DOCTOR ——

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A Rabbi told me: On the day allowedSatan for carping at God's rule, he came,Fresh from our earth, to brave the angel-crowd."What is the fault now?" "This I find to blame:Many and various are the tongues below,Yet all agree in one speech, all proclaim"'Hell has no might to match what earth, can show:Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yetStronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know.'"Is it a wonder if I fume and fret—Robbed of my rights, since Death am I, and mineThe style of Strongest? Men pay Nature's debt"Because they must at my demand; declineTo pay it henceforth surely men will please,Provided husbands with bad wives combine"To baffle Death. Judge between me and these!""Thyself shalt judge. Descend to earth in shapeOf mortal, marry, drain from froth to lees"The bitter draught, then see if thou escapeConcluding, with men sorrowful and sage,A Bad Wife's strength Death's self in vain would ape!"How Satan entered on his pilgrimage,Conformed himself to earthly ordinance,Wived and played husband well from youth to ageIntrepidly—I leave untold, advanceThrough many a married year until I reachA day when—of his father's countenanceThe very image, like him too in speechAs well as thought and deed,—the union's fruitAttained maturity. "I needs must teach"My son a trade: but trade, such son to suit,Needs seeking after. He a man of war?Too cowardly! A lawyer wins repute—"Having to toil and moil, though—both which areBeyond this sluggard. There 's Divinity:No, that 's my own bread-winner—that be far"From my poor offspring! Physic? Ha, we 'll tryIf this be practicable. Where 's my wit?Asleep?—since, now I come to think ... Ay, ay!"Hither, my son! Exactly have I hitOn a profession for thee.Medicus—Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit"Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thusThat henceforth not this human form I wearShalt thou perceive alone, but—one of us"By privilege—thy fleshly sight shall bearMe in my spirit-person as I walkThe world and take my prey appointed there."Doctor once dubbed—what ignorance shall balkThy march triumphant? Diagnose the goutAs colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk—"No matter! All 's one: cure shall come aboutAnd win thee wealth—fees paid with such a roarOf thanks and praise alike from lord and lout"As never stunned man's ears on earth before.'How may this be?' Why, that 's my skeptic! SoonTruth will corrupt thee, soon thou doubt'st no more!"Why is it I bestow on thee the boonOf recognizing me the while I goInvisibly among men, morning, noon,"And night, from house to house, and—quick or slow—Take my appointed prey? They summon theeFor help, suppose: obey the summons! so!"Enter, look round! Where 's Death? Know—I am he,Satan who work all evil: I who bringPain to the patient in whate'er degree."I, then, am there: first glance thine eye shall flingWill find me—whether distant or at hand,As I am free to do my spiriting."At such mere first glance thou shalt understandWherefore I reach no higher up the roomThan door or window, when my form is scanned."Howe'er friends' faces please to gather gloom,Bent o'er the sick,—howe'er himself desponds,—In such case Death is not the sufferer's doom."Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bondsAre broken, does the captive in his turnCrow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds"Of hope a-sprout, if haply thou discernMe at the head—my victim's head, be sure!Forth now! This taught thee, little else to learn!"And forth he went. Folk heard him ask demure,"How do you style this ailment? (There he peeps,My father through the arras!) Sirs, the cure"Is plain as A B C! Experience steepsBlossoms of pennyroyal half an hourIn sherris.Sumat!—Lo, how sound he sleeps—"The subject you presumed was past the powerOf Galen to relieve!" Or else, "How 's this?Why call for help so tardily? Clouds lour"Portentously indeed, Sirs! (Naught 's amiss:He 's at the bed-foot merely.) Still, the stormMay pass averted—not by quacks, I wis,"Like you, my masters! You, forsooth, performA miracle? Stand, sciolists, aside!Blood, ne'er so cold, at ignorance grows warm!"Which boasting by result was justified,Big as might words be: whether drugged or leftDrugless, the patient always lived, not died.Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereftOf all he prized in this world: sweet the smileOf disconcerted rivals: "Cure?—say, theft"From Nature in despite of Art—so styleThis off-hand kill-or-cure work! You did much,I had done more: folk cannot wait awhile!"But did the case change? was it—"Scarcely suchThe symptoms as to warrant our recourseTo your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch"Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the forceWith you of long investigation claimedBy others,—tracks an ailment to its source"Intuitively,—may we ask unblamedWhat from this pimple you prognosticate?""Death!" was the answer, as he saw and namedThe coucher by the sick man's head. "Too lateYou send for my assistance. I am boldOnly by Nature's leave, and bow to Fate!"Besides, you have my rivals: lavish gold!How comfortably quick shall life departCosseted by attentions manifold!"One day, one hour ago, perchance my artHad done some service. Since you have yourselvesChosen—before the horse—to put the cart,"Why, Sirs, the sooner that the sexton delvesYour patient's grave the better! How you stare—Shallow, for all the deep books on your shelves!"Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declareWhat name and fame, what riches recompensedThe Doctor's practice? Never anywhereSuch an adept as daily evidencedEach new vaticination! Oh, not heLike dolts who dallied with their scruples, fencedWith subterfuge, nor gave out frank and freeSomething decisive! If he said "I saveThe patient," saved he was: if "Death will be"His portion," you might count him dead. Thus brave,Behold our worthy, sans competitorThroughout the country, on the architraveOf Glory's temple golden-lettered forMachaonredivivus!So, it fellThat, of a sudden, when the EmperorWas smit by sore disease, I need not tellIf any other Doctor's aid was soughtTo come and forthwith make the sick Prince well."He will reward thee as a monarch ought.Not much imports the malady; but then,He clings to life and cries like one distraught"For thee—who, from a simple citizen,Mayst look to rise in rank,—nay, haply wearA medal with his portrait,—always when"Recovery is quite accomplished. There!Pass to the presence!" Hardly has he crossedThe chamber's threshold when he halts, awareOf who stands sentry by the head. All 's lost."Sire, naught avails my art: you near the goal,And end the race by giving up the ghost.""How?" cried the monarch: "Names upon your rollOf half my subjects rescued by your skill—Old and young, rich and poor—crowd cheek by jowl"And yet no room for mine? Be saved I will!Why else am I earth's foremost potentate?Add me to these and take as fee your fill"Of gold—that point admits of no debateBetween us: save me, as you can and must,—Gold, till your gown's pouch cracks beneath the weight!"This touched the Doctor. "Truly a home-thrust,Parent, you will not parry! Have I daredEntreat that you forego the meal of dust"—Man that is snake's meat—when I saw preparedYour daily portion? Never! Just this once,Go from his head, then,—let his life be spared!"Whisper met whisper in the gruff response;"Fool, I must have my prey: no inch I budgeFrom where thou see'st me thus myself ensconce.""Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judgeWealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors proveMore efficacious? Naught to him I grudge"Who saves me. Only keep my head aboveThe cloud that 's creeping round it—I 'll divideMy empire with thee! No? What 's left but—love?"Does love allure thee? Well then, take as brideMy only daughter, fair beyond belief!Save me—to-morrow shall the knot be tied!""Father, you hear him! Respite ne'er so briefIs all I beg: go now and come againNext day, for aught I care: respect the grief"Mine will be if thy first-born sues in vain!""Fool, I must have my prey!" was all he gotIn answer. But a fancy crossed his brain."I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shotJust now across the heavens and neutralizedJove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot"Plumb are you placed now: well that I surmisedThe cause of failure! Knaves, reverse the bed!""Stay!" groaned the monarch, "I shall be capsized—"Jolt—jolt—my heels uplift where late my headWas lying—sure I 'm turned right round at last!What do you say now, Doctor?" Naught he said,For why? With one brisk leap the Antic passedFrom couch-foot back to pillow,—as before,Lord of the situation. Long aghastThe Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial moreIs left me" inwardly he uttered. "ShameUpon thy flinty heart! Do I implore"This trifling favor in the idle nameOf mercy to the moribund? I pleadThe cause of all thou dost affect: my aim"Befits my author! Why would I succeed?Simply that by success I may promoteThe growth of thy pet virtues—pride and greed."But keep thy favors!—curse thee! I devoteHenceforth my service to the other side.No time to lose: the rattle 's in his throat."So,—not to leave one last resource untried,—Run to my house with all haste, somebody!Bring me that knobstick thence, so often plied"With profit by the astrologer—shall IDisdain its help, the mystic Jacob's-Staff?Sire, do but have the courage not to die"Till this arrive! Let none of you dare laugh!Though rugged its exterior, I have seenThat implement work wonders, send the chaff"Quick and thick flying from the wheat—I mean,By metaphor, a human sheaf it threshedFlail-like. Go fetch it! Or—a word betweenJust you and me, friend!—go bid, unabashed,My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stickHerself—herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashedZealous upon the errand. Craft and trickAre meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned—How else?—at an excuse so politicFor failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescindFate's firm decree! And ever as he nearedThe agonizing one, his breath like windFroze to the marrow, while his eye-flash searedSense in the brain up: closelier and more closePressing his prey, when at the door appeared—Who but his Wife the Bad? Whereof one dose,One grain, one mite of the medicament,Sufficed him. Up he sprang. One word, too grossTo soil my lips with,—and through ceiling wentSomehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersedWe know for certain by the sulphury scent!"Hail to the Doctor! Who but one so versedIn all Dame Nature's secrets had prescribedThe staff thus opportunely? Style him first"And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibedElixir surely," smiled the prince,—"have gainedNew lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed"Death to forego me, boots not: you 've obtainedMy daughter and her dowry. Death, I 've heard,Was still on earth the strongest power that reigned,"Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurredNowise the Doctor, so refused the fee—No dowry, no bad wife!"You think absurdThis tale?"—the Rabbi added: "True, our TalmudBoasts sundry such: yet—have our elders erredIn thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?"I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me.

A Rabbi told me: On the day allowedSatan for carping at God's rule, he came,Fresh from our earth, to brave the angel-crowd."What is the fault now?" "This I find to blame:Many and various are the tongues below,Yet all agree in one speech, all proclaim"'Hell has no might to match what earth, can show:Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yetStronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know.'"Is it a wonder if I fume and fret—Robbed of my rights, since Death am I, and mineThe style of Strongest? Men pay Nature's debt"Because they must at my demand; declineTo pay it henceforth surely men will please,Provided husbands with bad wives combine"To baffle Death. Judge between me and these!""Thyself shalt judge. Descend to earth in shapeOf mortal, marry, drain from froth to lees"The bitter draught, then see if thou escapeConcluding, with men sorrowful and sage,A Bad Wife's strength Death's self in vain would ape!"How Satan entered on his pilgrimage,Conformed himself to earthly ordinance,Wived and played husband well from youth to ageIntrepidly—I leave untold, advanceThrough many a married year until I reachA day when—of his father's countenanceThe very image, like him too in speechAs well as thought and deed,—the union's fruitAttained maturity. "I needs must teach"My son a trade: but trade, such son to suit,Needs seeking after. He a man of war?Too cowardly! A lawyer wins repute—"Having to toil and moil, though—both which areBeyond this sluggard. There 's Divinity:No, that 's my own bread-winner—that be far"From my poor offspring! Physic? Ha, we 'll tryIf this be practicable. Where 's my wit?Asleep?—since, now I come to think ... Ay, ay!"Hither, my son! Exactly have I hitOn a profession for thee.Medicus—Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit"Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thusThat henceforth not this human form I wearShalt thou perceive alone, but—one of us"By privilege—thy fleshly sight shall bearMe in my spirit-person as I walkThe world and take my prey appointed there."Doctor once dubbed—what ignorance shall balkThy march triumphant? Diagnose the goutAs colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk—"No matter! All 's one: cure shall come aboutAnd win thee wealth—fees paid with such a roarOf thanks and praise alike from lord and lout"As never stunned man's ears on earth before.'How may this be?' Why, that 's my skeptic! SoonTruth will corrupt thee, soon thou doubt'st no more!"Why is it I bestow on thee the boonOf recognizing me the while I goInvisibly among men, morning, noon,"And night, from house to house, and—quick or slow—Take my appointed prey? They summon theeFor help, suppose: obey the summons! so!"Enter, look round! Where 's Death? Know—I am he,Satan who work all evil: I who bringPain to the patient in whate'er degree."I, then, am there: first glance thine eye shall flingWill find me—whether distant or at hand,As I am free to do my spiriting."At such mere first glance thou shalt understandWherefore I reach no higher up the roomThan door or window, when my form is scanned."Howe'er friends' faces please to gather gloom,Bent o'er the sick,—howe'er himself desponds,—In such case Death is not the sufferer's doom."Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bondsAre broken, does the captive in his turnCrow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds"Of hope a-sprout, if haply thou discernMe at the head—my victim's head, be sure!Forth now! This taught thee, little else to learn!"And forth he went. Folk heard him ask demure,"How do you style this ailment? (There he peeps,My father through the arras!) Sirs, the cure"Is plain as A B C! Experience steepsBlossoms of pennyroyal half an hourIn sherris.Sumat!—Lo, how sound he sleeps—"The subject you presumed was past the powerOf Galen to relieve!" Or else, "How 's this?Why call for help so tardily? Clouds lour"Portentously indeed, Sirs! (Naught 's amiss:He 's at the bed-foot merely.) Still, the stormMay pass averted—not by quacks, I wis,"Like you, my masters! You, forsooth, performA miracle? Stand, sciolists, aside!Blood, ne'er so cold, at ignorance grows warm!"Which boasting by result was justified,Big as might words be: whether drugged or leftDrugless, the patient always lived, not died.Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereftOf all he prized in this world: sweet the smileOf disconcerted rivals: "Cure?—say, theft"From Nature in despite of Art—so styleThis off-hand kill-or-cure work! You did much,I had done more: folk cannot wait awhile!"But did the case change? was it—"Scarcely suchThe symptoms as to warrant our recourseTo your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch"Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the forceWith you of long investigation claimedBy others,—tracks an ailment to its source"Intuitively,—may we ask unblamedWhat from this pimple you prognosticate?""Death!" was the answer, as he saw and namedThe coucher by the sick man's head. "Too lateYou send for my assistance. I am boldOnly by Nature's leave, and bow to Fate!"Besides, you have my rivals: lavish gold!How comfortably quick shall life departCosseted by attentions manifold!"One day, one hour ago, perchance my artHad done some service. Since you have yourselvesChosen—before the horse—to put the cart,"Why, Sirs, the sooner that the sexton delvesYour patient's grave the better! How you stare—Shallow, for all the deep books on your shelves!"Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declareWhat name and fame, what riches recompensedThe Doctor's practice? Never anywhereSuch an adept as daily evidencedEach new vaticination! Oh, not heLike dolts who dallied with their scruples, fencedWith subterfuge, nor gave out frank and freeSomething decisive! If he said "I saveThe patient," saved he was: if "Death will be"His portion," you might count him dead. Thus brave,Behold our worthy, sans competitorThroughout the country, on the architraveOf Glory's temple golden-lettered forMachaonredivivus!So, it fellThat, of a sudden, when the EmperorWas smit by sore disease, I need not tellIf any other Doctor's aid was soughtTo come and forthwith make the sick Prince well."He will reward thee as a monarch ought.Not much imports the malady; but then,He clings to life and cries like one distraught"For thee—who, from a simple citizen,Mayst look to rise in rank,—nay, haply wearA medal with his portrait,—always when"Recovery is quite accomplished. There!Pass to the presence!" Hardly has he crossedThe chamber's threshold when he halts, awareOf who stands sentry by the head. All 's lost."Sire, naught avails my art: you near the goal,And end the race by giving up the ghost.""How?" cried the monarch: "Names upon your rollOf half my subjects rescued by your skill—Old and young, rich and poor—crowd cheek by jowl"And yet no room for mine? Be saved I will!Why else am I earth's foremost potentate?Add me to these and take as fee your fill"Of gold—that point admits of no debateBetween us: save me, as you can and must,—Gold, till your gown's pouch cracks beneath the weight!"This touched the Doctor. "Truly a home-thrust,Parent, you will not parry! Have I daredEntreat that you forego the meal of dust"—Man that is snake's meat—when I saw preparedYour daily portion? Never! Just this once,Go from his head, then,—let his life be spared!"Whisper met whisper in the gruff response;"Fool, I must have my prey: no inch I budgeFrom where thou see'st me thus myself ensconce.""Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judgeWealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors proveMore efficacious? Naught to him I grudge"Who saves me. Only keep my head aboveThe cloud that 's creeping round it—I 'll divideMy empire with thee! No? What 's left but—love?"Does love allure thee? Well then, take as brideMy only daughter, fair beyond belief!Save me—to-morrow shall the knot be tied!""Father, you hear him! Respite ne'er so briefIs all I beg: go now and come againNext day, for aught I care: respect the grief"Mine will be if thy first-born sues in vain!""Fool, I must have my prey!" was all he gotIn answer. But a fancy crossed his brain."I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shotJust now across the heavens and neutralizedJove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot"Plumb are you placed now: well that I surmisedThe cause of failure! Knaves, reverse the bed!""Stay!" groaned the monarch, "I shall be capsized—"Jolt—jolt—my heels uplift where late my headWas lying—sure I 'm turned right round at last!What do you say now, Doctor?" Naught he said,For why? With one brisk leap the Antic passedFrom couch-foot back to pillow,—as before,Lord of the situation. Long aghastThe Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial moreIs left me" inwardly he uttered. "ShameUpon thy flinty heart! Do I implore"This trifling favor in the idle nameOf mercy to the moribund? I pleadThe cause of all thou dost affect: my aim"Befits my author! Why would I succeed?Simply that by success I may promoteThe growth of thy pet virtues—pride and greed."But keep thy favors!—curse thee! I devoteHenceforth my service to the other side.No time to lose: the rattle 's in his throat."So,—not to leave one last resource untried,—Run to my house with all haste, somebody!Bring me that knobstick thence, so often plied"With profit by the astrologer—shall IDisdain its help, the mystic Jacob's-Staff?Sire, do but have the courage not to die"Till this arrive! Let none of you dare laugh!Though rugged its exterior, I have seenThat implement work wonders, send the chaff"Quick and thick flying from the wheat—I mean,By metaphor, a human sheaf it threshedFlail-like. Go fetch it! Or—a word betweenJust you and me, friend!—go bid, unabashed,My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stickHerself—herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashedZealous upon the errand. Craft and trickAre meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned—How else?—at an excuse so politicFor failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescindFate's firm decree! And ever as he nearedThe agonizing one, his breath like windFroze to the marrow, while his eye-flash searedSense in the brain up: closelier and more closePressing his prey, when at the door appeared—Who but his Wife the Bad? Whereof one dose,One grain, one mite of the medicament,Sufficed him. Up he sprang. One word, too grossTo soil my lips with,—and through ceiling wentSomehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersedWe know for certain by the sulphury scent!"Hail to the Doctor! Who but one so versedIn all Dame Nature's secrets had prescribedThe staff thus opportunely? Style him first"And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibedElixir surely," smiled the prince,—"have gainedNew lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed"Death to forego me, boots not: you 've obtainedMy daughter and her dowry. Death, I 've heard,Was still on earth the strongest power that reigned,"Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurredNowise the Doctor, so refused the fee—No dowry, no bad wife!"You think absurdThis tale?"—the Rabbi added: "True, our TalmudBoasts sundry such: yet—have our elders erredIn thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?"I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me.

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

A Rabbi told me: On the day allowed

Satan for carping at God's rule, he came,

Fresh from our earth, to brave the angel-crowd.

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

"What is the fault now?" "This I find to blame:

Many and various are the tongues below,

Yet all agree in one speech, all proclaim

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

"'Hell has no might to match what earth, can show:

Death is the strongest-born of Hell, and yet

Stronger than Death is a Bad Wife, we know.'

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

"Is it a wonder if I fume and fret—

Robbed of my rights, since Death am I, and mine

The style of Strongest? Men pay Nature's debt

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

"Because they must at my demand; decline

To pay it henceforth surely men will please,

Provided husbands with bad wives combine

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

"To baffle Death. Judge between me and these!"

"Thyself shalt judge. Descend to earth in shape

Of mortal, marry, drain from froth to lees

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

"The bitter draught, then see if thou escape

Concluding, with men sorrowful and sage,

A Bad Wife's strength Death's self in vain would ape!"

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

How Satan entered on his pilgrimage,

Conformed himself to earthly ordinance,

Wived and played husband well from youth to age

Intrepidly—I leave untold, advanceThrough many a married year until I reachA day when—of his father's countenance

Intrepidly—I leave untold, advance

Through many a married year until I reach

A day when—of his father's countenance

The very image, like him too in speechAs well as thought and deed,—the union's fruitAttained maturity. "I needs must teach

The very image, like him too in speech

As well as thought and deed,—the union's fruit

Attained maturity. "I needs must teach

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

"My son a trade: but trade, such son to suit,

Needs seeking after. He a man of war?

Too cowardly! A lawyer wins repute—

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

"Having to toil and moil, though—both which are

Beyond this sluggard. There 's Divinity:

No, that 's my own bread-winner—that be far

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

"From my poor offspring! Physic? Ha, we 'll try

If this be practicable. Where 's my wit?

Asleep?—since, now I come to think ... Ay, ay!

"Hither, my son! Exactly have I hitOn a profession for thee.Medicus—Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit

"Hither, my son! Exactly have I hit

On a profession for thee.Medicus—

Behold, thou art appointed! Yea, I spit

"Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thusThat henceforth not this human form I wearShalt thou perceive alone, but—one of us

"Upon thine eyes, bestow a virtue thus

That henceforth not this human form I wear

Shalt thou perceive alone, but—one of us

"By privilege—thy fleshly sight shall bearMe in my spirit-person as I walkThe world and take my prey appointed there.

"By privilege—thy fleshly sight shall bear

Me in my spirit-person as I walk

The world and take my prey appointed there.

"Doctor once dubbed—what ignorance shall balkThy march triumphant? Diagnose the goutAs colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk—

"Doctor once dubbed—what ignorance shall balk

Thy march triumphant? Diagnose the gout

As colic, and prescribe it cheese for chalk—

"No matter! All 's one: cure shall come aboutAnd win thee wealth—fees paid with such a roarOf thanks and praise alike from lord and lout

"No matter! All 's one: cure shall come about

And win thee wealth—fees paid with such a roar

Of thanks and praise alike from lord and lout

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

"As never stunned man's ears on earth before.

'How may this be?' Why, that 's my skeptic! Soon

Truth will corrupt thee, soon thou doubt'st no more!

"Why is it I bestow on thee the boonOf recognizing me the while I goInvisibly among men, morning, noon,

"Why is it I bestow on thee the boon

Of recognizing me the while I go

Invisibly among men, morning, noon,

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

"And night, from house to house, and—quick or slow—

Take my appointed prey? They summon thee

For help, suppose: obey the summons! so!

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

"Enter, look round! Where 's Death? Know—I am he,

Satan who work all evil: I who bring

Pain to the patient in whate'er degree.

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

"I, then, am there: first glance thine eye shall fling

Will find me—whether distant or at hand,

As I am free to do my spiriting.

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

"At such mere first glance thou shalt understand

Wherefore I reach no higher up the room

Than door or window, when my form is scanned.

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

"Howe'er friends' faces please to gather gloom,

Bent o'er the sick,—howe'er himself desponds,—

In such case Death is not the sufferer's doom.

"Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bondsAre broken, does the captive in his turnCrow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds

"Contrariwise, do friends rejoice my bonds

Are broken, does the captive in his turn

Crow 'Life shall conquer'? Nip these foolish fronds

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

"Of hope a-sprout, if haply thou discern

Me at the head—my victim's head, be sure!

Forth now! This taught thee, little else to learn!"

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

And forth he went. Folk heard him ask demure,

"How do you style this ailment? (There he peeps,

My father through the arras!) Sirs, the cure

"Is plain as A B C! Experience steepsBlossoms of pennyroyal half an hourIn sherris.Sumat!—Lo, how sound he sleeps—

"Is plain as A B C! Experience steeps

Blossoms of pennyroyal half an hour

In sherris.Sumat!—Lo, how sound he sleeps—

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

"The subject you presumed was past the power

Of Galen to relieve!" Or else, "How 's this?

Why call for help so tardily? Clouds lour

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

"Portentously indeed, Sirs! (Naught 's amiss:

He 's at the bed-foot merely.) Still, the storm

May pass averted—not by quacks, I wis,

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

"Like you, my masters! You, forsooth, perform

A miracle? Stand, sciolists, aside!

Blood, ne'er so cold, at ignorance grows warm!"

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

Which boasting by result was justified,

Big as might words be: whether drugged or left

Drugless, the patient always lived, not died.

Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereftOf all he prized in this world: sweet the smileOf disconcerted rivals: "Cure?—say, theft

Great the heir's gratitude, so nigh bereft

Of all he prized in this world: sweet the smile

Of disconcerted rivals: "Cure?—say, theft

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

"From Nature in despite of Art—so style

This off-hand kill-or-cure work! You did much,

I had done more: folk cannot wait awhile!"

But did the case change? was it—"Scarcely suchThe symptoms as to warrant our recourseTo your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch

But did the case change? was it—"Scarcely such

The symptoms as to warrant our recourse

To your skill, Doctor! Yet since just a touch

"Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the forceWith you of long investigation claimedBy others,—tracks an ailment to its source

"Of pulse, a taste of breath, has all the force

With you of long investigation claimed

By others,—tracks an ailment to its source

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

"Intuitively,—may we ask unblamed

What from this pimple you prognosticate?"

"Death!" was the answer, as he saw and named

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

The coucher by the sick man's head. "Too late

You send for my assistance. I am bold

Only by Nature's leave, and bow to Fate!

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

"Besides, you have my rivals: lavish gold!

How comfortably quick shall life depart

Cosseted by attentions manifold!

"One day, one hour ago, perchance my artHad done some service. Since you have yourselvesChosen—before the horse—to put the cart,

"One day, one hour ago, perchance my art

Had done some service. Since you have yourselves

Chosen—before the horse—to put the cart,

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

"Why, Sirs, the sooner that the sexton delves

Your patient's grave the better! How you stare

—Shallow, for all the deep books on your shelves!

"Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declareWhat name and fame, what riches recompensedThe Doctor's practice? Never anywhere

"Fare you well, fumblers!" Do I need declare

What name and fame, what riches recompensed

The Doctor's practice? Never anywhere

Such an adept as daily evidencedEach new vaticination! Oh, not heLike dolts who dallied with their scruples, fenced

Such an adept as daily evidenced

Each new vaticination! Oh, not he

Like dolts who dallied with their scruples, fenced

With subterfuge, nor gave out frank and freeSomething decisive! If he said "I saveThe patient," saved he was: if "Death will be

With subterfuge, nor gave out frank and free

Something decisive! If he said "I save

The patient," saved he was: if "Death will be

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

"His portion," you might count him dead. Thus brave,

Behold our worthy, sans competitor

Throughout the country, on the architrave

Of Glory's temple golden-lettered forMachaonredivivus!So, it fellThat, of a sudden, when the Emperor

Of Glory's temple golden-lettered for

Machaonredivivus!So, it fell

That, of a sudden, when the Emperor

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

Was smit by sore disease, I need not tell

If any other Doctor's aid was sought

To come and forthwith make the sick Prince well.

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

"He will reward thee as a monarch ought.

Not much imports the malady; but then,

He clings to life and cries like one distraught

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

"For thee—who, from a simple citizen,

Mayst look to rise in rank,—nay, haply wear

A medal with his portrait,—always when

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

"Recovery is quite accomplished. There!

Pass to the presence!" Hardly has he crossed

The chamber's threshold when he halts, aware

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

Of who stands sentry by the head. All 's lost.

"Sire, naught avails my art: you near the goal,

And end the race by giving up the ghost."

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

"How?" cried the monarch: "Names upon your roll

Of half my subjects rescued by your skill—

Old and young, rich and poor—crowd cheek by jowl

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

"And yet no room for mine? Be saved I will!

Why else am I earth's foremost potentate?

Add me to these and take as fee your fill

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

"Of gold—that point admits of no debate

Between us: save me, as you can and must,—

Gold, till your gown's pouch cracks beneath the weight!"

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

This touched the Doctor. "Truly a home-thrust,

Parent, you will not parry! Have I dared

Entreat that you forego the meal of dust

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

"—Man that is snake's meat—when I saw prepared

Your daily portion? Never! Just this once,

Go from his head, then,—let his life be spared!"

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

Whisper met whisper in the gruff response;

"Fool, I must have my prey: no inch I budge

From where thou see'st me thus myself ensconce."

"Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judgeWealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors proveMore efficacious? Naught to him I grudge

"Ah," moaned the sufferer, "by thy look I judge

Wealth fails to tempt thee: what if honors prove

More efficacious? Naught to him I grudge

"Who saves me. Only keep my head aboveThe cloud that 's creeping round it—I 'll divideMy empire with thee! No? What 's left but—love?

"Who saves me. Only keep my head above

The cloud that 's creeping round it—I 'll divide

My empire with thee! No? What 's left but—love?

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

"Does love allure thee? Well then, take as bride

My only daughter, fair beyond belief!

Save me—to-morrow shall the knot be tied!"

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

"Father, you hear him! Respite ne'er so brief

Is all I beg: go now and come again

Next day, for aught I care: respect the grief

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

"Mine will be if thy first-born sues in vain!"

"Fool, I must have my prey!" was all he got

In answer. But a fancy crossed his brain.

"I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shotJust now across the heavens and neutralizedJove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot

"I have it! Sire, methinks a meteor shot

Just now across the heavens and neutralized

Jove's salutary influence: 'neath the blot

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

"Plumb are you placed now: well that I surmised

The cause of failure! Knaves, reverse the bed!"

"Stay!" groaned the monarch, "I shall be capsized—

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

"Jolt—jolt—my heels uplift where late my head

Was lying—sure I 'm turned right round at last!

What do you say now, Doctor?" Naught he said,

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

For why? With one brisk leap the Antic passed

From couch-foot back to pillow,—as before,

Lord of the situation. Long aghast

The Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial moreIs left me" inwardly he uttered. "ShameUpon thy flinty heart! Do I implore

The Doctor gazed, then "Yet one trial more

Is left me" inwardly he uttered. "Shame

Upon thy flinty heart! Do I implore

"This trifling favor in the idle nameOf mercy to the moribund? I pleadThe cause of all thou dost affect: my aim

"This trifling favor in the idle name

Of mercy to the moribund? I plead

The cause of all thou dost affect: my aim

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

"Befits my author! Why would I succeed?

Simply that by success I may promote

The growth of thy pet virtues—pride and greed.

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

"But keep thy favors!—curse thee! I devote

Henceforth my service to the other side.

No time to lose: the rattle 's in his throat.

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

"So,—not to leave one last resource untried,—

Run to my house with all haste, somebody!

Bring me that knobstick thence, so often plied

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

"With profit by the astrologer—shall I

Disdain its help, the mystic Jacob's-Staff?

Sire, do but have the courage not to die

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

"Till this arrive! Let none of you dare laugh!

Though rugged its exterior, I have seen

That implement work wonders, send the chaff

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

"Quick and thick flying from the wheat—I mean,

By metaphor, a human sheaf it threshed

Flail-like. Go fetch it! Or—a word between

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

Just you and me, friend!—go bid, unabashed,

My mother, whom you 'll find there, bring the stick

Herself—herself, mind!" Out the lackey dashed

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

Zealous upon the errand. Craft and trick

Are meat and drink to Satan: and he grinned

—How else?—at an excuse so politic

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

For failure: scarce would Jacob's-Staff rescind

Fate's firm decree! And ever as he neared

The agonizing one, his breath like wind

Froze to the marrow, while his eye-flash searedSense in the brain up: closelier and more closePressing his prey, when at the door appeared

Froze to the marrow, while his eye-flash seared

Sense in the brain up: closelier and more close

Pressing his prey, when at the door appeared

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

—Who but his Wife the Bad? Whereof one dose,

One grain, one mite of the medicament,

Sufficed him. Up he sprang. One word, too gross

To soil my lips with,—and through ceiling wentSomehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersedWe know for certain by the sulphury scent!

To soil my lips with,—and through ceiling went

Somehow the Husband. "That a storm 's dispersed

We know for certain by the sulphury scent!

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

"Hail to the Doctor! Who but one so versed

In all Dame Nature's secrets had prescribed

The staff thus opportunely? Style him first

"And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibedElixir surely," smiled the prince,—"have gainedNew lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed

"And foremost of physicians!" "I've imbibed

Elixir surely," smiled the prince,—"have gained

New lease of life. Dear Doctor, how you bribed

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

"Death to forego me, boots not: you 've obtained

My daughter and her dowry. Death, I 've heard,

Was still on earth the strongest power that reigned,

"Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurredNowise the Doctor, so refused the fee—No dowry, no bad wife!

"Except a Bad Wife!" Whereunto demurred

Nowise the Doctor, so refused the fee

—No dowry, no bad wife!

"You think absurdThis tale?"—the Rabbi added: "True, our TalmudBoasts sundry such: yet—have our elders erredIn thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?"I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me.

"You think absurd

This tale?"—the Rabbi added: "True, our Talmud

Boasts sundry such: yet—have our elders erred

In thinking there 's some water there, not all mud?"

I tell it, as the Rabbi told it me.

Si credere dignum est.—Georgic, III. 390.

Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was,Virgil, your legend in those strange three lines!No question, that adventure came to passOne black night in Arcadia: yes, the pines,Mountains and valleys mingling made one massOf black with void black heaven: the earth's confines,The sky's embrace,—below, above, around,All hardened into black without a bound.Fill up a swart stone chalice to the brimWith fresh-squeezed yet fast-thickening poppy-juice:See how the sluggish jelly, late a-swim,Turns marble to the touch of who would looseThe solid smooth, grown jet from rim to rim,By turning round the bowl! So night can fuseEarth with her all-comprising sky. No less.Light, the least spark, shows air and emptiness.And thus it proved when—diving into space,Stript of all vapor, from each web of mistUtterly film-free—entered on her raceThe naked Moon, full-orbed antagonistOf night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base,Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissedTo sudden life, lay silver-bright: in airFlew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare.Still as she fled, each depth—where refuge seemed—Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinctThose limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemedHerself with whiteness,—virginal, uncinctBy any halo save what finely gleamedTo outline not disguise her: heaven was linkedIn one accord with earth to quaff the joy,Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy.Whereof she grew aware. What help? When, lo,A succorable cloud with sleep lay dense:Some pinetree-top had caught it sailing slow,And tethered for a prize: in evidenceCaptive lay fleece on fleece of piled-up snowDrowsily patient: flake-heaped how or whence,The structure of that succorable cloud,What matter? Shamed she plunged into its shroud.Orbed—so the woman-figure poets callBecause of rounds on rounds—that apple-shapedHead which its hair binds close into a ballEach side the curving ears—that pure undrapedPout of the sister paps—that ... Once for all,Say—her consummate circle thus escapedWith its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed,Safe in the cloud—O naked Moon full-orbed!But what means this? The downy swathes combine,Conglobe, the smothery coy-caressing stuffCurdles about her! Vain each twist and twineThose lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluffFitting as close as fits the dented spineIts flexible ivory outside-flesh: enough!The plumy drifts contract, condense, constringe,Till she is swallowed by the feathery springe.As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foamChurned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceitsHerself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,—If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meetsWhat most she loathes and leaps from,—elf from gnomeNo gladlier,—finds that safest of retreatsBubble about a treacherous hand wide opeTo grasp her—(divers who pick pearls so grope)—So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caughtBy rough red Pan, the god of all that tract:He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wroughtWith simulated earth-breath,—wool-tufts packedInto a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-soughtFor spotless shearings yield such: take the factAs learned Virgil gives it,—how the breedWhitens itself forever: yes, indeed!If one forefather ram, though pure as chalkFrom tinge on fleece, should still display a tongueBlack 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balkThe propagating plague: he gets no young:They rather slay him,—sell his hide to calkShips with, first steeped in pitch,—nor hands are wrungIn sorrow for his fate: protected thus,The purity we love is gained for us.So did Girl-Moon, by just her attributeOf unmatched modesty betrayed, lie trapped,Bruised to the breast of Pan, half god half brute,Raked by his bristly boar-sward while he lapped—Never say, kissed her! that were to polluteLove's language—which moreover proves unaptTo tell now she recoiled—as who finds thornsWhere she sought flowers—when, feeling, she touched—horns!Then—does the legend say?—first moon-eclipseHappened, first swooning-fit which puzzled soreThe early sages? Is that why she dipsInto the dark, a minute and no more,Only so long as serves her while she ripsThe cloud's womb through and, faultless as before,Pursues her way? No lesson for a maidLeft she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed?Ha, Virgil? Tell the rest, you! "To the deepOf his domain the wildwood, Pan forthwithCalled her, and so she followed"—in her sleep,Surely?—"by no means spurning him." The mythExplain who may! Let all else go, I keep—As of a ruin just a monolith—Thus much, one verse of five words, each a boon:Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon.

Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was,Virgil, your legend in those strange three lines!No question, that adventure came to passOne black night in Arcadia: yes, the pines,Mountains and valleys mingling made one massOf black with void black heaven: the earth's confines,The sky's embrace,—below, above, around,All hardened into black without a bound.Fill up a swart stone chalice to the brimWith fresh-squeezed yet fast-thickening poppy-juice:See how the sluggish jelly, late a-swim,Turns marble to the touch of who would looseThe solid smooth, grown jet from rim to rim,By turning round the bowl! So night can fuseEarth with her all-comprising sky. No less.Light, the least spark, shows air and emptiness.And thus it proved when—diving into space,Stript of all vapor, from each web of mistUtterly film-free—entered on her raceThe naked Moon, full-orbed antagonistOf night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base,Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissedTo sudden life, lay silver-bright: in airFlew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare.Still as she fled, each depth—where refuge seemed—Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinctThose limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemedHerself with whiteness,—virginal, uncinctBy any halo save what finely gleamedTo outline not disguise her: heaven was linkedIn one accord with earth to quaff the joy,Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy.Whereof she grew aware. What help? When, lo,A succorable cloud with sleep lay dense:Some pinetree-top had caught it sailing slow,And tethered for a prize: in evidenceCaptive lay fleece on fleece of piled-up snowDrowsily patient: flake-heaped how or whence,The structure of that succorable cloud,What matter? Shamed she plunged into its shroud.Orbed—so the woman-figure poets callBecause of rounds on rounds—that apple-shapedHead which its hair binds close into a ballEach side the curving ears—that pure undrapedPout of the sister paps—that ... Once for all,Say—her consummate circle thus escapedWith its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed,Safe in the cloud—O naked Moon full-orbed!But what means this? The downy swathes combine,Conglobe, the smothery coy-caressing stuffCurdles about her! Vain each twist and twineThose lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluffFitting as close as fits the dented spineIts flexible ivory outside-flesh: enough!The plumy drifts contract, condense, constringe,Till she is swallowed by the feathery springe.As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foamChurned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceitsHerself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,—If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meetsWhat most she loathes and leaps from,—elf from gnomeNo gladlier,—finds that safest of retreatsBubble about a treacherous hand wide opeTo grasp her—(divers who pick pearls so grope)—So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caughtBy rough red Pan, the god of all that tract:He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wroughtWith simulated earth-breath,—wool-tufts packedInto a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-soughtFor spotless shearings yield such: take the factAs learned Virgil gives it,—how the breedWhitens itself forever: yes, indeed!If one forefather ram, though pure as chalkFrom tinge on fleece, should still display a tongueBlack 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balkThe propagating plague: he gets no young:They rather slay him,—sell his hide to calkShips with, first steeped in pitch,—nor hands are wrungIn sorrow for his fate: protected thus,The purity we love is gained for us.So did Girl-Moon, by just her attributeOf unmatched modesty betrayed, lie trapped,Bruised to the breast of Pan, half god half brute,Raked by his bristly boar-sward while he lapped—Never say, kissed her! that were to polluteLove's language—which moreover proves unaptTo tell now she recoiled—as who finds thornsWhere she sought flowers—when, feeling, she touched—horns!Then—does the legend say?—first moon-eclipseHappened, first swooning-fit which puzzled soreThe early sages? Is that why she dipsInto the dark, a minute and no more,Only so long as serves her while she ripsThe cloud's womb through and, faultless as before,Pursues her way? No lesson for a maidLeft she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed?Ha, Virgil? Tell the rest, you! "To the deepOf his domain the wildwood, Pan forthwithCalled her, and so she followed"—in her sleep,Surely?—"by no means spurning him." The mythExplain who may! Let all else go, I keep—As of a ruin just a monolith—Thus much, one verse of five words, each a boon:Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon.

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

Oh, worthy of belief I hold it was,

Virgil, your legend in those strange three lines!

No question, that adventure came to pass

One black night in Arcadia: yes, the pines,

Mountains and valleys mingling made one mass

Of black with void black heaven: the earth's confines,

The sky's embrace,—below, above, around,

All hardened into black without a bound.

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

Fill up a swart stone chalice to the brim

With fresh-squeezed yet fast-thickening poppy-juice:

See how the sluggish jelly, late a-swim,

Turns marble to the touch of who would loose

The solid smooth, grown jet from rim to rim,

By turning round the bowl! So night can fuse

Earth with her all-comprising sky. No less.

Light, the least spark, shows air and emptiness.

And thus it proved when—diving into space,Stript of all vapor, from each web of mistUtterly film-free—entered on her raceThe naked Moon, full-orbed antagonistOf night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base,Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissedTo sudden life, lay silver-bright: in airFlew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare.

And thus it proved when—diving into space,

Stript of all vapor, from each web of mist

Utterly film-free—entered on her race

The naked Moon, full-orbed antagonist

Of night and dark, night's dowry: peak to base,

Upstarted mountains, and each valley, kissed

To sudden life, lay silver-bright: in air

Flew she revealed, Maid-Moon with limbs all bare.

Still as she fled, each depth—where refuge seemed—Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinctThose limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemedHerself with whiteness,—virginal, uncinctBy any halo save what finely gleamedTo outline not disguise her: heaven was linkedIn one accord with earth to quaff the joy,Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy.

Still as she fled, each depth—where refuge seemed—

Opening a lone pale chamber, left distinct

Those limbs: 'mid still-retreating blue, she teemed

Herself with whiteness,—virginal, uncinct

By any halo save what finely gleamed

To outline not disguise her: heaven was linked

In one accord with earth to quaff the joy,

Drain beauty to the dregs without alloy.

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

Whereof she grew aware. What help? When, lo,

A succorable cloud with sleep lay dense:

Some pinetree-top had caught it sailing slow,

And tethered for a prize: in evidence

Captive lay fleece on fleece of piled-up snow

Drowsily patient: flake-heaped how or whence,

The structure of that succorable cloud,

What matter? Shamed she plunged into its shroud.

Orbed—so the woman-figure poets callBecause of rounds on rounds—that apple-shapedHead which its hair binds close into a ballEach side the curving ears—that pure undrapedPout of the sister paps—that ... Once for all,Say—her consummate circle thus escapedWith its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed,Safe in the cloud—O naked Moon full-orbed!

Orbed—so the woman-figure poets call

Because of rounds on rounds—that apple-shaped

Head which its hair binds close into a ball

Each side the curving ears—that pure undraped

Pout of the sister paps—that ... Once for all,

Say—her consummate circle thus escaped

With its innumerous circlets, sank absorbed,

Safe in the cloud—O naked Moon full-orbed!

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

But what means this? The downy swathes combine,

Conglobe, the smothery coy-caressing stuff

Curdles about her! Vain each twist and twine

Those lithe limbs try, encroached on by a fluff

Fitting as close as fits the dented spine

Its flexible ivory outside-flesh: enough!

The plumy drifts contract, condense, constringe,

Till she is swallowed by the feathery springe.

As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foamChurned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceitsHerself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,—If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meetsWhat most she loathes and leaps from,—elf from gnomeNo gladlier,—finds that safest of retreatsBubble about a treacherous hand wide opeTo grasp her—(divers who pick pearls so grope)—

As when a pearl slips lost in the thin foam

Churned on a sea-shore, and, o'er-frothed, conceits

Herself safe-housed in Amphitrite's dome,—

If, through the bladdery wave-worked yeast, she meets

What most she loathes and leaps from,—elf from gnome

No gladlier,—finds that safest of retreats

Bubble about a treacherous hand wide ope

To grasp her—(divers who pick pearls so grope)—

So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caughtBy rough red Pan, the god of all that tract:He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wroughtWith simulated earth-breath,—wool-tufts packedInto a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-soughtFor spotless shearings yield such: take the factAs learned Virgil gives it,—how the breedWhitens itself forever: yes, indeed!

So lay this Maid-Moon clasped around and caught

By rough red Pan, the god of all that tract:

He it was schemed the snare thus subtly wrought

With simulated earth-breath,—wool-tufts packed

Into a billowy wrappage. Sheep far-sought

For spotless shearings yield such: take the fact

As learned Virgil gives it,—how the breed

Whitens itself forever: yes, indeed!

If one forefather ram, though pure as chalkFrom tinge on fleece, should still display a tongueBlack 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balkThe propagating plague: he gets no young:They rather slay him,—sell his hide to calkShips with, first steeped in pitch,—nor hands are wrungIn sorrow for his fate: protected thus,The purity we love is gained for us.

If one forefather ram, though pure as chalk

From tinge on fleece, should still display a tongue

Black 'neath the beast's moist palate, prompt men balk

The propagating plague: he gets no young:

They rather slay him,—sell his hide to calk

Ships with, first steeped in pitch,—nor hands are wrung

In sorrow for his fate: protected thus,

The purity we love is gained for us.

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

So did Girl-Moon, by just her attribute

Of unmatched modesty betrayed, lie trapped,

Bruised to the breast of Pan, half god half brute,

Raked by his bristly boar-sward while he lapped

—Never say, kissed her! that were to pollute

Love's language—which moreover proves unapt

To tell now she recoiled—as who finds thorns

Where she sought flowers—when, feeling, she touched—horns!

Then—does the legend say?—first moon-eclipseHappened, first swooning-fit which puzzled soreThe early sages? Is that why she dipsInto the dark, a minute and no more,Only so long as serves her while she ripsThe cloud's womb through and, faultless as before,Pursues her way? No lesson for a maidLeft she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed?

Then—does the legend say?—first moon-eclipse

Happened, first swooning-fit which puzzled sore

The early sages? Is that why she dips

Into the dark, a minute and no more,

Only so long as serves her while she rips

The cloud's womb through and, faultless as before,

Pursues her way? No lesson for a maid

Left she, a maid herself thus trapped, betrayed?

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

Ha, Virgil? Tell the rest, you! "To the deep

Of his domain the wildwood, Pan forthwith

Called her, and so she followed"—in her sleep,

Surely?—"by no means spurning him." The myth

Explain who may! Let all else go, I keep

—As of a ruin just a monolith—

Thus much, one verse of five words, each a boon:

Arcadia, night, a cloud, Pan, and the moon.

The first ten lines that follow were printed as epilogue to the second series ofDramatic Idyls;the second ten were added to them by Browning in the album of a young American girl in Venice, October, 1880. SeeThe Centuryfor November, 1882.

"Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed,Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awokeVitalizing virtue: song would song succeedSudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!"Indeed?Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rageVainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there:Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after-ageKnows and names a pine, a nation's heritage.Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried,"Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fettersBinding Dante bind up—me! as if true prideWere not also humble!So I smiled and sighedAs I oped your book in Venice this bright morning,Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand,Whatsoe'er my soil be, break—for praise or scorning—Out in grateful fancies—weeds; but weeds expandAlmost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand.

"Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed,Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awokeVitalizing virtue: song would song succeedSudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!"Indeed?Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rageVainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there:Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after-ageKnows and names a pine, a nation's heritage.Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried,"Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fettersBinding Dante bind up—me! as if true prideWere not also humble!So I smiled and sighedAs I oped your book in Venice this bright morning,Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand,Whatsoe'er my soil be, break—for praise or scorning—Out in grateful fancies—weeds; but weeds expandAlmost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand.

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

"Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke:

Soil so quick-receptive,—not one feather-seed,

Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke

Vitalizing virtue: song would song succeed

Sudden as spontaneous—prove a poet-soul!"

Indeed?

Rock's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare:

Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage

Vainly both expend,—few flowers awaken there:

Quiet in its cleft broods—what the after-age

Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage.

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

Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters,

Poets dead and gone; and lo, the critics cried,

"Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that fetters

Binding Dante bind up—me! as if true pride

Were not also humble!

So I smiled and sighed

As I oped your book in Venice this bright morning,

Sweet new friend of mine! and felt the clay or sand,

Whatsoe'er my soil be, break—for praise or scorning—

Out in grateful fancies—weeds; but weeds expand

Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand.

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

The blind man to the maiden said,"O thou of hearts the truest,Thy countenance is hid from me;Let not my question anger thee!Speak, though in words the fewest."Tell me, what kind of eyes are thine?Dark eyes, or light ones rather?""My eyes are a decided brown—So much, at least, by looking down,From the brook's glass I gather.""And is it red—thy little month?That too the blind must care for.""Ah! I would tell it soon to thee,Only—none yet has told it me.I cannot answer, therefore."But dost thou ask what heart I have—There hesitate I never.In thine own breast 't is borne, and so'T is thine in weal, and thine in woe,For life, for death—thine ever!"

The blind man to the maiden said,"O thou of hearts the truest,Thy countenance is hid from me;Let not my question anger thee!Speak, though in words the fewest."Tell me, what kind of eyes are thine?Dark eyes, or light ones rather?""My eyes are a decided brown—So much, at least, by looking down,From the brook's glass I gather.""And is it red—thy little month?That too the blind must care for.""Ah! I would tell it soon to thee,Only—none yet has told it me.I cannot answer, therefore."But dost thou ask what heart I have—There hesitate I never.In thine own breast 't is borne, and so'T is thine in weal, and thine in woe,For life, for death—thine ever!"

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

The blind man to the maiden said,

"O thou of hearts the truest,

Thy countenance is hid from me;

Let not my question anger thee!

Speak, though in words the fewest.

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

"Tell me, what kind of eyes are thine?

Dark eyes, or light ones rather?"

"My eyes are a decided brown—

So much, at least, by looking down,

From the brook's glass I gather."

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

"And is it red—thy little month?

That too the blind must care for."

"Ah! I would tell it soon to thee,

Only—none yet has told it me.

I cannot answer, therefore.

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

"But dost thou ask what heart I have—

There hesitate I never.

In thine own breast 't is borne, and so

'T is thine in weal, and thine in woe,

For life, for death—thine ever!"

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

Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls,—Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,—What though it just reflect the shade and shineOf common life, nor render, as it rolls,Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoalsWas Carnival; Parini's depths enshrineSecrets unsuited to that opalineSurface of things which laughs along thy scrolls.There throng the people: how they come and go,Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,—see,—On Piazza, Calle, under PorticoAnd over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy,Be honored! thou that didst love Venice so,Venice, and we who love her, all love thee!Venice,November 27, 1883.

Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls,—Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,—What though it just reflect the shade and shineOf common life, nor render, as it rolls,Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoalsWas Carnival; Parini's depths enshrineSecrets unsuited to that opalineSurface of things which laughs along thy scrolls.There throng the people: how they come and go,Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,—see,—On Piazza, Calle, under PorticoAnd over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy,Be honored! thou that didst love Venice so,Venice, and we who love her, all love thee!Venice,November 27, 1883.

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

Goldoni—good, gay, sunniest of souls,—

Glassing half Venice in that verse of thine,—

What though it just reflect the shade and shine

Of common life, nor render, as it rolls,

Grandeur and gloom? Sufficient for thy shoals

Was Carnival; Parini's depths enshrine

Secrets unsuited to that opaline

Surface of things which laughs along thy scrolls.

There throng the people: how they come and go,

Lisp the soft language, flaunt the bright garb,—see,—

On Piazza, Calle, under Portico

And over Bridge! Dear king of Comedy,

Be honored! thou that didst love Venice so,

Venice, and we who love her, all love thee!

Venice,November 27, 1883.

Venice,November 27, 1883.

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

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

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

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

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

Wanting is—what?

Summer redundant,

Blueness abundant,

—Where is the blot?

Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same,

—Framework which waits for a picture to frame:

What of the leafage, what of the flower?

Roses embowering with naught they embower!

Come then, complete incompletion, O comer,

Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer!

Breathe but one breath

Rose-beauty above,

And all that was death

Grows life, grows love,

Grows love!

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

"Will you hear my story also,—Huge Sport, brave adventure in plenty?"The boys were a band from Oxford,The oldest of whom was twenty.The bothy we held carouse inWas bright with fire and candle;Tale followed tale like a merry-go-roundWhereof Sport turned the handle.In our eyes and noses—turf-smoke:In our ears a tune from the trivet,Whence "Boiling, boiling," the kettle sang,"And ready for fresh Glenlivet."So, feat capped feat, with a vengeance:Truths, though,—the lads were loyal:Grouse, five-score brace to the bag!Deer, ten hours' stalk of the Royal!"Of boasting, not one bit, boys!Only there seemed to settleSomehow above your curly heads,—Plain through the singing kettle,Palpable through the cloud,As each new-puffed HavanaRewarded the teller's well-told tale,—This vaunt "To Sport—Hosanna!"Hunt, fish, shoot,Would a man fulfil life's duty!Not to the bodily frame aloneDoes Sport give strength and beauty,"But character gains in—courage?Ay, Sir, and much beside it!You don't sport,more 's the pity;You soon would find, if you tried it,"Good sportsman means good fellow,Sound-hearted he, to the centre;Your mealy-mouthed mild milksops—There 's where the rot can enter!"There 's where the dirt will breed,The shabbiness Sport would banish!Oh no, Sir, no! In your honored caseAll such objections vanish."'T is known how hard you studied:A Double-First—what, the jigger!Give me but half your Latin and Greek,I 'll never again touch trigger!"Still, tastes are tastes, allow me!Allow, too, where there 's keennessFor Sport, there 's little likelihoodOf a man's displaying meanness!"So, put on my mettle, I interposed."Will you hear my story?" quoth I.Never mind how long since it happed,I sat, as we sit, in a bothy;"With as merry a band of mates, too,Undergrads all on a level:(One 's a Bishop, one 's gone to the Bench,And one's gone—well, to the Devil.)"When, lo, a scratching and tapping!In hobbled a ghastly visitor.Listen to just what he told us himself—No need of our playing inquisitor!"Do you happen to know in Ross-shireMount Ben ... but the name scarce matters:Of the naked fact I am sure enough,Though I clothe it in rags and tatters.You may recognize Ben by description;Behind him—a moor's immenseness:Up goes the middle mount of a range,Fringed with its firs in denseness.Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind!For an edge there is, though narrow;From end to end of the range, a stripOf path runs straight as an arrow.And the mountaineer who takes that pathSaves himself miles of journeyHe has to plod if he crosses the moorThrough heather, peat, and burnie.But a mountaineer he needs must be,For, look you, right in the middleProjects bluff Ben—with an end inich—Why planted there, is a riddle:Since all Ben's brothers little and bigKeep rank, set shoulder to shoulder,And only this burliest out must bulgeTill it seems—to the beholderFrom down in the gully,—as if Ben's breast,To a sudden spike diminished,Would signify to the boldest foot"All further passage finished!"Yet the mountaineer who sidles onAnd on to the very bending,Discovers, if heart and brain be proof,No necessary ending.Foot up, foot down, to the turn abruptHaving trod, he, there arriving,Finds—what he took for a point was breadth,A mercy of Nature's contriving.So, he rounds what, when 't is reached, proves straight,From one side gains the other:The wee path widens—resume the march,And he foils you, Ben my brother!But Donald—(that name, I hope, will do)—I wrong him if I call "foiling"The tramp of the callant, whistling the whileAs blithe as our kettle's boiling.He had dared the danger from boyhood up,And now,—when perchance was waitingA lass at the brig below,—'twixt mountAnd moor would he stand debating?Moreover this Donald was twenty-five,A glory of bone and muscle:Did a fiend dispute the right of way,Donald would try a tussle.Lightsomely marched he out of the broadOn to the narrow and narrow;A step more, rounding the angular rock,Reached the front straight as an arrow.He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood,When—whom found he full-facing?What fellow in courage and wariness too,Had scouted ignoble pacing,And left low safety to timid mates,And made for the dread dear danger,And gained the height where—who could guessHe would meet with a rival ranger?'T was a gold-red stag that stood and stared,Gigantic and magnific,By the wonder—ay, and the peril—struckIntelligent and pacific:For a red deer is no fallow deerGrown cowardly through park-feeding;He batters you like a thunderboltIf you brave his haunts unheeding.I doubt he could hardly performvolte-faceHad valor advised discretion:You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a ropeNo Blondin makes profession.Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit,Though pride ill brooks retiring:Each eyed each—mute man, motionless beast—Less fearing than admiring.These are the moments when quite new sense,To meet some need as novel,Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource:—"Nor advance nor retreat but—grovel!"And slowly, surely, never a whitRelaxing the steady tensionOf eye-stare which binds man to beast,—By an inch and inch declension,Sank Donald sidewise down and down:Till flat, breast upwards, lyingAt his six-foot length, no corpse more still,—"If he cross me! The trick 's worth trying."Minutes were an eternity;But a new sense was createdIn the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure,With eye-stare unabated,Feelingly he extends a footWhich tastes the way ere it touchesEarth's solid and just escapes man's soft,Nor hold of the same unclutchesTill its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk,Lands itself no less finely:So a mother removes a fly from the faceOf her babe asleep supinely.And now 't is the haunch and hind-foot's turn—That 's hard: can the beast quite raise it?Yes, traversing half the prostrate length,His hoof-tip does not graze it.Just one more lift! But Donald, you see,Was sportsman first, man after:A fancy lightened his caution through,—He wellnigh broke into laughter:"It were nothing short of a miracle!Unrivalled, unexampled—All sporting feats with this feat matchedWere down and dead and trampled!"The last of the legs as tenderlyFollows the rest: or neverOr now is the time! His knife in reach,And his right-hand loose—how clever!For this can stab up the stomach's soft,While the left-hand grasps the pastern.A rise on the elbow, and—now 's the timeOr never: this turn 's the last turn!I shall dare to place myself by GodWho scanned—for he does—each featureOf the face thrown up in appeal to himBy the agonizing creature.Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!"Up he sprang, back he staggered,Over he fell, and with him our friend—At following game no laggard.Yet he was not dead when they picked next dayFrom the gully's depth the wreck of him;His fall had been stayed by the stag beneathWho cushioned and saved the neck of him.But the rest of his body—why, doctors said,Whatever could break was broken;Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toastIn a tumbler of port-wine soaken."That your life is left you, thank the stag!"Said they when—the slow cure ended—They opened the hospital-door, and thence—Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended,And minor damage left wisely alone,—Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled,Out—what went in a Goliath wellnigh,—Some half of a David hobbled."You must ask an alms from house to house:Sell the stag's head for a bracket,With its grand twelve tines—I 'd buy it myself—And use the skin for a jacket!"He was wiser, made both head and hideHis win-penny: hands and knees on,Would manage to crawl—poor crab—by the roadsIn the misty stalking-season.And if he discovered a bothy like this,Why, harvest was sure: folk listened.He told his tale to the lovers of Sport:Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened.And when he had come to the close, and spreadHis spoils for the gazers' wonder,With "Gentlemen, here 's the skull of the stagI was over, thank God, not under!"—The company broke out in applause;"By Jingo, a lucky cripple!Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread,And a tug, besides, at our tipple!"And "There 's my pay for your pluck!" cried This,"And mine for your jolly story!"Cried That, while T' other—but he was drunk—Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!"I hope I gave twice as much as the rest;For, as Homer would say, "within grateThough teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled,"Rightly rewarded,—Ingrate!"

"Will you hear my story also,—Huge Sport, brave adventure in plenty?"The boys were a band from Oxford,The oldest of whom was twenty.The bothy we held carouse inWas bright with fire and candle;Tale followed tale like a merry-go-roundWhereof Sport turned the handle.In our eyes and noses—turf-smoke:In our ears a tune from the trivet,Whence "Boiling, boiling," the kettle sang,"And ready for fresh Glenlivet."So, feat capped feat, with a vengeance:Truths, though,—the lads were loyal:Grouse, five-score brace to the bag!Deer, ten hours' stalk of the Royal!"Of boasting, not one bit, boys!Only there seemed to settleSomehow above your curly heads,—Plain through the singing kettle,Palpable through the cloud,As each new-puffed HavanaRewarded the teller's well-told tale,—This vaunt "To Sport—Hosanna!"Hunt, fish, shoot,Would a man fulfil life's duty!Not to the bodily frame aloneDoes Sport give strength and beauty,"But character gains in—courage?Ay, Sir, and much beside it!You don't sport,more 's the pity;You soon would find, if you tried it,"Good sportsman means good fellow,Sound-hearted he, to the centre;Your mealy-mouthed mild milksops—There 's where the rot can enter!"There 's where the dirt will breed,The shabbiness Sport would banish!Oh no, Sir, no! In your honored caseAll such objections vanish."'T is known how hard you studied:A Double-First—what, the jigger!Give me but half your Latin and Greek,I 'll never again touch trigger!"Still, tastes are tastes, allow me!Allow, too, where there 's keennessFor Sport, there 's little likelihoodOf a man's displaying meanness!"So, put on my mettle, I interposed."Will you hear my story?" quoth I.Never mind how long since it happed,I sat, as we sit, in a bothy;"With as merry a band of mates, too,Undergrads all on a level:(One 's a Bishop, one 's gone to the Bench,And one's gone—well, to the Devil.)"When, lo, a scratching and tapping!In hobbled a ghastly visitor.Listen to just what he told us himself—No need of our playing inquisitor!"Do you happen to know in Ross-shireMount Ben ... but the name scarce matters:Of the naked fact I am sure enough,Though I clothe it in rags and tatters.You may recognize Ben by description;Behind him—a moor's immenseness:Up goes the middle mount of a range,Fringed with its firs in denseness.Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind!For an edge there is, though narrow;From end to end of the range, a stripOf path runs straight as an arrow.And the mountaineer who takes that pathSaves himself miles of journeyHe has to plod if he crosses the moorThrough heather, peat, and burnie.But a mountaineer he needs must be,For, look you, right in the middleProjects bluff Ben—with an end inich—Why planted there, is a riddle:Since all Ben's brothers little and bigKeep rank, set shoulder to shoulder,And only this burliest out must bulgeTill it seems—to the beholderFrom down in the gully,—as if Ben's breast,To a sudden spike diminished,Would signify to the boldest foot"All further passage finished!"Yet the mountaineer who sidles onAnd on to the very bending,Discovers, if heart and brain be proof,No necessary ending.Foot up, foot down, to the turn abruptHaving trod, he, there arriving,Finds—what he took for a point was breadth,A mercy of Nature's contriving.So, he rounds what, when 't is reached, proves straight,From one side gains the other:The wee path widens—resume the march,And he foils you, Ben my brother!But Donald—(that name, I hope, will do)—I wrong him if I call "foiling"The tramp of the callant, whistling the whileAs blithe as our kettle's boiling.He had dared the danger from boyhood up,And now,—when perchance was waitingA lass at the brig below,—'twixt mountAnd moor would he stand debating?Moreover this Donald was twenty-five,A glory of bone and muscle:Did a fiend dispute the right of way,Donald would try a tussle.Lightsomely marched he out of the broadOn to the narrow and narrow;A step more, rounding the angular rock,Reached the front straight as an arrow.He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood,When—whom found he full-facing?What fellow in courage and wariness too,Had scouted ignoble pacing,And left low safety to timid mates,And made for the dread dear danger,And gained the height where—who could guessHe would meet with a rival ranger?'T was a gold-red stag that stood and stared,Gigantic and magnific,By the wonder—ay, and the peril—struckIntelligent and pacific:For a red deer is no fallow deerGrown cowardly through park-feeding;He batters you like a thunderboltIf you brave his haunts unheeding.I doubt he could hardly performvolte-faceHad valor advised discretion:You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a ropeNo Blondin makes profession.Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit,Though pride ill brooks retiring:Each eyed each—mute man, motionless beast—Less fearing than admiring.These are the moments when quite new sense,To meet some need as novel,Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource:—"Nor advance nor retreat but—grovel!"And slowly, surely, never a whitRelaxing the steady tensionOf eye-stare which binds man to beast,—By an inch and inch declension,Sank Donald sidewise down and down:Till flat, breast upwards, lyingAt his six-foot length, no corpse more still,—"If he cross me! The trick 's worth trying."Minutes were an eternity;But a new sense was createdIn the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure,With eye-stare unabated,Feelingly he extends a footWhich tastes the way ere it touchesEarth's solid and just escapes man's soft,Nor hold of the same unclutchesTill its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk,Lands itself no less finely:So a mother removes a fly from the faceOf her babe asleep supinely.And now 't is the haunch and hind-foot's turn—That 's hard: can the beast quite raise it?Yes, traversing half the prostrate length,His hoof-tip does not graze it.Just one more lift! But Donald, you see,Was sportsman first, man after:A fancy lightened his caution through,—He wellnigh broke into laughter:"It were nothing short of a miracle!Unrivalled, unexampled—All sporting feats with this feat matchedWere down and dead and trampled!"The last of the legs as tenderlyFollows the rest: or neverOr now is the time! His knife in reach,And his right-hand loose—how clever!For this can stab up the stomach's soft,While the left-hand grasps the pastern.A rise on the elbow, and—now 's the timeOr never: this turn 's the last turn!I shall dare to place myself by GodWho scanned—for he does—each featureOf the face thrown up in appeal to himBy the agonizing creature.Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!"Up he sprang, back he staggered,Over he fell, and with him our friend—At following game no laggard.Yet he was not dead when they picked next dayFrom the gully's depth the wreck of him;His fall had been stayed by the stag beneathWho cushioned and saved the neck of him.But the rest of his body—why, doctors said,Whatever could break was broken;Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toastIn a tumbler of port-wine soaken."That your life is left you, thank the stag!"Said they when—the slow cure ended—They opened the hospital-door, and thence—Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended,And minor damage left wisely alone,—Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled,Out—what went in a Goliath wellnigh,—Some half of a David hobbled."You must ask an alms from house to house:Sell the stag's head for a bracket,With its grand twelve tines—I 'd buy it myself—And use the skin for a jacket!"He was wiser, made both head and hideHis win-penny: hands and knees on,Would manage to crawl—poor crab—by the roadsIn the misty stalking-season.And if he discovered a bothy like this,Why, harvest was sure: folk listened.He told his tale to the lovers of Sport:Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened.And when he had come to the close, and spreadHis spoils for the gazers' wonder,With "Gentlemen, here 's the skull of the stagI was over, thank God, not under!"—The company broke out in applause;"By Jingo, a lucky cripple!Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread,And a tug, besides, at our tipple!"And "There 's my pay for your pluck!" cried This,"And mine for your jolly story!"Cried That, while T' other—but he was drunk—Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!"I hope I gave twice as much as the rest;For, as Homer would say, "within grateThough teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled,"Rightly rewarded,—Ingrate!"

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

"Will you hear my story also,

—Huge Sport, brave adventure in plenty?"

The boys were a band from Oxford,

The oldest of whom was twenty.

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

The bothy we held carouse in

Was bright with fire and candle;

Tale followed tale like a merry-go-round

Whereof Sport turned the handle.

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

In our eyes and noses—turf-smoke:

In our ears a tune from the trivet,

Whence "Boiling, boiling," the kettle sang,

"And ready for fresh Glenlivet."

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

So, feat capped feat, with a vengeance:

Truths, though,—the lads were loyal:

Grouse, five-score brace to the bag!

Deer, ten hours' stalk of the Royal!"

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

Of boasting, not one bit, boys!

Only there seemed to settle

Somehow above your curly heads,

—Plain through the singing kettle,

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

Palpable through the cloud,

As each new-puffed Havana

Rewarded the teller's well-told tale,—

This vaunt "To Sport—Hosanna!

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

"Hunt, fish, shoot,

Would a man fulfil life's duty!

Not to the bodily frame alone

Does Sport give strength and beauty,

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

"But character gains in—courage?

Ay, Sir, and much beside it!

You don't sport,more 's the pity;

You soon would find, if you tried it,

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

"Good sportsman means good fellow,

Sound-hearted he, to the centre;

Your mealy-mouthed mild milksops

—There 's where the rot can enter!

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

"There 's where the dirt will breed,

The shabbiness Sport would banish!

Oh no, Sir, no! In your honored case

All such objections vanish.

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

"'T is known how hard you studied:

A Double-First—what, the jigger!

Give me but half your Latin and Greek,

I 'll never again touch trigger!

"Still, tastes are tastes, allow me!Allow, too, where there 's keennessFor Sport, there 's little likelihoodOf a man's displaying meanness!"

"Still, tastes are tastes, allow me!

Allow, too, where there 's keenness

For Sport, there 's little likelihood

Of a man's displaying meanness!"

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

So, put on my mettle, I interposed.

"Will you hear my story?" quoth I.

Never mind how long since it happed,

I sat, as we sit, in a bothy;

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

"With as merry a band of mates, too,

Undergrads all on a level:

(One 's a Bishop, one 's gone to the Bench,

And one's gone—well, to the Devil.)

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

"When, lo, a scratching and tapping!

In hobbled a ghastly visitor.

Listen to just what he told us himself

—No need of our playing inquisitor!"

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

Do you happen to know in Ross-shire

Mount Ben ... but the name scarce matters:

Of the naked fact I am sure enough,

Though I clothe it in rags and tatters.

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

You may recognize Ben by description;

Behind him—a moor's immenseness:

Up goes the middle mount of a range,

Fringed with its firs in denseness.

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

Rimming the edge, its fir-fringe, mind!

For an edge there is, though narrow;

From end to end of the range, a strip

Of path runs straight as an arrow.

And the mountaineer who takes that pathSaves himself miles of journeyHe has to plod if he crosses the moorThrough heather, peat, and burnie.

And the mountaineer who takes that path

Saves himself miles of journey

He has to plod if he crosses the moor

Through heather, peat, and burnie.

But a mountaineer he needs must be,For, look you, right in the middleProjects bluff Ben—with an end inich—Why planted there, is a riddle:

But a mountaineer he needs must be,

For, look you, right in the middle

Projects bluff Ben—with an end inich—

Why planted there, is a riddle:

Since all Ben's brothers little and bigKeep rank, set shoulder to shoulder,And only this burliest out must bulgeTill it seems—to the beholder

Since all Ben's brothers little and big

Keep rank, set shoulder to shoulder,

And only this burliest out must bulge

Till it seems—to the beholder

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

From down in the gully,—as if Ben's breast,

To a sudden spike diminished,

Would signify to the boldest foot

"All further passage finished!"

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

Yet the mountaineer who sidles on

And on to the very bending,

Discovers, if heart and brain be proof,

No necessary ending.

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

Foot up, foot down, to the turn abrupt

Having trod, he, there arriving,

Finds—what he took for a point was breadth,

A mercy of Nature's contriving.

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

So, he rounds what, when 't is reached, proves straight,

From one side gains the other:

The wee path widens—resume the march,

And he foils you, Ben my brother!

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

But Donald—(that name, I hope, will do)—

I wrong him if I call "foiling"

The tramp of the callant, whistling the while

As blithe as our kettle's boiling.

He had dared the danger from boyhood up,And now,—when perchance was waitingA lass at the brig below,—'twixt mountAnd moor would he stand debating?

He had dared the danger from boyhood up,

And now,—when perchance was waiting

A lass at the brig below,—'twixt mount

And moor would he stand debating?

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

Moreover this Donald was twenty-five,

A glory of bone and muscle:

Did a fiend dispute the right of way,

Donald would try a tussle.

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

Lightsomely marched he out of the broad

On to the narrow and narrow;

A step more, rounding the angular rock,

Reached the front straight as an arrow.

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

He stepped it, safe on the ledge he stood,

When—whom found he full-facing?

What fellow in courage and wariness too,

Had scouted ignoble pacing,

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

And left low safety to timid mates,

And made for the dread dear danger,

And gained the height where—who could guess

He would meet with a rival ranger?

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

'T was a gold-red stag that stood and stared,

Gigantic and magnific,

By the wonder—ay, and the peril—struck

Intelligent and pacific:

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

For a red deer is no fallow deer

Grown cowardly through park-feeding;

He batters you like a thunderbolt

If you brave his haunts unheeding.

I doubt he could hardly performvolte-faceHad valor advised discretion:You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a ropeNo Blondin makes profession.

I doubt he could hardly performvolte-face

Had valor advised discretion:

You may walk on a rope, but to turn on a rope

No Blondin makes profession.

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

Yet Donald must turn, would pride permit,

Though pride ill brooks retiring:

Each eyed each—mute man, motionless beast—

Less fearing than admiring.

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

These are the moments when quite new sense,

To meet some need as novel,

Springs up in the brain: it inspired resource:

—"Nor advance nor retreat but—grovel!"

And slowly, surely, never a whitRelaxing the steady tensionOf eye-stare which binds man to beast,—By an inch and inch declension,

And slowly, surely, never a whit

Relaxing the steady tension

Of eye-stare which binds man to beast,—

By an inch and inch declension,

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

Sank Donald sidewise down and down:

Till flat, breast upwards, lying

At his six-foot length, no corpse more still,

—"If he cross me! The trick 's worth trying."

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

Minutes were an eternity;

But a new sense was created

In the stag's brain too; he resolves! Slow, sure,

With eye-stare unabated,

Feelingly he extends a footWhich tastes the way ere it touchesEarth's solid and just escapes man's soft,Nor hold of the same unclutches

Feelingly he extends a foot

Which tastes the way ere it touches

Earth's solid and just escapes man's soft,

Nor hold of the same unclutches

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

Till its fellow foot, light as a feather whisk,

Lands itself no less finely:

So a mother removes a fly from the face

Of her babe asleep supinely.

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

And now 't is the haunch and hind-foot's turn

—That 's hard: can the beast quite raise it?

Yes, traversing half the prostrate length,

His hoof-tip does not graze it.

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

Just one more lift! But Donald, you see,

Was sportsman first, man after:

A fancy lightened his caution through,

—He wellnigh broke into laughter:

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

"It were nothing short of a miracle!

Unrivalled, unexampled—

All sporting feats with this feat matched

Were down and dead and trampled!"

The last of the legs as tenderlyFollows the rest: or neverOr now is the time! His knife in reach,And his right-hand loose—how clever!

The last of the legs as tenderly

Follows the rest: or never

Or now is the time! His knife in reach,

And his right-hand loose—how clever!

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

For this can stab up the stomach's soft,

While the left-hand grasps the pastern.

A rise on the elbow, and—now 's the time

Or never: this turn 's the last turn!

I shall dare to place myself by GodWho scanned—for he does—each featureOf the face thrown up in appeal to himBy the agonizing creature.

I shall dare to place myself by God

Who scanned—for he does—each feature

Of the face thrown up in appeal to him

By the agonizing creature.

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

Nay, I hear plain words: "Thy gift brings this!"

Up he sprang, back he staggered,

Over he fell, and with him our friend

—At following game no laggard.

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

Yet he was not dead when they picked next day

From the gully's depth the wreck of him;

His fall had been stayed by the stag beneath

Who cushioned and saved the neck of him.

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

But the rest of his body—why, doctors said,

Whatever could break was broken;

Legs, arms, ribs, all of him looked like a toast

In a tumbler of port-wine soaken.

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

"That your life is left you, thank the stag!"

Said they when—the slow cure ended—

They opened the hospital-door, and thence

—Strapped, spliced, main fractures mended,

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

And minor damage left wisely alone,—

Like an old shoe clouted and cobbled,

Out—what went in a Goliath wellnigh,—

Some half of a David hobbled.

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

"You must ask an alms from house to house:

Sell the stag's head for a bracket,

With its grand twelve tines—I 'd buy it myself—

And use the skin for a jacket!"

He was wiser, made both head and hideHis win-penny: hands and knees on,Would manage to crawl—poor crab—by the roadsIn the misty stalking-season.

He was wiser, made both head and hide

His win-penny: hands and knees on,

Would manage to crawl—poor crab—by the roads

In the misty stalking-season.

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

And if he discovered a bothy like this,

Why, harvest was sure: folk listened.

He told his tale to the lovers of Sport:

Lips twitched, cheeks glowed, eyes glistened.

And when he had come to the close, and spreadHis spoils for the gazers' wonder,With "Gentlemen, here 's the skull of the stagI was over, thank God, not under!"—

And when he had come to the close, and spread

His spoils for the gazers' wonder,

With "Gentlemen, here 's the skull of the stag

I was over, thank God, not under!"—

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

The company broke out in applause;

"By Jingo, a lucky cripple!

Have a munch of grouse and a hunk of bread,

And a tug, besides, at our tipple!"

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

And "There 's my pay for your pluck!" cried This,

"And mine for your jolly story!"

Cried That, while T' other—but he was drunk—

Hiccupped "A trump, a Tory!"

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

I hope I gave twice as much as the rest;

For, as Homer would say, "within grate

Though teeth kept tongue," my whole soul growled,

"Rightly rewarded,—Ingrate!"

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