So did a dungeon-grating love-warbling lutes admit,
As tho' a nightingale should sing just o'er a charnel pit—
O Manfred of Saluzzo! has that one gleam of sight,
That face upon the castle wall, a flash of pale clear light,
So carved into thy spirit its scornful conquering grace,
That thou thro' dusk and daylight canst see no other face?
Do thy thirty castles and thy crown of many a knightly feat
Lie in the dungeon dust at a heretic woman's feet?
He said, love's fault excusing, “Who can a woman blame,
Tho' she be true to falsehood and blindly honour shame?
With her the brain obeys the heart, love is her spirit's pole,
She follows the strong leader, and gives him up her soul.
If him who wrought her ruin she still love tenderly,
The beggared outlawed madman, how will she not love me?”
Some, too, bewitched by hearsay, did offer love and life—
“Forego,” they said, “the penal fire, come forth and be a wife!”
Keener was that love-fancy, edged by a manly pride,
From the ghastly stake and Satan to snatch a beauteous bride;
And they burned in dreams for her, a creature glorified
By the rays of noble lineage round that soft gold cloud of hair,
And by the dowry making the white hand doubly fair.
In tones that seemed disdain to stifle, “And shall I then resign,”
She answered, “for so poor a trifle the heaven so nearly mine?
With these long wandering years so lonely, amid the dismal ice
On mountain heights I 've only just purchased Paradise,
And shall I lose my treasure now that I 've paid the price?”
Then when they bade her see the brands heaped high—a hideous pile,
And cried, “O save thyself!” she softened to a smile.
As one storm-tost who watches draw nigh the saviour-sail,
“Dolcino waits me there,” she said; “his waiting must not fail.”
But when the dark night came and all alone she lay,
Then terror seized her like a child whose nurse has past away;
With arms stretched wildly out, “O friend! so true and brave!
Come! come!” in sobs she cried, “and thy poor Margaret save!”
Then felt she thro' the darkness, balmy as dropping dew,
A hand that touched her forehead, a soft, soft whisper too?
For sudden slumber cuts in twain the sob, and lo! she lies
On her hard pillow, childlike still, with sealed and quiet eyes.
