And the clear moon, with meek o'er-lifted face,
Seems come to look into the silvering place.
Then first the bride waked up, for then was heard,
Sole voice, the poet's and the lover's bird,
Preluding first, as though the sounds were cast
For the dear leaves about her, till at last
With floods of rapture, in a perfect shower,
She vents her heart on the delicious hour.
Lightly the horsemen go, as if they'd ride
A velvet path, and hear no voice beside:
A placid hope assures the breath-suspending bride.)
So ride they in delight through beam and shade;—
Till many a rill now pass'd, and many a glade,
They quit the piny labyrinths, and soon
Emerge into the full and day-like moon;
Chilling it seems; and pushing steed on steed,
They start them freshly with a homeward speed.
Then well-known fields they pass, and straggling cots.
Boy-storied trees, and love-remember'd spots,
And turning last a sudden corner, see
The moon-lit towers of slumbering Rimini.
The marble bridge comes heaving forth below
With a long gleam; and nearer as they go,
They see the still Marecchia, cold and bright,
Sleeping along with face against the light.
A hollow trample now,-a fall of chains,
The bride has enter'd,-not a voice remains ;-
Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.
Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss,
And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss?
Why mar the face of beauty, and disclose
The weeping days that with the morning rose,
And bring the bitter disappointment in,—
The holy cheat, the virtue-binding sin,—
The shock, that told this lovely, trusting heart,
That she had given, beyond all power to part,
Her hope, belief, love, passion, to one brother,
Possession (oh, the misery!) to another?
Some likeness was there 'twixt the two,—an air
At times, a cheek, a colour of the hair,
A tone, when speaking of indifferent things;
Nor, by the scale of common measurings,
Would you say more perhaps, than that the one
Was more robust, the other finelier spun;
That of the two, Giovanni was the graver,
Paulo the livelier, and the more in favour.
Pride in his warlike fame made some prefer Giovanni's countenance as the martialler;
And 'twas a soldier's truly, if an eye
Ardent and cool at once, drawn-back and high,
An eagle nose and a determined lip,
Were the best marks of manly soldiership.
Paulo's was fashion'd in a different mould,
And to a finer end: for though 'twas bold,
When boldness was requir'd, and could put on
A glowing frown as if an angel shone,
Yet there was nothing in it one might call
A stamp exclusive or professional,——
No courtier's face, and yet its smile was ready,-
No scholar's, yet its look was deep and steady,-
No soldier's, for its power was all of mind,
Too true for violence, and too refin'd.
The very nose, lightly though firmly wrought, Refinement show'd; the brow, clear-spirited thought;
Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye, And round his mouth was sensibility :—
It was a face, in short, seem'd made to show How far the genuine flesh and blood could go;—
A morning glass of unaffected nature,
Something, that baffled looks of loftier feature,-
The visage of a glorious human creature.
If any points there were, at which they came Nearer together, 'twas in knightly fame, And all accomplishments that art might know,— Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow, The rush together in the bright-eyed list, Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely miss'd, And the decision of still knottier points,
With knife in hand, of boar and peacock joints,-
Things, that might shake the fame that Tristan got,
And bring a doubt on perfect Launcelot.*
But leave we knighthood to the former part;
The tale I tell is of the human heart.
The worst of Prince Giovanni, as his bride Too quickly found, was an ill-temper'd pride. Bold, handsome, able (if he chose) to please, Punctual and right in common offices,
* The two famous knights of the Round Table, great huntsmen, and therefore great carvers. Boars and peacocks, served up whole, the latter with the feathers on, were eminent dishes with the knights of old, and must have called forth all the profundity of this accomplishment.
He lost the sight of conduct's only worth,
The scattering smiles on this uneasy earth,
And on the strength of virtues of small weight,
Claim'd tow'rds himself the exercise of great.
He kept no reckoning with his sweets and sours ;—
He'd hold a sullen countenance for hours,
And then, if pleas'd to cheer himself a space,
Look for the immediate rapture in your face,
And wonder that a cloud could still be there,
How small soever, when his own was fair.
Yet such is conscience, so designed to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else may sleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self can lie
Cored in thy heart, poor Self-complacency,
That no suspicion would have touch'd him more,
Than that of wanting on the generous score:
He would have whelm'd you with a weight of scorn,
Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ill-temper'd for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turn'd merit,
But not the patience, nor the genial spirit;
And so he made, 'twixt virtue and defect,
A sort of fierce demand on your respect,
Which, if assisted by his high degree,
gave him in some eyes a dignity,
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