BROWNING’S POEMS.
39
A king lived long ago,
In the morning of the world,
When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:
And the King’s locks curled
Disparting o’er a forehead full
As the milk-white space ’twixt horn and horn
Of some sacrificial bull.
Only calm as a babe new-born;
For he has got to a sleepy mood,
So safe from all decrepitude.
Age with its bane so sure gone by,
(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)
That, having lived thus long there seemed
No need the King should ever die.
In the morning of the world,
When Earth was nigher Heaven than now:
And the King’s locks curled
Disparting o’er a forehead full
As the milk-white space ’twixt horn and horn
Of some sacrificial bull.
Only calm as a babe new-born;
For he has got to a sleepy mood,
So safe from all decrepitude.
Age with its bane so sure gone by,
(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)
That, having lived thus long there seemed
No need the King should ever die.
Luigi—No need that sort of King should ever die.
Among the rocks his city was;
Before his palace, in the sun,
He sat to see his people pass,
And judge them every one,
From its threshold of smooth stone.
Before his palace, in the sun,
He sat to see his people pass,
And judge them every one,
From its threshold of smooth stone.
This picture is as good as the Greeks.
Next came a set of Dramatic Lyrics, all more or less good, from which we select
That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of that earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now; Frà Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said
“Frà Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of that earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so not the first
