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the facts on which the story is founded. The

SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as


January 22, 1816.


more metrical.

"Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, The following poem is grounded on a and Hugo his bastard-son, a beautiful and circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's "Anti- valiant youth. They were beheaded in the quities of the House of Brunswick."-I am castle by the sentence of a father and husaware that in modern times the delicacy band, who published his shame, and suror fastidiousness of the reader may deem vived their execution. He was unfortunate, such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. if they were guilty; if they were innocent, The Greek dramatists, and some of the best he was still more unfortunate; nor is there of our old English writers, were of a differ- any possible situation in which I can sinent opinion as Alfieri and Schiller have cerely approve the last act of the justice of also been, more recently, upon the con- a parent.”— Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, tinent. The following extract will explain | vol. III. p. 470.

Ir is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear-obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

And heedless as the dead are they
Of aught around, above, beneath ;
As if all else had pass'd away,
They only for each other breathe;
Their very sighs are full of joy
So deep, that did it not decay,
That happy madness would destroy
The hearts which feel its fiery sway:
Of guilt, or peril, do they deem
In that tumultuous tender dream?
Who that have felt that passion's power,
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour?
Or thought how brief such moments last?

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. But yet-they are already past!

But it is not to list to the waterfall
That Parisina leaves her hall,

And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light
That the lady walks in the shadow of night;
And if she sits in Este's bower,

Alas! we must awake before

We know such vision comes no more.

With many a lingering look they leave The spot of guilty gladness past; And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower-As if that parting were the last. She listens-but not for the nightingale-The frequent sigh-the long embraceThough her ear expects as soft a tale. There glides a step through the foliage thick,

And her cheek grows pale-and her heart beats quick, There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves,

A moment more-and they shall meet'Tis past her lover's at her feet.

And what unto them is the world beside,
With all its change of time and tide?
Its living things-its earth and sky-
Are nothing to their mind and eye.

The lip that there would cling for ever,
While gleams on Parisina's face
The Heaven she fears will not forgive her,
As if each calmly conscious star
Beheld her frailty from afar—
The frequent sigh, the long embrace,
Yet binds them to their trysting-place.
But it must come, and they must part
In fearful heaviness of heart,
With all the deep and shuddering chill
Which follows fast the deeds of ill.

And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, To covet there another's bride;

But she must lay her conscious head
A husband's trusting heart beside.
But fever'd in her sleep she seems,
And red her cheek with troubled dreams,
And mutters she in her unrest
A name she dare not breathe by day,
And clasps her Lord unto the breast
Which pants for one away:
And he to that embrace awakes,
And, happy in the thought, mistakes
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress,
For such as he was wont to bless;
And could in very fondness weep
O'er her who loves him even in sleep.

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, And listen'd to each broken word: He hears - Why doth Prince Azo start, As if the Archangel's voice he heard? And well he may-a deeper doom Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, When he shall wake to sleep no more, And stand the eternal throne before. And well he may-his earthly peace Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. That sleeping whisper of a name Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. And whose that name? that o'er his pillow Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, Which rolls the plank upon the shore, And dashes on the pointed rock The wretch who sinks to rise no more, So came upon his soul the shock. And whose that name? 'tis Hugo's-hisIn sooth he had not deem'd of this!Tis Hugo's, - he, the child of one He loved his own all-evil sonThe offspring of his wayward youth, When he betray'd Bianca's truth, The maid whose folly could confide In him who made her not his bride,

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, But sheathed it ere the point was bare Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, He could not slay a thing so fair At least, not smiling - sleeping thereNay, more: he did not wake her then, But gazed upon her with a glance Which, had she roused her from her trance, flad frozen her sense to sleep again And o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more-but still she slumber'd While, in his thought, her days are


And with the morn he sought, and found, In many a tale from those around, The proof of all he fear'd to know, Their present guilt, his future woe; The long-conniving damsels seek

To save themselves, and would transfer

The guilt-the shame-the doom to her:
Concealment is no more-they speak
All circumstance which may compel
Full credence to the tale they tell:
And Azo's tortured heart and ear
Have nothing more to feel or hear.

He was not one who brook'd delay:
Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Este's ancient sway
Upon his throne of judgment sate;
His nobles and his guards are there,-
Before him is the sinful pair;

Both young, and one how passing fair!
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand,
Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand
Before a father's face!

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire,
And hear the sentence of his ire,
The tale of his disgrace!

And yet he seems not overcome,
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb.

And still, and pale, and silently
Did Parisina wait her doom;
How changed since last her speaking eye
Where high-born men were proud to wait
Glanced gladness round the glittering room,
Where Beauty watch'd to imitate
Her gentle voice her lovely mien-
The graces of its queen :
And gather from her air and gait

A thousand warriors forth had leapt,
Then,--had her eye in sorrow wept,
A thousand swords had sheathless shone,
And made her quarrel all their own.
Now, what is she? and what are they?
Can she command, or these obey?
All silent and unheeding now,
With downcast eyes and knitting brow,
And folded arms, and freezing air,
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,
Her knights and dames, her court-is there:
And he, the chosen one, whose lance
Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
Who -werc his arm a moment free-
Had died or gain'd her liberty;
The minion of his father's bride,-
He, too, is fetter'd by her side;
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim
Less for her own despair than him:
Those lids-o'er which the violet vein
Wandering, leaves a tender stain,
Shining through the smoothest white
That e'er did softest kiss invite-
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;
As tear on tear grows gathering still.
Which glance so heavily, and fill,

And he for her had also wept, But for the eyes that on him gazed : His sorrow, if he felt it, slept;

Stern and erect his brow was raised.
Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd,
He would not shrink before the crowd;
But yet he dared not look on her:
Remembrance of the hours that were-
His guilt his love-his present state-

But she is in the grave, where he, Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. Her broken heart-my sever'd head Shall witness for thee from the dead How trusty and how tender were Thy youthful love-paternal care.

His father's wrath-all good men's hate-Tis true, that I have done thee wrongHis earthly, his eternal fate-

And hers,-oh, hers! he dared not throw
One look upon that deathlike brow!
Else had his rising heart betray'd
Remorse for all the wreck it made.

And Azo spake :-"But yesterday I gloried in a wife and son; That dream this morning pass'd away; Ere day declines, I shall have none. My life must linger on alone; Well, let that pass,-there breathes not one Who would not do as I have done : Those ties are broken-not by me; Let that too pass: -the doom's prepared! Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, And then-thy crime's reward! Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, Before its evening-stars are metLearn if thou there canst be forgiven; Its mercy may absolve thee yet. But here, upon the earth beneath, There is no spot where thou and I Together, for an hour, could breathe: Farewell! I will not see thee dieBut thou, frail thing! shalt view his head Away! I cannot speak the rest : Go! woman of the wanton breast; Not I, but thou his blood dost shed: Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, And joy thee in the life I give."

And here stern Azo hid his face For on his brow the swelling vein Throbb'd as if back upon his brain The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again; And therefore bow'd he for a space And pass'd his shaking hand along His eye, to veil it from the throng; While Hugo raised his chained hands, And for a brief delay demands His father's ear: the silent sire Forbids not what his words require.

"It is not that I dread the deathFor thou hast seen me by thy side All redly through the battle ride, And that not once a useless brand Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, Hath shed more blood in cause of thine Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: Thou gavest, and mayst resume my breath, A gift for which I thank thee not; Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, Her slighted love and ruin'd name, Her offspring's heritage of shame ;

But wrong for wrong-this deem'd thy bride,


The other victim of thy pride,
Thou knowst for me was destined long.
Thou sawst, and covetedst her charms-
And with thy very crime-my birth,
Thou tauntedst me-as little worth
A match ignoble for her arms,
Because, forsooth, I could not claim
The lawful heirship of thy name,
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne:
Yet, were a few short summers mine,
My name should more than Este's shine
With honours all my own.

I had a sword--and have a breast
That should have won as haught a crest
As ever waved along the line

Of all these sovereign sires of thine.
Not always knightly spurs are worn
The brightest by the better born;
And mine have lanced my courser's flank
Before proud chiefs of princely rank,
When charging to the cheering cry
Of "Este and of Victory!"

I will not plead the cause of crime,
Nor sue thee to redeem from time
A few brief hours or days that must
At length roll o'er my reckless dust;
Such maddening moments as my past,
They could not, and they did not, last-
Albeit my birth and name be base,
And thy nobility of race

Disdain'd to deck a thing like me-
Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face,
And in my spirit-all of thec.
From thee-this tamelessness of heart-
From thee
nay, wherefore dost thou
start? -

From thee in all their vigour came
My arm of strength, my soul of flame-
Thou didst not give me life alone,
But all that made me more thine own.
See what thy guilty love hath done!
Repaid thee with too like a son!
I am no bastard in my soul,
For that, like thine, abhorr'd controul :
And for my breath, that hasty boon
Thou gavest and wilt resume so soon,
I valued it no more than thou,
When rose thy casque above thy brow,
And we, all side by side, have striven,
And o'er the dead our coursers driven :
The past is nothing- and at last
The future can but be the past;
Yet would I that I then had died:
For though thou work'dst my mother's ill,
And made thy own my destined bride,

I feel thou art my father still;
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree,
'Tis not unjust, although from thee.
Begot in sin, to die in shame,
My life begun and ends the same:
As err'd the sire, so err'd the son,
And thou must punish both in one.
My crime seems worst to human view,
But God must judge between us two!”

He ceased—and stood with folded arms, On which the circling fetters sounded; And not an ear but felt as wounded,

Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, When those dull chains in meeting clank'd: Till Parisina's fatal charms

Again attracted every eye

Would she thus hear him doom'd to die!
She stood, I said, all pale and still,
The living cause of Hugo's ill:
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,
Not once had turn'd to either side -
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew —
And there with glassy gaze she stood
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear
So large and slowly gather'd slid

She had forgotten:-did she breathe?
Could this be still the earth beneath?
The sky above, and men around ;
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd
On one, before whose eyes each eye
Till then had smiled in sympathy?
All was confused and undefined,
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears:
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,
She strove with that convulsive dream;

For so it seem'd on her to break:
Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!

The Convent-bells are ringing,
But mournfully and slow,
In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro.
Heavily to the heart they go!
Hark! the hymn is singing—
The song for the dead below,
Or the living who shortly shall be so!
For a departing being's soul
The death-hymn peals and the hollow
bells knoll:

He is near his mortal goal;
Kneeling at the Friar's knee;
Sad to hear-and piteous to see--
Kneeling on the bare cold ground,

From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, With the block before and the guard around

It was a thing to see, not hear!
And those who saw, it did surprise,
Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
It ceased - again she thought to speak,
Then burst her voice in one long shriek,
And to the earth she fell like stone
Or statue from its base o'erthrown,
More like a thing that ne'er had life,-
A monument of Azo's wife,-
Than her, that living guilty thing,
Whose every passion was a sting,
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear
That guilt's detection and despair.
But yet she lived- and all too soon
Recover'd from that death-like swoon-
But scarce to reason-every sense
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense;
And each frail fibre of her brain
(As bow-strings, when relax'd by rain,
The erring arrow launch aside)
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide-
The past a blank, the future black,
With glimpses of a dreary track,
Like lightning on the desert-path,
When midnight storms are mustering wrath.
She fear'd-she felt that something ill
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill—
That there was sin and shame she knew;
That some one was to die--but who?

And the headsman with his bare arm

[blocks in formation]

It is a lovely hour as yet
Before the summer-sun shall set,
Which rose upon that heavy day,
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray;
And his evening-beams are shed
Full on Hugo's fated head,
As his last confession pouring
To the monk, his doom deploring
In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may
Wipe our mortal stains away.
That high sun on his head did glisten
As he there did bow and listen-
And the rings of chesnut hair
Curled half down his neck so bare;
But brighter still the beam was thrown
Upon the axe which near him shone
With a clear and ghastly glitter-
Oh! that parting-hour was bitter!
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe :
Dark the crime, and just the law-
Yet they shudder'd as they, saw.

The parting prayers are said and over
Of that false son--and daring lover!
His beads and sins are all recounted,
His hours to their last minute mounted—
His mantling cloak before was stripp'd,
His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd;
"Tis done-all closely are they shorn-
The vest which till this moment worn-
The scarf which Parisina gave-
Must not adorn him to the grave.
Even that must now be thrown aside,
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ;
But no-that last indignity

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.
All feelings seemingly subdued,

In deep disdain were half renew'd,
When headman's hands prepared to bind

That, as a mother's o'er her child,
Done to death by sudden blow,
To the sky these accents go,
Like a soul's in endless woe.
Through Azo's palace-lattice driven,
That horrid voice ascends to heaven,
And every eye is turn'd thereon;
But sound and sight alike are gone!
It was a woman's shriek-and ne'er
In madlier accents rose despair;
And those who heard it, as it past,
In mercy wish'd it were the last.

Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour,
No more in palace, hall, or bower,
Was Parisina heard or seen :
Her name as if she ne'er had been--

Those eyes which would not brook such Was banish'd from each lip and car,


As if they dared not look on death.
"No-yours my forfeit blood and breath-
These hands are chain'd—but let me die
At least with an unshackled eye-
Strike:" and as the word he said,
Upon the block he bow'd his head;
These the last accents Hugo spoke:
“Strike”—and flashing fell the stroke-
Roll'd the head-and, gushing, sunk
Back the stain'd and heaving trunk,
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slaked with its ensanguined rain;
His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convulsed and quick-then fix for ever.

He died, as erring man should die,
Without display, without parade;
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd,
As not disdaining priestly aid,
Nor desperate of all hope on high.
And while before the Prior kneeling,

His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling;
His wrathful sire-his paramour-

What were they in such an hour?
No more reproach-no more despair;

Like words of wantonness or fear;
And from Prince Azo's voice, by none
Was mention heard of wife or son;
No tomb-no memory had they;
Theirs was unconsecrated clay;
At least the knight's who died that day.
But Parisina's fate lies hid
Like dust beneath the coffin-lid:
Whether in convent she abode,
And won to heaven her dreary road,
By blighted and remorseful years
Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears;
Or if she fell by bowl or steel,
For that dark love she dared to feel;
Or if, upon the moment smote,
She died by tortures less remote;
Like him she saw upon the block,

With heart that shared the headman's shock,
In quicken'd brokenness that came,
In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame,

None knew-and none can ever know:

But whatsoe'er its end below,

Her life began and closed in woe!

And Azo found another bride,
And goodly sons grew by his side;

No thought but heaven-no word but prayer-But none so lovely and so brave

Save the few which from him broke,
When, bared to meet the headman's stroke,
He claim'd to die with eyes unbound,
His sole adieu to those around.

Still as the lips that closed in death,
Each gazer's bosom held his breath:
But yet, afar, from man to man,
A cold electric shiver ran,

As down the deadly blow descended
On him whose life and love thus ended;
And with a hushing sound comprest,
A sigh shrunk back on every breast;
But no more thrilling noise rose there,
Beyond the blow that to the block

As him who wither'd in the grave;
Or if they were—on his cold eye
Their growth but glanced unheeded by,
Or noticed with a smother'd sigh.
But never tear his cheek descended,
And never smile his brow unbended;
And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought
The intersected lines of thought;
Those furrows which the burning share
Of sorrow ploughs untimely there;
Scars of the lacerating mind

Which the soul's war doth leave behind.
He was past all mirth or woe:
Nothing more remain'd below
But sleepless nights and heavy days,

Pierced through with forced and sullen A mind all dead to scorn or praise,


Save one: what cleaves the silent air

So madly shrill, so passing wild?

A heart which shunn'd itself—and yet
That would not yield-nor could forget;
Which when it least appear'd to melt,

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