At the one weakness! 'Twas a fervid child, That song of his; no brother of the guild Had e'er conceived its like. The rest you know, The exaltation and the overthrow: Our poet lost his purpose, lost his rank, His life--to that it came. Yet envy sank Within him, as he heard Sordello out, And, for the first time, shouted--tried to shout Like others, not from any zeal to show Pleasure that way: the common sort did so. What else was Eglamor? who, bending down As they, placed his beneath Sordello's crown, Printed a kiss on his successor's hand, Left one great tear on it, then joined his band --In time; for some were watching at the door: Who knows what envy may effect? "Give o'er, Nor charm his lips, nor craze him!" (here one spied And disengaged the withered crown)--"Beside His crown? How prompt and clear those verses rang To answer yours! nay, sing them!" And he sang Them calmly. Home he went; friends used to wait His coming, zealous to congratulate; But, to a man,--so quickly runs report,-- Could do no less than leave him, and escort His rival. That eve, then, bred many a thought: What must his future life be? was he brought So low, who stood so lofty this Spring morn? At length he said, "Best sleep now with my scorn, And by to-morrow I devise some plain Expedient!" So, he slept, nor woke again. [Sidenote: Ending with what had possessed him.] They found as much, those friends, when they returned O'erflowing with the marvels they had learned About Sordello's paradise, his roves Among the hills and vales and plains and groves, Wherein, no doubt, this lay was roughly cast, Polished by slow degrees, completed last To Eglamor's discomfiture and death. Such form the chanters now, and, out of breath, They lay the beaten man in his abode, Naddo reciting that same luckless ode, Doleful to hear. Sordello could explore By means of it, however, one step more In joy; and, mastering the round at length, Learnt how to live in weakness as in strength, When from his covert forth he stood, addressed Eglamor, bade the tender ferns invest, Primæval pines o'ercanopy his couch, And, most of all, his fame--(shall I avouch Eglamor heard it, dead though he might look, And laughed as from his brow Sordello took The crown, and laid on the bard's breast, and said It was a crown, now, fit for poet's head?) --Continue. Nor the prayer quite fruitless fell, A plant they have, yielding a three-leaved bell Which whitens at the heart ere noon, and ails Till evening; evening gives it to her gales To clear away with such forgotten things As are an eyesore to the morn: this brings Him to their mind, and hears his very name. [Sidenote: Eglamor done with, Sordello begins.] So much for Eglamor. My own month came;