Poems by William Dean Howells Part 5

But most himself in this on the wall Over against his consort, whose Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes Make her the finest lady of all The queens or courtly dames you choose, In the ancestral portrait hall.

A glorious blonde: a luxury Of luring blue and wanton gold, Of blanched rose and crimson bold, Of lines that flow voluptuously In tender, languorous curves to fold Her form in perfect symmetry.

She might have been false. Of her withered dust There scarcely would be enough to write Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right To our lenient doubt if not to our trust: So if the truth cannot make her white, Let us be as merciful as we--must.

II.

The queen died first, the queen died young, But the king was very old when he died, Rotten with license, and l.u.s.t, and pride; And the usual Virtues came and hung Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung.

How the queen died is not certainly known, And faithful subjects are all forbid To speak of the murder which some one did One night while she slept in the dark alone: History keeps the story hid, And Fear only tells it in undertone.

Up from your startled feet aloof, In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound Leaps the echo, and round and round Beating itself against the roof,-- A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound,-- Dies ere its terror can utter proof

Of that it knows. A door is fast, And none is suffered to enter there.

His sacred majesty could not bear To look at it toward the last, As he grew very old. It opened where The queen died young so many years past.

III.

How the queen died is not certainly known; But in the palace's solitude A harking dread and horror brood, And a silence, as if a mortal groan Had been hushed the moment before, and would Break forth again when you were gone.

The present king has never dwelt In the desolate palace. From year to year In the wide and stately garden drear The snows and the snowy blossoms melt Unheeded, and a ghastly fear Through all the s.h.i.+vering leaves is felt.

By night the gathering shadows creep Along the dusk and hollow halls, And the slumber-broken palace calls With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep; And then the ghostly moonlight falls Athwart the darkness brown and deep.

At early dawn the light wind sighs, And through the desert garden blows The wasted sweetness of the rose; At noon the feverish suns.h.i.+ne lies Sick in the walks. But at evening's close, When the last, long rays to the windows rise,

And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur His cruel vigilance and her Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak A hopeless hate that cannot stir, A voiceless hate that cannot speak

In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes; And as if she saw her murderer glare On her face, and he the white despair Of his victim kindle in wild surmise, Confronted the conscious pictures stare,-- And their secret back into darkness dies.

THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.[2]

I.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, Downcast, through the garden goes: He is hurt with the grace of the lily, And the beauty of the rose.

For what is the grace of the lily But her own slender grace?

And what is the rose's beauty But the beauty of her face?--

Who sits beside her window Waiting to welcome him, That comes so lothly toward her With his visage sick and dim.

"Ah! lily, I come to break thee!

Ah! rose, a bitter rain Of tears shall beat thy light out That thou never burn again!"

II.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, Takes the lady by the hand: "Thou must bid me G.o.d-speed on a journey, For I leave my native land.

"From Mantua to-morrow I go, a banished man; Make me glad for truth and love's sake Of my father's curse and ban.

"Our quarrel has left my mother Like death upon the floor; And I come from a furious presence I never shall enter more.

"I would not wed the woman He had chosen for my bride, For my heart had been before him, With his statecraft and his pride.

"I swore to him by my princehood In my love I would be free; And I swear to thee by my manhood, I love no one but thee.

"Let the Duke of Bavaria marry His daughter to whom he will: There where my love was given My word shall be faithful still.

"There are six true hearts will follow My truth wherever I go, And thou equal truth wilt keep me In welfare and in woe."

The maiden answered him nothing Of herself, but his words again Came back through her lips like an echo From an abyss of pain;

And vacantly repeating "In welfare and in woe,"

Like a dream from the heart of fever From her arms she felt him go.

III.

Out of Mantua's gate at daybreak Seven comrades wander forth On a path that leads at their humor, East, west, or south, or north.

The prince's laugh rings lightly, "What road shall we take from home?"

And they answer, "We never shall lose it If we take the road to Rome."

And with many a jest and banter The comrades keep their way, Journeying out of the twilight Forward into the day,

When they are aware beside them Goes a pretty minstrel lad, With a shy and downward aspect, That is neither sad nor glad.

Over his slender shoulder, His mandolin was slung, And around its chords the treasure Of his golden tresses hung.

Spoke one of the seven companions, "Little minstrel, whither away?"-- "With seven true-hearted comrades On their journey, if I may."

Spoke one of the seven companions, "If our way be hard and long?"-- "I will lighten it with my music And shorten it with my song."

Spoke one of the seven companions, "But what are the songs thou know'st?"-- "O, I know many a ditty, But this I sing the most:

"How once was an humble maiden Beloved of a great lord's son, That for her sake and his troth's sake Was banished and undone.

"And forth of his father's city He went at break of day, And the maiden softly followed Behind him on the way

"In the figure of a minstrel, And prayed him of his love, 'Let me go with thee and serve thee Wherever thou may'st rove.

"'For if thou goest in exile I rest banished at home, And where thou wanderest with thee My fears in anguish roam,

"'Besetting thy path with perils, Making thee hungry and cold, Filling thy heart with trouble And heaviness untold.