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 leavesOf a huge vine, that, with its arms outspread,Hung its delicious clusters overhead.Below him, through the lovely valley flowedThe river Arno, like a winding road,And from its banks were lifted high in airThe spires and roofs of Florence called the Fair;To him a marble tomb, that rose aboveHis 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,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,His only comfort and his only careTo prune his vines, and plant the fig and pear;His only forester and only guestHis falcon, faithful to him, when the rest,Whose willing hands had found so light of yoreThe 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,On him this melancholy man bestowedThe 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 musedWith folded, patient hands, as he was used,And dreamily before his half-closed sightFloated the vision of his lost delight.Beside him, motionless, the drowsy birdDreamed of the chase, and in his slumber heardThe sudden, scythe-like sweep of wings, that dareThe 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,“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 seesIn the leaf-shadows of the trellises,Herself, yet not herself; a lovely childWith 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 IMight hold thee on my wrist, or see thee fly!”The voice was hers, and made strange echoes startThrough all the haunted chambers of his heart,As an aeolian harp through gusty doorsOf some old ruin its wild music pours. “Who is thy mother, my fair boy?” he said,His hand laid softly on that shining head.“Monna Giovanna. Will you let me stayA little while, and with your falcon play?We live there, just beyond your garden wall,In the great house behind the poplars tall.” So he spake on; and Federigo heardAs from afar each softly uttered word,And drifted onward through the golden gleamsAnd shadows of the misty sea of dreams,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 reveriesHe 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 timeIn her grand villa, half-way up the hill,O’erlooking Florence, but retired and still;With iron gates, that opened through long linesOf sacred ilex and centennial pines,And terraced gardens, and broad steps of stone,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,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,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.But his chief pastime was to watch the flightOf 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 heWho might the master of the falcon be,Until that happy morning, when he foundMaster and falcon in the cottage ground. And now a shadow and a terror fellOn the great house, as if a passing-bellTolled from the tower, and filled each spacious roomWith secret awe, and preternatural gloom;The petted boy grew ill, and day by dayPined with mysterious malady away.The mother’s heart would not be comforted;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,“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,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.But yet, for her child’s sake, she could no lessThan give assent to soothe his restlessness,So promised, and then promising to keepHer promise sacred, saw him fall asleep. The morrow was a bright September morn;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 streetCongratulate each other as they meet.Two lovely ladies, clothed in cloak and hood,Passed through the garden gate into the wood,Under the lustrous leaves, and through the sheenOf dewy sunshine showering down between. The one, close-hooded, had the attractive graceWhich sorrow sometimes lends a woman’s face;Her dark eyes moistened with the mists that rollFrom the gulf-stream of passion in the soul; The other with her hood thrown back, her hairMaking a golden glory in the air,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,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;His long-lost Eden was restored again,And the strange river winding through the plainNo longer was the Arno to his eyes,But the Euphrates watering Paradise! Monna Giovanna raised her stately head,And with fair words of salutation said:“Ser Federigo, we come here as friends,Hoping in this to make some poor amendsFor past unkindness. I who ne’er beforeWould even cross the threshold of your door,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.”To which he answered: “Poor desert of mine,Not your unkindness call it, for if aughtIs good in me of feeling or of thought,From you it comes, and this last grace outweighsAll sorrows, all regrets of other days.” And after further compliment and talk,Among the asters in the garden walkHe left his guests; and to his cottage turned,And as he entered for a moment yearnedFor the lost splendors of the days of old,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 wayTo keep this unexpected holiday;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 shookHis 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.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;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;Then in the midst a flask of wine he placed,And with autumnal flowers the banquet graced.Ser Federigo, would not these sufficeWithout thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice? When all was ready, and the courtly dameWith her companion to the cottage came,Upon Ser Federigo’s brain there fellThe wild enchantment of a magic spell!The room they entered, mean and low and small,Was changed into a sumptuous banquet-hall,With fanfares by aerial trumpets blown;The rustic chair she sat on was a throne;He ate celestial food, and a divineFlavor was given to his country wine,And the poor falcon, fragrant with his spice,A peacock was, or bird of paradise! When the repast was ended, they aroseAnd passed again into the garden-close.Then said the lady, “Far too well I know,Remembering still the days of long ago,Though you betray it not with what surpriseYou see me here in this familiar wise.You have no children, and you cannot guessWhat anguish, what unspeakable distressA mother feels, whose child is lying ill,Nor how her heart anticipates his will.And yet for this, you see me lay asideAll womanly reserve and check of pride,And ask the thing most precious in your sight,Your falcon, your sole comfort and delight,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 taskSo sweet to me, as giving when you ask.One little hour ago, if I had knownThis wish of yours, it would have been my own.But thinking in what manner I could bestDo honor to the presence of my guest,I deemed that nothing worthier could beThan what most dear and precious was to me,And so my gallant falcon breathed his lastTo furnish forth this morning our repast.” In mute contrition, mingled with dismay,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;Then took her leave, and passed out at the gateWith footstep slow and soul disconsolate. Three days went by, and lo! a passing-bellTolled from the little chapel in the dell;Ten strokes Ser Federigo heard, and said,Breathing a prayer, “Alas! her child is dead!”Three months went by; and lo! a merrier chimeRang from the chapel bells at Christmas-time;The cottage was deserted, and no moreSer Federigo sat beside its door,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 sideMonna Giovanna, his beloved bride,Never so beautiful, so kind, so fair,Enthroned once more in the old rustic chair,High-perched upon the back of which there stoodThe image of a falcon carved in wood,And underneath the inscription, with date,“All things come round to him who will but wait.”
