And could in very fondness weep

O'er her who loves him even in sleep.

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

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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!—

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

VII.

He plucked his poignard 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-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.

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VIII.

And with the morn he sought, and found,

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 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 brooked delay:
Within the chamber of his state,

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The chief of Este's ancient sway

Upon his throne of judgment sate;

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His nobles and his guards are there,

Before him is the sinful pair;

Both young, and one how passing fair!

With swordless belt, and fettered land,

Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand

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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,

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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 it's 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.

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Now, what is she? and what are they?

Can she command, or these obey?

Áll silent and unheeding now,

With downcast eyes and knitting brow,

And folded arms, and freezing air,

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And lips that scarce their scorn forbear,

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Her knights and 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;

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,
Shining 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;
Which glance so heavily, and fill,
As tear on tear grows gathering still.

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