Constance De Castile A Poem, in Ten Cantos. By William Sotheby |
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| I. |
| II. | CANTO II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| V. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| VI. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| VII. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| VIII. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| IX. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| X. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
 | Constance De Castile |  |
17
CANTO II.
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I.
Hard is his heart, who never at the tombOf one belov'd, o'er the sepulchral urn
Has mus'd on days that shall no more return,
And call'd around from the funereal gloom
Shades of past joy, while tears that lenient flow
Seem to obliterate the sense of woe.
II.
Lo, on the mirror bright of former daysWhereon we love to gaze,
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No forms unkind intrude.
O'er each harsh feature rude
Gathers the shadow of forgetfulness;
While all that minister'd delight
Floats like a blissful dream before the sight.
III.
'Tis as a pleasant land by moonlight seen,Where each harsh form, that met the day,
In darkness dies away;
Smooth gleams, and tender shadows steal between,
While the pale silvery orb glides peaceful o'er the scene.
IV.
Within Corunna's guarded wallsA deep glen to the ocean falls,
Where broken crags encircling round
O'erhang a solitude profound;
Haunt where repentance might abide,
Or grief that seeks the tear to hide.
V.
There, in a rude and rocky cell,Where from the roof large ice-drops slow
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And ceaseless feed a holy well;
The pilgrim yet explores the grot,
And kneeling on the hallow'd spot,
Dwells on the deeds in legends told,
On wonders of the days of old,
And calls on her, the sainted maid
Who o'er the healing water pray'd.
VI.
There Pedro, by that hallow'd wave,Hid from rude gaze Maria's grave,
And hung the tomb with offerings holy
To feed and soothe his melancholy;
And there the mourner had endow'd
A dome to sainted Agnes vow'd:
Whence, to the grave, at hour of pray'r,
The sisters, each in turn, repair,
And day and night, at stated time,
Chaunt o'er the dead a holy rhyme.
VII.
Save at stated hour of pray'rNo wandering sister ventur'd there,
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Faintly glimmering o'er the tomb,
Shew'd darkness that more deep than night
Fell substantial on the sight.
The roof which arch'd that cell of woe,
The walls around, the stones below,
All marble, dark as ebony.
The sepulchre that held the dead,
Richly wrought with imag'ry,
Was form'd of granite deeply red,
In quarries hewn of Sinai's rock;
That, when the Temple rent its veil,
(So Eastern pilgrims told the tale,)
Shiver'd in the earth-quake shock.
Underneath the lamp's dim light,
The pale-ey'd sisters might behold,
Imag'd in alabaster bright,
A lady, and an armed knight;
And round their brows a crown of gold.
VIII.
That lady bore Maria's air,Each living charm seem'd featur'd there:
Such her fine form, and placid mien;
Still on her lip a smile was seen,
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Had rested as the spirit fled.
IX.
But who the crown'd and armed knight?Castillia's King there meets the sight.
Such the rich mail the Monarch wears,
So his right hand the war-axe bears;
His falchion slumbers at his side.
Yet more by bold demeanor known,
The features spake of kingly pride,
And the stern Monarch frown'd in stone.
X.
Thus as in breathing sculpture seen,Lay Pedro and Castillia's Queen.
Love, in their bloom and beauty's flower,
O'ercanopied their nuptial bed,
At the age of eighteen, Pedro first beheld, and, according to his solemn declaration before the assembled States of Castile, was privately married to Maria de Padilla. Her origin was noble, and from one of the ancient families of Castile. See Note H. p. 255, vol. i. of Dillon's History of Peter the Cruel. By Maria de Padilla, Pedro had several children, who all died unmarried, except Constance, the heroine of the Poem, and Isabella first wife of Edmund Duke of York, fifth son of Edward III.
“In the year 1362, Peter convened the Cortes of his kingdom, and assured them, that Blanche of Bourbon had never been his legitimate wife, as, prior to his engagement with her, he had given a solemn promise of marriage to Maria de Padilla, and received her as his wife: though, from fear of the nobility, he had not ventured to proclaim it: that in the heat of youth he had set out for Valladolid, to consummate the nuptial ceremony with the Lady Blanche of Bourbon, after the promise previously given to Maria de Padilla, the witnesses of which were Diego Garcia de Padilla, then present, brother to the Lady Maria, and John Fernandez de Henestrosa, her uncle; also John Alfonso de Mayorga, keeper of the privy seal; and John Martinez de Orduna, abbot of St. Andero, his first chaplain, who were both present, and would certify the same to be true; which they swore on the holy Evangelists, as stated by the King. After that, Peter made a public declaration, that the Lady Maria de Padilla had been his true and wedded wife, and as such was Queen of Castile and Leon; that his son Don Alfonso, and three daughters, Beatrix, Constance, and Isabella, by the Lady Maria, were his legitimate issue.” Dillon's Hist. of Peter the Cruel, vol. i. p. 194.
And, never from that blissful hour,
The world, with all its woe, had pow'r
To dim the flame that Hymen fed.
Adversity but serv'd to bind
In closer union mind with mind,
Bad each from each the pang remove,
And drew from grief the balm of love.
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That smiles on blissful Araby,
The balsam's lenient tear confin'd
Sleeps in the smooth unbroken rind,
But kindly flowing from the wound
Sheds life and healing fragrance round.
XI.
To realms of bliss Maria fled.In the still refuge of the dead,
In that dim cave, that lonely spot,
The world, and all, save her, forgot,
On the cold stone whose vault contains
Entomb'd Maria's lov'd remains,
The Monarch hangs her image o'er,
And, dwelling on the days of yore,
Oft turns her features to retrace,
And weep upon her marble face.
A tear so shed could peace impart,
And, chast'ning, seem'd to soothe the heart.
XII.
Not now such tears could peace impart,No chast'ning sorrow sooth'd his heart.
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The Monarch sought the solitude.
“This night, no sister venture there:
“I, I alone will breathe the pray'r,
“And trim the lamp, and watch the dead!”
'Twas thus the troubled Monarch spoke,
As slowly through the midnight gloom
The nun pac'd lonely to the tomb.
The sister, passing to her rest,
Nor told her beads, nor cross'd her breast.
On Pedro's cheek swift flushes broke,
Now—ghastly pale, now—fiery red,
As one by horror visited.
XIII.
The Monarch threw the portals wide,Paus'd, and with wild'ring anguish cry'd,
“I enter not to seek repose:
“Who but the dead may hear my woes!”
He spake, and hurrying in aghast,
Clos'd the dark portals as he past.
XIV.
From his chill front big sweat-drops flow;His trembling grasp has seiz'd the lamp
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And now around each dark wall damp
Slowly he turns the lurid light;
All, all as wont, here meets his sight;
Now gazes on the marble floor—
Now eyes intent the sculptur'd scroll,
“Have mercy on Maria's soul:”
Thrice, thrice repeats it o'er and o'er—;
His heart beats lighter than before.
Now, kneeling on the hallow'd place,
Hangs o'er the lamp, more clear to trace
The features of Maria's face.
“'Tis, 'tis thyself—thy shape—thy mien;
“Still on thy lip the smile is seen,
“As if a blessing on the dead
“Had rested when the spirit fled.”
XV.
At once, as on a spot accurst,The lightning flash'd, the thunder burst,
And 'mid the glimpses of the blaze
A phantom swam before his gaze.
“Demon! that riv'st the hallow'd stone,
“Hence!”—he exclaim'd—“fell fiend! begone!
“Ha! art thou Blanche, Castillia's queen?
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“Fill'd'st with lament Sidonia's tow'r!
“Thy skin with spots is purpled o'er,
“And poison gushes from each pore.
“Far other once thy features seen
“Firing with love the wanton eye;
“Hence! spectre of deformity!”
He spake, and desperate drew his blade,
And, wild with horror, smote the shade.
XVI.
His dagger echoed from the grave,The while the Form beneath his view
Slow from her shadowy finger drew
The nuptial ring that Pedro gave;
Then hung, in guise of pity, o'er
A pale knight weltering in his gore.
'Twas Pedro's steel that blood had spilt;
His blade seem'd bury'd to the hilt.
XVII.
“I know you,—fiends,”—the Monarch cry'd.“Thou, too, thy nuptial gift behold;
“Behold thy present, faithless bride!
“This coil of hell around me roll'd.”
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That hid a blood-stain'd belt from view.
“Look on the snakes that clasp me round,
“Roderic Sanchez de Arevalo, bishop of Palencia, who dedicated his chronicle to Henry IV. King of Castile, mentions, on the authority of Ptolomeo de Luca, that the hatred of King Peter to Queen Blanche proceeded from magic enchantment—conveyed to an elegant girdle given by the Queen to the King, which, when he wore it, presented to his sight an aspect as if he was surrounded by a squalid serpent.” Dillon's History of Peter the Cruel, vol. i. p. 256.
“See in my heart the festering wound!
“Count, as they hiss, th' envenom'd brood,
“Each crested asp that taints my blood.
“But death, fell fiend! shall set me free,
“This blow dispell the witchery.”
XVIII.
He spake, and dash'd upon the tombThe lamp; and now, in darkest gloom,
Rais'd the self-murderer's desperate hand.
Lo! the sepulchral gates expand:
Bright on the tomb the quivering beam
Of noon-day pours its golden gleam:
And, radiant in the flood of light,
Fair Constance, and the holy sire,
Rush on the Monarch's dazzled sight.
Drops from his grasp the lifted brand;
Anselm the sacred cross upholds,
And quells stern Pedro's raging ire:
Constance around her father threw
The gather'd mantle's ample folds,
And veil'd the blood-stain'd belt from view.
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XIX.
Like whispers of the viewless choirThat sigh along th' Æolian wire,
And on the summer night-air die,
Soft as a dream of melody:
Sweet Constance, bending o'er her sire,
Touch'd the low chords that woke the lyre,
And call'd Maria from above,
To soothe his soul to peace and love.
XX.
“Oh! ever gentle, ever kind,“Maria! most belov'd,
“Whose mild look sooth'd the troubled mind,
“Whose voice each pang remov'd!
“Oh! if the sight of worldly woe
“May touch a soul at rest,
“Forget not him who weeps below,
“Spirit pure and blest!
“While to thy memory flows the tear
“More lov'd than all that life holds dear!”
XXI.
Such was the lay, that, ere its close,Sooth'd Pedro's spirit to repose.
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Constance has clasp'd him in her arms,
And gently wept upon his brow,
And taught his tear like her's to flow.
And forth they lead the tranquil King
Where the waters murmuring,
The drops that feed the holy well,
The pure breeze, and the sunny sky,
And birds of peaceful melody,
Awhile all sense of woe repell.
| Constance De Castile | |