Like her bows, She in garret sits and sews Furbelows Till her weary eyelids close ST. ELISE. HER faith makes worthy things of worthless, With all its promised powers. Her hope makes joyous hearts of mirthless, Her love can waken love now birthless- If you had lived in olden days, They would have canonized you saint They would have called you good, divine, A cross, a font above, your face There pious men of holy creeds And all would kneel before your face, To-day our faith is much the same; To live than die for Than in those days of cross and blade, But virtue keeps its sacredness, Our better selves have changed far less We reverence innocence and truth, We pledge our banners. We have not changed; the shrines of old Dear Saint Elise! ah, yes, as such We worship you to-day as much And more we love you. BALLADE OF TEASING. HER letters come and I am glad, I call her "angel," and I add Some sentences, ah, far less true, And she it really is too badNeglects to write a post or two. And when alarmed I sadly sue Forgiveness on my bended knees, She laughs and says, "'Twas only you." Clorinda is a charming tease. One day I am Sir Galahad, Devoted, gallant, tender, true, Of course she may, but still a few- ENVOY. Fates, did I rule your snake-haired crew, I would not have her made anew, AD CHLOEN, ÆTAT. XLV. CHLOE, Time's breath is harsh and rough, That wrinkle certainly I see, You once, perhaps, were true and fair, But now you're growing stout and gray; "I'm twenty-seven." Perhaps on some one's arm you strayed, Preferring moonlight to the "hop"; Perhaps with slender maiden grace You were a "blue," I have no doubt; But now you never read at all, Ah, madame, with your purchased wiles, Your time is usually spent Or working crewels. With simple faith fast girt about, But now the god you most revere Chloë, have not the vanished years Or is your heart a patent thing And bought at "Macy's"? AN APOLOGY. Now, no one could see- And her waist was so slender What wonder that we, As no one could see, Sat so long 'neath the tree In an attitude tender. Really, no one could see And her waist was so slender. JACQUEMINOT. Rose, come you not ambassador From Cupid's court to let me know Love yields at last? Speak, I implore! She loves me-rose, you tell me so. R ROBERT BROWNING. OBERT BROWNING was born at Camberwell, England, May 7, 1812, and died at Venice, December 12, 1889. At 37 he married Elizabeth Barrett, the greatest poet among English women. Their wedded life was spent chiefly in Florence, for Mrs. Browning could not endure her native climate. After her death, in 1861, Browning never revisited Florence; but he abode much in Italy, though a familiar and welcome presence in London during "the season." To poetry he was wholly dedicated at an early age, and his zeal before her altar was unwearied. He wrote vastly more verse than any other poet of our day. In quality it is the most varied, subtle, strong, since Shakespeare. His verse is varied, because he wrote in many moods, yet in forms that were "always dramatic in principle"; plays and monologues, idyls and romances. He wrote of many times and lands; of human character in many phases; of men fierce and gentle; of women jealous and confiding, warm and winning, cold and cruel. He dipped from the well of self-devoted love and stirred the bitter pool of hate. He was himself a painter and musician, and often fitly set forth the sister arts in the language of the one he had chosen mainly to serve. His verse is subtle, for he wrote of the springs of human action as revealed in a thousand situations. Shakespeare summoned all the world to act upon his stage. Browning tested each individual soul in his crucible, and compelled it to deliver up such secrets of the inner life as no previous analysis had disclosed. His verse is so strong that he may well be called the poet of energy. Though he wrote some stanzas of surpassing grace, the quality of strength has made his fame, which will be lasting, for his theme was high. That the spirit of man is great and immortal, because always capable of effort towards an ideal beyond, is the truth to which he was constant. Such was his philosophy. Robert Browning is an apostle of nineteenth century Christianity. At a time when imposed authority is losing its power and superstitious dogmas are inadequate, he makes us feel spiritual truth by his own virile faith, burning like a beacon against a stormy sky. There has been much dispute over the question whether he is a great poet, which turns upon the mere definition of art and opinions about the scope of poetry. This has its proper place, but is subordinate here. Men of a broad nature and women of a noble mind, who value all that sends the soul |