For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes,
And our children all went the way of the roses :
It's a long lane that knows no turnings.
One needs but little tackle to travel in;

So, just one stout cloak shall I indue :
And for a staff, what beats the javelin
With which his boars my father pinned you?
And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently,
Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful,

I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!
Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful.

What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all;
Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold:
When we mind labor, then only, we're too old-
What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?
And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees
(Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil),
I hope to get safely out of the turmoil

And arrive one day at the land of the gypsies,

And find my lady, or hear the last news of her

From some old thief and son of Lucifer,

His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop,
Sunburned all over like an Æthiop.

And when my Cotnar begins to operate

And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate,
And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent,
I shall drop in with as if by accident-
"You never knew, then, how it all ended,
What fortune good or bad attended
The little lady your Queen befriended?"

- And when that's told me, what's remaining? This world's too hard for my explaining.

The same wise judge of matters equine

Who still preferred some slim four-year-old

884. What age had Methusalem: the old man forgets his Bible.

870

880

890

900

To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold,
And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine,
He also must be such a lady's scorner!

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau :
Now up, now down, the world's one seesaw.
-So, I shall find out some snug corner
Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight,
Turn myself round and bid the world goodnight;
And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing
Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen)
To a world where will be no further throwing
Pearls before swine that can't value them.

Amen!

910

Since now at length my fate I know,

Since nothing all my love avails,

Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,

Since this was written and needs must be

My whole heart rises up to bless

Your name in pride and thankfulness!

906. He also must be such a lady's scorner: he who is such a poor judge of horses and wines.

910. Orson the wood-knight (Fr. ourson, a small bear): twin-brother of Valentine, and son of Bellisant. The brothers were born in a wood near Orleans, and Orson was carried off by a bear, which suckled him with her cubs. When he grew up, he became the terror of France, and was called "The Wild Man of the Forest." Ultimately he was reclaimed by his brother Valentine, overthrew the Green Knight, his rival in love, and married Fezon, daughter of the duke of Savary, in Aquitaine. Romance of Valentine and Orson (15th cent.). Brewer's 'Reader's Handbook' and 'Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.'

Only a memory of the same,

-And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.

2.

My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me a breathing-while or two

With life or death in the balance: right!

St. 1. Browning has no moping melancholy lovers. His lovers generally reflect his own manliness; and when their passion is unrequited, they acknowledge the absolute value of love to their own souls. As Mr. James Thomson, in his Notes on the Genius of Robert Browning, remarks (B. Soc. Papers, Part II., p. 246), “ Browning's passion is as intense, noble, and manly as his intellect is profound and subtle, and therefore original. I would especially insist on its manliness, because our pres ent literature abounds in so-called passion which is but half-sincere or wholly insincere sentimentalism, if it be not thinly disguised prurient lust, and in so-called pathos which is maudlin to nauseousness. The great unappreciated poet last cited [George Meredith] has defined passion as noble strength on fire; and this is the true passion of great natures and great poets; while sentimentalism is ignoble weakness dallying with fire; ... Browning's passion is of utter self-sacrifice, selfannihilation, self-vindicated by its irresistible intensity. So we read it in Time's Revenges, so in the scornful condemnation of the weak lovers in The Statue and the Bust, so in In a Balcony, and Two in the Campagna, with its

"Infinite passion and the pain

of finite hearts that yearn.'

Is the love rejected, unreturned? No weak and mean upbraidings of the beloved, no futile complaints; a solemn resignation to immitigable Fate; intense gratitude for inspiring love to the unloving beloved. So in A Serenade at the Villa; so in One Way of Love, with its

The blood replenished me again;

My last thought was at least not vain :
I and my mistress, side by side,

Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

3.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions— sun's

And moon's and evening-star's at once
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-
Thus leant she and lingered-joy and fear
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

4.

Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.

5.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,

As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought,- All labor, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,

This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me: here we ride.

6.

What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshy screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There's many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?

They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.

7.

What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed

You hold things beautiful the best,

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what's best for men? Are you - poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who have never turned a rhyme?

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.