CANTO IV.

HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA.

SORROW, they say, to one with true touched ear,
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,

A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.

E'en tales like this, founded on real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow:

The woe was earthly, fugitive, is past;

The song that sweetens it, may always last.

And even they, whose shattered hearts and frames

Make them unhappiest of poetic names,

What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky?

Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green?

Once, and but once,-nor with a scornful face Tried worth will hear,-that scene again took place. Partly by chance they met, partly to see The spot where they had last gone cheerfully, But most, from failure of all self-support ;-And oh! the meeting in that loved resort! No peevishness there was, no loud distress, selfishness;

No mean retort of sorry

But a mute gush of hiding tears from one

Clasped to the core of him, who yet shed none,—

And self-accusings then, which he began,

And into which her tearful sweetness ran;

And then kind looks, with meeting eyes again,
Starting to deprecate each other's pain;

Till half persuasions they could scarce do wrong,
And sudden sense of wretchedness, more strong,

And why should I add more?—again they parted, He doubly torn for her, and she nigh broken-hearted.

She never ventured in that spot again;

And Paulo knew it, but could not refrain;
He went again one day; and how it looked!

The calm, old shade!-his presence felt rebuked.
It seemed, as if the hopes of his
young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been mere a dream, or at the best

A vain negation, that could stand no test;

And that on waking from his idle fit,

He found himself (how could he think of it!)

A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.

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;