University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The Piazza del Granduca.—Luigi del Passato, seated among some statues.
Pass.
I have forgotten my fatigue of limbs
Among the works of Art. Long was my journey,
And somewhat grievous in the lack of means;
But patient hearts oft sleep away their cares
Upon an empty scrip, and rove in dream
Thro' the antique Age of Gold. I am content.
Fair Florence, hail!—had I no hopes beside,
The hope of years is satisfied. 'Tis said
Duke Cosmo is a patron of large mind,
And friendly hand: perchance he may extend it,
Although Passato's name be little known.

Enter Cornelio and Dalmasso.
Cor.
I pant for it!—the earth is made the sun,
While the bright anniversary of our Order
Spreads luminous gold; and magic masquerade
Fills the chang'd world and gives us all new parts!

Dal.
A traveller!—and, methinks, no common man?

Cor.
He wears his soil'd mantle with a kind of grace;
Not courtly, but still graceful. Come you from far?

Pass.
(advancing.)
From Carthage, sir: my father was of Florence;
But this is my first visit.

Cor.
Ah! the loadstone
That stirs your metal hath sure influence:
St Etienne's festival—is't not, I pray you?

Pass.
No, sir, indeed. I am a lonesome man,
And find most pleasure in my loneliness.
My life has passed in study midst old ruins,
And monuments of glories now no more.

Dal.
Art thou a sculptor, then?

Pass.
'Tis my best hope.

Cor.
Thy name, sir?

Pass.
An obscure one—del Passato.

Dal.
Methinks I once did hear Duke Cosmo praise thee
For a small medallion of some dying saint.
Thou'lt find an open passage to the court.

Pass.
I thank you, sir; but as I ne'er was sanguine,
Sad disappointment seldom reaches me:
I live in truce with fate, and we are friends.
Yet am I grateful to you for the greeting.

Cor.
Nay, you are hard of faith in courts!

Pass.
I am, sir.

Cor.
This is rude bitterness: we are of the court!

Pass.
Let me entreat your pardon, and receive it:
I knew not that.

Cor.
Do not our vestments show it?
Know'st not kingfishers' plumes from hides of sheep?

Pass.
I did not note them: ye are of good form;
Not perfect, certainly, yet outlin'd well;
Your pardon, then, that I did only follow
My natural bent of sight.

Dal.
The Duke shall hear
That you're in Florence: he hath ever shown
A high and practical sympathy with genius.
The studious prince, Giovanni, we shall join
Within an hour;—you'll bear us company?
He is a prince whom you will love and honour
For fine acquirements and demeanour sweet:
His virtues win all hearts.

Cor.
Except his brother's.

Pass.
Wherefore the exception, pray you?

Dal.
'Tis an old story,
Which every teller varies to his mind,
And ne'er relates it twice alike.

Pass.
Then might I
Invent a version for myself?

Dal.
You might, sir.
Some say that Garcia's coldness to his brother
Is but a crystal from Giovanni's ice,
And hence congealment mutual is preserved;
While others, and myself among them, deem
That Garcia's envy of his brother's worth
Makes fret-work o'er his early-winter'd heart,
And no bland gushes leap to proffer'd love.

Pass.
Doth then Giovanni love him?

Cor.
Nay, how should he?
Think you the vine-pole to the north blast yearns?
Who can love hatred?

Pass.
They both hate alike?

Dal.
Not so; nor can we know it by such name:
Each would do aught, right glad, to serve the other,
Save by companionship. Both have high spirits,
And both peculiar natures. Many say
That Cosmo favours much his elder born;
Forwards his studies with especial eye
To some great destiny; that from their cradles
He show'd this preference,—to the Duchess' care
Leaving young Garcia ever. But 'tis prov'd
He was unapt—opposed to all instruction;
Hating to learn, yet anxious to be taught;
Wishing to know by inspiration: in fact,
A wilful child left to his waywardness.
His too fond mother, thinking he was slighted,
Pamper'd, until too late to give him check;
And thus he hath grown up.

Cor.
Grown up!—why, scarcely:
He hath no tint of hair upon his chin;
No sign of manhood yet in dress or bearing!

Dal.
From his fair face his mother still looks out,
And smiles around his mouth—or, rather, sighs.

Pass.
Whate'er the cause that parts these brothers' hearts,
With all the trifling acts and circumstance
That have combin'd against their natures thus,
Manhood will doubtless chase the feud to air,—
E'en as a giant, waking from dark dreams,
Looks up and sees the perfect heavens above,
And hails their steadfast glory.

Dal.
It may be so.
Yet do I doubt young Garcia: he is strange;
He makes no friends, laughs seldom, loves few sports,
And latterly hath wander'd quite alone,
Just like a lover, or some ruin'd man.

Cor.
No gallantries of his are yet recorded,
And ladies soon will doom him for a monk.
If's blood can't rise beneath Duke Cosmo's eye,
Why not midst country maidens havoc make,
And cause a strange commotion of all tongues,
As when a kite above a farm-yard soars?

Dal.
You recommend a high morality:
It should be set to music.

Cor.
For the organ?

Pass.
(calmly.)
Ay, with the devil, sir, to fill your pipes,
And turn your leaves, and kiss you in the face!

Cor.
Ahem!—let's haste, for Prince Giovanni now
Hath left Chiostro's study.

Dal.
(to Pass.)
He will receive you.

Cor.
(aside.)
My wit chills, near this marble-minded man.

Pass.
I like young Garcia.

Dal.
You would say Giovanni;
The model of all excellence!

Pass.
I doubt not.
Yet I was thinking of the younger son.

Dal.
This is some mood of eccentricity!

Cor.
Is't not the young prince Garcia standing there,
Before Lorenzo's bust? His back is tow'rds us.

Dal.
Yes, it is he: this way he comes. Now, sir,
Will you accompany us?

Pass.
Please you, I'll stay.
I shall be grateful if you'll introduce me.

Dal.
'Tis true he hath his mother's ear, which oft
Is close to the Duke's—but Garcia will not serve you.

Cor.
He cares not for the Arts.

Pass.
It is his loss.

Cor.
And hates a chisel as a learned tongue;
Or as a nose hates frost, and frost a thaw.

Pass.
He is a youth I like to look upon.

Enter Garcia.
Cor.
Bright skies attend my lord; give you good day!

Gar.
(smiling.)
I thank the skies: sometimes they frown upon us,
But they are ever great and lofty.

Cor.
My lord,
That is most true; albeit our hopes below
Are oft as flat as a pond.

Gar.
Drown not thy soul,
Like a blind whelp: hast thou no birthright, sir?

[Pointing upwards.
Dal.
We joy to see you walking in the sun:
'Tis not your constant pleasure.

Gar.
Nor my pride:
But for your courteous greeting take my thanks,
Full measured by your own sincerity.
Shall I enquire the stranger's rank?

Dal.
A sculptor:
Luigi del Passato.

Gar.
He is welcome:
The Duke, sir, and my brother, will receive
Your visit graciously.

Cor.
(aside to Dal.)
Now we'll take wing,
And leave the chisel to our royal flint!

Dal.
My lord will pardon our abrupt departure:
We have a summons.

Gar.
Cavaliers, good day!
[Exeunt Cornelio and Dalmasso.
(To Pass.)
They shun me, for they are my brother's friends,
And go by instinct: follow them, I pray;
The favor of Giovanni best will serve you.

Pass.
I am no hasty man. I'll e'en stay here.

Gar.
Thou canst know little of the Court, to give
This preference to me. All who seek favour,
Appreciation, and due patronage,
Make interest with Giovanni: they do right.
He hath most brilliant talents—I have none;
Gentle and courteous is—'tis plain I'm neither.
So many say this, I suppose 'tis true.

Pass.
I'll wait my time.

Gar.
I deem thou'dst wait for ever
In any other Court, by such neglect.

Pass.
Those gentlemen were courtiers,—so they said?

Gar.
And truly. Sir, I will be free with you,
For you do show a nature undisguis'd,
And act as if alone in the wide world.

Pass.
I speak my thoughts, young sir, and calmly stand
On the vast slab of Time: a mere clay figure,
And not a pendent gem.

Gar.
Those gentlemen
Are called Dalmasso and Cornelio.
The first, a man of sense; yet I dislike him:
He reasons and retreats; he bows too low,
And studies chemistry to please the Duke.
The other hath a wit beyond himself;
Its spirit uttering things he knows not whence,
Why, how, or whither; a rich-fancied fool:
His vanity revolves around a button,
Wherein he suns and glasses his fond face.

Pass.
Leave him his happiness: why shake the flower
Within whose cup of dew the butterfly
Beholds his plumage, and is blest? The earth
Hath pleasures varied to its motley crowd;
Let us not interfere.

Gar.
Sir, will you walk with me?
Your conversation throbs about my heart
Like new-born hopes: I seem at last to have found
A book which I would read most seriously.
Come, you shall be my tutor and my friend.

Garcia and Luigi del Passato:
Enter, to them, Dalmasso and Giovanni.
Gio.
Garcia, 'twere well if thou'd'st bethink thyself
That youth's bright spring-tide tends to autumn's shade,
And manhood, to be high and honourable,
Needs preparation.

Gar.
Sir, what moves your mind
To this precocious lecture?

Gio.
Your life's waste.

Gar.
My elder by three years! Go, grey-green sir!
Your olive-leaf of wisdom needs more sun.
I cannot, and I will not bear your rod!

Gio.
Who is this new acquaintance?

Gar.
He is my friend:
That is enough, good brother.

Pass.
Thank you, sir!

Gio.
Found in the streets—the friend of half an hour!
Rude boy, thou must be taught to know thyself,
Ere thou can'st choose—a friend.

Gar.
Peace, sir!

Dal.
My lords!

Gar.
Am I to walk, talk, think as you direct—
Eat, drink, and sneeze in your approved good fashion—
Sleep in your attitude, and dream your dream?
I'd rather make my bed upon a wasp's nest!

Gio.
Thou dost already; and thro' the spleenful day
Bear'st it about, as madmen play with fire.

Gar.
As elder brothers play!

Dal.
My lords! my lords!

Gar.
This gentleman and I will leave your wisdom.

Gio.
Go then, thy way: feed folly, and find shame!

[Exeunt at opposite sides.

SCENE II.

Public Gardens.—Enter Zacheo, disguised as a Friar.
Zach.

I know not if this disguise hangs friar-wise
upon me; but one thing I know, I feel hugely uncomfortable
in it! I like to have my limbs free—full play
for the sword-arm—an uncovered brow—no impediment
to the advancing of the leg sinuously—and ample scope
throughout for every action that becomes a man and a
pirate! Whereas, my limbs seem to belong to my habiliments
rather than to myself, since I have no proper use
of them; and the captain of the boldest crew that ever
ground a blade by torch-light, while their black galley
rode like a sleeping cormorant over the billows, is now
as much in his own way as an armadillo in a bag! 'Sdeath!
I cannot endure this much longer; and yet I must bear
it too,—at least until I can discover what is in agitation
against us. This city-hatched storm has been brewing
over our decks some time, and has occasionally broke out

in a squall, and dispersed several of our gallies: some
have been captured, and the crews hung up like dried
fish in the sun; but now the Duke seems resolved to drive
us off the coast of Tuscany for ever. My best line of
trade seems in a fair way of being destroyed during the
reign of this troublesome Prince, who will not let things
go on in their natural course. Pirates have existed in all
countries from time immemorial: we are as natural to the
sea as her tides, or the moon,—bless her old white face!
How could there be spring or neap without us? Ah!
some pretty women! I'll speak to them under favour of
my cassock.

Enter Berta and Christina.
Bert.

This way, Christine—follow me;—there!
under that old trunk, standing in its bed of golden moss
and long grass, we shall find the sweetest flowers, nestling
out of sight—What a strange-looking man!

Zach.
(aside.)

By Mahomet! and they are very
pretty! I wish we were near the sea-coast!

Chris.

It's only some begging friar.

Bert.

A begging nonsense!—he's much more likely
to take than ask—and yet he is frocked something the
colour of a friar.

Chris.

He is in preparation to speak with us, as I
live!—shall we run away?

Bert.

I don't know, Christine.

Chris.

Shall we, eh?

Bert.

No; not yet—we'll e'en hear first what he says;
and we can laugh in his face very prettily, and then run
away.

Zach.
(aside.)

Should I begin with a benediction,

or a compliment?—my soul's in a fog!—an' we were but
near the sea-coast!

Chris.

What's the matter with him?

Zach.
(advancing.)

Soft blessed ladies—

Bert. and Chris.
(laughing.)

Soft ladies!

Zach.
(aside.)

They laugh at me!—Do the hoof and
tail-tip peep out, Catholic-fashion, at the hem o' this
holiness?

Bert.
(aside.)

Poor man!

Chris.

Couldst confess thyself fully in the ear of such
a black-beard?

Zach.
(aside.)

By Allah! but I'll get my manhood
afloat. (aloud.)
Handsome young women—that is, fair
daughters of Florence!—these fresh-favoured gardens owe
all their sweetness and bright life to your breath and presence.
When you are gone, they will be no better than
shingles and sea-weed!

Bert.

Well, what a pleasant man! Some of these
monks have wherewithal to set themselves off. Good
day to the holy father!—give your Carmelite reverence
good day!

Zach.
(aside.)

My reverence!

Chris.

Has your piety lately arrived in Florence?

Zach.

Ahem!—(They take me for the Pope, just
arrived.) I laugh with joy to behold such sweet happy
faces—they are so very different from the sad crew of
nuns I am used to.

Bert.

The nuns he is used to!

Chris.

Then you think, holy friar, that we are not
like unhappy nuns?

Zach.

As unlike as a woman is to a mermaid (advancing towards Berta)
. You have a lovely warm complexion
of morning roses, which mermaids have not,—their cheeks

being always of a cold twilight hue; you have hair as
bright as the finest gold I ever handled (touches it; she

retreats a pace)
; while their's is only a stream of long
tearful grass; you have very pretty feet, and, I make no
doubt, with proper legs to match; and you are totally
deficient in the sweeping rudder of a green scaly tail!

Chris. and Bert.

Oh!

Bert.

I am very glad to hear your piety say so.

Chris.

What a very strange sort of a friar!

Zach.

In short, you are as sweet a vessel as ever
pirate would wish to set foot upon.

Bert. and Chris.

Oh! what says he?

Zach.

I only meant that there were such fellows as
pirates in the world, who would give their ears to have
met you near the coast.

Bert.

Ah, marry would they!—or anywhere else.

Zach.

I begin to forget myself as I look upon you!

Chris.

What a confession for a confessor!

Bert.
(to Chris.)

See you not the wretch is making
love to me! I shall complain angrily to my husband, you
wicked holy father, an' you talk in this fashion so freely!

Zach.

No, no—you won't.

Chris.

But we will though! we'll both enlighten our
husbands. They are gentlemen of note and station about
the Duke's court, and they'll have you sent back to your
monastery with your nose cut off!

Bert.

And your naughtiness might think yourself
very fortunate that it was no worse.

Zach.
(aside.)

Oho! the court of the Grand Duke!
now shall I get my soundings at small cost of time, and
learn what preparations are under weigh against the gallant
band of Barbary corsairs, to circumvent our natural living.

Bert.
(aside.)

Christine—O, an' I dare do't?

Chris.
(aside.)

Dare what?

Bert.

Let him exhale love-sighs! 'Twould be rare
pleasantry.

Chris.

Yes, yes, in sooth! And what say you, should
I let him make love to me also; you not seeming to see't?

Bert.

And we will both pretend, besides, to be, in a
sort, not displeased with his ugliness?

Chris.

We will—we will.

Bert.

Ahem!—Good day, holy friar.

Chris.

We bear your reverence no malice,—heaven
forgive us!

Zach.

May I not walk a pace in the same path with
two such lovely gentlewomen?

Bert.

Yes; as the father is strange in Florence, we'll
e'en show him the nearest pathway out of the gardens.

Zach.

And your husbands are stars of the Duke's
court?

Bert.

Yes—and they're out of sight just now.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An Apartment in the Ducal Palace.—The Duchess, Ippolita, and Giovanni.
Duch.
Cease then at once, Giovanni, and for ever,
This your ungentle feud. Your brother loves you
At heart,—I'm sure he does, although his pride
And this sad habit of your early years
Restrain his feelings: give but yours free way,
And he'll receive you in wide-open'd arms!

Giov.
Mother, our thoughts, our studies and our sports,
So long have been divided, or oppos'd,
Methinks it scarce can be as you desire,
And I myself could wish.

Duch.
Join then your thoughts;
And teach your brother to regard your studies,
By sharing them!

Giov.
This were an arduous task.

Duch.
Nought is too arduous for an anxious heart.
Begin by joining in some favorite sports;
Range on the same side, win or lose together:
The rest will gently follow.

Ippo.
Pray you, do!
Your noble mother reasons well and kindly:
Why should two generous natures be oppos'd,
Or keep such chilling distance?

Giov.
Fair Ippolita,
I would 'twere otherwise.

Duch.
Then make it so!
Thou art the elder-born, and first shouldst offer
The hand of reconciling brotherhood;
And let me tell thee, son, it ill becomes
The piety which else thy conduct proves,
To live at enmity that might be peace.

Giov.
Madam, I grieve; but what wouldst have me do?
You know his pitch of spirit, and how wayward:
My spirit is more tranquil, but no humbler.

Duch.
Oh! talk not thus; maintaining this wrong cause
Of enmity that knows no origin,—
Such is its age: 'tis time it should be buried.

Giov.
Ah, if it were, the order I'd reverse
Of final service,—praying it ne'er might rise.

Duch.
I thank my Maker for my son's good heart!
All will be well—ye shall be reconcil'd.

Ippo.
Sir, you have bless'd your mother with kind words;
You must not be too slow in the fulfilment.

Duch.
To-morrow—yes, Giovanni, on the morrow,
Join in some pastime with young Garcia;
Say you will hunt with him!

Giov.
Nay, not so soon:
St Etienne's festival intervenes,—its star
E'en now informs each gem o' the Ducal crown.

Duch.
Ye can return in time: were't but an hour,
Yet go, my son!

Ippo.
Do not thus hesitate!
Do not refuse, Giovanni!

Giov.
I will go.

Duch.
Thanks to my son! Your word is pass'd—adieu!
[Exit Duchess.

Giov.
How hastily she's gone!—methinks this promise
Was made unwisely?

Ippo.
Ye can return betimes.

Giov.
Your intercession, dear Ippolita,
Dispers'd my reasoning, and I e'en must go.
But were it only that I thus shall place
A space of earth, an interval of hours,
Between our loves, more than my usual loss,
I fain would break my word.

Ippo.
Speak not of love.
Ah, should I e'er have listen'd to thy vows,
Or to my heart's fond promptings?

Giov.
Wherefore not?
The Duke will sanction it.

Ippo.
It is too much
For thee to promise, and for me to hope!
Have I requited well the generous hand
Of regal Cosmo, who beneath his roof
With fatherly protection thus hath cherish'd
The orphan of a ruin'd nobleman;
That, like a secret serpent at the base
Of an alabaster column, I should twine,
And in a gradual circle rise to mar
The artist's best design with strange intrusion!
Oh! prince of Florence, I have acted ill:
But I will break this matter to the Duchess,
Implore forgiveness, and as she directs
So will I act.

Giov.
Thou griev'st my very soul,
Most dear Ippolita! I pray thee breathe
No word as yet: all may be very well,
But I have reasons for a brief delay.
(Aside.)
My heart misgives me of my father's purpose,
And much I dread to question—yet I must.
(Aloud.)
Meantime, sweet love, I'll join this idle hunt
With Garcia in the woods;—look not so sad!

Ippo.
I'm glad to hear thou'lt do so.

Giov.
Let me kiss
That slow tear lingering down thy pallid cheek:
There is no error in our mutual love.

[Kisses her. Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The Ducal Library.—Cosmo, seated with Chiostro.
Cosmo.
The grandeur of Antiquity uplifts
Each soul, whose natural energies expand
In space sufficient for its by-gone worlds.
Greece in its infancy, and unborn Rome,
Trac'd thro' their glorious rise and branchings vast,
As tho' we'd watch'd seeds set in paradise
Take root, and then inherit all the sun;
Breed thoughts and visions, such as Time himself
Might pause remorseful o'er his scythe, to scan.
[They rise, and advance.
With deep-set interest have I listen'd to thee;
And do account myself most fortunate
In the high service rendered to my mind,
As to Giovanni's, by so learned a man.

Chios.
Your Highness' sympathy with all my labours,
Large as the favours I have else receiv'd,
Is to my heart most grateful.

Cosmo.
Now, Chiostro,
'Tis fit thine office in the Ducal palace
Thou shouldst resign. Since thou art valuable,
I must not longer hoard thy merit thus:
The Florentine Academy hath need
Of one like thee:—I place thee at its head;
And this thy present office we shall give
Unto some scholar who may be in want,
Having, by passion for the wisdom past,
Forgot all present means wherewith to live.
I've such a one in view; and much I fear
Blind time owns many.

Chios.
For the individual,
'Twere well if men, so minded, first did think
Of their own state; but then, the general weal—

Cosmo.
Would starve: 'twould make the world change places with them,
In all save merit.

Chios.
May your Highness live
To a sublime old age; while secret prayers,
Pour'd forth in cloister'd shades and lone retreats,
Bless your bright name—ascendant o'er the tomb!
I will forthwith prepare to do your pleasure
In my new office, and direct with care
The Laurentinian studies.

Cosmo.
They will prosper:
The best example precepts best can give.
Please you, send here my son.
[Exit Chiostro.
It is a change
That brings the eagle-circles of the mind
Down from their cloudy range, to belt the earth:
But Sovereigns must be statesmen. Yet, not only
Is this mere policy and cold design
Of aggrandizement: it is said she's fair,
And with her love Giovanni will be blest.
Enter Giovanni.
Thanks for this haste!—why, thou look'st pale, my son;
But I have somewhat that should make the blood
Tingle thine ears, and flush thine orient cheek,
Like to a Persian's at his morning prayer!
Listen, Giovanni.

Giov.
Sir, I do, seriously.

Cosmo.
Thou know'st the present stature of my power;
My precedence o'er all Italia's States,
And the far influence thence by me possess'd,
Did not fall whole into my opening hands!
I sat not playing with toy-coronets,
In calm assurance, near my nurse's chair,
Of a large birthright—waiting for my growth;
But, when of years sufficient, forth I stept,
Seiz'd what was mine from rebel parricides,
Blinded conspiracy with lightning-shafts,
In its gross ashes sowing triumphs wide,
And made my realm expand, with constant care,
By energy in peace more than in war.
Though now we flourish, wherefore not increase,
And plant tall cedars in a foreign land,
Progressively to rise and bow their heads
To this domain, whoe'er may govern it?
Thou art the medium of our present need:
'Tis for thine own high fortune, more than mine,
Since I may live not till the full result.

Giov.
Sir, I do owe you reverence, love and duty,
And trust I shall approve the manifold debt
With glad obedience. What are your commands?

Cosmo.
Briefly, my son;—I have a fix'd design,
Which to accomplish I will strain all means
Consistent with my dignity.

[He pauses.
Giov.
(aside.)
My knees
Can scarce sustain the substance of this pause:
It crushes like death's shadow!

Cosmo.
It is thy union
With an Imperial house.

Giov.
(aside.)
Then am I crown'd
With iron wretchedness—thron'd on despair!

Cosmo.
Thou art confounded!—nay, what ails my son?
Think'st thou I contemplate to outrage nature
By an unfit alliance; youth with age,
Or thy most fair proportions with some form
That's odious to each sense? The youngest daughter
Of the Imperial Ferdinand is now
In beauty's prime; and were she of less state,
Had long since been the sweet domestic goddess
Of some devoted youth, chosen from a host!

Giov.
'Tis—'tis a serious thought—

Cosmo.
(smiling.)
Requiring time?—
Thou dost receive intelligence of splendour
With a most leaden, unresponsive heart!
But come, sir, come; we'll to the Picture Gallery:
'Tis the serene dominion of high minds;
Or wouldst thou rather the Botanic Gardens,
Where old physicians, like arm-folded shades,
Brood o'er defeated graves, and sometimes smile
At the expectant darkness? Come, Giovanni:
Anon we'll of the Princess further speak.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Gallery in the Ducal Palace.—Enter Garcia.
Gar.
Sweet is the breath of morning in the woods,
Wherein, midst rapturous silence, lone we stand,
As tho' we had but stept from dream to dream.
Oh, when my couch is wet with blissful tears,
Again I view them in the glistening grass,
And know them shed for lov'd Ippolita!
I seldom now can rove with her alone,
As we were wont: Giovanni's varied talents
Amuse her mind; but I will strive to please her
Soon as he's gone: and since my mother hints
That high alliances for him are sought,
Let him be crown'd at once, so he but cease
To talk so oft with our sweet foster-sister.
She loves us both as brothers: 'tis not long
That I have known my soul's ascendant star
Burn'd high above a brother's level hopes;
Yet sure I always felt her more than sister?
But were I seated now with her alone
In some green arbour of dim loveliness,
How hard to frame in words the thousand things
Which I should yearn to pour into her ear,
And in one minute tell her love's whole life!

Enter Duchess and Ippolita.
[They pause.]
Duch.
Look you—'tis Garcia! Is it not most strange,
The scorner of all studies thus so oft
With serious brow should root himself in thought?

Ippo.
Indeed 'tis strange.

Gar.
(abstractedly.)
How hath it multiplied
All memories!

Duch.
Soft! he speaks!

Ippo.
What said he, madam?

Gar.
Is not the sun, heaven's altar, always burning
An incense that illumines space and Time—
Gilding his path o'er graves, and his grey hairs,
For ever old, yet in his infancy!
O, star-light! be thou my temple!

Duch.
Hist! he is praying.

Gar.
And let the priestess be Ippolita!

Ippo.
What says he?

[They come forward.]
Gar.
(confused.)
And my mother—for the priestesses.

Duch.
It is a novel prayer which thou hast made,
Dear Garcia; yet all prayers are good alike,
When steep'd in holy feeling.

Ipp.
We do thank you
For the high office you have given us
Within your temple!

Gar.
Would it might be so!

Duch.
Since then we stand so fair in his regard,
We'll crave a boon of Garcia?

Ippo.
Ere it cool.

Gar.
Think'st me a cloud, or a wind?

Ipp.
I hope thou'lt change
For once? Join pastimes with thy brother,
Since thou dost shun his studies.

Duch.
Say thou wilt?

Gar.
Pastimes! what pastimes?—botany and building,
Blowpipes, and telescopes to insult the stars,—
Call you these pastimes?

Duch.
Nay, you are wayward now:
You mock me most unkindly.

Gar.
Honour'd lady,
And dearest mother, how can we join in this?
For while he studies to reclaim men's souls,
I study hawking; or perchance I wander
With mine own thoughts.

Ipp.
Sure they are loving thoughts?

Gar.
They are: but mark!—my brother loves the cloister;
I love the study of the silent fields,
And boundless heavens full of nameless hopes,
As he the library and thoughts of books:
How can we join?

Duch.
See, see how thou mistak'st!
I spoke of fields: oh! I should joy to see
Thee with Giovanni make the forest ring
While ye did hunt together! Wilt thou go?

Gar.
Did he propose it?

Duch.
'Tis his ardent wish.

Gar.
With me?

Duch.
With thee.

Gar.
Why then, with all my heart!

Duch.
Ah! said I not so—said I not, he would!
Garcia—dear boy—thou giv'st my soul fresh wings:
The Duke will kiss my hands, for they have brought
Our sons to clasp each other's. Ho! within there!
Send wine unto the falconer—tell the huntsman
To choose his hounds best trained to pin the boar,
And let the Ducal clarions blithely sound:
The Princes hunt to-morrow with the dawn!

[Clarions sound a hunting march outside, as all retire.