Guidone and Lucia

I love to wander, both in deed and thought,
Where little rills their earliest tunes are taught:
I love to trace them into secret nooks,
And watch their winning ways and serious looks,
Where, as they rise up leisurely and slow,
The long-hair'd moss for ever waves below.
No few have splasht my face for venturing thus
Among their games, games never meant for us:
We are weak creatures, brief and dark our day,
But children of immortal breed are they.
Yet side by side with Beno, many a mile,
Thro' narrow dell and intricate defile,
I have run too; and both were well content;
He chafed sometimes, but never harm was meant.
The waters here start sundered, rocks between,
Some beetle-brow'd, and others brightly green:
Loudly they call each other, nor in vain,
Laugh at the rocks, spring, and embrace again.
My little Beno winds his stream along
Thro' pastoral scenes by pastoral pipe unsung,
And leaps and hazards many sportive falls,
But grows sedater near Bologna's walls.
Among the mountains which from high o'erlook
That solemn city and that wayward brook,
Pure as the snow that on the summit lies,
Fresh as the stream and radiant as the skies,
Wert thou, Lucia! Could thy girlish breast
Enjoy more sacred, more seraphic rest?
The boy Guidone innocently play'd,
Past lier ninth summer, with his wedded maid.
A ring of rush was quite enough for both,
And two sweet hisses all the marriage troth.
Amid life's early leaves how blest the fond!
Until they climb the tree and look beyond.
" I wonder," said Lucia, " what can mean
Those odious names of Guelph and Ghibelline.
If, as my Babbo tells me, you're a Guelph,
I must be (is it not so?) one myself.
And yet, though Babbo always should be right,
Against the Guelphs he calls his serfs to fight.
' Meanwhile,' says he in joke, ' my little queen
Thou shalt be safely lodged with Saint Cristine.'"
Sudden the colour left Guidone's cheek,
His lips were open but he could not speak,
He prest the cool plump hand; it broke in twain
The ring of rush: and that was all her pain.
But when she rais'd her eyes, she thought no more
Of that, or any pledge he gave before.
She hugg'd him to her heart, and bade him say
If he was sorry that she went away.
He wept upon her head; but not one word
(Had there been utterance) would the child have heard.
The veins about her temples buzz'd like bees
Fretting and swarming in the linden-trees.
His tears ran down her curls; her curls she drew
Against the cheek, and suckt off one or two,
But, panting, sobbing, sinking, thought it best
To clasp his neck and intercept the rest.
" From three years old," said she, " when love begins,
I have loved you, Guidone! all my sins,
My wicked fibs, you know it, were for you . . .
Now tell me what to say and what to do.
Speak; you can tell me but one thing in vain,
Which is, that we must never love again.
We are no children now; for I am nine
And you are twelve. Before Cristina's shrine
I will say all that ever saint has heard,
And pray you grow not ugly with a beard."
Little replied Guidone; but he threw
His mantle on the ground, and gently drew
Lucia to the tufted seat, and there
Hid his sad face amid her sunny hair;
Hand claspt in hand, now on her knee, now his,
Until their sorrow melted into bliss;
Such bliss as innocence alone can know,
And innocence but seldom here below.
The morning now grew sultry; they must part;
The boy with heavier, she with lighter heart:
Not that she loved him less than he loved her,
But she had suits, and sure ones, to prefer;
Babbo had always minded what she said,
And if she threaten'd he was half -afraid.
"Wanted she figs? the hinds were near, but them
She call'd not; he must mount the brittle stem.
"Come, idle Babbo! you alone can reach
To the top-branch; pull down that yellow peach:
You may shake down some mulberries, if you will,
But mind! you shook the last upon my frill."
And now she said, " Dear Babbo! I would go,
But poor Guidone's heart kept beating so
Against my bosom, I am sure 'twill break
If I do go: don't let me; for his sake."
The father started at these words, and said,
My sweet Lucia! never be afraid
Of breaking hearts: thou hast not strength enough,
My darling child! for anything so tough."
She wiped his brow; for it was moist. " But still
(Laugh as you may)" said she, " I'm sure it will.
I would not break it, gracious heaven! not I!
And it is not because I too should die;
For without sweet Guidone all my life
Would be one sigh: beside . . I am his wife."
She smiled, and took her father by the chin
And lookt into his eyes, nor saw within
The smouldering fires that there intensely glow'd,
Nor .read the hour of quitting her abode.
The sun has risen: and three horses wait
With two stout horsemen at the castle gate.
The father lifts upon the iron-grey
His wondering child, and all three ride away.
'Seven years incessantly there wept and pray'd
Before Cristina's shrine one pallid maid.
War had raged round the city: who can tell
Of Guelph and Ghibelline what thousands fell?
Hence was that maid so pallid: she must know
(If her life pays for it) the weal or woe
Of her Guidone: not another year
Can youthful life endure such doubt and fear.
Another year might see her blest at home,
But will he too, will her Guidone come?
Trusting that time had weakened or effaced
The lines that love with infant hand had traced,
Her father never had pronounced the name
In all his letters; but when last lie came
To see her in the convent, when he found
That nought within its cloisters, nought around,
Could raise from heavy grief her drooping head,
He laid his hand on hers, and mildly said,
"Lucia! they have told you then? The brave
Are the first fruits that drop into the grave."
Lucia heard him (and scarce heard him) speak,
And from her bosom burst nor groan nor shriek,
Nor from her eyes one tear: down dropt her head,
Down dropt her beauteous form.
"My child is dead!"
The father cried, and struck his brow, and cast
His arms around her: the young nuns aghast
Stood round; the elder rubb'd her temples hard,
And prayed the while: these cares had their reward.
Homeward the father hied, and finding now
His child in safety, bade her take the vow.
Bereft of her Guidone, she complied,
How willingly! no other's future bride.
She thought her prayers, that morn and night arise,
Would find a readier entrance to the skies;
And that, if he had slain, as warrior must,
Saint Peter would release him was her trust;
Since he himself, though chided by his Lord,
Had drawn, and dexterously used, the sword.
Need was there now for arms, more need than when
He rear'd his boyish crest with hardier men.
In every street was heard the indignant cry,
"To Palestine! Speed, Christian chivalry!
To Palestine! The Soldan hath defiled
The sepulchre that holds the Virgin's child."
On such a day, and only on this one,
Each holy votary, each secluded nun,
May look abroad and bless the banner waved
To save his tomb by whom our souls are saved.
There stood among the nuns one holier maid
And sadder than them all: even she survey'd
The pious arms. But what above the rest
Now caught her eye? She turn'd and smote her breast.
Had not the bishop, when her vow she vow'd,
Before the altar, warn'd her thus aloud . .
"Turn not thy feet toward the world, nor let
Thine eyes, O virgin, by man's eyes be met."
AH others on the earth were nought to those,
Sources of all her joys and all her woes.
Ah! when was youth to gentle maiden dear
Unless he caus'd to flow the frequent tear?
Day after day Guidone sought in vain
To see her face, or even her veil, again.
Few days were left: he never saw her more.
Pressing his brow against the wall, he swore
To live as chaste; to serve the saint she served;
Guidone swore; Guidone never swerved.
Whatever be the fight, by land or sea,
Wherever there was danger, there was he.
Say, generous souls! what can they seek beside
Death, speedy death, who lose a promist bride?
He sought, but found it not: a worse mischance
Befell Guidone: broken was his lance
Deep in the Paynim foes: they raved around,
Many cleft down, and few without a wound.
To chains and tortures was the youth consign'd;
Nor chain nor torture crusht his constant mind.
O my Lucia! " cried he, " true and pure!
If now fin heaven, thou seest what I endure.
Strengthen my faith, Lucia! if indeed
The heart where thou art ever, strength can need.
Pray for me, to the only maid more blest
Of all above; thus shall my spirit rest.
But if thou livest, may'st thou never know
The torture and the shame I undergo!"
Worn out with anguish, slumber most profound
Sank brain and limb stretcht forth along the ground.
When he awoke, the chains were on his feet,
But for the prison . . the cool air breath'd sweet,
Unlike the air of dungeons, nor less bland,
Than on the morn when last he held her hand.
There where he vowed the vow, against that wall
Declined was he, and then he heard a call.
He turn'd, and saw Lucia.
"Art thou here?
Still living? saint most holy! maid most dear! "
" Hush! " said that gentle voice: " I live the true
The only life, and could not live for you.
To teach our tears the easiest way to flow
Is the best wisdom we acquire below.
We have attained it: grief and hope must rest
Upon the holy Virgin, ever blest.
But rise, and place those fetters on my tomb;
The hour of happier meeting soon will come."
He rose; he placed there there. She died that day
When from his eyes she turn'd her face away.