FRAGMENT X. He hath beheld her: this morn in private Gordon saw my queen.-What a torture of suspense ensued-yes, I might have heard his protestations, and beheld his fervent gestures, but the meanness was too dastardly for Chatelar; I could not taint my soul with slave-like baseness. Heavenly powers! how sluggard pass'd the minutes of their hated interview.-I felt-Oh! Mary, let me not tell thee all the scorpion stings that wrung my heart with anguish.-He left thee; Gordon retired: with pensive step I saw him pace along the gallery-It was not D'Anville, and I hated him.-Yes, Dante had put to flight all woman's weakness, and every inmate of my breast was rage, revenge, and jealousy!-A lingering hour ensued, and then my Mary summoned me: I looked upon her sadden'd eye, that lan guishingly spoke internal sorrow.--Thy precepts, Dante, were no more; I sunk in the sweet dream of love, and to these numbers touch'd the thrilling string, that spoke the beauties of my queen beloved.- THE PICTURE OF MY QUEEN. AH! wou'dst thou see the azure sky, The damask tinge her cheeks disclose. Wou'dst thou behold the lily dress'd Or wou'dst thou hear the bird of night, 'Tis Mary's song that yields delight, Scarcely had I sang to thee my strain, O queen of bliss, when thou didst deign to address me.--Never shall I forget thy words: they shall be noted on my tablet, that, if the shaft of fate should summon me into another world, thine eyes, dear mistress of my heart, may once recal them, and teach thy soul to waft one pitying sigh for the departed spirit of him that loved thee. You spoke-yes, tenderly addressed me thus: 66 Chatelar, methinks some soft and hidden "sentiment must attune thy muse, which ever 66 66 breathes the strain of love and melancholy; so young thou art, and yet so sad, that it should seem indeed as if some canker preyed upon thy soul-say, is it within the scope of Mary's poor "ability to serve thee; for I can pity others' woes, "and willingly relieve them?” I was motionless, the lute escaped my hand, a mist o'erspread the visions of my sight, and all the world was lost to Chatelar! * * * * * I awoke, and on my pallet I found myself, whither thy gentleness and pity commanded that I should be borne, while thy attendants gently vied in kind endeavours for my reanimation.- Ah! could I then have spoke, my fate had been at once decided; but feeling stopped the current of my voice-I wandered in the mazes of extatic bliss -I died with love! It must ensue, my queen must know I live for her, and her alone; her words demand it; she sanctions the confession, and shall hear the glowing truth. But, ah! I cannot in her presence speak it, else had my Mary yestermorn been guardian of my love-sick tale.-I will on paper give the effusions vent; a letter shall confess them to the mistress of my heart. Yet hold, my mind is ill assorted to such a theme: come, my Petrarch, let thy softened phrase teach me in plaintive strains to breathe my passion. Thou too, Boccacio,* shall aid me in this bold attempt: yes, thy Laberinto D'Amore will tutor me to give my world of passion vent: thy L'Amorosa Visione shall picture all I feel. Oh! that I could pluck a quill from Love's down wing, or wright my warm confession with his blazing arrow dipped in my heart's best blood; then might I perchance *Boccacio was born in 1313, and was the natural son of an Italian merchant, who endeavoured to instil into his mind a love of trade; but his genius soaring above the pursuit of commerce, he was then intended for the study of the law, which he proved equally averse to, and launched at length into the field of composition. His poetic effusions are by no means so worthy applause as his prose; and no production perhaps, of the same kind, ever surpassed his Il Decamerone; being a collection of One Hundred Tales. He was the bosom friend of Petrarch, and never was a more striking instance of fervent attachment between the two greatest geniuses of the age they lived in, than was witnessed in the persons of Boccacio and Petrarch. |