And made thy own my destined bride,
I feel thou art my father still;
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree,
"Tis not unjust, although from thee.
Begot in sin, to die in shame,
My life begun and ends the same:
As err'd the sire, so err'd 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,
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd,
When those dull chains in meeting clank'd:
Till Parisina's fatal charms

Again attracted every eye

Would she thus hear him doom'd 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 turn'd to either side-
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close,
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 gather'd 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,

Such drops could fall from human eyes.
To speak she thought-the imperfect note
Was choked within her swelling throat,
Yet seem'd 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,-
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
Recover'd 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
(As bow-strings, when relax'd 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 fear'd-she felt that something ill

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill—

That there was sin and shame she knew;
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 frown'd
On one, before whose eyes each eye
Till then had smiled in sympathy?
All was confused and undefined
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind:
A chaos of wild hopes and fears:
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,
She strove with that convulsive dream;
For so it seem'd on her to break :

Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!

XV.

The Convent bells are ringing,
But mournfully and slow;

In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro.
Heavily to the heart they go!
Hark! the hymn is singing-
The song for the dead below,

Or the living who shortly shall be so!

For a departing being's soul

The death-bymn 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-
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.

It is a lovely hour as yet

XVI.

Before the summer sun shall set,
Which rose upon that heavy day,
And mock'd it with his steadiest ray;
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-

And the rings of chestnut hair

Curl'd 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 chill'd with awe:
Dark the crime, and just the law—
Yet they shudder'd as they saw.

XVII.

The parting prayers are said and over
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 stripp❜d,
His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd;
"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,
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 renew'd,

When headman'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 chain'd-but let me die
At least with an unshackled eye-
Strike:"-and as the word he said,
Upon the block he bow'd his head;
These the last accents Hugo spoke :
"Strike" and flashing fell the stroke-