IT 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.'
But it is not to list to the waterfall
That Parisina leaves her hall,
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light That the lady walks in the shadow of night; And if she sits in Este's bower,
T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower
She listens-but not for the nightingale Though her ear expects as soft a tale.
There glides a step through the foliage thick,
And her cheek grows pale-and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves:
A moment more-and they shall meet
'T is past-her lover 's at her feet.
And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide? Its living things-its earth and sky- Are nothing to their mind and eye. And heedless as the dead are they
Of aught around, above, beneath; As if all else had pass'd away, They only for each other breathe; Their very sighs are full of joy So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy The hearts which feel its fiery sway: Of guilt, of peril, do they deem In that tumultuous tender dream? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour? Or thought how brief such moments last: But yet-they are already past!
Alas! we must awake before
We know such vision comes no more.
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.
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.
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? And well he may-a deeper doom Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, When he shall wake to sleep no more, And stand the eternal throne before. And well he may-his earthly peace Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. That sleeping whisper of a name Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. And whose that name? that o'er his pillow 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.
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 fair
At least, not smiling-sleeping thereNay, more: he did not wake her then, But gazed upon her with a glance Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep againAnd o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more-but still she slumber'dWhile, in his thought, her days are number'd.
And with the mor, he sought, and found, In many a tale from those around, The proof of all he fear'd to know, Their present guilt, his future woe; The long-conniving damsels seek
To save themselves, and would transfer The guilt-the shame-the doom to her: Concealment is no more-they speak All circumstance which may compel Full credence to the tale they tell : And Azo's tortured heart and ear Have nothing more to feel or hear.
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