With broken swords and helms o'erthrown. There were dead above, and the dead below

Lay cold in many a coffin'd row;

You might see them piled in sable state,
By a pale light through a gloomy grate;
But War had enter'd their dark caves,
And stored along the vaulted graves
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread
In masses by the fleshless dead.
Here, throughout the siege, had been
The Christians' chiefest magazine;
To these a late-form'd train now led,
Minotti's last and stern resource
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force.

XXXII

980

The waves a moment backward bent
The hills that shake, although unrent,
As if an earthquake pass'd-
The thousand shapeless things all driven
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven,
By that tremendous blast -
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er
On that too long afflicted shore.
Up to the sky like rockets go
All that mingled there below:
Many a tall and goodly man,
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span,
When he fell to earth again
Like a cinder strew'd the plain.
Down the ashes shower like rain;

Some fell in the gulf, which received the

sprinkles

With a thousand circling wrinkles;
Some fell on the shore, but, far away,
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay;
Christian or Moslem, which be they?
Let their mothers see and say!
When in cradled rest they lay,
And each nursing mother smiled
On the sweet sleep of her child,
Little deem'd she such a day
Would rend those tender limbs away.
Not the matrons that them bore
Could discern their offspring more;
That one moment left no trace
More of human form or face
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone.

1030

1040

1050

And down came blazing rafters, strown Around, and many a falling stone, Deeply dinted in the clay,

1060

All blacken'd there and reeking lay.
All the living things that heard
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd:
The wild birds flew; the wild dogs fled,
And howling left the unburied dead;
The camels from their keepers broke;
The distant steer forsook the yoke
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain,
And burst his girth, and tore his rein;
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh,
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh;
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill
Where echo roll'd in thunder still;
The jackal's troop, in gather'd cry,
Bay'd from afar complainingly,
With a mix'd and mournful sound,
Like crying babe and beaten hound:
With sudden wing and ruffled breast,
The eagle left his rocky nest,
And mounted nearer to the sun,

The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun;
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak,
And made him higher soar and shriek
Thus was Corinth lost and won!

PARISINA

ΤΟ

1070

SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ.

THE FOLLOWING POEM

IS INSCRIBED

BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP.

January 22, 1816.

ADVERTISEMENT

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's Antiquities of the House of Brunswick. I am aware, that in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.

Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own obser

vation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty: if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a parent." - GIBBON'S Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470.

I

Ir is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark and darkly pure,
Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

II

ΤΟ

50

With many a lingering look they leave
The spot of guilty gladness past;
And though they hope and vow, they grieve,
As if that parting were the last.
The frequent sigh, the long embrace,

The lip that there would cling for ever, While gleams on Parisina's face

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her,

As if each calmly conscious star
Beheld her frailty from afar

The frequent sigh, the long embrace,
Yet binds them to their trysting-place.
But it must come, and they must part
In fearful heaviness of heart,
With all the deep and shuddering chill
Which follows fast the deeds of ill.

V

And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed,
To covet there another's bride;
But she must lay her conscious head

A husband's trusting heart beside.
But fever'd in her sleep she seems,
And red her cheek with troubled dreams,
And mutters she in her unrest

A name she dare not breathe by day,
And clasps her Lord unto the breast
Which pants for one away.
And he to that embrace awakes,
And, happy in the thought, mistakes
That dreaming sigh and warm caress
For such as he was wont to bless;
And could in very fondness weep
O'er her who loves him even in sleep.

VI

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart,
And listen'd to each broken word:
He hears Why doth Prince Azo start,
As if the Archangel's voice he heard ?

60

71

80

Sounds fearful as the breaking billow,
Which rolls the plank upon the shore,
And dashes on the pointed rock
The wretch who sinks to rise no more,

So came upon his soul the shock.
And whose that name? 't is Hugo's, his
In sooth he had not deem'd of this!
'Tis Hugo's, he, the child of one
He loved his own all-evil son
The offspring of his wayward youth,
When he betray'd Bianca's truth,
The maid whose folly could confide
In him who made her not his bride.

VII

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath,
But sheathed it ere the point was bare;
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,

He could not slay a thing so fairAt least not smiling, sleeping there. Nay more: - he did not wake her then, But gazed upon her with a glance

100

110

Which, had she roused her from her trance,

Had frozen her sense to sleep again;
And o'er his brow the burning lamp
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp.
She spake no more, but still she slum-
ber'd,

While in his thought her days are number'd.

IX

He was not one who brook'd delay:
Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Este's ancient sway

Upon his throne of judgment sate.
His nobles and his guards are there;
Before him is the sinful pair,

Both young, and one how passing fair!
With swordless belt, and fetter'd hand,
Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand
Before a father's face!

Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire,
And hear the sentence of his ire,
The tale of his disgrace!
And yet he seems not overcome,
Although as yet his voice be dumb.

X

And still, and pale, and silently Did Parisina wait her doom;

141

And he, the chosen one, whose lance
Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
Who were his arm a moment free-
Had died or gain'd her liberty;
The minion of his father's bride, -
He, too, is fetter'd by her side;
Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim
Less for her own despair than him.
Those lids, o'er which the violet vein
Wandering leaves a tender stain,
Shining through the smoothest white
That e'er did softest kiss invite,
Now seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;

170

180

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee,

And then-thy crime's reward! Away! address thy prayers to Heaven,

Before its evening stars are metLearn if thou there canst be forgiven; Its mercy may absolve thee yet. But here, upon the earth beneath, There is no spot where thou and I Together, for an hour, could breathe. Farewell! I will not see thee die But thou, frail thing! shalt view his headAway! I cannot speak the rest. Go! woman of the wanton breast; Not I, but thou his blood dost shed: Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, And joy thee in the life I give.'

XIII

And here stern Azo hid his face,
For on his brow the swelling vein
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again;
And therefore bow'd he for a space,

210

-

220

'It is not that I dread the death For thou hast seen me by thy side All redly through the battle ride; And that not once a useless brand Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, Hath shed more blood in cause of thine Than e'er can stain the axe of mine.

230

240

Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my
breath,

A gift for which I thank thee not;
Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot,
Her slighted love and ruin'd name,
Her offspring's heritage of shame;
But she is in the grave, where he,
Her son, thy rival, soon shall be.
Her broken heart, my sever'd head,
Shall witness for thee from the dead
How trusty and how tender were
Thy youthful love, paternal care.
'Tis true that I have done thee wrong,
But wrong for wrong: this deem'd thy
bride,

The other victim of thy pride, -
Thou know'st for me was destined long.
Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms;
And with thy very crime, my birth,
Thou tauntedst me as little worth;

A match ignoble for her arms,
Because, forsooth, I could not claim
The lawful heirship of thy name,
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne:

250

260

Yet, were a few short summers mine, My name should more than Este's shine With honours all my own.

270

I had a sword - and have a breast
That should have won as haught a crest
As ever waved along the line
Of all these sovereign sires of thine.
Not always knightly spurs are worn
The brightest by the better born;
And mine have lanced my courser's flank
Before proud chiefs of princely rank,
When charging to the cheering cry
Of "Este and of Victory!"
I will not plead the cause of crime,
Nor sue thee to redeem from time
A few brief hours or days that must
At length roll o'er my reckless dust; -

From thee in all their vigour came
My arm of strength, my soul of flame;
Thou didst not give me life alone,
But all that made me more thine own.
See what thy guilty love hath done!
Repaid thee with too like a son !
I am no bastard in my soul,
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control:
And for my breath, that hasty boon
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon,
I valued it no more than thou,
When rose thy casque above thy brow,
And we, all side by side, have striven,
And o'er the dead our coursers driven.
The past is nothing - and at last
The future can but be the past;
Yet would I that I then had died:

290

300

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, And made thy own my destined bride,

I feel thou art my father still; And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 310 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. Begot in sin, to die in shame, My life begun and ends the same: As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, And thou must punish both in one. My crime seems worst to human view, But God must judge between us too!'

XIV

He ceased, and stood with folded arms,
On which the circling fetters sounded;
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 320
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd,
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd:
Till Parisina's fatal charms

Again attracted every eye

Would she thus hear him doom'd to die!
She stood, I said, all pale and still,
The living cause of Hugo's ill.

Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,
Not once had turn'd to either side:

Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 330

Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,