disentangled from accidental conditions, and made to shine by their own light. Browning constantly fails to free them from these trammels of temporary clothing, and display them in the grandeur of their nakedness. He needs an expositor, an annotator, an editor; and this necessity disables him from conveying to the world more than a small part of the good he tried to do. The world awaits a stronger unifying force, a more synthetic genius. Doubtless, no truth that Browning perceived will be lost; but it will come to us by the medium of other minds than his. In many of his poems his power of brilliant costuming and of dramatic statement blinds us to the thing which was his real object, and we praise him for achievements which were merely accessory to his intent. But this is as much his fault as ours, and he must pay the penalty of it. Browning has been truly called one of the most suggestive of poets. Vivid and impressive pictures start into view under his pen as if spontaneously; he gives us the word which tells and omits the rest; and often he hits the very nerve of meaning. Color and sparkle cover his work with a splendid sheen and iridescence, dazzling and enchanting the eye. He places the external of a man or woman before us with a few masterly touches, and then proceeds to dive into their inmost souls and reveal the hidden springs of their action and thought. He brings similes and illustrations from afar; he sets his picture in a splendid frame, and throws behind it the shadows of a mystic or mysterious background. At times he fills the listening soul with music that seems to come from Heaven itself; but anon a discord jars upon us, and we forgive it less easily because but now we had been so deeply delighted. To read him is like driving with Phaëton in the chariot of the Sun; we brush the stars and then plunge headlong earthwards. The emotions which he portrays are the most impassioned known to our natnre; his landscapes are fierce, ominous, appalling, transcendently lovely, but seldom soothing and inviting. The serene middle path was rarely trodden by his Muse. Our pulse beats faster as we follow her, but we are not won by those gentle and sweet fascinations which make us forget the means in the end. The length of many of Browning's poems is portentous; such a work as "The Ring and the Book" could not be adequately perused in months, having in view the complicated psychical analysis which is its warp and woof. Nor can it be said that, for any but students, the fruit to be gathered repays the time and effort of the gathering. "The Ring and the Book" is indeed full of superb poetry; but this is involved with much that is of less value, but which, on the other hand, is instrumental to the complete effect. Many attempts have been made to isolate the "Beauties of Browning," but they have failed, as might have been expected; no vital work can be thus eviscerated without losing more than is gained. Detached apothegms, no matter how trenchant or penetrating, have little weight; to detach them is as if one were to bring down to the plain the rock which caps the mountain; in its true place it was sublime, but thus displaced it is a rock and no more. Finally, we must take Browning as he is, or do without him. There is no golden road to him. Nevertheless, there are many of his poems which all who run may read, and profit by. Such are "The Ride from Ghent to Aix," "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," "Ben Ezra," "Pippa Passes," and many shorter pieces in "Bells and Pomegranates" and "Men and Women." His poem, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," is one of his strangest and most captivating productions, and characteristic of his genius, inasmuch as it is open to many interpretations, and is probably read by each student according to the fashion of his own nature and knowledge. "Waring" is another of these absorbing problems which Browning gives us, possessing a meaning transcending what any specific solution can afford. We feel the spirit breathing through the form, and bringing inspiration; but the form itself is dim to our apprehension, and the more we seek to define it, the further does the true soul retire from us. The latter years of Browning's life were spent in England, with annual excursions to Italy. He was fond of society, and could be met at certain London houses almost daily during the season. His conversation was that of an accomplished man of the world, with something else added; one who did not know who he was might have wondered what this something was, but to those who knew it was the magic influence of a great soul. He continued to write up to nearly the time of his death, and the force and edge of his wonderful intellect were never abated or dulled. His fame will increase as time goes on, though the actual knowledge of his writings will probably remain the possession of the few. But in indirect ways he will lead and enlighten the race, and he was of too lofty a mind to care whether the good that came through him was credited to himself or another. PIPPA'S SONG. THE year's at the spring, The hillside's due-pearled; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven All's right with the world! THE LOST LEADER. JUST for a handful of silver he left us, They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags-were they purple, his heart had been proud. Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,-they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, -He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! We shall march prospering,-not thro' his presence; One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! There will be doubt, hesitation and pain, Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight, Never glad confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,-" Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew Full-galloping: nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You looked twice ere you saw his breast "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal's in the market place, And you'll be there anon, To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes. "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. RABBI BEN EZRA. (The first six and last two stanzas are given.) GROW old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?” Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. |