Yet what no chance could then reveal,
And neither would be first to own,
Let fate and courage now conceal,
When truth could bring remorse alone.

R. M. (Milnes) Lord Houghton

CXLIV

A TOCCATA OF GALUPPI'S

O, Galuppi, Baldassaro, this is very sad to find! I can hardly misconceive you; it would prove me deaf and blind;

But although I take your meaning, 'tis with such a heavy mind!

Here you come with your old music, and here's all the good it brings.

What, they lived once thus at Venice where the merchants were the kings,

Where St. Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings?

Ay, because the sea's the street there; and 'tis arch'd by . . . what you call

Shylock's bridge with houses on it, where they kept the carnival :

I was never out of England-it's as if I saw it

all!

Did young people take their pleasure when the sea was warm in May?

Balls and masks begun at midnight, burning ever to mid-day

When they made up fresh adventures for the morrow, do you say?

Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so

red,-

On her neck the small face buoyant, like a bell-flower on its bed,

O'er the breast's superb abundance where a man might base his head?

Well, (and it was graceful of them) they'd break talk off and afford

-She, to bite her mask's black velvet, he, to finger on his sword,

While you sat and play'd Toccatas, stately at the clavichord?

What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, sixths diminish'd, sigh on sigh,

Told them something? Those suspensions, those solutions- Must we die?'

Those commiserating sevenths- Life might last! we can but try!

'Were you happy?'-'Yes.'-' And are you still as happy? Yes. And you ?'

'Then, more kisses !'-' Did I stop them, when a million seem'd so few?'

Hark! the dominant's persistence, till it must be answer'd to!

So an octave struck the answer. O, they praised you, I dare say!

'Brave Galuppi! that was music! good alike at grave and gay!

I can always leave off talking, when I hear a master play.'

Then they left you for their pleasure: till in due time,

one by one,

Some with lives that came to nothing, some with deeds as well undone,

Death came tacitly and took them where they never

see the sun.

But when I sit down to reason, think to take my stand

nor swerve,

While I triumph o'er a secret wrung from nature's close

reserve,

In you come with your cold music, till I creep through every nerve.

Yes, you, like a ghostly cricket, creaking where a house was burn'd

'Dust and ashes, dead and done with, Venice spent what Venice earn'd!

The soul, doubtless, is immortal-where a soul can be discern'd.

'Yours for instance, you know physics, something of geology,

Mathematics are your pastime; souls shall rise in their degree;

Butterflies may dread extinction,-you'll not die, it cannot be !

'As for Venice and its people, merely born to bloom

and drop,

Here on earth they bore their fruitage, mirth and folly were the crop :

What of soul was left, I wonder, when the kissing had to stop?

'Dust and ashes!' So you creak it, and I want the heart to scold.

Dear dead women, with such hair, too-what's become of all the gold

Used to hang and brush their bosoms? I feel chilly and grown old.

R. Browning

CXLV

IF SHE BUT KNEW

If she but knew that I am weeping
Still for her sake,

That love and sorrow grow with keeping
Till they must break,

My heart that breaking will adore her,
Be hers and die ;

If she might hear me once implore her,
Would she not sigh?

If she but knew that it would save me
Her voice to hear,

Saying she pitied me, forgave me,
Must she forbear?

If she were told that I was dying,
Would she be dumb?

Could she content herself with sighing?

Would she not come ?

A. O'Shaughnessy

CXLVI

SONG

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?

Is the blue changed above thee,

O world! or am I blind?

Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot,

Where she who said, I love thee,
• Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seem'd true above thee,

The rose true on the tree;

The bird seem'd true the summer through, But all proved false to me.

World! is there one good thing in you,
Life, love, or death-or what?

Since lips that sang, I love thee,
Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall
Into one flower's gold cup;
I think the bird will miss me,
And give the summer up.
O sweet place! desolate in tall
Wild grass, have you forgot
How her lips loved to kiss me,
Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me,

Come back with any face,
Summer!-do I care what you do?
You cannot change one place-
The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,
The grave I make the spot-

Here, where she used to love me,
Here, where she loves me not.

A. O'Shaughnessy

CXLVII

DEPARTURE

It was not like your great and gracious ways! Do you, that have nought other to lament, Never, my Love, repent

Of how, that July afternoon,

You went,

With sudden, unintelligible phrase,

And frighten'd eye,

Upon your journey of so many days

Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;

And so we sate, within the low sun's rays,

You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Your harrowing praise.

Well, it was well,