 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
1
CASTLE PALO.
“'Tis a bleak, wild place, for a legend fit,”
I thought, as I spelt out over the gate
The Latin inscription, with name and date,
So rusted and crusted with lichens old,
So rotted and spotted by rain and mould,
That in vain I strove to decipher it.
The whole place seemed as if it were dead,
So silent the sunshine over it shed
Its golden light,—and the grasses tall,
That quivered in clefts of the crumbling wall,
And a lizard that glanced with noiseless run
Over the moss-grown broken shield,
And panting, stood in the afternoon sun,—
Alone a token of life revealed.
I thought, as I spelt out over the gate
The Latin inscription, with name and date,
So rusted and crusted with lichens old,
So rotted and spotted by rain and mould,
That in vain I strove to decipher it.
The whole place seemed as if it were dead,
So silent the sunshine over it shed
Its golden light,—and the grasses tall,
2
And a lizard that glanced with noiseless run
Over the moss-grown broken shield,
And panting, stood in the afternoon sun,—
Alone a token of life revealed.
The castle was silent as a dream,—
And its shadow into the courtyard slanted,
Longer and longer climbing the wall
Slowly to where the lizard panted.
All was still—save the running fall
Of the surf-waves under the stern sea-wall,
As they plunged along with a shaking gleam,—
And I said to myself—“The place is haunted.”
And its shadow into the courtyard slanted,
Longer and longer climbing the wall
Slowly to where the lizard panted.
All was still—save the running fall
Of the surf-waves under the stern sea-wall,
As they plunged along with a shaking gleam,—
And I said to myself—“The place is haunted.”
I to myself seemed almost weird
As I mused there, touched by a sort of spell,—
Whether 'twas real or all ideal,
The castle, the sea, and myself as well,
I was not sure, I could not tell,
The whole so like a vision appeared,—
When near me upon the stones I heard
A footfall, that with its echo woke
The sleeping courtyard, and strangely broke
In on my dream,—as a pool is stirred
By a sudden stone in its silence thrown,—
And turning round, at my side I found
A mild old man with a snowy beard.
As I mused there, touched by a sort of spell,—
Whether 'twas real or all ideal,
The castle, the sea, and myself as well,
I was not sure, I could not tell,
The whole so like a vision appeared,—
3
A footfall, that with its echo woke
The sleeping courtyard, and strangely broke
In on my dream,—as a pool is stirred
By a sudden stone in its silence thrown,—
And turning round, at my side I found
A mild old man with a snowy beard.
He seemed a sort of servitor,
By the drab half-livery he wore;
And his quiet look of pride subdued,
Mixed with an air of deference, showed
That he bore an office of service and trust.
Something there was in him fitted my mood,
And rhymed with the ruin and sadness and rust
Of the grim old castle,—a sort of grace,
Dreary and sad, looked out of his face;
A dimmed reflection it seemed to have caught
From a nobler mind and a higher thought;
As if he had held a trusted place
With one of a loftier fortune and race.
By the drab half-livery he wore;
And his quiet look of pride subdued,
Mixed with an air of deference, showed
That he bore an office of service and trust.
Something there was in him fitted my mood,
And rhymed with the ruin and sadness and rust
Of the grim old castle,—a sort of grace,
Dreary and sad, looked out of his face;
A dimmed reflection it seemed to have caught
From a nobler mind and a higher thought;
As if he had held a trusted place
With one of a loftier fortune and race.
4
“This is a dreary and desolate spot,”
Turning I said to him: “Is there not
Some story or legend of the dead
That hath grown about it?”—He shook his head,
And sighed,—and pointing his veinèd hand
Through a rift in the wall, I saw below,
A dim old figure upon the sand,
That musingly wandered to and fro
Wrapped in a cloak, and with downcast head;
“You see him, that is the Prince,” he said.
Turning I said to him: “Is there not
Some story or legend of the dead
That hath grown about it?”—He shook his head,
And sighed,—and pointing his veinèd hand
Through a rift in the wall, I saw below,
A dim old figure upon the sand,
That musingly wandered to and fro
Wrapped in a cloak, and with downcast head;
“You see him, that is the Prince,” he said.
“The Prince? why surely no one lives
In this desolate spot, with its fever air,
So deadly although it seems so fair!”
“No,” he answered, “he's only here
For this single day; but every year,
Just when the autumn is shaking the leaves,
For a single day, come rain or storm,
You will meet his noble and princely form,
(For a prince you would not doubt him to be,
Old as he is, and shaken by time,
And so changed from what he was in his prime,)
Wandering alone along the sea,
Musing and sighing constantly.
In this desolate spot, with its fever air,
So deadly although it seems so fair!”
“No,” he answered, “he's only here
For this single day; but every year,
Just when the autumn is shaking the leaves,
For a single day, come rain or storm,
You will meet his noble and princely form,
(For a prince you would not doubt him to be,
Old as he is, and shaken by time,
5
Wandering alone along the sea,
Musing and sighing constantly.
“Why? your wondering eyes ask; well,
If you command me, the story I'll tell;
Would you be pleased to stand, or sit
On this old stone bench, while I tell you it?
If you command me, the story I'll tell;
Would you be pleased to stand, or sit
On this old stone bench, while I tell you it?
“Our Villa, perhaps, you never have seen;
It lies on the slope of the Alban hill;
Lifting its white face, sunny and still,
Out of the olives' pale grey green,
That, far away as the eye can go,
Stretch up behind it, row upon row.
There, in the garden, the cypresses, stirred
By the sifting winds, half-musing talk,
And the cool, fresh, constant voice is heard
Of the fountains spilling in every walk.
There stately the oleanders grow,
And one long grey wall is a-glow
With golden oranges burning between
Their dark stiff leaves of sombre green,
And there are hedges all clipped and square,
As carven from blocks of malachite,
Where fountains keep spinning their threads of light,
And statues whiten the shadow there.
And, if the sun too fiercely shine,
And one would creep from its noonday glare,
There are galleries dark, where ilexes twine
Their branchy roofs above the head.
Or when at twilight the heats decline,
If one but cross the terraces,
And lean o'er the marble balustrade,
Between the vases whose aloes high
Show their sharp pike-heads against the sky,
What a sight—Madonna mia—he sees!
There stretches our great campagna beneath,
And seems to breathe a rosy breath
Of light and mist, as in peace it sleeps,—
And summery thunder-clouds of rain,
With their slanting spears, run over the plain,
And rush at the ruins, or routed, fly
To the mountains that lift their barriers high,
And stand with their purple pits of shades
Split by the sharp-edged limestone blades,
With opaline lights and tender grades
Of color, that flicker and swoon and die,
Built up like a wall against the sky.
It lies on the slope of the Alban hill;
Lifting its white face, sunny and still,
Out of the olives' pale grey green,
That, far away as the eye can go,
Stretch up behind it, row upon row.
There, in the garden, the cypresses, stirred
By the sifting winds, half-musing talk,
And the cool, fresh, constant voice is heard
Of the fountains spilling in every walk.
There stately the oleanders grow,
And one long grey wall is a-glow
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Their dark stiff leaves of sombre green,
And there are hedges all clipped and square,
As carven from blocks of malachite,
Where fountains keep spinning their threads of light,
And statues whiten the shadow there.
And, if the sun too fiercely shine,
And one would creep from its noonday glare,
There are galleries dark, where ilexes twine
Their branchy roofs above the head.
Or when at twilight the heats decline,
If one but cross the terraces,
And lean o'er the marble balustrade,
Between the vases whose aloes high
Show their sharp pike-heads against the sky,
What a sight—Madonna mia—he sees!
There stretches our great campagna beneath,
And seems to breathe a rosy breath
Of light and mist, as in peace it sleeps,—
And summery thunder-clouds of rain,
With their slanting spears, run over the plain,
7
To the mountains that lift their barriers high,
And stand with their purple pits of shades
Split by the sharp-edged limestone blades,
With opaline lights and tender grades
Of color, that flicker and swoon and die,
Built up like a wall against the sky.
“And this is our villa, where years ago,
When I was a youth and just had come
To the Prince's service, he made his home
For the summer months—how time does flow!
I was in love then, and many a time
To Mariuccia I made a rhyme;
For I was a poet in my small way,
Love makes all of us poets, they say—
Poor Mariuccia! well, no matter,
She's happier now I must suppose,
But she seemed to be happy here—God knows,
And we do not rightly understand;
And when those that we love are taken away,
'Tis hard to see why we should stay;
But it is not long that the trembling sand
Will shake in my hour-glass, and—Well! well!
'Tis not my story I meant to tell—
But somehow or other the old forms rise,
And you'll pardon the tears in these old eyes.
When I was a youth and just had come
To the Prince's service, he made his home
For the summer months—how time does flow!
I was in love then, and many a time
To Mariuccia I made a rhyme;
For I was a poet in my small way,
Love makes all of us poets, they say—
Poor Mariuccia! well, no matter,
She's happier now I must suppose,
But she seemed to be happy here—God knows,
And we do not rightly understand;
And when those that we love are taken away,
8
But it is not long that the trembling sand
Will shake in my hour-glass, and—Well! well!
'Tis not my story I meant to tell—
But somehow or other the old forms rise,
And you'll pardon the tears in these old eyes.
“I was a youth when I came to service
With the old Prince, fifty years since;
A better master no man could find;
And I always did my best to deserve his
Favor, and had it; and when the young Prince
Don Paolo, in whom his mind
And heart and hope were wholly centred,
Grew up to a youth, he gave me charge,
Having trust in me, to wait upon him,
And gladly I did,—for a heart more large,
Into which no vulgar thought e'er entered,
Was never born than Don Paolo's was.
He had but few of the follies that swim
On the surface of youth, mere straws and dust
That sometimes float on the clearest stream.
And I grew to love him, and he to trust;
And the years went on with an easy fleetness;
He growing and ripening every day,
And strengthening into a large, broad sweetness,
And day by day childhood gave way
In his dark mild eyes to a look of pride
And manly confidence and power,
As one who recognized the dower
He was born unto,—and I at his side
Could not but feel how each hour's remove
Parted our minds, though not our love.
With the old Prince, fifty years since;
A better master no man could find;
And I always did my best to deserve his
Favor, and had it; and when the young Prince
Don Paolo, in whom his mind
And heart and hope were wholly centred,
Grew up to a youth, he gave me charge,
Having trust in me, to wait upon him,
And gladly I did,—for a heart more large,
Into which no vulgar thought e'er entered,
Was never born than Don Paolo's was.
He had but few of the follies that swim
On the surface of youth, mere straws and dust
9
And I grew to love him, and he to trust;
And the years went on with an easy fleetness;
He growing and ripening every day,
And strengthening into a large, broad sweetness,
And day by day childhood gave way
In his dark mild eyes to a look of pride
And manly confidence and power,
As one who recognized the dower
He was born unto,—and I at his side
Could not but feel how each hour's remove
Parted our minds, though not our love.
“And so youth swift as childhood passed,
And he grew to be a man at last,
And love, like a careless spark of fire,
Dropped in the forest's leafy ways,
Touching his heart when heaping full
Of drifting wishes and dim desire,
In a moment set it all a-blaze.
'Twas the Donna Giulia's noble air
That took his heart so by surprise,
With her large, dark-shadowed wondrous eyes,
And velvet olive skin, and hair
All raven dark with a sheeny glare,
That over her brow so low and square
Was parted thick, and gleaming lay,
Heaped low behind in a heavy braid
Of serpent folds that overweighed
The delicate chin, and nestling laid
Close up to the small, fine ear, where, red
As her rosy lips, two coral drops
Against her ripe cheek dangled and played
Just where its rounded outline stops.
And he grew to be a man at last,
And love, like a careless spark of fire,
Dropped in the forest's leafy ways,
Touching his heart when heaping full
Of drifting wishes and dim desire,
In a moment set it all a-blaze.
'Twas the Donna Giulia's noble air
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With her large, dark-shadowed wondrous eyes,
And velvet olive skin, and hair
All raven dark with a sheeny glare,
That over her brow so low and square
Was parted thick, and gleaming lay,
Heaped low behind in a heavy braid
Of serpent folds that overweighed
The delicate chin, and nestling laid
Close up to the small, fine ear, where, red
As her rosy lips, two coral drops
Against her ripe cheek dangled and played
Just where its rounded outline stops.
“She came from Naples one summer day,
And after that, he was always away;
Or if he came home, the things that were there
Seemed to annoy him,—there was no rest for him;—
Lonely he wandered,—hated society,—
All the old joys had lost their zest for him,
All things at home brought only satiety.
Sometimes across the country he'd gallop
Madly; and then, as suddenly pull up
And loose the reins of his horse, all reeking,
And pull down his hat, and inwardly speaking,
Stare at the ground or the landscape about him,
With an eye that saw nothing of all without him,
Lost in some coil of confusèd thinking;
Then with a jerk the bridle clinking,
His spurs in the flanks of old Tebro he'd bury,
As if from some thought that had stung him to hurry.
And after that, he was always away;
Or if he came home, the things that were there
Seemed to annoy him,—there was no rest for him;—
Lonely he wandered,—hated society,—
All the old joys had lost their zest for him,
All things at home brought only satiety.
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Madly; and then, as suddenly pull up
And loose the reins of his horse, all reeking,
And pull down his hat, and inwardly speaking,
Stare at the ground or the landscape about him,
With an eye that saw nothing of all without him,
Lost in some coil of confusèd thinking;
Then with a jerk the bridle clinking,
His spurs in the flanks of old Tebro he'd bury,
As if from some thought that had stung him to hurry.
“The Prince and the Princess were blind at first,
As fathers and mothers always are;
But Donna Anna, Don Paolo's sister,
Who always was with him, suspected the worst,
And grew jealous and peevish, and used to enlist her
Sharpest wit, when she found that she missed her
Daily friend; and I must say
That better game and a sharper shooter
One would not find in a summer's day.
But all in vain; he grew muter and muter,
Or pleaded such plainly fictitious excuses
To be alone—that her jesting persistence
She changed for a proud and silent distance,
As if she were wronged,—but all her ruses
Ne'er in the least availed to loose his
Obstinate silence, until at last, her
Patience exhausted, she suddenly cast her
Snowy arms over Paolo's shoulder,
And began to fondle him, kiss him, and tease him,
Saying she never now could please him;
That he used to love her, but now all was over,
That he ceased to be brother because he was lover,
Ending at last in a passionate weeping,
That touched poor Paolo so, that he told her,
And she got his secret into her keeping,—
(And such keeping it was with this Eve's fair daughter
As a very fine colander's keeping of water,
A constant, imperceptible dripping)—
But he for the very telling grew bolder,
And she burnished his hopes with her counsel tender,
And ere the month was a week's time older
The Giulian fortress was pleased to surrender.
As fathers and mothers always are;
But Donna Anna, Don Paolo's sister,
Who always was with him, suspected the worst,
And grew jealous and peevish, and used to enlist her
Sharpest wit, when she found that she missed her
Daily friend; and I must say
That better game and a sharper shooter
One would not find in a summer's day.
But all in vain; he grew muter and muter,
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To be alone—that her jesting persistence
She changed for a proud and silent distance,
As if she were wronged,—but all her ruses
Ne'er in the least availed to loose his
Obstinate silence, until at last, her
Patience exhausted, she suddenly cast her
Snowy arms over Paolo's shoulder,
And began to fondle him, kiss him, and tease him,
Saying she never now could please him;
That he used to love her, but now all was over,
That he ceased to be brother because he was lover,
Ending at last in a passionate weeping,
That touched poor Paolo so, that he told her,
And she got his secret into her keeping,—
(And such keeping it was with this Eve's fair daughter
As a very fine colander's keeping of water,
A constant, imperceptible dripping)—
But he for the very telling grew bolder,
And she burnished his hopes with her counsel tender,
13
The Giulian fortress was pleased to surrender.
“And so this question at last was settled
To the Prince's and Princess's great surprise,
Who, when they were told of it, opened their eyes
With wonder and pleasure,—and contracts were drawn,
Putting those two young hearts in pawn;
And papers were signed,—and one bright dawn
Donna Giulia rode into the court
With Don Paolo, on a steed high mettled,
And reined him up with a sniff and snort,
And glanced around with her sharp wild eyes
Where the lightnings were scarcely sheathed, and dropped
Into Paolo's arms as the horses stopped.
To the Prince's and Princess's great surprise,
Who, when they were told of it, opened their eyes
With wonder and pleasure,—and contracts were drawn,
Putting those two young hearts in pawn;
And papers were signed,—and one bright dawn
Donna Giulia rode into the court
With Don Paolo, on a steed high mettled,
And reined him up with a sniff and snort,
And glanced around with her sharp wild eyes
Where the lightnings were scarcely sheathed, and dropped
Into Paolo's arms as the horses stopped.
“The Prince and Princess came forth to receive her;
And there, while she stood at Don Paolo's side,
Who gazed at her with a smile of pride
Softened by love, as if he defied
The world to spy a fault in his bride,
My eyes could never a moment leave her;
Something there was of strange and wild,
A kind of hurried and startled look
In her long black eyes, when under their lashes
They suddenly glanced,—like the gleam of a brook,
That under the dense woods darkling flashes
As it sweeps to its fall,—and when she smiled,
A sudden glance like summer lightning
Passed over her face, for a moment bright'ning
With a gleam of dazzling teeth, and then
Retaking the strange weird look again,
The fine lips closely and nervously tight'ning;
Yet there was something of winning grace
In the swaying form and the tremulous face,—
And there, as she stood on the balustrade,
Touched with gleams of sun and shade,
While a sense of uneasy consciousness
Through her diaphonous cheek was glowing,
And moulding to its bashful stress
Her every movement, despite her dissembling
Of an easy confidence, that I
Felt my heart drawn uneasily
Towards her, and all my feelings trembling
Like the snowy ostrich-plume that was blowing
And rippling on her hat, where it set
Fixed by a large blood-red aigrette,—
Though I could not explain the how and why.
And there, while she stood at Don Paolo's side,
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Softened by love, as if he defied
The world to spy a fault in his bride,
My eyes could never a moment leave her;
Something there was of strange and wild,
A kind of hurried and startled look
In her long black eyes, when under their lashes
They suddenly glanced,—like the gleam of a brook,
That under the dense woods darkling flashes
As it sweeps to its fall,—and when she smiled,
A sudden glance like summer lightning
Passed over her face, for a moment bright'ning
With a gleam of dazzling teeth, and then
Retaking the strange weird look again,
The fine lips closely and nervously tight'ning;
Yet there was something of winning grace
In the swaying form and the tremulous face,—
And there, as she stood on the balustrade,
Touched with gleams of sun and shade,
While a sense of uneasy consciousness
Through her diaphonous cheek was glowing,
15
Her every movement, despite her dissembling
Of an easy confidence, that I
Felt my heart drawn uneasily
Towards her, and all my feelings trembling
Like the snowy ostrich-plume that was blowing
And rippling on her hat, where it set
Fixed by a large blood-red aigrette,—
Though I could not explain the how and why.
“Soon came the wedding, with festal bells
And rustling of silk and stiff brocade
And gleamy satin, and muslin thin
As woven fog that the spiders spin;
And jewels heaved with the bosom swells
Of stately women, whose white arms bare
Clinked their golden manacles;
And laughter and buzz of humming talk
Rose confused through the lighted rooms,
Where the air was thick with rich perfumes;—
And the chandeliers sent forth their glare
Through the open windows, and lit the stalk
Of the fountain that spilled in the open walk,—
And music through all the reeling hall
Throbbed to a hundred dancing feet,
And thrilled through the marble-pillared doors
And the stately pictured corridors,
Where youth and beauty, and age and care,
And love and hate, went to and fro,
Sweeping the flowers in the vases rare
That stood on every marble stair,—
Or talking along the portico.
And noblest of all the nobles there
Went our Don Paolo!
How grand and glad that night he seemed,
To me it was as if I dreamed,
When I thought of the time when he used to run
With his hand in mine along the walk,
And lisp with a boyish confident talk,
And boast of the little nothings he'd done.
And rustling of silk and stiff brocade
And gleamy satin, and muslin thin
As woven fog that the spiders spin;
And jewels heaved with the bosom swells
Of stately women, whose white arms bare
Clinked their golden manacles;
And laughter and buzz of humming talk
Rose confused through the lighted rooms,
Where the air was thick with rich perfumes;—
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Through the open windows, and lit the stalk
Of the fountain that spilled in the open walk,—
And music through all the reeling hall
Throbbed to a hundred dancing feet,
And thrilled through the marble-pillared doors
And the stately pictured corridors,
Where youth and beauty, and age and care,
And love and hate, went to and fro,
Sweeping the flowers in the vases rare
That stood on every marble stair,—
Or talking along the portico.
And noblest of all the nobles there
Went our Don Paolo!
How grand and glad that night he seemed,
To me it was as if I dreamed,
When I thought of the time when he used to run
With his hand in mine along the walk,
And lisp with a boyish confident talk,
And boast of the little nothings he'd done.
17
“And the Donna Giulia's eyes, like mine,
Gazed after him, as at a thing divine;
And through her cheek, her feelings, like wine
In a delicate goblet, glowed and shone.—
I could have laid down my life to serve her,
When I saw her gaze with such passionate fervor
After his figure wherever it moved,
As if, for all she so deeply loved,
She dared not think he was all her own.
Gazed after him, as at a thing divine;
And through her cheek, her feelings, like wine
In a delicate goblet, glowed and shone.—
I could have laid down my life to serve her,
When I saw her gaze with such passionate fervor
After his figure wherever it moved,
As if, for all she so deeply loved,
She dared not think he was all her own.
“How often I live that night again,
And taste its joy in a cup of pain;
How I remember, while I was staring
In at the door, and looking at him,
Half as it were in a sort of dream,
He caught my eye, and forward he came
With that old frank way and noble bearing,
And his hand on my shoulder placing, he said,
‘Can you believe it, dear friend,—('tis true
Dear friend, he said,—those were his words,
The very words he said,—‘Dear Friend,’
I shall remember them till my end,)
That 'tis twenty long, long years since you
Taught me to talk; they seem to have sped,
To me, like the swiftest flight of birds,
Like a long, long flight of geese;’ and a smile
Here struck with its sunlight across his face,
And made him look, for a moment's space,
Like the picture of the great old Prince,
Painted by Titian, in his youth,
As I have so often seen it, while
The sunset shone on it where it hangs,
Or used to hang some ten years since,
The first and handsomest of a score
That hang along the corridor,—
Well, just such a flash of sun went o'er
His face as he spoke,—in very truth,
I should have thought 'twas the picture alive,
Only it had not the armor on,
As he called his years a flight of geese—
And, ‘Well,’ he added, ‘dear friend, they've gone,
To you too as swiftly, I do not doubt;
And many a long one more may you live,
And many a long one more may you thrive
Before God calls you to his peace;
But to-day shall not pass away without
My heartiest thanks and my heartiest blessing
For all your kindness.’
Then suddenly, without waiting an answer,
For he saw that something my heart was oppressing
That kept me from speaking, and filled with blindness
My eyes, he left me—but half a man, sir!
And taste its joy in a cup of pain;
How I remember, while I was staring
In at the door, and looking at him,
Half as it were in a sort of dream,
He caught my eye, and forward he came
With that old frank way and noble bearing,
And his hand on my shoulder placing, he said,
‘Can you believe it, dear friend,—('tis true
Dear friend, he said,—those were his words,
The very words he said,—‘Dear Friend,’
18
That 'tis twenty long, long years since you
Taught me to talk; they seem to have sped,
To me, like the swiftest flight of birds,
Like a long, long flight of geese;’ and a smile
Here struck with its sunlight across his face,
And made him look, for a moment's space,
Like the picture of the great old Prince,
Painted by Titian, in his youth,
As I have so often seen it, while
The sunset shone on it where it hangs,
Or used to hang some ten years since,
The first and handsomest of a score
That hang along the corridor,—
Well, just such a flash of sun went o'er
His face as he spoke,—in very truth,
I should have thought 'twas the picture alive,
Only it had not the armor on,
As he called his years a flight of geese—
And, ‘Well,’ he added, ‘dear friend, they've gone,
To you too as swiftly, I do not doubt;
19
And many a long one more may you thrive
Before God calls you to his peace;
But to-day shall not pass away without
My heartiest thanks and my heartiest blessing
For all your kindness.’
Then suddenly, without waiting an answer,
For he saw that something my heart was oppressing
That kept me from speaking, and filled with blindness
My eyes, he left me—but half a man, sir!
“Then off they went on their wedding journey,
And the house was solemn and dull enough;
Donna Anna wished and sighed, and the tough
Old Prince was a little stern and gruff,
And thinking alone of his son's return, he
Went wandering aimless about. At last,
Just as the time was nearly passed
When Paolo should bring back his bride,
Came a letter to say, that he should go
On his homeward way, for a day or so,
Or more, should it afterwards suit their whim,
To the castle old by the salt sea-side,
And I was sent down to prepare for him.
And the house was solemn and dull enough;
Donna Anna wished and sighed, and the tough
Old Prince was a little stern and gruff,
And thinking alone of his son's return, he
Went wandering aimless about. At last,
Just as the time was nearly passed
When Paolo should bring back his bride,
Came a letter to say, that he should go
20
Or more, should it afterwards suit their whim,
To the castle old by the salt sea-side,
And I was sent down to prepare for him.
“This is the castle here;
And a place more bleak and drear
You might seek without finding for many a year.
All round, wherever the eye can strain,
Stretches a barren, desolate plain,
Thinly clad with wild, fine grasses,
Through which the free wind sighing passes
As it roams alone,—with here and there
A stunted shrub, to make more bare
Its wildness; or on some swelling knoll
A haycock's grey pyramid and pole,
That with rain and sun grows old and bleaches,—
Till miles away the landscape reaches
To those climbing hills, where blackened patches
Of foliage darken on their sides,
And that old grey cloud lowering rides.
Seaward, far off, there's a tree-fringed tongue
Of land, that into the sea outstretches,
With a purple swell of mountains swung
On the water's rim as far as you see,
Where that great gull flaps so heavily.
But just turn round, can any thing be
More lonely and wild than the castle is,
With its four round turrets and grim flat face,
Looking over the sea that beats at its base;
And its courtyard, where the fountain drips
In the old sarcophagus under the steps,
All green with mould, where that lizard slips,—
And its flapping shutters, and windows grated,
Here pierced, and there, as the whim dictated.—
Can any thing be more dreary than this?
And a place more bleak and drear
You might seek without finding for many a year.
All round, wherever the eye can strain,
Stretches a barren, desolate plain,
Thinly clad with wild, fine grasses,
Through which the free wind sighing passes
As it roams alone,—with here and there
A stunted shrub, to make more bare
Its wildness; or on some swelling knoll
A haycock's grey pyramid and pole,
That with rain and sun grows old and bleaches,—
Till miles away the landscape reaches
To those climbing hills, where blackened patches
Of foliage darken on their sides,
And that old grey cloud lowering rides.
21
Of land, that into the sea outstretches,
With a purple swell of mountains swung
On the water's rim as far as you see,
Where that great gull flaps so heavily.
But just turn round, can any thing be
More lonely and wild than the castle is,
With its four round turrets and grim flat face,
Looking over the sea that beats at its base;
And its courtyard, where the fountain drips
In the old sarcophagus under the steps,
All green with mould, where that lizard slips,—
And its flapping shutters, and windows grated,
Here pierced, and there, as the whim dictated.—
Can any thing be more dreary than this?
“You see it now in a sunny time,
And this Roman sunshine enchants the slopes
Of the barren plains, as youthful hopes
Turn the dreariest day to rhyme;
But when the night of our chill Decembers
Shuts in at the close of a lowering day,
And the winds roar down from the distance grey,
And rattle the shutters, and scatter the embers,
As they howl down the chimney's blackened throat,
And over the old sea-wall, and under
Those ruined arches with thump and thunder,
Whitens the surf in the stormy night;
And the cold owl hoots in the mouldering moat,
And the wild gull screams as he hurries by,
And the dog sneaks close by the blaze to snore,
And starts from his sleep to answer again
The desolate long-drawn howl of pain
Of the wolf-dog, prowling afar on the moor.
There are sounds in this castle enough to affright
The bravest heart, and for my part, I
Know that the ghosts of the family
Who have fallen by sword, and disease, and murder,
On such terrible nights keep watch and warder.
And this Roman sunshine enchants the slopes
Of the barren plains, as youthful hopes
Turn the dreariest day to rhyme;
But when the night of our chill Decembers
22
And the winds roar down from the distance grey,
And rattle the shutters, and scatter the embers,
As they howl down the chimney's blackened throat,
And over the old sea-wall, and under
Those ruined arches with thump and thunder,
Whitens the surf in the stormy night;
And the cold owl hoots in the mouldering moat,
And the wild gull screams as he hurries by,
And the dog sneaks close by the blaze to snore,
And starts from his sleep to answer again
The desolate long-drawn howl of pain
Of the wolf-dog, prowling afar on the moor.
There are sounds in this castle enough to affright
The bravest heart, and for my part, I
Know that the ghosts of the family
Who have fallen by sword, and disease, and murder,
On such terrible nights keep watch and warder.
23
“Well, the family here came down to meet
Don Paolo, with right willing feet,
And all of their friends, with their equipages,
And liveried riders and liveried pages,
Came down to pic-nic in the castle;
And horses snorted and neighed in the court,
And all was hurry and gladness and bustle;
And the banner spread on the turret made sport
With the dallying wind, and the hall so wide
Rang with voices on every side;
And a shout of welcome rent the air
As Don Paolo leaped from his curricle there,—
The bells on his horses clinking and ringing,
As they shook their proud heads, champing and flinging
White flecks of foam o'er their reeking hide,—
And gave his hand to his laughing bride.
Don Paolo, with right willing feet,
And all of their friends, with their equipages,
And liveried riders and liveried pages,
Came down to pic-nic in the castle;
And horses snorted and neighed in the court,
And all was hurry and gladness and bustle;
And the banner spread on the turret made sport
With the dallying wind, and the hall so wide
Rang with voices on every side;
And a shout of welcome rent the air
As Don Paolo leaped from his curricle there,—
The bells on his horses clinking and ringing,
As they shook their proud heads, champing and flinging
White flecks of foam o'er their reeking hide,—
And gave his hand to his laughing bride.
“So they talked and feasted the livelong day,
And strolled along on the shingly beach,
And roamed o'er the castle, and danced in the hall,
And made the Pifferari screech
With their swollen pipes, and all was gay,
With music and mirth and festival.
The Contadine, ah! they were so glad,
All in their festal costumes clad,
O'er bursting bosoms the busto laced,
Spanning with scarlet their ample waist;
Red coral collanas around their neck,
And great, long, dangling ear-rings of gold,
And the stiff tovaglia's snowy fold,
Roofing their head—without a speck.
'Twas a joy to see them dancing there,
To the rub and drone of the tamburello,
Rich in their hearts, and without a care,
As they whirled in the endless Saltarello,—
Now panting and blazing with heat and mirth,
Now resting and laughing, or jesting and quaffing
The blushing wine, of which none was a scorner,
That spilled from the barrel set in the corner;
No merrier day was there ever on earth.
And strolled along on the shingly beach,
And roamed o'er the castle, and danced in the hall,
24
With their swollen pipes, and all was gay,
With music and mirth and festival.
The Contadine, ah! they were so glad,
All in their festal costumes clad,
O'er bursting bosoms the busto laced,
Spanning with scarlet their ample waist;
Red coral collanas around their neck,
And great, long, dangling ear-rings of gold,
And the stiff tovaglia's snowy fold,
Roofing their head—without a speck.
'Twas a joy to see them dancing there,
To the rub and drone of the tamburello,
Rich in their hearts, and without a care,
As they whirled in the endless Saltarello,—
Now panting and blazing with heat and mirth,
Now resting and laughing, or jesting and quaffing
The blushing wine, of which none was a scorner,
That spilled from the barrel set in the corner;
No merrier day was there ever on earth.
25
“And so the day went by, and some,
Tired of merriment, had departed,
And some still lingered, the younger-hearted,
To make for a single night their home
In the castle, and journey next day to Rome
With the bride and bridegroom when they started;
And the twilight greened and died in the west,
And the full moon over the swelling breast
Of the eastern sea with a red glare clomb—
And some were wandering far away
On the foam-dashed sand, and others stood
On the battlements of the castle grey,
Watching the moon rise over the flood,
And some were in the courtyard there,
And groups were scattered everywhere.
Tired of merriment, had departed,
And some still lingered, the younger-hearted,
To make for a single night their home
In the castle, and journey next day to Rome
With the bride and bridegroom when they started;
And the twilight greened and died in the west,
And the full moon over the swelling breast
Of the eastern sea with a red glare clomb—
And some were wandering far away
On the foam-dashed sand, and others stood
On the battlements of the castle grey,
Watching the moon rise over the flood,
And some were in the courtyard there,
And groups were scattered everywhere.
“I was standing just by the shore,
As it were in a sort of a dream,
Thinking the day and its gladness o'er,
And the difference betwixt me and them,
How I was so old, and poor, and grey,
And they were so young, and rich, and gay,
When all of a sudden a fearful scream,
Shrill and wild, rang in my ear,
That made my whole scalp rise with fear;
And there, as I stood, a figure rushed by,
With its arms flung upward against the sky,
And glancing at me, (Good God! were those eyes
Donna Giulia's eyes, that glared at me so,)
Uttered another thrilling cry,
Just like the first,—then turned with a dash,
And out o'er those ruined arches' ledge,
Wildly fled to their dizzy edge,
And vanished;—and I heard a splash,
A low dull splash, in the waters below.
As it were in a sort of a dream,
Thinking the day and its gladness o'er,
And the difference betwixt me and them,
How I was so old, and poor, and grey,
26
When all of a sudden a fearful scream,
Shrill and wild, rang in my ear,
That made my whole scalp rise with fear;
And there, as I stood, a figure rushed by,
With its arms flung upward against the sky,
And glancing at me, (Good God! were those eyes
Donna Giulia's eyes, that glared at me so,)
Uttered another thrilling cry,
Just like the first,—then turned with a dash,
And out o'er those ruined arches' ledge,
Wildly fled to their dizzy edge,
And vanished;—and I heard a splash,
A low dull splash, in the waters below.
“I stood for a moment, as if in a trance,
I could not move a hand or limb,
But I thought, 'tis only some horrible whim,
That could not have been Donna Giulia's glance;—
I had a sense as if I stood
Rooted an age there, or ever I could
Gather and fix myself to one
Definite thought to act upon.
Oh! it is easy enough to see,
Here as we stand so quietly,
That the thing to do was to rush and save
Whoever it was from a watery grave;
But all my thoughts were scattered about,
And I could not gather them up again,
And my senses were all like a tangled skein
Of night-mare fancies tied in a knot.
I could not move a hand or limb,
But I thought, 'tis only some horrible whim,
That could not have been Donna Giulia's glance;—
I had a sense as if I stood
27
Gather and fix myself to one
Definite thought to act upon.
Oh! it is easy enough to see,
Here as we stand so quietly,
That the thing to do was to rush and save
Whoever it was from a watery grave;
But all my thoughts were scattered about,
And I could not gather them up again,
And my senses were all like a tangled skein
Of night-mare fancies tied in a knot.
“It was but a moment, I suppose,
Though it seemed a whole eternity,
Before I was down in the swelling sea,
And beating through its great green walls,
That toppled, quivering with flashing snows,
And swimming deep where the moonshine crawls,
Just there, 'neath the arch at the end of the pier,
Grasping after white folds that rose
And puffed, and sank, until at last,
After the agony of a year,
As it seemed to me,—thank God it's past—
I dragged a pale white figure, that drooped
Over my arm, to the shoe-deep sand,
Trailing on it a lifeless hand,
And felt a crowd, that around me stooped
With a buzz of horror, and some one cried,
‘'Tis Donna Giulia—'Tis the bride’—
Then all my senses staggered, and swooped
Into a pit of blackest night,
And my skull crushed in with a terrible pain,
And stars shot round me a fiery rain,
And serpents crawled in my dizzy brain,
And all things vanished from me quite.
Though it seemed a whole eternity,
Before I was down in the swelling sea,
And beating through its great green walls,
That toppled, quivering with flashing snows,
And swimming deep where the moonshine crawls,
Just there, 'neath the arch at the end of the pier,
Grasping after white folds that rose
And puffed, and sank, until at last,
28
As it seemed to me,—thank God it's past—
I dragged a pale white figure, that drooped
Over my arm, to the shoe-deep sand,
Trailing on it a lifeless hand,
And felt a crowd, that around me stooped
With a buzz of horror, and some one cried,
‘'Tis Donna Giulia—'Tis the bride’—
Then all my senses staggered, and swooped
Into a pit of blackest night,
And my skull crushed in with a terrible pain,
And stars shot round me a fiery rain,
And serpents crawled in my dizzy brain,
And all things vanished from me quite.
“How it was, I afterwards learned,
When my shattered senses returned;—
Ah! I thought there was too much light
In those wild eyes, when I saw them first;
Something too sharp and overbright,
As of a thing divine that was curst—
While they were sitting, bridegroom and bride,
On yon jutting rock by the water's side,
And the growth of their young love tasting o'er,
And she was lying upon his breast,
Gazing up at the rounded moon,
While his one arm was round her thrown,
And their lips at times to each other pressed,
As to drink each other's being strove,
Their soft eyes humid with passionate love;
Suddenly over her countenance
Shot a change, like a lightning's glance,
And a terrible light, wild and insane,
Through their dilating pupils darted,
That seemed with hate and horror to strain.
Up to her feet, as if stung, she started,
And through her nervous lips the light
Of her snowy teeth showed to the night,
As she uttered that fearful maniac scream
That startled the night from its peaceful rest,
And lifting on high a dagger's gleam,
She held concealed in her inner vest,
Plunged it swift in her lover's breast,
And madly fleeing along the shore,
Dashed into the sea—as I told you before.
When my shattered senses returned;—
Ah! I thought there was too much light
In those wild eyes, when I saw them first;
Something too sharp and overbright,
As of a thing divine that was curst—
29
On yon jutting rock by the water's side,
And the growth of their young love tasting o'er,
And she was lying upon his breast,
Gazing up at the rounded moon,
While his one arm was round her thrown,
And their lips at times to each other pressed,
As to drink each other's being strove,
Their soft eyes humid with passionate love;
Suddenly over her countenance
Shot a change, like a lightning's glance,
And a terrible light, wild and insane,
Through their dilating pupils darted,
That seemed with hate and horror to strain.
Up to her feet, as if stung, she started,
And through her nervous lips the light
Of her snowy teeth showed to the night,
As she uttered that fearful maniac scream
That startled the night from its peaceful rest,
And lifting on high a dagger's gleam,
She held concealed in her inner vest,
30
And madly fleeing along the shore,
Dashed into the sea—as I told you before.
“When I awoke from my blankness and swoon,
All was still in the castle there,
And in at my window was shining the moon,
Mockingly, with its face so fair;
The guests were gone, the surgeon had come,
In the halls was heard a whispered hum,
And careful steps were coming and going,
And listeners stood outside her door,
That an anxious, weary aspect wore,
And everything else was sad and still,
Save now and then, when a shriek so shrill
That it scared us, and stopped our blood from flowing,
Left the silence stiller than before.
All was still in the castle there,
And in at my window was shining the moon,
Mockingly, with its face so fair;
The guests were gone, the surgeon had come,
In the halls was heard a whispered hum,
And careful steps were coming and going,
And listeners stood outside her door,
That an anxious, weary aspect wore,
And everything else was sad and still,
Save now and then, when a shriek so shrill
That it scared us, and stopped our blood from flowing,
Left the silence stiller than before.
“The wound in his breast was slight, I mean
The bodily wound, but the wound unseen
Was ghastly; and no one could afterwards know
The frank, gay hearted, Don Paolo.
He went like a man with a barb in his heart,
And his smile was so dreary it made one weep,
He haunted the castle and would not depart,
And paced his room long nights without sleep,
As we knew by the rafters overhead,
That creaked with his fitful, pausing tread;
And up and down the corridor,
On the dusty arras that heavily sagged,
And its fringe o'er the pavement rustling dragged,
As the night wind sucked through the struggling door,
And made the hall-light bend and flare,
We saw his uneasy shadow go,
Shrink and shake, and rising grow
To a giant shape, till it darkened o'er
The great hall-window's blear white square,—
And oft as he wandered up and down,
Stretching his arms against the wall,
He would hide his face, and inwardly groan,
With shivering spasms that throbbed through all
His agonized frame,—as a noble oak
That totters under the axe's stroke,
And quivers all over ere it fall—
Often, at length, along the floor,
Weary with pacing to and fro,
Upon the sill of her chamber door
He lay, and listened her voice to hear,
In an agony of love and fear,
Weeping himself away in woe,—
Till the worn-out body yielded at last,
And out of the pain of waking passed;
But never dared he within to go,
For a terrible fever in body and brain,
Through her thoughts like a savage demon ranged,
And coiled round her heart, and all was changed
From love to hate, and from joy to pain.
The bodily wound, but the wound unseen
31
The frank, gay hearted, Don Paolo.
He went like a man with a barb in his heart,
And his smile was so dreary it made one weep,
He haunted the castle and would not depart,
And paced his room long nights without sleep,
As we knew by the rafters overhead,
That creaked with his fitful, pausing tread;
And up and down the corridor,
On the dusty arras that heavily sagged,
And its fringe o'er the pavement rustling dragged,
As the night wind sucked through the struggling door,
And made the hall-light bend and flare,
We saw his uneasy shadow go,
Shrink and shake, and rising grow
To a giant shape, till it darkened o'er
The great hall-window's blear white square,—
And oft as he wandered up and down,
Stretching his arms against the wall,
He would hide his face, and inwardly groan,
32
His agonized frame,—as a noble oak
That totters under the axe's stroke,
And quivers all over ere it fall—
Often, at length, along the floor,
Weary with pacing to and fro,
Upon the sill of her chamber door
He lay, and listened her voice to hear,
In an agony of love and fear,
Weeping himself away in woe,—
Till the worn-out body yielded at last,
And out of the pain of waking passed;
But never dared he within to go,
For a terrible fever in body and brain,
Through her thoughts like a savage demon ranged,
And coiled round her heart, and all was changed
From love to hate, and from joy to pain.
“Once, as soon as his wound would permit,
He dragged to her door his trembling frame,
And softly entering, breathed her name
In the dearest words that tongue could speak;—
But no sooner heard she his voice than she knit
Her low, dark brows, and glaring round
With wandering eyes, gave a fearful shriek,
Sprang for an instant to the ground,
Then, fell in a long and deathlike fit.
He dragged to her door his trembling frame,
And softly entering, breathed her name
33
But no sooner heard she his voice than she knit
Her low, dark brows, and glaring round
With wandering eyes, gave a fearful shriek,
Sprang for an instant to the ground,
Then, fell in a long and deathlike fit.
“Health to the body at last came back,
But the mind had lost forever the track
It had wandered from,—in a forest wild,
Of tangled fancies, she roamed alone
Where none could follow, and often smiled,
With that vacant smile, that makes one groan,
It shows how utterly all has flown.
For hours she stood at that casement there,
And drummed on the pane with her fingers fair;
Or sat and twisted them mornings long,
Singing strange scraps of disjointed song,
But over the door-sill she never would go,
And never would see Don Paolo—
Often with patientest schemes he strove,
To call her back to the thought of love,
But his voice alone seemed to madden her brain,
And at last he gave it up as vain.
But the mind had lost forever the track
It had wandered from,—in a forest wild,
Of tangled fancies, she roamed alone
Where none could follow, and often smiled,
With that vacant smile, that makes one groan,
It shows how utterly all has flown.
For hours she stood at that casement there,
And drummed on the pane with her fingers fair;
Or sat and twisted them mornings long,
Singing strange scraps of disjointed song,
But over the door-sill she never would go,
And never would see Don Paolo—
Often with patientest schemes he strove,
34
But his voice alone seemed to madden her brain,
And at last he gave it up as vain.
“You know the demon that haunts the air,
That sleeps on these stretches, so bleak and bare,
The fever that shakes us with fire and ice—
Well, she seemed to defy it, and grew more fair,
Breathing it in, as if the devil
That raged in her brain had some device
To shield her from all other forms of evil;—
But on him, with sorrow wasted away,
It fell, like a tiger, on its prey,
And with her name last on his pallid lips,
That dear, brave spirit, went its way,
Into the shadow of death's eclipse,
In the twilight close of an autumn day.
That sleeps on these stretches, so bleak and bare,
The fever that shakes us with fire and ice—
Well, she seemed to defy it, and grew more fair,
Breathing it in, as if the devil
That raged in her brain had some device
To shield her from all other forms of evil;—
But on him, with sorrow wasted away,
It fell, like a tiger, on its prey,
And with her name last on his pallid lips,
That dear, brave spirit, went its way,
Into the shadow of death's eclipse,
In the twilight close of an autumn day.
“I smoothed those dark locks on his brow,—
His dome-like brow, which death had made
So calm and grand, and full of peace;—
A humble, reverential kiss,
Upon its marble cold I laid,
And a prayer of tearful thanks I prayed
To God, who had given him release
From all that we on earth must know;
For I could not look at that face so still,
So still and calm, but it seemed to say,
‘Out of the struggle of earthly ill,
Into peace and love, I have passed away.’
His dome-like brow, which death had made
So calm and grand, and full of peace;—
35
Upon its marble cold I laid,
And a prayer of tearful thanks I prayed
To God, who had given him release
From all that we on earth must know;
For I could not look at that face so still,
So still and calm, but it seemed to say,
‘Out of the struggle of earthly ill,
Into peace and love, I have passed away.’
“I could not weep for him, I wept
For myself, and the mother, but more than all
For that old man,—for a terrible pall
Fell over him then, which nothing has swept
For years away, and nothing will,
Till he lies by his son, beneath the turf;—
You see the grave there, beside the wall,
Where he told us to lay him, in sight of the surf;
Well, there we laid him, and ever since,
On the day he died, ('tis this day,) the Prince
Makes to the grave a pilgrimage,
And weeps the tears no time can assuage.
For myself, and the mother, but more than all
For that old man,—for a terrible pall
Fell over him then, which nothing has swept
For years away, and nothing will,
Till he lies by his son, beneath the turf;—
You see the grave there, beside the wall,
Where he told us to lay him, in sight of the surf;
Well, there we laid him, and ever since,
On the day he died, ('tis this day,) the Prince
36
And weeps the tears no time can assuage.
“There is another grave, you say,—
True,—and there, but a year ago,
Her worn-out body to rest we lay,
Where the grass is just beginning to grow;—
An hour before she died, she smiled
With a sane sweet smile, her nurses said,
Like one just awaking from the dead,
And whispered, ‘Dearest Paolo;’
And after that, she was calm and mild,
And spoke as if all the years that had passed,
Since she had loved and seen him last,
Were but a blank and terrible dream,
A wall of darkness that shut her from him—
A night's wild night-mare, that now was fled,—
And she wondered how she had grown so weak,
And why she found it so hard to speak,
And why dear Paolo was not there;
So they told her she would see him soon,
And she turned her o'er, with a placid air,
And slid into death, in a painless swoon.
True,—and there, but a year ago,
Her worn-out body to rest we lay,
Where the grass is just beginning to grow;—
An hour before she died, she smiled
With a sane sweet smile, her nurses said,
Like one just awaking from the dead,
And whispered, ‘Dearest Paolo;’
And after that, she was calm and mild,
And spoke as if all the years that had passed,
Since she had loved and seen him last,
Were but a blank and terrible dream,
A wall of darkness that shut her from him—
A night's wild night-mare, that now was fled,—
And she wondered how she had grown so weak,
And why she found it so hard to speak,
And why dear Paolo was not there;
So they told her she would see him soon,
37
And slid into death, in a painless swoon.
“But look! the evening air grows damp,
And the dark mists creep along the swamp,
And the bat is flitting to and fro,
And the Prince, there, beckons me—I must go.”
And the dark mists creep along the swamp,
And the bat is flitting to and fro,
And the Prince, there, beckons me—I must go.”
Rome, Nov. 1853.
| Poems by William W. Story | |