I die then! Will the rest agree to die? Next Age or no? Shall its Sordello try Clue after clue, and catch at last the clue I miss?--that 's underneath my finger too, Twice, thrice a day, perhaps,--some yearning traced Deeper, some petty consequence embraced Closer! Why fled I Mantua, then?--complained So much my Will was fettered, yet remained Content within a tether half the range I could assign it?--able to exchange My ignorance (I felt) for knowledge, and Idle because I could thus understand-- Could e'en have penetrated to its core Our mortal mystery, yet--fool--forbore, Preferred elaborating in the dark My casual stuff, by any wretched spark Born of my predecessors, though one stroke Of mine had brought the flame forth! Mantua's yoke, My minstrel's-trade, was to behold mankind,-- My own concern was just to bring my mind Behold, just extricate, for my acquist, Each object suffered stifle in the mist Which hazard, custom, blindness interpose Betwixt things and myself." Whereat he rose. The level wind carried above the firs Clouds, the irrevocable travellers, Onward. "Pushed thus into a drowsy copse, Arms twine about my neck, each eyelid drops Under a humid finger; while there fleets, Outside the screen, a pageant time repeats Never again! To be deposed, immured [Sidenote: While renunciation ensures despair.] Clandestinely--still petted, still assured To govern were fatiguing work--the Sight Fleeting meanwhile! 'T is noontide: wreak ere night Somehow my will upon it, rather! Slake This thirst somehow, the poorest impress take That serves! A blasted bud displays you, torn, Faint rudiments of the full flower unborn; But who divines what glory coats o'erclasp Of the bulb dormant in the mummy's grasp Taurello sent?" ... "Taurello? Palma sent Your Trouvere," (Naddo interposing leant Over the lost bard's shoulder)--"and, believe, You cannot more reluctantly receive Than I pronounce her message: we depart Together. What avail a poet's heart Verona's pomps and gauds? five blades of grass Suffice him. News? Why, where your marish was, On its mud-banks smoke rises after smoke I' the valley, like a spout of hell new-broke. Oh, the world's tidings! small your thanks, I guess, For them. The father of our Patroness Has played Taurello an astounding trick, Parts between Ecelin and Alberic His wealth and goes into a convent: both Wed Guelfs: the Count and Palma plighted troth A week since at Verona: and they want You doubtless to contrive the marriage-chant Ere Richard storms Ferrara." Then was told The tale from the beginning--how, made bold By Salinguerra's absence, Guelfs had burned And pillaged till he unawares returned