But in her cheek's rich tinge, and in the dark
Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark
Of kinship to her generous mother earth,
The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth
She saw not Perdicone; her young mind
Dreamed not that any man had ever pined
For such a little simple maid as she:
She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be
To love some hero, noble, beauteous, great,
Who would live stories worthy to narrate,
Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy,
The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy
Who conquered everything beneath the sun,
And somehow, some time, died at Babylon
Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good
And fair as that archangel who withstood
The Evil One, the author of all wrong-
That Evil One who made the French so strong;
And now the flower of heroes must be he
Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily,
So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly.
Young Lisa saw this hero in the king,
And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring
Might dream the light that opes the modest eyne
Was lily-odored,-and as rites divine,
Round turf-laid altars, or 'neath roofs of stone,
Draw sanctity from out the heart alone
That loves and worships, so the miniature
Perplexed of her soul's world, all virgin pure,
Filled with heroic virtues that bright form,
Raona's royalty, the finished norm
Of horsmanship-the half of chivalry:
For how could generous men avengers be,
Save as God's messengers on coursers fleet?-
These scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet.
In one self world where the same right bad sway,
And good must grow as grew the blessed day.
No more; great Love his essence had endured
With Pedro's form, and entering subdued
The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense,
Proud in its choice of proud obedience
To hardship glorified by perfect reverence.
Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest,
And in her chamber through the hours of rest
The darkness was alight for her with sheen
Of arms, and plumèd helm, and bright between
Their commonor gloss, like the pure living spring
'Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird's bright wing
'Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king
Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there
Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare:
The impalpable dream was turning to breathing flesh,
Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh
Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves.
Clothing her life of life. Oh, she believes
That she could be content if be but knew
(Her poor small self could claim no other due)
How Lisa's lowly love had highest reach
Of winged passion, whereto winged speech
Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame.
Though, had she such lame message, were it blame
To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank
She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank
From telling love that fed on selfish hope;
But love as hopeless as the shattering song
Wailed for love beings who had joined the throng
Knew only prayers and ballads-could not speak
With eloquence save what dumb creatures have,
That with small cries and touches small booms crave.
She watched all day that she might see him pass
With knights and ladies; but she said,
"Alas!
Though he should see me, it were all as one
He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone
Of wall or balcony: some colored spot
His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not.
I have no music-touch that could bring nigh
My love to his soul's hearing. I shall die,
And he will never know who Lisa was-
The trader's child, whose soaring spirit rose
As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.
"For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen
A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green
Gold-bordered like Costanza, I should need
No change within to make me queenly there;
For they the royal-hearted women are
Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace
For needy suffering lives in lowliest place,
Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile,
The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile.
My love is such, it cannot choose but soar
Up to the highest: yet for evermore,
Though I were happy, throned beside the king,
1 should be tender to each little thing
With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell
Its inward pang, and I would soothe it well
With tender touch and with a low soft moan
For company: my dumb love-pang is lone,
Prisoned as topaz beam within a rough-garbed stone."
So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days.
Each night the August moon with changing phase Looked broader, harder on her unchanged pain; Each noon the heat lay heavier again
On her despair; until her body frail
Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale
See narrowed on the height each summer morn;
While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn,
As if the soul within her all on fire
Made of her being one swift funeral pyre
Father and mother saw with sad dismay
The meaning of their riches melt away:
For without Lisa what would sequins buy?
What wish were left if Lisa were to die?
Through her they cared for summers still to come,
Else they would be as ghosts without a home
In any flesh that could feel glad desire.
They pay the best physicians, never tire
Of seeking what will soothe her, promising
That aught she longed for, though it were a thing
Hard to be come at as the Indian snow,
Or roses that on Alpine summits blow-
It should be hers. She answers with low voice,
She longs for death alone-death is her choice;
Death is the King who never did think scorn,
But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born.
Yet one day, as they bent above her bed
And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head
Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel
Some moist revival through their petals steal,
And little flutterings of her lids and lips
Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips
A skyey shadow in the mind's poor pool.
She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full
Upon her father, as in utterance dumb
Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come. "What is it, Lisa?" 'Father, I would see Minuccio, the great singer; bring him me.” For always, night and day, her unstilled thought, Wandering all o'er its little world, had sought • How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch King Pedro's soul, that she who loved so much Dying, might have a place within his mind— A little grave which he would sometimes find And plant some flower on it-some thought, some memory kind.
Till in her dream she saw Minuccio
Touching his viola, and chanting low
A strain that, falling on her brokenly,
Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree,
Each burthened with a word that was a scent-
Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament;
Then in her dream she said, "He sings of me
Might be my messenger; a', now I see
The king is listening--" Then she awoke,
And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke.
She longed for music: that was natural;
Physicians said it was medicinal;
The humors might be schooled by true consent
Of a fine tenor and fine instrument;
In brief, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff
Apollo with Asklepios-enough!
Minuccio, entreated, gladly came.
(He was a singer of most gentle fame---
A noble, kindly spirit, not elate
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