Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

White features, warp'd by withering pain:
Cold scum that clots each livid lip:
Both fists fierce clench'd, and clench'd in vain,
By conflict with Death's stifling grip:
Mouth gaping: eyes wide open, wan
And callous to the crawling flies:
The crumpled ruin of a man
Dead on the common crossway lies.

Was it revenge? wrath? greed of gold?
One stoops: the dead man's breast lays bare;
A portrait finds; and, ah behold,
Some woman's face, how young! how fair!

II.

This clay's congeal'd convulsion shows
Pain felt till clay could feel no further.
And round, in shuddering whisper, goes
From mouth to mouth the wild word ‘Murther!’

182

Men's loathing looks in fancy see
The poisoner's creeping form perfidious.
How hideous must his conscience be
Whose guilt is stamp'd in forms so hideous!

Some desperate deed hath here been done.
But whose the desperate hand that did it?
Was he himself, the murder'd one,
The murderer too? Sweet Saints forbid it?

III.

O holy calm, like silver dews that slide
Down from the starry bosom of the night,
Soothing his soul whose sight thy beauty blesses!
Beautiful flower, that from the lone hill-side
Hangest thy fair head in the languid light
Of evening winds that wave thy young green tresses!
Hail happy innocence! In contemplation
Of thy serene composure let me find
Asylum from the doubt, the indignation,
The pang, the horror, that yet haunt my mind!

For three steps yonder lies the hideous thing.

O help me, heal me, vision pure and calm!
Chase hence the sickening fancies that yet cling
To this bewilder'd brain, and pour the balm
Of thy benignant beauty over all
These troubled pulses! Ah, how quieting,

183

How full of calm persuasion still and clear,
Thine influence steals upon me, augural
Of doubt explain'd, strife reconciled, and fear
Forgotten! Holy all within me grows,
And silent; as in yon sweet heaven above,
Thro' whose husht air the tender stars, that tremble
Where yet the rosy sunset fading glows,
Like saintly thoughts that visit virgin love,
From deeps divine their quiet lights assemble.
Ah, had he seen thee ere that frenzied hour!
Ah, had he known thee, whosoe'er he be. . . . .
“Whom dost thou speak of?” smiling said the flower.
“The dead man yonder? He was known to me.”

Thou knew'st him? Once his soul thy beauty cherish'd,
Whose corpse lies there? Thou knew'st him, thou? He, thee?
And yet, poor wretch. . . . Was it self-slain he perish'd?
Couldst thou not save him? Yet he knew thee, he!

“Ay,” blushing smiled the flower, “nor knew alone,
But knew and loved me. That was his undoing.”

Loved thee! and was by love of thee undone?
Nay, I heard false. Beauty so spirit-wooing
Woos not so wickedly! All ways but one
Lie open to man's heart: and foe or friend
May walk them by whatever name he bear,

184

Love, Pride, Ambition, Envy, Anger, Hate.
Each road is free: and each the road may wend
Unchallenged till he reach the guarded gate
Where Conscience on the watch bids each declare
His purpose. Well that fool deserves his fate
Whose conscience leaves his heart unguarded there.
But to man's heart one secret path, and one
Which Conscience guards not, nor to guard is able,
Winds undefended, since but known to one.
'Tis where, unquestion'd and unquestionable,
Faith at all hours, still unsuspected ever,
Comes claiming access free; else comes she never.
For who from her protecting presence pure
Can need protection! Or what devil hath power
To smuggle in a lie along Faith's sure
And secret path to her unguarded bower?
Art thou that devil, beautiful deceit?
If so, I do conjure thee, and compel,
By the dread name no dæmon dares to cheat,
And by the potent passion of this spell,
Reveal thyself and make true declaration
Of thine infernal name, and wicked lair!

But smiling, and with no such transformation
As forms bewitch'd converts to what they were,
The sweet flower answer'd to my conjuration
“Naught have I to reveal or to declare.
Go, fool! what care I for thine indignation?
What for thine idle homage do I care?

185

Cease, then, on me thy wasted spells to try.
Am I not fair? And am I only fair?
If I be only fair, then fair am I.
Nor can thy curse, thy blessing, or thy prayer,
Make me aught else. Go to. Need Beauty die
Because men curse her? blush because they bless?
Fool, fair is fair, and neither more nor less.
And, if I name myself what harm to me?
If my form please thee, need my name appal thee?
Yet, if I name myself, what good to thee?
No curse my name contains that can befall me,
Nor any good that can to thee befall.
Nor have I any care how fools may call me,
So long as folls they be. Fools are they all,
And fools they will be, all of them the same,
So long as Bella Donna is my name!”