How Lisa Loved the King | Page 2

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 plumed 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 winged passion, whereto winged 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.
{Lady seated overlooking garden: p18.jpg}
"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