 | Raffaelle Cimaro |  |
5
SCENE II.
THE GARDEN OF CIMARO'S PALACE BY MOONLIGHT.A retired walk with a Grotto, in the distance illuminated temples, and every appearance of festivity—music without.
Enter Louisa and Maria.
Louisa.
This is a scene more suited to my soul
Than the dull glare of yon gay festival:
Aye—it is true that music has a soul,
And needs responsive feeling to be sweet.
To me the melancholy mournful bird,
That pours her pensive plaint in this recess,
Is more harmonious in her soft lament
Than the full chorus in yon glittering hall.
It was not well to seek for Claudio here;
With him, alas, mirth dwells not—'twas a fault
To think he could be here.
Maria.
Nay, my dear lady,
I wonder he should fail to seek you.
Louisa.
Oh! in his nature dwells so deep a sense
Of truth and honour, he would scorn to seek
My love—were't possible to think him guilty,
And were he so,—I fear I yet should love him:
He cannot doubt, should all the world condemn him,
His name would live fair as this holy light
In my affection.
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And yet you have never
Assured him of it.
Louisa.
Oh! a thousand times
By praising, loving, all he prais'd and lov'd—
By timorous glances, check'd with many a blush,
By the sigh half suppress'd, the fault'ring tongue,
The mute embarassed silence;—are not these—
Not love's assurances—but love itself?
Enter Raffaelle habited as a Magician and masked.
Raffaelle.
I have amaz'd yon idle thoughtless crowd:
Another sight like this would buy their voices,
To make me duke—if they dar'd think so bravely.
I do despise them, though I court their smile;
And yet 'tis well, my state requires their homage,
The homage that the fool or needy knave
Pays to the man who knows to use his wealth,—
Ha! who is this? she whom I mark'd just now,
Whose simple graces even fools appeared
To gaze on longer than on jewell'd dames,
And that's a wonder: she is somewhat sad;
I'll try a masking humour to revive her.
(To her)
I have been weaving spells in yonder halls,
Calling thin sprites from forth the glassy deep,
Decking with instant flow'rs the barren ground,
And filling all the air with sweets ambrosial,
So potent and so perfect was my art;
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Controls my powers and bids me kneel your subject.
Louisa.
I have no spell save what my fancy gives
To this inspired scene, and that's too pure
For fulsome adulation or the homage
Of one—the lord of yon festivity.
Raffaelle.
O'er me a woman and a beauteous one
Possesses all the pow'r of strongest spells
In one soft charm, the potency of love.
Louisa.
A charm indeed, like others but ideal.
Raffaelle.
My friends will scarce believe this doctrine now;
But why prefer this sad and lonely shade
To mirth and joy and social gaiety?
Those beauties sure were formed for other gaze
Than purblind night, or the unconscious moon;
And to those ears the gentle tale of love
Should sound more grateful than the owl's dull hoot;
And that warm heart should beat with quicker pulse,
More vivid soul should dart from those bright eyes
Than scenes of weary solitude inspire.
Louisa.
Alas! sir, I can scarcely answer you
In strains so courtly—I can gain no pleasure
From a fool's smile,—nor can the tale of love,
That's but a tale, spoken, but never felt,
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That tedious labour after sweets ne'er found,
Repay me for the loss of gentler thoughts.
Raffaelle.
Tis well indeed, my sylvan deity,
And lest your wit should change my nature too,
And wrap me here in rural contemplation,
Let me conduct you to my magic kingdom,
And entertain you in my proud domain,
With pomp that may outshine simplicity,
Not in your thoughts,—nor e'en perchance in mine,
But far indeed in theirs who wait my presence,
To pamper to satiety their love
Of wond'rous novelty—will't please you walk?
(Exeunt.)
| Raffaelle Cimaro | |