University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

CONDE HARO and LOUISA.—(De Haro arm'd and equipt for battle.)
Louisa.

De Haro.
Upbraid me not—nor sharpen thus the pangs
That rankle here, and wound thy brother's breast.
Words cannot paint—nor can Louisa feel,
The agonizing pains that pierce my heart.

Louisa.
What can disturb the hero arm'd for fame?—
The prince's favour, and his father's love,
Anticipate the glory he pursues.

De Haro.
The secret dies within De Haro's breast,
Unless some strange, fortuitous event,
Should heal my heart, and reinstate my peace.

Louisa.
O might I weep my weary life away,
And close mine eyes on misery at large!—
Yet I could bear my griefs tenfold enhanc'd,
If this might heal, or mitigate thy pain,
Or sooth the anguish of a brother's heart.

De Haro.
Bear up thyself against the storms of life—
The sharpen'd pangs of disappointed love.

Louisa.
Canst thou forgive th' involuntary sigh,
The starting tear—that, as an April morn,
Pours down in torrents and obscures the sun?

De Haro.
I know the secret thorn that wounds thy peace.

Louisa.
I would conceal the weakness of my heart;
Yet not from thee—but from a sterner eye.

De Haro.
Blush not, Louisa—'tis a noble flame,
And Francis' virtues merit all thy love.

Louisa.
Yet he's thy foe—the brother and the friend
Of noble Juan—and can this lead thy hand—
This gentle hand—bath'd in a sister's tears,
To plunge thy dagger in a hero's breast,
From whence may rush a most exalted soul,
Adorn'd with every grace that wins the heart,
Or dignifies the man?—

De Haro.
Great souls—form'd in the same etherial mould,
Are ne'er at war—they, different paths
Of glory may pursue, with equal zeal;
Yet not a cruel, or malignant thought,
Or rancorous design, deform the mind.
I much esteem Don Juan and his friends,
But numerous ties engag'd my sword to Charles,
And gratitude had bound the buckler on,
Ere I was nam'd the champion in his cause:
Yet if success my loyal purpose crowns,
Mercy shall spare, where justice don't condemn;
Believe Louisa, not Don Francis' life
Is more thy care than it shall be my own.

Louisa.
The indiscriminating arrow flies,
And often wounds where friendship's arm would save;
Should war's uncertain chance make him thy captive—

De Haro.
The monarch and the laws must then decide.

Louisa.
My bleeding heart anticipates my fate:
Oh! what a bubble 'tis, ye glory call—
Mistaken name—a phantom of the brain,
That leads the hero on to leap the bounds
Of every social tie—till blood—till death,
Spreads horror over nature's frighted face:—
Ambition rears his fierce and furious fang—
In grizly tresses jealousy attends—
'Till discord reigns, and civil fury burns,
And arms the son against a father's life,
Or plants a poignard in a dearer heart.
Oh! how severely mark'd my hapless fate;
The best of brothers whets the dagger's point—
The fondest husband wields the sharpen'd lance,
And both are aim'd at sad Louisa's breast.

De Haro.
Thy husband!—hah—rash maid—

Louisa.
Yes—by each sacred tie.—
Thus incoherent my distracted prayer,
Prophanes the altar when to God I bow;
I start—I tremble—lest kind heaven grant
The boon I ask. Affrighted at myself,
I call it back, and quick revoke my wish,
Lest it involve me in supreme distress.

[Trumpets and martial music without.
De Haro.
A day decides—the trumpet sounds to arms;
Tomorrow will disclose new scenes of woe,
Or ope the gates to happiness and peace.

Louisa.
My heart's too full—it bends me to the grave:
My anger'd sire suspects—he solemn moves,
Majestically grave—with awful brow,
And chides severe whene'er I meet his eye;
Oh!—could I hide forever from his frown!—

[Exeunt.