17.

You're my friend-- What a thing friendship is, world without end!

How it gives the heart and soul a stir-up As if somebody broached you a glorious runlet, And poured out, all lovelily, sparklingly, sunlit, Our green Moldavia, the streaky syrup, Cotnar as old as the time of the Druids-- Friendship may match with that monarch of fluids; {840} Each supples a dry brain, fills you its ins-and-outs, Gives your life's hour-gla.s.s a shake when the thin sand doubts Whether to run on or stop short, and guarantees Age is not all made of stark sloth and arrant ease.

I have seen my little lady once more, Jacynth, the gypsy, Berold, and the rest of it, For to me spoke the Duke, as I told you before; I always wanted to make a clean breast of it: And now it is made--why, my heart's blood, that went trickle, Trickle, but anon, in such muddy driblets, {850} Is pumped up brisk now, through the main ventricle, And genially floats me about the giblets.

I'll tell you what I intend to do: I must see this fellow his sad life through-- He is our Duke, after all, And I, as he says, but a serf and thrall.

My father was born here, and I inherit His fame, a chain he bound his son with; Could I pay in a lump I should prefer it, But there's no mine to blow up and get done with: {860} So, I must stay till the end of the chapter.

For, as to our middle-age-manners-adapter, Be it a thing to be glad on or sorry on, Some day or other, his head in a morion And breast in a hauberk, his heels he'll kick up, Slain by an onslaught fierce of hiccup.

And then, when red doth the sword of our Duke rust, And its leathern sheath lie o'ergrown with a blue crust, Then I shall sc.r.a.pe together my earnings; For, you see, in the churchyard Jacynth reposes, {870} And our children all went the way of the roses: It's a long lane that knows no turnings.

One needs but little tackle to travel in; So, just one stout cloak shall I indue: And for a staff, what beats the javelin With which his boars my father pinned you?

And then, for a purpose you shall hear presently, Taking some Cotnar, a tight plump skinful, I shall go journeying, who but I, pleasantly!

Sorrow is vain and despondency sinful. {880} What's a man's age? He must hurry more, that's all; Cram in a day, what his youth took a year to hold: When we mind labor, then only, we're too old-- What age had Methusalem when he begat Saul?

And at last, as its haven some buffeted ship sees (Come all the way from the north-parts with sperm oil), I hope to get safely out of the turmoil And arrive one day at the land of the gypsies, And find my lady, or hear the last news of her From some old thief and son of Lucifer, {890} His forehead chapleted green with wreathy hop, Sunburned all over like an Aethiop.

And when my Cotnar begins to operate And the tongue of the rogue to run at a proper rate, And our wine-skin, tight once, shows each flaccid dent, I shall drop in with--as if by accident-- "You never knew, then, how it all ended, What fortune good or bad attended The little lady your Queen befriended?"

--And when that's told me, what's remaining? {900} This world's too hard for my explaining.

The same wise judge of matters equine Who still preferred some slim four-year-old To the big-boned stock of mighty Berold, And, for strong Cotnar, drank French weak wine, He also must be such a lady's scorner!

Smooth Jacob still robs homely Esau: Now up, now down, the world's one seesaw.

--So, I shall find out some snug corner Under a hedge, like Orson the wood-knight, {910} Turn myself round and bid the world goodnight; And sleep a sound sleep till the trumpet's blowing Wakes me (unless priests cheat us laymen) To a world where will be no further throwing Pearls before swine that can't value them. Amen!

-- 845. I have seen: i.e., in imagination, while telling the story.

864. morion: a sort of helmet.

884. What age had Methusalem: the old man forgets his Bible.

906. He also must be such a lady's scorner: he who is such a poor judge of horses and wines.

910. Orson the wood-knight (Fr. 'ourson', a small bear): twin-brother of Valentine, and son of Bellisant. The brothers were born in a wood near Orleans, and Orson was carried off by a bear, which suckled him with her cubs. When he grew up, he became the terror of France, and was called "The Wild Man of the Forest". Ultimately he was reclaimed by his brother Valentine, overthrew the Green Knight, his rival in love, and married Fezon, daughter of the duke of Savary, in Aquitaine.--'Romance of Valentine and Orson' (15th cent.). Brewer's 'Reader's Handbook' and 'Dictionary of Phrase and Fable'.

The Last Ride Together.

1.

I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be-- My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness!

Take back the hope you gave,--I claim Only a memory of the same, --And this beside, if you will not blame, Your leave for one more last ride with me.

-- St. 1. Browning has no moping melancholy lovers. His lovers generally reflect his own manliness; and when their pa.s.sion is unrequited, they acknowledge the absolute value of love to their own souls.

As Mr. James Thomson, in his 'Notes on the Genius of Robert Browning', remarks ('B. Soc. Papers', Part II., p. 246), "Browning's pa.s.sion is as intense, n.o.ble, and manly as his intellect is profound and subtle, and therefore original. I would especially insist on its manliness, because our present literature abounds in so-called pa.s.sion which is but half-sincere or wholly insincere sentimentalism, if it be not thinly disguised prurient l.u.s.t, and in so-called pathos which is maudlin to nauseousness. The great unappreciated poet last cited {George Meredith} has defined pa.s.sion as 'n.o.ble strength on fire'; and this is the true pa.s.sion of great natures and great poets; while sentimentalism is ign.o.ble weakness dallying with fire; . . .

Browning's pa.s.sion is of utter self-sacrifice, self-annihilation, self-vindicated by its irresistible intensity. So we read it in 'Time's Revenges', so in the scornful condemnation of the weak lovers in 'The Statue and the Bust', so in 'In a Balcony', and 'Two in the Campagna', with its

"'Infinite pa.s.sion and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.'

Is the love rejected, unreturned? No weak and mean upbraidings of the beloved, no futile complaints; a solemn resignation to immitigable Fate; intense grat.i.tude for inspiring love to the unloving beloved. So in 'A Serenade at the Villa'; so in 'One Way of Love', with its

"'My whole life long I learned to love.

This hour my utmost art I prove And speak my pa.s.sion.--Heaven or h.e.l.l?

She will not give me Heaven? 'Tis well!

Lose who may--I still can say, Those who win Heaven, blest are they!'

So in 'The Last Ride Together', with its

"'I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so,'" etc.

2.

My mistress bent that brow of hers; Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fixed me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right!

The blood replenished me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side, Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified.

Who knows but the world may end to-night?

3.

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed By many benedictions--sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once-- And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your pa.s.sion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

4.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind.

Past hopes already lay behind.

What need to strive with a life awry?

Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss.

Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!

Where had I been now if the worst befell?

And here we are riding, she and I.

5.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds?

Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rushed by on either side.

I thought,--All labor, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess.

Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past!

I hoped she would love me: here we ride.

6.

What hand and brain went ever paired?

What heart alike conceived and dared?

What act proved all its thought had been?

What will but felt the fleshy screen?

We ride and I see her bosom heave.

There's many a crown for who can reach.