ROBERT BROWNING

There's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing ! what atones ? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet ? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only ; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best,

And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men ? Are you poor, sick, old ere your time Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme?

Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn !

You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, 1 Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end ! '

I gave my youth : but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being had I sign'd the bond Still one must lead some life beyond,

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