Pomegranates from an English Garden. Robert Browning

man matured and fell away

      Into the season of decay:

      And ever o’er the trade he bent,

      And ever lived on earth content.

      (He did God’s will; to him, all one

      If on the earth or in the sun.)

      God said, “A praise is in mine ear;

      “There is no doubt in it, no fear:

      “So sing old worlds, and so

      “New worlds that from my footstool go.

      “Clearer loves sound other ways:

      “I miss my little human praise.”

      Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings, off fell

      The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

      ’Twas Easter Day: He flew to Rome,

      And paused above Saint Peter’s dome.

      In the tiring-room close by

      The great outer gallery,

      With his holy vestments dight,

      Stood the new Pope, Theocrite:

      And all his past career

      Came back upon him clear,

      Since when, a boy, he plied his trade,

      Till on his life the sickness weighed;

      And in his cell, when death drew near,

      An angel in a dream brought cheer:

      And, rising from the sickness drear,

      He grew a priest, and now stood here.

      To the East with praise he turned,

      And on his sight the angel burned.

      “I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell,

      “And set thee here; I did not well.

      “Vainly I left my angel-sphere,

      “Vain was thy dream of many a year.

      “Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped —

      “Creation’s chorus stopped!

      “Go back and praise again

      “The early way, while I remain.

      “With that weak voice of our disdain,

      “Take up creation’s pausing strain.

      “Back to the cell and poor employ:

      “Resume the craftsman and the boy!”

      Theocrite grew old at home;

      A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s dome.

      One vanished as the other died:

      They sought God side by side.

      The lesson of this beautiful fancy is the complement of the “Shop” lesson. Even drudgery may be divine; since the will of God is the work to be done, no matter whether under St. Peter’s dome or in the cell of the craftsman (the Boy) – “all one, if on the earth or in the sun” (the Angel).

      The poem is so full of exquisite things, that only a few can be noted. The value of the “little human praise” to God Himself (distich 12), all the dearer because of the doubts and fears in it (20-22); and the contrast between its seeming weakness and insignificance and its real importance as a necessary part of the great chorus of creation (34); the eager desire of Gabriel to anticipate the will of God, and his content to live on earth and bend over a common trade, if only thus he can serve Him best (13-19); and again the content of the “new pope Theocrite” to go back to his “cell and poor employ” and fill out the measure of his day of service, growing old at home, while Gabriel as contentedly takes his place as pope (probably a harder trial than the more menial service) and waits for the time when both “sought God side by side” – these are some of the fine and far reaching thoughts which find simple and beautiful expression here.

      Longfellow’s “King Robert of Sicily,” though not really parallel, has points of similarity to “The Boy and the Angel.”

      THE PATRIOT

AN OLD STORYI

      It was roses, roses, all the way,

      With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:

      The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,

      The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,

      A year ago on this very day.

II

      The air broke into a mist with bells,

      The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

      Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels —

      “But give me your sun from yonder skies!”

      They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

III

      Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun

      To give it my loving friends to keep!

      Nought man could do, have I left undone:

      And you see my harvest, what I reap

      This very day, now a year is run.

IV

      There’s nobody on the house-tops now —

      Just a palsied few at the windows set;

      For the best of the sight is, all allow,

      At the Shambles’ Gate – or, better yet,

      By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

V

      I go in the rain, and, more than needs,

      A rope cuts both my wrists behind,

      And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,

      For they fling, whoever has a mind,

      Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

VI

      Thus I entered, and thus I go!

      In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

      “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe

      Me?” – God might question; now instead,

      ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

      The Patriot, on his way to the scaffold, surrounded by a hooting crowd, remembers how, just a year ago, the same people had been mad in their enthusiasm for him. Anything at all, however extravagant, would have been too little for them to do for him (stanza 2; cf. Gal. iv. 15, 16); but now – ! The fourth stanza is very powerful. All have gone who can, to be ready to see the execution; only the “palsied few,” who cannot, are at the windows to see him pass. In the last stanza the thought of a more sudden contrast still is presented. A man may drop dead in the midst of a triumph, to find that in its brief plaudits he has his reward, while a vast account stands against him at the higher tribunal. Far better die amid the execrations of men and find the contrast reversed.

      It is “an old story,” and therefore general; but one naturally thinks of such cases as Arnold of Brescia, or the tribune Rienzi. A higher Name than these need not be introduced here, in proof of the people’s fickleness!

      INSTANS TYRANNUS

I

      Of the million or two, more or less,

      I rule and possess,

      One man, for some cause undefined,

      Was least to my mind.

II

      I