_Duke Odo (dismounting.)_ Hark you, Vincenzo; here will I dismount. Lead on Falcone to the castle. See He lack no provender or barley-straw To ease his battered sides. Poor war-worn horse! When last we galloped past this church-yard gate, He was a colt, gamesome and hot of blood, Bearing against the bit until my arm Ached with his humors. Mark the old jade now— He knows we talk about him—a mere boy Might ride him bare-back. Give my people note Of my approach, and tell them, for yourself, I will not look too strictly at my house: An absent lord trains careless servitors. I wish no bonfires lighted on the hills, No peaceful cannon roused to mimic wrath; Say, I have seen cities burn, and shouting ranks Of solid steel-clad footmen melt away Before a hundred pieces. Say I come for rest, Not jollity; and all I seek Is a calm welcome in their lighted eyes, And quiet murmurs that appear to come More from the heart than lips. The manner in which the intimacy began between the young count and the Podesta’s daughter, Giulia, is described in a passage remarkable equally for its simplicity and its beauty. It is a good specimen also of the author’s power of nicely discriminating character. Count Odo—mark the contrast—so we called, Through ancient courtesy, the old duke’s son— Came from the Roman breed of Italy. A hundred Cæsars poured their royal blood Through his full veins. He was both flint and fire; Haughty and headlong, shy, imperious, Tender, disdainful, tearful, full of frowns— Cold as the ice on Ætna’s wintry brow, And hotter than its flame. All these by turns. A mystery to his tutors and to me— Yet some have said his father fathomed him— A mystery to my daughter, but a charm Deeper than magic. Him my daughter loved. . . . . . . My functions drew me to the castle oft, Thither sometimes my daughter went with me; And I have noticed how young Odo’s eyes Would light her up the stairway, lead her on From room to room, through hall and corridor, Showing her wonders, which were stale to him, With a new strangeness: for familiar things, Beneath her eyes, grew glorified to him, And woke a strain of boyish eloquence, Dressed with high thoughts and fluent images, That sometimes made him wonder at himself, Who had been blind so long to every charm Which her admiring fancy gave his home. Oft I have caught them standing rapt before Some barbarous portrait, grim with early art— A Gorgon, to a nicely balanced eye, That scarcely hinted at humanity; Yet they would crown it with the port of Jove, Make every wrinkle a heroic scar, And light that garbage of forgotten times With such a legendary halo, as would add Another lustre to the Golden Book.