ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL; A STORY, FROM BOCCACCIO. I. FAIR Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye! They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep, II. With every morn their love grew tenderer, To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; III. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, IV. 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 And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : VI. So said he one fair morning, and all day For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide VII. So once more he had waked and anguished 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. "Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold, X. Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart ; XI. All close they met again, before the dusk Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, All close they met, all eves, 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. XII. 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. XIII. But, for the general award of love, The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the lessEven bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. XIV. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. XV. For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: XVI. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts XVII. Yet were these Florentines as self-retired XVIII. How was it these same ledger-men could spy A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt's pest 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. ΧΙΧ. 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. |