A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

The octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rima)
Is a delightful measure made of ease
Turn'd up with epigram, and, tho' it seem a
Verse that a man may scribble when he please,
Is somewhat difficult; indeed, I deem a
Stanza like Spenser's will be found to teaze
Less, or heroic couplet; there, the pen
May touch and polish and touch up again.

II

But, for the octave measure—it should slip
Like running water o'er its pebbled bed,
Making sweet music, (here I own I dip
In Shakspeare for a simile) and be fed
Freely, and then the poet must not nip
The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led
By old, approved, poetic canons; no,
But give his words the slip, and let 'em go.

III

I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme
Some short account of Don Diego de
Montilla, quite a hero in his time,
Who conquer'd captain Cupid as you'll see:
My tale is sad in part, in part sublime,
With here and there a smack of pleasantry:
As to the moral, why—'tis under cover.
I leave it for the reader to discover.

IV

‘Arms and’—but I forget. Love and the man
I sing, that's Virgil's method of beginning,
Alter'd a little just to suit my plan,
I own the thing and so there's not much sinning,
Most writers steal a good thing when they can,
And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning.
The worst of't is we now and then detect 'em,
Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em.

V

Love and the man I sing—and yet 'twould be
As well methinks, nay perhaps it may be better,
Particularly for a young bard like me,
Not to stick quite so closely to the letter;
One's verse as well as fancy should be free,
The last indeed hates every sort of fetter:
So, as each man may call what maid he chuses
By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses.

VI

Hearken! ye gentle sisters (eight or nine),
Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill,
If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine,
And ye there meet your mighty master still,
And still for poet heads the laurel twine,
And dip your pitchers in the famous rill,
I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; tho' first I
'll just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat thirsty.

VII

And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold
Thee in thy glory—Lord and Life of day!
Sun-bright Apollo! with thy locks of gold,
As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way,
Not marbled and reduced to human mould,
As thou didst stand, one of a rich array,
(Yet even there distinct and first of all,)
In the vast palace of the conquer'd Gaul.

VIII

But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright
For me to look upon with earthy eye,
Ah! send some little nymph of air or light,
Whom love has touch'd and taken to the sky,
And bid her, till the inspiration quite
O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my lip, and sigh
Such songs (and I will list to her for hours)
As once were sung in amaranthine bowers.

IX

And I will lie pillow'd upon her breast,
And drink the music of her words, and dream
(When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest)
Haply of many a high immortal theme,
And, in the lightning of her beauty blest,
My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam
From her dark eyes—but, ah! your glorious day
Ye nymphs and deities now hath passed away.

X

Oh! ye delicious fables, where the wave
And woods were peopled and the air with things
So lovely—why, ah! why has science grave
Scatter'd afar your sweet imaginings?
Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave,
And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's wings?
Alas! the spirit languishes, and lies
At mercy of life's dull realities.

XI

No more by well or bubbling fountain clear
The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun,
Nor longer may we in the branches hear
The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run
Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer
Her way amongst the waves when day is done.
Shadow nor shape remains.—But I am prating
While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting.

XII

Diego was a knight, but more enlighten'd
Than knights were then, or are, in his countree,
Young—brave—(at least, he'd never yet been frighten'd,)
Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be:
He play'd on the guitar, could read and write and
Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the sea.
That sort of man one hopes to meet again,
And the most amorous gentleman in Spain.

XIII

There was a languor in his Spanish eye
That almost touched on softness; had he been
Instead of man a woman, by the bye,
His languish had done honour to a queen;
For there was in it that regality
Of look, which says the owner must have been
Something in former days, whatever now:
And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd), o'er his brow.

XIV

The Don Diego (mind this, Don Dieygo:
Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw
The daughter of a widow from Tobago,
Whose husband fell with honour: i.e. War
Ate up the lord of this same old virago,
Who strait return'd to Spain, and went to law
With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke
The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke.

XV

The lady won her cause; then suitors came
To woo her and her daughters: she had two:
Aurelia was the elder, and her name,
Grace, wit, and so forth, thro' the country flew
Quicker than scandal: young Aurora's fame—
She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew
And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower
Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour.

XVI

Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said,
Grace, and Diego lov'd her like his life;
Offer'd to give her half his board and bed,
In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife,
But she turned to the right about her head
And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife;
And bade him 'wait, be silent, and forget
Such nonsense: He heard this, and—lov'd her yet.

XVII

He lov'd: O how he lov'd! His heart was full
Of that immortal passion, which alone
Holds thro' the wide world its eternal rule
Supreme, and with its deep seducing tone
Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful,
The brave, and all, to bow before its throne;
The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain;
The rich requital for an age of pain.

XVIII

Beneath the power of that passion he
Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun
Has scorch'd 'ere yet in green maturity—
He was a desperate gamester who ne'er won
A single stake, but saw the chances flee,
And still kept throwing on till—all was done:
A rose on which the worm had rioted.
[All this was what his friends and others said.]

XIX

And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek
Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung
A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak,
Which flushing through the darker olive, clung
Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak
Men will I'm told, or when their pride is stung,
Call up that deepening crimson in girls' features:
Some people swear it makes 'em different creatures.

XX

For me, I always have an awkward feeling
When that vermilion tide comes flooding o'er
The brows and breast, instead of gently stealing
On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more;
The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing,
And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more,
Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure,
Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at leisure.

XXI

His mistress—Shall I paint Aurelia's frown?
Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye,
Thro' whose dark fringes such a beam shot down
On men (yet touch'd at times with witchery)
As when Jove's planet, distant and alone,
Flashes from out the sultry summer sky
And bids each lesser star give up its place.
—This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case.

XXII

Her younger sister—she was meek and pale
And scarcely noticed when Aurelia near,
None ev'n had thought it worth their while to rail
On her, and in her young unpractis'd ear
Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail
To win had ne'er been utter'd. She did steer
Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea
For sixteen pleasant summers quietly.

XXIII

Her shape was delicate: her motion free
As his, that “charter'd libertine” the air,
Or Dian's, when upon the mountains she
Follow'd the fawn: her bosom full and fair;
It seem'd as Love himself might thither flee
For shelter when his brow was parched with care:
And her white arm, like marble turn'd by grace,
Was of good length, and in its proper place.

XXIV

Her hair was black as night: her eyes were blue:
Her mouth was small, and from its opening stream'd
Notes like the silver voice of young Carew,
Of whose sweet music I have often dream'd,
And then (as youths like me are wont to do)
Fancying that every other damsel scream'd,
Started to hear Miss C. again. I sit
In general (to be near her) in the pit.

XXV

Let lovers who have croaking Delias swear
Their tones are ‘just in tune’ or ‘just the thing:’
Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair,
Pan's reedy pipe—Apollo's golden string—
How Memnon sung, and made the Thebans stare
When he saw Titan's daughter scattering
Flowers—'tis all stuff, reader: what say you?
Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew.

XXVI

Oh! witching as the nightingale first heard
Beneath Arabian heavens, wooing the rose,
Is she, or thrush new-mated, or the bird
That calls the morning as the last star goes
Down in the west, and out of sight is heard
Awhile, then seems in silence to repose
Somewhere beyond the clouds, in the full glory
Of the new-risen Sun.—Now to my story:

XVII

The Don was constant at his Lady's court,
For every day at twelve she held a levee,
Where song, joke, music, and all sorts of sport
Went 'round, so that the hours were seldom heavy;
Aurelia talk'd, (and talking was her forte)
Or quizzed her female friends, and then the bevy
Of coxcombs vow'd such wit was never heard:
For this one gave his honour, one his word.

XVIII

Things went on pretty smoothly till the Don
Declar'd his love; but, when he sought to marry,
He found she would not give up all for one:
What! Counts and Cavaliers and all, and carry
Herself demurely—'twas not to be done:
She said she lov'd him not, and bade him tarry,
(As I have told,) on which he did begin
To grow and soon grew tolerably thin.

XXIX

He gazed and watch'd, and watch'd and gazed upon her,
And look'd, like Suckling's lover, thin and pale;
But how should looking thin have ever won her,
When looking well (as he says) didn't prevail?
It did not answer with our Spanish Donna,
Nor can it save in poem, play, or tale;
In fact there's not much interesting in't
Unless it be in hotpress and good print.

XXX

Yet, gentles, would I not be thought to jeer
The Love that flourishes when young hearts are given,
And pledged in hope and fullest faith sincere,
Nor would I jest when such fond hearts are riven.
I only mean that love ('tis pretty clear)
When 't rises without hope is merely leaven,
And that boys suffering 'neath the lash of Cupid,
Are sometimes even more than sad; they're stupid.

XXXI

At last, Aurora saw him: she had seen
Him oft when scarcely turning from her book
She bowed, and then as he had never been,
Resum'd her study. Now, his alter'd look
She mark'd, and troubled eye once so serene,
And trembling limbs which Love's wild fever shook:
—His faint and melancholy smile that shone
So seldom but so beautiful was gone.

XXXII

She look'd and look'd again: She could not turn,
And yet she tried, her eyes or thoughts away;
And as it were from pity, strove to learn
The cause of all his ill, and did essay
(While passion in her heart began to burn)
To soothe his sadness, and to make him gay
Would smile and talk of Love, or livelier matter:
A simpleton! as if 'twould make him fatter.

XXXIII

But sorrow never lasts; he must have died,
Had he not some way sought and found relief,
For, howsoe'er we try the fact to hide,
Love is but meagre diet sauced with grief;
'Tis feasting too much like the Barmecide,
Who thought to pass off his invisible beef,
Kid, nuts, et cetera, on his guest, and so
Got his ears box'd for lying, as we know.

XXXIV

Diego, when he found all hope was gone,
Determin'd like a prudent man to fly;
At first he tore his hair (it was his own)
But, then, his mother—she began to cry,
And asked him, would he leave her all alone
(She who had watch'd and lov'd him long) to die,
And her grey hairs to the grave with sorrow bring?
He said ‘he could not think of such a thing.’

XXXV

He said ‘Dear Mother, on my honour (not
‘In its new meaning) from Madrid I'll go,
‘And if I think more of her I'll be shot.’
Yet, as he spoke, a settled look of woe
Declared she never could be quite forgot
Whom in his young heart he had worshipp'd so;
And the mute eloquence of his sickly smile
Told all his thoughts, for grief doth not beguile.

XXXVI

The knave (it is his study) and the fool
(For he has glimpses) and the madman may
Deceive; they do by accident or rule,
And keep their look of cunning from the day:
But grief is lesson'd in an honest school,
And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array,
Its pallid colours or its hectic flush;
It ought to put the others to the blush.

XXXVII

Well—one day, when king Phœbus in the East
Had lifted his round head from off his pillow,
And frighten'd from their slumbers man and beast,
And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow,
The Don Diego, from Love's toil released,
With ducats prim'd and head ycrown'd with willow,
Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh,
Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers ‘fly.’

XXXVIII

They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,)
From great Madrid, thro' old and new Castile,
Stopp'd at one town and rattled thro' another,
Ate fish and fowl and flesh, (excepting veal:)
Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother
Cupid; he tried, and soon began to feel
That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry.
(He smother'd him with Port and sometimes Sherry.)

XXXIX

Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms
Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia,
And gaze and sigh ‘inimitable charms!’
And then ‘what ruby lips!’ until 'twas really a
Joke, for altho' it fill'd her with alarms
To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a
Bystander must have laugh'd to see a woman
Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon.

XL

Well, this went on: he found that wine was better
Than thought, while thought ran cankering thro' his
And so he talk'd of other things, and let her [breast,
Sweet name sometimes (‘Divine Aurelia’) rest:
To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter,
In which he said that—‘all was for the best—
‘That love might grow to folly—that his mother
‘Had but one child, and might not have another.’

XLI

‘That filial duty was a noble thing:
‘That he must live tho' 'gainst his inclination,
‘For tho' he once resolv'd, he said, to fling
‘Himself into the sea, as an oblation
‘To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting,
‘He'd take a dip merely for recreation:
‘And then he added he should go to Cadiz,
‘To see the place, and how he lik'd the ladies.’

XLII

The letter ended with—I quite forget
The actual words, but with some short apology
About his lungs, he said he ow'd a debt
To nature, and—pshaw! tho' I've been to college I
Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet,
And often blunder in my phraseology;
No matter, he was sick he did declare,
And wanted change of scene and country air.

XLIII

And then he rambled thro' his native land,
And by her rivers wide and silver rills
Running thro' cork and beechen forests, and
Breath'd the brave air of those immortal hills,
Which like an altar or memorial stand
Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills
Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name
Was noble and identified with fame.

XLIV

Now—but I'm quite a shallow politician,
And we've enough of politics in prose,
And so to men of talent and condition
I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes;
What I should say might be mere repetition,
And bring the theme no nearer to its close,
So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time;
Besides, the thing's too serious for this rhyme.

XLV

Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla,
(Seville) and saw some mighty pleasant sights,
Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla
And new Bolero danc'd on summer nights,
And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a
Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes.
N.B. The dances I have nam'd are national,
And like all others tolerably irrational.

XLVI

Yet, I remember some half pleasant days
When I did love a common country dance,
Ere peace and fashion had conspir'd to raise
Quadrilles to note in England as in France;
I came in then for some small share of praise,
But now, I dread (I own't) a woman's glance,
These vile Quadrilles do so perplex one's feet
With windings,—like the labyrinth of Crete.

XLVII

Four girls stand up, and beside each a beau
Of figure, stiffen'd upwards from the hip,
(Loose as his morals downwards) points his toe
Prepar'd thro' many a puzzling maze to slip,
‘Poule’—‘Moulinet’—‘Balancez’—‘Dos à dos’—
(Wherein the pretty damsels seem to dip
And rise and fall just like the unquiet ocean,)
And other moods of which I have no notion.

XLVIII

He stayed some time at Cadiz; tho' he hated
He vow'd, the shocking gallantries which there
Some—any men may have 'till they are sated;
Yet look'd he sometimes at the sweeping hair
(Until in truth his choler had abated)
That bound the foreheads of the Spanish fair,
And sunn'd him often 'neath a warm full eye,
And wish'd—but this was seldom, by the bye,

XLIX

He wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look
Divine, and her right royal figure, graced
With beauty intellectual, (like a book
Well bound and written in the finest taste,
Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,)
Her white arm, and her undulating waist,
Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran
And lost the race (a woman should) to man.

L

But in his lonely moments he would dream
Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest
Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam
Of the sad truth would come and break his rest,
And from his pillow he would rise and scream:
This was a sort of night-mare, at the best,
For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet,
And raked and drank instead of being quiet.

LI

He thought of her so young, and oh! so pale,
And like a lily which the storms have bent
Unto the dust: then would he swear and rail
That 'twas impossible and never meant
That girls should die for love: an idle tale,
And by some moody imp of slumber sent
To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed
Is understood in Spain by all—who read,

LII

Whate'er it was—presentiment (which is
A sort of silent prophecy, some say,
In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss,)
Or not, he could not drive the thought away;
Then—'twas a passing fancy—were she his,
How gently would he soothe her dying day—
He swore she should not die—(when folks are amorous
They're frequently absurd, as well as clamorous.)

LIII

When once his Spanish head had got this notion,
It stuck upon his brain just like birdlime,
And cur'd him without either pill or potion,
Bleeding or balm, in no (or little) time;
Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean,
Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme,
And every stanza (none are known to fame)
Did finish somehow with Aurora's name.

LIV

And often to a grotto did he hie
Which in a lone and distant forest stood,
Just like a wood-nymph's haunt; and he would lie
Beneath the cover of its arch so rude,
For there when the August sun had mounted high,
And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood,
The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen,
And kiss'd the leaves and boughs of tender green.

LV

And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast
Back a perfuming sigh, and rustling roll'd
Its virgin branches 'till they mov'd at last
The neighbour tree, and the great forest old
Did homage to the zephyr as he past:
And gently to and fro' the fruits of gold
Swayed in the air, and scarcely with a sound
The beeches shook their dark nuts to the ground.

LVI

Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd
A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull,
Wherein the many-colour'd pebbles glow'd,
And sparkled thro' its waters beautiful,
And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode,
And on its grassy margin you might cull
Flowers and healing plants: a hermit spot
And, once seen, never to be quite forgot.

LVII

Our lover, Don Diego de Montilla,
In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz.
Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla,
Saint Lucar—Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is
Not now in fashion)—danced the Sequidilla,
Sometimes with castanets to please the ladies,
Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters,
Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) their daughters.

LVIII

They used to say ‘my poor Theresa's grown
‘Lately quite pale and grave, poor dear; and she
‘Has lost all appetite’—and then they'd moan
And wipe their eyes, where tears were sure to be,
And leave their daughters with the Don, alone,
To be cur'd by sea-air—and gallantry.
The Don was satisfied and never gazed
Or talk'd of love: the girls were quite amaz'd.

LIX

They look'd and sigh'd, as girls can look and sigh
When they want husbands, or when gossips tell
That they shall have a husband six feet high,
(Tho' five feet nine or ten might do as well)
With curly hair, Greek nose, and sweet black eye,
And other things on which I cannot dwell:
'Twas useless: he was puzzling o'er some rhyme,
Or thinking of Aurora all the time.

LX

Ah, poor Aurora!—she is gone where never
Hate, passion, envy, grief can touch her more;
And with her love, beside that famed river
That lashes with its waves the haunted shore,
(Class'd with those radiant spirits who did ever
Act nobly here, until—the play was o'er,)
She wanders in her long probation, 'till
Death shall decay and Sin, and Time be still.

LXI

She faded like the soft and summer light
That mingles gently with the darkness, and
Seems woo'd not conquer'd by the coming night,
Meeting his dim embrace but not command,
Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight
On mockeries of the past alone is strain'd.
Thus Jove, drawn out in all Corregio's charms,
Wraps the sweet Io in his shadowy arms.

LXII

Alas! she was so young—but Death has no
Compassion on the young more than the old,
She wore a patient look, but free from woe
Unto the last, ('tis thus the story's told;)
She never look'd reproachful—peevish, tho'
Her lady sister would not seldom scold,
Because the girl had fancied her old lover;
For none could any other cause discover.

LXIII

O, melancholy Love! amidst thy fears,
Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein
Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears,—
The pride of sorrow that will not complain—
The exultation that in after years
The lov'd one will discover—and in vain,
How much the heart silently in its cell
Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell.

LXIV

Else—wherefore else doth lovely woman keep
Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze
Hidden, her struggling passion—wherefore weep
In grief that never while it flows allays
Those tumults in the bosom buried deep,
And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays.
Creation's sweetest riddle!—yet, remain
Just as thou art; man's only worthy gain.

LXV

And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah! what hadst thou
Done to the archer blind, that he should dart
His cruel shafts 'till thou wast forced to bow
In bitter anguish, aye, endure the smart
The more because thou wor'st a smiling brow
While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart?
Yet jeer her not: if 'twere a folly, she
Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty.

LXVI

Oft would she sit and look upon the sky,
When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay
Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh
That come like music at the close of day
Trembling amongst the orange blooms, and die
As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay,
Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze
Was brighter than belongs to dying days.

LXVII

And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush,
A clear transparent colour sate awhile:
'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's blush,
And 'round her mouth there played a gentle smile,
Which tho' at first it might your terrors hush,
It could not, tho' it strove, at last beguile;
And her hand shook, and then 'rose the blue vein
Branching about in all its windings plain.

LXVIII

The girl was dying. Youth and beauty—all
Men love or women boast of was decaying,
And one by one life's finest powers did fall
Before the touch of death, who seem'd delaying,
As tho' he'd not the heart at once to call
The maiden to his home. At last, arraying
Himself in softest guise, he came: she sigh'd,
And, smiling as tho' her lover whisper'd, died.

LXIX

Diego—tho' it seem as he could change
From love to love at pleasure—be it said
Unto his honour, he did never range
Again: I should have written that he fled
To her (some people thought this wondrous strange)
At the first news of danger.—She was dead.
One silly woman said her heart was broke.—
He look'd and listen'd, but he never spoke.

LXX

He saw her where she lay in silent state,
Cold and as white as marble: and her eye,
Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate,
Was—after the fashion of mortality,
Closed up for ever; ev'n the smiles which late
None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie
(For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil,)
By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale.

LXXI

Diego stood beside the coffin lid
And gazed awhile upon her: then he bent
And kiss'd her, and did—'twas grief's folly, bid
Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant
To follow quickly: then his face he hid,
And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant,
In mute and idle anguish: not a breath
Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death.

LXXII

At last they drew him, like a child, away;
And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead,
Placing her sweet acts out in kind array,
And mourn'd that one so gracious should have fled
As 'twere before her time; tho' she would say,
Poor girl, (and often to that talk she led,)
That to die early was a happy lot,
And, cheering, said she should be ‘soon forgot.’

LXXIII

She left one letter for her love: they gave
The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told
How when she found that medicine could not save
And love had come too late, she grew more bold,
And bade, when she was quiet in her grave,
(I think the phrase was ‘when her hand was cold,’)
That they should give that letter to the Lord
Diego, her first love; or some such word.

LXXIV

None heard the sad contents; he read it thro'
And thro', and wept and pondered on each page.
At last, a gentle melancholy grew,
And touch'd, like sorrow at its second stage,
His eye with langour, and contriv'd to strew
His hair with silver ere his middle age:
But for the fiery passion which alone
Had stamped his youth with folly,—it was gone.

LXXV

Some years he liv'd: he liv'd in solitude,
And scarcely quitted his ancestral home,
Tho' many a friend and many a lady woo'd
Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam
Beyond the neighbouring hamlet's church-yard rude;
And there the stranger still, on one low tomb,
May read ‘Aurora;’ whether the name he drew
From mere conceit of grief or not, none knew.

LXXVI

P'rhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past:
Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive
Themselves with words, until they grow at last
Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve:
Such madness in its wiser mood will cast,
Making its fond credulity believe
Things unsubstantial. 'Twas—no matter what—
Something to hallow that lone burial spot.

LXXVII

He grew familiar with the bird; the brute
Knew well its benefactor, and he'd feed
And make acquaintance with the fishes mute,
And, like the Thracian Shepherd as we read,
Drew, with the music of his stringed lute,
Behind him winged things, and many a tread
And tramp of animal: and in his hall
He was a Lord indeed, belov'd by all.

LXXVIII

In a high solitary turret where
None were admitted would he muse, when first
The young day broke, perhaps because he there
Had in his early infancy been nurs'd,
Or that he felt more pure the morning air,
Or lov'd to see the great Apollo burst
From out his cloudy bondage, and the night
Hurry away before the conquering light.

LXXIX

But oftener to a gentle lake that lay
Cradled within a forest's bosom, he
Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away,
And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free,
There would he loiter all the livelong day,
Tossing upon the waters listlessly.
The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer
Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear.

LXXX

It was a soothing place: the summer hours
Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night
The moon ran searching thro' the woodbine bowers,
And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright,
O'er lemon blossoms and faint myrtle flowers,
And there the west wind often took his flight
When heaven's clear eye was closing, while above
Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love.

LXXXI

How sweet it is to see that courier star
(Which like the spirit of the twilight shines)
Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar,
Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines,
Until his mistress in her brighter car
Enters the sky, and then his light declines:
But sweetest when in lonely spots we see
The gentle, watchful, amorous deity.

LXXXII

He comes more lovely than the Hours: his look
Sheds calm refreshing light, and eyes that burn
With glancing at the sun's so radiant book,
Unto his softer page with pleasure turn:
'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook,
Or the soft welling of a Naiad's urn,
After the sounding of the vast sea-waves.
'Tis after jealous fears the faith that saves.

LXXXIII

Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond vows;
Then like a whisper music seems to float
Around us: then from out the thicket boughs
Cometh the nightingale's so tender note,
And then the young girl listens, and allows
(Mov'd by the witching of the sweet bird's throat)
To passion its first kiss:—but of these things
He thought not in his moody wanderings.

LXXXIV

'Twas solitude he lov'd where'er he strayed,
No danger daunted and no pastime drew,
And ever on that fair heart-broken maid
(Aurora) who unto the angels flew
Away so early, with grief unallayed
He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue
Would look for shapes, 'till at times before him she
'Rose like a beautiful reality.

LXXXV

—But he hath passed away, and there remains
Scarcely the shadow of his name: the sun,
The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains
Fall now alike upon him: he hath done
With Life and cast away its heavy chains,
And in his place another spirit may run
Its course (thus live, love, languish, and thus die,)
Thro' every maze of dim mortality.

LXXXVI

One day he came not at his usual hour,
(He had long been declining) and his old
Kind mother sought him in his lonely tower,
And there she found him lying, pale and cold:
Her son was dead, and love had lost his power;
And then she felt that all her days were told.
She laid him in his grave, and when she died
A stranger buried her by Diego's side.