University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

Tancred. Siffredi. Rodolpho. Sigismunda. Laura.
Tancred.
(throwing himself down by Sigismunda.
Quick! here! bring Aid!—All in Palermo bring
Whose Skill can save Her!—Ah! that gentle Bosom
Pours fast the Streams of Life.

Sigismunda.
All Aid is vain,
I feel the powerful Hand of Death upon me—
But O it sheds a Sweetness thro' my Fate,
That I am thine again; and, without Blame,
May in my Tancred's Arms resign my Soul!

Tancred.
Oh, Death is in that Voice! so gently mild,
So sadly sweet, as mixes even with mine
The Tears of hovering Angels!—Mine again!—
And is it thus the cruel Fates have join'd Us?
Are These the horrid Nuptials they prepare
For Love like ours? Is Virtue thus rewarded?
Let not my impious Rage accuse just Heaven!
Thou, Tancred! Thou! hast murder'd Sigismunda!
That furious Man was but the Tool of Fate,
I, I the Cause!—But I will do Thee Justice
On this deaf Heart! that to thy tender Wisdom
Refus'd an Ear—Yes, Death shall soon unite us!

Sigismunda.
Live, live, my Tancred!—Let my Death suffice
To expiate all that may have been amiss.
May it appease the Fates, avert their Fury
From thy propitious Reign! Meantime, of me
And of thy Glory mindful, live, I charge Thee,
To guard our Friends, and make thy People happy—
[Observing Siffredi fixt in Astonishment and Grief.
My Father!—Oh! how shall I lift my Eyes
To Thee my sinking Father!

Siffredi.
Awful Heaven!
I am chastis'd!—My dearest Child!—

Sigismunda.
Where am I?
A fearful Darkness closes all around—
My Friends! We needs must part—I must obey
Th' imperious Call—Farewel, my Laura! cherish
My poor afflicted Father's Age—Rodolpho,
Now is the Time to watch th' unhappy King,
With all the Care and Tenderness of Friendship—
Oh my dear Father! bow'd beneath the Weight
Of Age and Grief—the Victim even of Virtue!
Receive my last Adieu!—Where art thou, Tancred?
Give me thy Hand—But ah!—it cannot save me
From the dire King of Terrors, whose cold Power
Creeps o'er my Heart—Oh!

Tancred.
How these Pangs distract me!
O lift thy gracious Eyes!—Thou leav'st me then!
Thou leav'st me, Sigismunda!

Sigismunda.
Yet a Moment—
I had, my Tancred, something more to say—
Yes—but thy Love and Tenderness for me
Sure makes it needless—Harbour no Resentment
Against my Father; venerate his Zeal,
That acted from a Principle of Goodness,
From faithful Love to Thee—Live, and maintain
My Innocence imbalm'd, with holiest Care
Preserve my spotless Memory!—I die—
Eternal Mercy take my trembling Soul!—
Oh! 'tis the only Sting of Death! to part
From Those we love—from Thee—farewel, my Tancred!

[Dies.
Tancred.
Thus then!

[Flying to his Sword is held by Rodolpho.
Rodolpho.
Hold! hold! my Lord!—Have you forgot
Your Sigismunda's last Request already?

Tancred.
Off! Set me free! Think not to bind me down,
With barbarous Friendship, to the Rack of Life!
What Hand can shut the Thousand Thousand Gates,
Which Death still opens to the Woes of Mortals?—
I shall find Means—No Power in Earth or Heaven
Can force me to endure the hateful Light,
Thus robb'd of all that lent it Joy and Sweetness!
Off! Traitors! off! or my distracted Soul
Will burst indignant from this Jail of Nature!
To where she beckons yonder—No, mild Seraph!
Point not to Life—I cannot linger here,
Cut off from Thee, the miserable Pity,
The Scorn of Human-kind!—A trampled King!
Who let his mean poor-hearted Love, one Moment,
To coward Prudence stoop; who made it not
The first undoubting Action of his Reign,
To snatch Thee to his Throne, and there to shield Thee,
Thy helpless Bosom from a Ruffian's Fury!—
O Shame! O Agony! O the fell Stings
Of late, of vain Repentance!—Ha! my Brain
Is all on fire! a wild Abyss of Thought!—
Th' infernal World discloses! See! behold him!
Lo! with fierce Smiles he shakes the bloody Steel,
And mocks my feeble Tears!—Hence! quickly, hence!
Spurn his vile Carcass! give it to the Dogs!
Expose it to the Winds and screaming Ravens!
Or hurl it down that fiery Steep to Hell,
There with his Soul to toss in Flames for ever!—
Ah, Impotence of Rage!—What am I?—Where?
Sad, silent, all?—The Forms of dumb Despair,
Around some mournful Tomb!—What do I see?
This soft Abode of Innocence and Love
Turn'd to the House of Death! a Place of Horror!—
Ah! that poor Corse! pale! pale! deformed with Murder!
Is that my Sigismunda!

[Throwing himself down by Her.
Siffredi.
[After a pathetic Pause, looking on the Scene before him.