life seeming a beauteous Death
O Love, who so didst choose me for thine own
Taking this little isle to thy great sway,
See now, it is the honor of thy throne
That what thou gavest perish not away,
Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone

By life that will be for the brief life gone:
Hear, ere the shroud o’er these frail limbs be thrown—
Since every king is vassal unto thee,
My heart’s lord needs must listen loyally—
O tell him I am waiting for my Death!

Tell him, for that he hath such royal power
’Twere hard for him to think how small a thing,
How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dower
For one like me, the bride of that pale king
Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour.
Go to my lord, and to his memory bring
That happy birthday of my sorrowing,
When his large glance made meaner gazers glad,
Entering the bannered lists: ’twas then I had
The wound that laid me in the arms of Death.

Tell him, O Love, I am a lowly maid,
No more than any little knot of thyme
That he with careless foot may often tread;
Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublime
And cleave to things most high and hallowèd,
As doth the fragrance of my life’s springtime,
My lowly love, that, soaring, seeks to climb
Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss,
More blissful than if mine, in being his:
So shall I live in him, and rest in Death.

The strain was new.  It seemed a pleading cry,
And yet a rounded, perfect melody,
Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes
Of little child at little miseries.
Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose,
Like rising light that broad and broader grows,
It filled the hall, and so possessed the air,

That not one living, breathing soul was there,
Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering
In Music’s grasp, and forced to hear her sing.
But most such sweet compulsion took the mood
Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would).
Whether the words which that strange meaning bore
Were but the poet’s feigning, or aught more,
Was bounden question, since their aim must be
At some imagined or true royalty.
He called Minuccio, and bade him tell
What poet of the day had writ so well;
For, though they came behind all former rhymes,
The verses were not bad for these poor times.
“Monsignor, they are only three days old,”
Minuccio said; “but it must not be told
How this song grew, save to your royal ear.”
Eager, the king withdrew where none was near,

And gave close audience to Minuccio,
Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know.
The king had features pliant to confess
The presence of a manly tenderness,—
Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one,
In fine harmonic exaltatiön;
The spirit of religious chivalry.
He listened, and Minuccio could see
The tender, generous admiration spread
O’er all his face, and glorify his head
With royalty that would have kept its rank,
Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank.
He answered without pause, “So sweet a maid,
In Nature’s own insignia arrayed,
Though she were come of unmixed trading blood
That sold and