 | Murtzoufle |  |
SCENE IV.
—A Room in Euphrosyne's Palace.Eudocia and Zillah looking from a window.
Zill.
Lady, 'tis scarcely night:
The moon is rising o'er Chalcedon's towers,
Above the Asian hills: dim forms of eve,
Their earliest shadows see: faint gleam the dark
And woody shores of the swift Bosphorus.
The lover will not stumble in his path
In such a night:—and he shall come, my lady.
Meanwhile, our tale—
Eud.
It is too tedious: well—
13
Wouldst thou not hear
Of eastern princess and her Knight of France?
Eud.
Lov'd she him well?
Zill.
Thus stood he, haughty warrior,
Motionless thus,—his arms on his high breast,
('Twas when they parted, he to the Thracian fight,
And she to stay with Hope, War's youngest sister:)
Motionless thus,—and smiling on her care,
To fix on his crest her favour, as he told
Young maidens do in France. With hurried hand
She tried each point, and look'd not up: A flash
Burst from her eyes, at length; it spoke of honour.
And then she smil'd—in tears, and she did stumble,
Leaving the garden, in the clear path: She looks
As if the days were very wearisome;—
Trust me, she loves him deeply, and he her.
Yet came her knight from war, then, O glad meeting!
Such as the anxious heart dares picture forth,
In all her hopes, not frequently; such bright
Contingencies of joy, safety, and honour;
As if she could deceive high Heaven, and say—
'Tis yea, or nay—in secret fear to think,
What men most doat on's quickly ta'en away;
From battle he came; then why not come to-night?
Eud.
So sweetly eloquent, thou Arab thing!
So full thine eyes of love's quick pantomine;
Maid, thou wert born his young interpreter
To duller hearts: yet, somewhat sadly sweet.—
He is not in the garden,—all is still,
He will not come to-night, he cannot come,
Nor send a little messenger to-night.
How many maidens weep at this lone hour,
And all because of love some mourn for wars,
That leave dark days with lovers; some o'er death;
Some wander now upon the carpet sands,
Dropping full many a tear upon the edge
Of the fast-flowing wave, and mourning lovers,
Far away gone upon the world of seas.—
14
That sounds like echo of some falling throne.
To-day, I have not seen a living form,
Save thine, my little Arab—something dread.
Enter Marsas.
Here Marsas comes, that ever brings good news,
Whose smile's an ever-green:—What! wo-begone!
Mar.
Wo! wo! our prince is murder'd by Murtzoufle.
[Exit Marsas.
Eud.
And I must fall too.—O this dreadful night!
Hearest thou, Zillah? hast thou seen to-day
Lady Euphrosyne? O, she will come,
And lead me onward to his lurid love,
Where human feelings come not: if they come,
Like shrubby flames that live to nod and dance
O'er vaulted fires a moment—they are gone.
Enter Euphrosyne.
Euph.
I take this hour to speak to thee; and glad,
Most glad, am I to hope, thou art not chang'd
From the obedient maiden that ne'er griev'd
A mother's heart: and now, my love, must be
Obedient farther: Cans't thou read my thoughts?
Eud.
Madam, they bid heaven bless thy daughter's life.
Euph.
And—love?
And wilt thou thank me for my prayer?
It has been heard, this night shall see thee wed.
Eud.
I will not fear a mother's words, my lady.
Euph.
Eudocia, be not foolish: think not, wench,
I mean that foolish passion which you spake of.
I'll drag thy spirit to my present purpose.
Eud.
Those eyes are fearful; see they not thy daughter?
Euph.
They see a scornful maid, that tries to steal
Away from a mother's blessing, as 'twould sting.
Eud.
My honoured mother, what shall I do for thee?
Art thou not well? then let me bring my harp.
Troubled to-day?—I know it by thine eye.—
15
And fill thy breast with peace. You know how oft
For you it has been blest: not for myself,
But you I mourn, that we are brought thus low.
Euph.
Ay—ay thus low. And shall not she be blest
That strives to rise, to raise her fallen mother?
Eud.
Would that I could! Zillah, maid, bring our harp.
Euph.
No; stir not, maiden.
Eud.
Shall it not be to-night?
Euph.
Ay—ay to-night—now understand that hint.
Eud.
Oh! is it so? thy words then have a meaning
To gather up my spirit into knots
Of curdled ice. Alas! I feared thus much,
And tried, (false maid) to give thy thoughts the slip.
And yet I thought my fears might all be vain.
For, pardon me, I never thought my mother
Would strive to wreath me with those bloody bonds.
For Heaven's sake, urge me not.
Euph.
This is more strange
Than savag'ry, or any whim in woman.
What would'st thou have? What be if not a queen?
Eud.
Nothing: or death and grave before this bridal.
Heaven cannot bless it.
Euph.
No; it never shall;
For, wench, in vain thou wouldst have Montmorency.
Eud.
Let me live for thee.
And with thee all my life,
Euph.
This mockery now
O how I laugh at it, and think how vain!
Eud.
What shall I say then, madam? Mother, thou,
And yet no mother! for my heart refuses
To take thy loath'd proposals, stain'd with blood—
That blood an Emperor's—a relative's.—
What! must I wed a furrow'd curse, that clings
Till it grows old—stretch towards the bloody bosom
Of this usurper? O how men would loathe—
And matrons weep, and maidens hide the head—
16
Hold back the head far, far, not to see her,
The daughter of Euphrosyne, so foul.
No; rather drown me in a sea of blood.
I said, good madam, that I have no wish:
'Tis true, if any wish yields this condition,
That I must wed Murtzoufle. O no, no!
Let me no more disturb thee—let me live—
But name not this—unheeded as the spider
That works in cool and silent palaces;
And want thy face, and commune with no light,
Rather that this. Madam, I ask thee nothing.
Euph.
The credit thine, maid, for this moderation:
It shall be given thee, therefore, though thou ask not;
Nay, more, against thy will—a murderer—
That, wench, or what thou wilt; so he be prince
And thou his wife, if he will have no other.
The shame mine own that I have been unfit
To bring a princess forth: a peasant thou!
A peasant girl.—Now praise humility,
And I shall list a moment, and then speak,
And not in vain, else I have borne in vain
The pangs of travail in thy birth—go on.
Eud.
I cannot speak, unless Heaven dictate words
To move thy soul; but surely it enjoins
Humility on man, whose life is breath.
If I might care for royalty, it were
But for thy sake, for I would rather be
My Montmorency's bride, and in his France
Queen of a vintage feast, than Empress here.
In this I mock not Heaven, calling my wish
Humility, for I have been most proud
Of Montmorency's fame.
Euph.
No; but you think
All this is well.—Proceed—I'll hear thee out.
Eud.
If I have been as thou thyself hast said,
In all things dutiful since infancy,
Cannot I move thee in this one request?
17
Now you have done.
Eud.
Stay but one moment, this is it then, all.—
(kneeling.)
Bless me and Montmorency. Do it, lady.
Thou art not frail as woman, and will do it
Because t'were strange, perhaps.
Euph.
I speak no words
Of burning wrath, but keep them in this bosom.
If for thy love, (which did I look it straight,
Would wrinkle up a brow of scorn beyond
The power of ninety years,) if for this love
You ask my blessing; thence, I'll lay on thee
A dreadful word.
Eud.
Heaven cry no! Speak, too, Arab,
If I have taught thee, love, a purer faith.
Euph.
Good Zillah—Madam, Murtzoufle comes this night and weds thee.
I set him on, but he's a hungry lion,
That, tasting blood, wont bear control. Mark, maid,
I could not help thee now did I so wish.
This very night, I can but say, Prepare—
Look to thyself—'tis seal'd—we are constrained—
This very night.
Eud.
O Montmorency, haste!
Be as a post of wind or glimpsing sun.
Euph.
Louder, thou fool.
He hears thee not; and ne'er shall hear thee more.
Eud.
Hark! O thou dost not know—there sounds the battle;
(sounds without.)
And there, perhaps, the stroke of Heaven to strike
The tyrant down or reach this heart a blow
O kinder than that smile.
Euph.
I did but laugh to think how far he's hence
Beneath the city walls, and haply slain,
No more to see thee, did he live an age,
Unless Murtzoufle show thee from the wall
To mock his rage. That rage is impotent,—
And all the Latin arms. What next, my love?
18
Then, Zillah, bring the harp, no lively air
This lady wishes; we shall have a dirge,
And I shall die, for yet I love my love
And ne'er shall be another's: I'll but wait
To learn the worst.
Euph.
Unseal thy fount of tears,
Poor shadow of a Queen. I'll not be back
But send the messenger—the messenger.
(Exit. Euph.)
(Eud. stands looking after her mother's steps a long while.)
Eud.
Where art thou, Zillah?
(to Zillah.)
Why weep'st thou, silly girl? it aids us not.
Hath the owl been at my casement? or was that
Hail, the quick dancer? or Death's finger-bone
That struck my window?
Zill.
O speak not so, my lady.
I heard no sound.
Eud.
Where then is that tall woman
That stood beside me now, and touch'd my arm?
O, ay—my mother. But she shall not fly,
I'll follow her through all the city, and kneel.
(Goes out.)
(Returning.)
Come to our chamber, Zillah,
And be he fiend, I'll be Eudocia still
And Montmorency's.
[Exeunt.
| Murtzoufle | |