(Peter Ronsard, loquitur)

   "Heigho!" yawned one day King Francis,
   "Distance all value enhances.
   When a man's busy, why, leisure
   Strikes him as wonderful pleasure:
   Faith, and at leisure once is he?
   Straightway he wants to be busy.
   Here we've got peace; and aghast I'm
   Caught thinking war the true pastime.
   Is there a reason in metre?
   Give us your speech, master Peter!"                            10
   I who, if mortal dare say so,
   Ne'er am at loss with my Naso
   "Sire," I replied, "joys prove cloudlets:
   "Men are the merest Ixions"—
   Here the King whistled aloud, "Let's
   —Heigho—go look at our lions."
   Such are the sorrowful chances
   If you talk fine to King Francis.

   And so, to the courtyard proceeding,
   Our company, Francis was leading,                              20
   Increased by new followers tenfold
   Before he arrived at the penfold;
   Lords, ladies, like clouds which bedizen
   At sunset the western horizon.
   And Sir De Lorge pressed 'mid the foremost
   With the dame he professed to adore most.
   Oh, what a face!  One by fits eyed
   Her, and the horrible pitside;
   For the penfold surrounded a hollow
   Which led where the eye scarce dared follow                    30
   And shelved to the chamber secluded
   Where Bluebeard, the great lion, brooded.

   The King hailed his keeper, an Arab
   As glossy and black as a scarab,
   And bade him make sport and at once stir
   Up and out of his den the old monster.
   They opened a hole in the wire-work
   Across it, and dropped there a firework,
   And fled: one's heart's beating redoubled;
   A pause, while the pit's mouth was troubled,                   40
   The blackness and silence so utter,
   By the firework's slow sparkling and sputter;
   Then earth in a sudden contortion
   Gave out to our gaze her abortion.
   Such a brute! Were I friend Clement Marot
   (Whose experience of nature's but narrow
   And whose faculties move in no small mist
   When he versifies David the Psalmist)
   I should study that brute to describe you
   Illum Juda Leonem de Tribu.                                    50
   One's whole blood grew curdling and creepy
   To see the black mane, vast and heapy,
   The tail in the air stiff and straining
   The wide eyes, nor waxing nor waning,
   As over the barrier which bounded
   His platform, and us who surrounded
   The barrier, they reached and they rested
   On space that might stand him in best stead:
   For who knew, he thought, what the amazement,
   The eruption of clatter and blaze meant,                       60
   And if, in this minute of wonder,
   No outlet, 'mid lightning and thunder,
   Lay broad, and, his shackles all shivered,
   The lion at last was delivered?
   Ay, that was the open sky o'erhead!
   And you saw by the flash on his forehead,
   By the hope in those eyes wide and steady,
   He was leagues in the desert already
   Driving the flocks up the mountain
   Or catlike couched hard by the fountain                        70
   To waylay the date-gathering negress:
   So guarded he entrance or egress.
   "How he stands!" quoth the King: "we may well swear,
   (No novice, we've won our spurs elsewhere
   And so can afford the confession)
   We exercise wholesome discretion
   In keeping aloof from his threshold;
   Once hold you, those jaws want no fresh hold,
   Their first would too pleasantly purloin
   The visitor's brisket or surloin:                              80
   But who's he would prove so fool-hardy?
   Not the best man of Marignan, pardie!"

   The sentence no sooner was uttered,
   Than over the rails a glove fluttered,
   Fell close to the lion, and rested:
   The dame 'twas, who flung it and jested
   With life so, De Lorge had been wooing
   For months past; he sat there pursuing
   His suit, weighing out with nonchalance
   Fine speeches like gold from a balance.                        90

   Sound the trumpet, no true knight's a tarrier!
   De Lorge made one leap at the barrier,
   Walked straight to the glove—while the lion
   Ne'er moved, kept his far-reaching eye on
   The palm-tree-edged desert-spring's sapphire,
   And the musky oiled skin of the Kaffir—
   Picked it up, and as calmly retreated,
   Leaped back where the lady was seated,
   And full in the face of its owner
   Flung the glove.

   "Your heart's queen, you dethrone her?                        100
   So should I!"—cried the King—"'twas mere vanity
   Not love set that task to humanity!"
   Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing
   From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing.

   Not so, I; for I caught an expression
   In her brow's undisturbed self-possession
   Amid the Court's scoffing and merriment,
   As if from no pleasing experiment
   She rose, yet of pain not much heedful
   So long as the process was needful,—                         110
   As if she had tried in a crucible,
   To what "speeches like gold" were reducible,
   And, finding the finest prove copper,
   Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;
   To know what she had not to trust to,
   Was worth all the ashes and dust too.
   She went out 'mid hooting and laughter;
   Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,
   And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?
   If she wished not the rash deed's recalment?                  120
   For I"—so I spoke—"am a poet:
   Human nature,—behoves that I know it!"

   She told me, "Too long had I heard
   Of the deed proved alone by the word:
   For my love—what De Lorge would not dare!
   With my scorn—what De Lorge could compare!
   And the endless descriptions of death
   He would brave when my lip formed a breath,
   I must reckon as braved, or, of course,
   Doubt his word—and moreover, perforce,                       130
   For such gifts as no lady could spurn,
   Must offer my love in return.
   When I looked on your lion, it brought
   All the dangers at once to my thought,
   Encountered by all sorts of men,
   Before he was lodged in his den—
   From the poor slave whose club or bare hands
   Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,
   With no King and no Court to applaud,
   By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,                      140
   Yet to capture the creature made shift,
   That his rude boys might laugh at the gift
   —To the page who last leaped o'er the fence
   Of the pit, on no greater pretence
   Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,
   Lest his pay for a week should be stopped.
   So, wiser I judged it to make
   One trial what 'death for my sake'
   Really meant, while the power was yet mine,

   Than to wait until time should define                         150
   Such a phrase not so simply as I,
   Who took it to mean just 'to die.'
   The blow a glove gives is but weak:
   Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?
   But when the heart suffers a blow,
   Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?"

   I looked, as away she was sweeping.
   And saw a youth eagerly keeping
   As close as he dared to the doorway.
   No doubt that a noble should more weigh                       160
   His life than befits a plebeian;
   And yet, had our brute been Nemean—
   (I judge by a certain calm fervour
   The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)
   —He'd have scarce thought you did him the worst turn
   If you whispered "Friend, what you'd get, first earn!"
   And when, shortly after, she carried
   Her shame from the Court, and they married,
   To that marriage some happiness, maugre
   The voice of the Court, I dared augur.                        170

   For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,
   Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;
   And in short stood so plain a head taller.
   That he wooed and won... how do you call her?
   The beauty, that rose in the sequel
   To the King's love, who loved her a week well.
   And 'twas noticed he never would honour
   De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)
   With the easy commission of stretching
   His legs in the service, and fetching                         180
   His wife, from her chamber, those straying
   Sad gloves she was always mislaying,
   While the King took the closet to chat in,—
   But of course this adventure came pat in.
   And never the King told the story,
   How bringing a glove brought such glory,
   But the wife smiled—"His nerves are grown firmer:
   Mine he brings now and utters no murmur."

   Venienti occurrite morbo!
   With which moral I drop my theorbo.                           190

   NOTES:
   "The Glove" gives a transcript from Court life, in Paris,
   under Francis I.  In making Ronsard the mouthpiece for
   a deeper observation of the meaning of the incident he is
   supposed to witness and describe than Marot and the rest
   saw, characteristic differences between these two poets of
   the time are brought out, the genuineness of courtly love
   and chivalry is tested, and to the original story of the glove
   is added a new view of the lady's character; a sketch of
   her humbler and truer lover, and their happiness; and a
   pendent scene showing the courtier De Lorges, having
   won a beauty for his wife, in the ignominious position of
   assisting the king to enjoy her favors and of submitting to
   pleasantries upon his discomfiture.  The original story as
   told by Poullain de St. Croix in his Essais Historiques sur
   Paris ran thus: "One day whilst Francis I amused himself
   with looking at a combat between his lions, a lady,
   having let her glove drop, said to De Lorges, 'If you
   would have me believe that you love me as much as you
   swear you do, go and bring back my glove.'  De Lorges
   went down, picked up the glove from amidst the ferocious
   beasts, returned, and threw it in the lady's face; and in
   spite of all her advances and cajoleries would never look
   at her again.''  Schiller running across this anecdote of
   St. Croix, in 1797, as he writes Goethe, wrote a poem
   on it which adds nothing to the story. Leigh Hunt's
   'The Glove and the Lions' adds some traits.  It characterizes
   the lady as shallow and vain, with smiles and
   eyes which always seem'd the same.''  She calculates
   since "king, ladies, lovers, all look on," that "the occasion
   is divine" to drop her glove and "prove his love,
   then look at him and smile"; and after De Lorges has
   returned and thrown the glove, "but not with love, right
   in the lady's face,'' Hunt makes the king rise and swear
   "rightly done!  No love, quoth he, but vanity, sets love
   a task like that!'' This is the material Browning worked
   on; he makes use of this speech of the king's, but remodels
   the lady's character wholly, and gives her an appreciative
   lover, and also a keen-eyed young poet to tell her
   story afresh and to reveal through his criticism the narrowness
   of the Court and the Court poets.

   12.  Naso:  Ovid.  Love of the classics and curiosity as
   to human nature were both characteristic of Peter Ronsard
   (1524-1585), at one time page to Francis I, the
   most erudite and original of French medieval poets.

   45.  Clement Marot:  (1496-1544), Court poet to Francis I.
   His nature and verse were simpler than Ronsard's,
   and he belonged more peculiarly to his own day.

   48.  Versifies David:   Marot was suspected of Protestant
   leanings which occasioned his imprisonment twice, and put
   him in need of the protection Francis and his sister gave
   him.  Among his works were sixty-five epistles addressed
   to grandees, attesting his courtiership, and the paraphrase
   of forty-nine of the Psalms to which Ronsard alludes.

   50.  Illum Juda, etc.:  that lion of the tribe of Judah.

   89.  Venienti, etc.:  Meet the coming disease; that is,
   if evil be anticipated, don't wait till it seizes you, but
   dare to assure yourself and then forestall it as the lady did.

   190.  Theorbo:  an old Italian stringed instrument such as
   pages used.

   I've a Friend, over the sea;
   I like him, but he loves me.
   It all grew out of the books I write;
   They find such favour in his sight
   That he slaughters you with savage looks
   Because you don't admire my books.
   He does himself though,—and if some vein
   Were to snap tonight in this heavy brain,
   To-morrow month, if I lived to try,
   Round should I just turn quietly,                              10
   Or out of the bedclothes stretch my hand
   Till I found him, come from his foreign land
   To be my nurse in this poor place,
   And make my broth and wash my face
   And light my fire and, all the while,
   Bear with his old good-humoured smile
   That I told him "Better have kept away
   Than come and kill me, night and day,
   With, worse than fever throbs and shoots,
   The creaking of his clumsy boots."                             20
   I am as sure that this he would do,
   As that Saint Paul's is striking two.
   And I think I rather... woe is me!
   —Yes, rather would see him than not see,
   If lifting a hand could seat him there
   Before me in the empty chair
   To-night, when my head aches indeed,
   And I can neither think nor read
   Nor make these purple fingers hold
   The pen; this garret's freezing cold!                          30

   And I've a Lady—there he wakes,
   The laughing fiend and prince of snakes
   Within me, at her name, to pray
   Fate send some creature in the way
   Of my love for her, to be down-torn,
   Upthrust and outward-borne,
   So I might prove myself that sea
   Of passion which I needs must be!
   Call my thoughts false and my fancies quaint
   And my style infirm and its figures faint,                     40
   All the critics say, and more blame yet,
   And not one angry word you get.
   But, please you, wonder I would put
   My cheek beneath that lady's foot
   Rather than trample under mine
   That laurels of the Florentine,
   And you shall see how the devil spends
   A fire God gave for other ends!
   I tell you, I stride up and down
   This garret, crowned with love's best crown,                   50
   And feasted with love's perfect feast,
   To think I kill for her, at least,
   Body and soul and peace and fame,
   Alike youth's end and manhood's aim,
   —So is my spirit, as flesh with sin,
   Filled full, eaten out and in
   With the face of her, the eyes of her,
   The lips, the little chin, the stir
   Of shadow round her mouth; and she
   —I'll tell you,—calmly would decree                          60
   That I should roast at a slow fire,

   If that would compass her desire
   And make her one whom they invite
   To the famous ball to-morrow night.

   There may be heaven; there must be hell;
   Meantime, there is our earth here—well!

   NOTES:
   "Time's Revenges."  An author soliloquizes in his garret
   over the fact that he possesses a friend who loves him and
   would do anything in his power to serve him, but for
   whom he cares almost nothing.  At the same time he
   himself loves a woman to such distraction that he counts
   himself crowned with love's best crown while sacrificing
   his soul, his body, his peace, and his fame in brooding on
   his love, while she could calmly decree that he should
   roast at a slow fire if it would compass her frivolously
   ambitious designs.  Thus his indifference to his friend is
   avenged by the indifference the lady shows toward him.

   46.  The Florentine:  Dante. Used here, seemingly, as
   a symbol of the highest attainments in poesy, his (the
   speaker's) reverence for which is so great that he would
   rather put his cheek under his lady's foot than that poetry
   should suffer any indignity at his hands; yet in spite of
   all the possibilities open to him through his enthusiasm for
   poetry, he prefers wasting his entire energies upon one
   unworthy of him.

   That second time they hunted me
   From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
   And Austria, hounding far and wide
   Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
   Breathed hot and instant on my trace,—
   I made six days a hiding-place
   Of that dry green old aqueduct
   Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
   The fire-flies from the roof above,
   Bright creeping thro' the moss they love:                      10
   —How long it seems since Charles was lost!
   Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
   The country in my very sight;
   And when that peril ceased at night,
   The sky broke out in red dismay
   With signal fires; well, there I lay
   Close covered o'er in my recess,
   Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
   Thinking on Metternich our friend,
   And Charles's miserable end,                                   20
   And much beside, two days; the third,
   Hunger overcame me when I heard
   The peasants from the village go
   To work among the maize; you know,
   With us in Lombardy, they bring
   Provisions packed on mules, a string
   With little bells that cheer their task,
   And casks, and boughs on every cask
   To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
   These I let pass in jingling line,                             30
   And, close on them, dear noisy crew,
   The peasants from the village, too;
   For at the very rear would troop
   Their wives and sisters in a group
   To help, I knew.  When these had passed,
   I threw my glove to strike the last,
   Taking the chance: she did not start,
   Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
   One instant rapidly glanced round,
   And saw me beckon from the ground.                             40
   A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
   She picked my glove up while she stripped
   A branch off, then rejoined the rest
   With that; my glove lay in her breast.
   Then I drew breath; they disappeared:
   It was for Italy I feared.

       An hour, and she returned alone
   Exactly where my glove was thrown.
   Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me
   Rested the hopes of Italy.                                     50
   I had devised a certain tale
   Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail
   Persuade a peasant of its truth;
   I meant to call a freak of youth
   This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
   And no temptation to betray.
   But when I saw that woman's face,
   Its calm simplicity of grace,
   Our Italy's own attitude
   In which she walked thus far, and stood,                       60
   Planting each naked foot so firm,
   To crush the snake and spare the worm—
   At first sight of her eyes, I said,
   "I am that man upon whose head
   They fix the price, because I hate
   The Austrians over us: the State
   Will give you gold—oh, gold so much!
   If you betray me to their clutch,
   And be your death, for aught I know,
   If once they find you saved their foe.                         70
   Now, you must bring me food and drink,
   And also paper, pen and ink,
   And carry safe what I shall write
   To Padua, which you'll reach at night
   Before the duomo shuts; go in,
   And wait till Tenebrae begin;
   Walk to the third confessional,
   Between the pillar and the wall,
   And kneeling whisper, Whence comes peace?
   Say it a second time, then cease;                              80
   And if the voice inside returns,
   From Christ and Freedom; what concerns
   The cause of Peace?—for answer, slip
   My letter where you placed your lip;
   Then come back happy we have done
   Our mother service—I, the son,
   As you the daughter of our land!"

      Three mornings more, she took her stand
   In the same place, with the same eyes:
   I was no surer of sun-rise                                     90
   Than of her coming.  We conferred
   Of her own prospects, and I heard
   She had a lover—stout and tall,
   She said—then let her eyelids fall,
   "He could do much"—as if some doubt
   Entered her heart,—then, passing out

   "She could not speak for others, who
   Had other thoughts; herself she knew,"
   And so she brought me drink and food.
   After four days, the scouts pursued                           100
   Another path; at last arrived
   The help my Paduan friends contrived
   To furnish me: she brought the news.
   For the first time I could not choose
   But kiss her hand, and lay my own
   Upon her head—"This faith was shown
   To Italy, our mother; she
   Uses my hand and blesses thee."
   She followed down to the sea-shore;
   I left and never saw her more.                                110

      How very long since I have thought
   Concerning—much less wished for—aught
   Beside the good of Italy,
   For which I live and mean to die!
   I never was in love; and since
   Charles proved false, what shall now convince
   My inmost heart I have a friend?
   However, if I pleased to spend
   Real wishes on myself—say, three—
   I know at least what one should be.                           120
   I would grasp Metternich until
   I felt his red wet throat distil
   In blood thro' these two hands.  And next,
   —Nor much for that am I perplexed—
   Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
   Should die slow of a broken heart
   Under his new employers.  Last
   —Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
   Do I grow old and out of strength.
   If I resolved to seek at length                               130
   My father's house again, how scared
   They all would look, and unprepared!
   My brothers live in Austria's pay
   —Disowned me long ago, men say;
   And all my early mates who used
   To praise me so-perhaps induced
   More than one early step of mine—
   Are turning wise: while some opine
   "Freedom grows license," some suspect
   "Haste breeds delay," and recollect                           140
   They always said, such premature
   Beginnings never could endure!
   So, with a sullen "All's for best,"
   The land seems settling to its rest.
   I think then, I should wish to stand
   This evening in that dear, lost land,
   Over the sea the thousand miles,
   And know if yet that woman smiles
   With the calm smile; some little farm
   She lives in there, no doubt: what harm                       150
   If I sat on the door-side bench,
   And, while her spindle made a trench
   Fantastically in the dust,
   Inquired of all her fortunes—just
   Her children's ages and their names,
   And what may be the husband's aims
   For each of them.  I'd talk this out,
   And sit there, for an hour about,
   Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
   Mine on her head, and go my way.                              160

      So much for idle wishing—how
   It steals the time! To business now.

   NOTES:
   "The Italian in England."  An Italian patriot who has taken
   part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian  dominance,
   reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from
   Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought
   beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the
   discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once
   more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life
   helped him to escape.  Though there is no exact historical
   incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a
   historical background.  The Charles referred to (lines 8,
   11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of
   the younger branch of the house of Savoy.  His having
   played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is
   quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple
   citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was
   Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he
   made his secretary.  As indicated in the poem, Charles
   at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat
   lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against
   Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of
   Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin.  But when
   the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the
   new government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king's
   threats and left his friends in the lurch.  Later the Austrians
   marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced
   to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might
   well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged
   to fly from Italy.

   19.   Metternich:  the distinguished Austrian diplomatist
   and determined enemy of Italian independence.

   76.  Tenebrae: darkness.  "The office of matins and
   lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week.  Fifteen
   lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the
   conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle
   is left at the top of the triangle.  The extinction of the
   other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the
   world at the time of the Crucifixion.  The last candle
   (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar
   for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death
   could not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)

   Piano di Sorrento

   Fortù, Fortù, my beloved one,
           Sit here by my side,
   On my knees put up both little feet!
           I was sure, if I tried,
   I could make you laugh spite of Scirocco.
           Now, open your eyes,
   Let me keep you amused till he vanish
           In black from the skies,
   With telling my memories over
           As you tell your beads;                                10
   All the Plain saw me gather, I garland
           —The flowers or the weeds.

   Time for rain! for your long hot dry Autumn
           Had net-worked with brown
   The white skin of each grape on the bunches,
           Marked like a quail's crown,
   Those creatures you make such account of,
           Whose heads—speckled white
   Over brown like a great spider's back,
           As I told you last night—                             20
   Your mother bites off for her supper.
           Red-ripe as could be,
   Pomegranates were chapping and splitting
           In halves on the tree:
   And betwixt the loose walls of great flintstone,
           Or in the thick dust
   On the path, or straight out of the rockside,
           Wherever could thrust
   Some burnt sprig of bold hardy rock-flower
           Its yellow face up,                                    30
   For the prize were great butterflies fighting,
           Some five for one cup.
   So, I guessed, ere I got up this morning,
           What change was in store,
   By the quick rustle-down of the quail-nets
           Which woke me before
   I could open my shutter, made fast
           With a bough and a stone,
   And look thro' the twisted dead vine-twigs,
           Sole lattice that's known.                             40
   Quick and sharp rang the rings down the net-poles,
           While, busy beneath,
   Your priest and his brother tugged at them,
           The rain in their teeth.
   And out upon all the flat house-roofs
           Where split figs lay drying,
   The girls took the frails under cover:
           Nor use seemed in trying
   To get out the boats and go fishing,
           For, under the cliff,                                  50
   Fierce the black water frothed o'er the blind-rock.
           No seeing our skiff
   Arrive about noon from Amalfi,
           —Our fisher arrive,
   And pitch down his basket before us,
           All trembling alive
   With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit;
           You touch the strange lumps,
   And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner
           Of horns and of humps,                                 60
   Which only the fisher looks grave at,
           While round him like imps
   Cling screaming the children as naked
           And brown as his shrimps;
   Himself too as bare to the middle
           —You see round his neck
   The string and its brass coin suspended,
           That saves him from wreck.
   But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,
           So back, to a man,                                     70
   Came our friends, with whose help in the vineyards
           Grape-harvest began.
   In the vat, halfway up in our houseside,
           Like blood the juice spins,
   While your brother all bare-legged is dancing
           Till breathless he grins
   Dead-beaten in effort on effort
           To keep the grapes under,
   Since still when he seems all but master,
           In pours the fresh plunder                             80
   From girls who keep coming and going
           With basket on shoulder,
   And eyes shut against the rain's driving;
           Your girls that are older,—
   For under the hedges of aloe,
           And where, on its bed
   Of the orchard's black mould, the love-apple
           Lies pulpy and red,
   All the young ones are kneeling and filling
           Their laps with the snails                             90
   Tempted out by this first rainy weather,—
           Your best of regales,
   As to-night will be proved to my sorrow,
           When, supping in state,
   We shall feast our grape-gleaners (two dozen,
           Three over one plate)
   With lasagne so tempting to swallow,
           In slippery ropes,
   And gourds fried in great purple slices,
           That colour of popes.                                 100
   Meantime, see the grape bunch they've brought you:
           The rain-water slips
   O'er the heavy blue bloom on each globe
           Which the wasp to your lips
   Still follows with fretful persistence:
           Nay, taste, while awake,
   This half of a curd-white smooth cheese-ball
           That peels, flake by flake,
   Like an onion, each smoother and whiter;
           Next, sip this weak wine                              110
   From the thin green glass flask, with its stopper,
           A leaf of the vine;
   And end with the prickly-pear's red flesh
           That leaves thro' its juice
   The stony black seeds on your pearl-teeth.
           Scirocco is loose!
   Hark, the quick, whistling pelt of the olives
           Which, thick in one's track,
   Tempt the stranger to pick up and bite them,
           Tho' not yet half black!                              120
   How the old twisted olive trunks shudder,
           The medlars let fall
   Their hard fruit, and the brittle great fig-trees
           Snap off, figs and all,
   For here comes the whole of the tempest!
           No refuge, but creep
   Back again to my side and my shoulder,
           And listen or sleep.
   O how will your country show next week,
           When all the vine-boughs                              130
   Have been stripped of their foliage to pasture
           The mules and the cows?
   Last eve, I rode over the mountains,
           Your brother, my guide,
   Soon left me, to feast on the myrtles
           That offered, each side,
   Their fruit-balls, black, glossy and luscious,—
           Or strip from the sorbs
   A treasure, or, rosy and wondrous,
           Those hairy gold orbs!                                140
   But my mule picked his sure sober path out,
           Just stopping to neigh
   When he recognized down in the valley
           His mates on their way
   With the faggots and barrels of water;
           And soon we emerged
   From the plain, where the woods could scarce follow;
           And still as we urged
   Our way, the woods wondered, and left us,
           As up still we trudged                                150
   Though the wild path grew wilder each instant,
           And place was e'en grudged
   'Mid the rock-chasms and piles of loose stones
           Like the loose broken teeth
   Of some monster which climbed there to die
           From the ocean beneath—
   Place was grudged to the silver-grey fume-weed
           That clung to the path,
   And dark rosemary ever a-dying
           That, 'spite the wind's wrath,                        160
   So loves the salt rock's face to seaward,
           And lentisks as staunch
   To the stone where they root and bear berries,
           And... what shows a branch
   Coral-coloured, transparent, with circlets
           Of pale seagreen leaves;
   Over all trod my mule with the caution
           Of gleaners o'er sheaves,
   Still, foot after foot like a lad
           Till, round after round,                              170
   He climbed to the top of Calvano,
           And God's own profound
   Was above me, and round me the mountains,
           And under, the sea,
   And within me my heart to bear witness
           What was and shall be.

   Oh, heaven and the terrible crystal!
           No rampart excludes
   Your eye from the life to be lived
           In the blue solitudes.                                180
   Oh, those mountains, their infinite movement!
           Still moving with you;
   For, ever some new head and breast of them
           Thrusts into view
   To observe the intruder; you see it
           If quickly you turn
   And, before they escape you surprise them.
           They grudge you should learn
   How the soft plains they look on, lean over
           And love (they pretend)                               190
   —Cower beneath them, the flat sea-pine crouches,
           The wild fruit-trees bend,
   E'en the myrtle-leaves curl, shrink and shut:
           All is silent and grave:
   'Tis a sensual and timorous beauty,
           How fair! but a slave.
   So, I turned to the sea; and there slumbered
           As greenly as ever
   Those isles of the siren, your Galli;
           No ages can sever                                     200
   The Three, nor enable their sister
           To join them,—halfway
   On the voyage, she looked at Ulysses—
           No farther to-day,
   Tho' the small one, just launched in the wave,
           Watches breast-high and steady
   From under the rock, her bold sister
           Swum halfway already.
   Fortù, shall we sail there together
           And see from the sides                                210
   Quite new rocks show their faces, new haunts
           Where the siren abides?
   Shall we sail round and round them, close over
           The rocks, tho' unseen,
   That ruffle the grey glassy water
           To glorious green?
   Then scramble from splinter to splinter,
           Reach land and explore,
   On the largest, the strange square black turret
           With never a door,                                    220
   Just a loop to admit the quick lizards;
           Then, stand there and hear
   The birds' quiet singing, that tells us
           What life is, so clear?
   —The secret they sang to Ulysses
           When, ages ago,
   He heard and he knew this life's secret
           I hear and I know.

   Ah, see! The sun breaks o'er Calvano;
           He strikes the great gloom                            230
   And flutters it o'er the mount's summit
           In airy gold fume.
   All is over.  Look out, see the gipsy,
           Our tinker and smith,
   Has arrived, set up bellows and forge,
           And down-squatted forthwith
   To his hammering, under the wall there;
           One eye keeps aloof
   The urchins that itch to be putting
           His jews'-harps to proof,                             240
   While the other, thro' locks of curled wire,
           Is watching how sleek
   Shines the hog, come to share in the windfall
           —Chew, abbot's own cheek!
   All is over.  Wake up and come out now,
           And down let us go,
   And see the fine things got in order
           At church for the show
   Of the Sacrament, set forth this evening.
           To-morrow's the Feast                                 250
   Of the Rosary's Virgin, by no means
           Of Virgins the least,
   As you'll hear in the off-hand discourse
           Which (all nature, no art)
   The Dominican brother, these three weeks,
           Was getting by heart.
   Not a pillar nor post but is dizened
           With red and blue papers;
   All the roof waves with ribbons, each altar
           A-blaze with long tapers;                             260
   But the great masterpiece is the scaffold
           Rigged glorious to hold
   All the fiddlers and fifers and drummers
           And trumpeters bold,
   Not afraid of Bellini nor Auber,
           Who, when the priest's hoarse,
   Will strike us up something that's brisk
           For the feast's second course.
   And then will the flaxen-wigged Image
           Be carried in pomp                                    270
   Thro' the plain, while in gallant procession
           The priests mean to stomp.
   All round the glad church lie old bottles
           With gunpowder stopped,
   Which will be, when the Image re-enters,
           Religiously popped;
   And at night from the crest of Calvano
           Great bonfires will hang,
   On the plain will the trumpets join chorus,
           And more poppers bang.                                280
   At all events, come-to the garden
           As far as the wall;
   See me tap with a hoe on the plaster
           Till out there shall fall
   A scorpion with wide angry nippers!

           —"Such trifles!" you say?
   Fortù, in my England at home,
           Men meet gravely to-day
   And debate, if abolishing Corn-laws
           Be righteous and wise                                 290
   —If 'twere proper, Scirocco should vanish
           In black from the skies!

   NOTES:
   "The Italian in England."  An Italian patriot who has taken
   part in an unsuccessful revolt against Austrian  dominance,
   reflects upon the incidents of his escape and flight from
   Italy to the end that if he ever should have a thought
   beyond the welfare of Italy, he would wish first for the
   discomfiture of his enemies and then to go and see once
   more the noble woman who at the risk of her own life
   helped him to escape.  Though there is no exact historical
   incident upon which this poem is founded, it has a
   historical background.  The Charles referred to (lines 8,
   11, 20, 116, 125) is Charles Albert, Prince of Carignano, of
   the younger branch of the house of Savoy.  His having
   played with the patriot in his youth, as the poem says, is
   quite possible, for Charles was brought up as a simple
   citizen in a public school, and one of his chief friends was
   Alberta Nota, a writer of liberal principles, whom he
   made his secretary.  As indicated in the poem, Charles
   at first declared himself in sympathy, though in a somewhat
   lukewarm manner, with the rising led by Santa Rosa against
   Austrian domination in 1823, and upon the abdication of
   Victor Emanuel he became regent of Turin.  But when
   the king Charles Felix issued a denunciation against the
   new government, Charles Albert succumbed to the king's
   threats and left his friends in the lurch.  Later the Austrians
   marched into the country, Santa Rosa was forced
   to retreat from Turin, and, with his friends, he who might
   well have been the very patriot of the poem was obliged
   to fly from Italy.

   19.   Metternich:  the distinguished Austrian diplomatist
   and determined enemy of Italian independence.

   76.  Tenebrae: darkness.  "The office of matins and
   lauds, for the three last days in Holy Week.  Fifteen
   lighted candles are placed on a triangular stand, and at the
   conclusion of each psalm one is put out till a single candle
   is left at the top of the triangle.  The extinction of the
   other candles is said to figure the growing darkness of the
   world at the time of the Crucifixion.  The last candle
   (which is not extinguished, but hidden behind the altar
   for a few moments) represents Christ, over whom Death
   could not prevail.'' (Dr. Berdoe)

   He sings.

   I send my heart up to thee, all my heart
           In this my singing.
   For the stars help me, and the sea bears part;
           The very night is clinging
   Closer to Venice' streets to leave one space
           Above me, whence thy face
   May light my joyous heart to thee its dwelling-place.

   She speaks.

   Say after me, and try to say
   My very words, as if each word
   Came from you of your own accord,                              10
   In your own voice, in your own way:
   "This woman's heart and soul and brain
   Are mine as much as this gold chain
   She bids me wear, which (say again)
   I choose to make by cherishing
   A precious thing, or choose to fling
   Over the boat-side, ring by ring."
   And yet once more say... no word more!
   Since words are only words.  Give o'er!

   Unless you call me, all the same,                              20
   Familiarly by my pet name,
   Which if the Three should hear you call,
   And me reply to, would proclaim
   At once our secret to them all.
   Ask of me, too, command me, blame—
   Do, break down the partition-wall
   'Twixt us, the daylight world beholds
   Curtained in dusk and splendid folds!
   What's left but—all of me to take?
   I am the Three's: prevent them, slake                          30
   Your thirst!  'Tis said, the Arab sage,
   In practising with gems, can loose
   Their subtle spirit in his cruce
   And leave but ashes: so, sweet mage,
   Leave them my ashes when thy use
   Sucks out my soul, thy heritage!