The bat came hither for a sleeping place;
And he, that cursed another in his heart,
Said, 'Be thy dwelling, thro' the day and night,
Shunned like COLL'ALTO.'--'Twas in that old Pile,
Which flanks the cliff with its grey battlements
Flung here and there, and, like an eagle's nest,
Hangs in the TREVISAN, that thus the Steward,
Shaking his locks, the few that Time had left,
Addressed me, as we entered what was called
'My Lady's Chamber.' On the walls, the chairs,
Much yet remained of the rich tapestry;
Much of the adventures of SIR LANCELOT
In the green glades of some enchanted wood.
The toilet-table was of silver wrought,
Florentine Art, when Florence was renowned;
A gay confusion of the elements,
Dolphins and boys, and shells and fruits and flowers:
And from the ceiling, in his gilded cage,
Hung a small bird of curious workmanship,
That, when his Mistress bade him, would unfold
(So says the babbling Dame, Tradition, there)
His emerald-wings, and sing and sing again
The song that pleased her. While I stood and looked,
A gleam of day yet lingering in the West,
The Steward went on. She had ('tis now long since)
A gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Fair as a lily, and as spotless too;
None so admired, beloved. They had grown up As play-fellows; and some there were, that said, Some that knew much, discoursing of CRISTINE, She is not what she seems.' When unrequired,
She would steal forth; her custom, her delight,
To wander thro' and thro' an ancient grove
Self-planted half-way down, losing herself
Like one in love with sadness; and her veil
And vesture white, seen ever in that place,
Ever as surely as the hours came round,
Among those reverend trees, gave her below
The name of The White Lady. But the day
Is gone, and I delay thee.
The Countess, as it might be now, was sitting,
Her gentle serving-maid, the fair CRISTINE,
Combing her golden hair; and, thro' this door
The Count, her lord, was hastening, called away
By letters of great urgency to VENICE;
When in the glass she saw, as she believed,
('Twas an illusion of the Evil Spirit—
Some say he came and crossed it at the time)
A smile, a glance at parting, given and answered,
That turned her blood to gall. That very night
The deed was done. That night, ere yet the Moon
Was up on Monte Calvo, and the wolf
Baying as still he does (oft is he heard,
An hour and more, by the old turret-clock)
They led her forth, the unhappy lost CRISTINE,
Helping her down in her distress-to die.
No blood was spilt; no instrument of death Lurked-or stood forth, declaring its bad purpose; Nor was a hair of her unblemished head
Hurt in that hour. Fresh as a flower just blown,
And warm with life, her youthful pulses playing,
She was walled up within the Castle-wall.
The wall itself was hollowed secretly;
Then closed again, and done to line and rule.
Would'st thou descend?--"Tis in a darksome vault
Under the Chapel: and there nightly now,
As in the narrow niche, when smooth and fair,
And as tho' nothing had been done or thought,
The stone-work rose before her, till the light
Glimmered and went there, nightly, at that hour
(Thou smil'st, and would it were an idle tale!)
In her white veil and vesture white she stands
Shuddering her eyes uplifted, and her hands
Joined as in prayer; then, like a Blessed Soul
Bursting the tomb, springs forward, and away
Flies o'er the woods and mountains. Issuing forth,
The hunter meets her in his hunting-track;
The shepherd on the heath, starting, exclaims
(For still she bears the name she bore of old)
"Tis the White Lady!'
THERE is a glorious City in the Sea.
The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.
No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the Sea,
Invisible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating City-steering in,
And gliding up her streets as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, tho' Time had shattered them,
Still glowing with the richest hues of art,
As tho' the wealth within them had run o'er.
Thither I came, and in a wondrous Ark,
(That, long before we slipt our cable, rang
As with the voices of all living things)
From PADUA, where the stars are, night by night,
Watched from the top of an old dungeon-tower,
Whence blood ran once, the tower of Ezzelin—
Not as he watched them, when he read his fate
And shuddered. But of him I thought not then,
Him or his horoscope; far, far from me
The forms of Guilt and Fear; though some were there,
Sitting among us round the cabin-board,
Some who, like him, had cried, Spill blood enough!'
And could shake long at shadows. They had played
Their parts at PADUA, and were floating home,
Careless and full of mirth; to-morrow a day
Not in their Calendar. Who in a strain
To make the hearer fold his arms and sigh,
Sings Caro, Caro!'-'Tis the Prima Donna,
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