Poems (Freston)/Italia's Fornarina

by Elizabeth Heléne Freston

ITALIA'S FORNARINA.

Wouldst hear from me a tale of love and woe?
Then listen to one read long years ago.
I have forgotten much, so fancy may
Fill in the portions time has swept away.

It was one night, when the Raphael was young,
And with the artist's praises nations rung;
The place,—a theatre in mighty Rome,
Where beauty, pomp, and power were wont to come,—
But hold! too long have I this preface spun;
Ring up the curtain, for my tale's begun!

Each wandering eye within this Roman hall,
Turn toward the stage; and Music—friend of all—
Soon shall a dearer cadence than thy strain
Steal to each heart, with freight of joy, or pain;
It soars aloft, e'en to the height of thought,—
Before whose chime thy richest notes are naught.
Hush thy sweet clamor! To the foot-lights now
Is gliding one, to whom all hearts must bow
In homage to true genius; by wide gates
Of song, La Bella Fornarina waits.

She seems a being far beyond our ken,—
Too pure to tread the common world of men;—
And yet, too human for God's sunlit bow'rs,
Though her white hands have gathered Eden-flow'rs.
And so, 'twixt heaven and earth, she stands sublime,
Calm and unmoved as saint of olden time;
Spreads her white wings of genius o'er the throng,
And lifts her head,—to list the angel's song,—
Rouses the sleeping soul to dreams of love,
And wings the thoughts, to soar this earth above.

What is it to her that a thousand eyes
Gaze on her beauty with a mute surprise?
What is it to her that a thousand hung
On the first accents of her inspired tongue?
All petty hopes and fears to her are naught,—
God-crowned young empress of the realm of thought!
Her hair, in dusky splendor, ripples down;
Her brow is circled by a diamond crown;
And her robe's glittering white, gem-decked, and fair,—
A raiment meet,—leaves arms and shoulders bare.

She stands a moment's space,—in silence stands,—
With eyes uplifted, clasped and drooping hands,
As one might idly watch a flight of birds;—
And then, quick-rushing, comes a flood of words.
Glory the theme her rainbow fancy weaves
Into thoughts, varied as the Autumn leaves.
A subtle something, from that poet soul,
To every hushed and waiting spirit stole;—
Like wafted fragrance on the summer air,
Or dream of waters in a desert bare.

Why heaves that breast in such mad tumult now?
Why glides the lily hand across the brow,—
As though her brain were clouded, and she fain
Would clear it of a spell that brought but pain;
Why does that voice—erstwhile so silvery clear,
Bearing sweet music to each listening ear,—
Touching the heart, as but true genius may,—
Break, falter, and in silence die away?
A woman,—a mere woman! there she stands,
While o'er her heart are pressed her trembling hands;
Her heart, now quivering, thrilling, pulsing wild,
This moment—tameless as a savage child!

A woman,—a mere woman! in that hall
None weaker, owning thus Love's mighty thrall.
For, as her dark eyes wander o'er the throng,
They meet the eyes of Raphael, who for long
Has gazed with rapt, strange wonder, on her face,—
As though he strove, but all in vain, to trace
The sweet, familiar look that stirred his heart,—
Causing dim memories from their graves to start
In shapeless forms, that mocked him as they came,
Whisp'ring of years long past,—and one dear name.
They brought fair visions of his childhood day,
And Fornarina,—his young friend in play.

Now, as she meets those deep eyes' earnest look,—
That, in a sudden fear, she scarce can brook,—
Back o'er her heart receding love-waves roll,
And sweep away the poet's self-control;
Her royal robes of state have been flung down,—
Down at his feet, her sceptre and her crown
Have fallen, in that moment of deep pain,
When, after years of silence, once again
She stands before the only love she knew,—
Knowing him false to vows she still held true.

A moment—a brief moment stands she there,
Of God's best gifts, the fairest and most fair;
Then draws about her royal soul again
Her robe of state, and stands, once more a queen;
Lifts, from the lowly place where they were thrown,
Her talents' golden sceptre, and rich crown;
Encircles once again her brow of might,
With deep soul's calm, and intellect's soft light.
When she resumes, her theme is swept away,
And LOVE is now the burden of her lay.

She speaks of fair Urbino, and you see
The opening flowers, and hear the humming bee;
You hear the song-bird calling to his mate,—
The lowing kine beside the still-closed gate;
The ripples glancing on the water's sheen,—
The blithe, young feet that dance upon the green;
You breathe the fragrance in the summer air,
And feel that youth, and hope, and joy, are there;
You see God's sunshine pouring o'er it all,—
Fair as was Eden's bower before the fall.

And she,—the peasant girl, whose dark glad eyes
Turn with delight toward birds, and flowers and skies;
Flashing and swift to draw into the heart
All nature's charm, of which she is a part;—
You see her wander, guided by her will,
But mostly through the vineyards on the hill,—
Flying along, with wind-blown, dusky hair
Floating upon the breeze, and brown feet bare;
And ever by her side is found the Boy,—
Her slave, her guide, her comrade, and her joy.

She tells of the glad vintage-time, when all
Go mad with song; and the quick, rhymic fall
Of purple fruit to baskets brimming o'er,—
The revel, till the vines hold nothing more.
And ever by her side is found the Boy,
To do her bidding, and to share her joy;—
To gaily romp with her upon the lea,—
When tired, to rest his head upon her knee;
To pour his heart out at her careless feet,—
To tell her all his dreams,—the visions sweet
Of fairy realms, where he shall rule as king,
When the gift comes, that Fate is sure to bring.

He longs for something that he cannot name;—
Some call it Power, and others call it Fame—
Again he sits, with dreamy, brooding eyes,
Wishing to be the bird that upward flies;
He feels the fluttering genius in his soul,
Striving to spread its wings, and break control;
And still the two go hand in hand along
The sunlight way of youth,—with dance,—with song.

The years go by; and to their souls has come,—
Deep as the ocean, airy as its foam,—
LOVE, the magician; and each heart, before
This welcome guest, throws open every door.
They know that he will tarry with them long,
And greet his presence sweet with flowers and song;—
And ever by her side is found the Boy,—
Her pride, her wonder, master, and her joy.

(You feel it all;—a pulse throbs in each word;
'Tis not a tale, but heart-beats you have heard.
Age sheds his years, and youth's breast thrills to know,
Down to its utmost depths, this wild love's glow.)

Then comes a change. His soul has learned to know
The thing it pines for; and he soon shall go
Far, far away from this, his lowly home,
To seek the portals of almighty Rome,—
There to win wealth, and power, and write his name
Among the great ones, on the scroll of Fame;
And then, when laurel-leaves are fairly won,
To come, the truest knight beneath the sun,
For her, his lady fair; and far away
To bear her, to those realms of childhood's day,
Where he'll be king, and she,—the fairest queen
That e'er in fairy kingdom yet was seen.

And so they parted; and each lonely day,
She prayed for him, who struggled far away.
And words, and tender messages would come,
To soothe the loneliness, from distant Rome;
With heart shut, dreaming, through a world of joy,
She walks unheeding, longing for the Boy.
******
And now, the words are colder when they come,
The message shorter; and the way to Rome
Seems endless; and she speaks his name no more;
While each long silence leaves her true heart sore.

She walks as in a shadow, dark with fear;
But still the star of hope shines, bright and clear,—
The while the earth grows colder, and the chill
Has even reached the vineyard on the hill.
At last hope's light went out,—then silence came,—
Save when she heard the whispers of his fame;
And in the darkened world she sits alone
With love,—by her dead faith,—without a moan.
But oh; the hungry heart's wild, longing cry,—
To hear his voice beloved once more,—and die!

To touch his hand! to know that he is near!
To kiss the straying feet,—still dear,—so dear!
The longing grew, and grew, till it became
A passion, filling all the world with flame,
That burned up every feeling, save that one,—
To see him! see him! then let life be done!
At last, in pity, on the bursting heart
God lays his hand, and wisely draws apart
The jarring chords; and sets the spirit free,
To pour the pain out in sweet melody.

The tale is ended; and the loud acclaim
Rings through the hall, and thousands shout her name.
Men high in power,—princess of church and state,
To do her homage, on her fancy wait;—
Meanwhile Raphael still sits in silent pride,
Beside Corinne, his fair, and promised bride;—
The favored niece of the great Cardinal,—
A queen of power, who loves the artist well.
The lady Corinne keenly marks the play
Of features, that she dreamed not, till to-day,
Could hold so much emotion; and her eyes
Grow dark and deep with agonized surprise.

"Raphael, look up; what is this maid to thee?
Nay,—touch me not, 'till thou hast answered me!"
"Grieve not, sweetheart, if I seem strange and cold,—
I am the traitor of the tale she told."
"Traitor, perhaps, but never in thy heart!
Love did but slumber there;—nay, do not start!
Not for one moment did it wake for me;
And so—in spite of pain—I set thee free!
The foolish people call me 'Star of Rome;'—
Of all life's gifts I prized thy heart alone!
Go to thy love; nor let one thought of me
Shadow thy joy. Raphaello, thou art free."

The little Nina seeks her mistress' side
To whisper, with a smile of girlish pride,
How many great ones wait for just one word
With her Signora. "May they not be heard?
And there is one who swears on bended knee,—
He'd give his life for just one word with thee
Alone. His name is Raphael, and they say
He is the greatest painter of the day;
And oh! so handsome,—with such pleading eyes!
If you refuse, I'm sure the Signor dies!
Say yes; and let me with the message go!"
White are the lips that firmly answer "No."

"The lady Corinne waits among the rest,
And says, to speak with thee will make her blest."
After a moment's pause, as to demur,—
"The lady Corinne,—I will speak with her."
The lady Corinne watched her as she came,—
While in her heart blazed up a jealous flame;
And suddenly, within that soul was born,
For her who stood before her, hate, and scorn;—
This lowly peasant-girl, who dared to hold
The heart she could not win,—with name, and gold!
Then came the better thought; God surely laid
A heavy hand on this true heart He made,—
Had struck the straining chords to sharpest pain,—
And lo! they answered back—In sweetest strain.

"Thou Wonder!" said she, with extended hand,
And proudly-smiling lips. "In this fair land,
Where people call me queen, is there one thing
The song-bird wishes, ere she spreads her wing?
Speak! Let me know the joy in store for me,
When thou hast said what I may do for thee."

"Lady, you offer favors like a queen;
And like a queen, I answer you as fair;—
In all your broad possessions, you hold naught
Can add more lustre to the crown I wear.
'Italia's queen,' they call you,—'Star of Rome,'—
To do you homage, courtiers bow the knee;—
My realm is greater,—I am 'queen of Song.'
The King of kings gave this dear crown to me.
To powers of earth, allegiance give I none;
But hearts whose chords vibrate at touch of mine
Are still my subjects, bend the knee to me,—
Swear me allegiance,—and I here claim thine."

Blue eyes met black, in steadfast look, and proud;—
The blue eyes falter, and the head is bowed,—
Bowed—lower still,—and there, for all to see,
The lady Corinne humbly bends the knee.
La Fornarina laid her hand, so fair,
Upon the lady Corinne's golden hair;
And in a voice, where pow'r and sweetness blend,—
With just a little quiver at the end,—
She speaks, as one who soon goes far away,
And heeds not who may hear what she will say.
*****
"The 'song-bird' shakes earth-gifts from spreading wing,
But, from my heart—that does not always sing—
A prayer goes up to Heaven's gate for thee;—
Dear God from Sorrow's fetters leave her free."
She turns away, without a look or smile,
To that hushed crowd, that waited all the while;
A flash of gems beyond a closing door,—
And they shall never—never see her more.
*****
"Nina, attend! Fly to the outer gate,
Where Guido, with his fellows, for me wait,—
Bid him come here, and haste!" The maiden flew
To do the bidding, wisely as she knew.
Idly the lady stood, till Guido came;
Then, blushed, and paled, but gave him Raphael's name.
Bade him go forth, and learn, as best he may,
The place where he abides; also the way
He turns to reach it, when, his good-nights o'er,
He leaves the palace-gate for his own door.

"Not many paces from the Cardinal's,
An archway, o'er a gate where no one dwells,—
I marked, as I this morning passed that way;
Within that archway I can safely stay
Until you come; and Nina there with me
Will wait in shadow, till we hear from thee."

Guido has gone, and the small maid has thrown
A long, black mantle o'er the glittering gown.
Fleet, and light-footed as two does, they seek
The archway's somber shadow, ere they speak.

They crouch within, and to the wondering cry
Of "O, Signora!" comes a sad reply.
"Nay, wonder not; this Raphael, little dove,
Is my heart's first, and best, and only love;
To see him once again,—I'd gladly die!
So I shall watch where he must pass me by,—
When Guido comes to tell us. Hark! What sound
Is that I hear? Ah! footsteps this way bound!
Oh, holy Mother! give me strength to pray!
Hush, beating heart!—'tis Raphael comes this way!"

With head bent down,—with lagging step, and slow,
The painter, Raphael, walks, within the glow
Of a bright light, that shines, not far away,
And makes the place about him almost day.
The little Nina falls upon her knee.
Clutching her mistress' gown. "Signora,—see!
Oh, holy Virgin Mother! Spare him!—Spare!"—
He needs such prayers,—the assassin's knife is bare,
Seeking his heart! A rival in love, or fame,—
For Corinne's favor, or the artist's name,—
Slips from the shelter of a doorway near,
And follows in his wake,—a shade of fear.

And as he steps within the shadow, thrown
Across his way by the dark archway's stone,—
The weapon flashed; but ere it reached his heart,
A woman's piercing scream has rent apart
And broken up the silence; and a form,—
Black-robed and lithe,—lies drooping on his arm!
Footsteps are coming,—yes, and going too!—
Does he but dream,—or is it really true
That some one sought his life?—and this true friend
Has bared her own sweet bosom to defend?
He lays her down,—the mantle draws aside,—
And finds a woman, robed as might a bride.

"Raphael," she whispered in a tender tone,
"I die,—as I have lived,—for thee alone!"
Then from his heart went up a bitter cry,—
A cry so anguished, it must pierce the sky;
And tears of pity there in Heaven would flow,
As rose such sorrow in a heart below.
He clasped her to his breast, and gently bore
Her to the light; and then she speaks once more.

"Grieve not, my friend; it is not hard to—die;
For—God is good, and takes me—painlessly.
But I would suffer all that death may give,
To die—thus—in your arms;—and know you live,—
And love me;—and shall come, when life is o'er,
To clasp my hand,—upon that other shore,—
Where love is—all in all; where thou and I
Shall—part no more! but, for a time—good- bye!"

"O, stay, love! do not leave me all alone!
What joy in life, when thy dear soul has flown?
Live!—and be mine! I'll crown this brow with fame,
And all the world shall wonder at thy name!"
The glazing eyes look up reproachfully;—
"The same old dream!" she whispers gaspingly.

"Ever the dross is hoarded, day by day,—
And the pure gold of life—is flung away;
The sun's true, living warmth,—that lights—the noon,
Is—bartered for—the candle—in the gloom!
Fame is an empty—word! The praise—of all,
Is as—the leaves that flutter—in the fall,—
Soon—but the clay, and mold that—they drift o'er,—
But love,—is—royal LOVE—forevermore!"

"Thou'rt mine,—as I am thine,—the seal was set
Upon our souls—in Heaven—long ere we met—
On this sad earth,—where thou—hast gone astray,—
And in the maze of pleasure—lost thy way;—
Raphael,—I go; but, ever by the—gate
Of Heaven—until you come—my soul shall wait!
Pass you the foolish loves!—life is—soon o'er,—
Thou'rt mine,—as I am thine,—forevermore!"

She raised her drooping head, stretched forth her hand.
And strongly said,—"Raphael, a better land
Awaits thy coming! There I'll wait—for thee,—
Do thy work nobly,—and—be true—to me!"
A fluttering of the spreading wings, and she,—
The "Song-bird,"—flies into eternity;
While they, who watch her on her homeward way,
Bare their bowed heads, and, sobbing, kneel to pray.