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Best Famous Thank You Poems

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by Rudyard Kipling |

The Last of the Light Brigade

 1891

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they kuew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be conbnued' and 'see next page' o'the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the sconrn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shamme.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made --"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!


by Robert Herrick |

TO SIR CLIPSBY CREW

 Since to the country first I came,
I have lost my former flame;
And, methinks, I not inherit,
As I did, my ravish'd spirit.
If I write a verse or two,
'Tis with very much ado;
In regard I want that wine
Which should conjure up a line.
Yet, though now of Muse bereft,
I have still the manners left
For to thank you, noble sir,
For those gifts you do confer
Upon him, who only can
Be in prose a grateful man.


by Robert Frost |

Snow

 The three stood listening to a fresh access
Of wind that caught against the house a moment,
Gulped snow, and then blew free again—the Coles
Dressed, but dishevelled from some hours of sleep,
Meserve belittled in the great skin coat he wore.

Meserve was first to speak. He pointed backward
Over his shoulder with his pipe-stem, saying,
“You can just see it glancing off the roof
Making a great scroll upward toward the sky,
Long enough for recording all our names on.—
I think I’ll just call up my wife and tell her
I’m here—so far—and starting on again.
I’ll call her softly so that if she’s wise
And gone to sleep, she needn’t wake to answer.”
Three times he barely stirred the bell, then listened.
“Why, Lett, still up? Lett, I’m at Cole’s. I’m late.
I called you up to say Good-night from here
Before I went to say Good-morning there.—
I thought I would.— I know, but, Lett—I know—
I could, but what’s the sense? The rest won’t be
So bad.— Give me an hour for it.— Ho, ho,
Three hours to here! But that was all up hill;
The rest is down.— Why no, no, not a wallow:
They kept their heads and took their time to it
Like darlings, both of them. They’re in the barn.—
My dear, I’m coming just the same. I didn’t
Call you to ask you to invite me home.—”
He lingered for some word she wouldn’t say,
Said it at last himself, “Good-night,” and then,
Getting no answer, closed the telephone.
The three stood in the lamplight round the table
With lowered eyes a moment till he said,
“I’ll just see how the horses are.”

“Yes, do,”
Both the Coles said together. Mrs. Cole
Added: “You can judge better after seeing.—
I want you here with me, Fred. Leave him here,
Brother Meserve. You know to find your way
Out through the shed.”

“I guess I know my way,
I guess I know where I can find my name
Carved in the shed to tell me who I am
If it don’t tell me where I am. I used
To play—”

“You tend your horses and come back.
Fred Cole, you’re going to let him!”

“Well, aren’t you?
How can you help yourself?”

“I called him Brother.
Why did I call him that?”

“It’s right enough.
That’s all you ever heard him called round here.
He seems to have lost off his Christian name.”

“Christian enough I should call that myself.
He took no notice, did he? Well, at least
I didn’t use it out of love of him,
The dear knows. I detest the thought of him
With his ten children under ten years old.
I hate his wretched little Racker Sect,
All’s ever I heard of it, which isn’t much.
But that’s not saying—Look, Fred Cole, it’s twelve,
Isn’t it, now? He’s been here half an hour.
He says he left the village store at nine.
Three hours to do four miles—a mile an hour
Or not much better. Why, it doesn’t seem
As if a man could move that slow and move.
Try to think what he did with all that time.
And three miles more to go!”
“Don’t let him go.
Stick to him, Helen. Make him answer you.
That sort of man talks straight on all his life
From the last thing he said himself, stone deaf
To anything anyone else may say.
I should have thought, though, you could make him hear you.”

“What is he doing out a night like this?
Why can’t he stay at home?”

“He had to preach.”

“It’s no night to be out.”

“He may be small,
He may be good, but one thing’s sure, he’s tough.”

“And strong of stale tobacco.”

“He’ll pull through.’
“You only say so. Not another house
Or shelter to put into from this place
To theirs. I’m going to call his wife again.”

“Wait and he may. Let’s see what he will do.
Let’s see if he will think of her again.
But then I doubt he’s thinking of himself
He doesn’t look on it as anything.”

“He shan’t go—there!”

“It is a night, my dear.”

“One thing: he didn’t drag God into it.”

“He don’t consider it a case for God.”

“You think so, do you? You don’t know the kind.
He’s getting up a miracle this minute.
Privately—to himself, right now, he’s thinking
He’ll make a case of it if he succeeds,
But keep still if he fails.”

“Keep still all over.
He’ll be dead—dead and buried.”

“Such a trouble!
Not but I’ve every reason not to care
What happens to him if it only takes
Some of the sanctimonious conceit
Out of one of those pious scalawags.”

“Nonsense to that! You want to see him safe.”

“You like the runt.”

“Don’t you a little?”

“Well,
I don’t like what he’s doing, which is what
You like, and like him for.”

“Oh, yes you do.
You like your fun as well as anyone;
Only you women have to put these airs on
To impress men. You’ve got us so ashamed
Of being men we can’t look at a good fight
Between two boys and not feel bound to stop it.
Let the man freeze an ear or two, I say.—
He’s here. I leave him all to you. Go in
And save his life.— All right, come in, Meserve.
Sit down, sit down. How did you find the horses?”

“Fine, fine.”

“And ready for some more? My wife here
Says it won’t do. You’ve got to give it up.”

“Won’t you to please me? Please! If I say please?
Mr. Meserve, I’ll leave it to your wife.
What did your wife say on the telephone?”

Meserve seemed to heed nothing but the lamp
Or something not far from it on the table.
By straightening out and lifting a forefinger,
He pointed with his hand from where it lay
Like a white crumpled spider on his knee:
“That leaf there in your open book! It moved
Just then, I thought. It’s stood erect like that,
There on the table, ever since I came,
Trying to turn itself backward or forward,
I’ve had my eye on it to make out which;
If forward, then it’s with a friend’s impatience—
You see I know—to get you on to things
It wants to see how you will take, if backward
It’s from regret for something you have passed
And failed to see the good of. Never mind,
Things must expect to come in front of us
A many times—I don’t say just how many—
That varies with the things—before we see them.
One of the lies would make it out that nothing
Ever presents itself before us twice.
Where would we be at last if that were so?
Our very life depends on everything’s
Recurring till we answer from within.
The thousandth time may prove the charm.— That leaf!
It can’t turn either way. It needs the wind’s help.
But the wind didn’t move it if it moved.
It moved itself. The wind’s at naught in here.
It couldn’t stir so sensitively poised
A thing as that. It couldn’t reach the lamp
To get a puff of black smoke from the flame,
Or blow a rumple in the collie’s coat.
You make a little foursquare block of air,
Quiet and light and warm, in spite of all
The illimitable dark and cold and storm,
And by so doing give these three, lamp, dog,
And book-leaf, that keep near you, their repose;
Though for all anyone can tell, repose
May be the thing you haven’t, yet you give it.
So false it is that what we haven’t we can’t give;
So false, that what we always say is true.
I’ll have to turn the leaf if no one else will.
It won’t lie down. Then let it stand. Who cares?”

“I shouldn’t want to hurry you, Meserve,
But if you’re going— Say you’ll stay, you know?
But let me raise this curtain on a scene,
And show you how it’s piling up against you.
You see the snow-white through the white of frost?
Ask Helen how far up the sash it’s climbed
Since last we read the gage.”

“It looks as if
Some pallid thing had squashed its features flat
And its eyes shut with overeagerness
To see what people found so interesting
In one another, and had gone to sleep
Of its own stupid lack of understanding,
Or broken its white neck of mushroom stuff
Short off, and died against the window-pane.”

“Brother Meserve, take care, you’ll scare yourself
More than you will us with such nightmare talk.
It’s you it matters to, because it’s you
Who have to go out into it alone.”

“Let him talk, Helen, and perhaps he’ll stay.”

“Before you drop the curtain—I’m reminded:
You recollect the boy who came out here
To breathe the air one winter—had a room
Down at the Averys’? Well, one sunny morning
After a downy storm, he passed our place
And found me banking up the house with snow.
And I was burrowing in deep for warmth,
Piling it well above the window-sills.
The snow against the window caught his eye.
‘Hey, that’s a pretty thought’—those were his words.
‘So you can think it’s six feet deep outside,
While you sit warm and read up balanced rations.
You can’t get too much winter in the winter.’
Those were his words. And he went home and all
But banked the daylight out of Avery’s windows.
Now you and I would go to no such length.
At the same time you can’t deny it makes
It not a mite worse, sitting here, we three,
Playing our fancy, to have the snowline run
So high across the pane outside. There where
There is a sort of tunnel in the frost
More like a tunnel than a hole—way down
At the far end of it you see a stir
And quiver like the frayed edge of the drift
Blown in the wind. I like that—I like that.
Well, now I leave you, people.”

“Come, Meserve,
We thought you were deciding not to go—
The ways you found to say the praise of comfort
And being where you are. You want to stay.”

“I’ll own it’s cold for such a fall of snow.
This house is frozen brittle, all except
This room you sit in. If you think the wind
Sounds further off, it’s not because it’s dying;
You’re further under in the snow—that’s all—
And feel it less. Hear the soft bombs of dust
It bursts against us at the chimney mouth,
And at the eaves. I like it from inside
More than I shall out in it. But the horses
Are rested and it’s time to say good-night,
And let you get to bed again. Good-night,
Sorry I had to break in on your sleep.”

“Lucky for you you did. Lucky for you
You had us for a half-way station
To stop at. If you were the kind of man
Paid heed to women, you’d take my advice
And for your family’s sake stay where you are.
But what good is my saying it over and over?
You’ve done more than you had a right to think
You could do—now. You know the risk you take
In going on.”

“Our snow-storms as a rule
Aren’t looked on as man-killers, and although
I’d rather be the beast that sleeps the sleep
Under it all, his door sealed up and lost,
Than the man fighting it to keep above it,
Yet think of the small birds at roost and not
In nests. Shall I be counted less than they are?
Their bulk in water would be frozen rock
In no time out to-night. And yet to-morrow
They will come budding boughs from tree to tree
Flirting their wings and saying Chickadee,
As if not knowing what you meant by the word storm.”

“But why when no one wants you to go on?
Your wife—she doesn’t want you to. We don’t,
And you yourself don’t want to. Who else is there?”

“Save us from being cornered by a woman.
Well, there’s”—She told Fred afterward that in
The pause right there, she thought the dreaded word
Was coming, “God.” But no, he only said
“Well, there’s—the storm. That says I must go on.
That wants me as a war might if it came.
Ask any man.”

He threw her that as something
To last her till he got outside the door.
He had Cole with him to the barn to see him off.
When Cole returned he found his wife still standing
Beside the table near the open book,
Not reading it.

“Well, what kind of a man
Do you call that?” she said.

“He had the gift
Of words, or is it tongues, I ought to say?”

“Was ever such a man for seeing likeness?”

“Or disregarding people’s civil questions—
What? We’ve found out in one hour more about him
Than we had seeing him pass by in the road
A thousand times. If that’s the way he preaches!
You didn’t think you’d keep him after all.
Oh, I’m not blaming you. He didn’t leave you
Much say in the matter, and I’m just as glad
We’re not in for a night of him. No sleep
If he had stayed. The least thing set him going.
It’s quiet as an empty church without him.”

“But how much better off are we as it is?
We’ll have to sit here till we know he’s safe.”

“Yes, I suppose you’ll want to, but I shouldn’t.
He knows what he can do, or he wouldn’t try.
Get into bed I say, and get some rest.
He won’t come back, and if he telephones,
It won’t be for an hour or two.”

“Well then——

We can’t be any help by sitting here
And living his fight through with him, I suppose.”


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cole had been telephoning in the dark.
Mrs. Cole’s voice came from an inner room:
“Did she call you or you call her?”

“She me.
You’d better dress: you won’t go back to bed.
We must have been asleep: it’s three and after.”

“Had she been ringing long? I’ll get my wrapper.
I want to speak to her.”

“All she said was,
He hadn’t come and had he really started.”

“She knew he had, poor thing, two hours ago.”

“He had the shovel. He’ll have made a fight.”

“Why did I ever let him leave this house!”

“Don’t begin that. You did the best you could
To keep him—though perhaps you didn’t quite
Conceal a wish to see him show the spunk
To disobey you. Much his wife’ll thank you.”

“Fred, after all I said! You shan’t make out
That it was any way but what it was.
Did she let on by any word she said
She didn’t thank me?”

“When I told her ‘Gone,’
‘Well then,’ she said, and ‘Well then’—like a threat.
And then her voice came scraping slow: ‘Oh, you,
Why did you let him go’?”

“Asked why we let him?
You let me there. I’ll ask her why she let him.
She didn’t dare to speak when he was here.

Their number’s—twenty-one? The thing won’t work.
Someone’s receiver’s down. The handle stumbles.

The stubborn thing, the way it jars your arm!
It’s theirs. She’s dropped it from her hand and gone.”

“Try speaking. Say ‘Hello’!”

“Hello. Hello.”

“What do you hear?”

“I hear an empty room—
You know—it sounds that way. And yes, I hear—
I think I hear a clock—and windows rattling.
No step though. If she’s there she’s sitting down.”

“Shout, she may hear you.”

“Shouting is no good.”

“Keep speaking then.”

“Hello. Hello. Hello.
You don’t suppose—? She wouldn’t go out doors?”

“I’m half afraid that’s just what she might do.”

“And leave the children?”

“Wait and call again.
You can’t hear whether she has left the door
Wide open and the wind’s blown out the lamp
And the fire’s died and the room’s dark and cold?”

“One of two things, either she’s gone to bed
Or gone out doors.”

“In which case both are lost.
Do you know what she’s like? Have you ever met her?
It’s strange she doesn’t want to speak to us.”

“Fred, see if you can hear what I hear. Come.”

“A clock maybe.”

“Don’t you hear something else?”

“Not talking.”
“No.”

“Why, yes, I hear—what is it?”

“What do you say it is?”

“A baby’s crying!
Frantic it sounds, though muffled and far off.”

“Its mother wouldn’t let it cry like that,
Not if she’s there.”

“What do you make of it?”

“There’s only one thing possible to make,
That is, assuming—that she has gone out.
Of course she hasn’t though.” They both sat down
Helpless. “There’s nothing we can do till morning.”

“Fred, I shan’t let you think of going out.”

“Hold on.” The double bell began to chirp.
They started up. Fred took the telephone.
“Hello, Meserve. You’re there, then!—And your wife?

Good! Why I asked—she didn’t seem to answer.
He says she went to let him in the barn.—
We’re glad. Oh, say no more about it, man.
Drop in and see us when you’re passing.”

“Well,
She has him then, though what she wants him for
I don’t see.”
“Possibly not for herself.
Maybe she only wants him for the children.”

“The whole to-do seems to have been for nothing.
What spoiled our night was to him just his fun.
What did he come in for?—To talk and visit?
Thought he’d just call to tell us it was snowing.
If he thinks he is going to make our house
A halfway coffee house ’twixt town and nowhere——”

“I thought you’d feel you’d been too much concerned.”

“You think you haven’t been concerned yourself.”

“If you mean he was inconsiderate
To rout us out to think for him at midnight
And then take our advice no more than nothing,
Why, I agree with you. But let’s forgive him.
We’ve had a share in one night of his life.
What’ll you bet he ever calls again?”


by Robert Frost |

A Hundred Collars

 Lancaster bore him--such a little town, 
Such a great man. It doesn't see him often 
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead 
And sends the children down there with their mother 
To run wild in the summer--a little wild. 
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two 
And sees old friends he somehow can't get near. 
They meet him in the general store at night, 
Pre-occupied with formidable mail, 
Rifling a printed letter as he talks. 
They seem afraid. He wouldn't have it so: 
Though a great scholar, he's a democrat, 
If not at heart, at least on principle. 
Lately when coming up to Lancaster 
His train being late he missed another train 
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction 
After eleven o'clock at night. Too tired 
To think of sitting such an ordeal out, 
He turned to the hotel to find a bed. 
"No room," the night clerk said. "Unless----" 
Woodsville's a place of shrieks and wandering lamps 
And cars that shook and rattle--and one hotel. 
"You say 'unless.'" 
"Unless you wouldn't mind 
Sharing a room with someone else." 
"Who is it?" 
"A man." 
"So I should hope. What kind of man?" 
"I know him: he's all right. A man's a man. 
Separate beds of course you understand." 
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on. 
"Who's that man sleeping in the office chair? 
Has he had the refusal of my chance?" 
"He was afraid of being robbed or murdered. 
What do you say?" 
"I'll have to have a bed." 
The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs 
And down a narrow passage full of doors, 
At the last one of which he knocked and entered. 
"Lafe, here's a fellow wants to share your room." 
"Show him this way. I'm not afraid of him. 
I'm not so drunk I can't take care of myself." 
The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot. 
"This will be yours. Good-night," he said, and went. 
"Lafe was the name, I think?" 
"Yes, Layfayette. 
You got it the first time. And yours?" 
"Magoon. 
Doctor Magoon." 
"A Doctor?" 
"Well, a teacher." 
"Professor Square-the-circle-till-you're-tired? 
Hold on, there's something I don't think of now 
That I had on my mind to ask the first 
Man that knew anything I happened in with. 
I'll ask you later--don't let me forget it." 
The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away. 
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist, 
He sat there creased and shining in the light, 
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt. 
"I'm moving into a size-larger shirt. 
I've felt mean lately; mean's no name for it. 
I just found what the matter was to-night: 
I've been a-choking like a nursery tree 
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag. 
I blamed it on the hot spell we've been having. 
'Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back, 
Not liking to own up I'd grown a size. 
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?" 
The Doctor caught his throat convulsively. 
"Oh--ah--fourteen--fourteen." 
"Fourteen! You say so! 
I can remember when I wore fourteen. 
And come to think I must have back at home 
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen. 
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them. 
They're yours and welcome; let me send them to you. 
What makes you stand there on one leg like that? 
You're not much furtherer than where Kike left you. 
You act as if you wished you hadn't come. 
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous." 
The Doctor made a subdued dash for it, 
And propped himself at bay against a pillow. 
"Not that way, with your shoes on Kike's white bed. 
You can't rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off." 
"Don't touch me, please--I say, don't touch me, please. 
I'll not be put to bed by you, my man." 
"Just as you say. Have it your own way then. 
'My man' is it? You talk like a professor. 
Speaking of who's afraid of who, however, 
I'm thinking I have more to lose than you 
If anything should happen to be wrong. 
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat! 
Let's have a show down as an evidence 
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars. 
Come, if you're not afraid." 
"I'm not afraid. 
There's five: that's all I carry." 
"I can search you? 
Where are you moving over to? Stay still. 
You'd better tuck your money under you 
And sleep on it the way I always do 
When I'm with people I don't trust at night." 
"Will you believe me if I put it there 
Right on the counterpane--that I do trust you?" 
"You'd say so, Mister Man.--I'm a collector. 
My ninety isn't mine--you won't think that. 
I pick it up a dollar at a time 
All round the country for the Weekly News, 
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?" 
"Known it since I was young." 
"Then you know me. 
Now we are getting on together--talking. 
I'm sort of Something for it at the front. 
My business is to find what people want: 
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it. 
Fairbanks, he says to me--he's editor-- 
Feel out the public sentiment--he says. 
A good deal comes on me when all is said. 
The only trouble is we disagree 
In politics: I'm Vermont Democrat-- 
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed; 
The News has always been Republican. 
Fairbanks, he says to me, 'Help us this year,' 
Meaning by us their ticket. 'No,' I says, 
'I can't and won't. You've been in long enough: 
It's time you turned around and boosted us. 
You'll have to pay me more than ten a week 
If I'm expected to elect Bill Taft. 
I doubt if I could do it anyway.'" 
"You seem to shape the paper's policy." 
"You see I'm in with everybody, know 'em all. 
I almost know their farms as well as they do." 
"You drive around? It must be pleasant work." 
"It's business, but I can't say it's not fun. 
What I like best's the lay of different farms, 
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods, 
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner. 
I like to find folks getting out in spring, 
Raking the dooryard, working near the house. 
Later they get out further in the fields. 
Everything's shut sometimes except the barn; 
The family's all away in some back meadow. 
There's a hay load a-coming--when it comes. 
And later still they all get driven in: 
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches 
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees 
To whips and poles. There's nobody about. 
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking. 
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins 
Only when someone's coming, and the mare 
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go. 
I've spoiled Jemima in more ways than one. 
She's got so she turns in at every house 
As if she had some sort of curvature, 
No matter if I have no errand there. 
She thinks I'm sociable. I maybe am. 
It's seldom I get down except for meals, though. 
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep, 
All in a family row down to the youngest." 
"One would suppose they might not be as glad 
To see you as you are to see them." 
"Oh, 
Because I want their dollar. I don't want 
Anything they've not got. I never dun. 
I'm there, and they can pay me if they like. 
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by. 
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink. 
I drink out of the bottle--not your style. 
Mayn't I offer you----?" 
"No, no, no, thank you." 
"Just as you say. Here's looking at you then.-- 
And now I'm leaving you a little while. 
You'll rest easier when I'm gone, perhaps-- 
Lie down--let yourself go and get some sleep. 
But first--let's see--what was I going to ask you? 
Those collars--who shall I address them to, 
Suppose you aren't awake when I come back?" 
"Really, friend, I can't let you. You--may need them." 
"Not till I shrink, when they'll be out of style." 
"But really I--I have so many collars." 
"I don't know who I rather would have have them. 
They're only turning yellow where they are. 
But you're the doctor as the saying is. 
I'll put the light out. Don't you wait for me: 
I've just begun the night. You get some sleep. 
I'll knock so-fashion and peep round the door 
When I come back so you'll know who it is. 
There's nothing I'm afraid of like scared people. 
I don't want you should shoot me in the head. 
What am I doing carrying off this bottle? 
There now, you get some sleep." 
He shut the door. 
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.


by Hilaire Belloc |

Godolphin Horne

 Who was cursed with the Sin of Pride, and Became a Boot-Black. 

Godolphin Horne was Nobly Born;
He held the Human Race in Scorn,
And lived with all his Sisters where
His father lived, in Berkeley Square.
And oh! The Lad was Deathly Proud!
He never shook your Hand or Bowed,
But merely smirked and nodded thus:
How perfectly ridiculous!
Alas! That such Affected Tricks
Should flourish in a Child of Six!
(For such was Young Godolphin's age).
Just then, the Court required a Page,
Whereat the Lord High Chamberlain
(The Kindest and the Best of Men),
He went good-naturedly and took
A perfectly enormous Book
Called People Qualified to Be
Attendant on His Majesty,
And murmured, as he scanned the list
(To see that no one should be missed),
"There's William Coutts has got the Flu,
And Billy Higgs would never do,
And Guy de Vere is far too young,
And ... wasn't D'Alton's father hung?
And as for Alexander Byng!-...
I think I know the kind of thing,
A Churchman, cleanly, nobly born,
Come, let us say Godolphin Horne?"
But hardly had he said the word
When Murmurs of Dissent were heard.
The King of Iceland's Eldest Son
Said, "Thank you! I am taking none!"
The Aged Duchess of Athlone
Remarked, in her sub-acid tone,
"I doubt if He is what we need!"
With which the Bishops all agreed;
And even Lady Mary Flood
(So kind, and oh! So really good)
Said, "No! He wouldn't do at all,
He'd make us feel a lot too small."
The Chamberlain said, "Well, well, well!
No doubt you're right. One cannot tell!"
He took his Gold and Diamond Pen
And scratched Godolphin out again.
So now Godolphin is the Boy
Who Blacks the Boots at the Savoy.


by Alfred Lord Tennyson |

The Princess (part 4)

 'There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun, 
If that hypothesis of theirs be sound' 
Said Ida; 'let us down and rest;' and we 
Down from the lean and wrinkled precipices, 
By every coppice-feathered chasm and cleft, 
Dropt through the ambrosial gloom to where below 
No bigger than a glow-worm shone the tent 
Lamp-lit from the inner. Once she leaned on me, 
Descending; once or twice she lent her hand, 
And blissful palpitations in the blood, 
Stirring a sudden transport rose and fell. 

But when we planted level feet, and dipt 
Beneath the satin dome and entered in, 
There leaning deep in broidered down we sank 
Our elbows: on a tripod in the midst 
A fragrant flame rose, and before us glowed 
Fruit, blossom, viand, amber wine, and gold. 

Then she, 'Let some one sing to us: lightlier move 
The minutes fledged with music:' and a maid, 
Of those beside her, smote her harp, and sang. 


'Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the underworld, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge; 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

'Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

'Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.' 


She ended with such passion that the tear, 
She sang of, shook and fell, an erring pearl 
Lost in her bosom: but with some disdain 
Answered the Princess, 'If indeed there haunt 
About the mouldered lodges of the Past 
So sweet a voice and vague, fatal to men, 
Well needs it we should cram our ears with wool 
And so pace by: but thine are fancies hatched 
In silken-folded idleness; nor is it 
Wiser to weep a true occasion lost, 
But trim our sails, and let old bygones be, 
While down the streams that float us each and all 
To the issue, goes, like glittering bergs of ice, 
Throne after throne, and molten on the waste 
Becomes a cloud: for all things serve their time 
Toward that great year of equal mights and rights, 
Nor would I fight with iron laws, in the end 
Found golden: let the past be past; let be 
Their cancelled Babels: though the rough kex break 
The starred mosaic, and the beard-blown goat 
Hang on the shaft, and the wild figtree split 
Their monstrous idols, care not while we hear 
A trumpet in the distance pealing news 
Of better, and Hope, a poising eagle, burns 
Above the unrisen morrow:' then to me; 
'Know you no song of your own land,' she said, 
'Not such as moans about the retrospect, 
But deals with the other distance and the hues 
Of promise; not a death's-head at the wine.' 

Then I remembered one myself had made, 
What time I watched the swallow winging south 
From mine own land, part made long since, and part 
Now while I sang, and maidenlike as far 
As I could ape their treble, did I sing. 


'O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, 
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, 
And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 

'O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
And dark and true and tender is the North. 

'O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light 
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. 

'O were I thou that she might take me in, 
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. 

'Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, 
Delaying as the tender ash delays 
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green? 

'O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: 
Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
But in the North long since my nest is made. 

'O tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
And brief the sun of summer in the North, 
And brief the moon of beauty in the South. 

'O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, 
Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, 
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.' 


I ceased, and all the ladies, each at each, 
Like the Ithacensian suitors in old time, 
Stared with great eyes, and laughed with alien lips, 
And knew not what they meant; for still my voice 
Rang false: but smiling 'Not for thee,' she said, 
O Bulbul, any rose of Gulistan 
Shall burst her veil: marsh-divers, rather, maid, 
Shall croak thee sister, or the meadow-crake 
Grate her harsh kindred in the grass: and this 
A mere love-poem! O for such, my friend, 
We hold them slight: they mind us of the time 
When we made bricks in Egypt. Knaves are men, 
That lute and flute fantastic tenderness, 
And dress the victim to the offering up, 
And paint the gates of Hell with Paradise, 
And play the slave to gain the tyranny. 
Poor soul! I had a maid of honour once; 
She wept her true eyes blind for such a one, 
A rogue of canzonets and serenades. 
I loved her. Peace be with her. She is dead. 
So they blaspheme the muse! But great is song 
Used to great ends: ourself have often tried 
Valkyrian hymns, or into rhythm have dashed 
The passion of the prophetess; for song 
Is duer unto freedom, force and growth 
Of spirit than to junketing and love. 
Love is it? Would this same mock-love, and this 
Mock-Hymen were laid up like winter bats, 
Till all men grew to rate us at our worth, 
Not vassals to be beat, nor pretty babes 
To be dandled, no, but living wills, and sphered 
Whole in ourselves and owed to none. Enough! 
But now to leaven play with profit, you, 
Know you no song, the true growth of your soil, 
That gives the manners of your country-women?' 

She spoke and turned her sumptuous head with eyes 
Of shining expectation fixt on mine. 
Then while I dragged my brains for such a song, 
Cyril, with whom the bell-mouthed glass had wrought, 
Or mastered by the sense of sport, began 
To troll a careless, careless tavern-catch 
Of Moll and Meg, and strange experiences 
Unmeet for ladies. Florian nodded at him, 
I frowning; Psyche flushed and wanned and shook; 
The lilylike Melissa drooped her brows; 
'Forbear,' the Princess cried; 'Forbear, Sir' I; 
And heated through and through with wrath and love, 
I smote him on the breast; he started up; 
There rose a shriek as of a city sacked; 
Melissa clamoured 'Flee the death;' 'To horse' 
Said Ida; 'home! to horse!' and fled, as flies 
A troop of snowy doves athwart the dusk, 
When some one batters at the dovecote-doors, 
Disorderly the women. Alone I stood 
With Florian, cursing Cyril, vext at heart, 
In the pavilion: there like parting hopes 
I heard them passing from me: hoof by hoof, 
And every hoof a knell to my desires, 
Clanged on the bridge; and then another shriek, 
'The Head, the Head, the Princess, O the Head!' 
For blind with rage she missed the plank, and rolled 
In the river. Out I sprang from glow to gloom: 
There whirled her white robe like a blossomed branch 
Rapt to the horrible fall: a glance I gave, 
No more; but woman-vested as I was 
Plunged; and the flood drew; yet I caught her; then 
Oaring one arm, and bearing in my left 
The weight of all the hopes of half the world, 
Strove to buffet to land in vain. A tree 
Was half-disrooted from his place and stooped 
To wrench his dark locks in the gurgling wave 
Mid-channel. Right on this we drove and caught, 
And grasping down the boughs I gained the shore. 

There stood her maidens glimmeringly grouped 
In the hollow bank. One reaching forward drew 
My burthen from mine arms; they cried 'she lives:' 
They bore her back into the tent: but I, 
So much a kind of shame within me wrought, 
Not yet endured to meet her opening eyes, 
Nor found my friends; but pushed alone on foot 
(For since her horse was lost I left her mine) 
Across the woods, and less from Indian craft 
Than beelike instinct hiveward, found at length 
The garden portals. Two great statues, Art 
And Science, Caryatids, lifted up 
A weight of emblem, and betwixt were valves 
Of open-work in which the hunter rued 
His rash intrusion, manlike, but his brows 
Had sprouted, and the branches thereupon 
Spread out at top, and grimly spiked the gates. 

A little space was left between the horns, 
Through which I clambered o'er at top with pain, 
Dropt on the sward, and up the linden walks, 
And, tost on thoughts that changed from hue to hue, 
Now poring on the glowworm, now the star, 
I paced the terrace, till the Bear had wheeled 
Through a great arc his seven slow suns. 
A step 
Of lightest echo, then a loftier form 
Than female, moving through the uncertain gloom, 
Disturbed me with the doubt 'if this were she,' 
But it was Florian. 'Hist O Hist,' he said, 
'They seek us: out so late is out of rules. 
Moreover "seize the strangers" is the cry. 
How came you here?' I told him: 'I' said he, 
'Last of the train, a moral leper, I, 
To whom none spake, half-sick at heart, returned. 
Arriving all confused among the rest 
With hooded brows I crept into the hall, 
And, couched behind a Judith, underneath 
The head of Holofernes peeped and saw. 
Girl after girl was called to trial: each 
Disclaimed all knowledge of us: last of all, 
Melissa: trust me, Sir, I pitied her. 
She, questioned if she knew us men, at first 
Was silent; closer prest, denied it not: 
And then, demanded if her mother knew, 
Or Psyche, she affirmed not, or denied: 
From whence the Royal mind, familiar with her, 
Easily gathered either guilt. She sent 
For Psyche, but she was not there; she called 
For Psyche's child to cast it from the doors; 
She sent for Blanche to accuse her face to face; 
And I slipt out: but whither will you now? 
And where are Psyche, Cyril? both are fled: 
What, if together? that were not so well. 
Would rather we had never come! I dread 
His wildness, and the chances of the dark.' 

'And yet,' I said, 'you wrong him more than I 
That struck him: this is proper to the clown, 
Though smocked, or furred and purpled, still the clown, 
To harm the thing that trusts him, and to shame 
That which he says he loves: for Cyril, howe'er 
He deal in frolic, as tonight--the song 
Might have been worse and sinned in grosser lips 
Beyond all pardon--as it is, I hold 
These flashes on the surface are not he. 
He has a solid base of temperament: 
But as the waterlily starts and slides 
Upon the level in little puffs of wind, 
Though anchored to the bottom, such is he.' 

Scarce had I ceased when from a tamarisk near 
Two Proctors leapt upon us, crying, 'Names:' 
He, standing still, was clutched; but I began 
To thrid the musky-circled mazes, wind 
And double in and out the boles, and race 
By all the fountains: fleet I was of foot: 
Before me showered the rose in flakes; behind 
I heard the puffed pursuer; at mine ear 
Bubbled the nightingale and heeded not, 
And secret laughter tickled all my soul. 
At last I hooked my ankle in a vine, 
That claspt the feet of a Mnemosyne, 
And falling on my face was caught and known. 

They haled us to the Princess where she sat 
High in the hall: above her drooped a lamp, 
And made the single jewel on her brow 
Burn like the mystic fire on a mast-head, 
Prophet of storm: a handmaid on each side 
Bowed toward her, combing out her long black hair 
Damp from the river; and close behind her stood 
Eight daughters of the plough, stronger than men, 
Huge women blowzed with health, and wind, and rain, 
And labour. Each was like a Druid rock; 
Or like a spire of land that stands apart 
Cleft from the main, and wailed about with mews. 

Then, as we came, the crowd dividing clove 
An advent to the throne: and therebeside, 
Half-naked as if caught at once from bed 
And tumbled on the purple footcloth, lay 
The lily-shining child; and on the left, 
Bowed on her palms and folded up from wrong, 
Her round white shoulder shaken with her sobs, 
Melissa knelt; but Lady Blanche erect 
Stood up and spake, an affluent orator. 

'It was not thus, O Princess, in old days: 
You prized my counsel, lived upon my lips: 
I led you then to all the Castalies; 
I fed you with the milk of every Muse; 
I loved you like this kneeler, and you me 
Your second mother: those were gracious times. 
Then came your new friend: you began to change-- 
I saw it and grieved--to slacken and to cool; 
Till taken with her seeming openness 
You turned your warmer currents all to her, 
To me you froze: this was my meed for all. 
Yet I bore up in part from ancient love, 
And partly that I hoped to win you back, 
And partly conscious of my own deserts, 
And partly that you were my civil head, 
And chiefly you were born for something great, 
In which I might your fellow-worker be, 
When time should serve; and thus a noble scheme 
Grew up from seed we two long since had sown; 
In us true growth, in her a Jonah's gourd, 
Up in one night and due to sudden sun: 
We took this palace; but even from the first 
You stood in your own light and darkened mine. 
What student came but that you planed her path 
To Lady Psyche, younger, not so wise, 
A foreigner, and I your countrywoman, 
I your old friend and tried, she new in all? 
But still her lists were swelled and mine were lean; 
Yet I bore up in hope she would be known: 
Then came these wolves: ~they~ knew her: ~they~ endured, 
Long-closeted with her the yestermorn, 
To tell her what they were, and she to hear: 
And me none told: not less to an eye like mine 
A lidless watcher of the public weal, 
Last night, their mask was patent, and my foot 
Was to you: but I thought again: I feared 
To meet a cold "We thank you, we shall hear of it 
From Lady Psyche:" you had gone to her, 
She told, perforce; and winning easy grace 
No doubt, for slight delay, remained among us 
In our young nursery still unknown, the stem 
Less grain than touchwood, while my honest heat 
Were all miscounted as malignant haste 
To push my rival out of place and power. 
But public use required she should be known; 
And since my oath was ta'en for public use, 
I broke the letter of it to keep the sense. 
I spoke not then at first, but watched them well, 
Saw that they kept apart, no mischief done; 
And yet this day (though you should hate me for it) 
I came to tell you; found that you had gone, 
Ridden to the hills, she likewise: now, I thought, 
That surely she will speak; if not, then I: 
Did she? These monsters blazoned what they were, 
According to the coarseness of their kind, 
For thus I hear; and known at last (my work) 
And full of cowardice and guilty shame, 
I grant in her some sense of shame, she flies; 
And I remain on whom to wreak your rage, 
I, that have lent my life to build up yours, 
I that have wasted here health, wealth, and time, 
And talent, I--you know it--I will not boast: 
Dismiss me, and I prophesy your plan, 
Divorced from my experience, will be chaff 
For every gust of chance, and men will say 
We did not know the real light, but chased 
The wisp that flickers where no foot can tread.' 

She ceased: the Princess answered coldly, 'Good: 
Your oath is broken: we dismiss you: go. 
For this lost lamb (she pointed to the child) 
Our mind is changed: we take it to ourself.' 

Thereat the Lady stretched a vulture throat, 
And shot from crooked lips a haggard smile. 
'The plan was mine. I built the nest' she said 
'To hatch the cuckoo. Rise!' and stooped to updrag 
Melissa: she, half on her mother propt, 
Half-drooping from her, turned her face, and cast 
A liquid look on Ida, full of prayer, 
Which melted Florian's fancy as she hung, 
A Niobëan daughter, one arm out, 
Appealing to the bolts of Heaven; and while 
We gazed upon her came a little stir 
About the doors, and on a sudden rushed 
Among us, out of breath as one pursued, 
A woman-post in flying raiment. Fear 
Stared in her eyes, and chalked her face, and winged 
Her transit to the throne, whereby she fell 
Delivering sealed dispatches which the Head 
Took half-amazed, and in her lion's mood 
Tore open, silent we with blind surmise 
Regarding, while she read, till over brow 
And cheek and bosom brake the wrathful bloom 
As of some fire against a stormy cloud, 
When the wild peasant rights himself, the rick 
Flames, and his anger reddens in the heavens; 
For anger most it seemed, while now her breast, 
Beaten with some great passion at her heart, 
Palpitated, her hand shook, and we heard 
In the dead hush the papers that she held 
Rustle: at once the lost lamb at her feet 
Sent out a bitter bleating for its dam; 
The plaintive cry jarred on her ire; she crushed 
The scrolls together, made a sudden turn 
As if to speak, but, utterance failing her, 
She whirled them on to me, as who should say 
'Read,' and I read--two letters--one her sire's. 

'Fair daughter, when we sent the Prince your way, 
We knew not your ungracious laws, which learnt, 
We, conscious of what temper you are built, 
Came all in haste to hinder wrong, but fell 
Into his father's hands, who has this night, 
You lying close upon his territory, 
Slipt round and in the dark invested you, 
And here he keeps me hostage for his son.' 

The second was my father's running thus: 
'You have our son: touch not a hair of his head: 
Render him up unscathed: give him your hand: 
Cleave to your contract: though indeed we hear 
You hold the woman is the better man; 
A rampant heresy, such as if it spread 
Would make all women kick against their Lords 
Through all the world, and which might well deserve 
That we this night should pluck your palace down; 
And we will do it, unless you send us back 
Our son, on the instant, whole.' 
So far I read; 
And then stood up and spoke impetuously. 

'O not to pry and peer on your reserve, 
But led by golden wishes, and a hope 
The child of regal compact, did I break 
Your precinct; not a scorner of your sex 
But venerator, zealous it should be 
All that it might be: hear me, for I bear, 
Though man, yet human, whatsoe'er your wrongs, 
From the flaxen curl to the gray lock a life 
Less mine than yours: my nurse would tell me of you; 
I babbled for you, as babies for the moon, 
Vague brightness; when a boy, you stooped to me 
From all high places, lived in all fair lights, 
Came in long breezes rapt from inmost south 
And blown to inmost north; at eve and dawn 
With Ida, Ida, Ida, rang the woods; 
The leader wildswan in among the stars 
Would clang it, and lapt in wreaths of glowworm light 
The mellow breaker murmured Ida. Now, 
Because I would have reached you, had you been 
Sphered up with Cassiopëia, or the enthroned 
Persephonè in Hades, now at length, 
Those winters of abeyance all worn out, 
A man I came to see you: but indeed, 
Not in this frequence can I lend full tongue, 
O noble Ida, to those thoughts that wait 
On you, their centre: let me say but this, 
That many a famous man and woman, town 
And landskip, have I heard of, after seen 
The dwarfs of presage: though when known, there grew 
Another kind of beauty in detail 
Made them worth knowing; but in your I found 
My boyish dream involved and dazzled down 
And mastered, while that after-beauty makes 
Such head from act to act, from hour to hour, 
Within me, that except you slay me here, 
According to your bitter statute-book, 
I cannot cease to follow you, as they say 
The seal does music; who desire you more 
Than growing boys their manhood; dying lips, 
With many thousand matters left to do, 
The breath of life; O more than poor men wealth, 
Than sick men health--yours, yours, not mine--but half 
Without you; with you, whole; and of those halves 
You worthiest; and howe'er you block and bar 
Your heart with system out from mine, I hold 
That it becomes no man to nurse despair, 
But in the teeth of clenched antagonisms 
To follow up the worthiest till he die: 
Yet that I came not all unauthorized 
Behold your father's letter.' 
On one knee 
Kneeling, I gave it, which she caught, and dashed 
Unopened at her feet: a tide of fierce 
Invective seemed to wait behind her lips, 
As waits a river level with the dam 
Ready to burst and flood the world with foam: 
And so she would have spoken, but there rose 
A hubbub in the court of half the maids 
Gathered together: from the illumined hall 
Long lanes of splendour slanted o'er a press 
Of snowy shoulders, thick as herded ewes, 
And rainbow robes, and gems and gemlike eyes, 
And gold and golden heads; they to and fro 
Fluctuated, as flowers in storm, some red, some pale, 
All open-mouthed, all gazing to the light, 
Some crying there was an army in the land, 
And some that men were in the very walls, 
And some they cared not; till a clamour grew 
As of a new-world Babel, woman-built, 
And worse-confounded: high above them stood 
The placid marble Muses, looking peace. 

Not peace she looked, the Head: but rising up 
Robed in the long night of her deep hair, so 
To the open window moved, remaining there 
Fixt like a beacon-tower above the waves 
Of tempest, when the crimson-rolling eye 
Glares ruin, and the wild birds on the light 
Dash themselves dead. She stretched her arms and called 
Across the tumult and the tumult fell. 

'What fear ye, brawlers? am not I your Head? 
On me, me, me, the storm first breaks: ~I~ dare 
All these male thunderbolts: what is it ye fear? 
Peace! there are those to avenge us and they come: 
If not,--myself were like enough, O girls, 
To unfurl the maiden banner of our rights, 
And clad in iron burst the ranks of war, 
Or, falling, promartyr of our cause, 
Die: yet I blame you not so much for fear: 
Six thousand years of fear have made you that 
From which I would redeem you: but for those 
That stir this hubbub--you and you--I know 
Your faces there in the crowd--tomorrow morn 
We hold a great convention: then shall they 
That love their voices more than duty, learn 
With whom they deal, dismissed in shame to live 
No wiser than their mothers, household stuff, 
Live chattels, mincers of each other's fame, 
Full of weak poison, turnspits for the clown, 
The drunkard's football, laughing-stocks of Time, 
Whose brains are in their hands and in their heels 
But fit to flaunt, to dress, to dance, to thrum, 
To tramp, to scream, to burnish, and to scour, 
For ever slaves at home and fools abroad.' 

She, ending, waved her hands: thereat the crowd 
Muttering, dissolved: then with a smile, that looked 
A stroke of cruel sunshine on the cliff, 
When all the glens are drowned in azure gloom 
Of thunder-shower, she floated to us and said: 

'You have done well and like a gentleman, 
And like a prince: you have our thanks for all: 
And you look well too in your woman's dress: 
Well have you done and like a gentleman. 
You saved our life: we owe you bitter thanks: 
Better have died and spilt our bones in the flood-- 
Then men had said--but now--What hinders me 
To take such bloody vengeance on you both?-- 
Yet since our father--Wasps in our good hive, 
You would-be quenchers of the light to be, 
Barbarians, grosser than your native bears-- 
O would I had his sceptre for one hour! 
You that have dared to break our bound, and gulled 
Our servants, wronged and lied and thwarted us-- 
~I~ wed with thee! ~I~ bound by precontract 
Your bride, our bondslave! not though all the gold 
That veins the world were packed to make your crown, 
And every spoken tongue should lord you. Sir, 
Your falsehood and yourself are hateful to us: 
I trample on your offers and on you: 
Begone: we will not look upon you more. 
Here, push them out at gates.' 
In wrath she spake. 
Then those eight mighty daughters of the plough 
Bent their broad faces toward us and addressed 
Their motion: twice I sought to plead my cause, 
But on my shoulder hung their heavy hands, 
The weight of destiny: so from her face 
They pushed us, down the steps, and through the court, 
And with grim laughter thrust us out at gates. 

We crossed the street and gained a petty mound 
Beyond it, whence we saw the lights and heard the voices murmuring. While I listened, came 
On a sudden the weird seizure and the doubt: 
I seemed to move among a world of ghosts; 
The Princess with her monstrous woman-guard, 
The jest and earnest working side by side, 
The cataract and the tumult and the kings 
Were shadows; and the long fantastic night 
With all its doings had and had not been, 
And all things were and were not. 
This went by 
As strangely as it came, and on my spirits 
Settled a gentle cloud of melancholy; 
Not long; I shook it off; for spite of doubts 
And sudden ghostly shadowings I was one 
To whom the touch of all mischance but came 
As night to him that sitting on a hill 
Sees the midsummer, midnight, Norway sun 
Set into sunrise; then we moved away. 


Thy voice is heard through rolling drums, 
That beat to battle where he stands; 
Thy face across his fancy comes, 
And gives the battle to his hands: 
A moment, while the trumpets blow, 
He sees his brood about thy knee; 
The next, like fire he meets the foe, 
And strikes him dead for thine and thee. 


So Lilia sang: we thought her half-possessed, 
She struck such warbling fury through the words; 
And, after, feigning pique at what she called 
The raillery, or grotesque, or false sublime-- 
Like one that wishes at a dance to change 
The music--clapt her hands and cried for war, 
Or some grand fight to kill and make an end: 
And he that next inherited the tale 
Half turning to the broken statue, said, 
'Sir Ralph has got your colours: if I prove 
Your knight, and fight your battle, what for me?' 
It chanced, her empty glove upon the tomb 
Lay by her like a model of her hand. 
She took it and she flung it. 'Fight' she said, 
'And make us all we would be, great and good.' 
He knightlike in his cap instead of casque, 
A cap of Tyrol borrowed from the hall, 
Arranged the favour, and assumed the Prince.


by Emily Dickinson |

If I shouldnt be alive

 If I shouldn't be alive
When the Robins come,
Give the one in Red Cravat,
A Memorial crumb.

If I couldn't thank you,
Being fast asleep,
You will know I'm trying
Why my Granite lip!


by Robert Burns |

62. Epistle to William Simson

 I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly,
 And unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie
 Your flatterin strain.


But I’se believe ye kindly meant it:
I sud be laith to think ye hinted
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented
 On my poor Musie;
Tho’ in sic phraisin terms ye’ve penn’d it,
 I scarce excuse ye.


My senses wad be in a creel,
Should I but dare a hope to speel
Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield,
 The braes o’ fame;
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel,
 A deathless name.


(O Fergusson! thy glorious parts
Ill suited law’s dry, musty arts!
My curse upon your whunstane hearts,
 Ye E’nbrugh gentry!
The tithe o’ what ye waste at cartes
 Wad stow’d his pantry!)


Yet when a tale comes i’ my head,
Or lassies gie my heart a screed—
As whiles they’re like to be my dead,
 (O sad disease!)
I kittle up my rustic reed;
 It gies me ease.


Auld Coila now may fidge fu’ fain,
She’s gotten poets o’ her ain;
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
 But tune their lays,
Till echoes a’ resound again
 Her weel-sung praise.


Nae poet thought her worth his while,
To set her name in measur’d style;
She lay like some unkenn’d-of-isle
 Beside New Holland,
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil
 Besouth Magellan.


Ramsay an’ famous Fergusson
Gied Forth an’ Tay a lift aboon;
Yarrow an’ Tweed, to monie a tune,
 Owre Scotland rings;
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an’ Doon
 Naebody sings.


Th’ Illissus, Tiber, Thames, an’ Seine,
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu’ line:
But Willie, set your fit to mine,
 An’ cock your crest;
We’ll gar our streams an’ burnies shine
 Up wi’ the best!


We’ll sing auld Coila’s plains an’ fells,
Her moors red-brown wi’ heather bells,
Her banks an’ braes, her dens and dells,
 Whare glorious Wallace
Aft bure the gree, as story tells,
 Frae Suthron billies.


At Wallace’ name, what Scottish blood
But boils up in a spring-tide flood!
Oft have our fearless fathers strode
 By Wallace’ side,
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod,
 Or glorious died!


O, sweet are Coila’s haughs an’ woods,
When lintwhites chant amang the buds,
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids,
 Their loves enjoy;
While thro’ the braes the cushat croods
 With wailfu’ cry!


Ev’n winter bleak has charms to me,
When winds rave thro’ the naked tree;
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree
 Are hoary gray;
Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee,
 Dark’ning the day!


O Nature! a’ thy shews an’ forms
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms,
 Wi’ life an light;
Or winter howls, in gusty storms,
 The lang, dark night!


The muse, nae poet ever fand her,
Till by himsel he learn’d to wander,
Adown some trottin burn’s meander,
 An’ no think lang:
O sweet to stray, an’ pensive ponder
 A heart-felt sang!


The war’ly race may drudge an’ drive,
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an’ strive;
Let me fair Nature’s face descrive,
 And I, wi’ pleasure,
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive
 Bum owre their treasure.


Fareweel, “my rhyme-composing” brither!
We’ve been owre lang unkenn’d to ither:
Now let us lay our heads thegither,
 In love fraternal:
May envy wallop in a tether,
 Black fiend, infernal!


While Highlandmen hate tools an’ taxes;
While moorlan’s herds like guid, fat braxies;
While terra firma, on her axis,
 Diurnal turns;
Count on a friend, in faith an’ practice,
 In Robert Burns.


POSTCRIPTMY memory’s no worth a preen;
I had amaist forgotten clean,
Ye bade me write you what they mean
 By this “new-light,”
’Bout which our herds sae aft hae been
 Maist like to fight.


In days when mankind were but callans
At grammar, logic, an’ sic talents,
They took nae pains their speech to balance,
 Or rules to gie;
But spak their thoughts in plain, braid lallans,
 Like you or me.


In thae auld times, they thought the moon,
Just like a sark, or pair o’ shoon,
Wore by degrees, till her last roon
 Gaed past their viewin;
An’ shortly after she was done
 They gat a new ane.


This passed for certain, undisputed;
It ne’er cam i’ their heads to doubt it,
Till chiels gat up an’ wad confute it,
 An’ ca’d it wrang;
An’ muckle din there was about it,
 Baith loud an’ lang.


Some herds, weel learn’d upo’ the beuk,
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk;
For ’twas the auld moon turn’d a neuk
 An’ out of’ sight,
An’ backlins-comin to the leuk
 She grew mair bright.


This was deny’d, it was affirm’d;
The herds and hissels were alarm’d
The rev’rend gray-beards rav’d an’ storm’d,
 That beardless laddies
Should think they better wer inform’d,
 Than their auld daddies.


Frae less to mair, it gaed to sticks;
Frae words an’ aiths to clours an’ nicks;
An monie a fallow gat his licks,
 Wi’ hearty crunt;
An’ some, to learn them for their tricks,
 Were hang’d an’ brunt.


This game was play’d in mony lands,
An’ auld-light caddies bure sic hands,
That faith, the youngsters took the sands
 Wi’ nimble shanks;
Till lairds forbad, by strict commands,
 Sic bluidy pranks.


But new-light herds gat sic a cowe,
Folk thought them ruin’d stick-an-stowe;
Till now, amaist on ev’ry knowe
 Ye’ll find ane plac’d;
An’ some their new-light fair avow,
 Just quite barefac’d.


Nae doubt the auld-light flocks are bleatin;
Their zealous herds are vex’d an’ sweatin;
Mysel’, I’ve even seen them greetin
 Wi’ girnin spite,
To hear the moon sae sadly lied on
 By word an’ write.


But shortly they will cowe the louns!
Some auld-light herds in neebor touns
Are mind’t, in things they ca’ balloons,
 To tak a flight;
An’ stay ae month amang the moons
 An’ see them right.


Guid observation they will gie them;
An’ when the auld moon’s gaun to lea’e them,
The hindmaist shaird, they’ll fetch it wi’ them
 Just i’ their pouch;
An’ when the new-light billies see them,
 I think they’ll crouch!


Sae, ye observe that a’ this clatter
Is naething but a “moonshine matter”;
But tho’ dull prose-folk Latin splatter
 In logic tulyie,
I hope we bardies ken some better
 Than mind sic brulyie.


by Robert Browning |

Bishop Blougrams Apology

 NO more wine? then we'll push back chairs and talk. 
A final glass for me, though: cool, i' faith! 
We ought to have our Abbey back, you see. 
It's different, preaching in basilicas, 
And doing duty in some masterpiece 
Like this of brother Pugin's, bless his heart! 
I doubt if they're half baked, those chalk rosettes, 
Ciphers and stucco-twiddlings everywhere; 
It's just like breathing in a lime-kiln: eh? 
These hot long ceremonies of our church 
Cost us a little--oh, they pay the price, 
You take me--amply pay it! Now, we'll talk. 

So, you despise me, Mr. Gigadibs. 
No deprecation,--nay, I beg you, sir! 
Beside 't is our engagement: don't you know, 
I promised, if you'd watch a dinner out, 
We'd see truth dawn together?--truth that peeps 
Over the glasses' edge when dinner's done, 


And body gets its sop and holds its noise 
And leaves soul free a little. Now's the time: 
'T is break of day! You do despise me then. 
And if I say, "despise me,"--never fear! 
I know you do not in a certain sense-- 
Not in my arm-chair, for example: here, 
I well imagine you respect my place 
( Status, entourage , worldly circumstance) 
Quite to its value--very much indeed: 
--Are up to the protesting eyes of you 
In pride at being seated here for once-- 
You'll turn it to such capital account! 
When somebody, through years and years to come, 
Hints of the bishop,--names me--that's enough: 
"Blougram? I knew him"--(into it you slide) 
"Dined with him once, a Corpus Christi Day, 
"All alone, we two; he's a clever man: 
"And after dinner,--why, the wine you know,-- 
"Oh, there was wine, and good!--what with the wine . . 
"'Faith, we began upon all sorts of talk! 
"He's no bad fellow, Blougram; he had seen 
"Something of mine he relished, some review: 
"He's quite above their humbug in his heart, 
"Half-said as much, indeed--the thing's his trade. 
"I warrant, Blougram's sceptical at times: 
"How otherwise? I liked him, I confess!" 


Che che , my dear sir, as we say at Rome, 
Don't you protest now! It's fair give and take; 
You have had your turn and spoken your home-truths: 
The hand's mine now, and here you follow suit. 

Thus much conceded, still the first fact stays-- 
You do despise me; your ideal of life 
Is not the bishop's: you would not be I. 
You would like better to be Goethe, now, 
Or Buonaparte, or, bless me, lower still, 
Count D'Orsay,--so you did what you preferred, 
Spoke as you thought, and, as you cannot help, 
Believed or disbelieved, no matter what, 
So long as on that point, whate'er it was, 
You loosed your mind, were whole and sole yourself. 
--That, my ideal never can include, 
Upon that element of truth and worth 
Never be based! for say they make me Pope-- 
(They can't--suppose it for our argument!) 
Why, there I'm at my tether's end, I've reached 
My height, and not a height which pleases you: 
An unbelieving Pope won't do, you say. 
It's like those eerie stories nurses tell, 
Of how some actor on a stage played Death, 
With pasteboard crown, sham orb and tinselled dart, 
And called himself the monarch of the world; 



Then, going in the tire-room afterward, 
Because the play was done, to shift himself, 
Got touched upon the sleeve familiarly, 
The moment he had shut the closet door, 
By Death himself. Thus God might touch a Pope 
At unawares, ask what his baubles mean, 
And whose part he presumed to play just now? 
Best be yourself, imperial, plain and true! 

So, drawing comfortable breath again, 
You weigh and find, whatever more or less 
I boast of my ideal realized, 
Is nothing in the balance when opposed 
To your ideal, your grand simple life, 
Of which you will not realize one jot. 
I am much, you are nothing; you would be all, 
I would be merely much: you beat me there. 

No, friend, you do not beat me: hearken why! 
The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, 
Is--not to fancy what were fair in life 
Provided it could be,--but, finding first 
What may be, then find how to make it fair 
Up to our means: a very different thing! 
No abstract intellectual plan of life 
Quite irrespective of life's plainest laws, 


But one, a man, who is man and nothing more, 
May lead within a world which (by your leave) 
Is Rome or London, not Fool's-paradise. 
Embellish Rome, idealize away, 
Make paradise of London if you can, 
You're welcome, nay, you're wise. 

A simile! 
We mortals cross the ocean of this world 
Each in his average cabin of a life; 
The best's not big, the worst yields elbow-room. 
Now for our six months' voyage--how prepare? 
You come on shipboard with a landsman's list 
Of things he calls convenient: so they are! 
An India screen is pretty furniture, 
A piano-forte is a fine resource, 
All Balzac's novels occupy one shelf, 
The new edition fifty volumes long; 
And little Greek books, with the funny type 
They get up well at Leipsic, fill the next: 
Go on! slabbed marble, what a bath it makes! 
And Parma's pride, the Jerome, let us add! 
'T were pleasant could Correggio's fleeting glow 
Hang full in face of one where'er one roams, 
Since he more than the others brings with him 
Italy's self,--the marvellous Modenese!-- 


Yet was not on your list before, perhaps. 
--Alas, friend, here's the agent . . . is't the name? 
The captain, or whoever's master here-- 
You see him screw his face up; what's his cry 
Ere you set foot on shipboard? "Six feet square!" 
If you won't understand what six feet mean, 
Compute and purchase stores accordingly-- 
And if, in pique because he overhauls 
Your Jerome, piano, bath, you come on board 
Bare--why, you cut a figure at the first 
While sympathetic landsmen see you off; 
Not afterward, when long ere half seas over, 
You peep up from your utterly naked boards 
Into some snug and well-appointed berth, 
Like mine for instance (try the cooler jug-- 
Put back the other, but don't jog the ice!) 
And mortified you mutter "Well and good; 
"He sits enjoying his sea-furniture; 
"'T is stout and proper, and there's store of it: 
"Though I've the better notion, all agree, 
"Of fitting rooms up. Hang the carpenter, 
"Neat ship-shape fixings and contrivances-- 
"I would have brought my Jerome, frame and all!" 
And meantime you bring nothing: never mind-- 
You've proved your artist-nature: what you don't 
You might bring, so despise me, as I say. 



Now come, let's backward to the starting-place. 
See my way: we're two college friends, suppose. 
Prepare together for our voyage, then; 
Each note and check the other in his work,-- 
Here's mine, a bishop's outfit; criticize! 
What's wrong? why won't you be a bishop too? 

Why first, you don't believe, you don't and can't, 
(Not statedly, that is, and fixedly 
And absolutely and exclusively) 
In any revelation called divine. 
No dogmas nail your faith; and what remains 
But say so, like the honest man you are? 
First, therefore, overhaul theology! 
Nay, I too, not a fool, you please to think, 
Must find believing every whit as hard: 
And if I do not frankly say as much, 
The ugly consequence is clear enough. 

Now wait, my friend: well, I do not believe-- 
If you'll accept no faith that is not fixed, 
Absolute and exclusive, as you say. 
You're wrong--I mean to prove it in due time. 
Meanwhile, I know where difficulties lie 
I could not, cannot solve, nor ever shall, 
So give up hope accordingly to solve-- 


(To you, and over the wine). Our dogmas then 
With both of us, though in unlike degree, 
Missing full credence--overboard with them! 
I mean to meet you on your own premise: 
Good, there go mine in company with yours! 

And now what are we? unbelievers both, 
Calm and complete, determinately fixed 
To-day, to-morrow and for ever, pray? 
You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think! 
In no wise! all we've gained is, that belief, 
As unbelief before, shakes us by fits, 
Confounds us like its predecessor. Where's 
The gain? how can we guard our unbelief, 
Make it bear fruit to us?--the problem here. 
Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch, 
A fancy from a flower-bell, some one's death, 
A chorus-ending from Euripides,-- 
And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears 
As old and new at once as nature's self, 
To rap and knock and enter in our soul, 
Take hands and dance there, a fantastic ring, 
Round the ancient idol, on his base again,-- 
The grand Perhaps! We look on helplessly. 
There the old misgivings, crooked questions are-- 
This good God,--what he could do, if he would, 


Would, if he could--then must have done long since: 
If so, when, where and how? some way must be,-- 
Once feel about, and soon or late you hit 
Some sense, in which it might be, after all. 
Why not, "The Way, the Truth, the Life?" 

--That way 
Over the mountain, which who stands upon 
Is apt to doubt if it be meant for a road; 
While, if he views it from the waste itself, 
Up goes the line there, plain from base to brow, 
Not vague, mistakeable! what's a break or two 
Seen from the unbroken desert either side? 
And then (to bring in fresh philosophy) 
What if the breaks themselves should prove at last 
The most consummate of contrivances 
To train a man's eye, teach him what is faith? 
And so we stumble at truth's very test! 
All we have gained then by our unbelief 
Is a life of doubt diversified by faith, 
For one of faith diversified by doubt: 
We called the chess-board white,--we call it black. 

"Well," you rejoin, "the end's no worse, at least; 
"We've reason for both colours on the board: 
"Why not confess then, where I drop the faith 
"And you the doubt, that I'm as right as you?" 



Because, friend, in the next place, this being so, 
And both things even,--faith and unbelief 
Left to a man's choice,--we'll proceed a step, 
Returning to our image, which I like. 

A man's choice, yes--but a cabin-passenger's-- 
The man made for the special life o' the world-- 
Do you forget him? I remember though! 
Consult our ship's conditions and you find 
One and but one choice suitable to all; 
The choice, that you unluckily prefer, 
Turning things topsy-turvy--they or it 
Going to the ground. Belief or unbelief 
Bears upon life, determines its whole course, 
Begins at its beginning. See the world 
Such as it is,--you made it not, nor I; 
I mean to take it as it is,--and you, 
Not so you'll take it,--though you get nought else. 
I know the special kind of life I like, 
What suits the most my idiosyncrasy, 
Brings out the best of me and bears me fruit 
In power, peace, pleasantness and length of days. 
I find that positive belief does this 
For me, and unbelief, no whit of this. 
--For you, it does, however?--that, we'll try! 
'T is clear, I cannot lead my life, at least, 


Induce the world to let me peaceably, 
Without declaring at the outset, "Friends, 
"I absolutely and peremptorily 
"Believe!"--I say, faith is my waking life: 
One sleeps, indeed, and dreams at intervals, 
We know, but waking's the main point with us 
And my provision's for life's waking part. 
Accordingly, I use heart, head and hand 
All day, I build, scheme, study, and make friends; 
And when night overtakes me, down I lie, 
Sleep, dream a little, and get done with it, 
The sooner the better, to begin afresh. 
What's midnight doubt before the dayspring's faith? 
You, the philosopher, that disbelieve, 
That recognize the night, give dreams their weight-- 
To be consistent you should keep your bed, 
Abstain from healthy acts that prove you man, 
For fear you drowse perhaps at unawares! 
And certainly at night you'll sleep and dream, 
Live through the day and bustle as you please. 
And so you live to sleep as I to wake, 
To unbelieve as I to still believe? 
Well, and the common sense o' the world calls you 
Bed-ridden,--and its good things come to me. 
Its estimation, which is half the fight, 
That's the first-cabin comfort I secure: 


The next . . . but you perceive with half an eye! 
Come, come, it's best believing, if we may; 
You can't but own that! 

Next, concede again, 
If once we choose belief, on all accounts 
We can't be too decisive in our faith, 
Conclusive and exclusive in its terms, 
To suit the world which gives us the good things. 
In every man's career are certain points 
Whereon he dares not be indifferent; 
The world detects him clearly, if he dare, 
As baffled at the game, and losing life. 
He may care little or he may care much 
For riches, honour, pleasure, work, repose, 
Since various theories of life and life's 
Success are extant which might easily 
Comport with either estimate of these; 
And whoso chooses wealth or poverty, 
Labour or quiet, is not judged a fool 
Because his fellow would choose otherwise: 
We let him choose upon his own account 
So long as he's consistent with his choice. 
But certain points, left wholly to himself, 
When once a man has arbitrated on, 
We say he must succeed there or go hang. 


Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most 
Or needs most, whatsoe'er the love or need-- 
For he can't wed twice. Then, he must avouch, 
Or follow, at the least, sufficiently, 
The form of faith his conscience holds the best, 
Whate'er the process of conviction was: 
For nothing can compensate his mistake 
On such a point, the man himself being judge: 
He cannot wed twice, nor twice lose his soul. 

Well now, there's one great form of Christian faith 
I happened to be born in--which to teach 
Was given me as I grew up, on all hands, 
As best and readiest means of living by; 
The same on examination being proved 
The most pronounced moreover, fixed, precise 
And absolute form of faith in the whole world-- 
Accordingly, most potent of all forms 
For working on the world. Observe, my friend! 
Such as you know me, I am free to say, 
In these hard latter days which hamper one, 
Myself--by no immoderate exercise 
Of intellect and learning, but the tact 
To let external forces work for me, 
--Bid the street's stones be bread and they are bread; 


Bid Peter's creed, or rather, Hildebrand's, 
Exalt me o'er my fellows in the world 
And make my life an ease and joy and pride; 
It does so,--which for me's a great point gained, 
Who have a soul and body that exact 
A comfortable care in many ways. 
There's power in me and will to dominate 
Which I must exercise, they hurt me else: 
In many ways I need mankind's respect, 
Obedience, and the love that's born of fear: 
While at the same time, there's a taste I have, 
A toy of soul, a titillating thing, 
Refuses to digest these dainties crude. 
The naked life is gross till clothed upon: 
I must take what men offer, with a grace 
As though I would not, could I help it, take! 
An uniform I wear though over-rich-- 
Something imposed on me, no choice of mine; 
No fancy-dress worn for pure fancy's sake 
And despicable therefore! now folk kneel 
And kiss my hand--of course the Church's hand. 
Thus I am made, thus life is best for me, 
And thus that it should be I have procured; 
And thus it could not be another way, 
I venture to imagine. 



You'll reply, 
So far my choice, no doubt, is a success; 
But were I made of better elements, 
With nobler instincts, purer tastes, like you, 
I hardly would account the thing success 
Though it did all for me I say. 

But, friend, 
We speak of what is; not of what might be, 
And how't were better if't were otherwise. 
I am the man you see here plain enough: 
Grant I'm a beast, why, beasts must lead beasts' lives! 
Suppose I own at once to tail and claws; 
The tailless man exceeds me: but being tailed 
I'll lash out lion fashion, and leave apes 
To dock their stump and dress their haunches up. 
My business is not to remake myself, 
But make the absolute best of what God made. 
Or--our first simile--though you prove me doomed 
To a viler berth still, to the steerage-hole, 
The sheep-pen or the pig-stye, I should strive 
To make what use of each were possible; 
And as this cabin gets upholstery, 
That hutch should rustle with sufficient straw. 

But, friend, I don't acknowledge quite so fast 
I fail of all your manhood's lofty tastes 


Enumerated so complacently, 
On the mere ground that you forsooth can find 
In this particular life I choose to lead 
No fit provision for them. Can you not? 
Say you, my fault is I address myself 
To grosser estimators than should judge? 
And that's no way of holding up the soul, 
Which, nobler, needs men's praise perhaps, yet knows 
One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'-- 
Would like the two, but, forced to choose, takes that. 
I pine among my million imbeciles 
(You think) aware some dozen men of sense 
Eye me and know me, whether I believe 
In the last winking Virgin, as I vow, 
And am a fool, or disbelieve in her 
And am a knave,--approve in neither case, 
Withhold their voices though I look their way: 
Like Verdi when, at his worst opera's end 
(The thing they gave at Florence,--what's its name?) 
While the mad houseful's plaudits near out-bang 
His orchestra of salt-box, tongs and bones, 
He looks through all the roaring and the wreaths 
Where sits Rossini patient in his stall. 

Nay, friend, I meet you with an answer here-- 
That even your prime men who appraise their kind 


Are men still, catch a wheel within a wheel, 
See more in a truth than the truth's simple self, 
Confuse themselves. You see lads walk the street 
Sixty the minute; what's to note in that? 
You see one lad o'erstride a chimney-stack; 
Him you must watch--he's sure to fall, yet stands! 
Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. 
The honest thief, the tender murderer, 
The superstitious atheist, demirep 
That loves and saves her soul in new French books-- 
We watch while these in equilibrium keep 
The giddy line midway: one step aside, 
They're classed and done with. I, then, keep the line 
Before your sages,--just the men to shrink 
From the gross weights, coarse scales and labels broad 
You offer their refinement. Fool or knave? 
Why needs a bishop be a fool or knave 
When there's a thousand diamond weights between? 
So, I enlist them. Your picked twelve, you'll find, 
Profess themselves indignant, scandalized 
At thus being held unable to explain 
How a superior man who disbelieves 
May not believe as well: that's Schelling's way! 
It's through my coming in the tail of time, 
Nicking the minute with a happy tact. 
Had I been born three hundred years ago 


They'd say, "What's strange? Blougram of course believes;" 
And, seventy years since, "disbelieves of course." 
But now, "He may believe; and yet, and yet 
"How can he?" All eyes turn with interest. 
Whereas, step off the line on either side-- 
You, for example, clever to a fault, 
The rough and ready man who write apace, 
Read somewhat seldomer, think perhaps even less-- 
You disbelieve! Who wonders and who cares? 
Lord So-and-so--his coat bedropped with wax, 
All Peter's chains about his waist, his back 
Brave with the needlework of Noodledom-- 
Believes! Again, who wonders and who cares? 
But I, the man of sense and learning too, 
The able to think yet act, the this, the that, 
I, to believe at this late time of day! 
Enough; you see, I need not fear contempt. 

--Except it's yours! Admire me as these may, 
You don't. But whom at least do you admire? 
Present your own perfection, your ideal, 
Your pattern man for a minute--oh, make haste 
Is it Napoleon you would have us grow? 
Concede the means; allow his head and hand, 
(A large concession, clever as you are) 


Good! In our common primal element 
Of unbelief (we can't believe, you know-- 
We're still at that admission, recollect!) 
Where do you find--apart from, towering o'er 
The secondary temporary aims 
Which satisfy the gross taste you despise-- 
Where do you find his star?--his crazy trust 
God knows through what or in what? it's alive 
And shines and leads him, and that's all we want. 
Have we aught in our sober night shall point 
Such ends as his were, and direct the means 
Of working out our purpose straight as his, 
Nor bring a moment's trouble on success 
With after-care to justify the same? 
--Be a Napoleon, and yet disbelieve-- 
Why, the man's mad, friend, take his light away! 
What's the vague good o' the world, for which you dare 
With comfort to yourself blow millions up? 
We neither of us see it! we do see 
The blown-up millions--spatter of their brains 
And writhing of their bowels and so forth, 
In that bewildering entanglement 
Of horrible eventualities 
Past calculation to the end of time! 
Can I mistake for some clear word of God 
(Which were my ample warrant for it all) 


His puff of hazy instinct, idle talk, 
"The State, that's I," quack-nonsense about crowns, 
And (when one beats the man to his last hold) 
A vague idea of setting things to rights, 
Policing people efficaciously, 
More to their profit, most of all to his own; 
The whole to end that dismallest of ends 
By an Austrian marriage, cant to us the Church, 
And resurrection of the old r?gime ? 
Would I, who hope to live a dozen years, 
Fight Austerlitz for reasons such and such? 
No: for, concede me but the merest chance 
Doubt may be wrong--there's judgment, life to come! 
With just that chance, I dare not. Doubt proves right? 
This present life is all?--you offer me 
Its dozen noisy years, without a chance 
That wedding an archduchess, wearing lace, 
And getting called by divers new-coined names, 
Will drive off ugly thoughts and let me dine, 
Sleep, read and chat in quiet as I like! 
Therefore I will not. 

Take another case; 
Fit up the cabin yet another way. 
What say you to the poets? shall we write 
Hamlet, Othello--make the world our own, 


Without a risk to run of either sort? 
I can't--to put the strongest reason first. 
"But try," you urge, "the trying shall suffice; 
"The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life: 
"Try to be Shakespeare, leave the rest to fate!" 
Spare my self-knowledge--there's no fooling me! 
If I prefer remaining my poor self, 
I say so not in self-dispraise but praise. 
If I'm a Shakespeare, let the well alone; 
Why should I try to be what now I am? 
If I'm no Shakespeare, as too probable,-- 
His power and consciousness and self-delight 
And all we want in common, shall I find-- 
Trying for ever? while on points of taste 
Wherewith, to speak it humbly, he and I 
Are dowered alike--I'll ask you, I or he, 
Which in our two lives realizes most? 
Much, he imagined--somewhat, I possess. 
He had the imagination; stick to that! 
Let him say, "In the face of my soul's works 
"Your world is worthless and I touch it not 
"Lest I should wrong them"--I'll withdraw my plea. 
But does he say so? look upon his life! 
Himself, who only can, gives judgment there. 
He leaves his towers and gorgeous palaces 
To build the trimmest house in Stratford town; 


Saves money, spends it, owns the worth of things, 
Giulio Romano's pictures, Dowland's lute; 
Enjoys a show, respects the puppets, too, 
And none more, had he seen its entry once, 
Than "Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal." 
Why then should I who play that personage, 
The very Pandulph Shakespeare's fancy made, 
Be told that had the poet chanced to start 
From where I stand now (some degree like mine 
Being just the goal he ran his race to reach) 
He would have run the whole race back, forsooth, 
And left being Pandulph, to begin write plays? 
Ah, the earth's best can be but the earth's best! 
Did Shakespeare live, he could but sit at home 
And get himself in dreams the Vatican, 
Greek busts, Venetian paintings, Roman walls, 
And English books, none equal to his own, 
Which I read, bound in gold (he never did). 
--Terni's fall, Naples' bay and Gothard's top-- 
Eh, friend? I could not fancy one of these; 
But, as I pour this claret, there they are: 
I've gained them--crossed St. Gothard last July 
With ten mules to the carriage and a bed 
Slung inside; is my hap the worse for that? 
We want the same things, Shakespeare and myself, 
And what I want, I have: he, gifted more, 


Could fancy he too had them when he liked, 
But not so thoroughly that, if fate allowed, 
He would not have them also in my sense. 
We play one game; I send the ball aloft 
No less adroitly that of fifty strokes 
Scarce five go o'er the wall so wide and high 
Which sends them back to me: I wish and get 
He struck balls higher and with better skill, 
But at a poor fence level with his head, 
And hit--his Stratford house, a coat of arms, 
Successful dealings in his grain and wool,-- 
While I receive heaven's incense in my nose 
And style myself the cousin of Queen Bess. 
Ask him, if this life's all, who wins the game? 

Believe--and our whole argument breaks up. 
Enthusiasm's the best thing, I repeat; 
Only, we can't command it; fire and life 
Are all, dead matter's nothing, we agree: 
And be it a mad dream or God's very breath, 
The fact's the same,--belief's fire, once in us, 
Makes of all else mere stuff to show itself: 
We penetrate our life with such a glow 
As fire lends wood and iron--this turns steel, 
That burns to ash--all's one, fire proves its power 
For good or ill, since men call flare success. 


But paint a fire, it will not therefore burn. 
Light one in me, I'll find it food enough! 
Why, to be Luther--that's a life to lead, 
Incomparably better than my own. 
He comes, reclaims God's earth for God, he says, 
Sets up God's rule again by simple means, 
Re-opens a shut book, and all is done. 
He flared out in the flaring of mankind; 
Such Luther's luck was: how shall such be mine? 
If he succeeded, nothing's left to do: 
And if he did not altogether--well, 
Strauss is the next advance. All Strauss should be 
I might be also. But to what result? 
He looks upon no future: Luther did. 
What can I gain on the denying side? 
Ice makes no conflagration. State the facts, 
Read the text right, emancipate the world-- 
The emancipated world enjoys itself 
With scarce a thank-you: Blougram told it first 
It could not owe a farthing,--not to him 
More than Saint Paul! 't would press its pay, you think? 
Then add there's still that plaguy hundredth chance 
Strauss may be wrong. And so a risk is run-- 
For what gain? not for Luther's, who secured 
A real heaven in his heart throughout his life, 
Supposing death a little altered things. 



"Ay, but since really you lack faith," you cry, 
"You run the same risk really on all sides, 
"In cool indifference as bold unbelief. 
"As well be Strauss as swing 'twixt Paul and him. 
"It's not worth having, such imperfect faith, 
"No more available to do faith's work 
"Than unbelief like mine. Whole faith, or none!" 

Softly, my friend! I must dispute that point 
Once own the use of faith, I'll find you faith. 
We're back on Christian ground. You call for faith: 
I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. 
The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, 
If faith o'ercomes doubt. How I know it does? 
By life and man's free will, God gave for that! 
To mould life as we choose it, shows our choice: 
That's our one act, the previous work's his own. 
You criticize the soul? it reared this tree-- 
This broad life and whatever fruit it bears! 
What matter though I doubt at every pore, 
Head-doubts, heart-doubts, doubts at my fingers' ends, 
Doubts in the trivial work of every day, 
Doubts at the very bases of my soul 
In the grand moments when she probes herself-- 
If finally I have a life to show, 
The thing I did, brought out in evidence 


Against the thing done to me underground 
By hell and all its brood, for aught I know? 
I say, whence sprang this? shows it faith or doubt? 
All's doubt in me; where's break of faith in this? 
It is the idea, the feeling and the love, 
God means mankind should strive for and show forth 
Whatever be the process to that end,-- 
And not historic knowledge, logic sound, 
And metaphysical acumen, sure! 
"What think ye of Christ," friend? when all's done and said, 
Like you this Christianity or not? 
It may be false, but will you wish it true? 
Has it your vote to be so if it can? 
Trust you an instinct silenced long ago 
That will break silence and enjoin you love 
What mortified philosophy is hoarse, 
And all in vain, with bidding you despise? 
If you desire faith--then you've faith enough: 
What else seeks God--nay, what else seek ourselves? 
You form a notion of me, we'll suppose, 
On hearsay; it's a favourable one: 
"But still" (you add), "there was no such good man, 
"Because of contradiction in the facts. 
"One proves, for instance, he was born in Rome, 
"This Blougram; yet throughout the tales of him 


"I see he figures as an Englishman." 
Well, the two things are reconcileable. 
But would I rather you discovered that, 
Subjoining--"Still, what matter though they be? 
"Blougram concerns me nought, born here or there." 

Pure faith indeed--you know not what you ask! 
Naked belief in God the Omnipotent, 
Omniscient, Omnipresent, sears too much 
The sense of conscious creatures to be borne. 
It were the seeing him, no flesh shall dare 
Some think, Creation's meant to show him forth: 
I say it's meant to hide him all it can, 
And that's what all the blessed evil's for. 
Its use in Time is to environ us, 
Our breath, our drop of dew, with shield enough 
Against that sight till we can bear its stress. 
Under a vertical sun, the exposed brain 
And lidless eye and disemprisoned heart 
Less certainly would wither up at once 
Than mind, confronted with the truth of him. 
But time and earth case-harden us to live; 
The feeblest sense is trusted most; the child 
Feels God a moment, ichors o'er the place, 
Plays on and grows to be a man like us. 


With me, faith means perpetual unbelief 
Kept quiet like the snake 'neath Michael's foot 
Who stands calm just because he feels it writhe. 
Or, if that's too ambitious,--here's my box-- 
I need the excitation of a pinch 
Threatening the torpor of the inside-nose 
Nigh on the imminent sneeze that never comes. 
"Leave it in peace" advise the simple folk: 
Make it aware of peace by itching-fits, 
Say I--let doubt occasion still more faith! 

You'll say, once all believed, man, woman, child, 
In that dear middle-age these noodles praise. 
How you'd exult if I could put you back 
Six hundred years, blot out cosmogony, 
Geology, ethnology, what not 
(Greek endings, each the little passing-bell 
That signifies some faith's about to die), 
And set you square with Genesis again,-- 
When such a traveller told you his last news, 
He saw the ark a-top of Ararat 
But did not climb there since 't was getting dusk 
And robber-bands infest the mountain's foot! 
How should you feel, I ask, in such an age, 
How act? As other people felt and did; 
With soul more blank than this decanter's knob, 


Believe--and yet lie, kill, rob, fornicate 
Full in belief's face, like the beast you'd be! 

No, when the fight begins within himself, 
A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, 
Satan looks up between his feet--both tug-- 
He's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul wakes 
And grows. Prolong that battle through his life! 
Never leave growing till the life to come! 
Here, we've got callous to the Virgin's winks 
That used to puzzle people wholesomely: 
Men have outgrown the shame of being fools. 
What are the laws of nature, not to bend 
If the Church bid them?--brother Newman asks. 
Up with the Immaculate Conception, then-- 
On to the rack with faith!--is my advice. 
Will not that hurry us upon our knees, 
Knocking our breasts, "It can't be--yet it shall! 
"Who am I, the worm, to argue with my Pope? 
"Low things confound the high things!" and so forth. 
That's better than acquitting God with grace 
As some folk do. He's tried--no case is proved, 
Philosophy is lenient--he may go! 

You'll say, the old system's not so obsolete 
But men believe still: ay, but who and where? 


King Bomba's lazzaroni foster yet 
The sacred flame, so Antonelli writes; 
But even of these, what ragamuffin-saint 
Believes God watches him continually, 
As he believes in fire that it will burn, 
Or rain that it will drench him? Break fire's law, 
Sin against rain, although the penalty 
Be just a singe or soaking? "No," he smiles; 
"Those laws are laws that can enforce themselves." 

The sum of all is--yes, my doubt is great, 
My faith's still greater, then my faith's enough. 
I have read much, thought much, experienced much, 
Yet would die rather than avow my fear 
The Naples' liquefaction may be false, 
When set to happen by the palace-clock 
According to the clouds or dinner-time. 
I hear you recommend, I might at least 
Eliminate, decrassify my faith 
Since I adopt it; keeping what I must 
And leaving what I can--such points as this. 
I won't--that is, I can't throw one away. 
Supposing there's no truth in what I hold 
About the need of trial to man's faith, 
Still, when you bid me purify the same, 
To such a process I discern no end. 


Clearing off one excrescence to see two, 
There's ever a next in size, now grown as big, 
That meets the knife: I cut and cut again! 
First cut the Liquefaction, what comes last 
But Fichte's clever cut at God himself? 
Experimentalize on sacred things! 
I trust nor hand nor eye nor heart nor brain 
To stop betimes: they all get drunk alike. 
The first step, I am master not to take. 

You'd find the cutting-process to your taste 
As much as leaving growths of lies unpruned, 
Nor see more danger in it,--you retort. 
Your taste's worth mine; but my taste proves more wise 
When we consider that the steadfast hold 
On the extreme end of the chain of faith 
Gives all the advantage, makes the difference 
With the rough purblind mass we seek to rule: 
We are their lords, or they are free of us, 
Just as we tighten or relax our hold. 
So, others matters equal, we'll revert 
To the first problem--which, if solved my way 
And thrown into the balance, turns the scale-- 
How we may lead a comfortable life, 
How suit our luggage to the cabin's size. 



Of course you are remarking all this time 
How narrowly and grossly I view life, 
Respect the creature-comforts, care to rule 
The masses, and regard complacently 
"The cabin," in our old phrase. Well, I do. 
I act for, talk for, live for this world now, 
As this world prizes action, life and talk: 
No prejudice to what next world may prove, 
Whose new laws and requirements, my best pledge 
To observe then, is that I observe these now, 
Shall do hereafter what I do meanwhile. 
Let us concede (gratuitously though) 
Next life relieves the soul of body, yields 
Pure spiritual enjoyment: well, my friend, 
Why lose this life i' the meantime, since its use 
May be to make the next life more intense? 

Do you know, I have often had a dream 
(Work it up in your next month's article) 
Of man's poor spirit in its progress, still 
Losing true life for ever and a day 
Through ever trying to be and ever being-- 
In the evolution of successive spheres-- 
Before its actual sphere and place of life, 
Halfway into the next, which having reached, 
It shoots with corresponding foolery 


Halfway into the next still, on and off! 
As when a traveller, bound from North to South, 
Scouts fur in Russia: what's its use in France? 
In France spurns flannel: where's its need in Spain? 
In Spain drops cloth, too cumbrous for Algiers! 
Linen goes next, and last the skin itself, 
A superfluity at Timbuctoo. 
When, through his journey, was the fool at ease? 
I'm at ease now, friend; worldly in this world, 
I take and like its way of life; I think 
My brothers, who administer the means, 
Live better for my comfort--that's good too; 
And God, if he pronounce upon such life, 
Approves my service, which is better still. 
If he keep silence,--why, for you or me 
Or that brute beast pulled-up in to-day's "Times," 
What odds is't, save to ourselves, what life we lead? 

You meet me at this issue: you declare,-- 
All special-pleading done with--truth is truth, 
And justifies itself by undreamed ways. 
You don't fear but it's better, if we doubt, 
To say so, act up to our truth perceived 
However feebly. Do then,--act away! 
'T is there I'm on the watch for you. How one acts 
Is, both of us agree, our chief concern: 


And how you'll act is what I fain would see 
If, like the candid person you appear, 
You dare to make the most of your life's scheme 
As I of mine, live up to its full law 
Since there's no higher law that counterchecks. 
Put natural religion to the test 
You've just demolished the revealed with--quick, 
Down to the root of all that checks your will, 
All prohibition to lie, kill and thieve, 
Or even to be an atheistic priest! 
Suppose a pricking to incontinence-- 
Philosophers deduce you chastity 
Or shame, from just the fact that at the first 
Whoso embraced a woman in the field, 
Threw club down and forewent his brains beside, 
So, stood a ready victim in the reach 
Of any brother savage, club in hand; 
Hence saw the use of going out of sight 
In wood or cave to prosecute his loves: 
I read this in a French book t' other day. 
Does law so analysed coerce you much? 
Oh, men spin clouds of fuzz where matters end, 
But you who reach where the first thread begins, 
You'll soon cut that!--which means you can, but won't, 
Through certain instincts, blind, unreasoned-out, 


You dare not set aside, you can't tell why, 
But there they are, and so you let them rule. 
Then, friend, you seem as much a slave as I, 
A liar, conscious coward and hypocrite, 
Without the good the slave expects to get, 
In case he has a master after all! 
You own your instincts? why, what else do I, 
Who want, am made for, and must have a God 
Ere I can be aught, do aught?--no mere name 
Want, but the true thing with what proves its truth, 
To wit, a relation from that thing to me, 
Touching from head to foot--which touch I feel, 
And with it take the rest, this life of ours! 
I live my life here; yours you dare not live. 

--Not as I state it, who (you please subjoin) 
Disfigure such a life and call it names, 
While, to your mind, remains another way 
For simple men: knowledge and power have rights, 
But ignorance and weakness have rights too. 
There needs no crucial effort to find truth 
If here or there or anywhere about: 
We ought to turn each side, try hard and see, 
And if we can't, be glad we've earned at least 
The right, by one laborious proof the more, 
To graze in peace earth's pleasant pasturage. 


Men are not angels, neither are they brutes: 
Something we may see, all we cannot see. 
What need of lying? I say, I see all, 
And swear to each detail the most minute 
In what I think a Pan's face--you, mere cloud: 
I swear I hear him speak and see him wink, 
For fear, if once I drop the emphasis, 
Mankind may doubt there's any cloud at all. 
You take the simple life--ready to see, 
Willing to see (for no cloud's worth a face)-- 
And leaving quiet what no strength can move, 
And which, who bids you move? who has the right? 
I bid you; but you are God's sheep, not mine: 
" Pastor est tui Dominus ." You find 
In this the pleasant pasture of our life 
Much you may eat without the least offence, 
Much you don't eat because your maw objects, 
Much you would eat but that your fellow-flock 
Open great eyes at you and even butt, 
And thereupon you like your mates so well 
You cannot please yourself, offending them; 
Though when they seem exorbitantly sheep, 
You weigh your pleasure with their butts and bleats 
And strike the balance. Sometimes certain fears 
Restrain you, real checks since you find them so; 
Sometimes you please yourself and nothing checks: 


And thus you graze through life with not one lie, 
And like it best. 

But do you, in truth's name? 
If so, you beat--which means you are not I-- 
Who needs must make earth mine and feed my fill 
Not simply unbutted at, unbickered with, 
But motioned to the velvet of the sward 
By those obsequious wethers' very selves. 
Look at me, sir; my age is double yours: 
At yours, I knew beforehand, so enjoyed, 
What now I should be--as, permit the word, 
I pretty well imagine your whole range 
And stretch of tether twenty years to come. 
We both have minds and bodies much alike: 
In truth's name, don't you want my bishopric, 
My daily bread, my influence and my state? 
You're young. I'm old; you must be old one day; 
Will you find then, as I do hour by hour, 
Women their lovers kneel to, who cut curls 
From your fat lap-dog's ear to grace a brooch-- 
Dukes, who petition just to kiss your ring-- 
With much beside you know or may conceive? 
Suppose we die to-night: well, here am I, 
Such were my gains, life bore this fruit to me, 
While writing all the same my articles 


On music, poetry, the fictile vase 
Found at Albano, chess, Anacreon's Greek. 
But you--the highest honour in your life, 
The thing you'll crown yourself with, all your days, 
Is--dining here and drinking this last glass 
I pour you out in sign of amity 
Before we part for ever. Of your power 
And social influence, worldly worth in short, 
Judge what's my estimation by the fact, 
I do not condescend to enjoin, beseech, 
Hint secrecy on one of all these words! 
You're shrewd and know that should you publish one 
The world would brand the lie--my enemies first, 
Who'd sneer--"the bishop's an arch-hypocrite 
"And knave perhaps, but not so frank a fool." 
Whereas I should not dare for both my ears 
Breathe one such syllable, smile one such smile, 
Before the chaplain who reflects myself-- 
My shade's so much more potent than your flesh. 
What's your reward, self-abnegating friend? 
Stood you confessed of those exceptional 
And privileged great natures that dwarf mine-- 
A zealot with a mad ideal in reach, 
A poet just about to print his ode, 
A statesman with a scheme to stop this war, 
An artist whose religion is his art-- 


I should have nothing to object: such men 
Carry the fire, all things grow warm to them, 
Their drugget's worth my purple, they beat me. 
But you,--you're just as little those as I-- 
You, Gigadibs, who, thirty years of age, 
Write statedly for Blackwood's Magazine, 
Believe you see two points in Hamlet's soul 
Unseized by the Germans yet--which view you'll print-- 
Meantime the best you have to show being still 
That lively lightsome article we took 
Almost for the true Dickens,--what's its name? 
"The Slum and Cellar, or Whitechapel life 
"Limned after dark!" it made me laugh, I know, 
And pleased a month, and brought you in ten pounds. 
--Success I recognize and compliment, 
And therefore give you, if you choose, three words 
(The card and pencil-scratch is quite enough) 
Which whether here, in Dublin or New York, 
Will get you, prompt as at my eyebrow's wink, 
Such terms as never you aspired to get 
In all our own reviews and some not ours. 
Go write your lively sketches! be the first 
"Blougram, or The Eccentric Confidence"-- 
Or better simply say, "The Outward-bound." 
Why, men as soon would throw it in my teeth 
As copy and quote the infamy chalked broad 
About me on the church-door opposite. 


You will not wait for that experience though, 
I fancy, howsoever you decide, 
To discontinue--not detesting, not 
Defaming, but at least--despising me! 

Over his wine so smiled and talked his hour 
Sylvester Blougram, styled in partibus 
Episcopus, nec non --(the deuce knows what 
It's changed to by our novel hierarchy) 
With Gigadibs the literary man, 
Who played with spoons, explored his plate's design, 
And ranged the olive-stones about its edge, 
While the great bishop rolled him out a mind 
Long crumpled, till creased consciousness lay smooth. 

For Blougram, he believed, say, half he spoke. 
The other portion, as he shaped it thus 
For argumentatory purposes, 
He felt his foe was foolish to dispute. 
Some arbitrary accidental thoughts 
That crossed his mind, amusing because new, 
He chose to represent as fixtures there, 
Invariable convictions (such they seemed 
Beside his interlocutor's loose cards 
Flung daily down, and not the same way twice) 

While certain hell deep instincts, man's weak tongue 
Is never bold to utter in their truth 
Because styled hell-deep ('t is an old mistake 
To place hell at the bottom of the earth) 
He ignored these,--not having in readiness 
Their nomenclature and philosophy: 
He said true things, but called them by wrong names. 
"On the whole," he thought, "I justify myself 
"On every point where cavillers like this 
"Oppugn my life: he tries one kind of fence, 
"I close, he's worsted, that's enough for him. 
"He's on the ground: if ground should break away 
"I take my stand on, there's a firmer yet 
"Beneath it, both of us may sink and reach. 
"His ground was over mine and broke the first: 
"So, let him sit with me this many a year!" 

He did not sit five minutes. Just a week 
Sufficed his sudden healthy vehemence. 
Something had struck him in the "Outward-bound" 
Another way than Blougram's purpose was: 
And having bought, not cabin-furniture 
But settler's-implements (enough for three) 
And started for Australia--there, I hope, 
By this time he has tested his first plough, 
And studied his last chapter of St. John.


by Robert Browning |

Fra Lippo Lippi

 I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! 
You need not clap your torches to my face. 
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk! 
What, 'tis past midnight, and you go the rounds, 
And here you catch me at an alley's end 
Where sportive ladies leave their doors ajar? 
The Carmine's my cloister: hunt it up, 
Do,--harry out, if you must show your zeal, 
Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong hole, 
And nip each softling of a wee white mouse, 
Weke, weke, that's crept to keep him company! 
Aha, you know your betters! Then, you'll take 
Your hand away that's fiddling on my throat, 
And please to know me likewise. Who am I? 
Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend 
Three streets off--he's a certain . . . how d'ye call? 
Master--a ...Cosimo of the Medici, 
I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best! 
Remember and tell me, the day you're hanged, 
How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! 
But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves 
Pick up a manner nor discredit you: 
Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets 
And count fair price what comes into their net? 
He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! 
Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends. 
Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hang-dogs go 
Drink out this quarter-florin to the health 
Of the munificent House that harbours me 
(And many more beside, lads! more beside!) 
And all's come square again. I'd like his face-- 
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door 
With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds 
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 
With one hand ("Look you, now," as who should say) 
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! 
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, 
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! 
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. 
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, 
You know them and they take you? like enough! 
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- 
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch. 
Here's spring come, and the nights one makes up bands 
To roam the town and sing out carnival, 
And I've been three weeks shut within my mew, 
A-painting for the great man, saints and saints 
And saints again. I could not paint all night-- 
Ouf! I leaned out of window for fresh air. 
There came a hurry of feet and little feet, 
A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and whifts of song, -- 
Flower o' the broom, 
Take away love, and our earth is a tomb! 
Flower o' the quince, 
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since? 
Flower o' the thyme--and so on. Round they went. 
Scarce had they turned the corner when a titter 
Like the skipping of rabbits by moonlight,--three slim shapes, 
And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, flesh and blood, 
That's all I'm made of! Into shreds it went, 
Curtain and counterpane and coverlet, 
All the bed-furniture--a dozen knots, 
There was a ladder! Down I let myself, 
Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, and so dropped, 
And after them. I came up with the fun 
Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, well met,-- 
Flower o' the rose, 
If I've been merry, what matter who knows? 
And so as I was stealing back again 
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast 
With his great round stone to subdue the flesh, 
You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! 
Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head-- 
Mine's shaved--a monk, you say--the sting 's in that! 
If Master Cosimo announced himself, 
Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! 
Come, what am I a beast for? tell us, now! 
I was a baby when my mother died 
And father died and left me in the street. 
I starved there, God knows how, a year or two 
On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and shucks, 
Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day, 
My stomach being empty as your hat, 
The wind doubled me up and down I went. 
Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one hand, 
(Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) 
And so along the wall, over the bridge, 
By the straight cut to the convent. Six words there, 
While I stood munching my first bread that month: 
"So, boy, you're minded," quoth the good fat father 
Wiping his own mouth, 'twas refection-time,-- 
"To quit this very miserable world? 
Will you renounce" . . . "the mouthful of bread?" thought I; 
By no means! Brief, they made a monk of me; 
I did renounce the world, its pride and greed, 
Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking-house, 
Trash, such as these poor devils of Medici 
Have given their hearts to--all at eight years old. 
Well, sir, I found in time, you may be sure, 
'T#was not for nothing--the good bellyful, 
The warm serge and the rope that goes all round, 
And day-long blessed idleness beside! 
"Let's see what the urchin's fit for"--that came next. 
Not overmuch their way, I must confess. 
Such a to-do! They tried me with their books: 
Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in pure waste! 
Flower o' the clove. 
All the Latin I construe is, "amo" I love! 
But, mind you, when a boy starves in the streets 
Eight years together, as my fortune was, 
Watching folk's faces to know who will fling 
The bit of half-stripped grape-bunch he desires, 
And who will curse or kick him for his pains,-- 
Which gentleman processional and fine, 
Holding a candle to the Sacrament, 
Will wink and let him lift a plate and catch 
The droppings of the wax to sell again, 
Or holla for the Eight and have him whipped,-- 
How say I?--nay, which dog bites, which lets drop 
His bone from the heap of offal in the street,-- 
Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp alike, 
He learns the look of things, and none the less 
For admonition from the hunger-pinch. 
I had a store of such remarks, be sure, 
Which, after I found leisure, turned to use. 
I drew men's faces on my copy-books, 
Scrawled them within the antiphonary's marge, 
Joined legs and arms to the long music-notes, 
Found eyes and nose and chin for A's and B's, 
And made a string of pictures of the world 
Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and noun, 
On the wall, the bench, the door. The monks looked black. 
"Nay," quoth the Prior, "turn him out, d'ye say? 
In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a lark. 
What if at last we get our man of parts, 
We Carmelites, like those Camaldolese 
And Preaching Friars, to do our church up fine 
And put the front on it that ought to be!" 
And hereupon he bade me daub away. 
Thank you! my head being crammed, the walls a blank, 
Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
First, every sort of monk, the black and white, 
I drew them, fat and lean: then, folk at church, 
From good old gossips waiting to confess 
Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle-ends,-- 
To the breathless fellow at the altar-foot, 
Fresh from his murder, safe and sitting there 
With the little children round him in a row 
Of admiration, half for his beard and half 
For that white anger of his victim's son 
Shaking a fist at him with one fierce arm, 
Signing himself with the other because of Christ 
(Whose sad face on the cross sees only this 
After the passion of a thousand years) 
Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her head, 
(Which the intense eyes looked through) came at eve 
On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf, 
Her pair of earrings and a bunch of flowers 
(The brute took growling), prayed, and so was gone. 
I painted all, then cried " `T#is ask and have; 
Choose, for more's ready!"--laid the ladder flat, 
And showed my covered bit of cloister-wall. 
The monks closed in a circle and praised loud 
Till checked, taught what to see and not to see, 
Being simple bodies,--"That's the very man! 
Look at the boy who stoops to pat the dog! 
That woman's like the Prior's niece who comes 
To care about his asthma: it's the life!'' 
But there my triumph's straw-fire flared and funked; 
Their betters took their turn to see and say: 
The Prior and the learned pulled a face 
And stopped all that in no time. "How? what's here? 
Quite from the mark of painting, bless us all! 
Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the true 
As much as pea and pea! it's devil's-game! 
Your business is not to catch men with show, 
With homage to the perishable clay, 
But lift them over it, ignore it all, 
Make them forget there's such a thing as flesh. 
Your business is to paint the souls of men-- 
Man's soul, and it's a fire, smoke . . . no, it's not . . . 
It's vapour done up like a new-born babe-- 
(In that shape when you die it leaves your mouth) 
It's . . . well, what matters talking, it's the soul! 
Give us no more of body than shows soul! 
Here's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising God, 
That sets us praising--why not stop with him? 
Why put all thoughts of praise out of our head 
With wonder at lines, colours, and what not? 
Paint the soul, never mind the legs and arms! 
Rub all out, try at it a second time. 
Oh, that white smallish female with the breasts, 
She's just my niece . . . Herodias, I would say,-- 
Who went and danced and got men's heads cut off! 
Have it all out!" Now, is this sense, I ask? 
A fine way to paint soul, by painting body 
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further 
And can't fare worse! Thus, yellow does for white 
When what you put for yellow's simply black, 
And any sort of meaning looks intense 
When all beside itself means and looks nought. 
Why can't a painter lift each foot in turn, 
Left foot and right foot, go a double step, 
Make his flesh liker and his soul more like, 
Both in their order? Take the prettiest face, 
The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint--is it so pretty 
You can't discover if it means hope, fear, 
Sorrow or joy? won't beauty go with these? 
Suppose I've made her eyes all right and blue, 
Can't I take breath and try to add life's flash, 
And then add soul and heighten them three-fold? 
Or say there's beauty with no soul at all-- 
(I never saw it--put the case the same--) 
If you get simple beauty and nought else, 
You get about the best thing God invents: 
That's somewhat: and you'll find the soul you have missed, 
Within yourself, when you return him thanks. 
"Rub all out!" Well, well, there's my life, in short, 
And so the thing has gone on ever since. 
I'm grown a man no doubt, I've broken bounds: 
You should not take a fellow eight years old 
And make him swear to never kiss the girls. 
I'm my own master, paint now as I please-- 
Having a friend, you see, in the Corner-house! 
Lord, it's fast holding by the rings in front-- 
Those great rings serve more purposes than just 
To plant a flag in, or tie up a horse! 
And yet the old schooling sticks, the old grave eyes 
Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work, 
The heads shake still--"It's art's decline, my son! 
You're not of the true painters, great and old; 
Brother Angelico's the man, you'll find; 
Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer: 
Fag on at flesh, you'll never make the third!" 
Flower o' the pine, 
You keep your mistr ... manners, and I'll stick to mine! 
I'm not the third, then: bless us, they must know! 
Don't you think they're the likeliest to know, 
They with their Latin? So, I swallow my rage, 
Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight, and paint 
To please them--sometimes do and sometimes don't; 
For, doing most, there's pretty sure to come 
A turn, some warm eve finds me at my saints-- 
A laugh, a cry, the business of the world-- 
(Flower o' the peach 
Death for us all, and his own life for each!) 
And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over, 
The world and life's too big to pass for a dream, 
And I do these wild things in sheer despite, 
And play the fooleries you catch me at, 
In pure rage! The old mill-horse, out at grass 
After hard years, throws up his stiff heels so, 
Although the miller does not preach to him 
The only good of grass is to make chaff. 
What would men have? Do they like grass or no-- 
May they or mayn't they? all I want's the thing 
Settled for ever one way. As it is, 
You tell too many lies and hurt yourself: 
You don't like what you only like too much, 
You do like what, if given you at your word, 
You find abundantly detestable. 
For me, I think I speak as I was taught; 
I always see the garden and God there 
A-making man's wife: and, my lesson learned, 
The value and significance of flesh, 
I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 
You understand me: I'm a beast, I know. 
But see, now--why, I see as certainly 
As that the morning-star's about to shine, 
What will hap some day. We've a youngster here 
Comes to our convent, studies what I do, 
Slouches and stares and lets no atom drop: 
His name is Guidi--he'll not mind the monks-- 
They call him Hulking Tom, he lets them talk-- 
He picks my practice up--he'll paint apace. 
I hope so--though I never live so long, 
I know what's sure to follow. You be judge! 
You speak no Latin more than I, belike; 
However, you're my man, you've seen the world 
--The beauty and the wonder and the power, 
The shapes of things, their colours, lights and shades, 
Changes, surprises,--and God made it all! 
--For what? Do you feel thankful, ay or no, 
For this fair town's face, yonder river's line, 
The mountain round it and the sky above, 
Much more the figures of man, woman, child, 
These are the frame to? What's it all about? 
To be passed over, despised? or dwelt upon, 
Wondered at? oh, this last of course!--you say. 
But why not do as well as say,--paint these 
Just as they are, careless what comes of it? 
God's works--paint any one, and count it crime 
To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His works 
Are here already; nature is complete: 
Suppose you reproduce her--(which you can't) 
There's no advantage! you must beat her, then." 
For, don't you mark? we're made so that we love 
First when we see them painted, things we have passed 
Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to see; 
And so they are better, painted--better to us, 
Which is the same thing. Art was given for that; 
God uses us to help each other so, 
Lending our minds out. Have you noticed, now, 
Your cullion's hanging face? A bit of chalk, 
And trust me but you should, though! How much more, 
If I drew higher things with the same truth! 
That were to take the Prior's pulpit-place, 
Interpret God to all of you! Oh, oh, 
It makes me mad to see what men shall do 
And we in our graves! This world's no blot for us, 
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: 
To find its meaning is my meat and drink. 
"Ay, but you don't so instigate to prayer!" 
Strikes in the Prior: "when your meaning's plain 
It does not say to folk--remember matins, 
Or, mind you fast next Friday!" Why, for this 
What need of art at all? A skull and bones, 
Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, what's best, 
A bell to chime the hour with, does as well. 
I painted a Saint Laurence six months since 
At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine style: 
"How looks my painting, now the scaffold's down?" 
I ask a brother: "Hugely," he returns-- 
"Already not one phiz of your three slaves 
Who turn the Deacon off his toasted side, 
But's scratched and prodded to our heart's content, 
The pious people have so eased their own 
With coming to say prayers there in a rage: 
We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 
Expect another job this time next year, 
For pity and religion grow i' the crowd-- 
Your painting serves its purpose!" Hang the fools! 
--That is--you'll not mistake an idle word 
Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God wot, 
Tasting the air this spicy night which turns 
The unaccustomed head like Chianti wine! 
Oh, the church knows! don't misreport me, now! 
It's natural a poor monk out of bounds 
Should have his apt word to excuse himself: 
And hearken how I plot to make amends. 
I have bethought me: I shall paint a piece 
... There's for you! Give me six months, then go, see 
Something in Sant' Ambrogio's! Bless the nuns! 
They want a cast o' my office. I shall paint 
God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 
Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel-brood, 
Lilies and vestments and white faces, sweet 
As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
When ladies crowd to Church at midsummer. 
And then i' the front, of course a saint or two-- 
Saint John' because he saves the Florentines, 
Saint Ambrose, who puts down in black and white 
The convent's friends and gives them a long day, 
And Job, I must have him there past mistake, 
The man of Uz (and Us without the z, 
Painters who need his patience). Well, all these 
Secured at their devotion, up shall come 
Out of a corner when you least expect, 
As one by a dark stair into a great light, 
Music and talking, who but Lippo! I!-- 
Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck--I'm the man! 
Back I shrink--what is this I see and hear? 
I, caught up with my monk's-things by mistake, 
My old serge gown and rope that goes all round, 
I, in this presence, this pure company! 
Where's a hole, where's a corner for escape? 
Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 
Forward, puts out a soft palm--"Not so fast!" 
--Addresses the celestial presence, "nay-- 
He made you and devised you, after all, 
Though he's none of you! Could Saint John there draw-- 
His camel-hair make up a painting brush? 
We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
Iste perfecit opus! So, all smile-- 
I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 
Under the cover of a hundred wings 
Thrown like a spread of kirtles when you're gay 
And play hot cockles, all the doors being shut, 
Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 
The hothead husband! Thus I scuttle off 
To some safe bench behind, not letting go 
The palm of her, the little lily thing 
That spoke the good word for me in the nick, 
Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, I would say. 
And so all's saved for me, and for the church 
A pretty picture gained. Go, six months hence! 
Your hand, sir, and good-bye: no lights, no lights! 
The street's hushed, and I know my own way back, 
Don't fear me! There's the grey beginning. Zooks!