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.