I

'GUIDARELLO GUIDARELLI!'
Ran a murmur low or loud,
As he rode with lifted vizor,
Smiling on the anxious crowd.

'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
Rang the cry from street and tower,
As our Guido rode to battle
In Ravenna's darkest hour.

'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
Little thought we of his doom
When a love-cast rain of roses
Fell on saddle, mail, and plume.

Low he bowed, and laughing gaily
Set one red rose in his crest,
All his mail a scarlet splendor
Frem the red sun of the west.

'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
So, he passed to meet his fate,
With the cry of 'Guidarelli!'
And the clangor of the gate.

II

Well, at eve we bore him homeward,
Lying on our burdened spears.
Ah! defeat had been less bitter,
And had cost us fewer tears.

At her feet we laid her soldier,
While men saw her with amaze—
Fearless, tearless, waiting patient,
Some wild challenge in her gaze.

Then the hand that rained the roses
Fell upon his forehead cold.
'Go!' she cried, 'ye faltering cravens!
One that fled, your shame has told.

'Go! How dare ye look upon him—
Ye who failed him in the fight?
Off! ye beaten hounds, and leave me
With my lonely dead to-night!'

No man answered, and they left us
Where our darling Guido lay.
I alone, who stood beside him
In the fight, made bold to stay.

'Shut the gate!' she cried. I closed it.
'Lay your hand upon his breast;
Were you true to him?' 'Ay, surely,
As I hope for Jesu's rest!'

Then I saw her staring past me,
As to watch a bird that flies,
All the light of youthful courage
Fading from her valiant eyes.

And with one hoarse cry of anguish
On the courtyard stones she fell,
Crying, 'Guido Guidarelli!'
Like the harsh notes of a bell

Breaking with its stress of sweetness,
Hence to know a voiceless pain.
'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
Never did she speak again:

Save, 't is said, she wins, when dreaming,
Tender memories of delight;
'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
Crying through the quiet night.

III

Ah! you like it? Well, I made it
Ere death aged upon his face.
See, I caught the parted lip-lines
And the lashes' living grace:

For the gentle soul within him,
Freed by death, had lingered here,
Kissing his dead face to beauty,
As to bless a home grown dear.

He, my lord, was pure as woman,
Past the thought of man's belief;
Truth and honor here are written,
And some strangeness of relief

Born beneath my eager chisel
As a child is born—a birth
To my parent-skill mysterious,
Of, and yet not all of, earth.

Still one hears our women singing,—
For a love-charm, so 't is said,—
'Guidarello Guidarelli!'
Like a love-mass for the dead.

In caressing iteration
With his name their voices play—
'Elli, Nelli, Guidarelli,'
Through some busy market-day.

Ah, my lord, I have the fancy
That through many a year to come
This I wrought shall make the stranger
Share our grief when mine is dumb.