tion. (1) 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, new edition.

PARISINA.

1.

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

Seem sweet in every whisper'd word ; (2)
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. (3)

II.

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 Esté'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-
'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?

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 Marquess, 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."

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.

IV.

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,"

The above passage of Frizzi was translated by Lord Byron, and formed a closing note to the original edition of Parisina.—E.

(1) Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated; but the castle still exists entire; and I saw the court where Parisina and Ugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon." B. Letters, 1817.

(2) "The opening verses, though soft and voluptuous, are tinged with the same shade of sorrow which gives character and harmony to the whole poem." Jeffrey.

(3) The lines contained in this section were printed as set to music some time since, but belonged to the poem where they now appear; the greater part of which was composed prior to Lara, and other compositions since published.

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?
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
Up on 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
la him who made her not his bride.
VII.

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath,
But sheath'd 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-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
Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp.
She spake no more-but, still she slumber'd-
While, in his thought, her days are number'd.
VIII.

And with the morn 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;

(1) A sagacious writer gravely charges Lord Byron with paraphrasing, in this passage, without acknowledgment, Mr. Burke's

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.

IX.

He was not one who brook'd delay:
Within the chamber of his state,
The chief of Esté'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;

How changed, since last her speaking eye

Glanced gladness round the glittering room Where high-born men were proud to waitWhere beauty watch'd 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, (1)
And made her quarrel all their own.
Now what is she? and what are they?
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, and dames, her court-is there:
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,

well-known description of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. "Verily," says Mr. Coleridge, "there be amongst us a set o

And Azo spake :-"But yesterday
I gloried in a wife and son;
That dream this morning pass'd away;
Ere day declines, I shall have none.
My life must linger on alone;

Well, let that pass,-there breathes not one
Who would not do as I have done:
Those ties are broken-not by me;

Let that too pass ;-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—
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! shalt view his head—
Away! 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 thee life I give."
XIII.

And here stern Azo hid his face

For on his brow the swelling vein

critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing from a

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, And pass'd his shaking hand along His eye, to veil it from the throng; While Hugo raised his chained hands, 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:

Thou gavest, and mayst 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!

'T is 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 coveted'st her charms—
And with thy very crime-my birth,
Thou taunted'st 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 Esté's lineal throne:

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

I had a sword-and have a breast

That should have won as haught (1) 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' Esté and of Victory!'

I will not plead the cause of crime,
Nor sue thee to redeem from time

perforation made in some other man's tank.”—E. (1) Ilaught-haughty.—“ Away, haught man, thou art inspiting me."-Shakspeare.

A few brief hours or days, that must
At length roll o'er my reckless dust;-
Such maddening moments as my past,
They could not, and they did not, last.
Albeit my birth and name be base,
And thy nobility of race

Disdain'd 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
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 gavest 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:

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,
'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 two!"

XIV.

He ceased-and stood with folded arms,
On which the circling fetters sounded;
And not an ear but felt as wounded,
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd,

(1) "I sent for Marmion, because it occurred to me, there might be a resemblance between part of Parisina and a similar scene in the second canto of Marmion. I fear there is, though I never thought of it before, and could hardly wish to imitate that which is inimitable. I wish you would ask Mr. Gifford whether I ought to say any thing upon it. I had completed the story on the passage from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene naturally, without a thought of the kind: but it comes upon me not very comfortably."-Lord B. to Mr. M. Feb. 3, 1816.-The scene referred to is the one in which Constance de Beverley appears before the conclave:

"Her look composed and steady eye,,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;

When those dull chains in meeting clank'd : Till Parisina's fatal charms (1)

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,
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,
But round their orbs of deepest blue
The circling white dilated grew-
And there with glassy gaze she stood,
As ice were in her curdled blood;
But every now and then a tear,

So large and slowly gather'd, slid
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid,

It was a thing to see, not hear!
And those who saw, it did surprise
Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan
Her whole heart gushing in the tone.
It ceased-again she thought to speak,
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, (2)
And to the earth she fell like stone
Or statue from its base o'erthrown,
More like a thing that ne'er had life,—

A monument of Azo's wife,—
Than her, that living guilty thing,
Whose every passion 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
Recover'd 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
(As bowstrings, when relax'd 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.

And there she stood so calm and pale,
That, but her breathing did not fall,
And motion slight of eye and head,
And of her bosom, warranted,
That neither sense nor pulse she lacks,
You must have thought a form of wax,
Wrought to the very life, was there-
So still she was, so pale, so fair."-E.

(2) "The arraignment and condemnation of the guilty pair, with the bold, high-toned, and yet temperate defence of the son, are managed with considerable talent; and yet are less touching than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who stands in speechless agony before him." Jeffrey.