('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 donor?
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!')
[Pippa passes.
Jules resumes—
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 he, in some sort, god or worshipper,
The blessing or the blest one, queen or page,
Why should we always choose the page's part?