University of Virginia Library

DEMETRIA, A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.

Demetria was written before the author was sufficiently practised, to express his thoughts in verse with simplicity; though not before the heart has usually taken in a tolerable freight of the passions to which it relates. Its imperfections were soon apparent, and it was laid aside for revision; but, other themes and other affairs engaging his attention, it was left untouched till the summer of 1837. Having at that time reached a piece of level ground in the journey of life, and feeling an impulse to an old amusement, the task of re-writing this Tragedy, several times meditated and postponed, was taken in hand. A pleasure attended the labor, perhaps equal to that of inventing new scenes. For, when the writer, after an interval of twenty-six years, found himself employed, once more, over its remembered pages, an illusion restored, as it were, life's early fragrance, brought back the lumen purpureum, seldom adequately prized till its tint begins to fade. The structure and complexion of the original have been studiously preserved. The reader will not fail to perceive that it was not the design to produce a stately poem, but a domestic Tragedy as simple in diction as in plan.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Count Amerigo.
• Cosmo, his nephew.
• Orsini, friend of Cosmo.
• Barbadeca.
• Cavaliers, ladies, &c.
• Olivia, daughter of the Count.
• Demetria, daughter of the Count.
• Jacquelina, Olivia's woman.
• Bianca, an old domestic.

SCENE. Belvederé, the family seat, on the Arno, a few leagues from Florence.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An apartment communicating with the garden: glass doors thrown open in the moonlight: Cosmo and Demetria.
Cos.
Now, as thou sit'st, absorbed and motionless,
Checkered with silvery gleams and quivering shadows,
Thou look'st some pale, fair statue garlanded,
Some Nymph, or Muse, such as the old Greek herdsmen
Imagined haunting round their wood-girt temples!
Or, if a nun-like fancy please thee better,
One of the choir, (as holy legends have it,)
Heard tuning their clear strings and glancing viols
In the blue depths of such a night as this!—
Nor word? nor smile?—I'll improvise no more.—
Sure, never goddess lovelier, or more mute,
Drew homage to her pedestal.

Dem.
O, Cosmo,
This is a sacred anniversary,
An ever-hallowed season, when my heart
Is busy with the past; and thy return
But freshens sad remembrance.

Cos.
Think me not
Incapable of sympathy.—Thou know'st
How dear I loved her.—But to be, once more,
At Belvederé turns me to a prattler.

Dem.
Hither we came, that last sad night, to breathe
The freshness. There she sat.—I see, still see
The pale light on her cheek, and in her eyes
The fatal brightness! O, could I recount
Her thoughts—anticipations—retrospects!—
The treasury of past years, our happy years,
Was opened,—when no parting e'er was thought on;—
When thou wert here, and dwelt as one of us.
Remind him (so she said) of my fond love,
And bid him be a brother to my orphans.

Cos.
(snatching her hand.)
Then hear, Demetria—

Dem.
Not on this vigil,—
'T is hers,—'t is consecrated solemnly,—
And images of grief are up before me.
I joy that thou art here, at last; yet O!
What a drear interval!—While she remained,
Sweet sympathy was left; but when she parted,
My broken heart went with her to the tomb.
For, Cosmo, I despaired—ever to meet thee,
So lengthened and so dismal seemed the time.—

Cos.
But now, my gentle one, the dark dream 's o'er:
We wake, we wake, to blissful certainty.
Dwell, now, on brighter days,—on the fair future,—
And deem the sainted parent we adore
Looks down with blessings and approval.

Dem.
Ah!
She promised—sometimes to be near me,—oft
To hover round me,—if such favor might be.

(A lively measure strikes up beyond the garden wall.
Cos.
Savoyards!—O! the jocund strain
Chimes here; but o'er the wild Hungarian hills,
When years divided me from Italy,
Beshrew the rogues! they minted from me tears
As fast as florins.—Merry vagabonds!—
Come,—shall we list their lays?—or whither wilt thou?—
Come forth awhile; for like familiar faces
The slopes and shadows of the garden look;—
Heavenly, to me, after my weary exile!
How oft, by night, by day, has this dear scene
Stood in my fancy visible as now!—
Let us revisit the old myrtle walk:—
Rememberest thou our last hour there?—Come, come,
We sin against the heavens to be in doors.

(They pass into the garden.)

SCENE II.

Olivia's bed-chamber, in a wing of the villa overlooking the garden. Olivia and Jacquelina.
Oliv.
I'm sated,—weary of it.

Jacq.
But why, my lady?

Oliv.
No matter.

Jacq.
Nay, Signora,
Were a poor serving-woman, worse endowed
Than our great grandam,—tied to these two pouches
Empty, (thrusting her hands into her pockets,)
—an evil past the primitive,—
Were she to rail against the niggard world,
There might be reason. But to hear youth, beauty,
Fortune, and nobleness—

Oliv.
O, fool me not;—
Thou know'st, before I speak, the thorn that pricks me,—
Thou seest her like an adder in my path,—
Perceivest me slighted—like a dwarfish cluster,—
While all are scrambling for the prize that gilds
Her branch. No moment of my life is sweet
Or comfortable. Deep, and ever rankling,
I bear a gangrene that corrodes to death.

Jacq.
You wrong your beauty, trifle with your peace.—

Oliv.
Wrong?—Who that is not macerated, dead
To all that agitates the soul of woman,
Could choose but feel?—and bitterly resent?—
Precedence is my right—inalienable—
Yet when was not Olivia's favor blanked
At her appearing?—Half the natural love
My parents owed me she purloined. I pined
The loss, to be rebuked for sullenness.
Up from our childhood,—if my shape, or bloom,
Dark curls, or glances, aught about me drew
A breath of praise,—anon, I hear of eyes
That witch, as doth the pale green evening sky;
Cheeks, like the rose-tipt glacier; yellow locks,
That make the dreamer murmur of Madonna!
Ever, for her, the proudest breathed the sigh;
Round her, Love anticked as a new-found Psyche,
While scarce an eye seemed conscious of Olivia.

Jacq.
Preposterous! had it been so, dearest lady.

Oliv.
But this I 've borne, if not with meekness, borne
In bitter silence. I 've adorned her train,
Served as her foil, endured from youth neglects
I can endure no longer. Mark me—But first,
Hast thou observed this Cosmo?

Jacq.
Yes, my lady.

Oliv.
I mean, hast thou perused him heedfully?

Jacq.
Enough to see a model for a sculptor.

Oliv.
Hark, girl,—I'll tell thee. Some ten years ago,
Being bereft, at once, of both his parents,
My father brought him here to Belvederé.—
I, from the first, laid claim to him, and vowed,
By all the powers of love, to make him mine.
Just in his opening flower it was, he came,—
Graceful and blooming as a Ganymede;
Mixed fire and sweetness darting from his eyes,
Even in grief, infection to the heart.
O, that his lineaments could rise before thee
In all the unsunned beauty of the stripling!

Jacq.
Gramercy! I prefer the sun-burnt man.
Clip his moustache, give him the Phrygian cap,
And he might stand, now, for the rogue of Ida.

Oliv.
But here, as ever, stepped the basilisk
'Twixt me and happiness. Too soon I found
My pittance was the poor regard that lives
For kindred. But when his sidelong glance met hers,
There flashed from it another tale. I raised
Some jealousies,—and accidents conspired,—
That kept them from an open declaration
Till he departed for the wars. Alone,
She withered like a stemless blossom, long
Deluding me with mournful expectations.
But six full years are wasted, yet she lives,
She blooms, as in a second May. And Cosmo—
Marked'st thou?—ha?—at the table,—didst thou read
The language of his eyes?

Jacq.
Truly, Signora,
I could not but perceive, or fail to note,
While he recounted his young soldiership,
Another pair, like blue bells after rain.

Oliv.
Witch! sorceress! would that her tears might blind her!
Ah! Jacquelina!—'t is too palpable—

Jacq.
(perceiving from the window.)
Ha! apropos! (Aside.)

Be not too hasty: silently observe
How things fall out a day or two: as yet,
The storm of welcomes and God-bless-ye's scarce
Is over. Joy and revel rule the house:—
The very serving-men and grooms are crazed.
Soon as this tipsy mood subsides— (Seems to start.)


Oliv.
What 's there?

Jacq.
Ha!—can it be!—faith! even—here, my lady,
Stand here—Seest thou?—under that pomegranate?

Oliv.
Confusion! Cosmo and Demetria!

Jacq.
Troth,
Almost embracing.

Oliv.
Put away the light.

(Jacquelina extinguishes the lamp: Olivia leans from the window.)
Jacq.
(in a whisper, after listening some time.)
Hear'st thou?

Oliv.
Dost thou?

Jacq.
Nothing intelligible.

Oliv.
Mark! mark!—What means that gesture?

Jacq.
Lo! again—
To ratify some vow, or protestation,—
Look, how his amorous plume bows towards her cheek,
And dallies, as to kiss her with the breeze.

Oliv.
(stepping back.)
They move this way.—Watch where they go.

(A door closes.)
Jacq.
Into the hall. That was the glass door closing.

Oliv.
Her wittol father hears this! By the mass!
Arcadian times again!—How know we—ha?
What gambols grots and garden nooks may witness?
O! chaste, thrice pure, most pale-faced, snowy vestal!
Could some, whom you feigned marble to, see this!
Clinging, and palming it!

Jacq.
Will you consent to be thus outmanœuvred?
For, now, we need no confirmation.

Oliv.
No,—
Never,—by all my injuries,—I would not,—
But where 's the remedy?

Jacq.
Ha! ha!
Methinks 't would need no miracle,—no magic,—
Nothing transcending mother wit.

Oliv.
I'll hail
Ingots upon thee, jewels as the wind
Showers winter crystals! O! unlock thy brain,—
Devise, forge, conjure for me!—But no risks,—
No gossip,—jeopard not my pride or honor.

Jacq.
When your grandfather, or your great uncle,
(Which was it?) risked the main untraversed ocean,
Struggled against despair and mutiny,
Ate mouldy biscuit, drank sea-water, knew
No more than ignorance, whether his loved home
Should greet him more, or he englut some monster,
Pray wherefore did he jeopard thus?—For nothing,
But leave to stamp on the chart—Amerigo.
And shall the lover's meed, so coveted,
That, oft, the lack frenzies and drives men mad,
Be plucked with less smart than a gooseberry?—
What! for the tinkle of an idle tongue
Forego the object of sighs infinite,
Salt tears to drown ye, which has kept your eyes
Unvisited of rest, poisoned your heart
With jealous rancors, mildewed all life's sweetness,
Made youth itself one canker,—saint-like sit,
And see 't inveigled from you!—Virgin martyrs!
In Venice you 'd be sung in hymns; held up
In holy pulpits as the child of Job;
Invoked, as one by patience sanctified!—
O yes—I 've lived there:—did I ever tell thee—
I mean a story—rife when I was there,—
How a Venetian served her rival?

Oliv.
Never.

Jacq.
A noble lady, called Florentia, loved
The counterpart of this same Cosmo. She,
Like you, had been his playmate, and imbibed
Passionate thoughts, early and unawares,
Till all her being centred in one hope.—
It chanced, once, with her lover and her father,
She visited their old ancestral castle,
Built in the mountains, built for war and strength,
A huge grey mass of towers and battlements,
Lonely and frowning 'midst its solemn woods.
Here they amused some sultry summer days
With roaming through the strange, gigantic pile;
Reminded by its massiveness of times
When the fierce Condottieri made the hills
Flash with their arms, and echo with their music.
A few sweet days flew o'er their solitude,
When (as to mar their Paradise) her sister,—
Adopted by some kinswoman, some countess,
And reared by her from early youth,—this sister—
I say her younger sister—followed her.

Oliv.
What, to the castle?

Jacq.
Ay, as if resolved
Maliciously to rob her of her birthright.
Florentia welcomed her as might beseem
Her father's child. But, soon, this young one,—mark,—
This cunning piece of fascination threw
Her witch-nets round her sister's plighted lover,—
She stole his heart,—most treacherously robbed
Her elder sister,—triumphed in the deed.
When proud Florentia saw the truth, a pang
Convulsed her like an epilepsy; her eye
Shot one Vesuvian glare,—and all was calm,
Or seemed so. Thereupon, one listless day,
When both the cavaliers were down the mountains
Riding or hunting, she began to speak
Of sundry strange and secret passages,
And labyrinths of cells, like catacombs,
Cut in the living rock beneath the castle,
For safety or concealment; vaults, and crypts,
Receptacles of treasure or of groans.
In one, she said, some hundred fathom down,
The bandit Leo Galfri breathed his last,
Chained to a ring still there. And in another
Three chests, with mighty clasps of iron, stood,
That looked like treasure-chests, but which her father
Refused to open. Piquing thus, awhile,
Her curiosity, she cried, at last,
“Lauretta, come, I long to know their contents;
Let 's go and privately examine them.”
Purloining keys and lights, they went together,
Down, down, long winding damp stone stairs,—through this
And that dark vault, low passage, massive door,
Such as we hear of,—till they came indeed,
Far down, into an arched room, prison-like,
Ribbed with such monstrous stones as might have borne
The whole incumbent pile. There stood the chests.

Oliv.
Three, saidst thou?

Jacq.
Three prodigious chests.—
Pausing to gather nerve and breath, they strove
To open one; but could not, for a spring.
This mastered, their united strength heaved up
The bossy, clasped, and antique lid.

Oliv.
What saw they?

Jacq.
Parchment rolls, with papal seals,
And piles of old discolored writings.

Oliv.
Nought else?

Jacq.
O, yes; among the papers lay a casket,
Inlaid with brass or gold, or some bright substance.
In haste to seize it (for the chest was deep),
Lauretta climbed, and, reaching, lost her balance,
And fell sheer in.—Down comes the heavy lid;
The steel spring snaps; the rusty dungeon key
Does its last office; brave Florentia lies
Slumbering upon her bed, and, waking, asks
Whether Lauretta is returned from rambling.

Oliv.
O, heavens and earth! She did not perish there?

Jacq.
Her father, sister, all the house wore black,
Whether she did or no;—and every hold
And fastness of the mountains was smoked out,
And nineteen brigands and their leader suffered.
I cannot say she perished there, when those
Same rogues strangled her as was proved, and swung
To expiate their crime.

Oliv.
A dreadful story!

Jacq.
I could unfold you many such.
Her treachery deserved scarce better. False
Insinuating minion!

Oliv.
(in a low, hesitating voice.)
Surely,—thou canst not mean—

Jacq.
Mean what, Signora?

Oliv.
That I—that we—

Jacq.
Speak out, dear injured lady.—What
So moves thee?—Speak!—Nay, trust me not by halves.

Oliv.
What meant'st thou by that tale?

Jacq.
To show you, lady,
How proud souls can resolve, when basely wronged.

Oliv.
Then I must bear it?

Jacq.
Better so,
Than conscience should begnaw your life. And yet—
Discard him,—tear his image from your breast
And cast it to the winds. Arm your keen eye
With coldness and disdain, and see these turtles
Bill at the altar.

Oliv.
Sooner come perdition!

Jacq.
Then quickly meditate some bold resolve.
Fortune and rank achieved, or fallen on him,
Who can gainsay his suit?—His doating uncle?—
It needs but half an eye to see they love.—
Fate only, or some master-stroke, can stop
Their marriage.

Oliv.
Accursed truth!—But what—what stroke?—
What fate?

Jacq.
Some casualty, or providence,
Agent, or anodyne, stronger than love.

Oliv.
(in a hollow voice.)
O, Jacquelina—friend—

Jacq.
Command me, dearest mistress.

Oliv.
If—if—

Jacq.
What says my lady?—No eavesdropper 's near us.

Oliv.
(hurriedly.)
No tower is here,—no prison,—safe, dark, deep,—
No fatal instrument,—and ah! I fear,
Scarce provocation to excuse like hers.

Jacq.
Holy Maria keep Sathanas from us!
What art thou ruminating?

Oliv.
Hush!—speak lower;—
Methought you said—methought you whispered me
With abjectness of mind—with tame endurance—
But I'm scarce waking.—Dismal, dreamlike things
Flit through my fancy. I'll to bed. Shut, shut.
(Jacquelina closes the sash.)
Would we 'd a light:—the chamber 's like a tomb.
Go—no; stay—leave me not. You might disturb
My father or some other. I'll undress,
For this time, as I may.—Make haste, I say.—
Can I have caught an ague?

(Jacquelina begins to undress Olivia, but stops, as in thought.)
Jacq.
What if—Signora—Could we not
Accomplish it—somehow—by stratagem?
(Olivia turns quickly.)
Let 's see.—But late—within this very month—
Your sister contumeliously dismissed
A wooer, whom we all know something of;
Haughty, unscrupulous, but of a face
And mien to hit fastidious eyes. He 's now
Moody with disappointment, apt for mischief—

Oliv.
Well; Barbadeca.

Jacq.
And to a wish,
Cosmo and he are still at daggers' points—

Oliv.
What then? 'T were death, if—

Jacq.
I know it: hear me, lady.—
Some quarrel in the service long ago,
Some bagatelle, I know not what, unsheathed
Their angry weapons. Cosmo twice disarmed him;
Coupling the second gift of life with terms,
That, chafing his imperious spirit, bred
A rancorous hate. This, Cosmo wots full well.
And Barbadeca, while he wooed your sister,
(Before her saint-ship turned poor me adrift,)
Confided gifts and letters to my care,
Communed with me in private of his love,
Lamenting that a rival he abhorred
Should triumph o'er him. Somewhere he had caught
A rumor of their early passion. Now,—
The Count, you know, looked coldly on his suit
As well as she,—now, of these circumstances
Could we not weave the several ends together,
Blending, transposing, and so coloring things,
That Cosmo (prone to sudden jealousy)
Should think his mistress, to gain time and slip
Peaceably the knot of her old vows, dissembled;
Though secretly grown fond of Barbadeca?—
Might not these hints be wrought?

Oliv.
'T would strain his weakness:—
Credulity 's his vice.

Jacq.
And all his rare
And noble qualities he rates so cheap,
That confidence would fail him, if a hair
Fell in love's scale opposed to his deserts.—

Oliv.
Yet—yet—I dread her art: she can put on
Looks so angelical, so meek, so pure,—
The thing were perilous.

Jacq.
Not so to you;—
You need not move in it:—on me alone
Falls all the shame, which I will bear,
And more, for your dear sake.

Oliv.
How, if their love, this night
Confessed and ratified—

Jacq.
Even that may seem
Forced on her for a while to skreen her secret;
Or charged on Barbadeca's malice.

Oliv.
That, indeed.

Jacq.
Besides, strong probability sides with us:—
Time—opportunity—our fickle nature—
The known caprices of our sex—Lord! Lord!
To dwell upon a shadow six long years!
Six slow-revolving, dull-returning winters
To nourish and keep warm a lifeless image!—
Love and Disdain might breed, and die, revive,
And chase, and eat each other in less time.
Sly Ariosto fables this too shrewdly
With his two fountains.

Oliv.
No more to-night. I'll think of it.—What 's that?

Jacq.
Only the tree rustling against the window.
But why mope here, Signora, when the moon
Is queening 't over wood and river?—Come;
Let 's to your closet. In the cheerful beam
Of that bright window, I 've another thought
Better unfolded ere to-morrow.—Come.

(Exeunt.)

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A wood in the pleasure grounds. Jacquelina near a hollow tree, overhanging the path: she walks restlessly to and fro.
Jacq.
Where can he loiter?—Time and place
Were both so iterated!—Fools never comprehend
What minutes are in fate's machinery—

(Enter Barbadeca, looking cautiously round.)
Barb.
So, Jacquelina, Jacquelina!

Jacq.
(springing forward.)
Has Cosmo seen thee?

Barb.
No.

Jacq.
Where 's the envelope?

Barb.
Here.

(Producing a paper.)
Jacq.
Her hand!—Now mark.
(Taking a letter from her bosom.)
This scrap I picked from out her private papers;—
One of her scores of tender notes to Cosmo;—
Hundreds she penned, seen only by herself.
Its drift suits well,—love-breathing words,
Without direction, date, or name. This,—mark ye,—
Lodged in the cover of the cruel lines
That sent you crest-fallen home, converts
Into a honeyed billet to yourself;
Past human eyes, her own even, to deny.

Barb.
What then?

Jacq.
Observe.—Cosmo will presently pass by;
Nay, at this moment is not farther from us
Than the green knoll under the old beech yonder.
Now, as you wish success in your heart's cause,
Cross him. At first, seem rapt in meditation,—
Stalk by him thus—as though you saw him not,—
After, descry him suddenly,—start back,
And disappear as though you shunn'd him.

Barb.
But wherefore?

Jacq.
Hereafter you shall know. Go—prithee—go!—
So far you 've trusted me.

Barb.
Well, well,—which way?

Jacq.
Keep toward the river, just within the trees,
Till you perceive him;—then as I direct.
(Exit Barbadeca.)
So far we thrive!—It falls out to a wish!—
Prove he but rash and jealous to my hope,
The mesh is fatal. Other cares, pale beauty,
We'll furnish thee withal, than rating me
Because I chide a beggar from the gate.
How keen Olivia 's on the scent! No need
Of art, and cunning practice, to wind up
Sheer self-idolatry. True as the needle
To one dear influence, all besides is nothing.
If but her dastard nature—Soft! he comes.
(Cosmo seen approaching. She hastily opens the letter, and, leaning against the tree, seems buried in thought: as he passes, she starts violently.)
Good heavens! he 's here!

Cos.
(stopping.)
Why start ye?

Jacq.
Start, my lord?

Cos.
Ay, start; as if you feared to see me?

Jacq.
Feared to see you, Signor?

Cos.
(approaching her.)
What paper 's that you crush together so?—
Nay, draw not back. You tremble too.

Jacq.
My lord,
I know of nought to tremble at.

Cos.
What paper 's that?

Jacq.
This paper?

Cos.
Ay, that paper, girl?
Concerns it me?

Jacq.
You, my lord?

Cos.
Else, why that start?
And seeing me, cry “Heavens! he 's here!” Is 't more
For me to ramble this way than another?

Jacq.
I knew not that I did.

Cos.
You thrust it in your bosom, too,—lo! lo!—
So fearful eager—Come, I'll see it.

Jacq.
Nay—
Indeed—beseech ye, think not—Force me not—
Think on 't no more—for your own peace.

Cos.
(startled.)
Ha!

Jacq.
Alas! what have I said?

Cos.
Give me the paper.

Jacq.
Indeed, my lord—

Cos.
No words—The paper.

Jacq.
My lord, indeed—Be ruled—upon my life—

Cos.
(seizing, and unfolding the letter.)
To Barbadeca!—
Demetria's hand!— (Reads.)


Jacq.
O, shake not thus,—
It cannot be—upon my soul it cannot—

Cos.
Death!—where got you this?

Jacq.
Indeed, my lord—
Sustain it like a man.—It can be only
Some casual strong similitude. Observe;
Here is no name.

Cos.
Whose characters are these?—
Whose pen—whose mind could so express?—
No, no, by Heaven,—this is no counterfeit.—
But hark ye, mistress, how camest thou by this?

Jacq.
Here, Signor, in the hollow of this tree
My eye in passing fell upon it.

Cos.
When?

Jacq.
Now.

Cos.
Haunts she about here?—hast thou lately seen her?

Jacq.
Now, as I stood debating with myself,
Skreened by these drooping branches, I descried her
Hitherward moving with a stealthy step.
Perceiving me, she started, blushed, and vanished.

Cos.
(walks to and fro: striking his breast.)
O, burst!—And yet what eye-beams fell upon me
When first I clasped her—only yesterday!—
The flush, the smile, the tear of welcoming,
The wild confusion—had not that a tongue?—
Yet here 's the living witness.

Jacq.
Say not so—
Rend—rend it.—Wherefore should she trust
Such vouchers here? in this sequestered walk?
The winds might waft them to the moon, as soon
As any likely chance to Florence.

Cos.
He 's here—I 've seen him.

Jacq.
Heavenly grace forbid!

Cos.
But now, I came upon him unawares:—
He started, scowled upon me like a Demon,
And hastily withdrew.

Jacq.
I'm sorry, Signor,—
My heart weeps blood for you.

Cos.
To waste her sweetness—Yet how can it be?—
What doth the viper here, though?—Cursed, cursed folly!
When but a pass had rid the world of him.

Jacq.
How long—pardon, my gracious lord, but may
I ask, how long since you left Belvederé?

Cos.
Six fatal years.

Jacq.
(starting.)
Six years?—I knew not that.

Cos.
I see your thoughts. Alas! alas! would God
I ne'er had left her! round her guileless steps
I should have watched. But honorable deeds
Seemed needful even to my hopes in her.
And ah! I thought no time, no chance, would change her.

Jacq.
Few hearts are of a temper proof to time.

Cos.
Tyrant!—
Better thou 'dst laid her in an unsoiled grave,
And strewed sweet maiden emblems over it!

Jacq.
Hast thou e'er wrong'd him?

Cos.
Never; but have galled,
Galled to the quick, his unforgiving pride.
And now he stabs me to the life of life.
Baffled of open vengeance, like a burglar
He has broke into my heart's treasure-house.
And yet—only last night, her smile was peace!—
She put me from my suit though,—twice she did it,—
On some slight pretext:—that she did evade;—
But it was done, methought, in such sweet accents
As seemed most gracious to me.

Jacq.
Woman 's a riddle, or a kind of Sphinx,
Of nature most occult,—sure to be variable,—
Set, though unstable,—blind to old desert,
Agape for new,—afraid of her own shadow,
Yet dashing with spread sails for some gay headland,
Through straits and whirlpools that make seamen pale.
Capricious, insect-like, she oft alights,
But never settles. Passion is the flower
On which she poises her empurpled wings
To sip and revel; but who thinks to seize her,
Finds her light pennons watchful. Honest men
Study her contradictions like a text;
Believe her freezing when she shows most ice,
And think her melting when her eyelids mould
Bullets to store the arsenal of mischief.
My lord, I 've seen your converse but a day,
And could have sworn by every outward sign
She loved ye dear as life. I half believed
Her follies were forgotten.

Cos.
What means that?

Jacq.
Her love—her fondness—nay, her foolish fancy—
My lord, I know not how to speak it out;
Your wildness frights me.

Cos.
(seizing her.)
Speak! I charge thee!—Speak!
Spare not a tittle, as thou 'dst shun my wrath!

Jacq.
I prithee loose me, Signor; you shall know.

Cos.
But all—let me have all.

Jacq.
You shall, my lord.

Cos.
Go on,—fear not,—so you keep nothing back.

Jacq.
A year ago, about the Easter tide,
The Count and his two daughters spent a month
In Florence. There, the Marquis Barbadeca saw
And loved the younger. What the reasons were,
I know not; but the Count declined his suit,
Abruptly, absolutely; and cut short
His stay in Florence to be rid of him.
But he, enamoured, came to Belvederé,
And here besieged us, till, as I supposed,
Despairing of the heart he sighed for—

Cos.
Why? Did she use him coldly?

Jacq.
She was coy,
Her father peremptory. So he left us.
Some three weeks passed along. One afternoon,
All taking their siesta, I, by chance
Needing some rosemary for a present purpose,
Went through the shrubbery past that old arched gate
Sunk in the trellised wall. That gate is kept,
Now-a-days, locked. Perceiving, as I passed,
The key just peeping from within, I stopped;
And, finding it made fast inside, climbed up
A little ladder left against the vine
That, mantling o'er the wall, quite sheltered me,
To see who, at that hour, was there: for this
Is the Count's private place of meditation;
And he, I knew, was sleeping in his chamber.

Cos.
Well?

Jacq.
Well, as I live, my lord, to my amazement,
I saw her with the Marquis, arm in arm,
In a close shaded alley.

Cos.
Demetria?

Jacq.
As true, my lord, as yonder shines the sun,
Arm locked in arm, with this same Barbadeca.

Cos.
O, wretched!—lost!—degraded!—

Jacq.
They seemed in earnest conference. As they passed me,
I could distinguish words, and tones, and looks,
(Endearing all,) but, when they walked away,
Their voices sank to murmurs. Once, I caught
This much from him: “'T is painful to deceive
A father, but we 've no alternative.”

Cos.
Villain!

Jacq.
I did not hear, and cannot now recount,
Connectedly their talk. Like plighted lovers,
In low and earnest tones they spake; their theme
Made more intelligible by their looks
At last, I heard your name, my lord.

Cos.
What followed?

Jacq.
I almost fear—

Cos.
Away! be honest,—speak.

Jacq.
My lord, I could not catch the sequent words;
But they grew mirthful. He in merry mood
Vented some wit, which she responded to.
He challenged her with having loved some one,
Whose name I only could make out by guess.
She vowed 't was false; protesting volubly.
But at their next turn I distinguished this:—
“When he dwelt here, I scarce out of my childhood,
He wrote me posies, plucked me flowers, and so forth.
What then? Three days beyond the parting hour
His image never crossed my fancy more.”

Cos.
Did she say that?

Jacq.
She did, indeed, my lord.

Cos.
(for a moment overpowered.)
Heaven knows,—Heaven, only, e'er can know,
How long, how fondly, I have clung to thee!—
And thou hast been to me an angel,—ever
Infusing nectar in my bitter cup.
When hope withdrew, and left no gleam along
The sad horizon, thou hadst power to light
Life's melancholy vista! Morning oped,
And evening fell, sweeter because a day,
A night, had flown to re-unite us! Thanks—
Thanks—many a mountain watch-fire in the Bannat,
Thy image gladdened past Armida's gardens!—
I would have died for thee!—All, all is cancelled!—
Now, though I knew her gulled by foulest practice,
Though I could prove it, and, by proving it,
Make her mine own again, I would not turn
Thus—to reclaim her.

Jacq.
Nobly spoken!—
Before he pressed her lips at leave taking—

Cos.
(starting.)
God!

Jacq.
He earnestly besought her, if, as rumored,
You should return, and urge old vows upon her,—
(For vows he would persist had passed between ye,)
He prayed her still to wear a gracious eye,
Till he could clear the way, with prudent speed,
Of obstacles he named. Then his proud walls
Should bid them, kinsmen, lovers, all, defiance.

Cos.
Ha! now the web 's unravelled!—'t is to this
I owe her glances.

Jacq.
Looks more speaking, Signor,
I'm sure I never saw,—yet modest too.
They staggered me, though privy to their secret.
This, Sir, is all;—fearing surprise, I stayed
No longer.

Cos.
Can she stoop to cheat me?—
Poor maid!—Detested cozenage must have done it!
Not thought upon me!—Heaven forgive the sin,
If I have thought less of my God than thee!

Jacq.
Farewell, my lord.—My lady may remark
My lengthened absence.—Since it thus o'ercomes you,
I cannot but repent,—though duty seemed
To prompt, what accident surprised from me.
Adieu! adieu!—Fate deals on noblest hearts
Her bitterest spite.

(Exit.)
Cos.
So—my bubble 's broken!—
And have I dreamed so long? only imagined
The rapture of this meeting? Is it all
Ideal? unsubstantial?—Am I such a wretch?—
(Putting his hand to his heart.)
A horrid pressure!—Never thought upon me!
Although my breast has been her throne, her shrine—

(Voices heard in the wood approaching: Cosmo retires.)

SCENE II.

Olivia's chamber. Olivia and Jacquelina.
Jacq.
Speak not so faintly; it will not recoil.

Oliv.
Thou know'st not that. One interview, one word
Of soft expostulation 's ruin.

Jacq.
'Sdeath!
Is this a time for halts, and snail-paced fears?—
Lady, we 're in for 't; launched; and must bestir
Ourselves to scape the quicksands.

Oliv.
Gently—O, more gently.—
But say again,—how spake he? how looked he?

Jacq.
Nay, nay, I 've told you thrice.

Oliv.
Raised he no scruple?

Jacq.
O, yes; and puzzled for a while
To reconcile her conduct with the letter—

Oliv.
The snare,—the rash, the fatal snare!

Jacq.
But here,
My gloss, like every able commentator's,
Perplexed the plain and simple to our purpose.
No, no; belief has full possession of him.—
His temper mainly serves us. Ne'er will he
Confront and tax her with her perfidy,
As many a man would do: he will conceal
The bleeding hurt, till thy sweet surgery
Have time to heal it. As for her, she 'd fade
To alabaster ere complain to mortal.

Oliv.
But what avails all this, unless—

Jacq.
(singing.)

Oliv.
Have done with flourishes, and plainly say—

Jacq.
First probe the wound that rankles in his pride.
He thinks Lord Cosmo jilted. Gall him first.
Then drop in balm upon the smarting spot,
By telling him some flattering, tender tale,
Aptly contrived; and, when the mood is on,
Whisper how well it were, and how deserved,
To show this fickle fair one he contemns her
By wedding with a maid, who long has hung
With secret passion o'er his image.

Oliv.
Rare!

Jacq.
But I must use ye freely. I must swear
You sigh his name to rills, carve it on trees,
Twine it with love-knots, like Angelica
Her young Medoro's;—evidence the same,
Impressed, perhaps, in some sequestered shade;
Protest you waste the sleepless hours on him,
And in your dreams hold converse with his ghost.

Oliv.
Be wary, O, be wary:—thou grow'st giddy.

Jacq.
Now, to the hall. Remember your own part.
Sadden your aspect; let your languishing eye
Dwell on him as the bird's upon the serpent's:—
Soon as he marks, avert it;—heave a sigh;—
A gentle sigh,—perceptible,—but just
To show the swelling of your bosom.

Oliv.
(aside.)
Familiar insolence!

(Exeunt.)

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The garden. Cosmo alone.
Cos.
Why, why does nature form us so?—
Nor gird the wretch predestined to endure,
With hoops of steel,—case him in adamant,—
Buckler him some way 'gainst the cruel shafts?—
O, partial Fate! why must the generous heart
So often bleed and agonize,—transpierced
By faithless friendship, or more faithless love?—
Accursed delusion!—Twining round the soul
So gently,—binding golden link on link,—
All the while lulling us with some sweet song,
Till, giddy with enchantment, and fast bound,
She starts,—transforms into a fiend,—
Wrenches the heart-strings, and is gone for aye!
Death! what mock am I?—Is this the spot
Where, but last night, we roved?—Who then so blest—

(Enter Jacquelina, from one of the walks.)
Jacq.
What, Signor, still in sadness?

Cos.
Leave me.

Jacq.
O, speak not thus. Call up
Your noble resolution: minds heroic
Wrestle with fate itself, and spurn at trifles.
Nay, nay, my lord,—

Cos.
Is it no more?—to lose
The star that ruled and cheered my mental heaven,
And reft of which, I'm left upon life's sea
Benighted and alone.

Jacq.
I meant not so.
It is a trial; and demands of you—

Cos.
I had collected all my hopes around her;
There, there they clung, and, with her, lived or died.
Sweet, scattered blossoms! whirled away for ever!

Jacq.
Such ever was, and will be, fickle woman.

Cos.
Methinks I'm laboring in a fearful trance,—
Appalling images and horrid dangers
Glare in upon me, yet they still seem phantoms.

Jacq.
As when we weep in dreams, yet hope our grief
Will prove a dream. So yours, my lord, will prove.

Cos.
The dark cloud was behind me, and the bow
Bestrid it; all before, was lucid; flowers
Diffused their odors; birds and waters sang
Along my path, that gently seemed to wind
Through shade and sunshine, round enamelled slopes,
Down fairy vales, through opening mountains blue.
Now, like some shipwrecked desolate, I stand—

Jacq.
Why waste your sorrow on a worthless object?—
It would but furnish cruel merriment.—
Cast her away, and place your love, my lord,
On one who knows to prize it.

Cos.
Can she jest
At Cosmo's anguish, who has wept, so oft,
When only fancied ills assailed her? Oft,
Imagination harrowing up my soul
With some sad vision of her death or sufferings,
I 've, waking, found my face all bathed in tears.

Jacq.
Credit me, once for all, my gracious lord,—

Cos.
Truth, sanctitude, and maiden constancy!
Where are ye exiled? Once, ye waved round her
Your crystal arms, and made her footsteps holy.

Jacq.
I could reveal—I know a heart, as true,
As fair,—where every virtue, every grace
Abides, that honors woman.

Cos.
False, I swear.

Jacq.
And more, my lord. When night and silence woo
Even sorrow to repose, this angel breathes
The secret sigh for Cosmo.

Cos.
Peace, and begone!

Jacq.
By blessed Mary's life, 't is true.

Cos.
Thou liest;
Thou 'rt perjured;—trouble me no longer.

Jacq.
If there 's a saint in Paradise, or soul
In Purgatory, bliss for faith, or fire
For lack of 't, 't is a sacred truth. Upon
My life, and soul's salvation, it is true.

Cos.
Who?
Who mourns with hapless Cosmo? for the bond
Of sympathy shall join us!

Jacq.
O, my lord,
How the pure red would paint her cheek with shame
And anger, did she dream her secret breathed
Even to the wind.

Cos.
Being herself
Unable to conceal it, thou 'rt not bound.

Jacq.
No contumely. Remember how disdain
From one beloved has racked thy soul, and learn
Compassion.

Cos.
O, I know not what I say.

Jacq.
Perhaps I err, my lord; but thus to see
What should be life's bright morning overcast,
See her in hopeless misery pine,—I cannot;—
Despite the consequences, should she ever,
Ever suspect, I'll venture to disclose.
(Looking about her and speaking low.)
My lord,—Olivia loves you,—long has loved,—
And with the deepest, tenderest passion.

Cos.
Ha! ha!

Jacq.
(disconcerted.)
Signor,—I thought—
Can he lay claim to sympathy, who scorns
The wretched?

Cos.
She wasting with a secret passion!—
And thou believ'st it?—Why, what barefoot lass,
That follows goats over the breezy mountains,
Hath fresher roses or an eye more buxom?—
No, no, my girl; you must invent once more.

Jacq.
My lord, appearances deceive. I 've seen
A young and beauteous lady on her death-bed,
Nay, in her coffin, dressed for her last sleep,
With such a bloom yet lingering on her cheek
As flushes yonder peaks when day 's departed.

Cos.
And how learn'dst thou this precious secret?

Jacq.
The soul, my lord, is fashioned—like the lyre.
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre, made her pulse
Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
I could not long be blind, for love defies
Concealment, making every glance, and motion,
Silence, and speech a tell-tale—

Cos.
Is this all?

Jacq.
These things, though trivial of themselves, begat
Suspicion. But long months elapsed,
Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever.
One night, when all were weary and at rest,
I sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatched,
Thinking she slept, suffered my lids to close.
Waked by a voice, I found her—never, Signor,
While life endures, will that scene fade from me,—
A dying lamp winked in the hearth, that cast,
And snatched the shadows. Something stood before me
In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought
I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen,
And standing in her night-robe with clasped hands,
Like one in prayer. Her pallid face displayed
Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.
She presently turned round, and fixed her large, wild eyes,
Brimming with tears, upon me, fetched a sigh,
As from a riven heart, and cried: “He 's dead!
But hush!—weep not,—I 've bargained for his soul,—
That 's safe in bliss!”—Demanding who was dead,
Scarce yet aware she raved, she answered quick,
Her Cosmo, her beloved; for that his ghost,
All pale and gory, thrice had passed her bed.
With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord,
She poured her lamentation forth in strains
Pathetical beyond the reach of reason.
“Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew
I loved him!”—I 'd no power to speak, or move.—
I sat stone still,—a horror fell upon me.
At last, her little strength ebbed out, she sank,
And lay, as in death's arms, till morning.

Cos.
Hath she at no time spoke of this?

Jacq.
Long after, Signor, she did task me closely,
If in a certain night she had not raved.
By searching questions she drew forth the truth.

Cos.
What said she then?

Jacq.
She charged me never to divulge her shame,
Not as I loved her life, and said the secret
Should go down with her to the tomb. But I
Vowed inly, on that solemn night, if e'er
I saw, to break it to Lord Cosmo.

Cos.
Too harshly judged!—
Poor partner in misfortune!—Sayst thou so?—
While I saw life's bright seasons rolling by,
Enslaved unto the falsest, fairest phantom
That ever took Heaven's semblance to deceive!—
O! I could clasp, and weep upon her neck!

Jacq.
What! sigh and weep?
Yield her that triumph?—Hiss rather!—One bold effort—
Cast her disgraceful shackles off, and wed
A matchless lady whose whole heart is yours.

Cos.
(starting.)
Marry!

Jacq.
Why not?

Cos.
Marry Olivia?

Jacq.
Ay; marry:—show this giddy nymph her error,
Who thinks to hold you still in thraldom. Devils!
Before I 'd be her jest with Barbadeca—

Cos.
O, 't is bitter.

Jacq.
'T is plain the slippery pair exult
In your imagined anguish. Such an act
Would cloud their honey-moon.

Cos.
And that were well,—
That, that were well.

Jacq.
Besides, you gain, my lord,
A gentle, constant friend, whose soft endearments,
In time will woo you back—

Cos.
Leave me alone.—
The thought has struck me.—It would disturb their mirth.
Leave me.— (Exit Jacquelina.)
Marry!—That would sting her home!
Though a loathed reptile has with poison mixed
The springs of her affection,—though she scorns me,—
'T would grieve her pride, were I to wed another.
Beholding me kneeling beside her sister,
She may come to herself, and shake this dream
Of folly off. Her early love may gush,
Like pent-up waters, back into her heart!—
But then—then we are parted—
O, misery!—which way shall I turn?—Are these
The nuptials I have panted for? These, these,
The transports?—Heaven have mercy!—O, Demetria!
How couldst thou bury in oblivion all
Those hallowed hours, so fraught with feeling!—stoop—
But if she be not fallen past belief,
If one last spark of tenderness remain,
I'll rouse it, though the effort cost my life.
I'll watch her as I swear myself away;—
Then, if she falters,—if one gush of tears
Betray her,—I am recompensed for torture.

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

A retired part of the wood: Barbadeca and Jacquelina.
Jacq.
It helps us either way:—best, if they wed;
For then Demetria's hope lies desolate,
And she becomes more ductile to your will.
If not, the tale deceives them; when she 's seized,
It seems elopement, and averts our peril.

Barb.
How does she bear it?

Jacq.
Why, as martyrs, fire.—
Speed, speed, or truth will out. Her swollen eye
And ashy cheek cannot be long unnoticed.
He, too, will melt: this angry gust o'erblown,
The natural current of his soul will set,
And sweep our schemes to nothing. Love of this sort
Is not a hasty flame lighted by fancy,
That blazes and expires. It grew with him
From early days; hope wore its hues; its tints
Are over all his retrospect; it lives
Essential with the spark of life, and death
May fail to quench it.

Barb.
When, and where,
Can we best take her?

Jacq.
Close upon the river,
Just where it turns the point of Belvederé,
Stands a pavilion, like a summer-house,
Crowned with a little spiral pinnacle—

Barb.
I know the place.

Jacq.
That is the surest, safest.—
It was their haunt, when, in their love's first bloom,
They used to steal away together. When he
Betook him to the wars, I 've heard them say
She almost made it her abode; seemed ever
Happiest when planting round it flowers; and there,
When the untroubled moon was in the Arno,
And all was dew and fragrance, oft retired,
In tender reverie, or with her lute
Recalling favorite airs of Cosmo.—Ah!
To sever hearts so knit seems heinous. Signor,
I'm taking that upon me for your sake—

Barb.
Does she frequent there still?

Jacq.
O, constantly:—
You may descry her from the farther bank.
Station your horsemen there, and dart across,
With one or two staunch followers, in a skiff.

Barb.
What hour were surest?

Jacq.
Woods have echoes, mind.—
Loup-garou may be prowling:—you best know
The peril 's in his fang.

Barb.
No more of that.
He feels me in his vitals now, and shall
In his best blood, if Fate again confront us.—
But will his jealous frenzy drive the fool
To wedlock?

Jacq.
Not if he take time to cool.
But while the transport lasts, if he address
Olivia or his uncle, he 's committed.
Then pride will force him on, consistent pride,
The stumbling-stone of honorable asses.

Barb.
Hell catch him, if he fall.

Jacq.
And keep him!—
Or, some day, you and I may rue these pranks.
No matter:—let future ills physic themselves.—
And so, my lord,—more to the present purpose,—
I think I 've been herein your humble handmaid.

Barb.
My plotter, executor, head, hand, all!
Think not thy zeal misprized, my pretty witch,
Got by the Devil, or else by Machiavelli.
There 's for thee.

(Gives her a purse.)
Jacq.
Thanks, my lord Marquis, thanks.—'T is now a year
And some odd months, since I, at your entreaty,
Left Florence, and a wealthy service.—Is it not?

Barb.
Why, thereabouts.

Jacq.
I fastened on this house, and here have toiled
For your advancement. Have I not?

Barb.
Thou look'st
Like a green widow, screwing up thy mouth
Less than a purse-ring.

Jacq.
In my zeal to serve you,
I 've wronged my conscience, taken grievous things
To my account. I scarcely dare look back.

Barb.
What! cant!—Thou? thou?

Jacq.
You smile. But I 've a soul,—
A precious soul,—and, well thou know'st, deep guilt
To be assoiled.

Barb.
Spare your preamble, holy lady Abbess,
And to the point.

Jacq.
Well then, my gracious lord,
You may remember, on a certain day,
You being downcast with your hopeless suit,
I cheered you;—counselled so and so; revived
Your spirits,—smoothed your difficulties,—
Till hope and resolution chased despair.
You took a solemn oath upon you then,
An oath most binding, if through me you ever
Attained the mastery of that froward beauty,
You would endow me with a seat you owned,
With some small lands about it, on the Ombrone.

Barb.
Ha! ha! I thought the circuit would end land-wise.
So, being conscience-laden, you 'd forswear
This wicked, wicked world, and in your snug
House on the Ombrone negotiate with Heaven?

Jacq.
If it be not too late.

Barb.
Well, when she 's won.

Jacq.
(producing a paper and an ink-horn.)
Just say that much herein.

Barb.
Thou faithless jade!

Jacq.
'T is but to sign.—You know the proverb, Signor.

Barb.
(looks over the paper, signs, and returns it.)
Art satisfied?—Now say—at what fixed hour
Shall we attempt her?

Jacq.
If the sky be fair,
Just as the ruddy evening streaks are fading,
The place I 've named is her accustomed seat:
Night, and the moon, will favor after. Now,
My lord, if all be answered, and if all
Be understood, we best had separate.

Barb.
Farewell, my girl. All 's settled, as I think.

Jacq.
How long before you venture her in Florence?

Barb.
When all her scruples vanish; when she smiles,
And treats me as a husband, and will swear
Not to betray me.

Jacq.
Bind her strongly there.—
Farewell! be watchful, and be resolute.

Barb.
When do you quit them?

Jacq.
O, I cannot tell:
Not till the tumult 's over. So, adieu!
(Exit Barbadeca.)
Not till our compact 's sure.—If Cosmo wed her
I have her—sealed; and by the vengeful gods
I pin her to the bond, or that divulge,
Shall sink her lower than her eyes dare look.
All hail the day, invoked, deferred so long!
Freed from the abject lot imposed upon me
By faithless, perjured man,—enriched,—revenged,—
I'll shrive, do penance,—peradventure deck
Some shrine, and feed the holy candlesticks,
Till virgin wax hath cancelled virgin shame.

(Exit.)

SCENE III.

Count Amerigo alone in his apartment.
Count.
Had she been spared to me, the golden sheaf
Of my domestic joys had now been perfect.
But favoring Heaven yet promises my age
A liberal harvest; I dare breathe no murmur;
Vouchsafed a counterpart of her I lost,
So near, so dear, that her pure spirit seems
Abiding with me. Soul of gentleness!
Dear image of thy mother! so thou 'rt happy,
Peace harbours yet with old Amerigo.
Methought, to-day, her cheek was wan, her eyes
Looked red with weeping. Every gracious influence
Defend and nourish thee, for thou 'rt a plant
Too tender for the nipping blasts of sorrow.
Often, and earnestly, her mother wished
That hers and Cosmo's kindred natures—

(Enter Cosmo.)
Cos.
God bless thee, uncle.

Count.
Thanks, my son.

Cos.
If you 're at leisure, I would crave a moment.

Count.
Sit down; I'll hear thee gladly.—But thou art pale,
Nay, very pale.

Cos.
(seating himself.)
I'm well, Sir,—never better.—
'T is now ten years since I was left an orphan;—
You took me home,—have been a father to me,—
Had my own lived, he could not have done more,
But yet—yet—there 's a boon—one boon—

Count.
My son,
Demand with confidence, for I'll deny
Nothing to thee.

Cos.
My lord,—you have a daughter—
Give me—bless me, I mean—

Count.
Your suit is granted.
I have indeed a daughter, dear to me
Above all price; but to your proven honor
I dare entrust her.

Cos.
Thanks, uncle—thanks—O, thanks—

Count.
O, Cosmo, but one like her ever lived!—
Like a chance violet, that springs ere frosts
Are over, whose brief date each one foretells,
She ever seemed; yet she survives, and blooms.
O cherish her with tenderest sympathy,
Watch o'er her peace with soft solicitude;
So shall she flourish and adorn thy fortunes.
Neglect would kill her. Now forgive my plainness.—
I see thou 'rt moved—forgive—I'll say no more.
Nay, nay, my son— (Taking his hand affectionately.)


Cos.
Perhaps—perhaps—

Count.
I greet thee as my son,—my chosen son,—
And tell thee frankly, I know not another
In the world's range to whom I would commit her.
This has Heaven's seal:—her mother blesses ye:—
My heart is now at rest.

Cos.
Praise Heaven, then, uncle,—
A quiet bosom 's—O! 't is priceless, priceless—
None knows its value but the wretch who 's lost it.—
But you are doubly blest, my lord.

Count.
What says my son?

Cos.
You 've two fair daughters.

Count.
And virtuous too,
As well as fair.

Cos.
No doubt. And, now, my lord,
Strengthen a mother's with a father's blessing:—
Make Cosmo and Olivia rich indeed.

Count.
(rising, in surprise.)
Olivia!

Cos.
Sir, your blessing.

Count.
Olivia?

Cos.
What means my lord?

Count.
Was it Olivia's hand?

Cos.
The same, my lord.

Count.
Ha!—but, Cosmo,—
Know'st thou—art thou aware—
(Tenderly, and irresolutely.)
Surely, my son,
It was my younger child.

Cos.
(suppressing emotion.)
You much mistook me.

Count.
I labored in a grievous error, Cosmo,—
My thoughts were on Demetria.

Cos.
Still dost thou grant Olivia to my love?

Count.
(after a pause.)
If Cosmo ask it.

Cos.
I do. And, prithee, no delays,
For I must leave ye.

Count.
Leave us!

Cos.
Bellona 's loose:—
The trumpet brays again:—my regiment
Is summoned, or soon will be. I have seen
The rescript. Furious Achmet swears to leave
Belgrade as level as the Oman desert,
And light Vienna with more moons than stars.
Farewell, my lord: you 've done me honor.

(Exit.)
Count.
Amazement!—
I thought he meant to dwell in peace among us!—
What change is this?—Alas! I fear, I fear
Her soul is set on him.—I, too, have helped it:—
Still must I dwell on him and magnify
His virtues. Whence can such mischance—He loved her—
He surely loved her,—every act proclaimed it.—
Ah me! who'll break these tidings?—Who can answer 't?—
Great God! this is a stroke I had not looked for.

(Exit.)

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The pavilion, beside the Arno:—a table, lute, and drawing implements:—Demetria seated near a window opening to the evening sky.
Dem.
I feared some evil chance.—O! Cosmo, Cosmo!
Have I deserved such bitter punishment?—
If thou hast ceased to love, methinks, at least,
Thou mightst have broke the heavy truth more gently!
Such looks! such coldness! O, they chill to death.
Knowing the child I am in my affections,
Thou shouldst have weaned me tenderly. It had been
A generous tribute paid a wretch whose peace
Is gone for ever.—What can I have done?—
Sure, he 's not angered that I listed not
His suit, while tears (renewed at sight of him)
Streamed for a buried mother.—'T were not like him:—
It cannot be. (Pauses.)
O, time!—a change indeed!—
The night before he left us, here we sat;
Yon trees, the sky, the yellow-gleaming hills,
Thus beautiful! Then, when I weeping wished
To ope the volume of futurity,
How he consoled me! How he spoke, the while,
Of fading friendships, of forgotten love,
And when I warned him how new scenes, new hopes,
The intoxicating world, renown, and grandeur,
Might banish from his heart the faithful friends
And simple joys he loved at Belvederé,
Ah! what a look he gave me!—All forgotten!—
Had I foreseen it,—could I have believed it!—
The long, long interval,—and now at last,
The death of hope—O, Cosmo! Cosmo!
(Overcome with emotion, covers her face.)
It cannot last—my heart is not so stubborn.—
(Unties a small parcel of letters lying on the table.)
This reached me,—O! I well remember it,—
My hand clasped fast in my sweet mother's!—Hours
Of rapture! that 't is death to think on now!—
One parting look, and I have done.

(Unfolds a letter, which she peruses with a fluctuating countenance. Meanwhile a fishing boat, containing two persons in masks, glides from behind a woody point towards the pavilion. The Masks step out, and approach Demetria, who is too much abstracted to perceive them.
First Mask.
Well, Signorina,—

Dem.
(springing up.)
Ha! what seek ye here?

First Mask.
No treachery. Can you tell us—

Dem.
(retreating.)
Heavens! Why do you follow me?

First Mask.
(still advancing.)
We lost our way, Madonna,—we stopped here—
(Seizing her.)
No noise,—no screaming,—not, as life is dear,—
Be still—hush! hush!—no harm shall come to ye.

(Forces her towards the boat.)
Dem.
(tearing his hand from her mouth.)
Help!—mercy!—help!

Second Mask.
(covering her mouth.)
Hush!—silence!—else the Arno 's near—

(Just as they lay hands on her, Cosmo is seen approaching with a gloomy air along the path from the wood. Startled by her cry, he stops to observe; then rushes towards her with frantic speed, arriving, as she faints and they are proceeding to lay her in the boat.)
Cos.
Ha, ruffian!
(Stabs one of the Masks, who falls in the water:—the other retreats a step, draws, and advances fiercely upon him. Cosmo wounds him, and pressing him, he leaps into the boat and pushes off.)
What fiends are these?
(Tears off the mask of the fallen man.)
What can it mean?
(Raising Demetria in his arms.)
How pale!
Good heaven! she 's dead—or dying! What 's the best?
Merciful Father!—is there none to help me?—
(Hangs over her in terror, sprinkling water in her face.)
She 's gone!—her cheek 's death white!—Demetria!
My angel! O my only love! Have I
Frowned on thee? I been angry?—Now, she 's gone!
Curse, curse upon my cruelty! (Dem. sighs.)
She lives!
She breathes!
(Loosens her sash, and bears her to one of the seats of the pavilion.)
Demetria!—speak!—O, speak to me!
How deep—heart-breaking was that sob!—Ha! hold!

(He retires a little, and stands watching her: in a few moments she half rises, and looks wildly round, without perceiving him.)
Dem.
Where am I? Was it—could it be a dream?
Methought a sweet and mournful voice, but now,
Was murmuring in my ear— (Perceives Cosmo.)


Cos.
(coming forward.)
How farest thou, lady?

Dem.
Have I been dreaming, or a moment since
Was set upon?

Cos.
Your piercing cries alarmed me.
Know you the villains?

Dem.
No, my lord.
What came of them?

Cos.
One fled; the other lies there.

Dem.
(seeing his sleeve stained with blood.)
Heavens! art thou wounded, Cosmo?

Cos.
(with deep emotion.)
Wounded?—No,—
He only grazed me.

Dem.
O! you bleed apace!

Cos.
There are—there is a wound—
(Falters and pauses.)
Lady, your handkerchief—pray bind it there—

(She knots her handkerchief round his arm.)
Dem.
Let me assist you homeward—Lean on me—
You 're growing paler.

Cos.
(rises, and sinks back.)
Yes—I have a wound—
Deep—mortal,—that the grave must answer.

Dem.
(terrified.)
O, heaven!—

Cos.
A stab most cruel—but a bloodless one.

Dem.
(her eyes resting on the floor.)
My lord,—
Will 't please you to escape the chill night air?

Cos.
And wherefore?—'t is not like a cold false heart.

Dem.
(gathers up the letters, and binds the riband round them, while Cosmo sits speechless, watching her.)
Here are some letters,—which,—my lord,—in days
Best now forgotten— (Faintly.)
Receive them, Sir.

Cos.
(grasping the letters.)
All very well.

Dem.
You had a picture—valueless indeed—
A little portrait,—will you give it me?

Cos.
A picture?

Dem.
Scarcely worth remembrance—

Cos.
(who had involuntarily put his hand into his bosom, withdraws it.)
Lady,—that picture—I was robbed—one night,
Crossing a forest in the Tyrol mountains—
In a dark gorge, some brigands rushed upon me—
They took purse, ring, and all,—a precious ring,—
I much deplored the chance.—The ring I had
From an Archduchess' daughter.

Dem.
I'll send you aid.

(Passes him swiftly, and leaves the pavilion.)
Cos.
(watching till she disappears.)
So then—all 's over!—
Here are my letters—scorn'd—given up;—though dyed
With my heart's blood!—O, murderous memory!
(Lays them down, and looks round him.)
Beside that lattice I confessed my passion,—
Yon eglantine she drew to shade her face!—
O, heaven!—O, hell!—

(Starts up, tears the letters in fragments, and hurries away into the thick part of the wood.)

SCENE II.

A corridor, near a chamber door:—Bianca passes cautiously along.
Bian.
That cabinet will skreen me.—By and by
I'll take my stand.—I may o'erhear yet more;
Or, some way, take her in her craft.—How now!
What light is that gleams from the Countess' chamber?
Who should be there?—

(Listens a moment, and then exit softly.)

SCENE III.

An antique chamber: the walls tapestried: on one side of the bed, a picture of the Countess Amerigo:— by the light of a lamp standing on a table before a mirror, Demetria seen walking the room with a disordered mien.
Dem.
Married!—To-morrow!—Cosmo and Olivia!
Do not my senses pass some horrid juggle?
Some slight of darkness but to lure my doom?—
Hush!—Shadows seem to flit around me.—Oh!
To-morrow!—my sister's wedding day!—O, where,
Where, where, shall I be?—
(Walks distractedly up and down: at last, stops before her mother's picture, bursting into tears.)
O, mother! mother! why art thou not here?—
In vain are all thy cautions,—vain thy counsels!—
O! had I listened,—had I but believed thee!
Oft hast thou warned, prophetically warned me.—
Thy worst forebodings all have come upon me!—
Why, why, art thou not here?—O, could I pour
My anguish in thy bosom!—Could thy voice
But once more greet me! I'm alone:—I 've none
To comfort me. Now, when my cry ascends,
Thou canst not hear! O, wert thou here,—couldst thou
But clasp me!—

Enter Bianca.
Bian.
Who 's here?—Signora,—my sweet child—
What! is it you that sob so bitterly?
Be comforted: do not weep so.

Dem.
Leave me.

Bian.
Alone, in this dusk chamber? No indeed.
It overcomes me too: it brings to mind
Sorrowful times. When my dear lady died,
Just so it looked,—heart-breaking to us all.
Alack! alack! she, too, poor suffering soul,
Although she smiles so sweet in yonder picture,
Had griefs you little dream of.

Dem.
What mean'st thou?

Bian.
I know what ails thee, though thou speakest not.
I read it all. Thy face has been my book
Too long, sweet child.—My lady, too, was crossed.

Dem.
My mother?

Bian.
Oft at her bed's foot have I spent
The weary watches, while her swelling heart
Discharged its burthen.

Dem.
Heavens!—I never heard—
Tell me, Bianca,—crossed?

Bian.
In love, Signora.
Thou never heard'st it—no, nor any other.
'T was known, indeed, the Marquis broke a love troth,
But I alone was privy to the matter.

Dem.
Tell me, Bianca,—how was this? It seems
Most strange.

Bian.
When just seventeen, she went to Naples,
Where the Marchesa lived, her father's sister.
The Marquis dwelt, you know, at Tivoli,
A Roman born, and stern as Marcus Cato.—
Three months she lingered. Well, soon afterwards
A handsome Gascon chevalier came to us,
Tall, graceful, handsomer by far than Cosmo.
His looks betrayed his business; and her eyes
Spake too intelligibly. One and all
Imagined we must part with our loved mistress,
Not dreaming that her father would oppose her.

Dem.
Did he, Bianca?

Bian.
Don't look so wild, and speak so passionate.—
Next morning they were closeted, and brief work
He made of it. If she took Count Démétrée
(His name), he swore she forfeited for ever
His presence, heart, and dying benediction.

Dem.
O! my poor mother, how must this
Have fallen on thee!

Bian.
Being called in haste,
I found my lady swooned, the Marquis wroth,
The stranger gone.

Dem.
Why was this cruelty?

Bian.
Because the Marquis loathed a Huguenot.

Dem.
Inhuman!

Bian.
All that day, my lady kept
Fainting, and, as it were, 'twixt life and death.
The next night she dismissed me to my rest;
But waking, and afraid she lacked, I softly
Stole to her chamber. Think of my amazement!—
Her bed was empty,—the balcony open!
It jutted o'er the garden, and I heard
Murmurs like plaintive voices. Looking out,
I saw them. Then, indeed, I lent an ear:—
I feared her flight: the slant moon showed it midnight:
The snort and stamp of horses made me think
All things were ready; (so indeed they were;)
But filial duty triumphed. O! their parting!—
At first he urged her, but at last consoled.
In fine, they bade adieu, to meet no more.

Dem.
And did they never?

Bian.
Ere a year,
He fell in Flanders.

Dem.
Luckless, luckless mother!
Whom hadst thou then to comfort thee?

Bian.
No soul. She knew no comfort. Life
Wore on, without complaint, but never gladdened.
At last, I told her what I saw; and then
She gave me all her story.

Dem.
Ah!—
Methinks I hear her!—O, how looked she?—Say,
Bianca,—give to me her very tones.

Bian.
Meek, patient; striving still to cheer the Marquis;
Who fell, at last, into a melancholy.

Dem.
Now, now, I know why clouds came over thee
As often as we questioned of thy youth.
Well mightst thou warn me,—feelingly couldst thou
Enlarge on such a theme.

Bian.
Time blunted sorrow;
But never was my lady what she had been
In her May morning.

Dem.
Yet a seraph smile
Plays yonder round her lip.

Bian.
Yourself, Signora,
A tiny, blue-eyed thing lay in my arms,
Brimful of glee, reaching your little hands
As if to tempt her. 'T is at you she smiles.

Dem.
(going towards the picture.)
Was it on me?—did I draw forth that smile?—
Ah! why not told ere this?—That I had known
Thy story, too! Couldst thou so sweetly smile?
Couldst thou seem happy, and shall I complain?
Just Heaven, forgive my wild designs. I'll suffer:—
I'll bear it all:—though sorrows overwhelm me,
I'll never murmur for her angel sake.

Bian.
(Falling on her knees, and clasping Demetria's feet.)
O, now I'm happy,—blest and happy,—
Ah! my sweet child, I heard thy bitter wail;
I heard thy dreadful menaces. Praise Jesu!
Thou hast abandoned them. Though judgments fall
With weight upon thee, threat not life. My child,
Self-murder is a sin unpardonable:
No rite, mass, sacrament, nothing can reach it!
Think! Should she stretch from bliss in vain to save
A suicidal outcast—

Dem.
Stop! stop!—O, speak not thus!—'T is dreadful!—Heaven
Forgive the impious thought!—I'll bear it.—Rise.
But O! I hope the trial will not last!
When, when, may I lie down in peace?

Bian.
Be cheered,
Sweet lady; strength will be vouchsafed ye.

Dem.
No,—
But is it settled? Will it be to-morrow?

Bian.
I fear.

Dem.
What says she? Has she asked to see me?

Bian.
No, Signora.

Dem.
Cruel, cruel sister!
I would not so have marred thy peace, to gain
A world.

Bian.
Kin are not kind, in this we live in—
One would imagine.—But they 're both a tiptoe.—
Malicious serpent!—Mark my words—that slut
Hath scorpions at her conscience. Late last night
Crossing the upper corridor, there came
A moan as from her chamber; stopping by it,
I heard her muttering in her sleep a jargon—
The horridest jumble ever put together—about
Some funeral, or marriage ceremony.
O, yes, I'm certain something damning weighs
Upon her. “Quick,” she cried, “the nuptial pall!
Call in the music!—screw the lid!—Foh! foh!”
She named that Barbadeca twice, and whispered,
“Be secret, secret, secret,—but no blood.”
And then she 'd groan. I could not make her drift;
But am resolved to watch again to-night.
Pernicious viper! now she 's with Olivia
Fingering the bridal ornaments—

Dem.
Bianca! Oh! Bianca!—

Bian.
Take heart, Signora.

Dem.
Would I were in my grave.

Bian.
Something is wrong.—
Look at him, if his woe-gone face be lit
With nuptial smiles. He locks himself apart,
Or roams about, as restless as a ghost;
Trust me, he loves thee still, and some vile wretch
(That imp—who knows?) has some how slandered thee.

Dem.
It cannot be.

Bian.
I 'd risk my life 't is so.
What else can so have changed him?

Dem.
No—O no.
Whom have I injured? What could she say of me?

Bian.
Thou fanciest every breast as pure as thine.
Let me expostulate with him, and know
If some false tale—

Dem.
(vehemently.)
I charge thee, no—no, as thou lovest me.—What!
Degrade myself to that?—Sue for his pity?—
Seek to reclaim a fickle lover?—Never!
I charge thee as my peace—my life is dear,
Never to do it. Promise—swear to me.

Bian.
Be calm, be calm, Signora; I'll obey thee.

Dem.
If he can harbour slanderous tales against me,
He ne'er shall know his error, till too late.
But when my aching heart 's at rest for ever—
Then,—if he finds he wronged me,—let him come
And weep his hard suspicions where I lie.

Bian.
(taking the lamp and Demetria's arm.)
Come, lady, let us leave this gloomy chamber:—
Yon grisly heathen in the tapestry
Scowl on us;—verily they daunt me:—come.

(Leads her out.)

SCENE IV.

The garden, at midnight: the sky lowering. Cosmo enters without a hat: after wandering about disturbedly, throws himself on the ground.
Cos.
O that I were a shackled slave!—the wretched'st
That ever earned the bread of toil!—Marry her!
What, marry—I cannot—O, no, no—
What fiend seduced?—what worse than frenzy—Oh!
To-morrow—and farewell to hope—linked, linked,
Indissolubly linked to life-long woe!—
Where, now, are all those dreams of bliss,
So dear, so tender, they attuned my heart
To ecstasy?—Gone, perished, blotted out,
With that fair, fancied excellence!—Can she
Sleep sweetly while such billows toss my soul?—
Yonder 's her chamber—Lies she there
In tranquil slumber? Ah! who 's in her dream?
Once—But never, never, never more!—
Mountains have risen, oceans roll between us!—
O! what a snare is tangled round me—

Enter Orsini.
Ors.
This way the sound was.—Ha!
(Perceiving Cosmo on the ground.)
Is this kind dealing, Cosmo?
Why not impart thy sorrows to a friend?

Cos.
Intrude not here. Who spoke of sorrows? Leave me.

Ors.
Small skill have I in marriage mysteries,
Or aught pertaining to the sex thou dotest on,
But if these be the nuptial joys I came
To witness, gods keep me ungyved, and grant
No mistress but my sword. I thought to see
A bridegroom's face caparisoned in smiles,
Love-knots and wreaths of roses blooming round
His voluntary chains; a merry prelude,
Whatever might come after. But, by Heaven,
When you came forth to welcome me, a thief's,
A sentenced traitor's look was ne'er more haggard.
Their faces all within seem clad in mourning.
How savagely you answered, when I broke
A harmless jest on your approaching bondage.

Cos.
Death, poverty, or shame,—but name not that!

Ors.
Why there it is!—Speak out.—What is it wrings
Thy spirit thus?—I 've heard thy hasty step
Beating the chamber; heard thee stealing out,
And, on my soul, I knew not but thou 'dst come
To do some rashness. Speak. What ails thee?

Cos.
I'm a wretch.

Ors.
What cursed thing has happened?

Cos.
I'm betrayed.
Leave me.

Ors.
Who has betrayed thee?

Cos.
She,—the fiend
Who had my heart in keeping.

Ors.
Weary not
My patience. Tell the plain, right onward story;
Then, if heart, sword, or honest counsel—

Cos.
Remember'st—Know'st of whom so oft I spake?

Ors.
Demetria.

Cos.
O! I thought in her was summed
All excellence,—so pure, so gentle, faithful—

Ors.
I know you thought so.

Cos.
Thought her heart my prize;
Believed she loved me with a spotless passion.
To see me wedded to this paragon
I asked thy presence.

Ors.
Well?

Cos.
She 's false—I'm cozened;—
To serve her amorous purpose with another,
She but dissembled.

Ors.
What! and still thou wed'st her?

Cos.
Wed'st?—O, heaven!—
No, no, I do not wed her!—Carlo! ah!
I'm not so blessed. For, spite of all,—wrongs, guilt,
And shame,—spite of my soul, I love her.

Ors.
Curse—
And dost thou beat up this ado, because
The cunning harlotry has spared thy name
To brand dishonor elsewhere?

Cos.
No, I say.

Ors.
What then? Unfold your riddles.

Cos.
That this, that this
Were all!—and yet 't were cause methinks.—
Orsini,—O!—to-morrow—curse upon it!—
Shackles me to Olivia.

Ors.
(checking surprise.)
Well, she 's fair,
And stately; what of that?

Cos.
I love her not;—
Have I not told thee?—Every fibre clings
To that deceiver.

Ors.
Rash, misguided man!
Thinking to pique her, make her feel, with all
Her wiles she could not hurt thee, thou hast pulled
Destruction on thy head.

Cos.
Thou hast it.

Ors.
Jove!
I pity thee. How couldst thou be so mad?
Cast prudence clean away? and fling the reins
To wildest—

Cos.
Spare your breath:—I'm in no mood:—
Go to the earthquake:—ask why it desolates.

Ors.
But how was this discovered? Who unmasked her?
Is it proved? certain?

Cos.
As the hell that racks me.

Ors.
But how? how proved?

Cos.
By her own letter,—
A fair confession, written out—I saw it—
In her own hand. A maid, too,—honest soul,—
Told me the whole,—who 'd seen their private meetings,
O'erheard their plots, and heard them jeer me.

Ors.
Damn her!
For manhood, shame, waste not another sigh
On such a cockatrice. Drop on thy knees,
And bless the miracle of thine escape.
By Janus! he who not—who scorns not—bans not,—
Were fitter to squeak treble to a choir,
Be doorkeeper to a harem, shaveling monk,
Than to enroll himself with noble men,
And belt the warrior's glaive.

Cos.
Thou know'st not what it is;—
O! that I could—curse,—hate her,—cast her off;—
But ah! she circles in the vital stream
That nourishes my heart: life stops without her.

Ors.
Forbear! this sorceress has bewitched thee, Cosmo.
Think, what must follow such unmanly yielding:
This feebleness will tarnish every laurel,
Destroy thy peace for ever.

Cos.
O, I know it.
Why tell of that?—Think'st thou I hope for peace?
Thou dost not feel,—thou canst not understand me.

Ors.
Indeed, I feel; but as a soldier ought—

Cos.
(starting suddenly and grasping Orsini.)
She 's there! she 's there!
(The lattice of Demetria's window uncloses, and, by the light burning within, she is seen before it. Cosmo watches her with breathless emotion, holding Orsini fast. In a few moments she retires, then reappears with her lute, and touches a melancholy air. Cosmo hides his face on Orsini's shoulder.)
O, heavens! the same,—the very same!

Ors.
Beware! she hears thee.

(Alarmed by their voices, Demetria looks towards the spot where they stand; closes the lattice and retires.)
Cos.
The notes she struck the night I first beheld her!—
Both children.—Little, little I imagined—
O! that mine eyes had never seen her!

Ors.
Gods!
If wishing would avail, I would wish too.

Cos.
From that same hour I loved her, watched her spread
Into the matchless thing I left her.—Curse
Ambition! curse on glory! cursed be all
That made me leave her. Had I been wise and watchful,
She had been spotless, I too happy! Now—
O! Carlo, Carlo! what does this drear world
Contain for me?—Ah! yes, one joy awaits me;—
I'm to be married,—married to another.

Ors.
Come, come, let 's not stay here all night.

Cos.
What subtle fiend contrived this crown to misery?
I might have dreamed upon her,—might have hoped;—
Now, I'm to plunge lower than Erebus,
Deeper than hell, where not a dungeon glimmer
Can cleave the solid darkness. O! that Honor
Did not confront me—tyrant!—well I know—
I 'd not stand shivering on the brink—

Ors.
O, foul!
What, win her? fix the day? almost espouse her,
And then desert?

Cos.
Orsini, till this hour,
I 've kept the path of honor. Need I now
Thy counsel to sustain me?—There it is,—
That idol chains me.—Were my fate but once
Mine own, I know—

Ors.
It grieves me, dearest Cosmo,—

Cos.
Am not I, now, the veriest slave?—The blow,
The only blow that can emancipate,
Annihilates mine honor?

Ors.
Give o'er such thoughts.

Cos.
Leave me, Orsini. It is mockery
To stuff my ears with womanish condolence.
Am I not capable to scan my fate
With eyes as keen as thine? Point me a straw,
A gossamer, to snatch at,—any way
To scape this pit of horrors—Canst thou?—
Away, then!—Leave me to my solitude.

Ors.
No, Cosmo, thou art mad with sorrow. Clouds, too,
Are gathering—

Cos.
Honest Carlo, prithee leave me.
Dost apprehend violence upon myself?
Look!—here 's my dagger,—take it. On my soul
I 've now no weapon.—Only leave me.

Ors.
Ah!—
Is this a place, or hour, for meditation?
Come, Cosmo, come; return with me to shelter.

(Takes hold of him.)
Cos.
(grasping Orsini.)
Must I be penned in corners? watched? schooled? bayed?
Lose my last privilege?—Back!—I warn thee!—Back!
Follow me not.

(Thrusts Orsini from him, and exit down the garden.)
Ors.
(looking after him.)
'T is mockery, indeed.—His passion swells
Beyond all governance. I could weep too.—
Must this go on?—Is there no remedy?—
How if his uncle should step in?—Were 't best?—
But who can break with him?—I dare not do it:—
First, being but a stranger; then my friend
Would hold himself dishonored and betrayed.—
I fear he is undone!—Most fatal rashness!—
Poor wretch!—I dare not leave him out all night.
Here, in this arbour, I will watch awhile.

(Retires.)

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A magnificent saloon, illuminated with festive splendor: crowds of cavaliers and ladies engaged in conversation, or dancing, or walking about. The family of Belvederé dispersed among the company. Orsini aloof, in observation.
Ors.
Pray Heaven, good come of it!—Poor thing!
This wrings her soul. I see it; and 't is strange!—
Is that a face of cunning?—Can a look
Of bosomed grief like that conceal a heart
So black?
(Gazing round.)
Tinsel! all tinsel to pure gold!
Never saw I the form of loveliness
So near angelic, beauty exquisite
As Guido's dreams. Well might he wail her loss;
If no foul play,—which I indeed suspect.

(A cavalier approaches Orsini, who turns away to avoid him.)
Cavalier.
(accosting him.)
Signor, a splendid company.

Ors.
Truly, my lord.

Cav.
Have you been long from Pisa?

Ors.
No, my lord.

Cav.
What lady is 't that sits alone—just there—
Beneath the brilliant?—pale,—with a handkerchief,—
Left of the Cardinal and friar,—dressed
In Padua green, bordered with silver? There—
D' ye see her, Sir?—a chaplet of white flowers?

Ors.
'T is the Count's youngest daughter.

Cav.
Ah! is it she?—the Dian Belvederé?
For so admiring Florence calls her. Faith!
The huntress Queen need shine her brightest.—Signor,
Methinks this revelry displeases her.

Ors.
Why so?

Cav.
Observe her but a little: I have marked her.—
While Cosmo and his bride knelt in the chapel,
A shudder seemed to pass across her; drops,
Great drops, not tears, stood on her face: she looked
Like sculptured agony. Remarked you not?

Ors.
I stood more distant,—watched less heedfully.

Cav.
Nay, 't was apparent.

Ors.
Parting with her sister,—
The touching ceremony,—these might move her.
Adieu, my lord. (Bows and disappears in the crowd.)


Cav.
Truly; but scarce to such a fixed woe.
De' Medici!

2d Cav.
(turning.)
Ha, Alighieri!

1st Cav.
Know you that lady?

2d Cav.
Which? in white?

1st Cav.
The next.

2d Cav.
O!—
That 's a divinity.

1st Cav.
But by what title may she be invoked?

2d Cav.
Her sect adores her under ten or twenty;
As Daphne, Dian, Lucrece, La Madonna,
White Rose of Loveliness.—Why, know you not
The darling of the name Amerigo?
Enchanting, sweet, and gentle as the maids
Vespucci tells of, Eves of his new world,
That, plumed and garlanded, sing all day long
Under the nodding palm-trees?

1st Cav.
Pray present me.

2d Cav.
Not know her?

1st Cav.
No, in faith.

2d Cav.
Come, then;—why, she 's the fairest star o' the night.

(They move to the side where Demetria sits. Cosmo passes slowly by.)
Cos.
Dearly she 's paid the price!—Now, God! let loose
The elements!—Storm! wrack! make all like this
Fell bosom!—Curse the tumult!—Twenty thousand
Torches seem stuck about my brain!—Ha! who 's that?—

(Seeing the two cavaliers address Demetria, advances towards them. Folding doors are flung open; discovering a suit of apartments brilliantly lighted for the banquet. A grand symphony strikes up, and the company pass through.)

SCENE II.

Demetria's chamber. A neglected lamp burning on the table: the room gloomy and silent, except at intervals the sound of music and merriment from the apartments below. Demetria enters, throws herself into a chair, and sits, for some time, as if gazing at the light.
Dem.
'T is past!—Mine eyes have seen it!—What is left
For me?—The power of Heaven cannot recall it!—
'T is registered in that Eternal Book
Where all irrevocable things are written!—
Those timbrels mock me.—Would, I could not hear them!—
(Looking round the room.)
Dark, dark!—like my destiny!—My spring-time
Passed swiftly,—sweet as transitory!—Already
The frosts of autumn gather hoar around!—
The sear leaf falls.—I had a mother,—she
Moulders beneath the sod:—a lover—Hark!—
How their bursts of merriment shake the roof! Now, now,
The bridegroom pledges! now the smile illumes
A thousand eyes, a thousand tongues repeat
The plaudit!—Poor Demetria! who thinks of thee?
Darkness may cover thee, storms beat on thee,
And none regards it:—sorrow finds no heart-room.
(After a short silence, convulsed by one or two deep sobs, she rises.)
Hail! then, thou lowly bed! where sighing is hushed,
Where love comes not, and grief forgets to feel!
Chambers of everlasting stillness! there
I'll lay me.—Mother! mother! we will sleep
Together!— (Goes hastily into her boudoir; whence, after a few moments, she returns, trembling, and mortally pale.)

I 've pledged thee, Cosmo!—Now the seal is set!—
And I am plighted to a grimmer bridegroom!
Soon, soon, I shall be wedded too!—Let none
Judge harshly of me!—O! I could have borne
The direst accidents of fortune;—seen
Every dear friend fall off;—been left alone
In this wide world, and waited patiently
The hour appointed. But to be despised,—
A cast-off by the heart thou lovest,—there,
There 's the insufferable pang! (Rings.)

Will this affect him? this becloud his triumph?
(Enters the inner room again, and returns with her hat and mantle.)
Father!—that I could say farewell to thee!—
May angels comfort thee when I am gone!
(Rings again and goes to the window.)
The moon withdraws her face, and scarce a star
Looks out to cheer me. (Still gazing.)
Beyond your shining spheres
Far, far, must I explore!—O! that I knew
The place, the Paradise where she inhabits,
And could attain it!—Who shall guide? or what
Assurance have I—

Enter Bianca, who starts back on seeing Demetria.
Bian.
Jesu defend us!—Whither art thou going?—
I thought thee at the banquet.—Where art going?—

Dem.
To walk.

Bian.
Walk! at this hour? alone?
What mean ye?—For Heaven's sake tell me.

Dem.
Hear me, Bianca,—

Bian.
Give me thy mantle, child. Thou 'rt pale: thine eyes
Roll wildly—

Dem.
Hear, Bianca.—When I'm gone,
Be sure you lay me near her side.

Bian.
(terrified.)
She raves!—
What means my darling child?—Gone where?

Dem.
Dost hear me?—
When I'm away,—you then may tell him.—
Say to my father—say—I prayed—I blessed him.

Bian.
(falling on her knees and clasping her.)
Stay! stay! my gracious lady—'t is dark night!
O, whither wouldst thou?—This is frantic madness.

Dem.
(with a desperate calmness.)
Unclasp your hold.—I am not mad.—Obey me.
In the pavilion you will find me.

(Exit.)
Bian.
She 's crazed!—
Go forth at such a time!—How strange she looked!
How hollow-toned! She waxes desperate,
And may be tempted to some dreadful act.

(Exit in terror.)

SCENE III.

An apartment communicating with the suit of rooms terminating in the saloon; where the company is again assembled. The noise of revelry heard, and the dancers seen at a distance passing quickly to and fro. Bianca and a Servant enter from an opposite direction.
Bian.
Call Signor Cosmo!—Fly!—Bid him be instant!
(Exit Servant towards the saloon.)
It has undone her.—It shall go no further,—
O, precious child!—The saints watch over thee!—
Mother of Jesu! guard her life, beseech ye!
(Enter Cosmo from the saloon.)
So then—you 've murdered her!—False! treacherous!—
You 've killed my sweetest lady!—Shame eternal!—

Cos.
What!—murdered!—who?

Bian.
You 've broke her heart—
Curse on such cruelty! Judgment, I hope,
Will overtake it.

Cos.
Hag, what mean'st thou?

Bian.
Ask
Your conscience!—or 's that seared?—My child,
My sweetest lady,—poor Demetria—

Cos.
What of her?

Bian.
She 's gone distracted.

Cos.
(starting.)
Distracted!—who?—where is she?

Bian.
Shame!
Shame! shame! you wooed her, won her gentle heart;
Forsook her basely;—married with her sister.

Cos.
I did; for she was false.

Bian.
(violently.)
False! who was false?

Cos.
Ay,—she betrayed me.

Bian.
Palsied be the tongue
That calls her false! She was as true as angels!
If you dare call her false—

Cos.
I know it—I can prove it—have the letter.

Bian.
What letter?

Cos.
Yes, to Barbadeca.

Bian.
Letter! Barbadeca!—Horrors!
Whence came it? Tell me truly, I conjure thee.

Cos.
From Jacquelina:—she detected them:
She knows—has seen their meetings.

Bian.
(staggering backwards.)
Quick and dead!
'T is so!—now, now, the dreadful light breaks in!
O, fool, fool, fool!—and you, for this, forsook her?

Cos.
Yes; was it not a reason?

Bian.
A reason! O, sweet heavens, a reason!—
I say she loves you,—ever has adored you;—
O! that I 'd spoken!—all the while I thought,
I thought some hellish fraud was at the bottom.

Cos.
For God's sake speak:—torture me not:—
Why think ye that she loves me? on what proof?

Bian.
Hear briefly, Signor.—If I warp the truth,
Forked lightnings end me. You have been tricked, deceived,
Most vilely tricked. That letter—what it is,
I know not; but if in ought it implicate
Or charge Demetria, 't is as false as hell,
In whose abyss 't was forged. For I can swear—
Anon I'll give you proof—how true she was.
Two nights, I 've heard that serpent who deceived thee,
Muttering in sleep. She named this Barbadeca,
As if, with her, in some deep villany
Compacted; groaned, and tossed, like one in torments.
Last night, she cursed him; oft invoked Demetria;
Talked of a trunk down somewhere, and a letter;
And cried: “O! spare me! O! he set me on!”

Cos.
Merciful Heaven!

Bian.
Your name she uttered, twice
Or thrice; and mumbled of the coming marriage.
There 's foulest treachery somewhere:—she is deep in 't.—
But, as I hope for masses for my soul,
So sure, my lord, she loved you to her heart's core.
Last night, I came upon her all alone,
Talking, and weeping, to her mother's picture:—
Most bitterly she took your altered vows,
And her abandonment.

Cos.
Earth, swallow me!

Bian.
I forced her to commune, and did implore
Leave to inquire if any slanderous tale
Had thus estranged you; but with adjurations,
And, as I loved her honor, she forbade me.

Cos.
Undone!—Where is she?

Bian.
Now, this very moment,
I found her in her chamber, nigh distraught.
She bade me with a strange solemnity
To lay her near her mother. Other charges
She sadly left with me. Follow her, Signor:
Some desperate purpose—

Cos.
Follow! where is she?

Bian.
Gone wandering forth alone, toward the pavilion.
I begged her on my knees—
(Cosmo rushes out.)
Well may ye falter!—O, that I had spoken!—
O, that I had disregarded!—Twice I rose
To seek him, but her solemn charge withheld me.—
It would have saved a noble house from ruin!—
Where be my lord the Count?—Alack! alack!

(Exit into the saloon.)

SCENE IV.

The wood: the villa seen across the grounds, blazing with lights: Demetria enters, her hair loose and flying.
Dem.
She pities me,—she sheds a watery gleam,—
And the wind moans—Once more, once more—
(Stops, and fixes her eyes, with a long and steadfast gaze, on the mansion.)
Happy!—too happy, once!—Now I must leave ye,—
Dear natal bowers!—Remembered joys!—ye rise,—
Ye swell my heart!—I scarce can look my last—
How proud the symphony!—How the light turns
Everything to enchantment!—There 's her chamber!—
The torches glitter there—Why linger? wherefore?—Why—
(Turning away.)
My hour is come! Dark bridegroom, take me now!

(Exit.)

SCENE V.

The pavilion. Demetria appears from the wood; totters into it, and sinks upon a seat.
Dem.
I feel it—shooting through my heart:—the hand
Of death is on me. Now, the parting comes.—
'T is dismal!—Would I had some friend to cheer me;—
Some kindly breast to lay my head upon!—
To die—alone—
(Suddenly clasping her hands.)
—That 's not the worst!
O! mother, intercede!—go prostrate!—plead!
Wrestle, ah! wrestle for me, mother!—Clasp Her feet,
And say I could have borne aught, aught but this!—
Thou mayst prevail—thou mayst embrace me yet!—
O, hear'st thou?—Give some sign—Dear mother,
Whisper me! breathe upon me!—O! some sign!—
Alas! alas! all things are silent!—Ha!
Who 's here?
(Cosmo throws himself at her feet, unable to speak.)
Whom do you seek for here, my lord?

Cos.
I'm come to grovel here for pardon. Canst thou
Forgive a wretch like me? Demetria,—Oh!
I've wronged thee,—injured thee past all forgiveness,—
But never yet have been so cursed as not
To love thee.

Dem.
Rise, my lord, and leave this place.

Cos.
Never, no never, never will I quit
Thy feet, till thou hast sealed my pardon. Love,
We 've been undone by fiendish treachery!
The Foe of all has twined me in his snare;—
That moment, when I vowed to love another,
My soul clung to thee,—clung in agony.
Not for one breath, one heart-beat, have I ceased
To love thee. Canst thou, spotless Purity,
Pardon my sin, in giving ear to slanders?

Dem.
Ha, Cosmo! hast thou foundered on that rock?

Cos.
O, 't was so subtly laid! Fool! fool! I knew,
I might have known, that angels sin not. Yet,
So cunningly—I sought to rend the toils,
But could not. O! Demetria, canst thou, wronged
So cruelly, forgive the wretched Cosmo?

Dem.
I know not whom I 've injured?—Who could fix
A stain upon me?

Cos.
The child of hell that tends
Thy sister, mastered me by some strong spell:
Made me believe your heart was Barbadeca's,
And I but trifled with, to veil your passion.

Dem.
Heavenly powers!—O, Cosmo, Cosmo!—
How couldst thou credit such a tale?—my heart!—
Mine?—Barbadeca's?—O, how couldst thou?

Cos.
Fiends, fiends,
With hellish potions overcame my reason.
'T is done,—'t is past,—my peace is justly wrecked!—
Forgive me, matchless Innocence; then cast
Me from remembrance: never think again
On one so damned.

Dem.
Take my pardon, Cosmo;
Would it were healing, as 't is freely given.
I fain would hear the mournful story; know
What frauds can so have wrought upon thy nature,
Upright and noble as I know it is.—
But 't is too late.—My Cosmo, we must part,—
Death's finger is upon me.

Cos.
(recoiling.)
Thou hast not!—

Dem.
Ah! Cosmo!—sorrows pressed so heavily—
Weak and alone—my constancy gave way—
I thought in one oblivious draught—

Cos.
So then,
I 've murdered thee! O, horror! horror! where
Is there a depth, dark as my reprobation?

Dem.
Don't blame thyself so bitterly, my Cosmo,
Because an evil star has crossed us here.
Perhaps, hereafter, we may meet in peace,
There, where the tongue of slander never stings,
Where no malicious fate can part us.

Cos.
Never—
Never!—Hope not for me.

Dem.
Would thou couldst feel
The peace, the bliss that settles at my soul!—
But now, disconsolate, alone, I thought
To breathe my spirit out, as in the desert;
Nought looked upon me but the silent heavens;
No voice bemoaned me but the passing wind.
Now, reconciled love is near me; hope
And joy spring in my bosom. Hear'st thou not
Music?—A sign some blessed one hovers near,
Commissioned to receive me.

Cos.
Must we part—
So newly met—Thou nothing know'st—not half,
Not half the love that agonizes here!

Dem.
Come near me, Cosmo:—let me lean upon thee:—
Nearer:—I 've loved thee long, and tenderly;—
I love thee still,—and never while this soul
Partakes of being, will thy virtues cease
Their influence o'er me. Whether it be my lot
To chant with white-stoled sisters, or to weep
An outcast, never shall I, can I, cease
To love thee. Let that soothe thine anguish. Now,
In this last solemn hour, the sharpest pang
I feel, is thus to leave thee here behind me
Afflicted and alone. For I had thought
To tread life's path beside thee, thought to share—
It cannot be—I feel it here—a grasp,
Like ice, benumbs me. Cosmo, let my prayer
Prevail.—Waste not thy life in useless sorrow:—
Be comforted—and cheer—my father.

Cos.
Comforted!—

Dem.
(in a fainter voice.)
Be not deceived—
O! by our loves,—by every hope, and fear,
I charge thee, lift not thy rash hand against
Thyself. O! 't is a solemn thing—That gleam
Has faded:—Darkness, dread uncertainty,
Oppress me.—Live—and pray for my unhappy—

(Her voice dies away.)
Cos.
Thou 'rt sinking—dying!—O, for words,—utterance,—
Loved—loved—O, I am—I cannot—

Dem.
(her head resting on his bosom.)
Ah, Cosmo! I have much to tell thee too—
More—many!—tender legacies—I 'd leave thee—
But shadows swim before me—shadows—

(Dies.)
Cos.
(for some time motionless.)
Still?—Dead?—Her heart beats not!—Yes—No—
Her pulse—All 's stopped! Dead! dead! I clasp her clay!
O sacrificed, O murdered angel!—This,
This is thy recompense!—Have I bereft
Those eyes of lustre? I broken that fond heart?—
What anguish must have driven her?—O, the pangs
The pangs her spirit suffered!—Thief! wretch! caitiff!—
I am too hateful!—Gentle, slaughtered angel!
One kiss—while life's perfume is on thy lips—
(Kisses her: gazes on her awhile: kisses her again.)
I ask no more than to partake thy lot!

(Stabs himself and sinks by her side.)