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| IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance | |
| To Modena, where still religiously | |
| Among her ancient trophies is preserved | |
| Bologna’s bucket (in its chain it hangs | |
| Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), | 5 |
| Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate, | |
| Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. | |
| Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, | |
| And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, | |
| Will long detain thee; through their arched walks, | 10 |
| Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse | |
| Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, | |
| And lovers, such as in heroic song, | |
| Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, | |
| That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, | 15 |
| Venturing together on a tale of love, | |
| Read only part that day. A summer sun | |
| Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go, | |
| Enter the house,—prithee, forget it not,— | |
| And look awhile upon a picture there. | 20 |
| ’T is of a lady in her earliest youth, | |
| The very last of that illustrious race, | |
| Done by Zampieri,—but by whom I care not. | |
| He who observes it, ere he passes on, | |
| Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, | 25 |
| That he may call it up, when far away. | |
| She sits, inclining forward as to speak, | |
| Her lips half open, and her finger up, | |
| As though she said, “Beware!” Her vest of gold | |
| ’Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, | 30 |
| An emerald-stone in every golden clasp; | |
| And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, | |
| A coronet of pearls. But then her face, | |
| So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, | |
| The overflowings of an innocent heart,— | 35 |
| It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, | |
Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs | |
| Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, | |
| An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, | |
| But richly carved by Antony of Trent | 40 |
| With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; | |
| A chest that came from Venice, and had held | |
| The ducal robes of some old ancestor. | |
| That by the way,—it may be true or false,— | |
| But don’t forget the picture; and thou wilt not, | 45 |
| When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. | |
| She was an only child; from infancy | |
| The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire. | |
| Her mother dying of the gift she gave, | |
| That precious gift, what else remained to him? | 50 |
| The young Ginevra was his all in life, | |
| Still as she grew, forever in his sight; | |
| And in her fifteenth year became a bride, | |
| Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, | |
| Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. | 55 |
| Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, | |
| She was all gentleness, all gayety, | |
| Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. | |
| But now the day was come, the day, the hour; | |
| Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, | 60 |
| The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; | |
| And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave | |
| Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. | |
| Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast, | |
| When all sat down, the bride was wanting there. | 65 |
| Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, | |
| “’T is but to make a trial of our love!” | |
| And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, | |
| And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. | |
| “T was but that instant she had left Francesco, | 70 |
| Laughing and looking back, and flying still, | |
| Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. | |
| But now, alas! she was not to be found; | |
| Nor from that hour could anything be guessed | |
| But that she was not! Weary of his life, | 75 |
| Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith | |
| Flung it away in battle with the Turk. | |
| Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen | |
| An old man wandering as in quest of something, | |
| Something he could not find,—he knew not what. | 80 |
| When he was gone, the house remained awhile | |
| Silent and tenantless,—then went to strangers. | |
| Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, | |
| When on an idle day, a day of search | |
| Mid the old lumber in the gallery, | 85 |
| That mouldering chest was noticed; and ’t was said | |
| By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, | |
| “Why not remove it from its lurking-place?” | |
| ’T was done as soon as said; but on the way | |
| It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, | 90 |
| With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, | |
| A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! | |
| All else had perished,—save a nuptial ring, | |
| And a small seal, her mother’s legacy, | |
| Engraven with a name, the name of both, | 95 |
| “Ginevra.” There then had she found a grave! | |
| Within that chest had she concealed herself, | |
| Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy; | |
| When a spring-lock that lay in ambush there, | |
| Fastened her down forever! | 100 |
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