 | The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems |  |
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THE LADYE OF PROVENCE.
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INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.
TO AZILE.
1
Now, Azile! make this pleasant bank thy seat,A gentle tree o'ercanopies thy head;
And the evening airs, so soft and passing sweet,
Are odorous voices from the rose's bed:
The azure water, gliding at thy feet
In silence, seemeth to be fairy-led;
And all around, above thee, like thy breast,
Azile! is beautiful and full of rest.
2
How tenderly the loved Evening treadsWith pearl-white feet the pathless quiet sky!
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As though a blessing and a boon from high!
Thy love, my Azile! on my heart now sheds
A gentler balm; and in thy dark, dark eye,
Reposeth a serener, dearer light,—
Like the moon's lustre softening the deep night.
3
Azile! I will beguile this gentle hourBy telling thee a Provence tale, which thou
May'st deem as tender as the Provence flower;
And it perchance may sadden thy sweet brow:—
'Tis from that old Italian, who did shower
His hundred tales upon the heart:—and now
Listen, while I in thy fair ear rehearse
The story, tamed into Northern verse.
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THE LADYE OF PROVENCE.
In fair Provence, two goodly castles stood,
Neighbouring each other in their stately pride,
And facing the setting sun, whose rays they cast
Back on the evening from the sheening ivy
And gorgeous window pane. The lofty trees
In mighty clusters throng'd around the walls
Like palace-guards—and Quiet nested 'mid them,
With dove-like wings folded beside her breast.
Neighbouring each other in their stately pride,
And facing the setting sun, whose rays they cast
Back on the evening from the sheening ivy
And gorgeous window pane. The lofty trees
In mighty clusters throng'd around the walls
Like palace-guards—and Quiet nested 'mid them,
With dove-like wings folded beside her breast.
Two high and antique Families, in love
And gentle friending, fill'd these castle halls.
Guiglielmo Gardastagno and his lady
(A fair young timid lover of her lord)
Inhabited the southern House—the other
Was the noble home, Francesco Virgillisi
Gave the divine and loving Indreana,
When from her father's halls and mother's tears
He led her, jewell'd with a costly heart,
To be his life-queen. Happily the days
Fled in the sweet Provence. The ladies met,
Talk'd of their hawks, their pages, and their lords,
Their palfreys lily-white—and slim light hounds,—
Their pearled ornaments and rich apparel,—
While they sat idly o'er their broidery;
And thus their gentle hearts, like two sweet roses,
By nearing to each other, grew united.
At tilts and tournaments, did Virgillisi
And Gardastagno well associate;
They were as brothers in their sports,—their joys,
Their wonted occupations,—and there never
Went by the day, but the wild forest boar
Burst from its lair, before two gallant Hunters,
Mounted alike,—and habited alike,
With spears of the self-same fashion. Side by side
They rode, like the godlike brothers of old,—and never
Fail'd in the sharing of the chase's dangers.
There you should see them skirting the deep wood,
In mantles greener than the sombre pine,—
And cheering on the hounds with voices, tuned
By long society to sound as one.
No better friends than the Lord Gardastagno
And Virgillisi ever held a hawk,
Nor tenderer creatures, than their ladies, ever
Indulged that pangless love that knows no sighs!
And gentle friending, fill'd these castle halls.
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(A fair young timid lover of her lord)
Inhabited the southern House—the other
Was the noble home, Francesco Virgillisi
Gave the divine and loving Indreana,
When from her father's halls and mother's tears
He led her, jewell'd with a costly heart,
To be his life-queen. Happily the days
Fled in the sweet Provence. The ladies met,
Talk'd of their hawks, their pages, and their lords,
Their palfreys lily-white—and slim light hounds,—
Their pearled ornaments and rich apparel,—
While they sat idly o'er their broidery;
And thus their gentle hearts, like two sweet roses,
By nearing to each other, grew united.
At tilts and tournaments, did Virgillisi
And Gardastagno well associate;
They were as brothers in their sports,—their joys,
Their wonted occupations,—and there never
Went by the day, but the wild forest boar
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Mounted alike,—and habited alike,
With spears of the self-same fashion. Side by side
They rode, like the godlike brothers of old,—and never
Fail'd in the sharing of the chase's dangers.
There you should see them skirting the deep wood,
In mantles greener than the sombre pine,—
And cheering on the hounds with voices, tuned
By long society to sound as one.
No better friends than the Lord Gardastagno
And Virgillisi ever held a hawk,
Nor tenderer creatures, than their ladies, ever
Indulged that pangless love that knows no sighs!
But rash untoward Passion brake and foil'd
The pleasure of these Houses. Gardastagno,
Forgetting his young wife,—forgetting all
The loyalty of friendship—and distract
By the so fearful and exceeding beauty
Of Indreana—fell from forest sports,
From tilts and knightly exercise, to dream
In Virgillisi's hall by one fair side,
The while she led her silken needle on
Its flowery way,—and there for hours he stood
Down gazing at her pearled fingers—lost
In wondering at the lustre of her brow,
And trembling at her eyes. Oh, Indreana!
Couldst thou not then have chill'd him with a look,
And chid him to the chase?—Alas! thine eye
Oft turn'd to his in serious light—and oft,
Surprised by a sigh, resought its work!
This lawless passion met with no rebuke,
And, patience-nursed, grew on to dangerous strength!
The pleasure of these Houses. Gardastagno,
Forgetting his young wife,—forgetting all
The loyalty of friendship—and distract
By the so fearful and exceeding beauty
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From tilts and knightly exercise, to dream
In Virgillisi's hall by one fair side,
The while she led her silken needle on
Its flowery way,—and there for hours he stood
Down gazing at her pearled fingers—lost
In wondering at the lustre of her brow,
And trembling at her eyes. Oh, Indreana!
Couldst thou not then have chill'd him with a look,
And chid him to the chase?—Alas! thine eye
Oft turn'd to his in serious light—and oft,
Surprised by a sigh, resought its work!
This lawless passion met with no rebuke,
And, patience-nursed, grew on to dangerous strength!
The young and innocent bride of Gardastagno
Suspected not the change;—but still she felt
A sad estrangement in her Indreana,
And did at times in tears entreat some cause,—
Entreat in vain,—and gather pain from silence.
Less oft they met;—Indreana framed excuse
For putting aside the visits as of old,—
And the timid lady—Gardastagno's wife,—
Went not abroad, but with a troubled heart
Pined in her chamber, like a wounded bird.
Suspected not the change;—but still she felt
A sad estrangement in her Indreana,
And did at times in tears entreat some cause,—
Entreat in vain,—and gather pain from silence.
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For putting aside the visits as of old,—
And the timid lady—Gardastagno's wife,—
Went not abroad, but with a troubled heart
Pined in her chamber, like a wounded bird.
Not thus in ignorance did Virgillisi
Linger.—The clouds came gathering round at first,
And through their darkness truth but faintly lighten'd:
The time, with circumstance, illumed his mind!
And Gardastagno's treachery—and the sufferance,
The not unwilling sufferance, of wrong love
In Indreana's heart,—were plain as light.
Linger.—The clouds came gathering round at first,
And through their darkness truth but faintly lighten'd:
The time, with circumstance, illumed his mind!
And Gardastagno's treachery—and the sufferance,
The not unwilling sufferance, of wrong love
In Indreana's heart,—were plain as light.
Such broken amity and ruin'd hope
Madden'd the mind of Virgillisi.—Where,
Where could he turn for quiet?—That one friend,
Whose mind had been the storehouse of his griefs,
Was his dusk enemy—and to her heart,—
The once most sainted palace of his love,—
He could not breathe his prayers as he was wont;—
The spoiler had destroyed the shrine, and left
An image there, not of the chasten'd God!
What now shall stead the wither'd hopes of him,
Who, stripp'd of every friend,—must stand alone
In this huge world,—gall'd into solitude?
Madden'd the mind of Virgillisi.—Where,
Where could he turn for quiet?—That one friend,
Whose mind had been the storehouse of his griefs,
Was his dusk enemy—and to her heart,—
The once most sainted palace of his love,—
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The spoiler had destroyed the shrine, and left
An image there, not of the chasten'd God!
What now shall stead the wither'd hopes of him,
Who, stripp'd of every friend,—must stand alone
In this huge world,—gall'd into solitude?
Yet—said I that no friend was left—that none
Remain'd unto his heart?—I err'd.—Revenge
Came whispering gloomy words, that made him smile.
Long, silent walks, o'er-shrouded by the boughs
Of sombre trees,—and chamber musings deep,—
And patient and concealed observation,—
Wrought Virgillisi's mind to its resolve,
And that resolve was Gardastagno's death.
Remain'd unto his heart?—I err'd.—Revenge
Came whispering gloomy words, that made him smile.
Long, silent walks, o'er-shrouded by the boughs
Of sombre trees,—and chamber musings deep,—
And patient and concealed observation,—
Wrought Virgillisi's mind to its resolve,
And that resolve was Gardastagno's death.
Then light and free grew Virgillisi's spirit,
Clear'd of its indecision, and buoyed up
With one all-crowning purpose—and the lovers,
The lost and wretched pair of frail fond lovers,
Deem'd themselves unsuspected—and resign'd
Their passion to its dream. They walk'd, and read,
And gazed upon each other, even as two
Guiltless adorers in the heart of youth.
But Gardastagno's days were number'd out,
And Virgillisi waited for the hour!
Clear'd of its indecision, and buoyed up
With one all-crowning purpose—and the lovers,
The lost and wretched pair of frail fond lovers,
Deem'd themselves unsuspected—and resign'd
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And gazed upon each other, even as two
Guiltless adorers in the heart of youth.
But Gardastagno's days were number'd out,
And Virgillisi waited for the hour!
There was a public tourney to be held,
At which all knights of courage and repute
Were call'd to the break of lance. The trumpet rang
Through the fair streets of France, and a public just
Was loud proclaimed to all men of fame.
Lord Virgillisi craved of Gardastagno
An evening's converse, upon arms, and steeds,
And all that might accomplish them, to meet
The gallant spirits of France within the lists.
At which all knights of courage and repute
Were call'd to the break of lance. The trumpet rang
Through the fair streets of France, and a public just
Was loud proclaimed to all men of fame.
Lord Virgillisi craved of Gardastagno
An evening's converse, upon arms, and steeds,
And all that might accomplish them, to meet
The gallant spirits of France within the lists.
The evening came—and Gardastagno rode
Below the castles, into a cool wood,—
A cool enchanting wood,—where the grass spread
Its gentlest verdure under arched trees,
And the yellow lustre of the evening sun
Flooded the topmost branches—and stream'd through
The broken foliage, down to the green grass.
He rode unarm'd and tenderly along,
And slowly, for a lustrous sunset gave
Its poesy to the heart—and they who love,
Cannot but idle when the eve is fair.
He threw the bridle o'er the neck of his horse,
And with it likewise loosed the rein of his mind.
“Why comes not Virgillisi?”—Thus he spake
Aloud in those mild shades—he was alone!—
Below the castles, into a cool wood,—
A cool enchanting wood,—where the grass spread
Its gentlest verdure under arched trees,
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Flooded the topmost branches—and stream'd through
The broken foliage, down to the green grass.
He rode unarm'd and tenderly along,
And slowly, for a lustrous sunset gave
Its poesy to the heart—and they who love,
Cannot but idle when the eve is fair.
He threw the bridle o'er the neck of his horse,
And with it likewise loosed the rein of his mind.
“Why comes not Virgillisi?”—Thus he spake
Aloud in those mild shades—he was alone!—
“Oh Indreana! how my heart fleets back
“To thee, so soften'd by this passion'd eve!
“Where art thou?—Talking to thy perched hawk
“With straying thoughts?—or lingering 'mid thy flowers,
“Thyself the sweetest lily of them all?
“Or walking, with thy light and favourite hound
“Disporting pleasantly before thy steps?—
“I know not.—We are not together—that
“Is all I feel—and hapless we must be!”
Thus did he shame, with an unworthy love
And erring speech, the ear of hallow'd eve!
“Why comes not Virgillisi?—I will turn
“And seek his castle—and of Indreana
“Ask tidings of her lord!—Alas the word!”
“To thee, so soften'd by this passion'd eve!
“Where art thou?—Talking to thy perched hawk
“With straying thoughts?—or lingering 'mid thy flowers,
“Thyself the sweetest lily of them all?
“Or walking, with thy light and favourite hound
“Disporting pleasantly before thy steps?—
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“Is all I feel—and hapless we must be!”
Thus did he shame, with an unworthy love
And erring speech, the ear of hallow'd eve!
“Why comes not Virgillisi?—I will turn
“And seek his castle—and of Indreana
“Ask tidings of her lord!—Alas the word!”
He turn'd his steed.—Hark!—o'er the quiet grass
Came the sound and ring of steeled trappings,—loud,—
And louder,—and anon a knight was seen,
With two attendants,—armed from the crown
Down to the heel complete;—their faces hid
By the closed beaver;—and their steeled garments
Sheening and sounding in the golden sun.
They rode towards Gardastagno—and he check'd
His courser—marvelling at their near approach.
Came the sound and ring of steeled trappings,—loud,—
And louder,—and anon a knight was seen,
With two attendants,—armed from the crown
Down to the heel complete;—their faces hid
By the closed beaver;—and their steeled garments
Sheening and sounding in the golden sun.
They rode towards Gardastagno—and he check'd
His courser—marvelling at their near approach.
And with no curbed pace the knight came on.
He flash'd his sword in the startled light—and spurr'd
His black and rushing barb—and crying aloud:
“Alone—defenceless—dreaming of thy love
“And of no other wrong—I find thee here
“Fit offering to the God of my revenge.
“No barrier stands between my hunger'd sword
“And thy bad heart.—And thus I make them one!”
And sweeping onward, while he spoke, his hand,—
The hand of Virgillisi,—usher'd death
Into the breast of Gardastagno. There,
Without a word—without a sigh, he fell
Dead-struck, down plunged in the soiled grass.
He knew the voice of his wrong'd friend—and sought
No safety—death was near—and he could die.
He flash'd his sword in the startled light—and spurr'd
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“Alone—defenceless—dreaming of thy love
“And of no other wrong—I find thee here
“Fit offering to the God of my revenge.
“No barrier stands between my hunger'd sword
“And thy bad heart.—And thus I make them one!”
And sweeping onward, while he spoke, his hand,—
The hand of Virgillisi,—usher'd death
Into the breast of Gardastagno. There,
Without a word—without a sigh, he fell
Dead-struck, down plunged in the soiled grass.
He knew the voice of his wrong'd friend—and sought
No safety—death was near—and he could die.
Virgillisi loosed his beaver—and descended.
With cruel knife he open'd the dead breast
Of Gardastagno, and from thence out took
The ruddy heart, the heart that loved so well
Its murderer, till by passion gone distract—
And, wrapping it in the lance's bandelot,
Deliver'd it with care into the hands
Of his attendant—bidding him to silence!
So mounting on his horse—he left the body
Mangled and cold upon the blooded grass,
And sought his castle and his Indreana.
With cruel knife he open'd the dead breast
Of Gardastagno, and from thence out took
The ruddy heart, the heart that loved so well
Its murderer, till by passion gone distract—
And, wrapping it in the lance's bandelot,
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Of his attendant—bidding him to silence!
So mounting on his horse—he left the body
Mangled and cold upon the blooded grass,
And sought his castle and his Indreana.
The sun had set—the deep wood-shadows fell
Heavily down to earth—and the night gusts
Of the chilling wind ruffled the lofty trees,
Making a dismal moaning, as for death.
Indreana sigh'd over her untouch'd lute,
Restless, because the evening came alone.
Heavily down to earth—and the night gusts
Of the chilling wind ruffled the lofty trees,
Making a dismal moaning, as for death.
Indreana sigh'd over her untouch'd lute,
Restless, because the evening came alone.
Virgillisi found her—all alone—and sitting
At the open lattice, gazing dreamingly
Over the orange trees at dusk of eve.
He kiss'd her joyless lip. “My love!” said he,
“Are thy thoughts childing me for leaving thee,
“Leaving thee here, a lute but thy companion?”
“Not so, my lord,” said Indreana—“never
“Can I give birth to chiding—I was lost
“In indolence and vacancy of mind.
“The air blows chilly—did not Gardastagno
“Promise that he would sup with us to-night?”
Virgillisi smiled a death smile to himself,
But smothering his black thoughts, he gently spake—
“His wife, my love, did crave his company,
“And I did yield him to that fond young thing.
“But come!—alone,—and loving as we do,
“Let us be happy in each other's thoughts.
“We'll sup together, sweet, shall we not so?”
The lady quieted her vexed heart,
And with a seeming kindness did consent.
At the open lattice, gazing dreamingly
Over the orange trees at dusk of eve.
He kiss'd her joyless lip. “My love!” said he,
“Are thy thoughts childing me for leaving thee,
“Leaving thee here, a lute but thy companion?”
“Not so, my lord,” said Indreana—“never
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“In indolence and vacancy of mind.
“The air blows chilly—did not Gardastagno
“Promise that he would sup with us to-night?”
Virgillisi smiled a death smile to himself,
But smothering his black thoughts, he gently spake—
“His wife, my love, did crave his company,
“And I did yield him to that fond young thing.
“But come!—alone,—and loving as we do,
“Let us be happy in each other's thoughts.
“We'll sup together, sweet, shall we not so?”
The lady quieted her vexed heart,
And with a seeming kindness did consent.
Then leaving Indreana, Virgillisi
Went forth—and bade his servant thus—“Take this,
“This dainty heart of a wild boar, that I kill'd
“In the forest;—dress it in a goodly way,
“With sauces rich,—the best thou canst devise,—
“And serve it to us in a silver dish.”
The servant sliced it cunningly and well,
And dressing it,—even with his utmost art,—
Made it of pleasant taste and grateful odour,
And served it to them in a silver dish.
Went forth—and bade his servant thus—“Take this,
“This dainty heart of a wild boar, that I kill'd
“In the forest;—dress it in a goodly way,
“With sauces rich,—the best thou canst devise,—
“And serve it to us in a silver dish.”
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And dressing it,—even with his utmost art,—
Made it of pleasant taste and grateful odour,
And served it to them in a silver dish.
Many fair speeches Virgillisi used
At supper to his lady—and he press'd
Her appetite so well, that at the last
She banqueted most freely on the heart.
Virgillisi saw her feed, with eager eyes,
And, when the delicate was nigh devour'd,
He said—“How like you, love, this fragrant food?
“How pleaseth it your taste?”—“Truly, my lord,
“Never the better loved I any dish!”
He answer'd, “Trust me, madam, I believe
“You love that dead, which gave you love in life.”
She sank to silence—gazed upon the relics
With steady, pained eyes,—grew deathly pale—
And with a quiet voice at length did say,
“I pray you, sir, what meat is this you have given?
“Upon what dish have I been feeding now?”
In bitter voice then Virgillisi said,
“I will resolve thee, thou disloyal lady,
“I will resolve thee quickly to thy shame;—
“'Tis Gardastagno's heart thou hast devour'd!
“These hands did gather it—I knew 'twould pleasure
“Thy most depraved fancy and false taste!
“His heart's torn casket lieth in the wood,—
“The heart itself thy body hath inurn'd!”
At supper to his lady—and he press'd
Her appetite so well, that at the last
She banqueted most freely on the heart.
Virgillisi saw her feed, with eager eyes,
And, when the delicate was nigh devour'd,
He said—“How like you, love, this fragrant food?
“How pleaseth it your taste?”—“Truly, my lord,
“Never the better loved I any dish!”
He answer'd, “Trust me, madam, I believe
“You love that dead, which gave you love in life.”
She sank to silence—gazed upon the relics
With steady, pained eyes,—grew deathly pale—
And with a quiet voice at length did say,
“I pray you, sir, what meat is this you have given?
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In bitter voice then Virgillisi said,
“I will resolve thee, thou disloyal lady,
“I will resolve thee quickly to thy shame;—
“'Tis Gardastagno's heart thou hast devour'd!
“These hands did gather it—I knew 'twould pleasure
“Thy most depraved fancy and false taste!
“His heart's torn casket lieth in the wood,—
“The heart itself thy body hath inurn'd!”
Poor Idreana! what a dismal fate!
In marble silence sat she,—tears alone
In bitter plenteousness ran down her cheeks,
And fell upon the white tomb of her heart.
Given o'er to grief—to anguish dedicate—
The lady of Sorrow's Convent she should seem!
Sighs vehement and deep at length brake forth,
And did relieve her even to speech:—she spake,—
“Lord Virgillisi, thou hast done a deed
“Hateful,—disloyal,—full of cruel fate;—
“That I have loved the gracious Gardastagno
“(As who that knew him, loved him not?—you loved him)
“My tongue confesses—it may be, my heart
“Hath recognized his virtues all too well—
“And watch'd them with too deep an interest!
“But, Virgillisi, I am not dishonoured,
“Thy bed cannot rebuke me,—for, though lost
“In womanly fair 'haviour, I have kept
“My honour (ah what honour!) spotless still!
“Nay—give me credence,—this is not a time
“To question my sad words!—Mark—Virgillisi!—
“Since I have proved the strange receptacle
“Of that most precious relic, the sweet heart
“Of Gardastagno, our remember'd friend,
“And the star of all fair courtesy and truth!
“I will be burthen'd with no meaner food,
“Nor house with one, who fills my thoughts with blood!”
So having spoken—her eyes, till then tear-calm'd,
Flash'd an unnatural light—and her breast heaved
Tumultuous. Starting up—she shuddering left
The side of Virgillisi—and went forth
To a great gazing window, which stood ope,
Gorgeously facing the broad western sky,
Above some giant trees, whose lofty tops
Billow'd beneath it—Desperate was the depth!
Yet Indreana, violent in heart,
And wild to fate,—leap'd forth,—down tearing through
The crashing branches and cold rushing air,
To the hideous earth,—where death awaited her!
Her shiver'd form lay at the castle's foot,
Despoiled of all comeliness and breath!
In marble silence sat she,—tears alone
In bitter plenteousness ran down her cheeks,
And fell upon the white tomb of her heart.
Given o'er to grief—to anguish dedicate—
The lady of Sorrow's Convent she should seem!
Sighs vehement and deep at length brake forth,
And did relieve her even to speech:—she spake,—
“Lord Virgillisi, thou hast done a deed
“Hateful,—disloyal,—full of cruel fate;—
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“(As who that knew him, loved him not?—you loved him)
“My tongue confesses—it may be, my heart
“Hath recognized his virtues all too well—
“And watch'd them with too deep an interest!
“But, Virgillisi, I am not dishonoured,
“Thy bed cannot rebuke me,—for, though lost
“In womanly fair 'haviour, I have kept
“My honour (ah what honour!) spotless still!
“Nay—give me credence,—this is not a time
“To question my sad words!—Mark—Virgillisi!—
“Since I have proved the strange receptacle
“Of that most precious relic, the sweet heart
“Of Gardastagno, our remember'd friend,
“And the star of all fair courtesy and truth!
“I will be burthen'd with no meaner food,
“Nor house with one, who fills my thoughts with blood!”
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Flash'd an unnatural light—and her breast heaved
Tumultuous. Starting up—she shuddering left
The side of Virgillisi—and went forth
To a great gazing window, which stood ope,
Gorgeously facing the broad western sky,
Above some giant trees, whose lofty tops
Billow'd beneath it—Desperate was the depth!
Yet Indreana, violent in heart,
And wild to fate,—leap'd forth,—down tearing through
The crashing branches and cold rushing air,
To the hideous earth,—where death awaited her!
Her shiver'd form lay at the castle's foot,
Despoiled of all comeliness and breath!
Like a body without its soul, stood Virgillisi
Confounded at his utter solitude,
And lost in a patient horror!—she was gone!
Gone terribly for ever from his sight!—
He had seen her dare the fall (and still her scarf,
Caught by the lattice, stream'd into the night).
His ears had heard the branches break—the air
Sound with her rushing garments—and his soul
Had sicken'd at the silence that ensued.
Death—death was in that silence—and he felt
Revenge had stalk'd too sternly through his heart!
The menials found the shatter'd Indreana
Beneath the castle walls,—and in wild grief
Rush'd to their master. Virgillisi stood
Alone,—beholding the wide staring window
That seem'd to him the portal of the grave!
They led him forth,—and tended him with care;
But he, in stupid sorrow, spake no word.
Confounded at his utter solitude,
And lost in a patient horror!—she was gone!
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He had seen her dare the fall (and still her scarf,
Caught by the lattice, stream'd into the night).
His ears had heard the branches break—the air
Sound with her rushing garments—and his soul
Had sicken'd at the silence that ensued.
Death—death was in that silence—and he felt
Revenge had stalk'd too sternly through his heart!
The menials found the shatter'd Indreana
Beneath the castle walls,—and in wild grief
Rush'd to their master. Virgillisi stood
Alone,—beholding the wide staring window
That seem'd to him the portal of the grave!
They led him forth,—and tended him with care;
But he, in stupid sorrow, spake no word.
Days pass'd,—and tears to Virgillisi's eyes
Came ministers of comfort—comfort cold!
Yet sullen in the light,—he prowl'd in woods,
And shudder'd under trees;—and through the night
Strange phantoms trampled o'er his heart, and died
Fiercely before his eyes.—His menials heard
Pitiful screams at midnight in his room,
But never might they break his solitude.
At last, grief-madden'd,—from Provence he fled,—
No one knew whither: He return'd no more!
Came ministers of comfort—comfort cold!
Yet sullen in the light,—he prowl'd in woods,
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Strange phantoms trampled o'er his heart, and died
Fiercely before his eyes.—His menials heard
Pitiful screams at midnight in his room,
But never might they break his solitude.
At last, grief-madden'd,—from Provence he fled,—
No one knew whither: He return'd no more!
The wife of Gardastagno mourn'd her lord
With a constancy which only woman knows;—
Superior to neglect, disgrace, and time!
He was her first—last—only passion:—he
Had been her daily, nightly dream;—and never
Could she forget—or alter in her love,
Though he had wrong'd her! She renounced the world,
And in a convent buried her young days!
With a constancy which only woman knows;—
Superior to neglect, disgrace, and time!
He was her first—last—only passion:—he
Had been her daily, nightly dream;—and never
Could she forget—or alter in her love,
Though he had wrong'd her! She renounced the world,
And in a convent buried her young days!
The fates of the Unfortunates were rumour'd
Throughout Provence; and the bodies being found,
Were in the castle chapel of Virgillisi
Entombed near each other, with sweet lines
Graven o'er the marble, telling their sad tale.
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Were in the castle chapel of Virgillisi
Entombed near each other, with sweet lines
Graven o'er the marble, telling their sad tale.
| The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems | |