 | The white sail and other poems |  |
65
RANIERI.
‘To the lute Ranieri played,
Once beneath the jasmine shade
In a June-bright bower imprisoned,
Many a Pisan beauty listened,
Velvet-eyed, with head propped under
Her gold hair's uncoifèd wonder;
Like the rich sun-blooded roses
Whom the wind o'ertakes in poses
Of some marble-still delight,
On the dewy verge of night.
Once beneath the jasmine shade
In a June-bright bower imprisoned,
Many a Pisan beauty listened,
Velvet-eyed, with head propped under
Her gold hair's uncoifèd wonder;
Like the rich sun-blooded roses
Whom the wind o'ertakes in poses
Of some marble-still delight,
On the dewy verge of night.
‘Merrily and loud sang he,
With the fairest at his knee,
Sky-ringed in that garden nest!
Who, save sorcerers, had guessed
Whither sylph and minstrel came
From the awful Archer's aim?
Or that, glossy-pined below,
Lay the city in her woe,
For her sins, as it was written,
Desolate and fever-smitten?
With the fairest at his knee,
Sky-ringed in that garden nest!
Who, save sorcerers, had guessed
Whither sylph and minstrel came
From the awful Archer's aim?
Or that, glossy-pined below,
Lay the city in her woe,
66
Desolate and fever-smitten?
‘Apt Ranieri was, and young,
Love's persuasion on his tongue;
And his high-erected glance,
Softened into dalliance,
Laughed along its haughty level:
Foremost in all skill and revel,
Steeled against the laws that seemed
Monkish figments idly dreamed,
Early dipping his wild wing
In the pools of rioting,
With the moaning world shut out,
With the damosels about;
Crimson-girdled, in the sun
Regnant, as if he were one
For whom Death himself was mute;—
So he sat, and twanged his lute.’
(Placid, in her novice veil,
Sister Claudia told the tale.)
Love's persuasion on his tongue;
And his high-erected glance,
Softened into dalliance,
Laughed along its haughty level:
Foremost in all skill and revel,
Steeled against the laws that seemed
Monkish figments idly dreamed,
Early dipping his wild wing
In the pools of rioting,
With the moaning world shut out,
With the damosels about;
Crimson-girdled, in the sun
Regnant, as if he were one
For whom Death himself was mute;—
So he sat, and twanged his lute.’
(Placid, in her novice veil,
Sister Claudia told the tale.)
‘When, across the air of June,
Like a mist half-risen at noon,
Or a fragrance barely noted,
A Judæan Vision floated!
Who, midway of music's burst,
Pleadingly, as if athirst,
Long athirst, and long unsated,
Sighed: “Ranieri!” sighed and waited.
Like a mist half-risen at noon,
Or a fragrance barely noted,
A Judæan Vision floated!
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Pleadingly, as if athirst,
Long athirst, and long unsated,
Sighed: “Ranieri!” sighed and waited.
‘Ah, the Prodigal that heard
Fell to ashes at the word!
But with broken murmurings
Putting by the wreathèd strings,—
From the safe and craven places,
From the fond, bewildered faces,
Trembling with the rush of thought,
With contrition overwrought,
At a royal gesture, down
Straight to the dismantled town;
Girt with justice, chaste and tender,
To all risks himself to render,
Of all sorrows rude and froward
To be prop and cure henceforward;
By no lapse of irksome duty
Swerving from the Only Beauty,
By no olden lure enticed;—
Saint Ranieri followed Christ!’
(Said the little nun: ‘Amen:
Christ who calleth, now as then.’)
Fell to ashes at the word!
But with broken murmurings
Putting by the wreathèd strings,—
From the safe and craven places,
From the fond, bewildered faces,
Trembling with the rush of thought,
With contrition overwrought,
At a royal gesture, down
Straight to the dismantled town;
Girt with justice, chaste and tender,
To all risks himself to render,
Of all sorrows rude and froward
To be prop and cure henceforward;
By no lapse of irksome duty
Swerving from the Only Beauty,
By no olden lure enticed;—
Saint Ranieri followed Christ!’
(Said the little nun: ‘Amen:
Christ who calleth, now as then.’)
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