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[The Duke of Ferrara is supposed to be speaking, a typical character of the Italian Renais sance, when unscrupulous cruelty and artistic taste were not infrequently found in combination. This is a true "dramatic" monologue, in that some little action, as well as character portrayal, is implied in the speaker's words. The names of the painter and the sculptor, Frà Pandolf and Claus of Innsbruck, are fictitious.]

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

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For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart-how shall I say?-too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace-all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

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Or blush, at least. She thanked men,good! but thanked

Somehow I know not how-as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech-(which I have not)—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark"-and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 40

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For in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,

He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But when a glance they caught

Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-fornaught.

Yet after he was dead and gone,
And e'en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,

Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.
(1842)

RHECUS

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

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God sends his teachers unto every age,
To every clime, and every race of men,
With revelations fitted to their growth
And shape of mind, nor gives the realm
of Truth

Into the selfish rule of one sole race: Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed

The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence,

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But as he turned he heard a voice behind That murmured "Rhocus!" 'Twas as if the leaves,

Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it;

And while he paused, bewildered, yet again

It murmured "Rhocus!" softer than a breeze.

He started, and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream

Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow

Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak:

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It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with gods;

All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful

To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame.

"Rhœcus, I am the Dryad of this tree;" Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words

Serene and full and clear as drops of dew; "And with it I am doomed to live and die: The rain and sunshine are my caterers, 41 Nor have I other bliss than simple life. Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give,

And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." Then Rhocus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold,

Answered: "What is there that can satisfy

The endless craving of the soul but love? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again, 51 But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, "I give it, Rhocus, though a perilous gift: An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see

But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak,

And not a sound came to his straining

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Farewell! for thou canst never see me more."

Then Rhocus beat his breast, and groaned aloud,

And cried, "Be pitiful! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more!"

"Alas!" the voice returned, "'tis thou art blind,

Not I unmerciful: I can forgive,

But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured "Nevermore!" 129

And Rhocus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves,

Like the long surf upon a distant shore Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain

The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze. 139 Beauty was all around him, and delight; But from that eve he was alone on earth. (1843)

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[An imitation of an old ballad. In the original version Mrs. Browning inserts the refrain "Toll slowly" in the midst of each stanza, conceiving the verses to be repeated to the accompaniment of a funeral bell. The present version is much abbreviated, some thirty-six stanzas being omitted, including the first thirteen.]

'Twas a Duke's fair orphan girl, and her uncle's ward, the Earl, Who betrothed her, twelve years old, for the sake of dowry gold, To his son, Lord Leigh, the churl.

But what time she had made good all her years of womanhood,
Unto both those lords of Leigh spake she out right sovranly,

"My will runneth as my blood.

"And while this same blood makes red this same right hand's veins," she said, "Tis my_will as lady free not to wed a lord of Leigh,

But Sir Guy of Linteged."

The old Earl he smiled smooth, then he sighed for wilful youth"Good my niece, that hand withal looketh somewhat soft and small

For so large a will, in sooth."

She, too, smiled by that same sign, but her smile was cold and fine,— "Little hand clasps muckle gold, or it were not worth the hold

Of thy son, good uncle mine!"

Then the young lord jerked his breath, and sware thickly in his teeth,
He would wed his own betrothed, and1 she loved him and she loathed,

Let the life come or the death.

Up she rose with scornful eyes, as her father's child might rise,

"Thy hound's blood, my lord of Leigh, stains thy knightly heel," quoth she,

"And he moans not where he lies.

"But a woman's will dies hard, in the hall or on the sward!

By that grave, my lords, which made me orphaned girl and dowered lady,

I deny you wife and ward."

Unto each she bowed her head, and swept past with lofty tread.
Ere the midnight bell had ceased, in the chapel had the priest
Blessed her, bride of Linteged.

I and... and. Whether ... or.

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