1841-46), Men and Women (1855), Dramatis Persona (1864), Dramatic Idyls (1879-80), Jocoseria (1883), Ferishtah's Fancies (1884), Asolando (1889), etc. Much of his poetry is so difficult to understand, from superabundance of reflexion, remoteness of allusions, and abruptness of language, that, during the poet's life

time, a 'Browning Society' was formed (1881) for the study and explanation of his works, and a friend of the poet (Mrs. Orr) published (1885) a volume of proseanalyses of his principal poems. His verse, though always powerful and impressive, is some-times wanting in melody and smoothness.

THE JOY OF THE WORLD.
[From Paracelsus, V (1835)]

The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,
Winds into the stone's heart, outbranches bright
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,

Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask -
God joys therein. The wroth sea's waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
10 Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
Staring together with their eyes on flame
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
15 Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure

Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;

The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms
20 Like chrysalids impatient for the air,

The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run
Along the furrows, ants make their ado;
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
25 Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain and God renews
His ancient rapture.

PIPPA'S SONG.

[From Bells and Pomegranates, No. I: Pippa Passes, I (1841)]

The year's at the spring

And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;

4 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! 8

MY LAST DUCHESS.

FERRARA.

[From Bells and Pomegranates, No. III: Dramatic Lyrics (1842)]

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
6 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 passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
10 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
15 Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà 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
20 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. 25 Sir, 'twas all one! My favour 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 80 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

85 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 40 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 passed her; but who passed without 45 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
50 Is ample warrant that no just pretence
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,

55 Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT

TO AIX.
[16-.]

[From Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII: Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)]

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;
4 'Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
8 Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
12 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
16 At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So, Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
20 And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away

24 The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence,
28 O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!

ever that glance

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur! 32 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,

We'll remember at Aix' for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

36 As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

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,

40 '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!'

mit who li 'How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan 44 Rolled neck and croup_over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 48 And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 52 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.

And all I remember is

friends flocking round

66 As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

60 Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD.

[From Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII: Dramatic Romances and Lyrics (1845)]

Oh, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

4 Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 8 In England

now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 12 Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dewdrops at the bent spray's edge That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture 16 The first fine careless rapture!

20

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower

Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

8

12

16

20

24

28

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.

[From Men and Women (1855)]

Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

(So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince

Ages since

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

Now,

the country does not even boast a tree,
As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed, Twelve abreast.