62
Guido Savella.
Burning through midnight, marked the chamber where
Savella mourned his fair-haired English bride.
Savella mourned his fair-haired English bride.
There had been marks of fetters on her wrists
As they lay crossed in death, and from her brow
Long tresses had been shaven. At her side
There wept a child that from its infancy
Had never known a mother's fostering love;
And they who robed her body for the tomb,
Whispered together of a fatal curse
Entailed upon her high-born race for crimes
Now unrecorded.
'Twas the vintage time,
Winter passed on, and early March outbloomed
The June of colder climes. Savella's halls
Still curtained out the sunshine, though a shade
Seemed fallen from their gloom. For if a breeze
Swept through the vaulted chambers, it would bring
Soft laughter, and a sound of children's steps,
And sometimes through the muffing drapery peered
A boy's small face, and now a baby girl
Half balancing, half guarded by his arm,
As they lay crossed in death, and from her brow
Long tresses had been shaven. At her side
There wept a child that from its infancy
Had never known a mother's fostering love;
And they who robed her body for the tomb,
Whispered together of a fatal curse
Entailed upon her high-born race for crimes
Now unrecorded.
'Twas the vintage time,
Winter passed on, and early March outbloomed
The June of colder climes. Savella's halls
Still curtained out the sunshine, though a shade
Seemed fallen from their gloom. For if a breeze
Swept through the vaulted chambers, it would bring
Soft laughter, and a sound of children's steps,
And sometimes through the muffing drapery peered
A boy's small face, and now a baby girl
Half balancing, half guarded by his arm,
