Marcian Colonna An Italian Tale with Three Dramatic Scenes and Other Poems: By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
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 | Marcian Colonna |  |
V.
At first she listened with averted eye,
And then, half turning towards him, tenderly
She marked the deep sad truth of every tone,
Which told that he was hers, and all her own,
And saw the hectic flush upon his cheek,
(That silent language which the passions speak
So eloquently well,) and so she smiled
Upon him. With a pulse rapid and wild,
And eyes lit up with love, and all his woes
Abandoned or forgot, he lightly rose,
And placed himself beside her. “Julia!
My own, my own, for you are mine,” he said;
Then on her shoulder drooped his feverish head,
And for a moment he seemed dying away:
But he recovered quick. “Oh! Marcian
I fear”—she softly sighed:—“Again, again;
Speak, my divinest love,—again, and shower
The music of your words which have such power,
Such absolute power upon my fainting soul—
Oh! I've been wandering toward that fearful goal,
Where Life and Death, Trouble and Silence meet,
(The Grave) with weak, perhaps with erring feet,
A long, long time without thee—but no more;
For can I think upon that shadowy shore,
Whilst thou art here standing beside me, sweet!”—
She spoke “Dear Marcian I”—“How soft she speaks,
He uttered: “Nay—” (and as the daylight breaks
Over the hills at morning was her smile,)
“Nay you must listen silently, awhile.”
And then, half turning towards him, tenderly
She marked the deep sad truth of every tone,
Which told that he was hers, and all her own,
And saw the hectic flush upon his cheek,
(That silent language which the passions speak
40
Upon him. With a pulse rapid and wild,
And eyes lit up with love, and all his woes
Abandoned or forgot, he lightly rose,
And placed himself beside her. “Julia!
My own, my own, for you are mine,” he said;
Then on her shoulder drooped his feverish head,
And for a moment he seemed dying away:
But he recovered quick. “Oh! Marcian
I fear”—she softly sighed:—“Again, again;
Speak, my divinest love,—again, and shower
The music of your words which have such power,
Such absolute power upon my fainting soul—
Oh! I've been wandering toward that fearful goal,
Where Life and Death, Trouble and Silence meet,
(The Grave) with weak, perhaps with erring feet,
A long, long time without thee—but no more;
For can I think upon that shadowy shore,
Whilst thou art here standing beside me, sweet!”—
She spoke “Dear Marcian I”—“How soft she speaks,
He uttered: “Nay—” (and as the daylight breaks
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“Nay you must listen silently, awhile.”
“Dear Marcian, you and I for many years
Have suffered: I have bought relief with tears;
But, my poor friend, I fear a misery
Beyond the reach of tears has weighed on thee.
What 'tis I know not, but (now calmly mark
My words) 'twas said that—that thy mind was dark,
And the red fountains of thy blood, (as Heaven
Is stained with the dying lights of Even,)
Were tainted—that thy mind did wander far,
At times, a dangerous and erratic star,
Which like a pestilence sweeps the lower sky,
Dreaded by every orb and planet nigh.
This hath my father heard. Oh! Marcian,
He is a worldly and a cruel man,
And made me once a victim; but again
It shall not be. I have had too much of pain,
Too much for such short hours as life affords,
And I would fain from out the golden hoards
Of joy, pluck some fair ornament, at last,
To gild my life with—but my life hath past.”
Have suffered: I have bought relief with tears;
But, my poor friend, I fear a misery
Beyond the reach of tears has weighed on thee.
What 'tis I know not, but (now calmly mark
My words) 'twas said that—that thy mind was dark,
And the red fountains of thy blood, (as Heaven
Is stained with the dying lights of Even,)
Were tainted—that thy mind did wander far,
At times, a dangerous and erratic star,
Which like a pestilence sweeps the lower sky,
Dreaded by every orb and planet nigh.
This hath my father heard. Oh! Marcian,
He is a worldly and a cruel man,
And made me once a victim; but again
It shall not be. I have had too much of pain,
Too much for such short hours as life affords,
And I would fain from out the golden hoards
Of joy, pluck some fair ornament, at last,
To gild my life with—but my life hath past.”
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Her head sank on her bosom: gently he
Kissed off the big bright tears of misery.
Alas! that ever such glittering drops should flow
(Bright as tho' born of Happiness,) from woe!
—He soothed her for a time, and she grew calm,
For lovers' language is the surest balm
To hearts that sorrow much: that night they parted
With kisses and with tears, but both light hearted,
And many a vow was made, and promise spoke,
And well believed by both and never broke:
They parted, but from that time often met,
In that same garden when the sun had set,
And for awhile Colonna's mind forgot,
In the fair present hour, his future lot.
Kissed off the big bright tears of misery.
Alas! that ever such glittering drops should flow
(Bright as tho' born of Happiness,) from woe!
—He soothed her for a time, and she grew calm,
For lovers' language is the surest balm
To hearts that sorrow much: that night they parted
With kisses and with tears, but both light hearted,
And many a vow was made, and promise spoke,
And well believed by both and never broke:
They parted, but from that time often met,
In that same garden when the sun had set,
And for awhile Colonna's mind forgot,
In the fair present hour, his future lot.
| Marcian Colonna | |