He ceased—and stood with folded arms,

On which the circling fetters sounded;

And not an ear but felt as wounded, 320

Of all the chiefs that there were ranked,

When those dull chains in meeting clanked:

Till Parisina's fatal charms[423]

Again attracted every eye—

Would she thus hear him doomed to die!

She stood, I said, all pale and still,

The living cause of Hugo's ill:

Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide,

Not once had turned to either side—

Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 330

Or shade the glance o'er which they rose,

But round their orbs of deepest blue

The circling white dilated grew—

And there with glassy gaze she stood

As ice were in her curdled blood;

But every now and then a tear[424]

So large and slowly gathered slid

From the long dark fringe of that fair lid,

It was a thing to see, not hear![425]

And those who saw, it did surprise, 340

Such drops could fall from human eyes.

To speak she thought—the imperfect note

Was choked within her swelling throat,

Yet seemed in that low hollow groan

Her whole heart gushing in the tone.

It ceased—again she thought to speak,

Then burst her voice in one long shriek,

And to the earth she fell like stone

Or statue from its base o'erthrown,

More like a thing that ne'er had life,— 350

A monument of Azo's wife,—

Than her, that living guilty thing,

Whose every passion was a sting,

Which urged to guilt, but could not bear

That guilt's detection and despair.

But yet she lived—and all too soon

Recovered from that death-like swoon—

But scarce to reason—every sense

Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense;

And each frail fibre of her brain 360

(As bowstrings, when relaxed by rain,

The erring arrow launch aside)

Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide—

The past a blank, the future black,

With glimpses of a dreary track,

Like lightning on the desert path,

When midnight storms are mustering wrath.

She feared—she felt that something ill

Lay on her soul, so deep and chill;

That there was sin and shame she knew, 370

That some one was to die—but who?

She had forgotten:—did she breathe?

Could this be still the earth beneath,

The sky above, and men around;

Or were they fiends who now so frowned

On one, before whose eyes each eye

Till then had smiled in sympathy?

All was confused and undefined

To her all-jarred and wandering mind;

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 380

And now in laughter, now in tears,

But madly still in each extreme,

She strove with that convulsive dream;

For so it seemed on her to break:

Oh! vainly must she strive to wake!