# Landon in The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/VI

One evening I had roamed beside The winding of the Arno's tide; The sky was flooded with moonlight: Below were waters azure bright,
Pallazzos with their marble halls, Green gardens, silver waterfalls, And orange groves and citron shades, And cavaliers and dark-eyed maids; Sweet voices singing, echoes sent From many a rich-toned instrument. I could not bear this loveliness!  It was on such a night as this That love had lighted up my dream  Of long despair and short-lived bliss. I sought the city; wandering on,  Unconscious where my steps might be; My heart was deep in other thoughts;  All places were alike to me:— At length I stopped beneath the walls Of San Mark's old cathedral halls.
I entered:—and, beneath the roof, Ten thousand wax-lights burnt on high; And incense on the censers fumed As for some great solemnity. The white-robed choristers were singing; Their cheerful peal the bells were ringing: Then deep-voiced music floated round, As the far arches sent forth sound— The stately organ:—and fair bands Of young girls strewed, with lavish hands, Violets o'er the mosaic floor; And sang while scattering the sweet store.   I turned me to a distant aisle,  Where but a feeble glimmering came (Itself in darkness) of the smile  Sent from the tapers' perfumed flame;
And coloured as each pictured pane Shed o'er the blaze its crimson stain:— While, from the window o'er my head, A dim and sickly gleam was shed From the young moon,—enough to shew That tomb and table lay below. I leant upon one monument,—  'Twas sacred to unhappy love: On it were carved a blighted pine—  A broken ring—a wounded dove. And two or three brief words told all  Her history who lay beneath:— 'The flowers—at morn her bridal flowers,—  'Formed, e'er the eve, her funeral wreath.'   I could but envy here. I thought,  How sweet it must be thus to die!
Your last looks watched,—your last sigh caught,  As life or Heaven were in that sigh! Passing in loveliness and light; Your heart as pure,—your cheek as bright As the spring-rose, whose petals shut, By sun unscorched, by shower unwet; Leaving behind a memory Shrined in love's fond eternity.   But I was wakened from this dream  By a burst of light—a gush of song— A welcome, as the stately doors  Poured in a gay and gorgeous throng. I could see all from where I stood.  And first I looked upon the bride; She was a pale and lovely girl;—  But, oh God: who was by her side?—
Lorenzo!—No, I did not speak; My heart beat high, but could not break. I shrieked not, wept not; but stood there Motionless in my still despair; As I were forced by some strange thrall, To bear with and to look on all,— I heard the hymn, I heard the vow; (Mine ear throbs with them even now!) I saw the young bride's timid cheek  Blushing beneath her silver veil. I saw Lorenzo kneel! Methought  ('Twas but a thought!) he too was pale. But when it ended, and his lip  Was prest to her’s—I saw no more! My heart grew cold,—my brain swam round,—  I sank upon the cloister floor!
I lived,—if that may be called life,  From which each charm of life has fled— Happiness gone, with hope and love,—  In all but breath already dead.   Rust gathered on the silent chords  Of my neglected lyre,—the breeze Was now its mistress: music brought  For me too bitter memories! The ivy darkened o'er my bower; Around, the weeds choked every flower. I pleased me in this desolateness, As each thing bore my fate's impress.
At length I made myself a task—  To paint that Cretan maiden's fate,
Whom Love taught such deep happiness,  And whom Love left so desolate. I drew her on a rocky shore:— Her black hair loose, and sprinkled o'er With white sea-foam;—her arms were bare, Flung upwards in their last despair. Her naked feet the pebbles prest; The tempest-wind sang in her vest: A wild stare in her glassy eyes; White lips, as parched by their hot sighs; And cheek more pallid than the spray, Which, cold and colourless, on it lay:— Just such a statue as should be  Placed ever, Love! beside thy shrine; Warning thy victims of what ills—  What burning tears, false god! are thine.
Before her was the darkling sea:  Behind the barren mountains rose— A fit home for the broken heart  To weep away life, wrongs, and woes!   I had now but one hope:—that when  The hand that traced these tints was cold— Its pulse but in their passion seen—  Lorenzo might these tints behold, And find my grief;—think—see—feel all I felt, in this memorial!   It was one evening,—the rose-light  Was o'er each green veranda shining; Spring was just breaking, and white buds  Were 'mid the darker ivy twining. My hall was filled with the perfume Sent from the early orange bloom:
The fountain, in the midst, was fraught With rich hues from the sunset caught;— And the first song came from the dove, Nestling in the shrub alcove. But why pause on my happiness?—  Another step was with mine there! Another sigh than mine made sweet  With its dear breath the scented air! Lorenzo! could it be my hand  That now was trembling in thine own? Lorenzo! could it be mine ear  That drank the music of thy tone?   We sat us by a lattice, where  Came in the soothing evening breeze, Rich with the gifts of early flowers,  And the soft wind-lute's symphonies.
And in the twilight's vesper-hour, Beneath the hanging jasmine-shower, I heard a tale,—as fond, as dear As e'er was poured in woman's ear!