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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 THE STORY OF RIMINI.
 
 LATELY PUBLISHED, 
 
 In Foolscap Svo. served, 2s. 6d. 
 
 BEBO AM) LKANDRU, and BACCHUS AND 
 ARIADNE; two ..ripiuil Poems, being the first of a Series of 
 Poetil Tales, by LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Also, in Foolscap 8vo. 8s. 
 
 FOLIAGE ; or Poems Original and Translated, 
 by the same Author.
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF RIMINI, 
 
 A POEM, 
 
 BY 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED FOR C. AND J. OLLIER, 
 
 VERE STREET, BOND STREET. 
 
 1819.
 
 
 
 c 
 4/ 
 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 
 
 •S LORD BYRON. 
 
 in 
 
 a 
 W 
 
 MY DEAR BYRON, 
 
 You see what you have brought 
 yourself to by liking my verses. It is taking you 
 £>unawares, I allow; but you yourself have set 
 ^example now-a-days of poet's dedicating to poet; 
 3 and it is under that nobler title, as well as the still 
 x nobler one of friend, that I now address you. 
 
 I shall be thought indeed by some to write a 
 very singular dedication, when I say that I should 
 not have written it you at all, had I not thought 
 \ the poem capable of standing on its own ground. 
 \ I am far from insensible of your approbation of it, 
 * as you well know, and as your readers will easily 
 
 a 
 
 . ■
 
 VI 
 
 imagine; hut I have an ambition, at th<- Bame 
 time, to have credit given me for a proper spirit ; 
 and in i'aet, as I should be dissatisfied with my 
 poetry without the one, I should never have 
 thought my friendship worth your acceptance 
 without the other. 
 
 Having thus, — with sufficient care, I am afraid, 
 — vindicated my fellow-dignity, and put on m\ 
 laurel in meeting you publicly, I take it off again 
 with a still greater regard for those unceremoni- 
 ous and unpretending humanities of private inter- 
 course, of which you know so handsomely how to 
 set the example; and professing to be nothing 
 more, in that sphere, than a hearty admirer of 
 what is generous, and enjoyer of what is frank 
 and social, am, with great truth, 
 My dear Byron, 
 
 affectionately yours, 
 
 HampiteaH, LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 Junuary 29, 1816.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I he following story is founded on a passage in 
 Dante, the substance of which is contained in the 
 concluding paragraph of the third canto. For 
 the rest of the incidents, generally speaking, the 
 praise or blame remains with myself. The passage 
 in question — the episode of Paulo and Francesca — 
 has long been admired by the readers of Italian 
 poetry, and is indeed the most cordial and refresh- 
 ing one in the whole of that singulai poem the 
 Inferno, which some call a satire, and some an 
 epic, and which, I confess, has always appeared
 
 VIII 
 
 to me a kind of sublime night-mare. W e ev< a 
 lose sight of the place, in which the saturnine 
 poet, according to his summary pray of disposing 
 both <>f friends and enemies, has thought propel 
 to put the sufferers; and Bee the whole melan- 
 choly absurdity of his theology, in spite of itself, 
 tailing to nothing before one genuine impulse of 
 the affections. 
 
 The interest of the passage is greatly increased 
 by its being founded on acknowledged matter of 
 fact. Even the particular circumstance which 
 Dante describes as having hastened the fall of the 
 lovers, — the perusal of Launcelot of the Lake, — 
 is most likely a true anecdote; for he himself, not 
 long after the event, was Jiving at the court of 
 Guido Novello da Polenta, the heroine's father; 
 and indeed the very circumstance of his having 
 related it at all, considering its nature, is a warrant 
 of its authenticity.
 
 IX 
 
 The commentators differ in their accounts of 
 the rest of the story; but all agree that the lady 
 was in some measure beguiled into the match with 
 the elder Malatesta, — Boccaccio says, by being 
 shewn the younger brother once, as he passed over 
 a square, and told that that was her intended hus- 
 band. I have accordingly turned this artifice to 
 account, though in a different manner. I have 
 also omitted the lameness attributed to the hus- 
 band ; and of two different names by which he is 
 called, Giovanni and Launcelot, have chosen the 
 former, as not interfering with the hero's appella- 
 tion, whose story the lovers were reading. 
 
 The Italians have been very fond of this little 
 piece of private history, and I used to wonder 
 that I could meet with it in none of the books of 
 novels, for which they have been so famous; till 
 I reflected, that it was perhaps owing to the na- 
 ture of the books themselves, which such a story
 
 X 
 
 might have been do meant of recommending. 
 The historians of Ravenna, however, have taken 
 care to record it; and besides Dante's episode, it 
 
 is alluded to by Petrarch and by Tassoni. The 
 former mention-, the lovers among his examples 
 of calamitous passion, in the Trionfo d'Amore, 
 
 cap. 8. Tassoni, in his tragi-comic war, intro- 
 duces Paulo Malatesta, as leading the troops of 
 Rimini; and paints him in a very lively manner, 
 as contemplating, while he rid.-, ;i golden BWord- 
 cbain, which Francesca had given him, and which 
 he addresses with melancholy enthusiasm as he 
 goes. See the Secchia Rapita: canto 5. Bt. 4.;. &c, 
 and canto 7. st. 29. &c. 
 
 The romance of Launcelot of the Lake, upon 
 the perusal of which the principal incident turns, 
 is little known at present, hut was a great favorite 
 all over Europe, up to a late period. Chaucer, 
 no long time after the event itself, mentions it, m
 
 XI 
 
 his significant way, as a work held in great esti- 
 mation by the ladies. The Nun's Priest, speaking 
 of the tale of the Cock and the Fox, which he is 
 relating, says to his hearers, 
 
 " This story is al so trewe, I undertake, 
 " As is the book of Launcelot du Lake, 
 " That women holde in t'ul gret reverence." 
 
 Canterbury Tales: V. 16147. 
 
 The great father of our poetry, by the way, is 
 a little ungrateful with his jokes upon chivalrous 
 stories, of which he has left such noble specimens 
 in the Palamon and Arcite, and in the unfinished 
 story of Cambuscan, which Milton delighted to 
 remember; but both he and the Italian poets ap- 
 pear to have laughed at them occasionally, as 
 lovers affect to do at their mistresses. I have in 
 my possession an imperfect copy of Launcelot of 
 the Lake in Italian, and have taken occasion of 
 my story, to give an abstract of the beginning of
 
 Ml 
 
 it, which appean to me as fine as any thing in 
 
 Amadis de Gaul or Tristan tie Leonoif. 
 
 There arc DO notes to the present poem. I lia\e 
 done my best, as every writer should, to he- true 
 to costume and manners, to time and [dace; and 
 if the reader understands me as be gO< i, and feels 
 touched where I am most ambitious be should 
 be, I can be content that be shall miss an occa- 
 sional nicety or so in other matters, and not be 
 quite sensible of the mighty extent of my in- 
 formation. If the poem reach posterity, curiosity 
 may find commentators enough for it, and the 
 sanction of time give interest to whatever they 
 may trace after me. If the case be otherwise, to 
 write notes is only to shew to how little purpose 
 has been one's reading. I shall merely observe, 
 that of the direct obligations, of which I am con- 
 scious, and which perhaps, after all, 1 have not 
 handled well enough to make worth the acknow-
 
 XIII 
 
 ledgment, — the simile of the patches of moss to 
 sunshine, in the second canto, was borrowed from 
 Gilpin's Forest Scenery: — that of unfortunate 
 poets to crushed perfumes, in the fourth, from 
 one about good men in adversity in Bacon's 
 Apophthegms; — Giovanni's praise of his dead 
 brother, from the panegyric pronounced over 
 Launcelot of the Lake, which the reader may 
 find in Ellis's Specimens of Early Romances; — 
 and part of the description of the nymphs, in the 
 third canto, from Poussin's exquisite picture of 
 Polyphemus piping on the mountain. 
 
 For the same reason, I suppress a good deal 
 which I had intended to say on the versification 
 of the poem, — or of that part of it, at least, where, 
 in coming upon household matters calculated to 
 touch us nearest, it takes leave, as it were, of a 
 more visible march and accompaniment. 1 do not 
 hesitate to say however, that Pope and the French
 
 \l\ 
 
 school of versification have known the l< ias1 on the 
 subject, of any poets perhaps thai ever wrote. 
 They have mistaken mere smoothness for har- 
 mony; and, in Pact, wrote a- they did, because 
 
 their ears were only sensible of a marked and 
 uniform regularity. One of the most successful 
 of Pope's imitators, Dr. Johnson, was confessedly 
 insensible to music. In speaking of such men, I 
 allude, of course, only to their style in poetry, and 
 not to their undisputed excellence in other mat- 
 ters. The great masters of modem versification 
 are, Dryden for common narrative, though he 
 wanted sentiment, and his style in some respects 
 was apt to be artificial, — Spenser, who was musi- 
 eal from pure taste, — Milton, who was learnedly 
 so, — Ariosto, whose fine ear and animal spirit- 
 gave so frank and exquisite a tone to all he said, 
 — Shakspeare, whose versification escapes us, 
 only because he over-informed it with knowledge
 
 XV 
 
 and sentiment; — and, though the name may ap- 
 pear singular to those who have not read him 
 with due attention to the nature of the language 
 then existing, — Chaucer, — to whom it sometimes 
 appears to me, that I can trace Dryden himself, 
 though the latter spoke on the subject without 
 much relish, or, in fact, knowledge of it. All these 
 are about as different from Pope, as the church 
 organ is from the bell in the steeple, or, to give 
 him a more decorous comparison, the song of the 
 nightingale, from that of the cuckoo. 
 
 With the endeavour to recur to a freer spirit 
 of versification, I have joined one of still greater 
 importance, — that of having a free and idiomatic 
 cast of language. There is a cant of art as well 
 as of nature, though the former is not so unplea- 
 sant as the latter, which affects non-affectation. 
 But the proper language of poetry is in fact 
 nothing different from that of real life, and de-
 
 XVI 
 
 pencil for its dignity upon the strength and 
 sentiment of what it speaks. It is only adding 
 musical modulation to what a fine understanding 
 
 might actually utter in the midst of it- uiids or 
 enjoyments. The poet therefore should do ai 
 Chaucer or Shakspeare did, — not copy what is 
 obsolete or peculiar in either, any more than 
 they copied from their predecessors,— but use as 
 much as possible an actual, existing language, — 
 omitting of course mere vulgarisms and fugitive 
 phrases, which are the cant of ordinary discount . 
 just as tragedy phrases, dead idioms, and i xagge- 
 rations of dignity, are of the artificial style, and 
 yeas, verilys, and exaggerations of simplicity, are 
 of the natural. The artificial style, it is true, has 
 its beauties, as some great poets have proved; 
 but I am here speaking of the style that is most 
 beautiful; and those poets, it is to be observed, 
 were not the greatest. Of the style, to which
 
 XVil 
 
 I allude, exquisite specimens, making allowances 
 for what is obsolete, are to be found in the Can- 
 terbury Tales of Chaucer, and his Troilus and 
 Cressida; and you have only to open the first 
 books of Pulci and Ariosto to meet with two 
 charming ones, the interview of Orlando with the 
 Abbot, in the Morgan te Maggiore (canto 1. to- 
 wards the conclusion), and the flight of Angelica, 
 her meeting with Rinaldo's horse, &c. in the 
 Orlando Furioso. Homer abounds with them, 
 though, by the way, not in the translation ; 
 and I need not, of course, warn any reader of 
 taste against trusting Mr. Hoole for a proper re- 
 presentation of the delightful Italian. Such ver- 
 sions, more or less, resemble bad engravings, in 
 which all the substances, whether flesh, wood, or 
 cloth, are made of one texture, and that a bad 
 one. With the Greek dramatists I am ashamed 
 to say I am unacquainted ; and of the Latin
 
 Will 
 
 writers, though Horace, for ln^ delightful com- 
 panionship, is my lav. mute, Catulius appears to 
 me to have the truest taste for nature. Hm an 
 Englishman need go no further than Shakspeare. 
 Take a single speech of Lear's; Mich for instance 
 as that heart-rending one, 
 
 I an a very foolish fond old man, 
 Fourscore and upwards, &c. 
 
 and you have all that criticism can say, or poetry 
 can do. 
 
 In making these observations, I do nol demand 
 the reader to conclude that I have succeeded in 
 my object, whatever may he my own opinion of 
 the matter. All the merit I claim is that of hav- 
 ing made an attempt to describe natural things in 
 a language becoming them, and to do something 
 towards the revival of what appears to me a pro- 
 per English versification. There are narrative 
 poets now living who have fine eyes for the truth 

 
 XIX 
 
 of things, and it remains with them perhaps to 
 perfect what I may suggest. If I have succeeded 
 at all, the lovers of nature have still to judge in 
 what proportion the success may be ;— but let me 
 take them with me a while, whether in doors or 
 out of doors, whether in the room or the green 
 fields, — let my verses, in short, come under the 
 perusal of ingenuous eyes, and be felt a little 
 by the hearts that look out of them, and I am 
 satisfied.
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF RIMINI. 
 
 TIME, THE CLOSE OF THE 13TH CENTURY; — SCENE, FIRST 
 AT RAVENNA, AFTERWARDS AT RIMINI.
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF RIMINI. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The coming to fetch the Bride from Ruvemut. 
 
 The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May 
 Hound old Ravenna's clear-shewn 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; 
 
 b 2
 
 Ami when you Listen, jrou may hear a coil 
 
 Of bubbling springs about the grass] soil; 
 
 And all the scene, in Bhort — kj , earth, and sea, 
 
 Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out 
 
 openly. 
 
 'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing: — 
 The birds to the delicious time are singing, 
 Darting with freak- and snatches up and down, 
 Where the light woods go Beaward from the town; 
 While happy faces, striking through the green 
 Of leafy roads, at every turn are seenj 
 And the far ships, lifting their sails of white 
 Like joyful hands, come up with Bcattery light. 
 Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, 
 Vnd chase the w histling brine, and swirl into the bay. 
 
 And well may all who can, come crowding there, 
 If peace returning, and processions rare,
 
 And to crown all, a marriage in May weather, 
 Have aught to bring enjoying hearts together; 
 For on this sparkling day, Ravenna's pride, 
 The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride, 
 A bride, to crown the comfort of the land : 
 And he, whose victories have obtained her hand, 
 Has taken with the dawn, so flies report, 
 His promised 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 expectation and a bustling crowd. 
 With feet and voice the gathering hum contends, 
 The deep talk heaves, 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 heaved-out tapestry the windows glow, 
 I>\ lorelj faces brought, that come and go; 
 
 Till, the work smoothed, and all the street attired 
 They take their seat-, with upward gaze admired; 
 Some looking down, some forwards or aside, 
 As suits the conscious charm in which they pride ; 
 Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow 
 Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of mow : 
 But all with smiles prepared, and garlands green, 
 And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene. 
 
 And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start, 
 On the smooth wind come dancing to the hear:. 
 A moment's hush succeeds} and from the walls, 
 Firm and at once, a silver answer calls. 
 Then heave the crowd; and all, who best can strive 
 In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive,
 
 Where balconied and broad, of marble fair, 
 On pillars it o'erlooks 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 5 
 And after a rude heave from side to side, 
 With angry faces turned, and feet regained, 
 The peaceful press with order is maintained, 
 Leaving the door-ways only for the crowd, 
 The space within for the procession proud. 
 
 For in this manner is the square set out : — 
 The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about, 
 And faced with guards, who keep the road entire; 
 And opposite to these, a brilliant quire 
 Of knights and ladies hold the central spot, 
 Seated in groups upon a grassy plot; 
 The seats with boughs are shaded from above 
 Of early trees transplanted from a grove,
 
 8 
 
 \ml in the miil-t. fresh whistling through the leenc 
 A lightsome fountain starts from <»ut the green, 
 ( lear and compact, till, at it-- height o'er-run, 
 It shakes its loosening Bilver in the >un. 
 
 There, talking with the ladies, you may see, 
 
 Standing about, BT Seated, frank and free, 
 
 Some of the finest warriors of the court, — 
 
 Baptist, and Hugo of the princely port, 
 
 And Azo, and Obizo, and the grace 
 
 Of frank Esnieriald with his open face, 
 
 And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well 
 
 Repays his lavish honours, Lionel, 
 
 Besides a host of spirits, nursed in gloiy, 
 
 Fit for sweet woman's love and for the poet's story. 
 
 There too, in thickest of the bright- eyed throng, 
 Stands the young father of Italian song,
 
 Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race; 
 
 The poet looks out hi 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 sparkling blushes. 
 
 Another start of trumpets, with reply ; 
 And o'er the gate a sudden canopy 
 Raises, on ivory shafts, a crimson shade, 
 And Guido issues with the princely maid, 
 And sitsj — the courtiers fall on either side; 
 But every look is fixed 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 charit) ;
 
 10 
 
 tad hard it is she thinks, to have do will; 
 Hut not to bless these thousands, harder still: 
 \\ ith that, a keen and quivering glance <>i' tears 
 Scarce moves her patient mouth, and disappears j 
 A smile is underneath, and breaks aua\, 
 And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the 
 day. 
 
 What need I tell of lovely lips and eyes, 
 
 A clipsome waist, and bosom's balmy rise, 
 
 The dress of bridal white, and the dark curls 
 
 Bedding an airy coronet of pearls ? 
 
 There's not in all that crowd one gallant being, 
 
 Whom if his heart were whole, and rank agreeing, 
 
 It would not fire to twice of what he is, 
 
 To clasp her to his heart, and call her his. 
 
 While thus with tip-toe looks the people gaze, 
 Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
 
 11 
 
 The train are in the town, and gathering near, 
 
 With noise of cavalry, and trumpets clear 5 
 
 A princely music, unbedinned 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 deafened with his neighbour's voice. 
 
 Then, with a long-drawn breath, the clangours die; 
 
 The palace trumpets give a last reply, 
 
 And clattering hoofs succeed, with stately stir 
 
 Of snortings proud and clinking furniture: 
 
 It seems as if the harnessed war were near; 
 
 But in their garb of peace the train appear, 
 
 Their swords alone reserved, but idly hung, 
 
 And the chains freed by which their shields were slung. 
 
 First come the trumpeters, clad all in white 
 Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
 
 12 
 
 Bj t'<»ut and lour they ride, on horaea grey; 
 tad as they sit along their easy way, 
 Stately, and heaving to the -way below, 
 Kadi plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow. 
 
 The heralds next appear, in vesta attired 
 Of stiffening gold with radiant colours firedj 
 And then the pursuivants, who wait on these, 
 All dressed in painted richness to the knees: 
 Bach rides a dappled horse, and hear- a shield, 
 Charged 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 thej look backward in the wind, 
 
 The hearings of the knights that ride behind. 
 Their steeds are ruddy hay ; and every squire 
 His master's colour shev\s in his attire.
 
 13 
 
 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. 
 
 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 his steed, and ruffles in the wind. 
 Their caps of velvet have a lightsome fit, 
 Each with a dancing feather sweeping it, 
 Tumbling its white against their short dark hair; 
 But what is of the most accomplished air, 
 All wear memorials of their lady's love, 
 A ribbon, or a scarf, or silken glove,
 
 14 
 
 Some tied about their arm, some ;it tlie breast, 
 
 Nunc, with a drag, dangling from the cap's crests 
 
 A suitable attire the hones shew ; 
 
 Their golden bits keep wrangling as they go; 
 
 The bridles glance about with gold and gem-; 
 
 And the rich housing-cloths, above the hems 
 
 Which comb along the ground with golden pegs, 
 
 Are half of net, to shew the hinder L 
 
 Some of the cloths themselves are golden thread 
 
 With silk enwoven, azure, green, or red; 
 
 Some spotted on a ground of different hue, 
 
 As burning stars upon a cloth of blue, — 
 
 Or purple smcarings with a velvet light 
 
 Rich from the glary yellow thickening blight, — 
 
 Or a spring green, powdered with April posieBj — 
 
 Or flush vermilion, Bet with silver roses : 
 
 But all are wide and large, and with the wind, 
 
 When it comes fresh, go sweeping out behind.
 
 15 
 
 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 pressed, the spanning palm upon it, 
 
 And the jerked feather s waling 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 to the stander near looks awfully, 
 The finished head, in its compactness free, 
 Small, and o'rearching to the lifted knee,
 
 16 
 
 The start and snatch, as if the] fell the oombj 
 With moutha thai Ring aboul the creamy (bam, 
 The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing, 
 The shift, the tossing, and the fierj tramping. 
 
 And now the Princess, pale and with fixed eye, 
 Perceives the la^t of those precursors nigh, 
 Bach 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 imattired, Arabian bred, 
 Each by a blooming; boy lightsomely led : 
 In every limb is seen their faultless race, 
 A lire well tempered, and a free left grace: 
 Slender their spotless shapes, and meet the sight 
 With freshness, after all those colours bright : 
 And as with quoit-like drop their steps they bear, 
 They lend their streaming tails to the fond air.
 
 17 
 
 These for a princely present are divined, 
 And shew 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 5 
 Of white and crimson is their livery. 
 Space after space, — and yet the attendants come, — 
 And deeper goes about the impatient hum — 
 Ah — yes — no — 'tis not he — but 'tis the squires 
 Who go before him when his pomp requires ; 
 And now his huntsman shews 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 ! 
 
 c
 
 18 
 
 And with an impulse and affection free 
 
 sin' lavs her hand upon her father's knee, 
 Who looks upon her with a laboured smile, 
 Gathering it up into hi- own the while, 
 When some one's voice, ;^ if it knew not how 
 To check itself, exclaims, "the prince! dow — now!" 
 And on B milk-white courser, like the air, 
 A glorious ligure springs into the scpaare ; 
 Up, with a hurst of thunder, goes the shout, 
 And rolls the trembling walla and peopled roofs 
 about. 
 
 Never was nobler finish of fine sight ; 
 
 'Twas like the coming of a shape of light ; 
 
 And every 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,
 
 19 
 
 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 dtafening 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 brilliance as he goes, — 
 The golden-fretted cap, the downward feather, — 
 The crimson vest fitting with pearls together, — 
 The rest in snowy white from the mid thigh : 
 These catch the extrinsic and the common eye : 
 
 c 2
 
 20 
 
 But on his shape the gentler Bight attend-. 
 
 Moves as he passes,— as he bends him, bends, — 
 
 Watches his air, his gesture, and his face, 
 
 And thinks it never saw such nianlv grace, 
 
 So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black, — 
 
 So lightsomcly dropt in, his lordly back — 
 
 His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance, 
 
 So heaped with strength, and turned with elegance; 
 
 But above all, so meaning is his look, 
 
 Full, and as readable as open book; 
 
 And so much easy dignity there lies 
 
 in the frank lifting of his cordial eyes. 
 
 I J is haughty steed, who seems by turns to be 
 Vexed 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,
 
 121 
 
 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 would hardly be compelling." 
 
 Just then, the stranger, coming slowly round 
 
 By the clear fountain and the brilliant ground, 
 
 And bending, as he goes, with frequent thanks, 
 
 Beckons a follower to him from the ranks, 
 
 And loosening, as he speaks, from its light hold 
 
 A dropping jewel with its chain of gold.
 
 22 
 
 Sends it, in token lie bad loved him long, 
 To the young father of Italian soup: 
 The youth smiles uji, and with a lowlv grace 
 Bending his Lifted eyea and blushing face, 
 Looks after his new friend, who, scarceh gone 
 In the wide turning, nods and passes on. 
 
 This is sufficient for the destined 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 line face, 
 She meets his full obeisance with an eye 
 Of self-permission and sweet gravity; 
 He looks with touched respect, and gazes, and goes 
 by.
 
 CANTO II.

 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Bride's Journey to Rimini 
 
 Well pass the followers, and their closing state; 
 The court was entered hy a hinder gate; 
 The duke and princess had retired before, 
 Joined by the knights and ladies at the door; 
 But something seemed amiss, and there ensued 
 Deep talk among the spreading multitude, 
 Who got in clumps, or paced the measured street, 
 Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat; 
 Nor ceased the wonder, as the day increased, 
 And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast,
 
 26 
 
 No mass, no tilt, no largest 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 roused 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 proper manliness. 
 
 But more of this hereafter. Guido knew 
 
 The prince's character; and he know too, 
 
 That sweet as was his daughter, and prepared 
 
 To do her duty, where appeal was barred,
 
 27 
 
 She had a sense of marriage, just and free; 
 
 And where the match looked 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 formed for sentiments like these, 
 
 Which seemed 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 he might send and wed her by another, — 
 
 Of course, no less a person than his brother. 
 
 The bride meantime was told, and not unmoved, 
 
 To look for one no sooner seen than loved ; 
 
 And when Giovanni, struck with what he thought 
 
 Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
 
 28 
 
 Dispatched the wished for prince, who was a creature 
 Formed in the very poetry of nature, 
 The effect was perfect, and the future wife 
 Caught in the elahorate snare, perhaps for life. 
 
 One shock there was, however, to sustain, 
 
 Which nigh restored her to herself again. 
 
 She saw, when all were housed, in Guido's face 
 
 A look of leisurely surprise take place; 
 
 A little whispering followed for awhile, 
 
 And then 'twas told her with an easy smile, 
 
 That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin, 
 
 Had been delayed 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."
 
 29 
 
 By this time Paulo joined them where they stood, 
 
 And, seeing her in some uneasy mood, 
 
 Changed 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 appreciated 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 increased, 
 
 Of begging leave to have her hand released, 
 
 And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks, 
 
 Which seemed to realize the dreams of books, 
 
 And helped her genial fancy to conclude 
 
 That fruit of such a stock must all be good, 
 
 She knew not how to object in her confusion ; 
 
 Quick were the marriage-rites 3 and, in conclusion,
 
 so 
 
 The prow, turning midst the genera] hush, 
 Kissed her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush. 
 
 At last, about the reaper hour, a score 
 Of trumpets issued from the palace door. 
 The banners of their brass with favours tied, 
 And with a bias! proclaimed the wedded bride. 
 But DOt a word the sullen silence broke, 
 Till something- of a gift the herald spoke, 
 And with a bag of money i-suing out, 
 Scattered the read) ban est 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 reared, 
 Again the morning visitors appeared.
 
 31 
 
 The prince was in his place ; ancj.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 guessed, and some were vexed 
 
 At the dull day, and some the whole perplexed ; 
 
 And all great pity thought it to divide 
 
 Two that seemed made for bridegroom and- for bride. 
 
 Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event 
 
 Had seared, as 'twere, with burning wonderment, 
 
 Could scarce, at times, a passionate 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 gathered there, an unconcerted shew ;
 
 32 
 
 Bending they stood, with their old forehead* bare, 
 
 And the winds lingered with their reverend hair. 
 Farewell! farewell, m\ friends! she would have cried , 
 liut in her throat the Leaping accents died, 
 And, Waving with her hand a \ain adieu, 
 
 She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew. 
 And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue. 
 
 It was a lovely evening, lit to close 
 
 A lovely day, and brilliant in repose. 
 
 Warm, hut not dim, a glow was in the air ; 
 
 The softened breeze came smoothing here and there; 
 
 And every tree, in passing, one by one, 
 
 Gleamed out with twinkles of the golden sun 
 
 Tor leafy was the road, with tall array, 
 
 On either side, of mulberry and hay, 
 
 And distant snatches of blue hills hetweenj 
 
 And there the alder was with its bright green,
 
 33 
 
 And the broad chesnut, and the poplar's shoot, 
 That like a feather waves from head to foot, 
 With, ever and anon, majestic pines j 
 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 that dear scenery with its parting hue : 
 For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears, 
 With dreaming eye fixed 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 checked 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 pranksome speed 
 
 D
 
 34 
 
 Another time they would have Boomed to measure; 
 
 Hut now they take with them ;i 1om-1\ treasure, 
 
 And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure* 
 
 And now with thicker shades the pines appear ; 
 The noise of hoofs grows duller to her ear ; 
 And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil. 
 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 relapsed again, 
 Leaving the others who had passed that way 
 In careless spirits of the early day, 
 To look about, and mark the reverend scene, 
 For awful tales renowned, and everlasting green. 
 
 A heavy spot the forest looks at first, 
 
 To one grim shade condemned, and sandy thirst,
 
 35 
 
 Or only chequered, here and there, with hushes 
 Dusty and sharp, or plashy pools with rushes, 
 About whose sides the swarming insects fry, 
 Opening with noisome din, as they go by. 
 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. 
 Rut 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, 
 
 u<2
 
 36 
 
 Or peering grave through inward-opening pla< • 
 
 And half prepared for glimpse of shadowy faces. 
 
 Various the trees and passing foliage here, — 
 
 \\ ild pear, and oak, and dn-k\ juniper, 
 
 With briony between in trails of white, 
 
 And ivy, and the Buckle's streaky light, 
 
 And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark, 
 
 Like flings of sunshine left upon the bark, 
 
 And still the pine, long-haired, and dark, and tall, 
 
 In lordly right, predominant o'er all. 
 
 Much they admire that old religious tree 
 
 With shaft above the rest up-shooting free, 
 
 And shaking, when its dark locks feel the wind, 
 
 Its wealthy fruit with rough Mosaic rind. 
 
 At noisy intervals, the living cloud 
 
 Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud 
 
 Like a wild people at a stranger's coming; 
 
 Then hushing paths succeed, with insects humming,
 
 37 
 
 Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea, 
 Or startled gull, up-screaming tow'rds the sea. 
 But scarce their eyes encounter 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 pleased, — 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 if the sounds were cast 
 For the dear leaves about her, till at last 
 
 1893
 
 38 
 
 With shot-out raptures, iu a perfect shower, 
 
 She vents her heart on the delirious hour. 
 
 Lightly the horsemen go, Bfl if they'd ride 
 
 A velvet path, and hear no voice beside: 
 
 A placid hope assures the breath-suspended bride 
 
 So ride they in delight through beam and shade; — 
 Till many a rill now passed, and many a glade, 
 They quit the piny lain rinths, and soon 
 Emerge into the full and sheeted moon: 
 Chilling it seems 5 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 passion-plighted spots j 
 And turning last a sudden corner, see 
 The square-lit towers of slumbering Rimini. 
 The marble bridge comes heaving forth below 
 With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
 
 39 
 
 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 entered, — not a voice remains ; — 
 Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
 
 CANTO III.
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 The Fatal Passion. 
 
 Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss. 
 Or bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss? 
 Sad is the strain, with which I cheer my long 
 And caged hours, and try my native tongue* ; 
 Now too, while rains autumnal, as I sing, 
 Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing, 
 And all the climate presses on my sense 5 
 But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence, 
 
 • The preceding canto, and a small part of the present, were 
 written in prison, 1
 
 44 
 
 I 
 
 And leafy dreams affords me, and a feeling 
 Which I should else disdain, tear-dipped and healing; 
 And Bhewa tae, — more than what it first designed, — 
 How little upon earth our home we find, 
 Or close the intended course of erring human-kind. 
 
 Enough of this. Yet how shall I disclose 
 The weeping days that with the morning rose, 
 How bring the hitter 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.
 
 4.5 
 
 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. 
 
 Some tastes there were indeed, that would 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's nose, and a determined lip, 
 
 Were the best marks of manly soldiership. 
 
 Paulo's was fashioned in a different mould, 
 
 And finer still, I think; for though 'twas bold, 
 
 When boldness was required, and could put on 
 
 A glowing frown, as if an angel sbone, 
 
 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 WM .ill of mind, 
 
 'J oo true for violence, and too refined. 
 
 A graceful nose was his, lightaomely brought 
 
 Down from a forehead of clear-spirited thought; 
 
 Wisdom looked Bweel and inward from his eye; 
 
 And round his mouth was sensibility: — 
 
 It was a face, in short, seemed made to shew 
 
 How far the genuine flesh and l.lood could go; 
 
 A morning glass of unaffected nature, 
 Something, that baffled every pompom feature, — 
 The visage of a glorious human creatine. 
 
 If any points there were, at which they came 
 Nearer together, 'twas in knightly fame, 
 And all accomplishments that art ma\ know, — 
 Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow, 
 The rush together in the bright-eyed list. 
 Fore- though ted chess, the riddle rarely missed.
 
 47 
 
 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-tempered 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, 
 Claimed 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 pleased to cheer himself a space, 
 Look for the immediate rapture in your face.
 
 4S 
 
 And wonder that b cloud could still be there, 
 
 How small mh'UT, when 1 1 is nun was fair. 
 
 Yet such is conscience, — so designed to keep 
 Stern, central watch, though all things else go 
 
 sleep, 
 And so much knowledge of one's self there ties 
 Cored, after all, in our complacencies, 
 That no suspicion would have touched him more, 
 Than that of wanting on the generous score: 
 He would have whelmed you with a weight of scorn, 
 Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn, 
 In short, ill-tempered for a week to come, 
 And all to strike that desperate error dumh. 
 Taste had he, in a word, for high-turned merit, 
 But not the patience, or 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,
 
 49 
 
 And struck a meaner deference in the many, 
 Left him, at last, unloveable with any. 
 
 From this complexion in the reigning brother, 
 
 His younger birth perhaps had saved the other. 
 
 Born to a homage less gratuitous, 
 
 He learned 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 loved a happy human face ; 
 
 And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown, 
 
 He struck the looks he wished for with his own. 
 
 His danger was, lest, feeling as he did, 
 
 Too lightly he might leap o'er means forbid, 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 And in some tempting hour lose sight of crime 
 O'er some sweet face too happy for the time; 
 But fears like these he never entertained, 
 And had they crossed him, would have been dis- 
 dained. 
 Warm was his youth, 'tis true, — nor had been free 
 From lighter loves, — but virtue reverenced he, 
 And bad been kept from men of pleasure's cares 
 By dint of feelings still more warm than theirs. 
 So what but service leaped 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 sparkling feast, 
 Or better still, — in my ideas, at least, — 
 A summer party to the greenwood shade, 
 With lutes prepared, and cloth on herbage laid, 
 And ladies' laughter coming through the air, — 
 He was the readiest and the blithest there ;
 
 51 
 
 And made the time so exquisitely pass 
 
 With stories told with elbow on the grass, 
 
 Or touched 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 far 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, 
 
 And hoped to value her submissive heart 
 
 On playing well a patriot daughter's part, 
 
 Trying her 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 
 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 On finding! by his care, her private room 
 
 Furnished., like magic, from lier 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 urn 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 trembling hand. 
 
 But what had touched her nearest, was the thought, 
 
 That if 'twere destined for her to be brought 
 
 To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be 
 
 Giovanni's too, and his her family: — 
 
 He seemed already father of her child, 
 
 And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she 
 
 smiled. 
 Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red 
 In either downward cheek startle and spread,
 
 53 
 
 To think that he, who was to have such part 
 In joys like these, had never shared her heart ; 
 But back she chased 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 ask him after all his morning's doing, 
 How his new soldiers pleased him in reviewing, 
 Or if the boar was slain, which he had been pursuing. 
 
 The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye 
 
 Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly ; 
 
 Nor, to say truly, was he slow in common 
 
 To accept the attentions of this lovely woman ; 
 
 But then meantime he took no generous pains, 
 
 By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains ; 
 
 He entered not, in turn, in her delights, 
 
 Her books, her flowers, her taste for rural sights ;
 
 54 
 
 Nay, scarcely her sweet singing minded he, 
 
 Unless his pride was roused by company j 
 
 Or when to please him, after martial play, 
 
 She strained 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 loved 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. 
 
 She, had she loved him, might have thought so too : 
 For what will love's exalting not go through, 
 Till long neglect, and utter selfishness, 
 Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress ?
 
 55 
 
 But ill prepared was she, in her hard lot, 
 
 To fancy merit where she found it not, — 
 
 She, who had been beguiled, — she, who was made 
 
 Within a gentle bosom to be laid, — 
 
 To bless and to be blessed, — to be heart-bare 
 
 To one who found his bettered likeness there, — 
 
 To think for ever with him, like a bride, — 
 
 To haunt his eye, like taste personified, — 
 
 To double his delight, to share his sorrow, 
 
 And like a morningbeam, 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 :
 
 56 
 
 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, ever) thing, 
 Even 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
 
 57 
 
 Occasion to renew his carelessness, 
 
 Yet every time the power grown less and less, 
 
 That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined, 
 
 To the sweet struggling image he resigned ; 
 
 And merely, as he thought, to make the best 
 
 Of what by force would come 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 seemed, when he sat fixed awhile, 
 
 To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile : 
 
 And did he stroll into some lonely place, 
 
 Under the trees, upon the thick soft grass,
 
 .58 
 
 How charming, would be think, to see her here! 
 How heightened then, and perfect would appear 
 The two divinest things this world has e;ot, 
 A lovely woman in a rural spot! 
 
 Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain 
 
 About his fancy, till it thrilled again; 
 
 And if his brother's image, less and less, 
 
 Startled him up from his new idleness, 
 
 'Twas not, — he fancied, — that he reasoned 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 seemed 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; — he could not reverse her doom;
 
 59 
 
 And so he sighed and smiled, as if one thought 
 Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught. 
 
 Yet if she loved 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 j 
 
 And as to thinking, — where cou'd be the harm, 
 
 If to his heart he kept its secret charm ) 
 
 He wished 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.
 
 60 
 
 Concluding thus, and happier that he knew 
 Hi-, ground so will, near and more near he drew; 
 And, sanctioned by his brother's manner, spent 
 Hours by her side as happy as well-meant. 
 
 He read with her, he rode, be went a hawking, 
 He spent still evenings in delightful talking. 
 While she sat husy at her broidery frame; 
 Or touched the lute with her, and when they came 
 To some fine part, prepared her for the pleasure, 
 And then with double smile stole on the measure. 
 
 Tlien at the tournament, — who there but she 
 Made him more gallant still than formerly, 
 ( ouch o'er his tightened lance with double force, 
 Pass like the wind, sweeping down m;m and horse, 
 And franklier then than ever, midst the shout 
 And dancing trumpets ride, uncovered, round about ? 
 I lis brother only, more than hitherto, 
 He would avoid, or sooner let subdue,
 
 6\ 
 
 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 worked, 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 succeeded 
 "With one who thought and felt so much as she did,- 
 And how the chair he sat in, and the room, 
 Began to look, when he had failed to come. 
 But as she better knew the cause than he, 
 She seemed 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 ;
 
 62 
 
 And then she only spoke more sweetly to him, 
 And found her failing eyes give looks that melted 
 through him. 
 
 Giovanni too, who felt relieved 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 hy day, 
 
 Talked 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 lit. 
 
 Ah now, ye gentle pair, — now think awhile, 
 Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile ;
 
 i3 
 
 Now, while your generous hearts have not been 
 
 grieved 
 Perhaps with something not to be retrieved, 
 And ye have still, within, the power of gladness, 
 From self-resentment free, and retrospective mad- 
 
 ness ! 
 
 So did they think ; — but partly from delay, 
 Partly from fancied ignorance of the way, 
 And most from feeling the bare contemplation 
 Give them fresh need of mutual consolation, 
 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 longed to start up and receive.
 
 (74 
 
 For whether some suspicion now had crossed 
 
 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'crlook 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 
 
 lietter perhaps than he, and tastefuller, 
 
 And these, for what he knew, — he little cared, — 
 
 Might please her, and be pleased, though he despaired. 
 
 Then woidd he quit the room, and half disdain 
 
 Himself for being in so harsh a strain, 
 
 And venting thus his temper on a woman j 
 
 Yet not the more for that changed he in common,
 
 65 
 
 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 resolute 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, 
 
 Walled round with trees, and ending in a wood : 
 
 Indeed the whole was leafy; and it had 
 
 A winding stream about, clear and glad, 
 
 That danced from shade to shade, and on its way 
 
 Seemed smiling with delight to feel the day. 
 
 There was the pouting rose, both red and white, 
 
 The flamy heart's-ease, flushed with purple light, 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 Blush-hiding strawberry, Bunny-colourcd 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 perfumed walks between 
 
 Of citron, honeysuckle and jessamine, 
 
 With orange, whose warm leuves so finely suit, 
 
 And look as if they'd shade a golden fruit ; 
 
 And midst the flowers, turfed round beneath a shade 
 
 Of circling pines, a babbling fountain played, 
 
 And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, 
 
 Which through the darksome tops glimmered with 
 
 showering light. 
 So now you walked beside an odorous bed 
 Of gorgeous hues, white, azure, golden, red ; 
 And now turned off into a leafy walk, 
 Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk ;
 
 67 
 
 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 5 
 And then perhaps you entered upon shades, 
 Pillowed with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, 
 Through which the distant palace, now and then, 
 Looked lordly forth with many- windowed ken 5 
 A land of trees, which reaching round about, 
 In shady blessing stretched 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 started the slim deer, 
 Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. 
 And all about, the birds kept leafy house, 
 And sung and sparkled in and out the boughs ; 
 And all about, a lovely sky of blue 
 Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laughed through 
 
 f 2
 
 fi8 
 
 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 
 Looked up half SWeetly and half awfully, — 
 Places of nestling green, for poets made, 
 Where when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, 
 The slender trunks, to inward peeping sight, 
 Thronged in dark pillars up the gold green light. 
 
 But twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway, 
 And formed 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; 
 From under which, sent through a marble spout, 
 Betwixt the dark wet green, a rill gushed out, 
 Whose low sweet talking seemed as if it said 
 Something eternal to that happy shade :
 
 69 
 
 The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers 
 
 Heaped towards the centre, and with citron bowers; 
 
 And in the midst of all, clustered about 
 
 With bay and myrtle, and just gleaming out, 
 
 Lurked a pavilion, — a delicious sight, 
 
 Small, marble, well-proportioned, 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 entered, with the vine-leaves thin. 
 
 ]t was a beauteous piece of ancient skill, 
 Spared from the rage of war, and perfect still ; 
 Bv most supposed the work of fairy hands, 
 Famed for luxurious taste, and choice of lands, — 
 Alcina, or Morgana, — who from fights 
 And errant fame inveigled amorous knights,
 
 70 
 
 And lived with them in a long round of blisw », 
 Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kit 
 
 But 'twas a temple, as its sculpture told, 
 Built to the Nymphs that haunted there of old ; 
 For o'er the door was carved a sacrifice 
 By girls and shepherds brought, with reverend eyes, 
 Of sylvan drinks and foods, simple and sweet, 
 And goats with struggling horns and planted feet : 
 And on a line with this ran round about 
 A like relief, touched exquisitely out, 
 That shewed, in various scenes, the nymphs them- 
 selves ; 
 Some by the water side on bowery shelves 
 Leaning at will, — some in the water sporting 
 \Vithsideshalfswellingforth,and looks of courting, — 
 Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain 
 Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again, — 
 Sonic tying up their long moist hair, — some sleeping 
 Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping, —
 
 71 
 
 Or, sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see 
 
 The latter in the brakes come creepingly, 
 
 While their forgotten urns, lying about 
 
 In the green herbage, let the water out. 
 
 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 loved, but most of all this spot. 
 Whenever she walked 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 summer 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 hushed and clear,
 
 7!2 
 
 Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging, 
 
 Singing the evening anthem to the Virgin. 
 
 The gardeners and the rest, who served the place. 
 
 And blest whenever they beheld her face, 
 
 Knelt when tlu\ heard it, bowing and uncovered, 
 
 And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hovered. 
 
 One day, — 'twas on a summer afternoon, 
 When airs and gurgling brooks are best in tune, 
 And grasshoppers are loud, and day-work done, 
 And shades have heavy outlines in the sun, — 
 The princess came to her accu-tuined bower 
 To get her, if she could, a soothing hour, 
 Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares 
 Without, and slumherously enjoy the airs, 
 And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light 
 The vines let in, and all that hushing sip lit
 
 73 
 
 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 diminished her heart-ache ; 
 
 And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease, 
 
 Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees. 
 
 Yet somehow or another, on that day, 
 
 She seemed to feel too lightly borne away, — 
 
 Too much relieved, — too much inclined 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 appeared, 
 With something dark at bottom that she feared ;
 
 74 
 And snatching from the field* her thoughtful look, 
 
 She reached o'er-head, and took her down a book, 
 
 And fell to reading with as fixed an air, 
 
 As though she had been wrapt since morning there. 
 
 'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance. 
 That like a trumpet, made young pulses 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 -ad, 
 How old King Ban was spoiled of all he had 
 But one fair castle : how one summer's day 
 With his fair queen and child he went awa\ 
 To ask the great King Arthur for assistance ; 
 How reaching by himself a hill at distance 
 Hi turned to give his castle a last look, 
 And saw its far white face: and how a smoke, 
 A- he was looking, burst in volumes forth, 
 And good King I. an stu all that he \\,i- worth,
 
 75 
 
 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 loved, 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 reached 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 vanished 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 called) became 
 
 Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame 
 
 He went to Arthur's court, and played his part 
 
 So rarely, and displayed so frank a heart,
 
 
 76 
 
 That what with all bis charms of look and limb, 
 The Queen Geneura fell in love with him: — 
 And here, with growing interest in her reading, 
 The princess, doubly fixed, waa now proceeding. 
 
 Ready she -;it 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 (he skylight glowing. 
 
 So sat she fixed} and so observed was she 
 
 Of one, who at the door stood tenderly, — 
 
 Paulo, — who from a window seeing her 
 
 Cio straight across the lawn, and guessing where, 
 
 Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day, 
 
 His usual efforts vain to keep away. 
 
 " May I come in?" said he: — it made her start, — 
 
 That smiling voice ; — she coloured, pressed her heart 
 
 A moment, as for breath, and then with free 
 
 And usual tone said, " O yes, — certainly."
 
 77 
 
 There's apt 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, was 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 embraced 
 
 With one permitted arm her lovely waist ; 
 
 And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree, 
 
 Leaned 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, 
 Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first : — 
 That touch, at last, through every fibre slid; 
 And Paulo turned, s carce knowin g what he did -
 
 78 
 
 Onh he fell lit- could no more dissemble, 
 
 And kissed her, month to mouth, all in a tremhle. 
 
 Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss; 
 
 Sacred he love from sight, whate'er it is. 
 
 The world was all forgot , the str uggle o'er, 
 
 Desperate the joy. — That day the) read no more.
 
 CANTO IV.

 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 How the Bride returned to Ravenna. 
 
 It has surprised 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. 
 
 And I have longed sometimes, I must confess, 
 
 To start at once from notes of wretchedness, 
 
 And in a key would make you rise and dance, 
 
 Strike up a blithe defiance to mischance. 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 But work begun, an interest in it, shame 
 
 At turning coward to the thoughts I frame, 
 
 Necessity to keep firm face on Borrow, 
 
 Nome tla tering, sweet-lipped question ever] morrow. 
 
 And above all, the poel - task iliv ini- 
 Of making tears themselves look up and shine, 
 And turning to a charm the sorrow past, 
 Have held me on, and shall do to the last. 
 
 Sorrow, to him who has a true touched ear, 
 
 Is but the discord of a warbling sphere, 
 
 A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be, 
 
 Distils the next note more deliriously. 
 
 E in talcs like this, founded on real woe, 
 
 From bitter seed to bahn\ fruitage tjrow : 
 
 The woe was earthly, fugitive, is pastj 
 
 The song that sweetens it, may always last. 
 
 And even they, whose shattered hearts and frames 
 
 Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
 
 83 
 
 What are they, if they know their calling high, 
 But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky ? 
 Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen, 
 Yet keep the earth they haste to, blight and green ? 
 
 Once, and but once, — nor with a scornful face 
 Tried worth will hear, — that scene again took place. 
 Partly by chance they met, partly to see 
 The spot where they had last, gone smilingly, 
 But most, from failure of all self-support; — 
 And oh ! the meeting in that loved resort ! 
 No peevishness there was, no loud distress, 
 No mean, recriminating selfishness ; 
 But a mute gush of hiding tears from one 
 Clasped to the core of him, who yet shed none, — 
 And self-accusings then, which he began, 
 And into which her tearful sweetness ran ; 
 And then kind looks, with meeting eyes again, 
 Starting to deprecate the other's pain; 
 
 g 2
 
 84 
 
 Till half persuasions the; could scarce do wrong, 
 \ml Budden sense of wretchedness, more strong, 
 And — wli\ Bhonld I add more?— again the) parted, 
 He doubly torn for her, and sin- nigh broken-heai ted. 
 
 She Dever ventured in that -pot again -, 
 
 And Paulo knew it, but could not retrain ; 
 
 He went again one day ; and how it looked! 
 
 The calm, old shade !— his presence felt rebuked. 
 
 It seemed, 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 grieved him ; but the pain 
 Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
 
 85 
 
 Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick, 
 
 And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick ; 
 
 And pale he stood, and seemed 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, — 
 
 Destined by him to the same wretchedness, — 
 
 It seemed 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 :
 
 86 
 
 And these, although they pushed down, as they rose, 
 His self- respect, and all those morning shews 
 Of true and perfect, which bis youth had hwilt, 
 Pushed with them too the worsl of Others guiltj 
 And furnished him, at least, with something kind, 
 On which to lean a sad and startled mind: 
 Till youth, and natural rigour, and the dread 
 Of self- betrayal, and a thought that spread 
 From time to time in gladness o'er his face, 
 That she he loved could hare done nothing base, 
 Helped 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 bis 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 Held or closer glade,
 
 87 
 
 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 exercised his blood, 
 And kept it livelier than inaction could; 
 And thus he earned 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, 
 
 Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower, — 
 
 The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she, 
 
 The wife that was, the 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,
 
 88 
 
 When worn .Hid wearied out with the day'a sorrow , 
 She might be still and senseless till the morrow. 
 
 And oh, the morrow , how it used to ris< 
 
 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 a^ it was; 
 Till patience self, in her distempered sight, 
 Would seem a charm to which Bbe had no right, 
 And trembling at the lip, and pale with tears, 
 She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears. 
 Old comforts now were not at her command : 
 The falcon reached in vain from off his stand ; 
 The tlowers were not refreshed; the very Light, 
 The sunshine, seemed as if it shone at night;
 
 89 
 
 The least noise smote her like a stulden 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 could 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 pleased, away. 
 
 I pass the meetings Paulo had with her : — 
 
 Calm were they in their outward character, 
 
 Or pallid efforts, rather, to suppress 
 
 The pangs within, that either's might be less ; 
 
 And ended mostly with a passionate start 
 
 Of tears and kindness, when they came to part. 
 
 Thinner he grew, she thought, and pale with care; 
 
 *• And I, 'twas I, that dashed his noble air!"
 
 90 
 
 lie >;w\ her wasting, yet with placid shew; 
 And Bcaroe could help exclaiming in ins woe, 
 " o gentle creature* look not at me so !" 
 
 liut Prince Giovanni, whom her wan distress 
 Had touched, of late, with a new tenderness, 
 Which to his fresh surprise did but appear 
 To wound her more than when he was severe, 
 Began, with other helps perhaps, to see 
 Strange things, and missed his brother's company. 
 What a convulsion was the first sensation ! 
 Rage, wonder, misery, scorn, humiliation, 
 A self-love, struck as with a personal blow, 
 Gloomy revenge, a prospect full of woe, 
 All rushed upon him, like the sudden view 
 Of some new world, foreign to all he knew, 
 Where he had waked and found disease's vision- 
 true.
 
 91 
 
 If any lingering hope that he was wrong, 
 Smoothed o'er him now and their, 'twas not so long. 
 Next night, as sullenly awake he lay, 
 Considering what to do the approaching day, 
 He heard his wife say something in her sleep: — 
 He shook and listened; — she began to weep, 
 And moaning loudlier, seemed 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." 
 
 The prince looked at her hastily; — no more; 
 
 He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door 
 
 Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air; — 
 
 His squire awaked attends ; and they repair, 
 
 Silent as wonder, to his brother's room : — 
 
 His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
 
 92 
 
 The brothers meet, — Giovanni scarce in breath, 
 Yet firm and fierce, Paulo ai pale U death. 
 ' May I request, Bir," Baid the prince, and frowned, 
 " Your ear a moment in the tiltimr ground) " 
 " There, brother)" answered Paulo, with an air 
 Surprised and '•hocked. " Yes, brother," cried he, 
 
 " there." 
 The word smote crushingly ; and paler still, 
 He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will. 
 
 Giovanni turned, and from the tower descending, 
 The squires, with looks of sad surprise, attending, 
 They issued forth in the moist-striking air, 
 And toward the tilt-yard crossed a planted square. 
 'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill ; 
 The lightsome morning star was sparkling still, 
 Ere it turned in to heaven; and far away 
 Appeared the streaky fingers of the day.
 
 93 
 
 An opening in the trees took Paulo's eye, 
 
 As, with his brother, mutely he went by : 
 
 It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound, 
 
 That screened Francesca's favorite 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 turned, and looked another way. 
 
 Arrived, 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."
 
 94 
 
 Paulo's heart bledj be waved his handj and bent 
 Hi- bead a little in acknowledgment. 
 
 " Say then, sir, if you can," continued be, 
 
 " One word will do — vou have not injured me: 
 
 " Tell me but BO, and I shall hear the pain 
 
 " Of having asked a question I disdain; — 
 
 " But utter nothing, if not that one word; 
 
 " And meet me this:" — he stopped, and drew his 
 
 sword. 
 Paulo seemed 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 he well thought of, but in guilt's despite, 
 " I am," said he, " 1 know, — 'twas not so ev« — 
 " But fight for it ! and with a brother! Never." 
 " How !" with uplifted voice, exclaimed the other; 
 " The vile pretence ! who asked you — with a brother ? 
 " Brother! O traitor to the noble name 
 " Of Malatesta, 1 deny the claim.
 
 95 
 
 " What ! wound it deepest ? strike me to the core, 
 " Me, and the hopes which I can have no more, 
 " And then, as never Malatesta could, 
 " Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood ?" 
 
 " It is not so," cried Paulo, " 'tis not so ; 
 '* But I would save you from a further woe." 
 
 " A further woe, recreant," retorted he : 
 
 " I know of none : yes, one there still may be : 
 
 " Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace 
 
 " Of seeing one of an illustrious race 
 
 " Bearing about a heart, which feared no law, 
 
 " And a vile sword, which yet he dare 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 ;" exclaimed the prince; "'tis a retreat
 
 96 
 
 " To which you fly, when manly wronga pursue, 
 " And fear tin- grave you bring a woman to." 
 
 A sudden start, \< t not of pride <>r pain, 
 Paulo here gave; he Beemed to rise again; 
 And taking off his cap without a word, 
 He drew, and kissed the crossed hilt of his sword, 
 Looking to heaven; — then with a steady brow, 
 Mild, yet not feeble, said, " I'm ready now." 
 
 " A noble word I" exclaimed the prince, and smote 
 Preparingly on earth his firming foot : — 
 The squires rushed in between, in their despair, 
 Hut both the princes told them to beware. 
 
 Back, Gerard," cried Giovanni : " I require 
 " No teacher here, but an observant squire." 
 " Back, Tristan," Paulo cried; fear not for me ; 
 " All is not worst that so appears to thee.
 
 97 
 
 " And here," said he, " a word." The poor youth 
 
 came, 
 Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name. 
 A whisper, and a charge there seemed to he, 
 Given to him kindly yet inflexibly : 
 Both squires then drew apart again, and stood 
 Mournfully both, each in his several mood, — 
 The one half sullen at these dreadful freaks, 
 The other with the tears streaming down both his 
 
 cheeks. 
 
 The prince attacked with all his might and main, 
 Nor seemed the other slow to strike again ; 
 Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident, 
 One fought to wound, the other to prevent : 
 Giovanni pressed, and pushed, and shifted aim, 
 And played his weapon like a tongue of flame ; 
 Paulo retired, and warded, turned on heel, 
 And led him, step by step, round like a wheel. 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 Sometimes indeed he feigned an angrier Mart, 
 But still relapsed, and played his former part. 
 " What !" tried Giovanni, who grew still more fit rce, 
 " 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 stamped, and watching as he Bpoke the word, 
 Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword. 
 'Twas done. He staggered, and in falling prest 
 Giovanni's foot with his right hand and breast: 
 Then on his elbow turned, and raising t'other, 
 He smiled, and said, " No fault of yours, my brothel; 
 " An accident — a slip — the finishing one 
 " To errors by that poor old man begun. 
 " You'll not — you'll not" — his heart leaped on before, 
 And choaked his utterance; but he smiled once more, 
 For, as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest; — 
 And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
 
 99 
 
 He turned him round, and dropt with hiding head, 
 And, in that loosening drop, his spirit fled. 
 
 But noble passion touched Giovanni's soul ; 
 He seemed to feel the clouds of habit roll 
 Away from him at once, with all their scorning; 
 And out he spoke in the clear air of morning : — 
 " 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 completes! 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 eat in hall ; 
 
 h 2
 
 100 
 
 " Ami thou wot -till, for all that bosom gored, 
 
 " The kindest man, that ever Btruck with -word." 
 \i this the words forsook his tongue; and he, 
 
 Who .scarcely had -lied tears since inl'aix \ . 
 
 Felt his stern \i age thrill, and meekly bowed 
 
 Efia head, and for his brother wept aloud. 
 
 The squires with glinnneringtears, — 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.
 
 101 
 
 Tristan, who, when he was to make the best 
 Of something sad and not to be redressed, 
 Could shew a heart as firm as it was kind, 
 Now locked his tears up, and seemed all resigned, 
 And to Francesca's chamber took his way, 
 To tell her what his master bade him say. 
 He found her ladies up and down the stairs 
 Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears, 
 And that the sad news had before him got, 
 Though she herself, it seemed, yet knew it not. 
 The door, as tenderly as miser's purse, 
 Was opened to him by her aged nurse, 
 Who shaking her old head, and pressing close 
 Her withered lips to keep the tears that rose, 
 Made signs she guessed what 'twas he came about, 
 And so his arm squeezed gently, and went out. 
 
 The princess, who had passed a fearful night, 
 Toiling with dreams, — fright crowding upon fright,
 
 102 
 
 Had missed her husband at thai early hour, 
 
 And when she tried to rise, Brand she'd no power. 
 
 N ci as her body seemed to go, her mind 
 
 Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resigned ; 
 
 And moving not, nor weeping, mute she la\ 
 
 Wasting in patient gravity away. 
 
 The nurse sometime before with gentle creep 
 
 Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might Bleep : 
 
 But suddetdy she asked, though not with fear, 
 
 " Brangin, what bustle's that I seem to hear?'" 
 
 And the poor creature, who the news had heard, 
 
 Pretending to be busy, had just stirred 
 
 Somethingabout the room, and answered 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 deprived the squire 
 Ojf his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
 
 103 
 
 " Madam," said he, " 'tis I; one who may say, 
 " He loves his friends more than himself to-day j — 
 " Tristan." — She paused a little, and then said — 
 " Tristan — my friend, what noise thus haunts my 
 
 head? 
 " Something I'm sure has happened — 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," resumed 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 5 and that although 
 " His noble brother was no fratricide, 
 " Yet in that fight, and on his sword, — he died."
 
 104 
 
 I understand," with firmness answered >\w. 
 More low in voice, but still composedly. 
 " Now, Tristan — faithful friend — leave me; andl il e 
 ' This trifle here, and keep it form] Bake." 
 So Baying, from the curtains she put forth 
 Her thin white hand, that wore a ring of worth ; 
 And he, with tears no Longer to be kept 
 From quenching hii heart's thirst, silently wept, 
 And kneeling- took the ring, and touched 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 
 Returned, and fearing she musl now be worse, 
 Gently withdrew the curtains, and looked in: — 
 (>. who that feels one godlike spark within, 
 Shall say that earthly suffering cancels not frail sin !
 
 105 
 
 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 ceased, and turning slowly towards the wall, 
 They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all, — 
 Then suddenly be still. Near 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 if she still could feel their care. 
 The gentle-tempered for a while forgot 
 Their own distress, or wept the common lot :
 
 JOG 
 
 The warmer, apter now to take offence, 
 
 Yet hushed as they rebuked, and wondered whence 
 
 Others at such a time could get tbeir want of sense. 
 
 Fain would I haste indeed to finish all; 
 
 And so at once I reach the funeral. 
 
 Private 'twas fancied it must he, 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 
 
 Of knights and squires 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,
 
 107 
 
 His shield the other 5 — then there was a space, 
 And in the middle, with a doubtful pace, 
 His horse succeeded, plumed and trapped in black, 
 Bearing the sword and banner on his back : 
 The noble creature, as in state he trod, 
 Appeared as if he missed 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 passed around, 
 Rode by himself, with eyes upon the ground. 
 Then heralds in a row : and last of all 
 Appeared a hearse, hung with an ermined pall, 
 And bearing on its tup, together set, 
 A prince's and princess's coronet. 
 Mutely they issued forth, black, slow, dejected, 
 Nor stopped within the walls, as most expected ; 
 But passed the gates — the bridge — the last abode, — 
 And towards Ravenna held their silent road.
 
 108 
 
 The prince, it seems, struck since hi- hinthcr'sdeath, 
 With what he hinted with hit dying breath, 
 And told by others now of all the) knew, 
 Had instantly determined what to do j 
 And from a mingled Peeling, which lie strove 
 To hide no longer from hi* taught Belf-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 occurred. 
 " And though I shall not," (so concluded he) 
 " Otherwise touch thine age's misery, 
 " Vet as I would that both one grave should hide, 
 " Which can, and must not be, where I reside, 
 " 'Tie lit. though all have something to deplore, 
 ' That he, who joined them once, should keep to 
 pal t no more."
 
 109 
 
 The wretched father, who, when he had read 
 This letter, felt it wither his grey head, 
 And ever since had paced his room about, 
 Trembling, and at tiie windows looking out, 
 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 talked the business over, and reviewed 
 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 trunks now thronged to sight, in dark varieties.
 
 1 10 
 The people, who from reverence kepi at homcj 
 
 Listened till afternoon to hear them COme; 
 
 And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard 
 
 lint some chance hor-einan, or the wind that stirred, 
 
 Till towards the vesper hour; and then, 'twas said 
 
 Some heard a voice, which seemed M if it read; 
 
 And others said, that they could hear a Bound 
 
 OJ" many horses trampling the moist ground. 
 
 Mill nothing came, — till on a sudden, just 
 
 As the wind opened in a rising gust, 
 
 A voice of chanting rose, and as it Bpreadj 
 
 They plainly heard the anthem for the dead. 
 
 it was the choristers who went to meet 
 
 The train, and now were entering the Brsl street. 
 
 Then turned aside that city, young and old, 
 
 And in their lifted hands the gushing sorrow rolled. 
 
 But of the older people, few could bear 
 
 To keep the window, when the train drew near;
 
 Ill 
 
 f 
 
 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 seemed 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, 
 He clasped his hands, and looking round the room. 
 Lost his old wits for ever. From the morrow 
 None saw him after. But no more of sorrow. 
 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 betrothed used to go there to pray. 
 
 THE END.
 
 BF. NSLEV AND SON, 
 UuliL'oim, H'-<rt SuetC, I
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 PR 2 1 1953 
 
 I, '88(7752) 
 
 WHVER1
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 373 225 2 
 
 PR 
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 S887 
 1819