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Their very sighs are full of Joy
IV. With many a lingering look they leave The spot of guilty gladness past; And though they hope, and vow, they gr:272 As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh—the long embrace— The lip that there would cling for ever, While gleams on Parisina's face The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each caumiy conscious star Beheld her frailty from afar— The frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place; But it must come, and they must part In fearful heaviness of h art, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill
V. And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, To covet there another's bride; But she must lay her conscious head A husband's trusting heart beside. But fever'd in her sleep she seems. And red her cheek with troubled dreamla, And mutters she in her unrest A name she dare not breathe by day, And clasps her lord unto the breast Which pants for one away: And he to that embrace awakes, And, happy in the thought, mistakes That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, For such as he was wont to bless; And could in very fondness weep O'er her who loves him even in sleep.
VI. He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, And listen'd to each broken word: He hears—Why doth Prince Azo start, As if the Archangel's voice he heard 2 And well he may—a deeper doom Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, When he shall wake to sleep no more, And stand the eternal throne before. And well he may—his earthly peace Upon that sound is doom'd to cease: That sleeping whisper of a name Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. And whose that name 2 that o'er his pillow Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, Which rolls the plank upon the shore, And dashes on the pointed rock The wretch who sinks to rise no more,” So came "P".his soul the shock.
Now,-what is she and what are they
And he for her had also wept,
And Azo spake:– “But yesterday
And joy thee in the life I give "
And hcrestern Azo hid his face—
For on his brow the swelling vein
Throbb’d as if back upon his brain
The hot blood ebb’d and flow'd again, And therefore bow'd he for a space, And pass'd his shaking hand along His eye, to veil it from the throng; While Hugo raised his chained hands, And for a brief delay demands His father's ear: the silent sire Forbids not what his words require.
“It is not that I dread the deathFor thou hast seen me by thy side All redly through the battle ride, And that not once a useless brand Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: Theu gav'st, and may’st resume my breath. A gift for which I thank thee not : Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, Her slighted love and ruin’d name, Her offspring's heritage of shame; But she is in the grave, where he, Her son, thy rival, soon shall be, Her broken heart—my sever'd head— Shall witness for thee from the dead How trusty and how tender were Thy youthful love—paternal care. 'Tis true, that I have done thee wrong— But wrong for wrong —this, deem'd thy bride The other victim of thy pride, Thou know'st for me was destined long. Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charmsAnd with thy very crime—my birth, Thou tauntedst me—as little worth ; A match ignoble for her arms, Because, forsooth, I could not claim The lawful heirship of thy name, Nor sit on Este's lineal throne: Yet, were a few short summers mine, My name should more than Este's shine With honors all my own. I had a sword—and have a breast That should have won as haught” a crest As ever waved along the line Of all these sovereign sires of thine. Not always knightly spurs are worn The brightest by the better born; And mine have lanced my courser's flank Before proud chiefs of princely rank, When charging to the cheering cry Of ‘Este and of Victory !' I will not plead the cause of crime, Nor sue thee to redeem from time A few brief hours or days that must At length roll o'er my reckless dust;Such maddening moments as my past, They could not and they did not, last— Albeit my birth and name be base, And thy nobility of race Disdain'd to deck a thing like meYet in my lineaments they trace Some features of my father's face, And in my spirit—all of thee. From thee—this tamelessness of heart— From thee—may, wherefore dost thou start –
From thee in all their vigor came
XIV. He ceased—and stood with folded arms, On which the circling fetters sounded; And not an ear but felt as wounded, Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, When those dull chains in meeting clank'd, Till Parisina's fatal charms Again attracted every eye– Would she thus hear him doom'd to die l She stood, I said, all pale and still, The living cause of Hugo's ill: Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, Not once had turn'd to either side— Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew— And there with glassy gaze she stood As ice were in her curdled blood; But every now and then a tear So large and slowly gather'd slid From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing to see, not hear ! And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes. To speak she thought—the imperfect note Was choked within her swelling throat, Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan Her whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceased—again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er had life— A monument of Azo's wife, Than her, that living guilty thing, Whose every passion was a sting, Which urged to guilt, but could not bear That guilt's detection and despair.
But yet she lived—and all too soon
XV. The Convent bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow; In the gray square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro. Heavily to the heart they go! Hark! the hymn is singing— The song for the dead below, Or the living who shortly shall be so! For a departing being's soul The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll He is near his mortal goal; Kneeling at the Friar's knee; Sad to hear—and piteous to see— Kneeling on the bare cold ground, With the block before and the guards around And the headsman with his bare arm ready, That the blow may be both swift and steady, Feels if the axe be sharp and true— Since he set its edge anew : While the crowd in a speechless circle gather To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father'
XVI. It is a lovely hour as yet Before the summer sun shall set, Which rose upon that heavy day, And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; And his evening beams are shed Full on Hugo's fated head, As his last confession pouring To the monk, his doom deploring In penitential holiness, He bends to hear his accents bless With absolution such as may Wipe our mortal stains away. That high sun on his head did glisten, As he there did how and listen
And the rings of chestnut hair
The parting prayers are said and over
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd,
As not disdaining priestly aid, Nor desperate of all hope on high. And while before the Prior kneeling, His heart was wean’d from earthly feeling; His wrathful sire—his paramour— What were they in such an hour * No more reproach—no more despair; No thought but heaven—no word but prayer— Save the few which from him broke, When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke, He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, His sole adieu to those around.
XVIII. Still as the hps that closed in death, Each gazer's bosom held his breath; But yet, afar, from man to man, A cold electric shiver ran, As down the deadly blow descended On him whose life and love thus ended, And with a hushing sound comprest, A sigh shrunk back on every breast;
But no more thrilling noise rose there
XIX. Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, No more in palace, hall, or bower, Was Parisina heard or seen : Her name—as if she ne'er had been— Was banish'd from each lip and ear, Like words of wantonness or fear; And from Prince Azo's voice by none Was mention heard of wife or son; No tomb—no memory had they: Theirs was unconsecrated clay; At least the knight's who died that day, But Parisina's fate lies hid Like dust beneath the coffin lid : Whether in convent she abode, And won to heaven her dreary road, By blighted and remorseful years Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; Or if she fell by bowl or steel, For that dark love she dared to feel; Or if, upon the moment smote, She died by tortures less remote; Like him she saw upon the block, With heart that shared the headsman's shock, In quicken'd brokenness that came, In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, None knew—and none can ever know: But whatsoe'er its end below, Her life began and closed in wo!”
XX. And Azo found another bride, And goodly sons grew by his side; But none so lovely and so brave As him who wither'd in the grave; Or if they were-on his cold eye Their growth but glanced unheeded by, Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. But never tear his cheek descended, And never smile his brow unbended, And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought The intersected lines of thought; Those furrows which the burning share Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; Scars of the lacerating mind Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. He was pass'd all mirth or wo: Nothing more remain'd below But sleepless nights and heavy days, A mind all dead to scorn or praise.
A heart which shunn'd itself—and yet
And cherish'd most where least reveal’d.
arquis in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, land
a beautiful and ingenious youth. Parisina Malates ta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. One day she asked leave of her o to undertake a certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company; for he hoped by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too well, since, during the journey, she not only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occasion to renew his former reroofs. It happened one day that a servant of the
arquis, named Zoese, or, as some call him, Giorgio, passing before the apartments of Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chambermaids, all terrified and in tears. Asking the reason, she told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina and her step-son. The servant took note of the words, and related them to his master. He was astounded thereat, but scarcely believing his ears, he assured himself of the fact, alas ! too clearly, on the 18th of May, by looking through a hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with Al dobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, also, as some sav, two of the women of her