Selected Poems and Letters. John Keats

nigh mad

      That he, the servant of their trade designs,

      Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad,

      When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees

      To some high noble and his olive-trees.

      XXII.

      And many a jealous conference had they,

      And many times they bit their lips alone,

      Before they fix’d upon a surest way

      To make the youngster for his crime atone;

      And at the last, these men of cruel clay

      Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone;

      For they resolved in some forest dim

      To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him.

      XXIII.

      So on a pleasant morning, as he leant

      Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade

      Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent

      Their footing through the dews; and to him said,

      “You seem there in the quiet of content,

      Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade

      Calm speculation; but if you are wise,

      Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies.

      XXIV.

      “To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount

      To spur three leagues towards the Apennine;

      Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count

      His dewy rosary on the eglantine.”

      Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont,

      Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine;

      And went in haste, to get in readiness,

      With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress.

      XXV.

      And as he to the court-yard pass’d along,

      Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft

      If he could hear his lady’s matin-song,

      Or the light whisper of her footstep soft;

      And as he thus over his passion hung,

      He heard a laugh full musical aloft;

      When, looking up, he saw her features bright

      Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight.

      XXVI.

      “Love, Isabel!” said he, “I was in pain

      Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow

      Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain

      I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow

      Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain

      Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow.

      Goodbye! I’ll soon be back.” – “Goodbye!” said she: –

      And as he went she chanted merrily.

      XXVII.

      So the two brothers and their murder’d man

      Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream

      Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan

      Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream

      Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan

      The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,

      Lorenzo’s flush with love. – They pass’d the water

      Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.

      XXVIII.

      There was Lorenzo slain and buried in,

      There in that forest did his great love cease;

      Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win,

      It aches in loneliness – is ill at peace

      As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin:

      They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease

      Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur,

      Each richer by his being a murderer.

      XXIX.

      They told their sister how, with sudden speed,

      Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands,

      Because of some great urgency and need

      In their affairs, requiring trusty hands.

      Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed,

      And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands;

      To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow,

      And the next day will be a day of sorrow.

      XXX.

      She weeps alone for pleasures not to be;

      Sorely she wept until the night came on,

      And then, instead of love, O misery!

      She brooded o’er the luxury alone:

      His image in the dusk she seem’d to see,

      And to the silence made a gentle moan,

      Spreading her perfect arms upon the air,

      And on her couch low murmuring “Where? O where?”

      XXXI.

      But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long

      Its fiery vigil in her single breast;

      She fretted for the golden hour, and hung

      Upon the time with feverish unrest –

      Not long – for soon into her heart a throng

      Of higher occupants, a richer zest,

      Came tragic; passion not to be subdued,

      And sorrow for her love in travels rude.

      XXXII.

      In the mid days of autumn, on their eves

      The breath of Winter comes from far away,

      And the sick west continually bereaves

      Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay

      Of death among the bushes and the leaves,

      To make all bare before he dares to stray

      From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel

      By gradual decay from beauty fell,

      XXXIII.

      Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes

      She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale,

      Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes

      Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale

      Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes

      Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale;

      And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud,

      To see their sister in her snowy shroud.

      XXXIV.

      And she had died in drowsy ignorance,

      But for a thing more