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THE

STORY OF RIMINI.
RIMINI.

CANTO I.

THE COMING TO FETCH THE BRIDE FROM RAVENNA.

THE sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May

Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay,
A morn, the loveliest which the year has seen,
Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green;
For a warm eve, and gentle rains at night,
Have left a sparkling welcome for the light,
And there's a crystal clearness all about;
The leaves are sharp, the distant hills look out;
A balmy briskness comes upon the breeze;
The smoke goes dancing from the cottage trees;
And when you listen, you may hear a coil
Of bubbling springs about the grassier soil;

And all the scene in short, - sky, earth, and sea, Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly.

"Tis nature, full of spirits, waked and springing:The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town ; While happy faces, striking through the green Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scatter'd light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay.

And well may all who can, come crowding there,

If peace returning, and processions rare,

And to crown all, a marriage in the spring
Can set enjoying fancies on the wing;
For on this sparkling day, Ravenna's pride,
The daughter of their prince, becomes a bride,
A bride, to ransom an exhausted land :

And he, whose victories have obtained her hand,
Has taken with the dawn, so flies report,

His promised journey to the expecting court,
With hasting pomp, and squires of high degree,
The bold Giovanni, lord of Rimini.

Already in the streets the stir

grows loud

Of joy increasing and a bustling crowd.

With feet and voice the gathering hum contends,
Yearns the deep talk, the ready laugh ascends:
Callings, and clapping doors, and curs unite,
And shouts from mere exuberance of delight,
And armed bands, making important way,
Gallant and grave, the lords of holiday,
And nodding neighbors, greeting as they run,
And pilgrims, chanting in the morning sun.
With heaved-out tapestry the windows glow,
By lovely faces brought, that come and go;
Till, the work smoothed, and all the street attired,
They take their seats, with upward gaze admired;
Some looking down, some forwards or aside,
Some re-adjusting tresses newly tied,

Some turning a trim waist, or o'er the flow
Of crimson cloths hanging a hand of snow;
But all with smiles prepared, and garlands green,
And all in fluttering talk, impatient for the scene.

And hark! the approaching trumpets, with a start,
On the smooth wind come dancing to the heart.
A moment's hush succeeds; and from the walls,
Firm and at once, a silver answer calls.

Then press the crowd; and all, who best can strive
In shuffling struggle, tow'rd the palace drive,
Where baluster'd and broad, of marble fair,
Its portico commands the public square;
For there Duke Guido is to hold his state
With his fair daughter, seated o'er the gate:

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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.

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