The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/Parisina

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PARISINA.

INTRODUCTION TO PARISINA.

Parisina, which had been begun before the Siege of Corinth, was transcribed by Lady Byron, and sent to the publisher at the beginning of December, 1815. Murray confessed that he had been alarmed by some hints which Byron had dropped as to the plot of the narrative, but was reassured when he traced "the delicate hand that transcribed it." He could not say enough of this "Pearl" of great price. "It is very interesting, pathetic, beautiful—do you know I would almost say moral" (Memoir of John Murray, 1891, i. 353). Ward, to whom the MS. of Parisina was shown, and Isaac D'Israeli, who heard it read aloud by Murray, were enthusiastic as to its merits; and Gifford, who had mingled censure with praise in his critical appreciation of the Siege, declared that the author "had never surpassed Parisina."

The last and shortest of the six narrative poems composed and published in the four years (the first years of manhood and of fame, the only years of manhood passed at home in England) which elapsed between the appearance of the first two cantos of Childe Harold and the third, Parisina has, perhaps, never yet received its due. At the time of its appearance it shared the odium which was provoked by the publication of Fare Thee Well and A Sketch, and before there was time to reconsider the new volume on its own merits, the new canto of Childe Harold, followed almost immediately by the Prisoner of Chillon and its brilliant and noticeable companion poems, usurped the attention of friend and foe. Contemporary critics (with the exception of the Monthly and Critical Reviews) fell foul of the subject-matter of the poem—the guilty passion of a bastard son for his father's wife. "It was too disgusting to be rendered pleasing by any display of genius" (European Magazine); "The story of Parisina includes adultery not to be named" (Literary Panorama); while the Eclectic, on grounds of taste rather than of morals, gave judgment that "the subject of the tale was purely unpleasing"—"the impression left simply painful."

Byron, no doubt, for better or worse, was in advance of his age, in the pursuit of art for art's sake, and in his indifference, not to morality—the dénouement of the story is severely moral—but to the moral edification of his readers. The tale was chosen because it is a tale of love and guilt and woe, and the poet, unconcerned with any other issue, sets the tale to an enchanting melody. It does not occur to him to condone or to reprobate the loves of Hugo and Parisina, and in detailing the issue leaves the actors to their fate. It was this aloofness from ethical considerations which perturbed and irritated the "canters," as Byron called them—the children and champions of the anti-revolution. The modern reader, without being attracted or repelled by the motif of the story, will take pleasure in the sustained energy and sure beauty of the poetic strain. Byron may have gone to the "nakedness of history" for his facts, but he clothed them in singing robes of a delicate and shining texture.

TO SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ. THE FOLLOWING POEM Is Inscribed, BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. January 23, 1816.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House of Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times, the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The following extract will explain the facts on which the story is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical.—[B.]

"Under the reign of Nicholas III. [A.D. 1425] Ferrara was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of a maid, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were guilty: if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate; nor is there any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of a parent."—Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470.—[Ed. 1837, p. 830.]

PARISINA.

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I. It is the hour when from the boughs  The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows  Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, 10 And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure, Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away. II. But it is not to list to the waterfall That Parisina leaves her hall, And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light That the Lady walks in the shadow of night; And if she sits in Este's bower, 'Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower; 20 She listens—but not for the nightingale— Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There glides a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: A moment more—and they shall meet— 'Tis past—her Lovers at her feet. III. And what unto them is the world beside, With all its change of time and tide? 30 Its living things—its earth and sky— Are nothing to their mind and eye. And heedless as the dead are they  Of aught around, above, beneath; As if all else had passed away,  They only for each other breathe; Their very sighs are full of joy  So deep, that did it not decay, That happy madness would destroy  The hearts which feel its fiery sway: 40 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem In that tumultuous tender dream? Who that have felt that passion's power, Or paused, or feared in such an hour? Or thought how brief such moments last? But yet—they are already past! Alas! we must awake before We know such vision comes no more. IV. With many a lingering look they leave  The spot of guilty gladness past: 50 And though they hope, and vow, they grieve,  As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh—the long embrace—  The lip that there would cling for ever, While gleams on Parisina's face  The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, As if each calmly conscious star Beheld her frailty from afar— The frequent sigh, the long embrace, Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 60 But it must come, and they must part In fearful heaviness of heart, With all the deep and shuddering chill Which follows fast the deeds of ill. V. And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed,  To covet there another's bride; But she must lay her conscious head  A husband's trusting heart beside. But fevered in her sleep she seems, And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 70  And mutters she in her unrest A name she dare not breathe by day,  And clasps her Lord unto the breast Which pants for one away: And he to that embrace awakes, And, happy in the thought, mistakes That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, For such as he was wont to bless; And could in very fondness weep O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 80 VI. He clasped her sleeping to his heart,  And listened to each broken word: He hears—Why doth Prince Azo start,  As if the Archangel's voice he heard? And well he may—a deeper doom Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, When he shall wake to sleep no more, And stand the eternal throne before. And well he may—his earthly peace Upon that sound is doomed to cease. 90 That sleeping whisper of a name Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. And whose that name? that o'er his pillow Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, Which rolls the plank upon the shore,  And dashes on the pointed rock The wretch who sinks to rise no more,—  So came upon his soul the shock. And whose that name?—'tis Hugo's,—his— In sooth he had not deemed of this!— 100 'Tis Hugo's,—he, the child of one He loved—his own all-evil son— The offspring of his wayward youth, When he betrayed Bianca's truth, The maid whose folly could confide In him who made her not his bride. VII. He plucked his poniard in its sheath,  But sheathed it ere the point was bare; Howe'er unworthy now to breathe,  He could not slay a thing so fair— 110  At least, not smiling—sleeping—there— Nay, more:—he did not wake her then,  But gazed upon her with a glance  Which, had she roused her from her trance, Had frozen her sense to sleep again; And o'er his brow the burning lamp Gleamed on the dew-drops big and damp. She spake no more—but still she slumbered— While, in his thought, her days are numbered. VIII. And with the morn he sought and found, 120 In many a tale from those around, The proof of all he feared to know, Their present guilt—his future woe; The long-conniving damsels seek  To save themselves, and would transfer  The guilt—the shame—the doom—to her: Concealment is no more—they speak All circumstance which may compel Full credence to the tale they tell: And Azo's tortured heart and ear 130 Have nothing more to feel or hear. IX. He was not one who brooked delay:  Within the chamber of his state, The Chief of Este's ancient sway  Upon his throne of judgment sate; His nobles and his guards are there,— Before him is the sinful pair; Both young,—and one how passing fair! With swordless belt, and fettered hand, Oh, Christ! that thus a son should stand 140  Before a father's face! Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, And hear the sentence of his ire,  The tale of his disgrace! And yet he seems not overcome, Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. X. And still,—and pale—and silently Did Parisina wait her doom; How changed since last her speaking eye  Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 150 Where high-born men were proud to wait— Where Beauty watched to imitate  Her gentle voice—her lovely mien— And gather from her air and gait  The graces of its Queen: Then,—had her eye in sorrow wept, A thousand warriors forth had leapt, A thousand swords had sheathless shone, And made her quarrel all their own. Now,—what is she? and what are they? 160 Can she command, or these obey? All silent and unheeding now, With downcast eyes and knitting brow, And folded arms, and freezing air, And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, Her knights, her dames—her court is there: And he—the chosen one, whose lance Had yet been couched before her glance, Who—were his arm a moment free— Had died or gained her liberty; 170 The minion of his father's bride,— He, too, is fettered by her side; Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim Less for her own despair than him: Those lids—o'er which the violet vein Wandering, leaves a tender stain, Shining through the smoothest white That e'er did softest kiss invite— Now seemed with hot and livid glow To press, not shade, the orbs below, 180 Which glance so heavily, and fill, As tear on tear grows gathering still XI. And he for her had also wept,  But for the eyes that on him gazed: His sorrow, if he felt it, slept;  Stern and erect his brow was raised. Whate'er the grief his soul avowed, He would not shrink before the crowd; But yet he dared not look on her; Remembrance of the hours that were— 190 His guilt—his love—his present state— His father's wrath, all good men's hate— His earthly, his eternal fate— And hers,—oh, hers! he dared not throw One look upon that death-like brow! Else had his rising heart betrayed Remorse for all the wreck it made. XII. And Azo spake:—"But yesterday  I gloried in a wife and son; That dream this morning passed away; 200  Ere day declines, I shall have none. My life must linger on alone; Well,—let that pass,—there breathes not one Who would not do as I have done: Those ties are broken—not by me;  Let that too pass;—the doom's prepared! Hugo, the priest awaits on thee,  And then—thy crime's reward! Away! address thy prayers to Heaven;  Before its evening stars are met, 210 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven;  Its mercy may absolve thee yet. But here, upon the earth beneath,  There is no spot where thou and I Together for an hour could breathe:  Farewell! I will not see thee die— But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head—  Away! I cannot speak the rest:  Go! woman of the wanton breast; Not I, but thou his blood dost shed: 220 Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, And joy thee in the life I give." XIII. And here stern Azo hid his face—  For on his brow the swelling vein  Throbbed as if back upon his brain  The hot blood ebbed and flowed again; And therefore bowed he for a space,  And passed his shaking hand along  His eye, to veil it from the throng; While Hugo raised his chainéd hands, 230 And for a brief delay demands His father's ear: the silent sire Forbids not what his words require.  "It is not that I dread the death— For thou hast seen me by thy side All redly through the battle ride, And that—not once a useless brand— Thy slaves have wrested from my hand Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: 240  Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my breath, A gift for which I thank thee not; Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, Her slighted love and ruined name, Her offspring's heritage of shame; But she is in the grave, where he, Her son—thy rival—soon shall be. Her broken heart—my severed head— Shall witness for thee from the dead How trusty and how tender were 250 Thy youthful love—paternal care. 'Tis true that I have done thee wrong—  But wrong for wrong:—this,—deemed thy bride,  The other victim of thy pride,— Thou know'st for me was destined long; Thou saw'st, and coveted'st her charms;  And with thy very crime—my birth,—  Thou taunted'st me—as little worth; A match ignoble for her arms; Because, forsooth, I could not claim 260 The lawful heirship of thy name, Nor sit on Este's lineal throne;  Yet, were a few short summers mine,  My name should more than Este's shine With honours all my own. I had a sword—and have a breast That should have won as haught a crest As ever waved along the line Of all these sovereign sires of thine. Not always knightly spurs are worn 270 The brightest by the better born; And mine have lanced my courser's flank Before proud chiefs of princely rank, When charging to the cheering cry Of 'Este and of Victory!' I will not plead the cause of crime, Nor sue thee to redeem from time A few brief hours or days that must At length roll o'er my reckless dust;— Such maddening moments as my past, 280 They could not, and they did not, last;— Albeit my birth and name be base, And thy nobility of race Disdained to deck a thing like me—  Yet in my lineaments they trace  Some features of my father's face, And in my spirit—all of thee. From thee this tamelessness of heart— From thee—nay, wherefore dost thou start?— From thee in all their vigour came 290 My arm of strength, my soul of flame— Thou didst not give me life alone, But all that made me more thine own. See what thy guilty love hath done! Repaid thee with too like a son! I am no bastard in my soul, For that, like thine, abhorred control; And for my breath, that hasty boon Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, I valued it no more than thou, 300 When rose thy casque above thy brow, And we, all side by side, have striven, And o'er the dead our coursers driven; The past is nothing—and at last The future can but be the past; Yet would I that I then had died:  For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, And made thy own my destined bride,  I feel thou art my father still: And harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 310 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. Begot in sin, to die in shame, My life begun and ends the same: As erred the sire, so erred the son, And thou must punish both in one. My crime seems worst to human view, But God must judge between us too!" XIV. He ceased—and stood with folded arms,  On which the circling fetters sounded;  And not an ear but felt as wounded, 320  Of all the chiefs that there were ranked,  When those dull chains in meeting clanked: Till Parisina's fatal charms Again attracted every eye— Would she thus hear him doomed to die! She stood, I said, all pale and still, The living cause of Hugo's ill: Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, Not once had turned to either side— Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 330 Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, But round their orbs of deepest blue The circling white dilated grew— And there with glassy gaze she stood As ice were in her curdled blood; But every now and then a tear  So large and slowly gathered slid  From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, It was a thing to see, not hear! And those who saw, it did surprise, 340 Such drops could fall from human eyes. To speak she thought—the imperfect note Was choked within her swelling throat, Yet seemed in that low hollow groan Her whole heart gushing in the tone. It ceased—again she thought to speak, Then burst her voice in one long shriek, And to the earth she fell like stone Or statue from its base o'erthrown, More like a thing that ne'er had life,— 350 A monument of Azo's wife,— Than her, that living guilty thing, Whose every passion was a sting, Which urged to guilt, but could not bear That guilt's detection and despair. But yet she lived—and all too soon Recovered from that death-like swoon— But scarce to reason—every sense Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense; And each frail fibre of her brain 360 (As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain, The erring arrow launch aside) Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide— The past a blank, the future black, With glimpses of a dreary track, Like lightning on the desert path, When midnight storms are mustering wrath. She feared—she felt that something ill Lay on her soul, so deep and chill; That there was sin and shame she knew, 370 That some one was to die—but who? She had forgotten:—did she breathe? Could this be still the earth beneath, The sky above, and men around; Or were they fiends who now so frowned On one, before whose eyes each eye Till then had smiled in sympathy? All was confused and undefined To her all-jarred and wandering mind; A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 380 And now in laughter, now in tears, But madly still in each extreme, She strove with that convulsive dream; For so it seemed on her to break: Oh! vainly must she strive to wake! XV. The Convent bells are ringing,  But mournfully and slow; In the grey square turret swinging,  With a deep sound, to and fro.  Heavily to the heart they go! 390 Hark! the hymn is singing—  The song for the dead below,  Or the living who shortly shall be so! For a departed being's soul The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll: He is near his mortal goal; Kneeling at the Friar's knee, Sad to hear, and piteous to see— Kneeling on the bare cold ground, With the block before and the guards around; 400 And the headsman with his bare arm ready, That the blow may be both swift and steady, Feels if the axe be sharp and true Since he set its edge anew: While the crowd in a speechless circle gather To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father! XVI. It is a lovely hour as yet Before the summer sun shall set, Which rose upon that heavy day, And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 410 And his evening beams are shed Full on Hugo's fated head, As his last confession pouring To the monk, his doom deploring In penitential holiness, He bends to hear his accents bless With absolution such as may Wipe our mortal stains away. That high sun on his head did glisten As he there did bow and listen, 420 And the rings of chestnut hair Curled half down his neck so bare; But brighter still the beam was thrown Upon the axe which near him shone With a clear and ghastly glitter—— Oh! that parting hour was bitter! Even the stern stood chilled with awe: Dark the crime, and just the law— Yet they shuddered as they saw. XVII. The parting prayers are said and over 430 Of that false son, and daring lover! His beads and sins are all recounted, His hours to their last minute mounted; His mantling cloak before was stripped, His bright brown locks must now be clipped; 'Tis done—all closely are they shorn; The vest which till this moment worn— The scarf which Parisina gave— Must not adorn him to the grave. Even that must now be thrown aside, 440 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied; But no—that last indignity Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. All feelings seemingly subdued, In deep disdain were half renewed, When headsman's hands prepared to bind Those eyes which would not brook such blind, As if they dared not look on death. "No—yours my forfeit blood and breath; These hands are chained, but let me die 450 At least with an unshackled eye— Strike:"—and as the word he said, Upon the block he bowed his head; These the last accents Hugo spoke: "Strike"—and flashing fell the stroke— Rolled the head—and, gushing, sunk Back the stained and heaving trunk, In the dust, which each deep vein Slaked with its ensanguined rain; His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 460 Convulsed and quick—then fix for ever. He died, as erring man should die,  Without display, without parade;  Meekly had he bowed and prayed,  As not disdaining priestly aid, Nor desperate of all hope on high. And while before the Prior kneeling, His heart was weaned from earthly feeling; His wrathful Sire—his Paramour— What were they in such an hour? 470 No more reproach,—no more despair,— No thought but Heaven,—no word but prayer— Save the few which from him broke, When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke He claimed to die with eyes unbound, His sole adieu to those around. XVIII. Still as the lips that closed in death, Each gazer's bosom held his breath; But yet, afar, from man to man, A cold electric shiver ran, 480 As down the deadly blow descended On him whose life and love thus ended; And, with a hushing sound compressed, A sigh shrunk back on every breast; But no more thrilling noise rose there,  Beyond the blow that to the block  Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, Save one:—what cleaves the silent air So madly shrill, so passing wild? That, as a mother's o'er her child, 490 Done to death by sudden blow, To the sky these accents go, Like a soul's in endless woe. Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, That horrid voice ascends to heaven, And every eye is turned thereon; But sound and sight alike are gone! It was a woman's shriek—and ne'er In madlier accents rose Despair; And those who heard it, as it past, 500 In mercy wished it were the last. XIX. Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, No more in palace, hall, or bower, Was Parisina heard or seen: Her name—as if she ne'er had been— Was banished from each lip and ear, Like words of wantonness or fear; And from Prince Azo's voice, by none Was mention heard of wife or son; No tomb—no memory had they; 510 Theirs was unconsecrated clay— At least the Knight's who died that day. But Parisina's fate lies hid Like dust beneath the coffin lid: Whether in Convent she abode, And won to heaven her dreary road, By blighted and remorseful years Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears; Or if she fell by bowl or steel, For that dark love she dared to feel; 520 Or if, upon the moment smote, She died by tortures less remote, Like him she saw upon the block With heart that shared the headsman's shock, In quickened brokenness that came, In pity o'er her shattered frame, None knew—and none can ever know: But whatsoe'er its end below, Her life began and closed in woe! XX. And Azo found another bride, 530 And goodly sons grew by his side; But none so lovely and so brave As him who withered in the grave; Or if they were—on his cold eye Their growth but glanced unheeded by, Or noticed with a smothered sigh. But never tear his cheek descended, And never smile his brow unbended; And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought The intersected lines of thought; 540 Those furrows which the burning share Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there; Scars of the lacerating mind Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. He was past all mirth or woe: Nothing more remained below But sleepless nights and heavy days, A mind all dead to scorn or praise, A heart which shunned itself—and yet That would not yield, nor could forget, 550 Which, when it least appeared to melt, Intensely thought—intensely felt: The deepest ice which ever froze Can only o'er the surface close; The living stream lies quick below, And flows, and cannot cease to flow. Still was his sealed-up bosom haunted By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, Howe'er our stifled tears we banish; 560 When struggling as they rise to start, We check those waters of the heart, They are not dried—those tears unshed But flow back to the fountain head, And resting in their spring more pure, For ever in its depth endure, Unseen—unwept—but uncongealed, And cherished most where least revealed. With inward starts of feeling left, To throb o'er those of life bereft, 570 Without the power to fill again The desert gap which made his pain; Without the hope to meet them where United souls shall gladness share; With all the consciousness that he Had only passed a just decree; That they had wrought their doom of ill; Yet Azo's age was wretched still. The tainted branches of the tree,  If lopped with care, a strength may give, 580  By which the rest shall bloom and live All greenly fresh and wildly free; But if the lightning, in its wrath, The waving boughs with fury scathe, The massy trunk the ruin feels, And never more a leaf reveals.