That thought before had grieved him; but the pain Cut sharp and sudden now it came again. Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick, His peace was gone, and all to come was woe. And these, although they pushed down as they rose, Helped to restore him to his usual life, As he glode by, to force his thoughts without; And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh, That task of loaded hearts, another day. But she, the gentler frame, the shaken flower, Plucked up to wither in a foreign bower, The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she, 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 pangs 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 shew; 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, And moaning louder, seemed to shake her head, He dresses, takes his sword, and through the door His squire awaked attends; and they repair, 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, "there." 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; '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. |