The jealousy of outraged marriage bonds,
Real, or imagined as Othello’s,
Oft finds expression in a dark revenge,
The faithless spouse is treated as a wench,
The vile seducer suffers every loss,
Unless, perchance, he with his prize absconds.
With hapless suitors has she gentler ways,
When pledgeless smiles is all they have obtained,
Though none may fully know what she may do,
(For even of such full many ones she slew),
But in this case, Sordino, deeply pained,
She led about as in a dreamy haze.
He wandered on the banks of wimpling Thames,
And on the anchored ships did idly stare,
But had no mind for all the life and mirth
Beneath the languid sails upon the firth,
Since nought he saw but that one happy pair,
And but two eyes, more glorious than gems.
With night’s approach his feelings took the hue
Of creeping shadows and the purple dark,
And sadness grew to an oppressive load,—
Then Jealousy to anger did him goad,
And to its fouler plots he once did hark,
Which with a frenzy did his blood imbue.
Then came the music of St. Mary’s bell,
Commingling with St. Paul’s of deeper tongue,
And oped his prison of unhappiness,
They had a solace that could calm and bless,
And when the last vibrating note was rung,
He homeward turned, and whispered: “All is well.”
XXXI
As a philosopher Sordino tried
To make himself believe that all was well,
Howe’er something opposed his wise decree,—
He sought to sup, but found each dish to be
Devoid of savor both in taste and smell,
His spleen the head’s philosophy defied.
He sought his couch and courted gentle sleep,
And stoically scorned his love-affair,
But Somnus was so far away, unheeding,
And thoughts in solitude were slowly feeding
Upon his heart, like lions in their lair,
Instead of rest, his misery grew deep.
The clock struck ten, he rose and left his room;
The bar was lively, and he chose its folly;
There was the sailor, garrulous and drunk,
In company with one, a quondam monk,
From Henry’s reign, when monks, unduly jolly,
Were driven from pretended cloister-gloom.
But if the ruby brightness of his nose
Was then acquired, or in his homeless state,
Is not for me to say, but it surpassed
Even his who years had sailed before the mast,
And with the aid of gin and stormy fate
Had made it blossom like an Irish rose.