Or their praise either. Somebody remarks

Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?

Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?

Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,

Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! I know both what I want and what might gain,

And yet how profitless to know, to sigh "Had I been two, another and myself, Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt.

Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth

The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to

see,

Reaching, that heaven might so replenish

him, Above and through his art way; That arm is wrongly put again

for it gives and there

A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
He means right — that, a child may under-
stand.

Still, what an arm! and I could alter it : But all the play, the insight, and the stretch

Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,

We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think

More than I merit, yes, by many times. But had you oh, with the same perfect brow,

And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,

And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird The fowler's pipe, and follows to the

snare

For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. The best is when they pass and look aside; But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.

Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,

And that long festal year at Fontainebleau !

I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,

Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, In that humane great monarch's golden look,

One finger in his beard or twisted curl Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,

One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,

The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his

eyes,

Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls

Profuse, my hand kept plying by those

hearts,

And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, This in the background, waiting on my work,

To crown the issue with a last reward!
A good time, was it not, my kingly days?
And had you not grown restless . . . but
but
I know

'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said;

Too live the life grew, golden and not gray,

And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.

How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your

See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,

The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.

Come from the window, love, come in, at last,

Inside the melancholy little house

We built to be so gay with. God is just. King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights

When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,

The walls become illumined, brick from brick

Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,

That gold of his I did cement them with! Let us but love each other. Must you go? That Cousin here again? he waits outside? Must see you you, and not with me?

Those loans?

More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?

Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?

While hand and eye and something of a heart

Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?

I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in
France,

face,

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. I regret little, I would change still less. Since there my past life lies, why alter it? The very wrong to Francis! it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his
lot.

They were born
they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good

poor, lived poor, and poor

come

Because there's still Lucrezia,

choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

RABBI BEN EZRA

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!"

Annulling youth's brief years,
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.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find a feast :
Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To that which doth provide

And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God

Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

And I shall thereupon

want play?

To man, propose this test

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Once more on my adventure brave and

He fixed thee 'mid this dance Of plastic circumstance,