The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

—The Prince is discovered not to be Giovanni Malatesta, but his brother Paulo, whom he has sent as his proxy. Francesca, nevertheless, is persuaded to be affianced, and goes with him to Rimini. Description of the journey, and of the Ravenna Pine-Forest.

I pass the followers, and their closing state;
The court was enter'd by an outer gate;
The Count and Princess had retir'd before,
In time to greet his guest at the hall door:

But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or pac'd the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat.
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast;
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud,
But a blank look, as if no court had been—
Silence without, and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.

The truth was this:—The bridegroom had not come,
But sent his brother Paulo in his room.
The former, said to have a handsome face,
Though lame of foot, (“some victory's very grace;”—
So Guido call'd it,) yet was stern and proud,
Little gallant, and had a chilling cloud
Hanging forever on his blunt address,
Which he mistook for sov'reign manliness:—
But more of this too soon. The father knew
The Prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the lover wooed but ruggedly,
Might pause, for aught he knew, and fail to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man, therefore, not unkind at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
(For lovers of the Muse, alas! could then
As well as now, be but half-loving men,)
Had thought at once to gratify the pride,
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And he might send and wed her by a third;

Only the Count thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes, that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Despatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a man
Noble as eye had seen since earth began,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare—perhaps for life.

One truth, however, craft was forc'd to tell,
And chance, alas! supported it too well.
She saw, when they were hous'd, in Guido's face
A look of stupified surprise take place;
Of anger next, of candour in a while,
And then 'twas told her with a begging smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his deep chagrin,
Had been delay'd by troubles unforeseen,
But rather than delay his day of bliss,
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss,)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
“May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other.”

By this time Paulo join'd them where they stood,
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And gave her thanks, in terms, and with a face,
So fill'd with attribution of all grace,—
That air, in short, which sets you at your ease
Without implying your perplexities,—
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame which now appear'd increas'd
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd—
And above all, those tones, and words, and looks
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,

And help'd her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose.
Quick was the plighted troth; and at the close
The proxy, turning 'mid the general hush,
Kiss'd her sweet lips, betwixt a rosy blush.

Two days and nights ensued. At length, a state
Of trumpets issued from the palace gate,
The banners of their brass with favours tied,
And with a blast proclaimed the affianc'd bride.
But not a word the people's silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And bringing the good coin by handfuls out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And “largess! largess!” claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.

The rest, however, still were looking on,
Sullen and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the gorgeous visitors appear'd.
The Prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes,
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull time, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose wits this strange abrupt event
Had over-borne in pure astonishment,
Could scarce at times a wilder'd cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,

And gather'd there, an unconcerted show.
Bending they stood, with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
“Farewell, farewell, my friends!” she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and in her grief withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.

The morn was sweet, as when they journey'd last;—
The smoke from cottage-tops ran bright and fast,
And every tree in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With ever and anon majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.

Nor long the Princess kept her from the view
Of the dear scenes her happy childhood knew;
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “slower,” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start,
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.

'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed,
And such as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to heed;
But now they take a lady down the hill,
And feel they should consult her gentle will.

And now with thicker shades the pines appear,—
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;

And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil,
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams;
And full of anxious thoughts, half-freed from pain,
She fell into her musing mood again;
Leaving the others, who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the first blithe day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd and everlasting green.

A heavy spot the forest looks at first,
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, and thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools half-cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company;
But, entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees as from a carpet rise
In knolls and clumps, in rich varieties.
The knights are for a moment forc'd to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space, and give the winds a charge,
Or pulling tight the bridles as they pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass:
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade;
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs
Or peering into spots that inwardly
Open green glooms, and half-prepared to see
The lady cross it, that as stories tell,
Ran loud and torn before the knight of hell.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,—
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And, moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark;

And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall,
In lordly right predominant o'er all.
Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng
Of happy children, ring their tangled song
From out the greener trees; and then a cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like savages at ships; and then again
Nothing is heard but their own stately train,
Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea.
But scarce their eyes encounter living thing
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle looking up askance
With ruminant meek mouths and sleepy glance,
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing, half wond'ring—half indifferent—
Yet turning at the last to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.

So ride they pleas'd;—till now the couching sun
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then woke the bride indeed, for then was heard
The sacred bell by which all hearts are stirr'd,—
The tongue 'twixt heav'n and earth, the memory mild,
Which bids adore the Mother and her Child.
The train are hush'd; they halt; their heads are bare;
Earth for a moment breathes angelic air.
Francesca weeps for lowliness and love;
Her heart is at the feet of Her who sits above.

Softly they move again through beam and shade;
Till now by stragglers met, and watch-dogs bay'd,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon:
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots,
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,

And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moonlit towers of wakeful Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains,—
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.