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But since the ill was cureless, she applied
With busy virtue to resume her pride,
And hoped to value her submissive heart
On playing well a patriot daughter's part,
Trying her new-found duties to prefer
To what a father might have owed to her.
The very day too when her first surprise
Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes
On finding, by his care, her private room
Furnish'd, like magic, from her own at home;
The very books and all transported there,
The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair,
The lute, the glass that told the shedding hours,
The little urn of silver for the flowers,
The frame for broidering, with a piece half done,
And the white falcon, basking in the sun,
Who, when he saw her, sidled on his stand,
And twined his neck against her trembling hand.
But what had touch'd her nearest, was the thought,
That if 't were destined for her to be brought
To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be
Giovanni's too, and his her family :-
He seem'd already father of her child,
And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she
Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red
In either downward cheek startle and spread,
To think that he, who was to have such part
In joys like these, had never shared her heart;
But then she chased it with a sigh austere;
And did she chance, at times like these, to hear
Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more,
And with a double smile open the door,
And hope his day had worn a happy face;
Ask how his soldiers pleased him, or the chase,
Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign
grace.

[smiled.

The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly; Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow To accept attentions, flattering to bestow; But then meantime he took no generous pains, By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains; He enter'd not, in turn, in her delights, Her books, her flowers, her taste for rural sights; Nay scarcely her sweet singing minded he, Unless his pride was roused by company; Or when to please him, after martial play, She strain'd her lute to some old fiery lay Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras, Or Ryan's cloak, or how by the red grass In battle you might know where Richard was. Yet all the while, no doubt, however stern Or cold at times, he thought he loved in turn, And that the joy he took in her sweet ways, The pride he felt when she excited praise, In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure, Was thanks enough, and passion beyond measure. She, had she loved him, might have thought so too: For what will love's exalting not go through, Till long neglect, and utter selfishness, Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress? But ill prepared was she, in her hard lot, To fancy merit where she found it not,She, who had been beguiled,--she, who was made Within a gentle bosom to be laid,

To bless and to be bless'd,-to be heart-bare
To one who found his better'd likeness there,-
To think for ever with him, like a bride,-
To haunt his eye, like taste personified,―
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,
And like a morning beam, to wake him every

morrow.

Paulo, meantime, who ever since the day He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way, Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces By which to judge all other forms and faces, Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare, Which gave her up, that evening, to his care. Some babbler, may be, of old Guido's court, Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport: But to his heart the fatal flattery went; And grave he grew, and inwardly intent, And ran back, in his mind, with sudden spring, Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, every thing, E'en what before had seem'd indifference, And read them over in another sense. Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain, To think how fanciful he was, and vain ; And with half-angry, half-regretful sigh, Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye, Breathe off, as 't were, the idle tale, and look About him for his falcon or his book, Scorning that ever he should entertain One thought that in the end might give his brother This start however came so often round,— So often fell he in deep thought, and found Occasion to renew his carelessness,

[pain.

Yet every time the power grown less and less,
That by degrees, half-wearied, half-inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her touching looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 't was his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;
Silence her gentleness before him brought,
Society her sense, reading her books,
Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks,
Which sometimes seem'd, when he sat fix'd awhile,
To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile
And did he stroll into some lonely place,
Under the trees, upon the thick soft grass,
How charming, would he think, to see her here!
How heighten'd then, and perfect would appear
The two divinest things in earthly lot,
A lovely woman in a rural spot!

Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain
About his fancy, till it thrill'd again :
And if his brother's image, less and less,
Startled him up from his new idleness,
"Twas not-he fancied,-that he reason'd worse,
Or felt less scorn of wrong, but the reverse.
That one should think of injuring another,
Or trenching on his peace,-this too a brother,-
And all from selfishness and pure weak will,
To him seem'd marvellous and impossible.
"Tis true, thought he, one being more there was,
Who might meantime have weary hours to pass,—

One weaker too to bear them,-and for whom?-
No matter;-he could not reverse her doom;
And so he sigh'd and smiled, as if one thought
Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught.
Yet if she loved him, common gratitude,
If not, a sense of what was fair and good,
Besides his new relationship and right,
Would make him wish to please her all he might;
And as to thinking,-where could be the harm,
If to his heart he kept its secret charm?
He wish'd not to himself another's blessing,
But then he might console for not possessing;
And glorious things there were, which but to see
And not admire, were mere stupidity:
He might as well object to his own eyes
For loving to behold the fields and skies,
His neighbour's grove, or story-painted hall;
"T was but the taste for what was natural;
Only his fav'rite thought was loveliest of them all.
Concluding thus and happier that he knew
His ground so well, near and more near he drew;
And, sanction'd by his brother's manner, spent
Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant.
He read with her, he rode, he train'd her hawk,
He spent still evenings in delightful talk,
While she sat busy at her broidery frame;
Or touch'd the lute with her, and when they came
To some fine part, prepared her for the pleasure,
And then with double smile stole on the measure.
Then at the tournament,-who there but she
Made him more gallant still than formerly,
Couch o'er his tighten'd lance with double force,
Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse,
And franklier then than ever, midst the shout
And dancing trumpets ride, uncover'd, round
about?

His brother only, more than hitherto,
He would avoid, or sooner let subdue,
Partly from something strange unfelt before,
Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore

A knot his bride had work'd him, green and gold:-
For in all things with nature did she hold;
And while 'twas being work'd, her fancy was
Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass.
Francesca from herself but ill could hide
What pleasure now was added to her side,-
How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on
Thus link'd in white and loving unison;
And how the chair he sat in, and the room,
Began to look, when he had fail'd to come.
But as she better knew the cause than he,
She seem'd to have the more necessity
For struggling hard, and rousing all her pride;
And so she did at first; she even tried
To feel a sort of anger at his care:
But these extremes brought but a kind despair;
And then she only spoke more sweetly to him.
And found her failing eyes give looks that melted
through him.

Giovanni too, who felt relieved indeed
To see another to his place succeed,
Or rather filling up some trifling hours,
Better spent elsewhere, and beneath his powers,
Left the new tie to strengthen day by day,
Talk'd less and less, and longer kept away,

Secure in his self-love and sense of right,
That he was welcome most, come when he might.
And doubtless, they, in their still finer sense,
With added care repaid this confidence,
Turning their thoughts from his abuse of it,
To what on their own parts was graceful and was fit.
Ah now, ye gentle pair,-now think awhile,
Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile;
Now, while your generous hearts have not been
grieved

Perhaps with something not to be retrieved,
And ye have still, within, the power of gladness,
From self-resentment free, and retrospective mad-
ness!

So did they think-but partly from delay,
Partly from fancied ignorance of the way,
And most from feeling the bare contemplation,
Give them fresh need of mutual consolation,
They scarcely tried to see each other less,
And did but meet with deeper tenderness,
Living, from day to day, as they were used,
Only with graver thoughts, and smiles reduced,
And sighs more frequent, which, when one would
heave,

The other long'd to start up and receive.
For whether some suspicion now had cross'd
Giovanni's mind, or whether he had lost
More of his temper lately, he would treat
His wife with petty scorns, and starts of heat,
And, to his own omissions proudly blind,
O'erlook the pains she took to make him kind,
And yet be angry, if he thought them less;
He found reproaches in her meek distress,
Forcing her silent tears, and then resenting,
Then almost angrier grown from half repenting,
And, hinting, at the last, that some there were
Better perhaps than he, and tastefuller,
And these, for what he knew,-he little cared,-
Might please her, and be pleased, though he de-
spair'd.

Then would he quit the room, and half-disdain
Himself for being in so harsh a strain,

And venting thus his temper on a woman;
Yet not the more for that changed he in common,
Or took more pains to please her, and be near :-
What! should he truckle to a woman's tear?

At times like these the princess tried to shun
The face of Paulo as too kind a one;
And shutting up her tears with final sigh,
Would walk into the air, and see the sky,
And feel about her all the garden green,

And hear the birds that shot the covert boughs between.

A noble range it was, of many a rood, Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood: Indeed the whole was leafy; and it had A winding stream about it, clear and glad, That danced from shade to shade, and on its way Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. There was the pouting rose, both red and white, The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light, Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-colour'd box, Hyacinth, handsome with its clustering locks, The lady lily, looking gently down, Pure lavender, to lay in bridal gown,

The daisy, lovely on both sides,-in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and perfumed walks between
Of citron, honeysuckle, and jessamine,
With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with
show'ring light.

So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed
Of gorgeous hues, white, azure, golden, red;
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk,
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And now pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet;
And then perhaps you enter'd upon shades,
Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades,
Through which the distant palace, now and then,
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees, which reaching round about,
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out,
With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks,
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you started the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and sparkled in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in every part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats;
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half-sweetly and half-awfully,-
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.

But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway,
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground :-
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees,
The birch and poplar mix'd with heavier trees;
From under which, sent through a marble spout,
Betwixt the dark wet green, a rill gush'd out,
Whose low, sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers;
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay
And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day,
Lurk'd a pavilion,-a delicious sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white,
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young orange either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward, and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin.
It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill,
Spared from the rage of war, and perfect still;

By some supposed the work of fairy hands,
Famed for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,-
Alcina, or Morgana,-who from fights
And errant fame enveigled amorous knights,
And lived with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kissés.
But 't was a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carved a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverend eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and food, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about, ran on a line with this
In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs them-
selves :

Some by the water-side on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,-some in the water sporting
With sides half swelling forth, and looks of courting,
Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain
Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again,—
Some tying up their long moist hair, some sleeping
Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping,-
Or sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters slide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot,
Francesca loved, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went,
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks
Thanking at heart the sunshine and the leaves,
The vernal rain-drops counting from the eaves,
And all that promising, calm smile we see
In nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might

hear

Sometimes when every thing was hush'd and clear,
Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the virgin.
The gardeners and the rest, who served the place,
And blest whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
One day, 't was on a summer afternoon,
When airs and gurgling brooks are best in tune,
And grasshoppers are loud, and day-work done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,-
The princess came to her accustom❜d bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake,
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing midst the flowers and trees.

Yet how it was she knew not, but that day,
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,-
Too much relieved,-too much inclined to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.

Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd,
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd;
And turning from the fields her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'er head, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
"T was Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance,
That, like a trumpet, made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more ;-
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half-sweet, half-sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face: and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he loved, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass :-
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was call'd) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:
And here, with growing interest in her reading,
The princess, doubly fix'd was now proceeding.
Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fix'd; and so observed was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,-who from a window seeing her

Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day, His usual efforts vain to keep away.

66

May I come in?" said he :-it made her start,That smiling voice;-she colour'd, press'd her heart

A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, "O yes,-certainly."

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,

An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be secure :

With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Lean'd with a touch together, thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kiss'd her first:
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss:
Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is.
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er,
Desperate the joy,-That day they read no more.

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THE moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking,
When Ariadne in her bower was waking;
Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard
But indistinctly yet a little bird,

That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun,
Seem'd answering another distant one.
She waked, but stirr'd not, only just to please
Her pillow-nestling cheek; while the full seas,
The birds, the leaves, the lulling love o'ernight,
The happy thought of the returning light,
The sweet, self-will'd content, conspired to keep
Her senses lingering in the field of sleep;
And with a little smile she seem'd to say,
"I know my love is near me, and 't is day."

MAHMOUD.

THERE came a man, making his hasty moan Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne, And crying out-"My sorrow is my right, And I will see the Sultan, and to-night." Sorrow," said Mahmoud, "is a reverend thing: I recognise its right, as king with king; Speak on." "A fiend has got into my house," Exclaim'd the staring man, "and tortures us: One of thine officers;-he comes, the abhorr'd, And takes possession of my house, my board, My bed: I have two daughters and a wife, [life." And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with "Is he there now?" said Mahmoud. "No; he left The house when I did, of my wits bereft;

And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow'd I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud. I'm mad with want-I'm mad with misery, [thee!" And O thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for The Sultan comforted the man, and said,

66

"Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread," (For he was poor,) " and other comforts. Go; And, should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know."

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In three days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, And shaken voice, the suitor re-appear'd, And said, He's come."-Mahmoud said not a But rose and took four slaves, each with a sword, And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place, And hear a voice, and see a woman's face, That to the window flutter'd in affright: "Go in," said Mahmoud, "and put out the light; But tell the females first to leave the room; And when the drunkard follows them, we come." The man went in. There was a cry, and hark! A table falls, the window is struck dark: Forth rush the breathless women; and behind With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind. In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife, [life. And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody

"Now light the light," the Sultan cried aloud. 'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face; Then turn'd, and knelt, and to the throne of grace Put up a prayer, and from his lips there crept Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept. In reverent silence the beholders wait, Then bring him at his call both wine and meat; And when he had refresh'd his noble heart, He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart. The man amazed, all mildness now, and tears, Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers, And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave The reason first of that command he gave About the light; then, when he saw the face, Why he knelt down; and, lastly, how it was That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place. The Sultan said, with a benignant eye, "Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry, I could not rid me of a dread, that one By whom such daring villanies were done Must be some lord of mine, ay, e'en perhaps a son. Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd:

For this I had the light put out; but when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign Arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thy voice had marr'd my soli-
tude."

POWER AND GENTLENESS.

I've thought, at gentle and ungentle hour,
Of many an act and giant shape of power;
Of the old kings with high exacting looks,
Sceptred and globed; of eagles on their rocks,
With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear,
Answering the strain with downward drag austere ;
Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown
All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown;
Of towers on hills, with foreheads out of sight
In clouds, or shown us by the thunder's light,
Or ghastly prison, that eternally

Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea;
And of all sunless, subterranean deeps
The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps,
Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones,
That stride, they say, over heroic bones;
And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors
Look like low dens under precipitous shores;
And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by
In seeming idleness, with stony eye,
Sang at the morning's touch, like poetry;
And then of all the fierce and bitter fruit
Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot,-
Of bruised rights, and flourishing bad men,
And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den;
Brute force, and fury; and the devilish drouth
Of the fool cannon's ever-gaping mouth;
And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray
The sneering trumpet sends across the fray;
And all which lights the people-thinning star
That selfishness invokes,-the horsed war,
Panting along with many a bloody mane.

I've thought of all this pride, and all this pain,
And all the insolent plenitudes of power,
And I declare, by this most quiet hour,
Which holds in different tasks by the fire-light
Me and my friends here, this delightful night,
That power itself has not one half the might
Of gentleness. 'Tis want to all true wealth;
The uneasy madman's force, to the wise health;
Blind downward beating, to the eyes that see;
Noise to persuasion, doubt to certainty;
The consciousness of strength in enemies,
Who must be strain'd upon, or else they rise;
The battle to the moon, who all the while,
High out of hearing, passes with her smile;
The tempest, trampling in his scanty run,
To the whole globe, that basks about the sun;
Or as all shrieks and clangs, with which a sphere,
Undone and fired, could rake the midnight ear,
Compared with that vast dumbness nature keeps
Throughout her starry deeps,

Most old, and mild, and awful, and unbroken, Which tells a tale of peace beyond whate'er was

spoken.

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