»i i III I ir t ^ ' Tumrnut. ^, WOETflWAI. i THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES POMEGRANATES FROM AN ENGLISH GARDEN A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF ROBERT BROWNING. WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY JOHN MONRO GIBSON. " Or from Browning some ' Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity." Lady Geraldine's Courtship. NEW YORK: CHAUTAUQUA PRESS, C, L. S. C. Department. 1885. The required books of the C. L. S. C. are reeommended by a Cotmcil oi six. it musr, however, be understood that recommendation does not involve an approval by the Council, or by any member of it, of every principle or doe- trine contained in the book reeon:iniended. Copyright 1885, by Phillips ii Hunt, 805 Broadway, New York. PK INTRODUCTORY. The name of Robert Browning has been before the world now for fifty years. For the greater part of the time his work has had so little recognition, that one marvels at his courage in going so steadily on with it. His "Pomegranates" have been produced year after year, decade after decade, in unfailing abundance ; and, while critics have kept paring at the rind, and the general public has not even asked if there was anything beneath it, he has laboured on with unremitting energy, calmly awaiting the time when " the heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity," should be at length discovered. It can scarcely be said, even yet, that that time has come ; but it is coming fast. Already he is something more than " the poet's poet." Few intelligent people now are content to know one of the master minds of the age simply as the author of " The Pied Piper of Hamelin," as if that were the only thing he had written worth reading ! That the form in which the thought of Browning is cast is altogether admirable, is Avhat none but his most undiscriminating admirers will assert. It is often, unquestionably, rough and forbidding. But there is strength even in its ruggedness ; and in its entire freedom from conventionality there is a charm such as one enjoys in wild mountain scenery, even though only in little patches it may have any suggestion of the garden or the lawn. There are those who have charged the poet with affecta- tion of the uncouth and the bizarre ; but careful reading will, we think, render it apparent that it is rather his utter freedom from affectation which determines and perpetuates the peculiarities and oddities of his style ; that, in fact, the aphorism of Buffon, "/e 76290G ii Introductory. style est Vhomme 7}thne,'" is undoubtedly true as applied to him. It would, of course, be absurd to claim for the pomegranate the bloom and beauty of the peach ; but, equally with the other, it is Nature's gift, and to toss aside a rough-rinded fruit because it needs to be " cut deep down the middle " before its pulp and juices can be reached, is surely far from wise. Even hard nuts are not to be despised, if the kernels are good ; and as to Browning's " nuts," we have this to say, that not only are they well worth cracking, but there is in the process excellent exercise for the teeth. This brings us to the alleged " obscurity " of Browning's wTitings, which still continues to be the main obstacle to their general appreciation. It is freely admitted that often it is not quite easy, and sometimes veiy difficult, to understand him ; and it is hard for most people to see why he could not make his meaning plainer, and matter for regret to many, who heartily admire him, that he has not done so. That he has taken some pains to this end is evident from what he says in the preface to " Sordello," written for an edition issued in 1863, twenty-three years after its original publication : " My own faults of expression were many. ... I blame nobody, least of all myself, who did my best then and since, for I lately gave time and pains to turn my work into what the many might — instead of what the few must — like." In a later preface (1872) he says, " Nor do I apprehend any more charges of being wilfully obscure, unconscientiously careless, or perversely harsh." The true explanation of it seems to be what we have already suggested, that he does not think of his audience as he writes, his only care being to express the thought in the way which comes most natural to him. As a dramatist, he can throw himself with abandonment into the persons he represents ; but he never seems to think of putting himself in the position of a listener, or, if he does, he assumes too readily that he has a mind of similar texture and grasp to his own. On the other hand, it is fair to say that the difficulty of understanding him arises in great part from the very excel- Introductory. iii lence of his work. The following considerations will illustrate what we mean : — 1. His work is full of thought, and the thought is never commonplace. There is so much of it, and all is so fresh, and therefore unfamiliar, that some mental effort is necessary to grasp it. The following characteristic remark of Bishop Butler, in his preface to the famous Fifteen Sermons, is worth consideration in this connection : "It must be ac- knowledged that some of the following Discourses are very abstruse and difficult ; or, if you please, obscure ; but I must take leave to add that those alone are judges, whether or no and how far this is a fault, who are judges, whether or no and how far it might have been avoided — those only who will be at the trouble to understand what is here said, and to see how far the things here insisted upon, and not other things, might have been put in a plainer manner ; which yet I am very far from asserting that they could not." 2. The expression is always the briefest. Not only are no words wasted, but, where connecting ideas are easily supplied, they are often left unexpressed, the intelligence and mental activity of the reader being always taken for granted. 3. The poems are, for the most part, dramatic in principle. The reader is brought face to face with some soul, in its thoughts and emotions, frequently in the \'ery process of the thinking and the feeling. The poet has stepped aside, and of course supplies no key. The author docs not appear, like the chorus in a Greek play, to point a moral or explain the situation. The dramatis personce must' explain themselves. And, just as Shakespeare must be studied in order to an appreciation other than second-hand, so must Browning be studied in order to be appreciated at all ; for his writings are not yet old enough to secure much second-hand enthusiasm. 4. The wealth of allusion is another source of difficulty. The learning of our poet is encyclopaedic ; and though there is no display of it, there is large use of it ; and it often happens that A2 iv Introductory. passages or phrases, which seem crabbed or obscure, require only the knowledge of some unfamiliar fact in science or in history, or it may be something not readily thought of, and yet within easy range of a keen enough observation, to light them up and reveal unsuspected strength or beauty. Before leaving the subject of the rough and often tough exterior of Browning's work, it may be interesting to refer to the characteristic illustration of it he has lately given us in the prologue to " Ferishtah's Fancies," his most recent work. He begins by asking the reader whether he has ever " eaten ortolans in Italy," and then goes on to describe the preparation of them. The following lines will show the use he makes of the illustration : " First comes plain bread, crisp, brown, a toasted square ; Then, a strong sage-leaf; (So we tind books with flowers dried here and there Lest leaf engage leaf. ) First, food — then, piquancy — and last of all Follows the thirdling ; Through wholesome hard, sharp soft, your tooth must bite Ere reach the birdling. Now, were there only crust to crunch, you'd wince : Unpalatable ! Sage-leaf is bitter-pungent — so's a quince ; Eat each who's able ! But through all three bite boldly — lo, the gust I Flavour — no fixture — Flies permeating flesh and leaf and crust In fine admixture. So with your meal, my poem ; masticate Sense, sight and song there ! Digest these, and I praise your peptics' state, Nothing found wrong there." This extract also furnishes an example of the strange rhymes in which the poet sometimes indulges, with what appears too little refinement of taste. The themes of Browning's poetry are the very greatest that can engage the thought of man. He ranges over a vast variety of topic ; but, wherever his thought may lead him, he never Introductory . v loses sight of that which is to him the centre of all, the human soul, with its infinite wants and capabilities. In the preface to " Sordello " he says : " The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires ; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul : little else is worth study. I, at least, always thought so." To this principle he has kept true through all his work ; and hence it is that, whether the particular subject be love, or home, or country ; poetry, painting, or music ; life, death, or immortality; it is dealt with in its relation to " the development of a soul." Hence it is that his poetry is so thoroughly and profoundly spiritual, and so exceedingly valuable as a counteractive to the materialism of the age, which ever tends to merge the soul in the body, and swallow up the real in mere phenomena. As might be expected of one who deals so profoundly with all that he touches, the great reality of the universe to him is God. Agnosticism has little mercy at his hands ; if a man knows anything at all, he knows God. And the God whom he knows is not a God apart, looking down from some infinite or indefinite height upon the world, but one in whom all live and move .and have their being. Out of this springs, of course, the hope of immortality, and also that bright and cheerful view of life so completely opposed to the dark pessimism to which much of the unbelieving speculation of the present day so painfully tends. The dark things of human life and destiny are by no means ignored ; rather are they dwelt on with a painful and sometimes frightful realism ; but even amid deepest darkness the light above is never quite extinguished, and some little " Pippa passes " singing : "The year's at the spring And day's at the morn ; Morning's at seven ; The hill-side's desv-pearled ; The lark's on the wing ; The snail's on the thorn : God's in his heaven — All's right with the world." VI Introductory. There has been much discussion as to Browning's personal attitude to Christianity. The profoundly Christian tone of his writings is, of course, universally acknowledged ; but attempts are sometimes made to evade the force of those numerous passages in which he speaks of the Incarnation, and Death, and Resurrection of the Lord Jesus, in a way which seems to imply his hearty acceptance of the substance of what is known as evangelical truth. Much has been made in this connection of the way in which, in one of his prefaces, he characterises his work as " poetry always dramatic in principle, and so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine ;" and it has been asserted that it is as unwarrantable to consider him to be speaking his own sentiments in a poem like "Christmas Eve," as in one like "Johannes Agricola," or " Bishop Blougram's Apology." The obvious answer is that this profound sympathy with the Christ of God and His salvation is not found in some solitary production, but appears and reappears, often when least expected, all through his works. In that remarkable little poem, entitled " House,'' in which more strongly than anywhere else he claims personal privacy, while he declines to be regarded as having furnished his publishers with tickets to view his own soul's dwelling, he admits that "whoso desires to penetrate deeper" may do so " by the spirit sense ;" and accordingly some of his admirers, who dissent from him most strongly on this point, are the most ready to acknowledge that his Christian faith is no stage suit, but the very garment of his soul. As illustration of this we may refer to the admirable essay by the late James Thomson, published in Part II. of the Browning Society's Papers, in which, after expressing his amazement that a great mind like Browning's.could be Christian, he asserts the, to him, remarkable but quite undeniable fact in these words : " The devout and hopeful Christian faith, explicitly or implicity affirmed in such poems as Saul, Kharshish, Clean, Calibaft upon Setebos, A Death in the Desert, Instans Tyratinus, Rabbi Ben Ezra, Introductojy. vii Prospice, the Epilogue, and throughout that stupendous monu- mental work, The Ring and the Book, must surely be as clear as noonday to even the most purblind vision." That a great Christian poet, in an age when so many of the intellectual magnates of the time are hostile or simply silent, should remain unknown or little known to any large proportion of Christian readers, is certainly very much to be regretted. Surely the admiration which is freely and generously accorded to his work by many who are constrained to it in spite of his faith in a Christ whom they reject, is a rebuke to the indifference of those who, sharing his faith, do not give themselves the trouble to inquire what he has to say about it. There are not so many avowed and outspoken Christians in the highest walks of literature that we can afford to pay only slight attention to the utterances of one who has the ear of the deepest thinkers in every school of thought all the world over. The immediate object of this selection is to supply an intro- duction to the study of Browning for the benefit of the readers of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle ; but it is hoped that many others, inspired with similar aims, and who have not had such advantages that they can dispense with all assistance in the study of a difficult author, may find help from this little book. It is, of course, better to read for one's self than to follow the guidance of another ; and yet it may be necessary to open a path far enough to lead within sight of the treasures in store. This is all that has been attempted here — only the indi- cation of a few veins near the surface of a rich mine, which the reader is strongly recommended to explore for himself. The selection has been arranged on the principle of beginning with that which is simple, and proceeding gradually to the more complex, with some regard also to variety and progress in sub- jects, and at the same time to appropriateness for the use of those younger readers for whom this selection mainly is intended. The notes are meant to serve only as a guide to beginners ; viii Introductory. and as guides are proverbially an annoyance when their services are imposed unsought, these are disposed at the end of each poem, and without reference marks to mar the pages, so that the selection may be read, if desired, without any interference from the notes. Within the limits of a volume like this, only the shorter poems could find a place. Most valuable extracts from the longer works might have been given ; but this is always a questionable method of dealing with the best writers, with those especially whose thought is strictly consecutive, while the effect of par- ticular passages depends to a large extent on their setting and their relation to the work as a whole. The only* exception to this is the treatment of " Christmas Eve and Easter Day,'' with extracts from which this volume closes. That remarkable work occupies a middle position between the shorter and the longer poems of our author ; and, though too long for insertion entire, is yet so important, that it seemed very desirable to give some idea of it. In furnishing a series of extracts from this work, an attempt has been made to reduce the disadvantage above referred to by supplying along with them a slight sketch or " argument," so as to give some idea, to those unacquainted with it, of the course of thought throughout. It is right to say that Mr. Browning has given his kind permission for the publication in the United States of this Selection, and also of the Notes, for which, however, as for the selection itself, he is in no wise responsible. * It has been found necessary also to give only the latter part of the noble poenn " Saul." A slight sketch of the part omitted is given, and the poem is continued vv^ithout interruption to its close. CONTENTS. FAGF Introductory i Home Thoughts, from Abroad ii Home Thoughts, from the Sea 12 '• How they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix " 13 echetlos 16 Helen's Tower 18 Shop 19 The Boy and the Angel 25 The Patriot 29 Instans Tyrannus 31 The Lost Leader 34 Love among the Ruins 36 My Star 40 RuDEL TO the Lady of Trii'oli 41 Never the Time and the Place 43 Wanting is — What? 44 Evelyn Hope 45 Prospice 48 Good, to Forgive 49 Touch him ne'er so Lightly 51 Popularity 52 The Guardian Angel 56 Deaf and Dumb ; 59 Abt Vogler 60 One Word More 68 Saul 77 An Epistle 87 Christmas-Eve 100 Easter-Day 121 A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS OF ROBERT BROWNING. HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. Oh, to be in England now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now ! And after April, when May follows. And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows ! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each song twice over Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture ! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dcw, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 12 HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA. Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-West died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay ; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay ; In the dimmest North-East distance dawned Gibraltar grand and grey ; " Here and here did England help me : how can I help England ? " — say. Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. The former of these companion poems may have been written from Italy or the south of Spain, as would appear from the last line of it. Mr. E. C. Stedman, one of the severest of Browning's appreciative critics, commenting (in his " Victorian Poets ") on the lines beginning "That's the wise thrufh," says:— " Having in mind Shakespeare and Shelley, I nevertheless think these three hnes the finest ever written touching the song of a bird. " In the latter poem, the course is from the southern point of Portugal through the Straits. " Here and here" — the reference is to the oattles of •Cape St. Vincent (1796) and Trafalgar (1805), and perhaps to me defenci of Gibraltar (1782). 13 "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." [i6-.] I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; '•' Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; " Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. II. Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. :ii. T was moonset at starting ; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the lialf-chime, So, Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " IV. At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : • V. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. VI. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur I " Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, "We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick w^heeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees. And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 15 VIII. ' How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. IX. Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good. Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. X. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. The indefiniteness of the date at the head of this poem will be best explained by the following extract from a letter of Mr. Browning's, pub- lished in 1881 in the Bostoji Literary \Aorld :— "There is no sort of historical foundation about 'Good News From Ghent.' I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse ' York,' then in my stable at home." This poem, therefore, widely known and appreciated as one of the most stirring in the language, may be regarded as a living picture to illustrate the pages— no page in particular— of Motley. As jjarallels in American literature, reference may be made to " I'aul Reveres Ride," by Longfello.w, and "Sheridan's Ride," by T. 13. Rcade. i6 ECHETLOS. Here is a story, shall stir you ! Stand up, Greeks dead and gone. Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed Persia rolling on, Did the deed and saved the world, since the day was Marathon ! No man but did his manliest, kept rank and fought away In his tribe and file : up, back, out, down — was the spear- arm play : Like a wind-whipt branchy wood, all spear-arms a-swing that day ! But one man kept no rank, and his sole arm plied no spear, As a flashing came and went, and a form i' the van, the rear, Brightened the battle up, for he blazed now there, now here. Nor helmed nor shielded, he ! but, a goat-skin all his wear. Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's limbs broad and bare, Went he ploughing on and on : he pushed with a plough- man's share. Did the weak mid-line give way, as tunnies on whom the shark Precipitates his bulk ? Did the right-wing halt when, stark On his heap of slain, lay stretched Kallimachos Polemarch ? Did the steady phalanx falter ? To the rescue, at the need, The clown was ploughing Persia, clearing Greek earth of weed. As he routed through the Sakian and rooted up the Mede. 17 But the deed done, battle won, — nowhere to be descried On the meadow, by the stream, at the marsh, — look far and wide From the foot of the mountain, no, to the last bloodplashed sea-side, — Not anywhere on view blazed the large limbs thonged and brown, Shearing and clearing still with the share before which — down To the dust went Persia's pomp, as he ploughed for Greece, that clown ! How spake the Oracle ? " Care for no name at all ! Say but just this : We praise one helpful whom we call The Holder of the Ploughshare. The great deed ne'er grows small." Not the great name ! Sing — woe for the great name Miltiade's, And its end at Paros isle ! Woe for Themistokles — Satrap in Sardis court ! Name not the clown like these ! The name, Echeilos, is derived from exeT?.7j, a plough handle. It is not strictly a proper name, but an appellative, meaning "the Holder of the Ploughshare." The story is found in Pausanias, author of the " Itinerary of Greece " ( i, 15, 32). Nothing further is necessary in order to understand this little poem and appreciate its rugged strength than familiarity with the battle of Marathon, and some knowledge of Miltiades and Themistocles, the one known as the hero of Marathon, and the other as the hero of Salamis. The lesson of the poem ( " The great cfeed ne'er grows small, not the great Name/") is taught in a way not likely to be forgotten. One is reminded of another, who wished to be nameless, heard only as "the voice of one crying in the wilderness ! " The ellipsis in thought between the eighth and ninth stanzas is so easily supplied that it is noticed here only as a simple illustration of what is snme- times the occasion of difficulty (see Introduction, p. iii ). It would only have ler)gthened the poem and weakened it to have inserted a stanza telling in so many words that when the hero could not be found, a message was sent to the Oracle to enquire who it could be. As a companion to " Echetlos" maybe read the stirring poem of " Herv(^ Riel." i8 HELEN'S TOWER. ' E\eV// eiri irvpyw. Who hears of Helen's Tower, may dream perchance, How the Greek Beauty from the Scsean Gate Gazed on old friends unanimous in hate, Death-doom'd because of her fair countenance. Hearts would leap otherwise, at thy advance, Lady, to whom this Tower is consecrate : Like hers, thy face once made all eyes elate, Yet, unlike hers, was bless'd by every glance. The Tower of Hate is outworn, far and strange : A transitory shame of long ago. It dies into the sand from which it sprang : But thine, Love's rock-built Tower, shall fear no change : God's self laid stable Earth's foundations so. When all the morning-stars together sang. The tower is one built by Lord Dufferin, in memory of his mother Helen, Countess of Gifford, on one of his estates in Ireland. " The Greek Beauty" is, of course, Helen of Troy, and the reference in the alternative heading is apparently to that fine passage in the third book of the " Iliad," where Helen meets the Trojan chiefs at the Scsean Gate (see line 154, which speaks of " Helen at the Tower "). On the last two hnes, founded of course on the well-known passage in Job (xxxviii. 4 — 7), compare Dante : " E il sol montava in su con quelle slelle Ch'eran con lui, quando I'Amor Divino Mosse da prima quelle cose belle. " "Aloft the sun ascended with those stars That with him rose, when Love Divine first moved Those its fair works." — Inferno I. 38 — 40. 19 SHOP. I. So, friend, your shop was all your house S Its front, astonishing the street, Invited view from man and mouse To what diversity of treat Behind its glass — the single sheet ! II. What gimcracks, genuine Japanese : Gape -jaw and goggle-eye, the frog ; Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese ; Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog : Queer names, too, such a catalogue ! III. I thought " And he who owns the wealth " Which blocks the window's vastitude, " — Ah, could I peep at him by stealth " Behind his ware, pass shop, intrude " On house itself, what scenes were viewed ! IV. " If wide and showy thus the shop, " What must the habitation prove ? " The true house with no name a-top — " The mansion, distant one remove, "Once get him off his traffic groove ' 20 V. " Pictures he likes, or books perhaps ; " And as for buying most and best, " Commend me to these city chaps '. '• Or else he 's social, takes his rest " On Sundays, with a Lord for guest. VI. " Some suburb-palace, parked about " And gated grandly, built last year : " The four-mile walk to keep off gout ; " Or big seat sold by bankrupt peer : " But then he takes the rail, that 's clear. VII. " Or, stop I I wager, taste selects " Some out o' the way, some all-unknown ^ Retreat : the neighbourhood suspects " Little that he who rambles lone " Makes Rothschild tremble on his throne ! " VIII. Nowise ! Nor Mayfair residence Fit to receive and entertain, — Nor Hampstead villa's kind defence From noise and crowd, from dust and drain,- Nor country-box was soul's domain ! 21 IX. Nowise ! At back of all that spiead Of merchandize, woe 's me, I find A hole i' the wall v/here, heels by head, The owner couched, his ware behind, — In cupboard suited to his mind. X. For, why ? He saw no use of life But, while he drove a roaring trade, To chuckle "Customers are rife I " To chafe " So much hard cash outlaid " Yet zero in my profits made ! XI. " This novelty costs pains, but — takes .> " Cumbers my counter ! Stock no more ! " This article, no such great shakes, " Fizzes like wild fire ? Underscore " The cheap thing — thousands to the fore ! " XII. 'T was lodging best to live most nigh (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be) Receipt of Custom ; ear and eye Wanted no outworld : " Hear and see " The bustle in the shop ! " quoth he. 22 XIII. My fancy of a merchant-prince Was different. Through his wares we groped Our darkhng way to — not to mince The matter — no black den where moped The master if we interloped ! XIV. Shop was shop only : household-stuff? What did he want with comforts there ? " Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough, " So goods on sale show rich and rare ! " Sell and scud home," be shop's affair ! XV. What might he deal in ? Gems, suppose I Since somehow business must be done At cost of trouble, — see, he throws You choice of jewels, ever3'one Good, better, best, star, moon and sun ! XVI. Which lies within your power of purse ? This ruby that would tip aright Solomon's sceptre ? Oh, your nurse Wants simply coral, the delight Of teething baby, — stuff to bite ! 23 XVII. Howe'er your choice fell, straight you took Your purchase, prompt your money rang On counter, — scarce the man forsook His study of the " Times," just swang Till-Avard his hand that stopped the clang,- XVIII. Then off made buyer with a prize, Then seller to his " Times " returned, And so did day wear, wear, till eyes Brightened apace, for rest was earned : He locked door long ere candle burned. XIX. , And whither went he ? Ask himself, Not me ! To change of scene, I think. Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf, Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink, Nor all his music — money-chink. XX. Because a man has shop to mind In time and place, since flesh must live. Needs spirit lack all life behind, All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive. All loves except what trade can give ? 24. XXI. I want to know a butcher paints, A baker rhymes for his pursuit, Candlestick-maker much acquaints His soul with song, or, haply mute, Blows out his brains upon the flute ! XXII. But - -shop each day and all day long ! Friend, your good angel slept, your star Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong ! From where these sorts of treasures are, There should our hearts be — Christ, how far ! There ouglit to be far more in a man than can be put into a front window. This man had all sorts of "curios" in his shop window, but there was nothing rich or rare in his soul ; and so there was room for all of him in a den which would not have held the hundredth part of his wares. The con- temptible manner of the man's life is strikingly brought out by the various suppositions (stanzas 5, 6, 7) so different from the poor reality (8 — 9). All he cared for was business, which made him "chuckle " on the one hand or "chafe " on the other, according as times were good or bad (10). Even in his business it was not the real excellence of his wares he cared for, only their saleability (11). A merchant prince is a very different person (13 — 19). The last three stanzas give the lesson in a style partly humorous, but passing in the end to an impressive solemnity. In connection with this should be read the companion piece, "House," to which reference ;s made in the Introduction. 25 THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. Morning, evening, noon and night, " Praise God ! " sang Theocrite. Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned. Hard he laboured, long and well ; O'er his work the boy's curls fell. But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, " Praise God ! " Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew. Said Blaise, the listening monk, " Well done ; " I doubt not thou art heard, my son : " As well as if thy voice to-day " Were praising God, the Pope's great way. " This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome " Praises God from Peter's dome." Said Theocrite, " Would God that I " Might praise Him, that great way, and die ! " Night passed, day shone, . And Theocrite was gone. 26 With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. God said in heaven, " Nor day nor night " Now brings the voice of my dehght." Then Gabriel, Hke a rainbow's birth. Spread his wings and sank to earth ; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well ; And morning, evening, noon and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite. . And from a boy, to youth he grew : The man put off the stripling's hue : • The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay : And ever o'er the trade he bent. And ever lived on earth content. (He did God's will ; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.) God said, " A praise is in mine ear ; " There is no doubt in it, no fear : " So sing old worlds, and so " New worlds that from my footstool go. 27 " Clearer loves sound other ways : " I miss my little human praise." Then fortli sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the celL T was Easter Daj- : He flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peters dome. In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallerj-, With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope, Theocrite : And all his past career Came back upon him clear. Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed ; *o' And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer : *o^ 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 wen. 28 " Vainly I left my angel-sphere, " Vain was thy dream of many a year. " Thy voice's praise seemed weak ; it dropped-— " Creation's chorus stopped ! "Go back and praise again " The early way, while I remain. " With that weak voice of our disdain, " Take up creation's pausing strain. " Back to the cell and poor employ : " Resume the craftsman and the boy ! " Theocrite grew old at home ; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome. One vanished as the other died : They sought God side by side. The lesson of this beautiful fancy is the complement of the "Shop" lesson. Even drudgery may be divine ; since the will of God is the work to be done, no matter whether under St. Peter's dome or in the cell of the craftsman (the Boy) — " all one, if on the earth or in the sun" (the Angel). The poem is so full of exquisite things, that only a few can be noted. The value of the "little human praise" to God Himself (distich 12), all the dearer because of the doubts and fears in it (20 — 22) ; and the contrast between its seeming weakness and insignificance and its real importance as a necessary part of the great chorus of creation (34) ; the eager desire of Gabriel to anticipate the will of God, and his content to live on earth and bend over a conmion trade, if only thus he can serve Him best (13 — 19) ; and again the content of the " new pope Theocrite " to go back to his "cell and poor employ " and fill out the measure of his day of service, growing old at home, while Gabriel as contentedly takes his place as pope (probably a harder trial than the more menial service) and waits for the time when both "sought God side by side" — these are some of the fine and far reaching thoughts which find simple and beautiful e.xpression here. Longfellow's " King Robert of Sicily," though not really parallel, has points of similarity to "The Boy and the .\ngel." 29 THE PATRIOT. AN OLD STORY. 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. II. 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 } " III. Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep ! Nought man could do, have I left undone And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, ivjw a year is run. 30 IV. 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. V. 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. VI. 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, 'T is God shall repay : I am safer so. The Patriot, on his way to the scaffold, surrounded by a hooting crowd, remembers how, just a year ago, the same people had been mad in their enthusiasm for him. Anything at all, however extravagant, would have been too little for them to do for him (stanza 2 ; cf Gal. iv. 15, 16) ; but now ! The fourth stanza is very powerful. All have gone who can, to be ready to see the execution ; only the " palsied few," who cannot, are at the windows to see him pass. In the last stanza the thought of a more sudden contrast still is presented. A man may drop dead in the midst of a triumph, to find that in its brief plaudits he has his reward, while a vast account stands against him at the higher tribunal Far better die amid the execrations of men and find the contrast reversed. It is "an old story," and therefore general; but one naturally thinks of such cases as Arnold of Brescia, or the tribune Rienzi. A higher Name than these need not be introduced here, in proof of the people's fickleness ! 31 INSTANS TYRANNUS. Of the million or two, more or less, I rule and possess, One man, for some cause undefined. Was least to my mind. 11. I struck him, he grovelled of course — For, what was his force ? I pinned him to earth with my weight And persistence of hate ; And he lay, would not moan, would not curse, As his lot might be worse. III. "Were the object less mean, would he stand " At the swing of my hand ! " For obscurity helps him, and blots " The hole where he squats." So, I set my five wits on the stretch To inveigle the wretch. All in vain ! Gold and jewels I threw Still he couched there perdue ; I tempted his blood and his flesh. Hid in roses my mesh. Choicest cates and the flagon's best spilth Still he kept to his filth. 32 IV. Had he kith now or kin, were access To his heart, did I press • Just a son or a mother to seize ! No such booty as these. Were it simply a friend to pursue 'Mid my million or two, Who could pay me, in person or pelf, What he owes me himself ! No : I could not but smile through my chafe : For the fellow lay safe As his mates do, the midge and the nit, — Through minuteness, to wit. V. Then a humour 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 ray realm to unearth " Toad or rat, 't is well worth ! " VI. So, I soberly laid my last plan To extinguish the man. Round his creep-hole, with never a break Ran my fires for his sake ; Over-head, did my thunder combine \\'ith my under-ground mine : Till I looked from my labour content To enjoy the event. VII. When sudden . . . how think ye, the end ? Did I say "without friend ? " Say rather from marge to blue marge The whole sky grew his targe "With the sun's self for visible boss. While an Arm ran across Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast Where the \\Tetch 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, /was afraid ! " Instans Tyrannus," the ^resa/i tyrant, the tyrant for the time only, whose apparently illimitable power to hurt shrivels into nothing in presence of the King of kings, whose dominion is everlasting. The poor victim of this tyrant's oppression is a true child of God, but the nobility of his inner life is of course concealed from the proud wretch who despises him, and who, it must be remembered, is the speaker throughout. We must be careful, therefore, to estimate at their proper worth the ejiithets he applies and the motives he attributes to the object of his hate, //c can, of course, think of no other reason why his victim "would not moan, would not curse," than that, if he did, "his lot might be worse." And again, when temptation failed to shake his steadfast patience, the tyrant is c|uite consistent with himself, as one of those who call evil good, and good evil, in speaking of him as still keeping " to his filth." The last stanza is mag- niftcent. Has the power of prayer ever been set forth in nobler language? C 34 THE LOST LEADER, Just for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a riband to stick in his coat — Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others, she lets us devote ; They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone for his service ! Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him. Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! II. We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence ; Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire : Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod. One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One more wrong to man, one more insult to God ! 35 Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! There would .be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! "The Lost Leader" is supposed to be the poet Wordsworth, who, on accepting the laureateship, abandoned the party of distinguished literary men who had enthusiastically supported the principles of the French Revolution. It is necessary, of course, to enter into the lofty enthusiasm of that party, and for the moment to identify ourselves with it, in order to appreciate the wonderful power and pathos of this exquisite poem. (See Wordsworth's " French Revolution as it appeared to enthusiasts at its commencement. ' ' ) The contrasts are very powerful between the one (paltry) gift he gained, and all the others (love, loyalty, life, &c, ) they were- privileged to devote (far richer than mere possession) ; and again, between the niggardliness of his new patrons with their dole of silver, contrasted with the enthusiastic devotion of his own followers, who having nothing but "copper," would yet put it all at his service — having nothing bat " rags," were yet so liberal with what they had, that had they been purple, he would have been proud indeed, seeing that "a riband to stick in his coat " had proved so great an attraction. In the second stanza the fountains of the great deep of human feeling are broken up. "Life's night begins" suggests at once the strength of the previous attachment, and the hopelessness of the broken tie being ever knit again on earth. The best thing is to be counted enemies now, and fight against each other as gallantly as they would have fought together. At the same time there is absolute confidence in the ultimate triumph of the party of freedom— he may " menace our hearts, " but we shall " master his "—and in the ultimate recovery of the lost leader himself, whom he hopes to find " pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne." C 2 36 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. Where the quiet coloured end of evening smiles, Miles and miles, On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop As they crop — Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince, Ages since. Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. II. Now, — the country does not even boast a tree, As you see. To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills From the hills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated Circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed Twelve abreast. 11 III. And such plenty and pertection, see, of grass Never was ! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone — Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago ; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame ; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. IV. Now, — the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks — Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime. And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced. And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. 38 V. And I know — while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey Melt away — That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal. When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. VI. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide. All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — and then, All the men ! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face. Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. 39 VII. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gOuS a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force — Gold, of course. Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns ! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin ! Shut them in. With their triumphs and their glories and the rest ! Love is best. The supreme value of love is a constantly recurring thought in the poems of our author. We shall meet it in its higher ranges in selections to come. Here we are still in the sphere of the mere earthly affection, with only the suggestion, in contrast with the transitoriness of earthly glory, of its inde- structibility. No explanation seems needed, excepting perhaps to call attention to this, that the " Httle turret " in stanza 4 is not a bartizan, but a staircase turret, or it could not " mark the basement, whence a tower in ancient time sprang sublime." Observe, in each stanza, the striking contrast between the former and the latter half, so balanced that the poem might be divided into fourteen single or six double stanzas. There is not much of the descriptive in the poems of our author ; he is the poet, not of Nature, but of Human Nature ; but when he does touch landscape, as here, it is with the hand of a master. 40 MY STAR. All that I know Of a certain star Is, it can throw (Like the angled spar) Now a dart of red, Now a dart of blue ; Till my friends have said They would fain see, too, My star that dartles the red and the blue ! Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, hangs furled : They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. What matter to me if their star is a world ? Mine has opened its soul to me ; therefore I love it. The follov^ng sentence, from Walter Besant, in "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," well expresses the key-thought of this little gem of a poem : "So great is the beauty of human nature, even in its second rate or third rate productions, that love generally follows when one of the two, by confession or unconscious self- betrayal, stands revealed to the other." Compare also the closing stanzas of "One Word More," especially stanza i8. 41 RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI. I. I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceives First, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world ; and, vainly favoured, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And, underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach ; and, in the lost endeavour To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower's true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun. With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own account : Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively. II. Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold look Across the waters to this twilight nook, — The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook ! 42 III. Dear Pilgrim, art' thou for the East indeed ? Go ! — saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread hke a sacrifice Before its idol. See ! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture ; 't is a woman's skill Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower's breast as on a platform broad : But, as the flower's concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East — the East ! Go, say this. Pilgrim dear ! This poem was first published in "Bells and Pomegranates" under the head of "Queen Worship." How exquisite the plea of the unnoticed Flower, with no pretence to vie with the Mountain in its claim upon the Sun's attention, except this, that the great unchanging Mountain is "vainly favoured," while the Flower yields itself up in ceaseless and self- forgetting devotion to an imitation, however feeble and foolish, of the great Sun Life. The second stanza is very rich. There is no mention in it of Sun or Mountain or Flower ; but as the Flower looks up to the Sun from its nook at the Mountain's base, so Rudel yearns for " one gold look " from his Sun, the ' ' Angel of the East." The meaning of the third stanza will be apparent when it is remembered that ' ' French Rudel " was a troubadour of the 12th century — the days of the Crusades, and of the romance of chivalry, In those days the best way to communicate with the East would be through some pilgrim passing thither : and nothing would be more natural than such a reference to the " device" which he had patiently, and in spite of difficulty, worked so as to wear it as her " favour : " and once more, it is eminently natural to represent the troubadour, not as sending a written message, but as finding a sym- pathetic pilgrim to burden his memory with it — charging him to keep it fresh by repetition till it had been duly delivered. 43 NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE. Never the time and the place And the loved one all together ! This path — how soft to pace ! This May — what magic weather ! Where is the loved one's face ? In a dream that loved one's face meets mine, But the house is narrow, the place is bleak Where, outside, rain and wind combine ^^lth a furtive ear, if I strive to speak With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek, With a malice that marks each word, each sign ! O enemy sly and serpentine Uncoil thee from the waking man I Do I hold the Past Thus firm and fast Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? This path so soft to pace shall lead Through the magic of May to herself indeed ! Or narrow if needs the house must be. Outside are the storms and strangers : we — Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she, — I and she ! This poem, published in "Jocoseria" in 1883, has no connection with " Rudel," published in "Bells and Pomegranates" in 1842; but it will naturally follow it as " another of the same," only with a happier ending ; for though we learn from history that poor Rudel did one day reach Tripoli, it was only to die there, — let us hope still looking " to the East — the East ! " We get a glimpse here of the shifting moods of a lover's soul. First, there are the thoughts connected with the present experience — time and place all that could be desired, but the loved one, absent, (lines 1-5) ; next, thoughts arising from a dark dream or foreboding of the future when he and his loved one shall meet, but under circumstances cruelly unpropitious, the house narrow, the weather stormy, unsympathetic strangers by with furtive ears and hostile eyes, and even malice in their hearts (6-11) ; and last, the man within him rises to shake off the horrid serpent-like dream, and look forward with a healthy hope that time and place and all will be well ; or, if the house must be narrow, (compare the Latin, "res angusta domi") it will be a. Home, storms and strangers without, peace and rest within ! 44 WANTING IS— WHAT? Wanting is — what ? Summer redundant, Blueness abundant, — Where is the spot ? Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, — Framework which waits for a picture to frame : What of the leafage, what of the flower ? Roses embowering with nought they embower ! Come then, complete incompletion, O comer. Pant through the blueness, perfect the Summer ! Breathe but one breath Rose-beauty above. And all that was death Grows life, grows love, Grows love ! This is still the love of earth ; but dealt with so grandly, that it is no wonder that some have understood it of the higher love, and to the question of the first line would give the answer, "God." Nor can it be said that the thought is alien — rather is it close akin ; for is not the earthly love, when pure and true, an image of the heavenly ? It would be well, indeed, if love songs were oftener written in such a way as to suggest thoughts of the love of Heaven. The Bible is especially fearless in its use of the one to illustrate the other. With the higher thought in view, we are reminded of the closing lines of " The Rhyme of the Duchess May," by Mrs. Browning— "And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness- Round our restlessness. His rest." Compare " By the Fireside," especially stanza 39. 45 EVELYN HOPE. Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, Beginning to die too, in the glass ; Little has yet been changed, I think : The shutters are shut, no light may pass Save two long rays through the hinge's chink, 11. Sixteen years old when she died ! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; It was not her time to love ; beside. Her life had many a hope and aim. Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir, Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — And the sweet white brow is all of her. III. Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? What, your soul was pure and true. The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire and dew — And, just because I was thrice as old, And our ]\iths in tlie world diverged so wide. Each was nought to each, must I be told ? We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? 46 IV. No, indeed ! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make. And creates the love to reward the love : I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! Delayed it may be for more lives yet. Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few Much is to learn, much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come, at last it will. When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) In the lower earth, in the years long still. That body and soul so pure and gay ? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. And your mouth of your own geranium's red— And what you would do with me, in fme, In the new life come in the old one's stead. VI. I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes ; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me : And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! What is the issue? let us see ! 47 VII. I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! My heart seemed full as it could hold ; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! You will wake, and remember, and understand. This poem, so exquisite in finish, well-nigh perfect in form, is one of the few works of our author, almost universally known and admired. It is doubtful, however, if all its admirers look beneath the form and finish, or understand much more of it than they do of other poems, the crabbed style of which repels admiration as strongly as this attracts it. The tender pathos of the "geranium leaf in the first and last stanzas, touches a chord in every heart ; but the thought of the piece is something far deeper and stronger namely this, that true love is immortal, and that, therefore, however much It may fail of its object here, or even (if possible) in lives that follow this it cannot fail for ever, it must find its object and be satisfied. It is a poem not of the pathos of death, but of the promise of Life ! 48 PROSPICE. Fear death ?— to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe ; Where he stands the Arch Fear in a visible form. Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall. Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so— one fight more, The best and the last ! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute 's at end. And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. Shall dwindle, shall blend, . Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest ! 49 GOOD, TO FORGIVE. Good, to forgive ; Best, to forget ! Living, we fret ; Dying, we live. Fretless and free, Soul, clap thy pinion ! Earth have dominion, Body, o'er thee ! II. Wander at will, Day after day, — Wander away. Wandering still — Soul that canst soar ! Body may slumber Body shall cumber Soul-flight no more 50 III. Waft of soul's wing ! What lies above ? Sunshine and Love, Sky-blue and Spring > Body hides — where ? Ferns of all feather, Mosses and heather, Yours be the care ! This is the proem to " La Saisiaz," one of the most remarkable of the poet's works, in which the doctrine of immortality is argued with a pro- fundity of thought that has perhaps never been surpassed, even in language freed from the fetters of verse. It also appears as No. III. of " Pisgah Sights" in the second English series of selections. Both of these connec- tions suggest the key-note. Observe the progress in the thought. In the first stanza the soul is " fretless and free " ; in the second it moves onward and upward; in the third it has reached the region of "Sunshine and Love, Sky-blue and Spring ! " Similarly as to the body — in the first stanza there is the apparent victory of the grave, " dust to dilst " ; in the next comes the thought that, after all, the body may only be slumbering ; in the last, there is the beautiful suggestion that it is only hiding where it is tenderly cared for, till ' ' with the morn those angel faces smile Which we have loved long since, and lost awhile. 51 TOUCH HIM NE'ER SO LIGHTLY. ' Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song he broke : Soil so quick-receptive, — not one feather-seed, Not one flower-dust fell but straight its fall awoke Vitalizing Virtue : song would song succeed Sudden as spontaneous — prove a poet-soul ! " Indeed ? Rock 's the song-soil rather, surface hard and bare : Sun and dew their mildness, storm and frost their rage Vainly both expend, — few flowers awaken there : Quiet in its cleft broods — what the after age Knows and names a pine, a nation's heritage. These lines appeared first as the Epilogue to the second series of Dramatic Idyls, published in 1880. In October of the same year, the poet wrote, in the Album of a young American lady, a sequel to them, which appeared (in fac-simile) in the Coitury Magazine of November, 1882. They are given here, with the kind consent of the publishers of that magazine : — Thus I wrote in London, nmsing on my betters, Poets dead and gone : and lo, the critics cried "Out on such a boast ! " — as if I dreamed that fetters Binding Dante, bind up— me ! as if true pride Were not also humble ! So I smiled and sighed As I ope'd your book in Venice this bright morning, Sweet new friend of mine ! and felt tho' clay or sand — Whatsoe'er my soil be, — break — for praise or scorning — Out in grateful fancies — weeds, but weeds expand Almost into flowers, held by such a kindly hand ! D 2 POPULARITY. Stand still, true poet that you are ! I know you ; let me try and draw you. Some night you '11 fail us : when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star ! II. My star, God's glow-worm ! Why extend That loving hand of His which leads you. Yet locks you safe from end to end Of this dark world, unless He needs you, Just saves your light to spend ? III. His clenched hand shall unclose at last, I know, and let out all the beauty : My poet holds the future fast, Accepts the coming ages' duty, Their present for this past. IV. That day, the earth's feast-master's brow Shall clear, to God the chalice raising ; " Others give best at first, but Thou " Forever set'st our table praising, " Keep'st the good wine till now ! " 53 Meantime, I '11 draw you as you stand, With few or none to watch and wonder I '11 say — a fisher, on the sand By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, A netful, brought to land. VI. Who has not heard how Tyrian shells Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes Whereof one drop worked miracles, And coloured like Astarte's eyes Raw silk the merchant sells ? VII. And each bystander of them all Could criticize, and quote tradition How depths of blue sublimed some pall — To get which, pricked a king's ambition ; Worth sceptre, crown and ball. VIII. Yet there 's the dye, in that rough mesh. The sea has only just o'er-whispered ! Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping fresh, As if they still the water's lisp heard Through foam the rock-weeds thresh. 54 IX. Enough to furnish Solomon Such hangings for his cedar-house, That, when gold-robed he took the throne In that abyss of blue, the Spouse Might swear his presence shone X. Most like the centre-spike of gold Which burns deep in the blue-bell's womb What time, with ardours manifold, The bee goes singing to her groom. Drunken and overbold. XL Mere conchs ! not fit for warp or woof I Till cunning come to pound and squeeze And clarify, — refine to proof The liquor filtered by degrees, While the world stands aloof. XII. And there 's the extract, flasked and fine. And priced and saleable at last ! And Hobbs, Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes combine To paint the future from the past, Put blue into their line. 55 XIII. Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle eats : Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his cup : Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats, — Both gorge. Who fished the murex up ? What porridge had John Keats ? The trae poet is he who discovers and discloses, for man's recognition and enjoyment, the hidden beauties which abound everywhere in the great kingdom of God. These beauties may be unrecognised at first, so that the poet is not known as a poet, except to such as the speaker here is supposed to be ("I know you "). He recognises in him a star. How is it, then, that his light is hidden? The hand of God, who looks down on him from far above ("God's glow-worm") as I look up to him from far below ("my star "), has closed around him to keep him and his light safe till the time shall come for discovery (Stanza 3) and for recognition (4). The drawing, or simile follows, of a Tyrian fisherman (5), who brings from the great sea the common-looking little whelk, from which, by a secret process, is obtained that wonderful dye which out-dazzles art, and almost equals Nature's most exquisite tints (6 — 10). While the process is going on, the world stands aloof (11); but as soon as the extract is "priced and sale- able," the commonest people (12) can recognise it and make it pay (13) ; while the man who fished it up remains poor and unknown to fame. The application is made with characteristic brevity, oddity, and antithetic power: Nokes, Stokes, & Co., gorging turtle; John Keats wanting porridge ! In connection with " Popularity" should be studied "The Two Poets of Croisic," far too long to be inserted here. An interesting comparison, also, may be made with a little poem of Tennyson's called "The Flower," begiiming — " Once in a golden hour I cast to earth a seed. Up there came a flower. The people said, a weed. " 56 THE GUARDIAN-ANGEL. A PICTURE AT FANO. Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for me I Let me sit all the day here, that when eve Shall find performed thy special ministry, And time come for departure, thou, suspending ■ Thy flight, may'st see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve. II. Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze. — And suddenly my head is covered o'er With those wings, white above the child who prays Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world ; for me, discarding Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door. III. I would not look up thither past thy head Because the door opes, like that child, I know, For I should have thy gracious face instead, Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread ? 57 IV. If this was ever granted, I would rest My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed. How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired ! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared After thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty : And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared ? VI. Guercino drew this angel I saw teach (Alfred, dear friend !) — that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each Pressed gently, — with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of wDrk to do, though heaven was opening o'er him, And he was left at Fano by the beach. 58 VII. We were at Fano, and three times we went To sit and see him in his chapel there, And drink his beauty to our soul's content — My angel with me too : and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower, Fraught with a pathos so magnificent), VIII. And since he did not work thus earnestly At all times, and has else endured some wrong — I took one thought his picture struck from me, And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend ? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end ? This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. "The Guardian Angel" is given as a slight specimen of an important class, dealing with painting and painters. In the lovely poem, "One Word More," Browning disclaims all ability to paint ; but no one could have a more exquisite appreciation of the art. Has the tender pathos of these verses ever been surpassed ? The calm of heaven is in this thought spread out —translated into song. Let it be read in connection with Spenser's exquisite lines, beginning " And is there care in heaven ? " "Alfred, dear "friend," is Mr. Alfred Domett, who was then Prime Minister of New Zealand, at which far end of the world the Wairoa rolls to the sea. 59 DEAF AND DUMB. A GROUP BY WOOLNER, Only the prism's obstruction shows aright The secret of a sunbeam, breaks its light Into the jewelled bow from blankest white ; So may a glory from defect arise : Only by Deafness may the vexed love wreak Its insuppressive sense on brow and cheek, Only by Dumbness adequately speak As favoured mouth could never, through the eyes. This is a "gem of purest ray." In order to understand it fully, it is necessary to icnow that the " group by Woolner " is of two deaf and dumb children— the one as if speaking, the other in the attitude of listening. The speech denied passage through the lips,, breaks out in rarer beauty from the eyes ; and for the hearing denied entrance by the ears, there is, instead, a subtle responsiveness of brow and cheek to the spirit utterance from the soul of the other; so that love, though "vexed," is not suppressed. The exquisite beauty of the illustration of "the prism's obstruction," and the tender pathos of the thought, will be manifest to every reader. 6o ABT VOGLER. (after he has been extemporizing upon the musical instrument of his invention-'^ I. Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of aim. Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, — Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved ! II. Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise ! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine. Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise ! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 6i III. And another would mount and march, Hke the excellent minion he was, Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest : For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, When a great illumination surprises a festal night — Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight IV. In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth. Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I ; And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth. As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky : Novel splendours burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, Not a point nor peak but found, but fixed its wandering star ; Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and they did not pale nor pine. For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. 62 V. Nay more ; for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh from the Protoplast, Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, Lured now to begin and live, in a house to their liking at last ; Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new : What never had been, was now ; what was, as it shall be anon ; And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? for I was made perfect too. VI. All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, V All through music and me ! For think, had I painted the whole, Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder- worth. Had I written the same, made verse — still, effect proceeds from cause. Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws Painter and poet are proud, in the artist-list enrolled : — 63 VII. But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, Existent behind all laws : that made them, and, lo, they are I And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man. That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is nought ; It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said : Give it to me to use 1 I mix it with two in my thought, And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow the head ! VIII. Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared ; Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow ; For one is as'sured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. Never to be again ! But many more of the kind As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort to me? To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind To the same, same self, same love, same God : ay, what was, shall be. 64 IX. Therefore to whom turn I but to Thee, the ineffable Name ? Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands ! What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same ? Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands ? There shall never be one lost good ! What was, shall live as before ; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound ; What was good, shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more ; On the earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect round. X. All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good, shall exist ; Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist, When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard. The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky. Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard ; Enough that he heard it once : we shall hear it by-and-by. 65 XI. And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered or agonized ? Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence ? Why rushed the discords in, but that harmony should be prized ? Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear. Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe : But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear ; The rest may reason and welcome ; 't is we musicians know. XII. Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign : I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, — yes, And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep Which, hark, I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, The C major of this life : so, now I will try to sleep. Having given specimen poems dealing with the arts of poetry, painting, and sculpture, we add one on the subject of music, which, though difficult to understand fully, has beauties which are apparent even to those who ci > not enter into its deepest thought. Vogler is not known as a composer of the first rank, having left no works behind him which entitle him to a place among the great masters ; but, for this very reason, he is better suited for £ 66 the poet's purpose, which is to deal with music, not as represented by printed notes, but as existing for the moment in all its perfection, and at once melting away into silence and apparent nothingness. It is as extemporizer, not as author, he is chosen, and as Abb6 [Ge}-. Abt) he appropriately thinks of those deep spiritual truths on which the loftier hopes of the latter part of the poem are founded. The musician "has been extemporizing,"— pouring out his whole soul through the keys of his organ, and from that state of ecstasy he suddenly awakes and cries out, "Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build . . . might tarry!" It has been no mere "volume," but a "palace" of sound. As Solomon (according to the well-known legend) summoned all spirits from above and from below, and all creatures of the earth, to build him a palace at once, so by a touch, " calling the keys to their work," he has summoned demons of the bass, angels of the treble, earth creatures of the middle tones, who, by eager and tumultuous and yet harmoniously united efforts, have caused " the pinnacled glory " to "rush into sight " (stanzas i — 3). Into sight ? There was far more in it than could be seen. As the soul of the musician ascended from earth, heaven descended on him ; its stars crowned his work ; its moons, its suns were close beside him— ' ' there was no more near nor far" (4). And the boundaries of time, as well as the limits of space, were gone. The absolute, the perfect was reached ; and to this palace of perfection had flocked " presences plain in the place," from the far Future and from the mystic Past. "There was no more sea" — no more distance or separation— all one, together, perfect (5). Reached how ? Through music— the only one of the arts that leads into the region of the absolute and perfect, its effects not springing from causes the operation of which can be traced, and the law of their production defined, but respond- ing directly to the will, even as creation responded to \htfiat of God. Out of such simple elements can that be evoked, which should lead those who " consider " these things to "bow the head" (6, 7). But was it only for a moment? Is it gone? Forever? (8). I turn to God, and know it cannot be. Then follows that glorious passage, one of the finest in any language, every word of which should be studied, beginning — "There shall never be one lost good ! " on to the end of stanza 11, which is the true climax of the poem. The last stanza may be compared to the closing one of " Saul." It is the return from the empyrean to the plain of common life. Let some musical friend show how at the cadence of a very grand piece he would feel his way 6; down the chromatic scale, and then pause on that poignant discord, known as "the minor ninin," effecting, as it were, a separation ("alien ground") from the heights just descended, and giving thus the opportunity of looking up once more before a resting-place is found in "the common chord," — " the C major of this life." This is a poem which should be read over and over till the music of it has fairly entered the soul. It has become common now to speak slightingly of those representations of heaven which make large use of music to give them body in our thought, as if the idea intended to be conveyed were that the joy of heaven was to consist in an endless idle singing, a concert without a finale ; but this easy criticism is surely too disregardful of the distinctive feature of music so strikingly set forth in this poem— viz., that it is the only one of the arts which while strongly appealing to sense, yet in its essence belongs to the realm of the unseen, so that it is in fact the only symbol within the range of man's experience which can even suggest the absolute, the perfect, the pure heavenly. The following passage, from the "Memorials of Frances Ridley Havergal," (p. 151) is so strikingly illustrative of " Abt Vogler," that we cannot forbear quoting it : — " In the train I had one of those curious musical visions which only very rarely visit me. I hear strange and very beautiful chords, generally full, slow and grand, succeeding each other in most interesting sequences. I do not invent them, I could not ; they pass before my mind, and I only listen. Now and then my will seems aroused when I see ahead how some fine resolution might follow, and I seem to ii