And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, R. BROWNING. 106. FROM ONE WORD MORE' RAFAEL made a century of sonnets, Else he only used to draw Madonnas: These the world might view-but One, the volume. Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, You and I would rather see that angel, Would we not ?-than read a fresh Inferno. God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 107. AFTER TAKE the cloak from his face, and at first Let the corpse do its worst. How he lies in his rights of a man! Death has done all death can. And, absorbed in the new life he leads, He recks not, he heeds Nor his wrong nor my vengeance -both strike On his senses alike, ' R. BROWNING. And are lost in the solemn and Surprise of the change. scorn Were so easily borne. I stand here now, he lies in his R. BROWNING. 108. FROM A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL' THAT low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it : This high man, with a great thing to pursue, Dies ere he knows it. That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred 's soon hit: This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here-should he need the next, This, throws himself on God, and unperplext So, with the throttling hands of Death at strife, Ground he at grammar; Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: He settled Hoti's business-let it be !- Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place. All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Here's the top-peak! the multitude below Live, for they can, there. This man decided not to Live but Know— Bury this man there? Here-here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Lightnings are loosened, Stars come and go! let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send! Lofty designs must close in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him-still loftier than the world suspects, 110. MISCONCEPTIONS THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,- This is a heart the Queen leant on, Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on- R. BROWNING. Who looked up with his kingly throat, Said somewhat, while the other shook His hair back from his eyes to look Their longest at us; then the boat, I know not how, turned sharply round, Laying her whole side on the sea As a leaping fish does; from the lee, Into the weather, cut somehow And so went off, as with a bound, Its singing cave; yet I caught one And neither time nor toil could mar Those features: so I saw the last star Was lost here, but it rose afar ! In Vishnu-land what Avatar ? 112. YOU'LL LOVE ME YET YOU'LL love me yet!—and I can tarry June reared this bunch of flowers you carry, I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield-what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like! You'll look at least on love 's remains, Your look ?-that pays a thousand pains, R. BROWNING (Pippa Passes). |