Thou nightingale that for six hundred years
Sang to the world—­O art thou husht at last! 
For, not of thee this new voice in our ears,
Music of France that once was of the spheres;
And not of thee these strange green flowers that spring
From daisy roots and seemed to bear a sting.

Thou Helicon of numbers ‘undefiled,’
Forgive that ’neath the shadow of thy name,
England, I bring a song of little fame;
Not as one worthy but as loving thee,
Not as a singer, only as a child.

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA

To R.K.  Leather (July 16th, 1892.)

PAOLO AND FRANCESCA

  It happened in that great Italian land
    Where every bosom heateth with a star—­
  At Rimini, anigh that crumbling strand
    The Adriatic filcheth near and far—­
    In that same past where Dante’s dream-days are,
  That one Francesca gave her youthful gold
    Unto an aged carle to bolt and bar;
  Though all the love which great young hearts can hold,
How could she give that love unto a miser old?

  Nay! but young Paolo was the happy lad,
    A youth of dreaming eye yet dauntless foot,
  Who all Francesca’s wealth of loving had;
    One brave to scale a wall and steal the fruit,
    Nor fear because some dotard owned the root;
  Yea! one who wore his love like sword on thigh
    And kept not all his valour for his lute;
   One who could dare as well as sing and sigh. 
Ah! then were hearts to love, but they are long gone by.

  Ye lily-wives so happy in the nest,
    Whose joy within the gates of duty springs,
  Blame not Love’s poor, who, if they would be blest,
    Must steal what comes to you with marriage rings: 
    Ye pity the poor lark whose scarce-tried wings
  Faint in the net, while still the morning air
    With brown free throats of all his brethren sings,
  And can it be ye will not pity her,
Whose youth is as a lark all lost to singing there?

  In opportunity of dear-bought joy
    Rich were this twain, for old Lanciotto, he
  Who was her lord, was brother of her boy,
    And in one home together dwelt the three,
    With brothers two beside; and he and she
  Sat at one board together, in one fane
    Their voices rose upon one hymn, ah me! 
  Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain,
As now in death they share the one eternal pain.

  As much as common men can love a flower
    Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear,
  ’Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power;
    And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear,
    Though he so green with youth and he so sere. 
  Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing
    Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,—­
  Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring,
May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing!