University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Enter DON FRANCIS and DONNA LOUISA.
Francis.
Let hope return and spread her silken wing,
And smile beneath the canopy of love;
The heav'n born mind, where virtue sits enthron'd,
Should be serene, nor waste itself in sighs.

Louisa.
Talk not of love, while sympathetic pain,
And keenest sorrows, rive the boldest heart;
While thousands fall at freedom's sacred shrine,
And bathe her pedestal with the rich blood
Of the best soldiers that the world can boast;
While the fond wife droops o'er her dying lord,
And orphan'd babes, and widow'd matrons weep,
Thrown helpless, on a cold, ungrateful world,
As pitiless as winter's frozen hand.

Francis.
For human woes my heart has often bled—
Yet dry thy tears, and calm thy ruffled mind—
Anticipate my bliss, and bid me live:—
Oh! give thy hand, and plight thy sacred vow,
Ere war's hoarse clarion summons to the field,
That nought but death shall tear thee from my arms.

Louisa.
Why wilt thou urge and importune my vows
While all my soul is agony and grief?—
Name love no more, till peace shall bless the land;
When redden'd wrath no longer lifts the sword,
Dip'd to the hilt in rancour's baneful stream—
That the steel'd heart may deeper plunge the blade,
Without a sigh—when from the gaping wound,
Out rushes, staring, the astonish'd soul
Of his lov'd friend, or of a brother slain.
Ah!—whither do I rove—let me retire,
Lest I betray the weakness of my heart.

Francis.
O might I claim that tender trickling tear,
And call those sighs my own—they'd waft me on
Towards the field of fame, with fresh blown hope,
That ere tomorrow's sun engulphs his brow,
And cools his steeds beyond the western main,
I might return victorious to thine arms,
And lay my trophies at Louisa's feet.

Louisa.
And what these trophies—but a brother's spoils?
Who is the victim thy success would doom
To infamy—disgrace—despair and death?

Francis.
Ah! there's the pain—the sharpest pang I feel
To lift the sword, and tread the hostile ground.
The Conde Haro is a virtuous foe.

Louisa.
The Conde Haro—is—Louisa's brother—
The only heir of Don Velasco's house—
And if he falls—fate severs us forever.

Francis.
Forever!—revoke the sentence ere it reaches heaven.

Louisa.
Forever. Remember this, and spare De Haro's blood.

Francis.
But, if in battle he should bravely fall—

Louisa.
A stern, enrag'd, inexorable sire,
Might hold Louisa guilty of his death.

Francis.
Just Heaven forbid!—Could he arraign a mind
As pure and spotless as the infant morn?

Louisa.
Velasco is to royalty alli'd,
A feudal lord, of ancient pedigree;
In rank, in wealth, in fame, the first in Spain;
His high swoln pride bursts forth in peals of rage,
Whene'er he talks or names the rebel chiefs;
Forbids his son to spare a single life,
If fortune makes him master of the field:—
Think then what agonies pervade my breast.

Francis.
When honour calls, and justice wields the sword,
True virtue spares, and clemency forgives;
But when a fierce, tyrannic lust of sway,
Deforms the soul, and blots out nature's stamp,
The wolf, or tyger, prowling for his prey,
Is less a savage than the monster man.

Louisa.

Francis.
What makes me bless'd beyond the power of fate.

Louisa.
Deception oft beneath a limsy veil,
Hides human hearts, nor lets man know himself.
Should fortune snatch the victory from thee—
Thyself—thy friends—and freedom lost at once—
Perhaps you'll curse, in agonies of grief,
Louisa's house—her venerated sire—
Her noble brother—and yet more I dread—
Yes—my lip trembles at the rising thought—
The hapless daughter of thy cruel foe.
Is thy love proof against this test severe?—

Francis.
Description would but beggar love like mine;
Measure the earth and mount beyond the stars,
There's nought below can bound its full extent;
Not death itself can blot thee from my heart.

Louisa.
Then am I thine!—witness ye heavenly powers!—
This is the signet of thy wedded wife;
[Gives him a ring.
In the last exigence weigh well its worth,
And claim thy life from Don Velasco's hand.
This was the pledge of his Zelinda's faith:
Knowing the sallies of his haughty soul—
In a fond moment of paternal love.
He kiss'd my cheek, and caught my trembling hand,
Fix'd on my finger this invalu'd gem,
And by a solemn oath he bound his soul,
To grant each prayer when this should plead its claim.

Francis.
Language is poor, and time itself would fail
To speak the raptures of my grateful heart.

Louisa.
What have I done—my filial love,
And the connubial ties—at variance set—
A brother's life against a husband's stak'd—
My country's weal, with loyalty at war—
Confusion—tumult—death and slaughter reign;
As if the demons leap'd Tartarus' bounds
To sport with misery and grin at pain.

Francis.
Heaven has the means to extricate from woe,
Though veil'd from man—if patience waits his will:—
When fortitude, her sister virtue joins,
They both triumphant, meet a just reward.
Adieu, my love—my duty bids me haste;
[Trumpets without.
Soon I return, victorious from the field,
And clasp an angel to my faithful breast.

[Exit.
Louisa,
solus.

[Exit.