Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/396

 Was the mock terror of the tournament,

Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent,

Took exaltation as from epic song,

Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong.

And in all eyes King Pedro was the king

Of cavaliers: as in a full-gemmed ring

The largest ruby, or as that bright star

Whose shining shows us where the Hyads are.

His the best jennet, and he sat it best;

His weapon, whether tilting or in rest,

Was worthiest watching, and his face once seen

Gave to the promise of his royal mien

Such rich fulfilment as the opened eyes

Of a loved sleeper, or the long-watched rise

Of vernal day, whose joy o'er stream and meadow flies.

But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathed

The broad piazza and sweet witchery breathed,

With innocent faces budding all arow

From balconies and windows high and low,

Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow,

The impregnation with supernal fire

Of young ideal love—transformed desire,

Whose passion is but worship of that Best

Taught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast?

'T was gentle Lisa, of no noble line,

Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine,

Who from his merchant-city hither came

To trade in drugs; yet kept an honest fame,

And had the virtue not to try and sell

Drugs that had none. He loved his riches well,

But loved them chiefly for his Lisa's sake,

Whom with a father's care he sought to make

The bride of some true honorable man:

Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran),