The child his boyhood bore in heed

Nine years. At length the voice brought peace,

'Even I, even I am Beatrice.'

All this, being there, we had not seen.
Seen only was the shadow wrought

On the strong features bound in thought;
The vagueness gaining gait and mien ;
The white streaks gathering clear to view
In the burnt beard the women knew.

For a tale tells that on his track,

As through Verona's streets he went, This saying certain women sent: 'Lo, he that strolls to Hell and back

At will!

Behold him, how Hell's reek

Has crisped his beard and singed his cheek.'

'Whereat' (Boccaccio's words) 'he smil'd

For pride in fame.' It might be so:

Nevertheless we cannot know

If haply he were not beguil'd

To bitterer mirth, who scarce could tell

If he indeed were back from Hell.

So the day came, after a space,

When Dante felt assured that there

The sunshine must lie sicklier

Even than in any other place,

Save only Florence. When that day
Had come, he rose and went his way.

He went and turned not. From his shoes
It may be that he shook the dust,
As every righteous dealer must

Once and again ere life can close:
And unaccomplished destiny

Struck cold his forehead, it may be.

No book keeps record how the Prince Sunned himself out of Dante's reach, Nor how the Jester stank in speech; While courtiers, used to smile and wince, Poets and harlots, all the throng,

Let loose their scandal and their song.

No book keeps record if the seat

Which Dante held at his host's board

Were sat in next by clerk or lord,

If leman lolled with dainty feet

At ease, or hostage brooded there,

Or priest lacked silence for his prayer.

We know their deeds now: hands which fed

Our Dante with that bitter bread;

And thou the watch-dog of those stairs Which, of all paths his feet knew well, Were steeper found than Heaven or Hell.

JENNY.

"Vengeance of Jenny's case! Fie on her! Never name her, child!" (Mrs. Quickly.)

LAZY laughing languid Jenny,
Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea,

Whose head upon my knee to-night
Rests for a while, as if grown light

With all our dances and the sound

To which the wild tunes spun you round:
Fair Jenny mine, the thoughtless queen
Of kisses which the blush between
Could hardly make much daintier;

Whose eyes are as blue skies, whose hair
Is countless gold incomparable:

Fresh flower, scarce touched with signs that tell

Of Love's exuberant hotbed: - Nay,

Poor flower left torn since yesterday

Until to-morrow leave you bare;

Poor handful of bright spring-water

Flung in the whirlpool's shrieking face;

Poor suameful Jenny, full of grace

Thus with your head upon my knee;
Whose person or whose purse may be
The lodestar of your reverie?

This room of yours, my Jenny, looks
A change from mine so full of books,
Whose serried ranks hold fast, forsooth,
So many captive hours of youth,-

The hours they thieve from day and night
To make one's cherished work come right,
And leave it wrong for all their theft,
Even as to-night my work was left:
Until I vowed that since my brain
And eyes of dancing seemed so fain,
My feet should have some dancing too:
And thus it was I met with you.

Well, I suppose 'twas hard to part,
For here I am. And
And now, sweetheart,
You seem too tired to get to bed.

It was a careless life I led

When rooms like this were scarce so strange Not long ago. What breeds the change,