Which seems to take possession of this world
And make of God their tame confederate,
Purveyor to their appetites . . you know!
But no-Natalia said they were your friends,
And they assented while they smiled the more,
And all came round me,-that thin Englishman
With light, lank hair seemed leader of the rest;
He held a paper-" What we want," said he,
Ending some explanation to his friends--

66

Is something slow, involved and mystical,

"To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste "And lure him on, so that, at innermost

"Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may find-this!

66

-As in the apple's core, the noisome fly:

"For insects on the rind are seen at once,

"And brushed aside as soon, but this is found

66

Only when on the lips or loathing tongue." And so he read what I have got by heartI'll speak it," Do not die, love! I am yours Stop is not that, or like that, part of words Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose What cost much pains to learn! Is this more right? I am a painter who cannot paint; In my life, a devil rather than saint, brain, as poor a creature too— No end to all I cannot do!

In

my

Yet do one thing at least I can—
Love a man, or hate a man
Supremely: thus my love began.

Through the Valley of Love I went,

In its lovingest spot to abide,

And just on the verge where I pitched my tent,
I found Hate dwelling beside.

(Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant,
Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!)

And further, I traversed Hate's grove,

In its hatefullest nook to dwell;

But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love
Where the deepest shadow fell.

(The meaning-those black bride's-eyes above,
Not the painter's lip should tell!)

"And here," said he, "Jules probably will ask,
"You have black eyes, love-you are, sure enough,
"My peerless bride, so do you tell, indeed,
"What needs some explanation—what means this?”
-—And I am to go on, without a word—

So I grew wiser in Love and Hate,
From simple, that I was of late.

For once, when I loved, I would enlace
Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face
Of her I loved, in one embrace—

As if by mere love I could love immensely!
And when I hated, I would plunge
My sword, and wipe with the first lunge
My foe's whole life out, like a sponge-
As if by mere hate I could hate intensely!
But now I am wiser, know better the fashion

How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion,
And if I see cause to love more, or hate more
Than ever man loved, ever hated, before—
And seek in the Valley of Love,

The spot, or the spot in Hate's Grove,
Where my soul may the sureliest reach
The essence, nought less, of each,
The Hate of all Hates, or the Love
Of all Loves, in its Valley or Grove,—
I find them the very warders

Each of the other's borders.

I love most, when Love is disguised
In Hate; and when Hate is surprised
In Love, then I hate most: ask

How Love smiles through Hate's iron casque,

Hate grins through Love's rose-braided mask,—
And how, having hated thee,

I sought long and painfully
To wound thee, and not prick

The skin, but pierce to the quick—

Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight

By thy bride-how the painter Lutwyche can hate!

JULES interposes.

Lutwyche-who else? But all of them, no doubt,
Hated me they at Venice-presently

Their turn, however! You I shall not meet:
If I dreamed, saying this would wake me!

Keep

What's here, this gold-we cannot meet again,
Consider and the money was but meant
For two years' travel, which is over now,
All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it!
This-and what comes from selling these, my casts

And books, and medals, except . . . let them go

...

Together, so the produce keeps you safe,

Out of Natalia's clutches!—If by chance

(For all's chance here) I should survive the gang

At Venice, root out all fifteen of them,

We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide— (From without is heard the voice of PIPPA, singing

Give her but a least excuse to love me!

When-where

How can this arm establish her above me,

--

If fortune fixed her as my lady there,
There already, to eternally reprove me?
("Hist" said Kate the queen;

But "Oh-" cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
"'Tis only a page that carols unseen

"Crumbling your

hounds their messes!")

Is she wronged?—To the rescue of her honour,
My heart!

Is she poor? What costs it to be styled a donour?
Merely an earth's to cleave, a sea's to part!

But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!
("Nay, list,"-bade Kate the queen;

And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,

"'Tis only a page that carols unseen "Fitting your hawks their jesses!")

JULES resumes.

(PIPPA passes.)

What name was that the little girl sang forth?
Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced
The crown of Cyprus to be lady here

At Asolo, where still the peasants keep
Her memory; and songs tell how many a page
Pined for the grace of one so far above

His power of doing good to, as a queen

"She never could be wronged, be poor," he sighed,
"For him to help her!"

Yes, a bitter thing
To see our lady above all need of us;
Yet so we look ere we will love; not I,
But the world looks so. If whoever loves
Must be, in some sort, god or worshipper,
The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,
Why should we always choose the page's part?
Here is a woman with utter need of me,-

I find myself queen here, it seems!

How strange!

Look at the woman here with the new soul,
Like my own Psyche's,-fresh upon her lips
Alit, the visionary butterfly,

Waiting my word to enter and make bright,
Or flutter off and leave all blank as first.
This body had no soul before, but slept