In his dim chapel day by dayThe organist was wont to play,And please himself with fluted reveries;And all the spirit's joy and strife,The longing of a tender life,Took sound and form upon the ivory keys;And though he seldom spoke a word,The simple hearts that loved him heardHis glowing soul in these.One day as he was wrapped, a soundOf feet stole near; he turned and foundA little maid that stood beside him there.She started, and in shrinking-wiseBesought him with her liquid eyesAnd little features, very sweet and spare."You love the music, child," he said,And laid his hand upon her head,And smoothed her matted hair.She answered, "At the door one dayI sat and heard the organ play;I did not dare to come inside for fear;But yesterday, a little while,I crept half up the empty aisleAnd heard the music sounding sweet and clear;To-day I thought you would not mind,For, master dear, your face was kind,And so I came up here.""You love the music then," he said,And still he stroked her golden head,And followed out some winding reverie;"And you are poor?" said he at last;The maiden nodded, and he passedHis hand across his forehead dreamingly;"And will you be my friend?" he spake,"And on the organ learn to makeGrand music here with me?"And all the little maiden's faceWas kindled with a grateful grace;"Oh, master, teach me; I will slave for thee!"She cried; and so the child grew dearTo him, and slowly year by yearHe taught her all the organ's majesty;And gave her from his slender storeBread and warm clothing, that no moreHer cheeks were pinched to see.And year by year the maiden grewTaller and lovelier, and the hueDeepened upon her tender cheeks untried.Rounder, and queenlier, and more fairHer form grew, and her golden hairFell yearly richer at the master's side.In speech and bearing, form and face,Sweeter and graver, grace by grace,Her beauties multiplied.And sometimes at his work a glowWould touch him, and he murmured low,"How beautiful she is?" and bent his head;And sometimes when the day went byAnd brought no maiden he would sigh,And lean and listen for her velvet tread;And he would drop his hands and say,"My music cometh not to-day;Pray God she be not dead!"So the sweet maiden filled his heart,And with her growing grew his art,For day by day more wondrously he played.Such heavenly things the master wrought,That in his happy dreams he thoughtThe organ's self did love the gold-haired maid:But she, the maiden, never guessedWhat prayers for her in hours of restThe sombre organ prayed.At last, one summer morning fair,The maiden came with braided hairAnd took his hands, and held them eagerly."To-morrow is my wedding day;Dear master, bless me that the wayOf life be smooth, not bitter unto me."He stirred not; but the light did goOut of his shrunken cheeks, and oh!His head hung heavily."You love him, then?" "I love him well,"She answered, and a numbness fellUpon his eyes and all his heart that bled.A glory, half a smile, abodeWithin the maiden's eyes and glowedUpon her parted lips. The master said,"God bless and bless thee, little maid,With peace and long delight," and laidHis hands upon her head.And she was gone; and all that dayThe hours crept up and slipped away,And he sat still, as moveless as a stone.The night came down, with quiet stars,And darkened him: in colored barsAlong the shadowy aisle the moonlight shone.And then the master woke and passedHis hands across the keys at last,And made the organ moan.The organ shook, the music wept;For sometimes like a wail it creptIn broken moanings down the shadows drear;And otherwhiles the sound did swell,And like a sudden tempest fellThrough all the windows wonderful and clear.The people gathered from the street,And filled the chapel seat by seat—They could not choose but hear.And there they sat till dawning light,Nor ever stirred for awe. "To-night,The master hath a noble mood," they said.But on a sudden ceased the sound:Like ghosts the people gathered round,And on the keys they found his fallen head.The silent organ had receivedThe master's broken heart relieved,And he was white and dead.
In his dim chapel day by dayThe organist was wont to play,And please himself with fluted reveries;And all the spirit's joy and strife,The longing of a tender life,Took sound and form upon the ivory keys;And though he seldom spoke a word,The simple hearts that loved him heardHis glowing soul in these.
One day as he was wrapped, a soundOf feet stole near; he turned and foundA little maid that stood beside him there.She started, and in shrinking-wiseBesought him with her liquid eyesAnd little features, very sweet and spare."You love the music, child," he said,And laid his hand upon her head,And smoothed her matted hair.
She answered, "At the door one dayI sat and heard the organ play;I did not dare to come inside for fear;But yesterday, a little while,I crept half up the empty aisleAnd heard the music sounding sweet and clear;To-day I thought you would not mind,For, master dear, your face was kind,And so I came up here."
"You love the music then," he said,And still he stroked her golden head,And followed out some winding reverie;"And you are poor?" said he at last;The maiden nodded, and he passedHis hand across his forehead dreamingly;"And will you be my friend?" he spake,"And on the organ learn to makeGrand music here with me?"
And all the little maiden's faceWas kindled with a grateful grace;"Oh, master, teach me; I will slave for thee!"She cried; and so the child grew dearTo him, and slowly year by yearHe taught her all the organ's majesty;And gave her from his slender storeBread and warm clothing, that no moreHer cheeks were pinched to see.
And year by year the maiden grewTaller and lovelier, and the hueDeepened upon her tender cheeks untried.Rounder, and queenlier, and more fairHer form grew, and her golden hairFell yearly richer at the master's side.In speech and bearing, form and face,Sweeter and graver, grace by grace,Her beauties multiplied.
And sometimes at his work a glowWould touch him, and he murmured low,"How beautiful she is?" and bent his head;And sometimes when the day went byAnd brought no maiden he would sigh,And lean and listen for her velvet tread;And he would drop his hands and say,"My music cometh not to-day;Pray God she be not dead!"
So the sweet maiden filled his heart,And with her growing grew his art,For day by day more wondrously he played.Such heavenly things the master wrought,That in his happy dreams he thoughtThe organ's self did love the gold-haired maid:But she, the maiden, never guessedWhat prayers for her in hours of restThe sombre organ prayed.
At last, one summer morning fair,The maiden came with braided hairAnd took his hands, and held them eagerly."To-morrow is my wedding day;Dear master, bless me that the wayOf life be smooth, not bitter unto me."He stirred not; but the light did goOut of his shrunken cheeks, and oh!His head hung heavily.
"You love him, then?" "I love him well,"She answered, and a numbness fellUpon his eyes and all his heart that bled.A glory, half a smile, abodeWithin the maiden's eyes and glowedUpon her parted lips. The master said,"God bless and bless thee, little maid,With peace and long delight," and laidHis hands upon her head.
And she was gone; and all that dayThe hours crept up and slipped away,And he sat still, as moveless as a stone.The night came down, with quiet stars,And darkened him: in colored barsAlong the shadowy aisle the moonlight shone.And then the master woke and passedHis hands across the keys at last,And made the organ moan.
The organ shook, the music wept;For sometimes like a wail it creptIn broken moanings down the shadows drear;And otherwhiles the sound did swell,And like a sudden tempest fellThrough all the windows wonderful and clear.The people gathered from the street,And filled the chapel seat by seat—They could not choose but hear.
And there they sat till dawning light,Nor ever stirred for awe. "To-night,The master hath a noble mood," they said.But on a sudden ceased the sound:Like ghosts the people gathered round,And on the keys they found his fallen head.The silent organ had receivedThe master's broken heart relieved,And he was white and dead.
In Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened with some fine distress,Some gloom that hangs about his mournful moodsHis weary bearing and neglected dress:So sad he sits, nor ever turns a leaf—Sorrow's pale miser o'er his hoard of grief.
In Nino's chamber not a sound intrudesUpon the midnight's tingling silentness,Where Nino sits before his book and broods,Thin and brow-burdened with some fine distress,Some gloom that hangs about his mournful moodsHis weary bearing and neglected dress:So sad he sits, nor ever turns a leaf—Sorrow's pale miser o'er his hoard of grief.
Young Nino and Leonora, they had metOnce at a revel by some lover's chance,And they were young with hearts already setTo tender thoughts, attunèd to romance;Wherefore it seemed they never could forgetThat winning touch, that one bewildering glance:But found at last a shelter safe and sweet,Where trembling hearts and longing hands might meet.
Young Nino and Leonora, they had metOnce at a revel by some lover's chance,And they were young with hearts already setTo tender thoughts, attunèd to romance;Wherefore it seemed they never could forgetThat winning touch, that one bewildering glance:But found at last a shelter safe and sweet,Where trembling hearts and longing hands might meet.
Ah, sweet their dreams, and sweet the life they ledWith that great love that was their bosoms' all,Yet ever shadowed by some circling dreadIt gloomed at moments deep and tragical,And so for many a month they seemed to treadWith fluttering hearts, whatever might befall,Half glad, half sad, their sweet and secret wayTo the soft tune of some old lover's lay.
Ah, sweet their dreams, and sweet the life they ledWith that great love that was their bosoms' all,Yet ever shadowed by some circling dreadIt gloomed at moments deep and tragical,And so for many a month they seemed to treadWith fluttering hearts, whatever might befall,Half glad, half sad, their sweet and secret wayTo the soft tune of some old lover's lay.
But she is gone, alas he knows not where,Or how his life that tender gift should lose:Indeed his love was ever full of care,The hasty joys and griefs of him who woos,Where sweet success is neighbour to despair,With stolen looks and dangerous interviews:But one long week she came not, nor the next,And so he wandered here and there perplext;
But she is gone, alas he knows not where,Or how his life that tender gift should lose:Indeed his love was ever full of care,The hasty joys and griefs of him who woos,Where sweet success is neighbour to despair,With stolen looks and dangerous interviews:But one long week she came not, nor the next,And so he wandered here and there perplext;
Nor evermore she came. Full many daysHe sought her at their trysts, devised deep schemesTo lure her back, and fell on subtle waysTo win some word of her; but all his dreamsVanished like smoke, and then in sore amazeFrom town to town, as one that crazèd seems,He wandered, following in unhappy questUncertain clues that ended like the rest.
Nor evermore she came. Full many daysHe sought her at their trysts, devised deep schemesTo lure her back, and fell on subtle waysTo win some word of her; but all his dreamsVanished like smoke, and then in sore amazeFrom town to town, as one that crazèd seems,He wandered, following in unhappy questUncertain clues that ended like the rest.
And now this midnight, as he sits forlorn,The printed page for him no meaning bears;With every word some torturing dream is born;And every thought is like a step that scaresOld memories up to make him weep and mourn.He cannot turn but from their latchless lairs,The weary shadows of his lost delightRise up like dusk birds through the lonely night.
And now this midnight, as he sits forlorn,The printed page for him no meaning bears;With every word some torturing dream is born;And every thought is like a step that scaresOld memories up to make him weep and mourn.He cannot turn but from their latchless lairs,The weary shadows of his lost delightRise up like dusk birds through the lonely night.
And still with questions vain he probes his grief,Till thought is wearied out, and dreams grow dim.What bitter chance, what woe beyond beliefCould keep his lady's heart so hid from him?Or was her love indeed but light and brief,A passing thought, a moment's dreamy whim?Aye there it stings, the woe that never sleeps:Poor Nino leans upon his book, and weeps.
And still with questions vain he probes his grief,Till thought is wearied out, and dreams grow dim.What bitter chance, what woe beyond beliefCould keep his lady's heart so hid from him?Or was her love indeed but light and brief,A passing thought, a moment's dreamy whim?Aye there it stings, the woe that never sleeps:Poor Nino leans upon his book, and weeps.
Until at length the sudden grief that shookHis piercèd bosom like a gust is past,And laid full weary on the wide-spread book,His eyes grow dim with slumber light and fast;But scarcely have his dreams had time to lookOn lands of kindlier promise, when aghastHe starts up softly, and in wondering wiseListens atremble with wide open eyes.
Until at length the sudden grief that shookHis piercèd bosom like a gust is past,And laid full weary on the wide-spread book,His eyes grow dim with slumber light and fast;But scarcely have his dreams had time to lookOn lands of kindlier promise, when aghastHe starts up softly, and in wondering wiseListens atremble with wide open eyes.
What sound was that? Who knocks like one in dreadWith such swift hands upon his outer door?Perhaps some beggar driven from his bedBy gnawing hunger he can bear no more,Or questing traveller with confusèd tread,Straying, bewildered in the midnight hoar.Nino uprises, scared, he knows not how,The dreams still pale about his burdened brow.
What sound was that? Who knocks like one in dreadWith such swift hands upon his outer door?Perhaps some beggar driven from his bedBy gnawing hunger he can bear no more,Or questing traveller with confusèd tread,Straying, bewildered in the midnight hoar.Nino uprises, scared, he knows not how,The dreams still pale about his burdened brow.
The heavy bolt he draws, and unawaresA stranger enters with slow steps, unsought,A long robed monk, and in his hand he bearsA jewelled goblet curiously wrought;But of his face beneath the cowl he wearsFor all his searching Nino seeth nought;And slowly past him with long stride he hies,While Nino follows with bewildered eyes.
The heavy bolt he draws, and unawaresA stranger enters with slow steps, unsought,A long robed monk, and in his hand he bearsA jewelled goblet curiously wrought;But of his face beneath the cowl he wearsFor all his searching Nino seeth nought;And slowly past him with long stride he hies,While Nino follows with bewildered eyes.
Straight on he goes with dusky rustling gown.His steps are soft, his hands are white and fine;And still he bears the goblet on whose crownA hundred jewels in the lamplight shine;And ever from its edges dripping downFalls with dark stain the rich and lustrous wine,Wherefrom through all the chamber's shadowy deepsA deadly perfume like a vapour creeps.
Straight on he goes with dusky rustling gown.His steps are soft, his hands are white and fine;And still he bears the goblet on whose crownA hundred jewels in the lamplight shine;And ever from its edges dripping downFalls with dark stain the rich and lustrous wine,Wherefrom through all the chamber's shadowy deepsA deadly perfume like a vapour creeps.
And now he sets it down with careful handsOn the slim table's polished ebony;And for a space as if in dreams he stands,Close hidden in his sombre drapery."Oh lover, by thy lady's last commands,I bid thee hearken, for I bear with meA gift to give thee and a tale to tellFrom her who loved thee, while she lived, too well."
And now he sets it down with careful handsOn the slim table's polished ebony;And for a space as if in dreams he stands,Close hidden in his sombre drapery."Oh lover, by thy lady's last commands,I bid thee hearken, for I bear with meA gift to give thee and a tale to tellFrom her who loved thee, while she lived, too well."
The stranger's voice falls slow and solemnly.Tis soft, and rich, and wondrous deep of tone;And Nino's face grows white as ivory,Listening fast-rooted like a shape of stone.Ah, blessed saints, can such a dark thing be?And was it death, and is Leonora gone?Oh, love is harsh, and life is frail indeed,That gives men joy, and then so makes them bleed.
The stranger's voice falls slow and solemnly.Tis soft, and rich, and wondrous deep of tone;And Nino's face grows white as ivory,Listening fast-rooted like a shape of stone.Ah, blessed saints, can such a dark thing be?And was it death, and is Leonora gone?Oh, love is harsh, and life is frail indeed,That gives men joy, and then so makes them bleed.
"There is the gift I bring"; the stranger's headTurns to the cup that glitters at his side:"And now my tongue draws back for very dread,Unhappy youth, from what it must not hide.The saddest tale that ever lips have said;Yet thou must know how sweet Leonora died,A broken martyr for love's weary sake,And left this gift for thee to leave or take."
"There is the gift I bring"; the stranger's headTurns to the cup that glitters at his side:"And now my tongue draws back for very dread,Unhappy youth, from what it must not hide.The saddest tale that ever lips have said;Yet thou must know how sweet Leonora died,A broken martyr for love's weary sake,And left this gift for thee to leave or take."
Poor Nino listens with that marble face,And eyes that move not, strangely wide and set.The monk continues with his mournful grace:"She told me, Nino, how you often metIn secret, and your plighted loves kept paceTogether, tangled in the self-same net;Your dream's dark danger and its dread you knew,And still you met, and still your passion grew.
Poor Nino listens with that marble face,And eyes that move not, strangely wide and set.The monk continues with his mournful grace:"She told me, Nino, how you often metIn secret, and your plighted loves kept paceTogether, tangled in the self-same net;Your dream's dark danger and its dread you knew,And still you met, and still your passion grew.
"And aye with that luxurious fire you fedYour dangerous longing daily, crumb by crumb;Nor ever cared that still above your headThe shadow grew; for that your lips were dumb.You knew full keenly you could never wed:'Twas all a dream: the end must surely come;For not on thee her father's eyes were turnedTo find a son, when mighty lords were spurned.
"And aye with that luxurious fire you fedYour dangerous longing daily, crumb by crumb;Nor ever cared that still above your headThe shadow grew; for that your lips were dumb.You knew full keenly you could never wed:'Twas all a dream: the end must surely come;For not on thee her father's eyes were turnedTo find a son, when mighty lords were spurned.
"Thou knowest that new-sprung prince, that proud up-start,Pisa's new tyrant with his armèd thralls,Who bends of late to take the people's part,Yet plays the king among his marble halls,Whose gloomy palace in our city's heartFrowns like a fortress with its loop-holed walls.'Twas him he sought for fair Leonora's hand,That so his own declining house might stand.
"Thou knowest that new-sprung prince, that proud up-start,Pisa's new tyrant with his armèd thralls,Who bends of late to take the people's part,Yet plays the king among his marble halls,Whose gloomy palace in our city's heartFrowns like a fortress with its loop-holed walls.'Twas him he sought for fair Leonora's hand,That so his own declining house might stand.
"The end came soon; 'twas never known to thee;But, when your love was scarce a six months old,She sat one day beside her father's knee,And in her ears the dreadful thing was told.Within one month her bridal hour should beWith Messer Gianni for his power and gold;And as she sat with whitened lips the while,The old man kissed her, with his crafty smile.
"The end came soon; 'twas never known to thee;But, when your love was scarce a six months old,She sat one day beside her father's knee,And in her ears the dreadful thing was told.Within one month her bridal hour should beWith Messer Gianni for his power and gold;And as she sat with whitened lips the while,The old man kissed her, with his crafty smile.
"Poor pallid lady, all the woe she feltThou, wretched Nino, thou alone canst know.Down at his feet with many a moan she knelt,And prayed that he would never wound her so.Ah, tender saints! it was a sight to meltThe flintiest heart; but his could never glow.He sat with clenchèd hands and straightened head,And frowned, and glared, and turned from white to red.
"Poor pallid lady, all the woe she feltThou, wretched Nino, thou alone canst know.Down at his feet with many a moan she knelt,And prayed that he would never wound her so.Ah, tender saints! it was a sight to meltThe flintiest heart; but his could never glow.He sat with clenchèd hands and straightened head,And frowned, and glared, and turned from white to red.
"And still with cries about his knees she clung,Her tender bosom broken with her care.His words were brief, with bitter fury flung:'The father's will the child must meekly bear;I am thy father, thou a girl and young.'Then to her feet she rose in her despair,And cried with tightened lips and eyes aglow,One daring word, a straight and simple, "No"!
"And still with cries about his knees she clung,Her tender bosom broken with her care.His words were brief, with bitter fury flung:'The father's will the child must meekly bear;I am thy father, thou a girl and young.'Then to her feet she rose in her despair,And cried with tightened lips and eyes aglow,One daring word, a straight and simple, "No"!
"Her father left her with wild words, and sentRough men, who dragged her to a dungeon deep,Where many a weary soul in darkness pentFor many a year had watched the slow days creep,And there he left her for his dark intent,Where madness breeds and sorrows never sleep.Coarse robes he gave her, and her lips he fedWith bitter water and a crust of bread.
"Her father left her with wild words, and sentRough men, who dragged her to a dungeon deep,Where many a weary soul in darkness pentFor many a year had watched the slow days creep,And there he left her for his dark intent,Where madness breeds and sorrows never sleep.Coarse robes he gave her, and her lips he fedWith bitter water and a crust of bread.
"And day by day still following out his plan,He came to her, and with determined spiteStrove with soft words and then with curse and banTo bend her heart so wearied to his might,And aye she bode his bitter pleasure's span,As one that hears, but hath not sense or sight.Ah, Nino, still her breaking heart held true:Poor lady sad, she had no thought but you.
"And day by day still following out his plan,He came to her, and with determined spiteStrove with soft words and then with curse and banTo bend her heart so wearied to his might,And aye she bode his bitter pleasure's span,As one that hears, but hath not sense or sight.Ah, Nino, still her breaking heart held true:Poor lady sad, she had no thought but you.
"The father tired at last and came no more,But in his settled anger bade prepareThe marriage feast with all luxurious store,With pomps, and shows and splendors rich and rare;And so in toil another fortnight wore,Nor knew she aught what things were in the air,Till came the old lord's message brief and coarse:Within three days she should be wed by force.
"The father tired at last and came no more,But in his settled anger bade prepareThe marriage feast with all luxurious store,With pomps, and shows and splendors rich and rare;And so in toil another fortnight wore,Nor knew she aught what things were in the air,Till came the old lord's message brief and coarse:Within three days she should be wed by force.
"And all that noon and weary night she lay,Poor child, like death upon her prison stone,And none that came to her but crept away,Sickened at heart to see her lips so moan,Her eyes so dim within their sockets grey,Her tender cheeks so thin and ghastly grown;But when the next morn's light began to stir,She sent and prayed that I might be with her.
"And all that noon and weary night she lay,Poor child, like death upon her prison stone,And none that came to her but crept away,Sickened at heart to see her lips so moan,Her eyes so dim within their sockets grey,Her tender cheeks so thin and ghastly grown;But when the next morn's light began to stir,She sent and prayed that I might be with her.
"This boon he gave: perchance he deemed that I,The chaplain of his house, her childhood's friend,With patient tones and holy words, might tryTo soothe her purpose to his gainful end.I bowed full low before his crafty eye,But knew my heart had no base help to lend.That night with many a silent prayer I cameTo poor Leonora in her grief and shame.
"This boon he gave: perchance he deemed that I,The chaplain of his house, her childhood's friend,With patient tones and holy words, might tryTo soothe her purpose to his gainful end.I bowed full low before his crafty eye,But knew my heart had no base help to lend.That night with many a silent prayer I cameTo poor Leonora in her grief and shame.
"But she was strange to me: I could not speakFor glad amazement, mixed with some dark fear;I saw her stand no longer pale and weak,But a proud maiden, queenly and most clear,With flashing eyes and vermeil in her cheek:And on the little table, set anear,I marked two goblets of rare workmanshipWith some strange liquor crownèd to the lip.
"But she was strange to me: I could not speakFor glad amazement, mixed with some dark fear;I saw her stand no longer pale and weak,But a proud maiden, queenly and most clear,With flashing eyes and vermeil in her cheek:And on the little table, set anear,I marked two goblets of rare workmanshipWith some strange liquor crownèd to the lip.
"And then she ran to me and caught my hand,Tightly imprisoned in her meagre twain,And like the ghost of sorrow she did stand,And eyed me softly with a liquid pain:'Oh father, grant, I pray thee, I command,One boon to me, I'll never ask again,One boon to me and to my love, to both;Dear father, grant, and bind it with an oath.'
"And then she ran to me and caught my hand,Tightly imprisoned in her meagre twain,And like the ghost of sorrow she did stand,And eyed me softly with a liquid pain:'Oh father, grant, I pray thee, I command,One boon to me, I'll never ask again,One boon to me and to my love, to both;Dear father, grant, and bind it with an oath.'
"This granted I, and then with many a wailShe told me all the story of your woe,And when she finished, lightly but most pale,To those two brimming goblets she did go,And one she took within her fingers frail,And looked down smiling in its crimson glow:'And now thine oath I'll tell; God grant to theeNo rest in grave, if thou be false to me.
"This granted I, and then with many a wailShe told me all the story of your woe,And when she finished, lightly but most pale,To those two brimming goblets she did go,And one she took within her fingers frail,And looked down smiling in its crimson glow:'And now thine oath I'll tell; God grant to theeNo rest in grave, if thou be false to me.
"'Alas, poor me! whom cruel hearts would wedOn the sad morrow to that wicked lord;But I'll not go; nay, rather I'll be dead,Safe from their frown and from their bitter word.Without my Nino life indeed were sped;And sith we two can never more accordIn this drear world, so weary and perplext,We'll die, and win sweet pleasure in the next.
"'Alas, poor me! whom cruel hearts would wedOn the sad morrow to that wicked lord;But I'll not go; nay, rather I'll be dead,Safe from their frown and from their bitter word.Without my Nino life indeed were sped;And sith we two can never more accordIn this drear world, so weary and perplext,We'll die, and win sweet pleasure in the next.
"'Oh father, God will never give thee rest,If thou be false to what thy lips have sworn,And false to love, and false to me distressed,A helpless maid, so broken and outworn.This cup—she put it softly to her breast—I pray thee carry, ere the morrow morn,To Nino's hand, and tell him all my pain;This other with mine own lips I will drain.'
"'Oh father, God will never give thee rest,If thou be false to what thy lips have sworn,And false to love, and false to me distressed,A helpless maid, so broken and outworn.This cup—she put it softly to her breast—I pray thee carry, ere the morrow morn,To Nino's hand, and tell him all my pain;This other with mine own lips I will drain.'
"Slowly she raised it to her lips, the whileI darted forward, madly fain to seizeHer dreadful hands, but with a sudden wileShe twisted and sprang from me with bent knees,And rising turned upon me with a smile,And drained her goblet to the very lees.'Oh priest, remember, keep thine oath,' she cried,And the spent goblet fell against her side.
"Slowly she raised it to her lips, the whileI darted forward, madly fain to seizeHer dreadful hands, but with a sudden wileShe twisted and sprang from me with bent knees,And rising turned upon me with a smile,And drained her goblet to the very lees.'Oh priest, remember, keep thine oath,' she cried,And the spent goblet fell against her side.
"And then she moaned and murmured like a bell:'My Nino, my sweet Nino!' and no moreShe said, but fluttered like a bird and fellLifeless as marble to the footworn floor;And there she lies even now in lonely cell,Poor lady, pale with all the grief she bore,She could not live, and still be true to thee,And so she's gone where no rude hands can be."
"And then she moaned and murmured like a bell:'My Nino, my sweet Nino!' and no moreShe said, but fluttered like a bird and fellLifeless as marble to the footworn floor;And there she lies even now in lonely cell,Poor lady, pale with all the grief she bore,She could not live, and still be true to thee,And so she's gone where no rude hands can be."
The monk's voice pauses like some mournful flute,Whose pondered closes for sheer sorrow fail,And then with hand that seems as it would suitA soft girl best, it is so light and frail,He turns half round, and for a moment mutePoints to the goblet, and so ends his tale:"Mine oath is kept, thy lady's last command;'Tis but a short hour since it left her hand."
The monk's voice pauses like some mournful flute,Whose pondered closes for sheer sorrow fail,And then with hand that seems as it would suitA soft girl best, it is so light and frail,He turns half round, and for a moment mutePoints to the goblet, and so ends his tale:"Mine oath is kept, thy lady's last command;'Tis but a short hour since it left her hand."
So ends the stranger: surely no man's tongueWas e'er so soft, or half so sweet, as his.Oft as he listened, Nino's heart had sprungWith sudden start as from a spectre's kiss;For deep in many a word he deemed had rungThe liquid fall of some loved emphasis;And so it pierced his sorrow to the core,The ghost of tones that he should hear no more.
So ends the stranger: surely no man's tongueWas e'er so soft, or half so sweet, as his.Oft as he listened, Nino's heart had sprungWith sudden start as from a spectre's kiss;For deep in many a word he deemed had rungThe liquid fall of some loved emphasis;And so it pierced his sorrow to the core,The ghost of tones that he should hear no more.
But now the tale is ended, and still keepsThe stranger hidden in his dusky weed;And Nino stands, wide-eyed, as one that sleeps,And dimly wonders how his heart doth bleed.Anon he bends, yet neither moans nor weeps,But hangs atremble, like a broken reed;"Ah! bitter fate, that lured and sold us so,Poor lady mine; alas for all our woe!"
But now the tale is ended, and still keepsThe stranger hidden in his dusky weed;And Nino stands, wide-eyed, as one that sleeps,And dimly wonders how his heart doth bleed.Anon he bends, yet neither moans nor weeps,But hangs atremble, like a broken reed;"Ah! bitter fate, that lured and sold us so,Poor lady mine; alas for all our woe!"
But even as he moans in such dark mood,His wandering eyes upon the goblet fall.Oh, dreaming heart! Oh, strange ingratitude!So to forget his lady's lingering call,Her parting gift, so rich, so crimson-hued,The lover's draught, that shall be cure for all.He lifts the goblet lightly from its place,And smiles, and rears it with his courtly grace.
But even as he moans in such dark mood,His wandering eyes upon the goblet fall.Oh, dreaming heart! Oh, strange ingratitude!So to forget his lady's lingering call,Her parting gift, so rich, so crimson-hued,The lover's draught, that shall be cure for all.He lifts the goblet lightly from its place,And smiles, and rears it with his courtly grace.
"Oh, lady sweet, I shall not long delay:This gift of thine shall bring me to thine eyes.Sure God will send on no unpardoned wayThe faithful soul, that at such bidding dies.When thou art gone, I cannot longer stayTo brave this world with all its wrath and lies,Where hands of stone and tongues of dragon's breathHave bruised mine angel to her piteous death."
"Oh, lady sweet, I shall not long delay:This gift of thine shall bring me to thine eyes.Sure God will send on no unpardoned wayThe faithful soul, that at such bidding dies.When thou art gone, I cannot longer stayTo brave this world with all its wrath and lies,Where hands of stone and tongues of dragon's breathHave bruised mine angel to her piteous death."
And now the gleaming goblet hath scarce dyedHis lips' thin pallor with its deathly red,When Nino starts in wonder, fearful-eyed,For, lo! the stranger with outstretchèd headSprings at his face one soft and sudden stride,And from his hand the deadly cup hath sped,Dashed to the ground, and all it's seeded storeRuns out like blood upon the marble floor.
And now the gleaming goblet hath scarce dyedHis lips' thin pallor with its deathly red,When Nino starts in wonder, fearful-eyed,For, lo! the stranger with outstretchèd headSprings at his face one soft and sudden stride,And from his hand the deadly cup hath sped,Dashed to the ground, and all it's seeded storeRuns out like blood upon the marble floor.
"Oh Nino, my sweet Nino! speak to me,Nor stand so strange, nor look so deathly pale.'Twas all to prove thy heart's deaf constancyI brought that cup and told that piteous tale.Ah! chains and cells and cruel treacheryAre weak indeed when women's hearts assail.Art angry, Nino?" 'Tis no monk that cries,But sweet Leonora with her love-lit eyes.
"Oh Nino, my sweet Nino! speak to me,Nor stand so strange, nor look so deathly pale.'Twas all to prove thy heart's deaf constancyI brought that cup and told that piteous tale.Ah! chains and cells and cruel treacheryAre weak indeed when women's hearts assail.Art angry, Nino?" 'Tis no monk that cries,But sweet Leonora with her love-lit eyes.
She dashes from her brow the pented hood;The dusky robe falls rustling to her feet;And there she stands, as aye in dreams she stood.Ah, Nino, see! Sure man did never meetSo warm a flower from such a sombre bud,So trembling fair, so wan, so pallid sweet.Aye, Nino, down like saint upon thy knee,And soothe her hands with kisses warm and free.
She dashes from her brow the pented hood;The dusky robe falls rustling to her feet;And there she stands, as aye in dreams she stood.Ah, Nino, see! Sure man did never meetSo warm a flower from such a sombre bud,So trembling fair, so wan, so pallid sweet.Aye, Nino, down like saint upon thy knee,And soothe her hands with kisses warm and free.
And now with broken laughter on her lips,And now with moans remembering of her care,She weeps, and smiles, and like a child she slipsHer lily fingers through his curly hair,The while her head with all it's sweet she dips,Close to his ear, to soothe and murmur there;"Oh, Nino, I was hid so long from thee,That much I doubted what thy love might be.
And now with broken laughter on her lips,And now with moans remembering of her care,She weeps, and smiles, and like a child she slipsHer lily fingers through his curly hair,The while her head with all it's sweet she dips,Close to his ear, to soothe and murmur there;"Oh, Nino, I was hid so long from thee,That much I doubted what thy love might be.
"And though 'twas cruel hard of me to tryThy faithful heart with such a fearful test,Yet now thou canst be happy, sweet, as IAm wondrous happy in thy truth confessed.To haggard death indeed thou needst not flyTo find the softness of thy lady's breast;For such a gift was never death's to give,But thou shalt have me for thy love, and live.
"And though 'twas cruel hard of me to tryThy faithful heart with such a fearful test,Yet now thou canst be happy, sweet, as IAm wondrous happy in thy truth confessed.To haggard death indeed thou needst not flyTo find the softness of thy lady's breast;For such a gift was never death's to give,But thou shalt have me for thy love, and live.
"Dost see these cheeks, my Nino? they're so thin,Not round and soft, as when thou touched them last:So long with bitter rage they pent me in,Like some poor thief in lonely dungeon cast;Only this night through every bolt and ginBy cunning stealth I wrought my way at last.Straight to thine heart I fled, unfaltering,Like homeward pigeon with uncagèd wing.
"Dost see these cheeks, my Nino? they're so thin,Not round and soft, as when thou touched them last:So long with bitter rage they pent me in,Like some poor thief in lonely dungeon cast;Only this night through every bolt and ginBy cunning stealth I wrought my way at last.Straight to thine heart I fled, unfaltering,Like homeward pigeon with uncagèd wing.
"Nay, Nino, kneel not; let me hear thee speak.We must not tarry long; the dawn is nigh."So rises he, for very gladness weak;But half in fear that yet the dream may fly,He touches mutely mouth and brow and cheek;Till in his ear she 'gins to plead and sigh:"Dear love, forgive me for that cruel tale,That stung thine heart and made thy lips so pale."
"Nay, Nino, kneel not; let me hear thee speak.We must not tarry long; the dawn is nigh."So rises he, for very gladness weak;But half in fear that yet the dream may fly,He touches mutely mouth and brow and cheek;Till in his ear she 'gins to plead and sigh:"Dear love, forgive me for that cruel tale,That stung thine heart and made thy lips so pale."
And so he folds her softly with quick sighs,And both with murmurs warm and musicalTalk and retalk, with dim or smiling eyes,Of old delights and sweeter days to fall:And yet not long, for, ere the starlit skiesGrow pale above the city's eastern wall,They rise, with lips and happy hands withdrawn,And pass out softly into the dawn.
And so he folds her softly with quick sighs,And both with murmurs warm and musicalTalk and retalk, with dim or smiling eyes,Of old delights and sweeter days to fall:And yet not long, for, ere the starlit skiesGrow pale above the city's eastern wall,They rise, with lips and happy hands withdrawn,And pass out softly into the dawn.
For Nino knows the captain of a ship,The friend of many journeys, who may beThis very morn will let his cables slipFor the warm coast of sunny Sicily.There in Palermo, at the harbour's lip,A brother lives, of tried fidelity:So to the quays by hidden ways they wendIn the pale morn, nor do they miss their friend.
For Nino knows the captain of a ship,The friend of many journeys, who may beThis very morn will let his cables slipFor the warm coast of sunny Sicily.There in Palermo, at the harbour's lip,A brother lives, of tried fidelity:So to the quays by hidden ways they wendIn the pale morn, nor do they miss their friend.
And ere the shadow of another nightHath darkened Pisa, many a foe shall strayThrough Nino's home, with eyes malignly brightIn wolfish quest, but shall not find his prey:The while those lovers in their white-winged flightShall see far out upon the twilight grey,Behind, the glimmer of the sea, before,The dusky outlines of a kindlier shore.
And ere the shadow of another nightHath darkened Pisa, many a foe shall strayThrough Nino's home, with eyes malignly brightIn wolfish quest, but shall not find his prey:The while those lovers in their white-winged flightShall see far out upon the twilight grey,Behind, the glimmer of the sea, before,The dusky outlines of a kindlier shore.
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!Each note to me is like a golden glow;Each broken cadence like a morning call;Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go,Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold setOf this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green:Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat:Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that leanTheir crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat,The stripèd bees in lazy labour gleanFrom bell to bell with golden-feathered feet;Yet even here the voices of hard life go by;Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.Here, as I sit—the sunlight on my face,And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes—My heart, a garden in a hidden place,Is full of folded buds of memories.Stray hither then with all your old time grace,Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys;Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom,And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.Ah me, I may not set my feet againIn any part of that old garden dear,Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain;But only at the wicket gaze I here:Old scents creep into mine inactive brain,Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear;I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn;I cannot feel with hands the blossom or the thorn.Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child;The little child, that was myself, appears,And all the old-time beauties, undefined,Shine back to me across the opening years,Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild,Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears,Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems,With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.Play on into the golden sunshine so,Sweeter than all great artists' labouring:I too was like you once, an age ago:God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bringQuiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe,No certain things at all that thrill or sting,But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright,No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.
Why weep ye in your innocent toil at all?Sweet little hands, why halt and tremble so?Full many a wrong note falls, but let it fall!Each note to me is like a golden glow;Each broken cadence like a morning call;Nay, clear and smooth I would not have you go,Soft little hands, upon the curtained threshold setOf this long life of labour, and unrestful fret.
Soft sunlight flickers on the checkered green:Warm winds are stirring round my dreaming seat:Among the yellow pumpkin blooms, that leanTheir crumpled rims beneath the heavy heat,The stripèd bees in lazy labour gleanFrom bell to bell with golden-feathered feet;Yet even here the voices of hard life go by;Outside, the city strains with its eternal cry.
Here, as I sit—the sunlight on my face,And shadows of green leaves upon mine eyes—My heart, a garden in a hidden place,Is full of folded buds of memories.Stray hither then with all your old time grace,Child-voices, trembling from the uncertain keys;Play on, ye little fingers, touch the settled gloom,And quickly, one by one, my waiting buds will bloom.
Ah me, I may not set my feet againIn any part of that old garden dear,Or pluck one widening blossom, for my pain;But only at the wicket gaze I here:Old scents creep into mine inactive brain,Smooth scents of things, I may not come anear;I see, far off, old beaten pathways they adorn;I cannot feel with hands the blossom or the thorn.
Toil on, sweet hands; once more I see the child;The little child, that was myself, appears,And all the old-time beauties, undefined,Shine back to me across the opening years,Quick griefs, that made the tender bosom wild,Short blinding gusts, that died in passionate tears,Sweet life, with all its change, that now so happy seems,With all its child-heart glories, and untutored dreams.
Play on into the golden sunshine so,Sweeter than all great artists' labouring:I too was like you once, an age ago:God keep you, dimpled fingers, for you bringQuiet gliding ghosts to me of joy and woe,No certain things at all that thrill or sting,But only sounds and scents and savours of things bright,No joy or aching pain; but only dim delight.