rest; the pathetic figure of Pompilia, the wise great Pope, the philoprogenitive Dominus Hyacinthus, and Guido couched in his dungeon like a wolf at bay. This great poem, which touches the high-water mark of Browning's genius, received at once its meed of praise. He had been ignored, he had been ridiculed, and now a reaction set in. The little band of Browning enthusiasts rapidly increased to a multitude, till at length he became a fashion. His very faults were glorified, and too much attention bestowed on such tentative and immature work as Sordello. There were many people to whom an obscure passage in Browning gave the amusement of an acrostic, plus the pleasures of intellectuality. Thus his obscurity was as much exaggerated by his admirers as by his opponents. Sometimes that obscurity may be justified by his own belief-a belief on which he did not always act-that poetry should suggest trains of thought rather than carry them out. At others it results from a real failure to crystallize a thought, or again from a kind of overwhelming of his powers of expression by the hurrying crowd of his ideas. But modern life is crowded and hurrying too. Already what may be called the acrostic interest in Browning is on the wane. As a fashion it needs must go. But besides the literary modists, there are in every generation the lovers of literature. To these we may leave in all confidence the works of Robert Browning, sure that they cannot miss seeing the treasure of true if alloyed gold that lies there; sure too that they will understand, as we cannot understand, how to send a spirt O' the proper fiery acid o'er its face; Gold as it was, is, shall be evermore. VOL. IV. X X MARGARET L. WOODS. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. I. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. II. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace III. 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, IV. At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, V. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back VI. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur! As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. VII. So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!' VIII. 'How they'll greet us!'—and all in a moment his roan IX. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. X. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. PIPPA'S SONG. The year's at the spring, The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven All's right with the world! (1838.) (1841.) THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH. ROME, 15 Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? Nephews-sons mine. . . ah God, I know not! Well She, men would have to be your mother once, Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: With those nine columns round me, two and two, Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! Draw close that conflagration of my church -What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! My sons, ye would not be my death! Go dig The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, Drop water gently till the surface sink, And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I! Bedded in store of rotten figleaves soft, |