Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves Gathering wild myrtle. Such the Poet's dreams; Yet not such only. For look round and say, Where is the ground that did not drink warm blood, The echo that had learnt not to articulate
The cry of murder? Fatal was the day* To FLORENCE, when ('twas in a narrow street North of that temple, where the truly great Sleep, not unhonoured, not unvisited; That temple sacred to the Holy Cross-
There is the house-that house of the DONATI, Towerless, and left long since, but to the last Braving assault-all rugged, all embossed Below, and still distinguished by the rings Of brass, that held in war and festival-time Their family-standards) fatal was the day TO FLORENCE, when, at morn, at the ninth hour, A noble Dame in weeds of widowhood,
Weeds by so many to be worn so soon,
Stood at her door; and, like a sorceress, flung Her dazzling spell.
Subtle she was, and rich, Rich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light, Her daughter's beauty; and too well she knew Its virtue! Patiently she stood and watched; Nor stood alone-but spoke not-In her breast Her purpose lay; and, as a Youth passed by, Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said, Lifting a corner of the maiden's veil,
This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
This hast thou lost!' He gazed and was undone ! Forgetting-not forgot he broke the bond,
And paid the penalty, losing his life
At the bridge-foot; and hence a world of woe! Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood; No intermission! Law, that slumbers not, And, like the Angel with the flaming sword, Sits over all, at once chastising, healing, Himself the Avenger, went; and every street Ran red with mutual slaughter- tho' sometimes The young forgot the lesson they had learnt, And loved when they should hate-like thee, IMELDA, Thee and thy PAOLO. When last ye met.
In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone,
Not so the splendour thro' the cedar-grove
A radiance streamed like a consuming fire,
As tho' the glorious orb, in its descent, Had come and rested there) when last ye met, And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth, It had been well, hadst thou slept on, IMELDA, Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night Fell on that fatal spot, to wish thee dead, To track him by his blood, to search, to find, Then fling thee down to catch a word, a look, A sigh, if yet thou couldst (alas, thou couldst not) And die, unseen, unthought of- from the wound Sucking the poison.*
Yet, when Slavery came, Worse followed. Genius, Valour left the land, Indignant all that had from age to age
Adorned, ennobled; and headlong they fell, Tyrant and slave. For deeds of violence,
Done in broad day and more than half redeemed By many a great and generous sacrifice Of self to others, came the unpledged bowl, The stab of the stiletto. Gliding by
Unnoticed, in slouched hat and muffling cloak, That just discovered, Caravaggio-like,
A swarthy cheek, black brow, and eye of flame, The Bravo stole, and o'er the shoulder plunged To the heart's core, or from beneath the ribs Slanting (a surer path, as some averred)
Struck upward then slunk off, or, if pursued, Made for the Sanctuary, and there along The glimmering aisle among the worshippers Wandered with restless step and jealous look, Dropping thick blood.- Misnamed to lull alarm, In every Palace was The Laboratory,
Where he within brewed poisons swift and slow, That scattered terror 'till all things seemed poisonous, And brave men trembled if a hand held out A nosegay or a letter; while the Great Drank only from the Venice-glass, that broke, That shivered, scattering round it as in scorn, If aught malignant, aught of thine was there, Cruel TOPHANA; and pawned provinces For that miraculous gem, the gem that gave A sign infallible of coming ill,
That clouded though the vehicle of death. Were an invisible perfume. Happy then The guest to whom at sleeping-time 'twas said, But in an under-voice (a lady's page
Speaks in no louder) 'Pass not on. That door Leads to another which awaits thy coming, One in the floor-now left, alas, unlocked. No eye detects it-lying under-foot,
Just as thou enterest, at the threshold-stone; Ready to fall and plunge thee into night And long oblivion!
In that Evil Hour Where lurked not danger? Thro' the fairy-land No seat of pleasure glittering half-way down, No hunting-place-but with some damning spot That will not be washed out! There, at Caïano, Where, when the hawks were mewed and evening came, PULCI would set the table in a roar
With his wild lay there, where the Sun descends, And hill and dale are lost, veiled with his beams, The fair Venetian* died, she and her lord
Died of a posset drugged by him who sat
And saw them suffer, flinging back the charge; The murderer on the murdered.
Sounds inarticulate suddenly stopt, And followed by a struggle and a gasp, A gasp in death, are heard yet in Cerreto, Along the marble halls and staircases, Nightly at twelve; and, at the self-same hour, Shrieks, such as penetrate the inmost soul, Such as awake the innocent babe to long, Long wailing, echo thro' the emptiness Of that old den far up among the hills,†
Frowning on him who comes from Pietra-Mala; In them, alas, within five days and less, Two unsuspecting victims, passing fair, Welcomed with kisses, and slain cruelly, One with the knife, one with the fatal noose. But, lo, the Sun is setting; earth and sky One blaze of glory-What we saw but now, As though it were not, though it had not been! He lingers yet; and, lessening to a point, Shines like the eye of Heaven-then withdraws; And from the zenith to the utmost skirts All is celestial red! The hour is come, When they that sail along the distant seas, Languish for home; and they that in the morn Said to sweet friends farewell,' melt as at parting; When, just gone forth, the pilgrim, if he hears, As now we hear it- echoing round the hill, The bell that seems to mourn the dying day, Slackens his pace and sighs, and those he loved Loves more than ever. But who feels it not? And well we may, for we are far away.
It was an hour of universal joy.
The lark was up and at the gate of heaven, Singing, as sure to enter when he came; The butterfly was basking in my path, His radiant wings unfolded. From below The bell of prayer rose slowly, plaintively; And odours, such as welcome in the day,
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