Then, had her eye in sorrow wept,
A thousand warriors forth had leapt,
A thousand swords had sheathless shone,
And made her quarrel all their own.
Now, what is she? and what are they?
Can she command, or these obey?
All silent and unheeding now,

With downcast eyes, and knitting brow,
And folded arms, and freezing air,
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,
Her knights and dames, her court-is there:
And he, the chosen one, whose lance
Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
Who-were his arm a moment free-
Had died or gain'd her liberty;
The minion of his father's bride,-
He, too, is fetter'd by her side;
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim
Less for her own despair than him:
Those lids-o'er which the violet vein,
Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
Shining through the smoothest white
That e'er did softest kiss invite-
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;
Which glance so heavily, and fill,
As tear on tear grows gathering still.

XI.

And he for her had also wept,

But for the eyes that on him gazed:

His sorrow, if he felt it, slept;

Stern and erect his brow was raised.
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd,
He would not shrink before the crowd;
But yet he dared not look on her:
Remembrance of the hours that were-
His guilt his love-his present state--
His father's wrath—all good men's hate—
His earthly, his eternal fate--

And hers,-oh, hers!—he dared not throw
One look upon that deathlike brow!
Else had his rising heart betray'd
Remorse for all the wreck it made.

XII.

And Azo spake:--" But yesterday
I gloried in a wife and son;
That dream this morning pass'd away;
Ere day declines, I shall have none.
My life must linger on alone;

Well, let that pass,-there breathes not one
Who would not do as I have done:

Those ties are broken-not by me:

Let that too pass;-the doom's prepared!

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee,

And then--thy crime's reward!
Away! address thy prayers to Heaven,

Before its evening stars are met--
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven;
Its mercy may absolve thee yet.
But here, upon the earth beneath,
There is no spot where thou and I

Together, for an hour, could breathe:
Farewell! I will not see thee die-

But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head—
Away! I cannot speak the rest:
Go! woman of the wanton breast;
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed:
Go! if that sight thou canst outlive,
And joy thee in the life I give."

XIII.

And here stern Azo hid his faceFor 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: Thou 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 coveted'st her charms-
And with thy very crime—my birth,
Thou taunted'st 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 honours all my own.

I had a sword—and have a breast

That should have won as haught(2) 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 me→
Yet 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-nay, wherefore dost thou start?→→→

From thee in all their vigour came
My arm of strength, my soul of flame---

Thou didst not give me life alone,

But all that made me more thine own.
See what thy guilty love hath done!
Repaid thee with too like a son!
I am no bastard in my soul,

For that, like thine, abhorr'd control:
And for my breath, that hasty boon
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon,
I valued it no more than thou,
When rose thy casque above thy brow,
And we, all side by side, have striven,
And o'er the dead our coursers driven:
The past is nothing-and at last
The future can but be the past;

Yet would I that I then had died:

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill,