VII.
And, group'd around the fountain, forms were seen,
Shaped as for courts in loving Chivalry,
Such as Boccacio placed, 'mid alleys green,
Listening to tales in careless Fiesolé!
Dress'd as for nymphs, the classic banquet there
Was spread on grassy turfs, with coolest fruit
And drinks Falernian—while the mellow air
Heaved to the light swell of the amorous lute;
And by the music lovers grew more bold,
And Beauty blush'd to secrets, murmuring told.
VIII.
But 'mid that graceful meeting, there were none
Who yielded not to him—that English guest.
Nor by sweet lips, half wooing to be won,
Were words that thrill and smiles that sigh suppress'd;
And fair with lofty brow, and locks of gold,
And manhood stately with a Dorian grace,
He seem'd like some young Spartan, when of old
The simple sons of thoughtful Hercules
On Elis stood, and look'd the lords of Greece.
Oh! little dream'd those flatterers as they gazed
On him—the radiant cynosure of all,
While on their eyes his youth's fresh glory blazed,
What that bright heart was destined to befall!
That worst of wars—the Battle of the Soil—
Which leaves but Crime unscath'd on either side!
The daily fever, and the midnight toil;
The hope defeated, and the name belied;
Wrath's fierce attack, and Slander's slower art,
The watchful viper of the evil tongue;—
The sting which pride defies, but not the heart—
The noblest heart is aye the easiest wrung:
The flowers, the fruit, the summer of rich life,
Cast on the sands and weariest paths of earth;
The march—but not the action—of the strife
Without;—and Sorrow coil'd around his hearth:
The film, the veil, the shadow, and the night,
Along those eyes which now in all survey
A tribute and a rapture;—the despite
Of Fortune wreak'd on his declining day;
The clouds slow-labouring upward round his heart;—
Oh! little dream'd they this!—nor less what light
Should through those clouds—a new-born glory—start;
And from the spot man's mystic Father trod,
Circling the round Earth with a solemn ray,
Cast its great shadow to the Throne of God!
IX.
The festive rite was o'er—the group was gone,
Yet still our wanderer linger'd there alone—
For round his eye, and in his heart, there lay
The tender spells which cleave to solitude.
Who, when some gay delight hath pass'd away,
Feels not a charmèd musing in his mood,
A poesy of thought, which yearns to pour
Still worship to the Spirit of the Hour?
Ah! they who bodied into deity
The rosy Hours, I ween, did scarcely err.
Sweet hours, ye have a life, and holily
That life is worn! and when no rude sounds stir
The quiet of our hearts—we inly hear
The hymnlike music of your floating voices,
Telling us mystic tidings of the sphere
Where hand in hand your linkèd choir rejoices,
And filling us with calm and solemn thought,
Diviner far than all our earth-born lore hath taught.
With folded arms and upward brow, he leant
Against the pillar of a sleeping tree;
When, hark! the still boughs rustled, and there went
A murmur and a sigh along the air,
And a light footstep, like a melody,
Pass'd by the flowers. He turn'd;—What Nymph is there?
What Hamadryad from the green recess
Emerging into beauty like a star?—
He gazed—sweet Heaven! 'tis she whose loveliness
Had in his England's gardens first (and far
From these delicious groves) upon him beam'd,
And look'd to life the wonders he had dream'd.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
X.
They met again and oft! what time the Star
Of Hesperus hung his rosy lamp on high;
Love's earliest beacon, from our storms afar,
Lit in the loneliest watch-tower of the sky,
Perchance by souls that, ere this world was made,
Were the first lovers the first stars survey'd.
And Mystery o'er their twilight meeting threw
The charm that nought like mystery doth bestow:
Her name—her birth—her home he never knew;
And she—his love was all she sought to know.
And when in anxious or in tender mood
He pray'd her to disclose at least her name,
A look from her the unwelcome prayer subdued
So sad the cloud that o'er her features came:
Her lip grew blanch'd, as with an ominous fear,
And all her heart seem'd trembling in her tear.
So worshipp'd he in silence and sweet wonder,
Pleased to confide, contented not to know;
And Hope, life's checkering moonlight, smiled asunder
Doubts, which, like clouds, rise ever from below.
And thus his love grew daily, and perchance
Was all the stronger circled by romance.
He found a name for her, if not her own,
Haply as soft, and to her heart as dear—
"Zoe"—name stolen from the tuneful Greek,
It meaneth 'life,' when common lips do speak—
And more on those that love;—sweet language known
To lovers, sacred to themselves alone;
Words, like Egyptian symbols, set apart
For the mysterious Priesthood of the Heart.