suffering child
As at the court where princes on him smiled.)
Gently he entered and sat down by her,
Asking what sort of strain she would prefer,--
The voice alone, or voice with viol wed;
Then, when she chose the last, he preluded
With magic hand, that summoned from the strings
Aerial spirits, rare yet palpable wings
That fanned the pulses of his listener,
And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir.
Her cheek already showed a slow, faint blush;
But soon the voice, in pure, full, liquid rush,
Made all the passion, that till now she felt,
Seem but as cooler waters that in warmer melt.

Finished the song, she prayed to be alone
With kind Minuccio; for her faith had grown
To trust him as if missioned like a priest
With some high grace, that, when his singing ceased,
Still made him wiser, more magnanimous,
Than common men who had no genius.
So, laying her small hand within his palm,
She told him how that secret, glorious harm
Of loftiest loving had befallen her;
That death, her only hope, most bitter were,
If, when she died, her love must perish too
As songs unsung, and thoughts unspoken do,
Which else might live within another breast.
She said, "Minuccio, the grave were rest,
If I were sure, that, lying cold and lone,
My love, my best of life, had safely flown
And nestled in the bosom of the king.
See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing;
But you will carry it for me secretly,
And bear it to the king; then come to me
And tell me it is safe, and I shall go
Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know."

Then she wept silently; but each large tear
Made pleading music to the inward ear
Of good Minuccio. "Lisa, trust in me,"
He said, and kissed her fingers loyally:
"It is sweet law to me to do your will,
And, ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil,
I hope to bring you news of such rare skill
As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still."

He needed not to pause and first devise
How he should tell the king; for in nowise
Were such love-message worthily bested
Save in fine verse by music rendered.
He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese,
And "Mico, mine," he said, "full oft to please
Thy whim of sadness I have sung thee strains
To make thee weep in verse: now pay my pains,
And write me a canzon divinely sad,
Sinlessly passionate, and meekly mad
With young despair, speaking a maiden's heart
Of fifteen summers, who would fain depart
From ripening life's new-urgent mystery,--
Love-