Collected works of j s f.., p.908
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 908
And the quick words break on the hour,
“Well met at last, accursed Giaour.”
CANTO THE THIRD
I.
All pale he sits within his hall
The stem old Pasha, who had seen
Loves and hates to roll between
The years whose winters on him fall,
Nor is so hard the frowning wall
As the cool heart that beats his breast,
Now disturbed from its wonted rest
Now alarmed from its usual beat,
Its monotone in a quiet retreat,
And the blood that flows so calm and still,
Like the shady course of a quiet rill
Is startled and chased from out its rest
By the one that the Pasha has loved the best.
II.
Ah! it is not a pleasant sight —
Would for the darkness of winter’s night
With shiver of snow and beat of rain,
To rise and blot it from out the light,
Out of the light.
III.
Cover the misery and the pain;
The wish is only in vain, in vain —
Vain and wild, yet would it might be
Ere the tide has risen on yonder sea.
* * * * * *
IV.
Risen? alas! it is risen now,
Risen and tumbled and danced and swung
Round and round in a maddening roar,
Under the rocks and over the shore,
And near the white and dusky brow
Of the hill whose shadow has overhung
The waters which lave its steep outline
Waving with heather and branches fair
In the passing waves of the wandering air
Where the morning sunbeams are used to shine.
V.
Surge and sweep, boil and roar
Under the rocks, over the shore,
Under the heedless, unpitying sky,
Under the sea-birds whirling by —
Whirl with your waters far into the night
Anywhere, anywhere, out of my sight
Bury it deep, so that it sleep
Deep in the caves of the ocean blue
No green grave-sod or sparkling dew
Shall wave or shine, or night or day —
Bury it, carry it far from my way!
* * * * * *
VI.
He came, and, stealing down the shore,
Away he flew with straining oar
Away by scenes where morning made
Among the cliffs a pensive shade;
He heeded not, but still away
He sped like thought along the way:
Once had he turned, and on his brow
The hand of care had written now
Ever and onward, wild and fast,
The Christian sank toward the past,
THE BRIDE OF VENICE
ANGELO, A YOUNG gentleman of Venice, having committed an offence against the law, was condemned by Prince Lara to death. His wife Leonora interceded with Lara, and was told by him that Angelo should be spared if she would become his mistress. She consulted with her husband, who refused to listen to the terms, and sent a refusal to the prince. Angelo was led out to execution in the evening and suffered.
CANTO THE FIRST.
I.
OH, know ye the clime of the sunshine and gladness,
The breath of the zephyr, the smile of the day,
The land where the stars have looked down in sweet sadness,
And told that its glories have long passed away?
Where the light of the soul flashes down from afar,
Where the rareness of beauty delights as a star,
Where the daughters of loveliness seem as a light
When it shoots its fair course through the darkness of night,
Where the sad gift of beauty comes down from above,
And the hot soul of passion is mingled with love;
’Tis the home of the heart, ’tis the dream of the mind,
Where beauty and pleasure and hope are enshrined.
II.
The morning broke above the town
That sits beside the dark blue waters,
And looked with smiling aspect down
Upon the fairest of the daughters
Who rise from out the old gray sea,
With beings as fair, with thoughts as free.
III.
Within the walls of that proud fane,
Whose head is raised with conscious pride,
As ruling man and mind and main,
Prince Lara sat, and by his side
The proud emissaries of law,
Who waited but his stern command
To come, to stay, or to withdraw,
For he was one whose high born hand
Had never brooked dissentient voice,
And yet his heart might not rejoice,
For vice and power and pride had made
Upon his face a constant shade.
IV.
He spake, “But yesterday I gave
A condemnation to the grave, —
To die by scaffold and by sword —
Upon a man both young and brave;
Young Angelo, and yet his word
Has perjured faith and left unknown
The hope that he had better grown,
To-night before the sun goes down
He dies,” — he ended with a frown,
And through that throng a shiver ran
At such stem words from such a man.
V.
A vassal entered to the hall,
And stood before his haughty lord,
And quietly he gave him word,
As though he knew his master’s mind
To none but its own self was kind,
And bowing low he left the place,
With servile homage on his face,
Like straw that dreads the ruthless wind.
VI.
The courtiers dared to lift the eye,
To see if they perchance might read
What news had reached the despot’s ear,
But o’er the prince’s face indeed
No shadow passed of hope or fear,
Of tidings ill, or mem’ries dear,
His eye’s quick glance alone might give
A sign that he in truth did live.
VII.
He spake, he motioned with his hand
The shrinking crowd from out his sight,
And in harsh accents made command
That they should leave him for a space;
This done, as marble slept his face,
For he was one whose mind was power,
Whose passions were concealed from eyes,
That might not guess their strange surmise —
He watched the door; it opened wide,
And a fair woman stepped inside.
VIII.
She hastened to the marble throne,
Where sat the heir of Lara’s line,
And when she saw they were alone
She sank upon the unmoved stone,
And with a gesture half divine
Made motion through her blinding tears,
Her tongue refused to speak her fears.
IX.
But suddenly she proudly rose,
And stood before Prince Lara’s face,
And drew her veil — to him she shows
A noble, sad, and lovely grace;
Dark eyes that flashed the proudest scorn,
And a full lip that pouted hate,
Towards him who sat before her, shorn
Of all the mockery of his fate,
And her fair bosom heaved, and told
Of passions which might ne’er grow cold.
X.
“What dost thou here, and why thy grief?
Speak! for thy actions promise words,
It may be thou shalt find relief,
Hath any wronged thee?”
“Thou, thyself,
Hath wrought upon me cruel wrong,
Which none but thou may take away.
Oh! call it back, or bear my curse,
As dark a curse as He might say
Who only has the power for worse.”
XI.
“How have I wronged thee?”
“In the cell
That lies beneath thy palace wall
Lies one on whom a dying knell
At sunset’s early hour shall fall,
My husband he, thou know’st my tale,
And on what errand I am come.
Last night I heard the busy hum
Of man and child without the street,
Coming and going with footsteps fleet, —
Ah! they seemed happy; I was not.
It was but then I saw thee stand
And give my husband to the death,
With smooth stem voice, and lifted hand,
And stay thy fellow creature’s breath.
The meanest beggar’s humble lot
Was happier than my own; for I
Had heard the one I loved must die.”
XII.
She ceased, and gazed upon the man
Whose pride and power had given him right
To lay upon the poor his ban,
To change the gleam of day to night
In many a heart; and to oppress
The widow and the fatherless.
XIII.
His dark eye fastened on the face,
Whose beauty was obscured by pain,
And, with an empty show of grace
And regal port, he spake again.
“Listen, thy husband’s crime was great,
For he had sinned against the State,
And my decree on him was death;
I may not stay his life or breath,
The law does that, and the decree
May not be altered, even by me.”
XIV.
She raised her head with stately mien,
“And is thy mind too great to give
A fellow-man the power to live?
Ah! hadst thou seen what I have seen,
Two children, who are not of years,
Too young to know the awful grief
That overhangs their mother’s fears, —
To-night they shall be fatherless,
And I must watch their childish smiles,
Their untaught ways and infant bliss,
And in their looks see traits of his.”
XV.
Again she paused and seemed to seek
For a reply, to set at rest
The miseries that she might not speak,
And calm her own tormented breast.
And now he spake in accents mild,
In a smooth voice, as of a man
Whose faculties may coolly plan
Some sad, dark scheme of passions wild.
XVI.
Thy husband yet may be set free;
If thou wilt take the terms I give,
Young Angelo in peace shall live,
But thou must yield thyself to me,
To own me lord and share my bed: —
Start not! it is the only way,
For I may rule thee as I may.”
XVII.
She turned upon him, with a glance
That flashed unutterable scorn,
Standing as one stands in a trance,
“And I to him two babes have born,
And should they live and bear our name,
And know the horror of my shame?
Thy words are harsher than the doom
That on my husband’s head did fall,
The very coldness of the wall
That bounds the splendours of this room
Is not so cold as thine own heart,
Is not so empty as thy mind, —
Alas! in thee all things are blind.
Ah, me!” she added with a sigh,
“I would that my own self might die.”
XVIII.
The tyrant spoke, “Go to the cell
Where now thy husband waits for death,
Thou knowest the terms, let him know well,
And send me from his dying breath
His answer and thine own, that I
May give him power to live or die.”
CANTO THE SECOND.
I.
THE afternoon’s long shadows fell,
From castled tower, or lordly tree,
In wider wood, or lonely dell;
But in the city by the sea,
From gloomy gateways black and high,
They fell upon the palace stone,
And kissed him where he sat alone
Who was, when they expired, to die.
II.
He sat alone, that lordly youth,
Nor feared to look it in the face,
That was to come with such disgrace;
He gave his life for cause of truth,
And with a stem and stedfast mind
To his own death was he resigned.
III.
Alas! he was so young, so fair,
It seemed too hard for him to die,
And leave the love of wife and child,
And wander forth into the wild
And awful abyss of despair.
But now the time was near at hand
And he must steel himself, to stand
Where many a one had stood before,
Waiting with fearless eye and breath
The opening of that unknown door
Which stood between his life and death.
IV.
He heard a sound outside the door,
A noise of feet, and then a voice
That made his own sad heart rejoice:
Had he not heard it oft before? —
But then, alas! his life was free,
And all his hopes lay in the fair
And free expanse that, like the sea,
Glittered and sparkled everywhere:
V.
The door flew wide, and now the light
Of his remembered olden home
Came in upon his deepened night,
And, with a gesture of delight,
He stepped towards her, but her arms
Were clasped about him — and her tears
Mew fast adown her marble cheek,
And once she half essayed to speak.
How beautiful she seemed — her charms
Were heightened by her untold fears,
And her fair presence made the cell
A dwelling where a prince might dwell.
VI.
“Ah! Angelo, ’tis sweet to see
Thee once again before — but, ah!
I cannot speak of that which comes,
And yet — and yet — thou may’st be free,
And saved from death, and the foul seal
That on our name would rest, may be
Saved by a darker, guiltier far.”
VII
“How, Leonora; hast thou made
For me an intercession meet? —
I would not that thyself, my sweet,
Had come into this prisoned shade,
This gloomy cell can be no place
For thy fair form and royal grace —
But tell me, may I yet be free,
And if my life is saved by thee?”
VIII.
She told him all with freezing air,
The interview that she had borne,
The thousand torments of the mom,
But when she brought her tale to where
The terms were named, he sprang on high
With flushing brow and angry eye,
“Curse on the tyrant, and the heart
That pierced thee with so harsh a dart,
Fling the thought from thee, I will die,
Nor drop one tear, nor heave one sigh.
IX.
“Let us forget this taunting word,
I have but one short hour to stay,
And let me speak as thou hast heard
Me speak, in many a long-lost day;
Ah! soon my life must pass away,
And who shall cheer thee when I’m gone?
Weep not, my loved one, rather bear
Thy husband’s fate with dauntless air.
I was a soldier, and my sword
Has battled for my country’s cause,
And aye upheld our ancient laws.
And if I spake one hasty word,
It was not meet that they should take
My manhood for the word I spake.
X.
“Thou dost remember our old home
Beside the blue Italian lake,
Upon whose shores we oft did roam,
While thy dark eyes soft music spake;
Alas! the stones are near decay,
And fleeting to the past away:
But they are old and I am young;
And yet my life must soon ebb out,
And the old walls where merry shout
And merrier laugh so oft hath rung
Must pass away, and leave no trace
Of their forgotten master’s face.
XI.
“Our children — ah! their infant minds
Know not the sorrow which they have,
They cannot feel their father’s death,
Yet tell them from my dying breath
That I was never aught but brave,
And innocent in all but truth;
And teach them in their earliest youth
To love and honour the good old town,
The pride of seas, and ‘neath her wall
To live, and if it need be — fall.”
XII.
He ceased, and one short moment passed,
In that which might not be again,
The pleasure deepened by the pain,
One moment only — and the last,
Then he arose — one last long kiss
And all was over between the pair,
Whose life had once appeared so fair,
Whose hours had passed in happier bliss.
She passed from out the door — the light
Went from his cell, and all was night.
CANTO THE THIRD.
I.
ACROSS the waters fall the wide
Fair shadows of the sun,
Telling as they softly glide
The day is done.
And from the city by the sea
The bells are ringing wild and free,
Seeming to tell with a strange delight
Of a nuptial song or a bridal night;
But they sound for a marriage of life with death,
And the last short sob of a human breath.
II.
Upon an open space that stood
Before the waters of the ocean,
