THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

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

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

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

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,

And cheerful turned to work anew.

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

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I
Might praise him, that great way, and die.”

Night passed, day shone,

And Theocrite was gone.

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

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

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

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

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

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

The man matured and fell away
Into the season of decay:

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

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

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

"So sing old worlds, and so

New worlds that from my footstool go.

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

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

'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome,
And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by
The great outer gallery,

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

And all his past career

Came back upon him clear,

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

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

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

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

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

"Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

Vain was thy dream many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak: it droppedCreation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again

The early way, while I remain.

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

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

Theocrite grew old at home:

A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died:
They sought God side by side.1

1 Compare this poem with Longfellow's "King Robert of Sicily," in which the same idea is developed. There is a possibility that the same legend suggested both poems.

FROM GHENT TO AIX.

$6 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT ΤΟ

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

II.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

1 In the Literary World, March 12, 1881, Browning said to an American inquirer about this poem:-" There is no sort of historical foundation for the poem about 'Good news from Ghent.' I wrote it under the bulwark of a vessel, off the African coast, after I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse, York,' then in my stable at home,"