"And aye with that luxurious fire you fed Your dangerous longing daily, crumb by crumb; Nor ever cared that still above your head The shadow grew; for that your lips were dumb.
You knew full keenly you could never wed: 'Twas all a dream: the end must surely come; For not on thee her father's eyes were turned To find a son, when mighty lords were spurned.
XVII.
"Thou knowest that new-sprung prince, that proud up-start, Pisa's new tyrant with his armed thralls, Who bends of late to take the people's part, Yet plays the king among his marble halls, Whose gloomy palace in our city's heart Frowns like a fortress with its loop-holed walls.
'Twas him he sought for fair Leonora's hand, That so his own declining house might stand.
XVIII.
"The end came soon; 'twas never known to thee; But, when your love was scarce a six months old, She sat one day beside her father's knee, And in her ears the dreadful thing was told.
Within one month her bridal hour should be With Messer Gianni for his power and gold; And as she sat with whitened lips the while, The old man kissed her, with his crafty smile.
XIX.
"Poor pallid lady, all the woe she felt Thou, wretched Nino, thou alone canst know.
Down at his feet with many a moan she knelt, And prayed that he would never wound her so.
Ah, tender saints! it was a sight to melt The flintiest heart; but his could never glow.
He sat with clenched hands and straightened head, And frowned, and glared, and turned from white to red.
XX.
"And still with cries about his knees she clung, Her tender bosom broken with her care.
His words were brief, with bitter fury flung: 'The father's will the child must meekly bear; I am thy father, thou a girl and young.'
Then to her feet she rose in her despair, And cried with tightened lips and eyes aglow, One daring word, a straight and simple, "No"!
XXI.
"Her father left her with wild words, and sent Rough men, who dragged her to a dungeon deep, Where many a weary soul in darkness pent For many a year had watched the slow days creep, And there he left her for his dark intent, Where madness breeds and sorrows never sleep.
Coarse robes he gave her, and her lips he fed With bitter water and a crust of bread.
XXII.
"And day by day still following out his plan, He came to her, and with determined spite Strove with soft words and then with curse and ban To bend her heart so wearied to his might, And aye she bode his bitter pleasure's span, As one that hears, but hath not sense or sight.
Ah, Nino, still her breaking heart held true: Poor lady sad, she had no thought but you.
XXIII.
"The father tired at last and came no more, But in his settled anger bade prepare The marriage feast with all luxurious store, With pomps, and shows and splendors rich and rare; And so in toil another fortnight wore, Nor knew she aught what things were in the air, Till came the old lord's message brief and coarse: Within three days she should be wed by force.
XXIV.
"And all that noon and weary night she lay, Poor child, like death upon her prison stone, And none that came to her but crept away, Sickened at heart to see her lips so moan, Her eyes so dim within their sockets grey, Her tender cheeks so thin and ghastly grown; But when the next morn's light began to stir, She sent and prayed that I might be with her.
XXV.
"This boon he gave: perchance he deemed that I, The chaplain of his house, her childhood's friend, With patient tones and holy words, might try To soothe her purpose to his gainful end.
I bowed full low before his crafty eye, But knew my heart had no base help to lend.
That night with many a silent prayer I came To poor Leonora in her grief and shame.
XXVI.
"But she was strange to me: I could not speak For glad amazement, mixed with some dark fear; I saw her stand no longer pale and weak, But a proud maiden, queenly and most clear, With flashing eyes and vermeil in her cheek: And on the little table, set anear, I marked two goblets of rare workmanship With some strange liquor crowned to the lip.
XXVII.
"And then she ran to me and caught my hand, Tightly imprisoned in her meagre twain, And like the ghost of sorrow she did stand, And eyed me softly with a liquid pain: 'Oh father, grant, I pray thee, I command, One boon to me, I'll never ask again, One boon to me and to my love, to both; Dear father, grant, and bind it with an oath.'
XXVIII.
"This granted I, and then with many a wail She told me all the story of your woe, And when she finished, lightly but most pale, To those two brimming goblets she did go, And one she took within her fingers frail, And looked down smiling in its crimson glow: 'And now thine oath I'll tell; God grant to thee No rest in grave, if thou be false to me.
XXIX.
"'Alas, poor me! whom cruel hearts would wed On the sad morrow to that wicked lord; But I'll not go; nay, rather I'll be dead, Safe from their frown and from their bitter word.
Without my Nino life indeed were sped; And sith we two can never more accord In this drear world, so weary and perplext, We'll die, and win sweet pleasure in the next.
XXX.
"'Oh father, God will never give thee rest, If thou be false to what thy lips have sworn, And false to love, and false to me distressed, A helpless maid, so broken and outworn.
This cup--she put it softly to her breast-- I pray thee carry, ere the morrow morn, To Nino's hand, and tell him all my pain; This other with mine own lips I will drain.'
XXXI.
"Slowly she raised it to her lips, the while I darted forward, madly fain to seize Her dreadful hands, but with a sudden wile She twisted and sprang from me with bent knees, And rising turned upon me with a smile, And drained her goblet to the very lees.
'Oh priest, remember, keep thine oath,' she cried, And the spent goblet fell against her side.
XXXII.
"And then she moaned and murmured like a bell: 'My Nino, my sweet Nino!' and no more She said, but fluttered like a bird and fell Lifeless as marble to the footworn floor; And there she lies even now in lonely cell, Poor lady, pale with all the grief she bore, She could not live, and still be true to thee, And so she's gone where no rude hands can be."
XXXIII.