Marcian Colonna An Italian Tale with Three Dramatic Scenes and Other Poems: By Barry Cornwall [i.e. Bryan Waller Procter] |
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 | Marcian Colonna |  |
XVI.
He gained—he gained (why droops my story?) then,
An opiate deadly from the convent men,
And bore it to his cave: she drank that draught
Of death, and he looked on in scorn, and laughed
With an exulting, terrible joy, when she
Lay down in tears to slumber, silently.
—She had no after sleep; but ere she slept
Strong spasms and pains throughout her body crept,
And round her brain, and tow'rds her heart, until
They touched that seat of love,—and all was still.
Away he wandered for some lengthened hour
When the black poison shewed its fiercest power,
And when he sought the cavern, there she lay,
The young, the gentle,—dying fast away.
An opiate deadly from the convent men,
And bore it to his cave: she drank that draught
Of death, and he looked on in scorn, and laughed
With an exulting, terrible joy, when she
Lay down in tears to slumber, silently.
—She had no after sleep; but ere she slept
Strong spasms and pains throughout her body crept,
And round her brain, and tow'rds her heart, until
They touched that seat of love,—and all was still.
Away he wandered for some lengthened hour
When the black poison shewed its fiercest power,
And when he sought the cavern, there she lay,
The young, the gentle,—dying fast away.
89
He sate and watched her, as a nurse might do,
And saw the dull film steal across the blue,
And saw, and felt her sweet forgiving smile,
That, as she died, parted her lips the while.
Her hand?—its pulse was silent—her voice gone,
But patience in her smile still faintly shone,
And in her closing eyes a tenderness,
That seemed as she would fain Colonna bless.
And saw the dull film steal across the blue,
And saw, and felt her sweet forgiving smile,
That, as she died, parted her lips the while.
Her hand?—its pulse was silent—her voice gone,
But patience in her smile still faintly shone,
And in her closing eyes a tenderness,
That seemed as she would fain Colonna bless.
She died, and spoke no word; and still he sate
Beside her like an image. Death and Fate
Had done what might be then: The morning sun
Rose upon him: on him?—his task was done.
The murderer and the murdered—one as pale
As marble shining white beneath the moon,
The other dark as storms, when the winds rail
At the chafed sea,—but not to calm so soon—
No bitterness, nor hate, nor dread was there;
But love still clinging round a wild despair,
A wintry aspect, and a troubled eye,
Mourning o'er youth and beauty, born to die.
Beside her like an image. Death and Fate
Had done what might be then: The morning sun
Rose upon him: on him?—his task was done.
The murderer and the murdered—one as pale
As marble shining white beneath the moon,
The other dark as storms, when the winds rail
At the chafed sea,—but not to calm so soon—
No bitterness, nor hate, nor dread was there;
But love still clinging round a wild despair,
A wintry aspect, and a troubled eye,
Mourning o'er youth and beauty, born to die.
90
Dead was she, and her mouth had fallen low,
But still he watched her with a stedfast brow:
Unaltered as a rock he sate, while she
Lay changed to clay, and perish'd. Drearily
Came all the hues of death across her face:
That look, so lovely once, had lost its grace,
The eye its light, the cheek its colour, now.
—Oh! human beauty, what a dream art thou,
That we should cast our life and hopes away,
On thee—and dost thou like a leaf decay,
In Spring-tide as in Autumn?—Fair and frail,
In bud or blossom, if a blight prevail,
How ready art thou from the world to fly;
And we who love thee so are left—to die.
But still he watched her with a stedfast brow:
Unaltered as a rock he sate, while she
Lay changed to clay, and perish'd. Drearily
Came all the hues of death across her face:
That look, so lovely once, had lost its grace,
The eye its light, the cheek its colour, now.
—Oh! human beauty, what a dream art thou,
That we should cast our life and hopes away,
On thee—and dost thou like a leaf decay,
In Spring-tide as in Autumn?—Fair and frail,
In bud or blossom, if a blight prevail,
How ready art thou from the world to fly;
And we who love thee so are left—to die.
| Marcian Colonna | |