10/20/2007

George Eliot

How Lisa Loved the King

How Lisa Loved the King

by

George Eliot

Six hundred years ago, in Dante’s time,

Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme;

When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story,

Was like a garden tangled with the glory

Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown,

Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown,

Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars,

And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars,

Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth,

Making invisible motion visible birth,—

Six hundred years ago, Palermo town

Kept holiday. A deed of great renown,

A high revenge, had freed it from the yoke

Of hated Frenchmen; and from Calpe’s rock

To where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun,

’Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon,

Was welcomed master of all Sicily,—

A royal knight, supreme as kings should be

In strength and gentleness that make high chivalry.

Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace,

Where generous men rode steeds of generous race;

Both Spanish, yet half Arab; both inspired

By mutual spirit, that each motion fired

With beauteous response, like minstrelsy

Afresh fulfilling fresh expectancy.

So, when Palermo made high festival,

The joy of matrons and of maidens all

Was the mock terror of the tournament,

Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent,

Took exaltation as from epic song,

Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong.

And in all eyes King Pedro was the king

Of cavaliers; as in a full-gemmed ring

The largest ruby, or as that bright star

Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are.

His the best genet, and he sat it best;

His weapon, whether tilting or in rest,

Was worthiest watching; and his face, once seen,

Gave to the promise of his royal mien

Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes

Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise

Of vernal day, whose joy o’er stream and meadow flies.

But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed

The broad piazza, and sweet witchery breathed,

With innocent faces budding all arow,

From balconies and windows high and low,

Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow,

The impregnation with supernal fire

Of young ideal love, transformed desire,

Whose passion is but worship of that Best

Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast?

’Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line,

Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine,

Who from his merchant-city hither came

To trade in drugs; yet kept an honest fame,

And had the virtue not to try and sell

Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well,

But loved them chiefly for his Lisa’s sake,

Whom with a father’s care he sought to make

The bride of some true honorable man,—

Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran),

Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were,

For still your trader likes a mixture fair

Of blood that hurries to some higher strain

Than reckoning money’s loss and money’s gain.

And of such mixture good may surely come:

Lord’s scions so may learn to cast a sum,

A trader’s grandson bear a well-set head,

And have less conscious manners, better bred;

Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead.

’Twas Perdicone’s friends made overtures

To good Bernardo; so one dame assures

Her neighbor dame, who notices the youth

Fixing his eyes on Lisa; and, in truth,

Eyes that could see her on this summer day

Might find it hard to turn another way.

She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad;

Rather like minor cadences that glad

The hearts of little birds amid spring boughs:

And oft the trumpet or the joust would rouse

Pulses that gave her cheek a finer glow,

Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bow

By chiselling Love for play in coral wrought,

Then quickened by him with the passionate thought,

The soul that trembled in the lustrous night

Of slow long eyes. Her body was so slight,

It seemed she could have floated in the sky,

And with the angelic choir made symphony;

But in her cheek’s rich tinge, and in the dark

Of darkest hair and eyes, she bore a mark

Of kinship to her generous mother-earth,

The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth.

She saw not Perdicone; her young mind

Dreamed not that any man had ever pined

For such a little simple maid as she:

She had but dreamed how heavenly it would be

To love some hero noble, beauteous, great,

Who would live stories worthy to narrate,

Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy,

The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boy

Who conquered every thing beneath the sun,

And somehow, some time, died at Babylon

Fighting the Moors. For heroes all were good

And fair as that archangel who withstood

The Evil One, the author of all wrong,—

That Evil One who made the French so strong;

And now the flower of heroes must he be

Who drove those tyrants from dear Sicily,

So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly.

Young Lisa saw this hero in the king;

And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bring

Might dream the light that opes their modest eyne

Was lily-odored; and as rites divine,

Round turf-laid altars, or ’neath roofs of stone,

Draw sanctity from out the heart alone

That loves and worships: so the miniature

Perplexed of her soul’s world, all virgin pure,

Filled with heroic virtues that bright form,

Raona’s royalty, the finished norm

Of horsemanship, the half of chivalry;

For how could generous men avengers be,

Save as God’s messengers on coursers fleet?—

These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meet

In one self-world where the same right had sway,

And good must grow as grew the blessed day.

No more: great Love his essence had endued

With Pedro’s form, and, entering, subdued

The soul of Lisa, fervid and intense,

Proud in its choice of proud obedience

To hardship glorified by perfect reverence.

Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest,

And in her chamber, through the hours of rest,

The darkness was alight for her with sheen

Of arms, and plumèd helm; and bright between

Their commoner gloss, like the pure living spring

’Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird’s bright wing

’Twixt golden wires, the glances of the king

Flashed on her soul, and waked vibrations there

Of known delights love-mixed to new and rare:

The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh,

Chill thought of summer to the warm close mesh

Of sunbeams held between the citron-leaves,

Clothing her life of life. Oh! she believes

That she could be content if he but knew

(Her poor small self could claim no other due)

How Lisa’s lowly love had highest reach

Of wingèd passion, whereto wingèd speech

Would be scorched remnants left by mounting flame.

Though, had she such lame message, were it blame

To tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rank

She held in loving? Modest maidens shrank

From telling love that fed on selfish hope;

But love, as hopeless as the shattering song,

Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throng

Of mighty dead ones… Nay, but she was weak,

Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speak

With eloquence, save what dumb creatures have,

That with small cries and touches small boons crave.

She watched all day that she might see him pass

With knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas!

Though he should see me, it were all as one

He saw a pigeon sitting on the stone

Of wall or balcony: some colored spot

His eye just sees, his mind regardeth not.

I have no music-touch that could bring nigh

My love to his soul’s hearing. I shall die,

And he will never know who Lisa was,—

The trader’s child, whose soaring spirit rose

As hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.

“For were I now a fair deep-breasted queen

A-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green,

Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should need

No change within to make me queenly there:

For they the royal-hearted women are

Who nobly love the noblest, yet have grace;

For needy suffering lives in lowliest place,

Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile,

The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile.

My love is such, it cannot choose but soar

Up to the highest; yet forevermore,

Though I were happy, throned beside the king,

I should be tender to each little thing

With hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tell

Its inward pang; and I would soothe it well

With tender touch, and with a low soft moan

For company: my dumb love-pang is lone,

Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone.”

So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days.

Each night the August moon with changing phase

Looked broader, harder, on her unchanged pain;

Each noon the heat lay heavier again

On her despair, until her body frail

Shrank like the snow that watchers in the vale

See narrowed on the height each summer morn;

While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn,

As if the soul within her, all on fire,

Made of her being one swift funeral-pyre.

Father and mother saw with sad dismay

The meaning of their riches melt away;

For without Lisa what would sequins buy?

What wish were left if Lisa were to die?

Through her they cared for summers still to come,

Else they would be as ghosts without a home

In any flesh that could feel glad desire.

They pay the best physicians, never tire

Of seeking what will soothe her, promising

That aught she longed for, though it were a thing

Hard to be come at as the Indian snow,

Or roses that on Alpine summits blow,

It should be hers. She answers with low voice,

She longs for death alone—death is her choice;

Death is the king who never did think scorn,

But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born.

Yet one day, as they bent above her bed,

And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping head

Turned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feel

Some moist revival through their petals steal;

And little flutterings of her lids and lips

Told of such dreamy joy as sometimes dips

A skyey shadow in the mind’s poor pool.

She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems full

Upon her father, as in utterance dumb

Of some new prayer that in her sleep had come.

“What is it, Lisa?”—“Father, I would see

Minuccio, the great singer; bring him me.”

For always, night and day, her unstilled thought,

Wandering all o’er its little world, had sought

How she could reach, by some soft pleading touch,

King Pedro’s soul, that she who loved so much,

Dying, might have a place within his mind,—

A little grave which he would sometimes find

And plant some flower on it,—some thought, some memory kind.

Till in her dream she saw Minuccio

Touching his viola, and chanting low

A strain, that, falling on her brokenly,

Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree;

Each burthened with a word that was a scent,—

Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament;

Then in her dream she said, “He sings of me,

Might be my messenger; ah! now I see

The king is listening”—Then she awoke,

And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke.

She longed for music: that was natural;

Physicians said it was medicinal;

The humors might be schooled by true consent

Of a fine tenor and fine instrument;

In short, good music, mixed with doctor’s stuff,

Apollo with Asklepios—enough!

Minuccio, entreated, gladly came.

(He was a singer of most gentle fame,

A noble, kindly spirit, not elate

That he was famous, but that song was great;

Would sing as finely to this 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 renderèd.

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 canzòn 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-choice of one too high her love to be,—

But cannot yield her breath till she has poured

Her strength away in this hot-bleeding word,

Telling the secret of her soul to her soul’s lord.”

Said Mico, “Nay, that thought is poesy,

I need but listen as it sings to me.

Come thou again to-morrow.” The third day,

When linked notes had perfected the lay,

Minuccio had his summons to the court,

To make, as he was wont, the moments short

Of ceremonious dinner to the king.

This was the time when he had meant to bring

Melodious message of young Lisa’s love;

He waited till the air had ceased to move

To ringing silver, till Falernian wine

Made quickened sense with quietude combine;

And then with passionate descant made each ear incline.

Love, thou didst see me, light as morning’s breath,

Roaming a garden in a joyous error,

Laughing at chases vain, a happy child,

Till of thy countenance the alluring terror

In majesty from out the blossoms smiled,

From out their life seeming a beauteous Death

O Love, who so didst choose me for thine own

Taking this little isle to thy great sway,

See now, it is the honor of thy throne

That what thou gavest perish not away,

Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atone

By life that will be for the brief life gone:

Hear, ere the shroud o’er these frail limbs be thrown—

Since every king is vassal unto thee,

My heart’s lord needs must listen loyally—

O tell him I am waiting for my Death!

Tell him, for that he hath such royal power

’Twere hard for him to think how small a thing,

How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dower

For one like me, the bride of that pale king

Whose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour.

Go to my lord, and to his memory bring

That happy birthday of my sorrowing,

When his large glance made meaner gazers glad,

Entering the bannered lists: ’twas then I had

The wound that laid me in the arms of Death.

Tell him, O Love, I am a lowly maid,

No more than any little knot of thyme

That he with careless foot may often tread;

Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublime

And cleave to things most high and hallowèd,

As doth the fragrance of my life’s springtime,

My lowly love, that, soaring, seeks to climb

Within his thought, and make a gentle bliss,

More blissful than if mine, in being his:

So shall I live in him, and rest in Death.

The strain was new. It seemed a pleading cry,

And yet a rounded, perfect melody,

Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyes

Of little child at little miseries.

Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose,

Like rising light that broad and broader grows,

It filled the hall, and so possessed the air,

That not one living, breathing soul was there,

Though dullest, slowest, but was quivering

In Music’s grasp, and forced to hear her sing.

But most such sweet compulsion took the mood

Of Pedro (tired of doing what he would).

Whether the words which that strange meaning bore

Were but the poet’s feigning, or aught more,

Was bounden question, since their aim must be

At some imagined or true royalty.

He called Minuccio, and bade him tell

What poet of the day had writ so well;

For, though they came behind all former rhymes,

The verses were not bad for these poor times.

“Monsignor, they are only three days old,”

Minuccio said; “but it must not be told

How this song grew, save to your royal ear.”

Eager, the king withdrew where none was near,

And gave close audience to Minuccio,

Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know.

The king had features pliant to confess

The presence of a manly tenderness,—

Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one,

In fine harmonic exaltatiön;

The spirit of religious chivalry.

He listened, and Minuccio could see

The tender, generous admiration spread

O’er all his face, and glorify his head

With royalty that would have kept its rank,

Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank.

He answered without pause, “So sweet a maid,

In Nature’s own insignia arrayed,

Though she were come of unmixed trading blood

That sold and bartered ever since the flood,

Would have the self-contained and single worth

Of radiant jewels born in darksome earth.

Raona were a shame to Sicily,

Letting such love and tears unhonored be:

Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the king

To-day will surely visit her when vespers ring.”

Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word,

And told at full, while none but Lisa heard,

How each thing had befallen, sang the song,

And, like a patient nurse who would prolong

All means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone,

Each look, with which the mighty Aragon

Marked the high worth his royal heart assigned

To that dear place he held in Lisa’s mind.

She listened till the draughts of pure content

Through all her limbs like some new being went—

Life, not recovered, but untried before,

From out the growing world’s unmeasured store

Of fuller, better, more divinely mixed.

’Twas glad reverse: she had so firmly fixed

To die, already seemed to fall a veil

Shrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale.

Her parents, wondering, see her half arise;

Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyes

Brimful with clearness, not of ’scaping tears,

But of some light ethereal that enspheres

Their orbs with calm, some vision newly learnt

Where strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt.

She asked to have her soft white robe and band

And coral ornaments; and with her hand

She gave her long dark locks a backward fall,

Then looked intently in a mirror small,

And feared her face might, perhaps, displease the king:

“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

Than love’s obedience, said, with accent meek,—

“Monsignor, I know well that were it known

To all the world how high my love had flown,

There would be few who would not deem me mad,

Or say my mind the falsest image had

Of my condition and your loftiness.

But Heaven has seen that for no moment’s space

Have I forgotten you to be the king,

Or me myself to be a lowly thing—

A little lark, enamoured of the sky,

That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die.

But, as you better know than I, the heart

In choosing chooseth not its own desert,

But that great merit which attracteth it:

’Tis law, I struggled, but I must submit,

And having seen a worth all worth above,

I loved you, love you, and shall always love.

But that doth mean, my will is ever yours,

Not only when your will my good insures,

But if it wrought me what the world calls harm:

Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm.

That you will be my knight is full content,

And for that kiss,—I pray, first, for the queen’s consent.”

Her answer, given with such firm gentleness,

Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no less

Of Lisa’s merit than the king had held.

And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled,

There was betrothal made that very morn

’Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born,

And Lisa whom he loved; she loving well

The lot that from obedience befell.

The queen a rare betrothal ring on each

Bestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech.

And, that no joy might lack, the king, who knew

The youth was poor, gave him rich Ceffalù

And Cataletta,—large and fruitful lands,—

Adding much promise when he joined their hands.

At last he said to Lisa, with an air

Gallant yet noble, “Now we claim our share

From your sweet love, a share which is not small;

For in the sacrament one crumb is all.”

Then, taking her small face his hands between,

He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene,—

Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen.

And many witnessed that King Pedro kept

His royal promise. Perdicone stept

To many honors honorably won,

Living with Lisa in true union.

Throughout his life, the king still took delight

To call himself fair Lisa’s faithful knight;

And never wore in field or tournament

A scarf or emblem, save by Lisa sent.

Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land;

They joyed that one so worthy to command,

So chivalrous and gentle, had become

The king of Sicily, and filled the room

Of Frenchmen, who abused the Church’s trust,

Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust,

Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger’s thrust.

L’ENVOI.

Reader, this story pleased me long ago

In the bright pages of Boccaccio;

And where the author of a good we know,

Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe.

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10/20/2007

Date:

10/20/2007