XXIV. "To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount To spur three leagues towards the Appenine; Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count His dewy rosary on the eglantine." Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, Bow'd a fair greeting to these serpents' whine; And went in haste, to get in readiness, With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman's dress. XXV. And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft If he could hear his lady's matin-song, Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; And as he thus over his passion hung, He heard a laugh full musical aloft ; XXVI. "Love, Isabel!" said he, "I was in pain Lest I should miss to bid thee a good-morrow; Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow Of a poor three hours' absence? but we'll gain Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. Good bye! I'll soon be back."—"Good bye!" said she: And as he went she chanted merrily. XXVII. So the two brothers and their murder'd man Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, Lorenzo's flush with love.-They pass'd the water Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. XXVIII. There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin : They dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, Each richer by his being a murderer. XXIX. They told their sister how, with sudden speed, In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow's weed, And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands; To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, And the next day will be a day of sorrow. XXX. She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; She brooded o'er the luxury alone: And on her couch low murmuring, "Where? O where?" XXXI. But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long Its fiery vigil in her single breast; XXXII. In the mid days of autumn, on their eves Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay To make all bare before he dares to stray From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel By gradual decay from beauty fell. N |