University of Virginia Library

THE BEACON:

A SERIOUS MUSICAL DRAMA, IN TWO ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Ulrick, lord of the island.
• Ermingard.
• Bastiani, friend of Ulrick.
• Garcio, friend of Ermingard.
• Page.
• Pope's Legate.
• Knights of St. John of Jerusalem.
• Fishermen, singers, attendants of the Legate, &c.

WOMEN

• Aurora.
• Terentia, a noble lady, and gouvernante to Aurora.
• Viola, lady attending on Aurora.
• Edda, lady attending on Aurora.

Scene, a small island of the Mediterranean. Time, towards the middle of the 14th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A grove adjoining to a castellated building, part of which only is seen. Several people are discovered near the window of one of its towers who begin to sing as the curtain draws up.
Enter Page.
Page.
Leave off your morning songs, they come too late;
My lady hath been up these two good hours,
And hath no heart to listen to your lays!
You should have cheer'd her sooner.

1st sing.
Her nightly vigils make the evening morn.
And thus we reckon'd time.

Page.
Well, go ye now;
Another day she'll hear your carols out.

[Exeunt page and singers severally, by the bottom of the stage, while Ulrick and Terentia enter by the front, speaking as they enter.
Ul.
Thou pleadst in vain: this night shall be the last.

Ter.
Have patience, noble Ulrick; be assur'd,
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone,
Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora,
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff,
Her beacon watch: despondency, ere long,
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task.

Ul.
Sad and unvaried! Ay; to sober minds
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child,
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring
The wonted mess, prepared against its waking,
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt:
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon,
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare
A thousand times hath glided, till by force
His angry dame hath dragg'd him from his station.
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature,
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life
Shall to a close wear sadly. Patience, sayst thou!
I have too long been patient.

Ter.
Then be it known to thee, despondency
Already steals upon her; for she sits not
So oft as she was wont upon the beach,
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence;
And when the night is come, less eagerly
She now inquires if yet the beacon's light
Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess,
Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more.

Ul.
No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame
I do believe some spirit of the night
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come.

Ter.
In truth, my lord, you do yourself talk strangely.
These are wild thoughts.

Ul.
Nay, be thou well assur'd,
Spell-bound she is: night hath become her day;
On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous things
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends
Such as affliction courts), her ear and fancy
Do solely dwell. This visionary state
Is foster'd by these nightly watchings; therefore,
I say again, I will no more endure it;
This night shall be the last.

Ter.
That Ermingard upon the plains of Palestine
Fell on that fatal day, what sober mind
Can truly doubt; although his corpse, defaced,
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd.
For well I am assured, had he survived it,
Knowing thou wert his rival, and Aurora
Left in this isle, where thou bearst sov'reign sway,
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back.
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared,
Have to their homes return'd.—Thou shak'st thy head,
Thou dost not doubt?

Ul.
We'll speak of this no more.
I'm sick and weary of these calculations.
We must and will consider him as dead;
And let Aurora know—

Enter Bastiani.
(To Bast. angrily.)
Why, Bastiani,
Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state:
These petty cares are grown most irksome to me;
I cannot hear thee now.
Bast.
Indeed, my lord, it is no petty care
Compels me to intrude. Within your port
A vessel from the Holy Land has moor'd.

Ul.
(starting).
Warriors from Palestine?

Bast.
No, good my lord!
The holy legate on his way to Rome;
Who by late tempests driven on our coasts,
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit,
And give refreshment to his weary train.

Ul.
In evil hour he comes to lord it here.

Bast.
He doth appear a meek and peaceful man.

Ul.
'Tis seeming all. I would with mailed foes
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend,
Than strive with such my peaceful town within.
Already landed, sayst thou?

Bast.
Yes, from the beach their grave procession comes.
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep
That glows behind them in the western sun,
Crosses and spears and croziers show aloft
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct confusion;
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled priests,
And crested chiefs, a closing group below,
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too,
Move slowly on.—

Ul.
Then must I haste to meet them.

Bast.
Or be most strangely wanting in respect.
For every street and alley of your city
Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them:
The very sick and dying, whose wan forms
No more did think to meet the breath of heaven,
Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd arms
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids,
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity,
Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd;
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up,
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe
May bring them good. And in fair truth, my lord,
Among the crowd the rev'rend legate seems
Like a right noble and right gentle parent,
Cheering a helpless race.

Ul.
Ay, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too.
Were he less gentle I should fear him less.

[Exit.
Bast.
He's in a blessed mood: what so disturbs him?

Ter.
What has disturb'd him long, as well thou knowest:
Aurora's persevering fond belief
That her beloved Ermingard still lives,
And will return again. To guide his bark
Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame;
For so she promis'd, when he parted from her,
To watch for his return.

Bast.
Ulrick in wisdom should have married them
Before he went, for then the chance had been
She had not watch'd so long.
Your widow is a thing of more docility
Than your lorn maiden.—Pardon, fair Terentia.

Ter.
Thy tongue wags freely. Yet I must confess,
Had Ulrick done what thou callst wisely, he
The very thing had done which as her kinsman
He was in duty bound to. But, alas!
A wayward passion warp'd him from the right,
And made him use his power ungen'rously
Their union to prevent.

Bast.
But though the death of Ermingard were prov'd,
Thinkst thou Aurora would bestow her hand
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd,
A lover cloth'd in stern authority?

Ter.
I know not; Ulrick fondly so believes;
And I, although allied to him by blood,
The playmate also of his early days,
Dare not an opposite opinion utter.

Bast.
Hark there! I hear without th' approaching crowd.
My duty on this public ceremony
I must attend, for honour of the state.
In petty courts like this, on such occasions,
One spangled doublet more or less bears count.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

An arbour, supported by rustic wooden pillars, twined round with flowers and green plants, and a flowergarden seen in the background between the pillars. Enter Page, followed by Edda, speaking as she enters.
Edda.
Yes, do so, boy; Aurora is at hand.—
But take with thee, beside, this little basket,
And gather roses in the farther thicket,
Close to the garden-gate.—

Page
(taking the basket).
Give it me then. She chid me yesterday
For gath'ring full-spread roses, whose loose leaves
Fell on her lap: to-day I'll fill my basket
With buds, and blossoms, and half open'd flowers,
Such as nice dames do in their kerchiefs place.

Edda.
Prate less and move thee quicker. Get thee hence.
See there, thy mistress comes: haste to thy task.

[Exit page.
Enter Aurora, and Terentia.
Ter.
Here you will find a more refreshing air;
The western sun beats fiercely.

Aur.
Western sun!
Is time so far advanced? I left my couch
Scarcely an hour ago.

Ter.
You are deceiv'd.
Three hours have past, but past by you unheeded;
Who have the while in silent stillness been,
Like one forlorn, that has no need of time.

Aur.
In truth I now but little have to do
With time or any thing besides. It passes;
Hour follows hour; day follows day; and year,
If I so long shall last, will follow year:
Like drops that through the cavern'd hermit's roof
Some cold spring filters; glancing on his eye
At measur'd intervals, but moving not
His fix'd unvaried notice.

Edda.
Nay, dearest lady, be not so depress'd.
You have not ask'd me for my song to-day—
The song you prais'd so much. Shall I not sing it?
I do but wait your bidding.

Aur.
I thank thy kindness; sing it if thou wilt.

[Sits down on a low seat, her head supported between both her hands, with her elbows resting on her knees.
Ter.
Is not her voice improv'd in power and sweetness?

Edda.
It is a cheering song.

Aur.
It cheers those who are cheer'd.
[After a pause.
Twelve years are past;
Their daughters matrons grown, their infants youths,
And they themselves with aged furrows mark'd;
But none of all their kin are yet return'd;
No, nor shall ever.

Ter.
Still run thy thoughts upon those hapless women
Of that small hamlet, whose advent'rous peasants
To Palestine with noble Baldwin went,
And ne'er were heard of more?

Aur.
They perish'd there; and of their dismal fate
No trace remain'd—none of them all return'd.
Didst thou not say so?—Husbands, lovers, friends,
Not one return'd again.

Ter.
So I believe.

Aur.
Thou but believest then?

Ter.
As I was told—

Edda.
Thou hast the story wrong.
Four years gone by, one did return again;
But marr'd, and maim'd, and chang'd—a woeful man.

Aur.
And what though every limb were hack'd and maim'd,
And roughen'd o'er with scars?—he did return.
[Rising lightly from her seat.
I would a pilgrimage to Iceland go,
To the antipodes or burning zone,
To see that man who did return again,
And her who did receive him.—Did receive him.!
O what a moving thought lurks here!—How was't?
Tell it me all: and oh, another time,
Give me your tale ungarbled.—
Enter Viola.
Ha, Viola! 'tis my first sight of thee
Since our long vigil. Thou hast had, I hope,
A sound and kindly sleep.

Viola.
Kindly enough, but somewhat cross'd with dreams.

Aur.
How cross'd? what was thy dream? O tell it me!
I have an ear that craves for every thing
That hath the smallest sign or omen in it.
It was not sad?

Viola.
Nay, rather strange; methought
A christ'ning feast within your bower was held;
But when the infant to the font was brought,
It prov'd a full-grown man in armour clad.

Aur.
A full-grown man! (Considering for a moment, and then holding up her hands.)
O blessing on thy dream!
From death to life restor'd is joyful birth.
It is, it is! come to my heart, sweet maid,
[Embracing Viola.
A blessing on thyself and on thy sleep!
I feel a kindling life within me stir,
That doth assure me it has shadow'd forth
A joy that soon shall be.

Ter.
So may it prove!
But trust not such vain fancies, nor appear
Too much elated; for unhappy Ulrick
Swears that your beacon, after this night's watch,
Shall burn no more.

Aur.
He does! then will we have
A noble fire. This night our lofty blaze
Shall through the darkness shoot full many a league
Its streamy rays, like to a bearded star
Preceding changeful—ay, and better times.
It may in very truth. O if his bark
(For many a bark within their widen'd reach
The dark seas traverse) should our light descry!
Should this be so—it may; perhaps it will.
O that it might!—We'll have a rousing blaze!
Give me your hands.
[Taking Viola and Terentia gaily by the hands.
So lightly bounds my heart,
I could like midnight goblins round the flame
Unruly orgies hold.—Ha! think ye not,
When to the font our mail-clad infant comes,
Ulrick will a right gracious gossip prove?

Viola.
Assuredly, so will his honour prompt.

Aur.
Nay, rather say his pride. Methinks I see him;
His darken'd figure striding 'cross the hall,
While his high plume, that noddeth to and fro,
Show'th his perturb'd and restless courtesy.
Good, noble, happy wight! Yet woe betide
The luckless hound that fawns on him that day!
His dismal yell disturbs the ceremony.
Ha, ha! I needs must laugh.

Ter.
Indeed you let your fancy wildly run,
And disappointment will but prove the sharper.

Aur.
Talk not of disappointment; be assur'd
Some late intelligence hath Ulrick prompted
To these stern orders. On our sea there sails,
Or soon will sail, some vessel, which right gladly
He would permit to founder on the coast,
Or miss its course. But no, it will not be:
In spite of all his hatred, to the shore,
Through seas as dark as subterraneous night,
It will arrive in safety.

Ter.
Nay, sweet Aurora, feed not thus thy wishes
With wild unlikely thoughts; for Ulrick surely
No such intelligence hath had, and thou
But makest thy after-sorrow more acute,
When these vain fancies fail.

Aur.
And let them fail: though duller thoughts succeed,
The bliss e'en of a moment still is bliss.

Viola
(to Ter.)
Thou wouldst not of her dewdrops spoil the thorn,
Because her glory will not last till noon;
Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt,
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't!
If this be wise, 'tis cruel.

Aur.
Thanks, gentle Viola; thou art ever kind.
We'll think to-morrow still hath good in store,
And make of this a blessing for to-day,
Though good Terentia there may chide us for it.

Ter.
And thus a profitable life you'll lead,
Which hath no present time, but is made up
Entirely of to-morrows.

Aur.
Well, taunt me as thou wilt, I'll worship still
The blessed morrow, storehouse of all good
For wretched folks. They who lament to-day,
May then rejoice: they who in misery bend
E'en to the earth, be then in honour robed.
O! who shall reckon what its brighten'd hours
May of returning joy contain? To-morrow!
The blest to-morrow! cheering, kind to-morrow!
I were a heathen not to worship thee.
(To Ter.)
Frown not again; we must not wrangle now.

Ter.
Thou dost such vain and foolish fancies cherish,
Thou forcest me to seem unkind and stern.

Aur.
Ah! be not stern. Edda will sing the song
That makes feet beat and heads nod to its tune;
And even grave Terentia will be moved
To think of pleasant things.

Aur.
(who at first nods her head lightly to the measure, now bursts into tears, taking Edda's hands between hers, and pressing them gratefully).
I thank thee: this shall be our daily song:
It cheers my heart, although these foolish tears
Seem to disgrace its sweetness.

Enter Page.
Viola
(to Aur.)
Here comes your page with lightly-bounding steps,
As if he brought good tidings.

Edda.
Grant he may!

Aur.
(eagerly).
What brings thee hither, boy?

Page
(to Aur.).
A noble stranger of the legate's train,
Come from the Holy Land, doth wait without,
Near to the garden gate, where I have left him;
He begs to be admitted to your presence;
Pleading for such indulgence as the friend
Of Ermingard, for so he bade me say.

Aur.
The friend of Ermingard! the Holy Land!
[Pausing for a moment, and then tossing up her arms in ecstasy.
O God! it is himself!
[Runs eagerly some steps towards the garden, then catching hold of Terentia, who follows her.
My head is dizzy grown; I cannot go.
Haste, lead him hither, boy.
[Waving her hand impatiently.
Fly; hearst thou not?

[Exit page.
Ter.
Be not so greatly moved. It is not likely
This should be Ermingard. The boy has seen him,
And would have known him. 'Tis belike some friend.

Aur.
No; every thrilling fibre of my frame
Cries out “it is himself.”
[Looking out.
He comes not yet: how strange! how dull! how tardy!

Ter.
Your page hath scarce had time to reach the gate,
Though he hath run right quickly.

Aur.
(pausing and looking out).
He comes not yet. Ah! if it be not he;
My sinking heart misgives me.
O now he comes! the size and air are his.

Ter.
Not to my fancy; there is no resemblance.

Aur.
Nay, but there is: and see, he wears his cloak
As he was wont to do; and o'er his cap
The shading plume so hangs.—It is! it is!
Enter Garcio; and she, breaking from Terentia, runs towards him.
My lost, my found, my blest! conceal thee not.

[Going to catch him in her arms, when Garcio takes off his plumed cap, and bows profoundly. She utters a faint cry, and shrinks back.
Gar.
Lady, I see this doffed cap hath discover'd
A face less welcome than the one you looked for.
Pardon a stranger's presence; I've presumed
Thus to intrude, as friend of Ermingard,
Who bade me—

Aur.
Bade thee! is he then at hand?

Gar.
Ah, would he were!
'Twas in a hostile and a distant land
He did commit to me these precious tokens,
Desiring me to give them to Aurora,
And with them too his sad and last farewell.

Aur.
And he is dead!

Gar.
Nay, wring not thus your hands:
He was alive and well when he entrusted me
With what I now return.

[Offering her a small casket.
Aur.
Alive and well, and sends me back my tokens!

Gar.
He sent them back to thee as Ulrick's wife;
For such, forced by intelligence from hence
Of strong authority, he did believe thee:
And in that fatal fight, which shortly follow'd,
He fought for death as shrewdly as for fame.
Fame he indeed hath earn'd.

Aur.
But not the other?
Ah, do not say he has! Among the slain
His body was not found.

Gar.
As we have learnt, the Knights of blest St. John
Did from the field of dying and of wounded
Many convey, who in their house of charity
All care and solace had; but with the names,
Recorded as within their walls receiv'd,
His is not found; therefore we must account him
With those who, shrouded in an unknown fate,
Are as the dead lamented, as the dead
For ever from our worldly care dismiss'd.

Aur.
Lamented he shall be; but from my care
Dismiss'd as are the dead—that is impossible.

Ter.
Nay, listen to advice so wise and needful:
It is the friend of Ermingard who says,
Let him within thy mind be as the dead.

Aur.
My heart repels the thought; it cannot be.
No, till his corse, bereft of life, is found,
Till this is sworn, and prov'd, and witness'd to me,
Within my breast he shall be living still.

Ter.
Wilt thou yet vainly watch night after night,
To guide his bark who never will return?

Aur.
Who never will return! And thinkest thou
To bear me down with such presumptuous words?
Heaven makes me strong against thee:
There is a Power above that calms the storm,
Restrains the mighty, gives the dead to life:
I will in humble faith my watch still keep;
Force only shall restrain me.

Gar.
Force never shall, thou noble, ardent spirit!
Thy gen'rous confidence would almost tempt me
To think it will be justified.

Aur.
Ha! sayst thou so? A blessing rest upon thee
For these most cheering words! Some guardian power
Whispers within thee.—No, we'll not despair.

Enter Ulrick.
Ul.
(to Gar.)
Your dismal mission is, I trust, fulfill'd;
Then, gentle Garcio, deem it not unkind
That I entreat you to retire; for they
Who sorrow for the dead, love to be left
To grieve without constraint.

Aur.
Thanks for your kind concern, most noble sir;
And when we needs must sorrow for the dead,
We'll freely grieve without constraint. But know,
Until our corse is found, we ring no knell.
If then your ear for funeral dirges long,
Go to some other bower; hope still is here.

Ul.
Ha! still perversely bent? what can convince thee?
This is distraction.

Aur.
Be it what it may,
It owns not thy authority. Brave youth
(to Gar.),
I owe thy gentleness some kind acknowledgment:
I'll find another time to give thee thanks.

[Exit, followed by Viola and Edda.
Ul.
Such hope is madness! yield we to her humour?
No, she must be to sober reason brought,
By steady, firm control.

Gar.
Mean you by this, my lord, a fore'd control?

Ul.
Who shall inquire my meaning?

Gar.
The holy legate, patron of th' oppress'd,
Will venture to inquire.

Ul.
Ay, as his nephew, thou presum'st, I see.
But know, bold youth, I am unused to threats.

Gar.
Yet brook them as you may. I take my leave.

[Exit.
Manent Ulrick and Terentia.
Ul.
Did I not say these cursed meddling priests—
These men of meekness, wheresoe'er they come,
Would rule and power usurp? Woe worth the hour
That brought them here!—and for this headstrong maniac.
As such, I will—

Ter.
Hush, hush! these precincts quit.
It is not well, here to expose to view
Thy weak ungovern'd passions. Thou'rt observ'd;
Retire with me, where screen'd from ev'ry eye,
With more possession of thy ruffled mind,
Thou mayst consider of thy wayward state.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A flat spot of ground on the top of a cliff, with broken craggy rocks on each side, and a large mass of rock in the middle, on which a great fire of wood is burning; a dark sea in the background; the scene to receive no light but from the fire. Two fishermen are discovered watching the fire, and supplying it with wood.

SONG.

1st Fisherman.

2d fish.
Tush, man! give o'er; thy ballads have no end,
When thou art in the mood. I hear below
A sound of many voices on the shore:
Some boat, belike, forced by the drifting current
Upon the rocks, may be in jeopardy.

1st fish.
'Tis all a mock to cut my ditty short.
Thou hast no mind to hear how it befell
That those two lovers were by kinsmen stern
O'erta'en; and how the knight,—by armed foes
Beset, a bloody combat bravely held,
And was the while robb'd of his lady fair.
And how in Paynim land they met again.
How, as a page disguised, she sought her knight,
Left on the field as lifeless. How she cheer'd him;
And how they married were, and home in state—

2d fish.
Ha' done, ha' done! a hundred times I've heard it.
My grandam lull'd me with it on her lap
Full many a night; and as my father sat,
Mending his nets upon the beach, he sang it.
I would I knew my prayers as well.—But hark!
I hear a noise again.—
[Goes to the bottom of the stage, as if he were looking down to the sea.
Along the shore
I see lights moving swiftly.

1st fish.
Some fishermen, who, later than the rest,
Their crazy boat bring in; while, to the beach,
With flaming brands, their wives and children run.
Rare sight, indeed, to take thy fancy so!

(Sings again.)
Bast.
(without).
Holla, good mate! Thou who so bravely singst!
Come down, I pray thee.

1st fish.
Who art thou who callst?

2d fish.
I know the voice; 'tis Signor Bastiani.

1st fish.
What! he, at such an hour, upon the cliff!
(Calling down.)
I cannot come. If, from my station here,
This fire untended, I were found; good sooth!
I had as lief the luckless friar be,
Who spilt the abbot's wine.

2d fish.
I'll go to him.

[Exit.
1st fish.
(muttering to himself).
Ay; leave my watch, indeed! a rare entreaty!

Enter Bastiani.
Bast.
Wilt thou not go? A boat near to the shore,
In a most perilous state, calls for assistance:
Who is like thee, good Stephen, bold and skilful?
Haste to its aid, if there be pity in thee,
Or any Christian grace. I will, meantime,
Thy beacon watch; and should the lady come,
Excuse thy absence. Haste; make no reply.

1st fish.
I will; God help us all!

[Exit.
Bast.
Here is, indeed, a splendid noble fire
Left me in ward. It makes the darkness round,
To its fierce light oppos'd, seem thick and palpable,
And closed o'er head, like to the pitchy cope
Of some vast cavern.—Near at hand, methinks,
Soft female voices speak: I'll to my station. [Retires from the front of the stage behind the fire.


Enter Aurora, Terentia and Viola.
Viola.
A rousing light! Good Stephen hath full well
Obey'd your earnest bidding.—Fays and witches
Might round its blaze their midnight revelry
Right fitly keep.

Ter.
Ay; thou lov'st wilds and darkness,
And fire and storms, and things unsooth and strange:
This suits thee well. Methinks, in gazing on it,
Thy face a witch-like cagerness assumes.

Viola.
I'll be a goblin then, and round it dance.
Did not Aurora say we thus should hold
This nightly vigil. Yea, such were her words.

Aur.
They were light bubbles of some mantling thought,
That now is flat and spiritless; and yet,
If thou art so inclin'd, ask not my leave,
Dance if thou wilt.

Viola.
Nay, not alone, sweet sooth!
Witches, themselves, some fiend-like partners find.

Ter.
And so mayst thou. Look yonder; near the flame
A crested figure stands. That is not Stephen.

Aur.
(eagerly).
A crested figure! Where? O call to it!

[Bast. comes forward.
Ter.
'Tis Bastiani.

Aur.
Ay; 'tis Bastiani:
'Tis he, or any one; 'tis ever thus;
So is my fancy mock'd.

Bast.
If I offend you, madam, 'tis unwillingly
Stephen has for awhile gone to the beach,
To help some fishermen, who, as I guess,
Against the tide would force their boat to land.
He'll soon return; meantime, I did entreat him
To let me watch his beacon. Pardon me;
I had not else intruded; though full oft
I've clamber'd o'er these cliffs, e'en at this hour,
To see the ocean from its sabled breast
The flickering gleam of these bright flames return.

Aur.
Make no excuse, I pray thee. I am told
By good Terentia thou dost wish me well,
Though Ulrick long has been thy friend. I know
A wanderer on the seas in early youth
Thou wast, and still canst feel for all storm-toss'd
On that rude element.

Bast.
'Tis true, fair lady: I have been, ere now,
Where such a warning light, sent from the shore,
Had saved some precious lives; which makes the task,
I now fulfil, more grateful.

Aur.
How many leagues from shore may such a light
By the benighted mariner be seen?

Bast.
Some six or so, he will descry it faintly,
Like a small star, or hermit's taper, peering
From some cav'd rock that brows the dreary waste;
Or like the lamp of some lone lazar-house,
Which through the silent night the traveller spies
Upon his doubtful way.

Viola.
Fie on such images!
Thou shouldst have liken'd it to things more seemly.
Thou mightst have said the peasant's evening fire
That from his upland cot, through winter's gloom,
What time his wife their evening meal prepares,
Blinks on the traveller's eye, and cheers his heart;
Or signal-torch, that from my lady's bower
Tells wand'ring knights the revels are begun;
Or blazing brand, that from the vintage-house
O' long October nights, through the still air
Looks rousingly.—To have our gallant beacon
Ta'en for a lazar-house!

Bast.
Well, maiden, as thou wilt: thy gentle mistress
Of all these things may choose what likes her best,
To paint more clearly how her noble fire
The distant seamen cheer'd, who bless the while
The hand that kindled it.

Aur.
Shall I be bless'd—
By wand'ring men returning to their homes?
By those from shipwreck sav'd, again to cheer
Their wives, their friends, their kindred? Bless'd by those!
And shall it not a blessing call from heaven?
It will; my heart leaps at the very thought:
The seamen's blessing rests upon my head,
To charm my wand'rer home.—
Heap on more wood:
Let it more brightly blaze.—Good Bastiani,
Hie to thy task, and we'll assist thee gladly.

[As they begin to occupy themselves with the fire, the sound of distant voices, singing in harmony, is heard under the stage as if ascending the cliff.
Aur.
What may it be?

Viola.
The songs of Paradise,
But that our savage rocks and gloomy night
So ill agree with peaceful soothing bliss.

Ter.
No blessed spirits in these evil days
Hymn, through the stilly darkness, strains of grace.

Aur.
Nay, list; it comes again.

[Voices heard nearer.
Ter.
The mingled sound comes nearer, and betrays
Voices of mortal men.

Viola.
In such sweet harmony!
I never heard the like.

Aur.
They must be good and holy who can utter
Such heavenly sounds.

Bast.
I've surely heard before
This solemn chorus chaunted by the knights,
The holy brothers of Jerusalem.
It is a carol sung by them full oft,
When saved from peril dire of flood or field.

Aur.
The Knights of blest St. John from Palestine!
Alas! why feel I thus? knowing too well
They cannot bring the tidings I would hear.

[Chorus rises again very near.
Viola.
List, list! they've gain'd the summit of the cliff:
They are at hand; their voices are distinct;
Yea, e'en the words they sing.

[A solemn song or hymn, sung in harmony, heard without.
Enter six Knights of St. John of Jerusalem in procession, with their followers behind them, who do not advance upon the stage, but remain partly concealed behind the rocks.
Aur.
Speak to them, Bastiani; thou'rt a soldier;
Thy mind is more composed.—I pray thee do.

[Motioning Bast. to accost them.
Bast.
This lady, noble warriors, greets you all,
And offers you such hospitality
As this late hour and scanty means afford.
Will't please ye round this blazing fire to rest?
After such perilous tossing on the waves,
You needs must be forspent.

1st knight.
We thank you, sir, and this most noble dame,
Whose beacon hath from shipwreck sav'd us. Driven
By adverse winds too near your rocky coast,
Warn'd by its friendly light, we stood to sea:
But soon discov'ring that our crazy bark
Had sprung a dangerous leak, we took our boat
And made for shore. The nearest point of land
Beneath this cliff, with peril imminent,
By help of some good fishermen we gain'd;
And here, in God's good mercy, safe we are
With grateful hearts.

Aur.
We praise that mercy also
Which hath preserv'd you.

1st knight.
Lady, take our thanks.
And may the vessel of that friend beloved,
For whom you watch, as we have now been told,
Soon to your shore its welcome freight convey!

Aur.
Thanks for the wish; and may its prayers be heard!
Renowned men ye are; holy and brave;
In every field of honour and of arms
Some of your noble brotherhood are found:
Perhaps the valiant knights I now behold,
Did on that luckless day against the Souldan
With brave De Villeneuve for the cross contend.
If this be so, you can, perhaps, inform me
Of one who in the battle fought, whose fate
Is still unknown.

1st knight.
None of us all, fair dame, so honour'd were
As in that field to be, save this young knight.
Sir Bertram, wherefore, in thy mantle wrapt,
Standst thou so far behind? Speak to him, lady:
For in that battle he right nobly fought,
And may, belike, wot of the friend you mention'd.
Aur. (going up eagerly to the young knight). Didst thou there fight? then surely thou didst know
The noble Ermingard, who from this isle
With valiant Conrad went:—
What fate had he upon that dismal day?

Young knight.
Whate'er his fate in that fell fight might be,
He now is as the dead.

Aur.
Is as the dead! ha! then he is not dead:
He's living still. O tell me—tell me this!
Say he is still alive; and though he breathe
In the foul pest-house; though a wretched wand'rer,
Wounded and maim'd; yea, though his noble form
With chains and stripes and slavery be disgraced,
Say he is living still, and I will bless thee.
Thou knowst—full well thou knowst, but wilt not speak.
What means that heavy groan? For love of God, speak to me!
[Tears the mantle from his face, with which he had concealed it.
My Ermingard! My blessed Ermingard!
Thy very living self restored again!
Why turn from me?

Er.
Ah! callst thou this restor'd?

Aur.
Do I not grasp thy real living hand?
Dear, dear!—so dear! most dear!—my lost, my found!
Thou turnst and weepst; art thou not so to me?

Er.
Ah! would I were! alas, alas, I'm lost:
Sever'd from thee for ever.

Aur.
How so? What mean such words?

Er.
(shaking his head, and pointing to the cross on his mantle).
Look on this emblem of a holy vow,
Which binds and weds me to a heavenly love:
We are, my sweet Aurora, far divided;
Out bliss is wreck'd for ever.

Aur.
No; thou art still alive, and that is bliss.
Few moments since, what would I not have sacrificed,
To know that in the lapse of many years
I should again behold thee?—I had been—
How strongly thou art moved!—Thou heedst me not.

Ter.
(to Aur.)
Were it not better he should leave this spot?
Let me conduct him to my quiet bower.
Rest and retirement may compose his mind.

Aur.
Ay, thou art right, Terentia.

Ter.
(to the other knights).
Noble knights,
And these your followers! gentle Bastiani
Will to a place of better comfort lead you,
Where ye shall find some hospitable cheer,
And couches for repose.—Have we your leave
That your companion be a little time
Ta'en from your company?

1st knight.
You have, good lady,
Most readily we grant it.—Heaven be with you,
And this your lovely charge!
(To Bast.)
Sir, to your guidance
We yield ourselves right gladly.

[Exeunt knights, &c., by a path between the rocks, and Aurora and Ermingard, &c., by another path.

SCENE II.

An ante-room in the house of Aurora. Enter Garcio, beckoning the page, who presently enters by the opposite side.
Gar.
Come hither, little friend, who didst before
Serve me so willingly. Wilt thou from me
Bear to Sir Ermingard a friendly message;
And say his old companion—

Page.
Nay, I dare not.
The holy legate and the pope besides
Might not disturb him now; for dame Terentia
Hath so decreed. He is in her apartment,
And yonder is the door.

[Pointing off the stage.
Gar.
From which e'en now
I saw thee turn?

Page.
I listen'd not for harm.

Gar.
Do I accuse thee, boy? Is he alone?
Or is thy lady with him?

Page.
That I know not.
Do folks groan heaviest when they are alone?

Gar.
Full oft they do; for then without restraint
They utter what they feel.

Page.
Then, by my beard, I think he be alone!
For as I slipp'd on tiptoe to the door,
I heard him groan so deeply!

Gar.
Thou heardst him groan?

Page.
Ay; deeply.
I thought when he return'd, we should be merry:
So starting up at the good tidings, quickly,
All darkling as I was, I donn'd my clothes:
But, by my beard! I'd go to bed again,
Did I not long most curiously to know
What will betide.

Gar.
Speak softly, boy; thou, and thy beard to boot,
Will badly fare if Ulrick should o'erhear thee.
I know his angry voice: he is at hand.

Page.
Where shall I go?—He will not tarry here:
He will but pass to the adjoining hall.
In this dark nook I'll hide me from his sight,
Lest he should chide me.

[Retires behind the pillar.
Gar.
Is there room for me?
He'll greet me too with little courtesy,
If I remain to front him.

[Retires behind the pillar also.
Enter Ulrick and Bastiani, speaking as they anter.
Ul.
And still thou sayst, forbear!

Bast.
Pass on, my lord.

Ul.
No, by the holy rood! I'll keep in sight
Of that accursed door which gave him entrance.
An hour's sand well hath run, which undisturb'd
They have in converse or endearments spent.
And yet I must forbear!

Bast.
They have not told the truth who told you so;
It is not yet so long.

Ul.
It is! it is!
I have within these walls, who for my service
More faithfully have watch'd than Bastiani—
Ay, or Terentia either.

Bast.
Wrong us not.
Since Ermingard returns by holy vows
So bound, that as a rival to your love,
You may, with honest thoughts of her you love,
No more consider him; all jealousy
Within your noble breast should be extinct.
Then think not to disturb these few short moments
Of unavailing sorrow; that were cruel.

Ul.
Thou pitiest others well; I am tormented,
And no one pities me.—That cursed beacon!
I said in vain this night should be the last:
It was a night too much: the sea had now
Roll'd o'er his lifeless corse; I, been at peace.

Bast.
For mercy, good my lord! curb such fell thoughts:
They bear no kindred to your better nature.

Ul.
My better nature! Mock me not with words;
Who loves like me, no nature hath but one,
And that so keen—Would the engulfing waves
Had fifty fathom deep entombed him!

Bast.
Speak not so loud: pass on; we are within
The observation of a prying household.
Pass on, and presently I'll bring you notice
Of what you would. I pray you, stop not here!

[Exeunt Ul. and Bast., while Gar. and page come from their concealment.
Page.
He would have chid me shrewdly.

Gar.
He is, indeed, an angry, ruthless man,
And Bastiani no slight task will have
To keep his wrath from mischief. To the legate
I'll hie me straight, and ask his better counsel:
So far thee well, sweet child.

Page.
Nay, take me with you; I'm afraid to stay.
I can my prayers and Ave-Maria say,
The legate will not chide me.

Gar.
Nay, stay behind; thou art secure, poor elf!
I'll soon return again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartment of Terentia: Ermingard and Aurora are discovered with Terentia, who is withdrawn to a distance from them. Ermingard is seated with his body thrown back, and his face covered with both his hands, while Aurora stands by him in the attitude of one who is entreating or soothing him.
Erm.
O cease! Thy words, thy voice, thy hand on mine,
That touch so dearly felt, do but enhance
An agony too great.—Untoward fate!
Thus to have lost thee!

Aur.
Say not, thou hast lost me.
Heaven will subdue our minds, and we shall still,
With what is spared us from our wreck of bliss,
Be happy.

Erm.
Most unblest, untoward fate!
After that hapless battle, where in vain
I courted death, I kept my name conceal'd.
E'en brave De Villeneuve, master of our Order,
When he received my vows, did pledge his faith
Not to declare it. Thus I kept myself
From all communication with these shores,
Perversely forwarding my rival's will.
O blind and credulous fool!

Aur.
Nay, do not thus upbraid thyself: Heaven will'd it.
Be not so keenly moved: there still is left
What to the soul is dear.—We'll still be happy.

Erm.
The chasten'd pilgrim o'er his lady's grave
Sweet tears may shed, and may without reproach
Thoughts of his past love blend with thoughts of heaven.
He whom the treach'ry of some faithless maid
Hath robb'd of bliss, may, in the sturdy pride
Of a wrong'd man, the galling ill endure;
But sever'd thus from thee, so true, so noble,
By vows that all the soul's devotion claim,
It makes me feel—may God forgive the crime!
A very hatred of all saintly things.
Fool—rash and credulous fool! to lose thee thus!

Aur.
Nay, say not so: thou still art mine. Short while,
I would have given my whole of life besides
To've seen but once again thy passing form—
Thy face—thine eyes turn'd on me for a moment;
Or only to have heard through the still air
Thy voice distinctly call me, or the sound
Of thy known steps upon my lonely floor:
And shall I then, holding thy living hand
In love and honour, say, thou art not mine?

Erm.
(shaking his head).
This state—this sacred badge!

Aur.
O no! that holy cross upon thy breast
Throws such a charm of valorous sanctity
O'er thy lov'd form: my thoughts do forward glance
To deeds of such high fame by thee achieved;
That e'en methinks the bliss of wedded love
Less dear, less noble is, than such strong bonds
As may, without reproach, unite us still.

Erm.
O creature of a gen'rous constancy!
Thou but the more distractest me! Fool, fool!
[Starting from his seat, and pacing to and fro distractedly.
Mean, misbelieving fool!—I thought her false,
Credulous alone of evil—I have lost,
And have deserv'd to lose her.

Aur.
Oh! be not thus! Have I no power to soothe thee?
See, good Terentia weeps, and fain would try
To speak thee comfort.

Ter.
(coming forward).
Ay; bethink thee well,
Most noble Ermingard, heaven grants thee still
All that is truly precious of her love,—
Her true and dear regard.

Erm.
Then heaven forgive my black ingratitude,
For I am most unthankful!

Ter.
Nay, consider,
Her heart is thine: you are in mind united.

Erm.
United! In the farthest nook o' th' earth
I may in lonely solitude reflect,
That in some spot—some happier land she lives,
And thinks of me. Is this to be united?

Aur.
I cannot, in a page's surtout clad,
Thy steps attend as other maids have done
To other knights.

Erm.
No, by the holy rood!
Thou canst not, and thou shouldst not. Rather would I,
Dear as thou art, weep o'er thee in thy grave,
Than see thee so degraded.

Aur.
Hear me out.
I cannot so attend thee—noon and eve
Thy near companion be! but I have heard
That near the sacred houses of your order,
Convents of maids devout in Holy Land
Establish'd are—maids who in deeds of charity
To pilgrims and to all in warfare maim'd,
In sacred warfare for the holy cross,
Are deem'd the humble partners of your zeal.

Erm.
Ay, such there are; but what availeth this?

Aur.
There will I dwell, a vow'd and humble sister.
We shall not far be sever'd. The same winds
That do o' nights through your still cloisters sigh,
Our quiet cells visiting with mournful harmony,
Shall lull my pillow too. Our window'd towers
Shall sometimes show me on the neighbouring plains,
Amidst thy brave companions, thy mail'd form
Crested with glory, on thy pawing steed
Returning from the wars. And when at last
Thou art in sickness laid—who will forbid
The dear sad pleasure—like a holy bride
I'll by thy death-bed stand, and look to heaven
Where all bless'd union is. O! at the thought,
Methinks this span of life to nothing shrinks,
And we are bless'd already. Thou art silent:
Dost thou despise my words?

Erm.
O no! speak to me thus: say what thou wilt:
I am subdued. And yet these bursting tears!
My heart is rent in twain: I fear—I fear
I am rebellious still.
[Kneeling, and taking both her hands between his, and kissing them with great devotion.
School me or chide me now: do what thou wilt:
I am resign'd and humble.

Ter.
(advancing to them with alarm).
Hear ye that noise without?—They force the door,
And angry Ulrick comes.

Erm.
(starting from his knees furiously).
Thank heaven this hated rival front to front
Shall now oppose me! God avenge the right!

Enter Ulrick, bursting into the room, followed by Bastiani.
Ul.
(to Erm.)
Vow'd, holy knight; from all vain earthly love
Pure and divided; in a lady's chamber
Do we surprise thee? Quit it instantly:
It is a place for thee unfit: and know,
In sacred wardship will I keep that maid.

Erm.
In sacred wardship! O unblushing face!
What of thy baseness, treachery, and falsehood
I could declare, my choking voice forbids,
Which utterance hath not.—Here's a ready tongue—

[Drawing his sword.
Defend thee, then, and heaven defend the right!
[They both draw, and fight furiously, Bastiani endeavouring in vain to interpose; when the legate and his train, with Garcio and the Knights of St. John, enter, and separate them.
Leg.
Put up your weapons: to the holy church
This cause belongs, and to her high award
I charge you both that you in all humility
Submit. Lord Ulrick, to the pope perforce
You must account of this your wardship give,
Or by yourself in person, or your deputy,
To Rome forthwith despatch'd.
[Ul. bows sullenly.
As for the lady, to my guardian care,
Till we before the holy father come,
She must commit herself. And thou, Sir Ermingard,
Shalt to the sovereign pontiff and the patron
Of thy most valiant order, fully show
Wherein thou'st been aggriev'd. If the bless'd cross
Thou hast assum'd, supposing other vows
That did before engage thee, were annull'd,
By false reports deceived; the holy Urban,
Our wise enlighten'd father, will, I trust,
A dispensation grant, that shall empower thee
To doff with honour this thy sacred mantle,
And in its stead a bridegroom's robe assume.

[Ermingard and Aurora both embrace the legate's knees, who raises them up gently.
It is enough; forbear, forbear, my children;
I am too richly thank'd.
And now we must with sober minds confer:
For when the wind is fair, we sail for Rome.
Some days, perhaps, it may adversely blow—
Perhaps some weeks; for I have known it oft
Hold vessels bound.
Aur.
(tossing up her arms joyfully as she speaks).
No; it will change to-morrow.

Erm.
Dear ardent soul! canst thou command the winds?

[Aur. shrinks back ashamed.
Leg.
Blush not, sweet maid; nor check thy ardent thoughts;
That gen'rous, buoyant spirit is a power
Which in the virtuous mind doth all things conquer.
It bears the hero on to arduous deeds:
It lifts the saint to heaven.

[Curtain drops.