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Of things unnoticed when they first were Note, too, the bow that she was wont to heard,

bear Some lover's song, some answering maid She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize, en's word?

And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair

Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes What makes these longings, vague, with Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 621 out a name,

She sprang to head the strong Milanion, And this vain pity never felt before, 590 Who now the turning-post had wellnigh This sudden languor, this contempt of won.

fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, But as he set his mighty hand on it, These doubts that grow each minute more White fingers underneath his own were laid, and more?

And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did Why does she tremble as the time grows 1 Alit;

626 near,

Then he the second fruit cast by the maid, And weak defeat and woful victory fear? But she ran on awhile, then as afraid

Wavered and stopped, and turned and But while she seemed to hear her beating made no stay heart,

596 Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out,

Then, as a troubled glance she cast And forth they sprang; and she must play around,

631 her part.

Now far ahead the Argive could she see, Then flew her white feet, knowing not a | And in her garment's hem one hand she doubt,

wound Though, slackening once, she turned her To keep the double prize, and strenuously head about,

600 Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had But then she cried aloud and faster fled

she Than e'er before, and all men deemed him | To win the day, though now but scanty dead.

space

Was left betwixt him and the winningBut with no sound he raised aloft his hand, place. And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew

Short was the way unto such wingèd feet;. And past the maid rolled on along the Quickly she gained upon him, till at

sand; Then trembling she her feet together | He turned about her eager eyes to meet, drew,

And from his hand the third fair apple And in her heart a strong desire there cast. grew

She wavered not, but turned and ran so To have the toy: some god she thought fast had given

After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. That in her hand it lay ere it was still.

635

605

last

641

Then from the course with eager steps she Nor did she rest, but turned about to win ran,

1 610 | Once more an unblest woful victory— 646 And in her odorous bosom laid the gold. And yet—and yet—why does her breath But when she turned again, the great begin limbed man

To fail her, and her feet drag heavily? Now well ahead she failed not to behold, Why fails she now to see if far or nigh And, mindful of her glory waxing cold, The goal is? Why do her gray eyes grow Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit, I dim?

- 650 Though with one hand she touched the Why do these tremors run through every golden fruit.

616 limb?

She spreads her arms abroad some stay | To which the mud splashed wretchedly; 10 to find,

And the wet dripped from every tree Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, Upon her head and heavy hair, A strong man's arms about her body And on her eyelids broad and fair; twined.

654 The tears and rain ran down her face. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss, So wrapped she is in new unbroken bliss; By fits and starts they rode apace, 15 Made happy that the foe the prize hath | And very often was his place won,

Far off from her; he had to ride She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. | Ahead, to see what might betide

When the roads crossed; and sometimes,

when Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the posts! There rose a murmuring from his men, 20 Upon the brazen altar break the sword, 660 | Had to turn back with promises; And scatter incense to appease the ghosts | Ah me! she had but little ease; Of those who died here by their own award. And often for pure doubt and dread Bring forth the image of the mighty Lord, She sobbed, made giddy in the head And her who unseen o'er the runners hung, By the swift riding; while, for cold, 25 And did a deed forever to be sung. 665 Her slender fingers scarce could hold

The wet reins; yea, and scarcely, too, Here are the gathered folk, make no delay; She felt the foot within her shoe Open King Schøneus' well-filled treasury, | Against the stirrup: all for this, Bring out the gifts long hid from light of To part at last without a kiss

30 day,

Beside the haystack in the floods. The golden bowls o'erwrought with imagery,

For when they neared that old soaked hay, Gold chains, and unguents brought from They saw across the only way over sea,

670 That Judas, Godmar, and the three The saffron gown the old Phænician | Red running lions dismally

35 brought,

Grinned from his pennon, under which Within the temple of the goddess wrought. | In one straight line along the ditch,

They counted thirty heads. Oye, 0 damsels, who shall never see · Her, that Love's servant bringeth now to

So then, you,

| While Robert turned round to his men, Returning from another victory, 675 | She saw at once the wretched end, 40 In some cool bower do all that now is due! And, stooping down, tried hard to rend Since she in token of her service new Her coif the wrong way from her head, Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow, And hid her eyes; while Robert said: Her maiden zone, her arrows, and her bow. “Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one;

At Poictiers where we made them run 45

So fast—why, sweet my love, good cheer, THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS The Gascon frontier is so near,

Nought after us.”
Had she come all the way for this,
To part at last without a kiss?

But, “O,” she said,
Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain “My God! my God! I have to tread
That her own eyes might see him slain | The long way back without you; then 50
Beside the haystack in the floods? 5 The court at Paris; those six men;

The gratings of the Chatelet; Along the dripping leafless woods, The swift Seine on some rainy day The stirrup touching either shoe, Like this, and people standing by, She rode astride as troopers do; And laughing, while my weak hands try 55 With kirtle kilted to her knee,

To recollect how strong men swim.

All this, or else a life with him,
For which I should be damned at last;
Would God that this next hour were past!”.

He answered not, but cried his cry, 60
“St. George for Marny!” cheerily;
And laid his hand upon her rein.
Alas! no man of all his train
Gave back that cheery cry again;
And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 65
Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast
About his neck a kerchief long,
And bound him.

"Eh! lies, my Jehane? by God's head,
At Paris folks would deem them true! 105
Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you:

Jehane the brown! Jehane the brown!
Give us Jehane to burn or drown!'-
Eh-gag me Robert !—sweet my friend,
This were indeed a piteous end 110
For those long fingers, and long feet,
And long neck, and smooth shoulders

sweet;
An end that few men would forget
That saw it-So, an hour yet:
Consider, Jehane, which to take 115
Of life or death!”

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So, scarce awake,
Dismounting, did she leave that place,
And totter some yards: with her face
Turned upward to the sky she lay,
Her head on a wet heap of hay, 120
And fell asleep: and while she slept,
And did not dream, the minutes crept
Round to the twelve again; but she,
Being waked at last, sighed quietly,
And strangely childlike came, and said: 125
"I will not.” Straightway Godmar's head,
As though it hung on strong wires, turned
Most sharply round, and his face burned.

She laid her hand upon her brow,
Then gazed upon the palm, as though
She thought her forehead bled, and-

“No,"
She said, and turned her head away,
As there were nothing else to say, 80
And everything were settled: red
Grew Godmar's face from chin to head:
“Jehane, on yonder hill there stands
My castle, guarding well my lands:
What hinders me from taking you, 85
And doing that I list to do
To your fair wilful body, while
Your knight lies dead?”

For Robert—both his eyes were dry,
He could not weep, but gloomily 130
He seemed to watch the rain; yea, too,
His lips were firm; he tried once more
To touch her lips; she reached out, sore
And vain desire so tortured them,
The poor gray lips, and now the hem 135
Of his sleeve brushed them.

A wicked smile

With a start Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart; A long way out she thrust her chin: 90 From Robert's throat he loosed the bands You know that I should strangle you Of silk and mail; with empty hands While you were sleeping; or bite through Held out, she stood and gazed, and saw, 140 Your throat, by God's help-ah!” she said, The long bright blade without a flaw Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid! Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his hand For in such wise they hem me in,

In Robert's hair; she saw him bend I cannot choose but sin and sin,

Back Robert's head; she saw him send Whatever happens: yet I think

The thin steel down; the blow told well, 145 They could not make me eat or drink, Right backward the knight Robert fell, And so should I just reach my rest.” And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, “Nay, if you do not my behest, 100 Unwitting, as I deem: so then O Jehane! though I love you well," Godmar turned grinning to his men, Said Godmar, “would I fail to tell

Who ran, some five or six, and beat 150 All that I know?“Foul lies,” she said. | His head to pieces at their feet.

95

Then Godmar turned again and said: narrowly confined to mainly practical “So, Jehane, the first fitte is read! ends-a kind of “good round-hand;” (40 Take note, my lady, that your way as useless as the protest that poetry Lies backward to the Chatelet!” 155 might not touch prosaic subjects as with She shook her head and gazed awhile Wordsworth, or an abstruse matter as At her cold hands with a rueful smile, with Browning, or treat contemporary As though this thing had made her mad. life nobly as with Tennyson. In subor

dination to one essential beauty in all This was the parting that they had

good literary style, in all literature as a Beside the haystack in the floods. 160 fine art, as there are many beauties of

poetry so the beauties of prose are many, WALTER HORATIO PATER

and it is the business of criticism to 150 of metrical beauty, or, say! metrical re- lences of literary form in regard to science straint; and for him the opposition came are reducible to various kinds of painsto be between verse and prose of course; taking; this good quality being involved but, as the essential dichotomy in this in all “skilled work” whatever, in (150 matter, between imaginative and unim- the drafting of an act of parliament, as aginative writing, parallel to De Quin- in sewing. Yet here again, the writer's cey's distinction between “the literature sense of fact, in history especially, and of power and the literature of knowl- (100 | in all those complex subjects which do edge,” in the former of which the com but lie on the borders of science, will still poser gives us not fact, but his peculiar take the place of fact, in various desense of fact, whether past or present. grees. Your historian, for instance, with

estimate them as such; as it is good in (1839-1894)

the criticism of verse to look for those STYLE

hard, logical and quasi-prosaic excellences

which that too has, or needs. To find Since all progress of mind consists for in the poem, amid the flowers, the althe most part in differentiation, in the lusions, the mixed perspectives, of Lycidas resolution of an obscure and complex for instance, the thought, the logical object into its component aspects, it is structure:-how wholesome! how desurely the stupidest of losses to confuse | lightful! as to identify in prose what things which right reason has put asun- | we call the poetry, the imaginative (60 der, to lose the sense of achieved distinc- power, not treating it as out of place tions, the distinction between poetry and a kind of vagrant intruder, but by and prose, for instance, or, to speak more way of an estimate of its rights, that is, exactly, between the laws and char- (10 of its achieved powers, there. acteristic excellences of verse and prose Dryden, with the characteristic incomposition. On the other hand, those stinct of his age, loved to emphasize the who have dwelt most emphatically on the distinction between poetry and prose, the distinction between prose and verse, protest against their confusion with each prose and poetry, may sometimes have other coming with somewhat diminished been tempted to limit the proper func effect from one whose poetry was so 170 tions of prose too narrowly; and this prosaic. In truth, his sense of prosaic again is at least false economy, as being, excellence affected his verse rather than in effect, the renunciation of a certain | his prose, which is not only fervid, richly means or faculty, in a world where (20 figured, poetic, as we say, but vitiated, after all we must needs make the most of all unconsciously, by many a scanning things. Critical efforts to limit art a line. Setting up correctness, that humpriori, by anticipations regarding the ble merit of prose, as the central literary natural incapacity of the material with excellence, he is really a less correct which this or that artist works, as the writer than he may seem, still with an sculptor with solid form, or the prose- imperfect mastery of the relative pro (80 writer with the ordinary language of noun. It might have been foreseen that, men, are always liable to be discredited in the rotations of mind, the province by the facts of artistic production; and, of poetry in prose would find its assertor; while prose is actually found to be a 130 and, a century after Dryden, amid very colored thing with Bacon, picturesque different intellectual needs, and with the with Livy and Carlyle, musical with need therefore of great modifications in Cicero and Newman, mystical and inti | literary form, the range of the poetic mate with Plato and Michelet and Sir force in literature was effectively enThomas Browne, exalted or florid, it may larged by Wordsworth. The true disbe, with Milton and Taylor, it will be tinction between prose and poetry he 100 useless to protest that it can be nothing regarded as the almost technical or ac at all, except something very tamely and cidental one of the absence or presence

Dismissing then, under sanction of absolutely truthful intention, amid the Wordsworth, that harsher opposition of multitude of facts presented to him poetry to prose, as savoring in fact of the | must needs select, and in selecting (160 arbitrary psychology of the last century, assert something of his own humor, someand with it the prejudice that there can thing that comes not of the world without be but one only beauty of prose style, I but of a vision within. So Gibbon moulds propose here to point out certain qual- (110 his unwieldy material to a preconceived ities of all literature as a fine art, which, view. Livy, Tacitus, Michelet, moving if they apply to the literature of fact, full of poignant sensibility amid the apply still more to the literature of the records of the past, each, after his own imaginative sense of fact, while they ap sense, modifies—who can tell where and ply indifferently to verse and prose, so far to what degree?-and becomes someas either is really imaginative certain thing else than a transcriber; each, as (170 conditions of true art in both alike, which he thus modifies, passing into the domain conditions may also contain in them the of art proper. For just in proportion secret of the proper discrimination and as the writer's aim, consciously or unguardianship of the peculiar excel- (120 consciously, comes to be the transcribing, lences of either.

not of the world, not of mere fact, but The line between fact and something of his sense of it, he becomes an artist, quite different from external fact is, in his work fine art; and good art (as I deed, hard to draw. In Pascal, for in- | hope ultimately to show) in proportion stance, in the persuasive writers generally, to the truth of his presentment of that how difficult to define the point where, sense; as in those humbler or plainer (180 from time to time, argument which, if | functions of literature also, truth-truth it is to be worth anything at all, must to bare fact, there is the essence of consist of facts or groups of facts, be- such artistic quality as they may have. comes a pleading-a theorem no (130 Truth! there can be no merit, no craft longer, but essentially an appeal to the at all, without that. And further, all reader to catch the writer's spirit, to beauty is in the long run only fineness think with him, if one can or will-an of truth, or what we call expression, the expression no longer of fact but of his finer accommodation of speech to that sense of it, his peculiar intuition of a vision within. world prospective, or discerned below -The transcript of his sense of fact (190 the faulty conditions of the present, in rather than the fact, as being preferable, either case changed somewhat from the pleasanter, more beautiful to the writer actual world. In science, on the other himself. In literature, as in every other hand, in history so far as it conforms (140 product of human skill, in the moulding to scientific rule, we have a literary do- of a bell or a platter for instance, whermain where the imagination may be ever this sense asserts itself, wherever thought to be always an intruder. And the producer so modifies his work as, as, in all science, the functions of liter- over and above its primary use or intenature reduce themselves eventually to tion, to make it pleasing (to himself, the transcribing of fact, so all the excel- , of course, in the first instance) there, (200

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