But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said: "Let progress end at once--man make no step Beyond the natural man, the better beast, Using his senses, not the sense of sense."

In man there's failure, only since he left 225 The lower and inconscious forms of life.

We called it an advance, the rendering plain Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life, And, by new lore so added to the old, Take each step higher over the brute's head. 230 This grew the only life, the pleasure-house, Watch-tower, and treasure-fortress of the soul, Which whole surrounding flats of natural life Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to; A tower that crowns a country. But alas, 235 The soul now climbs it just to perish there!

For thence we have discovered ('tis no dream-- We know this, which we had not else perceived) That there's a world of capability For joy, spread round about us, meant for us, 240 Inviting us; and still the soul craves all, And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!

Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge 245 Our bounded physical recipiency, Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life, Repair the waste of age and sickness: no, It skills not! life's inadequate to joy, As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take. 250 They praise a fountain in my garden here Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.

What if I told her, it is just a thread From that great river which the hills shut up, 255 And mock her with my leave to take the same?

The artificer has given her one small tube Past power to widen or exchange--what boots To know she might spout oceans if she could?

She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread: 260 And so a man can use but a man's joy While he sees G.o.d's. Is it for Zeus to boast, "See, man, how happy I live, and despair-- That I may be still happier--for thy use!"

If this were so, we could not thank our Lord, 265 As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so-- Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?

Still, no. If care--where is the sign? I ask, And get no answer, and agree in sum, O king, with thy profound discouragement, 270 Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.

Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

The last point now:--thou dost except a case-- Holding joy not impossible to one With artist-gifts--to such a man as I 275 Who leave behind me living works indeed; For, such a poem, such a painting lives.

What? Dost thou verily trip upon a word, Confound the accurate view of what joy is (Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine) 280 With feeling joy? confound the knowing how And showing how to live (my faculty) With actually living?--Otherwise Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king?

Because in my great epos I display 285 How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act-- Is this as though I acted? If I paint, Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young?

Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself The many years of pain that taught me art! 290 Indeed, to know is something, and to prove How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more: But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something, too.

Yon rower, with the molded muscles there, Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I. 295 I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.

I get to sing of love, when grown too gray For being beloved: she turns to that young man, The muscles all a-ripple on his back.

I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king! 300

"But," sayest thou--and I marvel, I repeat, To find thee trip on such a mere word--"what Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die: Sappho survives, because we sing her songs, And aeschylus, because we read his plays!" 305 Why, if they live still, let them come and take Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup, Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?

Say rather that my fate is deadlier still, In this, that every day my sense of joy 310 Grows more acute, my soul (intensified By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen; While every day my hairs fall more and more, My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase-- The horror quickening still from year to year, 315 The consummation coming past escape, When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy-- When all my works wherein I prove my worth, Being present still to mock me in men's mouths, Alive still, in the praise of such as thou, 320 I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man, The man who loved his life so overmuch, Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible, I dare at times imagine to my need Some future state revealed to us by Zeus, 325 Unlimited in capability For joy, as this is in desire for joy, --To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us: That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait On purpose to make prized the life at large-- 330 Freed, by the throbbing impulse we call death, We burst there as the worm into the fly, Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!

Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas, He must have done so, were it possible! 335

Live long and happy, and in that thought die: Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest, I cannot tell thy messenger aright Where to deliver what he bears of thine To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame 340 Indeed, if Christus be not one with him-- I know not, nor am troubled much to know.

Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew, As Paulus proves to be, one circ.u.mcised, Hath access to a secret shut from us? 345 Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king, In stooping to inquire of such an one, As if his answer could impose at all!

He writeth, doth he? Well, and he may write.

Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! Certain slaves 350 Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ; And (as I gathered from a bystander) Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

ONE WORD MORE

I

There they are, my fifty men and women Naming me the fifty poems finished!

Take them, Love, the book and me together: Where the heart lies, let the brain lie also.

II

Rafael made a century of sonnets, 5 Made and wrote them in a certain volume Dinted with the silver-pointed pencil Else he only used to draw Madonnas: These, the world might view--but one, the volume.

Who that one, you ask? Your heart instructs you. 10 Did she live and love it all her lifetime?

Did she drop, his lady of the sonnets, Die, and let it drop beside her pillow Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving-- 15 Cheek, the world was wont to hail a painter's, Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a poet's?

III

You and I would rather read that volume (Taken to his beating bosom by it), Lean and list the bosom-beats of Rafael, 20 Would we not? than wonder at Madonnas-- Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, Her, that visits Florence in a vision, Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre-- Seen by us and all the world in circle. 25

IV

You and I will never read that volume.

Guido Reni, like his own eye's apple Guarded long the treasure-book and loved it.

Guido Reni dying, all Bologna Cried, and the world cried too, "Ours, the treasure!" 30 Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

V

Dante once prepared to paint an angel: Whom to please? You whisper "Beatrice."

While he mused and traced it and retraced it (Peradventure with a pen corroded 35 Still by drops of that hot ink he dipped for, When, his left hand i' the hair o' the wicked, Back he held the brow and p.r.i.c.ked its stigma, Bit into the live man's flesh for parchment, Loosed him, laughed to see the writing rankle, 40 Let the wretch go festering through Florence)-- Dante, who loved well because he hated, Hated wickedness that hinders loving, Dante standing, studying his angel-- In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 45 Says he--"Certain people of importance"

(Such he gave his daily, dreadful line to) "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the poet."

Says the poet--"Then I stopped my painting."

VI

You and I would rather see that angel, 50 Painted by the tenderness of Dante-- Would we not?--than read a fresh Inferno.

VII

You and I will never see that picture.

While he mused on love and Beatrice, While he softened o'er his outlined angel, 55 In they broke, those "people of importance": We and Bice bear the loss forever.

VIII

What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's picture?

This: no artist lives and loves, that longs not Once, and only once, and for one only 60 (Ah, the prize!), to find his love a language Fit and fair and simple and sufficient-- Using nature that's an art to others, Not, this one time, art that's turned his nature.

Aye, of all the artists living, loving, 65 None but would forego his proper dowry-- Does he paint? He fain would write a poem-- Does he write? He fain would paint a picture, Put to proof art alien to the artist's, Once, and only once, and for one only, 70 So to be the man and leave the artist, Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's sorrow.

IX

Wherefore? Heaven's gift takes earth's abatement!

He who smites the rock and spreads the water, Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath him, 75 Even he, the minute makes immortal, Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute, Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing.

While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril, 80 When they stood and mocked--"Shall smiting help us?"

When they drank and sneered--"A stroke is easy!"

When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks--"But drought was pleasant."

Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; 85 Thus the doing savors of disrelish; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; O'er-importuned brows becloud the mandate, Carelessness or consciousness--the gesture.

For he bears an ancient wrong about him, 90 Sees and knows again those phalanxed faces, Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed prelude-- "How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, and save us?"

Guesses what is like to prove the sequel-- "Egypt's flesh-pots--nay, the drought was better." 95

X