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The Love of Beauty.

(Sonnet.)

JOHN BOCCACCIO, love’s own squire, deep sworn

In service to all beauty, joy, and rest,—

When first the love-earned royal Mary press’d,

To her smooth cheek, his pale brows, passion-worn,—

‘Tis said, he, by her grace nigh frenzied, torn

By longings unattainable, address’d

To his chief friend most strange misgivings, lest

Some madness in his brain had thence been born.

The artist-mind alone can feel his meaning:—

Such as have watched the battle-rank’d array

Of sunset, or the face of girlhood seen in

Line-blending twilight, with sick hope. Oh! they

May feed desire on some fond bosom leaning:

But where shall such their thirst of Nature stay?

Last modified 6/2/95