from Boccaccio.
by Robert Snow.
Originally published in Ainsworth's Magazine: A Miscellany of Romance (Chapman and Hall) vol.11 #4 (1847).
Not Merry is the Tale that's to be told:
Listener and speaker should alike be bold.
Erst in Provence, the land of Troubadours,
Who sang of kings, their wars, and their amours,
Unnumber'd were the knightly trophies won
By Guardastagno, and by Rossiglion.
Whether the tourney, or more dread array
Of battle, call'd them from their Halls away,
To share the doubtful glories of the day,
With the like-colour'd beams their armours shone,
And a like motto either's shield had on,
Of armed vassals each a troop retain'd,
Alike accoutred, uniformly train'd.
From youth familiar made with scenes of death,
The Knights took pleasure to draw shorten'd breath;
Sworn brethren in adventure, hand in hand,
Inviolable seem'd their friendship's band.
Now Guardastagno lived a single life;
But Rossiglion was wedded to a Wife,
Than whose no fairer shape or feature shone
Amongst the flowers of love in Avignon.
But often meeting, in each other's Halls,
And in the blaze of public festivals,
By opportunities of time and place,
And sooth society, it came to pass,
That Guardastagno for the beauteous dame
Of Rossiglion consumed with guilty flame.
To woman manliness is ever dear;
Therefore she not forbade the insidious cavalier.
Perhaps, at first, in heedless innocence,
Posting few guards, or none, at virtue's fence,
She idly thought, he is my husband's friend;
Thus duty may with inclination blend.
Wives to their husbands should their duty prove,
By hating whom they hate, and loving whom they love.
But arguing thus, on vicious premises,
She fell into the snare by slow degrees;
By slow degrees, yet sure: and in her grace
Soon Rossiglion held but the second place.
It seems, when sinning, man is often left
To his fierce will, of sense and tact bereft;
For with indulgence of his lawless flame
Accustomed inconsideration came:
And Rossiglion, to dark suspicions led,
With his own eyes confirm'd the worst was said.
Enough. From the recesses of his soul,
Revenge, revenge! some demon seem'd to howl.
The man was alter'd with his spirit's sore;
And Rossiglion the noble was no more,
Yet, better than the lovers sped his part,
And his intentions hid with deeper art.
At length 'twas methodised; and in his mind
He saw revenge made sure, and death behind.
There was at hand a solemn Tournament;
And Rossiglion to Guardastagno sent,
To bid him haste to sup with him that night;
And ride together, with the dawning light.
Then hurried, in disguise, into a wood,
Through which the horse-path lay, and there in ambush stood;
With one retainer, one of savage mind,
Whose natural bent to deeds of blood inclined.
With helm and corslet at his saddle-bow,
The unsuspecting knight came pacing slow:
Defenceless, for he wore no coat of proof;
Only his soldier's frock of leathern buff:
When his dark foe rush'd from a shadowing oak,
And pierced his shoulders with a felon stroke.
The instrument of death pass'd through and through;
Nor readily the steel the murd'rer backwards drew.
The wretched victim from the saddle drops;
His palfrey tears at random through the copse;
His servants scarcely cast a look behind,
But scour away like leaves before the wind.
Dismounting, Rossiglion bestrode the dead,
And hastily his fearful errand sped.
A newly whetted hunting-knife he took,
And cleft the bosom with a downright stroke.
Next, with crook'd fingers, in the purple tide
Plunged to the wrists, and tugging, from the side,
O barbarous, savage, and unknightly part!
Yet quivering with life, pluck'd out the heart.
Then stripp'd the pennon from his lance, and roll'd
The heart therein, with bloody fold on fold;
And with it, firmly clutch'd, spurr'd homewards through the wold.
Yet Rossiglion this bloody sacrifice
Completed not to glut his vengeful eyes:
A further deed of horror's to be done:
The tragedy is only yet begun.
Meanwhile, the lady in her lonely bow'r,
Impatiently awaited sunset's hour.
For with her lover but to sit at meat,
Even others by, was more than royal treat.
Deep then her disappointment, when alone
Rode to the castle-wicket Rossiglion.
"Welcome! but comes not Guardastagno? Why?"
"Our friend doth his fair company deny
Us for the nonce," was Rossiglion's reply.
"He's gone a journeying, and to-morrow's sun
Will scarcely see him at our tilting run.
He is right sorry to forego our cheer;
But rest assured, his heart is with us here."
And in the malice of his hidden scoff,
From further talk or question he fell off.
The lady heard; and back in discontent
To her apartment's solitude she went.
But Rossiglion called forth his cook in haste,
And in his hands the seeming dainty placed.
"This heart of forest boar take heed you dress
To-night with skill, and savoury be the mess."
The menial heard; and minced the Thing with care;
Nor palatable herbs, nor spices did he spare:
Last, in obedience to his master's wish,
Served it at supper, in a lordly dish.
Could it be wonder on that dreadful night
That Rossiglion had slender appetite?
"I am fatigued," he said, "the noonday heat
Hath overcome me so, I cannot eat.
Eat thou for me, love, without more delay;
I have set by for you this tender prey,
The produce of my woodland sport to-day."
Nor more. She fed; no morsel went to waste;
So well her lord had catered to her taste.
She fed; and still the dish he did commend;
And, as she fed, he watched her like a fiend;
Fiend's benison pronouncing at the end.
"To render thanks for good received is sweet;
A rich regale, to wit, such as this evening's meat,
What flesh thou'st eaten, lady, canst thou tell?
Whilst that it lived, thou lov'dst it passing well.
Know then, reward of thy most treach'rous part,
Thou'st feasted on thy Guardastagno's heart!
Know further, I the treach'rous villain slew—
I ripp'd his gory breast! I forth the delicacy drew!
Of my late words the meaning now is clear;
His body's absent, but his heart is here."
She heard; and 'reft awhile of motion, stood:
A chill revulsion thicken'd all her blood,
Nor ready tears discharged a soft'ning flood.
The untold horror that her mien o'erspread,
Partook of both the living and the dead.
Then, lab'ring with unutterable throes,
She reel'd, whilst all her hair on end arose;
And, as the fiery-forked lightnings fail
To warm, although they gild, the morsels of the hail,
Her eyes shot sparks, and yet her eyes were cold;
She quaked, as the Palladium quaked of old:
Fell sight—a statue flashing into threat!
And as with charnel damps smooth busts are wet,
The shudd'ring sweat that burst from ev'ry pore,
Show'd sick'ning nature could endure no more.
Yet found she words, "Is't thus, thou dastard soul?
Thou snake! more pois'nous than the poison'd bowl,
Which gladly I—but had'st nor drink, nor cord,
Nor steel to end me? yes! thou wear'st a sword;
A sword, which had it but a point for me,
Might have redeemed its shame that it was forged for thee,
Accomplished cut-throat! I am taught too well
Too long have I been knit with worse than fiend of hell,
Who proves by this his more than devilish plan,
A perfect coward fears nor God nor man.
O, had I seen my love, though lying low,
There might have been some grandeur in my woe;
But murder, bloody mocks, and loathsomeness,
Forbid all known expression of distress.
Curst, strange despite, that in a tomb so foul
Has buried thee, sweet quick'ner of my soul,
Dear, noble heart!—henceforth no baser food
Than thou shall intermingle with my blood—
'T were to insult thee—I am not a guest
Bidden unworthily to such a feast:
Be this the proof!" she said, and sprang forthright
From out the chamber window's fearful height:
Nor only died; her hapless corse was found
Crush'd to an ugly mass, that crimson'd all the ground.
There was no pity in the pavement, none;
Her tender limbs were shatter'd, bone from bone;
Nor even a lover could her features then have known.
Who then but Rossiglion stood stunn'd? Through shame
And guilt, he felt clipp'd round with burning flame:
Then, half unconsciously, the chamber fled,
From the avenging powers to hide his head.
None saw him more. Next morning, drain'd of blood,
Was Guardastagno's corse found in the wood:
A carcase-like, dishonourable Thing,
More ugly for that trait'rous butchering.
But ample circumstance supplied the truth
Of every point, and men dissolved in ruth;
And, for that open day abhorr'd the sight,
They gather'd, by their deep red torches' light,
The relics of the lady and the knight.
And though in unanointed sin they died,
The aid of holy Church was not denied.
Their mangled bodies on one bier were laid,
And to one home in funeral pomp convey'd;
For order was by pity oversway'd.
Whilst soar'd the spirits of the loving pair,
Freed from all evils to which flesh is heir,
The dirge was sung, that fell in peaceful close,
Whilst from swung censers incense breathed repose.
And in one tomb, with sculptured emblems graced,
The last remains on earth of both were placed;
Where some rude time-worn verses yet relate
The manner and occasion of their fate.