The Angel listen'd,-risen upon one knee,
Resolved to hear the deadliest undismay'd
His star-dropt plume hung round him droopingly,
His brow, like marble, on his hand was staid.
Still through the auburn locks' o'erhanging shade
His face shone beautiful; he heard his ban;
Then came the words of mercy, sternly said;
He plunged within his hands his visage wan,

And the first wild, sweet tears from his heart-pulses ran.

The Giant grasp'd him as he fell to earth,
And his black vanes upon the air were flung,
A tabernacle dark;-and shouts of mirth
Mingled with shriekings through the tempest swung;
His arm around the fainting angel ciung.
Then on the clouds he darted with a groan;

A moment o'er the mount of ruin hung,
Then burst through space, like the red comet's cone,
Leaving his track on heaven a burning, endless zone.

13

THE SUN IS up, and 'tis a mora of May Round old Ravenna's clear-shown towers and bay, A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen, Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night, Have left a sparkling welcome for the light, And there's a crystal clearness all about; The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out; A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze; The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees; And when you listen, you may hear a coil Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil; And all the scene in short,-sky, earth, and sea, Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly

'Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day,

And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

And well may all who can, come crowding there,
If peace returning, and processions rare,
And to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set enjoying fancies on the wing;
For on this sparkling day, Ravenna's pride,
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride,
A bride, to ransom an exhausted land:

And he, whose victories have obtained her hand,
Has taken with the dawn, so flies report,
His promised journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanní, lord of Rimini.

Already in the streets the stir grows loud
Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd.
With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends:
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.
With heaved-out tapestry the windows glow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go;
Till, the work smoothed, and all the street attired,
They take their seats, with upward gaze admired;
Some looking down, some forwards or aside,
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,
Sonie turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow;

But all with smiles prepared, and garlands green,
And al in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene.

And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start,
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
A monent's hush succeeds; and from the walls,
|Firm and at once, a silver answer calls.
Then press the crowd; and all, who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square;
For there Duke Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate:-
But the full place rejects the invading tide;
And after a rude heave from side to side,
With angry faces turned, and feet regained,
The peaceful press with order is maintained,
Leaving the path-ways only for the crowd,
The space within for the procession proud.

For in this manner is the square set out:-
The sides, path-deep, are crowded round about,
And faced with guards, who keep the road entire;
And opposite to these a brilliant quire

Of knights and ladies hold the central spot,
Seated in groups upon a grassy plot;

The seats with boughs are shaded from above
Of early trees transplanted from a grove,
And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene
A lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.

There, talking with the ladies, you may see,
As in some nest of faery poetry,
Some of the finest warriors of the court,-
Baptist, and Hugo of the princely port,
And Azo, and Obizo, and the grace

Of frank Esmeriald with his open face,
And Felix the Fine Arm, and him who well
Repays his lavish honors, Lionel,

Besides a host of spirits, nursed in glory,

Fit for sweet woman's love and for the poet's story
There too, in thickest of the bright-eyed throng
Stands the young father of Italian song,
Guy Cavalcanti, of a knightly race;

The poet looks out in his earnest face;

He with the pheasant's plume-there-bending now
Something he speaks around him with a bow,
And all the listening looks, with nods and flushes,
Break round him into smiles and sparkling blushes.

Another start of trumpets, with reply;
And o'er the gate a sudden canopy

Of snowy white disparts its draperied shade.
And Guido issues with the princely maid,
And sits; the courtiers fall on either side,
But every look is fixed upon the bride,
Who pensive comes at first, and hardly hear
The enormous shout that springs as she appears,
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with gratefi mage glow.

A home to leave, and husband yet to see,
Fade in the warmths of that great charity;
And hard it is, she thinks, to have no will;
But not to bless these thousands, harder stiM:
With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears
Scarce moves ner patient mouth, and disappears;
A smile is underneath, and breaks away,

And round she looks and breathes, as best befits the day
What need I tell of lovely lips and eyes,

A perfect waist, and bosom's balmy rise?
'There's not in all that crowd a gallant being,
Whom if his heart were whole, and rank agreeing.
It would not fire to twice of what he is,
To clasp her to his heart, and call her his.

While thus with tip-toe looks the people gaze,
Another shout the neighb'ring quarters raise:
The train are in the town, and gathering near,
With noise of cavalry, and trumpets clear;
A princely music, unbedinned with drums;
The mighty brass seems opening as it comes;
And now it fills, and now it shakes the air,
And now it bursts into the sounding square;
At which the crowd with such a shout rejoice,
Each thinks he's deafen'd with his neighbor's voice.
Then, with a long-drawn breath, the clangora die;
The palace trumpets give a last reply,

And clattering hoofs succeed, with stately stir
Of snortings proud and clinking furniture.
It seems as if the harnessed war were near;
But in their garb of peace the train appear,
Their swords alone reserved, but idly hung,

And the chains freed by which their shields were slung

First come the trumpeters, clad all in white
Except the breast, which wears a scutcheon bright.
By four and four they ride, on horses grey;
And as they sit along their easy way,
To the steed's motion yielding as they go,
Each plants his trumpet on his saddle-bow.

The heralds next appear, in vests attired
Of stiffening gold with radiant colors fired;
And then the pursuivants, who wait on these,
All dressed in painted richness to the knees:
Each rides a dappled horse, and bears a shield,
Charged with three heads upon a golden field.*

Twelve ranks of squire come after, twelve in one,
With forked pennons lifted in the sun,
Which tell, as they look backward in the wind,
The bearings of the knights that ride behind.
Their steeds are ruddy bay; and every squire
His master's color shows in his attire.

These past, and at a lordly distance, come
The knights themselves, and fill the quickening hum,
The flower of Rimini. Apart they ride,
Six in a row, and with a various pride;

But all as fresh as fancy could desire,
All shapes of gallantry on steeds of fire.

Differing in colors is the knight's array,

The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay;-
The horsemen, crimson vested, purple, and white,-
All but the scarlet cloak for every knight,
Which thrown apart, and hanging loose behind,
Rests on the steed, and ruffles in the wind.
Instead of helm, in draperies they appear
Of folded cloth, depending by the ear:
And the steeds also make a mantled show;
The golden bits keep wrangling as they go:
With gold the bridles glance against the sun;
And the rich horse-cloths, ample every one,
Which, from the saddle-bow, dress half the steed,
Are some of them all thick with golden thread:
Others have spots, on grounds of different hue,
As burning stars upon a cloth of blue;
Or purple smearings, with a velvet light,
Rich from the glary yellow thickening bright;
Or a spring green, powdered with April posies;
Or flush vermilion, set with silver roses:
But all go sweeping back, and seem to dress
The forward march with loitering stateliness.

The arms of the Malatesta family.

With various earnestness the crowd admire
Horseman and horse, the motion and the attire.
Some watch, as they go by, the riders' faces
Looking composure, and their knightly graces;
The life, the carelessness, the sudden heed,
The body curving to the rearing steed,
The patting hand, that best persuades the check,
And makes the quarrel up with a proud neck,
The travell'd hues of some, the bloom of those,
And scars, the keepsakes of admiring foes.

Others the horses and their pride explore,
Their jauntiness behind and strength before;
The flowing back, firm chest, and fetlocks clean,
The branching veins ridging the glossy ean,
The mane hung sleekly, the projecting eye
That to the stander near looks awfully,
The finished head, in its compactness free,
Small, and o'erarching to the lifted knee,
The start and snatch, as if they felt the comb,
With mouths that fling about the creamy foam,
The snorting turbulence, the nod, the champing,
The shift, the tossing, and the fiery tramping.

And now the Princess, pale and with fixed eye,
Perceives the last of those precursors nigh,
Each rank uncovering, as they pass in state,
Both to the courtly fountain and the gate.
And then a second interval succeeds
Of stately length, and then a troop of steeds
Milkwhite and unattired, Arabian bred,
Each by a blooming boy lightsomely led:
In every limb is seen their faultless race;
But sprightly malice glances in the face;
They doubt their masters in a foreign place:
Slender their spotless shapes, and meet the sight
With freshness, after all those colors bright:
And as with easy pitch their steps they bear,
The very ease seems something to beware:
The yielding head has still a wilful air.
These for a princely present are divined,
And show the giver is not far behind.

The talk increases now, and now advance,
Space after space, with many a sprightly prance,
The pages of the court, in rows of three;
Of white and crimson is their livery.
Space after space, and still the train appear,-
A fervid whisper fills the general ear-
Ah-yes-no-'tis not he-but 'tis the squires
Who go before him when his pomp requires;
And now his huntsman shows the lessening train
Now the squire-carver, and the chamberlain,-
And now his banner comes, and now his shield
Borne by the squire that waits him to the field.
And then an interval,-a lordly space;-
A pin-drop silence strikes o'er all the place;
The princess, from a distance, scarcely knows
Which way to look; her color comes and goes,
And, with an impulse and affection free,
She lays her hand upon her father's knee,
Who looks upon her with a labored smile,
Gathering it up into his own the while,
When some one's voice, as if it knew not how
To check itself, exclaims, "The prince! now--now!"
And on a milk-white courser, like the air,

A glorious figure springs into the square,
Up, with a burst of thunder, goes the shout,
And rolls the trembling walls and peopled roofs about

Never was nobler finish of fine sight;
'Twas like the coming of a shape of light;
And every lovely gazer, with a start,
Felt the quick pleasure smite across her heart.
The princess, who at first could scarcely see,
Though looking still that way from dignity,
Gathers new courage as the praise goes round,
And bends her eyes to learn what they have found
And see, his horse obeys the check unseen;
And with an air 'twixt ardent and serene,
Letting a fall of curls about his brow,
He takes his cap off with a gallant bow;
Then for another and a deafening shout,

And scarfs are waved, and flowers come fluttering out,
And, shaken by the noise, the reeling air
Sweeps with a giddy whirl among the fair,

And whisks their garments, and their shining hair.
With busy interchange of wonder glows
The crowd, and loves his bravery as he goes,-
But on his shape the gentler sight attends,
Moves as he passes, -as he bends him, bends,-
Watches his air, his gesture, and his face,
And thinks it never saw such manly grace,
So fine are his bare throat, and curls of black,-
So lightsomely dropt in, his lordly back-
His thigh so fitted for the tilt or dance,

So heaped with strength, and turned with elegance;
But above all, so meaning is his look,
Full, and as readable as open book;
And such true gallantry the sex descries
In the frank lifting of his cordial eyes.

His haughty steed, who seems by turns to be
Vexed and made proud by that cool mastery,
Shakes at his bit, and rolls his eyes with care,
Reaching with stately step at the fine air;
And now and then, sideling his restless pace,
Drops with his hinder legs, and shifts his place,
And feels through all his frame a fiery thrill:
The princely rider on his back sits still,

And looks where'er he likes, and sways him at his will.

Surprise, relief, a joy scarce understood,
Something perhaps of very gratitude,
And fifty feelings, undefin'd and new,

Dance through the bride, and flush her faded hue
Could I but once," she thinks, "securely place
A trust for the contents on such a case,

And know the spirit that should fill that dwelling,
This chance of mine would hardly be compelling."
Just then, the stranger, coming slowly round
By the clear fountain and the brilliant ground,
And bending, as he goes, with frequent thanks,
Beckons a follower to him from the ranks,
And loosening, as he speaks, from its light hold,
A dropping jewel with its chain of gold,
Sends it, in token he had loved him long,
To the young father of Italian song:
The youth smiles up, and with a lowly grace
Bending his lifted eyes and blushing face,
Looks after his new friend, who, scarcely gone
In the wide turning, nods and passes on.

This is sufficient for the destined bride;
She took an interest first, but now a pride:
And as the prince comes riding to the place,
Baring his head, and raising his fine face,
She meets his full obeisance with an eye
Of self-permission and sweet gravity;

He looks with touched respect, and gazes, and goes by.

CANTO II.

THE BRIDE'S JOURNEY TO RIMINI.
PASS we the followers, and their closing state
The court was entered by a hinder gate;
The duke and princess had retired before,
Joined by the knights and ladies at the door;
But something seemed amiss, and there ensued
Deep talk among the spreading multitude,
Who stood in groups, or paced the measured street,
Filling with earnest hum the noontide heat;
Nor ceased the wonder, as the day increased,
And brought no symptoms of a bridal feast,
No mass, no tilt, no largess for the crowd,
Nothing to answer that procession proud;
But a blank look, as if no court had been,
Silence without and secrecy within;

And nothing heard by listening at the walls,
But now and then a bustling through the halls,
Or the dim organ roused at gathering intervals.

The truth was this:-The bridegroom had not come,
But sent his brother, proxy in his room.
A lofty spirit the former was, and proud,

Little gallant, and had a sort of cloud
Hanging for ever on his cold address,
Which he mistook for sovereign manliness
But more of this hereafter. Guido knew
The prince's faults; and he was conscious too,
That sweet as was his daughter, and prepared
To do her duty, where appeal was barred,
She had a sense of marriage, just and free;
And where the match looked ill for harmony,
Might pause with fireness, and refuse to strike
A chord her own sweet music so unlike.
The old man therefore, kind enough at heart,
Yet fond, from habit, of intrigue and art,
And little formed for sentiments like these,
Which seemed to him mere maiden niceties
Had thought at once to gratify the pride
Of his stern neighbor, and secure the bride,
By telling him, that if, as he had heard,
Busy he was just then, 'twas but a word,
And he might send and wed her by a third,
Only the duke thus farther must presume,
For both their sakes,-that still a prince inust come
The bride meantime was told, and not unmoved,
To look for one no sooner seen than loved;
And when Giovanni, struck with what he though⭑
Mere proof how his triumphant hand was sought,
Dispatched the wished-for prince, who was a creature
Formed in the very poetry of nature,

The effect was perfect, and the future wife
Caught in the elaborate snare, perhaps for life

One shock there was, however, to sustain,
Which nigh restored her to herself again.
She saw, when all were housed, in Guido's face
A look of liesurely surprise take place;
A little whispering followed for a while,
And then 'twas told her with an easy smile,
That Prince Giovanni, to his great chagrin,
Had been delayed by something unforeseen,
But rather than defer his day of bliss
(If his fair ruler took it not amiss)

Had sent his brother Paulo in his stead;
"Who," said old Guido, with a nodding head,

May well be said to represent his brother,
For when you see the one, you know the other."

By this time Paulo joined them where they stood,
And seeing her in some uneasy mood,
Changed the mere cold respects his brother sent
To such a strain of cordial compliment,
And paid them with an air so frank and bright,
As to a friend appreciated at sight,
That air in short which sets you at your ease,
Without implying your perplexities,
That what with the surprise in every way,
The hurry of the time, the appointed day,
The very shame, which now appeared increased,
Of begging leave to have her hand released,
And above all, those tones, and smiles, and looks,
Which seemed to realize the dreams of books,
And helped her genial fancy to conclude
That fruit of such a stock must all be good,
She knew no longer how she could oppose:
Quick were the marriage-rights; and at the close,
The proxy, turning midst the general hush,
Kissed her meek lips, betwixt a rosy blush.

At last, about the vesper hour, a score
Of trumpets issued from the palace door,
The banners of their brass with favors tied,
And with a blast proclaimed the wedded bride.
But not a word the sullen silence broke,
Till something of a gift the herald spoke,
And with a bag of money issuing out,
Scattered the ready harvest round about;
Then burst the mob into a jovial cry,
And largess! largess! claps against the sky,
And bold Giovanni's name, the lord of Rimini.

The rest however still were looking on,
Careless and mute, and scarce the noise was gone,
When riding from the gate with banners reared,
Again the morning visitors appeared.
The prince was in his place; and in a car,

Before him, glistening like a farewell star,
Sate the dear lady with her brimming eyes;
And off they set, through doubtful looks and cries;
For some too shrewdly guessed, and some were vexed
At the dull day, and some the whole perplexed;
And all great pity thought it to divide

Two that seemed made for bridegroom and for bride.
Ev'n she, whose heart this strange, abrupt event
Had cross'd and sear'd with burning wonderment
Could scarce, at times, a starting cry forbear
At leaving her own home and native air;
Till passing now the limits of the town,
And on the last few gazers looking down,
She saw by the road-side an aged throng,
Who wanting power to bustle with the strong,
Had learnt their gracious mistress was to go,
And gathered there, an unconcerted show;
Bending they stood, with their old forehead's bare,
And the winds fingered with their reverend hair.
Farewell! farewell, my friends! she would have cried,
But in her throat the leaping accents died,
And, waving with her hand a vain adieu,
She dropt her veil, and backwarder withdrew,

And let the kindly tears their own good course pursue.

It was a lovely evening, fit to close

A lovely day, and brilliant in repose.
Warm, but not dim, a glow was in the air;

The softened breeze came smoothing here and there;
And every tree, in passing, one by one,
Gleamed out with twinkles of the golden sun:
For leafy was the road, with tall array,
On either side, of mulberry and bay,
And distant snatches of blue hills between;
And there the alder was with its bright green,
And the broad chestnut, and the poplar's shoot,
That like a feather waves from head to foot,
With, ever and anon, majestic pines;
And still from tree to tree, the early vines
Hung garlanding the way in amber lines.

Nor long the princess kept her from the view
Of that dear scenery with its parting hue:
For sitting now, calm from the gush of tears,
With dreaming eye fixed down, and half-shut ears,
Hearing, yet hearing not, the fervent sound

Of hoofs thick reckoning and the wheel's moist round,
A call of "slower!" from the farther part
Of the check'd riders, woke her with a start;
And looking up again, half sigh, half stare,
She lifts her veil, and feels the freshening air.

'Tis down a hill they go, gentle indeed,
And such, as with a bold and playful speed
Another time they would have scorned to measure;
But now they take with them a lovely treasure,
And feel they should consult her gentle pleasure.

And now with thicker shades the pines appear;
The noise of hoofs grows duller on the ear;
And quitting suddenly their gravelly toil,
The wheels go spinning o'er a sandy soil.
Here first the silence of the country seems
To come about her with its listening dreams,

And full of anxious thoughts, half freed from pain,
In downward musing she relapsed again,
Leaving the others, who had passed that way
In careless spirits of the early day,
To look about, and mark the reverend scene,
For awful tales renowned, and everlasting green.

A heavy spot the forest looks at first,
To one grim shade condemned, and sandy thirst,
Or only chequered, here and there, with bushes
Dusty and sharp, or plashy pools with rushes,
About whose sides the swarming insects fry,
Opening with noisome din, as they go by.
But entering more and more they quit the sand
At once, and strike upon a grassy land,
From which the trees, as from a carpet, rise
In knolls and clumps, with rich varieties.
A moment's trouble find the knights to rein
Their horses in, which, feeling turf again,
Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large

To scour the space and give the winds a charge.
Or pulling tight the bridles, as they
pass,
Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass.
But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade,
Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade,
Some baring to the cool their placid brows,
Some looking upward through the glimmering boughs,
Or peering grave through inward-opening places,
And half prepared for glimpse of shadowy faces.
Various the trees and passing foliage here,-
Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper,
With briony between in trails of white,

And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light,

And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark,
Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark,
And still the pine, long-haired, and dark, and tall,
In lordly right, predominant o'er all.

Much they admire that old religious tree
With shaft above the rest up-shooting free,
And shaking, when its dark locks feel the wind,
Its wealthy fruit with rough Mosaic rind.
At noisy intervals, the living cloud
Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud
Like a wild people at a stranger's coming;
Then hushing paths succeed, with insects humming,
Or ring-dove, that repeats his pensive plea,
Or startled gull up-screaming towards the sea.
But scarce their eyes encounter living thing.
Save, now and then, a goat loose wandering,
Or a few cattle, looking up aslant
With sleepy eyes and meek mouths ruminant;
Or once, a plodding woodman, old and bent,
Passing with half indifferent wonderment,
Yet turning, at the last, to look once more;
Then feels his trembling staff, and onward as before
So ride they pleased,-till now the couching sun
Levels his final look through shadows dun;
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 if 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 shadeTill many a rill now passed, 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 entered,-not a voice remains ;-Night, and a maiden silence, wrap the plains.

CANTO III.

THE FATAL PASSION.

Now why must I disturb a dream of bliss, And bring cold sorrow 'twixt the wedded kiss? How 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 color 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 favor.

Some tastes there were indeed, that would 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 cagle's nose and a determined lip,
Were the best marks of manly soldiership.
Paulo's was fashioned in a different mould,
And surely the more fine: for though 'twas bold,
When boldness was required, 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 refined.
The very nose, lightly yet firmly wrought,
Showed taste; the forehead a clear-spirited thought;
Wisdom looked sweet and inward from his eye;
And round his mouth was sensibility:

It was a face, in short, seemed 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 may know,—
Hunting, and princely hawking, and the bow,
The rush together in the bright-eyed list,
Fore-thoughted chess, the riddle rarely missed,
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,
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,
Claimed 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 pleased 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.
Ye, such is conscience, so designed to keep
Stern, central watch, though all things else go sleep,
And so much knowledge of one's self there lies
Cored, after all, in our complacencies,

That no suspicion would have touched him more,
Than that of wanting on the generous score:

He would have whelmed you with a weight of scorn,
Been proud at eve, inflexible at morn,
In short, ill-tempered for a week to come,
And all to strike that desperate error dumb.
Taste had he, in a word, for high-turned 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,
It gave him in some eyes a dignity,

And struck a meaner deference in the many,
Left him at last unloveable with any.

The two famous knights of the Round Table, great huntsmen, and of course great carvers Boars and peacocks, served up whole, the latber with the feathers on, were eminent dishes with the knights of old, and mus, have called forth all the exercise of this accomplishment.

From this complexion in the reigning brother His younger birth perhaps had saved the other Born to a homage less gratuitous,

He learned to win a nobler for his house; And both from habit and a genial heart, Without much trouble of the reasoning art, Found this the wisdom and the sovereign good, To be, and make, as happy as he could." Not that he saw, or thought he saw, beyond His general age, and could not be as fond Of wars and creeds as any of his race,But most he loved a happy human face; And wheresoe'er his fine, frank eyes were thrown, He struck the looks he wished for, with his own So what but service leaped where'er he went ' Was there a tilt-day or a tournament,— For welcome grace there rode not such another, Nor yet for strength, except his lordly brother. Was there a court-day, or a feast, or dance, Or minstrelsy with roving plumes from France, Or summer party to the greenwood shade, With lutes prepared, and cloth on herbage laid, And ladies' laughter coming through the air,He was the readiest and the blithest there; And made the time so exquisitely pass With stories told with elbow on the grass, Or touched the music in his turn so finely, That all he did, they thought, was done divinely

The lovely stranger could not fail to see Too soon this difference, more especially As her consent, too lightly now, she thought, With hopes far different had been strangely bough., And many a time the pain of that neglect Would strike in blushes o'er her self-respect: But since the ill was cureless, she applied With busy virtue to resume her pride, And hoped to value her submissive heart On playing well a patriot daughter's part, Trying her new-found duties to prefer To what a father might have owed to her. The very day too when her first surprise Was full, kind tears had come into her eyes On finding, by his care, her private room Furnished, like magic, from her own at home; The very books and all transported there, The leafy tapestry, and the crimson chair, The lute, the glass that told the shedding hours, The little urn of silver for the flowers, The frame for broidering, with a piece half done, And the white falcon, basking in the sun, Who, when he saw her, sidled on his stand, And twined his neck against her trembling hand

But what had touched her nearest, was the thought,
That if 'twere destined for her to be brought

To a sweet mother's bed, the joy would be
Giovanni's too, and his her family:-

He seemed already father of her child,

And on the nestling pledge in patient thought she smiles
Yet then a pang would cross her, and the red

In either downward cheek startle and spread,
To think that he, who was to have such part
In joys like these, had never shared her heart;
But then she chased it with a sigh austere ;
And did she chance, at times like these, to hear
Her husband's footstep, she would haste the more,
And with a double smile open the door,
And hope his day had worn a happy face;
Ask how his soldiers pleased him, or the chase,

Or what new court had sent to win his sovereign grace

The prince, at this, would bend on her an eye
Cordial enough, and kiss her tenderly:
Nor, to say truth, was he in general slow
To accept attentions, flattering to bestow;
But then meantime he took no generous pains,
By mutual pleasing, to secure his gains;
He entered not, in turn, in her delights,
Her books, her flowers, her taste for rural sights;
Nay scarcely her sweet singing minded he,
Unless his pride was roused by company;
Or when to please him, after martial play,
She strained her lute to some old fiery lay