That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive; I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands. Will't please you sit and look at her? I said "Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and passion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps Frà Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much," or, "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat; such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart.. how shall I say? . . too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the west,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace-all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,-good; but thanked
Somehow.. I know not how.. as if she ranked My gift of a nine hundred years old name
With anybody's gift.
This sort of trifling?
In speech (which I have not)-—to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, Or there exceed the mark "—and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, -E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat, The Count your master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, sir! Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me.
Christ God, who savest men, save most Of men Count Gismond who saved me! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, Chose time and place and company To suit it; when he struck at length My honor, 'twas with all his strength.
And doubtlessly ere he could draw
All points to one, he must have schemed ! That miserable morning saw
Few half so happy as I seemed, While being dressed in Queen's array To give our Tourney prize away.
I thought they loved me, did me grace To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; God makes, or fair or foul, our face; If showing inine so caused to bleed
My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped A word, and straight the play had stopped.
They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen By virtue of her brow and breast; Not needing to be crowned, I mean,
As I do. E'en when I was dressed, Had either of them spoke, instead Of glancing sideways with still head!
But no: they let me laugh, and sing My birthday song quite through, adjust The last rose in my garland, fling A last look on the mirror, trust My arms to each an arm of theirs, And so descend the castle-stairs-
And come out on the morning troop Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, And called me Queen, and made me stoop Under the canopy-(a streak
That pierced it, of the outside sun,
Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)—
And they could let me take my state And foolish throne amid applause
Of all come there to celebrate
My Queen's day—Oh, I think the cause Of much was, they forgot no crowd Makes up for parents in their shroud!
Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent Upon me, when my cousins cast Theirs down; 'twas time I should present
The victor's crown, but.. there, 'twill last
No long time. . . the old mist again
Blinds me as then it did.
See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk With his two boys: I can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk Forth boldy (to my face, indeed)
But Gauthier? and he thundered "Stay!"
"Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet About her! Let her shun the chaste, Or lay herself before their feet!
Shall she, whose body I embraced
A night long, queen it in the day? For Honor's sake no crowns, I say!"
What I answered? As I live, I never fancied such a thing
As answer possible to give.
What says the body when they spring Some monstrous torture-engine's whole Strength on it? No more says the soul.
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