His constant faith (the Poet-half's to wit-- That waiving any compromise between No joy and all joy kept the hunger keen Beyond most methods)--of incurring scoff From the Man-portion--not to be put off With self-reflectings by the Poet's scheme, Though ne'er so bright. Who sauntered forth in dream, Dressed anyhow, nor waited mystic frames, Immeasurable gifts, astounding claims, But just his sorry self?--who yet might be Sorrier for aught he in reality Achieved, so pinioned Man 's the Poet-part, Fondling, in turn of fancy, verse; the Art Developing his soul a thousand ways-- Potent, by its assistance, to amaze The multitude with majesties, convince Each sort of nature, that the nature's prince Accosted it. Language, the makeshift, grew Into a bravest of expedients, too; Apollo, seemed it now, perverse had thrown Quiver and bow away, the lyre alone Sufficed. While, out of dream, his day's work went To tune a crazy tenzon or sirvent-- So hampered him the Man-part, thrust to judge Between the bard and the bard's audience, grudge A minute's toil that missed its due reward! But the complete Sordello, Man and Bard, [Sidenote: The whole visible Sordello goes wrong] John's cloud-girt angel, this foot on the land, That on the sea, with, open in his hand, A bitter-sweetling of a book--was gone. Then, if internal straggles to be one Which frittered him incessantly piecemeal, Referred, ne'er so obliquely, to the real Intruding Mantuans! ever with some call To action while he pondered, once for all, Which looked the easier effort--to pursue This course, still leap o'er paltry joys, yearn through The present ill-appreciated stage Of self-revealment, and compel the age Know him; or else, forswearing bard-craft, wake From out his lethargy and nobly shake Off timid habits of denial, mix With men, enjoy like men. Ere he could fix On aught, in rushed the Mantuans; much they cared For his perplexity! Thus unprepared, The obvious if not only shelter lay [Sidenote: With those too hard for half of him,] In deeds, the dull conventions of his day Prescribed the like of him: why not be glad 'T is settled Palma's minstrel, good or bad, Submits to this and that established rule? Let Vidal change, or any other fool, His murrey-colored robe for filamot, And crop his hair; too skin-deep, is it not, Such vigor? Then, a sorrow to the heart, His talk! Whatever topics they might start Had to be groped for in his consciousness Straight, and as straight delivered them by guess. Only obliged to ask himself, "What was," A speedy answer followed; but, alas, One of God's large ones, tardy to condense Itself into a period; answers whence A tangle of conclusions must be stripped