Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (633 page)

“In truth,” she said, “I am a tiny thing:

I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring.”

Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thought

That innocent passion, was more deeply wrought

To chivalrous pity; and at vesper-bell,

With careless mien which hid his purpose well,

Went forth on horseback, and, as if by chance

Passing Bernardo’s house, he paused to glance

At the fine garden of this wealthy man,

This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan;

But, presently dismounting, chose to walk

Amid the trellises, in gracious talk

With this same trader, deigning even to ask

If he had yet fulfilled the father’s task

Of marrying that daughter, whose young charms

Himself, betwixt the passages of arms,

Noted admiringly.  “Monsignor, no,

She is not married: that were little woe,

Since she has counted barely fifteen years;

But all such hopes of late have turned to fears;

She droops and fades, though, for a space quite brief, —

Scarce three hours past, — she finds some strange relief.”

The king avised: “‘Twere dole to all of us,

The world should lose a maid so beauteous:

Let me now see her; since I am her liege lord,

Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word.”

In such half-serious playfulness, he wends,

With Lisa’s father and two chosen friends,

Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits,

Watching the door that opening admits

A presence as much better than her dreams,

As happiness than any longing seems.

The king advanced, and, with a reverent kiss

Upon her hand, said, “Lady, what is this?

You, whose sweet youth should others’ solace be,

Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously.

We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered,

Nor be too reckless of that life, endeared

To us who know your passing worthiness,

And count your blooming life as part of our life’s bliss.”

Those words, that touch upon her hand from him

Whom her soul worshipped, as far seraphim

Worship the distant glory, brought some shame

Quivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frame

With such deep joy she seemed in paradise,

In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise,

That bliss could be so blissful.  Then she spoke:

“Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke,

The golden yoke, of thoughts too great for me;

That was the ground of my infirmity.

But now I pray your grace to have belief

That I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief.”

The king alone perceived the covert sense

Of all her words, which made one evidence,

With her pure voice and candid loveliness,

That he had lost much honor, honoring less

That message of her passionate distress.

He staid beside her for a little while,

With gentle looks and speech, until a smile

As placid as a ray of early morn

On opening flower-cups o’er her lips was borne

When he had left her, and the tidings spread

Through all the town, how he had visited

The Tuscan trader’s daughter, who was sick,

Men said it was a royal deed, and catholic.

And Lisa?  She no longer wished for death;

But as a poet, who sweet verses saith

Within his soul, and joys in music there,

Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bear

Disturbing pleasures, so was she content,

Breathing the life of grateful sentiment.

She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest;

For treasure must be valued by the test

Of highest excellence and rarity,

And her dear joy was best as best could be:

There seemed no other crown to her delight,

Now the high loved one saw her love aright.

Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood,

Spread like the May-time all its beauteous good

O’er the soft bloom of neck and arms and cheek,

And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak,

Until she rose and walked, and, like a bird

With sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard.

The king, when he the happy change had seen,

Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen,

With Lisa’s innocent secret, and conferred

How they should jointly, by their deed and word,

Honor this maiden’s love, which, like the prayer

Of loyal hermits, never thought to share

In what it gave.  The queen had that chief grace

Of womanhood, a heart that can embrace

All goodness in another woman’s form;

And that same day, ere the sun lay too warm

On southern terraces, a messenger

Informed Bernardo that the royal pair

Would straightway visit him, and celebrate

Their gladness at his daughter’s happier state,

Which they were fain to see.  Soon came the king

On horseback, with his barons, heralding

The advent of the queen in courtly state;

And all, descending at the garden gate,

Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade,

Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, made

A lake of splendor ‘mid the aloes gray;

When, meekly facing all their proud array,

The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood,

As some white dove before the gorgeous brood

Of dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian flood.

The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech,

Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teach

How, this fair morning, they may courtliest be,

By making Lisa pass it happily.

And soon the ladies and the barons all

Draw her by turns, as at a festival

Made for her sake, to easy, gay discourse,

And compliment with looks and smiles enforce;

A joyous hum is heard the gardens round;

Soon there is Spanish dancing, and the sound

Of minstrel’s song, and autumn fruits are pluckt;

Till mindfully the king and queen conduct

Lisa apart to where a trellised shade

Made pleasant resting.  Then King Pedro said, —

“Excellent maiden, that rich gift of love

Your heart hath made us hath a worth above

All royal treasures, nor is fitly met

Save when the grateful memory of deep debt

Lies still behind the outward honors done:

And as a sign that no oblivion

Shall overflood that faithful memory,

We while we live your cavalier will be;

Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight,

Whether for struggle dire, or brief delight

Of warlike feigning, but we first will take

The colors you ordain, and for your sake

Charge the more bravely where your emblem is:

Nor will we claim from you an added bliss

To our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss.

But there still rests the outward honor meet

To mark your worthiness; and we entreat

That you will turn your ear to proffered vows

Of one who loves you, and would be your spouse

We must not wrong yourself and Sicily

By letting all your blooming years pass by

Unmated: you will give the world its due

From beauteous maiden, and become a matron true.”

Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wonderment

At her ambitious love’s complete content,

Which left no further good for her to seek