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 firmness, and refuse to strike
A chord her own sweet must 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 must 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 thought
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 leisurely 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-rites; 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 shew;
Bending they stood, with their old foreheads 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 checked 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.
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