Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

The Dungeon of Minturnæ.
Marius. The Cimbrian.
Marius.
What art thou, wretch, that, in the darkness com'st,
The midnight of this prison, with sly step,
Most fit for the assassin, and bared dagger
Gleaming in thy lifted grasp!

Cimbrian.
I am sent by those
Whose needs demand thy death. A single stroke
Sets us both free forever—thou from Fate,
Me from captivity.

Marius.
Slave, hast thou heart
To strike at that of Marius!

Cimbrian.
That voice—that name—
Disarm me; and those fearful eyes that roll,
Like red stars in the darkness, fill my soul
With awe that stays my hand. Master of the world,
The conqueror of my people hast thou been,—
I know thee as a Fate! I cannot harm thee.

Marius.
Go to thy senders, and from Marius say,
That, if they bare the weapon for my breast,
Let them send hither one who has not yet
Look'd in a master's eye. 'Tis not decreed
That I shall perish yet, or by such hands
As gather in Minturnæ. Get thee hence!

301

II.

Public Hall of Minturnæ.
Magistrates. The Cimbrian. Augur.
Cimbrian.
I cannot slay this man. Give me to strike
Some baser victim, or restore to me
My chains. I cannot purchase, at such price,
The freedom that I covet.

Magistrate.
Yet this man
Conquer'd thy people.

Cimbrian.
He hath conquer'd me!

Augur.
And he must conquer still!
His hour is not yet come. The Fates reserve
His weapon for their service. They have need
Of his avenging ministry, to purge
The world of its corruptions. I behold
A fearful vision of the terrible deeds
That wait upon his arm. Let him go free.
Give him due homage; clothe him with fresh robes;
Speed him in secret, with a chosen bark,
To other shores. So shall your city 'scape
Rome's wrath, and his hereafter.

Magistrate.
It is well:
This counsel looks like wisdom.

Augur.
It is more!
So the gods speak through their interpreter.

Magistrate.
Release him straightway—send him forth in honor;
We give him freedom—let the gods give safety.

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III.

Island of Ænaria.
Marius. Cethegus.
Cethegus.
Thou hast slept, Marius.

Marius.
And thou hast watch'd my sleep;
Ah! truest friend and follower, not in vain!
Dismiss that cloudy trouble from thy brows,
Those doubts that vex thy heart; for know that Fate
Still hath me in its keeping, and decrees
Yet other deeds and conquests at my hand,
And still one glorious triumph. I shall be
Once more, in Rome, a Consul! When a child,
Sporting on summer slopes, beneath old hills,
Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud,
Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence
Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.

Cethegus.
Thou'st had it six.

Marius.
One other yet remains.

Cethegus.
Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream;
For know that, while thou slept'st, our treacherous bark
Loosed sail, and left the shores.

Marius.
Gone!

Cethegus.
Clean from sight.

Marius.
Ha! ha! Now thank the gods that watch my sleep,
And save me when the might of man would fail!
Courage, my friend, that vessel speeds to wreck,
Rack'd on some lurking rock beneath the wave,
Or foundering in the tempest. We are safe!

Cethegus.
Thou'rt confident.

Marius.
As Fate and Hope can make me.
Yet look! there is an omen. We must fly
This place, for other refuge. See the strife

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Betwixt these deadly scorpions on the sands.

Cethegus.
What read'st thou in this omen?

Marius.
Sylla's soldiers
Are fast upon our heels. Get to the shore;
Some fisher's boat will help us from the land,
And bear us whither the directing Fates
Decree for refuge—safely o'er the seas
That gulf our treacherous vessel.

Cethegus.
Be it so!
I follow thee whatever be thy fate!

Marius.
Hark! dost thou hear?

Cethegus.
What sound?

Marius.
The tramp of horse;
And lo! the boat awaits us by the shore!

IV.

Marius
, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage.

Alone, but not a captive—not o'ercome
By any fate, and reckless of its doom—
Even midst the ruins by his own hand made,
There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!
What mighty thoughts, that will not be repress'd,
Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast?—
What glorious memories of the immortal strife
Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;
That giant-like, sea rival of his own
Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;
Doom'd in long conflict, through experience dread,
To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;
To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,
And yield to him who shares her ruins now!

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How, o'er his soul, with passions still that gush'd,
The wondrous past with all its memories rush'd!
These ruins were his monument. They told
Of wisest strategy, adventure bold,
Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,
That tried his genius, and approved it strong;
That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,
His country's boast, his deeds her brightest theme;
Written in brass and marble—sung in strains
That warm the blood to dances in old veins;
That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,
And crown the spirit with achieving will;
That seem eternal in the deeds they show,
And waken echoes that survive below;
Brood o'er the mortal, slumbering in the tomb,
And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,
Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,
Join in the homage, who till then were mute;
Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite
To sing the bird they could not match in flight;
Content to honor where they cannot shame,
And praise the worth they cannot rob of fame.

How, with these memories gathering in his breast,
Of all the labors that denied him rest—
Of all the triumphs that his country bore
To heights of fame she had not won before—
Broods he, the exile from his state and home,
On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!
Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,
Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.
No sad submission yields he to his fate,
So long as solace comes to him from hate,
Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace

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No single look to recompense disgrace;
With no ambition check'd, no passion hush'd,
No pride o'erthrown, no fond delusion crush'd;
With every fire alive that ever sway'd,
His soul as lordly as when most obey'd,
He broods o'er wrongs, remember'd as his own,
And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.
Fix'd on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glares, as if fasten'd on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine;
Grasp'd firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul is heard to swear!
The awful purpose, nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each feeling with the deadliest will,
But, till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”

Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore
That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;
Reveal the secret purpose that inspires
That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;
Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance
Fix'd on those ruins in intensest trance,
Which nothing speaks to that it still surveys,
And looks within, alone, with meaning gaze.
Unclose the lip, that, rigidly compress'd,
Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;
And, on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,
Write the full record of his thought profound.
What future scene beneath that piercing eye
Depicts the carnage and the victory;
The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped—
The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead?

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Say, what wild sounds have spell'd the eager ear,
That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;
How many thousands perish in that cry
That fills his bloody sense with melody?
What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,
Declare the vengeance gratified too well?
What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,
Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?
What horrid scene of triumph and of hate
Do ye discover to this man of Fate,
Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,
Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?

He hath no speech, save in the ruins round;
But there's a language born without a sound,
A voice whose thunders, though unutter'd, fly
From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;
There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,
Still tearing those that taught him how to tear;
One dream alone delighting his desire,
The dream that finds the fuel for his fire:—
Let fancy shape the language for his mood,
And speak the purpose burning in his blood.

V.

Marius.

“If thou hadst tears, O Carthage! for the voice
That speaks among thy ruins, it would cheer
The spirit that was crush'd beneath my heel,
To hear the tongue of thy destroyer swear
To live as thy avenger. I have striven
For Rome against thee, till, in frequent strife,

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Thy might was overthrown—thy might as great
As Rome's in days most palmy, save in this:
Thou hadst no soul as potent in thy service,
As I have been in hers. And thou, and all—
The Gaul, the Goth, the Cimbrian—all the tribes
That swell'd the northern torrents, and brought down,
Yearly, the volumed avalanche on Rome—
Have sunk beneath my arm, until, secure,
She sat aloft in majesty, seven-throned,
And knew or fear'd no foe. This was my work—
Nor this alone; from the patrician sway,
That used her as the creature of his will,
I pluck'd her eagles, casting down his power
Beneath plebeian footstep. For long years
Of cruellest oppression and misrule,
I took a merited vengeance on her pride,
Debasing her great sons, that, in their fall,
Her people might be men. I loved her tribes,
Since they were mine. I made their homes secure;
I raised their free condition into state—
And I am here! These ruins speak for me—
An exile—scarr'd with honorable wounds,
At seventy years, alone and desolate!

“But the o'erruling Deities decree
My triumph. From thy ruins comes a voice
Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries,
To me, as thy avenger. Thou forgiv'st
My hand the evil it hath wrought on thee,
That the same hand upon thy conqueror's head
May work like ruin. The atoning Fates
Speak through thy desolation. They declare
That I shall tread the ungrateful city's streets,
Arm'd with keen weapon and consuming fire,

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And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow
The seeds of future ruin in her heart,
So that her fall, if far less swift than thine,
Shall be yet more complete. She shall consume
With more protracted suffering. She shall pass
Through thousand ordeals of the strife and storm,
Each bitterer than the last—each worse than thine—
A dying that shall linger with its pain,
Its dread anxieties, its torturing scourge,
A period long as life, with life prolong'd,
Only for dire, deservéd miseries.
Her state shall fluctuate through successive years,
With now great shows of pride—with arrogance
That goes before destruction—that her fall
May more increase her shame. The future grows—
Dread characters, as written on a wall—
In fiery lines before me; and I read
The rise of thousands who shall follow me,
Each emulous of vengeance fell as mine,
By mine at first begotten. Yet, why gaze
In profitless survey of the work of years,
Inevitable to the prescient soul,
And leave our own undone? I hear a voice
Reproaching me that I am slow to vengeance;
Me, whom the Fates but spare a few short hours,
That I may open paths to other masters,
For whom they find the scourge. They tutor me
That mine's a present mission; not for me
To traverse the wide future, in pursuit
Of those who shall succeed me in their service,
But to speed onward in the work of terror,
So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready,
Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise,
Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins,

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Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey,
And bound to my performance as the lion,
Long crouching in his jungle, who, at last,
Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood
Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye;
A crimson sea receives me, and I tread
In billows, thus incarnadined, from nations
That bleed through ages thus at every vein.
Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still
Lurk, homeless, in these ruins that ye once
Made sacred as abodes, and deem'd secure,—
I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer,
And swear myself your soldier. I will go,
And with each footstep on some mighty neck,
Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine!
Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud,
Before my coming, Rome? Is not my spirit,
That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose,
Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant,
Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper,
That loads him with despair? Alone I come;
But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd
About me, with their service—willing creatures
That shall assist me first to work on thee,
And last upon themselves! The daylight fades,
And night belongs to vengeance. I depart,
Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror's heart.”

The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Jonson's tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome,” etc.

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VI.

Silent once more the ruins—dark the night,
Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrass'd flight;
No fears delay, no toils retard the speed
Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed;
And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure
Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure,
Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell
That summons human fiends to works of hell!
Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate,
Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate;
Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain,
Thy virtues sapp'd to break thy despot's chain!
Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong,
The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong;
Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway
That kept meet progress with the march of day;
That, from all nations pluck'd the achieving arts,
Which make sway sovereign in a people's hearts;
Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear,
There swell'd the temple's crest, the column there,
Each with its chronicle to spell the soul,
And each most precious to the crowning whole;
A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made
The admiring nations silent in thy shade;
Genius and Art commingling in thy cause,
And gods presiding o'er thy matchless laws.

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VII.

But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh,
And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky;
Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last,
And all thy glories centre in thy past—
Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath
Thine altars swells the midnight cry of death;
The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe,
But to make bare thy bosom to the blow;
From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom,
From thy own children hollow out thy tomb.
The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame,
Were those that led thee once to heights of fame:
The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast,
Is the same eagle that made great thy nest.
Hark! at his shrilly scream the sleuth-hounds wake,
The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake;
Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey
The herds they kept, most busy with the prey.
These are the flocks they foster'd from their foes,
And these are first to drink the blood that flows.
Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire
The madden'd son to prey upon the sire!
Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields
To make this last the bloodiest of his fields.
Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down—
His iron footstep planted on thy crown;
But in thy fate, 'tis something for thy pride,
Thus self-destroy'd, thou mighty suicide!

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BERTRAM:

AN ITALIAN SKETCH.

I.

Scene: The Dungeon of Bertram in the Castle of Leoni.
Leoni. Bertram.
Leoni.
Thou sleep'st as one who hath no fear—no grief!

Bertram.
As one who hath no fear; and, for my griefs,
That they permit me sleep at such an hour,
Would show them much more merciful than thou!

Leoni.
I, too, am merciful—will bring thee sleep,
So deep, as will shut out all sense of grief
From thy unlaboring senses.

Bertram.
Be it soon!

Leoni.
Is this thy prayer?

Bertram.
Dost ask?

Leoni.
Enough! Then hear!
To-morrow thou shalt have no charge in life—
The fair sky shall reject thee; the bright sun
Lend thee no succor—and the wooing breeze,
That sweeps so sweetly through yon window grate,
Shall only stir the long grass on thy grave!
Dost hear what I have spoken? Thou shalt die!

Bertram.
'Tis well!

Leoni.
No more?

Bertram.
What more wouldst have? Thy power

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To which I may oppose nor prayer nor pleading,
Needs not my vain acknowledgment of grief;—
And fears I have none.

Leoni.
Is all sense of hope
Utterly dead within thee? Does no dream
Rise up before thy fancies, fraught with pleasure,
That life prolong'd may bring thee—happiest hours,
In sunshine or in shade—such as thy bosom
Was once most blest to dream of? Thou hast been
A very bird of the summer, in thy flight,
No less than music. Thou couldst clip the air
With ever-glad embraces; couldst delight
The groves with the spring sweetness of thy song,
And fed'st on all the flowery fields of life,
With never satiate appetite and hope!—
Is thy privation nothing?—the great loss
Of the things visible and glorious, thou
Hast ever sought with such a fresh delight?
The woods and waters—this fair earth and sky,
Glowing in birds and blossoms; and the night
Proud in its starr'd luxuriance; and that moon,
Whose pallid disk looks mournful through yon bars,
As if to yield thee sympathy. A while,
Her beams will gleam upon thy silent grave,
And seek thee through the grasses on its slopes,
And thou know nothing.

Bertram.
Be it as thou sayest.

Leoni.
I tell thee, by the morrow thou shalt sleep
I' the iron grasp of death.

Bertram.
One word for all!
Time ceased with me to-day—and in her grave
Sleep all my earthly morrows.

Leoni.
Obdurate!
Yet would a prayer become thee.

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Bertram.
Not to thee!
My prayers are not for life—nor yet for death—
And, if for mercy, but to Him, whose power
Leads through the awful future, in whose shadows
I see no sway of thine! Thou couldst not answer
To any prayer I make thee.

Leoni.
Not for life?

Bertram.
No!
Life were no mercy now. The light which made
My life on earth, now beckons through the gates
Which thou mayst ope, not shut! Thou hast o'erstept
The limits of thy policy. Thy power,
That smote too soon the victim in thy grasp,
Forever lost its sway, in the foul blow,
That rather spoke the madness of thy hate,
Than made its purpose sure. For prayer of mine,
Invoking life for me, denied to her,
Thou wait'st but vainly. Not to mock thy power
Do I contemn thy mercy; but that blessing
Were now no boon to me. I hear the doom
Thy lips have spoken, and I welcome it!—
Will meet it with no struggle and no prayer,
But, in such meek humility of heart—
Not reft of every hope—which best becomes
These bonds, this weakness—conscious that I breathe
In thy forbearance only. Let the axe
Be sharpen'd and in readiness—the neck
Is bared, and bent already, for the blow!

Leoni.
Die in thy pride! I would have wrung the prayer
From thy unnatural bosom, to deny thee;
Would first have moved thee to an abject homage,
That shame, as well as death, might fasten on thee,
Defiling thy past honors; and have shown thee,
Clipping with eager arms about my knees,

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While my feet tramp thee to the kindred dust
Which stains thy insolent forehead.

Bertram.
Oh! I know thee!

Leoni.
Thou know'st me! Well! it needs not that I tell thee
Thy doom is written! With the sun, thou diest!

II.

Bertram—solus.
Bertram.

I will not shame his brightness! He will blaze
For other seasons. He will bring their fruits,
And cheer to song the throats of merry birds,
And ripen yellow harvests for the race,
In multitudinous lands; and I shall lose
These joys, which never fail'd till now to gladden
This weary heart of mine! But now their sweets
Bring me no hope; nor, with their sweets denied,
Do I feel loss. 'Twas in her love that grew
The season's bounty—and the glorious smile
That bless'd me in the rising of the sun,
And cheer'd me in the music of the bird,
And charm'd me in the beauty of the flower,
And taught me, in the fragrance-blessing earth,
The way to countless blessings, which no more
I find in earth or sky, in song of birds,
Beauty in flowers, or glory in the day!
My day is night: my prayer is for that sleep
That sees no more the day from which is gone
The soul's one beauty, giving charm to all!
Nor is the night which now approacheth fast—
Through which my feet must go—the final night,

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Whose coming makes men falter, with a fear
That, in the unknown, still dreads the worst of knowledge—
Without its welcoming light! I have o'ercome
The natural fears of death,—which, in our youth,
Must ever be a Terror! Doubt and dread
Grow passive, in that weariness of soul
When life maintains no hope; and death puts on
The aspect of a friend to him who feels
How toilsome and how endless is the day
Consumed without a quest, through barren realms
That Love hath ceased to brighten with his beams,
Or freshen with his flowers. My woes, that brought
Despair for one dread season, and dismay
That still o'erwhelms my heart, hath also taught
Elsewhere to seek the Comforter! And Fear,
That found on earth but Tyranny, beyond,
Looks upward for protection. He whom Power
Drives from the shelter of the Throne, finds strength
In the more steadfast Altar; and the man,
Who knew no safety with his kindred fellow,
Soon finds the need of Him, who, throned apart,
Repairs the wretched sorrows of the race,—
Rebukes the injustice—from the oppressor plucks
The scourge—and to the victim, soon or late,
Atones for the worst sufferings born on earth.
Oh! Death shall be no pang, though sharp his blow;—
And loss of life, however glad before
In bloom and blossom, bring no sorrow now!

And yet, to tread that passage of thick gloom
Into the world of doubt! To take that plunge,
From consciousness, to the bewildering change
Which may be woe, or apathy still worse,
In loss of that large consciousness, whose hope

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Clings to the soul as to its only life,
Secure in joyous certainty of wings,—
High powers, that yield not to the outward pressure,
And, with the will, ne'er-pausing progress keep
To the mind's best achievements! Oh! that doubt!—
Whether, in passage from the state we know,
We rise elsewhere erect, or grow to nothing;
Never know waking—with one pang lose feeling;
Lose, with the sky and earth, all sense and seeing—
The all that we have lived for—while the loved one,
Most precious to the heart of all affections,
Lies silently beside us, and we know not!—
Hush'd each divinest instinct that, while living,
Taught us, unseen, of the approaching footstep,
And, with a breath, infusing still the zephyr,
Quicken'd each pulse within the trembling bosom
With intimations of that precious spirit
So natural to our own. Oh! my Francesca!
Where glid'st thou?—through what region, breathing glory—
Through what sweet gardens of delight and treasure,—
That I behold thee not?—and drink no promise
Of what awaits me in the world hereafter,
From the sweet whispers of thy passing spirit,
Stealing beside me? Thou art freed the struggle,
And, in the unlimited province of thy wing,
Why fly'st thou far?—why bring'st me no sweet tidings
To strengthen the dear hope that gave us courage
When we were torn asunder—made us fearless
Of all the tyrant might decree against us—
Assured of that blest future which his power
Might never enter? Wert thou nigh—about me—
Infusing, with thy sweetness, the damp vapor
That chills this gloomy dungeon—I had known it!
My soul had felt thy presence, as one gathers

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The scent of flowers that grow in foreign gardens,
Whose blooms he doth not see! Didst thou look on me,
I should not droop this hour. Oh! wouldst thou speak,
I should not feel this dungeon—dread this death—
That, in thy absence from my spirit now—
Thine freed—takes on a shape of during darkness,
That never hopes a dawn! Who comes?

III.

Friar. Bertram.
Friar.
My son!

Bertram.
Art thou mine executioner?

Friar.
Thy saviour rather—
If I might execute upon thy pride,
Thy sinful thoughts and passions, and thy fears,
By bringing thee, in penitence and sorrow,
To the white feet of Him who came to save,
And perish'd, for thy safety, on the cross!
O son! the moments leave thee. A few hours
Is all the remnant of the time allow'd thee.
I would prepare thee for the terrible change
The morrow brings thee—would entreat thy prayers—
The meek repentance of thy evil passions,
And not less evil thoughts—and such confession
Of each foul secret festering in thy soul,
With the due sorrows which should follow it,
As may commend thee to the Saviour's grace,
And make thee fit for the Eternal Presence!

Bertram.
Behold me then most guilty. Pride was mine,
And sinful thoughts, and dark imaginings,
And reckless passions, and ungracious fancies,

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And all the thousand tendencies to evil
Which ever urge the impatient soul of man
To heedless forfeiture of Heaven's sweet mercy.
What need the dark detail—the nice relation—
The name and character of each offence,
Too numerous quite for name, for recollection—
Too foul for the now blushing consciousness
To summon into sight, or give to speech!
Enough, that I have sinn'd—that, in my sorrow,
I could weep tears of blood; and that I perish
Forgiving all mine enemies—imploring
Of all forgiveness—and of God, o'er all!—
Most doubtful of his mercy, as well knowing
How great mine undesert.

Friar.
Alas! my son,
This will not answer thee. Thou must disburden
Thy heart of each dark secret. 'Tis thy pride,
And not the shame and grief of thy contrition,
That locks thy secret up!

Bertram.
I have no secrets
From God, to whom for judgment I must go;
No hope from man, of whom I have no fear,
And no confession for his ears, whose judgment
Can do me hurt or service now no more.

Friar.
Beware, my son! This stubbornness! This woman—
Francesca—who hath perish'd in her guilt—
She was to thee no wife? Her full confession—

Bertram.
Ah! now I know thee! Get thee to Leoni:
I have no secrets for thy keeping, father,
Or thy revealing. Yet a prayer I make thee;
Leave me to God—in quiet.

Friar.
If I leave thee—
Thy conscience unrelieved—the truth unspoken—

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I leave thee to the enemy of man,
Who lurks in waiting for thy soul—

Bertram.
Away!

Friar.
The curse—

Bertram.
Oh! fit for curses only—hence!
Thou hast usurp'd the white wings of the dove,
To do the serpent's office! Who is there?

IV.

Francesca. Bertram. Friar.
Bertram.
Ah! now is Heaven most merciful! She comes!
She glides, a form of light, athwart the darkness;
I see her radiant beauties, starr'd by Heaven
With supernatural brightness; and I feel
The lightness of a breath, that's balm for angels,
Uplift me as with wings! Oh! blessed being,
That hallowest where thou com'st—how doth thy presence
Prepare me for the sacrifice! One moment;
I shut mine eyes in doubt! I open them
Once more to rapture! Dost thou see, old man?
Thy lips had spoken curses as from Heaven—
Lo! now, its angel!

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
Hence, father, to Leoni.

Bertram.
Leoni! Can she speak of him—Leoni!

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
He summons thee! He needs thee! Hence with speed!

Friar.
Then hast thou answer'd wisely. All goes well!
I leave thee.

Francesca,
[to the Friar.]
Hence!

321

V.

Francesca. Bertram.
Bertram.
Is it Francesca speaks—
And speaks she of Leoni? Thou wert mine,
Francesca—and in robes elect of heaven,
Speak'st thou of him who was thy enemy,
As he is mine? I tremble, with a dread
That tears my very heart-strings! Oh! Francesca,
Pure spirit of the purest of earth's mortals,
Speak, and uplift me, with a voice of mercy,
From this dark sphere to thine.

Francesca.
Bertram!

Bertram.
That name!
Which still was the dear burden of thy lips
When thou wast mine, and mortal—sounds to me
As thou hast ever said it. There's no change,
To eye or ear, in thee. O heart! be hopeful;
Since death makes free the living to their mission,
Nor robs the loved one of those precious beauties
That fashion'd thought and sense, and fiery passion,
To one sweet frame of love!

Francesca.
Dost think me dead,
Dear Bertram?

Bertram.
Dead, my Francesca—dead to earth—
But oh! not dead to me! They show'd thee to me,
Even through these grates, array'd in innocent white,
And robed as for a bridal with the stars,
In pure white blossoming flowers.

Francesca.
They mock'd thine eyes,
As they have mock'd my ears. I am not dead ...
I live as thou hast known me. I am thine,
As still I was before; but, rouse thee briefly,

322

For we have little space. Reserve thy wonder
Till we go hence in safety. We must fly—
While the dread baron sleeps. Leoni sleeps—
Sleeps soundly! I have left his bed but now!

Bertram.
Thou! Left his bed but now!

Francesca.
Marvel not, Bertram,
However marvellous all seemings be
That check us in this dungeon. Thou shalt know
The dark, dread truth hereafter.

Bertram.
Left his bed!
His bed! The lustful murderer—the foul satyr,
Whose very eye but taints the thing it looks on,
Whose very breath is incense of pollution,
Whose very touch is sin! O God! I hearken
And live! He lives! ... She lives! Francesca—mine!—
All live! Yet hath she left his bed but now!—
Death! death! O friend! where art thou? I had lost
The sense of fear! I lived but for one hope—
That the short, rapid interval of time
'Twixt this impatient consciousness, and that
Which made my faith assurance absolute,
Of life with thee hereafter—would be o'er,
With but one shock—one moment of thick darkness—
And then all light and rapture!—and I wake,
To feel the scorpion sting of agony,
That tells me of the death that follows death,
In which all hope lies buried—smother'd sure
In loss of that most precious of life's fancies,
Its dream of the pure angel, whit'st of all
Above the cloudy confines of the grave,
Waiting with welcome! Death! Oh, death! Oh, terror!
That I should live for this!—that thou shouldst tell me,
Francesca, with no crimson on thy cheek,
No gushing eyes, no husky, tremulous voice,

323

That thou com'st freshly from Leoni's bed,
No longer fresh—yet living!

[Falls on his face.
Francesca.
Were thy fears—
Thy dark suspicions true, oh! cruel Bertram,
How vain were tears or tremors, conscious blushes,
Or all the broken agonies of speech,
To show my shame or thine!

Bertram.
Yet didst thou leave
Leoni's bed but now! Thy own lips said it,
Nor falter'd in the speech.

Francesca.
Oh! had I left
My virtues on his bed, there had been need
For faltering and for tears. I left his bed,
But left no living bed, my Bertram! No!
Look on this dagger—let it speak for me!

Bertram.
It bleeds—it drops with blood. The crimson edges
Gleam brightly dark before me. Oh! Francesca,
I see what thou hast done—yet, do not say it!
I feel the terrible need that stood before thee,
And comprehend the fate that forced upon thee
The dreadful stroke of death. And yet, Francesca,
I would it had been any hand but thine
To do this deed!

[Covering his eyes.
Francesca.
Thy life was on it, Bertram—
And mine—and something more to me than life;
And, in my soul, a voice that cried—“Be cruel,
Or thou art lost to Bertram and to Heaven!”
Thou hat'st—thou fear'st me! Ah! I see it, Bertram!

Bertram.
Hate thee, Francesca? No! How much I love thee,
No words may speak. Yet there's a deadly horror
That shakes my frame—that seizes on my heart!
Look how thy hand is crimsoned!—up thine arm,
Even to thine elbow, drips the clotting current!

324

God! what a terrible stroke! Thou didst not do't—
Thou once so gentle, whom a wounded sparrow
Had brought to feminine sorrows. Thou hast wept
The fate of the cucuyo when I brush'd it,
To loss of wing and glitter, from thy garments;
And not a beggar's babe, with plaint of hunger,
But, with thy bounty, won a boon of tears,
Sweet as the angels weep o'er woes of mortals;
And thou to strike this blow! I'll not believe it;
Some other hand than thine, Francesca!

Francesca.
Mine!
Mine only, Bertram. Do not curse or chide me;
Turn not thy face away. 'Twas for thy safety.

Bertram.
As if Death had one terror in his keeping,
To wound a fear of mine!

Francesca.
Yet, have a thought
Of poor Francesca's danger. See her struggles,
At midnight, in the darkness, with her tyrant;
That bold, bad man, with all his power around him!
Hear her wild shrieks, which all refused to hear:
How vain were all her pleadings! How the danger
Threaten'd the whiteness of her innocent bosom,
That knew no claim but thine; and think how madly
The spasms of fear and horror in my soul
Impell'd the deadly weapon to the heart,
Grown viperous with its lusts—its snakes about me,
Ready to sting with deathsome leprosies!
Oh! think of this, my Bertram!

Bertram.
My Francesca,
Dost think I blame thee! 'Twas a fate that made thee
Thus stern and fearful; yet, to me, thy beauties
Were those of meekness only. In mine eyes,
Thy mould was still of those celestial beings
That find their virtues in their tenderness,

325

Chasten'd by love to purity. All passions
Grew modest in thy presence. Every feeling
That minister'd to make thy loveliness,
Seem'd to have had its birth in angel meekness,
That spread a hallowing moonlight at its coming,
Making the rugged soft. How could I know thee,
Thus terribly incarnadined with vengeance
For any purpose! Could I dream of thee,
Thus robed in crimson horrors, and believe thee
The pure white thing thou wast, when first I found thee
In groves of green Val d' Arno, singing sweetly,
With eyes of dewy glistening, to pale sisters
That watch'd above in fondness? Oh! thy nature
Hath been o'erwrought to madness! May I fold thee
Once more to this lone bosom, and remember
The thing thou wast, but art not?

Francesca.
Let me save thee,
Even though I lose thee, Bertram.

Bertram.
Lose me, never!
The flight that saves thy Bertram—

Francesca.
Saves not me,
Since thus he holds me alter'd—if he alters
In the dear faith he gave me. The worst death
Grows up before me, though we fly together,
In these so foreign glances—in this speech
That tells how much he loses in the change
That outraged what I was, and, in my terrors,
Made me achieve the deed, however needful,
That makes me thus a terror to his love.
Yet must we fly. These keys undo thy fetters—
See how they fall about thee! Rouse thee, Bertram!
Thy hands, thy feet are free. Thy tyrant sleeps,
No more to cross thy fortunes; and Francesca,
If stain'd with blood, is pure for thee, as ever

326

In happy vale of Arno. Yet I ask not
That thou shouldst deem me so—that thou shouldst love me,
As then, in those sweet hours.

Bertram.
I've done thee wrong
By this ungrateful chiding. I will take thee,
As all-confiding to this hopeful bosom
As when thy hands were innocently white.
We'll fly together. I am thine, Francesca,
Never to wrong thy hearing with a thought
That love may deem rebuke. Let us away!

Francesca,
(aside.)
Yet is the thought the shadow to the soul,
Though never shown by speech. My doom is written
In the deep horror which his spirit feels,
At what this hand hath done. Oh! in the future,
I see the icy dread—I hear the accent
That speaks the chill'd affection—forced and idle,
As born no more of fondness. I must perish,
In the denial of the love which made me,
At first, a breathing woman. I must perish;
Yet, to the last, in loving him, I cherish
The hope, that when the ice-bolt falls between
Our lives, our hearts shall reunite once more,
And death retrieve the whiteness life hath lost.

Bertram.
Why lingerest thou, Francesca?

Francesca.
But for prayer!—
Heaven's mercy may be yielded to our flight
If not our hearts. Dear Bertram, let me lead thee;
But take the dagger—I will bear the keys!

Bertram.
Oh! give it me; far better graced in mine,
Than in thy hands, Francesca. Give it me!
O heart! 'tis my infirmity that speaks—
But I could easier strike a host of hearts,
Than see it in thy grasp! And yet, Francesca,

327

I would not wrong thee by reproach. Thy danger
Made the dread weapon a necessity
Thou couldst not 'scape, and shouldst not. Let my arm
Enfold thee; and should danger threaten now,
Thine eye shall see this arm more red than thine,
In shielding thy white bosom.

Francesca,
(timidly)
May I hold
Thy hand, my Bertram?

Bertram.
Heart and hand, Francesca.

[Embracing.
Francesca.
Now could I go to death!

Bertram.
We go to life,
To love and safety, dear one!

Francesca,
(aside.)
Through a night,
Where all is cloud before me, never-lifting
Till the last cloud descends. Oh! love no longer,
As once we knew it—wings and sunniness,
With music in the pauses of the breeze,
While leaves drop down in odors; but a love
That chills while it embraces—and sweet accents
That never warm to meaning.

Bertram.
What say'st thou?

Francesca.
Of cold and darkness, Bertram.

Bertram.
Soon, the light
Will gather round us with its cheerful aspects,
That smile among the stars; and Heaven's fresh breathings—
'Scaped from the pestilent atmosphere of death—
Will lift our spirits with a glad surprise.
The bolts unclose! Oh! see you not, Francesca,
How swiftly darts the messenger of light,
As glad to do us service, o'er the threshold,
And waves his glow-worm torch to guide us on;
While the fond zephyr, through the yawning portal,
Wraps us in sweet embrace, and bears us forward
On wings made free like his? Come forth, Francesca!

328

Francesca,
(faltering.)
Wither?

Bertram.
To life—from death!—Dost see?

Francesca.
The blessed stars!

Bertram.
Now fly we with the urgent feet of fear;
This valley must not hold us. To our hills:
There we may breathe in safety. But thou shrink'st!

Francesca.
The light! They see—the stars! These bloody proofs—

Bertram,
(averting his eyes.)
And I—alas!

Francesca.
Lead where thou wilt, my Bertram.

Bertram.
Among the hills! I know where runs a brooklet,
Shall cleanse thee of these stains—Jesu! how black!

Francesca.
How black! how black! (aside.)
Alas! the stream may cleanse—
The arm be white once more as when he took it
To wrap about his breast!—but oh! my heart,
The dread impression fasten'd on his soul,
Leaves only night to mine! I follow, Bertram!

Bertram,
(aside.)
How terrible! How had she heart for it!
So fearful, even in her innocent ways,
So tender still, and merciful!

Francesca.
Thou speak'st?

Bertram.
Of the great debt I owe thee—of the struggle
That nerved thee to this blow! And yet, Francesca,
Would we had died before—together died—
Even at the moment when our lips first met
In love's first sweet delirium!

Francesca.
Thou art right!
Would we had died, O Bertram! in that hour,
And had not lived for this!—Would I had died!

329

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.

Augustus Cæsar. Dolabella.
Augustus.
Dead! say'st thou? Cleopatra?

Dolabella.
She sleeps fast—
Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts
For passion to persuade—nor art to breed
Any more combats. I have seen her laid—
As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,
That mock'd the flashing jewels in her crown
With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one
Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord
Now in the full'st possession of his prize,
Who riots on her sweets; seals with cold kiss
The precious caskets of her eyes, that late
Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil—
Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,
Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,
As sudden gush of fancy in the heart
Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays
His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink
From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep
Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last
Her eager and luxurious form may know,
Of that dread ravisher.

Augustus.
If it be true,
She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure—

330

My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,
The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,
In royal state to Rome. Give me to know
The manner of her death.

Dolabella.
By her own hands!—
That, conscious still, commended to her breast
The fatal kiss of Nile's envenom'd asp;
That subtle adder, which, from slime and heat,
Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch
Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.

Augustus.
Her death commends her more than all her life!
'Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,
That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,
Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud
For mortal subjugation! She had lusts
Most profligate of harm—but with a soul
That, under laws of more restraint, had raised
Her passions into powers, which might have borne
Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought
Much evil to her nature; but her heart
Cherish'd within a yearning sense of love
That did not always fail; and, where she set
The eye of her affections, her fast faith
Kept the close bond of obligation sure.
This still should serve, when censure grows most free,
To sanctify her fault. In common things
Majestic, as in matters of more state,
She had, besides, the feminine arts to make
Her very lusts seem noble; and, with charms
That mock'd all mortal rivalry, she knew
To dress the profligate graces in her gift—
Generous to very wantonness, and free
Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim—
That Virtue's self might doubt of her own shape,

331

So lovely grew her counterfeit. O'er all,
Her splendor, and her soul's magnificence,
The pomp that crown'd her state—luxurious shows—
Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway
That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinn'd
With her voluptuous weakness—did become
Her well, and took from her the hideous hues
That else had made men loathe!
I would have seen
This princess ere she died! How looks she now?

Dolabella.
As one who lives, but sleeps; no change to move
The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,
Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still
Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,
Had, ere I enter'd, lidded up the eyes,
That had no longer office; and she lay,
With each sweet feature harmonizing still,
As truly with the nature as at first,
When Beauty's wide-world wonder she went forth
Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep
More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth
Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair
Wave, in stray ringlets, as the downy breath
Lapsed through the parted lips; and dream the leaf,
Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth,
Was wafted by that zephyr of the soul
That still kept watch within—waiting on life
In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow—
The one most sweetly parted as for song—
The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls
That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,
Starring the raven curtains of her hair—
Declared such calm of happiness as never
Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—

332

No writhéd muscle—no distorted cheek—
Deform'd the beautiful picture of repose,
Or spoke the unequal struggle, when fond life
Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs
Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,
Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,
With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,
Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,
Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave
Free access to her terrible enemy;
Or, in the moment when the venomous chill
Went sudden to her heart; for, from her neck,
The silken robes had parted. The white breast
Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair
Stream'd over it in thick dishevell'd folds,
That ask'd no further care. Oh! to behold,
With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,
Where rose each gentle slope, that seem'd to swell
Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,
And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,
Of love akin to fear! Thus swelling still,
Like little billows on some happy sea,
They sudden seem'd to freeze, as if the life
Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein
Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,
A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life
Flings ever on the cold domain of death;
And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests—
Two yet unopen'd buds from the same flower—
Borne upward by the billows rising yet,
Grew into petrified gems!—with each an eye
Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart,
For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!
That Death should mask himself with loveliness,

333

And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,
To warn its eager worshipper. I saw—
And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,
What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,—
And what was seeming beautiful, was but
The twilight—the brief interval betwixt
The glorious day and darkness. I had kiss'd
The wooing bliss before me; but, even then,
Crawl'd forth the venomous reptile from the folds
Where still it harbor'd—crawl'd across that shrine
Of Beauty's best perfections, which, meseem'd,
To shrink and shudder 'neath its loathly march,
Instinct, with all the horrors at my heart.

Augustus.
Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!

334

SAUL AT ENDOR.

A SCRIPTURE LEGEND.

The sun was dark in Israel! O'er the land
Spread, like a cloud, Philistia's hosts;—and Saul
Grew hopeless as he felt the light of heaven,
God's countenance, withdrawn. His pride of heart,
And insolent presumption, had o'erborne
The favor of his Sovereign. He had stood,
Resting on strength of will, and mortal powers,
And reckless of the warnings, night and day,
Vouchsafed, through holiest prophets, from on high;
Till sacred wrath o'erflow'd, and, from his hope,
Drew all its smiles and succor. O'er his soul
The cloud was dark, like that above the land;
Nor knew he whither, seeking light, to turn,
In the bewildering mazes of his fear.
Vainly he pray'd to Heaven. The usual signs
Denied him answer. In his dreams, no voice
Declared indulgence for the profligate heart,
So long a trespasser. Nor Urim spoke,
Nor prophet, to his pleadings: all were dumb.
And still the tempest grew before his eyes—
The twofold tempest of his mortal fear,
The outcast, he, of Heaven, in wrath denied—
And that which threaten'd, with as dark a doom,

335

His hapless people—o'er whose cities sped
The fierce invaders. They possess'd the land,
To Shunem, and in multitudes o'erawed
The brave in Israel. Trembling, as he saw
Their darkening hosts, he gather'd his array,
And pitch'd his tents in Gilboa. But the fear—
The feeling, like an instinct—which possess'd
His people, that the favor of their God
Their king no more might challenge—that he stood
The surely-doomed of Heaven—o'er all their hearts
Spread terror like a spell; and, with their king,
They look'd away from their dread enemy,
As seeking succor from the East and West,
Where succor there was none. In terror, then,
The monarch—of his fears, as of their own,
Now fully conscious—in himself no more
Assured, as in his days of innocence,
And hopeless of all answer from the God
His stubborn will had outraged—turn'd his eyes,
Seeking forbidden agencies—the powers
Of darkness—for that knowledge of the truth,
The powers of light withheld.
“Seek me out one,”
He said unto his servants, “some woman that hath
A spirit familiar, whose intelligence
May answer to my quest.”
They led him forth,
By night, in base disguise, until he came
To Endor, where a woman secretly
Pursued her dark, abominable trade,
Defying heaven, and mocking human law,
Which still denounced, with deadly penalty,
The practice loathed of God. With trembling feet,
He cross'd the threshold of evil, and beheld

336

The loathly one he sought. No stately rites
Embellish'd her sad service. Lowly place
She kept, for the reception of a king,
And the responses of her dubious gods.
But knew she not the monarch—a sure proof
How vain was the pretension of her craft
To supernatural knowledge.
“Show to me,”
He said, “by the familiar at thy beck,
Him I shall name to thee!”
A prudent fear
Possess'd her:—
“Wouldst thou spread for me a snare?
By what should I divine, and with what plea,
When, as thou knowest, that Israel's king hath slain
Such as divined by spirits? Wizard and witch
Hath he cut off, in vengeance, from the land;
And seek'st thou for my life?”
“As the Lord liveth,
I seek thee with no snare! Pursue thy art—
Bring me up him whom I shall name to thee,
And profit shall be thine, not punishment.”
“Whom wouldst thou?”
“Samuel, prophet of the Lord!”
With lowly heart, the monarch bow'd himself
Before strange altars; hooded his proud head
Submissive, and in anxious waiting, knelt,
While the weird woman, with her mystic rites,
Evoked the awful dead. Her subtle spells,
Sustain'd by potent but still evil powers,
Meant to evoke a semblance, and delude,
By magical presentments and blear shades,
Sufficient for the heart of humble fear,
Grew to a greater power, beneath the will

337

Of the Most High! He, with a terrible truth,
Responded to the summons that was meant
For the inferior deities. Instead
Of the gross mockery of the sainted shade,
Samuel himself arose; but with such state
Of mightiest angels issuing from the void,
That the weird woman bow'd herself, in dread
Of the true God, whose living rites she mock'd.
Then sank her heart with terror, as she knew
Such answer to such summons well declared
The monarch in her guest. To less than he,
Or in less straits, would Heaven accord a voice
Of such acknowledgment? She cried aloud:—
“Thou hast betray'd me; thou art Saul himself!
Thou whose keen sword hath swept, with glutless rage,
The wizard tribes from Israel!”
“Have no fear,”
The monarch reassured her. “Thou art safe
From sword of Israel's ruler. In his need
He seeks thee now, whom once he will'd to slay,
Having no refuge in a holier shrine,
And a more certain oracle. What seest,
That shakes thee with such terror?”
“Gods, that rise—
True gods, ascending from the depths of earth!—
And now an aged man, from head to foot
Clad in a mantle.”
“It is Samuel!”
And, as he spoke, headlong, and cowering low,
The king crouch'd humbly at the spectre's feet:—
The mantle fell—the prophet stood reveal'd!
Dread was the moment's pause that follow'd then:
The woman abash'd, and stricken with awe the king,
In the oppressive shadow of the dead.

338

Not long the silence—when the prophet spake:—
“Why hast thou vex'd the quiet of my sleep;
Thou, whose deaf ear unto my living word
Gave little tendance? Wherefore dost thou now,
Too lately, from the silence of the grave
Entreat my counsel?”
The familiar sounds
Of that remember'd teacher, sought too late,
Fell with rebuking, but in gentle tones,
On the king's senses. In his grief, he cried:—
“'Tis in my woe, in sore distress of heart,
That Saul now seeks for Samuel. Holiest man,
Too coldly heard when counsel had been worth,
I look to thee for succor. O'er the land
Spread our Philistine enemies. They rage,
In confidence of heavenly help withdrawn
From Israel, by the madness of her king;
And Israel, with a terror, of this fear
Born wholly, weeps and trembles in his tents.
Thou gone, and God against me, 'tis in vain
I seek the voice of Heaven from midnight dreams,
And prophets known for good. They fail me all;
And, in the bitterness of my blank despair,
I seek the wizard arts that rob the grave
To teach the living wisdom. Unto thee,
That first upon this head pour'd sacred oil,
I make appeal. O Samuel! man beloved,
And ever dear to Heaven, in this dread strait,
Show me the way of safety for my people,
Though Saul may plead in vain. On thee I call
For counsel in this peril.”
“Why to me,
Since God hath grown thine enemy? To Him!
Yet vainly wouldst thou plead against thy fate:

339

The evil is upon thee, long foreshown:
Thou hadst thy day of warning. From these lips
Went forth the proper oracles of God,
That told thee thou wert wanting: that thy realm
Should pass from out thy keeping, and thy crown
Descend to him thou still hast sought with hate—
The noble son of Jesse. He hath still
Obey'd the precepts of the living God,
And not as thou, outraging, with a will,
The fix'd decrees of Heaven. Thou didst contemn
His bidding, when thou dared spare Amalek,
On whom He swore to execute all wrath!
For this, the trouble of this day is thine,
And yet another day. To-morrow's sun
Shall set upon thy fortunes. Israel's hosts
Shall fail before the Philistines, and, ere night,
Thou with thy sons, O Saul! shalt be with me.”

The voice had ceased! The awful form was gone;
But the dread prophecy was ringing still
In the appall'd one's ears. Then fell the king
Prostrate, as one who, sudden shorn of strength,
Sinks helpless on his shadow, in a heap!

340

SAUL'S LAST BATTLE.

The heroic soul still struggles against fate,
And, arm'd with self-devotion, finds resolve
For struggle in despair. Prepared for death,
And hopeless for himself, the soul of Saul,
Though counsell'd from the grave of sore defeat,
Still nursed the dream that God would succor yet
The fortunes of his people. They had sinn'd,
But he, their sovereign, led the way to sin,
And shaped their disobedience. On his head
Heaven's vengeance only; and for this he pray'd
With an heroic virtue, at the last,
That honor'd his decline. Weary with grief,
The bitter penalty of a stubborn pride—
No longer cheer'd with promises from Heaven,
The voice of sacred prophets, or the signs
Vouchsafed in dreams; or by the mystic rites
Of Thummim and Urim;—with a sense of peace,
He yielded satisfied to the doom that hung
Suspended o'er his head. Another day,
And he should sleep without the harassing dread
That whisper'd the desertion of his God,
The enemy ever, with a fearful dart,
Above his couch of sleep and weariness,
And a new rival ready for his throne!
Better than this so dread anxiety,
The conflict without hope;—and, though despair

341

Sat heavy at his heart, it took resolve
From the impending circumstance of ill,
And by his natural courage, moved to pride
At the grim presence of his enemy,
Saul girded him for battle. Israel's tents
He pitch'd beside the fountain of Jezreel;
While the Philistines gather'd their great hosts
To Aphek, and defied him with a shout
That spoke their hearts secure of victory.
But naught did this abate his firm resolve,
Which look'd to battle, though it bring defeat,
As the heroic finish to a term,
That lacks but noble ending—not with hope
Of safety or of triumph. His brave youth
Consider'd, and the songs of ancient days
Remember'd, which had shown his thousands slain,
Demanded the last struggles which should fold
The monarch's robes about the hero's form,
And mantle greatly his great overthrow.
Unmoved he heard the shoutings of the foe,
And mock'd them with his own.
“Let us but raise,”
He said to his brave son, Melchishua,
“The courage of our people to the strife,
And though we perish, we may save the throne
To our successor. We shall fall, I know,
Thou with thy brothers, both; and we shall sleep
This night with Kish, our sire, and the great dead
That have prepared the ever-open way
To all the living. Let this fear us not,
While we invoke, with words of ancient might,
And songs, as of a prophet, the spell'd hearts
Of these, our people, waxing faint to hear
Philistia's insolent clamors. Get thee hence,

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And pass among the timorous with proud speech,
As of heroic promise. Jonathan
Already seeks them, and Abinadab,
With voice of fire and martial eloquence:
I too, will follow, teaching with a tongue
That soon shall lack all pleasing—of a will
That not the less resolves on valorous deed,
Because it looks, beneath the frown of Heaven,
Upon the dread, inevitable doom!
Go forth and follow in your brothers' steps,
So that our people, warm'd with proper fire,
May seek the battle with that noble rage
Alone that brings success. If we must fall,
It may be Heaven shall suffer us to fall
Like Gaza's blinded captive, sworn on death—
Our mighty foes crush'd with us—in our fate
Proving Philistia's too!”

The battle join'd;
And Israel quail'd before his enemies!
The monarch saw with anguish, and his soul
Put on the wildest courage of despair,
And braved the thickest dangers of the field,
Still in the face of his worst destinies!
The youth of Saul came back to him—the heart
Of fearless valor and vindictive wrath
That led him, desperate through the opposing hosts,
When first upon his head the sacred oil
Was pour'd by Samuel—and the Amorites,
At Jabesh-Gilead, fell before his ire,
That, from the morning watch till noon-day sun,
Still smote their withering hosts. Again he wrought
As in that day of prime; but not as then,
With God's assuring sanction on his deeds.

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His valor raged in vain. In vain he threw
Aside the golden helmet—his white beard
And thin, gray locks, still gleaming through the fight,
Unseemly, with that terrible strength of wrath,
Which mark'd the wingéd passage of his darts.
Again he slew his thousands, and his deeds,
More fortunate then, were never in his prime
More glorious than when now, in his old age,
He smote in vain—and from his lofty brow
Felt the green laurels gone.
“Where?”—as he sped,
Still smiting with a weapon drunk with blood—
“Where's Jonathan, my son?—I see him not!”
And on he pass'd. One answer'd him that knew—
“To him the battle has no farther voice,
Nor enemy's weapon terror!”
But one groan
Broke from the monarch's bosom, as he cried—
“Now see I that the day will soon have end;—
God's will be done in mercy!” On he went,
Crossing his dripping spear with other foes,
And trampling o'er his slain.
“I see no more
The shining azure of Melchishua's shield:—
Who marks him in the fight?”
They answer'd him—
“He who, with still a foeman at his throat,
May stop to single from the up-piled dead
The son of Israel's sovereign!”
“How it works,
That fate which I have vainly sought to cross—
That vengeance I have anger'd! Yet, awhile,
Deeds may be done for Israel. If the foe
Must triumph, they shall sing their choral songs

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In bitterness, and with a grief that lives
When triumph is forgotten. Thrice the shaft
Hath stricken me”—and he pluck'd an arrow forth,
That, in that moment, quivering in his side,
Stay'd the heroic speech—“but I am proof
'Gainst hate of human foes. They can but slay,
And I am self-deliver'd to the shaft
This day, as one decreed to sacrifice!—
Who calls me from the host?”
“Oh! sire, your son,
Abinadab, is smitten, even to death,
And cries on thee for succor!”
“Let him cry,
But fight the while—the succor is at hand,
Certain to come ere sunset.”
Thus he sped,
Himself prevailing in the matchless might
Of his one arm, where'er his weapon flew.
Yet still his people quail'd. His sons were slain;
But he, though smarting with repeated wounds,
Still hew'd a fearful passage through the foe;
Then turning, with his weapon as a share,
Plough'd the dense field again. His arm, at last,
Fail'd him—the great drops gather'd on his brow,
Mix'd dust, and blood, and water. All in vain
His desperate deeds of valor. On all sides
His people fled discomfited. The war
Went wholly against him, and the hope was gone
That dream'd how Israel's banner yet should rise
Triumphant, though above the sovereign slain!
The progress of the battle had led up
The heights of Gilboa. Here, as Saul beheld
His scatter'd hosts in flight, and, close behind,
The foe pursuing with inveterate rage,

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Of murder edged by madness, he stood up
And rested on his spear.
“Why should I fly?”
To those who counsell'd safety. “I have lived
Too long already, having outlived my sons,
My fortunes, and God's favor. Get ye hence,
For Israel's future, and another sway
More blest by Heaven and man. For me, no more
The pomp of royalty, the pride of spears,
The joy that's born of battle, and the songs
That hail the conqueror on his homeward march
Through the great cities. I behold the sun
For the last time, and with no vain regret
That he shall rouse me from my tent no more,
Rejoicing in a day of deeds begun!
Hither to me, thou last of many friends,
And faithfullest of followers. Take thy sword
And thrust me through!—for the Philistines come;
And they must never, with their barbarous rage,
Degrade this conscious form!”
To him who bore
His armor in the battle, thus he spake,
The wounded king of Israel, as below
He saw his enemies gather. Wounded sore,
By their superior archers, well he knew
That neither in flight, nor in the further struggle,
Lay hope of safety. But the man replied—
“Now God forbid that hand of mine be laid,
With violence on the heaven-anointed head!”

“All fail me at my need,” reproachfully
Exclaim'd the monarch. Then, as came the foe—
“I will not see their triumph!” cried the king;
And turning his own steel against his breast,

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Headlong he threw himself upon the shaft,
And perish'd ere they came! Thus, with like deed,
Died he who bore his armor;—silent both,
As the exulting heathen, up the heights,
Rush'd to the bloody spectacle with shouts,
That ceased when they beheld, beneath their feet,
The mightiest prince in Israel. They were dumb,
As stunn'd by their own triumph—which were naught,
But that the God of Israel was in wrath!

Mournfully sweet the dirge on Gilboa's heights,
Sung by the monarch minstrel, on whose brow
The crown of Saul descended, as he saw
The wreck of that dread battle, and bewept
The royal victims. Never elegy
More touching or more beautiful. How wild
The lyrical sweetness from the Arabian caught,
Which pictured Israel's proud nobility
Perishing in pride and valor, on the heights
Their sacrifice makes sacred!
“How,” he sang,
“How are the mighty fallen! Israel's beauty
Slain on high places. Tell it not in Gath,
Lest they, the daughters of Philistia, joy
And triumph o'er God's people—triumph o'er him
Who taught them shame and bitter overthrow!
For thee, Gilboa, let there be no dew
Upon thy summits. Be the rains denied
That crown thy summer fields with offerings;
For on thy heights accurséd the big shield
Of Saul was cast away; by vilest foes
His banner overthrown, and he o'ercome,
As though his mighty head had never been
With heavenly oil anointed. To its sheath

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His sword return'd not thirsty. Never, in vain,
He smote the enemies' legions, even at the last,
When God denied the victory to his arm!

“And thou, my brother Jonathan—oh! thou,
Fleet as the roe of the mountain; from whose bow
Never flew fruitless arrow at thy prey,
But in the fat of the mighty, and the blood
Of the warm enemy, made vengeance sure;—
I mourn for thee, my brother, sore distress'd;
For, very pleasant, since I knew thee first,
Hast thou been unto me—thy love to me
Wonderful precious, and surpassing still
The love of woman. Thou, with thy sire,
Hast won the fame of warriors. Thou wast slain,
Like him, on highest places, in the thick
Of fiercest battle—undismay'd, though fate
Refused thee, and thy battle-cry went forth
With the sure knowledge of death against thy hope.

“Lovely and pleasant ever in their lives
Were Saul and Jonathan. Nor in death at last
Are they divided. Kindred in their worth,
Stronger than lions in the battle's rage,
Swifter than eagles in pursuing flight;
Their sweet and sure communion to the close,
Makes them heroic for our histories
So long as fame shall last. Weep for your king,
Daughters of Israel. He it was who first
Ye rescued from the bondage of the foe,
And clad your forms in scarlet; who, with gold,
Deck'd your apparel richly, and first brought
Your hearts to knowledge of still more delights.
How are the mighty fallen!—weapons of war,
How perish'd, and what glorious state o'erthrown?”

348

THE REBELLION OF ABSALOM.

We pay the mournful penalties of guilt
Long after we forget its pleasant sweets,
And sow, in youth, the bitter seeds of pain,
That age shall reap in sorrow. Thus the king,
Heaven's favorite, when his head was gray with years,
For the impetuous passions of his youth
That led him, though repenting still, to sin,
Found in his best beloved, his Absalom—
The dearest to his heart of many sons—
A resolute rebel; seeking with bared arms
And deadliest weapon, after Israel's crown,
Pluck'd from his sire's gray head. From him he stole,
By subtle arts and guilty agencies,
The affections of his people; till, grown strong,
He shook away the webs of policy,
And standing fearless forth, proclaim'd himself
The rightful king in Israel. Through the land
The trumpet voices of sedition rang—
“Absalom reigns in Hebron!” He had snared
His father's nearest counsellors, and had stolen
His way to hearts, forgetful of their faith,
Solemnly sworn to David; while his power
Shook to its centre the great realm which Heaven
Had built up under Saul, and made secure
In hands more worthy and more fortunate.
An hour sufficed—so suddenly it fell—
To spread sedition's tempest o'er the land,

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And drive the monarch, unprepared, in flight,
Forth from his royal city. O'er the brook,
Kedron, he sped by night. Through secret paths
He sought strange places. Day by day he went,
While bitter tears, slow coursing down his cheeks,
Declared how bitter was the pang that found
A traitor in a favorite—rebel foe
In the dear pledge of a most faithful love,
The child of his best manhood. Thus he went,
With cover'd head, and feet made bare, in grief,
Up the steep sides of Olivet; while they
Who follow'd, with a rare fidelity,
Took a like form of mourning to their hearts,
And echo'd all his woes. Ere many days,
God heard his prayers, and wrought, by human means,
Confusion to the counsels of the son,
Who, in his desperate thirst for evil sway,
Sought equally his father's life and crown.
Meanwhile, the faithful of the tribes drew nigh,
In succor of the sovereign. Soon his hosts,
Number'd and train'd by Joab, the strong man
And savage warrior, were prepared to plant,
On the high hill-top, in the face of foes,
The Zion banner. Unto Mahanaim
Then David came. Here number'd he his troops;
And when he sent them forth to seek the strife,
He said to his great captains:—
“For my sake,
Deal gently with the youth—with Absalom!”
His people listen'd as he spake. They saw
The weight of his great sorrows in his face,
His stooping form, the dust upon his brow,
And the deep mourning tremors in his voice.
Mightiest in numbers was the rebel host,

350

Which, seeking battle with an eager rage,
Drew nigh unto the army of the king.
Absalom cross'd the Jordan. Here he made
Amasa captain of his force—a chief,
Kinsman to Joab, fearless as himself,
And with as keen an appetite for blood.
The armies met in Gilead. Ephraim's wood
Beheld the dread encounter, while heaven's arm,
Sustaining the mock'd fortunes of the sire,
Fought 'gainst the rebel legions till they fled
With twenty thousand slain. The fell pursuit
Traversed the thicket with devouring sword,
That slew where'er it came. Then Absalom,
Lost in the intricate mazes of the wood,
Was seen by David's people as he sought
A refuge from pursuit. But they had heard
The entreaty of the sire to deal with him,
For his sake, gently; and they dropp'd their spears,
And turn'd their wrathful eyes on meaner foes.

Not so with Joab. He preferr'd to save
The monarch from the sire. He knew the heart
Of Absalom—his restless vanity,
The ready ear he gave to counsellors
That taught him rude rebellion; and he knew,
That, spared to other days, was but to spare
For worse rebellions still. When that he heard
Where Absalom was gather'd, he, alone,
Subduing in his soul the entreating voice
Of the old father, pleading for the son,
Sought out the unhappy fugitive. With arm
That never, or through fear or sympathy,
Had yet been taught to falter—through his heart
He thrust the unerring javelin till he died!

351

Then sounded Joab, the fierce conqueror,
The trumpet that recall'd the wild pursuit;
For he that would not spare the king's own son.
Yet knew to spare his people. He had shorn
The head of the offending; for the rest,
They had already, in their thousands slain,
Paid the sufficient penalty of crime.

All day, even from the hour when forth the host
Went at his bidding, had the monarch sat
Between the city gates, with mourning brow
And heart, misgiving of the fearful tale
He soon must yield to hear. The watchman stood
In the high tower above, far looking forth,
Intent, for messenger of good or ill.
And soon he came, for when was messenger
That spoke of evil, slow?
“Thy foes, O king!
This day have been deliver'd to thy hand!”
“But of the young man? What of Absalom?”
“May all the foes that rise against the king,
To do him mischief, share the young man's fate!”

Then burst the anguish of the agéd sire,
Forgetting all the king.
“Oh! Absalom,
Would God that I had died for thee, my son!”
Thus wailing, he ascended from the gate
And wept within the tower, until they brought
The mangled, but still beautiful form of him
Best loved, and stretch'd him on a bier of state
Even in the chamber where the monarch lay,
Prone to the dusty floor, no more a king,
Ashes upon his head and in his heart.

352

Still was the young man beautiful. His corse
Might still delight the eye. No blemish marr'd
The perfect symmetry of the lofty form
And the fine, noble features, save the wound
That still'd his heart forever. They had wash'd
The blood stains from his bosom ere they brought;
Had smooth'd in wonted flow and natural curl
The long fair hair, that was his grace and pride,
As Samson's was his strength. They had removed
His armor, helm, and shield, and bloody spear,
Ere they had placed him 'neath the eyes of him
Whose state these proofs had outraged; had disposed
His limbs in pure white garments; and he lay
Serene as one who sleeps a pleasant sleep,
Untroubled by a dream. As thus he slept,
The sire, no longer hush'd by curious gaze,
Sunk o'er the unconscious body of the son,
And clasp'd it to his breast. Then gush'd his eyes
With tears, and spoke his bursting heart with sobs
That shook his mighty frame.
“Oh! Absalom,
My son!—my son!—that wast so beautiful—
That art so beautiful, though in thy shroud,
With death's hand heavy on thy cold pale brow—
Thou, grievously misnamed thy father's peace,
That still hast been his woe; and now with pangs
But ill remind'st me of those happy hours,
When in thy mother, fair Macaiah's arms,
I felt in Geshur respite from my griefs,
And named thee, at thy birth, from my own peace,
Which thou hast still destroy'd. Oh! Absalom,
Why hast thou brought me to this woe, my son?
Thyself to this sad fate? To thee my heart
Turn'd ever with a preference, most unwise,

353

Over more faithful children. Still, in thee,
As pledge of precious loves and peaceful hours,
I found a joy that grew upon thy sight,
And my heart swam in rapture but to view
Thy stately shape, the graces of thy walk,
And the soul-beauty kindling in thy face!
Yet wast thou guilty and ungrateful still—
A rebel in thy service—treacherous
Even when most trusted. But alas! for me,
I cannot now reproach thee, Absalom,
Thou hear'st me not—thou canst rebel no more.
Would I had died for thee beneath the shaft,
Or, at the peril of my life, could now
But give thee back thy own. My son!—my son!—
Would God that I could die for thee, my son!

“What had I done to thee that thou shouldst fly
My presence, and take weapons in thy hand
Against these thin white hairs? Seeking this sway,
That, as thou seest, saves not from any grief;
Which, where the affections still abide with power,
Is still as open to the shafts of harm
As any subject breast. What was thy grief?
What wrong was done to thee? What favor'd voice
Spoke in thy father's ear against thy peace,
That thou couldst not o'erplead? I spared thee still,
When, at the cruel feast of Baal-Hazor,
Thou slew'st thy brother Amnon. I forbore,
Though, in thy lust of power, I saw thee take
A state upon thyself, and dignities
Unfitting son and subject: and I yearn'd,
Even in my secret soul, to see thee wear
This empire for thyself. Alas! my son,
Why, in thy youth and beauty, didst thou strive

354

Against thy father's love?—'gainst Heaven's decree.
Till thou call'dst down its bolts, my Absalom,
Stricken with the cruel death-dart in thy breast,
Making me desolate! Oh! erring Absalom,
Rebellious, seeking thy fond father's life,
And perishing in thy beauty and thy guilt—
Would I had died for thee, my son!—my son!

“Alas! thou hear'st not. Couldst thou hear, my voice
Should fill thine ear with chiding—but in vain!
I feel the echoes of my words come back,
Though breathed upon thy breast, as from a vault
Where all is dark and hollow. Death, I know,
Is on thee—on this brow where youth before
Had set her richest beauties—on thy tongue,
Which ever in music spake, even when its speech
Had birth in youthful passion, which misled
Too frequently the heart, that 'neath my hand,
Sleeps without pulse of feeling or of fear,
Having no passion more.
“Ah! they will come,
And deck thee for a chamber where no eyes
Shall look upon thy beauties—where, to see,
Were to feel fear and loathing. They will bear
Thy form from my embrace, and I shall go
To homes which thou shalt enter nevermore!
Oh! Absalom, my son, this had not been—
This fate of silence unto thee—this fear
Of human strifes and voices unto me—
But for the vain ambition which had birth
Even in thy strength and beauty. We must part:
Even now I hear the voices at the gate,
Of those who come to take thee to thy couch,
Whose cold thou shalt not feel. The chants arise

355

From drooping handmaids, who shall time thy steps
To vaults no song shall penetrate but mine.
My victory is mourning. All my host
Fly, scatter'd as a host that feels defeat,
Knowing how great thy father's agony,
Which still they dread to see. My people fly
The city which I cover with my shame,
Though to their fond fidelity this day
I owe my life and empire—saved in vain,
At price of thy most precious life, my son!
I must throw by the semblance of this grief,
And wear it in mine heart. I must put on
The aspect of the monarch and the man,
Lest I do wrong to champions, in whose faith
My crown is made secure. Joab will come
And chide me for this weakness, which declares
How happier it had left me to behold
My perishing hosts o'erthrown and stark in death,
Than the one rebel, whose unnatural power
Makes his life dearer to the heart it wrongs,
Than all Heaven's gifts beside. Alas! too true!
I leave thee, Absalom!—I tear away
From thy detaining fingers. They will take
And hide thee from my sight; and I shall sway,
Once more, the sceptre that thou took'st from me—
Sway with calm forehead and untrembling hand—
Though in the watches of the night, as now,
The voice of my great sorrow cries aloud,
My son, for thee—belovéd Absalom—
Would God that I had died for thee, my son!”

356

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

EPISODE FROM DANTE.

[_]

The following is a new version of the fifth canto of Dante's “Inferno,” which contains the famous episode of Francesca da Rimini, in which she narrates the manner and the misfortunes of her love. She was the daughter of the Lord of Ravenna, and was married to Gianciotto, the eldest son of the tyrant of Rimini. Unhappily, her affections did not go with her duties. She did not love her husband, but bestowed her heart upon Paoli, a younger son of the house of Malatesta; and still more unhappily, forgot her vows in her passion. Her husband surprised and slew the guilty pair, who were buried together in the same grave. These parties are discovered by Dante, as he passes under the guidance of Virgil, whom he denominates “his master,” into the “second circle,” which first opens the view of the infernal regions and the terrible sufferings of the inmates. Here Minos sits, at the threshold, and determines, at a glance, the particular doom of the guilty spirits. Those who occupy this first circle are such as have fallen victims to their carnal appetites. Here they are tossed incessantly to and fro, in a region of “brown horror,” by fierce and capricious winds, the likeness of their own passions, to which they can offer no resistance. Here, as examples of such as occupy this circle, they discern first the famous Queen of Babylon, Semiramis. In this “band” or circle, are Dido, Cleopatra, Helena, Achilles and others, a vast and well-remembered multitude. Two of these guilty victims, in particular, compel the attention of Dante, as they are borne forward, seeming particularly light upon the tempestuous winds. These are Francesca, and Paoli, her lover. He summons them, at the instance of Virgil; and the sympathy which he shows them prevails upon Francesca to relate their story, she speaking for both. Dante is so much affected by the narrative and by the agonies which Paoli all the while expresses, that he swoons away lifelessly. This is all that is necessary to a proper understanding of the episode. It contains several of the most frequently-quoted passages from Dante—passages singularly suggestive and comprehensive—and affords as just an idea of his manner as could be gathered from any portion of his divine poem. The measure employed here is that of the original, the terza rima; and the number of the lines is nearly the same, Dante's being 142, and this 140.

From the first circle thus descending down,
I pass'd into the next of smaller space,
But deeper torment and superior groan.
There horrible Minos sits, with mocking face,
Watching the entrance for the criminal,
Whom, judged, he quick dispatches without grace.
Near him, the ill-born shade confesses all:

357

Soul-searcher, he discovers, as he eyes,
To what dire mansion it is doom'd to fall,
And with his spiral snake extremities
Coiling around him, shows how far below,
To what degree of doom the spirit hies.
Ever before him stand a crowd, who go,
Each, headlong down to judgment; they are heard,
And hear, and then speed whirling into woe.
“Oh! thou”—to me then Minos yielded word,
As, seeing me, his office he forebore—
“Look where thou go'st, and whom thou hast preferr'd
To be thy guide; and seek no open door,
Won by its wideness.” To him, then, my guide:
“Why wouldst thou hinder that he should explore?
Such is his mission, will'd, where power beside
May do what still it wills. No farther ask.”
And now mine ears began to open wide
To dolorous complaints. My sorrowful task
Now led me forward where the numerous wail
Assail'd me; and, as cover'd with Night's mask,
I pass'd into a region full of bale,
Mute of all light, and raging like the sea,
Torn by conflicting winds in bellowing gale.
The infernal tempest, from its coil ne'er free,
Still toss'd the distracted spirits in its sweep,
Sore whirl'd and vex'd, incapable to flee;
Dash'd 'gainst their rocks of ruin, curses deep
Blaspheme the power divine; and all is moan,
Bitter lament, and woes that wail, not weep.
Such was the doom; capricious thus; and borne
By fitful blasts through the unlighted air,
Were those who, by tempestuous passions torn,
Yield reason up to lust: so starlings bear,
Abroad in wintry storms, a trooping host,

358

Hither and thither, powerless, as they veer.
Hope of less pain, or of repose, thus tost,
No comfort brings; but as the cranes depart
With mournful chant, and streaking the lone sky,
So borne by the impetuous blasts, thus dart
These shadowy hosts with mournful scream and cry.
“Master,” I then, with great concern of heart,
“What are these people, shrieking piteously,
Whom the keen wind thus lashes?” He replied—
“She that first comes was queen of many lands:
With lust corrupt, she made the laws provide
That vice should show for virtue. Her commands
Shaped the decree to favor the denied—
Semiramis, who, held in golden bands,
Of Ninus, was his mother, and his wife,
And kept her rule where sways the Soldan now.
Who comes with her is she who, in love's strife,
To ashes of Sichœus broke her vow,
And, with self-slaughtering hand, smote her own life.
The next is Cleopatra.” Then I saw
Helen, who for so long a time of ill
Prevail'd; and great Achilles came, who fought
With love the last; Paris, Tristan; and still
Thousands beside, of whom “the master” taught,
Naming them as they rose, whom Love's sad will
Had smitten from our life. Then, as full fraught,
He told the story of old cavaliers,
And noble dames thus ruin'd, pity stole
Upon and conquer'd me; and, in my tears,
Bewilder'd, and with melancholy soul,
I spake: “The cloud, O Bard, that now appears,
Hath two that go together, and do roll
Most light before the wind—with them awhile
I willingly would speak.” “When they draw nigh”—

359

Thus did he answer me—“then shalt thou wile
With adjuration of love—for still they fly
Obedient to the passion which did beguile—
And they will come to thee.” Soon as mine eye
Beheld them borne toward us on the blast,
I cried with lifted voice: “If none withholds,
Oh! wearied souls, come hither to us and speak.”
Then as two doves whom one desire enfolds,
Fly with twin pinion their sweet nest to seek,
So those two spirits whom one will embolds,
From the same circle which doth Dido keep—
Such was the power of my appealing cry—
Came to us, borne through the malignant air.
“Oh! being most gracious, whose benignant eye
Thus seeks us through this sooty atmosphere—
We who stain'd earth with deep and bloody dye—
If we had favor with heaven, our earnest prayer
Were for thy peace, seeing that on our woe
Thou hast had ruth. Of that which thou wouldst say,
Or that which it would please thee best to know,
Speak freely—we will answer as we may,
The blast as now being still.—Beside the Po,
Where seeking kindred waters he must stray,
My native city sits. Love, which in breast
Of tenderness is ever quickly caught
With that fair form, no more by me possess'd,
Won him; and still with grief my soul is fraught
By that sweet prize. Love, which in all confess'd,
Leaves none escape from passion, strongly taught
My heart to joy in him, with such delight
As leaves me not even yet. Love to one death
Conducted both; but Cain's deep realm of fright
Waits him whose cruel vengeance quench'd our breath.”
Thus spake they. When that I had heard each sprite,

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I bowed me, till at last the Poet saith—
“What think'st thou?” And I answer'd him—“Ah, me!
What were the sweet dreams, what the longings dear
That led them to this fate and misery?”
To them I turn'd—“Francesca, look—the tear
Flows for thy grief. Yet farther would I see—
How Love, in season of youth's sweetest care,
First taught thy heart its dubious want to know.”
Then she to me replied—“The greatest grief
Is to remember in our hours of woe
How blest we have been. He can tell, thy chief;
But if thou will'st that I the story show
Of love's first shoots in the beginning leaf,
I will, as one who tells but weeps, relate.
One day together as we sat alone,
We read for pastime of knight Lancelot's fate—
How Love compell'd him. Nothing had we known
To wake suspicion of our mutual state;
Yet, as our eyes met, from our cheeks had flown
The color as we read. The moment came
Which conquer'd both. 'Twas where we found that he
Kiss'd on the cheek the sweet smile of his dame:
Even then he kiss'd my mouth all tremblingly.
The book was Galleotto. Such the name
Of him who wrote. But in that volume we
Read nothing more that day.” While thus one sprite
Reveal'd, the other wept; and with such woe,
That, in my sorrow at so sad a sight,
I fainting sunk, as if beneath the blow
Of Death, and in my anguish fell outright,
As the dead body, hopelessly, falls low.

University of Virginia Library

HISTORICAL LEGENDS.

CAIUS MARIUS.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

BERTRAM:

AN ITALIAN SKETCH.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.

SAUL AT ENDOR.

A SCRIPTURE LEGEND.

SAUL'S LAST BATTLE.

THE REBELLION OF ABSALOM.

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.

EPISODE FROM DANTE.