That step Sordello spurned, for the world's sake: He did much--but Sordello's chance was gone. Thus, had Sordello dared that step alone, Apollo had been compassed--'t was a fit He wished should go to him, not he to it --As one content to merely be supposed Singing or fighting elsewhere, while he dozed Really at home--one who was chiefly glad To have achieved the few real deeds he had, Because that way assured they were not worth Doing, so spared from doing them henceforth-- A tree that covets fruitage and yet tastes Never itself, itself. Had he embraced Their cause then, men had plucked Hesperian fruit And, praising that, just thrown him in to boot All he was anxious to appear, but scarce Solicitous to be. A sorry farce Such life is, after all! Cannot I say [Sidenote: This--that must perforce content him,] He lived for some one better thing? this way.-- Lo, on a heathy brown and nameless hill By sparkling Asolo, in mist and chill, Morning just up, higher and higher runs A child barefoot and rosy. See! the sun 's On the square castle's inner-court's low wall Like the chine of some extinct animal Half turned to earth and flowers; and through the haze (Save where some slender patches of gray maize Are to be overleaped) that boy has crossed The whole hill-side of dew and powder-frost Matting the balm and mountain camomile. Up and up goes he, singing all the while Some unintelligible words to beat The lark, God's poet, swooning at his feet, So worsted is he at "the few fine locks Stained like pale honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer,"--all that 's left Of the Goito lay! And thus bereft, Sleep and forget, Sordello! In effect He sleeps, the feverish poet--I suspect [Sidenote: As no prize at all, has contented me.] Not utterly companionless; but, friends, Wake up! The ghost 's gone, and the story ends I 'd fain hope, sweetly; seeing, peri or ghoul, That spirits are conjectured fair or foul, Evil or good, judicious authors think, According as they vanish in a stink Or in a perfume. Friends, be frank! ye snuff Civet, I warrant. Really? Like enough! Merely the savor's rareness; any nose May ravage with impunity a rose: Rifle a musk-pod and 't will ache like yours! I 'd tell you that same pungency ensures An after-gust, but that were overbold. Who would has heard Sordello's story told. PIPPA PASSES A DRAMA