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All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my love, my fate;

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
The white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

CROSSING THE BAR.

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark;

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar.

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THE beautiful romance of Browning's life is a part of his own and his wife's poetry. He was about two-and-thirty when they met and loved each other, and they ran away and were married in 1846, when he was thirty-four. During the fifteen years that followed, their happiness in each other was full and complete, with no shadow on it; and Browning even had the happiness of knowing that his love had prolonged her life and freed it from much physical pain, as well as transfiguring it with spiritual joy. She died in 1861, and he survived her twenty-eight years, dying in Venice in 1889. But in soul they were never apart; it was a true marriage; and as they were both persons of the finest genius, their felicity was a final answer to the doubt whether high souls can be truly mated. Most of their married life was passed in Italy, partly on account of Mrs. Browning's delicate health, partly because her father was never reconciled to their marriage, but died the surly and selfish tyrant that he had always lived; and partly because the political hopes and struggles of Italy were ardently espoused by both the poets, and largely tinged much of their Their only child, a son, was born in Florence; and Mrs. Browning lived long enough to see her hopes of the emancipation of Italy from the Austrian yoke accomplished.

verse.

Browning is the most interesting figure among modern poets; he has been for years the subject of study on the part of numerous "societies," and the final word on him has not yet been said. He is a philosopher, a man of the world, a poet and a lover; these dissimilar elements are united, but not completely fused in him. His music is broken, but when it does

ring true, there is no sweeter sound in literature. "Your poetry doesn't sing!" Swinburne once said to him; and no one who has read him can question the truth of the criticism. Browning himself admitted it; he recognized his ruggedness and obscurity as faults; he did what he could to overcome them; but in spite of his efforts his thoughts would "break thro' language and escape." We must accept him as he is; and there is no keener, subtler, and at the same time braver and truer mind among the poets of this century. His field of exploration is human nature in its deeper and more remote manifestations; his activity is thus in a world scarcely known to exist by the ordinary person; and the surprises he announces and the treasures he brings to light are therefore a cause of perplexity and doubt to the spectators, much as if an Oriental magician were to produce before them strange objects apparently created out of empty air. Browning does his best to make all clear to them; but the material he works with has. not yet been reduced to recognizable form; it is like ore from the mine, which to the uninstructed looks like anything but precious metal.

The difficulty of Browning's verse, the need of study to understand most of it, and the real value which careful study shows it to possess, have led many to assign him a place in literature higher than he deserves. He is a great writer and often a great poet; but in no respect is he the greatest. His apprehension of the relativity of all things is imperfect; were it otherwise he would be able to state his message in terms as simple as those of Shakespeare, and so accommodate it to the understanding of the simple. Browning himself was a scholar of high attainments, and he often used his acquired knowledge as if it were a common possession, like the multiplication table. Such is the fault of "Sordello," in order to understand which one must begin with a thorough mastery of the medieval history of Italy. Nor is familiarity with the various dialectics of modern philosophy less indispensable to an adequate comprehension of much that he has written; and the public naturally and rightly revolts from such requirements. The profoundest truths can be stated plainly; they can be disentangled from accidental conditions, and made to shine by their own light. Browning constantly fails to free them from these

trammels of temporary clothing, and display them in the grandeur of their nakedness. He needs an expositor, an annotator, an editor; and this necessity disables him from conveying to the world more than a small part of the good he tried to do. The world awaits a stronger unifying force, a more synthetic genius. Doubtless, no truth that Browning perceived will be lost; but it will come to us by the medium of other minds than his. In many of his poems his power of brilliant costuming and of dramatic statement blinds us to the thing which was his real object, and we praise him for achievements which were merely accessory to his intent. But this is as much his fault as ours, and he must pay the penalty of it.

Browning has been truly called one of the most suggestive of poets. Vivid and impressive pictures start into view under his pen as if spontaneously; he gives us the word which tells and omits the rest; and often he hits the very nerve of meaning. Color and sparkle cover his work with a splendid sheen and iridescence, dazzling and enchanting the eye. He places the external of a man or woman before us with a few masterly touches, and then proceeds to dive into their inmost souls and reveal the hidden springs of their action and thought. He brings similes and illustrations from afar; he sets his picture in a splendid frame, and throws behind it the shadows of a mystic or mysterious background. At times he fills the listening soul with music that seems to come from Heaven itself; but anon a discord jars upon us, and we forgive it less easily because but now we had been so deeply delighted. To read him is like driving with Phaeton in the chariot of the Sun; we brush the stars and then plunge headlong earthwards. The emotions which he portrays are the most impassioned known to our nature; his landscapes are fierce, ominous, appalling, transcendently lovely, but seldom soothing and inviting. The serene middle path was rarely trodden by his Muse. Our pulse beats faster as we follow her, but we are not won by those gentle and sweet fascinations which make us forget the means in the end.

The length of many of Browning's poems is portentous; such a work as "The Ring and the Book" could not be adequately perused in months, having in view the complicated psychical analysis which is its warp and woof. Nor can it

be said that, for any but students, the fruit to be gathered repays the time and effort of the gathering. "The Ring and the Book" is indeed full of superb poetry; but this is involved with much that is of less value, but which, on the other hand, is instrumental to the complete effect. Many attempts have been made to isolate the "Beauties of Browning," but they have failed, as might have been expected; no vital work can be thus eviscerated without losing more than is gained. Detached apothegms, no matter how trenchant or penetrating, have little weight; to detach them is as if one were to bring down to the plain the rock which caps the mountain; in its true place it was sublime, but thus displaced it is a rock and no more. Finally, we must take Browning as he is, or do without him. There is no golden road to him.

Nevertheless, there are many of his poems which all who run may read, and profit by. Such are "The Ride from Ghent to Aix," "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," "Ben Ezra," "Pippa Passes," and many shorter pieces in "Bells of Pomegranates" and "Men and Women." His poem, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," is one of his strangest and most captivating productions, and characteristic of his genius, inasmuch as it is open to many interpretations, and is probably read by each student according to the fashion of his own nature and knowledge. "Waring" is another of these absorbing problems which Browning gives us, possessing a meaning transcending what any specific solution can afford. We feel the spirit breathing through the form, and bringing inspiration; but the form itself is dim to our apprehension, and the more we seek to define it, the further does the true soul retire from us.

The latter years of Browning's life were spent in England, with annual excursions to Italy. He was fond of society, and could be met at certain London houses almost daily during the season. His conversation was that of an accomplished man of the world, with something else added; one who did not know who he was might have wondered what this something was, but to those who knew it was the magic influence of a great soul. He continued to write up to nearly the time of his death, and the force and edge of his wonderful intellect were never abated or dulled. His fame will increase as time goes on,

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