Corso and Emilia

It has surpris'd me often, as I write,
How I, who have of late known small delight,
Should thus pursue a mournful theme, and make
My very solace of distress partake ;
Now too while rains autumnal, as I sing,
Wash the dull bars, chilling my sicklied wing,
And all the climate presses on my sense ;
But thoughts it furnishes of things far hence,
And leafy dreams afford me, and a feeling
Which I should else disdain, tear-dipp'd and healing ;
And shows me, more than what it first design'd,
How little upon earth our home we find,
Or close th' intended course of erring humankind.

Sorrow, they say, to one with true-touch'd ear,
Is but the discord of a warbling sphere,
A lurking contrast, which though harsh it be,
Distils the next note more deliciously.
'Tis hard to think it, till the note be heard,
A joy too often and too long deferr'd.
Yet come it will, hereafter, if not here ;
And good meantime comes best from many a tear.
Tales like the present, of a real woe,
From bitter seed to balmy fruitage grow :
The woes were few, were brief, have long been past ;
The warnings they bequeathe spread wide and last.
And even they, whose shatter'd hearts and frames
Make them unhappiest of poetic names,
What are they, if they know their calling high,
But crush'd perfumes exhaling to the sky ?
Or weeping clouds, that but a while are seen,
Yet keep the earth they haste to bright and green ?

Three months have pass'd ;—how pass'd, remains unknown ;—
But never now, companion'd or alone,
Comes the sweet lady to her summer bower.
Corso did once, arm'd with the sterner power
Of a man's grief. He saw it; but how look'd
The bow'r at him? His presence felt rebuk'd.
It seem'd as if the hopes of his young heart,
His kindness, and his generous scorn of art,
Had all been a fop's dream, or at the best
Poor weak half virtues that could stand no test,
And that on waking from his idle fit,
He found himself (how could he think of it !)
A selfish boaster, and a hypocrite.

That thought before had griev'd him; but the pain
Cut sharp and sudden, now it came again.
Sick thoughts of late had made his body sick,
And this, in turn, to them grown strangely quick ;
And pale he stood, and seem'd to burst all o'er
Into moist anguish never felt before,
And with a dreadful certainty to know
His peace was gone, and all to come was woe;
Come too to her! doom'd, and by him, to bear,
In the dire lot, poor woman's direr share !—
It seem'd as if horrors thus heap'd must find,
Some props, or they would crush his brain-sick mind : -
And find they did, not what the worse disease
Of want of charity calls sophistries,—
Nor what can cure a generous heart of pain,—
But humble guesses, helping to sustain.
He thought of things, whose love we seldom heed,
Till sin or sorrow make the help a need,—
Of habit, circumstance, design, degree,
Merit, and will, and boundless charity ;
And these, although they push'd down, as they rose,
His self-respect, and all those morning shows
Of true and perfect, which his youth had built,
Push'd with them too the worst of hopeless guilt ;
Till youth, and natural vigour, and the dread
Of self-betrayal, and a thought that spread
From time to time in gladness o'er his face,
That sacrifice of self would earn them grace,
Help'd to restore him to his wonted life,
Though restless still, and with his looks at strife ;
And he would rise betimes, day after day,
And greeting his blithe courser, ride away,
Seemingly blithe as he, gazing about
On tow'r and cot, to force his thoughts without ;
And when he found it vain, would pierce the shade
Of some enwooded field or closer glade,
And there dismounting, idly sit, and sigh,
Or pluck the grass beside him with vague eye,
And almost envy the poor beast, that went
Cropping it, here and there, with dumb content.
But thus, at least, he exercis'd his blood,
And kept it livelier than inaction could ;
And thus he earned for his thought-working head
The power of sleeping when he went to bed,
And was enabled still to wear away
That task of loaded hearts, another day.

But she, the gentler frame,—the shaken flower,—
The daughter, sacrificed in evil hour,—
The struggling, virtue-loving, fallen she,
Wife that still was, and mother that might be,—
What could she do, unable thus to keep
Her strength alive, but sit, and think, and weep,
Forever stooping o'er her broidery frame,
Half blind, and longing till the night-time came,
When worn and wearied out with the day's sorrow
She might be still and senseless till the morrow !

And oh, the morrow, how it used to rise !
How would she open her despairing eyes,
And from the sense of the long lingering day,
Rushing upon her, almost turn away,
Loathing the light, and groan to sleep again !
Then sighing once for all, to meet the pain,
She would get up in haste, and try to pass
The time in patience, wretched as it was ;
Till patience self, in her distemper'd sight,
Would seem a charm to which she had no right,
And trembling at the lip, and pale with fears,
She shook her head, and burst into fresh tears.
Old comforts now were not at her command :
The falcon stoop'd in vain to court her hand;
The flowers were not refresh'd; the very light,
The sunshine, seem'd as if it shone at night ;
The least noise smote her like a sudden wound ;
And did she hear but the remotest sound
Of song or instrument about the place,
She hid with both her hands her streaming face.
But worse to her than all (and oh! thought she,
That ever, ever, such a worse should be!)
The sight of infant was, or child at play ;
Then would she turn, and move her lips, and pray,
That heaven would take her, if it pleas'd, away.

Meantime her lord, who by her long distress
Seem'd wrought, at first, to some true tenderness,
Which, to his sore amaze, did but appear
To vex her more than when he was severe,
Began, with helps of wondering tongues, to see
In moods (he thought) so bent to disagree,
And in all else she look'd and said, and all
His brother did, who now in bower or hall
Seldom dar'd trust his still ingenuous face,—
The secret of a sure and dire disgrace.
What a convulsion was the first belief!
Astonishment, abasement, profound grief,
Self-pity, almost tears, thence self-disdain
For stooping to so weak and vile a pain,
With mad impatience to surmount the blow
In some retributive and bloody woe,—
All rush'd upon him, like the sudden view
Of some new world, foreign to all he knew,
Where he had waked and found the dreams of madmen true.

If any lingering hope that he was wrong,
Pride's self would needs hold fast, 'twas not so long.
One dawn, as sullenly awake he lay,
Considering what to do the approaching day ;
He heard his wife say something in her sleep,—
He shook, and listen'd ;—she began to weep,
And moaning louder, seem'd to shake her head,
Till all at once articulate, she said,
"He loves his brother yet—Dear heaven, 'twas I—"
Then lower voiced—' Only do let me die."

With the worst impulse of his whole fierce life
The husband glared, one moment, on his wife:
Then grasp'd a crucifix, and look'd no more.
He dresses, takes two swords, and through the door
Goes, like a spirit, in the morning air ;—
His squire awak'd attends; and they repair,
Silent as wonder, to his brother's room :—
His squire calls him up too; and forth they come.

The brothers meet,—Lorenzo scarce in breath,
Yet firm and fierce, Corso as pale as death.
The husband, motioning while turning round,
To lead the way, said, " To the tilting ground."
"There, brother," answer'd Corso, while despair
Rush'd on his face. " Yes, brother," cried he, "there."
The word smote crushingly ; and paler still,
He bowed, and moved his lips, as waiting on his will. .

'Twas a fresh autumn dawn, vigorous and chill;
The lightsome morning star was sparkling still,
Ere it turn'd in to heaven; and far away
Appear'd the streaky fingers of the day.
An opening in the trees took Corso's eye,
As mute his brother and himself went. by :
It was a glimpse of the tall wooded mound,
That screen'd Emilia's favourite spot of ground:
Massy and dark in the clear dawning stood,
As in a lingering sleep, the solemn wood ;
And through the bowering arch, which led inside,
He almost fancied once, that he descried
A marble gleam, where the pavilion lay—
Starting he turn'd, and look'd another way.

Arriv'd, and waiving the two squires apart,
Then pressing with his hand his labouring heart,
The prince spoke low and close, (and as he spoke
His voice with breathless and pale passion broke,)
"Sleep hath reveal'd a villain," were his words:
Then gave his paler brother one of the two swords.

Corso's heart rose, exalted with despair ;
He drew a little back; and with the air
Of one who would do well, not from the right
To be well thought of, but in guilt's despite,
Answer'd, "The sword is sheath'd. So rest it ever.
Misery's self shall fight no brother. Never."

"How!" with uplifted voice, exclaim'd the other ;
"Hideous pretence ! who bade you fight a brother ?
Brother? O wretch! O traitor to the name!
Dash'd in thy teeth, and cursed be the claim.
What! wound it deepest ? strike me to the core,
Me, and the hopes which I can have no more,
And then as never brother of mine could,
Shrink from the letting a few drops of blood?"

"It is not so," cried Corso, "'tis not so;
"But I would save you from a further woe."

"A further woe, recreant!" retorted he:
What woe ? what further ? yes, one still may be:
Save me the woe, save me the dire disgrace,
Of seeing one of an illustrious race
Bearing about a heart, which fear'd no law,
And a vile sword, which yet he dared not draw."

"Brother, dear brother!" Corso cried, "nay, nay,
I'll use the word no more ;—but peace, I pray !
You trample on a soul, sunk at your feet!"
"'Tis false!" exclaim'd the prince; "'tis a retreat
To which you fly, when manly wrongs pursue,
And fear the grave you bring a woman to."

With sudden start, and then with bow'd, meek look
Waiving the charge, yet not its worst rebuke,
Th' offender sigh'd ; then rose without a word,
And drew, and kiss'd the cross'd hilt of his sword,
Looking to heaven ;—then, with a steady brow,
Mild, yet not feeble, said, ' I'm ready now."

"A noble word!" exclaim'd the prince, and smote
The ground beneath him with his firming foot :—
The squires rush in between, in their despair,
But both the princes tell them to beware.

"Back, Gerard," cries Lorenzo; "I require
"No teacher here, but an observant squire."
"Back, Tristan," Corso cries; "fear not for me ;
"All is not worst that so appears to thee.
"And here," said he, "a word." The poor youth came,
Starting in sweeter tears to hear his name:
A whisper, and a charge there seem'd to be,
Giv'n to him kindly yet inflexibly :
Both squires then drew apart again, and stood
Mournfully both, each in his several mood,—
One half in rage, as to himself he speaks,
The other with the tears streaming down both his cheeks.

The prince attack'd with nerve in every limb,
Nor seem'd the other slow to match with him;
Yet as the fight grew warm, 'twas evident,
One only of the two on blood was bent:
Lorenzo press'd, and push'd, and shifted aim,
And play'd his weapon like a tongue of flame;
Corso retir'd, and warded, turn'd on heel,
And led him, step by step, round like a wheel.
Sometimes indeed he feign'd an angrier start,
But still relaps'd, and play'd his former part.

"What!" cried Lorenzo, who grew still more fierce,
"Fighting in sport ? Playing your cart and tierce ?"

"Not so, my prince," said Corso; " have a care
"How you think so, or I shall wound you there."
He stamp'd, and watching as he spoke the word,
Drove, with his breast, full on his brother's sword.

'Twas done. He stagger'd ; and in falling prest
Lorenzo's foot with his right hand and breast:
Then on his elbow turn'd, and raising t'other,
He smil'd and said, " No fault of yours, my brother ;
An accident—a slip—the finishing one
To errors by that poor old man begun.
You'll not—you'll not "—his heart leap'd on before,
And chok'd his utterance ; but he smil'd once more,
For as his hand grew lax, he felt it prest ;—
And so, his dim eyes sliding into rest,
He turn'd him round, and dropt with hiding head, .
And in that loosening drop his spirit fled.

But noble passion touch'd Lorenzo's soul ;
He seem'd to feel the clouds of habit roll
Away from him at once, with all their scorn,
And out he spoke, in the clear air of morn :—

By heaven, by heaven, and all the better part
Of us poor creatures with a human heart,
I trust we reap at last, as well as plough ;—
But there, meantime, my brother, liest thou ;
And, Corso, thou wert the completest knight,
That ever rode with banner to the fight ;
And thou wert the most beautiful to see,
That ever came in press of chivalry ;
And of a sinful man, thou wert the best,
That ever for his friend put spear in rest ;
And thou wert the most meek and cordial,
That ever among ladies ate in hall;
And thou wert still, for all that bosom gor'd,
The kindest man that ever struck with sword."

At this the words forsook his tongue; and he,
Who scarcely had shed tears since infancy,
Felt his stern visage thrill, and meekly bow'd
His head, and for his brother wept aloud.

The squires with glimmering tears—Tristan, at first,
Trying, with greedy search, to doubt the worst,
Double their scarfs about the fatal wound,
And lift the corse, and wait to quit the ground.

Lorenzo starts; and motioning to take
The way they came, follows his brother back,
And having seen him laid upon the bed,
No further look he gave him, nor tear shed,
But went away, such as he used to be,
With looks of stately will and calm austerity.

Tristan, who when he was to make the best
Of something sad and not to be redress'd,
Could show a heart as firm as it was kind,
Now lock'd his tears up, and seem'd all resign'd,
And to Emilia's chamber took his way,
To tell the message of that mortal day.
He found her ladies, up and down the stairs,
Moving with noiseless caution, and in tears,
And that the news, though to herself unknown,
On its old wings of vulgar haste had flown.
The door, as tenderly as miser's purse,
Was opened by the pale and aged nurse,
Who shaking her old head, and pressing close
Her wither'd lips to keep the tears that rose,
Made signs she guess'd what grief he came about,
And so his arm squeez'd gently, and went out.

The princess, who had pass'd a fearful night,
Toiling with dreams,—fright crowding upon fright,
Had miss'd her husband at that early hour,
And would have ris'n, but found she wanted power.
Yet as her body seem'd to go, her mind
Felt, though in anguish still, strangely resign'd ;
And moving not, nor weeping, mute she lay,
Wasting in patient gravity away.
The nurse, sometime before, with gentle creep
Had. drawn the curtains, hoping she might sleep:
But suddenly she ask'd, though not with fear,
"Nina, what bustle's that I seem to hear?"
And the poor creature, who the news had heard,
Pretending to be busy, had just stirr'd
Something about the room, and answer'd not a word.

"Who's there?" said that sweet voice, kindly and clear,
Which in its stronger days was joy to hear :—
Its weakness now almost depriv'd the squire
Of his new firmness, but approaching nigher,
"Madam," said he, "'tis I; one who may say,
He loves his friends more than himself to-day ;
Tristan."—She paus'd a little, and then said—
"Tristan, my friend, what noise thus haunts my head ?
Something I'm sure has happen'd—tell me what—
I can bear all, though you may fancy not."
"Madam," replied the squire, " you are, I know,
All sweetness—pardon me for saying so.
My master bade me say then," resum'd he,
"That he spoke firmly, when he told it me,—
That I was also, madam, to your ear
Firmly to speak, and you firmly to hear,—
That he was forced this day, whether or no,
To combat with the prince; and that although
His noble brother was no fratricide,
Yet in that fight, and on his sword,—he died."

"I understand," with firmness answer'd she,
More low in voice, but still composedly. :
"Now, Tristan—faithful friend—leave me; and take
This trifle here, and keep it for my sake."

So saying, from the curtains she put forth
Her thin white hand, that held a ring of worth ;
And he, with tears no longer to be kept
From quenching his heart's thirst, silently wept,
And kneeling, took the ring, and touch'd her hand :
To either streaming eye with homage bland,
And looking on it once, gently up started,
And in his reverent stillness so departed.

Her favourite lady then with the old nurse
Return'd, and fearing she must now be worse,
Gently withdrew the curtains, and look'd in :—
O, who that knows where faults may first begin,
Shall bid not earth be just, before 'tis hard, with sin ?
There lay she praying, upwardly intent,
Like a fair statue on a monument,
With her two trembling hands together prest,
Palm against palm, and pointing from her breast.
She ceas'd; and turning slowly tow'rds the wall,
They saw her tremble sharply, feet and all,—
Then suddenly be still. Near and more near
They bent with pale inquiry and close ear;
Her eyes were shut—no motion—not a breath—
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death.