Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour,

No more in palace, hall, or bower,

Was Parisina heard or seen:

Her name—as if she ne'er had been—

Was banished from each lip and ear,

Like words of wantonness or fear;

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none

Was mention heard of wife or son;

No tomb—no memory had they; 510

Theirs was unconsecrated clay—

At least the Knight's who died that day.

But Parisina's fate lies hid

Like dust beneath the coffin lid:

Whether in convent she abode,

And won to heaven her dreary road,

By blighted and remorseful years

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears;

Or if she fell by bowl or steel,

For that dark love she dared to feel: 520

Or if, upon the moment smote,

She died by tortures less remote,

Like him she saw upon the block

With heart that shared the headsman's shock,

In quickened brokenness that came,

In pity o'er her shattered frame,

None knew—and none can ever know:

But whatsoe'er its end below,

Her life began and closed in woe!