 | The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems |  |
1
THE MARRIAGE BEFORE DEATH,
A Tragedy,
IN TWO SCENES.
ARGUMENT.
Diana and Francesco, two Republicans, are imprisoned by their opponents and condemned to death. They are thrown by chance or stratagem into the same cell in the Prison, on the night before their execution. Francesco, who is Diana's impassioned lover, implores on this last night, for a last blossom of sweet life, the bounty of her love. This, after much hesitation, grounded on the thought that to tarry for high angelic union entered into after death would be purer and better, she, trusting in heaven, gives him. And the pure utter passion and joy of it go far towards making Francesco, previously an infidel, save as regards his dream of an ideal earthly Republic, a believer in life eternal and in God.
Crowned with this strange last joy, and nobly exultant, they pass the next morning towards their death—“Not as those that have no hope.” And round them their companions sing their last chorus, not without something of a grim envy: though they too are content for the Republic's sake to die. For they pass not as these pass, from a couch of sweet-smelling roses to the black bitter grave; the scent of the flowers of love's sweet immaculate night hangs not round them, only the weird white philosophic or patriotic hope, in the strength of which they walk towards death, not groaning, if not rejoicing—but such a memory of unutterable and endless fragrance caresses and strengthens, girds and crowns, delights and glorifies these.
- Diana.
- Francesco—her Lover.
- Chorus of Republicans.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
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Scene I.—In a large Cell in the Prison.
Diana.—And so we die to-morrow. Oh, Francesco,
Why have they added torture to our love,
And love to torture?—why concealed us thus
In one same prison, and with these same bands
Confined us?—we who should be gladly cleaving
In some bright boat the bright and bounding waves.
We are to die: they say so; die to-morrow.
The fair Republic that we both do worship
Will be the richer by the blood of two
To-morrow; lordlier by the martyrdom
Of two sad lovers, stricken side by side.
But why enclose us not in separate cells
For this last terrible and bitter night?
Why heap upon the fuel of their rage
Fresh, hot, remorseless, glowing coals, that burn
The very inmost spirit? Yea, why disturb
My peaceful prayers and slumbers by the face
Of him I love so madly? My Francesco,
What feelest thou? Is it not bitterer yet
Than e'en the bitter knowledge of our death
To have to blend with this our cypress crown
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To have, just when we would fix thoughts on heaven,
Or, turning to thine own strong hopeless creed,
On rest that lasts for ever—at that point
When all the soul, through agony prolonged,
And awful wrestling with its inner self,
Is reaching some high fatalistic goal
Of snow-white resignation, calm and clear,
Just then, at that grand moment, to be merged,
Yea, dashed, hurled, plunged within the resonant waves
Of earthly passion, foaming on the rocks
Of earthly iron cliffs we had left behind
For ever and for ever, as we thought?
Is this not hard?—though sweet flowers glitter through
Its tangled wood of trouble—hard, as if
Some sacred snow-white statue of a god,
Spotless, superb, as if from Phidias' hand,
Lost suddenly its clear, triumphant calm,
Becoming human, and so less divine,
Flushed now with roseate, breathing loveliness.
Bitter and painful as 'twould be for one
Who, climbing now, at last, the golden stairs
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With all the glorious plains of Paradise
Stretched wide before him—should be flung adown
Those high steps, on a sudden, by some hand
Remorseless, and for many an evil hour
Forced to re-tread the barren ways of earth.
Yea, hard as 'twas for dead, glad Lazarus,
E'en at the mandate of his Brother and Lord—
E'en for his sisters' and the people's sake—
Again to clothe himself in carnal robes,
And battle once more with the temporal wind;
Yet oh! my love, Francesco, it is sweet,
Sweet, passing sweet! to see thee even here,
And even thus.
Francesco.—
Oh! sweet Diana mine.
Hush! hide thy voice and hide thy face within
My bosom; 'tis alive and warm enough
To-night to shelter thee. Sweet! be not sad;
Be not dismayed; be rather great of heart,
And glad and most triumphant, for to-night
Shall see our nuptials: not with orange blossom,
And fair young girls for bridesmaids, and the stout,
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But with the imminent shadow of foul death
To hover over us, and deepen joy,
Till it becomes a joy no marriage yet
Has felt—a pleasure adequate for gods.
Full many a year have lovers to declare
And to accomplish all their perfect love,
When fate smiles; we have but one single night:
Therefore to-night let radiant love be crowned—
Crowned, sweet Diana, with a wreath of flowers
Sweet as thine own sweet lips and thy sweet self.
See here, there is a small and tender plant,
Thin, scanty, white-flowered, climbing o'er the sill
Of this our prison window—let me wreathe it,
With many kisses, in thy dark rich hair!
[He approaches her.
Diana.—
Nay, nay, my lord and lover, be not rash,
'Tis not the time for fooling—think of death.
Franc.—
Nay, rather 'tis the time for adding warmth
To all the fuel of love that yet remains.
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Sweet, let the sorry embers have their will;
But as for us, we'll light a flame in heaven.
Franc.—
Yea, lady, but the glittering match must first
Be struck on earth—I trust no fire of heaven.
Diana.—
The fire of heaven is an intenser flame
Than any scanty pallid passion of earth.
Franc.—
Try thou my lips, O lady—if they are cold,
Then sigh, and seek angelic lips in heaven.
Diana.—
Nay, loved one, 'tis thine own sweet lips I need;
But perfect-pure, angelic in their touch.
Franc.—
Angelic they will be when they touch thine:
Angelic and immortal never else.
Diana.—
How can I yield to thee? for 'tis to dash
The goblet of pure love upon the ground.
Franc.—
Nay, 'tis to fill it with a glorious wine,
And then to quaff that draught in triumph high.
Diana.—
Rather to poison with an earthly drug
The pure ethereal nectar of our dream.
[He approaches nearer.
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How can I give thee up? If heaven is ours
'Twill be the brighter for Love's gift of flowers.
Diana.—
The flowers of heaven are sweet without our pains,
The songs of heaven are fair without Love's strains.
Franc.—
But fairer for the added voice of Love;
Let us, together chanting, pass above.
Diana.—
Together singing—but no earthly song;
Nay, darling, hinder not, for I was strong.
Franc.—
Strong, lady, only by forgetting me,
Now I am here, that bitter force must flee.
Diana.—
Nay, love, 'tis I remember things divine;
For life, through death, I am altogether thine.
Franc.—
I have no faith in heaven—no perfect gleam
Of joys to come;—grant me this perfect dream.
Diana.—
If I should give thee this much longed for flower,
Wilt thou believe in God—at this last hour?
Franc.—
I will believe in roses—and in thee:
No more can I foretell with certainty.
Diana.—
If thou art vouchsafed such high joy in this,
Wilt thou not trust the Lord for further bliss?
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I will believe in thee and hope in heaven,
Which so superb a grace by death has given.
Diana.—
I know not clearly what may be may part:
I know but one thing: whither tends my heart.
Franc.—
Sweet, be not long considering—Death awaits
Our coming, just outside our Church's gates.
Diana.—
I have to dally with thee, for I know
That sometimes gifts of woman nurture woe.
Franc.—
There is but one woe—not to hold thee fast
As mine own bride—bride to the very last.
Diana.—
And what of death? the lips of death are cold.
Franc.—
But thine are warm—oh blossom of my dream.
Diana.—
Our destiny is clear, our life is told.
Franc.—
Not finished yet, remains love's sunset-gleam.
Diana.—
Is that a gleam to light a man to death?
Franc.—
Yea! light enough to glorify the tomb.
Diana.—
Poor is it—feeble, but a woman's breath!
Franc.—
Rather the full flame of a woman's bloom.
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Is that a fire whereto a man may trust?
Franc.—
Yea! all the treasures of his inmost soul.
Diana.—
Soon will it flicker—soon be as the dust!
Franc.—
Ne'er will it cease man's spirit to console.
[A pause. She changes her tone.
Diana.—
Ah, love! Francesco, all the blossom white
And maidenly of my heart I give this night,
Not keeping any sweet flower back from thee.
[Francesco reaches forward and embraces her.
Franc.—
And I—I take it with a gladdened heart
That throbs with kingly triumph in each part
Like the full pulses of the storm-struck sea.
Diana.—
Be tender with me, I have none to aid me,
Be gentle now that thou hast all thy will.
Franc.—
Thou shalt not need a sister to upbraid me,
Our passion's wine no hasty hand shall spill.
Diana.—
Be glad that I will give thee all thou askest,
Not waiting heaven to give thee of my store.
Franc.—
Sweet, in the light of some pure God thou baskest,
Dark death may not divide us evermore.
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It cannot sever, unless God be wroth,
That I am not to keep my virgin oath,
Giving myself too soon, on earth, away.
Franc.—
Nay, lady, there are debts that love doth owe,
And which to be paid must be paid below;
While yet we live, and yet 'tis called to-day.
Diana.—
Thou art my love!
Franc.—
Thou art my dove—
And my lady of dreams and of glory,
To-night is our bridal night,
To-night is our life's long story,
Our years of thought and delight.
To-night we must know each other,
Or never, never at all;
As lovers, as sister and brother,
In chains and in love's soft thrall.
All thoughts that lovers are keeping
For future pleasures and days,
Through our brains to-night must be sweeping.
To-night all songs and lays
Must sound—for never—oh, sweet one,
Shall any to-morrow's kiss
Atone for an over-fleet one,
Complete an imperfect bliss.
To-morrow our bodies shall moulder
And perhaps our spirits too,
The thought makes whiter your shoulder,
More crimson your lips' sweet hue.
Yea, fairer thou art, my lady,
As a dying beautiful rose;
Whose petals in grasses shady
The cold wind shakes as it blows.
Far fairer thou art and sweeter
For this one marvellous night,
Softer, whiter, completer,
More honey-like, bland, and bright;
More pure and more smooth and delicious,
More ripe and rosy to kiss:
For death with his glance suspicious,
Waiting to sever our bliss.
I love thee the more for the terror
That crowns our bridal with gloom,
Yea, further life were an error,
Seemly and fit is the tomb.
For a man when he kisses a maiden,
Sweet and pure as thou art,
Should die by pleasure o'erladen,
Stricken and pierced in the heart.
He should not live till to-morrow,
Having won one beautiful rose;
He should not tarry for sorrow
To smite, as a shower of snows;
He should not linger nor tarry,
Having kissed, having loved, having won;
His pleasure and joy let him carry
Beyond the setting sun.
Yea, life would hinder and spoil it,
The new-found, beautiful grace,
Mar and finger and foil it,
Dim the bloom of the face
Of love,—let lovers be wary
Of how they linger in life;
True love is cautious and chary
Of bliss; he carries a knife
To sever, and smite, and sunder
The passionate, glorious cords;
He strikes in a peal of thunder,
As lightning are his shrill swords.
If love abounds, and is ample,
Let lovers watch and beware,
Lest his following fast foot trample,
His following swift hand tear;
Lest all be over, or ever
The strains of joy were begun;
And the kiss be completed never;
And the first fair strands undone;
And the pleasures tarnished and broken,
In the midst of a loud wild wail;
Sweet whispers but half spoken,
Sweet faces suddenly pale,
Strong hands made suddenly weaker
Than wan waves under the dawn;
And soft lips silent and meeker
Than death, when the veil is drawn
Across some dear face shrunken,
Where once was a rose so red;
A flower that had eaten and drunken
To the full of the suns that are fled:—
But we, my lady, are safer
Than this. We need not fear;
Our life's seal is but a wafer;
The swift destroyer is near,
Who shall break the seal, and deliver
Our spirits, if such there be?
We need not quake nor shiver;
We cannot tremble and flee.
Yea, soon we shall know for certain
The wonder that lies beyond;
We shall peer behind the curtain
With glances tender and fond,
To see whether death be truly
The last destroyer, or no:
Whether life beginneth newly,
The river again to flow,
The water again to glimmer
In sweet blue ripples,—the foam
Again to sparkle and shimmer,
Fresh wandering feet to roam,
Fresh wondering eyes to wonder
At new-found marvellous scenes,
Fresh skies to threaten and thunder,
Fresh buds to broider the greens;
Fresh roses, red, and a glory,
To glitter along the ways,
Fresh May-bloom, fragrant and hoary,
To brighten the spring with its blaze;
Fresh friends to talk and to ponder,
Fresh lovers to laugh and to kiss;
Whether new joys wait for us yonder,
Loved one, fervent as this!
And my lady of dreams and of glory,
To-night is our bridal night,
To-night is our life's long story,
Our years of thought and delight.
To-night we must know each other,
Or never, never at all;
As lovers, as sister and brother,
In chains and in love's soft thrall.
All thoughts that lovers are keeping
For future pleasures and days,
Through our brains to-night must be sweeping.
To-night all songs and lays
Must sound—for never—oh, sweet one,
Shall any to-morrow's kiss
Atone for an over-fleet one,
Complete an imperfect bliss.
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And perhaps our spirits too,
The thought makes whiter your shoulder,
More crimson your lips' sweet hue.
Yea, fairer thou art, my lady,
As a dying beautiful rose;
Whose petals in grasses shady
The cold wind shakes as it blows.
Far fairer thou art and sweeter
For this one marvellous night,
Softer, whiter, completer,
More honey-like, bland, and bright;
More pure and more smooth and delicious,
More ripe and rosy to kiss:
For death with his glance suspicious,
Waiting to sever our bliss.
I love thee the more for the terror
That crowns our bridal with gloom,
Yea, further life were an error,
Seemly and fit is the tomb.
For a man when he kisses a maiden,
Sweet and pure as thou art,
Should die by pleasure o'erladen,
Stricken and pierced in the heart.
He should not live till to-morrow,
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He should not tarry for sorrow
To smite, as a shower of snows;
He should not linger nor tarry,
Having kissed, having loved, having won;
His pleasure and joy let him carry
Beyond the setting sun.
Yea, life would hinder and spoil it,
The new-found, beautiful grace,
Mar and finger and foil it,
Dim the bloom of the face
Of love,—let lovers be wary
Of how they linger in life;
True love is cautious and chary
Of bliss; he carries a knife
To sever, and smite, and sunder
The passionate, glorious cords;
He strikes in a peal of thunder,
As lightning are his shrill swords.
If love abounds, and is ample,
Let lovers watch and beware,
Lest his following fast foot trample,
His following swift hand tear;
Lest all be over, or ever
The strains of joy were begun;
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And the first fair strands undone;
And the pleasures tarnished and broken,
In the midst of a loud wild wail;
Sweet whispers but half spoken,
Sweet faces suddenly pale,
Strong hands made suddenly weaker
Than wan waves under the dawn;
And soft lips silent and meeker
Than death, when the veil is drawn
Across some dear face shrunken,
Where once was a rose so red;
A flower that had eaten and drunken
To the full of the suns that are fled:—
But we, my lady, are safer
Than this. We need not fear;
Our life's seal is but a wafer;
The swift destroyer is near,
Who shall break the seal, and deliver
Our spirits, if such there be?
We need not quake nor shiver;
We cannot tremble and flee.
Yea, soon we shall know for certain
The wonder that lies beyond;
We shall peer behind the curtain
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To see whether death be truly
The last destroyer, or no:
Whether life beginneth newly,
The river again to flow,
The water again to glimmer
In sweet blue ripples,—the foam
Again to sparkle and shimmer,
Fresh wandering feet to roam,
Fresh wondering eyes to wonder
At new-found marvellous scenes,
Fresh skies to threaten and thunder,
Fresh buds to broider the greens;
Fresh roses, red, and a glory,
To glitter along the ways,
Fresh May-bloom, fragrant and hoary,
To brighten the spring with its blaze;
Fresh friends to talk and to ponder,
Fresh lovers to laugh and to kiss;
Whether new joys wait for us yonder,
Loved one, fervent as this!
We shall know whether this one pleasure
Be surely, certainly, all;
Life's supreme meet measure:
Whether the fruit must fall
Being ripe now, perfect and rounded,
Red and sweet as thy lips!
Whether once God's mercy abounded,
Then that suffered eclipse.
Or whether beyond the thunder,
Beyond the stars and the waves,
Are yet new regions for wonder,
Built above sins and graves.
Whether yet beyond the roaring
Of Death's white terrible foam,
God waits preparing, out-pouring
Life—providing a home—
A home for lovers and sinners,
A home for patriots too—
So that through death we are winners
Of life, and of love made new.
But I—I build not a minute
Upon the uncertain hope
That may have no truth in it—
I face the axe or the rope
With eyes as fearless and steady
As those of the martyr who
Holds life but a stream or an eddy
Of heaven's broad seas of blue.
I go to my fate quite fearless,
For, lady, have I not thee,
Superb—so noble and peerless,
A blossom of purity;
Yea, have I not thee to guide me
Towards heaven, through death's cold stream,
To help and cheer, and to chide me
If I quail, though it be in a dream—
Have I not this perfect marriage
As a red, red rose to wear—
A scaffold for bridal carriage,
But—the fairest bride of the fair.
The fairest flower of flowers,
The loveliest gift of days,
The choicest guerdon of hours,
Surely I can but praise,
Praise fate, praise heaven who grants me
Just at the point of death
A flower whose bloom enchants me,
A blossom of so sweet breath
That all the swords and the trouble
Darken, and disappear—
Death's waves are smooth, not a bubble
Breaks, though death be near.
All is peace, and a shining,
Glad, fair road to the stars;
Or to a rest unrepining
That no black enemy mars—
All is peace—O flower
This thou hast brought to me,
Hope in the last wild hour,
Joy in extremity.
If not faith, yet a glimmer
Of sweet glad faith in God;
My pathway had been dimmer,
No star had flashed on the sod,
If thou, O woman, O blossom,
Had'st not so tenderly saved,
By the balm of a snow-white bosom,
By the banner of joy thou hast waved:
By gifts so perfect and ample,
That all my heart is a flame
Too large for death to trample,
Too bright for the sword to shame.
Be surely, certainly, all;
Life's supreme meet measure:
Whether the fruit must fall
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Red and sweet as thy lips!
Whether once God's mercy abounded,
Then that suffered eclipse.
Or whether beyond the thunder,
Beyond the stars and the waves,
Are yet new regions for wonder,
Built above sins and graves.
Whether yet beyond the roaring
Of Death's white terrible foam,
God waits preparing, out-pouring
Life—providing a home—
A home for lovers and sinners,
A home for patriots too—
So that through death we are winners
Of life, and of love made new.
But I—I build not a minute
Upon the uncertain hope
That may have no truth in it—
I face the axe or the rope
With eyes as fearless and steady
As those of the martyr who
Holds life but a stream or an eddy
Of heaven's broad seas of blue.
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For, lady, have I not thee,
Superb—so noble and peerless,
A blossom of purity;
Yea, have I not thee to guide me
Towards heaven, through death's cold stream,
To help and cheer, and to chide me
If I quail, though it be in a dream—
Have I not this perfect marriage
As a red, red rose to wear—
A scaffold for bridal carriage,
But—the fairest bride of the fair.
The fairest flower of flowers,
The loveliest gift of days,
The choicest guerdon of hours,
Surely I can but praise,
Praise fate, praise heaven who grants me
Just at the point of death
A flower whose bloom enchants me,
A blossom of so sweet breath
That all the swords and the trouble
Darken, and disappear—
Death's waves are smooth, not a bubble
Breaks, though death be near.
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Glad, fair road to the stars;
Or to a rest unrepining
That no black enemy mars—
All is peace—O flower
This thou hast brought to me,
Hope in the last wild hour,
Joy in extremity.
If not faith, yet a glimmer
Of sweet glad faith in God;
My pathway had been dimmer,
No star had flashed on the sod,
If thou, O woman, O blossom,
Had'st not so tenderly saved,
By the balm of a snow-white bosom,
By the banner of joy thou hast waved:
By gifts so perfect and ample,
That all my heart is a flame
Too large for death to trample,
Too bright for the sword to shame.
Diana.—
And I am content, O love,
That this fair joy should be;
God's gift it is from above—
God's sweet gift given through me.
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The humble minister—me;
Not God on His great gold throne,
No bright futurity;
But be thou sure that God—
The great fair Lord and King,
Lord of the earth's bright sod,
Who broodeth with bright gold wing
Above each glimmering place
Like a glittering faint fair star—
Will show thee His grand pure face
Ere thy spirit has wandered far
Beyond the river of death.
Like a pure rich fire He may come,
In the wind's clear outpoured breath,
In a rose's red rich bloom,
In my own risen voice
Perhaps—or another's tone;
I know not;—thou shalt rejoice
In the pleasure of God, mine own.
Thou shalt find the Lord of Hosts,
That His glory is no sick dream,
Nor His ministers faint sad ghosts,
Nor His heaven a mere stray gleam;
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Thou shalt step within the gates
Health and life to renew;
For the holy Lord God waits,
Francesco, yearning for thee,
Francesco—longing to bring
Thy spirit in purity
Within the courts of the King.
I hold that our love is nought,
An adulterous woman I,
Had my heart a foul thing brought,
A passion fated to die—
I hold no love of avail
That lives not ever within
God's holiest temple's veil,
Made pure from each taint of sin—
Pure as the Christ is pure,
Too strong for death to hold,
Able a life to secure,
And a love that turns not cold.
Thou art strong to die for the sake
Of the fair Republic—think—
Thou art willing to walk to the stake,
Of a fiery death to drink,
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Without the help of a creed;
To reach such a sweet high goal,
On Calvary Christ did bleed.
Yea, God then suffered to win
For Himself, for a pure white bride
The whole earth gathered in
To His gathering heart, to His side.
Not for a nation He
Did suffer death on the Cross,
But for every shore of a sea,
For all peoples—without the loss
Of a single straggling one—
That He might claim in the end
Each lover of truth for a son,
Each warrior-soul for a friend.
So He set an example high,
Not dreading the cold foul death,
Not flinching really to die,
And be utterly void of breath;
No pictured death was His,
No faint similitude,
But a death as real as this,
That to-morrow, with anguish rude,
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Whether we can endure or no
Hot agony's piercing darts,
Dissolution's icy throe.
God has tried it first;
He felt the hunger and pain,
The wild sick spasm of thirst,
The hot mad throbs in the brain.
The road we tread He has trod,
And the path is dim no more,
For the lamp of the passion of God
Was there as a flame of yore.
So doubt not, lover sweet!
That our death is but as a dream,
From which we shall wake to meet,
Having crossed the sad, cold stream.
[She kisses him tenderly, and gives him a red rose from her bosom.
Diana.—
This rose I give thee: they have spared it to me;
Upon thy breast to-morrow let it shine.
Franc.—
It is as fire from heaven to renew me,
Since, choicest rose of roses, thou art mine.
Diana.—
Now, let us part a season; all I told thee
I will without fail, ere the morrow, do.
22
Yea, sweet! for one sweet night I shall enfold thee
In passion's arms: give love one sweet long view.
Diana.—
Keep thou the rose; the living rose, soon dying,
Is not for thee till strikes the midnight bell.
Franc.—
Till strikes that hour, forlorn, I shall be sighing;
When strikes that hour, though doomed, it shall be well.
Diana.—
Remember, 'tis for Heaven's sake that I love thee.
Franc.—
Remember, 'tis for thy sake that I burn.
Diana.—
Remember, 'tis my trust that this may move thee.
Franc.—
Remember, 'tis through thee that death I spurn.
Scene II.—On the way to Execution.
—A large company of Republicans marching along; Diana and Francesco in their midst. They all sing:Chorus—
We are passing along to our agony red;
We are doomed, we are stricken, made one with the dead.
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Yet a hope doth remain.
Chorus—
For the people we die; for the people we go
Towards the swords that are sharpened, the faggots that glow.
Franc.—
But we heed not the pain.
Chorus—
There are two that have drunk of a pleasure so deep
That they heed not the time—they are sunk in a sleep.
Diana.—
We see clearer than ye.
Chorus—
A lover has played with the loose sweet hair
Of his lady so long that he heeds not the snare.
Franc.—
'Tis no trap set for me.
Chorus—
When love can make strong twain souls with his song,
And annihilate death by the bloom of the breath
Of woman, there's hope in spite of the rope,
And chance of reward in the track of the sword,
And pleasure to gain in the pathway of pain,
And a clamour of lyres in the midst of the fires—
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And loveliest flowers in these last hours,
Rich roses in bloom round the sides of the tomb,
And a glory to save in the mouth of the grave—
Diana.—
And a God to defend at the uttermost end
And to raise from the dead—'tis to life we are led—
But a passing breath is the wind of our death;
The sun of our day shall abide alway.
So be of good cheer—deliverance is near;
Our Republic to save we pass to the grave.
Francesco, remember—thou hast thy rose?
Franc.—
On my bosom a peerless blossom it glows.
Diana.—
Dost thou fear? I fear not—I think not, at least.
Franc.—
Nay, lady! my vision on thee I can feast.
Diana.—
And I feast my vision on God most high;
Franc.—
And I upon thee—it is sweet to die;
Diana.—
Yea, sweet, for God and my lover are nigh;
Franc.—
Calm, lady, and clear is the glance of thine eye;
Diana.—
It is fixed upon God—it is firm and sure:
I feel that our passion and pleasure were pure;
I know that a love so intense must endure.
I feel that our passion and pleasure were pure;
I know that a love so intense must endure.
Sweet heart, good-bye!
| The Marriage Before Death, And Other Poems | |