Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, | |
Scorch’d with the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, | |
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. | |
440 | There is something of pride in the perilous hour, |
Whate’er be the shape in which death may lower; | |
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, | |
And Honour’s eye on daring deeds! | |
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread | |
445 | O’er the weltering field of the tombless dead, |
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, | |
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there; | |
All regarding man as their prey, | |
All rejoicing in his decay. | |
XVIII | |
450 | There is a temple in ruin stands, |
Fashion’d by long forgotten hands; | |
Two or three columns, and many a stone, | |
Marble and granite, with grass o’ergrown! | |
Out upon Time! it will leave no more | |
455 | Of the things to come than the things before! |
Out upon Time! who for ever will leave | |
But enough of the past for the future to grieve | |
O’er that which hath been, and o’er that which must be: | |
What we have seen, our sons shall see; | |
460 | Remnants of things that have pass’d away, |
Fragments of stone, rear’d by creatures of clay! | |
XIX | |
He sate him down at a pillar’s base, | |
And pass’d his hand athwart his face; | |
Like one in dreary musing mood, | |
465 | Declining was his attitude; |
His head was drooping on his breast, | |
Fever’d, throbbing, and oppress’d; | |
And o’er his brow, so downward bent, | |
Oft his beating fingers went, | |
470 | Hurriedly, as you may see |
Your own run over the ivory key, | |
Ere the measured tone is taken | |
By the chords you would awaken. | |
There he sate all heavily, | |
475 | As he heard the night-wind sigh. |
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone, | |
Sent that soft and tender moan? | |
He lifted his head, and he look’d on the sea, | |
But it was unrippled as glass may be; | |
480 | He look’d on the long grass – it waved not a blade; |
How was that gentle sound convey’d? | |
He look’d to the banners – each flag lay still, | |
So did the leaves on Cithaæron’s hill, | |
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; | |
485 | What did that sudden sound bespeak? |
He turn’d to the left – is he sure of sight? | |
There sate a lady, youthful and bright! | |
XX | |
He started up with more of fear | |
Than if an armed foe were near. | |
490 | ‘God of my fathers! what is here? |
Who art thou, and wherefore sent | |
So near a hostile armament?’ | |
His trembling hands refused to sign | |
The cross he deem’d no more divine: | |
495 | He had resumed it in that hour, |
But conscience wrung away the power. | |
He gazed, he saw: he knew the face | |
Of beauty, and the form of grace; | |
It was Francesca by his side, | |
500 | The maid who might have been his bride! |
The rose was yet upon her cheek, | |
But mellow’d with a tenderer streak: | |
Where was the play of her soft lips fled? | |
Gone was the smile that enliven’d their red. | |
505 | The ocean’s calm within their view, |
Beside her eye had less of blue; | |
But like that cold wave it stood still, | |
And its glance, though clear, was chill. | |
Around her form a thin robe twining, | |
510 | Nought conceal’d her bosom shining; |
Through the parting of her hair, | |
Floating darkly downward there, | |
Her rounded arm show’d white and bare: | |
And ere yet she made reply, | |
515 | Once she raised her hand on high; |
It was so wan, and transparent of hue, | |
You might have seen the moon shine through. | |
XXI | |
‘I come from my rest to him I love best, | |
That I may be happy, and he may be bless’d. | |
520 | I have pass’d the guards, the gate, the wall; |
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. | |
’Tis said the lion will turn and flee | |
From a maid in the pride of her purity; | |
And the Power on high, that can shield the good | |
525 | Thus from the tyrant of the wood, |
Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well | |
From the hands of the leaguering infidel. | |
I come – and if I come in vain, | |
Never, oh never, we meet again! | |
530 | Thou hast done a fearful deed |
In falling away from thy father’s creed: | |
But dash that turban to earth, and sign | |
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; | |
Wring the black drop from thy heart, | |
535 | And to-morrow unites us no more to part.’ |
’And where should our bridal couch be spread? | |
In the midst of the dying and the dead? | |
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame | |
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. | |
540 | None, save thou and thine, I’ve sworn, |
Shall be left upon the morn: | |
But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, | |
Where our hands shall be join’d, and our sorrow forgot. | |
There thou yet shalt be my bride, | |
545 | When once again I’ve quell’d the pride |
Of Venice; and her hated race | |
Have felt the arm they would debase | |
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those | |
Whom vice and envy made my foes.’ | |
550 | Upon his hand she laid her own — |
Light was the touch, but it thrill’d to the bone, | |
And shot a chillness to his heart, | |
Which fix’d him beyond the power to start. | |
Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, | |
555 | He could not loose him from its hold; |
But never did clasp of one so dear | |
Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, | |
As those thin fingers, long and white, | |
Froze through his blood by their touch that night. | |
560 | The feverish glow of his brow was gone, |
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, | |
As he look’d on the face, and beheld its hue, | |
So deeply changed from what he knew: | |
Fair but faint – without the ray | |
565 | Of mind, that made each feature play |
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day; | |
And her motionless lips lay still as death, | |
And her words came forth without her breath, | |
And there rose not a heave o’er her bosom’s swell, | |
570 | And there seem’d not a pulse in her veins to dwell. |
Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix’d, | |
And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix’d | |
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem | |
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; | |
575 | Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, |
Stirr’d by the breath of the wintry air, | |
So seen by the dying lamp’s fitful light, | |
Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight; | |
As they seem, through the dimness, about to come down | |
580 | From the shadowy wall where their images frown; |
Fearfully flitting to and fro, | |
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. | |
‘If not for love of me be given | |
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, – | |
585 | Again I say – that turban tear |
From off thy faithless brow, and swear | |
Thine injured country’s sons to spare, | |
Or thou art lost; and never shalt see – | |
Not earth – that’s past – but heaven or me. | |
590 | If this thou dost accord, albeit |
A heavy doom ’tis thine to meet, | |
That doom shall half absolve thy sin, | |
And mercy’s gate may receive thee within: | |
But pause one moment more, and take | |
595 | The curse of Him thou didst forsake; |
And look once more to heaven, and see | |
Its love for ever shut from thee. | |
There is a light cloud by the moon – |