Perhaps on some one's arm you strayed, 'Mid quiet paths ('tis like a maid See lovers' annals), Preferring moonlight to the "hop"; But now the night air makes you stop And think of flannels. 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 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. ROBERT BROWNING. OBERT BROWNING was born at Camberwell, 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 And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 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, Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy: (So tight he kept his lips compressed 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. THE LOST LEADER. JUST for a handful of silver he left us, So much was theirs who so little allowed. Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! 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 through his presence; Songs may inspirit us-not from his lyre; Deeds will be done-while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more foot-path 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 would 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! THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. I SAID-Then, dearest, since 't is so, Since all my life seemed meant for fails, Since this was written and needs must be |