TO MRS. ARTHUR BRONSON To whom but you, dear Friend, should I dedicate verses—some few written, all of them supervised, in the comfort of your presence, and with yet another experience of the gracious hospitality now bestowed on me since so many a year,—adding a charm even to my residences at Venice, and leaving me little regret for the surprise and delight at my visits to Asolo in bygone days? I unite, you will see, the disconnected poems by a title-name popularly ascribed to the inventiveness of the ancient secretary of Queen Cornaro whose palace-tower still overlooks us: Asolare—"to disport in the open air, amuse one's self at random." The objection that such a word nowhere occurs in the works of the Cardinal is hardly important—Bembo was too thorough a purist to conserve in print a term which in talk he might possibly toy with: but the word is more likely derived from a Spanish source. I use it for love of the place, and in requital of your pleasant assurance that an early poem of mine first attracted you thither—where and elsewhere, at La Mura as CÀ Alvisi, may all happiness attend you! Gratefully and affectionately yours, R. B. Asolo: October 15, 1889.
The greater part of Asolando was written in 1888–89, though in one instance at least an early poem was included in the collection. The title of the volume is explained in the dedication. The book, by a strange coincidence, was published on the day of Browning's death. PROLOGUE When a boy Browning had a humble friend in the person of a toad. "He visited it daily where it burrowed under a white rosetree, announcing himself by a pinch of gravel dropped into its hole; and the creature would crawl forth, allow its head to be gently tickled, and reward the act with a loving glance of its soft full eyes." Mrs. Orr. If you and I could change to beasts, what beast should either be? Shall you and I play Jove for once? Turn fox then, I decree! Shy wild sweet stealer of the grapes! Now do your worst on me! And thus you think to spite your friend—turned loathsome? What, a toad? So, all men shrink and shun me! Dear men, pursue your road! Leave but my crevice in the stone, a reptile's fit abode! Now say your worst, Canidia! "He 's loathsome, I allow: There may or may not lurk a pearl beneath his puckered brow: But see his eyes that follow mine—love lasts there, anyhow." BAD DREAMS
I Last night I saw you in my sleep: And how your charm of face was changed! I asked, "Some love, some faith you keep?" You answered, "Faith gone, love estranged." Whereat I woke—a twofold bliss: Waking was one, but next there came This other: "Though I felt, for this, My heart break, I loved on the same." BAD DREAMS
II You in the flesh and here— Your very self! Now, wait! One word! May I hope or fear? Must I speak in love or hate? Stay while I ruminate! The fact and each circumstance Dare you disown? Not you! That vast dome, that huge dance, And the gloom which overgrew A—possibly festive crew! For why should men dance at all— Why women—a crowd of both— Unless they are gay? Strange ball— Hands and feet plighting troth, Yet partners enforced and loth! Of who danced there, no shape Did I recognize: thwart, perverse, Each grasped each, past escape In a whirl or weary or worse; Man's sneer met woman's curse, While he and she toiled as if Their guardian set galley-slaves To supple chained limbs grown stiff; Unmanacled trulls and knaves— The lash for who misbehaves! And a gloom was, all the while, Deeper and deeper yet O'ergrowing the rank and file Of that army of haters—set To mimic love's fever-fret. By the wall-side close I crept, Avoiding the livid maze, And, safely so far, outstepped On a chamber—a chapel, says My memory or betrays— Closet-like, kept aloof From unseemly witnessing What sport made floor and roof Of the Devil's palace ring While his Damned amused their king. Ay, for a low lamp burned, And a silence lay about What I, in the midst, discerned Though dimly till, past doubt, 'T was a sort of throne stood out— High seat with steps, at least: And the topmost step was filled By—whom? What vestured priest? A stranger to me,—his guild, His cult, unreconciled To my knowledge how guild and cult Are clothed in this world of ours: I pondered, but no result Came to—unless that Giaours So worship the Lower Powers. When suddenly who entered? Who knelt—did you guess I saw? Who—raising that face were centred Allegiance to love and law So lately—off-casting awe, Down-treading reserve, away Thrusting respect ... but mine Stands firm—firm still shall stay! Ask Satan! for I decline To tell—what I saw, in fine! Yet here in the flesh you come— Your same self, form and face,— In the eyes, mirth still at home! On the lips, that commonplace Perfection of honest grace! Yet your errand is—needs must be— To palliate—well, explain, Expurgate in some degree Your soul of its ugly stain. Oh, you—the good in grain— How was it your white took tinge? "A mere dream"—never object! Sleep leaves a door on hinge Whence soul, ere our flesh suspect, Is off and away: detect Her vagaries when loose, who can! Be she pranksome, be she prude, Disguise with the day began: With the night—ah, what ensued From draughts of a drink hell-brewed? Then She: "What a queer wild dream! And perhaps the best fun is— Myself had its fellow—I seem Scarce awake from yet. 'T was this— Shall I tell you? First, a kiss! "For the fault was just your own,— 'T is myself expect apology: You warned me to let alone (Since our studies were mere philology) That ticklish (you said) Anthology. "So I dreamed that I passed exam Till a question posed me sore: 'Who translated this epigram By—an author we best ignore?' And I answered, 'Hannah More'!" BAD DREAMS
III This was my dream: I saw a Forest Old as the earth, no track nor trace Of unmade man. Thou, Soul, explorest— Though in a trembling rapture—space Immeasurable! Shrubs, turned trees, Trees that touch heaven, support its freize Studded with sun and moon and star: While—oh, the enormous growths that bar Mine eye from penetrating past Their tangled twine where lurks—nay, lives Royally lone, some brute-type cast I' the rough, time cancels, man forgives. On, Soul! I saw a lucid City Of architectural device Every way perfect. Pause for pity, Lightning! nor leave a cicatrice On those bright marbles, dome and spire, Structures palatial,—streets which mire Dares not defile, paved all too fine For human footstep's smirch, not thine— Proud solitary traverser, My Soul, of silent lengths of way— With what ecstatic dread, aver, Lest life start sanctioned by thy stay! Ah, but the last sight was the hideous! A City, yes,—a Forest, true,— But each devouring each. Perfidious Snake-plants had strangled what I knew Was a pavilion once: each oak Held on his horns some spoil he broke By surreptitiously beneath Upthrusting: pavements, as with teeth, Griped huge weed widening crack and split In squares and circles stone-work erst. Oh, Nature—good! Oh, Art—no whit Less worthy! Both in one—accurst! BAD DREAMS
IV It happened thus: my slab, though new, Was getting weather-stained,—beside, Herbage, balm, peppermint o'ergrew Letter and letter: till you tried Somewhat, the Name was scarce descried. That strong stern man my lover came: —Was he my lover? Call him, pray, My life's cold critic bent on blame Of all poor I could do or say To make me worth his love one day— One far day when, by diligent And dutiful amending faults, Foibles, all weaknesses which went To challenge and excuse assaults Of culture wronged by taste that halts— Discrepancies should mar no plan Symmetric of the qualities Claiming respect from—say—a man That 's strong and stern. "Once more he pries Into me with those critic eyes!" No question! so—"Conclude, condemn Each failure my poor self avows! Leave to its fate all you contemn! There 's Solomon's selected spouse: Earth needs must hold such maids—choose them!" Why, he was weeping! Surely gone Sternness and strength: with eyes to ground And voice a broken monotone— "Only be as you were! Abound In foibles, faults,—laugh, robed and crowned "As Folly's veriest queen,—care I One feather-fluff? Look pity, Love, On prostrate me—your foot shall try This forehead's use—mount thence above, And reach what Heaven you dignify!" Now, what could bring such change about? The thought perplexed: till, following His gaze upon the ground,—why, out Came all the secret! So, a thing Thus simple has deposed my king! For, spite of weeds that strove to spoil Plain reading on the lettered slab, My name was clear enough—no soil Effaced the date when one chance stab Of scorn ... if only ghosts might blab! INAPPREHENSIVENESS We two stood simply friend-like side by side, Viewing a twilight country far and wide, Till she at length broke silence. "How it towers Yonder, the ruin o'er this vale of ours! The West's faint flare behind it so relieves Its rugged outline—sight perhaps deceives, Or I could almost fancy that I see A branch wave plain—belike some wind-sown tree Chance-rooted where a missing turret was. What would I give for the perspective glass At home, to make out if 't is really so! Has Ruskin noticed here at Asolo That certain weed-growths on the ravaged wall Seem" ... something that I could not say at all, My thought being rather—as absorbed she sent Look onward after look from eyes distent With longing to reach Heaven's gate left ajar— "Oh, fancies that might be, oh, facts that are! What of a wilding? By you stands, and may So stand unnoticed till the Judgment Day, One who, if once aware that your regard Claimed what his heart holds,—woke, as from its sward The flower, the dormant passion, so to speak— Then what a rush of life would startling wreak Revenge on your inapprehensive stare While, from the ruin and the West's faint flare, You let your eyes meet mine, touch what you term Quietude—that 's an universe in germ— The dormant passion needing but a look To burst into immense life!" "No, the book Which noticed how the wall-growths wave," said she, "Was not by Ruskin." I said, "Vernon Lee." WHICH? So, the three Court-ladies began Their trial of who judged best In esteeming the love of a man: Who preferred with most reason was thereby confessed Boy-Cupid's exemplary catcher and eager; An AbbÉ crossed legs to decide on the wager. First the Duchesse: "Mine for me— Who were it but God's for Him, And the King's for—who but he? Both faithful and loyal, one grace more shall brim His cup with perfection: a lady's true lover, He holds—save his God and his king—none above her." "I require"—outspoke the Marquise— "Pure thoughts, ay, but also fine deeds: Play the paladin must he, to please My whim, and—to prove my knight's service exceeds Your saint's and your loyalist's praying and kneeling— Show wounds, each wide mouth to my mercy appealing." Then the Comtesse: "My choice be a wretch, Mere losel in body and soul, Thrice accurst! What care I, so he stretch Arms to me his sole savior, love's ultimate goal, Out of earth and men's noise—names of 'infidel,' 'traitor,' Cast up at him? Crown me, crown's adjudicator!" And the AbbÉ uncrossed his legs, Took snuff, a reflective pinch, Broke silence: "The question begs Much pondering ere I pronounce. Shall I flinch? The love which to one and one only has reference Seems terribly like what perhaps gains God's preference." THE CARDINAL AND THE DOG This poem was written in May, 1842, at the same time as the Pied Piper, both having been written at the request of Macready's little son, who was confined to the house by illness and wanted Browning to write him some poems for which he could make pictures. Crescenzio, the Pope's Legate at the High Council, Trent, —Year Fifteen hundred twenty-two, March Twenty-five—intent On writing letters to the Pope till late into the night, Rose, weary, to refresh himself, and saw a monstrous sight: (I give mine Author's very words: he penned, I reindite.) A black Dog of vast bigness, eyes flaming, ears that hung Down to the very ground almost, into the chamber sprung And made directly for him, and laid himself right under The table where Crescenzio wrote—who called in fear and wonder His servants in the ante-room, commanded every one To look for and find out the beast: but, looking, they found none. The Cardinal fell melancholy, then sick, soon after died: And at Verona, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried Aloud to drive away the Dog that leapt on his bedside. Heaven keep us Protestants from harm: the rest ... no ill betide! THE POPE AND THE NET What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran, Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began: His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman. So much the more his boy minds book, givesproof of mother-wit, Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit No less than Cardinal erelong, while no one cries "Unfit!" But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head: Each winks at each: "I'-faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!" You think he blushes red? Not he, of humble holy heart! "Unworthy me!" he sighs: "From fisher's drudge to Church's prince—it is indeed a rise: So, here 's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!" And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met His mean estate's reminder in his fisher-father's net! Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice: "The humble holy heart that holds of newborn pride no spice! He 's just the saint to choose for Pope!" Each adds, "'T is my advice." So, Pope he was: and when we flocked—its sacred slipper on— To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone— That guarantee of lowlihead,—eclipsed that star which shone! Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried, "Pish! I 'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish. Why, Father, is the net removed?" "Son, it hath caught the fish." THE BEAN-FEAST He was the man—Pope Sixtus, that Fifth, that swineherd's son: He knew the right thing, did it, and thanked God when 't was done: But of all he had to thank for, my fancy somehow leans To thinking, what most moved him was a certain meal on beans. For one day, as his wont was, in just enough disguise As he went exploring wickedness,—to see with his own eyes If law had due observance in the city's entrail dark As well as where, i' the open, crime stood an obvious mark,— He chanced, in a blind alley, on a tumble-down once house Now hovel, vilest structure in Rome the ruinous: And, as his tact impelled him, Sixtus adventured bold, To learn how lowliest subjects bore hunger, toil, and cold. There sat they at high-supper—man and wife, lad and lass, Poor as you please, but cleanly all and carefree: pain that was —Forgotten, pain as sure to be let bide aloof its time,— Mightily munched the brave ones—what mattered gloom or grime? Said Sixtus, "Feast, my children! who works hard needs eat well. I 'm just a supervisor, would hear what you can tell. Do any wrongs want righting? The Father tries his best, But, since he 's only mortal, sends such as I to test The truth of all that 's told him—how folk like you may fare: Come!—only don't stop eating—when mouth has words to spare— "You"—smiled he—"play the spokesman, bell-wether of the flock! Are times good, masters gentle? Your grievances unlock! How of your work and wages?—pleasures, if such may be— Pains, as such are for certain." Thus smiling questioned he. But somehow, spite of smiling, awe stole upon the group— An inexpressible surmise: why should a priest thus stoop— Pry into what concerned folk? Each visage fell. Aware, Cries Sixtus interposing: "Nay, children, have no care! "Fear nothing! Who employs me requires the plain truth. Pelf Beguiles who should inform me: so, I inform myself. See!" And he drew his hood back, let the close vesture ope, Showed face, and where on tippet the cross lay: 't was the Pope. Imagine the joyful wonder! "How shall the like of us— Poor souls—requite such blessing of our rude bean-feast?" "Thus— Thus amply!" laughed Pope Sixtus. "I early rise, sleep late: Who works may eat: they tempt me, your beans there: spare a plate!" Down sat he on the door-step: 't was they this time said grace: He ate up the last mouthful, wiped lips, and then, with face Turned heavenward, broke forth thankful: "Not now, that earth obeys Thy word in mine, that through me the peoples know Thy ways— "But that Thy care extendeth to Nature's homely wants, And, while man's mind is strengthened, Thy goodness nowise scants Man's body of its comfort,—that I whom kings and queens Crouch to, pick crumbs from off my table, relish beans! The thunders I but seem to launch, there plain Thy hand all see: That I have appetite, digest, and thrive—that boon 's for me." MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG Frowned the Laird on the Lord: "So, red-handed I catch thee? Death-doomed by our Law of the Border! We 've a gallows outside and a chiel to dispatch thee: Who trespasses—hangs: all 's in order." He met frown with smile, did the young English gallant: Then the Laird's dame: "Nay, Husband, I beg! He 's comely: be merciful! Grace for the callant —If he marries our Muckle-mouth Meg!" "No mile-wide-mouthed monster of yours do I marry: Grant rather the gallows!" laughed he. "Foul fare kith and kin of you—why do you tarry?" "To tame your fierce temper!" quoth she. "Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him fast for a week: Cold, darkness, and hunger work wonders: Who lion-like roars now, mouse-fashion will squeak, And 'it rains' soon succeed to 'it thunders.'" A week did he bide in the cold and the dark —Not hunger: for duly at morning In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lark Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still ye 're scorning? "Go hang, but here 's parritch to hearten ye first!" "Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast within some Such music as yours, mine should match it or burst: No frog-jaws! So tell folk, my Winsome!" Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's door set wide, Out he marched, and there waited the lassie: "Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for a bride! Consider! Sky 's blue and turf 's grassy: "Life 's sweet: shall I say ye wed Muckle-mouth Meg?" "Not I," quoth the stout heart: "too eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's egg; Shall I let it munch mine? Never, Dearie!" "Not Muckle-mouth Meg? Wow, the obstinate man! Perhaps he would rather wed me!" "Ay, would he—with just for a dowry your can!" "I 'm Muckle-mouth Meg," chirruped she. "Then so—so—so—so—" as he kissed her apace— "Will I widen thee out till thou turnest From Margaret Minnikin—mou', by God's grace, To Muckle-mouth Meg in good earnest!" ARCADES AMBO A. You blame me that I ran away? Why, Sir, the enemy advanced: Balls flew about, and—who can say But one, if I stood firm, had glanced In my direction? Cowardice? I only know we don't live twice, Therefore—shun death, is my advice. B. Shun death at all risks? Well, at some! True, I myself, Sir, though I scold The cowardly, by no means come Under reproof as overbold —I, who would have no end of brutes Cut up alive to guess what suits My case and saves my toe from shoots. THE LADY AND THE PAINTER She. Yet womanhood you reverence, So you profess! He. With heart and soul. She. Of which fact this is evidence! To help Art-study,—for some dole Of certain wretched shillings,—you Induce a woman—virgin too— To strip and stand stark-naked? He. True. She. Nor feel you so degrade her? He. What —(Excuse the interruption)—clings Half-savage-like around your hat? She. Ah, do they please you? Wild-bird-wings! Next season,—Paris-prints assert,— We must go feathered to the skirt: My modiste keeps on the alert. Owls, hawks, jays—swallows most approve. He. Dare I speak plainly? She. Oh, I trust! He. Then, Lady Blanche, it less would move In heart and soul of me disgust Did you strip off those spoils you wear, And stand—for thanks, not shillings—bare To help Art like my Model there. She well knew what absolved her—praise In me for God's surpassing good, Who granted to my reverent gaze A type of purest womanhood. You—clothed with murder of his best Of harmless beings—stand the test! What is it you know? She. That you jest! PONTE DELL' ANGELO, VENICE Stop rowing! This one of our bye-canals O'er a certain bridge you have to cross That 's named, "Of the Angel:" listen why! The name "Of the Devil" too much appalls Venetian acquaintance, so—his the loss, While the gain goes ... look on high! An angel visibly guards, yon house: Above each scutcheon—a pair—stands he, Enfolds them with droop of either wing: The family's fortune were perilous Did he thence depart—you will soon agree, If I hitch into verse the thing. For, once on a time, this house belonged To a lawyer of note, with law and to spare, But also with overmuch lust of gain: In the matter of law you were nowise wronged, But alas for the lucre! He picked you bare To the bone. Did folk complain? "I exact," growled he, "work's rightful due: 'T is folk seek me, not I seek them. Advice at its price! They succeed or fail, Get law in each case—and a lesson too: Keep clear of the Courts—is advice ad rem: They 'll remember, I 'll be bail!" So, he pocketed fee without a qualm. What reason for squeamishness? Labor done, To play he betook him with lightened heart, Ate, drank, and made merry with song or psalm, Since the yoke of the Church is an easy one— Fits neck nor causes smart. Brief: never was such an extortionate Rascal—the word has escaped my teeth! And yet—(all 's down in a book no ass Indited, believe me!)—this reprobate Was punctual at prayer-time: gold lurked beneath Alloy of the rankest brass. For, play the extortioner as he might, Fleece folk each day and all day long, There was this redeeming circumstance: He never lay down to sleep at night But he put up a prayer first, brief yet strong, "Our Lady avert mischance!" Now it happened at close of a fructuous week "I must ask," quoth he, "some Saint to dine: I want that widow well out of my ears With her ailing and wailing. Who bade her seek Redress at my hands? 'She was wronged!' Folk whine If to Law wrong right appears. "Matteo da Bascio—he 's my man! No less than Chief of the Capucins: His presence will surely suffumigate My house—fools think lies under a ban If somebody loses what somebody wins. Hark, there he knocks at the grate! "Come in, thou blessed of Mother Church! I go and prepare—to bid, that is, My trusty and diligent servitor Get all things in readiness. Vain the search Through Venice for one to compare with this My model of ministrants: for— "For—once again, nay, three times over, My helpmate 's an ape! so intelligent, I train him to drudge at household work: He toils and he moils, I live in clover: Oh, you shall see! There 's a goodly scent— From his cooking, or I 'm a Turk! "Scarce need to descend and supervise: I 'll do it, however: wait here awhile!" So, down to the kitchen gayly scuttles Our host, nor notes the alarmed surmise Of the holy man. "O depth of guile! He blindly guzzles and guttles, "While—who is it dresses the food and pours The liquor? Some fiend—I make no doubt— In likeness of—which of the loathly brutes? An ape! Where hides he? No bull that gores, No bear that hugs—'t is the mock and flout Of an ape, fiend's face that suits. "So—out with thee, creature, wherever thou hidest! I charge thee, by virtue of ... right do I judge! There skulks he perdue, crouching under the bed. Well done! What, forsooth, in beast's shape thou confidest? I know and would name thee but that I begrudge Breath spent on such carrion. Instead— "I adjure thee by——" "Stay!" laughed the portent that rose From floor up to ceiling: "No need to adjure! See Satan in person, late ape by command Of Him thou adjurest in vain. A saint's nose Scents brimstone though incense be burned for a lure. Yet, hence! for I 'm safe, understand! "'T is my charge to convey to fit punishment's place This lawyer, my liegeman, for cruelty wrought On his clients, the widow and orphan, poor souls He has plagued by exactions which proved law's disgrace, Made equity void and to nothingness brought God's pity. Fiends, on with fresh coals!" "Stay!" nowise confounded, withstands Hell its match: "How comes it, were truth in this story of thine, God's punishment suffered a minute's delay? Weeks, months have elapsed since thou squattedst at watch For a spring on thy victim: what caused thee decline Advantage till challenged to-day?" "That challenge I meet with contempt," quoth the fiend. "Thus much I acknowledge: the man 's armed in mail: I wait till a joint 's loose, then quick ply my claws. Thy friend's one good custom—he knows not—has screened His flesh hitherto from what else would assail: At 'Save me, Madonna!' I pause. "That prayer did the losel but once pretermit, My pounce were upon him. I keep me attent: He 's in safety but till he 's caught napping. Enough!" "Ay, enough!" smiles the Saint—"for the biter is bit, The spy caught in somnolence. Vanish! I'm sent To smooth up what fiends do in rough." "I vanish? Through wall or through roof?" the ripost Grinned gayly. "My orders were—'Leave not unharmed The abode of this lawyer! Do damage to prove 'T was for something thou quittedst the land of the lost— To add to their number this unit!' Though charmed From descent there, on earth that 's above "I may haply amerce him." "So do, and begone, I command thee! For, look! Though there 's doorway behind And window before thee, go straight through the wall, Leave a breach in the brickwork, a gap in the stone For who passes to stare at!" "Spare speech! I 'm resigned: Here goes!" roared the goblin, as all— Wide bat-wings, spread arms and legs, tail out a-stream, Crash obstacles went, right and left, as he soared Or else sank, was clean gone through the hole anyhow. The Saint returned thanks: then a satisfied gleam On the bald polished pate showed that triumph was scored. "To dinner with appetite now!" Down he trips. "In good time!" smirks the host. "Didst thou scent Rich savor of roast meat? Where hides he, my ape? Look alive, be alert! He 's away to wash plates. Sit down, Saint! What 's here? Dost examine a rent In the napkin thou twistest and twirlest? Agape ... Ha, blood is it drips nor abates "From thy wringing a cloth, late was lavendered fair? What means such a marvel?" "Just this does it mean: I convince and convict thee of sin!" answers straight The Saint, wringing on, wringing ever—oh, rare!— Blood—blood from a napery snow not more clean. "A miracle shows thee thy state! "See—blood thy extortions have wrung from the flesh Of thy clients who, sheep-like, arrived to be shorn, And left thee—or fleeced to the quick or so flayed That, behold, their blood gurgles and grumbles afresh To accuse thee! Ay, down on thy knees, get up sworn To restore! Restitution once made, "Sin no more! Dost thou promise? Absolved, then, arise! Upstairs follow me! Art amazed at yon breach? Who battered and shattered and scattered, escape From thy purlieus obtaining? That Father of Lies Thou wast wont to extol for his feats, all and each The Devil 's disguised as thine ape!" Be sure that our lawyer was torn by remorse, Shed tears in a flood, vowed and swore so to alter His ways that how else could our Saint but declare He was cleansed of past sin? "For sin future—fare worse Thou undoubtedly wilt," warned the Saint, "shouldst thou falter One whit!" "Oh, for that have no care! "I am firm in my purposed amendment. But, prithee, Must ever affront and affright me yon gap? Who made it for exit may find it of use For entrance as easy. If, down in his smithy He forges me fetters—when heated, mayhap, He 'll up with an armful! Broke loose— "How bar him out henceforth?" "Judiciously urged!" Was the good man's reply. "How to balk him is plain. There 's nothing the Devil objects to so much, So speedily flies from, as one of those purged Of his presence, the angels who erst formed his train— His, their emperor. Choose one of such! "Get fashioned his likeness and set him on high At back of the breach thus adroitly filled up: Display him as guard of two scutcheons, thy arms: I warrant no devil attempts to get by And disturb thee so guarded. Eat, drink, dine, and sup, In thy rectitude, safe from alarms!" So said and so done. See, the angel has place Where the Devil has passage! All 's down in a book. Gainsay me? Consult it! Still faithless? Trust me? Trust Father Boverio who gave me the case In his Annals—gets of it, by hook or by crook, Two confirmative witnesses: three Are surely enough to establish an act: And thereby we learn—would we ascertain truth— To trust wise tradition which took, at the time, Note that served till slow history ventured on fact, Though folk have their fling at tradition forsooth! Row, boys, fore and aft, rhyme and chime! BEATRICE SIGNORINI
erse mleft3">Common praise discarded. So, without assistance Such as music rightly Needs and claims,—defying distance, Overleaping lightly Obstacles which hinder, He, for my approval, All the same and all the kinder Made mine what might move all Earth to kneel adoring: Took—while he piped Gounod's Bit of passionate imploring— Me for Juliet: who knows? No! as you explain things, All 's mere repetition, Practise-pother: of all vain things Why waste pooh or pish on Toilsome effort—never Ending, still beginning After what should pay endeavor —Right-performance? winning Weariness from you who, Ready to admire some Owl's fresh hooting—Tu-whit, tu-who— Find stale thrush-songs tiresome. She. Songs, Spring thought perfection, Summer criticises: What in May escaped detection, August, past surprises, Notes, and names each blunder. You, the just-initiate, Praise to heart's content (what wonder?) Tootings I hear vitiate Romeo's serenading— I who, times full twenty, Turned to ice—no ash-tops aiding— At his caldamente. So, 't was distance altered Sharps to flats? The missing Bar when syncopation faltered (You thought—paused for kissing!) Ash-tops too felonious Intercepted? Rather Say—they well-nigh made euphonious Discord, helped to gather Phrase, by phrase, turn patches Into simulated Unity which botching matches,— Scraps redintegrated. He. Sweet, are you suggestive Of an old suspicion Which has always found me restive To its admonition When it ventured whisper "Fool, the strifes and struggles Of your trembler—blusher—lisper Were so many juggles, Tricks tried—oh, so often!— Which once more do duty, Find again a heart to soften, Soul to snare with beauty." Birth-blush of the briar-rose, Mist-bloom of the hedge-sloe, Some one gains the prize: admire rose Would he, when noon's wedge—slow— Sure, has pushed, expanded Rathe pink to raw redness? Would he covet sloe when sanded By road-dust to deadness? So—restore their value! Ply a water-sprinkle! Then guess sloe is fingered, shall you? Find in rose a wrinkle? Here what played Aquarius? Distance—ash-tops aiding, Reconciled scraps else contrarious, Brightened stuff fast fading. Distance—call your shyness: Was the fair one peevish? Coyness softened out of slyness. Was she cunning, thievish, All-but-proved impostor? Bear but one day's exile, Ugly traits were wholly lost or Screened by fancies flexile— Ash-tops these, you take me? Fancies' interference Changed ... But since I sleep, don't wake me: What if all's appearance? Is not outside seeming Real as substance inside? Both are facts, so leave me dreaming: If who loses wins I'd Ever lose,—conjecture, From one phrase trilled deftly, All the piece. So, end your lecture, Let who lied be left lie! "IMPERANTE AUGUSTO NATUS EST—" What it was struck the terror into me? This, Publius: closer! while we wait our turn I'll tell you. Water's warm (they ring inside) At the eighth hour, till when no use to bathe. Here in the vestibule where now we sit, One scarce stood yesterday, the throng was such Of loyal gapers, folk all eye and ear While Lucius Varius Rufus in their midst Read out that long-planned late-completed piece, His Panegyric on the Emperor. "Nobody like him," little Flaccus laughed, "At leading forth an Epos with due pomp! Only, when godlike CÆsar swells the theme, How should mere mortals hope to praise aright? Tell me, thou offshoot of Etruscan kings!" Whereat MÆcenas smiling sighed assent. I paid my quadrans, left the ThermÆ's roar Of rapture as the poet asked, "What place Among the godships Jove, for CÆsar's sake, Would bid its actual occupant vacate In favor of the new divinity?" And got the expected answer, "Yield thine own!"— Jove thus dethroned, I somehow wanted air, And found myself a-pacing street and street, Letting the sunset, rosy over Rome, Clear my head dizzy with the hubbub—say, As if thought's dance therein had kicked up dust By trampling on all else: the world lay prone, As—poet-propped, in brave hexameters— Their subject triumphed up from man to God. Caius Octavius CÆsar the August— Where was escape from his prepotency? I judge I may have passed—how many piles Of structure dropt like doles from his free hand To Rome on every side? Why, right and left, For temples you've the Thundering Jupiter, Suggested by a very early recollection of a prose story by the noble woman and imaginative writer, Jane Taylor, of Norwich, [more correctly, of Ongar]. R. B. In regard to the third verse of this poem the Pall Mall Gazette of February 1, 1890, related this incident: "One evening, just before his death-illness, the poet was reading this from a proof to his daughter-in-law and sister. He said: 'It almost looks like bragging to say this, and as if I ought to cancel it; but it's the simple truth; and as it's true, it shall stand.'" At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, When you set your fancies free, Will they pass to where—by death, fools think, imprisoned— Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, —Pity me? Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel —Being—who? One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake. No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed,—fight on, fare ever There as here!"
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