Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Rumour through the city carries
Evil news for gentle dames,
That the Duke of Alba marries
One of Seville's highest names.
Evil rumour seldom tarries:
Woe for Donna Anna's dreams!

Yet the busy tidings miss'd her,
Tidings all the town had heard,
Till her little laughing sister
Running brought the fatal word;
Saying, as she sweetly kiss'd her,
Merry as an April bird,

Saying, “Know you, Donna Anna,
Know you what is soon to be?
Wed will be the Duke of Alba

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With a dame of high degree.”
Coldly answer'd Donna Anna,
“Prattler, what is that to me?”

But her knees beneath her falter,
But her heart within her burns;
Woe and wonder both assault her,
To her chamber as she turns.
Alba's Duke before the altar!
Woe for love that honour spurns!

Sadly in her room she paces,
Sadly paces to and fro;
Then about the mansion chases
Cruel thoughts that will not go;
Then again her steps retraces,
Now above, and now below.

Then she bade the gates be fasten'd,
Never closed by day before;
Upward then again she hasten'd,
There to pace her chamber floor.
Tears in vain her sorrow chasten'd,
Sighs but fann'd her grief the more.

210

Weary then she took her station
Where her casement show'd the square;
Saw with fearless trepidation,
Saw the Duke of Alba there:
Sign'd him, waving a carnation,
'Neath her balcon to repair.

“What would you, my Donna Anna,
What would you, my life, with me?”
“I would have you, Duke of Alba,
Though 'tis false and cannot be,
Tell me if the Duke of Alba
Weds a dame of high degree?”

“'Tis not false, my Donna Anna,
'Tis not false, my love and life:
For to-morrow will an heiress
Be the Duke of Alba's wife;
And I bid you to the bridal,
Wish me joy, my love and life!”

Duke of Alba, words are crushing!
Senseless fell she to the ground:
Doors were burst, and men came rushing

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To the maiden prostrate found;
Blood from forth her lips was gushing,
Blood that well'd without a wound.

By a golden chain suspended
Lay a treasure next her heart;
Noble features finely blended
By the painter's mimic art;
'Twas the Duke of Alba's portrait,
And she wore it next her heart.

Yet she lived, nor deign'd accuse him.
When she woke, the gem she spied.
“What is this, if I must lose him?
Take it to the bridegroom's bride,
Let her wear it in her bosom,
Though with blood of mine 'tis dyed!”

Hearts abused by heartless follies
Seek their peace in convent shades;
Donna Anna finds her solace
With Saint Clara's holy maids:
Yet—for 'twas a bitter chalice—
Memory oft her peace invades.

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Seven years are gone and over;
Comes her mother to the grate:
“Oh! forget your worthless lover,
Pass with me the convent gate.”
“How forget him! Mother, mother!
Once for me his love was great.”

“Still you love the Duke of Alba,
Love him with a passion wild,
Love him as I love you, Anna,
As a mother loves her child;
Oh! forget the Duke of Alba!”
Weeping, said the mother mild.

“Yes, I loved him, mother, mother!
More, alas, than lips can tell!
No, I love him not, my mother:
Oh! I loved him passing well!
Duke of Alba wed another!
Leave me, leave me to my cell!”

San João da Foz, July 9, 1845.