The Home Book of Verse Volume Ii Part 86

I regret little, I would change still less.

Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

The very wrong to Francis!--it is true I took his coin, was tempted and complied, And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

My father and my mother died of want.

Well, had I riches of my own? you see How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: And I have labored somewhat in my time And not been paid profusely. Some good son Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try!

No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.

This must suffice me here. What would one have?

In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, Meted on each side by the angel's reed, For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me To cover,--the three first without a wife, While I have mine! So--still they overcome Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose.

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

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

MY LAST d.u.c.h.eSS Ferrara

That's my last d.u.c.h.ess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and pa.s.sion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the d.u.c.h.ess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretense Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE

One day, it thundered and lightened.

Two women, fairly frightened, Sank to their knees, transformed, transfixed, At the feet of the man who sat betwixt; And "Mercy!" cried each--"if I tell the truth Of a pa.s.sage in my youth!"

Said This: "Do you mind the morning I met your love with scorning?

As the worst of the venom left my lips, I thought, 'If, despite this lie, he strips The mask from my soul with a kiss--I crawl His slave,--soul, body, and all!'"

Said That: "We stood to be married; The priest, or some one, tarried; 'If Paradise-door prove locked?' smiled you.

I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 'Did one, that's away, arrive--nor late Nor soon should unlock h.e.l.l's gate!'"

It ceased to lighten and thunder.

Up started both in wonder, Looked around and saw that the sky was clear, Then laughed "Confess you believed us, Dear!"

"I saw through the joke!" the man replied They re-seated themselves beside.

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

THE LOST MISTRESS

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully --You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavor,-- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul forever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Robert Browning [1812-1889]

FRIEND AND LOVER

When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend!

But, oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become--her friend!

Mary Ainge de Vere [1844-1920]

LOST LOVE

Who wins his Love shall lose her, Who loses her shall gain, For still the spirit wooes her, A soul without a stain; And Memory still pursues her With longings not in vain!

He loses her who gains her, Who watches day by day The dust of time that stains her, The griefs that leave her gray, The flesh that yet enchains her Whose grace hath pa.s.sed away!

Oh, happier he who gains not The Love some seem to gain: The joy that custom stains not Shall still with him remain, The loveliness that wanes not, The Love that ne'er can wane.

In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among, Though all the world wax colder, Though all the songs be sung, In dreams doth he behold her Still fair and kind and young.

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

VOBISc.u.m EST IOPE

When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admired guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finished love From that smooth tongue whose music h.e.l.l can move;

Then wilt thou speak of banqueting delights, Of masques and revels which sweet youth did make, Of tourneys and great challenges of knights, And all these triumphs for thy beauty's sake: When thou hast told these honors done to thee, Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder me!

Thomas Campion [?--1619]