J ■ V ,0 0, v-l/*^ 'ri- .0' c " ^ '• >:• -% ...0> .^^ ^^^ - ■■'„. .,xv y^\_0^^o =: .^^' .0 "^-^^ '^ .Oc \>^^^ ,.^ ,6- ^:^''% .^^"^ .^nV.^'"* -^^ ^V . ^' "^A v^ \ -" ,0 vV 'c^. .V '/^. v'?-' ^"^^^(/•S^^ 1 - w ^. •^.# :^i^ \^^z^ : ■^^ .\\ <, V 1 B N ,0 ^ -^A V* ^>^/ .^ ^ ^,'%^..w<^ ,, r ^^ V\-' '. -^ v:^^ ^\£:'^ "^ ^ ^0- "oo'< .,N Xi vV' ^^<^^ ■N^'% ^ ■ S . ;"'b/ 'P. v>' •)^^ .^^ "h ,0^^ ."^-^^r-,- ^\.^^ ^y-^ Enteif'd ^''ordinf^ tt Act of Congress, in the year 1865, By BuKCE AND Huntington, Ip tte Cieik\ Office of the District Court of the United States for the Souihsro District of New York. /i. 3-1 67/ PRE FAG E. IN the Dramatic Poetry of a country are embodied the highest efforts of its genius. Our series of " Golden Leaves" from the British and Amer- ican Poets would be, therefore, incomplete with- out a collection of specimens from the Dramatic Poets of those countries. In the present volume, we give selections of recognized beauties from the British and American Dramatists, arranged in chronological order, commencing from the earliest known Dramas in the English language, and con- tinuing the series down to the present time. The collection, we trust, will be found interesting to the student of Dramatic Literature, as exhibiting in a condensed form the mutations in taste, style, and method of treatment, which the Drama has under- gone during the last three centuries. We believe it will also be acceptable to lovers of the Legitimate Drama, who still cling to recollections of the pas*- vi PREFACE. glories of the Stage, and will receive with welcome these souvenirs of the cherished favourites of their youth. We have even a hope that modern play- goers (to whom, in this age of the Sensational and Spectacular Drama, the ^''Legitimate'' is fast ap- proaching only to the traditionary) may dip into our pages with some degree of interest — akin, perhaps, to that with which they examine the fossil remains of extinct generations, if only to ascertain the pre- tensions which the admirers of the Drama in past ages declared to be its functions and its purposes, viz. : — . " To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold : For this the Tragic Muse first trod the Stage". . . . J. W. S. H. ;w York, "> June 2Z, 1865. 5 Cottage Place, New York, "> OOWTEISrTS. FAGl Thomas Sackville Lord Buckurst, and Thomas Norton. The Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex (the Earliest known Specimen of English Tragedy, 1561) i Thomas Kyd. The Spanish Tragedy; or, Hieronimo is mad again 5 Christopher Marlowe. The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus 10 Edward the Second 14 William Shakspeare. Romeo and Juliet 20 Othello 26 Hamlet 30 King Lear 33 As You Like It 36 Twelfth Night 40 Macbeth 43 Midsummer Night's Dream 44 Much Ado about Nothing 46 King John 47 King Henry V 50 King Henry VI 53 viii CONTENTS. William Shakspeare (continued). page King Henry VIII 54 Julius Caesar 56 Merchant of Venice 59 Antony and Cleopatra 62 Measure for Measure 63 Cymbeline 65 The Tempest 73 Ben Jonson. Catiline, his Conspiracy 74 Poetaster J or, his Arraignment 78 Thomas Decker. Satiro-Mastix, or the Untrussing of the Humorous Poet 85 Thomas Decker and John Webster. Westward Hoe ! a Comedy 89 John Webster. Duchess of Malfy 90 John Marston. The History of Antonio and Mellida 98 George Chapman. Byron's Conspiracy 101 Thomas Heywood. The Royal King and the Loyal Subject 102 "^HOMAS MiDDLETON. The Witch: a Tragi-Comedy 103 No Wit — Help like a Woman's no Cyril Tourneur. The Revenger's Tragedy Ill CONTENTS. IX John Ford. page The Broken Heart 115 The Lover's Melancholy 121 Beaumont and Fletcher. The Maid's Tragedy 123 Philaster; or, Love lies a bleeding , 128 John Fletcher. The Two Noble Kinsmen 138 Philip Massinger. The City Madam : a Comedy 143 A New^ Way to pay Old Debts 148 The Fatal Dowry : a Tragedy 151 James Shirley. The Lady of Pleasure : a Comedy 155 John Dryden. All for Love /S^ Don Sebastian i63 The Conquest of Grenada 178 Tyrannic Love I79 The Spanish Friar 180 The Indian Emperor 180 Nathaniel Lee. Alexander the Great j or, the Rival Queens 181 Thomas Otway. Venice Preserved ^9^ The Orphan aoi Thomas Southerne. Isabella ; or, the Fatal Marriage 207 Oroonoko 2,15 X CONTENTS. Nicholas Rowe. page Tamerlane 223 J ane Shore 230 The Fair Penitent 236 William Congreve. The Mourning Bride 239 John Hughes. The Siege of Damascus 248 Joseph Addison. Cato 254 Samuel Johnson, Irene 262 George Lillo. Fatal Curiosity 263 Rev. Edward Young. The Revenge 271 William Mason. Caractacus 280 Elfrida 280 Richard Glover. Boadicea 28 1 David Mallet. Alfred the Great 282 Henry Brooke. Gustavus Vasa ; or, the Deliverer of his Country 283 Rev. John Home. Douglas 286 CONTENTS. XI Joanna Baillie, De Montfort . Samuel Taylor Coleridge Remorse Lord Byron. Rev. Charles Maturin. Bertram PAGE James Thomson. Edward and Eleonora ^^^ Tancred and Sigismunda ^^4 Sophonisba Arthur Murphy. The Grecian Daughter ^95 Hannah More. -JOI Percy ^ George Colman. The Iron Chest ^09 De Montfort ^ Remorse -' Manfred ^^^ Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice 334 Sardanapalus ^^ The Two Foscari •" ^39 Werner 34° 342 Richard Lalor Shiel. The Apostate 34 Evadne, or the Statue 35* James Haynes. Conscience; or, the Bridal Night 35 xh CONTENTS. Bryan Waller Proctor (Barry Cornwalt.). pagu Mirandola 360 Miss Mitford. Rieazi 361 Thomas Lovell Beddoes. The Bride's Tragedy 369 James Sheridan Knowles. Virginius 370 The Wife: a Tale of Mantua 379 The Hunchback 384 Rev. Henry Hart Milman. Fazio 386 Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. Richelieu 389 The Lady of Lyons 392 Frances Ann Kemble (Mrs. Butler). Francis the First 39; Thomas Noon Talfourd. lo" 397 Gerald Griffin. Gisippusj or, the Forgotten Friend 402 John Banim. Damon and Pythias 404 George W. Lovell. Love's Sacrifice} or, the Rival Merchants 414 Rev. James Wnirr. The King of the Commons 421 CONTENTS. xui John Howard Payne. page Brutus; or, the Fall of Tarquin 431 Nathaniel Parker Willis. Bianca Visconti ; or, the Heart overtasked 444 Tortesa, the Usurer 473 Epes Sargent. Velasco 479 Cornelius Mathews. Witchcraft 490 Anna Cora Mowatt (Mrs. Ritchie). Armand; or, the Peer and the Peasant 511 George H. Boker. The Betrothal 525 Calaynos , 546 Francesca da Rimini 549 GOLDEN LEAVES FROM THE DRAMATIC POETS. ai)oma0 0Qckr)Ule (£arl Dorset, anb ®l)oma3 Jforton. THE TRAGEDY OF FERREX AND PORREX. (The Earliest Known Specimen of English Tragedy.) (1561.) Ferrex and PoRREX, sons of Gorboduc, a King of the Ancient Britons^ are rivals. Ferrex, the eldest son^ is slain by his brother. The neivs is brought to his father^ and ivhilst Gorboduc is lamenting the death of his eldest-borny Marcella, a court lady, enters and informs the King that Porrex has been stabbed by his mother in his bed. Gorboduc, Arostus, Eubulus, and others. Gorb. What cruel destiny. What froward fate hath sorted us this chance ? That even in those where we should comfort find. Where our delight now in our aged days Should rest and be, even there our only grief. And deepest sorrows to abridge our life. Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grave. 2 G OLDEN LEAVES. Arost, Your grace should now, in these grave years of yours. Have found ere this the price of mortal joys. How full of change, how brittle our estate. How short they be, how fading here in earth. Of nothing sure, save only of the death. To whom both man and all the world doth owe Their end at last ; neither should Nature's power In other sort against your heart prevail. Than as the naked hand, whose stroke assays The armed breast where force doth light in vain. Gorb, Many can yield right grave and sage advice Of patient sprite to others wrapt in woe. And can in speech both rule and conquer kind,* Who, if by proof they might feel Nature's force, Would show themselves men as they are indeed, Which now will needs be gods : but what doth mean The sorry cheer of her that here doth come ? Marcella enters. Marc, Oh, where is ruth ? or where is pity now ? Whither is gentle heart and mercy fled ? Are they exiled out of our stony breasts. Never to make return ? is all the world Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty ? If not in women mercy may be found. If not (alas!) within the mother's breast To her own child, to her own flesh and blood ; If ruth be banished thence, if pity there May have nt' place, if there no gentle heart ■* Nature : natural affection. SACKVILLE AND NORTON. 3 Do live and dwell, where should we seek it then ? Gorb. Madam (alas!) what means your woful tale f Marc. O silly woman I ! why to this hour Have kind and fortune thus deferred my breath. That I should live to see this doleful day ? Will ever wight believe that such hard heart Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, With her own hand to slay her only son ? But out (alas !) these eyes beheld the same. They saw the dreary sight, and are become Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. Porrex, alas ! is by his mother slain. And with her hand, a woful thing to tell. While slumb'ring on his careful bed he rests, His heart stabbed in with knife is reft of life. Gorh. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, O loathsome life, O sweet and welcome death ! Dear Eubulus, work this, we thee beseech. Eub. Patient your grace, perhaps he liveth yet, With wound received, but not of certain death. Gorb. O let us then repair unto the place. And see if that Porrex live, or thus be slain. [Exit Marc. Alas l he liveth not, it is too true. That with these eyes, of him a peerless prince. Son to a king, and in the flower of youth. Even with a twink a senseless stock I saw. Arost. O danmed deed ! Marc. But hear his ruthful end. The noble prince, pierced with the sudden wounds, Out of his wretched slumber hastily start, Whose strength now failing, streight he overthrew. 4 GOLDEN LEAVES. When in the fall his eyes, ev'n now unclosed. Beheld the queen, and cried to hor for help ; We then, alas ! the ladies which that time Did there attend, seeing that heinous deed. And hearing him oft call the wretched name Of mother, and to cry to her for aid. Whose direful hand gave him the mortal wound. Pitying, alas ! (for naught else could we do) His rueful end, ran to the woful bed. Despoiled streight his breast, and all we might Wiped in vain with napkins next at hand The sudden streams of blood, that flushed fast Out of the gaping wound : O what a look, O what a ruthful, steadfast eye methought He fixed upon my face, which to my death Will never part from me ! — wherewith abraid, A deep-fetched sigh he gave, and therewithal Clasping his hands, to heaven he cast his sight ; And streight, pale death pressing within his face. The flying ghost his mortal corpse forsook. Arost. Never did age bring forth so vile a fact KYD. (^I]oma0 l\2^. THE SPANISH TRAGEDY ', OR, HIERONIMO IS MAD AGAIN. (1588.) Horatio, the son of Hieronimo, is murdered while he is sitting luith his mistress Belimperia by night in an arbour in his father'' s garden. The murderers (Balthazar, his ri-val, and Lorenzo, the brother oj Belimperia) hang his body on a tree. Hieronimo is aivakened by the cries of Belimperia, and^ coming out into his garden, disco'vers by the light of a torch, that the murdered man is his son. Upon this he goes distracted. Hieronimo, mad. Hier. .... A son. The more he grows in stature and in years. The more unsquared, unlevelled he appears ; Reckons his parents among the rank of fools, Strikes cares upon their heads with his mad riots. Makes them look old before they meet with age ; This is a son ; and what a loss is this, considered truly ! Oh, but my Horatio grew out of reach of those Insatiate humours : he loved his loving parents : He was my comfort, and his mother's joy. The very arm that did hold up our house — Our hopes were stored up in him. None but a damned murderer could hate him. He had not seen the back of nineteen years. When his strong arm unhorsed the proud Prince Balthazar And his great mind, too full of honour, took To mercy that valiant but ignoble Portuguese. 6 GOLDEN LEA VES. Well, Heaven is Heaven still ! And there is Nemesis, and furies. And things called whips. And they sometimes do meet with murderers : They do not always 'scape, that's some comfort. Ay, ay, ay, and then time steals on, and steals, and steals. Till violence leaps' forth, like thunder Wrapped in a ball of fire. And so doth bring confusion to them all. [Exti Jaques and Pedro, servants. Jaq. I wonder, Pedro, why our master thus At midnight sends us with our. torches light. When man and bird and beast are all at rest. Save those that watch for rape and bloody murder. Ped. O Jaques, know thou that our master's mind Is much distract since his Horatio died : And, now his aged years should sleep in rest. His heart in quiet, like a desperate man Grows lunatic and childish for his son : Sometimes as he doth at his table sit. He speaks as if Horatio stood by him. Then starting in a rage, falls on the earth. Cries out Horatio, where is my Horatio .? So that with extreme grief, and cutting sorrow. There is not left in him one inch of man : See, here he comes. HiERONiMo enters. Hier. I pry through every crevice of each wall, Look at each tree, and search through evtry brake. Beat on the bushes, stamp our grandame Earth, KTD. 7 Dive in the water, and stare up to heaven ; Yet cannot I behold my son Horatio. How now ! who's there, sprights, sprights ? Ped. We are your servants that attend you, sir. Hier. What make you with your torches in the dark ? Ped. You bid us light them, and attend you here. Hier. No, no, you are deceived, not I, you are deceived : Was I so mad to bid you light your torches now r Light me your torches at the mid of noon, When as the sun-god rides in all his glory ; Light me your torches then. Ped. Then we burn daylight. Hier. Let it be burnt; Night is a murd'rous slut, That would not have her treasons to be seen : And yonder pale-faced Hecate there, the moon, Doth give consent to that is done in darkness. And all those stars that gaze upon her face, /\re aglets* on her sleeve, pins on her train : And those that should be powerful and divine. Do sleep in darkness when they most should shine. Ped. Provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words, The heavens are gracious ; and your miseries And sorrow make you speak you know not what. Hier. Villain, thou liest ! and thou doest naught But tell me I am mad : thou liest, I am not mad : I know thee to be Pedro, and he Jaques. I'll prove it to thee ; and were I mad, how could I ? Where was she the same night, when my Horatio was mur- dered ? She should have shone : search thou the book : * Tags of points. 8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Had the moon shone in my boy's face, there wss a kind of grace. That I know, nay, I do know, had the murderer seen him, His weapon would have fallen, and cut the earth. Had he been framed of naught but blood and death ; Alack, when mischief doth it knows not what. What shall we say to mischief? Isabella, his wife, enters. Isa. Dear Hieronimo, come in a doors, seek not means to increase thy sorrow. Hier. Indeed, Isabella, we do nothing here ; 1 do not cry, ask Pedro and Jaques : Not I, indeed ; we are very merry, very merry. Isa. How ? be merry here, be merry here ? Is not this the place, and this the very tree. Where my Horatio died, where he was murdered ? Hier. Was, do not say what : let her weep it out. This v/as the tree, I set it of a kernel ; And when our hot Spain could not let it grow. But that the infant and the human sap Began to wither, duly twice a morning Would I be sprinkling it with fountain water : At last it grew and grew, and bore and bore : Till at length it grew a gallows, and did bear our son. It bore thy fruit and mine. O wicked, wicked plant ! See who knocks there. \^One knocks within at the door Ped. It is a painter, sir. Hier. Bid him come in, and paint some comfort. For surely there's none lives but painted comfort. Let him come in, one knows not what may chance. God's will that I should set this tree ! but even so KYD. 9 Masters ungrateful servants rear from naught. And then they hate them that did bring them up. The Painter enters. Pain. God bless you, sir. Hier. Wherefore ? why, thou scornful villain ? How, where, or by what means should I be blest ? Is a. What wouldst thou have, good fellow ? Pain, justice, madam. Hier. O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that That lives not in the world ? Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so inestimable. I tell thee, God hath engrossed all justice in His hands. And there is none but what comes from Him. Pain. O then I see that God must right me for my murdered son. Hier. How, was thy son murdered ? Pain. Ay, sir; no man did hold a son so dear. Hier. What, not as thine ? that's a lie, As massy as the earth : I had a son. Whose least unvalued hair did weigh A thousand of thy sons, and he was murdered. Pain. Alas, sir, I had no more but he. Hier. Nor I, nor I; but this same one of mine Was worth a legion. But all is one. Pedro, Jaques, go in a doors ; Isabella, go. And this good fellow here, and I, Will range this hideous orchard up and down, Like two she-lions, 'reaved of their young. Go in a doors, I say. [Exeunt. lO G OLDEN LEAVES. €livistopl)ev fllailoit)£. THE TRAGICAL HISTORY OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF DOCTOR FAUSTUS. (X589.) How Faustus fell to the study of Magic. Born of parents base of stock In Germany, within a town called Rhodes : At riper years to Wirtemberg he went. Whereat his kinsmen chiefly brought him up. So much he profits in Divinity, That shortly he was graced with Doctor's name. Excelling all, and sweetly can dispute In the heavenly matters of theology : Till, swol'n with cunning and a self-conceit. His waxen wings did mount above his reach. And melting, Heaven conspired his overthrow ; For falling to a devilish exercise. And glutted now with Learning's golden gifts. He surfeits on the cursed necromancy. Nothing so sweet as magic is to him. Which he prefers before his chiefest bliss. The Death of Faustus. Faustus alone. — The clock strikes eleven Faust. O Faustus, Now hast thou but one bare hour to live. And then thou must be damned perpetually. Stand still, you ever- moving spheres of heaven. MARLOWE. ii That time may cease, and midnight never come. Fair Nature's eye, rise, rise again, and make Perpetual day : or let this hour be put A year, a month, a week, a natural day. That Faustus may repent, and save his soul. lente lente currite noctis equi. The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strikcj The devil will come, and Faustus must be damned ! Oh, I will leap to heaven ! — who pulls me down ? See where Christ's blood streams in the firmament : One drop of blood will save me ; O my Christ, Rend not my heart for naming of my Christ. Yet will I call on Him : oh, spare me, Lucifer. Where is it now ? 'tis gone ! And see, a threat'ning arm, and angry brow ! Mountains and hills, come, come and fall on me. And hide me from the heavy wrath of Heaven ! No ? then I will headlong run into the earth : Gape, earth ! Oh, no, it will not harbour me. You stars that reigned at my nativity. Whose influence have allotted death and hell. Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist Into the entrails of yon labouring cloud; That when you vomit forth into the air, My limbs may issue from your smoky mouths ; But let my soul mount, and ascend to heaven. [ The watch strikes Oh, half the hour is past . 'twill all be past anon. Oh, if my soul must suffer for my sin. Impose some end to my incessant pain. Let Faustus live in hell a thousand years, A hundred thousand, and at the last be saved : 12 GOLDEN LEA VES. No end is limited to damned souls. Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul ? Or why is this immortal that thou hast ? O Pythagoras, Metempsychosis, were that true. This soul should fly from me, and I be changed Into some brutish beast. All beasts are happy, for when they die. Their souls are soon dissolved in elements ; But mine must live still, to be plagued in hell. Cursed be the parents that engendered me ! — No, Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer, That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. [ The clock strikes twdvr It strikes, it strikes ! — Now, body, turn to air. Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. O soul, be changed into small water-drops, And fall into the ocean ; ne'er be found. Thunder, and enter the Devils. O mercy Heaven, look not so fierce on me ! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile : Ugly hell, gape not : come not, Lucifer : I'll biKrn my books : O Mephistophilis ! Enter Scholars. First Sell, Come, gentlemen, let us go visit Faustus, For such a dreadful night was never seen Since first the world's creation did begin ; Such fearful shrieks and cries were never heard ! Pray Heaven the Doctor have escaped the danger. MAELOWE. 13 Sec. Sck. O help us. Heavens ! — see, here are Fauscus' limbs. All torn asunder by the hand of Death ! Third Sck. The devil, whom Faustus served, hath torn him thus : For 'twixt the hours of twelve and one, methought I heard him shriek, and call aloud for help ; At which same time the house seemed all on fire With dreadful horror of these damned fiends. S€C. Sck. Well, gentlemen, though Faustus' end be such As every Christian heart laments to think on : Yet for he was a scholar once admired For wondrous knowledge in our German schools. We'll give his mangled limbs due burial : And all the schola-rs, clothed in mourning black. Shall wait upon his heavy funeral. Chorus. Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight. And burned is Apollo's laurel bough' That sometime grew within this learned man : Faustus is gone ! Regard his hellish fall. Whose fiendful fortune may exhort the wise Only to wonder at unlawful things : Whose deepness doth entice such forward wits To practise more than heavenly power permits. 14 GOLDEN LEAVES. EDWARD THE SECOND. The Kirigy being deposedy surrenders his croivn into the hands of the Bishop of Winchester and the Earl of Leicester, at Ki/lingivcrth Castle.* Lei. Be patient, good my lord, cease to lament ; Imagine Killingworth castle were your court. And that you lay for pleasure here a space. Not of compulsion or necessity. Edu.\ Leister, if gentle words might comfort me. Thy speeches long ago had eased my sorrows ; For kind and loving hast thou always been. The griefs of private men are soon allayed. But not of kings. The forest deer being struck. Runs to an herb that closeth up the woiinds ; But when the imperial lion's flesh is gored. He rends and tears it with his wrathful paw. And highly scorning that the lowly earth Should drink his blood, mounts up to th' air. And so it fares with me, whose dauntless mind Th' ambitious Mortimer would seek to curb. And that unnatural queen, false Isabel, That thus hath pent and mewed me in a prison : For such outrageous passions claw my soul. As with the wings of rancour and disdain Full oft am. I soaring up to high heaven. To 'plain me to the gods against them both. But when I call to mind I am a king, Methinks I should revenge me of the wrongs That Mortimer and Isabel have done. * A ni-ncipal manor belonging to the Mortimers. MARLOWE. 15 But what are ' LIKE A WOMAN S. HELP J Virtuous Poverty. 'Life ! had he not his answer ? what strange impudence Governs in man, when lust is lord of him ! Thinks he me mad? 'cause I have no moneys on eanh. That I'll go forfeit my estate in heaven, And live eternal beggar ? He shall pardon me ; That's my soul's jointure; I'll starve ere I sell that ! Good and III Fortune. . . . . O my blessing ! I feel a hand of mercy lift nie up Out of a world of waters, and now sets me Upon a mountain, where the sun plays most, To cheer my heart even as it dries my limbs. What deeps I see beneath me ! in whose falls Many a nimble mortal toils. And scarce can feed himself: the streams of fortune, 'Gainst which he tugs in vain, still beat him down. And will not suffer him (past hand to mouth) To lift his arm to his posterities' blessing. I see a careful sweat run in a ring About his temples, but all will not do : TOURNRUR 111 For till some happy means relieve his state. There he must stick, and bide the wrath of Fate. Parting in Amity. .... Let our parting Be full as charitable as our meeting was ; That the pale envious world, glad of the food Of others' miseries, civil dissensions. And nuptial strifes, may not feed fat with ours. dgrtl Sourneur. THE revenger's TRAGEDY. The Brothers ViNDlcl and HiPPOLlTO threaten their Mother ivith death for consenting to the dishonour of their Sister. Vin. O thou for whom no name is bad enough ! Moth. What mean my sons ? What ! will you murther me ? Vi7i. Wicked, unnatural parent ! Hip. Friend of women ! Moth. Oh ! are sons turned monsters ? — Help ! Vin. In vain. Moth. Are ye so barbarous to set iron nipples Upon the breast that gave you suck ? Vin. That breast Is turned to quarled poison. Moth. Cut not your days for't. Am not I your mother ? Vin. Thou dost usurp that title now by fraud. For in that shell of mother breeds a bawd. Moth. A bawd ! O name far loathsomer than hell ! 112 GOLDEN LEAVE S. Hip. Ir should be so, knew'st thou thy ofHce well Motli. I hate it. Vin. Ah, is it possible, you powers on high. That women should dissemble when they die ? Moth. Dissemble ! Fill. Did not the duke's son direct A fellow of the world's condition hither, That did corrupt all that was good in thee ? Made thee uncivilly forget thyself. And work our sister to his purpose ? Moth. Who, I ? That had been monstrous. I defy that man For any such intent. None lives so pure. But shall be soiled with slander. Good son, believe it not. Fin. Oh, Pm in doubt Whether I am myself or no ! — Stay, let me look again upon this face. Who shall be saved when mothers have no grace ? [Resumes his disguise. Hip. 'Twould make one half despair. Fin. I was the man. Defy me now ; let's see, do't modestly. Motli. Oh, hell unto my soul ! Fin. In that disguise, I, sent from the duke's son. Tried you, and found you base metal. As any villain might have done. Moth. Oh, no. No tongue but yours could have bewitched me so. Fin, O nimble in damnation, quick in turn ! There is no devil could strike fire so soon. I am confuted in a word. TOURNEUh 113 Moth. O sons. Forgive me ! to myself I'll prove more true ; You that should honour me, I kneel to you. ■ Vin. A mother to give aim to her own daughter ! Hip, True, brother ; how far beyond nature 'tis. Though many mothers do it ! Vin. Nay, and you draw tears once, go you to bed ; Wet will make iron blush, and change to red. Brother, it rains, — 'twill spoil your dagger ; house it. Hip. 'Tis done. Vin. I' faith, 'tis a sweet shower ; it does much good. The fruitful grounds and meadows of her soul Have been long dry : pour down, thou blessed dew ! Rise, mother; troth, this shower has made you higher. Moth. O you Heavens ! Take this infectious spot out of my soul ; I'll rinse it in seven waters of mine eyes. Make my tears salt enough to taste of grace. To weep is to our sex naturally given ; But to weep truly, that's a gift from heaven. Vin. Nay, I'll kiss you now. Kiss her, brother : X^et's marry her to our souls, wherein's no lust. And honourably love her. Hip_. Let it be. Vin. For honest women are so seld and rare, 'Tis good to cherish those poor few that are. O you of easy wax ! do but imagine. Now the disease has left you, how leprously That office would have dinged unto your forehead ! All mothers that had any graceful hue. Would have worn masks to hide their face at you. It would have grown to this, at your foul name 114 G OLDEN LEAVES. Green-coloured maids would have turned red with shame. Hip. And then our sister, full of hire and baseness Vin. There had been boiling lead again ! The duke's son's great concubine ! A drab of state, a cloth-o'-silver slut. To have her train borne up, and her soul trail in the dirt ! Hip. To be great, miserable; — to be rich, eternally wretched ! Vin. O common madness ! Ask but the thriving'st harlot in cold blood, She'd give the world to make her honour good. Perhaps you'll say, but only to the duke's son In private ; why, she first begins with one Who afterwards to thousands proves a whore : Break ice in one place, it will crack in more. Moth. Most certainly applied. Hip. O brother, you forget our business. Vin. And well remembered. Joy's a subtle elf; I think man's happiest when he forgets himself Farewell, once dry, now holy-watered mead; Our hearts wear feathers that before wore lead. Moth. I'll give you this : that one I never knew Plead better for, and 'gainst the devil than you. Vin. You make me proud on't. Hip. Commend us in all virtue to our sister. Vin, Ay, for the love of Heaven, to that true maid. Moth. With my best words. /tw. Why, that was motherly said. FORD. 115 lol)n ibrb. THE BROKEN HEART. While Calantha* {Princess of Sparta) is celebrating the Nuptials oj Prophilus and Euphranea, at Court, with music and dancing, one enters to inform her that the King her Father is dead; a second brings the news that Penthea {Sister to Ithocles) is star'ved ; and a third comes to tell that Ithocle-s himself {to whom the Princess is contracted) is cruelly murdered. Calantha, Pr.ophilus, Euphranea, Nearchus, Crotolon, Christalla, Philema, and others. Cal. We miss our servant Ithocles, and Orgilus • On whom attend they ? Crot. My son, gracious princess. Whispered some new device, to which these revels- Should be but usher : wherein, I conceive, Lord Ithocles and he himself are actors. Cal. A fair excuse for absence : as for Bassanes Delights to him are troublesome ; Armostes Is with the king. Crot. He is. Cal. On to the dance ! {To Nearchus.) Dear cousin, hand you the bru.e ; .He bridegroom must be Intrusted to my courtship: be not jealous, Euphranea ; I shall scarcely prove a temptress. Fall to our dance ! * The princess is won by the solicitations of Penthea, and by the real deserts of Ithocles, to requite his love, and they are contracted with the consent of the king her father. Il6 GOLDEN LEAVES. They dance the first change, during which Armostfs enters. Arm. The king your father's dead. Cal. To the other change ! Arm. Is it possible ? They dance again. — Bassanes enters. Bass. O madam, Penthea, poor Penthea, is starved ! Cal. Beshrew thee ! — Lead to the next ! Bass. Amazement dulls my senses. They dance again. — Orgilus enters. Org. Brave Ithocles is murdered, murdered cruelly ! Cal. How dull this music sounds ! Strike up more sprightly : Our footings are not active like our heart. Which treads the nimbler measure. Org. I am thunder-struck ! They dance the last change. — The music ceases. Cal. So let us breathe awhile. Hath not this motion Raised fresher colour on your cheeks ? [ To Nearchus Near. Sweet princess, A perfect purity of blood enamels The beauty of your white. Cal. We all look cheerfully ; And, cousin, 'tis methinks a rare presumption In any, who prefers our lawful pleasures Before their own sour censure, to interrupt The custom of this ceremony bluntly. FORD. 117 Near, None dares. Lady. CaL Yes, yes ; some hollow voice delivered to me How that the King was dead. Arm, The King is dead : That fatal news was mine ; for in mine arms He breathed his last, and with his crown bequeathed you Your mother's wedding-ring, which here I tender. Crot. Most strange ! CaL Peace crown his ashes ! — We are Queen, then. Near. Long live Calantha, Sparta's sovereign gueen ! All, Long live the Queen ! CaL What whispered Bassanes ? Bass. That my Penthea,* miserable soul ! Was starved to death. CaL She's happy ; she hath finished A long and painful progress. — A third murmur Pierced mine unwilling ears. Org. That Ithocles Was murdered. CaL By whose hand ? Org. By mine : this weapon Was instrument to my revenge. The reasonsf Are just and known. Quit him of these, and then Never lived gentleman of greater merit, Hope, or abiliment to steer a kingdom. CaL We begin our reign With a first act of justice : thy confession, Unhappy Orgilus, dooms thee a sentence ; * Wife to Bassanes. f Penthea (sister to Ithocles) was betrothed at first to Orgilus, but compelled by her brother to marry Bassanes ; by which forced matct she, becoming miserable, refused to take food, and died. ll8 G OLDEN LEA YES. But yet thy father's or thy sister's presence Shall be excused. Give, Crotolon,* a blessing To thy lost son : Euphranea,f take a farewell ; And both begone ! — {To Orgilus.) Bloody relater of thy stains in blood ! For that thou hast reported him (whose fortunes And life by thee are both at once snatched from him) With honourable mention, make thy choice Of what death likes thee best : there's all our bounty. But to excuse delays, let me, dear cousin. Entreat you and these lords see execution — Instant, before ye part ! Near. Your will commands us. Org. One suit, just Queen — my last ! Vouchsafe your clemency. That by no common hand I be divided From this my humble frailty. Cal. To their wisdoms. Who are to be spectators of thine end, I make the reference. Those that are dead. Are dead ; had they not now died, of necessity They must have paid the debt they owed to Nature One .time or other. Use dispatch, my lords. — We'll suddenly prepare our coronation. [^Exit. Arm. 'Tis strange these tragedies should never touch on Her female pity. Bass. She has a mascuhne spirit. The Coronation of the Princess takes place after the Execution of Orgi- lus. — She enters the Temple^ dressed in ivhite^ having a Croivn on her Head. She kneels at the Altar. The dead Body of Ithocles * His father. f His sister. FORD. 119 livhom she should ha-ve married) is borne on a Hearse^ in rich Robes, hwving a Croivn on his Head^ and placed by the side of the Aha ivhere she kneels. Her Devotions ended, she rises. Calantha, Nearchus, Prophilus, Crotolon, Bassanes Armostes, Euphranea, Amelus, Christalla, Pf and others. Cat. Our orisons are heard ; the gods are merc'.fi Now tell me, you whose loyalties pay tribute To us your lawful sovereign, how unskilful Your duties, or obedience is, to render Subjection to the sceptre of a virgin ; Who have been ever fortunate in princes Gt masculine and stirring composition. A woman has enough to govern wisely Her own demeanours, passions, and divisions. A nation warlike, and inured to practice Of policy and labour, cannot brook A feminate authority : we therefore Command your counsel, how you may advise us In choosing of a husband, whose abilities Can better guide this kingdom. Near. Royal Lady, Your law is in your will. Arm. We have seen tokens Of constancy too lately to mistrust it. Crot. Yet if your Highness settle on a choice By your own judgment both allowed and liked of, Sparta may grow in power, and proceed To an increasing height Cal. Cousin of Argos, Near. Madam. Cal. Were I presently 6* 120 G OLD EN LEAVES. To choose you for my lord, I'll open freely What articles I would propose to treat on. Before our marriage. Near. Name them, virtuous Lady. Cal. I would presume you would retain the royalty Of Sparta in her own bounds : then in Argos Armostes might be viceroy ; in Messene Might Crotolon bear sway ; and Bassanes Be Sparta*s marshal. The multitudes of high employments could not But set a peace to private griefs. These gentlemen, Groneas and Lemaphil, with worthy pensions. Should wait upon your person in your chamber. I would bestow Christalla on Amelus ; She'll prove a constant wife : and Philema Should into Vesta's temple. Bass. This is a testament ; It sounds not like conditions on a marriage. Near. xAU this should be performed. Cal. Lastly, for Prophilus, He should be (cousin) solemnly invested In all those honours, titles, and preferments. Which his dear friend and my neglected husband Too short a time enjoyed. Proph. I am unworthy To live in your remembrance. Euph. Excellent Lady. Near. Madam, what means that word, neglected husband r Cat. Forgive me ! — Now I turn to thee, thou shadow f To the dead body of Ithocles Of my contracted lord ! Bear witness all, I put my mother's wedding-ring upon FORD. 121 His finger ; 'twas my father's last bequest : Thus I new marry him, whose wife I am ; Death shall not separate us. O my lords, I but deceived your eyes with intic gesture. When one news straight came huddling on another. Of death, and death, and death j still I danced forward ; But it struck home, and here, and in an instant. Be such mere women., who with shrieks and outcries Can vow a present end to all their sorrows ; Yet live to vow new pleasures, and outhve them. They are tr.e silent griefs which cut the heart-strings : Let me die smiling. Near. 'Tis a truth too ominous. CaL One kiss on these cold lips ; my last. Crack, crack ! Argos now's Sparta's King! \Dies. THE lover's melancholy. Contention of a Nightingale and a Musician. Passing from Italy to Greece, the tales Which poets of an elder time have feigned. To glorify their Tempe, bred in me Desire of visiting that paradise. To Thessaly I came, and living private. Without acquaintance of more sweet companions Than the old inmates to my love, my thoughts, I day by day frequented silent groves. And solitary walks. One morning early This accident encountered me : I heard The sweetest and most ravishing contention That Art or Nature ever were at strife in. 122 G OLDEN LEAVES. A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather. Indeed, entranced my soul : as I stole nearer. Invited, by the melody, I saw This youth, this fair-faced youth, upon his lute. With strains of strange variety and harmony. Proclaiming (as it seemed) so bold a challenge To the clear quiristers of the woods, the birds. That, as they flocked about him, all stood silent, Wond'ring at what they heard. I wondered too. A Nightingale, Nature's best-skilled musician, undertakes The challenge ; and, for every several strain The well-shaped youth could touch, she sang her down He could not run division with more art Upon his quaking instrument, than she. The Nightingale, did with her various notes Reply to. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger ; that a bird, Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes. Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice : To end the controversy, in a rapture. Upon his instrument he plays so swiftly. So many voluntaries, and so quick. That there was curiosity and cunning. Concord in discord, lines of diiF'ring method Meeting in one full centre of delight. The bird (ordained to be Music^s first martyr) strove to imitate These several sounds : which when her warbling tliroat Failed in, for grief down dropped she on his lute, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 123 And brake her heart ! It was the quaintest sadness. To see the conqueror upon her hearse To weep a funeral elegy of tears. He looks upon the trophies of his art. Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed, and criedj " Alas ! poor creature, I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the author of it. Henceforth this lute, guilty of innocent blood. Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end ;" and in that sorrow. As he was pashing it against a tree, I suddenly stepped in. Beaumont aub JTlctcljcr. THE maid's tragedy. Amintor, a noble Gentleman^ promises Marriage to Aspatia, and for- sakes her^ by the Kings command^ to ived Evadne. — The Grief cj Aspatia at being forsaken^ described. .... This lady Walks discontented, with her wat'ry eyes Bent on the earth : the unfrequented woods Are her delight ; and when she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she with a sigh will tell Her servants what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in ; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. She carries with her an infectious grief That strikes all her beholders ; she will sing The mournfull'st things that ever ear have heard. 124 GOLDEN LEAVES. And sigh, and sing again ; and when the rest Of our young ladies, in their wanton blood, Tell mirthful tales in course that fill the room With laughter, she will with so sad a look Bring forth a story of the silent death Of some forsaken virgin, which her grief Will put in such a phrase, that, ere she end, She'll send them weeping one by one away. The Marriage-Night of Amintor and Evadne. EvADNE, AspATiA, DuLA, diid otlicr LddlCS. Evad. Would thou couldst instil [ To Dul; Some of thy mirth into Aspatia ! Asp. It were a timeless smile should prove my cheek ; It were a fitter hour for me to laugh. When at the altar the religious priest Were pacifying the offended powers With sacrifice, than now. This should have been My night, and all your hands have been employed In giving me, a spotless offering, To young Amintor's bed, as we are now For you. Pardon, Evadne, would my worth Were great as yours, or that the King, or he. Or both, thought so ! Perhaps he found me worthless ' But till he did so, in these ears of mine (These credulous ears) he poured the sv/eetest words That art or love could frame. Evad, Nay, leave this sad talk, madam. Asp. Woula I could, then should I leave the cause. Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew. Evad. That's one of your sad spngs, madam. BEAUMONT AND FLETOUEE. 125 Asp. Believe me, 'tis a very pretty one. Evad. How is it, madam ? Asp. ** Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew ; Maidens, willow-branches bear ; say I died true : My love was false, but I was firm from my hour of birth ; Upon my buried body lay lightly, gentle earth." Madam, good-night ; — may no discontent Grow 'twixt your love and you ; but if there do. Inquire of me, and I will guide your moan. Teach you an artificial way to grieve. To keep your sorrow waking. Love your lord No worse than I ; but if you love so well, Alas ! you may displease him, sa did L This is the last time you shall look on me : Ladies, farewell \ As soon as I am dead. Come all, and watch one night about my hearse ; Bring each a mournful story and a tear To offer at it when I go to earth : With flattering ivy clasp my coffin round ; Write on my brow my fortune ; let my bier Be borne by virgins, that shall sing by course The truth of maids and perjuries of men. Evad. Alas ! 1 pity thee. Amintor enters. Asp. Go, and be happy in your lady's love ; \To Amintor, May all the wrongs that you have done to me, Be utterly forgotten in my death. I'll trouble you no more, yet I will take A parting kiss, and will not be denied. You'll come, my lord, and see the virgins weep .26 GOLDEN LEAVES, When I am laid in earth, though you yourself Can know no pity : thus I wind myself Into this willow garland, and am prouder That I was once your love (though now refused), Than to have had another true to me. . . . AsPATiA 'wills her Maidens to be sorroivful^ because ihe is so. AsPATiA, Antiphila, Olympias. Asp. Come, let's be sad, my girls ; That down-cast of thine eye, Olympias, Shows a fine sorrow ; mark, Antiphila, Just such another was the nymph (Enone, When Paris brought home Helen : now a tear. And then thou art a piece expressing fully The Carthage Queen, when from a cold sea-rock, Full with her sorrow, she tied fast her eyes To the fair Trojan ships, and having lost them. Just as thine eyes do, down stole a tear, Antiphila. What would this wench do, if she were Aspatia ? Here she would stand, till some more pitying god Turned her to marble. 'Tis enough, my wench : Show me the piece of needlework you wrought. Ant. Of Ariadne, madam ? Asp. Yes, that piece. This should be Theseus — h' as a cozening face ; You meant him for a man ? A7it. He was so, madam. Asp. Why, then, 'tis well enough. Never look back j You have a full wind, and a false heart, Theseus. Does not the story say, his keel was split. Or his masts spent, or some kind rock or other Met with his vessel ? BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 127 Ant, Not as I remember. Asp. It should ha' been so : could the gods know this. And not of all their number raise a storm ? But they are all as ill. This false smile was well expressed ; Just such another caught me. You shall not go so, Anti- phila : In this place work a quicksand. And over it a shallow smiling water. And his ship ploughing it, — and then a fear. Do that fear to the life, wench ! Ant. 'Twill wrong the story. Asp. 'Twill make the story, wronged by wanton poets. Live long, and be beheved. But where's the lady ? Ant. There, madam. Asp. Fie ! you have missed it here, Antiphila ; You are much mistaken, wench : These colours are not dull and pale enough. To show a soul so full of misery As this sad lady's was ; do it by me, — Do it again by me, the lost Aspatia, And you shall find all true but the wild island. I stand upon the sea-beach now, and think Mine arms thus, and mine hair blown with the wind. Wild as that desert, and let all about me Tell that I am forsaken : do my face (If thou hadst ever feeling of a sorrow) Thus, thus, Antiphila, — strive to make me look Like Sorrow's monument ; and the trees about me. Let them be dry and leafless ; let the rocks Groan with continual surges, and behind me Make all a desolation. — Look, look, wenches ! A miserable life of this poor picture. 128 GOLDEN LEA VES. Olym. Dear madam ! Asp. I have done. Sit down, and let us Upon that point fix all our eyes, that point there; Make a dull silence, till you feel a sudden sadness Give us new souls. PHILASTER ; OR, LOVE LIES A BLEEDING. Philaster tells the Princess Arxthusa hoiu he first found the Boy Bellario. .... I HAVE a boy sent by the gods. Not yet seen in the court ; hunting the buck, [ found him sitting by a fountain-side. Of which he borrowed some to quench his thirst. And paid the nymph again as much in tears ; A garland lay him by, made by himself. Of many several flowers, bred in the bay. Stuck in that mystic order, that the rareness Delighted me : but ever when he turned His tender eyes upon them, he would weep. As if he meant to make them grow again. Seeing such pretty helpless innocence Dwell in his face, I asked him all his story : He told me that his parents gentle died, Leaving him to the mercy of the fields. Which gave him roots; and of the crystal springs, Which did not stop their courses ; and the sun. Which still, he thanked him, yielded him his light. Then took he up his garland, and did show What every flower, as country people hold. Did signify ; and how all, ordered thus, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. ) iq Expressed his grief: and to my thoughts did read The prettiest lecture of his country art That could be wished, so that, methought, I could Have studied it. I gladly entertained him, Who was as glad to follow; and have got The trustiest, loving'st, and the gentlest boy. That ever master kept : him will I send To wait on you, and bear our hidden love. Philaster prefers Bellario to the Service of the Princess Arethusa Phi. And thou shalt find her honourable, boy. Full of regard unto thy tender youth, For thine own modesty; and, for my sake, Apter to give, than thou wilt be to ask, ay, or deserve. Ball. Sir, you did take me up when I was nothing. And only yet am something by being yours ; You trusted me unknown ; and that which you are apt To construe a simple innocence in me, '^erhaps might have been craft, the cunning of a boy ."■{ardened in lies and theft ; yet ventured you To part my miseries and me : for which, !. never can expect to ser^'e a lady That bears more honour in her breast than you. Phi. But, boy, it will prefer thee ; thou art young. And bear'st a childish overflowing love To them that clap thy cheeks and speak thee fair yet. But when thy judgment comes to rule those passions. Thou wilt remember best those careful friends That placed thee in the noblest way of life : She is a princess I prefer thee to. Bell. In that small time that I have seen the I never knew a man hasty to pare 130 G OLDEN LEAVES. With a servant he thought trusty ; I remember. My father would prefer the boys he kept To greater men than he, but did it not Till they were grown too saucy for himself. Phi. Why, gentle boy, I find no fault at all In thy behaviour. Bell. Sir, if I have made A fault of ignorance, instruct my youth ; I shall be willing, if not apt, to learn. Age and experience will adorn my mind With larger knowledge : and if I have done A wilful fault, think me not past all hope For once ; what master holds so strict a hand Over his boy, that he will part with him Without one warning ? Let me be corrected To break my stubbornness if it be so. Rather than turn me off, and I shall mend. Phi. Thy love doth plead so prettily to stay. That (trust me) I could weep to part with thee. Alas ! I do not turn thee off; thou knowest It is my business that doth call thee hence. And when thou art with her thou dwell'st with me Think so, and 'tis so; and when time is full, That thou hast well discharged this heavy trust. Laid on so weak a one, I will again With joy receive thee ; as I live, I will ! Nay, weep not, gentle boy ; 'tis more than time Thou didst attend the princess. Bell. I am gone ; But since I am to part with you, my lord. And none knows whether I shall live to do More service for you, take this httle prayer : BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 131 Heaven bless your loves, your fights, all your designs; May sick men, if they have your wish, be well ; And Heaven hate those you curse, though I be one ! Bellario describes to the Princess Arethusa the manner of his Master Philaster's love for her. Are, Sir, you are sad to change your service, is't not so ? Bdl. Madam, I have not changed : I wait on you. To do him service. Are. Thou disclaim'st in me ; Tell me thy name. Bell. Bellario. Are. Thou canst sing and play ? Bell. If grief will give me leave, madam, I can. Are. Alas ! what kind of grief can thy years know ? Hadst thou a cursed master when thou went'st to school ? Thou art not capable of any other grief; Thy brows and cheeks are smooth as waters be. When no breath troubles them : believe me, boy. Care seeks out wrinkled brows, and hollow eyes. And builds himself caves to abide in them. Come, sir, tell me truly, does your lord love me ? Bell. Love, madam ? I know not what it is. Are. Canst thou know grief, and never yet knew'st love ? Thou art deceived, boy. Does he speak of me As if he wished me well ? Bell, If it be love. To forget all respect of his own friends. In thinking of your face ; if it be love. To sit cross-armed and sigh away the day. Mingled with starts, crying your name as loud And hastily, as men i' the streets do fire ; 132 G OLDEN LEAVES. If it be love to weep himself away. When he but hears of any lady dead. Or killed, because it might have been your chance ; If, when he goes to rest (which will not be), 'Twixt every prayer he says to name you once. As others drop a bead, be to be in love; — Then, madam, I dare swear he loves you. Are. Oh, you're a cunning boy, and taught to lie For your lord's credit ; but thou know'st a lie That bears this sound, is welcomer to me Than any truth that says he loves me not. Philaster is jealous of Bellarto ivith the Princess. Bell. Health to you, my lord ! The princess doth commend her love, her life. And this, unto you. Pht. O Bellario, Now I perceive she loves me ; she does show it In loving thee, my boy : she has made thee brave. Bdl. My lord, she has attired me past my wish, Past my desert, — more fit for her attendant. Though far unfit for me who do attend. Phi. Thou art grown courtly, boy. Oh, let all women That love black deeds learn to dissemble here ! Here by this paper she does write to me As if her heart were mines of adamant To all the world besides, but unto me A maiden snow that melted with my looks. ' Tell me, my boy, how doth the princess use thee ? For I shall guess her love to me by that. Bell. Scarce like her servant, but as if I were Something allied to her ; or had preserved BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 133 Her life three times by my fidelity ; As mothers fond do use their only sons; As I'd use one that's left unto my trust. For whom my life should pay if he met harm. So she does use me. Phi. Why, this is wondrous well : But what kind language does she feed thee with ? Bell, Why, she does tell me, she will trust my youth With all her loving secrets, and does call me Her pretty servant, bids me weep no more For leaving you ; she'll see my services Regarded : and such words of that soft strain. That I am nearer weeping when she ends Than ere she spake. Phi. This is much better still ! Bell. Are yoa ill, my lord ? Phi. Ill ? No, Bellario. Bell. Methinks your words Fall not from off your tongue so evenly, Nor is there in your looks that quietness. That I was wont to see. Phi. Thou art deceived, boy. — And she strokes thy heaa ? Bell. Yes. Phi. And she does clap thy cheeks ? Bell. She does, my lord. Phi. And she does kiss thee, boy, ha Bell. How, my lord ? Phi. She kisses thee ? Bell. Not so, my lord. Phi. Come, come, I know she does. Bell. No, by my life ! — Ay, now I see why my disturbed thoughts 134 GOLDEN LEAVES. Were so perplexed when first I went to her : My heart held augury. You are abused, — Some villain has abused you ; I do see Whereto you tend. Fall rocks upon his head. That put this to you ! — 'tis some subtle train To bring that noble frame of yours to naught. Phi. Thou think'st I will be angry with thee. Come, Thou shalt know all my drift. I hate her more Than I love happiness, and placed thee there To pry with narrow eyes into her deeds. Hast thou discovered ? — is she fall'n to lust. As I would wish her ? Speak some comfort to me. Bell. My lord, you did mistake the boy you sent : Had she a sin that way, hid from the world, I would not aid Her base desires ; but what I came to know As servant to her, I would not reveal. To make my life last ages. Phi. O my heart ! This is a salve worse than the main disease. Tell me thy thoughts ; for I will know the least That dwells within thee, or will rip thy heart To know it ! I will see thy thoughts as plain As I do know thy face. Bell. Why, so you do. She is (for aught I know), by all the gods. As chaste as ice ! — but were she foul as hell. And I did know it, thus — the breath of kings. The points of swords, tortures, nor bulls of brass. Should draw it from me ! Phi. Then it is no time BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 135 To dally with thee : I will take thy life. For I do hate thee • I could curse thee now ! Bell. If you do hate, you could not curse me worse ; The gods have not a punishment in store Greater for me than is your hate. Phi, Fie, fie ! So young and so dissembling ! Fear'st thou not death ? Can boys contemn that ? Bell. Oh, what a boy is he Can be content to live to be a man. That sees the best of men thus passionate. Thus without reason ? Phi. Oh, but thou dost not know what 'tis to die ! Bell. Yes, I do know, my lord. 'Tis less than to be born ; a lasting sleep, A quiet resting from all jealousy ; A thing we all pursue ; I know, besides, It is but giving over of a game That must be lost. Phi. But there are pains, false boy. For perjured souls ; think but on these, and then Thy heart will melt, and thou wilt utter all. Bell. May they fall all upon me whilst I live. If I be perjured, or ever thought Of that you charge me with. If I be false. Send me to suffer in those punishments You speak of; kill me. Phi. Oh, what should I do ? — Why, who can but believe him } He does swear So earnestly, that if it were not true, The gods would not endure him. Rise, Bellario ! Thy protestations are so deep, and thou 7 136 GOLDEN LEA VES. Dost look so truly when thou utter'st them. That though I know them false, as were my hopci, I cannot urge thee further : but thou wert To blame to injure me, for I must love Thy honest looks, and take no revenge upon Thy tender youth : a love from me to thee Is firm, whate'er thou dost: it troubles me That I have called the blood out of thy cheeks, That did so well become thee : but, good boy. Let me not see thee more ; something is done That will distract me, that will make me mad. If I behold thee ; if thou tender'st me. Let me not see thee. Bell, I will fly as far As there is morning, ere I give distaste To that most honoured mind. But through these tears Shed at my hopeless parting, I can see A world of treason practised upon you. And her, and me. Farewell for evermore ! If you shall hear that sorrow struck me dead. And after find me loyal, let there be A tear shed from you in my memory. And I shall rest at peace. Bellario, disco'vered to be a Woman^ confesses the moti've fo>' her diX' guise to have been love for Prince Philaster. My father would oft speak Your worth and virtue, and as I did grow More and more apprehensive, I did thirst To see the man so praised ; but yet all this Was but a maiden longing, to be lost As soon as found, till sitting in my window, BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 157 Printing my thougnts in lawn, I saw a god I thought (but it was you) enter our gates : My blood flew out, and back again, as fast As I had puffed it forth, and sucked it in Like breath j then was I called away in haste To entertain you. Never was a man Heaved from a sheep-cot to a sceptre, raised So high in thoughts as I ; you left a kiss Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep From you forever; I did hear you talk Far above singing. After you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so. Alas ! I found it love. Yet far from lust, for could I have but lived [n presence of you, I had had my end. For this I did delude my noble father With a feigned pilgrimage, and dressed myself In habit of a boy, — and, for I knew My birth no match for you, I was past hope Of having you. And understanding well. That when I made discovery of my sex, I could not stay with you, I made a vow. By all the most religious things a maid Could call together, never to be known. Whilst there was hope to hide me from men's eves For other than I seemed ; that 1 might ever Abide with you : then sate I by the fount Where first you took me up. . . . 38 GOLDEN LEAVES. loljn 51eUl]er. THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN. HiPPOLiTA a7id Emilia discoursing of the Friendship betiuetn Peri- THous aiid Theseus, Emilia relates a parallel instance of the Love betiveen herself and Flavia, being Girls.' EmiL I was acquainted Once with a time, when I enjoyed a playfellow ; You were at wars when she the grave enriched. Who made too proud the bed, took leave o' th' moon (Which then looked pale at parting) when our count Was each eleven. H?p. 'Twas Flavia. Ei?iil. Yes. You talk of Perithous and Theseus' love ; Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned. More buckled with strong judgment, and their needs The one of th' other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love ; but I And she (I sigh and spoke of) were things innocent, Loved for we did, and like the elements. That know not what, nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance ; our souls I)ia so to one another : what she liked, Was then of me approved ; what not condemned. No more arraignment; the Hower that 1 would pluck, And put between my oreasts (on, then but begmnmg To swell about the bosom), snc woula long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where phcenix-like They died in perfume : on my head no toy FLETCHER. 139 But was her pattern ; her affections pretty. Though happily hers careless were, I followed For my most serious decking ; had mine ear Stolen some new air, or at adventure hummed on From musical coinage, why, it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn (rather dwell on). And sing it in her slumbers ; this rehearsal (Which every innocent wots well) comes in Like old Importment's bastard, has this end : That the true love 'tween maid and maid may be More than in sex dividual. . . . Palamon and Arcite, repining at their hard conditiotij in being made Capti-ves for life in Athens^ derive consolation from the enjoyment of each other'' s company in Prison. Pal, How do you, noble cousin? Arc. How do you, sir ? Pal. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery. And bear the chance of war yet ; we are prisoners I fear, forever, cousin. Arc. I believe it. And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. Pal. O cousin Arcite ! Where is Thebes now ? where is our noble country ? Where are our friends and kindreds ? Never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour. Hung with the painted favours of their ladies. Like tall ships under sail ; then start amongst them. And as an east wind leave them all behind us Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, I40 G OLDEN LEAVES. Even in the wagging of a wanton leg. Outstripped the people's praises, won the garlands Ere they have time to wish them ours. Oh, neve. Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour. Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses. Like proud seas under us, our good swords now (Better the red-eyed god of war ne'er wore) Ravished our sides, like age, must run to rust, And deck the temples of those gods that hate us ; These hands shall never draw them out like lightning To blast whole armies more. Arc. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us ; here we are. And here the graces of our youths must wither. Like a too timely spring : here age must find us. And (which is heaviest) Palamon, unmarried ; The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks j no issue know us ; No figures of ourselves shall we e'er see. To glad our age, and like young eagles teach them Boldly to gaze against bright arms, and say, "Remember what your fathers were, and conquer !" The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments. And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune, Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and Nature. This is all our world : We shall know nothing here, but one another ; Hear nothing, but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it : Summer shall come, and with her all delights. But dead-cold Winter must inhabit here still. FLETCHER. 141 Pal. 'Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds. That shook the aged forest with their echoes. No more now must we halloo, no more shake Our pointed javelins, whilst the angry swine Fhes like a Parthian quiver from our rages. Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses {The food and nourishment of noble minds) In us two here shall perish : we shall die (Which is the curse of honour), lastly. Children of grief and ignorance. Arc. Yet, cousin. Even from the bottom of these miseries. From all that Fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings. If the gods please to hold here ; a brave patience. And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison. Pal. Certainly 'Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twined together ; 'tis most true,, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let them suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together. Will never sink • they must not ; say they could, A willing man dies sleeping, and all's done. Arc. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much ? Pal, How, gentle cousin ? Arc. Let's think this prison holy sanctuary. To keep us from corruption of worse men ; We are young, and yet desire the ways of honour That liberty and common conversation. 142 G OLDEN LEAVES. The poison of pure spirits, might (like women) Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be, but our imaginations May make it ours ? And here being thus together. We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another's wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquainran«.e We are, in one another, families; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance ; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us ; here with a little patience We shall live long, and loving ; no surfeits seek us ; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business ; Quarrels consume us ; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance ; I might sicken, cousin. Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes. Or prayers to the gods : a thousand chances. Were we from hence, would sever us. Pal. You have made me (I thank you. Cousin Arcite) almost wanton With my captivity : what a misery It is to live abroad, and everywhere ! 'Tis like a beast, methinks ! I find the court here, I'm sure, a more content ; and all those pleasures. That woo the wills of men to vanity, I see through now ; and am sufficient To tell the world, 'tis but a gaudy shadow. That old Time, as he passes by, takes with him. What had we been old in the court of Creon, MASSINGER. 143 Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones ? Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us. We had diea as they do, ill old men, unwept. And had their epitaphs, the people's curses |)l}Uip Itlassingcv. THE CITY MADAM: A COMEDY. LuKS, from a state of Indigence and Dependence, is suddenly raised into immense Affiuence by a Deed of Gift of the Estates of his Brother, Sir John Frugal, a Merchant retired from the World. He enters, frcm taking a Survey of his neiu Riches. Luke. 'Twas no fantastic object, but a truth, A real truth, — no dream. I did not slumber ; And could wake ever with a brooding eye To gaze upon't ! it did endure the touch — I saw and felt it. Yet what I beheld And handled oft, did so transcend belief (My wonder and astonishment passed o'er), I faintly could give credit to my senses. Thou dumb magician, [ To the Key That without a charm Didst make my entrance easy to possess What wise men wish and toil for. Hermes' Moly ; Sybilla's golden bough ; the great elixir Imagined only by the alchemist; Compared with thee, are shadows, thou the substance And guardian of felicity. No marvel, 7* 144 G OLDEN LEAVES. My brother made thy place of rest his bosom. Thou being the keeper of his heart, a mistress To be hugged ever. In by-corners of This sacred room, silver, in bags heaped up, Like billets sawed and ready for the fire. Unworthy to hold fellowship with bright gold. That flowed about the room, concealed itself. There needs no artificial light ; the splendour Makes a perpetual day there ; nigh tand darkness By that still-burning lamp forever banished. But when, guided by that, my eyes had made Discovery of the caskets, and they opened. Each sparkling diamond from itself shot forth A pyramid of flames, and in the roof Fixed it a glorious star, and made the place Heaven's abstract, or epitome : rubies, sapphires. And robes of orient pearl, — these seen, I could not But look on gold with contempt. And yet I found. What weak credulity could have no faith in, A treasure far exceeding these. Here lay A manor bound fast in a skin of parchment ; The wax continuing hard, the acres melting. Here a sure deed of gift for a market town. If not redeemed this day ; which is not in The unthrift's power. There being scarce one shire In Wales or England, where my moneys are not Lent out at usury, the certain hook To draw in more. The Extravagance of the City Madams. Luke, having come into the possession of his Brother Sir John Frugal's Estates. Lady, Wife to Sir John Frugal, and two Daughters, in Lontely Attire. MAS SINGER. 14S L2ike. Save you, sister ; I now dare style you so. You were before Too glorious to be looked on : now you appear Like a city matron, and my pretty nieces Such things As they were born and bred there. Why should you ape The fashions of court ladies, whose high titles And pedigrees of long descent give warrant For their superfluous bravery ? 'Twas monstrous ! Till now you ne'er looked lovely. Lady. Is this spoken In scorn .? Luke. Fie, no ! with judgment, I make good My promise, and now show you like yourselves. In your own natural shapes. Lady. We acknowledge We have deserved ill from you,* yet despair not ; Though we're at your disposure, you'll maintain us Like your brother's wife and daughters. Liike. 'Tis my purpose. Lady. And not make us ridiculous. Luke. Admired, rather. As fair exam.ples for our proud city dames And their proud brood to imitate. Hear Gently, and in gentle phrase I'll reprehend Your late disguised deformity. Your father was An honest country farmer, Goodman Humble, By his neighbours ne'er called master. Did your pride * In his dependent state they had treated him very cruelly. They are now dependent on him. 146 GOLDEN LEAVES. Descend from him ? — But let that pass. Your fortune. Or rather your husband's industry, advanced you To the rank of merchant's wife. He made a knight. And your sweet mistress-ship ladyficd, you wore Satin on solemn days, a chain of gold, A velvet hood, rich borders, and sometimes A dainty minever cap, a silver pin Headed with a pearl worth threepence ; and thus far You were privileged, and no man envied it : It being for the city's honour that There should be distinction between The wife of a patrician and a plebeian But when the height And dignity of London's blessings grew Contemptible, and the name lady mayoress Became a by-word, and you scorned the means By which you were raised (my brother's fond indulgence Giving the reins to't), and no object pleased you But the glittering pomp and bravery of the court ; What a strange, nay, monstrous metamorphosis followed ! No English workmen then could please your fancy ; The French and Tuscan dress, your whole discourse ; This bawd to prodigality entertained. To buzz into your ears what shape this countess Appeared in, the last masque ; and how it drew The young lord's eyes upon her : and this usher Succeeded in the eldest 'prentice's place. To walk before you. Then, as I said (The reverend hood cast off"), your borrowed hair, Powdered and curled, was by your dresser's art Formed like a coronet, hanged with diamonds. And the richest orient pearl : your carcanets. MASSINGER. 147 That did adorn your neck, of equal value ; Your Hungerland bands, and Spanish Quellio ruffs : Great lords and ladies feasted, to survey- Embroidered petticoats ; and sickness feigned. That your nightrails of forty pounds a-piece Might be seen with envy of the visitants : Rich pantables in ostentation shown. And roses worth a family. You were served In plate ; Stirred not a foot without a coach ; and going To church, not for devotion, but to show Your pomp, you were tickled when the beggars cried Heaven save your honour. This idolatry Paid to a painted room. And, when you lay In childbed, at the christening of this minx, I well remember it, as you had been An absolute princess (since they have no more). Three several chambers hung : the first with arras. And that for waiters ; the second, crimson satin. For the meaner sort of guests ; the third of scarlet Of the rich Tyrian dye : a canopy To cover the brat's cradle ; you in state. Like Pompey's Julia. Lady. No more, I pray you. Luke. Of this be sure you shall not. I'll cut off Whatever is exorbitant in you. Or in your daughters ; and reduce you to Your natural forms and habits : not in revenge Of your base usage of me ; but to fright Others by your example. 148 G OLDEN LEAVES. A NEW WAY TO PAY OLD DEBTS. Sir Giles Overreach {a cruel Extortioner) treats about marrying his Daughter iviih Lord Lovell. LovELL, Overreach. Over. To my wish we are private. I come not to make offer with my daughter A certain portion ; that were poor and trivial : In one word I pronounce all that is mine. In lands or leases, ready coin or goods. With her, my lord, comes to you ; nor shall you have One motive to induce you to believe I live too long, since every year I'll add Something unto the heap, which shall be yours too. Lov. You are a right kind father. Over. You shall have reason To think me such. How do you like this seat ? It is well wooded and well watered, the acres Fertile and rich : would it not serve for change. To entertain your friends in a summer's progress ? What thinks my noble lord ? Lov. 'Tis a wholesome air. And well built, and she,* that is mistress of it. Worthy the large revenues. Over. She the mistress ? It may be so for a time : but let my lord Say only that he but Hke it, and would have it ; I say, ere long 'tis his. Lov. Impossible. * The Lady Allworth. MAS SINGER. 149 Over. You do conclude too fast ; not knowing me. Nor the engines that I work by. 'Tis not alone The Lady Allworth's lands : but point out any man's In all the shire, and say they lie convenient And useful for your lordship ; and once more I say aloud, they are yours. Lov, I dare not own What's by unjust and cruel means extorted : My fame and credit are more dear to me. Than so to expose 'em to be censured by The public voice. Over, You run, my lord, no hazard : Your reputation shall stand as fair In all good men's opinions as now : Nor can my actions, though condemned for ill, Cast any foul aspersion upon yours. For though I do contemn report myself. As a mere sound ; I still will be so tender Of what concerns you in all points of honour. That the immaculate whiteness of your fame. Nor your unquestioned integrity. Shall e*er be sullied with one taint or spot That may take from your innocence and candor. As my ambition is to have my daughter Right honourable; which my lord can make her; And might I live to dance upon my knee A young Lard Lovell, born by her unto you, I write ml ultra to my proudest hopes. As for possessions and annual rents. Equivalent to maintain you in the port Your noble birth and present state require, I do remove that burden from your shoulders. 150 GOLDEN LEAVES. And take it on mine own : for though I ruin The country to supply your riotous waste. The scourge of prodigals (want) shall never find you. Lov. Are you not frighted with the imprecations And curses of whole families, made wretched By your sinister practices ? Over. Yes, as rocks are. When foamy billows split themselves against Their flinty ribs ; or as the mqon is moved When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness I am of a solid temper, and, like these. Steer on a constant course : with mine own sword. If called into the field, I can make that right. Which fearflil enemies murmured at as wrong. Now, for those other piddling complaints. Breathed out in bitterness ; as, when they call me Extortioner, tyrant, cormorant, or intruder On my poor neighbour's right, or grand encloser Of what was common to my private use ; Nay, when my ears are pierced with widows' cries. And undone orphans wash with tears my threshold : I only think what 'tis to have my daughter Right honourable ; and 'tis a powerftil charm. Makes me insensible of remorse or pity. Or the least sting of conscience. Lov. I admire The toughness of your nature. Over. 'Tis for you. My lord, and for my daughter, I am marble. MASSIKGER. 15 THE FATAL DOWRY*. A TRAGEDY. The Marshul of Burgundy dies in Prison at Dijon, for Debts con- tracted by him for the service of the State in the Wars. His dead Body is arrested and denied Burial by his Creditors. His Son, young Charalois, gives up himself to Prisony to redeem his Father's Body, that it may have honourable Burial. He has leave, from his Prison- doors, to vieiv the Ceremony of the Funeral, but to go no farther. Enter three Gentlemen, Pontalier, Malotin, and Beau MONT, as Spectators of the Funeral. Mai, 'Tis strange ! Beaum. Methinks so. Pont. In a man but young. Yet old in judgment ; theoric and practic In all humanity ; and, to increase the wonder. Religious, yet a soldier, — that he should Yield his free-living youth a captive, for The freedom of his aged father's corpse ; And rather choose to want life's necessaries. Liberty, hope of fortune, than it should In death be kept from Christian ceremony. Mai. Come, 'tis a golden precedent in a son To let strong Nature have the better hand. In such a case, of all affected reason. What years 'sit on this Charalois ? Beaum. Twenty-eight. For since the clock did strike him seventeen old. Under his father's wing this son hath fought. Served, and commanded, and so aptly both. That sometimes he appeared his father's father. And never less than his son ; the old man's virtues 152 GOLDEN LEAVES. So recent in him, as the world may swear Naught but a fair tree could such fair fruit bear. Mai. This morning is the funeral ? Pont Certainly, And from this prison ; — 'twas the son's request. [Charalois appears at the door of the prison. That his dear father might interment have. See, the young son entered a lively grave. Beaum. They come. Observe their order The funeral Procession enters. Captain and Soldiers, Mourners. Ro- MONT, Friend to the Deceased. Three Creditors arc among the Spec- tators. Charalois speaks. Char. How like a silent stream, shaded with night. And ghding softly with our windy sighs. Moves the whole frame of this solemnity ! Tears, sighs, and blacks, filling the simile ; Whilst I, the only murmur in this grove Of death, thus hollowly break forth 1 — Vouchsafe To stay awhile. Rest, rest in peace, dear earth ! Thou that brought'st rest to their unthankful lives. Whose cruelty denied thee rest in death ! Here stands thy poor executor, thy son. That makes his life prisoner to bail thy death ; Who gladlier puts on this captivity. Than virgins, long in love, their wedding weeds. Of all that ever thou hast done good to. These only have good memories ; for they Remember best, forget not gratitude. I thank you for this last and friendly love ; And though this country, like a viperous mother. Not only hath eat up ungratefully MASSINGEB. 1^3 All means of thee, her son, but last thyself, Leaving thy heir so bare and indigent. He cannot raise thee a poor monument. Such as a flatterer or an usurer hath ; Thy worth in every honest breast builds one. Making their friendly hearts thy funeral stone. Font. Sir!— Ckar, Peace ! O peace ! This scene is wholly mine. — What ! weep you, soldiers ? — blanch not ; Romont weeps. — Ha ! let me see ! my miracle is eased ; The jailors and the creditors do weep j E'en .they that make us weep, do weep themselves. Be these thy body's balm : these, and thy virtue. Keep thy fame ever odoriferous. Whilst the great, proud, rich, undeserving man Ahve stinks in his vices, and, being vanished. The golden calf that was an idol, decked With marble pillars, jet and porphyry. Shall quickly both in bone and name consume. Though wrapped in lead, spice, cerecloth, and perfume. Creditor. Sir ! — Cliar. What ! away for shame ! — you, profane rogues. Must not be mingled with these holy relics : This is a sacrifice — our shower shall crown His sepulchre with olive, myrrh, and bays. The plants of peace, of sorrow, victory : Your tears would spring but weeds. Rom. Look, look, you slaves ! your thankless cruelty. And savage manners of unkind Dijon, Exhaust these floods, and not his father's death. Priest. On! Char, One moment more. 154 GOLDEN LEAVES. But to bestow a few poor legacies. All I have left in my dead father's right. And I have done. — Captain, wear thou these spurs. That yet ne'er made his horse run from a foe.- — Lieutenant, thou this scarf; and may it tie Thy valour and thy honesty together. For so it did in him. — Ensign, this cuirass, Your general's necklace once. — You, gentle bearers, Divide this purse of gold : this other strew Among the poor. 'Tis all I have. — Romont, Wear thou this medal of himself, that like A hearty oak grew'st close to this tall pine. E'en in the wildest wilderness of war. Whereon foes broke their swords, and tired themselves Wounded and hacked ye were, but never felled. — For me, my portion provide in heaven : My root is earthed, and I, a desolate branch. Left scattered in the highway of the world. Trod under foot, that might have been a column Mainly supporting our demolished house. This* would I wear as my inheritance, — And what hope can arise to me from it. When I and it are here both prisoners? Only may this, if ever we be free. Keep or redeem me from all infamy ! jailer. You must no farther. — The prison limits you, and the creditors Exact the strictness * His father's sword. SHIRLEY. 155 lames jSljiiku. THE LADY OF PLEASURE: A COMEDY. Sir Thomas Bornewell expostulates ■vo'ith his Lady on her Extrava- gance and Love of Pleasure. Bornewell ; Aretina, kis Lady, Are. I am angry with myself; To be so miserably restrained in things, Wherein it doth concern your love and honour To see me satisfied. Bor, In what, Aretina, Dost thou accuse me ? have I not obeyed All thy desires, against mine own opinion ; Quitted the country, and removed the hope Of our return, by sale of that fair lordship We lived in : changed a calm and retired life For this wild town, composed of noise and charge ? Are. What charge, more than is necessary For a lady of my birth and education ? Bor. I am not ignorant how much nobility Flows in your blood ; your kinsmen great and powerful In the state ; but with this lose not your memory Of being my wife : I shall be studious. Madam, to give the dignity of your birth All the best ornaments which become my fortune ; But would not flatter it, to ruin both, x4.nd be the fable of the town, to teach Other men wit by loss of mine, employed To serve your vast expenses. Are. Am I then Brought in the balance ? so, sir. 156 G OLDE X L E A VE S. Bar. Though you weigh Me in a partial scale, my heart is honest : And must take liberty to think, you have Obeyed no modest counsel to effect. Nay, study ways of pride and costly ceremony ; Your change of gaudy furniture, and pictures. Of this Italian master, and that Dutchman's ; Your mighty looking-glasses, like artillery Brought home on engines; the superfluous plate Antick and novel ; vanities of tires. Fourscore pound suppers for my lord your kinsm.an, Banquets for t'other lady, aunt, and cousins ; And perfumes, that exceed all ; train of servants, To stifle us at home, and show abroad More motley than the French, or the Venetian, About your coach, whose rude postilion Must pester every narrow lane, till passengers And tradesmen curse your choking up their stalls. And common cries pursue your ladyship For hindering of their market. Are. Have you done, sir ? Bor. I could accuse the gayety of your wardrobe And prodigal embroideries, under which. Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare Not show their own complexions ; your jewels. Able to burn out the spectators' eyes. And show like bonfires on you by the tapers : Something might here be spared, with safety of Your birth and honor, since the truest wealth Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers. I could urge something more. Are. Pray, do. I like SHIRLEY. 157 \ jur homily of thrift. Bor. I could wishj madam. You would not game so much. Are, A gamester, too ! Bor, But are not come to that repentance yet. Should teach you skill enough to raise your profit ; You look not through the subtilty of cards. And mysteries of dice, nor can you save Charge with the box, buy petticoats and pearls. And keep your family by the precious income ; Nor do I wish you should : my poorest servant Shall not upbraid my tables, nor his hire Purchased beneath my honour : you make play Not a pastime but a tyranny, and vex Yourself and my estate by't. Are. Good, proceed. Bor. Another game you have, which consumes more Your fame than purse, your revels in the night. Your meetings, called the ball, to which appear. As to the court of pleasure, all your gallants And ladies, thither bound by a subpcena Of Venus and small Cupid's high displeasure : 'Tis but the Family of Love, translated into more costly sin ; there was a play on't ; And had the poet not been bribed to a modest Expression of your antic gambols in't. Some darks had been discovered ; and the deeds too ; In time he may repent, and make some blush. To see the second part danced on the stage. My thoughts acquit you for dishonouring me By any foul act ; but the virtuous know, 'Tis not enough to clear ourselves, but the Suspicions of our shame. 158 G OLDEN LEAVES. Are, Have you concluded Your lecture ? Bor. I have done ; and howsoever My language may appear to you, it carries No other than my fair and just intent To your delights, without curb to their modesr And noble freedom. Are. I'll not be so tedious In my reply, but, without art or elegance. Assure you I keep still my first opinion ; And though you veil your avaricious meaning With handsome names of modesty and thrift, I find you would intrench and wound the liberty I was born with. Were my desires unprivileged By example ; while my judgment thought 'em fit. You ought not to oppose : but when the practice And tract of every honourable lady Authorize me, I take it great injustice To have my pleasures circumscribed and taught me. ALL FOR LOVE. Marc Antony, after the Battle of Actium, is •visited by VENTica's, his Generaly ivhile suffering under the mortification of his Defeat. Marc Antony, Ventidius. Ant. They tell me 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it With double pomp of sadness. 'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath. DRYDEN. 159 Why was I raised the meteor of the world. Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled. Till all my fires were spent, and then cast downward To be trod out by Cssar ? Vent. [A side. \ On my soul 'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful ! Ant. Count thy gains. Now, Antony : wouldst thou be born for this? Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth Has starved thy wanting age. Vent. \^Aside.^ How sorrow shakes him ! So now the tempest tears him by th' roots. And on the ground extends the noble ruin. Ant. [^Having thrown himself down.] Lie there, thod shadow of an emperor ! The place thou pressest on thy mother earth Is all thy empire now : now it contains thee ; Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large. When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn. Shrunk to a few cold ashes ; then Octavia (For Cleopatra will not live to see it), Octavia then will have thee all her own. And bear thee in her widowed hand- to Caesar. Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep. To see his rival of the universe Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't. Give me some music ; look that it be sad ; I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell. And burst myself with sighing. 'Tis somewhat to my humour. Stay, I fancy I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature ; Of all forsaken, and forsaking all ; i6o GOLDEN LEAVES. Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene ; Stretched at my length beneath some blastea oan, I lean my head upon the mossy bark. And look just of a piece, as I grew from it : My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe. Hang o'er my hoary face ; a murm'ring brook Runs at my foot Vent. Methinks I fancy Myself there too. Ant. The herd come jumping by me. And, fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on, And take me for their fellow-citizen. More of this image — more ; it lulls my thoughts. Vent, 1 must disturb him. I can hold no longer. [Stands before hini Ant. [Starting up.] Art thou Ventidius ? Fent. Are you Antony ? I'm liker what I was, than you to him I left you last. Ant. I'm angry. VeJit. So am I. Ant. I would be private. Leave me. Fent. Sir, I love you, And therefore will not leave you. Ant. Will not leave me ! Where have you learned that answer ? Who am I ? Fent. My emperor ; the man I love next Heaven. If I said more, I think 'twere scarce a sin : You're all that's good and godlike. Ant. All that's wretched. You will not leave me, then .? P'^e?it. 'Twas too presummg DRYDEN. 161 / To say I would not : but I dare not leave you ; And 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence So soon, when I so far have come to see you. Ant. Now thou na»t seen me, art thou satisfied ? For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough ; And, if a foe, too much. Vent. Look, emperor, this is no common dew ; I have not wept these forty years ; but now My mother comes afresh unto my eyes ; I cannot help her softness. Ant. By Heaven, he weeps ! — poor, good old man, he weeps ! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks. Stop 'em, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death ; they set my shame. That caused 'em, full before me. Vent. I'll do my best. Ant. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends; See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own griefs, but thine Nay, father Vent. Emperor ! Ant. Emperor ? Why, that's the style of victory ! The conqu'ring soldier, and with unfelt wounds, Salutes his general so : but never more Shall that sound reach my ears. Vent. I warrant you. Ant. Actium, Actium ! Oh Vent. It sits too near you. Ant. Here, here it lies ; a lump of lead by day ; And in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers. The hag that rides my dreams Vent, Out with it ! give it vent. if>2 GOLDEN LEA VES. Ant. Urge not my shame — I lost a battle ! Fent. So has Julius done. Ant. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half rhou think'st ; For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly ; But Antony Fe?it. Nay, stop not. Ant. Antony (Well, thou wilt have it), like a coward, fled, — Fled while his soldiers fought ! — fled first, Ventidius. Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave. I know thou cam'st prepared to rail. Fent. I did. Ant. I'll help thee — I have been a man, Ventidius. Fe?it. Yes, and a brave one ; but Ant. I know thy meaning. But I have lost my reason, have disgraced The name of soldier with inglorious ease ; In the full vintage of my flowing honours Sat still, and saw it pressed by other hands. Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it. And purple greatness met my ripened years. When first I came to empire, I was borne On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs. The wish of nations, and the willing world. Received me as its pledge of future peace. I was so great, so happy, so beloved. Fate could not ruin me ; till I took pains. And worked against my fortune, chid her from me. And turned her loose : yet still she came again. My careless days and my luxurious nights DRYDEN. 163 At length have wearied her, and now she's gone ; Gone, gone, divorced forever. Help me, soldier. To curse this madman, this industrious fool. Who laboured to be wretched. Pr'ythee curse me. Vent. No. Ant. Why.? Vent. You are too sensible already Of what you've done ; too conscious of your failings. And like a scorpion, whipped by others first To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge. I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds. Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes. Ant. I know thou wouldst. Vent. I will. Ant. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Vent. You laugh. Ant. I do, to see officious love Give cordials to the dead. Vent. You would be lost, then .? Ant.' I am. Vent. I say you are not. Try your fortune. Ant. I have to the utmost. Dost thou think me des- perate Without just cause } No ; when I found all lost Beyond repair, I hid me from the world. And learned to scorn it here ; which now I do So heartily, I think it is not worth The cost of keeping. Vent. Caesar thinks not so : He'll thank you for the gift he could not take. You would be killed like Tullv, would you ? Do Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely. 1 64 GOLDEN L EA VE S. Ant. No, I can kill myself; and ?o resolve. Vent. 1 can die with you, too, when time shall serve ; But fortune calls upon us now to live. To fight, to conquer. Ant. Sure thou dream 'st, Ventidius ? Vent. No ; 'tis you dream ; you sleep away your hours In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy. Up, up, for honour's sake ; twelve legions wait you, And long to call you chief. By painful journeys I led 'em, patient both of heat and hunger, Down from the Parthian marches to the Nile. 'Twill do you good to see their sun-burnt faces. Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands; there's virtue in 'em : They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates Than yon trim bands can buy. Ant. Where left you them ? Vent. I said in Lower Syria. Ant. Bring 'em hither; There may be life in these. Vent. They will not come. Ant. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids, To double my despair? They're mutinous. Vent. Most firm and loyal. Ant. Yet they will not march To succour me. Oh, trifler ! Vent. They petition You would make haste to head 'em. Ant. I'm besieged. Vent. There's but one way shut up. How came I hither } Ant. I will not stir. DRYDEN. 165' Vent. They would perhaps desire A better reason. Ant. I have never used My soldiers to demand a reason of My actions. Why did they refuse to march.? Vent, They said they would not light for Cleopatra. Ant. What was't they said ? Vent. They said -they would not fight for Cleopatra. Why should they fights indeed, to make her conquer. And make you more a slave .? To gain you kingdoms Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast You'll sell to her ? Then she new names her jewels. And calls this diamond such or such a tax. Each pendent in her ear shall be a province. Ant. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free license On all my other faults ; but, on your life. No word of Cleopatra ; she deserves More worlds than I can lose. Vent. Behold, you powers. To whom you have intrusted human-kind j See Europe, Afric, Asia put in balance. And all weighed down by one light worthless woman I think the gods are Antonies, and give. Like prodigals, this nether world away To none but wasteful hands. Ant. You grow presumptuous. Vent. I take the privilege of plain love to speak. Ant. Plain love ! plain arrogance, plain insolence ! Thy men are cowards, thou an envious traitor ; Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented The burden of thy rank o'erflowing gall. Oh, that thou wert my equal ; great in arms i66 G OLDEN LEAVES. As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee Without stain to my honour ! Vent. You may kill me. You have done more already — called me traitor. Ant. Art thou not one ? l^ent. For showing you yourself. Which none else durst have done. But had I been That name which I disdain to speak again, I needed not have sought your abject fortunes. Come to partake your fate, to die tvith you. What hindered me to 've led my conquering eagles To fill Octavius' bands ? I could have been A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor. And not .have been so called. Ant, Forgive me, soldier; I've been too passionate. Vent. You thought me false ; Thought my old age betrayed you. Kill me, sir ; Pray, kill me ; yet you need not ; your unkindness Has left your sword no work. Ant. I did not think so ; I said it in my rage ; pr'ythee forgive me. Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery Of what I would not hear ? Vent. No prince but you Could merit that sincerity I used ; Nor durst another man have ventured it ; But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes, Were sure the chief and best of human race. Framed in the very pride and boast of nature. Ant. But Cleopatra Go on ; for I can bear it now. DRYDEN. \6y Vent. No more. AnU Thou dar'st not trust my passion ; but thou mayst ; Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me. VeM. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word. May I believe you love me ? Speak again. Ant. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this. Thy praises were unjust ; but I'll deserve 'em. And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt ; Lead me to victory ; thou know'st the way. Vent, And will you leave this Ant. Pr'ythee, do not curse her. And I will leave her ; though. Heaven knows, I love Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour ; But I will leave her. Vent. That's my royal master. And shall we fight ? Ant. I warrant thee, old soldier; Thou shalt behold me once again in iron, And, at the head of our old troops, that beat The Parthians, cry aloud, " Come, follow me." Vent. Oh, now I hear my emperor ! In that word Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day. And, if I have ten years behind, take all ; I'll thank you for th' exchange. Ant. Oh, Cleopatra ! Vent. Again ! Ant. I've done. In that last sigh she went ; Czesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover From all he holds most dear. Vent. Methinks you breathe Another soul ; your looks are more divine ; You speak a hero, and you move a god. 8* i68 G OLDEN LEAVES. Ant. Oh, thou hast fired me ; my soul's up in arms. And mans each part about me. Once again That noble eagerness of fight has seized me ; That eagerness with which I darted upward To Cassius' camp. In vain the steepy hill Opposed my way ; in vain a war of spears Sung round my head, and planted all my shield ; I won the trenches, while my foremost men Lagged on the plain below. Fent. Ye gods, ye gods. For such another honour ! Ant. Come on, my soldier ; Our hearts and arms are still the same. I long Once more to meet our foes ; that thou and I, Like Time and Death, marching before our troops, May taste fate to 'em, mow 'em on a passage. And, entering where the utmost squadrons yield, Begin the noble harvest of the field. DON SE B ASTI AN. Don Sebastian, King of Portugaly is defeated in BattUy and taken Prisoner by the Moors. He is saved from Death by DoRAX, a noble Portuguese.^ then a Renegade in the Court of the Emperor of Batbary^ but formerly Don Alonzo of Alea%ar. The Train being dismissed^ DoRAX takes off his turban^ and assumes his Portuguese dress and manner. Don Sebastian, Dorax, Dor. Now, do you know me ? • . Seb. Thou shouldst be Alonzo. DRYDEN. ib'^ Dor. So you should be Sebastian ; But when Sebastian ceased to be himself, I ceased to be Alonzo. Seb. As in a dream I see thee here, and scarce believe mine eyes. Dor. Is it so strange to find me where my wrongs. And your inhuman tyranny, have sent me ? Think not you dream : or, if you did, my injuries Shall call so loud, that lethargy should wake. And death should give you back to answer me. A thousand nights have brushed their balmy wings Over these eyes ; but ever when they closed. Your tyrant image forced them ope again. And dried the dews they brought. The long-expected hour is come at length. By manly vengeance to redeem my fame : And that once cleared, eternal sleep is welcome. Seb. I have not yet forgot I am a king. Whose royal office is redress of wrongs : If I have wronged thee, charge me face to face ; I have not yet forgot I am a soldier. Dor. 'Tis the first justice thou hast ever done me ; Then, though I loathe this woman's war of tongues. Yet shall my cause of vengeance first be clear ; And Honour, be thou judge, Seb. Honour befriend us both. Beware, I warn thee yet, to tell thy griefs In terms becoming majesty to hear : I warn thee thus, because I know thy temper Is insolent and haughty to superiors : How often hast thou braved my peaceful court, Filled it with noisy brawls and windy boasts ; 170 G OLDEN LEAVES. And with past service, nauseously repeated. Reproached even me, thy prince 1 Dor. And well I might, when you forgot reward, The part of heaven in kings ; for punishment Is hangman's work, and drudgery for devils. I must and will reproach thee with my service, Tyrant ! It irks me so to call my prince ; But just resentment and hard usage coined Th' unwilling word, and, grating as it is. Take it, for *tis thy due. Seb. How, tyrant ? Dor. Tyrant ! Seb. Traitor ! that name thou canst not echo back : That robe of infamy, that circumcision, 111 hid beneath that robe, proclaim thee traitor ; And if a name More foul than traitor be, 'tis renegade. Dor. If I'm a traitor, think, and blush, thou tyrant, Whose injuries betrayed me into treason. Effaced my loyalty, unhinged my faith. Ana hurried me from hopes of heaven to hell ; All these, and all my yet unfinished crimes. When I shall rise to plead before the saints, I charge on thee, to make thy damning sure. Seb. Thy old presumptuous arrogance again. That bred my first dislike, and then my loathing ; Once more be warned, and know me for thy king. Dor. Too well I know thee, but for king no more . This is not Lisbon, nor the circle this. Where, like a statue, thou hast stood besieged By sycophants and fools, the growth of courts ; Where thy gulled eyes, in all the gaudy round. DR. YD EN. 171 Met nothing but a lie in every face ; And the gross flattery of a gaping crowd, Envious who first should catch, and first applaud The stuff or royal nonsense : when I spoke. My honest, homely words were carped and censured. For want of courtly style : related actions. Though modestly reported, passed for boasts : Secure of merit, if I asked reward. Thy hungry minions thought their rights invaded. And the bread snatched from pimps and parasites. Henriquez answered, with a ready lie, To save his king's, the boon v/as begged before. Seb. What say'st thou of Henriquez ? Now, by heaven. Thou mov'st me more by barely naming him. Than all thy foul, unmannered, scurril taunts. Dor. And therefore 'twas to gall thee that I named him ; That thing, that nothing, but a cringe and smile ; That woman, but more daubed ; or if a man. Corrupted to a woman ; thy man-mistress. Seb, All false as hell or thou. Dor. Yes ; full as false As that I served thee fifteen hard campaigns. And pitched thy standard in these foreign fields : By me thy greatness grew -, thy years grew with it But thy ingratitude outgrew them both. Seb. I see to what thou tend'st j but tell me first, If those great acts were done alone for me : If love produced not some, and pride the rest .? Dor, Why, love does all that's nob^e here below : But all th' advantage of that love was thine : For, coming fraughted back, in either hand With palm and olive, victory and peace 172 GOLDEN LEAVES. I was indeed prepared to ask my own (For Violante's vows were mine before) : Thy malice had prevention, ere I spoke ; And asked me Violante for Henriquez. Seb. I meant thee a reward of greater worth. Dor. Where justice wanted, could reward be hoped ? Could the robbed passenger expect a bounty From those rapacious hands who stripped him first ? Seb. He had my promise ere I knew thy love. Dor. My services deserved thou shouldst revoke it. Seb. Thy insolence had cancelled all thy service ; To violate my laws, even in my court. Sacred to peace, and safe from all affronts ; Ev'n to my face, and done in my despite. Under the wing of awful majesty To strike the man I loved ! Dor. Ev'n in the face of heaven, a place more sacred. Would I have struck the man who, prompt by power. Would seize my right, and rob me of my love : But, for a blow provoked by thy injustice, The hasty product of a just despair. When he refused to meet me in the field. That thou shouldst make a coward's cause thy own ! Seb. He durst : nay, more, desired and begged with tears. To meet thy challenge fairly : 'twas thy fault To make it public ; but my duty, then To interpose, on pain of my displeasure, Betwixt your swords. Dor. On pain of infamy He should have disobeyed. Seb. Th' indignitv thou didst was meant to me : DRYDEN. 173 Thy gloomy eyes were cast on me with scorn. As who should say, the blow was there intended ; But that thou didst not dare to lift thy hands Against anointed power : so was I forced To do a sovereign justice to myself. And spurn thee from my presence. Dor. Thou hast dared To tell me what I durst not tell myself: I durst not think that I was spurned, and live ; And live to hear it boasted to my face. All my long avarice of honour lost. Heaped up in youth, and hoarded up for age : Has Honour's fountain then sucked back the stream ! He has ; and hooting boys may dry-shod pass, And gather pebbles from the naked ford. Give ine my love, my honour ; give them back — • Give me revenge, while I have breath to ask it. Seb, Now, by this honoured order which I wear. More gladly would I give than thou dar'st ask it. Nor shall the sacred character of king Be urged to shield me from thy bold appeal. If I have injured thee, that makes us equal: The wrong, if done, debased me dov/n to thee : But thou hast charged me with ingratitude ; Hast thou not charged me ? Speak. Dor. Thou know'st I have. If thou disown'st that imputation, draw. And prove my charge a lie. Seb. No ; to disprove that lie, I must not draw : Be conscious to thy worth, and tell thy soul What thou hast done this day in my defence : To fight thee, after this, what were it else 174 G OLDEN LEAVES. Than owning that ingratitude thou urgest ? That isthmus stands between two rushing seas ; Which, mounting, view each other from afar. And strive in vain to meet. Dor. I'll cut that isthmus : Thou know'st I meant not to preserve thy life. But to reprieve it, for my own revenge. I saved thee out of honourable malice : Now draw; I should be loath to think thou dar'st not : Beware of such another vile excuse. Seb. Oh, patience. Heaven ! Dor. Beware of patience too; That's a suspicious word : it had been proper. Before thy foot had spurned me ; now 'tis base : Yet, to disarm thee of thy last defence, I have thy oath for my security : The only boon I begged was this fair combat : Fight, or be perjured now ; that's all thy choice. Seb. Now can I thank thee as thou wouldst be thanked Never was vow of honour better paid, [^Drawing If my true sword but hold, than this shall be. The sprightly bridegroom, on his wedding-nighc. More gladly enters not the lists of love. Why, 'tis enjoyment to be summoned thus. Go ; bear my message to Henriquez' ghost ; And say his master and his friend revenged him. Dor. His ghost ! then is my hated rival dead ? Seb, The question is beside our present purpose , Thou seest me ready ; we delay too long. Dor, A minute is not much in cither's life. When there's but one betwixt us ; throw it in. And give it him of us who is to fall. DRYDEN. 175 Seb. He's dead : make haste, and thou may'st yet o'er- take him. Dor. When I was hasty, thou delay'dst me longer. I pr'ythee, let me hedge one moment more Into thy promise : for thy life preserved. Be kind ; and tell me how that rival died. Whose death, next thine, I wished. Seb, If it would please thee, thou shouldst never know. But thou, like jealousy, inquir'st a truth, Whichfound, will torture thee; he died in fight: Fought next my person ; as in concert fought : Kept pace for pace, and blow for every blow ; Save when he heaved his shield in my defence, And on his naked side received my wound : Then, when he could no more, he fell at once. But rolled his falling body 'cross their way. And made a bulwark of it for his prince. Dor. I never can forgive him such a death ! Seb. I prophesied thy proud soul could not bear it. Now, judge thyself, who best deserved my love. I knew you both ; and, durst I say, as Heav'n Foreknew among the shining angel host Who should stand firm, who fall. Dor. Had he been tempted so, so had he fall'n ; And so had I been favoured, had I stood. Seb. What had been, is unknown ; what is, appears ; Confess he justly was preferred to thee. Dor. Had I been born with his indulgent scars. My fortune had been his, and his been mine. Oh, worse than hell ! what glory have T lost. And what has he acquired by such a death ! 1 should have fallen by Sebastian's side ; 1/6 G OLDEN LEAVES. My corpse had been the bulwark of my king His glorious end was a patched work of fate, Ill-sorted with a soft, effeminate life : It suited better with my life than his So to have died : mine had been of a piece. Spent in your service, dying at your feet. iS^^. The more effeminate and soft his life, The more his fame, to struggle to the field. And meet his glorious fate : confess, proud spirit (For I will have it from thy very mouth), That better he deserved my lo^^e than thon. Dor. Oh, whither would you drive me ! I must grant, Yes, I must grant, but with a swelling soul, Henriquez had your love with more desert : For you he fought and died ; I fought against you ; Through all the mazes of the bloody field Hunted your sacred life ; which that I missed. Was the propitious error of my fate. Not of my soul ; my soul's a regicide. Seb. Thou might'st have given it a more gentle name ; Thou meant'st to kill a tyrant, not a king. Speak ; didst thou not, Alonzo ? D01-. Can I speak ? Alas ! I cannot answer to Alonzo : No, Dorax cannot answer to Alonzo : Alonzo was too kind a name for me. Then, when I fought and conquered with your arms. In that blest age I was the man you named ; Till rage and pride debased me into Dorax, And lost, like Lucifer, my name above. Seb. Yet twice this day I owed my life to Dorax. Dor. I saved you but to kill you : there's my grief. BRYDEN. 177 Seh Nay, if" thou canst be grieved, thou canst repent ; Thou couldst not be a villain, though thou wouldst; Thou ov^^n'st too much, in owning thou hast erred; And I too little, who provoked thy crime. Do7'. Oh, stop this headlong torrent of your goodness ; It comes too fast upon a feeble soul Half drowned in tears before; spare my confusion ; For pity, spare, and say not first you erred. For yet I +iave not dared, through guilt and shame. To throw myself beneath your royal feet. Now spurn this rebel, this proud renegade : *Tis just you should, nor will I more complain. Seb. Indeed thou shouldst not ask forgiveness first ; But thou prevent'st me still, in all that's noble. Yes, I will raise thee up with better news : Thy Violante's heart was ever thine ; Compelled to wed, because she was my ward. Her soul was absent when she gave her hand : Nor could my threats, or his pursuing courtship. Effect the consummation of his love : So, still indulging tears, she pines for thee, A widow and a maid. Dor. Have I been cursing Heaven, while Heaven blessed me ? I shall run mad with ecstasy of joy: What, in one moment to be reconciled To Heaven, and to my king, and to my love I But pity is my friend, and stops me short. For my unhappy rival. Poor Henrique?. ! Seb. Art thou so generous, too, to pity him ? Nay, then, 1 was unjust to love him better. Here let me ever hold thee in my arms ; 178 G OLDEN LEAVES. And all our quarrels be but such as these. Who shall love best, and closest shall embrace : Be what Henriquez was : be my Alonzo. Dor, What 1 my Alonzo, said you ? My Alonzo ? Let my tears thank you ; for I cannot speak ; And if I could. Words were not made to vent such thoughts as mine. 6eb. Thou canst not speak, and 1 can ne'er be silent. Some strange reverse of fate must sure attend . This vast profusion, this extravagance Of Heaven to bless me thus. 'Tis gold so pure. It cannot bear the stamp, without alloy. Be kind, ye Powers, and take but half away : With ease the gifts of fortune I resign ; But let my love, and friend, be ever mine. THE CONQJJEST OF GRENADA. Love. Love is that madness which all lovers have ; But yet 'tis sweet and pleasing so to rave. 'Tis an enchantment, where the reason's bound ; But Paradise is in th' enchanted ground. A palace void of envy, cares, and strife ; Where gentle hours delude so much of life. To take those charms av/ay, and set me free. Is but to send me into misery. And prudence, of whose cure so much you boast, Restores those pains which that sweet folly lost. . . . Unveil, my love, and lay aside your fears. The storm that caused your fright is past and done. DRYDEN. 179 Lo-ve and Friendship, That friendship which from withered love doth shoot, Like the faint herbage on a rock, wants root ; Love is a tender amity, refined : Grafted on friendship, it exalts the mind ; But when the grafF no longer does remain. The dull stock lives, but never bears again. TYRANNIC LOVE. Fear of Death. Berenice, Saint Catherine. Ber. Now death draws near, a strange perplexity Creeps coldly on me, like a fear to die : Courage uncertain dangers may abate. But who can bear th' approach of certain fate ? St. Cath. The wisest and the best some fear may show And wish to stay, though they resolve to go. Ber. As some faint pilgrim, standing on the shore. First views the torrent he would venture o'er. And then his inn upon the farther ground, Loath to wade through, and loather to go round : Then dipping in his staff, does trial make How deep it is, and, sighing, pulls it back : Sometimes resolved to fetch his leap ; and then Runs to the bank, but there stops short again : So I at once Both heavenly faith and human fear obey ; And feel before me in an unknown way. For this blest voyage I with joy prepare. Yet am ashamed to be a stranger there. l8o G OLDEN LEAVES. THE SPANISH FRIAR. Love and Beauty. A CHANGE SO swift what heart did ever feel It rushed upon me like a mighty stream. And bore me in a moment far from shore. I've loved away myself; in one short hour Already am I gone an age of passion. Was it his youth, his valour, or success ? These might, perhaps, be found in other men, 'Twas that respect, that awful homage paid me ; That fearful love which trembled in his eyes. And with a silent earthquake shook his soul. But when he spoke, what tender words he said ! So softly, that, like flakes of feathered snow. They melted as they fell. THE INDIAN EMPEROR. Midnight Repose. All things are hushed, as Nature's self lay dead ; The mountains seem to nod their drowsy head. The little birds in dreams their songs repeat. And sleeping flowers beneath the night-dew sweat ; Even lust and envy sleep, yet love denies Rest to my soul and slumber to my eyes. Three days I promised to attend my doom, And two long days and nights are yet to come ; 'Tis sure the noise of a tumultuous fight; \^Noise rcithvi. They break the truce, and sally out by night. LEE. 181 Jfatiianicl £cc. ALEXANDER THE GREAT ; OR^ THE RIVAL QUEENS. AtEXANDER, ha-ving condemned to death Lysimachus, for demanding in marriage Paris atis, ivhom he had destined as the Bride of his Favourite^ Hephestion, re'vokes the sentence^ and aivaits the pres- ence of Lysimachus at a grand Regal Banquet, nvherc Clytus, a bra-ve old Soldiery refusing to pay Di-vine Honours to Alexander, is killed. Alexander, Per-diccas, Cassander, Polyperchon, Eu- MENEs, discovered at a Banquet^ &tc. \_AfLOiinsli of trumpets. Alex, To our immortal health and our fair queen's ; All drink it deep ; and while the bowl goes round. Mars and Bellona join to make us music ; A thousand bulls be offered to the sun. White as his beams; speak the big voice of war; Beat all our drums, and sound our silver trumpets; Provoke the gods to follow our example In bowls of nectar, and replying thunder. [Flourish of trumpets. Efiter Clytus, Hephestion, and Lysimachus, bloody. Clyt. Long live the king ! long live great Alexander ! And conquest crown his arms with deathless laurels. Propitious to his friends, and all he favours. Alex. Did I not give command you should preserve Lysimachus ? Heph. Dread sir ! you did. Alex. What then Portend these bloody marks ? Heph, Ere we arrived l82 GOLDEN LEAVES. Perdiccas had already placed the prince In a lone court, all but his hands unarmed. Clyt. On them were gauntlets ; such was his desire. In death to show the difference betwixt The blood of ^Eacus and common men. Forth issuing from his den amazed we saw The horrid savage, with whose hideous roar The palace shook : his angry eye-balls, glaring With triple fury, menaced death and ruin. Heph. With unconcern the gallant prince advanced. Now, Parisatis, be the glory thine. But mine the danger, were his only words ; For as he spoke the furious beast descried him. And rushed outrageous to devour his prey. Clyt. Agile and vigorous, he avoids the shock With a slight wound, and as the lion turned. Thrust gauntlet, arm and all, into his throat. And with Herculean strength tears forth the tongue : Foaming and bloody, the disabled savage Sunk to the earth, and ploughed it with his teeth ; While with an active bound your conquering soldier Leaped on his back, and dashed his skull in pieces. Alex. By all my laurels, 'twas a godlike act ! And 'tis my glory, as it shall be thine, That Alexander could not pardon thee. Oh, my brave soldier ! think not all the prayers And tears of the lamenting queens could move me, Like what thou hast performed : grow to my breast. Lys. Thus, self-condemned, and conscious of my gi»".lt. How shall I stand such unexampled goodness ? Oh, pardon, sir, the transports of despair. The frantic outrage of ungoverned love ! LEE. 183 Even when I showed the greatest want of reverence I could have died with rapture in your service. Alex. Lysimachus, we both have been transported : But from this hour be certain of my heart. A lion be the impress of thy shield ; And that gold armour we from Porus won Thy king presents thee But thy wounds ask rest. Lys. I have no wounds, dread sir ! or if I had. Were they all mortal, they should stream unminded When Alexander was the glorious health. Alex. Thy hand, Hephestion : clasp him to thy heart. And wear him ever near thee. Parisatis Shall now be his who serves me best in war. Neither reply, but mark the charge I give ; Live, live as friends — you will, you must, you shall : 'Tis a god gives you life. Clyt. Oh, monstrous vanity ! Alex. Ha ! what says Clytus ? who am I ? Clyt. The son of good king Philip. Alex. By my kindred gods 'Tis false. Great Ammon gave me birth. Clyt. I've done. Alex. Clytus, what means that dress ? Give him a robe, there. Take it and wear it. Clyt. Sir, the wine, the weather. Has heated me : besides, you know my humour. Alex. Oh, 'tis not well ! I'd rather perish, burn, Than be so singular and froward. Clyt. So would I Burn, hang, drown, but in a better cause, ril drink or fight for sacred majesty 9 184 GOLDEN LEAVES- With any here. Fill me another bowl. Will you excuse me ? Alex. You will be excused : But let him have his humour ; he is old. Ciyt. So was your father, sir ; this to his memory t Sound all the trumpets there. Alex. They shall not sound 'Till the king drinks. Sure I was born to wage Eternal war. All are my enemies. Whom I could tame — But let the sports go on. Lys. Nay, Clytus, you that could advise so well — Alex. Let him persist, be positive, and proud. Envious and sullen, 'mongst the nobler souls. Like an infernal spirit that hath stole From hell, and mingled with the mirth of gods. Clyt. When gods grow hot, no difference I know 'Twixt them and devils — Fill me Greek wine — yet — Yet fuller — I want spirits. Alex. Let me have music. Clyt. Music for boys — Clytus would hear the groans Of dying soldiers and the neigh of steeds; Or, if I must be pestered with shrill sounds. Give me the cries of matrons in sacked towns. Heph. Let us, Lysimachus, awake the king ; A heavy gloom is gathering on his brow. Kneel all, with humblest adoration, kneel. And let a health to Jove's great son go round. Alex. Sound, sound, that all the universe may hear. [A loudjlourisk of trumpets. Oh, for the voice of Jove ! the world should know The kindness of my people — Rise ! oh rise ! My hands, mv arms, my heart, are ever yours. LEE. l»S Clyi. I did not kiss the earth, nor must your hand — I am unworthy, sir. Akx. I know thou art : Thou enviest the great honour of thy master. Sit, all my friends. Now let us talk of war. The noblest subject for a soldier's mouth, And speak, speak freely, else you love me not. Who, think you, was the greatest general That ever led an army to the field ? Heph. A chief so great, so fortunately brave. And justly so renowned as Alexander, The radiant sun, since first his beams gave light, Never )'et saw. Lys, Such was not Cyrus, or the famed Alcides, Nor great Achilles, whose tempestuous sword Laid Troy in ashes, though the warring gods Opposed him. Alex. Oh, you flatter me ! Clyt. They do, indeed, and yet you love them for't, But hate old Clytus for his hardy virtue. Come, shall I speak a man with equal bravery, A better general, and experter soldier ? Alex. I should be glad to learn: instruct me, sir. Clyt. Your father, Philip — I have seen him march. And fought beneath his dreadful banner, where The boldest at this table would have trembled. Nay, frown not, sir, you cannot look me dead. When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war ! The laboured battle sweat, and conquest bled. Why should I fear to speak a bolder truth Than e'er the lying priests of Ammon told you .'' Philip fought men — but Alexander women. i86 GOLDEN LEAVES. Alex. All envy, spite and envy, by the gods ! Is then my glory come to this at last. To conquer women ! Nay, he said the stoutest, The stoutest here, would tremble at his dangers. In all the sickness, ail the wounds, I bore. When from my reins the javelin^s head was cut, Lysimachus, Hephestion, speak, Perdiccas, Did I once tremble ? Oh, the cursed falsehood ! Did I once shake or groan, or act beneath The dauntless resolution of a king ? Lys. Wine has transported him. Alex. No, 'tis mere malice. I was a woman too, at Oxydrace, When planting on the walls a scahng ladder I mounted, spite of showers of stones, bars, arrows And all the lumber which they thundered down. When you beneath cryed out, and spread your arms. That I should leap among you — did I so ? Lys. Dread sir ! the old man knows not what he says Alex. Was I a woman, when, like Mercury, I leaped the walls and flew amidst the foe. And, like a baited lion, dyed myself All over in the blood of those bold hunters ; Till spent with toil I battled on my knees. Plucked forth the darts that made my shield a forest. And hurled 'em back with most unconquered fury; Then shining in my arms I sunned the field. Moved, spoke, and fought, and was myself a war ? Clyt. 'Twas all bravado ; for, before you leaped. You saw that I had burst the gates asunder. Alex. Oh, that thou wert but once more young and vipjorous ! LEE. 187 That I might strike thee prostrate to the earclv. For this audacious lie, thou feeble dotard ! Clyt. I know the reason why you use me thus : I saved you from the sword of bold Rhesaces, Else had your godship slumbered in the dust. And most ungratefully you hate me for it. Alex. Hence from the banquet: thus far I forgive thee. Clyt. First try (for none can want forgiveness more) To have your own bold blasphemies forgiven. The shameful riots of a vicious life, Philotas' murder Alex. Ha ! what said the traitor ? Hepk. Clytus, withdraw ; Eumenes, force him hence : He must not tarry : drag him to the door. Clyt. No, let him send me, if I must be gone. To Philip, Atalaus, Calisthenes, To great Parmenio, and his slaughtered sons. Alex. Give me a javelin. Hep/i. Hold, mighty sir ! Alex. Sirrah ! off. Lest I at once strike through his heart and thine. Lys. Oh, sacred sir ! have but a moment's patience. Alex. What ! hold my arms ! I shall be murdered here, Like poor Darius, by my barbarous subjects. Perdiccas, sound our trumpets to the camp; Call all my soldiers to the court : nay, haste. For there is treason plotting 'gainst my life. And I shall perish ere they come to save me. Where is the traitor ? Clyt. Sure there is none amongst us. But here 1 stand — honest Clytus, Whom the king invited to the banquet. l88 GOLDEN LEAVES. Alex. Begone to Philip, Atalaus, Calisthenes ! [^Stabs km. And let bold subjects learn, by thy example. Not to provoke the patience of their prince. Clyt. The rage of wine is drowned in gushing blood. Oh, Alexander ! I have been to blame : Hate me not after death ; for I repent That I so far have urged your noble nature. Alex. What's this I hear ! say on, my dying soldier. Clyt. I should have killed myself had I but lived To be once sober — Now I fall with honour ; My own hands would have brought foul death. Oh, par don ! [^Dies. Alex. Then I am lost : what has my vengeance done r Who is it thou hast slain ? Clytus ! what was he ? The faithfullest subject, worthiest counsellor. The bravest soldier, he who saved thy life. Fighting bareheaded at the river Granick, i\nd now he has a noble recompense ; For a rash word, spoke in the heat of wine. The poor, the honest Clytus thou hast slain, Clytus, thy friend, thy guardian, thy preserver ! Heph. Remove the body, it inflames his sorrow. Alex. None dare to touch him : we must never part. Cruel Hephestion and Lysimachus, That had the power, yet would not hold me. Oh ! Lys. Dear sir, we did. Alex. 1 know ye did ; yet held me Like a wild beast, to let me go again With greater violence. — Oh, ye have undone me : Excuse it not : you that could stop a lion. Could not turn me ! ye should have drawn your swords. And barred my rage with their advancing points. LEE. 189 Made reason glitter in my dazzled eyes Till I had seen the precipice before me : That had been noble, that had shown the friend : Clytus would so have done to save your lives. Lys. When men shall hear how highly you were urged — Alex. No ; you have let me stain my rising glory. Which else had ended brighter than the sun. Oh ! I am all a blot, which seas of tears And my heart's blood can never wash away : Yet 'tis but just I try, and on the point Still reeking, hurl my black polluted breast. Heph. Oh, sacred sir ! it shall not — must not be. Lys. Forgive, dread sir ! — forgive my pious hands. That dare in duty to disarm my master. Alex. Yes, cruel men ! ye now can show your strength. , Here's not a slave but dares oppose my justice. Yet none had courage to prevent this murder : But I will render all endeavours vain That tend to save my life — here will I lie, [Falls on Clytus. Close to my murdered soldier's bleeding side ; Thus clasping his cold body in my arms, 'Till death, like his, has closed my eyes forever. RoXANA, tAe fir it ^een of Alexander, jealous of Statira, a Persian Princess^ belo-ved by Alexander, _/o/ks a Conspiracy against the King, and determines to sacrifice her Rival to Aer jealousy and vengeance. The Bower of Semiramis. — Statira discovered. Stat. Bless me, ye Powers above, and guard my virtue ! Where are you fled, dear shades ? where are you fled ! 'Twas but a dream, and yet I saw and heard My royal parents, who, while pious care Sat on my faded cheeks, pronounced with tears. i90 GOLDEN LEAVES. Tears such as angels weep, this hour my last. But hence with fear — my Alexander comes. And fear and danger ever fled from him. Would that he were here ! For oh, 1 tremble, and a thousand terrors Rush in upon me, and alarm my heart ! But hark ! 'tis he, and all my fears are fled : My life, my joy, my Alexander, comes ! Rox. l^Within.^ Make fast the gate with all its massy bars : At length we've conquered this stupendous height. And reached the grove. Stat. Ye guardian gods, defend me ! Roxana's voice ! then all the vision's true. And die I must. Enter Roxana. Rox, Secure the brazen gate. Where is my rival ? 'tis Roxana calls. Stat. And what is she who with such towering pride Would awe a princess that is born above her ? Rox. Behold this dagger ! — 'tis thy fate, Statira ! Behold, and meet it as becomes a queen. Fain would I find thee worthy of my vengeance ; Here, take my weapon then, and if thou dar'st — Stat. Now little know'st thou what Statira dares ' Yes, cruel woman ! yes, I dare meet death With a resolve at which thy coward heart Would shrink ; for terror haunts the guilty mind ; While conscious innocence, that knows no fear. Can smiling pass, and scorn thy idle threats. Rox. Return, fair insolent ! return, I say : LEE. 191 Dar'st thou, presumptuous, to invade my rights Restore him quickly to my longing arms. And with him give me back his broken vows, For perjured as he is, he still is mine. Or I will rend them from thy bleeding heart. Stat. Alas, Roxana ! 'tis not in my power ; 1 cannot if I would — and oh, ye gods ! What were the world to Alexander's loss ! Rox. Oh, sorceress ! to thy accursed charms I owQ the frenzy that distracts my soul ; To them I owe my Alexander's loss : Too late thou tremblest at my just revenge. My wrongs cry out, and vengeance will have way. Stat. Yet think, Roxana, ere you plunge in murder. Think on the horrors that must ever haunt you ; Think on the Furies, those avenging ministers Of Heaven's high wrath, how they will tear your soul, All day distract you with a thousand fears ; And when by night thou vainly seek'st repose. They'll gather round and interrupt your slumbers, With horrid dreams and terrifying visions. Rox. xAdd still, if possible, superior horrors. Rather than leave my great revenge unfinished, I'll dare 'em all, and triumph in the deed; Therefore [Holds up the. dagger. Stat. Hold, hold thy hand advanced in air : I read my sentence written in thine eyes ; Yet oh, Roxana ! on thy black revenge One kindly ray of female pity beam ; And give me death in Alexander's presence. Rox. Not for the world's wide empire shouldst thou sec him. 192 G OLDEN LEAV E S. Fool ! but for him thou mightst unheeded hve ; For his sake only art thou doomed to die ; The sole remaining joy that glads my soul. Is to deprive thee of the heart I've lost. Enter Slave. Slave. Madam, the king and all his guards are come, With frantic rage they thunder at the gate. And must ere this have gained admittance. Rox. Ha! Too long Pve trifled. Let me then redeem The time misspent, and make great vengeance sure. Stat. Is Alexander, oh ye gods ! so nigh. And can he not preserve me from her fury ? Rox. Nor he, nor Heaven, shall shield thee from my justice. Die, sorceress, die, and all my wrongs die with thee ! [^Stabs key. ^l)omas ©truan. VENICE PRESERVED. Taffier, »i young Nobleman of Venice^ of reduced Fortune^ marrits Belvidera, Daughter of Priuli, a Senator of Venicey contrary to the •wishes of her Father^ luho disinherits her. Jaffier, in his destitu- tion^ solicits assistance from Priuli, and is repelled ivith scorn aud contumely by the enraged Father. While smarting xvith the sense of his degradation., Jaffier is met by his Friend Pierre, ivho has headed a Conspiracy to o'verturn the Government of Venice. Priuli, Jaffier. Pri. . . . Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ; Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall. OTWA 7. 193 Those pageants of thy folly : Reduce the glitt*ring trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state : Then, to some suburb cottage both retire ; Drudge to feed loathsome life ; get brats, and starve — Home, home, I say ! [Exil Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let me — This proud, this swelling heart : home I would go. But that my doors are balefiil to my eyes. Filled and dammed up with gaping creditors I've now not fifty ducats in the world. Yet still I am in love, and pleased with ruin. O Belvidera ! Oh ! she is my wife — And we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more. Enter Pierre. Pur. My friend, good-morrow ! How fares the honest partner of my heart ? What, melancholy ! not a word to spare me ? Jaf. I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned staiving quality. Called honesty, got footing in the world. Fier, Why, powerful villany first set it up. For its own ease and safety. Honest men Are the soft, easy cushions on which knaves Repose and fatten. Were all mankind villains. They'd starve each other ; lawyers would want practice, Cut-throats rewards : each man would kill his brother Himself; none would be paid or hanged for murde-. Honesty ! 'twas a cheat invented first To bind the hands of bold, deserving rogues 194 G OLDEN LEAVES. That fools and cowards might sit safe in power. And lord it uncontrolled above their betters. J-af. Then honesty is but a notion ? Pier. Nothing else ; Like wit, much talked of, not to be defined : He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't. 'Tis a ragged virtue. — Honesty ! no more on't, Jaf. Sure, thou art honest ! Pier. So, indeed, men think me; But they're mistaken, Jaffier : I'm a rogue As well as they ; A fine, gay, bold-faced villain, as thou seest me. 'Tis true, I pay my debts, when they're contracted ; I steal from no man ; would not cut a throat To gain admission to a great man's purse. Or a whore's bed ; I'd not betray my friend To get his place or fortune ; I scorn to flatter A blown-up fool above me, or crush the wretch beneath me Yet, Jaffier, for all this I'm a villain. Jaf. A villain ! Pier. Yes, a most notorious villain ; To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures. And own myself a man : to see our senators Cheat the deluded people with a show Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of. They say, by them our hands are free from fetters ; Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds ; Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow ; Drive us, like wrecks, down the rough tide of power, Whilst no hold's left to save us from destruction. All that bear this are villains, and I one. Not to rouse up at the great call of Nature, T WA Y. 19: And check the growth of these domestic spoilers. That make us slaves, and tell us, ^tis our charter. J^af. I think no safety can be here for virtue, And grieve, my friend, as much as thou, to live In such a wretched state as this of Venice, Where all agree to spoil the public good. And villains fatten with the brave man's labours. Pier. We've neither safety, unity, nor peace. For the foundation's lost of common good ; Justice is lame, as well as blind, amongst us ; The laws (corrupted to their ends that make 'em) Serve but for instruments of some new tyranny. That every day starts up, t' enslave us deeper. Now, could this glorious cause but find out friends To do it right, O Jaffier ! then might'st thou Not wear these seals of woe upon thy face ; The proud Priuli should be taught humanity. And learn to value such a son as thou art. I dare not speak, but my heart bleeds this moment. y-cif. Cursed be the cause, though I thy friend be par on't : Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom. For I am used to misery, and perhaps May find a way to sweeten 't to thy spirit. Pier. Too soon 'twill reach thy knowledge Jaf. Then from thee Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship. Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing, Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin. Pier. Then thou art ruined ! J^6if. That I long since knew ; I and ill fortune have been long acquainted. 196 G OLDEN LEAVES. Pier. I passed this very moment by thy doors. And found them guarded by a troop of villains ; The sons of public rapine were destroying. They told me, by the sentence of the law. They had commission to seize all thy fortune : Nay, more, — Priuli's cruel hand had signed it. Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face. Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate. Tumbled into a heap for public sale ; There was another, making villanous jests At thy undoing : he had ta'en possession Of all thy ancient, most domestic ornaments. Rich hangings intermixed and wrought with gold ; The very bed, which on thy wedding-nighi- Received thee to the arms of Belvidera, The scene of all thy joys, was violated By the coarse hands of filthy dungeon villains. And thrown amongst the common lumber. ycif. Now, thank Heaven Pier. Thank Heaven ! for what ? Jaf. That I am not worth a ducat. Pier. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of Venice Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false ; Where there's no truth, no trust ; where Innocence Stoops under vile Oppression, and Vice lords it ! Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how at last Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch That's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth. Shining through tears, like April suns in showers. That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em ; Whilst two young virgins, on whose arms she leaned. Kindly looked up, and at her grief grew sad. OTWA Y. 197 As if they catched the sorrows that fell from her. Even the lewd rabble, that were gathered round I'd see the sight, stood mute when they beheld her : Governed their roaring throats, and grumbled pity. I could have hugged the greasy rogues : they pleased me. yaf. I thank thee for this story ; from my soul ; Since now I know the worst that can befall me. Ah, Pierre ! I have a heart that could have borne The roughest wrong my fortune could have done me ; But when I think what Belvidera feels. The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of, I own myself a coward : bear my weakness. If, throwing thus my arms about thy neck, I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom : Oh ! I shall drown thee with my sorrows. Pier. Burn, First burn and level Venice to thy ruin ! What ! starve like beggars' brats, in frosty weather. Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death ? Thou or thy cause shall never want assistance, Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee : Command my heart, thou'rt every way its master. J^af. No, there's a secret pride in bravely dying. Pier. Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run mad ; Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow : Revenge, the attribute of gods ; they stamped it. With their great image, on our natures. Die ! Consider well the cause, that calls upon thee ; And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember, Thy Belvidera suffers ; Belvidera ! Die — damn first What ! be decently interred In a churchyard, and mingle thy brave dust 198 GOLDEN LEAVES. With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets, Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung 0' th' soil ! >/ Oh! Pier. Well said : out with't, swear a little — ycff. Swear ! By sea and air, by earth, by heaven and hell, 1 will revenge my Belvidera's tears. Hark, thee, my friend ! Priuli — is — a senator. Pier. A dog ! Jaf. Agreed. Pier. Shoot him ! Jaf. With all my heart. No more ; where shall we meet at night ? Pier. I'll tell thee : On the Rialto, every night at twelve, I take my evening's walk of meditation ; There we two will meet, and talk of precious Mischief Jaf. Farewell. Pier. At tv/elve. Jaf. At any hour ; my plagues Will keep me waking. [^Exit Peerre. Tell me why, good Heaven, Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit. Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires. That fill the happiest man .? Ah, rather, why Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate. Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burdens ? Why have I sense to know the curse that's on me ? Is this just dealing. Nature .? — Belvidera ! Enter Belvidera. Poor Belvidera ! OTWA Y. 199 Bei. Lead me, lead me, my virgins. To that kind voice. My lord, my love, my refuge ! Happy my eyes, when they behold thy face ! My heavy heart will leave its doleful beating At sight of thee, and bound with sprightly joys. Oh, smile ! as when our loves were in their spring. And cheer my fainting soul. y-af. As when our loves Were in their spring ! Has, then, our fortune changed Art thou not, Belvidera, still the same. Kind, good, and tender, as my arms first found thee ? If thou art altered, where shall I have harbour ? Where ease my loaded heart ? Oh ! where complain ' Bel. Does this appear like change, or love decaying, When thus I throw myself into thy bosom. With all the resolution of strong truth ? Beats not my heart, as 'twould alarum thine To a new charge of bliss ? — I joy more in thee. Than did thy mother, when she hugged thee first. And blessed the gods for all her travail past. ^df. Can there in woman be such glorious faith ? Sure, all ill stories of thy sex are false ! woman ! lovely woman ! Nature made thee To temper man : we had been brutes without you ! Angels are painted fair, to look like you : There's in you all that we believe of heaven ; Amazing brightness, purity, and truth. Eternal joy, and everlasting love. Bei. If love be treasure, we'll be wondrous rich ; 1 have so much, my heart will surely break with't : Vows can't express it. When I would declare How great's my jov. I'm dumb with the big thought; 200 G OLDEN LEAVE S. I swell, and sigh, and labour with my longing. Oh, lead me to some desert wide and wild. Barren as our misfortunes, where my soul May have its vent, where 1 may tell aloud To the high heavens, and every list'ning planet. With what a boundless stock my bosom's fraught ; "Where I may throw my eager arms about thee. Give loose to love, with kisses kindling joy. And let off all the fire that's in my heart ! ^af. O Belvidera ! doubly I'm a beggar : Undone by Fortune, and in debt to thee. Want, worldly Want, that hungry, meagre fiend, Is at my heels, and chases me in view. Canst thou bear cold and hunger .? Can these limbs, Framed for the tender offices of love, Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty ? When banished by our miseries abroad (As suddenly we shall be), to seek out In some far climate, where our names are strangers. For charitable succour ; wilt thou then. When in a bed of straw we shrink together. And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads, — Wilt thou then talk thus to me ? Wilt thou then Hush my cares thus, and shelter me with love ? Bel. Oh ! I will love thee, even in madness love thee. Though my distracted senses should forsake me ; I'd find some intervals, when my poor heart Should 'suage itselfj and be let loose to thine. Though the bare earth be all our resting-place. Its roots our food, some cleft our habitation, I'll make this arm a pillow for thine head ; And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow. OTWA Y. 20. Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest ; Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning. yaf. Hear this, ye Heavens ! and wonder how you made her : Reign, reign, ye monarchs that divide the world. Busy rebellion ne'er will let you know Tranquillity and happiness like mine ! Like gaudy ships th' obsequious billows fall. And rise again to lift you in your pride ; They wait but for a storm, and then devour you ; I, in my private bark already wrecked. Like a poor merchant driven to unknown land. That had by chance packed up his choicest treasure In one dear casket, and saved only that ; Since I must wander farther on the shore. Thus hug my little, but my precious store. Resolved to scorn and trust my fate no more. \ Exeunt. THE ORPHAN. MoNlMlA, an Orphan, is brought up by Acasto, luhose tiua Sons, Cas- TALio and PoLYDORE, have each bestcwed their affections on " the Orphan.'"'' Castalio alone is beloved by Monimia, and a secret Marriage is contrived by the Lovers. Chamont, a young Soldier, Brother to Monimia, hears reports against his Sister's honour, and seeks an explanation from Acasto and Monimia. Chamont, Acasto, Monimia. Cham. My lord, I stand in need of your assistance. In something that concerns my peace and honour. Acas. Spoke like the son of that brave man I loved ! 202 G OLDEN LEAVES. So freely, friendly, we conversed together. Whatever it be, with confidence impart it ; Thou shalt command my fortune, and my sword. Cham. I dare not doubt your friendship, nor your justice. Ypur bounty shown to what I hold most dear. My orphan sister, must not be forgotten ! Acas. Pr'ythee no more of that, it grates my nature. Cham. When our dear parents died, they died together ; One fate surprised 'em, and one grave received 'em ; My father, with his dying breath, bequeathed Her to my love ; my mother, as she lay Languishing by him, called me to her side. Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me ; Then pressed me close, and, as she observed my tears. Kissed them away : said she, " Chamont, my son. By this, and all the love I ever showed thee. Be careful of Monimia : watch her youth ; Let not her wants betray her to dishonour; Perhaps kind Heaven may raise some friend." Then sighed Kissed me again ; so blessed us, and expired. Pardon my grief. Acas. It speaks an honest nature. Cham. The friend Heaven raised was you ; you took her up. An infant, to the desert world exposed. And proved another parent. Acas. I've not wronged her. Cham. Far be it from my fears. Acas. Then why this argument ? Cham. My lord, my nature's jealous, and you'll bear it. Acas. Go on. Cham, Great spirits bear misfortunes hardly ; OTWA Y. 203 Good offices claim gratitude ; and pride. Where power is wanting, will usurp a little. And make us (rather than be thought behindhand) Pay over price. Acas. I cannot guess your drift ; Distrust you me? Cham. No, but I fear her weakness May make her pay her debt at any rate ; And, to deal freely with your lordship's goodness, IVe heard a story lately much disturbs me. Acas. Then first charge her ; and if th' offence be found Within my reach, though it should touch my nature. In my own offspring, by the dear remembrance Of thy brave father, whom my heart rejoiced in, I'd prosecute it with severest vengeance. lExit Cham. I thank you, from my soul. Mon. Alas, my brother ! what have I done ? My heart quakes in me ; in your settled face. And clouded brow, methinks I see my fate. You will not kill me ? Cham. Pr'ythee, why dost thou talk so ? Mon. Look kindly on me then ; I cannot bear Severity ; it daunts, and does amaze me ; My heart's so tender, should you charge me rough, I should but weep, and answer you with sobbing ; But use me gently, like a loving brother, And search through all the secrets of my soul. Cham. Fear nothing, I will show myself a brother. A tender, honest, and a loving brother. You've not forgot our father? Mon. I never shall. Cham. Then you'll remember too he was a man 204 GOLDEN LEAVES. That lived up to the standard of his honour. And prized that jewel more than mines of wealth : He'd not have done a shameful thing but once . Though kept in darkness from the world, and hidden^ He could not have forgiven it to himself. This was the only portion that he left us , And I more glory in't than if possessed Of all that ever fortune threw on fools. 'Twas a large trust, and must be managed nicely ; Now, if by any chance, Monimia, V^ou have soiled this gem, and taken from its value. How will you account with me ? Mon. I challenge envy. Malice, and all the practices of hell. To censure all the actions of my past Unhappy life, and taint me if they can ! Cham. Til tell thee, then ; three nights ago, as I Lay musing on my bed, all darkness round me, A sudden damp struck to my heart, cold sweat Dewed all my face, and trembling seized my limbs . My bed shook under me, the curtains started. And to my tortured fancy there appeared The form of thee, thus beauteous as thou art ; Thy garments flowing loose, and in each hand A wanton lover, who by turns caressed thee With all the freedom of unbounded pleasure. I snatched my sword, and in the very moment Darted it at the phantom ; straight it left me ; Then rose, and called for lights, when, O dire omen i I found my weapon had the arras pierced. Just where that famous tale was interwoven. How the unhappy Theban slew his father. OTWA F, 20i Mon, And for this cause my virtue is suspected 1 Because in dreams your fancy has been ridden, I must be tortured waking ! Chain. Have a care ; Labour not to be justified too fast : Hear all, and then let justice hold the scale. What followed was the riddle that confounds me. Through a close lane, as I pursued my journey. And meditating on the last night's vision, I spied a wrinkled hag, with age grown double, Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself; Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red ; Cold palsy shook her head, her hand seemed withered. And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapped The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging. Which served to keep her carcass from the cold : So there was nothing of a piece about her. Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patched With different coloured rags, black, red, white, yellow. And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness. I asked her of my way, which she informed me ; Then craved my charity, and bade me hasten To save a sister ! at that word I started ! Man. The common cheat of beggars ; every day They flock about our doors, pretend to gifts Of prophecy, and telling fools their fortunes. Cha??i, Oh ! but she told me such a tale, Monimia, As in it bore great circumstance of truth : Castalio and Polydore, my sister. Mon. Ha! Cham. What, altered ? does your courage fail you ? Now, by my father's soul, the witch was honest. 2o6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Answer me, if thou hast not lost them Thy honour at a sordid game ? Mon. I will, I must, so hardly my misfortune loads me : — That both have offered me their love's most true. Cham, And 'tis as true too they have both undone thee. Mon. Though they both with earnest vows Have pressed my heart, if e'er in thought I yielded To any but Castalio Cham, But Castalio ! Mon, Still will you cross the Hne of my discourse. Yes, I confess that he hath won my soul By generous love and honourable vows. Which he this day appointed to complete. And make himself by holy marriage mine. Cham, Art thou then spotless ? hast thou still preserved Thy virtue white, without a blot, untainted ? Mo7i. When I'm unchaste, may Heaven reject my prayer? ; more, to make me wretched, may you know it ! Cham, Oh, then, Monimia, art thou dearer to me Than all the comforts ever yet blessed man. But let not marriage bait thee to thy ruin. Trust not a man ; we are by nature false. Dissembling, subtle, cruel, and inconstant : When a man talks of love, with caution trust him ; But if he swears, he' 11 certainly deceive thee. 1 charge thee, let no more Castalio soothe thee ; Avoid it, as thou wouldst preserve the peace Of a poor brother, to whose soul thou'rt precious. Mon, I will. Cham, Appear as cold, when next you meet, as great ones. SOUTHERN E. 207 Wnen merit begs ; then shalt thou see how soon His heart will cool, and all his pains grow easy. \^Exit Mon, Yes, I will try him, torture him severely ; For, O, Castalio, thou too much hast wronged me. In leaving me to Polydore's ill usage. He comes; and now, for once, O Love, stand neuter. Whilst a hard part's performed ; for I must tempt. Wound his soft nature, though my heart aches for't. €l)oma0 Soutljcrne. ISABELLA; OR, THE FATAL MARRIAGE. SABELLA, suppostJig her Husbarid^ Biron, ivas killed at the Siege of Candyy and reduced to extreme Po-verty, consents to marry Villeroy. Shortly after her second Marriage^ Biron arri-ves, the neivs of his Death being false. He seeks Isabella, not knowing her Union with Villeroy, and^ not luishing to alarm her^ first sends a Ring by Isa- bella's Nurse, feigning to be a Messenger from her late Husband Isabella, Nurse, Biron. Enter Isabella. ha. I've heard of witches, magic spells, and charms. That have made Nature start from her old course : The sun has been eclipsed, the moon brought down From her career, still paler, and subdued To the abuses of this under world ; Now I believe all possible. This ring. This little ring, with necromantic force, Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears. Conjured the sense o^ honour and of love 20« GOLDEN LEAVES. Into such shapes, they fright me from myself ^ I dare not think of them E7iter Nurse. Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below. Isa. I had forgot ; pray let me speak with him. [^Exit Nurse. This ring was the firs-t present of my love To Biron, my first husband : I must blush To think I have a second. Biron died (Still to my loss) at Candy ; there's my hope. Oh, do I live to hope, that he died there ? It must be so ; he's dead, and this ring left. By his last breath, to some known faithful friend. To bring me back again ; That's all I have to trust to Enter Biron. [Isabella looking at kim.] My fears were woman's — I have viewed him all; And let me, let me say it to myself) I live again, and rise but from his tomb. Bir. Have you forgot me quite ? Jsa. Forgot you ! Bir. Then farewell my disguise, and my misfortunes : My Isabella ! [He goes to her; she shrieks, and faints. Isa. Fa! Bir. Oh, come again ! I'hy Biror summons thee to life and love ; Thy once loved, ever-loving husband calls Thy Biron speaks to thee. Isa. My husband ! Biron ! Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return. SOUTHER NE. 209 Has overpowered Her 1 was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepared : But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms. This ecstasy has made my welcome more Than words could say. ha. Where have I been ? why do you keep him from m: '■ I know his voice : my life, upon the wing. Hears the soft lute that brings me back again, 'Tis he himself, my Biron ! If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms. Bir. Live ever in these arms. ha. But pardon me, "Excuse the wild disorder of my soul ; The joy, the strange, surprising joy, of seeing you. Of seeing you again, distracted me What hand of Providence has brought you back To your own home again ? O, tell me all. For every thought confounds me. Bir. My best life ! at leisure, all. ha. We thought you dead ; killed at the siege of Candy Bir. There I fell among the dead ; But hopes of life reviving, from my wounds, I was preserved, but to be made a slave ; I often writ to my hard father, but never had An answer ; I writ to thee too ha. What a world of woe Had been prevented but in hearing from you ! Bir. Alas ! thou couldst not help me. ha. You do not know how much I could have done , At least Tm sure I could have suffered all ; I would have sold myself to slavery. 210 G OLDEN LEAVES. Without redemption ; given up my child, The dearest part of me to basest wants — Bir. My little boy ! Isa. My life ! but to have heard You were alive — Bir. No more, my love ; complaining of the past. We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price (^f all my pains, that thus we meet again ; I have a thousand things to say to thee ha. Would I were past the hearing ! [Aside. Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father, too ? I hear he's living still. ha. Well, both ; both well ; And may he prove a father to your hopes. Though we have found him none. Bir. Come, no more tears. ha. Seven long years of sorrow for your loss Have mourned with me Bir. And all my days behind Shall be employed in a kind recompense For thy afflictions — Can't I see my boy ? ha. He's gone to-bed ; I'll have him brought to you. Bir. To-morrow I shall see him ; I want rest xMyself, after this weary pilgrimage. ha. Alas ! what shall I get for you ? Bir, Nothing but rest, my love ! To-night I would not Be known, if possible, to your family : I see my nurse is with you ; her welcome Would be tedious at this time ; To-morrow will do better. ha. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing As you would have it.. [Exit. SOUTHERNE. 211 Btr. Grant me but life, good Heaven ! and give the means To make this wondrous goodness some amends. And let me then forget her, if I can ! ! she deserves of me much more than I Can lose for her, though I again could ventu'-'^ A father, and his fortune, for her love ! You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all ! Not to perceive, that such a woman's worm Weighs down the portions you provide your son^ What is your trash, what all your heaps of gold, Compared to this, my heart-felt happiness ?— What has she, in my absence, undergone ! 1 must not think of that ; it drives me back Upon myself, the fatal cause of all. Enter Isabella. ha. I have obeyed your pleasure ; Every thing is ready for you. Bir. I can want nothing here : possessing thee. All my desires are carried to their aim Of happiness : there's no room for a wish, But to continue still this blessing to me : I know the way, my love. I shall sleep sound. Isa. Shall I attend you ? Bir. By no means : I've been so long a slave to others' pride. To learn, at least, to wait upon myself; You'll make haste after Isa. I'll but say my prayers, and follow you — My prayers ! no, I must never pray again. [Exit Biron Prayers have their blessings, to reward our hopes ; But I have nothing left to hope for more. 212 GOLDEN LEAVES. O Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner I \_Weeping. What's to be done — for something must be done. Two husbands ! yet not one ! married to both. And yet a wife to neither ! Hold my brain Ha ! a lucky thought Works the right way to rid me of them all ; All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns. That every tongue and finger will find for me. Let the just horror of my apprehensions But keep me warrh — no matter what can come. 'Tis but a blow — yet will I see him first — Have a last look, to heighten my despair. And then to rest forever. BiRON meets her. Bir. Despair and rest forever ! Isabella, These words are far from thy condition ; And be they ever so. I heard thy voice. And could not bear thy absence ; come, my love ! You have stayed long, there's nothing, nothing sure. Now to despair of in succeeding fate. Isa. I am contented to be miserable. But not this way : I've been too long abused. And can believe no more. Let me sleep on, to be deceived no more. Bir. Look up, my love, I never did deceive thee, Nor ever can ; believe thyself, thy eyes. That first inflamed and lit me to my love. Those stars, that still must guide me to my joys. ha. And me to my undoing : I look round. And find no path but leading to the grave. Bir. I cannot understand thee. S OUTHERNE. 213 Isa. If marriages Are made in heaven, they should be happie, Why was I made this wretch ? Bir, Has marriage made thee wretched ? ha. Miserable, beyond the reach of comfort. Bir. Do I live to hear thee say so ? Isa. Why what did I say ? Bir. That I have made thee miserable. Isa. No : you are my only earthly happiness ; And my false tongue belied my honest heart. If it said otherwise, Bir. And yet you said. Your marriage made you miserable. Isa. I know not what I said : I've said too much, unless I could speak all. Bir. Thy words are wild ; my eyes, my ears, my heart. Were all so full of thee, so much employed In wonder of thy charms, I could not find it ; Now I perceive it plain Isa. You'll tell nobody Bir. Thou art not well. Isa. Indeed I am not ; I knew that before ; But where's the remedy ? Bir. Rest will relieve thy cares : come, come, no more ; I'll banish sorrow from thee. Isa. Banish first the cause. Bir. Heaven knows how willingly. Isa. You are the only cause. Bir. Am I the cause ? the cause of thy misfortunes ? Isa. The fatal innocent cause of all my woes. Bir. Is this my welcome home ? This the reward Of all my miseries, long labours, pains. 214 GOLDEN LEAVES. And pining wants of wretched slavery. Which I've outlived, only in hopes of thee ? Am I thus paid at last for deathless love. And called the cause of thy misfortune now ? ha. Inquire no more : 'twill be explained too soon. Bir. What ! canst thou leave me too ? \^Going off. ha. Pray let me go : For both our sakes, permit me Bir. Rack me not with imaginations Of things impossible Thou canst not mean What thou hast said — Yet something she must mean. — 'Twas madness all — Compose thyself, my love ; The fit is past ; all may be well again : Let us to bed. ha. To bed ! You've raised the storm Will sever us forever. The rugged hand of fate has got between Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their joys. Bir. Nothing shall ever part us. ha. Oh ! there's a fatal story to be told ; Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me ! When thou shalt hear how much thou hast been wronged. How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart. Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love. And throw me like a poisonous weed away ! When I am dead, forgive and pity me. [^Exit. Bir. What can she mean? These doublings will distract me. Some hidden mischief soon will burst to light ; I cannot bear it 1 must be satisfied 'Tis she, my wife, must clear this darkness to me. She shall — if the sad tale at last must come ! She is my fate, and best can speak my doom. \^Exit. SOUTHERNE. 215 OROONOKO. Oiealth, AVill soon be ours : look round your Syrian frontiers ! See in how many towns our hoisted flags Are waving in the wind : Sachna, and Hawran, Proud Tadmor, Aracah, and stubborn Bosra, Have bowed beneath the yoke ; behold our march O'er half your land, like flame through fields of harvest. And last, viev/ Aiznadin, that vale of blood ! There seek the souls of forty thousand Greeks That, fresh from life, yet hover o'er their bodies : Then think, and then resolve. Her. Presumptuous men ! What though you yet can boast successful guilt. Is conquest only yours? Or dare you hope That you shall still pour on the swelling tide. Like some proud river that has left its banks. Nor ever know repulse ? Eurn. Have you forgot ? Not twice seven years are past since e'en your Prophet, Bold as he was, and boasting aid divine. Was by the tribe of Corish forced to fly. Poorly to fly, to save his wretched life. From Mecca to Medina ? Abu. No — forgot! We well remember how Medina screened That holy head, preserved for better days. And ripening years of glory. Dar. Why, my chiefs. Will you waste time in offering terms despisea 254 GOLDEN LEAVES. To these idolaters ? Words are but air ; Blows would plead better. Caled. Daran, thou say'st true. — Christians, here end our truce. Behold, once more The sword of Heaven is drawn I nor shall be sheathed But in the bowels of Damascus. Eum. That, Or speedy vengeance, and destruction due To the proud menacers, as Heaven sees fit 1 [Exeunt. C ATO. Julius Ca;8Ar approaching Utica to subdue tty Cato, the Governor of UticOy assembles the Senators for consultation. The Senate-House. — Flourish ; Sempronius, Lucius, and Senators, discovered. Sem. Rome still survives in this assembled senate. Let n» remember we are Cato's friends. And act like men who claim that glorious title. [ Trumpets. Luc. Hark ! he comes. Trumpets. Enter Cato, with Fortius and Marcus, hi!> Sons. Cato. Fathers, we once again are met in council ; Csesar's approach has summoned us together. And Rome attends her fate from our resolves. How shall we treat this bold, aspiring man .'' Success still follows him, and backs his crimes : ADDISON. 25? Pharsalia gave him Rome, Egypt has since Received his yoke, and the whole Nile is Caesar's. Why should I mention Juba's overthrow. And Scipio's death ? Numidia's burning sands Still smoke with blood. 'Tis time we should decree What course to take. Our foe advances on us. And envies us even Libya's sultry deserts. Fathers, pronounce your thoughts : are they still fixed To hold it out, and fight it to the last ? Or are your hearts subdued at length, and wrought. By time and ill success, to a submission ? Sempronius, speak. Sem. My voice is still for war. Gods ! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? No ; let us rise at once, gird on our swords. And, at the head of our remaining troops. Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Pcrhapsj some arm, more lucky than the rest. May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise, fathers, rise ! 'tis Rome demands your help ; Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens. Or share their fate. To battle ! Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow. And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us. Cato. Let not a torrent of impetuous zeal Transport thee thus beyond the bounds of reason ; True fortitude is seen in great exploits. That justice warrants, and that wisdom guides; All else is towering frenzy and distraction. Lucius, we next would know what's yo-ur opinion. 256 GOLDEN LEAVES. Luc. My thoughts, I must confess, are turned on peace Already have we shown our love to Rome ; Now let us show submission to the gods. We took up arms, not to revenge ourselves. But free the commonwealth ; when this end fails. Arms have no further use. Our country's cause. That drew our swords, now wrests them from our hands. And bids us not delight in Roman blood, Unprofitably shed. What men could do. Is done already : Heaven and earth will witness. If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. Cato, Let us appear nor rash nor diffident j Immod'rate valour swells into a fault; And fear, admitted into public councils. Betrays like treason. Let us shun them both. Fathers, I cannot see that our affairs Are grown thus desp'rate : we have bulwarks round us ; Within our walls are troops inured to toil In Afric's heat, and seasoned to the sun ; Numidia's spacious kingdom lies behind us. Ready to rise at its young prince's call. While there is hope, do not disturb the gods ; But wait at least till Cesar's near approach Force us to yield. 'Twill never be too late To sue for chains, and own a conqueror. Why should Rome fall a moment ere her time .? No, let us draw her term of freedom out In its full length, and spin it to the last. So shall we gain still one's day's liberty : And let me perish, but, in Cato's judgment, A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty. Is worth a whole eternity in bondage. ADDISON. 257 Enter Junius. Mar. Fathers, e'en now a herald is arrived From Caesar's camp, and with him comes old Decius, The Roman knight : he carries in his looks Impatience, and demands to speak with Cato. Cato. By your permission, fathers — bid him enter. [Exit Junius. Decius was once my friend, but other prospects Have loosed those ties, and bound him fast to Cresar. His message may determine our resolves. Enter Decius. Dec. Caesar sends health to Cato — Cato. Could he send it To Cato's slaughtered friends, it would be welcome. Are not your orders to address the senate? Dec. My business is with Cato -, C^sar sees The straits to which you're driven ; and, as he knows Cato's high v/orth, is anxious for your life. Cato, My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato Disdains a life which he has power to offer. Dec, Rome and her senators submit to Caesar ; Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more. Who checked his conquests, and denied his triumphs. Why will not Cato be this Csesar's friend .? Cato. These very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. Dec, Caesar is well acquainted with your virtues. And therefore sets this value on your life. Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship. And name your terms. 258 GOLDEN LEAVES Cato. Bid him disband his legions, Restore the commonwealth to liberty. Submit his actions to the public censure, And stand the judgment of a Roman senate. Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend. Dtc. Cato, the world talks loudly of your wisdom — Cato. Nay, more; though Cata's voice was ne'er employed To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes. Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour. And strive to gain his pardon from the people. Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueroi. Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman. Dec. What is a Roman, that is Caesar's foe ? Cato. Greater than Caesar : he's a friend to virtue. Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica, And at the head of your own little senate : You don't now thunder in the capitol. With all the mouths of Rome to second you. Cato. Let him consider that, v/ho drives us hither. 'Tis Csesar's sword has made Rome's senate little. And thinned its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye Beholds this man in a false, glaring light. Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ; Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black \Vith murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes That strike my soul with horror but to name them. I know thou lookest on me as a wretch Beset with ills, and covered with misfortunes ; But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds Should never buy me to be like that Cajsar. Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Ciesar, For all his gen'rous cares and proffered friendship ? ADDISON. 259 Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain : Presumptuous man ! the gods take care of Cato. Would Caesar show the greatness of his soul. Bid him employ his care for these my friends. And make good use of his ill-gotten power. By shelt'ring men much better than himself. Dec. Your high, unconquered heart makes you forget You are a man. You rush on your destruction. But I have done. When I relate hereafter The tale of this unhappy embassy. All Rome will be in tears. [Exity attended Sem. Cato, we thank thee. The mighty genius of immortal Rome Speaks in thy voice ; thy soul breathes liberty. Caesar will shrink to hear the words thou utter'st, And shudder in the midst of all his conquests. Luc. The senate owns its gratitude to Cato, Who with so great a soul consults its safety, And guards our lives, while he neglects his own. Sem. Sempronius gives no thanks on this account. Lucius seems fond of life ; but what is life .? 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air From time to time, or gaze upon the sun ; — 'Tis to be free. When liberty is gone. Life grows insipid, and has lost its relish. Oh, could my dying hand but lodge a sword In Caesar's bosom, and revenge my country. By Heaven, I could enjoy the pangs of death. And smile in agony ! Luc. Others perhaps May serve their country with as warm a zeal. Though 'tis not kindled into so much rage. 20o GOLDEN LEAVES. Sem. This sober conduct is a mighcy virtue In lukewarm patriots. Cato. Come, no more, Sempronius ; All here are friends to Rome, and to each other. Let us not weaken still the weaker side By our divisions. Sem. Cato, my resentments Are sacrificed to Rome : I stand reproved. Cato. Fathers, 'tis time you come to a resolve Lzic. Cato, we all go into your opinion : Caesar's behaviour has convinced the senate. We ought to hold it out till terms arrive. Sem. We ought to hold it out till death; but, CatOj My private voice is drowned amidst the senate's. Cato. Then let us rise, my friends, and strive to fif This little interval, this pause of life (While yet our liberty and fates are doubtful). With resolution, friendship, Roman bravery. And all the virtues we can crowd into it ; That Heaven may say, it ought to be prolonged. Fathers, farewell Exeunt, C^SAR is victoriousy and Cato, preferring death to cupti-vity^ deter- mines to die by his oivn hand. A Chamber. — Cato soliiSy sitting in a thoughtful pos- ture ; in his hand, Plato's book on the immortality of the soul ; a drawn sword on the table, by him. Cato. It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well — Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire. This longing after immortality ? Or whence this secret dread, this inward horror, Ot falling into naught } Why shrinks the soul ADDISON. 26 i Back on herself, and startles at destruction . 'Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter. And intimates eternity to man. Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! Through what variety of untried being. Through what new scenes and changes, must we pass r The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me : But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. Here will I hold. If there's a power above us (And that there is, all Nature cries aloud Through all her works), he must delight in virtue ; Ar:i that which he delights in must be happy. But when, or where ? — This world was made for Csesar I'm weary of conjectures : — this must end them. [^Laying his hand on his sword Thus am I doubly armed : my death and life. My bane and antidote, are both before me. This in a moment brings me to an end; But this informs me I shall never die. The soul, secured in her existence, smiles At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years. But thou shalt nourish in immortal youth. Unhurt amidst the war of elements. The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. What means this heaviness that hangs upon me ? This lethargy that creeps through all my senses ? Nature, oppressed and harassed out with care. Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favour her. Thai my awakened soul may take her flight. 202 GOLDEN LEAVES. Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life. An offering fit for Heaven. Let guilt or fear Disturb man's rest, Cato knows neither of them — Indifferent in his choice, to sleep or die. .... Fortius, thou mayst rely upon my conduct : Thy father will not act what misbecomes him. But go, my son, and see if aught be wanting Among thy father's friends ; see them embarked, And tell me if the winds and seas befriend them. My soul is quite weighed down with care, and asks The soft refreshment of a moment's sleep. 4: % * % * * " Qato falls on his oivn cword.''^ The tragedy ends -with the follonui'-^ linet : — From hence, let fierce contending nations know. What dire effects from civil discord flow : 'Tis this that shakes our country with alarms. And gives up Rome a prey to Roman arms ; Produces fraud, and cruelty and strife. And robs the guilty worlc" .->f Gate's life. Bamrxd loljnaon, ££. HD. IRENE. To-morroio. .... To-MORROW ! That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy. The coward, and the fool, condemned to lose A useless life in waiting for to-morrow — LILLO. 263 To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow. Till interposing death destroys the prospect ! Strange ! that this general fraud from day to day Should fill the world with wretches undetected. The soldier, labouring through a winter's march. Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph ; Still to the lover's long-expecting arms To-morrow brings the visionary bride. But thou, too old to bear another cheat. Learn that the present hour alone is man's. (Sforge Cillo. FATAL CURIOSITY. Young WiLMOT, supposed by Parents and Friends to ha-ve beer, ikip- •wrecked on his return from the Indies, has escaped Death, and arri-vei in England, -where he learns that his Parents are reduced to great Poverty. He has acquired a large Fortune, and, impelled by a ^^ fa- tal Curiosity, ^^ he -visits his Father and Mother in disguise ; and after- -wards, to increase their pleasure by the surprise of his disco-very, he puts his design in execution^ and deli-vers into his Mother'' s hands a Casket of Jc-wels, and then retires to rest, still under his disguise. Old Wilmot's House. — Agnes enters alone^ with the Cas- ket in her hand, Agn. Who should this stranger be ? And then this casket- He says it is of value, and yet trusts it. As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand. His confidence amazes me — perhaps It is not what he says — Pm strongly tempted To open it, and see : — No, let it rest. Why should w.y curiosity excite me, 12* 264 G OLD EK LEAVES. To search and pry into th' affairs of others , Who have, t'employ my thoughts, so many cares And sorrows of my own ? — With how much ease The spring gives way ! — Surprising ! My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre. How immense the worth of these fair jewels ! Ay, such a treasure would expel forever Base poverty, and all its abject train ; Famine ; the cold neglect of friends ; The galling scorn, or more provoking pity Of an insulting world — Possessed of these. Plenty, content, and pov/er might take their turn, A ad lofty pride bare Its aspiring head At our approach, and once more bend before us. — ■ A pleasing dream ! 'Tis past ; and now I wake. For sure it was a happiness to think. Though but a moment, such a treasure mine. Nay, it was more than thought — I saw and touched The bright temptation, and I see it yet — 'Tis here — 'tis mine — I have it in possession — Must I resign it ,? must I give it back .? Am I in love with misery and want — To rob myself, and court so vast a loss ? — Retain it then; but how.? There is a way — Why sinks my heart .? why does my blood run cold ? Why am I thrilled with horror ? 'Tis not choice. But dire necessity, suggests the thought. Enter Old Wilmot. 0, WiL The mind contented, with how little pains. The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose. LILLO. 26$ And die to gain new life ! He*s fallen asleep Already — happy man ! — What dost thou think. My Agnes, of our unexpected guest ? He seems to me a youth of great humanity : Just ere he closed his eyes, that swam in tears, He wrung my hand, and pressed it to his lips ; And, with a look that pierced me to the soul. Begged me to comfort thee : and — dost thou hear me ? — What art thou gazing on? — Fie, 'tis not well — This casket was delivered to you closed : Why have you opened it ? Should this be known, How mean must we appear ! Agn. And who shall know it ? 0, IViL There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity. Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfortunes. May be maintained, and cherished to the last. To live without reproach, and without leave To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt. And noble scorn of its relentless malice. Agn. Shows sov'reign madness, and a scorn of sense. Pursue no further this detested theme : I will not die, I will not leave the world For all that you can urge, until compelled. 0. WiL To chase a shadow, when the setting sun Is darting his last rays, were just as wise As your anxiety for fleeting life. Now the last means for its support are failing: Were famine not as mortal as the sword. Your warmth might be excused — But take thy choice ; Die how you will, you shall not die alone. Agn. Nor live, I hope. 0. Wil. There is no fear of that 266 GOLDEN LE AVES. Agn. Then, we'll live both. 0. IVil. Strange folly ! where the means ? Agn. There ; those jewels — 0. WiL Ah !— Take heed !— Perhaps thou dost but try me ; yet take heed — There's naught so monstrous but the mind of man In some conditions may be brought t'approve ; Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide. When flatt'ring opportunity enticed. And desperation drove, have been committed By those who once would start to hear them named. Agn. And add to these, detested suicide. Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid. 0. Wil. Th' inhospitable murder of our guest ! — How could'st thou form a thought so very damning. So advantageous, so secure, and easy ; And yet so cruel, and so full of horror ? Agn. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature. To take another's life, than end our own. 0. Wil. No matter which, the less or greater crime H'owe'er we may deceive ourselves or others. We act from inclination, not by rule. Or none could act amiss. And that all err. None but the conscious hypocrite denies. O ! what is man, his excellence and strength. When, in an hour of trial and desertion, Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned To plead the cause of vile assassination ! Agn. You're too severe : reason may justly plead For our own preservation. 0. WlL Rest contented ; Whate'er resistance I may seem to make. LILLO. 2O7 1 am betrayed within : my will's seduced. And my whole soul infected. The desire Of life returns, and brings with it a train Of appetites that rage to be supplied. Whoever stands to parley with temptation. Parleys to be o'ercome. Agn. Then naught remains. But the swift execution of a deed That is not to be thought on, or delayed. [thee 0. Wil. Gen'rous, unhappy man ! Oh, what could move To put thy life and fortune in the hands Of wretches mad with anguish .? Agn, By what means Shall we effect his death ? 0. W'iL Why, what a fiend !— How cruel, how remorseless and impatient. Have pride and poverty made thee ! Agn. Barbarous man ! Whose wasteful riots ruined our estate. And drove our son, ere the first down had spread His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages, Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears. To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish In some remote, inhospitable land — The lovehest youth, in person and in mind. That ever crowned a groaning mother's pains ! Where was thy pity, where thy patience, then ? Thou cruel husband ! thou unnat'ral father ! Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man ! To waste my fortune, rob me of my son ; To drive me to despair, and then reproach me For being what thou'st made me zSH GOLDEN' LEAVES. 0. Wil. Dry thy tears : I ought not to reproach thee. I confess That thou hast suffered much : so have we both. But chide no more — I'm wrought up to thy purpose. The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim, Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch. From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear ; And thus, unthinking, furnished us with arms Against himself. Steal to the door. And bring me word if he be still asleep. [^Exit Agnes. Or I'm deceived, or he pronounced himself The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch ! Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys. Touched by the icy hand of grisly death. Are with'ring in their bloom. But, thought extinguished. He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong In counting him a wretch : to die well pleased. Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for. To be a wretch, is to survive the loss Of every joy, and even hope itself. As I have done. Why do I mourn him then .? For, by the anguish of my tortured soul. He's to be envied, if compared with me. [Exit. Old WiLMOT, assisted by his Wife Agnes, murder their Son ivhile he sleeps. Young WiLMOT disclosed his intended -visit to his Parents to hit Betrothed^ Charlotte, to his Friend Eustace, and to an oh Sewantj Ranoal, ivho are appointed to meet him at the House oj old WiLMOT. They arrive after the murder is completed. A Room in Wilmot's House, Enter Charlotte, Eustace, and Randal. LILLO. 269 Char. What strange neglect ! The doors are all unbarred, And not a living creature to be seen. Enter Old Wilmot and Agnes. Sir, we are come to give and to receive A thousand greetings. Ha ! what can this mean ? Why do you look with such amazement on us ? Are these your transports for your son's return ? Where is my Wilmot ? Has he not been here ? Would he defer your happiness so long ; Or, could a habit so disguise your son. That you refused to own him ? Agn. Heard you that ? What prodigy of horror is disclosing. To render murder venial ! 0. Wil. Pr'ythee peace : The miserable damned suspend their howling. And the swift orbs are fixed in deep attention. Ran. What mean these dreadful words and frantic air ! That is the dagger my young master wore. Eust. My mind misgives me. Do not stand to gaze On these dumb phantoms of despair and horror ! Let us search farther : Randal, show the way. \Exeunt Randal, Eustace, and Charlotte. Agn. Let hfe forsake the earth, and light the sun. And death and darkness bury in oblivion Mankind and all their deeds, that no posterity May ever rise to hear our horrid tale. Or view the grave of such detested parricides. 0. Wtl. Curses and deprecations are in vain. The sun will shine, and all things have their course. When we. the curse and burden of the earth. 270 G OLDEN LEAVES. Shall be absorbed and mingled with its dust. Our guilt and desolation must be told. From age to age, to teach desponding mortals. How far beyond the reach of human thought Heaven, when incensed, can punish. — Die thou first. I dare not trust thy weakness. [Stabs Agnes. Agn. Ever kind. But most in this ! 0. Wil. I will not long survive thee. Agn. Do not accuse thy erring mother, Wilmot ! With too much rigour, when we meet above. To give thee life for hfe, and blood for blood. Is not enough. Had I ten thousand lives, I'd give them all to speak my penitence. Deep and sincere, and equal to my crime. O Wilmot ! O my son ! my son ! \Dies Enter Randal and Eustace. East. Oh, Wilmot ! Wilmot ! Are these the fruits of all thy anxious cares For thy ungrateflil parents .? — Cruel fiends ! 0. Wil. What whining fool art thou, who would'st usurc My sovereign right of grief .? — Was he thy son ? — Say ! canst thou show thy hands reeking with blood. That flowed, through purer channels, from thy loins .? Compute the sands that bound the spacious ocean. And swell their numbers with a single grain ; Increase the noise of thunder with thy voice; Or, when the raging wind lays nature waste. Assist the tempest with thy feeble breath ! But name not thy faint sorrow with the anguish Of a cursed wretch, who only hopes for this [Stabs himself To change the scene, but not relieve his pain. YOUNG. 271 Ran. A dreadful instance of the last remorse ! May all our woes end here ! 0. Wil. O would they end A thousand ages hence, I then should suffer Much less than I deserve. Yet let me say. You'll do but justice to inform the world. This horrid deed, that punishes itself. Was not intended, thinking him our son ; For that we knew not, till it was too late. Proud and impatient under our ajSlictions, While Heaven was labouring to make us happy. We brought this dreadful ruin on ourselves. Mankind may learn — but — oh ! — [^Dies. THE REVENGE. Zanga, a noble Moor^ is taken captive by Don Alonzo, by ivhom he is held in Ser-vitude. He narrates the history of his }Vrongs to his Wife Isabella, Battlements y with a Sea Prospect. Enter Zanga. Zan. Whether first nature, or long want of peace. Has wrought my mind to this, I cannot tell ; But horrors now are not displeasing to me : [^Thunder. I like this rocking of the battlements. Rage on, ye winds; burst, clouds; and waters, roar! You bear a just resemblance of my fortune. And suit the gloomy habit of my soul. 272 G OLDEN LEAVES. Enter Isabella. Who's there ? My love ! ha. Why have you left my bed ? Your absence more affrights me than the storm. Zan. The dead alone in such a night can rest. And I indulge my meditation here. Woman, away. I choose to be alone. ha. I know you do, and therefore will not leave you Excuse me, Zanga, therefore dare not leave you. Is this a night for walks of contemplation ? Something unusual hangs upon your heart. And I will know it ; by our loves, I will. Ask I too much, to share in your distress ? Zan, In tears ? thou fool ! then hear me, and be plunged In hell's abyss, if ever it escape thee. To strike thee with astonishment at once — I hate Alonzo. First recover that, And then thou shalt hear further. ha. Hate Alonzo ! I own, I thought Alonzo most your friend. And that he lost the master in that name. Zan. Hear then. *Tis twice three years since that great man (Great let me call him, for he conquered me) Made me the captive of his arm in fight. He slew my father, and threw chains o'er me. While I with pious rage pursued revenge. r then was young ; he placed me near his person. And thought me not dishonoured by his service. One day (may that returning day be night. The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year !) YOUNG. 273 For something, or for nothing, in his pride He struck me. (While I tell it, do I live ?) He smote me on the cheek — I did not stab him. For that were poor revenge. E'er since, his folly- Has strove to bury it beneath a heap Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot. Insolent thought ! and like a second blow ! Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless ; And such alone can wisely drop revenge. ha. But with more temper, Zanga, tell your story ; To see your strong emotions startles me. Zan. Yes, woman, with the temper that befits it. Has the dark adder venom ? So have I When trod upon. Proud Spaniard, thou shalt feel me ' For from that day, the day of my dishonour. From that day have I cursed the rising sun. Which never failed to tell me of my shame. From that day have I blessed the coming night. Which promised to conceal it ; but in vain ; The blow returned forever in my dream. Yet on I toiled, and groaned for an occasion Of ample vengeance ; none has yet arrived. Howe'er, at present, I conceive warm hopes Of what may wound him sore in his ambition. Life of his life, and dearer than his soul. By nightly march he purposed to surprise The Moorish camp ; but I have taken care They shall be ready to receive his favour. Failing in this, a cast of utmost moment. Would darken all- the conquests he has won. Isa. Just as I entered, an express arrived, Zan. To whom .? 274 GOLDEN LEAVES. Isa, His friend, Don Carlos. Zan. Be propitious, O Mahomet ! on this important hour. And give at length my famished soul revenge ! What is revenge, but courage to call in Our honour's debts, and wisdom to convert Others' self-love into our own protection? But see, the morning dawn breaks in upon us ; I'll seek Don Carlos, and inquire my fate. [E\eufit. Zanga, to carry out his revenge^ infuses jealousy into the mind of Alonzo, hy persuading him that his Wife Leonora, Daughter of Alvarez, has proved false to her marriage-voii'Sy ivitji Don Carlos. Alonzo taxes Leonora ivith infidelity ; and she, maddened by the imputation^ kills herself The final catastrophe is developed in the folloiving Scene. Zasga. Zan. How stands the great account 'twixt me and ven- geance .'' Though much is paid, yet still it owes me much. And I will not abate a single groan. Ha ! that were well — but that were fatal too. Why, be it so — Revenge so truly great, Would come too cheap, if bought with less than life. Enter Isabella. ha. Ah, Zanga, see me tremble ! Has not yet Thy cruel heart its fill .? Poor Leonora — Zan. Welters in blood, and gasps for her last breath. What then .? We all must die. ha. Alonzo raves. And, in the tempest of his grief, has thrice Attempted on his life. At length, disarmed. YOUNG. 275 He calls his friends, that save him, his worst foes. And importunes the skies for swift perdition. Thus in his storm of sorrow : after pause. He started up, and called aloud for Zanga ; For Zanga raved; and see, he seeks you here. To learn that truth, which most he dreads to kirow. Zan. Begone. Now, now, my soul, consummate all, [Exit Isabella Enter Alonzo. Alon, Oh, Zanga ! Zan. Do not tremble so : but speak. Alon, I dare not. [Falls on him Zan. You will drown me with your tears. Alon. Have I not cause ? Zan, As yet, you have no cause. Alon, Dost thou too rave ? Zan. Your anguish is to come : You much have been abused. Alon. Abused ! by whom ? Zan. To know, were little comfort. Alon. Oh, 'twere much ! Zan. Indeed ! Alon. By Heaven ! oh, give him to my fury ! Zan. Born for your use, I live but to oblige you. Know, then, 'twas — I. Alon. Am I awake ? Zan. Forever. Thy wife is guiltless — that's one transport to me ; And I, I let thee know it — that's another. I urged Don Carlos to resign his mistress, I forged the letter, I disposed the picture ; I hated, I despised, and I destroy ! 276 G OLDEN LEAVES. Alon. Oh ! \^Swoons Zan. Why, this is well — why, this is blow for blow ! Where are you ? Crown me, shadow me with laurels. Ye spirits which delight in just revenge ! Let Europe and her pallid sons go weep ; Let Afric and her hundred thrones rejoice ; Oh, my dear countrymen, look down and sec Hov/ I bestride your prostrate conqueror ! I tread on haughty Spain, and all her kings. But this is mercy, this is my indulgence; 'Tis peace, 'tis refuge from my indignation. 1 must awaKe him into horrors. Hoa ! Alonzo, hoa ! the Moor is at the gate ! Awake, invincible, omnipotent ! Thou who dost all subdue ! Alon. Inhuman slave ! Zan. Fallen Christian, thou mistak'st my character Look on me. Who am I ? — I know, thou say'st The Moor, a slave, an abject, beaten slave : (Eternal woes to him that made me so !) But look again. Has six years cruel bondage Extinguished majesty so far, that naught Shines here to give an awe of one above thee ? When the great Moorish king, Abdallah, fell. Fell by thy hand accursed, I fought fast by him. His son, though, through his fondness, in disguise. Less to expose me to th' ambitious foe. — Ha ! does it wake thee ? — O'er my father's corse I stood astride till I had clove thy crest ; And then was made the captive of a squadron. And sunk into thy servant — But, oh ! what. What were my wages? Hear not Heaven, nor earth ( TO UNO. 27? My wages were a blow ! by Heaven, a blow ! And from a mortal hand ! A/on. O villain, villain ! Zan. All strife is vain. [S/iowmg a dagger- Alon. Is thus my love returned ? Is this my recompense ? Make friends of tigers ! Lay not your young, oh, mothers, on the breast, For fear they turn to serpents as they lie, And pay you for their nourishment with death ! — Carlos is dead, and Leonora dying ! Both innocent, both murdered, both by me. Zan. Must I despise thee too, as well as hate thee? Complain of grief, complain thou art a man. — Priam from fortune's lofty summit fell ; Great Alexander 'midst his conquests mourned ; Heroes and demi-gods have known their sorrows ; Caesars have wept ; and I have had — my blow ; But 'tis revenged, and now my work is done. Yet, ere I fall, be it one part of vengeance To force thee to confess that I am just. — Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain, Whose native country thou hast laid in blood. Whose sacred person (oh!) thou hast profaned, Whose reign extinguished : — what was left to me, So highly born ? No kingdom, but revenge; No treasure but thy tortures and thy groans, If men should ask who brought thee to thy end, Tell them, the Moor, and they will not despise thee. If cold white mortals censure this great deed. Warn them, they judge not of superior beings. Souls made of fire, and children of the sun. With whom revenge is virtue. Fare thee well — t7^ O OLDEN LEAVES. Now, fully satisfied, I should take leave : But one thing grieves me, since thy death is near — I leave thee my example how to die. As he is going to stab himself, Alonzo rushes upon him to prevent him. In the mean time, enter Don Alvarez, attended. They disarm and seize Zanga. Alonzo puts the dagger in his bosom. Alon. No, monster, thou shalt not escape by death. Oh, father! Alv. Oh, Alonzo ! — Isabella, Touched with remorse to see her mistress* pangs, Told all the dreadful tale. AloJi. What groan was that ? Zan. As I have been a vulture to thy heart, So will I be a raven to thine ear, As true as ever snuffed the scent of blood. As ever flapped its heavy wing against The window of the sick, and croaked despair. Thy wife is dead. [Alvarez goes aside, and returns. Alv, The dreadful news is truet Alon. Prepare the rack ; invent new torments for him Zan, This too is well. The fixed and noble mind .Turns all occurrence to its own advantage ; And I'll make vengeance of calamity. Were I not thus reduced, thou wouldst not know, That, thus reduced, I defy thee still. Torture thou mayst, but thou shalt ne'er despise me. The blood will follow where the knife is driven. The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear, And sighs and cries by nature grow on pain. But these are foreign to the soul : not mine YOUNG. 2;9 The groans that issue, or the tears that fall ; They disobey me j on the rack I scorn thee. As when my falchion clove thy helm in battle. Ah. Peace, villain ' Zan. While I live, old man, I'll- speak : And, well I know, thou dar'st not kill me yet; For that would rob thy blood-hounds of their prey. Alon. Who called Alonzo ? Alv. No one called, my son. Alon, Again ! 'Tis Carlos' voice, and I obey. Oh now I laugh at all that this can do ! [Shows the dagger. The wounds that pained, the wounds that murdered me. Were given before ; I am already dead ; This only marks my body for the grave. [Stabs himself. Afric, thou art revenged, — Oh, Leonora ! [Dies. Zan. Good rufEans, give me leave; my blood is yours. The wheel's prepared, and you shall have it all. Let me but look one moment on the dead, [Alonzo's body. And pay yourselves with gazing on my pangs. [He goes to Is this Alonzo ? Where's the haughty mien ? Is that the hand which smote me ? Heavens, how pale ! And art thou dead ? So is my enmity. I war not with the dust. The great, the proud, The conqueror of Afric, was my foe. A lion preys not upon carcasses. This was the only method to subdue me. Terror and doubt fall on me : all thy good Now blazes, all thy guilt is in the grdve. Never had man such funeral applause : If I lament thee, sure thy worth was great. O vengeance, I have followed thee too far. And to receive me, hell blows all her fires. [Exeunt. 13 28o G OLDEX LEAVES. lllUliani fllason, CARACTACUS. j4iofulness of a Scene of Pagan Rites. This is the secret centre of the isle : Here, Romans, pause, and let the eye of wonder Gaze on the solemn scene ; behold yon oak. How stern he frowns, and with his broad brown arms Chills the pale plain beneath him : mark yon altar, The dark stream brawling round its rugged base ; These cliffs, these yawning caverns, this wide circus. Skirted with unhewn stone ; they awe my soul. As if the very genius of the place Himself appeared, and with terrific tread Stalked through his drear domain. And yet, my friends. If shapes like his be but the fancy's coinage, Surely there is a hidden power that reigns 'Mid the lone majesty of untamed Nature, Controlling sober Reason ; tell me else. Why do these haunts of barbarous Superstition O'ercome me thus ? I scorn them ; yet they awe me. ELF RID A. Against Homicide. Think what a sea of deep perdition whelms The wretch's trembling soul, who launches forth Unlicensed to eternity. Think, think. And let the thought restrain thy impious hand. The race of man is one vast marshalled army. GLOVER. 281 Summoned to pass the spacious realms of time, Their leader the Almighty. In that march. Ah ! who may quit his post ? when high in air The chosen archangel rides, whose right hand wields The imperial standard of Heaven's providence. Which, dreadful sweeping through the vaulted sky, O'ershadows all creation. llicljavb ®lot)er. BO ADI CE A. Solitude on a Battle-Field. I HAVE been led by solitary care To yon dark branches, spreading o'er the brook Which murmurs through the camp ; this mighty camp, Where once two hundred thousand sons of war. With restless dins, awaked the midnight hour. Now horrid stillness in the vacant tents Sits undisturbed ; and these incessant rills. Whose pebbled channel breaks their shallow stream, Fill with their melancholy sounds my ears. As if I wandered, like a lonely hind. O'er some dead fallow, far from all resort : Unless that ever and anon a groan Bursts from a soldier, pillowed on his shield [n torment, or expiring with his wounds. And turns my fixed attention into horror. Forgi'veness. So prone to error is our mortal frame. Time could not step without a trace of horror. 282 G OLDEN LEAVEb. If wary nature on the human heart. Amid its wild variety of passions. Had not impressed a soft and yielding sense. That when offences give resentment birth. The kindly dews of penitence may raise The seeds of mutual mercy and forgiveness. Danib fflallet. ALFRED THE GREAT. Fortitude. .... But, prince, remember then The vows, the noble tears of affliction; Preserve the quick humanity it gives. The pitying, social sense of human weakness; Yet keep thy stubborn fortitude entire. The manly heart that to another's woe Is tender, but superior to its own. Learn to submit, yet learn to conquer fortune ; Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds And offices of life ; to life itself. With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose. Chief, let devotion to the sovereign mind, A steady, cheerful, absolute dependence In his best, wisest government, possess thee. In thoughtless gay prosperity, when all Attends our wish, when naught is seen around us But kneeling slavery, and obedient fortune ; Then are blind mortals apt within themselves To fly their stay, forgetful of the Giver ; BROOKE. 283 But when thus humbled, Alfred, as thou art, When to their feeble natural powers reduce-d, *Tis then they feel this universal truth. That Heaven is all in all, and man is nothing. fienvg iSrooke. GUSTAVUS VASA ; OR, THE DELIVERER OF HIS COUNTRY. GusTAVus Vasa, King of Sivcdcn^ escapes from the hands of Chris- TIERN, King of Denmark (jivAo had reduced Swedenjy and prevails upon the Dalecarlians to throiv off the Danish yoke. He finally cver- throivs the Usurper^ and deli-vers his Country. Mountains of Dakcarlia. — Enter Gustavus as a peasant ; SivARD and Dalecarlians foUomng. Gust. Ye men of Sweden, wherefore are ye come ? See ye not yonder, how the locusts swarm. To drink the fountains of your honour up. And leave your hills a desert .? Wretched men ! Why same ye forth .? Is this a time for sport ? Or are ye met with song and jovial feast. To welcome your new guests, your Danish visitants ? Vo stretch your supple necks beneath their feet. And fawning lick the dust ? — Go, go, my countrymen. Each to your several mansions j trim them out ; Cull all the tedious earnings of your toil. To purchase bondage. Bid your blooming daughters. And your chaste wives, to spread their beds with softness ; Then go ye forth, and with your proper hands Conduct your masters in ; conduct the sons 284 G OLDEN LEAVES. Of lust and violation O Swedes ! Swedes ! Heavens ! are' ye men, and will ye suffer this ? There was a time, my friends, a glorious time ! When, had a single man of your forefathers Upon the frontier met a host in arms, His courage scarce had turned ; himself had stood, x-ilone had stood, the bulwark of his country. Come, come ye on, then. Here I take my stand ! Here on the brink, the very verge of liberty ; Although contention rise upon the clouds. Mix heaven with earth, and roll the ruin onward, Here will I fix, and breast me to the shock. Till I or Denmark fall. Shall we not strike for't ? Siv. Death ! Victory or death ! AIL No bonds ! no bonds ! Am. Spoke like yourselves. Ye men of Dalecarlia, Brave men and bold ! whom every future age Shall mark for wondrous deeds, achievements won From honour's dangerous summit, warriors all ! Say, might ye choose a chief- Speak, name the man Who then should meet your wish ! Siv. Forbear the theme. Why wouldst thou seek to sink us with the weight Of grievous recollection .? O Gustavus ! Could the dead wake, thou wert the man. Gust. Didst thou know Gustavus ? Siv. Know him ! O Heaven ! what else, who else was worth The knowledge of a soldier? That great diy. When Christiern, in his third attempt on Sweden, Had summed his powers, and weighed the scale of fight ; BROOKE. 285 On the bold brink, the very push of conquest, Gustavus rushed, and bore the battle down ; In his full sway of prowess, like Leviathan, That scoops his foaming progress on the main, And drives the shoals along — forward I sprung. All emulous, and lab'ring to attend him ; Fear fled before, behind him rout grew loud. And distant wonder gazed. At length he turned. And, having eyed me with a wondrous look Of sweetness mixed with glory — grace inestimable ! He plucked this bracelet from his conquering arm. And bound it here. My wrist seemed treble nerved : My heart spoke to him, and I did such deeds As best might thank him. — But from that blessed day I never saw him more — yet still to this I bow, as to the rehcs of my saint : Each morn I drop a tear on every bead. Count all the glories of Gustavus o'er. And think I still behold him. Gust. Rightly thought; For so thou dost, my soldier. Behold your general, Gustavus ! come once more to lead you on To laurelled victory, to fame, to freedom ! Siv. Strike me, ye powers ! — It is illusion all ! Tt cannot It is, it is ! [Falls and embraces his knees GusL Oh, speechless eloquence I -Use to my arms, my friend. Siv. Friend ! say you friend ? O, my heart's lord ! my conqueror ! my Gust. Approach, my fellow-soldiers, your Gustavus Claims no precedence here. £S6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Haste, brave men ! Collect your friends, to join us on the instant; Summon our brethren to their share of conquest. And let loud echo from her circling hills Sound freedom, till the undulation shake The bounds of utmost Sweden. [Exeunt Dalecarlians, shouting' Her). lol)u §ome. DOUGLAS. Lady Randolph, Widoia ofY^Ken. Douglas, h married to Lord Ran- dolph. During an Incursion of the Danes, Norval, a utpposed ycung Peasant, fired with youthful ardcur, seeks the Camp. On his •way, he sa'ves the Life of. Randolph, ivho is attacked by Robbers^ and becomes his Favourite. Lady Randolph mourns her lost Hus- band and her infant Child, the Son o/" Douglas. ^ Prisoner is taken on the outskirts of the Camp, supposed to be one of the Robbers ivho attacked Lord Randolph. On the Prisoner'' s person are found Jew- els, with the Crest of Douglas : these are con-veyed to Lady Ran- dolph by Anna, her Confidante^ and the following Scene takes place. Enter Servants y with a Prisoner. Pns. I know no more than does the child unborn O^ what you charge me with. 1 Serv. You say so. Sir ! But torture soon shall make you speak the truth. Behold, the lady of Lord Randolph comes : Prepare yourself to meet her just revenge. Enter Lady Randolph and Anna. Anna. Summon your utmost fortitude before You speak with him. Your dignity, your fame. HOME, 287 Are now at stake. Think of the fatal secret. Which in a moment from your lips may fly. Lady R. Thou shalt behold me, with a desperate heart, Hear how my infant perished. See, he kneels. Fris. Heaven bless that countenance, so sweet and mild ! A judge like thee makes innocence more bold. Oh, save me, lady, from these cruel men. Who have attacked and seized me ; who accuse Me of intended murder. As I hope For mercy at the judgment-seat of Heaven, The tender lamb, that never nipped the grass. Is not more innocent than I of murder. Lady R. Of this man's guilt what proof can ye produce f 1 Serv. We found him lurking in the hollow glen. When viewed and called upon, amazed he fled ; We overtook him, and inquired from whence And what he was : • he said he came from far. And was upon his journey to the camp. Not satisfied with this, we searched his clothes. And found these jewels, whose rich value plead Most powerfully against him. Hard he seems. And old in villany. Permit us try His stubbornness against the torture's force. Pris. Oh, gentle lady ! by your lord's dear life. Which these weak hands, I swear, did ne'er assail. And by your children's welfare, spare my age ! Let not the iron tear my ancient joints. And my gray hairs bring to the grave with pain. Lady R. Account for these ; thine own they cannot be : For these, I say : be steadfast to the truth ; Detected falsehood is most certain death. [Anna removes the Servants^ and txturns. 13* 288 GOLDEN LEAVES. Pris. Alas ! I'm sore beset. Let never man, For sake of lucre, sin against his soul ! Eternal Justice is in this most just ! I, guiltless now, must former guilt reveal. Lady R. O, Anna, hear ! once more I charge thee, speak The truth direct ; for these to me foretell And certify a part of thy narration. With which, if the remainder tallies not. An instant and a dreadful death abides thee. Pris. Then, thus adjured, I'll speak to you as just As if you were the minister of Heaven, Sent down to search the secret sins of men. Some eighteen years ago, I rented land Of brave Sir Malcolm, then Balarmo's lord ; But, falling to decay, his servants seized All that I had, and then turned me and mine (Four helpless infants and their weeping mother) Out to the m.ercy of the winter winds. A little hovel by the river's side Received us ; there hard labour, and the skill In fishing, which was formerly my sport. Supported life. Whilst thus we poorly lived. One stormy night, as I remember well. The wind and rain beat hard upon our roof; Red came the river down, and loud and oft The angry spirit of the water shrieked. At the dead hour of night was heard the cry Of one in jeopardy. I rose, and ran To where the circling eddy of a pool. Beneath the ford, used oft to bring within My reach whatever floating thing the stream Had caught. The voice was ceased ; the person lost ; HOME. 289 But, looking sad and earnest on the waters. By the moon's light I saw, whirled round and round, A basket : soon I drew it to the bank. And, nestled curious, there an infant lay. Lady R. Was he alive ? Pns. He was. Lady R. Inhuman that thou art ! How couldst thou kill what waves and tempests spared ? Pris. I am not so inhuman. The needy man who has known better days. One whom distress has spited at the world. Is he whom tempting fiends would pitch upon To do such deeds as make the prosperous men Lift up their heads, and wonder who could do them. And such a man was I : a man declined, Who saw no end of black adversity : Yet, for the wealth of kingdoms, I would not Have touched that infant with a hand of harm. Lady R. Ha ! dost thou say so ? then perhaps he lives ' Pris. Not many days ago he was alive. Lady R. O God of heaven I did he then die so lately ? Pns. I did not say he died ; I hope he lives. Not many days ago these eyes beheld Him flourishing in youth, and health, and beauty. Ladv R. Where is he now .? Pj'is. Alas ! I know not where. Lady R. O Fate ! I fear thee still. Thou riddler, speak Direct and clear ; else I will search thy soul. Pris. Fear not my faith, though I must speak my shame : Within the cradle where the infant lay. Was stowed a mighty store of gold and jewels ; Tempted by which, we did resolve to hide 290 GOLDEN LEAVES. From all the world this wonderful event. And like a peasant breed the noble child. That none might mark the change of our estate. We left the country, travelled to the north. Bought flocks and herds, and gradually brought forth Our secret wealth. But God's all-seeing eye Beheld our avarice, and smote us sore : For, one by one, all our own children died. And he, the stranger, sole remained the heir Of what indeed was his. Fain then would I, Who with a father's fondness loved the boy. Have trusted him, now in the dawn of youth, With his own secret : but my anxious wife. Foreboding evil, never would consent. Meanwhile the stripling grew in years and beauty ; And, as we oft observed, he bore himself. Not as the offspring of our cottage blood ; For nature will break out : mild with the mild. But with the froward he was fierce as fire ; And night and day he talked of war and arms. I set myself against his warlike bent. But all in vain : for when a desperate band Of robbers from the savage mountains came Lady R. Eternal Providence ! what is thy name ? Pris. My name is Nerval ; and my name he bears. Lady R. 'Tis he — 'tis he himself! It is my son ! O Sovereign Mercy ! 'twas my child I saw ! Pris. If I, amidst astonishment and fear. Have of your words and gestures rightly judged, Thou art the daughter of my ancient master ; The child I rescued from the flood is thine. Lady R. With thee, dissimulation now were vain, HOME. 291 1 am indeed the daughter of Sir Malcolm ; The child thou rescuedst from the flood is mine. Pns. Blest be the hour that made me a poor man ; My poverty hath saved my master's house ! Lady R, Thy words surprise me ; sure thou dost not feign ! The tear stands in thine eye ; such love from thee Sir Malcolm's hcuse deserved not, if aright Thou told'st the story of thy own distress. Pns. Sir Malcolm of our barons was the flower ; The safest friend, the best, the kindest master ; But, ah ! he knew not of my sad estate. After that battle, where his gallant son. Your own brave brother, fell, the good old lord Grew desperate and reckless of the world ; And never, as he erst was wont, went forth To overlook the conduct of his servants. By them I was thrust out, and them I blame : May Heaven so judge me as I judge my master, And God so love me as I love his race ! Lady R. His race shall yet reward thee. On thy faith Depends the fate of thy loved master's house. Rememb'rest thou a little, lonely hut, That like a holy hermitage appears Among the cliffs of Carron ? Pris. I remember the cottage of the cliffs. Lady R. 'Tis that I mean : There dwells a man of venerable age. Who in my father's service spent his youth : Tell him I sent thee, and with him remain. Till I shall call upon thee to declare. Before the king and nobles, what thou now Z92 GOLDEN LEAVES. To me hast told. No more but this, and thou Shalt live in honour all thy future days : Thy son so long shall call thee father still. And all the land shall bless the man who saved Tlie son of Douglas, and Sir Malcolm's heir. Remember well my words ; if thou shoaldst meet Him whom thou call'st thy son, still call him so ; And mention nothing of his nobler father. Pns. Fear not that I shall mar so fair a harvest. By putting in my sickle ere 'tis ripe. Why I did leave my home and ancient dame To find the youth, to tell him all I knew. And make him wear these jewels on his arm ; Which might, I thought, be challenged, and so bring To light the secret of his noble birth. [Lady Randolph goes towards the Servants. Lady R. This man is not the assassin you suspected. Though chance combined some likelihood against him. He is the faithful bearer of the jewels To their right owner, whom in haste he seeks. 'Tis meet that you should put him on his way. Since your mistaken zeal hath dragged him hither. [Exeunt Prisoner and Servants, My faithful Anna, dost thou share my joy ? I know thou dost. Unparalleled event ! Reaching from heaven to earth, Jehovah's arm Snatched from the waves, and brings me to my son ! Judge of the widow, and the orphan's Father, i'^ccept a widow's and a mother's thanks For such a gift ' What does my Anna think Of the young eaglet of a valiant nest ? How soon he gazed on bright and burning arms. THOMSOX. 293 Spurned the low dunghill where his fate had thrown him. And towered up to the regions of his sire I Anna, How fondly did your eyes devour the boy ! Mysterious Nature, with the unseen cord Of powerful instinct, drew you to your own. Lady R. The ready story of his birth believed. Suppressed my fancy quite; nor did he owe To any likeness my so sudden favour : But now I long to see his face again. Examine every feature, and find out The lineaments of Douglas, or my own. But, most of all, I long to let him know Who his true parents are, to clasp his neck. And tell him all the story of his father. Anna. With wary caution you must bear yourself In public, lest your tenderness break forth. And in observers stir conjectures strange. To-day the baron started at your tears. Lady R. He did so, Anna j well thy mistress knows If the least circumstance, mote of offence. Should touch the baron's eye, his sight would be With jealousy disordered. But the more It does behoove me instant to declare The birth of Douglas, and assert his rights. . . . James iiil)om0on. EDWARD AND ELEONORA. T^e Crusadrs. .... Sure I am 'tis madness. Inhuman madness, thus from half the world 294 GOLDEN LEAVES. To drain its blood and treasure, to neglect Each art of peace, each care of government , And all for what ? By spreading desolation. Rapine, and slaughter o'er the other half. To gain a conquest we can never hold. I venerate this land. Those sacred hills. Those vales, those cities, trod by saints and prophets. By God Himself, the scenes of heavenly wonders. Inspire me with a certain awful joy. But the same God, my friend, pervades, sustains. Surrounds, and fills this universal frame ; And every land, where spreads His vital presence. His all-enlivening breath, to me is holy. Excuse me, Theald, if I go too far : I meant alone to say, I think these wars A kind of persecution. And when that — ■ That most absurd and cruel of all vices. Is once begun, where shall it find an end ? Each, in his turn, or has or claims a right To wield its dagger, to return its furies. And first or last they fall upon ourselves. TANCRED AND S I G I S M U N D A. Mhcalculatiom of Old Men. Those old men, those plodding, grave state pedants, Forget the course of youth ; their crooked prudence. To baseness verging still, forgets to take Into their fine-spun schemes the generous heart. That, through the cobweb system bursting, lays Their labours waste. MURPHY. 295 SOPHONISBA. Love. Why should we kill the best of passions. Love r It aids the hero, bids Ambition rise To nobler heights, inspires immortal deeds. Even softens brutes, and adds a grace to Virtue. 2lrt[)ur JHurpIj^. THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER. The Fable of this Tragedy is founded on the ivell-kncwn Historical In- cident of the filial Piety of the Grecian Daughter^ Euphrasia, f re- serving the Life of her Father^ Evander, condemned to Death by Star-vationy by Dionysius, King of Syracuse. Euphrasia obtains permission from Philotas to visit her Father in Prison^ conducted by Arcas, an Officer of the Court. Scene — The Cavern where Evander is confined. Enter Arcas and Euphrasia. 4rc. No ; on my life, I dare not. Euph. But a small, A. wretched pittance ; one poor cordial drop To renovate exhausted, drooping age. I ask no more. Arc. Not the smallest store Of scanty nourishment must pass these walls. Our lives were forfeit else : a moment's parley Is all I grant ; in yonder cave he lies. 296 GOLDEN LEAVES. Evan. \lVithin the Ceil.] O struggling nature! let Lhy Oh ! give me, give me rest. [ conflict end. Eupli. My father's voice ! It pierces here ! it cleaves my very heart. I shall expire, and never see him more. Arc. Repose thee, princess, here \^Drazvs a couck\ ; here rest thy limbs. Till the returning blood shall lend thee firmness. Euph. The caves, the rocks, re-echo to his groans ! And is there no relief? Arc. All I can grant You shall command. I will unbar the dungeon. Unloose the chain that binds him to the rock. And leave your interview without restraint. [^Opens a Cell in the back scene. Euph. Hold, hold, my heart ! Oh ! how shall I sustain The agonizing scene ! [i?zjf J.] I must behold him : Nature, that drives me on, will lend me force. Is that my father ? Arc. Take your last farewell. His vigour seems not yet exhausted quite. You must be brief, or ruin will ensue. [^Exit. Evan. {^Raising himself.'] Oh ! when shall I get free ? — These ling'ring pangs — Dispatch me, pitying gods, and save my child ! I burn, I burn ; alas ! no place of rest : [Comes out, A httle air ; once more a breath of air ; Alas ! 1 faint ; I die. Euph. Heart-piercing sight ! Let me support you. Sir. Evan. Oh ! lend your arm. Whoe'er thou art, I thank thee; that kind breeze MURPHY. 297 Comes gently o'er my senses — lead me forward : And is there left one charitable hand To reach its succours to a wretch like me ? Eupli. Wellmayst thou ask it. O my breaking heart! The hand of death is on him. Eva?i, Still a little, A little onward to the air conduct me; 'Tis well; — I thank thee; thou art kind and good. And much I wonder at this gen'rous pity. Euph, Do you not know me. Sir ? Evan, Me thinks I know That voice : art thou — alas ! my eyes are dim ! Each object swims before me — No, in truth, I do not know thee. Euph. Not your own Euphrasia ? Evan. Art thou my daughter ? Euph. Oh, my honoured sire ! Evan. My daughter, my Euphrasia ! come to close A father's eyes ! Given to my last embrace ! Gods ! do I hold her once again ? Your mercies Are without number. [Falls on the coach I would pour my praise ; But, oh, your goodness overcomes me quite ! You read my heart ; you see what passes there. Euph. Alas, he faints ; the gushing tide of transport Bears down each feeble sense : restore him. Heaven ! Evan, All, my Euphrasia, all will soon be well. Pass but a moment, and this busy globe. Its thrones, its empires, and its bustling milHons, Will seem a speck in the great void of space. Yet while I stay, thou darling of my age ! Nay, dry those tears. 1^8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Eupk. I will, my father. Evan. Where, I fear to ask it, where is virtuous Phocion ? Euph. Fled from the tyrant's power. F^van. And left thee here Exposed and helpless ? Eupk, He is all truth and honour : He fled to save my child. Evan, My young Evander ! Your boy is safe, Euphrasia ? — Oh ! my heart ! Alas ! quite gone ; worn out with misery ; Oh, weak, decayed old man ! Euph. Inhuman wretches ! Will none relieve his want ? A drop of water Might save his life j and even that's denied him. Evan. These strong emotions — Oh ! that eager air- It is too much — assist me ; bear me hence ; And lay me down in peace. Euph. His eyes are fixed ; And those pale quivering lips ! He clasps my hand; What, no assistance ! Monsters, will you thus Let him expire in these weak, feeble arms ? Enter Philotas. Phil, Those wild, those piercing shrieks will give th' alarm. Euph. Support him ; bear him hence ; 'tis all I ask. Evan. [^As he is carried off.'] O death ! where art thou ? Death, thou dread of guilt. Thou \\ish of innocence, affliction's friend. Tired nature calls thee ; come, in mercy come. And lay me pillowed in eternal rest. MURFUY. 299 My child, where art thou ? give me; reach thy hand; Why dost thou weep ? My eyes are dry — Alas ! Quite parched my lips — quite parched, they cleave together. \^Exeunt. Re-enter Philotas. Phil. Oh, I can hold no more ! at such a sight E'en the hard heart of tyranny would melt To infant softness. Areas, go behold rhe pious fraud of charity and love ; Behold that u'nexampled goodness ; see Th' expedient sharp necessity has taught her; fhy heart will burn, will melt, will yearn to view A child like her. Arc, Ha ! — Say what mystery Wakes these emotions ? PhiL Wonder-working Virtue ! The father fostered at his daughter's breast ! filial piety ! — The milk designed For her own offspring, on the parent's lip Allays the parching fever. All her laws Inverted quite, great nature triumphs still. Arc. The tale unmans my soul. PhiL Ye tyrants, hear it. And learn, that while your cruelty prepares Unheard-of torture. Virtue can keep pace With your worst efforts, and can try new modes To bid men grow enamoured of her charms. Arc. Philotas, for Euphrasia, in her cause 1 now can hazard all. Let us preserve Her father for her. Phil. Oh ! her lovely daring Transcends all praise. By Heaven, he shall not die. 300 G OLDEN LEAVE S. Arc. And yet we must be wary. I'll go forth, And first explore each avenue around. Lest the fixed sentinel obstruct your purpose, \_Exit. Phil. 1 thank thee. Areas ; we will act like men Who feel for others* woes — She leads him forth. And tremblingly supports his drooping age. Re-enter Euphrasia and Evander. Evan. Euphrasia, oh, my child ! returning life Glows here about my heart. Conduct me forward ; At the last gasp preserved ! Ha ! dawning light I Let me behold ; in faith, I see thee now ; I do indeed : the .father sees his child. Euph. I have relieved him — Oh, the joj's too great; Tis speechless rapture ! Evan. Blessings, blessings on thee I Euph. My father still shall live. Alas, Philota^ ! Could I abandon that white, hoary head. That venerable form ? — Abandon him To perish here in misery and famine ? Phil. Thy tears, thou miracle of goodness I Have triumphed o'er me. Take him, take your fathej ; Convey him hence ; I do release him to you. Evan. What said Philotas? Do I fondly dream ? Indeed, my senses are imperfect; yet Methought I heard him ! Did he say, release me ? Phil. Thou art my king, and now no more my pris'ner : Go with your daughter, with that wondrous pattern Of filial piety to after times. Yes, princess, lead him forth ; I'll point the path. Whose soft declivity will guide your steps To the deep vale, which these o'erhanging rocks HANNAH MORE. ^0\ Encompass round. You may convey him thence To some safe shelter. Yet a moment's pause ; I must conceal your flight from ev'ry eye. Yes, I will save, or perish in their cause. I^annal) Ulorc. PERCY. The Feuds of tht rival Houses of Percy and Douglas ha've furnisher the materials for this Tragedy. Elwina, the Daughter of Earl Raby, was betrothed to Earl Percy. In consequence of her Father^s De- pendents having received an insult from the Follonvers of Percy, the Match is broken off by Earl Raby, and Percy joins the Crusaders in the Holy Land. During his absence^ Elwina is compelled to marry Earl Douglas. Shortly after^ Percy returns^ and seeks an Intervieiv ivith Elwina, being ignorant of her Marriage. Percy is accompanied by his Friends^ Sir Hubert and Harcourt. ScEXE I. — A Garden at Raby Castle, with, a Bower. Enter Percy. Per. . . . She comes ! by all my hopes, she comes ! 'Tis she — the blissful vision is Elwina ! But ah ! what mean those tears } — She weeps for me ! O transport ! — go. I'll listen unobserved. And for a moment taste the precious joy. The banquet of a tear which falls for love. [Percy goes into the bower. Enter Elwina. Elw. Shall I not weep ? and have 1 then no cause .? If I could break the eternal bands of death. 302 G OLDEN LEAVES. And wrench the sceptre from his iron grasp ; If I could bid the yawning sepulchre Restore to life its long-committed dust j If I could teach the slaughtering hand of war To give me back my dear, my murdered Percy, Then I indeed might once more cease to weep. [Percy comes out of the bower. Per, Then cease, for Percy lives. Ekv. Protect me. Heaven ! Per. O joy unspeakable ! My life, my love ! End of my toils, and crown of all my cares ! Kind as consenting peace, as conquest bright. Dearer than arms, and lovelier than renown ! Elw. It is his voice — it is, it is my Percy ! And dost thou live ? Per. I never lived till now. Elw. And did my sighs, and did my sorrows reach thee? And art thou come at last to dry my tears ? How didst thou 'scape the fury of the foe ? Per, Thy guardian genius hovered o'er the field. And turned the hostile spear from Percy's breast, Lest thy fair image should be wounded there. But Harcourt should have told thee all my fate. How I survived Elzu. Alas ! I have not seen him. Oh ! I have suffered much. Per. Of that no more ; For every minute of our future lives Shall be so blessed, that we will learn to wonder How we could ever think we were unhappy. Elw. Percy — 1 cannot speak. Per. Those tears how eloquent ! HANNAH MORE. 303 [ would not change this motionless, mute joy. For the sweet strains of angels : I look down With pity on the rest of human kind. However great may be their fame of happiness. And think their niggard fate has given them nothing. Not giving thee -, or, granting some small blessing, Denies them my capacity to feel it. Elw. Alas ! what mean you ? Per, Can I speak my meaning ? 'Ti« of such magnitude that words would wrong it ; But surely my Elwina's faithful bosom Should beat in kind responses of delight. And feel, but never question, what I mean. Elw, Hold, hold, my heart, thou hast much more to suffer ! Per. Let the slow form, and tedious ceremony. Wait on the splendid victims of ambition. Love stays for none of these. Thy father's softened ; He will forget the fatal Cheviot chace ; Raby is brave, and I have served my country : I would not boast, it was for thee I conquered ; Then come, my love. Elw. Oh, never, never, never ! Per. Am I awake ? is that Elwina's voice ? Elw, Percy, thou most adored, and most deceived ? If ever fortitude sustained thy soul. When vulgar minds have sunk beneath the stroke. Let thy imperial spirit now support thee. — If thou canst be so wondrous merciful. Do not, oh, do not curse me ! but thou wilt. Thou must ; for I have done a fearfial deed, A deed of wild despair, a deed of horror. I am, I am — 304 GOLDEN LEAVES. Per. Speak, say, what art thou ? Elw, Married! Per. Oh! Elw. Percy, I think I begged thee not to curse me ; But now I do revoke the fond petition. Speak ! ease thy bursting soul ; reproach, upbraid, O'erwhelm me with thy wrongs — I'll bear it all. Per. Open, thou earth, and hide me from her sight ; Didst thou not bid me curse thee ? Elzu. Mercy ! mercy ! Per. And have I 'scaped the Saracen's fell sword Only to perish by Elwina's guilt ? I would have bared my bosom to the foe, I would have died, had I but known you wished it. Elw. Percy, I loved thee most when most I wronged thee Yes, by these tears I did. Per, Married ! just Heaven ! Married ! to whom ? Yet wherefore should I know .? It cannot add fresh horrors to thy crime. Or my destruction. Elw. Oh ! 'twill add to both. How shall I tell ! Prepare for something dreadful. Hast thou not heard of — Douglas ? Per. Why, 'tis well ! Thou awfiil Power, why waste thy wrath on me ? Why arm omnipotence to crush a worm ? I could have fallen without this waste of ruin. Married to Douglas ! by my wrongs, I like it ; 'Tis perfidy complete, 'tis finished falsehood, 'Tis adding fresh perdition to the sin. And filling up the measure of offence ! FJw. Oh ! 'twas my father's deed 1 he made his child HANNAH MORE. S05 An instrument of vengeance on thy head. He wept and threatened, soothed me, and commanded. Per. xAind you complied, most duteously complied ! Elw. I could withstand his fury ; but his tears. Ah, they undid me ! Percy, dost thou know The cruel tyranny of tenderness ? Hast thou e'er felt a father^s warm embrace ? Hast thou e'er seen a father's flowing tears. And known that thou couldst wipe those tears away ? If thou hast felt, and and hast resisted these. Then thou mayst curse my weakness ; but if not. Thou canst not pity, for thou canst not judge. Per. Let me not hear the music of thy voice. Or I shall love thee still ; I shall forget Thy fatal marriage and my savage wrongs. Elw. Dost thou not hate me, Percy ? Per. Hate thee ? Yes, As dying martyrs hate the righteous cause Of that blest power for whom they bleed — I hate thee. [^They look at each other with silent agony Enter Harcourt. Har. Forgive, my lord, your faithful knight Per. Come, Harcourt, Come, and behold the wretch who once was Percy. Har. With grief I've learned the whole unhappy tale. Earl Douglas, whose suspicion never sleeps Per. What, is the tyrant jealous ? Elw. Hear him, Percy. Per. I will command my rage. — Go on. Har. Earl Douglas Knew, by my arms and my accoutrements. So6 GOLDEN LEAVES. That I belonged to you ; he questioned much. And much he menaced me, but both alike In vain ; he then arrested and confined me. Per. Arrest my knight ! The Scot shall answer it! Elzv. How came you now released ? Har, Your noble father Obtained my freedom, having learned from Huoert The news of Percy's death. The good old lord. Hearing the king's return, has left the castle To do him homage. \^To Percy.] Sir, you had best retire ; Your safety is endangered by your stay. I fear, should Douglas know Per. Should Douglas know ! Why, what new magic's in the name of Douglas, That it should strike Northumberland with fear ? Go, seek the haughty Scot, and tell him — no — Conduct me to his presence. Elw. Percy, hold! Think not 'tis Douglas — 'tis — Per. I know it well Thou mean'st to tell me 'tis Elwina's husband ; But that inflames me to superior madness. This happy husband, this triumphant Douglas, Shall not insult my misery with his bliss. I'll blast the golden promise of his joys. Conduct me to him — nay, I will have way — Come, let us seek this husband, Elzv. Percy, hear me : When I was robbed of all my peace of mind. My cruel fortune left me still one blessing. One solitary blessing, to console me ; IT ANN AH MORE. 307 It was my fame. — 'Tis a rich jewel, Percy, And I must keep it spotless, and unsoiled : But thou wouldst plunder what e'en Douglas spared, And rob this single gem of all its brightness. Per. Go — thou wast born to rule the fate of Percy. Thou art my conqueror still. Elzu, What noise is that ? [Harcourt goes to the side of the stage. Per. Why arc thou thus alarmed ? Elw. Alas ! I feel The cowardice and terrors of the wicked. Without their sense of guilt. Har, My lord, 'tis Douglas. Elzu, Fly, Percy, and forever ! Per. Fly from Douglas .? Elw. Then stay, barbarian, and at once destroy My life and fame. Per. That thought is death. I go : My honour to thy dearer honour yields. Elw. Yti, thou art not gone ! Per. Farewell, farewell ! \^Exit Percy. Elzv. I dare not meet the searching eye of Douglas. I must conceal my terrors. Douglas at the side, with his szvord drawn; Edric holds htm. Don. Give me way. Edr. Thou shalt not enter. Don, [Struggling with Edric] If there were no hell. It would defraud my vengeance of its edge. And she should live. [Breaks from Edric, and comes forward. Cursed chance ! he is not here. 5o8 GOLDEN LEAVES. Elzv. {^GoingJ] I dare not meet his fury. Dou. See ! she flies With every mark of guilt. — Go, search the bovver, [^Aside to Edric. He shall not thus escape. Madam, return. [Aloud. Now, honest Douglas, learn of her to feign. • [Aside. Alone, Elwina ? who'had just parted hence : [ JVit/t affected composure. Elzv, My lord, 'twas Harcourt ; sure, you must have met him. Dou. O exquisite dissembler! [Aside.] No one else ! Elzv. My lord ! Dou. How I enjoy her criminal confusion ! [Aside. You tremble. Madam. Elzv. Wherefore should I tremble ? By your permission Harcourt was admitted; 'Twas no mysterious, secret introduction. Dou, And yet you seem alarmed. If Harcourt's presence Thus agitates each nerve, makes every pulse Thus wildly throb, and the warm tides of blood Mount in quick rushing tumults to your cheek ; If friendship can excite such strong emotions, What tremors had a lover's presence caused ! Elzv. Ungenerous man ! Dou. I feast upon her terrors. [Aside, The story of his death was well contrived ; [ To her. But it affects not me ; I have a wife. Compared with whom cold Dian was unchaste. [ Takes her hand. But mark me well — though it concerns not you — If there's a sin more deeply black than others. Distinguished from the list of common crimes. COLMAN. 309 A legion in itself, and doubly dear To the dark Prince of hell, it is — hypocrisy ! [^Throws her from hwi, and exit. Elu. Yes, I will bear this fearful indignation ! Thou melting heart, be firm as adamant ; Ye shattered nerves, be strung with manly force. That I may conquer all my sex's weakness. Nor let this bleeding bosom lodge one tiiought. Cherish one wish, or harbour one desire. That angels may not hear, and Douglas know. [£a'zV, Percy meets Earl Douglas in single combat^ and is slain. Douglas t/ten discovers the innocence o/'Elwina, luhc dies of grief . (Seovge Colninn. THE IRON CHEST. Sjr Edward Mortimer, in an accidental Encounter ivith his Enenty^ kills him. The Secret of the Murderer is preserved^ hut Sir Edward becomes a Prey to Remorse and Misanthropy. His Secretary^ WiL- roRD, ivatchcs his Employer ivith unceasing Scrutiny and Suspicion. Sir Edward, conscious of Wilford's Suspicions, determines to confess his Crime^ and appoints a Meeting ivith Wilford in the Library. Sir Edward Mortimer, Wilford. Enter Sir Edward Mortimer at the door of the Library, which he locks cfter hiin. Wilford turns round on hearing him shut it. Wif. What's that ? 'Tis he himself. Mercy on me He has locked the door ! what is going to become of me ! Mort. Wilford ! is no one in the picture-gallery ? 310 GOLDEN LEAVES. Wilf. No, not a soul. Sir — not a human soul ; None within hearing, if I were to bawl Ever so loud. Mort. Lock yonder door. Wilf. The door. Sir ? Mort. Do as I bid you. [hand. Wilf. What, Sir ? lock — [Mortimer zuaves with his I shall. Sir. \Going to the door, and locking it. His face has little anger in it, neither ; 'Tis rather marked with sorrow and distress. Mort. Wilford, approach me. What am I to say For aiming at your life ? Do you not scorn me. Despise me for it ? Wilf. I! oh. Sir! Mort. You must; For I am singled from the herd of men, A vile, heart-broken wretch ! Wilf. Indeed, indeed. Sir, You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love. The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude, All follow you : and 1 — I owe you all ; I am most bound to bless you. Mort. Mark me, Wilford : I know the value of the orphan's tear ; The poor man's prayer ; respect from the respected ; I feel, to merit these, and to obtain them, Is to taste here, below, that thrilling cordia' Which the remunerating angel draws From the eternal fountain of delight. To pour on blessed souls, that enter heaven. I feel this — I ! how must my nature, then, Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand C OLMAN. 311 In human blood ! And yet it seems, this day I sought your Ufe. Oh, I have suffered madness! None know my tortures — pangs ; but I can end them — End them as far as appertains to thee. I have resolved it. Hell-born struggles tear me ; But I have pondered on't, and I must trust thee. Wilf. Your confidence shall not be — Mort. You must swear. IVilf. Swear, Sir ! will nothing but an oath, then — Mort. Listen ! May all the ills that wait on frail humanity Be doubled on your head, if you disclose My fatal secret ! may your body turn Most lazar-like and loathsome, and your mind More loathsome than your body ! May those fiends Who strangle babes, for very wantonness. Shrink back and shudder at your monstrous crimes. And, shrinking, curse you ! palsies strike your youth. And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind Poison your aged days ; while all your nights. As on the earth you lay your houseless head. Out-horror horror ! May you quit the world Abhorred, self-hated, hopeless for the next. Your life a burthen and your death a fear ! Wilf. For mercy's sake, forbear ! you terrify me ! Mort. Hope this may fall upon thee ; swear thou hopes: it. By every attribute which heaven, earth, hell. Can lend, to bind and strengthen conjuration. If thou betray'st me. W%lf. Well, I— [Hesitating Mort. No retreating ! 14* 312 G OLDEN LEAVES. Wilf. [after a pause.^ I swear, by all the ties that bind a man. Divine or human, never to divulge ! Mort. Remember, you have sought this secret : yes. Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you. 'Tis big with danger to you ; and to me. While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable. Know, Wilford, that — damnation ! Wilf. Dearest Sir, Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly. You had this trembling, it is scarce a week. At Madam Helen's. Mort. There it is. Her uncle — Wilf. Her uncle ! Mort. Him. She knows it not; none know it; You are the first ordained to hear me say, I am his murderer. Wilf. O Heaven ! Aiort. His assassin. Wilf. What ! you that — mur the murder — -I am choked ! Mort. Honour, thou blood-stained god ! at whose red altai Sit War and Homicide, oh, to what madness Will insult drive thy votaries ! By Heaven, In the world's range there does not breathe a man Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe. With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy. Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me. Stained me. O death and shame ! the world looked on. And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro On the base earth like carrion. Desperation, C L MA K. 313 I: I every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance ! I left the room which he had quitted : chance — Curse on the chance ! — while boiling with my wrongs. Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street : 1 stabbed him to the heart : and my oppressor Rolled, lifeless, at my foot. M^iJf. Oh, mercy on me ! How could this deed be covered ? Mort. Would you think it ? E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark, I had all good men's love. But my disgrace. And my opponent's death, thus linked with it,. Demanded notice of the magistracy. They summoned me, as friend would summon friend. To acts of import and communication. We met: and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour. To put me on my trial. No accuser. No evidence appeared, to urge it on : 'Twas meant to clear my fame. How clear it then ? How cover it ? you say. Why, by a lie — Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast, Which Truth once made her throne, to forge a lie ; This tongue to utter it ; rounded a tale. Smooth as a seraph's song from Satan's mouth ; So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court Disturbed cool Justice in her judgment-seat. By shouting, " Innocence !" ere I had finished. The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble Bore me in triumph home. Ay, look upon me.' I know thy sight aches at me. JVilf. Heaven forgive me ! 314 G OLDEN LEAVES. I think I love you still : but I am young; I know not what to say : it may be wrong ; Indeed, I pity you. Mort. I disdain all pity; I ask no consolation. Idle boy ! Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence Was given to move thy pity ? Love of fame — For still I cling to it — has urged me thus To quash thy curious mischief in its birth. Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour. Drove me to murder — lying : 'twould again. My honesty, sweet peace of mind, all, all Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it. Should Slander whisper o'er my sepulchre. And my soul's agency survive in death, I could embody it with Heaven's lightning. And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit Should strike the blaster of my memory Dead in the churchyard ! Boy, I would not kill thee ; Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger; To check them there was no way left but this. Save one — your death : you shall not be my victim. Wilf. My death ! what, take my life ? my life to prop This empty honour ? Mort. Empty ? — grovelling fool ! TVilf. I am your servant. Sir; child of year bounty. And know my obligation. I have been Too curious, haply ; 'tis the fault of youth. I ne'er meant injury : if it would serve you, 1 would lay down my life ; I'd give it freely : Could you, then, have the heart to rob me of it? You could not— should not. C OLMAN. 315 Mort How! Wtlf. You dare not. Mort. Dare not ! Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not. Passion moved you; Reflection interposed, and held your arm. But, should reflection prompt you to attempt it. My innocence would give me strength to struggle. And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand. How would you look to find a peasant-boy Return the knife you levelled at his heart. And ask you which in heaven would show the best, A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty ? Mori. 'Tis plain I dare net take your life. To spare it I have endangered mine. But dread my power ! You know not its extent. Be warned in time : Trifle not with my feelings. Listen, Sir ! Myriads of engines, which my secret working Can rouse to action, now encircle you. Your ruin hangs upon a thread : provoke me. And it shall fall upon you ! Dare to make The slightest movement to awake my fears. And the gaunt criminal, naked and stake-tied. Left on the heath to blister in the sun, Till lingering death shall end his agony. Compared to thee, shall seem more enviable Than cherubs to the damned ! Wtlf. O misery ! Discard me. Sir ! I must be hateful to you. Banish me hence. I will be mute as death ; But let me quit your service, Mort. Never — fool ! 3i6 GOLDEN LEAVES. To buy this secret, you have sold yourself. Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your breath, From this time forth, are fettered to my will ! You have said truly — you are hateful to me. Yet you shall feel my bounty; that shall flow, And swell your fortunes. Joanna Saillie. DE MONTFORT. " De Montfort" yor/Ki one of the Scries of Play % by Miss Baillie, intended to illustrate the *' Passions.^' Hatred is the subject of this Play. De Montfort explains to his Sister Jane his hatred of Re- ZENVELT, -which at last hurries him into the crime of Murder. De Montfort, Jane De Montfort. De Montfort. No more, my sister, urge me not again ; My secret troubles cannot be revealed. From all participation of its thoughts My heart recoils : I pray thee be contented, Jane. What ! must I, like a distant humble friend. Observe thy restless eye and gait disturbed In timid silence, whilst with yearning heart I turn aside to weep ? O no, De Montfort ! A nobler task thy nobler mind will give ; Thy true intrusted friend I still shall be. De Mon. Ah, Jane, forbear ! I cannot e'en to thee. Jane. Then fie upon it ! fie upon it, Montfort ! There was a time when e*en with murder stained. Had it been possible that such dire deed JOANNA BAIL LIE. 31,' Could e'er have been the crime of one so piteous. Thou wouldst have told it me. De Mon. So would I now — but ask of this no more. All other troubles but the one I feel I have disclosed to thee. I pray thee, spare me. It is the secret weakness of my nature. Jane. Then secret let it be : I urge no further. The eldest of our valiant father's hopes. So sadly orphaned : side by side we stood. Like two young trees, whose boughs in early strength Screen the weak saplings of the rising grove. And brave the storm together. I have so long, as if by nature's right. Thy bosom's inmate and adviser been, I thought through life I should have so remained. Nor ever known a change. Forgive me, Montfort ; A humbler station will I take by thee ; The close attendant of thy wandering steps. The cheerer of this home, with strangers sought. The soother of those griefs I must not know. This is mine office now ; I ask no more. Dc Mon. O Jane, thou dost constrain me with thy love — Would I could tell it thee ! Jane. Thou shalt not tell me. Nay, I'll stop mine ears. Nor from the yearnings of affection wring What shrinks from utterance. Let it pass, my brother. I'll stay by thee ; I'll cheer thee, comfort thee ; Pursue with thee the study of some art. Or nobler science, that compels the mind To steady thought progressive, driving forth All floating, wild, unhappy fantasies. Till thou, with brow unclouded, smilest again ; 5i3 G OLDEN LEA VES. Like one who, from dark visions of the night. When the active soul within its lifeless cell Holds its own world, with dreadful fancy pressed Of some dire, terrible, or murderous deed. Wakes to the dawning morn, and blesses Heaven. De Mon. It will not pass away j 'twill haunt me still. Jane. Ah ! say not so, for I will haunt thee too. And be to it so close an adversary. That, though I wrestle darkhng with the fiend, I shall o'ercome it. De Mon. Thou most generous woman ! Why do I treat thee thus ? It should not be — And yet I cannot — O that cursed villain ! He will not let me be the man I would. Jfane. What sayst thou, Montfort ? Oh ! what words are these ! They have awaked my soul to dreadflil thoughts. I do beseech thee, speak ! By the affection thou didst ever bear me ; By the dear memory of our infant days ; By kindred living ties — ay, and by those Who sleep in the tomb, and cannot call to thee, I do conjure thee speak ! Ha ! wilt thou not .? Then, if affection, most unwearied love, Tried early, long, and never wanting found. O'er generous man hath more authority. More rightful power than crown or sceptre give, 1 do command thee ! De Montfort, do not thus resist my love. Here I entreat thee on my bended knees. Alas ! my brother ! JOANNA BAILLIE. - 319 De Mon. [Raising her, and kneeling. Thus let him kneel who should the abased be, And at thine honoured feet confession make. I'll tell thee all — but, oh ! thou wilt despise me. For in my breast a raging passion burns. To which thy soul no sympathy will own — A passion which hath made my nightly couch A place of torment, and the light of day, With the gay intercourse of social man. Feel like the oppressive airless pestilence. Jane' thou wilt despise me Jane. Say not so : 1 never can despise thee, gentle brother. A lover's jealousy and hopeless pangs No kindly heart contemns. De Mon. A lover's, say'st thou ? No, it is hate ! black, lasting, deadly hate ! Which thus hath driven me forth from kindred peace, From social pleasure, from my native home. To be a sullen wanderer on the earth. Avoiding all men, cursing and accursed. Jane. De Montfort, this is fiend-like, terrible ! What being, by the Almighty Father formed Of flesh and blood, created even as thou. Could in thy breast such horrid tempest wake. Who art thyself his fellow .? Unknit thy brows, and spread those wrath-clenched handa Some sprite accursed within thy bosom mates To work thy ruin. Strive with it, my brother ! Strive bravely with it ; drive it from thy heart ; 'Tis the degrader of a noble heart. Curse it, and bid it part. 320 "• GOLDEN LE AYES. De Mon. It will not part. I've lodged it here too long. With my first cares I felt its rankling touch. I loathed him when a boy. Jane. Whom didst thou say ? De Mon. Detested Rezenvelt ! E'en in our early sports, like two young whelps Of hostile breed, instinctively averse. Each 'gainst the other pitched his ready pledge. And frowned defiance. As we onward passed From youth to man's estate, his narrow art And envious gibing malice, poorly veiled In the affected carelessness of mirth. Still more detestable and odious grew. There is no living being on this earth Who can conceive the malice of his soul. With all his gay and damned merriment. To those by fortune or by merit placed Above his paltry self When, low in fortune, He looked upon the state of prosperous men. As nightly birds, roused from their murky holes. Do scowl and chatter at the light of day, I could endure it; even as we bear The impotent bite of some half-trodden worm, I could endure it. But when honours came. And wealth and new-got titles fed his pride ; Whilst flattering knaves did trumpet forth his praise, And grovelling idiots grinned applauses on him ; Oh ! then I could no longer suffer it ! [t drove me frantic. What, what would I give — What would I give to crush the bloated toad, So rankly do I loathe him ! Jane. And would thy hatred crush the very man JOANNA BAIL LIE. 521 Who ga ve to thee that hie he might have taken t That life which thou so rashly didst expose To aim at his ? Oh, this is horrible ! De Mon. Ha ! thou hast heard it, then ! From all vlic world. But most of all from thee, I thought it hid. Jane. I heard a secret whisper, and resolved Upon the instant to return to thee. Didst thou receive my letter ? De Mon. I did ! I did ! 'Twas that which drove me hither. I could not bear to meet thine eye again. Jane. Alas ! that, tempted by a sister's tears, I ever left thy house ! These few past months. These absent months, have brought us all this woe. Had L remained with thee, it had not been. And yet, methinks, it should not move you thus. You dared him to the field ; both bravely fought ; He, more adroit, disarmed you ; courteously Returned the forfeit sword, which, so returned. You did refuse to use against him more ; And then, as says report, you parted friends. De Mo?i. When he disarmed this cursed, this worthless hand Of its most worthless weapon, he but spared From devilish pride, which now derives a bliss In seeing me thus fettered, shamed, subjected With the vile favour of his poor forbearance ; Whilst he securely sits with gibing brow. And basely baits me like a muzzled cur. Who cannot turn again. Until that day, till that accursed aay. 322 G OLDEN LEAVES. I knew not half the torment of this hell Which burns within my breast. Heaven's lightnings bias: him ! Jane, Oh, this is horrible ! Forbear, forbear ! Lest Heaven's vengeance light upon thy head For this most impious wish. De Mon. Then let it light. Torments more fell than I have known already It cannot send. To be annihilated. What all men shrink from ; to be dust, be nothing, Were bliss to me, compared to what I am ! Jane. Oh ! wouldst thou kill me with these dreadfu. words ? De Mon. Let me but once upon his ruin look. Then close mine eyes forever ! Ha ! how is this ? Thou'rt ill ; thou'rt very pale ; What have I done to thee ? Alas ! alas ! 1 meant not to distress thee — O my sister ! Jane. I cannot now speak to thee. De Mon. I have killed thee. Turn, turn thee not away ! Look on me still ! Oh ! droop not thus, my life, my pride, my sister ! Look on me yet again. Jane. Thou, too, De Montfort, In better days wast wont to be my pride. De Mon. I am a wretch, most wretched in myself. And still more wretched in the pain I give. O curse that villain, that detested villain ! He has spread misery o'er my fated life ; Fie will undo us all. Jane. I've held my warfare through a troubled world. And borne with steady mind my share of ill ; 5. T. GOLERIBGE. 323 For then the helpmate of my toil wast thou. Biat now the wane of life comes darkly on. And hideous passion tears thee from my heart. Blasting thy worth. I cannot strive with this. De Mori. What shall I do ? Samuel ©aglor Cokribge. REMORS Ji. Don Alvar and Don Ordonio, Sons of the Marquis Valdez, equally love Donna Teresa, an orphan Heiress^ brought up by Valdez. Tki Lady returns the love of Don Alvar, and they are betrothed. Of • DONio, instigated by jealousy^ conspires against his Brother'' s life. He employs Isidore, a Morisco Chieftain^ professing Christianity^ to assas- sinate Don Alvar, on his return from the Belgic Wars. Isidore and his Companions attack Don Alvar, but are o-verpoivercd by the bravery of their intended Victim^ ivho learns from Isidore that Donna Teresa has proved false to him^ and is about to marry Ordonio. " Wearied ivith life,^'' he returns to the Wars, is ivounded in battle, and taken Prisoner. After an absence of six years, he returns to his oivn Country, and in the disguise of a Moorish Necromancer is found by Ordonio, luho engages him to use his necromantic art to raise the Spirit of Alvar before Teresa, who, true to her vows to her sup- posed dead Lover, refuses the proffered hand 0/" Ordonio. Alvar consents, his only desire being that — " Remorse might fasten on his brother's breast," .... the punishment that cleanses hearts." ScENb — A Hall of Armory, zuith an Altar at tke back of the Stage, Soft Music from an instrument of glass oi steel, Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered. Ord, This was too melancholy, father. Vald. Nay, 324 GOLDEN LEAVES. My Alvar loved sad music from a child. Once he was lost, and after weary search We found him in an open place in the wood. To which spot he had followed a blind boy. Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore Some strangely moving notes ; and these, he said. Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw Stretched on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep. His head upon the blind boy's dog. it pleased me To mark how he had fastened round the pipe A silver toy his grandam had late given him. Methinks I see him now as he then looked — liven so ! He had outgrown his infant dress, Yet still he wore it. Alv. My tears must not flow ! I must not clasp his knees, and cry. My father ! Enter Teresa and Attendants. Ter. Lord Valdcz, you have asked my presence here. And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me) My heart approves it not ! 'tis mockery. Ord. Believe you, then, no preternatural influence ? Believe you not that spirits throng around us ? Ter. Say rather that I have imagined it A possible thing : and it has soothed my soul As other fancies have ; but ne'er seduced me To traffic with the black and frenzied hope That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard. [ To Alvar.] Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here On such employment ! With far other thoughts I left you. S. T. COLERI DO h:. 323 Ord. [As?de.\ Ha ! he has been tampering with her ! Aiv. O high-souled maiden ! and more dear to me Than suits the stranger's name ! swear to thee I will uncover all concealed guilt. Doubt, but decide not ! Stand ye from the altar. [He?-e a strain of music is heard from hthind the sceve Alv. With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm I call up the departed ! Soul of Alvar ! Hear our soft sui^, and heed my milder spell : So may the gates of Paradise, unbarred. Cease thy swift toils ! Since haply thou art one Of that innumerable company Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow. Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion. With noise too vast and constant to be heard : Fitliest unheard ! For oh, ye numberless And rapid travellers ! what ear unstunned. What sense unmaddened, might bear up against The rushing of your congregated wings? [iWz/izr.] Even now your living wheel turns o'er my heaa ! [Music expressive of the viovements and images that follow.] Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desert sands, That roar and whiten like a burst of waters, A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion To the parched caravan that roams by night ! And ye build up on the becalmed waves That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Ye, too, split The ice- mount ! and with fragments many and huge 326 GOLDEN LEAVES. Tempest the new-thawed sea, whose sudden gulfs Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff! Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance. Till from the blue swollen corse the soul toils out. And joins your mighty army. [Here, behind the scenes, a voice sings the three zvords, *' Hear, sweet spirit ^^^ Soul of Alvar ! Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm ! By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang Of a half dead, yet still undying hope. Pass visible before our mortal sense ! So shall the church's cleansing rites be thine. Her knells and masses, that redeem the dead ! \Song behind the scenes, accompanied by the same instru- ment as before.^ Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. Lest a blacker charm compel ! So shall the midnight breezes swell With thy deep, long, lingering knell. And at evening evermore. In a chapel on the shore. Shall the chanters, sad and saintly, Yellow tapers burning faintly. Doleful masses chant for thee. Miserere Domine ! Hark ! the cadence dies away On the yellow moonlight sea : The boatmen rest their oars and say, Miserere Domine ! [A long pause. Ord. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! S. T. COLERIDGE. 327 My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit. Burst on our sight, a passing visitant ! Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee, O 'twere a joy to me ! Alv. A joy to thee ! What if thou heardst him now ? What if his spirit Re-entered its cold corse, and came upon thee With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard ? What if (his steadfast eye still beaming pity And brother's love) he turned his head aside. Lest he should look at thee, and with one look Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence ? Vald. These are unholy fancies ! Ord. [Struggling with his feelings.] Yes, my father. He is in heaven ! Alv. [Still to Ordonic] But what if he had a brother^ Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour The name of heaven would have convulsed his face More than the death-pang ? Vald. Idly prating man ! Thou hast guessed ill : Don Alvar's only brother Stands here before thee — a father's blessing on him ! He is most virtuous. Alv, [Still to Ordonio.] What is his very virtues Had pampered his swollen heart and made him proud ? And what if pride had duped him into guilt ? Yet still he stalked a self-created god. Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning j And one that at his mother's looking-glass Would force his features to a frowning sternness ? Young lord ! I tell thee that there are such beings — Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damned 15 328 G OLDEN LEAVES. To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind. At every stir and buzz of coward conscience. Trick, cant, and lie ; most whining hypocrites ! Away, away ! Now let me hear more music. [^Music again. Ter. 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures ! But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer Be present at these lawless mysteries. This dark provoking of the hidden powers ! Already I affront — if not high Heaven — Yet Alvar's memory ! Hark ! I make appeal Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens. Comfort and faithful hope ! Let us retire. Alt', [ To Teresa.] O full of faith and guileless love ! thy spirit Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt Surprise the guilty ; thou art innocent ! [Exeunt Teresa and Attendants. Alv, The spell is muttered. Come, thou wandering shape. Who own'st no master in a human eye, Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul. If he be dead, O come ! and bring with thee That which he grasped in death ! but if he live. Some token of his obscure, perilous life. Chorus. "Wandering demons, hear the spell ! Lest a blacker charm compel. [covered. [An illuminated Picture of Alvar's assassination is dis- Ord. [Starting.] Duped ! duped ! duped ! The traitor Isidore ! . . . S. T. COLERIDGE. 329 Ordonio, belie'ving that he has been duped and betrayed by Isidore, lures him to a Cavern in the vicinity of the Castle, and there hurls him into a yaivning Chasm. Alhadra, the Wife of Isidore, tracks the Murderer, and summons her Countrymen to meet her in the Moun- tains, to take vengeance on Ordonio, who subsequently falls by the hand of Alhadra. The Mountains by Moonlight. Alhadra alone, in a Moorish dress. Alhadra. Yon hanging woods, that, touched by autumn, seem As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold ; The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay. The many clouds, the sea, the rocks, the sands, Lie in the silent moonshine ; and the owl (Strange, very strange !) — the screech-owl only wakes, Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty ! Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood. Why such a thing am I ? Where are these men ? I need the sympathy of human faces. To beat away this deep contempt for all things. Which quenches my revenge. Oh ! would to Allah The raven or the sea-mew were appointed To bring me food ! or rather that my soul Could drink in life from the universal air ! It were a lot divine, in some small skiff. Along some ocean's boundless solitude, To float forever with a careless course. And think myself the only being alive ! My children ! — Isidore's children ! — Son of Valdez, This hath new-strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant ! To stupefy a woman's heart with anguish. Till she forgot even that she was a mother ! 3*30 GOLDEN LEAVES. [She fixes her eyes on the earth. Then drop in, one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considera- ble number of Moriscoes, ail in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra, and remain silent till the second in command, Naomi, enters, distinguished by his dress and armour, and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his entrance by the other Moors.^^ Naomi. Woman, may Allah and the Prophet bless thee! We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief? And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments ? Alhad. [Raising her eyes, and looking round on the circle.^ Warriors of Mahomet ! faithful in the battle ! My countrymen ! Come ye prepared to work An honourable deed ? And would ye work it In the slave's garb ? Curse on those Christian robes ! They are spell-blasted ; and whoever wears them. His arm shrinks withered, his heart melts away. And his bones soften. Naomi. Where is Isidore ? Alhad. [In a deep low z'Oice.] This night I went from forth my house, and left His children all asleep ; and he was living ! And I returned, and found them still asleep. But he had perished ! All Moriscoes. Perished ? Alhad. He had perished ! — Sleep on, poor babes ! not one of you doth know That he is fatherless — a desolate orphan ! Why should we wake them ? Can an infant's arm Revenge his murder ? S. T. COLERIDGE. 33I One Morisco to another. Did she say his murder ? Naomi. Murder ! Not murdered ! Alhad. Murdered by a Christian ! [ They all at once drazu their sabres. Alhad. [7"b Naomi, zuho advances from the circle.] Brother of Zagri, fling away thy sword ; This is thy chieftain's ! [He steps forward to take it.] Dost thou dare receive it ? For I have sworn by Allah and the Prophet, No tear shall dim these eyes — this woman's heart Shall heave no groan — till I have seen that sword Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez ! [A pause.] Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer ! Naomi. He dies, by Allah ! All. [Kneeling.] By Allah ! Alhad. This night your chieftain armed himself, And hurried from me. But I followed him At distance, till I saw him enter — there ! Naomi. The cavern ? Alhad. Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern. After a while I saw the son of Valdez Rush by with flaring torch ; he likewise entered. There was another and a longer pause ; And once methought I heard the clash of swords ! And soon the son of Valdez reappeared : He flung his torch towards the moon in sport. And seemed as he were mirthful ; I stood listening, Impatient for the footsteps of my husband ! Naomi. Thou calledst him ? Alhad. I crept into the cavern — *Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.] What saidst thou ? 332 G OLDEN LEAVES. No, no ! I did not dare call Isidore, Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while. Belike, I lost all thought and memory Of that for which I came. After that pause — Heaven ! I heard a groan, and followed it ; And yet another groan, which guided me Into a strange recess, and there was light, A hideous light ! his torch lay on the ground ; Its flame burned dimly o'er a chasm's brink. 1 spake -J and whilst I spake, a feeble groan Came from that chasm ! it was his last — his death-groan ! Naomi. Comfort her, Allah ! Alhad. I stood in unimaginable trance. And agony that cannot be remembered. Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan ! But I had heard his last, my husband's death-groan ! Naomi. Haste ! let us onward'. Alhad. I looked far down the pit — My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment ; And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked. My eyeballs burned, my brain grew hot as fire ! And all the hanging drops of the wet roof Turned into blood — I saw them turn to blood ! And I was leaping wildly down the chasm. When on the farther brink I saw his sword, And it said vengeance ! Curses on my tongue ! The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here. And he hath not had vengeance ! Isidore, Spirit of Isidore, thy murderer lives ! Away, away ! All. Away, away ! \Ske rushes ofy all follouing. BYRON. 333 MANFRED. The Coliseum. The Stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and soHtary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth. When I was wandering, — upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall. Midst the chief rehcs of almighty Rome. The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and More near, from out the Caesars' palace, came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot. — Where the Caesars dwelt. And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements. And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — But the gladiators* bloody Circus stands. 334 GOLDEN LEAVES. A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! While Cesar's chambers and the Augustan halls Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light. Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up. As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; Leaving that beautiful which still was so. And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns. . . . MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE. The Executicn o/~ Marino Faliero. The Court of the Ducal Palace. — The Doge enters in his ducal robes, in procession with the Council of Ten and other Patricians, attended by the Guards, till they ar- rive at the top of the " Giants' Staircase'' {where the Doges took the oaths) ; the Executioner is stationed there with his sword. — On arriving, a Chief of the Ten takes off the ducal cap from the Doge's head. Doge. So, now the Doge is nothing, and at last I am again Marino Faliero : 'Tis well to be so, though but for a moment. Here was I crowned, and here, bear witness. Heaven ! With how much more contentment I resign 'THE STARS ARE FORTH." BYRON. 335 That shining mockery, the ducal bawble. Than 1 received the fatal ornament. One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! Doge. 'Tis with age, then. Benintende. Faliero ! hast thou aught further to commend. Compatible with justice, to the senate ? Doge. I would commend my nephew to their mercy. My consort to their justice ; for methinks My death, and such a death, might settle all Between the State and me. Ben. They shall be cared for ; Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. Doge. Unheard of! ay, there's not a history But shows a thousand crowned conspirators Against the people ; but to set them free. One sovereign only died, and one is dying. Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? Doge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of Venice — Agis and Faliero ! Ben. Hast thou more To utter or to do ? Doge. May I speak .? Ben. Thou mayst; But recollect the people are without. Beyond the compass of the kuman voice. Doge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, Of which I grow a portion, not to man. Ye elements ! in which to be resolved I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner. Ye winds ! which fluttered o'er as if you loved it. And fihed my swelling sails as they were wafted ?36 G OLDEN LEAVES. To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth. Which I have bled for ! and thou foreign earth. Which drank this willing blood from many a wound ! Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, which will receive it ! Thou sun ! which shinest on these things, and Thou J Who kindlest and who quenchest suns ! — Attest ! I am not innocent — but are these guiltless? I perish, but not unavenged ; far ages Float up from the abyss of time to be. And show these eyes, before they close, the doom Of this proud city, and I leave my curse On her and hers forever ! Yes, the hours Are silently engendering of the day. When she, who built 'gainst Attila a bulwark. Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield. Unto a bastard Attila, without Shedding so much blood in her last defence. As these old veins, oft drained in shielding her. Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought And sold, and be an appanage to those Who shall despise her ! — She shall stoop to be A province for an empire, petty town In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates. Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces, The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his ; When thy patricians beg their bitter bread In narrow streets, and in their shameful need Make their nobility a plea for pity ; Then, when the few who still retain a wreck BYRON. 337 Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vice-gerent, Even in the palace where they swayed as sovereigns, Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign. Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung From an adulteress boastful of her guilt With some large gondolier or foreign soldier. Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph To the third spurious generation : — when Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. Slaves turned o'er to the vanquished by the victors. Despised by cowards for greater cowardice, And scorned even by the vicious for such vices As in the monstrous grasp of their conception Defy all codes to image or to name them; Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom. All thine inheritance shall be her shame Entailed on thy less virtuous daughters, grown A wider proverb for worse prostitution : — When all the ills of conquered states shall cling thee. Vice without splendour, sin without relief Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er. But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude. Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness. Depraving Nature's frailty to an art ; — When these and more are heavy on thee, when Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure. Youth without honour, age without respect. Meanness and weakness, and a sense of woe 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 338 GOLDEN LEAVES. Amidst thy many murders, think ol mine ! Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom ! Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods ! Thee and thy serpent seed ! \Here. the Doge tarns and addresses the Executioner. Slave, do thine office ! Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! Strike — and but once ! [T/zd Doge throws himself upon his knees, and as the Executioner raises his sword the scene closes. SARDANAP ALUS. Our Vices greater Tyrants than Despots. Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — The weakness and the wickedness of luxury — The negligence — the apathy — the evils Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants. Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master. However harsh and hard in his own bearing. The false and fond examples of thy lusts Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap In the same moment all thy pageant power And those who should sustain it ; so that whether A foreign foe invade, or civil broil Distract within, both will alike prove fatal: The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer; The last they rather would assist than vanquish. BYRON. 33y THE TWO FOSCARI. Our Life a Mystery. Are you content ? I am what you behold. And that's a mystery. All things are so to mortals ; who can read them Save He who made ? or, if they can, the few And gifted spirits, who have studied long That loathsome volume — man, and pored upon Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain. But learn a magic which recoils upon The adept who pursues it : all the sins We find in others. Nature made our own ; All our advantages are those of Fortune; Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well We should remember Fortune can take naught Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness, And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. The universal heritage, to battle With as we may, and least in humblest stations. Where hunger swallows all in one low want, And the original ordinance, that man Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passion!- Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low. And false, and hollow — clay from first to last, The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon Less than their breath ; our durance upon days. Our days on seasons; our whole being on 3 40 G OLDEN L EA VE S. Something which is not us ! — So, we are slaves. The greatest as the meanest — nothing rests Upon our will ; the will itself no less Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; And when we think we lead, we are most led. And still towards death, a thing which comes as much Without our act or choice as birth, so that Methinks we must have sinned in some old world. And this is hell : the best is, that it is not Eternal. WERNER. Werner, a banished Nobleman^ reduced to Po-verty^ robs Stralen- HEiM, the Causer of his fVrongs. He a-voivs the Crime to his Sort Ulric. Werner, Ulric. Ulr. (Starts, looks eai'nestly at Werner, and then says slowly) — And you avow it ? TVer. Ulric, before you dare despise your father. Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, Rash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap. Is it for you to measure passion's force. Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long. It cometh like the night, and quickly) — wait ! — Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted — till Sorrow and Shame are handmaids of your cabin ; Famine and Poverty your guests at table ; Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive — Should you see then the serpent, who hath coiled Himself around all that is dear and noble BYRON. 341 Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path. With but his folds between your steps and happiness When he, who lives but to tear from you name. Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep. Even to your deadliest foe ; and he as 'twere Inviting death, by looking like it, while His death alone can save you : — Thank your God ! If then, like me, content with petty plunder. You turn aside 1 did so. Ulr, But IVer. {abruptly). Hear me ! I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare Listen to my own (if that be human still) — Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. He's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You Deem yourself safe, as young and brave ; but learn. None are secure from desperation, few From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, Housed in a prince's palace, couched within A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! An instant — a mere motion — the least impulse — Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. He was within my power — my knife was raised — Withdrawn — and I'm in his : — are you not so ? Who tells you that he knows you not ? Who says He hath not lured you here to end you ? or To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? [He pauses Ulr. Proceed — proceed ! Wer. Me he hath ever known. 342 GOLDEN LEAVKFi. And hunted through each change of time — name — forlune- And why not you ^ Are you more versed in men? He wound snares round me ; flung along my path Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurned Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now, Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes Made venial by the occasion, and temptations Which Nature cannot master or forbear. Heo. (Sl)arle0 illaturiu. BERTRAM. QoyNT Bertram, driven from his Country by the machinatious of Lord St. Aldobrand, joins a desperate Band of Robbers^ and becomes their header. He and his Companions are ivrecked on the Coast near the Castle of St. Aldobrand. Bertram is preser'ved by Monksy and taken to their Con-vent. He is attended by the Prior. Bertram, Prior. An Apartment in tke Convent. — Bertram discovered sleep- ing on a Couch, the Prior watching hini. Prior. He sleeps — if it be sleep ; this starting trance. Whose feverish tossings and deep-muttered groans Do prove the soul shares not the body's rest. [Hanging over him How the lip works ! how the bare teeth do grind. And beaded drops course down his writhen brow ! I will awake him from this horrid trance ; This is no natural sleep. Ho ! wake thee, stranger ! Bertram. What wouldst thou have ? my life is in thy power. MA TURIN. 343 Prior. Most wretched man, whose fears alone betray thee, What art thou ? — Speak ! Ber. Thou sayst I am a wretch, And thou sayst true — these weeds do witness it — Tliese wave-worn weeds — these bare and bruised limbs — What wouldst thou more ? I shrink not from the question. I am a wretch, and proud of wretchedness ; 'Tis the sole earthly thing that cleaves to me. Prior. Lightly I deem of outward wretchedness. For that hath been the lot of blessed saints ; But, in their dire extreme of outward wretchedness. Full calm they slept in dungeons and in darkness, — Such hath not been thy sleep. Ber. Didst watch my sleep ? But thou couldst gain no secret from my ravings. Prior. Thy secrets ! wretched man, I reck not of them ; But I adjure thee, by the Church's power (A power to search man's secret heart of sin). Show me thy wound of soul. Weepst thou the ties of nature or of passion. Torn by the hand of Heaven ? Oh, no ! full well I deemed no gentler feeling Woke the dark lightning of thy withering eye. What fiercer spirit is it tears thee thus ? Show me the horrid tenant of thy heart ! Or wrath, or hatred, or revenge is there — [Bertram suddenly starts from the Couch, raises his clasped hands, and comes forward. Ber. I would consort with mine eternal enemy. To be revenged on him ! Prior. Art thou a man, or fiend, who speakest thus .? Ber. I w as a man ; I know not what I am — 344 GOLDEN LEAVES. What others' crimes and injuries have made me — Look on me ! What am I ? \_Advances Prior. [Retreating,^ I know not. Ber. I marvel that thou sayst it. For lowly men full oft remember those In changed estate, whom equals have forgotten. A passing beggar hath remembered me. When with strange eyes my kinsmen looked on me, I wore no sullied weeds on that proud day. When thou, a barefoot monk, didst bow full low For alms, my heedless hand hath flung to thee. Thou dost not know me ! [Approaching him. Prior. Mine eyes are dim with age — but many thoughts Do stir within me at thy voice. Ber. List to me, monk. It is thy trade to talk. As reverend men do use in saintly wise. Of life's vicissitudes and vanities. • Hear one plain tale that doth surpass all saws — Hear it from me — Count Bertram ! — ay. Count Bertram ! The darling of his liege and of his land. The army's idol, and the council's head — Whose smile was fortune, and whose will was law — Doth bow him to the Prior of St. Anselm For water to refresh his parched lip. And this hard-matted couch to fling his limbs on ! Prior. Good Heaven and all its saints ! Ber. Wilt thou betray me ? Prior. Lives there the wretch beneath these walls to do it ? Sorrow enough hath bowed thy head already. Thou man of many woes. — Far more I fear lest thou betray thyself. Hard by do stand the halls of Aldobrand MATURIN. 345 (Thy mortal enemy and cause of fall). Where ancient custom doth invite each stranger. Cast on this shore, to sojourn certain days. And taste the bounty of the castle's lord. If thou goest not, suspicion will arise ; And if thou dost (all changed as thou art). Some desperate burst of passion will betray thee. And end in mortal scath — [ydf pause. What dost thou gaze on with such fixed eyes ? Ber. What sayst thou ? I dreamed I stood before Lord Aldobrand, Impenetrable to his searching eyes — And I did feel the horrid joy men feel Measuring the serpent's coil, whose fangs have stung them ; Scanning with giddy eye the air-hung rock. From which they leaped and live by miracle ; — To see that horrid spectre of my thoughts In all the stern reality of life — To mark the living lineaments of hatred. And say, this is the man whose sight should blast me ; Yet, in calm, dreadfiil triumph, still gaze on, — It is a horrid joy. Prior. Nay, rave not thus ; Thou wilt not meet him j many a day must pass. Till from Palermo's walls he wend him homeward. Where now he tarries with St. Anselm's knights. His dame doth dwell in solitary wise j Few are the followers in his lonely halls — Why dost thou smile in that most horrid guise ? Ber. [Repeating.] His dame doth dwell alone! Pei- chance his child — Oh, no, no, no ! it was a damned thought. 346 G OLDEN LEAVES. Prior. I do but indistinctly hear thy words. But feel they have some fearful meaning in them. Ber. Oh, that I could but mate him in his might ! Oh, that we were on the dark wave together. With but one plank between us and destruction. That I might grasp him in these desperate arms. And plunge with him amid the weltering billows. And view him gasp for life ! — and — Ha ! ha ! — I see him struggling ! — I see him ! — ha ! ha ! ha 1 [Afranitc laugfi Prior. Oh, horrible ! Help ! — Help to hold him, for my strength doth fail ! Enter two Monks. — They support Bertram. Utdjarb Color 6t)ul. THE APOSTATE. Hemeya, the last Descendant of the ancient Moorish Kings of Granada, loves Florinda, Daughter of the Count Alvarez, and, to obtain her hand, he becomes an *■*■ Apostate.^'' Florinda is also sought in Marriage by Count Pescara, a Persecutor of the Moors. Count Alvarez, Hemeya, Florinda. Alvarez. \To Hemeya.] I come to seek you, for ti\e gorgeous temple Is kindled with the Church's brightest pomp ; And thousands wait your presence, to begin The rite of adjuration. Hemeya. Is my fate so near its hard completion ? Alv. It is well Thou hast consented, else the fiercest fires SHIEL. 347 I'he Inquisition kindles for the Moors, Had been thy portion. Florinda. Then lose not an instant ; Take him, my father, else he will go back. Alv. To-night a priest shall join your wedded hands. Hem. And let that thought alone possess my soul ! Upon the verge of ruin I will gaze On the bright vision that allures me on. And leads me to the gulf; I'll turn my eyes Tow'rds the star-studded heaven, where still it shines While I am sinking. Yes, when I behold thee. Conscience is scarce a rebel to thy charms. I go, Florinda ; do not forget That, if I dare be guilty, 'tis for thee ! \_Exeunt Alvarez and Hemeya. Flor, I am happy now — A beam of angel-bliss falls on my heart. And spreads Heaven's light about it. [The gates of the Inquisition open — the bell tolls twice. What do I see ? Enter Gomez, Pescara, and Inquisitors y from the interior of the Edifice. The Inquisition's servants — Gomez, Pescara ! [Rushes up wildly and exultingly to the Inquisitors. He is a Christian ! he has 'scaped your toils. Heaven watches o'er his safety ! you are foiled ! Stir not another step ; back, back again — Back to your cells and caverns. Do you not see Faith, like an angel, hov'ring o'er his head ? Back, back ! he is a Christian ! Gom. [Advancing tozuards her.] Who art thou. 348 G OLDEN LEAVES. That with loud adjuration hast presumed To interrupt the servants of the Church ? Pes. Forgive her, holy father, for she seems Touched vi^ith inspiring power. [Goes up to her.l The fair Florinda ! I cry you mercy, madam. Fio?'. Pardon me, I know not what I said. Fes. Ay, but I know it. Stay, stay, fair maid ! [To Go)nez.] Speed, Gomez, strike the blow. Strike it at once ! And, hark ye, as you go. Think that Pescara will not be ungratefiil. [Exeuni Gomez and Inquisitors Flor. He sends him forth Upon some dreadful purpose. Pes, Do you deign To look upon the wretch from whom your eyes Were ever turned with loathing ? but 'tis merciful. This sun-set beam of hope — nay, do not tremble ; You should not fear the man that you despise. Flor. My lord, 'tis not my purpose to offend you : One poor request is all that I entreat ; Tell me, what cause has called these men of death Forth from their dread abodes ? whom do they seek ? What is their dread intent ? teach me, my lord ; I do conjure you, teach me. Pes. Ay, 'tis your sex's vice ; when curiosity Once stings a woman's heart. Scorn will turn suppliant. And Hate itself will almost learn to woo. Flor. Not against him ? Pes. Who is it that you mean. I do not understand you ? Flor. His dark eye SHI EL. 349 Glitters with horrid meaning — " like the glass. Within whose orb the voice of magic calls The fiends from hell, within its fiery globe The demon passions rise !" My lord, forgive me That I have dared to ask : I take my leave. Pes. [Stopping her.] Nay, do not go ; although I am forbid To tell the secrets of the Inquisition, Yet something can I tell you. Flor. Well, my lord ! Pes. 'Tis but a dream. Fior. You mock me. Pes. Do not think it ; You are a pious and believing maid. And long within a convent's holy cells Communed with Heaven's pure votaries. I remember When you did marvel what young virgins meant. When all their talk was love ; for on your heart It fell like moonlight on a frozen fountain. That heart has melted since ; — but you, perchance. Have still retained enough of true belief Not to despise a vision ! On my couch. Last night, I long lay sleepless ; I revolved The scorns, the contumelies I have suffered. But will not brook ; at last, sleep closed my eyelids. And then methought I saw the am'rous Moor In all the transports of exulting passion, And I stood by, chained to a fiery pillar. Condemned to gaze forever ; while two fiends Did grin and mow upon me. Senseless I fell with rage. As thus I lay. 350 GOLDEN LEA VES. For:h from the yawning earth a figure rose. Whose stature reached to Heaven ; his robes appeared Woven out of solid fire ! around his head A serpent twined his huge gigantic folds ; And on his front, in burning characters. Was written, " Vengeance !" Fior, Vengeance ! oh, my lord. You fi-ight me ! but I ne'er offended you ; What crime have I committed ? Fes. Listen to me : He cried, " Do not despair !" and bade me follow. Fior. Let me depart — Pes. I followed — He led me to a bower of Paradise, And held a cup of joy, which, he exclaimed. Was mingled by himself; — I quaffed : 'twas neotar. And thrilled within my heart — then, then, Florinda ! — Fior. Let me implore you — {.^^^^SS^^^S' Pes. Then, within my arms methonght I pressed thee. Fior. Hold ! this violence — Pes. Nay, do not talk of violence : You seemed a willing and a tender bride. And rushed into my bosom ! Fior. Count Pescara, I must not hear this mockery ! do not speak Of what you should not think ! this very day Shall bind me, with an everlasting vow. To him ! — ay, him ! I do not fear to tell it. To him my heart adores. 'Tis not to me You should unfold your horrid fancies. Pes. Mark me ! there's oft a prophecy in dreams. [Exit. SHIEL. 351 Fbr. [Alone.^ Ha! this means something Well I know Pescara : His voice doth sound like Fate within my soul. That answers back in faint and trembling echoes. This horrid band of death, his fell commands. The terrors of his eye, his looks of destiny. All, all affright me ! If I must be wretched, O Heaven, don't let me know it ; leave me still The bliss of ignorance ! What if Pescara, Before Hemeya has adjured his creed. Should treacherously seize him ? Would that the rite were done ! [A distant symphony is heard. What seraph music floats upon my soul ? Methinks it is the organ's solemn swell. That from the church's aisles ascends to heaven. The holy rite proceeds ! sweet sounds, awake ! Awake again upon my raptured soul ! [A distant Chorus sings. CHORUS. The mystic light Has dawned upon his sight : He sees, and he believes. Rejoice, rejoice. With one acclaiming voice ! Strike, seraphs ! strike your harps, and through the sky Swell the hill tide of rapturous melody ! [The curtain falls while Florinda kneels. EVADNE, OR THE STATUE. EvADNE, a Noble Ladyy Sister to Colonna, is unlanvfully sought by the King of Naples; he surrounds her with artifices^ lohich appear to 16 352 GOLDEN LEAVES. attaint her honcur. Her Brother is also draivn into the King's toilsy and is condemned to death. The King agrees to save Colonna's /r/f, if EvADNE accedes to his proposals. She appears to consent^ and ap- points to meet the King in " the Hall of Statues" in her late Father^ s Castle. The Hall of Statues. The King, Colonna, Evadne. King. Colonna, my best friend, how shall I thank thee But where is my Evadne ? Col. There, my lord ! • King. Colonna, I not only give thee life. But place thee near myself; henceforth thou wilt wear A nobler title in thy family, — And to thy great posterity we'll send My granted dukedom. Col. Sir, you honour me. My presence is no longer needed here. [Aside.) A word's consent dispatches them ! [Conceals himself behind the pillars King. My fair Evadne ! lay aside thy sad And drooping aspect, in this hour of joy ! Stoop not thy head, that like a pale rose bends Upon its yielding stalk — thou hast no cause For such a soft abashment, for be sure I'll p]ace thee high in honour. Eva. Honour, sir ! King. Yes j I'll exalt thee into dignity, Adorn thy name with titles — All my court Shall watch the movement of thy countenance. Riches and power shall wait upon thy smile. And in the lightest bending of thy brow. Death and disgrace inhabit. SHIEL. 353 Eva. And, my liege. That will inhabit my own heart ? King. My love ! Come, my Evadne — what a form is here ! The imaginers of beauty did of old O'er three rich forms of sculptured excellence Scatter the naked graces ; but the hand Of mightier nature hath in thee combined All varied charms together. Eva. You were speaking Of sculpture. Sir — I do remember me. You are deemed a worshipper of that high art. Here, my lord, [Pointing to the Statuts. Is matter for your transports ! King. Fair Evadne ! Do you not mean to mock me ? Not to gaze On yonder lifeless marbles, did I come To visit you to-night, but in the pure And blue-veined alabaster of a breast. Richer than heaves the Parian that has wed The Florentine to immortality. Eva. You deem me of a light, capricious mood. But it were hard if (woman as I am) I could not use my sex's privilege — Though I should ask you for yon orb of light. That shines so brightly and so sadly there. And fills the ambient air with purity — Should you not fain, as 'tis the wont of those Who cheat a wayward child, to draw it down. And in the sheeted splendour of a stream To catch its shivering brightness ! — It is my pleasure That you should look upon these reverend forms 354 GOLDEN LEAVES. That keep the likeness of mine ancestry — I must enforce you to it ! King. Wayward woman ! What arts does she intend, to captivate My soul more deeply in her toils ? Eva. Behold! [Going to a Stalui^. The glorious founder of my family ! It is the great Rodolpho ! — Charlemagne Did fix that sun upon his shield, to be His glory's blazoned emblem ; for at noon. When the astronomer cannot discern A spot upon the full-orbed disk of light, *Tis not more bright than his immaculate name ! With what austere and dignified regard He lifts the type of purity, and seems Indignantly to ask, if aught that springs From blood of his, shall dare to sully it With a vapour of the morning ! King. It is well ; His frown has been attempered, in the lapse Of generations, to thy lovely smile. — I swear, he seems not of thy family. My fair Evadne, I confess, I hoped Another sort of entertainment here. Eva, Another of mine ancestors, my liege — Guelfo, the murderer ! [Pointing to a Statue. King, The murderer ! I knew not that your family was stained With the reproath of blood. Eva. We are not wont To blush, though we may sorrow for his sin. If sin indeed it be. His castle walls SHIEL. 555 Were circled in the siege of Saracens, — He had an only daughter, whom he prized More than you hold your diadem j but when He saw the fury of the infidels Burst through his shattered gates, and on his child Dishonour's hand was lifted, with one blow He struck her to the heart, and with the other. He stretched himself beside her. King. Fair Evadne, I must no more indulge you, else, I fear. You would scorn me for my patience j prithee, love. No more of this wild fantasy ! Eva. My liege. But one remains, and when you have looked upon it. And thus complied with my request, you will find me Submissive to your own. Look here, my lord — Know you this statue ? [Pointing to a Statue. King. No, in sooth, I do not. Eva. Nay — look again — for I shall think but ill Of princely memories, if you can find Within the inmost chambers of your heart No image like to this. Look at that smile — That smile, my liege — look at it ! King. It is your father ! Eva. [Breaking into exultation.'] Ay ! — 'tis indeed my father ! — 'tis my good. Exalted, generous, and god-like father ! Whose memory, though he had left his child A naked, houseless roamer through the world. Were an inheritance a princess might Be proud of for her dower ! It is my father ! Whose like in honour, virtue, and the fine 3';6 GOLDEN LEAVES, Integrity that constitutes a man. He hath not left behind him ! There's that smile. That like perpetual daylight shone about him. The clear and bright magnificence of soul ! Who was my father ? [ With a proud and conscious interrogatory. King. One, whom I confess Of high and many virtues. Eva. Is that all ? I will help your memory, and tell you, first. That the King of Naples looked among The noblest in his realm for that good man. To whom he might intrust your opening youth. And found him worthiest. In the eagle's nest. Early he placed you, and beside his wing You learned to mount to glory ! Underneath His precious care you grew, and you were once Thought grateful for his service. His whole life Was given to your uses, and his death — [King starts. Ha 1 do you start, my lord ? On Milan's plain He fought beside you, and when he beheld A sword thrust at your bosom, rushed — it pierced him. He fell down at your feet, — he did, my lord ! He perished to preserve you ! — [Rushes to the Statue."] — Breathless image. Although no heart doth beat within that breast. No blood is in his veins, let me enclasp thee. And feel thee at my bosom. — Now, Sir, I am ready — Come and unloose these feeble arms, and take me ! — Ay, take me from this neck of senseless stone, — And to reward the father with the meet And wonted recompense that princes give — SEIEL. 3;7 Make me as foul as bloated pestilence. As black as the darkest midnight, and as vile As guilt and shame can make me. King. She has smitten Compunction through my soul ! Eva. Approach, my lord ! Come, in the midst of all mine ancestry. Come, and unloose me from my father's arms — Come, if you dare, and in his daughter's shame. Reward him for the last drops of the blood Shed for his prince's life ! King. Thou hast wrought A miracle upon thy prince's heart. And lifted up a vestal lamp, to show My soul its own deformity — my guilt ! Eva. [^Disengaging herself from the Statue.'] Ha! have you got a soul ? — have you yet left. Prince as you are, one relic of a man ? Have you a soul ? — He trembles — he relents — I read it in the glimmering of his face ; And there's a tear, the bursting evidence Of Nature's holy working in the heart ! Heaven, he weeps ! my sovereign, my liege ! Heart do not burst in ecstasy too soon ! My brother ! my Colonna ! — hear me — hear ! In all the wildering triumph of my soul, 1 call upon thee ! [ Turning, she perceives Colonna ad- vancing from among the Statues. There he is — my brother ! Col. Let me behold thee. Let me compress thee here ! — O my dear sister ! A thousand times mine own ! — I glory in thee. 35^ G OLDEN LEAVES. More than in all the heroes of my name ! — I overheard your converse, and methought It was a blessed spirit that had ta'en Thy heavenly form, to show the wondering world How beautiful was virtue ! — [To the King.l^ Sir, — Eva. Colonna, There is your king ! Col. Thou hast made him so again ! Thy virtue hath recrowned him — and I kneel His faithflil subject here ! King. Arise, Colonna ! You take the attitude that more befits The man who would have wronged you, but whose heart Was by a seraph called again to Heaven ! Forgive me ! Col. Yes, with all my soul I do ! Jame0 i^onnes. CONSCIENCE; OR, THE BRIDAL NIGHT. Lorenzo, a ruined Venetian, marries Elmira, Daughter of his deadliest Enemy y and the Niece of one to ivhote Death he, in secret, had been a Party. Lorenzo describes to his Friend Julio the stings of Con- science, and the fears accompanying the Bridal Night. Lorenzo, Julio. Lorenzo I had thoughts Of dying ; but pity bids me live ! Julio. Yes, live, and still be happy. Lor. Never, Julio ; Never again : even at my bridal hour HA TNUS. 359 Thou sawest Detection, like a witch, look on And smile, and mock at the solemnity, Conjuring the stars. Hark ! was not that a noise ? Jul, No ; all is still. Lor. Have none approached us ? Jul. None. Lor. Then 'twas my fancy. Every passing hour Is crowded with a thousand whisperers ; The night has lost its silence, and the stars Shoot fire upon my soul. Darkness itself Has objects for mine eyes to gaze upon. And sends me terror when I pray for sleep In vain upon my knees. Nor ends it here ; My greatest dread of all — Detection— casts Her shadow on my walk, and startles me At every turn : sometime will reason drag Her frightful chain of probable alarms Across my mind ; or if, fatigued, she droops. Her pangs survive the while ; as you have seen The ocean tossing when the wind is down. And the huge storm is dying on the waters. Once, too, I had a dream Jul. The shadows of our sleep should fly with sleep ; Nor hang their sickness on the memory. Lor. Methought the dead man, rising from his tomb, Frowned over me. Elmira, at my side. Stretched her fond arms to shield me from his wrath. At which he frowned the more. I turned away. Disgusted, from the spectre, and essayed To clasp my wife ; but she was pale, and cold. And in her breast the heart was motionless, And on her limbs the clothing of the grave, 1 6* 36o G OLDEN LEAVES. With here and there a worm, hung heavily. Then did the spectre laugh, till from its mouth Blood dropped upon us while it cried — " Behold ! Such is the bridal bed that waits thy love !" I would have struck it (for my rage was up) ; I tried the blow ; but, all my senses shaken By the convulsion, broke the tranced spell. And darkness told me — sleep was my tormentor. Brgan tDaller JJvoctov (Barrg (Hornujall). MIRANDOLA. yf doting Husband's Love. Duke Mirandola, Duchess Isidora. Duke. My own sweet love! Oh! my dear peerless wife I By the blue sky and all its crowding stars, I love you better — oh ! far better than Woman was ever loved. There's not an hour Of day or dreaming night but I am with thee : There's not a wind but whispers of thy name. And not a flower that sleeps beneath the moon But in its hues or fragrance tells a tale Of thee, my love, to thy Mirandola. Speak, dearest Isidora, can you love As I do ? Can — but no, no ; I shall grow Foolish if thus I talk. You must be gone ; You must be gone, fair Isidora, else The business of the dukedom soon will cease. I speak the truth, by Dian. Even now MISS MITFORD. 361 Gheraldi waits without (or should) to see me. In faith, you must go : one kiss ; and so, away. Isidora. Farewell, my lord. Duke. We'll ride together, dearest. Some few hours hence. hid. Just as you please ; farewell. [Exit. Duke. Farewell ; with what a waving air she goes Along the corridor. How like a fawn ; Yet statelier. Hark ! no sound, however soft (Nor gentlest echo), telleth when she treads ; But every motion of her shape doth seem Hallowed by silence. Thus did Hebe grow Amidst the gods, a paragon ; and thus — Away ! I'm grown the very fool of love. Mies lUitforb. RIENZI. Cola di Rienzi {afterwards the last of the Tribunes) heads the People, to overthrew the poiverful Faction of the Ursini, and other despotic Nobles, ivho tyranni-ze o'ver Rome. Angelo Colonna, instigated by love for CuAVDiA, Rienzi's Daughter, and hate towards the rival House of Ursini, attends a Meeting of the People assembled by Rienzi to declare and redress their Wrongs. Rome.— Before the Gates of t fie Capitol. Alberti, Paolo, Citizens. I St Citizen. This is the chosen spot. A brave assemblage ' 2d Cit. Why, yes. No marvel that Rienzi struck So bold a blow. I had heard shrewd reports 362 GOLDEN LEAVES. Of heats, and discontents, and gathering bands. But never dreamed of Cola. Pao. 'Tis the spot ! Where loiters he ? The night wears on apace. Alberti. It is not yet the hour. \st Cit. Who speaks? Another Cit. Alberti, The captain of the guard ; he and his soldiers Have joined our faction. Alb. Comrades, we shall gain An easy victory. The Ursini, Drunk with false hope and brute debauch, feast high Within their palace. Never wore emprise A fairer face. Pao. And yet the summer heaven. Sky, moon, and stars, are overcast. The saints Send that this darkness Enter Rienzi. Rte. [Advancing to tke front.'] Darkness ! did ye never Watch the dark glooming of the thunder-cloud. Ere the storm burst ? We'll light this darkness. Sir, With the brave flash of spear and sword. All tke Citizens shout, Rienzi ! Live, brave Rienzi ! honest Cola 1 Rie. Friends ! Citizens. Long live Rienzi ! Alh. Listen to him. Rie. Friends, I come not here to talk. Ye know too well The story of our thraldom. We are slaves . The bright sun rises to his course, and lights MISS MITFORD. -563 -He sets, and his last beam Falls on a slave — Slaves to a horde Of petty tyrants, feudal despots; lords Rich in some dozen paltry villages — Strong in some hundred spearmen, — only great In that strange spell — a name. Each hour, dark fraud. Or open rapine, or protected murder. Cry out against them. But this very day. An honest man, my neighbour — [Pointing to Paolo] — there he stands, — Was struck, — struck like a dog, by one who wore The badge of Ursini ; because, forsooth. He tossed not high his ready cap in air. At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men. And suffer such dishonour ? Men, and wash not The stain away in blood ? Such shames are common : I have known deeper wrongs. I that speak to ye, I had a brother once — How I loved That gracious boy ! Younger by fifteen years. Brother at once and son ! *' He left my side ; A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, — a smile Parting his innocent lips.'' In one short hour The pretty harmless boy was slain ! I saw The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried For vengeance ! — Rouse, ye Romans ! Have ye brave sons ? — Look in the next fierce brawl To see them die. Have ye fair daughters ? — Look To see them live, torn from your arms, distained. Dishonoured ; and, if ye dare call for justice. Be answered by the lash. Yet, this is Rome, 364 GOLDEN LEAVES. That sate on her seven hills, and from her throne Of beauty ruled the world ! Once again, I swear. The eternal city shall be free ; her sons Shall walk with princes. Ere to-morrow's dawn. The t)'rants First Cit. Hush ! Who passes there? \_Citizens retire back. Alb, A foe. By his proud bearing. Seize him. Rie. As I deem, 'Tis Angelo Colonna. Touch him not, — I would hold parley with him. Good Alberti, The hour is nigh. Away ! [^Exit Alberti. Enter Angelo Colonna. Now, Sir ! [ To Angelo. Ang. What be ye. That thus in stern and watchful mystery Cluster beneath the veil of night, and start To hear a stranger's foot ? Rie. Romans. Ang. And wherefore Meet ye, my countrymen ? Rie. For freedom. ylng. Surely Thou art Cola di Rienzi ? Rie. Ay, that voice — The traitor voice. Ang. I knew thee by the words. Who, save thyself, in this bad age, when man Lies prostrate like yon temple, dared conjoin The sounds of Rome and freedom? MISS MITFORD. 365 Rie. I shall teach The world to blend those words, as in the days Before the Cssars. Thou shalt be the first To hail the union. I have seen thee hang On tales of the world's mistress ; thy young hand Hath clinched thy maiden sword. Unsheath it now, — Now, at thy country's call ! What, dost thou pause ? Is the flame quenched ? Dost falter? Hence with thee. Pass on ! pass whilst thou may ! Atig. Hear me, Rienzi. Even now my spirit leaps up at the thought Of those brave storied days — a treasury Of matchless visions, bright and glorified. Paling the dim lights of this darkling world With the golden blaze of heaven ; but past and gone. As clouds of yesterday, as last night's dream. Rie. A dream 1 Dost see yon phalanx, still and stern ? An hundred leaders, each with such a band, Wait with suppressed impatience till they hear The great bell of the Capitol, to spring At once on their proud foes. Join them. Ang. My father ! Rie. Already he hath quitted Rome. Ang, My kinsmen ! Rie. We are too strong for contest. Thou shalt see No other change within our peaceful streets Than that of slaves to freemen. Such a change As is the silent step from night to day. From darkness into light. We talk too long. Ang. Yet reason with them ; — warn them. Rie. And their answer — Will be the jail, the gibbet, or the axe 366 GOLDEN LEAVES. The keen retort of power. Whv, I have reasoned; And, but that I am held, amongst your great ones. Half madman and half fool, these bones of mine Had whitened on yon wall. Warn them ! They met At every step dark warnings. Friend met friend, nor smiled, Till the last footfall of the tyrant's steed Had died upon the ear. Sir, the boys, — The unfledged boys, march at their mother's hist. Beside their grandsires ; even the girls of Rome, — The gentle and the delicate, array Their lovers in this cause. I have one yonder, Claudia Rienzi, — thou hast seen the maid — A silly trembler, a slight fragile toy. As ever nursed a dove, or reared a flower — Yet she, even she, is pledged — Ang, To whom ? to whom ? Rie. To liberty. A king's son Might kneel in vain for Claudia. None shall wed her. Save a true champion of the cause. Ang. I'll join ye : [Gives his hand to Rienzi. How shall I swear ? Rie. [To the People. 1^ Friends, comrades, countrymen I bring unhoped-for aid. Young Angelo Craves To join your band. Ail the Citizens shout — He's welcome ! [Coming for ward. Ang. Hear me swear By Rome — by freedom — by Rienzi ! Comrades, MISS MITFORD. 367 How have ye titled your deliverer ? consul — Dictator, emperor? Rie, No: Those names have been so often steeped in blood. So shamed by folly, so profaned by sin. The sound seems ominous, — I'll none of them. Call me the Tribune of the people ; there My honouring duty lies. [The Citizens shout. Hail to our Tribune! — The bell sounds thrice ; shouts again ; and a military band is heard playing a march without. Hark— the bell, the bell ! That, to the city and the plain. Proclaims the glorious tale Of Rome reborn, and Freedom. See, the clouds Are swept away, and the moon's boat of light Sails in the clear blue sky, and million stars Look out on us, and smile. [ The gate of the Capitol opens, and Alberti and Soldiers join the People, and lay the keys at 'RiEKzi^sfeet. Hark ! that great voice Hath broke our bondage. Look, without a stroke The Capitol is won — the gates unfold — The keys are at our feet. Alberti, friend. How shall I pay the service ? Citizens ! First to possess the palace citadel — The famous strength of Rome ; then to sweep on. Triumphant, through her streets. [As RiENzi and the People are entering the Capitol, he pauses. Oh, glorious wreck Of gods and Cssars ! thou shalt reign again. 368 GOLDEN LEAVES. Queen of the world ; and I — come on, come on. My people ! [Citizens. Live Rienzi — live our Tribune ! [^Exeunt through the gates, into the Capitol. % * * H: ^ * Rienzi rules as Tribune^ until the People again revolt. They sacrifice Rienzi, ivho dies ^■^ the last of the Tribunes.'''' Rienzi, Soldiers and Citizens. Citizens. Down with the tyrant ! Down with Rienzi ! Rienzi. Who calls upon Rienzi ? Citizens, What seek ye of your Tribune ? .... why come ye ? 2d Cit. For vengeance, perjured tyrant ! for thy blood — for liberty ! Rie. For liberty ! Go seek The mountain-tops, where with the crashing pines The north wind revels ; Go where the eagle or the sea-snake dwell ; Midst mighty elements, where nature is. And man is not, and ye may see afar. Impalpable as a rainbow on the clouds. The glorious vision. Liberty ! I dreamed Of such a goddess once; dreamed that yon slaves Were Romans, such as ruled the world, and I Their Tribune ; vain and idle dream ! Take back The symbol and the power. What seek ye more ? \st Cit. Tyrant! thy life! Rie. Come on. Why pause ye, cowards ? I am unarmed. My breast is bare. Why pause ye ? Enter Claudia ; she rushes forward to Rienzi. — The Peo- ple surround him. Rie. Drag her from my neck. BEDDOE S. 369 If ye be men ! Save her ! She never harmed A worm. My Claudia, bless thee ! bless thee ! Now — now ! — [RiENzi falls, pierced by many spears, and the People divide, leaving Claudia stretched on her Father's body. ®t)oma0 Cooell SclibocB. THE bride's tragedy. Hespekus and Floribel, the young ivedded Levers, are in a Garde discoursing on the Beauties of Flowers. Hesperus, Floribel. Hesperus. See, here's a bower Of eglantine with honeysuckles woven. Where not a spark of prying light creeps in. So closely do the sweets enfold each other. 'Tis twilight's home ; come in, my gentle love. And talk to me. So ! I've a rival here ; What's this that sleeps so sweetly on your neck ? Floribel. Jealous so soon, my Hesperus ? Look then. It is a bunch of flowers I pulled for you : Here's the blue violet, like Pandora's eye. When f.rst it darkened with immortal life. Hes. Sweet as thy lips. Fie on those taper fingers. Have they been brushing the long grass aside. To drag the daisy from its hiding-place. Where it shuns light, the Danae of flowers, ^ith gold up-hoarded on its virgin lap ? Flo. And here's a treasure that I found by chance. 370 G OLDEN LEAVES, A lily of the valley ; low it lay Over a mossy mound, withered and weeping, As on a fairy's grave. Hes. Of all the posy Give me the rose, though there's a tale of blood Soiling its name. In elfin annals old 'Tis writ, how Zephyr, envious of his love (The love he bare to Summer, who since then Has, weeping, visited the world), once found The baby Perfume cradled in a violet (Twas said the beauteous bantling was the child Of a gay bee, that in his wantonness Toyed with a pea-bud in a lady's garland) ; The felon winds, confederate with him. Bound the sweet slumberer with golden chains. Pulled from the wreathed laburnum, and together Deep cast him in the bosom of a rose. And fed the fettered wretch with dew and air. Jamc0 Sljcriban Knouilea. VIRGINIUS. The Death of Virginia. Rome. — The Forum. Appius, Claudius, Lictors, and People. Appms. Well, Claudius, are the forces At hand .? Claudius. They are, and timely, too ; the people Are in unwonted ferment. KNOWLES. 371 App. There's something awes me at The thought of looking on her father ! Claud. Look Upon her, my Appius ! Fix your gaze upon The treasures of her beauty, nor avert it Till they are thine. Haste ! Your tribunal ! Haste ' [Appius ascends the tribunal. \Enter Numitorius, Icilius, Lucius, Citizens, Virginius leading his Daughter, Servia, and Citizens. A dead silence prevails.^ Virginius. Does no one speak ? I am defendant here. Is silence my opponent ? Fit opponent To plead a cause too foul for speech ! What brow Shameless gives front to this most valiant cause. That tries its prowess 'gainst the honour of A girl, yet lacks the wit to know, that he Who casts off shame, should likewise cast off fear — And on the verge o' the combat wants the nerve To stammer forth the signal ? App. You had better, Virginius, wear another kind of carriage ; This is not the fashion that will serve you. Vir. The fashion, Appius ! Appius Claudius, tell me The fashion it becomes a man to speak in. Whose property in his own child — the offspring Of his own body, near to him as is His hand, his arm — yea, nearer — closer far. Knit to his heart — I say, who has his property In such a thing, the very self of himself. Disputed — and I'll speak so, Appius Claudius ; I'll speak so. — Pray you tutor me ! 372 G OLDEN LEAVES. App. Stand forth, Claudius ! If you lay claim to any interest In the question now before us, speak ; if not. Bring on some other cause. Claud. Most noble Appius — Vir. And are you the man That claims my daughter for his slave ? — Look at me And I will give her to thee. Claud. She is mine, then : Do I not look at you ? Vir. Your eye does, truly. But not your soul. I see it through your eye. Shifting and shrinking — turning every way To shun me. You surprise me, that your eye. So long the bully of its master, knows not To put a proper face upon a lie. But gives the port of impudence to falsehood When it would pass it off for truth. Your soul Dares as soon show its face to me. Go on, I had forgot ; the fashion of my speech May not please Appius Claudius. Claud. I demand Protection of the Decemvir ! App. You shall have it. Vir, Doubtless ! App, Keep back the people, Lictors ! What's Your plea ? You say the girl's your slave. Produce Your proofs. Claud. My proof is here, which, if they can. Let them confront. The mother of the girl — [ViRGiNius, stepping forward, is withheld b) NUMITORIUS. KNOWLES. 373 Numitorius. Hold, brother ! Hear them out, or suffer me To speak. Vir. Man, I must speak, or else go mad ! And if I do go mad, what then will hold me From speaking ? She was thy sister, too ! Well, well, speak thou. I'll try, and if I can. Be silent. [Retires. Num, Will she swear she is her child ? Vir. [Starting forward.'] To be sure she will — a most wise question that ! Is she not his slave ? Will his tongue lie for him — Or his hand steal — or the finger of his hand Beckon, or point, or shut, or open for him ? To ask him if she'l! swear ! Will she walk or run. Sing, dance, or wag her head ; do any thing That is most easy done ? She'll as soon swear ! What mockery it is to have one's life In jeopardy by such a barefaced trick ! Is it to be endured ? I do protest Against her oath ! App. No law in Rome, Virginius, Seconds you. If she swear the girl's her child. The evidence is good, unless confronted By better evidence. Look you to that, Virginius. I shall take the woman's oath. Virginia. Icilius. Icilius. Fear not, love : a thousand oaths Will answer her. App. You swear the girl's your child. And that you sold her to Virginius' wife. Who passed her for her own. Is that your oatb Slave. It is my oath. ;74 G OLDEN LEAVES. App. Your answer now, Virginius. Vir. Here it is ! \Brfngs Virginia foruard Is this the daughter of a slave ? I know 'Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by The shoot you know the rank and order of The stem. Yet who from such a stem would look For such a shoot. My witnesses are these — The relatives and friends of Numitoria, Who saw her, ere Virginia's birth, sustain The burden which a mother bears, nor feels The weight with longing for the sight of it. Here are the ears that listened to her sighs In nature's hour of labour, which subsides In the embrace of joy — the hands, that when The day first looked upon the infant's face, And never looked so pleased, helped them up to it. And blessed her for a blessing. Here, the eyes That saw her lying at the generous And sympathetic fount, that at her cry Sent forth a stream of liquid living pearl To cherish her enamelled veins. The lie Is most unfruitful then, that takes the flower' — The very flower our bed connubial grew — To prove its barrenness 1 Speak for me, friends ; Have I not spoke the truth ? Women and Citizens. You have, Virginius. App. Silence ! Keep silence there ! No more of that ! You're very ready for a tumult, citizens. [ Troops appear Lictors, make way to let these troops advance ! [behind. We have had a taste of your forbearance, masters. And wish not for another. Vir. Troops in the Forum I KNOWLES. 375 App. Virginius,, have you spoken ? Vir. If you have heard me, I have ; if not, I'll speak again. App, You need not, Virginius ; I had evidence to give. Which, should you speak a hundred times again. Would make your pleading vain. Vir. Your hand, Virginia ! Stand close to me. \^Aside, App. My conscience will not let me Be silent. 'Tis notorious to you all. That Claudius' father, at his death, declared me The guardian of his son. This cheat has long Been known to me. I know the girl is not Virginius' daughter. Vir, Join your friends, Icilius, And leave Virginia to my care. \^Aside. App, The justice I should have done my client unrequired. Now cited by him, how shall I refuse ? Vir, Don't tremble, girl ! don't tremble. [Asidd, App. Virginius, I feel for you ; but, though you were my father. The majesty of justice should be sacred — Claudius must take Virginia home with him ! Vir. And if he must, I should advise him, Appius, To take her home in time, before his guardian Complete the violation which his eyes Already have begun. — Friends ! fellow-citizens ! Look not on Claudius — look on your Decemvir ! He is the master claims Virginia ! The tongues that told him she was not my child 17 376 G OLDEN LEAVES. Are these — the costly charms he cannot purchase. Except by making her the slave of Claudius, His client, his purveyor, that caters for His pleasures — markets for him — picks, and scents. And tastes, that he may banquet — serves him up His sensual feast, and is not now ashamed. In the open, common street, before your eyes — Frighting your daughters' and your matrons' cheeks With blushes they ne'er thought to meet — to help him To the honour of a Roman maid ! my child I Who now clings to me, as you sec, as if This second Tarquin had already coiled His arms around her. Look upon her, Romans 1 Befriend her ! succour her ! see her not polluted Before her father's eyes ! — He is but one. Tear her from Appius and his Lictors while She is unstained. — Your hands ! your hands ! your hands ! Citizens. They are yours, Virginius. App. Keep the people back- Support my Lictors, soldiers ! Seize the girl. And drive the people back. Icilius. Down with the slaves ! [ The People make a show of resistance : but, upon tht advance of the Soldiers, retreat, and leave Icilius, Vir- ginius, and his Daughter, ^c. in the hands of Appiui and his partyJ] Deserted! — Cowards! traitors! Let me free But for a moment ! I relied on you ; Had I relied upon myself alone, . - I had kept them still at bay ! I kneel to you — Let me but loose a moment, if 'tis only To lush upon your swords. KNOWLES. IJI Vir. Icilius, peace ! You see how 'tis, we are deserted, left Alone by our friends, surrounded by our enemies. Nerveless and helpless. App. Separate them, Lictors ! l^ir. Let them forbear awhile, I pray you, Appius : Ft is not very easy. Though her arms Are tender, yet the hold is strong by which She grasps me, Appius — forcing them will hurt them ; They'll soon unclasp themselves. Wait but a little — You know you're sure of her ! App. I have not time To idle with thee ; give her to my Lictors. Vir. Appius, I pray you wait ! If she is not My child, she hath been like a child to me For fifteen years. If I am not her father. I have been like a father to her, Appius, For even such a time. They that have Jivtd So long a time together, in so near And dear society, may be allowed A httle time for parting. Let me take The maid aside, I pray you, and confer A moment with her nurse ; perhaps she'll give me Some token will unloose a tie so twined And knotted round my heart, that, if you break it^ My heart breaks with it. App. Have your wish. Be brief! Lictors, look to them. Virginia. Do you go from me ? Do you leave ? Father ! Father ! Vir. No, my child — No, my Virginia — come along with me. 378 G OLDEN LEAVES. Firgima. Will you not leave me ? Will you take me with you ? Will you take me home again ? Oh, bless you ! bless you ! My fether ! my dear father ! Art thou not My father ? [ViRGiNius, perfectly at a loss what to do, looks anxiously around the Forum ; at length his eye falls on a butcher's stall, with a knfe upon itJ] Fir. This way, my child. — No, no ; I am not going To leave thee, my Virginia ! I'll not leave thee. App. Keep back the people, soldiers ! Let them not Approach Virginius ! K.eep the people back ! [ViRGiNius secures the knfe. Well, have you done ? Vir. Short time for converse, Appius, But I have. App. I hope you are satisfied. Vir. I am — I am — that she is my daughter ! App. Take her, Lictors ! [Virginia shrieks, and falls half -dead upon her Father's shoulder. Vir. Another moment, pray you. Bear with me A little — 'Tis my last embrace. 'Twon't try Your patience beyond bearing, if you're a man ! Lengthen it as I may, I cannot make it Long. My dear child ! My dear Virginia ! [Kissing her There is one only way to save thine honour — 'Tis this. [Stabs her, and draws out the knfe. Icilius breaks from the Soldiers that held him, and catches her. Lo, Appius, with this innocent blood I do devote thee to the infernal gods I Make way there ! KNOWLES. 379 App. Stop him ! Seize him ! P'lr. If they dare To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened With drinking my daughter's blood, why, let them ; thus It rushes in amongst them Way there ! Way ! l^Exit through the Soldiers. THE wife: a tale of MANTUA. Mariana's Story of her hove. Mariana, Ward of the Curate Antonio, h betrothed to Leonardo GoNZAGA, Duke of Milany nvhoy disguised as a Feasant^ has ivon her heart. The Duke leaves Mariana, and during his absence her hand is sought by Count Florio, luhose suit is supported by Ferrado, usurping Duke of Milan. Mariana rejects the Count, and proceeds to Mantua, and relates her Story to Lorenzo, an Advocate^ Nepheiu ti Antonio. Antonio, Mariana, and Lorenzo. Antonio. Lo, nephew ! here's the maid. To answer for herself! Lorenzo. Guardian — is he your relation too ? Mariana. No, — would he were ! That stay had needs be strong. Which failing, we've no other left to cling to. ***** Lor. Gave you promise to the Count ? Mar. None ! Lor. Nor encouragement ? Mar, Such as aversion , Gives to the thing it loathes. 38o GOLDEN LEAVES. Lor. Have you a vow Or promise to another ? — that v^^ere a plea To justify rejection. You are silent. And yet you speak — if blushes speak, as men Declare they do. Come, come, I know you love. Give me to know the story of your love. That, thereupon, I found my proper plea To show your opposition not a thing Of fantasy, caprice, or forwardness. But that for which all hearers shall commend you. Proves it the joint result of heart and reason. Each other's act approving. Was't in Mantua You met ? . Mar, No, Signor ; in my native land. Lor, And that is — Mar. Switzerland. Lor, His country too ? Mar. No, Signor, he belonged to Mantua. Lor, That's right — you are collected and direct In your replies. I dare be sworn your passion Was such a thing, as by its neighbourhood Made piety and virtue twice as rich As e'er they were before. How grew it ? Come, Thou know'st thy heart — look calmly into it. And see how innocent a thing it is Which thou dost fear to show. I wait your answer. How grew your passion ? Mar, As my stature grew. Which rose without my noting it, until They said I was a woman. I kept watch Beside what seemed his death-hed. From beneatJi An avalanche my father rescued him. KNOWLES. 381 The sole survivor of a company Who wandered through our mountains. A long time His life was doubtful, Signor, and he called For help, whence help alone could come, which I, Morning and night, invoked along with him. So first our souls did mingle ! Lor. I perceive : — you mingled souls until you mingled hearts ? You loved at last. Was't not the sequel, maid ? Mar. I loved, indeed ! If I but nursed a flower Which to the ground the rain and wind had beaten. That flower of all our garden was my pride ; What then was he to me, for whom I thought To make a shroud, when, tending on him still With hope, that bafiled still, did still keep up, I saw at last the ruddy dawn of health Begin to mantle o'er his pallid form. And glow — and glow — till forth at last it burst Into confirmed, broad, and glorious day ! Lor, You loved, and did he love ? Mar. To say he did. Were to affirm what oft his eyes avouched. What many an action testified — and yet — What wanted confirmation of his tongue. But if he loved — it brought him not content ! 'Twas now abstraction — now a start — anon A pacing to and fro — anon, a stillness. As naught remained of life, save life itself. And feeling, thought, and motion, were extinct ! Then all again was action ! Disinclined To converse, save he held it with himself; Which oft he did, in moody vein discoursing. .382 GOLDEN LE A VES. And ever and anon invoking Honour, As some high contest there were pending, 'twixt Himself and him, wherein her aid he needed. Lor. This spoke impediment : or he was bound By promise to another ; or had friends Whom it behooved him to consult, and doubted ; Or 'twixt you lay disparity too wide For Love itself to leap. Mar. I saw a struggle, But knew not what it was. I wondered still. That what to me was all content, to him Was all disturbance ; but my turn did come. At length he talked of leaving us ; at length He fixed the parting day — but kept it not. how my heart did bound ! Then first I knew It had been sinking. Deeper still it sank When next he fixed to go : and sank it then To bound no more ! He went. Lor. To follow him. You came to Mantua ? Mar. What could I do ? Cot, garden, vineyard, rivulet, and wood. Lake, sky, and mountain, went along with him — Could I remain behind ? My father found My heart was not at home ; he loved his child. And asked me, one day, whither we should go ? 1 said, "to Mantua." I followed him To Mantua ! to breathe the air he breathed. To walk upon the ground he walked upon. To look upon the things he looked upon. To look, perchance, on him ! perchance to hear him. To touch him ! never to be known to him. KNOWLES. 383 Till he was told, I lived and died his love. . . ****** Ant. Daughter, come. Some effort has it cost to tell your story. But profit comes of it ; — your cause is strong. Your vows, which virtually are another's. Heaven doth itself forbid you give the Count ! Is't not so, nephew ? Lor, There I'll found the plea, W hich to the conscience of the Duke I'll put. Knows he — whom, at his death (which I'm advised Took place in Mantua) your father named Your guardian — knows the Commissary this. Which thou hast now related ? Mar. Not that I know of. My father's death was sudden. Long time since He and the Commissary were acquaintance ; What passed between them, save the testament Which left me ward unto the commissary, I am a stranger to. Lor. Since you came hither Have you seen him, for sake of whom you came ? Mar. No ! Lor. Nor hast clue direct, or indirect. To find him out ? Mar. No, Signor. Lor, And how long Have you sojourned in Mantua ? Mar. Two years. Lor. And is your love the same .? Mar. Am I the same ? Lor. Such constancy should win a blessing. 17* 384 GOLDEN LEAVES. Ant. Yes! And strange as 'tis, what seems to us affliction Is oft a hand that helps us to our wish. So may it fall with thee — if Heaven approves ! Sivitzerland. The land of beauty, and of grandeur, lady, Where looks the cottage out on a domain The palace cannot boast of Seas of lakes. And hills of forests ! crystal waves that rise Midst mountains all of snow, and mock the sun. Returning him his flaming beams more thick And radiant than he sent them. — Torrents there Are bounding floods ! and there the tempest roams At large, in all the terrors of its glory ! And then our valleys ! ah, they are the homes For hearts ! our cottages, our vineyards, orchards, — Our pastures studded with the herd and fold ! Our native strains that melt us as we sing them ! A free — a gentle — simple — honest people ! THE HUNCHBACK. What Lo-vc is. Love's not a flower that grows on the dull earth ; Springs by the calendar ; must wait for sun — For rain ; matures by parts, — must take its time To stem, to leaf, to bud, to blow. It owns \ richer soil, and boasts a quicker seed: You look for it, and see it not ; and lo ! KNOWLES. 385 E'en while you look, the peerless flower is up. Consummate in the birth. Passionate Lo-vc, contrasted ivith Discreet Love. Julia. What would you weigh 'gainst love That's true ? Tell me with what you'd turn the scale ? Yea, make the index waver ? Wealth ? A feather ! Rank ? Tinsel against bullion in the balance ! The love of kindred ? That to set 'gainst love ! Friendship comes nearest to't ; but put it in. And friendship kicks the beam ! — weigh nothing 'gainst it ; Weigh love against the world ! Yet are they happy that have naught to say to it. Walter, And such a one art thou. Who wisely v/ed. Wed happily. The love thou speak'st of, A flower is only, that its season has. Which they must look to see the withering of. Who pleasure in its budding and its bloom ; But wisdom is the constant evergreen Which lives the whole year through. Be that your flower ! Sacrcdness of Promises. A promise made, admits not of release. Save by consent or forfeiture of those Who hold it — so it should be pondered well Before we let it go. Ere man should say I broke the word I had the power to keep, I'd lose the life I had the power to part with ' 386 GOLDEN LEAVES. IRet). I^envg i§art fUUinan. FAZIO. Description of Bartolo, the Miser. Fazio, Bianca {his Wife), Fazio Dost thou know, Bianca, Our neighbour, old Bartolo ? Bianca. Oh, yes, yes ! — That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stained With watching his own gold ; every one knows him. Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he, Nor kindred nor familiar ; not a slave. Not a lean serving-wench : nothing e'er entered But his spare self within his jealous doors, Except a wandering rat ; and that, they say. Was famine-struck, and died there. — What of him ? Faz. Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones : There's not a galiot on the sea, but bears A venture of Bartolo's ; not an acre. Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes. But he hath cramped it with a mortgage ; he. He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. I saw him creeping home last night : he shuddered As he unlocked his door, and looked around As if he thought that every breath of wind Were some keen thief: and when he locked him in I heard the grating key turn twenty times. To try if all were safe. I looked again From our high window by mere chance, and saw The motion of his scanty, moping lantern ; And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuffed MIL MA IT. 387 With tattered remnants of a money-bag. Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face, Like some dry, wither-boned anatomy. Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels. Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold. Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily. As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard, And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. His ferret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them,' As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph ! And then, as he heard something like a sound. He clapped the lid to, and blew out the lantern. And I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms. And thanked my God that I had braver riches. Bartolo, attacked and 'wounded by Robbers, Jiies to the House of Fazio for assistance, ivhere he dies. Fazio, under the temptation of Gold, goes to the Miser^s Divel/ing, secures the whole of his Wealth, amd buries the Body of Bartolo in his Garden. The Street near Fazio's Door. — Fazio, with Bartolo's Gold and Jewels. Fazio. My steps were ever to this door, as though They trod on beds of perfume and of down. The winged birds were not by half so light. When through the lazy twilight air they wheel Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. I move as every separate limb were gyved With its particular weight of manacb The moonlight, that was wont to seem so soft. So balmy to the slow-respired breath. Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. 388 GOLDEN LEAVES. The marble pillars, that soared stately up. As though to prop the azure vault of heaven. Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak. Forbidding echoes, ay, with human voices : Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass. And socketless, pale eyes look glaring on me. But I have passed them : and methinks this weight Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own. Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe ! Thank God ! — for what ? That a poor honest man's grown a rich villain. [Exit Poetry perverted to unzvorthy Uses. Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy. That it must trim its fetterless, free plumes To the gross fancies of the humorsome age ; That it must stoop from its bold heights to court Liquorish opinion, whose aye wavering breath Is to it as the precious air of life. Oh ! in a capering, chambering, wanton land. The lozel's song alone gains audience — Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness ; The languishing and luscious touch alone Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain The palled and pampered ear of Italy. But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries For the initiate. — Hark ! — it bursts — it flows ! Fazio, condemned to Death for the supposed Murder of Bartolo, /j visited by his Friend Philario on the morning of his Execution. Fazio and Philario. Faz. I thank thee : 'twas a melancholy hymn. But soft and soothing as the gale of eve— EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 389 The gale whose flower-sweet breath no more shall pass o'er me. Oh, what a gentle ministrant is Music To Piety — to mild, to penitent Piety ! Oh, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer That lingers in our lazy earthly air, x\nd melts with it to heaven. To die : 'tis dreary ; To die a villain's death, that's yet a pang. But it must down : I have so steeped my soul In the bitter ashes of true penitence, That they have put on a delicious savour, And all is halcyon quiet, all within. — Bianca ! — where is she .? — why comes she not ? Yet I do almost wish her not to come. Lest she again enamour me of life. Sir (E^mavb Bnlinci- Cotton. RICHELIEU. Richelieu's De-votion to France, .... I LOVE my native land — Not as Venetian, Englisher, or Swiss, But as a noble and a priest of France ; All things for France — lo, my eternal maxim ! The vital axle of the restless wheels That bear me on ! With her I have entwined My passions and my fate — my crimes, my virtues — Hated and loved, and schemed, and shed men's blood. As the calm crafts of Tuscan sages teach Those who would make their country great. Beyond 390 GOLDEN LEAVES. The map of France, my heart can travel not. But fills that limit to the farthest verge ; And while I live — Richelieu and France are one. We priests, to whom the Church forbids in youth The plighted one — to manhood's toil denies The soother helpmate — from our withered age Shuts the sweet blossoms of the second spring That smiles in the name Father — we are yet Not holier than humanity, and must Fulfil humanity's condition — Love ! Debarred the actual, we but breathe a life To chill the marble of the ideal. Thus, In the unseen and abstract Majesty, My France — my country, I have bodied forth A thing to love. What are these robes of state. This pomp, this palace ? perishable bawbles ! In this world two things only are immortal — Fame and a people ! Richelieu 'vindicates his Acts as Minister. Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel ; I am not; I a.m jusi/ I found France rent asunder. The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ; — Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple ; Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths — I have re-created France ; and from the ashes Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase. Civilization on her luminous wings Soars — phcenix-like, to Jove ! — what was my art ? Genius, some say, — some fortune, — witchcraft, some Not so ; my art was Justice ! — EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 391 The Pen mightier than the Sivord. .... True THIS ! Beneath the rule of men entirely great. The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold The arch- enchanter's wand — itself a nothing ! By taking sorcery from the master-hand To paralyze the Caesars, and to strike The loud earth breathless ! Take away the sword — States can be saved without it ! Richelieu reminds Louis of the Benefits attending hit Administration. Lo, I appeal to Time ! Be just, my liege — 1 found your kingdom rent with heresies And bristling with rebellion ; lawless nobles And breadless serfs ; England fomenting discord ; Austria — her clutch on your dominion ; Spain Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind To armed thunderbolts. The arts lay dead. Trade rotted in your marts, your armies mutinous, Vour treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke Your trust, so be it ! and I leave you, sole, Supremest monarch of the mightiest realm. From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without — No foe not humbled ! Look within ! the Arts guit for our schools, their old Hesperides, The golden Italy ! while throughout the veins Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides Trade, the calm health of nations ! Sire, I know Your smootner courtiers please you best, — nor measure Myself with them, — yet sometimes I would doubt [f statesmen rocked and dandled into power Could leave such legacies to kings ! 392 GOLDEN LEAVES. THE LADY OF LYONS. Claude Melnotte Jescribei to Pauline, his Betrothed^ a Palace by the Lake of Como. Mdnotte. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could Love fulfil its prayers. This hand would lead thee, listen ! A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world. Near a clear lake, margined by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles ; . glassing softest skies As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate ! Pauline. My own dear love ! Mel. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds. Whose songs should syllable thy name ! At noon We sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love ! We'd have no friends That were not lovers ; no ambition, save To excel them all in love ; we'd read no books That were not tales of love — that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours ! And when night came, amidst the breathless heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal ; while the perflimed light Stole through the mists of alabaster lamps, A.nd every air was heavy with the sighs S^CfV MY OWN DEAR LOVE. EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 393 Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes. And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth. Melnotte describes his Love for Pauline, and its Consequencei. Mel. Pauline ! by pride. Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride — That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — The evil spirit of a bitter love. And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. — From my first years, my soul was filled with thee : I saw thee, midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee, a spirit of bloom. And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! I saw thee ! and the passionate heart of man Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; And from that hour I grew — what to the last I shall be — thine adorer ! Well ! this love. Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became A fountain of ambition and bright hope : I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell — how maidens, sprung from Kings, Have stooped from their high sphere ; how Love, like Death Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy Future ! My father died ; and I, the peasant-born. Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate ; And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart — 394 G OLDEN LEAVES. Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image. Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory. And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men ! A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages : For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace., And every Muse, such attributes as lend Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee. And Passion taught me poesy — of thee ! And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty — Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! Men called me vain, some mad — I heeded not. But still toiled on, hoped on, for it was sweet. If not to win, to feel more worthy thee ! Pau. Has he a magic to exorcise Hate ? Mel. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to poui The thoughts that burst their channels into song. And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, As Beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest The name — appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn ! That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath. Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour The tempters found me a revengefiil tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm- It turned and stung thee ! FANNY KEMBLE {BUTLER), 39^ -irancre 2lnn Kcmble. FRANCIS THE FIRST. The Current of Time. .... I DO believe That at our feet the tide of time flows on In strong and rapid course ; nor is one current Or rippHng eddy liker to the rest. Than is one age unto its predecessor : Men still are men, the stream is still a stream. Through every change of changeful tide and time ; And 'tis, I fear, only our partial eye That lends a brighter sunbeam to the wave On which we launched our own adventurous bark. The Constancy of Filial Love. Bourbon. I had thought, Margaret, that Love forgo" All ranks and all distinctions ? Margaret. Ay, so it doth — All ties the world, its wealth, its fame, or fortune. Can entwine ; but never those of Nature. So mine can give up all, save the first bond My heart e'er knew, — the love of those who gave Life and the power to love ; — those early links Lie wreathed like close-knit fibres round my hear* Never to sever thence till my heart break. Early Lo've. .... There's a love, which, born In early days, lives on through silent years. Nor ever shines, but in the hour of sorrow. When it shows brightest : like the trembling light 396 G OLDEN LEAVES. Of a pale sunbeam, breaking o'er the face Of the wild waters in their hour of warfare. The Sacredni'ss of Virtuous Women. .... I marvel At those who do not feel the majesty — ^Y Heaven ! I'd almost said the holiness — That circles round a fair and virtuous woman : There is a gentle purity that breathes In such a one, mingled with chaste respect. And modest pride of her own excellence — A shrinking nature, that is so adverse To aught unseemly, that I could as soon Forget the sacred love I owe to Heaven, As dare, with impure thoughts, to taint the air Inhaled by such a being — than whom, my liege. Heaven cannot look on any thing more holy, Or earth be proud of any thing more fair. Death on the Battle-field. Death comes in — on the bloody battle-field ; When with each gush of black and curdling life, A curse was uttered — when the prayers I've poured Have been all drowned with din of clashing arms ; And shrieks, and shouts, and loud artillery. That shook the slippery earth, all drunk with gore ; I've seen it, swollen with subtle poison, black And staring with concentrate agony ; When every vein hath started from its bed. And wreathed, like knotted snakes, around the brows Which, frantic, dashed themselves in tortures down Upon the earth. I've seen life float away On the faint sound of a far-tolling bell j TALFOUhD, 397 Leaving its late warm tenement as fair. As though 'twere th' incorruptible that lay- Before me ; and all earthly taint had vanished With the departed spirit. €l)oinaa IXoon Salfourb. ION. T/ie Death of Ion. The Oracle at Delphi had announced that the •vengeance -which the mit- rule of the Race of Argos had brought on the People, in the form of a Pestilence, could only he disarmed by the Extirpation cf the guilty Race ; and Ion [Son of Adrastus, late King of Argos\ on assuming the Croivn, resol-ves to sacrifce himself to sa-ve his Country. loN ?s installed in his royal dignity, attended by the High Priests and Sena- tors, &c. The People receive him ivith shouts. Ion, Medon, Agenor, Crythes, Irus. Ion. I thank you for your greetings — shout no more. But in deep silence raise your hearts to Heaven, That it may strengthen one so young and frail As I am for the business of this hour. Must I sit here ? Medon. My son ! my son ! What ails thee ? When thou shouldst reflect the joy Of Argos, the strange paleness of the grave Marbles thy face. Ion. Am I indeed so pale ! It is a solemn office I assume. Which well may make me falter ; yet, sustained 398 G OLDEN LEAVES. By thee and by the gods I serve, I take it. Stand forth, Agenor. [Sits on the Throne, Agenor. I await thy will. Ion. To thee I look as to the wisest friend Of this afflicted people ; thou must leave Awhile the quiet which thy life has earned To rule our councils ; fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in justice As to forget what human frailty is ; And order my sad country. Agenor. Pardon me — Ion. Nay, I will promise 'tis my last request ; Grant me thy help till this distracted state Rise tranquil from her griefs — 'twill not be long. If the great gods smile on us now. Remember, Meanwhile, thou hast all power my word can give, Whether I live or die. Agenor. Die ! Ere that hour. May even the old man's epitaph be moss-grown ! Ion. Death is not jealous of the mild decay That gently wins thee his ; exulting youth Provokes the ghastly monarch's sudden stride. And makes his horrid fingers quick to clasp His prey benumbed at noontide. Let me see The captain of the guard. Crythes. I kneel to crave Humbly the favour which thy sire bestowed On one who loved him well. Ion. I cannot mark thee. That wakest the memory of my father's weakness. But I will not forget that thou hast shared The light enjoyments of a noble spirit. TALFOURD. 399 And learned the need of luxury. I grant For thee and thy brave comrades ample share Of such rich treasure as my stores contain. To grace thy passage to some distant land. Where, if an honest cause engage thy sword. May glorious issues wait it. In our realm We shall not need it longer. Crytlies. Dost intend To banish the firm troops before whose valor Barbarian millions shrink appalled, and leave Our city naked to the first assault Of reckless foes ? Ion. No, Crythes; in ourselves. In our honest hearts and chainless hands Will be our safeguard ; while we do not use Our power towards others, so that we should blush To teach our children ; while the simple love Of justice and their country shall be born With dawning reason ; while their sinews grow Hard midst the gladness of heroic sports. We shall not need, to guard our walls in peace. One selfish passion, or one venal sword. I would not grieve thee ; but thy valiant troop — For I esteem them vahant — must no more With luxury, which suits a desperate camp. Infect us. See that they embark, Agenor, Ere night. Crytkes. My lord — Ion. No more — my word hath passed. Medon, there is no office I can add To those thou hast grown old in : thou wilt guara The shrine of Phoebus, and within thy home — +00 G OLDEN LEAVES. Thy too delightful home — befriend the stranger As thou didst me j there sometimes waste a thought On thy spoiled inmate. Medon. Think of thee, my lord ? Long shall we triumph in thy glorious reign. Ion. Prithee no more. Argives ! I have a boon To crave of you. Whene'er I shall rejoin In death the father from whose heart in life Stern Fate divided me, think gently of him ! Think that beneath his panoply of pride Were fair affections crushed by bitter wrongs Which fretted him to madness ; what he did^ Alas ! ye know ; could you know what he suffered. Ye would not curse his name. Yet never more Let the great interests of the state depend Upon the thousand chances that may swav A piece of human frailty ; swear to me That ye will seek hereafter in yourselves The means of sovereignty ; our country's space. So happy in its smallness, so compact. Needs not the magic of a single name. Which wider regions may require to draw Their interest into one ; but, circled thus. Like a blest family, by simple laws May tenderly be governed — all degrees. Not placed in dexterous balance, not combined By bonds of parchment, or by iron clasps. But blended into one — a single form Of nymph-like loveliness, which finest cords Of sympathy pervading, shall endow With vita; beauty ; tint with roseate bloom In times of happy peace, and bid to flash TALFOURD. 401 With one brave impulse, if ambitious bands Of foreign power should threaten. Swear to me That ye will do this ! Medon. Wherefore ask this now ? Thou shalt live long ; the paleness of thy face. Which late seemed death-like, is grown radiant now. And thine eyes kindle with the prophecy Of glorious years. Ion. The gods approve me then ! Yet I will use the function of a king. And claim obedience. Swear, that if I die And leave no issue, ye will seek the power To govern in the free-born people's choice. And in the prudence of the wise. Medon and others. We swear it ! Ion. Hear and record the oath, immortal powers ! Now give me leave a moment to approach That altar unattended. [He goes to the Altar. Gracious gods ! In whose mild service m.y glad youth was spent. Look on me now ; and if there is a power. As at this solemn time I feel there is. Beyond ye, that hath breathed through all your shapes The spirit of the Beautiful, that lives In earth and heaven ; to ye I offer up This conscious being, fall of life and love. For my dear country's welfare. Let this blow End all her sorrows ! \_Stabs himself. Enter Irus. Irus. I bring you glorious tidings — Ha ! no joy Can enter here. 402 GOLDEN LEAVES. Ion. Yes — is it as I hope ? Irus. The pestilence abates. Ion, [Springs to his feet.'] Do ye not hear? Why shout ye not? ye are strong — think not of me ; Hearken ! the curse my ancestry had spread O'er Argos is dispelled ! The offering is accepted — all is well ! \Dies, ©rrali) ©riffiu. GISIPPUS ; OR, THE FORGOTTEN FRIEND. Love's Change:. .... Passion hath its change of seasons. Sir; And 'twere as vain to hope eternal Summer, As an eternal faith. This is with you The Spring of courtship, which calls up the flowers. The fairest flowers of love — your blooming fancies — Your fragrant love-thoughts, murmuring sighs and prayers. But even as Nature's spring. Love's too must roll Away ; and then comes your aaored honey-moon. Love's Summer of enjoyment; next, his Autumn Of lukewarm liking, verging to indifference — The time of shrugs and yawns, and absent thoughts. And then his Winter comes — frosty and dry. Sharp, biting, bitter ; cunning in cold taunts ; Making the evening hearth, so late a paradise, A place of harsh uncomfort. — Then, O Love ! How suddenly thy changeful votaries Find thy Elysium void ! From the pale poet. Who wooed the groves in song-lorn melancholy. GRIFFIN. 403 To him the blustering terror of the field. Who sighed like Boreas, and who made love like war — All, weary grown of the ignoble bondage. Look back with scorn upon the yoke they've spurned. And wonder how the silly toy had power To make them sin so palpably 'gainst wisdom. The Sacrcdness of bedded Love, Gis. Here in these silent groves we will attend The lighting of the Hymeneal torch. How pure, how holy is the sacrifice. That waits on virtuous love ! How sacred is The very levity we wake to honour it ! The fiery zeal that passion knows, is there Tempered by mild esteem and holiest reverence Into a still, unwasting, vestal flame. That wanders nor decays. All soft affections. Calm hopes, and quiet blessings, hover round. And soft Peace sheds her virtuous dews upon it ; No conscious memories haunt the path of pleasure. But happiness is made a virtue. The "ways of Prcvidcnce inscrutable to Man, .... Let it be ever thus — The generous still be poor — the niggard thrive — Fortune shall pave the ingrate's path with gold. Death dog the innocent still — and surely those Who now uplift their streaming eyes, and murmur Against oppressive Fate, will own its justice. Invisible ruler ! should man meet thy trials With silent and lethargic sufferance. Or lift his hands and ask Heaven for a reason ? Our hearts must speak — the sting, the whip is on them ; <^04 GOLDEN LEAVES. We rush in madness forth to tear away The veil that blinds us to the cause. In vain The hand of that Eternal Providence Still holds it there, unmoved, impenetrable ! We can but pause, and turn away again To mourn — to wonder — and endure. Iol)n Bauitii. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. Damon, condemned to death by Dionysius, the Tyrant of Syracuse, obtains permission to take a Fareivell of his Wife and Child^ through the intervention of his Friend Pythias, luho consents to become a Hostage for Damon's return, at the hour appointed for his Execution. The time has arri'ved, and Damon has not returned. Calanthe, be- trothed fVife of Pythias, hurries despairingly to the place of Execu- tion, vCENE — A Public Place in Syracuse. — A Scaffold j with steps ascending to it, upon the right hand, — In the hack of the stage the Gates of a Prison, — Executioner with an axe, and Guards discovered, Calanthe, Arria [her Mother), Calanthe, There's no power Shall stay me back ! I must behold him die, Then follow him ! Arria. My child ! Cal. I cannot hei.r thee ! The shrieking of the Furies drowns thy cries! Arr. This is no place Tor thee — no place, Calanthe Foi suvli a ."^ne as thou ! B A NIM. Cal. No other place Is fit for such a wretch ! I am his wife. Betrothed, though not married. There's no place For me but at his side : in life or death There is no other. There is the scaffold with the block on it ! There is the — Oh, good gods ! Arr. Come back, my child ! Good Damocles, give me your aid to bear This wretched woman hence. Cal. Oh, mother, mother, I'll not be grudged that horrible delight ! I'll take one long and maddening look of him. Whom in the morn I thought I should have waited. Blushing within the chamber of a bride. And with a heart all full of love and fear. Now I await him in a different place. And with a cheek that ne'er shall blush again ; Whose marble may be spotted o'er with blood. But not with modesty ; Love yet remains. But Fear, its old companion, 's fled away. And made room for Despair ! Ente?' DioNYsius, in disguise. Ha ! are you come ? 'Twas you that told me so. And froze the running currents in my bosom. To one deep cake of ice ! You said too well That Damon would not come. The selfish traitor ! The traitor Damon ! Dion. Hark thee, Calanthe ! It was an idle tale I tdd to thee ! 405 4O0 GOLDEN LEAVES. Cat. rla! Dion, A mere coinage, an invention. Cal. I do not ask thee why that tale was framed — Framed in tny cold, deliberate cruelty — But only this — one question : — May he yet — May Damon yet return ? Dion. He may — he is As free to come, or stay, as are the winds. Cal. And Dionysius withholds him not ? Dion. He does not. Cal. Whatsoe'er thou art, the gods. For that one word, be unto thee and thine Guardians forever ! Oh, that ray of hope That breaks upon my soul, is worth a flood Of the sweet daylight of Elysium ! Damon may yet return ! But, powers of Heaven ! Death is prepared already ! What is the time ? Dion. Thou mayst perceive by yonder dial-plate Against the temple, six poor minutes only Are left for his return. Cal. And yet he comes not 1 Oh, but that temple, where the shade of time Moves unrelentingly, is dedicate To the great Goddess of Fidelity — She will not, in the face of her high fane. Let such a profanation hurl forever The altars of her worship to the ground ; For who will offer incense to her name If Damon's false to Pythias ? [^Sound of chains and boU.\ behind.'] Ha ! they unbar The ponderous gates ! There is a clank of chains ! They are leading him to death ! B A NIM. 407 Damocles, Bring forth the prisoner ! The gates of the prison are Jlung open, and Pythias is discovered. He advances to the scaffold. Cat. Pythias ! Pytk. Calanthe here ! [^She rushes into his arms,\ My poor, fond girl ! Thou art the first to meet me at the block, Thou'lt be the last to leave me at the grave ! How strangely things go on in this bad world — This was my wedding-day ; but for the bride, I did not think of such a one as Death ! I deemed I should have gone to sleep to-night. This very night — not on the earth's cold lap, — But, with as soft a bosom for my pillow. And with as true and fond a heart-throb in it To lull me to my slumber, as e'er yet Couched the repose of love. It was, indeed, A blissful sleep to wish for ! Cal. Oh, my Pythias, He yet may come ! Pyth. Calanthe, no ! Remember, That Dionysius hath prevented it. CaL That was an idle tale of this old man. And he may vet return ! Pyth. May yet return ! Speak ! — how is this ? return ! — O life, how strong Thy love is in the hearts of dying men ! [Jb DiONYSius.] Thou'rt he didst say the tyrant would prevent His coming back to Syracuse ? Dion. I wronged him. Pyth. Ha ! were it possible ! — may he yet come ? 18* 4o8 GOLDEN LEAV}!lS. Cal. Into the sinews of the horse that bears him, Put swiftness, gods ! — let him outpace and shame The galloping of clouds upon the storm ! Blow breezes with him ; lend every feeble aid Unto his motion ! — and thou, thrice solid earth. Forget thy immutable fixedness — become Under his feet like flowing water, and Hither flow with him ! Pyth. I have taken in All the horizon's vast circumference That, in the glory of the setting sun. Opens its wide expanse, yet do I see No signal of his coming ! Nay, 'tis likely— Oh, no — he could not 1 It is impossible ! Cal. I say, he is false ! he is a murderer ! He will not come ! the traitor doth prefer Life, ignominious, dastard life ! Thou minister Of light, and measurer of eternity. In this great purpose, stay thy going down. Great sun, behind the confines of the world ! On yonder purple mountains make thy stand ! For while thine eye is opened on mankind, Hope will abide within thy blessed beams — They dare not do the murder in thy presence ! x'\las ! all heedless of my frantic cry, He plunges down the precipice of Heaven ! Pythias— O Pythias ! Pytk. I could have borne to die. Unmoved, by Dionysius — but to be torn Green from existence by the friend I loved, — ■ Thus from the blossoming and beauteous tree Rent by the treachery of him I trusted ! BANIM. 409 No! no! I wrong thee, Damon, by that half thought — Shame on the foul suspicion ! he hath a wife And child, who cannot live on earth without him. And Heaven has flung some obstacle in his way To keep him back, and lets me die, who am Less worthy, and the fitter. Proc. Pythias, advance ! Cal. No, no ! why should he yet ? It is not yet — By all the gods, there are two minutes only ! Proc. Take a last farewell of your mistress. Sir, --ind look your last upon the setting sun — /ind do both quickly, for your hour comes on ! Pyth. Come here, Calanthe ! closer to me yet ! Ah ! what a cold transition it will be [Embraces ker. From this warm touch, all full of life and beauty. Unto the clammy mould of the deep grave ! I pr'ythee, my Calanthe^ when I am gone. If thou shouldst e'er behold my hapless friend. Do not upbraid him ! This, my lovely one. Is my last wish. — Remember it ! CaL [ Who, during this speech, has been looking wildly towards the side of the stage.'] Hush ! hush ! Stand back there ! Pyth. Take her, you eternal gods. Out of my arms into your own ! Befriend her ! And let her life glide on in gentleness. For she is gentle, and doth merit it. CaL I think I see it — Proc. Lead her from the scaffold ! Pyth. Arria, receive her ! — yet one kiss — farewell. Thrice — thrice farewell ! — I am ready. Sir. Cal. Forbear ! 410 GOLDEN LEAVES. There is a minute left : look there ! look there ! But 'tis so far off, and the evening shades Thicken so fast, there are no other eyes But mine can catch it — Yet, 'tis there ! I see it — A shape as yet so vague and questionable, 'Tis nothing, just about to change and take The faintest form of something ! Pyth. Sweetest love ! Dam. Your duty, officer. {.Officer approaches her Cal. I will not quit him Until ye prove I see it not ! — no force Till then shall separate us. Dam. Tear them asunder ! Arria, conduct your daughter to her home. Cal, Oh, send me not away ! Pythias, thine arms — Stretch out thine arms, and keep me ! — See, it comes ! Barbarians, murderers ! oh, yet a moment — Yet but one pulse — one heave of breath ! O Heavens ! [^Swoons, and is carried away by Arria and Officers. Pyth. [ To the Executioner.^ There is no pang in thy deep wedge of steel After that parting. Nay, Sir, you may spare Yourself the pains to fit me for the block. — Damon, I do forgive thee ! — I but ask Some tears unto my ashes. [the scaffold [A distant- shout is heard. Pythias leaps up or By the gods, A horse and horseman ! Far upon the hill They wave their hats, and he returns it — yet I know him not : his horse is at the stretch ! [A shoiu Why should they shout as he comes on ? It is — No, that was too unlike — but there, now — there '. BANIM. 411 O life, I scarcely dare to wish for thee ; And yet — that jutting rock has hid him from me — No, let it not be Damon ! he has a wife And child ! — Gods, keep him back ! [Shouts Damon. [Without.^ Where is he? Damon rushes in, and stands for a moment, looking round Hal- He is alive — untouched ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Falls, with an hysterical laugh, upon the stage. — Three loud shouts zvithout. Pyth. The gods do know I could have died for him ; And yet I dared to doubt ! — I dared to breathe The half-uttered blasphemy ! [Damon is raised up. He faints ! — How thick This wreath of burning moisture on his brow ! His face is black with toil, his swelling bulk Heaves with swift pantings. Damon, my dear friend ! Dam. Where am I ? Have I fallen from ray horse. That I am stunned, and on my head I feel A weight of thickening blood ! What has befallen me ? The horrible confusion of a dream Is yet upon my sight. — For mercy's sake. Stay me not back ! he is about to die ! — Pythias, my friend ! — Unloose me, villains, or You'll find the might of madness in mine arm ! [Sees Pythias.] Speak to me, let me hear thy voice ! Pyth. My friend ! Dam. It pierced my brain, and rushed into my heart ! There's lightning in it ! — That's the scaffold — there The block — the axe — the executioner ! And here he lives ! — I have him in my soul ! [Embraces Pythias.] Ha ! ha ! ha ! 4-12 GOLDEN LEAVES Pyili, Damon ! Dam. Ha! ha! I can but laugh ! — I cannot speak to thee I can but play the maniac, and laugh. Thy hand ! — oh, let me grasp thy manly hand ! It is an honest one, and so is mine ! They are fit to clasp each other. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pyth. Would that my death could have preserved thee ! Dam. Pythias, Even in the very crisis to have come, — To have hit the very forehead of old Time ! By Heavens ! had I arrived an hour before, I should not feel this agony of joy — This triumph over Dionysius ! Ha ! ha ! — But didst thou doubt me ? Come, thou didst — Own it, and I'll forgive thee. Pyth. For a moment. Dam. O that false slave ! — Pythias, he slew my horse. In the base thought to save me ! I would have killed him. And to a precipice was dragging him. When, from the very brink of the abyss, I did behold a traveller afar. Bestriding a good steed. I rushed upon him. Choking with desperation, and yet loud In shrieking anguish, T commanded him Down from his saddle : he denied me — but Would I then be denied } As hungry tigers Clutch their poor prey, I sprang upon his throat : Thus, thus I had him, Pythias. *' Come, your horse. Your horse, your horse !" I cried. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Dion. [Advanci?ig and speaking in a loud tone.l Damon! BANIM. 413 Dam, \^ Jumping on the scaffold. '\ I am here upon the scaffold ! look at me : I am standing on my throne — -as proud a one As yon illumined mountain, where the Sun Makes his last stand ; let him look on me too ; He never did behold a spectacle More full of natural glory. Death is — \Shouts.'\ Ha! All Syracuse starts up upon her hills, \Skouts. And lifts her hundred thousand hands. \Shouts.^ Sheshouts — Hark, how she shouts ! \Shouts.'\ O Dionysius ! When wert thou in thy life hailed with a peal Of hearts and hands like that one ? Shout again ! \Sliouts. Again ! \Shoiits.\ until the mountains echo you. And the great sea joins in that mighty voice. And old Enceladus, the Son of Earth, Stirs in his mighty caverns. \Shouts.^ Tell me, slaves. Where is your tyrant ? Let me see him now ; Why stands he hence aloof? Where is your niaster ? What is become of Dionysius ? I would behold, and laugh at him ! Dion. Behold me ! [Dionysius advances between Da- [mon and Pythias, and throws off his disguise. Dam. & PytK How ? Dion. Stay your admiration for a while. Till I have spoken my commandment here. Go, Damocles, and bid a herald cry Wide through tne city, from the eastern gate Unto the most remote extremity. That Dionysius, tyrant as he is. Gives back his life to Damon. \Exii Damocles. Pyth, How, Dionysius ? Speak that again! 4-14 GOLDEN LEAVES. Dion. I pardon him. Fyth. O gods ! You give his life to Damon ? Dion. Life and freedom ! ' [Shouts and drums. — Damon staggers from the. scaffold into the arms of Pythias. (George lU. Coodl. love's SACRIFICE; OR, THE RIVAL MERCHANTS. Matthew Elmore, a luealthy Merchant^ is supposed to ha've murdered the Count Du Barre, nvho had basely ivronged him. Elmore adopts the Children of the supposed murdered Man, and betroths his Daughter Margaret to Eugene Du Barre. Paul Lafont, a rival Merchant and Enemy of Elmore, discovers the presumed Guilt of the lattery and- threatens to denounce the supposed Murder er, unless Elmore ivill consent to his Marriage ivith Margaret. To save her Father, she agrees to the " Sacrifice.'''' Scene — A room in Elmore's House, Elmore discovered, seated. Elm. Discovered — ruined — lost ! Am I the same Who stood an hour ago this house's master ! — The proud, the wealthy, courted, honoured Elmore .? Oh, lie — oh, gilded lie — now stripped so bare ! [Starts up. What madness tempted my return to France .? It vvas that burning fever of the heart. That elsewhere found no rest : — it was the cries, Hauntmg my ear, of those whom I had orphaned. Calling me here to fill their father's place ! LOYELL. 415 And now, in stretching forth my hand to them, I have outstretched and lost myself. Oh, thus ^ That over-ruling Justice, which directs The issues of our lives, stands by the culprit. And, when his blinding guilt has sealed his eyes. Guides him, unknowing, to the very spot Fixed for his execution. [5/^r^j.] Hark ! a footstep— My child's ! How shall I meet her ? Enter Margaret, slowly. Margaret ! Mar. [Faintly y and keeping at a distance.^ Sir — Elm. [Hesitates, and then advances a step.\ Margaret — Mar. [Shrinking hack, mutter s?[ A murderer — a sen tenced murderer ! Those hands, which have so often fondled mine — Those fingers, which have played among my hair, And smoothed it on my brow so many a time — Blood has been on them — human blood ! Elm. [Faltering.] My child — Tt is not thus we have been used to meet Mar. That's still his voice — the same, whose gentle ton So often lulled my pettish infancy — Which, till an hour ago, could never sound. But it seemed music — now how harsh it jars ! Elm. [Extending his hand.] Margaret ! — do you shrink from me, my child ? [She slowly and fearfully advances towards him, and, with an evident struggle, places her hand in his. She shudders at my touch ! That's past belief — I could bear, all but that. Girl, they have told thee ■ Mar. All. 4.i6 GOLDEN LEAVES. Elm. No — not all ! They may have told, perhaps. How one I hated wedded one I loved. But none could ever tell thee how I loved her — The wild, the maddening passion let it pass ! Perhaps she answered to it : — he, at least. Who won her, thought so — till his jealous doubts Reproached her innocence. She bore him children — But, swayed by the gross frenzy of his thought. He loathed the sight of them, and called them bastards ! Oh, then her outraged honour, no less proud Than it was pure, broke her young heart ! — She died ! Mar. Oh, happy ! — Yet go on. Elm. It was the night Fixed for her burial — and I sat alone : I was not mad, for I had consciousness. And knew my desolation. The deep toll Of the loud convent bell, with measured stroke. Fell on my ear, till its repeated sound Gnawed, like a living thing, upon my brain. And then there came the flat and heavy tread Of those who bore her — they must pass my house ; Convulsed, I started up and fled ! — Close by. Sullen and black — tempting to thoughts as dark — The plashing river lay. I neared its bank — Perhaps with sinful purpose — ay, thou tremblest — But sinful thoughts, indulged, bring sinful acts Before unthought of In my very path. In that wild hour, he crossed me — he himself. Who had consigned her to her early tomb. We spoke — but what, I know not ; yet I know I taunted — spurned him — charged him with her blood. He challenged me, and drew. I was unarmed. LOVELL. 4?; But with one hand I struck aside his sword. And with the other felled him to the ground. And so passed on. — Burning with rage, he followed — I heard his voice and his quick nearing tread ; I turned, and saw the gleaming of his sword Close at my throat. — Desperate, I sprang upon him, Grappled, and wrenched the weapon from hisgra^p. And drove it in his heart ! Why, girl, dost stand Looking upon me with that stony gaze ? Dost thou condemn me still ? — Speak ! — Tell me chiiti. Could it have happened otherwise ? Mar. [Faintly.] Go on. Ei?7i. Oh that it had ! — for when the blow was struck, When his loud death-shriek rang upon my brain. And his pierced corpse fell heavy at my feet. Oh, then indeed all changed ! — The murky air Grew thick and choking — lightnings flashed before me — ■ A thousand thunders bellowed in my ear. And every one cried, ^' Murderer !" — I fled. And knew not whither, till I found myself In a strange land, with strangers gathered rouna mc ; And there was one who watched and pitied me. Pouring the balm of woman's tenderness Upon my bruised spirit, till I grew To love her — not as I had loved before. But with the quiet of a calm affection That leaned upon her soothing gentleness, As on a place of rest from my 'scaped shipwreck ; She was thy mother, child Mar. [Sigkifig.] Go on, go on. Elm. But blood was spilt, and the avenger^ win> Hovered above my house. It was on her 4.18 G OLDEN LEAVES. That the blow fell : she drooped, and she, too, died : But still her memory remained in thee. Oh, how I prayed to have thee spared to me I How watched, how toiled for thee ! My prayer was heard. Granted ! — for what — for what ? My child was spared. That I might see her, now, shrink from my sight, 4nd shudder at my touch ! Mar. [Flinging her arms round his neck^ and bursting into tears.] Father 1 — my Father ! [Thai breaking away Jrom him, continues hurriedly, We'll speak no more of this — we will forget it — All shall be well — fear not — all shall be well — And yet one question first. — Is there no hope The sentence may be yet reversed ? Elm. None — none — I have no witnesses. Mar. And one word more — It was, indeed, the father of Eugene — - He — he — you — Elm. He I slew ? Alas, poor child ! It was. Mar. Enough — we'll talk of it no more ! Tis past : we'll never name Eugene again — All shall be well Elm. [Suddenly.] Margaret, I know thy thought ! But sooner shall they tear me limb from limb — Mar. Hush ! hush ! You shall be safe. Elm. Never, child, never. By such a sacrifice ! Mar. A sacrifice ! Sir, you have yet to learn a woman's heart ! She looks, perhaps, a weak, vain, fluttering thing ; L OVELL. 419 But call on her affections, she is strong. Constant, invincible, immovable ! And sacrifice — a word without a meaning ! See — I can smile already ! Enter Paul Lafont. Laf. My sweet friends, I fear I interrupt you ? Mar. No, Sir, no— We waited for you. This agreement. Sir, Of which we spoke — I am prepared. Elm. Forbear ! Child, I forbid it ! Laf. Dearest Elmore, think ! Your goods are confiscated by the law — Your life is forfeit. — Where shall Margaret shelter When these are taken ? Mar. I have said, I'm ready. Laf. Then, sweetest, give me now your hand, in pledge Of a more formal contract soon to follow. But, mark ! this act shall bear in it a vow As strong as any that the altar hears. And as irrevocable. Thus I take it. [Margaret slowly and tremblingly extends her hand, but, as she is about placing it in Lafont's, overcome by emotion, faints. Elm. [Catching her.'] Villain! what hast thou done ?— Thou hast killed my child ! Away ! or I shall have another murder Upon my soul ! There's something desperate in me ! My blighted blossom ! 'tis thy father's arms That circle thee. Look up ! — She cannot live 420 G OLDEN LEAVES. While thou art near her. Get thee gone, I say. Thou tempting, torturing fiend ! Laf. Elmore, bethink you ! Elm. [^Bending over her.^ Margaret — my pure one . Laf. I wait my answer Elm. Devil — my defiance ! Go — do thy worst ! Laf. Since you desire it — well ! Without there ! Guard the doors ! — If any pass. Your lives shall answer for it to the law ! [Exit. Elmore [embraces Margaret * Suspicion. Oh, my child ! As thou wouldst prize thy young heart's dearest peace. Guard from thy breast that moral pestilence 1 Suspicion, like the fabled upas, blights All healthy life, and makes a desert round it. Nothing so fair, nothing so pure can live. But by suspicion may be marred and blasted; No path so straight, but to Suspicion's eye Looks tortuous and bent from its true end : Away with it ! — We know it not in youth. When we come freshest from the hand of Heaven. It is an earth-engendered monster, springing From the rank slime of our polluted years. Oh, better be, in trust .o'er-confident, A thousand times deceived, than wrongly once Wound with ungenerous doubt the breast of Truth ! * Margaret is preserved from completing her "sacrifice." Du Barre was only wounded by Elmore 5 he reappears at the moment when Margaret is ibout to sign the contract with Lafont, and, with the consent of Du Barre, she is united to Eugene. WHITE. 411 Eeo Jamc0 ll11)it£. THE KING OF THE COMMONS. James V. of Scotland^ called " The King of thi Commons" learns that se-veral cf the Nobles of his Court traitorously receive Bribes from England^ to subvert his Government. The Lord Seton, the King's most trusted Friend^ is included in the list of Traitors. James sum- mons Seton to his presence^ to test the truth of the Accusation. Scene — Holyrood. Tka Kmg's Closet. — Enter an At- tendant., conducting Bishop. Atttn. His grace will not be long ere he returns. Please you, be seated. Bishop. Guard well the prisoner. \^Exit Attendant.'] On the eve of war To leave his foes unwatched — his very camp A scene of treason; but I've laid my hand On every loop in the net. 'Tis like the king — Some playfiil hiding in a burgher suit — I tliought he had been sobered. That's his step. Enter James. James. Ha ! my good lord — but we're unfitly geared For shrift and penance ; we have rid for the life Up hill — down dale. But you look big with care. Out with it ; it will burst you. Bishop. It befits Neither my years nor my great calling. Sir, Nor the meek spirit that should harbour here, To mix in the fierce struggles in a court. James. I know you well. Excuse me, good my lorci, If, with the flippant quickness of the tongue. 422 GOLDEN LEAVES. I hide the respect and deep reverence. Which my heart bears to the right reverend virtues Of meekness, truth, and most sweet gentleness, I'v^e ever found in you. Bishop. Ah, Sir ! I'm old — It may be that my time is nearly done — But I would fain, even to the end of my life. Bear you true service ; for I've marked in you Ever, from boyish days, a loving heart — Loving, though fiery ; and most merciful — Too merciful ! James. Nay ; not so, my good lord. Ill fares it with kings' swords when the sharp blade Shines oftener in the subject's dazzled eyes. Than the pearl-studded heft and jewelled sheath. Bishop. There may be times when the steel blade .s all That gives true value to the jewelled sheath. James, How mean you ? You were my preceptor, Sir- Most kind — most wise : but you have told me often I lacked the bridle, not the spur. Bishop. The bridle. In your wild course of dalliance and deray ; The spur, in action fitting for a king. James. Not so — by Heaven ! not so Show me the deed You'd have me do that's fitting for a king, And, though it tore the softest string i' my heart, I'll do it. Bisho'p. Prepare you, then ! James. What is't, I say ? You think I have no higher, nobler thoughts. Than suit a pageant king on silken throne } My lord, you know me not. WHITE. 423 Bishop, What would you do If trcacherv James, Pah ! you know of treachery, too. Fear not, my lord — Pm glad 'twas only that ! Whew ! — my mind's easy now. Why, my good lord^ I thought 't had been some terribler thing than that. Bishop. Than what, my liege ? James. You'll see — you'll see ; fear not. I tell you, a king's eye can see as clear As a good bishop's. Ere three hours are fled. There will be proof. Come to our court at nine ; You'll see some action then that fits a king; And, as you go, send me Lord Seton. Bishop. Seton ! No ; save in keeping of the guard. James. My lord. Say that again : perhaps I heard not right. I told you to send Seton — my friend Seton — Lord Seton — and you answered something. What ? Bishop. That he's the traitor I would warn you of. James. Seton a traitor ? — Seton, that I've loved Since we were boys ! — Ho ! Seton ! — Rest you. Sir ; You shall avouch this thing. — Seton ! ho ! Seton ! Bishop. My liege, I've proofs. James. What say you ? — proofs ? Bishop, Ay, proofs. Clearer than sunlight. Enter Attendant, James. [With dignity.'] Take our greeting, Sir, To the Lord Seton — we would see him here. \Exit Attendant 19 4.24 G OLDEN LE AY E S. Proofs ? and of Seton's guilt ? Can it be so ? He was my friend — from five years old — so high : We'd the same masters, played at the same games— Coits — golf. Fool ! fool ! to think that any thing Can bind a heart I thought his heart was mine. His love — his life ; — and to desert me now ! Viper ! He shall not live to laugh at me — At the poor king that trusted. Viper — dog ! — My lord, this thing, you say, is full of proof? Bishop. Ay, Sir. Be firm. James. Firm ! There's no tyrant king That flung men's hearts to feed the beasts i' the circus ; That tore men's limbs with horses for their sport ; That sent men to the tigers, and looked on To see them quivering in the monster's claws. Was half so firm — so pitiless ! Enter Seton. You're here ! Seton. Welcome, kind liege, to Holyrood again ! James. Back — back — keep off me ! We're your king Lord Seton ! We will be just — we were in anger late. We're calm. — Though it should burst my heart in twain, I will be calm. [Aside.^ Seton. My liege, what means this change ? I am not used to hear so harsh a voice From my kind master — from my friend ! James. Not that ! By Heaven, we're friend to not a man on earth ! No^never more 1 Seton. You are unjust to me. You wrong me — oh, you wrong me. Sir ! WHITE. 425 James. [Aside.] O Heaven ! That I should hear a traitor borrow thus John Seton's voice, and look through Seton's eyes ! — Now, then, my lord ; what say you of this man ? Bishop. That he deceives you. Seton. I ? you false-tongued but. Forgive me my rough speech ; you wear a garb That checks my tongue. James. In what does he deceive ? Bishop. He and Lord Hume James. What ! he, too ? Where's Lord Hume ? . Bishop. I blame not him, rny liege. James. No ? Is he true ? Send me Lord Hume : I'd see at least one man That keeps his faith. Seton. My liege, I know not yet What charge the good Lord Bishop brings against me : But if 'tis breach of faith, of love to you, I will not say he lies — but it is false. James. Say on — say on ; be sure your proof is strong ; For this is such an hour, I would not live it For all the wealth of earth. Quick ! Have it o'er ! Bishop. You bear command. Lord Seton, of the host ? James. He does. Bishop. And yet you entertain advice With English Dacre. Nay, deny it not ; I've seen the messenger in close discourse At night, within your tent. I know his errand. For I have trusty watchers in the camp. James. Do you deny this ? Seton. I cannot deny •j-'.6 GOLDEN LEAVES James. Villain 1 you can't deny ! O shame — O shame ! Where will you hide you ? But go on — we're calm. Bishop. His errand was to offer you great sums Of English gold. James. Was this his errand ? Seton. Yes. James. And your base coward sword sprang not at once Forth from the sheath ? You did not slay the man ? Seton. No ! Bishop. And he sent a message back to Dacre, And gave the envoy passage, and safe-conduct. James. Is all this true ? O Seton, say the word. One little word — tell me it is not true ! Seton. My liege, 'tis true. James. Then, by the name we bear. You die — a traitor's death ! — Sirrah, the guard ' I will not look again to where he stands. Enter Guard; they stand by Seton. Let him be taken hence, and let the axe Rid me of Seton ! is it so in truth. That you've deceived me — ^joined my enemies ? You — you — my friend — my playmate ! — is it so ? Sir, will you tell me wherein I have failed In friendship to the man that was my friend r I thought I loved you — that in all my heart Dwelt not a thought that wronged you. Seton. You have heard What my accuser says, and you condemn me : I say no word to save a forfeit life — A life is not worth having, when 't has lost WHITE. 427 All that gave value to it — my sovereign's trust ! James. [Tb tke Bishop J\ You see this man. Sir — he's the self-same age That I am. We were children both together — We grew — we read in the same book — my lord. You must remember that ? — how we were never Separate from each other : well, this man Lived with me, year by year ; he counselled me. Cheered me, sustained me ; he was as myself — The very throne that is to other kings A desolate island rising in the sea — A pinnacle of power, in soHtude, Grew to a seat of pleasance in his trust. The sea, that chafed all round it with its waves. This man bridged over with his love, and made it A highway for our subjects' happiness ; And now, for a few pieces of red gold He leaves me ! Oh, he might have coined my life Into base ingots — stripped me of it all — If he had left me faith in one true heart. And I should ne'er have grudged him the exchange. — Go, now. We speak your doom — you die the death ! God pardon you ! I dare not pardon you — Farewell ! Seton. I ask no pardon. Sir, from you. May you find pardon — ay, in your own heart. For what you do this day ! Bishop. Be firm, my liege. James. Away, away, old man ! — you do not know — You cannot know — what this thing costs me. Go ! I'm firm. Seton. Who is it that accuses me .? \.22 GOLDEN LEAVES. 'Tis like your noble nature to be sudden ; I thought you just no less. James. Ha ! hear you that ? Bring on your proof. Though his own tongue confessed Enough to whet the dullest axe to a point Where is that envoy ? Bishop. He is here, my liege. James. Bring him. \Exit Bishop, Let the Lord Seton stay. Enter Bishop and English Messenger. How now ? You came with message from Lord Dacre's camp .? Mes. From the Lord Dacre's self — so please you. Sir ; But will Lord Seton's letter of safe-conduct Bear me in surety ? James. Have no fear, my friend : His letter of safe-conduct I What contained Your message to Lord Seton ? Mes. A free offer Of twenty thousand marks. James. For what — for what ? Mes. To stay inactive, or lead off the force. When brought to face our army. James. Was it so ? To leave me fenceless ! And he answered you Kindly — he paused a little, just a little. Before he struck his king, his friend, to the earth ! Out with it all ! — He gave you a message back ? Is't so — is't so ? Mes. Yes, please your majesty. James. I knew it ! — a few phrases — a regret — WHITE. 429 A fear — a hope ; but he agreed at last. Tell me the answer he sent back to Dacre. Bishop. [^Shows a letter J\ Here is the very letter — 1 laid hold of it On the man's person. James. Read, read, good Lord Bishop ! Blink not a word of it — a syllable; Deliver it as we were Dacre's self. Now, what says Seton, that degenerate Scot ? Bishop. [Reads.^ This is my answer to Lord Dacre's message : I trample with my heel on your foul bribe ; I send you scorn, and hatred, and defiance ! James. More, more ! Bishop. I cast my glove into your facty And summon you to meet me, foot to foot. When fies the Scottish banner on the Tweed, On Monday rnorn James. Go on ! Bishop. I call you slave. To think to wean me from my loyalty, My truth, my honour to my trusting king ! James. Ha ! was it so ? — Go forth, good messenger ; Bear you this chain of gold. [Hurries the Messenger out. My good Lord Bishop, What meant you ? — but no, no — you meant it well ; Go mind your priests, my lord ; meddle no more In things like this. Keep to your duties. Sir ; Bid not your priests be '* firm" — tell them to be Gentle, forgiving, trustful, but not firm ; No more —no more. [^Hurries the Bishop out. Guards, leave my friend Lord Seton. [Exeunt Guards. 430 GOLDEN LEAVES. Now we're alone ! Come, Seton ! Seton, here. To my heart ! [ They embrace.^ Why said you nothing ? Seton. For I knew Your justice' self would be the pleader for me. James. Ah, Seton, what a shock it gave my hear;. To think that you had left me ! Pardon it ; It was because I trusted you the most. That the blow fell so heavy. I was wrong. And you'll forgive me ; all my life shall be A recompense for the vile thought that dwelt But for ten minutes, — not a minute more, — In my weak heart ; but tell me you'll forgive it, Seton. Forgive it, my good liege, — James. I know you will. For I will earn it of you with such trust As never king had in his friend before. Scion. Others, my liege, are false James. Ha ! that they are ! But fear not; you and Hume are by my side. I'll balk the traitors yet. Oh, Til be firm — Firm as the Bass, rugged as Ailsa crag. I shall know all ere long Call a court at nine — Fail not — and have our guard in double force ; The headsman ready : it may chance our work Be bloody, if we're firm. Fail not at nine ; And now farewell ! \ExtunU JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 431 3ol)n i5ou)ovb fjJotine. BRUTUS; OR, THE FALL OF TARQJJIN.* Lucius Junius Brutus, Son of Marcus Junius, is brought up at the Court of the Tarquins, the Murderers of his Father^ ivherey under the assumed character of an Idioty he bears the mockeries of the Court ; ivaiting a fitting time to throiv off his disguise and revenge his Father'' s Murder^ o-verthroiu the Tarquins, and liberate his Country. The occasion presents itself ivhen Sextus Tarquin -violates Lucretia, Wife of CoLLATiNUS, and, exulting in the deed, meets Brutus, and boasts of his achievement. Rome. — Tkt' Capitol. — Equestrian Statue of Takqijinivs SupERBus. — Night. — Thunder and Lightning. Enter Brutus. Brutus. l^Aione.^ Slumber forsakes me, and I court the horrors Which night and tempest swell on every side. Launch forth thy thunders, Capitolian Jove ! Put fire into the languid souls of men ; Let loose thy ministers of wrath amongst them. And crush the vile oppressor ! Strike him down. Ye lightnings ! Lay his trophies in the dust ! [Stor7?i increases. Ha ! this is well ! Flash, ye blue-forked fires ! Loud-bursting thunders, roar ! and tremble, earth ! [A violent crash of thunder ; and the Statue of Tar- quin, struck by ajlash, is shattered to pieces. What ! fallen at last, proud idol ! struck to earth ! * This selection, and the whole of the succeeding ones, are col- iected from the Dramatic Poets of America. 19* 432 G OLDEN LEAVES. I thank you, gods — I thank you ! When you point Y"our shafts at human pride, it is not Chance, 'Tis Wisdom levels the commissioned blow. But I — a thing of no account — a slave — I to your forked lightnings bare my bosom In vain — for what's a slave — a dastard slave ? A fool, a Brutus? [Storm increases.^ Hark! the storm rides on ! The scolding winds drive through the clattering rain. And loudly screams the haggard witch of night. Strange hopes possess my soul. My thoughts grow wild. Engender with the scene, and pant for action. With your leave, majesty, I'll sit beside you. And ruminate awhile. [Sits on a fragment of the Statue. O for a cause ! A cause, ye mighty gods ! — Soft, what stir is this .? Enter Valerius, followed by a Messenger, Val. What ! Collatinus sent for, didst thou say } Mes. Ay, Collatinus, thou, and all her kinsmen ! To come upon the instant to Collatia ; She will take no denial. Time is precious. And I must hasten forth to bring her husband. \Exit. Bru. [Apart.'] Ha ! Collatinus and Lucretia's kinsmen ! There's something, sure, in this. Valerius, too, — Well met. Now will I put him to the test. — Valerius — hoa ! Val. Who calls me .? Bru. Brutus. Val. Go, Get thee to bed ! [Valerius is departing. Brn. Valerius ! JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 433 Val. Peace, Thou foolish thing ! Why dost thou call so loud ? Bru. Because I will be heard ! The time may come When thou mayst want a fool. Val. Pr'ythee, begone ! I have no time to hear thy prattle now. Bru, By Hercules, but you must hear ! [Seizing his arm. Val. You'll anger me. Bru. Waste not your noble anger on a fool — *Twere a brave passion in a better cause. Val. Thy folly's cause enough. Bru. Rail not at folly ; There's but one wise. And him the gods have killed. Val. Killed? Whom.? Bru. Behold! Oh, sight of pity ! — Majesty in ruins ! Down on your knees — down to your kingly idol ! Val. Let slaves and sycophants do that : not I. Bru. Wilt thou not kneel .? Val. Begone ! Valerius kneels not to the living Tarquin. Bru. Indeed ! — Belike you wish him laid as low .? Val. What if I do.? Bru. Jove tells thee what to do — Strike ! — Oh, the difference 'twixt Jove's wrath and thine ■ He at the crowned tyrant aims his shaft : Thou, mighty man, wouldst frown a fool to silence. And spurn poor Brutus from thee. Val. What is this ? Let me look nearer at thee. Is thy mind. 4-34 G OLDEN LEAVES. That long-lost jewel, found ? — and Lucius Junius, Dear to ray heart, restored ? Or art thou Brutus, The scofF and jest of Rome, and this a fit Of intermittent reason ? Bru. I am Brutus ! Folly, be thou my goddess ! I am Brutus, If thou wilt use me so. — If not, farewell. Why dost thou pause ? Look on me ! I have limbs. Parts and proportions, shoulders strong to bear. And hands not slow to strike ! What more than Brutus Could Lucius Junius do ? Fal. A cause like ours Asks both the strength of Brutus, and the wisdom Of Lucius Junius. Bru. No more — we're interrupted. VaL Farewell. Hereafter we'll discourse : And may the gods confirm the hope you've raised ! \^Exit. Bru. [Alone.] My soul expands ! my spirit swells within me. As if the glorious moment were at hand ! — Sure, this is Sextus ! why has he left the camp ? Alone — and muffled ! E?iter Sextus, wrapped in a mantle. Welcome, gentle prince ! Sex. Ha ! Brutus here? — Unhoused amid the storm? Bru. Whence com'st thou, prince ? from battle ? from the camp ? Sex. Not from the camp, good Brutus — from Collatia ; The camp of Venus — not of Mars, good Brutus. Bru. Ha! Sex. Why dost thou start ? — thy kinswoman, Lucretia — ■ JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 435 Bru. [Eagerly.'] Well, what of her? speak! Sex. Ay, I will speak. And I'll speak that shall fill thee with more wonder Than all the lying oracle declared. Bru, Nay, prince, not so : you cannot do a deed To make me wonder. Sex. Indeed ! Dost think it ? Then let me tell thee. Butus, — wild with passion For this famed matron, — though we met but once, — Last night I stole in secret from the camp. Where, in security, I left her husband. She was alone. I said, affairs of consequence Had brought me to Collatia. She received me As the king's son, and as her husband's friend Bru. [Apart.] Patience, O heart ! — a moment longer, patience ! Sex. When midnight came, I crept into her chamber. Bru. [Apart.] Inhuman monster ! Sex. Alarmed and frantic. She shrieked out, " Collatinus ! husband! help!" A slave rushed in : I sprang upon the caitiff, And drove my dagger through his clamorous throat ; Then, turning to Lucretia, now half dead With terror, swore, by all the gods, at once, If she resisted, to the heart I'd stab her; Yoke her fair body to the dying slave. And fix pollution to her name forever I Bru. And — and — the matron ? Sex. Was mine I Bru. [With a hurst of frenzy.] The furies curse you, then ! lash you with snakes ! When forth you walk, may the red-flaming sun 436 GOLDEN LEAVES. Strike you with livid plagues ! Vipers, that die not slowly, gnaw your heart ! May earth be to you but one wilderness ! May you hate yourself — For death pray hourly, yet be in tortures Millions of years expiring ! Sex. Amazement ! What can mean this sudden frenzy Bru. What ? Violation ! Do we dwell in dens. In caverned rocks, or amongst men in Rome ? [ Thunder and lightning become very violent. Hear the loud curse of Heaven ! 'Tis not for nothing The Thunderer keeps this coil above your head ! [Points to the fragments of the Statue. Look on that ruin ! See your father's statue Unhorsed and headless ! Tremble at the omen ! Sex. This is not madness. Ha ! my dagger lost ! — Wretch ! thou shalt not escape me. — Ho ! a guard ! The rack shall punish thee. A guard, I say ! [Exit. Bru. [Alone.^ The blow is struck ! the anxious messages To Collatinus and his friends, explained : And now, Rome's liberty or loss is certain, ril hasten to Collatia — join my kinsmen — To the moon, folly ! Vengeance, I embrace thee ! [Exit. LucRETiA, preferring death to shame^ destroys herself. — Brutus throivs off his assumed Madness^ and urges the Friends of Collatinus to cvenge the Wrongs of Lucretia, by dethroning the Tarquins. To excite the Populace to aid their endeavours^ he causes the dead Body of Lucretia to be brought to the Forum^ and there harangues the People. The Forum. — The Populace fill the Stage,— '^'r.vtv^ is discovered upon the Forum. The dead body of Lu- cretia is on a Bier beneath. Collatinus, Lucretius, J HN HOWARD P A YNE. 437 and the Female Attendants ^/'Lucretia, stand around her Corpse. Valerius and others are seen. Bru. Thus, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts Permitted utterance, we have told our story ; And now, to say one word of the imposture — The mask necessity has made me wear : When the ferocious malice of your king, — King do I call him ? — when the monster, Tarquin, Slew, as you most of you may well remember. My father Marcus and my elder brother. Envying at once their virtues and their wealth. How could I hope a shelter from his power. But in the false face I have worn so long ? 1 St Rom. Most wonderful ! 2d. Rom. Silence ! he speaks again. Bru. Would you know why I summoned you together? Ask ye what brings me here ? Behold this dagger. Clotted with gore ! Behold that frozen corse ! See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death ! She was the mark and model of the time, The mould in which each female face was formed. The very shrine and sacristy of virtue ! Fairer than ever was a form created By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild. And never-resting thought is all on iire ! The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks. And whispered in his ear her strains divine. Can I conceive beyond her ; — the young choir Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful. Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds W^hich now spring rife from the luxurious compost 43^ GOLDEN LEAVES Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose, — How from the shade of those ill neighbouring plants Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace. She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections Might have called back the torpid breast of age To long-forgotten rapture ; such a mind Might have abashed the boldest libertine. And turned desire to reverential love And holiest affection. O my countrymen ! You all can witness when that she went forth : It was a holiday in Rome ; old age Forgot its crutch, labour its task, — all ran ; And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, '* There, there's Lucretia !" Now, look ye, where she lies ! That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose. Torn up by ruthless violence — gone ! gone ! gone ! All. Sextus shall die ! [Shouts Brii. But then — the king — his father — \st Rom. What shall be done with him ? 2d Rom. Speak, Brutus ! 3^ Rom. Tell us ! tell us ! Bru. Say, would you seek instruction ? would ye ask What ye should do ? Ask ye yon conscious walls. Which saw his poisoned brother, saw the incest Committed there, and they will cry. Revenge ! Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry. Revenge 1 Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple With human blood, and it will cry. Revenge ! Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife. And the poor queen, who loved him as her son. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 439 There uiiappeased ghosts will shriek. Revenge ! The temples of the gods, the all-viewing Heavens, The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, And swell the general sound. Revenge ! revenge ! All. Revenge ! revenge ! Bru. And we will be revenged, my countrymen ! Brutus shall lead you on ; — Brutus, a name Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. \_Sh0ut5. 1st Rom. Live, Brutus ! 2d. Rom. Vahant Brutus ! 2,d Rom. Down with Tarquin ! 2d Rom, We'll have no Tarquins ! \st Rom. We will have a Brutus ! 2,d Rom. Let's to the Capitol, and shout for Brutus ! Bru. I your king ? Brutus your king ? — No, fellow-citizens ! If mad ambition in this guilty frame Had strung one kingly fibre, — yea, but one — By all the gods, this dagger which J hold Should rip it out, though it entwined my heart. Val. Then I am with thee, noble, noble Brutus ! Brutus, the new-restored ! Brutus, by Sibyl, By Pythian prophetess foretold, shall lead us ! Bru. Now take the body up. Bear it before us To Tarquin's palace ; there we'll light our torches. And, in the blazing conflagration, rear A pile for these chaste relics, that shall send Her soul amongst the stars. On ! Brutus leads you ! [Exeunt, the Mob shouting The Tarquins are expelled front Rome^ and Brutus and Collatinus are appointed joint Consuls. TiTUS, Son to Brutus, nvho is married 440 GOLDEN LEAVES. to TARcyJiNlA, joins a Party headed by Sextus Tarquin, ivko ieek\ to regain the Throne. A Battle ensues ,• Sextus is killed, and Titus and other Leaders taken Prisoners. The Senate condemn the Prisoners to Death, but leave Titus /o receive <* The Judgment 0/ Brutus." Scene — Exterior of the Temple of Mars. — Senators, Citi- ze?is, CoLLATiNus, aud Lucretius, discovered. A Tri- bunal, zuitk a Consular Chair. Brutus enters, folloioed by Valerius ; he bows as he passes, and ascends the Tribunal. Bru. Romans, the blood which hath been shed this day Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire Against mature societies, may urge Their acts as bold and daring; and, though villains. Yet they are manly villains. But to stab The cradled innocent, as these have done, — To strike their country in the mother-pangs Of struggling child-birth, and direct the dagger To Freedom's infant throat — is a deed so black. That my foiled tongue reflises it a name. \^A pause. There is one criminal still left for judgment — Let him approach. Titus is brought in by the Lictors, with their axes turned edgewise towards him. Pris — on — er — [The voice of Brvtvs falters, and is choked, and he exclaims, with violent emotion — Romans, forgive this agony of grief — My heart is bursting — Nature must have way — I will perform all that a Roman should — I cannot feel less than a father ought ! [He becomes more calm. Gives a signal to the Lictors JOHN HOWARD PATNE. 441 to fall backy and advances from the Judgment- Seat to the front of the Stage, on a line with his Son. Well, Titus, speak — how is it with thee now ? Tell me, my son, art thou prepared to die ? Tit. Father, I "call the powers of Heaven to witness Titus dares die, if so you have decreed. The gods will have it so ! Bru. They will, my Titus : Nor heaven nor earth can have it otherwise. It seemed as if thy fate were pre-ordained. To fix the reeling spirits of the people. And settle the loose liberty of Rome. 'Tis fixed ; — oh, therefore, let not fancy cheat thee : So fixed thy death, that *tis not in the power Of mortal man to save thee from the axe. Tit. The axe ! O Heaven ! — Then must I fall so basely ? What ! shall I perish like a common felon ? Bru. How else do traitors suffer ? — Nay, Titus, more — I must myself ascend yon sad tribunal — And there behold thee meet this shame of death. With all thy hopes and all thy youth upon thee, — See thy head taken by the common axe, — All, if the gods can hold me to my purpose. Without one groan, without one pitying tear. [Turns about, as if in agony. Tit. Die like a felon ? — Ha ! a common felon ! — But I deserve it all : — yet here I fail : — This ignominy quite unmans me ! O Brutus, Brutus ! must I call you father, [Kneels. Yet have no token of your tenderness. No sign of mercy ? — not even leave to fall As noble Romans fall, by my own sword ? 442 GOLDEN LEAVES. Father, why should you make my heart suspect That all your late compassion was dissembled ? How can I think that you did ever love me r Bru. Think that I love thee by my present passion. By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here, Thess sighs that strain the very strings of life, — Let these convince you that no other cause Could force a father thus to wrong his nature. Tit. Oh, hold, thou violated majesty ! [^Risf.s, I now submit with calmness to my fate. Come forth, ye executioners of justice — Come, take my life, — and give it to my country ! Bru. Embrace thy wretched father. May the gods Arm thee with patience in this awful hour. The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome Condemns A crime thy father's bleeding heart forgives. Go — meet thy death with a more manly courage Than grief now suffers me to show in parting ; And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee ! Farewell ! Eternally farewell ! — Tit. O Brutus ! O my father ! — Bru. What wouldst thou say, my son ? Tit. Wilt thou forgive me ? When I shall be no more, forget not my Tarquinia. Bru. Leave her to my care. Tit. Farewell forever ! Bru. Forever ! [Rcascends the 'Tribunal. Lictors, attend ! — conduct your prisoner forth ! Fill. [Rapidly and anxiously.] Whither? Brii. To de?ithl— [All start.] When you do reach the spot. J HN H WA RD PA YNE. 443 My hand shall wave your signal for the act : Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim it done ! [Titus is conducted out by the Lictors. — A dead march, which gradually dies away as it becomes more dis- tant. Brutus remains seated in a melancholy pos- ture on the Tribunal. Poor youth ! Thy pilgrimage is at an end ! A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth No thought of man can fathom. Justice now Demands her victim ! A little moment. And I am childless. — One effort, and 'tis past ! — \He uses and waves his hand, convulsed with agita- tion, then drops in his seat, and shrouds his face with his toga. Three sounds of the trumpet are heard instantly. All the Characters assume attitudes of deep misery. — Brutus starts up wildly, descends to the front in extreme agitation, looks out on the side by which Titus departed, for an instant, then., with an hysterical bursty exclaims — Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free ! [BRUTusy^//j". — The Characters group around him^ 4-44 GOLDEN LEAVES. ^atl)amel JJavker lUillis. BIANCA VISCONTI ; OR, THE HEART OVERTASKED . A TRAGEDY. Francesco Sforza, a ConJottiero of the Fourteenth Century^ besieges Milan. To save his Dominions^ Francesco Visconti, Duke of Mi/an, offers his Daughter^ BiANCA, in marriage to Sforza, zuho accepts the offer. The Apartment of Bianca. — Fiametta, her Waiting- Woman, embroidering, and Giulio, the Page, thrum- ming his Guitar. Page. I'd give my greyhound now — gold collar and silken leash — to know why the duke sent for my lady. Fiametta. Would you. Master Curiosity ? Page. Mistress Pert, I would — and thy acquaintance into the bargain. Fia. Better keep the goods you come honestly by. I would you knew as well how your mistress came by you. Page. I came to her from heaven — like her taste for my music. [Hu77is a tune. Fia. Did you 1 do they make sacks in heaven ? Page. There's a waiting-woman's question for you ' Why sacks ? Fia. Because I think you came in one, like a present of a puppy-dog. Page. Silence, dull pin-woman ! here comes my mistiess ! [Takes of his cap as Bianca enters. She walks across the stage, without heeding her Attendants. Bianca. To marry Sforza ! My dream come true ! my long, long cherished dream ! The star come out of heaven that I had worshipped ! WILLIS. 445 The paradise I built with soaring fancy. And filled with rapture like a honey-bee. Dropped from the clouds at last ! Am I awake ? — Am I awake, dear Giulio ? Page. [Half advancing to herS\ Noble mistress ! Bian. Thank God, they speak to me ! It is no dream ? It was tkis hand my father took to tell me — It was with these lips that I tried to speak — It was tins heart that beat its giddy prison As if the exulting joy new-sprung within it Would out and fill the world ! Wed him to-morrow ! So suddenly a wife ! Will it seem modest. With but twelve hours of giddy preparation To come a bride to church ! Will he remember I was ten years ago affianced to him ? I have had time to think on't ! Oh, I'll tell him — When 1 dare speak, I'll tell him — how I've loved him ! And day and night dreamed of him, and through all The changing wars treasured the solemn troth Broke by my father! If he listens kindly, I'll tell him how I fed my eyes upon him In Venice at his triumph — when he walked Like a descended god beside the Doge, Who thanked him for his victories, and the people. From every roof and balcony, by thousands Shouted out, " Sforza ! Live the gallant Sforza !'* I was a child then — but I felt my heart Grow, in one hour, to woman ! Page. Would it please you To hear my new song, lady ? Bian. No, good Giulio ! 44^ G OLDEN LEAVES. My spirits are too troubled now for music. Get thee to bed ! Yet stay ! hast heard the news t Page. Is't from the camp ? Bian. Ay — Sforza's taken prisoner ! Page. Pm vexed for that. Bian. Why vexed ? Page. In four years more I shall bear sword and lance. There'll be no Sforza To kill when I'm a man ! Who took him, lady? Bian. A blind boy, scarcely bigger than yourself; And gave him, bound, to me ! In brief^ dear Giulio, Not to perplex those winking eyelids more. The wars are done, and Sforza weds to-morrow Your happy mistress ! Page. Sforza ! We shall have A bonfire then ! Bian, Ay — twenty ! Page. And you'll live Here in the palace, and have masks and gambols The year round, will you not ? Bian. My pretty minion. You know not yet what love is ! Love's a miser. That plucks his treasure from the prying world. And grudges e'en the eye of daylight on it ! Another's look is theft — another's touch Robs it of all its value. Love conceives No paradise but such as Eden was With two hearts beating in it. [^Leaves the Page, and walks thoughtfully away. Oh, I'll build A home upon some green and flowery isle In the lone lakes, where we will use our empire WILLIS. 447 Only to keep away the gazing world. The purple mountains and the glassy waters Shall make a hushed pavilion with the sky. And we two in the midst will live alone. Counting the hours by stars and waking birds, And jealous but of sleep! — To bed, dear Giulio, And wake betimes. Page. Good-night, my dearest lady ! Bian. To bed, Fiametta ! I have busy thoughts. That needs will keep me waking. Fia. Good-night, lady ! Bian. Good-night, good-night ! The moon has fellowship For moods like mine. Pll forth upon the terrace. And watch her while my heart beats warm and fast. Sforza and BiANCA are iveddedj but doubts of his JVife's lo've are in- fused into Skorza's mind by Sarpellione, Ambassador at Milan from the King of Spain, and he treats her neglcctingly. Bianca's Chamber, at midnight. She sits on a coach, in a white undress, and Sforza beside her, in his armour. ^ian. Dost think this ring a pretty one, my lord f Sforza. Ay, 'tis a pretty ring ! I have one here Marancio gave me — Giacomo Marancio — The ring his wife sent — but you've heard the story ? Bia?i. I think I never heard it. Sfor, She's a woman The heart grows but to speak of She was held A hostage by the Milanese (I pray you Pardon the mention), when, 'twixt them and me, Marancio held a pass. Her life was threatened If by his means I crossed the Adige. She — (Brave heart ! I warm to speak of her !) found means 44^ G OLDEN LEA VE S. To send to him this ring; wherein is writ — "He who loves most, loves honour best." You'll see it Here o' the inside. Bian, Did you see this lady ? Sfor. I hazarded a battle three days after. With perilous odds, only to bring her off — And would have sold my life for't. Bian. Did you see her ? Sfor. I gave her to Marancio, when I took The ring of him. Bian. My lord ! speak you so warmly Of any other woman .? Sfor. [Rising ajid taking his helmet.'] Nay, I know nor There are some qualities that women have Which are less worthy, but which warm us more Than speaking of their virtues. I remember The fair Giovanna in her pride at Naples. Gods ! what a light enveloped her ! She left Little to shine in history — but her beauty Was of that order that the universe Seemed governed by her motion. Men looked on her As if her next step would arrest the world ; And as the sea-bird seems to rule the wave He rides so buoyantly, all things around her — The glittering army, the spread gonfalon. The pomp, the music, the bright sun in heaven — Seemed glorious by her leave. Bian. [Rising and going to the zoindozv.'] There's emulation Of such sweet praise, my lord ! Did you not hear The faint note of a nightingale .? Sfor. More like WILLIS. 449 A far-heard clarion, methought ! They change The sentinels, perchance. 'Tis time Rossano Awaits me on the ramparts. Bian. Not to-night! Go not abroad again to-night, my lord ! Sfor. For a brief hour, sweet ! The old soldier loves To gossip of the fields he's lost and won. And I, no less, to listen. Get to bed ! I'll follow you anon. [Exit Sforza. Bian. He does not love me ! I never dreamed of this ! To be his bride Was all the heaven I looked for ! Not to love me. When I have been ten years affianced to him ! — When I have lived for him — shut up my heart. With every pulse and hope, for his use only — Worshipped — O God ! idolatrously loved him ! . . . . Why has he sought to marry me ? Why still Renew the broken pledge my father made him .? Why, for ten years, with war and policy, Strive for my poor alliance ? . . . . He mzcsi love me. Or I shall break my heart ! I never had One other hope in life ! I never linked One thought, but to this chain ! I have no blood — • No breath — no being — separate from Sforza ! Nothing has any other name ! The sun Shined like his smile — the lightning was his glory. The night his sleep, and the flushed moon watched o'er him ; Stars writ his name — his breath hung on the flowers — Music had no voice but to say, / iovc him. And life no future, but his love for me ! Whom does he love ? Marancio's wife ? He praised 4.50 G OLDEN LEAVES. Only her courage ! Queen Giovanna's beauty ? 'Tis dust these many years ! There is no sign He loves another ; and report said ever His glory was his mistress. Can he love ? Shame on the doubt ! 'Twas written in the ring, *' He who loves most, loves honour best" — and Sforza Is made too like a god to lack a heart. And so, I breathe again ! To make him love me Is all my life now ! to pry through his nature. And find his heart out. Thafs wrapt in 'his glory! I'll feed his glory, then ! He praised Giovanna That she was royal and magnificent — Ay — that's well thought on, too ! How should an eye. Dazzled with war and warlike pomp, like Sforza's, Find pleasure in simplicity like mine ! \ Looks at her dress. I'm a duke's daughter, and I'll wear the look on't ! Unlock my jewels and my costly robes. And while I keep his show-struck eye upon me. Watch for a golden opportunity To build up his renown ! . . . . And so farewell The gentle world I've lived in ! Farewell all My visions of a world for two hearts only — Sforza's and mine ! If I outlive this change. So brief and yet so violent within me, I'll come back in my dreams, O childish world ! If not — a broken heart blots out remembrance. [Exit into her bridal Chamber, which is seen beyond on opening the door. Sarpellione informs Sforza that the Duke of Milan has another Child, a Son, uoho has been brought up in ignorance of his Birth, that Bi- ANCA may be created Duchess of Milan at her Father^ Death. WILLIS. 451 GiuLio, the Page, is thii Son^ although the fact is unknoivn to Sforza and BlANCA. Sforza discovered sitting thoughtfully in his Apartment. The Page curiously examining his Sword. Sforza, \Yawning,\ This is dull work! Fage. My lord, will't please you teach me A trick of fence ? Sfor. Ay — willingly ! Hast thou A weapon in that needle-case of thine ? Fage. [Drawing.'] A weapon ! If I had your legs to stand on, I'd give you all the odds 'twixt it and yours ! Look at that blade. [Bends it.] Damascus ! [Sforza smiles, and unbuckles his scabbard. By the gods. You shall not laugh at me ! Pll give you odds, — With any thing to stand on ! Sfor. Nay— rilsit-- And you shall touch me if you can ! Come on. And see I do not rap you o*er the cockscomb ! Page. Have at you fairly ! Mind ! for Fm in earnest ! [ They fence. Sfor. One — two — well thrust, by Jupiter ! Again ! One — two ! Page. [Makes a lunge.] Three! there you have it! Sfor. [Starting up.] Zounds ! This is no play. [handkerchief. Page. What ! does the needle prick ? [ Wipes it with his Sfor. 'Tis a Damascus, if thou wilt ! I'll laugh No more at it or thee. Come here, thou varlet ! Where got thy mistress such a ready hand As thou art ? 4-52 GOLDEN LEAVES. Page. [Fencing with the chair.] From an eagle's nest, my lord ! Sfor. I'll swear to it ! Thou hast the eagle's eye ! But tell me — what brave gentleman of Milan Has thy blood in his veins ? Page. I'm not of Milan. Sarpellione brought me here from Naples. Sfor. Thou'rt not his child. I'll answer for't. Page. Not I ! I hate him ! Come ! wilt try another pass ? Sfor. Stay ! is the Count thy master, then ? Page, My master ? He's an old snake ! But I'll say this for him. Were I a royal prince — (as I may be — Who knows !) — Sarpellione could not treat me With more becoming honour. Sfor. [Starting up suddenly.] What if this Should be the duke's son that he told me of? Come hither. Sir ! What know you of your father .? [Aside.] 'Tis the Visconti's lip ! Page. I'll tell you all I know, my lord. Alfonso sent me here. Five years ago, in quality of page. I was to serve my lady and no other. And to be gently nurtured. The king gave me A smart new feather — bade me bear myself Like a young prince at Milan — Sfor. [Starting away from him.] It is he ! — Princely in spirit, and Visconti's impress On every feature ! He'll be Duke of Milan ! Page. Heard you the Duke was worse to-day, my lora ? Sfar. What duke ? WILLIS. 453 Page, Nay, Sir ! you ought to know what duke ! I heard the doctor say you'd wear his crown In three days. Never say I told you of it ! He whispered it to old Sarpellione, - Who— Sfor, What? Page. Looked daggers at him ! Sfor. [Aside. Now the devil Plucks at my soul indeed ! If the Duke die. The crown lies in the gift of my new wife. And I were duke as sure as he were dead — But for this boy! [PFaih rapidly up and down. I'd set my foot in Venice In half a year ! — Ferrara — then Bologna — Florence— and thence to Naples ! I'd be King Of Italy before their mourning's threadbare — But for this boy ! ... [ The Page still fences with the chair. I'd found a dynasty ! — Be second of the name — but the first king — And there should go, e'en with the news, to France, A bold ambassador from one Francesco, — Sforza by birth, and King of Italy — But for this boy / . . . . I would he were a man ! I would an army barred me from the crown. Sooner than this boy's right ! But he might die ! He might have run upon my sword just now ! 'Twere natural, — and so it were to fall In playing with't, and bleed to death unheard. From a ripped vein. That would be natural ! He might have died in many ways, and / Have had no part in't. 454 GOLDEN LEAVES. Page. Will you fence, my lord ? Sforza. [Clutches his sword, and suddenly sheathes it, and walks from him. Aside.] (Get thee gone, devil ! After all his glory. Shall Sforza be the murderer of a child !) — No — no ! -I'll not fence with thee! Go and play! I — I — I — [ Turns from him?^ Stay ! shall such a grain of sand As a boy's life check Sforza's bold ambition ? I, who have hewn down thousands in a day For but the play on't — I, upon whose hand Sat Slaughter, like a falcon, to let loose At all that flew above me ! I — whose conscience Carries the reckoning of unnumbered souls. Sped unto hell or heaven, for this ambition ! — Shall I mar all now with a woman's pity For a fair stripling ! \Praws his sword; and the Page, who has been re- garding him attentively, comes up and pulls him by his sleeve. Page. Look you here, my lord ! If I have harmed you — for you seem so angry, I think I have — more than I meant to do — Take my own sword and wound me back again ! I'll not cry out — and when you see me bleed, You'll pardon me that I was so unhappy As to have chanced to wound you ! [Sforza. [Kneels, opens his bosom, and offers his szuord-hilt to Sfor. Angels keep me ! Give me thy hand, boy ! \_Looks at him a moment, and passes his hand across his eyes. WILLIS. 455 Page. You'll forgive me_, Sir ? Letting of blood — when done in fair play, mind you — Has no offence in't. Sfor. Leave me now, sweet boy ! ni see thee at the feast to-night. Farewell ! [Page kisses his hand, and exit. Shade of niy father ! If from heaven thou lootest Upon the bright inheritance of glory I took from thee — pluck from my tortured soul These thoughts of hell, and keep me worthy of thee ! [IValks up and down thoughtfully, and then presses the crucifix to his lips. As I am true to honour and that child. Help me, just Heaven ! \Exit. The Duke of Milan dies, and BiANCA is proclaimed the Duchess of Milan. She assumes the Croivn, exulting in the thought that " Sfor- za's Children ivill noiv be Dukes of Milan." Sarpellione brings tc the new-made Duchess a Letter from the King of Spain, informing her that Giulio is her Brother, and entitled to the Throne of Alilan. Scene IL — The Garden of the Palace of Milan. — Eriter BiANCA, in mourning, followed by Sarpellione. Bianca. Liar — *tis not true ! Sarpellione. Will't please you read this letter from the king. Writ when he sent him to you — Bian. [Plucks it from him, and tears it to pieces.'] 'Tis a lie Writ by thyself— Sar. \ Taking up the pieces.] The king has written here The story of his birth, and, that he is Your brother, pledges his most royal honour — 4-^6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Bian. Lie upon lie — Sar. And will maintain the same With sword and battle ! Bian. Let him ! There's a Sforza Will whip him back to Naples ! Tell him so 1 There'll be a duke upon the throne of Milan In three days more, whose children will be kings ' Sar. Your brother, madam ! Bian. Liar, no ! my husband ! The crown is mine, and / will give it him ! Sar. Pardon me, lady, 'tis not yours to give ! While a Visconti lives — and one does live — Princely, and like his father — 'tis not yours — And Sforza dare not take it. Bian. He has taken it. In taking me. Sforza is duke, I say ! Sar. Am I dismissed to Naples with this news •' Bian. Ay — on the instant ! Sar. Will you give me leave To bid the prince make ready for his journey ? Bian. What prirtce ? Sar. Your brother, madam, who'll come back With the whole league of armed Italy To take the crown he's born to. Bian. I've a page I love, cc;lled Giulio ! If you mean to ask me If he goes with you — lying traitor ! no ! I love him, and will keep him ! Sar. Ay — till Milan Knows him for prince, and then farewell to Sforza I He's flown too near the sun ! Bian. Foul raven, silence ' WILLIS. 4S7 What dost thou know of eagles, who wert born To mumble over carrion ! Hast thou looked On the high front of Sforza ? Hast thou heard The thunder of his voice ? Hast met his eye ? 'Tis writ upon his forehead — " Born a king /" Read it, blind liar ! Sar. Upon your brother's, lady. The world shall read it. Bian, Wilt thou drive me mad ? They say all breathing nature has an instinct Of that which would destroy it. I of thee Feel that abhorrence ! If a glistering serpent Hissed in my path, I could not shudder more. Nor would I kill it sooner — so begone ! I'll strike thee dead else ! Sar. Madam ! [Exit Sarpellione Bian. 'Tis my brother ! At the first word with which he broke it to me. My heart gave Nature's echo ! 'Tis my brother ! I would that he were dead — and yet I love him — Love him so well, that I could die for him — Yet hate him that he bars the crown from Sforza. He's betwixt me and heaven ! were he but dead, Sforza and I would, like the sun and moon. Have all the light the world has ! He must die 1 Milan will rise for him — his boyish spirit Is known and loved in every quarter of it. Naples is powerful, and Venice holds Direct succession holy, and the lords Of all the Marches will cry, " Down, usurper !'* For Sforza's glory has o'ershadowed theirs. Both cannot live, or I must live unloved — 4S8 GOLDEN LEAVES. And that were hell — or die, and heaven without him Were but a hell — for I've no soul to go there ! Nothing but love ! no memory but that ! No hope ! no sense ! — Heaven were a madhouse to me ! — Hark ! who comes here ? Enter Sarpellione and Brunorio. Bianca conceals herself. Sar. Strike but this blow, Brunorio — And thou'rt a made man ! Bru. Sforza sleeps not well. Sar. Art thou less strong of arm than he who called thee A brainless ass ? Bru. 'Sdeath, he did call me so ! Sar. And more I never told thee. Pay him for it — And thou wilt save a prince who'll cherish thee. And Sforza's soul a murder — for he'll kill him Ere one might ride to Naples. Bru. Think'st thou so ? Sar. Is it not certain ? If this boy were dead, Sforza were duke. With Milan at his back. He were the devil ! Rather than see this, Alfonso would share half his kingdom with thee. Bru. I'll do it ! Sar. Thou wilt save a prince's life Whom he would murder. Now collect thy senses. And look around thee ! On that rustic bank. Close by the fountain, with his armour oiF, He sleeps away the noon. Bru. With face uncovered .? Sar. Sometimes — but oftener with his mantle drawn Quite over him I But thou must strike so well. That, should he see thee, he will never tell on't. WILLIS. 459 Bru, Fd rather he were covered. Sar. 'Tis most likely — But mark the ground well. By this alley here. You'll creep on unperceived. If he's awake — You're his lieutenant, and may have good reason To seek him any hour ? Are you resolved ? Bru. I am ! Sar, Once more look round you ! Bru. If he sleep To-morrow, he'll ne'er wake ! Sar. Why, that's well said — Come now, and try the horse I've chosen for you. We'll fly like birds with welcome news to Naples ! [Exeunt Sarpellione and Brunorio. Bian, Thank God that I was here ! Can there be souls So black as these — to plot so foul a murder ? O unretributive and silent Heavens ! Heard you these men ? Thank God that I can save him ! The sun shone on them — on these murderers — As it shines now on me I — Would it were Giulio They thought to murder ! — Ha ! what ready fiend Whispered me that ? Giulio instead of Sforza ! Why, that were murder, too ! — Brunorio's murder. Not mine ! — my hands would show no blood for it ! If Giulio were asleep beneath the mantle To-morrow noon, and Sforza in his chamber — What murder lies upon my soul for that ? . . . . I'll come again to-night, and see the place. And think on't in the dark ! \Exit Bianca. Same Scene in the Garden. — Enter Bianca. Bian. No ! no ! come hate — come worse indifference ! 4-6a GOLDEN LEAVES. Come any thing — I will not ! He is gone To bring me flowers now, for he sees Pm sad ; Yet, with his delicate thought, asks not the reason. But tries to steal it from me ! — Could I kill him ? His eyes grew moist this morn, for I was pale — With thinking of his murder ! could I kill him ? O Sforza ! I could walk on burning ploughshares. But not kill pitying Giulio ! I could starve — Or freeze with wintry cold — or swallow fire — Or die a death for every drop of blood Kneeling at my sad heart, but not kill Giulio ! No — no — no ! no ! Sforza comes in dejectedly. My lord ! my noble lord ! Sfor. Give you good-day, Bianca ! Bian. Are you ill. That you should drop your words so sorrowfully ? Sfor, I am not ill, nor well ! Bian. Not well ? Sfor. The pulse Beats on sometimes, when the heart quite runs down. Pm very well ! Bian. My lord, you married me — The priest said so — to share both joy and sorrow. For the last privilege I've shed sweet tears ! — If Pm not worthy — Sfor. Nay — you are ! — I thank you For many proofs of gentle disposition. Which, to say truth, I scarcely looked for in you — Knowing that policy, and not your choice, United us ! WILLIS. 461 Bum. My lord ! Sfor. I say you're worthy. For this, to see my heart — if you could do so. But there's a grief in't now which brings you joy, And so you'll pardon me ! GiuLio comes in zvitk a heap of Jlowers, which he throws downy and listens. Bian. That cannot be ! Sfor. Listen to this. I had a falcon lately. That I had trained, till, in the sky above him. He was the monarch of all birds that flew. I loved him next my heart, and had no joy. But to unloose his feet, and see the eagle Quail at his fiery swoop 1 I brought him here ! Sitting one day upon my wrist, he heard The nightingale you love, sing in the tree. While I applauded him. With jealous heart My falcon sprang to kill him : and with fear For your sweet bird, I struck him to my feet ; And since that hour, he droops. His heart is broke. And he'll ne'er soar again ! Page. Why, one such bird Were worth a thousand nightingales. Bian. [Aside.'] Poor boy ! He utters his own doom ! [ To Sforza.] My lord, I have A slight request, which you will not refuse me. Please you, to-day sleep in your chamber. I Will give you reason for't. Sfor. Be't as you will ! The noon creeps on apace, and in my dreams [ may forget this heaviness. \^Goes in. 462 GOLDEN LEAVES, I ia?i. Ee stern. Strong heart ! and think on Sforza ! — Giulio ! Page. Madam! Bian. [Aside J\ He's hot and weary now, and will drink freely This opiate in his cup, and from his sound And sudden sleep he'll wake in Paradise. Giulio, I say ! [She mixes an opiate. Page. Sweet lady, pardon me ! I dreamed I was in heaven, and feared to stir Lest I should jar some music. Was't your voice I heard sing, " Giuho ?" Bian. [Aside.] O ye pitying angels. Let him not love me most, when I would kill him! — Drink, Giulio ! Page. Is it sweet ? Bian. The sweetest cup You^ll drink in this world ! Page. I can make it sweeter — Bian. And how ? Page. With your health in it ! Bia?i Drink it not ! Not my health ! Drink what other health thou wilt ! Not mine — not mine ! Page. Then here's the noble falcon That Sforza told us of! Would you not kill The nightingale that broke his spirit, madam ? Bian. O Giulio! Giulio! [Weeps. Page. Nay — I did not think Vou loved your sin ing-bird so well, dear lady ! Bian. (He'll break my heart !) Page. Say truly ! if the falcon WILLIS. 463 Must pine unless the nightingale were dead. Would you not kill it ? Bian. Though my life went with it — I must do so ! Page. Why — so I think ! And yet If I had fed the nightingale, and loved him — And he were innocent, as, after all. He is, you know — I should not like to kill him — Not with my own hands ! Bian. Now, relentless Heavens, Must I be struck with daggers through and through ? Speaks, not a mocking demon with his lips ? I will not kill him ! Page. Sforza has gone in — May I sleep there, sweet lady, in his place ? Bian. No, boy ! thou shalt not ! Page. Then will you ? Bian. O God ! I would I could ! and have no waking after ! Come hither, Giulio ! nay — nay — stop not there ! Come on a little, and I'll make thy pillow ■Softer than ever mine will be again ! Tell me you love me ere you go to sleep ! Page. With all my soul, dear mistress ! [Drops asleep, Bian. Now he sleeps. This mantle for his pall — but stay — his shape Looks not like Sforza under it. Fair flowers, [Heaps them at his feet., and spreads the mantle over all. Your innocence to his ! Exhale together, Pure spirit and sweet fragrance ! So — one kiss [ Giulio ! my brother ! — Who comes there ? — ^Wake, Giulio ! Or thou'lt be murdered ! — Nay, 'twas but the wind! 4«54 GOLDEN LEAVES. [ Withdraws on tiptoe, and crouches behind a tree I will kneel here and pray ! Brunorio creeps in, followed by Sarpellione at a distance. Hark! Sar. See — he sleeps. Strike well, and fear not ! Bian. \Sp ringing forward as he strikes.^ Giulio ! Giulio ! wake ! Ah God ! \She drops on the body, the murderer escapes, and Sforza rushes in. As he bends over her, the scene closes. BiANCA, horror-itricken at the Murder of Giulio, loses her Reason, and dies. Sforza is proclaimed Duke of Milan. Scene III. — A Room of State in the Palace. Enter Ros- sano and a Priest. Rossano. Will she not eat ? — Priest. She hath not taken food Since the boy died ! Ros. Nor slept ? Priest. Nor closed an eyelid ! Ros. What does she ? Priest, Still, with breathless repetition. Goes through the page's murder — makes his couch As he lay down i' the garden — heaps again The flowers upon him to eke out his length ; Then kisses him, and hides to see him killed ! 'Twould break your heart to look on't. Ros. Is't the law That she must crown him ? Priest. If, upon the death Of any duke of Milan, the succession WILLIS. 465 Fall to a daughter, she may rule alone. Giving her husband neither voice nor power If she so please. But if she delegate The crown to him, or in extremity- Impose it, it is not legitimate. Save he is crowned by her own living hands. In presence of the council. Enter Sforza, hastily, in full armour, except the helmet. Sfor. Ho ! Rossano ! Ros. My lord ! Sfor. Send quick, and summon in the council To see the crown imposed ! Bianca dies ! My throne hangs on your speed ! Fly ! [^Exit Rossano. Sentry, Ho ! Dispatch a hundred of my swiftest horse Toward Naples ! Bring me back Sarpellione ! Alive or dead, a thousand ducats for him ! Quick! [Exit Sentinel ; 7-e-enter Kossa^o. Ros. I have sped your orders ! Enter a Messenger. Please, my lord. Lady Bianca prays your presence with her ! Sfor. Away! I'll come 1 [Tb Rossano.] Go, man the citadel With my choice troops ! Post them at every gate ! Send for the Milanese to scout or forage, I care not what, so they're without the wall ! And hark, Rossano ! if you hear a knell Wail out before the coronation peal, — Telling to Milan that Bianca's dead. 466 GOLDEN LEAVES. And there's no duke,— down with the ducal bannej. And, like an eagle, to the topmost tower Up with my gonfalon ! Away ! Re-enter the Messenger from Bianca. Mess. My lord ! Sfor. I come ! I come ! Pasquali. [Without.'] In! in! Enter Sarpellione, followed by Pasquali. Sar. \_Aghast at the sight ^Sforza.] Alive ! Sfor. Ha, devil ! Have you come back to get some fresher news ? Alfonso 'd know who's duke ! While you are hanging, I'll ride to Naples with the news myself. Ha ! ha ! my star smiles on me ! [Bianca rushes in and crouches at the side of S)¥okza, as f hiding from something beyond him. Bian, Hark ! I hear them ! — Come, come, Brunorio ! If you come not quick. My heart will break, and wake him I [Presses her hand painfully to her side. Crack not yet ! — Nay, think on Sforza ! Think 'tis for his love ! Giulio will be an angel up in heaven. And Sforza will drink glory from my hand ! — Come, come, Brunorio I [Screams piercingly.] Ah! who murdered Giulio ? Not I ! — not I ! not I ! Sfor. [Watching her with emotion.] O God, how dearly Are bought the proudest triumphs of this world ! Bian. Will the bell never peal ? WILLIS. 467 Priest. [To an Attendant.^ On that string only Her mind plays truly now. Her life hangs on it. The waiting for the bell of coronation Is the last link that holds. Sfor. [Raising her.'] My much-loved wife ! Bian. Is it thee, Sforza ? Has the bell pealed yet ? Sfor. Think not of that, but take some drink, Bianca : You'll kill me this way ! Bian. [Dashing down the cup.] Think you I'll drink fire ! Sfor. Then taste of this. [Offers her a pomegranate. Bian. [Laughing bitterly.] I'm not a fool! I know The fruit of hell has ashes at the core ! Mock me some other way ! Sfor. My poor Bianca ! Bian. Ha ! ha ! that's well done ! You've the shape of Sforza, And you're a devil, and can mock his voice. But Sforza never spoke so tenderly ! You overdo it. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Sfor. God help me, . I would her brother had been duke in Milan, And I his slave — so she had lived and loved me ! Bian. Can you see heaven from hence ? I thought 'twas part Of a soul's agony in hell to see The blest afar off. Can I not see GiuHo ? [Struggles as f to escape something before her eyes. Sforza's between ! [a moment. Sfor. Bianca ! sayst thou that ? [Struggles with himself Nay, then, 'tis time to say, — Farewell, Ambition ! [Turns to the priest.] Look, father ! I'm unskilled in holy things ; 468 GOLDEN LEAVES. But I have heard, the sacrifice of that Which the repenting soul loved more than heaven, Will work a miracle. [ Takes his sword from its scabbard, and proceeds in a deeper voice. I love my sword As never mother loved her rosy child ! My heart is in its hilt — my life, my soul. Follow it like the light ! Say thou dost think If I give that up for a life of peace. Heaven will give back her reason — Priest. [Eagerly.] Doubt it not ! Sfor. Then — take it ! [Drops the hilt into his hand, and holds it a moment. Sarpellione. [In a hoarse whisper.'] Welcome news for King Alfonso ! Sfor. [Starting.] Fiend! sayst thou so? — Nay, then, come back, my sword ! I'll follow in its. gleaming track to Naples, If the world perish ! Enter Ross and. Now, what news, Rossano ? Ros. In answer to your wish, the noble council Consent to see the crown imposed in private : Three delegated lords will presently Attend you here. Sfor. [Energetically.] Tell him who strikes the bell, To look forth from his tower and watch this window : When he shall see a handkerchief wave hence. Let him peal out ! [Attendant goes out. My gonfalon shall float Over St. Mark's before Foscari dreams WILLI 9. 469 There's a new duke in Milan ! Let Alfonso Look to the north ! Enter Attendant, Attend. My lord, the noble council Wait to come in. [Sforza waves his kand, and they enter. I St Lord, Health to the noble Sforza ! Sfor, My lords, the deep calamity we suffer Must cut off ceremony. Milan's heiress Lies there before you, failing momently. But holds in life to give away the crown. If you're content to see her put it on me. Let it be so as quickly as it may. — Give signal for the bell ! [The handkerchief is waved, and the bell peals. Bianca rises to her feet. Bian. It peals at last ! Where am I .? — Bring some wine, dear Giulio ! [Looks round fearfully. Am I av/ake now ? I've been dreaming here That he was dead I — O God ! a horrid dream ! — Come hither, Sforza. I have dreamt a dream — If I can tell it you — will make your hair Stand up with horror I Sfor. Tell it not ! Bian. This Giulio Was, in my dream, my brother ! how I knew it, I do not now remember — but I did/ And loved him (that, you know, must be a dream) Better than you. Sfor, What — better? Bian. Was't not strange ? Being my brother, he must have the crown. — Stay ! is my father dead — or was't i' the dream too ? 470 G OLDEN LEAVES. Sfor. He's dead, Bianca ! Bian. Well ! you loved me not. And Giulio did — and somehow you should hate me If he were duke ; and so I killed him, loving me. For you that loved me not I Is it not strange That we can dream such" things? The manner of it — To see it in a play — would break your heart. It was so pitiless ! Look here ! this boy Brings me a heap of flowers ! — I'll show it you As it was done before me in the dream ! Don't weep ! 'twas but a dream — but I'll not sleep Again till I've seen GiuHo — the blood seemed So ghastly natural ! I shall see it, Sforza, Till I have passed my hand across his side. [ Turning to the Attendants.'\ Will some one call my pags? Sfor. My own Bianca, Will you not drink ? [She drops the cup in horror Bian. Just such a cup as that Had liquid fire in't when the deed was done — A devil mocked me with it 1 [Another cup is brought, and she drinks. This is wine ! Thank God, I wake now ! [She turns to an Attendant.'] Will you see if Giulio Is in the garden ? Sfor. Strike the bell once more ! Bian. He kissed me ere he slept — wilt listen, Sforza ? Sfor. Tell me no more, sweet one ! Bian. And then I heaped The very flowers he brought me, at his feet. To eke his body out as long as yours — Was't not a hellish dream ? WILLIS. 471 [ The bell strikes again, and she covers her ears in horror. That bell ! O God, 'Tis no dream ! — now I know — yes — yes — I know These be the councillors — and you are Sforza, And that's Rossano — and I killed my brother To make you duke ! Yes, yes ! I sec it all ! — O God ! O God ! \_She covers her face, and zreeps Sfor. My lords, her reason rallies Little by little. With this flood of tears. Her brain's relieved, and she'll give over raving. — My wife ! Bianca ! If thou ever lovedst me. Look on my face ! Bian. O Sforza ! I have given. For thy dear love, the eyes I had to see it. The ears to hear it. I have broke my heart In reaching for't 1 Sfor. Ay — but 'tis- thine nozv, sweet one ! The life-drops in my heart are less dear to me. Bian. Too late ! You've crushed the light out of a gem You did not know the price of. Had you spoken But one kind word upon my bridal night ! — Sfor, Forgive me, my Bianca ! Bian. I am parched With thirst now, and my eyes grow faint and dim. — Are you here, Sforza ? Mourn not for me long. But bury me with Giulio ! [Starts from him. Hark ! I hear His voice now ! Do the walls of Paradise Jut over hell ? I heard his voice, I say ! \Strikes off Sforza, who approaches her. Unhand me, devil ! You've- the shape of one 472 G OLDEN LEAVES. Who upon earth had no heart ! Can you take No shape but that ? Can you not look hke Giulio ? [Sforza falls back, struck with remorse. Hark ! 'tis his low, imploring voice again : He prays for poor Bianca ! And look — see you ! The portals stir ! Slow, slow — and difficult — [Creeps Jorzuard, witk her eyes upward Pray on, my brother ! Pray on, Giulio ! I come ! [Falls on her face. — Sforza drops on his knee, pale and trembling Sfor, My soul shrinks with unnatural fear ! What heard I then ? *' Sforza, give up thy sword !" Was it from heaven, or hell ? [Shrinks as if from some spectre in the air. I will 1 I will ! [Holds out his sword, as if to the Monk ; and Sarpel- LioNE, who has been straining forward to watch Bianca, springs suddenly to her side. Sar. She's dead ! Ha ! ha ! — who's duke in Milan now ? [Sforza rises with a bound. Sfor. Sforza 1 [He flies to the window, and waves the handkerchief. The bell peals out, and, as he rushes to Bianca, she moves, lifts her head, looks wildly around, and struggles to her feet. Rossano gives her the crown ; she looks an instant smilingly on Sforza, and with a difficult but calm effort places it on his head. All drop on one knee, to do allegiance; and, as Sforza Ifts himself to his loftiest height, with a look of tri- umph at Sarpellione, Bianca sinks dead at his feet. Curtain falls. WILLIS. . 473 TORTESA, THE USURER. ToRTESA, a rich Usurer^ is about to ived Isabella, the Daughter of Count Falcone, ivho is deeply indebted to Tortesa. The Duchess of Florence is desirous of halving the Portrait of Isabella painted by Angelo, a young Artist. Angelo goes to the Palace o/" Falcone to execute the commission intrusted to him. Scene III. — An Apartment in the Falcone Palace. — An- gelo discovered listemng. Angelo. Did I hear footsteps? [He listens.] Fancy plays me tricks In my impatience for this lovely wonder ! Thdi wmdow's to the north ! The light falls cool. rU set my easel here, and sketch her. — Stay I How shall I do that ? Is she proud or sweet ? Will she sit silent, or converse and smile f Will she be vexed or pleased to have a stranger Pry through her beauty for the soul that's in it .? Nay, then I heard a footstep— she is here ! Enter Isabella, reading her Father's missive. Isabella. " The duke would have your picture for the duchess Done by this rude man, Angelo. Receive hi With modest privacy, and let your kindness Be measured by his merit, not his garb." Ang. Fair lady ! Isa. Who speaks ? Ang. Angelo ! Isa. You've come. Sir, To paint a dull face, trust me. Ang. [Aside.] Beautiful, Beyond all dreaming ! Lim 474 GOLDEN LEA VE S. ha. I've no smiles to show you. Not even a mock one. Shall I sit ? Ang. No, lady ; I'll steal your beauty while you move, as well ; So you but breathe, the air still brings to me That which outdoes all pencilling. ha. [Walking apart.] His voice Is not a rude one. What a fate is mine. When even the chance words on a poor youth's tongue. Contrasted with the voice which I should love. Seem rich and musical ! Afig. [To himself as he draws.] How like a swan. Drooping his small head to a lily-cup. She curves that neck of pliant ivory ! ril paint her thus ! ha. [Aside.] Forgetful where he is. He thinks aloud. This is, perhaps, the rudeness My father feared might anger me. Ang. What colour Can match the clear red of those glorious lips ? Say it were possible to trace the arches, Shaped like the drawn bow of the god of love — How tint them, after ? ha. Still, he thinks not of me. But murmurs to his picture. 'Twere sweet praise. Were it a lover whispering it, I'll listen. As I walk, still. Afig. They say, a cloudy veil Hangs ever at the crystal gate of heaven. To bar the issue of its blinding glory. So droop those silken lashes to an eye Mortal could never paint ! WILLIS. 475 Isa. There's flattery. Would draw down angels ! Aug. Now, what alchemy Can mock the rose and lily of her cheek ? I must look closer on't ! [Advancing. ~\ Fair lady, please you, I'll venture to your side. ha. Sir! Ang. [Exainining her cheek.] There's a mixture Of white and red here, that defeats my skill. If you'll forgive me, I'll observe an instant. How the bright blood and the transparent pearl Melt to each other. Is a. [Receding Jro}n him.] You're too free. Sir. Ang. [M^ith surprise.] Madam! Isa. [Aside,] And yet, I think not so. He must look on it. To paint it well. Ang. Lady ! the daylight's precious : Pray you, turn to me. In my study, here, I've tried to fancy how that ivory shoulder Leads the white light off from your arching neck, But cannot, for the envious sleeve that hides it. Please you, displace it. [Raises his hand to the sleeve. Isa. Sir, you are too bold ! Aiig. Pardon me, lady ! Nature's masterpiece Should be beyond your hiding, or my praise. Were you less marvellous, I were too bold ; But there's a pure divinity in beauty, ' Which the true eye of Art looks on with reverence. Though, like the angels, it were all unclad ! You have no right to hide it. Isa. How ! No right ? 4/6 G OLDEN LEAVES. Ang. 'Tis the religion of our art, fair madam. That, by oft looking on the type divine In which we first were moulded, men remember The heaven they're born to. You've an errand here. To show how look the angels. But, as Vestals Cherish the sacred fire, yet let the priest Light his lamp at it for a thousand altars. So is your beauty unassoiled, though I Ravish a copy for the shut-out world ! Isa. [Aside.^ Here is the wooing that should win a maid 1 Bold, yet respectful — free, yet full of honour ! J never saw a youth with gentler eyes ; I never heard a voice that pleased me more : Let me look on him ! Enter Tortesa, unperceived. Ang. In a form like yours, All parts are perfect, madam ; yet, unseen. Impossible to fancy. With your leave I'll see your hand ungloved. Isa. [Removing her glove.] I have no heart To keep it from you, Signor. There it is 1 Ang. [Taking it in his own.'] O God, how beautiful Thy works may be ! Inimitably perfect ! Let me look Close on the tracery of these azure veins. With what a delicate and fragile thread They weave their subtle mesh beneath the skin. And meet, all blushing, in these rosy nails ! How soft the texture of these tapering fingers I How exquisite the wrist ! how perfect all ! [Tortesa rushes forward. VvILLIS. ^77 Tor. Now have I heard enough ! Why, what are you. To palm the hand of my betrothed bride [to his work With this licentious freedom ? [Angelo turns composedly And you, madam ! With a first troth scarce cold upon your lips — Is this your chastity ? Isa. My father's roof Is o'er me ! I'm not your wife. Tor. Bought — paid for ! The wedding toward : have I no right in you ? Your father, at my wish, bade you be private : Is this obedience ? Isa. Count Falcone's will Has, to his daughter, ever been a law ; This, in prosperity — and now, when chance Frowns on his broken fortunes, I were dead To love and pity, were not soul and body Spent for his smallest need ! I did consent To wed his ruthless creditor for this ; I would have sprung into the sea, the grave. As questionless and soon ! My troth is yours ; But, I'm not wedded yet, and, till I am. The hallowed honour that protects a maid Is round me, like a circle of bright fire : A savage would not cross it — nor shall you ! I'm mistress of my presence. Leave me. Sir ! Tor. There's a possession of some lordly acres Sold to Falcone for that lily hand ; The deed's delivered, and the hand's my own ! I'll see that no man looks on't. Isa. Shall a lady Bid you begone twice ? 47^ GOLDEN LEAVES. Tor. Twenty times, iPt please you !" [painting, [She looks at Angelo, who continues tranquilly Is a. [Aside.l Does he not wear a sword ? Is he a coward, That he can hear this man heap insult on me. And ne'er fall on him ? Tor, Lady, to your chamber ! I have a touch to give this picture, here, [her by the arm. But want no model for't. Come, come ! [Offers to take Isa. Stand back ! [Aside.^ Now, will he see this wretch lay hands on me. And never speak ? He cannot be a coward ! No, no ! some other reason — not a coward ; I could not love a coward ! Tor. If you will. Stay where you're better missed — 'tis at your pleasure ; I'll hew your kisses from the saucy lips Of this bold painter — look on't, if you will ! And first, to mar his picture ! [He strikes at the canvas^ when Angelo suddenly draws y attacks , and disarms him. Ang. Hold ! What wouldst thou ? Fool ! madman ! dog ! what wouldst thou with my picture ? Speak ! — But thy life would not bring back a ray Of precious daylight, and I cannot waste it. Begone ! begone ! [and returns to his Picture. [ Throws Tortesa's szvordfrom the window^ I'll back to paradise ! 'Twas this touch that he marred. So — fair again ! Tor. [Going out.^ I'll find you. Sir, when I'm in cooler blood !— And, madam, you, or Count Falcone for you. Shall rue this scorn ! [Exit. SARGENT. 479 Is a. [Looking at Angelo.] Lost in his work once more : I shall be jealous of my very picture ! Yet one who can forget his passions so — Peril his life, and, losing scarce a breath. Turn to his high, ambitious toil again — Must have a heart for whose belated waking Queens might keep vigil ! Ang. Twilight falls, fair lady ! I must give o'er. Pray Heaven, the downy wing Ofits most loving angel guard your beauty ! Good-night ! [^Goes out, zvitk a low reverence. ha. Good-night ! [^Ske looks after him a moment, and then walks thoughtfully off the stage. €|3e0 Sargent. VELASCO: A TRAGEDY. ViLASCo, Son of tAe Count de Lerma, is betrothed to Izidora, Daugh- ter of Gonzalez. ^ long-standing Feud exists betiveen the Houses ofDE Lerma and Gonzalez, and the latter only yields his univilling consent at the command of his Sovereign. Hernando, Kinsman of Gonzalez, secretly loves Izidora, and, hoping to break off her ap- proaching Marriage, plays upon the credulity of Gonzalez, by false accusations against the Count de Lerma. A Street in Burgos. — Enter Gonzalez and Hernando. Gonzalez. Nay; do not fret me with ambiguous hints. We spake of old De Lerma ; and you said. It was the dotard's privilege to slander. — To slander whom .? — -the king .? yourself.? myself? ai* 4.8o GOLDEN LE AVES. You signify no negative to that. What is't, Hernando ? Speak with more direction. Hernando. My lord, you must forgive me. Press me not To more disclosures — for my peace and thine. Gon. Well, well ; 'twere better that it should not be. De Lerma and myself must soon be fathers To the same children. Her, That shall curb my speech. Let base Detraction slur thy honoured name ; Can I regard thee as less brave or loyal. Though others prate of cowardice and treason ? Gon. Those words were never coupled with my name ? Her. It happened thus : Dispute was running high Upon the German Emperor's new pretensions ; Some did admit them; but De Lerma cried — " If Henry claim dominion o'er Castile, Let him prove good his title by the sword ! And cursed be the cravens and the traitors Who would submit to such a vassalage !" " There are good men and true," was my reply, •"^ Who favour his pretensions." — **No, not one." — *' What sayst thou to Gonzalez ?" Gon. Ah ! what then ? He did not dare — Her. Ay, kinsman ; he did dare To stigmatize thee as a craven traitor. Gon. Hernando ! if thou playst me false, thy life Shall be an immolation to my fury ! [^Seizes him, and looks intently in his J ace. Her. I can bring proofs, my lord. Nay ; is this cour- teous ? Well : gives my face the lie to my assertion ? SARGENT. 481 Gon. How couldst thou dare, even in repetition, To breathe those words of me ? Her. My lord, forbear. 'Twas zeal for thine own honour made me bold. Gon. 7jtz\ for mine honour ! Venom of thy soul ! Her. Hold ! if thou dost not shrink from actual proof. Here comes De Lerma ; charge it home on him. If he deny it, spurn me as thou wilt. Gon. Leave me. Her. [Aside.^ The spark has caught ! it kindles fast : The conflagration blood alone can quench ! \^Exii' Gon. Should it prove true ! He comes ! I must keep down These throes of passion. [De Lerma enters, and is crossing. Sir ! a word with you. De Lerma. I am a listener — an impatient one — 'Twere best that this encounter should be brief. Gon. This haughtiness ! My lord, the King, 'tis safd, Refiises to admit the Emperor's claim. De Ler. Thank Heaven, the King's no recreant, no coward. But a Castilian, heart and hand, my lord : Would I might say the same of all his subjects ! Gon. Throw'st thou the taunt on me ? De Ler. Wherefore this rage. If thou art innocent ? Gon. De Lerma ! dotard ! [Half unsheathes his szvord, but distantly dashes it into the scabbard. No, no ! thou'rt old and feeble ; and our children — Oh, do not tamper with my desperation ! [In a sudden burst of passion.l Retract what thou hast said ! 4-82 GOLDEN LEAVES. Dc Ler. Not while the proofs Appear even now in all thy looks and actions. Gon. 'Tis false! Thou urgest me to frenzy — thus! [Strikes him.^ It will find vent ! De Ler. A blow ! dishonoured ! struck ! [Dratus.^ Defend thyself, ere I commit a murder. Gon. With thee FIl not contend : thy arm is nerveless. The odds are too unequal. De Ler. Then I rush Upon thee as thou art ! [As De Lerma rushes upon him, Gonzalez wrests away his sword, and throws it upon the ground. Gon. I spare thy life. De Ler, Oh ! spare it not, if mercy thou wouldst show ; Thou givest me back only what thou hast made A misery, a burden, a disgrace ! It is a gift for which I cannot thank thee. Gon. Keep it, my lord : and let this lesson teach. What thy gray hairs have failed to bring thee — prudence. [Exit. De Ler. [ Taking up his sword.'\ Thou treacherous steel! art thou the same, alas ! Of yore so crimsoned in the Moorish wars.? Methinks there should have been a soul in thee. The soul of victories and great achievements. To form a living instrument of vengeance. And, in the weakness of thy master's arm. To leap spontaneous to his honour's rescue. Go ! 'tis a mockery to wear thee now. [ Throws down his sword Struck like a menial ! buffeted, degraded. And baffled in my impotent attack ! SARGENT. 483 Fate ! O Time ! why, when ye took away From this right arm its cunning and its strength. Its power to shield from wrong, or to redress. Did ye not pluck from out this swelling heart Its torturing sense of insult and of shame ? 1 am sunk lower than the lowest wretch ! Oh, that the earth might hide me ! that I might Sink fathoms deep beneath its peaceful breast ! [Retires up the Stage, and leans against a pillar. Enter Velasco. VeL The peerless Izidora ! how my thoughts. Swept by the grateful memory of her love. Still bend to her like flowers before the breeze ! They paint her image on vacuity — They make the air melodious with her voice ! And she — the idol of my boyhood's dreams — is now mine own betrothed ! Benignant Heavens ! The gulf is passed which threatened to divide us. And the broad Future unobscured expands ! De Ler. [Advancing.'] Oh, be thy vauntings hushed ! VeL My father here ! There is distraction in thy haggard looks. Thou art not well. Let me support thee hence. De Ler. It is no corporal ill ! Art thou my son ? VeL My father ! De Ler. In thy feeble childhood, who Sustained thee, reared thee, and protected thee ? VeL It \vas thyself. De Ler. And, in thy forward youth. Who plumed thy soul for glory's arduous flight ? 4^4 GOLDEN LEAVES. Instructed thee, till in thy martial fame Thou didst eclipse thy master ? Vel. Thou alone ! And in thy waning age, this arm shall be Thy shield and thy support ! De Ler. Thou art my son ! Velasco, from a haughty ancestry We claim descent : whose glory it has been. That never one of their illustrious line Was tainted with dishonour. Yesterday That boast was true — it is no longer true ! Vel. No longer true ! Who of our race, my lord. Has proved unworthy of the name he bears ? De Ler. I am that wretch. Vel, Thou! father? De Ler. Ay. I thought Thou wouldst shrink from me as a thing accursed ! 'Tis right — I taught thee. Thou but mind*st my dictates — But do not curse me ; for there was a time. When I had felled him lifeless at my feet ! The will was strong, although the nerveless arm Dropped palsied to my side. Vel. My father ! speak ! Explain this mystery. De Ler. I have been struck ; Degraded by a vile and brutal blow ! Oh, thou art silent ! Thou wilt not despise me ? Vel. Who was the rash aggressor ? He shall die I Nay, 'twas some serf — there's not the gentleman In all Castile would lay an unkind hand Upon thy feebleness. Then, do not think Thyself disgraced, my honourable father. SARGENT. 485 More than if smitten by a lion's claw, A horse's hoof — the falling of a rafter ! Know's't thou the offender's name ? De Ler. Alas ! no serf. No man of low degree, has done this deed : The aggressor is our equal. Vel. Say'st thou so ? Then, by my sacred honour, he shall die ! De Ler. Thou wilt hold true to that ? Vel. Have I not said ? Were it the King himself, who dared profane A single hair upon thy reverend brow, I would assail him on his guarded throne. And with his life-blood stain the marble floor ! De Ler. Thou noble scion of a blighted stock ! I yet am strong in thee. Thciu shalt avenge This ignominious wrong. Vel. Who did it ? Speak ! De Ler. Gonzalez did it. Vel. No, no, no ! the air In fiendish mockery syllabled that name. It was a dreadful fantasy ! My lord — De Ler. Pedro Gonzalez. Vel. Izidora's father ! De Ler. Oh ! thou hast other ties. I did forget. Go. Thou'rt released, Vel. There must be expiation ! Oh, 1 am very wretched ! But fear not. There shall be satisfaction or atonement ! De Ler. Thou say'st it. To thy trust I yield mint honour. [^Exit. Vel. While the proud bird soared to the noonday sun. ^96 GOLDEN LEAVES. The shaft was sped that dashed him to the earth ! 'Twas winged by Fate ! 'Tis here ! I cannot shrink From the appalling sense that it is real ! This throbbing brain, this sick and riven heart. These shudders, that convulse my very soul. Confirm the dreadful truth. But oh, to think Of all the wretchedness 'twill bring on her. Her, whose glad tones and joy-bestowing beauty Seemed doubly glad and beautiful to-day ; Whose little plans of happiness — Great Heavens . It will affright her reason — drive her mad ! It must not be ! And yet, my father wronged. Insulted by a blow — the proud old man. Who fourscore years has kept his fame unblurred. Now to be so disgraced, and no redress ! My honour calls. It drowns all other cries ; Love's shrieking woe, and Mercy's pleading voice ! Thus, thus I cast them off — poor suppliants ; And now, Gonzalez, for revenge and thee ! [^Exit. Velasco challenges Gonzalez, and slays him. Izidora refuses to marry the Murderer of her Father ; hut, constrained by the commands of the King, she at length consents to ived Velasco. Julio, her Brother, indignant at her compliance, determines to poison Velasco at the Nup- tial Feast, Tke Royal Banquet-Room. — A hanqueting tabic, superbly set out with vessels of wine, goblets, ^c. — Enter Tulio through the folding doors. Julio. How like a cautious, trembling, guilty thing, 1 gUde with stealthy paces towards my purpose ! Can that be good, of which the outward signs SARGENT. 487 Are the thief's posture and the coward's tread ? Away, reflection ! 'Tis too late to waver When half the crime is in th' intent committed. Decision gives a virtue even to vice. And gilds its black deformity. Oh, think Of all the fierce incentives to the act ! Quick, or the occasion's gone ! \^He advances rapidly towards the table — hesitates as he IS about to poison the goblety and finally, recoiling from the undertaking, rushes to the front of the Stage. Was I struck blind ? Ere I could do the deed, a shadow fell On all around me ; and the flashing board Changed to fiinereal blackness ! Indistinct Was every object to my blasted sight ; And the gemmed goblet faded, and the floor Sank in and reeled like the sea's undulations ! I'll not renew the attempt. l^A burst of sprightly music is heard Jrom a distance. Ah, they approach ! With dulcimer and cymbal, they approach. — Ghost of my slaughtered father ! now transfuse Into this frame thy immaterial essence ! Nerve the obedient muscles of mine arm. And be thine own avenger ! [He again approaches the goblet, and with a steady hand infuses the poison. Just as he is turning . from the perpetration of the deed, Carlos and Izi- DORA appear at the door in the background. The former, after a significant gesture, withdraws ; and the latter comes forward unperceived by Julio, and 488 G OLDEN LEAVES. lays her hand upon him^ which causes him to start with terror. It is done ! Izidora. What hast thou done ? Jul. Sister ! what have I done ? Izi. Ay ; there is no evasion ; for I know What thou hast done. Art thou my brother, Julio ? Undo thy foul attempt ! undo it quickly. Or, by my hopes of heaven, I will proclaim it ! J-ul. Hold ! 'tis my turn to be obdurate now. Dare to reveal it, and the lightning's flash Is not more nimble than this steel shall be To make my vengeance certain. Hush ! they come. Izi. My brother ! do not — I will — stop these — Jul. Hush ! \^He supports her. Enter, to music. King Ferdinand, with Yei.a%co, followed by De Lerma, Favillo, Carlos, Ladies, Knights, and Banner-bearers, who form in the background. Fer. Julio ! thy prompt compliance claims our thanks. I bring to thee a brother. In that pledge. Which is the sacred symbol of forgiveness. Greet ye each other first. Then, trumpets, sound ! And let us all hail the propitious union In flowing cups. Jul. My liege, my heart goes with it : — And I will play the Ganymede myself [He leaves Izidora, who stands motionless and uncon- scious, but gradually revives as Velasco speaks. ]\jiAo fills two goblets, and hands the poisoned one to Velasco, who replaces it on the board so abruptly as to excite Julio's apprehensions lest he is aware of the treachery. But Velasco advances and frankly offers him his hand. SARGENT. 489 Vel. Julio ! thy hand ! Thou makest me, by this act. Bankrupt in gratitude. I slew thy father — My honour forced me, while my heart revolted ! I will requite thee with a brother's kindness. Cherish thy sister with a parent's care. And with a lover's duty. — To our union ! \^As Velasco lifts the goblet, Izidora utters a faint exclamation, which, arrests his hand. Jul. [Aside to Izidora.] Beware ! Vel. What says the bride ? Jul. 'Twas naught — the joy — The transport. — Come ! our union ! Izi. [Seizing the goblet from Velasco.]- Give it me. [Trembling she returns the goblet to the cup-bearer. Vel. What wouldst thou, Izidora ? Izi. Taste it not. Thou wouldst not quaff before the bride has sipped ? Jul. I'll not be thwarted by thee. Fer. Ah ! Prevent him. Jul. My father aims the blow ! It is Gonzalez ! [As Izidora springs to meet Velasco, he falls at her feet. Izi. [Bending over him. ^ O fatal treason! terrible re- venge ! Vel. Thy love supports me — and thy arm enfolds me— My ebbing sight heaves its last glance on thee ; — Thus dying, death is grateful. Oh, farewell 1 [Dies Izi. Are ye all speechless ? I should be, were't not I know that I full soon shall follow him. Faint — very faint ! [Seizes the poisoned goblet. ■ Here's that which shall revive me ! [Drains it. Jul. It is the poisoned goblet ! Izi. Not a drop 4-90 GOLDEN LEAVES. Remains for thee. [Gazing upon Velasco. Alas, my only love ! The brave, the glorious, and the beautiful ! In death we are united — never more To part ! The expiation is complete. [She sinks gradually from the arms of her Brother towards Velasco, and dies. (lovndius illatt)eu)0. witchcraft: a tragedy. AmblA Bodish, a Resident of Saletriy during the Persecution for Witch- craft in that Town, at the end of the Seventeenth Century, from her eccentric Habits, becomes one of the " Suspected.'''' Scene — Ambla's Cottagty in Salem. Ambla Bodish, Gideon [her Son). Ambla. What ! Gideon ! — returned so soon, and sad ? Gideon, O mother 1 the fields are, somehow, very dark To-day, and I came back, because I had not heart To wander far away from you. Amb. Come hither to my heart, my son. Gid. Mother, Why is't I cannot live, except with you ? — When last I went forth with the hunters to the woods. Whose wandering quest kept us abroad all night, I slept not, nor thought of sleep : before me You stood, and in your eyes I lived, as though They looked upon me — morning took you from me ; I thought I would have died, finding you not. Amb. Be calm, my son, nor love me too much. MATHEWS. 491 Gid. Too much ! — The universe can hold it not ! When from your hand I go, I die a death At every step ; you seem to hold the roof-tree With your arm, to hang above the fields and whiten them ; Nor could I through the noonday harvest toil. Knew I your lap would not in peace receive My weary head when night draws on. Amb. But now, no harvest asks you to be weary — The golden sheaves stand silent in the field; This is an idle day with us, Gideon, Between the cutting and the garnering of the grain. And here is something new for you to look on — Images of the old time which I found Deep in the dusky mould of Maple Hill. Gid. [Regarding them. ^ Clay images of men. Or more than men .? Amb. All that, my son : And as old Time cannot chatter their names. We'll in this idle hour new-name them ; Salem is worthy of such gods, and has them. Gid. What, graven images of men and neighbours. Hard by, here in the fields ? — ^Hurrah, mother ! Amb. Why, to be sure, son. Gid. Who's this — this one of mighty port And dignity ? Amb. That's surely the Deacon ; A sturdy gentleman of solemn gait. Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch Is full and hungry ever, his step demure And confident as though he trod, always. On holy pavements, or pavements made so By his walking of them. 492 G OLDEN LEAVES. Gid. And who is this ? Amb, The Justice, to be sure ; For don't you see he knits his brow at nothing ? Gid. Here's one with his ears cropped, his eyes bored out, And half a nose ! Amb. Little Pudeater, who runs With Justice Fisk — the little foolish moon To that great planet. Although I sport with them. These somehow have a power to waken Darkling thoughts, and are the images To summon forth, linked as they are with hours Of soUtary pangs, that which should sleep ! [Muttering to herself.] Another at this hour should sit with us — The father of this boy — slain by these hands, Although there is no blood upon them. Back, Pale corpse, and mangled limbs, back to the grave ! Rise not, and walk not thus, before my sight — Oh, I have brought these darts upon myself! [Pause. Gid. Mother, you answered a question I did not ask. As though another were here beside ourselves. Amb. I'm old, you know, my son, and, shaken by the past. Talk at times, it seems, I know not to whom. Gid. Your hands do waver as I never saw them yet. [ With a changed look.] Mother, I would not have these dismal things Within the house. Who knows but wicked thoughts May think you worship them ? and Rumour, once born. Has children and great children beyond account. Amb. Fie, fie, Gideon ! they're better useful : Whene'er I have hard thoughts of Justice, Deacon, MATHEWS. 493 Or the poor Pudeater, I'll think them of these Little counterfeits, and they shall pass away. Topsfield. [Calling without.'] Gideon ! in there — Gid- eon — come forth the house ! Gid. [At the zvindozu.'] What want you ? Come in. — Ah, Thomas, Simon — there are seats within ! — I'll come to the door. Tops. [Without.] Do you, and bring your gun; — a panther's On the path, — quickly — we can see him yet. Come on and overtake us. Gid. My musket ! Under the ledge ! Ah, here it is. [Returns and takes his Mother's hand. — Voices again. Amb. [Gives Gideon his hat.] They shout for you again, Gideon ; Hasten, or you will lose their track. Gid. I linger, strangely, when I should make speed. Dear mother, I fear, I know not what ; But ere the sundown flashes in the west. My musket shall go back, and I sit down With you. Tops. [Without.] Gideon — Gideon! Gid. I come — I come ! [Exit Gideon. A7nb. Joy, while I live, to have his young love poured Around me thus ! joy, to behold his looks Inclined on mine alone ! joy, thus to have His heart for mine — for mine ! But when I die. When I am gone, as now I strangely feel I soon shall be — the hour of shadow nears me — Oh, on what bank shall all the violets And the clustering tendrils of his life repose ? Where rest his head ? Where bloom his eager hopes ? — 494 GOLDEN LEAVES They must go out in blight and darkness. Without hope of light. — O aching heart ! Should I disclose the secret of my grief To Gideon, forever would I lose His filial love. — Peace, peace ! — away, away ! — Dark om^ns of the future, join the dread Phantoms of the fearful past, and let me rest. Circumstances increase the suspicions of the Townspeople against Ambla. Gideon, too^ is alarmed at his Mother'' s Beha-viour ; and Susanna, a young Girl belo'ved by him^ also becomes afraid of Ambla. Chambei in Ambla Bodish's House. — Enter Gideon. Gid. Throughout the hunt they looked at me With strangeness, yet something of the old Fellowship too. What horrible surmise is this, That swinjs into my brain, and swallows reason .? Knew I in member, joint, or corner of the soul. Where hirks this boding, I would pluck it thence. Though life leaped after. They parted with me As in fear, not of my arm or malice-stroke. But as if they'd sever themselves apart. From at) atmosphere of dreadfiilness I bore a'jout me. My mother! — Never! [He falls back. Though all the stars turned black upon the face Of Night — though back the true-orbed sun should roll In heaven, and every evil voice cry out — rd hav^: these eye-balls seared, or not believe it! Let the fear sleep, till some sufficient hand Shall V ike it. pMter Ambla, followed by Deacon Gidney. Dca. G, I should be sorry to know your age was racked MATHEWS. 495 With pain, and vexed with old unquietness. Sleep you well o' nights ? Amb, I am thankful for the rest I find; and if the other villagers Take what I lose, I am thankful still. Dea. G. You seek your bed Early, I hope, as doth become your age ? Amb. A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation At the down-falling of the sun, and I Am lapped in sleep. Dea. G. Dream you much now. My aged friend ? We, at our age — that is, at yours — Sometimes forego our dreams. Amb. I have not dreamed a dream For three-and-twenty years, except awake. Gid. [Aside.l What means this visit Of this cold, gloomy, and malignant man ? He does not think it worth his while to notice me. Dea. G. Was there no vision in your sleep last night ? You heard of Margaret Purdy's death, at Groton .? Her spectre, 'tis given out, passed o'er this house Of yours, in a white flame, at midnight. Amb, An angel she, to honour so this low. Unworthy roof. Dea. G. You think well, then, of her, do you ? She was no praying woman, I am told ; Had seasons nor times of audible appeal. A77ib. There is a silent service. Sir, I've heard It said, keeps up its worship at the heart. Although the lips be closed. Dea. G. What ! prayer irregular and chance-begot I Sad orthodoxy ! — I, Deacon Perfect Gidney, 4g6 GOLDEN LEAVES. An humble pattern to this lowly parish. Am used to have a somewhat different way : I snufF my nightly candle with a prayer, And with a steady prayer wind up my watch ; And go to prayer at striking of the clock — The great one, my learned grandfather's gift. In the hall ; and kindle with a slow prayer My morning fire. Surmise seizes on me Suddenly — Is all right ? When do you pray ? What season set ? Gid. [Advancing. '\ Who made you interrogator of this Aged woman, and of her inmost hours Disposer ? I tell you, for every evil Question asked, there shall a hair grow white Before its day, upon your scoffer's head ! [devils in you ! Dea. G. Whom have we here ? — Young man, there's You threaten, do you ? We'll see, we'll see. [Looking sternly at Gideon.] I, Deacon Perfect Gidney, bid thee aroint ! What brimstone whiff is that beats down the chimney? 1 am not here except of choice, and therefore May go whene'er I choose. Desire to hold me not ! If you are the devil, or the devil's messenger. We'll try a bout with you. He's angry, we know : He meant to have the New World for his own. Nor let the tent-poles of God's holy roof Be pitched ever on its green floor. Gid. 'Tis you who do the devil's work most eagerly ; Why defile you this fresh New World, this air That blossoms sweetly, unwooed by any But the blest presence of free men, and things As free, with droppings of your filthy hands } MATHEWS. 497 Dea. G. I know your father, boy : [Pointing down. Though he let loose his forty thousand Fiercest sons, he'll find his match, I reckon. Gid. What snare is this you set about An aged woman's way ? Dea. G. Ha ! ha ! you feel me on your hip, Satan ! Thou devilish woman, and young man no less. Though overmastered by that aged wickedness, I see — Gid. You see an aged woman, it is true ; Her walk has, haply, been apart from yours. But not, I hope, from God^s ; her lowly voice. Not often in the sanctuary heard. Has whispered, perchance, where 't has been hearkened to ; And when she falls, though Israel fall not With her, some silent place will miss her; Out of these woods, and from these stillnesses, A power with her may pass, bearing a light away. Dea, G. Blasphemer ! she's not angel, or spirit Anointed, that you dare bespeak her thus ! I have command here/ and should know her rank. Gid. Unholy man, the Holiest that sits Above, gives her a place, and you ! and while With cherubim she rides the heavenly air, You, beast-like, plough the earth with the nose. Dea. G. 'Tis very good, young man — exceedingly ! You boldly hold at naught all parish powers. And bear this woman in their face. Amb. I bear myself, and at the accounting Will answer for myself. Gid. And answer you for yours ! Dark or bright, I think the All-merciful 4.98 GOLDEN LEAVES. May take her rightly by the hand, while you. Left-smitten, reeling. He sends down the abyss. Dea. G. O Heaven uphold Us, a weak, humble Deacon in Thine house ! The evil-doer smite, and bend the haughty Neck of every unbelieving Thomas ! — The traps are yet to be upsprung in strength : The toils begin to close about you. \^Exit Deacon Gidney. Gid. He means us harm, mother, but what, I know not. Amb. I care not, my son. Enter Susanna. Susanna. Good-morrow, Mother Bodish. Gid. Why call you my mother. Mother Bodish ? Mistress, or aunt, or goodwife, are the names Alone she's borne in Salem thirty years ! Christen your babes anew, Susanna, And let the aged live in old respects. Sus. Your tongue is cruel-edged, to-day ; I had a kindness in my thought, Gideon. Gid. Then show it in your speech, nor Gideon me. Sus. Be soothed — be soothed ! — Amb. By what road came you hither, Susanna ? Sus. Along the chief highway. Amb. Who met you — any ? Sus. Against the orchard, Goodwife Prawl accosted me. And there were many other village -women Moving on toward the Deacon's house : The Deacon too passed me, just now, angrily. Amk He did ? Sus. He did — But, Gideon, be not angry you with me ; 31 A THEWS. 499 Why loses your voice the music of the spring-time Long ago ? why grow cold your eyes upon me ? Where is the little hand of childish help Vou used to give me once, dear Gideon ? Where the soft word and sweetly blissful look Of pleased encouragement, when gathered we Together such wandering flowers as these I bring you, from the sun-bank by the brook ? Gid. I want them not, Susanna. Sus. Though you'll not take them from my hand. They shall remain, and, in some gentler hour. Remind you of her that gathered them — [Goes to the table to deposit them. Who oft with you has harvested the fields Of all their beauty, and from the hills and plains. Together, gleaned with you such toys as these — No — no — not like to these :— I pray you, what's this, A rude, unsightly shape of hideous clay — What do you, Gideon, with such foolish things ? [Ambla, who has been ruminating, suddenly breaks out into violent speech and gesture. Amb. Is this the handiwork you have been taught, To scorn past time, and dally with forbiddenness ? Put back that image, child, or Pll do that — Who reverences not the Past, Hereafter Shall not reverence, nor hold to have had A present time ! Sus. [In alarm.'\ What have I done ? Unspeak your words, I do entreat ; spare me that curse, which might Undo me, to the doomsday ! I kneel and beg — Gid. Get up, you silly girl, and go your ways ! :;oo GOLDEN LEAVES. My mother was a devil when you came. And now she is a god. — Good mother. We will withdraw farther within our house, \and Ambla. And let her nurse her fancies by herself \Exeunt Gideon Sus. A double anguish my morning steps have wrought, Of more and less. Nothing he has to give, And she too much. What mighty woe's at hand r What ruin rushes on this ancient house ! I am bewildered and affrighted ! Relief I'll seek in the free air, still blue and bright With heaven's own light, out of the circle Of dark Ambla's look and arm of power. [Exit Susanna. Gideon determines to dissol've his connection ivith Sl'SANna, /;/ ctnse- quencg of the suspicions attached to his Mother* s Character. A Garden. — Susanna and Gideon discovered. Gid. Oh, pardon each ungentle word I e'er Have spoken, and listen to me now I Svs. Gideon, you are not free to speak. But underneath a tyranny you live. Which rules the very glances of your eyes. Gid. I am not free to speak ? — I am and will ! You are the crown of all things beautiful, Susanna I When glow your cheeks, the sunset Flashes in them ', the lovely heaven is In your eyes ; and in your sweet motions live The glad boundings of the springy deer ! Sus. You are constrained, by power you cannot stem, To speak thus now. You love me not. Gid» No, no, Susanna ; 'tis the free utterance Of a heart too long o'ercharged. Truly, The love I bear for you, and long have borne — MA THE WS. 501 But kept concealed within the darkness Of my heart, — is more than mortal. It hath Conditions of increase, yea, speedier Than the free bird's wing, more large than all The great wood's summer growth, and deeper Than the infinite sea ! I know not how it grew ; Whether as trees do in their natirre ; By miracle of swift surprise it came. As doth the wild cloud, now seen not, now filling All sight — blinding, bewildering, and possessing All the universe — full of delightful Agitations, with magic in them. Sus. Oh, there it is ! Forego this violent joy. Gid. I would not give its balmy pains, Susanna, For calmest health ; its pangs delicious. Troubles fiill of joy, wakenings electrical At dead of night. Sus. An evening shower makes morning brighter ! You look more cheerful than I ever knew you, Gideon — fairer to mine eye. And ruddier far ! Gid. I must not look so — more. Sus. You must, and shall, and ever will. Gid. [Aside.] The fatal spell still clouds her faculty ! She must dismiss this love, which is a weight To drag my mother down. — Susanna, Knew you what I have known, had heard what I Have heard, to shake pure Nature from her seat. And cast her powers into a fearful ecstasy. You would not wish to join your tender fortunes With mine. Sus, You know not that, Gideon. $02 G OLDEN LEAVES. Gid. It must be so. By all the love I bear And plead to you — turn, elsewhere turn your love ! Oh, to some other give thy gentle heart ! Sus. Never ! — wouldst thou have me, Gideon, In this hour of bliss, ere it is a minute old. Banish so sweet a dream ? Gid. Leave me, Susanna ! for, each moment That thou tarriest here, the despotism Grows. Go hence, forever ! Sus. No more these garden paths to walk In happy hope ? I cannot, Gideon. Gid. Leave me, rash girl ! why will you linger ! Look not upon me — turn your face away. Sus. Gideon, thy heart is troubled, and I Will cling to thee. — Shall woman fly, now for the first Since Eve that elder garden walked, from him She loves^— when sorrow frets his brow ? Gid. ■ By these dark times our nature all is changed Oh, would that bitter words were needed not ! If e'er again this threshold thou dost cross — If e'er again thy face is towards me turned — If e'er in love thou thinkest more of me — (I'd spare thee this, did not another life 'Dearer than life demand the holy sacrifice) — May heaviest curses light upon thy brow ! Thy young blood grow cold, and chill thee In the summer's prime ! — Depart, Susanna ! Sus. And must I then leave thee, Gideon ? Gid. Depart, I eay, in peace — while there is any peace Betwixt us. Delay not, lest I curse thee now ! Sus. The heaviest hour of all my life has come ! [Exit Susanna. MATHEWS. 503 Gtd. The very blackness I would rend, doubles Its folds ! Is there no hope, in man nor Heaven, That I must stand, dry of its blissful help. As if no rain of mercy ever fell ? Amba ^.relates to h«r Son the Story of her Life. Ambla and Gideon discovered. — Gideon, in an attitude of affectionate attcntiony kneeling at the side of Am^\.a, Ambla. It was this stony, stubborn, mountain-towering That kept me dumb to you. Though I beheld [pride, Your pale young face, and saw your troubled steps, It would not let me speak and tell you all ; But best it is that you should know it, now : Re-word it as I will, it shakes my soul. — Your father, Gideon, was a haughty man, Severe, yet fond. He thought that I had sinned Against his love, with that gay paramour. Who was no more — than birds are to the tree They hover o'er — to me, who lived in mine Own thoughts, above suspicion's climbing. Alas !— Gid. Did my father ne'er reproach you With his doubts ? Amb. Not in a breath ; but in his stern. Calm, silent way, he called his enemy (As he would have him) to the fatal test : They fought — a word from me had saved his hfe ! — I Uved with cold Disdain, counselled with her. In all my acts. The morning when they were To meet, and met, shone like a bride new dressed ; But never more such morning came to me — He fell ! 22* 504 GOLDEN LEAVES. Gid. Mv father ? Amb. [Agitated,^ He did. Oh, blackest hour. That bred a thousand and a thousand like you ! Gid. Be calm, dear mother ; you smote him not. Amb. I did ! — it was My silence winged, with gliding and sure death. The aim that never, never had been made. If I had willed and wished to stay it. Oft, oft do I recall that dreadful time. In all its minutes of tremendous woe : I see, as then, your father move — a towered man. Strong in the life of youth intrenched within His manly form — towards the bloody field ; I watch the hours, I count the mournful clock — Now, now the blow is struck ! and now I see him. As wide the yellow sun streams ghastly down. Come back, a mangled corpse, and not a man ! Frenzy and wildness seize upon my brain. And the gaunt shape of him I sacrificed To my most wicked pride, before me stands. Even now, dressed in the sanguine colours Of that dreadful hour ! — Shield me, shield me, Gideon, From the awful form ! Gid, *Tis but the vision of your troubled mind : Still and subdue this sea-like grief, dear mother ! You have rendered long and ample quittance For your slight act of inconsiderate pride ; *Tis this which shakes your steps, darkens your looks By day, makes solitary walks and the mooned night Your friend ; I thought, and, trembling, feared 'twas thus (And yet I smile, to think 'tis this, and not The other) — for I alone have heard you. MATHEWS. 505 When you knew it not, mutter often In sleep, and, even waking, drop words by chance. That showed a soul disturbed with such remorse. A7nh, So caused and so allowed by me, your father's death, My son, has been an ever-living dagger To my heart, shining with dreadful light. Flashing the past anew, and quick withdrawn And quick returned, to pierce me only deeper : The world we lived in lost its spell for me — I daily moved, a loathed and loathsome thing; In silence and in throngs, in all assemblages Of peace, or prayer, or strife, was left to stand Apart, feeding upon my pangs, and drinking Memory's bitterest seas to the bottom ! Gid. Pass, pass, dear mother, pass that hour. Amb. I fled the city where we then were dwelling. Glad to abjure its hateful stones forever. And sped alone with you, my only hope And stay, in hand, smiling upon my way, To this lone wilderness (lone then it was, A greenness unspotted with a human home). Familiar with the woods and open fields. And sky and stars, and spirits, if such there be. That walk them all. Gid, Unaccompanied -vs ere you in this wild place. This lonesome, mournful, penitential wilderness ? Amb. By none, save you, who prattled only then. And had not risen to boyish speech : you're all That came with me into this world of woods, xA.re all in all to me, and ever have been. — In my mind's wildering pangs I often sought, Vet innocentlv communion with the thoughts 5o6 GOLDEN L EA VE S. And fancies of the unseen world — have willed. Or dreamed, or known beings, that others saw not Gid. I fear you, mother, yet T love — These things may be, and yet they may not. Amb. Be they or not, what deacon formal Or earthy magistrate shall stay or speed them ? Gid. O mother, put not your body in peril Of their chains, although your spirit walk the stars. Pure as their light, when first it shone ! Amb. Were but mine eye purged clear of all dimness Got of the earth — think you I could not see. Each hour, spirits of blest and perfect men Walk up and down this green before our door. Beneath yon woody trees, or entering at times This low sad shed of ours, to talk with me. As did the angels in the olden time ? Gid. Pve sometimes, mother. Thought a fire shone in your eyes that burned up Space and all its clogging motes, and looked Whither they would. They're milder now 1 Amb. Spirits possess the earth till men, cities. And habitations of gross clay, uprear thereon : They haunt this uncontaminated scene More than old regions with their towers. And smoky streets, and angry piles of war. From the old time these things have been, and shall They be no more ? Spirits affect, or may. This beautiful fair land, dewy, and new. And suitable, in dark or bright, to their blest ways. — Hark ! Gideon, hear you no trumpet sounding ? Gid. [In amaze.'] I hear nothing. Amb. The air is musical not far from this, — - MATHEWS. 507 No mortal playing ! Unstop your ears, and be of faith ! Behold, In ecstasy and not in pain, it vanishes Toward the wood, where the soft-dropping cloud Kisses the leaves. We'll forth and follow it. Gid. l^Aside.l I sec that time and grief have swerved her mind ; Her age and troubles need my arm, and she Shall have it, defence against the world, and all The world, in its worst wickedness, can bring ! — I fear it, mother 1 A7nb. Fear it ? — you do not hear it yet. It takes its way each afternoon toward The hill; and I pursue it. Come, G'Jeon. Ambla, apparelled to go forth, encounters, at the dvor, PuDEATER, the Officer. Pudeater. Ha ! ha ! I have you in the very nick. Just as your wings are spread to fly. Mistress. [Seizes Ambla. '^ideon. What mean you. Sirrah Pudeater ? Pud. I mean she is arrested, under warrant Of the worshipful Justice Fisk. Gid. What ! for a Pud. The same : I take her As a common witch. Gid. Shall I smite down This idiot to the ground, or will you go ? Pud. Strike not me. Master Gideon; — I'm not To be struck, the warrant says. Amb. I go, Gideon ! But tarry you, nor step within the snare. 5o8 G OLDEN LEAVES. Tarry thou here, Gideon : observe a strict And temperate way within these humble walls ; And kindly think of all thine old mother's Foregone life, as of a dream. Gid, Could all the firmament of stars Remain on one side heaven, refusing To force their way, into the other dark, I might : whither you go, I go. Let the same bolt pierce both our hearts ! Amb. My son, the aspect you turn on me now — Less strange and ominous — makes this following A pleasure. — [ To Pudeater.] Lead forth ; we wait on you ! Gid, [Aside.] A pleasure that, cloud-like, wraps a thun- Within. The following of a cold hearse is sad, [der's pang Or a friend's footsteps flying o'er the sea. Ne'er to return, or him who wanders in his mind. Lost in the wilderness : sadder than all, A mother held to earth by sacred bonds Of love, or snatched into a realm forbidden. When wicked men possess the judgment-seat. Which shall prevail ? who knows ? — Alas ! alas ! [Exeunt. Ambla is brought to Trialj and is convicted of Witchcraft. She is sentenced to Execution. The place of Execution. — Ambla Bodish, with. Officers and Deacon Gidney, Justice Fisk, Topsfield, Bray- BROOK, Pudeater, a part of the Populace, Goodwife Prawl, &c. Ambla standing in the centre, under a tree — against which a ladder leans — with the Justice and Deacon. When the Scene changes, the Characters slowly fall into position. Deacon G. [ To the Crowd.] Stand back — and let the law, duly adjudged. MA THE WS. 509 Seize hold upon this infamous woman ! — Make room, there ! nor crowd on us. Your Magistrates would deal justice becomingly. [Voices zvithout.] We cannot hold him! Dea. G. What uproar's that ? Enter Blacksmith. Blacksmith. 'Tis Gideon Bodish struggles with the offi- cers. As though he had the strength of fifty men. Enter, violently, Gideon Bodish, followed by Officers, Crowd, 6?c. Gid. Away ! away ! Ye cannot keep me back. Though all the unchained fiends should second you ! With her Pll die — fixed by her side, immovably. [Going to his Mother.'] Fear not, mother — they shall not part us ; I'll be a rock 'gainst which this angry surf Of men shall dash and fall to nothingness. Amb, My son, enrage them not — Draw not their wrath on thee : here let it fall ; My aged head is ready for the blow — Oh, stay it not, for fear it crush thee too ! My child, I feel the icy hand of Death Is on my heart : I soon shall be beyond Their cruel power. Dea G. Do you obstruct the law ? — Officers, go on To instant execution ! If he bar you. Cut him down ! Gid. Ay, cut mc down, and her ! tear us in pieces — Trample beneath your feet with demon power. 510 GOLDEN LEAVES. And rack us as you will, in baffled hate — She shall not die the felon's tainted death ! Strike — strike us both, as rooted here we stand ! Spectres have scared you — ye are spectres ! seem Men, and are not men. More cruel are ye. In your rage, than witch-wielded whips of iron ; In your soulless faces, more hideous far Than clay images, swarthy and magical. And aisles of apparitioned murderers ! — See you, — a mother, here, most pure, most holy. And here a son, whose heart heaves its red bank Against your coming — advance upon us ! Here's merely age and youth, against you all : A verdict of our own we make, a death To die, above your blind and bigot law ! * Dea. G. Kill him, if he dare resist! Mad youth. Hold off, or the black doom shall smite your head With hers ! Gid. E'en in this hour of dreadest woe, I laugh at you ! We are prepared to fall, but not as you Would have us. She shall not die a witch's Death ; no hangman's infamous hand shall fret Away her holy life. She is no witch. But my dear mother still, to whom is due All this arm's strength. Black. Down with Gideon Bodish ! down with him ! Enter Jarvis Dane. J or vis. Ay, down with him ! He has earned it well : The wronged Susanna's dead, within this hour. By her own frenzied hand, on Maple Hill. He was the damned cause of her sad fate ! MES. RITCHIE. 511 r looked upon her pale young corpse ; I swore I'd have revenge — and thus I seek it ! Carpenter. Spare him no longer; down with him ! [ The Populace, with, Jarvis Dane, rush upon Gideon, who, defending himself and Ambla, is overpowered, and falls, pierced by the szuord of Dane. With a cry of alarm, Ambla sinks on her knees by the side of Gideon. Amb. O God ! they've slain my boy, my hope, my all. The darling of my age ! [Throws herself on the body. Dea. G. Lift you the woman from her dead son : let The law hold on its course. [They raise Ambla; her head falls on her breast. Topsjield, The work is done : she is beyond the law. Gid. [Reviving.^ Mother ! where art thou, mother ? — O Heaven, she's dead ! Raise me, and let, once more. My fading lips press hers, once more, once more — [Dies. 2lnna €ova iHotDatt (fUra. Hitcfjie). ARMAND ; OR, THE PEER AND THE PEASANT. Blanche, a Daughter of the Duke pk Richelieu, by a secret Mar- riage, is brought up in privacy, as the reputed Kinsivoman of Ba- BETTi, a Peasant. Here she is seen by Louis XV. of France^ ivho pursues her nvith dishonourable intentions. Blanche, unconscious of her real Parentage, has bestoived her affections on Armand, a young Peasant. Blanche, engaging in all the sports of the Villagers, -with tvhom she has been associated from infancy, is chosen ** Shieen of May" Blanche, Babette. Babette. Blanche ! Blanche ! — Is Blanche coming ? ?12 G OLDEN LEAVES. Enter Rlanche. Blanche. Yes, dame, here is Blanche. Bab, Good child ! good child ! Blan, Nay, dame, pay homage to our majesty. I'm chosen queen, dear dame — the Queen of May ! You do not smile : prithee, what serious thought Has cast its grave reflection on thy face ? Bah. I was thinking how beautiful a crown — a real crown, a crown of gold and jewels — would look upon your head. Blan. A crown ? Why, you are dreaming, dame, at mid-day ! Bab. And if I am, there's something, sometimes , in some dreams. But I say nothing — only, wouldn't you like to dream of wearing such a crown ? Blan. No, in good sooth, not I ! This woven band Of dewy wild-flowers lightlier girds my head. And circles in its ring but happy thoughts. — Then, for my king — whom think you I have chosen ? Bah. Wait till you see the King himself. Blan. Has he a nobler mien, a loftier look, A braver, truer, purer heart than Armand ? Bah. Have you forgotten the cavalier who walked with us in the gardens of Versailles ? Blan. No, I remember him — 'twas but last night. Bah. Then listen : what would you say if he were the King, the true King — Louis XV., the King of France ? Oh, dear ! what would you say to that ? Blan. Why, if he were the King — in truth, the King — I could but say that wayward Nature played On Fortune's favourite a most idle trick. While to the humble artisan she gave The aspect, soul, and bearing of a king. MRS. RITCHIE. 513 Bab. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what a young traitor ! It's very fine talk ; yet, for all that, there's a great difference between your Armand and the King — I mean the cavaher. Blan. I grant you that, dear dame — difference indeed I How different seemed, in each, like attributes ! The lightness of the cavalier to me Seemed senseless levity, while Armand's mirth Is the o'erflowing gladness of a heart At ease. Each had his separate pride : one pride. The scorn that narrow minds from narrower minds Inherit ; but our Armand's pride looks down In scorn upon mean acts alone, disdains But falsehood, spurns but vice, rebels against Injustice only, while he arrogates No merit to his virtues ! Men may bow The knee to royalty, but there's a more Enduring and more sacred homage all Must feel for what is better than themselves. Bab. How these young ones talk, to be sure ! You'll sing a new burden to your song before long. You must think no more of Armand. Blan. What ! think no more of Armand ? Is he not The very centre of my thoughts, round which All feelings and all hopes alike revolve. As planets circle round their sun ? But, dame — Thou dear, mysterious, and oracular dame — What boding dreams have mocked you through the night r Or what portentous omens have you seen ? Nay, speak ; prithee, what has befallen thee ? Bab. Oh, don't ask me — I say nothing. You know I never talk. [Villagers without.l Where is our queen, our queen ? 514 GOLDEN LEAVES. Bring us our queen ! [Armand and Villagers appear at windozo. Richelieu disco-vert the King's designs on his Daughtery and^ as the most certain method to sa-ve her^ commissions Babette to administer a po'werful Opiate to Blanche, ivhich shall produce a seeming Death. This is done as the Lo-vers are preparing to join the May-day Festival. The Village Green. — A Maypole in the centre. Armand, Blanche, and Villagers. Arm. Ay, for a dance make ready, lads and lasses. And be your hearts as light as are your feet. In honour of the May. [Blanche puts her hand to her head, and appears to be ill. Blanche, you are ill ! Your eyes are heavy, and your cheek how pale ! Blan. Oh, no, no, Armand -, I am well — quite well. And yet I think my very happiness Oppresses me ; a faintness steals upon My yielding sense, as if it were the languor Of a content so perfect, it could wish For nothing on this earth it hath not now. But on the far-off future shuts its eyes. Arm. Our future, Blanche ? It must indeed be bright. To vie in promise with the present joy ! We live in that which z'j, and so defy What may be. Let the unknown future bring Us years — long years of unimagined woe — It cannot steal the lustre from these hours. . . . Come, let us dance, my queen. To quicken in thy veins the timid blood. And stain these lilies with a healthier red. — Jacot, Etienne, are you not ready yet ? MBS. RITCHIE. 515 Jac. Most excellent and worthy sovereigns ! we but wait your pleasure. Arm. Now, Blanche, for thy light foot. — Come, lads, a dance ! [Maypole dance, with, garlands. Towards the close^ Blanche appears to grow fatigued ^ and falls sud- denly in Armand's arms, as tf fainting. Blan. Armand, I cannot — I am weary — stay — Ar7n. Thou weary, Blanche, whose airy foot were match For the blithe humming-bird's untiring wing ? Great Heaven ! how pale thou art ! thou tremblest, too ! Blan. 'Tis only weariness — so — let me rest. [^Falls. IVIy head is strangely heavy, and before My eyes a floating vapour spreads itself. Armand, I scarce can see thee. Art thou there ? Arm. Blanche ! Blanche ! my own, my only love ! — Heaven! she grows more ghastly white. — Etienne ! Quick, fly for help ! — and, Jaqueline, bring Babette ! [Exeunt Jaqueline and Etienne. How cold thou art ! Speak to me, Blanche ! thou hearest me ! Tell me thou hearest me ! Blan. Yes, Armand, yes, 1 hear thee, my beloved, yet I feel — That we are parting — death — Arm. We cannot part ! This is not death ! — no, no, we will not part ! [will I Blan. Nay, Armand, war not thou with Heaven's high Death cannot break the bond that knits our souls. Shall I not be thy bride — there — where I go To wait thee ? For a while we needs must part ; Death's icy finger chills and clogs my blood — Like frost it falls upon my heavy eyes. 5l6 G OLDEN LEAVES. And yet I seem to see ! A luminous mist Envelops all things round me ; through its veil A threshold paved with light appears — beyond, A land of flowers ; — and now bright forms in robes Of radiant white are flitting round me — ah ! They bear me from thee. Armand, O x^irmand ! I cannot see thee, though I feel thine arms Girdle my frozen limbs ! Arm. Thou wilt not leave me — Distract me not; but once more speak — let me Once more drink in the rnusic of thy voice ! Speak to me ! Give me one last proof of love. Blan. Armand — I do — this — [Raises herself with an effort, feebly kisses him, and sinks back apparently dead. Arm. 'Twas her first kiss ! Thou pitying Heaven, let it not be her last ! She is not dead ! — Dost thou not hear me, Blanche ? — No, no, she is not dead ! It were to lose The sun that warms with life — to lose the light That tells the presence of that sun ; it were To lose the air we breathe, to lose thee, Blanche ! I stifle at the thought ! My lifers sole light Is endless darkness now. O Blanche, my Blanche ! My earth and heaven ! all peace, all joys, all dreams, All blessings, and all hopes, are gone with thee ! \_Flings himself upon the ground beside Blanche. The opiate zvorks its intended effects, and Blanche is in appearance deadj and is laid out for her Funeral. A Chamber in Dame Babette's Cottage. — In the centre a Couch, upon which Blanche is extended, appaiently dead. MRS. RITGUIE. 5^7 Amu Jaqueline — my friends — grant what I ask : Leave me awhile alone with her. You loved her well, B^t 1 I [Bursts into tears, Jaq, Our Blanche never denied a request of yours, Armand; nor will we, who loved her so dearly, do so. \Exit slowly and smTOzvfully,follozued by all the Maidens. Arm. [After gazing azvkile on Blanche.] O Blanche ! my own — though lost — still, still my own ! A little while I yet may gaze on thee. And in the treasury of my soul may store The memory of each stiffening lineament Where beauty Ungers still. It cannot be ! Shall those soft eyes no more look into mine. Nor veil themselves when with too bold a joy I gazed within their azure depths ? Shall love. With its aurora, tint thy cheek no more ? The low, glad music of thy voice, no more Sunder those gentle lips with words that fell Like blessings on the ears that took them in ? My Blanche ! my other and my better self ! How weary seems the path I thought to climb. Thy hand in mine, thy smile to light me on. Thy sunny presence to make glad each step ! Alone life's burden must be borne — alone The struggling heart crush underneath its weight ! A holy smile yet hovers on thy face. As though the angels, when they summoned thee. One golden glimpse of Paradise revealed. And left that happy print upon thy lip. No, no ! thou art not lost — we are not parted ! For, heavenward as my tearful eyes I turn. 5l8 GOLDEN LEAVES. A radiant vision meets them there, and bids Me guard my soul, unsullied by a deed That could divide us in that land of joy ! My heart hath but one wish — my life one hope — All time one joy — that of rejoining thee ! Blanche recovers from her trance ,• and Richelieu, after discovering his relationship to her, conveys her to Paris, ivhere she is acknoivl- edged as his Daughter. — Five years elapse, during ivhich time Armand has risen to eminence as the King's Favourite, and to the rank of Colonel and Aide-de-camp to the Duke de Villiers. Riche- lieu, fearing that Blanchs may be induced to marry Akmand, proposes to her a noble match, fitted to her noiv dignified station, Blanche, Richelieu. Blanche, My lord duke ! [Pauses and looks at him. Nay, my father ! can I choose But call thee by that name ? though in thy face Too little of a father's fondness greets me. Richelieu. Yield thou the meet obedience of a child. And all a father's fondness will requite it. Elan, Command thou what a child's pure heart must leap To execute, and I will yield a child's Obedience, with the meekness of a child. Rich. What I have done was for thy surest good ; Ay, for thy soul's bes't good ! Blan. My soul's best good ? Was't for my soul's best good my tongue should mock The consecrated altar with a lie ? Was't for my soul's best good my lips should breathe A vow my heart refused ? the holy oath Which gave the thought, the hope, the love to Heaven, Which were no longer mine to give ! MRS. RITCHIE. 519 Rich. Daughter ! Thy will opposed to mine is powerless ! Blan. My father, tempt me not to evil ; think Before you act ! Young blood is warm, young heads Are rash • young hearts, convulsed like mine, are stubborn . When love, the soul's first love and last — the love No absence changes, and which time and sorrow Chastise to strengthen — is too fiercely curbed. Its passion breaks all other ties, defies All chances and all perils, leaps all barriers That hold or part it from its idol : or. Dragged by a chain too mighty to the earth. The iron eats its slow and silent way Into the soul ; and then — we die — my father ! Rich. I know thy sex too well, girl, at its tears Or wrath to change my purpose. Woman's grief Is wind and rain one summer hour will end. Blan, And canst thou thus the name of woman scorn. Her holy mission lightly look upon. Nor think that thy first sighs were soothed by her ? Thy first tears kissed away by woman's lips ; Thy first prayer taught thee at a woman's knee ; Thy childhood's blessings showered from woman's hand ; Thy manhood brightened by her watching smile ? Thy age mast in her tenderness find prop ; And life's last murmurs may perchance burst forth Where they began — upon a woman's breast. Rich. I nor deny her virtues, nor her power To gild them with her tongue. But one word more Of Armand. Woman may be constant — when Was man ? What wouldst thou think, how wouldst thou act. If Armand's troth were plighted to another ? 520 GOLDEN LEAVES. Blan. Another ! Armand love and Armand wed Another ? No ! the present could not thus Belie the past ! Yet is it true he thought — Still thinks me dead ; but death could only part. Not disunite us ! Armand love another ? wretch, to wrong his memory with the thought ! Armand has not forgotten me. 'Tis false ! Tell me 'tis false 1 and for the life you give Me back, I'll bless thee more than for the life 1 had at first from thee. Rich. In calmer tone One question I would have thee answer. Listen : If I could give thee proof unquestionable, Wouldst thou the cloister seek of thy free will? Blan. I would. Rich. Swear that thou wilt ! Blan. There needs no oath. I know not felsehood, father. Rich. I believe thee. To-night I will return — remember thou Thy words — to-night ! [Exit. Blan. Armand ! was it for this For five long years I hoped — for this I bore With patient trust the ills Fate heaped upon me ? For this I would not wrong thee by a doubt ? All — all — for this — this hour of agony ! [Sinks weeping upon a couch, and, after a pause, rises calmly. Let me not murmur at Thy high decrees. All-wise, all-watching, and all-guarding Heaven ! I know no withered leaflet falls to earth. No Dlade of grass bursts from its sheath of green. No grain of sand is swallowed by the wave. 31 RS. RITCHIE. 5^^ Unnoted by that ruling Providence That guides the universe, yet stoops to clothe The flower with beauty, and from seeming ills Works out our truest, most enduring good ! Oh, then, while grass and sand and leaf are cared for. How shall a mortal doubc Thy guardianship ! — Then break not, heart ! the will of Heaven be thine ! To escape the Marriage proposed by her Father, Blanche seeks the protection of the King, -who rccogni-zes her. He places her under the care of the Duchess de Rohan, hoping in time to wield her to his purpose. A sumptuous Apartment in the Chdteau of the Duke de Rohan.— £«^dr Blanche, splendidly attired, follozued by Jaqueline. Jaq. Dear Mam'selle Blanche, to think that I should have found you at last, and through that beautiful httle page ! Blan, But, Armand! O my best Jaqueline, my friend \ Thou hast seen Armand — and he knows 1 live- He spoke of me as in our early days — Jaq. Ay, that he did, Mam'selle, and I am sure he loves you as much as ever. Blan. Bless thee, Jaquehne ! [Embracing her fervently.] Oh, how one hour of joy Can brighten a whole age of agony ! The weary years that sundered us so long Have vanished ; every pang that wrung my soul Is blotted out from memory ! The past Is one of sunbeam only, and the future Seems something brighter still. I am too blest! Jaq. So will Monsieur Armand be ; but you will scarcely know him, he looks so altered, for he is a great soldier now : and I think he will hardly know you in this grand dress. 522 G OLDEN LEAVES. Blan. They said the king would visit me to-day, And to receive him decked me in these robes. J^aq, Would you not like me to seek Monsieur Armand ? Mam'selle Blanche ? Blan, Do, if thou canst, my kind Jaqueline ! Jaq. Oh, I'll find him if he's within the walls of Paris, be sure of that. I do so like to bring lovers together ! [Exit. Blan, What thronging thoughts in quick succession chase Each other through my brain ! I pace these halls As one who walks them in a dream ; and Fear By turns convulses every trembling limb ; By turns thine azure eyes, immortal Hope ! In visioned beauty smile upon my doubts ; While in thy cheating glass, whose magic brings The wished-for object near, my spell-bound sight Sees Armand only ! Thus — Enter the King. King, My Blanche ! [.Pauses and looks at her.] Why this is well : this rich attire Befits thy beauty royally — the emblem Of greater change that waits thee! Blan. 'Twas the duchess That willed it, and not I, my liege. King. Thy tone. Fair Blanche, is grave, yet should no sadness mar Its music. Now thy life shall be one pageant Of long delight ! thine every hour a joy Newer and gladder, and thine every wish Fulfilment. Blan. Sire, I have but one : restore MRS. RITCHIE. 523 Me to my childhood's home — to him, without Whose presence even that home were joyless. King. A fate more bright awaits thee : hast thou not Divined it ? Knowest thou not thou art beloved ? Blan, I do, my liege. King. And by thy king ? Blan. O Heaven ! King. Fair Blanche, look not like the startled fawn By friendly echoes frighted. Listen, love : A splendid fate its golden page unrolls Before thee. In our court the proudest place Is thine. The queen shall yield thee her protection ; All men shall bow to her vi^hom Louis loves. Blan. Just Heaven ! can such things be .? or doth some demon Whisper these horrors in my dreaming ear? King. Sweet Blanche, the splendours that I proffer — Blan. Peace, Thou king, by passions vile unkinged ! Thy words Have scorched my brain, and should have seared thy lips In passing them. My liege, my liege, was it A kingly deed to snare a being helpless And friendless — young as I — thus to profane Her ears, and seek by virtue of thy crown To rob her of the brightest diadem That can encircle woman's brow } King. Nay, Blanche, Mar not thy beauty with this frigid bearing ; Frowns do not suit those gentle eyes, nor fierceness Thy timid nature. Weak thou art — Blan. Not weak, My liege, when roused by insult and by wrong ! 524 GOLDEN LEAVES. I tell thee, haughty king, presamptuous man ! That, like the unshorn locks the Nazarene Vowed to his God, the purity of woman Becomes at once her glory and her might ! King. Ah, Blanche ! and is there no excuse for love ? Blan. Thy love is but self-love! that first and v/orst Of passions — poisoned spring of every crime — Which hath no attribute of perfect love. King. This to thy king ? Blan. Art kingly in thy deeds ? The star that shines so brightly on thy breast Is worthless if it shed no light within. The throne that lifts thee o'er thy fellow-men Should teach the virtues which alone can raise Thee 'bove them. King. At thy feet let me implore — Blan. Stand off ! approach me not ! King. Thou fearest me, then ? Blan. Fear thee ? Danger should be where fear is — I See none. [her. King. Woman ! thou shalt not brave me thus ! [Seizes No human power can save thee — thou art mine ! What are thy feeble struggles in my grasp ? [me ! Blan. [Sinking on her knees. ^ Spare me, my liege, spare King. It is thy turn To sue, and all in vain ! Thou hast forgot That I am king, and thou hast no protector ! Bla7i. [Starting iip.^ I have ! I have ! — One who for sakes me not — One whom thou darest not brave ! Unloose thy hold. Or dread His fury ! Heaven protects me still ! [ 77-!^ King, awed by her manner, releases her. BOKER. 525 Thou art my sovereign ; I a friendless subject — I woman, and thou man ! My helplessness Was of itself a claim to thy protection — A claim thou hast rejected. Answer, king ! Hast thou done right ? Man, was it well to use Thy strength against my weakness ? Thou art dumb ! Thou canst not answer ! King of France, I scorn thee ' [Exit. King, Why should I shrink from one so powerless ? And can it be that Virtue's presence awes Me thus ? — that Virtue which no weapon needs Except its own resistless dignity ! She speaks — Pm hushed ; she spurns me, and I cower ; She leaves me, and I dare not follow her ! Armand, having lear?ied that Blanche //f «, and discovering her re- treaty hert enters. A violent scene ensues betiveen him and the King^ zuhich ends in Ai^ arrest. The King afterivard relents, and Af.mand and Blanche are restored to each other. ©torge ^. Boker. THE betrothal: a play. The MAR(iyis di Tiburzzi, a decayed Nobkmany is deeply indebted to the rich Merchant Marsio. To release himself from this, indebted- nessy and to restore his fallen fortunes, he is urged to give his Daugh- ter CoSTANZA in marriage to Marsio, "who seeks her hand. Marouis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi. Marquis. Why urge forever Marsio's rich estate ? Wealth is not sovereign. Should his money sprout. And yield a thousand-fold, it could not change 526 GOLDEN LEAVES. Its master's nature. In the glare of gold Unnumbered blemishes oft come to light. That had been better hidden in beggar's rags. Marchioness. What faults has he ? Marq. It matters not. March. Why not ? Marq. If I dislike the man, the end is gained Without a summing of antipathies. March. But should Costanza love him ? Marq. Bless me, madam ! Am I an oracle ? Your questions reach Beyond my thinking. March. Stranger things have been. The maids of Greece, for all their dainty tastes. Gambolled with Satyrs. Men can never know The shifting fancies of a woman's heart. Some love the outer, some the inner man^ And some the garniture which fortune gives ; Some love to rule, others to be enslaved ; Some love for pity, some affect the bold ; Some on entreaty, others from sheer spite And sturdy opposition, will consume With threefold fire. This slender bodkin's point Is ample basis for a woman's love. Marq. Not for Costanza's. Do not wrong our daughter With empty fables, nor impute to her The melting weakness of all womankind. If she should love — Poh ! poh ! I squander breath ; The thought is monstrous. March. Pray, what see you. Sir, In Signore Marsio — think him what you may — To banish him beyond the pale of love ? BOKER. 5^7 He is not handsome ! Well, and what of that ? These girls have apes for playthings. Cannot talk ? She'll slit his tongue, and busy her for hours With her new human magpie. Here's a husband To banish Maltese cats and singing-birds ! What if she love ' Marq. Her love would sanctify- More vice than Marsio's little soul can hold. — But this is idle. March. Now, what do you mean ? First, Marsio's blemishes ; next, your dislikes ; Then, Marsio's vices, and his little soul ! Why do you hate him ? Marq. Hate is not the word : I would not choose him for my daughter's husband. First, his mean birth. — March. Ho ! pause we at his birth. Did his low birth beget his character ? I hold you. Sir, he is so nobly minded That he will pick an empress for his dam. If you give choice. Marq. Like still engenders like : 'Tis Nature's law. The rugged mountain horse Breeds not the silk-skinned barb ; the shaggy cur Litters no fine-limbed greyhounds. It may take Whole ages of ancestral blood, to crown A long-drawn race with one true gentleman. Think you his peddling stock can shape a mate For her whose fathers, at great Caesar's voice. Out-flew the conquering eagles } March. There it is ! Caesar and all his legions ! We have stood 23* 528 G OLDEN LEAVES. A hungry siege from him for many a day. Would he had strangled at his birth. With all his captains ! Marq. Why this argument ? I have heard ten thousand, in my time, yet never Knew one wry notion straightened by them all. What would you ? March. Why not ask me that before The matter smothered in the argument ? Marq, Speak ; I attend you. March. Should Costanza's eyes Have found some merit, unobserved by you. In Signore Marsio — should it so have wrought Upon her woman's fancy as to gain. In Caesar's spite, that precious heart of hers — Would you oppose her choice ? Marq. Oppose her choice ! Why, you amaze me ! Have you seen good ground For such a question ? March. I have seen enough. I have observed kind looks from Marsio's eyes By echoing blushes answered from her cheeks ; I have — Lord, Lord ! what have I not observed ? — Sufficient to have bred a plague of love. If love were catching. Marq, This is very strange. March, No ; 'tis as old as Adam. Maids will love, And fathers will not see it. From these signs. Knowing our daughter's happiness might hang Upon your voice, I would forestall her grief^ By timely checks, ere love has grown a habit ; Or, should you wish, confirm her doubtin? heart Bv your full sanction. BOKER. 529 Marq. Wonderful indeed ! She fancy Marsio ! Had I been asked, rd said she shunned him. March. No unusual trick Of love-sick girls. — But here Costanza comes. Leave her to me ; nay — if you question her. You'll scorch her words in blushes. Marq. As you will. You are wrong, believe me. She has ever borne So plain a heart to me, so dutiful. So zealous to fiilfil my wish as never To question of its justice — yet such acts Performing not wi .h the cold hand of duty. But with the fiery eagerness of love — That I shall feel some twinge of jealousy, If she has ousted me from my fair seat. Henceforth a stranger's, without common notice. Question, but do not vex her. I would rather Your keen suspicion had o'ershot its mark. Than that my daughter should have wasted love Upon this — this — March. Noble, thrice noble man ; Half deified by her subliming love ! Marq. I have no heart for jesting. [Exit March. Nor for acting : Your feeble nature shifts the deed on me. Enter Costanza. Costanza. Where went my father ,? March. To concoct some scheme About a penny-worth of musty bread. It takes more work, to live this starving way. 530 G OLDEN LEAVES. Than would be used in earning us a fortune. But we are noble, very noble, daughter ; We have some centuries of rich, proud blood. On which we live, and therefore need not labour We feed, like fleshy men, upon our fat, — Self-eating cannibals. Cos. Fasting has its mirth. Feasting its sorrow. March, Ay, ay ; much the mirth We see the death's head grinning. Cos. True, my mother ; Death has a whisper in the maddest mirth Of us poor mortals. March. You are gloomy, child. Cos. No more than usual. 'Tis a gloomy thing To see a father, so deserving love. Bowed with a load of vulgar petty cares — Too mean to tax the housewife of a hind — That nip and pinch him into actual life. Giving his aching mind no dreaming pause 'Twixt day and day. March. Of all disgusting things. Commend me to our old familiar friend. Proud Poverty ! Cos. Would I could lighten it ! March. And so you can. Cos. I! how? March. I trow, my daughter, You'll be no victim, no burnt-offering, No chattel, traded for your father's peace : No ; let us starve, drown, hang — why, what care you ? You have a heart, forsooth, a virgin heart. BOKER. 531 Not to be hung on matrimonial shambles ! In faith, you are right. Cos. What is your purpose, mother? March. There's Signore Marsio ; do you fancy him ? Cos. I never weighed my feelings for him. March. No? But he loves you. Cos. For that I owe him thanks. March. Now — do you mark me ? — should you marry him. We are rich at once. Cos. That never crossed my mind. March. It has ours. Cos. "Ours"? March. Your father's and my own. Cos. My father spoke of this ? March. Just ere he left. Cos. Does he desire me to wed Marsio ? March. You know your father far too well for that. He would not have you wed for his sake only ; Would not persuade you, press you, and so forth. With such spasmodic eagerness, with such A trembling lip, and clutching of the hands, He says these things, that I, who know his ways. With half a thought can fathom his desire. Cos. Which is ? — March, That we should want no longer. Cos. How! Wed Marsio ? March. Not unless with your consent. Well, would you try it ? Tell your father, then. You love rich Marsio, whose countless wealth Can bribe his sorrow, ease his shaking mind, 532 GOLDEN LEAVES. And make his days lapse calmly to their end — Marsio, whose golden finger puts to flight Duns, bailiffs, tradesmen, all the brood of want And makes a jest of every former grief To talk of in foul weather. Nay, my child. Breathe not a word of this : say simply thus — " I love good Marsio; I would be his wife." You'll see the issue. Cos. Signore Marsio stands Far better with my father than I thought. Doubtless there is some good in Marsio — In Marsio — in Marsio — March. Well, well ! Why do you dwell upon his name .? Cos. There seems A strangeness in it, I ne'er marked before. March. You will attempt this little loving ruse ? Cos. Mother, I dare not tamper with the love My father bears me. March. Poh ! 'tis but a trial. You need not marry Marsio, for all. Cos. This I will say : if to my father's mind Marsio appear a proper husband for me. And Signore Marsio should incline to me, I will accept him. March. Bravely spoken, child ! , I know you do this for your father's sake ; And 'tis a beautiful, most saint-like act. On which the angels smile. May Heaven reward you Then, in Italy, marrying is one thing. Loving is another. Cos. What did you say ? BOKER. 533 March. You will find out ere long. But, hark, Cos- tanza! If you are resolute, let every action. Which falls beneath your father's eyes, appear Full of kind thoughts for Signore Marsio. Cos. I feel but kindly towards him. O, my mother. If he, or any man — a clown — a fool — More hideous than the nightmare, crueller than The ragged tooth of Famine — March. Tut, tut! daughter; Marsio is none of these. Cos. I hope not, madam. Doubtless, ril learn to love him very soon. It seems to me, duty would tutor love. At the first moment my poor father smiled, Marsio must know the terms. March. What need of that .? When did Love ever chaffer about terms? I'll tell him, if 'twill ease you. Cos. Let us go. My father's word must sanction this high treason Against the sweet dominion of god Love. — You see I am merry, mother ; am I not ? March. Yes ; very merry. Cos. As we go along. Give me a catalogue of all our ills. Tell o'er my father's sufferings ; then rehearse The royal qualities of Marsio's gold. How do you think my father's face would look With one bright smile upon it ? Do you know, 'Tis a long, dreary age since I beheld What you might call a smile upon his face ? 534 GOLDEN LEAVES. I need to hear these things. Think you this marriage Would be no sin against my better nature ? March. Heaven counsels filial love. Cos. Yes ; you shall feast. And vi^ear gay clothes, and build our shattered house. And brush the cobwebs from our ancestry, — That seem to suffer like decay with us, — And there shall be no name in Italy Prouder than the Tiburzzi ! Did you think. When you first saw me lying in my cradle. An impotent, cross bantling, that one day Your poor Costanza could do all these things ? I know you did not — ha! ha! [Laughing.] Woe is me ! Tears are close neighbours to such mirth as mine. [Exe2inL Marsio, instructed by the Marchioness^ ivaits upon Tiburzzi, to accept the hand of Costanza. Enter Marsio. Marsio. If I know money — Heaven knows I should — They must come to it. Needy, needy, say you ? I have known the needy murder for a ducat : Lo ! here are millions j and but for a name. A very ancient, very noble name, I grant; but somewhat damaged in the keeping. — Easily patched, however, easily patched with gold. Join Marsio's riches to Tiburzzi's name, And who can stand against them ? But the name, Ungilt and naked, is an empty noise. Which Marsio's gold — Marsio's hard, solid gold — As well can purchase in the daily market Where parents vend their marriageable wares. Why should I doubt ? There's nothing like a heart BOKER. 535 To chaffer for. I never bought a heart. Men say I want one. Ha ! ha ! how they lie ! [Laughing. 'Tis a great rock on which all commerce wrecks. There is no rival, no keen moneyed man. To weigh his scrapings 'gainst my topmost bid ; So says the Marchioness — O, pardon me — Our mother, I should say ; though ne'ertheless A marchioness for all that, Costanza dear. — Conny, and Con, and Stanza, when you please me. Besides a hundred other sweet, pet names. To come up on occasion. — Ha ! our mother ! And all one splendour with a blaze of smiles ! Enter the Marchioness. I guess your meaning. Marchioness. Hist ! the Marquis comes. Show no surprise ; one doubt may mar the whole. Hear, ere you speak. Mar. I am all ears, no tongue. Enter the Marquis. Marquis. Welcome, friend Marsio ! Mar. " Friend Marsio !" Well spoken, friend Tiburzzi ! — [Aside.^ Gracious Sir, Your proud addition to my humble name — March. [Apart to Marsio.] Stoop not too low, or you may never rise. Mar. — My deeds shall ratify. March. [Aside.] Turned just in time. Marq. Frankness is best — Mar. The coin of honesty ! March. [Apart to Marsio.] For Heaven's sake, peace ! Art talking for a wager ? 536 G OLDEN LEAVES. Marq. Signore, it seems my daughter and yourself. Unknown to me — and therein much I blame you — Have leagued your hearts — Mar. What! she — March. [Apart to Marsio.] Oh, silence, silence ! Marq. You would excuse her, signore, with such reasons As, to the partial wits of lovers, seem Both law and right ; on me they fall full coldly. That love, which breeds such ecstasy in you. To me is breach of trust. But let that pass. Mar. Against your word — Marq. Do not deceive yourself; Hearts will make way against ten thousand words. Mar. [Aside.] Are you so wilflil ? Forward, then. March. You see. My lord but seeks our daughter's happiness. Marq. Yes ; take her. Sir. No foolish whim of mine Shall stand 'twixt heart and heart. Mar. [Aside.] '''Twixt heart and heart!" What does he mean? Well, I will swallow all. — Your frank approval stifles my poor thanks. Let me repay your frankness with its equal. No man, who is your friend, has wanted eyes To see how, day by day, that ancient wealth. Which once so proudly propped your mighty name. Has slipped beneath the thing it should support ; Till all the glories of this noble house Seem tottering down to ruin and oblivion. — Nay, do not chafe ; I cannot choose but know it. Marq. ''Know it, know it !" the very beggars know it. And, with unbegging laughter, pass me by I My name's the jest of all this mocking land. — BOKER. 537 The blind, dumb, deaf, conceive it ! Idiots, jays. Parrots, have wit to say, " Poor, poor Tiburzzi !" Mar, I would not ape them. Marq. Oh, 'tis nothing new : Heaven makes us feel our chastenings commonly : Of all realities, the realest thing — Of all heart-sickening, spirit-killing things — That can unnerve, unsex, and bring to naught The proudest purposes of stubborn strength. Making brawn Hercules a whining baby — The very top and crown is poverty ! It feeds on hope, it glories in despair. It saps the brave foundations of the will. It turns our simple faith to blasphemy. It gnaws its way into the very spirit. And with a weary siege starves out the soul, Sending to judgment chat bright denizen So changed in hue, so fallen from its estate. That Heaven, in the poor, warped, and shivering thing. Can scarcely recognize its handiwork ! Mar. My purse shall aid you. Use it, without stint. In common with me. Marq. Pshaw ! I need it not. I and my wants have grown such intimates. That 'twould seem strange to part us. Prisoned men Have wept at parting from their old, dull cells : So custom, I doubt not, may reconcile A father to an unconfiding child. — lAside.] I can take naught of him. [JVaiks apart. March. [Apart to Marsic] Urge him no more : His mind is troubled with an idle fancy About Costanza's want of trust in him. 538 G OLDEN LEAVES. He has scarce patience, now, to speak with her : But he will change, next moon. Marq. Pray treat her well. Pray treat her well, good Signore Marsio : One sin makes not a sinner. She is worth it ; — Yes, yes, although she'd not confide in me. But then, you know, we fathers have no vows Like you hot lovers ; have no skill to show The depths and heights of customary feeling. With high-spiced words. Love grows a gray-beard in us. And lacks the prattle of the winged boy. Pray treat her well. Mar. I'll have no other care. A precious store ne'er wants a zealous ward. Marq. Let not that promise rust. March. Our daughter waits. Signore, go on before. What, what, so tardy ! Does your love use a herald ? Mar. By your leave, then. [Exit, March. Stands it not as I said ? Marq. Is she my daughter ? March. If she is mine. Marq. That strain I cannot doubt : There the blood cries. March. If it amuses you. Pray rail away. There's many an out-door saint Blows off liis wolfish humours at his wife. And paces forth a lamb. Marq. Love Marsio ? — No ! What, sell herself? — pah ! pah ! Come, let us in. This shivering on the brink is worse than drowning. I'll link these lovers. When the knot is tied. BOKER. 539 The galling process of the action stops. And I may rub my fretted hands at ease. I'll not be tortured. — Marry, marry shall they ; And sooner than they think ! Still waiting, madam .? Heavens ! what a new Tiburzzi fortune sends ! CosTANZA is bclo'ved by Count Juranio, ivhose lo've she returns ; yet, luilling to sanje her Father^ she consents to her ^^ Betrothal" ivith Marsio Salvatore, a Friend to Juranio, disco-vers through Pulti, a Servant to Marsio, that^ at the Marriage Fcsti'val^ Marsio intends to poison Juranio. Salvatore secures the aid of Pulti, and thivarts Marsio's plans. The Great Hall of the Castle.— A Feast spread; at which are seated the Marquis and Marchioness di Tiburzzi, Marsio, Costanza, Filippia, Juranio, and other Guests. Servants in waiting. Enter Fulti, a'nd stands behind Marsio. Then enter Salvatore, and seats himself. Marquis. We wait you, Signore. Salvatore. Pardon my delay : My need was urgent. Marsio. I have kept the wine. Our cups, o'erbrimming with the sunny juice. Stand to attend you. Sal. 'Twas a needless pause. I never taste the vintage. By your leave, I'll use the grape, as Nature gives it to us. Thus, in the ripened fruit. For 1 hold wine To be a most ingenious fraud of Satan's, Who is so ready to change Heaven's best gifts Into some tempting form of sin. 'Tis true A healthy apple cozened mother Eve ; But I have wondered at that barefaced trick 540 G OLDEN LEAVES. Upon the simple woman. Why did not The guileful devil change it into cider. And gull her handsomely ? My kinsman, too. Is of my way of thinking. Juranio. I ! what, I ! Why, Salvatore, I would quaff a sea Of the rich earthly Lethe, were our night Stretched to a polar length. Mar. \_A'part to Pulti.] You hear him, Sii . The Count is wild for wassail. You will not Refuse my lady's health ? 'Sblood ! should this dog Lap water only ? Pulti, is it done ? Pulti. [Laughing.] You'll find it so. — Ho ! ho ! Mar. [Apart to Pulti. J Hist! be discreet. Sal. I will not balk you, to be curious. — A toast, a toast ! Mar. Rise, Sirs. Our union ! [ They drink Sal. Simple and pregnant. Cleopatra's pearl buffers discredit by your tastefiil pledge. 1 drank it, with good relish, to the dregs ; Ay, and forgot my enmity to wine. In seeing with what gust you boused it down. Mar. You flatter me. Your kinsman holds his peace • T hope I touched him. Sal. Him I Why, look you, now ; His cup is dry, — the very moisture gone : Heavens ! what a fiery thirst ! Costanza. Your lover's spirits Mount to a wondrous height. It makes one sad To see a man so merry. Filippia. Wait a while. And his high spirits shall fly off with you. BOKER. 541 Cos. You have a hopeful fancy : it must be A sorry thing to mark its failures. Fit. No; I have fresh hopes to help the lame ones on. They are like flowers that, dying, run to seed. And multiply the race. — See, Marsio ! March. What is the matter, Signore ? Mar. Nothing, nothing : A passing pain. Sai. You drink too eagerly. A sudden rush of wine into the frame Shakes it with spasms sometimes. Mar. Are you a leech ? Physic yourself — 'Sblood ! March. Signore ! — Mar. I am ill. [They all rise. ^al. Pray will you test my leechcraft ? Mar. I feel faint. Nay — I am stronger now. — Come hither, Pulti. What does this mean .? Pul. I cannot tell. Mar. [Apart to Pulti.] Those men. Those devilish villains — Pulti, do you see them ? — Look well and merry. Ere this time, the snakes Should have crawled homeward, with their venom in. The poison but fulfils what Nature skipped : While I— Augh ! Pulti— Pul. Let me see. [Runs to the table. O Lord ! Oh ! Signore Marsio is poisoned ! Oh ' The cups are changed. You drank the — • Mar. Traitor, hold! Or I will cut you to the belt! 542 G OLDEN LEAVES. March, Good Heaven ! Poisoned ! Marq. Is this your plot ? You — Sal. [Apart to the Marquis.'\ Wait the issue. March. Run, run — a doctor ! Mar. Forty thousand doctors Were forty thousand short ! Cos. How feel you, Signore ? Mar. Out ! smooth drab ! — Oh ! — oh ! Sal. You have sprung the trap. But caught yourself for game. Mar. Who did this thing ? Sal. I. Mar. Hear ! he confesses it. Seize on them — Juranio and that man — my murderers ! March. Ay ! seize them, seize them ! [ The Guests draw. Sal. Patience, gentlemen, I make you no resistance. On my honour, I will not try to fly. Mar. A poisoner's honour ! — Mercy, what a pang ! — 'Sdeath ! an officer — Send for an officer ! Quick, quick — break up — [ do denounce them both — we'll have no feast ! Sal. Ay, but we will ; a marriage, too. Mar. How, how? Sal. We'll use Juranio, when you are gone. Mar. Ah, dog ! may your tongue rot ! Sal. Before you, Signore ? Mar. Silence the miscreant ! Are you men, to see — O Heaven ! these pains ! Ju. What means this, Salvatore ? Sal. Peace, my dear boy ; the time is mine. BOKER. 543 Mar, You think — You two — your countship and that pliant lady — You think, I say, when the grave swallows me. To wed ? — Ha ! do ye ? If the dead can rise — And I will up ! I'll haunt you till ye pray To sleep beside me. I will crawl between Your eager kisses with my wormy lips ; I'll eat with you ; I'll drink — I'll drink again — Heaven ! some water, water ! I consume — Till all my flesh has rotted from me. Gods ! Ha ! ha ! I'll make a merry guest ! You wretch — Now I feel easier — you Salvatore, ['11 fight with you, through all your odious days. Until I drive you in your grave ! O, curse you ! — Do I look better ? I may yet be well. Oh I oh ! these searching cramps ! Where do you go ? Come back, I say ! I will not die alone ! 1 do denounce them — Pulti, Pulti too. Seize them — seize all ! Have pity on me. Heaven ! I will ! — -I will ! — The room is full of smoke. Cut down the poisoners ! I am not dead yet ! [Draws y rushes at Juranio, and falls. Oh, mercy. Heaven ! Oh, curse you ! — oh ! [Faiiits Sal. Well done ! He shows his death-bed in perspective. March. Base, Base man, to glory in your victim's death ! Sirs, apprehend him. [ The Guests advance. Sal. Gently, gentlemen — I use my cutlery with the best of you — Marsio's not dead. A simple opiate Caused all this terror. 24 ^44 GOLDEN LE A VE S. FiL 'Tis ill news, but true. [carry ^Marsio. Find out some den to keep this monster in. [Servants Sal, Wake from your apathy ! You stand like marble. Cos. I never dreamed such horrors. Ja. What, not dead ? March,. O joy, joy, joy ! Sal. Call in your priest and notary. Are they in waiting ? Marq, As I promised you. But I can scarcely see my way through this. Enter a Priest and a Notary. Sal. I am your pilot : trust me. Marq. As you will. Sal. Now sign this paper, lady ; and you, Count. 'Tis hasty, not dishonourable. Keep faith. Cos. How, Sir ! Ju. But, Salvatore, Marsio lives. Sal, He lives a felon ! And I roundly swear. If you two people are not wed to-night, I'll have him hung upon a moving gallows. And wheel him after you around the world ! I'll have no trifling. March. Marsio a felon ! Sal. He sought to poison Count Juranio, And honoured me by joining me with him — Where are you, Pulti r Pulti. Here, Sir. Room, room, room, For Marsio's prime minister of drugs ! This vial, and my oath, might go some lengths To speed his journey to a hotter world. Advance my relique ! [Salvatore shows the vint. BOKER. 545 March. Oh, the horrid viper ! What an escape poor, dear Costanza made ! SaL You still hang back ? Cos. My father still is bound. SaL He is well cared for. Ere another day, I pledge myself to buy your father's debts At my own price. 'Sdeath ! do you falter now ? — My lord, your promise. Marg. I command you, daughter Obey my friend. March. [Aparl to the. Marquis. 1 Is Count Juranio rich ? Marg. Pshaw ! madam. Cos. I obey — perhaps too kindly; But the mere tliought of your security Sends my heart upward, like a loosened bird, Dizzy with hope, and strength, and ecstasy ; For I am free again! \^Turns to Salvatore.] To you 1 owe More than a common show of gratitude ; But, now, forgive me ; my overflowing thoughts Would drown the happy prospect of my speech. By sheer abundance of their offerings. — To you, Juranio — yu. Nay, dear Costanza, Let my heart whisper what your words might be. Sal. Hide all your roses in your lover's breast Go talk it over, go — we'll never look — Then come to us, and notary and priest Shall knit you up. y^u. Dear kinsman — Sal. Silence, Sir ! This place is nauseous with stale sentiment. 54<5 GOLDEN LEAVES. Mind your affairs; I've business of my own. — Fair lady, have I won ? Fil. Yes, Sal va tore. [^Giving her hand Would it were worthier ! Sal, Not for my sake, love ; You cannot add a morsel to content. Marq. Peace crown you all ! I have such friends, at last, As money could not buy — the gifts of Heaven : I thank it humbly. As for Marsio, He'll wake to-morrow, and behold what gulfs Crime opens 'twixt the richest criminal And the frank brotherhood of honest men. However poor, — gulfs that must yawn forever ! CALAYNOS: A TRAGEDY. Calaynos, a ivealthy Nobleman, a great Student, fond of retirement^ li'ves secluded zvith his Wife, Donna Alda, in his ancestral Castle, apart from the Court. He is -visited by a gay Courtier, nuho pays marked attention to Donna Alda. This excites the observation of Oliver, Secretary to Calaynos. The Study of Calaynos. — Calaynos reading, Oliver transcribing a Manuscript. Oliver. [^Rising.'] My lord, this learned manuscript has A crowd of strange conjectures in my mind, [raised That rush and jostle through my wildered brain. In wild confusion, without settled purpose. [your head ? Calaynos. {Rising.^ What part stirred up this riot in OH. That part in which it hints at God's design. In the creation of the earth and man. I oft have wondered how omniscient God Could take delight in forming things like men : BOKER. $47 So full of meanness, yet so full of pride — So strong in thought, and yet so weak in act — So foul in nature, so o'ergrown with sin. Yet destined for a sphere 'neath Him alone. What pleasure finds He in our paltry deeds. Begot of selfishness and headstrong will? What feeling moves Him when the puny thing Lifts up his voice, and boldly rails at Him ? How deems He, when He sees the myriad souls That speed to death — their destiny forgot. The purpose of their being unachieved — Seeking, unawed, a hell of their own choosing ? Why did He form so fair a stage as this. To dance His trifling puppet, man, upon ? And, last, does not this whole creation seem 'Neath His contempt, so far above it He ? Cal. Stop, Oliver ; you tread on dangerous ground, A mental bog, that quakes beneath your feet. These words would seem to come from humbleness, . And low opinion of yourself and man ; Yet are engendered by the rankest pride. Arrayed in robes of meek humility — Stop ! the next step is infidelity. Contempt for man begets contempt for God : He who hates man must scorn the Source of man. And challenge, as unwise, his awful Maker. The next step doubt; and then comes unbelief; Last, you raise man above all else besides. And make him chiefest in the universe. So, from a self-contempt, grows impious pride. That swells your first-thought pigmy to a giant. And gives the pufFed-up atom fancied sway. 548 G OLDEN LEAVES. God is ! Philosophy here ends her flight ; This is the height and term of human reason : A fact that, Hke the whirling Norway pool. Draws to its centre all things, swallows all. How can you know God's nature to Himself? How learn His purpose in creating man r What's ultimate to man, remains concealed : Enough for you, to know that here you are — A thought of God, made manifest on earth. Ah, yet His voice is heard within the heart ; Faint, but oracular, it whispers there : Follow that voice, love all, and trust to Him. Oh, learn, dear Oliver, to pity one. Who wanders in this world without a faith In something greater than his feeble self.! Oil. Yet thoughts, hke these, will rise in spite of me. Cal. I know it ; 'tis the taint of primal sin. That mingles with each thought, mars every act, That stains our very good with something ill ; And, hke the poison which abounds in plants. Mingles its portion with our healthiest food. Oil. Does not this knowledge of man's sinfulness Awake a doubt of individuals, And make you cautious^ when you deal with men ? Cat. No ; I have predetermined trust in man. That never alters, till I hnd him false. I am above the common herd in power ; No rogue can wrong, but in my ample purse ; Which I scarce feel — which, had he asked, I'd given. OIL [Aside.'] 'Tis all in vain ! I cannot raise a doubt In his ingenuous nature. — There's no hope. I have but slender grounds to doubt Don Luis ; BOKER. 549 And my own doubts, perchance, may work me ill- Yet will I go to death, if he's not false ! I, from Seville, will gain the facts I want ; Meantime — My lord, much of your friend you'll see ; For you must hunt, and feast, to pass his time. And show all courtesies that may befit. Cal. Nay ; he*s too dear a friend to make a stranger. I will divide my castle and my wealth ; Let him use each, as suits his present mood. We will not clash in interests : he may hunt, I study ; thus, each may enjoy his bent. Then Donna Alda will be much with him. OIL {Aside.'] Hum, hum ! I like not that, I like not that. Cal She is so foil of life, so fond of change ; They two can puC their restless heads together, Unhood their thoughts at every whim that flies. And chase the quarry till they bring it down. OIL [Aside.] Heaven grant these coupled falcons prove not haggards 1 [Calaynos reads, Oliver writes. FRANCESCA DA RIMINI: A TRAGEDY. ^s a pledge of Peace between Ra-venna and Ritnini, Francesca of Ra- 'venna h betrothed to Lanciotto, Son to Malatesta, Lord f Rimini. Lanciotto is misshapen, «a great tivisted Monster of the Wars- hut of a noble nature. Paolo, his Brother, of elegant person and bearing, is dispatched to Ra-venna to bring Fra^cssca, from whom the personal deformities 0/ Lanciotto ha-ve been concealed. ScEi^E—Rimim.— Tke Grand Square before the Castle, Malatesta, Lanciotto, and others, to whom enter GuiDO, Lord of Ravenna, and Paolo, conducting Fran- CESCA, with Lords, Ladies, and Attendants, 550 G OLDEN LEAVES. MaLatesta. Welcome to Rimini, Count Guido ! welcome, And fair impressions of our poor abode. To you, my daughter ! You are well returned. My son Paolo ! Let me bless you, son. [Paolo approackes. [Apart to Paolo.] Howmanyspearsarein oldGuido's train: Paolo. Some tenscore. Mai. Footmen ? Pao. Double that. Mai. 'Tis well. Again I bid you welcome ! Make no show Of useless ceremony with us. Friends Have closer titles than the empty name. We have provided entertainment. Count, For all your followers, in the midst of us. We trust the veterans of Rimini May prove your soldiers that our courtesy Does not lag far behind their warlike zeal. Let us drop Guelf and Ghibelin henceforth. Coupling the names of Rimini and Ravenna As bridegroom's to his bride's. Guido. Count Malatesta, I am no rhetorician, or my words Might keep more even with the love I feel : Simply, I thank you. With an honest hand I take the hand which you extend to me. And hope our grasp may never lose its warmth. — [side .' [Apart to a Knight.^ You marked the bastion by the water- Weak as a bulrush. Knight. Tottering weak, my lord. Gui. Remember it; and when you're private. Sir Draw me a plan. Knight. I will, my lord. BOKER. 551 Gui. How's this ? I do not see my future son-in-law. MaL Lanciotto ! Lan. [AdvancingS\ I am here, my lord. Francesca. [Starting. — Apart to Paolo.] O Heaven ! Is that my husband. Count Paolo ? You, You then, among the rest, have played me false ! Heis— Pao. My brother. Lan. [Aside.] Ha ! she turns from me I saw her start and pale. Turn off with horror ; as if she had seen — What ? — simply me. For, am I not enough. And something over, to make ladies quail. Start, hide their faces, whisper to their friends. Point at me — dare she ? — and perform such tricks As women will when monsters blast their sight ? saints above me ! have I come so low ? Yon damsel of Ravenna shall bewail That start and shudder. I am mad, mad, mad ! — 1 must be patient. They have trifled with her : Lied to her — lied ! There's half the misery Of this broad earth, all crowded in one word : Lied, lied I — Who has not suffered from a lie ? — They're all aghast — all looking at me, too. Francesca's whiter than the brow of Fear : Paolo talks. — Brother, is that well meant ? What if I draw my sword, and fight my way Out of this cursed town ? 'Twould be relief Has shame no hiding-place ? I've touched the depth Of human infamy, and there I rest. By Heaven, I'll brave this business out ! Shall they 552 GOLDEN LEAVES. Say at Ravenna that Count Lanciotto, Who's driven their shivering squadrons to their homes. Haggard with terror, turned before their eyes And slunk away ? They'll look me from the field. When we encounter next. Why should not I Strut with my shapeless body, as old Guido Struts with his shapeless heart? I'll do it! [OfferSt but shrinks back.] 'Sdeath ! Am I so false as to forswear myself ? Lady Francesca ! \_Approaches Francesca. Fran. Sir — my lord — Lan. Dear lady, I have a share in your embarrassment. And know the feelings that possess you now. Fran. Oh, you do not ! Pao. [Advancing.'] My lady — Lan. Gentle brother. Leave this to me. [Paolo retires. Fran, Pray do not send him off. Lan. 'Tis fitter so. Fran. He comforts me. Lan. Indeed ! Do you need comfort ? Fran. No, no — pardon me ! But then — he is — you are — Lan. Take breath, and speak. Fran. I am confused, 'tis true. But, then, my lord. You are a stranger to me ; and Paolo I've known so long ! Lan. Since yesterday. Fran. Ah ! well : But the relationship between us two BOKER. 553 Is of so close a nature, while the knowledge, That each may have of each, so slender is. That the two jar. Besides, Paolo is Nothing to me, while you are every thing. — [Aside.^ Can I not act ? Lafi. I scarcely understand. You say your knowledge of me, till to-day. Was incomplete. Has naught been said of me By Count Paolo or your father ? F?^an. Yes; But nothing definite. Lan. Perchance, no hint As to my ways, my feelings, manners, or — Or— or — as I was saying — ha ! ha ! — or — [^Laughing. As to my person f Fran. Nothing, as to that. Lan. To what ? Fran. Your — person. Lan. That's the least of all. [Turns asidd. Now, had I Guido of Ravenna's head Under this heel, I'd grind it into dust ! False villain, to betray his simple child ! And thou, Paolo — not a whit behind — Helping his craft with inconsiderate love ! — Lady Francesca, when my brother left, I charged him, as he loved me, to conceal Nothing from you that bore on me : and now That you have seen me, and conversed with me. If you object to any thing in me, — Go, I release you. Fran. But Ravenna's peace ? Lan. Shall not be perilled. 554 GOLDEN LEAVES. Gui, [Coming behind, whispers her.'] Trust him not, I know his ways ; he'd rather fight than wed : [my child ; 'Tis but a wish to have the war afoot. Stand firm for poor Ravenna ! Lan. Well, my lady. Shall we conclude a lasting peace between us By truce or marriage rites ? Gui. [Whispers her.] The devil tempts thee : Think of Ravenna, think of me! Lan, My lord, I see my father waits you. [Guido retires, Fran. Gentle Sir, You do me little honour in the choice. Lan. My aim is justice. Fran. Would you cast me off? Lan. Not for the world, if honestly obtained; Not for the world would I obtain you falsely. Fran. The rites were half concluded ere we met. Lan. Meeting, would you withdraw ? Fran. No. — [Aside.] Bitter word ! Lan. No ! Are you dealing fairly ? Fran. I have said. Lan. Oh, rapture, rapture ! Can it be that I — Now I'll speak plainly ; for a choice like thine Implies such love as woman never felt. Love me ! Then monsters beget miracles. And Heaven provides where human means fall short. Lady, I'll worship thee ! I'll line thy path With suppliant kings ! Thy waiting-maids shall be Unransomed princesses ! Mankind shall bow One neck to thee, as Persia's multitudes Before the rising sun ! From this small town. BOKER <>55 This centre of my conquests, I will spread An empire touching the extremes of earth ! I'll raise once more the name of ancient Rome; And what she swayed she shall reclaim again ! If I grow mad because you smiled on me," Think of the glory of thy love ; and know How hard it is, for such an one as I, To gaze unshaken on divinity ! There's no such love as mine alive in man. From every corner of the frowning earth. It has been crowded back into my heart. Now, take it all ! If that be not enough. Ask, and thy wish shall be omnipotent ! Your hand. [ Takes her handj\ It wavers. Fran. So does not my heart. Lan. Brave ! Thou art every way a soldier's wife , Thou shouldst have been a Cesar's. — Father, hark ! I blamed your judgment, only to perceive The weakness of my own. Mai What means all this ? Lan. It means that this fair lady — though I gave Release to her, and to Ravenna — placed The liberal hand, which I restored to her. Back in my own, of her own free good-will. Is it not wonderful ? Mai How so ? Lan. How so ! Pao. [Aside.] Alas ! 'tis as I feared ! Mai. You're humble ? — How ? Lan. [Aside.] Now shall I cry aloud to all the world. Make my deformity my pride, and say. Because she loves me, I may boast of it? — !iS6 GOLDEN LEAVES No matter, father, I am happy ; you. As the blessed cause, shall share my happiness. — Let us be moving. Revels, dashed with wine. Shall multiply the joys of this sweet day ! There's not a blessing in the cup of life I have not tasted of within an hour 1 Fran. [Aside.l Thus I begin the practice of deceit. Taught by deceivers, at a fearful cost. The bankrupt gambler has become the cheat, And lives by arts that erewhile ruined me. Where it will end. Heaven knows ; but I — I have betrayed the noblest heart of all ! La?i. Draw down thy dusky vapours, sullen night — Refuse, ye stars, to shine upon the world — Let everlasting blackness wrap the sun. And whisper terror to the universe ! We need ye not ! we'll blind ye, if ye dare Peer with lack-lustre on our revelry ! I have at heart a passion, that would make All nature blaze with recreated light ! [Exeuni. Francesca atid Lanciotto ived ; but Paolo and Francesca arc enamoured of each other. They struggle against the passion^ but Lanciotto being summoned to the Jield^ they frequently meet. Rimini. — The Garden of the Castle. — Enter Pepe, the Clown. Pepe You may make princes out of any stuff ; Fools come by nature .... There is Paolo, now, A sweet-faced fellow, with a wicked heart — Talk of a flea, and you begin to scratch. Lo ! here he comes. And there's fierce Crookback's bride Walking beside him — oh, how gingerly ! BOKER. 557 Take care, my love ! That is the very pace We trip to hell with. Hunchback is away — That was a fair escape for you ; but, then. The devil's ever with us, and that's worse. See, the Ravenna giglet. Mistress Ritta, And melancholy as a cow. — How's this ? I'll step aside, and watch you, pretty folks. [Hides behind the bushes, ****** Paolo and Francesca. Paolo. Our poem waits. I have been reading while you talked with Ritta. .... Where left we off? Fran, Where Lancelot and Queen Guenevra strayed Along the forest, in the youth of May. You marked the figure of the birds that sang Their melancholy farewell to the sun. Rich in his loss, their sorrow glorified — Like gentle mourners o'er a great man's grave. Was it not there ? No, no ; 'twas where they sat Down on the bank, by one impulsive wish That neither uttered. Pao. [Turning over the book.] Here it is. [Reads.] ''So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot'* — 'Tvvere well To follow them in that. [^^^y ^^^ upon a bank. Fran. I listen : read. Nay, do not; I can wait, if you desire. Pao. My dagger frets me ; let me take it off. [Rises. In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by. [Lays aside his dagger^ and sits again. 558 GOLDEN LEAVES. Draw closer : I am weak in voice to-day. [Reads, "So sat Guenevra and Sir Lancelot, Under the blaze of the descending sun, But all his cloudy splendours were forgot. Each bore a thought, the only secret one, Which each had hidden from the other's heart, That with sweet mystery well-nigh overrun. Anon, Sir Lancelot, with gentle start, Put by the ripples of her golden hair, Gazing upon her with his lips apart. He marvelled human thing could be so fair; Essayed to speak ; but, in the very deed. His words expired of self-betrayed despair. Little she helped him, at his direst need, Roving her eyes o'er hill, and wood, and sky. Peering intently at the meanest weed ; Ay, doing aught but look in Lancelot's eye. Then, with the small pique of her velvet shoe, Uprooted she each herb that blossomed nigh ; Or strange wild figures in the dust she drew j Until she felt Sir Lancelot's arm around Her waist, upon her cheek his breath like dew. While through his fingers timidly he wound Her shining locks ; and, haply, when he brushed Her ivory skin, Guenevra nearly swound : For where he touched, the quivering surface bluihed, Firing her blood with most contagious heat. Till brow, cheek, neck, and bosom, all were flushed. Each heart was listening to the other beat : As twin-born lilies on one golden stalk, ^ Drooping with summer, in warm languor meet. So meet their faces. Down the forest walk Sir Lancelot looked — he looked east, west, north, south — No soul was nigh, his dearest wish to balk : She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the mouth." [Kisses Francesca. 1*11 read no more ! [Starts up, dashing down the book BOKER. 559 Fran, Paolo ! Pao. I am mad ! The torture of unnumbered hours is o'er. The straining cord has broken, and my heart Riots in free delirium ! O Heaven ! I struggled with it, but it mastered me ! I fought against it, but it beat me down ! I prayed, I wept, but Heaven was deaf to me ; And every tear rolled backward on my heart. To blight and poison ! Fran. And dost thou regret ? Pao. The love ? No, no ! I'd dare it all again. Its direst agonies and meanest fears. For that one kiss. Away with fond remorse ! Here, on the brink of ruin, we two stand ; Lock hands with me, and brave the fearflil plunge ! Thou canst not name a terror so profound That I will look or falter from. Be bold ! I know thy love— I knew it long ago- Trembled and fled from it. But now I clasp The peril to my breast, and ask of thee A kindred desperation. Fran, [Tkrozuing herself into his arms.'] Take me all. Body and soul ! The women of our clime Do never give away but half a heart : [ have not part to give, part to withhold. In selfish safety. When I saw thee first. Riding alone amid a thousand men. Sole in the lustre of thy majesty. And Guide da Polenta said to me, " Daughter, behold thy husband !" with a bound Mv heart went forth to meet thee. He deceived. 560 G OLDEN LEAVES. He lied to me — ah ! that's the aptest word — And I believed. Shall I not turn again. And meet him, craft with craft ? Paolo, love, Thou'rt dull — thou'rt dying like a feeble fire Before the sunshine. Was it but a blaze, A flash of glory, and a long, long night .? Pao. No, darling, no 1 You could not bend me back ; My course is onward ; but my heart is sick With coming fears. Fran. Away with them ! Must I Teach thee to love } and re-inform the ear Of thy spent passion with some sorcery To raise the chilly dead ? Pao. Thy lips have not A sorcery to rouse me as this spell. [Kisses her, Fran. I give thy kisses back to thee again : And, like a spendthrift, only ask of thee To take while I can give. Pao. Give, give forever ! Have we not touched the height of human bliss f And if the sharp rebound may hurl us back Among the prostrate, did we not soar once .? — Taste heavenly nectar, banquet with the gods On high Olympus ? If they cast us, now. Amid the furies, shall we not go down With rich ambrosia clinging to our lips. And richer memories settled in our hearts ? Francesca ! — Fran. Love ? Pao. The sun is sinking low Upon the ashes of his fading pyre. And gray possesses the eternal blue ; BOKER. 561 The evening star is stealing after him. Fixed, like a beacon, on the prow of Night ; The World is shutting up its heavy eye Upon the stir and bustle of to-day -, — On what shall it awake ? Fran. On love that gives Joy at all seasons, changing night to day. Makes sorrow smile, plucks out the barbed dart Of moaning anguish, pours celestial balm In all the gaping wounds of earth, and lulls The nervous fancies of unsheltered fear Into a slumber sweet as infancy's ! — On love that laughs at the impending sword. And puts aside the shield of caution ; cries. To all its enemies, '' Come, strike me now ! — Now, while I hold my kingdom — -while my crown Of amaranth and myrtle is yet green, Undimmed, unwithered ; for I cannot tell That I shall e'er be happier !" — -Dear Paolo Would you lapse down from misery to death,* Tottering through sorrow and infirmity ? Or would you perish at a single blow. Cut off amid your wildest revelry. Falling among the wine-cups and the flowers. And tasting Bacchus when your drowsy sense First gazed around eternity ? Come, love ! The Present whispers joy to us ; we'll hear The voiceless Future when its turn arrives. Pao. Thou art a siren. Sing, forever sing ! Hearing thy voice, I cannot tell what fate Thou hast provided when the song is o'er ; — But I will venture it. Fran. In, in, mv love ! 562 GOLDEN LE AY ES. [Pepe steals from behind the bushes J\ Pepe. O brother Lanciotto ! — O my stars ! — If this thing lasts, I simply shall go mad ! \_Laughs, and rolls on the ground. Lord ! to think my pretty lady puss Had tricks like this, and we ne'er know of it ! 1 tell you, Lanciotto, you and I Must have a patent for our foolery ! " She smiled ; he kissed her full upon the mouth !" — There's the beginning ; where's the end of it ? O Poesy ! debauch thee only once. And thou'rt the greatest wanton in the world ! O cousin Lanciotto — ho, ho, ho ! [^Laughing, Can a man die of laughter ? Here we sat : Mistress Francesca so demure and calm ; Paolo grand, poetical, sublime ! — Eh ! what is this ? Paolo's dagger ? Good I Here is more prooi^ sweet cousin Broken-back. *'In thoughts of love, we'll lay our weapons by I" [Mimicking Paolo, That's very pretty ! Here's its counterpart : In thoughts of hate, we'll pick them up again ! [ Takes the dagger. Now for my soldier, now for crook-backed Mars ! Ere long all Rimini will be ablaze ! . . . . Paolo, having dishonoured his Brother^ determines to fly from Fran- cesca ; but Lanciotto discovers the guilty Intrigue^ and intercepts the fiight. The Play ends -with the Death of both Fkancesca ana Paolo at the hands of Lanciotto. rHE END. ■•^> .^v 'rf-. '\ --Si. '' * V S ^ ^^• •/>_ /-■■ 3 0^ .0- %/,• #■'', .A "^^ "^ i^ V \ ' ■ • i \ ■* x^^.. . . .^^ ^ . '<-< ^-^ vV - -bo^ .^^^^ "\.^' ■0' V -:<-, Oo %.- * , -^"''^ v ^ ,o ■% / ^* \' ' •\ c\\ ^^ J*^ *ts - .^^ »^ ", 'c. " \^ s^"'. ,.-.:..^ .o %- ' "'^.^' -^ . "^c;^ .^: >"^ /', , % %if .-, . c, '^: - -v '/■' ^'■.^ "-^. v-^^ ■''. ■"oo'< .-'- ---^ f / v^-^ ^^.. xO<=<. '^.-■ ■ 1, ■ "•^ ' . X ^' . ' .^ — >^-^ -^e