Of fierce Orlando, or of Ferumbras,
Or Ryan's cloak, or how by the red grass
In battle you might know where Richard was
Yet all the while, no doubt, however stern
Or cold at times, he thought he loved in turn,
And that the joy he took in her sweet ways,
The pride he felt when she excited praise,
In short, the enjoyment of his own good pleasure,
Was thanks enough, and passion beyond measure.

She, had she loved him, might have thought so too:
For what will love's exalting not go through,
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness,
Shame the fond pri le it takes in its distress?
But ill prepared was she, in her hard lot,
To fancy merit where she found it not,-

She, who had been beguiled,-she, who was made
Within a gentle bosom to be laid,-

To bless and to be blessed,-to be heart-bare
To one who found his bettered likeness there,—
To think for ever with him, like a bride,-
To haunt his eye, like taste personified,-
To double his delight, to share his sorrow,

And like a morning beam, to wake him every morrow.

Paulo, meantime, who ever since the day
He saw her sweet looks bending o'er his way,
Had stored them up, unconsciously, as graces
By which to judge all other forms and faces,
Had learnt, I know not how, the secret snare,
Which gave her up, that evening, to his care.
Some babbler, may-be, of oid Guido's court,
Or foolish friend had told him, half in sport:
But to his heart the fatal flattery went;
And grave he grew, and inwardly intent,
And ran back, in his mind, with sudden spring,
Look, gesture, smile, speech, silence, every thing,
E'en what before had seemed indifference,
And read them over in another sense.
Then would he blush with sudden self-disdain,
To think how fanciful he was, and vain;
And with half angry, half regretful sigh,
Tossing his chin, and feigning a free eye,
Breathe off, as 'twere, the idle tale, and look
About him for his falcon or his book,
Scorning that ever he should entertain

One thought that in the end might give his brother pain.

This start however came so often round,-
So often fell he in deep thought, and found
Occasion to renew his carelessness,
Yet every time the power grown less and less,
That by degrees, half wearied, half inclined,
To the sweet struggling image he resigned:
And merely, as he thought, to make the best
Of what by force would come about his breast,
Began to bend down his admiring eyes
On all her touching looks and qualities,
Turning their shapely sweetness every way,
Till 'twas his food and habit day by day,
And she became companion of his thought;
Silence her gentleness before him brought,
Society her senge, reading her books,

Music her voice, every sweet thing her looks,
Which sometimes seemed, when he sat fixed awhile,
'To steal beneath his eyes with upward smile
And did he stroll into some lonely place,
Under the tress, upon the thick soft grass,
How charming, would he think, to see her here!
How heightened then, and perfect would appear
The two divinest things in earthly lot,
A lovely woman in a rural spot!

Thus daily went he on, gathering sweet pain
About his fancy, till it thrilled again:
And if his brother's image, less and less,
Startled him up from his new idleness,
"Twas not-he fancied, -that he reasoned worse,
Or felt less scorn of wrong, but the reverse.
That one should think of injuring another,
Or trenching on his peace,-this too a bra her,-
And all from selfishness and pure weak w
To him seemed marvellous and impossible

'Tis true thought he, one being more there was,
Who might meantime have weary hours to pass,
One weaker too to bear them,-and for whom?-
No matter; he could not reverse her doom;
And so he sighed and smiled, as if one thought
Of paltering could suppose that he was to be caught
Yet if she loved him, common gratitude,

If not, a sense of what was fair and good,
Besides his new relationship and right,
Would make him wish to please her all he might
And as to thinking,-where could be the harm,
If to his heart he kept its secret charm?
He wished not to himself another's blessing,
But ther. he might console for not possessing;
And glorious things there were, which but to see
And not admire, were mere stupidity:
He might as well object to his own eyes
For loving to behold the fields and skies,
His neighbor's grove, or story-painted hall;
'Twas but the taste for what was natural;
Only his fav'rite thought was loveliest of them all.
Concluding thus and happier that he knew
His ground so well, near and more near he drew,
And, sanctioned by his brother's manner, spent
Hours by her side, as happy as well-meant.
He read with her, he rode, he train❜d her hawk,
He spent still evenings in delightful talk,
While she sat busy at her broidery frame;

Or touched the lute with her, and when they came
To some fine part, prepared her for the pleasure,
And then with double smile stole on the measure

Then at the tournament,-who there but she
Made him more gallant still than formerly,
Couch o'er his tightened lance with double force,
Pass like the wind, sweeping down man and horse,
And franklier then than ever, midst the shout
And dancing trumpets ride, uncovered, round about?
His brother only, more than hitherto,

He would avoid, or sooner let subdue,

Partly from something strange unselt before,
Partly because Giovanni sometimes wore

A knot his bride had worked him, green and gold:-
For in all things with nature did she hold;
And while 'twas being worked, her fancy was
Of sunbeams mingling with a tuft of grass.

Francesca from herself but ill could hide
What pleasure now was added to her side,-
How placidly, yet fast, the days flew on
Thus link'd in white and loving unison,
And how the chair he sat in, and the room,
Began to look, when he had failed to come.
But as she better knew the cause than he,
She seemed to have the more necessity
For struggling hard, and rousing all her pride;
And so she did at first; she even tried
To feel a sort of anger at his care.

But these extremes brought but a kind despair;
And then she only spoke more sweetly to him,

And found her failing eyes give looks that melted thro' him
Giovanni too, who felt relieved indeed

To see another to his place succeed,

Or rather filling up some trifling hours,
Better spent elsewhere, and beneath his powers,
Left the new tie to strengthen day by day,
Talked less and less, and longer kept away,
Secure in his self-love and sense of right,
That he was welcome most, come when he might
And doubtless, they, in their still finer sense,
With added care repaid this confidence,
Turning their thoughts from his abuse of it,
To what on their own parts was gracefuì and was hit
Ah now, ve gentle pair,-now think awhile,
Now, while ye still can think, and still can smile;
Now, while your generous hearts have not been grieved
Perhaps with something not to be retrieved,
And ye have still, within, the power of gladness,
From self-resentment free, and retrospective madness!

So did they think-but partly from delay,
Partly from fancied ignorance of the way,

The princess came to her accustomed bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake,
For even that diminished her heart-ache;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,

Came she for nothing 'midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day,
She seemed to feel too lightly borne away,-
Too much relieved,-too much inclined to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.

Painfully clear those rising thoughts appeared, With something dark at bottom that she feared; And turning from the fields her thoughtful look, She reached o'er head, and took her down a book, And fell to reading with as fix'd an air,

As though she had been wrapt since morning there.

'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance,
That, like a trumpet, made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more;-
She had begun it but the day before,

And read with a full heart, half sweet, half sad,
How old King Ban was spoiled of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance,
He turned to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face: and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he loved, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reached a lake and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanished with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass :-
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was called) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and played his part
So rarely, and displayed so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him:
And here, with growing interest in her reading,
The princess, doubly fixed, was now proceeding.

Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fixed; and so observed was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,-
Paulo, who from a win ow seeing her

Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where,
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that lay,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.

"May I come in?" said he:--it made her start,-
That smiling voice;-she colored, pressed her heart
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, "O yes,-certainly."
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,

An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be, secure:
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book.
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Leaned with a touch together, thrillingly;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read

As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their color change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kissed her first:
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turned, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kissed her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss:
Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is.

The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er, Desperate the joy,-That day they read no more..

CANTO IV.

HOW THE BRIDE RETURNED TO RAVENNA

SORROW, they say, to one with true touched ear, Is but the discord of a warbling sphere, A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be, Distils the next note more deliciously. E'en tales like this, founded on real woe, From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow: The woe was earthly, fugitive, is past; The song that sweetens it, may always last. And even they, whose shattered hearts and frames Make them unhappiest of poetic names, What are they, if they know their calling high But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky? Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen, Yet keep the earth they haste to, bright and green? Once, and but once,-nor with a scornful face Tried worth will hear,-that scene again took place Partly by chance they met, partly to see The spot where they had last gone cheerfully, But most, from failure of all self-support;And oh the meeting in that loved resort! No peevishness there was, no loud distress, No mean retort of sorry selfishness; But a mute gush of hiding tears from one Clasped to the core of him, who yet shed none,— And self-accusings then, which he began, And into which her tearful sweetness ran; And then kind looks, with meeting eyes again, Stårting to deprecate each other's pain; Till half persuasions they could scarce do wrong, And sudden sense of wretchedness, more strong, And-why should I add more ?-again they parted, He doubly torn for her, and she nigh broken-hearted She never ventured in that spot again; And Paulo knew it, but could not refrain; He went again one day; and how it looked! The calm, old shade!-his presence felt rebuked. It seemed, as if the hopes of his young heart, His kindness, and his generous scorn of art, Had all been mere a dream, or at the best A vain negation, that could stand no test; And that on waking from his idle fit, He found himself (how could he think of it!) A selfish boaster and a hypocrite.

That thought before had grieved him; but the pain Cut sharp and sud en now it came agait.. Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick, And pale he stood, and seemed to burst all o'er Into moist anguish never felt before, And with a dreadful certainty to know, His peace was gone, and all to come was woe.

Francesca too, the being, made to bless,-
Destined by him to the same wretchedness,—
It seemed as if such whelming thoughts must find
Some props for them, or he should lose his mind.—
And find he did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought, with quick philosophy, of things
Rarely found out except through sufferings,-
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and thoughtful charity:

And these, although they pushed down as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Pushed with them too the worst of other's guilt;
And furnished him, at least, with something kind,
On which to lean a sad and startled mind:
Till youth, and natural vigor, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That she he loved could have done nothing base,
Helped to restore him to his usual life,

Though grave at heart, and with himself at strife;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And mount his favorite horse, and ride away
Miles in the country, looking round about,
As he glode by, to force his thoughts without;
And, when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade.
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sign
Or puck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercised his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could;
And thus he earned for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away
That task of loaded hearts, another day.

But she, the gentler frame,-the shaken flow,
Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower,-
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
The wife that was, the mother that might be,-
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
For ever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow,
She might be still and senseless till the morrow?

And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise! How would she open her despairing eyes, And from the sense of the long lingering day, Rushing upon her, almost turn away, Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again! Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain, She would get up in haste, and try to pass The time in patience, wretched as it was; Till patience self, in her distempered sight, Would seem a charm to which she had no right, And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears, She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears. Old comforts now were not at her command: The falcon reached in vain from off his stand; The flowers were not refreshed; the very light, The sunshine, seemed as if it shone at night; The least noise smote her like a sudden wound; And did she hear but the remotest sound Of song or instrument about the place, She hid with both her hands her streaming face. But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she, That ever, ever, such a worse should be!) The sight of infant was, or child at play; Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray, That heaven would take her, if it pleased, away.

I pass the meetings Paulo had with her :-
Calm were they in their outward character,
Or pallid efforts, rather, to suppress

The rangs within, that either's might be less;
And ended mostly with a passionate start

Of tears and kindness, when they came to part Thinner he grew, she thought, and pale with care "And I, 'twas I, that dashed his noble air!" He saw her wasting, yet with placid show; And scarce could help exclaiming in his woe, "O gentle creature, look not at me so!"

But Prince Giovanni, whom her wan distress Had touched, of late, with a new tenderness, Which, to his fresh surprise, did but appear To wound her more than when he was severe, Began, with other helps perhaps, to see Strange things, and missed his brother's company What a convulsion was the first sensation! Rage, wonder, misery, scorn, humiliation, A self-love, struck as with a personal blow, Gloomy revenge, a prospect full of woe, All rushed upon him, like the sudden view Of some new world, foreign to all he knew, Where he had waked and found disease's visions true

If any lingering hope, that he was wrong, Smoothed o'er him now and then, 'twas not so long Next night, as sullenly awake he lay, Considering what to do the approaching day He heard his wife say something in her sleep:He shook and listened;-she began to weep, And moaning louder, seemed to shake her head, Till all at once articulate, she said,

"He loves his brother yet-dear heaven, 'twas I—” Then lower voiced-" only-do let me die.”

The prince looked at her hastily;-no more;
He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air;----
His squire awaked attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room :-
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.
The brothers meet,--Giovanni scarce in breath,
Yet firm and fierce, Paulo as pale as death

May I request, sir," said the prince, and frowned, "Your ear a moment in the tilting ground?" "There, brother?" answered Paulo, with an air Surprised and shocked. "Yes, brother," cried he, "them." The word smote crushingly; and paler still,

He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will.
Giovanni turned, and down the stairs they bend;
The squires, with looks of sad surprise, attend ;
Then issue forth in the moist-striking air,
And toward the tilt-yard cross a planted square.

"Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turned in to heaven; and far away
Appeared the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Paulo's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went by:
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound,
That screened Francesca's favorite spot of ground
Massy and dark in the clear twilight stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay;-
Starting he turned, and looked another way.

Arrived, and the two squires withdrawn apart,
The prince spoke low, as with a laboring heart,
And said, "Before you answer what you can,

I wish to tell you, as a gentleman,
That what you may confess," (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke)
"Will implicate no person known to you,
More than disquiet in its sleep may do.”

Paulo's heart bled; he waved his hand, and vent
His head a little in acknowledgment.
"Say then, sir, if you can," continued he,
"One word will do-you have not injured me:
Tell me but so, and I shall bear the pain

Of having asked a question I disdain:-
But utter nothing, if not that one word;

And meet me this:"-he stopped and drew his sword

Paulo seemed firmer grown from his despair;
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from a right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
"I am," said he, "I know,-'twas not so ever-
But fight for it! and with a brother! Never."

How!" with uplifted voice, exclaimed the other;
"The vile pretence! who asked you-with a brother?
Brother! O traitor to the noble name

Of Malatesta, I deny the claim.

What! wound it deepest? strike me to the core,
Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
And then, as never Malatesta could,

Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?"

"It is not so,” cried Paulo, "tis not so; But I would save you from a further woe."

"A further woe, recreant!" retorted he:
"I know of none: yes, one there still may be;
Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace
Of seeing one of an illustrious race

Bearing about a heart, which feared no law,
And a vile sword, which yet he dare not draw."

"Brother. dear brother!" Paulo cried, "nay, nay,
I'll use t.. u no more;-but peace, I pray!
You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!"
"'Tis false;" exclaimed the prince; "'tis a retreat
To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
And fear the grave you bring a woman to."

A sudden start, yet not of pride or pain,
Paulo here gave; he seemed to rise again;
And taking off his cap without a word,

He drew, and kissed the crossed hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven;-then with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, "I'm ready now."

"A noble word!" exclaimed the prince, and smote
Preparingly on earth his firming foot:-
The squires rush in between, in their despair,
But both the princes tell them to beware.
"Back, Gerard," cries Giovanni; “I require
No teacher here, but an observant squire."

"Back, Tristan," Paulo cries; "fear not for me;

All is not worst that so appears to thee.

And here," said he, "a word." The poor youth came,
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:

A whisper, and a charge there seemed to be,
Given to him kindly, yet inflexibly:

Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,-
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,

The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.

The prince attacked with nerve in every limb,
Nor seemed the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One fought to wound, the other to prevent:
Giovanni pressed, and pushed, and shifted aim,
And played his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Paulo retired, and warded, turned on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel.
Sometimes indeed he feigned an angrier start,
But still relapsed, and played his former part.

"What!" cried Giovanni, who grew still more fierce, Fighting in sport? Playing your cart and tierce?" "Not so, my prince," said Paulo; "have a care How you think so, or I shall wound you there." He stamped, and watching as he spoke the word, Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword. 'Twas done. He staggered, and in falling prest Giovanni's foot with his right hand and breast: Then on his elbow turned, and raising t'other, He smiled, and said, "No fault of yours, my brother; An accident-a slip-the finishing one

To errors by that poor old man begun.

You'll not-you'll not "-his heart leaped on before,

And choked his utterance; but he smiled once more,
For, as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest;-
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,

He turned him round, and dropt with hiding head
And, in that loosening drop, his spirit fled.

But noble passion touched Giovanni's soul;
He seemed to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn;
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn:-
By heaven, by heaven, and all the better part
Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
I trust we reap at last, as well as plough ;-
But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou;
And, Paulo, thou wert the completest knight,
That ever rode with banner to the fight;
And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
That ever came in press of chivalry;
And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
That ever for his friend put spear in rest;
And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
That ever among ladies eat in hall;
And thou wert still, for all that bosom gored,
The kindest man, that ever struck w..b sword.”

At this the words forsook his tongue; and he,
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bowed
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.

The squires with glimmering tears,—Tristan, indeed,
Heart-struck, and hardly able to proceed,-
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And raise the body up to quit the ground.
Giovanni starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
And having seen him laid upon the bed,
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will, and calm austerity.

Tristan, who, when he was to make the best
Of something sad and not to be redressed,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now locked his tears up, and seemed all resigned,
And to Francesca's chamber took his way,
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies up and down the stairs
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened to him by the aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her withered lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guessed what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeezed gently, and went out.

The princess, who had passed a fearful night,
Toiling with dreams, fright crowding upon fright,
Had missed her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
Yet as her body seemed to go, her mind
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resigned;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.

The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she asked, though not with fear,
"Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?"
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirred
Something about the room, and answered not a word.
"Who's there," said that swet voice, kindly and clear,
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear:-
Its weakness now almost deprived the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
"Madam," said he, "tis I; one who may say,
He loves his friends more than himself to-day :-
Tristan."-She paused a little, and then said-
"Tristan-my friend, what noise thus haunts my ad?
Something I'm sure has happened-tell me what-

I can bear all, though you may fancy not."
"Madam," replied the squire, "you are, I know,
All sweetness-pardon me for saying so.
My master bade me say then," resumed he,
"That he spoke firmly, when he told it me,--
That I was also, madam, to your ear
Firmly to speak and you firmly to hear,-