The Works of Lord Byron Volume III Part 83

_January_ 22, 1816.

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The following poem is grounded on a circ.u.mstance 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 subst.i.tuted for Nicholas, as more metrical.--[B.]

"Under the reign of Nicholas III. [A.D. 1425] Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of a maid, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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.[411] 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.--[Ed. 1837, p. 830.]

PARISINA.[412]

I.

It is the hour when from the boughs[413]

The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered 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, 10 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.[414]

II.

But it is not to list to the waterfall[qy]

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, 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower; 20 She listens--but not for the nightingale-- Though her ear expects as soft a tale.

There glides a step through the foliage thick,[qz]

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-- 'Tis past--her Lover's at her feet.

III.

And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide? 30 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 pa.s.sed 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: 40 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem In that tumultuous tender dream?

Who that have felt that pa.s.sion's power, Or paused, or feared 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.

IV.

With many a lingering look they leave The spot of guilty gladness past: 50 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. 60 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 fevered in her sleep she seems, And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 70 And mutters she in her unrest A name she dare not breathe by day,[415]

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. 80

VI.

He clasped her sleeping to his heart, And listened 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 doomed to cease. 90 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 sh.o.r.e, 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?--'tis Hugo's,--his-- In sooth he had not deemed of this!-- 100 'Tis Hugo's,--he, the child of one He loved--his own all-evil son-- The offspring of his wayward youth, When he betrayed Bianca's truth,[ra][416]

The maid whose folly could confide In him who made her not his bride.

VII.

He plucked 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-- 110 At least, not smiling--sleeping--there-- Nay, 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 again; And o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp.

She spake no more--but still she slumbered-- While, in his thought, her days are numbered.

VIII.

And with the morn he sought and found, 120 In many a tale from those around, The proof of all he feared 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 circ.u.mstance which may compel Full credence to the tale they tell: And Azo's tortured heart and ear 130 Have nothing more to feel or hear.

IX.

He was not one who brooked delay: Within the chamber of his state, The Chief of Este's ancient sway Upon his throne of judgement sate; His n.o.bles and his guards are there,-- Before him is the sinful pair; Both young,--and _one_ how pa.s.sing fair!

With swordless belt, and fettered hand, Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand 140 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; How changed since last her speaking eye Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 150 Where high-born men were proud to wait-- Where Beauty watched to imitate Her gentle voice--her lovely mien-- And gather from her air and gait The graces of its Queen: Then,--had her eye in sorrow wept, A thousand warriors forth had leapt, A thousand swords had sheathless shone, And made her quarrel all their own.[417]

Now,--what is she? and what are they? 160 Can she command, or these obey?

All silent and unheeding now, With downcast eyes and knitting brow, And folded arms, and freezing air, And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, Her knights, her dames, her court--is there: And he--the chosen one, whose lance Had yet been couched before her glance, Who--were his arm a moment free-- Had died or gained her liberty; 170 The minion of his father's bride,-- He, too, is fettered 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, s.h.i.+ning through the smoothest white That e'er did softest kiss invite-- Now seemed with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs below; 180 Which glance so heavily, and fill, As tear on tear grows gathering still[rb][418]

XI.

And he for her had also wept, But for the eyes that on him gazed: His sorrow, if he felt it, slept; Stern and erect his brow was raised.

Whate'er the grief his soul avowed, He would not shrink before the crowd; But yet he dared not look on her; Remembrance of the hours that were-- 190 His guilt--his love--his present state-- His father's wrath, all good men's hate-- His earthly, his eternal fate-- And hers,--oh, hers! he dared not throw One look upon that death-like brow!

Else had his rising heart betrayed Remorse for all the wreck it made.

XII.

And Azo spake:--"But yesterday I gloried in a wife and son; That dream this morning pa.s.sed away; 200 Ere day declines, I shall have none.

My life must linger on alone; Well,--let that pa.s.s,--there breathes not one Who would not do as I have done: Those ties are broken--not by me; Let that too pa.s.s;--the doom's prepared!

Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, And then--thy crime's reward!

Away! address thy prayers to Heaven.

Before its evening stars are met, 210 Learn 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! shall view his head-- Away! I cannot speak the rest: Go! woman of the wanton breast; Not I, but thou his blood dost shed: 220 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 Throbbed as if back upon his brain The hot blood ebbed and flowed again; And therefore bowed he for a s.p.a.ce, And pa.s.sed his shaking hand along His eye, to veil it from the throng; While Hugo raised his chained hands, 230 And for a brief delay demands His father's ear: the silent sire Forbids not what his words require.

"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:[419] 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 ruined 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 severed head-- Shall witness for thee from the dead How trusty and how tender were 250 Thy youthful love--paternal care.