A Sicilian Story With Diego de Montilla, and Other Poems. By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter]. Second Edition |
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 | A Sicilian Story |  |
5
“Nunc scio quid sit amor.”
I.
There is a spirit within us, which arraysThe thing we doat upon with colourings
Richer than roses—brighter than the beams
Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings
His showers of light upon the peach, or plays
With the green leaves of June, and strives to dart
Into some great forest's heart,
And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams.
There is a spirit that comes upon us when
Boyhood is gone,—before we rank as men,
Before the heart is canker'd, and before
We lose or cast away that innocent feeling
That gives life all its freshness. Never more
May I feel this, and yet the times have been
6
O'er a young cheek and run the bright veins through,
And light up, like a heaven, eyes of such blue
As in the summer skies was never seen.
I was an idler then, and life was green,
And so I loved and languished, and became
A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame,
And did abase myself before him: he
Laugh'd outright at my fierce credulity.
II.
And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet,And the same thought that pleased me haunts me still,
Chief at the hour when day and evening meet,
And twilight, shadowy magician! calls
Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls,
And ranks them out before us 'till they fill
The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hill,
The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill,
The waving wood and the evanishing sky,
Tow'rd this subduing of the soul, ally
Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band.
If then the elements league against us, and
The heart rebel against the mind's command,
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Until the morning comes, and sterner themes
Do fit us through this stormy world to sail.
Farewell to love; and yet, 'tis woven in my tale.
III.
A story (still believed through Sicily,)Is told of one young girl who chose to die
For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe,
If that ye can believe so strange a story,
That woman ever could so deeply grieve,
Save she who from Leucadia's promontory
Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy,
(Ungrateful he to work her such annoy,)
But time hath, as in sad requital, given
A branch of laurel to her, and some bard
Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave
Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven:
And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar
Along the Adriatic, in the wave
She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore
Sings as the love-craz'd Sappho sung of yore.
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IV.
One night a masque was held within the wallsOf a Sicilian palace: the gayest flowers
Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls,
And, in remoter spots, fresh waterfalls
That streamed half hidden by sweet lemon bowers
A low and silver-voiced music made:
And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed,
Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough,
And as in female trust seemed there to grow,
Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing:
And every odorous plant and brighter thing
Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain,
That from the bosom of the spring
Starts into life and beauty once again,
Blossom'd; and there in walks of evergreen,
Gay cavaliers, and dames high-born and fair,
Wearing that rich and melancholy smile
That can so well beguile
The human heart from its recess, were seen;
And lovers, full of love or studious care,
Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air,
And spirits that never till the morning sleep.
And, far away, the mountain Etna flung
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High as the heav'ns, while from its heart there came
Hollow and subterranean noises deep,
And all around the constellations hung
Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky,
As to do honour to that revelry.
V.
Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowdSick at the soul with sorrow: her quick eye
Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed
Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh
Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy,
The dark-eyed Guido whom she lov'd so well:
(O how he loved Sicilian Isabel!)
Why came he not that night to share the joy
That sate on every face, and from her heart
Bid fear and all, aye, all but hope, depart—
For hope is present happiness: Shapes and things
That wear a beauty like the imperial star
Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews,
And like an arch of promise shine afar,
When near cast off their skiey colourings,
And all their rainbow-like and radiant hues
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But Hope! the brightest of the passionate choir
That thro' the wide world range,
And touch with passing fingers that most strange
And various instrument, the human heart,—
Ah! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart?
VI.
Dark Guido came not all that night, while she(His young and secret bride) sate watching there,
Pale as the marble columns. She search'd around
And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry,
But if she heard a quick or lighter bound
Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight
Drew her white hand to see his raven hair
Come down in masses like the starless night,
And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while
To catch his sweet inimitable smile,
Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore;
(He whom the wild and wanton Nymphs of yore
Stole from Alcmena's Son:) But one and then
Another passed, and bowed, and passed again.
She looked on all in vain: at last more near
A figure came and, whispering in her ear,
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Why there she sate alone,
The mistress of the feast, while all passed by
Unwelcomed even by her wandering eye.
It was her brother's voice—Leoni!—no,
It could not be that he would jeer her so.
He breathed a name; 'twas ‘Guido’:—tremblingly
She sate and shrank from his inquiring eye,
But hid the mighty secret of her soul.
Again—ah! then she heard her terrible doom
Sound like a prophecy, and to her room
Like a pale solitary shade she stole.
VII.
And now to tell of him whose tongue had gainedThe heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came
(And he was of a line of fame)
From Milan where his father perished.
He was the last of all his race, and fled
To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reigned:
A mighty city once, tho' now she sleeps
Amidst her amphitheatre of hills,
Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps,
And not a page in living story fills.
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And artists fashion, in their happier mood,
And budding girls when first their dreamings faint
Shew them such forms as maids may love. He stood
Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven descended,
Hermes or young Apollo, or whom she
The moon-lit Dian, on the Latmian hill,
When all the woods and all the winds were still,
Kissed with the kiss of immortality.
And in his eye where love and pride contended,
His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell
Which they who love and have been lov'd can tell.
And she—but what of her, his chosen bride,
His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride,
And loved almost too much for happiness?
Enough to say that she was born to bless.
She was surpassing fair: her gentle voice
Came like the fabled music that beguiles
The sailor on the waters, and her smiles
Shone like the light of heaven, and said ‘Rejoice!’
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VIII.
That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green;For in that land the sward springs fresh and free
Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen
To break the glassy quiet of the sea:
And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel,
Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut hair,
Which in her white and heaving bosom fell
Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air
Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there;
And then his dark eyes sparkled, and he wound
The fillets like a coronet around
Her brow, and bade her rise, and rise a queen.
And oh! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand
Pressed 'gainst his parted lips, as tho' to check
In mimic anger all those whispers bland
He knew so well to use, and on his neck
Her round arm hung, while half as in command
And half entreaty did her swimming eye
Speak of forbearance, 'till from her pouting lip
He snatched the honey-dews that lovers sip,
And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully
She frowned, and wore that self-betraying air
Which women loved and flattered love to wear.
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IX.
Oft would he, as on that same spot they layBeneath the last light of a summer's day,
Tell (and would watch the while her stedfast eye,)
How on the lone Pacific he had been,
When the Sea Lion on his watery way
Went rolling thro' the billows green,
And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity:
And he would tell her of past times, and where
He rambled in his boyhood far away,
And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair
And mighty and magnificent, for he
Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god
Upon that land where first Columbus trod;
And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' tide,
And by Niagara's cataracts of foam,
And seen the wild deer roam
Amongst interminable forests, where
The serpent and the savage have their lair
Together. Nature there in wildest guise
Stands undebased and nearer to the skies;
And 'midst her giant trees and waters wide
The bones of things forgotten, buried deep,
Give glimpses of an elder world, espied
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When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth,
Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth.
X.
Her sleep that night was fearful,—O, that night!If it indeed was sleep: for in her sight
A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood,
And pointed far up the great Etna's side,
Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood
Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below,
And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow.
It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride
With melancholy air and glassy eye,
And spoke—‘Awake and search yon dell, for I,
‘Tho' risen above my old mortality,
‘Have left my mangled and unburied limbs
‘A prey for wolves hard by the waters there,
‘And one lock of my black and curled hair,
‘That one I vowed to thee my beauty, swims
‘Like a mere weed upon the mountain river;
‘And those dark eyes you used to love so well
‘(They loved you dearly, my own Isabel,)
‘Are shut and now have lost their light for ever.
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‘Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave
‘Than what the stream and withering winds may lend,
‘And 'neath the basil tree we planted, give
‘The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live
‘And shed a solace on thy after days;
‘And thou—but oh! I ask thee not to tend
‘The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze,
‘For with a spirit's power I see thy heart.’
He said no more, but with the dawning day
Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart
Before the conquering sun-beams, silently.
Then sprung she from the pillow where she lay,
To the wild sense of doubtful misery:
And when she 'woke she did obey the dream,
And journey'd onwards to the mountain stream
Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she drew
The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew,
And with a beating heart descended where
The waters washed, it said, its floating hair.
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XI.
It was a spot like those romancers paint,Or painted when of dusky knights they told
Wandering about in forests old,
When the last purple colour was waxing faint
And day was dying in the west:—the trees
(Dark pine and chesnut and the dwarfed oak
And cedar,) shook their branches, 'till the shade
Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played
Seem'd holding dim communion with the breeze:
Below, a tumbling river rolled along,
(Its course by lava rocks and branches broke)
Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song;
And there on shattered trunks the lichens grew
And covered, with their golden garments,—Death.
And when the tempest of November blew
The Winter trumpet, 'till its failing breath
Went moaning into silence, every green
And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell
Some trembling story of that mountain dell.
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XII.
That spirit is never idle that doth 'wakenThe soul to sights and contemplations deep,
Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep
A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken;
But when across its frozen wastes there comes
A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears
Tidings of ruin from those icy domes,
The cast and fashion of a thousand years,
It is not for low meanings that the soul
Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long,
Doth walk abroad with Death, and sweep among
The valleys where the avalanches roll.
'Tis not to speak of ‘Doubt’ that her great voice,
Which in the plains doth bid the heart rejoice,
Comes sounding like an oracle. Amidst men
There are no useless marvels: Ah! why then
Cast on the wonder-working nature shame,
Or deem that, like a noisy braggart, she
(In all things else how great and freed from blame)
Once in an age should shout ‘A mystery!’
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XIII.
But, to my story. Down the slippery sodWith trembling limbs, and heart that scarcely beat,
And catching at the brambles, as her feet
Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod;
And there she saw—Oh! till that moment none
Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun
And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought,
And how she from each glance a courage caught;
For light and life had scattered half her fright,
And she could almost smile on the past night;
So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear
Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister,
She took her weary way and searched the dell,
And there she saw him—dead. Poor desolate child
Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild
No pity on the boy you loved so well!
There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay,
His pale face upwards to the careless day,
That smiled as it was wont; and he was found
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground,
And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold,
His black hair floated as the phantom told,
And like the very dream his glassy eye
Spoke of gone mortality.
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XIV.
She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose brainIs shock'd o' the sudden: then she looked again;
And then she wept. At last—but wherefore ask
How, tremblingly, she did her bloody task?
She took the heart and washed it in the wave,
And bore it home and placed it midst wild flowers,
Such as he loved to scent in happier hours,
And 'neath the basil tree she scoop'd a grave,
And therein placed the heart, to common earth
Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human birth.
XV.
And the tree grew and grew, and brighter greenShot from its boughs than she before had seen,
And softly with its leaves the west winds played:
And she did water it with her tears, and talk
As to a living spirit, and in the shade
Would place it gently when the sun did walk
High in his hot meridian, and she prest
The boughs (which fell like balm) upon her breast.
She never plucked a leaf nor let a weed
Within the shadow of its branches feed,
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And kept it shelter'd from the ‘winter wild:’
And so it grew beyond its fellows, and
Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there
And whispering to the moon and midnight air,
And stood a thing unequalled in the land.
XVI.
But never more along her favorite vale,Or by the village paths or hurrying river,
Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail
Across the setting sun, while waters quiver
And breezes rise to bid the day farewell—
No more in any bower she once loved well,
Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell
Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod:
Yet Love himself, like an invisible god,
Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath
Filled the wide air with music sweet and soft,
Such as might calm or conquer Death, (if Death
Could e'er be conquered,) and from aloft
Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy,
Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears,
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Thronging from all the cells of memory.
All her heart's follies she remember'd then;
How coy and rash—how scornful she had been,
And then how tender, and how coy again,
And every shifting of the burning scene
That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain.
XVII.
Leoni—(for this tale had ne'er been toldBy her who knew alone her brother's guilt,)
Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt
Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold,
And come abroad and claim a sepulchre;
Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore
“That Guido sailed and would return no more”
Was disbelieved and not forgot by her;
Or that she had discovered where he lay
Before his limbs had withered quite away,
Or—but whate'er it was that moved him then,
He dug and found the heart, unperished;
For she, to keep it unlike the common dead,
Had wound it 'round with many a waxen line,
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He found it where, like a dark spell, it lay,
And cursed and cast it to the waves away.
XVIII.
That day the green tree wither'd, and she knewThe solace of her mind was stol'n and gone:
And then she felt that she was quite alone
In the wide world; so, to the distant woods
And caverned haunts, and where the mountain floods
Thunder unto the silent air, she flew.
She flew away, and left the world behind,
And all that man doth worship, in her flight;
All that around the beating heart is twined;
Yet, as she looked farewell to human kind,
One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight,
The last that frenzy gave to poor distress.
And then into the dreary wilderness
She went alone, a craz'd, heart-broken thing;
And in the solitude she found a cave
Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming,
Whereby a black and solitary pine,
Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave
Of pow'r and death a token and a sign:
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The seasons or their change, and she would feed
On roots and berries as the creatures fed
Which had in woods been born and nourished.
XIX.
Once, and once only was she seen, and thenThe chamois hunter started from his chace,
And stopped to look a moment on her face,
And could not turn him to his sports again.
Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek,
And settled Madness in her glazed eye
Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break,
And, as the spent winds waver ere they die,
She to herself a few wild words did speak,
And sung a strange and broken melody;
And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground
With yellow leaves that perished 'ere their time,
And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime
With the low music of her song:—the sound
Came like a dirge filling the air around,
And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme.
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1
There is a spirit stands by me:It comes by night, it comes by day,
And when the glittering lightnings play,
Its look is pale and sad to see.
'Tis he—to whom my brother gave
A red unconsecrated grave.
2
I hear him when the breezes moan,And, when the rattling thunders talk,
I hear him muttering by me walk,
And tell me I am ‘quite alone.’
It is the dæmon of the dead,
For all that's good hath upwards fled.
3
It is a dæmon which the waveHath cast abroad to scare my soul;
Yet wherefore did the waters roll
So idly o'er his hasty grave?
Was the sad prayer I uttered then
Unheard,—or is it due again?
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4
Is't not enough that I am here,Brainstruck and cold and famished,
A mean remove above the dead,—
But must my soul be wild with fear
As sorrow, now that hope is gone
And I am lost and left alone?
4
They told me, when my days were young,That I was fair and born to reign,
That hands and hearts were my domain,
And witchery dwelt upon my tongue:
And now—but what is this to me
Struck on the rock of memory?
5
And yet at times I dream—aye yet,Of vanish'd scenes and golden hours,
And music heard in orange bowers,
(For madness cannot quite forget)
And love, breath'd once to me alone,
In sighs, and many a melting tone.
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6
Then curious thoughts, and floating thingsSaved from the deluge of the brain,
Pass with perplexity and pain:
Then darkness, deaths, and murderings,—
And then unto my den I hie,
And vainly, vainly pray to die.
XX.
At last she wandered home. She came by night.The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light
Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along.
The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song,
And shook the red leaves from the forest trees;
And subterranean voices spoke. The seas
Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell
Came silently which seamen know so well;
And all was like an Omen. Isabel
Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay,
And there they found her at the break of day;
Her look was smiling, but she never spoke
Or motioned, even to say—her heart was broke:
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Lay death, and something we are wont to deem
(When we discourse of some such mournful theme,)
Beyond the look of mere mortality.
XXI.
She died—yet scarcely can we call it DeathWhen Heaven so softly draws the parting breath;
She was translated to a finer sphere,
For what could match or make her happy here!
She died, and with her gentle death there came
Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell
A victim to that unconsuming flame,
That burns and revels on the heart of man;
Remorse.—This is the tale of Isabel,
And of her love the young Italian.
| A Sicilian Story | |