LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! From isles Lethean, sigh to us-O sigh! Will die a death too lone and incomplete, LXII. Piteous she looked on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously: And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why 'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, ISABELLA. No heart was there in Florence but did mourn In pity of her love, so overcast. And a sad ditty of this story borne 227 From mouth to mouth through all the country passed: Still is the burden sung-"O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. I. ST. AGNES' EVE-Ah, bitter chill it was! The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass; Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. |