The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
 |
|
|
|
 |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
CANTO III.
Argument.
—Effects of the sight and manners of her husband upon the bride. His character. Paulo discovers the part he had been led to play. Result of the discovery to him and Francesca. Giovanni is called away from Rimini by a revolt. Description of a garden, and of a summerhouse.
Weak were the moon to welcome princely trains:—
Thousands of lights, thousands of faces, strains
Of music upon music, roaring showers,
High as the roofs, of blessings mix'd with flowers;
Through these, with one huge hopeful wild accord,
The gentle lady of a fiery lord
Is welcom'd, and is borne straight to the halls
That hold his presence in the palace walls;
And there, as pale as death, the future wife
Looks on his face that is to sway her life.
It stoop'd; she knelt; a kiss was on her brow;
And two huge hands rais'd her she scarce knew how.
Thousands of lights, thousands of faces, strains
Of music upon music, roaring showers,
High as the roofs, of blessings mix'd with flowers;
Through these, with one huge hopeful wild accord,
The gentle lady of a fiery lord
Is welcom'd, and is borne straight to the halls
That hold his presence in the palace walls;
And there, as pale as death, the future wife
Looks on his face that is to sway her life.
It stoop'd; she knelt; a kiss was on her brow;
And two huge hands rais'd her she scarce knew how.
Oh, foolish, false old man! now boast thine art,
That has undone thee in a daughter's heart.
That has undone thee in a daughter's heart.
Great was the likeness that the brothers bore;
The lie spoke truth in that, and lied the more.
Not that the face on which the lady stared
Was hideous; nay, 'twas handsome; yet it scared.
The likeness was of race, the difference dire—
The brows were shadow'd with a stormy fire;
The handsome features had a wild excess,
That discommended e'en the handsomeness;
And though a smile the lip now gentlier warm'd,
The whole big face o'erhung a trunk deform'd,—
Warp'd in the shoulder, broken at the hip,
Though strong withal, nor spoilt for soldiership;
A heap of vigour planted on two stands
Of shapeless bone, and hung with giant hands.
The lie spoke truth in that, and lied the more.
Not that the face on which the lady stared
Was hideous; nay, 'twas handsome; yet it scared.
The likeness was of race, the difference dire—
The brows were shadow'd with a stormy fire;
The handsome features had a wild excess,
That discommended e'en the handsomeness;
17
The whole big face o'erhung a trunk deform'd,—
Warp'd in the shoulder, broken at the hip,
Though strong withal, nor spoilt for soldiership;
A heap of vigour planted on two stands
Of shapeless bone, and hung with giant hands.
Compare with this the shape that fetch'd the bride!
Compare the face now gazing by its side!
A face, in which was nothing e'en to call
A stamp exclusive and professional:
No courtier's face, and yet the smile was there;
No scholar's, yet the look was deep and rare;
No soldier's, for the power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd:
A countenance, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood would go;
A morning glass of unaffected nature,
Something that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
Compare the face now gazing by its side!
A face, in which was nothing e'en to call
A stamp exclusive and professional:
No courtier's face, and yet the smile was there;
No scholar's, yet the look was deep and rare;
No soldier's, for the power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd:
A countenance, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood would go;
A morning glass of unaffected nature,
Something that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
Nevertheless, the cripple foremost there,
Stern gainer by a crafty father's care,
But ignorant of the plot, and aught beside,
Except that he had won a peerless bride,—
This vision, dress'd beyond its own dress'd court
To cloak defects that still belied its port,
Gave the bewilder'd beauty what was meant
For thanks so gracious, flattery so content,
And spoke in tones so harsh, yet so assur'd,
So proud of a good fortune now secur'd,
That her low answers, for mere shame, implied
Thanks for his thanks, and pleasure in his pride;
And so the organ blew, and the priest read,
And under his grim gaze the life-long words were said.
Stern gainer by a crafty father's care,
But ignorant of the plot, and aught beside,
Except that he had won a peerless bride,—
This vision, dress'd beyond its own dress'd court
To cloak defects that still belied its port,
Gave the bewilder'd beauty what was meant
For thanks so gracious, flattery so content,
And spoke in tones so harsh, yet so assur'd,
So proud of a good fortune now secur'd,
That her low answers, for mere shame, implied
Thanks for his thanks, and pleasure in his pride;
And so the organ blew, and the priest read,
And under his grim gaze the life-long words were said.
A banquet follow'd, not in form and state,
But small, and cheerful, and considerate;
Her maidens half-enclos'd her; and her lord
With such mild grace presided at the board,
And time went flowing in a tide so fair,
That from the calm she felt a new despair.—
Suddenly her eyes clos'd, her lips turn'd white,
The maidens in alarm enclos'd her quite,
And the Prince rose, but with no gentle looks;
He bade them give her air, with sharp rebukes,
Grasp'd her himself with a suspicious force,
And altogether show'd a mood so coarse,
So hasty, and to love so ill attun'd,
That, with her own good will, the lady swoon'd.
But small, and cheerful, and considerate;
Her maidens half-enclos'd her; and her lord
With such mild grace presided at the board,
18
That from the calm she felt a new despair.—
Suddenly her eyes clos'd, her lips turn'd white,
The maidens in alarm enclos'd her quite,
And the Prince rose, but with no gentle looks;
He bade them give her air, with sharp rebukes,
Grasp'd her himself with a suspicious force,
And altogether show'd a mood so coarse,
So hasty, and to love so ill attun'd,
That, with her own good will, the lady swoon'd.
Alas for wrongs that nature does the frame!
The pride she gives compensates not the shame.
And yet why moot those puzzles? 'tis the pride,
And not the shape, were still the thing to hide.
Spirits there are (I've known them) that like gods
Who dwelt of old in rustical abodes,
Have beam'd through clay the homeliest, bright and wise,
And made divinest windows of the eyes.
Two fiends possessed Giovanni's,—Will and Scorn;
And high they held him, till a third was born.
He strove to hide the secret from himself,—
But his shape rode him like some clinging elf
At once too scorn'd and dreaded to be own'd.
Valour, and wit, and victory enthron'd,
Might bind, he thought, a woman to his worth,
Beyond the threads of all the fops on earth;
But on his secret soul the fiend still hung,
Darken'd his face, made sour and fierce his tongue,
And was preparing now a place for thee
In his wild heart, O murderous Jealousy!
The pride she gives compensates not the shame.
And yet why moot those puzzles? 'tis the pride,
And not the shape, were still the thing to hide.
Spirits there are (I've known them) that like gods
Who dwelt of old in rustical abodes,
Have beam'd through clay the homeliest, bright and wise,
And made divinest windows of the eyes.
Two fiends possessed Giovanni's,—Will and Scorn;
And high they held him, till a third was born.
He strove to hide the secret from himself,—
But his shape rode him like some clinging elf
At once too scorn'd and dreaded to be own'd.
Valour, and wit, and victory enthron'd,
Might bind, he thought, a woman to his worth,
Beyond the threads of all the fops on earth;
But on his secret soul the fiend still hung,
Darken'd his face, made sour and fierce his tongue,
And was preparing now a place for thee
In his wild heart, O murderous Jealousy!
Not without virtues was the Prince. Who is?
But all were marr'd by moods and tyrannies.
Brave, decent, splendid, faithful to his word,
Late watching, busy with the first that stirr'd,
Yet rude, sarcastic, ever in the vein
To give the last thing he would suffer,—pain,
He made his rank serve meanly to his gall,
And thought his least good word a salve for all.
Virtues in him of no such marvellous weight
Claim tow'rd themselves the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for th' immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so design'd to keep
Stern central watch, though fancied fast asleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion touch'd his temper more
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He overwhelm'd it with a weight of scorn,
Was proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ungenerous for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience or the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt daring and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,—
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the small,
Left him at last unlovable with all.
But all were marr'd by moods and tyrannies.
Brave, decent, splendid, faithful to his word,
Late watching, busy with the first that stirr'd,
Yet rude, sarcastic, ever in the vein
To give the last thing he would suffer,—pain,
He made his rank serve meanly to his gall,
And thought his least good word a salve for all.
19
Claim tow'rd themselves the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for th' immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so design'd to keep
Stern central watch, though fancied fast asleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,
That no suspicion touch'd his temper more
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He overwhelm'd it with a weight of scorn,
Was proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ungenerous for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience or the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt daring and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,—
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the small,
Left him at last unlovable with all.
What sort of life the bride and bridegroom led
From that first jar the history hath not said:
No happy one, to guess from looks constrain'd,
Attentions over-wrought, and pleasures feign'd.
The Prince, 'twas clear, was anxious to imply
That all was love and grave felicity;
The least suspicion of his pride's eclipse
Blacken'd his lowering brow, and blanch'd his lips,
And dreadful look'd he underneath his wrath;—
Francesca kept one tranquil-seeming path,
Mild with her lord, generous to high and low,—
But in her heart was anger too, and woe.
From that first jar the history hath not said:
No happy one, to guess from looks constrain'd,
Attentions over-wrought, and pleasures feign'd.
The Prince, 'twas clear, was anxious to imply
That all was love and grave felicity;
The least suspicion of his pride's eclipse
Blacken'd his lowering brow, and blanch'd his lips,
And dreadful look'd he underneath his wrath;—
Francesca kept one tranquil-seeming path,
Mild with her lord, generous to high and low,—
But in her heart was anger too, and woe.
20
Paulo meantime, the Prince that fetch'd the bride,
(Oh, shame that lur'd him from a brother's side!)
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
That gave her up to his admiring care.
Some babbler, may-be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport;
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seem'd indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book;
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
Not that he lov'd him much, or could; but still
Brother was brother, and ill visions ill.
(Oh, shame that lur'd him from a brother's side!)
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
That gave her up to his admiring care.
Some babbler, may-be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport;
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seem'd indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book;
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
Not that he lov'd him much, or could; but still
Brother was brother, and ill visions ill.
This start, however, came so often round,—
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the little power grown less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her soul-rich looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;—
Oh wretched sire! thy snare has yet but half been wrought.
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the little power grown less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her soul-rich looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;—
Oh wretched sire! thy snare has yet but half been wrought.
Love by the object lov'd is soon discern'd,
And grateful pity is love half return'd.
Of pity for herself the rest was made,
Of first impressions and belief betray'd;
Of all which the unhappy sire had plann'd
To fix his dove within the falcon's hand.
Bright grew the morn whenever Paulo came;
The only word to write was either's name;
Soft in each other's presence fell their speech;
Each, though they look'd not, felt they saw but each;
'Twas day, 'twas night, as either came or went,
And bliss was in two hearts, with misery strangely blent.
And grateful pity is love half return'd.
21
Of first impressions and belief betray'd;
Of all which the unhappy sire had plann'd
To fix his dove within the falcon's hand.
Bright grew the morn whenever Paulo came;
The only word to write was either's name;
Soft in each other's presence fell their speech;
Each, though they look'd not, felt they saw but each;
'Twas day, 'twas night, as either came or went,
And bliss was in two hearts, with misery strangely blent.
Oh, now ye gentle hearts, now think awhile,
Now while ye still can think and still can smile;
Thou, Paulo, most;—whom, though the most to blame,
The world will visit with but half the shame.
Bethink thee of the future days of one
Who holds her heart the rightest heart undone.
Thou holdest not thine such. Be kind and wise;—
Where creeps the once frank wisdom of thine eyes?
To meet e'en thus may cost her many a tear:
“Meet not at all!” cries Fate, to all who love and fear.
Now while ye still can think and still can smile;
Thou, Paulo, most;—whom, though the most to blame,
The world will visit with but half the shame.
Bethink thee of the future days of one
Who holds her heart the rightest heart undone.
Thou holdest not thine such. Be kind and wise;—
Where creeps the once frank wisdom of thine eyes?
To meet e'en thus may cost her many a tear:
“Meet not at all!” cries Fate, to all who love and fear.
A fop there was, rich, noble, well receiv'd,
Who, pleas'd to think the Princess inly griev'd,
Had dar'd to hope, beside the lion's bower,
Presumptuous fool! to play the paramour.
Watching his time one day, when the grim lord
Had left her presence with an angry word,
And giving her a kind, adoring glance,
The coxcomb feign'd to press her hand by chance;
The Princess gaz'd a moment with calm eyes,
Then bade him call the page that fann'd away the flies.
Who, pleas'd to think the Princess inly griev'd,
Had dar'd to hope, beside the lion's bower,
Presumptuous fool! to play the paramour.
Watching his time one day, when the grim lord
Had left her presence with an angry word,
And giving her a kind, adoring glance,
The coxcomb feign'd to press her hand by chance;
The Princess gaz'd a moment with calm eyes,
Then bade him call the page that fann'd away the flies.
For days, for weeks, the daring coward shook
At dreams of daggers in the Prince's look,
Till finding nothing said, the shame and fright
Turn'd his conceited misery to spite.
The lady's silence might itself be fear;
What if there lurk'd some wondrous rival near?
He watch'd.—He watch'd all movements, looks, words, sighs,
And soon found cause to bless his shabby eyes.
At dreams of daggers in the Prince's look,
Till finding nothing said, the shame and fright
Turn'd his conceited misery to spite.
The lady's silence might itself be fear;
What if there lurk'd some wondrous rival near?
He watch'd.—He watch'd all movements, looks, words, sighs,
And soon found cause to bless his shabby eyes.
22
It chanc'd alas! that for some tax abhorr'd,
A conquer'd district fell from its new lord;
Black as a storm the Prince the frontier cross'd
In fury to regain his province lost,
Leaving his brother, who had been from home
On state affairs, to govern in his room.
Right zealous was the brother; nor had aught
Yet giv'n Giovanni one mistrusting thought.
He deem'd his consort cold as wintriest night,
Paulo a kind of very fop of right;
For though he cloak'd his own unshapeliness,
And thought to glorify his power, with dress,
He held all virtues, not in his rough ken,
But pickthank pedantries in handsome men.
A conquer'd district fell from its new lord;
Black as a storm the Prince the frontier cross'd
In fury to regain his province lost,
Leaving his brother, who had been from home
On state affairs, to govern in his room.
Right zealous was the brother; nor had aught
Yet giv'n Giovanni one mistrusting thought.
He deem'd his consort cold as wintriest night,
Paulo a kind of very fop of right;
For though he cloak'd his own unshapeliness,
And thought to glorify his power, with dress,
He held all virtues, not in his rough ken,
But pickthank pedantries in handsome men.
The Prince had will'd, however, that his wife
Should lead, till his return, a closer life,
She therefore disappear'd; not pleas'd, not proud
To have her judgment still no voice allow'd;
Not without many a gentle hope repress'd,
And tears; yet conscious that retreat was best.
Besides, she lov'd the place to which she went—
A bower, a nest, in which her grief had spent
Its calmest time: and as it was her last
As well as sweetest, and the fate comes fast
That is to fill it with a dreadful cry,
And make its walls ghastly to passers by,
I'll hold the gentle reader for a space
Ling'ring with piteous wonder in the place.
Should lead, till his return, a closer life,
She therefore disappear'd; not pleas'd, not proud
To have her judgment still no voice allow'd;
Not without many a gentle hope repress'd,
And tears; yet conscious that retreat was best.
Besides, she lov'd the place to which she went—
A bower, a nest, in which her grief had spent
Its calmest time: and as it was her last
As well as sweetest, and the fate comes fast
That is to fill it with a dreadful cry,
And make its walls ghastly to passers by,
I'll hold the gentle reader for a space
Ling'ring with piteous wonder in the place.
A noble range it was, of many a rood,
Wall'd and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlook'd it from a nest
Of pines:—all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert:—and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight;
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
Lilies angelical, and gorgeous glooms
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flow'rs, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmer'd with show'ring light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;
And now you went beside the flowers, with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;
And then turn'd off into a shadier walk
Close and continuous, fit for lover's talk;
And then pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward, o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you enter'd shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-view'd,
Through which the distant palace now and then
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees,—which reaching round about
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in ev'ry part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats,—
With bow'ring leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
Wall'd and tree-girt, and ending in a wood.
A small sweet house o'erlook'd it from a nest
Of pines:—all wood and garden was the rest,
Lawn, and green lane, and covert:—and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
With here and there a swan, the creature born
To be the only graceful shape of scorn.
The flower-beds all were liberal of delight;
Roses in heaps were there, both red and white,
23
Of wall-flowers, and blue hyacinths, and blooms
Hanging thick clusters from light boughs; in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and leafier walks between
Of red geraniums, and of jessamine,
And orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And midst the flow'rs, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of darksome pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the tops glimmer'd with show'ring light.
So now you stood to think what odours best
Made the air happy in that lovely nest;
And now you went beside the flowers, with eyes
Earnest as bees, restless as butterflies;
And then turn'd off into a shadier walk
Close and continuous, fit for lover's talk;
And then pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward, o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet.
At last you enter'd shades indeed, the wood,
Broken with glens and pits, and glades far-view'd,
Through which the distant palace now and then
Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken;
A land of trees,—which reaching round about
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out;
With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in ev'ry part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats,—
With bow'ring leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
24
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way,
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,—
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping orchards,—fig, and almond trees,
Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses;
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still,
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees,
Half seen amidst the globy oranges,
Lurk'd a rare summer-house, a lovely sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Ting'd as it enter'd by the vine-leaves thin.
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,—
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping orchards,—fig, and almond trees,
Cherry and pine, with some few cypresses;
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still,
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with fruits and flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, half of citron bowers;
And in the middle of those golden trees,
Half seen amidst the globy oranges,
Lurk'd a rare summer-house, a lovely sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd creamy white,
Its top with vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young bay-tree either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Ting'd as it enter'd by the vine-leaves thin.
It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill,
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,—
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,
Alcina or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about ran, on a line with this,
In like relief, a world of pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water-side, on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the stream at play,—
Some pelting the young Fauns with buds of May,—
Or half asleep pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters glide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,—
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,
Alcina or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
25
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about ran, on a line with this,
In like relief, a world of pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water-side, on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the stream at play,—
Some pelting the young Fauns with buds of May,—
Or half asleep pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters glide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
Ah, happy place! balm of regrets and fears,
E'en when thy very loveliness drew tears!
The time is coming, when to hear thee nam'd
Will be to make Love, Guilt, Revenge's self asham'd.
E'en when thy very loveliness drew tears!
The time is coming, when to hear thee nam'd
Will be to make Love, Guilt, Revenge's self asham'd.
All the sweet range, wood, flower-bed, grassy plot,
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, often with looks
More sorrowful by far, yet sweeter too;
Sometimes with firmer comfort, which she drew
From sense of injury's self, and truth sustain'd:
Sometimes with rarest resignation, gain'd
From meek self-pitying mixtures of extremes
Of hope and soft despair, and child-like dreams,
And all that promising calm smile we see
In Nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when everything was hush'd and clear,
Her sweet, rich voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners, and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And bless'd whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, often with looks
More sorrowful by far, yet sweeter too;
Sometimes with firmer comfort, which she drew
From sense of injury's self, and truth sustain'd:
Sometimes with rarest resignation, gain'd
From meek self-pitying mixtures of extremes
Of hope and soft despair, and child-like dreams,
And all that promising calm smile we see
In Nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when everything was hush'd and clear,
Her sweet, rich voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners, and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And bless'd whenever they beheld her face,
26
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Oh weak old man! Love, saintliest life, and she,
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
One day,—'twas on a gentle, autumn noon,
When the cicale cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks—and morning work is done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,—
The Princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour;
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
When the cicale cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks—and morning work is done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,—
The Princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour;
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried as usual for the trial's sake,
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd,—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from everything she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd,—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from everything she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd,
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd:
And turning from the trees her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'erhead, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd:
And turning from the trees her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'erhead, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
27
'Twas “Launcelot of the Lake,” a bright romance,
That like a trumpet made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more:—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
In hopes King Arthur might resent his wrong;
How reaching by himself a hill ere long,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its calm white face; and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt overwound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake, and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo! with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
Like stone thereat the mother stood, alas!—
The fairy of the place the lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her pupil, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:—
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
That like a trumpet made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more:—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
In hopes King Arthur might resent his wrong;
How reaching by himself a hill ere long,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its calm white face; and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt overwound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake, and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo! with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
Like stone thereat the mother stood, alas!—
The fairy of the place the lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her pupil, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:—
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other on the table, half enwreath'd
In the thick tresses over which she breath'd.
So sat she fix'd, and so observ'd was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone,
On some small matter needing unison;
Twice linger'd, and convers'd, and grown long friends;
But not till now where no one else attends.—
“May I come in?” said he:—it made her start,—
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said,—“O yes,—certainly.”
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure.
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this sat down to read the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together thrillingly,
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other on the table, half enwreath'd
In the thick tresses over which she breath'd.
28
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
Twice had he seen her since the Prince was gone,
On some small matter needing unison;
Twice linger'd, and convers'd, and grown long friends;
But not till now where no one else attends.—
“May I come in?” said he:—it made her start,—
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said,—“O yes,—certainly.”
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure.
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this sat down to read the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together thrillingly,
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot, when he kiss'd her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.—
Oh then she wept,—the poor Francesca wept;
And pardon oft he pray'd; and then she swept
The tears away, and look'd him in the face,
And, well as words might save the truth disgrace,
She told him all, up to that very hour,
The father's guile, th' undwelt-in bridal bower,—
And wish'd for wings on which they two might soar
Far, far away, as doves to their own shore,
With claim from none.—That day they read no more.
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot, when he kiss'd her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.—
Oh then she wept,—the poor Francesca wept;
And pardon oft he pray'd; and then she swept
The tears away, and look'd him in the face,
And, well as words might save the truth disgrace,
She told him all, up to that very hour,
The father's guile, th' undwelt-in bridal bower,—
29
Far, far away, as doves to their own shore,
With claim from none.—That day they read no more.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |