FRUITS OF A PARENT'S FALSEHOOD.
ARGUMENT.-Giovanni Malatesta, Lord of Rimini, has won by his victories the hand of the Princess Francesca, daughter of the reigning Count of Ravenna; and is expected, with a gorgeous procession, to come and marry her. She has never yet seen him. The procession arrives, and is described,
'Tis morn, and never did a lovelier day
Salute Ravenna from its leafy bay:
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And April, with his white hands wet with flowers,
Dazzles the bride-maids, looking from the towers:
Green vineyards and fair orchards, far and near,
Glitter with drops; and heaven is sapphire clear,
And the lark rings it, and the pine-trees glow,
And odours from the citrons come and go,
And all the landscape-earth, and sky, and sea-
Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out
openly,
'Tis nature, full of spirits, wak'd and lov'd. E'en sloth, to-day, goes quick and unreprov'd; For where's the living soul, priest, minstrel, clown, Merchant, or lord, that speeds not to the town? Hence happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light; Come gleaming up-true to the wish'd-for day— And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.
And well may all the world come crowding there,
If peace returning, and processions rare,
And, to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set men's hearts and fancies on the wing;
For, on this beauteous day, Ravenna's pride-
The daughter of their prince-becomes a bride;
A bride to ransom an exhausted land;
And he, whose victories have obtain❜d her hand,
Has taken with the dawn-so flies report-
His promis'd journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, Lord of Rimini.
The road, that way, is lined with anxious eyes,
And false announcements and fresh laughters rise.
The horseman hastens through the jeering crowd,
And finds no horse within the gates allow'd;
And who shall tell the drive there, and the din?
The bells, the drums, the crowds yet squeezing in,
The shouts, from mere exuberance of delight,
And mothers with their babes in sore affright,
And armed bands making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday;
Minstrels, and friars, and beggars many a one
That pray, and roll their blind eyes in the sun,
And all the buzzing throngs, that hang like bees
On roofs, and walls, and tops of garden trees?
With tap'stries bright the windows overflow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go,
Till by their work the charmers take their seats,
Themselves the sweetest pictures in the streets,
In colours, by light awnings beautified;
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow :
Smiling and laughing some, and some serene,
But all with flowers, and all with garlands green,
And most in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene.
At length the approaching trumpets, with a start On the smooth wind, come dancing to the heart; The crowd are mute; and, from the southern wall, A lordly blast gives welcome to the call.
Then comes the crush; and all who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rds the palace drive,
Where, baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square:
For there Count Guido is to hold his state,
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate.
But far too well the square has been supplied;
And, after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turn'd and nothing gain'd,
The order, first found easiest, is maintain'd,
Leaving the pathways 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 fac'd with guards, who keep the horse-way clear;
And, round a fountain in the midst, appear-
Seated with knights and ladies, in discourse-
Rare Tuscan wits and warbling troubadours,
Whom Guido (for he lov'd the Muse's race)
Has set there to adorn his public place.
The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of bays and roses,-trees of wit and love;
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
The lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact; till, at its height o'errun,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.
There, with the wits and beauties, you may see, As in some nest of faëry poetry,
Some of the chiefs, the noblest in the land,—
Hugo, and Borso of the Liberal Hand,
And Gino, and Ridolfo, and the flower
Of jousters, Everard of the Sylvan Tower;
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repaid the Black-Band robbers, Lionel ; [Greek,
With more that have pluck'd beards of Turk and
And made the close Venetian lower his sails and
speak,
There, too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng,
Stands a young father of Italian song-
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;
The poet looks out in 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 grateful blushes,
Another start of trumpets, with reply;
And o'er the gate a crimson canopy
Opens to right and left its flowing shade,
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits; the courtiers fall on either side;
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who seems all thought 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
Are mix'd with thoughts of lofty charity:
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder still.
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