Is, whether you're — not grateful— but more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?
you would sit thus by me every night

If

I should work better, do you comprehend?

I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.
Come from the window, love, come in, at last,

Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.
King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you
- you, and not with me? Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit

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The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly

How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more - the Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them—that is, Michel Agnolo –
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,

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What's better and what's all I care about,

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Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!

Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,

The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.

I regret little, I would change still less.

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Since there my past life lies, why alter it?

The very wrong to Francis !—it is true

I took his coin, was tempted and complied,

And built this house and sinned, and all is said.

My father and my mother died of want.

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Well, had I riches of my own? you see

How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.

They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:

And I have labored somewhat in my time

And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures - let him try!

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No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.

This must suffice me here. What would one have?

In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo, and me
To cover the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So-still they overcome
Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I choose.

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Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

RABBI BEN EZRA

I

GROW Old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand

Who saith, "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Not that, amassing flowers,

II

Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours,

Which lily leave and then as best recall?"

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars;

5

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!

Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,

III

Do I remonstrate; folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

IV

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;

Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men ;

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To That which doth provide

V

And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff

VI

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

Be our joys three-parts pain!

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Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh hath soul to suit,

VIII

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Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?
To man, propose this test-

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Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use :

I own the Past profuse

IX

Of power each side, perfection every turn:

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole;

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?”

X

Not once beat "Praise be Thine!

I see the whole design,

I, who saw Power, see now Love perfect too:

Perfect I call Thy plan :

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Thou shalt do!"

XI

For pleasant is this flesh;

Our soul, in its rose-mesh

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest:

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Would we some prize might hold
To match those manifold
Possessions of the brute,

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gain most, as we did best!

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Let us not always say,

"Spite of this flesh to-day

XII

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"

As the bird wings and sings,

Let us cry" All good things

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul! "

Therefore I summon age

To grant youth's heritage,

XIII

Life's struggle having so far reached its term:

Thence shall I pass, approved

A man, for aye removed

From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon

Take rest, ere I be gone

XIV

Once more on my adventure brave and new:

Fearless and unperplexed,

When I wage battle next,

What weapons to select, what armor to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try

XV

Leave the fire-ashes, what survives is gold:

My gain or loss thereby ;

And I shall weigh the same,

Give life its praise or blame :

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,

A certain moment cuts

XVI

The deed off, calls the glory from the gray :

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