FLUTE-MUSIC, WITH AN ACCOMPANIMENT

This strange thing happened to a painter once:Viterbo boasts the man among her sonsOf note, I seem to think: his ready toolPicked up its precepts in Cortona's school—That 's Pietro Berretini, whom they callCortona, these Italians: greatish-small,Our painter was his pupil, by reputeHis match if not his master absolute,Though whether he spoiled fresco more or less,And what 's its fortune, scarce repays your guess.Still, for one circumstance, I save his name—Francesco Romanelli: do the same!He went to Rome and painted: there he knewA wonder of a woman painting too—For she, at least, was no Cortona's drudge:Witness that ardent fancy-shape—I judgeA semblance of her soul—she called, "Desire"With starry front for guide, where sits the fireShe left to brighten Buonarroti's house.If you see Florence, pay that piece your vows,Though blockhead Baldinucci's mind, imbuedWith monkish morals, bade folk "Drape the nudeAnd stop the scandal!" quoth the record primI borrow this of: hang his book and him!At Rome, then, where these fated ones met first,The blossom of his life had hardly burstWhile hers was blooming at full beauty's stand:No less Francesco—when half-ripe he scannedConsummate Artemisia—grew one wantTo have her his and make her ministrantWith every gift of body and of soulTo him. In vain. Her sphery self was whole—Might only touch his orb at Art's sole point.Suppose he could persuade her to enjointHer life—past, present, future—all in hisAt Art's sole point by some explosive kissOf love through lips, would love's success defeatArtistry's haunting curse—the Incomplete?Artists no doubt they both were,—what besideWas she? who long had felt heart, soul spread wideHer life out, knowing much and loving well,On either side Art's narrow space where fellReflection from his own speck: but the germOf individual genius—what we termThe very self, the God-gift whence had grownHeart's life and soul's life—how make that his own?Vainly his Art, reflected, smiled in smallOn Art's one facet of her ampler ball;The rest, touch-free, took in, gave back heaven, earth,All where he was not. Hope, well-nigh ere birthCame to Desire, died off all-unfulfilled."What though in Art I stand the abler-skilled,"(So he conceited: mediocrityTurns on itself the self-transforming eye)"If only Art were suing, mine would pleadTo purpose: man—by nature I exceedWoman the bounded: but how much besideShe boasts, would sue in turn and be denied!Love her? My own wife loves me in a sortThat suits us both: she takes the world's reportOf what my work is worth, and, for the rest,Concedes that, while his consort keeps her nest,The eagle soars a licensed vagrant, livesA wide free life which she at least forgives—Good Beatricé Signorini! WellAnd wisely did I choose her. But the spellTo subjugate this Artemisia—where?She passionless?—she resolute to careNowise beyond the plain sufficiencyOf fact that she is she and I am I—Acknowledged arbitrator for us bothIn her life as in mine which she were lothEven to learn the laws of? No, and no,Twenty times over! Ay, it must be so:I for myself, alas!"Whereon, insteadOf the checked lover's-utterance—why, he said—Leaning over her easel: "Flesh is red"(Or some such just remark)—"by no means whiteAs Guido's practice teaches: you ate right."Then came the better impulse: "What if prideWere wisely trampled on, whate'er betide?If I grow hers, not mine—join lives, confuseBodies and spirits, gain her not but loseMyself to Artemisia? That were love!Of two souls—one must bend, one rule above:If I crouch under proudly, lord turned slave,Were it not worthier both than if she gaveHerself—in treason to herself—to me?"And, all the while, he felt it could not be.Such love was true love: love that way who can!Some one that 's born half woman, not whole man:For man, prescribed man better or man worse,Why, whether microcosm or universe,What law prevails alike through great and small,The world and man—world's miniature we call?Male is the master. "That way" smiled and sighedOur true male estimator—"puts her prideMy wife in making me the outlet whenceShe learns all Heaven allows: 't is my pretenceTo paint: her lord should do what else but paint?Do I break brushes, cloister me turned saint?Then, best of all suits sanctity her spouseWho acts for Heaven, allows and disallowsAt pleasure, past appeal, the right, the wrongIn all things. That 's my wife's way. But this strongConfident Artemisia—an adeptIn Art does she conceit herself? 'ExceptIn just this instance,' tell her, 'no one drawsMore rigidly observant of the lawsOf right design: yet here,—permit me hint.—If the acromion had a deeper dint,That shoulder were perfection.' What surprise—Nay scorn, shoots black fire from those startled eyes!She to be lessoned in design forsooth!I 'm doomed and done for, since I spoke the truth.Make my own work the subject of dispute—Fails it of just perfection absoluteSomewhere? Those motors, flexors,—don't I knowSer Santi, styled 'TirititototoThe pencil-prig,' might blame them? Yet my wife—Were he and his nicknamer brought to life,Tito and Titian, to pronounce again—Ask her who knows more—I or the great Twain,Our colorist and draughtsman!"I help her,Not she helps me; and neither shall demurBecause my portion is"—he chose to think—"Quite other than a woman's: I may drinkAt many waters, must repose by none—Rather arise and fare forth, having doneDuty to one new excellence the more,Abler thereby, though impotent beforeSo much was gained of knowledge. Best depart,From this last lady I have learned by heart!"Thus he concluded of himself—resignedTo play the man and master: "Man boasts mind:Woman, man's sport calls mistress, to the sameDoes body's suit and service. Would she claim—My placid Beatricé-wife—pretenceEven to blame her lord if, going hence,He wistfully regards one whom—did fateConcede—he might accept queen, abdicateKingship because of?—one of no meek sortBut masterful as he: man's match in short?Oh, there 's no secret I were best conceal!Bicé shall know; and should a stray tear stealFrom out the blue eye, stain the rose cheek—bah!A smile, a word's gay reassurance—ah,With kissing interspersed,—shall make amends,Turn pain to pleasure.""What, in truth so endsAbruptly, do you say, our intercourse?"Next day, asked Artemisia: "I 'll divorceHusband and wife no longer. Go your ways,Leave Rome! Viterbo owns no equal, saysThe by-word, for fair women: you, no doubt,May boast a paragon all specks without,Using the painter's privilege to chooseAmong what 's rarest. Will your wife refuseAcceptance from—no rival—of a gift?You paint the human figure I make shiftHumbly to reproduce: but, in my hoursOf idlesse, what I fain would paint is—flowers.Look now!"She twitched aside a veiling cloth."Here is my keepsake—frame and picture both:For see, the frame is all of flowers festoonedAbout an empty space,—left thus, to woundNo natural susceptibility:How can I guess? 'T is you must fill, not I,The central space with—her whom you like best!That is your business, mine has been the rest.But judge!"How judge them? Each of us, in flowers,Chooses his love, allies it with past hours,Old meetings, vanished forms and faces: no—Here let each favorite unmolested blowFor one heart's homage, no tongue's banal praise,Whether the rose appealingly bade "GazeYour fill on me, sultana who dethroneThe gaudy tulip!" or 't was "Me aloneRather do homage to, who lily am,No unabashed rose!" "Do I vainly cramMy cup with sweets, your jonquil?" "Why forgetVernal endearments with the violet?"So they contested yet concerted, allAs one, to circle round about, enthralYet, self-forgetting, push to prominenceThe midmost wonder, gained no matter whence.There 's a tale extant, in a book I connedLong years ago, which treats of things beyondThe common, antique times and countries queerAnd customs strange to match. "'T is said, last year,"(Recounts my author) "that the King had mindTo view his kingdom—guessed at from behindA palace-window hitherto. AnnouncedNo sooner was such purpose than 't was pouncedUpon by all the ladies of the land—Loyal but light of life: they formed a bandOf loveliest ones but lithest also, sinceProudly they all combined to bear their prince.Backs joined to breasts,—arms, legs,—nay, ankles, wrists,Hands, feet, I know not by what turns and twists,So interwoven lay that you believed'T was one sole beast of burden which receivedThe monarch on its back, of breadth not scant,Since fifty girls made one white elephant."So with the fifty flowers which shapes and huesBlent, as I tell, and made one fast yet looseMixture of beauties, composite, distinctNo less in each combining flower that linkedWith flower to form a fit environmentFor—whom might be the painter's heart's intentThus, in the midst enhaloed, to enshrine?"This glory-guarded middle space—is mine?For me to fill?""For you, my Friend! We part,Never perchance to meet again. Your Art—What if I mean it—so to speak—shall wedMy own, be witness of the life we ledWhen sometimes it has seemed our souls near foundEach one the other as its mate—unboundHad yours been haply from the better choice—Beautiful Bicé: 't is the common voice,The crowning verdict. Make whom you like bestQueen of the central space, and manifestYour predilection for what flower beyondAll flowers finds favor with you. I am fondOf—say—yon rose's rich predominance,While you—what wonder?—more affect the glanceThe gentler violet from its leafy screenVentures: so—choose your flower and paint your queen!"Oh, but the man was ready, head as hand,Instructed and adroit. "Just as you stand,Stay and be made—would Nature but relent—By Art immortal!"Every implementIn tempting reach—a palette primed, each squeezeOf oil-paint in its proper patch—with these,Brushes, a veritable sheaf to grasp!He worked as he had never dared."UnclaspMy Art from yours who can!"—he cried at length,As down he threw the pencil—"Grace from StrengthDissociate, from your flowery fringe detachMy face of whom it frames,—the feat will matchWith that of Time should Time from me extractYour memory, Artemisia!" And in fact,—What with the pricking impulse, sudden glowOf soul—head, hand coöperated soThat face was worthy of its frame, 't is said—Perfect, suppose!They parted. Soon insteadOf Rome was home,—of Artemisia—well,The placid-perfect wife. And it befellThat after the first incontestablyBlessedest of all blisses (—wherefore tryYour patience with embraceings and the restDue from Calypso's all-unwilling guestTo his Penelope?)—there somehow cameThe coolness which as duly follows flame.So, one day, "What if we inspect the giftsMy Art has gained us?"Now the wife upliftsA casket-lid, now tries a medal's chainRound her own lithe neck, fits a ring in vain—Too loose on the fine finger,—vows and swearsThe jewel with two pendent pearls like pearsBetters a lady's bosom—witness else!And so forth, while Ulysses smiles."Such spellsSubdue such natures—sex must worship toys—Trinkets and trash: yet, ah, quite other joysMust stir from sleep the passionate abyssOf—such an one as her I know—not thisMy gentle consort with the milk for blood!Why, did it chance that in a careless mood(In those old days, gone—never to return—When we talked—she to teach and I to learn)I dropped a word, a hint which might implyConsorts exist—how quick flashed fire from eye,Brow blackened, lip was pinched by furious lip!I needed no reminder of my slip:One warning taught me wisdom. Whereas here ...Aha, a sportive fancy! Eh, what fearOf harm to follow? Just a whim indulged!"My Beatricé, there 's an undivulgedSurprise in store for you: the moment 's fitFor letting loose a secret: out with it!Tributes to worth, you rightly estimateThese gifts of Prince and Bishop, Church and State:Yet, may I tell you? Tastes so disagree!There 's one gift, preciousest of all to me,I doubt if you would value as well worthThe obvious sparkling gauds that men unearthFor toy-cult mainly of you womankind;Such make you marvel, I concede: while blindThe sex proves to the greater marvel hereI veil to balk its envy. Be sincere!Say, should you search creation far and wide,Was ever face like this?"He drew asideThe veil, displayed the flower-framed portrait keptFor private delectation.No adeptIn florist's lore more accurately namedAnd praised or, as appropriately, blamedSpecimen after specimen of skill,Than Bicé. "Rightly placed the daffodil—Scarcely so right the blue germander. GrayGood mouse-ear! Hardly your auriculaIs powdered white enough. It seems to meScarlet not crimson, that anemone:But there 's amends in the pink saxifrage.O darling dear ones, let me disengageYou innocents from what your harmlessnessClasps lovingly! Out thou from their caress,Serpent!"Whereat forth-flashing from her coilsOn coils of hair, thespillain its toilsOf yellow wealth, the dagger-plaything keptTo pin its plaits together, life-like leaptAnd—woe to all inside the coronal!Stab followed stab,—cut, slash, she ruined allThe masterpiece. Alack for eyes and mouthAnd dimples and endearment—North and South,East, West, the tatters in a fury flew:There yawned the circlet. What remained to do?She flung the weapon, and, with folded armsAnd mien defiant of such low alarmsAs death and doom beyond death, Bicé stoodPassively statuesque, in quietudeAwaiting judgment.And out judgment burstWith frank unloading of love's laughter, firstFreed from its unsuspected source. Some throeMust needs unlock love's prison-bars, let flowThe joyance."Then you ever were, still are,And henceforth shall be—no occulted starBut my resplendent Bicé, sun-revealed,Full-rondure! Woman-glory unconcealed,So front me, find and claim and take your own—My soul and body yours and yours alone.As you are mine, mine wholly! Heart's love, take—Use your possession—stab or stay at willHere—hating, saving—woman with the skillTo make man beast or god!"And so it proved:For, as beseemed new godship, thus he loved,Past power to change, until his dying-day,—Good fellow! And I fain would hope—some sayIndeed for certain—that our painter's toilsAt fresco-splashing, finer stroke in oils,Were not so mediocre after all;Perhaps the work appears unduly smallFrom having loomed too large in old esteem,Patronized by late Papacy. I seemMyself to have cast eyes on certain workIn sundry galleries, no judge needs shirkFrom moderately praising. He designedCorrectly, nor in color lagged behindHis age: but both in Florence and in RomeThe elder race so make themselves at homeThat scarce we give a glance to ceilingfulsOf such like as Francesco. Still, one cullsFrom out the heaped laudations of the timeThe pretty incident I put in rhyme.

This strange thing happened to a painter once:

Viterbo boasts the man among her sons

Of note, I seem to think: his ready tool

Picked up its precepts in Cortona's school—

That 's Pietro Berretini, whom they call

Cortona, these Italians: greatish-small,

Our painter was his pupil, by repute

His match if not his master absolute,

Though whether he spoiled fresco more or less,

And what 's its fortune, scarce repays your guess.

Still, for one circumstance, I save his name

—Francesco Romanelli: do the same!

He went to Rome and painted: there he knew

A wonder of a woman painting too—

For she, at least, was no Cortona's drudge:

Witness that ardent fancy-shape—I judge

A semblance of her soul—she called, "Desire"

With starry front for guide, where sits the fire

She left to brighten Buonarroti's house.

If you see Florence, pay that piece your vows,

Though blockhead Baldinucci's mind, imbued

With monkish morals, bade folk "Drape the nude

And stop the scandal!" quoth the record prim

I borrow this of: hang his book and him!

At Rome, then, where these fated ones met first,

The blossom of his life had hardly burst

While hers was blooming at full beauty's stand:

No less Francesco—when half-ripe he scanned

Consummate Artemisia—grew one want

To have her his and make her ministrant

With every gift of body and of soul

To him. In vain. Her sphery self was whole—

Might only touch his orb at Art's sole point.

Suppose he could persuade her to enjoint

Her life—past, present, future—all in his

At Art's sole point by some explosive kiss

Of love through lips, would love's success defeat

Artistry's haunting curse—the Incomplete?

Artists no doubt they both were,—what beside

Was she? who long had felt heart, soul spread wide

Her life out, knowing much and loving well,

On either side Art's narrow space where fell

Reflection from his own speck: but the germ

Of individual genius—what we term

The very self, the God-gift whence had grown

Heart's life and soul's life—how make that his own?

Vainly his Art, reflected, smiled in small

On Art's one facet of her ampler ball;

The rest, touch-free, took in, gave back heaven, earth,

All where he was not. Hope, well-nigh ere birth

Came to Desire, died off all-unfulfilled.

"What though in Art I stand the abler-skilled,"

(So he conceited: mediocrity

Turns on itself the self-transforming eye)

"If only Art were suing, mine would plead

To purpose: man—by nature I exceed

Woman the bounded: but how much beside

She boasts, would sue in turn and be denied!

Love her? My own wife loves me in a sort

That suits us both: she takes the world's report

Of what my work is worth, and, for the rest,

Concedes that, while his consort keeps her nest,

The eagle soars a licensed vagrant, lives

A wide free life which she at least forgives—

Good Beatricé Signorini! Well

And wisely did I choose her. But the spell

To subjugate this Artemisia—where?

She passionless?—she resolute to care

Nowise beyond the plain sufficiency

Of fact that she is she and I am I

—Acknowledged arbitrator for us both

In her life as in mine which she were loth

Even to learn the laws of? No, and no,

Twenty times over! Ay, it must be so:

I for myself, alas!"

Whereon, instead

Of the checked lover's-utterance—why, he said

—Leaning over her easel: "Flesh is red"

(Or some such just remark)—"by no means white

As Guido's practice teaches: you ate right."

Then came the better impulse: "What if pride

Were wisely trampled on, whate'er betide?

If I grow hers, not mine—join lives, confuse

Bodies and spirits, gain her not but lose

Myself to Artemisia? That were love!

Of two souls—one must bend, one rule above:

If I crouch under proudly, lord turned slave,

Were it not worthier both than if she gave

Herself—in treason to herself—to me?"

And, all the while, he felt it could not be.Such love was true love: love that way who can!Some one that 's born half woman, not whole man:For man, prescribed man better or man worse,Why, whether microcosm or universe,What law prevails alike through great and small,The world and man—world's miniature we call?Male is the master. "That way" smiled and sighedOur true male estimator—"puts her prideMy wife in making me the outlet whenceShe learns all Heaven allows: 't is my pretenceTo paint: her lord should do what else but paint?Do I break brushes, cloister me turned saint?Then, best of all suits sanctity her spouseWho acts for Heaven, allows and disallowsAt pleasure, past appeal, the right, the wrongIn all things. That 's my wife's way. But this strongConfident Artemisia—an adeptIn Art does she conceit herself? 'ExceptIn just this instance,' tell her, 'no one drawsMore rigidly observant of the lawsOf right design: yet here,—permit me hint.—If the acromion had a deeper dint,That shoulder were perfection.' What surprise—Nay scorn, shoots black fire from those startled eyes!She to be lessoned in design forsooth!I 'm doomed and done for, since I spoke the truth.Make my own work the subject of dispute—Fails it of just perfection absoluteSomewhere? Those motors, flexors,—don't I knowSer Santi, styled 'TirititototoThe pencil-prig,' might blame them? Yet my wife—Were he and his nicknamer brought to life,Tito and Titian, to pronounce again—Ask her who knows more—I or the great Twain,Our colorist and draughtsman!"I help her,Not she helps me; and neither shall demurBecause my portion is"—he chose to think—"Quite other than a woman's: I may drinkAt many waters, must repose by none—Rather arise and fare forth, having doneDuty to one new excellence the more,Abler thereby, though impotent beforeSo much was gained of knowledge. Best depart,From this last lady I have learned by heart!"

And, all the while, he felt it could not be.

Such love was true love: love that way who can!

Some one that 's born half woman, not whole man:

For man, prescribed man better or man worse,

Why, whether microcosm or universe,

What law prevails alike through great and small,

The world and man—world's miniature we call?

Male is the master. "That way" smiled and sighed

Our true male estimator—"puts her pride

My wife in making me the outlet whence

She learns all Heaven allows: 't is my pretence

To paint: her lord should do what else but paint?

Do I break brushes, cloister me turned saint?

Then, best of all suits sanctity her spouse

Who acts for Heaven, allows and disallows

At pleasure, past appeal, the right, the wrong

In all things. That 's my wife's way. But this strong

Confident Artemisia—an adept

In Art does she conceit herself? 'Except

In just this instance,' tell her, 'no one draws

More rigidly observant of the laws

Of right design: yet here,—permit me hint.—

If the acromion had a deeper dint,

That shoulder were perfection.' What surprise

—Nay scorn, shoots black fire from those startled eyes!

She to be lessoned in design forsooth!

I 'm doomed and done for, since I spoke the truth.

Make my own work the subject of dispute—

Fails it of just perfection absolute

Somewhere? Those motors, flexors,—don't I know

Ser Santi, styled 'Tirititototo

The pencil-prig,' might blame them? Yet my wife—

Were he and his nicknamer brought to life,

Tito and Titian, to pronounce again—

Ask her who knows more—I or the great Twain,

Our colorist and draughtsman!

"I help her,

Not she helps me; and neither shall demur

Because my portion is"—he chose to think—

"Quite other than a woman's: I may drink

At many waters, must repose by none—

Rather arise and fare forth, having done

Duty to one new excellence the more,

Abler thereby, though impotent before

So much was gained of knowledge. Best depart,

From this last lady I have learned by heart!"

Thus he concluded of himself—resignedTo play the man and master: "Man boasts mind:Woman, man's sport calls mistress, to the sameDoes body's suit and service. Would she claim—My placid Beatricé-wife—pretenceEven to blame her lord if, going hence,He wistfully regards one whom—did fateConcede—he might accept queen, abdicateKingship because of?—one of no meek sortBut masterful as he: man's match in short?Oh, there 's no secret I were best conceal!Bicé shall know; and should a stray tear stealFrom out the blue eye, stain the rose cheek—bah!A smile, a word's gay reassurance—ah,With kissing interspersed,—shall make amends,Turn pain to pleasure.""What, in truth so endsAbruptly, do you say, our intercourse?"Next day, asked Artemisia: "I 'll divorceHusband and wife no longer. Go your ways,Leave Rome! Viterbo owns no equal, saysThe by-word, for fair women: you, no doubt,May boast a paragon all specks without,Using the painter's privilege to chooseAmong what 's rarest. Will your wife refuseAcceptance from—no rival—of a gift?You paint the human figure I make shiftHumbly to reproduce: but, in my hoursOf idlesse, what I fain would paint is—flowers.Look now!"She twitched aside a veiling cloth."Here is my keepsake—frame and picture both:For see, the frame is all of flowers festoonedAbout an empty space,—left thus, to woundNo natural susceptibility:How can I guess? 'T is you must fill, not I,The central space with—her whom you like best!That is your business, mine has been the rest.But judge!"How judge them? Each of us, in flowers,Chooses his love, allies it with past hours,Old meetings, vanished forms and faces: no—Here let each favorite unmolested blowFor one heart's homage, no tongue's banal praise,Whether the rose appealingly bade "GazeYour fill on me, sultana who dethroneThe gaudy tulip!" or 't was "Me aloneRather do homage to, who lily am,No unabashed rose!" "Do I vainly cramMy cup with sweets, your jonquil?" "Why forgetVernal endearments with the violet?"So they contested yet concerted, allAs one, to circle round about, enthralYet, self-forgetting, push to prominenceThe midmost wonder, gained no matter whence.

Thus he concluded of himself—resigned

To play the man and master: "Man boasts mind:

Woman, man's sport calls mistress, to the same

Does body's suit and service. Would she claim

—My placid Beatricé-wife—pretence

Even to blame her lord if, going hence,

He wistfully regards one whom—did fate

Concede—he might accept queen, abdicate

Kingship because of?—one of no meek sort

But masterful as he: man's match in short?

Oh, there 's no secret I were best conceal!

Bicé shall know; and should a stray tear steal

From out the blue eye, stain the rose cheek—bah!

A smile, a word's gay reassurance—ah,

With kissing interspersed,—shall make amends,

Turn pain to pleasure."

"What, in truth so ends

Abruptly, do you say, our intercourse?"

Next day, asked Artemisia: "I 'll divorce

Husband and wife no longer. Go your ways,

Leave Rome! Viterbo owns no equal, says

The by-word, for fair women: you, no doubt,

May boast a paragon all specks without,

Using the painter's privilege to choose

Among what 's rarest. Will your wife refuse

Acceptance from—no rival—of a gift?

You paint the human figure I make shift

Humbly to reproduce: but, in my hours

Of idlesse, what I fain would paint is—flowers.

Look now!"

She twitched aside a veiling cloth.

"Here is my keepsake—frame and picture both:

For see, the frame is all of flowers festooned

About an empty space,—left thus, to wound

No natural susceptibility:

How can I guess? 'T is you must fill, not I,

The central space with—her whom you like best!

That is your business, mine has been the rest.

But judge!"

How judge them? Each of us, in flowers,

Chooses his love, allies it with past hours,

Old meetings, vanished forms and faces: no—

Here let each favorite unmolested blow

For one heart's homage, no tongue's banal praise,

Whether the rose appealingly bade "Gaze

Your fill on me, sultana who dethrone

The gaudy tulip!" or 't was "Me alone

Rather do homage to, who lily am,

No unabashed rose!" "Do I vainly cram

My cup with sweets, your jonquil?" "Why forget

Vernal endearments with the violet?"

So they contested yet concerted, all

As one, to circle round about, enthral

Yet, self-forgetting, push to prominence

The midmost wonder, gained no matter whence.

There 's a tale extant, in a book I connedLong years ago, which treats of things beyondThe common, antique times and countries queerAnd customs strange to match. "'T is said, last year,"(Recounts my author) "that the King had mindTo view his kingdom—guessed at from behindA palace-window hitherto. AnnouncedNo sooner was such purpose than 't was pouncedUpon by all the ladies of the land—Loyal but light of life: they formed a bandOf loveliest ones but lithest also, sinceProudly they all combined to bear their prince.Backs joined to breasts,—arms, legs,—nay, ankles, wrists,Hands, feet, I know not by what turns and twists,So interwoven lay that you believed'T was one sole beast of burden which receivedThe monarch on its back, of breadth not scant,Since fifty girls made one white elephant."So with the fifty flowers which shapes and huesBlent, as I tell, and made one fast yet looseMixture of beauties, composite, distinctNo less in each combining flower that linkedWith flower to form a fit environmentFor—whom might be the painter's heart's intentThus, in the midst enhaloed, to enshrine?

There 's a tale extant, in a book I conned

Long years ago, which treats of things beyond

The common, antique times and countries queer

And customs strange to match. "'T is said, last year,"

(Recounts my author) "that the King had mind

To view his kingdom—guessed at from behind

A palace-window hitherto. Announced

No sooner was such purpose than 't was pounced

Upon by all the ladies of the land—

Loyal but light of life: they formed a band

Of loveliest ones but lithest also, since

Proudly they all combined to bear their prince.

Backs joined to breasts,—arms, legs,—nay, ankles, wrists,

Hands, feet, I know not by what turns and twists,

So interwoven lay that you believed

'T was one sole beast of burden which received

The monarch on its back, of breadth not scant,

Since fifty girls made one white elephant."

So with the fifty flowers which shapes and hues

Blent, as I tell, and made one fast yet loose

Mixture of beauties, composite, distinct

No less in each combining flower that linked

With flower to form a fit environment

For—whom might be the painter's heart's intent

Thus, in the midst enhaloed, to enshrine?

"This glory-guarded middle space—is mine?For me to fill?""For you, my Friend! We part,Never perchance to meet again. Your Art—What if I mean it—so to speak—shall wedMy own, be witness of the life we ledWhen sometimes it has seemed our souls near foundEach one the other as its mate—unboundHad yours been haply from the better choice—Beautiful Bicé: 't is the common voice,The crowning verdict. Make whom you like bestQueen of the central space, and manifestYour predilection for what flower beyondAll flowers finds favor with you. I am fondOf—say—yon rose's rich predominance,While you—what wonder?—more affect the glanceThe gentler violet from its leafy screenVentures: so—choose your flower and paint your queen!"Oh, but the man was ready, head as hand,Instructed and adroit. "Just as you stand,Stay and be made—would Nature but relent—By Art immortal!"Every implementIn tempting reach—a palette primed, each squeezeOf oil-paint in its proper patch—with these,Brushes, a veritable sheaf to grasp!He worked as he had never dared."UnclaspMy Art from yours who can!"—he cried at length,As down he threw the pencil—"Grace from StrengthDissociate, from your flowery fringe detachMy face of whom it frames,—the feat will matchWith that of Time should Time from me extractYour memory, Artemisia!" And in fact,—What with the pricking impulse, sudden glowOf soul—head, hand coöperated soThat face was worthy of its frame, 't is said—Perfect, suppose!They parted. Soon insteadOf Rome was home,—of Artemisia—well,The placid-perfect wife. And it befellThat after the first incontestablyBlessedest of all blisses (—wherefore tryYour patience with embraceings and the restDue from Calypso's all-unwilling guestTo his Penelope?)—there somehow cameThe coolness which as duly follows flame.So, one day, "What if we inspect the giftsMy Art has gained us?"Now the wife upliftsA casket-lid, now tries a medal's chainRound her own lithe neck, fits a ring in vain—Too loose on the fine finger,—vows and swearsThe jewel with two pendent pearls like pearsBetters a lady's bosom—witness else!And so forth, while Ulysses smiles."Such spellsSubdue such natures—sex must worship toys—Trinkets and trash: yet, ah, quite other joysMust stir from sleep the passionate abyssOf—such an one as her I know—not thisMy gentle consort with the milk for blood!Why, did it chance that in a careless mood(In those old days, gone—never to return—When we talked—she to teach and I to learn)I dropped a word, a hint which might implyConsorts exist—how quick flashed fire from eye,Brow blackened, lip was pinched by furious lip!I needed no reminder of my slip:One warning taught me wisdom. Whereas here ...Aha, a sportive fancy! Eh, what fearOf harm to follow? Just a whim indulged!

"This glory-guarded middle space—is mine?

For me to fill?"

"For you, my Friend! We part,

Never perchance to meet again. Your Art—

What if I mean it—so to speak—shall wed

My own, be witness of the life we led

When sometimes it has seemed our souls near found

Each one the other as its mate—unbound

Had yours been haply from the better choice

—Beautiful Bicé: 't is the common voice,

The crowning verdict. Make whom you like best

Queen of the central space, and manifest

Your predilection for what flower beyond

All flowers finds favor with you. I am fond

Of—say—yon rose's rich predominance,

While you—what wonder?—more affect the glance

The gentler violet from its leafy screen

Ventures: so—choose your flower and paint your queen!"

Oh, but the man was ready, head as hand,

Instructed and adroit. "Just as you stand,

Stay and be made—would Nature but relent—

By Art immortal!"

Every implement

In tempting reach—a palette primed, each squeeze

Of oil-paint in its proper patch—with these,

Brushes, a veritable sheaf to grasp!

He worked as he had never dared.

"Unclasp

My Art from yours who can!"—he cried at length,

As down he threw the pencil—"Grace from Strength

Dissociate, from your flowery fringe detach

My face of whom it frames,—the feat will match

With that of Time should Time from me extract

Your memory, Artemisia!" And in fact,—

What with the pricking impulse, sudden glow

Of soul—head, hand coöperated so

That face was worthy of its frame, 't is said—

Perfect, suppose!

They parted. Soon instead

Of Rome was home,—of Artemisia—well,

The placid-perfect wife. And it befell

That after the first incontestably

Blessedest of all blisses (—wherefore try

Your patience with embraceings and the rest

Due from Calypso's all-unwilling guest

To his Penelope?)—there somehow came

The coolness which as duly follows flame.

So, one day, "What if we inspect the gifts

My Art has gained us?"

Now the wife uplifts

A casket-lid, now tries a medal's chain

Round her own lithe neck, fits a ring in vain

—Too loose on the fine finger,—vows and swears

The jewel with two pendent pearls like pears

Betters a lady's bosom—witness else!

And so forth, while Ulysses smiles.

"Such spells

Subdue such natures—sex must worship toys

—Trinkets and trash: yet, ah, quite other joys

Must stir from sleep the passionate abyss

Of—such an one as her I know—not this

My gentle consort with the milk for blood!

Why, did it chance that in a careless mood

(In those old days, gone—never to return—

When we talked—she to teach and I to learn)

I dropped a word, a hint which might imply

Consorts exist—how quick flashed fire from eye,

Brow blackened, lip was pinched by furious lip!

I needed no reminder of my slip:

One warning taught me wisdom. Whereas here ...

Aha, a sportive fancy! Eh, what fear

Of harm to follow? Just a whim indulged!

"My Beatricé, there 's an undivulgedSurprise in store for you: the moment 's fitFor letting loose a secret: out with it!Tributes to worth, you rightly estimateThese gifts of Prince and Bishop, Church and State:Yet, may I tell you? Tastes so disagree!There 's one gift, preciousest of all to me,I doubt if you would value as well worthThe obvious sparkling gauds that men unearthFor toy-cult mainly of you womankind;Such make you marvel, I concede: while blindThe sex proves to the greater marvel hereI veil to balk its envy. Be sincere!Say, should you search creation far and wide,Was ever face like this?"

"My Beatricé, there 's an undivulged

Surprise in store for you: the moment 's fit

For letting loose a secret: out with it!

Tributes to worth, you rightly estimate

These gifts of Prince and Bishop, Church and State:

Yet, may I tell you? Tastes so disagree!

There 's one gift, preciousest of all to me,

I doubt if you would value as well worth

The obvious sparkling gauds that men unearth

For toy-cult mainly of you womankind;

Such make you marvel, I concede: while blind

The sex proves to the greater marvel here

I veil to balk its envy. Be sincere!

Say, should you search creation far and wide,

Was ever face like this?"

He drew asideThe veil, displayed the flower-framed portrait keptFor private delectation.No adeptIn florist's lore more accurately namedAnd praised or, as appropriately, blamedSpecimen after specimen of skill,Than Bicé. "Rightly placed the daffodil—Scarcely so right the blue germander. GrayGood mouse-ear! Hardly your auriculaIs powdered white enough. It seems to meScarlet not crimson, that anemone:But there 's amends in the pink saxifrage.O darling dear ones, let me disengageYou innocents from what your harmlessnessClasps lovingly! Out thou from their caress,Serpent!"Whereat forth-flashing from her coilsOn coils of hair, thespillain its toilsOf yellow wealth, the dagger-plaything keptTo pin its plaits together, life-like leaptAnd—woe to all inside the coronal!Stab followed stab,—cut, slash, she ruined allThe masterpiece. Alack for eyes and mouthAnd dimples and endearment—North and South,East, West, the tatters in a fury flew:There yawned the circlet. What remained to do?She flung the weapon, and, with folded armsAnd mien defiant of such low alarmsAs death and doom beyond death, Bicé stoodPassively statuesque, in quietudeAwaiting judgment.And out judgment burstWith frank unloading of love's laughter, firstFreed from its unsuspected source. Some throeMust needs unlock love's prison-bars, let flowThe joyance."Then you ever were, still are,And henceforth shall be—no occulted starBut my resplendent Bicé, sun-revealed,Full-rondure! Woman-glory unconcealed,So front me, find and claim and take your own—My soul and body yours and yours alone.As you are mine, mine wholly! Heart's love, take—Use your possession—stab or stay at willHere—hating, saving—woman with the skillTo make man beast or god!"And so it proved:For, as beseemed new godship, thus he loved,Past power to change, until his dying-day,—Good fellow! And I fain would hope—some sayIndeed for certain—that our painter's toilsAt fresco-splashing, finer stroke in oils,Were not so mediocre after all;Perhaps the work appears unduly smallFrom having loomed too large in old esteem,Patronized by late Papacy. I seemMyself to have cast eyes on certain workIn sundry galleries, no judge needs shirkFrom moderately praising. He designedCorrectly, nor in color lagged behindHis age: but both in Florence and in RomeThe elder race so make themselves at homeThat scarce we give a glance to ceilingfulsOf such like as Francesco. Still, one cullsFrom out the heaped laudations of the timeThe pretty incident I put in rhyme.

He drew aside

The veil, displayed the flower-framed portrait kept

For private delectation.

No adept

In florist's lore more accurately named

And praised or, as appropriately, blamed

Specimen after specimen of skill,

Than Bicé. "Rightly placed the daffodil—

Scarcely so right the blue germander. Gray

Good mouse-ear! Hardly your auricula

Is powdered white enough. It seems to me

Scarlet not crimson, that anemone:

But there 's amends in the pink saxifrage.

O darling dear ones, let me disengage

You innocents from what your harmlessness

Clasps lovingly! Out thou from their caress,

Serpent!"

Whereat forth-flashing from her coils

On coils of hair, thespillain its toils

Of yellow wealth, the dagger-plaything kept

To pin its plaits together, life-like leapt

And—woe to all inside the coronal!

Stab followed stab,—cut, slash, she ruined all

The masterpiece. Alack for eyes and mouth

And dimples and endearment—North and South,

East, West, the tatters in a fury flew:

There yawned the circlet. What remained to do?

She flung the weapon, and, with folded arms

And mien defiant of such low alarms

As death and doom beyond death, Bicé stood

Passively statuesque, in quietude

Awaiting judgment.

And out judgment burst

With frank unloading of love's laughter, first

Freed from its unsuspected source. Some throe

Must needs unlock love's prison-bars, let flow

The joyance.

"Then you ever were, still are,

And henceforth shall be—no occulted star

But my resplendent Bicé, sun-revealed,

Full-rondure! Woman-glory unconcealed,

So front me, find and claim and take your own—

My soul and body yours and yours alone.

As you are mine, mine wholly! Heart's love, take—

Use your possession—stab or stay at will

Here—hating, saving—woman with the skill

To make man beast or god!"

And so it proved:

For, as beseemed new godship, thus he loved,

Past power to change, until his dying-day,—

Good fellow! And I fain would hope—some say

Indeed for certain—that our painter's toils

At fresco-splashing, finer stroke in oils,

Were not so mediocre after all;

Perhaps the work appears unduly small

From having loomed too large in old esteem,

Patronized by late Papacy. I seem

Myself to have cast eyes on certain work

In sundry galleries, no judge needs shirk

From moderately praising. He designed

Correctly, nor in color lagged behind

His age: but both in Florence and in Rome

The elder race so make themselves at home

That scarce we give a glance to ceilingfuls

Of such like as Francesco. Still, one culls

From out the heaped laudations of the time

The pretty incident I put in rhyme.

He.Ah, the bird-like flutingThrough the ash-tops yonder—Bullfinch-bubblings, soft sounds suitingWhat sweet thoughts, I wonder?Fine-pearled notes that surelyGather, dewdrop-fashion,Deep-down in some heart which purelySecretes globuled passion—Passion insuppressive—Such is piped, for certain;Love, no doubt, nay, love excessive'T is, your ash-tops curtain.Would your ash-tops openWe might spy the player—Seek and find some sense which no penYet from singer, sayer,Ever has extracted:Never, to my knowledge,Yet has pedantry enactedThat, in Cupid's College,Just this variationOf the old, old yearningShould by plain speech have salvation,Yield new men new learning."Love!" but what love, nicelyNew from old disparted,Would the player teach precisely?First of all, he startedIn my brain Assurance—Trust—entire Contentment—Passion proved by much endurance;Then came—not resentment,No, but simply Sorrow:What was seen had vanished:Yesterday so blue! To-morrowBlank, all sunshine banished.Hark! 'T is Hope resurges,Struggling through obstruction—Forces a poor smile which vergesOn Joy's introduction.Now, perhaps, mere Musing:"Holds earth such a wonder?Fairy-mortal, soul-sense-fusingPast thought's power to sunder!"What? calm Acquiescence?"Daisied turf gives room toTrefoil, plucked once in her presence—Growing by her tomb too!"She.All 's your fancy-spinning!Here 's the fact: a neighborNever-ending, still beginning,Recreates his labor:Deep o'er desk he drudges.Adds, divides, subtracts andMultiplies, until he judgesNoonday-hour's exact sandShows the hour-glass emptied:Then comes lawful leisure,Minutes rare from toil exempted,Fit to spend in pleasure.Out then with—what treatise?Youth's Complete InstructorHow to play the Flute. Quid petis?Follow Youth's conductorOn and on, throughEasy,Up toHarder,HardestFlute-piece, till thou, flautist wheezy,Possibly discardestTootlings hoarse and husky,Mayst expend with courageBreath—on tunes once bright, now dusky—Meant to cool thy porridge.That 's an air of Tulou'sHe maltreats persistent,Till as lief I 'd hear some Zulu'sBone-piped bag, breath-distent,Madden native dances.I 'm the man's familiar:Unexpectedness enhancesWhat your ear's auxiliar—Fancy—finds suggestive.Listen! That 'slegatoRightly played, his fingers restiveTouch as ifstaccato.He.Ah, you trick-betrayer!Telling tales, unwise one?So the secret of the playerWas—he could surprise oneWell-nigh into trustingHere was a musicianSkilled consummately, yet lustingThrough no vile ambitionAfter making captiveAll the world,—rewardedAmply by one stranger's rapture,Common praise discarded.So, without assistanceSuch as music rightlyNeeds and claims,—defying distance,Overleaping lightlyObstacles which hinder,He, for my approval,All the same and all the kinderMade mine what might move allEarth to kneel adoring:Took—while he piped Gounod'sBit of passionate imploring—Me for Juliet: who knows?No! as you explain things,All 's mere repetition,Practise-pother: of all vain thingsWhy waste pooh or pish onToilsome effort—neverEnding, still beginningAfter what should pay endeavor—Right-performance? winningWeariness from you who,Ready to admire someOwl's fresh hooting—Tu-whit, tu-who—Find stale thrush-songs tiresome.She. Songs, Spring thought perfection,Summer criticises:What in May escaped detection,August, past surprises,Notes, and names each blunder.You, the just-initiate,Praise to heart's content (what wonder?)Tootings I hear vitiateRomeo's serenading—I who, times full twenty,Turned to ice—no ash-tops aiding—At hiscaldamente.So, 't was distance alteredSharps to flats? The missingBar when syncopation faltered(You thought—paused for kissing!)Ash-tops too feloniousIntercepted? RatherSay—they well-nigh made euphoniousDiscord, helped to gatherPhrase, by phrase, turn patchesInto simulatedUnity which botching matches,—Scraps redintegrated.He. Sweet, are you suggestiveOf an old suspicionWhich has always found me restiveTo its admonitionWhen it ventured whisper"Fool, the strifes and strugglesOf your trembler—blusher—lisperWere so many juggles,Tricks tried—oh, so often!—Which once more do duty,Find again a heart to soften,Soul to snare with beauty."Birth-blush of the briar-rose,Mist-bloom of the hedge-sloe,Some one gains the prize: admire roseWould he, when noon's wedge—slow—Sure, has pushed, expandedRathe pink to raw redness?Would he covet sloe when sandedBy road-dust to deadness?So—restore their value!Ply a water-sprinkle!Then guess sloe is fingered, shall you?Find in rose a wrinkle?Here what played Aquarius?Distance—ash-tops aiding,Reconciled scraps else contrarious,Brightened stuff fast fading.Distance—call your shyness:Was the fair one peevish?Coyness softened out of slyness.Was she cunning, thievish,All-but-proved impostor?Bear but one day's exile,Ugly traits were wholly lost orScreened by fancies flexile—Ash-tops these, you take me?Fancies' interferenceChanged ...But since I sleep, don't wake me:What if all's appearance?Is not outside seemingReal as substance inside?Both are facts, so leave me dreaming:If who loses wins I'dEver lose,—conjecture,From one phrase trilled deftly,All the piece. So, end your lecture,Let who lied be left lie!

He.Ah, the bird-like fluting

Through the ash-tops yonder—

Bullfinch-bubblings, soft sounds suiting

What sweet thoughts, I wonder?

Fine-pearled notes that surely

Gather, dewdrop-fashion,

Deep-down in some heart which purely

Secretes globuled passion—

Passion insuppressive—

Such is piped, for certain;

Love, no doubt, nay, love excessive

'T is, your ash-tops curtain.

Would your ash-tops openWe might spy the player—Seek and find some sense which no penYet from singer, sayer,Ever has extracted:Never, to my knowledge,Yet has pedantry enactedThat, in Cupid's College,Just this variationOf the old, old yearningShould by plain speech have salvation,Yield new men new learning.

Would your ash-tops open

We might spy the player—

Seek and find some sense which no pen

Yet from singer, sayer,

Ever has extracted:

Never, to my knowledge,

Yet has pedantry enacted

That, in Cupid's College,

Just this variation

Of the old, old yearning

Should by plain speech have salvation,

Yield new men new learning.

"Love!" but what love, nicelyNew from old disparted,Would the player teach precisely?First of all, he startedIn my brain Assurance—Trust—entire Contentment—Passion proved by much endurance;Then came—not resentment,No, but simply Sorrow:What was seen had vanished:Yesterday so blue! To-morrowBlank, all sunshine banished.

"Love!" but what love, nicely

New from old disparted,

Would the player teach precisely?

First of all, he started

In my brain Assurance—

Trust—entire Contentment—

Passion proved by much endurance;

Then came—not resentment,

No, but simply Sorrow:

What was seen had vanished:

Yesterday so blue! To-morrow

Blank, all sunshine banished.

Hark! 'T is Hope resurges,Struggling through obstruction—Forces a poor smile which vergesOn Joy's introduction.Now, perhaps, mere Musing:"Holds earth such a wonder?Fairy-mortal, soul-sense-fusingPast thought's power to sunder!"What? calm Acquiescence?"Daisied turf gives room toTrefoil, plucked once in her presence—Growing by her tomb too!"

Hark! 'T is Hope resurges,

Struggling through obstruction—

Forces a poor smile which verges

On Joy's introduction.

Now, perhaps, mere Musing:

"Holds earth such a wonder?

Fairy-mortal, soul-sense-fusing

Past thought's power to sunder!"

What? calm Acquiescence?

"Daisied turf gives room to

Trefoil, plucked once in her presence—

Growing by her tomb too!"

She.All 's your fancy-spinning!Here 's the fact: a neighborNever-ending, still beginning,Recreates his labor:Deep o'er desk he drudges.Adds, divides, subtracts andMultiplies, until he judgesNoonday-hour's exact sandShows the hour-glass emptied:Then comes lawful leisure,Minutes rare from toil exempted,Fit to spend in pleasure.

She.All 's your fancy-spinning!

Here 's the fact: a neighbor

Never-ending, still beginning,

Recreates his labor:

Deep o'er desk he drudges.

Adds, divides, subtracts and

Multiplies, until he judges

Noonday-hour's exact sand

Shows the hour-glass emptied:

Then comes lawful leisure,

Minutes rare from toil exempted,

Fit to spend in pleasure.

Out then with—what treatise?Youth's Complete InstructorHow to play the Flute. Quid petis?Follow Youth's conductorOn and on, throughEasy,Up toHarder,HardestFlute-piece, till thou, flautist wheezy,Possibly discardestTootlings hoarse and husky,Mayst expend with courageBreath—on tunes once bright, now dusky—Meant to cool thy porridge.

Out then with—what treatise?

Youth's Complete Instructor

How to play the Flute. Quid petis?

Follow Youth's conductor

On and on, throughEasy,

Up toHarder,Hardest

Flute-piece, till thou, flautist wheezy,

Possibly discardest

Tootlings hoarse and husky,

Mayst expend with courage

Breath—on tunes once bright, now dusky—

Meant to cool thy porridge.

That 's an air of Tulou'sHe maltreats persistent,Till as lief I 'd hear some Zulu'sBone-piped bag, breath-distent,Madden native dances.I 'm the man's familiar:Unexpectedness enhancesWhat your ear's auxiliar—Fancy—finds suggestive.Listen! That 'slegatoRightly played, his fingers restiveTouch as ifstaccato.

That 's an air of Tulou's

He maltreats persistent,

Till as lief I 'd hear some Zulu's

Bone-piped bag, breath-distent,

Madden native dances.

I 'm the man's familiar:

Unexpectedness enhances

What your ear's auxiliar

—Fancy—finds suggestive.

Listen! That 'slegato

Rightly played, his fingers restive

Touch as ifstaccato.

He.Ah, you trick-betrayer!Telling tales, unwise one?So the secret of the playerWas—he could surprise oneWell-nigh into trustingHere was a musicianSkilled consummately, yet lustingThrough no vile ambitionAfter making captiveAll the world,—rewardedAmply by one stranger's rapture,Common praise discarded.

He.Ah, you trick-betrayer!

Telling tales, unwise one?

So the secret of the player

Was—he could surprise one

Well-nigh into trusting

Here was a musician

Skilled consummately, yet lusting

Through no vile ambition

After making captive

All the world,—rewarded

Amply by one stranger's rapture,

Common praise discarded.

So, without assistanceSuch as music rightlyNeeds and claims,—defying distance,Overleaping lightlyObstacles which hinder,He, for my approval,All the same and all the kinderMade mine what might move allEarth to kneel adoring:Took—while he piped Gounod'sBit of passionate imploring—Me for Juliet: who knows?

So, without assistance

Such as music rightly

Needs and claims,—defying distance,

Overleaping lightly

Obstacles which hinder,

He, for my approval,

All the same and all the kinder

Made mine what might move all

Earth to kneel adoring:

Took—while he piped Gounod's

Bit of passionate imploring—

Me for Juliet: who knows?

No! as you explain things,All 's mere repetition,Practise-pother: of all vain thingsWhy waste pooh or pish onToilsome effort—neverEnding, still beginningAfter what should pay endeavor—Right-performance? winningWeariness from you who,Ready to admire someOwl's fresh hooting—Tu-whit, tu-who—Find stale thrush-songs tiresome.

No! as you explain things,

All 's mere repetition,

Practise-pother: of all vain things

Why waste pooh or pish on

Toilsome effort—never

Ending, still beginning

After what should pay endeavor

—Right-performance? winning

Weariness from you who,

Ready to admire some

Owl's fresh hooting—Tu-whit, tu-who—

Find stale thrush-songs tiresome.

She. Songs, Spring thought perfection,Summer criticises:What in May escaped detection,August, past surprises,Notes, and names each blunder.You, the just-initiate,Praise to heart's content (what wonder?)Tootings I hear vitiateRomeo's serenading—I who, times full twenty,Turned to ice—no ash-tops aiding—At hiscaldamente.

She. Songs, Spring thought perfection,

Summer criticises:

What in May escaped detection,

August, past surprises,

Notes, and names each blunder.

You, the just-initiate,

Praise to heart's content (what wonder?)

Tootings I hear vitiate

Romeo's serenading—

I who, times full twenty,

Turned to ice—no ash-tops aiding—

At hiscaldamente.

So, 't was distance alteredSharps to flats? The missingBar when syncopation faltered(You thought—paused for kissing!)Ash-tops too feloniousIntercepted? RatherSay—they well-nigh made euphoniousDiscord, helped to gatherPhrase, by phrase, turn patchesInto simulatedUnity which botching matches,—Scraps redintegrated.

So, 't was distance altered

Sharps to flats? The missing

Bar when syncopation faltered

(You thought—paused for kissing!)

Ash-tops too felonious

Intercepted? Rather

Say—they well-nigh made euphonious

Discord, helped to gather

Phrase, by phrase, turn patches

Into simulated

Unity which botching matches,—

Scraps redintegrated.

He. Sweet, are you suggestiveOf an old suspicionWhich has always found me restiveTo its admonitionWhen it ventured whisper"Fool, the strifes and strugglesOf your trembler—blusher—lisperWere so many juggles,Tricks tried—oh, so often!—Which once more do duty,Find again a heart to soften,Soul to snare with beauty."

He. Sweet, are you suggestive

Of an old suspicion

Which has always found me restive

To its admonition

When it ventured whisper

"Fool, the strifes and struggles

Of your trembler—blusher—lisper

Were so many juggles,

Tricks tried—oh, so often!—

Which once more do duty,

Find again a heart to soften,

Soul to snare with beauty."

Birth-blush of the briar-rose,Mist-bloom of the hedge-sloe,Some one gains the prize: admire roseWould he, when noon's wedge—slow—Sure, has pushed, expandedRathe pink to raw redness?Would he covet sloe when sandedBy road-dust to deadness?So—restore their value!Ply a water-sprinkle!Then guess sloe is fingered, shall you?Find in rose a wrinkle?

Birth-blush of the briar-rose,

Mist-bloom of the hedge-sloe,

Some one gains the prize: admire rose

Would he, when noon's wedge—slow—

Sure, has pushed, expanded

Rathe pink to raw redness?

Would he covet sloe when sanded

By road-dust to deadness?

So—restore their value!

Ply a water-sprinkle!

Then guess sloe is fingered, shall you?

Find in rose a wrinkle?

Here what played Aquarius?Distance—ash-tops aiding,Reconciled scraps else contrarious,Brightened stuff fast fading.Distance—call your shyness:Was the fair one peevish?Coyness softened out of slyness.Was she cunning, thievish,All-but-proved impostor?Bear but one day's exile,Ugly traits were wholly lost orScreened by fancies flexile—

Here what played Aquarius?

Distance—ash-tops aiding,

Reconciled scraps else contrarious,

Brightened stuff fast fading.

Distance—call your shyness:

Was the fair one peevish?

Coyness softened out of slyness.

Was she cunning, thievish,

All-but-proved impostor?

Bear but one day's exile,

Ugly traits were wholly lost or

Screened by fancies flexile—

Ash-tops these, you take me?Fancies' interferenceChanged ...But since I sleep, don't wake me:What if all's appearance?Is not outside seemingReal as substance inside?Both are facts, so leave me dreaming:If who loses wins I'dEver lose,—conjecture,From one phrase trilled deftly,All the piece. So, end your lecture,Let who lied be left lie!

Ash-tops these, you take me?

Fancies' interference

Changed ...

But since I sleep, don't wake me:

What if all's appearance?

Is not outside seeming

Real as substance inside?

Both are facts, so leave me dreaming:

If who loses wins I'd

Ever lose,—conjecture,

From one phrase trilled deftly,

All the piece. So, end your lecture,

Let who lied be left lie!

What it was struck the terror into me?This, Publius: closer! while we wait our turnI'll tell you. Water's warm (they ring inside)At the eighth hour, till when no use to bathe.Here in the vestibule where now we sit,One scarce stood yesterday, the throng was suchOf loyal gapers, folk all eye and earWhile Lucius Varius Rufus in their midstRead out that long-planned late-completed piece,His Panegyric on the Emperor."Nobody like him," little Flaccus laughed,"At leading forth an Epos with due pomp!Only, when godlike Cæsar swells the theme,How should mere mortals hope to praise aright?Tell me, thou offshoot of Etruscan kings!"Whereat Mæcenas smiling sighed assent.I paid my quadrans, left the Thermæ's roarOf rapture as the poet asked, "What placeAmong the godships Jove, for Cæsar's sake,Would bid its actual occupant vacateIn favor of the new divinity?"And got the expected answer, "Yield thine own!"—Jove thus dethroned, I somehow wanted air,And found myself a-pacing street and street,Letting the sunset, rosy over Rome,Clear my head dizzy with the hubbub—say,As if thought's dance therein had kicked up dustBy trampling on all else: the world lay prone,As—poet-propped, in brave hexameters—Their subject triumphed up from man to God.Caius Octavius Cæsar the August—Where was escape from his prepotency?I judge I may have passed—how many pilesOf structure dropt like doles from his free handTo Rome on every side? Why, right and left,For temples you've the Thundering Jupiter,Avenging Mars, Apollo Palatine:How count Piazza, Forum—there's a thirdAll but completed. You've the TheatreNamed of Marcellus—all his work, such work!—One thought still ending, dominating all—With warrant Varius sang, "Be Cæsar God!"By what a hold arrests he Fortune's wheel,Obtaining and retaining heaven and earthThrough Fortune, if you like, but favor—no!For the great deeds flashed by me, fast and thickAs stars which storm the sky on autumn nights—Those conquests! but peace crowned them,—so, of peaceCount up his titles only—these, in few—Ten years Triumvir, Consul thirteen times,Emperor, nay—the glory topping all—HailedFather of his Country, last and bestOf titles, by himself accepted so:And why not? See but feats achieved in Rome—Not to say, Italy—he planted thereSome thirty colonies—but Rome itselfAll new-built, "marble now, brick once," he boasts:This Portico, that Circus. Would you sail?He has drained Tiber for you: would you walk?He straightened out the long Flaminian Way.Poor? Profit by his score of donatives!Rich—that is, mirthful? Half-a-hundred gamesChallenge your choice! There's Rome—for you and meOnly? The centre of the world besides!For, look the wide world over, where ends Rome?To sunrise? There's Euphrates—all between!To sunset? Ocean and immensity:North, stare till Danube stops you: South, see Nile,The Desert and the earth-upholding Mount.Well may the poet-people each with eachVie in his praise, our company of swans,Virgil and Horace, singers—in their way—Nearly as good as Varius, though less famed:Well may they cry, "No mortal, plainly God!"Thus to myself myself said, while I walked:Or would have said, could thought attain to speech,Clean baffled by enormity of blissThe while I strove to scale its heights and soundIts depths—this masterdom o'er all the worldOf one who was but born—like you, like me,Like all the world he owns—of flesh and blood.But he—how grasp, how gauge his own conceitOf bliss to me near inconceivable?Or, since such flight too much makes reel the brain,Let's sink—and so take refuge, as it were,From life's excessive altitude—to life'sBreathable wayside shelter at its base!If looms thus large this Cæsar to myself—Of senatorial rank and somebody—How must he strike the vulgar nameless crowd,Innumerous swarm that 's nobody at all?Why,—for an instance,—much as yon gold shapeCrowned, sceptred, on the temple opposite—Fulgurant Jupiter—must daze the senseOf—say, yon outcast begging from its step!"What, Anti-Cæsar, monarch in the mud,As he is pinnacled above thy pate?Ay, beg away! thy lot contrasts full wellWith his whose bounty yields thee this support—Our Holy and Inviolable One,Cæsar, whose bounty built the fane above!Dost read my thought? Thy garb, alack, displaysSore usage truly in each rent and stain—Faugh! Wash though in Suburra! 'Ware the dogsWho may not so disdain a meal on thee!What, stretchest forth a palm to catch my alms?Aha, why yes: I must appear—who knows?—I, in my toga, to thy rags and thee—Quæstor—nay, Ædile, Censor—Pol! perhapsThe very City-Prætor's noble self!As to me Cæsar, so to thee am I?Good: nor in vain shall prove thy quest, poor rogue!Hither—hold palm out—take this quarter-as!"And who did take it? As he raised his head,(My gesture was a trifle—well—abrupt,)Back fell the broad flap of the peasant's-hat,The homespun cloak that muffled half his cheekDropped somewhat, and I had a glimpse—just one!One was enough. Whose—whose might be the face?That unkempt careless hair—brown, yellowish—Those sparkling eyes beneath their eyebrows' ridge(Each meets each, and the hawk-nose rules between)—That was enough, no glimpse was needed more!And terrifyingly into my mindCame that quick-hushed report was whispered us,"They do say, once a year in sordid garbHe plays the mendicant, sits all day long,Asking and taking alms of who may pass,And so averting, if submission help,Fate's envy, the dread chance and change of thingsWhen Fortune—for a word, a look, a naught—Turns spiteful and—the petted lioness—Strikes with her sudden paw, and prone falls eachWho patted late her neck superiorly,Or trifled with those claw-tips velvet-sheathed.""He's God!" shouts Lucius Varius Rufus: "ManAnd worms'-meat any moment!" mutters lowSome Power, admonishing the mortal-born.Ay, do you mind? There 's meaning in the factThat whoso conquers, triumphs, enters Rome,Climbing the Capitolian, soaring thusTo glory's summit,—Publius, do you mark—Ever the same attendant who, behind,Above the Conqueror's head supports the crownAll-too-demonstrative for human wear,—One hand's employment—all the while reservesIts fellow, backward flung, to point how, closeAppended from the car, beneath the footOf the up-borne exulting Conqueror,Frown—half-descried—the instruments of shame,The malefactor's due. Crown, now—Cross, when?Who stands secure? Are even Gods so safe?Jupiter that just now is dominant—Are not there ancient dismal tales how onceA predecessor reigned ere Saturn came,And who can say if Jupiter be last?Was it for nothing the gray Sibyl wrote"Cæsar Augustus regnant, shall be bornIn blind Judæa"—one to master him,Him and the universe? An old-wife's tale?Bath-drudge! Here, slave! No cheating! Our turn next.No loitering, or be sure you taste the lash!Two strigils, two oil-drippers, each a sponge!

What it was struck the terror into me?This, Publius: closer! while we wait our turnI'll tell you. Water's warm (they ring inside)At the eighth hour, till when no use to bathe.

What it was struck the terror into me?

This, Publius: closer! while we wait our turn

I'll tell you. Water's warm (they ring inside)

At the eighth hour, till when no use to bathe.

Here in the vestibule where now we sit,One scarce stood yesterday, the throng was suchOf loyal gapers, folk all eye and earWhile Lucius Varius Rufus in their midstRead out that long-planned late-completed piece,His Panegyric on the Emperor."Nobody like him," little Flaccus laughed,"At leading forth an Epos with due pomp!Only, when godlike Cæsar swells the theme,How should mere mortals hope to praise aright?Tell me, thou offshoot of Etruscan kings!"Whereat Mæcenas smiling sighed assent.

Here in the vestibule where now we sit,

One scarce stood yesterday, the throng was such

Of loyal gapers, folk all eye and ear

While Lucius Varius Rufus in their midst

Read out that long-planned late-completed piece,

His Panegyric on the Emperor.

"Nobody like him," little Flaccus laughed,

"At leading forth an Epos with due pomp!

Only, when godlike Cæsar swells the theme,

How should mere mortals hope to praise aright?

Tell me, thou offshoot of Etruscan kings!"

Whereat Mæcenas smiling sighed assent.

I paid my quadrans, left the Thermæ's roarOf rapture as the poet asked, "What placeAmong the godships Jove, for Cæsar's sake,Would bid its actual occupant vacateIn favor of the new divinity?"And got the expected answer, "Yield thine own!"—Jove thus dethroned, I somehow wanted air,And found myself a-pacing street and street,Letting the sunset, rosy over Rome,Clear my head dizzy with the hubbub—say,As if thought's dance therein had kicked up dustBy trampling on all else: the world lay prone,As—poet-propped, in brave hexameters—Their subject triumphed up from man to God.Caius Octavius Cæsar the August—Where was escape from his prepotency?I judge I may have passed—how many pilesOf structure dropt like doles from his free handTo Rome on every side? Why, right and left,For temples you've the Thundering Jupiter,Avenging Mars, Apollo Palatine:How count Piazza, Forum—there's a thirdAll but completed. You've the TheatreNamed of Marcellus—all his work, such work!—One thought still ending, dominating all—With warrant Varius sang, "Be Cæsar God!"By what a hold arrests he Fortune's wheel,Obtaining and retaining heaven and earthThrough Fortune, if you like, but favor—no!For the great deeds flashed by me, fast and thickAs stars which storm the sky on autumn nights—Those conquests! but peace crowned them,—so, of peaceCount up his titles only—these, in few—Ten years Triumvir, Consul thirteen times,Emperor, nay—the glory topping all—HailedFather of his Country, last and bestOf titles, by himself accepted so:And why not? See but feats achieved in Rome—Not to say, Italy—he planted thereSome thirty colonies—but Rome itselfAll new-built, "marble now, brick once," he boasts:This Portico, that Circus. Would you sail?He has drained Tiber for you: would you walk?He straightened out the long Flaminian Way.Poor? Profit by his score of donatives!Rich—that is, mirthful? Half-a-hundred gamesChallenge your choice! There's Rome—for you and meOnly? The centre of the world besides!For, look the wide world over, where ends Rome?To sunrise? There's Euphrates—all between!To sunset? Ocean and immensity:North, stare till Danube stops you: South, see Nile,The Desert and the earth-upholding Mount.Well may the poet-people each with eachVie in his praise, our company of swans,Virgil and Horace, singers—in their way—Nearly as good as Varius, though less famed:Well may they cry, "No mortal, plainly God!"

I paid my quadrans, left the Thermæ's roar

Of rapture as the poet asked, "What place

Among the godships Jove, for Cæsar's sake,

Would bid its actual occupant vacate

In favor of the new divinity?"

And got the expected answer, "Yield thine own!"—

Jove thus dethroned, I somehow wanted air,

And found myself a-pacing street and street,

Letting the sunset, rosy over Rome,

Clear my head dizzy with the hubbub—say,

As if thought's dance therein had kicked up dust

By trampling on all else: the world lay prone,

As—poet-propped, in brave hexameters—

Their subject triumphed up from man to God.

Caius Octavius Cæsar the August—

Where was escape from his prepotency?

I judge I may have passed—how many piles

Of structure dropt like doles from his free hand

To Rome on every side? Why, right and left,

For temples you've the Thundering Jupiter,

Avenging Mars, Apollo Palatine:

How count Piazza, Forum—there's a third

All but completed. You've the Theatre

Named of Marcellus—all his work, such work!—

One thought still ending, dominating all—

With warrant Varius sang, "Be Cæsar God!"

By what a hold arrests he Fortune's wheel,

Obtaining and retaining heaven and earth

Through Fortune, if you like, but favor—no!

For the great deeds flashed by me, fast and thick

As stars which storm the sky on autumn nights—

Those conquests! but peace crowned them,—so, of peace

Count up his titles only—these, in few—

Ten years Triumvir, Consul thirteen times,

Emperor, nay—the glory topping all—Hailed

Father of his Country, last and best

Of titles, by himself accepted so:

And why not? See but feats achieved in Rome—

Not to say, Italy—he planted there

Some thirty colonies—but Rome itself

All new-built, "marble now, brick once," he boasts:

This Portico, that Circus. Would you sail?

He has drained Tiber for you: would you walk?

He straightened out the long Flaminian Way.

Poor? Profit by his score of donatives!

Rich—that is, mirthful? Half-a-hundred games

Challenge your choice! There's Rome—for you and me

Only? The centre of the world besides!

For, look the wide world over, where ends Rome?

To sunrise? There's Euphrates—all between!

To sunset? Ocean and immensity:

North, stare till Danube stops you: South, see Nile,

The Desert and the earth-upholding Mount.

Well may the poet-people each with each

Vie in his praise, our company of swans,

Virgil and Horace, singers—in their way—

Nearly as good as Varius, though less famed:

Well may they cry, "No mortal, plainly God!"

Thus to myself myself said, while I walked:Or would have said, could thought attain to speech,Clean baffled by enormity of blissThe while I strove to scale its heights and soundIts depths—this masterdom o'er all the worldOf one who was but born—like you, like me,Like all the world he owns—of flesh and blood.But he—how grasp, how gauge his own conceitOf bliss to me near inconceivable?Or, since such flight too much makes reel the brain,Let's sink—and so take refuge, as it were,From life's excessive altitude—to life'sBreathable wayside shelter at its base!If looms thus large this Cæsar to myself—Of senatorial rank and somebody—How must he strike the vulgar nameless crowd,Innumerous swarm that 's nobody at all?Why,—for an instance,—much as yon gold shapeCrowned, sceptred, on the temple opposite—Fulgurant Jupiter—must daze the senseOf—say, yon outcast begging from its step!"What, Anti-Cæsar, monarch in the mud,As he is pinnacled above thy pate?Ay, beg away! thy lot contrasts full wellWith his whose bounty yields thee this support—Our Holy and Inviolable One,Cæsar, whose bounty built the fane above!Dost read my thought? Thy garb, alack, displaysSore usage truly in each rent and stain—Faugh! Wash though in Suburra! 'Ware the dogsWho may not so disdain a meal on thee!What, stretchest forth a palm to catch my alms?Aha, why yes: I must appear—who knows?—I, in my toga, to thy rags and thee—Quæstor—nay, Ædile, Censor—Pol! perhapsThe very City-Prætor's noble self!As to me Cæsar, so to thee am I?Good: nor in vain shall prove thy quest, poor rogue!Hither—hold palm out—take this quarter-as!"

Thus to myself myself said, while I walked:

Or would have said, could thought attain to speech,

Clean baffled by enormity of bliss

The while I strove to scale its heights and sound

Its depths—this masterdom o'er all the world

Of one who was but born—like you, like me,

Like all the world he owns—of flesh and blood.

But he—how grasp, how gauge his own conceit

Of bliss to me near inconceivable?

Or, since such flight too much makes reel the brain,

Let's sink—and so take refuge, as it were,

From life's excessive altitude—to life's

Breathable wayside shelter at its base!

If looms thus large this Cæsar to myself

—Of senatorial rank and somebody—

How must he strike the vulgar nameless crowd,

Innumerous swarm that 's nobody at all?

Why,—for an instance,—much as yon gold shape

Crowned, sceptred, on the temple opposite—

Fulgurant Jupiter—must daze the sense

Of—say, yon outcast begging from its step!

"What, Anti-Cæsar, monarch in the mud,

As he is pinnacled above thy pate?

Ay, beg away! thy lot contrasts full well

With his whose bounty yields thee this support—

Our Holy and Inviolable One,

Cæsar, whose bounty built the fane above!

Dost read my thought? Thy garb, alack, displays

Sore usage truly in each rent and stain—

Faugh! Wash though in Suburra! 'Ware the dogs

Who may not so disdain a meal on thee!

What, stretchest forth a palm to catch my alms?

Aha, why yes: I must appear—who knows?—

I, in my toga, to thy rags and thee—

Quæstor—nay, Ædile, Censor—Pol! perhaps

The very City-Prætor's noble self!

As to me Cæsar, so to thee am I?

Good: nor in vain shall prove thy quest, poor rogue!

Hither—hold palm out—take this quarter-as!"

And who did take it? As he raised his head,(My gesture was a trifle—well—abrupt,)Back fell the broad flap of the peasant's-hat,The homespun cloak that muffled half his cheekDropped somewhat, and I had a glimpse—just one!One was enough. Whose—whose might be the face?That unkempt careless hair—brown, yellowish—Those sparkling eyes beneath their eyebrows' ridge(Each meets each, and the hawk-nose rules between)—That was enough, no glimpse was needed more!And terrifyingly into my mindCame that quick-hushed report was whispered us,"They do say, once a year in sordid garbHe plays the mendicant, sits all day long,Asking and taking alms of who may pass,And so averting, if submission help,Fate's envy, the dread chance and change of thingsWhen Fortune—for a word, a look, a naught—Turns spiteful and—the petted lioness—Strikes with her sudden paw, and prone falls eachWho patted late her neck superiorly,Or trifled with those claw-tips velvet-sheathed.""He's God!" shouts Lucius Varius Rufus: "ManAnd worms'-meat any moment!" mutters lowSome Power, admonishing the mortal-born.

And who did take it? As he raised his head,

(My gesture was a trifle—well—abrupt,)

Back fell the broad flap of the peasant's-hat,

The homespun cloak that muffled half his cheek

Dropped somewhat, and I had a glimpse—just one!

One was enough. Whose—whose might be the face?

That unkempt careless hair—brown, yellowish—

Those sparkling eyes beneath their eyebrows' ridge

(Each meets each, and the hawk-nose rules between)

—That was enough, no glimpse was needed more!

And terrifyingly into my mind

Came that quick-hushed report was whispered us,

"They do say, once a year in sordid garb

He plays the mendicant, sits all day long,

Asking and taking alms of who may pass,

And so averting, if submission help,

Fate's envy, the dread chance and change of things

When Fortune—for a word, a look, a naught—

Turns spiteful and—the petted lioness—

Strikes with her sudden paw, and prone falls each

Who patted late her neck superiorly,

Or trifled with those claw-tips velvet-sheathed."

"He's God!" shouts Lucius Varius Rufus: "Man

And worms'-meat any moment!" mutters low

Some Power, admonishing the mortal-born.

Ay, do you mind? There 's meaning in the factThat whoso conquers, triumphs, enters Rome,Climbing the Capitolian, soaring thusTo glory's summit,—Publius, do you mark—Ever the same attendant who, behind,Above the Conqueror's head supports the crownAll-too-demonstrative for human wear,—One hand's employment—all the while reservesIts fellow, backward flung, to point how, closeAppended from the car, beneath the footOf the up-borne exulting Conqueror,Frown—half-descried—the instruments of shame,The malefactor's due. Crown, now—Cross, when?

Ay, do you mind? There 's meaning in the fact

That whoso conquers, triumphs, enters Rome,

Climbing the Capitolian, soaring thus

To glory's summit,—Publius, do you mark—

Ever the same attendant who, behind,

Above the Conqueror's head supports the crown

All-too-demonstrative for human wear,

—One hand's employment—all the while reserves

Its fellow, backward flung, to point how, close

Appended from the car, beneath the foot

Of the up-borne exulting Conqueror,

Frown—half-descried—the instruments of shame,

The malefactor's due. Crown, now—Cross, when?

Who stands secure? Are even Gods so safe?Jupiter that just now is dominant—Are not there ancient dismal tales how onceA predecessor reigned ere Saturn came,And who can say if Jupiter be last?Was it for nothing the gray Sibyl wrote"Cæsar Augustus regnant, shall be bornIn blind Judæa"—one to master him,Him and the universe? An old-wife's tale?

Who stands secure? Are even Gods so safe?

Jupiter that just now is dominant—

Are not there ancient dismal tales how once

A predecessor reigned ere Saturn came,

And who can say if Jupiter be last?

Was it for nothing the gray Sibyl wrote

"Cæsar Augustus regnant, shall be born

In blind Judæa"—one to master him,

Him and the universe? An old-wife's tale?

Bath-drudge! Here, slave! No cheating! Our turn next.No loitering, or be sure you taste the lash!Two strigils, two oil-drippers, each a sponge!

Bath-drudge! Here, slave! No cheating! Our turn next.

No loitering, or be sure you taste the lash!

Two strigils, two oil-drippers, each a sponge!

My Father was a scholar and knew Greek.When I was five years old, I asked him once"What do you read about?""The siege of Troy.""What is a siege, and what is Troy?"WhereatHe piled up chairs and tables for a town,Set me a-top for Priam, called our cat—Helen, enticed away from home (he said)By wicked Paris, who couched somewhere closeUnder the footstool, being cowardly,But whom—since she was worth the pains, poor puss—Towzer and Tray,—our dogs, the Atreidai,—soughtBy taking Troy to get possession of—Always when great Achilles ceased to sulk,(My pony in the stable)—forth would pranceAnd put to flight Hector—our page-boy's self.This taught me who was who and what was what:So far I rightly understood the caseAt five years old; a huge delight it provedAnd still proves—thanks to that instructor sageMy Father, who knew better than turn straightLearning's full flare on weak-eyed ignorance,Or, worse yet, leave weak eyes to grow sand-blind,Content with darkness and vacuity.It happened, two or three years afterward,That—I and playmates playing at Troy's Siege—My Father came upon our make-believe."How would you like to read yourself the taleProperly told, of which I gave you firstMerely such notion as a boy could bear?Pope, now, would give you the precise accountOf what, some day, by dint of scholarship,You'll hear—who knows?—from Homer's very mouth.Learn Greek by all means, read the 'Blind Old Man,Sweetest of Singers'—tuphloswhich means 'blind,'Hedistoswhich means 'sweetest.' Time enough!Try, anyhow, to master him some day;Until when, take what serves for substitute,Read Pope, by all means!"So I ran through Pope,Enjoyed the tale—what history so true?Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged,Grew fitter thus for what was promised next—The very thing itself, the actual words,When I could turn—say, Buttmann to account.Time passed, I ripened somewhat: one fine day,"Quite ready for the Iliad, nothing less?There 's Heine, where the big books block the shelf:Don't skip a word, thumb well the Lexicon!"I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I learnedWho was who, what was what, from Homer's tongue,And there an end of learning. Had you askedThe all-accomplished scholar, twelve years old,"Who was it wrote the Iliad?"—what a laugh!"Why, Homer, all the world knows: of his lifeDoubtless some facts exist: it's everywhere:We have not settled, though, his place of birth:He begged, for certain, and was blind beside:Seven cities claimed him—Scio, with best right,Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those Hymns we have.Then there 's the 'Battle of the Frogs and Mice,'That's all—unless they dig 'Margites' up(I'd like that) nothing more remains to know."Thus did youth spend a comfortable time;Until—"What's this the Germans say in factThat Wolf found out first? It's unpleasant workTheir chop and change, unsettling one's belief:All the same, where we live, we learn, that 's sure."So, I bent brow o'erProlegomena.And after Wolf, a dozen of his likeProved there was never any Troy at all,Neither Besiegers nor Besieged,—nay, worse,—No actual Homer, no authentic text,No warrant for the fiction I, as fact,Had treasured in my heart and soul so long—Ay, mark you! and as fact held still, still hold,Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of heartsAnd soul of souls, fact's essence freed and fixedFrom accidental fancy's guardian sheath.Assuredly thenceforward—thank my stars!—However it got there, deprive who could—Wring from the shrine my precious tenantry,Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse,Achilles and his Friend?—though Wolf—ah, Wolf!Why must he needs come doubting, spoil a dream?But then, "No dream's worth waking"—Browning says:And here's the reason why I tell thus much.I, now mature man, you anticipate,May blame my Father justifiablyFor letting me dream out my nonage thus,And only by such slow and sure degreesPermitting me to sift the grain from chaff,Get truth and falsehood known and named as such.Why did he ever let me dream at all,Not bid me taste the story in its strength?Suppose my childhood was scarce qualifiedTo rightly understand mythology,Silence at least was in his power to keep:I might have—somehow—correspondingly—Well, who knows by what method, gained my gains,Been taught, by forthrights not meanderings,My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus' son,A lie as Hell's Gate, love my wedded wife,Like Hector, and so on with all the rest.Could not I have excogitated thisWithout believing such man really were?That is—he might have put into my handThe "Ethics"? In translation, if you please,Exact, no pretty lying that improves,To suit the modern taste: no more, no less—The "Ethics:" 't is a treatise I find hardTo read aright now that my hair is gray,And I can manage the original.At five years old—how ill had fared its leaves!Now, growing double o'er the Stagirite,At least I soil no page with bread and milk,Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface—boys' way.

My Father was a scholar and knew Greek.

When I was five years old, I asked him once

"What do you read about?"

"The siege of Troy."

"What is a siege, and what is Troy?"

Whereat

He piled up chairs and tables for a town,

Set me a-top for Priam, called our cat

—Helen, enticed away from home (he said)

By wicked Paris, who couched somewhere close

Under the footstool, being cowardly,

But whom—since she was worth the pains, poor puss—

Towzer and Tray,—our dogs, the Atreidai,—sought

By taking Troy to get possession of

—Always when great Achilles ceased to sulk,

(My pony in the stable)—forth would prance

And put to flight Hector—our page-boy's self.

This taught me who was who and what was what:

So far I rightly understood the case

At five years old; a huge delight it proved

And still proves—thanks to that instructor sage

My Father, who knew better than turn straight

Learning's full flare on weak-eyed ignorance,

Or, worse yet, leave weak eyes to grow sand-blind,

Content with darkness and vacuity.

It happened, two or three years afterward,That—I and playmates playing at Troy's Siege—My Father came upon our make-believe."How would you like to read yourself the taleProperly told, of which I gave you firstMerely such notion as a boy could bear?Pope, now, would give you the precise accountOf what, some day, by dint of scholarship,You'll hear—who knows?—from Homer's very mouth.Learn Greek by all means, read the 'Blind Old Man,Sweetest of Singers'—tuphloswhich means 'blind,'Hedistoswhich means 'sweetest.' Time enough!Try, anyhow, to master him some day;Until when, take what serves for substitute,Read Pope, by all means!"So I ran through Pope,Enjoyed the tale—what history so true?Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged,Grew fitter thus for what was promised next—The very thing itself, the actual words,When I could turn—say, Buttmann to account.

It happened, two or three years afterward,

That—I and playmates playing at Troy's Siege—

My Father came upon our make-believe.

"How would you like to read yourself the tale

Properly told, of which I gave you first

Merely such notion as a boy could bear?

Pope, now, would give you the precise account

Of what, some day, by dint of scholarship,

You'll hear—who knows?—from Homer's very mouth.

Learn Greek by all means, read the 'Blind Old Man,

Sweetest of Singers'—tuphloswhich means 'blind,'

Hedistoswhich means 'sweetest.' Time enough!

Try, anyhow, to master him some day;

Until when, take what serves for substitute,

Read Pope, by all means!"

So I ran through Pope,

Enjoyed the tale—what history so true?

Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged,

Grew fitter thus for what was promised next—

The very thing itself, the actual words,

When I could turn—say, Buttmann to account.

Time passed, I ripened somewhat: one fine day,"Quite ready for the Iliad, nothing less?There 's Heine, where the big books block the shelf:Don't skip a word, thumb well the Lexicon!"

Time passed, I ripened somewhat: one fine day,

"Quite ready for the Iliad, nothing less?

There 's Heine, where the big books block the shelf:

Don't skip a word, thumb well the Lexicon!"

I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I learnedWho was who, what was what, from Homer's tongue,And there an end of learning. Had you askedThe all-accomplished scholar, twelve years old,"Who was it wrote the Iliad?"—what a laugh!"Why, Homer, all the world knows: of his lifeDoubtless some facts exist: it's everywhere:We have not settled, though, his place of birth:He begged, for certain, and was blind beside:Seven cities claimed him—Scio, with best right,Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those Hymns we have.Then there 's the 'Battle of the Frogs and Mice,'That's all—unless they dig 'Margites' up(I'd like that) nothing more remains to know."

I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I learned

Who was who, what was what, from Homer's tongue,

And there an end of learning. Had you asked

The all-accomplished scholar, twelve years old,

"Who was it wrote the Iliad?"—what a laugh!

"Why, Homer, all the world knows: of his life

Doubtless some facts exist: it's everywhere:

We have not settled, though, his place of birth:

He begged, for certain, and was blind beside:

Seven cities claimed him—Scio, with best right,

Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those Hymns we have.

Then there 's the 'Battle of the Frogs and Mice,'

That's all—unless they dig 'Margites' up

(I'd like that) nothing more remains to know."

Thus did youth spend a comfortable time;Until—"What's this the Germans say in factThat Wolf found out first? It's unpleasant workTheir chop and change, unsettling one's belief:All the same, where we live, we learn, that 's sure."So, I bent brow o'erProlegomena.And after Wolf, a dozen of his likeProved there was never any Troy at all,Neither Besiegers nor Besieged,—nay, worse,—No actual Homer, no authentic text,No warrant for the fiction I, as fact,Had treasured in my heart and soul so long—Ay, mark you! and as fact held still, still hold,Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of heartsAnd soul of souls, fact's essence freed and fixedFrom accidental fancy's guardian sheath.Assuredly thenceforward—thank my stars!—However it got there, deprive who could—Wring from the shrine my precious tenantry,Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse,Achilles and his Friend?—though Wolf—ah, Wolf!Why must he needs come doubting, spoil a dream?

Thus did youth spend a comfortable time;

Until—"What's this the Germans say in fact

That Wolf found out first? It's unpleasant work

Their chop and change, unsettling one's belief:

All the same, where we live, we learn, that 's sure."

So, I bent brow o'erProlegomena.

And after Wolf, a dozen of his like

Proved there was never any Troy at all,

Neither Besiegers nor Besieged,—nay, worse,—

No actual Homer, no authentic text,

No warrant for the fiction I, as fact,

Had treasured in my heart and soul so long—

Ay, mark you! and as fact held still, still hold,

Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of hearts

And soul of souls, fact's essence freed and fixed

From accidental fancy's guardian sheath.

Assuredly thenceforward—thank my stars!—

However it got there, deprive who could—

Wring from the shrine my precious tenantry,

Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse,

Achilles and his Friend?—though Wolf—ah, Wolf!

Why must he needs come doubting, spoil a dream?

But then, "No dream's worth waking"—Browning says:And here's the reason why I tell thus much.I, now mature man, you anticipate,May blame my Father justifiablyFor letting me dream out my nonage thus,And only by such slow and sure degreesPermitting me to sift the grain from chaff,Get truth and falsehood known and named as such.Why did he ever let me dream at all,Not bid me taste the story in its strength?Suppose my childhood was scarce qualifiedTo rightly understand mythology,Silence at least was in his power to keep:I might have—somehow—correspondingly—Well, who knows by what method, gained my gains,Been taught, by forthrights not meanderings,My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus' son,A lie as Hell's Gate, love my wedded wife,Like Hector, and so on with all the rest.Could not I have excogitated thisWithout believing such man really were?That is—he might have put into my handThe "Ethics"? In translation, if you please,Exact, no pretty lying that improves,To suit the modern taste: no more, no less—The "Ethics:" 't is a treatise I find hardTo read aright now that my hair is gray,And I can manage the original.At five years old—how ill had fared its leaves!Now, growing double o'er the Stagirite,At least I soil no page with bread and milk,Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface—boys' way.

But then, "No dream's worth waking"—Browning says:

And here's the reason why I tell thus much.

I, now mature man, you anticipate,

May blame my Father justifiably

For letting me dream out my nonage thus,

And only by such slow and sure degrees

Permitting me to sift the grain from chaff,

Get truth and falsehood known and named as such.

Why did he ever let me dream at all,

Not bid me taste the story in its strength?

Suppose my childhood was scarce qualified

To rightly understand mythology,

Silence at least was in his power to keep:

I might have—somehow—correspondingly—

Well, who knows by what method, gained my gains,

Been taught, by forthrights not meanderings,

My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus' son,

A lie as Hell's Gate, love my wedded wife,

Like Hector, and so on with all the rest.

Could not I have excogitated this

Without believing such man really were?

That is—he might have put into my hand

The "Ethics"? In translation, if you please,

Exact, no pretty lying that improves,

To suit the modern taste: no more, no less—

The "Ethics:" 't is a treatise I find hard

To read aright now that my hair is gray,

And I can manage the original.

At five years old—how ill had fared its leaves!

Now, growing double o'er the Stagirite,

At least I soil no page with bread and milk,

Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface—boys' way.

Suggested by a very early recollection of a prose story by the noble woman and imaginativewriter, Jane Taylor, of Norwich, [more correctly, of Ongar]. R. B.

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