LXIII.

But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
My tendency is to philosophise

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies.
What are we ? and whence came we? what shall be
Our ultimate existence? what's our present?
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.

LXIV.

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim And distant from each other burn'd the lights, And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb

Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, [trim, They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest By way of change from their sepulchral sites, And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste.

LXV.

Many and beautiful lay those around,

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root, In some exotic garden sometimes found,

With cost, and care, and warmth induced to shoot. One with her auburn tresses lightly bound,

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath, And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.

LXVI.

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,

And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;

And smiling through her dream, as through a cloud The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night All bashfully to struggle into light.

LXVII.

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 'Twas night, but there were lamps, as hath been said. A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray'd Through the heaved breast the dream of some far shore Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray'd

(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges The black bough) tear-drops through her eyes' dark fringes.

LXVIII.

A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill,
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep,
Or Lot's wife done in salt,

-

or what you will ;

My similes are gather'd in a heap,

So pick and choose-perhaps you'll be content

With a carved lady on a monument.

LXIX.

And lo! a fifth appears ;—and what is she?
A lady of "a certain age," which means
Certainly aged-what her years might be

I know not, never counting past their teens;
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see,
As ere that awful period intervenes

Which lays both men and women on the shelf,
To meditate upon their sins and self.

LXX.

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudù?
With strict enquiry I could ne'er discover,
And scorn to add a syllable untrue;

But ere the middle watch was hardly over,
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue,
And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover,
To those who like their company, about
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out:

LXXI.

And that so loudly, that upstarted all

The Oda, in a general commotion:

Matron and maids, and those whom you may call Neither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, One on the other, throughout the whole hall,

All trembling, wondering, without the least notion More than I have myself of what could make The calm Dudù so turbulently wake.

LXXII.

But wide awake she was, and round her bed,
With floating draperies and with flying hair,
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread,
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare,
And bright as any meteor ever bred

By the North Pole, they sought her cause of care, For she seem'd agitated, flush'd, and frighten'd, Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd.

LXXIII.

But what is strange-and a strong proof how great
A blessing is sound sleep-Juanna lay
As fast as ever husband by his mate

In holy matrimony snores away.

Not all the clamour broke her happy state

Of slumber, ere they shook her, so they say At least, and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise.

LXXIV.

And now commenced a strict investigation,
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once
Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration,

Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce

To answer in a very clear oration.

Dudù had never pass'd for wanting sense,

66

But, being no orator as Brutus is,"

Could not at first expound what was amiss.

LXXV.

At length she said, that in a slumber sound

She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood— A "wood obscure," like that where Dante found (1) Himself in at the age when all grow good;

Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue crown'd

Run much less risk of lovers turning rude; And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots;

LXXVI.

And in the midst a golden apple grew,-
A most prodigious pippin-but it hung
Rather too high and distant; that she threw
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung
Stones and whatever she could pick up, to
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung
To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight,
But always at a most provoking height;-

LXXVII.

;

That on a sudden, when she least had hope,

It fell down of its own accord before

Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop
And pick it up, and bite it to the core;
That just as her young lip began to ope
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore,

A bee flew out and stung her to the heart,
And so she awoke with a great scream and start

(1) "Nell' mezzo del' cammin' di nostra vita

Mi ritrovai per una selva oscura," &c.— Inferno.