Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 1

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; 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 lover's at her feet.

III.

And what unto them is the world beside,
With all its change of time and tide ?
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 pass'd 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:

Of guilt, of peril, do they deem
In that tumultuous tender dream?
Who that have felt that passion's power,
Or paused, or fear'd 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: And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, As if that parting were the last. The frequent sigh-the long embraceThe 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. 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.

The lines contained in this section were printed as set to music some time since, but belonged to the poem where they

And still, and pale, and silently

Did Parisina wait her doom;
How changed since last her speaking eye

Glanced gladness round the glittering room, Where high-born men were proud to wait — Where Beauty watch'd 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 1,
And made her quarrel all their own.
Now, what is she? and what are they?
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 and dames, her court-is there :
And he, the chosen one, whose lance
Had yet been couch'd before her glance,
Who were his arm a moment free-

Had died or gain'd her liberty;

The minion of his father's bride,-
He, too, is fetter'd 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 seem'd with hot and livid glow
To press, not shade, the orbs below;
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.

[A sagacious writer gravely charges Lord Byron with paraphrasing, in this passage, without acknowledgment, Mr. Burke's well-known description of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette. "Verily," says Mr. Coleridge," there be amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every

Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd,
He would not shrink before the crowd;
But yet he dared not look on her:
Remembrance of the hours that were—
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 deathlike brow!
Else had his rising heart betray'd
Remorse for all the wreck it made.

XII.

And Azo spake : -"But yesterday
I gloried in a wife and son;
That dream this morning pass'd away;

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-
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:
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
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again;
And therefore bow'd he for a space,
And pass'd his shaking hand along
His eye, to veil it from the throng:
While Hugo raised his chained hands,
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:

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 ruin'd name, Her offspring's heritage of shame;

possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank."]