 | Julio Romano |  |
143
SCENE II.
Interior of the Chapel.Several Monks kneeling in the oratories; other Monks, passing in procession; two going before, scattering incense.
HYMN :—MATINS.
Now the silent stars, descending,Sink behind the western wave,
We and all the world are wending
To the soft and silent grave.
Holy Virgin, save,—oh save!
Save our hearts and souls from falling;
Take our thanks for hopes to-day;
May the morning's worldly calling,
Speed us on our heavenly way.
Holy Virgin,—pray, oh pray
At night, at morn, at noon of day,
Oh may thy mercy lead, and smooth the heavenly way!
[Exeunt Monks; chanting as they move.
[Verger puts out all the lights, except those on each side the crucifix. Exit.
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Rom.
Sweet was the music, hovering o'er the glen!
This is Death's palace:—here he sits enthroned;
With Truth and Justice for his counsellors.
On earth all fade:—mid life's delirious round
All wither;—die. While here,—in solemn peace,
Rest, and forgetfulness of earth,—the soul
Quickens anew to fructify in heaven.
Ah—what is life? harsh tumult.—Death? Resurgam.
Such was my hope;—my apprehension now.
Hark!—'Tis the closing of the chapel-door.
How the vaults echo!—Like a catacomb,
Holding the bones of empires in its womb,
When the last trump shall sound the death of time.
List—list—the hour? These chimes how musical!
Now the morn's watch-words:—one, two, three, four, five.
How awful sounds the fleeting voice of time,
Amid these consecrated walls. Memento!
In solemn awe and reverence I approach'd
These walls so hallow'd! where all proudly tell
—Graves, tablets, monuments,—that man was made
For scenes far nobler than a sphere, where care,
Insult and injury, anguish and remorse,
Compose one vast, one melancholy volume.
As on this tablet, I inscribe the name
Of her, who form'd my paradise on earth,
Flow sweet, my tears; flow inwardly; and wash
The deep-wrought agonies of my soul away. [Contemplates the monuments.
This is the tomb of one, who died for love:
And this of one, who, in a sea of blood,
Sought the base phantom—military glory.
And who art thou, that caused this speaking glass
To decorate thy tomb? an epitaph!
This is Death's palace:—here he sits enthroned;
With Truth and Justice for his counsellors.
On earth all fade:—mid life's delirious round
All wither;—die. While here,—in solemn peace,
Rest, and forgetfulness of earth,—the soul
Quickens anew to fructify in heaven.
Ah—what is life? harsh tumult.—Death? Resurgam.
Such was my hope;—my apprehension now.
Hark!—'Tis the closing of the chapel-door.
How the vaults echo!—Like a catacomb,
Holding the bones of empires in its womb,
When the last trump shall sound the death of time.
List—list—the hour? These chimes how musical!
Now the morn's watch-words:—one, two, three, four, five.
How awful sounds the fleeting voice of time,
Amid these consecrated walls. Memento!
In solemn awe and reverence I approach'd
These walls so hallow'd! where all proudly tell
—Graves, tablets, monuments,—that man was made
For scenes far nobler than a sphere, where care,
Insult and injury, anguish and remorse,
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As on this tablet, I inscribe the name
Of her, who form'd my paradise on earth,
Flow sweet, my tears; flow inwardly; and wash
The deep-wrought agonies of my soul away. [Contemplates the monuments.
This is the tomb of one, who died for love:
And this of one, who, in a sea of blood,
Sought the base phantom—military glory.
And who art thou, that caused this speaking glass
To decorate thy tomb? an epitaph!
Earth is man's cradle, theatre, and grave;
The mean material, which comports his flesh;
But not,—thank heaven!—the essence, which contains
Life, mental motion, or the soul sublime.
[Takes up the hour-glass.
The mean material, which comports his flesh;
But not,—thank heaven!—the essence, which contains
Life, mental motion, or the soul sublime.
This is Time's ensign:—Time will soon be o'er!
To quit this fragile tenement of clay;
To rise,—all spirit,—in a space unknown;
Traverse, perchance, a universe of ills,
And drink new poison, each succeeding change:
But stay—since life springs blooming out of death,
Truth must, one morning, blossom out of doubt,
And cleanse the soul of mystery and error. [Replaces the hour-glass.
And who sleeps here? a chorister: and who
Beneath this marble, strew'd with arid bones?
To quit this fragile tenement of clay;
To rise,—all spirit,—in a space unknown;
Traverse, perchance, a universe of ills,
And drink new poison, each succeeding change:
But stay—since life springs blooming out of death,
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And cleanse the soul of mystery and error. [Replaces the hour-glass.
And who sleeps here? a chorister: and who
Beneath this marble, strew'd with arid bones?
Francesco, Abbot;—ninety-two! of these
Seventy he pass'd in frequent watchings, stripes,
Long silence, and continual meditation,
On the seductive pleasures of the world.
Brother!—the relics, which lie scatter'd here,
Were once Friar John; who loved the Abbot well,
And will'd his bones to lie upon his tomb.
Touch not the fragments, till to dust they turn.
Seventy he pass'd in frequent watchings, stripes,
Long silence, and continual meditation,
On the seductive pleasures of the world.
Brother!—the relics, which lie scatter'd here,
Were once Friar John; who loved the Abbot well,
And will'd his bones to lie upon his tomb.
Touch not the fragments, till to dust they turn.
[Kneels beside the tomb.
[The Abbot issues from the chancel; and the Monks from the oratories.
Abbot.
Some way-worn pilgrim; barefoot and forlorn.
Respect his holy meditation;—Come.
[Exeunt Monks; the Abbot retires to the chancel.
Rom.
(rising.)
Now all is silence: hush'd is every sound.
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A lasting monument of thy Julio's love!
[Hangs the tablet on one of the pillars.
IN. CŒLO. FRANCESCA. AMOR. ET. TRANQUILLITAS.
Enter a Monk, bearing a taper.Rom.
Pater, O pater: miserere mei.
Monk.
Frater!—Deus noster refugium.
Rom.
In Deo speravi.
Could I hold converse with the reverend abbot?
Monk.
Behold him, brother, leaning on a tomb.
Rom.
Thanks, holy father. (advancing.)
Oh the fatal sight!
Whom do I see? the excellent Father Jerome,
Once the king's priest?
Monk.
Now Abbot of Salvator.
[Exit up the chancel.
Rom.
Oh the good virgin! 'tis the reverend priest,
That gave me all I valued upon earth.
He married us; anointed us; and—wept!
He kiss'd our cheeks, and bade us live in peace,
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How shall I meet him? He believes me guilty.
Yes—he believes I slew the saint, he gave me,
E'en in the sanctity of sleep. He'll spurn me.
Yet is he good, considerate, and kind,
To all men living. I will throw myself
Down at his feet, all penitent: for the crime
Of having meditated self-destruction,
Sits like a life-consumer on my soul,
And wears my heart with agony away.
Most holy Abbot!—but I dare not go.
'Tis but to court what most would wound my soul;
A good man's scorn. I will not. Yet as love
To all mankind is written on his forehead,
Perchance some portion is reserved for me.
[Rushes forward, and throws himself at his feet.
Abbot.
Peace, my good brother: why these sobs and tears?
Lean on the mercy of thy God;—thy feet
Shall yet be wash'd; thy wounds shall yet be heal'd;
Thy rags all purple; and thy spots like snow.
Rom.
Hail, holy father:—pardon, reverend abbot.
These hands of thine,—I know thee well!—bestowed
A royal virgin to mine arms.
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Romano?
Julio Romano? Touch me not;—avaunt!
Thy hands and heart are stain'd with innocent blood;
The pure and spotless,—nay, th'angelic,—blood
Of a sweet saint, who loved thee. Ay—as if
Thou hadst been Raphael, sent express from heaven,
To guide her footsteps to th'empyreal throne.
Avaunt! Begone,—I say, begone,—begone.
Rom.
Hear me; nay, hear me, holy father;—hear me!
Heaven holds me innocent of that. But I
Yet have a crime, I burthen to confess.
Francesca dead,—and I—charged of her murder;
Robb'd of my child;—my aged mother struck
With a dumb palsy;—and my father dying
In laughing madness:—nay, respect these tears!
Ruin'd in fame, an outcast from mankind,
Forlorn, disconsolate, and desolate,
Urged too, to madness, by a horrid dream:
Last night, a friend—heaven bless him for his care!
Saw, watch'd, and saved me from myself; or I
Had thrown this worthless frame into the flood,
And never more been heard of.—Holy abbot!
All doubts dismiss of every crime but this;
And tell me truly; tell me, excellent father,
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Open the gates of Paradise to me?
Abbot.
The crime,—committed,—had been past all pardon.
At least, beyond an abbot's intercession.
But heaven extends benevolence to all,
Who seek by deep repentance.
Rom.
Reverend father!
Thou hast pour'd balm and balsam on my soul.
Thou givest me hope:—I could not ask for more.
Abbot.
Fly; fly. A price is set upon thy head.
Tempt heaven no farther. Rise, my son:—farewell.
Guilty or not;—my prayers!—since thy hand
I well remember,—Heaven remembers too,—
Was, in the zenith of thy fortune, ever
Free, as the flowers of summer to the bee,
To all, whom fortune frown'd on, round thy garden.
Rom.
Father,—thou bring'st such drops into mine eyes—
Abbot.
I could weep, too:—but hence;—I charge thee—hence.
How could I bear to see thy misery,
Wert thou ta'en hence; and from these sacred walls,
Led,—oh the miserable thought! and led
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Alas!—farewell:—I charge thee, fly: I could—
I could not bear to witness it.
Rom.
Accept
Sighs, tears, and silence, for my thanks. Farewell.
[Exit; making many solemn reverences.
Abbot.
Poor man! my soul weeps drops of blood to see,
How guilt, or sorrow, has bewilder'd him;
Whiten'd his locks; and turn'd his manly cheek
Almost to wither'd age. The ways of heaven
Are silent, secret, awful and mysterious;
Yet as all had their origin in love,
So does all vegetate and end in—mercy.
[Exit.
| Julio Romano | |