« 이전계속 »
Thich follows the decline of day,
II. But it is not to list to the waterfall Taat 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 fower; She listens — but not for the nightingale Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There glides a step through the foliage thick, And ber cheek grows pale—and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, Aod her blush returns, and her bosom heaves. A moment more -- and they shall meet 'Tis past - her lover's at her feet.
But fever'd in her sleep she seems,
And mutters she in her unrest
And clasps her lord unto the breast
III. And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide ? Its living things — its earth and skyAre 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 1. that tumultuous tender dream? co that have felt that passion's power, Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour ? Of thought how brief such moments last ? But yet — they are already past ! Alas! we must awake before We know such vision comes no more.
And listened to each broken word :
As if the Archangel's voice he heari?
And dashes on the pointed rock
So came upon his soul the shock.
The spot of guilty gladness past:
As if that parting were the last
The lip that there would cling for ever,
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, Tet binds them to their trysting-place. But it must come, and they must part In fearfal heaviness of heart, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill.
But sheath'd it ere the point was bare --
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
Whichi, 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.
V. And Hugo is gone to liis lonely bed,
To covet there another's bride ; But she must lay her conscious head
A husband's trusting heart beside.
To save themselves, and would transfer
The guilt — the shame. the doom to her : Concealment is no more - they speak
1 The lines contained in this section were printed as set to music astbe tiine since, but belonged to the poem where they
now appear, the greater part of which was composed prior to “ Lara."
All circumstance which may compel
Within the chamber of his state,
Upon his throne of judgment sate ;
Before a father's face !
The tale of his disgrace !
Did Parisina wait her doom ;
Glanced gladness round the glittering room, Where high-born men were proud to wait Where Beauty watch'd to imitate
Her gentle voice - her lovely mien – And gather from her air and gait
The graces of its queen :
But for the eyes that on him gazed :
Stern and erect his brow was raised.
Whate'er the grief his soul arowd,
I gloried in a wife and son;
Ere day declines, I shall have none.
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 the life I give."
For on his brow the swelling vein
The hot blood ebb’d and flow'd again;
And pass'd his shaking hand along
His eye, to veil it from the throng :
“ It is not that dread the death-
Thou gavist, and may'st resume my breath,
(A sagacious writer gravely charges Lord Byron with paraphrasing, in this passage, without acknowledgment, Mr. Birrhe's well-known description of the unfortunate Marie Intoinette. " Verily," says Mr. Coleridge, “ there be alongst tis a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every
possible thought and image is traditional ; who have de 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 perforatiou made in some other man's tank."]
And we, all side by side, have striven,
For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, And made thy own my destined bride,
I feel thou art my father still;
But she is in the grave, where he,
But wrong for wrong:--this,-deem'd thy bride,
The other victim of thy pride, -
And with thy very crime--my birth
Thou tauntedst me, as little worth;
Yet, were a few short summers mine,
My name should more than Este's shine
Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face,
On which the circling fetters sounded;
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd ;
So large and slowly gather'd slid
Froin 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 ller whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceased — again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, s And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er hud 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.
1 Haught – haughty
-“ Away, haught man, thou art insulting me.' SHAKSPEARE. "T" I sent for · Marmion,' because it occurred to me, there might be a reiemblance between part of Parisina' and a sin lar scene in the second carto of Marmion.' I fear there is, tbough 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. 1 had completed the story on the passage from Gibbon, which indeed leads to a like scene naturally, without a thought of the hind: but it comes upon me not very comfortably.' Lord B.'to Mr. M. Feb. 3, 1816. - The scene referred to is the one in #bich Constance de Beverley appears before the conciare
" Her look composed and steady eye,
Bespoke a matchless constancy;
So stiil she was, so pale, so fair."] 3 [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 lees touching than the mute despair of the fallen beauty, who stands in speechless agony before him. - JEFFREY.]