The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

—Giovanni Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, has won by his victories the hand of the Princess Francesca, daughter of the reigning Count of Ravenna; and is expected, with a gorgeous procession, to come and marry her. She has never yet seen him. The procession arrives, and is described.

'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day
Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go,
And all the landscape—earth, and sky, and sea—
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

'Tis nature, full of spirits, wak'd and lov'd.
E'en sloth, to-day, goes quick and unreprov'd;
For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown,
Merchant, or lord, that speeds not to the town?
Hence happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light;

Come gleaming up—true to the wish'd-for day—
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

And well may all the world come crowding there,
If peace returning, and processions rare,
And, to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing;
For, on this beauteous day, Ravenna's pride—
The daughter of their prince—becomes a bride;
A bride to ransom an exhausted land;
And he, whose victories have obtain'd her hand,
Has taken with the dawn—so flies report—
His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini.

The road, that way, is lined with anxious eyes,
And false announcements and fresh laughters rise.
The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd,
And finds no horse within the gates allow'd;
And who shall tell the drive there, and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts, from mere exuberance of delight,
The mothers with their babes in sore affright,
The bands of troops making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels, and friars, and beggars many a one
That pray, and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs, that hang like bees
On roofs, and walls, and tops of garden trees?
With tap'stries bright the windows overflow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go,
Till by their work the charmers take their seats,
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow:
Smiling and laughing some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in flattering talk impatient for the scene.

At length the approaching trumpets, with a start
On the smooth wind, come dancing to the heart;
The crowd are mute; and, from the southern wall,
A lordly blast gives welcome to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rds the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state,
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied;
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd and nothing gain'd,
The order, first found easiest, is maintain'd,
Leaving the pathways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.

For in this manner is the square set out:—
The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about,
And fac'd with guards, who keep the horse-way clear;
And, round a fountain in the midst, appear—
Seated with knights and ladies, in discourse—
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,
Whom Guido (for he lov'd the Muses' race)
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses,—trees of wit and love;
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact; till, at its height o'errun,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.

There, with the wits and beauties, you may see,
As in some nest of faëry poetry,
Some of the chiefs, the noblest in the land,—
Hugo, and Borso of the Liberal Hand,
And Gino, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Everard of the Sylvan Tower;
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black-Band robbers, Lionel;

With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and Greek,
And made the close Venetian lower his sails and speak.

There, too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng,
Stands a young father of Italian song—
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in his earnest face:
He with the pheasant's plume—there—bending now:
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes.

Another start of trumpets, with reply;
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits;—the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow,
A home to leave and husband yet to see
Are mix'd with thoughts of lofty charity:
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
With that a keen and quivering sense of tears
Scarce moves her sweet, proud lip, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day.

What need I tell of cheeks, and lips, and eyes,
The locks that fall, and bosom's balmy rise?
Beauty's whole soul is hers, though shadow'd still
With anxious thought, and doubtful maiden will;
A lip for endless love, should all prove just;
An eye that can withdraw into as deep distrust.

While thus with earnest looks the people gaze,
Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:

The train are in the town, and gathering near
With noise of cavalry and trumpets clear,
A princely music unbedinn'd with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice.
Then with a long-drawn breath the clangours die,
The palace trumpets give a last reply,
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture,—
The most majestic sound of human will:
Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still.

First come the trumpeters, clad all in white,
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses gray;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.

The heralds next appear, in vests attir'd,
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd;
And then the pursuivants who wait on these,
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees;
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charg'd with three heads upon a golden field.

Twelve ranks of squires come after, twelve in one,
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their horses are deep bay; and every squire
His master's colour shows in his attire.

These past, and at a lordly distance, come
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum—
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Two in a rank, their falchions by their side,
But otherwise unarm'd, and clad in hues
Such as their ladies had been pleas'd to chuse,

Bridal and gay,—orange, and pink, and white,—
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight;
Which thrown apart, and hanging loose behind,
Rests on the horse, and ruffles in the wind.
The horses, black and glossy every one,
Supply a further stately unison—
A solemn constancy of martial show;
Their frothy bits keep wrangling as they go.
The bridles red, and saddle-cloths of white,
Match well the blackness with its glossy light,
While the rich horse-cloths, mantling half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread;
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue—
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or heart's-ease purple with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow, thickening bright;
Or silver roses in carnation sewn,
Or flowers in heaps, or colours pure alone:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.

The crowd, with difference of delight, admire
Horseman and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch the riders' looks as they go by,
Their self-possess'd though pleas'd observancy;
And some their skill admire, and careless heed,
Or body curving to the rearing steed,
Or patting hand that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck.
Others are bent upon the horses most,—
Their shape, their breed, the glory of their host:
The small bright head, free nostrils, fetlocks clean,
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean,
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam.—
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.

And now the Princess, pale and with fix'd eye,
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,

Each rank uncovering as they pass in state,
Both to the courtly fountain and the gate;
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milk-white and azure-draped, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led.
In every limb is seen their faultless race,
A fire well-temper'd, and a free left grace:
Slender their spotless shapes, and greet the sight
With freshness after all those colours bright;
And as with easy pitch their steps they bear,
Their yielding heads have half a loving air,
These for a princely present are divin'd,
And show the giver is not far behind.

The talk increases now, and now advance,
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson in their livery.
Space after space, and still the train appear;
A fervent whisper fills the general ear—
“Ah—yes—no! 'tis not he, but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires.”
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train,
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain;
And now his banner comes, and now his shield,
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field;
And then an interval,—a lordly space;—
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place.
The Princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes,
And, with an impulse like a piteous plea,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a laboured smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, “The Prince! now, now!”
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,
A glorious figure springs into the square:—
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about.

Never was nobler finish of fair sight,—
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And many a lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The Princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found.
And see—his horse obeys the check unseen,
And, with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
Letting a fall of curls about his brow,
He takes, to all, his cap off with a bow.
Then for another, and a deafening shout,
And scarfs are wav'd, and flowers come pouring out;
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,
And whisks their garments and their shining hair.

With busy interchange of wonder glows
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes;
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes, as he bends him bends,—
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace;
So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black,—
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back,
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance;
But, above all, so meaning in his look,
As easy to be read as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the grave thanks within his cordial eyes.
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
And now and then, sideling his restless pace,
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill;
The princely rider on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.

Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood—
Something, in truth, of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings undefin'd and new,
Dart through the bride, and flush her faded hue.
“Could I but once,” she thinks, “securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case—
On such a mind, now seemingly beheld—
This chance of mine were hardly one compell'd.”
And see! the stranger looking with delight
Tow'rds the sweet fountain with its circle bright,
And bending, as he looks, with frequent thanks,
Beckons a follower to him from the ranks,
And loos'ning, as he speaks, from its light hold,
A princely jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long,
To the young master of Italian song.
The poet starts, and with a lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks after his new friend, who scarcely gone
In the wide turning, bows, and passes on.

This is sufficient for the destined bride:
She took an interest first, but now a pride;
And as the Prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes and goes by.

CANTO II.

Argument.

—The Prince is discovered not to be Giovanni Malatesta, but his brother Paulo, whom he has sent as his proxy. Francesca, nevertheless, is persuaded to be affianced, and goes with him to Rimini. Description of the journey, and of the Ravenna Pine-Forest.

I pass the followers, and their closing state;
The court was enter'd by an outer gate;
The Count and Princess had retir'd before,
In time to greet his guest at the hall door:

But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or pac'd the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat.
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast;
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud,
But a blank look, as if no court had been—
Silence without, and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.

The truth was this:—The bridegroom had not come,
But sent his brother Paulo in his room.
The former, said to have a handsome face,
Though lame of foot, (“some victory's very grace;”—
So Guido call'd it,) yet was stern and proud,
Little gallant, and had a chilling cloud
Hanging forever on his blunt address,
Which he mistook for sov'reign manliness:—
But more of this too soon. The father knew
The Prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the lover wooed but ruggedly,
Might pause, for aught he knew, and fail to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man, therefore, not unkind at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
(For lovers of the Muse, alas! could then
As well as now, be but half-loving men,)
Had thought at once to gratify the pride,
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And he might send and wed her by a third;

Only the Count thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes, that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Despatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a man
Noble as eye had seen since earth began,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare—perhaps for life.

One truth, however, craft was forc'd to tell,
And chance, alas! supported it too well.
She saw, when they were hous'd, in Guido's face
A look of stupified surprise take place;
Of anger next, of candour in a while,
And then 'twas told her with a begging smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his deep chagrin,
Had been delay'd by troubles unforeseen,
But rather than delay his day of bliss,
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss,)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
“May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other.”

By this time Paulo join'd them where they stood,
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And gave her thanks, in terms, and with a face,
So fill'd with attribution of all grace,—
That air, in short, which sets you at your ease
Without implying your perplexities,—
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame which now appear'd increas'd
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd—
And above all, those tones, and words, and looks
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,

And help'd her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose.
Quick was the plighted troth; and at the close
The proxy, turning 'mid the general hush,
Kiss'd her sweet lips, betwixt a rosy blush.

Two days and nights ensued. At length, a state
Of trumpets issued from the palace gate,
The banners of their brass with favours tied,
And with a blast proclaimed the affianc'd bride.
But not a word the people's silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And bringing the good coin by handfuls out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And “largess! largess!” claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.

The rest, however, still were looking on,
Sullen and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the gorgeous visitors appear'd.
The Prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes,
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull time, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose wits this strange abrupt event
Had over-borne in pure astonishment,
Could scarce at times a wilder'd cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,

And gather'd there, an unconcerted show.
Bending they stood, with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
“Farewell, farewell, my friends!” she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and in her grief withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.

The morn was sweet, as when they journey'd last;—
The smoke from cottage-tops ran bright and fast,
And every tree in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With ever and anon majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.

Nor long the Princess kept her from the view
Of the dear scenes her happy childhood knew;
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “slower,” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start,
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.

'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed,
And such as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to heed;
But now they take a lady down the hill,
And feel they should consult her gentle will.

And now with thicker shades the pines appear,—
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;

And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil,
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams;
And full of anxious thoughts, half-freed from pain,
She fell into her musing mood again;
Leaving the others, who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the first blithe day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd and everlasting green.

A heavy spot the forest looks at first,
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, and thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools half-cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company;
But, entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees as from a carpet rise
In knolls and clumps, in rich varieties.
The knights are for a moment forc'd to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space, and give the winds a charge,
Or pulling tight the bridles as they pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass:
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade;
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs
Or peering into spots that inwardly
Open green glooms, and half-prepared to see
The lady cross it, that as stories tell,
Ran loud and torn before the knight of hell.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,—
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And, moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark;

And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall,
In lordly right predominant o'er all.
Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng
Of happy children, ring their tangled song
From out the greener trees; and then a cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like savages at ships; and then again
Nothing is heard but their own stately train,
Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea.
But scarce their eyes encounter living thing
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle looking up askance
With ruminant meek mouths and sleepy glance,
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing, half wond'ring—half indifferent—
Yet turning at the last to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.

So ride they pleas'd;—till now the couching sun
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then woke the bride indeed, for then was heard
The sacred bell by which all hearts are stirr'd,—
The tongue 'twixt heav'n and earth, the memory mild,
Which bids adore the Mother and her Child.
The train are hush'd; they halt; their heads are bare;
Earth for a moment breathes angelic air.
Francesca weeps for lowliness and love;
Her heart is at the feet of Her who sits above.

Softly they move again through beam and shade;
Till now by stragglers met, and watch-dogs bay'd,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon:
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots,
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,

And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moonlit towers of wakeful Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains,—
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.

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.

Oh, foolish, false old man! now boast thine art,
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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Oh weak old man! Love, saintliest life, and she,
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.

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.

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.

'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.

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.

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.

CANTO IV.

Argument.

—The lovers are betrayed to the Prince. He slays them, and sends their bodies in one hearse to Ravenna.

But other thoughts, on other wings than theirs,
Came bringing them, ere long, their own despairs.
The spiteful fop I spoke of, he that set
His eyes at work to pay his anger's debt,—
This idiot, prying from a neighb'ring tower,
Had watch'd the lover to the lady's bower,
And flew to make a madman of her lord,
Just then encamp'd with loss, a shame his soul abhorr'd.

Pale first, then red, his eyes upon the stretch,
Then deadly white, the husband heard the wretch,
Who in soft terms, almost with lurking smile,
Ran on, expressing his “regret” the while.
The husband, prince, cripple, and brother heard;
Then seem'd astonish'd at the man; then stirr'd
His tongue but could not speak; then dash'd aside
His chair as he arose, and loudly cried,
“Liar and madman! thou art he was seen
Risking the fangs which thou hast rush'd between.
Regorge the filth in thy detested throat.”
And at the word, with his huge fist he smote
Like iron on the place, then seized him all,
And dash'd in swoon against the bleeding wall.

'Twas dusk:—he summon'd an old chieftain stern,
Giving him charge of all till his return,
And with one servant got to horse and rode
All night, until he reached a lone abode
Not far from the green bower. Next day at noon,
Through a bye-way, free to himselfe alone,
Alone he rode, yet ever in disguise,
His hat pull'd over his assassin eyes,

And coming through the wood, there left his horse,
Then down amid the fruit-trees, half by force,
Made way; and by the summer house's door,
Which he found shut, paus'd till a doubt was o'er.
Paus'd, and gave ear. There was a low sweet voice:—
The door was one that open'd without noise;
And opening it, he look'd within, and saw,
Nought hearing, nought suspecting, not in awe
Of one created thing in earth or skies,
The lovers, interchanging words and sighs,
Lost in the heaven of one another's eyes.
“To thee it was my father wedded me,”
Francesca said:—“I never lov'd but thee.
The rest was ever but an ugly dream.”—
“Damn'd be the soul that says it,” cried a scream.
Horror is in the room,—shrieks,—roaring cries,
Parryings of feeble palms—blindly shut eyes:—
What, without arms, avail'd grief, strength, despair?
Or what the two poor hands put forth in prayer?
Hot is the dagger from the brother's heart,
Deep in the wife's:—dead both and dash'd apart,
Mighty the murderer felt as there they lay;
Mighty, for one huge moment, o'er his prey;
Then, like a drunken man, he rode away.

To tell what horror smote the people's ears,
The questionings, the amaze, the many tears,
The secret household thoughts, the public awe,
And how those ran back shrieking, that first saw
The beauteous bodies lying in the place,
Bloody and dead in midst of all their grace,
Would keep too long the hideous deed in sight;
Back was the slayer in his camp that night;
And fell next day with such a desperate sword
Upon the rebel army at a ford,
As sent the red news rolling to the sea,
And steadied his wild nerves with victory.
At court as usual then he reappear'd,
Fierce, but self-centred, willing to be fear'd;
Nor, saving once, at a lone chamber-door,
Utter'd he word of those now seen no more,

Nor dull'd his dress, nor shunn'd the being seen,
But look'd, talk'd, reign'd, as they had never been.

Nevertheless, his shame and misery still,
Only less great than his enormous will,
Darken'd his heart; and in the cloud there hung,
Like some small haunting knell for ever rung,
Words which contain'd a dawning mystery,
“It was to thee my father wedded me.”
The silence of his pride at length he broke,
With handmaid then, and then with priest he spoke,
And, sham'd beyond all former shame, yet rais'd
From Jealousy's worst hell, his fancy gaz'd
On the new scene that made his wrath less wild—
The sire ensnaring his devoted child.
Him foremost he beheld in all the past,
And him he now ordain'd to gather all at last.

One dull day, therefore, from the palace-gate,
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate,
And all in sable clad forth came again
A remnant of the former sprightly train,
With churchmen intermixt; and closing all,
Was a blind hearse, hung with an ermined pall,
And bearing on its top, together set,
A prince's and princess's coronet.
Simply they came along, amidst the sighs
And tears of those who looked with wondering eyes:
Nor bell they had, nor choristers in white,
Nor stopp'd, as most expected, within sight;
But pass'd the streets, the gates, the last abode,
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road.

Before it left, the Prince had sent swift word
To the old Duke of all that had occurr'd:
“And though I shall not,” (so concluded he)
“Otherwise touch thine age's misery,
“Yet as I would that both one grave should hide,
“Which must and shall not be, where I reside,
“'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore,
“That he who join'd them first, should keep to part no more.”

The wretched father, who, when he had read
This letter, felt it wither his gray head,
And ever since had pac'd about his room,
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom,
Had given such orders as he well could frame
To meet devoutly whatsoever came;
And, as the news immediately took flight,
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night,
But talk'd the business over, and review'd
All that they knew of her, the fair and good;
And so with wond'ring sorrow, the next day,
Waited till they should see that sad array.

The days were then at close of autumn,—still,
A little rainy, and, towards nightfall, chill;
There was a fitful moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose trunks, wet, bare, and cold, seem'd ill at ease.
The people, who, from reverence, kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then, 'twas said,
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came:—till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chaunting rose, and, as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers, who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.

But of the older people few could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching, slow and steadily,

On which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who, but some brief years since,—it seem'd a day,—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind;
In sunny manhood he,—she honor'd, fair, and kind.

They say, that when Duke Guido saw them come
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum,
The whole amount of all for which his heart
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part,
He rose, in private where he sate; and seem'd
As though he'd walk to them, like one that dream'd,
Right from the window, crying still “My child!”
And from that day thenceforth he never smiled.

On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, side by side, and hand in hand they lay,
In the green ground; and on fine nights in May
Young hearts betroth'd, used to go there, to pray.