I pray that ye will hear me when I cry,
And tell of mine own Heart this novelty;
How the lamenting Spirit moans in it,
And how a voice there murmurs against her
Who came on the refulgence of your sphere.

II.

A sweet Thought, which was once the life within
This heavy Heart, many a time and oft

Went up before our Father's feet, and there
It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft;
And its sweet talk of her my Soul did win,

So that I said "Thither I too will fare."

That Thought is fled; and one doth now appear

Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress

That my heart trembles-ye may see it leap-
And on another Lady bids me keep

Mine eyes, and says: "Who would have blessedness,
Let him but look upon that Lady's eyes;

Let him not fear the agony of sighs."

III.

This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me Of a bright Seraph sitting crowned on high,

Found such a cruel foe, it died; and so

My Spirit wept-the grief is hot even nowAnd said: "Alas for me! how swift could flee That piteous Thought which did my life console!" And the afflicted one,

questioning

Mine eyes if such a Lady saw they never,
And why they would . .

I said: "Beneath those eyes might stand for ever
He whom. . regards must kill with . .

To have known their power stood me in little stead;
Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.”

IV.

"Thou art not dead, but thou hast wandered, Thou Soul of ours who thyself dost fret,"

A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said:

"For that fair Lady whom thou dost regret Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led, Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made.

And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid,
Yet courteous, in her majesty she is.

And still call thou her 'Woman' in thy thought;
Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not,

Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness
That thou wilt cry: '[Love], only Lord, lo here
Thy handmaiden! Do what thou wilt with her.'"

V.

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning,

Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring Thee to base company (as chance may do)

Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee comfort thy sweet self again,
My last delight; tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.
1820.

MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS.

[From the "Purgatorio," canto 28, 1. 1-51.]

AND, earnest to explore within-around

The divine wood whose thick green living woof Tempered the young day to the sight, I wound

Up the green slope, beneath the forest's roof, With slow soft steps leaving the mountain's steep; And sought those inmost labyrinths, motion-proof

Against the air that, in that stillness deep

And solemn, struck upon my forehead bare The slow soft stroke of a continuous sleep;

In which the . . leaves tremblingly were

All bent towards that part where earliest

The sacred hill obscures the morning air.

Yet were they not so shaken from their rest

But that the birds, perched on the utmost spray,

Incessantly renewing their blithe quest,

With perfect joy received the early day,

Singing within the glancing leaves, whose sound
Kept a low burthen to their roundelay,

Such as from bough to bough gathers around
The pine forest on bleak Chiassi's shore,
When Æolus Sirocco has unbound.

My slow steps had already borne me o'er
Such space within the antique wood that I
Perceived not where I entered any more,

When lo! a stream whose little waves went by, Bending towards the left through grass that grew Upon its bank, impeded suddenly

My going on. Water of purest hue On earth would appear turbid and impure

Compared with this, whose unconcealing dew,

Dark, dark, yet clear, moved under the obscure
Eternal shades, whose interwoven looms
The rays of moon or sun light ne'er endure.

I moved not with my feet, but 'mid the glooms Pierced with my charmèd eye, contemplating

The mighty multitude of fresh May blooms

That starred that night; when (even as a thing
That suddenly, for blank astonishment,
Charms every sense, and makes all thought take wing)

A solitary woman! and she went
Singing, and gathering flower after flower,

With which her way was painted and besprent.

"Bright lady, who, if looks had ever power

To bear true witness of the heart within, Dost bask under the beams of love, come lower

Towards this bank! prithee let me win This much of thee, to come, that I may hear Thy song. Like Proserpine in Enna's glen

Thou seemest to my fancy; singing here,

And gathering flowers, as that fair maiden when She lost the Spring, and Ceres her more dear."

1820.

SCENES FROM THE MAGICO PRODIGIOSO

OF CALDERON.

CYPRIAN as a Student; CLARIN and MOSCON as poor Scholars, with books.

Cyprian. In the sweet solitude of this calm place,

This intricate wild wilderness of trees,

And flowers, and undergrowth of odorous plants,
Leave me; the books you brought out of the house
To me are ever best society.

And, whilst with glorious festival and song
Antioch now celebrates the consecration

Of a proud temple to great Jupiter,

And bears his image in loud jubilee

To its new shrine, I would consume what still
Lives of the dying day in studious thought,

Far from the throng and turmoil.

Go and enjoy the festival; it will

You, my friends,

Be worth the labour. And return for me

When the sun seeks its grave among the billows
Which among dim grey clouds on the horizon
Dance, like white plumes upon a hearse; and here
I shall expect you.

Moscon.

I cannot bring my mind,

Great as my haste to see the festival

Certainly is, to leave you, sir, without

Just saying some three or four hundred words.

How is it possible that on a day

Of such festivity you can bring your mind

To come forth to a solitary country

With three or four old books, and turn your back
On all this mirth?

Clarin.

My master's in the right;

There is not anything more tiresome

Than a procession day, with troops of men,

And dances, and all that.

Moscon.

From first to last,

Clarin, you are a temporizing flatterer;

You praise not what you feel, but what he does;

Toadeater!

Clarin.

You lie under a mistake;

For this is the most civil sort of lie

That can be given to a man's face. I now

Say what I think.

Cyprian.

Enough, you foolish fellows;

Puffed up with your own doating ignorance,

You always take the two sides of one question.
Now go; and, as I said, return for me

When night falls, veiling in its shadows wide

This glorious fabric of the universe.

Moscon (to Clarin.) How happens it, although you can maintain

The folly of enjoying festivals,

That yet you go there?

But he is more than half way there.-Soho!

Livia, I come; good sport, Livia, soho!

[Exit.

Cyprian. Now, since I am alone, let me examine

The question which has long disturbed my mind

With doubt, since first I read in Plinius

The words of mystic import and deep sense

In which he defines God. My intellect

Can find no God with whom these marks and signs
Fitly agree. It is a hidden truth

Which I must fathom.

Demon.

[Reads.

Search even as thou wilt,

Enter the DEMON as a fine Gentleman.

But thou shalt never find what I can hide.

Cyprian. What noise is that among the boughs? Who moves? What art thou?

Demon.

'Tis a foreign gentleman.

Even from this morning I have lost my way
In this wild place; and my poor horse, at last