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Clapp'd my hands, laugh'd and sang, any Blot out his name, then, record one lost
noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland gallop'd One task more declin'd, one more footand stood.
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for And all I remember is, friends flocking angels, round
One wrong more to man, one more insult As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on
to God ! the ground;
Life's night begins : let him never come And no voice but was praising this Roland
back to us! of mine,
There would be doubt, hesitation, and As I pour'd down his throat our last pain, measure of wine,
Forced praise on our part- the glimmer of Which (the burgesses voted by common twilight, consent)
Never glad confident morning again! Was no more than his due who brought Best fight on well, for we taught him good news from Ghent.
strike gallantly, Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge THE LOST LEADER
and wait us,
Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the Just for a handful of silver he left us,
YOUTH AND ART
We lodged in a street together,
vice! Rags — were they purple, his heart had Your trade was with sticks and clay, been proud !
You thumb'd, thrust, patted and polishid, We that had lov'd him so, follow'd him, Then laugh’d, “ They will see, some day, honor'd him,
Smith made, and Gibson demolish'd.” Liv'd in his mild and magnificent eye, Learn'd his great language, caught his My business was song, song, song ;. clear accents,
I chirp’d, cheep'd, trill’d and twitter'd, Made him our pattern to live and to “ Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long, die !
And Grisi's existence embitter'd !"
Than you by a sketch in plaster;
I needed a music-master. He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves !
We studied hard in our styles, We shall march prospering, — not thro’ Chipp'd each at a crust like Hindoos, his presence ;
For air, look'd out on the tiles, Songs may inspirit us, not from his For fun, watch'd each other's windows.
lyre ; Deeds will be done, - while he boasts his You lounged, like a boy of the South, quiescence,
Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard too ; Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade Or you got it, rubbing your mouth aspire.
With fingers the clay adher'd to.
HOME THOUGHTS FROM
And I - soon managed to find
Weak points in the flower-fence facing, Was forced to put up a blind
And be safe in my corset-lacing. No harm! It was not my fault
If you never turn'd your eye's tail up As I shook upon E in alt,
Or ran the chromatic scale up :
For spring bade the sparrows pair,
And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street look'd rare
With bulrush and watercresses.
Why did not you pinch a flower
In a pellet of clay and fling it ? Why did not I put a power
Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? I did look, sharp as a lynx,
(And yet the memory rankles) When models arriv’d, some minx
Tripp'd up stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good !
“ That foreign fellow, who can know How she pays, in a playful mood,
For his tuning her that piano ?” Could you say so, and never say,
“Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short
And after April, when May follows
swallows ! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in
the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent
spray's edge That's the wise thrush : he sings each song
twice over Lest you should think he never could re
capture The first fine careless rapture ! And, though the fields look rough with
hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower, Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
No, no : you would not be rash,
Nor I rasher and something over ;
And Grisi yet lives in clover.
I'm queen myself at bals-parés,
’re dubb'd knight and an R. A. Each life's unfulfill'd, you see ;
It hangs still, patchy and scrappy : We have not sigh'd deep, laugh'd free,
Starv'd, feasted, despair'd, — been happy; And nobody calls you a dunce,
And people suppose me clever ; This could but have happend once,
And we miss'd it, lost it forever.
IF one could have that little head of
hers ! Painted upon a background of pale gold, Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers ! No shade encroaching on the matchless
mould Of those two lips, which should be opening
soft In the pure profile ; not as when she
laughs, For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft Yon hyacinth, she loves so, lean'd its
staff's Burthen of honey-color'd buds to kiss And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.
Then her lithe neck, three fingers might
surround, How it should waver, on the pale gold
ground, Up to the fruit-shap'd, perfect chin it
lifts ! I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb Breaking its outline, burning shades ab
sorb; But these are only mass’d there, I should
think, Waiting to see some wonder momently Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the
sky (That's the pale ground you'd see this
sweet face by), All heaven, meanwhile, condens'd into one
eye Which fears to lose the wonder, should it
By the many hundred years red-rusted,
She hopes they have not caught the felons.
(When fortune's malice
Lost her Calais)
“DE GUSTIBUS -"
THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH
Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain)
In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,
The happier they ! Draw yourself up from the light of the
moon, And let them pass, as they will too soon,
With the beanflower's boon,
II What I love best in all the world Is a castle, precipice-encurl'd, In a gash of the wind-griev'd Apennine. Or look for me, old fellow of mine, (If I get my head from out the mouth O'the grave, and loose my spirit's bands, And come again to the land of lands) In a sea-side house to the farther South, Where the bak'd cicala dies of drouth, And one sharp tree — 't is a cypress
VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!
back? Nephews — sons mine . . . ab God, I know
not! Well She, men would have to be your mother
once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! What's done is done, and she is dead be
side, Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, And as she died so must we die ourselves, And thence ye may perceive the world's a
dream. Life, how and what is it? As here I lie In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, Hours and long hours in the dead night, I
ask, “Do I live, am I dead?” Peace, peace
seems all. Saint Praxed's ever was the church for
peace; And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye
- Old Gandolf cozen'd me, despite my ’T was ever antique-black I meant ! How care ;
else Shrewd was that snatch from out the Shall ye contrast my frieze to come becorner South
neath ? He graced his carrion with, God curse the The bas-relief in bronze ye promis’d me, same !
Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and Yet still my niche is not so cramp'd but perchance thence
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side, The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, And somewhat of the choir, those silent Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan seats,
Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment And up into the aëry dome where live
off, The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk : And Moses with the tables ... but I know And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, Ye mark me not! What do they whisper And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,
thee, With those nine columns round me, two and Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope two,
To revel down my villas while I gasp The odd one at my feet where Anselm Brick'd o'er with beggar's mouldy traverstands :
tine Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles ripe
at ! As fresh-pour'd red wine of a mighty pulse, Nay, boys, ye love me -- all of jasper, then !
- Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. "Tois jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I Put me where I may look at him! True grieve peach,
My bath must needs be left behind, alas ! Rosy and flawless : how I earn’d the prize ! One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, Draw close : that conflagration of my There's plenty jasper somewhere in the church
world What then? So much was say'd if And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray aught were miss'd !
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuMy sons, ye would not be my death? Go scripts, dig
And mistresses with great smooth marbly The white-grape vineyard where the oil
limbs ? press stood,
- That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, Drop water gently till the surface sink, Choice Latin, pick'd phrase, Tully's every And if ye find Ah God, I know not, I!...
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft, Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
need! Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
And then how shall I lie through centuries, Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast And see God made and eaten all day long, Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste That brave Frascati villa with its bath, Good strong thick stupefying incenseSo, let the blue lump poise between my
smoke ! knees,
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, Like God the Father's globe on both his Dying in state and by such slow degrees, hands
I fold my arms as if they clasp'd a crook, Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, And stretch my feet forth straight as stone For Gandolf shall not choose but see and
can point, burst!
And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years :
drop Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work : Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons ? And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange Black
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ;
fears, Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? Than the two hearts beating each to each ! No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope PARTING AT MORNING My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart ? Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, They glitter like your mother's for my And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: soul,
And straight was a path of gold for him, Or ye would heighten my impoverish'd
And the need of a world of men for me. frieze, Piece out its starv'd design, and fill my
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;
She pluck'd that piece of geraniumWherein I am to lie till I must ask,
flower, “Do I live, am I dead ?” There, leave me, Beginning to die too, in the glass ; there !
Little has yet been changed, I think : For ye have stabb'd me with ingratitude The shutters are shut, no light may pass To death: ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
Stone Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares Sixteen years old when she died ! which sweat
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name ; As if the corpse they keep were oozing It was not her time to love ; beside, through —
Her life had many a hope and aim,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares,
- Ay, like departing altar-ministrants,
What, your soul was pure and true,
from his onion-stone, Made you of spirit, fire and dew As still he envied me, so fair she was ! And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so
wide, MEETING AT NIGHT
Each was nought to each, must I be told ?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? The gray sea and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and No, indeed ! for God above low :
Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And the startled little waves that leap And creates the love to reward the love : In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!