Verses | Page 4

hers by some right
divine.
I began to be glad at the corner,
And all the way to the door
My
heart outran my footsteps,
And frolicked and danced before,
In haste for the words of welcome,
The voice, the repose and grace,

And the smile, like a benediction,
Of that beautiful, vanished face.
Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
And I look the other way;
But

ever, a waft of fragrance,
Too subtle to name or stay,
Comes the thought of the gracious presence
Which made that past
time sweet,
And still to those who remember,
Embalms the house
and the street,
Like the breath from some vase, now empty
Of a flowery shape
unseen,
Which follows the path of its lover,
To tell where a rose has
been.
GINEVRA DEGLI AMIERI.
A STORY OF OLD FLORENCE.
So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
Deceives me not. I saw him
shake his head,
Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
As,
slowly creaking, he went down the stair.
Were they afraid that I
should be afraid?
I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?
They
need not.
Little one, look not so pale.
I am not raving. Ah! you never heard

The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
Sit close, and listen. After
this one day
I shall not tell you stories any more.
How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
Almost a woman?
Scarcely more than that
Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;

And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
I left my father's
house, a bride in May.
You know the house, beside St. Andrea's
church,
Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown
On the
Mercato, humming at its base;
And hold on high, out of the common
reach,
The lilies and carved shields above its door;
And, higher yet,
to catch and woo the sun,
A little loggia set against the sky?
That
was my play-place ever as a child;
And with me used to play a
kinsman's son,
Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
Two happy
things we were, with none to chide
Or hint that life was anything but

play.
Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
"You must be wed," they
told me. "What is wed?"
I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,

Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
The glancing jewels tied
about my neck;
And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
By
my grave husband, older than my sire.
O the long years that followed! It would seem
That the sun never
shone in all those years,
Or only with a sudden, troubled glint

Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
Doffing his cap, with eyes
of wistful love
Raised to my face,--my conscious, woful face.
Were
we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
Together, none
forbidding, for so long.
They let our childish fingers drop the seed,

Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
They let the firm, small
roots tangle and grow,
Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.

I loved Antonio, and he loved me.
Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!
I loved Antonio, but I kept
me pure,
Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake
Of him, my
first-born child, my little child,
Mine for a few short weeks, whose
touch, whose look
Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day.
I
loved; but, hear me swear, I kept me pure!
(Remember that, Madonna,
when I come
Before thy throne to-morrow. Be not stern,
Or gaze
upon me with reproachful look,
Making my little angel hide his face

And weep, while all the others turn glad eyes
Rejoicing on their
mothers.)
It was hard
To sit in darkness while the rest had light,
To move to
discords when the rest had song,
To be so young and never to have
lived.
I bore, as women bear, until one day
Soul said to flesh, "This
I endure no more,"
And with the word uprose, tore clay apart,
And
what was blank before grew blanker still.

It was a fever, so the leeches said.
I had been dead so long, I did not
know
The difference, or heed. Oil on my breast,
The garments of
the grave about me wrapped,
They bore me forth, and laid me in the
tomb.
The rich and beautiful and dreadful tomb,
Where all the
buried Amteris lie,
Beneath the Duomo's black and towering shade.
Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night.
It was night then, when I
awoke to feel
That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams
Of
moonlight, creeping through the grated door,
The coffins of my
fathers all about.
Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back,
As,
struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell.
With frantic strength I beat
upon the grate.
It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand
Had left
the bolt half-slipped. My father swore
Afterward, with a curse, he
would make sure
Next time. NEXT TIME. That hurts me even now!
Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which.
High overhead Giotto's
tower soared;
Behind, the Duomo rose all white and black;
Then
pealed a sudden jargoning of bells,
And down the darkling street I
wildly fled,
Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon,
Which