University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

CASTLE OF MURO. Giovanna, Agatha.
Giovanna.
Long have we lived in one imprisonment;
Our tears have darkened many a thread about
Each distaff, at the whitening half-spent fire
On winter-night; many a one when deep purple
Cloth'd yonder mountain after summer-day,
And one sole bird was singing, sad though free.
Death, like all others, hath forgotten me,
And grief, methinks, now growing old, grows lighter.

Agatha.
To see you smile amid your grief, consoles me.

Giovanna.
I never wanted confidence in you,
Yet never have I opened my full mind,
Keeping some thoughts secreted, altho' bent
To draw them out before you. They have lain
Like letters which, however long desired,
We cover with the hand upon the table
And dare not open.

Agatha.
If relief there be,
Why pause? if not, why blame your diffidence?

Giovanna.
Fostered too fondly, I shot up too tall
In happiness: it wasted soon. Taranto
Had my first love; Andrea my first vow,
And warm affection, which shuts out sometimes
Love, rather than embraces it. To lose him
Pained me, God knows! and worse (so lost!) than all
The wild reports Hungarians spread about me.
My first admirer was my first avenger.
He, laying at my feet his conquering sword,
Withdrew. Two years elapst, he urged the dangers
That still encompast me; recall'd our walks,
Our studies, our reproofs for idling, smiled at
By (O kind man!) the grandfather of both.
I bade him hope. Hope springs up at that word
And disappears; Love, radiant Love, alights.
Taranto was my joy; my heart was full:
Alas! how little can the full heart spare?
I paus'd . . because I ill might utter it . .
In time he turn'd his fancies to another.
Wretchedest of the wretched was I now;
But gentle tones much comforted my anguish,
Until they ended; then loud throbs confused
The treasured words; then heavy sleep opprest me.
I was ashamed . . I am ashamed . . yet (am I
Unwomanly to own it?) when he loved
One only, I was driven to despair;
When more . . Adieu Taranto! cried my heart
And almost sank thro' sorrow into peace.
O that fresh crimes in him should solace me!
My life of love was over, when his spirit
Flew from my lips, and carried my forgiveness
On high, for Heaven's.
Wars burst forth again;
He who defended me from their assaults
Saw in me what to love, but whom to love
He found not in me.
“If my confidence,
My gratitude,” said I, “suffice thee, Otho,
Here is my hand.”
He took it, and he wept.
Brave man! and let me also weep for thee!

Agatha.
Not beauteous youth enrobed in royal purple
And bright with early hope, have moved you so.

Giovanna.
Record not either; let me dwell on Otho:
The thoughts of him sink deeper in my pillow;
His valiant heart and true one bleeds for me.