This prate of consul, pontiff, emperor?

These broken symbols of forgotten pride?

These ashes of old fame by fame denied?

What were these stones to her that she should weep,

Or spend her passion on a cause less deep

Than her own joys and sorrows? Was it love,

Or what thing else had such a power to move?

If there was meaning in red lips! And yet

'Twere rank impiety to think of it.

An Italian woman—yes. But she? Who knew

What English virtue dared yet dared not do?

This was the thought which lent its mockery

To the more tender omen of his eye,

And checked the pride and chilled the vague desire

Her beauty half had kindled into fire.

42

Yet hope was born and struggled to more life,

A puny infant with its fears at strife,

An unacknowledged hidden bastard child,

Too fair to crush, too wise to be beguiled;

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