ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL:

A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO.

Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel!

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not in the self-same mansion dwell

Without some stir of heart, some malady;
They could not sit at meals but feel how well

It soothed each to be the other by;
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep,
But to each other dream, and nightly weep.

n.
With every morn their love grew tenderer,

With every eve deeper and tenderer still; He might not in house, field, or garden stir,

But her full shape would all his seeing fill;
And his continual voice was pleasanter

To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill;
Her lute-string gave an echo of his name,
She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same.

in.
He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch,

Before the door had given her to his eyes; And from her chamber-window he would catch

Her beauty farther than the falcon spies;
And constant as her vespers would he watch,

Because her face was turn'd to the same skies;
And with sick longing all the night outwear,
To hear her morning-step upon the stair.

A whole long month of May in this sad plight Made their cheeks paler by the break of June:

"To-morrow will I bow to my delight, To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon."

"O may I never see another night,

Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love's tune."—

So spake they to their pillows; but, alas,

Honeyless days and days did he let pass;

v. Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek

Fell sick within the rose's just domain, Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek

By every lull to cool her infant's pain: "How ill she is !" said he, "I may not speak,

And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, And at the least 'twill startle off her cares."

vi. So said he one fair morning, and all day

His heart beat awfully against his side; And to his heart he inwardly did pray

For power to speak ; but still the ruddy tide Stifled his voice, and pulsed resolve away—

Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

vir. So once more he had waked and anguished

A dreary night of love and misery, If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed

To every symbol on his forehead high; She saw it waxing very pale and dead,

And straight all flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, "Lorenzo !"—here she ceased her timid quest, But in her tone and look he read the rest.

VIII.

'O Isabella! I can half perceive
That I may speak my grief into thine ear;

If thou didst ever anything believe,

Believe how I love thee, believe how near

My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve

Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear

Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot live

Another night, and not my passion shrive.

IX.

K Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold,
Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time."

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold,
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme:

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness

Grew, like a lusty flower in June's caress.

Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air,
Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart

Only to meet again more close, and share
The inward fragrance of each other's heart.

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart;

He with light steps went up a western hill.

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his filL

All close they met again, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

All close they met, all eyes, before the dusk
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil,

Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk,

Unknown of any, free from whispering tale.

Ah; better had it been for ever so,

Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe.

Were they unhappy then ?—It cannot be—
Too many tears for lovers have been shed,

Too many sighs give we to them in fee,
Too much of pity after they are dead,

Too many doleful stories do we see,

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read;

Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse

Over the pathless waves towards him bows.

xm. But, for the general award of love,

The little sweet doth kill much bitterness;
Though Dido silent is in under-grove,

And Isabella's was a great distress,
Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove

Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less—
Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers,
Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

XIV.

With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandise,

And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torched mines and noisy factories,

And many once proud-quiver'd loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip; with hollow eyes

Many all day in dazzling river stood,

To take the anchored driftings of the flood.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark;

For them his ears gush'd blood; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark

Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:

Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel,

That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.

S

XVI.

Why were they proud! Because their marble founts Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears1

Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs!

Why were they proudr. Because red-lined accounts Were richer than the songs of Grecian years?

Why were they proud? again we ask aloud,

Why in the name of Glory were they proud!

XVII.

Yet were these Florentines as self-retired
In hungry pride and gainful cowardice,

As two close Hebrews in that land inspired,
Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies;

The hawks of ship-mast forests—the untired
And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies—

Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away,—

Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay.

XVIII.

How was it these same ledger-men could spy

Fair Isabella in her downy nest?
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye

A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest
Into their vision covetous and sly!

How could these money-bags see east and west? Yet so they did—and every dealer fair Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare.

XIX.

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio!

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow,

And of thy roses amorous of the moon, And of thy lilies, that do paler grow

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune, For venturing syllables that ill beseem The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme.