BOOK THE SECOND.
The woods were long austere with snow: at last
Pink leaflets budded on the beech, and fast
Larches, scattered through pine-tree solitudes, Brightened, "as in the slumbrous heart o' the woods "Our buried year, a witch, grew young again "To placid incantations, and that stain "About were from her cauldron, green smoke blent "With those black pines"—so Eglamor gave vent To a chance fancy. Whence a just rebuke From his companion; brother Naddo shook The solemnest of brows: "Beware," he said, "Of setting up conceits in nature's stead!" Forth wandered our Sordello. Nought so sure As that to-day's adventure will secure Palma, the visioned lady—only pass O'er you damp mound and its exhausted grass, Under that brake where sundawn feeds the stalks Of withered fern with gold, into those walks Of pine and take her! Buoyantly he went. Again his stooping forehead was besprent With dew-drops from the skirting ferns. Then wide Opened the great morass, shot every side With flashing water through and through; a-shine, Thick-steaming, all-alive. Whose shape divine, Quivered i' the farthest rainbow-vapour, glanced Athwart the flying herons? He advanced, But warily; though Mincio leaped no more, Each foot-fall burst up in the marish-floor A diamond jet: and if he stopped to pick Rose-lichen, or molest the leeches quick, And circling blood-worms, minnow, newt or loach, A sudden pond would silently encroach This way and that. On Palma passed. The verge Of a new wood was gained. She will emerge Flushed, now, and panting,—crowds to see,—will own She loves him—Boniface to hear, to groan, To leave his suit! One screen of pine-trees still Opposes: but—the startling spectacle— Mantua, this time! Under the walls—a crowd Indeed, real men and women, gay and loud Round a pavilion. How he stood!
In truth
No prophecy had come to pass: his youth
In its prime now—and where was homage poured
Upon Sordello?—born to be adored, And suddenly discovered weak, scarce made To cope with any, cast into the shade By this and this. Yet something seemed to prick And tingle in his blood; a sleight—a trick— And much would be explained. It went for nought— The best of their endowments were ill bought With his identity: nay, the conceit, That this day's roving led to Palma's feet Was not so vain—list! The word, "Palma!" Steal Aside, and die, Sordello; this is real, And this—abjure!
What next? The curtains see
Dividing! She is there; and presently
He will be there—the proper You, at length—
In your own cherished dress of grace and strength: Most like, the very Boniface!