ion, of _In Three Days_, and the sad and
haunting song of _In a Year_, with its winding and liquid melody, its
mournful and wondering lament over love forgotten; the rich and
marvellously modulated music, the glowing colour, the vivid and
passionate fancy, of _Women and Roses_; the fresh felicity of "_De
Gustibus_," with its enthusiasm for Italy scarcely less fervid than the
English enthusiasm of the _Home-Thoughts_; the quaint humour and
pregnant simplicity of the admirable little parable of _The Twins_; the
sympathetic charm and light touch of _Misconceptions_, and the pretty
figurative fancy of _My Star_; the strong, sad, suggestive little poem
named _One Way of Love_, with its delicately-wrought companion _Another
Way of Love_, the former a love-lyric to be classed with _The Lost
Mistress_ and _The Last Ride Together_; and, finally, the epilogue to
the first volume and a late poem in the second: _Memorabilia_, a tribute
to Shelley, full of grateful remembrance and admiring love, significant
among the few personal utterances of the poet, and the not less lovely
poem and only less fervent tribute to Keats, the sumptuous, gorgeous,
and sardonic lines on _Popularity_. A careful study or even, one would
think, a careless perusal, of but a few of the poems named above, should
be enough to show, once and for all, the infinite richness and variety
of Browning's melody, and his complete mastery over the most simple and
the most intricate lyric measures. As an example of the finest artistic
simplicity, rich with restrained pathos and quiet with keen tension of
feeling, we may choose the following.

"ONE WAY OF LOVE

I.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strew them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.

II.

How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music's wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing?

III.

My whole life long I learned to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion--heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!
Love who may--I still can say,
Those who win heaven, blest are they!"

IN A BALCONY.[35]