University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The wildest Alpine scenery of ice-mountains and precipices covered with snow, in the environs of the Great St. Bernard. The travellers are seen on different heights amid the windings of the rock, slowly descending the pass leading to the Vallais. First, Francis with two Guides exploring the way, and sounding the hollows with long poles: then Agnes by herself, preceding a litter borne by the mountain-peasants: on either side of the litter a female Attendant, followed by a Page.
Agnes.
Agnes.
Oh glorious Sun! illumin'd by thy beams
These wastes of snow, these Alpine solitudes
Have pow'r to sooth me. [advancing, and looking on different parts.]

How distinct each rock,
Smooth-brow'd, or spiring high its tapering peak!
Yon range of wavy sweep, and this that breaks
Eastward in varied forms like floating clouds!
Their hues, how changeful! these, of roseate glow,
Those, azure-dy'd: and some that climb the sky
Fling to the light their summits cop'd with gold!
Oh thou, who spak'st creation into birth,
How glorious, Lord of Nature, these thy works:
How awfully sublime!

Fran.
Each step we tread
Leads to new dangers.

Guide.
Sound that snow-heap'd cave.

Fran.
How fearfully yon tumbling rock o'erhangs
[Turning back to Agnes.
The narrow pass. Beware!

Agnes.
Proceed, good Francis.

Fran.
Here yawns a chasm, down whose depth, the sight
Wanders without repose. I'll gaze no more:
Its very horror, while it shocks the sense,
Most strangely fascinates.
[He advances.
These slippery fragments,
Hurl'd by the tempest from the crags above,
Roll loose beneath me.—Lady, let me aid you:
Lean on this faithful arm.

Agnes.
My foot treads firm.
To those who know not grief such ways are painful.
I have within my soul what mocks at toil.

Fran.
You were in luxury nurs'd, nor have been us'd
To scenes like these: I, in my childhood, rock'd
In want's stern cradle feel these aged sinews,
That never shrunk in war, ache with each step
As slow I labour on. Oh, honour'd lady!
The holy brothers of St. Bernard warn'd you
Not to attempt the pass. Return, I pray.
Yet, yet amid the rocks a lingering echo
Heaves back the slow clang of the convent bell.
It is for you I fear.

Agnes.
My will is fix'd.
Go with the guides, and timely warning give
If aught impede the way. The topmost snow
Stirr'd by the zephyr's breath, may swell before it
To size impassable.

Fran.
I must obey.

Agnes.
[to those who bear the litter.]
Be careful, I beseech you; this steep path
Betrays th'unsteady foot: guard well the litter:
You shall not lack reward. Kind, gentle maids,
Be watchful of your charge. I first, myself,
Will this sharp ridge explore. So may'st thou, Ellen,
Securely pass, and ere death end thy woe
Find peace once more!

Fran.
[to the guides.]
Heard you that sound?

Guide.
Most plainly—
The voice of men advancing.

Fran.
List! again
Up as the gale comes slowly from beneath,
I hear distinct the noise of echo'd steps.

Guide.
'Tis strange in this new season; so far well,
Claude enters.
The rocks below are open.—Welcome, Claude:
It is the provost's guide. Thrice welcome Claude:
How fares the reverend Albert?

Claude.
Heav'n has heard
The convent pray'rs: he looks restor'd to youth:
Another man! 'Twill cheer your heart to see him.
He will be here in th'instant.—Hark, they come.
I haste to warn the convent. Fare you well.

Guide.
Oh happy hour! Heav'n guard his sacred life.

Claude.
[going, speaks to Agnes.]
Lady! I pray you let the litter rest:
And in this cave, that fronts the mid-day sun,
Wait till the train pass by. This narrow ridge
Will else your lives endanger.
[Claude goes.

Agnes.
[to her train.]
Repose awhile, my friends! and in this cave
Set down the litter. Your good Provost comes—
Not these bleak rocks alone, and the Alpine swains
Echo his praises: far and wide his virtues
Call forth the general blessing on his head.
The Provost and his train enter: as the Provost passes, Agnes speaks.
Your benediction, father!

Pro.
Peace be with you!
Those widow's weeds, this melancholy train:—
Daughter, you seem in woe, and pale your cheek
Thro' sorrow more than years: what urgent cause
Compells you to these mountains?

Agnes.
Holy father!
I pray you pardon me, nor deem me one
Rude or untouch'd by kindness, that I leave you,
My tale of grief untold.—These sable weeds
But ill express the anguish of my soul.
But seek not out the cause. The pow'r who tries
The mourner, smites in mercy. Thou hast blest me:
Farewell—

Pro.
Yet, mark me, daughter, no vain wish
To hear what may in utterance grieve thy spirit,
And ill may suit my years: but sacred duties
By heav'n enjoin'd, and sympathy of nature
That bids an old man, vers'd himself in woe,
Feel for the grief of others, prompt my speech.—

Agnes.
When thou dost pray for those who grieve on earth,
Remember me.

Pro.
Yet there are lenient words,
Balm of the soul. Daughter, my way of life
Has been where sinners wept, where sorrow sigh'd,
And anguish groan'd around me: and I know
How willingly the mourner, bow'd with woe,
Broods o'er the secret pang that life consumes.
This must not be: heav'n link'd us heart to heart
To heighten every pleasure, and by sharing
Lessen the load of misery.—Silent still?
Turn not away regardless.

Agnes.
No, good father;
Each word thou speak'st is treasur'd in my soul.
Would I might freely at thy feet pour forth
What weighs upon my heart. I am not one
Infirm of mind who fondly broods o'er woe.
These tears, that will not be supprest, gush out
Not for myself alone. One farewell pray'r.
Trust me, the burden of my grief is lighten'd:
For thou hast pitied me.

Pro.
In silence mourn,
I will not urge thee more. Heav'n sooth thy soul!
But I conjure thee, if thou value life
Turn to our hospitable roof again:
There wait till fitter season may ensure
Thy safe departure. Duty forc'd my step
Now in this hazardous time: not far the roof
That shelters me: but long thy way, and perils
No arm of man can ward, surround the path
Where-ere thou goest. And these lone rocks at times
Are crost by ruthless robbers.

Agnes.
I must on.

Pro.
No roof, no shelter near, nor safe return,
If the dim night-fall steal on thee unwares.
And oft the sun in these unsteady skies
Sinks, ere its close, in tempest.

Agnes.
I must on.
[Pointing to the litter.]
Here lies a hapless woman, one who wastes
Hourly away, worn out with ceaseless woe:
An uncomplaining sufferer, nigh to death:
A native of yon vale; her only wish
Is yet once more to view the peaceful spot
To childhood dear, and there to find her grave
Amid her kin. Farewell.

Pro.
May heav'n protect thee! [Exeunt omnes.

Scene the second

the Convent Cloisters.
Prior and Confessor.
Prior.
Say, hast thou found Alfonso?

Con.
No, good Prior.
He mus'd not in his cell, nor duely came
To join th'assembled monks,
Ere the fixt duties of the convent call'd
Each to his separate office.

Prior.
'Tis most strange.

Con.
I have made careful search, and closely question'd
The brethren, one by one.

Prior.
Who last beheld him?

Con.
Juan. At dawn while he unbarr'd the gates,
Alfonso darted forth
Striking his breast in anguish.

Prior.
Heav'n protect him!
Sooth, all ye sainted host, his woe-worn soul!

Con.
Alas! my mind misgives me.

Prior.
How?

Con.
I fear
We ne'er shall see him more. Unhappy man!
Our holy Provost to these walls returns
To fix anew our duties. Much methinks
He dreads the issue of that solemn inquest,
Which here confirms him in his perilous charge,
His only solace: or for ever drives him
From this lone roof. To him he must reveal
The anguish of his spirit. Hapless man!
Fain had he died unknown!

Prior.
Hear, holy Saint!
Thou, who didst found 'mid everlasting snows
These walls, thy earthly residence, look down!
Look down on him whose unremitted zeal
At life's dread risk, has highly minister'd
To thy most blest intent!—Hear, holy Bernard,
Nor to the storm and conflict of dark passion,
Abandon poor Alfonso!

Con.
Yes, my brother,
Service like his, nor wealth, nor worldly honours
Gain or repay: its source is in the heart;
And in the spirit that there prompts to act,
Finds its sole recompense.

Prior.
If fervent pray'rs,
If tears of gratitude by others shed,
The pilgrim and lone stranger, at life's hazard,
By brave Alfonso rescu'd from destruction,
Could heal the wound that bleeds with inward pangs
Peace on his soul had shed her lenient balm:
But 'tis not so with him.

Con.
No—many a time
When the lost travellers, whom his arm from far
Bore 'mid the howling night-storm, whom his hand
Long chaf'd before the hearth, with grateful look
First turn'd th'awaken'd eye on poor Alfonso,
Who hung all pity o'er the seeming corse:
How have I seen him from his dark cheek dash
The tear away, and fly the open'd lip
That pour'd its blessing on him.

Steward enters with Laymen bearing logs, &c.
Stew.
Haste, my friends,
Rake up the embers, pile the glowing hearth
With unctuous pine,
The sight shall cheer him, and the crackling blaze
Breathe grateful fragrance round. Then, deck the board,
And freely cull what best may furnish out
Our frugal banquet.

[Exeunt Laymen.
Con.
Whence this sudden haste?

Stew.
Ring out the convent bell, that the loud peal
Recal each absent brother. None must fail
Of their accustom'd duty.

Prior.
Stay, good Steward.

Stew.
The Provost is expected, and each moment
We look to greet him.

Prior.
All good angels guide him!
But say who brought
The welcome news? for scarce the lower rocks
Peep thro' the snow: and, save some pilgrim bound
On fearful penance, and that mournful train
Who left at morn the convent, none have dar'd
The dangerous pass.

Stew.
You know the southern guide.

Prior.
What, faithful Claude? He, who for many a season
Has claim'd the convent prize, his custom'd due
Who from the pass first clears the drifted snows?

Stew.
The same. He left our long-expected Provost
Now as he slowly up the mountain toil'd.
Farewell; my charge awaits me.

[Exit.
Prior.
Peace be with you!
Alas, no common call, in this rude season,
Has forc'd good Albert, bow'd with weight of years,
To leave the shelter of the peaceful vale.
'Tis not alone to fix our separate charge;
Mandates from Rome, strictly to scrutinize
Each layman and poor hind that serves the convent,
(For rumour dwells on bad men harbour'd here)
Now urge his step.

Con.
Full well we know his mission
That shames this sacred roof. Alas! that slander
Should feign, that here the ruffian and fell murderer
Unquestion'd guests, have found familiar shelter.
Such haunt not here. Sad years of ceaseless wars
That long have wasted fair Italia's plain,
Turning to barrenness her fruitful soil,
Have steel'd men's hearts; and, haply, from the camp,
Outcasts, who prowl when late the battle bled,
And pluck'd, 'tis said, while the warm blood yet flows
The covering from the wound, at times have sought
Night shelter from the storm. Else, never here
Have lawless men found refuge.

Prior.
Go, my brother,
Ere Albert yet arrives, search out once more
Alfonso's lonely haunt. Heav'n guide thy steps!

[Exeunt.