Part 7 (1/2)

'Well,' I thought, 'this is odd.'

But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,--'R. Browning: free pa.s.ses; and kindly look slick.'

But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, 'That symposium's career's Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!'

Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our s.h.i.+rts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.

Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

But I ask,--Do I dream?

_Has_ it gone up the spout?

Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about?

Is our ”to ti en einai” a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

[1] The Oxford Browning Society expired at Keble the week before this was written.

L'ENVOI.

AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE.

After T. I.

As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, And meseemed unto my syghte Came rydynge many a knyghte All cased in armoure bryghte Cap-a-pie, As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!

As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, And meseemed of alle that hoste Notte a face but was the ghoste Of a friend that I hadde loste Long agoe.

As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!