ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL; A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. I. AIR ISABEL, poor simple Isabel ! FA 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, To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; IJI. He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, And constant as her vespers would he watch, 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 And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : VI. So said he one fair morning, and all day VII. So once more he had waked and anguished And straight all flush'd; so, lisped tenderly, VIII. "O Isabella! I can half perceive That I may speak my grief into thine ear; If thou didst ever anything believe, Believe how I love thee, believe how near My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve 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, X. Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, 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 Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. XII. Were they unhappy then? It cannot be - Too much of pity after they are dead, Whose matter in bright gold were best be read Except in such a page where Theseus' spouse Over the pathless waves towards him bows. XIII. But, for the general award of love, The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; Though Dido silent is in under-grove, And Isabella's was a great distress, Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. XIV. With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. XV. For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: XVI. Why were they proud? Because their marble founts XVII. Yet were these Florentines as self-retired In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, |