“Two months,” the questioned healer said, | |
| And turned him from the place, | |
| While every tint of color fled | |
| That dark Italian face,— | |
| Heart-struck was he, whom France obeyed, | 5 |
| Peasant, and prince, and peer, | |
| And with the clank of fetters made | |
| Rich music for his ear. | |
| |
| Proud Anne of Austria lowest bent | |
| With subjugated soul, | 10 |
| And Ludovicus Magnus scarce | |
| Withstood his stern control, | |
| While distant nations feared the man | |
| Who ruled in court and bower; | |
| Yet those slight words dissolved the spell | 15 |
| Of all his pomp and power. | |
| |
| Before him passed his portioned line, | |
| Mancini’s haughty race, | |
| Jewels and coronets they wore, | |
| With cold and thankless grace; | 20 |
| And for a payment poor as this, | |
| Had he his conscience grieved? | |
| And marred with perjured hand the cross | |
| His priestly vow received? | |
| |
| Beside him strode a spectral form, | 25 |
| Still whispering in his ear, | |
| “Make restitution!” Fearful sound, | |
| That none besides might hear; | |
| “Make restitution!” But the spoil | |
| From earth and ocean wrung, | 30 |
| By countless chains and wreathed bands, | |
| Around his spirit clung. | |
| |
| “Two months! two months!” these frightful words | |
| Could all his peace destroy, | |
| And poison the enamelled cup | 35 |
| Where sparkled every joy. | |
| They met him in the courtly hall, | |
| They silenced song and tale, | |
| Like those dead fingers on the wall | |
| That turned Belshazzar pale. | 40 |
| |
| Once in his velvet chair he dreamed, | |
| But rocking to and fro, | |
| His restless form and heaving breast | |
| Betrayed a rankling wo; | |
| “Two months! two months!” he murmured deep, | 45 |
| Those fatal words were there, | |
| To grave upon his broken sleep | |
| The image of despair. | |
| |
| Uncounted wealth his coffers told, | |
| From rifled king and clime, | 50 |
| His flashing gems might empires buy, | |
| But not an hour of time. | |
| No! not a moment, inch by inch, | |
| Where’er he bent his way, | |
| That grim pursuer steadfast gained | 55 |
| Upon the shrinking prey. | |
| |
| His pulseless hand a casket clutched, | |
| Though Death was near his side, | |
| And ’neath the pillow lurked a scroll | |
| He might no longer hide: | 60 |
| While buried heaps of hoarded gain | |
| In rust and darkness laid, | |
| Bore witness to the Omniscient Eye | |
| Like an accusing shade. | |
| |
| But on the King of Terrors came | 65 |
| With strong relentless hold, | |
| And shook the shuddering miser loose | |
| From all his idol gold, | |
| And poorer than the peasant hind | |
| That humbly ploughs the sod, | 70 |
| Went forth that disembodied mind | |
| To stand before its God. | |
| |
