: Tales of a Wayside Inn by Longfellow Henry Wadsworth - American poetry

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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; 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. 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 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, 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 plain No 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 amends For past unkindness. I who ne'er before Would 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 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."

Then suddenly the drowsy falcon shook 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, 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 suffice Without thy falcon stuffed with cloves and spice?

When all was ready, and the courtly dame 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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 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, 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, 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 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, 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, 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, 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."

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