XLVIII. That old nurse stood beside her wondering, And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, XLIX. Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! For here, in truth, it doth not well belong To speak:-O turn thee to the very tale, And taste the music of that vision pale. L. With duller steel than the Perséan sword 'Twas love; cold,—dead indeed, but not dethroned. LI. In anxious secrecy they took it home, And then the prize was all for Isabel: She calm'd its wild hair with a golden comb, LII. Then in a silken scarf,-sweet with the dews Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully,— She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set LIII. and sun, And she forgot the stars, the moon, And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. LIV. And so she ever fed it with thin tears, Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, So that it smelt more balmy than its peers Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, From the fast mouldering head there shut from view : So that the jewel, safely casketed, Came forth, and in perfumed leaflets spread. LV. O Melancholy, linger here awhile! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. LVI. Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! Among the dead: She withers, like a palm LVII. O leave the palm to wither by itself; Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour!It may not be-those Baâlites of pelf, Her brethren, noted the continual shower From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch; Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean: They could not surely give belief, that such A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, And even remembrance of her love's delay. LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift And seldom felt she any hunger-pain: LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! O Echo, Echo, on some other day, Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously: And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story borne From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung-"O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" ༢༨ |