LVII. O leave the palm to wither by itself; Her brethren, noted the continual shower LVIII. And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much A very nothing would have power to wean Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, And even remembrance of her love's delay. LIX. Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift And seldom felt she any hunger-pain: LX. Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, And so left Florence in a moment's space, LXI. O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! From isles Lethean, sigh to us—-O sigh! LXII. Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, Asking for her lost Basil amorously: And with melodious chuckle in the strings Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, To ask him where her Basil was; and why "Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me." LXIII. And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, No heart was there in Florence but did mourn And a sad ditty of this story borne From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd: Still is the burthen sung- "O cruelty, To steal my Basil-pot away from me!" |