Landon in The New Monthly 1826/The Funeral Bride
THE FUNERAL BRIDE.
An Italian Legend.
It is but daybreak—yet Count Leon's halls
Are crowded with the young, the fair, the gay;
And there is music, and all sign of mirth—
The board that shines with silver, and with wine
Sparkling like liquid ruby in bright cups;
Flowers are strewn over the white marble floor;
And every beauty wears a snowy robe,
Blushing most consciously at the soft words
That dark-eyed cavaliers are whispering.
It is a bridal—but where is the bride?
Enter yon lofty room—the bride is there.
Jewels are by her that a king might give,
His favourite daughter's dower; and her bright hair
Has pearls that Cleopatra might have worn,
Pure as just from the ocean treasure-cave;—
They are the lover's gifts, and he is one
Of Genoa's richest nobles; and the bride,
Genoa has no loveliness like hers.
The orange buds were placed upon her breast,
Yet Isabel moved not: paused she to take
One last look on the sweet face in her mirror—
To watch the rainbow-light her coronet
Threw o'er her forehead from its many gems?
Oh, no! where is the conscious smile, the flush,
That should light lady's cheek at such a time?
Her mother saw—albeit she would not seem
To mark the absence of the maiden's mind,
But led her forth where friends and kinsmen stay'd
Her entrance in the gay and gorgeous hall:
Pity was mix'd with wonder as she came—
Wonder at her exceeding loveliness—
And pity—there were many knew her heart
And hand went not together. There she stood,
Like the sweet rising of the summer moon,—
Beautiful, but so very, very wan,
The crimson even from her lip was gone.
She stood—a statue which has every charm
Of woman's perfect beauty—but her blush.
The silver veil that o'er her forehead hung
Half hid its paleness, and the downcast eye
That droop'd with tears, seem'd only modest fear.
On they went to the temple, and they paused
Before the altar, where for the first time
The bridegroom leant close beside Isabel,—
And the next moment she lay on the steps,
White as the marble which her cold cheek press'd.
—The feast was turn'd to mourning, and the flowers,
The bridal flowers, bestrew'd her winding-sheet:
The instruments broke off in a dead pause,
And the rich festive board was spread in vain.— —
Next night, by torchlight, did they bear the bride
Into the vault where slept her ancestors.
Wail'd the wild dirge, and waved the sable plume,
Spread the dark pall—and childless they went home.
But there was one whose misery was madness—
One to whom Isabel had been the hope
Which had made life endurable, who lived
For her, and in her—who, in childhood's days,
Had been the comrade of her summer walk.
They had grown up together, and had loved,
Uncheck'd, until Cesario's father died,
And the proud fortunes of his ancient house
Seem'd falling, and the orphan youth had left
But little, save his honourable name.
Then came the greeting cold, the careless look,
All that adversity must ever know;—
They parted, he and Isabel; but still
There is a hope in love, unquenchable,—
A flame, to which all things are oil, while safe
In the affection which it knows return'd.
And the young lover had some gallant dreams
Of wooing fame and fortune with his sword,
And by these winning his own Isabel.
At that time Genoa battled with the Turk,
And all her young nobility went forth
To earn their country and themselves renown:
Then home they came again, and with them brought
Tidings of victory o'er the infidel.
Cesario was the first that sprung to land,
While his name rose in triumph from the crowd,
For his fame was before him; yet he made
No pause to listen, though his breast beat high
With honourable joy; but praise was not
Worth love to the young hero, and he sought
Tidings, sweet tidings of his Isabel.
He drew his cloak around his martial garb,
Look'd on the evening sky, which was to him
Like morning to the traveller, and found
The garden nook, where one small hidden bower
Was the green altar Memory raised to Love.
How much the heart, in its young hours of passion,
Delights to link itself with lovely things,
With moonlight, stars, and songs, fountains and flowers
As if foreboding made its sympathy,—
Alike so very fair, so very frail!
It was within this bower they wont to meet;
And one amid their many parting vows
Was, that the twilight should be consecrate
Still to each other; and, though far away,
Their thoughts, at least, should blend. And Isabel
Vow'd to the pale Madonna that one hour;
And said that every setting sun should hear
Her orisons, within that lonely bower,
Rise for Cesario. It was twilight now,
And the young warrior deem'd that he should meet
In her green temple his beloved one.
'Twas a sweet solitude, and mingled well
Present and past together; myrtle stems
Shook silver flowers from their blossom'd boughs,
And in the shelter of a cypress tree
Stood the Madonna's image, the white arms
Cross'd in the deep humility of love.
Heavenward the sweet and solemn brow was raised,
And lips, whose earthly loveliness yet seem'd
To feel for earthly misery, had prayers
Upon their parted beauty; and around
Roses swung perfume from their purple urns.
He waited there until the laurel leaves,
With silver touched, grew mirrors for the moon;
But yet she came not near—at length he saw
Her lute flung careless on the ground, with rust
Upon its silver strings, and by its side
A wreath of wither'd flowers. He gazed no more—
His heart was as if frozen—it had sunk
At once from its high pitch of happiness.—
He sought her father's palace, for his fear
Was more than he could suffer:—there he learnt
His own, his beautiful, was in the grave;
And, it was told, laid there by love of him.
He stay'd no question, but rush'd to the church,
Where gold soon won his entrance to her tomb.
Scarce the lamp show'd the dim vault where he stood
Before the visible presence of the dead.
And down the warrior bow'd his face, and wept
For very agony, or ere he nerved
His eye to gaze on that once worshipp'd brow.
At last he look'd—'twas beautiful as life,—
The blue vein lighted up the drooping lid,—
The hair like sunshine lay upon the cheek,
Whose rose was yet like summer,—and the lip,
He could not choose but kiss it, 'twas so red:—
He started from its touch, for it was warm,
And there was breath upon it,—and the heart,
As if it only lived to beat for him,
Now answer'd to his own. No more, no more!—
Why lengthen out the tale?—words were not made
For happiness so much as sorrowing.
The legend of the buried bride is yet
A household history in Genoa,
Told by young lovers, in their day of hope,
Encouraging themselves, as to the fate
That waits fidelity. L. E. L.