496* 



A CHAPTKR OF ANNUALS. 



The coffin was lying upo.i the ground, 



Four planks together loosely bound. 



Speedily a knife undid 



The slender fastenings of the lid ; 



And in her death-clothes closely wound, 



Sleeping till the judgment day, 



An inert weight of passive clay, 



Dissolving silently away, 



Down into her parent earth, 



Into dust from whence her birth, 



Young Isabella lay. 



The tender rose was on her cheek, 

 Ruddy as Aurora's streak : 

 And in her pure and lovely eyes, 

 Under their curtain'd canopies, 

 A light still linger'd, mild and weak, 

 Ippolito kiss'd her forehead pale, 

 And murmur'd soft in her listless ear 

 Vain words, as a summer's softest gale 

 When the autumn leaf is sere. 



What is it lieth at her head ? 



Is it a yellow and mottled stone, 



Brought hither from its mossy bed ? 



No, no ; he knew it by its moan, 



And its golden eye that sparkling glow'd ; 



It was the same the speckled toad, 



Which from his casement he had thrown, 



Full of life as it could hold ; 



He shriek'd, as he met its eye of gold ! 



Holy Virgin ! that shriek allay ; 



Ave Maria ! his spirit shrive ! 



Oh ! it is too late to pray, 



Kach hair is quick horrcr alive, 



That scarce upon his flesh will stay. 



Central thunder wrapt in cloud, 



lloll'd about him round and round 



Jn rapid circles, booming loud ; 



And yet, I wis, no mortal sound 



Did the ear of silence wound. 



A light is from the coffin beaming, 



And a white vapour slowly rose, 



Like an exhalation steaming, 



From dissolving snows. 



Faintly on the air imprest, 



A figure, clad in white, is seen : 



The hands are crossed upon the breast 



A crucifix between. 



Gathering substance as it stood ; 



Sure 'tis flesh and in a gush, 



Mantling with a sudden flush, 



Through the veins is throbbing blood. 



Ippolito leapt with a cry of joy ; 

 "|My Isabella, I know thee now, 

 I knew my art would save my vow, 

 Never shall death that form destroy ! 

 Come, let us from this dreadful spot" 

 He snatch'd her to his breast, and fled 

 From the long and newly dead 

 The past the passing the forgot 

 And Echo, as he closed the door, 

 In the side of the altar spoke once more : 



" Thou art mine own, my dearest one, 

 For whom I make this sacrifice, 

 Open thy lips and speak to me ! " 



Cold she was as the cold grave-stone, 

 When the swift river is lock'd in ice, 

 And the rime is on the tree , 

 The livid lips are swiftly stirr'd, 

 Yet not a voice or a sound is heard. 



He laid the head upon his breast, 



It oft had been her place of rest, 



When both were innocent and blest. 



He chafed the hands, but they are grown 



Colder and colder in his own ; 



And the heat that was wont his breast to 



warm 

 Is drawn away by that icy form. 



Soft it speaks nay, doth it speak ? 

 A gibbering sound from the throat arose, 

 And a smile is growing on the cheek, 

 And the rigid eyes unclose. 

 Oh Heavens ! no soul in human guise 

 Is looking through those stony eyes ! 



" Wilt thou not be mine, my love ! 

 I have rais'd thee from the tomb, 

 Against the will of Heaven abdve, 

 Against the cry of doom. 

 Here unknown, unsought, we'll live 

 Life hath yet her joys to give ! " 

 Ippolito shrank, he knew riot why, 

 From the ghastly, glassy eye. 



Its fingers play with his flowing hair, 

 And its lips ars drawn to his ; 

 Sure, never yet so cold a pair 

 Exchanged the plighting kiss ; 

 There was mortality, I wis, 

 And hell in that hideous stare ! 



" Ippolito, dearest, I am thine, 



And our fates, like blood with blood shall 



mix ! " 



It sign'd his forehead with a sign, 

 And it rais'd the crucifix ; 

 " Here, break thy half, and let us both 

 Together plight eternal troth ! " 



The crucifix is rent asunder, 



But Ippolito brake net half. 



The creature look'd with a gaze of wonder, 



And laugh'd with a quiet laugh ; 



" Can'st thou divert the bolt of thunder 



With a beldame's staff ! " 



He leapt from the chair with a cry of fear, 



His very soul was like to freeze, 



" Holy One ! thy servant hear ! " 



And he sank upon his knees ; 



" Oh ! let the ransom that thou hold'st 



dear, 

 Thy vengeance, just, appease ! " 



The fiend hath heard the holy word 



The fiend hath heard the name abhorr'd 



Faint and fading more and more, 



Without a look, without a sound, 



It passed away from the stedfast floor, 



And silence clos'd around 



The sun hath risen from his bed 



Ippolito is cold and dead. 



