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| ONE summer morning, when the sun was hot, | |
| Weary with labor in his garden-plot, | |
| On a rude bench beneath his cottage eaves, | |
| Ser Federigo sat among the leaves | |
| Of a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread, | 5 |
| Hung its delicious clusters overhead. | |
| Below him, through the lovely valley, flowed | |
| The river Arno, like a winding road, | |
| And from its banks were lifted high in air | |
| The spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair; | 10 |
| To him a marble tomb, that rose above | |
| His wasted fortunes and his buried love. | |
| For there, in banquet and in tournament, | |
| His wealth had lavished been, his substance spent, | |
| To woo and lose, since ill his wooing sped, | 15 |
| Monna Giovanna, who his rival wed, | |
| Yet ever in his fancy reigned supreme, | |
| The ideal woman of a young man’s dream. | |
| |
| Then he withdrew, in poverty and pain, | |
| To this small farm, the last of his domain, | 20 |
| His only comfort and his only care | |
| To prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear; | |
| His only forester and only guest | |
| His falcon, faithful to him, when the rest, | |
| Whose willing hands had found so light of yore | 25 |
| The brazen knocker of his palace door, | |
| Had now no strength to lift the wooden latch, | |
| That entrance gave beneath a roof of thatch. | |
| Companion of his solitary ways, | |
| Purveyor of his feasts on holidays, | 30 |
| On him this melancholy man bestowed | |
| The love with which his nature overflowed. | |
| |
| And so the empty-handed years went round, | |
| Vacant, though voiceful with prophetic sound, | |
| And so, that summer morn, he sat and mused | 35 |
| With folded, patient hands, as he was used, | |
| And dreamily before his half-closed sight | |
| Floated the vision of his lost delight. | |
| Beside him, motionless, the drowsy bird | |
| Dreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heard | 40 |
| The sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dare | |
| The headlong plunge through eddying gulfs of air, | |
| Then, starting broad awake upon his perch, | |
| Tinkled his bells, like mass-bells in a church, | |
| And looking at his master, seemed to say, | 45 |
| “Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?” | |
| |
| Ser Federigo thought not of the chase; | |
| The tender vision of her lovely face, | |
| I will not say he seems to see, he sees | |
| In the leaf-shadows of the trellises, | 50 |
| Herself, yet not herself; a lovely child | |
| With flowing tresses, and eyes wide and wild, | |
| Coming undaunted up the garden walk, | |
| And looking not at him, but at the hawk. | |
| “Beautiful falcon!” said he, “would that I | 55 |
| Might hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!” | |
| The voice was hers, and made strange echoes start | |
| Through all the haunted chambers of his heart, | |
| As an æolian harp through gusty doors | |
| Of some old ruin its wild music pours. | 60 |
| |
| “Who is thy mother, my fair boy?” he said, | |
| His hand laid softly on that shining head. | |
| “Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stay | |
| A little while, and with your falcon play? | |
| We live there, just beyond your garden wall, | 65 |
| In the great house behind the poplars tall.” | |
| |
| So he spake on; and Federigo heard | |
| As from afar each softly uttered word, | |
| And drifted onward through the golden gleams | |
| And shadows of the misty sea of dreams, | 70 |
| As mariners becalmed through vapors drift, | |
| And feel the sea beneath them sink and lift, | |
| And hear far off the mournful breakers roar, | |
| And voices calling faintly from the shore! | |
| Then waking from his pleasant reveries, | 75 |
| He took the little boy upon his knees, | |
| And told him stories of his gallant bird, | |
| Till in their friendship he became a third. | |
| |
| Monna Giovanna, widowed in her prime, | |
| Had come with friends to pass the summer time | 80 |
| In her grand villa, half-way up the hill, | |
| O’erlooking Florence, but retired and still; | |
| With iron gates, that opened through long lines | |
| Of sacred ilex and centennial pines, | |
| And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone, | 85 |
| And sylvan deities, with moss o’ergrown. | |
| And fountains palpitating in the heat, | |
| And all Val d’Arno stretched beneath its feet. | |
| Here in seclusion, as a widow may, | |
| The lovely lady whiled the hours away, | 90 |
| Pacing in sable robes the statued hall, | |
| Herself the stateliest statue among all, | |
| And seeing more and more, with secret joy, | |
| Her husband risen and living in her boy, | |
| Till the lost sense of life returned again, | 95 |
| Not as delight, but as relief from pain. | |
| Meanwhile the boy, rejoicing in his strength, | |
| Stormed down the terraces from length to length; | |
| The screaming peacock chased in hot pursuit, | |
| And climbed the garden trellises for fruit. | 100 |
| But his chief pastime was to watch the flight, | |
| Of a gerfalcon, soaring into sight, | |
| Beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall, | |
| Then downward stooping at some distant call; | |
| And as he gazed full often wondered he | 105 |
| Who might the master of the falcon be, | |
| Until that happy morning, when he found | |
| Master and falcon in the cottage ground. | |
| |
| And now a shadow and a terror fell | |
| On the great house, as if a passing-bell | 110 |
| Tolled from the tower, and filled each spacious room | |
| With secret awe and preternatural gloom; | |
| The petted boy grew ill, and day by day | |
| Pined with mysterious malady away. | |
| The mother’s heart would not be comforted; | 115 |
| Her darling seemed to her already dead, | |
| And often, sitting by the sufferer’s side, | |
| “What can I do to comfort thee?” she cried. | |
| At first the silent lips made no reply, | |
| But, moved at length by her importunate cry, | 120 |
| “Give me,” he answered, with imploring tone, | |
| “Ser Federigo’s falcon for my own!” | |
| |
| No answer could the astonished mother make; | |
| How could she ask, e’en for her darling’s sake, | |
| Such favor at a luckless lover’s hand, | 125 |
| Well knowing that to ask was to command? | |
| Well knowing, what all falconers confessed, | |
| In all the land that falcon was the best, | |
| The master’s pride and passion and delight, | |
| And the sole pursuivant of this poor knight. | 130 |
| But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no less | |
| Than give assent, to soothe his restlessness, | |
| So promised, and then promising to keep | |
| Her promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. | |
| |
| The morrow was a bright September morn; | 135 |
| The earth was beautiful as if new-born; | |
| There was that nameless splendor everywhere, | |
| That wild exhilaration in the air, | |
| Which makes the passers in the city street | |
| Congratulate each other as they meet. | 140 |
| Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood, | |
| Passed through the garden gate into the wood, | |
| Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheen | |
| Of dewy sunshine showering down between. | |
| The one, close-hooded, had the attractive grace | 145 |
| Which sorrow sometimes lends a woman’s face; | |
| Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that roll | |
| From the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; | |
| The other with her hood thrown back, her hair | |
| Making a golden glory in the air, | 150 |
| Her cheeks suffused with an auroral blush, | |
| Her young heart singing louder than the thrush, | |
| So walked, that morn, through mingled light and shade, | |
| Each by the other’s presence lovelier made, | |
| Monna Giovanna and her bosom friend, | 155 |
| Intent upon their errand and its end. | |
| |
| They found Ser Federigo at his toil, | |
| Like banished Adam, delving in the soil; | |
| And when he looked and these fair women spied, | |
| The garden suddenly was glorified; | 160 |
| His long-lost Eden was restored again, | |
| And the strange river winding through the plain | |
| No longer was the Arno to his eyes, | |
| But the Euphrates watering Paradise! | |
| |
| Monna Giovanna raised her stately head, | 165 |
| And with fair words of salutation said: | |
| “Ser Federigo, we come here as friends, | |
| Hoping in this to make some poor amends | |
| For past unkindness. I who ne’er before | |
| Would even cross the threshold of your door, | 170 |
| I who in happier days such pride maintained, | |
| Refused your banquets, and your gifts disdained, | |
| This morning come, a self-invited guest, | |
| To put your generous nature to the test, | |
| And breakfast with you under your own vine.” | 175 |
| To which he answered: “Poor desert of mine, | |
| Not your unkindness call it, for if aught | |
| Is good in me of feeling or of thought, | |
| From you it comes, and this last grace outweighs | |
| All sorrows, all regrets of other days.” | 180 |
| |
| And after further compliment and talk, | |
| Among the asters in the garden walk | |
| He left his guests; and to his cottage turned, | |
| And as he entered for a moment yearned | |
| For the lost splendors of the days of old, | 185 |
| The ruby glass, the silver and the gold, | |
| And felt how piercing is the sting of pride, | |
| By want embittered and intensified. | |
| He looked about him for some means or way | |
| To keep this unexpected holiday; | 190 |
| Searched every cupboard, and then searched again, | |
| Summoned the maid, who came, but came in vain; | |
| “The Signor did not hunt to-day,” she said, | |
| “There’s nothing in the house but wine and bread.” | |
| Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook | 195 |
| His little bells, with that sagacious look, | |
| Which said, as plain as language to the ear, | |
| “If anything is wanting, I am here!” | |
| Yes, everything is wanting, gallant bird! | |
| The master seized thee without further word. | 200 |
| Like thine own lure, he whirled thee round; ah me! | |
| The pomp and flutter of brave falconry, | |
| The bells, the jesses, the bright scarlet hood, | |
| The flight and the pursuit o’er field and wood, | |
| All these forevermore are ended now; | 205 |
| No longer victor, but the victim thou! | |
| |
| Then on the board a snow-white cloth he spread, | |
| Laid on its wooden dish the loaf of bread, | |
| Brought purple grapes with autumn sunshine hot, | |
| The fragrant peach, the juicy bergamot; | 210 |
| Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed | |
| And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced. | |
| Ser Federigo, would not these suffice | |
| Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice? | |
| |
| When all was ready, and the courtly dame | 215 |
| With her companion to the cottage came, | |
| Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fell | |
| The wild enchantment of a magic spell! | |
| The room they entered, mean and low and small, | |
| Was changed into a sumptuous banquet hall, | 220 |
| With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown; | |
| The rustic chair she sat on was a throne; | |
| He ate celestial food, and a divine | |
| Flavor was given to his country wine, | |
| And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice, | 225 |
| A peacock was, or bird of paradise! | |
| |
| When the repast was ended, they arose | |
| And passed again into the garden-close. | |
| Then said the lady, “Far too well I know, | |
| Remembering still the days of long ago, | 230 |
| Though you betray it not, with what surprise | |
| You see me here in this familiar wise. | |
| You have no children, and you cannot guess | |
| What anguish, what unspeakable distress | |
| A mother feels, whose child is lying ill, | 235 |
| Nor how her heart anticipates his will. | |
| And yet for this, you see me lay aside | |
| All womanly reserve and check of pride, | |
| And ask the thing most precious in your sight, | |
| Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight, | 240 |
| Which if you find it in your heart to give, | |
| My poor, unhappy boy perchance may live.” | |
| |
| Ser Federigo listens, and replies, | |
| With tears of love and pity in his eyes: | |
| “Alas, dear lady! there can be no task | 245 |
| So sweet to me, as giving when you ask. | |
| One little hour ago, if I had known | |
| This wish of yours, it would have been my own. | |
| But thinking in what manner I could best | |
| Do honor to the presence of my guest, | 250 |
| I deemed that nothing worthier could be | |
| Than what most dear and precious was to me; | |
| And so my gallant falcon breathed his last | |
| To furnish forth this morning our repast.” | |
| |
| In mute contrition, mingled with dismay, | 255 |
| The gentle lady turned her eyes away, | |
| Grieving that he such sacrifice should make | |
| And kill his falcon for a woman’s sake, | |
| Yet feeling in her heart a woman’s pride, | |
| That nothing she could ask for was denied; | 260 |
| Then took her leave, and passed out at the gate | |
| With footstep slow and soul disconsolate. | |
| |
| Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bell | |
| Tolled from the little chapel in the dell; | |
| Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said, | 265 |
| Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!” | |
| Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chime | |
| Rang from the chapel bells at Christmas-time; | |
| The cottage was deserted, and no more | |
| Ser Federigo sat beside its door, | 270 |
| But now, with servitors to do his will, | |
| In the grand villa, half-way up the hill, | |
| Sat at the Christmas feast, and at his side | |
| Monna Giovanna, his beloved bride, | |
| Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair, | 275 |
| Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair, | |
| High-perched upon the back of which there stood | |
| The image of a falcon carved in wood, | |
| And underneath the inscription, with a date, | |
| “All things come round to him who will but wait.” | 280 |
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