Of this poor, passionate, helpless bloodAnd then I lay, and spoke not: but He heard in heaven.

So many Tuscan evenings passed the

same.

I could not lose a sunset on the bridge, And would not miss a vigil in the church, And liked to mingle with the outdoor crowd

So strange and gay and ignorant of my face,

For men you know not, are as good as

trees.

And only once, at the Santissima, I almost chanced upon a man I knew, Sir Blaise Delorme. He saw me certainly,

And somewhat hurried, as he crossed himself,

The smoothness of the action,-then half bowed,

But only half, and merely to my shade, I slipped so quick behind the porphyry plinth

And left him dubious if 'twas really I
Or peradventure Satan's usual trick
To keep a mounting saint uncanonized.
But he was safe for that time, and I too ;
The argent angels in the altar-flare
Absorbed his soul next moment. The
good man!

In England we were scarce acquaintances,

That here in Florence he should keep

With God so near me, could I sing of God! I did not write, nor read, nor even think, But sate absorbed amid the quickening glooms,

Most like some passive broken lumpof salt Dropped in by chance to a bowl of oenomel,

To spoil the drink a little and lose itself, Dissolving slowly, slowly, until lost.

EIGHTH BOOK

ONE eve it happened, when I sate alone,
Alone, upon the terrace of my tower,
A book upon my knees to counterfeit
The reading that I never read at all,
While Marian, in the garden down below,
Knelt by the fountain I could just hear
thrill

The drowsy silence of the exhausted day, And peeled a new fig from that purple heap

In the grass beside her, turning out the red

To feed her eager child (who sucked at it With vehement lips across a gap of air As he stood opposite, face and curls aflame

With that last sun-ray, crying, 'give me, give,'

And stamping with imperious baby-feet, We're all born princes) something startled me,

The laugh of sad and innocent souls, that breaks

Abruptly, as if frightened at itself. 'Twas Marian laughed. I saw her glance above

In sudden shame that I should hear her laugh,

And straightway dropped my eyes upon my book,

And

knew, the first time, 'twas Boccaccio's tale,

The Falcon's, of the lover who for love Destroyed the best that loved him. Some of us

Do it still, and then we sit and laugh

no more.

Laugh you, sweet Marian,-you've the right to laugh,

it clear),

Came hither also, raking up our grape And olive-gardens with his tyrannous tusk,

And rolling on our maize with all his swine.'

That Vincent did, and therefore chose

his wife

For other reasons than those topaz eyes We've heard of. Not to undervalue them, For all that. One takes up the world with eyes.'

Carrington,'

again,

Aye, strange; but only strange that good Lord Howe

Preferred him to the post because of pauls.

Of course I feel that, lonely among my vines,

Where nothing's talked of, save the blight again,

'There were facts to tell, To smooth with eye and accent. Howe supposed ..

Well, well, no matter! there was dubious need;

You heard the news from Vincent Carrington.

And yet perhaps you had been startled less

To see me, dear Aurora, if you had read That letter.'

-Now he sets me down as vexed. I think I've draped myself in woman's pride

To a perfect purpose. Oh, I'm vexed, it seems!

My friend Lord Howe deputes his friend
Sir Blaise

To break as softly as a sparrow's egg
That lets a bird tenderly, the news
Of Romney's marriage to a certain saint;
To smooth with eye and accent,-indicate
His possible presence. Excellently well
You've played your part, my Lady
Waldemar,-

As I've played mine.

'Dear Romney,' I began, 'You did not use, of old, to be so like A Greek king coming from a taken Troy, 'Twas needful that precursors spread

your path

With three-piled carpets, to receive your foot

And dull the sound of 't. For myself,

be sure,

Although it frankly grinds the gravel here,
I still can bear it. Yet I'm sorry too
To lose this famous letter, which Sir
Blaise

Has twisted to a lighter absently
To fire some holy taper: dear Lord Howe
Writes letters good for all things but to
lose;

And many a flower of London gossipry Has dropped wherever such a stem broke off.

No more of women, 'spite of privilege, Than still to take account too seriously Of such weak flutterings? Why, we like it, sir,

We get our powers and our effects that way:

The trees stand stiff and still at time of frost,

If no wind tears them; but, let summer come,

When trees are happy,—and a breath avails

To set them trembling through a million leaves

In luxury of emotion. Something less It takes to move a woman: let her start And shake at pleasure,-nor conclude at yours,

The winter's bitter,-but the summer's green.'

He answered, 'Be the summer evergreen With you, Aurora !-though you sweep

your sex

With somewhat bitter gusts from where you live

Above them,-whirling downward from your heights

Your very own pine-cones, in a grand disdain

Of the lowland burrs with which you scatter them.

So high and cold to others and yourself, A little less to Romney were unjust, And thus, I would not have you. Let it pass:

I feel content so. You can bear indeed My sudden step beside you: but for me, 'Twould move me sore to hear your softened voice,Aurora's voice,-if softened unaware In pity of what I am.'

Ah, friend, I thought, As husband of the Lady Waldemar