 | Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous |  |
176
SCENE IV.
LOUISA,sola, on her knees, looking up to Heaven in agony, with her Father's Sword in her band, pointed to her breast.
Let this bright canopy spread o'er my head,
And all the wonders of the vast concave—
Each radiant flame that shoots its friendly beam
O'er nature's empire, and proclaims a god,
Lend me their aid to solemnize my soul;
To hush the tumult of life's various cares,
That rage without, or reign within my breast.
'Tis heav'n bids me leave this mazy world,
To its own guilt, ambition, pride and blood.
Hah!—does my purpose flag—
[Trembles, and drops the sword.
I feel my courage firm—yet fear my God—
Will he forgive a suffering wretch,
Weary of life—yet not afraid to die—
Who quits her post, ere nature makes demand—
Unbidden rushes to his awful throne—
A ghastly—grim—a discontented soul,
Bath'd in the blood of suicide!
My trembling frame shrinks at the dread idea—
Yet what—ah! what can sad Louisa do?
[Recovers the sword.
I cannot live—to see Don Francis die—
Yet worse to live, and be Don Pedro's wife—
I must not live—my father bids me die.—
[Stabs herself.—Don Francis and De Haro enter at the moment.
Francis.
Oh! my Louisa—my love—my bride!—
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Thy dreadful purpose hold!—
Louisa.
Ah! my dear lord—permitted thus to live
But to receive and aid on its escape—
My soul just rushing from my bleeding breast.
[Fainting.
Francis.
Thou must not die—Oh! lovely maid, revive—
Thy father's blessing beckons thee to life.
Louisa.
It was my father's will impell'd to death—
His rigorous command I have obey'd—
My filial design may God forgive,
Nor rank me with the hateful suicide,
Who rushes on his fate from passion storms,
And dies the martyr of his guilty hand.
His rigorous command I have obey'd—
My filial design may God forgive,
Nor rank me with the hateful suicide,
Who rushes on his fate from passion storms,
And dies the martyr of his guilty hand.
Retard me not—now on the marge of death—
My conscious soul, unstain'd by one base act,
Looks back serene on life's tempestuous surge,
Nor feels a pang, but for my Francis' sake;—
Yet bliss is crown'd by dying in his arms.
My conscious soul, unstain'd by one base act,
Looks back serene on life's tempestuous surge,
Nor feels a pang, but for my Francis' sake;—
Yet bliss is crown'd by dying in his arms.
[Dies.
Francis.
I'll catch in ether that last balmy breath,
And meet her gentle spirit in the skies.—
[Falls on his sword.
De Haro.
Ha! Francis, hold—nor cowardly revolt
From nature's post, assign'd by nature's lord.
From nature's post, assign'd by nature's lord.
Heaven has decreed the just, the brave, should die,
But 'tis a dastard soul that fears to live.
But 'tis a dastard soul that fears to live.
Francis.
Life lost all worth in her expiring sigh—
Adieu, my friend, for time has lost its charms.
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And soars and spurns a base, ignoble world.
[Dies.
De Haro.
Alas! the horrors of this awful hour—
What misery's entail'd on all mankind
But those who rise and view life from the stars!—
What misery's entail'd on all mankind
But those who rise and view life from the stars!—
Oh! thou whose word directs the pointed flame,
When the blue lightnings curl about the clouds,
And thunders roll across the ragged vault,
Let down thy benediction from the skies!—
To virtue bend the wayward mind of man—
Let not the father blast his children's peace
By rancour—pride—and cursed party rage;—
Let civil feuds no more distract the soul—
Blast the dark fiends who wake mankind to war,
And make the world a counterpart to hell.
When the blue lightnings curl about the clouds,
And thunders roll across the ragged vault,
Let down thy benediction from the skies!—
To virtue bend the wayward mind of man—
Let not the father blast his children's peace
By rancour—pride—and cursed party rage;—
Let civil feuds no more distract the soul—
Blast the dark fiends who wake mankind to war,
And make the world a counterpart to hell.
[Exeunt Omnes.
| Poems, dramatic and miscellaneous | |