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Nor given him cause to deem himself be- And this the world calls frenzy; but the

loved;

Nor could he be a part of that which preyed Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

VI.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream: The wanderer was returned-I saw him stand Before an altar, with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair; but was not that which made

The starlight of his boyhood. As he stood,
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came
The self-same aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced-and then it faded as it came;
And he stood calm and quiet; and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own
words;

And all things reeled around him; he could

see

Not that which was, nor that which should

have been

But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,

And the remembered chambers, and the place,

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade

All things pertaining to that place and hour,

And her who was his destiny-came back And thrust themselves between him and the light;

What business had they there at such a time?

VII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream:
The lady of his love-oh! she was changed,
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling; and her
eyes,

They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things,
And forms impalpable, and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.

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I, too, at love's brim

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.

Touched the sweet.

I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him.

"Speak-I love thee best!"

He exclaimed

"Let thy love my own foretell.” I confessed:

"Clasp my heart on thine

Now unblamed,

Since upon thy soul as well
Hangeth mine!"

Was it wrong to own,

Being truth?

Why should all the giving prove His alone?

I had wealth and ease,

Beauty, youth

Since my lover gave me love,
I gave these.

That was all I meant,

-To be just,

And the passion I had raised To content.

Since he chose to change

Gold for dust,

If I gave him what he praised Was it strange?

Would he loved me yet,

On and on,

While I found some way undreamed -Paid my debt!

Gave more life and more,

Till, all gone,

He should smile "She never seemed Mine before.

"What-she felt the while,

Must I think?

Love's so different with us men," He should smile.

"Dying for my sake

White and pink!

Can't we touch these bubbles then But they break?"

Dear, the pang is brief.

Do thy part,

Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief!

Well, this cold clay clod

Was man's heart.

Crumble it-and what comes next?

Is it God?

293

ROBERT BROWNING

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.

I.

WITH one black shadow at its feet,
The house through all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,
And silent in its dusty vines;
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,
An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,
In glaring sand and inlets bright.

But "Ave Mary," made she moan,

And "Ave Mary," night and morn; And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.”

II.

She, as her carol sadder grew,

From brow and bosom slowly down
Through rosy taper fingers drew

Her streaming curls of deepest brown
To left and right, and made appear,
Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
Her melancholy eyes divine,
The home of woe without a tear.

And "Ave Mary," was her moan,

"Madonna, sad is night and morn;" And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn."

III.

Till all the crimson changed, and passed
Into deep orange o'er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,
Before Our Lady murmured she;
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace
To help me of my weary load!"
And on the liquid mirror glowed
The clear perfection of her face.

"Is this the form," she made her moan, "That won his praises night and morn?" And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."

IV.

Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat, Nor any cloud would cross the vault; But day increased from heat to heat,

On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again,

And seemed knee-deep in mountain grass,
And heard her native breezes pass,
And runlets babbling down the glen.

She breathed in sleep a lower moan;
And murmuring, as at night and morn,
She thought, "My spirit is here alone,
Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."

V.

Dreaming, she knew it was a dream;

She felt he was and was not there.
She woke: the babble of the stream
Fell, and without the steady glare
Shrank the sick olive sere and small.
The river-bed was dusty white;
And all the furnace of the light
Struck up against the blinding wall.

She whispered, with a stifled moan
More inward than at night or morn,
"Sweet mother, let me not here alone
Live forgotten, and die forlorn."

VI.

And, rising, from her bosom drew

Old letters, breathing of her worth;

For "Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth."

An image seemed to pass the door.

To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore."

"O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end-to be left alone,

To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"

VII.

But sometimes in the falling day
An image seemed to pass the door,
To look into her eyes and say,

"But thou shalt be alone no inore."

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