chivalry;
For how could generous men avengers be,

Save as God’s messengers on coursers fleet?—
These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet
In one self-world where the same right had sway,
And good must grow as grew the blessed day.
No more: great Love his essence had endued
With Pedro’s form, and, entering, subdued
The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense,
Proud in its choice of proud obedience
To hardship glorified by perfect reverence.

Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest,
And in her chamber, through the hours of rest,
The darkness was alight for her with sheen
Of arms, and plumèd helm; and bright between
Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring
’Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird’s bright wing
’Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king

Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there
Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare:
The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh,
Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh
Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves,
Clothing her life of life.  Oh! she believes
That she could be content if he but knew
(Her poor small self could claim no other due)
How Lisa’s lowly love had highest reach
Of wingèd passion, whereto wingèd speech
Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame.
Though, had she such lame message, were it blame
To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank
She held in loving?  Modest maidens shrank
From telling love that fed on selfish hope;

But love, as hopeless as the shattering song,
Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng
Of mighty dead ones. . . .  Nay, but she was weak,
Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speak
With eloquence, save what dumb creatures have,
That with small cries and touches small boons crave.

She watched all day that she might see him pass
With knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas!
Though he should see me, it were all as one
He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone
Of wall or balcony: some colored spot
His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not.
I have no music-touch that could bring nigh
My love to his soul’s hearing.  I shall die,

And he will never know who Lisa was,—
The trader’s child, whose soaring spirit rose
As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.

“For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen
A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green,
Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need
No change within to make me queenly there:
For they the royal-hearted women are
Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace;
For needy suffering lives in lowliest place,
Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile,
The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile.
My love is such, it cannot choose but soar
Up to the highest; yet forevermore,
Though I were happy, throned beside the king,
I should be tender to each little thing

With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell
Its inward pang; and I would soothe it well
With tender touch, and with a low soft moan
For company: my dumb love-pang is lone,
Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed