 | The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems |  |
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THE GARDEN OF FLORENCE.
I.
In the fair city of Florence, there did dwellA young and sweetly favour'd damosel;—
The daughter of mean parents, yet secure
Of that respect which stainless thoughts ensure.
In quiet home she dwelt, adorning peace;—
She lived by patient carding of the fleece,
And spinning at her distaff cheerfully
From night to morn.—'Twas beautiful to see
Her undejected spirit, as she sat
Singing to nought the work that she was at.
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Upon her easy shoulders, where the gown
Was simply button'd.—And the roses came
Into the summer cheeks of that young dame;—
And on her forehead white, the lilies did the same.
II.
She carded for her livelihood the wool;—And her so pretty hands were ever full
Of white supplies brought by the Florence youth
Who pined in numbers for her:—Oh! the South
Held, in their eyes, no other so divine!—
Yet not to love did her young heart incline;—
Though she was beautiful, and few of years,
No unhush'd hopes stirr'd strange and pulsing fears,—
Nor thoughts of deepening joy ran riot into tears!
III.
So dwelt the fair Simonida,—so flewHer hours betwixt the morn and evening dew;
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Ate of her morning fruit with fragrant sighs,—
Said her young orisons with bowed heart,
And went all singing to her maiden art.
At night upon her pillow as she lay,
She dream'd anew the light dreams of the day,
And brake into fresh thoughts as innocent as they!
IV.
Ah! why should such calm heart and such calm hoursHave Love's destroying hand among their flowers!
Might they not live?—Might not Simonida
Have her sighs spared to sleep, her lips to pray
Their white and morning prayers, her voice to rise
In choral sweetness with the lark i' the skies?
No; she was young—bland—beautiful—and Care
Saw her—and loving one so young—so fair—
Disturb'd her sighs and gave a trouble to her prayer.
Ah pity 'tis that I must tell of wrong,
And harass with rude truth my even song!
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V.
Pasquino, a young merchant—fair as young—Of noble carriage, eloquent of tongue,
And buoyant of his spirit as a child,
Came unto light Simonida—and piled
Her home with fleecy treasures for the wheel.
Oft—oft would she look up—and he would steal
To watch her at the distaff—and admire
Her fingers that till then seem'd ne'er to tire—
Her form of innocent beauty—lightly bent
Over the snowy woof—her eyes intent
Upon her pearl-fair hands, and the curl'd nests
Of hair that love had twined upon her breasts!
And while she talk'd or sung, Pasquino linger'd—
And then the wheel would sleep!—the wool unfinger'd,
Seem'd indolently straying from her hand!—
And silence held their lips in strange command.
He, started into memory—and caught
The quills of yarn her white—white hands had wrought,
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And went away,—alone,—and kiss'd the fleece.
She—after idle gazings—would return
To her neglected wheel, and gently yearn
Over his cherish'd image, till her eyes
Were wet with tears that fill'd them by surprise,
And from her dreaming heart arose unconscious sighs.
VI.
They met all innocence—and hope—and youth;And all their words were thoughts—their thoughts, pure truth:—
Every new day that pass'd, pass'd them the fleeter,
And hours though sweet were chased by hours still sweeter.
Love had adopted them. The pillow now
Held a perplex'd and aching, dreamless brow—
Ah! sleep alighted not on either's lid—
The fever'd hand toss'd on the coverlid,—
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The dimness—and the gleam—and the chill'd grey
Of the silver East were seen, while they all restless lay!
VII.
Oh lovers are long watchers of the night!Watchers of coiling darkness—of the light—
Of the cold window-pane, whereon the moon
Casteth her sallow smile in night's mid noon—
Of the unwearied stars that watch on high,
As though there were lone lovers in the sky!—
Passion lays desolate the fields of sleep,
And wakes a thousand eyes to watch and weep.
VIII.
But to my tale—how sadness creepeth o'erMy lingering measure of this antique lore;—
It cometh onward a slow cloud, and forms
A gloom like that which prophesies of storms!
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IX.
Pasquino one autumnal day sat nearThe loved Simonida, and with deep fear
Trusted his tremulous passion to her ear:—
She, unaffected, gentle, pallid—shrunk,—
Her heart with its first draught of rapture drunk,—
Scarce daring to give credence to the words
That melted round her like the songs of birds!
She droop'd an instant—gazed—perceived the truth
Bloom'd all at once through her confiding youth—
And all in tears confest her wishes blest—
And hid her face in blushes on his breast!
He press'd her to his heart—her tresses fell
Like shadows o'er his hands—and such the spell
Of this full tenderness—he dared not move,
Lest his breast lose her cheek—lest passion prove
A dream—and he should break the enchantment of his love!
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X.
But soon recovering into converse—theyPledged o'er and o'er their hearts,—nor saw the day
Swoon o'er the yellow leaves, and from the sky
Through the wan West decay,—till hours gone by,
The father of Simonida came in,
From labouring in the woods where he had been
By day. Pasquino met him. The repast
His daughter brought, and many a sweet smile cast
Upon her lover, as she simply stored
The fruit, and homely viands on the board.
Night hurried on; but ere Pasquino went
From his Simonida—he gently leant
His lip against her pearled ear, and said,—
“My love—to-morrow morn leave thou thy bed,
“And south of Florence meet me where the trees
“Of a most goodly garden fill the breeze
“With odours pleasant, for the olive there
“In fragrant beauty filleth the calm air.”
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The door upon her lover,—and reposed!
XI.
The morrow was the Sunday. After prayerShe veil'd her forehead, and adown the stair
Went, by her father's leave, for she had said
The story of her love unvarnished:
First to Saint Gallo, for his pardon pure,
The damsel pass'd; and then, serenely sure,
She met Pasquino, just as the fair sun
His golden sabbath-light had richly spun
Like a fine woof over the mellowing leaves
Of the autumnal trees.—Oh! Love receives
Joy from the breath of morning, its own breath;
The world—the world seems emptied all of death,
And hopes surround its orb one long and laughing wreath!
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XII.
They met—and kiss'd a welcome.—The first mornOn which their lips seem'd for each other born!
She lean'd within his arm, on that new day,
And look'd content to lean her life away!
Their eyes in married lustre could not part,
But, lighted by the radiance of the heart,
Shone on each other:—thus,—they idly cast
Their shadows on the laurels as they pass'd!
XIII.
And sweet the laurel grew—that hallow'd tree,With leaves that seem the leaves of song to be,—
Which never loseth its appareling,
But looketh constant of the undaunted spring.
And flowers were in that silent garden growing,
Of pleasant odours all and lustrous blowing,
That did enrich the air on which they fed,
And far around a light and fragrance spread.
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Like that which doth through holy buildings come,—
Where, as adown the shafted aisles you stray,
The very silence seems to feel and pray;—
Such—and so beautiful was that high shade!—
The stretching roses o'er the pathway play'd,
And shook their bright dew at the lovers' feet,
Scattering those morning-pearls their steps to greet,—
And waving as they pass'd as though in reverence meet.
All singing birds, the breaking sun, the theme—
Drew these young hearts along soft wandering in a dream!
XIV.
There were delightful pledges—fair as theyWho met adoring on that dawning day!
Soft voices clothing sweeter words,—and sighs
That brake, when words of tenderness would rise—
And looks of silent passion—and the press
Of married hands in happy tenderness!
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His morning notes around, like sprinkled dew,—
And even the bird's light voice but seem'd to wake
A hymn to silence, even for silence' sake!
XV.
Could they not love so ever—ever stray?Ah, no such thing as time before them lay!
They loved—and were together—and alone,—
The morn, with all its riches, was their own!
They laugh'd—and linger'd,—they sat down—they wander'd,—
Now spake—and now in gazing silence ponder'd!—
A bed of sage was near them as they walk'd,
(Fit plant to match with that of which they talk'd!)
Pasquino, stooping, pluck'd a leaf, and play'd
With a saying of Old Crones—for dames have said
The sage-leaf whitens teeth—he laughing bit
The idle leaf, loosing his playful wit,
And saying,—“Sweet girl, I taste this leaf, to be
“More wise anon, than thus to worship thee!
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“Like beauty's tent, falleth thy parted hair:—
“Doth it not blanch me, love?”—he champ'd the plant—
Amid his heedless talk—and pallid—faint—
He whiten'd at the leaf,—and sigh'd!—His hand
Trembled in cold and fearful damp—A bland,
A dim expression of undying love
Went o'er his shiver'd cheek,—and then he strove
To kiss Simonida—and as he gave
That deathful kiss—that kiss cold as the grave!
He curl'd with shuddering throe and withering clutch,
Like that frail plant which shrinketh at a touch!
One shriek—no more—and lost Simonida
Feels at her feet a corpse—for there it whitening lay!
XVI.
Stern—sternest sorrow ruffles not the mind—Measureless grief seems bountiful and kind!—
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The heart as calm as that which never grieves.
Simonida look'd down, and almost smiled—
She seem'd in heedlessness a very child:
She moved her lips, but did not speak—yet now
A trembling moisture comes upon her brow,
And in cold horror, with outstretched hands
And livid eye and lip, she sternly stands:
She looks not on the body—knows it not—
The sense of all existence is forgot—
She hath no voice—her open eyes no light—
Her bosom is down sunk—her lips are ghastly white!
XVII.
Yes!—Grief will have its wretch, howe'er it stayTo fascinate at first its dismal prey!
Truth waits to whisper in the desolate ear,
At the heart's pause, all that it would not hear.
The altering corpse of dead Pasquino brake
Her statue-like despair;—and she did make
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Echo her shrieking voice—shrieking for aid!
The frighten'd hollows of that shade return'd
The shriek of agony,—and far off mourn'd!
XVIII.
Two lovers—happier lovers!—chanced that dayTo haunt those walks—and to make holiday
In pastoral recesses and calm air,
Such as to lovers are so matchless fair!
They heard the shriek of woman—and they sped
To where Simonida, by the black dead,
In sobbing passion watch'd the altering frame.—
The gloomed forehead, and the neck the same—
And all death's hiding clouds that o'er youth's morning came!
XIX.
Where is his gallant lip, his falcon eye—His fair and thoughtful forehead—calm and high!—
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His warm embrowned cheek—his noble air
And deep melodious voice—so manly sweet!
Is that dark wither'd body at her feet
All the remains of these?—Simonida!
Quit—quit the change!—Oh turn thy troubled eyes away!
XX.
But now the morning deepen'd—the high treesWarm'd in the climbing sun—and the quick breeze
Came heralding the golden light along;—
All—all around there was a noise of song!
The crowding Florentines brake hurrying through
The clustering leaves and wreathing paths—and knew,
And bare the deathlike creature from the place,
Where she lay link'd in terrible embrace!
The black and sightless marks Pasquino bore
Betray'd a poison'd death—They sought no more,
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Accused the pale girl of her lover's death.
Her ghastly look of silence and cold grief
Strengthen'd the Florentines in their belief:
And by those very laurels, which had worn
Two blended shadows on that sabbath morn,
Her solitary shape return'd, and gave
A shade like something wandering from the grave.
XXI.
The dew was on the leaf, it look'd chill tears,—Not pearls, as to the lover it appears!
The hanging white rose shudder'd in the air,
As it were sick with grief, and pale with care;—
The birds were painfully alive with song:—
She heard,—and, drown'd in grief, went silently along.
XXII.
She entereth patiently the palace gate,And stands all tears before the Potestate;—
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Is scatter'd down her shoulders,—and her fair,
Her fair young cheek is colourless and gone,
And her compressed lips seem whiten'd into stone!
XXIII.
And stone she might be deem'd, for slowly sheHarden'd into a youthful Niobe!
In cold forgetful apathy she stands,
With steady fallen hair, and lifeless hands!
Look in her eyes,—no troubled grief have they!
No wild distraction doth her breast betray!
Though one long sigh, at times, doth seem to throw
Out from her innermost heart its stifling woe—
Save this,—a statue standeth she,—while all
Feed their suspicions in the palace hall;—
Suspicions deepen,—and the impatient crowd
From looks to whispers turn,—till clamorous, loud,
All becomes accusation,—and each tongue
Noises for vengeance on Pasquino's wrong!
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XXIV.
The Judge, a passionless and aged man,Look'd mildly on the creature, young and wan,
That stood in unmoved gloom,—as forest pines
When winds are still,—before these Florentines,—
While turbulent thoughts, clothed in tumultuous breath,
Clamour'd of cruel hate and desperate death.
He heeded not each fierce report,—but turn'd,
And with a voice that seem'd like sound inurn'd,
Commanded silence:—silent were the crowd
Before his tone austere and visage proud!
Potent in length of days and might of mind,
His very look could sway the people-kind!
Then looking on Simonida,—some tears
Ran down his lined cheek, his cheek of years,—
And pity on his awful brow just brake,
As morn first tinges night—and forth he spake.
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XXV.
“We must cast rashness by:—this mute young thing“Claims in her anguish, patient questioning.
“She looketh not of guilt,—and therefore ruth
“Should shield her sorrow, till the utter truth
“Appears by more than seeming circumstance.—
“Come, sad one! Rouse thee from this troubled trance!
“The truth alone I seek,—till that be known
“(And may it still claim pity's gentlest tone!)
“I do vouchsafe thee the respect of all,
“That late have madden'd in this palace hall!
“Now to the Garden of Florence,—there to see
“The dreary truth of what is told to me!”
And silently forth they went—the judge—the maid—
The hushed people—all;—and through the shade
Of that romantic garden the wild throng press'd,
Crushing the flowers of beauty in their nest,
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Pasquino's body stretch'd upon the ground!
XXVI.
Back into consciousness SimonidaStarted with hideous shriek.—Pasquino lay
Before her as she quitted him:—his face
Turn'd upward,—and his arms, as dropp'd from her embrace!
She knelt and kiss'd him;—kiss'd his dreadful cheek!
And rising,—with convulsive strength to speak
Strove; but her lips were fix'd with sorrow's weight,—
And she but gazed upon the Potestate!
XXVII.
He look'd on her with pity;—her distressSavour'd so little of the murderess,—
And then with gentle voice bade her to tell
Faithfully how Pasquino's fate befell.
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And gasping all convulsedly for breath,
She to the bed of sage,—recounting o'er
Their walks—their conference—and their love before—
Went placidly,—and gathering there a leaf,
Told, in a voice broken by tender grief,
How he had mock'd her fondness with the saying
Of crones and dames prophetic;—and delaying
A moment as in memory,—she applied
The sage-leaf to her teeth, champ'd it, and sigh'd
Over his treasured words of tenderness,
Repeating word for word in her distress,—
And pausing but his name most passionately to bless!
XXVIII.
The impatient people anger'd at the taleSimonida told. “What! shall this leaf prevail—
“A leaf her only refuge! a poor leaf,
“The source of all this death-work and wild grief!
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“Here is the human adder—ah!—a tear!—
“In pity for thy young deceit weep—sigh,
“Sigh o'er thy serpent-heart's fidelity!
“Let her have eager death!—Let her be turn'd
“Out to the ban-dogs!—or be slowly burn'd
“Here in the Garden of Florence by the side
“Of him who by her bitter hand hath died!”
XXIX.
So raved the anger'd Florentines,—till theyWere awed and silenced by Simonida,—
Whose voice now dallying with her lover's name
In a low childish fondness paused and came!
It weaken'd—and it weaken'd—and it stopp'd—
Her fluttering lips were voiceless—and down dropp'd
Her nerveless hands against her tremulous side—
She shriek'd—and, falling on Pasquino, died.
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XXX.
Oh, sweet—unfortunate lovers! ye were youngAnd scarcely pledged of heart! did ye belong
To a sad or happy fate?—Ah! life's rude wars
Were taken from both,—auspicious were your stars
To end your mortal lives and fervent love
In one day's space! Heaven hath ye both above!
The pine your monument—the grass your bed—
Flowers, and the sweetest, at your feet and head—
The sunlight, soften'd by the tender leaves,
Cast on your married cheeks—the air, that grieves
Through fragrant aisles, your chorister,—to bring
The fairy hymn around you of the spring.—
The rose to weep its cold and early tears
For ever in the youth of after years!
All blessed be your memories and your rest—
Your short and joined fate hath been the best!
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XXXI.
In dark amaze, the terror-stricken crowdStood—till the Judge spake wondering,—aloud,—
“What meaneth this?—Is this the work of dreams?
“My mind is dazed—Can it be what it seems?
“I speak perchance the idle words of age,
“But venom seemeth in that bed of sage
“To dwell and do death-work!—And yet 'tis said
“The sage is not of an infected bed;—
“But let it be dug up, that it may be
“Burn'd for our Florentines' security!’
XXXII.
The plants were torn out from the hideous bed,And naked lay the murderer of the dead!—
At the main root, a huge and gloomy toad
Sat in its earth'd and venomous abode,
Dwelling in poison, and infecting there
Each leaf with deadly taste.—None, none might dare
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Branches of scatter'd wood, and o'er him wrought
A funeral pile—the roots of sage were thrown
Into the heap—and all was burned down!
XXXIII.
The lovers side by side were gently laidIn the Garden of Florence,—and the tenderest shade
Of waving trees hallow'd their pleasant tomb,
And wrapp'd it in a green and placid gloom.
The lonely nightingale and watching star
At eve for ever their companions are!
| The Garden of Florence; and Other Poems | |