Denzil place a story in verse. By Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] |
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| I. |
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| II. |
| III. |
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| V. |
| VI. |
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| VII. | VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
 | Denzil place |  |
133
VII.
“Italia, Italia, o tu cui feo la sorte
Dono infelice di bellezza; ond' hai
Funesta dote d'infiniti guai
Che in fronte scritti per grand doglia porte.”
Vincenzo Filicaia.
Dono infelice di bellezza; ond' hai
Funesta dote d'infiniti guai
Che in fronte scritti per grand doglia porte.”
Vincenzo Filicaia.
“. . . . . . . . . . A land
Which was the mightiest in its old command
And is the loveliest, and must ever be
The master mould of Nature's heavenly brand
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free,
The beautiful, the brave, the lords of earth and sea.”
Byron.
Oh, Italy! how dare I write of thee
When other bolder lips than mine have fail'd
To sing thy praise as I would have it sung?—
Home of the myrtle and the violet—
Sky of serenest, clearest, bluest blue,
Earth of intensest, warmest fruitfulness—
Where life is liv'd, and ev'ry quicken'd sense
Impatient, drinks in loveliness, and feasts
On wonder after wonder!
When other bolder lips than mine have fail'd
To sing thy praise as I would have it sung?—
Home of the myrtle and the violet—
Sky of serenest, clearest, bluest blue,
Earth of intensest, warmest fruitfulness—
134
Impatient, drinks in loveliness, and feasts
On wonder after wonder!
Having bask'd
Beneath thy glorious, seldom-shrouded sun,
And lov'd beneath thy scented orange boughs,
Dear land of Art, of Beauty, and of Love,
Now that my happy lips can proudly add
The name of Freedom to thy list of charms,
Fain would I, when my journey here is done
Mix with thy sweet emancipated Earth!
Constance had sought this land which, like herself,
Beneath thy glorious, seldom-shrouded sun,
And lov'd beneath thy scented orange boughs,
Dear land of Art, of Beauty, and of Love,
Now that my happy lips can proudly add
The name of Freedom to thy list of charms,
Fain would I, when my journey here is done
Mix with thy sweet emancipated Earth!
Was bless'd (or cursed) by Heaven with the dow'r—
‘The fatal dow'r of Beauty,’ but alas
For her, altho' resembling Italy
In being born to this fair heritage—
E'en more unfortunate than that sweet land
She groan'd in faster fetters;—all in vain
For her Italia's liberators rose,
Mazzini, Garibaldi, and Cavour,
Breaking a bondage less inveterate
Than was her own; weighing upon the heart
The burden of a fatal servitude
135
A lovely slave in chains—(those chains that seem
To some like brittle bands of summer flow'rs,
As Love, descending airily on them
With the soft 'lighting of a butterfly,
Leaves no sad trace behind to mark the place
Where his white wings have press'd, whilst on another
More keenly sensitive, he burns a scar
Searing and withering unto the core
The hapless heart that never more is whole.)
How could she free herself from all the host
Of newly waken'd torments? How subdue
The multitude of restless enemies
Besieging her, and harassing her soul?
Love and Despair, and vascillating Hope,
And Self-reproach, and Jealousy, and Doubt?
How put to flight these fierce invading foes—
These tyrants—these Tedeschi of the heart?
The town near which sad Constance made a home
Was by the shores of that delightful sea
Tideless, and often bluer than the sky
Kissing its utmost edge; towards the hills
136
And olive-grounds, where nestling in the shade
Of orange-groves, and dim with treliss'd ways
O'errun with creepers, painted villas rose
With cool low rooms, paved with their octagons
Of shining crimson tiles, whilst on their walls
The cunning artist had depicted scenes
Repeating those the gay Venetian blinds
Shut out from view—long line of sunny sea
And orange-gardens, sombre cypress trees
And sparkling fountains; all the ceilings too
Seem'd mimic vaults of heav'n, altho' the art
Of mortal painter could not imitate
The cloudless blue of the Italian sky.
In one of these my heroine dwelt alone
An exile and a penitent: her home,
The smallest of two villas which were call'd
By the same name, stood in the garden grounds
Of its more spacious neighbour. Those who know
The wondrous beauties of that flowr'y land
Will see in fancy such a fairy place
As was this southern garden! Tow'rds the left
(Looking to seaward) rose the boundary
Which shut this Eden from the outer world—
A sunny wall of stucco, painted pink,
Where, sporting in and out the frequent chinks
Left by the clumsy scaffolding, she watch'd
The playful pointed lizards in the sun.
She often strove to catch them, but in vain;
Like many other far more precious things
They glided thro' her fingers, or, at times
Half blinded with the glory of the sun,
She only grasp'd a shadow, scaring thus
The fleet reality, which slid away
Leaving her empty-handed.
An exile and a penitent: her home,
The smallest of two villas which were call'd
By the same name, stood in the garden grounds
Of its more spacious neighbour. Those who know
The wondrous beauties of that flowr'y land
Will see in fancy such a fairy place
As was this southern garden! Tow'rds the left
(Looking to seaward) rose the boundary
137
A sunny wall of stucco, painted pink,
Where, sporting in and out the frequent chinks
Left by the clumsy scaffolding, she watch'd
The playful pointed lizards in the sun.
She often strove to catch them, but in vain;
Like many other far more precious things
They glided thro' her fingers, or, at times
Half blinded with the glory of the sun,
She only grasp'd a shadow, scaring thus
The fleet reality, which slid away
Leaving her empty-handed.
Near this wall
Was built a shady summer-house or bow'r
In which there was a window, garlanded
With many-colour'd roses, clematis,
And tendrils of the scarlet passion-flow'r.
Oft sitting in this leafy balcony
That over-look'd the narrow stone-paved way
Which led down from the mountains to the town
She mused for hours, fann'd by delicious air,
And list'ning to the unaccustom'd sounds
Wafted around her. Tinkling southern chimes,
The ratt'ling hoofs of heavy-laden mules,
The cracking whips of sun-burnt muleteers
Who goaded on with curses or with songs
The patient creatures, smother'd with their bells
And scarlet tassels. Seated carelessly
Amongst their panniers, knitting as they rode,
The black-eyed peasant-women laugh'd and joked
And shouted to the men. Or, sadder sounds
Would reach her, when the brown Franciscan friars
Pass'd, bearing to their convent in the hills
The silent dead. The painted effigies
Upon the waving banners which they bore
Reach'd almost to the window where she sat,—
The twinkling candles, and the crucifix
Uplifted high in air, to which there hung
The ghastly figure of a naked Christ
Surrounded by the horrid instruments
Of human torture, sponge, and murd'rous spear
And wreath of biting thorns—all these recall'd
With painful vividness the agony
Of God on earth; anon, from time to time
Long after the procession pass'd her by,
Borne back upon the gentle southern breeze
She heard again that dismal monotone.
The convent had been hidden in the shade
Of sombre olive-trees, but that aloft
Its pointed belfry, roof'd with colour'd tiles
Betray'd the refuge of those holy men
Who here had fled the turmoil of the world
Vowing to bear perpetual poverty
And live according to the godly rules
Dictated by St. Francis. Or, again,
When western breezes, with their balmy breath,
Changed the dim branches to a shining sea
Of glist'ning brightness, turning heavenwards
The silver under lining of their leaves,
Then Constance could behold betwixt the boughs
The high enclosing walls, and thro' the gates
Could catch a glimpse of tombstones gay with flow'rs
And color'd crosses, many deck'd like shrines
With off'rings of affection; for 'twas there
Towards the convent gates that Constance oft
Would take her morning stroll, or, with her book
'Twas there she sat beneath the olive-trees
And watch'd the monks, clad in their russet gowns,
Go forth in twos and threes, some bearing sacks
And empty baskets, making for the town
To beg or market. She would try to guess
What cause induced each individual
To live this life, and wove strange histories
Of blighted hopes, or unrequited love,
Or sad bereavement, making of the world
A place so desolate, that it were best
To shut its mem'ries out with iron gates
And massive walls; but these were only dreams
Of one who thought that all the world, like her,
Had lov'd and suffer'd;—this religious sect,
Mostly recruited from a peasantry
Sunk in the lowest depths of ignorance
And superstition, scarcely boasted one
Whose life would be more worthy to record
Than that of a dumb animal which toils
And helps to till the fertile earth, whose flow'rs
It is too dull and weary to admire—
For them no sentimental griefs of heart
Or morbid longings for a solitude
Remote from haunts of men! those iron ills
Of human life, disease and poverty,
Had driven fishermen too old to fish,
Or muleteers too lame to drive their mules,
Into this forced seclusion, nothing loth
They changed their well-worn homespun coats of blue
For the brown, heavy-looking, holy cloth
Of the Franciscan order;—ill they learnt
And even worse pronounced their Latin pray'rs,
These poor Italian peasants, but their dress,
Their shaven tonsures, and their sandal'd feet
Fill'd Constance with a sense of mystic awe—
To her they seem'd the pious chosen few
Who, for the love of Christ, had put away
Those evil lusts and longings of the flesh
So dear to man, and here in solitude
And constant pray'r had buried evermore
The recollections of their stormy lives.
Ah, all the storms they ponder'd on were those
Was built a shady summer-house or bow'r
In which there was a window, garlanded
With many-colour'd roses, clematis,
And tendrils of the scarlet passion-flow'r.
Oft sitting in this leafy balcony
That over-look'd the narrow stone-paved way
Which led down from the mountains to the town
She mused for hours, fann'd by delicious air,
And list'ning to the unaccustom'd sounds
Wafted around her. Tinkling southern chimes,
The ratt'ling hoofs of heavy-laden mules,
138
Who goaded on with curses or with songs
The patient creatures, smother'd with their bells
And scarlet tassels. Seated carelessly
Amongst their panniers, knitting as they rode,
The black-eyed peasant-women laugh'd and joked
And shouted to the men. Or, sadder sounds
Would reach her, when the brown Franciscan friars
Pass'd, bearing to their convent in the hills
The silent dead. The painted effigies
Upon the waving banners which they bore
Reach'd almost to the window where she sat,—
The twinkling candles, and the crucifix
Uplifted high in air, to which there hung
The ghastly figure of a naked Christ
Surrounded by the horrid instruments
Of human torture, sponge, and murd'rous spear
And wreath of biting thorns—all these recall'd
With painful vividness the agony
Of God on earth; anon, from time to time
Long after the procession pass'd her by,
Borne back upon the gentle southern breeze
She heard again that dismal monotone.
139
Of sombre olive-trees, but that aloft
Its pointed belfry, roof'd with colour'd tiles
Betray'd the refuge of those holy men
Who here had fled the turmoil of the world
Vowing to bear perpetual poverty
And live according to the godly rules
Dictated by St. Francis. Or, again,
When western breezes, with their balmy breath,
Changed the dim branches to a shining sea
Of glist'ning brightness, turning heavenwards
The silver under lining of their leaves,
Then Constance could behold betwixt the boughs
The high enclosing walls, and thro' the gates
Could catch a glimpse of tombstones gay with flow'rs
And color'd crosses, many deck'd like shrines
With off'rings of affection; for 'twas there
Towards the convent gates that Constance oft
Would take her morning stroll, or, with her book
'Twas there she sat beneath the olive-trees
And watch'd the monks, clad in their russet gowns,
Go forth in twos and threes, some bearing sacks
And empty baskets, making for the town
To beg or market. She would try to guess
140
To live this life, and wove strange histories
Of blighted hopes, or unrequited love,
Or sad bereavement, making of the world
A place so desolate, that it were best
To shut its mem'ries out with iron gates
And massive walls; but these were only dreams
Of one who thought that all the world, like her,
Had lov'd and suffer'd;—this religious sect,
Mostly recruited from a peasantry
Sunk in the lowest depths of ignorance
And superstition, scarcely boasted one
Whose life would be more worthy to record
Than that of a dumb animal which toils
And helps to till the fertile earth, whose flow'rs
It is too dull and weary to admire—
For them no sentimental griefs of heart
Or morbid longings for a solitude
Remote from haunts of men! those iron ills
Of human life, disease and poverty,
Had driven fishermen too old to fish,
Or muleteers too lame to drive their mules,
Into this forced seclusion, nothing loth
They changed their well-worn homespun coats of blue
141
Of the Franciscan order;—ill they learnt
And even worse pronounced their Latin pray'rs,
These poor Italian peasants, but their dress,
Their shaven tonsures, and their sandal'd feet
Fill'd Constance with a sense of mystic awe—
To her they seem'd the pious chosen few
Who, for the love of Christ, had put away
Those evil lusts and longings of the flesh
So dear to man, and here in solitude
And constant pray'r had buried evermore
The recollections of their stormy lives.
Braved on that beautiful capricious sea
Which Constance lov'd; of these they often talk'd
With holy brethren—brethren once who shared
Their ocean perils and their finny spoil.
Within the cloisters of the nunnery
Which stood still further hidden in the hills,
There may, perchance, have throbb'd some heavy hearts
142
Inflicting pangs far more incurable
Than those of hunger, thirst, or rheumatism,
But yet the placid features of the nuns
Seem'd to belie this pitying surmise,
As Constance heard them, in their modest tones,
Give her a smiling blessing as they pass'd.
Of one of these, the sympathetic voice,
And dreamy eyes, made Constance feel for her
As for a friend. This sister show'd her o'er
The convent garden, gave her flow'rs and fruit,
And praised the while the peaceful pray'rful life
Led by herself and all the sisterhood.
“To know,” she said one day, as Constance paced
With this new-found companion up and down
The convent terrace (looking tow'rds the sea
And distant hills) “That sin can only live
“Outside the doors we close against the world—
“To feel that after God has lent us Life
“We give the gift He gave us back to Him—
“Devoting to such noble servitude
“The energies of body, mind, and soul—
“What greater happiness than this on earth?
“If, whilst our minds and our immortal souls
“Are fresh with all the warm enthusiasm
“Of our first years, what pious satisfaction
“If then for Him we mortify the flesh,
“And dedicate to Him each hidden thought,
“Each longing aspiration of the soul!
“And then the blessèd knowledge that our pray'rs
“May ease the punishments of purgatory,
“Earn'd and deserv'd by those departed souls
“Who sinn'd on earth, but which the gracious Lord,
“The blessèd son of Mary, condescends
“To mitigate and shorten; ponder well
“And ask that God may make you realize
“The sacred pow'r of pray'r—the bitter sin
“Of cold neglect.”
With this new-found companion up and down
The convent terrace (looking tow'rds the sea
And distant hills) “That sin can only live
“Outside the doors we close against the world—
“To feel that after God has lent us Life
“We give the gift He gave us back to Him—
“Devoting to such noble servitude
“The energies of body, mind, and soul—
“What greater happiness than this on earth?
143
“Are fresh with all the warm enthusiasm
“Of our first years, what pious satisfaction
“If then for Him we mortify the flesh,
“And dedicate to Him each hidden thought,
“Each longing aspiration of the soul!
“And then the blessèd knowledge that our pray'rs
“May ease the punishments of purgatory,
“Earn'd and deserv'd by those departed souls
“Who sinn'd on earth, but which the gracious Lord,
“The blessèd son of Mary, condescends
“To mitigate and shorten; ponder well
“And ask that God may make you realize
“The sacred pow'r of pray'r—the bitter sin
“Of cold neglect.”
“Ah, these are thoughts indeed,”
Constance replied, “Would lure my heart to pray,
“Could I but learn to credit such a creed!
“Most touching is the beautiful idea
“Of intercession for the helpless dead;
“Ah, who would ever dare unclasp his hands
“Or rise from off his knees, could he but deem
“This sweet belief of your's were only true!
“But we are taught a less poetic faith,
“And this to us seems like a tender tale
“To tempt the knees to bend, and lift the hands
“Of those who would not truly pray for aught
“They could not measure, taste, or understand,
“Or else associate with sentiments
“Of earthly love and friendship, reaching on
“And thus continuing e'en after death.
“If what you think is true—is true indeed—
“I pray in time to bring my stubborn mind
“To know and feel its truth; yet, if 'tis false,
“Tho' sweet the thought of praying for the dead,
“I would not lean upon a fleeting shadow
“However fair! What can our finite minds
“Know of the dim hereafter of the soul?
“One man may dream his own belief the best,
“And force his obstinate idea of Heav'n
“Or Hell, upon the vacillating minds
“Of those who do not care to think themselves,
“And like to take religion ready-made—
“But 'tis the feeble sight of one poor worm
“Leading the others who are blinder still!
“For me, I trust; I do not think I feel
“Like some, the need that any one should pluck
“The skirts of God for me—reminding Him
“To pardon. Mercy is His attribute,
“And what seems good to Him, I know is good.
“I like to think He will be merciful,
“And that our too great self-abasement pains
“One who has made us for such noble things.
“He surely must have meant that we should work
“And seek ourselves the gifts we ask of Him—
“A troop of idle, cringing mendicants
“Must please Him less, tho' crouching at His feet,
“Than the brave man who feels responsible—
“Who fights his way and wins, and lays his crown
“Of laurels at his heav'nly Father's feet
“And gives him all the glory?
Constance replied, “Would lure my heart to pray,
“Could I but learn to credit such a creed!
“Most touching is the beautiful idea
“Of intercession for the helpless dead;
“Ah, who would ever dare unclasp his hands
“Or rise from off his knees, could he but deem
“This sweet belief of your's were only true!
“But we are taught a less poetic faith,
144
“To tempt the knees to bend, and lift the hands
“Of those who would not truly pray for aught
“They could not measure, taste, or understand,
“Or else associate with sentiments
“Of earthly love and friendship, reaching on
“And thus continuing e'en after death.
“If what you think is true—is true indeed—
“I pray in time to bring my stubborn mind
“To know and feel its truth; yet, if 'tis false,
“Tho' sweet the thought of praying for the dead,
“I would not lean upon a fleeting shadow
“However fair! What can our finite minds
“Know of the dim hereafter of the soul?
“One man may dream his own belief the best,
“And force his obstinate idea of Heav'n
“Or Hell, upon the vacillating minds
“Of those who do not care to think themselves,
“And like to take religion ready-made—
“But 'tis the feeble sight of one poor worm
“Leading the others who are blinder still!
“For me, I trust; I do not think I feel
“Like some, the need that any one should pluck
“The skirts of God for me—reminding Him
145
“And what seems good to Him, I know is good.
“I like to think He will be merciful,
“And that our too great self-abasement pains
“One who has made us for such noble things.
“He surely must have meant that we should work
“And seek ourselves the gifts we ask of Him—
“A troop of idle, cringing mendicants
“Must please Him less, tho' crouching at His feet,
“Than the brave man who feels responsible—
“Who fights his way and wins, and lays his crown
“Of laurels at his heav'nly Father's feet
“And gives him all the glory?
“All the hours
“You and the Sisters pass in asking gifts
“Might surely bring you better things at last,
“Could you but go with praises in your hearts
“Out into life, and in the striving world
“Meet and subdue the Great Antagonist,
“Instead of fleeing from him! You are good,
“And I, a sinner—so forgive these words
“From my unworthy lips! I should rejoice
“To leave the weary world, and come to you
“And live in peace and pray'r amongst these hills
“And happy olive-grounds; but that, to me
“Who have so sinn'd and striven, this, the life
“You lead, would seem too passive and inert
“Tho' 'tis a life free from the bitter sting
“Of self-reproach;—forgive me for my words.”
“You and the Sisters pass in asking gifts
“Might surely bring you better things at last,
“Could you but go with praises in your hearts
“Out into life, and in the striving world
“Meet and subdue the Great Antagonist,
“Instead of fleeing from him! You are good,
“And I, a sinner—so forgive these words
“From my unworthy lips! I should rejoice
“To leave the weary world, and come to you
“And live in peace and pray'r amongst these hills
146
“Who have so sinn'd and striven, this, the life
“You lead, would seem too passive and inert
“Tho' 'tis a life free from the bitter sting
“Of self-reproach;—forgive me for my words.”
(There was a tinge in this, her argument
Of Geoffrey Denzil's subtler sophistry,
A few short years ago she had not dared
To speak thus boldly upon sacred things.)
Her words were in Italian, but the Nun
Answer'd her sadly in the English tongue—
“Dear lady, I am English, let us speak
“The language of the country I regret
“And fain would see again before I die.
“When two sad women, in a foreign land
“Led by the sacred sympathy of grief
“Thus seek companionship, and hope to find
“Not only this, but maybe friendship too,
“What need to deal in useless mysteries
“Or make concealments?”
Of Geoffrey Denzil's subtler sophistry,
A few short years ago she had not dared
To speak thus boldly upon sacred things.)
Her words were in Italian, but the Nun
Answer'd her sadly in the English tongue—
“Dear lady, I am English, let us speak
“The language of the country I regret
“And fain would see again before I die.
“When two sad women, in a foreign land
“Led by the sacred sympathy of grief
“Thus seek companionship, and hope to find
“Not only this, but maybe friendship too,
“What need to deal in useless mysteries
“Or make concealments?”
Constance smiled, and said,
“You must have wonder'd at my awkward words
“Of bad Italian! May I ask you why
“You left our native island? Do not heed
“My idle questions should they give you pain.”
“You must have wonder'd at my awkward words
“Of bad Italian! May I ask you why
147
“My idle questions should they give you pain.”
“Alas,” the Sister answer'd, “Soon is told
“The reason of my choice; my life at home
“In England, was unfortunate, I came
“Hither to lose my sad identity;
“I have succeeded, by the grace of God,
“As a frail flow'r in this sweet southern garden
“Which may have been a seedling from the north,
“Expands into a glorious second life
“Forgetful of its storm-toss'd origin,
“So have I been re-born to taste those joys
“I knew not of, the Spirit's triumphing
“Over the fallen flesh.”
“The reason of my choice; my life at home
“In England, was unfortunate, I came
“Hither to lose my sad identity;
“I have succeeded, by the grace of God,
“As a frail flow'r in this sweet southern garden
“Which may have been a seedling from the north,
“Expands into a glorious second life
“Forgetful of its storm-toss'd origin,
“So have I been re-born to taste those joys
“I knew not of, the Spirit's triumphing
“Over the fallen flesh.”
Impatient tears
Here fell from Constance's attentive eyes
As in the Sister's short biography
She traced a sad resemblance to her own.
The dew, so chilling after southern suns,
Was falling now, and ev'ry leaf and blade
Seem'd heavy with a sympathetic tear,
And Constance, shivering, drew on her cloak,
Kissed the kind Sister on her sallow cheek,
And sped towards her little twinkling home.
Here fell from Constance's attentive eyes
As in the Sister's short biography
She traced a sad resemblance to her own.
The dew, so chilling after southern suns,
Was falling now, and ev'ry leaf and blade
Seem'd heavy with a sympathetic tear,
And Constance, shivering, drew on her cloak,
148
And sped towards her little twinkling home.
All night she could not sleep, tho' worn and tired
She toss'd and turn'd, and ever and anon
Came to her mind Sister Theresa's words,
Which she repeated oft: “My life at home
“In England was unfortunate; I came
“Hither to lose my sad identity—
“I have succeeded.” . . .
She toss'd and turn'd, and ever and anon
Came to her mind Sister Theresa's words,
Which she repeated oft: “My life at home
“In England was unfortunate; I came
“Hither to lose my sad identity—
“I have succeeded.” . . .
Then at last she thought,
“I will give up the weary, wicked world,
“And live this idle, happy, pray'rful life
“Amongst the vines. Calm and self-satisfied,
“I may be spared the pain of many tears,
“And helpless, hopeless, longings to forget—
“Oh God, that it were possible to lose
“One hated, blessèd, haunting memory!”
“I will give up the weary, wicked world,
“And live this idle, happy, pray'rful life
“Amongst the vines. Calm and self-satisfied,
“I may be spared the pain of many tears,
“And helpless, hopeless, longings to forget—
“Oh God, that it were possible to lose
“One hated, blessèd, haunting memory!”
Her head was aching, and she seem'd to hear
The jingling southern chimes, now faint and low,
Now clanging with a harsh and angry tone,
And hammering a fierce discordant knell
Into her fever'd brain. The empty room
Seem'd full of chatt'ring strangers, pressing on
Into her presence; thro' the bolted doors
They seem'd to crowd and elbow one another—
She did not fear them, but she wonder'd why
The world had grown so small—so populous,
So noisy, and so sadly wearisome!—
She wonder'd at a thousand other things
Which had not seem'd so wonderful before
Compared this thing with that, and multiplied,
Subtracted—added—till her mind became
A prison-house of figures, struggling all
To make some given number. Then the twos
And threes and fours all suddenly became
Huge human forms; amazed and terrified,
She call'd for help against these horrid shapes,
And when the frighten'd servants heard her cries
They hasten'd to her, finding her alone
But raving in a fever; all her mind
Distorted, wand'ring and delirious,—
The secrets of her inmost soul let loose,
She call'd to Geoffrey, with a piteous cry,—
“Come back to me! deserted and alone
“I wander thro' the world and look for you!
“So desolate—so lonely—and so cold!”
(And here she shudder'd), then she rambled on
Of Roland and Sir John.
The jingling southern chimes, now faint and low,
Now clanging with a harsh and angry tone,
And hammering a fierce discordant knell
Into her fever'd brain. The empty room
149
Into her presence; thro' the bolted doors
They seem'd to crowd and elbow one another—
She did not fear them, but she wonder'd why
The world had grown so small—so populous,
So noisy, and so sadly wearisome!—
She wonder'd at a thousand other things
Which had not seem'd so wonderful before
Compared this thing with that, and multiplied,
Subtracted—added—till her mind became
A prison-house of figures, struggling all
To make some given number. Then the twos
And threes and fours all suddenly became
Huge human forms; amazed and terrified,
She call'd for help against these horrid shapes,
And when the frighten'd servants heard her cries
They hasten'd to her, finding her alone
But raving in a fever; all her mind
Distorted, wand'ring and delirious,—
The secrets of her inmost soul let loose,
She call'd to Geoffrey, with a piteous cry,—
“Come back to me! deserted and alone
“I wander thro' the world and look for you!
“So desolate—so lonely—and so cold!”
150
Of Roland and Sir John.
The doctor came,
And bled her, as Italian doctors bleed
Whenever they can find a fit excuse
To use their lancets. Then her auburn hair
He roughly cut with scissors, lest its weight
Should add towards the fever in her brain.
'Twas thus she lay for many weary days
And bled her, as Italian doctors bleed
Whenever they can find a fit excuse
To use their lancets. Then her auburn hair
He roughly cut with scissors, lest its weight
Should add towards the fever in her brain.
Peop'ling an almost perfect solitude
With phantoms from the unforgotten past,
And seeming oftentimes to see in dreams
Her absent lover, with his earnest eyes
Gazing at her with anxious, loving looks,
And reading all the secrets of her soul.
| Denzil place | |