That thought before had grieved him; but the pain

Cut sharp and sudden now it came again.

Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick;
And pale he stood, and seemed to burst all o'er
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know,

His peace was gone, and all to come was woe.
Francesca too, the being, made to bless, —
Destined by him to the same wretchedness,
It seemed as if such whelming thoughts must find
Some props for them, or he should lose his mind. -
And find he did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries, -
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought, with quick philosophy, of things
Rarely found out except through sufferings, -
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity:

And these, although they pushed down as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shews
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Pushed with them too the worst of others' guilt;
And furnished him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigor, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he loved could have done nothing base,

Helped to restore him to his usual life,
Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favorite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,

As he glode by, to force his thoughts without;
And, when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,

And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercised his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earned for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away

That task of loaded hearts, another day.

But she, the gentler frame,

the shaken flower,

Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower,

The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
The wife that was, the mother that might be,
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow,
She might be still and senseless till the morrow?

And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise! How would she open her despairing eyes, And from the sense of the long lingering day, Rushing upon her, almost turn away, Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again! Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain, She would get up in haste, and try to pass The time in patience, wretched as it was; Till patience self, in her distempered sight, Would seem a charm to which she had no right, And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears, She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears. Old comforts now were not at her command: The falcon reached in vain from off his stand; The flowers were not refreshed; the very light, The sunshine, seemed as if it shone at night; The least noise smote her like a sudden wound; And did she hear but the remotest sound Of song or instrument about the place, She hid with both her hands her streaming face. But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she, That ever, ever, such a worse should be!) The sight of infant was, or child at play; Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray, That heaven would take her, if it pleased, away.

I pass the meetings Paulo had with her :Calm were they in their outward character, Or pallid efforts, rather, to suppress

The pangs within, that either's might be less ;

And ended mostly with a passionate start

Of tears and kindness, when they came to part. Thinner he grew, she thought, and pale with care; "And I, 'twas I, that dashed his noble air!" He saw her wasting, yet with placid shew; And scarce could help exclaiming in his woe, "O gentle creature, look not at me so!"

But Prince Giovanni, whom her wan distress Had touched, of late, with a new tenderness, Which, to his fresh surprise, did but appear To wound her more than when he was severe, Began, with other helps perhaps, to see Strange things, and missed his brother's company. What a convulsion was the first sensation! Rage, wonder, misery, scorn, humiliation, A self-love, struck as with a personal blow, Gloomy revenge, a prospect full of woe, All rushed upon him, like the sudden view Of some new world, foreign to all he knew, Where he had waked and found disease's visions true.

If any lingering hope, that he was wrong, Smoothed o'er him now and then, 'twas not so long. Next night, as sullenly awake he lay,

Considering what to do the approaching day,
He heard his wife say something in her sleep:-
He shook and listened; she began to weep,

And moaning louder, seemed to shake her head,
Till all at once articulate, she said,

He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;-

His squire awaked attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:

His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.

The brothers meet,

Giovanni scarce in breath,

Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as pale as death.

"May I request, sir," said the prince, and frowned,

"Your ear a moment in the tilting ground?"

There, brother?" answered Paulo, with an air Surprised and shocked. "Yes, brother," cried he,

"there."

The word smote crushingly; and paler still,

He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.

Giovanni turned, and down the stairs they bend;
The squires, with looks of sad surprise, attend;
Then issue forth in the moist-striking air,
And toward the tilt-yard cross a planted square.

'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill; The lightsome morning star was sparkling still, Ere it turned in to heaven; and far away Appeared the streaky fingers of the day.