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THE STORY OF RIMINI;
OR, FRUITS OF A PARENT'S FALSEHOOD.
Time, the Fourteenth Century. The Scene lies first at Ravenna, and afterwards at Rimini.ARGUMENT.
This poem is founded on the beautiful episode of Paulo and Francesca in the fifth book of the Inferno, where it stands like a lily in the mouth of Tartarus. The substance of what Dante tells us of the history of the two lovers is to be found at the end of the third Canto. The rest has been gathered from the commentators. They differ in their accounts of it, but all agree that the lady was, in some measure, beguiled into the match with the elder and less attractive Malatesta,—Boccaccio says, by having the younger brother pointed out to her as her destined husband, as he was passing over a square.
Francesca of Ravenna was the daughter of Guido Novello da Polenta, lord of that city, and was married to Giovanni, or, as others call him, Launcelot Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, under circumstances that had given her an innocent predilection for Paulo, his younger brother. The falsehood thus practised upon her had fatal consequences. In the Poem before the reader, the Duke her father, a weak, though not ill-disposed man, desirous, on a political account of marrying her to the Prince of Rimini, and dreading her objections in case she sees him and becomes acquainted with his unamiable manners, contrives that he shall send his brother as his proxy, and
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CANTO I. THE COMING TO FETCH THE BRIDE FROM RAVENNA.
The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil;
And all the scene in short,—sky, earth, and sea,
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil;
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Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.
'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:—
The birds to the delightful time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
As though they shar'd the transport in the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light;
Come gleaming up, true to the wish'd-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
The birds to the delightful time are singing,
Darting with freaks and snatches up and down,
As though they shar'd the transport in the town;
While happy faces, striking through the green
Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen;
And the far ships, lifting their sails of white
Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light;
Come gleaming up, true to the wish'd-for day,
And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
And well may all who can, conspire to come
By field, by forest, and the bright sea-foam,
Where peace returning, and processions rare,
Princes, and donatives, and faces fair,
And to crown all, a marriage in May-weather
Are summonses to bring blithe souls together:
For on this great glad day, Ravenna's pride,
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride,
A bride, to ransom an exhausted land:
And he, whose victories have obtain'd her hand,
Has taken with the dawn, so flies report,
His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, lord of Rimini.
By field, by forest, and the bright sea-foam,
Where peace returning, and processions rare,
Princes, and donatives, and faces fair,
And to crown all, a marriage in May-weather
Are summonses to bring blithe souls together:
For on this great glad day, Ravenna's pride,
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride,
A bride, to ransom an exhausted land:
And he, whose victories have obtain'd her hand,
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His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, lord of Rimini.
Already in the streets the stir grows loud
Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd.
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.
With heav'd-out tapestry the windows glow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go;
Till, the work smooth'd, and all the street attir'd,
They take their seats, with upward gaze admir'd;
Some looking down, some forwards or aside,
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow;
But all with smiles prepar'd, and garlands green,
And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene.
Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd.
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends;
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbours, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.
With heav'd-out tapestry the windows glow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go;
Till, the work smooth'd, and all the street attir'd,
They take their seats, with upward gaze admir'd;
Some looking down, some forwards or aside,
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow;
But all with smiles prepar'd, and garlands green,
And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene.
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And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
A moment's hush succeeds; and from the walls,
Firm and at once, a silver answer calls.
Then press the crowd; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square;
For there Duke Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate:—
But the full place rejects the invading tide;
And after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd, and feet regain'd,
The peaceful press with order is maintain'd,
Leaving the foot-ways only for the crowd,
The lordly space within for the procession proud.
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
A moment's hush succeeds; and from the walls,
Firm and at once, a silver answer calls.
Then press the crowd; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square;
For there Duke Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate:—
But the full place rejects the invading tide;
And after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd, and feet regain'd,
The peaceful press with order is maintain'd,
Leaving the foot-ways only for the crowd,
The lordly space within for the procession proud.
For in this manner is the square set out:—
The sides are nearly fill'd all round about,
And faced with guards, who keep the road entire;
While, opposite the ducal seat, a quire
Of knights and ladies hold one houseless spot,
Seated in groups upon a grassy plot;
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses, trees of wit and love;
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
A lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
The sides are nearly fill'd all round about,
And faced with guards, who keep the road entire;
While, opposite the ducal seat, a quire
Of knights and ladies hold one houseless spot,
Seated in groups upon a grassy plot;
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses, trees of wit and love;
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A lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
There, talking with the ladies, you may see,
As in some nest of faery poetry,
Some of the finest warriors of the court,—
Baptist, and Hugo of the stately port,
And Guelfo, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Galeas of the Sylvan Tower,
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black Band robbers, Lionel,
With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and Greek,
And made the close Venetian lower his sails, and speak.
As in some nest of faery poetry,
Some of the finest warriors of the court,—
Baptist, and Hugo of the stately port,
And Guelfo, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Galeas of the Sylvan Tower,
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black Band robbers, Lionel,
With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and Greek,
And made the close Venetian lower his sails, and speak.
There too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng,
Stands a young father of Italian song,
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in his earnest face;
He with the pheasant's plume—there—bending now;
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes.
Stands a young father of Italian song,
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in his earnest face;
He with the pheasant's plume—there—bending now;
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and grateful blushes.
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Another start of trumpets, with reply,
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits;—the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fix'd upon the bride,
Who pensive comes at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow,
A home to leave, and husband yet to see,
Fade in the warmth of that great charity;
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears
Scarce moves her patient mouth, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day.
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits;—the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fix'd upon the bride,
Who pensive comes at first, and hardly hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage glow,
A home to leave, and husband yet to see,
Fade in the warmth of that great charity;
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears
Scarce moves her patient mouth, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,
And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day.
What need I tell of lovely lips and eyes,
Sweet natural waist, and bosom's balmy rise,
The white dress orange-mantled, or the curls
Bedding an airy coronet of pearls?
Let each man fancy, looking down, the brow
He loves the best, and think he sees it now.
The women dote on the sweet dress; the men
Dote on the face, and gaze, and gaze again.
Sweet natural waist, and bosom's balmy rise,
The white dress orange-mantled, or the curls
Bedding an airy coronet of pearls?
Let each man fancy, looking down, the brow
He loves the best, and think he sees it now.
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Dote on the face, and gaze, and gaze again.
But now comes something to dispute the gaze,
For a new shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
The train are in the town, and gathering near
With noise of cavalry, and trumpets clear,
A princely music, unbedinn'd with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice.
Then, with a long-drawn breath, the clangours die;
The palace trumpets give a last reply,
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture,
The most majestic sound of human will:—
Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still.
For a new shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
The train are in the town, and gathering near
With noise of cavalry, and trumpets clear,
A princely music, unbedinn'd with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbour's voice.
Then, with a long-drawn breath, the clangours die;
The palace trumpets give a last reply,
And clustering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture,
The most majestic sound of human will:—
Nought else is heard sometime, the people are so still.
First come the trumpeters, clad all in white
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses grey;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses grey;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.
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The heralds next appear, in vests attir'd
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd;
And then the pursuivants, who wait on these,
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees:
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charg'd with three heads upon a golden field.
Of stiffening gold with radiant colours fir'd;
And then the pursuivants, who wait on these,
All dress'd in painted richness to the knees:
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charg'd with three heads upon a golden field.
Twelve ranks of squires come after, twelve in one,
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their steeds are ruddy bay; and every squire
His master's colour shows in his attire.
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their steeds are ruddy bay; and every squire
His master's colour shows in his attire.
These past, and at a lordly distance, come
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum,
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Six in a row, and with a various pride;
But all as fresh as fancy could desire,
All shapes of gallantry on steeds of fire.
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum,
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Six in a row, and with a various pride;
But all as fresh as fancy could desire,
All shapes of gallantry on steeds of fire.
Differing in colours is the knights' array,
The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay;—
The horsemen, crimson vested, purple, and white,—
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight,
Which, thrown apart, and hanging loose behind,
Rests on the steed, and ruffles in the wind.
Their caps of velvet have a lightsome fit,
Each with a dancing feather sweeping it,
And on its border hangs a jewel, gleaming;—
But, what is of the most accomplish'd seeming,
All wear memorials of their ladies' love,—
A ribbon, or a scarf, or silken glove,
Some tied about the arm, some at the breast,
Some, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crest.
The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay;—
The horsemen, crimson vested, purple, and white,—
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight,
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Rests on the steed, and ruffles in the wind.
Their caps of velvet have a lightsome fit,
Each with a dancing feather sweeping it,
And on its border hangs a jewel, gleaming;—
But, what is of the most accomplish'd seeming,
All wear memorials of their ladies' love,—
A ribbon, or a scarf, or silken glove,
Some tied about the arm, some at the breast,
Some, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crest.
A suitable attire the horses show;
The polish'd bits keep wrangling as they go:
The ruddy bridles burn against the sun;
And the rich horse-cloths, ample every one,
Which, from the saddle-bow, dress half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread:
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue,
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or purple smearings, with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow thickening bright;
Or a spring green, powdered with April posies;
Or flush vermilion, set with silver roses:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.
The polish'd bits keep wrangling as they go:
The ruddy bridles burn against the sun;
And the rich horse-cloths, ample every one,
Which, from the saddle-bow, dress half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread:
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue,
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or purple smearings, with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow thickening bright;
Or a spring green, powdered with April posies;
Or flush vermilion, set with silver roses:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.
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With various earnestness the crowd admire
Horsemen and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch, as they go by, the riders' faces
Looking composure, and their knightly graces;
The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed;
The body curving to the rearing steed;
The patting hand, that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck;
The thigh broad-press'd, the spanning palm upon it,
And the jerk'd feather flowing in the bonnet.
Horsemen and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch, as they go by, the riders' faces
Looking composure, and their knightly graces;
The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed;
The body curving to the rearing steed;
The patting hand, that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck;
The thigh broad-press'd, the spanning palm upon it,
And the jerk'd feather flowing in the bonnet.
Others the horses and their pride explore,
Their jauntiness behind and strength before;
The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean;
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean;
The mane hung sleekly; the projecting eye
That seems half thinking as it glances by;
The finish'd head, in its compactness free,
Small, and o'erarching to the lifted knee;
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam;
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.
Their jauntiness behind and strength before;
The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean;
The branching veins ridging the glossy lean;
The mane hung sleekly; the projecting eye
That seems half thinking as it glances by;
The finish'd head, in its compactness free,
Small, and o'erarching to the lifted knee;
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam;
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.
And now the Princess, pale and with fix'd eye,
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,
Each rank uncovering, as they pass in state,
Both to the courtly fountain and the gate;
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milkwhite and unattir'd, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led:
They too themselves seem young, and meet the sight
With freshness, after all those colours bright:
In every limb is seen their faultless race,
A fire well temper'd, and a free-left grace.
These for a princely present are divin'd,
And show the giver is not far behind.
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,
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Both to the courtly fountain and the gate;
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milkwhite and unattir'd, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led:
They too themselves seem young, and meet the sight
With freshness, after all those colours bright:
In every limb is seen their faultless race,
A fire well temper'd, and a free-left grace.
These for a princely present are divin'd,
And show the giver is not far behind.
The talk increases now, and now advance,
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson is their livery.
Space after space,—and still the train appear,—
A fervid whisper fills the general ear—
Ah—yes—no—'tis not he—but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires;
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train,
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain,—
And now his banner comes, and now his shield
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field,—
And then an interval,—a lordly space;—
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place;
The princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes,
And, with an impulse and affection free,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a labour'd smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, “The prince! now—now!”
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,
A glorious figure springs into the square;
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the echoing walls and peopled roofs about.
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson is their livery.
Space after space,—and still the train appear,—
A fervid whisper fills the general ear—
Ah—yes—no—'tis not he—but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires;
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train,
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain,—
And now his banner comes, and now his shield
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field,—
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A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place;
The princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her colour comes and goes,
And, with an impulse and affection free,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a labour'd smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, “The prince! now—now!”
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,
A glorious figure springs into the square;
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the echoing walls and peopled roofs about.
Never was nobler finish of fine sight;
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And many a lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found.
And see,—his horse obeys the check unseen;
And with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
Letting a fall of curls about his brow,
He takes his cap off with a gallant bow;
Then for another and a deafening shout,
And scarfs are waved, and flowers come fluttering out,
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,
And whisks their garments, and their shining hair.
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And many a lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found.
And see,—his horse obeys the check unseen;
And with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
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He takes his cap off with a gallant bow;
Then for another and a deafening shout,
And scarfs are waved, and flowers come fluttering out,
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,
And whisks their garments, and their shining hair.
With busy interchange of wonder glows
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes,—
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes,—as he bends him, bends,—
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace,
So fine are his bare throat and curls of black,—
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back—
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance;
But above all, so meaning is his look,
As easy to be read as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes.
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
And now and then, sideling his restless pace,
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill:
The princely rider on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes,—
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes,—as he bends him, bends,—
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace,
So fine are his bare throat and curls of black,—
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back—
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,
So heap'd with strength, and turn'd with elegance;
But above all, so meaning is his look,
As easy to be read as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes.
His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vex'd and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
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Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill:
The princely rider on his back sits still,
And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.
Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood,
Something perhaps of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings, undefin'd and new,
Dance through the bride, and flush her faded hue.
“Could I but once,” she thinks, “securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case,
And know the spirit that should fill that dwelling,
This chance of mine were hardly call'd compelling.”
Just then, the stranger, looking tow'rd the bowers,
Where half the court sat intermix'd with flowers,
Beckons a page, and loos'ning from its hold
A princely jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long,
To the young father of Italian song:
The youth, all thanks and bliss, with lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks homage to his great new friend, who bows
With cordial haste, for now he nears the sovereign's house.
Something perhaps of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings, undefin'd and new,
Dance through the bride, and flush her faded hue.
“Could I but once,” she thinks, “securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case,
And know the spirit that should fill that dwelling,
This chance of mine were hardly call'd compelling.”
Just then, the stranger, looking tow'rd the bowers,
Where half the court sat intermix'd with flowers,
Beckons a page, and loos'ning from its hold
A princely jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had lov'd him long,
To the young father of Italian song:
The youth, all thanks and bliss, with lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks homage to his great new friend, who bows
With cordial haste, for now he nears the sovereign's house.
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This charms all sorrow from the destin'd bride;
She took an interest first, but now a pride;
And as the prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes, and goes by.
She took an interest first, but now a pride;
And as the prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;
He looks with touch'd respect, and gazes, and goes by.
CANTO II. THE BRIDE'S JOURNEY TO RIMINI.
Pass we the followers, and their closing state;
The court was enter'd by a hinder gate;
The duke and princess had retir'd before,
Join'd by the knights and ladies at the door;
But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or paced the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat;
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast,
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud;
But a blank look, as if no court had been,
Silence without and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.
The court was enter'd by a hinder gate;
The duke and princess had retir'd before,
Join'd by the knights and ladies at the door;
But something seem'd amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or paced the measur'd street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat;
Nor ceas'd the wonder, as the day increas'd,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast,
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud;
71
Silence without and secrecy within;
And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ rous'd at gathering intervals.
The truth was this:—The bridegroom had not come,
But sent his brother, proxy in his room.
A lofty spirit the former was, and proud,
Little gallant, and had a sort of cloud
Hanging for ever on his cold address,
Which he mistook for sovereign manliness.
But more of this hereafter. Guido knew
The prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty, where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the match look'd ill for harmony,
Might pause with firmness, and refuse to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man therefore, kind enough at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these,
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
Had thought at once to gratify the pride
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And proxies might be found, though not preferr'd;
Only the duke thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes,—that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Dispatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a creature
Form'd in the very poetry of nature,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare, perhaps for life.
But sent his brother, proxy in his room.
A lofty spirit the former was, and proud,
Little gallant, and had a sort of cloud
Hanging for ever on his cold address,
Which he mistook for sovereign manliness.
But more of this hereafter. Guido knew
The prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepar'd
To do her duty, where appeal was barr'd,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free,
And where the match look'd ill for harmony,
Might pause with firmness, and refuse to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man therefore, kind enough at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little form'd for sentiments like these,
Which seem'd to him mere maiden niceties,
Had thought at once to gratify the pride
Of his stern neighbour, and secure the bride,
72
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And proxies might be found, though not preferr'd;
Only the duke thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes,—that still a prince must come.
The bride meantime was told, and not unmov'd,
To look for one no sooner seen than lov'd;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Dispatch'd the wish'd-for prince, who was a creature
Form'd in the very poetry of nature,
The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare, perhaps for life.
One shock there was, however, to sustain,
Which nigh had rous'd her whole sweet wits again.
She saw, when all were housed, in Guido's face
A look of leisurely surprise take place;
A little whispering follow'd for a while,
And then 'twas told her, with an easy smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin,
Had been delay'd by something unforeseen,
But rather than defer his day of bliss
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
“May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other.”
Which nigh had rous'd her whole sweet wits again.
She saw, when all were housed, in Guido's face
A look of leisurely surprise take place;
A little whispering follow'd for a while,
And then 'twas told her, with an easy smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin,
Had been delay'd by something unforeseen,
But rather than defer his day of bliss
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss)
Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
“Who,” said old Guido, with a nodding head,
73
For when you see the one, you know the other.”
By this time Paulo join'd them where they stood,
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And paid them with an air so frank and bright,
As to a friend whose worth is felt at sight,
That air in short which sets you at your ease,
Without implying your perplexities,
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame, which now appeared increas'd,
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd,
And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks,
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,
And help'd her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose:
Quick were the marriage-rites; and at the close,
The proxy, turning midst the general hush,
Kiss'd her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush.
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Chang'd the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And paid them with an air so frank and bright,
As to a friend whose worth is felt at sight,
That air in short which sets you at your ease,
Without implying your perplexities,
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame, which now appeared increas'd,
Of begging leave to have her hand releas'd,
And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks,
Which seem'd to realize the dreams of books,
And help'd her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose:
Quick were the marriage-rites; and at the close,
The proxy, turning midst the general hush,
Kiss'd her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush.
At last, about the vesper hour, a score
Of trumpets issued from the palace door,
The banners of their brass with favours tied,
And with a blast proclaim'd the wedded bride.
But not a word the sullen silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And with a bag of money issuing out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And largess! largess! claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.
Of trumpets issued from the palace door,
74
And with a blast proclaim'd the wedded bride.
But not a word the sullen silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And with a bag of money issuing out,
Scatter'd the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And largess! largess! claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.
The rest however still were looking on,
Careless and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the morning visitors appear'd.
The prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes;
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull day, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event
Had cross'd and sear'd with burning wonderment,
Could scarce, at times, a starting cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who, wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,
And gather'd there, an unconcerted show;
Bending they stood with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
Farewell! farewell, my friends! she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And, waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.
Careless and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners rear'd,
Again the morning visitors appear'd.
The prince was in his place; and in a car,
Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes;
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guess'd, and some were vex'd
At the dull day, and some the whole perplex'd,
And all great pity thought it to divide
Two that seem'd made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event
Had cross'd and sear'd with burning wonderment,
Could scarce, at times, a starting cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
75
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who, wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,
And gather'd there, an unconcerted show;
Bending they stood with their old foreheads bare,
And the winds finger'd with their reverend hair.
Farewell! farewell, my friends! she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And, waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew,
And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.
It was a lovely evening, fit to close
A lovely day, and brilliant in repose.
Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air;
The soften'd breeze came smoothing here and there;
And every tree, in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With, ever and anon, majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.
A lovely day, and brilliant in repose.
Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air;
The soften'd breeze came smoothing here and there;
And every tree, in passing, one by one,
Gleam'd out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
76
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With, ever and anon, majestic pines;
And still, from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.
Nor long the princess kept her from the view
Of those dear scenes, as back from sight they flew:
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs, thick reckoning, and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “Slower!” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders woke her with a start;
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.
Of those dear scenes, as back from sight they flew:
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fix'd down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound
Of hoofs, thick reckoning, and the wheel's moist round,
A call of “Slower!” from the farther part
Of the check'd riders woke her with a start;
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.
'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed,
And such, as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to measure;
But now they take with them a lovely treasure,
And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure.
And such, as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorn'd to measure;
But now they take with them a lovely treasure,
And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure.
And now with thicker shades the pines appear;
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;
And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil,
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;
77
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams,
And full of anxious thoughts, half freed from pain,
In downward musing she relaps'd again,
Leaving the others who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the early day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd, and everlasting green.
To come about her with its listening dreams,
And full of anxious thoughts, half freed from pain,
In downward musing she relaps'd again,
Leaving the others who had pass'd that way
In careless spirits of the early day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renown'd, and everlasting green.
A heavy spot the forest looks at first,
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, with thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools, half cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company.
But entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees, as from a carpet, rise
In knolls and clumps, with rich varieties.
A moment's trouble find the knights to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space and give the winds a charge,
Or pulling tight the bridles, as they pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass.
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade,
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs,
Or peering grave through inward-opening places,
And half prepar'd for glimpse of shadowy faces.
For in these woods it is, and hereabouts,
As not a soul in all Romania doubts,
That the proud dame, who drove the knight to death,
On stated days, resuming mortal breath,
Naked, and crying “Mercy!” with wild face,
Is doom'd to fly him, as he spurs in chase,
And have her heart, through pitiless wide wounds,
Torn from her shrieking side, to feed his hounds.
To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst,
Chequer'd with thorns, with thistles run to seed,
Or plashy pools, half cover'd with green weed,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry
In the hot sun, a noisome company.
But entering more and more, they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees, as from a carpet, rise
In knolls and clumps, with rich varieties.
A moment's trouble find the knights to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large
To scour the space and give the winds a charge,
78
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass.
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade,
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs,
Or peering grave through inward-opening places,
And half prepar'd for glimpse of shadowy faces.
For in these woods it is, and hereabouts,
As not a soul in all Romania doubts,
That the proud dame, who drove the knight to death,
On stated days, resuming mortal breath,
Naked, and crying “Mercy!” with wild face,
Is doom'd to fly him, as he spurs in chase,
And have her heart, through pitiless wide wounds,
Torn from her shrieking side, to feed his hounds.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,—
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark,
And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall,
In lordly right, predominant o'er all.
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,
And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,
And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark,
79
In lordly right, predominant o'er all.
Much they admire that old religious tree,
With its new leaves now burning goldenly,—
A tree that seems as it should only grow
Where lonesome winds or solemn organs blow.
At noisy intervals, the living cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like a wild people, when invaders come;
Then all again, but for themselves, seems dumb,
Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming towards the sea:
But what they mostly hear, is still the sound
Of their own pomp and progress o'er the ground;
And, birds except, they scarce meet living thing,
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle, looking up aslant
With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant;
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing with half indifferent wonderment,
Yet turning, at the last, to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.
With its new leaves now burning goldenly,—
A tree that seems as it should only grow
Where lonesome winds or solemn organs blow.
At noisy intervals, the living cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like a wild people, when invaders come;
Then all again, but for themselves, seems dumb,
Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming towards the sea:
But what they mostly hear, is still the sound
Of their own pomp and progress o'er the ground;
And, birds except, they scarce meet living thing,
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle, looking up aslant
With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant;
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing with half indifferent wonderment,
Yet turning, at the last, to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before.
So ride they pleas'd,—till now the couching sun
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then first the bride waked up, for then was heard,
Sole voice, the poet's and the lover's bird,
Preluding first, as though the sounds were cast
For the dear leaves about her, till at last
With floods of rapture, in a perfect shower,
She vents her heart on the delicious hour.
Lightly the horsemen go, as if they'd ride
A velvet path, and hear no voice beside:
A placid hope assures the breath-suspending bride.
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
80
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then first the bride waked up, for then was heard,
Sole voice, the poet's and the lover's bird,
Preluding first, as though the sounds were cast
For the dear leaves about her, till at last
With floods of rapture, in a perfect shower,
She vents her heart on the delicious hour.
Lightly the horsemen go, as if they'd ride
A velvet path, and hear no voice beside:
A placid hope assures the breath-suspending bride.
So ride they in delight through beam and shade;—
Till many a rill now pass'd, and many a glade,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon;
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots.
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,
And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moon-lit towers of slumbering Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,—a fall of chains,—
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
Till many a rill now pass'd, and many a glade,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon;
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots.
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,
And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moon-lit towers of slumbering Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
81
The bride has enter'd,—not a voice remains;—
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
CANTO III. THE FATAL PASSION.
Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
Why mar the face of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose,
And bring the bitter disappointment in,—
The holy cheat, the virtue-binding sin,—
The shock, that told this lovely, trusting heart,
That she had given, beyond all power to part,
Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother,
Possession (oh, the misery!) to another?
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
Why mar the face of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose,
And bring the bitter disappointment in,—
The holy cheat, the virtue-binding sin,—
The shock, that told this lovely, trusting heart,
That she had given, beyond all power to part,
Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother,
Possession (oh, the misery!) to another?
Some likeness was there 'twixt the two,—an air
At times, a cheek, a colour of the hair,
A tone, when speaking of indifferent things;
Nor, by the scale of common measurings,
Would you say more perhaps, than that the one
Was more robust, the other finelier spun;
That of the two, Giovanni was the graver,
Paulo the livelier, and the more in favour.
At times, a cheek, a colour of the hair,
A tone, when speaking of indifferent things;
Nor, by the scale of common measurings,
Would you say more perhaps, than that the one
Was more robust, the other finelier spun;
82
Paulo the livelier, and the more in favour.
Pride in his warlike fame made some prefer
Giovanni's countenance as the martialler;
And 'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye
Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high,
An eagle nose and a determined lip,
Were the best marks of manly soldiership.
Paulo's was fashion'd in a different mould,
And to a finer end: for though 'twas bold,
When boldness was requir'd, and could put on
A glowing frown as if an angel shone,
Yet there was nothing in it one might call
A stamp exclusive or professional,—
No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready,—
No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady,—
No soldier's, for its power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd.
The very nose, lightly though firmly wrought,
Refinement show'd; the brow, clear-spirited thought;
Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye,
And round his mouth was sensibility:—
It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood could go;—
A morning glass of unaffected nature,—
Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
Giovanni's countenance as the martialler;
And 'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye
Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high,
An eagle nose and a determined lip,
Were the best marks of manly soldiership.
Paulo's was fashion'd in a different mould,
And to a finer end: for though 'twas bold,
When boldness was requir'd, and could put on
A glowing frown as if an angel shone,
Yet there was nothing in it one might call
A stamp exclusive or professional,—
No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready,—
No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady,—
No soldier's, for its power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd.
The very nose, lightly though firmly wrought,
Refinement show'd; the brow, clear-spirited thought;
Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye,
And round his mouth was sensibility:—
It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show
How far the genuine flesh and blood could go;—
83
Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature,—
The visage of a glorious human creature.
If any points there were, at which they came
Nearer together, 'twas in knightly fame,
And all accomplishments that art might know,—
Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow,
The rush together in the bright-eyed list,
Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely miss'd,
And the decision of still knottier points,
With knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints,—
Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got,
And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.
But leave we knighthood to the former part;
The tale I tell is of the human heart.
Nearer together, 'twas in knightly fame,
And all accomplishments that art might know,—
Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow,
The rush together in the bright-eyed list,
Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely miss'd,
And the decision of still knottier points,
With knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints,—
Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got,
And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.
But leave we knighthood to the former part;
The tale I tell is of the human heart.
The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride
Too quickly found, was an ill-temper'd pride.
Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please,
Punctual and right in common offices,
He lost the sight of conduct's only worth,
The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth,
And on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;—
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience,—so designed to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else may sleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self can lie
Cored in thy heart, poor Self-complacency,
That no suspicion would have touch'd him more,
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scorn,
Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ill-temper'd for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience, nor the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
And struck a meaner deference in the many,
Left him at last unloveable with any.
Too quickly found, was an ill-temper'd pride.
Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please,
Punctual and right in common offices,
84
The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth,
And on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours;—
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience,—so designed to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else may sleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self can lie
Cored in thy heart, poor Self-complacency,
That no suspicion would have touch'd him more,
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scorn,
Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ill-temper'd for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience, nor the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,
85
Left him at last unloveable with any.
From this complexion in the reigning brother,
His younger birth in part had saved the other.
Born to a homage less gratuitous,
He learn'd to win a nobler for his house;
And both from habit and a genial heart,
Without much trouble of the reasoning art,
Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good,—
To be, and make, as happy as he could.
Not that he saw, or thought he saw, beyond
His general age, and could not be as fond
Of wars and creeds as any of his race,—
But most he lov'd a happy human face;
And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown,
He struck the looks he wish'd for, with his own.
So what but service leap'd where'er he went!
Was there a tilt-day or a tournament,—
For welcome grace there rode not such another,
Nor yet for strength, except his lordly brother,
Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance,
Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France,
Or summer party to the greenwood shade,
With lutes prepar'd, and cloth on herbage laid,
And ladies' laughter coming through the air,—
He was the readiest and the blithest there;
And made the time so exquisitely pass
With stories told with elbow on the grass,
Or touch'd the music in his turn so finely,
That all he did, they thought, was done divinely.
His younger birth in part had saved the other.
Born to a homage less gratuitous,
He learn'd to win a nobler for his house;
And both from habit and a genial heart,
Without much trouble of the reasoning art,
Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good,—
To be, and make, as happy as he could.
Not that he saw, or thought he saw, beyond
His general age, and could not be as fond
Of wars and creeds as any of his race,—
But most he lov'd a happy human face;
And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown,
He struck the looks he wish'd for, with his own.
So what but service leap'd where'er he went!
Was there a tilt-day or a tournament,—
For welcome grace there rode not such another,
Nor yet for strength, except his lordly brother,
Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance,
Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France,
Or summer party to the greenwood shade,
With lutes prepar'd, and cloth on herbage laid,
86
He was the readiest and the blithest there;
And made the time so exquisitely pass
With stories told with elbow on the grass,
Or touch'd the music in his turn so finely,
That all he did, they thought, was done divinely.
The lovely stranger could not fail to see
Too soon this difference, more especially
As her consent, too lightly now, she thought,
With hopes as different had been strangely bought;
And many a time the pain of that neglect
Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect:
But since the ill was cureless, she applied
With busy virtue to resume her pride,
Hoping to value her submissive heart
On playing well a patriot daughter's part,
And trying new-found duties to prefer
To what a father might have owed to her.
The very day too when her first surprise
Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes
On finding, by his care, her private room
Furnish'd, like magic, from her own at home;
The very books and all transported there,
The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair,
The lute, the glass that told the shedding hours,
The little vase of silver for the flowers,
The frame for broidering, with a piece half done,
And the white falcon, basking in the sun,
Who, when he saw her, sidled on his stand,
And twined his neck against her loving hand.
But what had touch'd her nearest, was the thought,
That if 'twere destin'd for her to be brought
To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be
Giovanni's too, and his her family:—
He seem'd already father of her child,
And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she smil'd.
Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red
In either downward cheek startle and spread,
To think that he, who was to have such part
In joys like these, had never shar'd her heart;
But back she chas'd it with a sigh austere;
And did she chance, at times like these, to hear
Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more,
And with a double smile open the door,
And hope his day had worn a happy face;
Ask how his soldiers pleas'd him, or the chase,
Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign grace.
Too soon this difference, more especially
As her consent, too lightly now, she thought,
With hopes as different had been strangely bought;
And many a time the pain of that neglect
Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect:
But since the ill was cureless, she applied
With busy virtue to resume her pride,
Hoping to value her submissive heart
On playing well a patriot daughter's part,
And trying new-found duties to prefer
To what a father might have owed to her.
The very day too when her first surprise
Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes
On finding, by his care, her private room
Furnish'd, like magic, from her own at home;
The very books and all transported there,
The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair,
87
The little vase of silver for the flowers,
The frame for broidering, with a piece half done,
And the white falcon, basking in the sun,
Who, when he saw her, sidled on his stand,
And twined his neck against her loving hand.
But what had touch'd her nearest, was the thought,
That if 'twere destin'd for her to be brought
To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be
Giovanni's too, and his her family:—
He seem'd already father of her child,
And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she smil'd.
Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red
In either downward cheek startle and spread,
To think that he, who was to have such part
In joys like these, had never shar'd her heart;
But back she chas'd it with a sigh austere;
And did she chance, at times like these, to hear
Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more,
And with a double smile open the door,
And hope his day had worn a happy face;
Ask how his soldiers pleas'd him, or the chase,
Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign grace.
88
The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye
Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly;
Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow
To accept attentions, flattering to bestow;
But then meantime he took no generous pains,
By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains;
He enter'd not, in turn, in her delights,
Her books, her flowers, her love of all sweet sights;
Nay, scarcely her sweet singing minded he,
Unless his pride was rous'd by company;
Or when to please him, after martial play,
She strain'd her lute to some old fiery lay
Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras,
Or Ryan's cloak, or how by the red grass
In battle you might know where Richard was.
Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly;
Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow
To accept attentions, flattering to bestow;
But then meantime he took no generous pains,
By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains;
He enter'd not, in turn, in her delights,
Her books, her flowers, her love of all sweet sights;
Nay, scarcely her sweet singing minded he,
Unless his pride was rous'd by company;
Or when to please him, after martial play,
She strain'd her lute to some old fiery lay
Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras,
Or Ryan's cloak, or how by the red grass
In battle you might know where Richard was.
Yet all the while, no doubt, however stern
Or cold at times, he thought he lov'd in turn,
And that the joy he took in her sweet ways,
The pride he felt when she excited praise,
In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure,
Was thanks enough, and passion beyond measure.
Or cold at times, he thought he lov'd in turn,
And that the joy he took in her sweet ways,
The pride he felt when she excited praise,
In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure,
Was thanks enough, and passion beyond measure.
89
She, had she lov'd him, might have thought so too,
For what will love not think its idol's due,
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness,
Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress?
But ill prepar'd was she, in her hard lot,
To fancy merit where she found it not,—
She, who had been beguil'd,—she, who was made
Within a gentle bosom to be laid,—
To bless and to be bless'd,—to be heart-bare
To one who found his better'd likeness there,—
To think for ever with him, like a bride,—
To haunt his eye, like grace personified,—
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,
And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow.
For what will love not think its idol's due,
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness,
Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress?
But ill prepar'd was she, in her hard lot,
To fancy merit where she found it not,—
She, who had been beguil'd,—she, who was made
Within a gentle bosom to be laid,—
To bless and to be bless'd,—to be heart-bare
To one who found his better'd likeness there,—
To think for ever with him, like a bride,—
To haunt his eye, like grace personified,—
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,
And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow.
Paulo, meantime, who ever since the day
He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way,
Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces
By which to judge all other forms and faces,
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
Which gave her up, that evening, to his care.
Some babbler, may be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport,
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back, in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seemed indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book,
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way,
Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces
By which to judge all other forms and faces,
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
Which gave her up, that evening, to his care.
Some babbler, may be, of old Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport,
But to his heart the fatal flattery went,
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
90
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, everything,
E'en what before had seemed indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book,
Scorning that ever he should entertain
One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.
This start, however, came so often round,
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the power grown less and less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclin'd,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would twine about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her touching looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;
Silence her gentleness before him brought,
Society her sense, reading her books,
Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks,
Which sometimes seem'd, when he sat fix'd awhile,
To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile:
And then he would suppose her all his own,
Himself the bridegroom, her his right alone,
And dote on the sweet gaze, till ending with a groan.
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the power grown less and less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclin'd,
To the sweet struggling image he resign'd;
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would twine about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her touching looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
91
Silence her gentleness before him brought,
Society her sense, reading her books,
Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks,
Which sometimes seem'd, when he sat fix'd awhile,
To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile:
And then he would suppose her all his own,
Himself the bridegroom, her his right alone,
And dote on the sweet gaze, till ending with a groan.
Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain
About his fancy, till it thrill'd again;
And if his brother's image, less and less,
Startled him up from his new idleness,
'Twas not,—he fancied,—that he reason'd worse,
Or felt less scorn of wrong, but the reverse.
That one should think of injuring another,
Or trenching on his peace,—this, too, a brother,—
And all from selfishness and pure weak will,
To him seem'd marvellous and impossible.
'Tis true, thought he, one being more there was,
Who might meantime have weary hours to pass,—
One weaker too to bear them,—and for whom?—
No matter;—wishing could reverse no doom;
And so he sigh'd and smil'd, as if one thought
Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught.
About his fancy, till it thrill'd again;
And if his brother's image, less and less,
Startled him up from his new idleness,
'Twas not,—he fancied,—that he reason'd worse,
Or felt less scorn of wrong, but the reverse.
That one should think of injuring another,
Or trenching on his peace,—this, too, a brother,—
And all from selfishness and pure weak will,
To him seem'd marvellous and impossible.
'Tis true, thought he, one being more there was,
Who might meantime have weary hours to pass,—
One weaker too to bear them,—and for whom?—
No matter;—wishing could reverse no doom;
And so he sigh'd and smil'd, as if one thought
Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught.
92
Yet if she lov'd him, common gratitude,
If not, a sense of what was fair and good,
Besides his new relationship and right,
Would make him wish to please her all he might;
And as to thinking,—where could be the harm,
Provided he kept close the secret charm?
He wish'd not to himself another's blessing,
But then he might console for not possessing;
And glorious things there were, which but to see
And not admire, was mere stupidity:
He might as well object to his own eyes
For loving to behold the fields and skies,
His neighbour's grove, or story-painted hall;
'Twas but the taste for what was natural;
Only his fav'rite thought was loveliest of them all.
If not, a sense of what was fair and good,
Besides his new relationship and right,
Would make him wish to please her all he might;
And as to thinking,—where could be the harm,
Provided he kept close the secret charm?
He wish'd not to himself another's blessing,
But then he might console for not possessing;
And glorious things there were, which but to see
And not admire, was mere stupidity:
He might as well object to his own eyes
For loving to behold the fields and skies,
His neighbour's grove, or story-painted hall;
'Twas but the taste for what was natural;
Only his fav'rite thought was loveliest of them all.
Concluding thus, and happier that he knew
His ground so well, near and more near he drew;
And sanction'd by his brother's manner, spent
Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant.
He read with her, he rode, he train'd her hawk,
He spent still evenings in delightful talk,
While she sat busy at her broidery frame;
Or touch'd the lute with her, and when they came
To some fine part, prepar'd her for the pleasure,
And then with double smile stole on the measure.
His ground so well, near and more near he drew;
And sanction'd by his brother's manner, spent
Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant.
He read with her, he rode, he train'd her hawk,
He spent still evenings in delightful talk,
While she sat busy at her broidery frame;
Or touch'd the lute with her, and when they came
To some fine part, prepar'd her for the pleasure,
And then with double smile stole on the measure.
93
Then at the tournament,—who there but she
Made him more gallant still than formerly,
Couch o'er his tighten'd lance with double force,
Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse,
And franklier then than ever, midst the shout
And dancing trumpets ride, uncover'd, round about?
His brother only, more than hitherto,
He would avoid, or sooner let subdue,
Partly from something strange unfelt before,
Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore
A knot his bride had worked him, green and gold;—
For in all things with nature did she hold,
And while 'twas being work'd, her fancy was
Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass.
Made him more gallant still than formerly,
Couch o'er his tighten'd lance with double force,
Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse,
And franklier then than ever, midst the shout
And dancing trumpets ride, uncover'd, round about?
His brother only, more than hitherto,
He would avoid, or sooner let subdue,
Partly from something strange unfelt before,
Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore
A knot his bride had worked him, green and gold;—
For in all things with nature did she hold,
And while 'twas being work'd, her fancy was
Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass.
Francesca from herself but ill could hide
What pleasure now was added to her side,—
How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on
Thus link'd in white and loving unison,
And how the chair he sat in, and the room,
Began to look, when he had fail'd to come.
But as she better knew the cause than he,
She seem'd to have the more necessity
For struggling hard, and rousing all her pride;
And so she did at first; she even tried
To feel a sort of anger at his care;
But these extremes brought but a kind despair
And then she only spoke more sweetly to him,
And found her failing eyes give looks that melted through him.
What pleasure now was added to her side,—
How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on
Thus link'd in white and loving unison,
And how the chair he sat in, and the room,
Began to look, when he had fail'd to come.
But as she better knew the cause than he,
She seem'd to have the more necessity
For struggling hard, and rousing all her pride;
And so she did at first; she even tried
94
But these extremes brought but a kind despair
And then she only spoke more sweetly to him,
And found her failing eyes give looks that melted through him.
Giovanni too, who felt reliev'd indeed
To see another to his place succeed,
Or rather filling up some trifling hours,
Better spent elsewhere, and beneath his powers,
Left the new tie to strengthen day by day,
Talk'd less and less, and longer kept away,
Secure in his self-love and sense of right,
That he was welcome most, come when he might.
And doubtless, they, in their still finer sense,
With added care repaid this confidence,
Turning their thoughts from his abuse of it,
To what on their own parts was graceful and was fit.
To see another to his place succeed,
Or rather filling up some trifling hours,
Better spent elsewhere, and beneath his powers,
Left the new tie to strengthen day by day,
Talk'd less and less, and longer kept away,
Secure in his self-love and sense of right,
That he was welcome most, come when he might.
And doubtless, they, in their still finer sense,
With added care repaid this confidence,
Turning their thoughts from his abuse of it,
To what on their own parts was graceful and was fit.
Ah now, ye gentle pair,—now think awhile,
Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile;
Now, while your generous hearts have not been griev'd
Perhaps with something not to be retriev'd,
And ye have in ye still the power of gladness,
From self-resentment free, and recollected madness!
Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile;
Now, while your generous hearts have not been griev'd
Perhaps with something not to be retriev'd,
And ye have in ye still the power of gladness,
From self-resentment free, and recollected madness!
95
So did they think;—but partly from delay,
Partly from fancied ignorance of the way,
But most from feeling the bare thought require
Fresh mutual comfort, dangerous to desire,
They scarcely tried to see each other less,
And did but meet with deeper tenderness,
Living, from day to day, as they were used,
Only with graver thoughts, and smiles reduced,
And sighs more frequent, which, when one would heave,
The other long'd to start up and receive.
For whether some suspicion now had cross'd
Giovanni's mind, or whether he had lost
More of his temper lately, he would treat
His wife with petty scorns, and starts of heat,
And, to his own omissions proudly blind,
O'erlook the pains she took to make him kind,
And yet be angry, if he thought them less;
He found reproaches in her meek distress,
Forcing her silent tears, and then resenting,
Then almost angrier grown from half repenting,
And hinting at the last, that some there were
Better perhaps than he, and tastefuller,
And these, for what he knew,—he little cared,—
Might please her, and be pleas'd, though he despair'd.
Then would he quit the room, and half disdain
His tongue for yielding to so harsh a strain,
And venting thus his temper on a woman;
Yet not the more for that changed he in common,
Or took more pains to please her, and be near:—
What! should he truckle to a woman's tear?
Partly from fancied ignorance of the way,
But most from feeling the bare thought require
Fresh mutual comfort, dangerous to desire,
They scarcely tried to see each other less,
And did but meet with deeper tenderness,
Living, from day to day, as they were used,
Only with graver thoughts, and smiles reduced,
And sighs more frequent, which, when one would heave,
The other long'd to start up and receive.
For whether some suspicion now had cross'd
Giovanni's mind, or whether he had lost
More of his temper lately, he would treat
His wife with petty scorns, and starts of heat,
And, to his own omissions proudly blind,
O'erlook the pains she took to make him kind,
And yet be angry, if he thought them less;
He found reproaches in her meek distress,
Forcing her silent tears, and then resenting,
Then almost angrier grown from half repenting,
And hinting at the last, that some there were
Better perhaps than he, and tastefuller,
And these, for what he knew,—he little cared,—
Might please her, and be pleas'd, though he despair'd.
96
His tongue for yielding to so harsh a strain,
And venting thus his temper on a woman;
Yet not the more for that changed he in common,
Or took more pains to please her, and be near:—
What! should he truckle to a woman's tear?
At times like these the princess tried to shun
The face of Paulo as too kind a one;
And shutting up her tears with final sigh,
Would walk into the air, and see the sky,
And feel about her all the garden green,
And hear the birds that shot the covert boughs between.
The face of Paulo as too kind a one;
And shutting up her tears with final sigh,
Would walk into the air, and see the sky,
And feel about her all the garden green,
And hear the birds that shot the covert boughs between.
A noble range it was, of many a rood,
Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood:
Indeed the whole was leafy; and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
That danced from shade to shade, and on its way
Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day.
There was the pouting rose, both red and white,
The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light,
Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box,
Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks,
The lady lily, looking gently down,
Pure lavender, to lay in bridal gown,
The daisy, lovely on both sides,—in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between
Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine,
With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering light.
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed
Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red;
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk,
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And now pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet;
And then perhaps you enter'd upon shades,
Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades,
Through which the distant palace, now and then,
Looked lordly forth with many-window'd ken
A land of trees, which reaching round about,
In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out,
With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in every part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
Wall'd round with trees, and ending in a wood:
Indeed the whole was leafy; and it had
A winding stream about it, clear and glad,
That danced from shade to shade, and on its way
Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day.
There was the pouting rose, both red and white,
The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light,
Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-coloured box,
Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks,
97
Pure lavender, to lay in bridal gown,
The daisy, lovely on both sides,—in short,
All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between
Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine,
With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit;
And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering light.
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed
Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red;
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk,
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And now pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet;
And then perhaps you enter'd upon shades,
Pillow'd with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades,
Through which the distant palace, now and then,
Looked lordly forth with many-window'd ken
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In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out,
With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you startled the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and darted in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in every part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully,—
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway,
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees,
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees;
Down by whose roots, descending darkly still,
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers;
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay
And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day,
Lurk'd a pavilion,—a delicious sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white,
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young orange either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin.
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees,
The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees;
99
(You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill,
Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers;
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay
And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day,
Lurk'd a pavilion,—a delicious sight,—
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white,
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,—
And a young orange either side the door.
The door was to the wood, forward and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin.
It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill,
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,—
Alcina, or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about, ran, on a line with this
In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water side on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the water sporting
With sides half swelling forth, and looks of courting,—
Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain
Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again,—
Some tying up their long moist hair,—some sleeping
Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping,—
Or, sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see,
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters slide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
Spar'd from the rage of war, and perfect still;
By some suppos'd the work of fairy hands,
Fam'd for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,—
Alcina, or Morgana,—who from fights
And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
And liv'd with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
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Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carv'd a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverent eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about, ran, on a line with this
In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs themselves;
Some by the water side on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the water sporting
With sides half swelling forth, and looks of courting,—
Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain
Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again,—
Some tying up their long moist hair,—some sleeping
Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping,—
Or, sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see,
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters slide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot,
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks,
Thanking at heart the sunshine and the leaves,
The vernal rain-drops counting from the eaves,
And all that promising, calm smile we see
In nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when every thing was hush'd and clear,
Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And blest whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Francesca lov'd, but most of all this spot.
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About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks,
Thanking at heart the sunshine and the leaves,
The vernal rain-drops counting from the eaves,
And all that promising, calm smile we see
In nature's face, when we look patiently.
Then would she think of heaven; and you might hear
Sometimes, when every thing was hush'd and clear,
Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin.
The gardeners and the rest, who serv'd the place,
And blest whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
Oh weak old man! Love, saintliest life, and she,
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
Might all have dwelt together, but for thee.
One day,—'twas on an early autumn noon,
When the cicàlé cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks, and morning work has done
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,
The princess came to her accustom'd bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
When the cicàlé cease to mar the tune
Of birds and brooks, and morning work has done
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,
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To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake,
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day,
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day,
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,—
Too much reliev'd—too much inclin'd to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd,
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd;
And turning from the trees her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'er-head, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been rapt since morning there.
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd;
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She reach'd o'er-head, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,
As though she had been rapt since morning there.
'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance,
That like a trumpet made the spirits dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more;—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face: and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass:—
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was call'd) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
That like a trumpet made the spirits dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more;—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face: and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he lov'd, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
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She reach'd a lake and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass:—
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was call'd) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play'd his part
So rarely, and display'd so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:
And here, such interest in the tale she took,
Francesca's eyes went deeper in the book.
Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fix'd; and so observ'd was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fix'd; and so observ'd was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,—
Paulo,—who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
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His usual efforts vain to keep away.
“May I come in?” said he:—it made her start,—
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, “O yes,—certainly.”
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, “O yes,—certainly.”
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure:
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together, thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure:
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embrac'd
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Came with a touch together, thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt, with leaps of heart,
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot when he kiss'd her first:—
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And in his arms she wept, all in a tremble.
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smil'd upon Launcelot when he kiss'd her first:—
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And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And in his arms she wept, all in a tremble.
Oh thou unhappy father! Woes in store
Await thy craft.—That day they read no more.
Await thy craft.—That day they read no more.
CANTO IV. HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA.
It has surpris'd me often, as I write,
That I, who have of late known small delight,
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make
My very solace of distress partake;
Now, too, while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense;
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
And leafy dreams affords me, and a feeling
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing;
And shows me, more than what it first design'd,
How little upon earth our home we find,
Or close th' intended course of erring humankind.
That I, who have of late known small delight,
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make
My very solace of distress partake;
Now, too, while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense;
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
107
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing;
And shows me, more than what it first design'd,
How little upon earth our home we find,
Or close th' intended course of erring humankind.
Sorrow, they say, to one with true-touch'd ear,
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.
'Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard,
A joy too often and too long deferr'd.
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here;
And good meantime comes best from many a tear.
Tales like the present, of a real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow:
The woes were few, were brief, have long been past;
The warnings they bequeath spread wide and last.
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green?
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.
'Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard,
A joy too often and too long deferr'd.
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here;
And good meantime comes best from many a tear.
Tales like the present, of a real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow:
The woes were few, were brief, have long been past;
The warnings they bequeath spread wide and last.
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky?
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green?
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A month has pass'd;—how pass'd, remains unknown;—
But never now, companion'd or alone,
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower.
Paulo did once, arm'd with the sterner power
Of a man's grief. He saw it; but how look'd
The bow'r at him? His presence felt rebuk'd.
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been a mere dream, or at the best
A vain negation that could stand no test,
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it!)
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.
But never now, companion'd or alone,
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower.
Paulo did once, arm'd with the sterner power
Of a man's grief. He saw it; but how look'd
The bow'r at him? His presence felt rebuk'd.
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been a mere dream, or at the best
A vain negation that could stand no test,
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it!)
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.
That thought before had griev'd him; but the pain
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick;
And pale he stood, and seem'd to burst all o'er
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe.
Francesca too,—the being made to bless,—
Destin'd by him to the same wretchedness,—
It seem'd as if such whelming thoughts must find
Some props for them, or he should lose his mind.
And find he did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought, with quick philosophy, of things
Rarely found out except through sufferings,—
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity;
And these, although they push'd down, as they rose
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Push'd with them too the worst of others' guilt;
And furnish'd him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he lov'd could have done nothing base,
Help'd to restore him to his usual life,
Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favourite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,
As he glode by, to force his thoughts without
And when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earn'd for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away
That task of loaded hearts, another day.
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick;
And pale he stood, and seem'd to burst all o'er
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe.
Francesca too,—the being made to bless,—
Destin'd by him to the same wretchedness,—
109
Some props for them, or he should lose his mind.
And find he did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought, with quick philosophy, of things
Rarely found out except through sufferings,—
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity;
And these, although they push'd down, as they rose
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Push'd with them too the worst of others' guilt;
And furnish'd him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he lov'd could have done nothing base,
Help'd to restore him to his usual life,
Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favourite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,
As he glode by, to force his thoughts without
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Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earn'd for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away
That task of loaded hearts, another day.
But she, the gentler frame,—the shaken flower,—
The daughter, sacrified in evil hour,—
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
Wife that still was, and mother that might be,—
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow
She might be still and senseless till the morrow!
The daughter, sacrified in evil hour,—
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
Wife that still was, and mother that might be,—
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow
She might be still and senseless till the morrow!
And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise!
How would she open her despairing eyes,
And from the sense of the long lingering day,
Rushing upon her, almost turn away,
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again!
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain,
She would get up in haste, and try to pass
The time in patience, wretched as it was;
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight,
Would seem a charm to which she had no right,
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears,
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears.
Old comforts now were not at her command:
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand;
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light,
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night;
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound;
And did she hear but the remotest sound
Of song or instrument about the place,
She hid with both her hands her streaming face.
But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she,
That ever, ever, such a worse should be!)
The sight of infant was, or child at play;
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray,
That heaven would take her, if it pleas'd, away.
How would she open her despairing eyes,
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Rushing upon her, almost turn away,
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again!
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain,
She would get up in haste, and try to pass
The time in patience, wretched as it was;
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight,
Would seem a charm to which she had no right,
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears,
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears.
Old comforts now were not at her command:
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand;
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light,
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night;
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound;
And did she hear but the remotest sound
Of song or instrument about the place,
She hid with both her hands her streaming face.
But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she,
That ever, ever, such a worse should be!)
The sight of infant was, or child at play;
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray,
That heaven would take her, if it pleas'd, away.
Meantime her lord, who by her long distress
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness,
Which, to his sore amaze, did but appear
To vex her more than when he was severe,
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree,
And in all else she look'd and said, and all
His brother did, who now in bower or hall
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face,—
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace.
What a convulsion was the first belief!
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief,
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain,
With mad impatience to surmount the blow
In some retributive and bloody woe,—
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew,
Where he had waked and found the dreams of madmen true.
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness,
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To vex her more than when he was severe,
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree,
And in all else she look'd and said, and all
His brother did, who now in bower or hall
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face,—
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace.
What a convulsion was the first belief!
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief,
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain,
With mad impatience to surmount the blow
In some retributive and bloody woe,—
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew,
Where he had waked and found the dreams of madmen true.
If any lingering hope that he was wrong,
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so long.
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay,
Considering what to do the approaching day,
He heard his wife say something in her sleep:—
He shook, and listen'd;—she began to weep,
And moaning louder, seem'd to shake her head,
Till all at once articulate, she said,
“He loves his brother yet.—Dear heaven, 'twas I—”
Then lower voiced—“Only—do let me die.”
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so long.
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay,
Considering what to do the approaching day,
He heard his wife say something in her sleep:—
He shook, and listen'd;—she began to weep,
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Till all at once articulate, she said,
“He loves his brother yet.—Dear heaven, 'twas I—”
Then lower voiced—“Only—do let me die.”
With the worst impulse of his whole fierce life
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife:
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more.
He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;—
His squire awak'd attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:—
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife:
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more.
He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;—
His squire awak'd attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room:—
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
The brothers meet,—Giovanni scarce in breath,
Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as pale as death.
The husband, motioning while turning round,
To lead the way, said, “To the tilting ground.”
“There, brother,” answer'd Paulo, while despair
Rush'd on his face. “Yes, brother,” cried he, “there.”
The word smote crushingly; and paler still,
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.
Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as pale as death.
The husband, motioning while turning round,
To lead the way, said, “To the tilting ground.”
“There, brother,” answer'd Paulo, while despair
Rush'd on his face. “Yes, brother,” cried he, “there.”
The word smote crushingly; and paler still,
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.
Paulo's sad squire has fetch'd another sword,
And down the stairs they bend without a word;
Then issue forth in the moist-striking air,
And towards the tilt-yard cross a planted square.
And down the stairs they bend without a word;
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And towards the tilt-yard cross a planted square.
'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill;
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away
Appear'd the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Paulo's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went by:
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound,
That screen'd Francesca's favourite spot of ground:
Massy and dark in the clear twilight stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay—
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way.
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away
Appear'd the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Paulo's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went by:
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound,
That screen'd Francesca's favourite spot of ground:
Massy and dark in the clear twilight stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay—
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way.
Arriv'd, and the two squires withdrawn apart,
The prince spoke low, as with a labouring heart,
And said, “Before you answer what you can,
“I wish to tell you, as a gentleman,
“That what you may confess,” (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,)
“Will implicate no person known to you,
“More than disquiet in its sleep may do.”
The prince spoke low, as with a labouring heart,
And said, “Before you answer what you can,
“I wish to tell you, as a gentleman,
“That what you may confess,” (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,)
“Will implicate no person known to you,
“More than disquiet in its sleep may do.”
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Paulo's heart bled; he waved his hand, and bent
His head a little in acknowledgment.
“Say then, sir, if you can,” continued he,
“One word will do—you have not injur'd me:
“Tell me but so, and I shall bear the pain
“Of having asked a question I disdain;—
“But utter nothing, if not that one word;
“And meet me this.”—He stopp'd, and drew his sword.
His head a little in acknowledgment.
“Say then, sir, if you can,” continued he,
“One word will do—you have not injur'd me:
“Tell me but so, and I shall bear the pain
“Of having asked a question I disdain;—
“But utter nothing, if not that one word;
“And meet me this.”—He stopp'd, and drew his sword.
Paulo seem'd firmer grown from his despair;
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from a right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
“I am,” said he, “I know,—'twas not so ever—
“But fight for it! and with a brother! Never.”
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from a right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
“I am,” said he, “I know,—'twas not so ever—
“But fight for it! and with a brother! Never.”
“How!” with uplifted voice, exclaim'd the other;
“The vile pretence! who ask'd you—with a brother?
“Brother! O wretch! O traitor to the name!
“Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim.
“What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core,
“Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
“And then, as never brother of mine could,
“Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?”
“The vile pretence! who ask'd you—with a brother?
“Brother! O wretch! O traitor to the name!
“Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim.
“What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core,
“Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
“And then, as never brother of mine could,
“Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?”
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“It is not so,” cried Paulo, “'tis not so;
“But I would save you from a further woe.”
“But I would save you from a further woe.”
“A further woe, recreant!” retorted he:
“What woe? what further? yes, one still may be:
“Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace,
“Of seeing one of an illustrious race
“Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law,
“And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw.”
“What woe? what further? yes, one still may be:
“Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace,
“Of seeing one of an illustrious race
“Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law,
“And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw.”
“Brother, dear brother!” Paulo cried, “nay, nay,
“I'll use the word no more;—but peace, I pray!
“You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!”
“'Tis false!” exclaim'd the prince; “'tis a retreat
“To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
“And fear the grave you bring a woman to.”
“I'll use the word no more;—but peace, I pray!
“You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!”
“'Tis false!” exclaim'd the prince; “'tis a retreat
“To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
“And fear the grave you bring a woman to.”
A sudden start, yet not of pride or pain,
Paulo here gave; he seem'd to rise again;
And taking off his cap without a word,
He drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven;—then with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, “I'm ready now.”
Paulo here gave; he seem'd to rise again;
And taking off his cap without a word,
He drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven;—then with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, “I'm ready now.”
“A noble word!” exclaim'd the prince, and smote
The ground beneath him with his firming foot:—
The squires rush in between, in their despair,
But both the princes tell them to beware.
“Back, Gerard,” cries Giovanni; “I require
“No teacher here, but an observant squire.”
“Back, Tristan,” Paulo cries; “fear not for me;
“All is not worst that so appears to thee.
“And here,” said he, “a word.” The poor youth came,
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be,
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly:
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,—
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,
The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.
The ground beneath him with his firming foot:—
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But both the princes tell them to beware.
“Back, Gerard,” cries Giovanni; “I require
“No teacher here, but an observant squire.”
“Back, Tristan,” Paulo cries; “fear not for me;
“All is not worst that so appears to thee.
“And here,” said he, “a word.” The poor youth came,
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be,
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly:
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,—
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,
The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.
The prince attack'd with nerve in every limb,
Nor seem'd the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One fought to wound, the other to prevent:
Giovanni press'd, and push'd, and shifted aim,
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Paulo retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel.
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start,
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part.
Nor seem'd the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One fought to wound, the other to prevent:
Giovanni press'd, and push'd, and shifted aim,
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Paulo retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel.
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start,
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part.
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“What!” cried Giovanni, who grew still more fierce,
“Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?”
“Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?”
“Not so, my prince,” said Paulo; “have a care
“How you think so, or I shall wound you there.”
He stamp'd, and watching as he spoke the word,
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword.
“How you think so, or I shall wound you there.”
He stamp'd, and watching as he spoke the word,
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword.
'Twas done. He stagger'd; and in falling prest
Giovanni's foot with his right hand and breast:
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other,
He smil'd and said, “No fault of yours, my brother;
“An accident—a slip—the finishing one
“To errors by that poor old man begun.
“You'll not—you'll not”—his heart leap'd on before,
And chok'd his utterance; but he smil'd once more,
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest;—
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head,
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled.
Giovanni's foot with his right hand and breast:
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other,
He smil'd and said, “No fault of yours, my brother;
“An accident—a slip—the finishing one
“To errors by that poor old man begun.
“You'll not—you'll not”—his heart leap'd on before,
And chok'd his utterance; but he smil'd once more,
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest;—
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head,
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled.
But noble passion touch'd Giovanni's soul;
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn,
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:—
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn,
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:—
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“By heaven, by heaven, and all the better part
“Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
“I trust we reap at last, as well as plough;—
“But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou;
“And, Paulo, thou wert the completest knight,
“That ever rode with banner to the fight;
“And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
“That ever came in press of chivalry;
“And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
“That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
“And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
“That ever among ladies ate in hall;
“And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd,
“The kindest man that ever struck with sword.”
“Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
“I trust we reap at last, as well as plough;—
“But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou;
“And, Paulo, thou wert the completest knight,
“That ever rode with banner to the fight;
“And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
“That ever came in press of chivalry;
“And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
“That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
“And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
“That ever among ladies ate in hall;
“And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd,
“The kindest man that ever struck with sword.”
At this the words forsook his tongue; and he,
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bow'd
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bow'd
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.
The squires with glimmering tears—Tristan, indeed,
Heart-struck, and hardly able to proceed,—
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And raise the body up to quit the ground.
Giovanni starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
And having seen him laid upon the bed,
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will and calm austerity.
Heart-struck, and hardly able to proceed,—
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And raise the body up to quit the ground.
Giovanni starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
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No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will and calm austerity.
Tristan, who when he was to make the best
Of something sad and not to be redress'd,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd,
And to Francesca's chamber took his way,
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs,
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown.
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guess'd what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out.
Of something sad and not to be redress'd,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd,
And to Francesca's chamber took his way,
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs,
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown.
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guess'd what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out.
The princess, who had pass'd a fearful night,
Toiling with dreams,—fright crowding upon fright,
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
Yet as her body seem'd to go, her mind
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign'd;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear,
“Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?”
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd
Something about the room, and answer'd not a word.
Toiling with dreams,—fright crowding upon fright,
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
121
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign'd;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear,
“Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?”
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd
Something about the room, and answer'd not a word.
“Who's there?” said that sweet voice, kindly and clear,
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear:—
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
“Madam,” said he, “'tis I; one who may say,
“He loves his friends more than himself to-day;—
“Tristan.”—She paus'd a little, and then said—
“Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head?
“Something I'm sure has happen'd—tell me what—
“I can bear all, though you may fancy not.”
“Madam,” replied the squire, “you are, I know,
“All sweetness—pardon me for saying so.
“My master bade me say then,” resum'd he,
“That he spoke firmly, when he told it me,—
“That I was also, madam, to your ear
“Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear,—
“That he was forced this day, whether or no,
“To combat with the prince; and that although
“His noble brother was no fratricide,
“Yet in that fight, and on his sword,—he died.”
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear:—
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
“Madam,” said he, “'tis I; one who may say,
“He loves his friends more than himself to-day;—
“Tristan.”—She paus'd a little, and then said—
“Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head?
“Something I'm sure has happen'd—tell me what—
“I can bear all, though you may fancy not.”
“Madam,” replied the squire, “you are, I know,
“All sweetness—pardon me for saying so.
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“That he spoke firmly, when he told it me,—
“That I was also, madam, to your ear
“Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear,—
“That he was forced this day, whether or no,
“To combat with the prince; and that although
“His noble brother was no fratricide,
“Yet in that fight, and on his sword,—he died.”
“I understand,” with firmness answer'd she,
More low in voice, but still composedly.
“Now, Tristan—faithful friend—leave me; and take
“This trifle here, and keep it for my sake.”
More low in voice, but still composedly.
“Now, Tristan—faithful friend—leave me; and take
“This trifle here, and keep it for my sake.”
So saying, from the curtains she put forth
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth;
And he, with tears no longer to be kept
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept,
And kneeling took the ring, and touch'd her hand
To either streaming eye with homage bland,
And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness so departed.
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth;
And he, with tears no longer to be kept
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept,
And kneeling took the ring, and touch'd her hand
To either streaming eye with homage bland,
And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness so departed.
Her favourite lady then with the old nurse
Return'd, and fearing she must now be worse,
Gently withdrew the curtains, and look'd in:—
O, who that feels one godlike spark within,
Shall bid not earth be just, before 'tis hard, with sin?
There lay she praying, upwardly intent,
Like a fair statue on a monument,
With her two trembling hands together prest,
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast.
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall,
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,—
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;—
Her eyes were shut—no motion—not a breath—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.
Return'd, and fearing she must now be worse,
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O, who that feels one godlike spark within,
Shall bid not earth be just, before 'tis hard, with sin?
There lay she praying, upwardly intent,
Like a fair statue on a monument,
With her two trembling hands together prest,
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast.
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall,
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,—
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;—
Her eyes were shut—no motion—not a breath—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.
I pass the grief that struck to every face,
And the mute anguish all about that place,
In which the silent people, here and there,
Went soft, as though she still could feel their care.
The gentle-temper'd for a while forgot
Their own distress, or wept the common lot:
The warmer, apter now to take offence,
Yet hush'd as they rebuk'd, and wonder'd whence
Others at such a time could get their want of sense.
And the mute anguish all about that place,
In which the silent people, here and there,
Went soft, as though she still could feel their care.
The gentle-temper'd for a while forgot
Their own distress, or wept the common lot:
The warmer, apter now to take offence,
Yet hush'd as they rebuk'd, and wonder'd whence
Others at such a time could get their want of sense.
Fain would I haste indeed to finish all;
And so at once I reach the funeral.
Private 'twas fancied it must be, though some
Thought that her sire, the poor old duke, would come:
And some were wondering in their pity, whether
The lovers might not have one grave together.
Next day, however, from the palace gate
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate;
And all in sable clad, forth came again
A portion of the former sprightly train;
Gerard was next, and then a rank of friars;
And then, with heralds on each side, two squires,
The one of whom upon a cushion bore
The coroneted helm Prince Paulo wore,
His shield the other;—then there was a space,
And in the middle, with a doubtful pace,
His horse succeeded, plumed and trapp'd in black,
Bearing the sword and banner on his back:
The noble creature, as in state he trod,
Appear'd as if he miss'd his princely load;
And with back-rolling eye and lingering pride,
To hope his master still might come to ride.
Then Tristan, heedless of what pass'd around,
Rode by himself, with eyes upon the ground.
Then heralds in a row: and last of all
Appear'd a hearse, hung with an ermin'd pall,
And bearing on its top, together set,
A prince's and princess's coronet.
Mutely they issued forth, black, slow, dejected,
Nor stopp'd within the walls, as most expected;
But pass'd the gates—the bridge—the last abode,—
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road.
And so at once I reach the funeral.
124
Thought that her sire, the poor old duke, would come:
And some were wondering in their pity, whether
The lovers might not have one grave together.
Next day, however, from the palace gate
A blast of trumpets blew, like voice of fate;
And all in sable clad, forth came again
A portion of the former sprightly train;
Gerard was next, and then a rank of friars;
And then, with heralds on each side, two squires,
The one of whom upon a cushion bore
The coroneted helm Prince Paulo wore,
His shield the other;—then there was a space,
And in the middle, with a doubtful pace,
His horse succeeded, plumed and trapp'd in black,
Bearing the sword and banner on his back:
The noble creature, as in state he trod,
Appear'd as if he miss'd his princely load;
And with back-rolling eye and lingering pride,
To hope his master still might come to ride.
Then Tristan, heedless of what pass'd around,
Rode by himself, with eyes upon the ground.
Then heralds in a row: and last of all
Appear'd a hearse, hung with an ermin'd pall,
125
A prince's and princess's coronet.
Mutely they issued forth, black, slow, dejected,
Nor stopp'd within the walls, as most expected;
But pass'd the gates—the bridge—the last abode,—
And tow'rds Ravenna held their silent road.
The prince, it seems, struck, since his brother's death,
With what he hinted with his dying breath,
And told by others now of all they knew,
Had fix'd at once the course he should pursue;
And from a mingled feeling, which he strove
To hide no longer from his taught self-love,
Of sorrow, shame, resentment, and a sense
Of justice owing to that first offence,
Had, on the day preceding, written word
To the old duke of all that had occurr'd:—
“And though I shall not,” (so concluded he,)
“Otherwise touch thine age's misery,
“Yet as I would that both one grave should hide,
“Which can, and must not be, where I reside,
“'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore,
“That he who join'd them once, should keep to part no more.”
With what he hinted with his dying breath,
And told by others now of all they knew,
Had fix'd at once the course he should pursue;
And from a mingled feeling, which he strove
To hide no longer from his taught self-love,
Of sorrow, shame, resentment, and a sense
Of justice owing to that first offence,
Had, on the day preceding, written word
To the old duke of all that had occurr'd:—
“And though I shall not,” (so concluded he,)
“Otherwise touch thine age's misery,
“Yet as I would that both one grave should hide,
“Which can, and must not be, where I reside,
“'Tis fit, though all have something to deplore,
“That he who join'd them once, should keep to part no more.”
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The wretched father, who, when he had read
This letter, felt it wither his grey head,
And ever since had paced about his room,
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom,
Had given such orders, as he well could frame,
To meet devoutly whatsoever came;
And as the news immediately took flight,
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night,
But talk'd the business over, and review'd
All that they knew of her, the fair and good;
And so with wondering sorrow the next day,
Waited till they should see that sad array.
This letter, felt it wither his grey head,
And ever since had paced about his room,
Trembling, and seiz'd as with approaching doom,
Had given such orders, as he well could frame,
To meet devoutly whatsoever came;
And as the news immediately took flight,
Few in Ravenna went to sleep that night,
But talk'd the business over, and review'd
All that they knew of her, the fair and good;
And so with wondering sorrow the next day,
Waited till they should see that sad array.
The days were then at close of autumn,—still,
A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill;
There was a fitful, moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose shivering life seem'd drawing to the lees.
The people, who from reverence kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then 'twas said
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
And others said, that they could hear a sound
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came,—till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
A little rainy, and towards night-fall chill;
There was a fitful, moaning air abroad;
And ever and anon, over the road,
The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees,
Whose shivering life seem'd drawing to the lees.
The people, who from reverence kept at home,
Listen'd till afternoon to hear them come;
And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard
But some chance horseman, or the wind that stirr'd,
Till tow'rds the vesper hour; and then 'twas said
Some heard a voice, which seem'd as if it read;
127
Of many horses trampling the moist ground.
Still nothing came,—till on a sudden, just
As the wind open'd in a rising gust,
A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread,
They plainly heard the anthem for the dead.
It was the choristers who went to meet
The train, and now were entering the first street.
Then turn'd aside that city, young and old,
And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow roll'd.
But of the older people, few could bear
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching, slow and steadily,
On which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who but a few short months—it seem'd a day—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind,
In sunny manhood he,—she first of womankind.
To keep the window, when the train drew near;
And all felt double tenderness to see
The bier approaching, slow and steadily,
On which those two in senseless coldness lay,
Who but a few short months—it seem'd a day—
Had left their walls, lovely in form and mind,
In sunny manhood he,—she first of womankind.
They say, that when Duke Guido saw them come,
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum,
The whole amount of all for which his heart
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part,
He rose, in private where he wept, and seem'd
As though he'd go to them, like one that dream'd,
Right from the window, crying still, “My child!”
And from that day thenceforth he never smil'd.
Bringing him thus, in that one dismal sum,
The whole amount of all for which his heart
Had sunk the father's in the schemer's part,
He rose, in private where he wept, and seem'd
As though he'd go to them, like one that dream'd,
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And from that day thenceforth he never smil'd.
On that same night, those lovers silently
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground:—and on fine nights in May
Young hearts, betroth'd, used to go there, to pray.
Were buried in one grave, under a tree.
There, side by side, and hand in hand, they lay
In the green ground:—and on fine nights in May
Young hearts, betroth'd, used to go there, to pray.
129
MAHMOUD.
TO RICHARD HENRY HORNE.
Horne, hear a theme that should have had its dues
From thine own passionate and thoughtful Muse.
From thine own passionate and thoughtful Muse.
There came a man, making his hasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out—“My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.”
“Sorrow,” said Mahmoud, “is a reverend thing:
I recognise its right, as king with king;
Speak on.” “A fiend has got into my house,”
Exclaim'd the staring man, “and tortures us:
One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with life.”
Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne,
And crying out—“My sorrow is my right,
And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.”
“Sorrow,” said Mahmoud, “is a reverend thing:
I recognise its right, as king with king;
Speak on.” “A fiend has got into my house,”
Exclaim'd the staring man, “and tortures us:
One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd,
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with life.”
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“Is he there now?” said Mahmoud:—“No;—he left
The house when I did, of my wits bereft;
And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow'd
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud.
I'm mad with want—I'm mad with misery,
And oh thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!”
The house when I did, of my wits bereft;
And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow'd
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud.
I'm mad with want—I'm mad with misery,
And oh thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!”
The Sultan comforted the man, and said,
“Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,”
(For he was poor,) “and other comforts. Go;
And, should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know.”
“Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,”
(For he was poor,) “and other comforts. Go;
And, should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know.”
In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,
And shaken voice, the suitor re-appear'd,
And said “He's come.”—Mahmoud said not a word,
But rose, and took four slaves, each with a sword,
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place,
And hear a voice, and see a female face,
That to the window flutter'd in affright.
“Go in,” said Mahmoud, “and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come.”
And shaken voice, the suitor re-appear'd,
And said “He's come.”—Mahmoud said not a word,
But rose, and took four slaves, each with a sword,
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place,
And hear a voice, and see a female face,
That to the window flutter'd in affright.
“Go in,” said Mahmoud, “and put out the light;
But tell the females first to leave the room;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come.”
The man went in. There was a cry, and hark!
A table falls, the window is struck dark;
Forth rush the breathless women; and behind
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.
A table falls, the window is struck dark;
167
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife,
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.
“Now light the light,” the Sultan cried aloud.
'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd
Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face;
Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,
And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
'Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow'd
Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face;
Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place,
And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.
In reverent silence the spectators wait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat;
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
The man amaz'd, all mildness now, and tears,
Fell at the Sultan's feet, with many prayers,
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave,
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then, when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was,
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
Fell at the Sultan's feet, with many prayers,
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave,
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light; then, when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down; and lastly, how it was,
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
168
The Sultan said, with much humanity,
“Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.
Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.
For this I had the light put out. But when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose, and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thou cam'st, and marr'dst my solitude.”
“Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son.
Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd
A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd.
For this I had the light put out. But when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose, and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thou cam'st, and marr'dst my solitude.”
169
L'ENVOY.
[To her, who loves all peaceful glory]
To her, who loves all peaceful glory,Therefore laurell'd song and story;
Who, as blooming maiden should,
Married blest, with young and good;
And whose zeal for healthy duties
Set on horseback half our beauties;
Hie thee, little book, and say—
(Blushing for leave unbegg'd alway;
And yet how beg it for one flower
Cast in the path of Sovereign Power?)
Say that thy verse, though small it be,
Yet mov'd by ancient minstrelsy
To sing of youth escap'd from age,
Scenes pleasant, and a Palfrey sage,
And meditated, morn by morn,
Among the trees where she was born,
Dares come, on grateful memory's part,
Not to Crown'd Head, but to Crown'd Heart.
187
JAFFÀR
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY.
Shelley, take this to thy dear memory;—
To praise the generous, is to think of thee.
To praise the generous, is to think of thee.
Jaffàr, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffàr was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
Ordain'd that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.—
All Araby and Persia held their breath.
The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,
Jaffàr was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust
Of what the good and e'en the bad might say,
Ordain'd that no man living from that day
Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.—
All Araby and Persia held their breath.
All but the brave Mondeer.—He, proud to show
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar
On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.
How far for love a grateful soul could go,
And facing death for very scorn and grief
(For his great heart wanted a great relief),
Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square
Where once had stood a happy house; and there
235
On all they owed to the divine Jaffàr.
“Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The man
Was brought—was gaz'd upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords!” cried he;
“From bonds far worse Jaffàr deliver'd me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restor'd me—lov'd me—put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffàr?”
Was brought—was gaz'd upon. The mutes began
To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords!” cried he;
“From bonds far worse Jaffàr deliver'd me;
From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
Restor'd me—lov'd me—put me on a par
With his great self. How can I pay Jaffàr?”
Hàroun, who felt, that on a soul like this
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go: and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
Now deign'd to smile, as one great lord of fate
Might smile upon another half as great.
He said, “Let worth grow frenzied, if it will;
The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
Go: and since gifts thus move thee, take this gem,
The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
“Gifts!” cried the friend. He took; and holding it
High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaim'd, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffàr!”
High tow'rds the heavens, as though to meet his star,
Exclaim'd, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffàr!”
236
ABRAHAM AND THE FIRE-WORSHIPPER.
A Dramatic Parable.
Scene—The inside of a Tent, in which the Patriarch Abraham and a Persian Traveller, a Fire-Worshipper, are sitting awhile after supper.Fire-Worshipper
(aside).
What have I said or done, that by degrees
Mine host hath chang'd his gracious countenance,
Until he stareth on me, as in wrath!
Have I, 'twixt wake and sleep, lost his wise lore?
Or sit I thus too long, and he himself
Would fain be sleeping? I will speak to that. (Aloud.)
Impute it, O my great and gracious lord,
Unto my feeble flesh, and not my folly,
If mine old eyelids droop against their will,
And I become as one that hath no sense
E'en to the milk and honey of thy words.—
With my lord's leave, and his good servant's help,
My limbs would creep to bed.
257
(angrily quitting his seat).
In this tent never.
Thou art a thankless and an impious man.
Fire-W.
(rising in astonishment).
A thankless and an impious man! Oh, sir,
My thanks have all but worshipp'd thee.
Abraham.
And whom
Forgotten? like the fawning dog I feed.
From the foot-washing to the meal, and now
To this thy cramm'd and dog-like wish for bed,
I've noted thee; and never hast thou breath'd
One syllable of prayer, or praise, or thanks,
To the great God who made and feedeth all.
Fire-W.
Oh, sir, the god I worship is the Fire,
The god of gods; and seeing him not here
In any symbol, or on any shrine,
I waited till he bless'd mine eyes at morn,
Sitting in heaven.
Abraham.
Oh, foul idolator!
And dar'st thou still to breathe in Abraham's tent?
Forth with thee, wretch: for he that made thy god.
And all thy tribe, and all the host of heaven,
The invisible and only dreadful God,
Will speak to thee this night, out in the storm,
And try thee in thy foolish god, the fire,
Which with his fingers he makes lightnings of.
258
And get thee forth, and wait him.
[A violent storm is heard rising.
Fire-W.
What! unhous'd!
And on a night like this! me, poor old man,
A hundred years of age!
Abraham
(urging him away.)
Not reverencing
The God of ages, thou revoltest reverence.
Fire-W.
Thou hadst a father:—think of his grey hairs,
Houseless, and cuff'd by such a storm as this.
Abraham.
God is thy father, and thou own'st not him.
Fire-W.
I have a wife, as aged as myself,
And if she learn my death, she'll not survive it,
No, not a day, she is so used to me,
So propp'd up by her other feeble self.
I pray thee, strike us not both down.
Abraham
(still urging him).
God made
Husband and wife, and must be own'd of them,
Else he must needs disown them.
Fire-W.
We have children,
One of them, sir, a daughter, who, next week,
Will all day long be going in and out,
Upon the watch for me; she, too, a wife,
259
She's a good creature, and not strong.
Abraham.
Mine ears
Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,
And to the coming of the Lord and God,
Who will this night condemn thee.
[Abraham pushes him out, and remains alone, speaking.
Are deaf to all things but thy blasphemy,
And to the coming of the Lord and God,
Who will this night condemn thee.
For if ever
God came at night-time forth upon the world,
'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,
Beneath the touching of the foot of God. [A tremendous crash of thunder, nearly overhead, ending in awful mutterings.
That was God's speaking in the heavens,—that last
And inward utterance coming by itself.
What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolator, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.
God came at night-time forth upon the world,
'Tis now this instant. Hark to the huge winds,
The cataracts of hail, and rocky thunder,
Splitting like quarries of the stony clouds,
Beneath the touching of the foot of God. [A tremendous crash of thunder, nearly overhead, ending in awful mutterings.
That was God's speaking in the heavens,—that last
And inward utterance coming by itself.
What is it shaketh thus thy servant, Lord,
Making him fear, that in some loud rebuke
To this idolator, whom thou abhorrest,
Terror will slay himself? Lo, the earth quakes
Beneath my feet, and God is surely here.
[A dead silence; and then a still small voice.
The Voice.
Abraham!
260
Where art thou, Lord? and who is it that speaks
So sweetly in mine ear, to bid me turn
And dare to face his presence?
The Voice.
Who but He
Whose mightiest utterance thou hast yet to learn?
I was not in the whirlwind, Abraham;
I was not in the thunder, or the earthquake;
But I am in the still small voice.
Where is the stranger whom thou tookest in?
Abraham.
Lord, he denied thee, and I drove him forth.
The Voice.
Then didst thou do what God himself forebore.
Have I, although he did deny me, borne
With his injuriousness these hundred years,
And couldst thou not endure him one sole night,
And such a night as this?
Abraham.
Lord! I have sinn'd,
And will go forth, and if he be not dead,
Will call him back, and tell him of thy mercies
Both to himself and me.
The Voice.
Behold, and learn!
[The voice retires while it is speaking; and a fold of the tent is turned back, disclosing the Fire-Worshipper, who is calmly sleeping, with his head on the back of a house-lamb.
261
O loving God! the lamb itself's his pillow,
And on his forehead is a balmy dew,
And in his sleep he smileth. I, meantime,
Poor and proud fool, with my presumptuous hands,
Not God's, was dealing judgments on his head,
Which God himself had cradled!—Oh, methinks
There's more in this than prophet yet hath known,
And Faith, some day, will all in Love be shown.
293
THE END.
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