nd excellent influences, to the end that not
only those who might actually behold her, but also others, might know of
her whatever words could tell. Then I wrote this sonnet:--

"So gentle and so modest doth appear
My lady when she giveth her salute,
That every tongue becometh trembling
mute,
Nor do the eyes to look upon her dare.

"And though she hears her praises, she doth
go
Benignly clothed with humility,
And like a thing come down she seems
to be
From heaven to earth, a miracle to show.

"So pleaseth she whoever cometh nigh,
She gives the heart a sweetness through
the eyes,
Which none can understand who doth
not prove.

"And from her lip there seems indeed to move
A spirit sweet and in Love's very guise,
Which goeth saying to the soul, 'Ah,
sigh!'"[U]

[Footnote U: Perhaps the spirit of the latter part of this sonnet may be
better conveyed by rendering thus:--

"So pleaseth she all those approaching nigh
her,
* * * * *
Which goeth saying to the soul, 'Aspire!'"

Compare the very beautiful Ballata vi. and Sonnet xlviii., beginning,

"Di donne io vidi una gentile schiera."
]

With this incomparable sonnet we close that part of the "Vita Nuova"
which relates to the life of Beatrice. It fitly completes the golden
record of youth. Its tender lines are the epitaph of happy days, and in
them is found that mingled sweetness and sadness which in this world are
always the final expression of love. Its tone is that of the wind of
autumn sighing among the leaves of spring. Beneath its outward meaning
lies a prophecy of joy,--but that joy is to be reached only through the
gates of death.

* * * * *

THE PHILTER.

"A draught of water, maiden fair,"
I said to the girl beside the well.
Oh, sweet was the smile on her face of guile,
As she gave me to drink,--that witch of hell!

I drank, and sweet was the draught I drank,
And thanked the giver, and still she smiled;
And her smile like a curse on my spirit sank,
Till my face grew wan, and my heart grew wild.

And lo! the light from the day was gone,
And gone was maiden, and gone was well:
The dark instead, like a wall of stone,
And rivers that roared through the dark, and fell.

Was it the draught, or was it the smile,
Or my own false heart? Ah, who shall tell?
But the bl