 | Valete |  |
99
Robert Browning.
DECEMBER 12TH, 1889.
Browning is dead at Venice! dark and slow
The gondoliers move silently along,
Wan Adria's sea sobs sorrowful among
Drear halls, and pale for grief sits Asolo.
Browning is dead! the voice tolls to and fro
And hushes all his latest tender song,
As in an organ when the deep notes throng
To drown the quavering treble's passionate flow.
The gondoliers move silently along,
Wan Adria's sea sobs sorrowful among
Drear halls, and pale for grief sits Asolo.
Browning is dead! the voice tolls to and fro
And hushes all his latest tender song,
As in an organ when the deep notes throng
To drown the quavering treble's passionate flow.
Browning is dead! with Florence on his heart
Writ large; but larger, England underneath—
The England of his helping; for he knew
The mind where Freedom is, and, to the death,
For souls in pain who dare the Angel part,
Onset and victory his brave trumpet blew.
Writ large; but larger, England underneath—
The England of his helping; for he knew
The mind where Freedom is, and, to the death,
For souls in pain who dare the Angel part,
Onset and victory his brave trumpet blew.
| Valete | |