POEMS BY MRS. BROWNING. Uniform with this Volume. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING'S POEMS. A New Edition, containing one hundred pages more than the former one, 3 Volumes, $2 25. A. TR O RA E I G I-I Separately, 75 cents. ALSO, Either of the above in Blue-and-gold at the same prices. JAMES MILLER, PUBLISHER, New York LAST POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. WITH A MEMORIAL, BY THIEODOIRE TILTOlN. NEW YORK: PUBLISHED BY JAMES MILLER, (sUCCESSOR TO C. S. FRANCIS & CO.,) 522 BROADWAY. 1862. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by JAMES MILLER, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York. C. A. ALVOPD, STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER. PUBLISHER'S NOTICE. MOST of the Poems in this volume were left in manuscript at the author's death. The others were contributed to The Independent and The Cornldll Magazine. The latter have already been printed in a limited portion of the recent blue-and-gold edition, but reappear here, in order that the present collection may conform with that issued simultaneously in London. This volume, added to the three previously issued, completes the publication of the author's works. JAMES MILLER. The right of publishing this Book in the United States having been liberally purchased by Mr. JAMES MILLER, it is hoped that there will be no interference with the same. ROBERT BROWNING. LONDON, February, 20, 1862. CONTENTS. PAGE. MEMORIAL........................................ 11 LITTLE MATTIE............................................... 79 A FALSE STEP.............................................. 84 VOID IN LAW.......................................... 86 LORD WALTER'S WIFE....................................... 90 BIANCA AMIONG THE NIGHTINGALES.......................... 91 MY KATE................................................. 105 A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCIOOLS OF LONDON................ 108 MAY'S LOVE................................................ 116 AMY'S CRUELTY................................ 1 MY HEART AND I............................................ 121 TIHE BEST TEIING IN THE WORLD............................ 124 WIHERE'S AGNES?..................................... 125 DE PROFUNDIS............................................. 183 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT.................................... 141 FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANCA.............................. 144 KING VICTOR EMANUEL ENTERING FIORENCE, APRIL, 1860..... 14T TIIE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI....................... 151 SUMlMING UP IN ITALY...................................... 154 " DIED"................................................... 158 THE FORCED RECRUIT......................................... 161 GARIBALDI................................................... 164 ONLY A CURL.............................................. 168 A VIEW ACROSS TIIE ROMAN CAMPAGNA....................... 173 TIlE KING'S GIFT................................... 176 10 CONTENTS. PARTING LOVERS............................................ 178 MOTHER AND POET........................................... 183 NATURE'S REMORSES.......................................... 190 TIHE NORTH AND TIE SOUT................................. 195 TRANSLATIONS. PARAPIIRASE ON TIIEOCRITUS:TIlE CYCLOPS.............................. 201 PARAPHRASES ON APTTLEIUS:PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID............................. 206 PSYCIIE WAFTED BY ZEPHYUS.......................... 208 PSYCIIE AND AN...................................... 209 PSYCIE PROPITIATING CERES.......................... 211 PSYCIE AND TIIE EGLE................................ 213 PSYCHE AND CERBERUS................................ 214 PSYCIIE AND PRIOSERPINE.............................. 215 PSYCIE AND VENUS................................... 216 MERCURY CARRIES PSYCIE TO OLYMPUS................. 216 IARRIAGE OF PSYCIE AND CUPID.......................216 PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS:HOW BACCIIUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING................. 218 IIOW BACCIUS COMFORTS ARIADNE...................... 221 PARAPIIRASE ON IIESIOD:BACCEIUS AND ARIADNE................................ 224 PARAPIIRASE ON EURIPIDES:ANTISTROPE.......................................... 225 PARAPIRASES ON IIOMER:HECTOR AND ANDROMACIE.............................. 227 TIIE DAUGITERS OF PANDARU.......................... 232 ANOTHER VERSION...................................... 233 PARAPIIRASE ON ANACREON:ODE TO TIIE SWALLOW............................... 235 PARAPHIRASES ON HIEINE.................................... MEMORIAL. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. DIED IN FLORENCE, JUNE 29, 1861, HALF AN HOUR AFTER DAYBREAK. A LIFE of suffering ended in peace. A frail body, bearing the burden of too great a brain, broke at last under the weight. After six days' illness, the shadows of the night fell upon her eyes for the last time, and half an hour after daybreak she beheld the Eternal vision. Like the Pilgrim in the dream, she saw the Heavenly glory before passing through the gate. "It is beautiful!" she exclaimed, and died: sealing these last words upon her lips as the fittest inscription that could ever be written upon her life, her genius, and her memory. In the English burial-ground at Florence lie her ashes. What she wrote of Cowper's grave now stands written of her own: 14 MEMORIAL. It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decayingIt is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying; Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish I Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish. On both sides of the ocean, this death was nowhere lightly written, nor lightly read. Famous names every year are added to the dead, and without tears. But Mrs. Browning's death was mourned in every household where her books had entered. When her friend Cavour dropped down in the midst of his work, and good men stood with serious face, asking, Who but he could finish it? there was regret; but at this other loss there was more: there was grief. In many households there was weeping; this too by strangers who never saw her face. What shall we now say of her? Deathlooses all tongues to speak the praise of the dead. Let us say, then, not a finer genius ever came into the world, or went out of it; not a nobler heart ever beat in a human bosom; not a more Christian life was ever lived; not a more beau ME1MORIAL. 15 tiful memory ever followed the name of man or woman after death. Is this overpraise? Not for one whose life and genius were each above praise. Of course, not every one will award such meed, and many, hearing it awarded, will ask, "For what?" But there was a circle of loving yet unknown friends of Mrs. Browning, who, when they first heard of her death, were startled at a sudden sundering of something that had bound their hearts closer to hers than the mere ordinary tie between author and reader, even of such authors as have loving readers. So the shadow that fell at Florence crept hitherward across many a threshold. It is easy to account for this unusual sense of loss. They who had read Mrs. Browning at all, had read her over and over again. They had never closed the books without meaning to open them many times more; for her pages, once truly known, are never slighted afterward. A friend of ours reads the Eve of St. Agnes once a year to his family, but on the lips of the same reader Berthll in the Lane counts all the 16 MEMORIAL. months between. Of reading Aurora Leigh when can there be an end? One need never be athirst for a book while that is at hand. So to lose Mrs. Browning-to those who knew their loss-meant something more than to lose any one else. Besides, to the few who knew not only her genius but something of her personal life-especially the sad story of those sufferings which found their compensation in the ripening of her character into a loveliness as nearly perfect as it seems possible for human nature ever to attain-there was always an indescribable sympathy, which death fitly hallowed into a saintly memory. But that story, inasmuch as her own lips never told it, and her own heart wished it might never be told, shall find no chronicle here. It is enough to say that she bore patiently, sweetly, and with perpetual forgiveness, a grievous and unnatural wrong which pierced her like a thorn for years. Daughters turning coldhearted to a kind father have made one tragedy: the reverse of such a tale might make another equally pathetic. But let it remain unwritten; MEMORIAL. 17 for the dead have gone to meet the dead; and who knows what reconcilements there may be in the shadowy land? The record of her outward life is brief. A few dates and common facts comprise it all. Born in London in 1809, she became a writer in 1819, and a publisher in 1826. Her first volume, an Essay on Mind-written in the verse of Pope's Essay on Man-was afterward withdrawn from print, and now cannot be found in any bookseller's garret. She decreed a like fate upon her next book, published in 1833, Prometheus Bound, translated from Eschylus: excluding it from a subsequent volume of collected works, and giving this reason in the preface: " One early failure, a translation of the Pro"metheus of ~schylus, which, though happily "free of the current of publication, may be re"membered against me by a few of my per"sonal fiiends, I have replaced by an entirely "new version, made for them and my con"science, in expiation of a sin of my youth, with "the sincerest application of my mature mind." 2. 18 M E MO 0 A L. So her first ventures in authorship were triumphant failures. We will leave the reader to guess how much of personal autobiography is written in the ensuing lines: I apprehended this,In England, no one lives by verse that lives; And, apprehending, I resolved by prose To make a space to sphere my living verse. I wrote for cyclopedias, magazines, And weekly papers, holding up my name To keep it from the mud. I learnt the use Of the editorial'we' in a review, As courtly ladies the fine trick of trains, And swept it grandly through the open doors As if one could not pass through doors at all Save so encumbered. I wrote tales beside, Carved many an article on cherry-stones To suit light readers,-something in the lines Revealing, it was said, the mallet-hand, But that, I'll never vouch for. Three years after her atoning preface of Prometheus, began her acquaintance with Mary Russell Mitford, who has left a very pleasing sketch of her friend; yet the sketch must have been written half at random, for it is full of rmiCscolcepi)tionls ianm misstatements; but it )paint M EMORIA. 19 ed this life-like picture of the poet at twentyseven: "A slight, delicate figure, with a shower of " dark curls falling on either side of a most ex" pressive face-large, tender eyes, fringed with " dark lashes-and a smile like a sunbeam." This description of twenty-five years ago is true, every word, of a photograph now lying on our table, copied from Macaire's original, made at Havre in 1856, and which Robert Browning esteems a faithful likeness of his wife. The three-quarter length shows (what photographs sometimes fail to show) the comparative stature of the figure-which here is so delicate and diminutive that we can easily imagine how the story came to be told (although not true) that her husband drew this same portrait in the Flight of the Duchess when he sketched -the smallest lady alive. But the one striking feature of the picture is the intellectual and spiritual expression of the face and head; for here, borne up by pillars of curls on either side, is just such an arch as shs saw in the Vision of Poets: 20 ME R I A L. A forehead royal with the truth I A photograph, taken in Rome only a month before she died, wears a not greatly changed expression, except in an added pallor to cheeks always pale; foretokening the near coming of the shado w of death. In 1837 she had the misfortune to burst a blood-vessel in the lungs, and shortly afterward to be brought trembling to the edge of the grave by a shock occasioned by the accidental drowning of a brother, upset in a yacht. She was standing on a balcony and saw him sink. The haunting memory of this tragedy kept her in such continual prostration that not until several months afterward were her friends willing to risk removing her, even by short daily journeys, from the sea-side where the disaster happened, to her father's house in London. Here for several years she was an exile from society, shut in a dim chamber, her chief companions (beyond a few chosen friends) being a Hebrew Bible, a shelf full of large-print Greek books, and no small range of polyglot reading. Here the Attic bee brought its honey to her lips. M E M 0 1 I A L. 21 Here she thought and studied, and ripened her genius until it grew worthy of the fame which was to crown it. Here she gathered from many tongues what she afterward embalmed in one. A patient prisoner behind drawn curtains in WVilpole-street, she was twin sister, in genius and suffering, to Charlotte Bronte in tlie shadowy room at Haworth. Yet the question which she asked of Mrs. Hemans: Would she have lost the poet's fire, for anguish of the burning? she answered of herself: for one of her favorite thoughts was Shelley's, that poets learn in suffering What they teach in song. She confessed in her own words: If heads, That hold a rythmic thought, must ache perforce, For my part, I choose headaches. Suddenly, one day, as the product of one day's work, she astonished her friends with the rhapsody o' Lady Geraldine's Courtshipwhich straightway led to the rhapsody of her 22 MEMORIAL. own. This poem had all the faultiness which one might expect of a hundred and three stanzas forced by green-house heat into full bloom in twelve hours; this too by a weak invalid lying on a sofa; but must we spoil the pretty story that the sweet ballad had all the merit of winning for its writer the hand of Robert Browning? Yet the story is only a fiction of the gossip-writers. Nor is it true that the poet with whom she was to mate was then known to her only by his little book of Bells and Pomegranates. She had more than a stranger's reasons for making the wooer of Lady Geraldine speak in this wise: There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser-or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets —h-ere's the book-the leaf is folded down! Or at times a modern volume-Wordsworth's solemnr thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverieOr from Browning some'Pomegranate,' which, if cut deep down the middle, MEMORIAL. 23 Showed a heart within, blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity Mr. Hillard of Boston mentions in the Newv American Cyclopedia a story of this happy allusion, which we will repeat in his own words: " The story," he says, " has been told to us"we will not vouch for its truth, as'imagina"tions as one would' are apt to be interpolated "into such incidents-that the grateful poet "called to express in person his acknowledg" ments, and that he was admitted into the inva"lid's presence by the happy mistake of a new "servant. At any rate, he did see her, and had " permission to renew his visit. The mutual at"tachment grew more and more powerful, and " the convergence more and more rapid; the ac" quaintance became the friend, and the friend " was transformed into the lover. Kind physi"cians and tender nurses had long watched "over the couch of sickness; but love, the "magician, brought restorative influences be"fore unknown; and her health was so far im"proved that she did not hesitate to accept the "hand that was offered to her. She became 24 MEMORIAL. " the wife of Robert Browning in the autumn "of 1846." This incident in the sick-room is charming; fit to happen to two poets. But it must have been taken from a novel; it did not occur in reality. Indeed, nearly all the public stories of their private life have been only guesses or idle pleasantries; for no one who has written on the subject has known anything about it. Nothing authentic has been told. Yet as for the several myths afloat, they are fancies that do no great harm. It may be mentioned that before the marriage, so strong and so lasting was the impression still remaining on her mind concerning her brother's death, that she exacted a promise from Mr. Browning that he would never refer to the subject. This promise was kept for years. So much of the courtship as the world has a right to know, she herself has confessed in the Sonnets from the Portuguese, which she might have named with an English name, Sonnets firom Her own Heart. At the wedding the bride rose from her sick-bed to receive the wedding M E M O I A L. 25 ring upon her finger. It is said that some of her kinsfolk disapproved the match. This is probably true, for the marriage proved a happy one. Her father never added his blessing. Part of the wooing is told in these words, and what can be more exquisite?First time he kissed me he but only kissed The fingers of this hand wherewith I write, And ever since, it grew more clean and white, Slow to world-greetings.. quick with its'Oh, list,' When the angels speak. A rinr of amethyst I could not wear here, plainer to my sight, Than that first kiss. The second passed in height The first, and sought tle forehead, and half-missed, Half falling on tlhe hair. O beyond meed That was the chrisln of love, which love's own crown. With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. The third upon my lips was folded down In perfect purple state; since when, indeed, I have been proud and said,'My love, my own! * * * * * * How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Gr:lae. I love thee to the level of every d:ly's Most quiet need, by sun and candle light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right, I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with tlie passioll put to use 26 MEMORIAL. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints — love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears of all my life!-and, if God choose, I shall but lovethleebetter after death. After the nuptials he led her immediately to Italy, whither she willingly followed; to the land of song, of art, of romance, and of the dead past. But the dead past was already turning in its grave for resurrection into life and a future. The sympathies of the Brownings for Italy were as deep-hearted as Garibaldi's. Robert Browning was one of the few great Englishmen who, after Milton, loved Italy. His wife, loving him, loved what he loved. That love had a fruition which proved it not wasted. For the Italy she found, and the Italy she left, were not the same. When that wedding-tour ended at Pisa, she saw a shadow resting on the sunniest land in Europe. Night was on the nation. But the poet was the prophet. In her new home she sat and watched for the daydawn through Casa Guidi windows. It waited long, but dawned at last, and she saw it-and then died! Is there not more than a sick-bed MEMIORIAL. 27 meaning in the brief story of the telegraph that she expired "half an hour after daybreak?" For the dream of her life-a free and united Italy-was finally fulfilled in Napoleon's formal recognition of Italian freedom and unity, in the very week she died! The full day-dawn of Italy was to shine from France; and she saw it and died-just after the daybreak. It is most fitting, perhaps, to ask here the question, Had she not some warrant in being a Napoleonist? Who that had disagreed with her for five years had not a half-wish that she might have lived a year longer, if only to enjoy that triumph? In a letter to the writer of this memorial, she said: "A great nation is " called up from the graves." But almost at the next moment, she was called down into hers. Even the critics of T/he Athenceum must have felt a generous regret at this. That little volume of Napoleonic poems, shaded by the frowns of many critics, turned out to be more prophetic than men could believe, who then read and shook their heads. She mentioned these doubters in a letter written just after the poems 28 M E M ORIA L. appeared: "My book," said she, "has had a " very angry reception in my native country, as' you probably observe; but I shall be forgiven "one day; and meanwhile, forgiven or unforgiv" en, it is satisfactory to one's own soul to have " spoken the truth as one apprehends the truth." The day of her forgiveness came soon-outstripping the day of her death: a speedier reward than often falls to prophets who prophesy against the united voices of their own times. But after all what was her Napoleonism? In a letter alluding to the American feeling against the Emperor, she said: " Mr. F"hints that your people are not very Napoleon"ist. NYeither am I, in any partisan sense"; and then pointed to her Summing Up, a poem sent to The Idclependent-in which she thus wrote of the Imperial object of her so-called homage: Napoleon-as strong as ten armies, Corrupt as seven devils-a fact You accede to, then seek where the harm is Drained off from the man to his act. And find... a free nation n! Suppose Some hell-brood in Eden's sweet greenery Convoked for creating..... a rose! — Would it suit the infernal machinery? M EMORIAL. 29 This in prose is: if the Devil's workman be doing God's work, who ought to hinder? Such was Mrs. Browning's Napoleonism. How far was it from right? If she erred, she erred with a man as wise as Cavour; and if Cavour was not the greatest statesman of his day, who was greater? We have no overstock of praises to waste on the third Napoleon, but it is fair play to give the devil his due. Of Pope Pius IX., she once wrote a good opinion; for that bishop had once the wit and luck to persuade most of the world, the poets with the rest, that he had no wish for Italy but benediction. Whether his heart lost its goodness, or only his face lost its mask, is a question. But the poet blotted out her early praise, as the pontiff blotted out his early pledge. Some of her English opinions were more high-minded and noble, more generous and Christian, than niany of her countrymen wished an Englishwoman to entertain. For instance, she was called visionary and impracticable for such words as these: "I confess that I dream of the day when an 30 MEMORIAL. " English statesman shall arise with a heart too " large for England, having courage, in the face "of his countrymen, to assert of some sugges"tive policy,-'This is good for your trade; this' is necessary for your domination; but it will "vex a people hard by; it will hurt a people "farther off; it will profit nothing to the gener"al humanity; therefore, away with it! It is " not for you or me.' When a British minister "dares to speak so, and when a British public "applauds him speaking, then shall the nation "be so glorious, that her praise instead of ex"ploding from within, from loud civic mouths, " shall come to her from without, as all worthy "praise must, from the alliances she has foster"ed and from the populations she has saved." Mrs. Browning lived in one house in Florence for fourteen years, and went out of it to her grave. From Casa Guidi's windows I looked out. For those who wish to look in at these same windows, we draw the curtain by another's hand. A letter from Florence in The Atlantiec Mionthly, written shortly after her death, said: MiE MIORIAL. 31'Casa Guidi, which has been immortalized " by Mrs. Browning's genius, will be as dear to " the Anglo-Saxon traveler as Milton's Floren"tine residence has been heretofore. "Those who have known Casa Guidi as it " was, can never forget the square ante-room, " with its great picture, and piano-forte at "which the boy Browning passed many an " hour,-the little dining-room, covered with ta" pestry, and where hung medallions of Tenny" son, Carlyle, and Robert Browning,-the long "room, filled with -plaster casts and studies, "which was Mr. Browning's retreat,-and dear"est of all, the large drawing-room, where she " always sat. It opens upon a balcony filled " with plants, and looks out upon the old iron"grey church of Santa Felice. There was some" thing about this room that seemed to make it a "proper and especial haunt for poets. The dark "shadows and subdued light gave it a dreamy "look, which was enhanced by the tapestry"covered walls and the old pictures of saints, "that looked out sadly from their carved frames of black-wvood. Large book-ca:se., constructed 32 MEMORIAL. " of specimens of Florentine carving, selected by "Mr. Browning, were brimming over with wise"looking books. Tables were covered with more "gaily bound volumes, the gifts of brother au"thors. Dante's grave profile, a cast of Keats's "face and brow, taken after death, a pen-and-ink "sketch of Tennyson, the genial face of John "Kenyon (Mrs. Browning's good friend and rel"ative), little paintings of the boy Browning, "all attracted the eye in turn, and gave rise to "a thousand musings. A quaint mirror, easy "chairs and sofas, and a hundred nothings that "always add an indescribable charm, were all " massed in this room. But the glory of all and "that which sanctified all, was seated in a low " arm-chair, near the door. A small table, strewn "with writing-materials, books and newspapers, "was always by her side." Thus far the letter; but we have this description still more vividly drawn in a photograph of the favorite room in which she oftenest sat, taken after she had quitted it forever. If the reader could look over our shoulder, he would be welcome to see the picture; but there MEMORIAL. 33 is hardly need to add more by mere words to those already given. While the letter lies open we copy another passage on another topic, as having a fit place here: "Mrs. Browning's conversation was most "interesting. It was not characterized by sal"lies of wit or brilliant repartee, nor was it of "that nature which is most welcome in society. "It was frequently intermingled with trenchant, "quaint remarks, leavened with a quiet, grace"ful humor of her own; but it was eminently "calculated for a tete-d-tete. Mrs. Browning "never made an insignificant remark. All that "she said was always worth hearing; a greater "compliment could not be paid her. She was J' a most conscientious listener, giving you her "mind and heart, as well as her magnetic eyes. "Though the latter spoke an eager language of "their own, she conversed slowly, with a con" ciseness and point which, added to a matchless "earnestness that was the predominant trait " of her conversation as it was of her character, "made her a most delightful companion. Per" sons were never her theme, unless public char3 34 XMEMORIAL. " acters were under discussion, or friends who "were to be praised, which kind office she fre" quently took upon herself. One never dreamed " of frivolities in Mrs. Browning's presence, and "gossip felt itself out of place. Yourself, not "herself-was always a pleasant subject to her, " calling out all her best sympathies in joy and "yet more in sorrow. Books and humanity, great' deeds, and above all, politics, which include all "the grand questions of the day, were foremost "in her thoughts, and therefore oftenest on her "lips. I speak not of religion, for with her " everything was religion." Mr. Hillard, who visited the Brownings at Florence in 1847, says in his Six Months in Italy: "A happier home and a more perfect "union than theirs it is not easy to imagine; " and this completeness arises not only from the "rare qualities which each possesses, but from "their perfect adaptation to each other... As "he is full of manly power, so she is a type of "the most sensitive and delicate womanhood. "I have never seen a human frame which seemed "so nearly a transparent veil for a celestial and MEMORIAL. 35 " immortal spirit. She is a soul of fire enclosed " in a shell of pearl... Nor is she more re"markable for genius and learning, than for "sweetness of temper, tenderness of heart, "depth of feeling, and purity of spirit. It is a "privilege to know such beings singly and sep" arately, but to see their powers quickened, "and their happiness rounded, by the sacred "tie of marriage, is a cause for peculiar and "lasting gratitude. A union so complete as "theirs-in which the mind has nothing to "crave nor the heart to sigh for-is cordial to "behold and soothing to remember." Robert Browning's address to his wife in One Word More has these lines: God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her. This to you-yourself my moon of poets I Ah, but that's the world's side-there's the wonderThus they see you, praise you, think they know you. There, in turn I stand with them and praise you, Out of my own self I dare to phrase it. But the best is when I glide from out them. Gross a step or two of dubious twilight, 86 MEMORIAL. Come out on the other side, the novel Silent silver lights and darks undreamed of, Where I hush and bless myself with silence. Mrs. Browning's mind matured early; her pen at once became prolific; her genius grew apace; every succeeding book showed an increase of power; every new performance gave better promise for the next. Turn over her pages, and mark the grand beginning and the grand progress to the end. How wide is her range of subjects! She hardly ever goes back to the same strain twice. Hei husband's sweet-singing English thrush, that sang each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture, is like many poets who are born, with the birds, to a few strains, and sing them all their lives. Of these were Pope, Dr. Young, Montgomery, Walter Scott, and almost Wordsworth. But Mrs. Browning had an unequalled variety of subjects. She wrote in as many different veins as Coleridge or Hood. Even her husband is less free of range; less given to roaming at ME M OR IA L. 37 wild will. Prometheus Bound opens the door of the Greek Mythology. The drama of The Seraphim depicts the thoughts of the angels of heaven in witnessing Christ's crucifixion. The Drama of Exile follows Milton into the Garden of Eden, and out of it. A Vision of Poets calls up the long train of the famous bards of all times and tongues. The Poet's Vow is the sad story of Rosalind's heart, wounded by pride and broken by love. Isobel's Child reveals the struggles of a mother's soul, wrestling with God for life and blessing for her babe. The Brown Rosary is a story of a maiden's temptations, her falsehood to an absent lover, and the strife of an evil spirit to get possession of her soul. The Rhyme of the Dutchess May is a romance of chivalry, ending with a thrilling scene of a horse and two riders, bride and bridegroom, leaping from a castle-wall a hundred feet down to death. Lady Geraldine is a delicious story of a lady who gave a splendid party at her country-seat, and there fell in love with a poet among the guests. The Cry of the Children is a twin-poem with Hood's Song of 38 MEMORIAL. the Shirt. The Four-fold Aspect shows the four ways of looking at death-carelessly, awfully, mournfully, hopefully. Earth and her Praisers sets forth how differently the world appears to a child, to a lover, to a scholar, to a mourner, to a poet, to a Christian. A Child Asleep is a poem of a mother's fancyings at the cradle-side. Crowned and Wedded is the story of Victoria's wedding-day. Crowned and Buried, its counterpiece, celebrates the death of the first Napoleon. To Flush, my Dog, is a head-patting tribute which, we fancy, must often be read for sympathy's sake by the author of Rab and his Friends. My Doves is a plaintive story of her pet-birds taken from the countryto the city. The Lost Bower is a reminiscence of an invalid who recalls, while shut in a sick chamber, her sunshiny out-of-door wanderings in fields and woods. Loved Once celebrates the eternity of love:. those never loved Who dream that they loved once. The Runaway Slave at Pilgrims' Point is the unreasonable complaint of a slave-mother who MM EO RI AL. 39 so little knew the duty of a slave as to sigh at the selling of her husband and child out of her sight forever. The Sonnets from the Portuguese are forty-four love-letters, the most exquisite that ever were written. Casa Guidi Windows is a poetical essay on Italian politics in the struggle of 1848. Aurora Leigh is a modern novel in blank verse, discussing many of the social questions of England, and revealing the writer's experiences of life. Poems before Congress, called in this country Napoleon III. in Italy, gave utterance to her French opinions. The Last Poems, now first collected after her death, are in every key from love to grief. Such was the wide range of her verse! Mrs. Browning had an established reputation in this country before she became widely known in England. Even now she has more readers here than there, just as Longfellow has more readers there than here. But it often happens that poets, like prophets, get their best honors out of their own country.* * It is due to Mr. Ienry T. Tuckerman to say that he was one of the earliest of American critics to give her a word of honest praise before the American public. 40 M EMO R IA L. The qualities of her style are many and various, including great merits and great faults. She abounds in figures, strong and striking; sometimes strange and startling; sometimes grotesque and weird; often, one may say, unallowable; but always having a piercing point of meaning that gives warrant for their singularity. Swords have not keener edges, nor flash brighter lights, than the sudden similes drawn by this poet's hand. She illustrates at will from nature, art, mythology, history, literature, scripture, common life. She plucks metaphors wherever they grow; and to those who have eyes to see, they grow everywhere. Occasionally, taking for granted a too great knowledge on the part of her readers, even of such as are cultured, her figures are covered with the dust of old books, and their meaning hidden in a vexing obscurity. But, on the other hand, her sentences often are as clear as ice, and have a lustre of prismatic fires. Innumerable are her happy conceits, successful expressions, exquisite turns of remark, strokes of the brush known as word-paintings, sayings quaint as any in Quarles. ME M 0 IAI'.. 41 Some of these, of different sorts, we gather here for show-plucked from her pages without search, but almost at random. What daintier words could be dropped on a lady's head than these?No one parts Her hair with such a silver line as you; One moonbeam from the forehead to the crown. Here is a more muscular stroke:'Tis true that when the dust of death has choked A great man's voice, the common words he said Turn oracles,-the common thoughts he yoked Like horses, draw like griffins,-this is true. The opening stanza of the Lady's Yes has the fittest possible figure for the thought:'Yes,' I answered you last night;'No,' this morning, sir, I say; Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. Aurora, doubting whether from her early rhyming she is to grow into a poet, says: Alas I... near all the birds Will sing at dawn-and yet we do not take The chaffering swa'llow for tie loly lark 42 MEMORIA L. After speaking of the Alps, she turns to the English rolling country thus: View the ground's most gentle dimplement, As if God's finger touched, but did not press, In making England. In the picture of Isobel with her child in her lap, both asleep, the mother is drawn as in motionless repose,Only she wore The deepening smile I named before; And that a deepening love expressed; And who at once can love and rest? Mary looking on the Child Jesus exclaims: Art thou a king then? Corhe, his universe, Come, crown me Him a King! Pluck rays from all such stars as neverfling Their light where fell a curse, And make a crowning for this Kingly brow! Lady Waldemar's parting is a favorite passage with Henry Ward Beecher, himself a prosepoet: Whereat she touched my hand, and bent her head, And floated from me like a silent cloud That leaves a sense of thunder. MI E M O R I A L. 43 In the Vision of Poets, are these grand lines of an angel: His eyes were dreadful, for you saw That they saw God. Here is a touch to the quick: Full desertuess In souls, as countries, lieth silent bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute heavens. Of Savonarola she says: Who, having tried the tank Of old church waters used for baptistry Ere Luther came to spill them, swore they stank I Now and then she misses a point of history, as for instance: Calvin, for the rest, Made bold to burn Servetus: though certainly Calvin did not burn Servetus. Buckle has thrown out the idea that southern countries, with earthquakes for rousing the imagination, are the natural homes of painters and poets. Mrs. Browning thought differently: Mountains of the south When, drunk and mad with elemental wines, 44 MEMORIAL. They rend the seamless mist, and stand up bare, Make fewer singers, haply. No one sings Descending Sinai. The following are examples of fine, terse expression: Austrian Metternich Can fix no yoke unless the neck agree. What is holy church unless she awes The times down from their sins? God, in cursing, gives us better gifts Than men in benediction. The mountains live in holy families. Earth's fanatics make Too frequently Heaven's saints. A holiday of miserable men Is sadder than a burial-day of kings. Her power of satire was severe, having a wholesome bitterness in it; most intense, sometimes, when most -unintentional; oftenest used in vindication of her sex: I perceive I The headache is too noble for my sex. You think the heartache would sound decenter, Since that's the woman's special proper ache, And altogether tolerable..except To a woman. MEMORIAL. 46 She puts into men's mouths a biting welcome to woman's authorship: Oh, excellent I WVhat grace I what facile turns I what fluent sweeps! What delicate discernment.. almost thoughtl The book does honor to the sex, we hold. Among our female authors we make room For this fair writer, and congratulate The country that produces in these times Such women competent to.. spell I But she does not spare even her own sex. Thus at the wedding at St. Giles': A woman screamed back, I'm a tender soul, I never banged a child at two years old And drew blood from him, but I sobbed for it Next moment,-and I've had a plague of seven; I'm tender! Aurora has this jesting with herself: I wonder if the manuscript Of my long poem, if'twere sold outright, Would fetch enough to buy me shoes, to go A-foot (thrown in, the necessary patch For the other side of the Alp)? It cannot be I Her qualification for a bishop is: He must _:t Love truth too dangerously, but prefer The interests of the church. 46 MEMORIAL. Sometimes she wedges into a single line a whole bar of gold: She thanked God and sighed: (Somepeople always sigh in thanking God). Her descriptions of persons show a fine knack at portraiture. With a few strokes, she gives a face with a whole character in it. No one needs to go to the parlor-wall to see Aurora's aunt in oil-colors, after these few lines; as nearly pre-Raphaelite as if Millais had drawn them: She stood straight and calm; Her somewhat narrow forehead braided tight As if for taming accidental thoughts From possible pulses; brown hair pricked with grey By frigid use of life, (she was not old, -Although my father's elder by a year); A nose drawn sharply, yet in delicate lines; A close, mild mouth, a little soured about The ends, through speaking unrequited loves Or peradventure niggardly half truths. Her descriptions of such scenes as in art would be called figure-pieces have always a striking and graphic brevity: He ended. There was silence in the church: We heard a baby sucking in its sleep At the farthest ends of the aisle. MEM ORIAL. 47 What more was needed to complete that description? She is skillful in putting into words the experiences of the inner life; a rare translator of la. tent thoughts. She writes what the reader has often felt, but has never seen written before, until he is surprised at beholding the secretest emotions of his innermost heart lying bare upon the page. She is the elect historian of all the joys and sorrows. Her verse throbs with all the human hopes and fears. All hearts may come here, to find their personal story told. All aspirations, all struggles, all defeats, all victories have their fit memoirs in these books. This poet keeps the sybil's record to whom men may come to learn of life and death. Mrs. Gaskell, in setting a text for her life of Charlotte Bronte, took these words of Aurora's: My Father — Thou hast knowledge, only Thou, How dreary'tis for women to sit still On winter nights by solitary fires, And hear the nations praising them far off. The same fine strain is continued in thest 48 MEMORIAL. words, which we quote for the sake of their author's personal confessions therein: To sit alone, And think for comfort, how that very night, Affianced lovers, leaning face to face With sweet half listenings for each other's breath, Are reading haply from some page of ours, To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks had touched, When such a stanza, level to their mood, Seems floating their own thoughts out-' So I feel For thee';-' And I, for thee; —this poet knows What everlasting love is I' * * * To have our books Appraised by love, associated with love While we sit loveless I is it hard, you think? At least,'tis mournful. Fame indeed,'twas said, Means simply love. It was a man said that. This rcvealer of the inward life is no less an out-of-door painter. Never were landscapes on canvas more charminf than her's on the page. Look! Is not this a picture by Gifford? On your left the sheep are cropping The slant grass and daisies pale, A1nd five apple-trees stand dropping Separate shadows toward the vale, Over which in choral silence the bells peal you their allhail! Far out, kindled by each other, Shining hills o1i lills arise, MlEMORIAL. 49 Close as brother leatns to brother When they press beneath the eyes Of some father praying blessings from the gifts of paradise. Here are two lines that contain many pictures: And brooks that glass in different strengths All colors in disorder. Resemblances to other poets, both in style and thought-imitations, accidental and unconscious-are not infiequent in her writings. Her Lament for Adonis, fiom Bion, opens with nearly the same words as Shelley's Monody on the death of Keats. Her's begins: I mourn for Adonis-Adonis is dead. His begins: I weep for Adonais-he is dead. The poem of the Virgin Mary and Child Jesus, quoting its motto from Milton's Hymn of the Nativity, has manifestly followed Milton's style. Her story of the dead Rosalind resembles Tennyson's of the dead Elaine. A line in Lady Geraldine4 60 MEMORIAL. With a rushing stir, uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain... is like a line in Poe's RavenAnd the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain... At the close of Aurora Leigh, Romney is made almost the identical Rochester of Jane Eyre-not merely in the fact that both are smitten blind by falling timbers in a burning building, nor in the similarity of their marriages, but in the essential likeness of the two characters, particularly after each has become softened by suffering and love. A general resemblance to her husband is pointed out. If the faces of man and wife are said to grow alike, are not their thoughts quite as apt to take fashion of each other? Why then if husband and wife be authors, should not their styles grow akin? But the resemblances between the Brownings, although many exist, are often more fancied than real. They did not revise each other's writings. Neither knew what the other had been doing, until it was done. Aurora Leigh was two-thirds MEMO RIA L. 5] written before her husband saw a word of it. Nor did he know of the existence of the Portuguese Sonnets till a considerable time after the marriage, when she showed them to him for the first time, and he, in his delight, persuaded her to put them in print. Otherwise they might never have been published; for with her characteristic modesty, she at first thought them unworthy even of his reading, to say nothing of the whole world's. She felt so doubtful of the merit of Aurora Leigh that at one time she laid even that aside, with the idea never to publish it. HIer method of writing was to seize the moment when the mood was upon her, and to fix her thought hurriedly on the nearest slip of paper. She was sensitive to interruption while composing, but was too shy to permit even her friends to see her engaged at her work. When the servant announced a visitor, the busy poet suddenly hid her paper and pen, and received her guest as if in perfect leisure for the visit Giving her mornings to the instruction of hei little son, and holding herself ready after twelve 52 MEMORIAL. o'clock to give welcome to any coiner, it was a wonder to many how she could find the needed time to study or write. She made many and marked changes in her poems in successive editions. These show her fastidious taste. She was never satisfied to let a stanza remain as it was. Most of these amendments are for the better, but some for the worse -as orators who correct their printed speeches sometimes spoil the best parts. In many cases, she substituted not only new rhymes but new thoughts, turning the verses far out of their old channels; in others, she struck out whole lines and passages as superfluous; in others, she made fitter choice of single words, so adding vividness to the expression. As illustrations, we take some passages as they stood in the edition of 1845 and the same passages in the changed dress she gave them ten years after; the Roman type in the extracts showing the originals, and the Italic the revisions: Hark! the Eden trees are sirr:ri. Slow and solemn to your hearing Soft in MEMO It I A L. 53 Plane and cedar, palm and fir, Oak linden Tamarisk and juniper. [Drama of Exile. And the calm stars... far and fair spare [A Vision of Poets. Through the solstice and the frost sunshine [The Lost Bower. Our bloor splashes upwards, 0 our tyrants, 0 gold-heaper, And your purple shows your path; But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence, in the silence curseth deeper Than the strong man in his wrath! [The Cry of tie Children. -the first fruit wisdom reaches wisest word man Hath the hue of childly cheek. Is the humblest he can speak. [Lessonsfrom the Gorse. She has halls and she has castles, and the resonant steamamong the woodlands, and has castles by the eagles breakers; Follow far on the directing of her floating dove-like She has farms and she has mLanors, she can threaten and handcommand, With a thunderous vapor trailing, underneath the starry And the palpitating engines snort in steam across her vigils, acres, 54 MEMO RI AL. So to mark upon the blasted heaven the measure of her As they the land. [Lady Geraldine's Courtship. You may speak, he does not hear; and besides, he writes no satire,And that antique sting of poetry is all we need to mind. All the serpents kept by charmers leave the natural sting behind [Ibid. Howitt's ballad-dew or Tennyson's God-vocal reverie,-verse enchanted [Ibid. Enter a broad hall thereby, Build a spacious Walled with cloudy whiteness; Boldly, never fearing,'Tis a blue place of the sky, Use the Wind-worked into brightness; Which the wind is clearing. Whence such corridors sublime Branched with Stretch with winding stairsFlecked Praying children wish to climb Such as After their own prayers. Followi/ag In the mutest of the house I will have my chamber: Round its door I keep for use Silence at the door shall use Northern lights of amber. Evening's light MIEMORIAL. 55 Silence gave that rose and bee Solemnizing every word For the lock, in meteness; Softening in degree And the turning of the key Turning sadness into good Goes in humming sweetness As I turn the key. [The House of Clouds. She knew the true art of choosing words. The rule to use Saxon words instead of Latin is easy to give and hard to follow: nor is it always the best rule, though it is generally. Words are instruments of music: an ignorant man uses them for jargon, but when a master touches them they have unexpected life and soul. Some words sound out like drums; some breathe memories sweet as flutes; some call like a clarionet; some shout a charge like trumpets; some are as sweet as children's talk; others rich as a mother's answering back. The words which have universal power are those that have been keyed and chorded in the great orchestral chamber of the human heart. Some words touch as many notes at a stroke as when an organist strikes ten fingers upon a keyboard. There are single words which contain life-his 56 MEMORIAL. tories; and to hear them spoken is like the ringing of chimes. Hie who knows how to touch and handle skilfully the home-words of his mother-tongue, need ask nothing of style. No finer instance of this skill is found in the whole realm of good English, out of Shakespeare, than in the writings of Mrs. Browning,* particularly in those which pay homage to the affections. * George P. Marsh, in his Lectures on the English Language, notices the following proportions of Saxon words in three of her poems, and in one of her husband's: "Mrs. Browning, Cry of the Children, - ninety-two per cent. " Crowned and Buried, - eighty-three " " Lost Bowe, - - - - seventy-seven" "Robert Browning, Blougram's Apology, eighty-four " Mr. Marsh notices, however, in several of Mrs. Browning's minor poems a large number of Ronmance words, but used aluost wholly as rhymed-endilng.. Thus, of the Cry of the Children, he says: "The proportion of lRomance words in the owhole poem is but " eight per cent.; but of the eighty double-rhymed terminals, twenty" four or thirty per cent. are Romance..... In the Dead Pan, "there are about one hundred double-rhymed endings, less than one" half of which are Anglo-Saxon; and in the Lost Bower, out of about " one hundred and fifty double-rhymes, more than one-third are Ro" mance. "I have made this examination of Mrs. Browning's works, not as "a criticism upon the diction of one of the very first English poets " of this age, the first female poet of any age, but to show that even "the style of a great artist, of one who, by preference, employ.s na"tive z'orsds whererer it is possible, a conformity to the rules of' a continental versification inevitably involves the introduction of an "undue proportion of Romance words." M EIO R I AL 57 Mrs. Browning was a keen lover of art. Her talk of artists is more discriminating than Hawthorne's; for the author of the Marble Faun told chiefly what others had told him. But she was able to speak of what she had learned with her eves, as well as with her ears. Both the Brownings were gifted with the genuine artistic insight. Both always caught eagerly at everything which indicated the progress of art. When William Page, lying sick of a fever in Rome and tossing on his pillow, made his singular and beautiful discovery of the true measurement of the human figure, the first person to whom he conmmunicated it was Robert Browning, who, long before Mr. Page published his diagram and explanation, hinted it in these two purposely mysterious lines in Cleon: I know the true proportions of a man, And woman also, not observed before; and Mrs. Browning set it in Aurora Leigl, in the passage beginning: I write so Of the only truth-tellers now left to God * * * 8 * * * s 58 9 L MEMORIAL. The only teachers who instruct mankind, From just a shadow on a charnel wall To find man's veritable stature out, Erect, sublime-the measure of a man. And that's the measure of an angel, says The apostle. Mrs. Browning's imagination threw a glow over her whole nature. This strange faculty acts not only by itself, but upon all the other faculties of the mind: upon the Affections-setting apart the objects of them as sacred from the common world, and clothing them with white raiment like the saints: upon the Reason-giving dignity and grandeur to the intellectual convictions: upon the higher Moral Nature — inspiring faith and worship to a greater grasp of the spiritual and invisible, and leading the soul upward to that Mount of Vision whence there is fore-looking into the other world. Mrs. Browning's imagination struck a stimulating power into all her faculties. It kindled her affectional nature until out of this grew her glowing ideal of womanly love and devotion: a conception of womanhood which hallows the mind into a half-awe on receiving it from her MEMORIAL. 59 pages; which made Mr. Ruskin pronounce her Eve'in the Drama of Exile incomparably superior to Milton's, and her Dutchess May the finest female character brought into literature since Shakespeare's day. It quickened her logical faculties; giving them clearness of insight in all the great ranges of social problems and political questions; creating within her a noble intellectual sympathy for the age in which she lived as the grandest of the ages. It gave illumination to her moral and religious nature; unveiling before her that spiritual realm which to others is wrapped with impenetrable clouds; catching her up into the rapture of clear visions of such glories as Milton saw in his blindness; fitting her thereby to be the true religious teacher and comforter; giving her the power to incite other souls to yearnings like her own, to fill them with vague unrests and aspirations after a higher life, to bear them up into the shadowy realm of the Infinite and Eternal, to quicken them to a nobler faith in the one living and true God. Her sympathy with the weak and oppressed 60 M EMOR IAL. breaks out in many tender passages throughout her works. She could not look upon the Greek Slave in marble without saying: * * * Appeal, fair stone, From God's pure height of beauty against man's wronu. Catch up in thy divine fall not alone East griefs but west-and shake and shame the strong, By thunders of white silence overthrown! Her interest in the American anti-slavery movement was deep and earnest. She was a watcher of its progress, and afar off mingled her soul with its struggles. She corresponded with its leaders, and entered into the fellowship of their thoughts. Had her life been passed in this country, she would have been one of that small circle (round whom a larger is now widening until it shall compass the land) who gave an early but unheeded testimony against the great crime which the nation is now blotting out with blood. She would have stood with those whom God made worthy to stand as a few in the right against the many in the wrong. She had a kindred faith and courage with Mrs. Mott, Mrs. Child, Mrs. Chapman, and MEMORIAL. 61 Mrs. Stowe. Her songs would have been as full of America as now they are of Italy. But the nightingale's breast would have been set against a thorn. She could not have escaped the obloquy which fell upon other brave women. She would have earned the honorable slanders of a corrupt press; she would have received the cold criticisms of white-gloved ladies and gentlemen in fashionable drawing-rooms; she would have seen how proud lips could turn sour upon her in the streets; and had her windows of Casa Guidi looked out upon Boston Comnon, she would more than once have been startled with the spectacle of a man in chains and a mob following: all which she never felt and never saw in Italy. But though a stranger, she never was forgiven by strangers for writing a Curse for a Nation. Some condemned it without reading. Among these, strange to say, were some literary Englishmen who thought it meant England, and who recently made a clamor against it as if it had been recently written. True, its English references were in no flattering strain; but it was written for the Liberty Bell, a little 62 MEMORIAL. book of the Abolitionists of New-England, published in Boston as long ago as 1848. Every word in the poem, whether of England or America, stands yet Very salt, and bitter, and good. Let those who rebuked her for it, go rebuked themselves! Because ye have broken your own chain With the strain Of brave men climbing a Nation's height, Yet thence bear down with brand and thong On souls of others, —for this wrong This is the curse. Write. Because yourselves are standing straight In the state Of Freedom's foremost acolyte, Yet keep calm footing all the time On writhing bond-slaves,-for this crime This is the curse. Write. Because ye prosper in God's name, With a claim To honor in the old world's sight, Yet do the fiend's work perfectly In strangling martyrs,-for this lie This is the curse. Write. True poets are lovers of the poor; they MEMORIAL. 63 are knight-errants of the down-trodden. They catch their fire from the Apostle: " Who is offended, and I burn not?" Nor are they respecters of persons. They cannot narrow themselves to classes. They cross palms with the brotherhood of men. Mrs. Browning could not withhold her sympathy from the lowliest slave. When she saw that Freedom had a sacred cause in this land, although she never set her foot upon the soil, she never took her heart away from it. The hope of a day of ransom glowed in her soul with a constant enthusiasm. What she gave to this cause was much; what she gained from it was more. The love of a great cause makes a great soul greater. As a religious poet, Mrs. Browning is more devout than George Herbert, more fervid than Charles Wesley. The religious element was dominant in her mind. A full body of divinity, a whole system of theology, might be made out of her writings. She is the Sir Thomas Browne of women; or shall we say rather the Blaise Pascal? Her books are half prayerbooks. Hannah More's Private Devotions 64 MEMORIAL. are hot so devotional; Hervey's Meditations are not so meditative. Her favorite themes were always the heavenly glory; the angelic state; the soul after death. She saw visions and dreamed dreams. She had wrestlings with angels, like the sleeper on the pillow of stone. Yet her faith was neither dreamy nor visionary, neither transient nor moody; it was strong and vital, full of comfort and inspiration; such a faith as of itself can make a great character. She was truly led of the Heavenly Father. A light from heaven shone perpetually within her soul. She had the divine illumination. God's daily benediction was upon her. She held to the great creed, little believed, of simple love to God and man. She belonged to that Holy Catholic Church of which the Pope is not vicar. She communed unceasingly with the One Head of the One Church. " I know that my Redeemer liveth:" this was her text. It may be said almost that out of Christ's own hand she ate the bread and drank the water of life. This was one secret of the unexampled love which many strangers bore to her: for ME; MORI L. 65 no man or woman could draw so near to the world's heart without first drawing near to God's. A sacred familiarity with the Divine Mind is the best inspiration for literature. Many an author, dead and forgotten, might have been alive in the world's memory to-day, only for lack of that quickening into greatness which colies of God's breath upon the soul. The world's teachers must first be God's learners. Wisdom does not grow out of books when students lock themselves in shut closets. The cloister must open outward to the world and upward to the heavens. The great wisdom is God's divinity and man's humanity. Who knows this, knows most of all; after this, what remains to be learned is little. God first, man next; the rest are trifles. Dr. Johnson, in his sketch of Dryden, quotes some stray letters of the poet, "in order," as lie says, "that no scrap of Dryden be lost." In order that no scrap of Mrs. Browning be lost, the writer drops into this place a few further extracts from her latest letterb. 5 66 M M E OERIAL. Here on the table lie the unmistakable manuscripts. No other hand-writing is like hers it is strong, legible, singularly un-English (thai is, not a slanted or running hand), and more like a man's than a woman's; such a pen manship as Poe would have read a character from. In one of these letters she says-though we cannot agree to it: " When did Mazzini's fin"ger ever touch Italy without a blot showing "where?". Yet this is only a new expression of an old opinion-long ago rhymed and printed. Of Mr. Lincoln's Inaugural she said: "With' the exception of certain expressions (which did " strike me as a superfluity of the official form) I " admired and liked the Inaugural Address. It " seemed to me direct and resolute, simple and in" tense." The "superfluity" which she mentions was Mr. Lincoln's voluntary and unnecessary offer to return fugitive-slaves —an offer which, we think, he never will renew. In reply to a request to prepare a prose work for publication in this country, she said: " In regard to prose-writing, "me voice is spoiled f/or speaking, perhaps, bi MEMORIAL. 67 " siging." But her prose was magnificent, notwithstanding her distrust of it. She heaped up glowing sentences like fagots on afire. Her letters make Cowper's poor. Wendell Phillips calls them above praise. In a hurried note, whose hurry is evident in the handwriting, she drops the following incidental but brilliant wordsjust as if the jewels in her rings, jarred by her rapid fingers, had been suddenly unset and fallen out on the paper: "What affected me most," said she, alluding to a speech which she had read in an American paper, " was not the "eloquence.. no.. but the rare union of "largeness and tolerance with fidelity to special "truth. In our age, faith and charity are found, "but they are found apart. We tolerate every"body, because we doubt everything; or else "we tolerate nobody, because we believe some"thing." Such a sentiment Carlyle would not have allowed to run to waste in a private letter, but would have saved for printing. In a note of thanks to a friend who had sent to her from London some little English books of Henry Ward Beecher's writings, she said: "In 68 M IMEMORIAL. "opening the volumes I already fall upon fine "and thrilling things. They will help me to "live, I dare say-and perhaps they will help "me to suffer." Writing to a lady in Brooklyn, whose daughter had suddenly died, she gave expression to her own Christian faith for the hour of sorrow, and dropped a hint of her theological creed in the closing sentences: "I "receive your letter, read it, hold it in my "hands, with a sympathy deeply moved. No, "we had not heard of your loss.. Hearing "of such things makes us silent before God. "What must it be to experience them? I have "suffered myself very heavy afflictions, but the "affliction of the mother I have not suffered, " and I shut my eyes to the image of it. Only, "where Christ brings his cross he brings his "presence, and where He is, none are desolate, "and there is no room for despair. At the dark"est, you have felt a hand through the dark, "closer perhaps and tenderer than any touch "dreamt of at noon. As He knows his own, "so he knows how to comfort them-using "sometimes the very grief itself, and straining MEMORIAL. 69 "it to the sweetness of a faith unattainable "to those ignorant of any grief... Also, it "seems to me that a nearer insight into the C' spiritual world has been granted to this gener"ation, so that (by whatever process we have " got our conviction), we no longer deal with " vague abstractions, half closed, half shadowy, "in thinking of departed souls. There is now "something warm and still familiar in those be" oveds of ours, to whom we yearn out past "the grave-not cold and ghostly as they " seemed once-but human, sympathetic, with " well-known faces. They are not lost utterly " to us even on earth; a little farther off, and "that is all; farther off, too, in a very low "sense... Quite apart from all foolish' spir"itual' (so-called) literature, we find these im"pressions very generally diffused among the"ological thinkers of the most calmly rea"soning order. The unconscious influence of " Swedenborg is certainly to be taken into ac"count. Perhaps something else." Mrs. Browning has more readers than her husband, but both deserve more than either 70 MEMORIAL. has. One reason why the poems of Robert Browning fail to ingratiate themselves with many readers arises from a certain fastidious reserve of the author which lends itself to his style. His poems carry their meaning and sympathy shut within the lines, as a gentleman carries his thoughts and feelings hidden within his mind. This is partially true also of his wife's writings. Hence, while many who hear these poems read are caught at once with their fascination, many who set about reading them fail of the charm. It is better therefore that they should be read to a learner than that he should run the risk of not liking them by reading them to himself. In a winter evening sitting before the fire, or in a summer day lying under some apple-tree, let a patient listener receive these poems from the lips of some reader who, having taken them into his heart, can supply with his voice the sympathy which they have, but hide; and then, whoso hears will like the Brownings. In introducing a stranger to the poems of Robert Browning, take first the Flight of the MEMO It I L. 71 Duchess, afterward the Good News from Ghent, the Pied Piper, or the Italian in England; after which, no man will willingly forget Robert Browning. In beginning with Mrs. Browning, take the Lay of the Brown Rosary, the Duchess May, the Lost Bower, or for a shorter piece L. E. L.'s Last Question; and though many say at first, " she is hard to be understood," yet after a little mastery in the reading, the listener will not fail to catch the meaning, to enjoy the poem, and to love the writer. A special remark to be made of Mrs. Browning is: the proof which her genius gives of the possible equality of woman's mind with man's. This, of late years, has been a point of no small discussion. But after all what is any brain? Only a casket to hold awhile such of God's gifts as he chooses to lend; and in giving, as in withholding, he is no respecter of persons. In this woman's case, how stands the divine partiality? Does she not rank with men, and with the first of men? Before she died, there lived three great poets for England. Of the two 72 MEMORIAL. Brownings and Tennyson, we will not dispute who is greatest, nor seek to disturb the green leaf upon the head of the laureate. But had Robert Browning lived in England instead of Italy, it is far from unlikely that he might have taken for himself The laurel greener from the brows Of him who uttered nothing base. Nor is the suggestion of such a possible reversal of ranks invidious: for there cannot be small rivalry between great souls. Tennyson is faultless-almost, like Maud, "faultily faultless"while both the Brownings are full of faults. Robert Browning has not many poems which the reader would not wish to change here and there in word and rhythm. His wife dropped blots on every page: and every reader has said, "If only she had carried her pen a "little more carefully here!" But notwithstanding the blemishes, the obscurities, the infelicities, the provoking hide-and-go-seek meanings, the fact still stands that no finer English poetry has been written since Shakespeare and MEMO R I A L 73 Milton than is bound into books under the gilt labels of the Brownings. No one can predict how much of present fame will escape eclipse in the future, or what unknown claimants, better titled than the rest. may'rise out of darkness into perpetual light. But it is safe to say that if the age which follows ours be not far more rude than these rough times, it will pass judgment that the writings of Elizabeth Barrett Browning be not " willingly let die." There will be a rare and special help to this fame: another like it is married to it. Never again in the history of literature may there be another instance of two poets, the chiefest c their time, standing, like these, with clasped hands and wedded hearts. Many a husband is known to the world, whose wife's name has scarcely crept from the threshold of her chamber; or a wife (like Mrs. Norton) wins a more than national reputation, while an ungenerous husband sits enviously in the shadow of it. But with the Brownings, fame's common divorce of husband and wife failed of an example. Their ,t4 1I E M MEMORIAL. son-a pet boy of twelve years-will by-andby, if he live to manhood, point back to the most illustrious lineage in literature. The mother was as proud of her son as the son will be of his mother. It is a pleasant story told of the street-beggars who walk through Via Maggio under the windows of Casa Guidi that they always spoke of the English woman who lived in that house, not by her well known English name, nor by any softer Italian word, but simply and touchingly as " the mother of the beautiful child." This was pleasanter to that woman's ears than to hear the nations praising her far off. Indeed, her greatest greatness was in being the Christian wife and Christian mother. First out of Sorrow and then out of Love-those two unfathomable wells!-this woman drew the fullness and richness of her life. This fullness and richness, rising above her own heart's containing, overflowed in song, and so entered into the great heart of the world. But our fondest thought of her is not of her unequalled ge MEMORIAL. 75 nius but her unequalled life. For after all, compared with this, what is all else? This makes the sweetest fragrance of her fame. For the sake of this, that summer month that fell upon her grave will never leave it, but will evermore add summer greenness to her memory, until it be perennial. So as she said of Mrs. Heinans: Albeit softly in our ears her silver song was ringing, The footfall of her parting soul was softer than lier singing I THEODORE TILTON. 27 Oxford street, Brooklyn. LAST POEMS. LAST POEMS. LITTLE MATTIE. i. DEAD! Thirteen a month ago! Short and narrow her life's walk; Lover's love she could not know Even by a dream or talk: Too young to be glad of youth, Missing honor, labor, rest, And the warmth of a babe's mouth At the blossom of her breast. Must you pity her for this And for all the loss it is, You, her mother, with wet face, Having had all in your case? 80 LAST POEMS. II. Just so young but yesternight, Now she is as old as death. Meek, obedient in your sight, Gentle to a beck or breath Only on last Monday! Yours, Answering you like silver bells Lightly touched! An hour matures: You can teach her nothing else. She has seen the mystery hid Under Egypt's pyramid: By those eyelids pale and close Now she knows what Rhamses knows. ilI. Cross her quiet hands, and smooth Down her patient locks of silk, Cold and passive as in truth You your fingers in spilt milk Drew along a marble floor; But her lips you cannot wring Into saying a word more,' Yes,' or'No,' or such a thing: Though you call and beg and wreak Half your soul out in a shriek, LITTLE MATTIE. 81 She will lie there in default And most innocent revolt. IV. Ay, and if she spoke, may be She would answer like the Son,'What is now'twixt thee and me?' Dreadful answer! better none. Yours on Monday, God's to-day! Yours, your child, your blood, your heart, Called.. you called her, did you say,'Littie Mattie' for your part? Now already it sounds strange, And you wonder, in this change, What lie calls tIis angel-creature, Higher up than you can reach her.'Twas a green and easy world As she took it; room to play, (Though one's hair might get uncurled At the far end of the day). What she suffered she shook off In the sunshine; what she sinned She could pray on high enough To keep safe above the wind. 6l 82 LAST POEMS. If reproved by God or you,'Twas to better her, she knew; And if crossed, she gathered still'Twas to cross out something ill. VI. You, you had the right, you thought To survey her with sweet scorn, Poor gay child, who had not caught Yet the octave-stretch forlorn Of your larger wisdom! Nay, Now your places are changed so, In that same superior way She regards you dull and low As you did herself exempt From life's sorrows. Grand contempt Of the spirits risen awhile, Who look back with such a smile! viI. There's the sting of't. That, I think, Hurts the most a thousandfold! To feel sudden, at a wink, Some dear child we used to scold, Praise, love both ways, kiss and teans, Teach and tumble as our own. LITTLE MATTIE. 88 All its curls about our knees, Rise up suddenly full-grown. Who could wonder such a sight Made a woman mad outright? Show me Michael with the sword Rather than such angels, Lord 84 LAST POEMS. A FALSE STEP. I. SWEET, thou hast trod on a heart. Pass! there's a world full of men; And women as fair as thou art Must do such things now and then. II. Thou only hast stepped unaware,Malice, not one can impute; And why should a heart have been there In the way of a fair woman's foot? III. It was not a stone that could trip, Nor was it a thorn that could rend: Put up thy proud underlip I'Twas merely the heart of a friend. A FALSE STEP. 85 IV. And yet peradventure one day Thou, sitting alone at the glass, Remarking the bloom gone away, Where the smile in its dimplement was, v. And seeking around thee in vain From hundreds who flattered before, Such a word as,' Oh, not in the main Do I hold thee less precious, but more!'. VI. Thou'lt sigh, very like, on thy part,'Of all I have known or can know, I wish I had only that Heart I trod upon ages ago!' 86 LAST POEM8. VOID IN LAW. I. SLEEP, little babe, on my knee, Sleep, for the midnight is chill, And the moon has died out in the tree, And the great human world goeth ill. Sleep, for the wicked agree: Sleep, let them do as they will. Sleep. II. Sleep, thou hast drawn from my breast The last drop of milk that was good; And now, in a dream, suck the rest, Lest the real should trouble thy blood. Suck, little lips dispossessed, As we kiss in the air whom we would. Sleep. VOID IN LAW. 87 III. 0 lips of thy father! the same, So like! Very deeply they swore When he gave me his ring and his name, To take back, I imagined, no more! And now is all changed like a game, Though the old cards are used as of yore? Sleep. IV.'Void in law,' said the Courts. Something wrong In the forms? Yet,'Till death part us two, I, James, take thee, Jessie,' was strong, And ONE witness competent. True Such a marriage was worth an old song, Heard in Heaven though, as plain as the New. Sleep. V. Sleep, little child, his and mine! Her throat has the antelope curve, And her cheek just the color and line Which fade not before him nor swerve: Yet she has no child!-the divine Seal of right upon loves that deserve. Sleep. 88 LAST POEMS. V!. My chii! though the world take her part, Saying,'She was the woman to choose, He had eyes, was a man in his heart,'We twain the decision refuse: We.. weak as I am. as thou art,.. Cling on to him, never to loose. Sleep. VTT. He thinks that, when done with this place. All's ended? he'll new-stamp the ore? Yes, Cmsar's —but not in our case. Let him learn we are waiting before The grave's mouth, the heaven's gate, God's face, With implacable love evermore. Sleep. VIII. He's ours, though he kissed her but now; He's ours, though she kissed in reply; IIe's ours, though himself disavow, And God's universe favor the lie; Ours to claim, ours to clasp, ours below, Ours above,.. if we live, if we die. Sleep. VOID IN LAW. 89 IX. Ah baby, my baby, too rough Is my lullaby? What have I said? Sleep! When I've wept long enough I shall learn to weep softly instead, And piece with some alien stuff My heart to lie smooth for thy head. Sleep. X. Two souls met upon thee, my sweet; Two loves led thee out to the sun: Alas, pretty hands, pretty feet, If the one who remains (only one) Set her grief at thee, turned in a heat To thine enemy,-were it well done? Sleep. XI. May He of the manger stand near And love thee! An infant He came To His own who rejected Him here, But the Magi brought gifts all the same. I hurry the cross on my Dear! My gifts are the griefs I declaim! Sleep. 90 LAST POEMS LORD WALTER'S WIFE. I.'BUT why do you go?' said the lady, while both sate under the yew, And her eyes were alive in their depth, as the kraken beneath the sea-blue. II.'Because I fear you,' he answered; -' because you are far too fair, And able to strangle my soul in a mesh of your gold colored hair.' III.'Oh, that,' she said,'is no reason! Such knots are quickly undone, And too much beauty, I reckon, is nothing but too much sun.' LORD WALTER 8 WIFE. 91 IV. Yet farewell so,' he answered;-' the sun-stroke's fatal at times. I value your husband, Lord Walter, whose gallop rings still from the limes.' v.'Oh, that,' she said,'is no reason. You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter? who grumbles, and where's the pretence?' vi.'But I,' he replied,'have promised another, when love was free, To love her alone, alone, who alone and afar loves me.' VII.'Why, that,' she said,'is no reason. Love's always free, I am told. Will you vow to be safe from the headache on Tuesday, and think it will hold?' 92 LAST POEMS. vnI.'But you,' he replied,'have a daughter, a young little child, who was laid In your lap to be pure; so I leave you: the angels would make me afraid.' IX.'Oh, that,' she said,'is no reason. The angels keep out of the way; And Dora, the child, observes nothing, although you should please me and stay. x. At which he rose up in his anger,-' Why, now, you no longer are fair! Why, now, you no longer are fatal, but ugly and hateful, I swear.' XI. At which she laughed out in her scorn.-' These men! Oh, these men overnice, Who are shocked if a color not virtuous, is frankly put on by a vice.' LORD WALTER' WIFE. 93 XII. Her eyes blazed upon him-' And you! You bring us your vices so near That we smell them! You think in our presence a thought'twould defame us to hear I XIII.'What reason had you, and what right,-I appeal to your soul from my life,To find me too fair as a woman? Why, sir, I am pure, and a wife. XIV.'Is the day-star too fair up above you? It burns you not. Dare you imply I brushed you more close than the star does, when Walter had set me as high? Xv.'If a man finds a woman too fair, he means simply adapted too much To uses unlawful and fatal. The praise!-shall I thank you for such? 94 LAST POEM S. XVI.'Too fair?-not unless you misuse us! and surely if, once in a while, You attain to it, straightway you call us no longer too fair, but too vile. XVII.'A moment, —I pray your attention!-I have a poor word in my head I must utter, though womanly custom would set it down better unsaid. XVIII.'You grew, sir, pale to impertinence, once when I showed you a ring. You kissed my fan when I dropped it. No matter! -I've broken the thing. XIX.'You did me the honor, perhaps, to be moved at my side now and then In the senses-a vice, I have heard, which is common to beasts and some men. LORD WALTER'S WIFE. 95 XX.'Love's a virtue for heroes!-as white as the snow on high hills, And immortal as every great soul is that struggles, endures, and fulfils. XXI.' I love my Walter profoundly,-you, Maude, thougl you faltered a week, For the sake of.. what was it? an eyebrow? or, less still, a mole on a cheek? XXII.'And since, when all's said, you're too noble to stoop to the frivolous cant About crimes irresistible, virtues that swindle, betray and supplant, XXIII.'I determined to prove to yourself that, whate'er you might dream or avow By illusion, you wanted precisely no more of me than you have now. 96 LAST POBMS. XXIV.'There! Look me full in the face!-in the face. Understand, if you can, That the eyes of such women as I am, are clean as the palm of a man. XXV.'Drop his hand, you insult him. Avoid us for fear we should cost you a scarYou take us for harlots, I tell you, and not for the women we are. XXVI.'You wronged me: but then I considered... there's Walter! And so at the end, I vowed that he should not be mulcted, by me, in the hand of a friend. XXVII.'Have I hurt you indeed? We are quits then. Nay, friend of my Walter, be mine! Come Dora, my darling, my angel, and help me to ask him to dine.' BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 97 BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. I. THE cypress stood up like a church That night we felt our love would hold, And saintly moonlight seemed to search And wash the whole world clean as gold; The olives crystallized the vales' Broad slopes until the hills grew strong: The fireflies and the nightingales Throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales. II. Upon the angle of its shade The cypress stood, self-balanced high; Half up, half down, as double-made, Along the ground, against the sky. And we, too! fron such soul-height went Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven, 7 LAST POEMS. We scarce knew if our nature meant Most passionate earth or intense heaven. The nightingales, the nightingales. III. We paled with love, we shook with love, We kissed so close we could not vow; Till Giulio whispered,'Sweet, above God's Ever guaranties this Now.' And through his words the nightingales Drove straight and full their long clear call, Like arrows through heroic mails, And love was awful in it all. The nightingales, the nightingales iV. O cold white moonlight of the north, Refresh these pulses, quench this hell! O coverture of death drawn forth Across this garden-chamber.. well! But what have nightingales to do In gloomy England, called the free.. (Yes, free to die in!..) when we two Are sundered, singing still to me? And still they sing, the nightingales. BIANOA AM ONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 99 V. I think I hear him, how he cried' My own soul's life' between their notes. Each man has but one soul supplied, And that's immortal. Though his throat's On fire with passion now, to her He can't say what to me he said! And yet he moves her, they aver. The nightingales sing through my head, The nightingales, the nightingales. vI. He says to her what moves her most. He would not name his soul within Her hearing,- rather pays her cost With praises to her lips and chin. Man has but one soul,'tis ordained, And each soul but one love, I add; Yet souls are damned and love's profaned. These nightingales will sing me mad I The nightingales, the nightingales. VII. I marvel how the birds can sing. There's little difference, in their view, 100 LAST POEMS. Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring As vital flames into the blue, And dull round blots of foliage meant Like saturated sponges here To suck the fogs up. As content Is he too in this land,'tis clear. And still they sing, the nightingales. VIUI. My native Florence! dear, foregone I I see across the Alpine ridge How the last feast-day of Saint John Shot rockets from Carraia bridge. The luminous city, tall with fire, Trod deep down in that river of ours, While many a boat with lamp and choir Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers. I will not hear these nightingales. Ix. I seem to float, we seem to float Down Arno's stream in festive guise; A boat strikes flame into our boat, And up that lady seems to rise As then she rose. The shock had flashed A vision on us I What a head, BIANOA AMONG THE NIGHTIINGALES. 101 What leaping eyeballs!-beauty dashed To splendor by a sudden dread. And still they sing, the nightingales. x. Too bold to sin, too weak to die; Such women are so. As for me, I would we had drowned there, he and I, That moment, loving perfectly. He had not caught her with her loosed Gold ringlets.. rarer in the south.. Nor heard the' Grazie tanto' bruised To sweetness by her English mouth. And still they sing, the nightingales. XI. She had not reached him at my heart With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed Kill flies; nor had I, for my part, Yearned after, in my desperate need, And followed him as he did her To coasts left bitter by the tide, Whose very nightingales, elsewhere Delighting, torture and deride! For still they sing, the nightingales. 102 LAST POEM8. XII. A worthless woman! mere cold clay As all false things are! but so fair, She takes the breath of men away Who gaze upon her unaware. I would not play her larcenous tricks To have her looks! She lied and stole, And spat into my love's pure pyx The rank saliva of her soul. And still they sing, the nightingales. XIII. I would not for her white and pink, Though such he likes-her grace of limb, Though such he has praised-nor yet, I think, For life itself, though spent with him, Commit such sacrilege, affront God's nature which is love, intrude'Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt Like spiders, in the altar's wood. I cannot bear these nightingales. XIV. If she chose sin, some gentler guise She might have sinned in, so it seems: BIANCA AMONG THE NIGHTINGALES. 103 She might have pricked out both my eyes, And I still seen him in my dreams! -Or drugged me in my soup or wine, Nor left me angry afterward: To die here with his hand in mine His breath upon me, were not hard. (Our Lady hush these nightingales!) Xv. But set a springe for him,'mio ben,' My only good, my first last love! Though Christ knows well what sin is, when He sees some things done they must move Himself to wonder. Let her pass. I think of her by night and day. Must Itoo join her..out, alas I With Giulio, in each word I say? And evermore the nightingales! xvi. Giulio, my Giulio!-sing they so, And you be silent? Do I speak, And you not hear? An arm you throw Round some one, and I feel so weak? 104 LAST POEMS. -Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite, They sing for hate, they sing for doom! They'll sing through death who sing through night, They'll sing and stun me in the tombThe nightingales, the nightingales! MY KATE. 105 MY KATE. I. SHE was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she's still remembered on warm and cold daysMy Kate. II. Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace; You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face: And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truthMy Kate. III. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke: 106 LAST POEMS. When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her aloneMy Kate. iv. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer'Twas her thinking of others, made you think of herMy Kate. V. She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gownMy Kate. VT. None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall; They knelt more to God than they used,-that was all: If you praised her as charming, some,asked what you meant, But the charm of her presence was felt when she wentMv Kate. MY KATE. 107 VII. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good; It always was so with her-see what you have! She has made the grass greener even here.. with her graveMy Kate. VIII. My dear one! —when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best: And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet HeartMy Kate? 108 LAST POEMS. A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS OF LONDON WRITTEN IN ROME. I. 1 AM listening here in Rome.'England's strong,' say many speakers,'If she winks, the Czar must come, Prow and topsail, to the breakers.' II.'England's rich in coal and oak,' Adds a Roman, getting moody,'If she shakes a traveling cloak, Down our Appian roll the scudi.' III.'England's righteous,' they rejoin,'Who shall grudge her exaltations, When her wealth of golden coin Works the welfare of the nations?' SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS. 109 IV. I am listening here in Rome. Over Alps a voice is sweeping-'England's cruel! save us some Of these victims in her keeping!' v. As the cry beneath the wheel Of an old triumphal Roman Cleft the people's shouts like steel, While the show was spoilt for no man, VI. Comes that voice. Let others shout, Other poets praise my land here: I am sadly sitting out, Praying,'God forgive her grandeur.' VII. Shall we boast of empire, where Time with ruin sits commissioned? In God's liberal blue air Peter's dome itself looks wizened: vIII. And the mountains, in disdain, Gather back their lights of opal 110 LAST POEMS. From the dumb, despondent plain, Heaped with jawbones of a people. IX. Lordly English, think it o'er, Caesar's doing is all undone! You have cannons on your shore, And free parliaments in London, x. Princes' parks, and merchants' homes, Tents for soldiers, ships for seamen,Ay, but ruins worse than Rome's In your pauper men and women. XI. Women leering through the gas, (Just such bosoms used to nurse you) Men, turned wolves by famine-pass! Those can speak themselves, and curse you. XII. But these others-children small, Spilt like blots about the city, Quay, and street, and palace-wallTake them up into your pity! SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS. 111 XIII. Ragged children with bare feet, Whom the angels in white raiment Know the names of, to repeat When they come on you for payment. XIV. Ragged children, hungry-eyed, Huddled up out of the coldness On your doorsteps, side by side, Till your footman damns their boldness. XV. In the alleys, in the squares, Begging, lying little rebels; In the noisy thoroughfares, Struggling on with piteous trebles. XVI. Patient children-think what pain Makes a young child patient-ponder! Wronged too commonly to strain After right, or wish, or wonder. XVII. Wicked children, with peaked chins, And old foreheads there are many 112 LAST POEMS. With no pleasures except sins, Gambling with a stolen penny. XVIII. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, From mere habit,-never so Hoping help or care from others. XIX. Ht althy children, with those blue English eyes, fresh from their Maker, Fierce and ravenous, staring through At the brown loaves of the baker. XX. I am listening here in Rome, And the Romans are confessing,'English children pass in bloom All the prettiest made for blessing.' XXI.'Angli angeli!' (resumed From the mediaeval story)'Such rose angelhoods, empluned In such ringlets of pure glory!' SONG FOR THE RAG GED SCHOOLS. 113 XXII. Can we smooth down the bright hair, 0 my sisters, calm, unthrilled in Our heart's pulses? Can we bear The sweet looks of our own children, XXIII. While those others, lean and small, Scurf and mildew of the city, Spot our streets, convict us all Till we take them into pity? XXIV.'Is it our fault?' you reply,'When, throughout civilization, Every nation's empery Is asserted by starvation? XXv.'All these mouths we cannot feed, And we cannot clothe these bodies.' Well, if man's so hard indeed, Let them learn at least what God is! XXVI. Little outcasts from life's fold, The grave's hope they may be joined ir 8 114 LAST POEMS. By Christ's covenant consoled For our social contract's grinding. XXVII. If no better can be done, Let us do but this,-endeavor That the sun behind the sun Shine upon them while they shiver! XXVIII. On the dismal London flags, Through the cruel social juggle, Put a thought beneath their rags To ennoble the heart's struggle. XXIX. O my sisters, not so much Are we asked for-not a blossom From our children's nosegay, such As we gave it from our bosom,XXX. Not the milk left in their cup, Not the lamp while they are sleeping, Not the little cloak hung up While the coat's in daily keeping, BONG FOR THE RAGGED SOHOOLS. 115 XXXI. But a place in RAGGED SCHOOLS, Where the outcasts may to-morrow Learn by gentle words and rules Just the uses of their sorrow. XXXII. 0 my sisters! children small, Blue-eyed, wailing through the cityOur own babes cry in them all: Let us take them into pity. 116 LAST POEMS. MAY'S LOVE. 1. You love all, you say, Round, beneath, above me: Find me then some way Better than to love me, Me, too, dearest May I II. O world-kissing eyes Which the blue heavens melt to I, sad, overwise, Loathe the sweet looks dealt to All things-men and flies. III. You love all, you say: Therefore, Dear, abate me Just your love, I pray! Shut your eyes and hate meOnly me-fair lMay! AMY'S ORUELTY. 117 AMY'S CRUELTY. I. FAIR Amy of the terraced house, Assist me to discover Why you who would not hurt a mouse Can torture so your lover. II. You give your coffee to the cat, You stroke the dog for coming, And all your face grows kinder at The little brown bee's humming. III. But when he haunts your door.. the town Marks coming and marks going.. You seem to have stitched your eyelids down To that long piece of sewing! 118 LAST POEMS. IV. You never give a look, not you, Nor drop him a' Good-morning,' To keep his long day warm and blue, So fretted by your scorning. v. She shook her head-' The mouse and bee For crumb or flower will linger: The dog is happy at my knee, The cat purrs at my finger. VI.'But he... to him, the least thing given Means great things at a distance; He wants my world. my sun, my heaven, Soul, body, whole existence. VII.'They say love gives as well as takes; But I'm a simple maiden,My mother's first smile when she wakes I still have smiled and prayed in. AM Y'S CRUELTY. 119 VIII.'I only know my mother's love Which gives all and asks nothing; And this new loving sets the groove Too much the way of loathing. IX.' Unless he gives me all in change, I forfeit all things by him: The risk is terrible and strangeI tremble, doubt,.. deny him. x.'He's sweetest friend, or hardest foe, Best angel, or worst devil; I either hate or.. love him so, I can't be merely civil! XI.'You trust a woman who puts forth, Her blossoms thick as summer's? You think she dreams what love is worth, Who casts it to new-comers? 120 LAST POEMS. XII.'Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment's pretty pastime; I give.. all me, if anything, The first time and the last time. XIII.'Dear neighbor of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog and mouse, Till doted on for ever!' MY HEART AND I. 121 MY HEART AND I. I. ENOUOIG! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I. II. You see we're tired, my heart and I. We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colors could not fly. We walked too straight for fortune's end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we're tired, my heart and I. 122 LAST POEMS. III. How tired we feel, my heart and I! We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men's eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I? IV. So tired, so tired, my heart and I! It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me'neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.'Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head:'Tis now we're tired, my heart and T. v. So tired, so tired, my heart and 1 Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I. MY tIEART AND I. 123 VI. Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. VII. Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by I And if before the days grew rough We once were loved, used,-well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I. 124 LAST POEMS. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD WHAT'S the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-cew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, so, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? -Something out of it, I think. WHERE' 8 AGNES? 125 WHERE'S AGNES? I. NAY, if I had come back so, And found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know Had said,' Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below: II.'I saw her, I who speak, White, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek Before they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week.' 126 LAST POEMS. III. Why, if he had spoken so, I might have believed the thing, Although her look, although Her step, laugh, voice's ring Lived in me still as they do. IV. But dead that other way, Corrupted thus and lost? That sort of worm in the clay? I cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay. V. My Agnes false? such shame? She? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name Has stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame. VI. Her very gown, her cloak Fell chastely: no disguise, WHERE S AGNES? 12 But expression! while she broke With her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke. viI. She wore her hair away From her forehead,-like a cloud Which a little wind in May Peels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay. VIII. For the heavens must have the place To themselves, to use and shine il, As her soul would have her face To press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace. Ix. Had she any fault at all,'Twas having none, I thought tooThere seemed a sort of thrall; As she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall. 128 LAST POEMS. X. Her sweetness strained the sense Of common life and duty; And every day's expense Of moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence. XI. What good, I thought, is done By such sweet things, if any? This world smells ill i' the sun Though the garden-flowers are many,She is only one. XII. Can a voice so low and soft Take open actual part With Right,-maintain aloft Pure truth in life or art, Vexed always, wounded oft?XIiI. She fit, with that fair pose Which melts from curve to curve, W H E ES AGNES? 129 To stand, run, work with those Who wrestle and deserve, And speak plain without glose? XIV. But I turned round on my fear Defiant, disagreeingWhat if God has set her here Less for action than for Being? For the eye and for the ear. Xv. Just to show what beauty may, Just to prove what music can,And then to die away From the presence of a man, Who shall learn, henceforth, to pray? xvI. As a door, left half ajar In heaven, would make him think How heavenly-different are Things glanced at through the chink, Till he pined from near to far. 9 180 LAST POEMS-. XVII. That door could lead to hell? That shining merely meant Damnation? What! She fell Like a woman, who was sent Like an angel, by a spell? XVIII. She, who scarcely trod the earth, Turned mere dirt? My Agnes,-mine! Called so! felt of too much worth To be used so! too divine To be breathed near, and so forth! XIX. Why, I dared not name a sin In her presence: I went round, Clipped its name and shut it in Some mysterious crystal sound,Changed the dagger for the pin. XX. Now you name herself that word 0 mv Agnes! 0 my saint! WHERE'S AGNES? 131 Then the great joys of the Lord Do not last? Then all this paint Runs off nature? leaves a board? XXI. Who's dead here? No, not she: Rather I! or whence this damp Cold corruption's misery? While my very mourners stamp Closer in the clods on me. XXII. And my mouth is full of dust Till I cannot speak and curseSpeak and damn him..' Blame's unjust'? Sin blots out the universe, All because she would and must? XXIII. She, my white rose, dropping off The high rose-tree branch! and not That the night-wind blew too rough, Or the noon-sun burnt too hot, But, that being a rose-'twas euough! 132 LAST POEMS, XXIV. Then henceforth, may earth grow trees! No more roses!-hard straight lines To score lies out I none of these Fluctuant curves I but firs and pines, Poplars, cedars, cypresses! DE PROFUNDIS. 133 DE PROFUNDIS. I. THE face which, duly as the sun, Rose up for me with life begun, To mark all bright hours of the day With hourly love, is dimmed away,And yet my days go on, go on. II. The tongue which, like a stream, could run Smooth music from the roughest stone, And every morning with'Good day' Make each day good, is hushed away,And yet my days go on, go on. 184 LAST POEMS. III. The heart which, like a staff, was one For mine to lean and rest upon, The strongest on the longest day With steadfast love, is caught away,And yet my days go on, go on. IV. And cold before my summer's done, And deaf in Nature's general tune, And fallen too low for special fear, And here, with hope no longer here,While the tears drop, my days go on. V. The world goes whispering to its own,'This anguish pierces to the bone;' And tender friends go sighing round,' What love can ever cure this wound?' My days go on, my days go on. VI. The past rolls forward on the sun And makes all night. O dreams begun, DE PBOFUNDIS. 135 Not to be ended! Ended bliss, And life that will not end in this! My days go on, my days go on. VII. Breath freezes on my lips to moan: As one alone, once not alone, I sit and knock at Nature's door, Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, Whose desolated days go on. VIII. I knock and cry,-Undone, updone! Is there no help, no comfort,-none? No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains Where others drive their loaded wains? My vacant days go on, go on. iX. This Nature, though the snows be down, Thinks kindly of the bird of June: The little red hip on the tree Is ripe for such. What is for me, Whose days so winterly go on? 136 LAST POEMS. X. No bird am I, to sing in June, And dare not ask an equal boon. Good nests and berries red are Nature's To give away to better creatures,And yet my days go on, go on. XI. I ask less kindness to be done,Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon, (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, Till days go out which now go on. XII. Only to lift the turf unmown From off the earth where it has grown, Some cubit-space, and say,'Behold, Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, Forgetting how the days go on.' XIII. What harm would that do? Green anon The sward would quicken, overshone DE PROFUNDIS. 137 By skies as blue; and crickets might Have leave to chirp there day and night While my new rest went on, went on. XIV. From gracious Nature have I won Such liberal bounty? may I run So, lizard-like, within her side, And there be safe, who now am tried By days that painfully go on? xv. -A Voice reproves me thereupon, More sweet than Nature's when the drone Of bees is sweetest, and more deep Than when the rivers overleap The shuddering pines, and thunder on. XVI. God's Voice, not Nature's Night and noon He sits upon the great white throne And listens for the creatures' praise. What babble we of days and days? The Day-spring He, whose days go on. 138 LAST POEMS. XVII. He reigns above, He reigns alone; Systems burn out and leave His throne: Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall Around Him, changeless amid all,Ancient of Days, whose days go on. XVIII. He reigns below, He reigns alone, And, having life in love foregone Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns Or rules with Him, while days go on? XIX. By anguish which made pale the sun, I hear Him charge His saints that none Among His creatures anywhere Blaspheme against Him with despair, However darkly days go on. XX. Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown! No mortal grief deserves that crown. DE PROFUNDIS. 139 O supreme Love, chief Misery, The sharp regalia are for THEE Whose days eternally go on I xx.. For us, —whatever's undergone, Thou knowest, wiliest what is done. Grief may be joy misunderstood; Only the Good discerns the good. I trust Thee while my days go on. XXII. Whatever's lost, it first was won: We will not struggle nor impugn. Perhaps the cup was broken here, That Ieaven's new wine might show more clear. I praise Thee while my days go on. XXIII. I praise Thee while my days go on; I love Thee while my days go on: fhrough dark and dearth, through fire and frost, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank Thee while my days go on. 140 LAST POEMS. XXIV. And having in Thy life-depth thrown Being and suffering (which are one), As a child drops his pebble small Down some deep well, and hears it fall Smiling-so I. THY DAYS GO ON. A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 141 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. I. WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river. II. He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. 142 LAST POEMS. III. High on the shore sate the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. IV. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river!) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river. v.'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan. (Laughed while he sate by the river,)'The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.' Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 143 VI. Sweet, sweet, sweet, 0 Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. VII. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river. 144 LAST POEMS. FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANOA. I. PEACE, peace, peace, do you say? What! —with the enemy's guns in our ears? With the country's wrong not rendered back? What!-while Austria stands at bay In Mantua, and our Venice bears The cursed flag of the yellow and black? II. Peace, peace, peace, do you say? And this the Mincio? Where's the fleet, And where's the sea? Are we all blind Or mad with the blood shed yesterday, Ignoring Italy under our feet, And seeing things before, behind? FIRST NEWS FROM VILLAFRANOA. 145 III. Peace, peace, peace, do you say? What!-uncontested, undenied? Because we triumph, we succumb? A pair of Emperors stand in the way, (One of whom is a man, beside) To sign and seal our cannons dumb? IV. No, not Napoleon!-he who mused At Paris, and at Milan spake, And at Solferino led the fight: Not he we trusted, honored, used Our hopes and hearts for..till they breakEven so, you tell us..in his sight. v. Peace, peace, is still your word? We say you lie then!-that is plain. There is no peace, and shall be none. Our very Dead would cry' Absurd!' And clamor that they died in vain, And whine to come back to the sun. 10 146 LAST POEMS. VI. Bfush! more reverence for the Dead! They've done the most for Italy Evermore since the earth was fair. Now would that we had died instead, Still dreaming peace meant liberty, And did not, could not mean despair. ViI. Peace, you say?-yes, peace, in truth! But such a peace as the ear can achieve'Twixt the rifle's click and the rush of the ball,'Twixt the tiger's spring and the crunch of the tooth,'Twixt the dying atheist's negative And God's Face-waiting, after all! VICTOR EMANUEL IN FLORENCE. 147 KING VICTOR EMANUEL ENTERING FLORENCE, APRIL, 1860. I. KING of us all, we cried to thee, cried to thee, Trampled to earth by the beasts impure, Dragged by the chariots which shame as they roll: The dust of our torment far and wide to thee Went up, dark'ning thy royal soul. Be witness, Cavour, That the King was sad for the people in thrall, This King of us all! II. King, we cried to thee! Strong in replying, Thy word and thy sword sprang rapid and sure, Cleaving our way to a nation's place. Oh, first soldier of Italy!-crying Now grateful, exultant, we look in thy face. Be witness, Cavour, 148 LAST POE MS. That, freedom's first soldier, the freed should call First King of them all! III. This is our beautiful Italy's birthday; High-thoughted souls, whether many or fewer, Bring her the gift, and wish her the good, While Heaven presents on this sunny earth-day The noble King to the land renewed: Be witness, Cavour! Roar, cannon-mouths! Proclaim, install The King of us all! Iv. Grave he rides through the Florence gateway, Clenching his face into calm, to immure His struggling heart till it half disappears; If he relaxed for a moment, straightway He would break out into passionate tears(Be witness, Cavour!) While rings the cry without interval,'Live, King of us all!' v. Cry, free peoples! Honor the nation By crowning the true man-and none is truer: VICTOR E MN UEI, IN FLORENCE. 149 Pisa is here, and Livorno is here, And thousands of faces, in wild exultation, Burn over the windows to feel him near(Be witness, Cavour!) Burn over from terrace, roof, window and wall, On this King of us all. VI. Grave! A good man's ever the graver For bearing a nation's trust secure; And he, he thinks of the Heart, beside, Which broke for Italy, failing to save her, And pining away by Oporto's tide: Be witness, Cavour, That he thinks of his vow on that royal pall, This King of us all. VII. Flowers, flowers, from the flowery city! Such innocent thanks for a deed so pure, As, melting away for joy into flowers, The nation invites him to enter his Pitti And evermore reign in this Florence of ours. Be witness, Cavour! He'll stand where the reptiles were used to crawl, This King of us all. 150 LAST POEM S. VIII. Grave, as the manner of noble men isDeeds unfinished will weigh on the doer: And, baring his head to those craps-veiled flags, He bows to the grief of the South and Venice. Oh, riddle the last of the yellow to rags, And swear by Cavour That the King shall reign where the tyrants fall, True King of us all! THE SWORD OF CASTRAOANI. 151 THE SWORD OF CASTRUCCIO CASTRACANI.'Questa e per me.' —KING VICTOR EMANUEL 1. WHEN Victor Emanuel the King, Went down to his Lucca that day, The people, each vaunting the thing As he gave it, gave all things away,In a burst of fierce gratitude, say, As they tore out their hearts for the King. II. -Gave the green forrest-walk on the wall, With the Apennine blue through the trees; Gave the palaces, churches, and all The great pictures which burn out of these: But the eyes of the King seemed to freeze As he glanced upon ceiling and wall. 152 LAST P OEM S. III.'Good,' said the King as he passed. Was he cold to the arts?-or else coy To possession? or crossed, at the last, (Whispered some) by the vote in Savoy? Shout! Love him enough for his joy!'Good,' said the King as he passed. iv. He, traveling the whole day through flowers And protesting amenities, found At Pistoia, betwixt the two showers Of red roses, the'Orphans,' (renowned As the heirs of Puccini) who wound With a sword through the crowd and the flowers.'Tis the sword of Castruccio, 0 King,In that strife of intestinal hate, VerS famous! Accept what we bring, We who cannot be sons, by our fate, Rendered citizens by thee of late, And endowed with a country and king. vir. Read! Puccini has willed that this sword (Which once made in an ignorant feud THE SWO1D OF CASTRACANI. 153 Many orphans) remain in our ward Till some patriot its pure civic blood Wipe away in the foe's and make good, In delivering the land by the sword.' VII. Then the King exclaimed,'This is for me!' And he dashed out his hand on the hilt, While his blue eye shot fire openly, And his heart overboiled till it spilt A hot prayer,-' God! the rest as Thou wilt! But grant me tlis! —This is for me.' VIII. O Victor Emanuel, the King, The sword be for thee, and the deed, And nought for the alien, next spring, Nought for Hapsburg and Bourbon agreedBut, for us, a great Italy freed, With a hero to head us,-our King! 154 LAST POEMS. SUMMING UP IN ITALY. (INSCRIBED TO INTELLIGENT PUBLICS OUT OF IT.) I. OBSERVE how it will be at last, When our Italy stands at full stature, A year ago tied down so fast That the cord cut the quick of her nature! You'll honor the deed and its scope, Then, in logical sequence upon it, Will use up the remnants of rope By hanging the men who have done it. II. The speech in the Commons, which hits you A sketch off, how dungeons must feel,The official despatch, which commits you From stamping out groans with your heel, SUMMING UP IN ITALY. 155 Suggestions in journal or book for Good efforts,-are praised as is meet: But what in this world can men look for, Who only achieve and complete? III. True, you've praise for the fireman who sets his Brave face to the axe of the flame, Disappears in the smoke, and then fetches A babe down, or idiot that's lame,For the boor even, who rescues through pity A sheep from the brute who would kick it: But saviors of nations!-'tis pretty, And doubtful: they may be so wicked: IV. Azeglio, Farini, Mamiani, Ricasoli,-doubt by the dozen!-here's Pepoli too, and Cipriani, Imperial cousins and cozenersArese, Laiatico,-courtly Of manners, if stringent of mouth: Garibaldi! we'll come to him shortly, (As soon as he ends in the South). 156 LAST POEMS. V. Napoleon-as strong as ten armies, Corrupt as seven devils-a fact You accede to, then seek where the harm is Drained off from the man to his act, And find-a free nation! Suppose Some hell-brood in Eden's sweet greenery, Convoked for creating-a rose! Would it suit the infernal machinery? VI. Cavour.-to the despot's desire, Who his own thought so craftily marriesWhat is he but just a thin wire For conducting the lightning from Paris? Yes, write down the two as compeers, Confessing (you would not permit a lie) He bore up his Piedmont ten years Till she suddenly smiled and was Italy. vii. And the King, with that'stain on his scutcheon,'* Savoy-as the calumny runs; * Blue Book. I)iplomatical Correspondence. STJIMMING UP IN ITALy. 15 (If it be not his blood, -with his clutch on The sword, and his face to the guns). 0 first, where the battle-storm gathers, 0 loyal of heart on the throne, Let those keep the' graves of their fathers,' Who quail, in a nerve, from their own! viii, For thee-through the dim Ilades-portal The dream of a voice-' Blessed thou'Who hast made all thy race twice immortal!' No need of the sepulchres now! -- Left to Bourbons and Hapsburgs, who fester' Above-ground with worm-eaten souls,' While the ghost of some pale feudal jester'Before them strews treaties in holes.' Ix. But hush!-am I dreaming a poem Of Hades, Heaven, Justice? Not II began too far off, in my proem, With what men believe and deny: And on earth, whatsoever the need is, (To sum up as thoughtful reviewers) The moral of every great deed is The virtue of slandering the doers. 158 LAST POEMS.'DIED..' (The'Times' Obituary.) 1. WHAT shall we add now? He is dead. And I who praise and you who blame, With wash of words across his name, Find suddenly declared instead-'On Sun day, third of August, dead!' II. Which stops the whole we talked to-day. I, quickened to a plausive glance At his large general tolerance By common people's narrow way, Stopped short in praising. Dead, they say. 'DIED.. 159 III. And you, who had just put in a sort Of cold deduction-' rather, large Through weakness of the continent marge, Than greatness of the thing contained'Broke off. Dead! —there, you stood restrained. iV. As if we had talked in following one Up some long gallery.' Would you choose An air like that? The gait is looseOr noble.' Sudden in the sun An oubliette winks. Where is he? Gone. v. Dead. Man's' I was' by God's'I am'All hero-worship comes to that. High heart, high thought, high fame, as flat As a gravestone. Bring your Jacet jamThe epitaph's an epigram. VI. Dead. There's an answer to arrest All carping. Dust's his natural place? 160 LAST POEMS. He'll let the flies buzz round his face And, though you slander, not protest? -From such an one, exact the Best? VII. Opinions gold or brass are null. We chuck our flattery or abuse, Called Caesar's due, as Charon's dues, I' the teeth of some dead sage or fool, To mend the grinning of a skull. VIII. Be abstinent in praise and blame. The man's still mortal, who stands first; And mortal only, if last and worst. Then slowly lift so frail a fame, Or softly drop so poor a shame. THE FORCED RECRUIT. 161 THE FORCED RECRUIT. SOLFERINO, 1859 1. IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him, He died with his face to you all; Yet bury him here where around him You honor your bravest that fall. II. Venetian, fair-featured and slender, He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. III. No stranger, and yet not a traitor, Though alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Young heart, has a shot sent to rest! 11 162 LAST POEMS. IV. By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see) never was loaded, He facing your guns with that smile I V. As orphans yearn on to their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands;-'Let me die for our Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands! VI.'Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away!' VII. So thought he, so died he this morning. What then? many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side THE FORCED RECRUIT. 163 VIII. One tricolor floating above them; Struck down'mid triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazon the brass with their names. IX. But he,-without witness or honor, Mixed, shamed in his country's regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her Died faithful and passive:'twas hard. X.'Twas sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons, With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. XI. That moves you? Nay, grudge not to show it, While digging a grave for him here: The others who died, says your poet, Have glory,-let him have a tear. 164 LAST POEMS. GARIBALDI. HE bent his head upon his breast Wherein his lion-heart lay sick:-'Perhaps we are not ill-repaid; Perhaps this is not a true test; Perhaps that was not a foul trick; Perhaps none wronged, and none betrayed. II.'Perhaps the people's vote which here United, there may disunite, And both be lawful as they think; Perhaps a patriot statesman, dear For chartering nations, can with right Disfranchise those who hold the ink. GARIBALDI. 165 III.'Perhaps men's wisdom is not craft; Men's greatness, not a selfish greed; Men's justice, not the safer side; Perhaps even women, when they laughed, Wept, thanked us that the land was freed, Not wholly (though they kissed us) lied. IV.'Perhaps no more than this we meant, When up at Austria's guns we flew, And quenched them with a cry apiece, Italia!-Yet a dream was sent.. The little house my father knew, The olives and the palms of Nice.' v. He paused, and drew his sword out slow, Then pored upon the blade intent, As if to read some written thing; While many murmured,-' He will go In that despairing sentiment And break his sword before the King.' .166 LAST POEMS. VI. He poring still upon the blade, His large lid quivered, something fell.'Perhaps,' he said,' I was not born With such fine brains to treat and trade,And if a woman knew it well, Her falsehood only meant her scorn. VII.'Yet through Varese's cannon-smoke mP My eye saw clear: men feared this man At Como, where this sword could seal Death's protocol with every stroke: And now..the drop there scarcely can Impair the keenness of the steel. VIII. So man and sword may have their use; And if the soil beneath my foot In valor's act is forfeited, I'll strike the harder, take my dues Out nobler, and all loss confute From ampler heavens above my head. GARIBALDI. 167 IX.' My King, King Victor, I am thine! So much Nice-dust as what I am (To make our Italy) must cleave. Forgive that.' Forward with a sign He went. You've seen the telegram? Palermo's taken, we believe. 168 LAST POEMS. ONLY A CURL. i. FRIENDS of faces unknown and a lana Unvisited over the sea, Who tell me how lonely you stand With a single gold curl in the hand Held up to be looked at by me,TT. While you ask me to ponder and say What a father and mother can do, With the bright fellow-locks put away Out of reach, beyond kiss, in the clay Where the violets press nearer than you., III. Shall I speak like a poet, or run Into weak woman's tears for relief? ONLY A CURL. 169 Oh, children! —I never lost one, — Yet my arm's round my own little son, And Love knows the secret of Grief. IV. And I feel what it must be and is, When God draws a new angel so Through the house of a man up to His, With a murmur of music, you miss, And a rapture of light, you forego. V. How you think, staring on at the door, Where the face of your angel flashed in, That its brightness, familiar before, Burns off from you ever the more For the dark of your sorrow and sin. V!.'God lent him and takes him,' you sigh; -Nay, there let me break with your pain: God's generous in giving, say I,And the thing which He gives, I deny That He ever c.an take back again. 170 LAST POEMS. VII. He gives what He gives. I appeal To all who bear babes-in the hour When the veil of the body we feel Rent round us,-while torments reveal The motherhood's advent in power, VIIi. And the babe cries!-has each of us known By apocalypse (God being there Full in nature) the child is our own, Life of life, love of love, moan of moan, Through all changes, all times, everywhere. Ix. He's ours and for ever. Believe, O father!-O mother, look back To the first love's assurance. To give Means with God not to tempt or deceive With a cup thrust in Benjamin's sack. He gives what He gives. Be content! He resumes nothing given,-be sure! ONLY A CURL. 171 God lend? Where the usurers lent In His temple, indignant He went And scourged away all those impure. XI. He lends not; but gives to the end, As He loves to the end. If it seem That He draws back a gift, comprehend'Tis to add to it rather,-amend, And finish it up to your dream,XII. Or keep,-as a mother may toys Too costly, though given by herself, Till the room shall be stiller from noise, And the children more fit for such joys, Kept over their heads on the shelf. xIII. So look up, friends! you, who indeed Have possessed in your house a sweet piece Of the Heaven which men strive for, must need Be more earnest than others are,-speed Where they loiter, persist where they cease. 172 LAST POEMS. XIV. You know how one angel smiles there. Then courage.'Tis easy for you To be drawn by a single gold hair Of that curl, from earth's storm and despair To the safe place above us. Adieu. THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 178 A VIEW ACROSS THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 1861. I. OVER the dumb Campagna-sea, Out in the offing through mist and rain, Saint Peter's Church heaves silently Like a mighty ship in pain, Facing the tempest with struggle and strain. II. Motionless waifs of ruined towers, Soundless breakers of desolate land: The sullen surf of the mist devours That mountain-range upon either hand, Eaten away from its outline grand. Ill. And over the dumb Campagna-sea Where the ship of the Church heaves on to wreck, 1T4 LAST POEMS. Alone and silent as God must be, The Christ walks. Ay, but Peter's neck Is stiff to turn on the foundering deck. IV. Peter, Peter! if such be thy name, Now leave the ship for another to steer, And proving thy faith evermore the same, Come forth, tread out through the dark and drear, Since He who walks on the sea is here. v. Peter, Peter! He does not speak; He is not as rash as in old Galilee: Safer a ship, though it toss and leak, Than a reeling foot on a rolling sea! And he's got to be round in the girth, thinks he. VI. Peter, Peter! He does not stir; His nets are heavy with silver fish; He reckons his gains, and is keen to infer -- The broil on the shore, if the Lord should wish; But the sturgeon goes to the Oasar's dish.' THE BOMAN OAMPAGNA. 1T5 VII. Peter, Peter! thou fisher of men, Fisher of fish wouldst thou live instead? Haggling for pence with the other Ten, Cheating the market at so much a head, Griping the Bag of the traitor Dead? VIII. At the triple crow of the Gallic cock Thou weep'st not, thou, though thine eyes be dazed: What bird comes next in the tempest-shock? -Vultures! see,-as when Romulus gazed,To inaugurate Rome for a world amazed! 176 LL AST POEMS. THE KING'S GIFT. i. TERESA, ah, Teresita! Now what has the messenger brought her, Our Garibaldi's young daughter, To make her stop short in her singing? Will she not once more repeat a Verse from that hymn of our hero's, Setting the souls of us ringing? Break off the song where the tear rose? Ah, Teresita! U. A young thing, mark, is Teresa: Her eyes have caught fire, to be sure, in That necklace of jewels from Turin,... Till blind their regard to us men is. THE KING (S GIFT. 1l7 But still she remembers to raise a Sly look to her father, and note-'Could she sing on as well about Venice, Yet wear such a flame at her throat? Decide for Teresa.' III. Teresa! ah, Teresita! His right hand has paused on her head-'Accept it, my daughter,' he said;'Ay, wear it, true child of thy mother! Then sing, till all start to their feet, New verse ever bolder and freer! King Victor's no king like another. But verily noble as iwe are, Child, Teresita!' 12 178 LAST POEMS. PARTING LOVERS. SENA, 1860. I. I LOVE thee, love thee, Giulio; Some call me cold, and some demure; And if thou hast ever guessed that so I loved thee.. well, the proof was poor, And no one could be sure. IL. Before thy song (with shifted rhymes To suit my name) did I undo The persian? If it moved sometimes, Thou hast not seen a hand push through A foolish flower or two. PARTING LOVERS. 179 MII. My mother listening to my sleep, Heard nothing but a sigh at night,The short sigh rippling on the deep, When hearts run out of breath and sight Of men, to God's clear light. IV. When others named thee,-thought thy brows Were straight, thy smile was tender,-' Here He comes between the vineyard-rows!' I said not' Ay,' nor waited, Dear, To feel thee step too near. V. I left such things to bolder girls,Olivia or Clotilda. Nay, When that Clotilda, through her curls, Held both thine eyes in hers one day, I marvelled, let me say. VI. I could not try the woman's trick: Between us straightway fell the blush 180 L A ST P' O E M S. Which kept me separate, blind and sick. A wind came with thee in a flush, As blown through Horeb's bush. vi1. But now that Italy invokes Her young men to go forth and chase The foe or perish,-nothing chokes My voice, or drives me from the place. I look thee in the face. Viii. I love thee! It is understood, Confest: I do not shrink or start. No blushes! all my body's blood Has gone to greaten this poor heart, That, loving, we may part. Ix. Our Italy invokes the yFouth To die if need be. Still there's room, Though earth is strained with dead in truth: Since twice the lilies were in bloom They have not grudged a tomb. PATITNG LOVERS. 181 X. And many a plighted maid and wife And mother, who can say since then'My country,'-cannot say through life'My son,' my spouse,''my flower of men,' And not weep dumb again. Xi. Heroic Inales the country l)ears, — But daughters give up more than sons: Flags wave, drums beat, and unawares You flash your souls out with the guns, And take your Heaven at once. XII. But we!-we empty heart and home Of life's life, love! We bear to think You're gone,-to feel you may not come,To hear the door-latch stir and clink, Yet no more vou!.. nor sink. XTTI. Dear God! when Italy is one, And perfected firom bound to boundn 182 L AST P O E M S. Suppose, for my share, earth's undone By one grave in't!-as one small wound May kill a man,'tis found. XIV. What then? If love's delight must end, At least we'll clear its truth from flaws. I love thee, love thee, sweetest friend! Now take my sweetest without pause, To help the nation's cause. XV. And thus, of noble Italy We'll both be worthy! Let her show The future how we made her free, Not sparing life.. nor Giulio, Nor this.. this heartbreak! MOTHER AND POET. 183 MOTHER AND POET. TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. 1. DEAD! One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feas; And are wanting a great song for Italy free, Let none look at me! II. Yet I was a poetess only last year, And good at my art, for a woman, men said; But this woman, this, who is agonized here, -The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head For ever instead. III. What art can a woman be good at? Oh, vain! What art is she good at, but hurting her breast 184 LAST POEMS. With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud, by that test. iV. What art's for a woman? To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat, Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees And'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat; To dream and to doat. v. To teach them.. It stings there! I made them indeed Speak plain the word country. I taught them, no doubt, That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant cast out. VI. And when their eyes flashed.. O my beautiful eyes! I exulted; nay, let them go forth at the wheels MOTHER AIND POET. 185 Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise When one sits quite alone! Then one weeps, then one kneels! God, how the house feels! VTI. At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses,-of camp-life and glory, and how They both loved me; and, soon coming home to be spoiled, Ir: return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough. VIII. Then was triumph at Turin:' Ancona was free I' And some one came out of the cheers in the street, With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street. Ix. I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 186 LAST POEMS. To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained. x. And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand,'I was not to faint,One loved me for two-would be with me ere long: And Viva lItalic!-he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint.' xi. My Nanni would add,'he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls,-was imprest It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest.' XII. On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:-Shot. Tell his mother. Ah, ah,'his,''their' mother,-not'mine,' No voice says' My mother' again to me. What I You think Guido forgot? MOTHIER AND POET. 187 XIII. Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with Heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through THAT Love and Sorrow which reconciled so The ALove and Below. XIv. O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray, How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say! Xv. Both boys dead? but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.'Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall; And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? 188 LAST POEMS. XVI. Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When the guns of Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short? XVII. When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green and red, When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my Dead)xvIII. What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly! My country is there, Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow: My Italy's THERE, with my brave civic Pail, To disfranchise despair! ~MOTHER AND POET. 189 XIX. Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn; But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into wail such as this-and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born. xx. Dead I One of them shot by the sea in the east, And one of them shot in the west by the sea. Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me! [This was LAURA SAVIO, of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were killed at Ancona and Gacta.] 190 LAST POEMS. NATURE'S REMORSES. ROME, 1861. I. HER soul was bred by a throne, and fed From the sucking-bottle used in her race On starch and water (for mother's milk Which gives a larger growth instead), And, out of the natural liberal grace, Was swaddled awav in violet silk.!I. And young and kind, and royally blind, Forth she stepped from her palace-door On three-piled carpet of compliments, Curtains of incense drawn by the wind In between her for evermore And daylight issues of events. NATURE' S I EM O SES. 191 III. On she drew, as a queen might do, To meet a Dream of Italy,Of magical town and musical wave, Where even a god, his amulet blue Of shining sea, in an ecstacy Dropt and forgot in a nereid's cave. IV. Down she goes, as the soft wind blows, To live more smoothly than mortals can, To love and to reign as queen and wife, To wear a crown that smells of a rose, And still, with a sceptre as light as a fan, Beat sweet time to the song of life. V. What is this? As quick as a kiss Falls the smile from her girlish mouth! The lion-people has left its lair, Roaring along her garden of bliss, And the fiery underworld of the South Scorched a way to the upper air. 192 LAST POEMS. VI. And a fire-stone ran in the form of a man, Burningly, boundingly, fatal and fell, [king Bowling the kingdom down! Where was the She had heard somewhat, since life began, Of terrors on earth and horrors in hell, But never, never of such a thing I vii. You think she dropped when her dream was stopped, When the blotch of Bourbon blood inlay, Lividly rank, her new lord's cheek? Not so. Her high heart overtopped The royal part she had come to play. Only the men in that hour were weak. vIII. And twice a wife by her ravaged life, And twice a queen by her kingdom lost, She braved the shock and the counter-shock Of hero and traitor, bullet and knife, While Italy pushed, like a vengeful ghost, That son of the Cursed from Gaeta's rock. NAT IT R E'S RlE ORSE, 193 IX. What will ye give her, who could not deliver, German Princesses? A laurel-wreath All over-scored with your signatures, Graces, Serenities, Highnesses ever? Mock her not, fresh from the truth of Death, Conscious of dignities higher than yours. x. What will ye put in your casket shut, Ladies of Paris, in sympathy's name? Guizot's daughter, what have you brought her? Withered immortelles, long ago cut For guilty dynasties perished in shame, Putrid to memory, Guizot's daughter? XI. Ah poor queen! so young and serene! What shall we do for her, now hope's done, Standing at Rome in these ruins old, She too a ruin and no more a queen? Leave her that diadem made by the sun, Turning her hair to an innocent gold. 1 R 194 LAST POEMS. XII. Ay! bring close to her, as'twere a rose, to-her, Yon free child from an Apennine city Singing for Italy,-dumnb in the place! Something like solace, let. us suppose, to her Given, in that homage of wonder and pity, By his pure eyes to her beautiful face. XIII. Nature, excluded, savagely brooded, Ruined all queendom and dogmas of state,Then in reaction remorseful and mild, Rescues the womanhood, nearly eluded, Shows her what's sweetest in womanly fateSunshine from Heaven, and the eyes of a child. THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 195 THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. [TUIE LAST POEM.] ROME, MAY, 1861. I.'Now give us lands where the olives grow,' Cried the North to the South,' Where the sun with (1 golden mouth can blor Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard row!' Cried the North to the South.' ow give us men firoml the sunless plain,' Cried tlle South to the North,'iBy need of work in the snow and tlhe rain, Made strong, and brave by familiar pa:in' Cried the South to the North. 196 LAST POEMO. II.'Give lucider hills and intenser seas,' Said the North to the South,'Since ever by symbols and bright degrees Art, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord's knees,' Said the North to the South.' Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer,' Said the South to the North,'That stand in the dark on the lowest stair, While affirming of God,' He is certainly there," Said the South to the North. III.'Yet oh, for the skies that are softer and higher!' Sighed the North to the South;'For the flowers that blaze, and the trees that aspire, And the insects made of a song or a fire!' Sighed the North to the South.'And oh, for a seer to discern the same!' Sighed the South to the North;' For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame, To call the tree or the flower by its name!' Sighed the South to the North. THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH. 197 IV. The North sent therefore a man of men As a grace to the South; And thus to Rome came Andersen. -'A las, but must you take him again?' Said the South to the North. TRANSLATIONS. TRANSLATIONS. PARAPHRASE ON THEOCRITUS. THE CYCLOPS. (Idyll XI.) AND so an easier life our Cyclops drew, The ancient Polyphemus, who in youth Loved Galatea, while the manhood grew Adown his cheeks and darkened round his mouth. No jot he cared for apples, olives, roses; Love made him mad: the whole world was neglected, The very sheep went backward to their closes From out the fair green pastures, self-directed. And singing Galatea, thus, he wore The sunrise down along the weedy shore, And pined alone, and felt the cruel wound 202 LAST POEMS. Beneath his heart, which Cypris' arrow bore, With a deep pang; but, so, the cure was found; And sitting on a lofty rock he cast His eyes upon the sea, and sang at last:-'O whitest Galatea. can it be That thou shouldst srurn me off who love thee so? More white than curds, nly girl, thou art to see, More meek than lambs, more full of leaping glee Than kids, and brighter than the early glow On grapes that swell to ripen,-sour like thee! Thou comest to me with the fragrant sleep, And with the firagrant sleep thou goest from mle; Thou fliest. fliest, ns a frightened sheep Flies the grey wolf! —et Love did overcome me, So long;-I loved thee, maiden, first of all When down the hills (my mnother fast beside thee) I saw thee stray to pluck the slumm-er-fall Of hyacinth bells, and went myself to guide thee: And since my eyes have seen thee, they can leave thee No more, from that day's liglht! But thou. by Zeus, Thou wilt not care for tla!/, to let it grieve thee! I know thee, fair one, why thou springest loose From imy arm round thee. Why? I tell thee. )earl One shaggy eyebrow draws its smludging road PARAP 1 ASE ON TH E OC I T S. 203 Straight through ny ample front, from ear to ear,One eye rolls underneath, and yawning, broad Flat nostrils feel the bulging lips too near. Yet.. ho, ho! —, —whatever I appear, — Do feed a thousand oxen! When I have done, I milk the cows, and drink the milk that's best! I lack no cheese, while summei r keeps the sun, And after, in the cold, it's're.ld prest!.And then, I know to sitgl, as tlere is none Of all the Cyclops can,.. sollng of thee, Sweet apple of mny soul, on love's fair tree, And of myself who love thee. till the West Frogets the light, and all but I have rest. I feed for thee, besides, eleven fair does, And all in fawn; and four tame whelps of bears. (Jome to me, Sweet! thou shalt have all of those In change for love I will not halve the shares. Leave the blue sea, with pure white arms extended To the dry shore; and, in my cave's recess, Thou shalt be gladder for the noonlight ended,For here be laurels, spiral cypresses, Dark ivy, and a vine whose leaves enfold Most luscious grapes; and here is water cold, The wooded:Etna pours down through the trees From the white snow s,-which gods were scarce too bold *204 LAST POEMS. To drink in turn with nectar. Who with these Would choose the salt wave of the lukewarm seas? Nay, look on me! If I am hairy and rough, I have an oak's heart in me; there's a fire In these grey ashes which burns hot enough; And when I burn for thee, I grudge the pyre No fuel.. not my soul, nor this one eye Most precious thing I have, because thereb) I see thee, Fairest! Out, alas! I wish My mother had borne me finned like a fish, That I might plunge down in the ocean near thee. And kiss thy glittering hand between the weeds, If still thy face were turned; and I would bear thee Each lily white, and poppy fair that bleeds Its red heart down its leaves!-one gift, for hours Of summer,.. one, for winter; since, to cheer thee, I could not bring at once all kinds of flowers, Even now, girl, now, I fain would learn to swim, If stranger in a ship sailed nigh, I wis,That I may know how sweet a thing it is To live down with you, in the Deep and Dim! Come up, O Galatea, from the ocean, And having come, forget again to go I As I, who sing out here my heart's emotion, Could sit for ever. Come up from below! Come, keep my flocks beside me, milk my kine, PARAPHRASE ON THE OCrITUS. 205 Colne, press my cheese, distrain my whey and curd! Ah, mother! she alone.. that mother of mine. Did wrong me sore! I blame her!-Not a word Of kindly intercession did she address Thine ear with for my sake; and ne'ertheless She saw me wasting, wasting, day by day! Both head and feet were aching, I will say, All sick for grief, as I myself was sick! O Cyclops, Cyclops, whither hast thou sent Thy soul on fluttering wings? If thou wert bent On turning bowls, or pulling green and thick The sprouts to give thy lambkins —thou wouldst make thee A wiser Cyclops than for what we take thee. Milk dry the present Why pursue too quick That future which is fugitive aright? Thy Galatea thou shalt haply find,Or else a maiden fairer and more kind; For many girls do call me through the night, And, as they call, do laugh out silverly. 1, too, am something in the world, I see!' While thus the Cyclops love and lambs did fold, Ease came with song, he could not buy with gold. 206 LAST POEMS. PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. PSYCHE GAZING ON CUPID. (METAuMORnIq., Lib. IV.) THEN Psyche, weak ill body and soul, put on The cruelty of Fate, in place of strength: She raised the lamp to see what should be done, And seized the steel, and was a man at length In courage, though a woman Yes, but when The light fell on the bed whereby she stood To view the' beast' that lay there,-certes, then, She saw the gentlest, sweetest beast in wood — Even Cupid's self; the beauteous god' more beauteous For that sweet sleep across his eyelids dim! The light, the lady carried as she viewed, Did blush for pleasure as it lighted him, The dagger trembled from its aim unduteous; And she.. oh, she-amazed and soul-distraught, And fainting in her whiteness like a veil, PARAPIIRASES ON AP TEIUS. 20 Slid down upon her knees, and, shuddering thought To hide-though in her heart-the dagger pale! She would have done it, but her hands did fail T) hold the guilty steel, they shivered so,And feeble, exhausted, unawares she took, To gazing on the god,-till, look by look Her eyes with larger life did fill and glow. She saw his golden head alight with curls,She might have guessed their brightness in the dark By that ambrosial smell of heavenly mark! She saw the milky brow, more pure than pearls, The purple of the cheeks, divinely sundered By the globed ringlets, as they glided free, Some back, some forwards,-all so radiantly, That, as she watched them there, she never wondered To see the lampllight, where it touched them, tremble: On the god's shoalders, too, she marked his wings Shine faintly at the edges and resemble A flower that's near to blow. The poet sings And lover sighs, that Love is fugitive; nd certes, though these pinions lay reposing, The feathers on them seemed to stir and live As if by instinct, closing and unclosing. Meantime the god's fair body slumbered deep, 208 LAST POEMS. All worthy of Venus, in his shining sleep; While at the bed's foot lay the quiver, bow, And darts,-his arms of godhead. Psyche gazed With eyes that draink the wonders in,-said-'Lo, Be these my husband's arms?' -and straightway raised An arrow from the quiver-case, and tried Its point against her finger,-trembling till She pushed it in too deeply (foolish bride!) And made her blood some dewdrops small distil, And learnt to love Love, of her own goodwill. PSYCHE WAFTED BY ZEPHYRUS. (METAMORPH., Lib. IV.) WHILE Psyche wept upon the rock forsaken, Alone, despairing, dreading,-gradually By Zephyrus she was enwrapt and taken Still trembling,-like the lilies planted high,Through all her fair white limbs. Her vesture spread, Her very bosom eddying with surprise,He drew her slowly from the mountain-head, PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 209 And bore her down the valleys with wet eyes, And laid her in the lap of a green dell As soft with grass and flowers as any nest, With trees beside her, and a limpid well: Yet Love was not far off from all that Rest. PSYCHE AND PAN. (METAMORPH., Lih. V.) THE gentle River, in her Cupid's honor, Because he used to warm the very wave, Did ripple aside, instead of closing on her, And cast up Psyche, with a refluence brave, Upon the flowery bank,-all sad and sinning. Then Pan, the rural god, by chance was leaning Along the brow of waters as they wound, Kissing the reed-nymph till she sank to ground, And teaching, without knowledge of the meaning, To run her voice in music after his Down many a shifting note; (the goats around, In wandering pasture and most leaping bliss, Drawn on to crop the river's flowery hair). And as the hoary god beheld her there, 14 210 LAST POEMS. The poor, worn, fainting Psyche!-knowing all The grief she suffered, he did gently call Her name, and softly comfort her despair:-'O wise, fair lady, I am rough and rude, And yet experienced through my weary age! And if I read aright, as soothsayer should, Thy faltering steps of heavy pilgrimage, Thy paleness, deep as snow we cannot see The roses through,-thy sighs of quick returning, Thine eyes that seem, themselves, two souls in mourning, Thou lovest, girl, too well, and bitterly But hear me: rush no more to a headlong fall: Seek no more deaths! leave wail, lay sorrow down, And pray the sovran god; and use withal Such prayer as best may suit a tender youth, Well-pleased to bend to flatteries from thy mouth And feel them stir the myrtle of his crown.' -So spake the shelp)herd-god; and answer none Gave Psyche in return: but silently She did him homage with a bended knee, And took the onward path. PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUT. 211 PSYCHE PROPITIATING CERES. (METAMORPI., Lib. VI.) THEN mother Ceres from afar beheld her, While Psyche touched, with reverent fingers meek, The temple's scythes; and with a cry compelled her:'O wretched Psychle, Venus roams to seek Thy wandering footsteps round the weary earth, Anxious and maddened, and adjures thee forth To accept the imputed pang, and let her wreak Full vengeance with full force of deity! Yet thou, forsooth, art in my temple here, Touchihg my scythes, assuming my degree, And daring to have thoughts that are not fear!' — But Psyche clung to her feet, and as they moved Rained tears along their track, tear dropped tear, And drew the dust on in her trailing locks, And still, with passionate prayer, the charge disproved: Now, by thy right hand's gathering from the shocks Of golden corn,-and by thy gladsome rites Of harvest,-land th}y conisecrated sights 212 LAST POEMS. Shut safe and mute in chests,-and by the course Of thy slave-dragons,-and the driving force Of ploughs along Sicilian glebes profound,By thy swift chariot,-by thy stedfast ground,By all those nuptial torches that departed With thy lost daughter,-and by those that shone Back with her, when she came again glad-hearted,And by all other mysteries which are done In silence at Eleusis,-I beseech thee, O Ceres5 take some pity, and abstain From giving to my soul extremer pain Who am the wretched Psyche! Let me teach thee A little mercy, and have thy leave to spend A few days only in thy garnered corn, Until that wrathful goddess, at the end, Shall feel her hate grow mild, the longer borne,Or till, alas!-this faintness at my breast Pass from me, and my spirit apprehend From life-long woe a breath-time hour of rest!' -But Ceres answered,' I am moved indeed By prayers so moist with tears, and would defend The poor beseecher from more utter need: But where old oaths, anterior ties, commend, I cannot fail to a sister, lie to a friend, As Venus is to me. Depart with speed I' PARAPHEASES ON APULEIUS. 213 PSYCHE AND THE EAGLE. (METAMORPH., Lib. VI.) BUT sovran Jove's rapacious Bird, the regal High percher on the lighlning, the great eagle Drove down with rushing wings; and,-thinking how, By Cupid's help, he bore from Ida's brow A cup-boy for his master,-he inclined To yield, in just return, an influence kind; The god being honored in his lady's woe. And thus the Bird wheeled downward from the track Gods follow gods in, to the level low Of that poor face of Psyche left in wrack. -'Now fie, thou simple girl!' the Bird began;'For if thou think to steal and carry back A drop of holiest stream that ever ran, No simpler thought, riethinks, were found in man. What! know'st thou not these Stygian waters be Most holy, even to Jove? that as, on earth, Men swear by gods, and by the thunder's worth, Even so the heavenly gods do utter forth Their oaths by Styx's flowing majesty? And yet, one little urnful, I agree 214 LAST POE MS. To grant thy need!' Whereat, all hastily, He takes it, fills it from the willing wave, And bears it in his beak, incarnadined By the last Titan-prey he screamed to have; And, striking calmly out, against the wind, Vast wings on each side,-there, where Psyche stands, He drops the urn down in her lifted hands. PSYCHE AND CERBERUS. (METAMORPI., Lib. VI.) A MIGITY Dog with three colossal necks. And heads in grand proportion; vast as fear, With jaws that bark the thunder out that breaks In most innocuous dread for ghosts anear, Who are safe in death from sorrow: he reclines Across the threshold of queen Proserpine's Dark-sweeping halls, and, there, for Pluto's spouse, Doth guard the entrance of the empty house. When Psyche threw the cake to him, once amain He howled up wildly from his hunger-pain, And was still, after. PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 215 PSYCHE AND PROSERPINE. (METAMORPH., Lib. V1.) TuEN Psyche entered in to Proserpine In the dark house, and straightway did decline With meek denial the luxurious seat, The liberal board for welcome strangers spread, But sate down lowly at the dark queen's feet, And told her tale, and brake her oaten bread. And when she had given the pyx in humble duty, And told how Venus did entreat the queen To fill it up with only one day's beauty She used in Hades, star-bright and serene, To beautify the Cyprian, who had been All spoilt with grief in nursing her sick boy,Then Proserpine, in malice and in joy, Smiled in the shade, and took the pyx, and put A secret in it; and so, filled and shut, Gave it again to Psyche. Could she tell It held no beauty, but a dream of hell? 216 LAST POEMS. PSYCHE AND VENUS. (METAMORPII., Lib. VI.) AND Psyche brought to Venus what was sent By Pluto's spouse; the paler, that she went So low to seek it, down the dark descent. MERCURY CARRIES PSYCHE TO OLYMPUS. (METAMORPJI., Lib. VI.) THEN Jove commanded the god Mercury To float up Psyche from the earth. And she Sprang at the first word, as the fountain springs, And shot up bright and rustling through his wings. MARRIAGE OF PSYCHE AND CUPID. (METAMORPH., Lib. VI.) AND Jove's right-hand approached the ambrosial bowl To Psyche's lips, that scarce dared yet to smile,-'Drink, 0 my daughter, and acquaint thy soul With deathless uses, and be glad the, while! PARAPHRASES ON APULEIUS. 217 No more shall Cupid leave thy lovely side; TLy marriage-joy begins for never-ending.' While yet he spake,-the nuptial feast supplied,The bridegroom on the festive couch was bending O'er Psyche in his bosom-Jove, the same, On Juno, and the other deities, Alike ranged round. The rural cup-boy came And poured Jove's nectar out with shining eyes, While Bacchus, for the others, did as much, And Vulcan spread the meal; and all the Hours, Made all things purple with a sprinkle of flowers, Or roses chiefly, not to say the touch Of their sweet fingers; and the Graces glided Their balm around, and the Muses, through the air, Struck out clear voices, which were still divided By that divinest song Apollo there Intoned to his lute; while Aphrodite fair Did float her beauty along the tune, and play The notes right with her feet. And thus, the day Through every perfect mood of joy was carried, The Muses sang their chorus; Satyrus Did blow his pipes; Pan touched his reed; —and thus At last were Cupid and his Psyche married. 218 LAST POEMS, PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. HOW BACCHUS FINDS ARIADNE SLEEPING. (DIONYSIACA, Lib. XLVII.) WHEN Bacchus first beheld the desolate And sleeping Ariadne, wonder straight Was mixed with love in his great golden eyes; He turned to his Bacchantes in surprise, And said with guarded voice,-'Hush! strike no more Your brazen cymbals; keep those voices still Of voice and pipe; and since ye stand before Queen Cypris, let her slumber as she will! And yet the cestus is not here in proof A Grace, perhaps, whom sleep has stolen aloof: In which case, as the morning shines in view, Wake this Aglaia!-yet in Naxos, who Would veil a Grace so? Hush I And if that she Were Hebe, which of all the gods can be PARAPIIASES ON NONNUS. 219 The pourer-out of wine? or if we think She's like the shining moon by ocean's brink, The guide of herds,-why, could she sleep without Endymion's breath on her cheek? or if I doubt Of silver-footed Thetis, used to tread These shores,-even she (in reverence be it said) lIas no such rosy beauty to dress deep With the blue waves. The Loxian goddess might Repose so from her hunting-toil aright Beside the sea, since toil gives birth to sleep, But who would find her with her tunic loose, Thus? Stand off, Thracian! stand off! Do not leap, Not this way! Leave that piping, since I choose, O dearest Pan, and let Athene rest! And yet if she be Pallas..truly guessed.. Her lance is-where? her helm and aegis-where?' -As Bacchus closed, the miserable Fair Awoke at last, sprang upward from the sands, And gazing wild on that wild throng that stands Around, around her, and no Theseus there! Her voice went moaning over shore and sea, Beside the halcyon's cry; she called her love; She named her hero, and raged maddeningly Against the brine of waters; and above, Sought the ship's track, and cursed the hours she slept; And still the chiefest execration swept 220 LAST POEMS. Against queen Paphia, mother of the ocean; And cursed and prayed by times in her emotion The winds all round. Her grief did make her glorious; her despair Adorned her with its weight. Poor wailing child! She looked like Venus when the goddess smiled At liberty of godship, debonair; Poor Ariadne! and her eyelids fair Hid looks beneath them lent her by Persuasion And every Grace, with tears of Love's own passion. She wept long; then she spake:-' Sweet sleep did come While sweetest Theseus went. 0, glad and dumb, I wish he had left me still! for in my sleep I saw his Athens, and did gladly keep My new bride-state within my Theseus' hall; And heard the pomp of Iymen, and the call Of'Ariadne, Ariadne,' sung In choral joy; and there, with joy I hung Spring-blossoms round love's altar!-ay, and wore A wreath myself; and felt him everinor,e, Oh, evermore beside me, with his mighty Grave head bowed down in prayer to Aphrodit! Why, what a sweet, sweet dream! He went with it, And left me here unnwcdded where I sit! PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. 221 Persuasion help me! The dark night did make me A brideship, the fair morning takes away; My Love had left me when the Hour did wake me; And while I dreamed of marriage, as I say, And blest it well, my blessed Theseus left me: And thus the sleep, I loved so, has bereft me. Speak to me, rocks, and tell my grief to-day, Who stole my love of Athens?'.... HOW BACCHUS COMFORTS ARIADNE. (DIONYSIACA, Lib. XLVII.) THEN Bacchus' subtle speech her sorrow crossed:-'O maiden, dost thou mourn for having lost The false Athenian heart? and dost thou still Take thought of Theseus, when thou may'st at will Have Bacchus for a husband? Bacchus bright! A god in place of mortal! Yes, and though The mortal youth be charming in thy sight, That man of Athens cannot strive below, In beauty and valor, with my deity! Thou'lt tell me of the labyrinthine dweller, The fierce man-bull, he slew: I pray thee, be, Fair Ariadne, the true deed's true teller, 222 LAST POEMS. And mention thy clue's help! because, forsooth, Thine armed Athenian hero had not found A power to fight on that prodigious ground, Unless a lady in her rosy youth Had lingered near him: not to speak the truth Too definitely out till names be knownLike Paphia's-Love's —and Ariadne's own. Thou wilt not say that Athens can compare With JEther. nor that Minos rules like Zeus, Nor yet that Gnossus has such golden air As high Olympus. Ha! for noble use We came to Naxos! Love has well intended To change thy bridegroom! Happy thou, defended From entering in thy Theseus' earthly hall, That thou mayst hear the laughters rise and fall Instead, where Bacchus rules! Or wilt thou choose A still-surpassing glory?-take it all,A heavenly house, Kronion's self for kin,A place where Cassiopea sits within Inferior light, for all her daughter's sake, Since Perseus, even amid the stars, nmst take Andromeda in chains atherial! B3t I will wreathe thee, sweet, an astral crown, And as my queen and spouse thou shalt be knownMine, the crown-lover's!' Thus, at length, he proved His comfort on her; and the maid was moved; PARAPHRASES ON NONNUS. 223 And casting Theseus' memory down the brine, She straight received the troth of her divine Fair Bacchus; Love stood by to close the rite: The marriage-chorus struck up clear and light, Flowers sprouted fast about the chamber green, And with spring-garlands on their heads, I ween, The Orchomenian dancers came along, And danced their rounds in Naxos to the song. A ltamnadryad sang a nuptial dit Right shrilly: and a Naiad sate beside A fountain, with her bare foot shelving it, And hymned of. riadne, beauteous bride, Whom thus the god of grapes had deified. Ortygia sang out, louder than her wont, An ode which Phoebus gave her to be tried, And leapt in chorus, with her steadfast front, While prophet Love, the stars have called a bro ther, Burnt in his crown, and twined in one another, His love-flower with the purple roses, given In type of that new crown assigned in heaven. 224 LAST POE M r PARAPHRASE ON HESIOD. BACCHUS AND ARIADNE. (TIIuOG. 947.) THE golden-haired Bacchus did espouse That fairest Ariadne, Minos' daughter, And made her wifehood blossom in the house; Where such protective gifts Kronion brought hei, Nor Death nor Age could find her when they sought her. PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES. 225 PARAPHRASE ON EURIPIDES. ANTISTROPHE. (TROADES, 858.) LOvE, Love who once didst pass the Dardan portals, Because of Heavenly passion! Who once didst lift up Troy in exultation, To mingle in thy bond the high Immortals!Love, turned from his own name To Zeus's shame, Can help no more all. And Eos' self, the fair, white-steeded Morning,Her light which blesses other lands, returning, Has changed to a gloomy pall! She looked across the land with eyes of amber,She saw the city's fall,She, who, in pure embraces, Had held there, in the hymeneal chamber, Her children's father, bright Tithonus old, 15 226 LXAST POEMS. Whom the four steeds with starry brows and paces Bore on, snatched upward, on the car of gold, And with him, all the land's full hope of joy! The love-charms of the gods are vain for Troy. NOTE. —Rendered after Mr. Burges's reading, in some respects-not quite all. PA RAPH SE S ON HOM ER. 227 PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. (ILIAD, Lib. VI.) SUE rushed to meet him: the nurse following Bore on her bosom the unsaddened child, A simple babe, prince Hector's well-loved son, Like a star shining when the world is dark. Scamandrius, Hector called him; but the rest Named him Astyanax, the city's prince, Because that Hector only, had saved Troy. He, when he saw his.son, smiled silently; While, dropping tears, Andromache pressed on, And clung to his hand, and spake, and named his name.'Hector, my best one,-thine own nobleness Must needs undo thee. Pity hast thou none 228, LAST P O EMS. For this young child, and this most sad myself, Who soon shall be thy widow-since that soon The Greeks will slay thee in the general rushAnd then, for me, what refuge,'reft of thee, But to go graveward? Then, no comfort more Shall touch me, as in the old sad times thou know' stGrief only-grief! I have no father now, No mother mild! Achilles the divine. He slew my father, sacked his lofty Theses, Cilicia's populous city, and slew its king, Eetion-father!-did not spoil the corse, Because the Greek revered him in his soul, But burnt the body with its dmadal arms. And poured the dust out gently. Round that tomb The Oreads, daughters of the goat-nursed Zeus, Tripped in a ring, and planted their green elms. There were seven brothers with me in the house, Who all went down to Hades in one day,For he slew all, Achilles the divine, Famed for his swift feet,-slain among their herds Of cloven-footed bulls and flocking sheep! My mother too, who queened it o'er the woods Of Hippoplacia, he, with other spoil, Seized,-and, for golden ransom, freed too late,Since, as she went home, arrowy Artemis Met her and slew her at my father's door. PA BAPH ASES ON HOMER. 229 But-oh, my Hector,-thou art still to me Father and mother!-yes, and brother dear, O thou, who art my sweetest spouse beside! Come now, and take me into pity! Stay I' the town here with us! Do not make thy child An orphan, nor a widow, thy poor wife! Call up the people to the fig-tree, where The city is most accessible, the wall Most easy of assault!-for thrice thereby The boldest Greeks have mounted to the breach,Both Ajaxes, the famed Idomeneus Two sons of Atreus, and the noble one Of Tydeus,-whether taught by some wise seer, Or by their own souls prompted and inspired.' Great Hector answered:-' Lady, for these things It is my part to care. And I fear most My Trojans, and their daughters, and their wives, Who through their long veils would glance scorn at me, If, coward-like, I shunned the open war. Nor doth my own soul prompt me to that end! I learnt to be a brave man constantly, And to fight foremost where my Trojans fight, And vindicate my father's glory and mineBecause I know, by instinct and my soul, 230 LAST POEMS. The day comes that our sacred Troy must fall, And Priam and his people. Knowing which, I have no such grief for all my Trojans' sake, For Hecuba's, for Priam's, our old king, Not for my brothers', who so many and brave Shall bite the dust before our enemies,As, sweet, for thee! —to think some mailed Greek Shall lead thee weeping and deprive thy life Of the free sun-sight-that, when gone away To Argos, thou shalt throw the distaff there, Not for thy uses-or shalt carry instead Upon thy loathing brow, as heavy as doom, The water of Greek wells —Messeis' own, Or Hyperea's!-that some stander-by, Marking thy tears fall, shall say,'This is she, The wife of that same Hector who fought best Of all the Trojans, when all fought for Troy-' Ay! —and, so speaking, shall renew thy pang That,'reft of him so named, thou shouldst survive To a slave's life! But earth shall hide my corse Ere that shriek sound, wherewith thou art dragged from Troy.' Thus Hector spake, and stretched his arms to his child. Against the nurse's breast, with childly cry, PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. 231 The boy clung back, and shunned his father's face, And feared the glittering brass and waving hair Of the high helmet, nodding horror down. The father smiled, the mother could not choose But smile too. Then he lifted from his brow The helm, and set it on the ground to shine: Then, kissed his dear child-raised him with both arms, And thus invoked Zeus and the general gods:-' Zeus, and all godships! grant this boy of mine To be the Trojans' help, as I myself,To live a brave life and rule well in Troy! Till men shall say,'The son exceeds the sire By a far glory.' Let him bring home spoil Heroic, and make glad his mother's heart.' With which prayer, to his wife's extended arms He gave the child; and she received him straight To her bosom's fragrance-smiling up her tears. Hector gazed on her till his soul was moved; Then softly touched her with his hand and spake.'My best one-'ware of passion and excess In any fear. There's no man in the world Can send me to the grave apart from fate,And no man.. Sweet, I tell thee.. can fly fate 232 LAST POEMS. No good nor bad man. Doom is self-fulfilled. But now, go home, and ply thy woman's task Of wheel and distaff! bid thy maidens haste Their occupation. War's a care for menFor all men born in Troy, and chief for me.' Thus spake the noble Hector, and resumed His crested helmet, while his spouse went home; But as she went, still looked back lovingly, Dropping the tears from her reverted face. THE DAUGHTERS OF PANDARUS, (ODYSS. Lib. XX.) AND so these daughters fair of Pandarus, The whirlwinds took. The gods had slain their kin: They were left orphans in their father's house. And Aphrodite came to comfort them With incense, luscious honey, and fragrant wine; And Here gave them beauty of face and soul Beyond all women; purest Artemis Endowed them with her stature and white grace; And Pallas taught their hands to flash along PARAPHRASES ON HOMER. 233 Her famous looms. Then, bright with deity, Toward far Olympus, Aphrodite went To ask of Zeus (who has his thunder-joys And his full knowledge of man's mingled fate) How best to crown those other gifts with love And worthy marriage: but, what time she went, The ravishing Harpies snatched the maids away, And gave them up, for all their loving eyes, To serve the Furies who hate constantly. ANOTHER VERSION. So the storms bore the daughters of Pandarus out into thrall — The gods slew their parents; the orphans were left in the hall. And there came, to feed their young lives, Aphrodite divine, With the incense, the sweet-tasting honey, the sweetsmelling wine; Here brought them her wit above woman's, and beauty of face; And pure Artemis gave them her stature, that form might have grace: 234 LAST POEMS. And Athene instructed their hands in her works of renown; Then, afar to Olympus, divine Aphrodit6 moved on: To complete other gifts, by uniting each girl to a mate, She sought Zeus, who has joy in the thunder and knowledge of fate, Whether mortals have good chance or ill! But the Harpies alate In the storm came, and swept off the maidens, and gave them to wait, With that love in their eyes, on the Furies who constantly hate. PARAPHRASE ON ANAOREON. 235 PARAPHRASE ON ANACREON. ODE TO THE SWALLOW. THou indeed, little Swallow, A sweet yearly comer, Art building a hollow New nest every summer, And straight dost depart Where no gazing can follow, Past Memphis, down Nile! Ay! but love all the while Builds his nest in my heart, Through the cold winter-weeks: And as one Love takes flight, Comes another, O Swallow, In an egg warm and white, And another is callow. And the large gaping beaks 236 LAST POEMS. Chirp all day and all night: And the Loves who are older Help the young and the poor Loves, And the young Loves grown bolder Increase by the score LovesWhy, what can be done? If a noise comes from one, Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more Loves? PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 287 PARAPHRASES ON HEINE.! ITHE LAST TRANSLATION.] ROME, 1860. I. OUT of my own great woe I make my little songs, Which rustle their feathers in throngs And beat on her heart even so. II. They found the way, for their part, Yet come again, and complain, Complain, and are not fain To say what they saw in her heart. 238 LAST POEM. 8. n. I. ART thou indeed so adverse? Art thou so changed indeed? Against the woman who wrongs me I cry to the world in my need. I. O recreant lips unthankful, How could ye speak evil, say, Of the man who so well has kissed you On many a fortunate day? III. I. MY child, we were two children, Small, merry by childhood's law; We used to crawrto the hen-house, And hide ourselves in the straw. II. We crowed like cocks, and whenever The passers near us drew PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 239 Cock-a-doodle! they thought'Twas a real cock that crew. III. The boxes about our courtyard We carpeted to our mind, And lived there both together — Kept house in a noble kind. IV. The neighbor's old cat often Came to pay us a visit; We made her a bow and curtsey, Each with a compliment in it. v. After her health we asked, Our care and regard to evince(We have made the very same speeches To many an old cat since.) VI. We also sate and wisely Discoursed, as old folks do, Complaining how all went better In those good times we knew, — 240 LAST POEMS. VII. How love and truth and believing Had left the world to itself, And how so dear was the coffee, And how so rare was the pelf. viii. The children's games are over, The rest is over with youthThe world, the good games, the good times, The belief, and the love, and the truth. IV. i. THou lovest me not, thou lovest me not!'Tis scarcely worth a sigh: Let me look in thy face, and no king in his place Is a gladder man than I. II. Thou hatest me well, thou hatest me wellThy little red mouth has told: Let it reach me a kiss, and, however it is, My child, I am well consoled. PARAPHRASES ON HEINE. 241 V. I. MY own sweet Love, if thou in the grave, The darksome grave, wilt be, Then will I go down by the side, and crave Love-room for thee and me. II. I kiss and caress and press. thee wild, Thou still, thou cold, thou white! I wail, I tremble, and weeping mild, Turn to a corpse at the right. III. The Dead stand up, the midnight calls, They dance in airy swarmsWe two keep still where the grave-shade falls, And I lie on in thine arms. IV. The Dead stand up, the Judgment-day Bids such to weal or woe — But nought shall trouble us where we stay Embraced and embracing below. 16 242 LAST POEMS. VI. I. The years they come and go, The races drop in the grave, Yet never the love doth so, Which here in my heart I have. II. Could I see thee but once, one day, And sink down so on my knee, And die in thy sight while I say,'Lady, I love but thee!' THE END. FESTUS; A POEM, BY PHILIP JAMES BAILEY, BARRISTER AT LAW. 1 volume, Blue-and-gold, 75 cts., 12mo, $1 00. "' It is an extraordinary production."-London Literary Gazette. WORKS OF WILLIAM WARE. Z ENO BI A; or the Fall of Palmyra. In letters of L. Manlius Piso, from Palmyra, to his friend Marcus Curtius, at Rome. I vol., 12mo, - - - - $1.25 AURELIAN; or Rome in the Third Century. In Letters of Lucius M. 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