The bridegroom is gray as his father, Where they stand face to face, And the six true-hearted comrades Are like old men in their place.

The Marquis takes the comrades And kisses them one by one: "That ye were fast and faithful And better than I to my son,

"Ye shall be called forever, In the sign that ye were so true, The Faithful of the Gonzaga, And your sons after you."

VIII.

To the Marchioness comes a courtier: "I am prayed to bring you word That the minstrel keeps his promise Who brought you news of my lord;

"And he waits without the circle To kiss your highness' hand; And he asks no gold for guerdon, But before he leaves the land

"He craves of your love once proffered That you suffer him for reward, In this crowning hour of his glory, To look on your son, my lord."

Through the silken press of the courtiers The minstrel faltered in.

His clasped hands were bloodless, His face was white and thin;

And he bent his knee to the lady, But of her love and grace To her heart she raised him and kissed him Upon his gentle face.

Turned to her son the bridegroom, Turned to his high-born wife, "I give you here for your brother Who gave back my son to life.

"For this youth brought me news from Naples How thou layest sick and poor, By true comrades kept, and forsaken By a false paramour.

"Wherefore I charge you love him For a brother that is my son."

The comrades turned to the bridegroom In silence every one.

But the bridegroom looked on the minstrel With a visage blank and changed, As his whom the sight of a spectre From his reason hath estranged;

And the smiling courtiers near them On a sudden were still as death; And, subtly-stricken, the people Hearkened and held their breath

With an awe uncomprehended For an unseen agony:-- Who is this that lies a-dying, With her head on the prince's knee?

A light of anguish and wonder Is in the prince's eye, "O, speak, sweet saint, and forgive me, Or I cannot let thee die!

"For now I see thy hardness Was softer than mortal ruth, And thy heavenly guile was whiter, My saint, than martyr's truth."

She speaks not and she moves not, But a blessed brightness lies On her lips in their silent rapture And her tender closed eyes.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, He rises from his knee: "Aye, you have been good, my father, To them that were good to me.

"You have given them honors and t.i.tles, But here lies one unknown-- Ah, G.o.d reward her in heaven With the peace he gives his own!"

FOOTNOTES:

[2] The author of this ballad has added a thread of evident love-story to a most romantic incident of the history of Mantua, which occurred in the fifteenth century. He relates the incident so nearly as he found it in the _Cronache Montovane_, that he is ashamed to say how little his invention has been employed in it.

The hero of the story, Federigo, became the third Marquis of Mantua, and was a prince greatly beloved and honored by his subjects.

[3] "Breve pertugio dentro dalla Muda, La qual per me ha il t.i.tol della fame E in che conviene ancor ch'altri si chiuda, M'avea mostrato per lo suo forame Piu lune gia."

DANTE, _L'Inferno_.

[4] "As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in its flight."

THE FIRST CRICKET.

Ah me! is it then true that the year has waxed unto waning, And that so soon must remain nothing but lapse and decay,-- Earliest cricket, that out of the midsummer midnight complaining, All the faint summer in me takest with subtle dismay?

Though thou bringest no dream of frost to the flowers that slumber, Though no tree for its leaves, doomed of thy voice, maketh moan, Yet with th' unconscious earth's boded evil my soul thou dost c.u.mber, And in the year's lost youth makest me still lose my own.

Answerest thou, that when nights of December are blackest and bleakest, And when the fervid grate feigns me a May in my room, And by my hearthstone gay, as now sad in my garden, thou creakest,-- Thou wilt again give me all,--dew and fragrance and bloom?

Nay, little poet! full many a cricket I have that is willing, If I but take him down out of his place on my shelf, Me blither lays to sing than the blithest known to thy shrilling, Full of the rapture of life, May, morn, hope, and--himself:

Leaving me only the sadder; for never one of my singers Lures back the bee to his feast, calls back the bird to his tree.

Hast thou no art can make me believe, while the summer yet lingers, Better than bloom that has been red leaf and sere that must be?

THE MULBERRIES.

I.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand; The street ebbs under and makes no sound; But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, The noisy market rings around.

"_Mulberries, fine mulberries, here!_"

A tuneful voice,--and light, light measure; Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear, If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood, The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves Hiding the berries beneath them;--good!

Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old friend, I haven't eaten A mulberry since the ignorant joy Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten All this bitter world for a boy.

II.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, I could see the top of our cabin roof.

And, looking westward, could sweep the sh.o.r.es Of the river where we used to swim Under the ghostly sycamores, Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And eastward athwart the pasture-lot And over the milk-white buckwheat field I could see the stately elm, where I shot The first black squirrel I ever killed.

And southward over the bottom-land I could see the mellow breadths of farm From the river-sh.o.r.es to the hills expand, Clasped in the curving river's arm.

In the fields we set our guileless snares For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails, Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs From doubtful wings and vanished tails.