Poems by William Dean Howells Part 6

"'But let me go beside thee, And banishment shall be Honor, and riches, and country, And home to thee and me!'"

Down falls the minstrel-maiden Before the Marquis' son, And the six true-hearted comrades Bow round them every one.

Federigo, the son of the Marquis, From its scabbard draws his sword: "Now swear by the honor and fealty Ye bear your friend and lord,

"That whenever, and wherever, As long as ye have life, Ye will honor and serve this lady As ye would your prince's wife!"

IV.

Over the broad expanses Of garlanded Lombardy, Where the gentle vines are swinging In the orchards from tree to tree;

Through Padua from Verona, From the sculptured gothic town, Carved from ruin upon ruin, And ancienter than renown;

Through Padua from Verona To fair Venice, where she stands With her feet on subject waters, Lady of many lands;

From Venice by sea to Ancona; From Ancona to the west; Climbing many a gardened hillside And many a castled crest;

Through valleys dim with the twilight Of their gray olive trees; Over plains that swim with harvests Like golden noonday seas;

Whence the lofty campanili Like the masts of s.h.i.+ps arise, And like a fleet at anchor Under them, the village lies;

To Florence beside her Arno, In her many-marbled pride, Crowned with infamy and glory By the sons she has denied;

To pitiless Pisa, where never Since the anguish of Ugolin The moon in the Tower of Famine[3]

Fate so dread as his hath seen;

Out through the gates of Pisa To Livorno on her bay, To Genoa and to Naples The comrades hold their way,

Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered, Past the fortressed Ghibelline, Through lands that reek with slaughter, Treason, and shame, and sin;

By desert, by sea, by city, High hill-cope and temple-dome, Through pestilence, hunger, and horror, Upon the road to Rome;

While every land behind them Forgets them as they go, And in Mantua they are remembered As is the last year's snow;

But the Marchioness goes to her chamber Day after day to weep,-- For the changeless heart of a mother The love of a son must keep.

The Marchioness weeps in her chamber Over tidings that come to her Of the exiles she seeks, by letter And by lips of messenger,

Broken hints of their sojourn and absence, Comfortless, vague, and slight,-- Like feathers wafted backwards From pa.s.sage birds in flight.[4]

The tale of a drunken sailor, In whose s.h.i.+p they went to sea; A traveller's evening story At a village hostelry,

Of certain comrades sent him By our Lady, of her grace, To save his life from robbers In a lonely desert place;

Word from the monks of a convent Of gentle comrades that lay One stormy night at their convent, And pa.s.sed with the storm at day;

The long parley of a peasant That sold them wine and food, The gossip of a shepherd That guided them through a wood;

A boatman's talk at the ferry Of a river where they crossed, And as if they had sunk in the current All trace of them was lost;

And so is an end of tidings But never an end of tears, Of secret and friendless sorrow Through blank and silent years.

V.

To the Marchioness in her chamber Sends word a messenger, Newly come from the land of Naples, Praying for speech with her.

The messenger stands before her, A minstrel slender and wan: "In a village of my country Lies a Mantuan gentleman,

"Sick of a smouldering fever, Of sorrow and poverty; And no one in all that country Knows his t.i.tle or degree.

"But six true Mantuan peasants, Or n.o.bles, as some men say, Watch by the sick man's bedside, And toil for him, night and day,

"Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing, Bearing burdens, and far and nigh Begging for him on the highway Of the strangers that pa.s.s by;

"And they look whenever you meet them Like broken-hearted men, And I heard that the sick man would not If he could, be well again;

"For they say that he for love's sake Was gladly banished, But she for whom he was banished Is worse to him, now, than dead,--

"A recreant to his sorrow, A traitress to his woe."

From her place the Marchioness rises, The minstrel turns to go.

But fast by the hand she takes him,-- His hand in her clasp is cold,-- "If gold may be thy guerdon Thou shalt not lack for gold;

"And if the love of a mother Can bless thee for that thou hast done, Thou shalt stay and be his brother, Thou shalt stay and be my son."

"Nay, my lady," answered the minstrel, And his face is deadly pale, "Nay, this must not be, sweet lady, But let my words prevail.

"Let me go now from your presence, And I will come again, When you stand with your son beside you, And be your servant then."

VI.

At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga Kneels his lady on the floor; "Lord, grant me before I ask it The thing that I implore."

"So it be not of that ingrate."-- "Nay, lord, it is of him."

'Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis His eyes are tender and dim.

"He lies sick of a fever in Naples, Near unto death, as they tell, In his need and pain forsaken By the wanton he loved so well.

"Now send for him and forgive him, If ever thou loved'st me, Now send for him and forgive him As G.o.d shall be good to thee."

"Well so,--if he turn in repentance And bow himself to my will; That the high-born lady I chose him May be my daughter still."

VII.

In Mantua there is feasting For the Marquis' grace to his son; In Mantua there is rejoicing For the prince come back to his own.

The pomp of a wedding procession Pauses under the pillared porch, With silken rustle and whisper, Before the door of the church.

In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom Stands with his high-born bride; The six true-hearted comrades Are three on either side.