University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

EPISCOPAL PALACE. Bishop of Ancona and Father John.
Bishop.
I have been standing at my terrace-wall
And counting those who pass and cry with hunger.
Brother! the stoutest men are grown effeminate;
Nay, worse; they stamp and swear, even in my presence,
And looking up at me.

Father John.
Sad times indeed!

Bishop.
I calculate that giving each an ounce
Only one day, scarce would a sack remain
In my whole garner; I am so reduced.

Father John.
I come to beg your lordship for one ounce
Of your fine flour, to save a child; to save
A mother, who loathes ordinary food . .
Not ordinary, but most bitter lupin:
She has no other in the house.

Bishop.
No other?
Poor soul! This famine is a dreadful thing!
Pestilence always follows it! God help us!
I tremble; I start up in sleep.

Father John.
My lord!
An ounce of meal, a single ounce, might calm
These tremblings, well applied. The nurse that should be
Can be no nurse: the mother very soon
Will be no mother, and the child no child.

Bishop.
You know not how things stand, good brother John!
This very morning, as I hope for grace,
I paid three golden pieces for the head,
Think you, of what? an ass!

Father John
(aside).
The cannibal! [To the Bishop.]

Ah, my good lord! they bear high prices now.

Bishop.
Why, brother! you yourself are grown much thinner.
How can you do your duty?

Father John.
Were I not
Much thinner, I should think I had not done it.

Bishop.
My cook assures me that with wine and spice
Elicampane, cumin, angelica,
Garlic, and sundry savoury herbs, stored by
Most providentially, the Lord be praised!
He can make that strange head quite tolerable . .
The creature was a young one . . what think you?

Father John.
They are more tolerable than the old.

Bishop.
The sellers take advantage of bad times,
Quite without conscience, shame, respect for persons,
Or fear of God. What can such men expect?
You must have seen sad sights about our city:
I wonder you are what you are.

Father John.
Sad sights
Indeed!

Bishop.
But all will give their confessor
Part of their pittance; and the nearer death
The readier; knowing what the church can do.
Tell me now, for my entrails yearn to hear it,
Do they not take due care of you?

Father John.
No meals
Have now their stated hour. Unwillingly
I enter houses where the family
Sits round the table at the spare repast.
Sometimes they run and hide it.

Bishop.
Most unmannerly!
Inhuman, I would add unchristianlike.

Father John.
Sometimes they push toward me the untasted
And uninviting food, look wistfully,
Press me; yet dread acceptance. Yesterday
A little girl, the youngest of the five,
Was raising to her lips a mealy bean
(I saw no other on the unsoil'd plate)
And, looking at my eyes fixt hard on hers,
And thinking they were fixt upon the morsel,
Pusht it between my lips, and ran away.

Bishop.
Brother! I should have call'd her a good child;
I should myself have given the benediction
With my own hand, and placed it on her head:
I wonder you don't praise her. Brother John!
I have my nones to run thro'; so, good-by.

Father John.
Just God! does this house stand? Dark are thy ways,
Inscrutable! Be thy right hand our guide!

SCENE II.

SENATE-HOUSE. Senators. Consul.
Consul.
Senators! ye have call'd me to debate
On our condition.

Senator.
Consul! we are lost.

Consul.
All are who think so.

Second Senator.
Even the best want food.

Consul.
The bravest do.

Third Senator.
How shall men fight without it?

Fourth Senator.
Concord and peace might have return'd.

Consul.
By yielding,
Think ye? Not they: contempt and sorrow might.
Can there be ever concord (peace there may be)
Between the German and Italian? None.
Remember how that ancient city fell,
Milano. Seven whole years resisted she
The imperial sword: she listened to conditions
And fell. The soldiers of His Majesty . .
His soldiers, ay, his very court . . shed tears
At such affliction, at such utter ruin,
At such wide wails, such universal woe.
They all were equal then; for all were slaves,
Scatter'd, the poor, the rich, the brave, the coward,
Thro' Bergamo, Pavia, Lodi, Como,
The cities of the enemy. There stood
No vestige of the walls, no church to pray in . .
And what was left to pray for? What but Cæsar?
Throw rather all your wealth into the sea
Than let the robber priest lay hold upon it,
And, if ye die of famine, die at least
In your own houses while they are your own.
But there are many yet whose hearts and arms
Will save you all: to-day you all can fight,
The enemy shall feed you all to-morrow.
Were it no shame a priest should seize the prey
That kings and emperors dropt with broken talon?
The eagle flew before your shouts; and now
A vulture must swoop down! but vultures keep
From living men and from warm blood; they revel
(And most the Roman vulture) in corruption.
Have ye forgotten how your fathers fought,
When Totila with Goths invincible
Besieged you; not with priests and choristers;
When twenty-seven ships assail'd your port
And when eleven only ever left it?
Rome fell before him twice; not once Ancona.
Your fathers saved the city . . ye shall save her.

Senator.
Weapons are insufficient; courage, vows,
Avail not. We are unprepared for war:
Scanty was our last harvest: and these winds
Are adverse. They know that who now defy us,
Blockading us alike by sea and land.

Consul.
We some are poor, we some are prosperous,
We all alike owe all we have: the air
Is life alike to all, the sun is warmth,
The earth, its fruits and flocks, are nutriment,
Children and wives are comforts; all partake
(Or may partake) in these. Shall hoarded grain
Or gold be less in common, when the arms
That guard it are not those that piled it up,
But those that shrink without it? Come, ye rich,
Be richer still: strengthen your brave defenders,
And make all yours that was not yours before.
Dares one be affluent where ten thousand starve?
Open your treasuries, your granaries,
But throw mine open first. Another year
Will roughen this equality again,
The rich be what they were; the poor . . alas!
What they were too perhaps . . but every man
More happy, each one having done his duty.

Senator
(to another).
Hark! the young fools applaud! they rise around;
They hem him in; they seize and kiss his hand;
He shakes our best supporters.

Another.
Give the sign.
To those without.

[People enter.]
Consul.
Who called you hither?

[Various voices.
First.
Want.

Second.
Famine.

Third.
Our families.

Fourth.
I had three sons;
One hath been slain, one wounded.

Fifth.
Only one
Had I: my loss is greatest.

Sixth.
Grant us peace.
Sir Consul, peace we plead for, only peace.

Consul.
Will peace bring back the dead? will peace restore
Lost honour? will peace heal the wounds your sons
And brothers writhe with? They who gave those wounds
Shall carry home severer, if they live,
And never in my consulate shall laugh
At those brave men whom men less brave desert.
True, some have fallen: but before they fell
They won the field; nor now can earthly power
Take from their cold clencht hands the spoil they grasp;
No mortal spoil, but glory. Life, my sons,
Life may lose all: the seal that none can break
Hath stampt their names, all registered above.

Senator
(to a Man near).
Speak; you poor fool! speak loudly, or expect
From me no favour . . and tell that man next.

Man.
Oh! we are starving.

Consul.
Better starve than serve.

Another.
He has no pity.

Consul.
What is that I hear?
I have no pity. Have I not a daughter?

Another.
O what a daughter! How compassionate!
How charitable! Had she been born poor
She could not more have pitied poverty.

Consul.
Two ounces of coarse bread, wine, which she loathes,
And nothing more, sustain her.

Another.
God sustains her;
He will not leave his fairest work to perish.

Consul.
Fight then, fight bravely, while ye can, my friends!
In God have confidence, if none in me.

[Shouts of applause. Part of the People leave the Senators.]
Senator
(to another).
Seducer of the people! shall it end
Thus vilely? [To the Consul.]

You have stores at home, Sir Consul!
You have wide lands.

Another Senator.
You should support your order.

Consul.
My order! God made one; of that am I.
Stores, it appears, I have at home; wide lands;
Are those at home too? or within my reach?
Paternal lands I do inherit; wide
They are enough, but stony, mountainous,
The greater part unprofitable.

Senator.
Some
The richest in rich wine.

Consul.
Few days ago
Nearly a hundred barrels were unbroached.

Another Senator.
A hundred loaves, tho' small indeed and dry,
Would they be worth in such distress as ours.
We could raise half among us.

Consul.
Shame upon you!
Had not your unwise laws and unfair thrift
Prohibited the entrance of supplies
While they could enter, never had this famine
Stalked through the people.

Senator.
But the laws are laws.

Consul.
Yours; never theirs.

Another Senator.
Why thus inflame the people?

Consul.
Who brought the people hither? for what end?
To serve you in your avarice; to cry peace!
Not knowing peace from servitude.

Senator.
For quiet,
Spare them at least a portion of the wine.

Consul.
Nor them nor you; nor price nor force shall gain it.

People.
Are we to perish? Hunger if we must,
Let us be strengthen'd by a draught of wine
To bear it on.

Senator.
Wine is the oil of life,
And the lamp burns with it which else were spent.

People.
Sir Consul! we forbear; we honour you,
But tell us, ere we sink, where one flask lies.

Consul.
Go ask the women labouring of child,
Ask those who nurse their infants, ask the old,
Who can not fight, ask those who fought the best,
The wounded, maim'd, disabled, the Anconites.
Sirs! if ye find one flask within our cellar,
Crack it, and throw the fragments in my face.

People.
Let us away.

[Shouts of applause.
Consul.
Follow me to the walls;
And you, too, senators, learn there your duty.

People.
We swear to do our best.

Consul.
Sworn wisely! Life
Is now more surely to be won by arms
Than death is, and the sword alone can win it.
I lead the way; let who will lag behind.

SCENE III.

THE CITY. Paolucci, Officers, Citizens.
Officer.
The Consul has been wounded. Who is left
To lead us? and what leader would suffice?
The strongest sink with famine, lying down
Along the battlements, and only raised
When sounds the trumpet.

First Citizen.
And most fall again.

Second Citizen.
Our day is come, the day of our disgrace.

Paolucci.
Ours never was that day, and never shall be.
Ye may have lost your consul (let us hope
He is not lost to us) but we are sure
His memory and example yet remain
With all their life in them. [To the People.]

Young men! perhaps
Ye know me not: your fathers knew me well;
Their fathers better. Three-score years ago
I was your consul: none then preached surrender;
And let none now: yet there were those around
Who would have pinfolded the quiet flock
As gladly as yon shepherd at the gate.

People.
We can resist no longer. Who can count
The slain?

Paulucci.
Say, rather, who can praise the slain?
Glorified souls! happy your sleep! ye hear
No shameful speech from brethren!

People.
Arms alone
Should not subdue us: famine has: we starve.

Paolucci.
While life remains life's sufferings will arise,
Whether from famine or from sharper sting
Than famine: upon every hearth almost
There creeps some scorpion never seen till felt.
But until every arm that guards our walls
Drop helpless at the starting ribs, until
That hour, stand all united. Ye despair
Untimely. He who rules as rules us well,
Exciting no false hope, as bad men do
When they have led where none can extricate.
I was your consul while the king Lothaire
Besieged the city, proud as any prelate,
Swearing he would reduce it. Other kings
Have sworn the same . . and kept their word like kings . .
Cursing and flying. We have met brave foes;
But they met braver. Fly; and let the crook
Drag a vile flock back from its flight to slaughter.

All.
We scorn the thought. But where lies human help?

Paolucci.
I may be spared to seek it, spared to try
If one brave man breathes yet among the powerful.
Who knows not Marchesella?

Officer.
Brave he is,
But mindful of the emperor. He saw
Milano, which had stood two thousand years,
Sink; every tree, on hill or vale, cut down,
The vine, the olive, ripe and unripe corn
Burnt by this minister of God. Throughout
There was no shade for sick men to die under,
There was no branch to strew upon the bier.

Another Officer.
His father was courageous, why not he?

A third Officer.
Above all living men is Marchesella
Courageous: but pray what are our deserts
With him, that he should hazard for our sake
His lordly castles and his wide domains?
Perhaps his fame in arms! 'Twere mad to hope it.
Prudence, we know, for ever guides his courage.

Paolucci.
If generous pity dwells not in his house,
As once it did, with every other virtue,
Seek it, where brave men never seek in vain,
In woman's breast: away to Bertinoro:
Take heart: the countess is a Frangipani:
There are a thousand trumpets in that name:
Methinks I hear them blowing toward Ancona.
Old men talk long: but be not ye so idle:
Hie to the walls: I will sue her. To arms!
To arms! the consul of past years commands you.

SCENE IV.

CONSUL'S HOUSE. Paolucci. Consul. Erminia.
Paolucci.
Consul! how fare you?

Consul.
Not amiss.

Paolucci.
But wounded?

Consul.
There was more blood than wound, they say who saw it.

Erminia.
My father, sir, slept well all night.

Paolucci.
All night
An angel watched him; he must needs sleep well.

Consul.
I drove away that little fly in vain,
It flutter'd round the fruit whose skin was broken.

Erminia.
Sweet father! talk not so; nor much at all.

Paolucci.
Consul! I have not many days of life,
As you may see; and old men are in want
Of many little things which those in power
Can give: and 'twere amiss to hold them back
Because unclaim'd before.

Consul.
I well remember,
Though then a child, how all this city praised
Your wisdowm, zeal, and probity, when consul.
Ancona then was flourishing; but never
Were those compensated who served their country,
Except by serving her; 'twas thought enough;
We think so still. Beside, the treasury
Is emptied, that it may procure us food
And troops. Be sure the very first that eats
The strangers' corn (if any reach our port)
Shall be no other than yourself: your age
And virtue merit from us this distinction.

Paolucci.
Sir Consul! I want more than that.

Consul.
Receive it
And welcome from the father and the man,
Not from the consul. Now would you yourself
Act differently (I ask) on this occasion?

Paolucci.
More kindly, no; but differently, yes.

Consul.
What would you from me?

Paolucci.
High distinction, consul!

Consul.
I will propose it, as I justly may,
And do regret it has been so deferred.

Paolucci.
May I speak plainly what ambition prompts?

Consul.
I hear all claims.

Paolucci.
Those sacks hold heavy sums.

Consul.
Avarice was never yet imputed to you.

Paolucci.
'Tis said you can not move them from the town.

Consul.
Difficult, dangerous, doubtful, such attempt.
The young Stamura loves bold enterprises,
And may succeed where others would despair:
But, such the lack of all that life requires
Even for a day, I dare not send one loaf
Aboard his bark. Hunger would urge the many
To rush and seize it.

Paolucci.
They would not seize me.
One loaf there is at home: that boy shall share it.

Erminia.
He would not, though he pined.

Consul.
A youth so abstinent
I never knew.

Paolucci.
But when we are afloat . .

Consul.
We shall not be:
We think not of escape.

Paolucci.
No: God forbid!
We will meet safety in the path of honour.

Consul.
Why say afloat then?

Paolucci.
Only he and I.
This is the guerdon I demand, the crown
Of my grey hairs.

Erminia.
Alas! what aid could either
Afford the other? O sir! do not go!
You are too old; he much too rash . . Dear father!
If you have power, if you have love, forbid it!

Paolucci.
It was advised that younger ones should go:
Some were too daring, some were too despondent:
I am between these two extremes.

Consul.

Paolucci.
But think
Again!

Paolucci.
I have no time for many thoughts,
And I have chosen out of them the best.

Erminia.
He never will return! he goes to die!
I knew he would!

Consul.
His days have been prolonged
Beyond the days of man: and there goes with him
One who sees every danger but his own.

SCENE V.

SEASIDE. NIGHT. Paolucci, Stamura.
Paolucci.
I feel the spray upon my face already.
Is the wind fair?

Stamura.
'Tis fiercely fair.

Paolucci.
The weather
Can not be foul then.

Stamura
(lifting him aboard).
Sit down here. Don't tremble.

Paolucci.
Then tell the breeze to wax a trifle warmer,
And lay thy hand upon those hissing waves.
She grates the gravel . . We are off at last.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

CASTLE OF BERTINORO. Countess of Bertinoro, Marchesella, Paolucci, and Stamura.
Page.
My lady! here are two such men as never
Enter'd a palace-gate.

Countess.
Who are they?

Page.
One
Older than anything I ever saw,
Alive or dead; the other a stout youth,
Guiding him, and commanding all around
To stand aside, and give that elder way;
At first with gentle words, and then with stern.
Coarse their habiliments, their beards unshorn,
Yet they insist on entrance to my lady.

Countess.
Admit the elder, but exclude the other.
Wait. [To Marchesella.

If the younger be his son, what little
Of service I may render to the father
Will scarce atone for keeping him apart. [To the Page.

Go; bid them enter; both.

[Stamura, having led Paolucci in, retires.
Paolucci.
I come, O countess!
Imploring of your gentleness and pity,
To save from fire and sword, and, worse than either,
Worse, and more imminent, to save from famine
The few brave left, the many virtuous,
Virgins and mothers (save them!) in Ancona.

Countess.
Nay, fall not at my knee. Age must not that . .
Raise him, good Marchesella!

Paolucci.
You too, here,
Illustrious lord?

Marchesella.
What! and art thou still living,
Paolucci? faithful, hospitable soul!
We have not met since childhood . . mine, I mean.

Paolucci.
Smile not, my gentle lord! too gracious then,
Be now more gracious; not in looks or speech,
But in such deeds as you can best perform.
Friendship another time might plead for us;
Now bear we what our enemy would else
Seize from us, all the treasures of our city,
To throw them at your feet for instant aid.
Help, or we perish. Famine has begun . .
Begun? has almost ended . . with Ancona.

Countess.
Already? We have been too dilatory.

Marchesella.
I could not raise the money on my lands
Earlier; it now is come. I want not yours:
Place it for safety in this castle-keep,
If such our lady's pleasure.

Countess.
Until peace.

Marchesella.
My troops are on the march.

Countess.
And mine not yet?
Repose you, sir! they shall arrive with you,
Or sooner. Is that modest youth your son?

Paolucci.
Where is he? gone again?

Countess.
When you first enter'd.

Paolucci.
Some angel whisper'd your benign intent
Into his ear, else had he never left me.
My son? Who would not proudly call him so?
Soon shall you hear what mother bore the boy,
And where he dash'd the galleys, while that mother
Fired their pine towers, already wheel'd against
Our walls, and gave us time . . for what? to perish.

Marchesella.
No, by the saints above! not yet, not yet.

[Trumpet sounds.
Countess.
Merenda is announced. Sir, I entreat you
To lead me! Grant one favour more; and hint not
To our young friend that we have learnt his prowess.

[To a Page.

SCENE II.

Countess, Marchesella, Paolucci, Stamura, at Table.
Countess
(to Stamura).
Sir, there are seasons when 'tis incivility
To ask a name; 'twould now be more uncivil
To hesitate.

Stamura.
Antonio is my name.

Countess.
Baptismal. Pray, the family?

Stamura.
Stamura;
But that my honour'd father gave in marriage
To her who wears it brighter day by day:
She calls me rather by the name he bore.

Countess.
It must be known and cherisht.

Stamura.
By the bravest
And most enduring in my native place;
It goes no farther: we are but just noble.

Countess.
He who could heed the tempest, and make serve
Unruly ocean, not for wealth, nor harm
To any but the spoiler, high above
That ocean, high above that tempest's wing,
He needs no turret to abut his name,
He needs no crescent to stream light on it,
Nor castellan, nor seneschal, nor herald.

Paolucci.
Ha! boy, those words make thy breast rise and fall,
Haply as much as did the waves. The town
Could ill repay thee; Beauty overpays.

Countess.
Talk what the young should hear; nor see the meed
Of glorious deeds in transitory tints,
Fainter or brighter.

Paolucci.
I was wrong.

Countess.
Not quite:
For beauty, in thy native town, young man,
May feel her worth in recompensing thine.

Stamura
(aside).
Alas! alas! she perishes! while here
We tarry.

Paolucci
(overhearing).
She? Who perishes?

Stamura.
The town.

Paolucci.
How the boy blushes at that noble praise!

Countess.
They blush at glory who deserve it most.
. . Blushes soon go: the dawn alone is red.

Stamura.
We know what duty, not what glory is.
The very best among us are not rich
Nor powerful.

Countess.
Are they anywhere?

Paolucci.
His deeds,
If glorious in themselves, require no glory.
Even this siege, those sufferings, who shall heed?

Countess.
He gives most light by being not too high.
Remember by what weapon fell the chief
Of Philistines. Did brazen chariots, driven
By giants, roll against him? From the brook,
Striking another such, another day,
A little pebble stretcht the enormous bulk
That would have fill'd it and have turn'd its course.
And in the great deliverers of mankind
Whom find ye? Those whom varlet pipers praise.
The greatest of them all, by all adored,
Did Babylon from brazen-belted gate,
Not humble straw-rooft Bethlehem, send forth?
We must not be too serious. Let us hear
How were the cables cut.

Paolucci.
I saw the shears
That clipt them. Father John, before he went,
Show'd me them, how they workt. He himself held
The double crescent of sharp steel, in form
Like that swart insect's which you shake from fruit
About the kernel. This enclaspt the cable;
And too long handles (a stout youth, at each
Extremity, pushing with all his strength
Right forward) sunder'd it. Then swiftly flew
One vessel to the shore; and then another:
And hardly had the youths or Father John
Time to take breath upon the upper wave,
When down they sank again and there swang round
Another prow, and dasht upon the mole.
Then many blithe Venetians fell transfixt
With arrows, many sprang into the sea
And cried for mercy. Upon deck appeared
The pope's own nephew, who ('tis said) had come
To arbitrate. He leapt into a boat
Which swam aside, most gorgeously array'd,
And this young man leapt after him and seized him.
He, when he saw a dagger at his throat,
Bade all his crew, four well-built men, surrender.

Stamura.
They could not have feared me: they saw our archers.

Countess.
And where is now your prisoner?

Stamura.
He desired
An audience of the consul.

Countess.
To what end?

Stamura.
I know not: I believe to court his daughter.

Countess.
Is the girl handsome? Is that question harder
Than what I askt before? Will he succeed?

Stamura.
Could he but save from famine our poor city,
And . . could he make her happy . .

Countess.
Pray go on.
It would delight you then to see him win her?

Stamura.
O that I had not saved him! or myself!

Countess.
She loves him then? And you hate foreigners.
I do believe you like the fair Erminia
Yourself.

Stamura.
She hates me. Who likes those that hate him?

Countess.
I never saw such hatred as you bear her:
If she bears you the like . .

Stamura.
She can do now
No worse than what she has done.

Countess.
Who knows that?
I am resolved to see.

Stamura.
O lady Countess!
How have I made an enemy of you?
Place me the lowest of your band, but never
Affront her with the mention of my name.
When the great work which you have undertaken
Is done, admit me in your castle-walls,
And never let me see our own again.

Countess.
I think I may accomplish what you wish;
But, recollect, I make no promises.

SCENE III.

OPEN SPACE NEAR THE BALISTA GATE IN ANCONA. The Lady Malaspina, her Infant, and a Soldier.
Soldier.
I am worn down with famine, and can live
But few hours more.

L. Malaspina.
I have no food.

Soldier.
Nor food
Could I now swallow. Bring me water, water!

L. Malaspina.
Alas! I can not. Strive to gain the fountain.

Soldier.
I have been nigh.

L. Malaspina.
And could not reach it?

Soldier.
Crowds
I might pierce through, but how thrust back their cries?
They madden'd me to flight ere half-way in.
Some upright . . no, none that . . but some unfallen,
Yet pressing down with their light weight the weaker.
The brows of some were bent down to their knees,
Others (the hair seized fast by those behind)
Lifted for the last time their eyes to heaven;
And there were waves of heads one moment's space
Seen, then unseen forever. Wails rose up
Half stifled underfoot, from children some,
And some from those who bore them.

L. Malaspina.
Mercy! mercy!
O blessed Virgin! thou wert mother too!
How didst thou suffer! how did He! Save, save
At least the infants, if all else must perish.
Soldier! brave soldier! dost thou weep? then hope.

Soldier.
I suffer'd for myself; deserve I mercy?

L. Malaspina.
He who speaks thus shall find it. Try to rise.

Soldier.
No: could I reach the fountain in my thirst,
I would not.

L. Malaspina.
Life is sweet.

Soldier.
To brides, to mothers.

L. Malaspina.
Alas! how soon may those names pass away!
I would support thee partly, wert thou willing,
But my babe sleeps.

Soldier.
Sleep, little one, sleep on!
I shall sleep too as soundly, by and by.

L. Malaspina.
Courage, one effort more.

Soldier.
And tread on children!
On children clinging to my knees for strength
To help them on, and with enough yet left
To pull me down, but others pull down them.
God! let me bear this thirst, but never more
Bear this sad sight! Tread on those tiny hands
Clasping the dust! See those dim eyes upturn'd,
Those rigid lips reproachless! Man may stir,
Woman may shake, my soul; but children, children!
O God! those are thine own! make haste to help them!
Happy that babe!

L. Malaspina.
Thou art humane.

Soldier.
'Tis said
That hunger is almost as bad as wealth
To make men selfish; but such feebleness
Comes over me, all things look dim around,
And life most dim, and least worth looking after.

L. Malaspina.
I pity thee. Day after day myself
Have lived on things unmeet for sustenance.
My milk is failing . . Rise . . (To the Child)

My little one!
God will feed thee! Be sleep thy nourisher
Until his mercies strengthen me afresh!
Sink not: take heart: advance: Here, where from heaven
The Virgin-mother can alone behold us,
Draw some few drops.

[The tocsin sounds.
Soldier.
Ha! my ears boom thro' faintness.
What sounds?

L. Malaspina.
The bell.

Soldier.
Then they are at the gate . .
I can but thank you . . Give me force, O Heaven!
For this last fight! . . and keep from harm these twain!

Malaspina and Child alone.
L. Malaspina.
And still thou sleepest, my sweet babe! Is death
Like sleep? Ah, who then, who would fear to die?
How beautiful is all serenity!
Sleep, a child's sleep, O how far more serene,
And O, how far more beautiful than any!
Whether we breathe so gently or breathe not,
Slight is the difference. But the pangs, the rage
Of famine who can bear? . . unless to raise
Her child above it!

(Two Priests are passing.)
First Priest.
Who sits yonder? bent
O'er her dead babe? as many do within
Their houses!

Second Priest.
Surely, surely, it must be
She who, not many days ago, was praised
For beauty, purity, humility,
Above the noblest of Anconite dames.

First Priest.
The Lady Malaspina?

Second Priest.
But methinks
The babe is not dead yet.

First Priest.
Why think you so?

Second Priest.
Because she weeps not over it.

First Priest.
For that
I think it dead. It then could pierce no more
Her tender heart with its sad sobs and cries.
But let us hasten from the place to give
The dying their last bread, the only bread
Yet unconsumed, the blessed eucharist.
Even this little, now so many die,
May soon be wanting.

Second Priest.
God will never let
That greater woe befall us.

[The Priests go.
Malaspina.
Who runs hither? [The Soldier falls before her.

Art thou come back? So! thou couldst run, O vile!

Soldier.
Lady! your gentleness kept life within me
Until four fell.

L. Malaspina.
Thyself unwounded?

Soldier.
No;
If arms alone can wound the soldier's breast,
They toucht me not this time; nor needed they;
Famine had done what your few words achieved.

L. Malaspina.
They were too harsh. Forgive me!

Soldier.
Not the last.
Those were not harsh! Enter my bosom, enter,
Kind pitying words! untie there life's hard knot,
And let it drop off easily! How blest!
I have not robb'd the child, nor shamed the mother!

[He dies.
L. Malaspina.
Poor soul! and the last voice he heard on earth
Was bitter blame, unmerited! And whose?
Mine, mine! Should they who suffer sting the sufferer?
O saints above! avenge not this misdeed!
What doth his hand hold out? A little crate,
With german letters round its inner rim . .
And . . full of wine! Yet did his lips burn white!
He tasted not what might have saved his life,
But brought it hither, to be scorn'd and die. [Singers are heard in the same open space before an image.]

Singers! where are they? My sight swims; my strength
Fails me; I can not rise, nor turn to look;
But only I can pray, and never voice
Prays like the sad and silent heart its last.

Old Men.

Maidens.

[They prostrate themselves.
L. Malaspina.
How faintly sound those voices! altho' many;
At every stave they cease, and rest upon
That slender reed which only one can blow.
But she has heard them! Me too she has heard.
Heaviness, sleep comes over me, deep sleep:
Can it, so imperturbable, be death?
And do I for the last time place thy lip
Where it may yet draw life from me, my child!
Thou, who alone canst save him, thou wilt save.

[She dies: the child on her bosom still sleeping.

SCENE IV.

NIGHT: THE MOLE OF ANCONA. Consul. Senator.
Senator.
Sir Consul, you have heard (no doubt) that fires
Have been seen northward all along the sky,
And angels with their flaming swords have sprung
From hill to hill. With your own eyes behold
No mortal power advancing. Host so numerous
No king or emperor or soldan led.

Consul.
A host, a mighty host, is there indeed?

Senator.
It covers the whole range of Falcognara.

Consul.
Methinks some fainter lights flit scatter'dly
Along the coast, more southward.

Senator.
The archbishop
Hath seen the sign, and leads away his troops.

Consul.
We are too weak to follow. Can then aid
Have come so soon? 'Tis but the second night
Since we besought it.

Senator.
In one hour, one moment,
Such aid can come, and has come. Think not, Consul,
That force so mighty and so sudden springs
From earth. And what Italian dares confront
The German?

Consul.
What Italian! All, sir; all.