University of Virginia Library

Act III.

Scene I.

GONDIBERT, BIRTHA,
Gondibert.
I feel myself more light, my Spirits flow
Serener on, and Life is less a Burthen,
Since I have made this Vow to marry Birtha.
But I will go to comfort the poor Mourner,
Who weeps and groans in Bitterness of Spirit.
For, Thula tells me, when She heard the News
Of Rhodolinda, Life forgot its Office;
She dy'd away with tender Fears, and sigh'd
With all the piteous Harmony of Sorrow:
Then sought her Chamber, but with tottering Steps,
To hide her Woes in solitary Darkness.—
Methinks I hear Her Sighs:—It must be so:
I hear them softly breathing on my Ears,
Sad as the Nightingales melodious Woe
In gentle Even-Tide, when Westwinds shake
The new-blown Roses from their balmy Wings:
All-night She sings the Absence of her Mate,
While Sorrow pricks her Breast, and fondest Love
Mistakes Him ever lost.—Like kindly Dew
I'll steal upon this lovely-drooping Flow'r,
And wake it into Smiles: And, see, She comes,
In all the Beauty of Distress.—My Birtha!

Birtha.
What Voice is that, which in so sweet an Accent
Dare call upon so lost a Thing as I am?
They say, Compassion, in this Age, is cold.

Gondibert.
My Birtha!

[She sees Him.
Birtha.
Oh! And is it you, my Lord?
Indeed its kind to visit the distrest.
If Comfort cou'd diffuse her golden Dawn
On Grief so black as mine, it wou'd be now.
Your Presence ever blest my Eyes with Gladness,
Joy prun'd his purple Wings when you appear'd,
And waited on your Smiles.—Yes I remember
Those dear, white Hours. But now it is not so:
For, ah, I grieve the more to see you here,
So much my Heart is careful for your Peace,
Lest Sorrow prove infectious and you catch it.
And Sorrow shou'd be foreign to that Face,
When Rhodolinda opens all her Beauties
To charm my Lord, and crown his Soul with Joy.

Gondibert.
Why wilt thou break my Heart with mourning thus?
And why be so unkind, so very cruel
As thus distrust my Constancy and Love?
No, Birtha, no: were Rhodolinda fair
As summer Skies, when not a Cloud deforms
The blue Expanse, but all is spotless Beauty
Fring'd with celestial Streams of sunny Gold:
Cou'd Rhodolinda place beneath my Feet
The Stores and Realms which Juno promis'd Paris;
Yet, by the Softness of thy Soul, I swear,
I'd quit them all for Thee: tho' meagre Want,
And baleful Misery besieg'd my Way,
I'd venture on, I'd catch Thee in my Arms,
I'd feed upon thy Beauties, smile at Poverty,
And think the Gods were kind in giving Thee.

Birtha.
Ascend, ye Lover-Spirits, from Elysium
And sing this wond'rous Truth.—Amazing Constancy!
O Birtha, thou art quite undone with kindness,
And Admiration swallows up my Soul.
[After Pausing.
And can you think, my Lord, to stay with me?
For me, to quit the royal Rhodolinda?
It is too much, your Virtue is too bounteous:
I am unworthy, quite unworthy of You.
No; take Her, take the lovely, loving Princess,
And Heav'n incircle You with sumless Joys!

Gondibert.
What means my Birtha?

Birtha.
I absolve my Lord,
Yes, I absolve you from your Vows and Faith.
Why shou'd I ruin such unbounded Goodness,
And why, why stand between a Crown and You!
No: leave me to my Sadness; do, my Gondibert!
Ascend the royal Bed of Rhodolinda:
While I consume my solitary Days
In some forsaken Cave, or wayless Wild,
Where misery wou'd chuse her dreary Dwelling;
There will I teach the Streams to murmur “Gondibert;”
The Birds shall learn to whisper the dear Name,
And every Echo sooth me with the Sound:
There beg of Heav'n in never-ceasing Pray'rs
To bless you both with everlasting Love.

Gondibert.
I pray thee, hold; nor wound me to the Soul:
For while thou talk'st thus to me, see, my Eyes
Swell into Tenderness, and flow with Sorrow.

Birtha.
My Lord, I speak the Language of my Heart,
For tho' Heav'n knows I dye upon the Thought,
(Yes, while I think, the Weight of Death is on me.)
Tho' all the Sum of Bliss my Fancy form'd
In golden Dreams, and happier Days, depended
On you alone, the Cordial of my Life,
Joy of my Sense, and Comfort of my Soul:
Yet—oh!—since Heav'n will have it so, I yield;
I give myself to Wretchedness for ever,
With all the Fondness of a dying Lover.
By the chaste Splendours of the Moon I swear,
That gild yon Orange Grove with silver Softness,
By every Star that burns around her Throne,
The solemn Witnesses of both our Loves,
I'd rather part for ever from my Lord,
For ever part, than bar your Way to Greatness.
The King enrag'd, shou'd you refuse the Princess,
May let the Fullness of his Fury fall
Upon us both, and crush us both to Ruin:
Rather than both,—upon my Knees I beg it,
I beg it by these Tears, let Birtha suffer,
And, if I save You, Ruin will be pleasing.
'Tis more than Happiness to die for You.

Gondibert.
Thou Soul of Goodness, how shall I reward Thee—
Or how admire thy Virtues as I ought?
They stream in such Variety of Light,
My Senses all are dazzled with the Glory.
Whether the Lustre of thy Mind or Face,
The Beauty of thy Sorrow, or thy Joy,
Come o'er my Thoughts they equally surprise me.
Thus have I seen the many-colour'd Dove
Sport in the Blaze of Day: his changeful Neck
Waves beaming round a Rainbow of Delight:
The Purple varys into glossy Gold,
The Gold into the Robe of smiling Spring,
As different Points of Light present a Chain
Of transient Colours glancing on the Sun:
But whether Purple, Gold or Green diffuse
Alternate Rays, the Green, the Gold, the Purple
With equal Pleasure, but with varied Beauties
And bright Confusion entertain our Eyes.

Birtha.
Oh me!—

Gondibert.
Be comforted, the Gods are good,
Are kind to Virtue, and delight in Mercy;
And Heav'n, I hope, has Blessings yet in Store,
To lap us in Elysiums of Love,
And recompence the Miseries we taste of.
This Hour I mean to make thee mine for ever,
The holy Priest will meet us in thy Chamber,
By my Appointment, and receive our Vows.
Then Birtha!

Birtha.
O my Lord, I fear.

Gondibert.
No more—

Birtha.
But shou'd the King—consider O my Lord!

Gondibert.
None but the holy Priest shall know the Secret:
To-morrow's Light will further open to us
The King's Design: and shou'd He still persist,
Then, Birtha, then, my Soul, we'll fly together,
Together to some distant Realm we'll fly,
Where Aribert shall never more disturb us;
There sweetly roll away our Life in Love,
Blest in each other, and grow old in Joy.

Birtha.
And will you then forsake a Crown for me?
O think—

Gondibert.
My Birtha, Crowns are Trifles to Thee.

Birtha.
Then here I give myself to You and Heav'n.

Gondibert.
O bounteous Gift!—Heav'n make me worthy of Thee.
And, Thou, the God of Purity and Love,
Whose Pow'r is infinite, protect thy Servants:
O snatch us from the Malice of our Fortune,
And lead us to the quiet Ways of Peace.
O save us; we resign ourselves to Thee.

SCENE II.

ULFINORE, TIBALT.
Tibalt.
You strive in vain to hide your Sorrows from me,
Your Words, your Silence equally betray you.
Your Cheeks are tinctur'd with the yellow Plague
Of Jealousy, which marks you for her Conquest.
If Friendship may relieve you speak your Grief,
My Counsel may direct you to the Port
Of sweet Contentment and the Paths of Peace;
Or is my Friendship and its Proffers slighted?
My Hours were tedious tho' possess'd of Laura,
Till Ulfinore was Master of the secret:
My Happiness ev'n suffer'd a Stagnation,
Pent up within my Breast, till I cou'd open
The Sluices of my Joy to Thee, my Friend,
And pour the copious Stream upon thy Bosom:
Yet Tibalt is neglected by his Ulfinore.

Ulfinore.
No, witness, Heav'n! thy Friendship is my Glory:
But what avail its kindly Care and Wishes?
Despair forbids all Cure.

Tibalt.
But why Despair?
If Love possess Thee, Love may be procur'd,
If Honour bleed, thy Honour may be heal'd;
I'll plead thy Passion, or I'll fight thy Cause,
Prevail in Both, or dye to give thee Comfort.

Ulfinore.
Wou'd I had dy'd in Battle! e're my Eyes
Beheld her fatal Beauties—but She's lost,
For ever gloriously lost to me.—
Yes, Gondibert alone cou'd merit Birtha.

Tibalt.
Hah!—Gondibert and Birtha—Thy Despair,
Black with a baleful Humour, turns thy Brain;
Say rather Gondibert and Rhodolinda.
For so thy Purpose means;—and Heav'n has will'd.

Ulfinore.
The King might will it so; but, Tibalt, Heav'n,
Heav'n to reward his Virtues gives Him Birtha.
A Kingdom had been less with Rhodolinda.

Tibalt.
Amazement chains my Tongue.—But did She spurn Thee,
Despise thy Passion, and disdain thy Vows?
No doubt She did, when Gondibert ador'd Her.

Ulfinore.
I never told my Love, I never own'd it.
The secret Serpent, folded in my Brain,
Shot all his Stings, or twisting round my Heart
Drank my warm Life-Blood there. And let Him riot,
The purple Currents are well-nigh exhausted;
My Torments too will end when They are dry.

Tibalt.
Heav'n knows I pity Thee and wou'd relieve—

Ulfinore.
I know Thou wou'dst: But leave me to my Fate,
Since Death alone must ease me: For I swear
I wou'd not if I might possess my Wishes,
Nor violate my Master's matchless Goodness;
He lives alone in Her and She in Him;
Hope were Ingratitude, and wishes Sin;
I cut Them off, and gladly plunge in Ruin.

Tibalt.
Illustrious Sufferer! Thy Virtues shine
Fairer through Misery and gild Destruction.
But lo! the King, He seems to bend this Way,
And Astragon attends Him, with his Friends
The grave Philosophers. Let us retire.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

KING, ASTRAGON, PHILOSOPHERS.
King.
The Wonders I have heard and seen surprise me.
The Life of Knowledge is the Life of Bliss.
What Scenes of Glory open on my Mind
With new Delight, which Ignorance had veil'd!
How often I beheld yon azure Vault,
The spangel'd Firmament, and glittering Host
Of Stars innumerable sparkling round,
With cold Neglect and stupid Inattention?
Till You, ye Sons of Wisdom and of Virtue,
Dispel'd the Gloom and lighted up my Soul.

Astragon.
The Firmament's a Volume fair display'd
With sacred Characters that shine Conviction,
And glorify their Maker in their Courses:
There's not a single Spark but glows with Praises;
The Spheres harmonious roll the glorious Hymn,
Tun'd to the golden Harps of winged Flames,
From World to World, and burn with Adoration.

King.
O wou'd some God but purge th'obstructed Ear,
What elevating Musick might surround
Th'inferior Globe with symphonising Peals
Of Melody celestial, Orbs to Orbs
Sweet quiring, and exalt the Soul to Heav'n!

1. Philosopher.
Heav'ns Ordinances, Royal Sir, are just,
And suited to the present State of Man.
This radiant Scale of Music meets the Eye
Not meant to pierce the Ear. Our feeble Organs
Confounded while the Constellations sing,
As if ten thousand Thunders burst around,
Wou'd faint beneath the Melody divine.
Th'ethereal Roll of loud resounding Spheres
Wou'd stun if not unloose the World below.

Astragon.
So much the rather let us strive to tune
These little Worlds ourselves to righteous rule,
Compose Them to the Harmony of Virtue,
Assuage the Tumults of rebellious Passions,
And teach Subjection to our Foes within.
Thus fitted to the Laws of Good and Just
Shall universal Order rule the Whole,
Our Souls be Music and our jarring Bodies
Obedient to the Music of our Souls.
So Peace shall wave her Olive Branches o'er Us
And Concord bind Us in her golden Chain.

King.
I cou'd for ever hear You. O how blest
Had been my Fortune, O what Joys unmix'd,
What Days of Innocence, what Nights of Rest,
The Brow unclouded and the Breast serene,
If Heav'n had plac'd me in these Seats of Science,
Of Purity, Contentment, Health and Peace!
For Royalty too oft, the Gaze of Ideots,
The Pageantry of Guilt and splendid Danger,
This Royalty I say is rais'd on high,
Only to sink beneath its Weight of Grandeur.

2. Philosopher.
Few Monarchs like yourself are born to bless
An happy People, in their Princes happy.
That King is only great who rules by Goodness.
Justice supports but Mercy fills his Throne:
Tho' Gold and Jewels flame around his Temples
The Wreath of Virtue is his brighter Crown.

3. Philosopher.
His Throne, establish'd in his Subject's Hearts,
Nor overthrown by Foes nor sap'd by Treason,
Shall flourish still unmov'd and stand unshaken,
Firm as the Pillars of the Earth and lasting.

Astragon.
Such are the Blessings which attend on Kings
Who reign in Righteousness, like royal Aribert,
By Mortals honour'd and approv'd by Heav'n.

King.
For Virtues such as these I choose the Duke
The gallant Gondibert to wed my Daughter.
Tho' Young, his Name is mighty in the Field:
Thrice He repell'd my Foes and thrice He stain'd
Our silver Adice with hostile Purple,
Victorious in his March. Nor less his Skill
In Counsels and the Mysteries of State.
Beneath his Rule my People, all my Care,
May live secure and happy. For myself,
Since Age unnerves this Arm and damps my Brain,
Unequal now alike to War or Counsels,
Times hoary Victim, gladly I resign
My Crown and Scepter to his Brow and Hand,
To glory there afresh with pristine Lustre.

Astragon.
Yet hear your faithful Servant, royal Sir,
Tho' Time has snow'd his venerable Honours
Upon your sacred Head, still unimpair'd
Your Wisdom might direct a larger Kingdom,
Your Virtues still may bless your loving People,
Who long to live and die beneath your Sway.

King.
Yes, Astragon, my People are my Children,
Their King's and Father's Blessing shall await Them,
Till Death forbid. But Gondibert must share
The Honours with the Troubles of my Crown.
Ease is the Balm of Age. My Years demand
The Comforts of Retirement and of Peace.
The Fire which kindled up my Soul to Fame
And Deeds of Prowess languishes within me.
His ardent Spirits like an active Flame
Shall warm his Subjects, but consume his Foes.
My Laurels, well-nigh faded with the Frosts
Of seventy Winters, shall revive anew
Transplanted to his Brows, again shall flourish,
And gather Verdure from his youthful Spring.
But come, my Astragon, and you, my Friends,
My Daughter Rhodolinda will expect me.
With you conversing, Time on Feet of Down
Pac'd unperceiv'd away, so sweet the Hours
By sacred Wisdom led! It must be late;
For lo the Moon, which only seem'd to tip
The Summits of the Grove, advanc'd in Glory
Now pours a silver Deluge o'er the Night,
Near mounted to her Noon.—Perhaps my Daughter
May be retir'd; for early at the Dawn,
I order'd our Departure for Verona,
To celebrate the Nuptials: so good Night.

Astragon.
Permit us to attend you to your Chamber;
That done, we'll beg of Heav'n to bless your Slumbers
Humbly before the Altar.

King.
Thank your Goodness:
The pious Prayers of holy Men like you
Are powerful Intercessors with kind Heaven,
They rise in Incence and descend in Blessings.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

RHODOLINDA, LAURA.
Rhodolinda.
Am I despis'd for Birtha then, for Birtha?
Patience, I give Thee to the Fiends—Confusion.

Laura.
This very Hour my Husband gain'd the Secret
From Ulfinore, who dies himself for Birtha.

Rhodolinda.
Hah! am I Rhodolinda, am I Daughter
To Aribert and Heiress of the Crown
Of Lombardy and scorn'd? How am I fall'n!
Perdition seise her Beauties, Lightnings blast Them—
A Princess I, and She—My Soul's on Fire,
Nought but her Blood shall quench it: come, Revenge,
From thy black Cave; I feel thy Serpents here,
They Hiss me into Madness. Live? She shall not,
Not breath another Hour, by Hell She shall not,
Tho' Nature sunk in Ruins at her Fall.
For Gondibert, I scorn Him and myself
I scorn, for losing but one Thought upon Him.
O Pusillanimous! O abject Slave!
Slave to a Girl, a Village Girl! By Heav'n
I triumph in the meanness of thy Spirit.
Go, wed Her, She alone is worthy of Thee—
But yet the Sorceress, the smiling Sorceress,
Shall She escape?—I'll stab Her in his Arms.

Laura.
Madam compose Yourself, this Storm of Passion
Shakes every Nerve, and ruffles all your Form.
Acquaint your Father.

Rhodolinda.
Yes, the King shall know it,
Shall know his Baseness: His paternal Care—
—Yet shou'd the Weakness of old Age betray Him
To pity Them and pardon—If He shou'd,
Still there are Daggers, Poison—Hence away;
I know the sage Urganda will assist me:
This Moment seek her Cave, and fetch her Poisons,
That Fate may be secure—This Moment, Laura.—
Destruction, lead me on; I'll follow Thee.
The Furies shall their Nuptial Torches bear,
And big with fell Revenge I'll meet Them there.