Are God and Nature then at strife,

That Nature lends such evil dreams?
So careful of the type she seems,

So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere

Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,

And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God;

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.

LV.

So careful of the type?' but no.

From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries A thousand types are gone:

I care for nothing, all shall go.

Thou makest thine appeal to me:

I bring to life, I bring to death:
The spirit does but mean the breath:

I know no more.' And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed

And Love Creation's final law-
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed-

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal'd within the iron hills?

No more ? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,

That tear each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail!

O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress ? Behind the veil, behind the veil.

LVI.

Peace, come away: the song of woe
Is after all an earthly song:

Peace, come away; we do him wrong

To sing so wildly; let us go.

Come, let us go, your cheeks are pale,
But half my life I leave behind:
Methinks my friend is richly shrined,

But I shall pass; my work will fail.

Yet in these cars, till hearing dies,

One set slow bell will seem to toll The passing of the sweetest soul That ever look'd with human eyes.

I hear it now, and o'er and o'er,
Eternal greetings to the dead;
And Ave, Ave, Ave,' said,
'Adieu, adieu' for evermore !

BROWNING

(OUTLINE HISTORY, § 107)

MY LAST DUCHESS

(FERRARA.)

THAT'S my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive: I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her ? I said
'Frà Pandolf' by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say ' Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much,' or ' Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:' such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy.

A heart . . . how shall I say ?

She had

too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace-all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least.

She thanked men,-good; but thanked Somehow . . I know not how . . . as if she ranked

My gift of a nine hundred years old name

With anybody's gift.

your

will

Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech-(which I have not)—to make
Quite clear to such a one, and say 'Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark '-and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile ? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your Master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, Sir! Notice Neptune, tho',
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

I.

WHERE the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop

As they crop

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

(So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

II.

Now, the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast.

III.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
Stock or stone-

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV.

Now, the single little turret that remains
On the plains

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks