Page:Keats, poems published in 1820 (Robertson, 1909).djvu/108

LXII.

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things,

⁠Asking for her lost Basil amorously;490
And with melodious chuckle in the strings
⁠Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings,
⁠To ask him where her Basil was; and why
'Twas hid from her: "For cruel 'tis," said she,
"To steal my Basil-pot away from me."

LXIII.

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn,

⁠Imploring for her Basil to the last.
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn
⁠In pity of her love, so overcast.500
And a sad ditty of this story born
⁠From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd:
Still is the burthen sung—"O cruelty,
To steal my Basil-pot away from me!"