XXXII.

The foe came on, and few remain
To strive, and those must strive in vain
For lack of further lives, to slake
The thirst of vengeance now awake,
With barbarous blows they gash the dead,
And lop the already lifeless head,
And fell the statues from their niche,
And spoil the shrines of offerings rich,
And from each other's rude hands wrest
The silver vessels saints had bless'd.
To the high altar on they go;
Oh, but it made a glorious show!
On its table still behold

The cup of consecrated gold;
Massy and deep, a glittering prize,
Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes;
That morn it held the holy wine,

Converted by Christ to His blood so divine, Which His worshippers drank at the break of day

To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray.

Still a few drops within it lay;
And round the sacred table glow
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row,
From the purest metal cast;
A spoil-the richest, and the last.

XXXIII.

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, When old Minotti's hand

Touch'd with the torch the train

'Tis fired!

Spire, vaults, and shrine, the spoil, the slain,
The turban'd victors, the Christian band,
All that of living or dead remain,
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane,
In one wild roar expired!

The shatter'd town-the walls thrown down

The waves a moment backward bent-
The hills that shake, although unrent,

As if an earthquake pass'd-
The thousand shapeless things all driven
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven,
By that tremendous blast-
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er
On that too long afflicted shore:
Up to the sky like rockets go

All that mingled there below:
Many a tall and goodly man,
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span,
When he fell to earth again,
Like a cinder strew'd the plain :
Down the ashes shower like rain;
Some fell in the gulf which received the
sprinkles

With a thousand circling wrinkles;
Some fell on the shore, but far away
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay;
Christian or Moslem, which be they?
Let their mothers see and say!
When in cradled rest they lay,
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away.
Not the matrons that them bore
Could discern their offspring more;
That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone:
And down came blazing rafters, strewn
Around, and many a falling stone,
Deeply dinted in the clay,

All blacken'd there and reeking lay.
All the living things that heard
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd:
The wild birds flew, the wild dogs fled,
And howling left the unburied dead;
The camels from their keepers broke;
The distant steer forsook the yoke-
The nearest steed plunged o'er the plain,
And burst his girth, and tore his rein;
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh,
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh;
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill
Where echo roll'd in thunder still;
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,
Bay'd from afar complainingly,
With a mix'd and mournful sound,
Like crying babe and beaten hound:
With sudden wing and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest,

And mounted nearer to the sun,

The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun: Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, And made him higher soar and shriekThus was Corinth lost and won!

As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh-the long embraceThe lip that there would cling for ever. While gleams on Parisina's face

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her frailty from afarThe frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place. But it must come, and they must part' In fearful heaviness of heart, 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 dreams,
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?
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 weil 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, 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 upon his soul the shock.
And whose that name?-'tis Hugo's,-his-
In sooth he had not deem'd of this!
'Tis Hugo's, --he, the child of one
He loved-his own all-evil son-
The offspring of his wayward youth,
When he betray'd Bianca's truth,
The maid whose folly could confide
In him who made her not his bride.
VII.

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath,
But sheathed it ere the point was bare-
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fair-
At least, not smiling-sleeping-there.
Nay more: he did not wake her then,
But gazed upon her with a glance
Which, had she roused her from her
trance,

Had frozen her sense to sleep again.
And o'er his brow the burning lamp
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp.

She spake no more-but still she slumber'd. While in his thought her days are number'd.

VIII.

And with the morn he sought, and found,
In many a tale from those around,
The proof of all he fear'd to know,
Their present guilt, his future woe.
The long-conniving damsels seek

To save themselves, and would transfer
The guilt-the shame-the doom-to her:
Concealment is no more-they speak
All circumstance which may compel
Full credence to the tale they tell;
And Azo's tortured heart and ear
Have nothing more to feel or hear.

IX.

He was not one who brook'd delay:
Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Este's ancient sway

Upon his throne of judgment sate. His nobles and his guards are there,— Before him is the sinful pair;

Both young-and one how passing fair!
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand,
O Christ! that thus a son should stand
Before a father's face!

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire,
And hear the sentence of his ire,

The tale of his disgrace!
And yet he seems not overcome,
Although as yet his voice be dumb.

X.

And still, and pale, and silently,
Did Parisina wait her doom:
How changed since last her speaking eye
Glanced gladness round the glittering

room,

Where high-born men were proud to waitWhere beauty watch'd to imitate

Her gentle voice-her lovely mienAnd gather from her air and gait

The graces of its queen:
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 swoll'n and full eyes 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
Το

press, not shade, the orbs below;
Which glance so heavily, and fill,
As tear on tear grows gathering still,

And here stern 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 chainèd 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 death;
For 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 ere 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.t
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 charms;
And 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 honours 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 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

"Away," haught man, thou art insulting me."-SHAKESPEARE.

And thou must punish both in one.
My crime seems worst to human view,
But God must judge between us two!"

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!
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
Recovered from that death-like swoon-
But scarce to reason: every sense
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense:
And each frail fibre of her brain
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain,
The erring arrow launch aside)

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide-
The past a blank, the future black,
With glimpses of a dreary track,
Like lightning on the desert path,
When midnight storms are mustering wrath.
She fear'd-she felt that something ill
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill-
That there was sin and shame she knew ;
That some one was to die-but who?
She had forgotten :-did she breathe?
Could this be still the earth beneath,
The sky above, and men around?

Or were they fiends who now so frown'd
On one, before whose eyes each eye
Till then had smiled in sympathy?
All was confused and undefined

To her all-jarred and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears:
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,

She strove with that convulsive dream;
For so it seem'd on her to break :
Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!

XV.

The Convent bells are ringing,

But mournfully and slow;
In the grey 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 its 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 bow and listen,
And the rings of chestnut hair
Curl'd half down his neck so bare;
But brighter still the beam was thrown
Upon the axe which near him shone
With a clear and ghastly glitter-
Oh! that parting hour was bitter!
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe :
Dark the crime, and just the law-
Yet they shudder'd as they saw.

XVII.

The parting prayers are said and over
Of that false son-and daring lover!
His beads and sins are all recounted,
His hours to their last minute mounted;
His mantling cloak before was stripp'd,
His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd:
'Tis done-all closely are they shorn;
The vest which till this moment worn-
The scarf which Parisina gave-
Must not adorn him to the grave.
Even that must now be thrown aside,
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ;
But no-that last indignity

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.
All feelings seemingly subdued,
In deep disdain were half renew'd
When headsman's hands prepared to bind