To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: We are not now that strength which in old days are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. LORD TENNYSON. A LIGHT WOMAN I So far as our story approaches the end, II My friend was already too good to lose, And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net. III When I saw him tangled in her toils, IV And before my friend be wholly hers, V So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed. VI The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space! VII For see, my friend goes shaking and white: He eyes me as the basilisk: I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk. VIII And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her that he comprehends One should master one's passions (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!" And she, IX she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try and off it came; 'Tis mine, can I let it fall? X With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist. XI And I, what I seem to my friend, you see: XII 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, XIII One likes to show the truth for the truth; XIV Well, any how, here the story stays, And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand! ROBERT BROWNING. SHOP I So, friend, your shop was all your house! II What gimcracks, genuine Japanese: III I thought, "And he who owns the wealth |