University of Virginia Library

REMORSE

PREFACE

This Tragedy was written in the summer and autumn of the year 1797; at Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and of the manner in which both the Play and the Author were treated by the Recommender, let me be permitted to relate: that I knew of its having been received only by a third person; that I could procure neither answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident I should have had no copy of the Work itself. That such treatment would damp a young man's exertions may be easily conceived: there was no need of after-misrepresentation and calumny, as an additional sedative.

As an amusing anecdote, and in the wish to prepare future Authors, as young as I then was and as ignorant of the world, of the treatment they may meet with, I will add, that the Person who by a twice conveyed recommendation (in the year 1797) had urged me to write a Tragedy: who on my own objection that I was utterly ignorant of all Stage-tactics had promised that he would himself make the necessary alterations, if the Piece should be at all representable; who together with the copy of the Play (hastened by his means so as to prevent the full developement of the characters) received a letter from the Author to this purport, ‘that conscious of his inexperience, he had cherished no expectations, and should therefore feel no disappointment from the rejection of the Play; but that if beyond his hopes Mr. — found in it any capability of being adapted to the Stage, it was delivered to him as if it had been his own Manuscript, to add, omit, or alter, as he saw occasion; and that (if it were rejected) the Author would deem himself amply remunerated by the addition to his Experience, which he should receive, if Mr. — would point out to him the nature of its unfitness for public Representation’;

—that this very Person returned me no answer, and, spite of repeated applications, retained my Manuscript when I was not conscious of any other Copy being in existence (my duplicate having been destroyed by an accident); that he suffered this Manuscript to wander about the Town from his house, so that but ten days ago I saw the song in the third Act printed and set to music, without my name, by Mr. Carnaby, in the year 1802; likewise that the same person asserted (as I have been assured) that the Play was rejected, because I would not submit to the alteration of one ludicrous line; and finally in the year 1806 amused and delighted (as who was ever in his company, if I may trust the universal report, without being amused and delighted?) a large company at the house of a highly respectable Member of Parliament, with the ridicule of the Tragedy, as ‘a fair specimen’, of the whole of which he adduced a line:

‘Drip! drip! drip! there's nothing here but dripping.’

In the original copy of the Play, in the first Scene of the fourth Act, Isidore had commenced his Soliloquy in the Cavern with the words:

‘Drip! drip! a ceaseless sound of water-drops,’

as far as I can at present recollect: for on the possible ludicrous association being pointed out to me, I instantly and thankfully struck out the line. And as to my obstinate tenacity, not only my old acquaintance, but (I dare boldly aver) both the Managers of Drury Lane Theatre, and every Actor and Actress, whom I have recently met in the Green Room, will repel the accusation: perhaps not without surprise.

I thought it right to record these circumstances; but I turn gladly and with sincere gratitude to the converse. In the close of last year I was advised to present the Tragedy once more to the Theatre. Accordingly having altered the names, I ventured to address a letter to Mr. Whitbread, requesting information as to whom I was to present my Tragedy. My Letter was instantly and most kindly answered, and I have now nothing to tell but a Tale of Thanks. I should scarce know where to begin, if the goodness of the Manager, Mr. Arnold, had not called for my first acknowledgements. Not merely as an acting Play, but as a dramatic Poem, the ‘Remorse’ has been importantly and manifoldly benefited by his suggestions. I can with severest truth say, that every hint he gave me was the ground of some improvement. In the next place it is my duty to mention Mr. Raymond, the Stage Manager. Had the ‘Remorse’ been his own Play—nay, that is saying too little—had I been his brother, or his dearest friend, he could not have felt or exerted himself more zealously.

As the Piece is now acting, it may be thought presumptuous in me to speak of the Actors; yet how can I abstain, feeling, as I do, Mrs. Glover's powerful assistance, and knowing the circumstances under which she consented to act Alhadra? A time will come, when without painfully oppressing her feelings, I may speak of this more fully. To Miss Smith I have an equal,

though different acknowledgement to make, namely, for her acceptance of a character not fully developed, and quite inadequate to her extraordinary powers. She enlivened and supported many passages, which (though not perhaps wholly uninteresting in the closet) would but for her have hung heavy on the ears of a Theatrical Audience. And in speaking the Epilogue, a composition which (I fear) my hurry will hardly excuse, and which, as unworthy of her name, is here omitted, she made a sacrifice, which only her established character with all judges of Tragic action, could have rendered compatible with her duty to herself. To Mr. De Camp's judgement and full conception of Isidore; to Mr. Pope's accurate representation of the partial, yet honourable Father; to Mr. Elliston's energy in the character of Alvar, and who in more than one instance gave it beauties and striking points, which not only delighted but surprised me; and to Mr. Rae, to whose zeal, and unwearied study of his part, I am not less indebted as a Man, than to his impassioned realization of Ordonio, as an Author;—to these, and to all concerned with the bringing out of the Play, I can address but one word— Thanks!—but that word is uttered sincerely! and to persons constantly before the eye of the Public, a public acknowledgement becomes appropriate, and a duty.

I defer all answers to the different criticisms on the Piece to an Essay, which I am about to publish immediately, on Dramatic Poetry, relatively to the present State of the Metropolitan Theatres.

From the necessity of hastening the Publication I was obliged to send the Manuscript intended for the Stage: which is the sole cause of the number of directions printed in italics.

PROLOGUE

There are, I am told, who sharply criticise
Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.
We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,
Who think a house can never be too large:
Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,
Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;
And pleased to mark the grin from space to space
Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.—
O might old Betterton or Booth return
To view our structures from their silent urn,
Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades—
Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,
He imitates the ways of men above,
And apes the actions of our upper coast,
As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:—
How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.—
Their houses yet were palaces to those,
Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose.
Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage,
Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage,
Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
He who could tame his vast ambition down
To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,
And, if some hundred auditors supplied
Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands
Return'd the tribute of as many hands!
Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
To such an audience as salutes us now.
He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise.
Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,
Or came to see a youth with awkward art
And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
The very use, since so essential grown,
Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,
The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest—
The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
Where Jaques fed his solitary vein—
No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
Seen only by the intellectual eye.
Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,
Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,
That (be the laurel granted or denied)
He first essay'd in this distinguished fane,
Severer muses and a tragic strain.

EPILOGUE

[Poring over the manuscript.
An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty
From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,
Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,
‘A six years' absence was a heavy thing!’
Heavy!—nay, let's describe things as they are,
With sense and nature 'twas at open war—
Mere affectation to be singular.
Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,
Think first of poor Teresa's education;
'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,
Where sea-gales play'd with her dishevel'd locks,
Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,
With no Academies for ladies young—
Academies—(sweet phrase!) that well may claim
From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!
No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances—
And then for reading—what but huge romances,
With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,
As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.
Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,
And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;
Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,
Instead of—novels founded upon facts!
Which, decently immoral, have the art
To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,
Dire disimproving disadvantages,
And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,
E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.
[Looking at the manuscript.
But stop! what's this?—Our Poet bids me say,
That he has woo'd your feelings in this Play
By no too real woes, that make you groan,
Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,
Yet with no image compensate the mind,
Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,
To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear
That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),
By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.

REMORSE

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 1813–1834.

• Marquis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and Doña Teresa's
• Guardian.
• Don Alvar, the eldest son.
• Don Ordonio, the youngest son.
• Monviedro, a Dominican and Inquisitor.
• Zulimez, the faithful attendant on Alvar.
• Isidore, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian.
• Familiars of the Inquisition.
• Naomi.
• Moors, Servants, &c.
• Doña Teresa, an Orphan Heiress.
• Alhadra, Wife of Isidore.
• Familiars of the Inquisition.
• Moors, Servants, &c.

Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against them, shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of death.

ACT I

Scene I

The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.
Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat cloak, and Zulimez (a Moresco), both as just landed.
Zulimez.
No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!

Alvar.
My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment
Let me forget my anguish and their crimes.
If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.
Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I press
Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!

Zulimez.
Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,
Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.
It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,
And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!

Alvar.
Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,
Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet
Ordonio's brother.

Zulimez.
Nobly-minded Alvar!
This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.

Alvar.
The more behoves it I should rouse within him
Remorse! that I should save him from himself.

Zulimez.
Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:
If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost
Weeps only tears of poison!

Alvar.
And of a brother,
Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort
To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,
That this same life, which he conspired to take,
Himself once rescued from the angry flood,
And at the imminent hazard of his own.
Add too my oath—

Zulimez.
You have thrice told already
The years of absence and of secrecy,
To which a forced oath bound you; if in truth
A suborned murderer have the power to dictate
A binding oath—

Alvar.
My long captivity
Left me no choice: the very wish too languished
With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babe
Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother.
But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;
The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,
No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:
In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,
When with abhorrence of his own black purpose
The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,
Fell from his palsied hand—

Zulimez.
Heavy presumption!

Alvar.
It weighed not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all;
As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base
Of yonder cliff—

Zulimez.
That rocky seat you mean,
Shaped by the billows?—

Alvar.

Zulimez.
Proceed, my lord!

Alvar.
A portrait which she had procured by stealth,
(For even then it seems her heart foreboded
Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)
A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
She tied around my neck, conjuring me,
With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred
To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,
Till she had won a solemn promise from me,
That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it
Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,
Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.

Zulimez.
A damning proof!

Alvar.
My own life wearied me!
And but for the imperative voice within,
With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.
That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I sought
The Belgic states: there joined the better cause;
And there too fought as one that courted death!
Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.
The fulness of my anguish by degrees
Waned to a meditative melancholy;
And still the more I mused, my soul became
More doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,
Night after night, she visited my sleep,
Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!
Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,
I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!
Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here
In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—
The Moorish robes?—

Zulimez.
All, all are in the sea-cave,
Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners
Secrete the boat there.

Alvar.
Above all, the picture
Of the assassination—

Zulimez.
Be assured
That it remains uninjured.

Alvar.
Thus disguised
I will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife!
If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,
And this the hour; her words, her very looks
Will acquit her or convict.

Zulimez.
Will they not know you?

Alvar.
With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly
Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,
My long imprisonment, the scanty food,
This scar—and toil beneath a burning sun,
Have done already half the business for us.
Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.
Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice
A hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:
And what the mind believes impossible,
The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

Zulimez.
'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.
Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,
Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,
I'll seek our mariners; and in the dusk
Transport whate'er we need to the small dell
In the Alpujarras—there where Zagri lived.

Alvar.
[Both stand listening.
[Exeunt.

Scene II

Enter Teresa and Valdez.
Teresa.
I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son
And Alvar's brother.

Valdez.
Love him for himself,
Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

Teresa.
I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,
But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain
Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

Valdez.
Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,
And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
Thy dying father comes upon my soul
With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;
I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,
And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
The victim of a useless constancy.
I must not see thee wretched.

Teresa.
There are woes
Ill bartered for the garishness of joy!
If it be wretched with an untired eye
To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,
To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
All past hours of delight! If it be wretched
To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
To go through each minutest circumstance
Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;
(As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid
Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune
He used to play, and listened to the shadow
Herself had made)—if this be wretchedness,
And if indeed it be a wretched thing
To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
That I had died, died just ere his return!
Then see him listening to my constancy,
Or hover round, as he at midnight oft
Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
Or haply in some more fantastic mood,
To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
And there to wait his coming! O my sire!
My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
If in a most assured reality
He should return, and see a brother's infant
Smile at him from my arms?
Oh what a thought!

Valdez.
A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.
The very week he promised his return—

Teresa.
Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,
After those three years' travels! we had no fears—
The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.
Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,
The tumult of our joy! What then if now—

Valdez.
O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant fancies—
Hectic and unrefreshed with rest—

Teresa.
My father!

Valdez.
The sober truth is all too much for me!
I see no sail which brings not to my mind
The home-bound bark in which my son was captured
By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!

Teresa.
Oh no! he did not!

Valdez.
Captured in sight of land!
From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
We might have seen—

Teresa.
His capture, not his death.

Valdez.
Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale
Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio
Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,
In the same storm that baffled his own valour,
And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:
Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,
Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,
And most delight his spirit, go, make thou
His brother happy, make his aged father
Sink to the grave in joy.

Teresa.
For mercy's sake
Press me no more! I have no power to love him.
His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:
My love, a timorous and tender flower,
Closes beneath his touch.

Valdez.
You wrong him, maiden!
You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
To character by such unkindly phrases
The stir and workings of that love for you
Which he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,
Nor is it grateful in you to forget
His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
With an heroic fearlessness of danger
He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.
It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.

Teresa.
Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!
It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
Beyond myself, if I but hear of one
Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
A six years' absence is a heavy thing,
Yet still the hope survives—

Valdez
(looking forward).
Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

Teresa.
The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?

Enter Monviedro with Alhadra.
Monviedro.
Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord,
My present need is with your son.
We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.
Enter from the opposite side Don Ordonio.
My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman
(Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

Ordonio.
Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?

Monviedro.
My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
To his false creed, so recently abjured,
The secret servants of the Inquisition
Have seized her husband, and at my command
To the supreme tribunal would have led him,
But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
As surety for his soundness in the faith.
Though lessoned by experience what small trust
The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,
Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
Thus far prevailed with me that—

Ordonio.
Reverend father,
I am much beholden to your high opinion,
Which so o'erprizes my light services.
[Then to Alhadra.
I would that I could serve you; but in truth
Your face is new to me.

Monviedro.
My mind foretold me
That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely
Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
Should prove the patron of this infidel!
The warranter of a Moresco's faith!
Now I return.

Alhadra.
My Lord, my husband's name
Is Isidore. (Ordonio starts.)
You may remember it:
Three years ago, three years this very week,
You left him at Almeria.

Monviedro.
Palpably false!
This very week, three years ago, my lord,
(You needs must recollect it by your wound)
You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!
What, is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks!

Valdez.
You pressed upon him too abruptly, father!
The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.

Ordonio.
O Heavens! I?—I doted?
Yes! I doted on him.

[Ordonio walks to the end of the stage, Valdez follows.
Teresa.
I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard?
Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
Should force itself upon me?—Yet I feel it!

Monviedro.
The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
I will return. In very truth, I grieve
To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

Alhadra
(to Teresa).
O gentle lady! make the father stay,
Until my lord recover. I am sure,
That he will say he is my husband's friend.

Teresa.
Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover.

Ordonio
(as they return, to Valdez).
Strange, that this Monviedro
Should have the power so to distemper me!

Valdez.
Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

Monviedro.
My lord, I truly grieve—

Ordonio.
Tut! name it not.
A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
As to this woman's husband, I do know him.
I know him well, and that he is a Christian.

Monviedro.
I hope, my lord, your merely human pity
Doth not prevail—

Ordonio.
'Tis certain that he was a catholic;
What changes may have happened in three years.
I can not say; but grant me this, good father:
Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound,
You'll grant me your authority and name
To liberate his house.

Monviedro.
Your zeal, my lord,
And your late merits in this holy warfare
Would authorize an ampler trust—you have it.

Ordonio.
I will attend you home within an hour.

Valdez.
Meantime return with us and take refreshment.

Alhadra.
Not till my husband's free! I may not do it.
I will stay here.

Teresa
(aside).
Who is this Isidore?

Valdez.
Daughter!

Teresa.
With your permission, my dear lord,
I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

[Exeunt Valdez, Monviedro and Ordonio.
Alhadra.
Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
A scathing curse!
You hate him, don't you, lady?

Teresa.
Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.

Alhadra.
These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood!
As I came on, his face so maddened me,
That ever and anon I clutched my dagger
And half unsheathed it—

Teresa.
Be more calm, I pray you.

Alhadra.
And as he walked along the narrow path
Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager;
'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
That his Familiars held my babes and husband.
To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,
And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,
O, it had been most sweet!

Teresa.
Hush! hush for shame!
Where is your woman's heart?

Alhadra.
O gentle lady!
You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
Many and strange! Besides, I am a Christian,
And Christians never pardon—'tis their faith!

Teresa.
Shame fall on those who so have shewn it to thee!

Alhadra.
I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me.
Five years ago (and he was the prime agent),
Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

Teresa.
What might your crime be?

Alhadra.
I was a Moresco!
They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
Into a dungeon of their prison house,
Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
It was a toil to breathe it! when the door,
Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down.
Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
Brought daily; for the little wretch was sickly—
My rage had dried away its natural food.
In darkness I remained—the dull bell counting,
Which haply told me, that the all-cheering sun
Was rising on our garden. When I dozed,
My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers
And waked me.—If you were a mother, lady,
I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.

Teresa.
O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.

Alhadra.
What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
That such as you should hear it.—Know you not,
What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?
Great evils ask great passions to redress them,
And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

Teresa.
You were at length released?

Alhadra.
Yes, at length
I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven!
'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more—
For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady,
A trance comes on which makes me o'er again
All I then was—my knees hang loose and drag,
And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh,
That you would start and shudder!

Teresa.
But your husband—

Alhadra.
A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.

Teresa.
Alas, poor man!

Alhadra.
He hath a lion's courage,
Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;
Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
He worships nature in the hill and valley,
Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all—

Enter Alvar disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments.
Teresa.
Know you that stately Moor?

Alhadra.
I know him not:
But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.

Teresa.
The Alpujarras? Does he know his danger,
So near this seat?

Alhadra.
He wears the Moorish robes too,
As in defiance of the royal edict.

[Alhadra advances to Alvar, who has walked to the back of the stage, near the rocks. Teresa drops her veil.
Alhadra.
Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor,
Monviedro, of known hatred to our race—

Alvar.
You have mistaken me. I am a Christian.

Alhadra.
He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him:
Speak to him, Lady—none can hear you speak,
And not believe you innocent of guile.

Teresa.
If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir—

Alhadra.
He trembles strangely.

[Alvar sinks down and hides his face in his robe.
Teresa.
See, we have disturbed him.
[Approaches nearer to him.
I pray you, think us friends—uncowl your face,
For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.
I pray you, think us friends!

Alvar
(raising his head).
Calm, very calm!
'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
And she spoke to me with her innocent voice,
That voice, that innocent voice! She is no traitress!

Teresa.
Let us retire

(haughtily to Alhadra).
Alhadra.
He is indeed a Christian.

Alvar
(aside).
She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment!
Why should my brother's—wife—wear mourning garments?
[To Teresa.
Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturbed you:
I had just started from a frightful dream.

Teresa.
Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said,
They prophesy—

Alvar.
The Past lives o'er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit
The ever-frowning Present is its image.

Teresa.
Traitress!
(Then aside.)
What sudden spell o'ermasters me?
Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman?

Alvar.
I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant
With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid,
Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me:
For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her.
This maid so idolized, that trusted friend
Dishonoured in my absence, soul and body!
Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,
And murderers were suborned against my life.
But by my looks, and most impassioned words,
I roused the virtues that are dead in no man,
Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms,
And thanked me for redeeming them from murder.

Alhadra.
You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady!

Teresa.
From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
And slight things bring on me the idle mood!
Well sir, what happened then?

Alvar.
On a rude rock,
A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs,
Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale
Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed,
And I were sitting in the world of spirits—
For all things seemed unreal! There I sate—
The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear,
That woods, and sky, and mountains, seemed one havock.
The second flash of lightning shewed a tree
Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous:
My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm,
And with loud voice and clamorous agony,
Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made me,
Prayed, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable
As the gored lion's bite!

Teresa.
A fearful curse!

Alhadra.
But dreamt you not that you returned and killed them?
Dreamt you of no revenge?

Alvar.
She would have died
Died in her guilt—perchance by her own hands!
And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts:
For still I loved her!

Alhadra.
And you dreamt all this?

Teresa.
My soul is full of visions all as wild!

Alhadra.
There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.

Teresa
(lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar).
Stranger, farewell! I guess not who you are,
Nor why you so addressed your tale to me.
Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me,
With obscure memory of something past,
Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
Tricks of a fancy pampered with long wishing.
If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling,
Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,
Drove you to this, your not ungentle, wildness—
You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you,
And you need strength to drag them into light,
The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,
Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

[Exeunt Teresa and Alhadra.
Alvar
(alone).
'Tis strange! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio!
Her Lord Ordonio! Nay, I will not do it!
I cursed him once—and one curse is enough!
How sad she looked, and pale! but not like guilt—
And her calm tones—sweet as a song of mercy!
If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent?
Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her?
But ere she married him, he had stained her honour;
Ah! there I am hampered. What if this were a lie
Framed by the assassin? Who should tell it him,
If it were truth? Ordonio would not tell him.
Yet why one lie? all else, I know, was truth.
No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience!
And she referred to me—fondly, methought!
Could she walk here if she had been a traitress?
Here where we played together in our childhood?
Here where we plighted vows? where her cold cheek
Received my last kiss, when with suppressed feelings
She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
'Tis not in nature! I will die believing,
That I shall meet her where no evil is,
No treachery, no cup dashed from the lips.
I'll haunt this scene no more! live she in peace!
Her husband—aye her husband! May this angel
New mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, heaven,
That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!

[Exit.

ACT II

Scene I

A wild and mountainous country. Ordonio and Isidore are discovered, supposed at a little distance from Isidore's house.
Ordonio.
Here we may stop: your house distinct in view,
Yet we secured from listeners.

Isidore.
Now indeed
My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock,
That over-brows it! Patron! Friend! Preserver!
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle
You gave it me: next rescued me from suicide
When for my follies I was made to wander,
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them:
Now but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones
Had been my bed and pillow.

Ordonio.
Good Isidore!
Why this to me? It is enough, you know it.

Isidore.
A common trick of gratitude, my lord,
Seeking to ease her own full heart—

Ordonio.
Enough!
A debt repaid ceases to be a debt.
You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

Isidore.
And how, my lord? I pray you to name the thing.
I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice
To pluck a weed you fancied!

Ordonio.
Why—that—Lady—

Isidore.
'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you:
Have you a son, my lord?

Ordonio.
O miserable—
[Aside.
Isidore! you are a man, and know mankind.
I told you what I wished—now for the truth—
She loved the man you kill'd.

Isidore.
You jest, my lord?

Ordonio.
And till his death is proved she will not wed me.

Isidore.
You sport with me, my lord?

Ordonio.
Come, come! this foolery
Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it!

Isidore.
I can bear this, and any thing more grievous
From you, my lord—but how can I serve you here?

Ordonio.
Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics—

Isidore.
I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

Ordonio.
In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true:
Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense!
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye:
And such do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of—
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

Isidore.
Will that be a sure sign?

Ordonio.
Beyond suspicion.
Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
(By some base spell he had bewitched her senses)
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth,
As made this heart pour gall into my veins.
And as she coyly bound it round his neck
She made him promise silence; and now holds
The secret of the existence of this portrait
Known only to her lover and herself.
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

Isidore.
But now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse—
But this I can not do.

Ordonio.
Where lies your scruple?

Isidore.
Why—why, my lord!
You know you told me that the lady lov'd you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness;
That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both
Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
Than those which being native to the heart,
Than those, my lord, which merely being a man—

Ordonio.
This fellow is a Man—he killed for hire
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples!
[Then turning to Isidore.
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering—
Pish, fool! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
Spelling thy villainy.

Isidorc.
My lord—my lord,
I can bear much—yes, very much from you!
But there's a point where sufferance is meanness:
I am no villain—never kill'd for hire—
My gratitude—

Ordonio.
O aye—your gratitude!
'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it?

Isidore.
Who proffers his past favours for my virtue—

Ordonio.
Virtue—

Isidore.
Tries to o'erreach me—is a very sharper,
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord.
I knew not 'twas your brother!

Ordonio.
And who told you?

Isidore.
He himself told me.

Ordonio.
Ha! you talk'd with him!
And those, the two Morescoes who were with you?

Isidore.
Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga.

Ordonio
(in a low voice).
My brother—

Isidore.
Yes, my lord, I could not tell you!
I thrust away the thought—it drove me wild.
But listen to me now—I pray you listen—

Ordonio.
Villain! no more. I'll hear no more of it.

Isidore.
My lord, it much imports your future safety
That you should hear it.

Ordonio
(turning off from Isidore).
Am not I a man!
'Tis as it should be! tut—the deed itself
Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler!

Isidore.
We met him in the very place you mentioned.
Hard by a grove of firs—

Ordonio.
Enough—enough—

Isidore.
He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;
In fine, compelled a parley.

Ordonio.
Alvar! brother!

Isidore.
He offered me his purse—

Ordonio.
Yes?

Isidore.
Yes—I spurned it.—
He promised us I know not what—in vain!
Then with a look and voice that overawed me,
He said, What mean you, friends? My life is dear:
I have a brother and a promised wife,
Who make life dear to me—and if I fall,
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
There was a likeness in his face to yours;
I asked his brother's name: he said—Ordonio,
Son of Lord Valdez! I had well nigh fainted.
At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ,)
That woman is dishonoured by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propt his back—
Aye, just as you look now—only less ghastly!
At length recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life,
It was not worth his keeping.

Ordonio.
And you kill'd him?
Oh blood hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
He was his Maker's Image undefac'd!
It seizes me—by Hell I will go on!
What—would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!
Oh cold—cold—cold! shot through with icy cold!

Isidore
(aside).
Were he alive he had returned ere now.
The consequence the same—dead through his plotting!

Ordonio.

Isidore.
You are disturbed, my lord!

Ordonio
(starts).
A gust of the soul! i'faith it overset me.
O 'twas all folly—all! idle as laughter!
Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.

Isidore
(in a low voice).
I'll perish first!

Ordonio.
What dost thou mutter of?

Isidore.
Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

Ordonio.
There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.

Isidore.
They'll know my gait: but stay! last night I watched
A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers.
I had followed him at distance, seen him scale
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
Stole after him unnoticed. There I marked,
That mid the chequer work of light and shade
With curious choice he plucked no other flowers,
But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard—
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.

Ordonio.
Doubtless you question'd him?

Isidore.
'Twas my intention,
Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
Lurk every where, already (as it seemed)
Had given commission to his apt familiar
To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
In that lone place, again concealed myself:
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
And in your name, as lord of this domain,
Proudly he answered, ‘Say to the Lord Ordonio,
He that can bring the dead to life again!’

Ordonio.
A strange reply!

Isidore.
Aye, all of him is strange.
He called himself a Christian, yet he wears
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.

Ordonio.
Where does this wizard live?

Isidore
(pointing to the distance).
You see that brooklet?
Trace its course backward: through a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.

Ordonio.
How shall I know it?

Isidore.
You cannot err. It is a small green dell
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake;
And there, a curious sight! you see its shadow
For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it.

Ordonio
(in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and then turning round to Isidore).
Ha!—Who lurks there! Have we been overheard?
There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters—

Isidore.
'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other,
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch?
Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy,
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head,
And staring at his bough from morn to sun-set,
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises.

Ordonio.
'Tis well, and now for this same wizard's lair.

Isidore.
Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
O'er the old thatch.

Ordonio.
I shall not fail to find it.

[Exeunt Ordonio and Isidore.

Scene II

The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar, Zulimez and Alhadra, as on the point of leaving.
Alhadra
(addressing Alvar).
Farewell then! and though many thoughts perplex me,
Aught evil or ignoble never can I
Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art,
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
Of such a leader.

Alvar.
[Exit Alhadra.

Zulimez.
And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
You let a murderer hold?

Alvar.
O faithful Zulimez!
That my return involved Ordonio's death,
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
Yet bearable:—but when I see my father
Strewing his scant grey hairs, e'en on the ground,
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa—
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants
His infants—poor Teresa!—all would perish,
All perish—all! and I (nay bear with me)
Could not survive the complicated ruin!

Zulimez.

Alvar.
What if it were my brother coming onwards?
I sent a most mysterious message to him.

Enter Ordonio
Alvar.
It is he!

Ordonio
(to himself as he enters).
If I distinguish'd right her gait and stature,
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife,
That passed me as I entered. A lit taper,
In the night air, doth not more naturally
Attract the night-flies round it, than a conjuror
Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood.
[Addressing Alvar.
You know my name, I guess, if not my person.
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez.

Alvar.
The Son of Valdez!

[Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks attentively at the plants.
Zulimez
(to Alvar).
Why, what ails you now?
How your hand trembles! Alvar, speak! what wish you?

Alvar.
To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness!

Ordonio
(returning, and aloud).

Alvar.
I am he.

Ordonio.
With you, then, I am to speak:
[Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez.
And mark you, alone.
[Exit Zulimez.
‘He that can bring the dead to life again!’—
Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
But one that strips the outward rind of things!

Alvar.
'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds,
That are all dust and rottenness within.
Would'st thou I should strip such?

Ordonio.
Thou quibbling fool,
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journeyed hither
To sport with thee?

Alvar.
O no, my lord! to sport
Best suits the gaiety of innocence.

Ordonio
(aside).
[Looks round the cottage.

Alvar.
What follows thence?

Ordonio.
That you would fain be richer.
The inquisition, too—You comprehend me?
You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power,
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty:
And for the boon I ask of you but this,
That you should serve me—once—for a few hours.

Alvar.
Thou art the son of Valdez! would to Heaven
That I could truly and for ever serve thee.

Ordonio.
[Aside.

Alvar
(aside).
Alas! this hollow mirth—Declare your business.

Ordonio.
I love a lady, and she would love me
But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
Have you no servants here, no listeners?

[Ordonio steps to the door.
Alvar.
What, faithless too? False to his angel wife?
To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
Ill-starr'd Teresa!—Wretch! my softer soul
Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience!

Ordonio.
In truth this lady lov'd another man,
But he has perish'd.

Alvar.
What! you kill'd him? hey?

Ordonio.
[Turns abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself.

Alvar.
Fare thee well—
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.

[Alvar is retiring.
Ordonio.
Ho!

[Calling to Alvar.
Alvar.
Be brief, what wish you?

Ordonio.
You are deep at bartering—You charge yourself
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

Alvar.
I listen to you.

Ordonio.
In a sudden tempest
Did Alvar perish—he, I mean—the lover—
The fellow—

Alvar.
Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart
To call him villain!—Why stand'st thou aghast?
Men think it natural to hate their rivals.

Ordonio.
Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me.

Alvar.
Are you not wedded, then? Merciful Heaven!
Not wedded to Teresa?

Ordonio.
Why, what ails thee?
What, art thou mad? why look'st thou upward so?
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air?

Alvar.
Proceed. I shall be silent.

Ordonio.
To Teresa?
Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
In all my fortunes. Hah! you prophesied
A golden crop! Well, you have not mistaken—
Be faithful to me and I'll pay thee nobly.

Alvar.
Well! and this lady!

Ordonio.
If we could make her certain of his death,
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
She tied a little portrait round his neck,
Entreating him to wear it.

Alvar.
Yes! he did so!

Ordonio.
Why no: he was afraid of accidents,
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like.
In secrecy he gave it me to keep,
Till his return.

Alvar.
What! he was your friend then?

Ordonio.

Alvar.
Ordonio, I will do it.

Ordonio.
We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night,
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez.
I will prepare him. Music too, and incense,
(For I have arranged it—music, altar, incense)
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
And here, what you will value more, a purse.
Come early for your magic ceremonies.

Alvar.
I will not fail to meet you.

Ordonio.
Till next we meet, farewell!

[Exit Ordonio.
Alvar
(alone, indignantly flings the purse away and gazes passionately at the portrait).

ACT III

Scene I

A Hall of Armory, with an Altar at the back of the Stage. Soft Music from an instrument of Glass or Steel.

Valdez, Ordonio, and Alvar in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered.
Ordonio.
This was too melancholy, Father.

Valdez.
Nay,
My Alvar lov'd sad music from a child.
Once he was lost; and after weary search
We found him in an open place in the wood.
To which spot he had followed a blind boy,
Who breath'd into a pipe of sycamore
Some strangely moving notes: and these, he said,
Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank:
And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd me
To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe
A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
Methinks I see him now as he then look'd—
Even so!—He had outgrown his infant dress,
Yet still he wore it.

Alvar
(aside).
My tears must not flow!
I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father!

Enter Teresa and Attendants.
Teresa.
Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here,
And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me)
My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.

Ordonio.
Believe you then no preternatural influence:
Believe you not that spirits throng around us?

Teresa.
Say rather that I have imagined it
A possible thing: and it has sooth'd my soul
As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me
To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.
[To Alvar.
Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here,
On such employment! With far other thoughts
I left you.

Ordonio
(aside).
Ha! he has been tampering with her?

Alvar.

[Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scene.
Alvar.
[Music.
[Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words, ‘Hear, Sweet Spirit.’

Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Instrument as before.
[A long pause.
Ordonio.
The innocent obey nor charm nor spell!
My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit,
Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!
Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
O 'twere a joy to me!

Alvar.
A joy to thee!
What if thou heard'st him now? What if his spirit
Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee
With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?
What (if his stedfast eye still beaming pity
And brother's love) he turn'd his head aside,
Lest he should look at thee, and with one look
Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

Valdez.
These are unholy fancies!

Ordonio.
Yes, my father,
He is in Heaven!

Alvar
(still to Ordonio).
But what if he had a brother,
Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour,
The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face,
More than the death-pang?

Valdez.
Idly prating man!
Thou hast guess'd ill: Don Alvar's only brother
Stands here before thee—a father's blessing on him!
He is most virtuous.

Alvar
(still to Ordonio).
What, if his very virtues
Had pampered his swoln heart and made him proud?
And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
Yet still he stalked a self-created god,
Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning;
And one that at his mother's looking-glass
Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
Young Lord! I tell thee, that there are such beings—
Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,
To see these most proud men, that loath mankind,
At every stir and buzz of coward conscience,
Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites!
Away, away! Now let me hear more music.

[Music again.
Teresa.
'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures!
But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer
Be present at these lawless mysteries,
This dark provoking of the hidden Powers!
Already I affront—if not high Heaven—
Yet Alvar's memory!—Hark! I make appeal
Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence
To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek
That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens,
Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

Alvar
(to Teresa).
O full of faith and guileless love, thy Spirit
Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt
Surprise the guilty: thou art innocent!
[Exeunt Teresa and Attendant. Music as before.
The spell is mutter'd—Come, thou wandering shape,
Who own'st no master in a human eye,
Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul,
If he be dead, O come! and bring with thee
That which he grasp'd in death! But if he live,
Some token of his obscure perilous life.

[The whole Music clashes into a Chorus.
CHORUS
Wandering demons, hear the spell!
Lest a blacker charm compel—

[The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and an illuminated picture of Alvar's assassination is discovered, and having remained a few seconds is then hidden by ascending flames.
Ordonio
(starting).
Duped! duped! duped!—the traitor Isidore!

[At this instant the doors are forced open, Monviedro and the Familiars of the Inquisition, Servants, &c., enter and fill the stage.
Monviedro.
First seize the sorcerer! suffer him not to speak!
The holy judges of the Inquisition
Shall hear his first words.—Look you pale, Lord Valdez?
Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery.
There is a dungeon underneath this castle,
And as you hope for mild interpretation,
Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it.

Ordonio
(recovering himself as from stupor, to Servants).
Why haste you not? Off with him to the dungeon!

[All rush out in tumult.

Scene II

Interior of a Chapel, with painted Windows.
Enter Teresa.
Teresa.
When first I entered this pure spot, forebodings
Press'd heavy on my heart: but as I knelt,
Such calm unwonted bliss possess'd my spirit,
A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by,
Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear
As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm
Beats on the roof of some fair banquet-room,
While sweetest melodies are warbling—

Enter Valdez.
Valdez.
Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness,
And extricate us from this net of peril!

Teresa.
Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril?

Valdez.
O best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted!
This was no feat of mortal agency!
That picture—Oh, that picture tells me all!
With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanished,
Self-kindled, self-consum'd: bright as thy life,
Sudden and unexpected as thy fate,
Alvar! My son! My son!—The Inquisitor—

Teresa.
Torture me not! But Alvar—Oh of Alvar?

Valdez.
How often would he plead for these Morescoes!
The brood accurst! remorseless, coward murderers!

Teresa.
So? so?—I comprehend you—He is—

Valdez.
He is no more!

Teresa.
O sorrow! that a father's voice should say this,
A Father's Heart believe it!

Valdez.
A worse sorrow
Are fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing!

Teresa.
These rays that slant in through those gorgeous windows,
From yon bright orb—though coloured as they pass,
Are they not light?—Even so that voice, Lord Valdez!
Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied
By many a fancy, many a wishful hope,
Speaks yet the truth: and Alvar lives for me!

Valdez.
Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other,
He has lived for thee—a spirit for thy spirit!
My child, we must not give religious faith
To every voice which makes the heart a listener
To its own wish.

Teresa.
I breath'd to the Unerring
Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd,
Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune
Save with the lying spirit, claim belief?

Valdez.

Teresa.
Off, false demon,
That beat'st thy black wings close above my head!
[Ordonio enters with the keys of the dungeon in his hand.
Hush! who comes here? The wizard Moor's employer!
Moors were his murderers, you say? Saints shield us
From wicked thoughts—
[Valdez moves towards the back of the stage to meet Ordonio, and during the concluding lines of Teresa's speech appears as eagerly conversing with him.

[Retires out of sight.
Ordonio
(as he advances with Valdez).
These are the dungeon keys. Monviedro knew not,
That I too had received the wizard's message,
‘He that can bring the dead to life again.’
But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme
To work a full conviction on the culprit,
And he entrusts him wholly to my keeping.

Valdez.
'Tis well, my son! But have you yet discovered
(Where is Teresa?) what those speeches meant—
Pride, and hypocrisy, and guilt, and cunning?
Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you,
And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trembled—
Why—why, what ails you now?—

Ordonio.
Me? what ails me?
A pricking of the blood—It might have happen'd
At any other time.—Why scan you me?

Valdez.
His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers,
Bore reference to the assassins—

Ordonio.
[A pause, then wildly.

Valdez.
True—sorcery
Merits its doom; and this perchance may guide us
To the discovery of the murderers.
I have their statures and their several faces
So present to me, that but once to meet them
Would be to recognize.

Ordonio.
Yes! yes! we recognize them.
I was benumb'd, and staggered up and down
Through darkness without light—dark—dark—dark!
My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled
As had a snake coil'd round them!—Now 'tis sunshine,
And the blood dances freely through its channels!
[Then to himself.
This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore!
[Then mimicking Isidore's manner and voice.
‘A common trick of gratitude, my lord!’
Old Gratitude! a dagger would dissect
His ‘own full heart’—'twere good to see its colour.

Valdez.
These magic sights! O that I ne'er had yielded
To your entreaties! Neither had I yielded,
But that in spite of your own seeming faith
I held it for some innocent stratagem,
Which love had prompted, to remove the doubts
Of wild Teresa—by fancies quelling fancies!

Ordonio.
Love! love! and then we hate! and what? and wherefore?
Hatred and love! fancies opposed by fancies!
What? if one reptile sting another reptile?
Where is the crime? The goodly face of nature
Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it.
Are we not all predestined transiency,
And cold dishonour? Grant it, that this hand
Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
Somewhat too early—Where's the crime of this?
That this must needs bring on the idiotcy
Of moist-eyed penitence—'tis like a dream!

Valdez.
Wild talk, my son! But thy excess of feeling—
Almost I fear it hath unhinged his brain.

Ordonio
(Teresa reappears and advances slowly).
Say, I had laid a body in the sun!
Well! in a month there swarm forth from the corse
A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings
In place of that one man.—Say, I had kill'd him!
[Teresa stops listening.
Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all
Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy,
As that one life, which being push'd aside,
Made room for these unnumbered—

Valdez.
O mere madness!

[Teresa moves hastily forwards, and places herself directly before Ordonio.
Ordonio.
Teresa? or the phantom of Teresa?

Teresa.
[A pause.

Ordonio.

[Strides off towards the altar, but returns as Valdez is speaking.
Teresa.
[To Valdez.

Valdez.
Urge him not—not now!
This we beheld. Nor he nor I know more,
Than what the magic imagery revealed.
The assassin, who pressed foremost of the three—

Ordonio.
A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain,
Whom I will strangle!

Valdez.
While his two companions—

Ordonio.
Dead! dead already! what care we for the dead?

Valdez
(to Teresa).
Pity him! soothe him! disenchant his spirit!
These supernatural shews, this strange disclosure,
And this too fond affection, which still broods
O'er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it—
These, struggling with his hopeless love for you,
Distemper him, and give reality
To the creatures of his fancy.

Ordonio.

Valdez.
Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors,—say rather,
He was their advocate; but you had march'd
With fire and desolation through their villages.—
Yet he by chance was captured.

Ordonio.
Unknown, perhaps,
Captured, yet as the son of Valdez, murdered.
Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle lady?

Valdez.
What seek you now?

Teresa.
A better, surer light
To guide me—

Both Valdez and Ordonio.
Whither?

Teresa.
To the only place
Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart.
These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me!
Detain me not! a dim power drives me hence,
And that will be my guide.

Valdez.
To find a lover!
Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty?
O folly and shame! Tempt not my rage, Teresa!

Teresa.
Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage.
And am I hastening to the arms—O Heaven!
I haste but to the grave of my belov'd!

[Exit, Valdez following after her.
Ordonio.
This, then, is my reward! and I must love her?
Scorn'd! shudder'd at! yet love her still? yes! yes!
By the deep feelings of revenge and hate
I will still love her—woo her—win her too!
[A pause.
Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait
Found on the wizard—he, belike, self-poison'd
To escape the crueller flames—My soul shouts triumph!
The mine is undermined! blood! blood! blood!
They thirst for thy blood! thy blood, Ordonio!
[A pause.
The hunt is up! and in the midnight wood
With lights to dazzle and with nets they seek
A timid prey: and lo! the tiger's eye
Glares in the red flame of his hunter's torch!
To Isidore I will dispatch a message,
And lure him to the cavern! aye, that cavern!
He cannot fail to find it. Thither I'll lure him,
Whence he shall never, never more return!
[Looks through the side window.
A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea,
And now 'tis gone! All shall be done to-night.
[Exit.

ACT IV

Scene I

A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight is seen on one side at the further end of it; supposed to be cast on it from a crevice in a part of the cavern out of sight. Isidore alone, an extinguished torch in his hand.
Isidore.
Thanks to that little crevice,
Which lets the moonlight in! I'll go and sit by it.
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep—
Any thing but this crash of water drops!
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence
With puny thwartings and mock opposition!
So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear.
[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of moonlight: and returns.
A hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of!
I was just in—and those damn'd fingers of ice
Which clutch'd my hair up! Ha!—what's that—it mov'd.

[Isidore stands staring at another recess in the cavern. In the mean time Ordonio enters with a torch, and halloes to Isidore.
Isidore.
I swear that I saw something moving there!
The moonshine came and went like a flash of lightning—
I swear, I saw it move.

Ordonio
(goes into the recess, then returns).
A jutting clay stone
Drops on the long lank weed, that grows beneath:
And the weed nods and drips.

Isidore.
A jest to laugh at!
It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.

Ordonio.
What scar'd you, then?

Isidore.
[Lights his torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it.

Ordonio.
It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you.

Isidore.
If every atom of a dead man's flesh
Should creep, each one with a particular life,
Yet all as cold as ever—'twas just so!
Or had it drizzled needle-points of frost
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald—

Ordonio.
Why, Isidore,
I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,
I grant you, even a brave man for a moment—
But such a panic—

Isidore.
When a boy, my lord!
I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm,
Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and rattle
Against its horrid sides: then hung my head
Low down, and listened till the heavy fragments
Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well,
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
A living thing came near—unless, perchance,
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould
Close at its edge.

Ordonio.
Art thou more coward now?

Isidore.
Call him, that fears his fellow-man, a coward!
I fear not man—but this inhuman cavern,
It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
Beside, (you'll smile, my lord) but true it is,
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted
By what had passed between us in the morning.
O sleep of horrors! Now run down and stared at
By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance—
Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,
But only being afraid—stifled with fear!
While every goodly or familiar form
Had a strange power of breathing terror round me!
I saw you in a thousand fearful shapes;
And, I entreat your lordship to believe me,
In my last dream—

Ordonio.
Well?

Isidore.
I was in the act
Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
Wak'd me: she heard my heart beat.

Ordonio.
Strange enough!
Had you been here before?

Isidore.
Never, my lord!
But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly,
Than in my dream I saw—that very chasm.

Ordonio
(after a pause).
I know not why it should be! yet it is—

Isidore.
What is, my lord?

Ordonio.
Abhorrent from our nature
To kill a man.—

Isidore.
Except in self-defence.

Ordonio.
Why that's my case; and yet the soul recoils from it—
'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
Have sterner feelings?

Isidore.
Something troubles you.
How shall I serve you? By the life you gave me,
By all that makes that life of value to me,
My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness,
When ten strides off we know 'tis cheerful moonlight,
Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart.
It must be innocent.

Ordonio.
Thyself be judge.
One of our family knew this place well.

Isidore.
Who? when? my lord?

Ordonio.
What boots it, who or when?
Hang up thy torch—I'll tell his tale to thee.
[They hang up their torches on some ridge in the cavern.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despised them, yet revered himself.

Isidore
(aside).
He? He despised? Thou'rt speaking of thyself!
I am on my guard, however: no surprise.
[Then to Ordonio.
What, he was mad?

Ordonio.
All men seemed mad to him!
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And pressed his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion.

Isidore.
[Aside.

Ordonio.

Isidore.
I have a prattler three years old, my lord!
In truth he is my darling. As I went
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep—
But I am talking idly—pray proceed!
And what did this man?

Ordonio.

Isidore.
I would, my lord, you were by my fire-side,
I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight,
But I do listen—pray proceed, my lord.

Ordonio.
Where was I?

Isidore.
He of whom you tell the tale—

Ordonio.
Surveying all things with a quiet scorn,
Tamed himself down to living purposes,
The occupations and the semblances
Of ordinary men—and such he seemed!
But that same over ready agent—he—

Isidore.
Ah! what of him, my lord?

Ordonio.
[Ordonio grasps his sword, and turns off from Isidore, then after a pause returns.

Isidore.
A dark tale darkly finished! Nay, my lord!
Tell what he did.

Ordonio.
That which his wisdom prompted—
He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
And here he kill'd the traitor.

Isidore.
No! the fool!
He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen
That he who gulled thee with a whimpered lie
To murder his own brother, would not scruple
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous,
And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

Ordonio.
Thou would'st not then have come, if—

Isidore.
Oh yes, my lord!
I would have met him arm'd, and scar'd the coward.

[Isidore throws off his robe; shews himself armed, and draws his sword.
Ordonio.
Now this is excellent and warms the blood!
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance
Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of—
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Isidore.

[They fight, Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in disarming him throws his sword up that recess opposite to which they were standing. Isidore hurries into the recess with his torch, Ordonio follows him; a loud cry of ‘Traitor! Monster!’ is heard from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns alone.
Ordonio.
I have hurl'd him down the chasm! treason for treason.
He dreamt of it: henceforward let him sleep,
A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.
His dream too is made out—Now for his friend.

[Exit Ordonio.

Scene II

The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle, with the Iron Gate of a Dungeon visible.
Teresa.
Heart-chilling superstition! thou canst glaze
Ev'n pity's eye with her own frozen tear.
In vain I urge the tortures that await him;
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
My second mother, shuts her heart against me!
Well, I have won from her what most imports
The present need, this secret of the dungeon
Known only to herself.—A Moor! a Sorcerer!
No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,
I doubt not that Ordonio had suborned him
To act some part in some unholy fraud;
As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
And that Ordonio meditates revenge!
But my resolve is fixed! myself will rescue him,
And learn if haply he knew aught of Alvar.

Enter Valdez.
Valdez.
Still sad?—and gazing at the massive door
Of that fell dungeon which thou ne'er had'st sight of,
Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shap'd it
When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats.
Now by my faith, girl! this same wizard haunts thee!
A stately man, and eloquent and tender—
Who then need wonder if a lady sighs
Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans—

Teresa.
The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy,
If it were possible I could feel more,
Even though the dearest inmates of our household
Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are—

Valdez.
Hush, thoughtless woman!

Teresa.
Nay, it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

Valdez.
No more of this—
What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us!
I dare not listen to you.

Teresa.
My honoured lord,
These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
As if to give a voice to the mute image.

Valdez.
—We have mourned for Alvar.
Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.
Have I no other son?

Teresa.
Speak not of him!
That low imposture! That mysterious picture!
If this be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it.

Valdez.
Is this well?

Teresa.

Valdez.
Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! was it not enough,
That thou hast made my son a restless man,
Banish'd his health, and half unhing'd his reason;
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion?
And toil to blast his honour? I am old,
A comfortless old man!

Teresa.
O grief! to hear
Hateful entreaties from a voice we love!

Enter a Peasant and presents a letter to Valdez.
Valdez
(reading it).
‘He dares not venture hither!’ Why, what can this mean?
‘Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition,
That watch around my gates, should intercept him;
But he conjures me, that without delay
I hasten to him—for my own sake entreats me
To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd—
He will reveal a secret, the joy of which
Will even outweigh the sorrow.’—Why what can this be?
Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem,
To have in me a hostage for his safety.
Nay, that they dare not! Ho! collect my servants!
I will go thither—let them arm themselves.

[Exit Valdez.
Teresa
(alone).
The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd,
Yet anxious listener! I have seem'd to hear
A low dead thunder mutter thro' the night,
As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep.
O Alvar! Alvar! that they could return,
Those blessed days that imitated heaven,
When we two wont to walk at eventide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard
The voice of that Almighty One who loved us
In every gale that breathed, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seemed to heave up a weight
Of bliss, that pressed too heavy on the heart.
[A pause.
And this majestic Moor, seems he not one
Who oft and long communing with my Alvar
Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence,
And guides me to him with reflected light?
What if in yon dark dungeon coward treachery
Be groping for him with envenomed poniard—
Hence, womanish fears, traitors to love and duty—
I'll free him.

[Exit Teresa.

Scene III

The mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress.
Alhadra.

[She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra, and remain silent till Naomi enters.
Naomi.
Woman! May Alla and the Prophet bless thee!
We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments?

Alhadra
(raising her eyes, and looking round on the circle).
Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle!
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted: and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften.

Naomi.
Where is Isidore?

Alhadra.
This night I went from forth my house, and left
His children all asleep: and he was living!
And I return'd and found them still asleep,
But he had perished—

All Morescoes.
Perished?

Alhadra.
He had perished!
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless—a desolate orphan!
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder?

One Moresco
(to another).
Did she say his murder?

Naomi.
Murder? Not murdered?

Alhadra.
Murdered by a Christian!

[They all at once draw their sabres.
Alhadra
(to Naomi, who advances from the circle).
[He steps forward to take it.
Dost thou dare receive it?
For I have sworn by Alla and the Prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez!
[A pause.
Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer!

Naomi.
He dies, by Alla!

All
(kneeling).
By Alla!

Alhadra.
This night your chieftain armed himself,
And hurried from me. But I followed him
At distance, till I saw him enter—there!

Naomi.
The cavern?

Alhadra.
Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern
After a while I saw the son of Valdez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise entered.
There was another and a longer pause;
And once, methought I heard the clash of swords!
And soon the son of Valdez re-appeared:
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seemed as he were mirthful! I stood listening,
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

Naomi.
Thou called'st him?

Alhadra.

Naomi.
Comfort her, Alla!

Alhadra.
I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony that cannot be remembered,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last: my husband's death-groan!

Naomi.
Haste! let us onward.

Alhadra.
I looked far down the pit—
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment:
And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked,
My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fire,
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turned into blood—I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm,
When on the farther brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance!—Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Isidore!
Spirit of Isidore! thy murderer lives!
Away! away!

All.
Away! away!

[She rushes off, all following her.

ACT V

Scene I

A Dungeon.
Alvar (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds.
Alvar.

[Retires out of sight.
Enter Teresa with a taper.
Teresa.
It has chilled my very life—my own voice scares me;
Yet when I hear it not I seem to lose
The substance of my being—my strongest grasp
Sends inwards but weak witness that I am.
I seek to cheat the echo.—How the half sounds
Blend with this strangled light! Is he not here—
[Looking round.
O for one human face here—but to see
One human face here to sustain me.—Courage!
It is but my own fear! The life within me,
It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame,
Beyond which I scarce dare look onward! Oh!
If I faint? If this inhuman den should be
At once my death-bed and my burial vault?

[Faintly screams as Alvar emerges from the recess.
Alvar
(rushes towards her, and catches her as she is falling).
O gracious heaven! it is, it is Teresa!
Shall I reveal myself? The sudden shock
Of rapture will blow out this spark of life,
And joy complete what terror has begun.
O ye impetuous beatings here, be still!
Teresa, best beloved! pale, pale, and cold!
Her pulse doth flutter! Teresa! my Teresa!

Teresa
(recovering).
I heard a voice; but often in my dreams
I hear that voice! and wake and try—and try—
To hear it waking! but I never could—
And 'tis so now—even so! Well! he is dead—
Murdered perhaps! and I am faint, and feel
As if it were no painful thing to die!

Alvar.
Believe it not, sweet maid! Believe it not,
Belovéd woman! 'Twas a low imposture
Framed by a guilty wretch.

Teresa.
Ha! Who art thou?

Alvar.
Suborned by his brother—

Teresa.
Didst thou murder him?
And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man,
I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!

Alvar.
Ordonio—he—

Teresa.
If thou didst murder him—
His spirit ever at the throne of God
Asks mercy for thee: prays for mercy for thee,
With tears in Heaven!

Alvar.
Alvar was not murdered.
Be calm! Be calm, sweet maid!

Teresa.
[A pause.
[A pause.

Alvar.
I can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer
Exists but in the stain upon his face.
That picture—

Teresa.
Ha! speak on!

Alvar.
Beloved Teresa!
It told but half the truth. O let this portrait
Tell all—that Alvar lives—that he is here!
Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

[Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her.
Teresa
(receiving the portrait).
The same—it is the same! Ah! Who art thou?
Nay, I will call thee, Alvar!

[She falls on his neck.
Alvar.
O joy unutterable!
But hark! a sound as of removing bars
At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while
Conceal thyself, my love! It is Ordonio.
For the honour of our race, for our dear father;
O for himself too (he is still my brother)
Let me recall him to his nobler nature,
That he may wake as from a dream of murder!
O let me reconcile him to himself,
Open the sacred source of penitent tears,
And be once more his own beloved Alvar.

Teresa.
O my all virtuous love! I fear to leave thee
With that obdurate man.

Alvar.
Thou dost not leave me!
But a brief while retire into the darkness:
O that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee!

Teresa.
The sound of thy voice shall be my music!
Alvar! my Alvar! am I sure I hold thee?
Is it no dream? thee in my arms, my Alvar!

[Exit.
[A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and Ordonio enters, with a goblet in his hand.
Ordonio.
Hail, potent wizard! in my gayer mood
I poured forth a libation to old Pluto,
And as I brimmed the bowl, I thought on thee.
Thou hast conspired against my life and honour,
Hast tricked me foully; yet I hate thee not.
Why should I hate thee? this same world of ours,
'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain,
And we the air-bladders that course up and down,
And joust and tilt in merry tournament;
And when one bubble runs foul of another,
The weaker needs must break.

Alvar.
I see thy heart!
There is a frightful glitter in thine eye
Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man,
This is the revelry of a drunken anguish,
Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
And quell each human feeling.

Ordonio.
Feeling! feeling!
The death of a man—the breaking of a bubble—
'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes;
But faintness, cold and hunger—curses on me
If willingly I e'er inflicted them!
Come, take the beverage; this chill place demands it.

[Ordonio proffers the goblet.
Alvar.
Yon insect on the wall,
Which moves this way and that its hundred limbs,
Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
It were an infinitely curious thing!
But it has life, Ordonio! life, enjoyment!
And by the power of its miraculous will
Wields all the complex movements of its frame
Unerringly to pleasurable ends!
Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim
I would remove it with an anxious pity!

Ordonio.
What meanest thou?

Alvar.
There's poison in the wine.

Ordonio.
Thou hast guessed right; there's poison in the wine.
There's poison in't—which of us two shall drink it?
For one of us must die!

Alvar.
Whom dost thou think me?

Ordonio.
The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.

Alvar.
I know him not.
And yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately.
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman?
Isidore? Isidore?

Ordonio.
Good! good! that lie! by heaven it has restored me.
Now I am thy master!—Villain! thou shalt drink it,
Or die a bitterer death.

Alvar.
[Alvar takes the goblet, and throws it to the ground.

Ordonio.
Thou mountebank!

Alvar.
Mountebank and villain!
What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
What boots a weapon in a withered arm?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,
And turn it to a motionless distraction!
Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
Thy faith in universal villainy,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
For all thy human brethren—out upon them!
What have they done for thee? have they given thee peace?
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made
The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight?
Art happy when alone? Can'st walk by thyself
With even step and quiet cheerfulness?
Yet, yet thou may'st be saved—

Ordonio.
Saved? saved?

Alvar.
One pang!
Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

Ordonio.
He told me of the babes that prattled to him,
His fatherless little ones! remorse! remorse!
Where got'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse!
Can it give up the dead, or recompact
A mangled body? mangled—dashed to atoms!
Not all the blessings of a host of angels
Can blow away a desolate widow's curse!
And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,
It will not weigh against an orphan's tear!

Alvar.
But Alvar—

Ordonio.
Ha! it chokes thee in the throat,
Even thee; and yet I pray thee speak it out.
Still Alvar!—Alvar!—howl it in mine ear!
Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart,
And shoot it hissing through my brain!

Alvar.
Alas!
That day when thou didst leap from off the rock
Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother,
And bore him to the strand; then, son of Valdez,
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar!
Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee,
And thou wert dear to him: heaven only knows
How very dear thou wert! Why did'st thou hate him!
O heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,
And weep forgiveness!

Ordonio.
Spirit of the dead!
Methinks I know thee! ha! my brain turns wild
At its own dreams!—off—off, fantastic shadow!

Alvar.
I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not!

Ordonio.
Cheat! villain! traitor! whatsoever thou be—
I fear thee, man!

Teresa
(rushing out and falling on Alvar's neck).
[Ordonio runs upon Alvar with his sword. Teresa flings herself on Ordonio and arrests his arm.

Alvar.

Ordonio
(drawing back, and gazing at Alvar).
Touch me not!
Touch not pollution, Alvar! I will die.

[He attempts to fall on his sword, Alvar and Teresa prevent him.
Alvar.
We will find means to save your honour. Live,
Oh live, Ordonio! for our father's sake!
Spare his grey hairs!

Teresa.
And you may yet be happy.

Ordonio.
O horror! not a thousand years in heaven
Could recompose this miserable heart,
Or make it capable of one brief joy!
Live! live! Why yes! 'Twere well to live with you:
For is it fit a villain should be proud?
My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!
[Kneeling.
Forgive me, Alvar!—Curse me with forgiveness!

Alvar.
Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee!
Now is the time for greatness! Think that heaven—

Teresa.
O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.

Ordonio.
Yes, mark his eye! there's fascination in it!
Thou said'st thou did'st not know him—That is he!
He comes upon me!

Alvar.
Heal, O heal him, heaven!

Ordonio.
Nearer and nearer! and I can not stir!
Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
He would have died to save me, and I killed him—
A husband and a father!—

Teresa.
Some secret poison
Drinks up his spirits!

Ordonio.
Let the eternal justice
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world—
I will not bear to live—to live—O agony!
And be myself alone my own sore torment!

[The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush Alhadra, and the band of Morescoes.
Alhadra.
Seize first that man!

[Alvar. presses onward to defend Ordonio.
Ordonio.
Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword.
Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it!
Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength
With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes.

Alhadra.
My husband—

Ordonio.
Yes, I murdered him most foully.

Alvar and Teresa.
O horrible!

Alhadra.
Why did'st thou leave his children?
Demon, thou should'st have sent thy dogs of hell
To lap their blood. Then, then I might have hardened
My soul in misery, and have had comfort.
I would have stood far off, quiet though dark,
And bade the race of men raise up a mourning
For a deep horror of desolation,
Too great to be one soul's particular lot!
Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.
The time is not yet come for woman's anguish,
I have not seen his blood—Within an hour
Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
Where is our father? I shall curse thee then!
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence!

Teresa.
He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee!
O let him live! That agéd man, his father—

Alhadra.
Why had he such a son?
[Shouts from the distance of Rescue! Rescue! Alvar! Alvar! and the voice of Valdez heard.
Rescue?—and Isidore's spirit unavenged?—
The deed be mine!
[Suddenly stabs Ordonio.

Ordonio
(staggering from the wound).
Atonement!

Alvar
(while with Teresa supporting Ordonio).
Arm of avenging Heaven
Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope—
But go! my word was pledged to thee.

Ordonio.
Away!
Brave not my Father's rage! I thank thee! Thou—
[Then turning his eyes languidly to Alvar.
She hath avenged the blood of Isidore!
I stood in silence like a slave before her
That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
And satiate this self-accusing heart
With bitterer agonies than death can give.
Forgive me, Alvar!
[Dies.

[Alvar and Teresa bend over the body of Ordonio.
Alhadra
(to the Moors).
I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordained it wisely,
That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
In misery, which makes the oppressed Man
Regardless of his own life, makes him too
Lord of the Oppressor's—Knew I a hundred men
Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world;
The deep foundations of iniquity
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;
The strongholds of the cruel men should fall,
Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall;
Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing,
And all that were and had the spirit of life,
Sang a new song to her who had gone forth,
Conquering and still to conquer!

[Alhadra hurries off with the Moors; the stage fills with armed Peasants, and Servants, Zulimez and Valdez at their head. Valdez rushes into Alvar's arms.
Alvar.
Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide,
Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy
Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing.

[Both kneel to Valdez.
Valdez.
My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless him, heaven!

Teresa.
Me too, my Father?

Valdez.
Bless, Oh bless my children!

[Both rise.
Alvar.
Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief,
Were ominous. In these strange dread events
Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
Our inward Monitress to guide or warn,
If listened to; but if repelled with scorn,
At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears!
Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late!
And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.

APPENDIX

Enter Teresa and Selma.
Teresa.
'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly,
As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

Selma.
Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be
That joined your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,
As often as I think of those dear times,
When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase; then bid me sing to you—
'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been!

Teresa.
But that entrance, Selma?

Selma.
Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Teresa.
No one.

Selma.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina—angels rest his soul;
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth:
But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together chained in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;
A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized,
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobbed like a child—it almost broke his heart:
And once he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.

Teresa.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

Selma.
He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
He lived and died among the savage men.