University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The wildest Alpine scenery of ice mountains, and precipices covered with snow, in the environs of the Great St. Bernard, leading to the Vallais.
The Travellers are seen on the different heights, slowly descending the Pass, amid the windings of the rock. First Francis, with two Guides, exploring the way, and sounding the hollows with long poles: then Agnes preceding a litter.
Last, the Litter, borne by the Mountain Peasants; on each side of it, a female Attendant, followed by a Page.
Agnes.
Oh glorious sun! illumin'd by thy beams,
These Alpine solitudes, these wastes of snow,
Boast charms and beauties of peculiar grace,
That seem to soothe me.
[Advancing, and looking on different sides.
How distinct each rock
Smooth-brow'd, or spiring high its tapering peak!
Yon range of wavy sweep! and this, that breaks
Eastward, in thousand forms, like floating clouds!
Their hues, how changeful! these of roseate glow;
Those azure dy'd; and some, that climb the sky,
Fling to the light their summits cop'd with gold,
All-gracious Heav'n! how wondrous these thy works!
Sublimely awful!

Fran.
(To the Guides.)
Every step we tread
Leads to new danger.

Guide.
Sound that snow-heap'd cave.

Fran.
How fearfully yon tumbling rock o'erhangs
The narrow pass. (Turns to Agnes.)
Beware.

Agnes.
Proceed, good Francis.

Fran.
There yawns a chasm, down whose depth the sight
Wanders without repose. I'll gaze no more:
Its very horror, while it shocks the sense,
Most strangely fascinates. (Advances.)
These slippery fragments,
Hurl'd by the tempest from the crags above,
Roll loose beneath me.— (Comes to Agnes.)
Lady! let me aid you.
Lean on this faithful arm.

Agnes.
My foot treads firm.
To those that know not grief, such ways are painful.
I have, within my soul, what mocks at toil.

Fran.
You were in luxury nurs'd, nor have been us'd
To scenes like these. I, in my childhood, rock'd
In want's stern cradle, bred to ambuscades,
'Mid craggy steeps, here feel my weary limbs
Ache, as I labour on. Oh, ever-honour'd lady!
The holy brothers of St. Bernard warn'd you
Not to attempt the pass. Return, I pray—
Yet, yet amid the rocks, a lingering echo
Heaves back the slow clang of the Convent bell,
Hollowly sounding—
It is for you I fear.

Agnes.
My will is fix'd.
Go with the guides, and timely warning give
If aught impede the way: the topmost snow,
Heav'd by the zephyr's breath, may swell before it
To size impassable.

Fran.
I must obey.

Agnes.
(Turning back to those who bear the litter.)
Be careful, I beseech you. That steep path
Betrays th' unsteady foot. Guard well the litter;
Ye shall not lack reward, nor thanks that flow
From one of grateful nature.—
Gentle maids,
Be watchful of your charge. I first myself
Will this sharp ridge explore—So may'st thou, Ellen,
Securely pass, and, ere death close thy woe,
Find peace once more.

Fran.
(To the Guides.)
Heard you that sound?

Guide.
Most plainly.
The voice of men advancing.

Fran.
List! again!
Up as the gale comes slowly from beneath,
I hear distinct the noise of echo'd steps.

Guide.
'Tis strange in this new season—so far well:—
The rocks below are open. (Enter Claude.)
Welcome, Claude:
How fares the reverend Provost?

Claude.
He will be here in th' instant—hark!—they come.—
Lady! I pray you, let the litter rest!
And, in yon scoop'd-out cave, that fronts the sun,
Wait, till his train pass by.—This narrow ridge
Will else your lives endanger.

[Exit Claude.
Agnes.
Repose a while, my friends; and in that cave
Set down the litter. Your good Provost comes.
Not these bleak rocks alone, and th' Alpine swains
Echo his praises: far and wide his virtues
Call down the general blessing on his head.
Enter the Provost and his Train—As they pass on, Agnes speaks.
Your benediction, father.

Prov.
Peace be with you!
These widow's weeds—this melancholy train!
Daughter! you seem in woe.—Adversity,
Methinks, sore bows you down: and pale your cheek
Through sorrow more than years. What urgent cause
At life's dread hazard, in this perilous season,
Compels you to these mountains?

Agnes.
Holy father!
I pray you pardon me: nor deem me one
Rude, or untouch'd by kindness, that I leave you,
My tale of grief untold. The Power who tries
The mourner, smites in mercy, nor abandons
Those that have trust in Heav'n. Thy voice has blest me.
Farewell.

Prov.
Yet mark me, daughter. No vain wish
To hear what may in utterance grieve thy spirit,
And ill may suit my years; but sacred duties,
By Heav'n enjoin'd, and sympathy of nature,
That bid an old man, vers'd himself in woe,
Feel for the woe of others, prompt my speech—
Can I in aught assist you?

Agnes.
By thy prayers.
When thou dost pray for those that grieve on earth,
Father, remember me. (Going.)


Prov.
Yet—there are lenient words,
Balm of the soul—Oh, hear me—
My way of life has been where sorrow sigh'd,
And anguish groan'd around me; and I know,
There is at times a quality in grief
That seems to soothe its sting, e'en while the mourner
Inly in undivulging loneliness
Broods on the secret pang that racks the soul.
This must not be. Heav'n link'd us heart to heart,
To double every pleasure, and, by sharing,
Lessen the load of misery.—Silent still?—
You turn away regardless.

Agnes.
No, good Provost;—
Would I might freely at thy feet pour forth
What weighs upon my heart. I am not one
Infirm of mind, who broods o'er lonely woe.
These tears, that will not be suppress'd, gush out
Not for myself alone—Your farewell prayer—
Trust me, the burden of my grief seems lighten'd,
For thou hast pitied me.

Prov.
In silence mourn—
I will not urge thee more.
But I conjure thee, if thou value life,
Turn to our hospitable roof again:
There wait till fitter season may ensure
Thy safe departure. Duty forc'd my step
Now in this hazardous time. Not far the roof
That shelters me. Thy way, alas! is long,
And perils that no earthly eye foresees,
Nor arm of man can ward, surround the path
Where'er thou goest. And these lone rocks, at times,
Are cross'd by ruthless robbers.

Agnes.
I must on.

Prov.
No roof, no shelter near, nor safe return
If the dim night-fall steal on thee unwares;
And oft the sun in these unsteady skies
Is darken'd o'er with tempests.

Agnes.
I must on.
(Pointing to the litter.)
There lies a hapless woman, one who wastes
Hourly away, worn out with ceaseless woe,
An uncomplaining sufferer, nigh to death;
A native of yon vale. Her only wish
Is yet once more to view the peaceful spot
To childhood dear, and there to find her grave
Amid her kin.—Farewell.

Prov.
May Heaven protect thee!

[Exeunt.