University of Virginia Library

BASIL:

A TRAGEDY.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. MEN

• Count Basil, a general in the Emperor's service.
• Count Rosinberg, his friend.
• Duke of Mantua.
• Gauriecio, his minister.
• Valtomer, officer of Basil's troops.
• Frederic, officer of Basil's troops.
• Geoffry, an old soldier very much maimed in the wars.
• Mirando, a little boy, a favourite of Victoria.

WOMEN

• Victoria, daughter to the Duke of Mantua.
• Countess of Albini, friend and governess to Victoria.
• Isabella, a lady attending upon Victoria.
• Officers, soldiers, and attendants, masks, dancers, &c

The Scene is in Mantua, and its environs. Time supposed to be the sixteenth century, when Charles the Fifth defeated Francis the First, at the battle of Pavia.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An open street, crowded with people, who seem to be waiting in expectation of some show.
Enter a Citizen.
First Man.
Well, friend, what tidings of the grand procession?

Cit.
I left it passing by the northern gate.

Second Man.
I've waited long, I'm glad it comes at last.

Young Man.
And does the princess look so wondrous fair
As fame reports?

Cit.
She is the fairest lady of the train,—
Yet all the fairest beauties of the court
Are in her train.

Old Man.
Bears she such off'rings to Saint Francis' shrine,
So rich, so marvellous rich, as rumour says?
—'Twill drain the treasury!

Cit.
Since she, in all this splendid pomp returns
Her public thanks to the good patron Saint,
Who from his sick bed hath restor'd her father,
Thou wouldst not have her go with empty hands?
She loves magnificence.—

[Discovering amongst the crowd old
Geoffry.
Ha! art thou here, old remnant of the wars?
Thou art not come to see this courtly show,
Which sets the young agape?

Geof.
I came not for the show; and yet, methinks,
It were a better jest upon me still,
If thou didst truly know my errand here.

Cit.
I pri'thee say.

Geof.
What, must I tell it thee?
As o'er my evening fire I musing sat,
Some few days since, my mind's eye backward turn'd
Upon the various changes I have pass'd—
How in my youth with gay attire allur'd,
And all the grand accountrements of war,
I left my peaceful home: then my first battles,
When clashing arms, and sights of blood were new:
Then all the after chances of the war:
Ay, and that field, a well-fought field it was,
When with an arm (I speak not of it oft)
Which now (pointing to his empty sleeve)
thou seest is no arm of mine,
In a strait pass I stopp'd a thousand foes,
And turn'd my flying comrades to the charge;
For which good service, in his tented court,
My prince bestow'd a mark of favour on me;
While his fair consort, seated by his side,
The fairest lady e'er mine eyes beheld,
Gave me what more than all besides I priz'd,—
Methinks I see her still — a gracious smile —
'Twas a heart-kindling smile, — a smile of praise —
Well, musing thus on all my fortunes past,
A neighbour drew the latchet of my door,
And full of news from town, in many words
Big with rich names, told of this grand procession;
E'en as he spoke a fancy seiz'd my soul
To see the princess pass, if in her looks
I yet might trace some semblance of her mother.
This is the simple truth; laugh as thou wilt.
I came not for the show.

Enter an Officer.
Officer to Geof.
Make way that the procession may have room:
Stand you aside, and let this man have place.

[Pushing Geof. and endeavouring to put another in his place.
Geof.
But that thou art the prince's officer,
I'd give thee back thy push with better blows.

Officer.
What, wilt thou not give place? the prince is near:
I will complain to him, and have thee caged.

Geof.
Yes, do complain, I pray; and when thou dost,
Say that the private of the tenth brigade,
Who sav'd his army on the Danube's bank,
And since that time a private hath remain'd,
Dares, as a citizen, his right maintain
Against thy insolence. Go tell him this,
And ask him then what dungeon of his tower
He'll have me thrust into.

Cit. to Officer.
This is old Geoffry of the tenth brigade.

Offi.
I knew him not: you should have told me sooner.

[Exit, looking much ashamed.
Martial music heard at a distance.
Cit.
Hark, this is music of a warlike kind.

Enter second Citizen.
Sec. Cit.
The brave Count Basil is upon his march,
To join the emperor with some chosen troops,
And doth as our ally through Mantua pass.

Geof.
I've heard a good report of this young soldier.

Sec. Cit.
'Tis said he disciplines his men severely
And over-much affects the old commander,
Which seems ungracious in so young a man.

Geof.
I know he loves not ease and revelry;
He makes them soldiers at no dearer rate
Than he himself hath paid. What, dost thou think,
That e'en the very meanest simple craft
Cannot without due diligence be learn'd,
And yet the nobler art of soldiership
May be attained by loit'ring in the sun?
Some men are born to feast and not to fight:
Whose sluggish minds, e'en in fair honour's field
Still on their dinner turn —
Let such pot-boiling varlets stay at home,
And wield a flesh-hook rather than a sword.
In times of easy service, true it is,
An easy careless chief, all soldiers love;
But O how gladly in the day of battle
Would they their jolly bottle-chief desert,
And follow such a leader as Count Basil!
So gath'ring herds, at pressing danger's call,
Confess the master deer.

[Music is heard again, and nearer. Geof. walks up and down with a military triumphant step.
Cit.
What moves thee thus?

Geof.
I've march'd to this same tune in glorious days.
My very limbs catch motion from the sound,
As they were young again.

Sec. Cit.
But here they come.

Enter Count Basil, officers and soldiers in procession, with colours flying, and martial music. When they have marched half-way over the stage, an officer of the duke's enters from the opposite side, and speaks to Basil, upon which he gives a sign with his hand, and the martial music ceases; soft music is heard at a little distance, and Victoria, with a long procession of ladies, enters from the opposite side. The General &c. pay obeisance to her, as she passes; she stops to return it, and then goes off with her train. After which the military procession moves on, and Exeunt.
Cit.
to Geof.
What thinkst thou of the princess?

Geof.
She is fair,
But not so fair as her good mother was.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A public walk on the ramparts of the town.
Enter Count Rosinberg, Valtomer, and Frederic. —Valtomer enters by the opposite side of the stage, and meets them.
Valt.
O what a jolly town for way-worn soldiers!
Rich steaming pots, and smell of dainty fare,
From every house salute you as you pass:
Light feats and juggler's tricks attract the eye;
Music and merriment in ev'ry street;
Whilst pretty damsels in their best attire,
Trip on in wanton groups, then look behind,
To spy the fools a-gazing after them.

Fred.
But short will be the season of our ease,
For Basil is of flinty matter made,
And cannot be allur'd —
'Faith, Rosinberg, I would thou didst command us.
Thou art his kinsman, of a rank as noble,
Some years his elder too — How has it been
That he should be prefer'd? I see not why.

Ros.
Ah! but I see it, and allow it well;
He is too much my pride to wake my envy.

Fred.
Nay, Count, it is thy foolish admiration
Which raises him to such superior height;
And truly thou hast so infected us,
That I at times have felt me aw'd before him,
I knew not why. 'Tis cursed folly this.
Thou art as brave, of as good parts as he.

Ros.
Our talents of a diff'rent nature are;
Mine for the daily intercourse of life,
And his for higher things.

Fred.
Well, praise him as thou wilt; I see it not;
I'm sure I am as brave a man as he.

Ros.
Yes, brave thou art, but 'tis subaltern brav'ry,
And doth respect thyself. Thou'lt bleed as well,
Give and receive as deep a wound as he.
When Basil fights he wields a thousand swords;
For 'tis their trust in his unshaken mind,
O'erwatching all the changes of the field,
Calm and inventive 'midst the battle's storm,
Which makes his soldiers bold.—
There have been those, in early manhood slain,
Whose great heroic souls have yet inspir'd
With such a noble zeal their gen'rous troops,
That to their latest day of bearing arms,
Their grey-hair'd soldiers have all dangers brav'd
Of desp'rate service, claim'd with boastful pride,
As those who fought beneath them in their youth.
Such men have been; of whom it may be said,
Their spirits conquer'd when their clay was cold.

Valt.
Yes, I have seen in the eventful field,
When new occasion mock'd all rules of art,
E'en old commanders hold experience cheap,
And look to Basil ere his chin was dark.

Ros.
One fault he has; I know but only one;
His too great love of military fame
Absorbs his thoughts, and makes him oft appear
Unsocial and severe.

Fred.
Well, feel I not undaunted in the field?
As much enthusiastic love of glory?
Why am I not as good a man as he?

Ros.
He's form'd for great occasions, thou for small.

Valt.
But small occasions in the path of life
Lie thickly sown, while great are rarely scatter'd.

Ros.
By which you would infer that men like Fred'ric
Should on the whole a better figure make,
Than men of higher parts. It is not so;
For some show well, and fair applauses gain,
Where want of skill in other men is graceful.
Pray do not frown, good Fred'ric, no offence:
Thou canst not make a great man of thyself;
Yet wisely deign to use thy native pow'rs,
And prove an honour'd courtly gentleman.
But hush! no more of this; here Basil comes.

Enter Basil, who returns their salute without speaking.
Ros.
What thinkst thou, Valtomer, of Mantua's princess?

Valt.
Fame prais'd her much, but hath not prais'd her more
Than on a better proof the eye consents to.
With all that grace and nobleness of mien,
She might do honour to an emp'ror's throne;
She is too noble for a petty court.
Is it not so, my lord? —
(To Basil, who only bows assent).
Nay, she demeans herself with so much grace,
Such easy state, such gay magnificence,
She should be queen of revelry and show.

Fred.
She's charming as the goddess of delight.

Valt.
But after her, she most attracted me
Who wore the yellow scarf and walk'd the last;
For, though Victoria is a lovely woman —

Fred.
Nay, it is treason but to call her woman;
She's a divinity, and should be worshipp'd.
But on my life, since now we talk of worship,
She worshipp'd Francis with right noble gifts!
They sparkled so with gold and precious gems—
Their value must be great; some thousand crowns.

Ros.
I would not rate them at a price so mean;
The cup alone, with precious stones beset,
Would fetch a sum as great. That olive-branch
The princess bore herself, of fretted gold,
Was exquisitely wrought. I mark'd it more,
Because she held it in so white a hand.

Bas.
(in a quick voice).
Mark'd you her hand? I did not see her hand.
And yet she wav'd it twice.

Ros.
It is a fair one, tho' you mark'd it not.

Valt.
I wish some painter's eye had view'd the group,
As she and all her lovely damsels pass'd;
He would have found wherewith t'enrich his art.

Ros.
I wish so too; for oft their fancied beauties
Have so much cold perfection in their parts,
'Tis plain they ne'er belong'd to flesh and blood.
This is not truth, and doth not please so well
As the varieties of lib'ral nature,
Where ev'ry kind of beauty charms the eye;
Large and small featur'd, flat and prominent,
Ay, by the mass! and snub-nos'd beauties too.
'Faith, ev'ry woman hath some witching charm,
If that she be not proud, or captious.

Valt.
Demure, or over-wise, or giv'n to freaks.

Ros.
Or giv'n to freaks! hold, hold, good Valtomer!
Thou'lt leave no woman handsome under heav'n.

Valt.
But I must leave you for an hour or so;
I mean to view the town.

Fred.
I'll go with thee.

Ros.
And so will I.

[Exeunt Valtomer, Frederic, and Rosinberg.
Re-enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
I have repented me, I will not go;
They will be too long absent. —
(Pauses, and looks at Basil, who remains still musing without seeing him).
What mighty thoughts engage my pensive friend?

Bas.
O it is admirable!

Ros.
How runs thy fancy? what is admirable?

Bas.
Her form, her face, her motion, ev'rything!

Ros.
The princess; yes, have we not prais'd her much?

Bas.
I know you prais'd her, and her off'rings too!
She might have giv'n the treasures of the East,
Ere I had known it.
O! didst thou mark her when she first appear'd,
Still distant, slowly moving with her train;
Her robe and tresses floating on the wind,
Like some light figure in a morning cloud?
Then, as she onward to the eye became
The more distinct, how lovelier still she grew!
That graceful bearing of her slender form;
Her roundly spreading breast, her tow'ring neck,
Her face ting'd sweetly with the bloom of youth—
But when approaching near, she tow'rds us turn'd,
Kind mercy! what a countenance was there!
And when to our salute she gently bow'd,
Didst mark that smile rise from her parting lips?
Soft swell'd her glowing cheek, her eyes smil'd too,
O how they smil'd! 'twas like the beams of heav'n!
I felt my roused soul within me start,
Like something wak'd from sleep.

Ros.
The beams of heav'n do many slumb'rers wake
To care and misery!

Bas.
There's something grave and solemn in your voice.
As you pronounce these words. What dost thou mean?
Thou wouldst not sound my knell?

Ros.
No, not for all beneath the vaulted sky!
But to be plain, thus warmly from your lips,
Her praise displeases me. To men like you,
If love should come, he proves no easy guest.

Bas.
What, dost thou think 1 am beside myself,
And cannot view the fairness of perfection
With that delight which lovely beauty gives,
Without tormenting me by fruitless wishes,
Like the poor child who sees its brighten'd face,
And whimpers for the moon! Thou art not serious.
From early youth, war has my mistress been,
And tho' a rugged one, I'll constant prove,
And not forsake her now. There may be joys
Which, to the strange o'erwhelming of the soul,
Visit the lover's breast beyond all others;
E'en now, how dearly do I feel there may!
But what of them? they are not made for me—
The hasty flashes of contending steel
Must serve instead of glances from my love,
And for soft breathing sighs the cannon's roar.

Ros.
(taking his hand).
Now am I satisfied. Forgive me, Basil.

Bas.
I'm glad thou art; we'll talk of her no more;
Why should I vex my friend?

Ros.
Thou hast not issued orders for the march.

Bas.
I'll do it soon; thou needst not be afraid.
To-morrow's sun shall bear us far from hence,
Never perhaps to pass these gates again.

Ros.
With last night's close, did you not curse this town
That would one single day your troops retard:
And now, methinks, you talk of leaving it,
As though it were the place that gave you birth;
As though you had around these strangers' walls
Your infant gambols play'd.

Bas.
The sight of what may be but little priz'd,
Doth cause a solemn sadness in the mind,
When view'd as that we ne'er shall see again.

Ros.
No, not a whit to wandering men like us.
No, not a whit! What custom hath endear'd
We part with sadly, though we prize it not:
But what is new some powerful charm must own,
Thus to affect the mind.

Bas.
(hastily).
We'll let it pass — It hath no consequence:
Thou art impatient.

Ros.
I'm not impatient. 'Faith, I only wish
Some other route our destin'd march had been,
That still thou mightst thy glorious course pursue
With an untroubled mind.

Bas.
O! wish it, wish it not! bless'd be that route!
What we have seen to-day, I must remember —
I should be brutish if I could forget it.
Oft in the watchful post, or weary march,
Oft in the nightly silence of my tent,
My fixed mind shall gaze upon it still;
But it will pass before my fancy's eye,
Like some delightful vision of the soul,
To soothe, not trouble it.

Ros.
What! 'midst the dangers of eventful war,
Still let thy mind be haunted by a woman?
Who would, perhaps, hear of thy fall in battle,
As Dutchmen read of earthquakes in Calabria,
And never stop to cry “alack a-day!”
For me there is but one of all the sex,
Who still shall hold her station in my breast,
'Midst all the changes of inconstant fortune;
Because I'm passing sure she loves me well,
And for my sake a sleepless pillow finds
When rumour tells bad tidings of the war;
Because I know her love will never change,
Nor make me prove uneasy jealousy.

Bas.
Happy art thou! who is this wondrous woman?

Ros.
It is my own good mother, faith and truth?

Bas.
(smiling).
Give me thy hand; I love her dearly too.
Rivals we are not, though our love is one.

Ros.
And yet I might be jealous of her love,
For she bestows too much of it on thee,
Who hast no claim but to a nephew's share.

Bas.
(going).
I'll meet thee some time hence. I must to court.

Ros.
A private conference will not stay thee long.
I'll wait thy coming near the palace gate.

Bas.
'Tis to the public court I mean to go.

Ros.
I thought you had determin'd otherwise.

Bas.
Yes, but on further thought it did appear
As though it would be failing in respect
At such a time — That look doth wrong me, Rosinberg!
For on my life, I had determin'd thus,
Ere I beheld — Before we enter'd Mantua.
But wilt thou change that soldier's dusty garb,
And go with me thyself?

Ros.
Yes, I will go.

[As they are going Ros. stops and looks at Basil.
Bas.
Why dost thou stop?

Ros.
'Tis for my wonted caution,
Which first thou gav'st me — I shall ne'er forget it!
'Twas at Vienna, on a public-day;
Thou but a youth, I then a man full form'd;
Thy stripling's brow grac'd with its first cockade,
Thy mighty bosom swell'd with mighty thoughts.
Thou'rt for the court, dear Rosinberg, quoth thou!
“Now pray thee be not caught with some gay dame,
To laugh and ogle, and befool thyself:
It is offensive in the public eye,
And suits not with a man of thy endowments.”
So said your serious lordship to me, then,
And have on like occasions, often since,
In other terms repeated. —
But I must go to-day without my caution.

Bas.
Nay, Rosinberg, I am impatient now:
Did I not say we'd talk of her no more?

Ros.
Well, my good friend, God grant we keep our word!

(Exeunt).

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A room of state. The Duke of Mantua, Basil Rosinberg, and a number of Courtiers, Attendants, &c. The Duke and Basil appear talking together on the front of the stage.
Duke.
But our opinions differ widely there;
From the position of the rival armies,
I cannot think they'll join in battle soon.

Bas.
I am indeed beholden to your highness,
But though unwillingly, we must depart.
The foes are near, the time is critical;
A soldier's reputation is too fine,
To be expos'd e'en to the smallest cloud.

Duke.
An untried soldier's is; but yours, my lord,
Nurs'd with the bloody show'rs of many a field,
And brightest sunshine of successful fortune,
A plant of such a hardy stem hath grown,
E'en envy's sharpest blasts assail it not.
Yet after all, by the bless'd holy Cross!
I feel too warm an interest in the cause
To stay your progress here a single hour,
Did I not know your soldiers are fatigu'd,
And two days' rest would much recruit their strenght.

Bas.
Your highness will be pleas'd to pardon me;
My troops are not o'ermarch'd, and one day's rest
Is all our needs require.

Duke.
Ah! hadst thou come
Unfetter'd with the duties of command,
I then had well retain'd thee for my guest,
With claims too strong, too sacred for denial.
Thy noble sire my fellow-soldier was;
Together many a rough campaign we serv'd;
I lov'd him well, and much it pleases me
A son of his beneath my roof to see.

Bas.
Were I indeed free master of myself,
Strong inclination would detain me here;
No other tie were wanting.
These gracious tokens of your princely favour
I'll treasure with my best remembrances;
For he who shows them for my father's sake,
Does something sacred in his kindness bear,
As though he shed a blessing on my head.

Duke.
Well, bear my greetings to the brave Pescara,
And say how warmly I embrace the cause.
Your third day's march will to his presence bring
Your valiant troops: said you not so, my lord?

Enter Victoria, the Countess of Albini, Isabella, and Ladies.
Bas.
(who changes countenance upon seeing them).
Yes, I believe — I think — I know not well—
Yes, please your grace, we march by break of day.

Duke.
Nay, that I know. I ask'd you, noble count,
When you expect to join th' imperial force.

Bas.
When it shall please your grace—I crave your pardon—
I somewhat have mistaken of your words.

Duke.
You are not well? your colour changes, count.
What is the matter?

Bas.
A dizzy mist that swims before my sight—
A ringing in my ears—'tis strange enough—
'Tis slight — 'tis nothing worth — 'tis gone already.

Duke.
I'm glad it is. Look to your friend, Count Rosinberg,
It may return again —

(To Rosinberg, who stands at a little distance, looking earnestly at Basil — Duke leaves them and joins Victoria 's party).
Ros.
Good heavens, Basil, is it thus with thee!
Thy hand shakes too: (taking his hand).
Would we were far from hence!

Bas.
I'm well again, thou needst not be afraid.
'Tis like enough my frame is indispos'd
With some slight weakness from our weary march.
Nay, look not on me thus, it is unkindly—
I cannot bear thine eyes.

The Duke, with Victoria and her ladies, advances to the front of the stage to Basil.
Duke.
Victoria, welcome here the brave Count Basil;
His kinsman too, the gallant Rosinberg.
May you, and these fair ladies so prevail,
Such gentle suitors cannot plead in vain,
To make them grace my court another day.
I shall not be offended when I see
Your power surpasses mine.

Vict.
Our feeble efforts will presumptuous seem,
Attempting that in which your highness fails.

Duke.
There's honour in th' attempt; success attend ye! —

(Duke retires, and mixes with the courtiers at the bottom of the stage).
Vict.
I fear we incommoded you, my lord,
With the slow tedious length of our procession.
E'en as I pass'd, it went against my heart,
To stop so long upon their tedious way
Your weary troops.—

Bas.
Ah! madam, all too short!
Time never bears such moments on his wing,
But when he flies too swiftly to be mark'd.

Vict.
Ah! surely then you make too good amends
By marking now his after-progress well.
To-day must seem a weary length to him
Who is so eager to be gone to-morrow.

Ros.
They must not linger who would quit these walls;
For if they do, a thousand masked foes;
Some under show of rich luxurious feasts,
Gay, sprightly pastime, and high-zested game;—
Nay, some, my gentle ladies, true it is,
The very worst and fellest of the crew,
In fair alluring shape of beauteous dames,
Do such a barrier form t' oppose their way,
As few men may o'ercome.

Isab.
From this last wicked foe should we infer
Yourself have suffer'd much?

Albin.
No, Isabella, these are common words,
To please you with false notions of your pow'r.
So all men talk of ladies and of love.

Vict.
'Tis even so. If Love a tyrant be,
How dare his humble chained votaries
To tell such rude and wicked tales of him?

Bas.
Because they most of lover's ills complain,
Who but affect it as a courtly grace,
Whilst he who feels is silent.

Ros.
But there you wrong me; I have felt it oft.
Oft has it made me sigh at ladies' feet,
Soft ditties sing, and dismal sonnets scrawl.

Albin.
In all its strange effects, most worthy Rosinberg,
Has it e'er made thee in a corner sit,
Sad, lonely, moping sit, and hold thy tongue?

Ros.
No, 'faith, it never has.

Albin.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! then thou hast never lov'd.

Ros.
Nay, but I have, and felt love's bondage too.

Vict.
Fye! it is pedantry to call it bondage!
Love-marring wisdom, reason full of bars,
Deserve, methinks, that appellation more.
Is it not so, my lord? —

(To Basil.)
Bas.
O surely, madam!
That is not bondage which the soul enthrall'd
So gladly bears, and quits not but with anguish.
Stern honour's laws, the fair report of men,
These are the fetters that enchain the mind,
But such as must not, cannot be unloos'd.

Vict.
No, not unloos'd, but yet one day relax'd,
To grant a lady's suit unus'd to sue.

Ros.
Your highness deals severely with us now,
And proves indeed our freedom is but small,
Who are constrain'd, when such a lady sues,
To say it cannot be.

Vict.
It cannot be! Count Basil says not so.

Ros.
For that I am his friend, to save him pain
I take th' ungracious office on myself.

Vict.
How ill thy face is suited to thine office!

Ros.
(smiling).
Would I could suit mine office to my face,
If that would please your highness.

Vict.
No, you are obstinate and perverse all,
And would not grant it if you had the pow'r.
Albini, I'll retire; come, Isabella.

Bas.
(aside to Ros.)
Ah, Rosinberg! thou hast too far presum'd;
She is offended with us.

Ros.
No, she is not—
What dost thou fear? be firm, and let us go.

Vict.
(pointing to a door leading to other apartments, by which she is ready to go out).
These are apartments strangers love to see:
Some famous paintings do their walls adorn:
They lead you also to the palace court
As quickly as the way by which you came.

[Exit Vict. led out by Ros., and followed by Isab.
Bas.
(aside, looking after them).
O! what a fool am I! where fled my thoughts?
I might as well as he, now, by her side,
Have held her precious hand enclos'd in mine.
As well as he, who cares not for it neither.
O but he does! that were impossible!

Albin.
You stay behind, my lord.

Bas.
Your pardon, madam; honour me so far —

[Exeunt, Basil handing out Albini.

SCENE II.

A gallery hung with pictures. Victoria discovered in conversation with Rosinberg, Basil, Albini, and Isabella.
Vict.
(to Ros.)
It is indeed a work of wondrous art.
(To Isab.)
You call'd Francisco here?

Isab.
He comes even now.

Enter Attendant.
Vict.
(to Ros.)
He will conduct you to the northern gall'ry;
Its striking shades will call upon the eye,
To point its place there needs no other guide.

[Exeunt Ros. and Attendant.
Bas.
Ah! do not banish me these few short moments:
Too soon they will be gone! for ever gone!

Vict.
If they are precious to you, say not so,
But add to them another precious day.
A lady asks it.

Bas.
Ah, madam! ask the life-blood from my heart!
Ask all but what a soldier may not give.

Vict.
'Tis ever thus when favours are denied;
All had been granted but the thing we beg;
And still some great unlikely substitute,
Your life, your soul, your all of earthly good,
Is proffer'd in the room of one small boon.
So keep your life-blood, gen'rous, valiant lord,
And may it long your noble heart enrich,
Until I wish it shed.
(Bas. attempts to speak).
Nay, frame no new excuse;
I will not hear it.

[She puts out her hand as if she would shut his mouth, but at a distance from it; Bas. runs eagerly up to her, and presses it to his lips.
Bas.
Let this sweet hand indeed its threat perform,
And make it heav'n to be for ever dumb!
(Vict. looks stately and offended — Basil kneels.)
O pardon me! I know not what I do.
Frown not, reduce me not to wretchedness;
But only grant —

Vict.
What should I grant to him,
Who has so oft my earnest suit denied?

Vict.
(raising him).
Well, Basil, this good promise is thy pardon.
I will not wait your noble friend's return,
Since we shall meet again.—
You will perform your word?

Bas.
I will perform it.

Vict.
Farewell, my lord.

[Exit, with her ladies.
Bas.
(alone).
“Farewell, my lord.” O! what delightful sweetness!
The music of that voice dwells on the ear!
“Farewell, my lord!”—Ay, and then look'd she so—
The slightest glance of her bewitching eye,
Those dark blue eyes, commands the inmost soul.
Well, there is yet one day of life before me,
And, whatsoe'er betide, I will enjoy it.
Though but a partial sunshine in my lot,
I will converse with her, gaze on her still,
If all behind were pain and misery.
Pain! Were it not the easing of all pain,
E'en in the dismal gloom of after years,
Such dear remembrance on the mind to wear,
Like silv'ry moon-beams on the 'nighted deep,
When heav'n's blest sun is gone?
Kind mercy! how my heart within me beat
When she so sweetly pled the cause of love!
Can she have lov'd? why shrink I at the thought?
Why should she not? no, no, it cannot be—
No man on earth is worthy of her love.
Ah! if she could, how blest a man were he!
Where rove my giddy thoughts? it must not be.
Yet might she well some gentle kindness bear;
Think of him oft, his absent fate inquire,
And, should he fall in battle, mourn his fall.
Yes, she would mourn — such love might she bestow;
And poor of soul the man who would exchange it
For warmest love of the most loving dame!
But here comes Rosinberg — have I done well?
He will not say I have.

Enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
Where is the princess?
I'm sorry I return'd not ere she went.

Bas.
You'll see her still.

Ros.
What, comes she forth again?

Bas.
She does to-morrow.

Ros.
Thou hast yielded then.

Bas.
Come, Rosinberg, I'll tell thee as we go:
It was impossible I should not yield.

Ros.
O Basil! thou art weaker than a child.

Bas.
Yes, yes, my friend, but 'tis a noble weakness,
A weakness which hath greater things achiev'd
Than all the firm determin'd strength of reason.
By heav'n! I feel a new-born pow'r within me,
Shall make me twenty-fold the man I've been
Before this fated day.

Ros.
Fated indeed! but an ill-fated day,
That makes thee other than thy former self.
Yet let it work its will; it cannot change thee
To aught I shall not love.

Bas.
Thanks, Rosinberg! thou art a noble heart.
I would not be the man thou couldst not love
For an imperial crown.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A small apartment in the palace.
Enter Duke and Gauriecio.
Duke.
The point is gain'd; my daughter is successful;
And Basil is detain'd another day.

Gaur.
But does the princess know your secret aim?

Duke.
No, that had marr'd the whole; she is a woman—
Her mind, as suits the sex, too weak and narrow
To relish deep-laid schemes of policy.
Besides, so far unlike a child of mine,
She holds its subtle arts in high derision,
And will not serve us but with bandag'd eyes.
Gauriecio, could I trusty servants find,
Experienc'd, crafty, close, and unrestrain'd
By silly superstitious child-learnt fears,
What might I not effect?

Gaur.
O any thing!
The deep and piercing genius of your highness,
So ably serv'd, might e'en achieve the empire.

Duke.
No, no, my friend, thou dost o'erprize my parts;
Yet mighty things might be—deep subtle wits,
In truth, are master spirits in the world.
The brave man's courage, and the student's lore,
Are but as tools his secret ends to work,
Who hath the skill to use them.
This brave Count Basil, dost thou know him well?
Much have we gain'd, but for a single day,
At such a time, to hold his troops detain'd;
When, by that secret message of our spy,
The rival pow'rs are on the brink of action:
But might we more effect? Knowst thou this Basil?
Might he be tamper'd with?

Gaur.
That were most dang'rous.—
He is a man, whose sense of right and wrong
To such a high romantic pitch is wound,
And all so hot and fiery in his nature,
The slightest hint, as though you did suppose
Baseness and treach'ry in him, so he'll deem it,
Would be to rouse a flame that might destroy.

Duke.
But int'rest, int'rest, man's all-ruling pow'r,
Will tame the hottest spirit to your service,
And skilfully applied, mean service too;
E'en as there is an element in nature
Which, when subdu'd, will on your hearth fulfil
The lowest uses of domestic wants.

Gaur.
Earth-kindled fire, which from a little spark,
On hidden fuel feeds its growing strength,
Till o'er the lofty fabric it aspires
And rages out its pow'r, may be subdu'd,
And in your base domestic service bound;
But who would madly in its wild career
The fire of heav'n arrest to boil his pot?
No, Basil will not serve your secret schemes,
Though you had all to give ambition strives for.
We must beware of him.

Duke.
His father was my friend, — I wish'd to gain him:
But since fantastic fancies bind him thus,
The sin be on his head; I stand acquitted,
And must deceive him, even to his ruin.

Gaur.
I have prepar'd Bernardo for your service;
To-night he will depart for th' Austrain camp,
And should he find them on the eve of battle,
I've bid him wait the issue of the field.
If that our secret friends victorious prove,
With the arrow's speed he will return again:
But should fair Fortune crown Pescara's arms,
Then shall your soothing message greet his ears;
For till our friends some sound advantage gain,
Our actions still must wear an Austrian face.

Duke.
Well hast thou school'd him. Didst thou add withal,
That 'tis my will he garnish well his speech,
With honied words of the most dear regard,
And friendly love I bear him? This is needful;
And lest my slowness in the promis'd aid
Awake suspicion, bid him e'en rehearse
The many favours on my house bestow'd
By his imperial master, as a theme
On which my gratitude delights to dwell.

Gaur.
I have, an' please your highness.

Duke.
Then 'tis well.

Gaur.
But for the yielding up that little fort
There could be no suspicion.

Duke.
My Governor I have severely punish'd,
As a most daring traitor to my orders.
He cannot from his darksome dungeon tell;
Why then should they suspect?

Gaur.
He must not live, should Charles prove victorious.

Duke.
He's done me service; say not so, Gauriecio.

Gaur.
A traitor's name he will not calmly bear;
He'll tell his tale aloud — he must not live.

Duke.
Well, if it must — we'll talk of this again.

Gaur.
But while with anxious care and crafty wiles
You would enlarge the limits of your state,
Your highness must beware lest inward broils
Bring danger near at hand: your northern subjects
E'en now are discontented and unquiet.

Duke.
What, dare the ungrateful miscreants thus return
The many favours of my princely grace?
'Tis ever thus; indulgence spoils the base;
Raising up pride, and lawless turbulence,
Like noxious vapours from the fulsome marsh
When morning shines upon it.—
Did I not lately with parental care,
When dire invaders their destruction threaten'd,
Provide them all with means of their defence?
Did I not, as a mark of gracious trust,
A body of their vagrant youth select
To guard my sacred person? till that day
An honour never yet allow'd their race.
Did I not suffer them, upon their suit,
T' establish manufactures in their towns?
And after all some chosen soldiers spare
To guard the blessings of interior peace?

Gaur.
Nay, please your highness, they do well allow,
That when your enemies, in fell revenge,
Your former inroads threaten'd to repay,
Their ancient arms you did to them restore,
With kind permission to defend themselves:
That so far have they felt your princely grace,
In drafting from their fields their goodliest youth
To be your servants: that you did vouchsafe,
On paying of a large and heavy fine,
Leave to apply the labour of their hands
As best might profit to the country's weal:
And to encourage well their infant trade,
Quarter'd your troops upon them. — Please your grace,
All this they do most readily allow.

Duke.
They do allow it, then, ungrateful varlets!
What would they have? what would they have, Gauriecio?

Gaur.
Some mitigation of their grievous burdens,
Which, like an iron weight around their necks,
Do bend their care-worn faces to the earth,
Like creatures form'd upon its soil to creep,
Not stand erect and view the sun of heav'n.

Duke.
But they beyond their proper sphere would rise;
Let them their lot fulfil as we do ours.
Society of various parts is form'd;
They are its grounds, its mud, its sediment,
And we the mantling top which crowns the whole.
Calm, steady labour is their greatest bliss;
To aim at higher things beseems them not.
To let them work in peace my care shall be;
To slacken labour is to nourish pride.
Methinks thou art a pleader for these fools:
What may this mean, Gauriecio?

Gaur.
They were resolv'd to lay their cause before you,
And would have found some other advocate
Less pleasing to your Grace, had I refus'd

Duke.
Well, let them know, some more convenient season
I'll think of this, and do for them as much
As suits the honour of my princely state.
Their prince's honour should be ever dear
To worthy subjects as their precious lives.

Gaur.
I fear, unless you give some special promise,
They will be violent still —

Duke.
Then do it, if the wretches are so bold,
We can retract it when the times allow;
'Tis of small consequence. Go see Bernardo,
And come to me again.

Gaur.
(solus).
O happy people! whose indulgent lord Exit.
From ev'ry care, with which increasing wealth,
With all its hopes and fears, doth ever move
The human breast, most graciously would free,
And kindly leave you nought to do but toil!
This creature now, with all his reptile cunning,
Writhing and turning through a maze of wiles,
Believes his genius form'd to rule mankind;
And call his sordid wish for territory
That noblest passion of the soul, ambition.
Born had he been to follow some low trade,
A petty tradesman still he had remain'd,
And us'd the art with which he rules a state
To circumvent his brothers of the craft,
Or cheat the buyers of his paltry ware.
And yet he thinks — ha, ha, ha, ha! — he thinks
I am the tool and servant of his will.
Well, let it be; through all the maze of trouble
His plots and base oppression must create,
I'll shape myself away to higher things:
And who will say 'tis wrong?
A sordid being, who expects no faith
But as self-interest binds; who would not trust
The strongest ties of nature on the soul,
Deserves no faithful service. Perverse fate!
Were I like him, I would despise this dealing:
But being as I am, born low in fortune,
Yet with a mind aspiring to be great,
I must not scorn the steps which lead to it:
And if they are not right, no saint am I:
I follow nature's passion in my breast,
Which urges me to rise in spite of fortune.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

An apartment in the palace. Victoria and Isabella are discovered playing at chess; the Countess Albini sitting by them reading to herself.
Vict.
Away with it, I will not play again.
May men no more be foolish in my presence
If thou art not a cheat, an arrant cheat!

Isab.
To swear that I am false by such an oath,
Should prove me honest, since its forfeiture
Would bring your highness gain.

Vict.
Thou'rt wrong, my Isabella, simple maid;
For in the very forfeit of this oath,
There's death to all the dearest pride of women.
May man no more be foolish in my presence!

Isab.
And does your grace, hail'd by applauding crowds,
In all the graceful eloquence address'd
Of most accomplish'd, noble, courtly youths,
Prais'd in the songs of heav'n-inspired bards,
Those awkward proofs of admiration prize,
Which rustic swains their village fair ones pay?

Vict.
O, love will master all the power of art!
Ay, all! and she who never has beheld
The polish'd courtier, or the tuneful sage,
Before the glances of her conquering eye
A very native simple swain become,
Has only vulgar charms.
To make the cunning artless, tame the rude,
Subdue the haughty, shake th' undaunted soul;
Yea, put a bridle in the lion's mouth,
And lead him forth as a domestic cur,
These are the triumphs of all-powerful beauty!
Did nought but flatt'ring words and tuneful praise,
Sighs, tender glances, and obsequious service,
Attend her presence, it were nothing worth:
I'd put a white coif o'er my braided locks,
And be a plain, good, simple, fire-side dame.

Alb.
(raising her head from her book).
And is, indeed, a plain domestic dame,
Who fills the duties of an useful state,
A being of less dignity than she,
Who vainly on her transient beauty builds,
A little poor ideal tyranny?

Isab.
Ideal too!

Alb.
Yes, most unreal pow'r:
For she who only finds her self-esteem
In others' admiration, begs an alms;
Depends on others for her daily food,
And is the very servant of her slaves;
Though oftentimes, in a fantastic hour,
O'er men she may a childish pow'r exert,
Which not ennobles, but degrades her state.

Vict.
You are severe, Albini, most severe:
Were human passions plac'd within the breast
But to be curb'd, subdu'd, pluck'd by the roots?
All heaven's gifts to some good end were giv'n.

Alb.
Yes, for a noble, for a generous end.

Vict.
Am I ungen'rous then?

Alb.
Yes, most ungen'rous!
Who, for the pleasure of a little pow'r,
Would give most unavailing pain to those
Whose love you ne'er can recompense again.
E'en now, to-day, O! was it not ungen'rous
To fetter Basil with a foolish tie,
Against his will, perhaps against his duty?

Vict.
What, dost thou think against his will, my friend?

Alb.
Full sure I am against his reason's will.

Vict.
Ah! but indeed thou must excuse me here;
For duller than a shelled crab were she,
Who could suspect her pow'r in such a mind,
And calmly leave it doubtful and unprov'd.
But wherefore dost thou look so gravely on me?
Ah! well I read those looks! methinks they say,
“Your mother did not so.”

Alb.
Your highness reads them true, she did not so.
If foolish vanity e'er soil'd her thoughts,
She kept it low, withheld its aliment;
Not pamper'd it with ev'ry motley food,
From the fond tribute of a noble heart
To the lisp'd flattery of a cunning child.

Vict.
Nay, speak not thus, Albini, speak not thus
Of little blue-eyed, sweet, fair-hair'd Mirando.
He is the orphan of a hapless pair,
A loving, beautiful, but hapless pair,
Whose story is so pleasing, and so sad,
The swains have turn'd it to a plaintive lay,
And sing it as they tend their mountain sheep.
Besides, (to Isab.
) I am the guardian of his choice.
When first I saw him — dost thou not remember?

Isab.
'Twas in the public garden.

Vict.
Even so;
Perch'd in his nurse's arms, a rustic quean,
Ill suited to the lovely charge she bore.
How stedfastly he fix'd his looks upon me,
His dark eyes shining through forgotten tears,
Then stretch'd his little arms and call'd me mother!
What could I do? I took the bantling home—
I could not tell the imp he had no mother.

Alb.
Ah! there, my child, thou hast indeed no blame.

Vict.
Now this is kindly said: thanks, sweet Albini!
Still call me child, and chide me as thou wilt.
O! would that I were such as thou couldst love!
Couldst dearly love, as thou didst love my mother!

Alb.
(pressing her to her breast).
And do I not? all-perfect as she was,
I know not that she went so near my heart
As thou with all thy faults.

Vict.
And sayst thou so? would I had sooner known!
I had done any thing to give thee pleasure.

Alb.
Then do so now, and put thy faults away.

Vict.
No, say not faults; the freaks of thoughtless youth.

Alb.
Nay, very faults they must indeed be call'd.

Vict.
O! say but foibles! youthful foibles only!

Alb.
Faults, faults, real faults you must confess they are.

Vict.
In truth I cannot do your sense the wrong
To think so poorly of the one you love.

Alb.
I must be gone: thou hast o'ercome me now:
Another time I will not yield it so.

[Exit.
Isab.
The countess is severe, she's too severe:
She once was young though now advanc'd in years.

Vict.
No, I deserve it all: she is most worthy.
Unlike those faded beauties of the court,
But now the wither'd stems of former flowers
With all their blossoms shed, her nobler mind
Procures to her the privilege of man,
Ne'er to be old till nature's strength decays.
Some few years hence, if I should live so long,
I'd be Albini rather than myself.

Isab.
Here comes your little fav'rite.

Vict.
I am not in the humour for him now.

Enter Mirando, running up to Victoria, and taking hold of her gown, whilst she takes no notice of him, as he holds up his mouth to be kissed.
Isab.
(to Mir.)
Thou seest the princess can't be troubled with thee.

Mir.
O but she will! I'll scramble up her robe,
As naughty boys do when they climb for apples.

Isab.
Come here, sweet child; I'll kiss thee in her stead.

Mir.
Nay, but I will not have a kiss of thee.
Would I were tall! O were I but so tall!

Isab.
And how tall wouldst thou be?

Mir.
Thou dost not know?
Just tall enough to reach Victoria's lips.

Vict.
(embracing him).
O! I must bend to this, thou little urchin!
Who taught thee all this wit, this childish wit?
Whom does Mirando love?

[Embraces him again.
Mir.
He loves Victoria.

Vict.
And wherefore loves he her?

Mir.
Because she's pretty.

Isab.
Hast thou no little prate to-day, Mirando?
No tale to earn a sugar-plum withal?

Mir.
Ay, that I have: I know who loves her grace.

Vict.
Who is it, pray? thou shalt have comfits for it.

Mir.
(looking slily at her).
It is — it is — it is the Count of Maldo.

Vict.
Away, thou little chit! that tale is old,
And was not worth a sugar-plum when new.

Mir.
Well then, I know who loves her highness well.

Vict.
Who is it then?

Isab.
Who is it, naughty boy?

Mir.
It is the handsome Marquis of Carlatzi.

Vict.
No, no, Mirando, thou art naughty still:
Twice have I paid thee for that tale already.

Mir.
Well then, indeed — I know who loves Victoria.

Vict.
And who is he?

Mir.
It is Mirando's self.

Vict.
Thou little imp! this story is not new,
But thou shalt have thy hire. Come, let us go.
Go, run before us, boy.

Mir.
Nay, but I'll show you how Count Wolvar look'd,
When he conducted Isabel from court.

Vict.
How did he look?

Mir.
Give me your hand: he held his body thus:
(putting himself in a ridiculous bowing posture).
And then he whisper'd softly; then look'd so;
(ogling with his eyes affectedly).
Then she look'd so, and smil'd to him again.

(throwing down his eyes affectedly).
Isab.
Thou art a little knave, and must be whipp'd.

[Exeunt, Mirando leading out Victoria affectedly.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An open street, or square.
Enter Rosinberg and Frederic, by opposite sides of the stage.
Fred.
So Basil, from the pressing calls of war,
Another day to rest and pastime gives.
How is it now? methinks thou art not pleas'd.

Ros.
It matters little if I am or not.

Fred.
Now pray thee do confess thou art asham'd:
Thou, who art wisely wont to set at naught
The noble fire of individual courage,
And call calm prudence the superior virtue,
What sayst thou now, my candid Rosinberg,
When thy great captain, in a time like this,
Denies his weary troops one day of rest
Before the exertions of approaching battle,
Yet grants it to a pretty lady's suit?

Ros.
Who told thee this? it was no friendly tale;
And no one else, besides a trusty friend,
Could know his motives. Then thou wrongst me too;
For I admire, as much as thou dost, Fred'ric,
The fire of valour, e'en rash heedless valour;
But not, like thee, do I depreciate
That far superior, yea that god-like talent,
Which doth direct that fire, because indeed
It is a talent nature has denied me.

Fred.
Well, well, and greatly he may boast his virtue,
Who risks perhaps th' imperial army's fate,
To please a lady's freaks—

Ros.
Go, go, thou'rt prejudic'd:
A passion which I do not choose to name
Has warp'd thy judgment.

Fred.
No, by heav'n, thou wrongst me!
I do, with most enthusiastic warmth,
True valour love: wherever he is found,
I love the hero too; but hate to see
The praises due to him so cheaply earn'd.

Ros.
Then mayst thou now these gen'rous feelings prove.
Behold that man, whose short and grizzly hair
In clust'ring locks his dark brown face o'ershades;
Where now the scars of former sabre wounds,
In hon'rable companionship are seen
With the deep lines of age; whose piercing eye
Beneath its shading eye-brow keenly darts
Its yet unquenched beams, as tho' in age
Its youthful fire had been again renew'd,
To be the guardian of its darken'd mate.
See with what vig'rous steps his upright form
He onward bears; nay, e'en that vacant sleeve,
Which droops so sadly by his better side,
Suits not ungracefully the vet'ran's mien.
This is the man, whose glorious acts in battle,
We heard to-day related o'er our wine.
I go to tell the gen'ral he is come:
Enjoy the gen'rous feelings of thy breast,
And make an old man happy.

[Exit.
Enter Geoffry.
Fred.
Brave soldier, let me profit by the chance
That led me here; I've heard of thy exploits.

Geof.
Ah! then you have but heard an ancient tale.
Which has been long forgotten.

Fred.
But it is true, and should not be forgotten;
Though gen'rals, jealous of their soldiers' fame,
May dash it with neglect.

Geof.
There are, perhaps, who may be so ungen'rous.

Fred.
Perhaps, sayst thou? in very truth there are.
How art thou else rewarded with neglect,
Whilst many a paltry fellow in thy corps
Has been promoted? It is ever thus.
Serv'd not Mardini in your company?
He was, though honour'd with a valiant name,
To those who knew him well, a paltry soldier.

Geof.
Your pardon, sir, we did esteem him much,
Although inferior to his gallant friend,
The brave Sebastian.

Fred.
The brave Sebastian!
He was, as I am told, a learned coxcomb,
And lov'd a goose-quill better than a sword.
What, dost thou call him brave?
Thou, who dost bear about that war-worn trunk,
Like an old target, hack'd and rough with wounds,
Whilst, after all his mighty battles, he
Was with a smooth skin in his coffin laid,
Unblemish'd with a scar.

Geof.
His duty call'd not to such desp'rate service.
For I have fought where few alive remain'd,
And none unscath'd; where but a few remain'd,
Thus marr'd and mangled; (showing his wounds)
As belike you've seen,
O' summer nights, around the evening lamp,
Some wretched moths, wingless, and half consum'd,
Just feebly crawling o'er their heaps of dead.—
In Savoy, on a small, though desp'rate post,
Of full three hundred goodly chosen men,
But twelve were left, and right dear friends were we
For ever after. They are all dead now:
I'm old and lonely.—We were valiant hearts—
Fred'ric Dewalter would have stopp'd a breach
Against the devil himself. I'm lonely now!

Fred.
I'm sorry for thee. Hang ungrateful chiefs!
Why wert thou not promoted?

Geof.
After that battle, where my happy fate
Had led me to fulfil a glorious part,
Chaf'd with the gibing insults of a slave,
The worthless fav'rite of a great man's fav'rite,
I rashly did affront; our cautious prince,
With narrow policy dependant made,
Dar'd not, as I am told, promote me then,
And now he is asham'd, or has forgot it.

Fred.
Fye, fye upon it! let him be asham'd!
Here is a trifle for thee—

(offering him money.)
Geof.
No, good sir,
I have enough to live as poor men do.
When I'm in want I'll thankfully receive,
Because I'm poor, but not because I'm brave.

Fred.
You're proud, old soldier.

Geof.
No, I am not proud;
For if I were, methinks I'd be morose,
And willing to depreciate other men.

Enter Rosinberg.
Ros.
(clapping Geof. on the shoulder).
How goes it with thee now, my good field-marshal?

Geof.
The better that I see your honour well,
And in the humour to be merry with me.

Ros.
Faith, by my sword, I've rightly nam'd thee too:
What is a good field-marshal, but a man,
Whose gen'rous courage and undaunted mind,
Doth marshal others on in glory's way?
Thou art not one by princely favour dubb'd,
But one of nature's making.

Geof.
You show, my lord, such pleasant courtesy,
I know not how—

Ros.
But see, the gen'ral comes.

Enter Basil.
Ros.
(pointing to Geoffry).
Behold the worthy vet'ran.

Bas.
(taking him by the hand).
Brave honourable man, your worth I know,
And greet it with a brother soldier's love.

Geof.
(taking away his hand in confusion).
My gen'ral, this is too much, too much honour.

Bas.
(taking his hand again).
No, valiant soldier, I must have it so.

Geof.
My humble state agrees not with such honour.

Bas.
Think not of it, thy state is not thyself.
Let mean souls, highly rank'd, look down on thee,
As the poor dwarf, perch'd on a pedestal,
O'erlooks the gaint: 'tis not worth a thought.
Art thou not Geoffry of the tenth brigade,
Whose warlike feats child, maid, and matron know,
And oft, cross-elbow'd, o'er his nightly bowl,
The jolly toper to his comrade tells;
Whose glorious feats of war, by cottage door,
The ancient soldier, tracing in the sand
The many movements of the varied field,
In warlike terms to list'ning swains relates;
Whose bosoms glowing at the wondrous tale,
First learn to scorn the hind's inglorious life?
Shame seize me, if I would not rather be
The man thou art, than court-created chief,
Known only by the dates of his promotion.

Geof.
Ah! would I were, would I were young again,
To fight beneath your standard, noble gen'ral!
Methinks what I have done were but a jest,
Ay, but a jest to what I now should do,
Were I again the man that I have been.
O! I could fight!

Bas.
And wouldst thou fight for me?

Geof.
Ay, to the death!

Bas.
Then come, brave man, and be my champion still:
The sight of thee will fire my soldiers' breasts.
Come, noble vet'ran, thou shalt fight for me.

[Exit with Geoffry.
Fred.
What does he mean to do?

Ros.
We'll know ere long.

Fred.
Our gen'ral bears it with a careless face,
For one so wise.

Ros.
A careless face! on what?

Fred.
Now, feign not ignorance, we know it all.
News which have spread in whispers from the court,
Since last night's messenger arriv'd from Milan.

Ros.
As I'm an honest man, I know it not!

Fred.
'Tis said the rival armies are so near,
A battle must immediately ensue.

Ros.
It cannot be. Our gen'ral knows it not.
The Duke is of our side a sworn ally,
And had such messenger to Mantua come,
He would have been appriz'd upon the instant.
It cannot be; it is some idle tale.

Fred.
So may it prove till we have joined them too,
Then heaven grant they may be nearer still!
For O! my soul for war and danger pants,
As doth the noble lion for his prey.
My soul delights in battle.

Ros.
Upon my simple word, I'd rather see
A score of friendly fellows shaking hands,
Than all the world in arms. Hast thou no fear?

Fred.
What dost thou mean?

Ros.
Hast thou no fear of death?

Fred.
Fear is a name for something in the mind,
But what, from inward sense, I cannot tell.
I could as little anxious march to battle,
As when a boy to childish games I ran.

Ros.
Then as much virtue hast thou in thy valour
As when a child thou hadst in childish play.
The brave man is not he who feels no fear,
For that were stupid and irrational;
But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues,
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
As for your youth, whom blood and blows delight,
Away with them! there is not in the crew
One valiant spirit — Ha! what sound is this?

[Shouting is heard without.
Fred.
The soldiers shout; I'll run and learn the cause.

Ros.
But tell me first, how didst thou like the vet'ran?

Fred.
He is too proud; he was displeas'd with me
Because I offer'd him a little sum.

Ros.
What money! O! most gen'rous noble spirit!
Noble rewarder of superior worth!
A halfpenny for Belisarius!
But hark! they shout again — here comes Valtomer. [Shouting heard without.

Enter Valtomer.
What does this shouting mean?

Valt.
O! I have seen a sight, a glorious sight!
Thou wouldst have smil'd to see it.

Ros.
How smile? methinks thine eyes are wet with tears.

Valt.
(passing the back of his hands across his eyes).
'Faith so they are; well, well, but I smil'd too.
You heard the shouting.

Ros. and Fred.
Yes.

Valt.
O had you seen it!
Drawn out in goodly ranks, there stood our troops;
Here, in the graceful state of manly youth,
His dark face brighten'd with a gen'rous smile,
Which to his eyes such flashing lustre gave,
As though his soul, like an unsheathed sword,
Had through them gleam'd, our noble gen'ral stood;
And to his soldiers, with heart-moving words,
The vet'ran showing, his brave deeds rehears'd;
Who by his side stood like a storm-scath'd oak,
Beneath the shelter of some noble tree,
In the green honours of its youthful prime.

Ros.
How look'd the veteran?

Valt.
I cannot tell thee!
At first he bore it up with cheerful looks,
As one who fain would wear his honours bravely,
And greet the soldiers with a comrade's face:
But when Count Basil, in such moving speech,
Told o'er his actions past, and bade his troops
Great deeds to emulate, his count'nance chang'd;
High-heav'd his manly breast, as it had been
By inward strong emotion half convuls'd;
Trembled his nether lip; he shed some tears.
The gen'ral paus'd, the soldiers shouted loud;
Then hastily he brush'd the drops away,
And wav'd his hand, and clear'd his tear-chok'd voice,
As though he would some grateful answer make;
When back with double force the whelming tide
Of passion came; high o'er his hoary head
His arm he toss'd, and heedless of respect,
In Basil's bosom hid his aged face,
Sobbing aloud. From the admiring ranks
A cry arose; still louder shouts resound.
I felt a sudden tightness grasp my throat
As it would strangle me; such as I felt,
I knew it well, some twenty years ago,
When my good father shed his blessing on me:
I hate to weep, and so I came away.

Ros.
(giving Valt. his hand).
And there, take thou my blessing for the tale.
Hark! how they shout again! 'tis nearer now.
This way they march.

[Martial music heard. Enter Soldiers marching in order, bearing Geoffry in triumph on their shoulders. After them enter Basil: the whole preceded by a band of music. They cross over the stage, are joined by Ros. &c., and Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Gauriecio and a Gentleman, talking as they enter.
Gaur.
So slight a tie as this we cannot trust,
One day her influence may detain him here,
But love a feeble agent may be found
With the ambitious.

Gent.
And so you think this boyish odd conceit
Of bearing home in triumph with his troops
That aged soldier, will your purpose serve?

Gaur.
Yes, I will make it serve; for though my prince
Is little scrupulous of right and wrong,
I have possess'd his mind, as though it were
A flagrant insult on his princely state
To honour thus the man he has neglected,
Which makes him relish, with a keener taste,
My purpos'd scheme. Come, let us fall to work.
With all their warm heroic feelings rous'd,
We'll spirit up his troops to mutiny,
Which must retard, perhaps undo him quite.
Thanks to his childish love, which has so well
Procur'd us time to tamper with the fools.

Gent.
Ah! but those feelings he has wak'd within them
Are gen'rous feelings, and endear himself.

Gaur.
It matters not, though gen'rous in their nature,
They yet may serve a most ungen'rous end;
And he who teaches men to think, though nobly,
Doth raise within their minds a busy judge
To scan his actions. Send thine agents forth,
And sound it in their ears how much Count Basil
Affects all difficult and desp'rate service,
To raise his fortunes by some daring stroke;
Having unto the emperor pledg'd his word,
To make his troops all dreadful hazards brave:
For which intent he fills their simple minds
With idle tales of glory and renown;
Using their warm attachment to himself
For most unworthy ends.
This is the busy time; go forth, my friend;
Mix with the soldiers, now in jolly groups
Around their ev'ning cups. There, spare no cost.
[Gives him a purse.
Observe their words, see how the poison takes,
And then return again.

Gent.
I will, my lord.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A suite of grand apartments, with their wide doors thrown open, lighted up with lamps, and filled with company in masks. Enter several masks, and pass through the first apartment to the other rooms. Then enter Basil in the disguise of a wounded soldier.
Bas.
(alone).
Now am I in the region of delight!
Within the blessed compass of these walls
She is; the gay light of those blazing lamps
Doth shine upon her, and this painted floor
Is with her footsteps press'd. E'en now, perhaps,
Amidst that motley rout she plays her part:
There will I go; she cannot be conceal'd;
For but the flowing of her graceful robe
Will soon betray the lovely form that wears it,
Though in a thousand masks. Ye homely weeds,—
(looking at his habit).
Which half conceal, and half declare my state,
Beneath your kind disguise, O! let me prosper,
And boldly take the privilege ye give:
Follow her mazy steps, crowd by her side;
Thus, near her face my list'ning ear incline,
And feel her soft breath fan my glowing cheek;
Her fair hand seize, yea, press it closely too!
May it not be e'en so? by heav'n it shall!
This once, O! serve me well, and ever after
Ye shall be treasur'd like a monarch's robes;
Lodg'd in my chamber, near my pillow kept;
And oft with midnight lamp I'll visit ye,
And gazing wistfully, this night recall,
With all its past delights. — But yonder moves
A slender form, dress'd in an azure robe;
It moves not like the rest — it must be she!

[Goes hastily into another apartment, and mixes with the masks.
Enter Rosinberg, fantastically dressed, with a willow upon his head, and scraps of sonnets and torn letters fluttering round his neck, pursued by a group of masks from one of the inner apartments, who hoot at him, and push him about as he enters.
1st Mask.
Away, thou art a saucy jeering knave,
And fain wouldst make a jest of all true love.

Ros.
Nay, gentle ladies, do not buffet me:
I am a right true servant of the fair;
And as this woeful chaplet on my brow,
And these tear-blotted sonnets would denote,
A poor abandon'd lover out of place;
With any lady ready to engage,
Who will enlist me in her loving service.
Of a convenient kind my talents are,
And to all various humours may be shap'd.

2nd Mask.
What canst thou do?

3d Mask.
Ay, what besides offending?

Ros.
O! I can sigh so deeply, look so sad;
Pule out a piteous tale on bended knee;
Groan like a ghost; so very wretched be,
As would delight a tender lady's heart
But to behold.

1st Mask.
Pooh, pooh, insipid fool!

Ros.
But should my lady brisker mettle own,
And tire of all those gentle dear delights,
Such pretty little quarrels I'd invent—
As whether such a fair one (some dear friend)
Whose squirrel's tail was pinch'd, or the soft maid,
With fav'rite lap-dog of a surfeit sick,
Have greatest cause of delicate distress:
Or whether—

1st Mask.
Go, thou art too bad indeed—
(aside).
How could he know I quarrell'd with the Count?

2nd Mask.
Wilt thou do nothing for thy lady's fame?

Ros.
Yes, lovely shepherdess, on ev'ry tree
I'll carve her name, with true-love garlands bound:
Write madrigals upon her roseate cheeks;
Odes to her eye; 'faith, ev'ry wart and mole
That spots her snowy skin, shall have its sonnet!
I'll make love-posies for her thimble's edge,
Rather than please her not.

3d Mask.
But for her sake what dangers wilt thou brave?

Ros.
In truth, fair nun, I stomach dangers less
Than other service, and were something loath
To storm a convent's walls for one dear glance;
But if she'll wisely manage this alone,
As maids have done, come o'er the wall herself,
And meet me fairly on the open plain,
I will engage her tender steps to aid
In all annoyance of rude briar or stone,
Or crossing rill, some half-foot wide, or so,
Which that fair lady should unaided pass,
Ye gracious pow'rs, forbid! I will defend
Against each hideous fly, whose dreadful buzz —

4th Mask.
Such paltry service suits thee best indeed.
What maid of spirit would not spurn thee from her?

Ros.
Yes, to recall me soon, sublime Sultana!
For I can stand the burst of female passion,
Each change of humour and affected storm,
Be scolded, frown'd upon, to exile sent,
Recall'd, caress'd, chid, and disgrac'd again;
And say what maid of spirit would forego
The bliss of one to exercise it thus?
O! I can bear ill treatment like a lamb!—

4th Mask
(beating him).
Well, bear it then, thou hast deserv'd it well.

Ros.
Zounds, lady! do not give such heavy blows;
I'm not your husband, as belike you guess.

5th Mask.
Come, lover, I enlist thee for my swain;
Therefore, good lady, do forbear your blows,
Nor thus assume my rights.

Ros.
Agreed. Wilt thou a gracious mistress prove?

5th Mask.
Such as thou wouldst, such as thy genius suits;
For since of universal scope it is,
All women's humour shalt thou find in me.
I'll gently soothe thee with such winning smiles—
To nothing sink thee with a scornful frown:
Teaze thee with peevish and affected freaks;
Caress thee, love thee, hate thee, break thy pate;
But still between the whiles I'll careful be,
In feigned admiration of thy parts,
Thy shape, thy manners, or thy graceful mien,
To bind thy giddy soul with flatt'ry's charm;
For well thou knowst that flatt'ry ever is
The tickling spice, the pungent seasoning
Which makes this motley dish of monstrous scraps
So pleasing to the dainty lover's taste.
Thou canst not leave, though violent in extreme,
And most vexatious in her teazing moods,
Thou canst not leave the fond admiring soul,
Who did declare, when calmer reason rul'd,
Thou hadst a pretty leg.

Ros.
Marry, thou hast the better of me there.

5th Mask.
And more! I'll pledge to thee my honest word,
That when your noble swainship shall bestow
More faithful homage on the simple maid,
Who loves you with sincerity and truth,
Than on the changeful and capricious tyrant,
Who mocking leads you like a trammell'd ass,
My studied woman's wiles I'll lay aside,
And such an one become.

Ros.
Well said, brave lady, I will follow thee.
[Follows her to the corner of the stage.
Now on my life these ears of mine I'd give,
To have but one look of that little face,
Where such a biting tongue doth hold its court
To keep the fools in awe. Nay, nay, unmask:
I'm sure thou hast a pair of wicked eyes,
A short and saucy nose; now pri'thee do.

[Unmasking.
Alb.
(unmasking).
Well, hast thou guess'd me right?

Ros.
(bowing low).
Wild freedom, chang'd to most profound respect,
Doth make an awkward booby of me now.

Alb.
I've joined your frolic with a good intent,
For much I wish'd to gain your private ear.
The time is precious, and I must be short.

Ros.
On me thy slightest word more pow'r will have,
Most honour'd lady, than a conn'd oration.
Thou art the only one of all thy sex,
Who wearst thy years with such a winning grace.
Thou art the more admir'd the more thou fad'st.

Alb.
I thank your lordship for these courteous words;
But to my purpose — You are Basil's friend:
Be friendly to him then, and warn him well
This court to leave, nor be allur'd to stay;
For if he does, there's mischief waits him here
May prove the bane of all his future days.
Remember this, I must no longer stay.
God bless your friend and you: I love you both.

[Exit.
Ros.
(alone).
What may this warning mean? I had my fears.
There's something hatching that I know not of.
I've lost all spirit for this masking now.
[Throwing away his papers and his willows.
Away, ye scraps! I have no need of you.
I would I knew what garment Basil wears:
I watch'd him, yet he did escape my sight;
But I must search again and find him out.

[Exit.
Enter Basil much agitated, with his mask in his hand.
Bas.
In vain I've sought her, follow'd every form
Where aught appear'd of dignity or grace:
I've listen'd to the tone of ev'ry voice;
I've watch'd the entrance of each female mask,
My flutt'ring heart rous'd like a startled hare,
With the imagin'd rustling of her robes,
At ev'ry dame's approach. Deceitful night,
How art thou spent! where are thy promis'd joys?
How much of thee is gone! O spiteful fate!
And yet within the compass of these walls
Somewhere she is, although to me she is not.
Some other eye doth gaze upon her form,
Some other ear doth listen to her voice;
Some happy fav'rite doth enjoy the bliss
My spiteful stars deny.
Disturber of my soul! what veil conceals thee?
What dev'lish spell is o'er this cursed hour?
O! heav'ns and earth, where art thou!

Enter a mask in the dress of a female conjurer.
Mask.
Methinks thou art impatient, valiant soldier:
Thy wound doth gall thee sorely; is it so?

Bas.
Away, away! I cannot fool with thee.

Mask.
I have some potent drugs may ease thy smart.
Where is thy wound? is't here?

[Pointing to the bandage on his arm.
Bas.
Pooh, pooh, begone!
Thou canst do nought—'tis in my head, my heart—
'Tis ev'ry where, where med'cine cannot cure.

Mask.
If wounded in the heart, it is a wound
Which some ungrateful fair one hath inflicted,
And I may conjure something for thy good.

Bas.
Ah! if thou couldst! what, must I fool with thee?

Mask.
Thou must awhile, and be examin'd too.
What kind of woman did the wicked deed?

Bas.
I cannot tell thee. In her presence still
My mind in such a wild delight hath been,
I could not pause to picture out her beauty,
Yet nought of woman e'er was form'd so fair.

Mask.
Art thou a soldier, and no weapon bearst
To send her wound for wound?

Bas.
Alas! she shoots from such a hopeless height,
No dart of mine hath plume to mount so far;
None but a prince may dare.

Mask.
But if thou hast no hope, thou hast no love.

Bas.
I love, and yet in truth I had no hope.
But that she might at least with some good will,
Some gentle pure regard, some secret kindness,
Within her dear remembrance give me place.
This was my all of hope, but it is flown:
For she regards me not: despises, scorns me:
Scorns, I must say it too, a noble heart,
That would have bled for her.
[Mask, discovering herself to be Victoria, by speaking in her true voice.
O! no, she does not.

[Exit hastily in confusion.
Bas.
(stands for a moment riveted to the spot, then holds up both his hands in an ecstacy).
It is herself! it is her blessed self!
O! what a fool am I, that had no power
To follow her, and urge th' advantage on.
Begone, unmanly fears! I must be bold.

[Exit after her.
A dance of masks.
Enter Duke and Gauriecio, unmasked.
Duke.
This revelry, methinks, goes gaily on.
The hour is late, and yet your friend returns not.

Gaur.
He will return ere long — nay, there he comes.

Enter Gentleman.
Duke.
Does all go well?

(going close up to him.)
Gent.
All as your grace could wish.
For now the poison works, and the stung soldiers
Rage o'er their cups, and, with fire-kindled eyes,
Swear vengeance on the chief who would betray them.
That Frederic too, the discontented man
Of whom your highness was so lately told,
Swallows the bait, and does his part most bravely.
Gauriecio counsell'd well to keep him blind,
Nor with a bribe attempt him. On my soul!
He is so fiery he had spurn'd us else,
And ruin'd all the plot.

Duke.
Speak softly, friend — I'll hear it all in private.
A gay and careless face we now assume.

[Duke, Gaur. and Gent. retire into the inner apartment, appearing to laugh and talk gaily to the different masks as they pass them.
Re-enter Victoria, followed by Basil.
Vict.
Forbear, my lord; these words offend mine ear.

Bas.
Yet let me but this once, this once offend,
Nor thus with thy displeasure punish me;
And if my words against all prudence sin,
O! hear them, as the good of heart do list
To the wild ravings of a soul distraught

Vict.
If I indeed should listen to thy words,
They must not talk of love.

Bas.
To be with thee, to speak, to hear thee speak,
To claim the soft attention of thine eye,
I'd be content to talk of any thing,
If it were possible to be with thee,
And think of aught but love.

Vict.
I fear, my lord, you have too much presum'd
On those unguarded words, which were in truth
Utter'd at unawares, with little heed,
And urge their meaning far beyond the right.

Bas.
I thought, indeed, that they were kindly meant,
As though thy gentle breast did kindly feel
Some secret pity for my hopeless pain,
And would not pierce with scorn, ungen'rous scorn,
A heart so deeply stricken.

Vict.
So far thou'st read it well.

Bas.
Ha! have I well?
Thou dost not hate me then?

Vict.
My father comes;
He were displeas'd if he should see thee thus.

Bas.
Thou dost not hate me then?

Vict.
Away! he'll be displeas'd — I cannot say—

Bas.
Well, let him come: it is thyself I fear:
For did destruction thunder o'er my head,
By the dread pow'r of heav'n I would not stir
Till thou hadst answer'd my impatient soul!
Thou dost not hate me?

Vict.
Nay, nay, let go thy hold — I cannot hate thee.

[Breaks from him and exit.
Bas.
(alone).
Thou canst not hate me! no, thou canst not hate me!
For I love thee so well, so passing well,
With such o'erflowing heart, so very dearly,
That it were sinful not to pay me back
Some small, some kind return.

Enter Mirando, dressed like Cupid.
Mir.
Bless thee, brave soldier!

Bas.
What sayst thou, pretty child! what playful fair
Has deck'd thee out in this fantastic guise?

Mir.
It was Victoria's self; it was the princess.

Bas.
Thou art her fav'rite then?

Mir
They say I am:
And now, between ourselves, I'll tell thee, soldier,
I think in very truth she loves me well.
Such merry little songs she teaches me—
Sly riddles too, and when I'm laid to rest,
Ofttimes on tip-toe near my couch she steals,
And lifts the cov'ring so, to look upon me.
And oftentimes I feign as though I slept;
For then her warm lips to my cheeks she lays,
And pats me softly with her fair white hands;
And then I laugh, and through mine eye-lids peep,
And then she tickles me, and calls me cheat;
And then we do so laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Bas.
What does she even so, thou happiest child?
And have those rosy cheeks been press'd so dearly?
Delicious urchin! I will kiss thee too.

[Takes him eagerly up in his arms and kisses him.
Mir.
No, let me down, thy kisses are so rough,
So furious rough — she doth not kiss me so.

Bas.
Sweet boy, where is thy chamber? by Victoria's?

Mir.
Hard by her own.

Bas.
Then will I come beneath thy window soon;
And, if I could, some pretty song I'd sing,
To lull thee to thy rest.

Mir.
O no, thou must not! 'tis a frightful place;
It is the church-yard of the neighb'ring dome.
The princess loves it for the lofty trees,
Whose spreading branches shade her chamber walls:
So do not I; for when 'tis dark o'nights,
Goblins howl there, and ghosts rise through the ground.
I hear them many a time when I'm a bed,
And hide beneath the clothes my cow'ring head.
O! is it not a frightful thing, my lord,
To sleep alone i' the dark?

Bas.
Poor harmless child! thy prate is wondrous sweet.

Enter a group of masks.
1st Mask.
What dost thou here, thou little truant boy?
Come play thy part with us.

Masks place Mirando in the middle, and range themselves round him.

SONG.— a glee.

[All the masks dance round Cupid. Then enter a band of satyrs, who frighten away Love and his votaries; and conclude the scene, dancing in a grotesque manner.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The street before Basil's lodging.
Enter Rosinberg and two Officers.
Ros.
(speaking as he enters).
Unless we find him quickly, all is lost.

1st Off.
His very guards, methinks, have left their post
To join the mutiny.

Ros.
(knocking very loud).
Holla! who's there within? confound this door!
It will not yield. O for a giant's strength!
Holla, holla, within! will no one hear?

Enter a porter from the house.
Ros.
(eagerly to the porter).
Is he return'd? is he return'd? not yet!
Thy face doth tell me so.

Port.
Not yet, my lord.

Ros.
Then let him ne'er return!—
Tumult, disgrace, and ruin have their way!
I'll search for him no more.

Port.
He hath been absent all the night, my lord.

Ros.
I know he hath.

2nd Off.
And yet 'tis possible
He may have enter'd by the secret door;
And now, perhaps, in deepest sleep entranc'd,
Is dead to ev'ry sound.

[Ros., without speaking, rushes into the house, and the rest follow him.
Enter Basil.
Bas.
The blue air of the morning pinches keenly.
Beneath her window all the chilly night,
I felt it not. Ah! night has been my day;
And the pale lamp which from her chamber gleam'd,
Has to the breeze a warmer temper lent
Than the red burning east.

Re-enter Rosinberg, &c. from the house.
Ros.
Himself! himself! he's here! he's here! O Basil!
What fiend at such a time could lead thee forth?

Bas.
What is the matter that disturbs you thus?

Ros.
Matter that would a wiser man disturb.
Treason's abroad: thy men have mutinied.

Bas.
It is not so; thy wits have mutinied,
And left their sober station in thy brain.

1st Off.
Indeed, my lord, he speaks in sober earnest.
Some secret enemies have been employ'd
To fill your troops with strange imaginations:
As though their gen'ral would, for selfish gain,
Their gen'rous valour urge to desp'rate deeds.
All to a man, assembled on the ramparts,
Now threaten vengeance, and refuse to march.

Bas.
What! think they vilely of me? threaten too!
O! most ungen'rous, most unmanly thought!
Didst thou attempt (to Ros.)
to reason with their folly?
Folly it is; baseness it cannot be.

Ros.
Yes, truly, I did reason with a storm,
And bid it cease to rage.—
Their eyes look fire on him who questions them:
The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath
Sound dreadful through the dark extended ranks,
Like subterraneous grumblings of an earthquake.
— The vengeful hurricane
Does not with such fantastic writhings toss
The woods' green boughs, as does convulsive rage
Their forms with frantic gestures agitate.
Around the chief of hell such legions throng'd,
To bring back curse and discord on creation.

Bas.
Nay they are men, although impassion'd ones.
I'll go to them—

Ros.
And we will stand by thee.
My sword is thine against ten thousand strong,
If it should come to this.

Bas.
No, never, never!
There is no mean: I with my soldiers must
Or their commander or their victim prove.
But are my officers all staunch and faithful?

Ros.
All but that devil, Fred'ric—
He, disappointed, left his former corps,
Where he, in truth, had been too long neglected,
Thinking he should all on the sudden rise,
From Basil's well-known love of valiant men;
And now, because it still must be deferr'd,
He thinks you seek from envy to depress him,
And burns to be reveng'd.

Bas.
Well, well — This grieves me too —
But let us go.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The ramparts of the town. The soldiers are discovered, drawn up in a disorderly manner, hollaing and speaking loudly, and clashing their arms tumultuously.
1st Sol.
No, comrade, no; hell gape and swallow me,
If I do budge for such most dev'lish orders!

2nd Sol.
Huzza! brave comrades! Who says otherwise?

3d Sol.
No one, huzza! confound all treach'rous leaders!

[The soldiers huzza and clash their arms.
4th Sol.
Heav'n dart its fiery light'ning on his head!
We're men, we are not cattle to be slaughter'd!

2nd Sol.
They who do long to caper high in air,
Into a thousand bloody fragments blown,
May follow our brave gen'ral.

1st Sol.
Curse his name!
I've fought for him till my strain'd nerves have crack'd!

2nd Sol.
We will command ourselves: for Milan, comrades.

4th Sol.
Ay, ay, for Milan, valiant hearts, huzza!

[All the soldiers cast up their caps in the air, and huzza.
2nd Sol.
Yes, comrades, tempting booty waits us there,
And easy seryice: keep good hearts, my soldiers!
The gen'ral comes, good hearts! no flinching, boys!
Look bold and fiercely: we're the masters now.

[They all clash their arms and put on a fierce threatening aspect to receive their general, who now enters, followed by Rosinberg and officers. Basil walks close along the front ranks of the soldiers, looking at them very stedfastly; then retires a few paces back, and raising his arm, speaks with a very full loud voice.
Bas.
How is it, soldiers, that I see you thus,
Assembled here, unsummon'd by command?
(A confused murmur is heard amongst the soldiers; some of them call out)
But we command ourselves; we wait no orders.
(A confused noise of voices is heard, and one louder than the rest calls out)
Must we be butcher'd, for that we are brave?
(A loud clamour and clashing of arms, then several voices call out)
Damn hidden treach'ry! we defy thy orders.
Fred'ric shall lead us now —
(Other voices call out)
We'll march where'er we list, for Milan march.

Bas.
(waving his hand, and beckoning them to be silent, speaks with a very loud voice).
Yes, march where'er ye list; for Milan march.

Sol.
Hear him, hear him!

[The murmur ceases — a short pause.
Bas.
Yes, march where'er ye list: for Milan march:
But as banditti, not as soldiers go;
For on this spot of earth I will disband,
And take from you the rank and name of soldiers.
(A great clamour amongst the ranks; some call out)
What wear we arms for?
(Others call out)
No, he dares not do it.
(One voice very loud)
Disband us at thy peril, treach'rous Basil!

[Several of the soldiers brandish their arms, and threaten to attack him; the officers gather round Basil, and draw their swords to defend him.
Bas.
Put up your swords, my friends, it must not be.
I thank your zeal, I'll deal with them alone.

Ros.
What, shall we calmly stand and see thee butcher'd?

Bas.
(very earnestly).
Put up, my friends! (Officers still persist.)
What! are you rebels too?
Will no one here his gen'ral's voice obey?
I do command you to put up your swords.
Retire, and at a distance wait th' event.
Obey, or henceforth be no friends of mine.
[Officers retire very unwillingly. Basil waves them off with his hand till they are all gone, then walks up to the front of his soldiers, who still hold themselves in a threatening posture.
Soldiers! we've fought together in the field,
And bravely fought: i' the face of horrid death,
At honour's call, I've led you dauntless on;
Nor do I know the man of all your bands,
That ever poorly from the trial shrunk,
Or yielded to the foe contended space.
Am I the meanest then of all my troops,
That thus ye think, with base unmanly threats,
To move me now? Put up those paltry weapons;
They edgeless are to him who fears them not:
Rocks have been shaken from the solid base;
But what shall move a firm and dauntless mind?
Put up your swords, or dare the threaten'd deed —
Obey, or murder me. —
(A confused murmur — some of the soldiers call out)
March us to Milan, and we will obey thee.
(Others call out)
Ay, march us there, and be our leader still.

Bas.
Nay, if I am your leader, I'll command ye;
And where I do command, there shall you go,
But not to Milan. No, nor shall you deviate
E'en half a furlong from your destin'd way,
To seize the golden booty of the East.
Think not to gain, or temporise with me;
For should I this day's mutiny survive,
Much as I've lov'd you, soldiers, ye shall find me
Still more relentless in pursuit of vengeance;
Tremendous, cruel, military vengeance.
There is no mean — a desp'rate game ye play;
Therefore, I say, obey, or murder me.
Do as ye will, but do it manfully.
He is a coward who doth threaten me:
The man who slays me, but an angry soldier;
Acting in passion, like the frantic son,
Who struck his sire and wept.
(Soldiers call out)
It was thyself who sought to murder us.

1st Sol.
You have unto the emp'ror pledg'd your faith,
To lead us foremost in all desp'rate service:
You have agreed to sell your soldiers' blood,
And we have shed our dearest blood for you.

Bas.
Hear me, my soldiers —

2d Sol.
No, hear him not, he means to cozen you.
Fred'rick will do you right —

[Endeavouring to stir up a noise and confusion amongst them.
Bas.
What cursed fiend art thou, cast out from hell
To spirit up rebellion? damned villain!
[Seizes upon 2d soldier, drags him out from the ranks, and wrests his arms from him; then takes a pistol from his side, and holds it to his head.
Stand there, damn'd meddling villain, and be silent;
For if thou utt'rest but a single word,
A cough or hem, to cross me in my speech,
I'll send thy cursed spirit from the earth,
To bellow with the damn'd!
[The soldiers keep a dead silence. After a pause, Basil resumes his speech.
Listen to me, my soldiers. —
You say that I am to the emp'ror pledg'd
To lead you foremost in all desp'rate service,
For now you call it not the path of glory;
And if in this I have offended you,
I do indeed repent me of the crime.
But new from battles, where my native troops
So bravely fought, I felt me proud at heart,
And boasted of you, boasted foolishly.
I said, fair glory's palm ye would not yield
To e'er the bravest legion train'd to arms.
I swore the meanest man of all my troops
Would never shrink before an armed host,
If honour bade him stand. My royal master
Smil'd at the ardour of my heedless words,
And promis'd when occasion claim'd our arms,
To put them to the proof.
But ye do peace, and ease, and booty love,
Safe and ignoble service — be it so—
Forgive me that I did mistake you thus,
But do not earn with savage mutiny,
Your own destruction. We'll for Pavia march,
To join the royal army near its walls,
And there with blushing forehead will I plead,
That ye are men with warlike service worn,
Requiring ease and rest. Some other chief,
Whose cold blood boils not at the trumpet's sound,
Will in your rearward station head you then,
And so, my friends, we'll part. As for myself,
A volunteer, unheeded in the ranks,
I'll rather fight, with brave men for my fellows,
Than be the leader of a sordid band.
(A great murmur rises amongst the ranks, soldiers call out)
We will not part! no, no, we will not part!
(All call out together)
We will not part! be thou our gen'ral still!

Bas.
How can I be your gen'ral? ye obey
As caprice moves you; I must be obey'd,
As honest men against themselves perform
A sacred oath.—
Some other chief will more indulgent prove —
You're weary grown — I've been too hard a master.

Soldiers.
Thyself, and only thee, will we obey.

Bas.
But if you follow me, yourselves ye pledge
Unto no easy service: — hardships, toils,
The hottest dangers of most dreadful fight
Will be your portion; and when all is o'er,
Each, like his gen'ral, must contented be
Home to return again, a poor brave soldier.
How say ye now? I spread no tempting lure—
A better fate than this, I promise none.

Soldiers.
We'll follow Basil.

Bas.
What token of obedience will ye give?
[A deep pause.
Soldiers, lay down your arms!
[They all lay down their arms.
If any here are weary of the service,
Now let them quit the ranks, and they shall have
A free discharge, and passport to their homes;
And from my scanty fortune I'll make good
The well-earn'd pay their royal master owes them.
Let those who follow me their arms resume, [They all resume their arms.
(Basil, holding up his hands).

High heaven be prais'd!
I had been griev'd to part with you, my soldiers.
Here is a letter from my gracious master,
With offers of preferment in the north,
Most high preferment, which I did refuse,
For that I would not leave my gallant troops. [Takes out a letter, and throws it amongst them.
(A great commotion amongst the soldiers; many of them quit their ranks, and crowd about him, calling out)

Our gallant gen'ral!
(Others call out)
We'll spend our hearts' blood for thee, noble Basil!

Bas.
And so you thought me false? this bites to the quick!
My soldiers thought me false!
[They all quit their ranks, and crowd eagerly around him. Basil, waving them off with his hands.
Away, away, you have disgusted me!
[Soldiers retire to their ranks.
'Tis well — retire, and hold yourselves prepar'd
To march upon command; nor meet again
Till you are summon'd by the beat of drum.
Some secret enemy has tamper'd with you,
For yet I will not think that in these ranks
There moves a man who wears a traitor's heart.

[The soldiers begin to march off, and music strikes up.
Bas.
(holding up his hand).
Cease, cease, triumphant sounds;
Which our brave fathers, men without reproach,
Rais'd in the hour of triumph! but this hour
To us no glory brings —
Then silent be your march — ere that again
Our steps to glorious strains like these shall move,
A day of battle o'er our heads must pass,
And blood be shed to wash out this day's stain.

[Exeunt soldiers, silent and dejected.
Enter Frederic, who starts back on seeing Basil alone.
Bas.
Advance, lieutenant; wherefore shrink you back?
I've ever seen you bear your head erect,
And front your man, though arm'd with frowning death.
Have you done aught the valiant should not do?
I fear you have.
[Fred. looks confused.
With secret art, and false insinuation,
The simple untaught soldiers to seduce
From their sworn duty, might become the base,
Become the coward well; but O! what villain
Had the dark pow'r t' engage thy valiant worth
In such a work as this?

Fred.
Is Basil, then, so lavish of his praise
On a neglected pitiful subaltern?
It were a libel on his royal master;
A foul reproach upon fair fortune cast,
To call me valiant:
And surely he has been too much their debtor,
To mean them this rebuke.

Bas.
Is nature then so sparing of her gifts,
That it is wonderful when they are found
Where fortune smiles not?
Thou art by nature brave, and so am I;
But in those distant ranks moves there not one
[Pointing off the stage.
Of high ennobled soul, by nature form'd
A hero and commander, who will yet
In his untrophied grave forgotten lie
With meaner men? I dare be sworn there does.

Fred.
What need of words? I crave of thee no favour.
I have offended, 'gainst arm'd law offended,
And shrink not from my doom.

Bas.
I know thee well, I know thou fearst not death;
On scaffold or in field with dauntless breast
Thou wilt engage him; and if thy proud soul,
In sullen obstinacy, scorns all grace,
E'en be it so. But if with manly gratitude
Thou truly canst receive a brave man's pardon,
Thou hast it freely.

Fred.
It must not be. I've been thine enemy —
I've been unjust to thee —

Bas.
I know thou hast;
But thou art brave, and I forgive thee all.

Fred.
My lord! my gen'ral! Oh, I cannot speak!
I cannot live and be the wretch I am!

Bas.
But thou canst live and be an honest man
From error turn'd, — canst live and be my friend.
[Raising Fred. from the ground.
Forbear, forbear! see where our friends advance:
They must not think thee suing for a pardon;
That would disgrace us both. Yet ere they come,
Tell me, if that thou mayst with honour tell,
What did seduce thee from thy loyal faith?

Fred.
No cunning traitor did my faith attempt,
For then I had withstood him: but of late,
I know not how — a bad and restless spirit
Has work'd within my breast, and made me wretched.
I've lent mine ear to foolish idle tales,
Of very zealous, though but recent friends.

Bas.
Softly, our friends approach — of this again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An apartment in Basil's lodgings. Enter Basil and Rosinberg.
Ros.
Thank heaven I am now alone with thee.
Last night I sought thee with an anxious mind,
And curs'd thine ill-tim'd absence. —
There's treason in this most deceitful court,
Against thee plotting, and this morning's tumult
Hath been its damn'd effect.

Bas.
Nay, nay, my friend!
The nature of man's mind too well thou knowst,
To judge as vulgar hoodwink'd statesmen do;
Who, ever with their own poor wiles misled,
Believe each popular tumult or commotion
Must be the work of deep-laid policy.
Poor, mean, mechanic souls, who little know
A few short words of energetic force,
Some powerful passion on the sudden rous'd,
The animating sight of something noble,
Some fond trait of the mem'ry finely wak'd,
A sound, a simple song without design,
In revolutions, tumults, wars, rebellions,
All grand events, have oft effected more
Than deepest cunning of their paltry art.
Some drunken soldier, eloquent with wine,
Who loves not fighting, hath harangu'd his mates,
For they in truth some hardships have endur'd:
Wherefore in this should we suspect the court?

Ros.
Ah! there is something, friend, in Mantua's court,
Will make the blackest trait of barefac'd treason
Seem fair and guiltless to thy partial eye.

Bas.
Nay, 'tis a weakness in thee, Rosinberg,
Which makes thy mind so jealous and distrustful.
Why should the duke be false?

Ros.
Because he is a double, crafty prince —
Because I've heard it rumour'd secretly,
That he in some dark treaty is engag'd,
E'en with our master's enemy the Frank.

Bas.
And so thou thinkst —

Ros.
Nay, hear me to the end.
Last night that good and honourable dame,
Noble Albini, with most friendly art,
From the gay clam'rous throng my steps beguil'd,
Unmask'd before me, and with earnest grace
Entreated me, if I were Basil's friend,
To tell him hidden danger waits him here,
And warn him earnestly this court to leave.
She said she lov'd thee much; and hadst thou seen
How anxiously she urg'd—

Bas.
(interrupting him).
By heav'n and earth,
There is a ray of light breaks through thy tale,
And I could leap like madmen in their freaks,
So blessed is the gleam! Ah! no, no, no!
It cannot be! alas, it cannot be!
Yet didst thou say she urg'd it earnestly?
She is a woman, who avoids all share
In secret politics; one only charge
Her int'rest claims, Victoria's guardian friend —
And she would have me hence — it must be so.
O! would it were! how saidst thou, gentle Rosinberg?
She urg'd it earnestly — how did she urge it?
Nay, pri'thee do not stare upon me thus,
But tell me all her words. What said she else?

Ros.
O Basil! I could laugh to see thy folly,
But that thy weakness doth provoke me so.
Most admirable, brave, determin'd man!
So well, so lately tried, what art thou now?
A vain deceitful thought transports thee thus.
Thinkst thou —

Bas.
I will not tell thee what I think.

Ros.
But I can guess it well, and it deceives thee.
Leave this detested place, this fatal court,
Where dark deceitful cunning plots thy ruin.
A soldier's duty calls thee loudly hence.
The time is critical. How wilt thou feel
When they shall tell these tidings in thine ear,
That brave Pescara and his royal troops,
Our valiant fellows, have the en'my fought,
Whilst we, so near at hand, lay loit'ring here?

Bas.
Thou dost disturb thy brain with fancied fears.
Our fortunes rest not on a point so nice,
That one short day should be of all this moment;
And yet this one short day will be to me
Worth years of other time.

Ros.
Nay, rather say,
A day to darken all thy days beside.
Confound the fatal beauty of that woman,
Which hath bewitch'd thee so!

Bas.
'Tis most ungen'rous
To push me thus with rough unsparing hand,
Where but the slightest touch is felt so dearly.
It is unfriendly.

Ros.
God knows my heart! I would not give thee pain;
But it disturbs me, Basil, vexes me,
To see thee so enthralled by a woman.
If she be fair, others are fair as she.
Some other face will like emotions raise,
When thou canst better play a lover's part:
But for the present, — fie upon it, Basil!

Bas.
What, is it possible thou hast beheld,
Hast tarried by her too, her converse shar'd,
Yet talkst as though she were a common fair one,
Such as a man may fancy and forget?
Thou art not, sure, so dull and brutish grown:
It is not so; thou dost belie thy thoughts,
And vainly try'st to gain me with the cheat.

Ros.
So thinks each lover of the maid he loves,
Yet, in their lives, some many maidens love.
Fie on it! leave this town, and be a soldier!

Bas.
Have done, have done! why dost thou bait me thus?
Thy words become disgusting to me, Rosinberg.
What claim hast thou my actions to control?
I'll Mantua leave when it is fit I should.

Ros.
Then, 'faith! 'tis fitting thou shouldst leave it now;
Ay, on the instant. Is't not desperation
To stay and hazard ruin on thy fame,
Though yet uncheer'd e'en by that tempting lure,
No lover breathes without? thou hast no hope.

Bas.
What, dost thou mean — curse on the paltry thought!
That I should count and bargain with my heart,
Upon the chances of unstinted favour,
As little souls their base-bred fancies feed?
O! were I conscious that within her breast
I held some portion of her dear regard,
Though pent for life within a prison's walls,
Where through my grate I yet might sometimes see
E'en but her shadow sporting in the sun;
Though plac'd by fate where some obstructing bound,
Some deep impassable between us roll'd,
And I might yet from some high tow'ring cliff
Perceive her distant mansion from afar,
Or mark its blue smoke rising eve and morn;
Nay, though within the circle of the moon
Some spell did fix her, never to return,
And I might wander in the hours of night,
And upward turn my ever-gazing eye,
Fondly to mark upon its varied disk
Some little spot that might her dwelling be;
My fond, my fixed heart would still adore,
And own no other love. Away, away!
How canst thou say to one who loves like me,
Thou hast no hope?

Ros.
But with such hope, my friend, how stand thy fears?
Are they so well refin'd? how wilt thou bear
Ere long to hear, that some high-favour'd prince
Has won her heart, her hand, has married her?
Though now unshackled, will it always be?

Bas.
By heav'n thou dost contrive but to torment,
And hast a pleasure in the pain thou giv'st!
There is malignity in what thou sayst.

Ros.
No, not malignity, but kindness, Basil,
That fain would save thee from the yawning gulf,
To which blind passion guides thy heedless steps.

Bas.
Go, rather save thyself
From the weak passion which has seiz'd thy breast,
T' assume authority with sage-like brow,
And shape my actions by thine own caprice.
I can direct myself.

Ros.
Yes, do thyself,
And let no artful woman do it for thee.

Bas.
I scorn thy thought: it is beneath my scorn:
It is of meanness sprung — an artful woman!
O! she has all the loveliness of heav'n,
And all its goodness too!

Ros.
I mean not to impute dishonest arts,
I mean not to impute —

Bas.
No, 'faith, thou canst not.

Ros.
What, can I not? their arts all women have.
But now of this no more; it moves thee greatly.
Yet once again, as a most loving friend,
Let me conjure thee, if thou prizest honour,
A soldier's fair repute, a hero's fame,
What noble spirits love, and well I know
Full dearly dost thou prize them, leave this place,
And give thy soldiers orders for the march.

Bas.
Nay, since thou must assume it o'er me thus,
Be gen'ral, and command my soldiers too.

Ros.
What, hath this passion in so short a space,
O! curses on it! so far chang'd thee, Basil,
That thou dost take with such ungentle warmth,
The kindly freedom of thine ancient friend?
Methinks the beauty of a thousand maids
Would not have mov'd me thus to treat my friend,
My best, mine earliest friend!

Bas.
Say kinsman rather; chance has link'd us so:
Our blood is near, our hearts are sever'd far;
No act of choice did e'er unite our souls.
Men most unlike we are; our thoughts unlike;
My breast disowns thee — thou'rt no friend of mine.

Ros.
Ah! have I then so long, so dearly lov'd thee;
So often, with an elder brother's care,
Thy childish rambles tended, shar'd thy sports;
Fill'd up by stealth thy weary school-boy's task;
Taught thy young arms thine earliest feats of strength;
With boastful pride thine early rise beheld
In glory's paths, contented then to fill
A second place, so I might serve with thee;
And sayst thou now, I am no friend of thine?
Well, be it so; I am thy kinsman then,
And by that title will I save thy name
From danger of disgrace. Indulge thy will.
I'll lay me down and feign that I am sick:
And yet I shall not feign — I shall not feign;
For thy unkindness makes me so indeed.
It will be said that Basil tarried here
To save his friend, for so they'll call me still;
Nor will dishonour fall upon thy name
For such a kindly deed.—
[Basil walks up and down in great agitation, then stops, covers his face with his hands, and seems to be overcome. Rosinberg looks at him earnestly.
O! blessed heav'n, he weeps!
[Runs up to him, and catches him in his arms.
O Basil! I have been too hard upon thee.
And is it possible I've mov'd thee thus?

Bas.
(in a convulsed broken voice).
I will renounce — I'll leave —

Ros.
What says my Basil?

Bas.
I'll Mantua leave — I'll leave this seat of bliss —
This lovely woman — tear my heart in twain —
Cast off at once my little span of joy —
Be wretched — miserable — whate'er thou wilt —
Dost thou forgive me?

Ros.
O my friend! my friend!
I love thee now more than I ever lov'd thee.
I must be cruel to thee to be kind:
Each pang I see thee feel strikes through my heart;
Then spare us both, call up thy noble spirit,
And meet the blow at once. Thy troops are ready —
Let us depart, nor lose another hour.

[Basil shrinks from his arms, and looks at him with somewhat of an upbraiding, at the same time a sorrowful look.
Bas.
Nay, put me not to death upon the instant;
I'll see her once again, and then depart.

Ros.
See her but once again, and thou art ruin'd!
It must not be — if thou regardest me —

Bas.
Well then, it shall not be. Thou hast no mercy!

Ros.
Ah! thou wilt bless me all thine after-life
For what now seems to thee so merciless.

Bas.
(sitting down very dejectedly).
Mine after-life! what is mine after-life?
My day is clos'd! the gloom of night is come!
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate.
I've seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;
I've heard the last sounds of her blessed voice;
I've seen her fair form from my sight depart:
My doom is clos'd!

Ros.
(hanging over him with pity and affection).
Alas! my friend!

Bas.
In all her lovely grace she disappear'd,
Ah! little thought I never to return!

Ros.
Why so desponding? think of warlike glory.
The fields of fair renown are still before thee;
Who would not burn such noble fame to earn?

Bas.
What now are arms, or fair renown to me?
Strive for it those who will — and yet, a while,
Welcome rough war; with all thy scenes of blood;
[Starting from his seat.
Thy roaring thunders, and thy clashing steel!
Welcome once more! what have I now to do
But play the brave man o'er again, and die?

Enter Isabella.
Isab.
(to Bas.)
My princess bids me greet you, noble count —

Bas.
(starting).
What dost thou say?

Ros.
Damn this untimely message!

Isab.
The princess bids me greet you, noble count:
In the cool grove, hard by the southern gate,
She with her train —

Bas.
What, she indeed, herself?

Isab.
Herself, my lord, and she requests to see you.

Bas.
Thank heav'n for this! I will be there anon.

Ros.
(taking hold of him).
Stay, stay, and do not be a madman still.

Bas.
Let go thy hold: what, must I be a brute,
A very brute to please thee? no, by heav'n!

[Breaks from him, and Exit.
Ros.
(striking his forehead).
All lost again! ill fortune light upon her!
[Turning eagerly to Isab.
And so thy virtuous mistress sends thee here
To make appointments, honourable dame?

Isab.
Not so, my lord, you must not call it so:
The court will hunt to-morrow, and Victoria
Would have your noble gen'ral of her train.

Ros.
Confound these women, and their artful snares,
Since men will be such fools!

Isab.
Yes, grumble at our empire as you will —

Ros.
What, boast ye of it? empire do ye call it?
It is your shame! a short-liv'd tyranny,
That ends at last in hatred and contempt.

Isab.
Nay, but some women do so wisely rule,
Their subjects never from the yoke escape.

Ros.
Some women do, but they are rarely found.
There is not one in all your paltry court
Hath wit enough for the ungen'rous task.
'Faith! of you all, not one, but brave Albini,
And she disdains it — Good be with you, lady!

[Going.
Isab.
O would I could but touch that stubborn heart,
How dearly should he pay for this hour's scorn!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE IV.

A summer apartment in the country, the windows of which look to a forest. Enter Victoria in a hunting dress, followed by Albini and Isabella, speaking as they enter.
Vict.
(to Alb.)
And so you will not share our sport to-day?

Alb.
My days of frolic should ere this be o'er,
But thou, my charge, hast kept me youthful still.
I should most gladly go; but, since the dawn,
A heavy sickness hangs upon my heart;
I cannot hunt to-day.

Vict.
I'll stay at home and nurse thee, dear Albini.

Alb.
No, no, thou shalt not stay.

Vict.
Nay, but I will.
I cannot follow to the cheerful horn,
Whilst thou art sick at home.

Alb.
Not very sick.
Rather than thou shouldst stay, my gentle child,
I'll mount my horse, and go e'en as I am.

Vict.
Nay, then I'll go, and soon return again.
Meanwhile, do thou be careful of thyself.

Isab.
Hark, hark! the shrill horns call us to the field:
Your highness hears it?

[Music without,
Vict.
Yes, my Isabella;
I hear it, and methinks e'en at the sound
I vault already on my leathern seat,
And feel the fiery steed beneath me shake
His mantled sides, and paw the fretted earth;
Whilst I aloft, with gay equestrian grace,
The low salute of gallant lords return,
Who, waiting round with eager watchful eye,
And reined steeds, the happy moment seize.
O! didst thou never hear, my Isabell,
How nobly Basil in the field becomes
His fiery courser's back?

Isab.
They say most gracefully.

Alb.
What, is the valiant count not yet departed?

Vict.
You would not have our gallant Basil go
When I have bid him stay? not so, Albini.

Alb.
Fie! reigns that spirit still so strongly in thee,
Which vainly covets all men's admiration,
And is to others cause of cruel pain?
O! would thou couldst subdue it!

Vict.
My gentle friend, thou shouldst not be severe:
For now in truth I love not admiration
As I was wont to do; in truth I do not.
But yet, this once, my woman's heart excuse,
For there is something strange in this man's love,
I never met before, and I must prove it.

Alb.
Well, prove it then, be stricken too thyself,
And bid sweet peace of mind a sad farewell.

Vict.
O no! that rather will my peace restore:
For after this, all folly of the kind
Will quite insipid and disgusting seem;
And so I shall become a prudent maid,
And passing wise at last.
[Music heard without.
Hark, hark! again!
All good be with you! I'll return ere long.

[Exeunt Victoria and Isabella.
Alb.
(sola.)
Ay, go, and ev'ry blessing with thee go,
My most tormenting and most pleasing charge!
Like vapour from the mountain stream art thou,
Which lightly rises on the morning air,
And shifts its fleeting form with ev'ry breeze,
For ever varying, and for ever graceful.
Endearing, gen'rous, bountiful and kind;
Vain, fanciful, and fond of worthless praise;
Courteous and gentle, proud and magnificent:
And yet these adverse qualities in thee,
No dissonance, nor striking contrast make;
For still thy good and amiable gifts
The sober dignity of virtue wear not,
And such a 'witching mien thy follies show,
They make a very idiot of reproof,
And smile it to disgrace.—
What shall I do with thee?—It grieves me much
To hear Count Basil is not yet departed.
When from the chace he comes, I'll watch his steps,
And speak to him myself.—
O! I could hate her for that poor ambition,
Which silly adoration only claims,
But that I well remember in my youth
I felt the like — I did not feel it long:
I tore it soon indignant from my breast,
As that which did degrade a noble mind.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

A very beautiful grove in the forest. Music and horns heard afar off, whilst huntsmen and dogs appear passing over the stage, at a great distance. Enter Victoria and Basil, as if just alighted from their horses.
Vict.
(speaking to attendants without).
Lead on our horses to the further grove,
And wait us there.—
(To Bas.)
This spot so pleasing and so fragrant is,
'Twere sacrilege with horses' hoofs to wear
Its velvet turf, where little elfins dance,
And fairies sport beneath the summer's moon:
I love to tread upon it.

Bas.
O! I would quit the chariot of a god
For such delightful footing!

Vict.
I love this spot.

Bas.
It is a spot where one would live and die.

Vict.
See, through the twisted boughs of those high elms,
The sun-beams on the bright'ning foliage play,
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown.
Is it not beautiful?

Bas.
'Tis passing beautiful,
To see the sunbeams on the foliage play,
(in a soft voice).
And tinge the scaled bark with ruddy brown.

Vict.
And here I've stood full often, and admir'd
The graceful bending, o'er that shady pool,
Of you green willow, whose fair sweepy boughs
So kiss their image on the glassy plain,
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream.

Bas.
And I too love to see its drooping boughs
So kiss their image on the glassy plain,
And bathe their leafy tresses in the stream.

Vict.
My lord, it is uncivil in you thus
My very words with mock'ry to repeat.

Bas.
Nay, pardon me, did I indeed repeat?
I meant it not; but when I hear thee speak,
So sweetly dwells thy voice upon mine ear,
My tongue e'en unawares assumes the tone;
As mothers on their lisping infants gaze,
And catch their broken words. I pri'thee, pardon!

Vict.
But we must leave this grove: the birds fly low:
This should forebode a storm, and yet o'erhead
The sky, bespread with little downy clouds
Of purest white, would seem to promise peace.
How beautiful those pretty snowy clouds!

Bas.
Of a most dazzling brightness!

Vict.
Nay, nay, a veil that tempers heav'n's brightness,
Of softest, purest white.

Bas.
As though an angel, in his upward flight,
Had left his mantle floating in mid air.

Vict.
Still most unlike a garment; small and sever'd:
[Turning round, and perceiving that he is gazing at her.
But thou regardst them not.

Bas.
Ah! what should I regard, where should I gaze?
For in that far-shot glance, so keenly wak'd,
That sweetly rising smile of admiration,
Far better do I learn how fair heav'n is,
Than if I gaz'd upon the blue serene.

Vict.
Remember you have promis'd, gentle count,
No more to vex me with such foolish words.

Bas.
Ah! wherefore should my tongue alone be mute?
When every look and every motion tell,
So plainly tell, and will not be forbid,
That I adore thee, love thee, worship thee!
[Victoria looks haughty and displeased.
Ah! pardon me, I know not what I say.
Ah! frown not thus! I cannot see thee frown.
I'll do whate'er thou wilt, I will be silent:
But, O! a reined tongue, and bursting heart,
Are hard at once to bear.—Wilt thou forgive me?

Vict.
We'll think no more of it; we'll quit this spot;
I do repent me that I led thee here.
But 'twas the fav'rite path of a dear friend;
Here many a time we wander'd, arm in arm;
We lov'd this grove, and now that he is absent,
I love to haunt it still.

[Basil starts.
Bas.
His fav'rite path—a friend—here arm in arm—
(Clasping his hands, and raising them to his head).
Then there is such an one!
(Drooping his head, and looking distractedly upon the ground).
I dream'd not of it.

Vict.
(pretending not to see him).
That little lane, with woodbine all o'ergrown,
He lov'd so well!—it is a fragrant path,
Is it not, count?

Bas.
It is a gloomy one!

Vict.
I have, my lord, been wont to think it cheerful.

Bas.
I thought your highness meant to leave this spot?

Vict.
I do, and by this lane we'll take our way;
For here he often walk'd with saunt'ring pace,
And listen'd to the woodlark's evening song.

Bas.
What, must I on his very footsteps go?
Accursed be the ground on which he trode!

Vict.
And is Count Basil so uncourtly grown,
That he would curse my brother to my face?

Bas.
Your brother! gracious God! is it your brother?
That dear, that loving friend of whom you spoke,
Is he indeed your brother?

Vict.
He is, indeed, my lord.

Bas.
Then heaven bless him! all good angels bless him!
I could weep o'er him now, shed blood for him!
I could—O what a foolish heart have I!
[Walks up and down with a hurried step, tossing about his arms in transport; then stops short, and runs up to Victoria.
Is it indeed your brother?

Vict.
It is indeed: what thoughts disturb'd thee so?

Bas.
I will not tell thee; foolish thoughts they were.
Heav'n bless your brother!

Vict.
Ay, heav'n bless him too!
I have but him; would I had two brave brothers,
And thou wert one of them!

Bas.
I would fly from thee to earth's utmost bounds,
Were I thy brother—
And yet, methinks, I would I had a sister.

Vict.
And wherefore would ye so?

Bas.
To place her near thee,
The soft companion of thy hours to prove,
And, when far distant, sometimes talk of me.
Thou couldst not chide a gentle sister's cares.
Perhaps, when rumour from the distant war,
Uncertain tales of dreadful slaughter bore,
Thou'dst see the tear hang on her pale wan cheek,
And kindly say, How does it fare with Basil?

Vict.
No more of this—indeed there must no more.
A friend's remembrance I will ever bear thee.
But see where Isabella this way comes:
I had a wish to speak with her alone;
Attend us here, for soon will we return,
And then take horse again.

[Exit.
Bas.
(looking after her for some time).
See with what graceful steps she moves along,
Her lovely form, in ev'ry action lovely!
If but the wind her ruffled garment raise,
It twists it into some light pretty fold,
Which adds new grace. Or should some small mishap,
Some tangling branch, her fair attire derange,
What would in others strange or awkward seem,
But lends to her some wild bewitching charm.
See, yonder does she raise her lovely arm
To pluck the dangling hedge-flow'r as she goes;
And now she turns her head, as though she view'd
The distant landscape; now methinks she walks
With doubtful ling'ring steps—will she look back?
Ah, no! you thicket hides her from my sight.
Bless'd are the eyes that may behold her still,
Nor dread that ev'ry look shall be the last!
And yet she said she would remember me.
I will believe it: Ah! I must believe it,
Or be the saddest soul that sees the light!
But, lo, a messenger, and from the army!
He brings me tidings; grant they may be good!
Till now I never fear'd what man might utter;
I dread his tale, God grant it may be good!

Enter Messenger.
Mess.
Yes, my lord.

Bas.
What tidings bringst thou?

Mess.
Th' imperial army, under brave Pescara,
Has beat the enemy near Pavia's walls.

Bas.
Ha! have they fought? and is the battle o'er?

Mess.
Yes, conquer'd; ta'en the French king prisoner,
Who, like a noble, gallant gentleman,
Fought to the last, nor yielded up his sword
Till, being one amidst surrounding foes,
His arm could do no more.

Bas.
What dost thou say? who is made pris'ner?
What king did fight so well?

Mess.
The king of France.

Bas.
Thou saidst—thy words do ring so in mine ears,
I cannot catch their sense—the battle's o'er?

Mess.
It is, my lord. Pescara staid your coming,
But could no longer stay. His troops were bold,
Occasion press'd him, and they bravely fought—
They bravely fought, my lord!

Bas.
I hear, I hear thee.
Accurs'd am I, that it should wring my heart
To hear they bravely fought!—
They bravely fought, while we lay ling'ring here.
O! what a fated blow to strike me thus!
Perdition! shame! disgrace! a damned blow!

Mess.
Ten thousand of the enemy are slain;
We too have lost full many a gallant soul.
I view'd the closing armies from afar;
Their close pik'd ranks in goodly order spread,
Which seem'd, alas! when that the fight was o'er,
Like the wild marsh's crop of stately reeds,
Laid with the passing storm. But woe is me!
When to the field I came, what dismal sights!
What waste of life! what heaps of bleeding slain!

Bas.
Would I were laid a red, disfigur'd corse,
Amid those heaps! They fought, and we were absent!
[Walks about distractedly, then stops short.
Who sent thee here?

Mess.
Pescara sent me to inform Count Basil,
He needs not now his aid, and gives him leave
To march his tardy troops to distant quarters.

Bas.
He says so, does he? well, it shall be so.
[Tossing his arms distractedly.
I will to quarters, narrow quarters go,
Where voice of war shall rouse me forth no more.

[Exit.
Mess.
I'll follow after him; he is distracted:—
And yet he looks so wild, I dare not do it.

Enter Victoria, as if frightened, followed by Isabella.
Vict.
(to Isab.)
Didst thou not mark him as he pass'd thee too?

Isab.
I saw him pass, but with such hasty steps I had no time.

Vict.
I met him with a wild disorder'd air,
In furious haste; he stopp'd distractedly,
And gaz'd upon me with a mournful look,
But pass'd away, and spoke not. Who art thou?
(To the messenger).
I fear thou art a bearer of bad tidings.

Mess.
No, rather good, as I should deem it, madam,
Although unwelcome tidings to Count Basil.
Our army hath a glorious battle won;
Ten thousand French are slain, their monarch captive.

Vict.
(to Mess).
Ah, there it is! he was not in the fight.
Run after him I pray—nay, do not so—
Run to his kinsman, good Count Rosinberg,
And bid him follow him—I pray thee run!

Mess.
Nay, lady, by your leave, you seem not well;
I will conduct you hence, and then I'll go.

Vict.
No, no, I'm well enough; I'm very well;
Go, hie thee hence, and do thine errand swiftly.
[Exit messenger.
O what a wretch am I! I am to blame!
I only am to blame!

Isab.
Nay, wherefore say so?
What have you done that others would not do?

Vict.
What have I done? I've fool'd a noble heart—
I've wreck'd a brave man's honour!

[Exit, leaning upon Isabella.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A dark night; no moon; but a few stars glimmering; the stage represents (as much as can be discovered for the darkness) a churchyard with part of a chapel, and a wing of the ducal palace adjoining to it. Enter Basil, with his hat off, his hair and his dress in disorder, stepping slowly, and stopping several times to listen, as if he was afraid of meeting any one.
Bas.
No sound is here: man is at rest, and I
May near his habitations venture forth,
Like some unblessed creature of the night,
Who dares not meet his face.—Her window's dark;
No streaming light doth from her chamber beam,
That I once more may on her dwelling gaze,
And bless her still. All now is dark for me!
[Pauses for some time, and looks upon the graves.
How happy are the dead, who quietly rest
Beneath these stones! each by his kindred laid,
Still in a hallow'd neighbourship with those,
Who when alive his social converse shar'd:
And now perhaps some dear surviving friend
Doth here at times the grateful visit pay,
Read with sad eyes his short memorial o'er,
And bless his mem'ry still!—
But I must like an outcast of my kind,
In some lone spot lay my unburied corse,
To rot above the earth; where, if perchance
The steps of human wand'rer e'er approach,
He'll stand aghast, and flee the horrid place,
With dark imaginations frightful made,—
The haunt of damned sprites. O cursed wretch!
I' the fair and honour'd field shouldst thou have died,
Where brave friends, proudly smiling through their tears,
Had pointed out the spot where Basil lay!
[A light seen in Victoria's window.
But, ha! the wonted, welcome light appears.
How bright within I see her chamber wall!
Athwart it too, a dark'ning shadow moves,
A slender woman's form: it is herself!
What means that motion of its clasped hands?
That drooping head? alas! is she in sorrow?
Alas! thou sweet enchantress of the mind,
Whose voice was gladness, and whose presence bliss,
Art thou unhappy too? I've brought thee woe;
It is for me thou weepst. Ah! were it so,
Fallen as I am, I yet could life endure,
In some dark den from human sight conceal'd,
So, that I sometimes from my haunt might steal,
To see and love thee still. No, no, poor wretch!
She weeps thy shame, she weeps, and scorns thee too.
She moves again; e'en darkly imag'd thus,
How lovely is that form!
[Pauses, still looking at the window.
To be so near thee, and for ever parted!
For ever lost! what art thou now to me?
Shall the departed gaze on thee again?
Shall I glide past thee in the midnight hour,
While thou perceiv'st it not, and thinkst perhaps
'Tis but the mournful breeze that passes by?
[Pauses again, and gazes at the window, till the light disappears.
'Tis gone, 'tis gone! these eyes have seen their last!
The last impression of her heavenly form
The last sight of those walls wherein she lives:
The last blest ray of light from human dwelling.
I am no more a being of this world.
Farewell! farewell! all now is dark for me!
Come fated deed! come horror and despair!
Here lies my dreadful way.

Enter Geoffry, from behind a tomb.
Geof.
O! stay, my gen'ral!

Bas.
Art thou from the grave?

Geof.
O, my brave gen'ral! do you know me not?
I am old Geoffry, the old maimed soldier,
You did so nobly honour.

Bas.
Then go thy way, for thou art honourable;
Thou hast no shame, thou needst not seek the dark
Like fallen, fameless men. I pray thee go!

Geof.
Nay, speak not thus, my noble gen'ral!
Ah! speak not thus! thou'rt brave, thou'rt honour'd still.
Thy soldier's fame is far too surely rais'd
To be o'erthrown with one unhappy chance.
I've heard of thy brave deeds with swelling heart,
And yet shall live to cast my cap in air
At glorious tales of thee.—

Bas.
Forbear, forbear! thy words but wring my soul.

Geof.
O! pardon me! I am old maimed Geoffry.
O! do not go! I've but one hand to hold thee.

[Laying hold of Basil as he attempts to go away. Basil stops, and looks round upon him with softness.
Bas.
Two would not hold so well, old honour'd vet'ran!
What wouldst thou have me do?

Geof.
Return, my lord; for love of blessed heaven,
Seek not such desperate ways! where would you go?

Bas.
Does Geoffry ask where should a soldier go
To hide disgrace? there is no place but one.
[Struggling to get free.
Let go thy foolish hold, and force me not
To do some violence to thy hoary head—
What, wilt thou not? nay, then it must be so.

[Breaks violently from him, and Exit.
Geof.
Curs'd feeble hand! he's gone to seek perdition!
I cannot run. Where is that stupid hind?
He should have met me here. Holla, Fernando!

Enter Fernando.
Fer.
And which way has he gone?

Geof.
Towards the forest, if I guess aright.
But do thou run with speed to Rosinberg,
And he will follow him: run swiftly, man!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A wood, wild and savage; an entry to a cave, very much tangled with brushwood, is seen in the background. The time represents the dawn of morning. Basil is discovered standing near the front of the stage in a thoughtful posture, with a couple of pistols laid by him on a piece of projecting rock; he pauses for some time.
Bas.
(alone).
What shall I be some few short moments hence?
Why ask I now? who from the dead will rise
To tell me of that awful state unknown?
But be it what it may, or bliss or torment,
Annihilation, dark and endless rest,
Or some dread thing, man's wildest range of thought
Hath never yet conceiv'd, that change I'll dare
Which makes me any thing but what I am.
I can bear scorpions' stings, tread fields of fire,
In frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie,
Be toss'd aloft through tracts of endless void,
But cannot live in shame.—(Pauses).
O impious thought!
Will the great God of mercy, mercy have
On all but those who are most miserable?
Will he not punish with a pitying hand
The poor, fall'n, froward child?
(Pauses.)
And shall I then against His will offend,
Because He is most good and merciful?
O! horrid baseness? what, what shall I do?
I'll think no more—it turns my dizzy brain—
It is too late to think—what must be, must be—
I cannot live, therefore I needs must die.
[Takes up the pistols, and walks up and down, looking wildly around him, then discovering the cave's mouth.
Here is an entry to some darksome cave,
Where an uncoffin'd corse may rest in peace,
And hide its foul corruption from the earth.
The threshold is unmark'd by mortal foot.
I'll do it here.

[Enters the cave and Exit; a deep silence; then the report of a pistol is heard from the cave, and soon after, enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, two officers and soldiers, almost at the same moment, by different sides of the stage.
Ros.
This way the sound did come.

Valt.
How came ye, soldiers? heard ye that report?

1st Sol.
We heard it, and it seem'd to come from hence,
Which made us this way hie.

Ros.
A horrid fancy darts across my mind.
[A groan heard from the cave.
(To Valt.) Ha! heardst thou that?
Valt.
Methinks it is the groan of one in pain.

[A second groan.
Ros.
Ha! there again!

Valt.
From this cave's mouth, so dark and chok'd with weeds,
It seems to come.

Ros.
I'll enter first.

1st Off.
My lord, the way is tangled o'er with briers:
Hard by a few short paces to the left,
There is another mouth of easier access;
I pass'd it even now.

Ros.
Then show the way.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The inside of the cave. Basil discovered lying on the ground, with his head raised a little upon a few stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him, and blood upon his breast. Enter Rosinberg, Valtomer, and officers. Rosinberg, upon seeing Basil, stops short with horror, and remains motionless for some time.
Valt.
Great God of heaven! what a sight is this!

[Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down by his side.
Ros.
O Basil! O my friend! what hast thou done?

Bas.
(covering his face with his hand).
Why art thou come? I thought to die in peace.

Ros.
Thou knowst me not—I am thy Rosinberg,
Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman!
Thou dost not say to me, Why art thou come?

Bas.
Shame knows no kindred: I am fall'n, disgrac'd;
My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee.

Ros.
My Basil, noble spirit! talk not thus!
The greatest mind untoward fate may prove:
Thou art our gen'rous, valiant leader still,
Fall'n as thou art—and yet thou art not fall'n;
Who says thou art, must put his harness on,
And prove his words in blood.

Bas.
Ah, Rosinberg! this is no time to boast!
I once had hopes a glorious name to gain;
Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire;
The hour of trial came, and found me wanting.
Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten.—
And O! my friend! something upbraids me here,
[Laying his hand on his breast.
For that I now remember how ofttimes
I have usurp'd it o'er thy better worth,
Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt:
But thou wilt pardon me.—

Ros.
(taking Basil' s hand, and pressing it to his breast).
Rend not my heart in twain! O! talk not thus!
I knew thou wert superior to myself,
And to all men beside: thou wert my pride;
I paid thee def'rence with a willing heart.

Bas.
It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg!
I feel my weakness now, I own my pride.
Give me thy hand, my time is near the close:
Do this for me: thou knowst my love, Victoria—

Ros.
O curse that woman! she it is alone—
She has undone us all!

Bas.
It doubles unto me the stroke of death
To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not!
The fault is mine; she's gentle, good and blameless—
Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil?

Ros.
I will! I will! what wouldst thou have me do?

Bas.
See her when I am gone; be gentle with her;
And tell her that I bless'd her in my death;
E'en in my agonies I lov'd and bless'd her.
Wilt thou do this?—

Ros.
I'll do what thou desir'st

Bas.
I thank thee, Rosinberg; my time draws near.
[Raising his head a little, and perceiving officers.
Is there not some one here? are we alone?

Ros.
(making a sign for the officers to retire).
'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion.

Bas.
Thou knowst this desp'rate deed from sacred rites
Hath shut me out: I am unbless'd of men,
And what I am in sight of th' awful God,
I dare not think; when I am gone, my friend,
O! let a good man's prayers to heav'n ascend
For an offending spirit!—Pray for me.
What thinkest thou? although an outcast here,
May not some heavenly mercy still be found?

Ros.
Thou wilt find mercy—my beloved Basil—
It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected.
I will with bended knee—I will implore—
It chokes mine utterance—I will pray for thee—

Bas.
This comforts me—thou art a loving friend.

[A noise without.
Ros.
(to off. without).
What noise is that?

Enter Valtomer.
Valt.
(to Ros.)
My lord, the soldiers all insist to enter.
What shall I do? they will not be denied:
They say that they will see their noble gen'ral.

Bas.
Ah, my brave fellows! do they call me so?

Ros.
Then let them come.

[Enter soldiers, who gather round Basil, and look mournfully upon him; he holds out his hand to them with a faint smile.
Bas.
My gen'rous soldiers, this is kindly meant.
I'm low i' the dust; God bless you all, brave hearts!

1st Sol.
And God bless you, my noble, noble gen'ral!
We'll never follow such a leader more.

2nd Sol.
Ah! had you staid with us, my noble gen'ral,
We would have died for you.

[3d soldier endeavours next to speak, but cannot; and kneeling down by Basil, covers his face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his face to the wall and weeps.
Bas.
(in a very faint broken voice).
Where art thou? do not leave me, Rosinberg—
Come near to me—these fellows make me weep:
I have no power to weep—give me thy hand—
I love to feel thy grasp—my heart beats strangely—
It beats as though its breathings would be few—
Remember—

Ros.
Is there aught thou wouldst desire?

Bas.
Nought but a little earth to cover me,
And lay the smooth sod even with the ground—
Let no stone mark the spot—give no offence.
I fain would say—what can I say to thee?

[A deep pause; after a feeble struggle, Basil expires.
1st Sol.
That motion was his last.

2nd Sol.
His spirit's fled.

1st Sol.
God grant it peace! it was a noble spirit!

4th Sol.
The trumpet's sound did never rouse a braver.

1st Sol.
Alas! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him more,
Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead.

2nd Sol.
And when that sounds it will not wake a braver.

3d Sol.
How pleasantly he shar'd our hardest toil!
Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made.

4th Sol.
Ay, many a time i' the cold damp plain has he
With cheerful count'nance cried, “Good rest, my hearts!”
Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him down
E'en like the meanest soldier in the field.

[Rosinberg all this time continues hanging over the body, and gazing upon it. Valtomer now endeavours to draw him away.
Valt.
This is too sad, my lord.

Ros.
There, seest thou how he lies? so fix'd, so pale!
Ah! what an end is this! thus lost! thus fall'n!
To be thus taken in his middle course,
Where he so nobly strove; till cursed passion
Came like a sun-stroke on his mid-day toil,
And cut the strong man down. O Basil! Basil!

Valt.
Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow here.

Ros.
He was the younger brother of my soul.

Valt.
Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight.
Time calls us, let the body be remov'd.

Ros.
He was—O! he was like no other man!

Valt.
(still endeavouring to draw him away).
Nay, now forbear.

Ros.
I lov'd him from his birth!

Valt.
Time presses, let the body be remov'd.

Ros.
What sayst thou?

Valt.
Shall we not remove him hence?

Ros.
He has forbid it, and has charg'd me well
To leave his grave unknown? for that the church
All sacred rites to the self-slain denies.
He would not give offence.

1st Sol.
What! shall our gen'ral, like a very wretch,
Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground?
No last salute to bid his soul farewell?
No warlike honours paid? it shall not be.

2nd Sol.
Laid thus? no, by the blessed light of heav'n!
In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls
He shall be laid; in face of day be laid:
And though black priests should curse us in the teeth,
We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power
To grasp a musket.

Several soldiers.
Let those who dare forbid it!

Ros.
My brave companions, be it as you will.

[Spreading out his arms as if he would embrace the soldiers.—They prepare to remove the body.
Valt.
Nay, stop a while, we will not move it now,
For see a mournful visitor appears,
And must not be denied.

Enter Victoria and Isabella.
Vict.
I though to find him here; where has he fled?

[Rosinberg points to the body without speaking; Victoria shrieks out and falls into the arms of Isabella.
Isab.
Alas! my gentle mistress, this will kill thee.

Vict.
(recovering).
Unloose thy hold, and let me look upon him.
O! horrid, horrid sight! my ruin'd Basil!
Is this the sad reward of all thy love?
O! I have murder'd thee!
[Kneels down by the body, and bends over it.
These wasted streams of life! this bloody wound!
[Laying her hand upon his heart.
Is there no breathing here? all still! all cold!
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again,
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee,
In spite of all reproach. Alas! alas!
A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid,
And dost not hear my call.

Ros.
No, madam; now your pity comes too late.

Vict.
Dost thou upbraid me? O! I have deserv'd it!

Ros.
No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid:
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is; in gayer scenes,
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze,
And play the airy goddess of the day,
Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' observing crowd,
Shall mark th' indignant face of Basil's friend,
And then it will upbraid.

Vict.
No, never, never! thus it shall not be.
To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go,
Where sad and lonely, through the dismal grate
Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me.

Ros.
Forgive me, heed me not; I'm griev'd at heart;
I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hateful to me.
If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee;
I must forgive thee: with his dying breath
He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts
Were love to thee; in death he lov'd and bless'd thee.

[Victoria goes to throw herself upon the body, but is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, who support her in their arms, and endeavour to draw her away from it.
Vict.
Oh! force me not away! by his cold corse
Let me lie down and weep. O! Basil, Basil!
The gallant and the brave! how hast thou lov'd me!
If there is any holy kindness in you,
[To Isab. and Valt.
Tear me not hence.
For he lov'd me in thoughtless folly lost,
With all my faults, most worthless of his love;
And him I'll love in the low bed of death,
In horror and decay.—
Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days
In humble pray'r for his departed spirit:
Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed,
As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence.
I will not go, for grief hath made me strong.

[Struggling to get loose.
Ros.
Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow free.
[They let her go, and she throws herself upon the body in an agony of grief.
It doth subdue the sternness of my grief
To see her mourn him thus.—Yet I must curse.—
Heav'n's curses light upon her damned father,
Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck!

Isab.
If he has done it, you are well reveng'd,
For all his hidden plots are now detected.
Gauriecio, for some int'rest of his own,
His master's secret dealings with the foe
Has to Lannoy betray'd; who straight hath sent,
On the behalf of his imperial lord,
A message full of dreadful threats to Mantua.
His discontented subjects aid him not;
He must submit to the degrading terms
A haughty conqu'ring power will now impose.

Ros.
And art thou sure of this?

Isab.
I am, my lord.

Ros.
Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O! I'm glad on't!
It should be so! how like a hateful ape,
Detected, grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard,
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds
Are open'd to the day! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd!
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admir'd
His worthless art. But when a great mind falls,
The noble nature of man's gen'rous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin;
With gentle censure using but his faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity like a dewy twilight comes
To close th' oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admir'd him in his height,
His alter'd state lament, and love him fallen.

[Exeunt.