The Works of Lord Byron Volume III Part 84

'Tis true that I have done thee wrong-- But wrong for wrong:--this,--deemed thy bride, The other victim of thy pride,-- Thou know'st for me was destined long; Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms; And with thy very crime--my birth,-- Thou taunted'st me--as little worth; A match ign.o.ble for her arms; Because, forsooth, I could not claim 260 The lawful heirs.h.i.+p of thy name, Nor sit on Este's lineal throne; Yet, were a few short summers mine, My name should more than Este's s.h.i.+ne With honours all my own.

I had a sword--and have a breast That should have won as haught[420] a crest As ever waved along the line Of all these sovereign sires of thine.

Not always knightly spurs are worn 270 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;-- Such maddening moments as my past, 280 They could not, and they did not, last;-- Albeit my birth and name be base, And thy n.o.bility of race Disdained to deck a thing like me-- Yet in my lineaments they trace Some features of my father's face, And in my spirit--all of thee.

From thee this tamelessness of heart-- From thee--nay, wherefore dost thou start?--- From thee in all their vigour came 290 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d in my soul, For that, like thine, abhorred control; And for my breath, that hasty boon Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, I valued it no more than thou, 300 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;[421]

Yet would I that I then had died: 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 erred the sire, so erred the son, And thou must punish both in one.

My crime seems worst to human view, But G.o.d must judge between us too!"[422]

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 ranked, When those dull chains in meeting clanked: Till Parisina's fatal charms[423]

Again attracted every eye-- Would she thus hear him doomed 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 turned to either side-- Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 330 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew-- And there with gla.s.sy gaze she stood As ice were in her curdled blood; But every now and then a tear[424]

So large and slowly gathered slid From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing to see, not hear![425]

And those who saw, it did surprise, 340 Such drops could fall from human eyes.

To speak she thought--the imperfect note Was choked within her swelling throat, Yet seemed in that low hollow groan Her whole heart gus.h.i.+ng in the tone.

It ceased--again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er had life,-- 350 A monument of Azo's wife,-- Than her, that living guilty thing, Whose every pa.s.sion was a sting, Which urged to guilt, but could not bear That guilt's detection and despair.

But yet she lived--and all too soon Recovered from that death-like swoon-- But scarce to reason--every sense Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense; And each frail fibre of her brain 360 (As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain, The erring arrow launch aside) Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide-- The past a blank, the future black, With glimpses of a dreary track, Like lightning on the desert path, When midnight storms are mustering wrath.

She feared--she felt that something ill Lay on her soul, so deep and chill; That there was sin and shame she knew, 370 That some one was to die--but who?

She had forgotten:--did she breathe?

Could this be still the earth beneath, The sky above, and men around; Or were they fiends who now so frowned On one, before whose eyes each eye Till then had smiled in sympathy?

All was confused and undefined To her all-jarred and wandering mind; A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 380 And now in laughter, now in tears, But madly still in each extreme, She strove with that convulsive dream; For so it seemed on her to break: Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!

XV.

The Convent bells are ringing, But mournfully and slow; In the grey square turret swinging, With a deep sound, to and fro.

Heavily to the heart they go! 390 Hark! the hymn is singing-- The song for the dead below, Or the living who shortly shall be so!

For a departed being's soul[rc]

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll:[426]

He is near his mortal goal; Kneeling at the Friar's knee, Sad to hear, and piteous to see-- Kneeling on the bare cold ground.

With the block before and the guards around; 400 And the headsman with his bare arm ready, That the blow may be both swift and steady, Feels if the axe be sharp and true Since he set its edge anew:[427]

While the crowd in a speechless circle gather To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father!

XVI.

It is a lovely hour as yet Before the summer sun shall set, Which rose upon that heavy day, And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 410 And his evening beams are shed Full on Hugo's fated head, As his last confession pouring To the monk, his doom deploring In penitential holiness, He bends to hear his accents bless With absolution such as may Wipe our mortal stains away.

That high sun on his head did glisten As he there did bow and listen, 420 And the rings of chestnut hair Curled half down his neck so bare; But brighter still the beam was thrown Upon the axe which near him shone With a clear and ghastly glitter---- Oh! that parting hour was bitter!

Even the stern stood chilled with awe: Dark the crime, and just the law-- Yet they shuddered as they saw.

XVII.

The parting prayers are said and over 430 Of that false son, and daring lover!

His beads and sins are all recounted,[rd]

His hours to their last minute mounted; His mantling cloak before was stripped, His bright brown locks must now be clipped; 'Tis done--all closely are they shorn; The vest which till this moment worn-- The scarf which Parisina gave-- Must not adorn him to the grave.

Even that must now be thrown aside, 440 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied; But no--that last indignity Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.

All feelings seemingly subdued, In deep disdain were half renewed, When headsman's hands prepared to bind Those eyes which would not brook such blind, As if they dared not look on death.

"No--yours my forfeit blood and breath; These hands are chained, but let me die 450 At least with an unshackled eye-- Strike:"--and as the word he said, Upon the block he bowed his head; These the last accents Hugo spoke: "Strike"--and flas.h.i.+ng fell the stroke-- Rolled the head--and, gus.h.i.+ng, sunk Back the stained and heaving trunk, In the dust, which each deep vein Slaked with its ensanguined rain; His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 460 Convulsed and quick--then fix for ever.

He died, as erring man should die, Without display, without parade; Meekly had he bowed and prayed, As not disdaining priestly aid, Nor desperate of all hope on high.

And while before the Prior kneeling, His heart was weaned from earthly feeling; His wrathful Sire--his Paramour-- What were they in such an hour? 470 No more reproach,--no more despair,-- No thought but Heaven,--no word but prayer-- Save the few which from him broke, When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke, He claimed to die with eyes unbound, His sole adieu to those around.

XVIII.

Still as the lips that closed in death, Each gazer's bosom held his breath: But yet, afar, from man to man, A cold electric[428] s.h.i.+ver ran, 480 As down the deadly blow descended On him whose life and love thus ended; And, with a hus.h.i.+ng sound compressed, A sigh shrunk back on every breast; But no more thrilling noise rose there,[re]

Beyond the blow that to the block Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, Save one:--what cleaves the silent air So madly shrill, so pa.s.sing wild?

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 490 Done to death by sudden blow, To the sky these accents go, Like a soul's in endless woe.

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, That horrid voice ascends to heaven, And every eye is turned thereon; But sound and sight alike are gone!

It was a woman's shriek--and ne'er In madlier accents rose despair; And those who heard it, as it past, 500 In mercy wished it were the last.

XIX.

Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, No more in palace, hall, or bower, Was Parisina heard or seen: Her name--as if she ne'er had been-- Was banished from each lip and ear, Like words of wantonness or fear; And from Prince Azo's voice, by none Was mention heard of wife or son; No tomb--no memory had they; 510 Theirs was unconsecrated clay-- At least the Knight's who died that day.

But Parisina's fate lies hid Like dust beneath the coffin lid: Whether in convent she abode, And won to heaven her dreary road, By blighted and remorseful years Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; Or if she fell by bowl or steel, For that dark love she dared to feel: 520 Or if, upon the moment smote, She died by tortures less remote, Like him she saw upon the block With heart that shared the headsman's shock, In quickened brokenness that came, In pity o'er her shattered frame, None knew--and none can ever know: But whatsoe'er its end below, Her life began and closed in woe!

XX.

And Azo found another bride, 530 And goodly sons grew by his side; But none so lovely and so brave As him who withered in the grave;[429]

Or if they were--on his cold eye Their growth but glanced unheeded by, Or noticed with a smothered sigh.

But never tear his cheek descended, And never smile his brow unbended; And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought The intersected lines of thought; 540 Those furrows which the burning share Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there; Scars of the lacerating mind Which the Soul's war doth leave behind.[430]

He was past all mirth or woe: Nothing more remained below But sleepless nights and heavy days, A mind all dead to scorn or praise, A heart which shunned itself--and yet That would not yield, nor could forget, 550 Which, when it least appeared to melt, Intensely thought--intensely felt: The deepest ice which ever froze Can only o'er the surface close; The living stream lies quick below, And flows, and cannot cease to flow.[431]

Still was his sealed-up bosom haunted[rf]

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, Howe'er our stifled tears we banish; 560 When struggling as they rise to start, We check those waters of the heart, They are not dried--those tears unshed But flow back to the fountain head, And resting in their spring more pure, For ever in its depth endure, Unseen--unwept--but uncongealed, And cherished most where least revealed.

With inward starts of feeling left, To throb o'er those of life bereft, 570 Without the power to fill again The desert gap which made his pain; Without the hope to meet them where United souls shall gladness share; With all the consciousness that he Had only pa.s.sed a just decree;[rg]

That they had wrought their doom of ill; Yet Azo's age was wretched still.

The tainted branches of the tree, If lopped with care, a strength may give, 580 By which the rest shall bloom and live All greenly fresh and wildly free: But if the lightning, in its wrath, The waving boughs with fury scathe, The ma.s.sy trunk the ruin feels, And never more a leaf reveals.

FOOTNOTES:

[411] {503} ["Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated; but the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon."--_Vide_ Advertis.e.m.e.nt to _Lament of Ta.s.so_.]

[412] {505} "This turned out a calamitous year for the people of Ferrara, for there occurred a very tragical event in the court of their sovereign. Our annals, both printed and in ma.n.u.script, with the exception of the unpolished and negligent work of Sardi, and one other, have given the following relation of it,--from which, however, are rejected many details, and especially the narrative of Bandelli, who wrote a century afterwards, and who does not accord with the contemporary historians.

"By the above-mentioned Stella dell' a.s.sa.s.sino, the Marquis, in the year 1405, had a son called Ugo, a beautiful and ingenuous youth. Parisina Malatesta, second wife of Niccolo, like the generality of step-mothers, treated him with little kindness, to the infinite regret of the Marquis, who regarded him with fond partiality. One day she asked leave of her husband to undertake a certain journey, to which he consented, but upon condition that Ugo should bear her company; for he hoped by these means to induce her, in the end, to lay aside the obstinate aversion which she had conceived against him. And indeed his intent was accomplished but too well, since, during the journey, she not only divested herself of all her hatred, but fell into the opposite extreme. After their return, the Marquis had no longer any occasion to renew his former reproofs. It happened one day that a servant of the Marquis, named Zoese, or, as some call him, Giorgio, pa.s.sing before the apartments of Parisina, saw going out from them one of her chamber-maids, all terrified and in tears.

Asking the reason, she told him that her mistress, for some slight offence, had been beating her; and, giving vent to her rage, she added, that she could easily be revenged, if she chose to make known the criminal familiarity which subsisted between Parisina and her step-son.

The servant took note of the words, and related them to his master. He was astounded thereat, but, scarcely believing his ears, he a.s.sured himself of the fact, alas! too clearly, on the 18th of May, by looking through a hole made in the ceiling of his wife's chamber. Instantly he broke into a furious rage, and arrested both of them, together with Aldobrandino Rangoni, of Modena, her gentleman, and also, as some say, two of the women of her chamber, as abettors of this sinful act. He ordered them to be brought to a hasty trial, desiring the judges to p.r.o.nounce sentence, in the accustomed forms, upon the culprits. This sentence was death. Some there were that bestirred themselves in favour of the delinquents, and, amongst others, Ugoccion Contrario, who was all-powerful with Niccolo, and also his aged and much deserving minister Alberto dal Sale. Both of these, their tears flowing down their cheeks, and upon their knees, implored him for mercy; adducing whatever reasons they could suggest for sparing the offenders, besides those motives of honour and decency which might persuade him to conceal from the public so scandalous a deed. But his rage made him inflexible, and, on the instant, he commanded that the sentence should be put in execution.

"It was, then, in the prisons of the castle, and exactly in those frightful dungeons which are seen at this day beneath the chamber called the Aurora, at the foot of the Lion's tower, at the top of the street Giovecca, that on the night of the 21st of May were beheaded, first, Ugo, and afterwards Parisina. Zoese, he that accused her, conducted the latter under his arm to the place of punishment. She, all along, fancied that she was to be thrown into a pit, and asked at every step, whether she was yet come to the spot? She was told that her punishment was the axe. She enquired what was become of Ugo, and received for answer, that he was already dead; at which, sighing grievously, she exclaimed, 'Now, then, I wish not myself to live;' and, being come to the block, she stripped herself, with her own hands, of all her ornaments, and, wrapping a cloth round her head, submitted to the fatal stroke, which terminated the cruel scene. The same was done with Rangoni, who, together with the others, according to two calendars in the library of St. Francesco, was buried in the cemetery of that convent. Nothing else is known respecting the women.

"The Marquis kept watch the whole of that dreadful night, and, as he was walking backwards and forwards, enquired of the captain of the castle if Ugo was dead yet? who answered him, Yes. He then gave himself up to the most desperate lamentations, exclaiming, 'Oh! that I too were dead, since I have been hurried on to resolve thus against my own Ugo!' And then gnawing with his teeth a cane which he had in his hand, he pa.s.sed the rest of the night in sighs and in tears, calling frequently upon his own dear Ugo. On the following day, calling to mind that it would be necessary to make public his justification, seeing that the transaction could not be kept secret, he ordered the narrative to be drawn out upon paper, and sent it to all the courts of Italy.

"On receiving this advice, the Doge of Venice, Francesco Foscari, gave orders, but without publis.h.i.+ng his reasons, that stop should be put to the preparations for a tournament, which, under the auspices of the Marquis, and at the expense of the city of Padua, was about to take place, in the square of St. Mark, in order to celebrate his advancement to the ducal chair.

"The Marquis, in addition to what he had already done, from some unaccountable burst of vengeance, commanded that as many of the married women as were well known to him to be faithless, like his Parisina, should, like her, be beheaded. Amongst others, Barberina, or, as some call her, Laodamia Romei, wife of the court judge, underwent this sentence, at the usual place of execution; that is to say, in the quarter of St. Giacomo, opposite the present fortress, beyond St.

Paul's. It cannot be told how strange appeared this proceeding in a prince, who, considering his own disposition, should, as it seemed, have been in such cases most indulgent. Some, however, there were who did not fail to commend him." [_Memorie per la Storia di Ferrara_, Raccolte da Antonio Frizzi, 1793, iii. 408-410. See, too, _Celebri Famiglie Italiane_, by Conte Pompeo Litta, 1832, Fasc. xxvi. Part III. vol. ii.]