm in mine--we fight, if needs be. Come, what is a great fight-word?--"Lebanon?" (My daughter--my daughter!)--But is Khalil to have the office of Hamza?--Nay, rather, if he be wise, the monopoly of henna and cloves. Where is Hakeem?--The only prophet I ever saw, prophesied at Cairo once, in my youth: a little black Copht, dressed all in black too, with a great stripe of yellow cloth flapping down behind him like the back-fin of a water-serpent. Is this he? Biamrallah! Biamreh! HAKEEM!

(_Enter the_ NUNCIO, _with_ Guards.)

_Nuncio._ [_To his_ Attendants.] Hold both, the sorcerer and this accomplice Ye talk of, that accuseth him! And tell Sir Loys he is mine, the Church's hope: Bid him approve himself our Knight indeed! Lo, this black disemboguing of the Isle! [_To the_ Druses.] Ah, children, what a sight for these old eyes That kept themselves alive this voyage through To smile their very last on you! I came To gather one and all you wandering sheep Into my fold, as though a father came ... As though, in coming, a father should ... [_To his_ Guards.] (Ten, twelve --Twelve guards of you, and not an outlet? None? The wizards stop each avenue? Keep close!) [_To the_ Druses.] As if one came to a son's house, I say, So did I come--no guard with me--to find ... Alas--alas!

_A Druse._ Who is the old man?

_Another._ Oh, ye are to shout! Children, he styles you.

_Druses._ Ay, the Prefect's slain! Glory to the Khalif, our Father!

_Nuncio._ Even so! I find (ye prompt aright) your father slain! While most he plotted for your good, that father (Alas, how kind, ye never knew)--lies slain! [_Aside._] (And hell's worm gnaw the glozing knave--with me, For being duped by his cajoleries! Are these the Christians? These the docile crew My bezants went to make me Bishop o'er?) [_To his_ Attendants, _who whisper_.] What say ye does this wizard style himself? Hakeem? Biamrallah? The third Fatemite? What is this jargon? He--the insane Khalif, Dead near three hundred years ago, come back In flesh and blood again?

_Druses._ He mutters! Hear ye? He is blaspheming Hakeem. The old man Is our dead Prefect's friend. Tear him!

_Nuncio._ Ye dare not! I stand here with my five-and-seventy years, The Patriarch's power behind me, God's above! Those years have witnessed sin enough; ere now Misguided men arose against their lords, And found excuse; but ye, to be enslaved By sorceries, cheats--alas! the same tricks, tried On my poor children in this nook o' the earth, Could triumph, that have been successively Exploded, laughed to scorn, all nations through: "_Romaioi, Ioudaioite kai proselutoi_, Cretes and Arabians,"--you are duped the last. Said I, refrain from tearing me? I pray ye Tear me! Shall I return to tell the Patriarch That so much love was wasted--every gift Rejected, from his benison I brought, Down to the galley-full of bezants, sunk An hour since at the harbor's mouth, by that ... That ... never will I speak his hated name! [_To his_ Servants.] What was the name his fellow slip-fetter Called their arch-wizard by? [_They whisper._] Oh, Djabal was't?

_Druses._ But how a sorcerer? false wherein?

_Nuncio._ (Ay, Djabal!) How false? Ye know not, Djabal has confessed ... Nay, that by tokens found on him we learn ... What I sailed hither solely to divulge-- How by his spells the demons were allured To seize you: not that these be aught save lies And mere illusions. Is this clear? I say, By measures such as these, he would have led you Into a monstrous ruin: follow ye? Say, shall ye perish for his sake, my sons?

_Druses._ Hark ye!

_Nuncio._ --Be of one privilege amerced? No! Infinite the Patriarch's mercies are! No! With the Patriarch's license, still I bid Tear him to pieces who misled you! Haste!

_Druses._ The old man's beard shakes, and his eyes are white fire! After all, I know nothing of Djabal beyond what Karshook says; he knows but what Khalil says, who knows just what Djabal says himself. Now, the little Copht Prophet, I saw at Cairo in my youth, began by promising each bystander three full measures of wheat ...

(_Enter_ KHALIL _and the initiated_ Druses.)

_Kha._ Venice and her deliverance are at hand: Their fleet stands through the harbor! Hath he slain The Prefect yet? Is Djabal's change come yet?

_Nuncio._ [_To_ Attendants.] What's this of Venice? Who's this boy? [Attendants _whisper_.] One Khalil? Djabal's accomplice, Loys called, but now, The only Druse, save Djabal's self, to fear? [_To the_ Druses.] I cannot hear ye with these aged ears; Is it so? Ye would have my troops assist? Doth he abet him in his sorceries? Down with the cheat, guards, as my children bid! [_They spring at_ KHALIL; _as he beats them back_. Stay! No more bloodshed! Spare deluded youth! Whom seek'st thou? (I will teach him)--whom, my child? Thou know'st not what these know, what these declare. I am an old man, as thou seest--have done With life; and what should move me but the truth? Art thou the only fond one of thy tribe? 'T is I interpret for thy tribe!

_Kha._ Oh, this Is the expected Nuncio! Druses, hear-- Endure ye this? Unworthy to partake The glory Hakeem gains you! While I speak, The ships touch land: who makes for Lebanon? They plant the wingèd lion in these halls!

_Nuncio._ [_Aside._] If it be true! Venice? Oh, never true! Yet Venice would so gladly thwart our Knights, So fain get footing here, stand close by Rhodes! Oh, to be duped this way!

_Kha._ Ere he appear And lead you gloriously, repent, I say!

_Nuncio._ [_Aside._] Nor any way to stretch the arch-wizard stark Ere the Venetians come? Cut off the head, The trunk were easily stilled. [_To the_ Druses.] He? Bring him forth! Since so you needs will have it, I assent! You 'd judge him, say you, on the spot?--confound The sorcerer in his very circle? Where 's Our short black-bearded sallow friend who swore He 'd earn the Patriarch's guerdon by one stab? Bring Djabal forth at once!

_Druses._ Ay, bring him forth! The Patriarch drives a trade in oil and silk, And we 're the Patriarch's children--true men, we! Where is the glory? Show us all the glory!

_Kha._ You dare not so insult him! What, not see ... (I tell thee, Nuncio, these are uninstructed, Untrusted--they know nothing of our Khalif!) --Not see that if he lets a doubt arise 'T is but to give yourselves the chance of seeming To have some influence in your own return! That all may say ye would have trusted him Without the all-convincing glory--ay, And did! Embrace the occasion, friends! For, think-- What wonder when his change takes place? But now For your sakes, he should not reveal himself. No--could I ask and have, I would not ask The change yet! (_Enter_ DJABAL _and_ LOYS.) Spite of all, reveal thyself! I had said, pardon them for me--for Anael-- For our sakes pardon these besotted men-- Ay, for thine own--they hurt not thee! Yet now One thought swells in me and keeps down all else. This Nuncio couples shame with thee, has called Imposture thy whole course, all bitter things Has said: he is but an old fretful man! Hakeem--nay, I must call thee Hakeem now-- Reveal thyself! See! Where is Anael? See!

_Loys._ [_To_ DJA.] Here are thy people! Keep thy word to me!

_Dja._ Who of my people hath accused me?

_Nuncio._ So! So this is Djabal, Hakeem, and what not? A fit deed, Loys, for thy first Knight's day! May it be augury of thy after-life! Ever prove truncheon of the Church as now That, Nuncio of the Patriarch, having charge Of the Isle here, I claim thee [_turning to_ DJA.] as these bid me, Forfeit for murder done thy lawful prince, Thou conjurer that peep'st and mutterest! Why should I hold thee from their hands? (Spells, children? But hear how I dispose of all his spells!) Thou art a prophet?--wouldst entice thy tribe From me?--thou workest miracles? (Attend! Let him but move me with his spells!) I, Nuncio ...

_Dja._ ... Which how thou camest to be, I say not now, Though I have also been at Stamboul, Luke! Ply thee with spells, forsooth! What need of spells? If Venice, in her Admiral's person, stoop To ratify thy compact with her foe, The Hospitallers, for this Isle--withdraw Her warrant of the deed which reinstates My people in their freedom, tricked away By him I slew,--refuse to convoy us To Lebanon and keep the Isle we leave-- Then will be time to try what spells can do! Dost thou dispute the Republic's power?

_Nuncio._ Lo ye! He tempts me too, the wily exorcist! No! The renowned Republic was and is The Patriarch's friend: 't is not for courting Venice That I--that these implore thy blood of me! Lo ye, the subtle miscreant! Ha, so subtle? Ye Druses, hear him! Will ye be deceived? How he evades me! Where 's the miracle He works? I bid him to the proof--fish up Your galley full of bezants that he sank! That were a miracle! One miracle! Enough of trifling, for it chafes my years. I am the Nuncio, Druses! I stand forth To save you from the good Republic's rage When she shall find her fleet was summoned here To aid the mummeries of a knave like this! [_As the_ Druses _hesitate, his_ Attendants _whisper._ Ah, well suggested! Why, we hold the while One who, his close confederate till now, Confesses Diabal at the last a cheat, And every miracle a cheat! Who throws me His head? I make three offers, once I offer,-- And twice ...

_Dja._ Let who moves perish at my foot!

_Kha._ Thanks, Hakeem, thanks! Oh, Anael, Maani, Why tarry they?

_Druses._ [_To each other._] He can! He can! Live fire-- [_To the_ NUNCIO.] I say he can, old man! Thou know'st him not. Live fire like that thou seest now in his eyes, Plays fawning round him. See! The change begins! All the brow lightens as he lifts his arm! Look not at me! It was not I!

_Dja._ What Druse Accused me, as he saith? I bid each bone Crumble within that Druse! None, Loys, none Of my own people, as thou said'st, have raised A voice against me.

_Nuncio._ [_Aside._] Venice to come! Death!

_Dja._ [_Continuing._] Confess and go unscathed, however false! Seest thou my Druses, Luke? I would submit To thy pure malice did one Druse confess! How said I, Loys?

_Nuncio._ [_To his_ Attendants _who whisper._] Ah, ye counsel so? [_Aloud._] Bring in the witness, then, who, first of all, Disclosed the treason! Now I have thee, wizard! Ye hear that? If one speaks, he bids you tear him Joint after joint: well then, one does speak! One, Befooled by Djabal, even as yourselves, But who hath voluntarily proposed To expiate, by confessing thus, the fault Of having trusted him. [_They bring in a veiled_ Druse.

_Loys._ Now, Djabal, now!

_Nuncio._ Friend, Djabal fronts thee! Make a ring, sons. Speak! Expose this Djabal--what he was, and how; The wiles he used, the aims he cherished; all, Explicitly as late 't was spoken to these My servants: I absolve and pardon thee.

_Loys._ Thou hast the dagger ready, Djabal?

_Dja._ Speak, Recreant!

_Druses._ Stand back, fool! farther! Suddenly You shall see some huge serpent glide from under The empty vest, or down will thunder crash! Back, Khalil!

_Kha._ I go back? Thus go I back! [_To_ AN.] Unveil! Nay, thou shalt face the Khalif! Thus!

[_He tears away_ ANAEL'S _veil;_ DJABAL _folds his arms and bows his head; the_ Druses _fall back;_ LOYS _springs from the side of_ DJABAL _and the_ NUNCIO.

_Loys._ Then she was true--she only of them all! True to her eyes--may keep those glorious eyes, And now be mine, once again mine! Oh, Anael! Dared I think thee a partner in his crime-- That blood could soil that hand? nay, 't is mine--Anael, --Not mine?--Who offer thee before all these My heart, my sword, my name--so thou wilt say That Djabal, who affirms thou art his bride, Lies--say but that he lies!

_Dja._ Thou, Anael?

_Loys._ Nay, Djabal, nay, one chance for me--the last! Thou hast had every other; thou hast spoken Days, nights, what falsehood listed thee--let me Speak first now; I will speak now!

_Nuncio._ Loys, pause! Thou art the Duke's son, Bretagne's choicest stock, Loys of Dreux, God's sepulchre's first sword: This wilt thou spit on, this degrade, this trample To earth?

_Loys._ [_To_ AN.] Who had foreseen that one day, Loys Would stake these gifts against some other good In the whole world? I give them thee! I would My strong will might bestow real shape on them, That I might see, with my own eyes, thy foot Tread on their very neck! 'T is not by gifts I put aside this Djabal: we will stand-- We do stand, see, two men! Djabal, stand forth! Who's worth her, I or thou? I--who for Anael Uprightly, purely kept my way, the long True way--left thee each by-path, boldly lived Without the lies and blood,--or thou, or thou? Me! love me, Anael! Leave the blood and him! [_To_ DJA.] Now speak--now, quick on this that I have said,-- Thou with the blood, speak if thou art a man!

_Dja._ [_To_ AN.] And was it thou betrayedst me? 'T is well! I have deserved this of thee, and submit. Nor 't is much evil thou inflictest: life Ends here. The cedars shall not wave for us: For there was crime, and must be punishment. See fate! By thee I was seduced, by thee I perish: yet do I--can I repent? I with my Arab instinct, thwarted ever By my Frank policy,--and with, in turn, My Frank brain, thwarted by my Arab heart-- While these remained in equipoise, I lived --Nothing; had either been predominant, As a Frank schemer or an Arab mystic, I had been something;--now, each has destroyed The other--and behold, from out their crash, A third and better nature rises up-- My mere man's-nature! And I yield to it: I love thee, I who did not love before!

_An._ Djabal!

_Dja._ It seemed love, but it was not love: How could I love while thou adoredst me? Now thou despisest, art above me so Immeasurably! Thou, no other, doomest My death now; this my steel shall execute Thy judgment; I shall feel thy hand in it! Oh, luxury to worship, to submit, Transcended, doomed to death by thee!

_An._ My Djabal!

_Dja._ Dost hesitate? I force thee then! Approach, Druses! for I am out of reach of fate; No further evil waits me. Speak the doom! Hear, Druses, and hear, Nuncio, and hear, Loys!

_An._ HAKEEM! [_She falls dead._

[_The_ DRUSES _scream, grovelling before him_.

_Druses._ Ah, Hakeem!--not on me thy wrath! Biamrallah, pardon! never doubted I! Ha, dog, how sayest thou?

[_They surround and seize the_ NUNCIO _and his_ Guards. LOYS _flings himself upon the body of_ ANAEL, _on which_ DJABAL _continues to gaze as stupefied_.

_Nuncio._ Caitiffs! Have ye eyes? Whips, racks should teach you! What, his fools? his dupes? Leave me! unhand me!

_Kha._ [_Approaching_ DJABAL _timidly_.] Save her for my sake! She was already thine; she would have shared To-day thine exaltation: think, this day Her hair was plaited thus because of thee! Yes, feel the soft bright hair--feel!

_Nuncio._ [_Struggling with those who have seized him._] What, because His leman dies for him? You think it hard To die? Oh, would you were at Rhodes, and choice Of deaths should suit you!

_Kha._ [_Bending over_ ANAEL'S _body_.] Just restore her life! So little does it! there--the eyelids tremble! 'T was not my breath that made them: and the lips Move of themselves. I could restore her life! Hakeem, we have forgotten--have presumed On our free converse: we are better taught. See, I kiss--how I kiss thy garment's hem For her! She kisses it--Oh, take her deed In mine! Thou dost believe now, Anael?--See, She smiles! Were her lips open o'er the teeth Thus, when I spoke first? She believes in thee! Go not without her to the cedars, lord! Or leave us both--I cannot go alone! I have obeyed thee, if I dare so speak: Hath Hakeem thus forgot all Djabal knew? Thou feelest then my tears fall hot and fast Upon thy hand, and yet thou speakest not? Ere the Venetian trumpet sound--ere thou Exalt thyself, O Hakeem! save thou her!

_Nuncio._ And the accursed Republic will arrive And find me in their toils--dead, very like, Under their feet! What way--not one way yet To foil them? None? [_Observing_ DJABAL'S _face_.] What ails the Khalif? Ah, That ghastly face! A way to foil them yet! [_To the_ Druses.] Look to your Khalif, Druses! Is that face God Hakeem's? Where is triumph,--where is ... what Said he of exaltation--hath he promised So much to-day? Why then, exalt thyself! Cast off that husk, thy form, set free thy soul In splendor! Now, bear witness! here I stand-- I challenge him exalt himself, and I Become, for that, a Druse like all of you!

_The Druses._ Exalt thyself! Exalt thyself, O Hakeem!

_Dja._ [_Advances._] I can confess now all from first to last. There is no longer shame for me. I am ...

[_Here the Venetian trumpet sounds: the_ Druses _shout_, DJABAL'S _eye catches the expression of those about him, and, as the old dream comes back, he is again confident and inspired_.

--Am I not Hakeem? And ye would have crawled But yesterday within these impure courts Where now ye stand erect! Not grand enough? --What more could be conceded to such beasts As all of you, so sunk and base as you, Than a mere man? A man among such beasts Was miracle enough: yet him you doubt, Him you forsake, him fain would you destroy-- With the Venetians at your gate, the Nuncio Thus--(see the baffled hypocrite!) and, best, The Prefect there!

_Druses._ No, Hakeem, ever thine!

_Nuncio._ He lies--and twice he lies--and thrice he lies! Exalt thyself, Mahound! Exalt thyself!

_Dja._ Druses! we shall henceforth be far away-- Out of mere mortal ken--above the cedars-- But we shall see ye go, hear ye return, Repeopling the old solitudes,--through thee, My Khalil! Thou art full of me: I fill Thee full--my hands thus fill thee! Yester-eve, --Nay, but this morn, I deemed thee ignorant Of all to do, requiring word of mine To teach it: now, thou hast all gifts in one, With truth and purity go other gifts, All gifts come clustering to that. Go, lead My people home whate'er betide! [_Turning to the_ Druses.] Ye take This Khalil for my delegate? To him Bow as to me? He leads to Lebanon-- Ye follow?

_Druses._ We follow! Now exalt thyself!

_Dja._ [_Raises_ LOYS.] Then to thee, Loys! How I wronged thee, Loys! Yet, wronged, no less thou shalt have full revenge, Fit for thy noble self, revenge--and thus. Thou, loaded with such wrongs, the princely soul, The first sword of Christ's sepulchre--thou shalt Guard Khalil and my Druses home again! Justice, no less, God's justice and no more, For those I leave!--to seeking this, devote Some few days out of thy Knight's brilliant life: And, this obtained them, leave their Lebanon, My Druses' blessing in thine ears--(they shall Bless thee with blessing sure to have its way) --One cedar-blossom in thy ducal cap, One thought of Anael in thy heart,--perchance, One thought of him who thus, to bid thee speed, His last word to the living speaks! This done, Resume thy course, and, first amidst the first In Europe, take my heart along with thee! Go boldly, go serenely, go augustly-- What shall withstand thee then? [_He bends over_ ANAEL.] And last to thee! Ah, did I dream I was to have, this day, Exalted thee? A vain dream: hast thou not Won greater exaltation? What remains But press to thee, exalt myself to thee? Thus I exalt myself, set free my soul!

[_He stabs himself. As he falls, supported by_ KHALIL _and_ LOYS, _the_ VENETIANS _enter; the_ ADMIRAL _advances_.

_Admiral._ God and St. Mark for Venice! Plant the Lion!

[_At the clash of the planted standard, the_ Druses _shout, and move tumultuously forward_, LOYS _drawing his sword_.

_Dja._ [_Leading them a few steps between_ KHALIL _and_ LOYS.] On to the Mountain! At the Mountain, Druses! [_Dies._

A BLOT IN THE 'SCUTCHEON

A TRAGEDY

This play was written in 1843 at the request of Macready, and very rapidly, in four or five days. A misunderstanding with Macready, fully related in Mrs. Orr's _Life and Letters of Robert Browning_, I. 168-184, and in Mr. Gosse's _Personalia_, led to a breach between the two friends.

The play was received with great applause, but circumstances prevented it from being kept on the boards. It has, however, been reproduced both in England and in America, near the close of Browning's life and after his death. Helen Faucit, afterward Lady Martin, took the part of Mildred. The play was printed shortly after it first appeared, as No. V. of _Bells and Pomegranates_.

PERSONS

MILDRED TRESHAM. GUENDOLEN TRESHAM. THOROLD, Earl Tresham. AUSTIN TRESHAM. HENRY, Earl Mertoun. GERARD, and other Retainers of Lord Tresham.

TIME, 17--

## ACT I

## SCENE I. _The interior of a lodge in_ LORD TRESHAM'S _park. Many_

Retainers _crowded at the window, supposed to command a view of the entrance to his mansion._ GERARD, _the Warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons, etc_.

_1st Retainer._ Ay, do! push, friends, and then you 'll push down me! --What for? Does any hear a runner's foot Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry? Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant? But there's no breeding in a man of you Save Gerard yonder: here 's a half-place yet, Old Gerard!

_Gerard._ Save your courtesies, my friend. Here is my place.

_2d Ret._ Now, Gerard, out with it! What makes you sullen, this of all the days I' the year? To-day that young rich bountiful Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match With our Lord Tresham through the countryside, Is coming here in utmost bravery To ask our master's sister's hand?

_Ger._ What then?

_2d Ret._ What then? Why, you, she speaks to, if she meets Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart The boughs to let her through her forest walks, You, always favorite for your no-deserts, You 've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun sues To lay his heart and house and broad lands too At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeeze Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss One congee of the least page in his train, You sit o' one side--"there 's the Earl," say I-- "What then?" say you!

_3d Ret._ I 'll wager he has let Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred swim Over the falls and gain the river!

_Ger._ Ralph, Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day For you and for your hawks?

_4th Ret._ Let Gerard be! He 's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock. Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look! Well done, now--is not this beginning, now, To purpose?

_1st Ret._ Our retainers look as fine-- That 's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himself With his white staff! Will not a knave behind Prick him upright?

_4th Ret._ He's only bowing, fool! The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.

_1st Ret._ That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade!

_3d Ret._ I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop Of silk and silver varlets there, should find Their perfumed selves so indispensable On high days, holidays! Would it so disgrace Our family, if I, for instance, stood-- In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks, A leash of greyhounds in my left?--

_Ger._ --With Hugh The logman for supporter, in his right The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears!

_3d Ret._ Out on you, crab! What next, what next? The Earl!

_1st Ret._ Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they match The Earl's? Alas, that first pair of the six-- They paw the ground--Ah, Walter! and that brute Just on his haunches by the wheel!

_6th Ret._ Ay--Ay! You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear, At soups and sauces: what 's a horse to you? D' ye mark that beast they 've slid into the midst So cunningly?--then, Philip, mark this further; No leg has he to stand on!

_1st Ret._ No? That's comfort.

_2d Ret._ Peace, Cook! The Earl descends.--Well, Gerard, see The Earl at least! Come, there 's a proper man, I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede, Has got a starrier eye.

_3d Ret._ His eyes are blue-- But leave my hawks alone!

_4th Ret._ So young, and yet So tall and shapely!

_5th Ret._ Here 's Lord Tresham's self! There now--there 's what a nobleman should be! He's older, graver, loftier, he's more like A House's head!

_2d Ret._ But you 'd not have a boy --And what's the Earl beside?--possess too soon That stateliness?

_1st Ret._ Our master takes his hand-- Richard and his white staff are on the move-- Back fall our people--(tsh!--there 's Timothy Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties, And Peter's cursed rosette 's a-coming off!) --At last I see our lord's back and his friend's; And the whole beautiful bright company Close round them: in they go! [_Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for the table and its jugs._] Good health, long life Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House!

_6th Ret._ My father drove his father first to court, After his marriage-day--ay, did he!

_2nd Ret._ God bless Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl! Here, Gerard, reach your beaker!

_Ger._ Drink, my boys! Don't mind me--all 's not right about me--drink!

_2d Ret._ [_Aside._] He 's vexed, now, that he let the show escape! [_To_ GER.] Remember that the Earl returns this way.

_Ger._ That way?

_2d Ret._ Just so.

_Ger._ Then my way 's here. [_Goes._

_2d Ret._ Old Gerard Will die soon--mind, I said it! He was used To care about the pitifullest thing That touched the House's honor, not an eye But his could see wherein: and on a cause Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong, Such point decorous, and such square by rule-- He knew such niceties, no herald more: And now--you see his humor: die he will!

_2d Ret._ God help him! Who's for the great servants'-hall To hear what's going on inside? They'd follow Lord Tresham into the saloon.

_3d Ret._ I!--

_4th Ret._ I!-- Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door, Some hint of how the parley goes inside! Prosperity to the great House once more! Here's the last drop!

_1st Ret._ Have at you! Boys, hurrah!

## SCENE II. _A saloon in the Mansion._

_Enter_ LORD TRESHAM, LORD MERTOUN, AUSTIN, _and_ GUENDOLEN.

_Tresham._ I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more, To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name --Noble among the noblest in itself, Yet taking in your person, fame avers, New price and lustre,--(as that gem you wear, Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts, Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord, Seems to rekindle at the core)--your name Would win you welcome!

_Mertoun._ Thanks!

_Tresh._ --But add to that, The worthiness and grace and dignity Of your proposal for uniting both Our Houses even closer than respect Unites them now--add these, and you must grant One favor more, nor that the least,--to think The welcome I should give;--'t is given! My lord, My only brother, Austin--he 's the king's. Our cousin, Lady Guendolen--betrothed To Austin: all are yours.

_Mer._ I thank you--less For the expressed commendings which your seal, And only that, authenticates--forbids My putting from me ... to my heart I take Your praise ... but praise less claims my gratitude, Than the indulgent insight it implies Of what must needs be uppermost with one Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask, In weighed and measured unimpassioned words, A gift, which, if as calmly 't is denied, He must withdraw, content upon his cheek, Despair within his soul. That I dare ask Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham, I love your sister--as you 'd have one love That lady ... oh more, more I love her! Wealth, Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know, To hold or part with, at your choice--but grant My true self, me without a rood of land, A piece of gold, a name of yesterday, Grant me that lady, and you ... Death or life?

_Guendolen._ [_Apart to_ AUS.] Why, this is loving, Austin!

_Austin._ He 's so young!

_Guen._ Young? Old enough, I think, to half surmise He never had obtained an entrance here, Were all this fear and trembling needed.

_Aus._ Hush! He reddens.

_Guen._ Mark him, Austin; that 's true love! Ours must begin again.

_Tresh._ We 'll sit, my lord. Ever with best desert goes diffidence. I may speak plainly nor be misconceived. That I am wholly satisfied with you On this occasion, when a falcon's eye Were dull compared with mine to search out faults, Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give Or to refuse.

_Mer._ But you, you grant my suit? I have your word if hers?

_Tresh._ My best of words If hers encourage you. I trust it will. Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way?

_Mer._ I ... I ... our two demesnes, remember, touch; I have been used to wander carelessly After my stricken game: the heron roused Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing Through thicks and glades a mile in yours,--or else Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight And lured me after her from tree to tree, I marked not whither. I have come upon The lady's wondrous beauty unaware, And--and then ... I have seen her.

_Guen._ [_Aside to_ AUS.] Note that mode Of faltering out that, when a lady passed, He, having eyes, did see her! You had said-- "On such a day I scanned her, head to foot; Observed a red, where red should not have been, Outside her elbow; but was pleased enough Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk Be lessoned for the future!

_Tresh._ What 's to say May be said briefly. She has never known A mother's care; I stand for father too. Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems-- You cannot know the good and tender heart, Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy, How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind, How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free As light where friends are--how imbued with lore The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet The ... one might know I talked of Mildred--thus We brothers talk!

_Mer._ I thank you.

_Tresh._ In a word, Control 's not for this lady; but her wish To please me outstrips in its subtlety My power of being pleased: herself creates The want she means to satisfy. My heart Prefers your suit to her as 't were its own. Can I say more?

_Mer._ No more--thanks, thanks--no more!

_Tresh._ This matter then discussed ...

_Mer._ --We 'll waste no breath On aught less precious. I 'm beneath the roof Which holds her: while I thought of that, my speech To you would wander--as it must not do, Since as you favor me I stand or fall. I pray you suffer that I take my leave!

_Tresh._ With less regret 't is suffered, that again We meet, I hope, so shortly.

_Mer._ We? again?-- Ah yes, forgive me--when shall ... you will crown Your goodness by forthwith apprising me When ... if ... the lady will appoint a day For me to wait on you--and her.

_Tresh._ So soon As I am made acquainted with her thoughts On your proposal--howsoe'er they lean-- A messenger shall bring you the result.

_Mer._ You cannot bind me more to you, my lord. Farewell till we renew ... I trust, renew A converse ne'er to disunite again.

_Tresh._ So may it prove!

_Mer._ You, lady, you, sir, take My humble salutation!

_Guen. and Aus._ Thanks!

_Tresh._ Within there!

(Servants _enter_. TRESHAM _conducts_ MERTOUN _to the door. Meantime_ AUSTIN _remarks_)

Well, Here I have an advantage of the Earl, Confess now! I 'd not think that all was safe Because my lady's brother stood my friend! Why, he makes sure of her--"do you say, yes-- She 'll not say, no,"--what comes it to beside? I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech, For Heaven's sake urge this on her--put in this-- Forget not, as you 'd save me, t' other thing,-- Then set down what she says, and how she looks, And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath) "Only let her accept me, and do you And all the world refuse me, if you dare!"

_Guen._ That way you'd take, friend Austin? What a shame I was your cousin, tamely from the first Your bride, and all this fervor's run to waste! Do you know you speak sensibly to-day? The Earl's a fool.

_Aus._ Here's Thorold. Tell him so!

_Tresh._ [_Returning._] Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady 's first! How seems he?--seems he not ... come, faith give fraud The mercy-stroke whenever they engage! Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl? A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth, As you will never! come--the Earl?

_Guen._ He 's young.

_Tresh._ What 's she? an infant save in heart and brain. Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you ... Austin, how old is she?

_Guen._ There 's tact for you! I meant that being young was good excuse If one should tax him ...

_Tresh._ Well?

_Guen._ --With lacking wit.

_Tresh._ He lacked wit? Where might he lack wit, so please you?

_Guen._ In standing straighter than the steward's rod And making you the tiresomest harangue, Instead of slipping over to my side And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady, Your cousin there will do me detriment He little dreams of: he 's absorbed, I see, In my old name and fame--be sure he 'll leave My Mildred, when his best account of me Is ended, in full confidence I wear My grandsire's periwig down either cheek. I 'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes" ...

_Tresh._ ... "To give a best of best accounts, yourself, Of me and my demerits." You are right! He should have said what now I say for him. You golden creature, will you help us all? Here 's Austin means to vouch for much, but you --You are ... what Austin only knows! Come up, All three of us: she 's in the library No doubt, for the day 's wearing fast. Precede!

_Guen._ Austin, how we must--!

_Tresh._ Must what? Must speak truth, Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him! I challenge you!

_Guen._ Witchcraft 's a fault in him, For you 're bewitched.

_Tresh._ What 's urgent we obtain Is, that she soon receive him--say, to-morrow-- Next day at furthest.

_Guen._ Ne'er instruct me!

_Tresh._ Come! --He 's out of your good graces, since forsooth, He stood not as he 'd carry us by storm With his perfections! You 're for the composed Manly assured becoming confidence! --Get her to say, "To-morrow," and I'll give you ... I 'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled With petting and snail-paces. Will you? Come!

## SCENE III. MILDRED'S _Chamber. A painted window overlooks the Park._

MILDRED _and_ GUENDOLEN.

_Guen._ Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left Our talkers in the library, and climbed The wearisome ascent to this your bower In company with you,--I have not dared ... Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood, Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell --Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most Firm-rooted heresy--your suitor's eyes, He would maintain, were gray instead of blue-- I think I brought him to contrition!--Well, I have not done such things, (all to deserve A minute's quiet cousins' talk with you,) To be dismissed so coolly!

_Mildred_. Guendolen! What have I done? what could suggest ...

_Guen._ There, there! Do I not comprehend you 'd be alone To throw those testimonies in a heap, Thorold's enlargings, Austin's brevities, With that poor silly heartless Guendolen's Ill-timed misplaced attempted smartnesses-- And sift their sense out? now, I come to spare you Nearly a whole night's labor. Ask and have! Demand, be answered! Lack I ears and eyes? Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table The Conqueror dined on when he landed first, Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take-- The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed? Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes!

_Mil._ My brother-- Did he ... you said that he received him well?

_Guen._ If I said only "well" I said not much. Oh, stay--which brother?

_Mil._ Thorold! who--who else?

_Guen._ Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,-- Nay, hear me out--with us he 's even gentler Than we are with our birds. Of this great House The least retainer that e'er caught his glance Would die for him, real dying--no mere talk: And in the world, the court, if men would cite The perfect spirit of honor, Thorold's name Rises of its clear nature to their lips. But he should take men's homage, trust in it, And care no more about what drew it down. He has desert, and that, acknowledgment; Is he content?

_Mil._ You wrong him, Guendolen.

_Guen._ He 's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er The light of his interminable line, An ancestry with men all paladins, And women all ...

_Mil._ Dear Guendolen, 't is late! When yonder purple pane the climbing moon Pierces, I know 't is midnight.

_Guen._ Well, that Thorold Should rise up from such musings, and receive One come audaciously to graft himself Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw, No slightest spot in such an one ...

_Mil._ Who finds A spot in Mertoun?

_Guen._ Not your brother; therefore, Not the whole world.

_Mil._ I am weary, Guendolen. Bear with me!

_Guen._ I am foolish.

_Mil._ Oh no, kind! But I would rest.

_Guen._ Good night and rest to you! I said how gracefully his mantle lay Beneath the rings of his light hair?

_Mil._ Brown hair.

_Guen._ Brown? why, it _is_ brown: how could you know that?

_Mil._ How? did not you--Oh, Austin 't was declared His hair was light, not brown--my head!--and look, The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! Sweet, Good night!

_Guen._ Forgive me--sleep the soundlier for me! [_Going, she turns suddenly._ Mildred! Perdition! all 's discovered! Thorold finds --That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers Was grander daughter still--to that fair dame Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance! [_Goes._

_Mil._ Is she--can she be really gone at last? My heart! I shall not reach the window. Needs Must I have sinned much, so to suffer!

_She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin's image in the window, and places it by the purple pane._

There! [_She returns to the seat in front._ Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with consent Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's bride! Too late! 'T is sweet to think of, sweeter still To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up The curse of the beginning; but I know It comes too late: 't will sweetest be of all To dream my soul away and die upon. [_A noise without._ The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the snake Into the paradise Heaven meant us both? [_The window opens softly. A low voice sings._

_There 's a woman like a dew-drop, she 's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith 's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!_

[_A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window._

_And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!" And I who--(ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her--_

[_He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her._

_I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!_

[_The_ EARL _throws off his slouched hat and long cloak_.

My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved!

_Mil._ Sit, Henry--do not take my hand!

_Mer._ 'T is mine. The meeting that appalled us both so much Is ended.

_Mil._ What begins now?

_Mer._ Happiness Such as the world contains not.

_Mil._ That is it. Our happiness would, as you say, exceed The whole world's best of blisses: we--do we Deserve that? Utter to your soul, what mine Long since, Beloved, has grown used to hear, Like a death-knell, so much regarded once, And so familiar now; this will not be!

_Mer._ Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's face? Compelled myself--if not to speak untruth, Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside The truth, as--what had e'er prevailed on me Save you, to venture? Have I gained at last Your brother, the one scarer of your dreams, And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too? Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break On the strange unrest of our night, confused With rain and stormy flaw--and will you see No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops On each live spray, no vapor steaming up, And no expressless glory in the East? When I am by you, to be ever by you, When I have won you and may worship you, Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will not be"?

_Mil._ Sin has surprised us, so will punishment.

_Mer._ No--me alone, who sinned alone!

_Mil._ The night You likened our past life to--was it storm Throughout to you then, Henry?

_Mer._ Of your life I spoke--what am I, what my life, to waste A thought about when you are by me?--you It was, I said my folly called the storm And pulled the night upon. 'T was day with me-- Perpetual dawn with me.

_Mil._ Come what come will, You have been happy; take my hand!

_Mer._ [_After a pause._] How good Your brother is! I figured him a cold-- Shall I say, haughty man?

_Mil._ They told me all. I know all.

_Mer._ It will soon be over.

_Mil._ Over? Oh, what is over? what must I live through And say, "'t is over"? Is our meeting over? Have I received in presence of them all The partner of my guilty love--with brow Trying to seem a maiden's brow--with lips Which make believe that when they strive to form Replies to you and tremble as they strive, It is the nearest ever they approached A stranger's ... Henry, yours that stranger's ... lip-- With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is ... Ah God, some prodigy of thine will stop This planned piece of deliberate wickedness In its birth even! some fierce leprous spot Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart, But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story, The love, the shame, and the despair--with them Round me aghast as round some cursed fount That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not ... Henry, you do not wish that I should draw This vengeance down? I 'll not affect a grace That 's gone from me--gone once, and gone forever!

_Mer._ Mildred, my honor is your own. I 'll share Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself. A word informs your brother I retract This morning's offer; time will yet bring forth Some better way of saving both of us.

_Mil._ I'll meet their faces, Henry!

_Mer._ When? to-morrow! Get done with it!

_Mil._ Oh, Henry, not to-morrow! Next day! I never shall prepare my words And looks and gestures sooner.--How you must Despise me!

_Mer._ Mildred, break it if you choose, A heart the love of you uplifted--still Uplifts, through this protracted agony, To heaven! but, Mildred, answer me,--first pace The chamber with me--once again--now, say Calmly the part, the ... what it is of me You see contempt (for you did say contempt) --Contempt for you in! I would pluck it off And cast it from me!--but no--no, you 'll not Repeat that?--will you, Mildred, repeat that?

_Mil._ Dear Henry!

_Mer._ I was scarce a boy--e'en now What am I more? And you were infantine When first I met you; why, your hair fell loose On either side! My fool's-cheek reddens now Only in the recalling how it burned That morn to see the shape of many a dream --You know we boys are prodigal of charms To her we dream of--I had heard of one, Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her, Might speak to her, might live and die her own, Who knew? I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel you not That now, while I remember every glance Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test And weigh them in the diamond scales of pride, Resolved the treasure of a first and last Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth, --That now I think upon your purity And utter ignorance of guilt--your own Or other's guilt--the girlish undisguised Delight at a strange novel prize--(I talk A silly language, but interpret, you!) If I, with fancy at its full, and reason Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy, If you had pity on my passion, pity On my protested sickness of the soul To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch Your eyelids and the eyes beneath--if you Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts-- If I grew mad at last with enterprise And must behold my beauty in her bower Or perish--(I was ignorant of even My own desires--what then were you?) if sorrow-- Sin--if the end came--must I now renounce My reason, blind myself to light, say truth Is false and lie to God and my own soul? Contempt were all of this!

_Mil._ Do you believe ... Or, Henry, I 'll not wrong you--you believe That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er The past! We 'll love on; you will love me still!

_Mer._ Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove, Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast-- Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength? Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee? Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device! Mildred, I love you and you love me!

_Mil._ Go! Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night.

_Mer._ This is not our last meeting?

_Mil._ One night more.

_Mer._ And then--think, then!

_Mil._ Then, no sweet courtship-days, No dawning consciousness of love for us, No strange and palpitating births of sense From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes, Reserves and confidences: morning's over!

_Mer._ How else should love's perfected noontide follow? All the dawn promised shall the day perform.

_Mil._ So may it be! but-- You are cautious, Love? Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls?

_Mer._ Oh, trust me! Then our final meeting 's fixed To-morrow night?

_Mil._ Farewell! Stay, Henry ... wherefore? His foot is on the yew-tree bough: the turf Receives him: now the moonlight as he runs Embraces him--but he must go--is gone. Ah, once again he turns--thanks, thanks, my Love! He's gone. Oh, I 'll believe him every word! I was so young, I loved him so, I had No mother, God forgot me, and I fell. There may be pardon yet: all 's doubt beyond. Surely the bitterness of death is past!

## ACT II

SCENE. _The Library._

_Enter_ LORD TRESHAM, _hastily_.

_Tresh._ This way! In, Gerard, quick!

[_As_ GERARD _enters_, TRESHAM _secures the door_.

Now speak! or, wait-- I'll bid you speak directly. [_Seats himself._ Now repeat Firmly and circumstantially the tale You just now told me; it eludes me; either I did not listen, or the half is gone Away from me. How long have you lived here? Here in my house, your father kept our woods Before you?

_Ger._ --As his father did, my lord. I have been eating, sixty years almost, Your bread.

_Tresh._ Yes, yes. You ever were of all The servant in my father's house, I know, The trusted one. You'll speak the truth.

_Ger._ I 'll speak God's truth. Night after night ...

_Tresh._ Since when?

_Ger._ At least A month--each midnight has some man access To Lady Mildred's chamber.

_Tresh._ Tush, "access"-- No wide words like "access" to me!

_Ger._ He runs Along the woodside, crosses to the south, Takes the left tree that ends the avenue ...

_Tresh._ The last great yew-tree?

_Ger._ You might stand upon The main boughs like a platform. Then he ...

_Tresh._ Quick!

_Ger._ Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top, --I cannot see distinctly, but he throws, I think--for this I do not vouch--a line That reaches to the lady's casement--

_Tresh._ --Which He enters not! Gerard, some wretched fool Dares pry into my sister's privacy! When such are young, it seems a precious thing To have approached,--to merely have approached, Got sight of, the abode of her they set Their frantic thoughts upon! He does not enter? Gerard?

_Ger._ There is a lamp that 's full i' the midst, Under a red square in the painted glass Of Lady Mildred's ...

_Tresh._ Leave that name out! Well? That lamp?

_Ger._ --Is moved at midnight higher up To one pane--a small dark-blue pane: he waits For that among the boughs: at sight of that, I see him, plain as I see you, my lord, Open the lady's casement, enter there ...

_Tresh._ --And stay?

_Ger._ An hour, two hours.

_Tresh._ And this you saw Once?--twice?--quick!

_Ger._ Twenty times.

_Tresh._ And what brings you Under the yew-trees?

_Ger._ The first night I left My range so far, to track the stranger stag That broke the pale, I saw the man.

_Tresh._ Yet sent No cross-bow shaft through the marauder?

_Ger._ But He came, my lord, the first time he was seen, In a great moonlight, light as any day, _From_ Lady Mildred's chamber.

_Tresh._ [_After a pause._] You have no cause --Who could have cause to do my sister wrong?

_Ger._ Oh, my lord, only once--let me this once Speak what is on my mind! Since first I noted All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net Plucked me this way and that--fire if I turned To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire If down I flung myself and strove to die. The lady could not have been seven years old When I was trusted to conduct her safe Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand Within a month. She ever had a smile To greet me with--she ... if it could undo What's done, to lop each limb from off this trunk ... All that is foolish talk, not fit for you-- I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt For Heaven's compelling. But when I was fixed To hold my peace, each morsel of your food Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too, Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts What it behoved me do. This morn it seemed Either I must confess to you, or die: Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm That crawls, to have betrayed my lady!

_Tresh._ No-- No, Gerard!

_Ger._ Let me go!

_Tresh._ A man, you say: What man? Young? Not a vulgar hind? What dress?

_Ger._ A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak Wraps his whole form; even his face is hid; But I should judge him young: no hind, be sure!

_Tresh._ Why?

_Ger._ He is ever armed: his sword projects Beneath the cloak.

_Tresh._ Gerard,--I will not say No word, no breath of this!

_Ger._ Thanks, thanks, my lord! [_Goes._

TRESHAM _paces the room. After a pause,_

Oh, thought's absurd!--as with some monstrous fact Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give Merciful God that made the sun and stars. The waters and the green delights of earth, The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact-- Yet know the maker of all worlds is good, And yield my reason up inadequate To reconcile what yet I do behold-- Blasting my sense! There's cheerful day outside: This is my library, and this the chair My father used to sit in carelessly After his soldier-fashion, while I stood Between his knees to question him: and here Gerard our gray retainer,--as he says, Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age-- Has told a story--I am to believe! That Mildred ... oh, no, no! both tales are true, Her pure cheek's story and the forester's! Would she, or could she, err--much less, confound All guilts of treachery, of craft, of ... Heaven Keep me within its hand!--I will sit here Until thought settle and I see my course. Avert, O God, only this woe from me!

[_As he sinks his head between his arms on the table_, GWENDOLEN'S _voice is heard at the door._

Lord Tresham! [_She knocks._] Is Lord Tresham there?

[TRESHAM, _hastily turning, pulls down the first book above him and opens it._

_Tresh._ Come in! [_She enters._ Ha, Guendolen!--good morning.

_Guen._ Nothing more?

_Tresh._ What should I say more?

_Guen._ Pleasant question! more? This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain Last night till close on morning with "the Earl," "The Earl"--whose worth did I asseverate Till I am very fain to hope that ... Thorold, What is all this? You are not well!

_Tresh._ Who, I? You laugh at me.

_Guen._ Has what I'm fain to hope, Arrived then? Does that huge tome show some blot In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back Than Arthur's time?

_Tresh._ When left you Mildred's chamber?

_Guen._ Oh, late enough, I told you! The main thing To ask is, how I left her chamber,--sure, Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon Of Earls no such ungracious ...

_Tresh._ Send her here!

_Guen._ Thorold?

_Tresh._ I mean--acquaint her, Guendolen, --But mildly!

_Guen._ Mildly?

_Tresh._ Ah, you guessed aright! I am not well: there is no hiding it. But tell her I would see her at her leisure-- That is, at once! here in the library! The passage in that old Italian book We hunted for so long is found, say, found-- And if I let it slip again ... you see, That she must come--and instantly!

_Guen._ I'll die Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed Some blot i' the 'scutcheon!

_Tresh._ Go! or, Guendolen, Be you at call,--with Austin, if you choose,-- In the adjoining gallery! There, go: [GUENDOLEN _goes_. Another lesson to me! You might bid A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct Some sly investigation point by point With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch The inquisitorial cleverness some praise! If you had told me yesterday, "There's one You needs must circumvent and practise with, Entrap by policies, if you would worm The truth out: and that one is--Mildred!" There, There--reasoning is thrown away on it! Prove she's unchaste ... why, you may after prove That she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will! Where I can comprehend naught, naught's to say, Or do, or think! Force on me but the first Abomination,--then outpour all plagues, And I shall ne'er make count of them!

(_Enter_ MILDRED.)

_Mil._. What book Is it I wanted, Thorold? Guendolen Thought you were pale; you are not pale. That book? That's Latin surely.

_Tresh.._ Mildred, here's a line, (Don't lean on me: I'll English it for you) "Love conquers all things." What love conquers them? What love should you esteem--best love?

_Mil._ True love.

_Tresh._ I mean, and should have said, whose love is best Of all that love or that profess to love?

_Mil._ The list's so long: there's father's, mother's, husband's ...

_Tresh._ Mildred, I do believe a brother's love For a sole sister must exceed them all. For see now, only see! there's no alloy Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold Of other loves--no gratitude to claim; You never gave her life, not even aught That keeps life--never tended her, instructed, Enriched her--so, your love can claim no right O'er her save pure love's claim: that's what I call Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope To be such friends, for instance, she and you, As when you hunted cowslips in the woods Or played together in the meadow hay. Oh yes--with age, respect comes, and your worth Is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes, There's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem:--Much head these make against the new-comer! The startling apparition, the strange youth-- Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say, Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change This Ovid ever sang about) your soul ... Her soul, that is,--the sister's soul! With her 'T was winter yesterday; now, all is warmth, The green leaf 's springing and the turtle's voice, "Arise and come away!" Come whither?--far Enough from the esteem, respect, and all The brother's somewhat insignificant Array of rights! All which he knows before, Has calculated on so long ago! I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,) Contented with its little term of life, Intending to retire betimes, aware How soon the background must be place for it, --I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds All the world's love in its unworldliness.

_Mil._ What is this for?

_Tresh._ This, Mildred, is it for! Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon! That's one of many points my haste left out-- Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film Between the being tied to you by birth, And you, until those slender threads compose A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours: So close you live and yet so far apart! And must I rend this web, tear up, break down The sweet and palpitating mystery That makes her sacred? You--for you I mean, Shall I speak, shall I not speak?

_Mil._ Speak!

_Tresh._ I will, Is there a story men could--any man Could tell of you, you would conceal from me? I'll never think there 's falsehood on that lip. Say "There is no such story men could tell," And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve The world--the world of better men than I, And women such as I suppose you. Speak! [_After a pause._] Not speak? Explain then! Clear it up then! Move Some of the miserable weight away That presses lower than the grave! Not speak? Some of the dead weight, Mildred! Ah, if I Could bring myself to plainly make their charge Against you! Must I, Mildred? Silent still? [_After a pause._] Is there a gallant that has night by night Admittance to your chamber? [_After a pause._] Then, his name! Till now, I only had a thought for you: But now,--his name!

_Mil._ Thorold, do you devise Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit There be! 'T is naught to say that I'll endure And bless you,--that my spirit yearns to purge Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire: But do not plunge me into other guilt! Oh, guilt enough! I cannot tell his name.

_Tresh._ Then judge yourself! How should I act? Pronounce!

_Mil._ Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me thus! To die here in this chamber by that sword Would seem like punishment: so should I glide, Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss! 'T were easily arranged for me: but you-- What would become of you?

_Tresh._ And what will now Become of me? I'll hide your shame and mine From every eye; the dead must heave their hearts Under the marble of our chapel-floor; They cannot rise and blast you. You may wed Your paramour above our mother's tomb; Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot. We too will somehow wear this one day out: But with to-morrow hastens here--the Earl! The youth without suspicion face can come From heaven, and heart from ... whence proceed such hearts? I have dispatched last night at your command A missive bidding him present himself To-morrow--here--thus much is said; the rest Is understood as if 't were written down-- "His suit finds favor in your eyes." Now dictate This morning's letter that shall countermand Last night's--do dictate that!

_Mil._ But, Thorold--if I will receive him as I said?

_Tresh._ The Earl?

_Mil._ I will receive him.

_Tresh._ [_Starting up._] Ho there! Guendolen!

(GUENDOLEN _and_ AUSTIN _enter_.)

And, Austin, you are welcome, too! Look there! The woman there!

_Aus. and Guen._ How? Mildred?

_Tresh._ Mildred once! Now the receiver night by night, when sleep Blesses the inmates of her father's house, --I say, the soft sly wanton that receives Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held A thousand Treshams--never one like her! No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness To mix with breath as foul! no loosener O' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread, The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go! Not one composer of the bacchant's mien Into--what you thought Mildred's, in a word! Know her!

_Guen._ Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least! Thorold--she's dead, I'd say, but that she stands Rigid as stone and whiter!

_Tresh._ You have heard ...

_Guen._ Too much! You must proceed no further.

_Mil._ Yes-- Proceed! All's truth. Go from me!

_Tresh._. All is truth, She tells you! Well, you know, or ought to know, All this I would forgive in her. I'd con Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one, I'd bind myself before them to exact The prescribed vengeance--and one word of hers, The sight of her, the bare least memory Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride Above all prides, my all in all so long, Would scatter every trace of my resolve. What were it silently to waste away And see her waste away from this day forth, Two scathèd things with leisure to repent, And grow acquainted with the grave, and die Tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten? It were not so impossible to bear. But this--that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed Of love with the successful gallant there, She calmly bids me help her to entice, Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth Who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure, --Invites me to betray him ... who so fit As honor's self to cover shame's arch-deed? --That she'll receive Lord Mertoun--(her own phrase)-- This, who could bear? Why, you have heard of thieves, Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet have laughed, "Talk not to me of torture--I'll betray No comrade I've pledged faith to!"--you have heard Of wretched women--all but Mildreds--tied By wild illicit ties to losels vile You'd tempt them to forsake; and they'll reply "Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I find In him, why should I leave him then for gold, Repute or friends?"--and you have felt your heart Respond to such poor outcasts of the world As to so many friends; bad as you please, You've felt they were God's men and women still, So, not to be disowned by you. But she That stands there, calmly gives her lover up As means to wed the Earl that she may hide Their intercourse the surelier: and, for this, I curse her to her face before you all. Shame hunt her from the earth! Then Heaven do right To both! It hears me now--shall judge her then! [_As_ MILDRED _faints and falls_, TRESHAM _rushes out_.

_Aus._ Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany you!

_Guen._ We? What, and leave Mildred? We? Why, where's my place But by her side, and where yours but by mine? Mildred--one word! Only look at me, then!

_Aus._ No, Guendolen! I echo Thorold's voice. She is unworthy to behold ...

_Guen._ Us two? If you spoke on reflection, and if I Approved your speech--if you (to put the thing At lowest) you the soldier, bound to make The king's cause yours and fight for it, and throw Regard to others of its right or wrong, --If with a death-white woman you can help, Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred, You left her--or if I, her cousin, friend This morning, playfellow but yesterday, Who said, or thought at least a thousand times, "I'd serve you if I could," should now face round And say, "Ah, that's to only signify I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself, So long as fifty eyes await the turn Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish, I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need-- When every tongue is praising you, I'll join The praisers' chorus--when you're hemmed about With lives between you and detraction--lives To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye, Rough hand should violate the sacred ring Their worship throws about you,--then indeed, Who'll stand up for you stout as I?" If so We said, and so we did,--not Mildred there Would be unworthy to behold us both, But we should be unworthy, both of us, To be beheld by---by--your meanest dog, Which, if that sword were broken in your face Before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast, And you cast out with hooting and contempt, --Would push his way through all the hooters, gain Your side, go off with you and all your shame To the next ditch you choose to die in! Austin, Do you love me? Here's Austin, Mildred,--here's Your brother says he does not believe half--- No, nor half that--of all he heard! He says, Look up and take his hand!

_Aus._ Look up and take My hand, dear Mildred!

_Mil._ I--I was so young! Beside, I loved him, Thorold--and I had No mother; God forgot me: so, I fell.

_Guen._ Mildred!

_Mil._ Require no further! Did I dream That I could palliate what is done? All's true. Now, punish me! A woman takes my hand? Let go my hand! You do not know, I see. I thought that Thorold told you.

_Guen._ What is this? Where start you to?

_Mil._ Oh, Austin, loosen me! You heard the whole of it--your eyes were worse, In their surprise, than Thorold's! Oh, unless You stay to execute his sentence, loose My hand! Has Thorold gone, and are you here?

_Guen._ Here, Mildred, we two friends of yours will wait Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or muse! Only, when you shall want your bidding done, How can we do it if we are not by? Here's Austin waiting patiently your will! One spirit to command, and one to love And to believe in it and do its best, Poor as that is, to help it--why, the world Has been won many a time, its length and breadth, By just such a beginning!

_Mil._ I believe If once I threw my arms about your neck And sunk my head upon your breast, that I Should weep again.

_Guen._ Let go her hand now, Austin! Wait for me. Pace the gallery and think On the world's seemings and realities, Until I call you. [AUSTIN _goes_.

_Mil._ No--I cannot weep. No more tears from this brain--no sleep--no tears! O Guendolen, I love you!

_Guen._ Yes: and "love" Is a short word that says so very much! It says that you confide in me.

_Mil._ Confide!

_Guen._ Your lover's name, then! I've so much to learn, Ere I can work in your behalf!

_Mil._ My friend, You know I cannot tell his name.

_Guen._ At least He is your lover? and you love him too?

_Mil._ Ah, do you ask me that?--but I am fallen So low!

_Guen._ You love him still, then?

_Mil._ My sole prop Against the guilt that crushes me! I say, Each night ere I lie down, "I was so young-- I had no mother, and I loved him so!" And then God seems indulgent, and I dare Trust him my soul in sleep.

_Guen._ How could you let us E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then?

_Mil._ There is a cloud around me.

_Guen._ But you said You would receive his suit in spite of this?

_Mil._ I say there is a cloud ...

_Guen._ No cloud to me! Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same!

_Mil._ What maddest fancy ...

_Guen._ [_Calling aloud._] Austin! (spare your pains-- When I have got a truth, that truth I keep)--

_Mil._ By all you love, sweet Guendolen, forbear! Have I confided in you ...

_Guen._ Just for this! Austin!--Oh, not to guess it at the first! But I did guess it--that is, I divined, Pelt by an instinct how it was: why else Should I pronounce you free from all that heap Of sins which had been irredeemable? I felt they were not yours--what other way Than this, not yours? The secret's wholly mine!

_Mil._ If you would see me die before his face ...

_Guen._ I'd hold my peace! And if the Earl returns To-night?

_Mil._ Ah Heaven, he's lost!

_Guen._ I thought so. Austin!

(_Enter_ AUSTIN.)

Oh, where have you been hiding?

_Aus._ Thorold's gone, I know not how, across the meadow-land. I watched him till I lost him in the skirts O' the beech-wood.

_Guen._ Gone? All thwarts us.

_Mil._ Thorold too?

_Guen._ I have thought. First lead this Mildred to her room. Go on the other side: and then we'll seek Your brother: and I'll tell you, by the way, The greatest comfort in the world. You said There was a clue to all. Remember, Sweet, He said there was a clue! I hold it. Come!

## ACT III

## SCENE I. _The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under_ MILDRED'S _window. A

light seen through a central red pane_.

_Enter_ TRESHAM _through the trees_.

_Tresh._ Again here! But I cannot lose myself. The heath--the orchard--I have traversed glades And dells and bosky paths which used to lead Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering My boy's adventurous step. And now they tend Hither or soon or late; the blackest shade Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide, And the dim turret I have fled from, fronts Again my step; the very river put Its arm about me and conducted me To this detested spot. Why then, I'll shun Their will no longer: do your will with me! Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering scheme Of happiness, and to behold it razed, Were nothing; all men hope, and see their hopes Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew. But I ... to hope that from a line like ours No horrid prodigy like this would spring, Were just as though I hoped that from these old Confederates against the sovereign day, Children of older and yet older sires, Whose living coral berries dropped, as now On me, on many a baron's surcoat once, On many a beauty's wimple--would proceed No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root, Hither and thither its strange snaky arms. Why came I here? What must I do? [_A bell strikes._] A bell? Midnight! and 'tis at midnight ... Ah, I catch --Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now. And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve.

[_He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause, enter_ MERTOUN _cloaked as before_.

_Mer._ Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat Of hope and fear, my heart! I thought the clock I' the chapel struck as I was pushing through The ferns. And so I shall no more see rise My love-star! Oh, no matter for the past! So much the more delicious task to watch Mildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn, All traces of the rough forbidden path My rash love lured her to! Each day must see Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed: Then there will be surprises, unforeseen Delights in store. I'll not regret the past. [_The light is placed above in the purple pane._ And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star! I never saw it lovelier than now It rises for the last time. If it sets, 'Tis that the reassuring sun may dawn. [_As he prepares to ascend the lust tree of the avenue_, TRESHAM _arrests his arm_. Unhand me--peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold. 'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath The casement there. Take this, and hold your peace.

_Tresh._ Into the moonlight yonder, come with me! Out of the shadow.

_Mer._ I am armed, fool!

_Tresh._ Yes, Or no? You'll come into the light, or no? My hand is on your throat--refuse!--

_Mer._ That voice! Where have I heard ... no--that was mild and slow. I'll come with you. [_They advance._

_Tresh._ You're armed: that's well. Declare Your name: who are you?

_Mer._ (Tresham!--she is lost!)

_Tresh._ Oh, silent? Do you know, you bear yourself Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had How felons, this wild earth is full of, look When they're detected, still your kind has looked! The bravo holds an assured countenance, The thief is voluble and plausible, But silently the slave of lust has crouched When I have fancied it before a man. Your name!

_Mer._ I do conjure Lord Tresham--ay, Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail-- That he for his own sake forbear to ask My name! As heaven's above, his future weal Or woe depends upon my silence! Vain! I read your white inexorable face. Know me, Lord Tresham! [_He throws off his disguises._

_Tresh._ Mertoun! [_After a pause._] Draw now!

_Mer._ Hear me But speak first!

_Tresh._ Not one least word on your life! Be sure that I will strangle in your throat The least word that informs me how you live And yet seem what you seem! No doubt 't was you Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin. We should join hands in frantic sympathy If you once taught me the unteachable, Explained how you can live so, and so lie. With God's help I retain, despite my sense, The old belief--a life like yours is still Impossible. Now draw!

_Mer._ Not for my sake, Do I entreat a hearing--for your sake, And most, for her sake!

_Tresh._ Ha ha, what should I Know of your ways? A miscreant like yourself, How must one rouse his ire? A blow?--that's pride No doubt, to him! One spurns him, does one not? Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits Into his face! Come! Which, or all of these?

_Mer._ 'Twixt him and me and Mildred. Heaven be judge! Can I avoid this? Have your will, my lord! [_He draws and, after a few passes, falls._

_Tresh._ You are not hurt?

_Mer._ You'll hear me now!

_Tresh._ But rise!

_Mer._ Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!" And what procures a man the right to speak In his defence before his fellow man, But--I suppose--the thought that presently He may have leave to speak before his God His whole defence?

_Tresh._ Not hurt? It cannot be! You made no effort to resist me. Where Did my sword reach you? Why not have returned My thrusts? Hurt where?

_Mer._ My lord--

_Tresh._ How young he is!

_Mer._ Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet I have entangled other lives with mine. Do let me speak, and do believe my speech! That when I die before you presently,--

_Tresh._ Can you stay here till I return with help?

_Mer._ Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boy I did you grievous wrong and knew it not-- Upon my honor, knew it not! Once known, I could not find what seemed a better way To right you than I took: my life--you feel How less than nothing were the giving you The life you've taken! But I thought my way The better--only for your sake and hers: And as you have decided otherwise, Would I had an infinity of lives To offer you! Now say--instruct me--think! Can you, from the brief minutes I have left, Eke out my reparation? Oh think--think! For I must wring a partial--dare I say, Forgiveness from you, ere I die?

_Tresh._ I do Forgive you.

_Mer._ Wait and ponder that great word! Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope To speak to you of--Mildred!

_Tresh._ Mertoun, haste And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you Should tell me for a novelty you're young, Thoughtless, unable to recall the past. Be but your pardon ample as my own!

_Mer._ Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop Of blood or two, should bring all this about! Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my love Of you--(what passion like a boy's for one Like you?)--that ruined me! I dreamed of you-- You, all accomplished, courted everywhere, The scholar and the gentleman. I burned To knit myself to you: but I was young, And your surpassing reputation kept me So far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that love? With less of love, my glorious yesterday Of praise and gentlest words and kindest looks, Had taken place perchance six months ago. Even now, how happy we had been! And yet I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham! Let me look up into your face; I feel 'Tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed. Where? where? [_As he endeavors to raise himself his eye catches the lamp._ Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do? Tresham, her life is bound up in the life That's bleeding fast away! I'll live--must live, There, if you'll only turn me I shall live And save her! Tresham--oh, had you but heard! Had you but heard! What right was yours to set The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine, And then say, as we perish, "Had I thought, All had gone otherwise"? We've sinned and die: Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll die, And God will judge you.

_Tresh._ Yes, be satisfied! That process is begun.

_Mer._ And she sits there Waiting for me! Now, say you this to her-- You, not another--say, I saw him die As he breathed this, "I love her"--you don't know What those three small words mean! Say, loving her Lowers me down the bloody slope to death With memories ... I speak to her, not you, Who had no pity, will have no remorse, Perchance intend her ... Die along with me, Dear Mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scape So much unkindness! Can I lie at rest, With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds Done to you?--heartless men shall have my heart, And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm, Aware, perhaps, of every blow--oh God!-- Upon those lips--yet of no power to tear The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! Leave Their honorable world to them! For God We're good enough, though the world casts us out. [_A whistle is heard._

_Tresh._ Ho, Gerard!

(_Enter_ GERARD, AUSTIN _and_ GWENDOLEN, _with lights_.)

No one speak! You see what's done. I cannot bear another voice.

_Mer._ There's light-- Light all about me, and I move to it. Tresham, did I not tell you--did you not Just promise to deliver words of mine To Mildred?

_Tresh._ I will bear those words to her.

_Mer._ Now?

_Tresh._ Now. Lift you the body, and leave me The head. [_As they have half raised_ MERTOUN, _he turns suddenly._

_Mer._ I knew they turned me: turn me not from her! There! stay you! there! [_Dies._

_Guen._ [_After a pause._] Austin, remain you here With Thorold until Gerard comes with help: Then lead him to his chamber. I must go To Mildred.

_Tresh._ Guendolen, I hear each word You utter. Did you hear him bid me give His message? Did you hear my promise? I, And only I, see Mildred.

_Guen._ She will die.

_Tresh._ Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hope She'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die? Why, Austin's with you!

_Aus._ Had we but arrived Before you fought!

_Tresh._ There was no fight at all. He let me slaughter him--the boy! I'll trust The body there to you and Gerard--thus! Now bear him on before me.

_Aus._ Whither bear him?

_Tresh._ Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next, We shall be friends. [_They bear out the body of_ MERTOUN. Will she die, Guendolen?

_Guen._ Where are you taking me?

_Tresh._ He fell just here. Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life --You who have naught to do with Mertoun's fate, Now you have seen his breast upon the turf, Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help? When you and Austin wander arm-in-arm Through our ancestral grounds, will not a shade Be ever on the meadow and the waste-- Another kind of shade than when the night Shuts the woodside with all its whispers up? But will you ever so forget his breast As carelessly to cross this bloody turf Under the black yew avenue? That's well! You turn your head: and I then?--

_Guen._ What is done Is done. My care is for the living. Thorold, Bear up against this burden: more remains To set the neck to!

_Tresh._ Dear and ancient trees My fathers planted, and I loved so well! What have I done that, like some fabled crime Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus Her miserable dance amidst you all? Oh, never more for me shall winds intone With all your tops a vast antiphony, Demanding and responding in God's praise! Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell--farewell!

## SCENE II. MILDRED'S _Chamber._ MILDRED _alone_.

_Mil._ He comes not! I have heard of those who seemed Resourceless in prosperity,--you thought Sorrow might slay them when she listed; yet Did they so gather up their diffused strength At her first menace, that they bade her strike, And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn. Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe fell, And the rest fall upon it, not on me: Else should I hear that Henry comes not?--fails Just this first night out of so many nights? Loving is done with. Were he sitting now, As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love No more--contrive no thousand happy ways To hide love from the loveless, any more. I think I might have urged some little point In my defence, to Thorold; he was breathless For the least hint of a defence: but no, The first shame over, all that would might fall. No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have crept Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost Her lover--oh, I dare not look upon Such woe! I crouch away from it! 'Tis she, Mildred, will break her heart, not I! The world Forsakes me: only Henry's left me--left? When I have lost him, for he does not come, And I sit stupidly ... Oh Heaven, break up This worse than anguish, this mad apathy, By any means or any messenger!

_Tresh._ [_Without._] Mildred!

_Mil._ Come in! Heaven hears me!

[_Enter_ TRESHAM.] You? alone? Oh, no more cursing!

_Tresh._ Mildred, I must sit. There--you sit!

_Mil._ Say it, Thorold--do not look The curse! deliver all you come to say! What must become of me? Oh, speak that thought Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale!

_Tresh._ My thought?

_Mil._ All of it!

_Tresh._ How we waded--years ago-- After those water-lilies, till the plash, I know not how, surprised us; and you dared Neither advance nor turn back: so, we stood Laughing and crying until Gerard came-- Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too, For once more reaching the relinquished prize! How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's! Mildred,--

_Mil._ You call me kindlier by my name Than even yesterday: what is in that?

_Tresh._ It weighs so much upon my mind that I This morning took an office not my own! I might ... of course, I must be glad or grieved, Content or not, at every little thing That touches you. I may with a wrung heart Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more: Will you forgive me?

_Mil._ Thorold? do you mock? Or no ... and yet you bid me ... say that word!

_Tresh._ Forgive me, Mildred!--are you silent, Sweet?

_Mil._ [_Starting up._] Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night? Are you, too, silent?

[_Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard, which is empty._ Ah, this speaks for you! You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed! What is it I must pardon? This and all? Well, I do pardon you--I think I do. Thorold, how very wretched you must be!

_Tresh._ He bade me tell you ...

_Mil._ What I do forbid Your utterance of! So much that you may tell And will not--how you murdered him ... but, no! You'll tell me that he loved me, never more Than bleeding out his life there: must I say "Indeed," to that? Enough! I pardon you.

_Tresh._ You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes: Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doom I wait in doubt, despondency and fear.

_Mil._ Oh, true! There's naught for me to pardon! True! You loose my soul of all its cares at once. Death makes me sure of him forever! You Tell me his last words? He shall tell me them, And take my answer--not in words, but reading Himself the heart I had to read him late, Which death ...

_Tresh._ Death? You are dying too? Well said Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die: But she was sure of it.

_Mil._ Tell Guendolen I loved her, and tell Austin ...

_Tresh._ Him you loved: And me?

_Mil._ Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope And love of me--whom you loved too, and yet Suffered to sit here waiting his approach While you were slaying him? Oh, doubtlessly You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech --Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath And respite me!--you let him try to give The story of our love and ignorance, And the brief madness and the long despair-- You let him plead all this, because your code Of honor bids you hear before you strike: But at the end, as he looked up for life Into your eyes--you struck him down!

_Tresh._ No! No! Had I but heard him--had I let him speak Half the truth--less--had I looked long on him I had desisted! Why, as he lay there, The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all The story ere he told it: I saw through The troubled surface of his crime and yours A depth of purity immovable; Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath; I would not glance: my punishment's at hand. There, Mildred, is the truth! and you--say on-- You curse me?

_Mil._ As I dare approach that Heaven Which has not bade a living thing despair, Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain, But bids the vilest worm that turns on it Desist and be forgiven,--I--forgive not, But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls! [_Falls on his neck._ There! Do not think too much upon the past! The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud While it stood up between my friend and you; You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is that So past retrieve? I have his heart, you know; I may dispose of it: I give it you! It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry! [_Dies._

_Tresh._ I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am glad In thy full gladness!

_Guen._ [_Without._] Mildred! Tresham! [_Entering with_ AUSTIN.] Thorold, I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons! That's well.

_Tresh._ Oh, better far than that!

_Guen._ She's dead! Let me unlock her arms!

_Tresh._ She threw them thus About my neck, and blessed me, and then died: You'll let them stay now, Guendolen!

_Aus._ Leave her And look to him! What ails you, Thorold?

_Guen._ White As she, and whiter! Austin! quick--this side!

_Aus._ A froth is oozing through his clenchèd teeth; Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black: Speak, dearest Thorold!

_Tresh._ Something does weigh down My neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fall But for you, Austin, I believe!--there, there, 'T will pass away soon!--ah,--I had forgotten: I am dying.

_Guen._ Thorold--Thorold--why was this?

_Tresh._ I said, just as I drank the poison off, The earth would be no longer earth to me, The life out of all life was gone from me. There are blind ways provided, the foredone Heart-weary player in this pageant-world Drops out by, letting the main masque defile By the conspicuous portal: I am through-- Just through!

_Guen._ Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close.

_Tresh._ Already Mildred's face is peacefuller. I see you, Austin--feel you: here's my hand, Put yours in it--you, Guendolen, yours too! You 're lord and lady now--you're Treshams; name And fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up. Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood Must wash one blot away: the first blot came And the first blood came. To the vain world's eye All's gules again: no care to the vain world, From whence the red was drawn!

_Aus._ No blot shall come!

_Tresh._ I said that: yet it did come. Should it come, Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me! [_Dies._

_Guen._ [_Letting fall the pulseless arm._] Ah, Thorold, we can but--remember you!

COLOMBE'S BIRTHDAY

A PLAY

"Ivy and violet, what do ye here With blossom and shoot in the warm spring-weather, Hiding the arms of Monchenci and Vere?" HANMER.

NO ONE LOVES AND HONORS BARRY CORNWALL MORE THAN DOES ROBERT BROWNING; WHO, HAVING NOTHING BETTER THAN THIS PLAY TO GIVE HIM IN PROOF OF IT, MUSY SAY SO.

Browning was stimulated by the enthusiastic reception of _A Blot in the 'Scutcheon_ to write another play for the stage, but for some reason it was not performed for ten years or so. It was printed in 1844 as No. VI. of _Bells and Pomegranates_. Mr. Gosse in his _Personalia_ says:--

"I have before me at the present moment a copy of the first edition, marked for acting by the author, who has written: 'I made the alterations in this copy to suit some--I forget what--projected stage representation; not that of Miss Faucit, which was carried into effect long afterward.' The stage directions are numerous and minute, showing the science which the dramatist had gained since he first essayed to put his creations on the boards.

"Some of the suggestions are characteristic enough. For instance: 'Unless a very good Valence is found, this extremely fine speech, [in

## Act IV. where Valence describes Berthold to Colombe], perhaps the jewel

of the play, is to be left out.' In the present editions the verses run otherwise."

The play has recently [1895] been rearranged in three acts and brought again on the stage.

PERSONS

COLOMBE OF RAVESTEIN, _Duchess of Juliers and Cleves_. SABYNE, ADOLF, her Attendants. GUIBERT, GAUCELME, MAUFROY, CLUGNET, Courtiers. VALENCE, _Advocate of Cleves_. PRINCE BERTHOLD, _Claimant of the Duchy_. MELCHIOR, his Confidant.

PLACE, _The Palace at Juliers_.

TIME, 16--.

## ACT I

_Morning._ SCENE. _A corridor leading to the Audience-chamber_.

GAUCELME, CLUGNET, MAUFROY _and other_ Courtiers, _round_ GUIBERT _who is silently reading a paper: as he drops it at the end_--

_Guibert._ That this should be her birthday; and the day We all invested her, twelve months ago, As the late Duke's true heiress and our liege; And that this also must become the day ... Oh, miserable lady!

_1st Courtier._ Ay, indeed?

_2d Court._ Well, Guibert?

_3d Court._ But your news, my friend, your news! The sooner, friend, one learns Prince Berthold's pleasure, The better for us all: how writes the Prince? Give me! I'll read it for the common good.

_Gui._ In time, sir,--but till time comes, pardon me! Our old Duke just disclosed his child's retreat, Declared her true succession to his rule, And died: this birthday was the day, last year, We convoyed her from Castle Ravestein-- That sleeps out trustfully its extreme age On the Meuse' quiet bank, where she lived queen Over the water-buds,--to Juliers' court With joy and bustle. Here again we stand; Sir Gaucelme's buckle's constant to his cap: To-day's much such another sunny day!

_Gaucelme._ Come, Guibert, this outgrows a jest, I think! You're hardly such a novice as to need The lesson, you pretend.

_Gui._ What lesson, sir? That everybody, if he'd thrive at court, Should, first and last of all, look to himself? Why, no: and therefore with your good example, (--Ho, Master Adolf!)--to myself I'll look.

(_Enter_ ADOLF.)

_Gui._ The Prince's letter; why, of all men else, Comes it to me?

_Adolf._ By virtue of your place, Sir Guibert! 'Twas the Prince's express charge, His envoy told us, that the missive there Should only reach our lady by the hand Of whosoever held your place.

_Gui._ Enough! [ADOLF _retires_. Then, gentles, who'll accept a certain poor Indifferently honorable place, My friends, I make no doubt, have gnashed their teeth At leisure minutes these half-dozen years, To find me never in the mood to quit? Who asks may have it, with my blessing, and-- This to present our lady. Who'll accept? You,--you,--you? There it lies, and may, for me!

_Maufroy._ [_A youth, picking up the paper, reads aloud._] "Prince Berthold, proved by titles following Undoubted Lord of Juliers, comes this day To claim his own, with license from the Pope, The Emperor, the Kings of Spain and France" ...

_Gau._ Sufficient "titles following," I judge! Don't read another! Well,--"to claim his own?"

_Mau._ "--And take possession of the Duchy held Since twelve months, to the true heir's prejudice, By" ... Colombe, Juliers' mistress, so she thinks, And Ravestein's mere lady, as we find! Who wants the place and paper? Guibert's right. I hope to climb a little in the world,-- I'd push my fortunes,--but, no more than he, Could tell her on this happy day of days, That, save the nosegay in her hand, perhaps, There 's nothing left to call her own. Sir Clugnet, You famish for promotion; what say you?

_Clugnet._ [_An old man._] To give this letter were a sort, I take it, Of service: services ask recompense: What kind of corner may be Ravestein?

_Gui._ The castle? Oh, you'd share her fortunes? Good! Three walls stand upright, full as good as four, With no such bad remainder of a roof.

_Clug._ Oh,--but the town?

_Gui._ Five houses, fifteen huts; A church whereto was once a spire, 't is judged; And half a dyke, except in time of thaw.

_Clug._ Still there 's some revenue?

_Gui._ Else Heaven forfend! You hang a beacon out, should fogs increase; So, when the Autumn floats of pine-wood steer Safe 'mid the white confusion, thanks to you, Their grateful raftsman flings a guilder in; --That's if he mean to pass your way next time.

_Clug._ If not?

_Gui._ Hang guilders, then! he blesses you.

_Clug._ What man do you suppose me? Keep your paper! And, let me say, it shows no handsome spirit To dally with misfortune: keep your place!

_Gau._ Some one must tell her.

_Gui._ Some one may: you may!

_Gau._ Sir Guibert, 't is no trifle turns me sick Of court-hypocrisy at years like mine, But this goes near it. Where 's there news at all? Who'll have the face, for instance, to affirm He never heard, e'en while we crowned the girl, That Juliers' tenure was by Salic law; That one, confessed her father's cousin's child, And, she away, indisputable heir, Against our choice protesting and the Duke's, Claimed Juliers?--nor, as he preferred his claim, That first this, then another potentate, Inclined to its allowance?--I or you, Or any one except the lady's self? Oh, it had been the direst cruelty To break the business to her! Things might change: At all events, we 'd see next masque at end, Next mummery over first: and so the edge Was taken off sharp tidings as they came, Till here 's the Prince upon us, and there 's she --Wreathing her hair, a song between her lips, With just the faintest notion possible That some such claimant earns a livelihood About the world, by feigning grievances-- Few pay the story of, but grudge its price, And fewer listen to, a second time. Your method proves a failure; now try mine! And, since this must be carried ...

_Gui._ [_Snatching the paper from him._] By your leave! Your zeal transports you! 'T will not serve the Prince So much as you expect, this course you 'd take. If she leaves quietly her palace,--well; But if she died upon its threshold,--no: He 'd have the trouble of removing her. Come, gentles, we 're all--what the devil knows! You, Gaucelme, won't lose character, beside-- You broke your father's heart superiorly To gather his succession--never blush! You 're from my province, and, be comforted, They tell of it with wonder to this day. You can afford to let your talent sleep. We 'll take the very worst supposed, as true: There, the old Duke knew, when he hid his child Among the river-flowers at Ravestein, With whom the right lay! Call the Prince our Duke! There, she 's no Duchess, she 's no anything More than a young maid with the bluest eyes: And now, sirs, we 'll not break this young maid's heart Coolly as Gaucelme could and would! No haste! His talent 's full-blown, ours but in the bud: We 'll not advance to his perfection yet-- Will we, Sir Maufroy? See, I've ruined Maufroy Forever as a courtier!

_Gau._ Here 's a coil! And, count us, will you? Count its residue, This boasted convoy, this day last year's crowd! A birthday, too, a gratulation day! I'm dumb: bid that keep silence!

_Mau. and others._ Eh, Sir Guibert? He 's right: that does say something: that 's bare truth. Ten--twelve, I make: a perilous dropping off!

_Gui._ Pooh--is it audience hour? The vestibule Swarms too, I wager, with the common sort That want our privilege of entry here.

_Gau._ Adolf! [_Re-enter_ ADOLF.] Who 's outside?

_Gui._ Oh, your looks suffice! Nobody waiting?

_Mau._ [_Looking through the door-folds._] Scarce our number!

_Gui._ 'Sdeath! Nothing to beg for, to complain about? It can't be! Ill news spreads, but not so fast As thus to frighten all the world!

_Gau._ The world Lives out of doors, sir--not with you and me By presence-chamber porches, state-room stairs, Wherever warmth 's perpetual: outside 's free To every wind from every compass-point And who may get nipped needs be weatherwise. The Prince comes and the lady's People go; The snow-goose settles down, the swallows flee-- Why should they wait for winter-time? 'T is instinct: Don't you feel somewhat chilly?

_Gui._ That 's their craft? And last year's crowders-round and criers-forth That strewed the garlands, overarched the roads, Lighted the bonfires, sang the loyal songs! Well 't is my comfort, you could never call me The People's Friend! The People keep their word-- I keep my place: don't doubt I'll entertain The People when the Prince comes, and the People Are talked of! Then, their speeches--no one tongue Found respite, not a pen had holiday --For they wrote, too, as well as spoke, these knaves! Now see: we tax and tithe them, pill and poll, They wince and fret enough, but pay they must --We manage that,--so, pay with a good grace They might as well, it costs so little more. But when we 've done with taxes, meet folk next Outside the toll-booth and the rating-place, In public--there they have us if they will, We 're at their mercy after that, you see! For one tax not ten devils could extort-- Over and above necessity, a grace; This prompt disbosoming of love, to wit-- Their vine-leaf wrappage of our tribute penny, And crowning attestation, all works well. Yet this precisely do they thrust on us! These cappings quick, these crook-and-cringings low, Hand to the heart, and forehead to the knee, With grin that shuts the eyes and opes the mouth-- So tender they their love; and, tender made, Go home to curse us, the first doit we ask. As if their souls were any longer theirs! As if they had not given ample warrant To who should clap a collar on their neck, Rings in their nose, a goad to either flank, And take them for the brute they boast themselves! Stay--there's a bustle at the outer door-- And somebody entreating ... that's my name! Adolf,--I heard my name!

_Adolf._ 'T was probably The suitor.

_Gui._ Oh, there is one?

_Adolf._ With a suit He 'd fain enforce in person.

_Gui._ The good heart --And the great fool! Just ope the mid-door's fold! Is that a lappet of his cloak, I see?

_Adolf._ If it bear plenteous sign of travel ... ay, The very cloak my comrades tore!

_Gui._ Why tore?

_Adolf._ He seeks the Duchess' presence in that trim: Since daybreak, was he posted hereabouts Lest he should miss the moment.

_Gui._ Where 's he now?

_Adolf._ Gone for a minute possibly, not more: They have ado enough to thrust him back.

_Gui._ Ay--but my name, I caught?

_Adolf._ Oh, sir--he said --What was it?--You had known him formerly, And, he believed, would help him did you guess He waited now; you promised him as much: The old plea! 'Faith, he 's back,--renews the charge! [_Speaking at the door._] So long as the man parleys, peace outside-- Nor be too ready with your halberts, there!

_Gau._ My horse bespattered, as he blocked the path A thin sour man, not unlike somebody.

_Adolf._ He holds a paper in his breast, whereon He glances when his cheeks flush and his brow At each repulse--

_Gau._ I noticed he 'd a brow.

_Adolf._ So glancing, he grows calmer, leans awhile Over the balustrade, adjusts his dress, And presently turns round, quiet again, With some new pretext for admittance.--Back! [_To_ GUIBERT.]--Sir, he has seen you! Now cross halberts! Ha-- Pascal is prostrate--there lies Fabian too! No passage! Whither would the madman press? Close the doors quick on me!

_Gui._ Too late! He's here.

(_Enter, hastily and with discomposed dress_, VALENCE.)

_Valence._ Sir Guibert, will you help me?--Me, that come Charged by your townsmen, all who starve at Cleves, To represent their heights and depths of woe Before our Duchess and obtain relief! Such errands barricade such doors, it seems: But not a common hindrance drives me back On all the sad yet hopeful faces, lit With hope for the first time, which sent me forth. Cleves, speak for me! Cleves' men and women, speak! Who followed me--your strongest--many a mile That I might go the fresher from their ranks, --Who sit--your weakest--by the city gates, To take me fuller of what news I bring As I return--for I must needs return! --Can I? 'T were hard, no listener for their wrongs, To turn them back upon the old despair-- Harder, Sir Guibert, than imploring thus-- So, I do--any way you please--implore! If you ... but how should you remember Cleves? Yet they of Cleves remember you so well! Ay, comment on each trait of you they keep, Your words and deeds caught up at second hand,-- Proud, I believe, at bottom of their hearts, O' the very levity and recklessness Which only prove that you forget their wrongs, Cleves, the grand town, whose men and women starve, Is Cleves forgotten? Then, remember me! You promised me that you would help me once For other purpose: will you keep your word?

_Gui._ And who may you be, friend?

_Val._ Valence of Cleves.

_Gui._ Valence of ... not the advocate of Cleves, I owed my whole estate to, three years back? Ay, well may you keep silence! Why, my lords, You 've heard, I'm sure, how, Pentecost three years, I was so nearly ousted of my land By some knave's-pretext--(eh? when you refused me Your ugly daughter, Clugnet!)--and you've heard How I recovered it by miracle --(When I refused her!) Here's the very friend, --Valence of Cleves, all parties have to thank! Nay, Valence, this procedure's vile in you! I'm no more grateful than a courtier should, But politic am I--I bear a brain, Can cast about a little, might require Your services a second time. I tried To tempt you with advancement here to court --"No!"--well, for curiosity at least To view our life here--"No!"--our Duchess, then,-- A pretty woman's worth some pains to see, Nor is she spoiled, I take it, if a crown Complete the forehead pale and tresses pure ...

_Val._ Our city trusted me its miseries, And I am come.

_Gui._ So much for taste! But "come,"-- So may you be, for anything I know, To beg the Pope's cross, or Sir Clugnet's daughter, And with an equal chance you get all three! If it was ever worth your while to come, Was not the proper way worth finding too?

_Val._ Straight to the palace-portal, sir, I came--

_Gui._ --And said?--

_Val._ --That I had brought the miseries Of a whole city to relieve.

_Gui._ --Which saying Won your admittance? You saw me, indeed, And here, no doubt, you stand: as certainly, My intervention, I shall not dispute, Procures you audience; which, if I procure,-- That paper's closely written--by Saint Paul, Here flock the Wrongs, follow the Remedies, Chapter and verse, One, Two, A, B and C! Perhaps you'd enter, make a reverence, And launch these "miseries" from first to last?

_Val._ How should they let me pause or turn aside?

_Gau._ [_To_ VALENCE.] My worthy sir, one question! You've come straight From Cleves, you tell us: heard you any talk At Cleves about our lady?

_Val._ Much.

_Gau._ And what?

_Val._ Her wish was to redress all wrongs she knew.

_Gau._ That, you believed?

_Val._ You see me, sir!

_Gau._ --Nor stopped Upon the road from Cleves to Juliers here, For any--rumors you might find afloat?

_Val._ I had my townsmen's wrongs to busy me.

_Gau._ This is the lady's birthday, do you know? --Her day of pleasure?

_Val._ --That the great, I know, For pleasure born, should still be on the watch To exclude pleasure when a duty offers: Even as, for duty born, the lowly too May ever snatch a pleasure if in reach: Both will have plenty of their birthright, sir!

_Gau._ [_Aside to_ GUIBERT.] Sir Guibert, here's your man! No scruples now-- You'll never find his like! Time presses hard, I've seen your drift and Adolf's too, this while, But you can't keep the hour of audience back Much longer, and at noon the Prince arrives. [_Pointing to_ VALENCE.] Entrust him with it--fool no chance away!

_Gui._ Him?

_Gau._ --With the missive! What's the man to her?

_Gui._ No bad thought!--Yet, 't is yours, who ever played The tempting serpent: else 't were no bad thought! I should--and do--mistrust it for your sake, Or else ...

(_Enter an_ Official _who communicates with_ ADOLF.)

_Adolf._ The Duchess will receive the court!

_Gui._ Give us a moment, Adolf! Valence, friend, I'll help you. We of the service, you're to mark, Have special entry, while the herd ... the folk Outside, get access through our help alone; --Well, it is so, was so, and I suppose So ever will be: your natural lot is, therefore, To wait your turn and opportunity, And probably miss both. Now, I engage To set you, here and in a minute's space, Before the lady, with full leave to plead Chapter and verse, and A, and B, and C, To heart's content.

_Val._ I grieve that I must ask,-- This being, yourself admit, the custom here,-- To what the price of such a favor mounts?

_Gui._ Just so! You're not without a courtier's tact. Little at court, as your quick instinct prompts, Do such as we without a recompense.

_Val._ Yours is?

_Gui._ A trifle: here 's a document 'T is some one's duty to present her Grace-- I say, not mine--these say, not theirs--such points Have weight at court. Will you relieve us all And take it? Just say, "I am bidden lay This paper at the Duchess' feet!"

_Val._ No more? I thank you, sir!

_Adolf._ Her Grace receives the court!

_Gui._ [_Aside._] Now, _sursum corda_, quoth the mass-priest! Do-- Whoever's my kind saint, do let alone These pushings to and fro, and pullings back; Peaceably let me hang o' the devil's arm The downward path, if you can't pluck me off Completely! Let me live quite his, or yours! [_The_ Courtiers _begin to range themselves, and move toward the door_. After me, Valence! So, our famous Cleves Lacks bread? Yet don't we gallants buy their lace? And dear enough--it beggars me, I know, To keep my very gloves fringed properly. This, Valence, is our Great State Hall you cross; Yon gray urn's veritable marcasite, The Pope's gift: and those salvers testify The Emperor. Presently you'll set your foot ... But you don't speak, friend Valence!

_Val._ I shall speak.

_Gau._ [_Aside to_ GUIBERT.] Guibert--it were no such ungraceful thing If you and I, at first, seemed horror-struck With the bad news. Look here, what you shall do! Suppose you, first, clap hand to sword and cry "Yield strangers our allegiance? First I'll perish Beside your Grace!"--and so give me the cue To ...

_Gui._ --Clap your hand to note-book and jot down That to regale the Prince with? I conceive. [_To_ VALENCE.] Do, Valence, speak, or I shall half suspect You're plotting to supplant us, me the first, I' the lady's favor! Is't the grand harangue You mean to make, that thus engrosses you? --Which of her virtues you'll apostrophize? Or is't the fashion you aspire to start, Of that close-curled, not unbecoming hair? Or what else ponder you?

_Val._ My townsmen's wrongs.

## ACT II

_Noon._ SCENE. _The Presence-chamber._

_The_ DUCHESS _and_ SABYNE.

_Duchess._ Announce that I am ready for the court!

_Sabyne._ 'T is scarcely audience-hour, I think; your Grace May best consult your own relief, no doubt, And shun the crowd: but few can have arrived.

_Duch._ Let those not yet arrived, then, keep away! 'T was me, this day last year at Ravestein, You hurried. It has been full time, beside, This half-hour. Do you hesitate?

_Sab._ Forgive me!

_Duch._ Stay, Sabyne; let me hasten to make sure Of one true thanker: here with you begins My audience, claim you first its privilege! It is my birth's event they celebrate: You need not wish me more such happy days, But--ask some favor! Have you none to ask? Has Adolf none, then? this was far from least Of much I waited for impatiently, Assure yourself! It seemed so natural Your gift, beside this bunch of river-bells, Should be the power and leave of doing good To you, and greater pleasure to myself. You ask my leave to-day to marry Adolf? The rest is my concern.

_Sab._ Your Grace is ever Our lady of dear Ravestein,--but, for Adolf ...

_Duch._ "But"? You have not, sure, changed in your regard And purpose towards him?

_Sab._ We change?

_Duch._ Well then? Well?

_Sab._ How could we two be happy, and, most like, Leave Juliers, when--when ... but 't is audience-time!

_Duch._ "When, if you left me, I were left indeed!" Would you subjoin that? Bid the court approach! --Why should we play thus with each other, Sabyne? Do I not know, if courtiers prove remiss, If friends detain me, and get blame for it, There is a cause? Of last year's fervid throng Scarce one half comes now.

_Sab._ [_Aside._] One half? No, alas!

_Duch._ So can the mere suspicion of a cloud Over my fortunes, strike each loyal heart. They've heard of this Prince Berthold; and, forsooth, Some foolish arrogant pretence he makes, May grow more foolish and more arrogant, They please to apprehend! I thank their love. Admit them!

_Sab._ [_Aside._] How much has she really learned?

_Duch._ Surely, whoever's absent, Tristan waits? --Or at least Romuald, whom my father raised From nothing--come, he's faithful to me, come! (Sabyne, I should but be the prouder--yes, The fitter to comport myself aright) Not Romuald? Xavier--what said he to that? For Xavier hates a parasite, I know! [SABYNE _goes out_.

_Duch._ Well, sunshine's everywhere, and summer too. Next year 'tis the old place again, perhaps-- The water-breeze again, the birds again. --It cannot be! It is too late to be! What part had I, or choice in all of it? Hither they brought me; I had not to think Nor care, concern myself with doing good Or ill, my task was just--to live,--to live, And, answering ends there was no need explain, To render Juliers happy--so they said. All could not have been falsehood: some was love, And wonder and obedience. I did all They looked for: why then cease to do it now? Yet this is to be calmly set aside, And--ere next birthday's dawn, for aught I know, Things change, a claimant may arrive, and I ... It cannot nor it shall not be! His right? Well then, he has the right, and I have not, --But who bade all of you surround my life And close its growth up with your ducal crown Which, plucked off rudely, leaves me perishing? I could have been like one of you,--loved, hoped, Feared, lived and died like one of you--but you Would take that life away and give me this, And I will keep this! I will face you! Come!

(_Enter the_ Courtiers _and_ VALENCE.)

_The Courtiers._ Many such happy mornings to your Grace!

_Duch._ [_Aside, as they pay their devoir._] The same words, the same faces,--the same love! I have been overfearful. These are few; But these, at least, stand firmly: these are mine. As many come as may; and if no more, 'T is that these few suffice--they do suffice! What succor may not next year bring me? Plainly, I feared too soon. [_To the_ Courtiers.] I thank you, sirs: all thanks!

_Val._ [_Aside, as the_ DUCHESS _passes from one group to another, conversing_.] 'T is she--the vision this day last year brought, When, for a golden moment at our Cleves, She tarried in her progress hither. Cleves Chose me to speak its welcome, and I spoke --Not that she could have noted the recluse --Ungainly, old before his time--who gazed. Well, Heaven's gifts are not wasted, and that gaze Kept, and shall keep me to the end, her own! She was above it--but so would not sink My gaze to earth! The People caught it, hers-- Thenceforward, mine; but thus entirely mine, Who shall affirm, had she not raised my soul Ere she retired and left me--them? She turns-- There 's all her wondrous face at once! The ground Reels and ... [_Suddenly occupying himself with his paper._] These wrongs of theirs I have to plead!

_Duch._ [_To the_ Courtiers.] Nay, compliment enough! and kindness' self Should pause before it wish me more such years. 'T was fortunate that thus, ere youth escaped, I tasted life's pure pleasure--one such, pure, Is worth a thousand, mixed--and youth 's for pleasure: Mine is received; let my age pay for it.

_Gau._ So, pay, and pleasure paid for, thinks your Grace, Should never go together?

_Gui._ How, Sir Gaucelme? Hurry one's feast down unenjoyingly At the snatched breathing-intervals of work? As good you saved it till the dull day's-end When, stiff and sleepy, appetite is gone. Eat first, then work upon the strength of food!

_Duch._ True: you enable me to risk my future, By giving me a past beyond recall. I lived, a girl, one happy leisure year: Let me endeavor to be the Duchess now! And so,--what news, Sir Guibert, spoke you of? [_As they advance a little, and_ GUIBERT _speaks_-- --That gentleman?

_Val._ [_Aside._] I feel her eyes on me.

_Gui._ [_To_ VALENCE.] The Duchess, sir, inclines to hear your suit. Advance! He is from Cleves.

_Val._ [_Coming forward._] [_Aside._] Their wrongs--their wrongs!

_Duch._ And you, sir, are from Cleves? How fresh in mind, The hour or two I passed at queenly Cleves! She entertained me bravely, but the best Of her good pageant seemed its standers-by With insuppressive joy on every face! What says my ancient famous happy Cleves?

_Val._ Take the truth, lady--you are made for truth! So think my friends: nor do they less deserve The having you to take it, you shall think, When you know all--nay, when you only know How, on that day you recollect at Cleves, When the poor acquiescing multitude Who thrust themselves with all their woes apart Into unnoticed corners, that the few, Their means sufficed to muster trappings for, Might fill the foreground, occupy your sight With joyous faces fit to bear away And boast of as a sample of all Cleves --How, when to daylight these crept out once more, Clutching, unconscious, each his empty rags Whence the scant coin, which had not half bought bread, That morn he shook forth, counted piece by piece, And, well-advisedly, on perfumes spent them To burn, or flowers to strew, before your path --How, when the golden flood of music and bliss Ebbed, as their moon retreated, and again Left the sharp black-point rocks of misery bare --Then I, their friend, had only to suggest "Saw she the horror as she saw the pomp!" And as one man they cried, "He speaks the truth: Show her the horror! Take from our own mouths Our wrongs and show them, she will see them too!" This they cried, lady! I have brought the wrongs.

_Duch._ Wrongs? Cleves has wrongs--apparent now and thus? I thank you! In that paper? Give it me!

_Val._ (There, Cleves!) In this! (What did I promise, Cleves?) Our weavers, clothiers, spinners are reduced Since ... Oh, I crave your pardon! I forget I buy the privilege of this approach, And promptly would discharge my debt. I lay This paper humbly at the Duchess' feet. [_Presenting_ GUIBERT'S _paper_.

_Gui._ Stay! for the present ...

_Duch._ Stay, sir? I take aught That teaches me their wrongs with greater pride Than this your ducal circlet. Thank you, sir! [_The_ DUCHESS _reads hastily; then, turning to the_ Courtiers-- What have I done to you? Your deed or mine Was it, this crowning me? I gave myself No more a title to your homage, no, Than church-flowers, born this season, wrote the words In the saint's-book that sanctified them first. For such a flower, you plucked me; well, you erred-- Well, 't was a weed; remove the eye-sore quick! But should you not remember it has lain Steeped in the candles' glory, palely shrined, Nearer God's Mother than most earthly things? --That if 't be faded 't is with prayer's sole breath-- That the one day it boasted was God's day? Still, I do thank you! Had you used respect, Here might I dwindle to my last white leaf, Here lose life's latest freshness, which even yet May yield some wandering insect rest and food: So, fling me forth, and--all is best for all! [_After a pause._] Prince Berthold, who art Juliers' Duke it seems-- The King's choice, and the Emperor's, and the Pope's-- Be mine, too! Take this People! Tell not me Of rescripts, precedents, authorities, --But take them, from a heart that yearns to give! Find out their love,--I could not; find their fear,-- I would not; find their like,--I never shall, Among the flowers! [_Taking off her coronet._ Colombe of Ravestein Thanks God she is no longer Duchess here!

_Val._ [_Advancing to_ GUIBERT.] Sir Guibert, knight, they call you--this of mine Is the first step I ever set at court. You dared make me your instrument, I find; For that, so sure as you and I are men, We reckon to the utmost presently: But as you are a courtier and I none, Your knowledge may instruct me. I, already, Have too far outraged, by my ignorance Of courtier-ways, this lady, to proceed A second step and risk addressing her: --I am degraded--you let me address! Out of her presence, all is plain enough What I shall do--but in her presence, too, Surely there's something proper to be done. [_To the others._] You, gentles, tell me if I guess aright-- May I not strike this man to earth?

_The Courtiers._ [_As_ GUIBERT _springs forward, withholding him_.] Let go! --The clothiers' spokesman, Guibert? Grace a churl?

_Duch._ [_To_ VALENCE.] Oh, be acquainted with your party, sir! He's of the oldest lineage Juliers boasts; A lion crests him for a cognizance; "Scorning to waver"--that 's his 'scutcheon's word; His office with the new Duke--probably The same in honor as with me; or more, By so much as this gallant turn deserves. He 's now, I dare say, of a thousand times The rank and influence that remain with her Whose part you take! So, lest for taking it You suffer ...

_Val._ I may strike him then to earth?

_Gui._ [_Falling on his knee._] Great and dear lady, pardon me! Hear once! Believe me and be merciful--be just! I could not bring myself to give that paper Without a keener pang than I dared meet --And so felt Clugnet here, and Maufroy here --No one dared meet it. Protestation's cheap,-- But, if to die for you did any good, [_To_ GAUCELME.] Would not I die, sir? Say your worst of me! But it does no good, that's the mournful truth. And since the hint of a resistance, even, Would just precipitate, on you the first, A speedier ruin--I shall not deny, Saving myself indubitable pain, I thought to give you pleasure (who might say?) By showing that your only subject found To carry the sad notice was the man Precisely ignorant of its contents; A nameless, mere provincial advocate; One whom 't was like you never saw before, Never would see again. All has gone wrong: But I meant right, God knows, and you, I trust!

_Duch._ A nameless advocate, this gentleman? --(I pardon you, Sir Guibert!)

_Gui._ [_Rising, to_ VALENCE.] Sir, and you?

_Val._ --Rejoice that you are lightened of a load. Now, you have only me to reckon with.

_Duch._ One I have never seen, much less obliged?

_Val._ Dare I speak, lady?

_Duch._ Dare you! Heard you not I rule no longer?

_Val._ Lady, if your rule Were based alone on such a ground as these [_Pointing to the_ Courtiers. Could furnish you,--abjure it! They have hidden A source of true dominion from your sight.

_Duch._ You hear them--no such source is left ...

_Vol._ Hear Cleves! Whose haggard craftsmen rose to starve this day, Starve now, and will lie down at night to starve, Sure of a like to-morrow--but as sure Of a most unlike morrow-after-that, Since end things must, end howsoe'er things may. What curbs the brute-force instinct in its hour? What makes--instead of rising, all as one, And teaching fingers, so expert to wield Their tool, the broadsword's play or carbine's trick, --What makes that there's an easier help, they think, For you, whose name so few of them can spell, Whose face scarce one in every hundred saw,-- You simply have to understand their wrongs, And wrongs will vanish--so, still trades are plied, And swords lie rusting, and myself stand here? There is a vision in the heart of each Of justice, mercy, wisdom, tenderness To wrong and pain, and knowledge of its cure: And these embodied in a woman's form That best transmits them, pure as first received, From God above her, to mankind below. Will you derive your rule from such a ground, Or rather hold it by the suffrage, say, Of this man--this--and this?

_Duch._ [_After a pause._] You come from Cleves: How many are at Cleves of such a mind?

_Val._ [_From his paper._] "We, all the manufacturers of Cleves--"

_Duch._ Or stay, sir--lest I seem too covetous-- Are you my subject? such as you describe, Am I to you, though to no other man?

_Val._ [_From his paper._] --"Valence, ordained your Advocate at Cleves"--

_Duch._ [_Replacing the coronet._] Then I remain Cleves' Duchess! Take you note, While Cleves but yields one subject of this stamp, I stand her lady till she waves me off! For her sake, all the Prince claims I withhold; Laugh at each menace; and, his power defying, Return his missive with its due contempt! [_Casting it away._

_Gui._ [_Picking it up._]--Which to the Prince I will deliver, lady, (Note it down, Gaucelme)--with your message too!

_Duch._ I think the office is a subject's, sir! --Either ... how style you him?--my special guarder The Marshal's--for who knows but violence May follow the delivery?--Or, perhaps, My Chancellor's--for law may be to urge On its receipt!--Or, even my Chamberlain's-- For I may violate established form! [_To_ VALENCE.] Sir,--for the half-hour till this service ends, Will you become all these to me?

_Val._ [_Falling on his knee._] My liege!

_Duch._ Give me! [_The_ Courtiers _present their badges of office_. [_Putting them by._] Whatever was their virtue once, They need new consecration. [_Raising_ VALENCE.] Are you mine? I will be Duchess yet! [_She retires._

_The Courtiers._ Our Duchess yet! A glorious lady! Worthy love and dread! I'll stand by her,--and I, whate'er betide!

_Gui._ [_To_ VALENCE.] Well done, well done, sir! I care not who knows, You have done nobly and I envy you-- Though I am but unfairly used, I think: For when one gets a place like this I hold, One gets too the remark that its mere wages, The pay and the preferment, make our prize. Talk about zeal and faith apart from these, We 're laughed at--much would zeal and faith subsist Without these also! Yet, let these be stopped, Our wages discontinue,--then, indeed, Our zeal and faith, (we hear on every side,) Are not released--having been pledged away I wonder, for what zeal and faith in turn? Hard money purchased me my place! No, no-- I'm right, sir--but your wrong is better still, If I had time and skill to argue it. Therefore, I say, I 'll serve you, how you please-- If you like,--fight you, as you seem to wish-- (The kinder of me that, in sober truth, I never dreamed I did you any harm) ...

_Gau._ --Or, kinder still, you 'll introduce, no doubt, His merits to the Prince who 's just at hand, And let no hint drop he 's made Chancellor And Chamberlain and Heaven knows what beside!

_Clug._ [_To_ VALENCE.] You stare, young sir, and threaten! Let me say, That at your age, when first I came to court, I was not much above a gentleman; While now ...

_Val._ --You are Head-Lackey? With your office I have not yet been graced, sir!

_Other Courtiers._ [_To_ CLUGNET.] Let him talk! Fidelity, disinterestedness, Excuse so much! Men claim my worship ever Who staunchly and steadfastly ...

(_Enter_ ADOLF.)

_Adolf._ The Prince arrives.

_Courtiers._ Ha? How?

_Adolf._ He leaves his guard a stage behind At Aix, and enters almost by himself.

_1st Court._ The Prince! This foolish business puts all out.

_2d Court._ Let Gaucelme speak first!

_3d Court._ Better I began About the state of Juliers: should one say All 's prosperous and inviting him?

_4th Court._ --Or rather, All 's prostrate and imploring him?

_5th Court._ That's best. Where 's the Cleves' paper, by the way?

_4th Court._ [_To_ VALENCE.] Sir--sir-- If you'll but lend that paper--trust it me, I 'll warrant ...

_5th Court._ Softly, sir--the Marshal's duty!

_Clug._ Has not the Chamberlain a hearing first By virtue of his patent?

_Gau._ Patents?--Duties? All that, my masters, must begin again! One word composes the whole controversy: We're simply now--the Prince's!

_The Others._ Ay--the Prince's!

(_Enter_ SABYNE.)

_Sab._ Adolf! Bid ... Oh, no time for ceremony! Where 's whom our lady calls her only subject? She needs him. Who is here the Duchess's?

_Val._ [_Starting from his reverie._] Most gratefully I follow to her feet.

## ACT III

_Afternoon._ SCENE. _The Vestibule._

_Enter_ PRINCE BERTHOLD _and_ MELCHIOR.

_Berthold._ A thriving little burgh this Juliers looks. [_Half-apart._] Keep Juliers, and as good you kept Cologne: Better try Aix, though!--

_Melchior._ Please 't your Highness speak?

_Berth._ [_As before._] Aix, Cologne, Frankfort,--Milan;--Rome!--

_Mel._ The Grave. More weary seems your Highness, I remark, Than sundry conquerors whose path I've watched Through fire and blood to any prize they gain. I could well wish you, for your proper sake, Had met some shade of opposition here --Found a blunt seneschal refuse unlock, Or a scared usher lead your steps astray. You must not look for next achievement's palm So easily: this will hurt your conquering.

_Berth._ My next? Ay, as you say, my next and next! Well, I am tired, that's truth, and moody too, This quiet entrance-morning: listen why! Our little burgh, now, Juliers--'t is indeed One link, however insignificant, Of the great chain by which I reach my hope, --A link I must secure; but otherwise, You 'd wonder I esteem it worth my grasp. Just see what life is, with its shifts and turns! It happens now--this very nook--to be A place that once ... not a long while since, neither-- When I lived an ambiguous hanger-on Of foreign courts, and bore my claims about, Discarded by one kinsman, and the other A poor priest merely,--then, I say, this place Shone my ambition's object; to be Duke-- Seemed then, what to be Emperor seems now. My rights were far from judged as plain and sure In those days as of late, I promise you: And 't was my day-dream, Lady Colombe here Might e'en compound the matter, pity me, Be struck, say, with my chivalry and grace (I was a boy!)--bestow her hand at length, And make me Duke, in her right if not mine. Here am I, Duke confessed, at Juliers now. Hearken: if ever I be Emperor, Remind me what I felt and said to-day!

_Mel._ All this consoles a bookish man like me. --And so will weariness cling to you. Wrong, Wrong! Had you sought the lady's court yourself,-- Faced the redoubtables composing it, Flattered this, threatened that man, bribed the other,-- Pleaded by writ and word and deed, your cause,-- Conquered a footing inch by painful inch,-- And, after long years' struggle, pounced at last On her for prize,--the right life had been lived, And justice done to divers faculties Shut in that brow. Yourself were visible As you stood victor, then; whom now--(your pardon!) I am forced narrowly to search and see, So are you hid by helps--this Pope, your uncle-- Your cousin, the other King! You are a mind,-- They, body: too much of mere legs-and-arms Obstructs the mind so! Match these with their like: Match mind with mind!

_Berth._ And where's your mind to match? They show me legs-and-arms to cope withal! I'd subjugate this city--where's its mind?

(_The_ Courtiers _enter slowly_.)

_Mel._ Got out of sight when you came troops and all! And in its stead, here greets you flesh-and-blood: A smug economy of both, this first! [_As_ CLUGNET _bows obsequiously_. Well done, gout, all considered!--I may go?

_Berth._ Help me receive them!

_Mel._ Oh, they just will say What yesterday at Aix their fellows said,-- At Treves, the day before! Sir Prince, my friend, Why do you let your life slip thus?--Meantime, I have my little Juliers to achieve-- The understanding this tough Platonist, Your holy uncle disinterred, Amelius: Lend me a company of horse and foot, To help me through his tractate--gain my Duchy!

_Berth._ And Empire, after that is gained, will be--?

_Mel._ To help me through your uncle's comment, Prince! [_Goes._

_Berth._ Ah? Well: he o'er-refines--the scholar's fault! How do I let my life slip? Say, this life, I lead now, differs from the common life Of other men in mere degree, not kind, Of joys and griefs,--still there is such degree Mere largeness in a life is something, sure,-- Enough to care about and struggle for, In this world: for this world, the size of things; The sort of things, for that to come, no doubt. A great is better than a little aim: And when I wooed Priscilla's rosy mouth And failed so, under that gray convent-wall, Was I more happy than I should be now [_By this time, the_ Courtiers _are ranged before him_. If failing of my Empire? Not a whit. --Here comes the mind, it once had tasked me sore To baffle, but for my advantages! All's best as 'tis: these scholars talk and talk. [_Seats himself._

_The Courtiers._ Welcome our Prince to Juliers!--to his heritage! Our dutifullest service proffer we!

_Clug._ I, please your Highness, having exercised The function of Grand Chamberlain at court, With much acceptance, as men testify ...

_Berth._ I cannot greatly thank you, gentlemen! The Pope declares my claim to the Duchy founded On strictest justice--you concede it, therefore, I do not wonder: and the kings my friends Protest they mean to see such claim enforced,-- You easily may offer to assist. But there's a slight discretionary power To serve me in the matter, you've had long, Though late you use it. This is well to say-- But could you not have said it months ago? I'm not denied my own Duke's truncheon, true-- 'T is flung me--I stoop down, and from the ground Pick it, with all you placid standers-by: And now I have it, gems and mire at once, Grace go with it to my soiled hands, you say!

_Gui._ (By Paul, the advocate our doughty friend Cuts the best figure!)

_Gau._ If our ignorance May have offended, sure our loyalty ...

_Berth._ Loyalty? Yours? Oh--of yourselves you speak! I mean the Duchess all this time, I hope! And since I have been forced repeat my claims As if they never had been urged before, As I began, so must I end, it seems. The formal answer to the grave demand! What says the lady?

_Courtiers._ [_One to another._] _1st Court._ Marshal! _2d Court._ Orator!

_Gui._ A variation of our mistress' way! Wipe off his boots' dust, Clugnet!--that, he waits!

_1st Court._ Your place!

_2d Court._ Just now it was your own!

_Gui._ The devil's!

_Berth._ [_To_ GUIBERT.] Come forward, friend--you with the paper, there! Is Juliers the first city I've obtained? By this time, I may boast proficiency In each decorum of the circumstance. Give it me as she gave it?--the petition, Demand, you style it! What 's required, in brief? What title's reservation, appanage's Allowance? I heard all at Treves, last week.

_Gau._ [_To_ GUIBERT.] "Give it him as she gave it!"

_Gui._ And why not? [_To_ BERTHOLD.] The lady crushed your summons thus together, And bade me, with the very greatest scorn So fair a frame could hold, inform you ...

_Courtiers._ Stop-- Idiot!

_Gui._ --Inform you she denied your claim, Defied yourself! (I tread upon his heel, The blustering advocate!)

_Berth._ By heaven and earth! Dare you jest, sir?

_Gui._ Did they at Treves, last week?

_Berth._ [_Starting up._] Why then, I look much bolder than I knew, And you prove better actors than I thought: Since, as I live, I took you as you entered For just so many dearest friends of mine, Fled from the sinking to the rising power --The sneaking'st crew, in short, I e'er despised! Whereas, I am alone here for the moment, With every soldier left behind at Aix! Silence? That means the worst? I thought as much! What follows next?

_Courtiers._ Gracious Prince--he raves!

_Gui._ He asked the truth and why not get the truth?

_Berth._ Am I a prisoner? Speak, will somebody? --But why stand paltering with imbeciles? Let me see her, or ...

_Gui._ Her, without her leave, Shall no one see: she 's Duchess yet!

_Courtiers._ [_Footsteps without, as they are disputing._] Good chance! She 's here--the Lady Colombe's self!

_Berth._ 'T is well! [_Aside._] Array a handful thus against my world? Not ill done, truly! Were not this a mind To match one's mind with? Colombe! Let us wait! I failed so, under that gray convent wall! She comes.

_Gui._ The Duchess! Strangers, range yourselves!

[_As the_ DUCHESS _enters in conversation with_ VALENCE, BERTHOLD _and the_ Courtiers _fall back a little_.

_Duch._ Presagefully it beats, presagefully, My heart: the right is Berthold's and not mine.

_Val._ Grant that he has the right, dare I mistrust Your power to acquiesce so patiently As you believe, in such a dream-like change Of fortune--change abrupt, profound, complete?

_Duch._ Ah, the first bitterness is over now! Bitter I may have felt it to confront The truth, and ascertain those natures' value I had so counted on; that was a pang: But I did bear it, and the worst is over. Let the Prince take them!

_Val._ And take Juliers too? --Your people without crosses, wands and chains-- Only with hearts?

_Duch._ There I feel guilty, sir! I cannot give up what I never had: For I ruled these, not them--these stood between. Shall I confess, sir? I have heard by stealth Of Berthold from the first; more news and more: Closer and closer swam the thunder cloud, But I was safely housed with these, I knew. At times when to the casement I would turn, At a bird's passage or a flower-trail's play, I caught the storm's red glimpses on its edge-- Yet I was sure some one of all these friends Would interpose: I followed the bird's flight Or plucked the flower--some one would interpose!

_Val._ Not one thought on the People--and Cleves there!

_Duch._ Now, sadly conscious my real sway was missed, Its shadow goes without so much regret: Else could I not again thus calmly bid you, Answer Prince Berthold!

_Val._ Then you acquiesce?

_Duch._ Remember over whom it was I ruled!

_Gui._ [_Stepping forward._] Prince Berthold, yonder, craves an audience, lady!

_Duch._ [_To_ VALENCE.] I only have to turn, and I shall face Prince Berthold! Oh, my very heart is sick! It is the daughter of a line of Dukes This scornful insolent adventurer Will bid depart from my dead father's halls! I shall not answer him--dispute with him-- But, as he bids, depart! Prevent it, sir! Sir--but a mere day's respite! Urge for me --What I shall call to mind I should have urged When time's gone by--'t will all be mine, you urge! A day--an hour--that I myself may lay My rule down! 'T is too sudden--must not be! The world's to hear of it! Once done--forever! How will it read, sir? How be sung about? Prevent it!

_Berth._ [_Approaching._] Your frank indignation, lady, Cannot escape me. Overbold I seem; But somewhat should be pardoned my surprise At this reception,--this defiance, rather. And if, for their and your sake, I rejoice Your virtues could inspire a trusty few To make such gallant stand in your behalf, I cannot but be sorry, for my own, Your friends should force me to retrace my steps: Since I no longer am permitted speak After the pleasant peaceful course prescribed No less by courtesy than relationship-- Which I remember, if you once forgot. But never must attack pass unrepelled. Suffer that, through you, I demand of these, Who controverts my claim to Juliers?

_Duch._ --Me You say, you do not speak to--

_Berth._ Of your subjects I ask, then: whom do you accredit? Where Stand those should answer?

_Val._ [_Advancing._] The lady is alone.

_Berth._ Alone, and thus? So weak and yet so bold?

_Val._ I said she was alone--

_Berth._ And weak, I said.

_Val._ When is man strong until he feels alone? It was some lonely strength at first, be sure, Created organs, such as those you seek, By which to give its varied purpose shape: And, naming the selected ministrants, Took sword, and shield, and sceptre,--each, a man! That strength performed its work and passed its way: You see our lady: there, the old shapes stand! --A Marshal, Chamberlain, and Chancellor-- "Be helped their way, into their death put life And find advantage!"--so you counsel us. But let strength feel alone, seek help itself,-- And, as the inland-hatched sea-creature hunts The sea's breast out,--as, littered 'mid the waves The desert-brute makes for the desert's joy, So turns our lady to her true resource, Passing o'er hollow fictions, worn-out types, --And I am first her instinct fastens on. And prompt I say, as clear as heart can speak, The People will not have you; nor shall have! It is not merely I shall go bring Cleves And fight you to the last,--though that does much, And men and children,--ay, and women too, Fighting for home, are rather to be feared Than mercenaries fighting for their pay-- But, say you beat us, since such things have been, And, where this Juliers laughed, you set your foot Upon a steaming bloody plash--what then? Stand you the more our lord that there you stand? Lord it o'er troops whose force you concentrate, A pillared flame whereto all ardors tend-- Lord it 'mid priests whose schemes you amplify, A cloud of smoke 'neath which all shadows brood-- But never, in this gentle spot of earth, Can you become our Colombe, our play-queen, For whom, to furnish lilies for her hair, We'd pour our veins forth to enrich the soil! --Our conqueror? Yes!--Our despot? Yes!--Our Duke? Know yourself, know us!

_Berth._ [_Who has been in thought._] Know your lady, also! [_Very deferentially_.]--To whom I needs must exculpate myself For having made a rash demand, at least. Wherefore to you, sir, who appear to be Her chief adviser, I submit my claims, [_Giving papers._ But, this step taken, take no further step, Until the Duchess shall pronounce their worth. Here be our meeting-place; at night, its time: Till when I humbly take the lady's leave!

[_He withdraws. As the_ DUCHESS _turns to_ VALENCE, _the_ Courtiers _interchange glances and come forward a little_.

_1st Court._ So, this was their device!

_2d Court._ No bad device!

_3d Court._ You'd say they love each other, Guibert's friend From Cleves, and she, the Duchess!

_4th Court._ --And moreover, That all Prince Berthold comes for, is to help Their loves!

_5th Court._ Pray, Guibert; what is next to do?

_Gui._ [_Advancing._] I laid my office at the Duchess' foot--

_Others._ And I--and I--and I!

_Duch._ I took them, sirs.

_Gui._ [_Apart to_ VALENCE.] And now, sir, I am simple knight again-- Guibert, of the great ancient house, as yet That never bore affront; whate'er your birth,-- As things stand now, I recognize yourself (If you'll accept experience of some date) As like to be the leading man o' the time, Therefore as much above me now, as I Seemed above you this morning. Then, I offered To fight you: will you be as generous And now fight me?

_Val._ Ask when my life is mine!

_Gui._ ('Tis hers now!)

_Clug._ [_Apart to_ VALENCE, _as_ GUIBERT _turns from him_.] You, sir, have insulted me Grossly,--will grant me, too, the selfsame favor You 've granted him, just now, I make no question?

_Val._ I promise you, as him, sir.

_Clug._ Do you so? Handsomely said! I hold you to it, sir. You 'll get me reinstated in my office As you will Guibert!

_Duch._ I would be alone!

[_They begin to retire slowly: as_ VALENCE _is about to follow_--

Alone, sir--only with my heart: you stay!

_Gau._ You hear that? Ah, light breaks upon me! Cleves-- It was at Cleves some man harangued us all-- With great effect,--so those who listened said, My thoughts being busy elsewhere: was this he? Guibert,--your strange, disinterested man! Your uncorrupted, if uncourtly friend! The modest worth you mean to patronize! He cares about no Duchesses, not he! His sole concern is with the wrongs of Cleves! What, Guibert? What, it breaks on you at last?

_Gui._ Would this hall's floor were a mine's roof! I'd back And in her very face ...

_Gau._ Apply the match That fired the train,--and where would you be, pray?

_Gui._ With him!

_Gau._ Stand, rather, safe outside with me! The mine 's charged: shall I furnish you the match And place you properly? To the antechamber!

_Gui._ Can you?

_Gau._ Try me! Your friend 's in fortune!

_Gui._ Quick-- To the antechamber! He is pale with bliss!

_Gau._ No wonder! Mark her eyes!

_Gui._ To the antechamber!

[_The_ Courtiers _retire_.

_Duch._ Sir, could you know all you have done for me You were content! You spoke, and I am saved.

_Val._ Be not too sanguine, lady! Ere you dream, That transient flush of generosity Fades off, perchance! The man, beside, is gone,-- Him we might bend; but see, the papers here-- Inalterably his requirement stays, And cold hard words have we to deal with now. In that large eye there seemed a latent pride, To self-denial not incompetent, But very like to hold itself dispensed From such a grace: however, let us hope! He is a noble spirit in noble form. I wish he less had bent that brow to smile As with the fancy how he could subject Himself upon occasion to--himself! From rudeness, violence, you rest secure; But do not think your Duchy rescued yet!

_Duch._ You, who have opened a new world to me, Will never take the faded language up Of that I leave? My Duchy--keeping it, Or losing it--is that my sole world now?

_Val._ Ill have I spoken if you thence despise Juliers; although the lowest, on true grounds, Be worth more than the highest rule, on false: Aspire to rule, on the true grounds!

_Duch._ Nay, hear-- False, I will never--rash, I would not be! This is indeed my birthday--soul and body, Its hours have done on me the work of years. You hold the requisition: ponder it! If I have right, my duty's plain: if he-- Say so, nor ever change a tone of voice! At night you meet the Prince; meet me at eve! Till when, farewell! This discomposes you? Believe in your own nature, and its force Of renovating mine! I take my stand Only as under me the earth is firm: So, prove the first step stable, all will prove. That first, I choose--[_Laying her hand on his_]--the next to take, choose you! [_She withdraws._

_Val._ [_After a pause._] What drew down this on me?--on me, dead once, She thus bids live,--since all I hitherto Thought dead in me, youth's ardors and emprise, Burst into life before her, as she bids Who needs them. Whither will this reach, where end? Her hand's print burns on mine ... Yet she 's above-- So very far above me! All 's too plain: I served her when the others sank away, And she rewards me as such souls reward-- The changed voice, the suffusion of the cheek, The eye's acceptance, the expressive hand, --Reward, that 's little, in her generous thought, Though all to me ... I cannot so disclaim Heaven's gift, nor call it other than it is! She loves me! [_Looking at the_ Prince's _papers_.]--Which love, these, perchance, forbid. Can I decide against myself--pronounce She is the Duchess and no mate for me? --Cleves, help me! Teach me,--every haggard face,-- To sorrow and endure! I will do right Whatever be the issue. Help me, Cleves!

## ACT IV

_Evening._ SCENE. _An Antechamber_.

_Enter the_ Courtiers.

_Mau._ Now, then, that we may speak--how spring this mine?

_Gau._ Is Guibert ready for its match? He cools! Not so friend Valence with the Duchess there! "Stay, Valence! Are not you my better self?" And her cheek mantled--

_Gui._ Well, she loves him, sir; And more,--since you will have it I grow cool,-- She 's right: he 's worth it.

_Gau._ For his deeds to-day? Say so!

_Gui._ What should I say beside?

_Gau._ Not this-- For friendship's sake leave this for me to say-- That we 're the dupes of an egregious cheat! This plain unpractised suitor, who found way To the Duchess through the merest die's turn-up, A year ago had seen her and been seen, Loved and been loved.

_Gui._ Impossible!

_Gau._ --Nor say, How sly and exquisite a trick, moreover, Was this which--taking not their stand on facts Boldly, for that had been endurable, But worming on their way by craft, they choose Resort to, rather,--and which you and we, Sheep-like, assist them in the playing-off! The Duchess thus parades him as preferred, Not on the honest ground of preference, Seeing first, liking more, and there an end-- But as we all had started equally, And at the close of a fair race he proved The only valiant, sage and loyal man. Herself, too, with the pretty fits and starts,-- The careless, winning, candid ignorance Of what the Prince might challenge or forego-- She had a hero in reserve! What risk Ran she? This deferential easy Prince Who brings his claims for her to ratify --He 's just her puppet for the nonce! You'll see,-- Valence pronounces, as is equitable, Against him: off goes the confederate: As equitably, Valence takes her hand!

_The Chancellor._ You run too fast: her hand, no subject takes. Do not our archives hold her father's will? That will provides against such accident, And gives next heir, Prince Berthold, the reversion Of Juliers, which she forfeits, wedding so.

_Gau._ I know that, well as you,--but does the Prince? Knows Berthold, think you, that this plan, he helps, For Valence's ennoblement,--would end, If crowned with the success which seems its due, In making him the very thing he plays, The actual Duke of Juliers? All agree That Colombe's title waived or set aside, He is next heir.

_The Chan._ Incontrovertibly.

_Gau._ Guibert, your match, now, to the train!

_Gui._ Enough! I 'm with you: selfishness is best again. I thought of turning honest--what a dream! Let 's wake now!

_Gau._ Selfish, friend, you never were: 'T was but a series of revenges taken On your unselfishness for prospering ill. But now that you 're grown wiser, what 's our course?

_Gui._--Wait, I suppose, till Valence weds our lady, And then, if we must needs revenge ourselves, Apprise the Prince.

_Gau._ --The Prince, ere then dismissed With thanks for playing his mock part so well? Tell the Prince now, sir! Ay, this very night, Ere he accepts his dole and goes his way, Explain how such a marriage makes him Duke, Then trust his gratitude for the surprise!

_Gui._--Our lady wedding Valence all the same As if the penalty were undisclosed? Good! If she loves, she 'll not disown her love, Throw Valence up. I wonder you see that.

_Gau._ The shame of it--the suddenness and shame! Within her, the inclining heart--without, A terrible array of witnesses-- And Valence by, to keep her to her word, With Berthold's indignation or disgust! We 'll try it!--Not that we can venture much. Her confidence we've lost forever: Berthold's Is all to gain.

_Gui._ To-night, then, venture we! Yet--if lost confidence might be renewed?

_Gau._ Never in noble natures! With the base ones,-- Twist off the crab's claw, wait a smarting-while, And something grows and grows and gets to be A mimic of the lost joint, just so like As keeps in mind it never, never will Replace its predecessor! Crabs do that: But lop the lion's foot--and ...

_Gui._ To the Prince!

_Gau._ [_Aside._] And come what will to the lion's foot, I pay you, My cat's paw, as I long have yearned to pay! [_Aloud._] Footsteps! Himself! 'T is Valence breaks on us, Exulting that their scheme succeeds. We 'll hence-- And perfect ours! Consult the archives, first-- Then, fortified with knowledge, seek the Hall!

_Clug._ [_To_ GAUCELME _as they retire_.] You have not smiled so since your father died!

(_As they retire, enter_ VALENCE _with papers_.)

_Val._ So must it be! I have examined these With scarce a palpitating heart--so calm, Keeping her image almost wholly off. Setting upon myself determined watch, Repelling to the uttermost his claims: And the result is--all men would pronounce, And not I, only, the result to be-- Berthold is heir; she has no shade of right To the distinction which divided us, But, suffered to rule first, I know not why, Her rule connived at by those Kings and Popes, To serve some devil's-purpose,--now 't is gained, Whate'er it was, the rule expires as well. --Valence, this rapture ... selfish can it be? Eject it from your heart, her home!--It stays! Ah, the brave world that opens on us both! --Do my poor townsmen so esteem it? Cleves,-- I need not your pale faces! This, reward For service done to you? Too horrible! I never served you: 't was myself I served-- Nay, served not--rather saved from punishment Which, had I failed you then, would plague me now! My life continues yours, and your life, mine. But if, to take God's gift, I swerve no step-- Cleves! If I breathe no prayer for it--if she, [_Footsteps without_. Colombe, that comes now, freely gives herself-- Will Cleves require, that, turning thus to her, I ...

(_Enter_ PRINCE BERTHOLD.)

Pardon, sir! I did not look for you Till night, i' the Hall; nor have as yet declared My judgment to the lady.

_Berth._ So I hoped.

_Val._ And yet I scarcely know why that should check The frank disclosure of it first to you-- What her right seems, and what, in consequence, She will decide on.

_Berth._ That I need not ask.

_Val._ You need not: I have proved the lady's mind: And, justice being to do, dare act for her.

_Berth._ Doubtless she has a very noble mind.

_Val._ Oh, never fear but she 'll in each conjuncture Bear herself bravely! She no whit depends On circumstance; as she adorns a throne, She had adorned ...

_Berth._ A cottage--in what book Have I read that, of every queen that lived? A throne! You have not been instructed, sure, To forestall my request?

_Val._ 'T is granted, sir! My heart instructs me. I have scrutinized Your claims ...

_Berth._ Ah--claims, you mean, at first preferred? I come, before the hour appointed me, To pray you let those claims at present rest, In favor of a new and stronger one.

_Val._ You shall not need a stronger: on the part O' the lady, all you offer I accept, Since one clear right suffices: yours is clear. Propose!

_Berth._ I offer her my hand.

_Val._ Your hand?

_Berth._ A Duke's, yourself say; and, at no far time, Something here whispers me--an Emperor's. The lady's mind is noble: which induced This seizure of occasion: ere my claims Were--settled, let us amicably say!

_Val._ Your hand!

_Berth._ (He will fall down and kiss it next!) Sir, this astonishment's too flattering, Nor must you hold your mistress' worth so cheap. Enhance it, rather,--urge that blood is blood-- The daughter of the Burgraves, Landgraves, Markgraves, Remains their daughter! I shall scarce gainsay. Elsewhere, or here, the lady needs must rule: Like the imperial crown's great chrysoprase, They talk of--somewhat out of keeping there, And yet no jewel for a meaner cap.

_Val._ You wed the Duchess?

_Berth._ Cry you mercy, friend! Will the match also influence fortunes here? A natural solicitude enough. Be certain, no bad chance it proves for you! However high you take your present stand, There 's prospect of a higher still remove-- For Juliers will not be my resting-place, And, when I have to choose a substitute To rule the little burgh, I 'll think of you Who need not give your mates a character. And yet I doubt your fitness to supplant The gray smooth Chamberlain: he 'd hesitate A doubt his lady could demean herself So low as to accept me. Courage, sir! I like your method better: feeling's play Is franker much, and flatters me beside.

_Val._ I am to say, you love her?

_Berth._ Say that too! Love has no great concernment, thinks the world, With a Duke's marriage. How go precedents In Juliers' story--how use Juliers' Dukes? I see you have them here in goodly row; Yon must be Luitpold--ay, a stalwart sire! Say, I have been arrested suddenly In my ambition's course, its rocky course, By this sweet flower: I fain would gather it And then proceed: so say and speedily --(Nor stand there like Duke Luitpold's brazen self!) Enough, sir: you possess my mind, I think. This is my claim, the others being withdrawn, And to this be it that, i' the Hall to-night, Your lady's answer comes; till when, farewell! [_He retires._

_Val._ [_After a pause._] The heavens and earth stay as they were; my heart Beats as it beat: the truth remains the truth. What falls away, then, if not faith in her? Was it my faith, that she could estimate Love's value, and, such faith still guiding me, Dare I now test her? Or grew faith so strong Solely because no power of test was mine?

(_Enter the_ DUCHESS.)

_Duch._ My fate, sir! Ah, you turn away. All 's over. But you are sorry for me? Be not so! What I might have become, and never was, Regret with me! What I have merely been, Rejoice I am no longer! What I seem Beginning now, in my new state, to be, Hope that I am!--for, once my rights proved void, This heavy roof seems easy to exchange For the blue sky outside--my lot henceforth.

_Val._ And what a lot is Berthold's!

_Duch._ How of him?

_Val._ He gathers earth's whole good into his arms; Standing, as man now, stately, strong and wise, Marching to fortune, not surprised by her. One great aim, like a guiding-star, above-- Which tasks strength, wisdom, stateliness, to lift His manhood to the height that takes the prize; A prize not near--lest overlooking earth He rashly spring to seize it--nor remote, So that he rest upon his path content: But day by day, while shimmering grows shine, And the faint circlet prophesies the orb, He sees so much as, just evolving these, The stateliness, the wisdom and the strength, To due completion, will suffice this life, And lead him at his grandest to the grave. After this star, out of a night he springs; A beggar's cradle for the throne of thrones He quits; so, mounting, feels each step he mounts, Nor, as from each to each exultingly He passes, overleaps one grade of joy. This, for his own good:--with the world, each gift Of God and man,--reality, tradition, Fancy and fact--so well environ him, That as a mystic panoply they serve-- Of force, untenanted, to awe mankind, And work his purpose out with half the world, While he, their master, dexterously slipt From such encumbrance, is meantime employed With his own prowess on the other half. Thus shall he prosper, every day's success Adding, to what is he, a solid strength-- An aëry might to what encircles him, Till at the last, so life's routine lends help, That as the Emperor only breathes and moves, His shadow shall be watched, his step or stalk Become a comfort or a portent, how He trails his ermine take significance,-- Till even his power shall cease to be most power, And men shall dread his weakness more, nor dare Peril their earth its bravest, first and best, Its typified invincibility. Thus shall he go on, greatening, till he ends-- The man of men, the spirit of all flesh, The fiery centre of an earthly world!

_Duch._ Some such a fortune I had dreamed should rise Out of my own--that is, above my power Seemed other, greater potencies to stretch--

_Val._ For you?

_Duch._ It was not I moved there, I think: But one I could,--though constantly beside, And aye approaching,--still keep distant from, And so adore. 'T was a man moved there.

_Val._ Who?

_Duch._ I felt the spirit, never saw the face.

_Val._ See it! 'T is Berthold's! He enables you To realize your vision.

_Duch._ Berthold?

_Val._ Duke-- Emperor to be: he proffers you his hand.

_Duch._ Generous and princely!

_Val._ He is all of this.

_Duch._ Thanks, Berthold, for my father's sake. No hand Degrades me!

_Val._ You accept the proffered hand?

_Duch._ That he should love me!

_Val._ "Loved" I did not say. Had that been--love might so incline the Prince To the world's good, the world that 's at his foot,-- I do not know, this moment, I should dare Desire that you refused the world--and Cleves-- The sacrifice he asks.

_Duch._ Not love me, sir?

_Val._ He scarce affirmed it.

_Duch._ May not deeds affirm?

_Val._ What does he? ... Yes, yes, very much he does! All the shame saved, he thinks, and sorrow saved-- Immitigable sorrow, so he thinks,-- Sorrow that 's deeper than we dream, perchance!

_Duch._ Is not this love?

_Val._ So very much he does! For look, you can descend now gracefully: All doubts are banished, that the world might have, Or worst, the doubts yourself, in after-time, May call up of your heart's sincereness now. To such, reply, "I could have kept my rule-- Increased it to the utmost of my dreams-- Yet I abjured it." This, he does for you: It is munificently much.

_Duch._ Still "much!" But why is it not love, sir? Answer me!

_Val._ Because not one of Berthold's words and looks Had gone with love's presentment of a flower To the beloved: because bold confidence, Open superiority, free pride-- Love owns not, yet were all that Berthold owned: Because where reason, even, finds no flaw, Unerringly a lover's instinct may.

_Duch._ You reason, then, and doubt?

_Val._ I love, and know.

_Duch._ You love? How strange! I never cast a thought On that! Just see our selfishness! You seemed So much my own ... I had no ground--and yet, I never dreamed another might divide My power with you, much less exceed it.

_Val._ Lady, I am yours wholly.

_Duch._ Oh, no, no, not mine! 'T is not the same now, never more can be. --Your first love, doubtless. Well, what's gone from me? What have I lost in you?

_Val._ My heart replies-- No loss there! So, to Berthold back again: This offer of his hand, he bids me make-- Its obvious magnitude is well to weigh.

_Duch._ She 's ... yes, she must be very fair for you!

_Val._ I am a simple advocate of Cleves.

_Duch._ You! With the heart and brain that so helped me, I fancied them exclusively my own, Yet find are subject to a stronger sway! She must be ... tell me, is she very fair?

_Val._ Most fair, beyond conception or belief.

_Duch._ Black eyes?--no matter! Colombe, the world leads Its life without you, whom your friends professed The only woman--see how true they spoke! One lived this while, who never saw your face, Nor heard your voice--unless ... Is she from Cleves?

_Val._ Cleves knows her well.

_Duch._ Ah--just a fancy, now! When you poured forth the wrongs of Cleves,--I said, --Thought, that is, afterward ...

_Val._ You thought of me?

_Duch._ Of whom else? Only such great cause, I thought, For such effect: see what true love can do! Cleves is his love. I almost fear to ask ... And will not. This is idling: to our work! Admit before the Prince, without reserve, My claims misgrounded; then may follow better ... When you poured out Cleves' wrongs impetuously, Was she in your mind?

_Val._ All done was done for her --To humble me!

_Duch._ She will be proud at least.

_Val._ She?

_Duch._ When you tell her.

_Val._ That will never be.

_Duch._ How--are there sweeter things you hope to tell? No, sir! You counselled me,--I counsel you In the one point I--any woman--can. Your worth, the first thing; let her own come next-- Say what you did through her, and she through you-- The praises of her beauty afterward! Will you?

_Val._ I dare not.

_Duch._ Dare not?

_Val._ She I love Suspects not such a love in me.

_Duch._ You jest.

_Val._ The lady is above me and away. Not only the brave form, and the bright mind, And the great heart, combine to press me low-- But all the world calls rank divides us.

_Duch._ Rank! Now grant me patience! Here 's a man declares Oracularly in another's case-- Sees the true value and the false, for them-- Nay, bids them see it, and they straight do see. You called my court's love worthless--so it turned: I threw away as dross my heap of wealth, And here you stickle for a piece or two! First--has she seen you?

_Val._ Yes.

_Duch._ She loves you, then.

_Val._ One flash of hope burst; then succeeded night: And all 's at darkest now. Impossible!

_Duch._ We 'll try: you are--so to speak--my subject yet?

_Val._ As ever--to the death.

_Duch._ Obey me, then!

_Val._ I must.

_Duch._ Approach her, and ... no! first of all Get more assurance. "My instructress," say, "Was great, descended from a line of kings, And even fair"--(wait why I say this folly)-- "She said, of all men, none for eloquence, Courage, and" (what cast even these to shade) "The heart they sprung from,--none deserved like him Who saved her at her need: if she said this, What should not one I love, say?"

_Val._ Heaven--this hope-- Oh, lady, you are filling me with fire!

_Duch._ Say this!--nor think I bid you cast aside One touch of all the awe and reverence; Nay, make her proud for once to heart's content That all this wealth of heart and soul's her own! Think you are all of this,--and, thinking it, ... (Obey!)

_Val._ I cannot choose.

_Duch._ Then, kneel to her! [VALENCE _sinks on his knee_. I dream!

_Val._ Have mercy! Yours, unto the death,-- I have obeyed. Despise, and let me die!

_Duch._ Alas, sir, is it to be ever thus? Even with you as with the world? I know This morning's service was no vulgar deed Whose motive, once it dares avow itself, Explains all done and infinitely more, So, takes the shelter of a nobler cause. Your service named its true source,--loyalty! The rest 's unsaid again. The Duchess bids you, Rise, sir! The Prince's words were in debate.

_Val._ [_Rising._] Rise? Truth, as ever, lady, comes from you! I should rise--I who spoke for Cleves, can speak For Man--yet tremble now, who stood firm then. I laughed--for 't was past tears--that Cleves should starve With all hearts beating loud the infamy, And no tongue daring trust as much to air: Yet here, where all hearts speak, shall I be mute? Oh, lady, for your own sake look on me! On all I am, and have, and do--heart, brain, Body and soul,--this Valence and his gifts! I was proud once: I saw you, and they sank, So that each, magnified a thousand times, Were nothing to you--but such nothingness, Would a crown gild it, or a sceptre prop, A treasure speed, a laurel-wreath enhance? What is my own desert? But should your love Have ... there 's no language helps here ... singled me,-- Then--oh, that wild word "then!"--be just to love, In generosity its attribute! Love, since you pleased to love! All 's cleared--a stage For trial of the question kept so long: Judge you--Is love or vanity the best? You, solve it for the world's sake--you, speak first What all will shout one day--you, vindicate Our earth and be its angel! All is said. Lady, I offer nothing--I am yours: But, for the cause' sake, look on me and him, And speak!

_Duch._ I have received the Prince's message: Say, I prepare my answer!

_Val._ Take me, Cleves!

[_He withdraws._

_Duch._ Mournful--that nothing 's what it calls itself! Devotion, zeal, faith, loyalty--mere love! And, love in question, what may Berthold's be? I did ill to mistrust the world so soon: Already was this Berthold at my side. The valley-level has its hawks, no doubt: May not the rock-top have its eagles, too? Yet Valence ... let me see his rival then!

## ACT V

_Night._ SCENE. _The Hall._

_Enter_ BERTHOLD _and_ MELCHIOR.

_Mel._ And here you wait the matter's issue?

_Berth._ Here.

_Mel._ I don't regret I shut Amelius, then. But tell me, on this grand disclosure,--how Behaved our spokesman with the forehead?

_Berth._ Oh, Turned out no better than the foreheadless-- Was dazzled not so very soon, that 's all! For my part, this is scarce the hasty showy Chivalrous measure you give me credit of. Perhaps I had a fancy,--but 't is gone. --Let her commence the unfriended innocent And carry wrongs about from court to court? No, truly! The least shake of fortune's sand, --My uncle-Pope chokes in a coughing fit, King-cousin takes a fancy to blue eyes,-- And wondrously her claims would brighten up; Forth comes a new gloss on the ancient law, O'er-looked provisoes, o'er-past premises, Follow in plenty. No: 't is the safe step. The hour beneath the convent-wall is lost: Juliers and she, once mine, are ever mine.

_Mel._ Which is to say, you, losing heart already, Elude the adventure.

_Berth._ Not so--or, if so-- Why not confess at once that I advise None of our kingly craft and guild just now To lay, one moment, down their privilege With the notion they can any time at pleasure Retake it: that may turn out hazardous. We seem, in Europe, pretty well at end O' the night, with our great masque: those favored few Who keep the chamber's top, and honor's chance Of the early evening, may retain their place And figure as they list till out of breath. But it is growing late: and I observe A dim grim kind of tipstaves at the doorway Not only bar new-comers entering now, But caution those who left, for any cause, And would return, that morning draws too near; The ball must die off, shut itself up. We-- I think, may dance lights out and sunshine in, And sleep off headache on our frippery: But friend the other, who cunningly stole out, And, after breathing the fresh air outside, Means to re-enter with a new costume, Will be advised go back to bed, I fear. I stick to privilege, on second thoughts.

_Mel._ Yes--you evade the adventure: and, beside, Give yourself out for colder than you are. King Philip, only, notes the lady's eyes? Don't they come in for somewhat of the motive With you too?

_Berth._ Yes--no: I am past that now. Gone 't is: I cannot shut my soul to fact. Of course, I might by forethought and contrivance Reason myself into a rapture. Gone: And something better come instead, no doubt.

_Mel._ So be it! Yet, all the same, proceed my way, Though to your ends; so shall you prosper best! The lady--to be won for selfish ends-- Will be won easier my unselfish ... call it, Romantic way.

_Berth._ Won easier?

_Mel._ Will not she?

_Berth._ There I profess humility without bound: Ill cannot speed--not I--the Emperor.

_Mel._ And I should think the Emperor best waived, From your description of her mood and way. You could look, if it pleased you, into hearts; But are too indolent and fond of watching Your own--you know that, for you study it.

_Berth._ Had you but seen the orator her friend, So bold and voluble an hour before, Abashed to earth at aspect of the change! Make her an Empress? Ah, that changed the case! Oh, I read hearts! 'T is for my own behoof, I court her with my true worth: wait the event! I learned my final lesson on that head When years ago,--my first and last essay-- Before the priest my uncle could by help Of his superior raise me from the dirt-- Priscilla left me for a Brabant lord Whose cheek was like the topaz on his thumb. I am past illusion on that score.

_Mel._ Here comes The lady--

_Berth._--And there you go. But do not! Give me Another chance to please you! Hear me plead!

_Mel._ You 'll keep, then, to the lover, to the man?

(_Enter the_ DUCHESS--_followed by_ ADOLF _and_ SABYNE, _and, after an interval, by the_ Courtiers.)

_Berth._ Good auspice to our meeting!

_Duch._ May it prove! --And you, sir, will be Emperor one day?

_Berth._ (Ay, that 's the point!) I may be Emperor.

_Duch._ 'T is not for my sake only, I am proud Of this you offer: I am prouder far That from the highest state should duly spring The highest, since most generous, of deeds.

_Berth._ (Generous--still that!) You underrate yourself. You are, what I, to be complete, must gain-- Find now, and may not find, another time. While I career on all the world for stage, There needs at home my representative.

_Duch._--Such, rather, would some warrior-woman be-- One dowered with lands and gold, or rich in friends-- One like yourself.

_Berth._ Lady, I am myself, And have all these: I want what 's not myself, Nor has all these. Why give one hand two swords? Here 's one already: be a friend's next gift A silk glove, if you will--I have a sword.

_Duch._ You love me, then?

_Berth._ Your lineage I revere, Honor your virtue, in your truth believe, Do homage to your intellect, and bow Before your peerless beauty.

_Duch._ But, for love--

_Berth._ A further love I do not understand. Our best course is to say these hideous truths, And see them, once said, grow endurable: Like waters shuddering from their central bed, Black with the midnight bowels of the earth, That, once up-spouted by an earthquake's throe, A portent and a terror--soon subside, Freshen apace, take gold and rainbow hues In sunshine, sleep in shadow, and at last Grow common to the earth as hills or trees-- Accepted by all things they came to scare.

_Duch._ You cannot love, then?

_Berth._ --Charlemagne, perhaps! Are you not over-curious in love-lore?

_Duch._ I have become so, very recently. It seems, then, I shall best deserve esteem Respect, and all your candor promises, By putting on a calculating mood-- Asking the terms of my becoming yours?

_Berth._ Let me not do myself injustice, neither. Because I will not condescend to fictions That promise what my soul can ne'er acquit, It does not follow that my guarded phrase May not include far more of what you seek, Than wide profession of less scrupulous men. You will be Empress, once for all: with me The Pope disputes supremacy--you stand, And none gainsays, the earth's first woman.

_Duch._ That-- Or simple Lady of Ravestein again?

_Berth._ The matter 's not in my arbitrament: Now I have made my claims--which I regret-- Cede one, cede all.

_Duch._ This claim then, you enforce?

_Berth._ The world looks on.

_Duch._ And when must I decide?

_Berth._ When, lady? Have I said thus much so promptly For nothing?--Poured out, with such pains, at once What I might else have suffered to ooze forth Droplet by droplet in a lifetime long-- For aught less than as prompt an answer, too? All 's fairly told now: who can teach you more?

_Duch._ I do not see him.

_Berth._ I shall ne'er deceive. This offer should be made befittingly Did time allow the better setting forth The good of it, with what is not so good, Advantage, and disparagement as well: But as it is, the sum of both must serve. I am already weary of this place; My thoughts are next stage on to Rome. Decide! The Empire--or,--not even Juliers now! Hail to the Empress--farewell to the Duchess!

[_The_ Courtiers, _who have been drawing nearer and nearer, interpose_.

_Gau._--"Farewell," Prince? when we break in at our risk--

_Clug._ Almost upon court-license trespassing--

_Gau._--To point out how your claims are valid yet! You know not, by the Duke her father's will, The lady, if she weds beneath her rank, Forfeits her Duchy in the next heir's favor-- So 't is expressly stipulate. And if It can be shown 't is her intent to wed A subject, then yourself, next heir, by right Succeed to Juliers.

_Berth._ What insanity?--

_Gui._ Sir, there 's one Valence, the pale fiery man You saw and heard this morning--thought, no doubt, Was of considerable standing here: I put it to your penetration, Prince, If aught save love, the truest love for her Could make him serve the lady as he did! He 's simply a poor advocate of Cleves --Creeps here with difficulty, finds a place With danger, gets in by a miracle, And for the first time meets the lady's face-- So runs the story: is that credible? For, first--no sooner in, than he 's apprised Fortunes have changed; you are all-powerful here, The lady as powerless: he stands fast by her!

_Duch._ [_Aside._] And do such deeds spring up from love alone?

_Gui._ But here occurs the question, does the lady Love him again? I say, how else can she? Can she forget how he stood singly forth In her defence; dared outrage all of us, Insult yourself--for what, save love 's reward?

_Duch._ [_Aside._] And is love then the sole reward of love?

_Gui._ But, love him as she may and must--you ask, Means she to wed him? "Yes," both natures answer! Both, in their pride, point out the sole result; Naught less would he accept nor she propose. For each conjecture was she great enough --Will be, for this.

_Clug._ Though, now that this is known, Policy, doubtless, urges she deny ...

_Duch._--What, sir, and wherefore?--since I am not sure That all is any other than you say! You take this Valence, hold him close to me, Him with his actions: can I choose but look? I am not sure, love trulier shows itself Than in this man, you hate and would degrade, Yet, with your worst abatement, show me thus. Nor am I--(thus made look within myself, Ere I had dared)--now that the look is dared-- Sure that I do not love him!

_Gui._ Hear you, Prince?

_Berth._ And what, sirs, please you, may this prattle mean Unless to prove with what alacrity You give your lady's secrets to the world? How much indebted, for discovering That quality, you make me, will be found When there 's a keeper for my own to seek.

_Courtiers._ "Our lady?"

_Berth._ --She assuredly remains.

_Duch._ Ah, Prince--and you too can be generous? You could renounce your power, if this were so, And let me, as these phrase it, wed my love Yet keep my Duchy? You perhaps exceed Him, even, in disinterestedness!

_Berth._ How, lady, should all this affect my purpose? Your will and choice are still as ever, free. Say, you have known a worthier than myself In mind and heart, of happier form and face-- Others must have their birthright: I have gifts, To balance theirs, not blot them out of sight. Against a hundred alien qualities, I lay the prize I offer. I am nothing: Wed you the Empire?

_Duch._ And my heart away?

_Berth._ When have I made pretension to your heart? I give none. I shall keep your honor safe; With mine I trust you, as the sculptor trusts Yon marble woman with the marble rose, Loose on her hand, she never will let fall, In graceful, slight, silent security. You will be proud of my world-wide career, And I content in you the fair and good. What were the use of planting a few seeds The thankless climate never would mature-- Affections all repelled by circumstance? Enough: to these no credit I attach,-- To what you own, find nothing to object. Write simply on my requisition's face What shall content my friends--that you admit, As Colombe of Ravestein, the claims therein, Or never need admit them, as my wife-- And either way, all 's ended!

_Duch._ Let all end!

_Berth._ The requisition!

_Gui._ --Valence holds, of course!

_Berth._ Desire his presence! [ADOLF _goes out_.

_Courtiers._ [_To each other._] Out it all comes yet; He 'll have his word against the bargain yet; He 's not the man to tamely acquiesce. One passionate appeal--upbraiding even, May turn the tide again. Despair not yet! [_They retire a little._

_Berth._ [_To_ MELCHIOR.] The Empire has its old success, my friend!

_Mel._ You 've had your way: before the spokesman speaks Let me, but this once, work a problem out, And ever more be dumb! The Empire wins? To better purpose have I read my books!

(_Enter_ VALENCE.)

_Mel._ [_To the_ Courtiers.] Apart, my masters! [_To_ VALENCE.] Sir, one word with you! I am a poor dependant of the Prince's-- Pitched on to speak, as of slight consequence. You are no higher, I find: in other words, We two, as probably the wisest here, Need not hold diplomatic talk like fools. Suppose I speak, divesting the plain fact Of all their tortuous phrases, fit for them? Do you reply so, and what trouble saved! The Prince, then--an embroiled strange heap of news This moment reaches him--if true or false, All dignity forbids he should inquire In person, or by worthier deputy; Yet somehow must inquire, lest slander come: And so, 't is I am pitched on. You have heard His offer to your lady?

_Val._ Yes.

_Mel._ --Conceive Her joy thereat?

_Val._ I cannot.

_Mel._ No one can. All draws to a conclusion, therefore.

_Val._ [_Aside._] So! No after-judgment--no first thought revised-- Her first and last decision!--me, she leaves, Takes him; a simple heart is flung aside, The ermine o'er a heartless breast embraced. Oh Heaven, this mockery has been played too oft! Once, to surprise the angels--twice, that fiends, Recording, might be proud they chose not so-- Thrice, many thousand times, to teach the world All men should pause, misdoubt their strength, since men Can have such chance yet fail so signally --But ever, ever this farewell to Heaven, Welcome to earth--this taking death for life-- This spurning love and kneeling to the world-- Oh Heaven, it is too often and too old!

_Mel._ Well, on this point, what but an absurd rumor Arises--these, its source--its subject, you! Your faith and loyalty misconstruing, They say, your service claims the lady's hand! Of course, nor Prince nor lady can respond: Yet something must be said: for, were it true You made such claim, the Prince would ...

_Val._ Well, sir,--would?

_Mel._--Not only probably withdraw his suit, But, very like, the lady might be forced Accept your own. Oh, there are reasons why! But you 'll excuse at present all save one,-- I think so. What we want is, your own witness, For, or against--her good, or yours: decide!

_Val._ [_Aside._] Be it her good if she accounts it so! [_After a contest._] For what am I but hers, to choose as she? Who knows how far, beside, the light from her May reach, and dwell with, what she looks upon?

_Mel._ [_To the_ Prince.] Now to him, you!

_Berth._ [_To_ VALENCE.] My friend acquaints you, sir, The noise runs ...

_Val._. --Prince, how fortunate are you, Wedding her as you will, in spite of noise, To show belief in love! Let her but love you, All else you disregard! What else can be? You know how love is incompatible With falsehood--purifies, assimilates All other passions to itself.

_Mel._ Ay, sir: But softly! Where, in the object we select, Such love is, perchance, wanting?

_Val._ Then indeed, What is it you can take?

_Mel._ Nay, ask the world! Youth, beauty, virtue, an illustrious name, An influence o'er mankind.

_Val._ When man perceives ... --Ah, I can only speak as for myself!

_Duch._ Speak for yourself!

_Val._ May I?--no, I have spoken, And time 's gone by. Had I seen such an one, As I loved her--weighing thoroughly that word-- So should my task be to evolve her love: If for myself!--if for another--well.

_Berth._ Heroic truly! And your sole reward,-- The secret pride in yielding up love's right?

_Val._ Who thought upon reward? And yet how much Comes after--oh, what amplest recompense! Is the knowledge of her, naught? the memory, naught? --Lady, should such an one have looked on you, Ne'er wrong yourself so far as quote the world And say, love can go unrequited here! You will have blessed him to his whole life's end-- Low passions hindered, baser cares kept back, All goodness cherished where you dwelt--and dwell. What would he have? He holds you--you, both form And mind, in his,--where self-love makes such room For love of you, he would not serve you now The vulgar way,--repulse your enemies, Win you new realms, or best, to save the old Die blissfully--that 's past so long ago! He wishes you no need, thought, care of him-- Your good, by any means, himself unseen, Away, forgotten!--He gives that life's task up, As it were ... but this charge which I return-- [_Offers the requisition, which she takes._ Wishing your good.

_Duch._ [_Having subscribed it_.] And opportunely, sir-- Since at a birthday's close, like this of mine, Good wishes gentle deeds reciprocate. Most on a wedding-day, as mine is too, Should gifts be thought of: yours comes first by right. Ask of me!

_Berth._ He shall have whate'er he asks, For your sake and his own.

_Val._ [_Aside._] If I should ask-- The withered bunch of flowers she wears--perhaps, One last touch of her hand, I never more Shall see! [_After a pause, presenting his paper to the_ Prince. Cleves' Prince, redress the wrongs of Cleves!

_Berth._ I will, sir!

_Duch._ [_As_ VALENCE _prepares to retire_.]-- Nay, do out your duty, first! You bore this paper; I have registered My answer to it: read it and have done! [VALENCE _reads it_. I take him--give up Juliers and the world. This is my Birthday.

_Mel._ Berthold, my one hero Of the world she gives up, one friend worth my books, Sole man I think it pays the pains to watch,-- Speak, for I know you through your Popes and Kings!

_Berth._ [_After a pause._] Lady, well rewarded! Sir, as well deserved! I could not imitate--I hardly envy-- I do admire you. All is for the best. Too costly a flower were this, I see it now, To pluck and set upon my barren helm To wither--any garish plume will do. I 'll not insult you and refuse your Duchy-- You can so well afford to yield it me, And I were left, without it, sadly lorn. As it is--for me--if that will flatter you, A somewhat wearier life seems to remain Than I thought possible where ... 'faith, their life Begins already! They 're too occupied To listen: and few words content me best. [_Abruptly to the_ Courtiers.] I am your Duke, though! Who obey me here?

_Duch._ Adolf and Sabyne follow us--

_Gui._ [_Starting from the_ Courtiers.]--And I? Do I not follow them, if I may n't you? Shall not I get some little duties up At Ravestein and emulate the rest? God save you, Gaucelme! 'T is my Birthday, too!

_Berth._ You happy handful that remain with me ... That is, with Dietrich the black Barnabite I shall leave over you--will earn your wages Or Dietrich has forgot to ply his trade! Meantime,--go copy me the precedents Of every installation, proper styles And pedigrees of all your Juliers' Dukes-- While I prepare to plod on my old way, And somewhat wearily, I must confess!

_Duch._ [_With a light joyous laugh as she turns from them._] Come, Valence, to our friends, God's earth ...

_Val._ [_As she falls into his arms._]--And thee!

DRAMATIC ROMANCES

The seventh number of _Bells and Pomegranates_ was entitled _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics._ In the redistribution of his shorter poems when he collected his writings, Browning having already a group of _Dramatic Lyrics_ made a second of _Dramatic Romances_, taking the occasion to make a little nicer discrimination. Thus some of the poems originally included under the combined title were distributed among the _Lyrics_, and some at first grouped under _Lyrics_ were transferred to this division of _Romances_. The first poem in the group was originally contained in _Dramatic Lyrics_ along with _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_ under the general title of _Camp and Cloister_, this poem representing the camp.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

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

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

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

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

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

THE PATRIOT

AN OLD STORY

Mr. Browning has denied that this poem refers to Arnold of Brescia. It is imaginative, not historical in its dramatic action. It was possibly to relieve the poem of its apparent distinct reference to history that he removed the name of Brescia, which was used in the poem in its first form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

In _Dramatic Lyrics_ this was entitled _Italy_, and grouped with _Count Gismond_ under the head _Italy and France_.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

COUNT GISMOND

AIX IN PROVENCE

Christ God who savest man, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honor, 't was with all his strength.

And doubtlessly ere he could draw All points to one, he must have schemed! That miserable morning saw Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in queen's array To give our tourney prize away.

I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 't was all their deed, God makes, or fair or foul, our face; If showing mine so caused to bleed My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped.

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean, As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head!

But no: they let me laugh, and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs--

And come out on the morning-troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy--(a streak That pierced it, of the outside sun, Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)--

And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause Of all come there to celebrate My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud!

Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 't was time I should present The victor's crown, but ... there, 't will last No long time ... the old mist again Blinds me as then it did. How vain!

See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!" And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!

"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet About her! Let her shun the chaste, Or lay herself before their feet! Shall she whose body I embraced A night long, queen it in the day? For honor's sake no crowns, I say!"

I? What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing As answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul.

Till out strode Gismond; then I knew That I was saved. I never met His face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan; who would spend A minute's mistrust on the end?

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth With one back-handed blow that wrote In blood men's verdict there. North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, And damned, and truth stood up instead.

This glads me most, that I enjoyed The heart of the joy, with my content In watching Gismond unalloyed By any doubt of the event: God took that on him--I was bid Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

Did I not watch him while he let His armorer just brace his greaves, Rivet his hauberk, on the fret The while! His foot ... my memory leaves No least stamp out, nor how anon He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound Was finished, prone lay the false knight, Prone as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet And said, "Here die, but end thy breath In full confession, lest thou fleet From my first, to God's second death! Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied To God and her," he said, and died.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked --What safe my heart holds, though no word Could I repeat now, if I tasked My powers forever, to a third Dear even as you are. Pass the rest Until I sank upon his breast.

Over my head his arm he flung Against the world; and scarce I felt His sword (that dripped by me and swung) A little shifted in its belt: For he began to say the while How South our home lay many a mile.

So 'mid the shouting multitude We two walked forth to never more Return. My cousins have pursued Their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place God lighten! May his soul find grace!

Our elder boy has got the clear Great brow; though when his brother's black Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel back? I just was telling Adela How many birds it struck since May.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

First published in _Hood's Magazine_, August, 1844. It was rewritten, with five new couplets, and was published in 1845, in _Dramatic Romances and Lyrics_, or No. VII. of _Bells and Pomegranates_. When it appeared in the _Poetical Works_ of 1868, a fresh verse was added. In 1844 the poem ended as follows:--

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

"Be again the boy all curl'd; I will finish with the world."

Theocrite grew old at home, Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

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

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

And all his past career Came back upon him clear,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

INSTANS TYRANNUS

I

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

II

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

III

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

IV

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

V

Then a humor more great took its place At the thought of his face, The droop, the low cares of the mouth, The trouble uncouth 'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain To put out of its pain. And, "no!" I admonished myself, "Is one mocked by an elf, Is one baffled by toad or by rat? The gravamen's in that! How the lion, who crouches to suit His back to my foot, Would admire that I stand in debate! But the small turns the great If it vexes you,--that is the thing! Toad or rat vex the king? Though I waste half my realm to unearth Toad or rat, 't is well worth!"

VI

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

VII

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

MESMERISM

All I believed is true! I am able yet All I want, to get By a method as strange as new: Dare I trust the same to you?

If at night, when doors are shut, And the wood-worm picks, And the death-watch ticks, And the bar has a flag of smut, And a cat 's in the water-butt--

And the socket floats and flares, And the house-beams groan, And a foot unknown Is surmised on the garret-stairs, And the locks slip unawares--

And the spider, to serve his ends, By a sudden thread, Arms and legs outspread, On the table's midst descends, Comes to find, God knows what friends!--

If since eve drew in, I say, I have sat and brought (So to speak) my thought To bear on the woman away, Till I felt my hair turn gray--

Till I seemed to have and hold, In the vacancy 'Twixt the wall and me, From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold To the foot in its muslin fold--

Have and hold, then and there, Her, from head to foot, Breathing and mute, Passive and yet aware, In the grasp of my steady stare--

Hold and have, there and then, All her body and soul That completes my whole, All that women add to men, In the clutch of my steady ken--

Having and holding, till I imprint her fast On the void at last As the sun does whom he will By the calotypist's skill--

Then,--if my heart's strength serve, And through all and each Of the veils I reach To her soul and never swerve, Knitting an iron nerve--

Command her soul to advance And inform the shape Which has made escape And before my countenance Answers me glance for glance--

I, still with a gesture fit Of my hands that best To my soul's behest, Pointing the power from it, While myself do steadfast sit--

Steadfast and still the same On my object bent, While the hands give vent To my ardor and my aim And break into very flame--

Then I reach, I must believe, Not her soul in vain, For to me again It reaches, and past retrieve Is wound in the toils I weave;

And must follow as I require, As befits a thrall, Bringing flesh and all, Essence and earth-attire, To the source of the tractile fire:

Till the house called hers, not mine, With a growing weight Seems to suffocate If she break not its leaden line And escape from its close confine.

Out of doors into the night! On to the maze Of the wild wood-ways, Not turning to left nor right From the pathway, blind with sight--

Making through rain and wind O'er the broken shrubs, 'Twixt the stems and stubs, With a still, composed, strong mind, Nor a care for the world behind--

Swifter and still more swift, As the crowding peace Doth to joy increase In the wide blind eyes uplift Through the darkness and the drift!

While I--to the shape, I too Feel my soul dilate Nor a whit abate, And relax not a gesture due, As I see my belief come true.

For, there! have I drawn or no Life to that lip? Do my fingers dip In a flame which again they throw On the cheek that breaks aglow?

Ha! was the hair so first? What, unfilleted, Made alive, and spread Through the void with a rich outburst, Chestnut gold-interspersed?

Like the doors of a casket-shrine, See, on either side, Her two arms divide Till the heart betwixt makes sign, Take me, for I am thine!

"Now--now"--the door is heard! Hark, the stairs! and near-- Nearer--and here-- "Now!" and at call the third She enters without a word.

On doth she march and on To the fancied shape; It is, past escape, Herself, now: the dream is done And the shadow and she are one.

First I will pray. Do Thou That ownest the soul, Yet wilt grant control To another, nor disallow For a time, restrain me now!

I admonish me while I may, Not to squander guilt, Since require Thou wilt At my hand its price one day! What the price is, who can say?

THE GLOVE

(PETER RONSARD _loquitur_.)

"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis, "Distance all value enhances! When a man 's busy, why, leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy. Here we 've got peace; and aghast I 'm Caught thinking war the true pastime. Is there a reason in metre? Give us your speech, master Peter!" I who, if mortal dare say so, Ne'er am at loss with my Naso, "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets: Men are the merest Ixions"-- Here the King whistled aloud, "Let 's --Heigho--go look at our lions!" Such are the sorrowful chances If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding Our company, Francis was leading, Increased by new followers tenfold Before he arrived at the penfold; Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen At sunset the western horizon. And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost With the dame he professed to adore most. Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed Her, and the horrible pitside; For the penfold surrounded a hollow Which led where the eye scarce dared follow. And shelved to the chamber secluded Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded. The King hailed his keeper, an Arab As glossy and black as a scarab, And bade him make sport and at once stir Up and out of his den the old monster. They opened a hole in the wire-work Across it, and dropped there a firework, And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled; A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled, The blackness and silence so utter, By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter; Then earth in a sudden contortion Gave out to our gaze her abortion. Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot (Whose experience of nature's but narrow, And whose faculties move in no small mist When he versifies David the Psalmist) I should study that brute to describe you _Ilium Juda Leonem de Tribu_.

One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy To see the black mane, vast and heapy, The tail in the air stiff and straining, The wide eyes, nor-waxing nor waning, As over the barrier which bounded His platform, and us who surrounded The barrier, they reached and they rested On space that might stand him in best stead: For who knew, he thought, what the amazement, The eruption of clatter and blaze meant, And if, in this minute of wonder, No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder, Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered, The lion at last was delivered? Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead! And you saw by the flash on his forehead, By the hope in those eyes wide and steady, He was leagues in the desert already, Driving the flocks up the mountain, Or catlike couched hard by the fountain To waylay the date-gathering negress: So guarded he entrance or egress. "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear, (No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere And so can afford the confession,) We exercise wholesome discretion In keeping aloof from his threshold, Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold, Their first would too pleasantly purloin The visitor's brisket or surloin: But who's he would prove so fool-hardy? Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

The sentence no sooner was uttered, Than over the rails a glove fluttered, Fell close to the lion, and rested: The dame 't was, who flung it and jested With life so, De Lorge had been wooing For months past; he sat there pursuing His suit, weighing out with nonchalance Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier! De Lorge made one leap at the barrier, Walked straight to the glove,--while the lion Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire, And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,-- Picked it up, and as calmly retreated, Leaped back where the lady was seated, And full in the face of its owner Flung the glove.

"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her? So should I!"--cried the King--"'t was mere vanity, Not love, set that task to humanity!" Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expression In her brow's undisturbed self-possession Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,-- As if from no pleasing experiment She rose, yet of pain not much heedful So long as the process was needful,-- As if she had tried in a crucible, To what "speeches like gold" were reducible, And, finding the finest prove copper, Felt the smoke in her face was but proper; To know what she had _not_ to trust to, Was worth all the ashes and dust too. She went out 'mid hooting and laughter; Clement Marot stayed; I followed after, And asked, as a grace, what it all meant? If she wished not the rash deed's recallment? "For I"--so I spoke--"am a poet: Human nature,--behooves that I know it!"

She told me, "Too long had I heard Of the deed proved alone by the word: For my love--what De Lorge would not dare! With my scorn--what De Lorge could compare! And the endless descriptions of death He would brave when my lip formed a breath, I must reckon as braved, or, of course, Doubt his word--and moreover, perforce, For such gifts as no lady could spurn, Must offer my love in return. When I looked on your lion, it brought All the dangers at once to my thought, Encountered by all sorts of men, Before he was lodged in his den,-- From the poor slave whose club or bare hands Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands, With no King and no Court to applaud, By no shame, should he shrink, overawed, Yet to capture the creature made shift, That his rude boys might laugh at the gift, --To the page who last leaped o'er the fence Of the pit, on no greater pretence Than to get back the bonnet he dropped, Lest his pay for a week should be stopped. So, wiser I judged it to make One trial what 'death for my sake' Really meant, while the power was yet mine, Than to wait until time should define Such a phrase not so simply as I, Who took it to mean just 'to die.' The blow a glove gives is but weak: Does the mark yet discolor my cheek? But when the heart suffers a blow, Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

I looked, as away she was sweeping, And saw a youth eagerly keeping As close as he dared to the doorway. No doubt that a noble should more weigh His life than befits a plebeian; And yet, had our brute been Nemean-- (I judge by a certain palm fervor The youth stepped with, forward to serve her) --He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!" And when, shortly after, she carried Her shame from the Court, and they married, To that marriage some happiness, maugre The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie, Those in wonder and praise, these in envy; And in short stood so plain a head taller That he wooed and won ... how do you call her? The beauty, that rose in the sequel To the King's love, who loved her a week well. And 't was noticed he never would honor De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her) With the easy commission of stretching His legs in the service, and fetching His wife, from her chamber, those straying Sad gloves she was always mislaying, While the King took the closet to chat in,-- But of course this adventure came pat in. And never the King told the story, How bringing a glove brought such glory, But the wife smiled--"His nerves are grown firmer: Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

_Venienti occurrite morbo!_ With which moral I drop my theorbo.

TIME'S REVENGES

I've a Friend, over the sea; I like him, but he loves me. It all grew out of the books I write; They find such favor in his sight That he slaughters you with savage looks Because you don't admire my books. He does himself though,--and if some vein Were to snap to-night in this heavy brain, To-morrow month, if I lived to try, Round should I just turn quietly, Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand Till I found him, come from his foreign land To be my nurse in this poor place, And make my broth and wash my face And light my fire and, all the while, Bear with his old good-humored smile That I told him "Better have kept away Than come and kill me, night and day, With, worse than fever throbs and shoots, The creaking of his clumsy boots." I am as sure that this he would do, As that Saint Paul's is striking two. And I think I rather ... woe is me!

--Yes, rather should see him than not see, If lifting a hand could seat him there Before me in the empty chair To-night, when my head aches indeed, And I can neither think nor read, Nor make these purple fingers hold The pen; this garret's freezing cold!

And I 've a Lady--there he wakes, The laughing fiend and prince of snakes Within me, at her name, to pray Fate send some creature in the way Of my love for her, to be down-torn, Upthrust and outward-borne, So I might prove myself that sea Of passion which I needs must be! Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint And my style infirm and its figures faint, All the critics say, and more blame yet, And not one angry word you get. But, please you, wonder I would put My cheek beneath that lady's foot Rather than trample under mine The laurels of the Florentine, And you shall see how the devil spends A fire God gave for other ends! I tell you, I stride up and down This garret, crowned with love's best crown, And feasted with love's perfect feast, To think I kill for her, at least, Body and soul and peace and fame, Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, --So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, Filled full, eaten out and in With the face of her, the eyes of her, The lips, the little chin, the stir Of shadow round her mouth; and she --I'll tell you--calmly would decree That I should roast at a slow fire, If that would compass her desire And make her one whom they invite To the famous ball to-morrow night.

There may be heaven; there must be hell; Meantime, there is our earth here--well!

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

Both this poem and the following were written after Browning's visit to Italy in 1844. As originally published they were entitled _Italy in England_ and _England in Italy_. The dramatic incident in the former poem was not a rescript of a particular historic incident.

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

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

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

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

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

THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY

PIANO DI SORRENTO

Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one, Sit here by my side, On my knees put up both little feet! I was sure, if I tried, I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco. Now, open your eyes, Let me keep you amused till he vanish In black from the skies, With telling my memories over As you tell your beads; All the Plain saw me gather, I garland --The flowers or the weeds. Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn Had net-worked with brown The white skin of each grape on the bunches, Marked like a quail's crown, Those creatures you make such account of, Whose heads,--speckled white Over brown like a great spider's back, As I told you last night,-- Your mother bites off for her supper. Red-ripe as could be, Pomegranates were chapping and splitting In halves on the tree: And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone, Or in the thick dust On the path, or straight out of the rock-side, Wherever could thrust Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower Its yellow face up, For the prize were great butterflies fighting, Some five for one cup. So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning, What change was in store, By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets Which woke me before I could open my shutter, made fast With a bough and a stone, And look through the twisted dead vine-twigs, Sole lattice that's known. Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles, While, busy beneath, Your priest and his brother tugged at them, The rain in their teeth. And out upon all the flat house-roofs Where split figs lay drying, The girls took the frails under cover: Nor use seemed in trying To get out the boats and go fishing, For, under the cliff, Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock, No seeing our skiff Arrive about noon from Amalfi, --Our fisher arrive, And pitch down his basket before us, All trembling alive With pink and gray jellies, your sea-fruit; You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps, Which only the fisher looks grave at, While round him like imps Cling screaming the children as naked And brown as his shrimps; Himself too as bare to the middle --You see round his neck The string and its brass coin suspended, That saves him from wreck. But to-day not a boat reached Salerno, So back, to a roan. Came our friends, with whose help in the vine-yards Grape-harvest began. In the vat, halfway up in our house-side, Like blood the juice spins, While your brother all bare-legged is dancing Till breathless he grins Dead-beaten in effort on effort To keep the grapes under, Since still when he seems all but master, In pours the fresh plunder From girls who keep coming and going With basket on shoulder, And eyes shut against the rain's driving; Your girls that are older,-- For under the hedges of aloe, And where, on its bed Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple Lies pulpy and red, All the young ones are kneeling and filling Their laps with the snails Tempted out by this first rainy weather,-- Your best of regales, As to-night will be proved to my sorrow, When, supping in state, We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen, Three over one plate) With lasagne so tempting to swallow In slippery ropes, And gourds fried in great purple slices, That color of popes. Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you: The rain-water slips O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe Which the wasp to your lips Still follows with fretful persistence: Nay, taste, while awake, This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball That peels, flake by flake, Like an onion, each smoother and whiter; Next, sip this weak wine From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper, A leaf of the vine; And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh That leaves through its juice The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth. Scirocco is loose! Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives Which, thick in one's track, Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them, Though not yet half black! How the old twisted olive trunks shudder, The medlars let fall Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees Snap off, figs and all, For here comes the whole of the tempest! No refuge, but creep Back again to my side and my shoulder, And listen or sleep.

Oh, how will your country show next week, When all the vine-boughs Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture The mules and the cows? Last eve, I rode over the mountains; Your brother, my guide, Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles That offered, each side, Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,-- Or strip from the sorbs A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous, Those hairy gold orbs! But my mule picked his sure sober path out, Just stopping to neigh When he recognized down in the valley His mates on their way With the faggots and barrels of water; And soon we emerged From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow; And still as we urged Our way, the woods wondered, and left us, As up still we trudged, Though the wild path grew wilder each instant, And place was e'en grudged 'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones Like the loose broken teeth Of some monster which climbed there to die From the ocean beneath-- Place was grudged to the silver-gray fume-weed That clung to the path, And dark rosemary ever a-dying That, 'spite the wind's wrath, So loves the salt rock's face to seaward, And lentisks as stanch To the stone where they root and bear berries, And ... what shows a branch Coral-colored, transparent, with circlets Of pale seagreen leaves; Over all trod my mule with the caution Of gleaners o'er sheaves, Still, foot after foot like a lady, Till, round after round, He climbed to the top of Calvano, And God's own profound Was above me, and round me the mountains, And under, the sea, And within me my heart to bear witness What was and shall be. Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal! No rampart excludes Your eye from the life to be lived In the blue solitudes. Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement! Still moving with you; For, ever some new head and breast of them Thrusts into view To observe the intruder; you see it If quickly you turn And, before they escape you, surprise them. They grudge you should learn How the soft plains they look on, lean over And love (they pretend) --Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches, The wild fruit-trees bend, E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut: All is silent and grave: 'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty, How fair! but a slave. So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered As greenly as ever Those isles of the siren, your Galli; No ages can sever The Three, nor enable their sister To join them,--halfway On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses-- No farther to-day, Though the small one, just launched in the wave Watches breast-high and steady From under the rock, her bold sister Swum halfway already. Fortù, shall we sail there together And see from the sides Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts Where the siren abides? Shall we sail round and round them, close over The rocks, though unseen, That ruffle the gray glassy water To glorious green? Then scramble from splinter to splinter, Reach land and explore, On the largest, the strange square black turret With never a door, Just a loop to admit the quick lizards; Then, stand there and hear The birds' quiet singing, that tells us What life is, so clear? --The secret they sang to Ulysses When, ages ago, He heard and he knew this life's secret I hear and I know.

Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano; He strikes the great gloom And flutters it o'er the mount's summit In airy gold fume. All is over. Look out, see the gypsy, Our tinker and smith, Has arrived, set up bellows and forge, And down-squatted forthwith To his hammering, under the wall there; One eye keeps aloof The urchins that itch to be putting His jews'-harps to proof, While the other, through locks of curled wire, Is watching how sleek Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall --Chew abbot's own cheek! All is over. Wake up and come out now, And down let us go, And see the fine things got in order At church for the show. Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening; To-morrow's the Feast Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means Of Virgins the least, As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse Which (all nature, no art) The Dominican brother, these three weeks, Was getting by heart. Not a pillar nor post but is dizened With red and blue papers; All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar Ablaze with long tapers; But the great masterpiece is the scaffold Rigged glorious to hold All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers And trumpeters bold, Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber, Who, when the priest's hoarse, Will strike us up something that's brisk For the feast's second course. And then will the flaxen-wigged Image Be carried in pomp Through the plain, while in gallant procession The priests mean to stomp. All round the glad church lie old bottles With gunpowder stopped, Which will be, when the Image re-enters, Religiously popped; And at night from the crest of Calvano Great bonfires will hang, On the plain will the trumpets join chorus, And more poppers bang. At all events, come--to the garden As far as the wall; See me tap with a hoe on the plaster Till out there shall fall A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

--"Such trifles!" you say? Fortù, in my England at home, Men meet gravely to-day And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws Be righteous and wise --If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish In black from the skies.'

IN A GONDOLA

In a letter to Miss Haworth, Browning writes, "I am getting to love painting as I did once.... I chanced to call on Forster the other day, and he pressed me into committing verse on the instant, not the minute, in Maclise's behalf, who has wrought a divine Venetian work, it seems, for the British Institution. Forster described it well--but I could do nothing better than this wooden ware--(all the 'properties,' as we say, were given and the problem was how to catalogue them in rhyme and unreason.)" Thereupon followed the first stanza of the following poem; but after seeing the picture he was moved to go on and carry the poem through to a real end.

_He sings._

I send my heart up to thee, all my heart In this my singing. For the stars help me, and the sea bears part; The very night is clinging Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space Above me, whence thy face May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling place.

_She speaks._

Say after me, and try to say My very words, as if each word Came from you of your own accord, In your own voice, in your own way: "This woman's heart and soul and brain Are mine as much as this gold chain She bids me wear; which" (say again) "I choose to make by cherishing A precious thing, or choose to fling Over the boat-side, ring by ring." And yet once more say ... no word more! Since words are only words. Give o'er!

Unless you call me, all the same, Familiarly by my pet name, Which if the Three should hear you call. And me reply to, would proclaim At once our secret to them all. Ask of me, too, command me, blame-- Do, break down the partition-wall 'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds Curtained in dusk and splendid folds! What's left but--all of me to take? I am the Three's: prevent them, slake Your thirst! 'Tis said, the Arab sage, In practising with gems, can loose Their subtle spirit in his cruce And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage, Leave them my ashes when thy use Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!

_He sings._

Past we glide, and past, and past! What's that poor Agnese doing Where they make the shutters fast? Gray Zanobi's just a-wooing To his couch the purchased bride: Past we glide!

Past we glide, and past, and past! Why's the Pucci Palace flaring Like a beacon to the blast? Guests by hundreds, not one caring If the dear host's neck were wried: Past we glide!

_She sings._

The moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you entered gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is rendered up, And passively its shattered cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

_He sings._

What are we two? I am a Jew, And carry thee, farther than friends can pursue, To a feast of our tribe; Where they need thee to bribe The devil that blasts them unless he imbibe Thy ... Scatter the vision forever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

Say again, what we are? The sprite of a star, I lure thee above where the destinies bar My plumes their full play Till a ruddier ray Than my pale one announce there is withering away Some ... Scatter the vision forever! And now, As of old, I am I, thou art thou!

_He muses._

Oh, which were best, to roam or rest? The land's lap or the water's breast? To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, Or swim in lucid shallows just Eluding water-lily leaves, An inch from Death's black fingers, thrust To lock you, whom release he must; Which life were best on Summer eves?

_He speaks, musing._

Lie back; could thought of mine improve you? From this shoulder let there spring A wing; from this, another wing; Wings, not legs and feet, shall move you! Snow-white must they spring, to blend With your flesh, but I intend They shall deepen to the end, Broader, into burning gold, Till both wings crescent-wise enfold Your perfect self, from 'neath your feet To o'er your head, where, lo, they meet As if a million sword-blades hurled Defiance from you to the world!

Rescue me thou, the only real! And scare away this mad ideal That came, nor motions to depart! Thanks! Now, stay ever as thou art!

_Still he muses._

What if the Three should catch at last Thy serenader? While there's cast Paul's cloak about my head, and fast Gian pinions me, Himself has past His stylet through my back; I reel; And ... is it thou I feel?

They trail me, these three godless knaves, Past every church that saints and saves, Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves By Lido's wet accursed graves, They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, And ... on thy breast I sink!

_She replies, musing._

Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow-deep, As I do: thus: were death so unlike sleep, Caught this way? Death's to fear from flame or steel, Or poison doubtless; but from water--feel!

Go find the bottom! Would you stay me? There! Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon-grass To plait in where the foolish jewel was, I flung away: since you have praised my hair, 'T is proper to be choice in what I wear.

_He speaks._

Row home? must we row home? Too surely Know I where its front's demurely Over the Giudecca piled; Window just with window mating, Door on door exactly waiting, All's the set face of a child: But behind it, where's a trace Of the staidness and reserve, And formal lines without a curve, In the same child's playing-face? No two windows look one way O'er the small sea-water thread Below them. Ah, the autumn day I, passing, saw you overhead! First, out a cloud of curtain blew, Then a sweet cry, and last came you-- To catch your lory that must needs Escape just then, of all times then, To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds, And make me happiest of men. I scarce could breathe to see you reach So far back o'er the balcony To catch him ere he climbed too high Above you in the Smyrna peach, That quick the round smooth cord of gold, This coiled hair on your head, unrolled, Fell down you like a gorgeous snake The Roman girls were wont, of old, When Rome there was, for coolness' sake To let lie curling o'er their bosoms. Dear lory, may his beak retain Ever its delicate rose stain As if the wounded lotus-blossoms Had marked their thief to know again!

Stay longer yet, for others' sake Than mine! What should your chamber do? --With all its rarities that ache In silence while day lasts, but wake At night-time and their life renew, Suspended just to pleasure you Who brought against their will together These objects, and, while day lasts, weave Around them such a magic tether That dumb they look: your harp, believe, With all the sensitive tight strings Which dare not speak, now to itself Breathes slumberously, as if some elf Went in and out the chords, his wings Make murmur wheresoe'er they graze, As an angel may, between the maze Of midnight palace-pillars, on And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone Through guilty glorious Babylon. And while such murmurs flow, the nymph Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell As the dry limpet for the lymph Come with a tune he knows so well. And how your statues' hearts must swell! And how your pictures must descend To see each other, friend with friend! Oh, could you take them by surprise, You 'd find Schidone's eager Duke Doing the quaintest courtesies To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke! And, deeper into her rock den, Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen You 'd find retreated from the ken Of that robed counsel-keeping Ser-- As if the Tizian thinks of her, And is not, rather, gravely bent On seeing for himself what toys Are these, his progeny invent, What litter now the board employs Whereon he signed a document That got him murdered! Each enjoys Its night so well, you cannot break The sport up, so, indeed must make More stay with me, for others' sake.

_She speaks._

To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, Is used to tie the jasmine back That overfloods my room with sweets, Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets My Zanze! If the ribbon's black, The Three are watching: keep away!

Your gondola--let Zorzi wreathe A mesh of water-weeds about Its prow, as if he unaware Had struck some quay or bridge-foot stair! That I may throw a paper out As you and he go underneath.

There 's Zanze 's vigilant taper; safe are we. Only one minute more to-night with me? Resume your past self of a month ago! Be you the bashful gallant, I will be The lady with the colder breast than snow. Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch my hand More than I touch yours when I step to land, And say, "All thanks, Siora!"-- Heart to heart And lips to lips! Yet once more, ere we part, Clasp me and make me thine, as mine thou art!

_He_ is _surprised, and stabbed._

It was ordained to be so, sweet!--and best Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon thy breast. Still kiss me! Care not for the cowards! Care Only to put aside thy beauteous hair My blood will hurt! The Three, I do not scorn To death, because they never lived: but I Have lived indeed, and so--(yet one more kiss)--can die!

WARING

An account of Alfred Domett, Browning's early friend, who was the occasion of this poem, will be found in the notes.

I

I

What 's become of Waring Since he gave us all the slip, Chose land-travel or seafaring, Boots and chest or staff and scrip, Rather than pace up and down Any longer London town?

II

Who'd have guessed it from his lip Or his brow's accustomed bearing, On the night he thus took ship Or started landward?--little caring For us, it seems, who supped together (Friends of his too, I remember) And walked home through the merry weather, The snowiest in all December. I left his arm that night myself For what 's-his-name's, the new prose-poet Who wrote the book there, on the shelf-- How, forsooth, was I to know it If Waring meant to glide away Like a ghost at break of day? Never looked he half so gay!

III

He was prouder than the devil: How he must have cursed our revel! Ay and many other meetings, Indoor visits, outdoor greetings, As up and down he paced this London, With no work done, but great works undone, Where scarce twenty knew his name. Why not, then, have earlier spoken, Written, bustled? Who 's to blame If your silence kept unbroken? "True, but there were sundry jottings, Stray-leaves, fragments, blurs and blottings, Certain first steps were achieved Already which"--(is that your meaning?) "Had well borne out whoe'er believed In more to come!" But who goes gleaning Hedgeside chance-blades, while full-sheaved Stand cornfields by him? Pride, o'erweening Pride alone, puts forth such claims O'er the day's distinguished names.

IV

Meantime, how much I loved him, I find out now I 've lost him. I who cared not if I moved him, Who could so carelessly accost him, Henceforth never shall get free Of his ghostly company. His eyes that just a little wink As deep I go into the merit Of this and that distinguished spirit-- His cheeks' raised color, soon to sink, As long I dwell on some stupendous And tremendous (Heaven defend us!) Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous Demoniaco-seraphic Penman's latest piece of graphic. Nay, my very wrist grows warm With his dragging weight of arm. E'en so, swimmingly appears, Through one's after-supper musings, Some lost lady of old years With her beauteous vain endeavor And goodness unrepaid as ever; The face, accustomed to refusings, We, puppies that we were ... Oh never Surely, nice of conscience, scrupled Being aught like false, forsooth, to? Telling aught but honest truth to? What a sin, had we centupled Its possessor's grace and sweetness! No! she heard in its completeness Truth, for truth 's a weighty matter, And truth, at issue, we can't flatter! Well, 't is done with; she 's exempt From damning us through such a sally; And so she glides, as down a valley, Taking up with her contempt, Past our reach; and in, the flowers Shut her unregarded hours.

V

Oh, could I have him back once more, This Waring, but one half-day more! Back, with the quiet face of yore, So hungry for acknowledgment Like mine! I'd fool him to his bent. Feed, should not he, to heart's content? I 'd say, "to only have conceived, Planned your great works, apart from progress, Surpasses little works achieved!" I 'd lie so, I should be believed. I 'd make such havoc of the claims Of the day's distinguished names To feast him with, as feasts an ogress Her feverish sharp-toothed gold-crowned child! Or as one feasts a creature rarely Captured here, unreconciled To capture; and completely gives Its pettish humors license, barely Requiring that it lives.

VI

Ichabod, Ichabod, The glory is departed! Travels Waring East away? Who, of knowledge, by hearsay, Reports a man upstarted Somewhere as a god, Hordes grown European-hearted, Millions of the wild made tame On a sudden at his fame? In Vishnu-land what Avatar? Or who in Moscow, toward the Czar, With the demurest of footfalls Over the Kremlin's pavement bright With serpentine and syenite, Steps, with five other Generals That simultaneously take snuff, For each to have pretext enough And kerchiefwise unfold his sash Which, softness' self, is yet the stuff To hold fast where a steel chain snaps, And leave the grand white neck no gash? Waring in Moscow, to those rough Cold northern natures born perhaps, Like the lambwhite maiden dear From the circle of mute kings Unable to repress the tear, Each as his sceptre down he flings, To Dian's fane at Taurica, Where now a captive priestess, she alway Mingles her tender grave Hellenic speech With theirs, tuned to the hailstone-beaten beach As pours some pigeon, from the myrrhy lands Rapt by the whirlblast to fierce Scythian strands Where breed the swallows, her melodious cry Amid their barbarous twitter! In Russia? Never! Spain were fitter! Ay, most likely 't is in Spain That we and Waring meet again Now, while he turns down that cool narrow lane Into the blackness, out of grave Madrid All fire and shine, abrupt as when there 's slid Its stiff gold blazing pall From some black coffin-lid. Or, best of all, I love to think The leaving us was just a feint; Back here to London did he slink, And now works on without a wink Of sleep, and we are on the brink Of something great in fresco-paint: Some garret's ceiling, walls and floor, Up and down and o'er and o'er He splashes, as none splashed before Since great Caldara Polidore. Or Music means this land of ours Some favor yet, to pity won By Purcell from his Rosy Bowers,-- "Give me my so-long promised son, Let Waring end what I begun!" Then down he creeps and out he steals Only when the night conceals His face; in Kent 't is cherry-time, Or hops are picking: or at prime Of March he wanders as, too happy, Years ago when he was young, Some mild eve when woods grew sappy And the early moths had sprung To life from many a trembling sheath Woven the warm boughs beneath; While small birds said to themselves What should soon be actual song, And young gnats, by tens and twelves, Made as if they were the throng That crowd around and carry aloft The sound they have nursed, so sweet and pure. Out of a myriad noises soft, Into a tone that can endure Amid the noise of a July noon When all God's creatures crave their boon, All at once and all in tune, And get it, happy as Waring then, Having first within his ken What a man might do with men: And far too glad, in the even-glow. To mix with the world he meant to take Into his hand, he told you, so-- And out of it his world to make, To contract and to expand As he shut or oped his hand. O Waring, what 's to really be? A clear stage and a crowd to see! Some Garrick, say, out shall not he The heart of Hamlet's mystery pluck? Or, where most unclean beasts are rife, Some Junius--am I right?--shall tuck His sleeve, and forth with flaying-knife! Some Chatterton shall have the luck Of calling Rowley into life! Some one shall somehow run a-muck With this old world for want of strife Sound asleep. Contrive, contrive To rouse us, Waring! Who 's alive? Our men scarce seem in earnest now. Distinguished names!--but 't is, somehow, As if they played at being names Still more distinguished, like the games Of children. Turn our sport to earnest With a visage of the sternest! Bring the real times back, confessed Still better than our very best!

II

I

"When I last saw Waring ..." (How all turned to him who spoke! You saw Waring? Truth or joke? In land-travel or sea-faring?)

II

"We were sailing by Triest Where a day or two we harbored: A sunset was in the West, When, looking over the vessel's side, One of our company espied A sudden speck to larboard. And as a sea-duck flies and swims At once, so came the light craft up, With its sole lateen sail that trims And turns (the water round its rims Dancing, as round a sinking cup) And by us like a fish it curled, And drew itself up close beside, Its great sail on the instant furled, And o'er its thwarts a shrill voice cried, (A neck as bronzed as a Lascar's) 'Buy wine of us, you English brig? Or fruit, tobacco and cigars? A pilot for you to Triest? Without one, look you ne'er so big, They 'll never let you up the bay! We natives should know best.' I turned, and 'just those fellows' way,' Our captain said, 'The 'long-shore thieves Are laughing at us in their sleeves.'

III

"In truth, the boy leaned laughing back; And one, half-hidden by his side Under the furled sail, soon I spied, With great grass hat and kerchief black, Who looked up with his kingly throat Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee Into the weather, cut somehow Her sparkling path beneath our bow And so went off, as with a bound, Into the rosy and golden half O' the sky, to overtake the sun And reach the shore, like the sea-calf Its singing cave; yet I caught one Glance ere away the boat quite passed, And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last Of Waring!"--You? Oh, never star Was lost here but it rose afar! Look East, where whole new thousands are! In Vishnu-land what Avatar?

THE TWINS

"Give" and "It-shall-be-given-unto-you"

Originally published in 1854, in connection with a poem by Mrs. Browning, _A Plea for the Ragged Schools of London_, in a volume issued for a bazaar to benefit the "Refuge for Young Destitute Girls."

Grand rough old Martin Luther Bloomed fables--flowers on furze, The better the uncouther: Do roses stick like burrs?

A beggar asked an alms One day at an abbey-door, Said Luther; but, seized with qualms, The Abbot replied, "We 're poor!

"Poor, who had plenty once, When gifts fell thick as rain: But they give us naught, for the nonce, And how should we give again?"

Then the beggar, "See your sins! Of old, unless I err, Ye had brothers for inmates, twins, Date and Dabitur.

"While Date was in good case Dabitur flourished too: For Dabitur's lenten face No wonder if Date rue.

"Would ye retrieve the one? Try and make plump the other! When Date's penance is done, Dabitur helps his brother.

"Only, beware relapse!" The Abbot hung his head. This beggar might be perhaps An angel, Luther said.

A LIGHT WOMAN

So far as our story approaches the end, Which do you pity the most of us three?-- My friend, or the mistress of my friend With her wanton eyes, or me?

My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose, And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils, A shame, said I, if she adds just him To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, The hundredth for a whim!

And before my friend be wholly hers, How easy to prove to him, I said, An eagle 's the game her pride prefers, Though she snaps at a wren instead!

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. --You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white; He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her--that, he comprehends-- One should master one's passions, (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,--she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'T is mine,--can I let it fall?

With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist.

And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess.

'T is an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone!

One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you?

Well, anyhow, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here 's a subject made to your hand!

THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER

I said--Then, dearest, since 't is so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side. I thought,--All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you expressed You hold things beautiful the best, And place them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turned a rhyme? Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor--so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, "Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!" I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being--had I signed the bond-- Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet--she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,-- And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, forever ride?

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

A CHILD'S STORY

(_Written for, and inscribed to, W. M. the Younger_)

Macready's eldest son when a child was confined to the house by illness, and Browning wrote this _jeu d'esprit_ to amuse the child and give him a subject for illustrative drawings.

I

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

II

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'T is clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation--shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV

An hour they sat in council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that? (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

V

"Come in!"--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It 's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

VI

He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I 'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"--was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

VII

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! --Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, _Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!_' And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' --I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

VIII

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"--when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

IX

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what 's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

X

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I 've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he 's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I 'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."

XI

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

XII

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, --Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He 's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,-- "It 's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I 'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

XIV

Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he 'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street-- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor, Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column. And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there 's a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

XV

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free fróm rats or fróm mice, If we 've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS

The first nine sections of this poem were printed in _Hood's Magazine_ for April, 1845.

The poem took its rise from a line--"Following the Queen of the Gypsies, O!" the burden of a song which the poet, when a boy, heard a woman singing on a Guy Fawkes' Day. As Browning was writing it, he was interrupted by the arrival of a friend on some important business, which drove all thoughts of the Duchess, and the scheme of her story, out of the poet's head. But some months after the publication of the first part, when he was staying at Bettisfield Park, in Shropshire, a guest, speaking of early winter, said, "The deer had already to break the ice in the pond." On this a fancy struck the poet, and, returning home, he worked it up into the conclusion of the poem as it now stands.

I

You 're my friend: I was the man the Duke spoke to; I helped the Duchess to cast off his yoke, too; So, here 's the tale from beginning to end, My friend!

II

Ours is a great wild country: If you climb to our castle's top, I don't see where your eye can stop; For when you 've passed the cornfield country, Where vineyards leave off, flocks are packed, And sheep-range leads to cattle-tract, And cattle-tract to open-chase, And open-chase to the very base Of the mountain where, at a funeral pace, Round about, solemn and slow, One by one, row after row, Up and up the pine-trees go, So, like black priests up, and so Down the other side again To another greater, wilder country, That 's one vast red drear burnt-up plain, Branched through and through with many a vein Whence iron 's dug, and copper 's dealt; Look right, look left, look straight before,-- Beneath they mine, above they smelt, Copper-ore and iron-ore, And forge and furnace mould and melt, And so on, more and ever more, Till at the last, for a bounding belt, Comes the salt sand hoar of the great sea-shore, --And the whole is our Duke's country.

III

I was born the day this present Duke was-- (And O, says the song, ere I was old!) In the castle where the other Duke was-- (When I was happy and young, not old!) I in the kennel, he in the bower: We are of like age to an hour. My father was huntsman in that day; Who has not heard my father say That, when a boar was brought to bay, Three times, four times out of five, With his huntspear he 'd contrive To get the killing-place transfixed, And pin him true, both eyes betwixt? And that 's why the old Duke would rather He lost a salt-pit than my father, And loved to have him ever in call; That 's why my father stood in the hall When the old Duke brought his infant out To show the people, and while they passed The wondrous bantling round about, Was first to start at the outside blast As the Kaiser's courier blew his horn, Just a month after the babe was born. "And," quoth the Kaiser's courier, "since The Duke has got an heir, our Prince Needs the Duke's self at his side:" The Duke looked down and seemed to wince, But he thought of wars o'er the world wide, Castles a-fire, men on their march, The toppling tower, the crashing arch; And up he looked, and awhile he eyed The row of crests and shields and banners Of all achievements after all manners, And "ay," said the Duke with a surly pride. The more was his comfort when he died At next year's end, in a velvet suit, With a gilt glove on his hand, his foot In a silken shoe for a leather boot, Petticoated like a herald, In a chamber next to an ante-room, Where he breathed the breath of page and groom, What he called stink, and they, perfume: --They should have set him on red Berold Mad with pride, like fire to manage! They should have got his cheek fresh tannage Such a day as to-day in the merry sunshine! Had they stuck on his fist a rough-foot merlin! (Hark, the wind's on the heath at its game! Oh for a noble falcon-lanner To flap each broad wing like a banner, And turn in the wind, and dance like flame!) Had they broached a white-beer cask from Berlin --Or if you incline to prescribe mere wine Put to his lips, when they saw him pine, A cup of our own Moldavia fine, Cotnar for instance, green as May sorrel And ropy with sweet,--we shall not quarrel.

IV

So, at home, the sick tall yellow Duchess Was left with the infant in her clutches, She being the daughter of God knows who: And now was the time to revisit her tribe. Abroad and afar they went, the two, And let our people rail and gibe At the empty hall and extinguished fire, As loud as we liked, but ever in vain, Till after long years we had our desire, And back came the Duke and his mother again.

V

And he came back the pertest little ape That ever affronted human shape; Full of his travel, struck at himself. You 'd say, he despised our bluff old ways? --Not he! For in Paris they told the elf Our rough North land was the Land of Lays, The one good thing left in evil days; Since the Mid-Age was the Heroic Time, And only in wild nooks like ours Could you taste of it yet as in its prime, And see true castles, with proper towers, Young-hearted women, old-minded men, And manners now as manners were then. So, all that the old Dukes had been, without knowing it, This Duke would fain know he was, without being it; 'Twas not for the joy's self, but the joy of his showing it, Nor for the pride's self, but the pride of our seeing it, He revived all usages thoroughly-worn-out, The souls of them fumed-forth, the hearts of them torn-out: And chief in the chase his neck he perilled, On a lathy horse, all legs and length, With blood for bone, all speed, no strength; --They should have set him on red Berold With the red eye slow consuming in fire, And the thin stiff ear like an abbey spire!

VI

Well, such as he was, he must marry, we heard: And out of a convent, at the word, Came the lady, in time of spring. --Oh, old thoughts they cling, they cling! That day, I know, with a dozen oaths I clad myself in thick hunting-clothes Fit for the chase of urochs or buffle In winter-time when you need to muffle. But the Duke had a mind we should cut a figure, And so we saw the lady arrive: My friend, I have seen a white crane bigger! She was the smallest lady alive, Made in a piece of nature's madness, Too small, almost, for the life and gladness That over-filled her, as some hive Out of the bears' reach on the high trees Is crowded with its safe merry bees: In truth, she was not hard to please! Up she looked, down she looked, round at the mead, Straight at the castle, that's best indeed To look at from outside the walls: As for us, styled the "serfs and thralls," She as much thanked me as if she had said it, (With her eyes, do you understand?) Because I patted her horse while I led it; And Max, who rode on her other hand, Said, no bird flew past but she inquired What its true name was, nor ever seemed tired-- If that was an eagle she saw hover, And the green and gray bird on the field was the plover. When suddenly appeared the Duke: And as down she sprung, the small foot pointed On to my hand,--as with a rebuke, And as if his backbone were not jointed, The Duke stepped rather aside than forward, And welcomed her with his grandest smile; And, mind you, his mother all the while Chilled in the rear, like a wind to Nor'ward; And up, like a weary yawn, with its pulleys Went, in a shriek, the rusty portcullis; And, like a glad sky the north-wind sullies, The lady's face stopped its play, As if her first hair had grown gray; For such things must begin some one day.

VII

In a day or two she was well again; As who should say, "You labor in vain! This is all a jest against God, who meant I should ever be, as I am, content And glad in his sight; therefore, glad I will be." So, smiling: as at first went she.

VIII

She was active, stirring, all fire-- Could not rest, could not tire-- To a stone she might have given life! (I myself loved once, in my day) --For a shepherd's, miner's, huntsman's wife, (I had a wife, I know what I say) Never in all the world such an one! And here was plenty to be done, And she that could do it, great or small, She was to do nothing at all. There was already this man in his post, This in his station, and that in his office, And the Duke's plan admitted a wife, at most; To meet his eye, with the other trophies, Now outside the hall, now in it, To sit thus, stand thus, see and be seen, At the proper place in the proper minute, And die away the life between. And it was amusing enough, each infraction Of rule--(but for after-sadness that came) To hear the consummate self-satisfaction With which the young Duke and the old dame Would let her advise, and criticise, And, being a fool, instruct the wise, And, child-like, parcel out praise or blame: They bore it all in complacent guise, As though an artificer, after contriving A wheel-work image as if it were living, Should find with delight it could motion to strike him! So found the Duke, and his mother like him: The lady hardly got a rebuff-- That had not been contemptuous enough, With his cursed smirk, as he nodded applause, And kept off the old mother-cat's claws.

IX

So, the little lady grew silent and thin, Paling and ever paling, As the way is with a hid chagrin; And the Duke perceived that she was ailing, And said in his heart, "'Tis done to spite me, But I shall find in my power to right me!" Don't swear, friend! The old one, many a year, Is in hell, and the Duke's self ... you shall hear.

X

Well, early in autumn, at first winter-warning, When the stag had to break with his foot, of a morning, A drinking-hole out of the fresh tender ice That covered the pond till the sun, in a trice, Loosening it, let out a ripple of gold, And another and another, and faster and faster, Till, dimpling to blindness, the wide water rolled: Then it so chanced that the Duke our master Asked himself what were the pleasures in season, And found, since the calendar bade him be hearty, He should do the Middle Age no treason In resolving on a hunting-party. Always provided, old books showed the way of it! What meant old poets by their strictures? And when old poets had said their say of it, How taught old painters in their pictures? We must revert to the proper channels, Workings in tapestry, paintings on panels, And gather up woodcraft's authentic traditions: Here was food for our various ambitions, As on each case, exactly stated-- To encourage your dog, now, the properest chirrup, Or best prayer to Saint Hubert on mounting your stirrup-- We of the household took thought and debated. Blessed was he whose back ached with the jerkin His sire was wont to do forest-work in; Blesseder he who nobly sunk "ohs" And "ahs" while he tugged on his grandsire's trunk-hose; What signified hats if they had no rims on, Each slouching before and behind like the scallop, And able to serve at sea for a shallop, Loaded with lacquer and looped with crimson? So that the deer now, to make a short rhyme on 't, What with our Venerers, Prickers and Verderers, Might hope for real hunters at length and not murderers, And oh the Duke's tailor, he had a hot time on 't!

XI

Now you must know that when the first dizziness Of flap-hats and buff-coats and jack-boots subsided, The Duke put this question, "The Duke's part provided, Had not the Duchess some share in the business?" For out of the mouth of two or three witnesses Did he establish all fit-or-unfitnesses: And, after much laying of heads together, Somebody's cap got a notable feather By the announcement with proper unction That he had discovered the lady's function; Since ancient authors gave this tenet, "When horns wind a mort and the deer is at siege, Let the dame of the castle prick forth on her jennet. And, with water to wash the hands of her liege In a clean ewer with a fair towelling, Let her preside at the disembowelling." Now, my friend, if you had so little religion As to catch a hawk, some falcon-lanner, And thrust her broad wings like a banner Into a coop for a vulgar pigeon; And if day by day and week by week You cut her claws, and sealed her eyes, And clipped her wings, and tied her beak, Would it cause you any great surprise If, when you decided to give her an airing, You found she needed a little preparing? --I say, should you be such a curmudgeon, If she clung to the perch, as to take it in dudgeon? Yet when the Duke to his lady signified, Just a day before, as he judged most dignified, In what a pleasure she was to participate,-- And, instead of leaping wide in flashes, Her eyes just lifted their long lashes, As if pressed by fatigue even he could not dissipate, And duly acknowledged the Duke's forethought, But spoke of her health, if her health were worth aught, Of the weight by day and the watch by night, And much wrong now that used to be right, So, thanking him, declined the hunting,-- Was conduct ever more affronting? With all the ceremony settled-- With the towel ready, and the sewer Polishing up his oldest ewer, And the jennet pitched upon, a piebald, Black-barred, cream-coated and pink eye-balled,-- No wonder if the Duke was nettled! And when she persisted nevertheless,-- Well, I suppose here's the time to confess That there ran half round our lady's chamber A balcony none of the hardest to clamber; And that Jacynth the tire-woman, ready in waiting, Stayed in call outside, what need of relating? And since Jacynth was like a June rose, why, a fervent Adorer of Jacynth of course was your servant; And if she had the habit to peep through the casement, How could I keep at any vast distance? And so, as I say, on the lady's persistence, The Duke, dumb-stricken with amazement, Stood for a while in a sultry smother, And then, with a smile that partook of the awful, Turned her over to his yellow mother To learn what was held decorous and lawful: And the mother smelt blood with a cat-like instinct, As her cheek quick whitened through all its quince-tinct. Oh, but the lady heard the whole truth at once! What meant she?--Who was she?--Her duty and station, The wisdom of age and the folly of youth, at once, Its decent regard and its fitting relation-- In brief, my friend, set all the devils in hell free And turn them out to carouse in a belfry And treat the priests to a fifty-part canon, And then you may guess how that tongue of hers ran on! Well, somehow or other it ended at last And, licking her whiskers, out she passed; And after her,--making (he hoped) a face Like Emperor Nero or Sultan Saladin, Stalked the Duke's self with the austere grace Of ancient hero or modern paladin, From door to staircase--oh such a solemn Unbending of the vertebral column!

XII

However, at sunrise our company mustered; And here was the huntsman bidding unkennel, And there 'neath his bonnet the pricker blustered, With feather dank as a bough of wet fennel; For the court-yard walls were filled with fog You might have cut as an axe chops a log-- Like so much wool for color and bulkiness; And out rode the Duke in a perfect sulkiness, Since, before breakfast, a man feels but queasily, And a sinking at the lower abdomen Begins the day with indifferent omen. And lo, as he looked around uneasily, The sun ploughed the fog up and drove it asunder This way and that from the valley under; And, looking through the court-yard arch, Down in the valley, what should meet him But a troop of Gypsies on their march? No doubt with the annual gifts to greet him.

XIII

Now, in your land, Gypsies reach you, only After reaching all lands beside; North they go, South they go, trooping or lonely, And still, as they travel far and wide, Catch they and keep now a trace here, a trace there, That puts you in mind of a place here, a place there. But with us, I believe they rise out of the ground, And nowhere else, I take it, are found With the earth-tint yet so freshly embrowned: Born, no doubt, like insects which breed on The very fruit they are meant to feed on. For the earth--not a use to which they don't turn it, The ore that grows in the mountain's womb, Or the sand in the pits like a honeycomb, They sift and soften it, bake it and burn it-- Whether they weld you, for instance, a snaffle With side-bars never a brute can baffle; Or a lock that's a puzzle of wards within wards; Or, if your colt's forefoot inclines to curve inwards, Horseshoes they hammer which turn on a swivel And won't allow the hoof to shrivel. Then they cast bells like the shell of the winkle That keep a stout heart in the ram with their tinkle; But the sand--they pinch and pound it like otters; Commend me to Gypsy glass-makers and potters! Glasses they'll blow you, crystal-clear, Where just a faint cloud of rose shall appear, As if in pure water you dropped and let die A bruised black-blooded mulberry; And that other sort, their crowning pride, With long white threads distinct inside, Like the lake-flower's fibrous roots which dangle Loose such a length and never tangle, Where the bold sword-lily cuts the clear waters, And the cup-lily couches with all the white daughters: Such are the works they put their hand to, The uses they turn and twist iron and sand to. And these made the troop, which our Duke saw sally Toward his castle from out of the valley, Men and women, like new-hatched spiders, Come out with the morning to greet our riders. And up they wound till they reached the ditch, Whereat all stopped save one, a witch That I knew, as she hobbled from the group, By her gait directly and her stoop, I, whom Jacynth was used to importune To let that same witch tell us our fortune, The oldest Gypsy then above ground; And, sure as the autumn season came round, She paid us a visit for profit or pastime, And every time, as she swore, for the last time And presently she was seen to sidle Up to the Duke till she touched his bridle, So that the horse of a sudden reared up As under its nose the old witch peered up With her worn-out eyes, or rather eye-holes Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of level whine Such as they use to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobody minding: And then, as of old, at the end of the humming Her usual presents were forthcoming --A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles, (Just a sea-shore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles,) Or a porcelain mouthpiece to screw on a pipe-end,-- And so she awaited her annual stipend. But this time, the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply; and in vain she felt With twitching fingers at her belt For the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe,-- Till, either to quicken his apprehension, Or possibly with an after-intention, She was come, she said, to pay her duty To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. No sooner had she named his lady, Than a shine lit up the face so shady, And its smirk returned with a novel meaning-- For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, She, foolish to-day, would be wiser to-morrow; And who so fit a teacher of trouble As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (If such it was, for they grow so hirsute That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned From out of the throng, and while I drew near He told the crone--as I since have reckoned By the way he bent and spoke into her ear With circumspection and mystery-- The main of the lady's history, Her frowardness and ingratitude: And for all the crone's submissive attitude I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening, As though she engaged with hearty goodwill Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfil. And promised the lady a thorough frightening. And so, just giving her a glimpse Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hern-shaw, He bade me take the Gypsy mother And set her telling some story or other Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, To while away a weary hour For the lady left alone in her bower, Whose mind and body craved exertion And yet shrank from all better diversion.

XIV

Then clapping heel to his horse, the mere curveter, Out rode the Duke, and after his hollo Horses and hounds swept, huntsman and servitor, And back I turned and bade the crone follow. And what makes me confident what's to be told you Had all along been of this crone's devising, Is, that, on looking round sharply, behold you, There was a novelty quick as surprising: For first, she had shot up a full head in stature, And her step kept pace with mine nor faltered, As if age had foregone its usurpature, And the ignoble mien was wholly altered, And the face looked quite of another nature, And the change reached too, whatever the change meant, Her shaggy wolf-skin cloak's arrangement: For where its tatters hung loose like sedges, Gold coins were glittering on the edges, Like the band-roll strung with tomans Which proves the veil a Persian woman's: And under her brow, like a snail's horns newly Come out as after the rain he paces, Two unmistakable eye-points duly Live and aware looked out of their places. So, we went and found Jacynth at the entry Of the lady's chamber standing sentry; I told the command and produced my companion, And Jacynth rejoiced to admit any one, For since last night, by the same token, Not a single word had the lady spoken: They went in both to the presence together, While I in the balcony watched the weather.

XV

And now, what took place at the very first of all, I cannot tell, as I never could learn it: Jacynth constantly wished a curse to fall On that little head of hers and burn it, If she knew how she came to drop so soundly Asleep of a sudden and there continue The whole time sleeping as profoundly As one of the boars my father would pin you 'Twixt the eyes where life holds garrison, --Jacynth forgive me the comparison! But where I begin my own narration Is a little after I took my station To breathe the fresh air from the balcony, And, having in those days a falcon eye, To follow the hunt through the open country, From where the bushes thinlier crested The hillocks, to a plain where's not one tree. When, in a moment, my ear was arrested By--was it singing, or was it saying, Or a strange musical instrument playing In the chamber?--and to be certain I pushed the lattice, pulled the curtain, And there lay Jacynth asleep, Yet as if a watch she tried to keep, In a rosy sleep along the floor With her head against the door; While in the midst, on the seat of state, Was a queen--the Gypsy woman late, With head and face downbent On the lady's head and face intent: For, coiled at her feet like a child at ease, The lady sat between her knees, And o'er them the lady's clasped hands met, And on those hands her chin was set, And her upturned face met the face of the crone Wherein the eyes had grown and grown As if she could double and quadruple At pleasure the play of either pupil --Very like, by her hands' slow fanning, As up and down like a gor-crow's flappers They moved to measure, or bell clappers. I said, "Is it blessing, is it banning, Do they applaud you or burlesque you-- Those hands and fingers with no flesh on?" But, just as I thought to spring in to the rescue, At once I was stopped by the lady's expression: For it was life her eyes were drinking From the crone's wide pair above unwinking, --Life's pure fire received without shrinking, Into the heart and breast whose heaving Told you no single drop they were leaving, --Life, that filling her, passed redundant Into her very hair, back swerving Over each shoulder, loose and abundant, As her head thrown back showed the white throat curving; And the very tresses shared in the pleasure, Moving to the mystic measure, Bounding as the bosom bounded. I stopped short, more and more confounded, As still her cheeks burned and eyes glistened, As she listened and she listened: When all at once a hand detained me, The selfsame contagion gained me, And I kept time to the wondrous chime, Making out words and prose and rhyme, Till it seemed that the music furled Its wings like a task fulfilled, and dropped From under the words it first had propped, And left them midway in the world: Word took word as hand takes hand, I could hear at last, and understand, And when I held the unbroken thread, The Gypsy said:--

"And so at last we find my tribe. And so I set thee in the midst, And to one and all of them describe What thou saidst and what thou didst, Our long and terrible journey through, And all thou art ready to say and do In the trials that remain: I trace them the vein and the other vein That meet on thy brow and part again, Making our rapid mystic mark; And I bid my people prove and probe Each eye's profound and glorious globe Till they detect the kindred spark In those depths so dear and dark, Like the spots that snap and burst and flee, Circling over the midnight sea. And on that round young cheek of thine I make them recognize the tinge, As when of the costly scarlet wine They drip so much as will impinge And spread in a thinnest scale afloat One thick gold drop from the olive's coat Over a silver plate whose sheen Still through the mixture shall be seen. For so I prove thee, to one and all, Fit, when my people ope their breast, To see the sign, and hear the call, And take the vow, and stand the test Which adds one more child to the rest-- When the breast is bare and the arms are wide, And the world is left outside. For there is probation to decree, And many and long must the trials be Thou shalt victoriously endure, If that brow is true and those eyes are sure; Like a jewel-finder's fierce assay Of the prize he dug from its mountain tomb-- Let once the vindicating ray Leap out amid the anxious gloom, And steel and fire have done their part And the prize falls on its finder's heart; So, trial after trial past, Wilt thou fall at the very last Breathless, half in trance With the thrill of the great deliverance, Into our arms forevermore; And thou shalt know, those arms once curled About thee, what we knew before, How love is the only good in the world. Henceforth be loved as heart can love, Or brain devise, or hand approve! Stand up, look below, It is our life at thy feet we throw To step with into light and joy; Not a power of life but we employ To satisfy thy nature's want; Art thou the tree that props the plant, Or the climbing plant that seeks the tree-- Canst thou help us, must we help thee? If any two creatures grew into one, They would do more than the world has done; Though each apart were never so weak, Ye vainly through the world should seek For the knowledge and the might Which in such union grew their right: So, to approach at least that end, And blend,--as much as may be, blend Thee with us or us with thee,-- As climbing plant or propping tree, Shall some one deck thee, over and down, Up and about, with blossoms and leaves? Fix his heart's fruit for thy garland-crown, Cling with his soul as the gourd-vine cleaves, Die on thy boughs and disappear While not a leaf of thine is sere? Or is the other fate in store, And art thou fitted to adore, To give thy wondrous self away, And take a stronger nature's sway? I foresee and could foretell Thy future portion, sure and well: But those passionate eyes speak true, speak true, Let them say what thou shalt do! Only be sure thy daily life, In its peace or in its strife, Never shall be unobserved; We pursue thy whole career. And hope for it, or doubt, or fear,-- Lo, hast thou kept thy path or swerved, We are beside thee in all thy ways, With our blame, with our praise, Our shame to feel, our pride to show, Glad, angry--but indifferent, no! Whether it be thy lot to go, For the good of us all, where the haters meet In the crowded city's horrible street; Or thou step alone through the morass Where never sound yet was Save the dry quick clap of the stork's bill, For the air is still, and the water still, When the blue breast of the dipping coot Dives under, and all is mute. So, at the last shall come old age, Decrepit as befits that stage; How else wouldst thou retire apart With the hoarded memories of thy heart, And gather all to the very least Of the fragments of life's earlier feast, Let fall through eagerness to find The crowning dainties yet behind? Ponder on the entire past Laid together thus at last, When the twilight helps to fuse The first fresh with the faded hues, And the outline of the whole, As round eve's shades their framework roll, Grandly fronts for once thy soul. And then as, 'mid the dark, a gleam Of yet another morning breaks, And like the hand which ends a dream, Death, with the might of his sunbeam, Touches the flesh and the soul awakes, Then"-- Ay, then indeed something would happen! But what? For here her voice changed like a bird's; There grew more of the music and less of the words; Had Jacynth only been by me to clap pen To paper and put you down every syllable With those clever clerkly fingers, All I've forgotten as well as what lingers In this old brain of mine that 's but ill able To give you even this poor version Of the speech I spoil, as it were, with stammering --More fault of those who had the hammering Of prosody into me and syntax, And did it, not with hobnails but tintacks! But to return from this excursion,-- Just, do you mark, when the song was sweetest, The peace most deep and the charm completest, There came, shall I say, a snap-- And the charm vanished! And my sense returned, so strangely banished, And, starting as from a nap, I knew the crone was bewitching my lady, With Jacynth asleep; and but one spring made I Down from the casement, round to the portal, Another minute and I had entered,-- When the door opened, and more than mortal Stood, with a face where to my mind centred All beauties I ever saw or shall see, The Duchess: I stopped as if struck by palsy. She was so different, happy and beautiful, I felt at once that all was best, And that I had nothing to do, for the rest, But wait her commands, obey and be dutiful. Not that, in fact, there was any commanding; I saw the glory of her eye, And the brow's height and the breast's expanding, And I was hers to live or to die. As for finding what she wanted, You know God Almighty granted Such little signs should serve wild creatures To tell one another all their desires, So that each knows what his friend requires, And does its bidding without teachers. I preceded her; the crone Followed silent and alone; I spoke to her, but she merely jabbered In the old style; both her eyes had slunk Back to their pits; her stature shrunk; In short, the soul in its body sunk Like a blade sent home to its scabbard. We descended, I preceding; Crossed the court with nobody heeding; All the world was at the chase, The court-yard like a desert-place, The stable emptied of its small fry; I saddled myself the very palfrey I remember patting while it carried her, The day she arrived and the Duke married her. And, do you know, though it 's easy deceiving One's self in such matters, I can't help believing The lady had not forgotten it either, And knew the poor devil so much beneath her Would have been only too glad for her service To dance on hot ploughshares like a Turk dervise, But, unable to pay proper duty where owing it, Was reduced to that pitiful method of showing it: For though the moment I began setting His saddle on my own nag of Berold's begetting, (Not that I meant to be obtrusive) She stopped me, while his rug was shifting, By a single rapid finger's lifting, And, with a gesture kind but conclusive, And a little shake of the head, refused me,-- I say, although she never used me, Yet when she was mounted, the Gypsy behind her, And I ventured to remind her, I suppose with a voice of less steadiness Than usual, for my feeling exceeded me, --Something to the effect that I was in readiness Whenever God should please she needed me,-- Then, do you know, her face looked down on me With a look that placed a crown on me, And she felt in her bosom,--mark, her bosom-- And, as a flower-tree drops its blossom, Dropped me ... ah, had it been a purse Of silver, my friend, or gold that 's worse, Why, you see, as soon as I found myself So understood,--that a true heart so may gain Such a reward,--I should have gone home again, Kissed Jacynth, and soberly drowned myself! It was a little plait of hair Such as friends in a convent make To wear, each for the other's sake,-- This, see, which at my breast I wear, Ever did (rather to Jacynth's grudgment), And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. And then,--and then,--to cut short,--this is idle, These are feelings it is not good to foster,-- I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle, And the palfrey bounded,--and so we lost her.

XVI

When the liquor 's out why clink the cannikin? I did think to describe you the panic in The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, And what was the pitch of his mother's yellowness, How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib, When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness --But it seems such child's play, What they said and did with the lady away! And to dance on, when we've lost the music, Always made me--and no doubt makes you--sick. Nay, to my mind, the world's face looked so stern As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, She that kept it in constant good-humor, It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. But the world thought otherwise and went on, And my head 's one that its spite was spent on: Thirty years are fled since that morning, And with them all my head's adorning. Nor did the old Duchess die outright, As you expect, of suppressed spite, The natural end of every adder Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder: But she and her son agreed, I take it, That no one should touch on the story to wake it, For the wound in the Duke's pride rankled fiery, So, they made no search and small inquiry-- And when fresh Gypsies have paid us a visit, I've Noticed the couple were never inquisitive, But told them they 're folks the Duke don't want here, And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it, And the old one was in the young one's stead, And took, in her place, the household's head, And a blessed time the household had of it! And were I not, as a man may say, cautious How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous, I could favor you with sundry touches Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess Heightened the mellowness of her cheek's yellowness (To get on faster) until at last her Cheek grew to be one master-plaster Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse: In short, she grew from scalp to udder Just the object to make you shudder.

XVII

You 're my friend-- What a thing friendship is, world without end! How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids-- Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives your life's hour-glass a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease. I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the Gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: And now it is made--why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets. I 'll tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life through-- He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall. My father was born here, and I inherit His fame, a chain he bound his son with; Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, But there 's no mine to blow up and get done with: So, I must stay till the end of the chapter, For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, Some day or other, his head in a morion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he 'll kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup. And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall scrape together my earnings; For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, And our children all went the way of the roses: It 's a long lane that knows no turnings. One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: And for a staff, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you? And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly! Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. What 's a man's age? He must hurry more, that 's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labor, then only, we 're too old-- What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul? And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees, (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil) I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the Gypsies, And find my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Lucifer, His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an Æthiop. And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with--as if by accident-- "You never knew, then, how it all ended, What fortune good or bad attended The little lady your Queen befriended?" --And when that 's told me, what 's remaining? This world 's too hard for my explaining. The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also must be such a lady's scorner! Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world's one see-saw. --So, I shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, Turn myself round and bid the world goodnight; And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen!

A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE

Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow: Look out if yonder be not day again Rimming the rock-row! That 's the appropriate country; there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer. Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No! yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit. Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights; Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; He 's for the morning. Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head, 'Ware the beholders! This is our master, famous, calm and dead, Borne on our shoulders.

Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo! Long he lived nameless: how should Spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished"? No, that 's the world's way: (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What 's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? Show me their shaping, Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- Give!"--So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him. Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: "Time to taste life," another would have said, "Up with the curtain!" This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? Patience a moment! Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still there 's the comment. Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy." Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick!

(Here 's the town-gate reached: there 's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he 'd learn how to live-- No end to learning: Earn the means first--God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes: Live now or never!" He said, "What 's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! Man has Forever." Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head: _Calculus_ racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: _Tussis_ attacked him. "Now, master, take a little rest!"--not he! (Caution redoubled, Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon. Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Bad is our bargain! Was it not great? did not he throw on God, (He loves the burthen)-- God's task to make the heavenly period Perfect the earthen? Did not he magnify the mind, show clear Just what it all meant? He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing--heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes! Hence with life's pale lure!" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it: This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred 's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here--should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, through the rattle, parts of speech were rife: While he could stammer He settled _Hoti's_ business--let it be!-- Properly based _Oun_-- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_, Dead from the waist down. Well, here 's the platform, here 's the proper place: Hail to your purlieus, All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Swallows and curlews! Here 's the top-peak; the multitude below Live, for they can, there: This man decided not to Live but Know-- Bury this man there? Here--here 's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him--still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying.

THE HERETIC'S TRAGEDY

A MIDDLE-AGE INTERLUDE

_Rosa Mundi; seu, fulcite me Floribus. A Conceit of Master Gysbrecht, Canon-Regular of Saint Jodocus-by-the-Bar, Ypres City._ _Cantuque_, Virgilius. _And hath often been sung at Hock-tide and Festivals._ _Gavisus eram_, Jessides.

(It would seem to be a glimpse from the burning of Jacques du Bourg-Molay, at Paris, A. D. 1314; as distorted by the refraction from Flemish brain to brain, during the course of a couple of centuries. R. B.)

PREADMONISHETH THE ABBOT DEODAET

THE Lord, we look to once for all, Is the Lord we should look at, all at once: He knows not to vary, saith Saint Paul, Nor the shadow of turning, for the nonce. See him no other than as he is! Give both the infinitudes their due-- Infinite mercy, but, I wis, As infinite a justice too. [_Organ: plagal-cadence._ As infinite a justice too.

ONE SINGETH

John, Master of the Temple of God, Falling to sin the Unknown Sin, What he bought of Emperor Aldabrod, He sold it to Sultan Saladin: Till, caught by Pope Clement, a-buzzing there, Hornet-prince of the mad wasps' hive, And clipt of his wings in Paris square, They bring him now to be burned alive. [_And wanteth there grace of lute or clavicithern, ye shall say to confirm him who singeth_-- We bring John now to be burned alive.

In the midst is a goodly gallows built; 'Twixt fork and fork, a stake is stuck; But first they set divers tumbrils a-tilt, Make a trench all round with the city muck; Inside they pile log upon log, good store; Fagots not few, blocks great and small, Reach a man's mid-thigh, no less, no more,-- For they mean he should roast in the sight of all.

CHO.--We mean he should roast in the sight of all.

Good sappy bavins that kindle forthwith; Billets that blaze substantial and slow; Pine-stump split deftly, dry as pith; Larch-heart that chars to a chalk-white glow: Then up they hoist me John in a chafe, Sling him fast like a hog to scorch, Spit in his face, then leap back safe, Sing "Laudes" and bid clap-to the torch. CHO.--_Laus Deo_--who bids clap-to the torch.

John of the Temple, whose fame so bragged, Is burning alive in Paris square! How can he curse, if his mouth is gagged? Or wriggle his neck, with a collar there? Or heave his chest, which a band goes round? Or threat with his fist, since his arms are spliced? Or kick with his feet, now his legs are bound? --Thinks John, I will call upon Jesus Christ. [_Here one crosseth himself._

Jesus Christ--John had bought and sold, Jesus Christ--John had eaten and drunk; To him, the Flesh meant silver and gold. (_Salva reverentia._) Now it was, "Saviour, bountiful lamb, I have roasted thee Turks, though men roast me! See thy servant, the plight wherein I am! Art thou a saviour? Save thou me!" CHO.--'T is John the mocker cries, "Save thou me!"

Who maketh God's menace an idle word? --Saith, it no more means what it proclaims, Than a damsel's threat to her wanton bird?-- For she too prattles of ugly names. --Saith, he knoweth but one thing,--what he knows? That God is good and the rest is breath; Why else is the same styled Sharon's rose? Once a rose, ever a rose, he saith. CHO.--Oh, John shall yet find a rose, he saith!

Alack, there be roses and roses, John! Some, honeyed of taste like your leman's tongue: Some, bitter; for why? (roast gayly on!) Their tree struck root in devil's dung. When Paul once reasoned of righteousness And of temperance and of judgment to come, Good Felix trembled, he could no less: John, snickering, crook'd his wicked thumb. CHO.--What cometh to John of the wicked thumb?

Ha ha, John plucketh now at his rose To rid himself of a sorrow at heart! Lo,--petal on petal, fierce rays unclose; Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart; And with blood for dew, the bosom boils; And a gust of sulphur is all its smell; And lo, he is horribly in the toils Of a coal-black giant flower of hell! CHO.--What maketh heaven, That maketh hell.

So, as John called now, through the fire amain, On the Name, he had cursed with, all his life-- To the Person, he bought and sold again-- For the Face, with his daily buffets rife-- Feature by feature It took its place: And his voice, like a mad dog's choking bark, At the steady whole of the Judge's face-- Died. Forth John's soul flared into the dark.

SUBJOINETH THE ABBOT DEODAET

God help all poor souls lost in the dark!

HOLY-CROSS DAY

ON WHICH THE JEWS WERE FORCED TO ATTEND AN ANNUAL CHRISTIAN SERMON IN ROME

The passage from a mock-historic Diary which follows is by Browning himself.

"Now was come about Holy-Cross Day, and now must my lord preach his first sermon to the Jews: as it was of old cared for in the merciful bowels of the Church, that, so to speak, a crumb at least from her conspicuous table here in Rome should be, though but once yearly, cast to the famishing dogs, under-trampled and bespitten-upon beneath the feet of the guests. And a moving sight in truth, this, of so many of the besotted blind restif and ready-to-perish Hebrews! now maternally brought--nay, (for He saith, 'Compel them to come in') haled, as it were, by the head and hair, and against their obstinate hearts, to partake of the heavenly grace. What awakening, what striving with tears, what working of a yeasty conscience! Nor was my lord wanting to himself on so apt an occasion; witness the abundance of conversions which did incontinently reward him: though not to my lord be altogether the glory."--_Diary by the Bishop's Secretary_, 1600.

What the Jews really said, on thus being driven to church, was rather to this effect:--

Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! Blessedest Thursday 's the fat of the week. Rumble and tumble, sleek and rough, Stinking and savory, smug and gruff, Take the church-road, for the bell's due chime Gives us the summons--'t is sermon-time!

Boh, here 's Barnabas! Job, that 's you? Up stumps Solomon--bustling too? Shame, man! greedy beyond your years To handsel the bishop's shaving-shears? Fair play 's a jewel! Leave friends in the lurch? Stand on a line ere you start for the church!

Higgledy piggledy, packed we lie, Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, Wasps in a bottle, frogs in a sieve, Worms in a carcass, fleas in a sleeve. Hist! square shoulders, settle your thumbs And buzz for the bishop--here he comes.

Bow, wow, wow--a bone for the dog! I liken his Grace to an acorned hog. What, a boy at his side, with the bloom of a lass, To help and handle my lord's hour-glass! Didst ever behold so lithe a chine? His cheek hath laps like a fresh-singed swine.

Aaron's asleep--shove hip to haunch, Or somebody deal him a dig in the paunch! Look at the purse with the tassel and knob, And the gown with the angel and thingumbob! What's he at, quotha? reading his text! Now you've his curtsey--and what comes next?

See to our converts--you doomed black dozen-- No stealing away--nor cog nor cozen! You five, that were thieves, deserve it fairly; You seven, that were beggars, will live less sparely; You took your turn and dipped in the hat, Got fortune--and fortune gets you; mind that!

Give your first groan--compunction's at work; And soft! from a Jew you mount to a Turk. Lo, Micah,--the selfsame beard on chin He was four times already converted in! Here's a knife, clip quick--it's a sign of grace-- Or he ruins us all with his hanging-face.

Whom now is the bishop a-leering at? I know a point where his text falls pat. I'll tell him to-morrow, a word just now Went to my heart and made me vow I meddle no more with the worst of trades-- Let somebody else pay his serenades.

Groan all together now, whee--hee--hee! It's a-work, it's a-work, ah, woe is me! It began, when a herd of us, picked and placed, Were spurred through the Corso, stripped to the waist; Jew brutes, with sweat and blood well spent To usher in worthily Christian Lent.

It grew, when the hangman entered our bounds, Yelled, pricked us out to his church like hounds: It got to a pitch, when the hand indeed Which gutted my purse would throttle my creed: And it overflows, when, to even the odd, Men I helped to their sins help me to their God.

But now, while the scapegoats leave our flock, And the rest sit silent and count the clock, Since forced to muse the appointed time On these precious facts and truths sublime,-- Let us fitly employ it, under our breath, In saying Ben Ezra's Song of Death.

For Rabbi Ben Ezra, the night he died, Called sons and sons' sons to his side, And spoke, "This world has been harsh and strange; Something is wrong: there needeth a change. But what, or where? at the last or first? In one point only we sinned, at worst.

"The Lord will have mercy on Jacob yet. And again in his border see Israel set. When Judah beholds Jerusalem, The stranger-seed shall be joined to them: To Jacob's House shall the Gentiles cleave. So the Prophet saith and his sons believe.

"Ay, the children of the chosen race Shall carry and bring them to their place: In the land of the Lord shall lead the same, Bondsmen and handmaids. Who shall blame. When the slaves enslave, the oppressed ones o'er The oppressor triumph forevermore?

"God spoke, and gave us the word to keep: Bade never fold the hands nor sleep 'Mid a faithless world,--at watch and ward, Till Christ at the end relieve our guard. By his servant Moses the watch was set: Though near upon cock-crow, we keep it yet.

"Thou! if thou wast he, who at mid-watch came, By the starlight, naming a dubious name! And if, too heavy with sleep--too rash With fear--O thou, if that martyr-gash Fell on thee coming to take thine own, And we gave the Cross, when we owed the Throne--

"Thou art the Judge. We are bruisèd thus. But, the Judgment over, join sides with us! Thine too is the cause! and not more thine Than ours, is the work of these dogs and swine, Whose life laughs through and spits at their creed, Who maintain thee in word, and defy thee in deed!

"We withstood Christ then? Be mindful how At least we withstand Barabbas now! Was our outrage sore? But the worst we spared, To have called these--Christians, had we dared! Let defiance to them pay mistrust of thee, And Rome make amends for Calvary!

"By the torture, prolonged from age to age. By the infamy, Israel's heritage, By the Ghetto's plague, by the garb's disgrace, By the badge of shame, by the felon's place, By the branding-tool, the bloody whip, And the summons to Christian fellowship,--

"We boast our proof that at least the Jew Would wrest Christ's name from the Devil's crew. Thy face took never so deep a shade But we fought them in it, God our aid! A trophy to bear, as we march, thy band, South, East, and on to the Pleasant Land!"[4]

PROTUS

Among these latter busts we count by scores, Half-emperors and quarter-emperors. Bach with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest, Lorie and low-browed Gorgon on the breast,-- One loves a baby face, with violets there, Violets instead of laurel in the hair, As those were all the little locks could bear.

Now read here. "Protus ends a period Of empery beginning with a god; Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant: And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. A fame that he was missing spread afar: The world, from its four corners, rose in war, Till he was borne out on a balcony To pacify the world when it should see. The captains ranged before him, one, his hand Made baby points at, gained the chief command. And day by day more beautiful he grew In shape, all said, in feature and in hue, While young Greek sculptors, gazing on the child Became with old Greek sculpture reconciled. Already sages labored to condense In easy tomes a life's experience: And artists took grave counsel to impart In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art-- To make his graces prompt as blossoming Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, And mortals love the letters of his name."

--Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, "John the Pannonian, groundedly believed A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved The Empire from its fate the year before,-- Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore The same for six years (during which the Huns Kept off their fingers from us), till his sons Put something in his liquor"--and so forth. Then a new reign. Stay--"Take at its just worth" (Subjoins an annotator) "what I give As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live And slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's age At some blind northern court; made, first a page, Then tutor to the children; last, of use About the hunting-stables. I deduce He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,' Whereof the name in sundry catalogues Is extant yet. A Protus of the race Is rumored to have died a monk in Thrace,-- And if the same, he reached senility." Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great eye, Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

THE STATUE AND THE BUST

This poem was published first in 1855 as an independent issue. A correspondent of an American paper once asked the following questions respecting this poem:--

"1. When, how, and where did it happen? Browning's divine vagueness lets one gather only that the lady's husband was a Riccardi. 2. Who was the lady? who the duke? 3. The magnificent house wherein Florence lodges her préfet is known to all Florentine ball-goers as the Palazzo Riccardi. It was bought by the Riccardi from the Medici in 1659. From none of its windows did the lady gaze at her more than royal lover. From what window, then, if from any? Are the statue and the bust still in their original positions?"

The letter fell into the hands of Mr. Thomas J. Wise, who sent it to Mr. Browning, and received the following answer.

Jan. 8, 1887.

DEAR MR. WISE,--I have seldom met with, such a strange inability to understand what seems the plainest matter possible: 'ball-goers' are probably not history-readers, but any guide-book would confirm what is sufficiently stated in the poem. I will append a note or two, however. 1. 'This story the townsmen tell;' 'when, how, and where,' constitutes the subject of the poem. 2. The lady was the wife of Riccardi; and the duke, Ferdinand, just as the poem says. 3. As it was built by, and inhabited by, the Medici till sold, long after, to the Riccardi, it was not from the duke's palace, but a window in that of the Riccardi, that the lady gazed at her lover riding by. The statue is still in its place, looking at the window under which 'now is the empty shrine.' Can anything be clearer? My 'vagueness' leaves what to be 'gathered' when all these things are put down in black and white? Oh, 'ball-goers'!"

There's a palace in Florence, the world knows well, And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

Ages ago, a lady there, At the farthest window facing the East Asked, "Who rides by with the royal air?"

The bridesmaids' prattle around her ceased; She leaned forth, one on either hand; They saw how the blush of the bride increased--

They felt by its beats her heart expand-- As one at each ear and both in a breath "Whispered, "The Great-Duke Ferdinand."

That selfsame instant, underneath, The Duke rode past in his idle way, Empty and fine like a swordless sheath.

Gay he rode, with a friend as gay, Till he threw his head back--"Who is she?" --"A bride the Riccardi brings home to-day."

Hair in heaps lay heavily Over a pale brow spirit-pure-- Carved like the heart of the coal-black tree,

Crisped like a war-steed's encolure-- And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes Of the blackest black our eyes endure,

And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise Filled the fine empty sheath of a man,-- The Duke grew straightway brave and wise.

He looked at her, as a lover can; She looked at him, as one who awakes: The past was a sleep, and her life began.

Now, love so ordered for both their sakes, A feast was held that selfsame night In the pile which the mighty shadow makes.

(For Via Larga is three-parts light, But the palace overshadows one, Because of a crime, which may God requite!

To Florence and God the wrong was done, Through the first republic's murder there By Cosimo and his cursed son.)

The Duke (with the statue's face in the square) Turned in the midst of his multitude At the bright approach of the bridal pair.

Face to face the lovers stood A single minute and no more, While the bridegroom bent as a man subdued;--

Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor-- For the Duke on the lady a kiss conferred, As the courtly custom was of yore.

In a minute can lovers exchange a word? If a word did pass, which I do not think, Only one out of a thousand heard.

That was the bridegroom. At day's brink He and his bride were alone at last In a bed chamber by a taper's blink.

Calmly he said that her lot was cast, That the door she had passed was shut on her Till the final catafalk repassed.

The world meanwhile, its noise and stir, Through a certain window facing the East She could watch like a convent's chronicler.

Since passing the door might lead to a feast, And a feast might lead to so much beside, He, of many evils, chose the least.

"Freely I choose too," said the bride-- "Your window and its world suffice," Replied the tongue, while the heart replied--

"If I spend the night with that devil twice, May his window serve as my loop of hell Whence a damned soul looks on paradise!

"I fly to the Duke who loves me well, Sit by his side and laugh at sorrow Ere I count another ave-bell.

"'T is only the coat of a page to borrow, And tie my hair in a horse-boy's trim. And I save my soul--but not to-morrow"--

(She checked herself and her eye grew dim) "My father tarries to bless my state: I must keep it one day more for him.

"Is one day more so long to wait? Moreover the Duke rides past, I know; We shall see each other, sure as fate."

She turned on her side and slept. Just so! So we resolve on a thing and sleep: So did the lady, ages ago.

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove To body or soul, I will drain it deep."

And on the morrow, bold with love, He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call, As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove)

And smiled "'T was a very funeral, Your lady will think, this feast of ours,-- A shame to efface, whate'er befall!

"What if we break from the Arno bowers, And try if Petraja, cool and green, Cure last night's fault with this morning's flowers?"

The bridegroom, not a thought to be seen On his steady brow and quiet mouth, Said, "Too much favor for me so mean!

"But, alas! my lady leaves the South; Each wind that comes from the Apennine Is a menace to her tender youth:

"Nor a way exists, the wise opine, If she quits her palace twice this year, To avert the flower of life's decline."

Quoth the Duke, "A sage and a kindly fear. Moreover Petraja is cold this spring: Be our feast to-night as usual here!"

And then to himself--"Which night shall bring Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool-- Or I am the fool, and thou art the king!

"Yet my passion must wait a night, nor cool-- For to-night the Envoy arrives from France Whose heart I unlock with thyself, my tool.

"I need thee still and might miss perchance. To-day is not wholly lost, beside, With its hope of my lady's countenance:

"For I ride--what should I do but ride? And passing her palace, if I list, May glance at its window--well betide!"

So said, so done: nor the lady missed One ray that broke from the ardent brow, Nor a curl of the lips where the spirit kissed.

Be sure that each renewed the vow, No morrow's sun should arise and set And leave them then as it left them now.

But next day passed, and next day yet, 'With still fresh cause to wait one day more Ere each leaped over the parapet.

And still, as love's brief morning wore, With a gentle start, half smile, half sigh, They found love not as it seemed before.

They thought it would work infallibly, But not in despite of heaven and earth: The rose would blow when the storm passed by.

Meantime they could profit in winter's dearth By store of fruits that supplant the rose: The world and its ways have a certain worth:

And to press a point while these oppose Were simple policy; better wait: We lose no friends and we gain no foes.

Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the grate!

And she--she watched the square like a book Holding one picture and only one, Which daily to find she undertook:

When the picture was reached the book was done, And she turned from the picture at night to scheme Of tearing it out for herself next sun.

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a dream;

Which hovered as dreams do, still above: But who can take a dream for a truth? Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

One day as the lady saw her youth Depart, and the silver thread that streaked Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's tooth,

The brow so puckered, the chin so peaked,-- And wondered who the woman was, Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked,

Fronting her silent in the glass-- "Summon here," she suddenly said, "Before the rest of my old self pass,

"Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, Who fashions the clay no love will change, And fixes a beauty never to fade.

"Let Robbia's craft so apt and strange Arrest the remains of young and fair, And rivet them while the seasons range.

"Make me a face on the window there, Waiting as ever, mute the while, My love to pass below in the square!

"And let me think that it may beguile Dreary days which the dead must spend Down in their darkness under the aisle,

"To say, 'What matters it at the end? I did no more while my heart was warm Than does that image, my pale-faced friend.'

"Where is the use of the lip's red charm, The heaven of hair, the pride of the brow, And the blood that blues the inside arm--

"Unless we turn, as the soul knows how, The earthly gift to an end divine? A lady of clay is as good, I trow."

But long ere Robbia's cornice, fine, With flowers and fruits which leaves enlace, Was set where now is the empty shrine--

(And, leaning out of a bright blue space, As a ghost might lean from a chink of sky, The passionate pale lady's face--

Eying ever, with earnest eye And quick-turned neck at its breathless stretch, Some one who ever is passing by--)

The Duke had sighed like the simplest wretch In Florence, "Youth--my dream escapes! Will its record stay?" And he bade them fetch

Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes-- "Can the soul, the will, die out of a man Ere his body find the grave that gapes?

"John of Douay shall effect my plan, Set me on horseback here aloft, Alive, as the crafty sculptor can,

"In the very square I have crossed so oft: That men may admire, when future suns Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft,

"While the mouth and the brow stay brave in bronze-- Admire and say, 'When he was alive How he would take his pleasure once!'

"And it shall go hard but I contrive To listen the while, and laugh in my tomb At idleness which aspires to strive."

* * * * *

So! While these wait the trump of doom, How do their spirits pass, I wonder, Nights and days in the narrow room?

Still, I suppose, they sit and ponder What a gift life was, ages ago, Six steps out of the chapel yonder.

Only they see not God, I know, Nor all that chivalry of his, The soldier-saints who, row on row,

Burn upward each to his point of bliss-- Since, the end of life being manifest, He had burned his way through the world to this.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime."--Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test,

As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view!

Must a game be played for the sake of pelf? Where a button goes, 't were an epigram To offer the stamp of the very Guelph.

The true has no value beyond the sham: As well the counter as coin, I submit, When your table's a hat, and your prize, a dram.

Stake your counter as boldly every whit, Venture as warily, use the same skill, Do your best, whether winning or losing it,

If you choose to play!--is my principle. Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will!

The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin: And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost

Is--the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say. You of the virtue (we issue join) How strive you? _De te, fabula!_

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER

First printed in Mr. Fox's _Monthly Repository_ in 1836, under the signature Z. When issued in _Bells and Pomegranates_ it was grouped with _Johannes Agricola in Meditation_ as No. II. of _Madhouse Cells_. The poem has an interest as the earliest, apparently, of Browning's monologues.

The rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listened with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me--she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I looked up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss: I propped her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorned at once is fled, And I, its love, am gained instead! Porphyria's love: she guessed not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirred, And yet God has not said a word!

"CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER CAME"

See Edgar's song in _Lear_.

My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the working of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby.

What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare,

If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed: neither pride Nor hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be.

For, what with my whole world-wide wandering. What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring,-- I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope.

As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears, and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bid the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he saith, "And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;")

While some discuss if near the other graves Be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves: And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay.

Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among "The Band"--to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps--that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now--should I be fit?

So, quiet as despair, I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray.

For mark! no sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backward a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; gray plain all round: Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on; naught else remained to do.

So, on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers--as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind, with none to awe, You'd think: a burr had been a treasure trove.

No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. "See Or shut your eyes," said Nature peevishly, "It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: 'Tis the Last Judgment's fire must cure this place, Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free."

If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk Above its mates, the head was chopped; the bents Were jealous else. What made those holes and rents In the dock's harsh swarth leaves, bruised as to balk All hope of greenness? 'tis a brute must walk Pashing their life out, with a brute's intents.

As for the grass, it grew as scant as hair In leprosy; thin dry blades pricked the mud Which underneath looked kneaded up with blood. One stiff blind horse, his every bone a-stare, Stood stupefied, however he came there: Thrust out past service from the devil's stud!

Alive? he might be dead for aught I know, With that red gaunt and colloped neck a-strain, And shut eyes underneath the rusty mane; Seldom went such grotesqueness with such woe;. I never saw a brute I hated so; He must be wicked to deserve such pain.

I shut my eyes and turned them on my heart. As a man calls for wine before he fights, I asked one draught of earlier, happier sights, Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. Think first, fight afterwards--the soldier's art: One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Not it! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening face Beneath its garniture of curly gold, Dear fellow, till I almost felt him fold An arm in mine to fix me to the place, That way he used. Alas, one night's disgrace!. Out went my heart's new fire and left it cold.

Giles then, the soul of honor--there he stands Frank as ten years ago when knighted first. What honest man should dare (he said) lie durst. Good--but the scene shifts--faugh! what hangman hands Pin to his breast a parchment? His own bands Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and curst!

Better this present than a past like that; Back therefore to my darkening path again! No sound, no sight as far as eye could strain. Will the night send a howlet or a bat? I asked: when something on the dismal flat Came to arrest my thoughts and change their train.

A sudden little river crossed my path As unexpected as a serpent comes. No sluggish tide congenial to the glooms; This, as it frothed by, might have been a bath For the fiend's glowing hoof--to see the wrath Of its black eddy bespate with flakes and spumes.

So petty yet so spiteful! All along, Low scrubby alders kneeled down over it; Drenched willows flung them headlong in a fit Of mute despair, a suicidal throng: The river which had done them all the wrong, Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred no whit.

Which, while I forded,--good saints, how I feared To set my foot upon a dead man's cheek, Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to seek For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard! --It may have been a water-rat I speared, But, ugh! it sounded like a baby's shriek.

Glad was I when I reached the other bank. Now for a better country. Vain presage! Who were the strugglers, what war did they wage, Whose savage trample thus could pad the dank Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned tank, Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage--

The fight must so have seemed in that fell cirque. What penned them there, with all the plain to choose? No footprint leading to that horrid mews, None out of it. Mad brewage set to work Their brains, no doubt, like galley-slaves the Turk Pits for his pastime, Christians against Jews.

And more than that--a furlong on--why, there! What bad use was that engine for, that wheel, Or brake, not wheel--that harrow fit to reel Men's bodies out like silk? with all the air Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware, Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth of steel.

Then came a bit of stubbed ground, once a wood, Next a marsh, it would seem, and now mere earth Desperate and done with: (so a fool finds mirth, Makes a thing and then mars it, till his mood Changes and off he goes!) within a rood-- Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark black dearth.

Now blotches rankling, colored gay and grim, Now patches where some leanness of the soil's Broke into moss or substances like boils; Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in him Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim Gaping at death, and dies while it recoils.

And just as far as ever from the end! Naught in the distance but the evening, naught To point my footstep further! At the thought, A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom-friend, Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing dragon-penned That brushed my cap--perchance the guide I sought.

For, looking up, aware I somehow grew, 'Spite of the dusk, the plain had given place All round to mountains--with such name to grace Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen in view. How thus they had surprised me,--solve it, you! How to get from them was no clearer case.

Yet half I seemed to recognize some trick Of mischief happened to me, God knows when-- In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, then, Progress this way. When, in the very nick Of giving up, one time more, came a click As when a trap shuts--you're inside the den!

Burningly it came on me all at once, This was the place! those two hills on the right, Crouched like two bulls locked horn in horn in fight; While to the left, a tall scalped mountain ... Dunce, Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, After a life spent training for the sight!

What in the midst lay but the Tower itself? The round squat turret, blind as the fool's heart, Built of brown stone, without a counterpart In the whole world. The tempest's mocking elf Points to the shipman thus the unseen shelf He strikes on, only when the timbers start.

Not see? because of night perhaps?--why, day Came back again for that! before it left, The dying sunset kindled through a cleft: The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay, Chin upon hand, to see the game at bay,-- "Now stab and end the creature--to the heft!"

Not hear? when noise was everywhere! it tolled Increasing like a bell. Names in my ears, Of all the lost adventurers my peers,-- How such a one was strong, and such was bold, And such was fortunate, yet each of old Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.

There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture! in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, And blew. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._"

A SOUL'S TRAGEDY

ACT FIRST, BEING WHAT WAS CALLED THE POETRY OF CHIAPPINO'S LIFE; AND ACT SECOND, ITS PROSE

This drama was first printed with _Luria_ as the concluding number of _Bells and Pomegranates_ in April, 1846.

PERSONS

LUITOLFO and EULALIA, betrothed lovers. CHIAPPINO, their friend. OGNIBEN, the Pope's Legate. Citizens of Faenza.

TIME, 15--. Place, FAENZA.

## ACT I

_Inside_ LUITOLFO'S _house._ CHIAPPINO, EULALIA.

_Eulalia._ What is it keeps Luitolfo? Night 's fast falling, And 't was scarce sunset ... had the ave-bell Sounded before he sought the Provost's house? I think not: all he had to say would take Few minutes, such a very few, to say! How do you think, Chiappino? If our lord The Provost were less friendly to your friend Than everybody here professes him, I should begin to tremble--should not you? Why are you silent when so many times I turn and speak to you?

_Chiappino._ That 's good!

_Eu._ You laugh!

_Ch._ Yes. I had fancied nothing that bears price In the whole world was left to call my own; And, maybe, felt a little pride thereat. Up to a single man's or woman's love, Down to the right in my own flesh and blood, There 's nothing mine, I fancied,--till you spoke: --Counting, you see, as "nothing" the permission To study this peculiar lot of mine In silence: well, go silence with the rest Of the world's good! What can I say, shall serve?

_Eu._ This,--lest you, even more than needs, embitter Our parting: say your wrongs have cast, for once, A cloud across your spirit!

_Ch._ How a cloud?

_Eu._ No man nor woman loves you, did you say?

_Ch._ My God, were 't not for thee!

_Eu._ Ay, God remains, Even did men forsake you.

_Ch._ Oh, not so! Were 't not for God, I mean, what hope of truth-- Speaking truth, hearing truth, would stay with man? I, now--the homeless friendless penniless Proscribed and exiled wretch who speak to you,-- Ought to speak truth, yet could not, for my death, (The thing that tempts me most) help speaking lies About your friendship and Luitolfo's courage And all our townsfolk's equanimity-- Through sheer incompetence to rid myself Of the old miserable lying trick Caught from the liars I have lived with,--God, Did I not turn to thee! It is thy prompting I dare to be ashamed of, and thy counsel Would die along my coward lip, I know. But I do turn to thee. This craven tongue, These features which refuse the soul its way, Reclaim thou! Give me truth--truth, power to speak --And after be sole present to approve The spoken truth! Or, stay, that spoken truth, Who knows but you, too, may approve?

_Eu._ Ah, well-- Keep silence then, Chiappino!

_Ch._ You would hear,-- You shall now,--why the thing we please to style My gratitude to you and all your friends For service done me, is just gratitude So much as yours was service: no whit more. I was born here, so was Luitolfo; both At one time, much with the same circumstance Of rank and wealth; and both, up to this night Of parting company, have side by side Still fared, he in the sunshine--I, the shadow. "Why?" asks the world. "Because," replies the world To its complacent self, "these playfellows, Who took at church the holy-water drop Each from the other's finger, and so forth,-- Were of two moods: Luitolfo was the proper Friend-making, everywhere friend-finding soul, Fit for the sunshine, so, it followed him. A happy-tempered bringer of the best Out of the worst; who bears with what 's past cure, And puts so good a face on 't--wisely passive Where action 's fruitless, while he remedies In silence what the foolish rail against; A man to smooth such natures as parade Of opposition must exasperate; No general gauntlet-gatherer for the weak Against the strong, yet over-scrupulous At lucky junctures; one who won't forego The after-battle work of binding wounds, Because, forsooth he 'd have to bring himself To side with wound-inflictors for their leave!" --Why do you gaze, nor help me to repeat What comes so glibly from the common mouth, About Luitolfo and his so-styled friend?

_Eu._ Because, that friend's sense is obscured ...

_Ch._ I thought You would be readier with the other half Of the world's story, my half! Yet, 't is true. For all the world does say it. Say your worst! True, I thank God, I ever said "you sin," When a man did sin: if I could not say it, I glared it at him; if I could not glare it, I prayed against him; then my part seemed over. God's may begin yet: so it will, I trust.

_Eu._ If the world outraged you, did we?

_Ch._ What 's "me" That you use well or ill? It 's man, in me, All your successes are an outrage to, You all, whom sunshine follows, as you say! Here 's our Faenza birthplace; they send here A provost from Ravenna: how he rules, You can at times be eloquent about. "Then, end his rule!"--" Ah yes, one stroke does that! But patience under wrong works slow and sure. Must violence still bring peace forth? He, beside, Returns so blandly one's obeisance! ah-- Some latent virtue may be lingering yet, Some human sympathy which, once excite, And all the lump were leavened quietly: So, no more talk of striking, for this time!" But I, as one of those he rules, won't bear These pretty takings-up and layings-down Our cause, just as you think occasion suits. Enough of earnest, is there? You'll play, will you? Diversify your tactics, give submission, Obsequiousness and flattery a turn, While we die in our misery patient deaths? We all are outraged then, and I the first: I, for mankind, resent each shrug and smirk, Each beck and bend, each ... all you do and are, I hate!

_Eu._ We share a common censure, then. 'T is well you have not poor Luitolfo's part Nor mine to point out in the wide offence.

_Ch._ Oh, shall I let you so escape me, lady? Come, on your own ground, lady,--from yourself, (Leaving the people's wrong, which most is mine) What have I got to be so grateful for? These three last fines, no doubt, one on the other Paid by Luitolfo?

_Eu._ Shame, Chiappino!

_Ch._ Shame Fall presently on who deserves it most! --Which is to see. He paid my fines--my friend, Your prosperous smooth lover presently, Then, scarce your wooer,--soon, your husband: well-- I loved you.

_Eu._ Hold!

_Ch._ You knew it, years ago. When my voice faltered and my eye grew dim Because you gave me your silk mask to hold-- My voice that greatens when there 's need to curse The people's Provost to their heart's content, --My eye, the Provost, who bears all men's eyes, Banishes now because he cannot bear,-- You knew ... but you do your parts--my part, I: So be it! You flourish, I decay: all 's well.

_Eu._ I hear this for the first time.

_Ch._ The fault 's there? Then my days spoke not, and my nights of fire Were voiceless? Then the very heart may burst. Yet all prove naught, because no mincing speech Tells leisurely that thus it is and thus? Eulalia, truce with toying for this once! A banished fool, who troubles you to-night For the last time--why, what 's to fear from me? You knew I loved you!

_Eu._ Not so, on my faith! You were my now-affianced lover's friend-- Came in, went out with him, could speak as he. All praise your ready parts and pregnant wit; See how your words come from you in a crowd! Luitolfo 's first to place you o'er himself In all that challenges respect and love: Yet you were silent then, who blame me now. I say all this by fascination, sure: I, all but wed to one I love, yet listen! It must be, you are wronged, and that the wrongs Luitolfo pities ...

_Ch._ --You too pity? Do! But hear first what my wrongs are; so began This talk and so shall end this talk. I say, Was 't not enough that I must strive (I saw) To grow so far familiar with your charms As next contrive some way to win them--which To do, an age seemed far too brief--for, see! We all aspire to heaven; and there lies heaven Above us: go there! Dare we go? no, surely! How dare we go without a reverent pause, A growing less unfit for heaven? Just so, I dared not speak: the greater fool, it seems! Was 't not enough to struggle with such folly, But I must have, beside, the very man Whose slight free loose and incapacious soul Gave his tongue scope to say whate'er he would --Must have him load me with his benefits --For fortune's fiercest stroke?

_Eu._ Justice to him That 's now entreating, at his risk perhaps, Justice for you! Did he once call those acts Of simple friendship--bounties, benefits?

_Ch._ No: the straight course had been to call them thus. Then, I had flung them back, and kept myself Unhampered, free as he to win the prize We both sought. But "the gold was dross," he said: "He loved me, and I loved him not: why spurn A trifle out of superfluity? He had forgotten he had done as much." So had not I! Henceforth, try as I could To take him at his word, there stood by you My benefactor; who might speak and laugh And urge his nothings, even banter me Before you--but my tongue was tied. A dream! Let 's wake: your husband ... how you shake at that! Good--my revenge!

_Eu._ Why should I shake? What forced Or forces me to be Luitolfo's bride?

_Ch._ There 's my revenge, that nothing forces you. No gratitude, no liking of the eye Nor longing of the heart, but the poor bond Of habit--here so many times he came, So much he spoke,--all these compose the tie That pulls you from me. Well, he paid my fines, Nor missed, a cloak from wardrobe, dish from table; He spoke a good word to the Provost here, Held me up when my fortunes fell away, --It had not looked so well to let me drop,-- Men take pains to preserve a tree-stump, even, Whose boughs they played beneath--much more a friend. But one grows tired of seeing, after the first, Pains spent upon impracticable stuff Like me. I could not change: you know the rest: I 've spoke my mind too fully out, by chance, This morning to our Provost; so, ere night I leave the city on pain of death. And now On my account there 's gallant intercession Goes forward--that 's so graceful!--and anon He 'll noisily come back: "the intercession Was made and fails; all 's over for us both; 'T is vain contending; I would better go." And I do go--and straight to you he turns Light of a load; and ease of that permits His visage to repair the natural bland Œconomy, sore broken late to suit My discontent. Thus, all are pleased--you, with him, He with himself, and all of you with me --"Who," say the citizens, "had done far better In letting people sleep upon their woes, If not possessed with talent to relieve them When once awake;--but then I had," they 'll say, "Doubtless some unknown compensating pride In what I did; and as I seem content With ruining myself, why, so should they be." And so they are, and so be with his prize The devil, when he gets them speedily! Why does not your Luitolfo come? I long To don this cloak and take the Lugo path. It seems you never loved me, then?

_Eu._ Chiappino!

_Ch._ Never?

_Eu._ Never.

_Ch._ That 's sad. Say what I might, There was no help from being sure this while You loved me. Love like mine must have return, I thought: no river starts but to some sea. And had you loved me, I could soon devise Some specious reason why you stifled love, Some fancied self-denial on your part, Which made you choose Luitolfo; so, excepting From the wide condemnation of all here, One woman. Well, the other dream may break! If I knew any heart, as mine loved you, Loved me, though in the vilest breast 't were lodged, I should, I think, be forced to love again: Else there 's no right nor reason in the world.

_Eu._ "If you knew," say you,--but I did not know. That 's where you 're blind, Chiappino!--a disease Which if I may remove, I 'll not repent The listening to. You cannot, will not, see How, place you but in every circumstance Of us, you are just now indignant at, You 'd be as we.

_Ch._ I should be?... that; again! I, to my friend, my country and my love, Be as Luitolfo and these Faentines?

_Eu._ As we.

_Ch._ Now, I 'll say something to remember. I trust in nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility.--Spring shall plant, And Autumn garner to the end of time: I trust in God--the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while he endures: I trust in my own soul, that can perceive The outward and the inward, nature's good And God's: so, seeing these men and myself, Having a right to speak, thus do I speak. I 'll not curse--God bears with them, well may I-- But I--protest against their claiming me. I simply say, if that 's allowable, I would not (broadly) do as they have done. --God curse this townful of born slaves, bred slaves, Branded into the blood and bone, slaves! Curse Whoever loves, above his liberty, House, land or life! and ... [_A knocking without._ --bless my hero-friend, Luitolfo!

_Eu._ How he knocks!

_Ch._ The peril, lady! "Chiappino, I have run a risk--a risk! For when I prayed the Provost (he 's my friend) To grant you a week's respite of the sentence That confiscates your goods, exiles yourself, He shrugged his shoulder--I say, shrugged it! Yes, And fright of that drove all else from my head. Here 's a good purse of _scudi:_ off with you, Lest of that shrug come what God only knows! The _scudi_--friend, they 're trash--no thanks, I beg! Take the north gate,--for San Vitale's suburb, Whose double taxes you appealed against, In discomposure at your ill-success Is apt to stone you: there, there--only go! Beside, Eulalia here looks sleepily. Shake ... oh, you hurt me, so you squeeze my wrist!" --Is it not thus you 'll speak, adventurous friend?

[_As he opens the door_, LUITOLFO _rushes in, his garments disordered_.

_Eu._ Luitolfo! Blood?

_Luitolfo._ There 's more--and more of it! Eulalia--take the garment! No--you, friend! You take it and the blood from me--you dare!

_Eu._ Oh, who has hurt you? where's the wound?

_Ch._ "Who," say you? The man with many a touch of virtue yet! The Provost's friend has proved too frank of speech, And this comes of it. Miserable hound! This comes of temporizing, as I said! Here 's fruit of your smooth speeches and soft looks! Now see my way! As God lives, I go straight To the palace and do justice, once for all!

_Luit._ What says he?

_Ch._ I'll do justice on him.

_Luit._ Him?

_Ch._ The Provost.

_Luit._ I 've just killed him.

_Eu._ Oh, my God!

_Luit._ My friend, they 're on my trace; they 'll have me--now! They 're round him, busy with him: soon they 'll find He 's past their help, and then they 'll be on me! Chiappino, save Eulalia! I forget ... Were you not bound for ...

_Ch._ Lugo?

_Luit._ Ah--yes--yes! That was the point I prayed of him to change. Well, go--be happy! Is Eulalia safe? They 're on me!

_Ch._ 'T is through me they reach you, then! Friend, seem the man you are! Lock arms--that 's right! Now tell me what you 've done; explain how you, That still professed forbearance, still preached peace, Could bring yourself ...

_Luit._ What was peace for, Chiappino? I tried peace: did that promise, when peace failed, Strife should not follow? All my peaceful days Were just the prelude to a day like this. I cried "You call me 'friend': save my true friend! Save him, or lose me!"

_Ch._ But you never said You meant to tell the Provost thus and thus.

_Luit._ Why should I say it? What else did I mean?

_Ch._ Well? He persisted?

_Luit._ --"Would so order it You should not trouble him too soon again." I saw a meaning in his eye and lip; I poured my heart's store of indignant words Out on him: then--I know not! He retorted. And I ... some staff lay there to hand--I think He bade his servants thrust me out--I struck ... Ah, they come! Fly you, save yourselves, you two! The dead back-weight of the beheading axe! The glowing trip-hook, thumbscrews and the gadge!

_Eu._ They do come! Torches in the Place! Farewell, Chiappino! You can work no good to us-- Much to yourself; believe not, all the world Must needs be cursed henceforth!

_Ch._ And you?

_Eu._ I stay.

_Ch_. Ha, ha! Now, listen! I am master here! This was my coarse disguise; this paper shows My path of flight and place of refuge--see-- Lugo, Argenta, past San Nicolo, Ferrara, then to Venice and all 's safe! Put on the cloak! His people have to fetch A compass round about. There 's time enough Ere they can reach us, so you straightway make For Lugo ... nay, he hears not! On with it-- The cloak, Luitolfo, do you hear me? See-- He obeys he knows not how. Then, if I must-- Answer me! Do you know the Lugo gate?

_Eu._ The northwest gate, over the bridge?

_Luit._ I know.

_Ch._ Well, there--you are not frightened? all my route Is traced in that: at Venice you escape Their power. Eulalia, I am master here!

[_Shouts from without. He pushes out_ LUITOLFO, _who complies mechanically_.

In time! Nay, help me with him--so! He 's gone.

_Eu._ What have you done? On you, perchance, all know The Provost's hater, will men's vengeance fall As our accomplice.

_Ch._ Mere accomplice? See! [_Putting on_ LUITOLFO'S _vest_. Now, lady, am I true to my profession, Or one of these?

_Eu._ You take Luitolfo's place?

_Ch._ Die for him.

_Eu._ Well done!

[_Shouts increase._

_Ch._ How the people tarry! I can't be silent; I must speak: or sing-- How natural to sing now!

_Eu._ Hush and pray! We are to die; but even I perceive 'T is not a very hard thing so to die. My cousin of the pale-blue tearful eyes, Poor Cesca, suffers more from one day's life With the stern husband; Tisbe's heart goes forth Each evening after that wild son of hers, To track his thoughtless footstep through the streets: How easy for them both to die like this! I am not sure that I could live as they.

_Ch._ Here they come, crowds! they pass the gate? Yes!--No!-- One torch is in the courtyard. Here flock all.

_Eu._ At least Luitolfo has escaped. What cries!

_Ch._ If they would drag one to the marketplace, One might speak there!

_Eu._ List, list!

_Ch._ They mount the steps.

(_Enter the_ Populace.)

_Ch._ I killed the Provost!

_The Populace._ [_Speaking together._] 'T was Chiappino, friends! Our savior! The best man at last as first! He who first made us feel what chains we wore, He also strikes the blow that shatters them, He at last saves us--our best citizen! --Oh, have you only courage to speak now? My eldest son was christened a year since "Cino" to keep Chiappino's name in mind-- Cino, for shortness merely, you observe! The city 's in our hands. The guards are fled. Do you, the cause of all, come down--come up-- Come out to counsel us, our chief, our king, Whate'er rewards you! Choose your own reward! The peril over, its reward begins! Come and harangue us in the market-place!

_Eu._ Chiappino?

_Ch._ Yes--I understand your eyes! You think I should have promptlier disowned This deed with its strange unforeseen success, In favor of Luitolfo. But the peril, So far from ended, hardly seems begun. To-morrow, rather, when a calm succeeds, We easily shall make him full amends: And meantime--if we save them as they pray, And justify the deed by its effects?

_Eu._ You would, for worlds, you had denied at once.

_Ch._ I know my own intention, be assured! All 's well. Precede us, fellow-citizens!

## ACT II

_The Market-place._ LUITOLFO _in disguise mingling with the_ Populace _assembled opposite the_ Provost's _Palace_.

_1st Bystander._ [_To_ LUIT.] You, a friend of Luitolfo's? Then, your friend is vanished,--in all probability killed on the night that his patron the tyrannical Provost was loyally suppressed here, exactly a month ago, by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble savior, and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,--Chiappino!

_Luit._ He the new Provost?

_2d By._ Up those steps will he go, and beneath yonder pillar stand, while Ogniben, the Pope's Legate from Ravenna, reads the new dignitary's title to the people, according to established custom: for which reason, there is the assemblage you inquire about.

_Luit._ Chiappino--the late Provost's successor? Impossible! But tell me of that presently. What I would know first of all is, wherefore Luitolfo must so necessarily have been killed on that memorable night?

_3d By._ You were Luitolfo's friend? So was I. Never, if you will credit me, did there exist so poor-spirited a milk-sop. He, with all the opportunities in the world, furnished by daily converse with our oppressor, would not stir a finger to help us: and, when Chiappino rose in solitary majesty and ... how does one go on saying?... dealt the godlike blow,--this Luitolfo, not unreasonably fearing the indignation of an aroused and liberated people, fled precipitately. He may have got trodden to death in the press at the southeast gate, when the Provost's guards fled through it to Ravenna, with their wounded master,--if he did not rather hang himself under some hedge.

_Luit._ Or why not simply have lain perdue in some quiet corner,--such as San Cassiano, where his estate was,--receiving daily intelligence from some sure friend, meanwhile, as to the turn matters were taking here--how, for instance, the Provost was not dead, after all, only wounded--or, as to-day's news would seem to prove, how Chiappino was not Brutus the Elder, after all, only the new Provost--and thus Luitolfo be enabled to watch a favorable opportunity for returning? Might it not have been so?

_3d By._ Why, he may have taken that care of himself, certainly, for he came of a cautious stock. I 'll tell you how his uncle, just such another gingerly treader on tiptoes with finger on lip,--how he met his death in the great plague-year: _dico vobis!_ Hearing that the seventeenth house in a certain street was infected, he calculates to pass it in safety by taking plentiful breath, say, when he shall arrive at the eleventh house; then scouring by, holding that breath, till he be got so far on the other side as number twenty-three, and thus elude the danger.--And so did he begin; but, as he arrived at thirteen, we will say,--thinking to improve on his precaution by putting up a little prayer to Saint Nepomucene of Prague, this exhausted so much of his lungs' reserve, that at sixteen it was clean spent,--consequently at the fatal seventeen he inhaled with a vigor and persistence enough to suck you any latent venom out of the heart of a stone--Ha, ha!

_Luit._ [_Aside._] (If I had not lent that man the money he wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attributable to me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude?

_3d By._ Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his friend and heir ...

_Luit._ Ah, I suspected you of imposing on me with your pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.

_1st By._ (Our friend has the bile! After all, I do not dislike finding somebody vary a little this general gape of admiration at Chiappino's glorious qualities.) Pray, how much may you know of what has taken place in Faenza since that memorable night?

_Luit._ It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now charge him with proposing to accept.

_1st By._ Sir, I 'll tell you. That night was indeed memorable. Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children; out fled the guards with the body of the tyrant; we were to defy the world: but, next gray morning, "What will Rome say?" began everybody. You know we are governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome. And quietly into the town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage, Ogniben by name, with the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly through the streets humming a "_Cur fremuere gentes_," and makes directly for the Provost's Palace--there it faces you. "One Messer Chiappino is your leader? I have known three-and-twenty leaders of revolts!" (laughing gently to himself)--"Give me the help of your arm from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar--So! And now, my revolters and good friends, what do you want? The guards burst into Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost; and, having had a little talk with him, I take on myself to come and try appease the disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method: 't is I come, and not another, from a certain love I confess to, of composing differences. So, do you understand, you are about to experience this unheard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no heading nor hanging, nor confiscation nor exile: I insist on your simply pleasing yourselves. And now, pray, what does please you? To live without any government at all? Or having decided for one, to see its minister murdered by the first of your body that chooses to find himself wronged, or disposed for reverting to first principles and a justice anterior to all institutions,--and so will you carry matters, that the rest of the world must at length unite and put down such a den of wild beasts? As for vengeance on what has just taken place,--once for all, the wounded man assures me he cannot conjecture who struck him; and this so earnestly, that one may be sure he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could find admission to speak with him late last evening. I come not for vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do next." And thus he ran on, on, easily and volubly, till he seemed to arrive quite naturally at the praise of law, order, and paternal government by somebody from rather a distance. All our citizens were in the snare, and about to be friends with so congenial an adviser; but that Chiappino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly, and set things right again.

_Luit._ Do you see? I recognize him there!

_3d By._ Ay, but, mark you, at the end of Chiappino's longest period in praise of a pure republic,--"And by whom do I desire such a government should be administered, perhaps, but by one like yourself?" returns the Legate: thereupon speaking for a quarter of an hour together, on the natural and only legitimate government by the best and wisest. And it should seem there was soon discovered to be no such vast discrepancy at bottom between this and Chiappino's theory, place but each in its proper light. "Oh, are you there?" quoth Chiappino: "Ay, in that, I agree," returns Chiappino: and so on.

_Luit._ But did Chiappino cede at once to this?

_1st By._ Why, not altogether at once. For instance, he said that the difference between him and all his fellows was, that they seemed all wishing to be kings in one or another way,--"whereas what right," asked he, "has any man to wish to be superior to another?"--whereat, "Ah, sir," answers the Legate, "this is the death of me, so often as I expect something is really going to be revealed to us by you clearer-seers, deeper-thinkers--this--that your right-hand (to speak by a figure) should be found taking up the weapon it displayed so ostentatiously, not to destroy any dragon in our path, as was prophesied, but simply to cut off its own fellow left-hand: yourself set about attacking yourself. For see now! Here are you who, I make sure, glory exceedingly in knowing the noble nature of the soul, its divine impulses, and so forth; and with such a knowledge you stand, as it were, armed to encounter the natural doubts and fears as to that same inherent nobility, which are apt to waylay us, the weaker ones, in the road of life. And when we look eagerly to see them fall before you, lo, round you wheel, only the left-hand gets the blow; one proof of the soul's nobility destroys simply another proof, quite as good, of the same, for you are found delivering an opinion like this! Why, what is this perpetual yearning to exceed, to subdue, to be better than, and a king over, one's fellows,--all that you so disclaim,--but the very tendency yourself are most proud of, and under another form, would oppose to it,--only in a lower stage of manifestation? You don't want to be vulgarly superior to your fellows after their poor fashion-- to have me hold solemnly up your gown's tail, or hand you an express of the last importance from the Pope, with all these bystanders noticing how unconcerned you look the while: but neither does our gaping friend, the burgess yonder, want the other kind of kingship, that consists in understanding better than his fellows this and similar points of human nature, nor to roll under his tongue this sweeter morsel still, --the feeling that, through immense philosophy, he does _not_ feel, he rather thinks, above you and me!" And so chatting, they glided off arm-in-arm.

_Luit._ And the result is ...

_1st By._ Why that, a month having gone by, the indomitable Chiappino, marrying as he will Luitolfo's love--at all events succeeding to Luitolfo's wealth--becomes the first inhabitant of Faenza, and a proper aspirant to the Provostship; which we assemble here to see conferred on him this morning. The Legate's Guard to clear the way! He will follow presently.

_Luit._ [_Withdrawing a little._] I understand the drift of Eulalia's communications less than ever. Yet she surely said, in so many words, that Chiappino was in urgent danger: wherefore, disregarding her injunction to continue in my retreat and await the result of--what she called, some experiment yet in process--I hastened here without her leave or knowledge: how could I else? But if this they say be true--if it were for such a purpose, she and Chiappino kept me away ... Oh, no, no! I must confront him and her before I believe this of them. And at the word, see!

(_Enter_ CHIAPPINO _and_ EULALIA.)

_Eu._ We part here, then? The change in your principles would seem to be complete.

_Ch._ Now, why refuse to see that in my present course I change no principles, only re-adapt them and more adroitly? I had despaired of what you may call the material instrumentality of life; of ever being able to rightly operate on mankind through such a deranged machinery as the existing modes of government: but now, if I suddenly discover how to inform these perverted institutions with fresh purpose, bring the functionary limbs once more into immediate communication with, and subjection to, the soul I am about to bestow on them--do you see? Why should one desire to invent, as long as it remains possible to renew and transform? When all further hope of the old organization shall be extinct, then, I grant you, it may be time to try and create another.

_Eu._ And there being discoverable some hope yet in the hitherto much-abused old system of absolute government by a Provost here, you mean to take your time about endeavoring to realize those visions of a perfect State we once heard of?

_Ch._ Say, I would fain realize my conception of a palace, for instance, and that there is, abstractedly, but a single way of erecting one perfectly. Here, in the market-place is my allotted building-ground; here I stand without a stone to lay, or a laborer to help me,--stand, too, during a short day of life, close on which the night comes. On the other hand, circumstances suddenly offer me (turn and see it!) the old Provost's house to experiment upon--ruinous, if you please, wrongly constructed at the beginning, and ready to tumble now. But materials abound, a crowd of workmen offer their services; here exists yet a Hall of Audience of originally noble proportions, there a Guest-chamber of symmetrical design enough: and I may restore, enlarge, abolish or unite these to heart's content. Ought I not make the best of such an opportunity, rather than continue to gaze disconsolately with folded arms on the flat pavement here, while the sun goes slowly down, never to rise again? Since you cannot understand this nor me, it is better we should part as you desire.

_Eu._ So, the love breaks away too!

_Ch._ No, rather my soul's capacity for love widens--needs more than one object to content it,--and, being better instructed, will not persist in seeing all the component parts of love in what is only a single part,--nor in finding that so many and so various loves are all united in the love of a woman,--manifold uses in one instrument, as the savage has his sword, staff, sceptre and idol, all in one club-stick. Love is a very compound thing. The intellectual part of my love I shall give to men, the mighty dead or the illustrious living; and determine to call a mere sensual instinct by as few fine names as possible. What do I lose?

_Eu._ Nay, I only think, what do I lose? and, one more word--which shall complete my instruction--does friendship go too? What of Luitolfo, the author of your present prosperity?

_Ch._ How the author?

_Eu._ That blow now called yours ...

_Ch._ Struck without principle or purpose, as by a blind natural operation: yet to which all my thought and life directly and advisedly tended. I would have struck it, and could not: he would have done his utmost to avoid striking it, yet did so. I dispute his right to that deed of mine--a final action with him, from the first effect of which he fled away,--a mere first step with me, on which I base a whole mighty superstructure of good to follow. Could he get good from it?

_Eu._ So we profess, so we perform!

(_Enter_ OGNIBEN. EULALIA _stands apart_.)

_Ogniben._ I have seen three-and-twenty leaders of revolts. By your leave, sir! Perform? What does the lady say of performing?

_Ch._ Only the trite saying, that we must not trust profession, only performance.

_Ogni._ She 'll not say that, sir, when she knows you longer; you 'll instruct her better. Ever judge of men by their professions! For though the bright moment of promising is but a moment and cannot be prolonged, yet, if sincere in its moment's extravagant goodness, why, trust it and know the man by it, I say--not by his performance; which is half the world's work, interfere as the world needs must, with its accidents and circumstances: the profession was purely the man's own. I judge people by what they might be,--not are, nor will be.

_Ch._ But have there not been found, too, performing natures, not merely promising?

_Ogni._ Plenty. Little Bindo of our town, for instance, promised his friend, great ugly Masaccio, once, "I will repay you!"--for a favor done him. So, when his father came to die, and Bindo succeeded to the inheritance, he sends straightway for Masaccio and shares all with him--gives him half the land, half the money, half the kegs of wine in the cellar. "Good," say you: and it is good. But had little Bindo found himself possessor of all this wealth some five years before--on the happy night when Masaccio procured him that interview in the garden with his pretty cousin Lisa --instead of being the beggar he then was,--I am bound to believe that in the warm moment of promise he would have given away all the wine-kegs and all the money and all the land, and only reserved to himself some hut on a hilltop hard by, whence he might spend his life in looking and seeing his friend enjoy himself: he meant fully that much, but the world interfered. --To our business! Did I understand you just now within-doors? You are not going to marry your old friend's love, after all?

_Ch._ I must have a woman that can sympathize with, and appreciate me, I told you.

_Ogni._ Oh, I remember! You, the greater nature, needs must have a lesser one (--avowedly lesser--contest with you on that score would never do)--such a nature must comprehend you, as the phrase is, accompany and testify of your greatness from point to point onward. Why, that were being not merely as great as yourself, but greater considerably! Meantime, might not the more bounded nature as reasonably count on your appreciation of it, rather?--on your keeping close by it, so far as you both go together, and then going on by yourself as far as you please? Thus God serves us.

_Ch._ And yet a woman that could understand the whole of me, to whom I could reveal alike the strength and the weakness--

_Ogni._ Ah, my friend, wish for nothing so foolish! Worship your love, give her the best of you to see; be to her like the western lands (they bring us such strange news of) to the Spanish Court; send her only your lumps of gold, fans of feathers, your spirit-like birds, and fruits and gems! So shall you, what is unseen of you, be supposed altogether a paradise by her,--as these western lands by Spain: though I warrant there is filth, red baboons, ugly reptiles and squalor enough, which they bring Spain as few samples of as possible. Do you want your mistress to respect your body generally? Offer her your mouth to kiss: don't strip off your boot and put your foot to her lips! You understand my humor by this time? I help men to carry out their own principles: if they please to say two and two make five, I assent, so they will but go on and say, four and four make ten.

_Ch._ But these are my private affairs; what I desire you to occupy yourself about, is my public appearance presently: for when the people hear that I am appointed Provost, though you and I may thoroughly discern--and easily, too--the right principle at bottom of such a movement, and how my republicanism remains thoroughly unaltered, only takes a form of expression hitherto commonly judged (and heretofore by myself) incompatible with its existence,--when thus I reconcile myself to an old form of government instead of proposing a new one--

_Ogni._ Why, you must deal with people broadly. Begin at a distance from this matter and say,--New truths, old truths! sirs, there is nothing new possible to be revealed to us in the moral world; we know all we shall ever know: and it is for simply reminding us, by their various respective expedients, how we do know this and the other matter, that men get called prophets, poets and the like. A philosopher's life is spent in discovering that, of the half-dozen truths he knew when a child, such an one is a lie, as the world states it in set terms; and then, after a weary lapse of years, and plenty of hard thinking, it becomes a truth again after all, as he happens to newly consider it and view it in a different relation with the others: and so he re-states it, to the confusion of somebody else in good time. As for adding to the original stock of truths,--impossible! Thus, you see the expression of them is the grand business:--you have got a truth in your head about the right way of governing people, and you took a mode of expressing it which now you confess to be imperfect. But what then? There is truth in falsehood, falsehood in truth. No man ever told one great truth, that I know, without the help of a good dozen of lies at least, generally unconscious ones. And as when a child comes in breathlessly and relates a strange story, you try to conjecture from the very falsities in it what the reality was,--do not conclude that he saw nothing in the sky, because he assuredly did not see a flying horse there as he says,--so, through the contradictory expression, do you see, men should look painfully for, and trust to arrive eventually at, what you call the true principle at bottom. Ah, what an answer is there! to what will it not prove applicable?--"Contradictions? Of course there were," say you!

_Ch._ Still, the world at large may call it inconsistency, and what shall I urge in reply?

_Ogni._ Why, look you, when they tax you with tergiversation or duplicity, you may answer--you begin to perceive that, when all 's done and said, both great parties in the State, the advocators of change in the present system of things, and the opponents of it, patriot and anti-patriot, are found working together for the common good; and that in the midst of their efforts for and against its progress, the world somehow or other still advances: to which result they contribute in equal proportions, those who spend their life in pushing it onward, as those who give theirs to the business of pulling it back. Now, if you found the world stand still between the opposite forces, and were glad, I should conceive you: but it steadily advances, you rejoice to see! By the side of such a rejoicer, the man who only winks as he keeps cunning and quiet, and says, "Let yonder hot-headed fellow fight out my battle! I, for one, shall win in the end by the blows he gives, and which I ought to be giving,"--even he seems graceful in his avowal, when one considers that he might say, "I shall win quite as much by the blows our antagonist gives him, blows from which he saves me--I thank the antagonist equally!" Moreover, you may enlarge on the loss of the edge of party-animosity with age and experience ...

_Ch._ And naturally time must wear off such asperities: the bitterest adversaries get to discover certain points of similarity between each other, common sympathies--do they not?

_Ogni._ Ay, had the young David but sat first to dine on his cheeses with the Philistine, he had soon discovered an abundance of such common sympathies. He of Gath, it is recorded, was born of a father and mother, had brothers and sisters like another man,--they, no more than the sons of Jesse, were used to eat each other. But, for the sake of one broad antipathy that had existed from the beginning, David slung the stone, cut off the giant's head, made a spoil of it, and after ate his cheeses alone, with the better appetite, for all I can learn. My friend, as you, with a quickened eyesight, go on discovering much good on the worse side, remember that the same process should proportionably magnify and demonstrate to you the much more good on the better side! And when I profess no sympathy for the Goliaths of our time, and you object that a large nature should sympathize with every form of intelligence, and see the good in it, however limited,--I answer, "So I do; but preserve the proportions of my sympathy, however finelier or widelier I may extend its action." I desire to be able, with a quickened eyesight, to descry beauty in corruption where others see foulness only; but I hope I shall also continue to see a redoubled beauty in the higher forms of matter, where already everybody sees no foulness at all. I must retain, too, my old power of selection, and choice of appropriation, to apply to such new gifts; else they only dazzle instead of enlightening me. God has his archangels and consorts with them: though he made too, and intimately sees what is good in, the worm. Observe, I speak only as you profess to think and so ought to speak: I do justice to your own principles, that is all.

_Ch._ But you very well know that the two parties do, on occasion, assume each other's characteristics. What more disgusting, for instance, than to see how promptly the newly emancipated slave will adopt, in his own favor, the very measures of precaution, which pressed soreliest on himself as institutions of the tyranny he has just escaped from? Do the classes, hitherto without opinion, get leave to express it? there follows a confederacy immediately, from which--exercise your individual right and dissent, and woe be to you!

_Ogni._ And a journey over the sea to you! That is the generous way. Cry--"Emancipated slaves, the first excess, and off I go!" The first time a poor devil, who has been bastinadoed steadily his whole life long, finds himself let alone and able to legislate, so, begins pettishly, while he rubs his soles, "Woe be to whoever brings anything in the shape of a stick this way!"--you, rather than give up the very innocent pleasure of carrying one to switch flies with,--you go away, to everybody's sorrow. Yet you were quite reconciled to staying at home while the governors used to pass, every now and then, some such edict as, "Let no man indulge in owning a stick which is not thick enough to chastise our slaves, if need require!" Well, there are pre-ordained hierarchies among us, and a profane vulgar subjected to a different law altogether; yet I am rather sorry you should see it so clearly: for, do you know what is to--all but save you at the Day of Judgment, all you men of genius? It is this: that, while you generally began by pulling down God, and went on to the end of your life in one effort at setting up your own genius in his place,--still, the last, bitterest concession wrung with the utmost unwillingness from the experience of the very loftiest of you, was invariably--would one think it?--that the rest of mankind, down to the lowest of the mass, stood not, nor ever could stand, just on a level and equality with yourselves. That will be a point in the favor of all such, I hope and believe.

_Ch._ Why, men of genius are usually charged, I think, with doing just the reverse; and at once acknowledging the natural inequality of mankind, by themselves participating in the universal craving after, and deference to, the civil distinctions which represent it. You wonder they pay such undue respect to titles and badges of superior rank.

_Ogni._ Not I (always on your own ground and showing, be it noted!) Who doubts that, with a weapon to brandish, a man is the more formidable? Titles and badges are exercised as such a weapon, to which you and I look up wistfully. We could pin lions with it moreover, while in its present owner's hands it hardly prods rats. Nay, better than a mere weapon of easy mastery and obvious use, it is a mysterious divining-rod that may serve us in undreamed-of ways. Beauty, strength, intellect--men often have none of these, and yet conceive pretty accurately what kind of advantages they would bestow on the possessor. We know at least what it is we make up our mind to forego, and so can apply the fittest substitute in our power. Wanting beauty, we cultivate good-humor; missing wit, we get riches: but the mystic unimaginable operation of that gold collar and string of Latin names which suddenly turned poor stupid little peevish Cecco of our town into natural lord of the best of us--a Duke, he is now--there indeed is a virtue to be reverenced!

_Ch._ Ay, by the vulgar: not by Messere Stiatta the poet, who pays more assiduous court to him than anybody.

_Ogni._ What else should Stiatta pay court to? He has talent, not honor and riches: men naturally covet what they have not.

_Ch._ No; or Cecco would covet talent, which he has not, whereas he covets more riches, of which he has plenty, already.

_Ogni._ Because a purse added to a purse makes the holder twice as rich: but just such another talent as Stiatta's, added to what he now possesses, what would that profit him? Give the talent a purse indeed, to do something with! But lo, how we keep the good people waiting! I only desired to do justice to the noble sentiments which animate you, and which you are too modest to duly enforce. Come, to our main business: shall we ascend the steps? I am going to propose you for Provost to the people; they know your antecedents, and will accept you with a joyful unanimity: whereon I confirm their choice. Rouse up! Are you nerving yourself to an effort? Beware the disaster of Messere Stiatta we were talking of! who, determining to keep an equal mind and constant face on whatever might be the fortune of his last new poem with our townsmen, heard too plainly "hiss, hiss, hiss," increase every moment. Till at last the man fell senseless: not perceiving that the portentous sounds had all the while been issuing from between his own nobly clenched teeth, and nostrils narrowed by resolve.

_Ch._ Do you begin to throw off the mask?--to jest with me, having got me effectually into your trap?

_Ogni._ Where is the trap, my friend? You hear what I engage to do, for my part: you, for yours, have only to fulfil your promise made just now within doors, of professing unlimited obedience to Rome's authority in my person. And I shall authorize no more than the simple re-establishment of the Provostship and the conferment of its privileges upon yourself: the only novel stipulation being a birth of the peculiar circumstances of the time.

_Ch._ And that stipulation?

_Ogni._ Just the obvious one--that in the event of the discovery of the actual assailant of the late Provost ...

_Ch._ Ha!

_Ogni._ Why, he shall suffer the proper penalty, of course; what did you expect?

_Ch._ Who heard of this?

_Ogni._ Rather, who needed to hear of this?

_Ch._ Can it be, the popular rumor never reached you ...

_Ogni._ Many more such rumors reach me, friend, than I choose to receive: those which wait longest have best chance. Has the present one sufficiently waited? Now is its time for entry with effect. See the good people crowding about yonder palace-steps--which we may not have to ascend, after all! My good friends! (nay, two or three of you will answer every purpose)--who was it fell upon and proved nearly the death of your late Provost? His successor desires to hear, that his day of inauguration may be graced by the act of prompt, bare justice we all anticipate. Who dealt the blow that night, does anybody know?

_Luit._ [_Coming forward._] I!

_All._ Luitolfo!

_Luit._ I avow the deed, justify and approve it, and stand forth now, to relieve my friend of an unearned responsibility. Having taken thought, I am grown stronger: I shall shrink from nothing that awaits me. Nay, Chiappino--we are friends still: I dare say there is some proof of your superior nature in this starting aside, strange as it seemed at first. So, they tell me, my horse is of the right stock, because a shadow in the path frightens him into a frenzy, makes him dash my brains out. I understand only the dull mule's way of standing stockishly, plodding soberly, suffering on occasion a blow or two with due patience.

_Eu._ I was determined to justify my choice, Chiappino; to let Luitolfo's nature vindicate itself. Henceforth we are undivided, whatever be our fortune.

_Ogni._ Now, in these last ten minutes of silence, what have I been doing, deem you? Putting the finishing stroke to a homily of mine, I have long taken thought to perfect, on the text, "Let whoso thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall." To your house, Luitolfo! Still silent, my patriotic friend? Well, that is a good sign however. And you will go aside for a time? That is better still. I understand: it would be easy for you to die of remorse here on the spot and shock us all, but you mean to live and grow worthy of coming back to us one day. There, I will tell everybody; and you only do right to believe you must get better as you get older. All men do so: they are worst in childhood, improve in manhood, and get ready in old age for another world. Youth, with its beauty and grace, would seem bestowed on us for some such reason as to make us partly endurable till we have time for really becoming so of ourselves, without their aid; when they leave us. The sweetest child we all smile on for his pleasant want of the whole world to break up, or suck in his mouth, seeing no other good in it--would be rudely handled by that world's inhabitants, if he retained those angelic infantine desires when he had grown six feet high, black and bearded. But, little by little, he sees fit to forego claim after claim on the world, puts up with a less and less share of its good as his proper portion; and when the octogenarian asks barely a sup of gruel and a fire of dry sticks, and thanks you as for his full allowance and right in the common good of life,--hoping nobody may murder him,--he who began by asking and expecting the whole of us to bow down in worship to him,--why, I say he is advanced, far onward, very far, nearly out of sight like our friend Chiappino yonder. And now--(ay, good-by to you! He turns round the northwest gate: going to Lugo again? Good-by!)--And now give thanks to God, the keys of the Provost's palace to me, and yourselves to profitable meditation at home! I have known _Four_-and-twenty leaders of revolts.

LURIA

A TRAGEDY

I DEDICATE THIS LAST ATTEMPT FOR THE PRESENT AT DRAMATIC POETRY TO A GREAT DRAMATIC POET; "WISHING WHAT I WRITE MAY BE READ BY HIS LIGHT:" IF A PHRASE ORIGINALLY ADDRESSED, BY NOT THE LEAST WORTHY OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES, TO SHAKESPEARE, MAY BE APPLIED HERE, BY ONE WHOSE SOLE PRIVILEGE IS IN A GRATEFUL ADMIRATION, To WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

LONDON, 1846.

PERSONS

LURIA, a Moor, Commander of the Florentine Forces. HUSAIN, a Moor, his friend. PUCCIO, the old Florentine Commander, now LURIA'S Chief Officer. BRACCIO, Commissary of the Republic of Florence. JACOPO (LAPO), his Secretary. TIBURZIO, Commander of the Pisans. DOMIZIA, a noble Florentine Lady.

TIME, 14--.

SCENE. LURIA'S _Camp between Florence and Pisa._

## ACT I

MORNING

BRACCIO, _as dictating to his_ Secretary; PUCCIO _standing by_.

_Braccio._ [_To_ PUCCIO.] Then, you join battle in an hour?

_Puccio._ Not I; Luria, the captain.

_Brac._ [_To the_ Sec.] "In an hour, the battle." [_To_ PUC.] Sir, let your eye run o'er this loose digest, And see if very much of your report Have slipped away through my civilian phrase. Does this instruct the Signory aright How army stands with army?

_Puc._ [_Taking the paper._] All seems here: --That Luria, seizing with our city's force The several points of vantage, hill and plain, Shuts Pisa safe from help on every side, And, baffling the Lucchese arrived too late, Must, in the battle he delivers now, Beat her best troops and first of chiefs.

_Brac._ So sure? Tiburzio 's a consummate captain too!

_Puc._ Luria holds Pisa's fortune in his hand.

_Brac._ [_To the_ Sec.] "The Signory hold Pisa in their hand." Your own proved soldiership 's our warrant, sir: So, while my secretary ends his task, Have out two horsemen, by the open roads, To post with it to Florence!

_Puc._ [_Returning the paper._] All seems here; Unless ... Ser Braccio, 't is my last report! Since Pisa's outbreak, and my overthrow, And Luria's hastening at the city's call To save her, as he only could, no doubt; Till now that she is saved or sure to be,-- Whatever you tell Florence, I tell you: Each day's note you, her Commissary, make Of Luria's movements, I myself supply. No youngster am I longer, to my cost; Therefore while Florence gloried in her choice And vaunted Luria, whom but Luria, still, As if zeal, courage, prudence, conduct, faith, Had never met in any man before, I saw no pressing need to swell the cry. But now, this last report and I have done: So, ere to-night comes with its roar of praise, 'T were not amiss if some one old i' the trade Subscribed with, "True, for once rash counsel 's best. This Moor of the bad faith and doubtful race, This boy to whose untried sagacity, Raw valor, Florence trusts without reserve The charge to save her,--justifies her choice; In no point has this stranger failed his friends. Now praise!" I say this, and it is not here.

_Brac._ [_To the_ Sec.] Write, "Puccio, superseded in the charge, By Luria, bears full witness to his worth, Aid no reward our Signory can give Their champion but he 'll back it cheerfully." Aught more? Five minutes hence, both messengers! [Puccio _goes_.

_Brac._ [_After a pause, and while he slowly tears the paper into shreds._] I think ... (pray God, I hold in fit contempt This warfare 's noble art and ordering, And,--once the brace of prizers fairly matched, Poleaxe with poleaxe, knife with knife as good,-- Spit properly at what men term their skill!--) Yet here I think our fighter has the odds. With Pisa's strength diminished thus and thus, Such points of vantage in our hands and such, Lucca still off the stage, too,--all 's assured: Luria must win this battle. Write the Court, That Luria's trial end and sentence pass!

_Secretary._ Patron,--

_Brac._ Ay, Lapo?

_Sec._ If you trip, I fall; 'T is in self-interest I speak--

_Brac._ Nay, nay, You overshoot the mark, my Lapo! Nay! When did I say pure love 's impossible? I make you daily write those red cheeks thin, Load your young brow with what concerns it least, And, when we visit Florence, let you pace The Piazza by my side as if we talked, Where all your old acquaintances may see: You 'd die for me, I should not be surprised. Now then!

_Sec._ Sir, look about and love yourself! Step after step, the Signory and you Tread gay till this tremendous point 's to pass; Which pass not, pass not, ere you ask yourself,-- Bears the brain steadily such draughts of fire, Or too delicious may not prove the pride Of this long secret trial you dared plan, Dare execute, you solitary here, With the gray-headed toothless fools at home, Who think themselves your lords, such slaves are they? If they pronounce this sentence as you bid, Declare the treason, claim its penalty,-- And sudden out of all the blaze of life, On the best minute of his brightest day, From that adoring army at his back, Through Florence' joyous crowds before his face, Into the dark you beckon Luria ...

_Brac._ Then-- Why, Lapo, when the fighting-people vaunt, We of the other craft and mystery, May we not smile demure, the danger past?

_Sec._ Sir, no, no, no,--the danger, and your spirit At watch and ward? Where 's danger on your part, With that thin flitting instantaneous steel 'Gainst the blind bull-front of a brute-force world? If Luria, that 's to perish sure as fate, Should have been really guiltless after all?

_Brac._ Ah, you have thought that?

_Sec._ Here I sit, your scribe, And in and out goes Luria, days and nights; This Puccio comes; the Moor his other friend, Husain; they talk--that 's all feigned easily; He speaks (I would not listen if I could), Reads, orders, counsels:--but he rests sometimes,-- I see him stand and eat, sleep stretched an hour On the lynx-skins yonder; hold his bared black arms Into the sun from the tent-opening; laugh When his horse drops the forage from his teeth And neighs to hear him hum his Moorish songs. That man believes in Florence, as the saint Tied to the wheel believes in God.

_Brac._ How strange! You too have thought that!

_Sec._ Do but you think too, And all is saved! I only have to write, "The man seemed false awhile, proves true at last; Bury it"--so I write the Signory-- "Bury this trial in your breast forever, Blot it from things or done or dreamed about! So Luria shall receive his meed to-day With no suspicion what reverse was near,-- As if no meteoric finger hushed The doom-word just on the destroyer's lip, Motioned him off, and let life's sun fall straight."

_Brac._ [_Looks to the wall of the tent._] Did he draw that?

_Sec._ With charcoal, when the watch Made the report at midnight; Lady Domizia Spoke of the unfinished Duomo, you remember; That is his fancy how a Moorish front Might join to, and complete, the body,--a sketch,-- And again where the cloak hangs, yonder in the shadow.

_Brac._ He loves that woman.

_Sec._ She is sent the spy Of Florence,--spies on you as you on him: Florence, if only for Domizia's sake, Is surely safe. What shall I write?

_Brac._ I see-- A Moorish front, nor of such ill design! Lapo, there 's one thing plain and positive; Man seeks his own good at the whole world's cost. What? If to lead our troops, stand forth out chiefs, And hold our fate, and see us at their beck, Yet render up the charge when peace return, Have ever proved too much for Florentines, Even for the best and bravest of ourselves-- If in the struggle when the soldier's sword Should sink its point before the statist's pen, And the calm head replace the violent hand, Virtue on virtue still have fallen away Before ambition with unvarying fate, Till Florence' self at last in bitterness Be forced to own such falls the natural end, And, sparing further to expose her sons To a vain strife and profitless disgrace, Declare, "The foreigner, one not my child, Shall henceforth lead my troops, reach height by height The glory, then descend into the shame; So shall rebellion be less guilt in him, And punishment the easier task for me:" --If on the best of us such brand she set, Can I suppose an utter alien here, This Luria, our inevitable foe, Confessed a mercenary and a Moor, Born free from many ties that bind the rest Of common faith in Heaven or hope on earth, No past with us, no future,--such a spirit Shall hold the path from which our stanchest broke, Stand firm where every famed precursor fell? My Lapo, I will frankly say, these proofs So duly noted of the man's intent, Are for the doting fools at home, not me. The charges here, they may be true or false: --What is set down? Errors and oversights, A dallying interchange of courtesies With Pisa's General,--all that, hour by hour, Puccio's pale discontent has furnished us, Of petulant speeches, inconsiderate acts, Now overhazard, overcaution now; Even that he loves this lady who believes She outwits Florence, and whom Florence posted By my procurement here, to spy on me, Lest I one minute lose her from my sight-- She who remembering her whole House's fall, That nest of traitors strangled in the birth, Now labors to make Luria (poor device As plain) the instrument of her revenge! --That she is ever at his ear to prompt Inordinate conceptions of his worth, Exorbitant belief in worth's reward, And after, when sure disappointment follows, Proportionable rage at such a wrong-- Why, all these reasons, while I urge them most, Weigh with me less than least; as nothing weigh. Upon that broad man's-heart of his, I go: On what I know must be, yet while I live Shall never be, because I live and know. Brute-force shall not rule Florence! Intellect May rule her, bad or good as chance supplies: But intellect it shall be, pure if bad, And intellect's tradition so kept up! Till the good come--'t was intellect that ruled, Not brute-force bringing from the battlefield The attributes of wisdom, foresight's graces We lent it there to lure its grossness on; All which it took for earnest and kept safe To show against us in our market-place, Just as the plumes and tags and swordsman's-gear (Fetched from the camp where, at their foolish best, When all was done they frightened nobody) Perk in our faces in the street, forsooth, With our own warrant and allowance. No! The whole procedure's overcharged,--its end In too strict keeping with the bad first step. To conquer Pisa was sheer inspiration? Well then, to perish for a single fault, Let that be simple justice! There, my Lapo! A Moorish front ill suits our Duomo's body: Blot it out--and bid Luria's sentence come!

(LURIA, _who, with_ DOMIZIA, _has entered unobserved at the close of the last phrase, now advances_.)

_Luria._ And Luria, Luria, what of Luria now?

_Brac._ Ah, you so close, sir? Lady Domizia too? I said it needs must be a busy moment For one like you; that you were now i' the thick Of your duties, doubtless, while we idlers sat ...

_Lur._ No--in that paper,--it was in that paper What you were saving!

_Brac._ Oh--my day's despatch! I censure you to Florence: will you see?

_Lur._ See your despatch, your last, for the first time? Well, if I should, now? For in truth, Domizia, He would be forced to set about another, In his sly cool way, the true Florentine, To mention that important circumstance. So, while he wrote I should gain time, such time! Do not send this!

_Brac._ And wherefore?

_Lur._ These Lucchese Are not arrived--they never will arrive! And I must fight to-day, arrived or not, And I shall beat Tiburzio, that is sure: And then will be arriving his Lucchese, But slowly, oh so slowly, just in time To look upon my battle from the hills, Like a late moon, of use to nobody! And I must break my battle up, send forth, Surround on this side, hold in check on that. Then comes to-morrow, we negotiate, You make me send for fresh instructions home, --Incompleteness, incompleteness!

_Brac._ Ah, we scribes! Why, I had registered that very point, The non-appearance of our foes' ally, As a most happy fortune; both at once Were formidable: singly faced, each falls.

_Lur._ So, no great battle for my Florentines! No crowning deed, decisive and complete, For all of them, the simple as the wise, Old, young, alike, that do not understand Our wearisome pedantic art of war, By which we prove retreat may be success, Delay--best speed,--half loss, at times,--whole gain: They want results: as if it were their fault! And you, with warmest wish to be my friend, Will not be able now to simply say "Your servant has performed his task--enough! You ordered, he has executed: good! Now walk the streets in holiday attire, Congratulate your friends, till noon strikes fierce, Then form bright groups beneath the Duomo's shade!" No, you will have to argue and explain, Persuade them, all is not so ill in the end, Tease, tire them out! Arrive, arrive, Lucchese!

_Domizia._ Well, you will triumph for the past enough, Whatever be the present chance; no service Falls to the ground with Florence: she awaits Her savior, will receive him fittingly.

_Lur._ Ah, Braccio, you know Florence! Will she, think you, Receive one ... what means "fittingly receive"? --Receive compatriots, doubtless--I am none: And yet Domizia promises so much!

_Brac._ Kind women still give men a woman's prize. I know not o'er which gate most boughs will arch. Nor if the Square will wave red flags or blue. I should have judged, the fullest of rewards Our state gave Luria, when she made him chief Of her whole force, in her best captain's place.

_Lur._ That, my reward? Florence on my account Relieved Ser Puccio?--mark you, my reward! And Puccio's having all the fight's true joy-- Goes here and there, gets close, may fight, himself, While I must order, stand aloof, o'ersee. That was my calling, there was my true place! I should have felt, in some one over me, Florence impersonate, my visible head, As I am over Puccio,--taking life Directly from her eye! They give me you: But do you cross me, set me half to work? I enjoy nothing--though I will, for once! Decide, shall we join battle? may I wait?

_Brac._ Let us compound the matter; wait till noon: Then, no arrival,--

_Lur._ Ah, noon comes too fast! I wonder, do you guess why I delay Involuntarily the final blow As long as possible? Peace follows it! Florence at peace, and the calm studious heads Come out again, the penetrating eyes; As if a spell broke, all 's resumed, each art You boast, more vivid that it slept awhile. 'Gainst the glad heaven, o'er the white palace-front The interrupted scaffold climbs anew; The walls are peopled by the painter's brush; The statue to its niche ascends to dwell. The present noise and trouble have retired And left the eternal past to rule once more; You speak its speech and read its records plain, Greece lives with you, each Roman breathes your friend: But Luria--where will then be Luria's place?

_Dom._ Highest in honor, for that past's own sake, Of which his actions, sealing up the sum By saving all that went before from wreck, Will range as part, with which be worshipped too.

_Lur._ Then I may walk and watch you in your streets, Lead the smooth life my rough life helps no more, So different, so new, so beautiful-- Nor fear that you will tire to see parade The club that slew the lion, now that crooks And shepherd-pipes come into use again? For very lone and silent seems my East In its drear vastness: still it spreads, and still No Braccios, no Domizias anywhere-- Not ever more! Well, well, to-day is ours!

_Dom._ [_To_ BRAC.] Should he not have been one of us?

_Lur._ Oh, no! Not one of you, and so escape the thrill Of coming into you, of changing thus,-- Feeling a soul grow on me that restricts The boundless unrest of the savage heart! The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there and buries its tumultuous strength; Horror, and silence, and a pause awhile: Lo, inland glides the gulf-stream, miles away, In rapture of assent, subdued and still, 'Neath those strange banks, those unimagined skies. Well, 't is not sure the quiet lasts forever! Your placid heads still find rough hands new work; Some minute's chance--there comes the need of mine: And, all resolved on, I too hear at last. Oh, you must find some use for me, Ser Braccio! You hold my strength; 't were best dispose of it: What you created, see that you find food for-- I shall be dangerous else!

_Brac._ How dangerous, sir?

_Lur._ There are so many ways, Domizia warns me, And one with half the power that I possess, --Grows very formidable! Do you doubt? Why, first, who holds the army ...

_Dom._ While we talk, Morn wears; we keep you from your proper place, The field.

_Lur._ Nay, to the field I move no more; My part is done, and Puccio's may begin: I cannot trench upon his province longer With any face.--You think yourselves so safe? Why, see--in concert with Tiburzio, now-- One could ...

_Dom._ A trumpet!

_Lur._ My Lucchese at last! Arrived, as sure as Florence stands! Your leave! [_Springs out._

_Dom._ How plainly is true greatness charactered By such unconscious sport as Luria's here, Strength sharing least the secret of itself! Be it with head that schemes or hand that acts, Such save the world which none but they could save, Yet think whate'er they did, that world could do.

_Brac._ Yes: and how worthy note, that these same great ones In hand or head, with such unconsciousness And all its due entailed humility, Should never shrink, so far as I perceive, From taking up whatever tool there be Effects the whole world's safety or mishap, Into their mild hands as a thing of course! The statist finds it natural to lead The mob who might as easily lead him-- The captain marshals troops born skilled in war-- Statist and captain verily believe! While we poor scribes ... you catch me thinking now, That I shall in this very letter write What none of you are able! To it, Lapo! [DOMIZIA _goes._

This last worst all-affected childish fit Of Luria's, this be-praised unconsciousness, Convinces me; the past was no child's play: It was a man beat Pisa,--not a child. All 's mere dissimulation--to remove The fear, he best knows we should entertain. The utmost danger was at hand. Is 't written? Now make a duplicate, lest this should fail, And speak your fullest on the other side.

_Sec._ I noticed he was busily repairing My half-effacement of his Duomo sketch, And, while he spoke of Florence, turned to it, As the Mage Negro king to Christ the babe. I judge his childishness the mere relapse To boyhood of a man who has worked lately, And presently will work, so, meantime, plays: Whence, more than ever I believe in him.

_Brac._ [_After a pause._] The sword! At best, the soldier, as he says, In Florence--the black face, the barbarous name, For Italy to boast her show of the age, Her man of men!--To Florence with each letter!

## ACT II

NOON

_Dom._ Well, Florence, shall I reach thee, pierce thy heart Through all its safeguards? Hate is said to help-- Quicken the eye, invigorate the arm; And this my hate, made up of many hates, Might stand in scorn of visible instrument, And will thee dead: yet do I trust it not. Nor man's devices nor Heaven's memory Of wickedness forgot on earth so soon, But thy own nature,--hell and thee I trust, To keep thee constant in that wickedness, Where my revenge may meet thee. Turn aside A single step, for gratitude or shame,-- Grace but this Luria,--this wild mass of rage I have prepared to launch against thee now,-- With other payment than thy noblest found,-- Give his desert for once its due reward,-- And past thee would my sure destruction roll. But thou, who mad'st our House thy sacrifice, It cannot be thou wilt except this Moor From the accustomed fate of zeal and truth: Thou wilt deny his looked-for recompense, And then--I reach thee. Old and trained, my sire Could bow down on his quiet broken heart, Die awe-struck and submissive, when at last The strange blow came for the expected wreath; And Porzio passed in blind bewilderment To exile, never to return,--they say, Perplexed in his frank simple honest soul, As if some natural law had changed,--how else Could Florence, on plain fact pronouncing thus, Judge Porzio's actions worthy such reward? But Berto, with the ever-passionate pulse, --Oh that long night, its dreadful hour on hour, In which no way of getting his fair fame From their inexplicable charges free, Was found, save pouring forth the impatient blood To show its color whether false or no! My brothers never had a friend like me Close in their need to watch the time, then speak, --Burst with a wakening laughter on their dream, Cry, "Florence was all falseness, so, false here!" And show them what a simple task remained-- To leave dreams, rise, and punish in God's name The city wedded to the wickedness. None stood by them as I by Luria stand. So, when the stranger cheated of his due Turns on thee as his rapid nature bids, Then, Florence, think, a hireling at thy throat For the first outrage, think who bore thy last, Yet mutely in forlorn obedience died! He comes--his friend--black faces in the camp Where moved those peerless brows and eyes of old.

(_Enter_ LURIA _and_ HUSAIN.)

Well, and the movement--is it as you hope? 'T is Lucca?

_Lur._ Ah, the Pisan trumpet merely! Tiburzio's envoy, I must needs receive.

_Dom._ Whom I withdraw before; though if I lingered You could not wonder, for my time fleets fast. The overtaking night brings such reward! And where will then be room for me? Yet, praised, Remember who was first to promise praise, And envy those who also can perform! [_Goes._

_Lur._ This trumpet from the Pisans?--

_Husain._ In the camp; A very noble presence--Braccio's visage On Puccio's body--calm and fixed and good; A man I seem as I had seen before: Most like, it was some statue had the face.

_Lur._ Admit him! This will prove the last delay.

_Hus._ Ay, friend, go on, and die thou going on! Thou heard'st what the grave woman said but now: To-night rewards thee. That is well to hear; But stop not therefore: hear it, and go on!

_Lur._ Oh, their reward and triumph and the rest They round me in the ears with, all day long? All that, I never take for earnest, friend! Well would it suit us,--their triumphal arch Or storied pillar,--thee and me, the Moors! But gratitude in those Italian eyes-- That, we shall get?

_Hus._ It is too cold an air. Our sun rose out of yonder mound of mist: Where is he now? So, I trust none of them.

_Lur._ Truly?

_Hus._ I doubt and fear. There stands a wall 'Twixt our expansive and explosive race And those absorbing, concentrating men. They use thee.

_Lur._ And I feel it, Husain! yes, And care not--yes, an alien force like mine Is only called to play its part outside Their different nature; where its sole use seems To fight with and keep off an adverse force, As alien,--which repelled, mine too withdraws: Inside, they know not what to do with me. Thus I have told them laughingly and oft, But longsince am prepared to learn the worst.

_Hus._ What is the worst?

_Lur._ I will forestall them, Husain, Will speak the destiny they dare not speak-- Banish myself before they find the heart. I will be first to say, "The work rewards! I know, for all your praise, my use is over, So may it prove!--meanwhile 't is best I go, Go carry safe my memories of you all To other scenes of action, newer lands."-- Thus leaving them confirmed in their belief They would not easily have tired of me. You think this hard to say?

_Hus._ Say or not say, So thou but go, so they but let thee go! This hating people, that hate each the other, And in one blandness to us Moors unite-- Locked each to each like slippery snakes, I say, Which still in all their tangles, hissing tongue And threatening tail, ne'er do each other harm; While any creature of a better blood, They seem to fight for, while they circle safe And never touch it,--pines without a wound, Withers away beside their eyes and breath. See thou, if Puccio come not safely out Of Braccio's grasp, this Braccio sworn his foe, As Braccio safely from Domizia's toils Who hates him most! But thou, the friend of all, ... Come out of them!

_Lur._ The Pisan trumpet now!

_Hus._ Breathe free--it is an enemy, no friend! [_Goes._

_Lur._ He keeps his instincts, no new culture mars Their perfect use in him; just so the brutes Rest not, are anxious without visible cause, When change is in the elements at work, Which man's trained senses fail to apprehend. But here,--he takes the distant chariot-wheel For thunder, festal flame for lightning's flash, The finer traits of cultivated life For treachery and malevolence: I see!

(_Enter_ TIBURZIO.)

_Lur._ Quick, sir, your message! I but wait your message To sound the charge. You bring no overture For truce?--I would not, for your General's sake, You spoke of truce: a time to fight is come, And, whatsoe'er the fight's event, he keeps His honest soldier's-name to heat me with, Or leaves me all himself to beat, I trust!

_Tiburzio._ I am Tiburzio.

_Lur._ You? 'T is--yes ... Tiburzio! You were the last to keep the ford i' the valley From Puccio, when I threw in succors there! Why, I was on the heights--through the defile Ten minutes after, when the prey was lost! You wore an open skull-cap with a twist Of water-reeds--the plume being hewn away; While I drove down my battle from the heights, I saw with my own eyes!

_Tib._ And you are Luria Who sent my cohort, that laid down its arms In error of the battle-signal's sense, Back safely to me at the critical time-- One of a hundred deeds. I know you! Therefore To none but you could I ...

_Lur._ No truce, Tiburzio!

_Tib._ Luria, you know the peril imminent On Pisa,--that you have us in the toils, Us her last safeguard, all that intercepts The rage of her implacablest of foes From Pisa: if we fall to-day, she falls. Though Lucca will arrive, yet, 't is too late. You have so plainly here the best of it, That you must feel, brave soldier as you are, How dangerous we grow in this extreme, How truly formidable by despair. Still, probabilities should have their weight: The extreme chance is ours, but, that chance failing, You win this battle. Wherefore say I this? To be well apprehended when I add, This danger absolutely comes from you. Were you, who threaten thus, a Florentine ...

_Lur._ Sir, I am nearer Florence than her sons. I can, and have perhaps obliged the State, Nor paid a mere son's duty.

_Tib._ Even so. Were you the son of Florence, yet endued With all your present nobleness of soul, No question, what I must communicate Would not detach you from her.

_Lur._ Me, detach?

_Tib._ Time urges. You will ruin presently Pisa, you never knew, for Florence' sake You think you know. I have from time to time Made prize of certain secret missives sent From Braccio here, the Commissary, home: And knowing Florence otherwise, I piece The entire chain out, from these its scattered links. Your trial occupies the Signory; They sit in judgment on your conduct now. When men at home inquire into the acts Which in the field e'en foes appreciate ... Brief, they are Florentines! You, saving them, Seek but the sure destruction saviors find.

_Lur._ Tiburzio!

_Tib._ All the wonder is of course. I am not here to teach you, nor direct, Only to loyally apprise--scarce that. This is the latest letter, sealed and safe, As it left here an hour ago. One way Of two thought free to Florence, I command. The duplicate is on its road; but this,-- Read it, and then I shall have more to say.

_Lur._ Florence!

_Tib._ Now, were yourself a Florentine, This letter, let it hold the worst it can, Would be no reason you should fall away. The mother city is the mother still, And recognition of the children's service Her own affair; reward--there 's no reward! But you are bound by quite another tie. Nor nature shows, nor reason, why at first A foreigner, born friend to all alike, Should give himself to any special State More than another, stand by Florence' side Rather than Pisa; 't is as fair a city You war against, as that you fight for--famed As well as she in story, graced no less With noble heads and patriotic hearts: Nor to a stranger's eye would either cause, Stripped of the cumulative loves and hates Which take importance from familiar view, Stand as the right and sole to be upheld. Therefore, should the preponderating gift Of love and trust, Florence was first to throw, Which made you hers, not Pisa's, void the scale,-- Old ties dissolving, things resume their place, And all begins again. Break seal and read! At least let Pisa offer for you now! And I, as a good Pisan, shall rejoice, Though for myself I lose, in gaining you, This last fight and its opportunity; The chance it brings of saying Pisa yet, Or in the turn of battle dying so That shame should want its extreme bitterness.

_Lur._ Tiburzio, you that fight for Pisa now As I for Florence ... say my chance were yours! You read this letter, and you find ... no, no! Too mad!

_Tib._ I read the letter, find they purpose When I have crushed their foe, to crush me: well?

_Lur._ You, being their captain, what is it you do?

_Tib._ Why, as it is, all cities are alike; As Florence pays you, Pisa will pay me. I shall be as belied, whate'er the event, As you, or more: my weak head, they will say Prompted this last expedient, my faint heart Entailed on them indelible disgrace, Both which defects ask proper punishment. Another tenure of obedience, mine! You are no son of Pisa's: break and read!

_Lur._ And act on what I read? What act were fit? If the firm-fixed foundation of my faith In Florence, who to me stands for mankind, --If that break up and, disimprisoning From the abyss ... Ah friend, it cannot be! You may be very sage, yet--all the world Having to fail, or your sagacity, You do not wish to find yourself alone! What would the world be worth? Whose love be sure? The world remains: you are deceived!

_Tib._ Your hand! I lead the vanguard.--If you fall, beside, The better: I am left to speak! For me, This was my duty, nor would I rejoice If I could help, it misses its effect; And after all you will look gallantly Found dead here with that letter in your breast.

_Lur._ Tiburzio--I would see these people once And test them ere I answer finally! At your arrival let the trumpet sound: If mine return not then the wonted cry It means that I believe--am Pisa's!

_Tib._ Well! [_Goes._

_Lur._ My heart will have it he speaks true! My blood Beats close to this Tiburzio as a friend. If he had stept into my watch-tent, night And the wild desert full of foes around, I should have broke the bread and given the salt Secure, and, when my hour of watch was done, Taken my turn to sleep between his knees Safe in the untroubled brow and honest cheek. Oh world, where all things pass and naught abides, Oh life, the long mutation--is it so? Is it with life as with the body's change? --Where, e'en though better follow, good must pass, Nor manhood's strength can mate with boyhood's grace, Nor age's wisdom, in its turn, find strength, But silently the first gift dies away, And though the new stays, never both at once. Life's time of savage instinct o'er with me, It fades and dies away, past trusting more, As if to punish the ingratitude With which I turned to grow in these new lights, And learned to look with European eyes. Yet it is better, this cold certain way, Where Braccio's brow tells nothing, Puccio's mouth, Domizia's eyes reject the searcher: yes! For on their calm sagacity I lean, Their sense of right, deliberate choice of good, Sure, as they know my deeds, they deal with me. Yes, that is better--that is best of all! Such faith stays when mere wild belief would go. Yes--when the desert creature's heart, at fault Amid the scattering tempest's pillared sands, Betrays its step into the pathless drift-- The calm instructed eye of man holds fast By the sole bearing of the visible star, Sure that when slow the whirling wreck subside, The boundaries, lost now, shall be found again,-- The palm-trees and the pyramid over all. Yes: I trust Florence: Pisa is deceived.

(_Enter_ BRACCIO, PUCCIO, _and_ DOMIZIA.)

_Brac._ Noon's at an end: no Lucca? You must fight.

_Lur._ Do you remember ever, gentle friends, I am no Florentine?

_Dom._ It is yourself Who still are forcing us, importunately, To bear in mind what else we should forget.

_Lur._ For loss!--for what I lose in being none! No shrewd man, such as you yourselves respect, But would remind you of the stranger's loss In natural friends and advocates at home, Hereditary loves, even rivalships With precedent for honor and reward. Still, there's a gain, too! If you take it so, The stranger's lot has special gain as well. Do you forget there was my own far East I might have given away myself to, once, As now to Florence, and for such a gift, Stood there like a descended deity? There, worship waits us: what is it waits here?

[_Shows the letter_.

See! Chance has put into my hand the means Of knowing what I earn, before I work. Should I fight better, should I fight the worse, With payment palpably before me? See! Here lies my whole reward! Best learn it now Or keep it for the end's entire delight?

_Brac._ If you serve Florence as the vulgar serve, For swordsman's-pay alone,--break seal and read! In that case, you will find your full desert.

_Lur._ Give me my one last happy moment, friends! You need me now, and all the graciousness This letter can contain will hardly balance The after-feeling that you need no more. This moment ... oh, the East has use with you! Its sword still flashes--is not flung aside With the past praise, in a dark corner yet! How say you? 'Tis not so with Florentines-- Captains of yours: for them, the ended war Is but a first step to the peace begun: He who did well in war, just earns the right To begin doing well in peace, you know: And certain my precursors,--would not such Look to themselves in such a chance as mine, Secure the ground they trod upon, perhaps? For I have heard, by fits, or seemed to hear, Of strange mishap, mistake, ingratitude, Treachery even. Say that one of you Surmised this letter carried what might turn To harm hereafter, cause him prejudice: What would he do?

_Dom._ [_Hastily._] Thank God and take revenge! Hurl her own force against the city straight! And, even at the moment when the foe Sounded defiance ...

[TIBURZIO'S _trumpet sounds in the distance_.

_Lur._ Ah, you Florentines! So would you do? Wisely for you, no doubt! My simple Moorish instinct bids me clench The obligation you relieve me from, Still deeper! [_To_ PUC.] Sound our answer, I should say. And thus:--[_Tearing the paper._]--The battle! That solves every doubt.

## ACT III

AFTERNOON

PUCCIO, _as making a report to_ JACOPO.

_Puc._ And here, your captain must report the rest; For, as I say, the main engagement over And Luria's special part in it performed, How could a subaltern like me expect Leisure or leave to occupy the field And glean what dropped from his wide harvesting? I thought, when Lucca at the battle's end Came up, just as the Pisan centre broke, That Luria would detach me and prevent The flying Pisans seeking what they found, Friends in the rear, a point to rally by. But no, more honorable proved my post! I had the august captive to escort Safe to our camp; some other could pursue, Fight, and be famous; gentler chance was mine-- Tiburzio's wounded spirit must be soothed! He's in the tent there.

_Jacopo._ Is the substance down? I write--"The vanguard beaten and both wings In full retreat, Tiburzio prisoner"-- And now,--" That they fell back and formed again On Lucca's coming." Why then, after all, 'Tis half a victory, no conclusive one?

_Puc._ Two operations where a sole had served.

_Jac._ And Luria's fault was--?

_Puc._ Oh, for fault--not much! He led the attack, a thought impetuously, --There's commonly more prudence; now, he seemed To hurry measures, otherwise well judged. By over-concentrating strength at first Against the enemy's van, both wings escaped: That's reparable, yet it is a fault.

(_Enter_ BRACCIO.)

_Jac._ As good as a full victory to Florence, With the advantage of a fault beside-- What is it, Puccio?--that by pressing forward With too impetuous ...

_Brac._ The report anon! Thanks, sir--you have elsewhere a charge, I know.

[PUCCIO _goes_.

There's nothing done but I would do again; Yet, Lapo, it may be the past proves nothing, And Luria has kept faithful to the close.

_Jac._ I was for waiting.

_Brac._ Yes: so was not I. He could not choose but tear that letter--true! Still, certain of his tones, I mind, and looks:-- You saw, too, with a fresher soul than I. So, Porzio seemed an injured man, they say! Well, I have gone upon the broad, sure ground.

(_Enter_ LURIA, PUCCIO, _and_ DOMIZIA.)

_Lur._ [_To_ PUC.] Say, at his pleasure I will see Tiburzio! All's at his pleasure.

_Dom._ [_To_ LUR.] Were I not forewarned You would reject, as you do constantly, Praise,--I might tell you how you have deserved Of Florence by this last and crowning feat: But words offend.

_Lur._ Nay, you may praise me now. I want instruction every hour, I find, On points where once I saw least need of it; And praise, I have been used to slight perhaps, Seems scarce so easily dispensed with now. After a battle, half one's strength is gone; The glorious passion in us once appeased, Our reason's calm cold dreadful voice begins. All justice, power and beauty scarce appear Monopolized by Florence, as of late, To me, the stranger: you, no doubt, may know Why Pisa needs must bear her rival's yoke, And peradventure I grow nearer you, For I, too, want to know and be assured. When a cause ceases to reward itself, Its friend seeks fresh sustainments; praise in one, And here stand you--you, lady, praise me well. But yours--(your pardon)--is unlearnèd praise. To the motive, the endeavor, the heart's self. Your quick sense looks: you crown and call aright The soul o' the purpose, ere 'tis shaped as act, Takes flesh i' the world, and clothes itself a king. But when the act comes, stands for what 'tis worth, --Here's Puccio, the skilled soldier, he's my judge! Was all well, Puccio?

_Puc._ All was ... must be well: If we beat Lucca presently, as doubtless ... --No, there's no doubt, we must--all was well done.

_Lur._ In truth? Still you are of the trade, my Puccio! You have the fellow-craftsman's sympathy. There's none cares, like a fellow of the craft, For the all unestimated sum of pains That go to a success the world can see: They praise then, but the best they never know --While you know! So, if envy mix with it, Hate even, still the bottom-praise of all, Whatever be the dregs, that drop's pure gold! --For nothing's like it; nothing else records Those daily, nightly drippings in the dark Of the heart's blood, the world lets drop away Forever--so, pure gold that praise must be! And I have yours, my soldier! yet the best Is still to come. There's one looks on apart Whom all refers to, failure or success; What's done might be our best, our utmost work, And yet inadequate to serve his need. Here's Braccio now, for Florence--here's our service-- Well done for us, seems it well done for him? His chosen engine, tasked to its full strength Answers the end? Should he have chosen higher? Do we help Florence, now our best is wrought?

_Brac._ This battle, with the foregone services, Saves Florence.

_Lur._ Why then, all is very well! Here am I in the middle of my friends, Who know me and who love me, one and all. And yet ... 'tis like ... this instant while I speak Is like the turning-moment of a dream When ... Ah, you are not foreigners like me! Well then, one always dreams of friends at home; And always comes, I say, the turning-point When something changes in the friendly eyes That love and look on you ... so slight, so slight ... And yet it tells you they are dead and gone, Or changed and enemies, for all their words, And all is mockery and a maddening show. You now, so kind here, all you Florentines, What is it in your eyes ... those lips, those brows ... Nobody spoke it, yet I know it well! Come now--this battle saves you, all's at end, Your use of me is o'er, for good, for ill,-- Come now, what's done against me, while I speak, In Florence? Come! I feel it in my blood, My eyes, my hair, a voice is in my ears That spite of all this smiling and soft speech You are betraying me! What is it you do? Have it your way, and think my use is over-- Think you are saved and may throw off the mask-- Have it my way, and think more work remains Which I could do,--so, show you fear me not! Or prudent be, or daring, as you choose, But tell me--tell what I refused to know At noon, lest heart should fail me! Well? That letter? My fate is sealed at Florence! What is it?

_Brac._ Sir, I shall not deny what you divine. It is no novelty for innocence To be suspected, but a privilege: The after certain compensation comes. Charges, I say not whether false or true, Have been preferred against you some time since, Which Florence was bound, plainly, to receive, And which are therefore undergoing now The due investigation. That is all. I doubt not but your innocence will prove Apparent and illustrious, as to me, To them this evening, when the trial ends.

_Lur._ My trial?

_Dom._ Florence, Florence to the end, My whole heart thanks thee!

_Puc._ [_To_ BRAC.] What is "trial," sir? It was not for a trial,--surely, no-- I furnished you those notes from time to time? I held myself aggrieved--I am a man-- And I might speak,--ay, and speak mere truth, too, And yet not mean at bottom of my heart What should assist a--trial, do you say? You should have told me!

_Dom._ Nay, go on, go on! His sentence! Do they sentence him? What is it? The block--wheel?

_Brac._ Sentence there is none as yet, Nor shall I give my own opinion now Of what it should be, or is like to be. When it is passed, applaud or disapprove! Up to that point, what is there to impugn?

_Lur._ They are right, then, to try me?

_Brac._ I assert, Maintain and justify the absolute right Of Florence to do all she can have done In this procedure,--standing on her guard, Receiving even services like yours With utmost fit suspicious wariness. In other matters, keep the mummery up! Take all the experiences of all the world, Each knowledge that broke through a heart to life, Each reasoning which, to reach, burnt out a brain, --In other cases, know these, warrant these, And then dispense with these--'tis very well! Let friend trust friend, and love demand love's like, And gratitude be claimed for benefits,-- There's grace in that,--and when the fresh heart breaks, The new brain proves a ruin, what of them? Where is the matter of one moth the more Singed in the candle, at a summer's end? But Florence is no simple John or James To have his toy, his fancy, his conceit That he's the one excepted man by fate. And, when fate shows him he's mistaken there, Die with all good men's praise, and yield his place To Paul and George intent to try their chance! Florence exists because these pass away. She's a contrivance to supply a type Of man, which men's deficiencies refuse; She binds so many, that she grows out of them-- Stands steady o'er their numbers, though they change And pass away--there's always what upholds, Always enough to fashion the great show. As see, yon hanging city, in the sun, Of shapely cloud substantially the same! A thousand vapors rise and sink again, Are interfused, and live their life and die,-- Yet ever hangs the steady show i' the air, Under the sun's straight influence: that is well, That is worth heaven should hold, and God should bless! And so is Florence,--the unseen sun above, Which draws and holds suspended all of us, Binds transient vapors into a single cloud Differing from each and better than they all. And shall she dare to stake this permanence On any one man's faith? Man's heart is weak, And its temptations many: let her prove Each servant to the very uttermost Before she grant him her reward, I say!

_Dom._ And as for hearts she chances to mistake, Wronged hearts, not destined to receive reward, Though they deserve it, did she only know, --What should she do for these?

_Brac._ What does she not? Say, that she gives them but herself to serve! Here's Luria--what had profited his strength, When half an hour of sober fancying Had shown him step by step the uselessness Of strength exerted for strength's proper sake? But the truth is, she did create that strength, Draw to the end the corresponding means. The world is wide--are we the only men? Oh, for the time, the social purpose' sake, Use words agreed on, bandy epithets, Call any man the sole great wise and good! But shall we therefore, standing by ourselves, Insult our souls and God with the same speech? There, swarm the ignoble thousands under him: What marks us from the hundreds and the tens? Florence took up, turned all one way the soul Of Luria with its fires, and here he glows! She takes me out of all the world as him, Fixing my coldness till like ice it checks The fire! So, Braccio, Luria, which is best?

_Lur._ Ah, brave me? And is this indeed the way To gain your good word and sincere esteem? Am I the baited animal that must turn And fight his baiters to deserve their praise? Obedience is mistake then? Be it so! Do you indeed remember I stand here The captain of the conquering army,--mine-- With all your tokens, praise and promise, ready To show for what their names meant when you gave, Not what you style them now you take away? If I call in my troops to arbitrate, And dash the first enthusiastic thrill Of victory with this you menace now-- Commend to the instinctive popular sense, My story first, your comment afterward,-- Will they take, think you, part with you or me? If I say--I, the laborer they saw work, Ending my work, ask pay, and find my lords Have all this while provided silently Against the day of pay and proving faith, By what you call my sentence that's to come-- Will friends advise I wait complacently? If I meet Florence half-way at their head, What will you do, my mild antagonist?

_Brac._ I will rise up like fire, proud and triumphant That Florence knew you thoroughly and by me, And so was saved. "See, Italy," I'll say, "The crown of our precautions! Here's a man Was far advanced, just touched on the belief Less subtle cities had accorded long; But we were wiser: at the end comes this!" And from that minute, where is Luria? Lost! The very stones of Florence cry against The all-exacting, naught-enduring fool, Who thus resents her first probation, flouts As if he, only, shone and cast no shade, He, only, walked the earth with privilege Against suspicion, free where angels fear: He, for the first inquisitive mother's-word, Must turn, and stand on his defence, forsooth! Reward? You will not be worth punishment!

_Lur._ And Florence knew me thus! Thus I have lived,-- And thus you, with the clear fine intellect, Braccio, the cold acute instructed mind, Out of the stir, so calm and unconfused, Reported me--how could you otherwise! Ay?--and what dropped from you, just now, moreover? Your information, Puccio?--Did your skill, Your understanding sympathy approve Such a report of me? Was this the end? Or is even this the end? Can I stop here? You, lady, with the woman's stand apart, The heart to see with, past man's brain and eyes, ... I cannot fathom why you should destroy The unoffending one, you call your friend-- Still, lessoned by the good examples here Of friendship, 'tis but natural I ask-- Had you a further aim, in aught you urged, Than your friend's profit--in all those instances Of perfidy, all Florence wrought of wrong-- All I remember now for the first time?

_Dom._ I am a daughter of the Traversari, Sister of Porzio and of Berto both, So, have foreseen all that has come to pass. I knew the Florence that could doubt their faith, Must needs mistrust a stranger's--dealing them Punishment, would deny him his reward. And I believed, the shame they bore and died, He would not bear, but live and fight against-- Seeing he was of other stuff than they.

_Lur._ Hear them! All these against one foreigner! And all this while, where is, in the whole world, To his good faith a single witness?

_Tib._ [_Who has entered unseen during the preceding dialogue._] Here! Thus I bear witness, not in word but deed. I live for Pisa; she's not lost to-day By many chances--much prevents from that! Her army has been beaten, I am here, But Lucca comes at last, one happy chance! I rather would see Pisa three times lost Than saved by any traitor, even by you; The example of a traitor's happy fortune Would bring more evil in the end than good;-- Pisa rejects the traitor, craves yourself! I, in her name, resign forthwith to you My charge,--the highest office, sword and shield! You shall not, by my counsel, turn on Florence Your army, give her calumny that ground-- Nor bring one soldier: be you all we gain! And all she'll lose,--a head to deck some bridge, And save the cost o' the crown should deck the head. Leave her to perish in her perfidy, Plague-stricken and stripped naked to all eyes, A proverb and a by-word in all mouths! Go you to Pisa! Florence is my place-- Leave me to tell her of the rectitude, I, from the first, told Pisa, knowing it. To Pisa!

_Dom._ Ah my Braccio, are you caught?

_Brac._ Puccio, good soldier and good citizen, Whom I have ever kept beneath my eye, Ready as fit, to serve in this event Florence, who clear foretold it from the first-- Through me, she gives you the command and charge She takes, through me, from him who held it late! A painful trial, very sore, was yours: All that could draw out, marshal in array The selfish passions 'gainst the public good-- Slights, scorns, neglects, were heaped on you to hear: And ever you did bear and bow the head! It had been sorry trial, to precede Your feet, hold up the promise of reward For luring gleam; your footsteps kept the track Through dark and doubt: take all the light at once! Trial is over, consummation shines; Well have you served, as well henceforth command!

_Puc._ No, no ... I dare not! I am grateful, glad; But Luria--you shall understand he's wronged: And he's my captain--this is not the way We soldiers climb to fortune: think again! The sentence is not even passed, beside! I dare not: where's the soldier could?

_Lur._ Now, Florence-- Is it to be? You will know all the strength O' the savage--to your neck the proof must go? You will prove the brute nature? Ah, I see! The savage plainly is impassible-- He keeps his calm way through insulting words, Sarcastic looks, sharp gestures--one of which Would stop you, fatal to your finer sense, But if he stolidly advance, march mute Without a mark upon his callous hide, Through the mere brushwood you grow angry with, And leave the tatters of your flesh upon, --You have to learn that when the true bar comes, The murk mid-forest, the grand obstacle, Which when you reach, you give the labor up, Nor dash on, but lie down composed before, --He goes against it, like the brute he is: It falls before him, or he dies in his course. I kept my course through past ingratitude: I saw--it does seem, now, as if I saw, Could not but see, those insults as they fell, --Ay, let them glance from off me, very like, Laughing, perhaps, to think the quality You grew so bold on, while you so despised The Moor's dull mute inapprehensive mood, Was saving you: I bore and kept my course. Now real wrong fronts me: see if I succumb! Florence withstands me? I will punish her.

At night my sentence will arrive, you say. Till then I cannot, if I would, rebel --Unauthorized to lay my office down, Retaining my full power to will and do: After--it is to see. Tiburzio, thanks! Go; you are free: join Lucca! I suspend All further operations till to-night. Thank you, and for the silence most of all! [_To_ BRAC.] Let my complacent bland accuser go Carry his self-approving head and heart Safe through the army which would trample him Dead in a moment at my word or sign! Go, sir, to Florence; tell friends what I say-- That while I wait my sentence, theirs waits them! [_To_ DOM.] You, lady,--you have black Italian eyes! I would be generous if I might: oh, yes-- For I remember how so oft you seemed Inclined at heart to break the barrier down Which Florence finds God built between us both. Alas, for generosity! this hour Asks retribution: bear it as you may, I must--the Moor--the savage,--pardon you! Puccio, my trusty soldier, see them forth!

## ACT IV

EVENING

_Enter_ PUCCIO _and_ JACOPO.

_Puc._ What Luria will do? Ah, 'tis yours, fair sir, Your and your subtle-witted master's part, To tell me that; I tell you what he can.

_Jac._ Friend, you mistake my station: I observe The game, watch how my betters play, no more.

_Puc._ But mankind are not pieces--there's your fault! You cannot push them, and, the first move made, Lean back and study what the next shall be, In confidence that, when 'tis fixed upon, You find just where you left them, blacks and whites: Men go on moving when your hand's away. You build, I notice, firm on Luria's faith This whole time,--firmlier than I choose to build, Who never doubted it--of old, that is-- With Luria in his ordinary mind. But now, oppression makes the wise man mad: How do I know he will not turn and stand And hold his own against you, as he may? Suppose he but withdraw to Pisa--well,-- Then, even if all happen to your wish, Which is a chance ...

_Jac._ Nay--'twas an oversight, Not waiting till the proper warrant came: You could not take what was not ours to give. But when at night the sentence really comes, Our city authorizes past dispute Luria's removal and transfers the charge, You will perceive your duty and accept?

_Puc._ Accept what? muster-rolls of soldiers' names? An army upon paper? I want men, The hearts as well as hands--and where's a heart But beats with Luria, in the multitude I come from walking through by Luria's side? You gave them Luria, set him thus to grow, Head-like, upon their trunk; one heart feeds both, They feel him there, live twice, and well know why. --For they do know, if you are ignorant, Who kept his own place and respected theirs, Managed their sweat, yet never spared his blood. All was your act: another might have served-- There's peradventure no such dearth of heads-- But you chose Luria: so, they grew one flesh, And now, for nothing they can understand, Luria removed, off is to roll the head; The body's mine--much I shall do with it!

_Jac._ That's at the worst.

_Puc._ No--at the best, it is! Best, do you hear? I saw them by his side. Only we two with Luria in the camp Are left that keep the secret? You think that? Hear what I know: from rear to van, no heart But felt the quiet patient hero there Was wronged, nor in the moveless ranks an eye But glancing told its fellow the whole story Of that convicted silent knot of spies Who passed through them to Florence; they might pass-- No breast but gladlier beat when free of such! Our troops will catch up Luria, close him round, Bear him to Florence as their natural lord, Partake his fortune, live or die with him.

_Jac._ And by mistake catch up along with him Puccio, no doubt, compelled in self despite To still continue second in command!

_Puc._ No, sir, no second nor so fortunate! Your tricks succeed with me too well for that! I am as you have made me, live and die To serve your end--a mere trained fighting-hack, With words, you laugh at while they leave your mouth, For my life's rule and ordinance of God! I have to do my duty, keep my faith, And earn my praise, and guard against my blame, As I was trained. I shall accept your charge, And fight against one better than myself, Spite of my heart's conviction of his worth-- That, you may count on!--just as hitherto I have gone on, persuaded I was wronged, Slighted, insulted, terms we learn by rote,-- All because Luria superseded me-- Because the better nature, fresh-inspired, Mounted above me to its proper place! What mattered all the kindly graciousness, The cordial brother's-bearing? This was clear-- I, once the captain, now was subaltern, And so must keep complaining like a fool! Go, take the curse of a lost soul, I say! You neither play your puppets to the end, Nor treat the real man,--for his realness' sake Thrust rudely in their place,--with such regard As might console them for their altered rank. Me, the mere steady soldier, you depose For Luria, and here's all your pet deserves! Of what account, then, is your laughing-stock? One word for all: whatever Luria does, --If backed by his indignant troops he turn, Revenge himself, and Florence go to ground,-- Or, for a signal everlasting shame, He pardon you, simply seek better friends, Side with the Pisans and Lucchese for change --And if I, pledged to ingrates past belief, Dare fight against a man such fools call false, Who, inasmuch as he was true, fights me,-- Whichever way he win, he wins for worth, For every soldier, for all true and good! Sir, chronicling the rest, omit not this!

(_As they go, enter_ LURIA _and_ HUSAIN.)

_Hus._ Saw'st thou?--For they are gone! The world lies bare Before thee, to be tasted, felt and seen Like what it is, now Florence goes away! Thou livest now, with men art man again! Those Florentines were all to thee of old; But Braccio, but Domizia, gone is each,

There lie beneath thee thine own multitudes! Saw'st thou?

_Lur._ I saw.

_Hus._ Then, hold thy course, my king! The years return. Let thy heart have its way: Ah, they would play with thee as with all else, Turn thee to use, and fashion thee anew, Find out God's fault in thee as in the rest? Oh watch, oh listen only to these fiends Once at their occupation! Ere we know, The free great heaven is shut, their stifling pall Drops till it frets the very tingling hair, So weighs it on our head,--and, for the earth, Our common earth is tethered up and down, Over and across--"here shalt thou move," they cry!

_Lur._ Ay, Husain?

_Hus._ So have they spoiled all beside! So stands a man girt round with Florentines, Priests, graybeards, Braccios, women, boys and spies, All in one tale, all singing the same song, How thou must house, and live at bed and board, Take pledge and give it, go their every way, Breathe to their measure, make thy blood beat time With theirs--- or, all is nothing--thou art lost-- A savage, how shouldst thou perceive as they? Feel glad to stand 'neath God's close naked hand! Look up to it! Why, down they pull thy neck, Lest it crush thee, who feel'st it and wouldst kiss, Without their priests that needs must glove it first, Lest peradventure flesh offend thy lip. Love woman! Why, a very beast thou art! Thou must ...

_Lur._ Peace, Husain!

_Hus._ Ay, but, spoiling all, For all, else true things, substituting false, That they should dare spoil, of all instincts, thine! Should dare to take thee with thine instincts up, Thy battle-ardors, like a ball of fire, And class them and allow them place and play So far, no farther--unabashed the while! Thou with the soul that never can take rest-- Thou born to do, undo, and do again, And never to be still,--wouldst thou make war? Oh, that is commendable, just and right! "Come over," say they, "have the honor due In living out thy nature! Fight thy best: It is to be for Florence, not thyself! For thee, it were a horror and a plague; For us, when war is made for Florence, see, How all is changed: the fire that fed on earth Now towers to heaven!"--

_Lur._ And what sealed up so long My Husain's mouth?

_Hus._ Oh friend, oh lord--for me, What am I?--I was silent at thy side, Who am a part of thee. It is thy hand, Thy foot that glows when in the heart fresh blood Boils up, thou heart of me! Now, live again, Again love as thou likest, hate as free! Turn to no Braccios nor Domizias now, To ask, before thy very limbs dare move, If Florence' welfare be concerned thereby!

_Lur._ So clear what Florence must expect of me?

_Hus._ Both armies against Florence! Take revenge! Wide, deep--to live upon, in feeling now,-- And, after live, in memory, year by year-- And, with the dear conviction, die at last! She lies now at thy pleasure: pleasure have! Their vaunted intellect that gilds our sense, And blends with life, to show it better by, --How think'st thou?--I have turned that light on them! They called our thirst of war a transient thing; "The battle-element must pass away From life," they said, "and leave a tranquil world." --Master, I took their light and turned it full On that dull turgid vein they said would burst And pass away; and as I looked on life, Still everywhere I tracked this, though it hid And shifted, lay so silent as it thought, Changed shape and hue yet ever was the same. Why, 't was all fighting, all their nobler life! All work was fighting, every harm--defeat, And every joy obtained--a victory! Be not their dupe! --Their dupe? That hour is past! Here stand'st thou in the glory and the calm: All is determined. Silence for me now! [HUSAIN _goes._

_Lur._ Have I heard all?

_Dom._ [_Advancing from the background._] No, Luria, I remain! Not from the motives these have urged on thee, Ignoble, insufficient, incomplete, And pregnant each with sure seeds of decay, As failing of sustainment from thyself, --Neither from low revenge, nor selfishness, Nor savage lust of power, nor one, nor all, Shalt thou abolish Florence! I proclaim The angel in thee, and reject the sprites Which ineffectual crowd about his strength, And mingle with his work and claim a share! Inconsciously to the augustest end Thou hast arisen: second not in rank So much as time, to him who first ordained That Florence, thou art to destroy, should be. Yet him a star, too, guided, who broke first The pride of lonely power, the life apart, And made the eminences, each to each, Lean o'er the level world and let it lie Safe from the thunder henceforth 'neath their tops; So the few famous men of old combined, And let the multitude rise underneath, And reach them and unite--so Florence grew: Braccio speaks true, it was well worth the price. But when the sheltered many grew in pride And grudged the station of the elected ones, Who, greater than their kind, are truly great Only in voluntary servitude-- Time was for thee to rise, and thou art here. Such plague possessed this Florence: who can tell The mighty girth and greatness at the heart Of those so perfect pillars of the grove She pulled down in her envy? Who as I, The light weak parasite born but to twine Round each of them and, measuring them, live? My light love keeps the matchless circle safe, My slender life proves what has passed away. I lived when they departed; lived to cling To thee, the mighty stranger; thou wouldst rise And burst the thraldom, and avenge, I knew. I have done nothing; all was thy strong bole. But a bird's weight can break the infant tree Which after holds an aery in its arms, And 't was my care that naught should warp thy spire From rising to the height; the roof is reached O' the forest, break through, see extend the sky! Go on to Florence, Luria! 'T is man's cause! Fail thou, and thine own fall were least to dread: Thou keepest Florence in her evil way, Encouragest her sin so much the more-- And while the ignoble past is justified, Thou all the surelier warp'st the future growth, The chiefs to come, the Lurias yet unborn, That, greater than thyself, are reached o'er thee Who giv'st the vantage-ground their foes require, As o'er my prostrate House thyself wast reached! Man calls thee, God requites thee! All is said, The mission of my House fulfilled at last: And the mere woman, speaking for herself, Reserves speech--it is now no woman's time. [DOMIZIA _goes_.

_Lur._ Thus at the last must figure Luria, then! Doing the various work of all his friends, And answering every purpose save his own. No doubt, 't is well for them to wish; but him-- After the exploit what were left? Perchance A little pride upon the swarthy brow, At having brought successfully to bear 'Gainst Florence' self her own especial arms,-- Her craftiness, impelled by fiercer strength From Moorish blood than feeds the northern wit. But after!--once the easy vengeance willed, Beautiful Florence at a word laid low --(Not in her domes and towers and palaces, Not even in a dream, that outrage!)--low, As shamed in her own eyes henceforth forever, Low, for the rival cities round to laugh, Conquered and pardoned by a hireling Moor! --For him, who did the irreparable wrong, What would be left, his life's illusion fled,-- What hope or trust in the forlorn wide world? How strange that Florence should mistake me so! Whence grew this? What withdrew her faith from me? Some cause! These fretful-blooded children talk Against their mother,--they are wronged, they say-- Notable wrongs her smile makes up again! So, taking fire at each supposed offence, They may speak rashly, suffer for their speech: But what could it have been in word or deed Thus injured me? Some one word spoken more Out of my heart, and all had changed perhaps. My fault, it must have been,--for, what gain they? Why risk the danger? See, what I could do! And my fault, wherefore visit upon them, My Florentines? The notable revenge I meditated! To stay passively. Attend their summons, be as they dispose! Why, if my very soldiers keep the rank, And if my chieftains acquiesce, what then? I ruin Florence, teach her friends mistrust, Confirm her enemies in harsh belief, And when she finds one day, as find she must, The strange mistake, and how my heart was hers, Shall it console me, that my Florentines Walk with a sadder step, in graver guise, Who took me with such frankness, praised me so, At the glad outset? Had they loved me less, They had less feared what seemed a change in me. And after all, who did the harm? Not they! How could they interpose with those old fools I' the council? Suffer for those old fools' sake-- They, who made pictures of me, sang the songs About my battles? Ah, we Moors get blind Out of our proper world, where we can see! The sun that guides is closer to us! There-- There, my own orb! He sinks from out the sky! Why, there! a whole day has he blessed the land, My land, our Florence all about the hills, The fields and gardens, vineyards, olive-grounds, All have been blest--and yet we Florentines, With souls intent upon our battle here, Found that he rose too soon, or set too late, Gave us no vantage, or gave Pisa much-- Therefore we wronged him! Does he turn in ire To burn the earth that cannot understand? Or drop out quietly, and leave the sky, His task once ended? Night wipes blame away. Another morning from my East shall spring And find all eyes at leisure, all disposed To watch and understand its work, no doubt. So, praise the new sun, the successor praise, Praise the new Luria and forget the old! [_Taking a phial from his breast._ --Strange! This is all I brought from my own land To help me: Europe would supply the rest, All needs beside, all other helps save one! I thought of adverse fortune, battle lost, The natural upbraiding of the loser, And then this quiet remedy to seek At end of the disastrous day. [_He drinks._ 'T is sought! This was my happy triumph-morning: Florence Is saved: I drink this, and ere night,--die! Strange!

## ACT V

NIGHT

LURIA _and_ PUCCIO

_Lur._ I thought to do this, not to talk this: well, Such were my projects for the city's good, To help her in attack or by defence. Time, here as elsewhere, soon or late may take Our foresight by surprise through chance and change; But not a little we provide against --If you see clear on every point.

_Puc._ Most clear.

_Lur._ Then all is said--not much, if you count words, Yet to an understanding ear enough; And all that my brief stay permits, beside. Nor must you blame me, as I sought to teach My elder in command, or threw a doubt Upon the very skill, it comforts me To know I leave,--your steady soldiership Which never failed me: yet, because it seemed A stranger's eye might haply note defect That skill, through use and custom, over-looks-- I have gone into the old cares once more, As if I had to come and save again Florence--that May--that morning! 'T is night now. Well--I broke off with?...

_Puc._ Of the past campaign You spoke--of measures to be kept in mind For future use.

_Lur._ True, so ... but, time--no time! As well end here: remember this, and me! Farewell now!

_Puc._ Dare I speak?

_Lur._ South o' the river-- How is the second stream called ... no,--the third?

_Puc._ Pesa.

_Lur._ And a stone's-cast from the fording-place, To the east,--the little mount's name?

_Puc._ Lupo.

_Lur._ Ay! Ay--there the tower, and all that side is safe! With San Romano, west of Evola, San Miniato, Scala, Empoli, Five towers in all,--forget not!

_Puc._ Fear not me!

_Lur._--Nor to memorialize the Council now, I' the easy hour, on those battalions' claim, Who forced a pass by Staggia on the hills, And kept the Sienese at check!

_Puc._ One word-- Sir, I must speak! That you submit yourself To Florence' bidding, howsoe'er it prove, And give up the command to me--is much, Too much, perhaps: but what you tell me now, Even will affect the other course you choose-- Poor as it may be, perils even that! Refuge you seek at Pisa: yet these plans All militate for Florence, all conclude Your formidable work to make her queen O' the country,--which her rivals rose against When you began it,--which to interrupt, Pisa would buy you off at any price! You cannot mean to sue for Pisa's help, With this made perfect and on record?

_Lur._ I-- At Pisa, and for refuge, do you say?

_Puc._ Where are you going, then? You must decide On leaving us, a silent fugitive, Alone, at night--you, stealing through our lines, Who were this morning's Luria,--you escape To painfully begin the world once more, With such a past, as it had never been! Where are you going?

_Lur._ Not so far, my Puccio, But that I hope to hear, enjoy and praise (If you mind praise from your old captain yet) Each happy blow you strike for Florence!

_Puc._ Ay, But ere you gain your shelter, what may come? For see--though nothing 's surely known as yet, Still--truth must out--I apprehend the worst. If mere suspicion stood for certainty Before, there 's nothing can arrest the step Of Florence toward your ruin, once on foot. Forgive her fifty times, it matters not! And having disbelieved your innocence, How can she trust your magnanimity? You may do harm to her--why then, you will! And Florence is sagacious in pursuit. Have you a friend to count on?

_Lur._ One sure friend.

_Puc._ Potent?

_Lur._ All-potent.

_Puc._ And he is apprised?

_Lur._ He waits me.

_Puc._ So!--Then I, put in your place, Making my profit of all done by you, Calling your labors mine, reaping their fruit, To this, the State's gift, now add yours beside-- That I may take as my peculiar store These your instructions to work Florence good. And if, by putting some few happily In practice, I should both advantage her And draw down honor on myself,--what then?

_Lur._ Do it, my Puccio! I shall know and praise!

_Puc._ Though so, men say, "mark what we gain by change --A Puccio for a Luria!"

_Lur._ Even so!

_Puc._ Then, not for fifty hundred Florences Would I accept one office save my own, Fill any other than my rightful post Here at your feet, my captain and my lord! That such a cloud should break, such trouble be, Ere a man settle, soul and body, down Into his true place and take rest forever! Here were my wise eyes fixed on your right hand, And so the bad thoughts came and the worse words, And all went wrong and painfully enough,-- No wonder,--till, the right spot stumbled on, All the jar stops, and there is peace at once! I am yours now,--a tool your right hand wields! God's love, that I should live, the man I am, On orders, warrants, patents and the like, As if there were no glowing eye i' the world To glance straight inspiration to my brain, No glorious heart to give mine twice the beats! For, see--my doubt, where is it?--fear? 't is flown! And Florence and her anger are a tale To scare a child! Why, half-a-dozen words Will tell her, spoken as I now can speak, Her error, my past folly--and all 's right, And you are Luria, our great chief again! Or at the worst--which worst were best of all-- To exile or to death I follow you!

_Lur._ Thanks, Puccio! Let me use the privilege You grant me: if I still command you,--stay! Remain here, my vicegerent, it shall be, And not successor: let me, as of old, Still serve the State, my spirit prompting yours-- Still triumph, one for both. There! Leave me now! You cannot disobey my first command? Remember what I spoke of Jacopo, And what you promised to concert with him! Send him to speak with me--nay, no farewell! You shall be by me when the sentence comes. [PUCCIO _goes_.

So, there 's one Florentine returns again! Out of the genial morning company. One face is left to take into the night

(_Enter_ JACOPO.)

_Jac._ I wait for your command, sir.

_Lur._ What, so soon? I thank your ready presence and fair word. I used to notice you in early days As of the other species, so to speak, Those watchers of the lives of us who act-- That weigh our motives, scrutinize our thoughts. So, I propound this to your faculty As you would tell me, were a town to take ... That is, of old. I am departing hence Under these imputations; that is naught-- I leave no friend on whom they may rebound, Hardly a name behind me in the land, Being a stranger: all the more behooves That I regard how altered were the case With natives of the country, Florentines On whom the like mischance should fall: the roots O' the tree survive the ruin of the trunk-- No root of mine will throb, you understand. But I had predecessors, Florentines, Accused as I am now, and punished so-- The Traversari: you know more than I How stigmatized they are and lost in shame. Now Puccio, who succeeds me in command, Both served them and succeeded, in due time; He knows the way, holds proper documents, And has the power to lay the simple truth Before an active spirit, as I count yours: And also there 's Tiburzio, my new friend, Will, at a word, confirm such evidence, He being the great chivalric soul we know. I put it to your tact, sir--were 't not well, --A grace, though but for contrast's sake, no more,-- If you who witness, and have borne a share Involuntarily in my mischance, Should, of your proper motion, set your skill To indicate--that is, investigate The right or wrong of what mischance befell Those famous citizens, your countrymen? Nay, you shall promise nothing: but reflect, And if your sense of justice prompt you--good!

_Jac._ And if, the trial past, their fame stand clear To all men's eyes, as yours, my lord, to mine-- Their ghosts may sleep in quiet satisfied! For me, a straw thrown up into the air, My testimony goes for a straw's worth. I used to hold by the instructed brain, And move with Braccio as my master-wind; The heart leads surelier: I must move with you-- As greatest now, who ever were the best. So, let the last and humblest of your servants Accept your charge, as Braccio's heretofore, And tender homage by obeying you! [JACOPO _goes_.

_Lur._ Another!--Luria goes not poorly forth. If we could wait! The only fault 's with time; All men become good creatures: but so slow!

(_Enter_ DOMIZIA.)

_Lur._ Ah, you once more?

_Dom._ Domizia, whom you knew, Performed her task, and died with it. 'T is I, Another woman, you have never known. Let the past sleep now!

_Lur._ I have done with it.

_Dom._ How inexhaustibly the spirit grows! One object, she seemed erewhile born to reach With her whole energies and die content,-- So like a wall at the world's edge it stood, With naught beyond to live for,--is that reached?-- Already are new undreamed energies Outgrowing under, and extending farther To a new object; there 's another world. See! I have told the purpose of my life; 'T is gained: you are decided, well or ill-- You march on Florence, or submit to her-- My work is done with you, your brow declares. But--leave you?--More of you seems yet to reach: I stay for what I just begin to see.

_Lur._ So that you turn not to the past!

_Dom._ You trace Nothing but ill in it--my selfish impulse, Which sought its end and disregarded yours?

_Lur._ Speak not against your nature: best, each keep His own--you, yours--most, now that I keep mine, --At least, fall by it, having too weakly stood. God's finger marks distinctions, all so fine, We would confound: the lesser has its use, Which, when it apes the greater, is foregone. I, born a Moor, lived half a Florentine; But, punished properly, can end, a Moor. Beside, there's something makes me understand Your nature: I have seen it.

_Dom._ Aught like mine?

_Lur._ In my own East ... if you would stoop and help My barbarous illustration! It sounds ill; Yet there's no wrong at bottom: rather, praise.

_Dom._ Well?

_Lur._ We have creatures there, which if you saw The first time, you would doubtless marvel at For their surpassing beauty, craft and strength. And though it were a lively moment's shock When you first found the purpose of forked tongues That seem innocuous in their lambent play, Yet, once made know such grace requires such guard, Your reason soon would acquiesce, I think, In wisdom which made all things for the best-- So, take them, good with ill, contentedly, The prominent beauty with the latent sting, I am glad to have seen you wondrous Florentines: Yet ...

_Dom._ I am here to listen. _Lur._ My own East! How nearer God we were! He glows above With scarce an intervention, presses close And palpitatingly, his soul o'er ours: We feel him, nor by painful reason know! The everlasting minute of creation Is felt there; now it is, as it was then; All changes at his instantaneous will, Not by the operation of a law Whose maker is elsewhere at other work. His hand is still engaged upon his world-- Man's praise can forward it, man's prayer suspend, For is not God all-mighty? To recast The world, erase old things and make them new, What costs it Him? So, man breathes nobly there. And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Is quick and transient--comes, and lo, is gone-- While Northern thought is slow and durable, Surely a mission was reserved for me, Who, born with a perception of the power And use of the North's thought for us of the East, Should have remained, turned knowledge to account, Giving thought's character and permanence To the too transitory feeling there-- Writing God's message plain in mortal words. Instead of which, I leave my fated field For this where such a task is needed least, Where all are born consummate in the art I just perceive a chance of making mine,-- And then, deserting thus my early post, I wonder that the men I come among Mistake me! There, how all had understood, Still brought fresh stuff for me to stamp and keep, Fresh instinct to translate them into law! Me, who ...

_Dom._ Who here the greater task achieve, More needful even: who have brought fresh stuff For us to mould, interpret and prove right,-- New feeling fresh from God, which, could we know O' the instant, where had been our need of it? --Whose life re-teaches us what life should be, What faith is, loyalty and simpleness, All, once revealed but taught us so long since That, having mere tradition of the fact,-- Truth copied falteringly from copies faint, The early traits all dropped away,--we said On sight of faith like yours, "So looks not faith We understand, described and praised before." But still, the feat was dared; and though at first It suffered from our haste, yet trace by trace Old memories reappear, old truth returns, Our slow thought does its work, and all's reknown. Oh noble Luria! What you have decreed I see not, but no animal revenge. No brute-like punishment of bad by worse-- It cannot be, the gross and vulgar way Traced for me by convention and mistake, Has gained that calm approving eye and brow! Spare Florence, after all! Let Luria trust To his own soul, he whom I trust with mine!

_Lur._ In time!

_Dom._ How, Luria?

_Lur._ It is midnight now, And they arrive from Florence with my fate.

_Dom._ I hear no step.

_Lur._ I feel one, as you say.

(_Enter_ HUSAIN.)

_Hus._ The man returned from Florence!

_Lur._ As I knew.

_Hus._ He seeks thee.

_Lur._ And I only wait for him. Aught else?

_Hus._ A movement of the Lucchese troops Southward--

_Lur._ Toward Florence? Have out instantly ... Ah, old use clings! Puccio must care henceforth. In--quick--'tis nearly midnight! Bid him come!

(_Enter_ TIBURZIO, BRACCIO, _and_ PUCCIO.)

_Lur._ Tiburzio?--not at Pisa?

_Tib._ I return From Florence: I serve Pisa, and must think By such procedure I have served her best. A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all. Such man are you, and such a time is this, That your sole fate concerns a nation more Than much apparent welfare: that to prove Your rectitude, and duly crown the same, Imports us far beyond to-day's event, A battle's loss or gain: man's mass remains,-- Keep but God's model safe, new men will rise To take its mould, and other days to prove How great a good was Luria's glory. True-- I might go try my fortune as you urged, And, joining Lucca, helped by your disgrace, Repair our harm--so were to-day's work done; But where leave Luria for our sons to see? No, I look farther. I have testified (Declaring my submission to your arms) Her full success to Florence, making clear Your probity, as none else could: I spoke, And out it shone!

_Lur._ Ah--until Braccio spoke!

_Brac._ Till Braccio told in just a word the whole-- His lapse to error, his return to knowledge: Which told ... Nay, Luria, I should droop the head, I whom shame rests with! Yet I dare look up, Sure of your pardon how I sue for it, Knowing you wholly. Let the midnight end! 'Tis morn approaches! Still you answer not? Sunshine succeeds the shadow passed away; Our faces, which phantasmal grew and false, Are all that felt it: they change round you, turn Truly themselves now in its vanishing. Speak, Luria! Here begins your true career: Look up, advance! All now is possible, Fact's grandeur, no false dreaming! Dare and do! And every prophecy shall be fulfilled Save one--(nay, now your word must come at last) --That you would punish Florence!

_Hus._ [_Pointing to_ LURIA'S _dead body_.] That is done.

CHRISTMAS-EVE AND EASTER-DAY

FLORENCE, 1850

CHRISTMAS-EVE

I

Out of the little chapel I burst Into the fresh night-air again. Five minutes full, I waited first In the doorway, to escape the rain That drove in gusts down the common's centre At the edge of which the chapel stands, Before I plucked up heart to enter. Heaven knows how many sorts of hands Reached past me, groping for the latch Of the inner door that hung on catch More obstinate the more they fumbled, Till, giving way at last with a scold Of the crazy hinge, in squeezed or tumbled One sheep more to the rest in fold, And left me irresolute, standing sentry In the sheepfold's lath-and-plaster entry, Six feet long by three feet wide,

## Partitioned off from the vast inside--

I blocked up half of it at least. No remedy; the rain kept driving. They eyed me much as some wild beast, That congregation, still arriving, Some of them by the main road, white A long way past me into the night. Skirting the common, then diverging; Not a few suddenly emerging From the common's self through the paling-gaps, --They house in the gravel-pits perhaps, Where the road stops short with its safeguard border Of lamps, as tired of such disorder;-- But the most turned in yet more abruptly Prom a certain squalid knot of alleys, Where the town's bad blood once slept corruptly, Which now the little chapel rallies And leads into day again,--its priestliness Lending itself to hide their beastliness So cleverly (thanks in part to the mason), And putting so cheery a whitewashed face on Those neophytes too much in lack of it, That, where you cross the common as I did, And meet the party thus presided, "Mount Zion" with Love-lane at the back of it, They front you as little disconcerted As, bound for the hills, her fate averted, And her wicked people made to mind him, Lot might have marched with Gomorrah behind him.

II

Well, from the road, the lanes or the common, In came the flock: the fat weary woman, Panting and bewildered, down-clapping Her umbrella with a mighty report, Grounded it by me, wry and flapping, A wreck of whalebones; then, with a snort, Like a startled horse, at the interloper (Who humbly knew himself improper, But could not shrink up small enough) --Round to the door, and in,--the gruff Hinge's invariable scold Making my very blood run cold. Prompt in the wake of her, up-pattered On broken clogs, the many-tattered Little old-faced peaking sister-turned-mother Of the sickly babe she tried to smother Somehow up, with its spotted face, From the cold, on her breast, the one warm place; She too must stop, wring the poor ends dry Of a draggled shawl, and add thereby Her tribute to the door-mat, sopping Already from my own clothes' dropping, Which yet she seemed to grudge I should stand on: Then, stooping down to take off her pattens, She bore them defiantly, in each hand one, Planted together before her breast And its babe, as good as a lance in rest. Close on her heels, the dingy satins Of a female something past me flitted, With lips as much too white, as a streak Lay far too red on each hollow cheek; And it seemed the very door-hinge pitied All that was left of a woman once, Holding at least its tongue for the nonce. Then a tall yellow man, like the Penitent Thief, With his jaw bound up in a handkerchief, And eyelids screwed together tight, Led himself in by some inner light. And, except from him, from each that entered, I got the same interrogation-- "What, you the alien, you have ventured To take with us, the elect, your station? A carer for none of it, a Gallio!"-- Thus, plain as print, I read the glance At a common prey, in each countenance As of huntsman giving his hounds the tallyho. And, when the door's cry drowned their wonder, The draught, it always sent in shutting, Made the flame of the single tallow candle In the cracked square lantern I stood under, Shoot its blue lip at me, rebutting As it were, the luckless cause of scandal: I verily fancied the zealous light (In the chapel's secret, too!) for spite Would shudder itself clean off the wick, With the airs of a Saint John's Candlestick. There was no standing it much longer. "Good folks," thought I, as resolve grew stronger, "This way you perform the Grand-Inquisitor When the weather sends you a chance visitor? You are the men, and wisdom shall die with you, And none of the old Seven Churches vie with you! But still, despite the pretty perfection To which you carry your trick of exclusiveness, And, taking God's word under wise protection, Correct its tendency to diffusiveness, And bid one reach it over hot ploughshares,-- Still, as I say, though you've found salvation, If I should choose to cry, as now, 'Shares!'-- See if the best of you bars me my ration! I prefer, if you please, for my expounder Of the laws of the feast, the feast's own Founder; Mine's the same right with your poorest and sickliest, Supposing I don the marriage vestiment: So, shut your mouth and open your Testament, And carve me my portion at your quickliest!" Accordingly, as a shoemaker's lad With wizened face in want of soap, And wet apron wound round his waist like a rope, (After stopping outside, for his cough was bad, To get the fit over, poor gentle creature, And so avoid disturbing the preacher) --Passed in, I sent my elbow spikewise, At the shutting door, and entered likewise, Received the hinge's accustomed greeting, And crossed the threshold's magic pentacle, And found myself in full conventicle, --To wit, in Zion Chapel Meeting, On the Christmas-Eve of 'Forty-nine, Which, calling its flock to their special clover, Found all assembled and one sheep over, Whose lot, as the weather pleased, was mine.

III

I very soon had enough of it. The hot smell and the human noises, And my neighbor's coat, the greasy cuff of it, Were a pebble-stone that a child's hand poises, Compared with the pig-of-lead-like pressure Of the preaching man's immense stupidity, As he poured his doctrine forth, full measure, To meet his audience's avidity. You needed not the wit of the Sibyl To guess the cause of it all, in a twinkling: No sooner our friend had got an inkling Of treasure hid in the Holy Bible, (Whene'er 'twas the thought first struck him, How death, at unawares, might duck him Deeper than the grave, and quench The gin-shop's light in hell's grim drench) Than he handled it so, in fine irreverence, As to hug the book of books to pieces: And, a patchwork of chapters and texts in severance, Not improved by the private dog's-ears and creases, Having clothed his own soul with, he'd fain see equipt yours,-- So tossed you again your Holy Scriptures. And you picked them up, in a sense, no doubt: Nay, had but a single face of my neighbors Appeared to suspect that the preacher's labors Were help which the world could be saved without, 'Tis odds but I might have borne in quiet A qualm or two at my spiritual diet, Or (who can tell?) perchance even mustered Somewhat to urge in behalf of the sermon: But the flock sat on, divinely flustered, Sniffing, methought, its dew of Hermon With such content in every snuffle, As the devil inside us loves to ruffle. My old fat woman purred with pleasure, And thumb round thumb went twirling faster, While she, to his periods keeping measure, Maternally devoured the pastor. The man with the handkerchief untied it, Showed us a horrible wen inside it, Gave his eyelids yet another screwing, And rocked himself as the woman was doing. The shoemaker's lad, discreetly choking, Kept down his cough. 'Twas too provoking! My gorge rose at the nonsense and stuff of it; So, saying like Eve when she plucked the apple, "I wanted a taste, and now there's enough of it," I flung out of the little chapel.

IV

There was a lull in the rain, a lull In the wind too; the moon was risen, And would have shone out pure and full, But for the ramparted cloud-prison, Block on block built up in the West, For what purpose the wind knows best, Who changes his mind continually. And the empty other half of the sky Seemed in its silence as if it knew What, any moment, might look through A chance gap in that fortress massy:-- Through its fissures you got hints Of the flying moon, by the shifting tints, Now, a dull lion-color, now, brassy Burning to yellow, and whitest yellow, Like furnace-smoke just ere flames bellow, All a-simmer with intense strain To let her through,--then blank again, At the hope of her appearance failing. Just by the chapel a break in the railing Shows a narrow path directly across; 'Tis ever dry walking there, on the moss-- Besides, you go gently all the way up-hill. I stooped under and soon felt better; My head grew lighter, my limbs more supple, As I walked on, glad to have slipt the fetter. My mind was full of the scene I had left, That placid flock, that pastor vociferant, --How this outside was pure and different! The sermon, now--what a mingled weft Of good and ill! Were either less, Its fellow had colored the whole distinctly; But alas for the excellent earnestness, And the truths, quite true if stated succinctly, But as surely false, in their quaint presentment, However to pastor and flock's contentment! Say rather, such truths looked false to your eyes, With his provings and parallels twisted and twined, Till how could you know them, grown double their size In the natural fog of the good man's mind, Like yonder spots of our roadside lamps, Haloed about with the common's damps? Truth remains true, the fault's in the prover; The zeal was good, and the aspiration; And yet, and yet, yet, fifty times over, Pharaoh received no demonstration, By his Baker's dream of Baskets Three, Of the doctrine of the Trinity,-- Although, as our preacher thus embellished it, Apparently his hearers relished it With so unfeigned a gust--who knows if They did not prefer our friend to Joseph? But so it is everywhere, one way with all of them! These people have really felt, no doubt, A something, the motion they style the Call of them; And this is their method of bringing about, By a mechanism of words and tones, (So many texts in so many groans) A sort of reviving and reproducing, More or less perfectly, (who can tell?) The mood itself, which strengthens by using; And how that happens, I understand well. A tune was born in my head last week, Out of the thump-thump and shriek-shriek Of the train, as I came by it, up from Manchester; And when, next week, I take it back again, My head will sing to the engine's clack again, While it only makes my neighbor's haunches stir, --Finding no dormant musical sprout In him, as in me, to be jolted out. 'Tis the taught already that profits by teaching; He gets no more from the railway's preaching Than, from this preacher who does the rail's office, I: Whom therefore the flock cast a jealous eye on. Still, why paint over their door "Mount Zion," To which all flesh shall come, saith the prophecy?

V

But wherefore be harsh on a single case? After how many modes, this Christmas-Eve, Does the self-same weary thing take place? The same endeavor to make you believe, And with much the same effect, no more: Each method abundantly convincing, As I say, to those convinced before, But scarce to be swallowed without wincing By the not-as-yet-convinced. For me, I have my own church equally: And in this church my faith sprang first! (I said, as I reached the rising ground, And the wind began again, with a burst Of rain in my face, and a glad rebound From the heart beneath, as if, God speeding me, I entered his church-door, nature leading me) --In youth I looked to these very skies, And probing their immensities, I found God there, his visible power; Yet felt in my heart, amid all its sense Of the power, an equal evidence That his love, there too, was the nobler dower. For the loving worm within its clod Were diviner than a loveless god Amid his worlds, I will dare to say. You know what I mean: God's all, man's naught: But also, God, whose pleasure brought Man into being, stands away As it were a handbreadth off, to give Room for the newly-made to live, And look at him from a place apart, And use his gifts of brain and heart, Given, indeed, but to keep forever. Who speaks of man, then, must not sever Man's very elements from man, Saying, "But all is God's"--whose plan Was to create man and then leave him Able, his own word saith, to grieve him, But able to glorify him too, As a mere machine could never do, That prayed or praised, all unaware Of its fitness for aught but praise and prayer. Made perfect as a thing of course. Man, therefore, stands on his own stock Of love and power as a pin-point rock: And, looking to God who ordained divorce Of the rock from his boundless continent, Sees, in his power made evident, Only excess by a million-fold O'er the power God gave man in the mould. For, note: man's hand, first formed to carry A few pounds' weight, when taught to marry Its strength with an engine's, lifts a mountain, --Advancing in power by one degree; And why count steps through eternity? But love is the ever-springing fountain: Man may enlarge or narrow his bed For the water's play, but the water-head-- How can he multiply or reduce it? As easy create it, as cause it to cease; He may profit by it, or abuse it, But 't is not a thing to bear increase As power does: be love less or more In the heart of man, he keeps it shut Or opes it wide, as he pleases, but Love's sum remains what it was before. So, gazing up, in my youth, at love As seen through power, ever above All modes which make it manifest, My soul brought all to a single test-- That he, the Eternal First and Last, Who, in his power, had so surpassed All man conceives of what is might,-- Whose wisdom, too, showed infinite, --Would prove as infinitely good; Would never, (my soul understood,) With power to work all love desires, Bestow e'en less than man requires; That he who endlessly was teaching, Above my spirit's utmost reaching, What love can do in the leaf or stone, (So that to master this alone, This done in the stone or leaf for me, I must go on learning endlessly) Would never need that I, in turn, Should point him out defect unheeded, And show that God had yet to learn What the meanest human creature needed, --Not life, to wit, for a few short years, Tracking his way through doubts and fears, While the stupid earth on which I stay Suffers no change, but passive adds Its myriad years to myriads, Though I, he gave it to, decay, Seeing death come and choose about me, And my dearest ones depart without me. No: love which, on earth, amid all the shows of it, Has ever been seen the sole good of life in it, The love, ever growing there, spite of the strife in it, Shall arise, made perfect, from death's repose of it. And I shall behold thee, face to face, O God, and in thy light retrace How in all I loved here, still wast thou! Whom pressing to, then, as I fain would now, I shall find as able to satiate The love, thy gift, as my spirit's wonder Thou art able to quicken and sublimate, With this sky of thine, that I now walk under And glory in thee for, as I gaze Thus, thus! Oh, let men keep their ways Of seeking thee in a narrow shrine-- Be this my way! And this is mine!

VI

For lo, what think you? suddenly The rain and the wind ceased, and the sky Received at once the full fruition Of the moon's consummate apparition. The black cloud-barricade was riven, Ruined beneath her feet, and driven Deep in the West; while, bare and breathless, North and South and East lay ready For a glorious thing that, dauntless, deathless, Sprang across them and stood steady. 'T was a moon-rainbow, vast and perfect, From heaven to heaven extending, perfect As the mother-moon's self, full in face. It rose, distinctly at the base With its seven proper colors chorded, Which still, in the rising, were compressed, Until at last they coalesced, And supreme the spectral creature lorded In a triumph of whitest white,-- Above which intervened the night. But above night too, like only the next, The second of a wondrous sequence, Reaching in rare and rarer frequence, Till the heaven of heavens were circumflexed, Another rainbow rose, a mightier, Fainter, flushier and flightier,-- Rapture dying along its verge. Oh, whose foot shall I see emerge, Whose, from the straining topmost dark, On to the keystone of that arc?

VII

This sight was shown me, there and then,-- Me, one out of a world of men, Singled forth, as the chance might hap To another if, in a thunderclap Where I heard noise and you saw flame, Some one man knew God called his name. For me, I think I said, "Appear! Good were it to be ever here. If thou wilt, let me build to thee Service-tabernacles three, Where, forever in thy presence, In ecstatic acquiescence, Far alike from thriftless learning And ignorance's undiscerning, I may worship and remain!" Thus at the show above me, gazing With upturned eyes, I felt my brain Glutted with the glory, blazing Throughout its whole mass, over and under, Until at length it burst asunder And out of it bodily there streamed, The too-much glory, as it seemed, Passing from out me to the ground, Then palely serpentining round Into the dark with mazy error.

VIII

All at once I looked up with terror. He was there. He himself with his human air, On the narrow pathway, just before. I saw the back of him, no more-- He had left the chapel, then, as I. I forgot all about the sky. No face: only the sight Of a sweepy garment, vast and white, With a hem that I could recognize. I felt terror, no surprise; My mind filled with the cataract At one bound of the mighty fact. "I remember, he did say Doubtless that, to this world's end, Where two or three should meet and pray, He would be in the midst, their friend; Certainly he was there with them!" And my pulses leaped for joy Of the golden thought without alloy, That I saw his very vesture's hem. Then rushed the blood back, cold and clear, With a fresh enhancing shiver of fear; And I hastened, cried out while I pressed To the salvation of the vest, "But not so, Lord! It cannot be That thou, indeed, art leaving me-- Me, that have despised thy friends! Did my heart make no amends? Thou art the love of God--above His power, didst hear me place his love, And that was leaving the world for thee. Therefore thou must not turn from me As I had chosen the other part! Folly and pride o'ercame my heart. Our best is bad, nor bears thy test; Still, it should be our very best. I thought it best that thou, the spirit, Be worshipped in spirit and in truth, And in beauty, as even we require it-- Not in the forms burlesque, uncouth, I left but now, as scarcely fitted For thee: I knew not what I pitied. But, all I felt there, right or wrong, What is it to thee, who curest sinning? Am I not weak as thou art strong? I have looked to thee from the beginning, Straight up to thee through all the world Which, like an idle scroll, lay furled To nothingness on either side: And since the time thou wast descried, Spite of the weak heart, so have I Lived ever, and so fain would die, Living and dying, thee before! But if thou leavest me"--

IX

Less or more, I suppose that I spoke thus. When,--have mercy, Lord, on us! The whole face turned upon me full. And I spread myself beneath it, As when the bleacher spreads, to seethe it In the cleansing sun, his wool,-- Steeps in the flood of noontide whiteness Some defiled, discolored web-- So lay I, saturate with brightness, And when the flood appeared to ebb, Lo, I was walking, light and swift, With my senses settling fast and steadying, But my body caught up in the whirl and drift Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying On, just before me, still to be followed, As it carried me after with its motion: What shall I say?--as a path were hollowed And a man went weltering through the ocean, Sucked along in the flying wake Of the luminous water-snake. Darkness and cold were cloven, as through I passed, upborne yet walking too. And I turned to myself at intervals,-- "So he said, so it befalls. God who registers the cup Of mere cold water, for his sake To a disciple rendered up, Disdains not his own thirst to slake At the poorest love was ever offered: And because my heart I proffered, With true love trembling at the brim, He suffers me to follow him Forever, my own way,--dispensed From seeking to be influenced By all the less immediate ways That earth, in worships manifold, Adopts to reach, by prayer and praise, The garment's hem, which, lo, I hold!"

X

And so we crossed the world and stopped. For where am I, in city or plain, Since I am 'ware of the world again? And what is this that rises propped With pillars of prodigious girth? Is it really on the earth, This miraculous Dome of God? Has the angel's measuring-rod Which numbered cubits, gem from gem, 'Twixt the gates of the New Jerusalem, Meted it out,--and what he meted, Have the sons of men completed? --Binding, ever as he bade, Columns in the colonnade With arms wide open to embrace The entry of the human race To the breast of ... what is it, yon building, Ablaze in front, all paint and gilding, With marble for brick, and stones of price For garniture of the edifice? Now I see; it is no dream; It stands there and it does not seem: Forever, in pictures, thus it looks, And thus I have read of it in books Often in England, leagues away, And wondered how these fountains play, Growing up eternally Each to a musical water-tree, Whose blossoms drop, a glittering boon, Before my eyes, in the light of the moon, To the granite lavers underneath. Liar and dreamer in your teeth! I, the sinner that speak to you, Was in Rome this night, and stood, and knew Both this and more. For see, for see, The dark is rent, mine eye is free To pierce the crust of the outer wall, And I view inside, and all there, all, As the swarming hollow of a hive, The whole Basilica alive! Men in the chancel, body and nave, Men on the pillars' architrave, Men on the statues, men on the tombs With popes and kings in their porphyry wombs, All famishing in expectation Of the main altar's consummation. For see, for see, the rapturous moment Approaches, and earth's best endowment Blends with heaven's; the taper-fires Pant up, the winding brazen spires Heave loftier yet the baldachin; The incense-gaspings, long kept in, Suspire in clouds; the organ blatant Holds his breath and grovels latent, As if God's hushing finger grazed him, (Like Behemoth when he praised him) At the silver bell's shrill tinkling, Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling On the sudden pavement strewed With faces of the multitude. Earth breaks up, time drops away, In flows heaven, with its new day Of endless life, when He who trod, Very man and very God, This earth in weakness, shame and pain, Dying the death whose signs remain Up yonder on the accursed tree,-- Shall come again, no more to be Of captivity the thrall, But the one God, All in all, King of kings, Lord of lords, As His servant John received the words, "I died, and live forevermore!"

XI

Yet I was left outside the door. "Why sit I here on the threshold-stone, Left till He return, alone Save for the garment's extreme fold Abandoned still to bless my hold?" My reason, to my doubt, replied, As if a book were opened wide, And at a certain page I traced Every record undefaced, Added by successive years,-- The harvestings of truth's stray ears Singly gleaned, and in one sheaf Bound together for belief. Yes, I said--that he will go And sit with these in turn, I know. Their faith's heart beats, though her head swims Too giddily to guide her limbs, Disabled by their palsy-stroke From propping mine. Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies: And he, whose eye detects a spark Even where, to man's, the whole seems dark, May well see flame where each beholder Acknowledges the embers smoulder. But I, a mere man, fear to quit The clue God gave me as most fit To guide my footsteps through life's maze, Because himself discerns all ways Open to reach him: I, a man Able to mark where faith began To swerve aside, till from its summit Judgment drops her damning plummet, Pronouncing such a fatal space Departed from the founder's base: He will not bid me enter too, But rather sit, as now I do, Awaiting his return outside. --'T was thus my reason straight replied And joyously I turned, and pressed The garment's skirt upon my breast, Until, afresh its light suffusing me, My heart cried--"What has been abusing me That I should wait here lonely and coldly, Instead of rising, entering boldly, Baring truth's face, and letting drift Her veils of lies as they choose to shift? Do these men praise him? I will raise My voice up to their point of praise! I see the error; but above The scope of error, see the love.-- Oh, love of those first Christian days! --Fanned so soon into a blaze, From the spark preserved by the trampled sect, That the antique sovereign Intellect Which then sat ruling in the world, Like a change in dreams, was hurled From the throne he reigned upon: You looked up and he was gone. Gone, his glory of the pen! --Love, with Greece and Rome in ken, Bade her scribes abhor the trick Of poetry and rhetoric, And exult with hearts set free, In blessed imbecility Scrawled, perchance, on some torn sheet Leaving Sallust incomplete. Gone, his pride of sculptor, painter! --Love, while able to acquaint her While the thousand statues yet Fresh from chisel, pictures wet From brush, she saw on every side, Chose rather with an infant's pride To frame those portents which impart Such unction to true Christian Art. Gone, music too! The air was stirred By happy wings: Terpander's bird (That, when the cold came, fled away) Would tarry not the wintry day,-- As more-enduring sculpture must, Till filthy saints rebuked the gust With which they chanced to get a sight Of some dear naked Aphrodite They glanced a thought above the toes of, By breaking zealously her nose off. Love, surely, from that music's lingering, Might have filched her organ-fingering, Nor chosen rather to set prayings To hog-grunts, praises to horse-neighings. Love was the startling thing, the new: Love was the all-sufficient too; And seeing that, you see the rest: As a babe can find its mother's breast As well in darkness as in light, Love shut our eyes, and all seemed right. True, the world's eyes are open now: --Less need for me to disallow Some few that keep Love's zone unbuckled, Peevish as ever to be suckled, Lulled by the same old baby-prattle With intermixture of the rattle, When she would have them creep, stand steady Upon their feet, or walk already, Not to speak of trying to climb. I will be wise another time, And not desire a wall between us, When next I see a church-roof cover So many species of one genus, All with foreheads bearing _lover_ Written above the earnest eyes of them; All with breasts that beat for beauty, Whether sublimed, to the surprise of them, In noble daring, steadfast duty, The heroic in passion, or in action,-- Or, lowered for sense's satisfaction, To the mere outside of human creatures, Mere perfect form and faultless features. What? with all Rome here, whence to levy Such contributions to their appetite, With women and men in a gorgeous bevy, They take, as it were, a padlock, clap it tight On their southern eyes, restrained from feeding On the glories of their ancient reading, On the beauties of their modern singing, On the wonders of the builder's bringing, On the majesties of Art around them,-- And, all these loves, late struggling incessant, When faith has at last united and bound them, They offer up to God for a present? Why, I will, on the whole, be rather proud of it,-- And, only taking the act in reference To the other recipients who might have allowed it, I will rejoice that God had the preference."

XII

So I summed up my new resolves: Too much love there can never be. And where the intellect devolves Its function on love exclusively, I, a man who possesses both, Will accept the provision, nothing loth, --Will feast my love, then depart elsewhere, That my intellect may find its share. And ponder, O soul, the while thou departest, And see thou applaud the great heart of the artist, Who, examining the capabilities Of the block of marble he has to fashion Into a type of thought or passion,-- Not always, using obvious facilities, Shapes it, as any artist can, Into a perfect symmetrical man, Complete from head to foot of the life-size, Such as old Adam stood in his wife's eyes,-- But, now and then, bravely aspires to consummate A Colossus by no means so easy to come at, And uses the whole of his block for the bust, Leaving the mind of the public to finish it, Since cut it ruefully short he must: On the face alone he expends his devotion, He rather would mar than resolve to diminish it, --Saying, "Applaud me for this grand notion Of what a face may be! As for completing it In breast and body and limbs, do that, you!" All hail! I fancy how, happily meeting it, A trunk and legs would perfect the statue, Could man carve so as to answer volition. And how much nobler than petty cavils, Were a hope to find, in my spirit-travels, Some artist of another ambition, Who having a block to carve, no bigger, Has spent his power on the opposite quest, And believed to begin at the feet was best-- For so may I see, ere I die, the whole figure!

XIII

No sooner said than out in the night! My heart beat lighter and more light: And still, as before, I was walking swift, With my senses settling fast and steadying, But my body caught up in the whirl and drift Of the vesture's amplitude, still eddying On, just before me, still to be followed, As it carried me after with its motion: What shall I say?--as a path were hollowed, And a man went weltering through the ocean, Sucked along in the flying wake Of the luminous water-snake.

XIV

Alone! I am left alone once more-- (Save for the garment's extreme fold Abandoned still to bless my hold) Alone, beside the entrance-door Of a sort of temple--perhaps a college, --Like nothing I ever saw before At home in England, to my knowledge. The tall old quaint irregular town! It may be ... though which, I can't affirm ... any Of the famous middle-age towns of Germany; And this flight of stairs where I sit down, Is it Halle, Weimar, Cassel, Frankfort, Or Göttingen, I have to thank for 't? It may be Göttingen,--most likely. Through the open door I catch obliquely Glimpses of a lecture-hall; And not a bad assembly neither, Ranged decent and symmetrical On benches, waiting what 's to see there; Which, holding still by the vesture's hem, I also resolve to see with them, Cautious this time how I suffer to slip The chance of joining in fellowship With any that call themselves his friends; As these folks do, I have a notion. But hist--a buzzing and emotion! All settle themselves, the while ascends By the creaking rail to the lecture-desk, Step by step, deliberate Because of his cranium's over-freight, Three parts sublime to one grotesque, If I have proved an accurate guesser, The hawk-nosed, high-cheekboned Professor. I felt at once as if there ran A shoot of love from my heart to the man-- That sallow virgin-minded studious Martyr to mild enthusiasm, As he uttered a kind of cough-preludious That woke my sympathetic spasm, (Beside some spitting that made me sorry) And stood, surveying his auditory With a wan pure look, wellnigh celestial,-- Those blue eyes had survived so much! While, under the foot they could not smutch, Lay all the fleshly and the bestial. Over he bowed, and arranged his notes, Till the auditory's clearing of throats Was done with, died into a silence; And, when each glance was upward sent, Each bearded mouth composed intent, And a pin might be heard drop half a mile hence,-- He pushed back higher his spectacles, Let the eyes stream out like lamps from cells. And giving his head of hair--a hake Of undressed tow, for color and quantity-- One rapid and impatient shake, (As our own young England adjusts a jaunty tie When about to impart, on mature digestion, Some thrilling view of the surplice-question) --The Professor's grave voice, sweet though hoarse, Broke into his Christmas-Eve discourse.

XV

And he began it by observing How reason dictated that men Should rectify the natural swerving, By a reversion, now and then, To the well-heads of knowledge, few And far away, whence rolling grew The life-stream wide whereat we drink, Commingled, as we needs must think, With waters alien to the source; To do which, aimed this eve's discourse; Since, where could be a fitter time For tracing backward to its prime, This Christianity, this lake, This reservoir, whereat we slake, From one or other bank, our thirst? So, he proposed inquiring first Into the various sources whence This Myth of Christ is derivable; Demanding from the evidence, (Since plainly no such life was livable) How these phenomena should class? Whether 't were best opine Christ was, Or never was at all, or whether He was and was not, both together-- It matters little for the name, So the idea be left the same. Only, for practical purpose' sake, 'T was obviously as well to take The popular story,--understanding How the ineptitude of the time, And the penman's prejudice, expanding Fact into fable fit for the clime, Had, by slow and sure degrees, translated it Into this myth, this Individuum,-- Which when reason had strained and abated it Of foreign matter, left, for residuum, A Man!--a right true man, however, Whose work was worthy a man's endeavor: Work, that gave warrant almost sufficient To his disciples, for rather believing He was just omnipotent and omniscient, As it gives to us, for as frankly receiving His word, their tradition,--which, though it meant Something entirely different From all that those who only heard it, In their simplicity thought and averred it, Had yet a meaning quite as respectable: For, among other doctrines delectable, Was he not surely the first to insist on The natural sovereignty of our race?-- Here the lecturer came to a pausing-place. And while his cough, like a droughty piston, Tried to dislodge the husk that grew to him, I seized the occasion of bidding adieu to him, The vesture still within my hand.

XVI

I could interpret its command. This time he would not bid me enter The exhausted air-bell of the Critic. Truth's atmosphere may grow mephitic When Papist struggles with Dissenter, Impregnating its pristine clarity, --One, by his daily fare's vulgarity, Its gust of broken meat and garlic; --One, by his soul's too-much presuming To turn the frankincense's fuming And vapors of the candle starlike Into the cloud her wings she buoys on. Each, that thus sets the pure air seething, May poison it for healthy breathing-- But the Critic leaves no air to poison; Pumps out with ruthless ingenuity Atom by atom, and leaves you--vacuity. Thus much of Christ does he reject? And what retain? His intellect? What is it I must reverence duly? Poor intellect for worship, truly, Which tells me simply what was told (If mere morality, bereft Of the God in Christ, be all that's left) Elsewhere by voices manifold; With this advantage, that the stater Made nowise the important stumble Of adding, he, the sage and humble, Was also one with the Creator. You urge Christ's followers' simplicity: But how does shifting blame evade it? Have wisdom's words no more felicity? The stumbling-block, his speech--who laid it? How comes it that for one found able To sift the truth of it from fable, Millions believe it to the letter? Christ's goodness, then--does that fare better? Strange goodness, which upon the score Of being goodness, the mere due Of man to fellow-man, much more To God--should take another view Of its possessor's privilege, And bid him rule his race! You pledge Your fealty to such rule? What, all-- From heavenly John and Attic Paul, And that brave weather-battered Peter, Whose stout faith only stood completer For buffets, sinning to be pardoned, As, more his hands hauled nets, they hardened,-- All, down to you, the man of men, Professing here at Göttingen, Compose Christ's flock! They, you and I, Are sheep of a good man! And why? The goodness,--how did he acquire it? Was it self-gained, did God inspire it? Choose which; then tell me, on what ground Should its possessor dare propound His claim to rise o'er us an inch? Were goodness all some man's invention, Who arbitrarily made mention What we should follow, and whence flinch,-- What qualities might take the style Of right and wrong,--and had such guessing Met with as general acquiescing As graced the alphabet erewhile, When A got leave an Ox to be, No Camel (quoth the Jews) like G,-- For thus inventing thing and title Worship were that man's fit requital. But if the common conscience must Be ultimately judge, adjust Its apt name to each quality Already known,--I would decree Worship for such mere demonstration And simple work of nomenclature, Only the day I praised, not nature, But Harvey, for the circulation. I would praise such a Christ, with pride And joy, that he, as none beside, Had taught us how to keep the mind God gave him, as God gave his kind, Freer than they from fleshly taint: I would call such a Christ our Saint, As I declare our Poet, him Whose insight makes all others dim: A thousand poets pried at life, And only one amid the strife Rose to be Shakespeare: each shall take His crown, I 'd say, for the world's sake-- Though some objected--"Had we seen The heart and head of each, what screen Was broken there to give them light, While in ourselves it shuts the sight, We should no more admire, perchance, That these found truth out at a glance, Than marvel how the bat discerns Some pitch-dark cavern's fifty turns, Led by a finer tact, a gift He boasts, which other birds must shift Without, and grope as best they can." No, freely I would praise the man,-- Nor one whit more, if he contended That gift of his from God descended. Ah friend, what gift of man's does not? No nearer something, by a jot, Rise an infinity of nothings Than one: take Euclid for your teacher: Distinguish kinds: do crownings, clothings, Make that creator which was creature? Multiply gifts upon man's head, And what, when all 's done, shall be said But--the more gifted he, I ween! That one 's made Christ, this other, Pilate, And this might be all that has been,-- So what is there to frown or smile at? What is left for us, save, in growth Of soul, to rise up, far past both, From the gift looking to the giver, And from the cistern to the river, And from the finite to infinity, And from man's dust to God's divinity?

XVII

Take all in a word: the truth in God's breast Lies trace for trace upon ours impressed: Though he is so bright and we so dim, We are made in his image to witness him: And were no eye in us to tell, Instructed by no inner sense, The light of heaven from the dark of hell, That light would want its evidence,-- Though justice, good and truth were still Divine, if, by some demon's will, Hatred and wrong had been proclaimed Law through the worlds, and right misnamed. No mere exposition of morality Made or in part or in totality, Should win you to give it worship, therefore: And, if no better proof you will care for, --Whom do you count the worst man upon earth? Be sure, he knows, in his conscience, more Of what right is, than arrives at birth In the best man's acts that we bow before: This last knows better--true, but my fact is, 'T is one thing to know, and another to practice. And thence I conclude that the real God-function Is to furnish a motive and injunction For practising what we know already. And such an injunction and such a motive As the God in Christ, do you waive, and "heady, High-minded," hang your tablet-votive Outside the fane on a finger-post? Morality to the uttermost, Supreme in Christ as we all confess, Why need we prove would avail no jot To make him God, if God he were not? What is the point where himself lays stress? Does the precept run "Believe in good, In justice, truth, now understood For the first time"?--or, "Believe in me, Who lived and died, yet essentially Am Lord of Life"? Whoever can take The same to his heart and for mere love's sake Conceive of the love,--that man obtains A new truth; no conviction gains Of an old one only, made intense By a fresh appeal to his faded sense.

XVIII

Can it be that he stays inside? Is the vesture left me to commune with? Could my soul find aught to sing in tune with Even at this lecture, if she tried? Oh, let me at lowest sympathize With the lurking drop of blood that lies In the desiccated brain's white roots Without throb for Christ's attributes, As the lecturer makes his special boast! If love's dead there, it has left a ghost. Admire we, how from heart to brain (Though to say so strike the doctors dumb) One instinct rises and falls again, Restoring the equilibrium. And how when the Critic had done his best, And the pearl of price, at reason's test, Lay dust and ashes levigable On the Professor's lecture-table,-- When we looked for the inference and monition That our faith, reduced to such condition, Be swept forthwith to its natural dust-hole,-- He bids us, when we least expect it, Take back our faith,--if it be not just whole, Yet a pearl indeed, as his tests affect it, Which fact pays damage done rewardingly, So, prize we our dust and ashes accordingly! "Go home and venerate the myth I thus have experimented with-- This man, continue to adore him Rather than all who went before him, And all who ever followed after!"-- Surely for this I may praise you, my brother! Will you take the praise in tears or laughter? That 's one point gained: can I compass another? Unlearned love was safe from spurning-- Can 't we respect your loveless learning? Let us at least give learning honor! What laurels had we showered upon her, Girding her loins up to perturb Our theory of the Middle Verb; Or Turk-like brandishing a scimitar O'er anapæsts in comic-trimeter; Or curing the halt and maimed "Iketides," While we lounged on at our indebted ease: Instead of which, a tricksy demon Sets her at Titus or Philemon! When ignorance wags his ears of leather And hates God's word, 't is altogether; Nor leaves he his congenial thistles To go and browse on Paul's Epistles. --And you, the audience, who might ravage The world wide, enviably savage, Nor heed the cry of the retriever, More than Herr Heine (before his fever),-- I do not tell a lie so arrant As say my passion's wings are furled up, And, without plainest heavenly warrant, I were ready and glad to give the world up-- But still, when you rub brow meticulous, And ponder the profit of turning holy If not for God's, for your own sake solely, --God forbid I should find you ridiculous! Deduce from this lecture all that eases you, Nay, call yourselves, if the calling pleases you, "Christians,"--abhor the deist's pravity,-- Go on, you shall no more move my gravity Than, when I see boys ride a-cockhorse, I find it in my heart to embarrass them By hinting that their stick 's a mock horse, And they really carry what they say carries them.

XIX

So sat I talking with my mind. I did not long to leave the door And find a new church, as before, But rather was quiet and inclined To prolong and enjoy the gentle resting From further tracking and trying and testing. "This tolerance is a genial mood!" (Said I, and a little pause ensued.) "One trims the bark 'twixt shoal and shelf, And sees, each side, the good effects of it, A value for religion's self, A carelessness about the sects of it. Let me enjoy my own conviction, Not watch my neighbor's faith with fretfulness, Still spying there some dereliction Of truth, perversity, forgetfulness! Better a mild indifferentism, Teaching that both our faiths (though duller His shine through a dull spirit's prism) Originally had one color! Better pursue a pilgrimage Through ancient and through modern times To many peoples, various climes, Where I may see saint, savage, sage Fuse their respective creeds in one Before the general Father's throne!"

XX

--'T was the horrible storm began afresh! The black night caught me in his mesh, Whirled me up, and flung me prone. I was left on the college-step alone. I looked, and far there, ever fleeting Far, far away, the receding gesture, And looming of the lessening vesture!-- Swept forward from my stupid hand, While I watched my foolish heart expand In the lazy glow of benevolence, O'er the various modes of man's belief. I sprang up with fear's vehemence. Needs must there be one way, our chief Best way of worship: let me strive To find it, and when found, contrive My fellows also take their share! This constitutes my earthly care: God's is above it and distinct, For I, a man, with men am linked And not a brute with brutes; no gain That I experience, must remain Unshared: but should my best endeavor To share it, fail--subsisteth ever God's care above, and I exult That God, by God's own ways occult, May--doth, I will believe--bring back All wanderers to a single track. Meantime, I can but testify God's care for me--no more, can I-- It is but for myself I know; The world rolls witnessing around me Only to leave me as it found me; Men cry there, but my ear is slow: Their races flourish or decay --What boots it; while yon lucid way Loaded with stars divides the vault? But soon my soul repairs its fault When, sharpening sense's hebetude, She turns on my own life! So viewed, No mere mote's-breadth but teems immense With witnessings of providence: And woe to me if when I look Upon that record, the sole book Unsealed to me, I take no heed Of any warning that I read! Have I been sure, this Christmas-Eve, God's own hand did the rainbow weave, Whereby the truth from heaven slid Into my soul?--I cannot bid The world admit he stooped to heal My soul, as if in a thunder-peal Where one heard noise, and one saw flame, I only knew he named my name: But what is the world to me, for sorrow Or joy in its censure, when to-morrow It drops the remark, with just-turned head, Then, on again, "That man is dead"? Yes, but for me--my name called,--drawn As a conscript's lot from the lap's black yawn, He has dipt into on a battle-dawn: Bid out of life by a nod, a glance,-- Stumbling, mute-mazed, at nature's chance,-- With a rapid finger circled round, Fixed to the first poor inch of ground To fight from, where his foot was found; Whose ear but a minute since lay free To the wide camp's buzz and gossipry-- Summoned, a solitary man, To end his life where his life began, From the safe glad rear, to the dreadful van! Soul of mine, hadst thou caught and held By the hem of the vesture!--

XXI

And I caught At the flying robe, and unrepelled Was lapped again in its folds full-fraught With warmth and wonder and delight, God's mercy being infinite. For scarce had the words escaped my tongue, When, at a passionate bound, I sprung Out of the wondering world of rain, Into the little chapel again.

XXII

How else was I found there, bolt upright On my bench, as if I had never left it? --Never flung out on the common at night, Nor met the storm and wedge-like cleft it, Seen the raree-show of Peter's successor, Or the laboratory of the Professor! For the Vision, that was true, I wist, True as that heaven and earth exist. There sat my friend, the yellow and tall, With his neck and its wen in the selfsame place; Yet my nearest neighbor's cheek showed gall. She had slid away a contemptuous space: And the old fat woman, late so placable, Eyed me with symptoms, hardly mistakable, Of her milk of kindness turning rancid. In short, a spectator might have fancied That I had nodded, betrayed by slumber, Yet kept my seat, a warning ghastly, Through the heads of the sermon, nine in number, And woke up now at the tenth and lastly. But again, could such disgrace have happened? Each friend at my elbow had surely nudged it; And, as for the sermon, where did my nap end? Unless I heard it, could I have judged it? Could I report as I do at the close, First, the preacher speaks through his nose: Second, his gesture is too emphatic: Thirdly, to waive what 's pedagogic, The subject-matter itself lacks logic: Fourthly, the English is ungrammatic. Great news! the preacher is found no Pascal, Whom, if I pleased, I might to the task call Of making square to a finite eye The circle of infinity, And find so all-but-just-succeeding! Great news! the sermon proves no reading Where bee-like in the flowers I bury me, Like Taylor's, the immortal Jeremy! And now that I know the very worst of him, What was it I thought to obtain at first of him? Ha! Is God mocked, as he asks? Shall I take on me to change his tasks, And dare, dispatched to a river-head For a simple draught of the element, Neglect the thing for which he sent, And return with another thing instead?-- Saying, "Because the water found Welling up from underground, Is mingled with the taints of earth, While thou, I know, dost laugh at dearth, And couldst, at wink or word, convulse The world with the leap of a river-pulse,-- Therefore I turned from the oozings muddy, And bring thee a chalice I found, instead: See the brave veins in the breccia ruddy! One would suppose that the marble bled. What matters the water? A hope I have nursed: The waterless cup will quench my thirst." --Better have knelt at the poorest stream That trickles in pain from the straitest rift! For the less or the more is all God's gift, Who blocks up or breaks wide the granite-seam. And here, is there water or not, to drink? I then, in ignorance and weakness, Taking God's help, have attained to think My heart does best to receive in meekness That mode of worship, as most to his mind, Where earthly aids being cast behind, His All in All appears serene With the thinnest human veil between, Letting the mystic lamps, the seven, The many motions of his spirit, Pass, as they list, to earth from heaven. For the preacher's merit or demerit, It were to be wished the flaws were fewer In the earthen vessel, holding treasure Which lies as safe in a golden ewer; But the main thing is, does it hold good measure? Heaven soon sets right all other matters!-- Ask, else, these ruins of humanity, This flesh worn out to rags and tatters, This soul at struggle with insanity, Who thence take comfort--can I doubt?-- Which an empire gained, were a loss without. May it be mine! And let us hope That no worse blessing befall the Pope, Turned sick at last of to-day's buffoonery, Of posturings and petticoatings, Beside his Bourbon bully's gloatings In the bloody orgies of drunk poltroonery! Nor may the Professor forego its peace At Göttingen presently, when, in the dusk Of his life, if his cough, as I fear, should increase, Prophesied of by that horrible husk-- When thicker and thicker the darkness fills The world through his misty spectacles, And he gropes for something more substantial Than a fable, myth or personification,-- May Christ do for him what no mere man shall, And stand confessed as the God of salvation! Meantime, in the still recurring fear Lest myself, at unawares, be found, While attacking the choice of my neighbors round, With none of my own made--I choose here! The giving out of the hymn reclaims me; I have done: and if any blames me, Thinking that merely to touch in brevity The topics I dwell on, were unlawful,-- Or worse, that I trench, with undue levity, On the bounds of the holy and the awful,-- I praise the heart, and pity the head of him, And refer myself to THEE, instead of him, Who head and heart alike discernest, Looking below light speech we utter, When frothy spume and frequent sputter Prove that the soul's depths boil in earnest! May truth shine out, stand ever before us! I put up pencil and join chorus To Hepzibah Tune, without further apology, The last five verses of the third section Of the seventeenth hymn of Whitefield's Collection, To conclude with the doxology.

EASTER-DAY

I

How very hard it is to be A Christian! Hard for you and me, --Not the mere task of making real That duty up to its ideal, Effecting thus, complete and whole, A purpose of the human soul-- For that is always hard to do; But hard, I mean, for me and you To realize it, more or less, With even the moderate success Which commonly repays our strife To carry out the aims of life. "This aim is greater," you will say, "And so more arduous every way." --But the importance of their fruits Still proves to man, in all pursuits, Proportional encouragement. "Then, what if it be God's intent That labor to this one result Should seem unduly difficult?" Ah, that 's a question in the dark-- And the sole thing that I remark Upon the difficulty, this: We do not see it where it is, At the beginning of the race: As we proceed, it shifts its place, And where we looked for crowns to fall, We find the tug 's to come,--that 's all.

II

At first you say, "The whole, or chief Of difficulties, is belief. Could I believe once thoroughly, The rest were simple. What? Am I An idiot, do you think,--a beast? Prove to me, only that the least Command of God is God's indeed, And what injunction shall I need To pay obedience? Death so nigh, When time must end, eternity Begin,--and cannot I compute, Weigh loss and gain together, suit My actions to the balance drawn, And give my body to be sawn Asunder, hacked in pieces, tied To horses, stoned, burned, crucified, Like any martyr of the list? How gladly!--if I make acquist, Through the brief minute's fierce annoy, Of God's eternity of joy."

III

--And certainly you name the point Whereon all turns: for could you joint This flexile finite life once tight Into the fixed and infinite, You, safe inside, would spurn what 's out, With carelessness enough, no doubt-- Would spurn mere life: but when time brings To their next stage your reasonings, Your eyes, late wide, begin to wink Nor see the path so well, I think.

IV

You say, "Faith may be, one agrees, A touchstone for God's purposes, Even as ourselves conceive of them. Could he acquit us or condemn For holding what no hand can loose, Rejecting when we can't but choose? As well award the victor's wreath To whosoever should take breath Duly each minute while he lived-- Grant heaven, because a man contrived To see its sunlight every day He walked forth on the public way. You must mix some uncertainty With faith, if you would have faith be. Why, what but faith, do we abhor And idolize each other for-- Faith in our evil or our good, Which is or is not understood Aright by those we love or those We hate, thence called our friends or foes? Your mistress saw your spirit's grace, When, turning from the ugly face, I found belief in it too hard; And she and I have our reward. --Yet here a doubt peeps: well for us Weak beings, to go using thus A touchstone for our little ends, Trying with faith the foes and friends; --But God, bethink you! I would fain Conceive of the Creator's reign As based upon exacter laws Than creatures build by with applause. In all God's acts--(as Plato cries He doth)--he should geometrize. Whence, I desiderate" ...

V

I see! You would grow as a natural tree, Stand as a rock, soar up like fire. The world 's so perfect and entire, Quite above faith, so right and fit! Go there, walk up and down in it! No. The creation travails, groans-- Contrive your music from its moans, Without or let or hindrance, friend! That 's an old story, and its end As old--you come back (be sincere) With every question you put here (Here where there once was, and is still, We think, a living oracle, Whose answers you stand carping at) This time flung back unanswered flat,-- Beside, perhaps, as many more As those that drove you out before, Now added, where was little need. Questions impossible, indeed, To us who sat still, all and each Persuaded that our earth had speech, Of God's, writ down, no matter if In cursive type or hieroglyph,-- Which one fact freed us from the yoke Of guessing why He never spoke. You come back in no better plight Than when you left us,--am I right?

VI

So, the old process, I conclude, Goes on, the reasoning 's pursued Further. You own, "'T is well averred, A scientific faith 's absurd, --Frustrates the very end 't was meant To serve. So, I would rest content With a mere probability, But, probable; the chance must lie Clear on one side,--lie all in rough, So long as there be just enough To pin my faith to, though it hap Only at points: from gap to gap One hangs up a huge curtain so, Grandly, nor seeks to have it go Foldless and flat along the wall. What care I if some interval Of life less plainly may depend On God? I 'd hang there to the end; And thus I should not find it hard To be a Christian and debarred From trailing on the earth, till furled Away by death.--Renounce the world! Were that a mighty hardship? Plan A pleasant life, and straight some man Beside you, with, if he thought fit, Abundant means to compass it, Shall turn deliberate aside To try and live as, if you tried You clearly might, yet most despise. One friend of mine wears out his eyes, Slighting the stupid joys of sense, In patient hope that, ten years hence, 'Somewhat completer,' he may say, 'My list of _coleoptera!_' While just the other who most laughs At him, above all epitaphs Aspires to have his tomb describe Himself as sole among the tribe Of snuffbox-fanciers, who possessed A Grignon with the Regent's crest. So that, subduing, as you want, Whatever stands predominant Among my earthly appetites For tastes and smells and sounds and sights, I shall be doing that alone, To gain a palm-branch and a throne, Which fifty people undertake To do, and gladly, for the sake Of giving a Semitic guess, Or playing pawns at blindfold chess."

VII

Good: and the next thing is,--look round For evidence enough! 'T is found, No doubt: as is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: you 'll find What you desire, and that 's to be A Christian. What says history? How comforting a point it were To find some mummy-scrap declare There lived a Moses! Better still, Prove Jonah's whale translatable Into some quicksand of the seas, Isle, cavern, rock, or what you please, That faith might flap her wings and crow From such an eminence! Or, no-- The human heart 's best; you prefer Making that prove the minister To truth; you probe its wants and needs, And hopes and fears, then try what creeds Meet these most aptly,--resolute That faith plucks such substantial fruit Wherever these two correspond, She little needs to look beyond And puzzle out who Orpheus was, Or Dionysius Zagrias. You 'll find sufficient, as I say, To satisfy you either way; You wanted to believe; your pains Are crowned--you do: and what remains? "Renounce the world!"--Ah, were it done By merely cutting one by one Your limbs off, with your wise head last, How easy were it!--how soon past, If once in the believing mood! "Such is man's usual gratitude, Such thanks to God do we return, For not exacting that we spurn A single gift of life, forego One real gain,--only taste them so With gravity and temperance, That those mild virtues may enhance Such pleasures, rather than abstract-- Last spice of which, will be the fact Of love discerned in every gift; While, when the scene of life shall shift, And the gay heart be taught to ache, As sorrows and privations take The place of joy,--the thing that seems Mere misery, under human schemes, Becomes, regarded by the light Of love, as very near or quite As good a gift as joy before. So plain is it that, all the more A dispensation 's merciful, More pettishly we try and cull Briers, thistles, from our private plot, To mar God's ground where thorns are not!"

VIII

Do you say this, or I?--Oh, you! Then, what, my friend?--(thus I pursue Our parley)--you indeed opine That the Eternal and Divine Did, eighteen centuries ago, In very truth ... Enough! you know The all-stupendous tale,--that Birth, That Life, that Death! And all, the earth Shuddered at,--all, the heavens grew black Rather than see; all, nature's rack And throe at dissolution's brink Attested,---all took place, you think, Only to give our joys a zest, And prove our sorrows for the best? We differ, then! Were I, still pale And heartstruck at the dreadful tale, Waiting to hear God's voice declare What horror followed for my share, As implicated in the deed, Apart from other sins,--concede That if He blacked out in a blot My brief life's pleasantness, 't were not So very disproportionate! Or there might be another fate-- I certainly could understand (If fancies were the thing in hand) How God might save, at that day's price, The impure in their impurities, Give license formal and complete To choose the fair and pick the sweet. But there be certain words, broad, plain, Uttered again and yet again, Hard to mistake or overgloss-- Announcing this world's gain for loss, And bidding us reject the same: The whole world lieth (they proclaim) In wickedness,--come out of it! Turn a deaf ear, if you think fit, But I who thrill through every nerve At thought of what deaf ears deserve-- How do you counsel in the case?

IX

"I 'd take, by all means, in your place, The safe side, since it so appears: Deny myself, a few brief years, The natural pleasure, leave the fruit Or cut the plant up by the root. Remember what a martyr said On the rude tablet overhead! 'I was born sickly, poor and mean, A slave: no misery could screen The holders of the pearl of price From Cæsar's envy; therefore twice I fought with beasts, and three times saw My children suffer by his law; At last my own release was earned: I was some time in being burned, But at the close a Hand came through The fire above my head, and drew My soul to Christ, whom now I see. Sergius, a brother, writes for me This testimony on the wall-- For me, I have forgot it all.' You say right; this were not so hard! And since one nowise is debarred From this, why not escape some sins By such a method?"

X

Then begins To the old point revulsion new-- (For 't is just this I bring you to)-- If after all we should mistake, And so renounce life for the sake Of death and nothing else? You hear Each friend we jeered at, send the jeer Back to ourselves with good effect-- "There were my beetles to collect! My box--a trifle, I confess, But here I hold it, ne'ertheless!" Poor idiots, (let us pluck up heart And answer) we, the better part Have chosen, though 't were only hope,-- Nor envy moles like you that grope Amid your veritable muck, More than the grasshoppers would truck, For yours, their passionate life away, That spends itself in leaps all day To reach the sun, you want the eyes To see, as they the wings to rise And match the noble hearts of them! Thus the contemner we contemn,-- And, when doubt strikes us, thus we ward Its stroke off, caught upon our guard, --Not struck enough to overturn Our faith, but shake it--make us learn What I began with, and, I wis, End, having proved,--how hard it is To be a Christian!

XI

"Proved, or not, Howe'er you wis, small thanks, I wot, You get of mine, for taking pains To make it hard to me. Who gains By that, I wonder? Here I live In trusting ease; and here you drive At causing me to lose what most Yourself would mourn for had you lost!"

XII

But, do you see, my friend, that thus You leave Saint Paul for Æschylus? --Who made his Titan's arch-device The giving men _blind hopes_ to spice The meal of life with, else devoured In bitter haste, while lo, death loured Before them at the platter's edge! If faith should be, as I allege, Quite other than a condiment To heighten flavors with, or meant (Like that brave curry of his Grace) To take at need the victuals' place? If, having dined, you would digest Besides, and turning to your rest Should find instead ...

XIII

Now, you shall see And judge if a mere foppery Pricks on my speaking! I resolve To utter--yes, it shall devolve On you to hear as solemn, strange And dread a thing as in the range Of facts,--or fancies, if God will-- E'er happened to our kind! I still Stand in the cloud and, while it wraps My face, ought not to speak perhaps; Seeing that if I carry through My purpose, if my words in you Find a live actual listener, My story, reason must aver False after all--the happy chance! While, if each human countenance I meet in London day by day, Be what I fear,--my warnings fray No one, and no one they convert, And no one helps me to assert How hard it is to really be A Christian, and in vacancy I pour this story!

XIV

I commence By trying to inform you, whence It comes that every Easter-night As now, I sit up, watch, till light, Upon those chimney-stacks and roofs, Give, through my window-pane, gray proofs That Easter-Day is breaking slow. On such a night, three years ago, It chanced that I had cause to cross The common, where the chapel was, Our friend spoke of, the other day-- You 've not forgotten, I dare say. I fell to musing of the time So close, the blessed matin-prime All hearts leap up at, in some guise-- One could not well do otherwise. Insensibly my thoughts were bent Toward the main point; I overwent Much the same ground of reasoning As you and I just now. One thing Remained, however--one that tasked My soul to answer; and I asked, Fairly and frankly, what might be That History, that Faith, to me --Me there--not me in some domain Built up and peopled by my brain, Weighing its merits as one weighs Mere theories for blame or praise, --The kingcraft of the Lucumons, Or Fourier's scheme, its pros and cons,-- But my faith there, or none at all. "How were my case, now, did I fall Dead here, this minute--should I lie Faithful or faithless?" Note that I Inclined thus ever!--little prone For instance, when I lay alone In childhood, to go calm to sleep And leave a closet where might keep His watch perdue some murderer Waiting till twelve o'clock to stir, As good authentic legends tell: "He might: but how improbable! How little likely to deserve The pains and trial to the nerve Of thrusting head into the dark!"-- Urged my old nurse, and bade me mark Beside, that, should the dreadful scout Really lie hid there, and leap out At first turn of the rusty key, Mine were small gain that she could see, Killed not in bed but on the floor, And losing one night's sleep the more. I tell you, I would always burst The door ope, know my fate at first. This time, indeed, the closet penned No such assassin: but a friend Rather, peeped out to guard me, fit For counsel, Common Sense, to wit, Who said a good deal that might pass,-- Heartening, impartial too, it was, Judge else: "For, soberly now,--who Should be a Christian if not you?" (Hear how he smoothed me down.) "One takes A whole life, sees what course it makes Mainly, and not by fits and starts-- In spite of stoppage which imparts Fresh value to the general speed. A life, with none, would fly indeed: Your progressing is slower--right! We deal with progress and not flight. Through baffling senses passionate, Fancies as restless,--with a freight Of knowledge cumbersome enough To sink your ship when waves grow rough, Though meant for ballast in the hold,-- I find, 'mid dangers manifold, The good bark answers to the helm Where faith sits, easier to o'erwhelm Than some stout peasant's heavenly guide, Whose hard head could not, if it tried, Conceive a doubt, nor understand How senses hornier than his hand Should 'tice the Christian off his guard. More happy! But shall we award Less honor to the hull which, dogged By storms, a mere wreck, waterlogged, Masts by the board, her bulwarks gone And stanchions going, yet bears on,-- Than to mere lifeboats, built to save, And triumph o'er the breaking wave? Make perfect your good ship as these, And what were her performances!" I added--"Would the ship reach home! I wish indeed 'God's kingdom come'-- The day when I shall see appear His bidding, as my duty, clear From doubt! And it shall dawn, that day, Some future season; Easter may Prove, not impossibly, the time-- Yes, that were striking--fates would chime So aptly! Easter-morn, to bring The Judgment!--deeper in the spring Than now, however, when there 's snow Capping the hills; for earth must show All signs of meaning to pursue Her tasks as she was wont to do --The skylark, taken by surprise As we ourselves, shall recognize Sudden the end. For suddenly It comes; the dreadfulness must be In that; all warrants the belief-- 'At night it cometh like a thief.' I fancy why the trumpet blows; --Plainly, to wake one. From repose We shall start up, at last awake From life, that insane dream we take For waking now, because it seems. And as, when now we wake from dreams, We laugh, while we recall them, 'Fool, To let the chance slip, linger cool When such adventure offered! Just A bridge to cross, a dwarf to thrust Aside, a wicked mage to stab-- And, lo ye, I had kissed Queen Mab!' So shall we marvel why we grudged Our labor here, and idly judged Of heaven, we might have gained, but lose! Lose? Talk of loss, and I refuse To plead at all! You speak no worse Nor better than my ancient nurse When she would tell me in my youth I well deserved that shapes uncouth Frighted and teased me in my sleep: Why could I not in memory keep Her precept for the evil's cure? 'Pinch your own arm, boy, and be sure You 'll wake forthwith!'"

XV

And as I said This nonsense, throwing back my head With light complacent laugh, I found Suddenly all the midnight round One fire. The dome of heaven had stood As made up of a multitude Of handbreadth cloudlets, one vast rack Of ripples infinite and black, From sky to sky. Sudden there went, Like horror and astonishment, A fierce vindictive scribble of red Quick flame across, as if one said (The angry scribe of Judgment) "There-- Burn it!" And straight I was aware That the whole ribwork round, minute Cloud touching cloud beyond compute, Was tinted, each with its own spot Of burning at the core, till clot Jammed against clot, and spilt its fire Over all heaven, which 'gan suspire As fanned to measure equable,-- Just so great conflagrations kill Night overhead, and rise and sink, Reflected. Now the fire would shrink And wither off the blasted face Of heaven, and I distinct might trace The sharp black ridgy outlines left Unburned like network--then, each cleft The fire had been sucked back into, Regorged, and out it surging flew Furiously, and night writhed inflamed, Till, tolerating to be tamed No longer, certain rays world-wide Shot downwardly. On every side Caught past escape, the earth was lit; As if a dragon's nostril split And all his famished ire o'erflowed; Then, as he winced at his lord's goad, Back he inhaled: whereat I found The clouds into vast pillars bound, Based on the corners of the earth, Propping the skies at top: a dearth Of fire i' the violet intervals, Leaving exposed the utmost walls Of time, about to tumble in And end the world.

XVI

I felt begin The Judgment-Day: to retrocede Was too late now. "In very deed," (I uttered to myself) "that Day!" The intuition burned away All darkness from my spirit too: There, stood I, found and fixed, I knew, Choosing the world. The choice was made; And naked and disguiseless stayed, And unevadable, the fact. My brain held all the same compact Its senses, nor my heart declined Its office; rather, both combined To help me in this juncture. I Lost not a second,--agony Gave boldness: since my life had end And my choice with it--best defend, Applaud both! I resolved to say, "So was I framed by thee, such way I put to use thy senses here! It was so beautiful, so near, Thy world,--what could I then but choose My part there? Nor did I refuse To look above the transient boon Of time; but it was hard so soon As in a short life, to give up Such beauty: I could put the cup, Undrained of half its fulness, by; But, to renounce it utterly, --That was too hard! Nor did the cry Which bade renounce it, touch my brain Authentically deep and plain Enough to make my lips let go. But thou, who knowest all, dost know Whether I was not, life's brief while, Endeavoring to reconcile Those lips (too tardily, alas!) To letting the dear remnant pass, One day,--some drops of earthly good Untasted! Is it for this mood, That thou, whose earth delights so well, Hast made its complement a hell?"

XVII

A final belch of fire like blood, Overbroke all heaven in one flood Of doom. Then fire was sky, and sky Fire, and both, one brief ecstasy, Then ashes. But I heard no noise (Whatever was) because a voice Beside me spoke thus, "Life is done, Time ends, Eternity 's begun, And thou art judged forevermore."

XVIII

I looked up; all seemed as before; Of that cloud-Tophet overhead No trace was left: I saw instead The common round me, and the sky Above, stretched drear and emptily Of life. 'T was the last watch of night, Except what brings the morning quite; When the armed angel, conscience-clear, His task nigh done, leans o'er his spear And gazes on the earth he guards, Safe one night more through all its wards, Till God relieve him at his post. "A dream--a waking dream at most!" (I spoke out quick, that I might shake The horrid nightmare off, and wake.) "The world gone, yet the world is here? Are not all things as they appear? Is Judgment past for me alone? --And where had place the great white throne? The rising of the quick and dead? Where stood they, small and great? Who read The sentence from the opened book?" So, by degrees, the blood forsook My heart, and let it beat afresh; I knew I should break through the mesh Of horror, and breathe presently: When, lo, again, the voice by me!

XIX

I saw ... O brother, 'mid far sands The palm-tree-cinctured city stands, Bright-white beneath, as heaven, bright-blue, Leans o'er it, while the years pursue Their course, unable to abate Its paradisal laugh at fate! One morn,--the Arab staggers blind O'er a new tract of death, calcined To ashes, silence, nothingness,-- And strives, with dizzy wits, to guess Whence fell the blow. What if, 'twixt skies And prostrate earth, he should surprise The imaged vapor, head to foot, Surveying, motionless and mute, Its work, ere, in a whirlwind rapt It vanish up again?--So hapt My chance. HE stood there. Like the smoke Pillared o'er Sodom, when day broke,-- I saw him. One magnific pall Mantled in massive fold and fall His head, and coiled in snaky swathes About his feet: night's black, that bathes All else, broke, grizzled with despair, Against the soul of blackness there. A gesture told the mood within-- That wrapped right hand which based the chin, That intense meditation fixed On his procedure,--pity mixed With the fulfilment of decree. Motionless, thus, he spoke to me, Who fell before his feet, a mass, No man now.

XX

"All is come to pass. Such shows are over for each soul They had respect to. In the roll Of Judgment which convinced mankind Of sin, stood many, bold and blind, Terror must burn the truth into: Their fate for them!--thou hadst to do With absolute omnipotence, Able its judgments to dispense To the whole race, as every one Were its sole object. Judgment done, God is, thou art,--the rest is hurled To nothingness for thee. This world, This finite life, thou hast preferred, In disbelief of God's plain word, To heaven and to infinity. Here the probation was for thee, To show thy soul the earthly mixed With heavenly, it must choose betwixt. The earthly joys lay palpable,-- A taint, in each, distinct as well; The heavenly flitted, faint and rare, Above them, but as truly were Taintless, so, in their nature, best. Thy choice was earth: thou didst attest 'T was fitter spirit should subserve The flesh, than flesh refine to nerve Beneath the spirit's play. Advance No claim to their inheritance Who chose the spirit's fugitive Brief gleams, and yearned, 'This were to live Indeed, if rays, completely pure From flesh that dulls them, could endure,-- Not shoot in meteor-light athwart Our earth, to show how cold and swart It lies beneath their fire, but stand As stars do, destined to expand, Prove veritable worlds, our home!' Thou saidst,--'Let spirit star the dome Of sky, that flesh may miss no peak, No nook of earth,--I shall not seek Its service further!' Thou art shut Out of the heaven of spirit; glut Thy sense upon the world: 't is thine Forever--take it!"

XXI

"How? Is mine, The world?" (I cried, while my soul broke Out in a transport.) "Hast thou spoke Plainly in that? Earth's exquisite Treasures of wonder and delight For me?"

XXII

The austere voice returned,-- "So soon made happy? Hadst thou learned What God accounteth happiness, Thou wouldst not find it hard to guess What hell may be his punishment For those who doubt if God invent Better than they. Let such men rest Content with what they judged the best. Let the unjust usurp at will: The filthy shall be filthy still: Miser, there waits the gold for thee! Hater, indulge thine enmity! And thou, whose heaven self-ordained Was, to enjoy earth unrestrained, Do it! Take all the ancient show! The woods shall wave, the rivers flow, And men apparently pursue Their works, as they were wont to do, While living in probation yet. I promise not thou shalt forget The past, now gone to its account; But leave thee with the old amount Of faculties, nor less nor more, Unvisited, as heretofore, By God's free spirit, that makes an end. So, once more, take thy world! Expend Eternity upon its shows Flung thee as freely as one rose Out of a summer's opulence, Over the Eden-barrier whence Thou art excluded. Knock in vain!"

XXIII

I sat up. All was still again. I breathed free: to my heart, back fled The warmth. "But, all the world!"--I said. I stooped and picked a leaf of fern, And recollected I might learn From books, how many myriad sorts Of fern exist, to trust reports, Each as distinct and beautiful As this, the very first I cull. Think, from the first leaf to the last! Conceive, then, earth's resources! Vast Exhaustless beauty, endless change Of wonder! And this foot shall range Alps, Andes,--and this eye devour The bee-bird and the aloe-flower?

XXIV

Then the voice: "Welcome so to rate The arras-folds that variegate The earth, God's antechamber, well! The wise, who waited there, could tell By these, what royalties in store Lay one step past the entrance-door. For whom, was reckoned, not too much, This life's munificence? For such As thou,--a race, whereof scarce one Was able, in a million, To feel that any marvel lay In objects round his feet all day; Scarce one, in many millions more, Willing, if able, to explore The secreter, minuter charm! --Brave souls, a fern-leaf could disarm Of power to cope with God's intent,-- Or scared if the south firmament With north-fire did its wings refledge! All partial beauty was a pledge Of beauty in its plenitude: But since the pledge sufficed thy mood, Retain it! plenitude be theirs Who looked above!"

XXV

Though sharp despairs Shot through me, I held up, bore on. "What matter though my trust were gone From natural things? Henceforth my part Be less with nature than with art! For art supplants, gives mainly worth To nature; 'tis man stamps the earth-- And I will seek his impress, seek The statuary of the Greek, Italy's painting--there my choice Shall fix!"

XXVI

"Obtain it!" said the voice, "The one form with its single act, Which sculptors labored to abstract, The one face, painters tried to draw, With its one look, from throngs they saw. And that perfection in their soul, These only hinted at? The whole, They were but parts of? What each laid His claim to glory on?--afraid His fellow-men should give him rank By mere tentatives which he shrank Smitten at heart from, all the more, That gazers pressed in to adore! 'Shall I be judged by only these?' If such his soul's capacities, Even while he trod the earth,--think, now. What pomp in Buonarroti's brow, With its new palace-brain where dwells Superb the soul, unvexed by cells That crumbled with the transient clay! What visions will his right hand's sway Still turn to forms, as still they burst Upon him? How will he quench thirst, Titanically infantine, Laid at the breast of the Divine? Does it confound thee,--this first page Emblazoning man's heritage?-- Can this alone absorb thy sight, As pages were not infinite,-- Like the omnipotence which tasks Itself to furnish all that asks The soul it means to satiate? What was the world, the starry state Of the broad skies,--what, all displays Of power and beauty intermixed, Which now thy soul is chained betwixt,-- What else than needful furniture For life's first stage? God's work, be sure. No more spreads wasted, than falls scant! He filled, did not exceed, man's want Of beauty in this life. But through Life pierce,--and what has earth to do, Its utmost beauty's appanage, With the requirement of next stage? Did God pronounce earth 'very good'? Needs must it he, while understood For man's preparatory state; Naught here to heighten nor abate; Transfer the same completeness here, To serve a new state's use,--and drear Deficiency gapes every side! The good, tried once, were bad, retried. See the enwrapping rocky niche, Sufficient for the sleep in which The lizard breathes for ages safe: Split the mould--and as light would chafe The creature's new world-widened sense, Dazzled to death at evidence Of all the sounds and sights that broke Innumerous at the chisel's stroke,-- So, in God's eye, the earth's first stuff Was, neither more nor less, enough To house man's soul, man's need fulfil. Man reckoned it immeasurable? So thinks the lizard of his vault! Could God be taken in default, Short of contrivances, by you,-- Or reached, ere ready to pursue His progress through eternity? That chambered rock, the lizard's world, Your easy mallet's blow has hurled To nothingness forever; so, Has God abolished at a blow This world, wherein his saints were pent,-- Who, though found grateful and content, With the provision there, as thou, Yet knew he would not disallow Their spirit's hunger, felt as well,-- Unsated,--not unsatable, As paradise gives proof. Deride Their choice now, thou who sit'st outside!"

XXVII

I cried in anguish: "Mind, the mind, So miserably cast behind, To gain what had been wisely lost! Oh, let me strive to make the most Of the poor stinted soul, I nipped Of budding wings, else now equipped For voyage from summer isle to isle! And though she needs must reconcile Ambition to the life on ground, Still, I can profit by late found But precious knowledge. Mind is best-- I will seize mind, forego the rest, And try how far my tethered strength May crawl in this poor breadth and length. Let me, since I can fly no more, At least spin dervish-like about (Till giddy rapture almost doubt I fly) through circling sciences, Philosophies and histories! Should the whirl slacken there, then verse, Fining to music, shall asperse Fresh and fresh fire-dew, till I strain Intoxicate, half-break my chain! Not joyless, though more favored feet Stand calm, where I want wings to beat The floor. At least earth's bond is broke!"

XXVIII

Then (sickening even while I spoke): "Let me alone! No answer, pray, To this! I know what thou wilt say! All still is earth's,--to know, as much As feel its truths, which if we touch With sense, or apprehend in soul, What matter? I have reached the goal-- 'Whereto does knowledge serve!' will burn My eyes, too sure, at every turn! I cannot look back now, nor stake Bliss on the race, for running's sake. The goal's a ruin like the rest!" "And so much worse thy latter quest," (Added the voice,) "that even on earth-- Whenever, in man's soul, had birth Those intuitions, grasps of guess, Which pull the more into the less, Making the finite comprehend Infinity,--the bard would spend Such praise alone, upon his craft, As, when wind-lyres obey the waft, Goes to the craftsman who arranged The seven strings, changed them and rechanged-- Knowing it was the South that harped. He felt his song; in singing, warped; Distinguished his and God's part: whence A world of spirit as of sense Was plain to him, yet not too plain, Which he could traverse, not remain A guest in:--else were permanent Heaven on the earth its gleams were meant To sting with hunger for full light,-- Made visible in verse, despite The veiling weakness,--truth by means Of fable, showing while it screens,-- Since highest truth, man e'er supplied, Was ever fable on outside. Such gleams made bright the earth an age; Now the whole sun's his heritage! Take up thy world, it is allowed, Thou who hast entered in the cloud!"

XXIX

Then I--"Behold, my spirit bleeds, Catches no more at broken reeds,-- But lilies flower those reeds above: I let the world go, and take love! Love survives in me, albeit those I love be henceforth masks and shows, Not living men and women: still I mind how love repaired all ill, Cured wrong, soothed grief, made earth amends With parents, brothers, children, friends! Some semblance of a woman yet With eyes to help me to forget, Shall look on me; and I will match Departed love with love, attach Old memories to new dreams, nor scorn The poorest of the grains of corn I save from shipwreck on this isle, Trusting its barrenness may smile With happy foodful green one day, More precious for the pains. I pray,-- Leave to love, only!"

XXX

At the word, The form, I looked to have been stirred With pity and approval, rose O'er me, as when the headsman throws Axe over shoulder to make end-- I fell prone, letting him expend His wrath, while thus the inflicting voice Smote me. "Is this thy final choice? Love is the best? 'Tis somewhat late! And all thou dost enumerate Of power and beauty in the world, The mightiness of love was curled Inextricably round about. Love lay within it and without, To clasp thee,--but in vain! Thy soul Still shrunk from him who made the whole, Still set deliberate aside His love!--Now take love! Well betide Thy tardy conscience! Haste to take The show of love for the name's sake, Remembering every moment who, Beside creating thee unto These ends, and these for thee, was said To undergo death in thy stead In flesh like thine: so ran the tale. What doubt in thee could countervail Belief in it? Upon the ground 'That in the story had been found Too much love! How could God love so?' He who in all his works below Adapted to the needs of man, Made love the basis of the plan,-- Did love, as was demonstrated: While man, who was so fit instead To hate, as every day gave proof,--Man thought man, for his kind's behoof, Both, could and did invent that scheme Of perfect love: 'twould well beseem Cain's nature thou wast wont to praise, Not tally with God's usual ways!"

XXXI

And I cowered deprecatingly-- "Thou Love of God! Or let me die, Or grant what shall seem heaven almost! Let me not know that all is lost, Though lost it be--leave me not tied To this despair, this corpse-like bride! Let that old life seem mine--no more-- With limitation as before, With darkness, hunger, toil, distress: Be all the earth a wilderness! Only let me go on, go on, Still hoping ever and anon To reach one eve the Better Land!"

XXXII

Then did the form expand, expand-- I knew him through the dread disguise As the whole God within his eyes Embraced me.

XXXIII

When I lived again, The day was breaking,--the gray plain I rose from, silvered thick with dew. Was this a vision? False or true? Since then, three varied years are spent, And commonly my mind is bent To think it was a dream--be sure A mere dream and distemperature-- The last day's watching: then the night,-- The shock of that strange Northern Light Set my head swimming, bred in me A dream. And so I live, you see, Go through the world, try, prove, reject, Prefer, still struggling to effect My warfare; happy that I can Be crossed and thwarted as a man, Not left in God's contempt apart, With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart, Tame in earth's paddock as her prize. Thank God, she still each method tries To catch me, who may yet escape, She knows,--the fiend in angel's shape! Thank God, no paradise stands barred To entry, and I find it hard To be a Christian, as I said! Still every now and then my head Raised glad, sinks mournful--all grows drear Spite of the sunshine, while I fear And think, "How dreadful to be grudged No ease henceforth, as one that's judged, Condemned to earth forever, shut From heaven!" But Easter-Day breaks! But Christ rises! Mercy every way Is infinite,--and who can say?

MEN AND WOMEN

LONDON AND FLORENCE, 184-185-

In making his final distribution of poems Browning gave the above title and dates to the thirteen poems which follow, but the title was originally given by him to two volumes published in 1855. The other poems are dispersed among the several groups already named, with the exception of _In a Balcony_, which appeared by itself.

"TRANSCENDENTALISM: A POEM IN TWELVE BOOKS"

Stop playing, poet! May a brother speak? 'Tis you speak, that's your error. Song's our art: Whereas you please to speak these naked thoughts Instead of draping them in sights and sounds. --True thoughts, good thoughts, thoughts fit to treasure up! But why such long prolusion and display, Such turning and adjustment of the harp, And taking it upon your breast, at length, Only to speak dry words across its strings? Stark-naked thought is in request enough: Speak prose and hollo it till Europe hears! The six-foot Swiss tube, braced about with bark, Which helps the hunter's voice from Alp to Alp-- Exchange our harp for that,--who hinders you?

But here's your fault; grown men want thought, you think; Thought's what they mean by verse, and seek in verse: Boys seek for images and melody, Men must have reason--so, you aim at men. Quite otherwise! Objects throng our youth, 'tis true; We see and hear and do not wonder much: If you could tell us what they mean, indeed! As German Boehme never cared for plants Until it happed, a-walking in the fields, He noticed all at once that plants could speak, Nay, turned with loosened tongue, to talk with him. That day the daisy had an eye indeed-- Colloquized with the cowslip on such themes! We find them extant yet in Jacob's prose. But by the time youth slips a stage or two While reading prose in that tough book he wrote (Collating and emendating the same And settling on the sense most to our mind), We shut the clasps and find life's summer past. Then, who helps more, pray, to repair our loss-- Another Boehme with a tougher book And subtler meanings of what roses say,-- Or some stout Mage like him of Halberstadt, John, who made things Boehme wrote thoughts about? He with a "look you!" vents a brace of rhymes, And in there breaks the sudden rose herself, Over us, under, round us every side. Nay, in and out the tables and the chairs And musty volumes, Boehme's book and all,-- Buries us with a glory, young once more, Pouring heaven into this shut house of life.

So come, the harp back to your heart again! You are a poem, though your poem's naught. The best of all you showed before, believe, Was your own boy-face o'er the finer chords Bent, following the cherub at the top That points to God with his paired half-moon wings.

HOW IT STRIKES A CONTEMPORARY

I only knew one poet in my life: And this, or something like it, was his way. You saw go up and down Valladolid, A man of mark, to know next time you saw. His very serviceable suit of black Was courtly once and conscientious still, And many might have worn it, though none did: The cloak, that somewhat shone and showed the threads, Had purpose, and the ruff, significance. He walked and tapped the pavement with his cane, Scenting the world, looking it full in face, An old dog, bald and blindish, at his heels. They turned up, now, the alley by the church, That leads nowhither; now, they breathed themselves On the main promenade just at the wrong time: You'd come upon his scrutinizing hat, Making a peaked shade blacker than itself Against the single window spared some house Intact yet with its mouldered Moorish work,-- Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks Of some new shop a-building, French and fine. He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade, The man who slices lemons into drink, The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys That volunteer to help him turn its winch. He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye, And fly-leaf ballads on the vender's string, And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall. He took such cognizance of men and things, If any beat a horse, you felt he saw; If any cursed a woman, he took note; Yet stared at nobody,--you stared at him, And found, less to your pleasure than surprise, He seemed to know you and expect as much. So, next time that a neighbor's tongue was loosed, It marked the shameful and notorious fact, We had among us, not so much a spy, As a recording chief-inquisitor, The town's true master if the town but knew! We merely kept a governor for form, While this man walked about and took account Of all thought, said and acted, then went home, And wrote it fully to our Lord the King Who has an itch to know things, he knows why, And reads them in his bedroom of a night. Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch, A tang of ... well, it was not wholly ease As back into your mind the man's look came. Stricken in years a little,--such a brow His eyes had to live under!--clear as flint On either side the formidable nose Curved, cut and colored like an eagle's claw. Had he to do with A's surprising fate? When altogether old B disappeared And young C got his mistress,--was't our friend, His letter to the King, that did it all? What paid the bloodless man for so much pains? Our Lord the King has favorites manifold, And shifts his ministry some once a month; Our city gets new governors at whiles,-- But never word or sign, that I could hear, Notified to this man about the streets The King's approval of those letters conned The last thing duly at the dead of night. Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord, Exhorting when none heard--"Beseech me not! Too far above my people,--beneath me! I set the watch,--how should the people know? Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!" Was some such understanding 'twixt the two?

I found no truth in one report at least-- That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace, You found he ate his supper in a room Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall, And twenty naked girls to change his plate! Poor man, he lived another kind of life In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge, Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise! The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat, Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back, Playing a decent cribbage with his maid (Jacynth, you're sure her name was) o'er the cheese And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears, Or treat of radishes in April. Nine, Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.

My father, like the man of sense he was, Would point him out to me a dozen times; "'St--'St," he'd whisper, "the Corregidor! I had been used to think that personage Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt, And feathers like a forest in his hat, Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news, Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn, And memorized the miracle in vogue! He had a great observance from us boys; We were in error; that was not the man.

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, And seen who lined the clean gay garret-sides And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, Through a whole campaign of the world's life and death, Doing the King's work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,-- And, now the day was won, relieved at once! No further show or need for that old coat, You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! A second, and the angels alter that. Well, I could never write a verse,--could you? Let's to the Prado and make the most of time.

ARTEMIS PROLOGIZES

Upon the first proof of this poem Browning wrote: "I had better say perhaps that the above is nearly all retained of a tragedy I composed much against my endeavor, while in bed with a fever two years ago--it went farther into the story of Hippolytus and Aricia; but when I got well, putting only thus much down at once, I soon forgot the remainder." The notes contain an interesting defence by Browning of the form of his Greek names.

I am a goddess of the ambrosial courts, And save by Here, Queen of Pride, surpassed By none whose temples whiten this the world. Through heaven I roll my lucid moon along; I shed in hell o'er my pale people peace; On earth I, caring for the creatures, guard Each pregnant yellow wolf and fox-bitch sleek, And every feathered mother's callow brood, And all that love green haunts and loneliness. Of men, the chaste adore me, hanging crowns Of poppies red to blackness, bell and stem, Upon my image at Athenai here; And this dead Youth, Asclepios bends above, Was dearest to me. He, my buskined step To follow through the wild-wood leafy ways, And chase the panting stag, or swift with darts Stop the swift ounce, or lay the leopard low, Neglected homage to another god: Whence Aphrodite, by no midnight smoke Of tapers lulled, in jealousy dispatched A noisome lust that, as the gadbee stings, Possessed his stepdame Phaidra for himself The son of Theseus her great absent spouse. Hippolutos exclaiming in his rage Against the fury of the Queen, she judged Life insupportable; and, pricked at heart An Amazonian stranger's race should dare To scorn her, perished by the murderous cord: Yet, ere she perished, blasted in a scroll The fame of him her swerving made not swerve. And Theseus read, returning, and believed, And exiled, in the blindness of his wrath, The man without a crime who, last as first, Loyal, divulged not to his sire the truth. Now Theseus from Poseidon had obtained That of his wishes should be granted three, And one he imprecated straight--"Alive May ne'er Hippolutos reach other lands!" Poseidon heard, ai ai! And scarce the prince Had stepped into the fixed boots of the car That give the feet a stay against the strength Of the Henetian horses, and around His body flung the rein, and urged their speed Along the rocks and shingles of the shore, When from the gaping wave a monster flung His obscene body in the coursers' path. These, mad with terror, as the sea-bull sprawled Wallowing about their feet, lost care of him That reared them; and the master-chariot-pole Snapping beneath their plunges like a reed, Hippolutos, whose feet were trammelled fast, Was yet dragged forward by the circling rein Which either hand directed; nor they quenched The frenzy of their flight before each trace, Wheel-spoke and splinter of the woeful car, Each boulder-stone, sharp stub and spiny shell, Huge fish-bone wrecked and wreathed amid the sands On that detested beach, was bright with blood And morsels of his flesh: then fell the steeds Head-foremost, crashing in their moonèd fronts, Shivering with sweat, each white eye horror-fixed. His people, who had witnessed all afar, Bore back the ruins of Hippolutos. But when his sire, too swoln with pride, rejoiced (Indomitable as a man foredoomed) That vast Poseidon had fulfilled his prayer, I, in a flood of glory visible, Stood o'er my dying votary and, deed By deed, revealed, as all took place, the truth. Then Theseus lay the woefullest of men, And worthily; but ere the death-veils hid His face, the murdered prince full pardon breathed To his rash sire. Whereat Athenai wails.

So I, who ne'er forsake my votaries, Lest in the cross-way none the honey-cake Should tender, nor pour out the dog's hot life; Lest at my fane the priests disconsolate Should dress my image with some faded poor Few crowns, made favors of, nor dare object Such slackness to my worshippers who turn Elsewhere the trusting heart and loaded hand, As they had climbed Olumpos to report Of Artemis and nowhere found her throne-- I interposed: and, this eventful night,-- (While round the funeral pyre the populace Stood with fierce light on their black robes which bound Each sobbing head, while yet their hair they clipped O'er the dead body of their withered prince, And, in his palace, Theseus prostrated On the cold hearth, his brow cold as the slab 'Twas bruised on, groaned away the heavy grief-- As the pyre fell, and down the cross logs crashed Sending a crowd of sparkles through the night, And the gay fire, elate with mastery, Towered like a serpent o'er the clotted jars Of wine, dissolving oils and frankincense, And splendid gums like gold,)--my potency Conveyed the perished man to my retreat In the thrice-venerable forest here. And this white-bearded sage who squeezes now The berried plant, is Phoibos' son of fame, Asclepios, whom my radiant brother taught The doctrine of each herb and flower and root, To know their secret'st virtue and express The saving soul of all: who so has soothed With lavers the torn brow and murdered cheeks, Composed the hair and brought its gloss again, And called the red bloom to the pale skin back, And laid the strips and jagged ends of flesh Even once more, and slacked the sinew's knot Of every tortured limb--that now he lies As if mere sleep possessed him underneath These interwoven oaks and pines. Oh cheer, Divine presenter of the healing rod, Thy snake, with ardent throat and lulling eye, Twines his lithe spires around! I say, much cheer! Proceed thou with thy wisest pharmacies! And ye, white crowd of woodland sister-nymphs, Ply, as the sage directs, these buds and leaves That strew the turf around the twain! While I Await, in fitting silence, the event.

AN EPISTLE

CONTAINING THE STRANGE MEDICAL EXPERIENCE OF KARSHISH, THE ARAB PHYSICIAN

Karshish, the picker-up of learning's crumbs, The not-incurious in God's handiwork (This man's-flesh he hath admirably made, Blown like a bubble, kneaded like a paste, To coop up and keep down on earth a space That puff of vapor from his mouth, man's soul) --To Abib, all-sagacious in our art, Breeder in me of what poor skill I boast, Like me inquisitive how pricks and cracks Befall the flesh through too much stress and strain, Whereby the wily vapor fain would slip Back and rejoin its source before the term,-- And aptest in contrivance (under God) To baffle it by deftly stopping such:-- The vagrant Scholar to his Sage at home Sends greeting (health and knowledge, fame with peace) Three samples of true snake-stone--rarer still, One of the other sort, the melon-shaped, (But fitter, pounded fine, for charms than drugs) And writeth now the twenty-second time.

My journeyings were brought to Jericho: Thus I resume. Who studious in our art Shall count a little labor unrepaid? I have shed sweat enough, left flesh and bone On many a flinty furlong of this land. Also, the country-side is all on fire With rumors of a marching hitherward: Some say Vespasian cometh, some, his son. A black lynx snarled and pricked a tufted ear; Lust of my blood inflamed his yellow balls: I cried and threw my staff and he was gone. Twice have the robbers stripped and beaten me, And once a town declared me for a spy; But at the end, I reach Jerusalem, Since this poor covert where I pass the night, This Bethany, lies scarce the distance thence A man with plague-sores at the third degree Runs till he drops down dead. Thou laughest here! 'Sooth, it elates me, thus reposed and safe, To void the stuffing of my travel-scrip And share with thee whatever Jewry yields. A viscid choler is observable In tertians, I was nearly bold to say; And falling-sickness hath a happier cure Than our school wots of: there's a spider here Weaves no web, watches on the ledge of tombs, Sprinkled with mottles on an ash-gray back; Take five and drop them ... but who knows his mind, The Syrian runagate I trust this to? His service payeth me a sublimate Blown up his nose to help the ailing eye. Best wait: I reach Jerusalem at morn, There set in order my experiences, Gather what most deserves, and give thee all-- Or I might add, Judæa's gum-tragacanth Scales off in purer flakes, shines clearer-grained, Cracks 'twixt the pestle and the porphyry. In fine exceeds our produce. Scalp-disease Confounds me, crossing so with leprosy-- Thou hadst admired one sort I gained at Zoar-- But zeal outruns discretion. Here I end.

Yet stay: my Syrian blinketh gratefully, Protesteth his devotion is my price-- Suppose I write what harms not, though he steal? I half resolve to tell thee, yet I blush, What set me off a-writing first of all. An itch I had, a sting to write, a tang! For, be it this town's barrenness--or else The Man had something in the look of him-- His case has struck me far more than 't is worth. So, pardon if--(lest presently I lose In the great press of novelty at hand The care and pains this somehow stole from me) I bid thee take the thing while fresh in mind, Almost in sight--for, wilt thou have the truth? The very man is gone from me but now, Whose ailment is the subject of discourse. Thus then, and let thy better wit help all!

'T is but a case of mania--subinduced By epilepsy, at the turning-point Of trance prolonged unduly some three days: When, by the exhibition of some drug Or spell, exorcization, stroke of art Unknown to me and which 't were well to know, The evil thing out-breaking all at once Left the man whole and sound of body indeed,-- But, flinging (so to speak) life's gates too wide, Making a clear house of it too suddenly, The first conceit that entered might inscribe Whatever it was minded on the wall So plainly at that vantage, as it were, (First come, first served) that nothing subsequent Attaineth to erase those fancy-scrawls The just-returned and new-established soul Hath gotten now so thoroughly by heart That henceforth she will read or these or none. And first--the man's own firm conviction rests That he was dead (in fact they buried him) --That he was dead and then restored to life By a Nazarene physician of his tribe: --'Sayeth, the same bade "Rise," and he did rise. "Such cases are diurnal," thou wilt cry. Not so this figment!--not, that such a fume, Instead of giving way to time and health, Should eat itself into the life of life, As saffron tingeth flesh, blood, bones and all! For see, how he takes up the after-life. The man--it is one Lazarus a Jew, Sanguine, proportioned, fifty years of age, The body's habit wholly laudable, As much, indeed, beyond the common health As he were made and put aside to show. Think, could we penetrate by any drug And bathe the wearied soul and worried flesh, And bring it clear and fair, by three days' sleep! Whence has the man the balm that brightens all? This grown man eyes the world now like a child. Some elders of his tribe, I should premise, Led in their friend, obedient as a sheep, To bear my inquisition. While they spoke, Now sharply, now with sorrow,--told the case,-- He listened not except I spoke to him, But folded his two hands and let them talk, Watching the flies that buzzed: and yet no fool. And that's a sample how his years must go. Look, if a beggar, in fixed middle-life, Should find a treasure,--can he use the same With straitened habits and with tastes starved small, And take at once to his impoverished brain The sudden element that changes things, That sets the undreamed-of rapture at his hand And puts the cheap old joy in the scorned dust? Is he not such an one as moves to mirth-- Warily parsimonious, when no need, Wasteful as drunkenness at undue times? All prudent counsel as to what befits The golden mean, is lost on such an one: The man's fantastic will is the man's law. So here--we call the treasure knowledge, say, Increased beyond the fleshly faculty-- Heaven opened to a soul while yet on earth, Earth forced on a soul's use while seeing heaven: The man is witless of the size, the sum, The value in proportion of all things, Or whether it be little or be much. Discourse to him of prodigious armaments Assembled to besiege his city now, And of the passing of a mule with gourds-- 'T is one! Then take it on the other side, Speak of some trifling fact,--he will gaze rapt With stupor at its very littleness, (Far as I see) as if in that indeed He caught prodigious import, whole results; And so will turn to us the bystanders In ever the same stupor (note this point) That we too see not with his opened eyes. Wonder and doubt come wrongly into play, Preposterously, at cross purposes. Should his child sicken unto death,--why, look For scarce abatement of his cheerfulness, Or pretermission of the daily craft! While a word, gesture, glance from that same child At play or in the school or laid asleep Will startle him to an agony of fear, Exasperation, just as like. Demand The reason why--"'t is but a word," object-- "A gesture"--he regards thee as our lord Who lived there in the pyramid alone, Looked at us (dost thou mind?) when, being young, We both would unadvisedly recite Some charm's beginning, from that book of his, Able to bid the sun throb wide and burst All into stars, as suns grown old are wont. Thou and the child have each a veil alike Thrown o'er your heads, from under which ye both Stretch your blind hands and trifle with a match Over a mine of Greek fire, did ye know! He holds on firmly to some thread of life-- (It is the life to lead perforcedly) Which runs across some vast distracting orb Of glory on either side that meagre thread, Which, conscious of, he must not enter yet-- The spiritual life around the earthly life: The law of that is known to him as this, His heart and brain move there, his feet stay here. So is the man perplext with impulses Sudden to start off crosswise, not straight on, Proclaiming what is right and wrong across, And not along, this black thread through the blaze-- "It should be" balked by "here it cannot be." And oft the man's soul springs into his face As if he saw again and heard again His sage that bade him "Rise" and he did rise. Something, a word, a tick o' the blood within Admonishes: then back he sinks at once To ashes, who was very fire before, In sedulous recurrence to his trade Whereby he earneth him the daily bread; And studiously the humbler for that pride, Professedly the faultier that he knows God's secret, while he holds the thread of life. Indeed the especial marking of the man Is prone submission to the heavenly will-- Seeing it, what it is, and why it is. 'Sayeth, he will wait patient to the last For that same death which must restore his being To equilibrium, body loosening soul Divorced even now by premature full growth: He will live, nay, it pleaseth him to live So long as God please, and just how God please. He even seeketh not to please God more (Which meaneth, otherwise) than as God please. Hence, I perceive not he affects to preach The doctrine of his sect whate'er it be, Make proselytes as madmen thirst to do: How can he give his neighbor the real ground, His own conviction? Ardent as he is-- Call his great truth a lie, why, still the old "Be it as God please" reassureth him. I probed the sore as thy disciple should: "How, beast," said I, "this stolid carelessness Sufficeth thee, when Rome is on her march To stamp out like a little spark thy town, Thy tribe, thy crazy tale and thee at once?" He merely looked with his large eyes on me. The man is apathetic, you deduce? Contrariwise, he loves both old and young, Able and weak, affects the very brutes And birds--how say I? flowers of the field-- As a wise workman recognizes tools In a master's workshop, loving what they make. Thus is the man as harmless as a lamb: Only impatient, let him do his best, At ignorance and carelessness and sin-- And indignation which is promptly curbed: As when in certain travel I have feigned To be an ignoramus in our art According to some preconceived design, And happed to hear the land's practitioners, Steeped in conceit sublimed by ignorance, Prattle fantastically on disease, Its cause and cure--and I must hold my peace!

Thou wilt object--Why have I not ere this Sought out the sage himself, the Nazarene Who wrought this cure, inquiring at the source, Conferring with the frankness that befits? Alas! it grieveth me, the learned leech Perished in a tumult many years ago, Accused--our learning's fate--of wizardry, Rebellion, to the setting up a rule And creed prodigious as described to me. His death, which happened when the earthquake fell (Prefiguring, as soon appeared, the loss To occult learning in our lord the sage Who lived there in the pyramid alone) Was wrought by the mad people--that's their wont! On vain recourse, as I conjecture it, To his tried virtue, for miraculous help-- How could he stop the earthquake? That 's their way! The other imputations must be lies: But take one, though I loathe to give it thee, In mere respect for any good man's fame. (And after all, our patient Lazarus Is stark mad; should we count on what he says? Perhaps not: though in writing to a leech 'T is well to keep back nothing of a case.) This man so cured regards the curer, then, As--God forgive me! who but God himself, Creator and sustainer of the world, That came and dwelt in flesh on it awhile! --'Sayeth that such an one was born and lived, Taught, healed the sick, broke bread at his own house, Then died, with Lazarus by, for aught I know, And yet was ... what I said nor choose repeat, And must have so avouched himself, in fact, In hearing of this very Lazarus Who saith--but why all this of what he saith? Why write of trivial matters, things of price Calling at every moment for remark? I noticed on the margin of a pool Blue-flowering borage, the Aleppo sort, Aboundeth, very nitrous. It is strange!

Thy pardon for this long and tedious case, Which, now that I review it, needs must seem Unduly dwelt on, prolixly set forth! Nor I myself discern in what is writ Good cause for the peculiar interest And awe indeed this man has touched me with. Perhaps the journey's end, the weariness Had wrought upon me first. I met him thus: I crossed a ridge of short sharp broken hills Like an old lion's cheek teeth. Out there came A moon made like a face with certain spots Multiform, manifold, and menacing: Then a wind rose behind me. So we met In this old sleepy town at unaware, The man and I. I send thee what is writ. Regard it as a chance, a matter risked To this ambiguous Syrian--he may lose, Or steal, or give it thee with equal good. Jerusalem's repose shall make amends For time this letter wastes, thy time and mine; Till when, once more thy pardon and farewell!

The very God! think, Abib; dost thou think? So, the All-Great, were the All-Loving too-- So, through the thunder comes a human voice Saying, "O heart I made, a heart beats here! Face, my hands fashioned, see it in myself! Thou hast no power nor mayst conceive of mine, But love I gave thee, with myself to love, And thou must love me who have died for thee!" The madman saith He said so: it is strange.

JOHANNES AGRICOLA IN MEDITATION

First published with the signature Z in _The Monthly Repository_ in 1836. A quotation from a _Dictionary of all Religions_ followed the title on the first publication, but is here transferred to the notes.

There 's heaven above, and night by night I look right through its gorgeous roof; No suns and moons though e'er so bright Avail to stop me; splendor-proof I keep the broods of stars aloof: For I intend to get to God, For 't is to God I speed so fast, For in God's breast, my own abode, Those shoals of dazzling glory, passed, I lay my spirit down at last. I lie where I have always lain, God smiles as he has always smiled; Ere suns and moons could wax and wane, Ere stars were thundergirt, or piled The heavens, God thought on me his child; Ordained a life for me, arrayed Its circumstances every one To the minutest; ay, God said This head this hand should rest upon Thus, ere he fashioned star or sun. And having thus created me, Thus rooted me, he bade me grow, Guiltless forever, like a tree That buds and blooms, nor seeks to know The law by which it prospers so: But sure that thought and word and deed All go to swell his love for me, Me, made because that love had need Of something irreversibly Pledged solely its content to be. Yes, yes, a tree which must ascend, No poison-gourd foredoomed to stoop! I have God's warrant, could I blend All hideous sins, as in a cup, To drink the mingled venoms up; Secure my nature will convert The draught to blossoming gladness fast: While sweet dews turn to the gourd's hurt, And bloat, and while they bloat it, blast, As from the first its lot was cast. For as I lie, smiled on, full-fed By unexhausted power to bless, I gaze below on hell's fierce bed, And those its waves of flame oppress, Swarming in ghastly wretchedness; Whose life on earth aspired to be One altar-smoke, so pure!--to win If not love like God's love for me, At least to keep his anger in; And all their striving turned to sin. Priest, doctor, hermit, monk grown white With prayer, the broken-hearted nun, The martyr, the wan acolyte, The incense-swinging child,--undone Before God fashioned star or sun! God, whom I praise; how could I praise, If such as I might understand, Make out and reckon on his ways, And bargain for his love, and stand, Paying a price, at his right hand?

PICTOR IGNOTUS

FLORENCE, 15--

I could have painted pictures like that youth's Ye praise so. How my soul springs up! No bar Stayed me--ah, thought which saddens while it soothes! --Never did fate forbid me, star by star, To outburst on your night with all my gift Of fires from God: nor would my flesh have shrunk From seconding my soul, with eyes uplift And wide to heaven, or, straight like thunder, sunk To the centre, of an instant; or around Turned calmly and inquisitive, to scan The license and the limit, space and bound, Allowed to truth made visible in man. And, like that youth ye praise so, all I saw, Over the canvas could my hand have flung, Each face obedient to its passion's law. Each passion clear proclaimed without a tongue; Whether Hope rose at once in all the blood, A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace, Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when her brood Pull down the nesting dove's heart to its place; Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, And locked the mouth fast, like a castle braved,-- O human faces, hath it spilt, my cup? What did ye give me that I have not saved? Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how well!) Of going--I, in each new picture,--forth, As, making new hearts beat and bosoms swell, To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, South, or North, Bound for the calmly satisfied great State, Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went, Flowers cast upon the car which bore the freight, Through old streets named afresh from the event, Till it reached home, where learned age should greet My face, and youth, the star not yet distinct Above his hair, lie learning at my feet!-- Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, linked With love about, and praise, till life should end, And then not go to heaven, but linger here, Here on my earth, earth's every man my friend,-- The thought grew frightful, 't was so wildly dear! But a voice changed it. Glimpses of such sights Have scared me, like the revels through a door Of some strange house of idols at its rites! This world seemed not the world it was before: Mixed with my loving trusting ones, there trooped ... Who summoned those cold faces that begun To press on me and judge me? Though I stooped Shrinking, as from the soldiery a nun, They drew me forth, and spite of me ... enough! These buy and sell our pictures, take and give, Count them for garniture and household-stuff, And where they live needs must our pictures live And see their faces, listen to their prate, Partakers of their daily pettiness, Discussed of,--"This I love, or this I hate, This likes me more, and this affects me less!" Wherefore I chose my portion. If at whiles My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint These endless cloisters and eternal aisles With the same series, Virgin, Babe and Saint, With the same cold calm beautiful regard,-- At least no merchant traffics in my heart; The sanctuary's gloom at least shall ward Vain tongues from where my pictures stand apart: Only prayer breaks the silence of the shrine While, blackening in the daily candle-smoke, They moulder on the damp wall's travertine, 'Mid echoes the light footstep never woke. So, die my pictures! surely, gently die! O youth, men praise so,--holds their praise its worth? Blown harshly, keeps the trump its golden cry? Tastes sweet the water with such specks of earth?

FRA LIPPO LIPPI

I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! You need not clap your torches to my face. Zooks, what 's to blame? you think you see a monk! What, 't is past midnight, and you go the rounds, And here you catch me at an alley's end Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? The Carmine 's my cloister: hunt it up, Do,--harry out, if you must show your zeal, Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, _Weke, weke_, that 's crept to keep him company! Aha, you know your betters! Then, you 'll take Your hand away that 's fiddling on my throat, And please to know me likewise. Who am I? Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off--he 's a certain ... how d 'ye call? Master--a ... Cosimo of the Medici, I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! Remember and tell me, the day you 're hanged, How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves Pick up a manner nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets And count fair prize what comes into their net? He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is! Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. Lord, I 'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!) And all 's come square again. I 'd like his face-- His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! It 's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style me so. What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, You know them and they take you? like enough! I saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. Let 's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. Here 's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands To roam the town and sing out carnival, And I 've been three weeks shut within my mow, A-painting for the great man, saints and saints And saints again. I could not paint all night-- Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. There came a hurry of feet and little feet, A sweep of lute-strings, laughs, and whifts of song,-- _Flower o' the broom,_ _Take away love, and our earth is a tomb!_ _Flower o' the Quince,_ _I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?_ _Flower o' the thyme_--and so on. Round they went. Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,--three slim shapes, And a face that looked up ... zooks, sir, flesh and blood, That 's all I 'm made of! Into shreds it went, Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, All the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, There was a ladder! Down I let myself, Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, And after them. I came up with the fun Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,-- _Flower o' the rose,_ _If I've been merry, what matter who knows?_ And so as I was stealing back again To get to bed and have a bit of sleep Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- Mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting's in that! If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! I was a baby when my mother died And father died and left me in the street. I starved there, God knows how, a year or two On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, My stomach being empty as your hat, The wind doubled me up and down I went. Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) And so along the wall, over the bridge, By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, While I stood munching my first bread that month: "So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father, Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,-- "To quit this very miserable world? Will you renounce" ... "the mouthful of bread?" thought I; By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici Have given their hearts to--all at eight years old. Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 'Twas not for nothing--the good bellyful, The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, And day-long blessed idleness beside! "Let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next. Not overmuch their way, I must confess. Such a to-do! They tried me with their books; Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! _Flower o' the clove,_ _All the Latin I construe is "amo," I love!_ But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets Eight years together, as my fortune was, Watching folk's faces to know who will fling The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, And who will curse or kick him for his pains,-- Which gentleman processional and fine, Holding a candle to the Sacrament, Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch The droppings of the wax to sell again, Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,-- How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop His bone from the heap of offal in the street,-- Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, He learns the look of things, and none the less For admonition from the hunger-pinch. I had a store of such remarks, be sure, Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. I drew men's faces on my copy-books, Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, And made a string of pictures of the world Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. "Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. What if at last we get our man of parts, We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine And put the front on it that ought to be!" And hereupon he bade me daub away. Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, Never was such prompt disemburdening. First, every sort of monk, the black and white, I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, From good old gossips waiting to confess Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,-- To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there With the little children round him in a row Of admiration, half for his beard and half For that white anger of his victim's son Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, Signing himself with the other because of Christ (Whose sad face on the cross sees only this After the passion of a thousand years) Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, (Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers (The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. I painted all, then cried "'Tis ask and have; Choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. The monks closed in a circle and praised loud Till checked, taught what to see and not to see. Being simple bodies,--"That's the very man! Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes To care about his asthma: it's the life!" But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; Their betters took their turn to see and say: The Prior and the learned pulled a face And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! Your business is not to catch men with show, With homage to the perishable clay, But lift them over it, ignore it all, Make them forget there 's such a thing as flesh. Your business is to paint the souls of men-- Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke ... no, it's not ... It's vapor done up like a new-born babe-- (In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) It's ... well, what matters talking, it's the soul! Give us no more of body than shows soul! Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, That sets us praising,--why not stop with him? Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head With wonder at lines, colors, and what not? Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! Rub all out, try at it a second time. Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, She's just my niece ... Herodias, I would say,-- Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? A fine way to paint soul, by painting body So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white When what you put for yellow's simply black, And any sort of meaning looks intense When all beside itself means and looks naught. Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, Left foot and right foot, go a double step, Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, The Prior's niece ... patron-saint--is it so pretty You can't discover if it means hope, fear, Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, And then add soul and heighten them threefold? Or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- (I never saw it?--put the case the same--) If you get simple beauty and naught else, You get about the best thing God invents: That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, Within yourself, when you return him thanks. "Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short; And so the thing has gone on ever since. I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: You should not take a fellow eight years old And make him swear to never kiss the girls. I'm my own master, paint now as I please-- Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-- Those great rings serve more purposes than just To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, The heads shake still--"It's art's decline, my son! You 're not of the true painters, great and old; Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" _Flower o' the pine,_ _You keep your mistr ... manners, and I'll stick to mine!_ I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint To please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't; For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-- A laugh, a cry, the business of the world-- (_Flower o' the peach,_ _Death for us all, and his own life for each!_) And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, And I do these wild things in sheer despite, And play the fooleries you catch me at, In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, Although the miller does not preach to him The only good of grass is to make chaff. What would men have? Do they like grass or no-- May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing Settled forever one way. As it is, You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: You don't like what you only like too much, You do like what, if given you at your word, You find abundantly detestable. For me, I think I speak as I was taught; I always see the garden and God there A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, The value and significance of flesh, I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards.

You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. But see, now--why, I see as certainly As that the morning-star's about to shine, What will hap some day. We've a youngster here Comes to our convent, studies what I do, Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: His name is Guidi--he'll not mind the monks-- They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk-- He picks my practice up--he'll paint apace, I hope so--though I never live so long, I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! You speak no Latin more than I, belike; However, you're my man, you've seen the world --The beauty and the wonder and the power, The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades, Changes, surprises,--and God made it all! --For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, The mountain round it and the sky above, Much more the figures of man, woman, child, These are the frame to? What's it all about? To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, Wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say. But why not do as well as say,--paint these Just as they are, careless what comes of it? God's works--paint anyone, and count it crime To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works Are here already; nature is complete: Suppose you reproduce her--(which you can't) There's no advantage! you must beat her, then." For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; And so they are better, painted--better to us, Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; God uses us to help each other so, Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, And trust me but you should, though! How much more, If I drew higher things with the same truth! That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, It makes me mad to see what men shall do And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink. "Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain It does not say to folk--remember matins, Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this What need of art at all? A skull and bones, Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. I painted a Saint Laurence six months since At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: "How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns-- "Already not one phiz of your three slaves Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, The pious people have so eased their own With coming to say prayers there in a rage: We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. Expect another job this time next year, For pity and religion grow i' the crowd-- Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools!

--That is--you'll not mistake an idle word Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, Tasting the air this spicy night which turns The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! It's natural a poor monk out of bounds Should have his apt word to excuse himself: And hearken how I plot to make amends. I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece ... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet As puff on puff of grated orris-root When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. And then i' the front, of course a saint or two-- Saint John, because he saves the Florentines, Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white The convent's friends and gives them a long day, And Job, I must have him there past mistake, The man of Uz (and Us without the z, Painters who need his patience). Well, all these Secured at their devotion, up shall come Out of a corner when you least expect, As one by a dark stair into a great light, Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!-- Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck--I'm the man! Back I shrink--what is this I see and hear? I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, I, in this presence, this pure company! Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing Forward, puts out a soft palm--"Not so fast!" --Addresses the celestial presence, "nay-- He made you and devised you, after all, Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw-- His camel-hair make up a painting-brush? We come to brother Lippo for all that, _Iste perfecit opus!_" So, all smile-- I shuffle sideways with my blushing face Under the cover of a hundred wings Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off To some safe bench behind, not letting go The palm of her, the little lily thing That spoke the good word for me in the nick, Like the Prior's niece ... Saint Lucy, I would say. And so all's saved for me, and for the church A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! Your hand, sir, and good-by: no lights, no lights! The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, Don't fear me! There's the gray beginning, Zooks!

ANDREA DEL SARTO

CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER"

But do not let us quarrel any more, No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once: Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? I 'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, Treat his own subject after his own way, Fix his own time, accept too his own price, And shut the money into this small hand When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? Oh, I 'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love! I often am much wearier than you think, This evening more than usual, and it seems As if--forgive now--should you let me sit Here by the window with your hand in mine And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, Both of one mind, as married people use, Quietly, quietly the evening through, I might get up to-morrow to my work Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! Your soft hand is a woman of itself, And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve For each of the five pictures we require: It saves a model. So! keep looking so-- My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! --How could you ever prick those perfect ears, Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, Which everybody looks on and calls his, And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. You smile? why, there 's my picture ready made, There 's what we painters call our harmony! A common grayness silvers everything,-- All in a twilight, you and I alike --You, at the point of your first pride in me (That 's gone you know),--but I, at every point; My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. There 's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; That length of convent-wall across the way Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, And autumn grows, autumn in everything. Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape As if I saw alike my work and self And all that I was born to be and do, A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! This chamber for example--turn your head-- All that 's behind us! You don't understand Nor care to understand about my art, But you can hear at least when people speak: And that cartoon, the second from the door --It is the thing, Love! so such thing should be-- Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say. I can do with my pencil what I know, What I see, what at bottom of my heart I wish for, if I ever wish so deep-- Do easily, too--when I say, perfectly, I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, Who listened to the Legate's talk last week, And just as much they used to say in France. At any rate 't is easy, all of it! No sketches first, no studies, that 's long past: I do what many dream of all their lives, --Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, And fail in doing. I could count twenty such On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, Who strive--you don't know how the others strive To paint a little thing like that you smeared Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,-- Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. There burns a truer light of God in them, In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain, Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, Reach many a time a heaven that 's shut to me, Enter and take their place there sure enough, Though they come back and cannot tell the world. My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. The sudden blood of these men! at a word-- Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. I, painting from myself and to myself, Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame Or their praise either. Somebody remarks Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what 's a heaven for? All is silver-gray Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain, And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth The Urbinate who died five years ago. ('T is copied, George Vasari sent it me.) Well, I can fancy how he did it all, Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, Above and through his art--for it gives way; That arm is wrongly put--and there again-- A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, He means right--that, a child may understand. Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: But all the play, the insight and the stretch-- Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think-- More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged "God and the glory! never care for gain. The present by the future, what is that? Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" I might have done it for you. So it seems: Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. Beside, incentives come from the soul's self; The rest avail not. Why do I need you? What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? In this world, who can do a thing, will not; And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: Yet the will 's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict, That I am something underrated here, Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look,-- One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, I painting proudly with his breath on me, All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,-- And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work, To crown the issue with a last reward! A good time, was it not, my kingly days? And had you not grown restless ... but I know-- 'T is done and past; 't was right, my instinct said; Too live the life grew, golden and not gray, And I 'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. How could it end in any other way? You called me, and I came home to your heart. The triumph was--to reach and stay there; since I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; The Roman's is the better when you pray. But still the other's Virgin was his wife"-- Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows My better fortune, I resolve to think. For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, Said one day Agnolo, his very self, To Rafael ... I have known it all these years ... (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, Too lifted up in heart because of it) "Friend, there 's a certain sorry little scrub Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, Who, were he set to plan and execute As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, Would bring the sweat into that _brow of_ yours!" To Rafael's!--And indeed the arm is wrong. I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see, Give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! Ay, but the soul! he 's Rafael! rub it out! Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? Do you forget already words like those?) If really there was such a chance, so lost,-- Is, whether you 're--not grateful--but more pleased. Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! This hour has been an hour! Another smile? If you would sit thus by me every night I should work better, do you comprehend? I mean that I should earn more, give you more. See, it is settled dusk now; there 's a star; Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. Come from the window, love,--come in, at last, Inside the melancholy little house We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, The walls become illumined, brick from brick Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans? More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? While hand and eye and something of a heart Are left me, work 's my ware, and what 's it worth? I 'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit The gray remainder of the evening out, Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly How I could paint, were I but back in France, One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face. Not yours this time! I want you at my side To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo-- Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. I take the subjects for his corridor, Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, And throw him in another thing or two If he demurs; the whole should prove enough To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, What 's better and what 's all I care about, Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis!--it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said. My father and my mother died of want. Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! No doubt, there 's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. This must suffice me here. What would one have? In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me To cover--the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So--still they overcome Because there 's still Lucrezia,--as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH

ROME, 15--

This poem was first published in _Hood's Magazine_, March, 1845, with the title _The Tomb at Saint Praxed's_ (Rome, 15--).

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well-- She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! What 's done is done, and she is dead beside, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, And up into the aery dome where live The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, With those nine columns round me, two and two, The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, Put me where I may look at him! True peach, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close: that conflagration of my church --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find ... Ah God, I know not, I! ... Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, And corded up in a tight olive-frail, Some lump, ah God, of _lapis lazuli,_ Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ... Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, That brave Frascati villa with its bath, So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, Like God the Father's globe on both his hands Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- 'T was ever antique-black I meant! How else Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, And Moses with the tables ... but I know Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope To revel down my villas while I gasp Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve My bath must needs be left behind, alas! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! And then how I shall lie through centuries, And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, And see God made and eaten all day long, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Dying: in state and by such slow degrees, I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, About the life before I lived this life, And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All _lapis_, all, sons! Else I give the Pope My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, They glitter like your mother's for my soul, Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, To comfort me on my entablature Whereon I am to lie till I must ask "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone-- Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- And no more _lapis_ to delight the world! Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, But in a row: and, going, turn your backs --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, And leave me in my church, the church for peace, That I may watch at leisure if he leers-- Old Gandolf--at me, from his onion-stone, As still he envied me, so fair she was!

BISHOP BLOUGRAM'S APOLOGY

No more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. It's different, preaching in basilicas, And doing duty in some masterpiece Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart! I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? These hot long ceremonies of our church Cost us a little--oh, they pay the price, You take me--amply pay it! Now, we'll talk.

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. No deprecation,--nay, I beg you, sir! Beside 'tis our engagement: don't you know, I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, We'd see truth dawn together?--truth that peeps Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done, And body gets its sop and holds its noise And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time: Truth's break of day! You do despise me then. And if I say, "despise me,"--never fear! I know you do not in a certain sense-- Not in my arm-chair, for example: here, I well imagine you respect my place (_Status_, _entourage_, worldly circumstance) Quite to its value--very much indeed: --Are up to the protesting eyes of you In pride at being seated here for once-- You'll turn it to such capital account! When somebody, through years and years to come, Hints of the bishop,--names me--that's enough: "Blougram? I knew him"--(into it you slide) "Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, All alone, we two; he's a clever man: And after dinner,--why, the wine you know,-- Oh, there was wine, and good!--what with the wine ... 'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen Something of mine he relished, some review: He's quite above their humbug in his heart, Half-said as much, indeed--the thing's his trade. I warrant, Blougram's skeptical at times: How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!" _Che che_, my dear sir, as we say at Rome, Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take; You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths: The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit.

Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays-- You do despise me; your ideal of life Is not the bishop's; you would not be I. You would like better to be Goethe, now, Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, Count D'Orsay,--so you did what you preferred, Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, Believed or disbelieved, no matter what, So long as on that point, whate'er it was, You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. --That, my ideal never can include, Upon that element of truth and worth Never be based! for say they make me Pope-- (They can't--suppose it for our argument!) Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached My height, and not a height which pleases you: An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, Of how some actor on a stage played Death, With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, And called himself the monarch of the world; Then, going in the tire-room afterward, Because the play was done, to shift himself, Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, The moment he had shut the closet door, By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, And whose part he presumed to play just now. Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true!

So, drawing comfortable breath again, You weigh and find, whatever more or less I boast of my ideal realized Is nothing in the balance when opposed To your ideal, your grand simple life, Of which you will not realize one jot. I am much, you are nothing; you would be all, I would be merely much: you beat me there.

No, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, Is--not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be,--but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means: a very different thing! No abstract intellectual plan of life Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, May lead within a world which (by your leave) Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. Embellish Rome, idealize away, Make paradise of London if you can, You're welcome, nay, you're wise.

A simile! We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. Now for our six months' voyage--how prepare? You come on shipboard with a landsman's list Of things he calls convenient: so they are! An India screen is pretty furniture, A piano-forte is a fine resource, All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, The new edition fifty volumes long; And little Greek books, with the funny type They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next: Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add! 'Twere pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, Since he more than the others brings with him Italy's self,--the marvellous Modenese!-- Yet was not on your list before, perhaps. --Alas, friend, here's the agent ... is't the name? The captain, or whoever's master here-- You see him screw his face up; what's his cry Ere you set foot on shipboard? "Six feet square!" If you won't understand what six feet mean, Compute and purchase stores accordingly-- And if, in pique because he overhauls Your Jerome, piano, bath, you come on board Bare--why, you cut a figure at the first While sympathetic landsmen see you off; Not afterward, when long ere half seas over, You peep up from your utterly naked boards Into some snug and well-appointed berth, Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug-- Put back the other, but don't jog the ice!) And mortified you mutter, "Well and good; He sits enjoying his sea-furniture; 'Tis stout and proper, and there's store of it: Though I've the better notion, all agree, Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances-- I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all!" And meantime you bring nothing: never mind-- You've proved your artist-nature: what you don't You might bring, so despise me, as I say.

Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. See my way: we're two college friends, suppose. Prepare together for our voyage, then; Each note and check the other in his work,-- Here's mine, a bishop's outfit; criticise! What's wrong? why won't you be a bishop too?

Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't, (Not statedly, that is, and fixedly And absolutely and exclusively) In any revelation called divine. No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains But say so, like the honest man you are? First, therefore, overhaul theology! Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, Must find believing every whit as hard: And if I do not frankly say as much, The ugly consequence is clear enough.

Now wait, my friend: well, I do not believe-- If you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, Absolute and exclusive, as you say. You're wrong--I mean to prove it in due time. Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie I could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, So give up hope accordingly to solve-- (To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas then With both of us, though in unlike degree, Missing full credence--overboard with them! I mean to meet you on your own premise: Good, there go mine in company with yours!

And now what are we? unbelievers both, Calm and complete, determinately fixed To-day, to-morrow, and forever, pray? You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! In no wise! all we've gained is, that belief, As unbelief before, shakes us by fits, Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's The gain? how can we guard our unbelief, Make it bear fruit to us?--the problem here. Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, A chorus-ending from Euripides,-- And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears As old and new at once as nature's self, To rap and knock and enter in our soul, Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, Hound the ancient idol, on his base again,-- The grand Perhaps! We look on helplessly. There the old misgivings, crooked questions are-- This good God,--what he could do, if he would, Would, if he could--then must have done long since: If so, when, where and how? some way must be,-- Once feel about, and soon or late you hit Some sense, in which it might be, after all. Why not, "The Way, the Truth, the Life?"

--That way Over the mountain, which who stands upon Is apt to doubt if it be meant for a road; While, if he views it from the waste itself, Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, Not vague, mistakable! what's a break or two Seen from the unbroken desert either side? And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) What if the breaks themselves should prove at last The most consummate of contrivances To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith? And so we stumble at truth's very test! All we have gained then by our unbelief Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, For one of faith diversified by doubt: We called the chess-board white,--we call it black.

"Well," you rejoin, "the end's no worse, at least; We've reason for both colors on the board: Why not confess then, where I drop the faith And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you?"

Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, And both things even,--faith and unbelief Left to a man's choice,--we'll proceed a step, Returning to our image, which I like.

A man's choice, yes--but a cabin-passenger's-- The man made for the special life o' the world-- Do you forget him? I remember though! Consult our ship's conditions and you find One and but one choice suitable to all; The choice, that you unluckily prefer, Turning things topsy-turvy--they or it Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief Bears upon life, determines its whole course, Begins at its beginning. See the world Such as it is,--you made it not, nor I; I mean to take it as it is,--and you, Not so you'll take it,--though you get naught else. I know the special kind of life I like, What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit In power, peace, pleasantness and length of days. I find that positive belief does this For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. --For you, it does, however?--that, we'll try! 'Tis clear, I cannot lead my life, at least, Induce the world to let me peaceably. Without declaring at the outset, "Friends, I absolutely and peremptorily Believe!"--I say, faith is my waking life: One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, We know, but waking's the main point with us, And my provision's for life's waking part. Accordingly, I use heart, head and hand All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends; And when night overtakes me, down I lie, Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, The sooner the better, to begin afresh. What's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith? You, the philosopher, that disbelieve, That recognize the night, give dreams their weight-- To be consistent you should keep your bed, Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, Live through the day and bustle as you please. And so you live to sleep as I to wake, To unbelieve as I to still believe? Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you Bed-ridden,--and its good things come to me. Its estimation, which is half the fight, That's the first-cabin comfort I secure: The next ... but you perceive with half an eye! Come, come, it's best believing, if we may; You can't but own that!

Next, concede again, If once we choose belief, on all accounts We can't be too decisive in our faith, Conclusive and exclusive in its terms, To suit the world which gives us the good things. In every man's career are certain points Whereon he dares not be indifferent; The world detects him clearly, if he dare, As baffled at the game, and losing life. He may care little or he may care much For riches, honor, pleasure, work, repose. Since various theories of life and life's Success are extant which might easily Comport with either estimate of these; And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, Labor or quiet, is not judged a fool Because his fellow would choose otherwise: We let him choose upon his own account So long as he's consistent with his choice. But certain points, left wholly to himself, When once a man has arbitrated on, We say he must succeed there or go hang. Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need-- For he can't wed twice. Then, he must avouch, Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, The form of faith his conscience holds the best, Whate'er the process of conviction was: For nothing can compensate his mistake On such a point, the man himself being judge: He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul.

Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith I happened to be born in--which to teach Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, As best and readiest means of living by; The same on examination being proved The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise And absolute form of faith in the whole world-- Accordingly, most potent of all forms For working on the world. Observe, my friend! Such as you know me, I am free to say, In these hard latter days which hamper one, Myself--by no immoderate exercise Of intellect and learning, but the tact To let external forces work for me, --Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread; Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world And make my life an ease and joy and pride; It does so,--which for me's a great point gained, Who have a soul and body that exact A comfortable care in many ways. There's power in me and will to dominate Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: In many ways I need mankind's respect, Obedience, and the love that's born of fear: While at the same time, there's a taste I have, A toy of soul, a titillating thing, Refuses to digest these dainties crude. The naked life is gross till clothed upon: I must take what men offer, with a grace As though I would not, could I help it, take! An uniform I wear though over-rich-- Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake And despicable therefore! now folk kneel And kiss my hand--of course the Church's hand. Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, And thus that it should he I have procured; And thus it could not be another way, I venture to imagine.

You'll reply, So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; But were I made of better elements. With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, I hardly would account the thing success Though it did all for me I say.

But, friend, We speak of what is; not of what might be, And how 'twere better if 'twere otherwise. I am the man you see here plain enough: Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives! Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. My business is not to remake myself, But make the absolute best of what God made. Or--our first simile--though you prove me doomed To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, The sheep-pen or the pig-sty, I should strive To make what use of each were possible; And as this cabin gets upholstery, That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw.

But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes Enumerated so complacently, On the mere ground that you forsooth can find In this particular life I choose to lead No fit provision for them. Can you not? Say you, my fault is I address myself To grosser estimators than should judge? And that's no way of holding up the soul, Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'-- Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. I pine among my million imbeciles (You think) aware some dozen men of sense Eye me and know me, whether I believe In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, And am a fool, or disbelieve in her And am a knave,--approve in neither case, Withhold their voices though I look their way: Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end (The thing they gave at Florence,--what's its name?) While the mad houseful's plaudits near out-bang His orchestra of salt-box, tongs, and bones, He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths Where sits Rossini patient in his stall.

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here-- That even your prime men who appraise their kind Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street Sixty the minute; what's to note in that? You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; Him you must watch--he's sure to fall, yet stands! Our interest 's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, The superstitious atheist, demirep That loves and saves her soul in new French books-- We watch while these in equilibrium keep The giddy line midway: one step aside, They 're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line Before your sages,--just the men to shrink From the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad You offer their refinement. Fool or knave? Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave When there 's a thousand diamond weights between? So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you 'll find, Profess themselves indignant, scandalized At thus being held unable to explain How a superior man who disbelieves May not believe as well: that 's Schelling's way! It 's through my coming in the tail of time, Nicking the minute with a happy tact. Had I been born three hundred years ago They 'd say, "What 's strange? Blougram of course believes;" And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course." But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yet How can he?" All eyes turn with interest. Whereas, step off the line on either side-- You, for example, clever to a fault, The rough and ready man who write apace, Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less-- You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares? Lord So-and-So--his coat bedropped with wax, All Peter's chains about his waist, his back Brave with the needlework of Noodledom-- Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares? But I, the man of sense and learning too, The able to think yet act, the this, the that, I, to believe at this late time of day! Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt.

--Except it 's yours! Admire me as these may, You don 't. But whom at least do you admire? Present your own perfection, your ideal, Your pattern man for a minute--oh, make haste! Is it Napoleon you would have us grow? Concede the means; allow his head and hand, (A large concession, clever as you are) Good! In our common primal element Of unbelief (we can 't believe, you know-- We 're still at that admission, recollect!) Where do you find--apart from, towering o'er The secondary temporary aims Which satisfy the gross taste you despise-- Where do you find his star?--his crazy trust God knows through what or in what? it 's alive And shines and leads him, and that 's all we want. Have we aught in our sober night shall point Such ends as his were, and direct the means Of working out our purpose straight as his, Nor bring a moment's trouble on success With after-care to justify the same? --Be a Napoleon, and yet disbelieve-- Why, the man 's mad, friend, take his light away! What 's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare With comfort to yourself blow millions up? We neither of us see it! we do see The blown-up millions--spatter of their brains And writhing of their bowels and so forth, In that bewildering entanglement Of horrible eventualities Past calculation to the end of time! Can I mistake for some clear word of God (Which were my ample warrant for it all) His puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, "The State, that 's I," quack-nonsense about crowns, And (when one beats the man to his last hold) A vague idea of setting things to rights, Policing people efficaciously, More to their profit, most of all to his own; The whole to end that dismallest of ends By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, And resurrection of the old régime? Would I, who hope to live a dozen years, Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such? No: for, concede me but the merest chance Doubt may be wrong--there 's judgment, life to come! With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right? This present life is all?--you offer me Its dozen noisy years, without a chance That wedding an archduchess, wearing lace, And getting called by divers new-coined names, Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, Sleep, read and chat in quiet as I like! Therefore I will not.

Take another case; Fit up the cabin yet another way. What say you to the poets? shall we write Hamlet, Othello--make the world our own, Without a risk to run of either sort? I can't!--to put the strongest reason first. "But try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice; The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!" Spare my self-knowledge--there 's no fooling me! If I prefer remaining my poor self, I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. If I 'm a Shakespeare, let the well alone; Why should I try to be what now I am? If I 'm no Shakespeare, as too probable,-- His power and consciousness and self-delight And all we want in common, shall I find-- Trying forever? while on points of taste Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I Are dowered alike--I 'll ask you, I or he, Which in our two lives realizes most? Much, he imagined--somewhat, I possess. He had the imagination; stick to that! Let him say, "In the face of my soul's works Your world is worthless and I touch it not Lest I should wrong them"--I 'll withdraw my plea.

But does he say so? Look upon his life! Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces To build the trimmest house in Stratford town; Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute; Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, And none more, had he seen its entry once, Than "Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." Why then should I who play that personage, The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made, Be told that had the poet chanced to start From where I stand now (some degree like mine Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home And get himself in dreams the Vatican, Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, And English books, none equal to his own, Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). --Terni's fall, Naples' bay, and Gothard's top-- Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; But, as I pour this claret, there they are: I 've gained them--crossed Saint Gothard last July With ten mules to the carriage and a bed Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, And what I want, I have: he, gifted more, Could fancy he too had them when he liked, But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, He would not have them also in my sense. We play one game; I send the ball aloft No less adroitly that of fifty strokes Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high Which sends them back to me: I wish and get. He struck balls higher and with better skill, But at a poor fence level with his head, And hit--his Stratford house, a coat of arms, Successful dealings in his grain and wool,-- While I receive heaven's incense in my nose And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. Ask him, if this life 's all, who wins the game?

Believe--and our whole argument breaks up. Enthusiasm 's the best thing, I repeat; Only, we can't command it; fire and life Are all, dead matter 's nothing, we agree: And be it a mad dream or God's very breath, The fact 's the same,--belief's fire, once in us, Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself: We penetrate our life with such a glow As fire lends wood and iron--this turns steel, That burns to ash--all 's one, fire proves its power For good or ill, since men call flare success. But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. Light one in me, I '11 find it food enough! Why, to be Luther--that 's a life to lead, Incomparably better than my own. He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says, Sets up God's rule again by simple means, Reopens a shut book, and all is done. He flared out in the flaring of mankind; Such Luther's luck was: how shall such be mine? If he succeeded, nothing 's left to do: And if he did not altogether--well, Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be I might be also. But to what result? He looks upon no future: Luther did. What can I gain on the denying side? Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, Read the text right, emancipate the world-- The emancipated world enjoys itself With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first It could not owe a farthing,--not to him More than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think? Then add there 's still that plaguy hundredth chance Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run-- For what gain? not for Luther's, who secured A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, Supposing death a little altered things.

"Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, "You run the same risk really on all sides, In cool indifference as bold unbelief. As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. It 's not worth having, such imperfect faith, No more available to do faith's work Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none!"

Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point. Once own the use of faith, I '11 find you faith. We 're back on Christian ground. You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does? By life and man's free will, God gave for that! To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: That 's our one act, the previous work 's his own. You criticise the soul? it reared this tree-- This broad life and whatever fruit it bears! What matter though I doubt at every pore, Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, Doubts in the trivial work of every day, Doubts at the very bases of my soul In the grand moments when she probes herself-- If finally I have a life to show, The thing I did, brought out in evidence Against the thing done to me underground By hell and all its brood, for aught I know? I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt? All 's doubt in me; where 's break of faith in this? It is the idea, the feeling and the love, God means mankind should strive for and show forth Whatever be the process to that end,-- And not historic knowledge, logic sound, And metaphysical acumen, sure! "What think ye of Christ," friend? when all 's done and said, Like you this Christianity or not? It may be false, but will you wish it true? Has it your vote to be so if it can? Trust you an instinct silenced long ago That will break silence and enjoin you love What mortified philosophy is hoarse, And all in vain, with bidding you despise? If you desire faith--then you 've faith enough: What else seeks God--nay, what else seek ourselves? You form a notion of me, we 'll suppose, On hearsay; it 's a favorable one: "But still" (you add), "there was no such good man, Because of contradiction in the facts. One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him I see he figures as an Englishman." Well, the two things are reconcilable. But would I rather you discovered that, Subjoining--"Still, what matter though they be? Blougram concerns me naught, born here or there."

Pure faith indeed--you know not what you ask! Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare. Some think, Creation 's meant to show him forth: I say it 's meant to hide him all it can, And that 's what all the blessed evil 's for. Its use in Time is to environ us, Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough Against that sight till we can bear its stress. Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart Less certainly would wither up at once Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. But time and earth case-harden us to live; The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, Plays on and grows to be a man like us. With me, faith means perpetual unbelief Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. Or, if that 's too ambitious,--here 's my box-- I need the excitation of a pinch Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. "Leave it in peace," advise the simple folk: Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, Say I--let doubt occasion still more faith!

You 'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. How you 'd exult if I could put you back Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, Geology, ethnology, what not, (Greek endings, each the little passing-bell That signifies some faith 's about to die), And set you square with Genesis again,-- When such a traveller told you his last news, He saw the ark a-top of Ararat But did not climb there since 't was getting dusk And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot! How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, How act? As other people felt and did; With soul more blank than this decanter's knob, Believe--and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate, Full in belief's face, like the beast you 'd be!

No, when the fight begins within himself, A man 's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, Satan looks up between his feet--both tug-- He 's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes And grows. Prolong that battle through his life! Never leave growing till the life to come! Here, we 've got callous to the Virgin's winks That used to puzzle people wholesomely: Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. What are the laws of nature, not to bend If the Church bid them?--brother Newman asks. Up with the Immaculate Conception, then-- On to the rack with faith!--is my advice. Will not that hurry us upon our knees, Knocking our breasts, "It can't be--yet it shall! Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? Low things confound the high things!" and so forth. That 's better than acquitting God with grace As some folk do. He 's tried--no case is proved, Philosophy is lenient--he may go!

You 'll say, the old system 's not so obsolete But men believe still: ay, but who and where? King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes; But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint Believes God watches him continually, As he believes in fire that it will burn, Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law, Sin against rain, although the penalty Be just a singe or soaking? "No," he smiles; "Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves."

The sum of all is--yes, my doubt is great, My faith 's still greater, then my faith 's enough. I have read much, thought much, experienced much. Yet would die rather than avow my fear The Naples' liquefaction may be false, When set to happen by the palace-clock According to the clouds or dinner-time. I hear you recommend, I might at least Eliminate, declassify my faith Since I adopt it; keeping what I must And leaving what I can--such points as this. I won't--that is, I can't throw one away. Supposing there's no truth in what I hold About the need of trial to man's faith, Still, when you bid me purify the same, To such a process I discern no end. Clearing off one excrescence to see two, There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, That meets the knife: I cut and cut again! First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last But Fichte's clever cut at God himself? Experimentalize on sacred things! I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. The first step, I am master not to take.

You'd find the cutting-process to your taste As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, Nor see more danger in it,--you retort. Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise When we consider that the steadfast hold On the extreme end of the chain of faith Gives all the advantage, makes the difference With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: We are their lords, or they are free of us, Just as we tighten or relax our hold. So, other matters equal, we'll revert To the first problem--which, if solved my way And thrown into the balance, turns the scale-- How we may lead a comfortable life, How suit our luggage to the cabin's size.

Of course you are remarking all this time How narrowly and grossly I view life, Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule The masses, and regard complacently "The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. I act for, talk for, live for this world now, As this world prizes action, life and talk: No prejudice to what next world may prove, Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge To observe then, is that I observe these now, Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. Let us concede (gratuitously though) Next life relieves the soul of body, yields Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use May be to make the next life more intense?

Do you know, I have often had a dream (Work it up in your next month's article) Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still Losing true life forever and a day Through ever trying to be and ever being-- In the evolution of successive spheres-- _Before_ its actual sphere and place of life, Halfway into the next, which having reached, It shoots with corresponding foolery Halfway into the next still, on and off! As when a traveller, bound from North to South, Scouts fur in Russia: what's its use in France? In France spurns flannel: where's its need in Spain? In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, A superfluity at Timbuctoo. When, through his journey, was the fool at ease? I'm at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, I take and like its way of life; I think My brothers, who administer the means, Live better for my comfort--that's good too; And God, if he pronounce upon such life, Approves my service, which is better still. If he keep silence,--why, for you or me Or that brute beast pulled-up in to-day's "Times," What odds is't, save to ourselves, what life we lead?

You meet me at this issue: you declare,-- All special-pleading done with--truth is truth, And justifies itself by undreamed ways. You don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, To say so, act up to our truth perceived However feebly. Do then,--act away! 'Tis there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts Is, both of us agree, our chief concern: And how you'll act is what I fain would see If, like the candid person you appear, You dare to make the most of your life's scheme As I of mine, live up to its full law Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. Put natural religion to the test You've just demolished the revealed with--quick, Down to the root of all that checks your will, All prohibition to lie, kill and thieve, Or even to be an atheistic priest! Suppose a pricking to incontinence-- Philosophers deduce yon chastity Or shame, from just the fact that at the first Whoso embraced a woman in the field, Threw club down and forewent his brains beside, So, stood a ready victim in the reach Of any brother savage, club in hand; Hence saw the use of going out of sight In wood or cave to prosecute his loves: I read this in a French book t'other day. Does law so analyzed coerce you much? Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, But you who reach where the first thread begins, You'll soon cut that!--which means you can, but won't, Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out, You dare not set aside, you can't tell why, But there they are, and so you let them rule. Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, Without the good the slave expects to get, In case he has a master after all! You own your instincts? why, what else do I, Who want, am made for, and must have a God Ere I can be aught, do aught?--no mere name Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, To wit, a relation from that thing to me, Touching from head to foot--which touch I feel, And with it take the rest, this life of ours! I live my life here; yours you dare not live.

--Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) Disfigure such a life and call it names, While, to your mind, remains another way For simple men: knowledge and power have rights, But ignorance and weakness have rights too. There needs no crucial effort to find truth If here or there or anywhere about: We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least The right, by one laborious proof the more, To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: Something we may see, all we cannot see. What need of lying? I say, I see all, And swear to each detail the most minute In what I think a Pan's face--you, mere cloud: I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. You take the simple life--ready to see, Willing to see (for no cloud's worth a face)-- And leaving quiet what no strength can move, And which, who bids you move? who has the right? I bid you; but you are God's sheep, not mine: "_Pastor est tui Dominus_." You find In this the pleasant pasture of our life Much you may eat without the least offence, Much you don't eat because your maw objects, Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock Open great eyes at you and even butt, And thereupon you like your mates so well You cannot please yourself, offending them; Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears Restrain you, real checks since you find them so; Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: And thus you graze through life with not one lie, And like it best.

But do you, in truth's name? If so, you beat--which means you are not I-- Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, But motioned to the velvet of the sward By those obsequious wethers' very selves. Look at me, sir; my age is double yours: At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, What now I should be--as, permit the word, I pretty well imagine your whole range And stretch of tether twenty years to come. We both have minds and bodies much alike: In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, My daily bread, my influence, and my state? You're young. I'm old; you must be old one day; Will you find then, as I do hour by hour, Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch-- Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring-- With much beside you know or may conceive? Suppose we die to-night: well, here am I, Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, While writing all the same my articles On music, poetry, the fictile vase Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek. But you--the highest honor in your life, The thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, Is--dining here and drinking this last glass I pour you out in sign of amity Before we part forever. Of your power And social influence, worldly worth in short, Judge what's my estimation by the fact, I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, Hint secrecy on one of all these words! You're shrewd and know that should you publish one The world would brand the lie--my enemies first, Who'd sneer--"the bishop's an arch-hypocrite And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." Whereas I should not dare for both my ears Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, Before the chaplain who reflects myself-- My shade's so much more potent than your flesh. What's your reward, self-abnegating friend? Stood you confessed of those exceptional And privileged great natures that dwarf mine-- A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, A poet just about to print his ode, A statesman with a scheme to stop this war, An artist whose religion is his art-- I should have nothing to object: such men Carry the fire, all things grow warm to them, Their drugget's worth my purple, they beat me. But you,--you're just as little those as I-- You, Gigadibs, who, thirty years of age, Write statedly for Blackwood's Magazine, Believe you see two points in Hamlet's soul Unseized by the Germans yet--which view you'll print-- Meantime the best you have to show being still That lively lightsome article we took Almost for the true Dickens,--what's its name? "The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel life Limned after dark!" it made me laugh, I know, And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. --Success I recognize and compliment, And therefore give you, if you choose, three words (The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, Will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow's wink, Such terms as never you aspired to get In all our own reviews and some not ours. Go write your lively sketches! be the first "Blougram, or The Eccentric Confidence"-- Or better simply say, "The Outward-bound." Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad About me on the church-door opposite. You will not wait for that experience though, I fancy, howsoever you decide, To discontinue--not detesting, not Defaming, but at least--despising me!

* * * * *

Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour Sylvester Blougram, styled _in partibus_ _Episcopus, nec non_--(the deuce knows what It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) With Gigadibs the literary man, Who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, And ranged the olive-stones about its edge, While the great bishop rolled him out a mind Long crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth.

For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. The other portion, as he shaped it thus For argumentatory purposes, He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. Some arbitrary accidental thoughts That crossed his mind, amusing because new, He chose to represent as fixtures there, Invariable convictions (such they seemed Beside his interlocutor's loose cards Flung daily down, and not the same way twice), While certain hell-deep instincts, man's weak tongue Is never bold to utter in their truth Because styled hell-deep ('tis an old mistake To place hell at the bottom of the earth), He ignored these,--not having in readiness Their nomenclature and philosophy: He said true things, but called them by wrong names. "On the whole," he thought, "I justify myself On every point where cavillers like this Oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence, I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. He's on the ground: if ground should break away I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. His ground was over mine and broke the first: So, let him sit with me this many a year!"

He did not sit five minutes. Just a week Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. Something had struck him in the "Outward-bound" Another way than Blougram's purpose was: And having bought, not cabin-furniture But settler's-implements (enough for three) And started for Australia--there, I hope, By this time he has tested his first plough, And studied his last chapter of Saint John.

CLEON

"As certain also of your own poets have said"--

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles, Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea, And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")-- To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!

They give thy letter to me, even now: I read and seem as if I heard thee speak. The master of thy galley still unlades Gift after gift; they block my court at last And pile themselves along its portico Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee: And one white she-slave from the group dispersed Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift, Now covered with this settle-down of doves), One lyric woman, in her crocus vest Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands Commends to me the strainer and the cup Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.

Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! For so shall men remark, in such an act Of love for him whose song gives life its joy, Thy recognition of the use of life; Nor call thy spirit barely adequate To help on life in straight ways, broad enough For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest. Thou, in the daily building of thy tower,-- Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil, Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth, Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect,-- Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake-- Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, Thou first of men mightst look out to the East: The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. For this, I promise on thy festival To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak Thy great words, and describe thy royal face-- Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, Within the eventual element of calm.

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. It is as thou hast heard: in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine,--and also mine the little chant, So sure to rise from every fishing-bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net The image of the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; The Pœcile, o'er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again. For music,--why, I have combined the moods, Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine; Thus much the people know and recognize, Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not. We of these latter days, with greater mind Than our forerunners, since more composite, Look not so great, beside their simple way, To a judge who only sees one way at once, One mind-point and no other at a time,-- Compares the small part of a man of us With some whole man of the heroic age, Great in his way--not ours, nor meant for ours. And ours is greater, had we skill to know: For, what we call this life of men on earth, This sequence of the soul's achievements here Being, as I find much reason to conceive, Intended to be viewed eventually As a great whole, not analyzed to parts, But each part having reference to all,-- How shall a certain part, pronounced complete, Endure effacement by another part? Was the thing done?--then, what's to do again? See, in the chequered pavement opposite, Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb, And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid-- He did not overlay them, superimpose The new upon the old and blot it out, But laid them on a level in his work, Making at last a picture; there it lies. So, first the perfect separate forms were made, The portions of mankind; and after, so, Occurred the combination of the same. For where had been a progress, otherwise? Mankind, made up of all the single men,-- In such a synthesis the labor ends. Now mark me! those divine men of old time Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point The outside verge that rounds our faculty; And where they reached, who can do more than reach? It takes but little water just to touch At some one point the inside of a sphere, And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest In due succession: but the finer air Which not so palpably nor obviously, Though no less universally, can touch The whole circumference of that emptied sphere, Fills it more fully than the water did; Holds thrice the weight of water in itself Resolved into a subtler element. And yet the vulgar pall the sphere first full Up to the visible height--and after, void; Not knowing air's more hidden properties. And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus To vindicate his purpose in our life: Why stay we on the earth unless to grow? Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out, That he or other god descended here And, once for all, showed simultaneously What, in its nature, never can be shown, Piecemeal or in succession;--showed, I say, The worth both absolute and relative Of all his children from the birth of time, His instruments for all appointed work. I now go on to image,--might we hear The judgment which should give the due to each, Show where the labor lay and where the ease, And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere! This is a dream:--but no dream, let us hope, That years and days, the summers and the springs, Follow each other with unwaning powers. The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far, Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock; The suave plum than the savage-tasted drupe; The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet; The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers; That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave, Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds, Refines upon the women of my youth. What, and the soul alone deteriorates? I have not chanted verse like Homer, no-- Nor swept string like Terpander, no--nor carved And painted men like Phidias and his friend: I am not great as they are, point by point. But I have entered into sympathy With these four, running these into one soul, Who, separate, ignored each other's art. Say, is it nothing that I know them all? The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit, And show a better flower if not so large: I stand myself. Refer this to the gods Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare (All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext That such a gift by chance lay in my hand, Discourse of lightly or depreciate? It might have fallen to another's hand: what then? I pass too surely: let at least truth stay!

And next, of what thou followest on to ask. This being with me as I declare, O king, My works, in all these varicolored kinds, So done by me, accepted so by men-- Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts) I must not be accounted to attain The very crown and proper end of life? Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up, I face death with success in my right hand: Whether I fear death less than dost thyself The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou) "Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught. Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing, The pictures men shall study; while my life, Complete and whole now in its power and joy, Dies altogether with my brain and arm, Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself? The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave, Set on the promontory which I named. And that--some supple courtier of my heir Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps, To fix the rope to, which best drags it down. I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!"

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind. Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief, That admiration grows as knowledge grows? That imperfection means perfection hid, Reserved in part, to grace the after-time? If, in the morning of philosophy, Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived, Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird, Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage-- Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced The perfectness of others yet unseen. Conceding which,--had Zeus then questioned thee, "Shall I go on a step, improve on this, Do more for visible creatures than is done?" Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each Grow conscious in himself--by that alone. All 's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock, The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight, Till life's mechanics can no further go-- And all this joy in natural life is put Like fire from off thy finger into each, So exquisitely perfect is the same. But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are; It has them, not they it: and so I choose For man, thy last premeditated work (If I might add a glory to the scheme), That a third thing should stand apart from both, A quality arise within his soul, Which, intro-active, made to supervise And feel the force it has, may view itself, And so be happy." Man might live at first The animal life: but is there nothing more? In due time, let him critically learn How he lives; and, the more he gets to know Of his own life's adaptabilities, The more joy-giving will his life become. Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.

But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: "Let progress end at once,--man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using his senses, not the sense of sense." In man there 's failure, only since he left The lower and inconscious forms of life. We called it an advance, the rendering plain Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, And, by new lore so added to the old, Take each step higher over the brute's head. This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul, Which whole surrounding flats of natural life Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, The soul now climbs it just to perish there! For thence we have discovered ('t is no dream-- We know this, which we had not else perceived) That there 's a world of capability For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad! Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge Our bounded physical recipiency, Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, It skills not! life 's inadequate to joy, As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise. What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills shut up, And mock her with my leave to take the same? The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchange--what boots To know she might spout oceans if she could? She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: And so a man can use but a man's joy While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast, "See, man, how happy I live, and despair-- That I may be still happier--for thy use!" If this were so, we could not thank our lord, As hearts beat on to doing; 't is not so-- Malice it is not. Is it carelessness? Still, no. If care--where is the sign? I ask, And get no answer, and agree in sum, O king, with thy profound discouragement, Who seest the wider but to sigh the more. Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

The last point now:--thou dost except a case-- Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts--to such a man as I Who leave behind me living works indeed; For, such a poem, such a painting lives. What? dost thou verily trip upon a word, Confound the accurate view of what joy is (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) With feeling joy? confound the knowing how And showing how to live (my faculty) With actually living?--Otherwise Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king? Because in my great epos I display How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act-- Is this as though I acted? if I paint, Carve the young Phœbus, am I therefore young? Methinks I 'm older that I bowed myself The many years of pain that taught me art! Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too. Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there, Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. I can write lore-odes: thy fair slave 's an ode. I get to sing of love, when grown too gray For being beloved: she turns to that young man, The muscles all a-ripple on his back. I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!

"But," sayest thou--(and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And Æschylus, because we read his plays!" Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive? Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, In this, that every day my sense of joy Grows more acute, my soul (intensified By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; While every day my hairs fall more and more, My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- The horror quickening still from year to year, The consummation coming past escape, When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- When all my works wherein I prove my worth, Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved his life so over-much, Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire for joy, --To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large-- Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death, We burst there as the worm into the fly, Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no! Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, He must have done so, were it possible!

Live long and happy, and in that thought die: Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame Indeed, if Christus be not one with him-- I know not, nor am troubled much to know. Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew, As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised, Hath access to a secret shut from us? Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all! He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write. Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI

Originally published in _Bells and Pomegranates_ as the first of two poems, _Cristina_ being the other, under the title _Queen Worship_.

I

I know a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favored, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach: and, in the lost endeavor To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own account: Men call the Flower the Sunflower, sportively.

II

Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, --The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook!

III

Dear Pilgrim, art thou for the East indeed? Go!--saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture; 't is a woman's skill Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower's breast as on a platform broad: But, as the flower's concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East--the East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear!

ONE WORD MORE

TO E. B. B.

_London, September, 1855_

Originally appended to the collection of Poems called _Men and Women_, the greater portion of which has now been, more correctly, distributed under the other titles of this edition. R. B.

I

There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished! Take them, Love, the book and me together; Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

II

Rafael made a century of sonnets, Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas: These, the world might view--but one, the volume. Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. Did she live and love it all her lifetime? Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

III

You and I would rather read that volume, (Taken to his beating bosom by it) Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas-- Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that 's left with lilies in the Louvre-- Seen by us and all the world in circle.

IV

You and I will never read that volume. Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it, Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

V

Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice." While he mused and traced it and retraced it, (Peradventure with a pen corroded Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the wicked, Back he held the brow and pricked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, Let the wretch go festering through Florence)-- Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel,-- In there broke the folk of his Inferno. Says he--"Certain people of importance" (Such he gave his daily dreadful line to) "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet." Says the poet--"Then I stopped my painting."

VI

You and I would rather see that angel, Painted by the tenderness of Dante, Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno.

VII

You and I will never see that picture. While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, In they broke, those "people of importance:" We and Bice hear the loss forever.

VIII

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture? This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only, (Ah, the prize!) to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- Using nature that 's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that 's turned his nature. Ay, of all the artists living, loving, None but would forego his proper dowry,-- Does he paint? he fain would write a poem,-- Does he write? he fain would paint a picture, Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for one only, So to be the man and leave the artist, Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

IX

Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement! He who smites the rock and spreads the water, Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, Even he, the minute makes immortal, Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril, When they stood and mocked--"Shall smiting help us?" When they drank and sneered--"A stroke is easy!" When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks--"But drought was pleasant." Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; Thus the doing savors of disrelish; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture. For he bears an ancient wrong about him, Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?" Guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "Egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better."

X

Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven brilliance, Right-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial fiat, Never dares the man put off the prophet.

XI

Did he love one face from out the thousands, (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and wifely, Were she but the Æthiopian bondslave,) He would envy yon dumb patient camel, Keeping a reserve of scanty water Meant to save his own life in the desert; Ready in the desert to deliver (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) Hoard and life together for his mistress.

XII

I shall never, in the years remaining, Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you statues, Make you music that should all-express me; So it seems: I stand on my attainment. This of verse alone, one life allows me; Verse and nothing else have I to give you. Other heights in other lives, God willing: All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love!

XIII

Yet a semblance of resource avails us-- Shade so finely touched, love's sense must seize it. Take these lines, look lovingly and nearly, Lines I write the first time and the last time. He who works in fresco, steals a hair-brush, Curbs the liberal hand, subservient proudly, Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, Makes a strange art of an art familiar, Fills his lady's missal-marge with flowerets. He who blows through bronze, may breathe through silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once as I do.

XIV

Love, you saw me gather men and women, Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy, Enter each and all, and use their service, Speak from every mouth,--the speech, a poem. Hardly shall I tell my joys and sorrows, Hopes and fears, belief and disbelieving: I am mine and yours--the rest be all men's, Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. Let me speak this once in my true person, Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: Pray you, look on these my men and women, Take and keep my fifty poems finished; Where my heart lies, let my brain lie also! Poor the speech; be how I speak, for all things.

XV

Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! Here in London, yonder late in Florence, Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured, Curving on a sky imbrued with color, Drifted over Fiesole by twilight, Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, Perfect till the nightingales applauded. Now, a piece of her old self, impoverished, Hard to greet, she traverses the house-roofs, Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, Goes dispiritedly, glad to finish.

XVI

What, there 's nothing in the moon noteworthy? Nay: for if that moon could love a mortal, Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy), All her magic ('t is the old sweet mythos), She would turn a new side to her mortal, Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman, Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, Blind to Galileo on his turret, Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats--him, even! Think, the wonder of the moonstruck mortal-- When she turns round, comes again in heaven, Opens out anew for worse or better! Proves she like some portent of an iceberg Swimming full upon the ship it founders, Hungry with huge teeth of splintered crystals? Proves she as the paved work of a sapphire Seen by Moses when he climbed the mountain? Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, When they ate and drank and saw God also!

XVII

What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure--the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, Dying now impoverished here in London. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her!

XVIII

This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you--yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that 's the world's side, there 's the wonder, Thus they see you, praise you, think they know you! There, in turn I stand with them and praise you-- Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them, Cross a step or two of dubious twilight, Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, Where I hush and bless myself with silence.

XIX

Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, Wrote one song--and in my brain I sing it, Drew one angel--borne, see, on my bosom!

R. B.

IN A BALCONY

Written in 1853, partly at Bagni di Lucca, partly at Rome. It was included in the original series of _Men and Women_ and there divided into three parts.

PERSONS

NORBERT. CONSTANCE. THE QUEEN.

CONSTANCE _and_ NORBERT.

_Norbert._ Now!

_Constance._ Not now!

_Nor._ Give me them again, those hands: Put them upon my forehead, how it throbs! Press them before my eyes, the fire comes through! You cruellest, you dearest in the world, Let me! The Queen must grant whate'er I ask-- How can I gain you and not ask the Queen? There she stays waiting for me, here stand you; Some time or other this was to be asked; Now is the one time--what I ask, I gain: Let me ask now, Love!

_Con._ Do, and ruin us!

_Nor._ Let it be now, Love! All my soul breaks forth. How I do love you! Give my love its way! A man can have but one life and one death, One heaven, one hell. Let me fulfil my fate-- Grant me my heaven now! Let me know you mine, Prove you mine, write my name upon your brow, Hold you and have you, and then die away, If God please, with completion in my soul!

_Con._ I am not yours then? How content this man! I am not his--who change into himself, Have passed into his heart and beat its beats, Who give my hands to him, my eyes, my hair, Give all that was of me away to him-- So well, that now, my spirit turned his own, Takes part with him against the woman here, Bids him not stumble at so mere a straw As caring that the world be cognizant How he loves her and how she worships him. You have this woman, not as yet that world. Go on, I bid, nor stop to care for me By saving what I cease to care about, The courtly name and pride of circumstance-- The name you 'll pick up and be cumbered with Just for the poor parade's sake, nothing more; Just that the world may slip from under you-- Just that the world may cry, "So much for him-- The man predestined to the heap of crowns: There goes his chance of winning one, at least!"

_Nor._ The world!

_Con._ You love it! Love me quite as well, And see if I shall pray for this in vain! Why must you ponder what it knows or thinks?

_Nor._ You pray for--what, in vain?

_Con._ Oh my heart's heart, How I do love you, Norbert! That is right: But listen, or I take my hands away! You say, "let it be now:" you would go now And tell the Queen, perhaps six steps from us, You love me--so you do, thank God!

_Nor._ Thank God!

_Con._ Yes, Norbert,--but you fain would tell your love, And, what succeeds the telling, ask of her My hand. Now take this rose and look at it, Listening to me. You are the minister, The Queen's first favorite, nor without a cause. To-night completes your wonderful year's-work (This palace-feast is held to celebrate) Made memorable by her life's success, The junction of two crowns, on her sole head, Her house had only dreamed of anciently: That this mere dream is grown a stable truth, To-night's feast makes authentic. Whose the praise? Whose genius, patience, energy, achieved What turned the many heads and broke the hearts? You are the fate, your minute 's in the heaven. Next comes the Queen's turn. "Name your own reward!" With leave to clench the past, chain the to-come, Put out an arm and touch and take the sun And fix it ever full-faced on your earth, Possess yourself supremely of her life,-- You choose the single thing she will not grant; Nay, very declaration of which choice Will turn the scale and neutralize your work: At best she will forgive you, if she can. You think I 'll let you choose--her cousin's hand?

_Nor._ Wait. First, do you retain your old belief The Queen is generous,--nay, is just?

_Con._ There, there! So men make women love them, while they know No more of women's hearts than ... look you here, You that are just and generous beside. Make it your own case! For example now, I 'll say--I let you kiss me, hold my hands-- Why? do you know why? I 'll instruct you, then-- The kiss, because you have a name at court; This hand and this, that you may shut in each A jewel, if you please to pick up such. That 's horrible? Apply it to the Queen-- Suppose I am the Queen to whom you speak. "I was a nameless man; you needed me: Why did I proffer yon my aid? there stood A certain pretty cousin at your side. Why did I make such common cause with you? Access to her had not been easy else. You give my labor here abundant praise? 'Faith, labor, which she overlooked, grew play. How shall your gratitude discharge itself? Give me her hand!"

_Nor._ And still I urge the same. Is the Queen just? just--generous or no!

_Con._ Yes, just. You love a rose: no harm in that: But was it for the rose's sake or mine You put it in your bosom? mine, you said-- Then, mine you still must say or else be false. You told the Queen you served her for herself; If so, to serve her was to serve yourself, She thinks, for all your unbelieving face! I know her. In the hall, six steps from us, One sees the twenty pictures: there 's a life Better than life, and yet no life at all. Conceive her born in such a magic dome, Pictures all round her! why, she sees the world, Can recognize its given things and facts, The fight of giants or the feast of gods, Sages in senate, beauties at the bath, Chases and battles, the whole earth's display, Landscape and sea-piece, down to flowers and fruit-- And who shall question that she knows them all, In better semblance than the things outside? Yet bring into the silent gallery Some live thing to contrast in breath and blood, Some lion, with the painted lion there-- You think she 'll understand composedly? --Say, "that 's his fellow in the hunting-piece Yonder, I 've turned to praise a hundred times?" Not so. Her knowledge of our actual earth, Its hopes and fears, concerns and sympathies, Must be too far, too mediate, too unreal. The real exists for us outside, not her: How should it, with that life in these four walls, That father and that mother, first to last No father and no mother--friends, a heap, Lovers, no lack--a husband in due time, And every one of them alike a lie! Things painted by a Rubens out of naught Into what kindness, friendship, love should be; All better, all more grandiose than the life, Only no life; mere cloth and surface-paint, You feel, while you admire. How should she feel? Yet now that she has stood thus fifty years The sole spectator in that gallery, You think to bring this warm real struggling love In to her of a sudden, and suppose She 'll keep her state untroubled? Here 's the truth-- She 'll apprehend truth's value at a glance, Prefer it to the pictured loyalty? You only have to say, "So men are made, For this they act; the thing has many names, But this the right one: and now, Queen, be just!" Your life slips back; you lose her at the word: You do not even for amends gain me. He will not understand! oh, Norbert, Norbert, Do you not understand?

_Nor._ The Queen 's the Queen, I am myself--no picture, but alive In every nerve and every muscle, here At the palace-window o'er the people's street, As she in the gallery where the pictures glow: The good of life is precious to us both. She cannot love; what do I want with rule? When first I saw your face a year ago I knew my life's good, my soul heard one voice-- "The woman yonder, there 's no use of life But just to obtain her! heap earth's woes in one And bear them--make a pile of all earth's joys And spurn them, as they help or help not this; Only, obtain her!" How was it to be? I found you were the cousin of the Queen; I must then serve the Queen to get to you. No other way. Suppose there had been one, And I, by saying prayers to some white star With promise of my body and my soul, Might gain you,--should I pray the star or no? Instead, there was the Queen to serve! I served, Helped, did what other servants failed to do. Neither she sought nor I declared my end. Her good is hers, my recompense be mine,-- I therefore name you as that recompense. She dreamed that such a thing could never be? Let her wake now. She thinks there was more cause In love of power, high fame, pure loyalty? Perhaps she fancies men wear out their lives Chasing such shades. Then, I 've a fancy too; I worked because I want you with my soul: I therefore ask your hand. Let it be now!

_Con._ Had I not loved you from the very first, Were I not yours, could we not steal out thus So wickedly, so wildly, and so well, You might become impatient. What 's conceived Of us without here, by the folk within? Where are you now? immersed in cares of state-- Where am I now? intent on festal robes-- We two, embracing under death's spread hand! What was this thought for, what that scruple of yours Which broke the council up?--to bring about One minute's meeting in the corridor! And then the sudden sleights, strange secrecies, Complots inscrutable, deep telegraphs, Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look, "Does she know? does she not know? saved or lost?" A year of this compression's ecstasy All goes for nothing! you would give this up For the old way, the open way, the world's, His way who beats, and his who sells his wife! What tempts you?--their notorious happiness Makes you ashamed of ours? The best you 'll gain Will be--the Queen grants all that you require, Concedes the cousin, rids herself of you And me at once, and gives us ample leave To live like our five hundred happy friends. The world will show us with officious hand Our chamber-entry, and stand sentinel Where we so oft have stolen across its traps! Get the world's warrant, ring the falcons' feet, And make it duty to be bold and swift, Which long ago was nature. Have it so! We never hawked by rights till flung from fist? Oh, the man's thought! no woman's such a fool.

_Nor._ Yes, the man's thought and my thought, which is more-- One made to love you, let the world take note! Have I done worthy work? be love's the praise, Though hampered by restrictions, barred against By set forms, blinded by forced secrecies! Set free my love, and see what love can do Shown in my life--what work will spring from that! The world is used to have its business done On other grounds, find great effects produced For power's sake, fame's sake, motives in men's mouth. So, good: but let my low ground shame their high! Truth is the strong thing. Let man's life be true! And love's the truth of mine. Time prove the rest! I choose to wear you stamped all over me, Your name upon my forehead and my breast, You, from the sword's blade to the ribbon's edge, That men may see, all over, you in me-- That pale loves may die out of their pretence In face of mine, shames thrown on love fall off. Permit this, Constance! Love has been so long Subdued in me, eating me through and through, That now 't is all of me and must have way. Think of my work, that chaos of intrigues, Those hopes and fears, surprises and delays, That long endeavor, earnest, patient, slow, Trembling at last to its assured result: Then think of this revulsion! I resume Life after death, (it is no less than life, After such long unlovely laboring days,) And liberate to beauty life's great need O' the beautiful, which, while it prompted work, Suppressed itself erewhile. This eve's the time, This eve intense with yon first trembling star We seem to pant and reach; scarce aught between The earth that rises and the heaven that bends; All nature self-abandoned, every tree Flung as it will, pursuing its own thoughts And fixed so, every flower and every weed, No pride, no shame, no victory, no defeat; All under God, each measured by itself. These statues round us stand abrupt, distinct, The strong in strength, the weak in weakness fixed, The Muse forever wedded to her lyre, Nymph to her fawn, and Silence to her rose: See God's approval on his universe! Let us do so--aspire to live as these In harmony with truth, ourselves being true! Take the first way, and let the second come! My first is to possess myself of you; The music sets the march-step--forward, then! And there 's the Queen, I go to claim you of, The world to witness, wonder and applaud. Our flower of life breaks open. No delay!

_Con._ And so shall we be ruined, both of us. Norbert, I know her to the skin and bone: You do not know her, were not born to it, To feel what she can see or cannot see. Love, she is generous,--ay, despite your smile, Generous as you are: for, in that thin frame Pain-twisted, punctured through and through with cares, There lived a lavish soul until it starved, Debarred of healthy food. Look to the soul-- Pity that, stoop to that, ere you begin (The true man's--way) on justice and your rights, Exactions and acquittance of the past! Begin so--see what justice she will deal! We women hate a debt as men a gift. Suppose her some poor keeper of a school Whose business is to sit through summer months And dole out children leave to go and play, Herself superior to such lightness--she In the arm-chair's state and pædagogic pomp-- To the life, the laughter, sun and youth outside: We wonder such a face looks black on us? I do not bid you wake her tenderness, (That were vain truly--none is left to wake,) But, let her think her justice is engaged To take the shape of tenderness, and mark If she 'll not coldly pay its warmest debt! Does she love me, I ask you? not a whit: Yet, thinking that her justice was engaged To help a kinswoman, she took me up-- Did more on that bare ground than other loves Would do on greater argument. For me, I have no equivalent of such cold kind To pay her with, but love alone to give If I give anything. I give her love: I feel I ought to help her, and I will. So, for her sake, as yours, I tell you twice That women hate a debt as men a gift. If I were you, I could obtain this grace-- Could lay the whole I did to love's account, Nor yet be very false as courtiers go-- Declaring my success was recompense; It would be so, in fact: what were it else? And then, once loose her generosity,-- Oh, how I see it! then, were I but you To turn it, let it seem to move itself, And make it offer what I really take, Accepting just, in the poor cousin's hand, Her value as the next thing to the Queen's-- Since none love Queens directly, none dare that, And a thing's shadow or a name's mere echo Suffices those who miss the name and thing! You pick up just a ribbon she has worn, To keep in proof how near her breath you came. Say, I 'm so near I seem a piece of her-- Ask for me that way--(oh, you understand,) You 'd find the same gift yielded with a grace, Which, if you make the least show to extort ... --You 'll see! and when you have ruined both of us, Dissertate on the Queen's ingratitude!

_Nor._ Then, if I turn it that way, you consent? 'T is not my way; I have more hope in truth: Still, if you won't have truth--why, this indeed, Were scarcely false, as I 'd express the sense. Will you remain here?

_Con._ O best heart of mine, How I have loved you! then, you take my way? Are mine as you have been her minister, Work out my thought, give it effect for me, Paint plain my poor conceit and make it serve? I owe that withered woman everything-- Life, fortune, you, remember! Take my part-- Help me to pay her! Stand upon your rights? You, with my rose, my hands, my heart on you? Your rights are mine--you have no rights but mine.

_Nor._ Remain here. How you know me!

_Con._ Ah, but still--

[_He breaks from her; she remains. Dance-music from within._

(_Enter the_ QUEEN.)

_Queen._ Constance? She is here as he said. Speak quick! Is it so? Is it true or false? One word!

_Con._ True.

_Queen._ Mercifullest Mother, thanks to thee!

_Con._ Madam?

_Queen._ I love you, Constance, from my soul. Now say once more, with any words you will, 'T is true, all true, as true as that I speak.

_Con._ Why should you doubt it?

_Queen._ Ah, why doubt? why doubt? Dear, make me see it! Do you see it so? None see themselves; another sees them best. You say "why doubt it?"--you see him and me. It is because the Mother has such grace That if we had but faith--wherein we fail-- Whate'er we yearn for would be granted us; Yet still we let our whims prescribe despair, Our fancies thwart and cramp our will and power, And while accepting life, abjure its use. Constance, I had abjured the hope of love And being loved, as truly as yon palm The hope of seeing Egypt from that plot.

_Con._ Heaven!

_Queen._ But it was so, Constance, it was so! Men say--or do men say it? fancies say-- "Stop here, your life is set, you are grown old. Too late--no love for you, too late for love-- Leave love to girls. Be queen: let Constance love!" One takes the hint--half meets it like a child, Ashamed at any feelings that oppose. "Oh love, true, never think of love again! I am a queen: I rule, not love, forsooth." So it goes on; so a face grows like this, Hair like this hair, poor arms as lean as these, Till,--nay, it does not end so, I thank God!

_Con._ I cannot understand--

_Queen._ The happier you! Constance, I know not how it is with men: For women (I am a woman now like you) There is no good of life but love--but love! What else looks good, is some shade flung from love; Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me, Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love, Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest! O Constance, how I love you!

_Con._ I love you.

_Queen._ I do believe that all is come through you. I took you to my heart to keep it warm When the last chance of love seemed dead in me; I thought your fresh youth warmed my withered heart. Oh, I am very old now, am I not? Not so! it is true and it shall be true!

_Con._ Tell it me: let me judge if true or false.

_Queen._ Ah, but I fear you! you will look at me And say, "she 's old, she 's grown unlovely quite Who ne'er was beauteous: men want beauty still." Well, so I feared--the curse! so I felt sure!

_Con._ Be calm. And now you feel not sure, you say?

_Queen._ Constance, he came,--the coming was not strange-- Do not I stand and see men come and go? I turned a half-look from my pedestal Where I grow marble--"one young man the more! He will love some one; that is naught to me: What would he with my marble stateliness?" Yet this seemed somewhat worse than heretofore; The man more gracious, youthful, like a god, And I still older, with less flesh to change-- We two those dear extremes that long to touch. It seemed still harder when he first began To labor at those state-affairs, absorbed The old way for the old end--interest. Oh, to live with a thousand beating hearts Around you, swift eyes, serviceable hands, Professing they 've no care but for your cause, Thought but to help you, love but for yourself,-- And you the marble statue all the time They praise and point at as preferred to life, Yet leave for the first breathing woman's smile, First dancer's, gypsy's, or street baladine's! Why, how I have ground my teeth to hear men's speech Stifled for fear it should alarm my ear, Their gait subdued lest step should startle me, Their eyes declined, such queendom to respect, Their hands alert, such treasure to preserve, While not a man of them broke rank and spoke, Wrote me a vulgar letter all of love. Or caught my hand and pressed it like a hand! There have been moments, if the sentinel Lowering his halbert to salute the queen, Had flung it brutally and clasped my knees, I would have stooped and kissed him with my soul.

_Con._ Who could have comprehended?

_Queen._ Ay, who--who? Why, no one, Constance, but this one who did. Not they, not you, not I. Even now perhaps It comes too late--would you but tell the truth.

_Con._ I wait to tell it.

_Queen._ Well, you see, he came, Outfaced the others, did a work this year Exceeds in value all was ever done, You know--it is not I who say it--all Say it. And so (a second pang and worse) I grew aware not only of what he did, But why so wondrously. Oh, never work Like his was done for work's ignoble sake-- Souls need a finer aim to light and lure! I felt, I saw, he loved--loved somebody. And Constance, my dear Constance, do you know, I did believe this while 't was you he loved.

_Con._ Me, madam?

_Queen._ It did seem to me, your face Met him where'er he looked: and whom but you Was such a man to love? It seemed to me, You saw he loved you, and approved his love, And both of you were in intelligence. You could not loiter in that garden, step Into this balcony, but I straight was stung And forced to understand. It seemed so true, So right, so beautiful, so like you both, That all this work should have been done by him Not for the vulgar hope of recompense, But that at last--suppose, some night like this-- Borne on to claim his due reward of me, He might say, "Give her hand and pay me so." And I (O Constance, you shall love me now!) I thought, surmounting all the bitterness, --"And he shall have it. I will make her blest, My flower of youth, my woman's self that was, My happiest woman's self that might have been! These two shall have their joy and leave me here." Yes--yes!

_Con._ Thanks!

_Queen._ And the word was on my lips When he burst in upon me. I looked to hear A mere calm statement of his just desire For payment of his labor. When--O heaven, How can I tell you? lightning on my eyes And thunder in my ears proved that first word Which told 't was love of me, of me, did all-- He loved me--from the first step to the last, Loved me!

_Con._ You hardly saw, scarce heard him speak Of love: what if you should mistake?

_Queen._ No, no-- No mistake! Ha, there shall be no mistake! He had not dared to hint the love he felt-- You were my reflex--(how I understood!) He said you were the ribbon I had worn, He kissed my hand, he looked into my eyes, And love, love came at end of every phrase. Love is begun; this much is come to pass: The rest is easy. Constance, I am yours! I will learn, I will place my life on you, Teach me but how to keep what I have won! Am I so old? This hair was early gray; But joy ere now has brought hair brown again, And joy will bring the cheek's red back, I feel. I could sing once too; that was in my youth. Still, when men paint me, they declare me ... yes, Beautiful--for the last French painter did! I know they flatter somewhat; you are frank-- I trust you. How I loved you from the first! Some queens would hardly seek a cousin out And set her by their side to take the eye: I must have felt that good would come from you. I am not generous--like him--like you! But he is not your lover after all: It was not you he looked at. Saw you him? You have not been mistaking words or looks? He said you were the reflex of myself. And yet he is not such a paragon To you, to younger women who may choose Among a thousand Norberts. Speak the truth! You know you never named his name to me: You know, I cannot give him up--ah God, Not up now, even to you!

_Con._ Then calm yourself.

_Queen._ See, I am old--look here, you happy girl! I will not play the fool, deceive--ah, whom? 'T is all gone: put your cheek beside my cheek And what a contrast does the moon behold! But then I set my life upon one chance, The last chance and the best--am I not left, My soul, myself? All women love great men If young or old; it is in all the tales: Young beauties love old poets who can love-- Why should not he, the poems in my soul, The passionate faith, the pride of sacrifice, Life-long, death-long? I throw them at his feet. Who cares to see the fountain's very shape, Whether it be a Triton's or a Nymph's That pours the foam, makes rainbows all around? You could not praise indeed the empty conch; But I 'll pour floods of love and hide myself. How I will love him! Cannot men love love? Who was a queen and loved a poet once Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that! Well, but men too; at least, they tell you so. They love so many women in their youth, And even in age they all love whom they please; And yet the best of them confide to friends That 't is not beauty makes the lasting love-- They spend a day with such and tire the next: They like soul,--well then, they like phantasy, Novelty even. Let us confess the truth, Horrible though it be, that prejudice, Prescription ... curses! they will love a queen. They will, they do: and will not, does not--he?

_Con._ How can he? You are wedded: 't is a name We know, but still a bond. Your rank remains, His rank remains. How can he, nobly souled As you believe and I incline to think, Aspire to be your favorite, shame and all?

_Queen._ Hear her! There, there now--could she love like me? What did I say of smooth-cheeked youth and grace? See all it does or could do! so youth loves! Oh, tell him, Constance, you could never do What I will--you, it was not born in! I Will drive these difficulties far and fast As yonder mists curdling before the moon. I 'll use my light too, gloriously retrieve My youth from its enforced calamity, Dissolve that hateful marriage, and be his, His own in the eyes alike of God and man.

_Con._ You will do--dare do ... pause on what you say!

_Queen._ Hear her! I thank you, sweet, for that surprise. You have the fair face: for the soul, see mine! I have the strong soul: let me teach you, here. I think I have borne enough and long enough, And patiently enough, the world remarks, To have my own way now, unblamed by all. It does so happen (I rejoice for it) This most unhoped-for issue cuts the knot. There 's not a better way of settling claims Than this; God sends the accident express: And were it for my subjects' good, no more, 'T were best thus ordered. I am thankful now, Mute, passive, acquiescent. I receive, And bless God simply, or should almost fear To walk so smoothly to my ends at last. Why, how I baffle obstacles, spurn fate! How strong I am! Could Norbert see me now!

_Con._ Let me consider. It is all too strange.

_Queen._ You, Constance, learn of me; do you, like me! You are young, beautiful: my own, best girl, You will have many lovers, and love one-- Light hair, not hair like Norbert's, to suit yours, Taller than he is, since yourself are tall. Love him, like me! Give all away to him; Think never of yourself; throw by your pride, Hope, fear,--your own good as you saw it once, And love him simply for his very self. Remember, I (and what am I to you?) Would give up all for one, leave throne, lose life. Do all but just unlove him! He loves me.

_Con._ He shall.

_Queen._ You, step inside my inmost heart! Give me your own heart: let us have one heart! I 'll come to you for counsel; "this he says, This he does; what should this amount to, pray? Beseech you, change it into current coin! Is that worth kisses? Shall I please him there?" And then we 'll speak in turn of you--what else? Your love, according to your beauty's worth, For you shall have some noble love, all gold: Whom choose you? we will get him at your choice. --Constance, I leave you. Just a minute since, I felt as I must die or be alone Breathing my soul into an ear like yours: Now, I would face the world with my new life, Wear my new crown. I 'll walk around the rooms, And then come back and tell you how it feels. How soon a smile of God can change the world! How we are made for happiness--how work Grows play, adversity a winning fight! True, I have lost so many years: what then? Many remain: God has been very good. You, stay here! 'T is as different from dreams, From the mind's cold calm estimate of bliss, As these stone statues from the flesh and blood. The comfort thou hast caused mankind, God's moon! [_She goes out_, _leaving_ CONSTANCE. _Dance-music from within_.

(NORBERT _enters_.)

_Nor._ Well? we have but one minute and one word!

_Con._ I am yours, Norbert!

_Nor._ Yes, mine.

_Con._ Not till now! You were mine. Now I give myself to you.

_Nor._ Constance?

_Con._ Your own! I know the thriftier way Of giving--haply, 't is the wiser way. Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, With a new largess still at each despair) And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve Exhaustless till the end my part and yours, My giving and your taking; both our joys Dying together. Is it the wiser way? I choose the simpler; I give all at once. Know what you have to trust to, trade upon! Use it, abuse it,--anything but think Hereafter, "Had I known she loved me so, And what my means, I might have thriven with it." This is your means. I give you all myself.

_Nor._ I take you and thank God.

_Con._ Look on through years! We cannot kiss, a second day like this; Else were this earth no earth.

_Nor._ With this day's heat We shall go on through years of cold.

_Con._ So, best! --I try to see those years--I think I see. You walk quick and new warmth comes; you look back And lay all to the first glow--not sit down Forever brooding on a day like this While seeing embers whiten and love die. Yes, love lives best in its effect; and mine, Full in its own life, yearns to live in yours.

_Nor._ Just so. I take and know you all at once. Your soul is disengaged so easily. Your face is there, I know you; give me time, Let me be proud and think you shall know me. My soul is slower: in a life I roll The minute out whereto you condense yours-- The whole slow circle round you I must move, To be just you. I look to a long life To decompose this minute, prove its worth. 'T is the sparks' long succession one by one Shall show you, in the end, what fire was crammed In that mere stone you struck: how could you know, If it lay ever unproved in your sight, As now my heart lies? your own warmth would hide Its coldness, were it cold.

_Con._ But how prove, how?

_Nor._ Prove in my life, you ask?

_Con._ Quick, Norbert--how?

_Nor._ That 's easy told. I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on, educe the man. Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve As with the body--he who hurls a lance Or heaps up stone on stone, shows strength alike: So must I seize and task all means to prove And show this soul of mine, you crown as yours, And justify us both.

_Con._ Could you write books, Paint pictures! One sits down in poverty And writes or paints, with pity for the rich.

_Nor._ And loves one's painting and one's writing, then. And not one's mistress! All is best, believe, And we best as no other than we are. We live, and they experiment on life-- Those poets, painters, all who stand aloof To overlook the farther. Let us be The thing they look at! I might take your face And write of it and paint it--to what end? For whom? what pale dictatress in the air Feeds, smiling sadly, her fine ghost-like form With earth's real blood and breath, the beauteous life She makes despised forever? You are mine, Made for me, not for others in the world, Nor yet for that which I should call my art, The cold calm power to see how fair you look. I come to you; I leave you not, to write Or paint. You are, I am: let Rubens there Paint us!

_Con._ So, best!

_Nor._ I understand your soul, You live, and rightly sympathize with life, With action, power, success. This way is straight; And time were short, beside, to let me change The craft my childhood learnt: my craft shall serve. Men set me here to subjugate, enclose, Manure their barren lives, and force thence fruit First for themselves, and afterward for me In the due tithe; the task of some one soul, Through ways of work appointed by the world. I am not bid create--men see no star Transfiguring my brow to warrant that-- But find and bind and bring to bear their wills. So I began: to-night sees how I end. What if it see, too, power's first outbreak here Amid the warmth, surprise and sympathy, And instincts of the heart that teach the head? What if the people have discerned at length The dawn of the next nature, novel brain Whose will they venture in the place of theirs, Whose work, they trust, shall find them as novel ways To untried heights which yet he only sees? I felt it when you kissed me. See this Queen, This people--in our phrase this mass of men-- See how the mass lies passive to my hand Now that my hand is plastic, with you by To make the muscles iron! Oh, an end Shall crown this issue as this crowns the first! My will be on the people! then, the strain, The grappling of the potter with his clay, The long uncertain struggle,--the success And consummation of the spirit-work, Some vase shape to the curl of the god's lip, While rounded fair for human sense to see The Graces in a dance men recognize With turbulent applause and laughs of heart! So triumph ever shall renew itself; Ever shall end in efforts higher yet, Ever begin ...

_Con._ I ever helping?

_Nor._ Thus!

(_As he embraces her_, _the_ QUEEN _enters_.)

_Con._ Hist, madam! So have I performed my part. You see your gratitude's true decency, Norbert? A little slow in seeing it! Begin, to end the sooner! What 's a kiss?

_Nor._ Constance?

_Con._ Why, must I teach it you again? You want a witness to your dulness, sir? What was I saying these ten minutes long? Then I repeat--when some young handsome man Like you has acted out a part like yours, Is pleased to fall in love with one beyond, So very far beyond him, as he says-- So hopelessly in love that but to speak Would prove him mad,--he thinks judiciously, And makes some insignificant good soul, Like me, his friend, adviser, confidant, And very stalking-horse to cover him In following after what he dares not face-- When his end 's gained--(sir, do you understand) When she, he dares not face, has loved him first, --May I not say so, madam?--tops his hope, And overpasses so his wildest dream, With glad consent of all, and most of her The confidant who brought the same about-- Why, in the moment when such joy explodes, I do hold that the merest gentleman Will not start rudely from the stalking-horse, Dismiss it with a "There, enough of you!" Forget it, show his back unmannerly; But like a liberal heart will rather turn And say, "A tingling time of hope was ours; Betwixt the fears and falterings, we two lived A chanceful time in waiting for the prize: The confidant, the Constance, served not ill. And though I shall forget her in good time, Her use being answered now, as reason bids, Nay as herself bids from her heart of hearts,-- Still, she has rights, the first thanks go to her, The first good praise goes to the prosperous tool, And the first--which is the last--rewarding kiss."

_Nor._ Constance, it is a dream--ah, see, you smile!

_Con._ So, now his part being properly performed, Madam, I turn to you and finish mine As duly; I do justice in my turn. Yes, madam, he has loved you--long and well; He could not hope to tell you so--'t was I Who served to prove your soul accessible, I led his thoughts on, drew them to their place When they had wandered else into despair, And kept love constant toward its natural aim. Enough, my part is played; you stoop half-way And meet us royally and spare our fears: 'T is like yourself. He thanks you, so do I. Take him--with my full heart! my work is praised By what comes of it. Be you happy, both! Yourself--the only one on earth who can-- Do all for him, much more than a mere heart Which though warm is not useful in its warmth As the silk vesture of a queen! fold that Around him gently, tenderly. For him-- For him,--he knows his own part!

_Nor._ Have you done? I take the jest at last. Should I speak now? Was yours the wager, Constance, foolish child, Or did you but accept it? Well--at least You lose by it.

_Con._ Nay, madam, 't is your turn! Restrain him still from speech a little more, And make him happier as more confident! Pity him, madam, he is timid yet! Mark, Norbert! Do not shrink now! Here I yield My whole right in you to the Queen, observe! With her go put in practice the great schemes You teem with, follow the career else closed-- Be all you cannot be except by her! Behold her!--Madam, say for pity's sake Anything--frankly say you love him! Else He 'll not believe it: there 's more earnest in His fear than you conceive: I know the man!

_Nor._ I know the woman somewhat, and confess I thought she had jested better: she begins To overcharge her part. I gravely wait Your pleasure, madam: where is my reward?

_Queen._ Norbert, this wild girl (whom I recognize Scarce more than you do, in her fancy-fit, Eccentric speech and variable mirth, Not very wise perhaps and somewhat bold, Yet suitable, the whole night's work being strange) --May still be right: I may do well to speak And make authentic what appears a dream To even myself. For, what she says is true: Yes, Norbert--what you spoke just now of love, Devotion, stirred no novel sense in me, But justified a warmth felt long before. Yes, from the first--I loved you, I shall say: Strange! but I do grow stronger, now 't is said. Your courage helps mine: you did well to speak To-night, the night that crowns your twelve-months' toil: But still I had not waited to discern Your heart so long, believe me! From the first The source of so much zeal was almost plain, In absence even of your own words just now Which hazarded the truth. 'T is very strange, But takes a happy ending--in your love Which mine meets: be it so! as you choose me, So I choose you.

_Nor._ And worthily you choose. I will not be unworthy your esteem, No, madam. I do love you; I will meet Your nature, now I know it. This was well. I see,--you dare and you are justified: But none had ventured such experiment, Less versed than you in nobleness of heart, Less confident of finding such in me. I joy that thus you test me ere you grant The dearest, richest, beauteousest and best Of women to my arms: 't is like yourself. So--back again into my part 's set words-- Devotion to the uttermost is yours, But no, you cannot, madam, even you, Create in me the love our Constance does. Or--something truer to the tragic phrase-- Not yon magnolia-bell superb with scent Invites a certain insect--that 's myself-- But the small eye-flower nearer to the ground. I take this lady.

_Con._ Stay--not hers, the trap-- Stay, Norbert--that mistake were worst of all! He is too cunning, madam! It was I, I, Norbert, who ...

_Nor._ You, was it, Constance? Then, But for the grace of this divinest hour Which gives me you, I might not pardon here! I am the Queen's; she only knows my brain: She may experiment upon my heart And I instruct her too by the result. But you, Sweet, you who know me, who so long Have told my heartbeats over, held my life In those white hands of yours,--it is not well!

_Con._ Tush! I have said it, did I not say it all? The life, for her--the heartbeats, for her sake!

_Nor._ Enough! my cheek grows red, I think. Your test? There 's not the meanest woman in the world, Not she I least could love in all the world, Whom, did she love me, had love proved itself, I dare insult as you insult me now. Constance, I could say, if it must be said, "Take back the soul you offer, I keep mine!" But--"Take the soul still quivering on your hand, The soul so offered, which I cannot use, And, please you, give it to some playful friend, For--what 's the trifle he requites me with?" I, tempt a woman, to amuse a man. That two may mock her heart if it succumb? No: fearing God and standing 'neath his heaven, I would not dare insult a woman so, Were she the meanest woman in the world, And he, I cared to please, ten emperors!

_Con._ Norbert!

_Nor._ I love once as I live but once. What case is this to think or talk about? I love you. Would it mend the case at all If such a step as this killed love in me? Your part were done: account to God for it! But mine--could murdered love get up again, And kneel to whom you please to designate, And make you mirth? It is too horrible. You did not know this, Constance? now you know That body and soul have each one life, but one: And here 's my love, here, living, at your feet.

_Con._ See the Queen! Norbert--this one more last word-- If thus you have taken jest for earnest--thus Loved me in earnest ...

_Nor._ Ah, no jest holds here! Where is the laughter in which jests break up, And what this horror that grows palpable? Madam--why grasp you thus the balcony? Have I done ill? Have I not spoken truth? How could I other? Was it not your test, To try me, what my love for Constance meant? Madam, your royal soul itself approves, The first, that I should choose thus! so one takes A beggar,--asks him, what would buy his child? And then approves the expected laugh of scorn Returned as something noble from the rags. Speak, Constance, I 'm the beggar! Ha, what 's this? You two glare each at each like panthers now. Constance, the world fades; only you stand there! You did not, in to-night's wild whirl of things, Sell me--your soul of souls, for any price? No--no--'t is easy to believe in you! Was it your love's mad trial to o'ertop Mine by this vain self-sacrifice? well, still-- Though I might curse, I love you. I am love And cannot change: love's self is at your feet! [_The_ QUEEN _goes out_.

_Con._ Feel my heart; let it die against your own!

_Nor._ Against my own. Explain not; let this be! This is life's height.

_Con._ Yours, yours, yours!

_Nor._ You and I-- Why care by what meanders we are here I' the centre of the labyrinth? Men have died Trying to find this place, which we have found.

_Con._ Found, found!

_Nor._ Sweet, never fear what she can do! We are past harm now.

_Con._ On the breast of God. I thought of men--as if you were a man. Tempting him with a crown!

_Nor._ This must end here: It is too perfect.

_Con._ There 's the music stopped. What measured heavy tread? It is one blaze About me and within me.

_Nor._ Oh, some death Will run its sudden finger round this spark And sever us from the rest!

_Con._ And so do well. Now the doors open.

_Nor._ 'T is the guard comes.

_Con._ Kiss!

BEN KARSHOOK'S WISDOM

The eighth line of the fourteenth section of _One Word More_ reads,

"Karshish, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty."

Originally it read,

"Karshook, Cleon, Norbert and the fifty."

The reference apparently was to the poem written in April, 1854, and printed in _The Keepsake_, an annual edited by Miss Power, a niece of Lady Blessington, in whom Dickens also took an interest. It may have been Browning's intention to include this poem in _Men and Women_, but he never did place it there, and finally dropped Karshook and substituted Karshish, who narrates his medical experience.

I

"Would a man 'scape the rod?" Rabbi Ben Karshook saith, "See that he turn to God The day before his death."

"Ay, could a man inquire When it shall come!" I say. The Rabbi's eye shoots fire-- "Then let him turn to-day!"

II

Quoth a young Sadducee: "Reader of many rolls, Is it so certain we Have, as they tell us, souls?"

"Son, there is no reply!" The Rabbi bit his beard: "Certain, a soul have _I_-- _We_ may have none," he sneered.

Thus Karshook, the Hiram's-Hammer, The Right-hand Temple-column, Taught babes in grace their grammar, And struck the simple, solemn.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

The volume bearing the title _Dramatis Personæ_ was published in 1864 and the contents remained unchanged in subsequent editions except that two short poems were added in the edition of 1868. The first poem was however originally entitled _James Lee_. The first six stanzas of the sixth section of the poem were first printed in 1836 in Mr. Fox's _The Monthly Repository_, and bore the title merely _Lines_, with the signature Z.

JAMES LEE'S WIFE

I

JAMES LEE'S WIFE SPEAKS AT THE WINDOW

Ah, Love, but a day And the world has changed! The sun 's away, And the bird estranged; The wind has dropped, And the sky 's deranged: Summer has stopped.

Look in my eyes! Wilt thou change too? Should I fear surprise? Shall I find aught new In the old and dear, In the good and true, With the changing year?

Thou art a man, But I am thy love. For the lake, its swan; For the dell its dove; And for thee--(oh, haste!) Me, to bend above, Me, to hold embraced.

II

BY THE FIRESIDE

Is all our fire of shipwreck wood, Oak and pine? Oh, for the ills half-understood, The dim dead woe Long ago Befallen this bitter coast of France! Well, poor sailors took their chance; I take mine.

A ruddy shaft our fire must shoot O'er the sea: Do sailors eye the casement--mute Drenched and stark, From their bark-- And envy, gnash their teeth for hate O' the warm safe house and happy freight --Thee and me?

God help you, sailors, at your need! Spare the curse! For some ships, safe in port indeed, Rot and rust, Run to dust, All through worms i' the wood, which crept, Gnawed our hearts out while we slept: That is worse.

Who lived here before us two? Old-world pairs. Did a woman ever--would I knew!-- Watch the man With whom began Love's voyage full-sail,--(now gnash your teeth!) When planks start, open hell beneath Unawares?

III

IN THE DOORWAY

The swallow has set her six young on the rail, And looks seaward: The water 's in stripes like a snake, olive-pale To the leeward,-- On the weather-side, black, spotted white with the wind. "Good fortune departs, and disaster 's behind,"-- Hark, the wind with its wants and its infinite wail!

Our fig-tree, that leaned for the saltness, has furled Her five fingers, Each leaf like a hand opened wide to the world Where there lingers No glint of the gold, Summer sent for her sake: How the vines writhe in rows, each impaled on its stake! My heart shrivels up and my spirit shrinks curled.

Yet here are we two; we have love, house enough, With the field there, This house of four rooms, that field red and rough, Though it yield there, For the rabbit that robs, scarce a blade or a bent; If a magpie alight now, it seems an event; And they both will be gone at November's rebuff.

But why must cold spread? but wherefore bring change To the spirit, God meant should mate his with an infinite range, And inherit His power to put life in the darkness and cold? Oh, live and love worthily, bear and be bold! Whom Summer made friends of, let Winter estrange!

IV

ALONG THE BEACH

I will be quiet and talk with you, And reason why you are wrong. You wanted my love--is that much true? And so I did love, so I do: What has come of it all along?

I took you--how could I otherwise? For a world to me, and more; For all, love greatens and glorifies Till God's aglow, to the loving eyes, In what was mere earth before.

Yes, earth--yes, mere ignoble earth! Now do I mis-state, mistake? Do I wrong your weakness and call it worth? Expect all harvest, dread no dearth, Seal my sense up for your sake?

Oh, Love, Love, no, Love! not so, indeed! You were just weak earth, I knew: With much in you waste, with many a weed, And plenty of passions run to seed, But a little good grain too.

And such as you were, I took you for mine: Did not you find me yours, To watch the olive and wait the vine, And wonder when rivers of oil and wine Would flow, as the Book assures?

Well, and if none of these good things came, What did the failure prove? The man was my whole world, all the same, With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame, And, either or both, to love.

Yet this turns now to a fault--there! there! That I do love, watch too long, And wait too well, and weary and wear; And 't is all an old story, and my despair Fit subject for some new song:

"How the light, light love, he has wings to fly At suspicion of a bond: My wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-by, Which will turn up next in a laughing eye, And why should you look beyond?"

V

ON THE CLIFF

I leaned on the turf, I looked at a rock Left dry by the surf; For the turf, to call it grass were to mock: Dead to the roots, so deep was done The work of the summer sun.

And the rock lay flat As an anvil's face: No iron like that! Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace: Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death's altar by the lone shore.

On the turf, sprang gay With his films of blue, No cricket, I 'll say, But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too, The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, Real fairy, with wings all right.

On the rock, they scorch Like a drop of fire From a brandished torch, Fall two red fans of a butterfly: No turf, no rock: in their ugly stead, See, wonderful blue and red!

Is it not so With the minds of men? The level and low, The burnt and bare, in themselves; but then With such a blue and red grace, not theirs,-- Love settling unawares!

VI

READING A BOOK, UNDER THE CLIFF

"Still ailing, Wind? Wilt be appeased or no? Which needs the other's office, thou or I? Dost want to be disburdened of a woe, And can, in truth, my voice untie Its links, and let it go?

"Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted, Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear! No tongue can mend such pleadings; faith, requited With falsehood,--love, at last aware Of scorn,--hopes, early blighted,--

"We have them; but I know not any tone So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow: Dost think men would go mad without a moan, If they knew any way to borrow A pathos like thy own?

"Which sigh wouldst mock, of all the sighs? The one So long escaping from lips starved and blue, That lasts while on her pallet-bed the nun Stretches her length; her foot comes through The straw she shivers on;

"You had not thought she was so tall: and spent, Her shrunk lids open, her lean fingers shut Close, close, their sharp and livid nails indent The clammy palm; then all is mute: That way, the spirit went.

"Or wouldst thou rather that I understand Thy will to help me?--like the dog I found Once, pacing sad this solitary strand, Who would not take my food, poor hound. But whined and licked my hand."

* * * * *

All this, and more, comes from some young man's pride Of power to see,--in failure and mistake, Relinquishment, disgrace, on every side,-- Merely examples for his sake, Helps to his path untried:

Instances he must--simply recognize? Oh, more than so!--must, with a learner's zeal, Make doubly prominent, twice emphasize, By added touches that reveal The god in babe's disguise.

Oh, he knows what defeat means, and the rest! Himself the undefeated that shall be: Failure, disgrace, he flings them you to test,-- His triumph, in eternity Too plainly manifest!

Whence, judge if he learn forthwith what the wind Means in its moaning--by the happy prompt Instinctive way of youth, I mean; for kind Calm years, exacting their accompt Of pain, mature the mind:

And some midsummer morning, at the lull Just about daybreak, as he looks across A sparkling foreign country, wonderful To the sea's edge for gloom and gloss, Next minute must annul,--

Then, when the wind begins among the vines, So low, so low, what shall it say but this? "Here is the change beginning, here the lines Circumscribe beauty, set to bliss The limit time assigns."

Nothing can be as it has been before; Better, so call it, only not the same. To draw one beauty into our hearts' core, And keep it changeless! such our claim; So answered,--Nevermore!

Simple? Why this is the old woe o' the world; Tune, to whose rise and fall we live and die. Rise with it, then! Rejoice that man is hurled From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!

That 's a new question; still replies the fact, Nothing endures: the wind moans, saying so; We moan in acquiescence: there 's life's pact. Perhaps probation--do _I_ know? God does: endure his act!

Only, for man, how bitter not to grave On his soul's hands' palms one fair good wise thing Just as he grasped it! For himself, death's wave; While time first washes--ah, the sting!-- O'er all he 'd sink to save.

VII

AMONG THE ROCKS

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth; Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet.

That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you: Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above!

VIII

BESIDE THE DRAWING-BOARD

I

"As like as a Hand to another Hand!" Whoever said that foolish thing, Could not have studied to understand The councils of God in fashioning, Out of the infinite love of his heart, This Hand, whose beauty I praise, apart From the world of wonder left to praise, If I tried to learn the other ways Of love in its skill, or love in its power. "As like as a Hand to another Hand:" Who said that, never took his stand, Found and followed, like me, an hour, The beauty in this,--how free, how fine To fear, almost,--of the limit-line! As I looked at this, and learned and drew, Drew and learned, and looked again, While fast the happy minutes flew, Its beauty mounted into my brain, And a fancy seized me; I was fain To efface my work, begin anew, Kiss what before I only drew; Ay, laying the red chalk 'twixt my lips, With soul to help if the mere lips failed, I kissed all right where the drawing ailed. Kissed fast the grace that somehow slips Still from one's soulless finger-tips.

II

'Tis a clay cast, the perfect thing, From Hand live once, dead long ago: Princess-like it wears the ring To fancy's eye, by which we know That here at length a master found His match, a proud lone soul its mate, As soaring genius sank to ground, And pencil could not emulate The beauty in this,--how free, how fine To fear almost!--of the limit-line. Long ago the god, like me The worm, learned, each in our degree: Looked and loved, learned and drew, Drew and learned and loved again, While fast the happy minutes flew, Till beauty mounted into his brain And on the finger which outvied His art he placed the ring that's there, Still by fancy's eye descried, In token of a marriage rare: For him on earth, his art's despair, For him in heaven, his soul's fit bride.

III

Little girl with the poor coarse hand I turned from to a cold clay cast-- I have my lesson, understand The worth of flesh and blood at last! Nothing but beauty in a Hand? Because he could not change the hue, Mend the lines and make them true To this which met his soul's demand,-- Would Da Vinci turn from you? I hear him laugh my woes to scorn-- "The fool forsooth is all forlorn Because the beauty, she thinks best, Lived long ago or was never born,-- Because no beauty bears the test In this rough peasant Hand! Confessed 'Art is null and study void!' So sayest thou? So said not I, Who threw the faulty pencil by, And years instead of hours employed, Learning the veritable use Of flesh and bone and nerve beneath Lines and hue of the outer sheath, If haply I might reproduce One motive of the powers profuse, Flesh and bone and nerve that make The poorest coarsest human hand An object worthy to be scanned A whole life long for their sole sake. Shall earth and the cramped moment-space Yield the heavenly crowning grace? Now the parts and then the whole! Who art thou, with stinted soul And stunted body, thus to cry, 'I love,--shall that be life's strait dole? I must live beloved or die!' This peasant hand that spins the wool And bakes the bread, why lives it on, Poor and coarse with beauty gone,-- What use survives the beauty?" Fool!

Go, little girl with the poor coarse hand! I have my lesson, shall understand.

IX

ON DECK

There is nothing to remember in me, Nothing I ever said with a grace, Nothing I did that you care to see, Nothing I was that deserves a place In your mind, now I leave you, set you free.

Conceded! In turn, concede to me, Such things have been as a mutual flame. Your soul's locked fast; but, love for a key, You might let it loose, till I grew the same In your eyes, as in mine you stand: strange plea!

For then, then, what would it matter to me That I was the harsh, ill-favored one? We both should be like as pea and pea; It was ever so since the world begun: So, let me proceed with my reverie.

How strange it were if you had all me, As I have all you in my heart and brain, You, whose least word brought gloom or glee, Who never lifted the hand in vain-- Will hold mine yet, from over the sea!

Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, Rose like your own face present now, With eyes as dear in their due degree, Much such a month, and as bright a brow, Till you saw yourself, while you cried "Tis She!"

Well, you may, you must, set down to me Love that was life, life that was love; A tenure of breath at your lips' decree, A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, A rapture to fall where your foot might be.

But did one touch of such love for me Come in a word or a look of yours, Whose words and looks will, circling, flee Round me and round while life endures,-- Could I fancy "As I feel, thus feels He;"

Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,-- You might turn myself!--should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee?

GOLD HAIR

A STORY OF PORNIC

This poem was issued by itself as well as included later in _Dramatis Personæ_, and simultaneously with its appearance in England it was printed in _The Atlantic Monthly_. It was written in Normandy, and in a letter printed in Mrs. Orr's _Life_, II. 395, there is an account of the destruction of the church referred to in the poem.

Oh, the beautiful girl, too white, Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea, Just where the sea and the Loire unite! And a boasted name in Brittany She bore, which I will not write.

Too white, for the flower of life is red: Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen Of a soul that is meant (her parents said) To just see earth, and hardly be seen, And blossom in heaven instead.

Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! One grace that grew to its full on earth: Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare, And her waist want half a girdle's girth, But she had her great gold hair.

Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss, Freshness and fragrance--floods of it, too! Gold, did I say? Nay, gold's mere dross: Here, Life smiled, "Think what I meant to do!" And Love sighed, "Fancy my loss!"

So, when she died, it was scarce more strange Than that, when delicate evening dies, And you follow its spent sun's pallid range, There's a shoot of color startles the skies With sudden, violent change,--

That, while the breath was nearly to seek, As they put the little cross to her lips, She changed; a spot came out on her cheek, A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse, And she broke forth, "I must speak!"

"Not my hair!" made the girl her moan-- "All the rest is gone or to go; But the last, last grace, my all, my own, Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! Leave my poor gold hair alone!"

The passion thus vented, dead lay she; Her parents sobbed their worst on that; All friends joined in, nor observed degree: For indeed the hair was to wonder at, As it spread--not flowing free,

But curled around her brow, like a crown, And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap, And calmed about her neck--ay, down To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap I' the gold, it reached her gown.

All kissed that face, like a silver wedge 'Mid the yellow wealth, nor disturbed its hair: E'en the priest allowed death's privilege, As he planted the crucifix with care On her breast, 'twixt edge and edge.

And thus was she buried, inviolate Of body and soul, in the very space By the altar; keeping saintly state In Pornic church, for her pride of race, Pure life and piteous fate.

And in after-time would your fresh tear fall, Though your mouth might twitch with a dubious smile, As they told you of gold, both robe and pall, How she prayed them leave it alone awhile, So it never was touched at all.

Years flew; this legend grew at last The life of the lady; all she had done, All been, in the memories fading fast Of lover and friend, was summed in one Sentence survivors passed:

To wit, she was meant for heaven, not earth; Had turned an angel before the time: Yet, since she was mortal, in such dearth Of frailty, all you could count a crime Was--she knew her gold hair's worth.

* * * * *

At little pleasant Pornic church, It chanced, the pavement wanted repair, Was taken to pieces: left in the lurch, A certain sacred space lay bare, And the boys began research.

'Twas the space where our sires would lay a saint, A benefactor,--a bishop, suppose, A baron with armor-adornments quaint, Dame with chased ring and jewelled rose, Things sanctity saves from taint;

So we come to find them in after-days When the corpse is presumed to have done with gauds Of use to the living, in many ways: For the boys get pelf, and the town applauds, And the church deserves the praise.

They grubbed with a will: and at length--_O cor_ _Humanum, pectora cæca_, and the rest!-- They found--no gaud they were prying for, No ring, no rose, but--who would have guessed?-- A double Louis-d'or!

Here was a case for the priest: he heard, Marked, inwardly digested, laid Finger on nose, smiled, "There's a bird Chirps in my ear:" then, "Bring a spade, Dig deeper!"--he gave the word.

And lo, when they came to the coffin-lid, Or rotten planks which composed it once, Why, there lay the girl's skull wedged amid A mint of money, it served for the nonce To hold in its hair-heaps hid!

Hid there? Why? Could the girl be wont (She the stainless soul) to treasure up Money, earth's trash and heaven's affront? Had a spider found out the communion-cup, Was a toad in the christening-font?

Truth is truth: too true it was. Gold! She hoarded and hugged it first, Longed for it, leaned o'er it, loved it--alas-- Till the humor grew to a head and burst, And she cried, at the final pass,--

"Talk not of God, my heart is stone! Nor lover nor friend--be gold for both! Gold I lack; and, my all, my own, It shall hide in my hair. I scarce die loth If they let my hair alone!"

Louis-d'or, some six times five, And duly double, every piece. Now, do you see? With the priest to shrive, With parents preventing her soul's release By kisses that kept alive,--

With heaven's gold gates about to ope, With friends' praise, gold-like, lingering still, An instinct had bidden the girl's hand grope For gold, the true sort--"Gold in heaven, if you will; But I keep earth's too, I hope."

Enough! The priest took the grave's grim yield: The parents, they eyed that price of sin As if _thirty pieces_ lay revealed On the place _to bury strangers in_, The hideous Potter's Field.

But the priest bethought him: "'Milk that 's spilt' --You know the adage! Watch and pray! Saints tumble to earth with so slight a tilt! It would build a new altar; that, we may!" And the altar therewith was built.

Why I deliver this horrible verse? As the text of a sermon, which now I preach: Evil or good may be better or worse In the human heart, but the mixture of each Is a marvel and a curse.

The candid incline to surmise of late That the Christian faith proves false, I find; For our Essays-and-Reviews' debate Begins to tell on the public mind, And Colenso's words have weight:

I still, to suppose it true, for my part, See reasons and reasons; this, to begin: 'Tis the faith that launched point-blank her dart At the head of a lie--taught Original Sin, The Corruption of Man's Heart.

THE WORST OF IT

Would it were I had been false, not you! I that am nothing, not you that are all: I, never the worse for a touch or two On my speckled hide; not you, the pride Of the day, my swan, that a first fleck's fall On her wonder of white must unswan, undo!

I had dipped in life's struggle and, out again, Bore specks of it here, there, easy to see, When I found my swan and the cure was plain; The dull turned bright as I caught your white On my bosom: you saved me--saved in vain If you ruined yourself, and all through me!

Yes, all through the speckled beast that I am, Who taught you to stoop; you gave me yourself, And bound your soul by the vows that damn: Since on better thought you break, as you ought, Vows--words, no angel set down, some elf Mistook,--for an oath, an epigram!

Yes, might I judge you, here were my heart, And a hundred its like, to treat as you pleased! I choose to be yours, for my proper part, Yours, leave or take, or mar me or make; If I acquiesce, why should you be teased With the conscience-prick and the memory-smart?

But what will God say? Oh, my sweet, Think, and be sorry you did this thing! Though earth were unworthy to feel your feet, There's a heaven above may deserve your love: Should you forfeit heaven for a snapt gold ring And a promise broke, were it just or meet?

And I to have tempted you! I, who tried Your soul, no doubt, till it sank! Unwise, I loved, and was lowly, loved and aspired, Loved, grieving or glad, till I made you mad, And you meant to have hated and despised-- Whereas, you deceived me nor inquired!

She, ruined? How? No heaven for her? Crowns to give, and none for the brow That looked like marble and smelt like myrrh? Shall the robe be worn, and the palm-branch borne, And she go graceless, she graced now Beyond, all saints, as themselves aver?

Hardly! That must be understood! The earth is your place of penance, then; And what will it prove? I desire your good, But, plot as I may, I can find no way How a blow should fall, such as falls on men, Nor prove too much for your womanhood.

It will come, I suspect, at the end of life, When you walk alone, and review the past; And I, who so long shall have done with strife, And journeyed my stage and earned my wage And retired as was right,--I am called at last When the devil stabs you, to lend the knife.

He stabs for the minute of trivial wrong, Nor the other hours are able to save, The happy, that lasted my whole life long: For a promise broke, not for first words spoke, The true, the only, that turn my grave To a blaze of joy and a crash of song.

Witness beforehand! Off I trip On a safe path gay through the flowers you flung: My very name made great by your lip, And my heart aglow with the good I know Of a perfect year when we both were young, And I tasted the angels' fellowship.

And witness, moreover ... Ah, but wait! I spy the loop whence an arrow shoots! It may be for yourself, when you meditate, That you grieve--for slain ruth, murdered truth: "Though falsehood escape in the end, what boots? How truth would have triumphed!"--you sigh too late.

Ay, who would have triumphed like you, I say! Well, it is lost now; well, you must bear, Abide and grow fit for a better day: You should hardly grudge, could I be your judge! But hush! For you, can be no despair: There's amends: 'tis a secret: hope and pray!

For I was true at least--oh, true enough! And, Dear, truth is not as good as it seems! Commend me to conscience! Idle stuff! Much help is in mine, as I mope and pine, And skulk through day, and scowl in my dreams At my swan's obtaining the crow's rebuff.

Men tell me of truth now--"False!" I cry: Of beauty--"A mask, friend! Look beneath!" We take our own method, the devil and I, With pleasant and fair and wise and rare: And the best we wish to what lives, is--death; Which even in wishing, perhaps we lie!

Far better commit a fault and have done-- As you, Dear!--forever; and choose the pure, And look where the healing waters run, And strive and strain to be good again, And a place in the other world ensure, All glass and gold, with God for its sun.

Misery! What shall I say or do? I cannot advise, or, at least, persuade: Most like, you are glad you deceived me--rue No whit of the wrong: you endured too long, Have done no evil and want no aid, Will live the old life out and chance the now.

And your sentence is written all the same, And I can do nothing,--pray, perhaps: But somehow the world pursues its game,-- If I pray, if I curse,--for better or worse: And my faith is torn to a thousand scraps, And my heart feels ice while my words breathe flame.

Dear, I look from my hiding-place. Are you still so fair? Have you still the eyes? Be happy! Add but the other grace, Be good! Why want what the angels vaunt? I knew you once: but in Paradise, If we meet, I will pass nor turn my face.

DÎS ALITER VISUM;

OR, LE BYRON DE NOS JOURS

Stop, let me have the truth of that! Is that all true? I say, the day Ten years ago when both of us Met on a morning, friends--as thus We meet this evening, friends or what?--

Did you--because I took your arm And sillily smiled, "A mass of brass That sea looks, blazing underneath!" While up the cliff-road edged with heath, We took the turns nor came to harm--

Did you consider, "Now makes twice That I have seen her, walked and talked With this poor pretty thoughtful thing, Whose worth I weigh: she tries to sing; Draws, hopes in time the eye grows nice;

"Reads verse and thinks she understands; Loves all, at any rate, that's great, Good, beautiful; but much as we Down at the bath-house love the sea, Who breathe its salt and bruise its sands:

"While ... do but follow the fishing-gull That flaps and floats from wave to cave! There's the sea-lover, fair my friend! What then? Be patient, mark and mend! Had you the making of your skull?"

And did you, when we faced the church With spire and sad slate roof, aloof From human fellowship so far, Where a few graveyard crosses are, And garlands for the swallows' perch,--

Did you determine, as we stepped O'er the lone stone fence, "Let me get Her for myself, and what's the earth With all its art, verse, music; worth-- Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?

"Schumann's our music-maker now; Has his march-movement youth and mouth? Ingres's the modern man that paints; Which will lean on me, of his saints? Heine for songs; for kisses, how?"

And did you, when we entered, reached The votive frigate, soft aloft Riding on air this hundred years, Safe-smiling at old hopes and fears,-- Did you draw profit while she preached?

Resolving, "Fools we wise men grow! Yes, I could easily blurt out curt Some question that might find reply As prompt in her stopped lips, dropped eye, And rush of red to cheek and brow:

"Thus were a match made, sure and fast, 'Mid the blue weed-flowers round the mound Where, issuing, we shall stand and stay For one more look at baths and bay, Sands, sea-gulls, and the old church last--

"A match 'twixt me, bent, wigged and lamed, Famous, however, for verse and worse, Sure of the Fortieth spare Arm-chair When gout and glory seat me there, So, one whose love-freaks pass unblamed,--

"And this young beauty, round and sound As a mountain-apple, youth and truth With loves and doves, at all events With money in the Three per Cents; Whose choice of me would seem profound:--

"She might take me as I take her. Perfect the hour would pass, alas! Climb high, love high, what matter? Still, Feet, feelings, must descend the hill: An hour's perfection can't recur.

"Then follows Paris and full time For both to reason: 'Thus with us!' She 'll sigh, 'Thus girls give body and soul At first word, think they gain the goal, When 't is the starting-place they climb!

"'My friend makes verse and gets renown; Have they all fifty years, his peers? He knows the world, firm, quiet and gay; Boys will become as much one day: They 're fools; he cheats, with beard less brown.

"'For boys say, _Love me or I die!_ He did not say, _The truth is, youth_ _I want, who am old and know too much;_ _I'd catch youth: lend me sight and touch!_ _Drop heart's blood where life's wheels grate dry!_'

"While I should make rejoinder"--(then It was no doubt, you ceased that least Light pressure of my arm in yours)-- "'I can conceive of cheaper cures For a yawning-fit o'er books and men.

"'What? All I am, was, and might be, All, books taught, art brought, life's whole strife, Painful results since precious, just Were fitly exchanged, in wise disgust, For two cheeks freshened by youth and sea?

"'All for a nosegay!--what came first; With fields on flower, untried each side; I rally, need my books and men, And find a nosegay:' drop it, then, No match yet made for best or worst!"

That ended me. You judged the porch We left by, Norman; took our look At sea and sky; wondered so few Find out the place for air and view; Remarked the sun began to scorch;

Descended, soon regained the baths, And then, good-by! Years ten since then; Ten years! We meet: you tell me, now, By a window-seat for that cliff-brow, On carpet-stripes for those sand-paths.

Now I may speak: you fool, for all Your lore! WHO made things plain in vain? What was the sea for? What, the gray Sad church, that solitary day, Crosses and graves and swallows' call?

Was there naught better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?

No wise beginning, here and now, What cannot grow complete (earth's feat) And heaven must finish, there and then? No tasting earth's true food for men, Its sweet in sad, its sad in sweet?

No grasping at love, gaining a share O' the sole spark from God's life at strife With death, so, sure of range above The limits here? For us and love, Failure; but, when God fails, despair.

This you call wisdom? Thus you add Good unto good again, in vain? You loved, with body worn and weak; I loved, with faculties to seek: Were both loves worthless since ill-clad?

Let the mere star-fish in his vault Crawl in a wash of weed, indeed, Rose-jacynth to the finger-tips: He, whole in body and soul, outstrips Man, found with either in default.

But what 's whole can increase no more, Is dwarfed and dies, since here 's its sphere. The devil laughed at you in his sleeve! You know not? That I well believe; Or you had saved two souls: nay, four.

For Stephanie sprained last night her wrist, Ankle or something. "Pooh," cry you? At any rate she danced, all say, Vilely; her vogue has had its day. Here comes my husband from his whist.

TOO LATE

Here was I with my arm and heart And brain, all yours for a word, a want Put into a look--just a look, your part,-- While mine, to repay it ... vainest vaunt, Were the woman, that's dead, alive to hear, Had her lover, that's lost, love's proof to show! But I cannot show it; you cannot speak From the churchyard neither, miles removed, Though I feel by a pulse within my cheek, Which stabs and stops, that the woman I loved Needs help in her grave and finds none near, Wants warmth from the heart which sends it--so!

Did I speak once angrily, all the drear days You lived, you woman I loved so well, Who married the other? Blame or praise, Where was the use then? Time would tell, And the end declare what man for you, What woman for me, was the choice of God. But, Edith dead! no doubting more! I used to sit and look at my life As it rippled and ran till, right before, A great stone stopped it: oh, the strife Of waves at the stone some devil threw In my life's midcurrent, thwarting God!

But either I thought, "They may churn and chide Awhile, my waves which came for their joy And found this horrible stone full-tide: Yet I see just a thread escape, deploy Through the evening-country, silent and safe, And it suffers no more till it finds the sea." Or else I would think, "Perhaps some night When new things happen, a meteor-ball May slip through the sky in a line of light, And earth breathe hard, and landmarks fall, And my waves no longer champ nor chafe, Since a stone will have rolled from its place: let be!"

But, dead! All 's done with: wait who may, Watch and wear and wonder who will. Oh, my whole life that ends to-day! Oh, my soul's sentence, sounding still, "The woman is dead that was none of his; And the man that was none of hers may go!" There's only the past left: worry that! Wreak, like a bull, on the empty coat, Rage, its late wearer is laughing at! Tear the collar to rags, having missed his throat; Strike stupidly on--"This, this and this, Where I would that a bosom received the blow!"

I ought to have done more: once my speech, And once your answer, and there, the end, And Edith was henceforth out of reach! Why, men do more to deserve a friend, Be rid of a foe, get rich, grow wise, Nor, folding their arms, stare fate in the face. Why, better even have burst like a thief And borne you away to a rock for us two, In a moment's horror, bright, bloody and brief, Then changed to myself again--"I slew Myself in that moment; a ruffian lies Somewhere: your slave, see, born in his place!"

What did the other do? You be judge! Look at us, Edith! Here are we both! Give him his six whole years: I grudge None of the life with you, nay, loathe Myself that I grudged his start in advance Of me who could overtake and pass. But, as if he loved you! No, not he, Nor any one else in the world, 'tis plain: Who ever heard that another, free As I, young, prosperous, sound and sane, Poured life out, proffered it--"Half a glance Of those eyes of yours and I drop the glass!"

Handsome, were you? 'T is more than they held, More than they said; I was 'ware and watched: I was the scapegrace, this rat belled The cat, this fool got his whiskers scratched: The others? No head that was turned, no heart Broken, my lady, assure yourself! Each soon made his mind up; so and so Married a dancer, such and such Stole his friend's wife, stagnated slow, Or maundered, unable to do as much, And muttered of peace where he had no part: While, hid in the closet, laid on the shelf,--

On the whole, you were let alone, I think! So, you looked to the other, who acquiesced; My rival, the proud man,--prize your pink Of poets! A poet he was! I've guessed: He rhymed you his rubbish nobody read, Loved you and doved you--did not I laugh! There was a prize! But we both were tried. Oh, heart of mine, marked broad with her mark, _Tekel_, found wanting, set aside, Scorned! See, I bleed these tears in the dark Till comfort come and the last be bled: He? He is tagging your epitaph.

If it would only come over again! --Time to be patient with me, and probe This heart till you punctured the proper vein, Just to learn what blood is: twitch the robe From that blank lay-figure your fancy draped, Prick the leathern heart till the--verses spirt! And late it was easy; late, you walked Where a friend might meet you; Edith's name Arose to one's lip if one laughed or talked; If I heard good news, you heard the same; When I woke, I knew that your breath escaped; I could bide my time, keep alive, alert.

And alive I shall keep and long, you will see! I knew a man, was kicked like a dog From gutter to cesspool; what cared he So long as he picked from the filth his prog? He saw youth, beauty and genius die, And jollily lived to his hundredth year. But I will live otherwise: none of such life! At once I begin as I mean to end. Go on with the world, get gold in its strife, Give your spouse the slip and betray your friend! There are two who decline, a woman and I, And enjoy our death in the darkness here.

I liked that way you had with your curls Wound to a ball in a net behind: Your cheek was chaste as a Quaker-girl's, And your mouth--there was never, to my mind, Such a funny mouth, for it would not shut; And the dented chin too--what a chin! There were certain ways when you spoke, some words That you know you never could pronounce: You were thin, however; like a bird's Your hand seemed--some would say, the pounce Of a scaly-footed hawk--all but! The world was right when it called you thin.

But I turn my back on the world: I take Your hand, and kneel, and lay to my lips. Bid me live, Edith! Let me slake Thirst at your presence! Fear no slips: 'Tis your slave shall pay, while his soul endures, Full due, love's whole debt, _summum jus_. My queen shall have high observance, planned Courtship made perfect, no least line Crossed without warrant. There you stand, Warm too, and white too: would this wine Had washed all over that body of yours. Ere I drank it, and you down with it, thus!

ABT VOGLER

(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION)

Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,-- Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved!

Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs.

And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, When a great illumination surprises a festal night-- Outlined round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight.

In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth, Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far.

Nay more; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last; Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; And what is,--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too.

All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: Had I written the same, made verse--still, effect proceeds from cause. Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:--

But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws, that made them and, lo, they are! And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is naught: It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said: Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: And there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head!

Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. Never to be again! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be.

Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is naught, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by and by.

And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know.

Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones till I sink to the minor,--yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep.

RABBI BEN EZRA

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,--a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,-- Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test-- Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole, Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"?

Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings. Let us cry, "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots--"Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all, Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel, That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee, _That_ was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, This Present, thou, forsooth, would fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent, Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves, Which ran the laughing loves Around thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Skull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, The new wine's foaming flow, The Master's lips aglow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst, Did I--to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife, Bound dizzily--mistake my end, to slake thy thirst:

So, take and use thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

A DEATH IN THE DESERT

[Supposed of Pamphylax the Antiochene: It is a parchment, of my rolls the fifth, Hath three skins glued together, is all Greek, And goeth from _Epsilon_ down to _Mu:_ Lies second in the surnamed Chosen Chest, Stained and conserved with juice of terebinth, Covered with cloth of hair, and lettered _Xi_, From Xanthus, my wife's uncle now at peace: _Mu_ and _Epsilon_ stand for my own name. I may not write it, but I make a cross To show I wait His coming, with the rest, And leave off here: beginneth Pamphylax.]

I said, "If one should wet his lips with wine, And slip the broadest plantain-leaf we find, Or else the lappet of a linen robe, Into the water-vessel, lay it right, And cool his forehead just above the eyes, The while a brother, kneeling either side, Should chafe each hand and try to make it warm,-- He is not so far gone but he might speak."

This did not happen in the outer cave, Nor in the secret chamber of the rock, Where, sixty days since the decree was cut, We had him, bedded on a camel-skin, And waited for his dying all the while; But in the midmost grotto: since noon's light Reached there a little, and we would not lose The last of what might happen on his face.

I at the head, and Xanthus at the feet, With Valens and the Boy, had lifted him, And brought him from the chamber in the depths, And laid him in the light where we might see: For certain smiles began about his mouth, And his lids moved, presageful of the end.

Beyond, and halfway up the mouth o' the cave, The Bactrian convert, having his desire, Kept watch, and made pretence to graze a goat That gave us milk, on rags of various herb, Plantain and quitch, the rocks' shade keeps alive: So that if any thief or soldier passed, (Because the persecution was aware,) Yielding the goat up promptly with his life, Such man might pass on, joyful at a prize, Nor care to pry into the cool o' the cave. Outside was all noon and the burning blue.

"Here is wine," answered Xanthus,--dropped a drop; I stooped and placed the lap of cloth aright, Then chafed his right hand, and the Boy his left: But Valens had bethought him, and produced And broke a ball of nard, and made perfume. Only, he did--not so much wake, as--turn And smile a little, as a sleeper does If any dear one call him, touch his face-- And smiles and loves, but will not be disturbed.

Then Xanthus said a prayer, but still he slept: It is the Xanthus that escaped to Rome, Was burned, and could not write the chronicle.

Then the Boy sprang up from his knees, and ran, Stung by the splendor of a sudden thought, And fetched the seventh plate of graven lead Out of the secret chamber, found a place, Pressing with finger on the deeper dints, And spoke, as 't were his mouth proclaiming first, "I am the Resurrection and the Life."

Whereat he opened his eyes wide at once, And sat up of himself, and looked at us; And thenceforth nobody pronounced a word: Only, outside, the Bactrian cried his cry Like the lone desert-bird that wears the ruff, As signal we were safe, from time to time.

First he said, "If a friend declared to me, This my son Valens, this my other son, Were James and Peter,--nay, declared as well This lad was very John,--I could believe! --Could, for a moment, doubtlessly believe: So is myself withdrawn into my depths, The soul retreated from the perished brain Whence it was wont to feel and use the world Through these dull members, done with long ago. Yet I myself remain; I feel myself: And there is nothing lost. Let be, awhile!"

[This is the doctrine he was wont to teach, How divers persons witness in each man, Three souls which make up one soul: first, to wit, A soul of each and all the bodily parts, Seated therein, which works, and is what Does, And has the use of earth, and ends the man Downward: but, tending upward for advice, Grows into, and again is grown into By the next soul, which, seated in the brain, Useth the first with its collected use, And feeleth, thinketh, willeth,--is what Knows: Which, duly tending upward in its turn, Grows into, and again is grown into By the last soul, that uses both the first, Subsisting whether they assist or no, And, constituting man's self, is what Is-- And leans upon the former, makes it play, As that played off the first: and, tending up, Holds, is upheld by, God, and ends the man Upward in that dread point of intercourse, Nor needs a place, for it returns to Him. What Does, what Knows, what Is; three souls, one man. I give the glossa as Theotypas.]

And then, "A stick, once fire from end to end; Now, ashes save the tip that holds a spark! Yet, blow the spark, it runs back, spreads itself A little where the fire was: thus I urge The soul that served me, till it task once more What ashes of my brain have kept their shape, And these make effort on the last o' the flesh, Trying to taste again the truth of things"-- (He smiled)--"their very superficial truth; As that ye are my sons, that it is long Since James and Peter had release by death, And I am only he, your brother John, Who saw and heard, and could remember all. Remember all! It is not much to say. What if the truth broke on me from above As once and ofttimes? Such might hap again: Doubtlessly He might stand in presence here, With head wool-white, eyes flame, and feet like brass, The sword and the seven stars, as I have seen-- I who now shudder only and surmise 'How did your brother bear that sight and live?'

"If I live yet, it is for good, more love Through me to men: be naught but ashes here That keep awhile my semblance, who was John,-- Still, when they scatter, there is left on earth No one alive who knew (consider this!) --Saw with his eyes and handled with his hands That which was from the first, the Word of Life. How will it be when none more saith 'I saw'?

"Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops. Since I, whom Christ's mouth taught, was bidden teach, I went, for many years, about the world, Saying 'It was so; so I heard and saw,' Speaking as the case asked: and men believed. Afterward came the message to myself In Patmos isle; I was not bidden teach, But simply listen, take a book and write, Nor set down other than the given word, With nothing left to my arbitrament To choose or change: I wrote, and men believed. Then, for my time grew brief, no message more, No call to write again, I found a way, And, reasoning from my knowledge, merely taught Men should, for love's sake, in love's strength believe; Or I would pen a letter to a friend And urge the same as friend, nor less nor more: Friends said I reasoned rightly, and believed. But at the last, why, I seemed left alive Like a sea-jelly weak on Patmos strand, To tell dry sea-beach gazers how I fared When there was mid-sea, and the mighty things; Left to repeat, 'I saw, I heard, I knew,' And go all over the old ground again, With Antichrist already in the world, And many Antichrists, who answered prompt, 'Am I not Jasper as thyself art John? Nay, young, whereas through age thou mayest forget: Wherefore, explain, or how shall we believe?' I never thought to call down fire on such, Or, as in wonderful and early days, Pick up the scorpion, tread the serpent dumb; But patient stated much of the Lord's life Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work: Since much that at the first, in deed and word, Lay simply and sufficiently exposed, Had grown (or else my soul was grown to match, Fed through such years, familiar with such light, Guarded and guided still to see and speak) Of new significance and fresh result; What first were guessed as points, I now knew stars, And named them in the Gospel I have writ. For men said, 'It is getting long ago: Where is the promise of his coming?'--asked These young ones in their strength, as loth to wait, Of me who, when their sires were born, was old. I, for I loved them, answered, joyfully, Since I was there, and helpful in my age; And, in the main, I think such men believed. Finally, thus endeavoring, I fell sick, Ye brought me here, and I supposed the end, And went to sleep with one thought that, at least, Though the whole earth should lie in wickedness, We had the truth, might leave the rest to God. Yet now I wake in such decrepitude As I had slidden down and fallen afar, Past even the presence of my former self, Grasping the while for stay at facts which snap, Till I am found away from my own world, Feeling for foothold through a blank profound, Along with unborn people in strange lands, Who say--I hear said or conceive they say-- 'Was John at all, and did he say he saw? Assure us, ere we ask what he might see!'

"And how shall I assure them? Can they share --They, who have flesh, a veil of youth and strength About each spirit, that needs must bide its time, Living and learning still as years assist Which wear the thickness thin, and let man see-- With me who hardly am withheld at all, But shudderingly, scarce a shred between, Lie bare to the universal prick of light? Is it for nothing we grow old and weak, We whom God loves? When pain ends, gain ends too. To me, that story--ay, that Life and Death Of which I wrote 'it was'--to me, it is; --Is, here and now: I apprehend naught else. Is not God now i' the world his power first made? Is not his love at issue still with sin, Visibly when a wrong is done on earth? Love, wrong, and pain, what see I else around? Yea, and the Resurrection and Uprise To the right hand of the throne--what is it beside, When such truth, breaking bounds, o'erfloods my soul, And, as I saw the sin and death, even so See I the need yet transiency of both, The good and glory consummated thence? I saw the power; I see the Love, once weak, Resume the Power: and in this word 'I see,' Lo, there is recognized the Spirit of both That moving o'er the spirit of man, unblinds His eye and bids him look. These are, I see; But ye, the children, his beloved ones too, Ye need,--as I should use an optic glass I wondered at erewhile, somewhere i' the world, It had been given a crafty smith to make; A tube, he turned on objects brought too close, Lying confusedly insubordinate For the unassisted eye to master once: Look through his tube, at distance now they lay, Become succinct, distinct, so small, so clear! Just thus, ye needs must apprehend what truth I see, reduced to plain historic fact, Diminished into clearness, proved a point And far away: ye would withdraw your sense From out eternity, strain it upon time. Then stand before that fact, that Life and Death, Stay there at gaze, till it dispart, dispread, As though a star should open out, all sides, Grow the world on you, as it is my world.

"For life, with all it yields of joy and woe, And hope and fear,--believe the aged friend,-- Is just our chance o' the prize of learning love, How love might be, hath been indeed, and is; And that we hold thenceforth to the uttermost Such prize despite the envy of the world, And, having gained truth, keep truth: that is all. But see the double way wherein we are led, How the soul learns diversely from the flesh! With flesh, that hath so little time to stay, And yields mere basement for the soul's emprise, Expect prompt teaching. Helpful was the light, And warmth was cherishing and food was choice To every man's flesh, thousand years ago, As now to yours and mine; the body sprang At once to the height, and stayed: but the soul,--no! Since sages who, this noontide, meditate In Rome or Athens, may descry some point Of the eternal power, hid yestereve; And, as thereby the power's whole mass extends, So much extends the æther floating o'er The love that tops the might, the Christ in God. Then, as new lessons shall be learned in these Till earth's work stop and useless time run out, So duly, daily, needs provision be For keeping the soul's prowess possible, Building new barriers as the old decay, Saving us from evasion of life's proof, Putting the question ever, 'Does God love, And will ye hold that truth against the world?' Ye know there needs no second proof with good Gained for our flesh from any earthly source: We might go freezing, ages,--give us fire, Thereafter we judge fire at its full worth, And guard it safe through every chance, ye know! That fable of Prometheus and his theft, How mortals gained Jove's fiery flower, grows old (I have been used to hear the pagans own) And out of mind; but fire, howe'er its birth, Here is it, precious to the sophist now Who laughs the myth of Æschylus to scorn, As precious to those satyrs of his play, Who touched it in gay wonder at the thing. While were it so with the soul,--this gift of truth Once grasped, were this our soul's gain safe, and sure To prosper as the body's gain is wont,-- Why, man's probation would conclude, his earth Crumble; for he both reasons and decides, Weighs first, then chooses: will he give up fire For gold or purple once he knows its worth? Could he give Christ up were his worth as plain? Therefore, I say, to test man, the proofs shift, Nor may he grasp that fact like other fact, And straightway in his life acknowledge it, As, say, the indubitable bliss of fire. Sigh ye, 'It had been easier once than now'? To give you answer I am left alive; Look at me who was present from the first! Ye know what things I saw; then came a test, My first, befitting me who so had seen: 'Forsake the Christ thou sawest transfigured, him Who trod the sea and brought the dead to life? What should wring this from thee!'--ye laugh and ask. What wrung it? Even a torchlight and a noise, The sudden Roman faces, violent hands, And fear of what the Jews might do! Just that, And it is written, 'I forsook and fled:' There was my trial, and it ended thus. Ay, but my soul had gained its truth, could grow: Another year or two,--what little child, What tender woman that had seen no least Of all my sights, but barely heard them told, Who did not clasp the cross with a light laugh, Or wrap the burning robe round, thanking God? Well, was truth safe forever, then? Not so. Already had begun the silent work Whereby truth, deadened of its absolute blaze, Might need love's eye to pierce the o'erstretched doubt. Teachers were busy, whispering 'All is true As the aged ones report: but youth can reach Where age gropes dimly, weak with stir and strain, And the full doctrine slumbers till to-day.' Thus, what the Roman's lowered spear was found, A bar to me who touched and handled truth, Now proved the glozing of some new shrewd tongue, This Ebion, this Cerinthus or their mates, Till imminent was the outcry 'Save our Christ!' Whereon I stated much of the Lord's life Forgotten or misdelivered, and let it work. Such work done, as it will be, what comes next? What do I hear say, or conceive men say, 'Was John at all, and did he say he saw? Assure us, ere we ask what he might see!'

"Is this indeed a burden for late days, And may I help to bear it with you all, Using my weakness which becomes your strength? For if a babe were born inside this grot, Grew to a boy here, heard us praise the sun, Yet had but yon sole glimmer in light's place,-- One loving him and wishful he should learn, Would much rejoice himself was blinded first Month by month here, so made to understand How eyes, born darkling, apprehend amiss: I think I could explain to such a child There was more glow outside than gleams he caught, Ay, nor need urge 'I saw it, so believe!' It is a heavy burden you shall bear In latter days, new lands, or old grown strange, Left without me, which must be very soon. What is the doubt, my brothers? Quick with it! I see you stand conversing, each new face, Either in fields, of yellow summer eves, On islets yet unnamed amid the sea; Or pace for shelter 'neath a portico Out of the crowd in some enormous town Where now the larks sing in a solitude; Or muse upon blank heaps of stone and sand Idly conjectured to be Ephesus: And no one asks his fellow any more 'Where is the promise of his coming?' but 'Was he revealed in any of his lives, As Power, as Love, as Influencing Soul?'

"Quick, for time presses, tell the whole mind out, And let us ask and answer and be saved! My book speaks on, because it cannot pass; One listens quietly, nor scoffs but pleads, 'Here is a tale of things done ages since; What truth was ever told the second day? Wonders, that would prove doctrine, go for naught. Remains the doctrine, love; well, we must love, And what we love most, power and love in one, Let us acknowledge on the record here, Accepting these in Christ: must Christ then be? Has he been? Did not we ourselves make him? Our mind receives but what it holds, no more. First of the love, then; we acknowledge Christ-- A proof we comprehend his love, a proof We had such love already in ourselves, Knew first what else we should not recognize. 'T is mere projection from man's inmost mind, And, what he loves, thus falls reflected back, Becomes accounted somewhat out of him; He throws it up in air, it drops down earth's, With shape, name, story added, man's old way. How prove you Christ came otherwise at least? Next try the power: he made and rules the world: Certes there is a world once made, now ruled, Unless things have been ever as we see. Our sires declared a charioteer's yoked steeds Brought the sun up the east and down the west, Which only of itself now rises, sets, As if a hand impelled it and a will,-- Thus they long thought, they who had will and hands: But the new question's whisper is distinct, Wherefore must all force needs be like ourselves? We have the hands, the will; what made and drives The sun is force, is law, is named, not known, While will and love we do know; marks of these, Eye-witnesses attest, so books declare-- As that, to punish or reward our race, The sun at undue times arose or set Or else stood still: what do not men affirm? But earth requires as urgently reward Or punishment to-day as years ago, And none expects the sun will interpose: Therefore it was mere passion and mistake, Or erring zeal for right, which changed the truth. Go back, far, farther, to the birth of things; Ever the will, the intelligence, the love, Man's!--which he gives, supposing he but finds, As late he gave head, body, hands and feet, To help these in what forms he called his gods. First, Jove's brow, Juno's eyes were swept away, But Jove's wrath, Juno's pride continued long: As last, will, power, and love discarded these, So law in turn discards power, love, and will. What proveth God is otherwise at least? All else, projection from the mind of man!

"Nay, do not give me wine, for I am strong, But place my gospel where I put my hands.

"I say that man was made to grow, not stop; That help, he needed once, and needs no more, Having grown but an inch by, is withdrawn: For he hath new needs, and new helps to these. This imports solely, man should mount on each New height in view; the help whereby he mounts, The ladder-rung his foot has left, may fall, Since all things suffer change save God the Truth. Man apprehends him newly at each stage Whereat earth's ladder drops, its service done; And nothing shall prove twice what once was proved. You stick a garden-plot with ordered twigs To show inside lie germs of herbs unborn, And check the careless step would spoil their birth; But when herbs wave, the guardian twigs may go, Since should ye doubt of virtues, question kinds, It is no longer for old twigs ye look, Which proved once underneath lay store of seed, But to the herb's self, by what light ye boast, For what fruit's signs are. This book's fruit is plain, Nor miracles need prove it any more. Doth the fruit show? Then miracles bade 'ware At first of root and stem, saved both till now From trampling ox, rough boar and wanton goat. What? Was man made a wheelwork to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No!--grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

"This might be pagan teaching: now hear mine.

"I say, that as the babe, you feed awhile, Becomes a boy and fit to feed himself, So, minds at first must be spoon-fed with truth: When they can eat, babe's nurture is withdrawn. I fed the babe whether it would or no: I bid the boy or feed himself or starve. I cried once, 'That ye may believe in Christ, Behold this blind man shall receive his sight! I cry now, 'Urgest thou, _for I am shrewd_ _And smile at stories how John's word could cure--_ _Repeat that miracle and take my faith?_' I say, that miracle was duly wrought When, save for it, no faith was possible. Whether a change were wrought i' the shows o' the world, Whether the change came from our minds which see Of shows o' the world so much as and no more Than God wills for his purpose,--(what do I See now, suppose you, there where you see rock Round us?)--I know not; such was the effect, So faith grew, making void more miracles Because too much: they would compel, not help. I say, the acknowledgment of God in Christ Accepted by thy reason, solves for thee All questions in the earth and out of it, And has so far advanced thee to be wise. Wouldst thou unprove this to re-prove the proved? In life's mere minute, with power to use that proof, Leave knowledge and revert to how it sprung? Thou hast it; use it and forthwith, or die!

"For I say, this is death and the sole death, When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest; A lamp's death when, replete with oil, it chokes; A stomach's when, surcharged with food, it starves. With ignorance was surety of a cure. When man, appalled at nature, questioned first, 'What if there lurk a might behind this might?' He needed satisfaction God could give, And did give, as ye have the written word: But when he finds might still redouble might, Yet asks, 'Since all is might, what use of will?' --Will, the one source of might,--he being man With a man's will and a man's might, to teach In little how the two combine in large,-- That man has turned round on himself and stands, Which in the course of nature is, to die.

"And when man questioned, 'What if there be love Behind the will and might, as real as they?'-- He needed satisfaction God could give, And did give, as ye have the written word: But when, beholding that love everywhere, He reasons, 'Since such love is everywhere, And since ourselves can love and would be loved, We ourselves make the love, and Christ was not,'-- How shall ye help this man who knows himself, That he must love and would be loved again, Yet, owning his own love that proveth Christ, Rejecteth Christ through very need of him? The lamp o'erswims with oil, the stomach flags Loaded with nurture, and that man's soul dies.

"If he rejoin, 'But this was all the while A trick; the fault was, first of all, in thee, Thy story of the places, names and dates, Where, when and how the ultimate truth had rise, --Thy prior truth, at last discovered none, Whence now the second suffers detriment. What good of giving knowledge if, because O' the manner of the gift, its profit fail? And why refuse what modicum of help Had stopped the after-doubt, impossible I' the face of tenth--truth absolute, uniform? Why must I hit of this and miss of that, Distinguish just as I be weak or strong, And not ask of thee and have answer prompt, Was this once, was it not once?--then and now And evermore, plain truth from man to man. Is John's procedure just the heathen bard's? Put question of his famous play again How for the ephemerals' sake, Jove's fire was filched, And carried in a cane and brought to earth: _The fact is in the fable_, cry the wise, _Mortals obtained the boon, so much is fact,_ _Though fire be spirit and produced on earth._ As with the Titan's, so now with thy tale: Why breed in us perplexity, mistake, Nor tell the whole truth in the proper words?'

"I answer, Have ye yet to argue out The very primal thesis, plainest law, --Man is not God but hath God's end to serve, A master to obey, a course to take, Somewhat to cast off, somewhat to become? Grant this, then man must pass from old to new, From vain to real, from mistake to fact, From what once seemed good, to what now proves best. How could man have progression otherwise? Before the point was mooted 'What is God?' No savage man inquired 'What am myself?' Much less replied, 'First, last, and best of things.' Man takes that title now if he believes Might can exist with neither will nor love, In God's case--what he names now Nature's Law-- While in himself he recognizes love No less than might and will: and rightly takes. Since if man prove the sole existent thing Where these combine, whatever their degree, However weak the might or will or love, So they be found there, put in evidence,-- He is as surely higher in the scale Than any might with neither love nor will, As life, apparent in the poorest midge, (When the faint dust-speck flits, ye guess its wing,) Is marvellous beyond dead Atlas' self-- Given to the nobler midge for resting-place! Thus, man proves best and highest--God, in fine, And thus the victory leads but to defeat, The gain to loss, best rise to the worst fall, His life becomes impossible, which is death.

"But if, appealing thence, he cower, avouch He is mere man, and in humility Neither may know God nor mistake himself; I point to the immediate consequence And say, by such confession straight he falls Into man's place, a thing nor God nor beast, Made to know that he can know and not more: Lower than God who knows all and can all, Higher than beasts which know and can so far As each beast's limit, perfect to an end, Nor conscious that they know, nor craving more; While man knows partly but conceives beside, Creeps ever on from fancies to the fact, And in this striving, this converting air Into a solid he may grasp and use, Finds progress, man's distinctive mark alone, Not God's, and not the beasts': God is, they are, Man partly is and wholly hopes to be. Such progress could no more attend his soul Were all it struggles after found at first And guesses changed to knowledge absolute, Than motion wait his body, were all else Than it the solid earth on every side, Where now through space he moves from rest to rest. Man, therefore, thus conditioned, must expect He could not, what he knows now, know at first; What he considers that he knows to-day, Come but to-morrow, he will find misknown; Getting increase of knowledge, since he learns Because he lives, which is to be a man, Set to instruct himself by his past self: First, like the brute, obliged by facts to learn, Next, as man may, obliged by his own mind, Bent, habit, nature, knowledge turned to law. God's gift was that man should conceive of truth And yearn to gain it, catching at mistake, As midway help till he reach fact indeed. The statuary ere he mould a shape Boasts a like gift, the shape's idea, and next The aspiration to produce the same; So, taking clay, he calls his shape thereout, Cries ever 'Now I have the thing I see:' Yet all the while goes changing what was wrought, From falsehood like the truth, to truth itself. How were it had he cried, 'I see no face, No breast, no feet i' the ineffectual clay'? Rather commend him that he clapped his hands, And laughed 'It is my shape and lives again!' Enjoyed the falsehood, touched it on to truth, Until yourselves applaud the flesh indeed In what is still flesh-imitating clay. Right in you, right in him, such way be man's! God only makes the live shape at a jet. Will ye renounce this pact of creatureship? The pattern on the Mount subsists no more, Seemed awhile, then returned to nothingness; But copies, Moses strove to make thereby, Serve still and are replaced as time requires: By these, make newest vessels, reach the type! If ye demur, this judgment on your head, Never to reach the ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul There where law, life, joy, impulse are one thing! "Such is the burden of the latest time. I have survived to hear it with my ears, Answer it with my lips: does this suffice? For if there be a further woe than such, Wherein my brothers struggling need a hand, So long as any pulse is left in mine, May I be absent even longer yet, Plucking the blind ones back from the abyss, Though I should tarry a new hundred years!"

But he was dead: 't was about noon, the day Somewhat declining: we five buried him That eve, and then, dividing, went five ways, And I, disguised, returned to Ephesus.

By this, the cave's mouth must be filled with sand. Valens is lost, I know not of his trace; The Bactrian was but a wild childish man, And could not write nor speak, but only loved: So, lest the memory of this go quite, Seeing that I to-morrow fight the beasts, I tell the same to Phœbas, whom believe! For many look again to find that face, Beloved John's to whom I ministered, Somewhere in life about the world; they err: Either mistaking what was darkly spoke At ending of his book, as he relates, Or misconceiving somewhat of this speech Scattered from mouth to mouth, as I suppose. Believe ye will not see him any more About the world with his divine regard! For all was as I say, and now the man Lies as he lay once, breast to breast with God.

* * * * *

[Cerinthus read and mused; one added this:

"If Christ, as thou affirmest, be of men Mere man, the first and best but nothing more,-- Account him, for reward of what he was, Now and forever, wretchedest of all. For see; himself conceived of life as love, Conceived of love as what must enter in, Fill up, make one with his each soul he loved: Thus much for man's joy, all men's joy for him. Well, he is gone, thou sayest, to fit reward. But by this time are many souls set free, And very many still retained alive: Nay, should his coming be delayed awhile, Say, ten years longer (twelve years, some compute), See if, for every finger of thy hands, There be not found, that day the world shall end, Hundreds of souls, each holding by Christ's word That he will grow incorporate with all, With me as Pamphylax, with him as John, Groom for each bride! Can a mere man do this? Yet Christ saith, this he lived and died to do. Call Christ, then, the illimitable God, Or lost!"

But 't was Cerinthus that is lost.]

CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS;

OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND

"Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself."

['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day is best, Flat on his belly in the pit's much mire, With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin. And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush, And feels about his spine small eft-things course, Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh: And while above his head a pompion-plant, Coating the cave-top as a brow its eye, Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and beard, And now a flower drops with a bee inside, And now a fruit to snap at, catch and crunch,-- He looks out o'er yon sea which sunbeams cross And recross till they weave a spider-web, (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks at times,) And talks to his own self, howe'er he please, Touching that other, whom his dam called God. Because to talk about Him, vexes--ha, Could He but know! and time to vex is now, When talk is safer than in winter-time. Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep In confidence he drudges at their task, And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe, Letting the rank tongue blossom into speech.]

Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos! 'Thinketh, He dwelleth i' the cold o' the moon.

'Thinketh He made it, with the sun to match, But not the stars; the stars came otherwise; Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such as that: Also this isle, what lives and grows thereon, And snaky sea which rounds and ends the same.

'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease: He hated that He cannot change His cold, Nor cure its ache. 'Hath spied an icy fish That longed to 'scape the rock-stream where she lived, And thaw herself within the lukewarm brine O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far amid, A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls of wave; Only, she ever sickened, found repulse At the other kind of water, not her life, (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' the sun,) Flounced back from bliss she was not born to breathe, And in her old bounds buried her despair, Hating and loving warmth alike: so He.

'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, this isle, Trees and the fowls here, beast and creeping thing. Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a leech; Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, That floats and feeds; a certain badger brown He hath watched hunt with that slant white-wedge eye By moonlight; and the pie with the long tongue That pricks deep into oakwarts for a worm, And says a plain word when she finds her prize, But will not eat the ants; the ants themselves That build a wall of seeds and settled stalks About their hole--He made all these and more, Made all we see, and us, in spite: how else? He could not, Himself, make a second self To be His mate; as well have made Himself: He would not make what He mislikes or slights, An eyesore to Him, or not worth His pains: But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, Make what Himself would fain, in a manner, be-- Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, Worthy, and yet mere playthings all the while, Things He admires and mocks too,--that is it. Because, so brave, so better though they be, It nothing skills if He begin to plague. Look now, I melt a gourd-fruit into mash, Add honeycomb and pods, I have perceived, Which bite like finches when they bill and kiss,-- Then, when froth rises bladdery, drink up all, Quick, quick, till maggots scamper through my brain; Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded thyme, And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. Put case, unable to be what I wish, I yet could make a live bird out of clay: Would not I take clay, pinch my Caliban Able to fly?--for, there, see, he hath wings, And great comb like the hoopoe's to admire, And there, a sting to do his foes offence, There, and I will that he begin to live, Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the horns Of grigs high up that make the merry din, Saucy through their veined wings, and mind me not. In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle clay, And he lay stupid-like,--why, I should laugh; And if he, spying me, should fall to weep, Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, Bid his poor leg smart less or grow again,-- Well, as the chance were, this might take or else Not take my fancy: I might hear his cry, And give the manikin three sound legs for one, Or pluck the other off, leave him like an egg, And lessoned he was mine and merely clay. Were this no pleasure, lying in the thyme, Drinking the mash, with brain become alive, Making and marring clay at will? So He.

'Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him, Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord. 'Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs That march now from the mountain to the sea; 'Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first, Loving not, hating not, just choosing so. 'Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off; 'Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm, And two worms he whose nippers end in red; As it likes me each time, I do: so He.

Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the main, Placable if His mind and ways were guessed, But rougher than His handiwork, be sure! Oh, He hath made things worthier than Himself, And envieth that, so helped, such things do more Than He who made them! What consoles but this? That they, unless through Him, do naught at all, And must submit: what other use in things? 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint That, blown through, gives exact the scream o' the jay When from her wing you twitch the feathers blue: Sound this, and little birds that hate the jay Flock within stone's throw, glad their foe is hurt: Put case such pipe could prattle and boast forsooth, "I catch the birds, I am the crafty thing, I make the cry my maker cannot make With his great round mouth; he must blow through mine!" Would not I smash it with my foot? So He.

But wherefore rough, why cold and ill at ease? Aha, that is a question! Ask, for that, What knows,--the something over Setebos That made Him, or He, may be, found and fought, Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, perchance. There may be something quiet o'er His head, Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor grief, Since both derive from weakness in some way. I joy because the quails come; would not joy Could I bring quails here when I have a mind: This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its couch, But never spends much thought nor care that way. It may look up, work up,--the worse for those It works on! 'Careth but for Setebos The many-handed as a cuttle-fish, Who, making Himself feared through what He does, Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot soar To what is quiet and hath happy life; Next looks down here, and out of very spite Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon real, These good things to match those as hips do grapes. 'T is solace making baubles, ay, and sport. Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his books Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle: Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, arrow-shaped, Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodigious words; Has peeled a wand and called it by a name; Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's robe The eyed skin of a supple oncelot; And hath an ounce sleeker than youngling mole, A four-legged serpent he makes cower and couch, Now snarl, now hold its breath and mind his eye, And saith she is Miranda and my wife: 'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill crane He bids go wade for fish and straight disgorge; Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he snared, Blinded the eyes of, and brought somewhat tame, And split its toe-webs, and now pens the drudge In a hole o' the rock and calls him Caliban; A bitter heart that bides its time and bites. 'Plays thus at being Prosper in a way, Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so He.

His dam held that the Quiet made all things Which Setebos vexed only: 'holds not so. Who made them weak, meant weakness He might vex. Had He meant other, while His hand was in, Why not make horny eyes no thorn could prick, Or plate my scalp with bone against the snow, Or overscale my flesh 'neath joint and joint, Like an orc's armor? Ay,--so spoil His sport! He is the One now: only He doth all.

'Saith, He may like, perchance, what profits Him. Ay, himself loves what does him good; but why? 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded beast Loves whoso places flesh-meat on his nose, But, had he eyes, would want no help, but hate Or love, just as it liked him: He hath eyes. Also it pleaseth Setebos to work, Use all His hands, and exercise much craft, By no means for the love of what is worked. 'Tasteth, himself, no finer good i' the world When all goes right, in this safe summer-time, And he wants little, hungers, aches not much, Than trying what to do with wit and strength. 'Falls to make something: 'piled yon pile of turfs, And squared and stuck there squares of soft white chalk, And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon on each, And set up endwise certain spikes of tree, And crowned the whole with a sloth's skull a-top, Found dead i' the woods, too hard for one to kill. No use at all i' the work, for work's sole sake; 'Shall some day knock it down again: so He.

'Saith He is terrible: watch His feats in proof! One hurricane will spoil six good months' hope. He hath a spite against me, that I know, Just as He favors Prosper, who knows why? So it is, all the same, as well I find. 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced them firm With stone and stake to stop she-tortoises Crawling to lay their eggs here: well, one wave, Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck, Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its large tongue, And licked the whole labor flat: so much for spite.

'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it lies) Where, half an hour before, I slept i' the shade: Often they scatter sparkles: there is force! 'Dug up a newt He may have envied once And turned to stone, shut up inside a stone. Please Him and hinder this?--What Prosper does? Aha, if He would tell me how! Not He! There is the sport: discover how or die! All need not die, for of the things o' the isle Some flee afar, some dive, some run up trees; Those at His mercy,--why, they please Him most When ... when ... well, never try the same way twice! Repeat what act has pleased, He may grow wroth. You must not know His ways, and play Him off, Sure of the issue. 'Doth the like himself: 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears But steals the nut from underneath my thumb, And when I threat, bites stoutly in defence: 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise, Curls up into a ball, pretending death For fright at my approach: the two ways please. But what would move my choler more than this, That either creature counted on its life To-morrow and next day and all days to come, Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its heart, "Because he did so yesterday with me, And otherwise with such another brute, So must he do henceforth and always."--Ay? Would teach the reasoning couple what "must" means! 'Doth as he likes, or wherefore Lord? So He.

'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, And we shall have to live in fear of Him So long as He lives, keeps His strength: no change, If He have done His best, make no new world To please Him more, so leave off watching this,-- If He surprise not even the Quiet's self Some strange day,--or, suppose, grow into it As grubs grow butterflies: else, here we are, And there is He, and nowhere help at all.

'Believeth with the life, the pain shall stop. His dam held different, that after death He both plagued enemies and feasted friends: Idly! He doth His worst in this our life, Giving just respite lest we die through pain, Saving last pain for worst,--with which, an end. Meanwhile, the best way to escape His ire Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, himself, Yonder two flies, with purple films and pink, Bask on the pompion-bell above: kills both. 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their ball On head and tail as if to save their lives: Moves them the stick away they strive to clear.

Even so, 'would have Him misconceive, suppose This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, And always, above all else, envies Him; Wherefore he mainly dances on dark nights, Moans in the sun, gets under holes to laugh, And never speaks his mind save housed as now: Outside, 'groans, curses. If He caught me here, O'erheard this speech, and asked "What chucklest at?" 'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, "_What I hate, be consecrate_ _To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate_ _For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?_" Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.

* * * * *

[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once! Crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, There scuds His raven that has told Him all! It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move, And fast invading fires begin! White blaze-- A tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him! Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos! 'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]

CONFESSIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAY AND DEATH

Among Browning's companions in boyhood were three Silverthornes, cousins on his mother's side. The name of Charles in the poem stands for the more familiar Jim, and it was in remembrance of him, the eldest and most talented of the three, that this poem was written. First published in _The Keepsake_, 1857.

I wish that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things; Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too.

A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps! There must be many a pair of friends Who, arm in arm, deserve the warm Moon-births and the long evening-ends.

So, for their sake, be May still May! Let their new time, as mine of old, Do all it did for me: I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.

Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,--

That, they might spare; a certain wood Might miss the plant; their loss were small: But I,--whene'er the leaf grows there, Its drop comes from my heart, that 's all.

DEAF AND DUMB

A GROUP BY WOOLNER

Only the prism's obstruction shows aright The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light Into the jewelled bow from blankest white; So may a glory from defect arise: Only by Deafness may the vexed Love wreak Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek, Only by Dumbness adequately speak As favored mouth could never, through the eyes.

PROSPICE

Written in the autumn following Mrs. Browning's death. The closing lines intensify the association.

Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

EURYDICE TO ORPHEUS

A PICTURE BY LEIGHTON

First published, without metrical divisions, in the _Royal Academy Catalogue_, 1864.

But give them me, the mouth, the eyes, the brow! Let them once more absorb me! One look now Will lap me round forever, not to pass Out of its light, though darkness lie beyond: Hold me but safe again within the bond Of one immortal look! All woe that was, Forgotten, and all terror that may be, Defied,--no past is mine, no future: look at me!

YOUTH AND ART

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A FACE

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

A LIKENESS

Some people hang portraits up In a room where they dine or sup: And the wife clinks tea-things under, And her cousin, he stirs his cup, Asks, "Who was the lady, I wonder?" "'T is a daub John bought at a sale," Quoth the wife,--looks black as thunder. "What a shade beneath her nose! Snuff-taking, I suppose,"-- Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail.

Or else, there 's no wife in the case, But the portrait 's queen of the place, Alone 'mid the other spoils Of youth,--masks, gloves and foils, And pipe-sticks, rose, cherry-tree, jasmine, And the long whip, the tandem-lasher, And the cast from a fist ("not, alas! mine, But my master's, the Tipton Slasher"), And the cards where pistol-balls mark ace, And a satin shoe uses for cigar-case, And the chamois-horns ("shot in the Chablais"), And prints--Rarey drumming on Cruiser, And Sayers, our champion, the bruiser, And the little edition of Rabelais: Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets, May saunter up close to examine it, And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, "But the eyes are half out of their sockets; That hair 's not so bad, where the gloss is, But they 've made the girl's nose a proboscis: Jane Lamb, that we danced with at Vichy! What, is not she Jane? Then, who is she?"

All that I own is a print, An etching, a mezzotint; 'T is a study, a fancy, a fiction, Yet a fact (take my conviction) Because it has more than a hint Of a certain face, I never Saw elsewhere touch or trace of In women I 've seen the face of: Just an etching, and, so far, clever.

I keep my prints, an imbroglio, Fifty in one portfolio. When somebody tries my claret, We turn round chairs to the fire, Chirp over days in a garret, Chuckle o'er increase of salary, Taste the good fruits of our leisure, Talk about pencil and lyre, And the National Portrait Gallery: Then I exhibit my treasure. After we 've turned over twenty, And the debt of wonder my crony owes Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me--"_Festina lentè!_ What 's that sweet thing there, the etching?" How my waistcoat-strings want stretching, How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes, How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache.

"By the by, you must take, for a keepsake, That other, you praised, of Volpato's." The fool! would he try a flight further and say-- He never saw, never before to-day, What was able to take his breath away, A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with,--why, I 'll not engage But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage, I should toss him the thing's self--"'T is only a duplicate, A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!"

MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM"

Mr. D. D. Home, an American spiritualist, attracted much attention in the circle in which Mr. and Mrs. Browning lived in Florence.

Now, don't, sir! Don't expose me! Just this once! This was the first and only time, I 'll swear,-- Look at me,--see, I kneel,--the only time, I swear, I ever cheated,--yes, by the soul Of Her who hears--(your sainted mother, sir!) All, except this last accident, was truth-- This little kind of slip!--and even this, It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne, (I took it for Catawba, you 're so kind,) Which put the folly in my head!

"Get up?" You still inflict on me that terrible face? You show no mercy?--Not for Her dear sake, The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now Blows on my cheek--(don't you feel something, sir?) You 'll tell?

Go tell, then! Who the devil cares What such a rowdy chooses to ...

Aie--aie--aie! Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir! Ch--ch!

Well, sir, I hope you 've done it now! Oh Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday, When your departed mother spoke those words Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much, You gave me--(very kind it was of you) These shirt-studs--(better take them back again, Please, sir)--yes, little did I think so soon A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends Into an angry gentleman!

Though, 't was wrong. I don't contest the point; your anger 's just: Whatever put such folly in my head, I know 't was wicked of me. There 's a thick Dusk undeveloped spirit (I 've observed) Owes me a grudge--a negro's, I should say, Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir, When we had summoned Franklin to clear up A point about those shares i' the telegraph: Ay, and he swore ... or might it be Tom Paine? ... Thumping the table close by where I crouched, He 'd do me soon a mischief: that 's come true! Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would! Then, this one time ... don't take your hand away, Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand ... You 'll promise to forgive me?--or, at least, Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir! What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe A rap or tip! What bit of paper 's here? Suppose we take a pencil, let her write, Make the least sign, she urges on her child Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot, And not a natural creak, sir?

Answer, then! Once, twice, thrice ... see, I 'm waiting to say "thrice!" All to no use? No sort of hope for me? It 's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?

What? If I told you all about the tricks? Upon my soul!--the whole truth, and naught else. And how there 's been some falsehood--for your part, Will you engage to pay my passage out, And hold your tongue until I 'm safe on board? England 's the place, not Boston--no offence! I see what makes you hesitate: don't fear! I mean to change my trade and cheat no more, Yes, this time really it 's upon my soul! Be my salvation!--under Heaven, of course. I 'll tell some queer things. Sixty V's must do. A trifle, though, to start with! We 'll refer The question to this table?

How you 're changed! Then split the difference; thirty more, we 'll say. Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I 'll swear 'T was all through those: you wanted yours again, So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back! Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn, Your fault! 'T is you 'll have forced me! Who 's obliged To give up life yet try no self-defence? At all events, I 'll run the risk. Eh?

Done! May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now! Please, sir, a parting eggnog and cigar! I 've been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs, And sympathetic sideboards; what an end To all the instructive evenings! (It 's alight.) Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said. Here goes,--but keep your temper, or I 'll scream!

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol! You see, sir, it 's your own fault more than mine; It 's all your fault, you curious gentlefolk! You 're prigs,--excuse me,--like to look so spry, So clever, while you cling by half a claw To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch Because you chose it, so it must be safe. Oh, otherwise you 're sharp enough! You spy Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing, Wanting real foothold,--who can't keep upright On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you: There 's no outwitting you respecting him! For instance, men love money--that, you know-- And what men do to gain it: well, suppose A poor lad, say a help's son in your house, Listening at keyholes, hears the company Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth, How hard they are to get, how good to hold, How much they buy,--if, suddenly, in pops he-- "_I_ 've got a V-note!"--what do you say to him? What 's your first word which follows your last kick? "Where did you steal it, rascal?" That 's because He finds you, fain would fool you, off your perch, Not on the special piece of nonsense, sir, Elected your parade-ground: let him try Lies to the end of the list,--"He picked it up, His cousin died and left it him by will, The President flung it to him, riding by, An actress trucked it for a curl of his hair, He dreamed of luck and found his shoe enriched, He dug-up clay, and out of clay made gold"-- How would you treat such possibilities! Would not you, prompt, investigate the case With cowhide? "Lies, lies, lies," you 'd shout: and why? Which of the stories might not prove mere truth? This last, perhaps, that clay was turned to coin! Let 's see, now, give him me to speak for him! How many of your rare philosophers, In plaguy books I 've had to dip into, Believed gold could be made thus, saw it made, And made it? Oh, with such philosophers You 're on your best behavior! While the lad-- With him, in a trice, you settle likelihoods, Nor doubt a moment how he got his prize: In his case, you hear, judge and execute, All in a breath: so would most men of sense.

But let the same lad hear you talk as grand At the same keyhole, you and company, Of signs and wonders, the invisible world; How wisdom scouts our vulgar unbelief More than our vulgarest credulity; How good men have desired to see a ghost, What Johnson used to say, what Wesley did, Mother Goose thought, and fiddle-diddle-dee:-- If he break in with, "Sir, _I_ saw a ghost!" Ah, the ways change! He finds you perched and prim; It 's a conceit of yours that ghosts may be: There 's no talk now of cowhide. "Tell it out! Don't fear us! Take your time and recollect! Sit down first: try a glass of wine, my boy! And, David, (is not that your Christian name?) Of all things, should this happen twice--it may-- Be sure, while fresh in mind, you let us know!" Does the boy blunder, blurt out this, blab that, Break down in the other, as beginners will? All 's candor, all 's considerateness--"No haste! Pause and collect yourself! We understand! That 's the bad memory, or the natural shock, Or the unexplained _phenomena!_"

Egad, The boy takes heart of grace; finds, never fear, The readiest way to ope your own heart wide, Show--what I call your peacock-perch, pet post To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon! "Just as you thought, much as you might expect! There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio," ... And so on. Shall not David take the hint, Grow bolder, stroke you down at quickened rate? If he ruffle a feather, it 's "Gently, patiently! Manifestations are so weak at first! Doubting, moreover, kills them, cuts all short, Cures with a vengeance!"

There, sir, that 's your style! You and your boy--such pains bestowed on him, Or any headpiece of the average worth, To teach, say, Greek, would perfect him apace, Make him a Person ("Porson?" thank you, sir!) Much more, proficient in the art of lies. You never leave the lesson! Fire alight, Catch you permitting it to die! You 've friends; There 's no withholding knowledge,--least from those Apt to look elsewhere for their souls' supply: Why should not you parade your lawful prize? Who finds a picture, digs a medal up, Hits on a first edition,--he henceforth Gives it his name, grows notable: how much more, Who ferrets out a "medium"? "David's yours, You highly-favored man? Then, pity souls Less privileged! Allow us share your luck!" So, David holds the circle, rules the roast, Narrates the vision, peeps in the glass ball, Sets-to the spirit-writing, hears the raps, As the case may be.

Now mark! To be precise-- Though I say, "lies" all these, at this first stage, 'T is just for science' sake: I call such grubs By the name of what they 'll turn to, dragon-flies. Strictly it 's what good people style untruth; But yet, so far, not quite the full-grown thing: It 's fancying, fable-making, nonsense-work-- What never meant to be so very bad-- The knack of story-telling, brightening up Each dull old bit of fact that drops its shine. One does see somewhat when one shuts one's eyes, If only spots and streaks; tables do tip In the oddest way of themselves: and pens, good Lord, Who knows if you drive them or they drive you? 'T is but a foot in the water and out again; Not that duck-under which decides your dive. Note this, for it 's important: listen why.

I 'll prove, you push on David till he dives And ends the shivering. Here 's your circle, now: Two-thirds of them, with heads like you their host, Turn up their eyes, and cry, as you expect, "Lord, who 'd have thought it!" But there 's always one Looks wise, compassionately smiles, submits, "Of your veracity no kind of doubt, But--do you feel so certain of that boy's? Really, I wonder! I confess myself More chary of my faith!" That 's galling, sir! What, he the investigator, he the sage, When all 's done? Then, you just have shut your eyes, Opened your mouth, and gulped down David whole, You! Terrible were such catastrophe! So, evidence is redoubled, doubled again, And doubled besides; once more, "He heard, we heard, You and they heard, your mother and your wife, Your children and the stranger in your gates: Did they or did they not?" So much for him, The black sheep, guest without the wedding-garb, The doubting Thomas! Now 's your turn to crow: "He 's kind to think you such a fool: Sludge cheats? Leave you alone to take precautions!"

Straight The rest join chorus. Thomas stands abashed, Sips silent some such beverage as this, Considers if it be harder, shutting eyes And gulping David in good fellowship, Than going elsewhere, getting, in exchange, With no eggnog to lubricate the food, Some just as tough a morsel. Over the way, Holds Captain Sparks his court: is it better there? Have not you hunting-stories, scalping scenes, And Mexican War exploits to swallow plump If you 'd be free o' the stove-side, rocking-chair, And trio of affable daughters?

Doubt succumbs! Victory! All your circle 's yours again! Out of the clubbing of submissive wits, David's performance rounds, each chink gets patched, Every protrusion of a point 's filed fine, All 's fit to set a-rolling round the world, And then return to David finally, Lies seven feet thick about his first half-inch. Here 's a choice birth o' the supernatural, Poor David 's pledged to! You 've employed no tool That law exclaims at, save the devil's own, Yet screwed him into henceforth gulling you To the top o' your bent,--all out of one half-lie!

You hold, if there 's one half or a hundredth part Of a lie, that 's his fault,--his be the penalty! I dare say! You 'd prove firmer in his place? You 'd find the courage,--that first flurry over, That mild bit of romancing-work at end,-- To interpose with "It gets serious, this; Must stop here. Sir, I saw no ghost at all. Inform your friends I made ... well, fools of them, And found you ready made. I 've lived in clover These three weeks: take it out in kicks of me!" I doubt it. Ask your conscience! Let me know, Twelve months hence, with how few embellishments You 've told almighty Boston of this passage Of arms between us, your first taste o' the foil From Sludge who could not fence, sir! Sludge, your boy! I lied, sir,--there! I got up from my gorge On offal in the gutter, and preferred Your canvas-backs: I took their carver's size, Measured his modicum of intelligence, Tickled him on the cockles of his heart With a raven feather, and next week found myself Sweet and clean, dining daintily, dizened smart, Set on a stool buttressed by ladies' knees, Every soft smiler calling me her pet, Encouraging my story to uncoil And creep out from its hole, inch after inch, "How last night, I no sooner snug in bed, Tucked up, just as they left me,--than came raps! While a light whisked" ... "Shaped somewhat like a star?" "Well, like some sort of stars, ma'am."--"So we thought! And any voice? Not yet? Try hard, next time, If you can't hear a voice; we think you may: At least, the Pennsylvanian 'mediums' did." Oh, next time comes the voice! "Just as we hoped!" Are not the hopers proud now, pleased, profuse O' the natural acknowledgment?

Of course! So, off we push, illy-oh-yo, trim the boat, On we sweep with a cataract ahead, We 're midway to the Horse-shoe: stop, who can. The dance of bubbles gay about our prow! Experiences become worth waiting for, Spirits now speak up, tell their inmost mind, And compliment the "medium" properly, Concern themselves about his Sunday coat, See rings on his hand with pleasure. Ask yourself How you 'd receive a course of treats like these! Why, take the quietest hack and stall him up, Cram him with corn a month, then out with him Among his mates on a bright April morn, With the turf to tread; see if you find or no A caper in him, if he bucks or bolts! Much more a youth whose fancies sprout as rank As toadstool-clump from melon-bed. 'T is soon, "Sirrah, you spirit, come, go, fetch and carry, Read, write, rap, rub-a-dub, and hang yourself!" I 'm spared all further trouble; all 's arranged; Your circle does my business; I may rave Like an epileptic dervish in the books, Foam, fling myself flat, rend my clothes to shreds; No matter: lovers, friends and countrymen Will lay down spiritual laws, read wrong things right By the rule o' reverse. If Francis Verulam Styles himself Bacon, spells the name beside With a _y_ and a _k_, says he drew breath in York, Gave up the ghost in Wales when Cromwell reigned, (As, sir, we somewhat fear he was apt to say, Before I found the useful book that knows)-- Why, what harm 's done? The circle smiles apace, "It was not Bacon, after all, you see! We understand; the trick 's but natural: Such spirits' individuality Is hard to put in evidence: they incline To gibe and jeer, these undeveloped sorts. You see, their world 's much like a jail broke loose, While this of ours remains shut, bolted, barred, With a single window to it. Sludge, our friend, Serves as this window, whether thin or thick, Or stained or stainless; he 's the medium-pane Through which, to see us and be seen, they peep: They crowd each other, hustle for a chance, Tread on their neighbor's kibes, play tricks enough! Does Bacon, tired of waiting, swerve aside? Up in his place jumps Barnum--'I 'm your man, I 'll answer you for Bacon!' Try once more!'

Or else it 's--"What 's a 'medium'? He 's a means, Good, bad, indifferent, still the only means Spirits can speak by; he may misconceive, Stutter and stammer,--he 's their Sludge and drudge, Take him or leave him; they must hold their peace, Or else, put up with having knowledge strained To half-expression through his ignorance. Suppose, the spirit Beethoven wants to shed New music he 's brimful of; why, he turns The handle of this organ, grinds with Sludge, And what he poured in at the mouth o' the mill As a Thirty-third Sonata, (fancy now!) Comes from the hopper as bran-new Sludge, naught else, The Shakers' Hymn in G, with a natural F, Or the 'Stars and Stripes' set to consecutive fourths."

Sir, where 's the scrape you did not help me through, You that are wise? And for the fools, the folk Who came to see,--the guests, (observe that word!) Pray do you find guests criticise your wine, Your furniture, your grammar, or your nose? Then, why your "medium"? What 's the difference? Prove your madeira red-ink and gamboge,-- Your Sludge a cheat--then, somebody 's a goose For vaunting both as genuine. "Guests!" Don't fear! They 'll make a wry face, nor too much of that, And leave you in your glory.

"No, sometimes They doubt and say as much!" Ay, doubt they do! And what 's the consequence? "Of course they doubt"-- (You triumph)--"that explains the hitch at once! Doubt posed our 'medium,' puddled his pure mind; He gave them back their rubbish: pitch chaff in, Could flour come out o' the honest mill?" So, prompt Applaud the faithful: cases flock in point, "How, when a mocker willed a 'medium' once Should name a spirit James whose name was George, 'James,' cried the 'medium,'--'t was the test of truth!" In short, a hit proves much, a miss proves more. Does this convince? The better: does it fail? Time for the double-shotted broadside, then-- The grand means, last resource. Look black and big! "You style us idiots, therefore--why stop short? Accomplices in rascality: this we hear In our own house, from our invited guest Found brave enough to outrage a poor boy Exposed by our good faith! Have you been heard? Now, then, hear us; one man 's not quite worth twelve. You see a cheat? Here 's some twelve see an ass: Excuse me if I calculate: good day!" Out slinks the skeptic, all the laughs explode, Sludge waves his hat in triumph!

Or--he don't. There 's something in real truth (explain who can!) One casts a wistful eye at, like the horse Who mopes beneath stuffed hay-racks and won't munch Because he spies a corn-bag: hang that truth, It spoils all dainties proffered in its place! I 've felt at times when, cockered, cosseted And coddled by the aforesaid company, Bidden enjoy their bullying,--never fear, But o'er their shoulders spit at the flying man,-- I 've felt a child; only, a fractious child That, dandled soft by nurse, aunt, grandmother, Who keep him from the kennel, sun and wind, Good fun and wholesome mud,--enjoined be sweet, And comely and superior,--eyes askance The ragged sons o' the gutter at their game, Fain would be down with them i' the thick o' the filth, Making dirt-pies, laughing free, speaking plain, And calling granny the gray old cat she is. I 've felt a spite, I say, at you, at them, Huggings and humbug--gnashed my teeth to mark A decent dog pass! It 's too bad, I say, Ruining a soul so!

But what 's "so," what 's fixed, Where may one stop? Nowhere! The cheating 's nursed Out of the lying, softly and surely spun To just your length, sir! I 'd stop soon enough: But you 're for progress. "All old, nothing new? Only the usual talking through the mouth, Or writing by the hand? I own, I thought This would develop, grow demonstrable, Make doubt absurd, give figures we might see, Flowers we might touch. There 's no one doubts you, Sludge! You dream the dreams, you see the spiritual sights, The speeches come in your head, beyond dispute. Still, for the skeptics' sake, to stop all mouths. We want some outward manifestation!--well, The Pennsylvanians gained such; why not Sludge? He may improve with time!"

Ay, that he may! He sees his lot: there 's no avoiding fate. 'T is a trifle at first. "Eh, David? Did you hear? You jogged the table, your foot caused the squeak, This time you 're ... joking, are you not, my boy?" "N-n-no!"--and I 'm done for, bought and sold henceforth The old good easy jog-trot way, the ... eh? The ... not so very false, as falsehood goes, The spinning out and drawing fine, you know,-- Really mere novel-writing of a sort,

## Acting, or improvising, make-believe,

Surely not downright cheatery,--anyhow, 'T is done with and my lot cast; Cheat 's my name: The fatal dash of brandy in your tea Has settled what you 'll have the souchong's smack: The caddy gives way to the dram-bottle.

Then, it 's so cruel easy! Oh, those tricks That can't be tricks, those feats by sleight of hand, Clearly no common conjurer's!--no, indeed! A conjurer? Choose me any craft i' the world A man puts hand to; and with six months' pains, I 'll play you twenty tricks miraculous To people untaught the trade: have you seen glass blown, Pipes pierced? Why, just this biscuit that I chip, Did you ever watch a baker toss one flat To the oven? Try and do it! Take my word, Practice but half as much, while limbs are lithe, To turn, shove, tilt a table, crack your joints, Manage your feet, dispose your hands aright, Work wires that twitch the curtains, play the glove At end o' your slipper,--then put out the lights And ... there, there, all you want you 'll get, I hope! I found it slip, easy as an old shoe.

Now, lights on table again! I've done my part, You take my place while I give thanks and rest. "Well, Judge Humgruffin, what 's your verdict, sir? You, hardest head in the United States,-- Did you detect a cheat here? Wait! Let 's see! Just an experiment first, for candor's sake! I 'll try and cheat you, Judge! the table tilts: Is it I that move it? Write! I 'll press your hand: Cry when I push, or guide your pencil, Judge!" Sludge still triumphant! "That a rap, indeed? That, the real writing? Very like a whale! Then, if, sir, you--a most distinguished man, And, were the Judge not here, I 'd say, ... no matter! Well, sir, if you fail, you can't take us in,-- There 's little fear that Sludge will!"

Won't he, ma'am? But what if our distinguished host, like Sludge, Bade God bear witness that he played no trick, While you believed that what produced the raps Was just a certain child who died, you know, And whose last breath you thought your lips had felt? Eh? That 's a capital point, ma'am: Sludge begins At your entreaty with your dearest dead, The little voice set lisping once again, The tiny hand made feel for yours once more, The poor lost image brought back, plain as dreams, Which image, if a word had chanced recall, The customary cloud would cross your eyes, Your heart return the old tick, pay its pang! A right mood for investigation, this! One 's at one's ease with Saul and Jonathan, Pompey and Cæsar: but one's own lost child ... I wonder, when you heard the first clod drop From the spadeful at the grave-side, felt you free To investigate who twitched your funeral scarf Or brushed your flounces? Then, it came of course, You should be stunned and stupid; then (how else?) Your breath stopped with your blood, your brain struck work. But now, such causes fail of such effects, All 's changed,--the little voice begins afresh, Yet you, calm, consequent, can test and try And touch the truth. "Tests? Did n't the creature tell Its nurse's name, and say it lived six years, And rode a rocking-horse? Enough of tests! Sludge never could learn that!"

He could not, eh? You compliment him. "Could not?" Speak for yourself! I 'd like to know the man I ever saw Once,--never mind where, how, why, when,--once saw, Of whom I do not keep some matter in mind He 'd swear I "could not" know, sagacious soul! What? Do you live in this world's blow of blacks, Palaver, gossipry, a single hour Nor find one smut has settled on your nose, Of a smut's worth, no more, no less?--one fact Out of the drift of facts, whereby you learn What some one was, somewhere, somewhen, somewhy? You don't tell folk--"See what has stuck to me! Judge Humgruffin, our most distinguished man, Your uncle was a tailor, and your wife Thought to have married Miggs, missed him, hit you!"-- Do you, sir, though you see him twice a-week? "No," you reply, "what use retailing it? Why should I?" But, you see, one day you _should_, Because one day there 's much use,--when this fact Brings you the Judge upon both gouty knees Before the supernatural; proves that Sludge Knows, as you say, a thing he "could not" know: Will not Sludge thenceforth keep an outstretched face, The way the wind drives?

"Could not!" Look you now, I 'll tell you a story! There 's a whiskered chap, A foreigner, that teaches music here And gets his bread,--knowing no better way: He says, the fellow who informed of him And made him fly his country and fall West, Was a hunchback cobbler, sat, stitched soles and sang, In some outlandish place, the city Rome, In a cellar by their Broadway, all day long; Never asked questions, stopped to listen or look, Nor lifted nose from lapstone; let the world Roll round his three-legged stool, and news run in The ears he hardly seemed to keep pricked up. Well, that man went on Sundays, touched his pay, And took his praise from government, you see; For something like two dollars every week, He 'd engage tell you some one little thing Of some one man, which led to many more, (Because one truth leads right to the world's end,) And make you that man's master--when he dined And on what dish, where walked to keep his health And to what street. His trade was, throwing thus His sense out, like an ant-eater's long tongue, Soft, innocent, warm, moist, impassible, And when 't was crusted o'er with creatures--slick, Their juice enriched his palate. "Could not Sludge!"

I 'll go yet a step further, and maintain, Once the imposture plunged its proper depth I' the rotten of your natures, all of you,-- (If one 's not mad nor drunk, and hardly then) It 's impossible to cheat--that 's, be found out! Go tell your brotherhood this first slip of mine, All to-day's tale, how you detected Sludge, Behaved unpleasantly, till he was fain confess, And so has come to grief! You 'll find, I think, Why Sludge still snaps his fingers in your face. There now, you 've told them! What 's their prompt reply? "Sir, did that youth confess he had cheated me, I 'd disbelieve him. He may cheat at times; That 's in the 'medium'-nature, thus they 're made, Vain and vindictive, cowards, prone to scratch. And so all cats are; still, a cat 's the beast You coax the strange electric sparks from out, By rubbing back its fur; not so a dog, Nor lion, nor lamb: 't is the cat's nature, sir! Why not the dog's? Ask God, who made them beasts! D' ye think the sound, the nicely-balanced man (Like me"--aside)--"like you yourself,"--(aloud) "--He 's stuff to make a 'medium'? Bless your soul, 'T is these hysteric, hybrid half-and-halfs, Equivocal, worthless vermin yield the fire! We take such as we find them, 'ware their tricks, Wanting their service. Sir, Sludge took in you-- How, I can't say, not being there to watch: He was tried, was tempted by your easiness,-- He did not take in me!"

Thank you for Sludge! I 'm to be grateful to such patrons, eh, When what you hear 's my best word? 'T is a challenge, "Snap at all strangers, half-tamed prairie-dog, So you cower duly at your keeper's beck! Cat, show what claws were made for, muffling them Only to me! Cheat others if you can, Me, if you dare!" And, my wise sir, I dared-- Did cheat you first, made you cheat others next, And had the help o' your vaunted manliness To bully the incredulous. You used me? Have not I used you, taken full revenge, Persuaded folk they knew not their own name, And straight they 'd own the error! Who was the fool When, to an awe-struck wide-eyed open-mouthed Circle of sages, Sludge would introduce Milton composing baby-rhymes, and Locke Reasoning in gibberish, Homer writing Greek In naughts and crosses, Asaph setting psalms To crotchet and quaver? I 've made a spirit squeak In sham voice for a minute, then outbroke Bold in my own, defying the imbeciles-- Have copied some ghost's pothooks, half a page, Then ended with my own scrawl undisguised. "All right! The ghost was merely using Sludge, Suiting itself from his imperfect stock!" Don't talk of gratitude to me! For what? For being treated as a showman's ape, Encouraged to be wicked and make sport, Fret or sulk, grin or whimper, any mood So long as the ape be in it and no man-- Because a nut pays every mood alike. Curse your superior, superintending sort, Who, since you hate smoke, send up boys that climb To cure your chimney, bid a "medium" lie To sweep you truth down! Curse your women too, Your insolent wives and daughters, that fire up Or faint away if a male hand squeeze theirs, Yet, to encourage Sludge, may play with Sludge As only a "medium," only the kind of thing They must humor, fondle ... oh, to misconceive Were too preposterous! But I 've paid them out! They 've had their wish--called for the naked truth, And in she tripped, sat down and bade them stare: They had to blush a little and forgive! "The fact is, children talk so; in next world All our conventions are reversed,--perhaps Made light of: something like old prints, my dear! The Judge has one, he brought from Italy, A metropolis in the background,--o'er a bridge, A team of trotting roadsters,--cheerful groups Of wayside travellers, peasants at their work, And, full in front, quite unconcerned, why not? Three nymphs conversing with a cavalier, And never a rag among them: 'fine,' folk cry-- And heavenly manners seem not much unlike! Let Sludge go on; we'll fancy it's in print!" If such as came for wool, sir, went home shorn, Where is the wrong I did them? 'Twas their choice; They tried the adventure, ran the risk, tossed up And lost, as some one's sure to do in games; They fancied I was made to lose,--smoked glass Useful to spy the sun through, spare their eyes: And had I proved a red-hot iron plate They thought to pierce, and, for their pains, grew blind, Whose were the fault but theirs? While, as things go, Their loss amounts to gain, the more 's the shame! They 've had their peep into the spirit-world, And all this world may know it! They 've fed fat Their self-conceit which else had starved: what chance Save this, of cackling o'er a golden egg And compassing distinction from the flock, Friends of a feather? Well, they paid for it, And not prodigiously; the price o' the play, Not counting certain pleasant interludes, Was scarce a vulgar play's worth. When you buy The actor's talent, do you dare propose For his soul beside? Whereas, my soul you buy! Sludge acts Macbeth, obliged to be Macbeth, Or you 'll not hear his first word! Just go through That slight formality, swear himself's the Thane, And thenceforth he may strut and fret his hour, Spout, spawl, or spin his target, no one cares! Why had n't I leave to play tricks, Sludge as Sludge? Enough of it all! I 've wiped out scores with you-- Vented your fustian, let myself be streaked Like tom-fool with your ochre and carmine, Worn patchwork your respectable fingers sewed To metamorphose somebody,--yes, I've earned My wages, swallowed down my bread of shame, And shake the crumbs off--where but in your face?

As for religion--why, I served it, sir! I 'll stick to that! With my _phenomena_ I laid the atheist sprawling on his back, Propped up Saint Paul, or, at least, Swedenborg! In fact, it 's just the proper way to balk These troublesome fellows--liars, one and all, Are not these skeptics? Well, to baffle them, No use in being squeamish: lie yourself! Erect your buttress just as wide o' the line, Your side, as they build up the wall on theirs; Where both meet, midway in a point, is truth, High overhead: so, take your room, pile bricks, Lie! Oh, there 's titillation in all shame! What snow may lose in white, snow gains in rose! Miss Stokes turns--Rahab,--nor a bad exchange! Glory be on her, for the good she wrought, Breeding belief anew 'neath ribs of death, Browbeating now the unabashed before, Ridding us of their whole life's gathered straws By a live coal from the altar! Why, of old, Great men spent years and years in writing books To prove we 've souls, and hardly proved it then: Miss Stokes with her live coal, for you and me! Surely, to this good issue, all was fair-- Not only fondling Sludge, but, even suppose He let escape some spice of knavery,--well, In wisely being blind to it! Don't you praise Nelson for setting spy-glass to blind eye And saying ... what was it--that he could not see The signal he was bothered with? Ay, indeed!

I 'll go beyond: there 's a real love of a lie, Liars find ready-made for lies they make, As hand for glove, or tongue for sugar-plum. At best, 't is never pure and full belief; Those furthest in the quagmire,--don't suppose They strayed there with no warning, got no chance Of a filth-speck in their face, which they clenched teeth, Bent brow against! Be sure they had their doubts, And fears, and fairest challenges to try The floor o' the seeming solid sand! But no! Their faith was pledged, acquaintance too apprised, All but the last step ventured, kerchiefs waved, And Sludge called "pet:" 't was easier marching on To the promised land; join those who, Thursday next, Meant to meet Shakespeare; better follow Sludge-- Prudent, oh sure!--on the alert, how else? But making for the mid-bog, all the same! To hear your outcries, one would think I caught Miss Stokes by the scruff o' the neck, and pitched her flat, Foolish-face-foremost! Hear these simpletons, That 's all I beg, before my work 's begun, Before I 've touched them with my finger-tip! Thus they await me (do but listen, now! It 's reasoning, this is,--I can't imitate The baby voice, though),--"In so many tales Must be some truth, truth though a pin-point big, Yet, some: a single man 's deceived, perhaps-- Hardly, a thousand: to suppose one cheat Can gull all these, were more miraculous far Than aught we should confess a miracle,"-- And so on. Then the Judge sums up--(it 's rare) Bids you respect the authorities that leap To the judgment-seat at once,--why don't you note The limpid nature, the unblemished life, The spotless honor, indisputable sense Of the first upstart with his story? What-- Outrage a boy on whom you ne'er till now Set eyes, because he finds raps trouble him?

Fools, these are: ay, and how of their opposites Who never did, at bottom of their hearts, Believe for a moment?--Men emasculate, Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use, With superstition safely,--cold of blood, Who saw what made for them i' the mystery, Took their occasion, and supported Sludge --As proselytes? No, thank you, far too shrewd! --But promisers of fair play, encouragers O' the claimant; who in candor needs must hoist Sludge up on Mars' Hill, get speech out of Sludge To carry off, criticise, and cant about! Didn't Athens treat Saint Paul so?---at any rate, It's "a new thing" philosophy fumbles at. Then there 's the other picker-out of pearl From dungheaps,--ay, your literary man, Who draws on his kid gloves to deal with Sludge Daintily and discreetly,--shakes a dust O' the doctrine, flavors thence, he well knows how, The narrative or the novel,--half-believes, All for the book's sake, and the public's stare, And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world! Look at him! Try to be too bold, too gross For the master! Not you! He's the man for muck; Shovel it forth, full-splash, he'll smooth your brown Into artistic richness, never fear! Find him the crude stuff; when you recognize Your lie again, you'll doff your hat to it, Dressed out for company! "For company," I say, since there 's the relish of success: Let all pay due respect, call the lie truth, Save the soft silent smirking gentleman Who ushered in the stranger: you must sigh "How melancholy, he, the only one, Fails to perceive the bearing of the truth Himself gave birth to!"--There 's the triumph's smack! That man would choose to see the whole world roll I' the slime o' the slough, so he might touch the tip Of his brush with what I call the best of browns-- Tint ghost-tales, spirit-stories, past the power Of the outworn umber and bistre!

Yet I think There 's a more hateful form of foolery-- The social sage's, Solomon of saloons And philosophic diner-out, the fribble Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block To try the edge of his faculty upon, Prove how much common sense he 'll hack and hew I' the critical moment 'twixt the soup and fish! These were my patrons: these, and the like of them Who, rising in my soul now, sicken it,-- These I have injured! Gratitude to these? The gratitude, forsooth, of a prostitute To the greenhorn and the bully--friends of hers, From the wag that wants the queer jokes for his club, To the snuffbox-decorator, honest man, Who just was at his wits' end where to find So genial a Pasiphae! All and each Pay, compliment, protect from the police: And how she hates them for their pains, like me! So much for my remorse at thanklessness Toward a deserving public!

But, for God? Ay, that 's a question! Well, sir, since you press-- (How you do tease the whole thing out of me! I don't mean you, you know, when I say "them:" Hate you, indeed! But that Miss Stokes, that Judge! Enough, enough--with sugar: thank you, sir!) Now for it, then! Will you believe me, though? You 've heard what I confess; I don't unsay A single word: I cheated when I could, Rapped with my toe-joints, set sham hands at work, Wrote down names weak in sympathetic ink, Rubbed odic lights with ends of phosphor-match, And all the rest; believe that: believe this, By the same token, though it seem to set The crooked straight again, unsay the said, Stick up what I 've knocked down; I can't help that It 's truth! I somehow vomit truth to-day. This trade of mine--I don't know, can't be sure But there was something in it, tricks and all! Really, I want to light up my own mind. They were tricks,--true, but what I mean to add Is also true. First,--don't it strike you, sir? Go back to the beginning,--the first fact We 're taught is, there 's a world beside this world, With spirits, not mankind, for tenantry; That much within that world once sojourned here, That all upon this world will visit there, And therefore that we, bodily here below, Must have exactly such an interest In learning what may be the ways o' the world Above us, as the disembodied folk Have (by all analogic likelihood) In watching how things go in the old home With us, their sons, successors, and whatnot. Oh, yes, with added powers probably, Fit for the novel state,--old loves grown pure, Old interests understood aright,--they watch! Eyes to see, ears to hear, and hands to help, Proportionate to advancement: they 're ahead, That 's all--do what we do, but noblier done-- Use plate, whereas we eat our meals off delf, (To use a figure.)

Concede that, and I ask Next what may be the mode of intercourse Between us men here, and those once-men there? First comes the Bible's speech; then, history With the supernatural element,--you know-- All that we sucked in with our mothers' milk, Grew up with, got inside of us at last, Till it 's found bone of bone and flesh of flesh. See now, we start with the miraculous, And know it used, to be, at all events: What 's the first step we take, and can't but take, In arguing from the known to the obscure? Why this: "What was before, may be to-day. Since Samuel's ghost appeared to Saul,--of course My brother's spirit may appear to me." Go tell your teacher that! What 's his reply? What brings a shade of doubt for the first time O'er his brow late so luminous with faith? "Such things have been," says he, "and there 's no doubt Such things may be: but I advise mistrust Of eyes, ears, stomach, and, more than all, your brain, Unless it be of your great-grandmother, Whenever they propose a ghost to you!" The end is, there 's a composition struck; 'T is settled, we 've some way of intercourse Just as in Saul's time; only, different: How, when and where, precisely,--find it out! I want to know, then, what 's so natural As that a person born into this world And seized on by such teaching, should begin With firm expectancy and a frank look-out For his own allotment, his especial share I' the secret,--his particular ghost, in fine? I mean, a person born to look that way, Since natures differ: take the painter-sort, One man lives fifty years in ignorance Whether grass be green or red,--"No kind of eye For color," say you; while another picks And puts away even pebbles, when a child, Because of bluish spots and pinky veins-- "Give him forthwith a paint-box!" Just the same Was I born ... "medium," you won't let me say,-- Well, seer of the supernatural Everywhen, everyhow, and everywhere,-- Will that do?

I and all such boys of course Started with the same stock of Bible-truth; Only,---what in the rest you style their sense, Instinct, blind reasoning but imperative, This, betimes, taught them the old world had one law And ours another: "New world, new laws," cried they: "None but old laws, seen everywhere at work," Cried I, and by their help explained my life The Jews' way, still a working way to me. Ghosts made the noises, fairies waved the lights, Or Santa Claus slid down on New Year's Eve And stuffed with cakes the stocking at my bed, Changed the worn shoes, rubbed clean the fingered slate O' the sum that came to grief the day before.

This could not last long: soon enough I found Who had worked wonders thus, and to what end: But did I find all easy, like my mates? Henceforth no supernatural any more? Not a whit: what projects the billiard-balls? "A cue," you answer. "Yes, a cue," said I; "But what hand, off the cushion, moved the cue? What unseen agency, outside the world, Prompted its puppets to do this and that, Put cakes and shoes and slates into their mind, These mothers and aunts, nay even schoolmasters?" Thus high I sprang, and there have settled since. Just so I reason, in sober earnest still, About the greater godsends, what you call The serious gains and losses of my life. What do I know or care about your world Which either is or seems to be? This snap O' my fingers, sir! My care is for myself; Myself am whole and sole reality Inside a raree-show and a market-mob Gathered about it: that 's the use of things. 'T is easy saying they serve vast purposes, Advantage their grand selves: be it true or false, Each thing may have two uses. What 's a star? A world, or a world's sun: doesn't it serve As taper also, timepiece, weather-glass, And almanac? Are stars not set for signs When we should shear our sheep, sow corn, prune trees? The Bible says so.

Well, I add one use To all the acknowledged uses, and declare If I spy Charles's Wain at twelve to-night, It warns me, "Go, nor lose another day, And have your hair cut, Sludge!" You laugh: and why? Were such a sign too hard for God to give? No: but Sludge seems too little for such grace: Thank you, sir! So you think, so does not Sludge! When you and good men gape at Providence, Go into history and bid us mark Not merely powder-plots prevented, crowns Kept on kings' heads by miracle enough, But private mercies--oh, you 've told me, sir, Of such interpositions! How yourself Once, missing on a memorable day Your handkerchief--just setting out, you know,-- You must return to fetch it, lost the train, And saved your precious self from what befell The thirty-three whom Providence forgot. You tell, and ask me what I think of this? Well, sir, I think then, since you needs must know, What matter had you and Boston city to boot Sailed skyward, like burnt onion-peelings? Much To you, no doubt: for me--undoubtedly The cutting of my hair concerns me more, Because, however sad the truth may seem, Sludge is of all-importance to himself. You set apart that day in every year For special thanksgiving, were a heathen else: Well, I who cannot boast the like escape, Suppose I said, "I don't thank Providence For my part, owing it no gratitude"? "Nay, but you owe as much,"--you 'd tutor me, "You, every man alive, for blessings gained In every hour o' the day, could you but know! I saw my crowning mercy: all have such, Could they but see!" Well, sir, why don't they see? "Because they won't look,--or perhaps, they can't." Then, sir, suppose I can, and will, and do Look, microscopically as is right, Into each hour with its infinitude Of influences at work to profit Sludge? For that 's the case: I 've sharpened up my sight To spy a providence in the fire's going out, The kettle's boiling, the dime's sticking fast Despite the hole i' the pocket. Call such facts Fancies, too petty a work for Providence, And those same thanks which you exact from me Prove too prodigious payment: thanks for what, If nothing guards and guides us little men? No, no, sir! You must put away your pride, Resolve to let Sludge into partnership! I live by signs and omens: looked at the roof Where the pigeons settle--"If the further bird, The white, takes wing first, I 'll confess when thrashed; Not, if the blue does,"--so I said to myself Last week, lest you should take me by surprise: Off flapped the white,--and I 'm confessing, sir! Perhaps 't is Providence's whim and way With only me, i' the world: how can you tell? "Because unlikely!" Was it likelier, now, That this our one out of all worlds beside, The what-d'-you-call-'em millions, should be just Precisely chosen to make Adam for, And the rest o' the tale? Yet the tale 's true, you know: Such undeserving clod was graced so once; Why not graced likewise undeserving Sludge? Are we merit-mongers, flaunt we filthy rags? All you can bring against my privilege Is, that another way was taken with you,-- Which I don't question. It 's pure grace, my luck: I 'm broken to the way of nods and winks, And need no formal summoning. You 've a help; Holloa his name or whistle, clap your hands, Stamp with your foot or pull the bell: all 's one, He understands you want him, here he comes. Just so, I come at the knocking: you, sir, wait The tongue o' the bell, nor stir before you catch Reason's clear tingle, nature's clapper brisk, Or that traditional peal was wont to cheer Your mother's face turned heavenward: short of these There 's no authentic intimation, eh? Well, when you hear, you 'll answer them, start up And stride into the presence, top of toe, And there find Sludge beforehand, Sludge that sprang At noise o' the knuckle on the partition-wall! I think myself the more religious man. Religion 's all or nothing; it 's no mere smile O' contentment, sigh of aspiration, sir-- No quality o' the finelier-tempered clay Like its whiteness or its lightness; rather, stuff O' the very stuff, life of life, and self of self. I tell you, men won't notice; when they do, They 'll understand. I notice nothing else: I 'm eyes, ears, mouth of me, one gaze and gape, Nothing eludes me, everything 's a hint, Handle and help. It 's all absurd, and yet There 's something in it all, I know: how much? No answer! What does that prove? Man 's still man, Still meant for a poor blundering piece of work When all 's done; but, if somewhat 's done, like this, Or not done, is the case the same? Suppose I blunder in my guess at the true sense O' the knuckle-summons, nine times out of ten,-- What if the tenth guess happen to be right? If the tenth shovel-load of powdered quartz Yield me the nugget? I gather, crush, sift all, Pass o'er the failure, pounce on the success. To give you a notion, now--(let who wins, laugh!) When first I see a man, what do I first? Why, count the letters which make up his name, And as their number chances, even or odd, Arrive at my conclusion, trim my course: Hiram H. Horsefall is your honored name, And have n't I found a patron, sir, in you? "Shall I cheat this stranger?" I take apple-pips, Stick one in either _canthus_ of my eye, And if the left drops first--(your left, sir, stuck) I 'm warned, I let the trick alone this time. You, sir, who smile, superior to such trash, You judge of character by other rules: Don't your rules sometimes fail you? Pray, what rule Have you judged Sludge by hitherto?

Oh, be sure, You, everybody blunders, just as I, In simpler things than these by far! For see: I knew two farmers,--one, a wiseacre Who studied seasons, rummaged almanacs, Quoted the dew-point, registered the frost, And then declared, for outcome of his pains, Next summer must be dampish: 't was a drought. His neighbor prophesied such drought would fall, Saved hay and corn, made cent. per cent. thereby, And proved a sage indeed: how came his lore? Because one brindled heifer, late in March, Stiffened her tail of evenings, and somehow He got into his head that drought was meant! I don't expect all men can do as much: Such kissing goes by favor. You must take A certain turn of mind for this,--a twist I' the flesh, as well. Be lazily alive, Open-mouthed, like my friend the ant-eater, Letting all nature's loosely-guarded motes Settle and, slick, be swallowed! Think yourself The one i' the world, the one for whom the world Was made, expect it, tickling at your mouth! Then will the swarm of busy buzzing flies, Clouds of coincidence, break egg-shell, thrive, Breed, multiply, and bring you food enough.

I can't pretend to mind your smiling, sir! Oh, what you mean is this! Such intimate way, Close converse, frank exchange of offices, Strict sympathy of the immeasurably great With the infinitely small, betokened here By a course of signs and omens, raps and sparks,-- How does it suit the dread traditional text O' the "Great and Terrible Name"? Shall the Heaven of Heavens Stoop to such child's play?

Please, sir, go with me A moment, and I 'll try to answer you. The "_Magnum et terribile_" (is that right?) Well, folk began with this in the early day; And all the acts they recognized in proof Were thunders, lightnings, earthquakes, whirlwinds, dealt Indisputably on men whose death they caused, There, and there only, folk saw Providence At work,--and seeing it, 't was right enough All heads should tremble, hands wring hands amain, And knees knock hard together at the breath O' the Name's first letter; why, the Jews, I 'm told, Won't write it down, no, to this very hour, Nor speak aloud: you know best if 't be so. Each, ague-fit of fear at end, they crept (Because somehow people once born must live) Out of the sound, sight, swing and sway o' the Name, Into a corner, the dark rest of the world, And safe space where as yet no fear had reached; 'T was there they looked about them, breathed again, And felt indeed at home, as we might say. The current o' common things, the daily life, This had their due contempt; no Name pursued Man from the mountain-top where fires abide, To his particular mouse-hole at its foot Where he ate, drank, digested, lived in short: Such was man's vulgar business, far too small To be worth thunder: "small," folk kept on, "small," With much complacency in those great days! A mote of sand, you know, a blade of grass-- What was so despicable as mere grass, Except perhaps the life o' the worm or fly Which fed there? These were "small" and men were great. Well, sir, the old way 's altered somewhat since, And the world wears another aspect now: Somebody turns our spyglass round, or else Puts a new lens in it: grass, worm, fly grow, big: We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them. Talk of mountains now? We talk of mould that heaps the mountain, mites That throng the mould, and God that makes the mites. The Name comes close behind a stomach-cyst, The simplest of creations, just a sac That 's mouth, heart, legs and belly at once, yet lives And feels, and could do neither, we conclude, If simplified still further one degree: The small becomes the dreadful and immense! Lightning, forsooth? No word more upon that! A tin-foil bottle, a strip of greasy silk, With a bit of wire and knob of brass, and there 's Your dollar's-worth of lightning! But the cyst-- The life of the least of the little things?

No, no! Preachers and teachers try another tack, Come near the truth this time: they put aside Thunder and lightning. "That 's mistake," they cry; "Thunderbolts fall for neither fright nor sport, But do appreciable good, like tides, Changes o' the wind, and other natural facts-- 'Good' meaning good to man, his body or soul. Mediate, immediate, all things minister To man,--that 's settled: be our future text 'We are His children!'" So, they now harangue About the intention, the contrivance, all That keeps up an incessant play of love,-- See the Bridgewater book.

Amen to it! Well, sir, I put this question: I 'm a child? I lose no time, but take you at your word: How shall I act a child's part properly? Your sainted mother, sir,--used you to live With such a thought as this a-worrying you? "She has it in her power to throttle me, Or stab or poison: she may turn me out, Or lock me in,--nor stop at this to-day, But cut me off to-morrow from the estate I look for"--(long may you enjoy; it, sir!) "In brief, she may unchild the child I am. You never had such crotchets? Nor have I! Who, frank confessing childship from the first, Cannot both fear and take my ease at once, So, don't fear,--know what might be, well enough, But know too, child-like, that it will not be, At least in my case, mine, the son and heir O' the kingdom, as yourself proclaim my style. But do you fancy I stop short at this? Wonder if suit and service, son and heir Needs must expect, I dare pretend to find? If, looking for signs proper to such an one, I straight perceive them irresistible? Concede that homage is a son's plain right, And, never mind the nods and raps and winks, 'T is the pure obvious supernatural Steps forward, does its duty: why, of course! I have presentiments; my dreams come true: I fancy a friend stands whistling all in white Blithe as a boblink, and he's dead I learn. I take dislike to a dog my favorite long, And sell him; he goes mad next week and snaps. I guess that stranger will turn up to-day I have not seen these three years; there 's his knock. I wager "sixty peaches on that tree!"-- That I pick up a dollar in my walk, That your wife's brother's cousin's name was George-- And win on all points. Oh, you wince at this? You 'd fain distinguish between gift and gift, Washington's oracle and Sludge's itch O' the elbow when at whist he ought to trump? With Sludge it's too absurd? _Fine, draw the line_ _Somewhere, but, sir, your somewhere is not mine!_

Bless us, I 'm turning poet! It 's time to end. How you have drawn me out, sir! All I ask Is--am I heir or not heir? If I 'm he, Then, sir, remember, that same personage (To judge by what we read i' the newspaper) Requires, beside one nobleman in gold To carry up and down his coronet, Another servant, probably a duke, To hold eggnog in readiness: why want Attendance, sir, when helps in his father's house Abound, I'd like to know?

Enough of talk! My fault is that I tell too plain a truth. Why, which of those-who say they disbelieve, Your clever people, but has dreamed his dream, Caught his coincidence, stumbled on his fact He can't explain, (he'll tell you smilingly,) Which he 's too much of a philosopher To count as supernatural, indeed, So calls a puzzle and problem, proud of it: Bidding you still be on your guard, you know, Because one fact don't make a system stand, Nor prove this an occasional escape Of spirit beneath the matter: that's the way! Just so wild Indians picked up, piece by piece, The fact in California, the fine gold That underlay the gravel--hoarded these, But never made a system stand, nor dug! So wise men hold out in each hollowed palm A handful of experience, sparkling-fact They can't explain; and since their rest of life Is all explainable, what proof in this? Whereas I take the fact, the grain of gold, And fling away the dirty rest of life, And add this grain to the grain each fool has found O' the million other such philosophers,-- Till I see gold, all gold and only gold, Truth questionless though unexplainable, And the miraculous proved the commonplace! The other fools believed in mud, no doubt-- Failed to know gold they saw: was that so strange? Are all men born to play Bach's fiddle-fugues, "Time" with the foil in carte, jump their own height, Cut the mutton with the broadsword, skate a five, Make the red hazard with the cue, clip nails While swimming, in five minutes row a mile, Pull themselves three feet up with the left arm, Do sums of fifty figures in their head, And so on, by the scores of instances? The Sludge with luck, who sees the spiritual facts, His fellows strive and fail to see, may rank With these, and share the advantage.

Ay, but share The drawback! Think it over by yourself; I have not heart, sir, and the fire 's gone gray. Defect somewhere compensates for success, Every one knows that. Oh, we 're equals, sir! The big-legged fellow has a little arm And a less brain, though big legs win the race: Do you suppose I 'scape the common lot? Say, _I_ was born with flesh so sensitive, Soul so alert, that, practice helping both, I guess what 's going on outside the veil, Just as a prisoned crane feels pairing-time In the islands where his kind are, so must fall To capering by himself some shiny night, As if your back-yard were a plot of spice-- Thus am I 'ware o' the spirit-world: while you, Blind as a beetle that way,--for amends, Why, you can double fist and floor me, sir! Ride that hot hardmouthed horrid horse of yours, Laugh while it lightens, play with the great dog, Speak your mind though it vex some friend to hear, Never brag, never bluster, never blush,-- In short, you 've pluck, when I 'm a coward--there! I know it, I can't help it,--folly or no. I 'm paralyzed, my hand 's no more a hand, Nor my head a head, in danger: you can smile And change the pipe in your cheek. Your gift 's not mine. Would you swap for mine? No! but you 'd add my gift To yours: I dare say! I too sigh at times, Wish I were stouter, could tell truth nor flinch, Kept cool when threatened, did not mind so much Being dressed gayly, making strangers stare, Eating nice things; when I 'd amuse myself, I shut my eyes and fancy in my brain, I 'm--now the President, now Jenny Lind, Now Emerson, now the Benicia Boy-- With all the civilized world a-wondering And worshipping. I know it 's folly and worse; I feel such tricks sap, honeycomb the soul, But I can't cure myself,--despond, despair, And then, hey, presto, there 's a turn o' the wheel, Under comes uppermost, fate makes full amends; Sludge knows and sees and hears a hundred things You all are blind to,--I 've my taste of truth, Likewise my touch of falsehood,--vice no doubt, But you 've your vices also: I'm content.

What, sir? You won't shake hands? "Because I cheat!" "You 've found me out in cheating!" That 's enough To make an apostle swear! Why, when I cheat, _Mean to cheat, do cheat, and am caught in the act,_ _Are you, or rather, am I sure o' the fact?_ (There 's verse again, but I 'm inspired somehow.) Well then I 'm not sure! I may be, perhaps, Free as a babe from cheating: how it began, My gift,--no matter; what 't is got to be In the end now, that 's the question; answer that! Had I seen, perhaps, what hand was holding mine, Leading me whither, I had died of fright: So, I was made believe I led myself. If I should lay a six-inch plank from roof To roof, you would not cross the street, one step, Even at your mother's summons: but, being shrewd, If I paste paper on each side the plank And swear 't is solid pavement, why, you 'll cross Humming a tune the while, in ignorance Beacon Street stretches a hundred feet below: I walked thus, took the paper-cheat for stone. Some impulse made me set a thing o' the move Which, started once, ran really by itself; Beer flows thus, suck the siphon; toss the kite, It takes the wind and floats of its own force. Don't let truth's lump rot stagnant for the lack Of a timely helpful lie to leaven it! Put a chalk-egg beneath the clucking hen, She 'll lay a real one, laudably deceived, Daily for weeks to come. I 've told my lie, And seen truth follow, marvels none of mine; All was not cheating, sir, I 'm positive! I don't know if I move your hand sometimes When the spontaneous writing spreads so far, If my knee lifts the table all that height, Why the inkstand don't fall off the desk a-tilt, Why the accordion plays a prettier waltz Than I can pick out on the pianoforte, Why I speak so much more than I intend, Describe so many things I never saw. I tell you, sir, in one sense, I believe Nothing at all,--that everybody can, Will, and does cheat: but in another sense I'm ready to believe my very self-- That every cheat 's inspired, and every lie Quick with a germ of truth.

You ask perhaps Why I should condescend to trick at all If I know a way without it? This is why! There 's a strange secret sweet self-sacrifice In any desecration of one's soul To a worthy end,--is n't it Herodotus (I wish I could read Latin!) who describes The single gift o' the land's virginity, Demanded in those old Egyptian rites, (I 've but a hazy notion--help me, sir!) For one purpose in the world, one day in a life, One hour in a day--thereafter, purity, And a veil thrown o'er the past forevermore! Well now, they understood a many things Down by Nile city, or wherever it was! I 've always vowed, after the minute's lie, And the end's gain,--truth should be mine henceforth. This goes to the root o' the matter, sir,--this plain Plump fact: accept it and unlock with it The wards of many a puzzle!

Or, finally, Why should I set so fine a gloss on things? What need I care? I cheat in self-defence, And there 's my answer to a world of cheats! Cheat? To be sure, sir! What's the world worth else? Who takes it as he finds, and thanks his stars? Don't it want trimming, turning, furbishing up And polishing over? Your so-styled great men, Do they accept one truth as truth is found, Or try their skill at tinkering? What 's your world? Here are you born, who are, I 'll say at once, Of the luckiest kind, whether in head and heart, Body and soul, or all that helps them both. Well, now, look back: what faculty of yours Came to its full, had ample justice done By growing when rain fell, tiding its time, Solidifying growth when earth was dead, Spiring up, broadening wide, in seasons due? Never! You shot up and frost nipped you off, Settled to sleep when sunshine bade you sprout; One faculty thwarted its fellow: at the end, All you boast is, "I had proved a topping tree In other climes,"--yet this was the right clime Had you foreknown the seasons. Young, you 've force Wasted like well-streams: old,--oh, then indeed, Behold a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes Through which you 'd play off wondrous water-work; Only, no water 's left to feed their play. Young,--you 've a hope, an aim, a love; it 's tossed And crossed and lost: you struggle on, some spark Shut in your heart against the puffs around, Through cold and pain; these in due time subside, Now then for age's triumph, the hoarded light You mean to loose on the altered face of things,-- Up with it on the tripod! It 's extinct. Spend your life's remnant asking, which was best, Light smothered up that never peeped forth, once, Or the cold cresset with full leave to shine? Well, accept this too,--seek the fruit of it Not in enjoyment, proved a dream on earth, But knowledge, useful for a second chance, Another life,--you 've lost this world--you 've gained Its knowledge for the next.--What knowledge, sir, Except that you know nothing? Nay, you doubt Whether 't were better have made you man or brute, If aught be true, if good and evil clash. No foal, no fair, no inside, no outside, There 's your world!

Give it me! I slap it brisk With harlequin's pasteboard sceptre: what 's it now? Changed like a rock-flat, rough with rusty weed, At first wash-over o' the returning wave! All the dry dead impracticable stuff Starts into life and light again; this world Pervaded by the influx from the next. I cheat, and what 's the happy consequence? You find full justice straightway dealt you out, Each want supplied, each ignorance set at ease, Each folly fooled. No life-long labor now As the price of worse than nothing! No mere film Holding you chained in iron, as it seems, Against the outstretch of your very arms And legs i' the sunshine moralists forbid! What would you have? Just speak and, there, you see! You 're supplemented, made a whole at last, Bacon advises, Shakespeare writes you songs, And Mary Queen of Scots embraces you. Thus it goes on, not quite like life perhaps, But so near, that the very difference piques, Shows that e'en better than this best will be-- This passing entertainment in a hut Whose bare walls take your taste since, one stage more, And you arrive at the palace: all half real, And you, to suit it, less than real beside, In a dream, lethargic kind of death in life, That helps the interchange of natures, flesh Transfused by souls, and such souls! Oh, 't is choice! And if at whiles the bubble, blown too thin, Seem nigh on bursting,--if you nearly see The real world through the false,--what _do_ you see? Is the old so ruined? You find you 're in a flock O' the youthful, earnest, passionate--genius, beauty, Rank and wealth also, if you care for these: And all depose their natural rights, hail you (That's me, sir) as their mate and yoke-fellow,

## Participate in Sludgehood--nay, grow mine,

I veritably possess them--banish doubt, And reticence and modesty alike! Why, here 's the Golden Age, old Paradise Or new Utopia! Here 's true life indeed, And the world well won now, mine for the first time!

And all this might be, may be, and with good help Of a little lying shall be: so, Sludge lies! Why, he 's at worst your poet who sings how Greeks That never were, in Troy which never was, Did this or the other impossible great thing! He 's Lowell--it 's a world (you smile applause) Of his own invention--wondrous Longfellow, Surprising Hawthorne! Sludge does more than they, And acts the books they write: the more his praise!

But why do I mount to poets? Take plain prose-- Dealers in common sense, set these at work, What can they do without their helpful lies? Each states the law and fact and face o' the thing Just as he 'd have them, finds what he thinks fit, Is blind to what missuits him, just records What makes his case out, quite ignores the rest. It 's a History of the World, the Lizard Age, The Early Indians, the Old Country War, Jerome Napoleon, whatsoever you please, All as the author wants it. Such a scribe You pay and praise for putting life in stones, Fire into fog, making the past your world. There 's plenty of "How did you contrive to grasp The thread which led you through this labyrinth? How build such solid fabric out of air? How on so slight foundation found this tale, Biography, narrative?" or, in other words, "How many lies did it require to make The portly truth you here present us with?" "Oh," quoth the penman, purring at your praise, "'T is fancy all; no particle of fact: I was poor and threadbare when I wrote that book 'Bliss in the Golden City.' I, at Thebes? We writers paint out of our heads, you see!" "--Ah, the more wonderful the gift in you, The more creativeness and godlike craft!" But I, do I present you with my piece, It 's "What, Sludge? When my sainted mother spoke The verses Lady Jane Grey last composed About the rosy bower in the seventh heaven Where she and Queen Elizabeth keep house,-- You made the raps? 'T was your invention that? Cur, slave, and devil!"--eight fingers and two thumbs Stuck in my throat!

Well, if the marks seem gone, 'T is because stiffish cocktail, taken in time, Is better for a bruise than arnica. There, sir! I bear no malice: 't is n't in me. I know I acted wrongly: still, I 've tried What I could say in my excuse,--to show The devil 's not all devil ... I don't pretend He 's angel, much less such a gentleman As you, sir! And I 've lost you, lost myself, Lost all-l-l-l- ...

No--are you in earnest, sir? Oh, yours, sir, is an angel's part! I know What prejudice prompts, and what 's the common course Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit: Only you rise superior to it all! No, sir, it don't hurt much; it 's speaking long That makes me choke a little: the marks will go! What? Twenty V-notes more, and outfit too, And not a word to Greeley? One--one kiss O' the hand that saves me! You 'll not let me speak, I well know, and I 've lost the right, too true! But I must say, sir, if She hears (she does) Your sainted ... Well, sir,--be it so! That 's, I think, My bedroom candle. Good-night! Bl-l-less you, sir!

* * * * *

R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard! Cowardly scamp! I only wish I dared burn down the house And spoil your sniggering! Oh, what, you 're the man? You 're satisfied at last? You 've found out Sludge? We 'll see that presently: my turn, sir, next! I too can tell my story: brute,--do you hear?-- You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag, In just such a fit of passion: no, it was ... To get this house of hers, and many a note Like these ... I 'll pocket them, however ... five, Ten, fifteen ... ay, you gave her throat the twist, Or else you poisoned her! Confound the cuss! Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied He 'll die in a year and join her: that 's the way.

I don't know where my head is: what had I done? How did it all go? I said he poisoned her, And hoped he 'd have grace given him to repent, Whereon he picked this quarrel, bullied me And called me cheat: I thrashed him,--who could help? He howled for mercy, prayed me on his knees To cut and run and save him from disgrace: I do so, and once off, he slanders me. An end of him! Begin elsewhere anew! Boston 's a hole, the herring-pond is wide, V-notes are something, liberty still more. Beside, is he the only fool in the world?

APPARENT FAILURE

"We shall soon lose a celebrated building."

_Paris Newspaper_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EPILOGUE

FIRST SPEAKER, _as David_

On the first of the Feast of Feasts, The Dedication Day, When the Levites joined the Priests At the Altar in robed array, Gave signal to sound and say,--

When the thousands, rear and van, Swarming with one accord, Became as a single man (Look, gesture, thought and word) In praising and thanking the Lord,--

When the singers lift up their voice, And the trumpets made endeavor, Sounding, "In God rejoice!" Saying, "In Him rejoice Whose mercy endureth forever!"--

Then the Temple filled with a cloud, Even the House of the Lord; Porch bent and pillar bowed: For the presence of the Lord, In the glory of his cloud, Had filled the House of the Lord.

SECOND SPEAKER, _as Renan_

Gone now! All gone across the dark so far, Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that star Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill With upturned faces on as real a Face That, stooping from grave music and mild fire, Took in our homage, made a visible place Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre, For the dim human tribute. Was this true? Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his, To help by rapture God's own rapture too, Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss? Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast, And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide, When a first shadow showed the star addressed Itself to motion, and on either side The rims contracted as the rays retired; The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse, Subsided on itself; awhile transpired Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, No prayers retard; then even this was gone, Lost in the night at last. We, lone and left Silent through centuries, ever and anon Venture to probe again the vault bereft Of all now save the lesser lights, a mist Of multitudinous points, yet suns, men say-- And this leaps ruby, this lurks amethyst, But where may hide what came and loved our clay? How shall the sage detect in yon expanse The star which chose to stoop and stay for us? Unroll the records! Hailed ye such advance Indeed, and did your hope evanish thus? Watchers of twilight, is the worst averred? We shall not look up, know ourselves are seen, Speak, and be sure that we again are heard,

## Acting or suffering, have the disk's serene

Reflect our life, absorb an earthly flame, Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb, Its core had never crimsoned all the same, Nor, missing ours, its music fallen dumb? Oh, dread succession to a dizzy post, Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appalls, Ghastly dethronement, cursed by those the most On whose repugnant brow the crown next falls!

THIRD SPEAKER

Witless alike of will and way divine, How heaven's high with earth's low should intertwine! Friends, I have seen through your eyes: now use mine!

Take the least man of all mankind, as I; Look at his head and heart, find how and why He differs from his fellows utterly:

Then, like me, watch when nature by degrees Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas (They said of old) the instinctive water flees

Toward some elected point of central rock, As though, for its sake only, roamed the flock Of waves about the waste: awhile they mock

With radiance caught for the occasion,--hues Of blackest hell now, now such reds and blues As only heaven could fitly interfuse,--

The mimic monarch of the whirlpool, king O' the current for a minute: then they wring Up by the roots and oversweep the thing,

And hasten off, to play again elsewhere The same part, choose another peak as bare, They find and flatter, feast and finish there.

When you see what I tell you,--nature dance About each man of us, retire, advance, As though the pageant's end were to enhance

His worth, and--once the life, his product, gained-- Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife sustained, And show thus real, a thing the North but feigned--

When you acknowledge that one world could do All the diverse work, old yet ever new, Divide us, each from other, me from you,--

Why, where 's the need of Temple, when the walls O' the world are that? What use of swells and falls From Levites' choir, Priests' cries, and trumpet-calls?

That one Face, far from vanish, rather grows, Or decomposes but to recompose, Become my universe that feels and knows!

THE RING AND THE BOOK

This, the most long sustained of Browning's writings, was published originally in four volumes, successively in November, December, 1868, January, February, 1869. Mrs. Orr has given so circumstantial an account of the inception of the work, that the main facts are here reproduced from her _Hand-Book_.

"Mr. Browning was strolling one day through a square in Florence, the Piazza San Lorenzo, which is a standing market for old clothes, old furniture, and old curiosities of every kind, when a parchment-covered book attracted his eye, from amidst the artistic or nondescript rubbish of one of the stalls. It was the record of a murder which had taken place in Rome, and bore inside it an inscription [in Latin] which Mr. Browning transcribes [on p. 415].

"The book proved, on examination, to contain the whole history of the case, as carried on in writing, after the fashion of those days: pleadings and counter-pleadings, the depositions of defendants and witnesses; manuscript letters announcing the execution of the murderer, and the 'instrument of the Definitive Sentence' which established the perfect innocence of the murdered wife: these various documents having been collected and bound together by some person interested in the trial, possibly the very Cencini, friend of the Franceschini family, to whom the manuscript letters are addressed. Mr. Browning bought the whole for the value of eightpence, and it became the raw material of what appeared four years later as _The Ring and the Book_."

In another place Mrs. Orr states that the subject was conceived about four years before the poet took it actually in hand, and that, before he wrote it himself, he offered the theme for prose treatment to Miss Ogle, the author of _A Lost Love_.

I

THE RING AND THE BOOK

Do you see this Ring?

'T is Rome-work, made to match (By Castellani's imitative craft) Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn, After a dropping April; found alive Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see, Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There 's one trick, (Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold As this was,--such mere oozings from the mine, Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,-- To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap: Since hammer needs must widen out the round, And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers, Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear. That trick is, the artificer melts up wax With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both, Effects a manageable mass, then works: But his work ended, once the thing a ring, Oh, there's repristination! Just a spirt O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face, And forth the alloy unfastened flies in fume; While, self-sufficient now, the shape remains, The rondure brave, the lilied loveliness, Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore: Prime nature with an added artistry-- No carat lost, and you have gained a ring. What of it? 'T is a figure, a symbol, say; A thing's sign: now for the thing signified.

Do you see this square old yellow Book, I toss I' the air, and catch again, and twirl about By the crumpled vellum covers,--pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since? Examine it yourselves! I found this book, Gave a _lira_ for it, eightpence English just, (Mark the predestination!) when a Hand, Always above my shoulder, pushed me once, One day still fierce 'mid many a day struck calm, Across a Square in Florence, crammed with booths, Buzzing and blaze, noontide and market-time, Toward Baccio's marble,--ay, the basement-ledge O' the pedestal where sits and menaces John of the Black Bands with the upright spear, 'Twixt palace and church,--Riccardi where they lived, His race, and San Lorenzo where they lie. This book,--precisely on that palace-step Which, meant for lounging knaves o' the Medici, Now serves re-venders to display their ware,-- 'Mongst odds and ends of ravage, picture-frames White through the worn gilt, mirror-sconces chipped, Bronze angel-heads once knobs attached to chests (Handled when ancient dames chose forth brocade), Modern chalk drawings, studies from the nude, Samples of stone, jet, breccia, porphyry Polished and rough, sundry amazing busts In baked earth (broken, Providence be praised!) A wreck of tapestry, proudly-purposed web When reds and blues were indeed red and blue, Now offered as a mat to save bare feet (Since carpets constitute a cruel cost) Treading the chill scagliola bedward; then A pile of brown-etched prints, two _crazie_ each, Stopped by a conch a-top from fluttering forth --Sowing the Square with works of one and the same Master, the imaginative Sienese Great in the scenic backgrounds--(name and fame None of you know, nor does he fare the worse:) From these ... Oh, with a Lionard going cheap If it should prove, as promised, that Joconde Whereof a copy contents the Louvre!--these I picked this book from. Five compeers in flank Stood left and right of it as tempting more-- A dogs-eared Spicilegium, the fond tale O' the Frail One of the Flower, by young Dumas, Vulgarized Horace for the use of schools, The Life, Death, Miracles of Saint Somebody, Saint Somebody Else, his Miracles, Death and Life,-- With this, one glance at the lettered back of which, And "Stall!" cried I: a _lira_ made it mine.

Here it is, this I toss and take again; Small-quarto size, part print, part manuscript: A book in shape but, really, pure crude fact Secreted from man's life when hearts beat hard, And brains, high-blooded, ticked two centuries since. Give it me back! The thing 's restorative I' the touch and sight.

That memorable day, (June was the month, Lorenzo named the Square), I leaned a little and overlooked my prize By the low railing round the fountain-source Close to the statue, where a step descends: While clinked the cans of copper, as stooped and rose Thick-ankled girls who brimmed them, and made place For marketmen glad to pitch basket down, Dip a broad melon-leaf that holds the wet, And whisk their faded fresh. And on I read Presently, though my path grew perilous Between the outspread straw-work, piles of plait Soon to be flapping, each o'er two black eyes And swathe of Tuscan hair, on festas fine: Through fire-irons, tribes of tongs, shovels in sheaves, Skeleton bedsteads, wardrobe-drawers agape, Rows of tall slim brass lamps with dangling gear,-- And worse, cast clothes a-sweetening in the sun: None of them took my eye from off my prize. Still read I on, from written title-page To written index, on, through street and street, At the Strozzi, at the Pillar, at the Bridge; Till, by the time I stood at home again In Casa Guidi by Felice Church, Under the doorway where the black begins With the first stone-slab of the staircase cold, I had mastered the contents, knew the whole truth Gathered together, bound up in this book, Print three-fifths, written supplement the rest. "_Romana Homicidiorum_"--nay, Better translate--"A Roman murder-case: Position of the entire criminal cause Of Guido Franceschini, nobleman, With certain Four the cutthroats in his pay, Tried, all five, and found guilty and put to death By heading or hanging as befitted ranks, At Rome on February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight: Wherein it is disputed if, and when, Husbands may kill adulterous wives, yet 'scape The customary forfeit."

Word for word, So ran the title-page: murder, or else Legitimate punishment of the other crime, Accounted murder by mistake,--just that And no more, in a Latin cramp enough When the law had her eloquence to launch, But interfilleted with Italian streaks When testimony stooped to mother-tongue,-- That, was this old square yellow book about.

Now, as the ingot, ere the ring was forged, Lay gold, (beseech you, hold that figure fast!) So, in this book lay absolutely truth, Fanciless fact, the documents indeed, Primary lawyer-pleadings for, against, The aforesaid Five; real summed-up circumstance Adduced in proof of these on either side, Put forth and printed, as the practice was, At Rome, in the Apostolic Chamber's type, And so submitted to the eye o' the Court Presided over by His Reverence Rome's Governor and Criminal Judge,--the trial Itself, to all intents, being then as now Here in the book and nowise out of it; Seeing, there properly was no judgment-bar, No bringing of accuser and accused, And whoso judged both parties, face to face Before some court, as we conceive of courts. There was a Hall of Justice; that came last: For Justice had a chamber by the hall Where she took evidence first, summed up the same, Then sent accuser and accused alike, In person of the advocate of each, To weigh its worth, thereby arrange, array The battle. 'T was the so-styled Fisc began, Pleaded (and since he only spoke in print The printed voice of him lives now as then) The public Prosecutor--"Murder 's proved; With five ... what we call qualities of bad, Worse, worst, and yet worse still, and still worse yet; Crest over crest crowning the cockatrice, That beggar hell's regalia to enrich Count Guido Franceschini: punish him!" Thus was the paper put before the court In the next stage, (no noisy work at all,) To study at ease. In due time like reply Came from the so-styled Patron of the Poor, Official mouthpiece of the five accused Too poor to fee a better,--Guido's luck Or else his fellows',--which, I hardly know,-- An outbreak as of wonder at the world, A fury-fit of outraged innocence, A passion of betrayed simplicity: "Punish Count Guido? For what crime, what hint O' the color of a crime, inform us first! Reward him rather! Recognize, we say, In the deed done, a righteous judgment dealt! All conscience and all courage,--there 's our Count Charactered in a word; and, what 's more strange, He had companionship in privilege, Found four courageous conscientious friends: Absolve, applaud all five, as props of law, Sustainers of society!--perchance A trifle over-hasty with the hand To hold her tottering ark, had tumbled else; But that 's a splendid fault whereat we wink, Wishing your cold correctness sparkled so!" Thus paper second followed paper first, Thus did the two join issue--nay, the four, Each pleader having an adjunct. "True, he killed --So to speak--in a certain sort--his wife, But laudably, since thus it happed!" quoth one: Whereat, more witness and the case postponed. "Thus it happed not, since thus he did the deed, And proved himself thereby portentousest Of cutthroats and a prodigy of crime, As the woman that he slaughtered was a saint, Martyr and miracle!" quoted the other to match: Again, more witness, and the case postponed. "A miracle, ay--of lust and impudence; Hear my new reasons!" interposed the first: "--Coupled with more of mine!" pursued his peer. "Beside, the precedents, the authorities!" From both at once a cry with an echo, that! That was a firebrand at each fox's tail Unleashed in a cornfield: soon spread flare enough, As hurtled thither and there heaped themselves From earth's four corners, all authority And precedent for putting wives to death, Or letting wives live, sinful as they seem. How legislated, now, in this respect, Solon and his Athenians? Quote the code Of Romulus and Rome! Justinian speak! Nor modern Baldo, Bartolo be dumb! The Roman voice was potent, plentiful; _Cornelia de Sicariis_ hurried to help _Pompeia de Parricidiis;_ _Julia de_ Something-or-other jostled _Lex_ this-and-that; King Solomon confirmed Apostle Paul: That nice decision of Dolabella, eh? That pregnant instance of Theodoric, oh! Down to that choice example Ælian gives (An instance I find much insisted on) Of the elephant who, brute-beast though he were, Yet understood and punished on the spot His master's naughty spouse and faithless friend; A true tale which has edified each child, Much more shall flourish favored by our court! Pages of proof this way, and that way proof, And always--once again the case postponed.

Thus wrangled, brangled, jangled they a month, --Only on paper, pleadings all in print, Nor ever was, except i' the brains of men, More noise by word of mouth than you hear now-- Till the court cut all short with "Judged, your cause. Receive our sentence! Praise God! We pronounce Count Guido devilish and damnable: His wife Pompilia in thought, word and deed, Was perfect pure, he murdered her for that: As for the Four who helped the One, all Five-- Why, let employer and hirelings share alike In guilt and guilt's reward, the death their due!"

So was the trial at end, do you suppose? "Guilty you find him, death you doom him to? Ay, were not Guido, more than needs, a priest, Priest and to spare!"--this was a shot reserved; I learn this from epistles which begin Here where the print ends,--see the pen and ink Of the advocate, the ready at a pinch!-- "My client boasts the clerkly privilege, Has taken minor orders many enough, Shows still sufficient chrism upon his pate To neutralize a blood-stain: _presbyter_, _Primæ tonsuræ, subdiaconus,_ _Sacerdos_, so he slips from underneath Your power, the temporal, slides inside the robe Of mother Church: to her we make appeal By the Pope, the Church's head!"

A parlous plea, Put in with noticeable effect, it seems; "Since straight,"--resumes the zealous orator, Making a friend acquainted with the facts,-- "Once the word 'clericality' let fall, Procedure stopped and freer breath was drawn By all considerate and responsible Rome." Quality took the decent part, of course; Held by the husband, who was noble too: Or, for the matter of that, a churl would side With too-refined susceptibility, And honor which, tender in the extreme, Stung to the quick, must roughly right itself At all risks, not sit still and whine for law As a Jew would, if you squeezed him to the wall, Brisk-trotting through the Ghetto. Nay, it seems, Even the Emperor's Envoy had his say To say on the subject; might not see, unmoved, Civility menaced throughout Christendom By too harsh measure dealt her champion here. Lastly, what made all safe, the Pope was kind, From his youth up, reluctant to take life, If mercy might be just and yet show grace; Much more unlikely then, in extreme age, To take a life the general sense bade spare. 'T was plain that Guido would go scatheless yet.

But human promise, oh, how short of shine! How topple down the piles of hope we rear! How history proves ... nay, read Herodotus! Suddenly starting from a nap, as it were, A dog-sleep with one shut, one open orb, Cried the Pope's great self,--Innocent by name And nature too, and eighty-six years old, Antonio Pignatelli of Naples, Pope Who had trod many lands, known many deeds, Probed many hearts, beginning with his own, And now was far in readiness for God,-- 'T was he who first bade leave those souls in peace, Those Jansenists, re-nicknamed Molinists, ('Gainst whom the cry went, like a frowsy tune, Tickling men's ears--the sect for a quarter of an hour I' the teeth of the world which, clown-like, loves to chew Be it but a straw 'twixt work and whistling-while, Taste some vituperation, bite away, Whether at marjoram-sprig or garlic-clove, Aught it may sport with, spoil, and then spit forth,) "Leave them alone," bade he, "those Molinists! Who may have other light than we perceive, Or why is it the whole world hates them thus?" Also he peeled off that last scandal-rag Of Nepotism; and so observed the poor That men would merrily say, "Halt, deaf and blind, Who feed on fat things, leave the master's self To gather up the fragments of his feast, These be the nephews of Pope Innocent!-- His own meal costs but five carlines a day, Poor-priest's allowance, for he claims no more." --He cried of a sudden, this great good old Pope, When they appealed in last resort to him, "I have mastered the whole matter: I nothing doubt. Though Guido stood forth priest from head to heel, Instead of, as alleged, a piece of one,-- And further, were he, from the tonsured scalp To the sandaled sole of him, my son and Christ's, Instead of touching us by finger-tip As you assert, and pressing up so close Only to set a blood-smutch on our robe,-- I and Christ would renounce all right in him. Am I not Pope, and presently to die, And busied how to render my account, And shall I wait a day ere I decide On doing or not doing justice here? Cut off his head to-morrow by this time, Hang up his four mates, two on either hand, And end one business more!"

So said, so done-- Rather so writ, for the old Pope bade this, I find, with his particular chirograph, His own no such infirm hand, Friday night; And next day, February Twenty Two, Since our salvation Sixteen Ninety Eight, --Not at the proper head-and-hanging-place On bridge-foot close by Castle Angelo, Where custom somewhat staled the spectacle, ('T was not so well i' the way of Rome, beside, The noble Rome, the Rome of Guido's rank) But at the city's newer gayer end,-- The cavalcading promenading place Beside the gate and opposite the church Under the Pincian gardens green with Spring, 'Neath the obelisk 'twixt the fountains in the Square, Did Guido and his fellows find their fate, All Rome for witness, and--my writer adds-- Remonstrant in its universal grief, Since Guido had the suffrage of all Rome.

This is the bookful; thus far take the truth, The untempered gold, the fact untampered with, The mere ring-metal ere the ring be made! And what has hitherto come of it? Who preserves The memory of this Guido, and his wife Pompilia, more than Ademollo's name, The etcher of those prints, two _crazie_ each, Saved by a stone from snowing broad the Square With scenic backgrounds? Was this truth of force? Able to take its own part as truth should, Sufficient, self-sustaining? Why, if so-- Yonder 's a fire, into it goes my book, As who shall say me nay, and what the loss? You know the tale already: I may ask, Rather than think to tell you, more thereof,-- Ask you not merely who were he and she, Husband and wife, what manner of mankind, But how you hold concerning this and that Other yet-unnamed actor in the piece. The young frank handsome courtly Canon, now, The priest, declared the lover of the wife, He who, no question, did elope with her, For certain bring the tragedy about, Giuseppe Caponsacchi;--his strange course I' the matter, was it right or wrong or both? Then the old couple, slaughtered with the wife By the husband as accomplices in crime, Those Comparini, Pietro and his spouse,-- What say you to the right or wrong of that, When, at a known name whispered through the door Of a lone villa on a Christmas night, It opened that the joyous hearts inside Might welcome as it were an angel-guest Come in Christ's name to knock and enter, sup And satisfy the loving ones he saved; And so did welcome devils and their death? I have been silent on that circumstance Although the couple passed for close of kin To wife and husband, were by some accounts Pompilia's very parents: you know best. Also that infant the great joy was for, That Gaetano, the wife's two-weeks' babe, The husband's first-born child, his son and heir, Whose birth and being turned his night to day-- Why must the father kill the mother thus Because she bore his son and saved himself?

Well, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you!) and will have your proper laugh At the dark question, laugh it! I laugh first. Truth must prevail, the proverb vows; and truth --Here is it all i' the book at last, as first There it was all i' the heads and hearts of Rome Gentle and simple, never to fall nor fade Nor be forgotten. Yet, a little while, The passage of a century or so, Decads thrice five, and here 's time paid his tax, Oblivion gone home with her harvesting, And all left smooth again as scythe could shave. Far from beginning with you London folk, I took my book to Rome first, tried truth's power On likely people. "Have you met such names? Is a tradition extant of such facts? Your law-courts stand, your records frown a-row: What if I rove and rummage?" "--Why, you 'll waste Your pains and end as wise as you began!" Every one snickered: "names and facts thus old Are newer much than Europe news we find Down in to-day's _Diario_. Records, quotha? Why, the French burned them, what else do the French? The rap-and-rending nation! And it tells Against the Church, no doubt,--another gird At the Temporality, your Trial, of course?" "--Quite otherwise this time," submitted I; "Clean for the Church and dead against the world, The flesh and the devil, does it tell for once." "--The rarer and the happier! All the same, Content you with your treasure of a book, And waive what 's wanting! Take a friend's advice! It 's not the custom of the country. Mend Your ways indeed and we may stretch a point: Go get you manned by Manning and new-manned By Newman and, mayhap, wise-manned to boot By Wiseman, and we 'll see or else we won't! Thanks meantime for the story, long and strong, A pretty piece of narrative enough, Which scarce ought so to drop out, one would think, From the more curious annals of our kind. Do you tell the story, now, in off-hand style, Straight from the book? Or simply here and there, (The while you vault it through the loose and large) Hang to a hint? Or is there book at all, And don't you deal in poetry, make-believe, And the white lies it sounds like?"

Yes and no! From the book, yes; thence bit by bit I dug The lingot truth, that memorable day, Assayed and knew my piecemeal gain was gold,-- Yes; but from something else surpassing that, Something of mine which, mixed up with the mass, Made it bear hammer and be firm to file. Fancy with fact is just one fact the more; To wit, that fancy has informed, transpierced, Thridded and so thrown fast the facts else free, As right through ring and ring runs the djereed And binds the loose, one bar without a break. I fused my live soul and that inert stuff, Before attempting smithcraft, on the night After the day when--truth thus grasped and gained-- The book was shut and done with and laid by On the cream-colored massive agate, broad 'Neath the twin cherubs in the tarnished frame O' the mirror, tall thence to the ceiling-top. And from the reading, and that slab I leant My elbow on, the while I read and read, I turned, to free myself and find the world, And stepped out on the narrow terrace, built Over the street and opposite the church, And paced its lozenge-brickwork sprinkled cool; Because Felice-church-side stretched, aglow Through each square window fringed for festival, Whence came the clear voice of the cloistered ones Chanting a chant made for midsummer nights-- I know not what particular praise of God, It always came and went with June. Beneath I' the street, quick shown by openings of the sky When flame fell silently from cloud to cloud, Richer than that gold snow Jove rained on Rhodes, The townsmen walked by twos and threes, and talked, Drinking the blackness in default of air-- A busy human sense beneath my feet: While in and out the terrace-plants, and round One branch of tall datura, waxed and waned The lamp-fly lured there, wanting the white flower. Over the roof o' the lighted church I looked A bowshot to the street's end, north away Out of the Roman gate to the Roman road By the river, till I felt the Apennine. And there would lie Arezzo, the man's town, The woman's trap and cage and torture-place, Also the stage where the priest played his part, A spectacle for angels,--ay, indeed, There lay Arezzo! Farther then I fared, Feeling my way on through the hot and dense, Romeward, until I found the wayside inn By Castelnuovo's few mean hut-like homes Huddled together on the hill-foot bleak, Bare, broken only by that tree or two Against the sudden bloody splendor poured Cursewise in day's departure by the sun O'er the low house-roof of that squalid inn Where they three, for the first time and the last, Husband and wife and priest, met face to face. Whence I went on again, the end was near, Step by step, missing none and marking all, Till Rome itself, the ghastly goal, I reached. Why, all the while,--how could it otherwise?-- The life in me abolished the death of things, Deep calling unto deep: as then and there Acted itself over again once more The tragic piece. I saw with my own eyes In Florence as I trod the terrace, breathed The beauty and the fearfulness of night, How it had run, this round from Rome to Rome-- Because, you are to know, they lived at Rome, Pompilia's parents, as they thought themselves, Two poor ignoble hearts who did their best Part God's way, part the other way than God's, To somehow make a shift and scramble through The world's mud, careless if it splashed and spoiled, Provided they might so hold high, keep clean Their child's soul, one soul white enough for three, And lift it to whatever star should stoop, What possible sphere of purer life than theirs Should come in aid of whiteness hard to save. I saw the star stoop, that they strained to touch, And did touch and depose their treasure on, As Guido Franceschini took away Pompilia to be his forevermore, While they sang "Now let us depart in peace, Having beheld thy glory, Guido's wife!" I saw the star supposed, but fog o' the fen, Gilded star-fashion by a glint from hell; Having been heaved up, haled on its gross way, By hands unguessed before, invisible help From a dark brotherhood, and specially Two obscure goblin creatures, fox-faced this, Cat-clawed the other, called his next of kin By Guido the main monster,--cloaked and caped, Making as they were priests, to mock God more,-- Abate Paul, Canon Girolamo. These who had rolled the starlike pest to Rome And stationed it to suck up and absorb The sweetness of Pompilia, rolled again That bloated bubble, with her soul inside, Back to Arezzo and a palace there-- Or say, a fissure in the honest earth Whence long ago had curled the vapor first, Blown big by nether fires to appall day: It touched home, broke, and blasted far and wide. I saw the cheated couple find the cheat And guess what foul rite they were captured for,-- Too fain to follow over hill and dale That child of theirs caught up thus in the cloud And carried by the Prince o' the Power of the Air Whither he would, to wilderness or sea. I saw them, in the potency of fear, Break somehow through the satyr-family (For a gray mother with a monkey-mien, Mopping and mowing, was apparent too, As, confident of capture, all took hands And danced about the captives in a ring) --Saw them break through, breathe safe, at Rome again, Saved by the selfish instinct, losing so Their loved one left with haters. These I saw, In recrudescency of baffled hate, Prepare to wring the uttermost revenge From body and soul thus left them: all was sure, Fire laid and caldron set, the obscene ring traced, The victim stripped and prostrate: what of God? The cleaving of a cloud, a cry, a crash, Quenched lay their caldron, cowered i' the dust the crew, As, in a glory of armor like Saint George, Out again sprang the young good beauteous priest Bearing away the lady in his arms, Saved for a splendid minute and no more. For, whom i' the path did that priest come upon, He and the poor lost lady borne so brave, --Checking the song of praise in me, had else Swelled to the full for God's will done on earth-- Whom but a dusk misfeatured messenger, No other than the angel of this life, Whose care is lest men see too much at once. He made the sign, such God-glimpse must suffice, Nor prejudice the Prince o' the Power of the Air, Whose ministration piles us overhead What we call, first, earth's roof and, last, heaven's floor, Now grate o' the trap, then outlet of the cage: So took the lady, left the priest alone, And once more canopied the world with black. But through the blackness I saw Rome again, And where a solitary villa stood In a lone garden-quarter: it was eve, The second of the year, and oh so cold! Ever and anon there flittered through the air A snow-flake, and a scanty couch of snow Crusted the grass-walk and the garden-mould. All was grave, silent, sinister,--when, ha? Glimmeringly did a pack of were-wolves pad The snow, those flames were Guido's eyes in front, And all five found and footed it, the track, To where a threshold-streak of warmth and light Betrayed the villa-door with life inside, While an inch outside were those blood-bright eyes, And black lips wrinkling o'er the flash of teeth, And tongues that lolled--O God that madest man! They parleyed in their language. Then one whined-- That was the policy and master-stroke-- Deep in his throat whispered what seemed a name-- "Open to Caponsacchi!" Guido cried: "Gabriel!" cried Lucifer at Eden-gate. Wide as a heart, opened the door at once, Showing the joyous couple, and their child The two-weeks' mother, to the wolves, the wolves To them. Close eyes! And when the corpses lay Stark-stretched, and those the wolves, their wolf-work done. Were safe-embosomed by the night again, I knew a necessary change in things; As when the worst watch of the night gives way, And there comes duly, to take cognizance, The scrutinizing eye-point of some star-- And who despairs of a new daybreak now? Lo, the first ray protruded on those five! It reached them, and each felon writhed transfixed. Awhile they palpitated on the spear Motionless over Tophet: stand or fall? "I say, the spear should fall--should stand, I say!" Cried the world come to judgment, granting grace Or dealing doom according to world's wont, Those world's-bystanders grouped on Rome's cross-road At prick and summons of the primal curse Which bids man love as well as make a lie. There prattled they, discoursed the right and wrong, Turned wrong to right, proved wolves sheep and sheep wolves, So that you scarce distinguished fell from fleece; Till out spoke a great guardian of the fold, Stood up, put forth his hand that held the crook, And motioned that the arrested point decline: Horribly off, the wriggling dead-weight reeled, Rushed to the bottom and lay ruined there. Though still at the pit's mouth, despite the smoke O' the burning, tarriers turned again to talk And trim the balance, and detect at least A touch of wolf in what showed whitest sheep, A cross of sheep redeeming the whole wolf,-- Vex truth a little longer:--less and less, Because years came and went, and more and more Brought new lies with them to be loved in turn. Till all at once the memory of the thing,-- The fact that, wolves or sheep, such creatures were,-- Which hitherto, however men supposed, Had somehow plain and pillar-like prevailed I' the midst of them, indisputably fact, Granite, time's tooth should grate against, not graze,-- Why, this proved sandstone, friable, fast to fly And give its grain away at wish o' the wind. Ever and ever more diminutive, Base gone, shaft lost, only entablature, Dwindled into no bigger than a book, Lay of the column; and that little, left By the roadside 'mid the ordure, shards and weeds. Until I haply, wandering that lone way, Kicked it up, turned it over, and recognized, For all the crumblement, this abacus, This square old yellow book,--could calculate By this the lost proportions of the style.

This was it from, my fancy with those facts, I used to tell the tale, turned gay to grave, But lacked a listener seldom; such alloy, Such substance of me interfused the gold Which, wrought into a shapely ring therewith, Hammered and filed, fingered and favored, last Lay ready for the renovating wash O' the water. "How much of the tale was true?" I disappeared; the book grew all in all; The lawyers' pleadings swelled back to their size,-- Doubled in two, the crease upon them yet, For more commodity of carriage, see!-- And these are letters, veritable sheets That brought post-haste the news to Florence, writ At Rome the day Count Guido died, we find, To stay the craving of a client there, Who bound the same and so produced my book. Lovers of dead truth, did ye fare the worse? Lovers of live truth, found ye false my tale?

Well, now; there 's nothing in nor out o' the world Good except truth: yet this, the something else, What 's this then, which proves good yet seems untrue? This that I mixed with truth, motions of mine That quickened, made the inertness malleolable O' the gold was not mine,--what 's your name for this? Are means to the end, themselves in part the end? Is fiction which makes fact alive, fact too? The somehow may be thishow.

I find first Writ down for very A B C of fact, "In the beginning God made heaven and earth;" From which, no matter with what lisp, I spell And speak you out a consequence--that man, Man,--as befits the made, the inferior thing,-- Purposed, since made, to grow, not make in turn, Yet forced to try and make, else fail to grow,-- Formed to rise, reach at, if not grasp and gain The good beyond him,--which attempt is growth,-- Repeats God's process in man's due degree, Attaining man's proportionate result,-- Creates, no, but resuscitates, perhaps. Inalienable, the arch-prerogative Which turns thought, act--conceives, expresses too! No less, man, bounded, yearning to be free, May so project his surplusage of soul In search of body, so add self to self By owning what lay ownerless before,-- So find, so fill full, so appropriate forms-- That, although nothing which had never life Shall get life from him, be, not having been, Yet, something dead may get to live again, Something with too much life or not enough, Which, either way imperfect, ended once: An end whereat man's impulse intervenes, Makes new beginning, starts the dead alive, Completes the incomplete and saves the thing. Man's breath were vain to light a virgin wick,-- Half-burned-out, all but quite-quenched wicks o' the lamp Stationed for temple-service on this earth, These indeed let him breathe on and relume! For such man's feat is, in the due degree, --Mimic creation, galvanism for life, But still a glory portioned in the scale. Why did the mage say--feeling as we are wont For truth, and stopping midway short of truth, And resting on a lie--"I raise a ghost"? "Because," he taught adepts, "man makes not man. Yet by a special gift, an art of arts, More insight and more outsight and much more Will to use both of these than boast my mates, I can detach from me, commission forth Half of my soul; which in its pilgrimage O'er old unwandered waste ways of the world, May chance upon some fragment of a whole, Rag of flesh, scrap of bone in dim disuse, Smoking flax that fed fire once: prompt therein I enter, spark-like, put old powers to play, Push lines out to the limit, lead forth last (By a moonrise through a ruin of a crypt) What shall be mistily seen, murmuringly heard, Mistakenly felt: then write my name with Faust's!" Oh, Faust, why Faust? Was not Elisha once?-- Who bade them lay his staff on a corpse-face. There was no voice, no hearing: he went in Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain, And prayed unto the Lord: and he went up And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch, And put his mouth upon its mouth, his eyes Upon its eyes, his hands upon its hands, And stretched him on the flesh; the flesh waxed warm: And he returned, walked to and fro the house, And went up, stretched him on the flesh again, And the eyes opened. 'T is a credible feat With the right man and way.

Enough of me! The Book! I turn its medicinable leaves In London now till, as in Florence erst, A spirit laughs and leaps through every limb, And lights my eye, and lifts me by the hair, Letting me have my will again with these --How title I the dead alive once more?

Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine, Descended of an ancient house, though poor, A beak-nosed bushy-bearded black-haired lord, Lean, pallid, low of stature yet robust, Fifty years old,--having four years ago Married Pompilia Comparini, young, Good, beautiful, at Rome, where she was born, And brought her to Arezzo, where they lived Unhappy lives, whatever curse the cause,-- This husband, taking four accomplices, Followed this wife to Rome, where she was fled From their Arezzo to find peace again, In convoy, eight months earlier, of a priest, Aretine also, of still nobler birth, Giuseppe Caponsacchi,--caught her there Quiet in a villa on a Christmas night, With only Pietro and Violante by, Both her putative parents; killed the three, Aged they, seventy each, and she, seventeen, And, two weeks since, the mother of his babe First-born and heir to what the style was worth O' the Guido who determined, dared and did This deed just as he purposed point by point. Then, bent upon escape, but hotly pressed, And captured with his co-mates that same night, He, brought to trial, stood on this defence-- Injury to his honor caused the act; And since his wife was false, (as manifest By flight from home in such companionship,) Death, punishment deserved of the false wife And faithless parents who abetted her I' the flight aforesaid, wronged nor God nor man. "Nor false she, nor yet faithless they," replied The accuser; "cloaked and masked this murder glooms; True was Pompilia, loyal too the pair; Out of the man's own heart a monster curled, Which--crime coiled with connivancy at crime-- His victim's breast, he tells you, hatched and reared; Uncoil we and stretch stark the worm of hell!" A month the trial swayed this way and that Ere judgment settled down on Guido's guilt; Then was the Pope, that good Twelfth Innocent, Appealed to: who well weighed what went before, Affirmed the guilt and gave the guilty doom.

Let this old woe step on the stage again!

## Act itself o'er anew for men to judge,

Not by the very sense and sight indeed-- (Which take at best imperfect cognizance, Since, how heart moves brain, and how both move hand, What mortal ever in entirety saw?) --No dose of purer truth than man digests, But truth with falsehood, milk that feeds him now, Not strong meat he may get to bear some day-- To wit, by voices we call evidence, Uproar in the echo, live fact deadened down, Talked over, bruited abroad, whispered away, Yet helping us to all we seem to hear: For how else know we save by worth of word?

Here are the voices presently shall sound In due succession. First, the world's outcry Around the rush and ripple of any fact Fallen stonewise, plumb on the smooth face of things; The world's guess, as it crowds the bank o' the pool, At what were figure and substance, by their splash: Then, by vibrations in the general mind, At depth of deed already out of reach. This threefold murder of the day before,-- Say, Half-Rome's feel after the vanished truth; Honest enough, as the way is: all the same, Harboring in the centre of its sense A hidden germ of failure, shy but sure, To neutralize that honesty and leave That feel for truth at fault, as the way is too. Some prepossession such as starts amiss, By but a hair's breadth at the shoulder-blade, The arm o' the feeler, dip he ne'er so bold; So leads arm waveringly, lets fall wide O' the mark its finger, sent to find and fix Truth at the bottom, that deceptive speck. With this Half-Rome,--the source of swerving, call Over-belief in Guido's right and wrong Rather than in Pompilia's wrong and right: Who shall say how, who shall say why? 'T is there-- The instinctive theorizing whence a fact Looks to the eye as the eye likes the look. Gossip in a public place, a sample-speech. Some worthy, with his previous hint to find A husband's side the safer, and no whit Aware he is not Æacus the while,-- How such an one supposes and states fact To whosoever of a multitude Will listen, and perhaps prolong thereby The not-unpleasant flutter at the breast, Born of a certain spectacle shut in By the church Lorenzo opposite. So, they lounge Midway the mouth o' the street, on Corso side, 'Twixt palace Fiano and palace Ruspoli, Linger and listen; keeping clear o' the crowd, Yet wishful one could lend that crowd one's eyes, (So universal is its plague of squint) And make hearts beat our time that flutter false: --All for the truth's sake, mere truth, nothing else! How Half-Rome found for Guido much excuse.

Next, from Rome's other half, the opposite feel For truth with a like swerve, like unsuccess,-- Or if success, by no skill but more luck, This time, through siding rather with the wife Because a fancy-fit inclined that way, Than with the husband. One wears drab, one pink; Who wears pink, ask him "Which shall win the race, Of coupled runners like as egg and egg?" "--Why, if I must choose, he with the pink scarf." Doubtless for some such reason choice fell here. A piece of public talk to correspond At the next stage of the story; just a day Let pass and new day brings the proper change. Another sample-speech i' the market-place O' the Barberini by the Capucins; Where the old Triton, at his fountain-sport, Bernini's creature plated to the paps, Puffs up steel sleet which breaks to diamond dust, A spray of sparkles snorted from his conch, High over the caritellas, out o' the way O' the motley merchandising multitude. Our murder has been done three days ago, The frost is over and gone, the south wind laughs, And, to the very tiles of each red roof A-smoke i' the sunshine, Rome lies gold and glad: So, listen how, to the other half of Rome, Pompilia seemed a saint and martyr both!

Then, yet another day let come and go, With pause prelusive still of novelty, Hear a fresh speaker!--neither this nor that Half-Rome aforesaid; something bred of both: One and one breed the inevitable three. Such is the personage harangues you next; The elaborated product, _tertium quid:_ Rome's first commotion in subsidence gives The curd o' the cream, flower o' the wheat, as it were, And finer sense o' the city. Is this plain? You get a reasoned statement of the case, Eventual verdict of the curious few Who care to sift a business to the bran Nor coarsely bolt it like the simpler sort. Here, after ignorance, instruction speaks; Here, clarity of candor, history's soul, The critical mind, in short: no gossip-guess. What the superior social section thinks, In person of some man of quality Who--breathing musk from lace-work and brocade, His solitaire amid the flow of frill, Powdered peruke on nose, and bag at back, And cane dependent from the ruffled wrist-- Harangues in silvery and selectest phrase 'Neath waxlight in a glorified saloon Where mirrors multiply the girandole: Courting the approbation of no mob, But Eminence This and All-Illustrious That Who take snuff softly, range in well-bred ring, Card-table-quitters for observance' sake, Around the argument, the rational word-- Still, spite its weight and worth, a sample-speech. How Quality dissertated on the case.

So much for Rome and rumor; smoke comes first: Once let smoke rise untroubled, we descry Clearlier what tongues of flame may spire and spit To eye and ear, each with appropriate tinge According to its food, or pure or foul. The actors, no mere rumors of the act, Intervene. First you hear Count Guido's voice, In a small chamber that adjoins the court, Where Governor and Judges, summoned thence, Tommati, Venturini and the rest, Find the accused ripe for declaring truth. Soft-cushioned sits he; yet shifts seat, shirks touch, As, with a twitchy brow and wincing lip And cheek that changes to all kinds of white, He proffers his defence, in tones subdued Near to mock-mildness now, so mournful seems The obtuser sense truth fails to satisfy; Now, moved, from pathos at the wrong endured, To passion; for the natural man is roused At fools who first do wrong, then pour the blame Of their wrong-doing, Satan-like, on Job. Also his tongue at times is hard to curb; Incisive, nigh satiric bites the phrase, Rough-raw, yet somehow claiming privilege --It is so hard for shrewdness to admit Folly means no harm when she calls black white! --Eruption momentary at the most, Modified forthwith by a fall o' the fire, Sage acquiescence; for the world 's the world, And, what it errs in, Judges rectify: He feels he has a fist, then folds his arms Crosswise and makes his mind up to be meek. And never once does he detach his eye From those ranged there to slay him or to save, But does his best man's-service for himself, Despite,--what twitches brow and makes lip wince,-- His limbs' late taste of what was called the Cord, Or Vigil-torture more facetiously. Even so; they were wont to tease the truth Out of loth witness (toying, trifling time) By torture: 't was a trick, a vice of the age, Here, there and everywhere, what would you have? Religion used to tell Humanity She gave him warrant or denied him course. And since the course was much to his own mind, Of pinching flesh and pulling bone from bone To unhusk truth a-hiding in its hulls, Nor whisper of a warning stopped the way, He, in their joint behalf, the burly slave, Bestirred him, mauled and maimed all recusants, While, prim in place, Religion overlooked; And so had done till doomsday, never a sign Nor sound of interference from her mouth, But that at last the burly slave wiped brow, Let eye give notice as if soul were there, Muttered "'T is a vile trick, foolish more than vile, Should have been counted sin; I make it so: At any rate no more of it for me-- Nay, for I break the torture-engine thus!" Then did Religion start up, stare amain, Look round for help and see none, smile and say "What, broken is the rack? Well done of thee! Did I forget to abrogate its use? Be the mistake in common with us both! --One more fault our blind age shall answer for, Down in my book denounced though it must be Somewhere. Henceforth find truth by milder means!" Ah but, Religion, did we wait for thee To ope the book, that serves to sit upon, And pick such place out, we should wait indeed! That is all history: and what is not now, Was then, defendants found it to their cost. How Guido, after being tortured, spoke.

Also hear Caponsacchi who comes next, Man and priest--could you comprehend the coil!-- In days when that was rife which now is rare. How, mingling each its multifarious wires, Now heaven, now earth, now heaven and earth at once, Had plucked at and perplexed their puppet here, Played off the young frank personable priest; Sworn fast and tonsured plain heaven's celibate, And yet earth's clear-accepted servitor, A courtly spiritual Cupid, squire of dames By law of love and mandate of the mode. The Church's own, or why parade her seal, Wherefore that chrism and consecrative work? Yet verily the world's, or why go badged A prince of sonneteers and lutanists, Show color of each vanity in vogue Borne with decorum due on blameless breast? All that is changed now, as he tells the court How he had played the part excepted at; Tells it, moreover, now the second time: Since, for his cause of scandal, his own share I' the flight from home and husband of the wife, He has been censured, punished in a sort By relegation,--exile, we should say, To a short distance for a little time,-- Whence he is summoned on a sudden now, Informed that she, he thought to save, is lost, And, in a breath, bidden re-tell his tale, Since the first telling somehow missed effect, And then advise in the matter. There stands he, While the same grim black-panelled chamber blinks As though rubbed shiny with the sins of Rome Told the same oak for ages--wave-washed wall Against which sets a sea of wickedness. There, where you yesterday heard Guido speak, Speaks Caponsacchi; and there face him too Tommati, Venturini and the rest Who, eight months earlier, scarce repressed the smile, Forewent the wink; waived recognition so Of peccadillos incident to youth, Especially youth high-born; for youth means love, Vows can't change nature, priests are only men, And love likes stratagem and subterfuge: Which age, that once was youth, should recognize, May blame, but needs not press too hard upon. Here sit the old Judges then, but with no grace Of reverend carriage, magisterial port. For why? The accused of eight months since,--the same Who cut the conscious figure of a fool, Changed countenance, dropped bashful gaze to ground, While hesitating for an answer then,-- Now is grown judge himself, terrifies now This, now the other culprit called a judge, Whose turn it is to stammer and look strange, As he speaks rapidly, angrily, speech that smites: And they keep silence, bear blow after blow, Because the seeming-solitary man, Speaking for God, may have an audience too, Invisible, no discreet judge provokes. How the priest Caponsacchi said his say.

Then a soul sighs its lowest and its last After the loud ones,--so much breath remains Unused by the four-days'-dying; for she lived Thus long, miraculously long, 't was thought, Just that Pompilia might defend herself. How, while the hireling and the alien stoop, Comfort, yet question,--since the time is brief, And folk, allowably inquisitive, Encircle the low pallet where she lies In the good house that helps the poor to die,-- Pompilia tells the story of her life. For friend and lover,--leech and man of law Do service; busy helpful ministrants As varied in their calling as their mind, Temper and age: and yet from all of these, About the white bed under the arched roof, Is somehow, as it were, evolved a one,-- Small separate sympathies combined and large, Nothings that were, grown something very much: As if the bystanders gave each his straw, All he had, though a trifle in itself, Which, plaited all together, made a Cross Fit to die looking on and praying with, Just as well as if ivory or gold. So, to the common kindliness she speaks, There being scarce more privacy at the last For mind than body: but she is used to bear, And only unused to the brotherly look. How she endeavored to explain her life.

Then, since a Trial ensued, a touch o' the same To sober us, flustered with frothy talk, And teach our common sense its helplessness. For why deal simply with divining-rod, Scrape where we fancy secret sources flow, And ignore law, the recognized machine, Elaborate display of pipe and wheel Framed to unchoke, pump up and pour apace Truth till a flowery foam shall wash the world? The patent truth-extracting process,--ha? Let us make that grave mystery turn one wheel, Give you a single grind of law at least! One orator, of two on either side, Shall teach us the puissance of the tongue --That is, o' the pen which simulated tongue On paper and saved all except the sound Which never was. Law's speech beside law's thought? That were too stunning, too immense an odds: That point of vantage law lets nobly pass. One lawyer shall admit us to behold The manner of the making out a case, First fashion of a speech; the chick in egg, The masterpiece law's bosom incubates. How Don Giacinto of the Arcangeli, Called Procurator of the Poor at Rome, Now advocate for Guido and his mates,-- The jolly learned man of middle age, Cheek and jowl all in laps with fat and law, Mirthful as mighty, yet, as great hearts use, Despite the name and fame that tempt our flesh, Constant to that devotion of the hearth, Still captive in those dear domestic ties!-- How he,--having a cause to triumph with, All kind of interests to keep intact, More than one efficacious personage To tranquillize, conciliate and secure, And above all, public anxiety To quiet, show its Guido in good hands,-- Also, as if such burdens were too light, A certain family-feast to claim his care, The birthday-banquet for the only son-- Paternity at smiling strife with law-- How he brings both to buckle in one bond; And, thick at throat, with waterish under-eye, Turns to his task and settles in his seat And puts his utmost means in practice now: Wheezes out law-phrase, whiffles Latin forth, And, just as though roast lamb would never be, Makes logic levigate the big crime small: Rubs palm on palm, rakes foot with itchy foot, Conceives and inchoates the argument, Sprinkling each flower appropriate to the time, --Ovidian quip or Ciceronian crank, A-bubble in the larynx while he laughs, As he had fritters deep down frying there. How he turns, twists, and tries the oily thing Shall be--first speech for Guido 'gainst the Fisc. Then with a skip as it were from heel to head, Leaving yourselves fill up the middle bulk O' the Trial, reconstruct its shape august, From such exordium clap we to the close; Give you, if we dare wing to such a height, The absolute glory in some full-grown speech On the other side, some finished butterfly, Some breathing diamond-flake with leaf-gold fans, That takes the air, no trace of worm it was, Or cabbage-bed it had production from. Giovambattista o' the Bottini, Fisc, Pompilia's patron by the chance of the hour, To-morrow her persecutor,--composite, he, As becomes who must meet such various calls-- Odds of age joined in him with ends of youth. A man of ready smile and facile tear, Improvised hopes, despairs at nod and beck, And language--ah, the gift of eloquence! Language that goes, goes, easy as a glove, O'er good and evil, smoothens both to one. Rashness helps caution with him, fires the straw, In free enthusiastic careless fit, On the first proper pinnacle of rock Which offers, as reward for all that zeal, To lure some bark to founder and bring gain: While calm sits Caution, rapt with heavenward eye, A true confessor's gaze, amid the glare Beaconing to the breaker, death and hell. "Well done, thou good and faithful!" she approves: "Hadst thou let slip a fagot to the beach, The crew might surely spy thy precipice And save their boat; the simple and the slow Might so, forsooth, forestall the wrecker's fee! Let the next crew be wise and hail in time!" Just so compounded is the outside man, Blue juvenile pure eye and pippin cheek, And brow all prematurely soiled and seamed With sudden age, bright devastated hair. Ah, but you miss the very tones o' the voice, The scrannel pipe that screams in heights of head, As, in his modest studio, all alone, The tall wight stands a-tiptoe, strives and strains, Both eyes shut, like the cockerel that would crow, Tries to his own self amorously o'er What never will be uttered else than so-- Since to the four walls, Forum and Mars' Hill, Speaks out the poesy which, penned, turns prose. Clavecinist debarred his instrument, He yet thrums--shirking neither turn nor trill, With desperate finger on dumb table-edge-- The sovereign rondo, shall conclude his _Suite_, Charm an imaginary audience there, From old Corelli to young Haendel, both I' the flesh at Rome, ere he perforce go print The cold black score, mere music for the mind-- The last speech against Guido and his gang, With special end to prove Pompilia pure. How the Fisc vindicates Pompilia's fame.

Then comes the all but end, the ultimate Judgment save yours. Pope Innocent the Twelfth, Simple, sagacious, mild yet resolute, With prudence, probity and--what beside From the other world he feels impress at times, Having attained to fourscore years and six,-- How, when the court found Guido and the rest Guilty, but law supplied a subterfuge And passed the final sentence to the Pope, He, bringing his intelligence to bear This last time on what ball behoves him drop In the urn, or white or black, does drop a black, Send five souls more to just precede his own, Stand him in stead and witness, if need were, How he is wont to do God's work on earth. The manner of his sitting out the dim Droop of a sombre February day In the plain closet where he does such work, With, from all Peter's treasury, one stool, One table and one lathen crucifix. There sits the Pope, his thoughts for company; Grave but not sad,--nay, something like a cheer Leaves the lips free to be benevolent, Which, all day long, did duty firm and fast. A cherishing there is of foot and knee, A chafing loose-skinned large-veined hand with hand,-- What steward but knows when stewardship earns its wage, May levy praise, anticipate the lord? He reads, notes, lays the papers down at last, Muses, then takes a turn about the room; Unclasps a huge tome in an antique guise, Primitive print and tongue half obsolete, That stands him in diurnal stead; opes page, Finds place where falls the passage to be conned According to an order long in use: And, as he comes upon the evening's chance, Starts somewhat, solemnizes straight his smile, Then reads aloud that portion first to last, And at the end lets flow his own thoughts forth Likewise aloud, for respite and relief, Till by the dreary relics of the west Wan through the half-moon window, all his light, He bows the head while the lips move in prayer, Writes some three brief lines, signs and seals the same, Tinkles a hand-bell, bids the obsequious Sir Who puts foot presently o' the closet-sill He watched outside of, bear as superscribed That mandate to the Governor forthwith: Then heaves abroad his cares in one good sigh, Traverses corridor with no arm's help, And so to sup as a clear conscience should. The manner of the judgment of the Pope.

Then must speak Guido yet a second time, Satan's old saw being apt here--skin for skin, All a man hath that will he give for life. While life was graspable and gainable, And bird-like buzzed her wings round Guido's brow, Not much truth stiffened out the web of words He wove to catch her: when away she flew And death came, death's breath rivelled up the lies, Left bare the metal thread, the fibre fine Of truth, i' the spinning: the true words shone last. How Guido, to another purpose quite, Speaks and despairs, the last night of his life, In that New Prison by Castle Angelo At the bridge-foot: the same man, another voice. On a stone bench in a close fetid cell, Where the hot vapor of an agony, Struck into drops on the cold wall, runs down-- Horrible worms made out of sweat and tears-- There crouch, wellnigh to the knees in dungeon-straw, Lit by the sole lamp suffered for their sake, Two awe-struck figures, this a Cardinal, That an Abate, both of old styled friends O' the thing part man, part monster in the midst, So changed is Franceschini's gentle blood. The tiger-cat screams now, that whined before, That pried and tried and trod so gingerly, Till in its silkiness the trap-teeth joined; Then you know how the bristling fury foams. They listen, this wrapped in his folds of red, While his feet fumble for the filth below; The other, as beseems a stouter heart, Working his best with beads and cross to ban The enemy that comes in like a flood Spite of the standard set up, verily And in no trope at all, against him there: For at the prison-gate, just a few steps Outside, already, in the doubtful dawn, Thither, from this side and from that, slow sweep And settle down in silence solidly, Crow-wise, the frightful Brotherhood of Death. Black-hatted and black-hooded huddle they, Black rosaries a-dangling from each waist; So take they their grim station at the door, Torches lit, skull-and-crossbones-banner spread, And that gigantic Christ with open arms, Grounded. Nor lacks there aught but that the group Break forth, intone the lamentable psalm, "Out of the deeps, Lord, have I cried to thee!"-- When inside, from the true profound, a sign Shall bear intelligence that the foe is foiled, Count Guido Franceschini has confessed, And is absolved and reconciled with God. Then they, intoning, may begin their march, Make by the longest way for the People's Square, Carry the criminal to his crime's award: A mob to cleave, a scaffolding to reach, Two gallows and Mannaia crowning all. How Guido made defence a second time.

Finally, even as thus by step and step I led you from the level of to-day Up to the summit of so long ago, Here, whence I point you the wide prospect round-- Let me, by like steps, slope you back to smooth, Land you on mother-earth, no whit the worse, To feed o' the fat o' the furrow: free to dwell, Taste our time's better things profusely spread For all who love the level, corn and wine, Much cattle and the many-folded fleece. Shall not my friends go feast again on sward, Though cognizant of country in the clouds Higher than wistful eagle's horny eye Ever unclosed for, 'mid ancestral crags, When morning broke and Spring was back once more, And he died, heaven, save by his heart, unreached? Yet heaven my fancy lifts to, ladder-like,-- As Jack reached, holpen of his beanstalk-rungs!

A novel country: I might make it mine By chosing which one aspect of the year Suited mood best, and putting solely that On panel somewhere in the House of Fame, Landscaping what I saved, not what I saw: --Might fix you, whether frost in goblin-time Startled the moon with his abrupt bright laugh, Or, August's hair afloat in filmy fire, She fell, arms wide, face foremost on the world, Swooned there and so singed out the strength of things. Thus were abolished Spring and Autumn both, The land dwarfed to one likeness of the land, Life cramped corpse-fashion. Rather learn and love Each facet-flash of the revolving year!-- Red, green and blue that whirl into a white, The variance now, the eventual unity, Which make the miracle. See it for yourselves, This man's act, changeable because alive!

## Action now shrouds, nor shows the informing thought;

Man, like a glass ball with a spark a-top, Out of the magic fire that lurks inside, Shows one tint at a time to take the eye: Which, let a finger touch the silent sleep, Shifted a hair's-breadth shoots you dark for bright, Suffuses bright with dark, and baffles so Your sentence absolute for shine or shade. Once set such orbs,--white styled, black stigmatized,-- A-rolling, see them once on the other side Your good men and your bad men every one, From Guido Franceschini to Guy Faux, Oft would you rub your eyes and change your names.

Such, British Public, ye who like me not, (God love you!)--whom I yet have labored for, Perchance more careful whoso runs may read Than erst when all, it seemed, could read who ran,-- Perchance more careless whoso reads may praise Than late when he who praised and read and wrote Was apt to find himself the selfsame me,-- Such labor had such issue, so I wrought This arc, by furtherance of such alloy, And so, by one spirt, take away its trace Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring.

A ring without a posy, and that ring mine?

O lyric Love, half angel and half bird, And all a wonder and a wild desire,-- Boldest of hearts that ever braved the sun, Took sanctuary within the holier blue, And sang a kindred soul out to his face,-- Yet human at the red-ripe of the heart-- When the first summons from the darkling earth Reached thee amid thy chambers, blanched their blue, And bared them of the glory--to drop down, To toil for man, to suffer or to die,-- This is the same voice: can thy soul know change? Hail then, and hearken from the realms of help! Never may I commence my song, my due To God who best taught song by gift of thee, Except with bent head and beseeching hand-- That still, despite the distance and the dark, What was, again may be; some interchange Of grace, some splendor once thy very thought, Some benediction anciently thy smile: --Never conclude, but raising hand and head Thither where eyes, that cannot reach, yet yearn For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, Their utmost up and on,--so blessing back In those thy realms of help, that heaven thy home, Some whiteness which, I judge, thy face makes proud, Some wanness where, I think, thy foot may fall!

II

HALF-ROME

What, you, Sir, come too? (Just the man I 'd meet.) Be ruled by me and have a care o' the crowd: This way, while fresh folk go and get their gaze: I 'll tell you like a book and save your shins. Fie, what a roaring day we 've had! Whose fault? Lorenzo in Lucina,--here 's a church To hold a crowd at need, accommodate All comers from the Corso! If this crush Make not its priests ashamed of what they show For temple-room, don't prick them to draw purse And down with bricks and mortar, eke us out The beggarly transept with its bit of apse Into a decent space for Christian ease, Why, to-day's lucky pearl is cast to swine. Listen and estimate the luck they 've had! (The right man, and I hold him.)

Sir, do you see, They laid both bodies in the church, this morn The first thing, on the chancel two steps up, Behind the little marble balustrade; Disposed them, Pietro the old murdered fool To the right of the altar, and his wretched wife On the other side. In trying to count stabs, People supposed Violante showed the most, Till somebody explained us that mistake; His wounds had been dealt out indifferent where, But she took all her stabbings in the face, Since punished thus solely for honor's sake, _Honoris causâ_, that 's the proper term. A delicacy there is, our gallants hold, When you avenge your honor and only then, That you disfigure the subject, fray the face, Not just take life and end, in clownish guise. It was Violante gave the first offence, Got therefore the conspicuous punishment: While Pietro, who helped merely, his mere death Answered the purpose, so his face went free. We fancied even, free as you please, that face Showed itself still intolerably wronged; Was wrinkled over with resentment yet, Nor calm at all, as murdered faces use, Once the worst ended: an indignant air O' the head there was--'t is said the body turned Round and away, rolled from Violante's side Where they had laid it loving-husband-like. If so, if corpses can be sensitive, Why did not he roll right down altar-step, Roll on through nave, roll fairly out of church, Deprive Lorenzo of the spectacle, Pay back thus the succession of affronts Whereto this church had served as theatre? For see: at that same altar where he lies, To that same inch of step, was brought the babe For blessing after baptism, and there styled Pompilia, and a string of names beside, By his bad wife, some seventeen years ago, Who purchased her simply to palm on him, Flatter his dotage and defraud the heirs. Wait awhile! Also to this very step Did this Violante, twelve years afterward, Bring, the mock-mother, that child-cheat full-grown, Pompilia, in pursuance of her plot, And there brave God and man a second time By linking a new victim to the lie. There, having made a match unknown to him, She, still unknown to Pietro, tied the knot Which nothing cuts except this kind of knife; Yes, made her daughter, as the girl was held, Marry a man, and honest man beside, And man of birth to boot,--clandestinely Because of this, because of that, because O' the devil's will to work his worst for once,-- Confident she could top her part at need And, when her husband must be told in turn, Ply the wife's trade, play off the sex's trick And, alternating worry with quiet qualms, Bravado with submissiveness, prettily fool Her Pietro into patience: so it proved. Ay, 't is four years since man and wife they grew, This Guido Franceschini and this same Pompilia, foolishly thought, falsely declared A Comparini and the couple's child: Just at this altar where, beneath the piece Of Master Guido Reni, Christ on cross, Second to naught observable in Rome, That couple lie now, murdered yestereve. Even the blind can see a providence here.

From dawn till now that it is growing dusk, A multitude has flocked and filled the church, Coming and going, coming back again, Till to count crazed one. Rome was at the show. People climbed up the columns, fought for spikes O' the chapel-rail to perch themselves upon, Jumped over and so broke the wooden work Painted like porphyry to deceive the eye; Serve the priests right! The organ-loft was crammed, Women were fainting, no few fights ensued, In short, it was a show repaid your pains: For, though their room was scant undoubtedly, Yet they did manage matters, to be just, A little at this Lorenzo. Body o' me! I saw a body exposed once ... never mind! Enough that here the bodies had their due. No stinginess in wax, a row all round, And one big taper at each head and foot.

So, people pushed their way, and took their turn, Saw, threw their eyes up, crossed themselves, gave place To pressure from behind, since all the world Knew the old pair, could talk the tragedy Over from first to last: Pompilia too, Those who had known her--what 't was worth to them! Guido's acquaintance was in less request; The Count had lounged somewhat too long in Rome, Made himself cheap; with him were hand and glove Barbers and blear-eyed, as the ancient sings. Also he is alive and like to be: Had he considerately died,--aha! I jostled Luca Cini on his staff, Mute in the midst, the whole man one amaze, Staring amain and crossing brow and breast. "How now?" asked I. "'T is seventy years," quoth he, "Since I first saw, holding my father's hand, Bodies set forth: a many have I seen, Yet all was poor to this I live and see. Here the world 's wickedness seals up the sum: What with Molinos' doctrine and this deed, Antichrist surely comes and doomsday 's near. May I depart in peace, I have seen my see." "Depart then," I advised, "nor block the road For youngsters still behindhand with such sights!" "Why no," rejoins the venerable sire, "I know it 's horrid, hideous past belief, Burdensome far beyond what eye can bear; But they do promise, when Pompilia dies I' the course o' the day,--and she can't outlive night,-- They 'll bring her body also to expose Beside the parents, one, two, three abreast; That were indeed a sight which, might I see, I trust I should not last to see the like!" Whereat I bade the senior spare his shanks, Since doctors give her till to-night to live, And tell us how the butchery happened. "Ah But you can't know!" sighs he, "I 'll not despair: Beside I 'm useful at explaining things-- As, how the dagger laid there at the feet, Caused the peculiar cuts; I mind its make, Triangular i' the blade, a Genoese, Armed with those little hook-teeth on the edge To open in the flesh nor shut again: I like to teach a novice: I shall stay!" And stay he did, and stay be sure he will.

A personage came by the private door At noon to have his look: I name no names: Well then, His Eminence the Cardinal, Whose servitor in honorable sort Guido was once, the same who made the match, (Will you have the truth?) whereof we see effect. No sooner whisper ran he was arrived Than up pops Curate Carlo, a brisk lad, Who never lets a good occasion slip, And volunteers improving the event. We looked he 'd give the history's self some help, Treat us to how the wife's confession went (This morning she confessed her crime, we know) And, maybe, throw in something of the Priest-- If he 's not ordered back, punished anew, The gallant, Caponsacchi, Lucifer I' the garden where Pompilia, Eve-like, lured Her Adam Guido to his fault and fall. Think you we got a sprig of speech akin To this from Carlo, with the Cardinal there? Too wary he was, too widely awake, I trow. He did the murder in a dozen words; Then said that all such outrages crop forth I' the course of nature, when Molinos' tares Are sown for wheat, flourish and choke the Church: So slid on to the abominable sect And the philosophic sin--we 've heard all that, And the Cardinal too, (who book-made on the same) But for the murder, left it where he found. Oh but he's quick, the Curate, minds his game! And after all, we have the main o' the fact: Case could not well be simpler,--mapped, as it were, We follow the murder's maze from source to sea, By the red line, past mistake: one sees indeed Not only how all was and must have been, But cannot other than be to the end of time. Turn out here by the Ruspoli! Do you hold Guido was so prodigiously to blame? A certain cousin of yours has told you so? Exactly! Here's a friend shall set you right, Let him but have the handsel of your ear.

These wretched Comparini were once gay And galliard, of the modest middle class: Born in this quarter seventy years ago, And married young, they lived the accustomed life, Citizens as they were of good repute: And, childless, naturally took their ease With only their two selves to care about And use the wealth for: wealthy is the word, Since Pietro was possessed of house and land-- And specially one house, when good days smiled, In Via Vittoria, the aspectable street Where he lived mainly; but another house Of less pretension did he buy betimes, The villa, meant for jaunts and jollity, I' the Pauline district, to be private there-- Just what puts murder in an enemy's head. Moreover,--here's the worm i' the core, the germ O' the rottenness and ruin which arrived,-- He owned some usufruct, had moneys' use Lifelong, but to determine with his life In heirs' default: so, Pietro craved an heir, (The story always old and always new) Shut his fool's-eyes fast on the visible good And wealth for certain, opened them owl-wide On fortune's sole piece of forgetfulness, The child that should have been and would not be.

Hence, seventeen years ago, conceive his glee When first Violante, 'twixt a smile and blush, With touch of agitation proper too, Announced that, spite of her unpromising age, The miracle would in time be manifest, An heir's birth was to happen: and it did. Somehow or other,--how, all in good time! By a trick, a sleight of hand you are to hear,-- A child was born, Pompilia, for his joy, Plaything at once and prop, a fairy-gift, A saints' grace or, say, grant of the good God,-- A fiddle-pin's end! What imbeciles are we! Look now: if some one could have prophesied, "For love of you, for liking to your wife, I undertake to crush a snake I spy Settling itself i' the soft of both your breasts. Give me yon babe to strangle painlessly! She 'll soar to the safe: you'll have your crying out, Then sleep, then wake, then sleep, then end your days In peace and plenty, mixed with mild regret, Thirty years hence when Christmas takes old folk"-- How had old Pietro sprung up, crossed himself, And kicked the conjurer! Whereas you and I, Being wise with after-wit, had clapped our hands; Nay, added, in the old fool's interest, "Strangle the black-eyed babe, so far so good, But on condition you relieve the man O' the wife and throttle him Violante too-- She is the mischief!"

We had hit the mark. She, whose trick brought the babe into the world, She it was, when the babe was grown a girl, Judged a new trick should reinforce the old, Send vigor to the lie now somewhat spent By twelve years' service; lest Eve's rule decline Over this Adam of hers, whose cabbage-plot Throve dubiously since turned fools'-paradise, Spite of a nightingale on every stump. Pietro's estate was dwindling day by day, While he, rapt far above such mundane care, Crawled all-fours with his baby pick-a-back, Sat at serene cats'-cradle with his child, Or took the measured tallness, top to toe, Of what was grown a great girl twelve years old: Till sudden at the door a tap discreet, A visitor's premonitory cough, And poverty had reached him in her rounds.

This came when he was past the working-time, Had learned to dandle and forgot to dig, And who must but Violante cast about, Contrive and task that head of hers again? She who had caught one fish could make that catch A bigger still, in angler's policy: So, with an angler's mercy for the bait, Her minnow was set wriggling on its barb And tossed to mid-stream; which means, this grown girl With the great eyes and bounty of black hair And first crisp youth that tempts a jaded taste, Was whisked i' the way of a certain man, who snapped.

Count Guido Franceschini the Aretine Was head of an old noble house enough, Not over-rich, you can't have everything, But such a man as riches rub against, Readily stick to,--one with a right to them Born in the blood: 'twas in his very brow Always to knit itself against the world, Beforehand so, when that world stinted due Service and suit: the world ducks and defers. As such folks do, he had come up to Rome To better his fortune, and, since many years, Was friend and follower of a cardinal; Waiting the rather thus on providence, That a shrewd younger poorer brother yet, The Abate Paolo, a regular priest, Had long since tried his powers and found he swam With the deftest on the Galilean pool: But then he was a web-foot, free o' the wave, And no ambiguous dab-chick hatched to strut, Humbled by any fond attempt to swim When fiercer fowl usurped his dunghill-top-- A whole priest, Paolo, no mere piece of one, Like Guido tacked thus to the Church's tail! Guido moreover, as the head o' the house, Claiming the main prize, not the lesser luck, The centre lily, no mere chickweed fringe.

He waited and learned waiting, thirty years; Got promise, missed performance--what would you have? No petty post rewards a nobleman For spending youth in splendid lackey-work, And there 's concurrence for each rarer prize; When that falls, rougher hand and readier foot Push aside Guido spite of his black looks. The end was, Guido, when the warning showed, The first white hair i' the glass, gave up the game, Determined on returning to his town, Making the best of bad incurable, Patching the old palace up and lingering there The customary life out with his kin, Where honor helps to spice the scanty bread.

Just as he trimmed his lamp and girt his loins To go his journey and be wise at home, In the right mood of disappointed worth, Who but Violante sudden spied her prey (Where was I with that angler-simile?) And threw her bait, Pompilia, where he sulked-- A gleam i' the gloom!

What if he gained thus much, Wrung out this sweet drop from the bitter Past, Bore off this rose-bud from the prickly brake To justify such torn clothes and scratched hands, And, after all, brought something back from Rome? Would not a wife serve at Arezzo well To light the dark house, lend a look of youth To the mother's face grown meagre, left alone And famished with the emptiness of hope, Old Donna Beatrice? Wife you want Would you play family-representative, Carry you elder-brotherly, high and right O'er what may prove the natural petulance Of the third brother, younger, greedier still, Girolamo, also a fledgeling priest, Beginning life in turn with callow beak Agape for luck, no luck had stopped and stilled. Such were the pinks and grays about the bait Persuaded Guido gulp down hook and all.

What constituted him so choice a catch, You question? Past his prime and poor beside! Ask that of any she who knows the trade. Why first, here was a nobleman with friends, A palace one might run to and be safe When presently the threatened fate should fall, A big-browed master to block doorway up, Parley with people bent on pushing by, And praying the mild Pietro quick clear scores: Is birth a privilege and power or no? Also--but judge of the result desired, By the price paid and manner of the sale. The Count was made woo, win and wed at once: Asked, and was haled for answer, lest the heat Should cool, to San Lorenzo, one blind eve, And had Pompilia put into his arms O' the sly there, by a hasty candle-blink, With sanction of some priest-confederate Properly paid to make short work and sure.

So did old Pietro's daughter change her style For Guido Franceschini's lady-wife Ere Guido knew it well; and why this haste And scramble and indecent secrecy? "Lest Pietro, all the while in ignorance, Should get to learn, gainsay and break the match: His peevishness had promptly put aside Such honor and refused the proffered boon, Pleased to become authoritative once. She remedied the wilful man's mistake--" Did our discreet Violante. Rather say, Thus did she lest the object of her game, Guido the gulled one, give him but a chance, A moment's respite, time for thinking twice, Might count the cost before he sold himself, And try the clink of coin they paid him with.

But coin paid, bargain struck and business done, Once the clandestine marriage over thus, All parties made perforce the best o' the fact; Pietro could play vast indignation off, Be ignorant and astounded, dupe, poor soul, Please you, of daughter, wife and son-in-law, While Guido found himself in flagrant fault, Must e'en do suit and service, soothe, subdue A father not unreasonably chafed, Bring him to terms by paying son's devoir. Pleasant initiation!

The end, this: Guido's broad back was saddled to bear all-- Violante, and Pompilia too,-- Three lots cast confidently in one lap, Three dead-weights with one arm to lift the three Out of their limbo up to life again. The Roman household was to strike fresh root In a new soil, graced with a novel name, Gilt with an alien glory, Aretine Henceforth and never Roman any more, By treaty and engagement; thus it ran: Pompilia's dowry for Pompilia's self As a thing of course,--she paid her own expense; No loss nor gain there: but the couple, you see, They, for their part, turned over first of all Their fortune in its rags and rottenness To Guido, fusion and confusion, he And his with them and theirs,--whatever rag With coin residuary fell on floor When Brother Paolo's energetic shake Should do the relics justice: since 't was thought, Once vulnerable Pietro out of reach, That, left at Rome as representative, The Abate, backed by a potent patron here, And otherwise with purple flushing him, Might play a good game with the creditor, Make up a moiety which, great or small, Should go to the common stock--if anything, Guido's, so far repayment of the cost About to be,--and if, as looked more like, Nothing,--why, all the nobler cost were his Who guaranteed, for better or for worse, To Pietro and Violante, house and home, Kith and kin, with the pick of company And life o' the fat o' the land while life should last. How say you to the bargain at first blush? Why did a middle-aged not-silly man Show himself thus besotted all at once? Quoth Solomon, one black eye does it all.

They went to Arezzo,--Pietro and his spouse, With just the dusk o' the day of life to spend, Eager to use the twilight, taste a treat, Enjoy for once with neither stay nor stint The luxury of lord-and-lady-ship, And realize the stuff and nonsense long A-simmer in their noddles; vent the fume Born there and bred, the citizen's conceit How fares nobility while crossing earth, What rampart or invisible body-guard Keeps off the taint of common life from such. They had not fed for nothing on the tales Of grandees who give banquets worthy Jove, Spending gold as if Plutus paid a whim, Served with obeisances as when ... what God? I 'm at the end of my tether; 't is enough You understand what they came primed to see: While Guido who should minister the sight, Stay all this qualmish greediness of soul With apples and with flagons--for his part, Was set on life diverse as pole from pole: Lust of the flesh, lust of the eye,--what else Was he just now awake from, sick and sage, After the very debauch they would begin?-- Suppose such stuff and nonsense really were. That bubble, they were bent on blowing big, He had blown already till he burst his cheeks, And hence found soapsuds bitter to the tongue. He hoped now to walk softly all his days In soberness of spirit, if haply so, Pinching and paring he might furnish forth A frugal board, bare sustenance, no more, Till times, that could not well grow worse, should mend.

Thus minded then, two parties mean to meet And make each other happy. The first week, And fancy strikes fact and explodes in full. 'This," shrieked the Comparini, "this the Count, The palace, the signorial privilege, The pomp and pageantry were promised us? For this have we exchanged our liberty, Our competence, our darling of a child? To house as spectres in a sepulchre Under this black stone heap, the street's disgrace, Grimmest as that is of the gruesome town, And here pick garbage on a pewter plate, Or cough at verjuice dripped from earthenware? Oh Via Vittoria, oh the other place I' the Pauline, did we give you up for this? Where's the foregone housekeeping good and gay, The neighborliness, the companionship, The treat and feast when holidays came round, The daily feast that seemed no treat at all, Called common by the uncommon fools we were! Even the sun that used to shine at Rome, Where is it? Robbed and starved and frozen too, We will have justice, justice if there be!" Did not they shout, did not the town resound! Guido's old lady-mother Beatrice, Who since her husband, Count Tommaso's death, Had held sole sway i' the house,--the doited crone Slow to acknowledge, curtsey and abdicate,-- Was recognized of true novercal type, Dragon and devil. His brother Girolamo Came next in order: priest was he? The worse! No way of winning him to leave his mumps And help the laugh against old ancestry And formal habits long since out of date, Letting his youth be patterned on the mode Approved of where Violante laid down law. Or did he brighten up by way of change, Dispose himself for affability? The malapert, too complaisant by half To the alarmed young novice of a bride! Let him go buzz, betake himself elsewhere, Nor singe his fly-wings in the candle-flame!

Four months' probation of this purgatory, Dog-snap and cat-claw, curse and counterblast, The devil's self were sick of his own din; And Pietro, after trumpeting huge wrongs At church and market-place, pillar and post, Square's corner, street's end, now the palace-step And now the wine-house bench--while, on her side, Violante up and down was voluble In whatsoever pair of ears would perk From goody, gossip, cater-cousin and sib, Curious to peep at the inside of things And catch in the act pretentious poverty At its wits' end to keep appearance up, Make both ends meet,--nothing the vulgar loves Like what this couple pitched them right and left. Then, their worst done that way, both struck tent, marched --Renounced their share o' the bargain, flung what dues Guido was bound to pay, in Guido's face, Left their hearts'-darling, treasure of the twain And so forth, the poor inexperienced bride, To her own devices, bade Arezzo rot, Cursed life signorial, and sought Rome once more.

I see the comment ready on your lip, "The better fortune, Guido's--free at least By this defection of the foolish pair, He could begin make profit in some sort Of the young bride and the new quietness, Lead his own life now, henceforth breathe unplagued." Could he? You know the sex like Guido's self. Learn the Violante-nature!

Once in Rome, By way of helping Guido lead such life, Her first act to inaugurate return Was, she got pricked in conscience: Jubilee Gave her the hint. Our Pope, as kind as just, Attained his eighty years, announced a boon Should make us bless the fact, held Jubilee-- Short shrift, prompt pardon for the light offence, And no rough dealing with the regular crime So this occasion were not suffered slip-- Otherwise, sins commuted as before, Without the least abatement in the price. Now, who had thought it? All this while, it seems, Our sage Violante had a sin of a sort She must compound for now or not at all. Now be the ready riddance! She confessed Pompilia was a fable, not a fact: She never bore a child in her whole life. Had this child been a changeling, that were grace In some degree, exchange is hardly theft; You take your stand on truth ere leap your lie: Here was all lie, no touch of truth at all, All the lie hers--not even Pietro guessed He was as childless still as twelve years since. The babe had been a find i' the filth-heap, Sir, Catch from the kennel! There was found at Rome, Down in the deepest of our social dregs, A woman who professed the wanton's trade Under the requisite thin coverture, _Communis meretrix_ and washer-wife: The creature thus conditioned found by chance Motherhood like a jewel in the muck, And straightway either trafficked with her prize Or listened to the tempter and let be,-- Made pact abolishing her place and part In womankind, beast-fellowship indeed. She sold this babe eight months before its birth To our Violante, Pietro's honest spouse, Well-famed and widely-instanced as that crown To the husband, virtue in a woman's shape. She it was, bought, paid for, passed off the thing As very flesh and blood and child of her Despite the flagrant fifty years,--and why?

## Partly to please old Pietro, fill his cup

With wine at the late hour when lees are left, And send him from life's feast rejoicingly,--

## Partly to cheat the rightful heirs, agape,

Each uncle's cousin's brother's son of him, For that same principal of the usufruct It vext him he must die and leave behind.

Such was the sin had come to be confessed. Which of the tales, the first or last, was true? Did she so sin once, or, confessing now, Sin for the first time? Either way you will. One sees a reason for the cheat: one sees A reason for a cheat in owning cheat Where no cheat had been. What of the revenge? What prompted the contrition all at once, Made the avowal easy, the shame slight? Why, prove they but Pompilia not their child, No child, no dowry! this, supposed their child, Had claimed what this, shown alien to their blood, Claimed nowise: Guido's claim was through his wife, Null then and void with hers. The biter bit, Do you see! For such repayment of the past, One might conceive the penitential pair Ready to bring their case before the courts, Publish their infamy to all the world And, arm in arm, go chuckling thence content.

Is this your view? 'T was Guido's anyhow, And colorable: he came forward then, Protested in his very bride's behalf Against this lie and all it led to, least Of all the loss o' the dowry; no! From her And him alike he would expunge the blot, Erase the brand of such a bestial birth,

## Participate in no hideous heritage

Gathered from the gutter to be garnered up And glorified in a palace. Peter and Paul! But that who likes may look upon the pair Exposed in yonder church, and show his skill By saying which is eye and which is mouth Through those stabs thick and threefold,--but for that-- A strong word on the liars and their lie Might crave expression and obtain it, Sir! --Though prematurely, since there 's more to come, More that will shake your confidence in things Your cousin tells you,--may I be so bold?

This makes the first act of the farce,--anon The sombre element comes stealing in Till all is black or blood-red in the piece. Guido, thus made a laughing-stock abroad, A proverb for the market-place at home, Left alone with Pompilia now, this graft So reputable on his ancient stock, This plague-seed set to fester his sound flesh, What does the Count? Revenge him on his wife? Unfasten at all risks to rid himself The noisome lazar-badge, fall foul of fate, And, careless whether the poor rag was ware O' the part it played, or helped unwittingly, Bid it go burn and leave his frayed flesh free? Plainly, did Guido open both doors wide, Spurn thence the cur-cast creature and clear scores As man might, tempted in extreme like this? No, birth and breeding, and compassion too Saved her such scandal. She was young, he thought, Not privy to the treason, punished most I' the proclamation of it; why make her A party to the crime she suffered by? Then the black eyes were now her very own, Not any more Violante's: let her live, Lose in a new air, under a new sun, The taint of the imputed parentage Truly or falsely, take no more the touch Of Pietro and his partner anyhow! All might go well yet.

So she thought, herself, It seems, since what was her first act and deed When news came how these kindly ones at Rome Had stripped her naked to amuse the world With spots here, spots there and spots everywhere? --For I should tell you that they noised abroad Not merely the main scandal of her birth, But slanders written, printed, published wide, Pamphlets which set forth all the pleasantry Of how the promised glory was a dream, The power a bubble, and the wealth--why, dust. There was a picture, painted to the life, Of those rare doings, that superlative Initiation in magnificence Conferred on a poor Roman family By favor of Arezzo and her first And famousest, the Franceschini there. You had the Countship holding head aloft Bravely although bespattered, shifts and straits In keeping out o' the way o' the wheels o' the world, The comic of those home-contrivances When the old lady-mother's wit was taxed To find six clamorous mouths in food more real Than fruit plucked off the cobwebbed family-tree, Or acorns shed from its gilt mouldered frame-- Cold glories served up with stale fame for sauce. What, I ask,--when the drunkenness of hate Hiccuped return for hospitality, Befouled the table they had feasted on, Or say,--God knows I'll not prejudge the case,-- Grievances thus distorted, magnified, Colored by quarrel into calumny,-- What side did our Pompilia first espouse? Her first deliberate measure was, she wrote, Pricked by some loyal impulse, straight to Rome And her husband's brother the Abate there, Who, having managed to effect the match, Might take men's censure for its ill success. She made a clean breast also in her turn, And qualified the couple properly, Since whose departure, hell, she said, was heaven, And the house, late distracted by their peals, Quiet as Carmel where the lilies live. Herself had oftentimes complained: but why? All her complaints had been their prompting, tales Trumped up, devices to this very end. Their game had been to thwart her husband's love And cross his will, malign his words and ways, To reach this issue, furnish this pretence For impudent withdrawal from their bond,-- Theft, indeed murder, since they meant no less Whose last injunction to her simple self Had been--what parents'--precept do you think? That she should follow after with all speed, Fly from her husband's house clandestinely, Join them at Rome again, but first of all Pick up a fresh companion in her flight, So putting youth and beauty to fit use,-- Some gay dare-devil cloak-and-rapier spark Capable of adventure,--helped by whom She, some fine eve when lutes were in the air. Having put poison in the posset-cup, Laid hands on money, jewels and the like, And, to conceal the thing with more effect, By way of parting benediction too, Fired the house,--one would finish famously I' the tumult, slip out, scurry off and away And turn up merrily at home once more. Fact this, and not a dream o' the devil, Sir! And more than this, a fact none dare dispute, Word for word, such a letter did she write, And such the Abate read, nor simply read But gave all Rome to ruminate upon, In answer to such charges as, I say, The couple sought to be beforehand with.

The cause thus carried to the courts at Rome, Guido away, the Abate had no choice But stand forth, take his absent brother's part, Defend the honor of himself beside. He made what head he might against the pair, Maintained Pompilia's birth legitimate And all her rights intact--hers, Guido's now: And so far by his policy turned their flank, (The enemy being beforehand in the place) That,--though the courts allowed the cheat for fact, Suffered Violante to parade her shame, Publish her infamy to heart's content, And let the tale o' the feigned birth pass for proved,-- Yet they stopped there, refused to intervene And dispossess the innocents, befooled By gifts o' the guilty, at guilt's new caprice. They would not take away the dowry now Wrongfully given at first, nor bar at all Succession to the aforesaid usufruct, Established on a fraud, nor play the game Of Pietro's child and now not Pietro's child As it might suit the gamester's purpose. Thus Was justice ever ridiculed in Rome: Such be the double verdicts favored here Which send away both parties to a suit Nor puffed up nor cast down,--for each a crumb Of right, for neither of them the whole loaf. Whence, on the Comparini's part, appeal-- Counter-appeal on Guido's,--that 's the game: And so the matter stands, even to this hour, Bandied as balls are in a tennis-court, And so might stand, unless some heart broke first, Till doomsday.

Leave it thus, and now revert To the old Arezzo whence we moved to Rome. We 've had enough o' the parents, false or true, Now for a touch o' the daughter's quality. The start 's fair henceforth, every obstacle Out of the young wife's footpath, she 's alone, Left to walk warily now: how does she walk? Why, once a dwelling's threshold marked and crossed In rubric by the enemy on his rounds As eligible, as fit place of prey, Baffle him henceforth, keep him out who can! Stop up the door at the first hint of hoof, Presently at the window taps a horn, And Satan 's by your fireside, never fear! Pompilia, left alone now, found herself; Found herself young too, sprightly, fair enough, Matched with a husband old beyond his age (Though that was something like four times her own) Because of cares past, present and to come: Found too the house dull and its inmates dead, So, looked outside for light and life.

And love Did in a trice turn up with life and light,-- The man with the aureole, sympathy made flesh, The all-consoling Caponsacchi, Sir! A priest--what else should the consoler be? With goodly shoulder-blade and proper leg, A portly make and a symmetric shape, And curls that clustered to the tonsure quite. This was a bishop in the bud, and now A canon full-blown so far: priest, and priest Nowise exorbitantly overworked, The courtly Christian, not so much Saint Paul As a saint of Cæsar's household: there posed he Sending his god-glance after his shot shaft, Apollos turned Apollo, while the snake Pompilia writhed transfixed through all her spires. He, not a visitor at Guido's house, Scarce an acquaintance, but in prime request With the magnates of Arezzo, was seen here, Heard there, felt everywhere in Guido's path If Guido's wife's path be her husband's too. Now he threw comfits at the theatre Into her lap,--what harm in Carnival? Now he pressed close till his foot touched her gown, His hand brushed hers,--how help on promenade? And, ever on weighty business, found his steps Incline to a certain haunt of doubtful fame Which fronted Guido's palace by mere chance; While--how do accidents sometimes combine!-- Pompilia chose to cloister up her charms Just in a chamber that o'erlooked the street, Sat there to pray, or peep thence at mankind.

This passage of arms and wits amused the town. At last the husband lifted eyebrow,--bent On day-book and the study how to wring Half the due vintage from the worn-out vines At the villa, tease a quarter the old rent From the farmstead, tenants swore would tumble soon,-- Pricked up his ear a-singing day and night With "ruin, ruin;"--and so surprised at last-- Why, what else but a titter? Up he jumps. Back to mind come those scratchings at the grange, Prints of the paw about the outhouse; rife In his head at once again are word and wink, _Mum_ here and _budget_ there, the smell o' the fox, The musk o' the gallant. "Friends, there 's falseness here!"

The proper help of friends in such a strait Is waggery, the world over. Laugh him free O' the regular jealous-fit that 's incident To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives, And he 'll go duly docile all his days. "Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when? How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care! Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it, Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself. And--what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm? The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's, A man of such acceptance,--never dream, Though he were fifty times the fox you fear, He 'd risk his brush for your particular chick, When the wide town 's his hen-roost! Fie o' the fool!" So they dispensed their comfort of a kind. Guido at last cried, "Something is in the air, Under the earth, some plot against my peace. The trouble of eclipse hangs overhead; How it should come of that officious orb Your Canon in my system, you must say: I say--that from the pressure of this spring Began the chime and interchange of bells, Ever one whisper, and one whisper more, And just one whisper for the silvery last, Till all at once a-row the bronze-throats burst Into a larum both significant And sinister: stop it I must and will. Let Caponsacchi take his hand away From the wire!--disport himself in other paths Than lead precisely to my palace-gate,-- Look where he likes except one window's way Where, cheek on hand, and elbow set on sill, Happens to lean and say her litanies Every day and all day long, just my wife-- Or wife and Caponsacchi may fare the worse!"

Admire the man's simplicity. "I 'll do this, I 'll not have that, I 'll punish and prevent!"-- 'T is easy saying. But to a fray, you see, Two parties go. The badger shows his teeth: The fox nor lies down sheep-like nor dares fight. Oh, the wife knew the appropriate warfare well, The way to put suspicion to the blush! At first hint of remonstrance, up and out I' the face of the world, you found her: she could speak, State her case,--Franceschini was a name, Guido had his full share of foes and friends-- Why should not she call these to arbitrate? She bade the Governor do governance, Cried out on the Archbishop,--why, there now, Take him for sample! Three successive times Had he to reconduct her by main force From where she took her station opposite His shut door,--on the public steps thereto, Wringing her hands, when he came out to see, And shrieking all her wrongs forth at his foot,-- Back to the husband and the house she fled: Judge if that husband warmed him in the face Of friends or frowned on foes as heretofore! Judge if he missed the natural grin of folk, Or lacked the customary compliment Of cap and bells, the luckless husband's fit!

So it went on and on till--who was right? One merry April morning, Guido woke After the cuckoo, so late, near noonday, With an inordinate yawning of the jaws, Ears plugged, eyes gummed together, palate, tongue And teeth one mud-paste made of poppy-milk; And found his wife flown, his scritoire the worse For a rummage,--jewelry that was, was not, Some money there had made itself wings too,-- The door lay wide and yet the servants slept Sound as the dead, or dozed, which does as well. In short, Pompilia, she who, candid soul, Had not so much as spoken all her life To the Canon, nay, so much as peeped at him Between her fingers while she prayed in church,-- This lamb-like innocent of fifteen years (Such she was grown to by this time of day) Had simply put an opiate in the drink Of the whole household overnight, and then Got up and gone about her work secure, Laid hand on this waif and the other stray, Spoiled the Philistine and marched out of doors In company of the Canon, who, Lord's love, What with his daily duty at the church, Nightly devoir where ladies congregate, Had something else to mind, assure yourself, Beside Pompilia, paragon though she be, Or notice if her nose were sharp or blunt! Well, anyhow, albeit impossible, Both of them were together jollily Jaunting it Rome-ward, half-way there by this, While Guido was left go and get undrugged, Gather his wits up, groaningly give thanks When neighbors crowded round him to condole. "Ah," quoth a gossip, "well I mind me now, The Count did always say he thought he felt He feared as if this very chance might fall! And when a man of fifty finds his corns Ache and his joints throb, and foresees a storm, Though neighbors laugh and say the sky is clear, Let us henceforth believe him weatherwise!" Then was the story told, I 'll cut you short: All neighbors knew: on mystery in the world. The lovers left at nightfall--overnight Had Caponsacchi come to carry off Pompilia,--not alone, a friend of his, One Guillichini, the more conversant With Guido's housekeeping that he was just A cousin of Guido's and might play a prank-- (Have not you too a cousin that 's a wag?) --Lord and a Canon also,--what would you have? Such are the red-clothed milk-swollen poppy-heads That stand and stiffen 'mid the wheat o' the Church!-- This worthy came to aid, abet his best. And so the house was ransacked, booty bagged, The lady led downstairs and out of doors Guided and guarded till, the city passed, A carriage lay convenient at the gate. Good-by to the friendly Canon; the loving one Could peradventure do the rest himself. In jumps Pompilia, after her the priest, "Whip, driver! Money makes the mare to go, And we 've a bagful. Take the Roman road!" So said the neighbors. This was eight hours since.

Guido heard all, swore the befitting oaths, Shook off the relics of his poison-drench, Got horse, was fairly started in pursuit With never a friend to follow, found the track Fast enough, 't was the straight Perugia way, Trod soon upon their very heels, too late By a minute only at Camoscia, reached Chiusi, Foligno, ever the fugitives Just ahead, just out as he galloped in, Getting the good news ever fresh and fresh, Till, lo, at the last stage of all, last post Before Rome,--as we say, in sight of Rome And safety (there 's impunity at Rome For priests you know) at--what 's the little place?-- What some call Castelnuovo, some just call The Osteria, because o' the post-house inn,-- There, at the journey's all but end, it seems, Triumph deceived them and undid them both, Secure they might foretaste felicity Nor fear surprisal: so, they were surprised. There did they halt at early evening, there Did Guido overtake them: 't was daybreak; He came in time enough, not time too much, Since in the courtyard stood the Canon's self Urging the drowsy stable-grooms to haste Harness the horses, have the journey end, The trifling four-hours' running, so reach Rome. And the other runaway, the wife? Upstairs, Still on the couch where she had spent the night, One couch in one room, and one room for both. So gained they six hours, so were lost thereby.

Sir, what 's the sequel? Lover and beloved Fall on their knees? No impudence serves here? They beat their breasts and beg for easy death, Confess this, that and the other?--anyhow Confess there wanted not some likelihood To the supposition so preposterous, That, O Pompilia, thy sequestered eyes Had noticed, straying o'er the prayer-book's edge, More of the Canon than that black his coat, Buckled his shoes were, broad his hat of brim: And that, O Canon, thy religious care Had breathed too soft a _benedicite_ To banish trouble from a lady's breast So lonely and so lovely, nor so lean! This you expect? Indeed, then, much you err. Not to such ordinary end as this Had Caponsacchi flung the cassock far, Doffed the priest, donned the perfect cavalier. The die was cast: over shoes over boots: And just as she, I presently shall show, Pompilia, soon looked Helen to the life, Recumbent upstairs in her pink and white, So, in the inn-yard, bold as 't were Troy-town, There strutted Paris in correct costume, Cloak, cap and feather, no appointment missed, Even to a wicked-looking sword at side, He seemed to find and feel familiar at. Nor wanted words as ready and as big As the part he played, the bold abashless one. "I interposed to save your wife from death, Yourself from shame, the true and only shame: Ask your own conscience else!--or, failing that, What I have done I answer, anywhere, Here, if you will; you see I have a sword: Or, since I have a tonsure as you taunt, At Rome, by all means,--priests to try a priest. Only, speak where your wife's voice can reply!" And then he fingered at the sword again. So, Guido called, in aid and witness both, The Public Force. The Commissary came, Officers also; they secured the priest; Then, for his more confusion, mounted up With him, a guard on either side, the stair To the bedroom where still slept or feigned a sleep His paramour and Guido's wife: in burst The company and bade her wake and rise.

Her defence? This. She woke, saw, sprang upright I' the midst and stood as terrible as truth, Sprang to her husband's side, caught at the sword That hung there useless,--since they held each hand O' the lover, had disarmed him properly,-- And in a moment out flew the bright thing Full in the face of Guido: but for help O' the guards, who held her back and pinioned her With pains enough, she had finished you my tale With a flourish of red all round it, pinked her man Prettily; but she fought them one to six. They stopped that,--but her tongue continued free: She spat forth such invective at her spouse, O'erfrothed him with such foam of murderer, Thief, pandar--that the popular tide soon turned, The favor of the very _sbirri_, straight Ebbed from the husband, set towards his wife; People cried "Hands off, pay a priest respect!" And "persecuting fiend" and "martyred saint" Began to lead a measure from lip to lip.

But facts are facts and flinch not; stubborn things, And the question "Prithee, friend, how comes my purse I' the poke of you?"--admits of no reply. Here was a priest found out in masquerade, A wife caught playing truant if no more; While the Count, mortified in mien enough, And, nose to face, an added palm in length, Was plain writ "husband" every piece of him: Capture once made, release could hardly be. Beside, the prisoners both made appeal, "Take us to Rome!"

Taken to Rome they were; The husband trooping after, piteously, Tail between legs, no talk of triumph now-- No honor set firm on its feet once more On two dead bodies of the guilty,--nay, No dubious salve to honor's broken pate From chance that, after all, the hurt might seem A skin-deep matter, scratch that leaves no scar: For Guido's first search,--ferreting, poor soul, Here, there and everywhere in the vile place Abandoned to him when their backs were turned, Found--furnishing a last and beat regale-- All the love-letters bandied 'twixt the pair Since the first timid trembling into life O' the love-star till its stand at fiery full. Mad prose, mad verse, fears, hopes, triumph, despair, Avowal, disclaimer, plans, dates, names,--was naught Wanting to prove, if proof consoles at all, That this had been but the fifth act o' the piece Whereof the due proemium, months ago, These playwrights had put forth, and ever since Matured the middle, added 'neath his nose. He might go cross himself: the case was clear.

Therefore to Rome with the clear case; there plead Each party its best, and leave law do each right, Let law shine forth and show, as God in heaven, Vice prostrate, virtue pedestalled at last, The triumph of truth! What else shall glad our gaze When once authority has knit the brow And set the brain behind it to decide Between the wolf and sheep turned litigants? "This is indeed a business," law shook head: "A husband charges hard things on a wife, The wife as hard o' the husband: whose fault here? A wife that flies her husband's house, does wrong: The male friend's interference looks amiss, Lends a suspicion: but suppose the wife, On the other hand, be jeopardized at home-- Nay, that she simply hold, ill-groundedly, An apprehension she is jeopardized,-- And further, if the friend partake the fear, And, in a commendable charity Which trusteth all, trust her that she mistrusts,-- What do they but obey law--natural law? Pretence may this be and a cloak for sin, And circumstances that concur i' the close Hint as much, loudly--yet scarce loud enough To drown the answer 'strange may yet be true': Innocence often looks like guiltiness. The accused declare that in thought, word and deed, Innocent were they both from first to last As male-babe haply laid by female-babe At church on edge of the baptismal font Together for a minute, perfect-pure. Difficult to believe, yet possible, As witness Joseph, the friend's patron-saint. The night at the inn--there charity nigh chokes Ere swallow what they both asseverate; Though down the gullet faith may feel it go, When mindful of what flight fatigued the flesh Out of its faculty and fleshliness, Subdued it to the soul, as saints assure: So long a flight necessitates a fall On the first bed, though in a lion's den, And the first pillow, though the lion's back: Difficult to believe, yet possible. Last come the letters' bundled beastliness-- Authority repugns give glance to--nay, Turns head, and almost lets her whip-lash fall; Yet here a voice cries 'Respite!' from the clouds-- The accused, both in a tale, protest, disclaim, Abominate the horror: 'Not my hand' Asserts the friend--'Nor mine' chimes in the wife, 'Seeing I have no hand, nor write at all.' Illiterate--for she goes on to ask, What if the friend did pen now verse now prose, Commend it to her notice now and then? 'Twas pearls to swine: she read no more than wrote, And kept no more than read, for as they fell She ever brushed the burr-like things away, Or, better, burned them, quenched the fire in smoke. As for this fardel, filth and foolishness, She sees it now the first time: burn it too! While for his part the friend vows ignorance Alike of what bears his name and bears hers: 'Tis forgery, a felon's masterpiece, And, as 'tis said the fox still finds the stench, Home-manufacture and the husband's work. Though he confesses, the ingenuous friend, That certain missives, letters of a sort, Flighty and feeble, which assigned themselves To the wife, no less have fallen, far too oft, In his path: wherefrom he understood just this-- That were they verily the lady's own, Why, she who penned them, since he never saw Save for one minute the mere face of her, Since never had there been the interchange Of word with word between them all their life, Why, she must be the fondest of the frail, And fit, she for the '_apage_' he flung, Her letters for the flame they went to feed! But, now he sees her face and hears her speech, Much he repents him if, in fancy-freak For a moment the minutest measurable, He coupled her with the first flimsy word O' the self-spun fabric some mean spider-soul Furnished forth: stop his films and stamp on him! Never was such a tangled knottiness, But thus authority cuts the Gordian through, And mark how her decision suits the need! Here's troublesomeness, scandal on both sides, Plenty of fault to find, no absolute crime: Let each side own its fault and make amends! What does a priest in cavalier's attire Consorting publicly with vagrant wives In quarters close as the confessional, Though innocent of harm? 'Tis harm enough: Let him pay it,--say, be relegate a good Three years, to spend in some place not too far Nor yet too near, midway 'twixt near and far, Rome and Arezzo,--Civita we choose, Where he may lounge away time, live at large, Find out the proper function of a priest, Nowise an exile,--that were punishment,-- But one our love thus keeps out of harm's way Not more from the husband's anger than, mayhap, His own ... say, indiscretion, waywardness, And wanderings when Easter eves grow warm. For the wife,--well, our best step to take with her, On her own showing, were to shift her root From the old cold shade and unhappy soil Into a generous ground that fronts the south: Where, since her callow soul, a-shiver late, Craved simply warmth and called mere passers-by To the rescue, she should have her fill of shine. Do house and husband hinder and not help? Why then, forget both and stay here at peace, Come into our community, enroll Herself along with those good Convertites, Those sinners saved, those Magdalens re-made, Accept their ministration, well bestow Her body and patiently possess her soul, Until we see what better can be done. Last for the husband: if his tale prove true, Well is he rid of two domestic plagues-- Both wife that ailed, do whatsoever he would, And friend of hers that undertook the cure. See, what a double load we lift from breast! Off he may go, return, resume old life, Laugh at the priest here and Pompilia there In limbo each and punished for their pains, And grateful tell the inquiring neighborhood-- In Rome, no wrong but has its remedy." The case was closed. Now, am I fair or no In what I utter? Do I state the facts, Having forechosen a side? I promised you!

The Canon Caponsacchi, then, was sent To change his garb, re-trim his tonsure, tie The clerkly silk round, every plait correct, Make the impressive entry on his place Of relegation, thrill his Civita, As Ovid, a like sufferer in the cause, Planted a primrose-patch by Pontus: where,-- What with much culture of the sonnet-stave And converse with the aborigines, Soft savagery of eyes unused to roll, And hearts that all awry went pit-a-pat And wanted setting right in charity,-- What were a couple of years to while away? Pompilia, as enjoined, betook herself To the aforesaid Convertites, soft sisterhood In Via Lungara, where the light ones live, Spin, pray, then sing-like linnets o'er the flax. "Anywhere, anyhow, out of my husband's house Is heaven," cried she,--was therefore suited so. But for Count Guido Franceschini, he-- The injured man thus righted--found no heaven I' the house when he returned there, I engage, Was welcomed by the city turned upside down In a chorus of inquiry. "What, back--you? And no wife? Left her with the Penitents? Ah, being young and pretty, 'twere a shame To have her whipped in public: leave the job To the priests who understand! Such priests as yours-- (Pontifex Maximus whipped Vestals once) Our madcap Caponsacchi: think of him! So, he fired up, showed fight and skill of fence? Ay, you drew also, but you did not fight! The wiser, 'tis a word and a blow with him, True Caponsacchi, of old Head-i'-the-Sack That fought at Fiesole ere Florence was: He had done enough, to firk you were too much. And did the little lady menace you, Make at your breast with your own harmless sword? The spitfire! Well, thank God you're safe and sound, Have kept the sixth commandment whether or no The lady broke the seventh: I only wish I were as saint-like, could contain me so. I, the poor sinner, fear I should have left Sir Priest no nose-tip to turn up at me!" You, Sir, who listen but interpose no word, Ask yourself, had you borne a baiting thus? Was it enough to make a wise man mad? Oh, but I'll have your verdict at the end!

Well, not enough, it seems: such mere hurt falls, Frets awhile, aches long, then grows less and less, And so gets done with. Such was not the scheme O' the pleasant Comparini: on Guido's wound Ever in due succession, drop by drop, Came slow distilment from the alembic here Set on to simmer by Canidian hate, Corrosives keeping the man's misery raw. First fire-drop,--when he thought to make the best O' the bad, to wring from out the sentence passed, Poor, pitiful, absurd although it were, Yet what might eke him out result enough And make it worth while to have had the right And not the wrong i' the matter judged at Rome. Inadequate her punishment, no less Punished in some slight sort his wife had been; Then, punished for adultery, what else? On such admitted crime he thought to seize, And institute procedure in the courts Which cut corruption of this kind from man, Cast loose a wife proved loose and castaway: He claimed in due form a divorce at least.

This claim was met now by a counterclaim: Pompilia sought divorce from bed and board Of Guido, whose outrageous cruelty, Whose mother's malice and whose brother's hate Were just the white o' the charge, such dreadful depths Blackened its centre,--hints of worse than hate, Love from that brother, by that Guido's guile, That mother's prompting. Such reply was made, So was the engine loaded, wound up, sprung On Guido, who received bolt full in breast; But no less bore up, giddily perhaps. He had the Abate Paolo still in Rome, Brother and friend and fighter on his side: They rallied in a measure, met the foe Manlike, joined battle in the public courts, As if to shame supine law from her sloth: And waiting her award, let beat the while Arezzo's banter, Rome's buffoonery, On this ear and on that ear, deaf alike, Safe from worse outrage. Let a scorpion nip, And never mind till he contorts his tail! But there was sting i' the creature; thus it struck. Guido had thought in his simplicity-- That lying declaration of remorse, That story of the child which was no child And motherhood no motherhood at all, --That even this sin might have its sort of good Inasmuch as no question more could be,-- Call it false, call the story true,--no claim Of further parentage pretended now: The parents had abjured all right, at least, I' the woman owned his wife: to plead right still Were to declare the abjuration false: He was relieved from any fear henceforth Their hands might touch, their breath defile again Pompilia with his name upon her yet. Well, no: the next news was, Pompilia's health Demanded change after full three long weeks Spent in devotion with the Sisterhood,-- Which rendered sojourn--so the court opined-- Too irksome, since the convent's walls were high And windows narrow, nor was air enough Nor light enough, but all looked prison-like, The last thing which had come in the court's head. Propose a new expedient therefore,--this! She had demanded--had obtained indeed, By intervention of her pitying friends Or perhaps lovers--(beauty in distress, Beauty whose tale is the town-talk beside, Never lacks friendship's arm about her neck)-- Obtained remission of the penalty, Permitted transfer to some private place Where better air, more light, new food might soothe-- Incarcerated (call it, all the same) At some sure friend's house she must keep inside, Be found in at requirement fast enough,-- _Domus pro carcere_, in Roman style. You keep the house i' the main, as most men do, And all good women: but free otherwise, Should friends arrive, to lodge them and what not? And such a _domum_, such a dwelling-place, Having all Rome to choose from, where chose she? What house obtained Pompilia's preference? Why, just the Comparini's--just, do you mark, Theirs who renounced all part and lot in her So long as Guido could be robbed thereby, And only fell back on relationship And found their daughter safe and sound again When that might surelier stab him: yes, the pair Who, as I told you, first had baited hook With this poor gilded fly Pompilia-thing, Then caught the fish, pulled Guido to the shore And gutted him,--now found a further use For the bait, would trail the gauze wings yet again I' the way of what new swimmer passed their stand. They took Pompilia to their hiding-place-- Not in the heart of Rome as formerly, Under observance, subject to control-- But out o' the way,--or in the way, who knows? That blind mute villa lurking by the gate At Via Paulina, not so hard to miss By the honest eye, easy enough to find In twilight by marauders: where perchance Some muffled Caponsacchi might repair, Employ odd moments when he too tried change, Found that a friend's abode was pleasanter Than relegation, penance and the rest.

Come, here 's the last drop does its worst to wound, Here 's Guido poisoned to the bone, you say, Your boasted still's full strain and strength: not so! One master-squeeze from screw shall bring to birth The hoard i' the heart o' the toad, hell's quintessence. He learned the true convenience of the change, And why a convent lacks the cheerful hearts And helpful hands which female straits require, When, in the blind mute villa by the gate, Pompilia--what? sang, danced, saw company? --Gave birth, Sir, to a child, his son and heir, Or Guido's heir and Caponsacchi's son. I want your word now: what do you say to this? What would say little Arezzo and great Rome, And what did God say and the devil say, One at each ear o' the man, the husband, now The father? Why, the overburdened mind Broke down, what was a brain became a blaze. In fury of the moment--(that first news Fell on the Count among his vines, it seems, Doing his farm-work,)--why, he summoned steward, Called in the first four hard hands and stout hearts From field and furrow, poured forth his appeal, Not to Rome's law and gospel any more, But this clown with a mother or a wife, That clodpole with a sister or a son: And, whereas law and gospel held their peace, What wonder if the sticks and stones cried out?

All five soon somehow found themselves at Rome, At the villa door: there was the warmth and light-- The sense of life so just an inch inside-- Some angel must have whispered "One more chance!"

He gave it: bade the others stand aside: Knocked at the door,--"Who is it knocks?" cried one. "I will make," surely Guido's angel urged, "One final essay, last experiment, Speak the word, name the name from out all names, Which, if,--as doubtless strong illusions are, And strange disguisings whereby truth seems false, And, since I am but man, I dare not do God's work until assured I see with God,-- If I should bring my lips to breathe that name And they be innocent,--nay, by one mere touch Of innocence redeemed from utter guilt,-- That name will bar the door and bid fate pass. I will not say 'It is a messenger, A neighbor, even a belated man, Much less your husband's friend, your husband's self:' At such appeal the door is bound to ope. But I will say "--here 's rhetoric and to spare! Why, Sir, the stumbling-block is cursed and kicked, Block though it be; the name that brought offence Will bring offence: the burnt child dreads the fire Although that fire feed on some taper-wick Which never left the altar nor singed a fly: And had a harmless man tripped you by chance, How would you wait him, stand or step aside, When next you heard he rolled your way? Enough.

"Giuseppe Caponsacchi!" Guido cried; And open flew the door: enough again. Vengeance, you know, burst, like a mountain-wave That holds a monster in it, over the house, And wiped its filthy four walls free at last With a wash of hell-fire,--father, mother, wife, Killed them all, bathed his name clean in their blood, And, reeking so, was caught, his friends and he, Haled hither and imprisoned yesternight O' the day all this was. Now, Sir, tale is told, Of how the old couple come to lie in state Though hacked to pieces,--never, the expert say, So thorough a study of stabbing--while the wife (Viper-like, very difficult to slay) Writhes still through every ring of her, poor wretch, At the Hospital hard by--survives, we'll hope, To somewhat purify her putrid soul By full confession, make so much amends While time lasts; since at day's end die she must.

For Caponsacchi,--why, they'll have him here, As hero of the adventure, who so fit To figure in the coming Carnival? 'Twill make the fortune of whate'er saloon Hears him recount, with helpful cheek, and eye Hotly indignant now, now dewy-dimmed, The incidents of flight, pursuit, surprise, Capture, with hints of kisses all between-- While Guido, wholly unromantic spouse, No longer fit to laugh at since the blood Gave the broad farce an all too brutal air, Why, he and those four luckless friends of his May tumble in the straw this bitter day-- Laid by the heels i' the New Prison, I hear, To bide their trial, since trial, and for the life, Follows if but for form's sake: yes, indeed!

But with a certain issue: no dispute, "Try him," bids law: formalities oblige: But as to the issue,--look me in the face!-- If the law thinks to find them guilty, Sir, Master or men--touch one hair of the five, Then I say in the name of all that's left Of honor in Rome, civility i' the world Whereof Rome boasts herself the central source,-- There's an end to all hope of justice more. Astræa's gone indeed, let hope go too! Who is it dares impugn the natural law, Deny God's word "the faithless wife shall die"? What, are we blind? How can we fail to learn This crowd of miseries make the man a mark, Accumulate on one devoted head For our example?--yours and mine who read Its lesson thus--"Henceforward let none dare Stand, like a natural in the public way, Letting the very urchins twitch his beard And tweak his nose, to earn a nickname so, Be styled male-Grissel or else modern Job!" Had Guido, in the twinkling of an eye, Summed up the reckoning, promptly paid himself, That morning when he came up with the pair At the wayside inn,--exacted his just debt By aid of what first mattock, pitchfork, axe Came to hand in the helpful stable-yard, And with that axe, if providence so pleased, Cloven each head, by some Rolando-stroke, In one clean cut from crown to clavicle, --Slain the priest-gallant, the wife-paramour, Sticking, for all defence, in each skull's cleft The rhyme and reason of the stroke thus dealt, To wit, those letters and last evidence Of shame, each package in its proper place,-- Bidding, who pitied, undistend the skulls,-- I say, the world had praised the man. But no! That were too plain, too straight, too simply just! He hesitates, calls law forsooth to help. And law, distasteful to who calls in law When honor is beforehand and would serve, What wonder if law hesitate in turn, Plead her disuse to calls o' the kind, reply (Smiling a little), "'Tis yourself assess The worth of what's lost, sum of damage done. What you touched with so light a finger-tip, You whose concern it was to grasp the thing, Why must law gird herself and grapple with? Law, alien to the actor whose warm blood Asks heat from law whose veins run lukewarm milk,-- What you dealt lightly with, shall law make out Heinous forsooth?" Sir, what's the good of law In a case o' the kind? None, as she all but says. Call in law when a neighbor breaks your fence, Cribs from your field, tampers with rent or lease, Touches the purse or pocket,--but wooes your wife? No: take the old way trod when men were men! Guido preferred the new path,--for his pains, Stuck in a quagmire, floundered worse and worse Until he managed somehow scramble back Into the safe sure rutted road once more, Revenged his own wrong like a gentleman. Once back 'mid the familiar prints, no doubt He made too rash amends for his first fault, Vaulted too loftily over what barred him late, And lit i' the mire again,--the common chance, The natural over-energy: the deed Maladroit yields three deaths instead of one, And one life left: for where's the Canon's corpse? All which is the worse for Guido, but, be frank-- The better for you and me and all the world, Husbands of wives, especially in Rome. The thing is put right, in the old place,--ay, The rod hangs on its nail behind the door, Fresh from the brine: a matter I commend To the notice, during Carnival that's near, Of a certain what's-his-name and jackanapes Somewhat too civil of eves with lute and song About a house here, where I keep a wife. (You, being his cousin, may go tell him so.)

III

THE OTHER HALF-ROME

Another day that finds her living yet, Little Pompilia, with the patient brow And lamentable smile on those poor lips, And, under the white hospital-array, A flower-like body, to frighten at a bruise You'd think, yet now, stabbed through and through again, Alive i' the ruins. 'Tis a miracle. It seems that, when her husband struck her first, She prayed Madonna just that she might live So long as to confess and be absolved; And whether it was that, all her sad life long Never before successful in a prayer, This prayer rose with authority too dread,-- Or whether, because earth was hell to her, By compensation, when the blackness broke She got one glimpse of quiet and the cool blue, To show her for a moment such things were,-- Or else,--as the Augustinian Brother thinks, The friar who took confession from her lip,-- When a probationary soul that moved From nobleness to nobleness, as she, Over the rough way of the world, succumbs, Bloodies its last thorn with unflinching foot, The angels love to do their work betimes, Stanch some wounds here nor leave so much for God. Who knows? However it be, confessed, absolved, She lies, with overplus of life beside To speak and right herself from first to last, Right the friend also, lamb-pure, lion-brave, Care for the boy's concerns, to save the son From the sire, her two-weeks' infant orphaned thus, And--with best smile of all reserved for him-- Pardon that sire and husband from the heart. A miracle, so tell your Molinists!

There she lies in the long white lazar-house. Rome has besieged, these two days, never doubt, Saint Anna's where she waits her death, to hear Though but the chink o' the bell, turn o' the hinge When the reluctant wicket opes at last, Lets in, on now this and now that pretence, Too many by half,--complain the men of art,-- For a patient in such plight. The lawyers first Paid the due visit--justice must be done; They took her witness, why the murder was. Then the priests followed properly,--a soul To shrive; 'twas Brother Celestine's own right, The same who noises thus her gifts abroad. But many more, who found they were old friends, Pushed in to have their stare and take their talk And go forth boasting of it and to boast. Old Monna Baldi chatters like a jay, Swears--but that, prematurely trundled out Just as she felt the benefit begin, The miracle was snapped up by somebody,-- Her palsied limb 'gan prick and promise life At touch o' the bedclothes merely,--how much more Had she but brushed the body as she tried! Cavalier Carlo--well, there's some excuse For him--Maratta who paints Virgins so-- He too must fee the porter and slip by With pencil cut and paper squared, and straight There was he figuring away at face: "A lovelier face is not in Rome," cried he, "Shaped like a peacock's egg, the pure as pearl, That hatches you anon a snow-white chick." Then, oh that pair of eyes, that pendent hair, Black this and black the other! Mighty fine-- But nobody cared ask to paint the same, Nor grew a poet over hair and eyes Four little years ago, when, ask and have, The woman who wakes all this rapture leaned Flower-like from out her window long enough, As ranch uncomplemented as uncropped By comers and goers in Via Vittoria: eh? 'Tis just a flower's fate: past parterre we trip, Till peradventure some one plucks our sleeve-- "Yon blossom at the brier's end, that's the rose Two jealous people fought for yesterday And killed each other: see, there's undisturbed A pretty pool at the root, of rival red!" Then cry we, "Ah, the perfect paragon!" Then crave we, "Just one keepsake-leaf for us!"

Truth lies between: there's anyhow a child Of seventeen years, whether a flower or weed, Ruined: who did it shall account to Christ-- Having no pity on the harmless life And gentle face and girlish form he found, And thus flings back. Go practise if you please With men and women: leave a child alone For Christ's particular love's sake!--so I say.

Somebody at the bedside said much more, Took on him to explain the secret cause O' the crime: quoth he, "Such crimes are very rife, Explode nor make us wonder nowadays, Seeing that Antichrist disseminates That doctrine of the Philosophic Sin: Molinos' sect will soon make earth too hot!" "Nay," groaned the Augustinian, "what's there new? Crime will not fail to flare up from men's hearts While hearts are men's and so born criminal; Which one fact, always old yet ever new, Accounts for so much crime that, for my part, Molinos may go whistle to the wind That waits outside a certain church, you know!"

Though really it does seem as if she here, Pompilia, living so and dying thus, Has had undue experience how much crime A heart can hatch. Why was she made to learn --Not you, not I, not even Molinos' self-- What Guido Franceschini's heart could hold? Thus saintship is effected probably; No sparing saints the process!--which the more Tends to the reconciling us, no saints, To sinnership, immunity and all.

For see now: Pietro and Violante's life Till seventeen years ago, all Rome might note And quote for happy--see the signs distinct Of happiness as we yon Triton's trump. What could they be but happy?--balanced so, Nor low i' the social scale nor yet too high, Nor poor nor richer than comports with ease, Nor bright and envied, nor obscure and scorned, Nor so young that their pleasures fell too thick, Nor old past catching pleasure when it fell, Nothing above, below the just degree, All at the mean where joy's components mix. So again, in the couple's very souls You saw the adequate half with half to match, Each having and each lacking somewhat, both Making a whole that had all and lacked naught. The round and sound, in whose composure just The acquiescent and recipient side Was Pietro's, and the stirring striving one Violante's: both in union gave the due Quietude, enterprise, craving and content, Which go to bodily health and peace of mind. But as 't is said a body; rightly mixed, Each element in equipoise, would last Too long and live forever,--accordingly Holds a germ--sand-grain weight too much i' the scale-- Ordained to get predominance one day And so bring all to ruin and release,-- Not otherwise a fatal germ lurked here: "With mortals much must go, but something stays; Nothing will stay of our so happy selves." Out of the very ripeness of life's core A worm was bred--"Our life shall leave no fruit." Enough of bliss, they thought, could bliss bear seed, Yield its like, propagate a bliss in turn And keep the kind up; not supplant themselves But put in evidence, record they were, Show them, when done with, i' the shape of a child. "'T is in a child, man and wife grow complete, One flesh: God says so: let him do his work!" Now, one reminder of this gnawing want, One special prick o' the maggot at the core, Always befell when, as the day came round, A certain yearly sum,--our Pietro being, As the long name runs, an usufructuary,-- Dropped in the common bag as interest Of money, his till death, not afterward, Failing an heir: an heir would take and take, A child of theirs be wealthy in their place To nobody's hurt--the stranger else seized all. Prosperity rolled river-like and stopped, Making their mill go; but when wheel wore out, The wave would find a space and sweep on free And, half-a-mile off, grind some neighbor's corn.

Adam-like, Pietro sighed and said no more: Eve saw the apple was fair and good to taste, So, plucked it, having asked the snake advice. She told her husband God was merciful, And his and her prayer granted at the last: Let the old mill-stone moulder,--wheel unworn, Quartz from the quarry, shot into the stream Adroitly, as before should go bring grist-- Their house continued to them by an heir, Their vacant heart replenished with a child. We have her own confession at full length Made in the first remorse: 't was Jubilee Pealed in the ear o' the conscience and it woke. She found she had offended God no doubt, So much was plain from what had happened since, Misfortune on misfortune; but she harmed No one i' the world, so far as she could see. The act had gladdened Pietro to the height, Her spouse whom God himself must gladden so Or not at all: thus much seems probable From the implicit faith, or rather say Stupid credulity of the foolish man Who swallowed such a tale nor strained a whit Even at his wife's far-over-fifty years Matching his sixty--and--under. Him she blessed; And as for doing any detriment To the veritable heir,--why, tell her first Who was he? Which of all the hands held up I' the crowd, one day would gather round their gate Did she so wrong by intercepting thus The ducat, spendthrift fortune thought to fling For a scramble just to make the mob break shins? She kept it, saved them kicks and cuffs thereby. While at the least one good work had she wrought, Good, clearly and incontestably! Her cheat-- What was it to its subject, the child's self, But charity and religion? See the girl! A body most like--a soul too probably-- Doomed to death, such a double death as waits The illicit offspring of a common trull, Sure to resent and forthwith rid herself Of a mere interruption to sin's trade, In the efficacious way old Tiber knows. Was not so much proved by the ready sale O' the child, glad transfer of this irksome chance? Well then, she had caught up this castaway: This fragile egg, some careless wild bird dropped. She had picked from where it waited the footfall, And put in her own breast till forth broke finch Able to sing God praise on mornings now. What so excessive harm was done?--she asked.

To which demand the dreadful answer comes-- For that same deed, now at Lorenzo's church, Both agents, conscious and inconscious, lie; While she, the deed was done to benefit, Lies also, the most lamentable of things, Yonder where curious people count her breaths, Calculate how long yet the little life Unspilt may serve their turn nor spoil the show, Give them their story, then the church its group.

Well, having gained Pompilia, the girl grew I' the midst of Pietro here, Violante there, Each, like a semicircle with stretched arms, Joining the other round her preciousness-- Two walls that go about a garden-plot Where a chance sliver, branchlet slipt from bole Of some tongue-leaved eye-figured Eden tree, Filched by two exiles and borne far away, Patiently glorifies their solitude,-- Year by year mounting, grade by grade surmount The builded brick-work, yet is compassed still, Still hidden happily and shielded safe,-- Else why should miracle have graced the ground? But on the twelfth sun that brought April there What meant that laugh? The coping-stone was reached; Nay, above towered a light tuft of bloom To be toyed with by butterfly or bee, Done good to or else harm to from outside: Pompilia's root, stalk and a branch or two Home enclosed still, the rest would be the world's. All which was taught our couple though obtuse, Since walls have ears, when one day brought a priest, Smooth-mannered soft-speeched sleek-cheeked visitor, The notable Abate Paolo--known As younger brother of a Tuscan house Whereof the actual representative, Count Guido, had employed his youth and age In culture of Rome's most productive plant-- A cardinal: but years pass and change comes, In token of which, here was our Paolo brought To broach a weighty business. Might he speak? Yes--to Violante somehow caught alone While Pietro took his after-dinner doze, And the young maiden, busily as befits, Minded her broider-frame three chambers off.

So--giving now his great flap-hat a gloss With flat o' the hand between-whiles, soothing now The silk from out its creases o'er the calf, Setting the stocking clerical again, But never disengaging, once engaged, The thin clear gray hold of his eyes on her-- He dissertated on that Tuscan house, Those Franceschini,--very old they were-- Not rich however--oh, not rich, at least, As people look to be who, low i' the scale One way, have reason, rising all they can By favor of the money-bag! 't is fair-- Do all gifts go together? But don't suppose That being not so rich means all so poor! Say rather, well enough--i' the way, indeed, Ha, ha, to fortune better than the best: Since if his brother's patron-friend kept faith, Put into promised play the Cardinalate, Their house might wear the red cloth that keeps warm, Would but the Count have patience--there 's the point! For he was slipping into years apace, And years make men restless--they needs must spy Some certainty, some sort of end assured, Some sparkle, though from topmost beacon-tip, That warrants life a harbor through the haze. In short, call him fantastic as you choose, Guido was home-sick, yearned for the old sights And usual faces,--fain would settle himself And have the patron's bounty when it fell Irrigate far rather than deluge near, Go fertilize Arezzo, not flood Rome. Sooth to say, 't was the wiser wish: the Count Proved wanting in ambition,--let us avouch, Since truth is best,--in callousness of heart, And winced at pin-pricks whereby honors hang A ribbon o'er each puncture: his--no soul Ecclesiastic (here the hat was brushed), Humble but self-sustaining, calm and cold, Having, as one who puts his hand to the plough, Renounced the over-vivid family-feel-- Poor brother Guido! All too plain, he pined Amid Rome's pomp and glare for dinginess And that dilapidated palace-shell Vast as a quarry and, very like, as bare-- Since to this comes old grandeur nowadays-- Or that absurd wild villa in the waste O' the hillside, breezy though, for who likes air, Vittiano, nor unpleasant with its vines, Outside the city and the summer heats. And now his harping on this one tense chord The villa and the palace, palace this And villa the other, all day and all night Creaked like the implacable cicala's cry And made one's ear-drum ache: naught else would serve But that, to light his mother's visage up With second youth, hope, gayety again, He must find straightway, woo and haply win And bear away triumphant back, some wife. Well now, the man was rational in his way: He, the Abate,--ought he to interpose? Unless by straining still his tutelage (Priesthood leaps over elder-brothership) Across this difficulty: then let go, Leave the poor fellow in peace! Would that be wrong? There was no making Guido great, it seems, Spite of himself: then happy be his dole! Indeed, the Abate's little interest Was somewhat nearly touched i' the case, they saw: Since if his simple kinsman so were bent, Began his rounds in Rome to catch a wife, Full soon would such unworldliness surprise The rare bird, sprinkle salt on phœnix' tail, And so secure the nest a sparrow-hawk. No lack of mothers here in Rome,--no dread Of daughters lured as larks by looking-glass! The first name-pecking credit-scratching fowl Would drop her unfledged cuckoo in our nest To gather grayness there, give voice at length And shame the brood ... but it was long ago When crusades were, and we sent eagles forth! No, that at least the Abate could forestall. He read the thought within his brother's word, Knew what he purposed better than himself. We want no name and fame--having our own: No worldly aggrandizement--such we fly: But if some wonder of a woman's-heart Were yet untainted on this grimy earth, Tender and true--tradition tells of such-- Prepared to pant in time and tune with ours-- If some good girl (a girl, since she must take The new bent, live new life, adopt new modes) Not wealthy (Guido for his rank was poor) But with whatever dowry came to hand,-- There were the lady-love predestinate! And somehow the Abate's guardian eye-- Scintillant, rutilant, fraternal fire,-- Roving round every way had seized the prize --The instinct of us, we, the spiritualty! Come, cards on table; was it true or false That here--here in this very tenement-- Yea, Via Vittoria did a marvel hide, Lily of a maiden, white with intact leaf Guessed through the sheath that saved it from the sun? A daughter with the mother's hands still clasped Over her head for fillet virginal, A wife worth Guido's house and hand and heart? He came to see; had spoken, he could no less-- (A final cherish of the stockinged calf) If harm were,--well, the matter was off his mind.

Then with the great air did he kiss, devout, Violante's hand, and rise up his whole height (A certain purple gleam about the black) And go forth grandly,--as if the Pope came next. And so Violante rubbed her eyes awhile, Got up too, walked to wake her Pietro soon And pour into his ear the mighty news How somebody had somehow somewhere seen Their treetop-tuft of bloom above the wall, And came now to apprise them the tree's self Was no such crab-sort as should go feed swine, But veritable gold, the Hesperian ball Ordained for Hercules to haste and pluck, And bear and give the Gods to banquet with-- Hercules standing ready at the door. Whereon did Pietro rub his eyes in turn, Look very wise, a little woeful too, Then, periwig on head, and cane in hand, Sally forth dignifiedly into the Square Of Spain across Babbuino the six steps, Toward the Boat-fountain where our idlers lounge,-- Ask, for form's sake, who Hercules might be, And have congratulation from the world.

Heartily laughed the world in his fool's-face And told him Hercules was just the heir To the stubble once a cornfield, and brick-heap Where used to be a dwelling-place now burned. Guido and Franceschini; a Count,--ay: But a cross i' the poke to bless the Countship? No! All gone except sloth, pride, rapacity, Humors of the imposthume incident To rich blood that runs thin,--nursed to a head By the rankly-salted soil--a cardinal's court Where, parasite and picker-up of crumbs, He had hung on long, and now, let go, said some, Shaken off, said others,--but in any case Tired of the trade and something worse for wear, Was wanting to change town for country quick, Go home again: let Pietro help him home! The brother, Abate Paolo, shrewder mouse, Had pricked for comfortable quarters, inched Into the core of Rome, and fattened so; But Guido, over-burly for rat's hole Suited to clerical slimness, starved outside, Must shift for himself: and so the shift was this! What, was the snug retreat of Pietro tracked, The little provision for his old age snuffed? "Oh, make your girl a lady, an you list, But have more mercy on our wit than vaunt Your bargain as we burgesses who brag! Why, Goodman Dullard, if a friend must speak. Would the Count, think you, stoop to you and yours Were there the value of one penny-piece To rattle 'twixt his palms--or likelier laugh, Bid your Pompilia help you black his shoe?"

Home again, shaking oft the puzzled pate, Went Pietro to announce a change indeed, Yet point Violante where some solace lay Of a rueful sort,--the taper, quenched so soon, Had ended merely in a snuff, not stink-- Congratulate there was one hope the less, Not misery the more: and so an end.

The marriage thus impossible, the rest Followed: our spokesman, Paolo, heard his fate, Resignedly Count Guido bore the blow: Violante wiped away the transient tear, Renounced the playing Danae to gold dreams, Praised much her Pietro's prompt sagaciousness, Found neighbors' envy natural, lightly laughed At gossips' malice, fairly wrapped herself In her integrity three folds about, And, letting pass a little day or two, Threw, even over that integrity, Another wrappage, namely one thick veil That hid her, matron-wise, from head to foot, And, by the hand holding a girl veiled too, Stood, one dim end of a December day, In Saint Lorenzo on the altar-step-- Just where she lies now and that girl will lie-- Only with fifty candles' company Now, in the place of the poor winking one Which saw--doors shut and sacristan made sure-- A priest--perhaps Abate Paolo--wed Guido clandestinely, irrevocably To his Pompilia aged thirteen years And five months,--witness the church register,-- Pompilia, (thus become Count Guido's wife Clandestinely, irrevocably his,) Who all the while had borne, from first to last, As brisk a