IV

Then we began to ride.  My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
Past hopes already lay behind. 
        What need to strive with a life awry? 
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss. 40
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell! 
Where had I been now if the worst befell? 
        And here we are riding, she and I.

V

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 
Why, all men strive and who succeeds? 
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new
        As the world rushed by on either side. 
I thought,—­All labour, yet no less 50
Bear up beneath their unsuccess
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs with the hopeful past! 
        I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

VI

What hand and brain went ever paired? 
What heart alike conceived and dared? 
What act proved all its thought had been? 
What will but felt the fleshly screen? 60
        We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
There’s many a crown for who can reach. 
Ten lines, a statesman’s life in each! 
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier’s doing! what atones? 
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 
        My riding is better, by their leave.

VII

What does it all mean, poet?  Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed 70
You hold things beautiful the best,
        And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 
’Tis something, nay ’tis much:  but then,
Have you yourself what’s best for men? 
Are you—­poor, sick, old ere your time—­
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme? 
        Sing, riding’s a joy!  For me, I ride.

VIII

And you, great sculptor—­so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave, 80
And that’s your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn! 
        You acquiesce, and shall I repine? 
What, man of music, you grown grey
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
“Greatly his opera’s strains intend,
Put in music we know how fashions end!”
        I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.

IX