Ungentle or ungenerous, spring up
Where he is sleeping; where, and in an age
Of savage warfare and blind bigotry,
He cultured all that could refine, exalt;
Leading to better things?
Ir thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To MODENA, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
BOLOGNA'S bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine)
Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the ORSINI.
* Affirming itself to be the very bucket which TASSONI in his mock heroics has celebrated as the cause of war between Bologna and Modena five hundred years ago.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee; thro' their arched walks,
Dim at noon-day, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,
Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love,
Read only part that day.*-
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not--
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a Lady in her earliest youth,
last of that illustrious race,
Done by ZAMPIERI†-but by whom I care not.
He, who observes it-ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said 'Beware!' her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
+ Commonly called DOMENICHINO.
An emerald-stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken-chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by ANTONY of Trent
With scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from VENICE, and had held
The ducal robes of some old Ancestor.
way-it may be true or falseBut don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The
young GINEVRA was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, FRANCESCO Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to FRANCESCO.
Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast,
When all sate down, the Bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried,
''Tis but to make a trial of our love!'
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left FRANCESCO,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger.
alas, she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, But that she was not!-Weary of his life, FRANCESCO flew to VENICE, and forthwith Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
|