University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Sigismunda, Laura.
Sigismunda.
Ah fatal Day to Sicily! The King
Then touches his last Moments?

Laura.
So 'tis fear'd.

Sigismunda.
The Death of those distinguish'd by their Station,
But by their Virtue more, awakes the Mind
To solemn Dread, and strikes a saddening Awe:
Not that we grieve for them, but for ourselves,
Left to the Toil of Life—And yet the Best
Are, by the playful Children of this World,
At once forgot, as they had never been.
Laura, 'tis said—the Heart is sometimes charg'd
With a prophetick Sadness: Such, methinks,
Now hangs on mine. The King's approaching Death
Suggests a thousand Fears. What Troubles thence
May throw the State once more into Confusion,
What sudden Changes in my Father's House
May rise, and part me from my dearest Tancred,
Alarms my Thought.

Laura.
The Fears of Love-sick Fancy!
Perversely busy to torment it self.
But be assur'd, your Father's steady Friendship,
Join'd to a certain Genius, that commands,
Not kneels to Fortune will support and cherish,
Here in the publick Eye of Sicily,
This—I may call him—his adopted Son,
The noble Tancred, form'd to all his Virtues.

Sigismunda.
Ah form'd to charm his Daughter!—This fair Morn
Has tempted far the Chace. Is he not yet
Return'd?

Laura.
No.—When your Father to the King,
Who now expiring lies, was call'd in haste,
He sent each way his Messengers to find him;
With such a Look of Ardor and Impatience,
As if this near Event was to Count Tancred
Of more Importance than I comprehend.

Sigismunda.
There lies, my Laura, o'er my Tancred's Birth
A Cloud I cannot pierce. With princely Cost,
Nay, with Respect, which oft I have observ'd,
Stealing at times submissive o'er his Features,
In Belmont's Woods my Father rear'd this Youth—
Ah Woods! where first my artless Bosom learnt
The Sighs of Love.—He gives him out the Son
Of an old Friend, a Baron of Apulia,
Who in the late Crusado bravely fell.
But then 'tis strange; is all his Family
As well as Father dead? and all their Friends,
Except my Sire, the generous good Siffredi?
Had he a Mother, Sister, Brother left,
The last Remain of Kindred, with what Pride,
What Rapture, might they fly o'er Earth and Sea,
To claim this rising Honour of their Blood!
This bright Unknown! this all-accomplish'd Youth!
Who charms—too much—the Heart of Sigismunda!

Laura.
He has sometimes,
Like you, his Doubts; yet, when maturely weigh'd,
Believes it true. As for Lord Tancred's Self,
He never entertain'd the slightest Thought
That verg'd to Doubt; but oft laments his State,
By cruel Fortune so ill-pair'd to yours.

Sigismunda.
Merit like his, the Fortune of the Mind,
Beggars all Wealth—Then to your Brother, Laura,
He talks of me?

Laura.
Of nothing else. Howe'er
The Talk begin, it ends with Sigismunda.
Their Morning, Noon-tide, and their Evening Walks
Are full of you; and all the Woods of Belmont
Inamour'd with your Name—

Sigismunda.
Away, my Friend;
You flatter—yet the dear Delusion charms.

Laura.
No, Sigismunda, 'tis the strictest Truth,
Nor half the Truth, I tell you. Even with Fondness
My Brother talks for ever of the Passion,
That fires young Tancred's Breast. So much it strikes him,
He praises Love as if he were a Lover.
He blames the false Pursuits of vagrant Youth,
Calls them gay Folly, a mistaken Struggle
Against best-judging Nature. Heaven, he says,
In lavish Bounty form'd the Heart for Love;
In Love included all the finer Seeds
Of Honour, Virtue, Friendship, purest Bliss—

Sigismunda.
Virtuous Rodolpho!

Laura.
Then his pleasing Theme
He varies to the Praises of your Lover—

Sigismunda.
And what, my Laura, says he on that Subject?

Laura.
He says that, tho' he were not nobly born,
Nature has form'd him noble, generous, brave,
Truely magnanimous, and warmly scorning
Whatever bears the smallest Taint of Baseness:
That every easy Virtue is his own;
Not learnt by painful Labour, but inspir'd,
Implanted in his Soul—Chiefly one Charm
He in his graceful Character observes:
That tho' his Passions burn with high Impatience,
And sometimes, from a noble Heat of Nature,
Are ready to fly off, yet the least Check
Of ruling Reason brings them back to Temper,
And gentle Softness.

Sigismunda.
True! O true, Rodolpho!
Blest be thy kindred Worth for loving his!
He is all Warmth, all amiable Fire,
All quick Heroic Ardor! temper'd soft
With Gentleness of Heart, and manly Reason!
If Virtue were to wear a human Form,
To light it with her Dignity and Flame,
Then softening mix her Smiles and tender Graces,
O she would chuse the Person of my Tancred!
Go on, my Friend, go on, and ever praise him;
The Subject knows no Bounds, nor can I tire,
While my Breast trembles to that sweetest Musick!
The Heart of Woman tastes no truer Joy,
Is never flatter'd with such dear Enchantment—
'Tis more than selfish Vanity—as when
She hears the Praises of the Man she loves—

Laura.
Madam, your Father comes.