Till in her dream she saw Minuccio Touching his viola, and chanting low A strain, that, falling on her brokenly, Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree; Each burthened with a word that was a scent,-- Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament; Then in her dream she said, "He sings of me, Might be my messenger; ah! now I see The king is listening"--Then she awoke, And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke. She longed for music: that was natural; Physicians said it was medicinal; The humors might be schooled by true consent Of a fine tenor and fine instrument; In short, good music, mixed with doctor's stuff, Apollo with Asklepios--enough! Minuccio, entreated, gladly came. (He was a singer of most gentle fame, A noble, kindly spirit, not elate That he was famous, but that song was great; Would sing as finely to this suffering child As at the court where princes on him smiled.) Gently he entered and sat down by her, Asking what sort of strain she would prefer,-- The voice alone, or voice with viol wed; Then, when she chose the last, he preluded With magic hand, that summoned from the strings Aerial spirits, rare yet palpable wings That fanned the pulses of his listener, And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir. Her cheek already showed a slow, faint blush; But soon the voice, in pure, full, liquid rush, Made all the passion, that till now she felt, Seem but as cooler waters that in warmer melt. Finished the song, she prayed to be alone With kind Minuccio; for her faith had grown To trust him as if missioned like a priest With some high grace, that, when his singing ceased, Still made him wiser, more magnanimous, Than common men who had no genius. So, laying her small hand within his palm, She told him how that secret, glorious harm Of loftiest loving had befallen her; That death, her only hope, most bitter were, If, when she died, her love must perish too As songs unsung, and thoughts unspoken do, Which else might live within another breast. She said, "Minuccio, the grave were rest, If I were sure, that, lying cold and lone, My love, my best of life, had safely flown And nestled in the bosom of the king. See, 'tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing; But you will carry it for me secretly, And bear it to the king; then come to me And tell me it is safe, and I shall go Content, knowing that he I love my love doth know." Then she wept silently; but each large tear Made pleading music to the inward ear Of good Minuccio. "Lisa, trust in me," He said, and kissed her fingers loyally: "It is sweet law to me to do your will, And, ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil, I hope to bring you news of such rare skill As amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still."