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,

spur!

Stay

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,

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

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his

roan

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, 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.

X

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sate 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 contrast to this page may be found in the study of a painter unknown, whose colour is Florentine "Pictor Ignotus." More Italian pages follow "The Italian in England" and "The Englishman in Italy." We have not spoken yet of the Ferrara poem, "My Last Duchess." This is another experiment in the art of spiritual portraiture, the life portrait of an egoist, and a masterly egoist of the Renaissance, selfish, self-absorbed, inhuman but something of a humanist.

MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

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.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà 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
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, 't was not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
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
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.
Sir, 't was 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
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

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
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
-E'en then would be some stooping, and I chuse
Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave com-
mands;

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
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,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.

In certain poems of this volume Browning mixed his two methods, the ballad mode and the monologue; and in his Count Gismond and "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister he adapts himself in turn without difficulty to the moods and characters of a Provençal knight-atarms or a Spanish monk. In his "Incident of the French Camp " he deals again with the

single episode, related with the utmost suggestive rapidity and carried to a tragic end in five stanzas.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP

I

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon :

A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoléon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

II

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,”–

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

III

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy :
You hardly could suspect—
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came thro')

You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.