How Lisa Loved the King | Page 3

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 rendered.?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 canzon 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.
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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