Birds, beavers, otters, feared the maid no more Than whispering reeds or willows of the shore. This was the daughter of the basket-weaver, The little Vinceneto. No one ever Had even bored her ears, poor child! yet so Her eyes were damson-blue, her bosom low,-- A caper-blossom by the river-side, Wooed by the splashing of the amorous tide. But now old Ambroi, with his long white beard Flowing o’er all his breast, his head upreared, And answered Vincen’s outcry: “What is’t? Mad? You are a blockhead! that is all, my lad!” “Ah!” said the other, “for the ass to stray, Sweet must the mead be. But what do I say? Thou knowest her! If she to Arles should fare, All other maids would hide them in despair; For, after her, I think the mould was broken. And what say to the words herself hath spoken, “‘You I will have!’”--“Why, naught, poor fool! say I: Let poverty and riches make reply!” “O father!” Vincen cried, “go, I implore thee, To Lotus Farm, and tell them all the story! Tell them to look for virtue, not for gain! Tell them that I can plough a stony plain, “Or harrow, or prune vines with any man! Tell them their six yoke, with my guiding, can Plough double! Tell them I revere the old; And, if they part us for the sake of gold, We shall both die, and they may bury us!” “Oh, fie! But you are young who maunder thus,” Quoth Master Ambroi. “All this talk I know. The white hen’s egg, the chaffinch on the bough, You’ll have the pretty bird this very minute! Whistle, bring sugared cake, or die to win it; Yet will the chaffinch never come, be sure, And perch upon your finger! You are poor!” “Plague on my poverty!” poor Vincen cried, Tearing his hair. “Is God who hath denied All that could make life worthy,--is He just? And wherefore are we poor? And wherefore must We still the refuse of the vineyard gather, While others pluck the purple clusters rather?” Lifting his hands, the old man sternly said, “Weave on, and drive this folly from your head! Shall the corn-ears rebuke the reaper, pray? Or silly worm to God the Father say, ‘Why am I not a star in heaven to shine?’ Or shall the ox to be a drover pine, “So to eat corn instead of straw? Nay, nay! Through good and ill we all must hold our way. The hand’s five fingers were unequal made. Be you a lizard, as your Master bade, And dwell content upon your wall apart, And drink your sunbeam with a thankful heart!” “I tell thee, father, I this maid adore More than my sister, than my Maker more; And if I have her not, ’tis death, I say!” Then to the rough stream Vincen fled away; While little Vinceneto burst out weeping, Let fall her net, and near the weaver creeping,--