with

Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime,
Had come with friends to pass the summer time
In her grand villa, half-way up the hill,
O'erlooking Florence, but retired and still;
With iron gates, that opened through long lines
Of sacred ilex and centennial pines,
And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,
And sylvan deities, with moss o'ergrown,
And fountains palpitating in the heat,

And all Val d'Arno stretched beneath its feet.
Here in seclusion, as a widow may,
The lovely lady whiled the hours away,
Pacing in sable robes the statued hall,
Herself the stateliest statue among all,
And seeing more and more, while secret joy,.
Her husband risen and living in her boy,
Till the lost sense of life return again,
Not as delight, but as relief from pain,
Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength,
Stormed down the terraces trom length' to
length;

The creaming peacock chased in hot pursuit,
And climbed the garden trellises for fruit.
But his chief pastime was to watch the flight
Of a ger-falcon, soaring into sight,

Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall,
Then downward stooping at some distant call;
And as he gazed full often wondered he
Who might the master of the falcon be,
Until the happy morning, when he found
Master and falcon in the cottage ground.
And now a shadow and a terror fell
On the great house, as is a passing-bell
Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious

room

No answer could the astonished mother make;
How could she ask, e'en for her daughter's sake,
Such favour at a luckless lover's hand,
Well knowing that to ask was to command?.
Well knowing, what all falconers confessed,
In all the land that falcon was the best,
The master's pride and passion and delight,
And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight.
But yet, for her child's sake, she could no less
Than give assent to soothe his restlessness,
So promised, and then promising to keep
Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep.

The morrow was a bright September morn;
The earth was beautiful as if new-born;

There was that nameless splendour every

where,

That wild exhilaration in the air,
Which makes the passers in city street
Congratulate cach other as they meet.
Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood,
Passed through the garden gate into the wood,
Under the lustrous leaves, and through the
sheen

Of dewy sunshine showering down between.
The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace
Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman's face;
Her dark eyes moistened with the mist that roll
From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul;
The other with her hood thrown back, her hair
Making a golden glory in the air,

Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush,
Her young heart singing louder than the thrush.
So walked, that morn, through mingled light
and shade,

Each by the other's presence lovelier made,

Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend,
Intent upon their errand and its end.
They found Ser Federigo at his toil,
Like banished Adam, delving in the soil;
And when he looked and these fair women
spied,

The garden suddenly was glorified;

His long-lost Eden was restored again,
And the strange river winding through the
plain.

No longer was the Arno to his eyes,
But the Euphrates watering Paradise!
Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,
And with fair words of salutation said:

Ser Federigo, we come here as friends Hoping in this to make some poor amends For past unkindness. I who ne'er before Would even cross the threshold of your door, who in happier days such pride maintained, Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained,

This morning come, a self-invited guest,
To put your generous nature to the test,
And breakfast with you under your own vinc.'
To which he answered: Poor desert of mine,
Not your unkindness call it, for if aught
Is good in me of feeling or of thought,
From you it comes, and this last grace out-
weighs,

All sorrows, all regrets of other days.""

And after further compliment and talk,
Among the dahlias in the garden walk
He left his guests; and to the cottage turned,
And as he entered for a moment yearned
For the lost splendours of the days of old,
The ruddy glass, the silver and the gold,
And felt how piercing is the sting of pride,
By want embittered and intensified.

t.

He looked about him for some means or way
To keep this unexpected holiday;
Searched every cupboard, and then searched

again,

Summoned the maid, who came, but came in

vain;

"The Signor did not hunt to-day," she said, There's nothing in the house but wine and bread."

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook
His little bells, with that sagacious look,
Which said, as plain as language to the ear,
"If anything is wanting. I am here!"
Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird
The master seized thee without further word,
Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah,
me!

The pomp and flutter of brave falconry,
The bells, the jesses, and bright scarlet hood,
The flight and the pursuit o'er field and wood,
All these for evermore are ended now;

No longer victor, but the victim thou!"

Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread,

Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot,

The fragrant perch, the juicy bergamot;
Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,
And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.
Ser Federigo, would not these suffice
Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and
spice?

When all was ready, and the courtly damne
With her companions to the cottage came,
Upon Ser Federigo's brain there fell
The wild enchantment of a magic spell;
The room they entered, mean and low and
small,

Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall,
With fanfares by aërial trumpets blown;
The rustic chair she sat on was a throne;

He ate celestial food, and a divine
Flavour was given to his country wine.
And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,
A peacock was, or bird of paradise!
When the repast was ended, they arose
And passed again into the garden-close.
Then said the lady, "Far too well I know,
Remembering still the day of long ago,
Though you betray it not, with what surprise
You see me here in this familiar wise.
You have no children, and you cannot guess
What anguish, what unspeakable distress
A mother feels, whose child is lying ill,
Nor how her heart anticipates his will.
And yet for this, you see me lay aside
All womanly reserve and check of pride,
And ask the thing most precious in your sight,
Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,
Which if you find it in your heart to give,
My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live."

Ser Federigo listens, and replies,
With tears of love and pity in his eyes:
"Alas, dear lady! there can be no task
So sweet to me as giving when you ask.
One little hour ago, if I had known

This wish of yours, it would have been my own.
But thinking in what manner I could best
Do honour to the presence of my guest,
I deemed that nothing worthier could be
Than what most dear and precious was to me,
And so my gallant falcon breathed his last
To furnish forth this morning our repast.'

Tmute contrition, mingled with dismay,
de gentle lady turned her eyes away,
ieving that he such sacrifice should make,
d kill his falcon for a woman's sake,

At feeling in her heart a woman's pride,
That nothing she could ask for was denied;
Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate
With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a passing bell
Tolled from the little chapel in the dell;
Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard and said,
Breathing a prayer, "Alas! her child is dead!"
Three months went by; and lo! a merrier
chime

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;
The cottage was deserted, and no mere
Ser Federigo sat beside its door.
But now, with servitors to do his will.
In the grand villa, half-way up the hill,
Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side
Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride,
Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair,
Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,
High-perched upon the back of which there
stood

The image of a falcon carved in wood,
And underneath the inscription, with a date,
"All things come round to him who will but
wait."

INTERLUDE.

SOON as the story reached its end,
One, over eager to commend,

Crowned it with injudicious praise;
And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.

The Theologian shook his head;
"These old Italian tales," he said,

"From the much-praised Decameron down
Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighbourhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!

They seem to be a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds
Where white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds
And deadly nightshade on its banks."
To this the Student straight replied,
"For the white lily many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakspere drew
His Moor of Venice and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,

And many a famous comedy."
Then a long pause till some one said,
"An Angel is flying overhead!"
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath;
"God grant, if what you say is true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!"
And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again:
"This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,"

A tale that often comes to me,

And fills my heart, and haunts my brain, And never wearies nor grows old.'

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE.

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI. RABBI BEN LEVI, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, "No man shall look upon my face and live," And as he read he prayed that God would give His faithful servant grace with mortal eye To look upon his face and yet not die. Then fell a sudden shadow on the page, And, lifting up his eyes. grown dim with age, He saw the Angel of Death before him stand, Rabbi Ben Levi was a righteous man, Holding a naked sword in his right hand. Yet through his veins a chill of horror ran. With trembling voice he said, "What wilt thou here?"

The angel answered, "Lo! the time draws

near

When thou must die; yet first, by God's decree,
Whate'er thou askest shall be granted thee."
Replied the Rabbi, "Let these living eyes
First look upon my place in paradise.'

Then said the Angel, "Come with me and look.”
Rabbi Ben Levi closed the sacred book,
And rising, and uplifting his gray head,
"Give me thy sword," he to the Angel said,
"Lest thou shouldst fall upon me by the way,'
The Angel smiled and hastened to obey,
Then led him forth to the Celestial Town,
And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,
Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes,
Might look upon his place in Paradise.

Then straight into the city of the Lord
The Rabbi leaped with the Death-Angel's

sword,

And through the streets there swept a sudden breath

Of something there unknown, which men call death.

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried,

"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice re

plied.

"No! in the name of God, whom I adore, ⚫ I swear that hence I will depart no more!"

Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One.
See what the son of Levi here has done!
The kingdom of Heaven he takes by violence,
And in thy name refuses to go hence!"

The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth;
Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath?
Let him remain: for he with mortal eye
Shall look upon my face and yet not die."
Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death
Heard the great voice, and said, with panting
breath,

"Give back the sword, and let me go my way." Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, “Nay!

Anguish enough already has it caused

Among the sons of men.' And while he paused
He heard the awful mandate of the Lord
Resounding through the air, "Give back the
sword!"

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent prayer;
Then said he to the dreadful Angel, "Swear,
No human eye shall look on it again;
But when thou takest away the souls of men,
Thyself unseen, and with an unseen sword,
Thou wilt perform the bidding of the Lord,'
The Angel took the sword again, and swore,'
And walks on earth unseen for evermore.

INTERLUDE.

HE ended: and a kind of spell
Upon the silent listeners fell.
His solemn manner and his words

Had touched the deep, mysterious chords,
That vibrate in each human breast
Alike, but not alike confessed.
The spiritual world seemed near;
And close above them, full of fear,
Its awful adumbration passed,
A luminous shadow, vague and vast.
They almost feared to look, lest there,
Embodied from the impalpable air,
They might behold the Angel stand,
Holding the sword in his right hand.
At last, but in a voice subdued,
Not to disturb their dreamy mood,
Said the Sicllian, "While you spoke,
Telling your legend marvellous,
Suddenly in my memory woke

The thought of one, now gone from us,-
An old Abate, meek and mild,
My friend and teacher, when a child,
Who sometimes in those days of old
The legend of an Angel told,

Which ran, if I remember, thus."

THE SICILIAN'S TALE.

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

ROBERT OF SICILY, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,
With retinue of many a knight and squire,
On St. John's eve at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exultavit humiles;"

And slowly lifting up his kingly head,
He to a learned clerk beside him said,

"What mean these words?" The clerk made

answer meet,

"He has put down the mighty from their seat, And has exalted them of low degree." Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, ""Tis well that such seditious words are sung Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; For unto priests and people be it known,

And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke, it was already night;
The church was empty and there was no light,
Save where the lamps that glimmering few and
faint,

Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around.
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sound re-echoed from the roofs and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stails!
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of
prayer,

Came with his lantern, asking, "Who is there?" Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,

"Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?"
The frightened sexton muttering with a curse,
"This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!"
Turned the great key and flung the portai wide:
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak.
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor
spoke,

But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with
mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace-gate;
Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his

rage

To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare,
From hall to hall he passed with breathless
speed,

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room,
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,
King Robert's self in features, form and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognise.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his looks of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;
Then said, "Who art thou? and why com'st
thou here ?"

To which King Robert answered, with a sneer, "I am the King, and come to claim my own From an impostor, who usurps my throne !"

And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their
swords;

The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,
Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester,

thou

prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;

A group of tittering pages ran before,
And as they opened wide the folding-door,
His heart failed, for he heard with strange
alarms,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
With the mock plaudits of "Long live the
King!"

Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
He said within himself, "It was a dream!"
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare discoloured walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their
stalls,

And in the corner, a revolting shape,

Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream; the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!
Days came and went; and now returned again
To Sicily the old Saturnian reign;
Under the Angel's governance benign
The happy island danced with corn and wine,

And deep within the mountain's burning

breast

Ilis only friend the ape, his only food
What others left,-he still was unsubdued.
And when the Angel met him on the way
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
"Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe
Burst from him in resistless overflow,
And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling
The haughty answer back, "I am, I am the
King?"

Almost three years were ended; when there

came

Ambassadors of great repute and name
From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane
By letter summoned them forthwith to come
On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome.
The Angel with great joy received his guests,
And gave them presents of embroidered vests,
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.
Then he departed with them o'er the sea
Into the lovely land of Italy,

Whose loveliness was more resplendent made
By the mere passing of that cavalcade,
With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the

stir

He entertained the Angel unawares,

Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, "I am the King! Look, and behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! This man who wears my semblance in your eyes,

Is an impostor in a King's disguise.

Do you not know me? does no voice within
Answer my cry, and say we are akin ?"
The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene;
The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange
sport

To keep a madman for thy Fool at court!"
And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace
Was hustled back among the populace.
In solemn state the Holy Week went by,
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky;
The presence of the Angel, with its light,
Before the sun rose, made the city bright,
And with new fervour filled the hearts of men,
Who felt indeed that Christ had risen again.
Even the Jester, on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw,
He felt within a power unfelt before,
He heard the rustling garments of the Lord
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heaven-
ward.

And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube's shore,
Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again
The land was resplendent with his train,
Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's wall,
And seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers,
As if the better world conversed with ours,
And beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And with a gesture bade the rest retire;
And when they were alone, the Angel said,
"Art thou the King?" Then bowing down his
head,

King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast. And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best!

My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence,
And in some cloister's school of penitence,
Across those stones, that pave the way to

heaven,

Walk barefoot until my guilty soul is shriven!"
The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place,

And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street:
"He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree!"
And through the chant a second melody
Rose like the throbbing of a single string:
"I am an Angel, and thou art the King!"
King Robert, who was standing near the throne,
Lifted up his eyes, and lo! he was alone;
But all apparelled as in days of old,
With ermine mantle and with cloth of gold:
And when his courtiers came, they found him
there

Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent

prayer.

INTERLUDE.

AND then the blue-eyed Norseman told
A Saga of the days of old.

"There is," said he, "a wondrous book
Of Legends in the old Norse tongue,
Of the dead kings of Norroway,
Tonds that once were told or sung

In many a smoky, fireside nook
Of Iceland, in the ancient day.
By wandering Saga-man or Scald;
Heimskringla is the volume called';
And he who looks may find therein
The story that I now begin."

And in each pause the story made
Upon his violin he played,
As an appropriate interlude,
Fragments of old Norwegian tunes
That bound in one the separate runes,
And held the mind in perfect mood.
Entwining and encircling all

The strange and antiquated rhymes
With melodies of olden times;
As over some half-ruined wall,
Disjointed and about to fall,

Fresh woodbines climb and interlace,
And keep the loosened stones in place.

Here in my Northland, My fastness aad fortress, Reign I forever!

Here amid icebergs Rule I the nations; This is my hammer, Miölner, the mighty; Giants and sorcerers Cannot withstand it ! These are the gauntlets Wherewith I wield it, And hurl it afar off; This is my girdle; Whenever I brace it, Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest

THOR.

Stream through the heavens,
In flashes of crimson,
Is but my red beard
Blown by the night-wind,
Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;

Mine eyes are the lightning,
The wheels of my chariot
Roll in the thunder,
The blows of my hammer
Ring in the earthquake!
Force rules the world still,
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant,
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor's-day!

Thou art a God, too,

O Galilean!

And thus single-handed
Unto the combat,
Gauntlet or Gospel
Here I defy thee.

II.-KING OLAF'S RETURN.

AND King Olaf heard the cry,
Saw the red light in the sky,

Laid his hand upon his sword,
As he leaned upon the railing.
And his ships went sailing, sailing
Northward into Drontheim ford.
There he stood as one who dreamed;
And the red light glanced and gleamed

H

On the armour that he wore;
And he shouted. as he rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"

To avenge his father slain,
And reconquer realm and reign,
Came the youthful Olaf home,
Through the midnight sailing, sailing,
Listening to the wild wind's wailing,
And the dashing of the foam.

To his thoughts the sacred name
Of his mother Astrid came,

And the tale she oft had told
Of her flight by sacred passes,
Through the mountains and morasses,
To the home of Hakon old.

Then strange memories crowded back
Of Queen Gunhild's wrath and wrack,
And a hurried flight by sea;

Of grim Vikings, and their rapture
In the sea-fight, and the capture,
And the life of slavery.

How a stranger watched his face
In the Esthonian market-place,

Scanned his features one by one,
Saying, "We should know each other;
I am Sigurd, Astrid's brother,
Thou art Ólaf, Astrid's son!"
Then as Queen Allogia's page,
Old in honours, young in age,

Chief of all her men-at-arms;

Till vague whispers, and mysterious,
Reached King Valdemar, the imperious,
Filling him with strange alarms.
Then his cruisings o'er the seas,
Westward to the Hebrides,

And to Scilly's rocky shore;
And the hermit's cavern dismal,
Christ's great name and rites baptismal,
In the ocean's rush and rear.

All these thoughts of love and strife
Glimmered through his lurid life,

As the stars intenser light

Through the red flames o'er him trailing,
As the ships went sailing, sailing
Northward in the summer night.
Trained for either camp or court,
Skilful in each manly sport,

Young and beautiful and tall;

Art of warfare, craft of chases,
Swimming, skating, snow-shoe races,
Excellent alike in all.

When at sea, with all his rowers,
He along the bending oars

Outside of his ship could run,
He the Smalsor Horn ascended,
And his shining shield suspended
On its summit, like a sun.

On the ship-rails he could stand,
Wield his sword with either hand,
And at once two javelins throw;
At all feasts where ale was strongest
Sat the merry monarch longest,
First to come and last to go.
Norway never yet had seen
One so beautiful of mein,
One so royal in attire,

When in arms completely furnished,
Harness gold-inlaid and burnished,
Mantle like a flame of fire.

Thus came Olaf to his own,
When upon the night-wind blown
Passed that cry along the shore;
And he answered, while the rifted
Streamers o'er him shook and shifted,
"I accept thy challenge, Thor!"