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 hears
The enormous shout that springs as she appears;
Till, as she views the countless gaze below,
And faces that with grateful homage 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 still:
With that, a keen and quivering glance of tears
Scarce moves her 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 clangors 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 squires 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 shews 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 knights' array,
The horses, black and chesnut, roan and bay;

*The arms of the Malatesta family.

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.

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,