FOOTNOTES:[1]The Century, December, 1881, Vol. XXIII, pp. 189-200.[2]See the article by Mr. F. J. Furnivall in thePall Mall Gazettefor April, 1890.[3]The first production ofPippa Passeswas given in Copley Hall, Boston, in 1899, with an arrangement in six scenes by Miss Helen A. Clarke.The Return of the Druseswas arranged and presented by Miss Charlotte Porter in 1902 and was a dramatic success.A Blot in the 'Scutcheonwas brought out by Macready, with Phelps in the chief part and with Miss Helen Faucit as Mildred. It was played to crowded houses and received much applause. It was revived by Phelps at Sadler's Wells in 1848; and by the Browning Society in 1885 at St. George's Hall, London. In the winter of that year the play was given in Washington by Lawrence Barrett. It has also within a few years been admirably presented by Mrs. Lemoyne in New York and elsewhere.Colombe's Birthday, which was published in 1844, was not put upon the stage till 1853, when it was performed at the Haymarket Theater in London with Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) as Colombe. It was performed in Boston in 1854 and enthusiastically received. It was revived in 1885 with Miss Alma Murray as Colombe, when it was commented on as being "charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more picturesque, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print." It was also successfully produced at McVicker's Theater, Chicago, in November, 1894, with Miss Marlowe as Colombe.[4]An interesting corroboration of Mrs. Browning's words is found in the fact that the 1868 edition of Browning's works, by Smith Elder and Co., was reprinted as Numbers 1-19 of theOfficial Guide of the Chicago and Alton R. R., and Monthly Reprint and Advertiser, edited by Mr. James Charlton. A copy is in the British Museum. The reprint appeared in 1872-1874. See Mrs. Orr's bibliography.[5]A particularly interesting dramatic event was Mrs. Lemoyne's presentation ofIn a Balconyat Wallack's Theater, New York, in the autumn of 1900. Mrs. Lemoyne was the Queen, Otis Skinner was Norbet, and Eleanor Robson was Constance. SeeThe Bookman, 12, 387.[6]Mrs. Bronson has given a vivid picture of the Brownings at Asolo and at Venice in theCentury Magazinefor 1900 and 1902.[7]See Miss E. M. Clark inPoet-Lore, Volume II. page 480 (1890).[8]Poet-Lore, Volume II. page 246 (1890).
[1]The Century, December, 1881, Vol. XXIII, pp. 189-200.
[1]The Century, December, 1881, Vol. XXIII, pp. 189-200.
[2]See the article by Mr. F. J. Furnivall in thePall Mall Gazettefor April, 1890.
[2]See the article by Mr. F. J. Furnivall in thePall Mall Gazettefor April, 1890.
[3]The first production ofPippa Passeswas given in Copley Hall, Boston, in 1899, with an arrangement in six scenes by Miss Helen A. Clarke.The Return of the Druseswas arranged and presented by Miss Charlotte Porter in 1902 and was a dramatic success.A Blot in the 'Scutcheonwas brought out by Macready, with Phelps in the chief part and with Miss Helen Faucit as Mildred. It was played to crowded houses and received much applause. It was revived by Phelps at Sadler's Wells in 1848; and by the Browning Society in 1885 at St. George's Hall, London. In the winter of that year the play was given in Washington by Lawrence Barrett. It has also within a few years been admirably presented by Mrs. Lemoyne in New York and elsewhere.Colombe's Birthday, which was published in 1844, was not put upon the stage till 1853, when it was performed at the Haymarket Theater in London with Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) as Colombe. It was performed in Boston in 1854 and enthusiastically received. It was revived in 1885 with Miss Alma Murray as Colombe, when it was commented on as being "charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more picturesque, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print." It was also successfully produced at McVicker's Theater, Chicago, in November, 1894, with Miss Marlowe as Colombe.
[3]The first production ofPippa Passeswas given in Copley Hall, Boston, in 1899, with an arrangement in six scenes by Miss Helen A. Clarke.The Return of the Druseswas arranged and presented by Miss Charlotte Porter in 1902 and was a dramatic success.A Blot in the 'Scutcheonwas brought out by Macready, with Phelps in the chief part and with Miss Helen Faucit as Mildred. It was played to crowded houses and received much applause. It was revived by Phelps at Sadler's Wells in 1848; and by the Browning Society in 1885 at St. George's Hall, London. In the winter of that year the play was given in Washington by Lawrence Barrett. It has also within a few years been admirably presented by Mrs. Lemoyne in New York and elsewhere.Colombe's Birthday, which was published in 1844, was not put upon the stage till 1853, when it was performed at the Haymarket Theater in London with Lady Martin (Helen Faucit) as Colombe. It was performed in Boston in 1854 and enthusiastically received. It was revived in 1885 with Miss Alma Murray as Colombe, when it was commented on as being "charming on the boards, clearer, more direct in action, more picturesque, more full of delicate surprises than one imagines it in print." It was also successfully produced at McVicker's Theater, Chicago, in November, 1894, with Miss Marlowe as Colombe.
[4]An interesting corroboration of Mrs. Browning's words is found in the fact that the 1868 edition of Browning's works, by Smith Elder and Co., was reprinted as Numbers 1-19 of theOfficial Guide of the Chicago and Alton R. R., and Monthly Reprint and Advertiser, edited by Mr. James Charlton. A copy is in the British Museum. The reprint appeared in 1872-1874. See Mrs. Orr's bibliography.
[4]An interesting corroboration of Mrs. Browning's words is found in the fact that the 1868 edition of Browning's works, by Smith Elder and Co., was reprinted as Numbers 1-19 of theOfficial Guide of the Chicago and Alton R. R., and Monthly Reprint and Advertiser, edited by Mr. James Charlton. A copy is in the British Museum. The reprint appeared in 1872-1874. See Mrs. Orr's bibliography.
[5]A particularly interesting dramatic event was Mrs. Lemoyne's presentation ofIn a Balconyat Wallack's Theater, New York, in the autumn of 1900. Mrs. Lemoyne was the Queen, Otis Skinner was Norbet, and Eleanor Robson was Constance. SeeThe Bookman, 12, 387.
[5]A particularly interesting dramatic event was Mrs. Lemoyne's presentation ofIn a Balconyat Wallack's Theater, New York, in the autumn of 1900. Mrs. Lemoyne was the Queen, Otis Skinner was Norbet, and Eleanor Robson was Constance. SeeThe Bookman, 12, 387.
[6]Mrs. Bronson has given a vivid picture of the Brownings at Asolo and at Venice in theCentury Magazinefor 1900 and 1902.
[6]Mrs. Bronson has given a vivid picture of the Brownings at Asolo and at Venice in theCentury Magazinefor 1900 and 1902.
[7]See Miss E. M. Clark inPoet-Lore, Volume II. page 480 (1890).
[7]See Miss E. M. Clark inPoet-Lore, Volume II. page 480 (1890).
[8]Poet-Lore, Volume II. page 246 (1890).
[8]Poet-Lore, Volume II. page 246 (1890).
The great number of books and articles on Browning and his work is shown by the Bibliography of Biography and Criticism prepared by John P. Anderson of the British Museum and printed in William Sharp'sLife of Robert Browning. The selection to be given here can hardly more than suggest this large amount of material.
The 1888-9 edition of Browning'sWorksby Smith, Elder and Company incorporates Browning's last revisions and his own punctuation. The Macmillan edition in nine volumes in 1894 reproduces this text.
For biographical material important books are:
The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett 1845-1846, two volumes, 1902, Harper Brothers.
The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Edited with Biographical Additions by Frederic G. Kenyon.Macmillan, 1897. (Two volumes in one, 1899.)
The Life and Letters of Robert Browningby Mrs. A. Sutherland Orr in 1891. A new edition, revised and in part rewritten by Mr. Frederick G. Kenyon, was brought out by Houghton, Mifflin and Company in 1908. Mrs. Orr and Mr. Kenyon were both friends of Browning and could speak with authority on many details of his life.
Robert Browning, Personalia, by Edmund Gosse. Houghton Mifflin and Company, 1890. This book consists of a reprint of two articles, one fromThe Century Magazineon "The Early Career of Robert Browning," and one fromThe New Reviewentitled "Personal Impressions." These articles are of exceptional interest because Mr. Gosse lived near Mr. Browning at Warwick Crescent and they were on terms of close friendship. InCritical Kit-Kats, 1896, Mr. Gosse gives the story ofSonnets from the Portuguese.
Robert Browning.InBookman Biographies, edited by W. Robertson Nicholl. Hodder and Stoughton, London. Many interesting illustrations.
The Century Magazinefor 1900 and 1902 gives Mrs. Bronson's account of Browning at Asolo and at Venice.
For general handbooks see:
The Browning Cyclopædia.Edward Berdoe, Macmillan, 1902. Elaborate analysis of each poem. Many textual notes. Interpretations often involved and far-fetched to the point of being untenable.
Handbook of Robert Browning's Works.Mrs. A. Sutherland Orr. First edition, 1885; sixth edition, 1891. Republished by Bell and Sons, London, 1902. Explanatory analysis of each poem. Edition of 1902 contains complete bibliography of Browning's works. Written at the request of the London Browning Society.
For criticism see, as books varying widely in point of view and scope, but each of distinct interest:
An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning's Poetry.Hiram Corson. Boston, 1886.
An Introduction to the Study of Browning.Arthur Symons. London, Cassell and Company, 1886.
Life of Robert Browning.William Sharp. Walter Scott and Company, London, 1897.
The Poetry of Robert Browning.Stopford A. Brooke. Crowell and Company, 1902.
Robert Browning.G. K. Chesterton. Macmillan, 1903.
Robert Browning.C. H. Herford. Dodd, Mead and Company, 1905.
Interpretations of Poetry and Religion, by George Santayana, Scribners, 1900, contains an interesting presentation of Browning's work in a chapter entitled "The Poetry of Barbarism."
Browning Study Programmesby Charlotte Porter and Helen A. Clarke, Crowell and Company, 1900, is a series of studies on separate poems or on groups of poems.Often very suggestive and helpful. InPoet-Lore, edited by Miss Clarke and Miss Porter, are,passim, many other valuable studies and notes on Browning. The Camberwell edition of Browning's poems, edited by Miss Clarke and Miss Porter with excellent annotations, was published by Crowell and Company in 1898.
The London Browning Society's PapersandThe Boston Browning Society's Paperscontain much valuable material on separate poems or on various phases of Browning's life and work.
SELECTIONSFROM THEPOEMS AND PLAYSOFRobert Browning
Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair; such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,5From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud10Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vowed,With mothed and dropping arras hung,Moldering her lute and books among,15As when a queen, long dead, was young.
Heap cassia, sandal-buds, and stripesOf labdanum, and aloe-balls,Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipesFrom out her hair; such balsam fallsDown sea-side mountain pedestals,5From tree-tops where tired winds are fain,Spent with the vast and howling main,To treasure half their island-gain.
And strew faint sweetness from some oldEgyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud10Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;Or shredded perfume, like a cloudFrom closet long to quiet vowed,With mothed and dropping arras hung,Moldering her lute and books among,15As when a queen, long dead, was young.
Over the sea our galleys wentWith cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament;20Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nailed all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,25To bear the playful billows' game.So each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view,But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented row30Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning drooped the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor starshineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,35Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawned, oh, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day's voyage more,40We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,45We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretched along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too.50So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness passed,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast.Now one morn land appeared—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky.55"Avoid it," cried our pilot, "checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!"But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nigh;60So we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steered right into the harbor thus,65With pomp and pæan glorious.A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for everyone,Nor paused till in the westering sun70We sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done.When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngs75Of gentle islanders!"Our isles are just at hand," they cried,"Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are opened wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping80For these majestic forms"—they cried.Oh, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight.85Yet we called out—"Depart!Our gifts once given must here abide.Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work"—we cried.
Over the sea our galleys wentWith cleaving prows in order braveTo a speeding wind and a bounding wave—A gallant armament;20Each bark built out of a forest-treeLeft leafy and rough as first it grew,And nailed all over the gaping sides,Within and without, with black bull-hides,Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,25To bear the playful billows' game.So each good ship was rude to see,Rude and bare to the outward view,But each upbore a stately tentWhere cedar pales in scented row30Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,And an awning drooped the mast below,In fold on fold of the purple fine,That neither noontide nor starshineNor moonlight cold which maketh mad,35Might pierce the regal tenement.When the sun dawned, oh, gay and gladWe set the sail and plied the oar;But when the night-wind blew like breath,For joy of one day's voyage more,40We sang together on the wide sea,Like men at peace on a peaceful shore;Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,Each helm made sure by the twilight star,And in a sleep as calm as death,45We, the voyagers from afar,Lay stretched along, each weary crewIn a circle round its wondrous tentWhence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,And with light and perfume, music too.50So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness passed,And at morn we started beside the mast,And still each ship was sailing fast.
Now one morn land appeared—a speckDim trembling betwixt sea and sky.55"Avoid it," cried our pilot, "checkThe shout, restrain the eager eye!"But the heaving sea was black behindFor many a night and many a day,And land, though but a rock, drew nigh;60So we broke the cedar pales away,Let the purple awning flap in the wind,And a statue bright was on every deck!We shouted, every man of us,And steered right into the harbor thus,65With pomp and pæan glorious.
A hundred shapes of lucid stone!All day we built its shrine for each,A shrine of rock for everyone,Nor paused till in the westering sun70We sat together on the beachTo sing because our task was done.When lo! what shouts and merry songs!What laughter all the distance stirs!A loaded raft with happy throngs75Of gentle islanders!"Our isles are just at hand," they cried,"Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping;Our temple-gates are opened wide,Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping80For these majestic forms"—they cried.Oh, then we awoke with sudden startFrom our deep dream, and knew, too late,How bare the rock, how desolate,Which had received our precious freight.85Yet we called out—"Depart!Our gifts once given must here abide.Our work is done; we have no heartTo mar our work"—we cried.
Thus the Mayne glideth90Where my Love abideth.Sleep's no softer; it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate'er befall,Meandering and musical,95Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patch100Of primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,105Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flit110In and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they.Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,115Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne'er so still.
Thus the Mayne glideth90Where my Love abideth.Sleep's no softer; it proceedsOn through lawns, on through meads,On and on, whate'er befall,Meandering and musical,95Though the niggard pasturageBears not on its shaven ledgeAught but weeds and waving grassesTo view the river as it passes,Save here and there a scanty patch100Of primroses too faint to catchA weary bee.And scarce it pushesIts gentle way through strangling rushesWhere the glossy kingfisherFlutters when noon-heats are near,105Glad the shelving banks to shun,Red and steaming in the sun,Where the shrew-mouse with pale throatBurrows, and the speckled stoat;Where the quick sandpipers flit110In and out the marl and gritThat seems to breed them, brown as they.Naught disturbs its quiet way,Save some lazy stork that springs,Trailing it with legs and wings,115Whom the shy fox from the hillRouses, creep he ne'er so still.
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing;And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues nourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,5Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song:God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup.10Till you're—Chorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!15England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,Chorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls20To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight.Chorus.—March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!
Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King,Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing;And, pressing a troop unable to stoopAnd see the rogues nourish and honest folk droop,Marched them along, fifty-score strong,5Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song:
God for King Charles! Pym and such carlesTo the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles!Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup,Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup.10Till you're—Chorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song.
Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knellServe Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well!15England, good cheer! Rupert is near!Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here,Chorus.—Marching along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song?
Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls20To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles!Hold by the right, you double your might;So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight.Chorus.—March we along, fifty-score strong,Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song!
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!Who gave me the goods that went since?5Who raised me the house that sank once?Who helped me to gold I spent since?Who found me in wine you drank once?Chorus.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?10Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!To whom used my boy George quaff else,By the old fool's side that begot him?For whom did he cheer and laugh else,15While Noll's damned troopers shot him?Chorus.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!20
King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!
Who gave me the goods that went since?5Who raised me the house that sank once?Who helped me to gold I spent since?Who found me in wine you drank once?Chorus.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?10Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!
To whom used my boy George quaff else,By the old fool's side that begot him?For whom did he cheer and laugh else,15While Noll's damned troopers shot him?Chorus.—King Charles, and who'll do him right now?King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now?Give a rouse; here's, in hell's despite now,King Charles!20
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;5Many's the friend there, will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!Rescue my castle before the hot dayBrightens to blue from its silvery gray,Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;5Many's the friend there, will listen and pray"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay—Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array;10Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counselors; what counsel they?15Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array;10Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!I've better counselors; what counsel they?15Chorus.—Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"
Just for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a riband to stick in his coat—Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote;They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,5So much was theirs who so little allowed;How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,10Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,15—He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!We shall march prospering—not through his presence;Songs may inspirit us—not from his lyre;Deeds will be done—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.20Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins; let him never come back to us!25There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,Menace our heart ere we master his own;30Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
Just for a handful of silver he left us,Just for a riband to stick in his coat—Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,Lost all the others she lets us devote;They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,5So much was theirs who so little allowed;How all our copper had gone for his service!Rags—were they purple, his heart had been proud!We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,10Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,Made him our pattern to live and to die!Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,Burns, Shelley, were with us—they watch from their graves!He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,15—He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!We shall march prospering—not through his presence;Songs may inspirit us—not from his lyre;Deeds will be done—while he boasts his quiescence,Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.20Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels,One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!Life's night begins; let him never come back to us!25There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,Forced praise on our part—the glimmer of twilight,Never glad confident morning again!Best fight on well, for we taught him—strike gallantly,Menace our heart ere we master his own;30Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gatebolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,5And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,10Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;15At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"At Aershot up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,20To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back25For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.30By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely—the fault's not in her;We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,35As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;40Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!""How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight45Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,50Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.And all I remember is—friends flocking round55As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.60
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gatebolts undrew;"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,5And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,10Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom a great yellow star came out to see;15At Düffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"
At Aershot up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,20To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,With resolute shoulders, each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back25For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.30
By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely—the fault's not in her;We'll remember at Aix"—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,35As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;40Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"
"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight45Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.
Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,50Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is—friends flocking round55As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.60
Here's the garden she walked across,Arm in my arm, such a short while since;Hark, now I push its wicket, the mossHinders the hinges and makes them wince!She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,5As back with that murmur the wicket swung;For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,To feed and forget it the leaves among.Down this side of the gravel-walkShe went while her robe's edge brushed the box;10And here she paused in her gracious talkTo point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.Roses, ranged in valiant row,I will never think that she passed you by!She loves you, noble roses, I know;15But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,Its soft meandering Spanish name.20What a name! Was it love or praise?Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?I must learn Spanish, one of these days,Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Here's the garden she walked across,Arm in my arm, such a short while since;Hark, now I push its wicket, the mossHinders the hinges and makes them wince!She must have reached this shrub ere she turned,5As back with that murmur the wicket swung;For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned,To feed and forget it the leaves among.
Down this side of the gravel-walkShe went while her robe's edge brushed the box;10And here she paused in her gracious talkTo point me a moth on the milk-white phlox.Roses, ranged in valiant row,I will never think that she passed you by!She loves you, noble roses, I know;15But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie!
This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,Its soft meandering Spanish name.20What a name! Was it love or praise?Speech half-asleep or song half-awake?I must learn Spanish, one of these days,Only for that slow sweet name's sake.
Roses, if I live and do well,25I may bring her, one of these days,To fix you fast with as fine a spell,Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;But do not detain me now; for she lingersThere, like sunshine over the ground,30And ever I see her soft white fingersSearching after the bud she found.Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not;Stay as you are and be loved forever!Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not;35Mind, the shut pink month opens never!For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,Twinkling the audacious leaves between,Till round they turn and down they nestle—Is not the dear mark still to be seen?40Where I find her not, beauties vanish;Whither I follow her, beauties flee;Is there no method to tell her in SpanishJune's twice June since she breathed it with me?Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,45Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—Roses, you are not so fair after all!
Roses, if I live and do well,25I may bring her, one of these days,To fix you fast with as fine a spell,Fit you each with his Spanish phrase;But do not detain me now; for she lingersThere, like sunshine over the ground,30And ever I see her soft white fingersSearching after the bud she found.
Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not;Stay as you are and be loved forever!Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not;35Mind, the shut pink month opens never!For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle,Twinkling the audacious leaves between,Till round they turn and down they nestle—Is not the dear mark still to be seen?40
Where I find her not, beauties vanish;Whither I follow her, beauties flee;Is there no method to tell her in SpanishJune's twice June since she breathed it with me?Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,45Treasure my lady's lightest footfall!—Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces—Roses, you are not so fair after all!
The gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,5And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,10And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
The gray sea and the long black land;And the yellow half-moon large and low;And the startled little waves that leapIn fiery ringlets from their sleep,As I gain the cove with pushing prow,5And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;Three fields to cross till a farm appears;A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratchAnd blue spurt of a lighted match,10And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,Than the two hearts beating each to each!
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun looked over the mountain's rim;And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.
Round the cape of a sudden came the sea,And the sun looked over the mountain's rim;And straight was a path of gold for him,And the need of a world of men for me.