ROBERT BROWNING

THERE is delight in singing, though none hear

Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for
thee,

Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,

No man hath walk'd along our roads with step

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the
breeze

Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne

Proud as thou wert of her, America

Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.

She would not leave behind her those she lov'd:

Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assail'd the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words
are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice,

Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass
That made the men as faithless.
But when you

Found them, or fancied them, and would not hear

That they were only vestiges of smiles,
Or the impression of some amorous hair
Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate
band,

Which had been lying there all night perhaps

Upon a skin so soft, "No, no," you said, "Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are here:

Well, and what matters it, while thou art too!"

ADVICE

To write as your sweet mother does
Is all you wish to do.

Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose !
Let others write for you.

Or mount again your Dartmoor grey,
And I will walk beside,
Until we reach that quiet bay
Which only hears the tide.

Then wave at me your pencil, then
At distance bid me stand,
Before the cavern'd cliff, again

The creature of your hand.

And bid me then go past the nook
To sketch me less in size;
There are but few content to look
So little in your eyes.

Delight us with the gifts you have,
And wish for none beyond:
To some be gay, to some be grave,
To one (blest youth!) be fond.
Pleasures there are how close to Pain,
And better unpossest!

Let poetry's too throbbing vein
Lie quiet in your breast.

HOW TO READ ME

To turn my volumes o'er nor find (Sweet unsuspicious friend !) Some vestige of an erring mind To chide or discommend,