Had brought him back, Naddo and Squarcialupe And Tagliafer; how strange! a childhood spent In taking, well for him, so brave a bent! Since Eglamor," they heard, "was dead with spite, And Palma chose him for her minstrel." Light Sordello rose--to think, now; hitherto He had perceived. Sure, a discovery grew Out of it all! Best live from first to last The transport o'er again. A week he passed, Sucking the sweet out of each circumstance, From the bard's outbreak to the luscious trance Bounding his own achievement. Strange! A man Recounted an adventure, but began Imperfectly; his own task was to fill The framework up, sing well what he sung ill, Supply the necessary points, set loose As many incidents of little use --More imbecile the other, not to see Their relative importance clear as he! But, for a special pleasure in the act Of singing--had he ever turned, in fact, From Elys, to sing Elys?--from each fit Of rapture to contrive a song of it? True, this snatch or the other seemed to wind Into a treasure, helped himself to find A beauty in himself; for, see, he soared By means of that mere snatch, to many a hoard Of fancies; as some falling cone hears soft The eye along the fir-tree spire, aloft To a dove's nest. Then, how divine the cause Why such performance should exact applause From men, if they had fancies too? Did fate Decree they found a beauty separate In the poor snatch itself?--"Take Elys, there, --'Her head that's sharp and perfect like a pear, So close and smooth are laid the few fine locks Colored like honey oozed from topmost rocks Sun-blanched the livelong summer'--if they heard Just those two rhymes, assented at my word, And loved them as I love them who have run These fingers through those pale locks, let the sun Into the white cool skin--who first could clutch, Then praise--I needs must be a god to such. Or what if some, above themselves, and yet [Sidenote: How had he been superior to Eglamor?] Beneath me, like their Eglamor, have set An impress on our gift? So, men believe And worship what they know not, nor receive Delight from. Have they fancies--slow, perchance, Not at their beck, which indistinctly glance Until, by song, each floating part be linked To each, and all grow palpable, distinct?" He pondered this. Meanwhile, sounds low and drear Stole on him, and a noise of footsteps, near And nearer, while the underwood was pushed Aside, the larches grazed, the dead leaves crushed At the approach of men. The wind seemed laid; Only, the trees shrunk slightly and a shade Came o'er the sky although 't was mid-day yet: You saw each half-shut downcast floweret Flutter--"a Roman bride, when they 'd dispart