 | Almida |  |
SCENE III.
Arnolph, Almida.ARNOLPH.
Upon this hoary head, at last with pity
The gods indulgent smile! They give me back
A dear lov'd child, whose menac'd dreadful fate
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Why dost thou droop? our sorrows are no more;
Why thus desponding dost thou turn aside?
ALMIDA.
Ah! I can taste no joy till I see Tancred
Secure of life, and just to his Almida.
ARNOLPH.
I pity thy afflictions: few have tasted
Misfortunes deeper or severer trials.
“Too well I know there are a sort of wounds
“That pierce where most it feels the generous mind
“With deadly anguish hardly to be cur'd.
Yet when kind heaven extends the cup of joy,
To dash it from us were an impious act!
Then be of comfort. Tancred has been hated,
Pursu'd and wrong'd, but now approv'd and honour'd;
Fortune prepares him all thy heart can wish,
Public and private blessings, love and glory.
ALMIDA.
You talk at ease, my lord, while I am tost
In wild anxiety from hope to fear.
Why are they not returned? perhaps he dies!
ARNOLPH.
Fear's trembling pencil, ever dipt in black,
Paints to the mind strange images of woe.
But hope the best; if Tancred presses on
In quest of glory, 'tis a noble wish,
In stronger day to set forth our injustice.
Coldly with measur'd steps to do their duty
Contents the vulgar mind. Not so the hero,
Led by the impulse of his higher soul,
A god-like glow, which scorns the narrow rules
Of prudence unaspiring, on he goes
Beyond our utmost hopes. Thus fights thy Tancred.
Open thy bosom then to peace and joy;
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The people rise already, mov'd with wonder
And pity at his fate. If yet a doubt
Of thee should haunt his breast, one word from me
Will dissipate the cloud—
ALMIDA.
I value not
A headlong people, or their vile affronts,
Their fury credulous, their fickle pity;
Or the vain voice of public approbation,
Sweet to the tranquil heart! but mine is shut,
Deafen'd by miseries to all sense of joy.
My peace, my fame depends alone on Tancred;
And know I'd rather meet a thousand deaths,
Than live one moment unesteem'd by him.
Know too, for wherefore should I now conceal it?
I in my brave deliverer lov'd a husband.
My mother dying heard our tender vows;
Her last sad accents, fervent pour'd to God,
Were breath'd in blessings on our mutual loves!
With her cold hands our trembling ones she join'd;
Our hands that filial clos'd her lifeless eyes!
Kneeling and weeping we attested heaven!
The sacred corpse, that breathless lay before us,
Nature and you—and you, unhappy father!
That we would wait, in your paternal bosom,
Our vows to bind, made sacred by your blessing.
Your life's decline, we said, how vainly said!
Should by our tender cares go down in peace.
Scaffolds and prisons since have prov'd our altars;
My love, my husband seeks a cruel death;
And shame and misery is my bitter portion.
ARNOLPH.
By heaven! thy melancholy tale awakes
The sad idea of long extinguish'd grief,
And cruel recollection. In thy voice
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The dear remembrance of thy mother's softness.
But whither do I err! We shall be happy—
ALMIDA.
Made doubtful by its woes my fearful heart—
| Almida | |