University of Virginia Library

Such a mist of hell obscure
Gathers round that planet pure,
Such a serpent coils and clings
Round that fair dove's silver wings,
Such of hellish wiles are met,
And such treacheries to beset
First the honour, then the life
Of that ever-faithful wife;
While the Count do spaces wide,
Streams and mountains, still divide
From his perilled lady's side.
For with slow and sullen pace,
Turning oftentimes the face,
Afric's swarthy hosts retreat
From the field of their defeat;—
As with many a pause of pride
Ebbeth a reluctant tide,
Slowly on its refluent track,
Is with many a pause drawn back,
Oft with new-awakened roar
Winning ground again, before
It has quite left bare the shore—
As a lion from his prey
By the hunters scared away,
Who though now no more remaining,
Yet the show of flight disdaining,
Often turns, and makes his stand,
Glares on the pursuing band,
Till the shepherds back recoil,
Winning no unbloody spoil.
And the gallant Count of Treves,
Though by night and day he weaves
Visions of his happy home,
Though full oft his fancies roam
From the camp's tumultuous noise,
From the battle's heady joys,
To the banks of fair Moselle,
Where for him all good things dwell,
Though he yearns for quick release
Unto scenes of holy peace,
Yet will faithfully abide
By his noble captain's side,
Till into the western seas,
Or beyond the Pyrenees,
Is the latest foeman urged,
And the land is throughly purged.

Joy to him! for tidings come,
Letters from his distant home.
Joy it is not; he doth stand,
Those crushed letters in his hand,
And men speak, but meaning none
From their speech his ear has won;
O'er the world doth blackness pass,
Black the sunlight on the grass,
Black the sun itself—on all
Blackness falls, a murky pall.
The firm heavens are round him wheeling,
The fixed earth beneath him reeling;
Oh, the cunning web of hell:
Oh, the treachery woven too well!
—‘Genoveva! oh no, no—
Yet it is, it must be so.
Oh 'twas well and bravely done,
Thou thy master's praise hast won,
Who didst boldly use thy power
And didst cast her in that hour
To a dungeon out of sight.
Would that she had died outright,
Died with him, and shared his fate,
In this sin her guilty mate.
Better so—but let her die
With the child of infamy,
Child of infamy and scorn
That was in the dungeon born.’
With this message he in part
The wild tumult of his heart
Has assuaged—some ease has won:
—Yet, oh think, was this well done,
Was it with thine own heart well,
When in it such thoughts could dwell?
If thy spirit had drawn breath
In the worlds of loftiest faith,
Couldst thou have been so deceived?—
Wouldst thou not have then believed
Everything on earth, a lie
Ere thy lady's purity?