Hand clasping hand, within each breast would be

Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of thee.

Then, for another trial, obscure thy eve With mist,-will Luigi and his mother grieve—

The lady and her child, unmatched, forsooth,

She in her age, as Luigi in his youth, For true content? The cheerful town, warm, close

And safe, the sooner that thou art morose,

Receives them. And yet once again, outbreak

In storm at night on Monsignor, they make

Such stir about,-whom they expect from Rome

To visit Asolo, his brothers' home,
And say here masses proper to release
A soul from pain,-what storm dares
hurt his peace?

Calm would he pray, with his own thoughts to ward

Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' guard.

But Pippa-just one such mischance would spoil

Her day that lightens the next twelvemonth's toil

At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil !
And here I let time slip for naught!
Aha, you foolhardy sunbeam, caught
With a single splash from my ewer!
You that would mock the best pursuer,
Was my basin over-deep?

One splash of water ruins you asleep,
And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits
Wheeling and counterwheeling,
Reeling, broken beyond healing:
Now grow together on the ceiling!
That will task your wits.

Whoever it was quenched fire first, hoped to see

Morsel after morsel flee
As merrily, as giddily.
Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on,
Where settles by degrees the radiant
cripple?

Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon? New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' nipple,

Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk bird's poll!

Be sure if corals, branching 'neath the ripple [roll

Of ocean, bud there,-fairies watch un

Such turban-flowers; I say, such lamps disperse

Thick red flame through that dusk green universe!

I am queen of thee, floweret!
And each fleshy blossom
Preserve I not-(safer

Than leaves that embower it,
Or shells that embosom)
-From weevil and chafer?

Laugh through my pane then; solicit the bee;

Gibe him, be sure; and, in midst of thy glee,

Love thy queen, worship me!

-Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,

Whate'er I please? What shall I please to-day?

My morn, noon, eve and night-how spend my day?

To-morrow I must be Pippa who winds

For do not our Bride and Bridegroom sally

Out of Possagno church at noon?
Their house looks over Orcana valley:
Why should not I be the bride as soon
As Ottima? For I saw, beside,
Arrive last night that little bride-
Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash
Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black
bright tresses,

Blacker than all except the black eyelash;

I wonder she contrives those lids no dresses!

-So strict was she, the veil
Should cover close her pale

Pure cheeks-a bride to look at and scarce touch,

Scarce touch, remember, Jules! For are not such

Used to be tended, flower-like, every feature,

As if one's breath would fray the lily of a creature?

A soft and easy life these ladies lead: Whiteness in us were wonderful indeed.

Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness,
Keep that foot its lady primness,
Let those ankles never swerve
From their exquisite reserve,

Yet have to trip along the streets like me,
All but naked to the knee!

How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss So startling as her real first infant kiss? Oh, no-not envy, this!

-Not envy, sure!--for if you gave me
Leave to take or to refuse.
In earnest, do you think I'd choose
That sort of new love to enslave me?
Mine should have lapped me round from

the beginning;

As little fear of losing it as winning: Lovers grow cold, men learn to hate

their wives,

And only parents' love can last our lives. At eve the Son and Mother, gentle pair, Commune inside our turret: what pre

vents

My being Luigi? While that mossy lair Of lizards through the winter-time is

stirred

With each to each imparting sweet in

tents

For this new-year, as brooding bird to bird

(For I observe of late, the evening walk Of Luigi and his mother, always ends

Inside our ruined turret, where they talk, Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than friends)

--Let me be cared about, kept out of harm,

And schemed for, safe in love as with a charm;

Let me be Luigi! If I only knew What was my mother's face-my father, too!

Nay, if you come to that, best love of all Is God's; then why not have God's love befall

Myself as, in the palace by the Dome, Monsignor?-who to-night will bless the

On mornings through the vale here; country girls

Were noisy, washing garments in the brook,

Hinds drove the slow white oxen up the hills:

But no, your house was mute, would ope no eye!

And wisely you were plotting one thing there,

Nature, another outside. I looked upRough white wood shutters, rusty iron bars,

Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. Oh, I remember!-and the peasants laughed

And said, The old man sleeps with the young wife."

This house was his, this chair, this window-his.

Otti. Ah, the clear morning! I can see Saint Mark's ;

That black streak is the belfry. Stop: Vicenza

Should lie ... there's Padua, plain enough, that blue !

Look o'er my shoulder, follow my finger! Seb. Morning? It seems to me a night with a sun added. Where's dew, where's freshness? That bruised plant, I bruised

In getting through the lattice yestereve, Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's mark

I' the dust o' the sill.