Beatrice Cenci.

O beautiful woman, too well we know     The terrible weight of thy woman's woe,     So great that the world, in its careless way,     Remembered thy beauty for more than a day.     In the name of the truth from thy brow is torn     The crown of redemption thou long hast worn,     And into the valley of sin thou art hurled     To be trampled anew by the feet of the world.     The beautiful picture is thine no more     That hangs in the palace on Italy's shore;     The tear-stained eyes where the shadow lies,     Like a darksome cloud in the summer skies,     Will tell thy story to men no more,     For all untrue is the tale of yore;     And the far-famed picture that hangs on the wall     Is a painter's fancy--that is all.     Italia's shore is a land of light     Where the sunlight of day drowns the shadows of night;     And the great warm sun with his golden rays     Imprisons the light of eternal days;     But the tale of thy woes is a shadow there     That fills with its horror the perfumed air.     By day and by night in the palace there,     Thy picture has hung with its face so fair;     Beguiling the travelers come from afar     With its sad, sweet grace, like some voiceless star,     Till the hears that shuddered before thy sin     Recalled not the shadow that lay within,     But remembered only with pitying grace     The hopeless grief on the child-like face.     The rosy dawn with its misty light,     Shone fair on thy brow in the morning bright;     And the glittering noon with its rays of gold     Imprisoned thy soul in its jeweled hold.     Oh, fair was the picture at early dawn,     With the matchless beauty that Guido had drawn;     And fair was the face in the noon of gold,     Touched with a glory that never grew old.     But lovelier still in the shadowed eyes     Lay the burning sunset of Italy's skies;     And the beautiful face with its voiceless woe     Grew fair as a saint's in the crimson glow.     No wonder the poets grew wild at the sight,     And sung of thy beauty with mad delight,     Till the fame of the picture spread over the land,     Revealing the touch of its master-hand.     The fair Madonna with saint-like face,     Creation of Raphael's exquisite grace,     Is scarcely more famed than the child-like head     Of thou to whom sorrow forever is wed.     O beautiful woman, the world with its scorn     Will mock at the glory thou long hast worn,     And rend aside in the name of the truth     The veil of mercy that hides thy youth.     But the romance that clings to the wondrous face     Will fall on our hearts with a softened grace,     And the fair young sinner on Italy's shore     Will be loved and pitied forevermore.