ust a morn so blithe
Needs have its sorrow when the twang and hiss
Tell that from out thy sheaf one shaft makes writhe
Its victim, thou unerring Artemis?
Why did the chamois stand so fair a mark,
Arrested by the novel shape he dreamed
Was bred of liquid marble in the dark
Depths of the mountain's womb which ever teemed
With novel births of wonder? Not one spark
Of pity in that steel-grey glance which gleamed
At the poor hoof's protesting as it stamped
Idly the granite? Let me glide unseen
From thy proud presence: well may'st thou be queen
Of all those strange and sudden deaths which damped
So oft Love's torch and Hymen's taper lit
For happy marriage till the maidens paled
And perished on the temple-step, assailed
By--what except to envy must man's wit
Impute that sure implacable release
Of life from warmth and joy? But death means peace."

32. ASOLANDO: FANCIES AND FACTS.

[Dated 1890, but published December 12, 1889. _Poetical
Works_, 1889, Vol. XVII., pp. iv., 131.]

_Asolando_ (a name taken from the invented verb _Asolare_, "to disport
in the open air") was published on the day of Browning's death. He died
in Venice, and his body was brought to England, and buried in
Westminster Abbey on the last day of the year. The Abbey was invisible
in the fog, and, inside, dim yellow fog filled all the roof, above the
gas and the candles. The coffin, carried high, came into the church to
the sound of processional music, and as one waited near the grave one
saw the coffin and the wreaths on it, over the heads of the people, and
heard, in Dr. Bridge's setting, the words: "He giveth his beloved
sleep."

Reading _Asolando_ once more, and remembering that coffin one had looked
down upon in the Abbey, only then quite feeling that all was indeed
over, it is perhaps natural that the book should come to seem almost
consciously testamentary, as if certain things in it had been really
meant for a final leave-taking. The Epilogue is a clear, brave
looking-forward to death, as to an event now close at hand, and imagined
as actually accomplished. It breaks through for once, as if at last the
occasion demanded it, a reticence never thus broken through before,
claiming, with a supreme self-confidence, calmly, as an acknowledged
right, the "Well done" of the faithful servant at the end of the long
day's labour. In