Pomegranates from an English Garden. Robert Browning

cupboard suited to his mind.

X

      For, why? He saw no use of life

      But, while he drove a roaring trade,

      To chuckle “Customers are rife!”

      To chafe “So much hard cash outlaid

      “Yet zero in my profits made!

XI

      “This novelty costs pains, but – takes?

      “Cumbers my counter! Stock no more!

      “This article, no such great shakes,

      “Fizzes like wild fire? Underscore

      “The cheap thing – thousands to the fore!”

XII

      ’Twas lodging best to live most nigh

      (Cramp, coffinlike as crib might be)

      Receipt of Custom; ear and eye

      Wanted no outworld: “Hear and see

      “The bustle in the shop!” quoth he.

XIII

      My fancy of a merchant-prince

      Was different. Through his wares we groped

      Our darkling way to – not to mince

      The matter – no black den where moped

      The master if we interloped!

XIV

      Shop was shop only: household-stuff?

      What did he want with comforts there?

      “Walls, ceiling, floor, stay blank and rough,

      “So goods on sale show rich and rare!

      “Sell and scud home,” be shop’s affair!

XV

      What might he deal in? Gems, suppose!

      Since somehow business must be done

      At cost of trouble, – see, he throws

      You choice of jewels, everyone

      Good, better, best, star, moon and sun!

XVI

      Which lies within your power of purse?

      This ruby that would tip aright

      Solomon’s sceptre? Oh, your nurse

      Wants simply coral, the delight

      Of teething baby, – stuff to bite!

XVII

      Howe’er your choice fell, straight you took

      Your purchase, prompt your money rang

      On counter, – scarce the man forsook

      His study of the “Times,” just swang

      Till-ward his hand that stopped the clang, —

XVIII

      Then off made buyer with a prize,

      Then seller to his “Times” returned,

      And so did day wear, wear, till eyes

      Brightened apace, for rest was earned:

      He locked door long ere candle burned.

XIX

      And whither went he? Ask himself,

      Not me! To change of scene, I think.

      Once sold the ware and pursed the pelf,

      Chaffer was scarce his meat and drink,

      Nor all his music – money-chink.

XX

      Because a man has shop to mind

      In time and place, since flesh must live,

      Needs spirit lack all life behind,

      All stray thoughts, fancies fugitive,

      All loves except what trade can give?

XXI

      I want to know a butcher paints,

      A baker rhymes for his pursuit,

      Candlestick-maker much acquaints

      His soul with song, or, haply mute,

      Blows out his brains upon the flute!

XXII

      But – shop each day and all day long!

      Friend, your good angel slept, your star

      Suffered eclipse, fate did you wrong!

      From where these sorts of treasures are,

      There should our hearts be – Christ, how far!

      There ought to be far more in a man than can be put into a front window. This man had all sorts of “curios” in his shop window, but there was nothing rich or rare in his soul; and so there was room for all of him in a den which would not have held the hundredth part of his wares. The contemptible manner of the man’s life is strikingly brought out by the various suppositions (stanzas 5, 6, 7) so different from the poor reality (8-9). All he cared for was business, which made him “chuckle” on the one hand or “chafe” on the other, according as times were good or bad (10). Even in his business it was not the real excellence of his wares he cared for, only their saleability (11). A merchant prince is a very different person (13-19). The last three stanzas give the lesson in a style partly humorous, but passing in the end to an impressive solemnity.

      In connection with this should be read the companion piece, “House,” to which reference is made in the Introduction.

      THE BOY AND THE ANGEL

      Morning, evening, noon and night,

      “Praise God!” sang Theocrite.

      Then to his poor trade he turned,

      Whereby the daily meal was earned.

      Hard he laboured, long and well;

      O’er his work the boy’s curls fell.

      But ever, at each period,

      He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

      Then back again his curls he threw,

      And cheerful turned to work anew.

      Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done;

      “I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

      “As well as if thy voice to-day

      “Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

      “This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome

      “Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

      Said Theocrite, “Would God that I

      “Might praise Him, that great way, and die!”

      Night passed, day shone,

      And Theocrite was gone.

      With God a day endures alway,

      A thousand years are but a day.

      God said in heaven, “Nor day nor night

      “Now brings the voice of my delight.”

      Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth,

      Spread his wings and sank to earth;

      Entered, in flesh, the empty cell,

      Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

      And morning, evening, noon and night,

      Praised God in place of Theocrite.

      And from a boy, to youth he