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A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, Nor how her heart anticipates his will. And yet for this, you see me lay aside All womanly reserve and check of pride, And ask the thing most precious in your sight,

Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,

Which if you find it in your heart to give,

My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live."

Ser Federigo listens, and replies, With tears of love and pity in his eyes: "Alas, dear lady! there can be no task So sweet to me, as giving when you ask.

One little hour ago, if I had known This wish of yours, it would have been

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Than what most dear and precious was

to me,

And so my gallant falcon breathed his last

To furnish forth this morning our repast."

In mute contrition, mingled with dismay,

The gentle lady turned her eyes away, Grieving that he such sacrifice should make,

And kill his falcon for a woman's sake, Yet feeling in her heart a woman's pride, That nothing she could ask for was denied ;

Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate

With footstep slow and soul disconsolate.

Three days went by, and lo! a passingbell

Tolled from the little chapel in the dell ; Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, Breathing a prayer, is dead!"

"Alas! her child

Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime

Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas time;

The cottage was deserted, and no more Ser Federigo sat beside its door.

But now, with servitors to do his will, In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side

Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,

High-perched upon the back of which there stood

The image of a falcon carved in wood, And underneath the inscription, with a date,

"All things come round to him who will but wait."

INTERLUDE.

SOON as the story reached its end, One, over eager to commend, Crowned it with injudicious praise;

And then the voice of blame found vent,
And fanned the embers of dissent
Into a somewhat lively blaze.
The Theologian shook his head;
"These old Italian tales," he said,
"From the much-praised Decameron
down

Through all the rabble of the rest,
Are either trifling, dull, or lewd;
The gossip of a neighbourhood
In some remote provincial town,
A scandalous chronicle at best!
They seem to me a stagnant fen,
Grown rank with rushes and with reeds,
Where a white lily, now and then,
Blooms in the midst of noxious weeds,
And deadly nightshade on its banks."
To this the Student straight replied,
"For the white lily many thanks!
One should not say, with too much pride,
Fountain, I will not drink of thee!
Nor were it grateful to forget,
That from these reservoirs and tanks
Even imperial Shakespeare drew
His Moor of Venice and the Jew,
And Romeo and Juliet,
And many a famous comedy."

Then a long pause; till some one said,
"An Angel is flying overhead!"
At these words spake the Spanish Jew,
And murmured with an inward breath:
"God grant, if what you say is true,
It may not be the Angel of Death!"
And then another pause; and then,
Stroking his beard, he said again :
"This brings back to my memory
A story in the Talmud told,
That book of gems, that book of gold,
Of wonders many and manifold,
A tale that often comes to me,
And fills my heart, and haunts my brain,
And never wearies nor grows old."

THE SPANISH JEW'S TALE.

THE LEGEND OF RABBI BEN LEVI.

RABBI BEN LEVI, on the Sabbath, read A volume of the Law, in which it said, "No man shall look upon my face and live."

And as he read, he prayed that God would give

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Town,

And set him on the wall, whence, gazing down,

Rabbi Ben Levi, with his living eyes, Might look upon his place in Paradise. Then straight into the city of the Lord The Rabbi leaped with the DeathAngel's sword,

And through the streets there swept a sudden breath

Of something there unknown, which men call death.

Meanwhile the Angel stayed without, and cried,

"Come back!" To which the Rabbi's voice replied,

"No! in the name of God, whom I adore,

I swear that hence I will depart no more !"

Then all the Angels cried, "O Holy One,

See what the son of Levi here has done! The kingdom of Heaven he takes by

violence,

And in Thy name refuses to go hence!" The Lord replied, "My Angels, be not wroth;

Did e'er the son of Levi break his oath? Let him remain: for he with mortal eye Shall look upon my face and yet not die." Beyond the outer wall the Angel of Death

Heard the great voice, and said, with panting breath,

"Give back the sword, and let me go my way."

Whereat the Rabbi paused, and answered, "Nay!

Anguish enough already has it caused Among the sons of men." And while he paused

He heard the awful mandate of the Lord Resounding through the air, "Give back the sword!"

The Rabbi bowed his head in silent

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They almost feared to look, lest there,
Embodied from the impalpable air,
They might behold the Angel stand,
Holding the sword in his right hand.
At last, but in a voice subdued,
Not to disturb their dreamy mood,
Said the Sicilian, "While you spoke,
Telling your legend marvellous,
Suddenly in my memory woke
The thought of one, now gone from us,-
An old Abate, meek and mild,
My friend and teacher, when a child,
Who sometimes in those days of old
The legend of an Angel told,
Which ran, if I remember, thus.

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Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,

With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,

Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage

To right and left each seneschal and

page,

And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,

His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.

From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;

Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed.

Until at last he reached the banquetroom,

Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.

There on the dais sat another king, Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,

King Robert's self in features, form, and height,

But all transfigured with angelic light! It was an Angel; and his presence there With a divine effulgence filled the air, An exaltation, piercing the disguise, Though none the hidden Angel recog

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"Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou

Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,

And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape; Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,

And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!"

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,

They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;

A group of tittering pages ran before, And as they opened wide the foldingdoor,

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,

The boisterous laughter of the men-at

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