Who art thou, and wherefore sent

So near a hostile armament?"
His trembling hands refused to sign
The cross he deemed no more divine:
He had resumed it in that hour,
But conscience wrung away the power.
He gazed, he saw: he knew the face
Of beauty, and the form of grace;
It was Francesca by his side,

The maid who might have been his bride!
The rose was yet upon her cheek,
But mellowed with a tenderer streak:
Where was the play of her soft lips fled?
Gone was the smile that enlivened their red.
The ocean's calm within their view,
Beside her eye had less of blue;
But like that cold wave it stood still,
And its glance, though clear, was chill.
Around her form a thin robe twining,
Nought concealed her bosom shining;
Through the parting of her hair,

Floating darkly downward there,

Her rounded arm showed white and bare:

And, ere yet she made reply,

Once she raised her hand on high;

It was so wan, and transparent of hue,
You might have seen the moon shine through.

I come from my rest to him I love best,
That I may be happy and he may be blest.
I have passed the guards, the gate, the wall;
Sought thee in safety through foes and all.
'Tis said the lion will turn and flee

From a maid in the pride of her purity;

And the Power on high, that can shield the good

Thus from the tyrant of the wood,

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well

From the hands of the leaguering infidel.

I come and, if I come in vain,

Never, oh never, we meet again!.

Thou hast done a fearful deed

In falling away from thy father's creed:
But dash that turban to earth, and sign
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine;
Wring the black drop from thy heart,
And to-morrow unites us no more to part.'

And where should our bridal couch be spread?

In the midst of the dying and the dead?

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name.
None, save thou and thine, I've sworn,

Shall be left upon the morn:

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot,

Where our hands shall be joined, and our sorrow forgot.

There thou yet shalt be my bride,

When once again I've quelled the pride

Of Venice; and her hated race
Have felt the arm they would debase
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those
Whom vice and envy made my foes.'

Upon his hand she laid her own

Light was the touch, but it thrilled to the bone,
And shot a chilness to his heart,

Which fixed him beyond the power to start.
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold,
He could not loose him from its hold;
But never did clasp of one so dear

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear,
As those thin fingers, long and white,

Froze through his blood by their touch that night.
The feverish glow of his brow was gone,

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone

As he looked on the face, and beheld its hue

So deeply changed from what he knew:

Fair, but faint-without the ray

Of mind, that made each feature play
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day;
And her motionless lips lay still as death,
And her words came forth without her breath,

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell,
And there seemed not a pulse in her veins to dwell.
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fixed,
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmixed
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream;
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare,
Stirred by the breath of the wintry air,

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light,
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight;

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down From the shadowy wall where their images frown;

Fearfully flitting to and fro,

As the gusts on the tapestry come and go.

If not for love of me be given

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven-
Again I say that turban tear

From off thy faithless brow, and swear
Thine injured country's sons to spare,
Or thou art lost, and never shalt see
Not earth-that's past-but heaven or me.
If this thou dost accord, albeit

A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet,

That doom shall half absolve thy sin,
And Mercy's gate may receive thee within:
But pause one moment more, and take
The curse of him thou didst forsake;
And look once more to heaven, and see
Its love for ever shut from thee.
There is a light cloud by the moon—
"Tis passing, and will pass full soon-
If, by the time its vapoury sail
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil,
Thy heart within thee is not changed,
Then God and man are both avenged;
Dark will thy doom be-darker still
Thine immortality of ill.'

Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high

The sign she spake of in the sky;

But his heart was swollen, and turned aside,
By deep interminable pride.

This first false passion of his breast
Rolled like a torrent o'er the rest.

He sue for mercy! He dismayed
By wild words of a timid maid !

He, wronged by Venice, vow to save
Her sons, devoted to the grave!

No-though that cloud were thunder's worst,

And charged to crush him-let it burst!

He looked upon it earnestly,

Without an accent of reply:

He watched it passing; it is flown:
Full on his eye the clear moon shone,
And thus he spake-'Whate'er my fate,
I am no changeling--'tis too late :
The reed in storms may bow and quiver,
Then rise again; the tree must shiver.
What Venice made me I must be-
Her foe in all, save love to thee:
But thou art safe; oh, fly with me!'
He turned, but she is gone!

Nothing is there but the column stone

Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air?

Ile saw not, he knew not; but nothing is there.

There is a quietness and solemnity about this scer e which is admirably suited to a ghost story.

The assault of the next morning is as successful as it is vigorous The Governor, Minotti, makes a desperate resistance:

There stood an old man-his hairs were white,

But his veteran arm was full of might:

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray,

The dead before him, on that day,

In a semicircle lay;

Still he combated unwounded,

Though retreating, unsurrounded:

Many a scar of former fight

Lurked beneath his corslet bright,