THE SONG OF THE SHEALING.* O WHO sits and sings the sad song of the Shealing, Dead still through the shadows the moonlight is stealing, She sitteth in silence, and singeth so slowly; She milks the dark kine with her fingers so fair. Dark strewn on the grass are the stones of the Shealing, Here morning to gloaming the black hawk is wheeling, She comes from her cave, with her kine, and sits there. O who would not hark to the song of the Shealing! The day comes again, happy voices are pealing, O red in the sunset the kine gather yonder, The maidens are milking with rosy feet bare ; O green was the pasture, and sweet was the Shealing, When the moon rose so silently up from the sea. *The rude cluster of huts in the midst of the distant pasturage whither the cattle were driven in summer, and where they grazed for many weeks, attended by the women and maidens of the farm. And on the green knolls walked the loved and the lover, Wrapt warm in one plaid, with one thought and one care: I see them! I hear them! my heart's running over,— The song of the Shealing is sad on the air. O spirit of whiteness, O ghost of the Shealing! The white owl looks out through the threshold so chill. There's a star on Ben Rannoch shines softly above you, It sparkles all night on the dew in your hair: FILIPPO, PAINTER. III. DARKNESS, which falls very suddenly in Rome, was near the city before Filippo and Bianca reached their homes. "For to-night, then, fare thee well, my life," he said, as they stood, trying to part, by the church which marked the boundary prescribed by Bianca. "Henceforth one home shall hold us both. Thou wilt be mine to-morrow, Bianca? Priests are many in Rome. What! not to-morrow?—and to-morrow is yet so far away! Ah, Bianca, if thou didst know how bare and unfurnished my poor home will look all that long to-morrow, that has been blessed with thee to-day! What art waiting for, Bianca? Thou wilt not change that gown for any costlier? I would not have thee change one thread-I love thee as thou art." "Thou wouldst, indeed, that I change naught?-in dress or hair?" Nay, I beseech thee not." "Good, Filippo. This silver hand, then," said she, touching it with her finger tips, and smiling coyly, "shall remain open-shall not be changed for one with closed palm." 66 Nay!" said he, laughing; "thou knowest I meant not that, sweet Bianca. Change it to-morrow with thy girlhood, and be a Roman matron, wilt thou?" ""Tis easier spoken than done. Thou hast thought nothing of home, or house, or wherewithal. I want no gear, Filippo, seeing this pleases thee; but I will not wed thee to bring thee to starvation. Hast any money, Filippo?" "Thou art so worldly. But I have two scudi, and an order for a picture." "For a good patron?" "Ay!-one who pays well and quickly." "When will it be finished?" "By the time the scudi are spent, and thou askest more of me." "Canst finish it in a week?" "Nay; in a fortnight." "Then we will wait for that, Filippo." "I cannot! "Tis cruel to ask it, Bianca!" he cried, impetuously. "Would I had not gone into the cursed Lotto!" she said, sadly, turning her face away. "Didst lose, then? Ah! I feared so, and forgot to ask thee once more, because I feared to lose a greater prize. But, Bianca, I bless thee for naming that thing. How much wilt thou promise to wed me on? Five scudi? ten scudi? and the picture?" "How wilt thou get five scudi ?" "Where thou didst lose, thou sweetest soul! Bianca, 'tis a week, saving one day, till the Lotto comes round again. If I win, wilt thou wed me that self-same day?" "Ay! I will wed thee!" "Then may all angels lend the week their wings!" said Filippo. And the week passed, and priest and acolyte and herald passed into the red-draped balcony; and into the piazza streamed the eager people, ragged, starved, hungry, but drunk with the fatal intoxication of a delusive hope. Taller than the dark natives beside him by a head and shoulders, with his fair locks tossed back upon his forehead, and his pale, manly face upturned to the wheel of fate above him, Filippo the painter is not easily mistaken. We look for the form of Bianca beside him, but we fail to find her. He has come alone to hear alone, and then to carry to his mistress, the tidings of his weal or woe. For he cannot feel it is Bianca's woe so all entirely as it is his own; else had she never laid that bar of five bright scudi between them and their bliss. Yet never reproach has neared the heart or lips of Filippo; he loves too vastly, with his passionate, headlong, blinded, new-found love. The sun, that strikes down hotly now upon ill-covered or uncovered heads, seems to have only touched the fairer skin of the young painter, while round him, like bronzed statues, the sallow Romans group themselves in whispering knots of twos and threes; statues in all but the wretched fluttering garments or ill-falling coats they wear for togas. The wheel is flying now, in a quick whirl: madly the little papers dance and leap and crackle as they go. The acolyte turns back his sleeves, makes the sign of the cross, draws. Filippo's hand is tightly closed upon his number; he opens it a moment to make sure that it is safe. Number twenty-one. He has taken it from the age of Bianca; and surely such a number cannot, cannot fail! "Fifty-five!" Well, that is but the first. Filippo has yet four chances still. "Eighty-nine!" The hoarse wail and murmur from the crowd, and tightening of many hands over many tickets. "Sixty-three!" The numbers are all running high to-day; and Filippo's number is so far from high. Poor Filippo! "Thirty-eight!" Ah! that is nearer; it may fall yet. "Twenty-" Filippo's heart gives a bound. Yes, twenty, poor Filippo!-but not twenty-one." All the fair locks come falling on his forehead; wearily the tired eyes turn upon the crowd. Filippo feels hopelessly in his empty pocket. He has risked all, and now he has lost all. It was worth risking all for such a prize. He is a man still, and he has something more than Roman blood within him. He bears up bravely; but, ah me! that empty home! that cursed Lotto! that unfinished picture! "Friend Filippo," says one, touching him on the shoulder, and he looks up, or rather down, to find a little cluster of folk about him; "friend Filippo, thou hast well done!" "How so?" he asks, sharply. "How so in so nearly drawing the prize. Twenty-one is thy number, eh? and twenty was the winner! Try thy luck again, good painter; thou'lt reach the mark next time!" "Idiot!" said Filippo, pushing himself out through the crowd. 66 "Nay, nay," shout a dozen voices; "go not, we pray thee, till thou hast given us a number. Thou art so nearly winner. Say, where didst thou find thy twenty-one'?—by blood, or age, or accident, or how?" "By a way thou canst not," he answered, gruffly, pushing the last speaker aside. But half-way up the street they still followed him, with their cry, "Date me un numero! Per amor di Dio!" One, seeing a child playing with stones or walnuts, darted across the street to count them. Another hurried home repeating the number of a shop, upon which, doubtless, by the direct interposition of the Holy Mother, his eye had fallen. And the rest, seeing no help likely to be dealt them by Filippo, dropped off one by one, and suffered him to pass on in peace. A sorry peace it was. And yet the time was not long before he had reached the Trastevere. As he went he had done as a man in trouble should; he had bethought him how to reclimb the height from which he had fallen. Somewhat cheered by the hope before him and Bianca's priceless love, his face had lost a little of its distress before the church, where she was to await him, appeared in sight. But when his eyes fell upon her, so true to her promise, watching by the porch there, shining like a bright jewel from out the shadows, and with the hope he had laid by hovering upon her parted lips as she smiled out his welcome, his courage ebbed away, and she read the message in his silence. "Bianca," said he, drawing close to her, "it is all lost-all the three scudi-thy one, my two. And now adieu happiness for two weary weeks ;" and he sat down wearily upon the steps, and covered his face with his hands. |