But they are all dispersed—and, lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,
Alone within the garden now her own;
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage bells,
Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;-
Absorb'd like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems
A mockery of itself-when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,
And said- Is this thy faith ?» and then as one
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise
And look upon his day of life with eyes

Which in vain that they can dream no more,
weep
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore

To shriek or faint, and check'd the stifling blood
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued
Said— Friend, if earthly violence or ill,
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will

Of parents, chance, or custom, time or change,
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,
Or wilder'd looks, or words, or evil speech,
With all their stings [ ] can impeach

Our love, we love not:-if the grave which hides
The victim from the tyrant, and divides

The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart
Imperious inquisition to the heart

That is another's, could dissever ours,

1

We love not.« What, do not the silent hours Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal-bed? Is not that ring»——a pledge, he would have said, Of broken vows, but she with patient look The golden circle from her finger took, And said-- Accept this token of my faith, The pledge of vows to be absolved by death; And I am dead or shall be soon-my knell Will mix its music with that merry bell: Does it not sound as if they sweetly said, We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed?" The flowers upon my bridal-chamber strewn Will serve unfaded for my bier-so soon That even the dying violet will not die Before Ginevra.. The strong fantasy Had made her accents weaker and more weak, And quench'd the crimson life upon her cheek, And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere Round her, which chill'd the burning noon with fear, Making her but an image of the thought, Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought News of the terrors of the coming time. Like an accuser branded with the crime He would have cast on a beloved friend, Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end The pale betrayer-be then with vain repentance Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentenceAntonio stood and would have spoken, when The compound voice of women and of men Was heard approaching; he retired, while she Was led amid the admiring company Back to the palace,—and her maidens soon Changed her attire for the afternoon, And left her at her own request to keep An hour of quiet and rest :-like one asleep

With
open eyes and folded hands she lay,
Pale in the light of the declining day.

Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,
And in the lighted hall the guests are met;
The beautiful looked lovelier in the light
Of love, and admiration, and delight
Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes,
Kindling a momentary Paradise.

met,

This crowd is safer than the silent wood, Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude; On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine Falls, and the dew of music more divine Tempers the deep emotions of the time To spirits cradled in a sunny clime:How many meet, who never yet have To part too soon, but never to forget. How many saw the beauty, power and wit Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet; But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn, And unprophetic of the coming hours, The matin winds from the expanded flowers Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken From every living heart which it possesses, Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, As if the future and the past were all

Treasured i' the instant;

And then

-so Gherardi's hall Laugh'd in the mirth of its lord's festival, Till some one ask'd- Where is the Bride?" A bride's-maid went,-and ere she came again A silence fell upon the guests—a pause Of expectation, as when beauty awes All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld; Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quell'd ;— For whispers pass'd from mouth to ear which drew The colour from the hearer's cheeks, and flew Louder and swifter round the company; And then Gherardi enter'd with an eye Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud.

They found Ginevra dead! if it be death, To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath, With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, and white, And open eyes, whose fix'd and glassy light Mock'd at the speculation they had own'd. If it be death, when there is felt around A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare, And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair From the scalp to the ancles, as it were Corruption from the spirit passing forth, And giving all it shrouded to the earth, And leaving as swift lightning in its flight Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our night Of thought we know thus much of death,—no more Than the unborn dream of our life before Their barks are wreck'd on its inhospitable shore. The marriage feast and its solemnity Was turn'd to funeral pomp-the company With heavy hearts and looks, broke up ; nor they Who loved the dead went weeping on their way Alone, but sorrow mix'd with sad surprise Loosen'd the springs of pity in all eyes, On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain, Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again.

Some melted into tears without a sob,

And some with hearts that might be heard to throb
Leant on the table, and at intervals

Shudder'd to hear through the deserted halls
And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came
Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame
Of every torch and taper as it swept
From out the chamber where the women kept;-
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold
Of pleasures now departed; then was knoll'd
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived,
And finding death their penitent had shrived,
Return'd like ravens from a corpse whereon
A vulture has just feasted to the bone.
And then the mourning women came.-

Eight years are gone,

And they seem hours, since in this populous street
I trod on grass made green by summer's rain,
For the red plague kept state within that palace
Where now reigns vanity-in nine years more
The roots will be refresh'd with civil blood;
And thank the mercy of insulted Heaven
That sin and wrongs wound, as an orphan's cry,
The patience of the great Avenger's ear.
THIRD SPEAKER (a youth).

Yet, father, 't is a happy sight to see,
Beautiful, innocent, and unforbidden
By God or man; 't is like the bright procession
Of skiey visions in a solemn dream

From which men wake as from a paradise,

And draw new strength to tread the thorns of life.
If God be good, wherefore should this be evil?
And if this be not evil, dost thou not draw
Unseasonable poison from the flowers
Which bloom so rarely in this barren world?
O, kill these bitter thoughts, which make the present
Dark as the future!--

London will be soon his Rome: he walks

As if he trod upon the heads of men.

He looks elate, drunken with blood and gold;-
Beside him moves the Babylonian woman
Invisibly, and with her as with his shadow,
Mitred adulterer! he is joiu'd in sin,
Which turns Heaven's milk of mercy to revenge.
ANOTHER CITIZEN (lifting up his eyes).
Good Lord! rain it down upon him. [ J
Amid her ladies walks the papist queen,
As if her nice feet scorn'd our English earth.
There's old Sir Henry Vane, the Earl of Pembroke,
Lord Essex, and Lord Keeper Coventry,
And others who make base their English breed
By vile participation of their honours

Nobles, and sons of nobles, patentees,
Monopolists, and stewards of this poor farm,
On whose lean sheep sit the prophetic crows.
Here is the pomp that strips the houseless orphan,
Here is the pride that breaks the desolate heart.
These are the lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin,-unless
It be the webs they catch poor rogues withal.
Here is the surfeit which to them who earn
The niggard wages of the earth, scarce leaves
The tithe that will support them till they crawl
Back to its cold hard bosom. Here is health
Follow'd by grim disease, glory by shame,
Waste by lame famine, wealth by squalid want,
And England's sin by England's punishment.
And, as the effect pursues the cause foregone,
Lo, giving substance to my words, behold
At once the sign and the thing signified-
A troop of cripples, beggars, and lean outcasts,
Horsed upon stumbling shapes, carted with dung,

QUEEN.

Go, sirrah, and repent of your offence

Ten minutes in the rain: be it your penance

To bring news how the world goes there. Poor Archy He weaves about himself a world of mirth

Out of this wreck of ours.