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ROBERT BROWNING

1812-1889

BROWNING stands with Tennyson—and with Tennyson alone— in the first place among Victorian poets. Tennyson connects the age with the past and perpetuates the tradition of Wordsworth and Keats; Browning, a far more original poet, both in manner and matter, looks forward to the future. This explains the neglect with which his early poems were received by the general public. It was not until half his life was lived and nearly all his best work done, that men began to recognize his greatness. To-day, no one would hesitate to rank him with Tennyson; and in the minds of many he is, if not so finished an artist, a far stronger, more dramatic, and more inspiring poet.

Browning never received the conventional school and college education of the English boy; but he read voluminously at home, studied music as no other English poet since Milton had done, steeped himself in the classics of Greece and Rome, and finally completed his education by repeated visits to Italy. "Italy was my university," he said.

He began early to write poetry, published several long poems, and produced a couple of plays which met with no very great success, though their literary merit was far above that of the most successful dramas of his time. In 1846 he made a most romantic marriage with the greatest English poetess, Miss Elizabeth Barrett. When he first met her she was an invalid confined to her room, and in the opinion of her friends destined to an early death. Her father would not even hear of her marriage; so the lovers ran away, were married privately, and went to Italy, where they spent fifteen years of almost perfect happiness. In 1861 Mrs. Browning died and the poet returned to England, where after a time he threw himself into the busy life of London. As he himself said,

"he lived and liked life's way." He was passionately fond of music and of art, a lover of nature, and an enthusiastic student of the soul of man. He published during this period many volumes of poetry, which were as warmly received as his early work had been neglected. Of these his long poem, The Ring and the Book, is perhaps the greatest single achievement in Victorian poetry. He died in 1889 at Venice, and was buried with great state in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey.

Much of Browning's verse is of a character unsuitable for such a collection as this. He loved to ponder on the great questions of life, death, and immortality, to dwell upon the influence of art and passion on the human soul, and he often expressed himself in verse of a sort which needs strong and concentrated thought for its full comprehension. But he is also the author of many charming songs and spirited ballads, and the selections here printed, if they do not give an adequate representation of his work, may yet, at least, serve as an introduction to one of the most vigorous, versatile, and fascinating of English poets.

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

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our

place;

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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,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

III

'T was 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;

At Düffeld, 't was 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!"

IV

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
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
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray :

V

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent

back

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For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance.
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance !
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

VI

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay

spur!

Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her,

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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,

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

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"How they'll greet us!"

roan

- and all in a moment his

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight

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Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,

With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

IX

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,
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.

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And all I remember is

X

friends flocking round

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)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from

Ghent.

THE LOST LEADER

I

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote;

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They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:

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How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,

Songs may inspirit us,

II

not thro' his presence;

not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,

-

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

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