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,—
