DRAMATIC ROMANCES

The seventh number ofBells and Pomegranateswas entitledDramatic Romances and Lyrics.In the redistribution of his shorter poems when he collected his writings, Browning having already a group ofDramatic Lyricsmade a second ofDramatic Romances, taking the occasion to make a little nicer discrimination. Thus some of the poems originally included under the combined title were distributed among theLyrics, and some at first grouped underLyricswere transferred to this division ofRomances. The first poem in the group was originally contained inDramatic Lyricsalong withSoliloquy of the Spanish Cloisterunder the general title ofCamp and Cloister, this poem representing the camp.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:A mile or so away,On a little mound, NapoleonStood on our storming-day;With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,Legs wide, arms locked behind,As if to balance the prone browOppressive with its mind.Just as perhaps he mused "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two."Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away,

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plansThat soar, to earth may fall,Let once my army-leader LannesWaver at yonder wall,"—Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flewA rider, bound on boundFull-galloping; nor bridle drewUntil he reached the mound.

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,"—

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,And held himself erectBy just his horse's mane, a boy:You hardly could suspect—(So tight he kept his lips compressed,Scarce any blood came through)You looked twice ere you saw his breastWas all but shot in two.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect—

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's graceWe've got you Ratisbon!The Marshal's in the market-place,And you'll be there anonTo see your flag-bird flap his vansWhere I, to heart's desire,Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plansSoared up again like fire.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presentlySoftened itself, as sheathesA film the mother-eagle's eyeWhen her bruised eaglet breathes;"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's prideTouched to the quick, he said:"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,Smiling the boy fell dead.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes;

"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

AN OLD STORY

Mr. Browning has denied that this poem refers to Arnold of Brescia. It is imaginative, not historical in its dramatic action. It was possibly to relieve the poem of its apparent distinct reference to history that he removed the name of Brescia, which was used in the poem in its first form.

It was roses, roses, all the way,With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,A year ago on this very day.The air broke into a mist with bells,The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—But give me your sun from yonder skies!"They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"Alack, it was I who leaped at the sunTo give it my loving friends to keep!Naught man could do, have I left undone:And you see my harvest, what I reapThis very day, now a year is run.There's nobody on the house-tops now—Just a palsied few at the windows set;For the best of the sight is, all allow,At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.I go in the rain, and, more than needs,A rope cuts both my wrists behind;And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,For they fling, whoever has a mind,Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.Thus I entered, and thus I go!In triumphs, people have dropped down dead."Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?"—God might question; now instead,'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

It was roses, roses, all the way,With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,A year ago on this very day.

It was roses, roses, all the way,

With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:

The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,

A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—But give me your sun from yonder skies!"They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

The air broke into a mist with bells,

The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels—

But give me your sun from yonder skies!"

They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sunTo give it my loving friends to keep!Naught man could do, have I left undone:And you see my harvest, what I reapThis very day, now a year is run.

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

To give it my loving friends to keep!

Naught man could do, have I left undone:

And you see my harvest, what I reap

This very day, now a year is run.

There's nobody on the house-tops now—Just a palsied few at the windows set;For the best of the sight is, all allow,At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

There's nobody on the house-tops now—

Just a palsied few at the windows set;

For the best of the sight is, all allow,

At the Shambles' Gate—or, better yet,

By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,A rope cuts both my wrists behind;And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,For they fling, whoever has a mind,Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,

A rope cuts both my wrists behind;

And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,

For they fling, whoever has a mind,

Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!In triumphs, people have dropped down dead."Paid by the world, what dost thou oweMe?"—God might question; now instead,'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

Me?"—God might question; now instead,

'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

FERRARA

InDramatic Lyricsthis was entitledItaly, and grouped withCount Gismondunder the headItaly and France.

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,Looking as if she were alive. I callThat piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's handsWorked busily a day, and there she stands.Will't please you sit and look at her? I said"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never readStrangers like you that pictured countenance,The depth and passion of its earnest glance,But to myself they turned (since none puts byThe curtain I have drawn for you, but I)And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,How such a glance came there; so, not the firstAre you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was notHer husband's presence only, called that spotOf joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhapsFrà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle lapsOver my lady's wrist too much," or "PaintMust never hope to reproduce the faintHalf-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuffWas courtesy, she thought, and cause enoughFor calling up that spot of joy. She hadA heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,Too easily impressed: she liked whate'erShe looked on, and her looks went everywhere.Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,The dropping of the daylight in the West,The bough of cherries some officious foolBroke in the orchard for her, the white muleShe rode with round the terrace—all and eachWould draw from her alike the approving speech,Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thankedSomehow—I know not how—as if she rankedMy gift of a nine-hundred-years-old nameWith anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blameThis sort of trifling? Even had you skillIn speech—(which I have not)—to make your willQuite clear to such an one, and say, "Just thisOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,Or there exceed the mark"—and if she letHerself be lessoned so, nor plainly setHer wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,—E'en then would be some stooping; and I chooseNever to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,Whene'er I passed her; but who passed withoutMuch the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;Then all smiles stopped together. There she standsAs if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meetThe company below, then. I repeat,The Count your master's known munificenceIs ample warrant that no just pretenceOf mine for dowry will be disallowed;Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowedAt starting, is my object. Nay, we'll goTogether down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said

"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't was not

Her husband's presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps

Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—(which I have not)—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark"—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

—E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master's known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretence

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

AIX IN PROVENCE

Christ God who savest man, save mostOf men Count Gismond who saved me!Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,Chose time and place and companyTo suit it; when he struck at lengthMy honor, 't was with all his strength.And doubtlessly ere he could drawAll points to one, he must have schemed!That miserable morning sawFew half so happy as I seemed,While being dressed in queen's arrayTo give our tourney prize away.I thought they loved me, did me graceTo please themselves; 't was all their deed,God makes, or fair or foul, our face;If showing mine so caused to bleedMy cousins' hearts, they should have droppedA word, and straight the play had stopped.They, too, so beauteous! Each a queenBy virtue of her brow and breast;Not needing to be crowned, I mean,As I do. E'en when I was dressed,Had either of them spoke, insteadOf glancing sideways with still head!But no: they let me laugh, and singMy birthday song quite through, adjustThe last rose in my garland, flingA last look on the mirror, trustMy arms to each an arm of theirs,And so descend the castle-stairs—And come out on the morning-troopOf merry friends who kissed my cheek,And called me queen, and made me stoopUnder the canopy—(a streakThat pierced it, of the outside sun,Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—And they could let me take my stateAnd foolish throne amid applauseOf all come there to celebrateMy queen's-day—Oh I think the causeOf much was, they forgot no crowdMakes up for parents in their shroud!Howe'er that be, all eyes were bentUpon me, when my cousins castTheirs down; 't was time I should presentThe victor's crown, but ... there, 't will lastNo long time ... the old mist againBlinds me as then it did. How vain!See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talkWith his two boys: I can proceed.Well, at that moment, who should stalkForth boldly—to my face, indeed—But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheetAbout her! Let her shun the chaste,Or lay herself before their feet!Shall she whose body I embracedA night long, queen it in the day?For honor's sake no crowns, I say!"I? What I answered? As I live,I never fancied such a thingAs answer possible to give.What says the body when they springSome monstrous torture-engine's wholeStrength on it? No more says the soul.Till out strode Gismond; then I knewThat I was saved. I never metHis face before, but, at first view,I felt quite sure that God had setHimself to Satan; who would spendA minute's mistrust on the end?He strode to Gauthier, in his throatGave him the lie, then struck his mouthWith one back-handed blow that wroteIn blood men's verdict there. North, South,East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,And damned, and truth stood up instead.This glads me most, that I enjoyedThe heart of the joy, with my contentIn watching Gismond unalloyedBy any doubt of the event:God took that on him—I was bidWatch Gismond for my part: I did.Did I not watch him while he letHis armorer just brace his greaves,Rivet his hauberk, on the fretThe while! His foot ... my memory leavesNo least stamp out, nor how anonHe pulled his ringing gauntlets on.And e'en before the trumpet's soundWas finished, prone lay the false knight,Prone as his lie, upon the ground:Gismond flew at him, used no sleightO' the sword, but open-breasted drove,Cleaving till out the truth he clove.Which done, he dragged him to my feetAnd said, "Here die, but end thy breathIn full confession, lest thou fleetFrom my first, to God's second death!Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have liedTo God and her," he said, and died.Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked—What safe my heart holds, though no wordCould I repeat now, if I taskedMy powers forever, to a thirdDear even as you are. Pass the restUntil I sank upon his breast.Over my head his arm he flungAgainst the world; and scarce I feltHis sword (that dripped by me and swung)A little shifted in its belt:For he began to say the whileHow South our home lay many a mile.So 'mid the shouting multitudeWe two walked forth to never moreReturn. My cousins have pursuedTheir life, untroubled as beforeI vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-placeGod lighten! May his soul find grace!Our elder boy has got the clearGreat brow; though when his brother's blackFull eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?And have you brought my tercel back?I just was telling AdelaHow many birds it struck since May.

Christ God who savest man, save most

Of men Count Gismond who saved me!

Count Gauthier, when he chose his post,

Chose time and place and company

To suit it; when he struck at length

My honor, 't was with all his strength.

And doubtlessly ere he could drawAll points to one, he must have schemed!That miserable morning sawFew half so happy as I seemed,While being dressed in queen's arrayTo give our tourney prize away.

And doubtlessly ere he could draw

All points to one, he must have schemed!

That miserable morning saw

Few half so happy as I seemed,

While being dressed in queen's array

To give our tourney prize away.

I thought they loved me, did me graceTo please themselves; 't was all their deed,God makes, or fair or foul, our face;If showing mine so caused to bleedMy cousins' hearts, they should have droppedA word, and straight the play had stopped.

I thought they loved me, did me grace

To please themselves; 't was all their deed,

God makes, or fair or foul, our face;

If showing mine so caused to bleed

My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped

A word, and straight the play had stopped.

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queenBy virtue of her brow and breast;Not needing to be crowned, I mean,As I do. E'en when I was dressed,Had either of them spoke, insteadOf glancing sideways with still head!

They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen

By virtue of her brow and breast;

Not needing to be crowned, I mean,

As I do. E'en when I was dressed,

Had either of them spoke, instead

Of glancing sideways with still head!

But no: they let me laugh, and singMy birthday song quite through, adjustThe last rose in my garland, flingA last look on the mirror, trustMy arms to each an arm of theirs,And so descend the castle-stairs—

But no: they let me laugh, and sing

My birthday song quite through, adjust

The last rose in my garland, fling

A last look on the mirror, trust

My arms to each an arm of theirs,

And so descend the castle-stairs—

And come out on the morning-troopOf merry friends who kissed my cheek,And called me queen, and made me stoopUnder the canopy—(a streakThat pierced it, of the outside sun,Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—

And come out on the morning-troop

Of merry friends who kissed my cheek,

And called me queen, and made me stoop

Under the canopy—(a streak

That pierced it, of the outside sun,

Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—

And they could let me take my stateAnd foolish throne amid applauseOf all come there to celebrateMy queen's-day—Oh I think the causeOf much was, they forgot no crowdMakes up for parents in their shroud!

And they could let me take my state

And foolish throne amid applause

Of all come there to celebrate

My queen's-day—Oh I think the cause

Of much was, they forgot no crowd

Makes up for parents in their shroud!

Howe'er that be, all eyes were bentUpon me, when my cousins castTheirs down; 't was time I should presentThe victor's crown, but ... there, 't will lastNo long time ... the old mist againBlinds me as then it did. How vain!

Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent

Upon me, when my cousins cast

Theirs down; 't was time I should present

The victor's crown, but ... there, 't will last

No long time ... the old mist again

Blinds me as then it did. How vain!

See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talkWith his two boys: I can proceed.Well, at that moment, who should stalkForth boldly—to my face, indeed—But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!

See! Gismond 's at the gate, in talk

With his two boys: I can proceed.

Well, at that moment, who should stalk

Forth boldly—to my face, indeed—

But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!"

And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say!

"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheetAbout her! Let her shun the chaste,Or lay herself before their feet!Shall she whose body I embracedA night long, queen it in the day?For honor's sake no crowns, I say!"

"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet

About her! Let her shun the chaste,

Or lay herself before their feet!

Shall she whose body I embraced

A night long, queen it in the day?

For honor's sake no crowns, I say!"

I? What I answered? As I live,I never fancied such a thingAs answer possible to give.What says the body when they springSome monstrous torture-engine's wholeStrength on it? No more says the soul.

I? What I answered? As I live,

I never fancied such a thing

As answer possible to give.

What says the body when they spring

Some monstrous torture-engine's whole

Strength on it? No more says the soul.

Till out strode Gismond; then I knewThat I was saved. I never metHis face before, but, at first view,I felt quite sure that God had setHimself to Satan; who would spendA minute's mistrust on the end?

Till out strode Gismond; then I knew

That I was saved. I never met

His face before, but, at first view,

I felt quite sure that God had set

Himself to Satan; who would spend

A minute's mistrust on the end?

He strode to Gauthier, in his throatGave him the lie, then struck his mouthWith one back-handed blow that wroteIn blood men's verdict there. North, South,East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,And damned, and truth stood up instead.

He strode to Gauthier, in his throat

Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth

With one back-handed blow that wrote

In blood men's verdict there. North, South,

East, West, I looked. The lie was dead,

And damned, and truth stood up instead.

This glads me most, that I enjoyedThe heart of the joy, with my contentIn watching Gismond unalloyedBy any doubt of the event:God took that on him—I was bidWatch Gismond for my part: I did.

This glads me most, that I enjoyed

The heart of the joy, with my content

In watching Gismond unalloyed

By any doubt of the event:

God took that on him—I was bid

Watch Gismond for my part: I did.

Did I not watch him while he letHis armorer just brace his greaves,Rivet his hauberk, on the fretThe while! His foot ... my memory leavesNo least stamp out, nor how anonHe pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

Did I not watch him while he let

His armorer just brace his greaves,

Rivet his hauberk, on the fret

The while! His foot ... my memory leaves

No least stamp out, nor how anon

He pulled his ringing gauntlets on.

And e'en before the trumpet's soundWas finished, prone lay the false knight,Prone as his lie, upon the ground:Gismond flew at him, used no sleightO' the sword, but open-breasted drove,Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

And e'en before the trumpet's sound

Was finished, prone lay the false knight,

Prone as his lie, upon the ground:

Gismond flew at him, used no sleight

O' the sword, but open-breasted drove,

Cleaving till out the truth he clove.

Which done, he dragged him to my feetAnd said, "Here die, but end thy breathIn full confession, lest thou fleetFrom my first, to God's second death!Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have liedTo God and her," he said, and died.

Which done, he dragged him to my feet

And said, "Here die, but end thy breath

In full confession, lest thou fleet

From my first, to God's second death!

Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied

To God and her," he said, and died.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked—What safe my heart holds, though no wordCould I repeat now, if I taskedMy powers forever, to a thirdDear even as you are. Pass the restUntil I sank upon his breast.

Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked

—What safe my heart holds, though no word

Could I repeat now, if I tasked

My powers forever, to a third

Dear even as you are. Pass the rest

Until I sank upon his breast.

Over my head his arm he flungAgainst the world; and scarce I feltHis sword (that dripped by me and swung)A little shifted in its belt:For he began to say the whileHow South our home lay many a mile.

Over my head his arm he flung

Against the world; and scarce I felt

His sword (that dripped by me and swung)

A little shifted in its belt:

For he began to say the while

How South our home lay many a mile.

So 'mid the shouting multitudeWe two walked forth to never moreReturn. My cousins have pursuedTheir life, untroubled as beforeI vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-placeGod lighten! May his soul find grace!

So 'mid the shouting multitude

We two walked forth to never more

Return. My cousins have pursued

Their life, untroubled as before

I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place

God lighten! May his soul find grace!

Our elder boy has got the clearGreat brow; though when his brother's blackFull eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?And have you brought my tercel back?I just was telling AdelaHow many birds it struck since May.

Our elder boy has got the clear

Great brow; though when his brother's black

Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here?

And have you brought my tercel back?

I just was telling Adela

How many birds it struck since May.

First published inHood's Magazine, August, 1844. It was rewritten, with five new couplets, and was published in 1845, inDramatic Romances and Lyrics, or No. VII. ofBells and Pomegranates. When it appeared in thePoetical Worksof 1868, a fresh verse was added. In 1844 the poem ended as follows:—

"Go back and praise againThe early way, while I remain."Be again the boy all curl'd;I will finish with the world."Theocrite grew old at home,Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.

"Go back and praise againThe early way, while I remain.

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"Be again the boy all curl'd;I will finish with the world."

"Be again the boy all curl'd;

I will finish with the world."

Theocrite grew old at home,Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.

Theocrite grew old at home,

Gabriel dwelt in Peter's dome.

Morning, evening, noon and night,"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.Then to his poor trade he turned,Whereby the daily meal was earned.Hard he labored, long and well;O'er his work the boy's curls fell.But ever, at each period.He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"Then back again his curls he threw,And cheerful turned to work anew.Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;I doubt not thou art heard, my son:"As well as if thy voice to-dayWere praising God, the Pope's great way."This Easter Day, the Pope at RomePraises God from Peter's dome."Said Theocrite, "Would God that IMight praise him that great way, and die!"Night passed, day shone,And Theocrite was gone.With God a day endures alway,A thousand years are but a day.God said in heaven, "Nor day nor nightNow brings the voice of my delight."Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,Spread his wings and sank to earth;Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,Lived there, and played the craftsman well;And morning, evening, noon and night,Praised God in place of Theocrite.And from a boy, to youth he grew:The man put off the stripling's hue:The man matured and fell awayInto the season of decay:And ever o'er the trade he bent,And ever lived on earth content,(He did God's will; to him, all oneIf on the earth or in the sun.)God said, "A praise is in mine ear;There is no doubt in it, no fear:"So sing old worlds, and soNew worlds that from my footstool go."Clearer loves sound other ways:I miss my little human praise."Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fellThe flesh disguise, remained the cell.'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,And paused above Saint Peter's dome.In the tiring-room close byThe great outer gallery,With his holy vestments dight,Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:And all his past careerCame back upon him clear,Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,Till on his life the sickness weighed;And in his cell, when death drew near,An angel in a dream brought cheer:And rising from the sickness drear,He grew a priest, and now stood here.To the East with praise he turned,And on his sight the angel burned."I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,And set thee here; I did not well."Vainly I left my angel-sphere,Vain was thy dream of many a year."Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—Creation's chorus stopped!"Go back and praise againThe early way, while I remain."With that weak voice of our disdain,Take up creation's pausing strain."Back to the cell and poor employ:Resume the craftsman and the boy!"Theocrite grew old at home;A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.One vanished as the other died:They sought God side by side.

Morning, evening, noon and night,"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Morning, evening, noon and night,

"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Then to his poor trade he turned,

Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well;O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

Hard he labored, long and well;

O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period.He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

But ever, at each period.

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,And cheerful turned to work anew.

Then back again his curls he threw,

And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;

I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-dayWere praising God, the Pope's great way.

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at RomePraises God from Peter's dome."

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome

Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that IMight praise him that great way, and die!"

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I

Might praise him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone,And Theocrite was gone.

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway,A thousand years are but a day.

With God a day endures alway,

A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor nightNow brings the voice of my delight."

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night

Now brings the voice of my delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth,

Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon and night,Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And morning, evening, noon and night,

Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew:The man put off the stripling's hue:

And from a boy, to youth he grew:

The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell awayInto the season of decay:

The man matured and fell away

Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent,And ever lived on earth content,

And ever o'er the trade he bent,

And ever lived on earth content,

(He did God's will; to him, all oneIf on the earth or in the sun.)

(He did God's will; to him, all one

If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;There is no doubt in it, no fear:

God said, "A praise is in mine ear;

There is no doubt in it, no fear:

"So sing old worlds, and soNew worlds that from my footstool go.

"So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways:I miss my little human praise."

"Clearer loves sound other ways:

I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fellThe flesh disguise, remained the cell.

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell

The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome,

And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close byThe great outer gallery,

In the tiring-room close by

The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight,Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

With his holy vestments dight,

Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

And all his past careerCame back upon him clear,

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,Till on his life the sickness weighed;

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,

Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near,An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And in his cell, when death drew near,

An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And rising from the sickness drear,He grew a priest, and now stood here.

And rising from the sickness drear,

He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned,And on his sight the angel burned.

To the East with praise he turned,

And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,And set thee here; I did not well.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell,

And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—Creation's chorus stopped!

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped—

Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise againThe early way, while I remain.

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain,Take up creation's pausing strain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain,

Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ:Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

"Back to the cell and poor employ:

Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home;A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

Theocrite grew old at home;

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:They sought God side by side.

One vanished as the other died:

They sought God side by side.

IOf the million or two, more or less,I rule and possess,One man, for some cause undefined,Was least to my mind.III struck him, he grovelled of course—For, what was his force?I pinned him to earth with my weightAnd persistence of hate:And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,As his lot might be worse.III"Were the object less mean, would he standAt the swing of my hand!For obscurity helps him and blotsThe hole where he squats."So, I set my five wits on the stretchTo inveigle the wretch.All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,Still he couched there perdue;I tempted his blood and his flesh,Hid in roses my mesh,Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:Still he kept to his filth.IVHad he kith now or kin, were accessTo his heart, did I press:Just a son or a mother to seize!No such booty as these.Were it simply a friend to pursue'Mid my million or two,Who could pay me in person or pelfWhat he owes me himself!No: I could not but smile through my chafe:For the fellow lay safeAs his mates do, the midge and the nit,—Through minuteness, to wit.VThen a humor more great took its placeAt the thought of his face,The droop, the low cares of the mouth,The trouble uncouth'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fainTo put out of its pain.And, "no!" I admonished myself,"Is one mocked by an elf,Is one baffled by toad or by rat?The gravamen's in that!How the lion, who crouches to suitHis back to my foot,Would admire that I stand in debate!But the small turns the greatIf it vexes you,—that is the thing!Toad or rat vex the king?Though I waste half my realm to unearthToad or rat, 't is well worth!"VISo, I soberly laid my last planTo extinguish the man.Round his creep-hole, with never a break,Ran my fires for his sake;Over-head, did my thunder combineWith my underground mine:Till I looked from my labor contentTo enjoy the event.VIIWhen sudden ... how think ye, the end?Did I say "without friend"?Say rather, from marge to blue margeThe whole sky grew his targeWith the sun's self for visible boss,While an Arm ran acrossWhich the earth heaved beneath like a breastWhere the wretch was safe prest!Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,The man sprang to his feet,Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!—So,Iwas afraid!

Of the million or two, more or less,I rule and possess,One man, for some cause undefined,Was least to my mind.

Of the million or two, more or less,

I rule and possess,

One man, for some cause undefined,

Was least to my mind.

I struck him, he grovelled of course—For, what was his force?I pinned him to earth with my weightAnd persistence of hate:And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,As his lot might be worse.

I struck him, he grovelled of course—

For, what was his force?

I pinned him to earth with my weight

And persistence of hate:

And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,

As his lot might be worse.

III

"Were the object less mean, would he standAt the swing of my hand!For obscurity helps him and blotsThe hole where he squats."So, I set my five wits on the stretchTo inveigle the wretch.All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,Still he couched there perdue;I tempted his blood and his flesh,Hid in roses my mesh,Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:Still he kept to his filth.

"Were the object less mean, would he stand

At the swing of my hand!

For obscurity helps him and blots

The hole where he squats."

So, I set my five wits on the stretch

To inveigle the wretch.

All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw,

Still he couched there perdue;

I tempted his blood and his flesh,

Hid in roses my mesh,

Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth:

Still he kept to his filth.

Had he kith now or kin, were accessTo his heart, did I press:Just a son or a mother to seize!No such booty as these.Were it simply a friend to pursue'Mid my million or two,Who could pay me in person or pelfWhat he owes me himself!No: I could not but smile through my chafe:For the fellow lay safeAs his mates do, the midge and the nit,—Through minuteness, to wit.

Had he kith now or kin, were access

To his heart, did I press:

Just a son or a mother to seize!

No such booty as these.

Were it simply a friend to pursue

'Mid my million or two,

Who could pay me in person or pelf

What he owes me himself!

No: I could not but smile through my chafe:

For the fellow lay safe

As his mates do, the midge and the nit,

—Through minuteness, to wit.

Then a humor more great took its placeAt the thought of his face,The droop, the low cares of the mouth,The trouble uncouth'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fainTo put out of its pain.And, "no!" I admonished myself,"Is one mocked by an elf,Is one baffled by toad or by rat?The gravamen's in that!How the lion, who crouches to suitHis back to my foot,Would admire that I stand in debate!But the small turns the greatIf it vexes you,—that is the thing!Toad or rat vex the king?Though I waste half my realm to unearthToad or rat, 't is well worth!"

Then a humor more great took its place

At the thought of his face,

The droop, the low cares of the mouth,

The trouble uncouth

'Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain

To put out of its pain.

And, "no!" I admonished myself,

"Is one mocked by an elf,

Is one baffled by toad or by rat?

The gravamen's in that!

How the lion, who crouches to suit

His back to my foot,

Would admire that I stand in debate!

But the small turns the great

If it vexes you,—that is the thing!

Toad or rat vex the king?

Though I waste half my realm to unearth

Toad or rat, 't is well worth!"

So, I soberly laid my last planTo extinguish the man.Round his creep-hole, with never a break,Ran my fires for his sake;Over-head, did my thunder combineWith my underground mine:Till I looked from my labor contentTo enjoy the event.

So, I soberly laid my last plan

To extinguish the man.

Round his creep-hole, with never a break,

Ran my fires for his sake;

Over-head, did my thunder combine

With my underground mine:

Till I looked from my labor content

To enjoy the event.

VII

When sudden ... how think ye, the end?Did I say "without friend"?Say rather, from marge to blue margeThe whole sky grew his targeWith the sun's self for visible boss,While an Arm ran acrossWhich the earth heaved beneath like a breastWhere the wretch was safe prest!Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,The man sprang to his feet,Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!—So,Iwas afraid!

When sudden ... how think ye, the end?

Did I say "without friend"?

Say rather, from marge to blue marge

The whole sky grew his targe

With the sun's self for visible boss,

While an Arm ran across

Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast

Where the wretch was safe prest!

Do you see? Just my vengeance complete,

The man sprang to his feet,

Stood erect, caught at God's skirts, and prayed!

—So,Iwas afraid!

All I believed is true!I am able yetAll I want, to getBy a method as strange as new:Dare I trust the same to you?If at night, when doors are shut,And the wood-worm picks,And the death-watch ticks,And the bar has a flag of smut,And a cat 's in the water-butt—And the socket floats and flares,And the house-beams groan,And a foot unknownIs surmised on the garret-stairs,And the locks slip unawares—And the spider, to serve his ends,By a sudden thread,Arms and legs outspread,On the table's midst descends,Comes to find, God knows what friends!—If since eve drew in, I say,I have sat and brought(So to speak) my thoughtTo bear on the woman away,Till I felt my hair turn gray—Till I seemed to have and hold,In the vacancy'Twixt the wall and me,From the hair-plait's chestnut-goldTo the foot in its muslin fold—Have and hold, then and there,Her, from head to foot,Breathing and mute,Passive and yet aware,In the grasp of my steady stare—Hold and have, there and then,All her body and soulThat completes my whole,All that women add to men,In the clutch of my steady ken—Having and holding, tillI imprint her fastOn the void at lastAs the sun does whom he willBy the calotypist's skill—Then,—if my heart's strength serve,And through all and eachOf the veils I reachTo her soul and never swerve,Knitting an iron nerve—Command her soul to advanceAnd inform the shapeWhich has made escapeAnd before my countenanceAnswers me glance for glance—I, still with a gesture fitOf my hands that bestTo my soul's behest,Pointing the power from it,While myself do steadfast sit—Steadfast and still the sameOn my object bent,While the hands give ventTo my ardor and my aimAnd break into very flame—Then I reach, I must believe,Not her soul in vain,For to me againIt reaches, and past retrieveIs wound in the toils I weave;And must follow as I require,As befits a thrall,Bringing flesh and all,Essence and earth-attire,To the source of the tractile fire:Till the house called hers, not mine,With a growing weightSeems to suffocateIf she break not its leaden lineAnd escape from its close confine.Out of doors into the night!On to the mazeOf the wild wood-ways,Not turning to left nor rightFrom the pathway, blind with sight—Making through rain and windO'er the broken shrubs,'Twixt the stems and stubs,With a still, composed, strong mind,Nor a care for the world behind—Swifter and still more swift,As the crowding peaceDoth to joy increaseIn the wide blind eyes upliftThrough the darkness and the drift!While I—to the shape, I tooFeel my soul dilateNor a whit abate,And relax not a gesture due,As I see my belief come true.For, there! have I drawn or noLife to that lip?Do my fingers dipIn a flame which again they throwOn the cheek that breaks aglow?Ha! was the hair so first?What, unfilleted,Made alive, and spreadThrough the void with a rich outburst,Chestnut gold-interspersed?Like the doors of a casket-shrine,See, on either side,Her two arms divideTill the heart betwixt makes sign,Take me, for I am thine!"Now—now"—the door is heard!Hark, the stairs! and near—Nearer—and here—"Now!" and at call the thirdShe enters without a word.On doth she march and onTo the fancied shape;It is, past escape,Herself, now: the dream is doneAnd the shadow and she are one.First I will pray. Do ThouThat ownest the soul,Yet wilt grant controlTo another, nor disallowFor a time, restrain me now!I admonish me while I may,Not to squander guilt,Since require Thou wiltAt my hand its price one day!What the price is, who can say?

All I believed is true!I am able yetAll I want, to getBy a method as strange as new:Dare I trust the same to you?

All I believed is true!

I am able yet

All I want, to get

By a method as strange as new:

Dare I trust the same to you?

If at night, when doors are shut,And the wood-worm picks,And the death-watch ticks,And the bar has a flag of smut,And a cat 's in the water-butt—

If at night, when doors are shut,

And the wood-worm picks,

And the death-watch ticks,

And the bar has a flag of smut,

And a cat 's in the water-butt—

And the socket floats and flares,And the house-beams groan,And a foot unknownIs surmised on the garret-stairs,And the locks slip unawares—

And the socket floats and flares,

And the house-beams groan,

And a foot unknown

Is surmised on the garret-stairs,

And the locks slip unawares—

And the spider, to serve his ends,By a sudden thread,Arms and legs outspread,On the table's midst descends,Comes to find, God knows what friends!—

And the spider, to serve his ends,

By a sudden thread,

Arms and legs outspread,

On the table's midst descends,

Comes to find, God knows what friends!—

If since eve drew in, I say,I have sat and brought(So to speak) my thoughtTo bear on the woman away,Till I felt my hair turn gray—

If since eve drew in, I say,

I have sat and brought

(So to speak) my thought

To bear on the woman away,

Till I felt my hair turn gray—

Till I seemed to have and hold,In the vacancy'Twixt the wall and me,From the hair-plait's chestnut-goldTo the foot in its muslin fold—

Till I seemed to have and hold,

In the vacancy

'Twixt the wall and me,

From the hair-plait's chestnut-gold

To the foot in its muslin fold—

Have and hold, then and there,Her, from head to foot,Breathing and mute,Passive and yet aware,In the grasp of my steady stare—

Have and hold, then and there,

Her, from head to foot,

Breathing and mute,

Passive and yet aware,

In the grasp of my steady stare—

Hold and have, there and then,All her body and soulThat completes my whole,All that women add to men,In the clutch of my steady ken—

Hold and have, there and then,

All her body and soul

That completes my whole,

All that women add to men,

In the clutch of my steady ken—

Having and holding, tillI imprint her fastOn the void at lastAs the sun does whom he willBy the calotypist's skill—

Having and holding, till

I imprint her fast

On the void at last

As the sun does whom he will

By the calotypist's skill—

Then,—if my heart's strength serve,And through all and eachOf the veils I reachTo her soul and never swerve,Knitting an iron nerve—

Then,—if my heart's strength serve,

And through all and each

Of the veils I reach

To her soul and never swerve,

Knitting an iron nerve—

Command her soul to advanceAnd inform the shapeWhich has made escapeAnd before my countenanceAnswers me glance for glance—

Command her soul to advance

And inform the shape

Which has made escape

And before my countenance

Answers me glance for glance—

I, still with a gesture fitOf my hands that bestTo my soul's behest,Pointing the power from it,While myself do steadfast sit—

I, still with a gesture fit

Of my hands that best

To my soul's behest,

Pointing the power from it,

While myself do steadfast sit—

Steadfast and still the sameOn my object bent,While the hands give ventTo my ardor and my aimAnd break into very flame—

Steadfast and still the same

On my object bent,

While the hands give vent

To my ardor and my aim

And break into very flame—

Then I reach, I must believe,Not her soul in vain,For to me againIt reaches, and past retrieveIs wound in the toils I weave;

Then I reach, I must believe,

Not her soul in vain,

For to me again

It reaches, and past retrieve

Is wound in the toils I weave;

And must follow as I require,As befits a thrall,Bringing flesh and all,Essence and earth-attire,To the source of the tractile fire:

And must follow as I require,

As befits a thrall,

Bringing flesh and all,

Essence and earth-attire,

To the source of the tractile fire:

Till the house called hers, not mine,With a growing weightSeems to suffocateIf she break not its leaden lineAnd escape from its close confine.

Till the house called hers, not mine,

With a growing weight

Seems to suffocate

If she break not its leaden line

And escape from its close confine.

Out of doors into the night!On to the mazeOf the wild wood-ways,Not turning to left nor rightFrom the pathway, blind with sight—

Out of doors into the night!

On to the maze

Of the wild wood-ways,

Not turning to left nor right

From the pathway, blind with sight—

Making through rain and windO'er the broken shrubs,'Twixt the stems and stubs,With a still, composed, strong mind,Nor a care for the world behind—

Making through rain and wind

O'er the broken shrubs,

'Twixt the stems and stubs,

With a still, composed, strong mind,

Nor a care for the world behind—

Swifter and still more swift,As the crowding peaceDoth to joy increaseIn the wide blind eyes upliftThrough the darkness and the drift!

Swifter and still more swift,

As the crowding peace

Doth to joy increase

In the wide blind eyes uplift

Through the darkness and the drift!

While I—to the shape, I tooFeel my soul dilateNor a whit abate,And relax not a gesture due,As I see my belief come true.

While I—to the shape, I too

Feel my soul dilate

Nor a whit abate,

And relax not a gesture due,

As I see my belief come true.

For, there! have I drawn or noLife to that lip?Do my fingers dipIn a flame which again they throwOn the cheek that breaks aglow?

For, there! have I drawn or no

Life to that lip?

Do my fingers dip

In a flame which again they throw

On the cheek that breaks aglow?

Ha! was the hair so first?What, unfilleted,Made alive, and spreadThrough the void with a rich outburst,Chestnut gold-interspersed?

Ha! was the hair so first?

What, unfilleted,

Made alive, and spread

Through the void with a rich outburst,

Chestnut gold-interspersed?

Like the doors of a casket-shrine,See, on either side,Her two arms divideTill the heart betwixt makes sign,Take me, for I am thine!

Like the doors of a casket-shrine,

See, on either side,

Her two arms divide

Till the heart betwixt makes sign,

Take me, for I am thine!

"Now—now"—the door is heard!Hark, the stairs! and near—Nearer—and here—"Now!" and at call the thirdShe enters without a word.

"Now—now"—the door is heard!

Hark, the stairs! and near—

Nearer—and here—

"Now!" and at call the third

She enters without a word.

On doth she march and onTo the fancied shape;It is, past escape,Herself, now: the dream is doneAnd the shadow and she are one.

On doth she march and on

To the fancied shape;

It is, past escape,

Herself, now: the dream is done

And the shadow and she are one.

First I will pray. Do ThouThat ownest the soul,Yet wilt grant controlTo another, nor disallowFor a time, restrain me now!

First I will pray. Do Thou

That ownest the soul,

Yet wilt grant control

To another, nor disallow

For a time, restrain me now!

I admonish me while I may,Not to squander guilt,Since require Thou wiltAt my hand its price one day!What the price is, who can say?

I admonish me while I may,

Not to squander guilt,

Since require Thou wilt

At my hand its price one day!

What the price is, who can say?

(PETER RONSARDloquitur.)

"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis,"Distance all value enhances!When a man 's busy, why, leisureStrikes him as wonderful pleasure:'Faith, and at leisure once is he?Straightway he wants to be busy.Here we 've got peace; and aghast I 'mCaught thinking war the true pastime.Is there a reason in metre?Give us your speech, master Peter!"I who, if mortal dare say so,Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:Men are the merest Ixions"—Here the King whistled aloud, "Let 's—Heigho—go look at our lions!"Such are the sorrowful chancesIf you talk fine to King Francis.And so, to the courtyard proceedingOur company, Francis was leading,Increased by new followers tenfoldBefore he arrived at the penfold;Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizenAt sunset the western horizon.And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremostWith the dame he professed to adore most.Oh, what a face! One by fits eyedHer, and the horrible pitside;For the penfold surrounded a hollowWhich led where the eye scarce dared follow.And shelved to the chamber secludedWhere Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.The King hailed his keeper, an ArabAs glossy and black as a scarab,And bade him make sport and at once stirUp and out of his den the old monster.They opened a hole in the wire-workAcross it, and dropped there a firework,And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,The blackness and silence so utter,By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;Then earth in a sudden contortionGave out to our gaze her abortion.Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,And whose faculties move in no small mistWhen he versifies David the Psalmist)I should study that brute to describe youIlium Juda Leonem de Tribu.One's whole blood grew curdling and creepyTo see the black mane, vast and heapy,The tail in the air stiff and straining,The wide eyes, nor-waxing nor waning,As over the barrier which boundedHis platform, and us who surroundedThe barrier, they reached and they restedOn space that might stand him in best stead:For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,And if, in this minute of wonder,No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,The lion at last was delivered?Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!And you saw by the flash on his forehead,By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,He was leagues in the desert already,Driving the flocks up the mountain,Or catlike couched hard by the fountainTo waylay the date-gathering negress:So guarded he entrance or egress."How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhereAnd so can afford the confession,)We exercise wholesome discretionIn keeping aloof from his threshold,Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,Their first would too pleasantly purloinThe visitor's brisket or surloin:But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"The sentence no sooner was uttered,Than over the rails a glove fluttered,Fell close to the lion, and rested:The dame 't was, who flung it and jestedWith life so, De Lorge had been wooingFor months past; he sat there pursuingHis suit, weighing out with nonchalanceFine speeches like gold from a balance.Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,Walked straight to the glove,—while the lionNe'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye onThe palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,—Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,Leaped back where the lady was seated,And full in the face of its ownerFlung the glove."Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?So should I!"—cried the King—"'t was mere vanity,Not love, set that task to humanity!"Lords and ladies alike turned with loathingFrom such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.Not so, I; for I caught an expressionIn her brow's undisturbed self-possessionAmid the Court's scoffing and merriment,—As if from no pleasing experimentShe rose, yet of pain not much heedfulSo long as the process was needful,—As if she had tried in a crucible,To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,And, finding the finest prove copper,Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;To know what she hadnotto trust to,Was worth all the ashes and dust too.She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?If she wished not the rash deed's recallment?"For I"—so I spoke—"am a poet:Human nature,—behooves that I know it!"She told me, "Too long had I heardOf the deed proved alone by the word:For my love—what De Lorge would not dare!With my scorn—what De Lorge could compare!And the endless descriptions of deathHe would brave when my lip formed a breath,I must reckon as braved, or, of course,Doubt his word—and moreover, perforce,For such gifts as no lady could spurn,Must offer my love in return.When I looked on your lion, it broughtAll the dangers at once to my thought,Encountered by all sorts of men,Before he was lodged in his den,—From the poor slave whose club or bare handsDug the trap, set the snare on the sands,With no King and no Court to applaud,By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,Yet to capture the creature made shift,That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,—To the page who last leaped o'er the fenceOf the pit, on no greater pretenceThan to get back the bonnet he dropped,Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.So, wiser I judged it to makeOne trial what 'death for my sake'Really meant, while the power was yet mine,Than to wait until time should defineSuch a phrase not so simply as I,Who took it to mean just 'to die.'The blow a glove gives is but weak:Does the mark yet discolor my cheek?But when the heart suffers a blow,Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"I looked, as away she was sweeping,And saw a youth eagerly keepingAs close as he dared to the doorway.No doubt that a noble should more weighHis life than befits a plebeian;And yet, had our brute been Nemean—(I judge by a certain palm fervorThe youth stepped with, forward to serve her)—He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turnIf you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"And when, shortly after, she carriedHer shame from the Court, and they married,To that marriage some happiness, maugreThe voice of the Court, I dared augur.For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;And in short stood so plain a head tallerThat he wooed and won ... how do you call her?The beauty, that rose in the sequelTo the King's love, who loved her a week well.And 't was noticed he never would honorDe Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)With the easy commission of stretchingHis legs in the service, and fetchingHis wife, from her chamber, those strayingSad gloves she was always mislaying,While the King took the closet to chat in,—But of course this adventure came pat in.And never the King told the story,How bringing a glove brought such glory,But the wife smiled—"His nerves are grown firmer:Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."Venienti occurrite morbo!With which moral I drop my theorbo.

"Heigho," yawned one day King Francis,

"Distance all value enhances!

When a man 's busy, why, leisure

Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:

'Faith, and at leisure once is he?

Straightway he wants to be busy.

Here we 've got peace; and aghast I 'm

Caught thinking war the true pastime.

Is there a reason in metre?

Give us your speech, master Peter!"

I who, if mortal dare say so,

Ne'er am at loss with my Naso,

"Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:

Men are the merest Ixions"—

Here the King whistled aloud, "Let 's

—Heigho—go look at our lions!"

Such are the sorrowful chances

If you talk fine to King Francis.

And so, to the courtyard proceedingOur company, Francis was leading,Increased by new followers tenfoldBefore he arrived at the penfold;Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizenAt sunset the western horizon.And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremostWith the dame he professed to adore most.Oh, what a face! One by fits eyedHer, and the horrible pitside;For the penfold surrounded a hollowWhich led where the eye scarce dared follow.And shelved to the chamber secludedWhere Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.The King hailed his keeper, an ArabAs glossy and black as a scarab,And bade him make sport and at once stirUp and out of his den the old monster.They opened a hole in the wire-workAcross it, and dropped there a firework,And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,The blackness and silence so utter,By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;Then earth in a sudden contortionGave out to our gaze her abortion.Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,And whose faculties move in no small mistWhen he versifies David the Psalmist)I should study that brute to describe youIlium Juda Leonem de Tribu.

And so, to the courtyard proceeding

Our company, Francis was leading,

Increased by new followers tenfold

Before he arrived at the penfold;

Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen

At sunset the western horizon.

And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost

With the dame he professed to adore most.

Oh, what a face! One by fits eyed

Her, and the horrible pitside;

For the penfold surrounded a hollow

Which led where the eye scarce dared follow.

And shelved to the chamber secluded

Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.

The King hailed his keeper, an Arab

As glossy and black as a scarab,

And bade him make sport and at once stir

Up and out of his den the old monster.

They opened a hole in the wire-work

Across it, and dropped there a firework,

And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;

A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,

The blackness and silence so utter,

By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;

Then earth in a sudden contortion

Gave out to our gaze her abortion.

Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot

(Whose experience of nature's but narrow,

And whose faculties move in no small mist

When he versifies David the Psalmist)

I should study that brute to describe you

Ilium Juda Leonem de Tribu.

One's whole blood grew curdling and creepyTo see the black mane, vast and heapy,The tail in the air stiff and straining,The wide eyes, nor-waxing nor waning,As over the barrier which boundedHis platform, and us who surroundedThe barrier, they reached and they restedOn space that might stand him in best stead:For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,And if, in this minute of wonder,No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,The lion at last was delivered?Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!And you saw by the flash on his forehead,By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,He was leagues in the desert already,Driving the flocks up the mountain,Or catlike couched hard by the fountainTo waylay the date-gathering negress:So guarded he entrance or egress."How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhereAnd so can afford the confession,)We exercise wholesome discretionIn keeping aloof from his threshold,Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,Their first would too pleasantly purloinThe visitor's brisket or surloin:But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy

To see the black mane, vast and heapy,

The tail in the air stiff and straining,

The wide eyes, nor-waxing nor waning,

As over the barrier which bounded

His platform, and us who surrounded

The barrier, they reached and they rested

On space that might stand him in best stead:

For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,

The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,

And if, in this minute of wonder,

No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,

Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,

The lion at last was delivered?

Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!

And you saw by the flash on his forehead,

By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,

He was leagues in the desert already,

Driving the flocks up the mountain,

Or catlike couched hard by the fountain

To waylay the date-gathering negress:

So guarded he entrance or egress.

"How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,

(No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere

And so can afford the confession,)

We exercise wholesome discretion

In keeping aloof from his threshold,

Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,

Their first would too pleasantly purloin

The visitor's brisket or surloin:

But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?

Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

The sentence no sooner was uttered,Than over the rails a glove fluttered,Fell close to the lion, and rested:The dame 't was, who flung it and jestedWith life so, De Lorge had been wooingFor months past; he sat there pursuingHis suit, weighing out with nonchalanceFine speeches like gold from a balance.

The sentence no sooner was uttered,

Than over the rails a glove fluttered,

Fell close to the lion, and rested:

The dame 't was, who flung it and jested

With life so, De Lorge had been wooing

For months past; he sat there pursuing

His suit, weighing out with nonchalance

Fine speeches like gold from a balance.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,Walked straight to the glove,—while the lionNe'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye onThe palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,—Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,Leaped back where the lady was seated,And full in the face of its ownerFlung the glove.

Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!

De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,

Walked straight to the glove,—while the lion

Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on

The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,

And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir,—

Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,

Leaped back where the lady was seated,

And full in the face of its owner

Flung the glove.

"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?So should I!"—cried the King—"'t was mere vanity,Not love, set that task to humanity!"Lords and ladies alike turned with loathingFrom such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?

So should I!"—cried the King—"'t was mere vanity,

Not love, set that task to humanity!"

Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing

From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

Not so, I; for I caught an expressionIn her brow's undisturbed self-possessionAmid the Court's scoffing and merriment,—As if from no pleasing experimentShe rose, yet of pain not much heedfulSo long as the process was needful,—As if she had tried in a crucible,To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,And, finding the finest prove copper,Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;To know what she hadnotto trust to,Was worth all the ashes and dust too.She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?If she wished not the rash deed's recallment?"For I"—so I spoke—"am a poet:Human nature,—behooves that I know it!"

Not so, I; for I caught an expression

In her brow's undisturbed self-possession

Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,—

As if from no pleasing experiment

She rose, yet of pain not much heedful

So long as the process was needful,—

As if she had tried in a crucible,

To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,

And, finding the finest prove copper,

Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;

To know what she hadnotto trust to,

Was worth all the ashes and dust too.

She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;

Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,

And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?

If she wished not the rash deed's recallment?

"For I"—so I spoke—"am a poet:

Human nature,—behooves that I know it!"

She told me, "Too long had I heardOf the deed proved alone by the word:For my love—what De Lorge would not dare!With my scorn—what De Lorge could compare!And the endless descriptions of deathHe would brave when my lip formed a breath,I must reckon as braved, or, of course,Doubt his word—and moreover, perforce,For such gifts as no lady could spurn,Must offer my love in return.When I looked on your lion, it broughtAll the dangers at once to my thought,Encountered by all sorts of men,Before he was lodged in his den,—From the poor slave whose club or bare handsDug the trap, set the snare on the sands,With no King and no Court to applaud,By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,Yet to capture the creature made shift,That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,—To the page who last leaped o'er the fenceOf the pit, on no greater pretenceThan to get back the bonnet he dropped,Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.So, wiser I judged it to makeOne trial what 'death for my sake'Really meant, while the power was yet mine,Than to wait until time should defineSuch a phrase not so simply as I,Who took it to mean just 'to die.'The blow a glove gives is but weak:Does the mark yet discolor my cheek?But when the heart suffers a blow,Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

She told me, "Too long had I heard

Of the deed proved alone by the word:

For my love—what De Lorge would not dare!

With my scorn—what De Lorge could compare!

And the endless descriptions of death

He would brave when my lip formed a breath,

I must reckon as braved, or, of course,

Doubt his word—and moreover, perforce,

For such gifts as no lady could spurn,

Must offer my love in return.

When I looked on your lion, it brought

All the dangers at once to my thought,

Encountered by all sorts of men,

Before he was lodged in his den,—

From the poor slave whose club or bare hands

Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,

With no King and no Court to applaud,

By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,

Yet to capture the creature made shift,

That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,

—To the page who last leaped o'er the fence

Of the pit, on no greater pretence

Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,

Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.

So, wiser I judged it to make

One trial what 'death for my sake'

Really meant, while the power was yet mine,

Than to wait until time should define

Such a phrase not so simply as I,

Who took it to mean just 'to die.'

The blow a glove gives is but weak:

Does the mark yet discolor my cheek?

But when the heart suffers a blow,

Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

I looked, as away she was sweeping,And saw a youth eagerly keepingAs close as he dared to the doorway.No doubt that a noble should more weighHis life than befits a plebeian;And yet, had our brute been Nemean—(I judge by a certain palm fervorThe youth stepped with, forward to serve her)—He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turnIf you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"And when, shortly after, she carriedHer shame from the Court, and they married,To that marriage some happiness, maugreThe voice of the Court, I dared augur.

I looked, as away she was sweeping,

And saw a youth eagerly keeping

As close as he dared to the doorway.

No doubt that a noble should more weigh

His life than befits a plebeian;

And yet, had our brute been Nemean—

(I judge by a certain palm fervor

The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)

—He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn

If you whispered, "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"

And when, shortly after, she carried

Her shame from the Court, and they married,

To that marriage some happiness, maugre

The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;And in short stood so plain a head tallerThat he wooed and won ... how do you call her?The beauty, that rose in the sequelTo the King's love, who loved her a week well.And 't was noticed he never would honorDe Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)With the easy commission of stretchingHis legs in the service, and fetchingHis wife, from her chamber, those strayingSad gloves she was always mislaying,While the King took the closet to chat in,—But of course this adventure came pat in.And never the King told the story,How bringing a glove brought such glory,But the wife smiled—"His nerves are grown firmer:Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,

Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;

And in short stood so plain a head taller

That he wooed and won ... how do you call her?

The beauty, that rose in the sequel

To the King's love, who loved her a week well.

And 't was noticed he never would honor

De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)

With the easy commission of stretching

His legs in the service, and fetching

His wife, from her chamber, those straying

Sad gloves she was always mislaying,

While the King took the closet to chat in,—

But of course this adventure came pat in.

And never the King told the story,

How bringing a glove brought such glory,

But the wife smiled—"His nerves are grown firmer:

Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

Venienti occurrite morbo!With which moral I drop my theorbo.

Venienti occurrite morbo!

With which moral I drop my theorbo.

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