He knew that human nature must work its way upwards by struggling bravely on through the darkness, certain of victory at last, because good and not evil was the all-conquering force. And so, while he was full of hope and full of confidence, his understanding and his sympathies were boundless. Courage! unfailing, confident courage! is the refrain of which he never wearies. Aspire towards the highest; be your best; love for love’s sake and not for reward; work your hardest; fight valiantly to the end; never listen to despair; never lessen your efforts. It is the struggle and the striving that makes life worth living, for— "Life is probation, and this earth no goal But starting-point of men." Nor is there such a thing as failure to those who aspire rightly. "A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, Or what’s a Heaven for?" And again— "Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit, nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain, Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang: dare, never grudge the throe." The power and the love of God, the possibilities within the reach of every man, and the unalterable certainty of the life beyond, these beliefs made it impossible for Browning to sing in any but a hopeful strain, and it is for this that we owe him our deepest debt of gratitude. For he always encourages us, he always inspires us, he always sends us on our way cheered by his own strong faith. Sometimes, it is true, his verse is rough and rugged, often he is so absorbed in the sense of what he says that he cares very little how he says it, but every poem he wrote holds so many precious things that it is worth while wading through difficult places to get at them. And as he himself once said, "With care for a man or a book, most obstacles can be overcome." Many a poem could I give to show you that Browning could pour out sweet music when he wrote of certain subjects. Here is one of his most charming songs—"Home Thoughts from Abroad":— "Oh to be in England now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now! And after April, when May follows, And the white-throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray’s edge,— That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you think he never could recapture The first, fine, careless rapture!"