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Alfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT II
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 Striving her antique temper yet to tame
 To the stern bidding of the days that be:
 Ghost of gay Eld, the same yet not the same,
 As when she shone, beautiful, brave, and free,
 Her airy pennon flouting every strand,
 And Neptune`s trident glittering in her hand.

 But, with the breaking of another morn,
 They rose betimes and travelled with the crowd,
 Roaring through tunneled hill, and loudly borne
 On wings of wind past leagues of land and cloud,
 Where the Ligurian hoed his patch of corn,
 Or through his vines the Lombard peasant ploughed;
 Till, with mid—afternoon, they could descry
 The pinnacles of Milan prick the sky.

 And soon, once more afoot, their steps were bent
 Through intersecting streets whose broad slant eaves,
 Stretching athwart the footway, made a tent
 For the hot sun, almost as cool as leaves.
 It seemed that the whole city with them went;
 And when they reached the piazza that receives
 Many a convergent way, a mighty crowd
 Streamed up the steps of the cathedral proud.

 So, never halting in the glowing square
 A moment even, though the fretted fane,
 Flamboyant oriel, pinnacles poised in air,
 One after one the eye would count in vain,
 Bold—flying buttress, tall shaft tapering fair,
 And dazzling front, might well their gaze detain,
 For the main door they made with all the folk,
 Till on their ear the pealing organ broke.

 A moment more, and lo! they stood within!
 A cry of wonder from Olympia burst;
 But on the instant seeing that He, whom sin
 Doomed to dire death upon the rood accurst,
 Shone on the altar, veiled by mystery thin,
 Straight knelt she down, and, soon in prayer immersed,
 Forgot the crowd, long aisles, and columns tall,
 While Godfrid gazed and marvelled at it all.

 Each valid foot of transept, nave, and aisle,
 Was dense with living things absorbed in prayer;
 Young men and maidens, children without guile,
 Gray sires with flowing beard and bosom bare;
 Smooth sinless faces here, that seemed to smile,
 Even as they prayed, with eyes soft—closed; and there,
 Hard furrowed visages down which the tears
 Flowed from the brackish fount of desert years.

 With comely kerchief crossed o`er bosom brown,
 The humble peasant fingered her worn beads,
 Made at her side her youngsters nestle down,
 And told Madonna of her simple needs.
 Next her, a dainty dame of Milan town,
 Voluptuous as but southern rapture breeds,
 Bewailing in the dust her too frail breast,
 Begged Christ to be her lover and sole guest.

 And many a tonsured head was there, that bore
 The ascetic cowl, surmounting garments strict;
 Here the brown serge the loving Francis wore,
 There the black robes of active Benedict;
 And Dominic`s stern habit, splashed with gore,
 Beneath which silently the hairshirt pricked;
 And, dotted in the carnal crowd anon,
 Were pale—faced nuns, meek, circumspect, and wan.

 Then from afar a long procession came
 Of white—robed acolytes silver censers swinging,
 And wreathëd flowers, and torches all aflame,
 And golden bells melodiously ringing,
 And fair young boys, with faces free from blame,
 Tuning their callow throats to such sweet singing,
 It seemed to eye and ear of faith and fear
 That Christ and all His cherubim were near.

 And as they sang, the stately pomp swept on,
 Crozier and Cross, inlaid with many a gem,
 Taller than those that bore them; lights that shone
 In golden candlestick with jewelled stem,
 And many a bright embroidered gonfalon
 Vaunting aloft the new Jerusalem;
 And scintillating reliquary rare,
 And awful Monstrance, whereon none may stare.

 Last in the solemn train, in cope of gold
 And snow—white alb, came venerable eld,
 Mitre on head of more than earthly mould,
 Led by grave priests, gorgeously chasubled.
 And, as they passed, round arch and column old
 Incense and organ music rolled and swelled,
 Till the long line within the chancel poured,
 And then with one acclaim they praised the Lord.

 ``All ye works of the Lord,`` they loudly sang,
 ``Bless ye the Lord, Praise Him for evermore!
 Praise Him, ye waves, with your sonorous clang,
 Praise Him, ye winds, Praise Him, O sea and shore!
 Mountains, and little hills, and clouds that hang
 Over the deep, dews, snows, and pinnacles hoar,
 Darkness and Light, storms that are silent never,
 Bless ye the Lord, Praise Him for ever and ever!

 ``Bless ye the Lord, fountains and rivers that run,
 Huge whales and monsters of the deep profound;
 Praise Him, ye lightnings, moon, and stars, and sun,
 Birds of the air, and beasts that graze the ground!
 Praise Him for all the wondrous things He hath done;
 Praise Him on harps, Praise Him on cymbals of sound!
 With sounding trumpet, timbrel, and organ, and chord,
 Praise Him! Let every spirit praise the Lord!``

 Then on the dense mass sudden silence fell,
 Each knee was bent, each reverent skullcap doffed,
 Held was each breath, and, touched by unseen spell,
 The organ fluted silvery and soft.
 Then came the tinkle of a little bell,
 And, all heads low, the Host was held aloft;
 While glinted through warm panes day`s dying gleam,
 And the rapt soul touched Heaven in a dream.

 Then once again the organ thundered loud,
 Usurping the high edifice with sound,
 Whereat with dumb accord the prostrate crowd
 Rose, crossed themselves, and to the doorway wound;
 And soon where, late, myriads of knees were bowed
 In phalanxed prayer, reigned solitude profound.
 The solemn notes waxed faint, then swooned away,
 And died along the aisles the light of day.

 And now throughout the vague cathedral gloom,
 That here and there with lone faint lamps was flecked,
 Two forms alone were blackly seen to loom,
 A kneeling maiden, and a man erect.
 They looked like statues carven at a tomb,
 Apeing the quick, with flowing drapery decked,
 And praying with fixed lips and stony head
 Till the last trump shall sound and rouse the dead.

 But, shortly rising, with a beckoning nod
 She drew him forward through the weirdlike space,
 And on the hard smooth marble as they trod,
 Their feet made fearsome echoes in the place.
 Anon she checked him: ``Stay you here with God,``
 Whispering she said, ``I will be back apace.``
 Among stone stems he saw her disappear,
 Though still her hurrying footfall reached his ear.

 At length even that deserted him; and then,
 He was alone in the tremendous gloom:
 Alone with God, far from the help of men.
 Like empty vault of monumental tomb,
 More felt than seen, the dark roof smote his ken;
 The long aisles stretched like avenues of doom,
 And, in the distant chancel dimly lit,
 Bodiless forms seemed noiselessly to flit.

 Left with his dark and solitary ache,
 ``If there be spirits of solace and light,`` he cried,
 ``Swoop from your spheres, your unseen Heaven forsake,
 And now no more my lonely doubts deride.
 Sound—sleeping martyrs, from the tomb awake!
 Palm—bearing virgins, through the silence glide!
 Can you be false who are indeed so fair?
 And if I needs must pray, then hear my prayer!

 ``And thou, Olympia`s trust, once mine no less,
 Of all the Gods gentlest Divinity!
 Mother, and Lady of the mild caress,
 Lend me thy face! oh! give me eyes to see!
 If thou canst hear, why dost thou scorn distress,
 Thou before whom demons of darkness flee?
 Let me behold thee once,—once, I entreat!—
 E`en as Judea`s mountains felt thy feet!``

 Not such the prayers to which high Heaven replies;
 The lips of faith another language speak;
 Celestial visions visit downcast eyes,
 And those who find, not arrogantly seek.
 No answer came to his presumptuous cries,
 Such as, `tis said, descends on suppliants meek,
 But only deeper darkness, and a sense
 Of unslaked thirst and yearning impotence.

 At length, again, a solitary tread
 Upon the silence gained, though far and faint;
 Yet well he guessed `twas hers, than whom the dead
 And never dying vaunt no purer saint.
 Nearer, and ever nearer, now it sped,
 Until his fancy her fair form could paint
 On the dark space, and then the dark space yawned,
 And she herself, no fancy, on him dawned.

 ``Come with me, now,`` she said, in accents low,
 And straightway led him with such swift command
 Among dense—columned aisles, it seemed as though
 Athwart a lonesome wood where huge trunks stand,
 Baulking straight steps, together they did go,
 He strange, and she familiar in the land,
 Where, overhead, thick—matted branches made
 Day night, and night a more cimmerian shade.

 But shortly shone a little light ahead,
 Just level with their gaze; a feeble flame,
 Held by a priest in cassock habited
 And in mid—doorway seen as in a frame.
 He stood as still as stand the pictured dead,
 When some deft hand makes death and life the same,
 And bids one, doubtful, nearer draw, and seek
 If that which gazes so, perchance will speak.

 But ere the living presence could be proved,
 Olympia`s aid had vanished from his side;
 The tall dark figure in the doorway moved,
 And with fine gesture welcome fair implied.
 He, by the stately courtesy behoved
 To pass within, with slow obedient stride
 Entered, the other slowly following him;
 Then the door closed, and all again was dim.

 And where now was Olympia? Ask you where?
 She to the gloaming chancel back had crept,
 And, hope and fear absorbed in silent prayer,
 Lay prone, aye prostrate, even as though she slept.
 The flowing tresses of her warm, soft hair,
 Dark as the gloom, the cold white marble swept;
 She moved not, spoke not, sighed not; even her breath
 Came faint, like one that feebly copes with death.

 But, slowly rising thence, her body first
 She lifted, then her hands, and last her eyes;
 And floods of passionate supplication burst,
 Through lips long sealed, from breast o`ercharged with sighs.
 She called on Christ, on Her who bore and nursed,
 On every Saint and Seraph in the skies,
 And vowed herself to pain, if Heaven would save
 From death the dear imperilled soul it gave.

 ``Oh, by Thine agony and bloody sweat,
 Deliver him, O Lord!`` aloud she cried;
 ``By Thy keen Cross and Passion, save him yet
 Save by Thy crown of thorns and bleeding side!
 Why did Gethsemane Thy tear—drops wet?
 Why wert Thou scourged, why scorned, why crucified?
 Why didst Thou die, why gloriously ascend,
 Why send the Comforter, be this the end?``

 Then in a tempest of hot tears her cries
 Were drenched and drowned, her weak words washed away;
 Her tears were choked with sobs, sobs swooned to sighs,
 Then sighs to silence, and there mute she lay.
 Oh, if there be a Heaven beyond the skies,
 A Heaven to hear, why was it deaf that day?
 For since time`s dawn, unto the realms of air
 No holier heart e`er breathed a purer prayer.

 ``Rise, my dear child,`` a mild voice gravely said,
 ``Rise and accept your doom:`` whereat she rose.
 ``In vain is Reason`s dew when Faith is dead,
 And Grace sleeps silent under Doubt`s deep snows.
 I can no more. The Paraclete hath fled;
 Through his parched bosom prayer no longer flows.
 By Heaven may yet the miracle be wrought;
 But human ways are weak, and words are nought.``

 Then, lamp in hand, through choir and transept dim
 He led them, till they reached a little door,
 And, having fatherly blessed her and him,
 Closed it, and they beheld his face no more.
 The sky was bright with starry cherubim,
 Silent, and round them was the city`s roar;
 And, in their hearts, an anguish of despair,
 Too deep for utterance, and too dark for prayer.

 There motionless they stood, bereft of speech,
 As vessels stranded wait for some fresh wave
 That yet perhaps will lift them from the beach,
 And bear them buoyant o`er the breakers brave.
 None came; yet still they lingered, each for each,
 Two lonely mourners at an open grave,
 Which holds the dead and must be filled with clay,
 And neither hath the heart to turn away.

 At length when too oppressive grew the strain,
 ``Will you not sleep in Milan, dear?`` he said;
 Thus seeking with life`s need to fly from pain,
 And have his instant sentence respited.
 But she, who knew delay was worse than vain,
 Raised deprecating hand, and shook her head;
 ``No, Godfrid! Here, our task is ended quite:
 Let us retrace our pilgrimage to—night!``

 So once again they fled without delay,
 On wings of wind through leagues of dim—seen land,
 Night and the stars accompanying their way,
 And roar and blackness close on either hand;
 Until the dark drew off, and with the day
 They saw the sparkling bay and joyous strand,
 White sails, brown oars, huge coils of briny ropes,
 And fair proud city throned on regal slopes.

 And soon the road they came by, which had run
 Close by the sea, now smooth as woodland pond,
 Saw them once more, love—woven dream unspun,
 Facing farewell. A little way beyond,
 A sleek brown mule stood blinking in the sun,
 For a long march rudely caparisoned;
 And at its side a gentle mountaineer,
 Who to their grief lent neither eye nor ear.

 ``Hear me once more, Olympia! Must we part?
 Is Heaven so stern, and can your gentle breast
 Inflict and sooth endure so keen a smart,
 When charity could lull our pain to rest?
 Is there no common Eden of the heart,
 Where each fond bosom is a welcome guest?
 No comprehensive Paradise, to hold
 All loving souls in one celestial fold?

 ``Here, `twixt the mountains and the sea, I swear
 That I your Faith will reverence as my soul,
 And as when first I succoured your despair
 By the dark streamlet and the blossoming bole,
 I every dewy dawn fresh flowers will bear
 Unto Madonna`s shrine, that happy goal
 Where our first journey ended, and I fain
 Would have this end,—not snapped, as now, in pain!``

 The foam—fringe at their feet was not more white
 Than her pale cheek as, downcast, she replied:
 ``No, Godfrid! no! Farewell, farewell! You might
 Have been my star; a Star once fell by pride:
 But since you furl your wings, and veil your light,
 I cling to Mary and Christ crucified.
 Leave me, nay leave me, ere it be too late!
 Better part here than part at Heaven`s gate!``

 Thereat he kissed her forehead, she his hand,
 And on the mule he mounted her, and then,
 Along the road that skirts the devious strand,
 Watched her, until she vanished from his ken.
 Tears vainly dropped as water upon sand
 Or words of grace on hearts of hardened men,
 Coursed down her cheek, while, half her grief divined,
 The mountain guide walked sad and mute behind.

 But never more as in the simple days
 When prayer was all her thought, her heart shall be;
 For she is burdened with the grief that stays,
 And by a shadow vexed that will not flee.
 Pure, but not spared, she passes from our gaze,
 Victim, not vanquisher of Love. And he?
 Once more an exile over land and main:—
 Ah! Life is sad, and scarcely worth the pain!

 The sun was sinking where the sky—line bounded
 The blue and scarcely furrowed plain of ocean;
 A moment more, was gone, and left confounded
 Retreat of day and night`s advancing motion.
 Then came the moon, rayless, and red, and rounded,
 As when sole mistress of our heart`s devotion,
 And slowly took her melancholy march
 Up the ascent of Heaven`s stupendous arch.

 Dark were the thoughts that passed through Godfrid`s mind,
 As sleepless on the deck sleep made his own,
 He skirted bay, and cape, and hills behind,
 And in their hollows villages bestrewn,
 Which, dimly seen, were beautiful divined,
 And, since no sooner just descried than flown,
 Held on his heart a fond romantic claim
 For ever thence. If life could do the same!

 But soon there crept a tremor overhead;
 The billows shook their white manes, and uprose;
 The sheathëd east more large and crimson spread,
 Like an imperious rosebud when it blows.
 Up came the sun, impetuous and red:
 The moon turned deadly pale, fronting her foes;
 Refused, spite overwhelming odds and ills,
 To share her sway, and died behind the hills.

 Then, from remotest summit to the shore,
 And thickly dotted everywhere between,
 As sped the vessel, frequent more and more,
 On treeless slope, in stream—refreshed ravine,
 Glistened the marble hamlets; some that bore
 Upon the beach, others in distance seen,
 Like maidens dipping white feet in the spray,
 Or dipped, and going up the hills away.

 Smoothly he sailed past headland, bay, and frith,
 Smoothly and softly, till the vessel drew
 Its track to Leghorn`s living port, wherewith
 Even now the prophecy seemed coming true
 Of Italy`s birth; past Pisa, by its kith
 Beggared of all save beauty; onward, through
 Val d`Arno garlanded with Spring, he sped,
 For Florence called, ``Come and be comforted!``

 And comfort came to Godfrid, as, caressed
 In that fair city`s whilom curving walls,
 He owned the spell by none save it possessed,
 Which stirs yet rests the soul, and never palls;
 Strange power, oft felt by many a pilgrim guest,
 Of river and garden, convents, hills, and halls,
 Palace, and shrine, and gallery, to slake
 The spirit`s thirst and lull the bosom`s ache.

 But when robbed Autumn wept herself away,
 And the South`s bright unweeping winter came
 Down from the mountain tops where glittering lay
 Her fallen tears congealed, the smouldering flame
 Of love that, unextinguished night or day,
 Burned in his vestal heart, began to claim
 Fresh fuel, and he longed to see once more
 Madonna`s shrine and Spiaggiascura`s shore.

 Love his sole escort, yearning his sole guide,
 And but one stage his journey, he at last—
 For long now seemed the pilgrimage,—descried
 The shimmering Eden of his exiled Past.
 There, the dell zigzagged up the soft hillside,
 There, tripped the streamlet, frolicsome and fast,
 There, stood the little chapel, and lo! there,
 Olympia`s casement, open to the air.

 But as unto the spot he drew more nigh,
 And hastened onward with remembering feet,
 He saw with sinking heart and saddening eye
 Madonna`s chapel closed, that used to greet,
 With open door, sunshine, and sea, and sky.
 So on its silent step he took his seat,
 As on that woful night, and gazing dumb
 On the blue breakers, wondered would she come.

 And ever and anon he cast a glance
 Up at her casement, where was wont to stand
 A pot of flowers. Now,—was it only chance?—
 No flowers were there. At length, from off the sand
 He saw a bent and withered dame advance
 Slow toward the shrine, her spindle in her hand,
 Singing, to mind her of the days gone by,
 A sweet love—ditty, low and plaintively.

 As leisurely she came, he leisured rose,
 And, gazing at her well—remembered face,
 Said, ``Can you tell me why these doors now close,
 And where is she, the guardian of this place?``
 ``She? she is gone; and whither, no one knows.
 Spiaggiascura sees no more her face,
 Her feet no more! And I have heard them say,
 `Twas one like you that drove our dear away.

 ``Sister of Charity they call her now.
 She wears black serge about her fair young limbs,
 And a white fillet, smooth across her brow,
 Hides her once raven hair. Elsewhere her hymns
 She chants, and Christ hath got her virgin vow.
 But many an eye in Spiaggiascura swims,
 Vainly, to have her back. Ah! well—a—day!
 That love and grief should drive our dear away!``

 Then on she passed, with feet infirm and slow,
 Plying her spindle still along the shore,
 Unto her own pleased ears continuing low
 The love—song of her youth that was no more.
 But he from her reproach made haste to go,
 Lest others came and echoed it, and bore
 Straight thence to Milan, making for the pile
 Which, ere the mountains, takes the orient`s smile.

 Empty its vast space now, where once he stood
 With myriads packed in prayer; empty its nave,
 Empty the aisles, trunked like a virgin wood,
 Save of a verger wielding idle stave.
 ``Pray, tell me where to find a Father good,
 Who once the simple folk their sins forgave
 That live at Spiaggiascura,`` Godfrid said.
 ``Alas, sir! he hath been this three months dead!``

 Then seeing that life and death alike conspired
 Against him, with unhoping heart he went
 From Milan, and to Florence back retired,
 Once more relapsing to that dumb content,
 Which, when is nothing more to be desired
 This side the grave, sits with its longings bent
 Upon the other, and in patience waits
 The tardy opening of death`s grim—shut gates.

 Then oftenest his presence might you see,
 Ever alone, in corridor and hall,
 And mostly there where Venus of the Sea,
 Lithe on her white pentelic pedestal,
 And pure withal in utter nudity,
 Stands, challenging the story of the Fall.
 Wait, souls impatient! Art will manumit
 The bondsman, Nature, when the times shall fit.

 Withal, with lively concourse and the gay
 Prismatic multitude that daily troops
 From broad piazza or from narrower way
 Along the quay where mountain Arno stoops
 To suit the lowly bridges, would he stray,
 Glad with the gladness of the shifting groups,
 And, when the afternoons grew bright and long,
 Mix with the green Cascine`s babbling throng.

 But he was seen there rarely, for he most
 Loved in the pale light of the afternoon,
 When vespers had been chanted, and the host
 Of monks had slipped away with slattern shoon
 To cell or sacristy, to stalk like ghost
 Through dim—lit aisles where none did importùne,
 Or in the cloister garden hard beside
 San Marco`s shrine or Buonarotti`s bride.

 With him were fountain, walk, and flower—bed,
 And frescoed wall, a little space beyond,
 Of open corridor, whereon the dead,
 With art ingenuous, reverent, and fond,
 Have limned, through gratitude to him who led
 Them, his disciples, never to despond,
 In colours not like those of modern trick,
 But glowing still, the life of Dominic.

 Then through the Spezieria`s courteous gate
 Emerging on the outer world, his eye
 And heart felt overburdened with the weight
 Of the fair streets, vast hills, and vaster sky,
 Where all except himself seemed calm and great.
 Then would he lean o`er Ponte Nuovo nigh,
 Till did the arbitrary tears annul
 A scene for his soft heart too beautiful.

 But, with the springtide of another year,
 There ran a light—heeled rumour through the land,
 That Future palpitated—for was here,
 And End to be accomplished, long time planned.
 In every city pealed the joy—bells clear,
 For War to wave anew her smouldering brand.
 Men leaped from lethargy, and, as they passed,
 Glared in each others` eyes, and looked, ``At last!``

 And women brought their children in the streets,
 And held their nestlings to the martial mirth,
 Ashamed no more to offer mother`s teats
 To those who, once it seemed, would curse their birth.
 And maidens sent their other souls, their sweets,
 Unwed, but proudly tearful in their dearth,
 Thinking, ``Rest childless in your patriot graves,
 Or freight our wombs with sons no longer slaves!``

 For He, the self—crowned democrat, whose claim
 Had herds, condoning violence, confessed,
 Unequal heir of a too warlike fame,
 Who `neath the buckler wore a doubting breast,
 Had let long—smothered purpose break aflame
 Through clouding words, whose meaning still was guessed,
 Thinking to vindicate the tinsel yoke,
 He durst not lighten, by one noble stroke;

  And thundered for his war—horse. On they came,
 He at their head, the galliard plumes of France:
 And when the record of her too much shame
 Sadly ye read, forget not oft to glance
 At one bright page; for never since the name
 Of Brother grew a password, had the lance
 Been laid in rest, or war—spur stuck in steed,
 For goal sublimer or for sorer need.

 Meanwhile, though press and platform might harangue,
 Busy with self and turbulent with fears,
 He rode him forth, alone, with martial clang,
 All the waked centuries singing in his ears,
 To drive the bandogs back whose greedy fang
 Was fastening deeper with their victim`s tears;
 Spontaneous rushed where Italy made moan,
 To give her grandeur, or to lose his own.

 Scared by the mighty name which whilom hunted
 Their long gaunt backs, they half relaxed their grip.
 She, scrambling to her feet, what spear unblunted
 Was left her, seized, and stanched her bleeding lip;
 Donned armour seeming large for limbs unwonted,
 And strode with France to battle, hip to hip;
 While Europe coldly prophesied disaster:
 ``See the fair slave making a change of master!``

 And Florence, gentle Florence, good to rule,
 Rose from her sunny insolicitude,
 Feeling that crafty mildness would befool
 Her easy heart to tolerate a brood
 Of hireling brows who deem the world a school,
 Themselves the ushers. At her altered mood
 He fled, their Lord. Without or hiss or groan,
 They laughed the discrowned craven from his throne.

 Then all the Tuscan youth, like Helen`s charmer,
 Less for Bellona`s than for Beauty`s joust
 In seeming fitted, donned withal their armour,
 And followed in the wake the war—dogs loosed.
 And Godfrid felt the passive blood wax warmer
 Within his veins, and knew himself traduced
 By servile lethargy and despot sorrow,
 And sware to join the banners on the morrow.

 He had no mother, sister, maid, to leave,
 But friendly faces had been bent on him,
 And friendly hands stretched out to make him grieve
 Less for a past which never could be dim.
 His farewells he had ta`en, and, as the eve
 On Florence drooped, was hurrying past the brim
 Of snow—flushed Arno, in his soldier guise,
 When on his arm a hand, and—Christ! those eyes!

 The eyes of Olive, still as fair and fond,
 The touch of Olive clinging to his side
 In mute remembrance of the ancient bond.
 Quickly she spoke: ``Say, whither do you glide,
 With blind gaze fastened on some goal beyond?``
 ``I go to fight for Italy!`` he cried.
 ``O Olive! come not with that pallid face
 To check me, now but started in the race!``

 ``Hush! If it ever held you, prove it now!
 I want your aid. Can Italy not wait?
 But choose!`` she said. ``For death upon his brow
 Beleaguering sits, and I am desolate.
 Strange faces vex him, and, I know not how—
 But, come or go! Why stand I here to prate?
 You once were—Well, I did believe that time
 Might quench my love, not leave you less sublime.``

 Swiftly together through the streets they sped,
 Swift to the chamber mounted where he lay,
 With all except the blankness of the dead.
 ``An English face, dear!`` did she softly say,
 ``Whose name you know.`` Sir Gilbert from his bed
 Turned a slow glance, and murmured, as a ray
 Crept o`er his face of momentary bliss:
 ``An English face and voice? Thanks, thanks, for this!``

 He was so feeble, so usurped by pain,
 He could not say, articulately, more;
 But pressure of the hand, and look, made plain
 That this new presence made his smart less sore.
 Then she explained to Godfrid how the twain
 Had come through Umbrian hills from Capuan shore,
 Arrived yestreen in Florence` swarming town,
 And he by fever straight been stricken down.

 ``The strangeness of the place will aggravate
 His mental ache, and multiply his fears;
 The sounds within, without, the hostel—gate,
 Are unfamiliar to his homesick ears.
 Can he be saved? Oh! think you `tis too late?
 Yes! he will die!`` And rose the woman`s tears,
 And clung the woman`s hands. These Godfrid pressed,
 And whispered low: ``Be calm, and hope the best!``

 And then he set himself, as best he might,
 With hand not quite so gentle as his heart,
 Unskilled indeed, and all inapposite
 For this new task, to play the nurse`s part;
 Urging meanwhile the unpaid debt of night
 And travel`s weariness, with specious art,
 To her, he said, who must from slumber snatch
 Strength to relieve him in to—morrow`s watch.

 At last, reluctant, on a couch hard—by,
 Still robed, she lay, and soon was deafly sleeping:
 While darker waned the light in Gilbert`s eye,
 And o`er his temples came the death—dews creeping.
 The fitful night—gusts from a murky sky
 And hills of melancholy mist came sweeping;
 Till Godfrid`s ears, excited, thought to find
 The crash of battle flying on the wind.

 And then as darkness deepened, and the storm
 Howled for the moon that came not, and the night
 Scowled that she tarried, o`er the fevered form
 Came writhing pangs and agonies to fright,
 Which give to dying limbs a strength enorm;
 The which with gentle words, as best he might,
 Strove Godfrid to assuage, beset with fear
 Lest yon sound sleeper should awake and hear.

 ``Thanks, more than brother! But I die, to—night!``
 He breathed, and on the pillow weakly sank.
 Colder the feet, the lips more pinched and white,
 Clammier the hands, more moist the hair and lank.
 Stole through the casement omens of the light
 Of lagging dawn, but cloud—distressed and dank.
 Then woke the fair flushed sleeper from repose,
 Blaming her eyes that they could ever close.

 He still was there, and through the doubtful morn,
 Through struggling noon, once more defended eve,
 Into another night was bravely borne
 By hard—pressed dogged life that would not leave
 The centre of its citadel, though shorn
 Of hope that outward succour would relieve;
 Until it seemed that death, of late so eager,
 Fell back from lines `twas useless to beleaguer.

 A week, a puzzling, shapeless week, had gone,
 When sunshine seemed to venture in the room,
 Not through the window only, but upon
 The learnëd brows so long enwrapt in gloom;
 And, the eighth morning, when they came to con
 That pale sunk face, the very leech from whom
 Comfort came rarest, whispered low at length,
 ``He yet may live; `tis an affair of strength!``

 His whims waxed fewer, and his gaze less wild.
 At last came sleep; true, but a timid sleep,
 Like wounded friend but lately reconciled,
 Whom thoughts of past estrangement somewhat keep
 Embarrassed still, withal a slumber mild,
 Well—wishing, kindly, if nor long nor deep;
 Under whose covering influence might faint life
 Repair the losses of its recent strife.

 As the sick—chamber felt returning dawn
 Of hope deemed set for ever, and tender heed
 Might from the bedside partly be withdrawn,
 Olive`s fond gaze, which lately did but feed
 On its vicissitudes, seemed now to fawn
 More upon him Fate sent her in her need,
 With look of thankful wonder in her eyes,
 Blent with affection, deeper for disguise.

 As dawn on night, as night on evening crept,
 Strength summoned stealthy courage to invade
 The slowly cooling channels lately swept
 By subtle fever`s enervating raid.
 And when, the eleventh morn, the doctors stepped
 Across the wonted threshold, and surveyed
 The form that had so obstinately braved
 The onset of close death, they murmured, ``Saved!``

 Then sleep, so generous still, if sensitive,
 And anxious now to make a full amend
 For absence long, approaches coy and stiff,
 Seeming as though it never could expend
 The kept—back love it long had yearned to give,
 Nor prove itself enough the true old friend
 Of former nights, found even night too brief
 Wherein to bring the sufferer relief.

 One morn, the fourth from that on which the words
 Of promised life had life still more promoted,
 From soundest sleep he woke. Without, the birds,
 Many, and musical, and swollen—throated,
 Lustily carolled. Voices of the herds,
 From slopes unseen, into the city floated;
 With sunshine—shadow blended, and the sense
 Of life come back, and Spring`s young influence.

 Yes! Spring had, jocund, danced adown the hills,
 Filling the valleys with her footsteps fair,
 And calling to the leaping mountain rills
 Her swifter flight to follow, if they dare.
 The dainty crocus and bluff daffodils
 Pushed through the sod to drink the honeyed air.
 The light lark into soaring treble burst,
 To tell to Heaven what Earth had learned the first.

 ``Godfrid!`` he murmured. But no answer came.
 ``Poor fellow! he is wearied, and at last
 Seeks the repose he has such right to claim,
 Now that my peril, thanks to him, is passed.``
 He felt within so steady glow the flame
 Of life late flickering, and so longed to cast
 One look without, he slowly, stiffly, stepped
 From his lone couch, and to the window crept.

  He opened. Just below, the city lay,
 The marble shining city; but, between,
 Waved feathery trees in fresh—assumed array
 Of many—shaded but harmonious green.
 Seemed air, and sky, and mountain far away,
 To swim and sparkle in a perfumed sheen,
 And, nearer coming, to salute his brow,
 And bid him own he ne`er had lived till now.

 Roses, o`erburthened with their weight of flowers,
 And drooping `neath their own too luscious scent,
 Hung over garden walls, and to young bowers
 Transformed hoar gate and ruined battlement.
 The nightingales through all the noonday hours
 Sang, not for sorrow, but for heart`s content;
 Nor round the circuit of the city fair,
 But over penthoused street and broad bright square.

 It seemed as though the universe and he
 Together had revived, and now his heart,
 Hereto in sooth not over quick to see
 The year`s distinct emotions, had a part
 In her new vernal geniality.
 But unto him was solitude a smart:
 He could not look, alone; `twas not his fate
 To find in Nature friend and intimate.

  So thence he tottered, weak, across the floor,
 To an adjoining chamber. Nought could be
 More sweetly sunny or deserted more.
 From world without came hummings of the bee,
 And liquid linnet trills. By open door,
 Into another room he passed, to see
 Godfrid on couch, asleep, with weary limb,
 And Olive, nigh, intently watching him.

 Down her fixed face, as alabaster pale,
 The tears were trickling steadily and slow,
 As tears will stream which neither flood nor fail,
 Because from deep enduring source they flow.
 He stood transfixed, reading the pictured tale,
 And then completing it by his own woe:
 Incarnate revelation, come at last,
 Explaining each fresh puzzle of the past.

 All—all,—in that mute tell—tale group he saw:
 The fettered heart he once had fondly deemed
 Must love like his into love`s orbit draw;
 The cold consents which more like sufferance seemed
 Than blood`s response; obedience chilled by awe,
 Not warmed by tenderness; the tears that gleamed
 Oftener in eye than smile round lip or brow;—
 In these,—in more,—he stood instructed now.

  For in that concentrated gaze he read
 Not love alone, but love`s stern hopelessness,
 Whose first, whose last indulgence was to shed
 Thus openly the tears `twould else repress,
 Before that blameless, tranquil—sleeping head,
 Unconscious cause of her, of his, distress.
 He could not salve his woe with sense of wrong,
 Nor anguish learn from vengeance to be strong.

 He turned away to go, as men will turn
 From grief they cannot grapple with, and sought
 Soft to retire, that so she might not learn
 The ruin in his heart her heart had wrought,
 And, unaccused, for other`s heart might yearn.
 But gently though he moved, the sound she caught,
 And, keen as guilt for every step that stirs,
 Read in his face the thought he read in hers.

 No word by him or her was uttered then,
 Or ever, of the truth, now both well knew,
 And while she silently eschewed his ken,
 He mute into his hollow woe withdrew.
 But from that hour she sickened straight; and when
 Godfrid awoke refreshed with slumber`s dew,
 And came with hearty mien to greet them both,
 He found her sunk in strange mysterious sloth.

  At first he thought `twas nature`s self, that, wise,
 Was but unstringing chords long overstrained,
 And, when he marked no dread in Gilbert`s eyes,
 Deemed every torpid moment moment gained.
 But when she sleepless lay in sleepy guise,
 And hour by hour the pale—pink life—tint waned
 From cheek but late with rosy youth aglow,
 Fear gathered in his heart, foreboding woe.

 And when the leeches, come to take farewell
 Of Gilbert, scanned her face and touched her hand,
 She said she needed not the medicined spell,
 Nor had she any ache they understand.
 Nor could they, sooth, her lethargy dispel,
 Or say what foe, of all the dismal band,
 Was lurking in her blood, but sought to learn,
 By questioning words, what skill could not discern.

 And when they questioned Godfrid if some woe,
 Of old or recent canker, vexed her heart,
 With stare for stare he answered, ``Who shall know?``
 Whereat they moved away and talked apart,
 Then gravely said, ``Believe us, that is so.
 Hers is a malady beyond our art.
 We know not whether she will die or live,
 For we have neither death nor life to give:``

 And so departed. Then she, like a light
 That burns dim, dimmer, toward the break of day
 Within an alabaster vase at night,
 As Gilbert waxed in strength, so waned away,
 Then, without warning flicker, went out quite,
 And, all her sorrows silenced, smiling lay.
 She looked so bland, so griefless, on her bier,
 You would have thought she had been happy here.

 There is no name for that of which she died,
 Unless we call it weariness of heart,
 Which still can slay, however men deride
 Its power and against it vaunt their art.
 But she hath now the peace for which she sighed,
 And never again will know or want or smart.
 She never more will draw uneasy breath,
 For she hath wed the faithful bridegroom, Death.

 There is a peaceful cemetery stands
 Where the Fair City`s walls once cast their shade,
 Filled with the dead beloved of other lands;
 And One sleeps there whose memory will not fade.
 Their dreamless bed is made by stranger hands,
 And in strange earth their limbs forlorn are laid.
 No English flowers bloom there, but tapereth high
 The solemn cypress, pointing to the sky.

 There, with the restful, Olive hath her rest,
 Borne thither from the restless, both by him
 She loved, and him she should have loved, the best.
 No pompous dirge was sung, no funeral hymn
 Vexed the deep silence of her shut—up breast:
 Only a few grave words, and tears that swim
 In manly eyes when the cold covering earth
 Takes all we had, and leaves us to our dearth.

 But when the sycophants of death had flown,
 Among the white memorials of life`s fate,
 Gilbert and Godfrid, lingering, grieved alone.
 Hard—by, they heard through Pinti`s buzzing gate
 The rolling wheels of war, and trumpets blown
 By those who, not less eager because late,
 Made for the front of Freedom`s thickening lines
 Through the choked passes of the Apennines.

 And Godfrid`s soul, like war—horse when it hears
 The longed—for bugles blow, pricked at the sound.
 ``Now must I go! This is no time for tears.
 Farewell! I speed me to yet holier ground.
 I hear the summons of the harked—for years;
 At last, at last, a godlike Cause is found.
 Who tends the dead, when betwixt Alp and wave
 A buried Nation bursteth from its grave?``

 And as he spoke, the fire that filled his eye
 Was flashed from Gilbert`s with reflected ray,
 Who, as at grief enraged, thus made reply:
 ``Let me go, too. Now wherefore should I stay?
 Life still keeps something, so it be to die
 In the hot hour of liberating fray.
 How can I reck for what I fight, or whom,
 So you but find me sword, and foe, and tomb!``

 So where the graves are quietest she lieth,
 She who was so unfortunate, though fair.
 While to the rest full many a footstep hieth,
 To her hushed mound none ever doth repair.
 But fleecy cloud, and sunny breeze that flieth,
 Seem to have made it their peculiar care.
 As for the twain, they vanished in the rattle
 Of jolting tumbrils and the joy of battle.

END OF ACT II
Source
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