And where a better? Belgirate's lore In all things Roman was in truth a store From which to steal. At her Gamaliel's knees Griselda sat and learned Rome's mysteries With all the zeal of a disciple young And strange to genius and a pleading tongue. The Prince was eloquent. His theme was high, One which had taught less vigorous wings to fly, The world of other days, the Pagan Rome, The scarce less Pagan Rome of Christendom. On these the Prince spoke warmly much and well, Holding Griselda's patient ears in spell, Yet broke off smiling when he met her eye Fixed on his face in its mute sympathy: A smile which was a question, an appeal, And seemed to ask the meaning of her zeal. He did not understand her quite. He saw Something beyond, unfixed by any law Of woman's nature his experience knew: He knew not what to hold or hope as true. For she was young and sad and beautiful, A very woman with a woman's soul. She had so strange a pathos in her eyes, A tone so deep, such echoes in her voice. What was this Roman Hecuba to her? This prate of consul, pontiff, emperor? These broken symbols of forgotten pride? These ashes of old fame by fame denied? What were these stones to her that she should weep, Or spend her passion on a cause less deep Than her own joys and sorrows? Was it love, Or what thing else had such a power to move? If there was meaning in red lips! And yet 'Twere rank impiety to think of it. An Italian woman--yes. But she? Who knew What English virtue dared yet dared not do? This was the thought which lent its mockery To the more tender omen of his eye, And checked the pride and chilled the vague desire Her beauty half had kindled into fire. Yet hope was born and struggled to more life, A puny infant with its fears at strife, An unacknowledged hidden bastard child, Too fair to crush, too wise to be beguiled; Even Griselda's prudery confessed A star of Bethlehem risen in her East.