SONGS FROM PARACELSUS

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
Of labdanum, and aloe-balls,
Smeared with dull nard an Indian wipes
From out her hair: such balsam falls
Down sea-side mountain pedestals,
From tree-tops where tired winds are
fain,

Spent with the vast and howling main,
To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint sweetness from some old

Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unrolled;

Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vowed, With mothed and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young.

Over the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding

wave,

A gallant armament:
Each bark built out of a forest-tree

Left leafy and rough as first it grew. And nailed all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bullhides,

Seethed in fat and suppled in flame,
To bear the playful billows' game:
So, each good ship was rude to see,
Rude and bare to the outward view,
But each upbore a stately tent
Where cedar pales in scented row
Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine,
And an awning drooped the mast below,
In fold on fold of the purple fine,

That neither noontide nor starshine
Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad,
Might pierce the regal tenement.
When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad
We set the sail and plied the oar;
But when the night-wind blew like
breath,

For joy of one day's voyage more,
We sang together on the wide sea,
Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ;
Each sail was loosed to the wind so free,
Each helm made sure by the twilight

star,

And in a sleep as calm as death,
We, the voyagers from afar,

Lay stretched along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent,

And with light and perfume, music

too:

So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past,

And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast.

Now, one morn, land appeared-a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky : "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check

The shout, restrain the eager eye!"
But the heaving sea was black behind
For many a night and many a day,
And land, though but a rock, drew
nigh;

So, we broke the cedar pales away,
Let the purple awning flap in the wind,
And a statue bright was on every
deck!

We shouted, every man of us,
And steered right into the harbor thus,
With pomp and pæan glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone!

All day we built its shrine for each,

A shrine of rock for every one,
Nor paused till in the westering sun
We sat together on the beach
To sing because our task was done,
When lo! what shouts and merry songs!
What laughter all the distance stirs !
A loaded raft with happy throngs
Of gentle islanders!

"Our isles are just at hand," they cried,

"Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping.

Our temple-gates are opened wide,

Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping

For these majestic forms"-they cried. Oh, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late,

How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight

Yet we called out-" Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide. Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,"-we cried.

PORPHYRIA'S LOVER'

1835.

THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

1 This is the earliest of Browning's great series of dramatic poems in lyric form. It was first printed in the Monthly Repository, 1836, with Johannes Agricola in Meditation; was then included in the Dramatic Lyries (1842); and is now classed among the Draniatic Romances.

Most of Browning's poems are simply dramatic monologues, without stage directions, often without even the name of the speaker. The reader must remember that it is not Browning who is speaking or telling the story; and must first notice who is speaking, and under what circumstances. Once this is done, most of the alleged "obscurity" of Browning will be found to have disappeared forever.

And, last, she sat down by my side And called me. When no voice replied.

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me-she
Too weak, for all her heart's en-
deavor,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me forever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain : So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipped me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it

grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids; again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once

more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!

1836.

PHENE

Austrian Police

BLUPHOCKS

LUIGI and his mother

Poor Girls

MONSIGNOR and his attendants

As prosperous ones are treated, those who live

At hand here, and enjoy the higher lot, In readiness to take what thou wilt give, And free to let alone what thou refusest;

For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest Me, who am only Pippa,-old-year's sor

row,

Cast off last night, will come again to

morrow:

Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall borrow

Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's

sorrow.

All other men and women that this earth

Belongs to, who all days alike possess, Make general plenty cure particular dearth,

Get more joy one way, if another, less: Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven

What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven,

Sole light that helps me through the year, thy sun's!

Try now! Take Asolo's Four Happiest Ones

And let thy morning rain on that superb Great haughty Ottima; can rain disturb Her Sebald's homage? All the while thy rain

Beats fiercest on her shrub-house window pane

He will but press the closer, breathe

more warm

Against her cheek; how should she mind the storm?

And, morning past, if mid-day shed a gloom

O'er Jules and Phene,-what care bride and groom

Save for their dear selves? "T is their marriage day;

And while they leave church and go home their way,