III. EVENING

Over Orcana. The house ofJules,who crosses its threshold withPhene:she is silent, on whichJulesbegins—Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, youAre mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,If you 'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—My work-room's single seat. I over-leanThis length of hair and lustrous front; they turnLike an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, lastYour chin—no, last your throat turns: 't is their scentPulls down my face upon you. Nay, look everThis one way till I change, grow you—I couldChange into you, beloved!You by me,And I by you; this is your hand in mine,And side by side we sit: all 's true. Thank God!I have spoken: speak you!O my life to come!My Tydeus must be carved that 's there in clay;Yet how be carved, with you about the room?Where must I place you? When I think that onceThis room-full of rough block-work seemed my heavenWithout you! Shall I ever work again,Get fairly into my old ways again,Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—The live truth, passing and repassing me,Sitting beside me?Now speak!Only first,See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived?Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keepsYour letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?Ah,—this that swam down like a first moonbeamInto my world!Again those eyes completeTheir melancholy survey, sweet and slow,Of all my room holds; to return and restOn me, with pity, yet some wonder too:As if God bade some spirit plague a world,And this were the one moment of surpriseAnd sorrow while she took her station, pausingO'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red,Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe—Read this line ... no, shame—Homer's be the GreekFirst breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!This Odyssey in coarse black vivid typeWith faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,To mark great places with due gratitude;"He said, and on Antinous directedA bitter shaft" ... a flower blots out the rest!Again upon your search? My statues, then!—Ah, do not mind that—better that will lookWhen cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?I thought you would have seen that here you sitAs I imagined you,—Hippolyta,Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.Recall you this then? "Carve in bold relief"—So you commanded—"carve, against I come,A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.'Praise those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests,'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle wavesAs erst above our champion: stand up, all!'"See, I have labored to express your thought.Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,Only consenting at the branch's endThey strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyesSightless, so bend they back to light insideHis brain where visionary forms throng up,Sings, minding not that palpitating archOf hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wineFrom the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.But you must say a "well" to that—say "well!"Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marblyEven to the silence! Why, before I foundThe real flesh Phene, I inured myselfTo see, throughout all nature, varied stuffFor better nature's birth by means of art:With me, each substance tended to one formOf beauty—to the human archetype.On every side occurred suggestive germsOf that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit,—Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,Depending, nestled in the leaves; and justFrom a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.But of the stuffs one can be master of,How I divined their capabilities!From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalkThat yields your outline to the air's embrace,Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sureTo cut its one confided thought clean outOf all the world. But marble!—'neath my toolsMore pliable than jelly—as it wereSome clear primordial creature dug from depthsIn the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,And whence all baser substance may be worked;Refine it off to air, you may,—condense itDown to the diamond;—is not metal there,When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprisedBy the swift implement sent home at once,Flushes and glowings radiate and hoverAbout its track?Phene? what—why is this?That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!Phenebegins, on his having long remained silent.Now the end's coming; to be sure, it mustHave ended sometime! Tush, why need I speakTheir foolish speech? I cannot bring to mindOne half of it, beside; and do not careFor old Natalia now, nor any of them.Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not tryTo say the words Natalia made me learn,To please your friends,—it is to keep myselfWhere your voice lifted me, by letting thatProceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps,Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,The music's life, and me along with that—No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are:Above the world.You creature with the eyes!If I could look forever up to them,As now you let me,—I believe, all sin,All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,Would drop down, low and lower, to the earthWhence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay—Never to overtake the rest of me,All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,Above the world!But you sink, for your eyesAre altering—altered! Stay—"I love you, love" ...I could prevent it if I understood:More of your words to me: was 't in the toneOr the words, your power?Or stay—I will repeatTheir speech, if that contents you! Only changeNo more, and I shall find it presentlyFar back here, in the brain yourself filled up.Natalia threatened me that harm should followUnless I spoke their lesson to the end,But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.Your friends,—Natalia said they were your friendsAnd meant you well,—because, I doubted it,Observing (what was very strange to see)On every face, so different in all else,The same smile girls like me are used to bear,But never men, men cannot stoop so low;Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceitWhich seems to take possession of the worldAnd make of God a tame confederate,Purveyor to their appetites ... you know!But still Natalia said they were your friends,And they assented though they smiled the more,And all came round me,—that thin EnglishmanWith light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;He held a paper—"What we want," said he,Ending some explanation to his friends—"Is something slow, involved and mystical,To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his tasteAnd lure him on until, at innermostWhere he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly:For insects on the rind are seen at once,And brushed aside as soon, but this is foundOnly when on the lips or loathing tongue."And so he read what I have got by heart:I'll speak it,—"Do not die, love! I am yours" ...No—is not that, or like that, part of wordsYourself began by speaking? Strange to loseWhat cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?I am a painter who cannot paint;In my life, a devil rather than saint;In my brain, as poor a creature too:No end to all I cannot do!Yet do one thing at least I can—Love a man or hate a manSupremely: thus my lore began.Through the Valley of Love I went,In the lovingest spot to abide,And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,I found Hate dwelling beside.(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)And further, I traversed Hate's grove,In the hatefullest nook to dwell;But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched LoveWhere the shadow threefold fell.(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,Not a painter's lip should tell!)"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,'You have black eyes, Love,—you are, sure enough,My peerless bride,—then do you tell indeedWhat needs some explanation! What means this?'"—And I am to go on, "without a word—So, I grew wise in Love and Hate,From simple that I was of late.Once, when I loved, I would enlaceBreast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and faceOf her I loved, in one embrace—As if by mere love I could love immensely!Once, when I hated, I would plungeMy sword, and wipe with the first lungeMy foe's whole life out like a sponge—As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!But now I am wiser, know better the fashionHow passion seeks aid from its opposite passion:And if I see cause to love more, hate moreThan ever man loved, ever hated before—And seek in the Valley of LoveThe nest, or the nook in Hate's GroveWhere my soul may surely reachThe essence, naught less, of each,The Hate of all Hates, the LoveOf all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,—I find them the very wardersEach of the other's borders.When I love most, Love is disguisedIn Hate; and when Hate is surprisedIn Love, then I hate most: askHow Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,—And how, having hated thee,I sought long and painfullyTo reach thy heart, nor prickThe skin but pierce to the quick—Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straightBy thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!Julesinterposes.Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,Hated me: they at Venice—presentlyTheir turn, however! You I shall not meet:If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.KeepWhat's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,Consider! and the money was but meantFor two years' travel, which is over now,All chance or hope or care or need of it.This—and what comes from selling these, my castsAnd books and medals, except ... let them goTogether, so the produce keeps you safeOut of Natalia's clutches! If by chance(For all's chance here) I should survive the gangAt Venice, root out all fifteen of them,We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—Give her but a least excuse to love me!When—where—How—can this arm establish her above me,If fortune fixed her as my lady there,There already, to eternally reprove me?("Hist!"—said Kate the Queen;But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'T is only a page that carols unseen,Crumbling your hounds their messes!")Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honor,My heart!Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a donor?Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!("Nay, list!"—bade Kate the Queen;And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'T is only a page that carols unseen,Fitting your hawks their jesses!")[Pippapasses.Julesresumes.What name was that the little girl sang forth?Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renouncedThe crown of Cyprus to be lady hereAt Asolo, where still her memory stays,And peasants sing how once a certain pagePined for the grace of her so far aboveHis power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen—She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,"Need him to help her!"Yes, a bitter thingTo see our lady above all need of us;Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,But the world looks so. If whoever lovesMust be, in some sort, god or worshipper,The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,Why should we always choose the page's part?Here is a woman with utter need of me,—I find myself queen here, it seems!How strange!Look at the woman here with the new soul,Like my own Psyche,—fresh upon her lipsAlit, the visionary butterfly,Waiting my word to enter and make bright,Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.This body had no soul before, but sleptOr stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, freeFrom taint or foul with stain, as outward thingsFastened their image on its passiveness:Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuffBe Art—and further, to evoke a soulFrom form be nothing? This new soul is mine!Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—saveA wretched dauber, men will hoot to deathWithout me, from their hooting. Oh, to hearGod's voice plain as I heard it first, beforeThey broke in with their laughter! I heard themHenceforth, not God.To Ancona—Greece—some isle!I wanted silence only; there is clayEverywhere. One may do whate'er one likesIn Art: the only thing is, to make sureThat one does like it—which takes pains to know.Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends,What the whole world except our love—my own,Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,Ere night we travel for your land—some isleWith the sea's silence on it? Stand aside—I do but break these paltry models upTo begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I—And save him from my statue meeting him?Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Like a god going through his world, there standsOne mountain for a moment in the dusk,Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow:And you are ever by me while I gaze—Are in my arms as now—as now—as now!Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

Over Orcana. The house ofJules,who crosses its threshold withPhene:she is silent, on whichJulesbegins—

Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, youAre mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,If you 'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—My work-room's single seat. I over-leanThis length of hair and lustrous front; they turnLike an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, lastYour chin—no, last your throat turns: 't is their scentPulls down my face upon you. Nay, look everThis one way till I change, grow you—I couldChange into you, beloved!

Do not die, Phene! I am yours now, you

Are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes,

If you 'll not die: so, never die! Sit here—

My work-room's single seat. I over-lean

This length of hair and lustrous front; they turn

Like an entire flower upward: eyes, lips, last

Your chin—no, last your throat turns: 't is their scent

Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, look ever

This one way till I change, grow you—I could

Change into you, beloved!

You by me,And I by you; this is your hand in mine,And side by side we sit: all 's true. Thank God!I have spoken: speak you!O my life to come!My Tydeus must be carved that 's there in clay;Yet how be carved, with you about the room?Where must I place you? When I think that onceThis room-full of rough block-work seemed my heavenWithout you! Shall I ever work again,Get fairly into my old ways again,Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—The live truth, passing and repassing me,Sitting beside me?Now speak!Only first,See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived?Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keepsYour letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?Ah,—this that swam down like a first moonbeamInto my world!Again those eyes completeTheir melancholy survey, sweet and slow,Of all my room holds; to return and restOn me, with pity, yet some wonder too:As if God bade some spirit plague a world,And this were the one moment of surpriseAnd sorrow while she took her station, pausingO'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red,Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe—Read this line ... no, shame—Homer's be the GreekFirst breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!This Odyssey in coarse black vivid typeWith faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,To mark great places with due gratitude;"He said, and on Antinous directedA bitter shaft" ... a flower blots out the rest!Again upon your search? My statues, then!—Ah, do not mind that—better that will lookWhen cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?I thought you would have seen that here you sitAs I imagined you,—Hippolyta,Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.Recall you this then? "Carve in bold relief"—So you commanded—"carve, against I come,A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.'Praise those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests,'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle wavesAs erst above our champion: stand up, all!'"See, I have labored to express your thought.Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,Only consenting at the branch's endThey strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyesSightless, so bend they back to light insideHis brain where visionary forms throng up,Sings, minding not that palpitating archOf hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wineFrom the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.But you must say a "well" to that—say "well!"Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marblyEven to the silence! Why, before I foundThe real flesh Phene, I inured myselfTo see, throughout all nature, varied stuffFor better nature's birth by means of art:With me, each substance tended to one formOf beauty—to the human archetype.On every side occurred suggestive germsOf that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit,—Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,Depending, nestled in the leaves; and justFrom a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.But of the stuffs one can be master of,How I divined their capabilities!From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalkThat yields your outline to the air's embrace,Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sureTo cut its one confided thought clean outOf all the world. But marble!—'neath my toolsMore pliable than jelly—as it wereSome clear primordial creature dug from depthsIn the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,And whence all baser substance may be worked;Refine it off to air, you may,—condense itDown to the diamond;—is not metal there,When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprisedBy the swift implement sent home at once,Flushes and glowings radiate and hoverAbout its track?Phene? what—why is this?That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!

You by me,

And I by you; this is your hand in mine,

And side by side we sit: all 's true. Thank God!

I have spoken: speak you!

O my life to come!

My Tydeus must be carved that 's there in clay;

Yet how be carved, with you about the room?

Where must I place you? When I think that once

This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven

Without you! Shall I ever work again,

Get fairly into my old ways again,

Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait,

My hand transfers its lineaments to stone?

Will my mere fancies live near you, their truth—

The live truth, passing and repassing me,

Sitting beside me?

Now speak!

Only first,

See, all your letters! Was 't not well contrived?

Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe; she keeps

Your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost?

Ah,—this that swam down like a first moonbeam

Into my world!

Again those eyes complete

Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow,

Of all my room holds; to return and rest

On me, with pity, yet some wonder too:

As if God bade some spirit plague a world,

And this were the one moment of surprise

And sorrow while she took her station, pausing

O'er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy!

What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of;

Let your first word to me rejoice them, too:

This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red,

Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe—

Read this line ... no, shame—Homer's be the Greek

First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl!

This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type

With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page and page,

To mark great places with due gratitude;

"He said, and on Antinous directed

A bitter shaft" ... a flower blots out the rest!

Again upon your search? My statues, then!

—Ah, do not mind that—better that will look

When cast in bronze—an Almaign Kaiser, that,

Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip.

This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized?

I thought you would have seen that here you sit

As I imagined you,—Hippolyta,

Naked upon her bright Numidian horse.

Recall you this then? "Carve in bold relief"—

So you commanded—"carve, against I come,

A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,

Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,

Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch.

'Praise those who slew Hipparchus!' cry the guests,

'While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves

As erst above our champion: stand up, all!'"

See, I have labored to express your thought.

Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms

(Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides,

Only consenting at the branch's end

They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face,

The Praiser's, in the centre: who with eyes

Sightless, so bend they back to light inside

His brain where visionary forms throng up,

Sings, minding not that palpitating arch

Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine

From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor crowns cast off,

Violet and parsley crowns to trample on—

Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve,

Devoutly their unconquerable hymn.

But you must say a "well" to that—say "well!"

Because you gaze—am I fantastic, sweet?

Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marble—marbly

Even to the silence! Why, before I found

The real flesh Phene, I inured myself

To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff

For better nature's birth by means of art:

With me, each substance tended to one form

Of beauty—to the human archetype.

On every side occurred suggestive germs

Of that—the tree, the flower—or take the fruit,—

Some rosy shape, continuing the peach,

Curved beewise o'er its bough; as rosy limbs,

Depending, nestled in the leaves; and just

From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang.

But of the stuffs one can be master of,

How I divined their capabilities!

From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk

That yields your outline to the air's embrace,

Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom;

Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure

To cut its one confided thought clean out

Of all the world. But marble!—'neath my tools

More pliable than jelly—as it were

Some clear primordial creature dug from depths

In the earth's heart, where itself breeds itself,

And whence all baser substance may be worked;

Refine it off to air, you may,—condense it

Down to the diamond;—is not metal there,

When o'er the sudden speck my chisel trips?

—Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach,

Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep?

Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised

By the swift implement sent home at once,

Flushes and glowings radiate and hover

About its track?

Phene? what—why is this?

That whitening cheek, those still dilating eyes!

Ah, you will die—I knew that you would die!

Phenebegins, on his having long remained silent.

Now the end's coming; to be sure, it mustHave ended sometime! Tush, why need I speakTheir foolish speech? I cannot bring to mindOne half of it, beside; and do not careFor old Natalia now, nor any of them.Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not tryTo say the words Natalia made me learn,To please your friends,—it is to keep myselfWhere your voice lifted me, by letting thatProceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps,Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,The music's life, and me along with that—No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are:Above the world.You creature with the eyes!If I could look forever up to them,As now you let me,—I believe, all sin,All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,Would drop down, low and lower, to the earthWhence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay—Never to overtake the rest of me,All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,Above the world!But you sink, for your eyesAre altering—altered! Stay—"I love you, love" ...I could prevent it if I understood:More of your words to me: was 't in the toneOr the words, your power?Or stay—I will repeatTheir speech, if that contents you! Only changeNo more, and I shall find it presentlyFar back here, in the brain yourself filled up.Natalia threatened me that harm should followUnless I spoke their lesson to the end,But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.Your friends,—Natalia said they were your friendsAnd meant you well,—because, I doubted it,Observing (what was very strange to see)On every face, so different in all else,The same smile girls like me are used to bear,But never men, men cannot stoop so low;Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceitWhich seems to take possession of the worldAnd make of God a tame confederate,Purveyor to their appetites ... you know!But still Natalia said they were your friends,And they assented though they smiled the more,And all came round me,—that thin EnglishmanWith light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;He held a paper—"What we want," said he,Ending some explanation to his friends—"Is something slow, involved and mystical,To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his tasteAnd lure him on until, at innermostWhere he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly:For insects on the rind are seen at once,And brushed aside as soon, but this is foundOnly when on the lips or loathing tongue."And so he read what I have got by heart:I'll speak it,—"Do not die, love! I am yours" ...No—is not that, or like that, part of wordsYourself began by speaking? Strange to loseWhat cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?

Now the end's coming; to be sure, it must

Have ended sometime! Tush, why need I speak

Their foolish speech? I cannot bring to mind

One half of it, beside; and do not care

For old Natalia now, nor any of them.

Oh, you—what are you?—if I do not try

To say the words Natalia made me learn,

To please your friends,—it is to keep myself

Where your voice lifted me, by letting that

Proceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps,

Cannot take up, now you have once let fall,

The music's life, and me along with that—

No, or you would! We'll stay, then, as we are:

Above the world.

You creature with the eyes!

If I could look forever up to them,

As now you let me,—I believe, all sin,

All memory of wrong done, suffering borne,

Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth

Whence all that's low comes, and there touch and stay

—Never to overtake the rest of me,

All that, unspotted, reaches up to you,

Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself,

Not me the shame and suffering; but they sink,

Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so,

Above the world!

But you sink, for your eyes

Are altering—altered! Stay—"I love you, love" ...

I could prevent it if I understood:

More of your words to me: was 't in the tone

Or the words, your power?

Or stay—I will repeat

Their speech, if that contents you! Only change

No more, and I shall find it presently

Far back here, in the brain yourself filled up.

Natalia threatened me that harm should follow

Unless I spoke their lesson to the end,

But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you.

Your friends,—Natalia said they were your friends

And meant you well,—because, I doubted it,

Observing (what was very strange to see)

On every face, so different in all else,

The same smile girls like me are used to bear,

But never men, men cannot stoop so low;

Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile,

That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit

Which seems to take possession of the world

And make of God a tame confederate,

Purveyor to their appetites ... you know!

But still Natalia said they were your friends,

And they assented though they smiled the more,

And all came round me,—that thin Englishman

With light lank hair seemed leader of the rest;

He held a paper—"What we want," said he,

Ending some explanation to his friends—

"Is something slow, involved and mystical,

To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste

And lure him on until, at innermost

Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find—this!

—As in the apple's core, the noisome fly:

For insects on the rind are seen at once,

And brushed aside as soon, but this is found

Only when on the lips or loathing tongue."

And so he read what I have got by heart:

I'll speak it,—"Do not die, love! I am yours" ...

No—is not that, or like that, part of words

Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose

What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?

I am a painter who cannot paint;In my life, a devil rather than saint;In my brain, as poor a creature too:No end to all I cannot do!Yet do one thing at least I can—Love a man or hate a manSupremely: thus my lore began.Through the Valley of Love I went,In the lovingest spot to abide,And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,I found Hate dwelling beside.(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)And further, I traversed Hate's grove,In the hatefullest nook to dwell;But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched LoveWhere the shadow threefold fell.(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,Not a painter's lip should tell!)

I am a painter who cannot paint;

In my life, a devil rather than saint;

In my brain, as poor a creature too:

No end to all I cannot do!

Yet do one thing at least I can—

Love a man or hate a man

Supremely: thus my lore began.

Through the Valley of Love I went,

In the lovingest spot to abide,

And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,

I found Hate dwelling beside.

(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,

Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)

And further, I traversed Hate's grove,

In the hatefullest nook to dwell;

But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love

Where the shadow threefold fell.

(The meaning—those black bride's-eyes above,

Not a painter's lip should tell!)

"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,'You have black eyes, Love,—you are, sure enough,My peerless bride,—then do you tell indeedWhat needs some explanation! What means this?'"—And I am to go on, "without a word—

"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,

'You have black eyes, Love,—you are, sure enough,

My peerless bride,—then do you tell indeed

What needs some explanation! What means this?'"

—And I am to go on, "without a word—

So, I grew wise in Love and Hate,From simple that I was of late.Once, when I loved, I would enlaceBreast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and faceOf her I loved, in one embrace—As if by mere love I could love immensely!Once, when I hated, I would plungeMy sword, and wipe with the first lungeMy foe's whole life out like a sponge—As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!But now I am wiser, know better the fashionHow passion seeks aid from its opposite passion:And if I see cause to love more, hate moreThan ever man loved, ever hated before—And seek in the Valley of LoveThe nest, or the nook in Hate's GroveWhere my soul may surely reachThe essence, naught less, of each,The Hate of all Hates, the LoveOf all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,—I find them the very wardersEach of the other's borders.When I love most, Love is disguisedIn Hate; and when Hate is surprisedIn Love, then I hate most: askHow Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,—And how, having hated thee,I sought long and painfullyTo reach thy heart, nor prickThe skin but pierce to the quick—Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straightBy thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!

So, I grew wise in Love and Hate,

From simple that I was of late.

Once, when I loved, I would enlace

Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face

Of her I loved, in one embrace—

As if by mere love I could love immensely!

Once, when I hated, I would plunge

My sword, and wipe with the first lunge

My foe's whole life out like a sponge—

As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!

But now I am wiser, know better the fashion

How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion:

And if I see cause to love more, hate more

Than ever man loved, ever hated before—

And seek in the Valley of Love

The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove

Where my soul may surely reach

The essence, naught less, of each,

The Hate of all Hates, the Love

Of all Loves, in the Valley or Grove,—

I find them the very warders

Each of the other's borders.

When I love most, Love is disguised

In Hate; and when Hate is surprised

In Love, then I hate most: ask

How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,

Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,—

And how, having hated thee,

I sought long and painfully

To reach thy heart, nor prick

The skin but pierce to the quick—

Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight

By thy bride—how the painter Lutwyche can hate!

Julesinterposes.

Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,Hated me: they at Venice—presentlyTheir turn, however! You I shall not meet:If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.KeepWhat's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,Consider! and the money was but meantFor two years' travel, which is over now,All chance or hope or care or need of it.This—and what comes from selling these, my castsAnd books and medals, except ... let them goTogether, so the produce keeps you safeOut of Natalia's clutches! If by chance(For all's chance here) I should survive the gangAt Venice, root out all fifteen of them,We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.

Lutwyche! Who else? But all of them, no doubt,

Hated me: they at Venice—presently

Their turn, however! You I shall not meet:

If I dreamed, saying this would wake me.

Keep

What's here, the gold—we cannot meet again,

Consider! and the money was but meant

For two years' travel, which is over now,

All chance or hope or care or need of it.

This—and what comes from selling these, my casts

And books and medals, except ... let them go

Together, so the produce keeps you safe

Out of Natalia's clutches! If by chance

(For all's chance here) I should survive the gang

At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,

We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide.

[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—

Give her but a least excuse to love me!When—where—How—can this arm establish her above me,If fortune fixed her as my lady there,There already, to eternally reprove me?("Hist!"—said Kate the Queen;But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'T is only a page that carols unseen,Crumbling your hounds their messes!")

Give her but a least excuse to love me!

When—where—

How—can this arm establish her above me,

If fortune fixed her as my lady there,

There already, to eternally reprove me?

("Hist!"—said Kate the Queen;

But "Oh!" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,

"'T is only a page that carols unseen,

Crumbling your hounds their messes!")

Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honor,My heart!Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a donor?Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!("Nay, list!"—bade Kate the Queen;And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,"'T is only a page that carols unseen,Fitting your hawks their jesses!")[Pippapasses.

Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honor,

My heart!

Is she poor?—What costs it to be styled a donor?

Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part.

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!

("Nay, list!"—bade Kate the Queen;

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,

"'T is only a page that carols unseen,

Fitting your hawks their jesses!")[Pippapasses.

Julesresumes.

What name was that the little girl sang forth?Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renouncedThe crown of Cyprus to be lady hereAt Asolo, where still her memory stays,And peasants sing how once a certain pagePined for the grace of her so far aboveHis power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen—She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,"Need him to help her!"Yes, a bitter thingTo see our lady above all need of us;Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,But the world looks so. If whoever lovesMust be, in some sort, god or worshipper,The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,Why should we always choose the page's part?Here is a woman with utter need of me,—I find myself queen here, it seems!How strange!Look at the woman here with the new soul,Like my own Psyche,—fresh upon her lipsAlit, the visionary butterfly,Waiting my word to enter and make bright,Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.This body had no soul before, but sleptOr stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, freeFrom taint or foul with stain, as outward thingsFastened their image on its passiveness:Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuffBe Art—and further, to evoke a soulFrom form be nothing? This new soul is mine!

What name was that the little girl sang forth?

Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced

The crown of Cyprus to be lady here

At Asolo, where still her memory stays,

And peasants sing how once a certain page

Pined for the grace of her so far above

His power of doing good to, "Kate the Queen—

She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,

"Need him to help her!"

Yes, a bitter thing

To see our lady above all need of us;

Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,

But the world looks so. If whoever loves

Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper,

The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,

Why should we always choose the page's part?

Here is a woman with utter need of me,—

I find myself queen here, it seems!

How strange!

Look at the woman here with the new soul,

Like my own Psyche,—fresh upon her lips

Alit, the visionary butterfly,

Waiting my word to enter and make bright,

Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.

This body had no soul before, but slept

Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free

From taint or foul with stain, as outward things

Fastened their image on its passiveness:

Now, it will wake, feel, live—or die again!

Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff

Be Art—and further, to evoke a soul

From form be nothing? This new soul is mine!

Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—saveA wretched dauber, men will hoot to deathWithout me, from their hooting. Oh, to hearGod's voice plain as I heard it first, beforeThey broke in with their laughter! I heard themHenceforth, not God.To Ancona—Greece—some isle!I wanted silence only; there is clayEverywhere. One may do whate'er one likesIn Art: the only thing is, to make sureThat one does like it—which takes pains to know.Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends,What the whole world except our love—my own,Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,Ere night we travel for your land—some isleWith the sea's silence on it? Stand aside—I do but break these paltry models upTo begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I—And save him from my statue meeting him?Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Like a god going through his world, there standsOne mountain for a moment in the dusk,Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow:And you are ever by me while I gaze—Are in my arms as now—as now—as now!Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do?—save

A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death

Without me, from their hooting. Oh, to hear

God's voice plain as I heard it first, before

They broke in with their laughter! I heard them

Henceforth, not God.

To Ancona—Greece—some isle!

I wanted silence only; there is clay

Everywhere. One may do whate'er one likes

In Art: the only thing is, to make sure

That one does like it—which takes pains to know.

Scatter all this, my Phene—this mad dream!

Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia's friends,

What the whole world except our love—my own,

Own Phene? But I told you, did I not,

Ere night we travel for your land—some isle

With the sea's silence on it? Stand aside—

I do but break these paltry models up

To begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, I—

And save him from my statue meeting him?

Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!

Like a god going through his world, there stands

One mountain for a moment in the dusk,

Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow:

And you are ever by me while I gaze

—Are in my arms as now—as now—as now!

Some unsuspected isle in the far seas!

Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering withBluphocks,an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret.Bluphocks.[3]So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who passed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's money shall be honestly earned:—now, don't make me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into the business; we know he can have nothing to do with such horrors: we know that he is a saint and all that a bishop should be, who is a great man beside.Oh were but every worm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough a Christmas fagot, Every tune a jig!In fact, I have abjured all religions; but the last I inclined to was the Armenian: for I have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungry sun there), you might remark, over a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 't was the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac—(these are vowels, you dogs,—follow my stick's end in the mud—Celarent, Darii, Ferio!) and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, c,—I picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legend of the past, you'll say—"How Moses hocus-pocussed Egypt's land with fly and locust,"—or, "How to Jonah sounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish,"—or "How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam." In no wise! "Shackabrack—Boach—somebody or other—Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-chan-ger of—Stolen Goods!" So, talk to me of the religion of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop Beveridge!—mean to live so—and die—As some Greek dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound in Charon's wherry, With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, And never an obolus... (though thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or this Bishop through his Intendant—I possess a burning pocket-full ofzwanzigers) ...To pay the Stygian Ferry!1st Policeman.There is the girl, then; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his mother.[To the rest.]I have been noticing a house yonder, this long while: not a shutter unclosed since morning!2d Pol.Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a household, they mean well.Blup.Only, cannot you tell me something of this little Pippa, I must have to do with? One could make something of that name. Pippa—that is, short for Felippa—rhyming toPanurge consults Hertrippa—Believest thou, King Agrippa?Something might be done with that name.2d Pol.Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half azwanziger!Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon's over or nearly so.3d Pol.Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature? (That English fool's busy watching.)2d Pol.Flourish all round—"Put all possible obstacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end—"Detain him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom—"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above;"ink-spirt on righthand side (which is the case here)—"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna—well and good, the passport deposed with us for ourvisais really for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he means well; but let him stay over to-night—there has been the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, to-morrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt.

Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from Orcana to the Turret. Two or three of the Austrian Police loitering withBluphocks,an English vagabond, just in view of the Turret.

Bluphocks.[3]So, that is your Pippa, the little girl who passed us singing? Well, your Bishop's Intendant's money shall be honestly earned:—now, don't make me that sour face because I bring the Bishop's name into the business; we know he can have nothing to do with such horrors: we know that he is a saint and all that a bishop should be, who is a great man beside.Oh were but every worm a maggot, Every fly a grig, Every bough a Christmas fagot, Every tune a jig!In fact, I have abjured all religions; but the last I inclined to was the Armenian: for I have travelled, do you see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper (so styled because there's a sort of bleak hungry sun there), you might remark, over a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee inscription; and brief as it is, a mere glance at it used absolutely to change the mood of every bearded passenger. In they turned, one and all; the young and lightsome, with no irreverent pause, the aged and decrepit, with a sensible alacrity: 't was the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in learning Syriac—(these are vowels, you dogs,—follow my stick's end in the mud—Celarent, Darii, Ferio!) and one morning presented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, c,—I picked it out letter by letter, and what was the purport of this miraculous posy? Some cherished legend of the past, you'll say—"How Moses hocus-pocussed Egypt's land with fly and locust,"—or, "How to Jonah sounded harshish, Get thee up and go to Tarshish,"—or "How the angel meeting Balaam, Straight his ass returned a salaam." In no wise! "Shackabrack—Boach—somebody or other—Isaach, Re-cei-ver, Pur-cha-ser and Ex-chan-ger of—Stolen Goods!" So, talk to me of the religion of a bishop! I have renounced all bishops save Bishop Beveridge!—mean to live so—and die—As some Greek dog-sage, dead and merry, Hellward bound in Charon's wherry, With food for both worlds, under and upper, Lupine-seed and Hecate's supper, And never an obolus... (though thanks to you, or this Intendant through you, or this Bishop through his Intendant—I possess a burning pocket-full ofzwanzigers) ...To pay the Stygian Ferry!

1st Policeman.There is the girl, then; go and deserve them the moment you have pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his mother.[To the rest.]I have been noticing a house yonder, this long while: not a shutter unclosed since morning!

2d Pol.Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the silk-mills here: he dozes by the hour, wakes up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, after having bidden young Sebald, the foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. Never molest such a household, they mean well.

Blup.Only, cannot you tell me something of this little Pippa, I must have to do with? One could make something of that name. Pippa—that is, short for Felippa—rhyming toPanurge consults Hertrippa—Believest thou, King Agrippa?Something might be done with that name.

2d Pol.Put into rhyme that your head and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear at half azwanziger!Leave this fooling, and look out; the afternoon's over or nearly so.

3d Pol.Where in this passport of Signor Luigi does our Principal instruct you to watch him so narrowly? There? What's there beside a simple signature? (That English fool's busy watching.)

2d Pol.Flourish all round—"Put all possible obstacles in his way;" oblong dot at the end—"Detain him till further advices reach you;" scratch at bottom—"Send him back on pretence of some informality in the above;"ink-spirt on righthand side (which is the case here)—"Arrest him at once." Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, but my instructions amount to this: if Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for Vienna—well and good, the passport deposed with us for ourvisais really for his own use, they have misinformed the Office, and he means well; but let him stay over to-night—there has been the pretence we suspect, the accounts of his corresponding and holding intelligence with the Carbonari are correct, we arrest him at once, to-morrow comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough! That is he, entering the turret with his mother, no doubt.

Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo.Luigiand hisMotherentering.Mother.If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easingThe utmost heaviness of music's heart.Luigi.Here in the archway?Mother.Oh no, no—in farther,Where the echo is made, on the ridge.Luigi.Here surely, then.How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up!Hark—"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voiceWhose body is caught and kept by ... what are those?Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead?They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hairThat lean out of their topmost fortress—lookAnd listen, mountain men, to what we say,Hand under chin of each grave earthy face.Up and show faces all of you!—"All of you!"That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz,Come down and meet your fate? Hark—"Meet your fate!"Mother.Let him not meet it, my Luigi—do notGo to his City! Putting crime aside,Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:Your Pellicos and writers for effect,Write for effect.Luigi.Hush! Say A writes, and B.Mother.These A's and B's write for effect, I say.Then, evil is in its nature loud, while goodIs silent; you hear each petty injury,None of his virtues; he is old beside,Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. WhyDo A and B kill not him themselves?Luigi.They teachOthers to kill him—me—and, if I fail,Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed,I could not teach that: mine 's the lesser task.Mother, they visit night by night ...Mother.—You, Luigi?Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?Luigi.Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,You may assure yourself I say and sayEver to myself! At times—nay, even as nowWe sit—I think my mind is touched, suspectAll is not sound: but is not knowing that,What constitutes one sane or otherwise?I know I am thus—so, all is right again.I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,And see men merry as if no ItalyWere suffering; then I ponder—"I am rich,Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble.No, trouble 's a bad word: for as I walkThere 's springing and melody and giddiness,And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves,Return to me—whatever may amuse me:And earth seems in a truce with me, and heavenAccords with me, all things suspend their strife,The very cicala laughs "There goes he, and there!Feast him, the time is short; he is on his wayFor the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!"And in return for all this, I can tripCheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I goThis evening, mother!Mother.But mistrust yourself—Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!Luigi.Oh, there I feel—am sure that I am right!Mother.Mistrust your judgment then, of the mere meansTo this wild enterprise: say, you are right,—How should one in your state e'er bring to passWhat would require a cool head, a cool heart,And a calm hand? You never will escape.Luigi.Escape? To even wish that, would spoil all.The dying is best part of it. Too muchHave I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,To leave myself excuse for longer life:Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,That I might finish with it ere my fellowsWho, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay?I was put at the board-head, helped to allAt first; I rise up happy and content.God must be glad one loves his world so much.I can give news of earth to all the deadWho ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great starsWhich had a right to come first and see ebbThe crimson wave that drifts the sun away—Those crescent moons with notched and burning rimsThat strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,Impatient of the azure—and that dayIn March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights—Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!Mother.(He will not go!)Luigi.You smile at me? 'T is true,—Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,Environ my devotedness as quaintlyAs round about some antique altar wreatheThe rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.Mother.See now: you reach the city, you must crossHis threshold—how?Luigi.Oh, that's if we conspired!Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—But guess not how the qualities most fitFor such an office, qualities I have,Would little stead me, otherwise employed,Yet prove of rarest merit only here.Every one knows for what his excellenceWill serve, but no one ever will considerFor what his worst defect might serve: and yetHave you not seen me range our coppice yonderIn search of a distorted ash?—I findThe wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow.Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned manArriving-at the palace on my errand!No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—White satin here, to set off my black hair;In I shall march—for you may watch your life outBehind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;More than one man spoils everything. March straight—Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for,Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) onThrough guards and guards— I have rehearsed it allInside the turret here a hundred times.Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe!But where they cluster thickliest is the doorOf doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blabEach to the other, he knows not the favorite,Whence he is bound and what's his business now.Walk in—straight up to him; you have no knife:Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you!Italy, Italy, my Italy!You 're free, you 're free! Oh mother, I could dreamThey got about me—Andrea from his exile,Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!Mother.Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotismThe easiest virtue for a selfish manTo acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world—If he must love beyond,—but naught between:As a short-sighted man sees naught midwayHis body and the sun above. But youAre my adored Luigi, ever obedientTo my least wish, and running o'er with love:I could not call you cruel or unkind.Once more, your ground for killing him!—then go!Luigi.Now do you try me, or make sport of me?How first the Austrians got these provinces ...(If that is all, I 'll satisfy you soon)—Never by conquest but by cunning, forThat treaty whereby ...Mother.Well?Luigi.(Sure, he 's arrived,The tell-tale cuckoo: spring 's his confidant,And he lets out her April purposes!)Or ... better go at once to modern time.He has ... they have ... in fact, I understandBut can't restate the matter; that's my boast:Others could reason it out to you, and proveThings they have made me feel.Mother.Why go to-night?Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is nowA morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!Luigi."I am the bright and morning-star," saith God—And, "to such an one I give the morning-star."The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's giftOf the morning-star?Mother.Chiara will love to seeThat Jupiter an evening-star next June.Luigi.True, mother. Well for those who live through June!Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pompsThat triumph at the heels of June the godLeading his revel through our leafy world.Yes, Chiara will be here.Mother.In June: remember,Yourself appointed that month for her coming.Luigi.Was that low noise the echo?Mother.The night-wind.She must be grown—with her blue eyes upturnedAs if life were one long and sweet surprise:In June she comes.Luigi.We were to see togetherThe Titian at Treviso. There, again![From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—A king lived long ago,In the morning of the world,When earth was nigher heaven than now;And the king's locks curled,Disparting o'er a forehead fullAs the milk-white space 'twixt horn and hornOf some sacrificial bull—Only calm as a babe new-born:For he was got to a sleepy mood,So safe from all decrepitude,Age with its bane, so sure gone by,(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)That, having lived thus long, there seemedNo need the king should ever die.Luigi.No need that sort of king should ever die!Among the rocks his city was:Before his palace, in the sun,He sat to see his people pass,And judge them every oneFrom its threshold of smooth stone.They haled him many a valley-thiefCaught in the sheep-pens, robber-chiefSwarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,Spy-prowler, or rough pirate foundOn the sea-sand left aground;And sometimes clung about his feet,With bleeding lip and burning cheek,A woman, bitterest wrong to speakOf one with sullen thickset brows:And sometimes from the prison-houseThe angry priests a pale wretch brought,Who through some chink had pushed and pressedOn knees and elbows, belly and breast,Worm-like into the temple,—caughtHe was by the very god,Who ever in the darkness strodeBackward and forward, keeping watchO'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!These, all and every one,The king judged, sitting in the sun.Luigi.That king should still judge sitting in the sun!His councillors, on left and right,Looked anxious up,—but no surpriseDisturbed the king's old smiling eyesWhere the very blue had turned to white.'Tis said, a Python scared one dayThe breathless city, till he came,With forky tongue and eyes on flame.Where the old king sat to judge alway;But when he saw the sweepy hairGirt with a crown of berries rareWhich the god will hardly give to wearTo the maiden who singeth, dancing bareIn the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,At his wondrous forest rites,—Seeing this, he did not dareApproach that threshold in the sun,Assault the old king smiling there.Such grace had kings when the world begun![Pippapasses.Luigi.And such grace have they, now that the world ends!The Python at the city, on the throne,And brave men, God would crown for slaying him,Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey.Are crowns yet to be won in this late time,Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach?'T is God's voice calls: how could I stay? Farewell!Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. PoorGirlssitting on the steps.1st Girl.There goes a swallow to Venice—the stout seafarer!Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.Let us all wish; you, wish first!2d Girl.I? This sunsetTo finish.3d Girl.That old—somebody I know,Grayer and older than my grandfather,To give me the same treat he gave last week—Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumblingThe while some folly about how well I fare,Let sit and eat my supper quietly:Since had he not himself been late this morningDetained at—never mind where,—had he not ..."Eh, baggage, had I not!"—2d Girl.How she can lie!3d Girl.Look there—by the nails!2d Girl.What makes your fingers red?3d Girl.Dipping them into wine to write bad words withOn the bright table: how he laughed!1st Girl.My turn.Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wearA long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats ... ah, I should say,This is away in the fields—miles!3d Girl.Say at onceYou'd be at home: she'd always be at home!Now comes the story of the farm amongThe cherry orchards, and how April snowedWhite blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,Made a dung-hill of your garden!1st Girl.They destroyMy garden since I left them? well—perhapsI would have done so: so I hope they have!A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;They called it mine, I have forgotten why,It must have been there long ere I was born:Cric—cric—I think I hear the wasps o'erheadPricking the papers strung to flutter thereAnd keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers,And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.3d Girl.How her month twitches! Where was I?—beforeShe broke in with her wishes and long gownsAnd wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here!This is my way: I answer every oneWho asks me why I make so much of him—(If you say, "you love him"—straight "he 'll not be gulled!")"He that seduced me when I was a girlThus high—had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,Brown, red, white,"—as the case may be: that pleases!See how that beetle burnishes in the path!There sparkles he along the dust: and, there—Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled; at least!1st Girl.When I was young, they said if you killed oneOf those sunshiny beetles, that his friendUp there, would shine no more that day nor next.2d Girl.When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true.How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?No matter, so you keep your curious hair.I wish they'd find a way to dye our hairYour color—any lighter tint, indeed,Than black: the men say they are sick of black,Black eyes, black hair!4th Girl.Sick of yours, like enough.Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreysAnd ortolans? Giovita, of the palace,Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice mePolenta with a knife that had cut upAn ortolan.2d Girl.Why, there! Is not that PippaWe are to talk to, under the window,—quick!—Where the lights are?1st Girl.That she? No, or she would sing,For the Intendant said ...3d Girl.Oh, you sing first!Then, if she listens and comes close ... I'll tell you,—Sing that song the young English noble made,Who took you for the purest of the pure,And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!2d. Girl.[Sings.]You'll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.I plant a heartfull now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What's death? You'll love me yet!

Inside the Turret on the Hill above Asolo.Luigiand hisMotherentering.

Mother.If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easingThe utmost heaviness of music's heart.

Mother.If there blew wind, you'd hear a long sigh, easing

The utmost heaviness of music's heart.

Luigi.Here in the archway?

Mother.Oh no, no—in farther,Where the echo is made, on the ridge.

Mother.Oh no, no—in farther,

Where the echo is made, on the ridge.

Luigi.Here surely, then.How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up!Hark—"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voiceWhose body is caught and kept by ... what are those?Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead?They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hairThat lean out of their topmost fortress—lookAnd listen, mountain men, to what we say,Hand under chin of each grave earthy face.Up and show faces all of you!—"All of you!"That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz,Come down and meet your fate? Hark—"Meet your fate!"

Luigi.Here surely, then.

How plain the tap of my heel as I leaped up!

Hark—"Lucius Junius!" The very ghost of a voice

Whose body is caught and kept by ... what are those?

Mere withered wallflowers, waving overhead?

They seem an elvish group with thin bleached hair

That lean out of their topmost fortress—look

And listen, mountain men, to what we say,

Hand under chin of each grave earthy face.

Up and show faces all of you!—"All of you!"

That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet comb; old Franz,

Come down and meet your fate? Hark—"Meet your fate!"

Mother.Let him not meet it, my Luigi—do notGo to his City! Putting crime aside,Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:Your Pellicos and writers for effect,Write for effect.

Mother.Let him not meet it, my Luigi—do not

Go to his City! Putting crime aside,

Half of these ills of Italy are feigned:

Your Pellicos and writers for effect,

Write for effect.

Luigi.Hush! Say A writes, and B.

Mother.These A's and B's write for effect, I say.Then, evil is in its nature loud, while goodIs silent; you hear each petty injury,None of his virtues; he is old beside,Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. WhyDo A and B kill not him themselves?

Mother.These A's and B's write for effect, I say.

Then, evil is in its nature loud, while good

Is silent; you hear each petty injury,

None of his virtues; he is old beside,

Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. Why

Do A and B kill not him themselves?

Luigi.They teachOthers to kill him—me—and, if I fail,Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed,I could not teach that: mine 's the lesser task.Mother, they visit night by night ...

Luigi.They teach

Others to kill him—me—and, if I fail,

Others to succeed; now, if A tried and failed,

I could not teach that: mine 's the lesser task.

Mother, they visit night by night ...

Mother.—You, Luigi?Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?

Mother.—You, Luigi?

Ah, will you let me tell you what you are?

Luigi.Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,You may assure yourself I say and sayEver to myself! At times—nay, even as nowWe sit—I think my mind is touched, suspectAll is not sound: but is not knowing that,What constitutes one sane or otherwise?I know I am thus—so, all is right again.I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,And see men merry as if no ItalyWere suffering; then I ponder—"I am rich,Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble.No, trouble 's a bad word: for as I walkThere 's springing and melody and giddiness,And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves,Return to me—whatever may amuse me:And earth seems in a truce with me, and heavenAccords with me, all things suspend their strife,The very cicala laughs "There goes he, and there!Feast him, the time is short; he is on his wayFor the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!"And in return for all this, I can tripCheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I goThis evening, mother!

Luigi.Why not? Oh, the one thing you fear to hint,

You may assure yourself I say and say

Ever to myself! At times—nay, even as now

We sit—I think my mind is touched, suspect

All is not sound: but is not knowing that,

What constitutes one sane or otherwise?

I know I am thus—so, all is right again.

I laugh at myself as through the town I walk,

And see men merry as if no Italy

Were suffering; then I ponder—"I am rich,

Young, healthy; why should this fact trouble me,

More than it troubles these?" But it does trouble.

No, trouble 's a bad word: for as I walk

There 's springing and melody and giddiness,

And old quaint turns and passages of my youth,

Dreams long forgotten, little in themselves,

Return to me—whatever may amuse me:

And earth seems in a truce with me, and heaven

Accords with me, all things suspend their strife,

The very cicala laughs "There goes he, and there!

Feast him, the time is short; he is on his way

For the world's sake: feast him this once, our friend!"

And in return for all this, I can trip

Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go

This evening, mother!

Mother.But mistrust yourself—Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!

Mother.But mistrust yourself—

Mistrust the judgment you pronounce on him!

Luigi.Oh, there I feel—am sure that I am right!

Mother.Mistrust your judgment then, of the mere meansTo this wild enterprise: say, you are right,—How should one in your state e'er bring to passWhat would require a cool head, a cool heart,And a calm hand? You never will escape.

Mother.Mistrust your judgment then, of the mere means

To this wild enterprise: say, you are right,—

How should one in your state e'er bring to pass

What would require a cool head, a cool heart,

And a calm hand? You never will escape.

Luigi.Escape? To even wish that, would spoil all.The dying is best part of it. Too muchHave I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,To leave myself excuse for longer life:Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,That I might finish with it ere my fellowsWho, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay?I was put at the board-head, helped to allAt first; I rise up happy and content.God must be glad one loves his world so much.I can give news of earth to all the deadWho ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great starsWhich had a right to come first and see ebbThe crimson wave that drifts the sun away—Those crescent moons with notched and burning rimsThat strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,Impatient of the azure—and that dayIn March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights—Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!

Luigi.Escape? To even wish that, would spoil all.

The dying is best part of it. Too much

Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of mine,

To leave myself excuse for longer life:

Was not life pressed down, running o'er with joy,

That I might finish with it ere my fellows

Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer stay?

I was put at the board-head, helped to all

At first; I rise up happy and content.

God must be glad one loves his world so much.

I can give news of earth to all the dead

Who ask me:—last year's sunsets, and great stars

Which had a right to come first and see ebb

The crimson wave that drifts the sun away—

Those crescent moons with notched and burning rims

That strengthened into sharp fire, and there stood,

Impatient of the azure—and that day

In March, a double rainbow stopped the storm—

May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer nights—

Gone are they, but I have them in my soul!

Mother.(He will not go!)

Luigi.You smile at me? 'T is true,—Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,Environ my devotedness as quaintlyAs round about some antique altar wreatheThe rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.

Luigi.You smile at me? 'T is true,—

Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastliness,

Environ my devotedness as quaintly

As round about some antique altar wreathe

The rose festoons, goats' horns, and oxen's skulls.

Mother.See now: you reach the city, you must crossHis threshold—how?

Mother.See now: you reach the city, you must cross

His threshold—how?

Luigi.Oh, that's if we conspired!Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—But guess not how the qualities most fitFor such an office, qualities I have,Would little stead me, otherwise employed,Yet prove of rarest merit only here.Every one knows for what his excellenceWill serve, but no one ever will considerFor what his worst defect might serve: and yetHave you not seen me range our coppice yonderIn search of a distorted ash?—I findThe wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow.Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned manArriving-at the palace on my errand!No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—White satin here, to set off my black hair;In I shall march—for you may watch your life outBehind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;More than one man spoils everything. March straight—Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for,Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) onThrough guards and guards— I have rehearsed it allInside the turret here a hundred times.Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe!But where they cluster thickliest is the doorOf doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blabEach to the other, he knows not the favorite,Whence he is bound and what's his business now.Walk in—straight up to him; you have no knife:Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you!Italy, Italy, my Italy!You 're free, you 're free! Oh mother, I could dreamThey got about me—Andrea from his exile,Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!

Luigi.Oh, that's if we conspired!

Then would come pains in plenty, as you guess—

But guess not how the qualities most fit

For such an office, qualities I have,

Would little stead me, otherwise employed,

Yet prove of rarest merit only here.

Every one knows for what his excellence

Will serve, but no one ever will consider

For what his worst defect might serve: and yet

Have you not seen me range our coppice yonder

In search of a distorted ash?—I find

The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect bow.

Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precautioned man

Arriving-at the palace on my errand!

No, no! I have a handsome dress packed up—

White satin here, to set off my black hair;

In I shall march—for you may watch your life out

Behind thick walls, make friends there to betray you;

More than one man spoils everything. March straight—

Only, no clumsy knife to fumble for,

Take the great gate, and walk (not saunter) on

Through guards and guards— I have rehearsed it all

Inside the turret here a hundred times.

Don't ask the way of whom you meet, observe!

But where they cluster thickliest is the door

Of doors; they'll let you pass—they'll never blab

Each to the other, he knows not the favorite,

Whence he is bound and what's his business now.

Walk in—straight up to him; you have no knife:

Be prompt, how should he scream? Then, out with you!

Italy, Italy, my Italy!

You 're free, you 're free! Oh mother, I could dream

They got about me—Andrea from his exile,

Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from his grave!

Mother.Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotismThe easiest virtue for a selfish manTo acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world—If he must love beyond,—but naught between:As a short-sighted man sees naught midwayHis body and the sun above. But youAre my adored Luigi, ever obedientTo my least wish, and running o'er with love:I could not call you cruel or unkind.Once more, your ground for killing him!—then go!

Mother.Well, you shall go. Yet seems this patriotism

The easiest virtue for a selfish man

To acquire: he loves himself—and next, the world—

If he must love beyond,—but naught between:

As a short-sighted man sees naught midway

His body and the sun above. But you

Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient

To my least wish, and running o'er with love:

I could not call you cruel or unkind.

Once more, your ground for killing him!—then go!

Luigi.Now do you try me, or make sport of me?How first the Austrians got these provinces ...(If that is all, I 'll satisfy you soon)—Never by conquest but by cunning, forThat treaty whereby ...

Luigi.Now do you try me, or make sport of me?

How first the Austrians got these provinces ...

(If that is all, I 'll satisfy you soon)

—Never by conquest but by cunning, for

That treaty whereby ...

Mother.Well?

Luigi.(Sure, he 's arrived,The tell-tale cuckoo: spring 's his confidant,And he lets out her April purposes!)Or ... better go at once to modern time.He has ... they have ... in fact, I understandBut can't restate the matter; that's my boast:Others could reason it out to you, and proveThings they have made me feel.

Luigi.(Sure, he 's arrived,

The tell-tale cuckoo: spring 's his confidant,

And he lets out her April purposes!)

Or ... better go at once to modern time.

He has ... they have ... in fact, I understand

But can't restate the matter; that's my boast:

Others could reason it out to you, and prove

Things they have made me feel.

Mother.Why go to-night?Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is nowA morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!

Mother.Why go to-night?

Morn 's for adventure. Jupiter is now

A morning-star. I cannot hear you, Luigi!

Luigi."I am the bright and morning-star," saith God—And, "to such an one I give the morning-star."The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's giftOf the morning-star?

Luigi."I am the bright and morning-star," saith God—

And, "to such an one I give the morning-star."

The gift of the morning-star! Have I God's gift

Of the morning-star?

Mother.Chiara will love to seeThat Jupiter an evening-star next June.

Mother.Chiara will love to see

That Jupiter an evening-star next June.

Luigi.True, mother. Well for those who live through June!Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pompsThat triumph at the heels of June the godLeading his revel through our leafy world.Yes, Chiara will be here.

Luigi.True, mother. Well for those who live through June!

Great noontides, thunder-storms, all glaring pomps

That triumph at the heels of June the god

Leading his revel through our leafy world.

Yes, Chiara will be here.

Mother.In June: remember,Yourself appointed that month for her coming.

Mother.In June: remember,

Yourself appointed that month for her coming.

Luigi.Was that low noise the echo?

Mother.The night-wind.She must be grown—with her blue eyes upturnedAs if life were one long and sweet surprise:In June she comes.

Mother.The night-wind.

She must be grown—with her blue eyes upturned

As if life were one long and sweet surprise:

In June she comes.

Luigi.We were to see togetherThe Titian at Treviso. There, again![From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—

Luigi.We were to see together

The Titian at Treviso. There, again!

[From without is heard the voice ofPippa,singing—

A king lived long ago,In the morning of the world,When earth was nigher heaven than now;And the king's locks curled,Disparting o'er a forehead fullAs the milk-white space 'twixt horn and hornOf some sacrificial bull—Only calm as a babe new-born:For he was got to a sleepy mood,So safe from all decrepitude,Age with its bane, so sure gone by,(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)That, having lived thus long, there seemedNo need the king should ever die.

A king lived long ago,

In the morning of the world,

When earth was nigher heaven than now;

And the king's locks curled,

Disparting o'er a forehead full

As the milk-white space 'twixt horn and horn

Of some sacrificial bull—

Only calm as a babe new-born:

For he was got to a sleepy mood,

So safe from all decrepitude,

Age with its bane, so sure gone by,

(The gods so loved him while he dreamed)

That, having lived thus long, there seemed

No need the king should ever die.

Luigi.No need that sort of king should ever die!

Among the rocks his city was:Before his palace, in the sun,He sat to see his people pass,And judge them every oneFrom its threshold of smooth stone.They haled him many a valley-thiefCaught in the sheep-pens, robber-chiefSwarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,Spy-prowler, or rough pirate foundOn the sea-sand left aground;And sometimes clung about his feet,With bleeding lip and burning cheek,A woman, bitterest wrong to speakOf one with sullen thickset brows:And sometimes from the prison-houseThe angry priests a pale wretch brought,Who through some chink had pushed and pressedOn knees and elbows, belly and breast,Worm-like into the temple,—caughtHe was by the very god,Who ever in the darkness strodeBackward and forward, keeping watchO'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!These, all and every one,The king judged, sitting in the sun.

Among the rocks his city was:

Before his palace, in the sun,

He sat to see his people pass,

And judge them every one

From its threshold of smooth stone.

They haled him many a valley-thief

Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief

Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat,

Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found

On the sea-sand left aground;

And sometimes clung about his feet,

With bleeding lip and burning cheek,

A woman, bitterest wrong to speak

Of one with sullen thickset brows:

And sometimes from the prison-house

The angry priests a pale wretch brought,

Who through some chink had pushed and pressed

On knees and elbows, belly and breast,

Worm-like into the temple,—caught

He was by the very god,

Who ever in the darkness strode

Backward and forward, keeping watch

O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to catch!

These, all and every one,

The king judged, sitting in the sun.

Luigi.That king should still judge sitting in the sun!

His councillors, on left and right,Looked anxious up,—but no surpriseDisturbed the king's old smiling eyesWhere the very blue had turned to white.'Tis said, a Python scared one dayThe breathless city, till he came,With forky tongue and eyes on flame.Where the old king sat to judge alway;But when he saw the sweepy hairGirt with a crown of berries rareWhich the god will hardly give to wearTo the maiden who singeth, dancing bareIn the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,At his wondrous forest rites,—Seeing this, he did not dareApproach that threshold in the sun,Assault the old king smiling there.Such grace had kings when the world begun![Pippapasses.

His councillors, on left and right,

Looked anxious up,—but no surprise

Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes

Where the very blue had turned to white.

'Tis said, a Python scared one day

The breathless city, till he came,

With forky tongue and eyes on flame.

Where the old king sat to judge alway;

But when he saw the sweepy hair

Girt with a crown of berries rare

Which the god will hardly give to wear

To the maiden who singeth, dancing bare

In the altar-smoke by the pine-torch lights,

At his wondrous forest rites,—

Seeing this, he did not dare

Approach that threshold in the sun,

Assault the old king smiling there.

Such grace had kings when the world begun![Pippapasses.

Luigi.And such grace have they, now that the world ends!The Python at the city, on the throne,And brave men, God would crown for slaying him,Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey.Are crowns yet to be won in this late time,Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach?'T is God's voice calls: how could I stay? Farewell!

Luigi.And such grace have they, now that the world ends!

The Python at the city, on the throne,

And brave men, God would crown for slaying him,

Lurk in by-corners lest they fall his prey.

Are crowns yet to be won in this late time,

Which weakness makes me hesitate to reach?

'T is God's voice calls: how could I stay? Farewell!

Talk by the way, whilePippais passing from the Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close to the Duomo S. Maria. PoorGirlssitting on the steps.

1st Girl.There goes a swallow to Venice—the stout seafarer!Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.Let us all wish; you, wish first!

1st Girl.There goes a swallow to Venice—the stout seafarer!

Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish for wings.

Let us all wish; you, wish first!

2d Girl.I? This sunsetTo finish.

2d Girl.I? This sunset

To finish.

3d Girl.That old—somebody I know,Grayer and older than my grandfather,To give me the same treat he gave last week—Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumblingThe while some folly about how well I fare,Let sit and eat my supper quietly:Since had he not himself been late this morningDetained at—never mind where,—had he not ..."Eh, baggage, had I not!"—

3d Girl.That old—somebody I know,

Grayer and older than my grandfather,

To give me the same treat he gave last week—

Feeding me on his knee with fig-peckers,

Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and mumbling

The while some folly about how well I fare,

Let sit and eat my supper quietly:

Since had he not himself been late this morning

Detained at—never mind where,—had he not ...

"Eh, baggage, had I not!"—

2d Girl.How she can lie!

3d Girl.Look there—by the nails!

2d Girl.What makes your fingers red?

3d Girl.Dipping them into wine to write bad words withOn the bright table: how he laughed!

3d Girl.Dipping them into wine to write bad words with

On the bright table: how he laughed!

1st Girl.My turn.Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wearA long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats ... ah, I should say,This is away in the fields—miles!

1st Girl.My turn.

Spring's come and summer's coming. I would wear

A long loose gown, down to the feet and hands,

With plaits here, close about the throat, all day;

And all night lie, the cool long nights, in bed;

And have new milk to drink, apples to eat,

Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats ... ah, I should say,

This is away in the fields—miles!

3d Girl.Say at onceYou'd be at home: she'd always be at home!Now comes the story of the farm amongThe cherry orchards, and how April snowedWhite blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,Made a dung-hill of your garden!

3d Girl.Say at once

You'd be at home: she'd always be at home!

Now comes the story of the farm among

The cherry orchards, and how April snowed

White blossoms on her as she ran. Why, fool,

They've rubbed the chalk-mark out, how tall you were,

Twisted your starling's neck, broken his cage,

Made a dung-hill of your garden!

1st Girl.They destroyMy garden since I left them? well—perhapsI would have done so: so I hope they have!A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;They called it mine, I have forgotten why,It must have been there long ere I was born:Cric—cric—I think I hear the wasps o'erheadPricking the papers strung to flutter thereAnd keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers,And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.

1st Girl.They destroy

My garden since I left them? well—perhaps

I would have done so: so I hope they have!

A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall;

They called it mine, I have forgotten why,

It must have been there long ere I was born:

Cric—cric—I think I hear the wasps o'erhead

Pricking the papers strung to flutter there

And keep off birds in fruit-time—coarse long papers,

And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through.

3d Girl.How her month twitches! Where was I?—beforeShe broke in with her wishes and long gownsAnd wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here!This is my way: I answer every oneWho asks me why I make so much of him—(If you say, "you love him"—straight "he 'll not be gulled!")"He that seduced me when I was a girlThus high—had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,Brown, red, white,"—as the case may be: that pleases!See how that beetle burnishes in the path!There sparkles he along the dust: and, there—Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled; at least!

3d Girl.How her month twitches! Where was I?—before

She broke in with her wishes and long gowns

And wasps—would I be such a fool!—Oh, here!

This is my way: I answer every one

Who asks me why I make so much of him—

(If you say, "you love him"—straight "he 'll not be gulled!")

"He that seduced me when I was a girl

Thus high—had eyes like yours, or hair like yours,

Brown, red, white,"—as the case may be: that pleases!

See how that beetle burnishes in the path!

There sparkles he along the dust: and, there—

Your journey to that maize-tuft spoiled; at least!

1st Girl.When I was young, they said if you killed oneOf those sunshiny beetles, that his friendUp there, would shine no more that day nor next.

1st Girl.When I was young, they said if you killed one

Of those sunshiny beetles, that his friend

Up there, would shine no more that day nor next.

2d Girl.When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true.How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?No matter, so you keep your curious hair.I wish they'd find a way to dye our hairYour color—any lighter tint, indeed,Than black: the men say they are sick of black,Black eyes, black hair!

2d Girl.When you were young? Nor are you young, that's true.

How your plump arms, that were, have dropped away!

Why, I can span them. Cecco beats you still?

No matter, so you keep your curious hair.

I wish they'd find a way to dye our hair

Your color—any lighter tint, indeed,

Than black: the men say they are sick of black,

Black eyes, black hair!

4th Girl.Sick of yours, like enough.Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreysAnd ortolans? Giovita, of the palace,Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice mePolenta with a knife that had cut upAn ortolan.

4th Girl.Sick of yours, like enough.

Do you pretend you ever tasted lampreys

And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace,

Engaged (but there's no trusting him) to slice me

Polenta with a knife that had cut up

An ortolan.

2d Girl.Why, there! Is not that PippaWe are to talk to, under the window,—quick!—Where the lights are?

2d Girl.Why, there! Is not that Pippa

We are to talk to, under the window,—quick!—

Where the lights are?

1st Girl.That she? No, or she would sing,For the Intendant said ...

1st Girl.That she? No, or she would sing,

For the Intendant said ...

3d Girl.Oh, you sing first!Then, if she listens and comes close ... I'll tell you,—Sing that song the young English noble made,Who took you for the purest of the pure,And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!

3d Girl.Oh, you sing first!

Then, if she listens and comes close ... I'll tell you,—

Sing that song the young English noble made,

Who took you for the purest of the pure,

And meant to leave the world for you—what fun!

2d. Girl.[Sings.]

You'll love me yet!—and I can tarryYour love's protracted growing:June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,From seeds of April's sowing.

You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry

Your love's protracted growing:

June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,

From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartfull now: some seedAt least is sure to strike,And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,Not love, but, may be, like.

I plant a heartfull now: some seed

At least is sure to strike,

And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed,

Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains,A grave's one violet:Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.What's death? You'll love me yet!

You'll look at least on love's remains,

A grave's one violet:

Your look?—that pays a thousand pains.

What's death? You'll love me yet!

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