ISABELLA;

OR,

THE POT OF BASIL.

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO.

[In a letter to Reynolds dated the 27th of April 1818, Keats says, "I have written for my folio Shakspeare, in which there are the first few stanzas of my Pot of Basil.' I have the rest here, finished, and will copy the whole out fair shortly, and George will bring it you. The compliment is paid by us to Boccace, whether we publish or no..." The folio Shakspeare, now in Sir Charles Dilke's hands, contains no stanzas of Isabella, so it is to be presumed they were only loose in the book. Again on the 3rd of May 1818, Keats writes to Reynolds, I have written to George for the first stanzas of my 'Isabel.' I shall have them soon, and will copy the whole out for you." And, in a letter to Bailey dated the 10th of June, he says, "I want to read you my Pot of Basil." This all points to the recent completion of the poem; and Lord Houghton records on the authority of Brown that it was only just completed when the friends started on their Scotch tour in June. On the 14th of February 1819, he promised to send the poem out to his brother George, with other recent work. It is necessary to be particular about this point, because Leigh Hunt when reviewing Lamia, Isabella, &c., made the unaccountable statement (see Appendix) that the poems in this volume were almost all written four years ago, when the author was but twenty." The allusion to Boccaccio, Lord Houghton explains by telling us that Keats and Reynolds projected a volume of tales versified from that author. Two by Reynolds were published in The Garden of Florence, &c. (1821). In view of the unachieved

scheme of joint authorship, the following sentences from the Preface to Reynolds's volume should stand associated with Isabella:

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The stories from Boccacio (The Garden of Florence, and The Ladye of Provence) were to have been associated with tales from the same source, intended to have been written by a friend; - but illness on his part, and distracting engagements on mine, prevented us from accomplishing our plan at the time; and Death now, to my deep sorrow, has frustrated it for ever! He, who is gone, was one of the very kindest friends I possessed, and yet he was not kinder perhaps to me, than to others. His intense mind and powerful feeling would, I truly believe, have done the world some service, had his life been spared--but he was of too sensitive a nature — and thus he was destroyed! One story he completed, and that is to me now the most pathetic poem in existence!"

It is likely enough that Keats copied out Isabella as he intended, for the friend who wrote this about it after all was over. But as yet I have not succeeded in tracing any complete manuscript of the poem. Mr. R. A. Potts possesses what would seem to be two fragments of the original draft. This manuscript is of Stanzas XXX to XL, exclusive of Stanza xXXII; two leaves, one shorter than the other by the length of a stanza, written upon both sides of the paper, and probably having lost stanza XXXII with stanza XXIX at the back of it by a stroke of those generous scissars wherewith manuscripts of Keats were distributed by Severn, formerly the owner of these fragments. The variations shown by them are noted in the following pages.-H. B. F.]

ISABELLA;

OR,

THE POT OF BASIL.

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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.

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
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 puls'd 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!

VII.

So once more he had wak'd 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 ceas'd 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 any thing believe,

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"Believe how I love thee, believe how near

My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve

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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,

Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime,

"And I must taste the blossoms that unfold

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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.

X.

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.

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.