University of Virginia Library

CONRAD AND EUDORA; OR THE DEATH OF ALONZO.

A Tragedy. IN FIVE ACTS.

FOUNDED ON THE MURDER OF SHARPE, BY BEAUCHAMP, IN KENTUCKY.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

• Alonzo, Eudora's seducer.
• Conrad,—who kills Alonzo.
• Rolando.
• Alfred.
• Alver.
• Hunters, &c.
• Darby, an Attorney.
• Arnold.
• Edgar.
• An Innkeeper.
• Doctor, Alonzo's brother.
• Sheriff, Citizens, Guards, Judge, Jury, Jailor, Justices, &c.
• Eudora, Conrad's wife.
• Elvira, Eudora's mother.
• Angeline, Alonzo's wife.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—Frankfort, a village on the Kentucky river. Alonzo and Eudora walking in the evening.
Alonzo.
This lower world, says Shakspeare, is a stage,
Where every mortal acts a comic part;
Who, now and then, in Tragedies engage,
Which break up every fountain of the heart!
For marriages have been so long the rage,
Each actor seems to play it with an art;
For common things have never fail'd to sate us,
Till something should succeed to reinstate us.

Eudora.
Your wisdom must suggest, a married life's
The only one beneath the sun, worth living?

Alon.
Man is a compound being—made of love—
Love, out of soul and body—he's all love!
But why the heart is mortal, and must go
To dust again—is not a work of mine.

Eud.
We see it thus, and know it should be so,
And should not, for mortality, repine!
But let our hearts attend to life's first cause;
And live obedient to the moral laws.

Alon.
This is a definite world, and so are we,
And tend, in our relations, to each other—
Proving that we are just as we should be—
That every man should be his neighbour's brother.
For all must meet in that eternity,
As children of the same immortal Father!
Then, why not, in this pleasant world delight?
Since Pope has said, “whatever is, is right’

Eud.
That is, all moral, virtuous acts are right.
Because, they are the will of Heaven revealed—
The oracles of sacred truth confirm it.

Alon.
Confirm that which they cannot prove! think not!

Eud.
Do not believe the oracles of God
Agree with human attributes, and tend
To benefit the human race?

Alon.
I do.

(Reluctantly.
Eud.
The mountains, rising on the fruitful world,
Are glowing with immensity around us!
The sun, the moon, and all that we behold,
Confirm us of this truth, and quite confound us!

Alon.
Then, why should we not live in joy and mirth?
When every blessing we can ask, surrounds us?

Eud.
The book of nature rusts upon our shelves!
And we forget the duty owed ourselves.

Alon.
Ah! tells us with a voice, divine as deep,
That death is soon to lull us all to sleep!

Eud.
'Tis right that every man should moralize
Upon those precepts which pertain to good!

Alon.
'Tis also right he should not sacrifice
His early life, in the prorogue of good.
Some, call their childhood up with tears!
Because they let some precious moment pass.
In manhood they forget their passing years—
Then say, Ah! what a havoc time has made!
Their hearts become o'erburthen'd with their cares—
But such have dropt their acorns in the shade!
And why should they thus mourn about their prime?
Because, like all things, they were born to die?
But time has nothing more to do with blunders,
Than sunshine has to do with this world's wonders.

Eud.
No human heart repines at doing good.

Alon.
And here you would suggest an evil thing—
That is, I make myself my own man's man,
Be satisfied with self, and wish no more.

Eud.
My plan is not to sacrilege the truth.

Alon.
All good from evils come—now, this we know,
Were I to hold exposed, in both my hands,
Both spotless truth, and truth defiled, which take?
Take that which Adam took from mother Eve!
Because, such truths unto our natures tend.
Man cannot see beyond an eagle's eye!
He cannot hold the sun, nor grasp the moon;
“But he can tame the lion,—slay the lamb!”
He cannot live upon the air, nor fly;
But he has feelings which mature in love,
When things around in due relations stand.

Eud.
The oak may stand aloof a thousand years!
And brave the whirlwind's and the lightning's blast,
But, when it falls, we shed no tears, nor weep,
And quite forget it ever braved the storm;
But, when man dies, our conscience rears a tablet
To his memory—that his name may live!
And, if his deeds can only fill the rent,
We go and write them on his monument.
Now, why all this?—I'll tell thee why it is:—
The end of law is not immediate death.

Alon.
But look at this—we grow mature and old,
While hope's delusions dance around us ever,
Then opportunity, at length, takes wing;
And, first we know, affections grow so cold,
We hope for death, that we may live for ever.

Eud.
“Whatever is, is right”—if 'tis not wrong!
[Alonzo takes a paper from his pocket.
What's that? A secret I suppose?

Alon.
'Tis not;
But 'tis a mirror which reflects my heart!
There is a fount within this beating breast,
Which never yet has felt the storms of life;
But shines as limpid as a mountain stream,
That brooklet to the river of my joy—
That crystal stream of pure and perfect love,
Which terminates the utmost of my hopes!
Now, mark! There is above all earthly things
One bright display of wisdom to the world—
'Tis yonder canopy of deathless love!
Like blue-eyed woman in a love-sick hour!
Whose altitude from earth distracts the mind,
Which would be there, but is afraid to go.
Now, as the ocean mirrors forth the stars,
So does this paper personate my heart.
Thy smiles are as the unclouded stars that shine.
My heart, within this vestibule of love,
Is, as the ocean, pregnant with thy smiles;
While my imagination's mingled thoughts,
Are figured frost-works on its fancied tide.
All life is circumfused with radiant joy,—
The vessel of my life is on the tide—
The summer of thy smiles look fresh and gay—
The canvass of my barque is spread out wide,
Oh! may it catch each fervent sigh of thine—
Then on the highest heaven of consolation,
All my thoughts shall soar, and rest in heaven.

Eud.
Then give it me—perchance it may be blest—
Too kind to be a brother, and not kind
Enough to be a husband—let me hear—

Alon.
How sweet to trace the outlines of thy face—
And drink the living music of thy voice!
[Reads.
To fold thee gently on my bosom's couch,
And hear the echoes of thy faithful sighs.
Oh! how my life could nurture thee, Eudora!

[Embraces her.
Eud.
'Tis true, thy voice is sweet to human ears,
But talking lovers are the falsest of their race.
They woo us with the sunshine of their thoughts,
As lecherous Sol doth woo the emerald spring.
They make a world of spirits, and commune
With ministers, in other, brighter spheres.
Thus did a lover, who was born to honour,
A youth of genius and luxurious hopes—
An heir to all, but deep and constant love.
He talked with lightnings in their fiery course!
And seemed no more afraid of raging storms,
When ocean moaned the dirges of the dead!
Than would a child, beneath a cooling shade,
To hear the music of melodious birds.
He made the very thunderbolt his pen,
And with the ink of lightning, wrote his song.
Transfixed his trident in the human heart,
Till admiration turned to love-sick tears!
But mark his settled agony and strife!
Although his echoes chased him o'er the sea,
Through all his soul ran fiery indignation!
Because he wanted morals in his heart.
His love, with apathy, grew cold and stiff!
The tenant of his soul became an exile!
He, as some transient star, shut out by gloom,
Through time's resolving years, went up to heaven!
For men to look upon, with gazing eyes.—
Became disgusted with life's habitation,
And, through his sinful deeds, despised the world.

Alon.
Oh! what a glorious and exalted thought,
To make this vestibule of restive life—
This ante-chamber of mortality!
Where settled resolutions mould resolves;
A prelude unto symphonies divine!

Eud.
But oh! the fairest flowers the soonest fade!

Alon.
And wert thou born to die, voluptuous maid?
Born unto manifold distresses here?
A pilgrim wandering through earth's lonely wild?
Oh! that mortality were infinite!
Then, how my soul could love and press thee near!
Thus chained to one, so lovely as thou art!
Why wert thou made from this bright world to part?

Eud.
To yield life's being to a kingdom higher!
Then, through God's Paradise shall ring, that lyre—

Alon.
Whose tones first taught me what it was to love—
Oh! what a chain coils round my throbbing heart!
And, can such high-born pulses beat for thee?
Those eyes, which, like a river, deep and clear!—
Was beauty made to dwell so shortly here?

Eud.
Why dost thou manifest, for me, such care?
'Tis true, I know myself, and feel my worth;
But self-esteem may faun me into pride.
'Tis strange, such love should kindle up so soon!
'Tis better to prorogue the spreading flame,
Than feel, in after life, regrets for love!
This manifest of love, is like a star,
Which, as the daylight of reflection breaks,
Recedes behind the curtain of the world;
And leaves no trace that once it was, but gloom!—
But one wide labyrinth of trackless space!
This is the blind vacuity of fate!
Which fills the interim of life's delights,
And claims a home in every human heart!—
Could I be flattered, in my youth, by words,
I might heap sorrow on my heart and thine.
But, being taught, by mother's soundless love,
I've weighed mine anchor near a better shore.
The raging sea, on which life's barque is tost,
May bear me on, where rocks and shoals invite;
But when I take a survey of my youth,
I have been blest with such a tender mother!— [Weeps.


Alon.
Thou art sole essence of my being's love!

Eud.
Thou tellest me, to my face, I am the light
Which shuts out darkness from thy soul,
Beneath whose beams there shines resplendent day—
Without it, life is darker than the tomb!
And, oh! I have been thinking it were best;
For, I have nothing but myself on earth!
My father died when I was but a child,
And left my mother and myself alone!—
[Weeps.
Yes, I have one bright jewel, white as snow!
Wouldst thou behold it shine?—then ope my heart!
Raise up the tablet to my bosom's fount,
And in its chambers—in my heart's deep core,—
The jewel lies!—more precious far, than gold!
Link'd with my life on earth!—my hopes of heaven!
Matured, it yields a thousand precious fruits,
But needs the culture of a tender hand!
Without this kindness, tis a barren waste!
The dove will love but one fond mate through life;
And if a fowler's shot but lay that low,
Thou mayest, at noontide, in the sultry sun,
When wanton zephyrs play around her wings,—
Stand auditor, and hear her plead his cause!—
'Twould lend affection to the hardest heart.

Alon.
Sweet lady! with thy deathless charms, oh! smile?
Come! on the rose bed of my bosom rest!
Oh! speak unto me, that I may be thine?

Eud.
Shine thou my morning unto brighter day?

[Falls on his breast.
Alon.
Here, shalt thou sleep, as on a downy couch;
Here, on the velvet of my bosom rest!
And help my wings, with thine, to flee away.

Eud.
My mother! good heavens! I have delayed my time!
Unknown adventure! I must hie me home,

Alon.
Nay! stay, my love?—then meet me on to-morrow.—
[Exeunt Eudora.
Alonzo alone.
See how the fulgent sun, in yonder west,
Doth blush at this untimely precedent!
Behold him! how he leans his radiant head
Upon his hand, and on eternity!
While yonder clouds, new dipt, in heavenly dyes,
Look back, in crimson, on his beams, and weep!
As if to bid good bye to parting day;—
While, through yon rent appears the blue arcade,
Like blue-eyed woman in a love-sick hour!
As if they could transmute earth's sin and guile,
And mould man's image into heaven above.
Thy voice is softer than the Darian flute—
Thy words are sweeter than Arcadia's lute.
Eudora! could I deem her of this earth,
Perchance I might be happy in her love;
But, oh! the folly, and methinks, the crime,
To woo an angel from the heavens above.—
Enter Angeline.
Sweet Angeline! how art thou?

Angeline.
I am well.
Why do you look so sad, Alonzo?—say?

Alon.
I pray thee minister in fervent smiles.
Thy smiles are like the jewels of the sky,
Transfixed in equal beauty on the sea;
As if life's ocean were a canopy,
And I, a pilot to my home in thee!
See love's fond lightnings round thy temples play,
Like Venus trembling in unclouded skies;—
Which shines the brightest where perfection dwells.

Ang.
Like hope's fond tallisman, thou whisperest joy.

Alon.
Thy breast is like a mountain spread with snow,
On which thy locks, like angels, skip and play;
Thy steps make music like a trembling lyre—
Thine own pure heart the instrument and strings.

Ang.
Which shall be mute, till struck by thy dear hands.

Alon.
Oh! give me but one atom from thy lips,
And, like the healing medicine of old,
'Twill cure the heart which thou hast wounded so!
But tell me thou art mine, and life is joy;
Yes, all my life shall be but as one morn,
And that, a mayday, shining without clouds.

Ang.
Yes, I am thine, by yonder heavenly light!

Alon.
A lamb! a tender-hearted, gentle lamb!
Had I this earth—a home in heaven above;
And all the stars that shine in yonder sphere,
I would be poor, without thy richer self!

Ang.
Like thy sweet voice, they seem to whisper joy,
As if no future frost might all destroy!

Alon.
No; never shall my heart forget that morn!
Thou hast endowed each feeling with a thought,
Which doth, by magic, work upon the heart—
'Tis as a mountain set on fire by love,
Which burns, into its centre, all unseen!

Angeline
sings.
The sky, by day, is seen afar,
In one celestial hue;
By night, there is a brighter star,
Than all the rest in view;—
But soon, that sky may disappear,
That star, to darkness pass!
And so may fond affection near,
Assume the same—alas!

Alon.
I tell thee, love like this, can never tire,
But flags for moments, to revive again;
'Tis that bright spark which melts away in heaven!

Ang.
This heart, is as a lyre, of many strings!
And that which thou wouldst have, or sweet, or sour,
The same is at thy will, this day and hour!

[Embraces her.
Alon.
Is it that faithfulness, like Noah's dove?
Which hath no parallel on land or sea?—
This heart retains one crystal stream as free,
Which runs, immediate, from my soul to thine.

[Exeunt Angeline.
Ang.
'Tis thine, Alonzo,—adieu!

[Exeunt Angeline.
Alon.
Farewell!
The sun is almost set!—she has not come!
[Alone.
I see him beckoning to the watchful stars,
Which make the heraldry of fulgent heaven!
See how his sentinels stand out, to guard,
The skirts of time, and diadem old night!
Now, on the confines of celestial space,
They softly tread the downy couch of eve,
And walk in pensile beauty through the skye!
Trembling, with queenly innocence, to teach
This lower world the chasteness of the heavens!
The sun's red arrows cleave yon azure brow,
And spend their influence on the engirdled earth!

[Pauses.
Eudora
returns singing.
Come, oh! come to the bridal night!
Clouds are gone, and the sky is bright.
Come, oh! come to the sylvan bower,
Twilight fades, and the dew drops lower;
Smile, oh! smile, she's a virtuous shrine!
Give her praise in a song divine—
Come, oh! quickly come!

Alon.
Were I the music of a tuneful lyre,
To live in echoes, and in tones expire!—
To pass off gently to a world of dreams,
And die in melody that never dies!—
I'd change existence with infinite will,
And live in echoes, and be music still.—
[Embraces her.
Oh! Eudora! thou, dearest to my heart!
That gentle voice hath settled in my thought!
Come, sing again, my love! and joy be thine.—
[Sings.

Alon.
Oh! joy!

Eud.
Away! I have delayed my time!
(Frightened.
What will my mother think of this?

Alon.
Why hunt for absent woes when none are nigh?
And, if she will not let thee be content,
I have thy legacy—'twill bring her down!

Eud.
And wouldst thou have me disobey my mother?

Alon.
Her love's maternal love, which ends in hope!
In welfare, and in virtuous rectitude.—
My love is not a mother's love, but more!
'Tis love that groweth, and keeps pace with joy,
Marks down each quiver of thy lip—each smile!
Makes music of thy steps, and hears thy voice,
With rapture, when all else, on earth, is still.
But does man's love stop here? no; 'tis not so!
He lives within thee, as his world of worlds!
Must lie down with thee, in voluptuous bliss,
Must nurture thee in love, till life is o'er;
And wake, to guide thee, on the future morn,—
This is man's love!—this is my love!—then stay!

Eud.
The sun is almost set! and I must go!

Alon.
Oh! stay my love! and set thy prisoner free!

Eud.
The stars are gathering now, as sentinels.
The fulgent sun lies down in tranquil peace!
Mantling his brow, with dark pavillion'd night,
And, at the birth-place of the primal morn,
Shakes hands with day, and leaves her in repose.
Farewell! I must be gone! indeed, I must!

Alon.
Be happy! this fond perquisite of love,
Is not an argument of future grief;
But clusters gathered from the vines of truth,
Which feeds expectancy on actual joy.
Be thou, unto me, as a cooing dove,
Which goest in quest of some immortal leaf;
Then come back laden to an ark divine,
And I will be the kindest of the kind.—
Nay, stay but one brief moment, that my life
May not be darkened, longing for thy light!
Oh! that I were a jewel in thy breast,
That thou might'st press me to thy tender heart,
And feed upon the sunshine of thy smiles—
Drink down the first born rivers of thy life;
And bathe existence in thy healthful blood.
Yes, swim about through all thy summer veins,
And anchor every feeling in thy soul.

Eud.
Now, I must leave thee, lest my absence here,
Leave wrong impressions on my mother's mind.

Alon.
I tell thee, say thou hast not seen me—
Tell her thou hast been to see a friend!
And tell her Frankfort will bear witness to't.

Eud.
And wilt thou not return, and see me home?

Alon.
'Tis best that I remain—they may suspect me.

Eud.
Suspect thee, Alonzo? suspect thee, what?
This speech imports some foregone thought of thine!
Presumptuous word! thou incubus to love!
Did mother know thou wert sincere,—the cause,—
Would she not turn her love to thy regard?
Yes, doat upon thee with familiar smiles!
You must remember, mother's love is great!
E'en as a mount above a mote hill stands,
So does my mother's love above the childless!
Then go, and she will be to thee, a mother!
And part of love for me, bestow on thee!

Alon.
You know what pains most people take to lie!
It gluts a fool to self-esteem, to think
Himself the author of the world's surprise!
Although the word were Ætna's red-hot flames,
A sword, with twenty edges, keen and sharp;—
Would wound his lips at every utterance!
So, he could leave a gash in other's hearts,
He'd let the poisonous adder hiss and bite!

Eud.
Then, I must be gone! farewell Alonzo!

[Shakes hands.
Alon.
Come to me again to-morrow, my love!

Eud.
At what time to-morrow shall I come?

Alon.
Meet me, my love!—this eve, in Sylvia's shade,—
In the evening, at the hour of six.

[Exeunt Eudora.
Alon.
Oh! what a joy were that sweet lapse of love,
Which make life's interim a sweet delight.
Oh! that my soul could drink of her its fill,
And sate life's longings with redoubled bliss!
The pure out-pourings of the draught would kill!
And hope would wing me, like a frightened dove,—
Like Israel's pillar, in the dead of night,
Which stood in heaven, a beacon to the host.—
[Pauses.
There is a secret whisper in this heart,
Called conscience!—'tis my life's embassador!
Whence doth it come?—from heaven? from earth? or hell?
'Tis like the bolt of Jupiter new hurled!
Like Neptune's trident in my heart transfixed!
It summons, from the temple of my soul,
Nature's high priest,—to mediate for virtue!
Should I not heed this voice?—what if I break,
The link which binds me to existence's self?
Oh! Conscience! why wert thou given to torture me?
If I unweld one link from nature's chain,
Wherewith I stand connected unto heaven,—
'Twill let me down to dark nonentity!—
To rise no more!—with devils damned!—in chains!
But hark! the zephyrs waft a soothing strain,
Methinks tis hers!—it settles in my heart!
Till all life's music mingles into love!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—Before a Tavern, in Frankfort.
Alonzo enters and meets Roland.
Roland.
Good day, Alonzo! what's the news?

Alon.
None!

Rol.
Why look so sad? are you in love?

Alon.
In love?
Do you suppose a man of sense would love?
Because he loved, look sad?

Rol.
Lord Byron loved until it broke his heart!
You'd better take a Sappho's leap from Leucate.
Tasso, Petrarch—Dante went mad for love!
The Poets, all, run mad, at run-mad love!

Alon.
He never “loved but one, and that loved one
Could ne'er be his!”

Rol.
Is that the way with you?
Frankfort is sleeping in the sultry sun,
And nothing now is going on! see here,—
Will you not legislate for us again?

Alon.
Is my election sure?

Rol.
I think it is.

Alon.
Well, I will never offer more!

Rol.
Why not?
I have my reasons, which you ne'er shall know!
You may, in time, propose some other man.

Rol.
Hast thou not seen the beautiful Eudora?

Alon.
Who is she?

Rol.
Deny it not—you know we're friends!
[Points at him.
If you have seen her not, the neighbours lie!
Eudora, daughter of Elvira.

Alon.
Ah?

Rol.
Perhaps your Angeline may love another?

Alon.
Perchance she may,—but who is this Eudora?

Rol.
Ah! not know the beautiful valley maid?
Who, born upon a rose-bed, without thorns,
Is, of the fairest, fairest one herself!
If you love Angeline, love not Eudora!
Love well, Eudora! but not Angeline!

[Strikes his shoulder.
Alon.
Who is she, of whom thou hast spoken so highly?

Rol.
She is not rich, but she is much the more!
But mark!—I tell you, not to give you pain—
A schoolboy friend of mine was sick of love;
But he is gone—your only chance is now.

Alon.
Where is he gone?

Rol.
To Mexico!—the sun!
He has been gone some time; he may be savage
E'er he comes again—you'd better mind your eye!
He means to marry her on his return.

Alon.
But, I have all her legacy in hand—
Yes, I have seen her—she is beautiful!

Rol.
Ah ha! I knew it—saw it in your face.
Good luck attend you: may you always prosper.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE III.

—A sylvan valley, in the vicinity of Frankfort.
Alonzo
enters alone.
There is the place where I'm to play the devil.
What has become of conscience? 'tis not here!—
It haunts me not—its habitation's changed!
'Twas restive at its home, disturb'd my thought,
And left the kingdoms of my soul at war!
That nightingale, call'd love, complains in song—
She sighs unvarying,—'tis one mellow wail!
But hark! the lark unlocks the gate of morn,
And lo! its levee lowers down dark clouds!—
My galliot now is on the raging sea,
And with my pampered self I'll while the hours,—
As if, Arabia, o'er Eutopia's isle,
Sent fragrance, floating on the wanton winds.
[Pauses.
Proud man! what art thou but a tender flower!
The blooming pageant of a passing hour!
To-day, a legatee of doubts and fears,
For fear to-morrow may be spent in tears!
A dying echo on a trembling lyre—
A living spirit, loathing to expire!
A wounded bird, denied an angel's wings!
A harp immortal, with ten thousand strings!
A rapturous element of living streams,—
A day of visions, and a night of dreams!
A sword suspended on a wall to rust,
A soul immortal, in a heart of dust!—
If all thou hast, and canst attain, is nought,
And buried are thine elements of thought?
And thus it is, we live and die on earth,
But without woman, what are mortals worth?
A grain of sand upon a desart shore,
Which meets the tide, and then, is seen no more!
Some gentle hand must first attune the lyre,
Then can the soul impart celestial fire!
'Tis but an instrument of many strings!
An ocean, watered from a thousand springs!
A paradise, where fond affections grow,
If nursed by women,—but if not,—'tis wo!
[Pauses.
The morning sun knows not, when he doth rise,
That clouds portend, to darken him at noon!
The damask down pours in, with radiant joy,
And so does she, with all her hopes, shine bright.
What's this?—my conscience has come back again!
Man! wilt thou tread upon that sacred thing?
Mould, with thy lust, such ugliness and grief?
And lop the tender roses in their bloom?—

Eudora
enters.
I may relent me yet, and make her mine!

Eud.
Relent, Alonzo? am I not thine own?

Alon.
What saidst thy mother, on thy brief return?

Eud.
She questioned me about my stay from home,
And told me, I had better mind—take care!

Alon.
Take care of what? to shun my company?

Eud.
No; keep these shining words of virtue bright.

Alon.
Let me kiss the nectar from thy tender lips.
We must go on—no chance can turn us back—

Eud.
You alarm me, Alonzo! am I thine?

Alon.
I cannot swallow down thy mother's words!
I long to be where I have never been,—
And long to see what I have never seen—

Eud.
I must return again.
[Takes her hand.
Mercy, Alonzo!

[Falls on one knee.
Alon.
Eudora! art thou not that living light,
Which shuts out chaos from my soul?
Thou shalt not go!—I have thee to myself.

Eud.
Be thou, unto me, as a branching tree,
And I, beneath thee as a feeble lamb!
Oh! if the winds blow fierce, do, hush the storm!

Alon.
Rise!—thy mother wish'd to win thee from me!

Eud.
Why dost thou speak so harsh! my mother loves thee!

Alon.
Loves me? 'tis no such thing!—there, say no more!
No; 'tis too late! I'd rather be a slave,
And plough your mother's land, than be the man
I am, and bear her private scorn!—'tis true!—
To have her cloud the daylight of my life!
And drop into love's chalice, wormwood—gall!
Which no Canathus ever wash'd away!
'Didst thou not feel a throbbing at thy heart,
When she advis'd thee to beware of me?
I'll be reveng'd—I'll bear no woman's scorn!

Eud.
Oh! Alonzo! she is kind to thee!

Alon.
Kind?
Persuade me black is white—there, say no more!
Were yonder rocky mountains massive gold,
Could I recall those words, I'd give them freely!—
Oh! Eudora! thou hast beguil'd my thought!
Go—get thee—meet me on to morrow eve,—
That I may banquet on thy beauteous charms.

Eud.
What dost thou mean, Alonzo? art thou mad?
Open thy wanton breast, and let in virtue!
Unlock the chambers of thy soul, and let
In prudence, let in sacred honour—trust!
Wouldst thou betray the trust repos'd in thee,
For that advantage which thou hast in hand!
Heap dust and ashes on my mother's head?
And drive me, loathsome, from myself and heaven?
Say, no, Alonzo! and I still am happy.

Alon.
Knowest thou the ordinances of my love?
Then hear maternal puling never more!

Eud.
What! despise my mother? I must be gone.

Alon.
Begone?—where to?—I say thou shalt not go!
This arm and hand protect thee!—thou must go!
I tell thee, by this heart, that loves thee well,
My soul is kindled into rapturous flight!
Here, I have a jewel—wear it near thy heart,
[Gives it to her.
Recount the happy days and hours we spent,
Which none have realiz'd like I and thou;
For which no substitute was ever found,
When ev'ry whisper was a vow of truth.
Go, meet me on this very eve—farewell!
[Exit Eudora.
The sky above me is Italian blue,
[Alone.
As day leans westward to enchanted night;
Which looks on man's creation with a love,
As deep, as from this earth to heaven on high.
While I am here, in love's lascivious garb,
Betraying truth, and feeding lust on virtue!—
The which, to think on, makes me loathe myself,
And hate the birth which made me such a fool!
Oh! Angeline! my love! and if my tears
Were tests of my affection, call me kind!—
They flow as if I had ten thousand thorns,
To root from out a long destracted heart!—
[Weeps.
What tale is this, to woo me from my joys?
By heavens! I'd loose my life—Eudora's mine!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

—Kentucky River.
Enter Hunters, with Guns and Game.
First Hun.
Did you not see a ladye in the grove?

Second Hun.
I saw a female form, adorn'd in white.
With tresses all dishevel'd on her neck,
Who held within her hand, a scarf as fair.

First Hun.
Did you not see a gentleman pass by?
Who follow'd down the sombre vale, in haste?
What can that mean? she seem'd to loathe his sight!
He overtook her, and she sat her down,
And seem'd as if distracted with some thought!

Second Hun.
By heavens! they walk'd far o'er the distant hill!
'Tis strange! their actions speak too much, for right!
Perhaps she is an orphan in distress!
You may depend—its no concern of ours.

First Hun.
Come, let us drink, and take to rest awhile.

Second Hun.
No; let us to the village—I'twil soon be dark.

First Hun.
The moon will shine—how will you vote?

Second Hun.
Well, I'll give Alonzo my vote,—I think.

First Hun.
Oh, no! he has resign'd—'tis now, too late.

Second Hun.
Ah! well, I do not care—come, take a drink;—
[Drinks.
Now, let's go on, we'll reach the village soon.

First Hun.
'Tis strange Alonzo should resign?

Second Hun.
It is—

[Exeunt omnes.
Alonzo enters, with downcast looks, as if some misfortune had befallen him.
Alon.
My very heartstrings into terror burst,—
Tuned o'er the highest pitch of agony!
While nature, striving to undo her deeds,
Doth flutter, like a wounded bird, in dust!
Each life pulse of this heart, now caged, expands,
And strikes my splintered ribs, to mangle more!
Each crimson string, by slow degrees, crack loose,
And burn my cheeks with everlasting shame!
While fiery blood leaps through my burning veins,
And washes down my heart, to waste my life.
The past in happiness is gone forever,
And lends the present only sterner grief!
We only feel the joys we now enjoy;
And fail to keep the joys we have enjoy'd!
Look, now, through memory's darkened glass,
Into the gulf of unrequited grief!—
My poor Eudora!—with thyself, alone?
Now stretch, damned heartstring, till you break!—
Break up life's anguish, deeper than the sea!
My poor Eudora!—She is left alone!—
Now, my conscience tells me, marry her—No!
By heavens!—I must be there!—I must be there!—
Else some vile wretch seduce her back again.
I will not go—lest she run mad with grief!
Oh! Angeline!—this night, I wed with thee,—
Then heap, Olympic woes on hills of grief!
Oh! my heart! I wish it could be so—
How can Eudora be my wife?—she can't!
[Weeps.
These tears are from the gulfs of human wo!
This wound—this punctur'd wound! can never heal,
By all the surgery on earth—'tis done!
And here!—the vessel which once held my tears,
[Srikes his heart.
Is one eternal flaw,—one fractur'd wreck!—
And every crack is leaking out my life!
Let nature reinstate herself again.—
What's this? another heartstring on the stretch?—
Burst, foul offender! burst! and let me rest!
Let life run into all her brief extremes,
And nature feed on settled agony!—
Now, dash remembrance from my restive soul,
And live upon forgetfulness!—make hope
Lif's bitterness console, and kill the past!
Feed on my heart at once! then, gorge thyself!
Tear—drag—rend humanity in twain!
Thou vile-anointed, hell-deserving wretch!—
Now, like an infant, tir'd of its dull nurse,
Grow peevish of existence, and the world!
Live!—die incessantly, for one lone hand,
And that borne from me, as a mountain curse
To poor Eudora!—take that thought away!
Oh! for a sea to drown this living fire!—
Sieze on him, terror! Vengeance! take revenge!
Pursue the villain throughout all the earth,—
What's this? conscience? death! Satan! wrath and hell!
My head! my heart! my soul!—the world is on me!—

[Rushes out.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Cottage in the Country, near which, Eudora and Elvira, her mother, are sitting—while, Eudora, in a melancholy mood, complains of her misfortunes,
Eudora
rises and walks.
Mother! we have no pleasure in this world!
Name blighted—hopes destroy'd—left alone!— [Weeps.


Elv.
Have I not lov'd thee, with the purest love?
Look'd on thee, when thou wast a child, all night?—
And, when the damask dawn of orient morn
Walk'd in my wicket, found me by thee still!—
He found me there, by thee!—Oh! what a curse!—
From day to day—from year to year,—these hands
Have nurs'd thee, child!—and, from these lacteal springs,
Have I, at midnight, fed thee,—half asleep!
And why didst thou deny me joy in age?—
As some bright star, above the rest hath shone,
The queen of all the radiant gems of heaven;—
Then shut, from tranquil light, to utter gloom!
So does the night of grief erase thy beams!
Where shall we go, for recompense?—Oh! God!—
There is no resting place beneath the sun!
There is the cottage where her mother lives.

[Points at it.
Eud.
Oh! she is full of tenderness and love.

Elv.
I would that I were dead and in my grave!
To die, and leave thee in the villain's hands?
[Indignant.
That foul apostate, rebel, traitor, wretch!—
He, who hath ruin'd my child, and broke this heart!
No; had I power, these old, decrepit hands,
Should make each second of his dying life.
A thousand years of misery! Oh! thou man!—
Could I but ope the windows of thy heart,
I'd shut a lion in, to tear 't in pieces!
Yes, open ev'ry vein that feeds thy heart,
And fill each empty tube with molten lead,
And hang thee up, and mock thee day and night!—
'Till thou had'st grown so old in ugliness,
That ev'ry fowl that soars in air, should scream,
And ev'ry wolf stand howling at thy corse!

[Weeps.
Eud.
That I had died when I was but a child!
That I had never seen the light of day!
He, who, was as the pulses of my heart,
He, who clung round me, but deform'd me thus!
And, with the lying lips of wanton lust,
Betray'd me unto bitterness and shame!—
He, who once held me to his beating heart,
And bade me hear the whispers of its love,
And mark the fervor of his soul!—now gone?
He—he, to chain me with a chain of lead! [Disdainfully.

Oh! for a healing Marah for this thirst!
He, lure me to his arms, then crush my heart?—
But let me not upbraid him!—he was kind!
An adder!—till I flutter'd in his jaws.
Shall I forgive him? Thereby swear my guilt?—
Not while this heart maintains my eagle thought.
Not while this hand can move a single joint.
Not while these eyes can see—these feet can walk.
Not while the sun wakes up at morn—by heavens!
Not while he shines, and sits upon yon sea!
I live to view the mirror of his blood,
[Disdainfully.
Reflect the deep damnation of his deeds!
And make seduction stare me in the face?
No; if there be no hand, so good, on earth,
As to absolve me of this cursed crime!—
If there be none on earth, so kind, as true,—
To shut the villain in a new dug grave!
And rid the air, in which I live, of bane—
By truth, and that which I have lost, I'll dress
Me in an Indian's garb, and paint me red,
The quiver'd angel of revengeful wrath—
And hunt him, like Diana, with a spear,
And wake the stings of his ingratitude!
To stifle this proud soul with such an air,—
When, in this rich apothecary, lives
An antidote, to purge him from the world!

Elv.
Repine no more, Eudora!—all is vain!—

Eud.
He, once the “apple of mine eye,” cast off!
If it offend thee, pluck it out!—it does!
My noonday sun is dark with lowering clouds!
And that meridian splendor, once so bright,
Lies folded in the funeral of disdain!
Now this dark garb of widowhood, shuts out
The sunshine which made virtue day, and chills
The healthy merriment of youthful blood!—
Bars up the door which opens on my soul!—
Shuts love within the dungeon of my brain,
And makes a culprit of my ev'ry thought!
Turns out the tenant of my bosom'd sire,
To play upon the winds!—that every ear
May drink the sound—that ev'ry tongue may blast,
The roses which once paradis'd my soul!
Oh! living death! why taunt me with thy woes?—

Elv.
Ah! why complain, when thou art half to blame?

Eud.
Oh! mother; wound me not—I tell thee now—
What? he! the Milo swore he'd take my life!—
And then, upon the curse, shed woman's tears!
And bade me, with a sigh, not break his heart!
And spoke of business which prorogued the time—
Till, like the sequence of an earthquake shock,
That lingering silence which succeeds the storm;
Aghast I stood! and begged him peace once more!
But, with the fury of a gorgon, rushed,
And clasp'd me in his arms,—still threatening death!
And, though, with purpose bent, I still had hopes! [Weeps.


Elvira.
Oh! how could nature look upon such things!

[Weeps.
Eud.
The wrath of heaven doth not chastise like men,
But lingers in infringement, giving pain.

[Weeps.
Elvira.
Oh! Eudora! Eudora!—why weep now?
Why choose this bright congenial day, to turn
Thy heart strings into discord! and, break down
The channel of life's precious stream! and melt
The current of existence into tears?—
Though heaven's decree has been delayed, my child!
At last, his death will yield thee richer gifts!

Eud.
I tell thee, mother! though thou knowest me well!
And brought'st me upward from a child, with care!
Thou know'st me not! I'm strange to thee, for all!
I tell thee, and the lamps, which burn in heaven,
Bear witness that my words have all gone forth!
And can no more return than could a ball
Shot from the cannon's mouth—I tell thee now!
And mark me! my young heart is not forsworn—
No; 'tis as pure, in its intent, as snow!
I would not harm the simplest thing on earth!
As loathe to scorn, as fierce to insult given!
But, when despite is on my nature thrown,
I swear, 'tis harder far than adamant!
And now, for all I bore him, in this world!
For every moment that I saw his face,
If health survive, and only life shall last,—
For all the smiles which won me to belief,—
Shall fourfold years, and endless hate be given!
And this wide heart, so full, it fain would burst—
This fountain, which is stirred to bitter wrath,
Which that insatiate wretch so rudely stung,
And wounded with the arrows of his lust!—
Shall turn an August to his life, and thirst
For every drop that palpitates his heart!—
I tell thee, here are settled resolutions!
For, agony now slumbers in resolve.
I'd pray to heaven for fifty live-long years,
And travel through the world, to take his life!

[Weeps.
Elv.
Oh! my child! my child! thou art run mad!

Eud.
Mad!
Thou know'st I have enough to make me mad!
To burn up every atom of my blood;
And freeze the pulses of my heart to death!
But 'tis not so! perhaps I might go mad,
Had I a soul as little as myself;
And had no other way to vent my wrath,
Than through these weeping windows, which you see!
Which, every moment, tells me, that I breathe
The same fresh air, in which a traitor lives!
Had I no other door to enter heaven,
Than through these narrow straits and locks, which shoal
Existence—then, my heart might weep! but, mark!
For such a little heart, there never lived
Beneath God's heaven, a nobler, larger soul!
The mountains' heights are ascertained! the seas
Are fathomed, and the ocean's depths are known!
The heavens are fettered by material space!—
Revenge in woman hath no limitations!
'Tis measureless! and never had a shore!
Thou know'st a woman's love? how deep! how strong!
Then weigh it in the scales of heaven, and weep!

Elv.
My child! thou art beside thyself! 'tis vain!
I have foregone these many things for thee!
And here, I find thee railing out in wrath,
As if thou couldst allay the temptest-storms
And grasp the whirlwinds in thy hands—let's go!

[Starts away.
Eud.
I know one tempest I can still, too well!
And such a wreck shall never shame this world!
The chronicles of life are sealed by death;
And on the outskirts of the eternal hills,
Stands bold revenge to confiscate his soul!

Elv.
Thou, Eudora! do all this? who aids thee?

Eud.
Mother! I love thee—teach me not to hate!

Elv.
Thou art distracted—oh! that I were dead!

[Weeps.
Eud.
Weep not, my mother! I will soothe thine age!
Could I retrace the current of my years,
Back to the fountain of my early hopes,
How I could smile before thee!—with a heart
As buoyant as a fawn on Judah's hills!—
No mortal man shall know that day and hour,
When these poor hands shall chase life's cloud away,
And from the sky of life, that curtain draw,
And hurl a traitor from his domil throne!
Then will the sunshine of meridian day,
Beam on the bright Hesperian fruit of gold;
Break through the haze of disappointment's morn,
And light me and my mother home to heaven!

Elv.
O! heaven grant that hour could come.

Eud.
'Twill come!

Elv.
Come—let us take us to our lonely home.

Eud.
Hark! I hear the cooings of a mateless dove!—
'Tis so much like the voice I heard that day!
It sings so mellow, with harmonious pain!
Her music dwells within me, as a song,
Through visions purified—and oh! the grove!
Bright gems of love!—what spirits fill mine eyes?
Oh! what a season was such perfect love!
In early childhood, where my spirit met
Its ministers of peace!—to waste and melt
Like snow in sunshine? shall it be so now?—
My heart-strings bursting with untamed regret—
All circumfused with tears!—no; hope is strong!
The chains which bound my life are twain,
And mildew rusts them, from his cadent tears!—
And now, all trembling, like a stormy oak,
Shaken on high, by some unfriendly wind,
I see his iron heart-strings burst and bleed!
And cry unsolaced to his tortured mind!
Mark! this hand shall do 't, and this heart shall guide.

Elv.
What will become of Angeline, his wife?
[Disdainfully.
But she hath done no wrong! upbraid her not.

Eud.
I would not waste the offspring of my thoughts,
To name her name!—she was that golden gate,
Which shut my entrance out of happiness!
No! no!—who could be happy with a traitor?
No one!—not e'en an angel out of heaven!

Elv.
Let us home, my child! he loves her.

Eud.
He love?
And enemy to virtue, love?—tell me
That heaven is hell!—that he will go to heaven!
I tell thee, now, I have a daring soul!
Feeble in body—yet, in mind, a lion!
Then say no more—talk not of Angeline!
Methinks I see him sitting by her side,
As he disported once, with me—telling lies!

Elv.
His children will be taught their father's language.

Eud.
His children!—heavens! my child! my child! my child!

[Exeunt Eudora and Elvira.

SCENE II.

—Frankfort: in the vicinity of which, Conrad meets Alfred, his friend.
Alfred.
Good morning, my noble friend—any news?

Con.
Nothing worth the question.

Alf.
Ah! nothing?
You have been absent for a long time past?
No news? and just from Mexico? 'tis strange!

Con.
Ah! as to that, I have some sort of news.

Alf.
What did you see, worth naming to a friend?
I saw still born liberty swathed in gold!
Saw human laws made highways into crime!
Saw avarice debasing human nature!
And cut the throat of a cut-throat, because
He insulted a lady in my sight!

Alf.
By heavens! worse and worse! thou art the man!
Thou art the man, for me!—when we were boys,
I recollect, you used to take the field.

Con.
Ay—as to that, those days are past and gone!

Alf.
By truth! I thought there was no crime on earth,
Could match that villain's!

Con.
What do you mean?

Alf.
Have you not heard the wide report abroad?
If 'tis not so, then scandal's fast asleep,
And rumor, with her snaky tongue, has found
Some confine in the earth, and buried envy!
When man sets fire the lips of hell, and makes
Black passion stare young virtue in the face,—
Then fix a pivot in thy heart for doubt
To turn on! Didst thou know Alonzo?

Con.
Know him?
Why, Alfred! I know him better than thyself.

Alf.
Did you not know he loved Eudora?

Con.
No.
I think not—never did there live a sweeter.

Alf.
Why? how?—who was she? what is she?

Con.
A maid—
The damsel of the valley—pure as snow—

Alf.
Melted by a summer's sun.

Con.
Do not jest—
'Twould be a dangerous thing.

Alf.
Did you know her?

Con.
I know her? we went to school together.

Alf.
Then, I suppose, you thought her chaste.

Con.
I did:
But not more chaste than she is now, I guess!

Alf.
By heavens! the villain should be burnt alive!
The whitest snow, in falling, may be changed!

Con.
What means this kind o' talk—she is not married?

Alf.
Ah! if t'were so, t'would be as well as 'tis,
But not much better!

Con.
What is it?—tell me?

Alf.
Why, he is blown so high, the birds may build
Their nests in him, before he falls!—she's low!

Con.
What?—taunt me no more with slanderous words!
Come, play the fool no more! I know them both.

Alf.
Then, what I tell thee, I would have thee keep,
As silent as the grave confines the dead!
The gentleman who represents our state—

Con.
Has he committed murder—treason—rape?

Alf.
Yes! all that! as sure as you're a living man!
His passion, not content with earthly things,
Has conjured up his brain—beguiled his heart!
Whereby he ruined the sweetest thing on earth!

Con.
Very well—I'll see you soon again.

Alf.
Stay?
[Disturbed.
Thou art in love!—be not disturbed—'tis vain!

Con.
I do not care! tis' nought to me!—what else?

Alf.
I think thou art my friend! be such to her!
And better still, I know that I am thine;
And 'tis from this strong friendship that I speak.

Con.
Why! tell me what thou knowest about the man?

Alf.
If thou hast courage, learn him honesty.
He made a promise to Eudora, as I heard,
And acted like a traitor in the bargain.

Con.
Ah! if she loved him well, and he deceived her,
Then, the crime falls heavier on his heart—
Than on them both, did both love equally.

Alf.
I understand this thing from good men's mouths.

Con.
What?—it is not so?—it can't be possible?

Alf.
Trees are known by fruits they bear!—spring is come!

Con.
By heaven! I understand ye—you are his friend?

Alf.
I'm no such thing!—I'd rather cut his throat!

Con.
That you had better keep within your mouth.

Alf.
I must be gone—good day!
[Exeunt Alfred.

Con.
Good day, Alfred.
I would not nurture in my soul, one thought,
[Alone.
Which would be hurtful to my fellow man;
And hope, for virtue's sake—for heaven—and love,
Which I have borne so long—that 'tis not so.
I love Eudora! and, a sweeter child,
I never saw deserve a mother's love.
That villain must have used some violent means;
And, if he did, which I shall seek to know,
I'll arm me as a Hydra, full of heads,
And, Argus ey'd, with swift Achilles' speed,
Pursue him, like a bloodhound, day and night,
And finding him, make daylight through his heart!
'Till, draining ev'ry life drop from his veins,
Winter of death shall blow upon his soul,
And freeze up his existence into dust!
Shall I premeditate a brother's death?—
No kinsman of this heart!—think'st thou, this hand,
When wash'd in life's red spring, will not, with joy,
Pluck out the thorn which wounds Eudora's heart?
I would not hurt the heart of mortal man;
I would not wound the feelings of a slave;
I would not trespass on the moral laws,
For that poor, paltry recompense, call'd pride.—
By heaven! I have for man, far nobler views!
And would not wound the sympathies of self.—
[Strikes his heart.
My end and aim, for this, and future life,
Takes root in richer soil than common earth;
But if the chalice of my hopes,—so full
Of pure and perfect love,—be drain'd to dregs;
And I am forced to drink the wormwood left—
By truth! my run-mad heart shall quench its fire.
Look at these hands!—these stainless hands of mine!—
Were they kept clean thus long, to murder man!
To turn a Vulcan—make a human forge,
And point a steel, that has no feeling in it?
And loose the fountain of his mortal life,
'Till ev'ry drop of human gore runs out?
Would'st thou believe, a man, who never saw
A death in all his life!—one, who would weep,
In woman's tears, to see a suffering thing!—
Would'st thou believe that man could sport with human life?—
This is the man—these are the hands shall do 't!
I have authority from higher climes.
And mark! if I have not—I tell thee, there
Are crimes, which, once committed, call for aid,
Which, when bestow'd, would be a crime itself,
We'rt not for such as this—the shedding blood,
As sacrifico, for orphan honour stolen!
Clouding the crystal sea of limpid life—
That unpolluted region of the soul,
In which obscene defilement never sat;—
Now, may heaven give me wings to speed this work.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Cottage in the Country, where Eudora and Elvira live. Conrad enters—goes to the door and knocks; and Elvira comes out.
Con.
Good evening, Elvira!—pleasant evening.

Elv.
Pleasant evening—walk in, and take your rest.

Con.
I have a message for Eudora's self;
And I must see her.—

Elv.
You cannot see her,
I hope you did not come here to insult me?

Con.
I did not—my name is Conrad, tell her so—
That I am of her people, and her land—
I have a present for her.

Elv.
I cannot.
I have retir'd forever from the world,
And would not see the dearest friends on earth!

Con.
I knew that, e'er I came—here, give her this;
[Hands her a letter.
Tell her, that I would speak ten words, at most.

[Goes in to Eudora.
Elv.
Eudora begs me to inform you that
She must refuse; and bade me give you this—

[Hands him a book.
Con.
By heaven! I came to see Eudora's face,
And I must do 't—excuse me, ladye!
I am Eudora's friend—a trusty friend.

Elv.
Are you a madman?—get you gone—I say
She will not see thee!

Con.
Tell her o'er again—
Ask her if I can see her on to-morrow?
Give her these jewels,—and bid her keep them,
For the love the giver bears her—take them.
[Takes them and goes in.
(Alone)
The sun is fulgent, and his sheeny light,
By God's strong alchemy, transmutes the day—
What harmonious wo is that which stirs
The fountain of my soul, and jars the strings,
Which vibrate in my heart?—'tis sweet as sad!—
Oh! how it settles in the tenderness of pride,
Waving upon life's atmosphere of love!
Ah! 'tis the dove—an emblem of her virtue.
That is another witness nature gives,
Which proves how much her innocence was wrong'd!
The spirits of the world, are all at war,
And nature mourns—the morn and evening weeps!—
By truth! I will not go—I cannot go!
The fountains of my heart are wont to gush,
And I must burst, or give existence vent.
I will—I will behold Eudora's face!
I'll see if she be chang'd since first we met.
I'll watch the mirror of her soul, and trace
The outlines of primeval joy—sweet hours!
When tears were lost in smiles, as morning haze
In sunshine. Has she forgot my name?—no.
I'll tell her, like a man, and make her smile.

[Goes to the door and knocks, and Eudora comes out.
Con.
Art thou Eudora? Oh! Eudora! come—

[Refuses to go to him, and he weeps.
Eud.
What mean you, Conrad?—speak, that I may know?
Thou look'st like playtime, in my early youth;
When I was that, I ne'er shall be again!

[Weeps.
Con.
Dost thou remember those clear streams of ours,
Where we have heard the sweet melodious birds?
That plenitude of bliss is gone, Eudora!
One month ago, and I was far from thee—
But I could not remain—my soul was full!

[Weeps.
Eud.
Conrad! thou art distressed?

Con.
I am, Eudora!
But love and tenderness forbid me tell it.

Eud.
Speak, Conrad! mother knew thee not—thou hadst
Been welcome, had she known thy manly face.

Con.
That lonely hut—and was that built for thee?

[Points at it.
Con.
Yes, for me!—a villain drove—

[Weeps.
Eud.
Name it not—I will not hear it?

[With anger.
Eud.
Soft, soft!

Con.
Oh! Eudora! didst thou not know I lov'd thee?

Eud.
No, Conrad! that I cannot know—I'll think!

Con.
Think not—Eudora! dost thou see yon sun,
Shedding its beauty on the world? yon hills?—
Yon canopy of deathless blue?—enthroned
Above the universe, without a frown?
Now, if thou dost, thou seest I love thee well!
For I am but a spark of that great light—
A satellite discerption of the heavens!
I know the reason that thou lingerest here.

Eud.
How plainly do I see those eyes of youth,
Beaming with love, as when an active child!
I lov'd them then—why was I led away?—
[Weeps.
And now, in this sad day, I feel that love—
A something, which I would, but can't define.

Con.
Why live, Eudora! from the world?—from man?

Eud.
Why wound me with recurrences so keen?
When heaven dislikes to hear them?—say no more!
My soul is full of sorrow, and my heart
Is crush'd beneath the mountain of my woes!
Oh! my father! were he living!—were he here!—
But he is gone!—yea, dead and in his grave!
I feel the tide of indignation rushing
Back upon me—till a monument stands
Up, and points to heaven—Ah! tis sorrow's pangs! [Weeps.


Con.
Oh! Eudora! give me thy hand—be mine?
A better heart ne'er warm'd a human breast.

Eud.
Never—never—though I lov'd thee as my life!
Would I forswear myself? I've done it once!
I'll never do 't again—I never did!

[Weeps and falls in his arms.
Con.
What hast thou sworn, Eudora? tell me, love!

Eud.
Not to bequeath this heart to mortal man,
Until my woes are baptiz'd in his blood!
And wash'd from hell's most spurious counterfeit.

Con.
Then we are sworn alike—give me thy hand?
[She refuses.
You see this face of mine—you see this dagger;
[Shows it.
This is my young companion—I am thine!
Now, we can all be friends—give me thy hand?

Eud.
Not till I hear thee swear, and look to heaven!

Con.
By heavens! I will not—'twas that villain's prayer!

Eud.
Yes, that it was; may heaven defend thy love!—
[Falls on his breast.
Then “swear not by the heavens—it is God's throne!
Nor by the earth,” my love, “for 'tis his footstool!”
But swear by comfort here, and life to come.

Con.
I swear by comfort here, and heaven to come,
[Kneels,
That, with thy hand, as gift of estimation—
As truly shall this earth receive his blood.

Eud.
Then it is thine, and I am thine,—mine all;
[Gives her hand.
But never will I marry mortal man,
'Till he turn priest, and wed him unto death!

Con.
'Tis said—'tis done, as sure as said—I will
Not sleep—'I'll not lie down upon my bed,
Until I place this birthright in his heart,
And send him, with the legacy, to hell!

Eud.
Be not too rash—the thing should be well done!
And mind, you leave no spark behind—but tramp
The embers, ere you quit him, into ashes!—
For fear, one breath may blow him back his soul,
And kindle life again—he has a wife!
And I am sorry for her!

Con.
And so am I—she never did me harm;
And I am sorry for his children—child!— [Looks at Eudora.


Eud.
Oh! heavens! forgive me, Conrad!—name it not!—

[Weeps.
Con.
Thou hast a child, Eudora! I know it all—
I will restore thee to thyself again.
That child shall be no orphan, like thyself!—
She shall be rear'd and taught beneath my roof.

Eud.
Oh! Conrad! thou wer't sent to heal this wound.

Con.
What?—thou did'st love the villain?—let him die!

[Draws his dagger.
Eud.
Oh! Conrad! forgive me!

Con.
Forgive you, what?
Because you lov'd him?—that needs no forgiveness!—
The thing forgives itself, and heaps up hell
Against his guilt—the wrath of man and heaven!
I love the better—hate his crime the more—
To know thou wer't so kind, and he betray thee.

Eud.
Then, drag him from the world!—he is that curtain,
Shading life, which shuts out sunshine from my soul!
But tear the wolf-skin from his back, and throw
It to the dogs—Eudora lives once more!—
This hand and heart shall then be thine—thine own.

Con.
These hands shall wash thy name as white as snow.

Eud.
I would not chronicle my name on earth,
But have my virtue written in the skies.

Con.
You would not have me kill him in the night?—
Let me fight him like a man,—face to face.
Cowards seek their prey by night, like wolves—
I am no fox—I'll weigh his chance with mine.

Eud.
Fight with a traitor'—give him chance to kill thee?
He may possess the muscle, nerve and strength—
All that—and still not have a human soul!
The ox hath power—a stubborn, ignorant thing.
Would'st thou be balanc'd with an ignorant ox?
Man's reason, once debas'd, falls short of instinct;
Therefore, secure him in the night—a dungeon night!
And raise the flood-gates of his treacherous heart,
And let the rivers of his life run back
To dust—the elements from which they came.

[Goes into the cottage.
Con.
Then, I must be as yon eternal sun—
Fix'd and immovable—hard as adamant;
And steadfast as the pillars of this world.
What care I for this golden trophy, here,
Call'd honour?—silver opinions?—night! night!
Shall hide me from the sophistry of men;
And make this unsophisticated heart,
A chaplet for Eudora and mankind.
She has become like Israel's increase,
Needs the strength of such an honest arm,
To roll this mountain from her tender heart—!
To morrow, I shall see him for the last.

[Eudora returns.
Eud.
Be careful, Conrad! he may kill thee first!
And when thou dost return, oh! I will love thee!
And all my life shall be to nurse and praise thee!
And wash thy bloody hands with tears of joy.

Con.
Sweet ladye! sweetener of all love,—my joy—
Oh! what would I not do to please thee?—die!
I'd die without a pang to see thee smile.

Eud.
Take care! lest he betray thee unto death!
Oh! then, this life would be a tenfold curse!
Steal on him, Conrad! when he's in his office—
Tell him you're his friend, and wish to see him!

Con.
I am his friend—I am to do that man
A most immortal good! I am to rid
Him of a burthen, which I would not wear,
For all Golconda's mines—I am to prune
His sucker'd conscience,—which is wasting down
His substance, into pigmy degradation;—
Methinks he should be thankful in the grave!

Eud.
He would not face thee, for his weight in gold.

Con.
Why not, Eudora?

Eud.
Oh! he's such a coward!
The most notorious coward in this world.
Who ever saw a foe to virtue brave,
And not indict a blush to hide his shame?
Find him out, but call Eudora's name!
And thou can'st do, with him, just what you please.
Tell him, Eudora lov'd him—then, you smile;
Then mark the cloud which overhangs his brow!
Fire his expectation—then say, 'tis peace.
Then, ask him if he do not think me pure?
Then read self-condemnation on his cheeks!
Make him acknowledge how he serv'd my mother—
Then note the quiver of his lying lips!
Ask him if he does not deserve to die?
And mark how prostrate he will fall before thee!—
Howling for mercy, like a beaten dog.
Ask him all this—and tell me what he says.
I would not have you see his wife—she's kind!
And would not do her wrong—she calls him dear!
But, if she knew his heart as well as I,
She'd not refuse to be our accessary.

Con.
Now, out of two fond hearts, we make but one.
Like two sweet notes from one melodious string,
We make our music on a human harp.

Eud.
Take care, Conrad! be not rash!—mind, my love!
But weigh ambition in the scales of patience.
Go, like Ulysses, in a cloak—well arm'd—

Con.
One kiss, Eudora! and the work is done—
[Kisses her.
Farewell! I hate that word! it makes me wish
[Shakes hands
Myself with thee again—then, fare thee well!

Eud.
Farewell, and I will wait—mind what I told thee.

[Exeunt omnes.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Frankfort.—Enter Conrad, slowly and thoughtfully.
Con.
I have an eddying sorrow in my heart!
It must be done!—it must be done, as sworn!
I know too much of speed—to linger here!
Here is a hand, and here is, too, a heart!—
A kinder, never lov'd, or had a friend.—
A prouder, never beat a human breast!
With these two friends, in purpose bound, I'll make
A breach in nature, time shall never heal!
Beside this heart, sleeps virtue's warmest friend.
Within this cell, it rests in deep repose.
It counts the very pulses of my heart,
And cheers impatience on to swifter speed.
How warm it feels!—now, when I wake it hence!
[Draws his dagger.
See how its face will shine!—and I will wash
It in a human fount, all full of blood!
Then bury him, without a funeral rite,
That virtue's foes may read his epitaph!
This tongue, no more, shall sound his obsequies!
Nor wake him from his rest!—but, like his prey,
Shall live and die! upon his first resolve!
Now, when I wake him, thus,—'twill be, to sheathe
It in the foulest heart that ever beat!
I would not deign inter it in his breast,
But such an absolution sweeps away
The guilt, which dyed the name of innocence!
'Tis hard!—but these are darling energies!—
He made his bed—his fardels shall be thorns.
There is a watchman in the city, here,
Which cries loves night of hate, to actual morn!
When I must guardian be, to love's estate—
Avenge her many wrongs, with gratitude;
And stamp the traitor underneath my feet!
Thou good old friend!—my heart! it must be done!
Wake up thy rivulets, and feed my soul;
And make a freshet, like Eudora's tears!
Now, balance consequence with insult given;
And in the scales of everlasting love,
Sweep down the wasting banks of sandy life,
And wash seduction from creation's shore.
My country! when I look upon my land—
Mine own devoted soil, which gave me birth,
I cry out in my spirit, glorious Isle!—
Thou younger mother of the best of men!—
Where once the canebrake told the rivers flow,
The queen of Andalusia stands divine!—
I'd live a thousand years and be at rest
With thee—thou altogether lovely land!
Wer't not for that huge dam, which shoals the stream
Of all life's blessedness!—now, he shall die!
But stay—am I not wrong? She bade me kill
Him in the night!—the starless, dead of night!—
But I must probe the courage of his soul,
And meet him in the daylight, like a man.—
Enter Alver.
Who comes there? Alver, my friend! how art thou?

Alver.
Well, I thank your kindness, how art thou?

Con.
Well, I thank ye—Alver! can'st thou not tell
Me where Alonzo keeps himself, to day?

Alver.
Yes, I saw him pass the street just now—why?

Con.
You know I have been absent for some time;
I wish to see him—we were once old friends.

Alver.
Alonzo's friend? no, no! that cannot be!
I thought the villain had no friends of late.
Were I his friend, 'twould be to take his life!

Con.
Why so? Alver! my friend! thou art officious?

Alver.
I want no cameos, intaglios and jewels—
No foul, barbaric gold, enrich'd with pearl,
To make myself a frantic libertine,
And woo a wanton nymph from virtue!
To be thus filagreed with antique gems!—
[Disdainfully.
I'd rather be an owl, and hoot all night,
Than such a conscience-smitten traitor.

Con.
Hast thou a spark of hatred gainst that man?

Alver.
I'm not his friend! I need not tell thee more.
A fair outside—but when you search his heart,
There, guilt and rottenness sepulchred lie,
And crime stands pauting with stupendous guilt!
The offspring of his promise to Eudora.
Mark me! a man, who lives a foe to virtue,
Is no friend to man!—traitor! coward! dog!
That man would steal your soul at dead of night!
That man, who would deceive an orphan girl,
By blushes—silvered over with his tears—
Would rob a widow, and betray his father!
If smaller hearts hold in their smaller deeds,
Then larger hearts hold in them greater crimes;
And the incentive in the last, is greatest!
Therefore, I say, beware of such a man!
A Cataline—a Nero is a brighter man.

Con.
Thou art incensed against that man!—why so?
Thou would'st impugn him with thy very wrath!

Alver.
Since thy return, thou hast not heard the news,
Which float about, like chaff upon the wind,
Which way you choose to blow it.

Con.
Why? that's strange!

Alver.
'Tis not more strange than true!—didst thou not know,
About one year ago, this same Alonzo.
Courted fair Eudora?

Con.
No; I did not.

Alver.
The villain kept it from the world, for fear
His devilish deeds might come to light.

Con.
How so?
What harvest has he sown to reap thy curses?

Alver.
Go down in yonder vale, and thou wilt see.
Look at that eye, which was unto thy soul,
A living star!—which roll'd within its orb,
And would have gazed a wild gazelle away—
Now shining in an atmosphere of tears!
The sorrows of Elvira are too great!

Con.
Where is Elvira?—has she left this place?

Alver.
Yes, long ago; and made the solitudes
Her home.

Con.
Has he exposed her goods to sale?
He had her property at his control,
To which Elvira's daughter was an heir.

Alver.
Ah! so much the worse;—I did not know that.
The treacherous devil, then, has ruined them both.
You tramp the adder—see if he will bite!
To try a man, place money in his hands,
Then mount him on the steed of lenity;
And when he has the reins, if you perceive
He guides him well,—with care and honesty,—
Then set him down as one who may be trusted;
But when you see him sell his neighbour's horse,
Upon a breach of trust, you shun that man.
He is a traitor!—thus he sold Eudora.

Con.
What has he done?

Alver.
Promised to marry her.

Con.
Is that all? that cannot break her heart.

Alver.
This cannot break it: 'tis already broken.

Con.
Perhaps some light may chase away her gloom?

Alver.
You cannot mend a broken egg.

Con.
That's true.

Alver.
Well, you can no more make her what she was.
A woman's virtue robbed, like loss of sight,
Can never be restored—and life is night!
Were he to give you all he has on earth,
'Twould only lend enchantment to the crime,
And gild destruction. Gilt wears off;
But guilt like this can never wear away.
If thou canst be her friend, 'twould please the heavens.

Con.
I be her friend? how can that be?

Alver.
Kill him!

Con.
Do that which I could not behold thee do?
There, thou hast touched the secret strings of nature.

Alver.
No less than death can ever give her peace.

Con.
How knowest thou that?

Alver.
By fathoming the crime.

Conrad
takes his hand.
Alver! thou art an honest man—I know thee!
Were I a man, who trusted men—I'd choose thee
From the world! but say no more! I'll love thee,
Though I ne'er shall see thee more!

[Shakes hands.
Alver.
Fare thee well!
[Exeunt Alver.

Con.
When Noah sent the turtle from the ark,
The first poor, honest thing, was drowned!—it died!
Elijah multiplied the widow's oil,
And, Nathan gave to David good advice.
How I love to look upon an honest man!
My heart once grew so full of love, I thought
'Twould be a better plan to trust that man.
My soul was full, to ask him to befriend me;
But such a deed as this, admits no trust!
Then, quickly, down the door of prudence shut,
And lock'd credulity in unbelief.
I love that man, as David lov'd his brother!
But he might turn out Cataline, for all.
Therefore, 'tis best to hardly trust one's self.
Who knows how soon man's nature may misgive!
And frail expectancy beguile his trust?
Where art thou, friend?—what! asleep in daylight!
[Takes out his dagger.
This bright embassador's as warm as life!
This is that guardian angel, at the gate
Of paradise, which keeps the banished out.
Ah! 'tis a ticket in a lottery—
With love, and hate, and homicide for numbers,
And when the prize is drawn, 'twill turn out blood!
And pay my way to fond Eudora's arms.
How sweet is self-congratulation's voice!
Like echoes from the sighs of those we love:
It builds a bridge across the gulf of fear,
And binds the sword of resignation on.
Have I them all? 'tis better to be sure,
[Looks at himself.
Than lose one's life from negligence—to ask
An absolution when decrees are past,
Seems begging pardon after punishment.
[Hesitates.
Now, I must think upon it for the last.
I'll do that which is best—I'll call him out.

[Goes to his office and knocks. Alonzo comes out.
Alonzo.
Conrad! is that you? Friend! how do you do?

[Shakes hands.
Con.
How do ye do, my friend? is Alonzo well?
I'm glad to see you, sir, indeed!—no news?

Alon.
None, I think, upon my word!

Con.
Ah! no news?
Well, that is strange, I do declare! no news!
Suppose we take a walk? I have some news!

[Hesitates.
Alon.
I would, but—I—I have—I must be gone—

[Starts away.
Con.
Stay—all excuse is vain! walk, or do worse.

Alon.
Do what? thou hast no hatred 'gainst a friend?

Con.
None in the world—best friend you ever had.

Alon.
Well, indeed! and I am glad to hear it.

[Trembles
Con.
Why do you tremble so? Why look so pale?
You look like you had been in some bad place?

Alon.
You have no hatred lodged in heart, for me?

Con.
Why do you ask that question?

Alon.
You look mad!
You look as if you had repressed some thought,—
Some hatred which is wont to vent—is't so?

Con.
'Tis Mexico.

Alon.
Conrad, I ask forgiveness—do not kill me!

[Kneels.
Con.
Alonzo! what's the matter? rise, you fool!
[Rises.
I said 'twas Mexico—the land—the sun—
That savage land!—the things I saw last year!

Alon.
I fear that sunny land! men's hearts grow hot
Beneath that sun.

Con.
It should be warm to friends.

Alon.
Art thou my friend? oh! could I think thee so!

Con.
Did I not tell thee so, just now?—why not?
Thou look'st as if some foregone deed beguiled thee.
Why not look up, and be a man? dost love?

Alon.
I love my wife and children—they are kind.

Con.
Hast thou a wife and children?

Alon.
Yes, 'tis true.

Con.
Eudora is thy wife?

Alon.
No; Angeline!

[Frightened.
Con.
Ah! then the people lie—they say, Eudora!

Alon.
Eudora—yes—I know!—but! I thought—

Con.
Thought what! Art thou a man? Hast thou a soul?

Alon.
I am not what I was! ah! 'tis too hard!

Con.
Thou 'rt more than thou wilt ever be again!

Alon.
You will not murder me?

[Frightened.
Con.
Why think you so?
Dost thou deserve to die? She bade me ask thee?
Thou wilt not speak, and look'st as pale as death—
Did'st thou never love Eudora?

Alon.
I did.

Con.
Why, then, not marry her?

Alon.
I could not, then!

Con.
Why not? lie not to me—I know thee, devil!
Thou hadst her moneys in thy hand, thou villain!
Why cheat her of her birthright, and thus bring
Her mother into want and sorrow!—speak?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me! let me live!

[Kneels.
Con.
Thou, villain! dost thou not deserve to die?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me—spare my life!
Didst thou not tell me, thou wert true, my friend?

Con.
I did—I thought thee honest!—thou art not!

Alon.
Oh! be my friend!—I would that I were dead!

[Weeps.
Con.
Would freely die, had'st thou a friend to kill thee?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, spare my life!

Con.
Ah! hear how he lies!
Thou art a traitor to thyself!

Alon.
Oh! guilt!

Con.
Guilt, I think you say? thou art guilty then?
Thou prowling wolf, in clothing of a lamb!
'Twould be much better if thou had'st no wife.

Alon.
Thou wilt not kill me, Conrad?

Con.
Think on thy soul!
[Points at him.
Thou art dying with a conscience-wasting heart!
And I am sorry for thy wife and children—
How many children have you in this world?

Alon.
I have two lovely children!

Con.
Only two?

Alon.
None but two, on earth!

Con.
Then name them, if you please.

Alon.
Juliet and Anna.

Con.
Poor Juliet! and poor Anna!

Alon.
I love them.

Con.
Which dost thou love the best, of all the three?

Alon.
I have but two on earth—Juliet and Anna!

Con.
Where is Eudora?—where is she, I say?

[Raises his dagger.
Alon.
Conrad, do not kill me! I pray for life!
[Kneels.
Think of my wife and children! Spare them! O!

Con.
What! did'st thou spare Elvira, when she wept,
And mourn'd her only child?

Alon.
Have mercy on me!

[Raises his hands.
Con.
What mercy did'st thou ever grant to her?
My poor Eudora! Did'st thou heed her cries?
Who call'd upon thee, in the hour of need?
Thou art asham'd to beg for pardon now!
Did mercy ever know thy heart? now, tell me!—

[Takes him by the throat.
Alon.
I beg thee for my life!

Con.
What shall I do?
[Lets go his throat.
Did I not tell thee, that I was thy friend?

Alon.
Then, be my friend! and let me live once more!

Con.
Why did'st thou tell a lie, about thy children?
Thou shouldst be murdered in these streets,—come—rise!
We must be gone—I have a balm for thee!

[Rises.
Alon.
Indeed I cannot go—I must attend!
I should be, at this moment, with my friends.

Con.
Thou wilt be judged before to-morrow morn!
Thou wilt be chained, by devils, down in hell!

Alon.
Why say'st thou art my friend, and look'st so mad?
I cannot understand thee!—thou art mad!
I see—thy countenance is full of storms!

Con.
So my lightning kills a traitor, all is well!
If I but prove thy friend—then all is right?

Alon.
I cannot go!—I fear some harm may breed!
Thou art a different man from what I thought.
Thou art Eudora's friend!—hast seen her?

Con.
Well!

Alon.
She is mine enemy!—the worst on earth!

Con.
Hast thou not been the vilest foe to her?
Hast thou not rolled a mountain on her heart?
Hast thou not robbed her of her joys in life?
And driven her mother from the best of friends?

Alon.
Thou hast seen Eudora! and, I know it well!
I must return! I fear thee, for my life!

Con.
If thou art innocent of crime, why fear?
The truth will be thy bulwark and thy shield.
No man's afraid when he has truth about him.
Talk not philosophy!—that, I will teach.

Alon.
Art thou my friend, and wilt thou swear it now?

Con.
I swear, I am thy friend! thy strongest friend!

Alon.
Thou hast no enmity at heart? do'st love me?

Con.
Why!—dost thou not believe a friend?

Alon.
I do!

Con.
Then go with me, and I will teach thee much!

[Exeunt Conrad and Alonzo.

SCENE II.

—In the vicinity of Frankfort, on the Kentucky river.
Conrad.
Thou hast a wife—three children, and thyself!
Much money, many enemies!—thou'rt rich!
I would not be so rich for all this world.
Dost thou not know what caused the Trojan war?
How Cacus fell by Hercules of old?
How Judith murdered Holofernes?
How Hector fended off Achilles' arm?
How David slew Goliah with a stone?—
Thy pandects shall be silent in an hour!
Thou hast more opulence than patient Job!
Thou can'st not pay thy way to heaven, my friend!
But thou can'st pay thy voyage into hell!
'Twere well to gird thy cash about thee, now—
This very day thou shalt defend thy life!

Alon.
Oh! treacherous friend! I knew it—let me kneel.
[Kneels.
I do adjure thee, Conrad!—let me live!
And all my life—my wife! my children's thine!
[Raises his dagger and holds him by the throat.
Oh! let me pray to heaven! I would not die!
My wealth shall be Eudora's! thine! and all—

Con.
I don't want any money—I want blood!
She don't want any money—she wants blood!
Thou owest thy life! and she demands thy pay!
Judgment hath come against thee, in this world;
And I, her officer, demand thy life!
This verdict! from the laws of God and nature,
Now cry against thee, in this manly hand.

[Shows his dagger.
Alon.
I pray thee, to forgive me! oh! forgive!

Con.
Dost thou behold the movement of that stream?
Then, like fool Canute, bid its waves be still!
No more can I retract what I have sworn.
Against this execution hast thou none?
And if thou had'st, it would not bar—here's one!

[Gives him a dagger.
Alon.
Remember my poor children, and my wife!

Con.
Defend thyself! this heart was born a man's!
I will remember one—Eudora's child!
Rise, and measure thy courage with that dagger!
I would not steal away thy life by night!

Alon.
I cannot! will not hurt thee!—rather die!
I owe thee no ill will! and will not strike!

[Throws down the dagger.
Con.
Take up thy dagger! else thy soul is gone!

Alon.
I wilt not raise my hand, if thou wilt kill!

Con.
Take up thy dagger, and defend thyself!

Alon.
I cannot! will not raise my arm against thee!
I have wronged Eudora, and am sorry for't!
Oh! I've suffered death a thousand times!

[Weeps.
Con.
Defend thy life I say! art thou a man?
Go, dog!
[Slaps his face, and kicks him.
Go to thy vomit! go, foul hog!
Go to thy wallow!—take thee to thy mire!
[Kicks him.
Go, Judas! hang thyself upon a tree!
That passers-by, may look at thee and laugh!
She told me what thou art—apostate! coward!
[Exeunt Alonzo.
Thou shalt not live—But I must see her first,
[Alone.
And then, by her request, if she persist,
I'll wade across the sea, to cut his throat.
Though I despise him as I do a snake
I know would bite me—when he begged so hard!
I could not help from feeling for his fate!
'Tis hard to kill a coward!—'tis a task!
Oh! 'tis a sin to cut a coward's throat!
Like Neptune's trident at an infant hurl'd!
Now, I will meet her, and my thoughts perpend.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A cottage in the Country. Eudora standing at the gate, waiting his return, with discontent.
Eud.
Officious expectation runs me mad!
I have been waiting, like the lonesome dove,
And still, my comforter delays his time!
I fear the villain has been rash indeed!
How anxiety doth fever every nerve!
His wings are cleft upon some watery waste—
Too far away, to find his native shore!
My thoughts, now perched, high on my panting heart,
Doth penetrate futurity, so dark!
While heaven takes knowledge of indignant wo!
Oh! that the messenger would come! peace! peace!
Then could my sickened spirit find repose.
That bright destroying Angel to my soul,
Now guards life's Paradise, with outstretched arms;
And yields his increase unto virtuous good.
The things around me, are not as they were!
The tribute that I owe him—oh! how great:
'Twill take a life time to repay his love.
Why does he stay? he surely can't forget!
His heart has been so kind to poor Eudora!
Methinks I should be twining rosy wreathes!
Where shall I find fit laurels for his brow?
A coronet of roses shall adorn his head!
This tender heart shall be his chaplet, all my life!
I'll feed him on the utmost of my love—
Gather the first blown flowers of the spring,
And waft him praises in my soul's deep songs!
What, if, by some unmanly means, he fall!
The world would be an opposite to life!
Nonentity!—a chaos of dark shades!
Methinks I hear him come—oh! would it were!
[Conrad meets her, and she embraces him.
Oh! Conrad! Conrad!—thou hast saved my tears.
My soul went out from self, to search for thee!
It wandered from its dwelling like a bird;
And like the faithful dove, bewailed its mate!
Dids't thou not hear some deep dolorous sound?
Oh! 'twas the wide vibrations of my soul!
Thine absence caused such tempests in my heart—

Con.
Oh, Eudora! thy voice is so divine!
Speak on, my gentlest! feed my longing heart—

Eud.
They dashed their waves against life's sandy shore,
And washed away the footprints of my hope.
But on the sea of life my bark still sailed,
As virtue stood, to guide her, at the helm.
Oh! joy to thee, sweet Conrad! joy of joys!

[Embraces him.
Con.
With thee, Eudora, all my life is love,
Eternal sunshine gilds my former gloom;
And hurls his sacrilegious heart to dust.

Eud.
What hast thou done?—and did'st thou see Alonzo?

Con.
Oh! yes, I've seen him—what a timid man!
He turn'd biographer, with precious speed,
And wrote thy life in characters of gold.
He made thee out the Magdalen of old!
As tranquil as the bright, unclouded moon—
Oh! how he begg'd to see his satellites!
He begg'd me to befriend his little stars;
And call'd them rose-buds, sisters of his soul.
And when he call'd his wife, he wept aloud—
As big as sorrows self! and said, 'twas hard!
That he had done thee wrong, and suffer'd for 't!
I chok'd him, as a villain should be chok'd;
As visions of stupendous wrath rose high,
And dimm'd his eye-balls!—from his strangling heart,
Rush'd up his throat, olympic guilt, and gaz'd,
With frenzy leaping from his throbbing brain;
Till, round about went swimming in his tears!
I gave this dagger to him, to defend his life,
And, like a willow twig, snapt from its stem,
Fell prostrate, trembling at his ugly self—
While I stood o'er him, like a cypress mourns,
Preaching his funeral, with exalted wrath!
And three times offer'd him this pointed steel,
Which he, as many times refus'd, with tears!
'Till natural pity overcame my hate;
And bade me earnestly prorogue his death.

Eud.
Thou did'st defer his death, to give me pain!

[Weeps.
Con.
No; my life shall be to yield thee joy.
I love to see thee weep such anxious tears!
They speak the language of a virgin soul—
Shed lofty fervor round expectant joy,
And make the pathway of my purpose bright.

Eud.
Then, why not cut the treacherous villain's throat?
Had I been with thee, he had died so sweet.
Were he within this proud arm's reach—this stroke
Should be effectual, and bring lowness low!
I'd tramp me in his blood, and smile with joy.
Did he confess, and own what he had done?

Con.
He did, my love: and like a frost-bit leaf,
Hang down his head, and valued not the sun.

Eud.
Could'st thou but raise the cavern of his heart,
In which, sepulchred lie, all fulsome things!
Thou wouldst behold it half devoured by guilt!
While here and there stands turbid, stagnant blood,
To torture and perplex his guilty soul!
'Tis then thou shouldst have given the final blow,
And hush'd the forgery of his vulcan heart,—
Where lie conceal'd, as in a dungeon cave,
All kinds of implements, achieving deeds,
Which villany would blush to look upon.
Oh! Conrad! once my heart was satisfy'd—
I thought the shadows of this life were bright,
And sunshine had made pleasant all my paths!

[Weeps.
Con.
Oh! Eudora! am I not thy friend?
Thy true—thy trusted and indulgent friend?
Would I not wend me to the mountains' tops?
Cut roads through forests—swim through rivers wide?
Walk day and night, 'till I had found him out—
Yes, would I not, for pleasure found in thee,
Leave all my utmost friends, and track him through
The sea, to gain one moment of thy love?

Enter Alver.
Alver.
The villain's gone—he's vanish'd like a ghost!
And thou hast found what I first told thee, true.

Con.
Then, Eudora! thou art happy?

Eud.
No!—no!

[Hangs her head.
Con.
Where is he gone?

Alver.
I do not know—the heavens doth only know!
Last night, beside his door, was seen a torch,
Which vanish'd into nought, and he went with it!

Con.
Where can he be?

Alver.
I do not know! I only know he's gone!
That is—I understand this from a friend.
As I am travelling far beyond the west,
I must be gone—and bid you both farewell.

[Exeunt.
Con.
If he is gone, Eudora! thou art happy?

Eud.
My soul hath made firm promise unto thee,
On one condition—that, is this, alone—
And if thou dost not take his life, I know,
Thou cans't not be my friend—I further know,
Thou can'st not bear up under my misfortunes!
And, if thou cans't not, tell me now—Oh! grief!

[Weeps.
Con.
What would'st thou have me do, my dear Eudora?

Eud.
I tell thee now, this hand shall ne'er be thine,
Until you wash my misery clean with blood!

Con.
'Tis done, as sure as said—but he is gone!

Eud.
Go—hunt him through the world's wide range!
Search ev'ry nook and corner of creation,
And let me feast mine eyes upon his blood!
And I will smile and be exceeding glad.
I must behold his life-blood on the blade,
And Thomas like, must touch it with my hands!
'Tis not because I love his blood, or thirst his life—
But 'tis, because he was unkind to poor Eudora!
Then cavil not at death—demur at nought;
I will not bear mistrust—it augurs fear.
I would not have a coward in my sight—
I do detest such bipeds, with my soul!
If thou dost love me well—then, risk thy life!
And manifest it in this injur'd cause.

Enter Alfred. Conrad meets him.
Alfred.
Good day, Eudora—Conrad! art thou well?

[Shakes hands.
Con.
Well, I thank thee—thou art from Frankfort, friend?

Alfred.
I am.

Con.
Then, what's the news in town to day?

Alfred.
Nothing—nothing worth your while.

Con.
That's all well.
And has no person left of late?

Alfred.
Not one.

Con.
Has not Alonzo left!

Alfred.
No; not he, I swear.

Con.
Then Alver's told a lie—'twas all a joke.

Alfred.
Joke or no joke, he's there—I must be gone—
I have some business in the west—adieu.

Con.
Then let him go—who cares? I do not care.

[Exeunt Alfred.
Eud.
Now, Conrad! is the time—the appointed time.
Get you a mask!—go, dress yourself in black,
And during the election, get him out—
Then, no one will suspect by whom he's kill'd!
But all will say the rival party did it—
The mob political—against his side!
Now is your time—this very night—'tis dark!

Con.
But mark—we must dispose of all we have;
That, when the deed is done, we leave the state,
And not procrastinate our speedy flight;
Lest, that prorogue endanger both our lives!
Then, I must leave thee to attend the sale.

Eud.
When thou dost come, bring blood upon thy dagger!
Dost thou not kill him, see my face no more!

Con.
I'll kill him, if he have the life to lose.

[Starts away.
Eud.
Nay, stay,—one sweet embrace before you go!
[Embraces.
May all success attend you to the end.
And when thou shalt return, with triumph crown'd—
I will be waiting at this gate, with smiles—
With open arms, to meet thee and rejoice.
Heaven bless you, Conrad! peace be thine, my love!

Con.
Once more, Eudora!—could I take thy smiles,
[Kisses.
They would be pilots through this stormy sea.

Eud.
Let not reluctance weigh upon thy purpose.
Be buoyant as a turtle on the wing.
Let future happiness illume thy thought.
Take thou, this dove into thy bosom's ark,
And lift thy expectation into bliss.
Had I a strong Herculean arm, by heavens!
I'd ride ambition with a lightnings' speed,
And furl him, with his foul companion—dust!
And thou, the Neptune to my soul's wide sea,
Should breathe the Adriatic gales of love,
And fix thy trident in his faithless heart!

Con.
The sunbeams of thy smiles doth vegetate
My heart—till vigour blooms my vermeil cheeks.
Thine azure lamps—twin born divinities!
Illume the sanctuary of my soul,
And turn this deed to sanctifying light—
While, from thy sighs, balsamic odours rise,
To waft luxuriance through my courag'd soul.
Perhaps, my love, I ne'er may see thee more!
And now, before I go, I would beseech you—
If any portent should retard my speed,
Be firm in mind, as love is infinite—
The best of Fingal's heroes speaks to thee!
He looks beyond this blue expanse of time,
Till distance makes diminutive his sight;
And not a thrill of pain disturbs the calm!
There hangs a solemn thought above this heart
This citadel of mortal life—beyond all bounds;
Which doth inspire me with a feeling so intense,
That infinite makes magnitude of self.

Eud.
Conrad! art thou as timid as thou seem'st?

Con.
I am no huge gladiator, without soul!
A man may have his purpose, and still feel.
There are strange mixtures in this chalice, life;
And, though I relish half, must gulp down all!
This firm pedestal, on the which I stand,
Will never hold a monument like this!
While hope o'ertops the pinnacle of thought,
And looks magnificent in loftiest flight—
The cloud of conscience has eclips'd my soul!
While nature, frighten'd, slumbers in alarm!
If I depart from thee—to-morrow morn
Shall wake thee with a dawn, unseen before!

Eud.
What!—after thou hast fastened on his heart,
And earth grow pregnant with his blood?
And meet it as the river meets the sea?

Con.
The overture may echo back the deed!
As thunder travels on, from cloud to cloud!
Good night to satisfaction infinite!
If this should be the sequence—then, good night!
Harmonious tones of wonderful despair,
Would drive out melody, and jar thy soul!

Eud.
Why steal from time, that which thou canst not pay?

Con.
I would thou had'st some instrument to play.

Eud.
I want no instrument, but thy intent.

Con.
Can fancy penetrate that mazy morn,
Which dawns on thy expectancy?

Eud.
My fancies tell me thou can'st melt that maze!

Con.
I am upon an embassy of deepest crime!
The angel's minister—but do no more!
And, in the night's profoundest solitude,
When Atis with his fond Galatea lies,
I will, on Ætna's peak, look down with fire—
The harvest of my hate is fully ripe,
And all his vintage trod beneath my feet!

Eud.
Lives there a desolation in thy heart?
Affection has a toilsome journey through—

Con.
Then, he must die! See how this lion sleeps!
[Feels his dagger.
This Morpheus has a lion for his pillow!
But, when, from slumber, I shall say, awake!
[Draws it.
The very strings of nature shall crack loose!
And then, the poppy that shall drowse his blood,
Shall make life's languid hold, let go of self.

Eud.
That sleep should be his soul's divinity;
The tribune be his grave—as I his slave!
And thousand times ten thousand devils friends!
Through all the dark compartments of his heart,
Shall darker midnight meet eternal gloom!

Con.
Then, fond Eudora! lov'd by me so well,
I will be dutiful to thee, who, lend'st
Unto my future life, endearment dear.

[Embraces her and leaves.
Eud.
Alone.
Now, I must bid adieu to joy again,
Until he comes. Oh! how I do mistrust.
I will not close mine eyes, this blessed night—
No—not until that sacred pledge be seal'd;
And this proud heart to him, affianced be!
Then, when the morning dawn shall wake to light,
My soul shall radiate misfortune's night.
[Exeunt Eudora.

SCENE IV.

—Frankfort—Time, Midnight—Conrad enters from the tavern, walks the street, dressed in dark clothes, with a masque on his face; and, with difficulty, finds Alonzo's house.
Conrad
with a paper in his hand.
This is a cunning deed—like all such deeds;
This very deed, perhaps, may save my life!
We cure diseases by revulsion—build
Up action in a part, by causing parts
To act.—This deed may be my warmest friend.
'Tis thus, through life, one deed blots out another,
As poisons neutralize by antidotes.
This is my aim. I've sought the clerk three times,
And still, I have not found him at his home.
'Twas my desire, when first I came, to have
This deed recorded—first, that it might hide
Suspicion, and be evidence for guilt—
Therefore, record a deed to do a deed!
A deed recorded, shall excuse a deed.—
And, if the crime of murder be found out—
As most of murders are—in spite of proof,
'Twill bring me out, by law, a guiltless man.
Now, if I had some friend to lure him out,
While I could strike the recreant dead—but, hark!
In such a deed, we could not find a friend.
Now, if the watchman find me out, this masque
Shall be thrown off—I may be thought a slave!
You see this hat—this very hat, I found
[Takes off his hat.
Two hundred miles away—beside a wood—
I took it—left one dollar in its place,
And said, old hat—thou art my humble friend!
For ought I know, this was a preacher's hat;
How long he may have fought against the devil,
And still, in his achievement, fail'd at last.
Now, when I put it off, should it be worn
Again—'twill only consecrate the head,
That 'neath this crown, may say—the devil's dead!
[Goes to a window and looks in—but does not find him.
Perhaps that is the place—and I mistake.
'Tis true—the sign—the sign—the doctor's sign!
[Looks up and reads the sign.
This is the place,—and I must change my name.

[Goes to the door and knocks. Puts his hand in his bosom. A female voice is heard within—the wife of Alonzo.
Angeline.
I would not venture out this time o'night—

[Conrad knocks.
Alonzo.
Who's there?

Con.
A friend.

Angeline
within.
I would not venture out, my love!

Alon.
Why, Angeline!—thy fears are woman's, love.

[Knocks again.
Alon.
Who is that?—speak out?

Con.
Darby—'tis thy friend!
He has some business with thee—'tis of weight!
Has sign'd a bond, and thou must seal the deed!

Alon.
What does he say?

Ang.
Indeed I do not know—you'd better see.

[Knocks again and looks round.
Alon.
Who can this be—so late at night?

[Opens the door and steps back.
Con.
Behold!
[Throws of his masque and takes him by the throat.
Look in my face, and call my name?

Alon.
Conrad!—Conrad! do not kill me, have mercy!

Con.
Where is my wife? now, villain! die—die—die!
[Stabs him.
Now, pray!—if thou can'st pray, now pray—now die!
Now, drink the wormwood which Eudora drank.

[Stamps him. Alonzo dies.
[Conrad rushes out and is seen no more. Angeline, Alonzo's wife, runs in the room, screams, and falls upon his breast.
Ang.
'Tis he—'tis he—Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!
Oh! my husband! my husband! thou art dead!
'Tis he—'tis he—the wretch has kill'd Alonzo!

[The doctor, Alonzo's brother, rushes in, crying, murder —murder! Watchmen and citizens rush in, crying, murder —murder! Alonzo's dead! Alonzo's dead!
Citizens.
Who, under God's heavens, could have done this deed?

Ang.
'Tis he—'tis he! Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!

Watch.
Who did it? speak! speak! Conrad kill'd Alonzo?

Ang.
Conrad—'twas Conrad, kill'd my husband! dead!
Oh! death—death—death! what will become of me!

Doctor.
Did you see his face? my God! I know 'twas he!

Ang.
I saw his face—I heard his voice—he's gone!
[Angeline feels his pulse, while the rest look round.
Oh! my husband—my husband—death—death!
Speak, Alonzo! speak to Angeline—death!
[Kisses him.
Oh! speak one word, and tell me who it was?
No pulse—my husband's dead!—he's gone!—he's gone!

[Faints away on his breast. The watchmen and citizens take her into an adjoining room, bearing her husband with her—asking, who could have killed him? Speak, Angeline —speak.—Curtain falls.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

—Frankfort. Time, morning. The Doctor, brother of Alonzo, sheriff, guards and citizens meet at the tavern where Conrad slept.
Sheriff
to the Innkeeper.
Did you not hear Alonzo was dead?

Innkeeper.
Dead!

Sher.
Some savage person, murdered him, last night.

Inkeep.
Kill'd him! was he murdered! merciful heavens!
I never heard the like in all my life.

Sher.
He was stabbed about the seventh rib, and died!
And 'tis my duty to investigate
And find, with speed, who that vile villain was.

Inkeep.
Yes, certainly 'tis.

Sher.
We are requested to inquire of you,
Who tarried here last night?

Inkeep.
I do not know.
[Points to the bar.
There is the register—find out his name.

Sher.
Yes, here it is. Now, lead us to his room.

Innkeep.
He's gone!—gone long ago! he left by light!

Sher.
Then, let us search his room.

Innkeep.
Was he the man?

Sher.
'Tis said he was the very man!

Innkeep.
Who saw him?
'Tis best to weigh the thing—not be too sure.

Doctor.
He was the very man!

Innkeep.
How do you know?

Doct.
Alonzo's wife, sir, saw him do the deed.

Innkeep.
Where was he?

Doct.
In the room adjoining hers.
She said she heard his voice, and knew it well.
But there are other things, which made her know it.
Alonzo told his wife, a year ago,
He swore eternal vengeance to his face?

Innkeep.
Well, well! search his room—'tis all no use.

Sher.
Where is his room? we must search his room!

Innkeep.
Porter, take the sheriff to Conrad's room.

(Sheriff, Doctor, and citizens go in his room to search.
Innkeeper
to Edgar.
'Tis strange that Conrad should be such a man!
What circumstance has led them to suspect?
A milder face, than his, I never saw.
He drank my health before he left this morning,
And hoped the governor, who rules the state,
Might be elected—jovial as you please.
I do not understand, why they suspect,
That Conrad killed that man! do you know?

Edgar.
Why, I believe Alonzo's wife, sometime
Before his death, o'erheard him say, 'twas best
To leave the state—that, Conrad threatened death!
Now, I believe she neither saw nor heard him.
But, 'twas a thing long looked for, by them both.

Innkeep.
You don't say so!—I never heard a word!
What quarrel had they? they were always friends?

Edgar.
Yes, they were friends, as far as I have known.

Innkeep.
I want to know, then, why they say 'twas Conrad?
I never saw a countenance so mild!

Edgar.
I always liked him—he was always kind.

Innkeep.
They have no cause to search the room for him!

Edgar.
Perhaps they have some cause!

Innkeep.
What is that cause?

Edgar.
You know, about three years ago, Alonzo
Paid his first addresses to Eudora—

Innkeep.
Well!—now, what has that to do with this case?

Edgar.
That is the very thing to breed a murder!

Innkeep.
Then, you believe that Conrad killed Alonzo!

Edgar.
I should believe that, just as soon as not.

Innkeep.
'Tis strange, that you believe without some proof!
Did any enmity exist between 'em?

Edgar.
I do not know, but I expect there did—
Alonzo did not act the gentleman!

Innkeep.
How! did not act the gentleman!—with whom?

Edgar.
I hate to say, precise,—but, things are such,
That one might think, that, as he loves Eudora—
Knowing, that dead Alonzo did deceive her!—
One, I say, might think that Conrad killed him!
I know what I would do, in such a case.

Innkeep.
Did you say, Alonzo's self deceived her?

Edgar.
'Tis said, he did!—I did not see him do it.

Innkeep.
Ah! is that all?—would you believe such trash?
He, kill a man, because that man deceived
Eudora!—'twas her fault!—she was to blame!
Why did he not unite with some one else?

Edgar.
It may be so, and like enough, I guess.
Such things exist, that death 's the only means
Can give her satisfaction!—this, I know.

Innkeep.
There is some part I have not heard—speak out!

Edgar.
Alonzo promised marriage—did deceive her!
Stole her virtue; and left her on the world!

Innkeep.
What!—he did not ruin Elvira's child!

Edgar.
So says the world.—What every body says,
Of course, is true.

Innkeep.
Then, damn him!—let him die!

Edgar.
I say so, too! I would have done the same;
I say, what Conrad did, was manly—right!

Innkeep.
What! have my child abused? my child! my child!
I'd lose my life, and fifty lives beside,
To shield my daughter from a gaping world!—
He should have killed him in the open streets.

Edgar.
Be mute—the sheriff comes—we must be calm.

Sheriff and citizens return with a handkerchief, found on Conrad's bed.
Sheriff.
Look here! behold this handkerchief, and weep!
This handerchief was left upon his bed!
Look at this living stain, and read his guilt!
[Shows the blood on the handkerchief.
Now, who would ask for better proof than this?
Behold the very cordial of his heart!
See, where the savage wiped his dagger on it!
And, truth, to shame the devil, left it here!
This works materially to his disgrace.

Doctor.
Give it to me—it shall be evidence in court.
[He takes it and cuts it with his knife.
Behold! look here!—the villain's name's upon it!
See where the dagger pierced it, as 'twas wiped!
Oh! my brother! (weeps.)
—Let him travel cross the sea,
But I will find him—justice shall be dealt!
Now, Mr. Sheriff, you have seen this blood!
I do adjure you, by the sorrow which I feel,
To deputize to your men, and bring him back—
'Tis but an evening's ride to where he lives.
Then, by my oath, invested in this writ,
You bring him back, if he is in this world.—
Oh! my brother! my brother! dead and gone!

[Weeps, and goes out.
Sher.
Now, men! if you are men, be firm of heart.
We must, by law, by orders, which you've heard,—
Pursue the murderer—bring him back, in haste.
Therefore, I summon all around, to aid.

Innkeep.
I would not poison such good nature,—will
You bring a just man here, to judge him just?
He did what you, and I, and all had done!
I would have tracked him through white Zembla's snows,
And back, from thence, throughout Arabia's sands—
By heavens! I say, he acted like a man!
[Waves his hand.
A child 's a thing so near a father's self,
He would not see her harmed!—and think you, sir,
I'd have a wife, and know she had been harmed—
Live with her—love her—fold her in my arms—
And, like an easy coward, mope all day,
And sleep all night, and her seducer live?—
Thou art no man!—thou art a thoughtless fool!

Sher.
Come, men! 'tis time—we must obey the law.
We have no use for such a man as that!

[Pointing to the Innkeeper. Exeunt sheriff and his guard.
Edgar
to the Innkeeper.
We have done wisely, in a twofold sense.
But, mark me! did you not observe that skill?
That man who cut the 'kerchief!—mark his oath!
He does not know that Conrad killed his brother—
Any more than you or I—he only thinks!
We all may think—but thinking will not do!—
He knows one thing—he knows three things—
And these three things—all Frankfort knows!
That, dead Alonzo treated her unkind—
Deceived her, in the utmost of her hopes!
And, more than all, he takes it home to self;
And, though he feels, were he in Conrad's place.
He'd do the same—still, he must have revenge!
And more, to change presumption into truth,
He makes old circumstance look young—
Rubs up the tarnished brass of by-gone guilt
And holds it in the sun, as golden truth.
He's right, and still, he's wrong—I'll tell you why—
He should not steal from truth, to make truth rich.
Should he have pierced that which was never torn?
No, no! he may do worse—tear Conrad's heart!
Now, he will swear that handkerchief was cut,
And, that the rent was made by Conrad's dagger!
Therefore, condemned, or not condemned—he's wrong!

Inkeep.
How many ways to kill a dog beside hanging.

Edgar.
Perhaps, it was a party mob, at last!

Innkeep.
I wish it so—for Conrad is a man—
He is a man amongst a thousand men!

Edgar.
Good day! I wish you well.

Innkeep.
The same to you.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE II.

—A cottage in the country, where Eudora lives. She is standing at the gate, waiting for Conrad to return.
Eudora.
Long have I watched for him, but all in vain!
I saw the sun go down—then rise again;
And now, 'tis almost night,—he has not come!
Sure, if he does not come ere night returns,
My heart must quite misgive, 'tis now so weak!—

Conrad returns, rushes to Eudora, and she falls in his arms.
Con.
Eudora! thou art safe—be happy—smile!
Weep not, my love! my wife!—thou art my wife!
Then weep, with tears of joy, for he is gone!

Eud.
Oh! Conrad! Conrad!—have you let him go?
Where is the villain gone?—oh! tell me, quick!

Con.
He's gone to hell!—where all seducers go!

Eud.
The serpent's gone again!

Con.
He has, my love.

Eud.
Then, I am done for ever!

Con.
Weep not, my love! thou hast one friend on earth.
And he the strongest of all friends!

Eud.
Then go!
[Discontentedly.
The love of all thy friends? nay, all the world—
Is centered in this one—I am thine all!
Thou art no friend to me! oh, no! no! no!

[Weeps.
Con.
What! wilt thou, in the face of heaven, betray me?

Eud.
Betray thee, Conrad! oh! I love that look!

[Looks at him.
Con.
By heavens! my practice should be made an art!
And thou, betrayer, deceived! to fall like
[Loud.
Thy betrayer!

[Looks sternly at her.
Eud.
Speak,—Did'st thou say he fell?

Con.
I did—I say he fell!

Eud.
And is he dead?

Con.
I told thee, sweet Eudora! he was gone!

Eud.
Thou did'st—where is he gone?

Con.
Gone down to hell!

[Points down.
Eud.
Where is the dagger? let me see the blood upon it!

Con.
Here, by his friend, asleep!—there, let him rest,
Like wearied child upon its mother's breast!

Eud.
Did'st thou inter it in his faithless heart?

Con.
I did—but disinterred it o'er again—
I could not let it rot in such a grave!
'Tis best to let it sleep, as sleeps the sleeper!
Lest, showing it, thou long'st for other's blood!

Eud.
There is no one on earth, whom I would harm—
I would not hurt a hair in virtue's head!

Con.
Thou would'st not harm a hair, but break a heart!

Eud.
How, break a heart, my love?

Con.
'Tis best take care!

Eud.
Oh! what a cruel heart, to forge such words!
Oh! I would die for thee, ten thousand deaths!

Con.
Thou wilt betray me, just as sure as fate!

Eud.
Betray thee? never! never, in this world!
Give me thy hand, my love—look in my face!

Con.
I see thy face—thy soul—thy heart and life!
Thy soul, and eye, and heart will all betray me!

Eud.
If thou can'st prophesy, keep sorrows dark!

Con.
He's gone! I could not help it!—oh! he's gone!

Eud.
Then, farewell pride! then, farewell hope and love!
Farewell, sweet Conrad! oh! that I were dead!

Con.
Wake up, young sleeper! bring thy deeds to light!
And set thy prisoner free!

[Grasps his dagger.
Eud.
Forgive me, oh!

[Kneels.
Con.
Look at this dagger!—see it for the last!
[Holds it up]
See how that angel bright, points up to heaven!
Did I not tell thee thou wouldst soon betray me!
I heard thee swear thou wouldst be true and kind.
[Takes her hand.
Honest woman, 'tis thy nature, 'tis thy life;
Why dost thou not behold thy friend, and smile?
Rise, seest thou not upon that dagger, blood!
Look at it—crimson from the tide of life!
'Tis done!—then, I am thine, and thou art mine.

Eud.
My friend, oh! let me kiss thy life away!
[Embraces.
How did you meet? did he not hurt thee, love!

Con.
How could he, when I killed him at one blow!
And when he ope'd the door I caught his throat,
Then said, where is my wife? now, villain, die!
And, with one stroke, I brought him to the ground.

Eud.
Then, thou art safe,—and no one saw thy face?

Con.
No soul on earth; 'twas done in dead of night;
And ere he died, I took me back to bed,
And, in the morning, woke, and thought of thee.

Eud.
Then, thou art safe, and I am full of joy.

Con.
But stay,—by truth! I have forgot one thing,—
My name is on the handkerchief, I left!

Eud.
Left where, my love!

Con.
Upon the bed I slept in.

Eud.
Be not disturb'd,—that will avail them nought.

Con.
I am disturbed about that handkerchief:
What if his brother find it!—he will swear
He saw me have it there!

Eud.
I reckon not.

Con.
He has a thousand friends would swear the same!

Eud.
Ah! would they perjure truth and honesty?

Con.
They would perjure neither, but themselves.
No, sweet Eudora! if I am molested,
My only recompense is thee, thou dove!
Then let us go, we must, through life, be one.

They enter the cottage—are married. Enter officer and guards, to take him. Officer goes to the gate and calls.
Sheriff.
Halloo there, Conrad! come thee out this way!

[Eudora and Conrad come to the door.
Eud.
Do not go, my love! they are your enemies.

Sher.
Sweet lady! we are all his friends, as thine.

Eud.
Thou, friend! I would have thee for my friend.

Sher.
We wish to speak with Conrad—we're his friends.

Con.
What would'st thou have with me?

Officer.
But one kind word.

Con.
They have no proof, my love!—'tis best I go!
[Aside to Eudora.
For, if I stay, you know they may suspect me!
'Twill lend them argument to new suspicion.
They know, my love! he did thy virtue wrong.
That heaven should have chastised him long ago!
That it behoov'd me to defend thy shame!
They kill mistrust by heaping guilt on me—
Thereby, acknowledge, blindly, all his guilt.
Tis best, perhaps, I go—be calm, my love!
And I will come back free, and love thee still.

[He goes.
Off.
Conrad! here is a writ I wish you'd read.
[Hands him a paper.
You know my duty, as a man in office.—

Con.
This is a writ accusing me of murder!
[Reads.
Tis strange! I do declare!—who swore to this?

Off.
His name is signed below—there, you can see!

Con.
The liar's name's not worth my guiltless search!—
What would'st thou have me do?

Off.
Go back again!

Con.
That, I will never do, while I have breath!

Off.
That argues guilt!

Con.
I value not your thoughts.
They are but wind—they come—and then, they go!

Off.
You know my duty, Conrad!—do you not?

Con.
I do!—and know my duty as a husband!

Off.
We all are subject to the law.

Con.
I'm not!—
I am not subject—never will I be!

Off.
Do not persist—we must obey the law!

Con.
Obey just what you please—I care not what!

[Disdainfully.
Off.
This argues, man! not only fear, but guilt!
'Twas said, thou would'st refuse!—then, why not go?

Con.
Because I have a stronger tie to stay!

Off.
But, if the law requires your presence, go?
Why not give absence, sir, your ties to hold,
Until your brief return?—we all have wives
At home!—still, we are here!

Con.
My wife is ill!

Off.
There stands your wife—we see that she is kind!—
We love her kindness, and admire your love!
And she is willing you should yield to law?

Eud.
No; I am not! and he shall never go!

Off.
Sweet ladye! we are all his friends, as thine!
We wish to act as wisely as we can.

Con.
Then act, and act—I'll die before I'll go!

Off.
We wish the truth unfolded to the world.
'Tis that for which we came—for which we live;
And, if you still persist—thou art the man!
[Points at him.
And we are bound, by law, to take you back.

Con.
Then, take me back! I will not go—stand back!

[Draws his dagger.
Off.
Sieze on him, guards—now take him—take him back.

[He throws them off, and Eudora rushes between.
Eud.
Oh! Conrad! Conrad!—these are thine enemies!

Con.
Stand off!—approach me not—else thou shalt die!—
[Points to the officer.
As many more, as I have power to kill.
Thy mother bare thy father no such sons!
Thou hast no brother with so proud a heart!
Thy brother no such brother as I am.
I am a lion 'mongst a thousand men.
Encounter no such man—'twould be a shame!
When storms are raging, and the winds blow high,
The tallest trees bend lowest to the ground;
And I would spill thy blood on earth, like rain!

Off.
We would not harm thee—all we want is justice!
We must abide by what the law invokes!—
The writ demands thy body back to court.

Con.
What if thou could'st not find me? go back empty?
[Tauntingly.
Oh! what a vacuum!—thou hadst better fill!
Choke up existence with some useful thought;
And learn your motley calves obedience!

[Points at the guard.
Off.
Thou art no common man—then, use thy sense.

Eud.
Oh! Conrad! do not hear that half starved wolf.
He's murdered many a lamb in nature's fold;
And longs thy life, as doth a mink for blood.

Off.
Come, let me speak with thee alone—'tis best!

[Eudora holds Conrad.
Eud.
No; they will kill thee, by the way, my love!

[Weeps.
Off.
Nay, gentle ladye! we are not so savage.

[Officer whispers to Conrad.
Con.
Weep not, my love! 'tis best that I should go.
I am as safe as truth, as clear as heaven!
One sweet embrace!—now calm thy gentle heart!
[Embraces her.
Farewell, Eudora!

Eud.
When wilt thou return?

Con.
To morrow morn! to morrow morn, my love!

Off.
Tis best, a thousand times the best—'tis right.
[Exeunt Eudora.
Let me see that dagger which you hold?
I do not ask it, to educe more fears!

Con.
I have no fears! I do not know the term.
There is the dagger—look it black with gazing.
[Hands it.
See'st thou much blood upon that burnish'd blade?

Off.
We thank you for your kindness—give you thanks.

[Looks at it.
Guard.
That dagger made that wound, as sure as death!

Con.
Does that man's wound resemble daggers?

Off.
No.

Con.
They should, to bear your definition out!
You'd have the dagger and the wound born twins!
You have your logic all Corinthian brass,
And prick your ears at nothing, like an ass!

Off.
I say, this dagger looks much like that wound.
A charitable deed, I'll take it home.
[Puts it in his pocket, with the handkerchief wraped round it. Turns to the guard.
Now, if the prisoner is not guilty men;
Then, we have done our duty—and tis well;—
[Here Conrad steals the dagger and handkerchief out of his pocket.
But guilty, or not guilty, who can tell?
[Officer leads him out. Guards follow. Eudora returns.
Good heavens! I could have wept a thousand tears!—
Now, we commence another path of thorns!
I thought my utmost hope was quench'd in blood;
But now, I fear 'twill end us both in death!
[Weeps.
Elvira enters.
Oh! mother! he is gone—the guard is gone!
He is accused of murder—he is gone!

[Weeps.
Elvira.
Eudora! why art all these tears, my child?

Eud.
The guard hath borne him off to prison!

Elvira.
Oh! calm thy fears—be reconciled—they're friends!
No doubt but he will come, when all is right.
Thou hast shed tears enough!—come, let us home!

[Exeunt Elvira and Eudora.

SCENE III.

—A court house in Frankfort. Judge, Lawyers, Jury, Witnesses and Citizens waiting his trial.
Judge.
Conrad accused of murdering Alonzo!
Jury and witnesses are sworn—proceed!

Darby
speaks for plaintiff. With the writ in his hand.
May it please your honour!—I would speak in vain,
Did I not know this man achiev'd that death!
This man has killed a statesman, whom we loved;
And no one here can help but feel his loss.
Alonzo was that man!—you knew him well!
We once were boys—he had a noble heart.
He would not brook a wrong, to clothe disgrace.
I never knew that man achieve one wrong.
But he was prudent—honored—loved by all,—
And none said ought, to stain his sacred name!—
That he was killed by some unfriendly blow—
The weapon and the wound doth testify!
That he was murdered in the dead of night,
When none but God's all seeing eye could see!—
That he was killed by Conrad's iron hands,
Done on that very night he lodg'd in town—
Which moulds suspicion into modeled truth—
Is, also, sworn to, in this sacred writ!
There was, upon his bed, a kerchief found,
Impierced with such like blade, as made the wound!—
And more than all, there stands Alonzo's wife,
Clothed in dark widowhood, and weeds, that mourn!
She saw him with her eyes, and heard his curse—
Now, these are truths, when known, must make us feel!—
Yes, stir the recess'd fountains of our souls—
But mark! before I let one witness speak,
Should not this grand tribunal weep?
Should not our hearts gush out respective tears?—
Not only for that murderer's cruel fate,
But that, by your resolve, through conscience sworn,
His soul shall stand at that tribunal—heaven!—
By all that is humane and dear to man—
By all that justice and religion teach!—
By all on earth, and all in heaven above,
(With all the evidence I may adduce—)
This man should suffer unto lawful death!

Judge.
Then, call the witnesses and let them speak.

Angeline, wife of Alonzo, sworn.
Darby.
Then, Angeline! before this court and jury,
Relate the most you know of this man's guilt.

Ang.
I saw Alonzo fall, and heard his voice!

Con.
Is that the first bad thing you saw, that night?

Ang.
My husband!—then, I fell upon his breast!

[Weeps.
Darby.
Relate the most you know—whether or not,
You saw Alonzo fall by Conrad's hand?

Ang.
I saw that bloody rebel! heard his voice!

[Weeps.
Con.
At first, she said, the first thing that she saw,
Was poor Alonzo!—ah! where did he fall?

Ang.
He died in the adjoining room from mine.

Con.
You was not in the room then, where he fell?
How could you see him fall by Conrad's hand?

Ang.
I heard him, when he stabbed him to the heart!

Con.
May please your honour!—innocence can plead,
Without disguise, her own truth telling cause.
There is no truth in what this woman swears.
She saw me not—this needs no argument.
The handkerchief, which they suggest, as proof;
They, no doubt, found upon my bed—but mark!
As true as you are judge, they made the rent!
That handkerchief was sound, when I return'd;
And, as to blood, there may have been some blood;
But, from no mortal's heart on earth, but mine.
That, poor Alonzo fell by Conrad's hand,
That, all of us do mourn his sudden loss,—
That he was brave, and kind, and good to man!—
That, he was once a schoolboy, full of fun;
And, all such petty argument as this,
The phantom visions of a moon-struck brain!—
The sky born fancies of a traitor's soul!
Choked full of yellow dust, call'd money—gold!—
That I rose early—left my kerchief, 's true;
But not more true, than, that I always do it.
That, in the dead of night, Alonzo fell!
When some life-taking hand drove off his soul!
And left him mortal, in the shades of death!—
May all be true!—which I will not dispute;
But that these things were done by Conrad's hands,
I do deny—because they are not proven!—
There is no evidence beneath yon sun,
Whereby they can convict me of this crime—
No; they are dark in this, as, was that night,
On which, they say, this savage deed was done!
Tis but a breath of air, borne on the winds,
An echo,—lost among resistless clouds.

Darby.
May please the jury, and this sapient court!
That justice may be given to whom 'tis due—
That life may forfeit for the loss of life!
That human passion may rich lessons learn—
That life-blood, taken from so good a man,
And sprinkled on the thirsty earth, like rain!
That morals and religion, set at nought—
That night's dark widowhood be clothed in morn—
[Points to Angeline.
That sacred love, now trampled under foot—
And, more than all, that heaven may be appeased!
I rise, this moment, to unfold the truth.

Con.
If there be light thrown on this simple case,
Thy traitorship will make each credence dark!
The world has borne your insults long enough;
Thou hast been privy into more foul deeds,
Than half the locusts on the ancient Nile!
I know you—all within this crowded court—
And each, and all have known, of you, no good!
I tell this jury and this sapient court!—
And all, who hear me, in my self-defence!
That you have robbed your clients of their fees!—
That you have yearned to filch the widow's mite!—
That you have brought poor orphans into want!—
(As did that man, for whom you lie this day.)—
[Points at him.
Yes, thou hast been a traitor to thyself!
As every man, who steals another's goods!—
That, for a little glittering stuff, called gold!
Which bargains many a man his shameful death!
Thou hast been known to bear false witness oft!
And now, I say, a stranger unto love,—
(And when a man's a foe to female virtue,
That man's a foe to self, to God, and heaven!—
Whose words are headaches, which distract the brain!
Whose voice is mania, and whose smiles are clouds!)
Will, then, this grand tribunal hear such noise?—

Judge.
As he is not arraigned for any crime,
But counsel for the plaintiff, in this cause,
I know no reason why he should not speak;—
If, what he say, be false, the court can judge.

Darby.
Then, sir, the nature of this case demands
My voice!—Look at that widow's tears, and weep!
[Points to Angeline.
Look on that agony!—that rooted strife!
Which lifts up, into heaven, exalted wo!
Look at her cheek, bedewed with tender tears!—
I say, Alonzo was a noble man—

Con.
Not if you judge him by the fruits he bore!

Darby.
I say, Alonzo was a man of loftiest mind!
A statesman, sir!—of whom we should be proud—
A gentleman, acknowledged from his youth—

Con.
No man's a gentleman until he's twenty-one!

Darby.
I say, Alonzo died! was killed at night!
When all was silent, not a star did shine—

Con.
The absence of the stars can throw no light
Upon this case,—but tends to darken night.

Darby.
He told me that Eudora's wish was sealed;
And through the chambers of his heart, incensed,
Could have no vent, save, with Alonzo's blood!—
Now, these are things which touch our inmost souls.
We wish revenge, for loss of life!—no more!
The handkerchief and dagger shall be shown,
And, if the rent in both, in shape and size,
Do not accord with facts, as with the wound,
With, also, all the threats exposed to me—
Then, all I've said, is vain,—untrue and false!
[Darby speaks to the Sheriff.
Then bring the dagger and the 'kerchief here!
They shall confirm the truths which I have spoken!

[Sheriff searches, but cannot find them.
Sheriff.
I had them—but I cannot find them now!

[Darby amazed.
Con.
Now, I could say, he never had such things,
But, I will state, distinct, he had them both;
And, I sincerely wish he had them here.
For, by my soul! there is no blood upon 'em!—
Who swears that blood came from Alonzo's heart?
I never spoke about Alonzo's guilt.
When Alfred told me of Eudora's shame!
I told him, I believed her pure as truth;
And so I did!—you all have proof of this!
By knowing this, I hated him the more!—
But never did I say this thing to man!
Alfred will testify to what I've said—
[Points to Alfred.
But this is not the point.—I hope this court
Will not sit prejudic'd against my wife!
Nor, will the jury balance what has been,
With things that are,—in such immortal scales!
I tell you, 'tis untrue, as God is just!—
May every hair, upon this head, turn fiends.
And witness, to denounce me, white as snow!
May every heartstring take ten years to break!
May each kind member of my body writhe!
May palsy, like Elymas's, strike me blind,
And both my eye-balls glare out worlds of guilt!—
May all the winds, and every freshening breeze,
In which my life luxuriates—turn storms!
And every good turn evil!—sweet turn sour!
If ever such an utter once escap'd my lips!—

Darby.
May please the court!—I have one witness more—
[Points to the Doctor.
There is a tendril of the same dear vine,
From which, so many buds, doth yearly spring!—
[Walks near.
Here is the last surviving name on earth—
The rest are gone to an untimely grave!—

Con.
Where all such traitors ought to go!
Ah! I have rid thee of a world of shame?

[To Angeline.
Angeline.
Oh! thou hard hearted wretch! how vile!—how vile!

[Weeps.
Con.
I wish I had some tears to quench your fire!
You have no proof that I have done this deed!

Darby.
Did you, or did you not, behold that deed?

Doct.
I did!

Con.
Where was he, when you saw him last?

Doct.
He left—passed out the room, as I went in!

Con.
How could you see him in the dead of night?

Doct.
I heard him run, and also heard him speak!

Con.
This is the no plus ultra of extremes!
This prima facie looks extremely fair.
[Disdainfully.
You may have heard a horse—or some huge beast?
A clap of thunder?—will this hang a man?
If this lame evidence can hang a man,
Good bye to legislation, and her laws!
America's no more the light of heaven!—

Darby.
We have one evidence, may please the court!
Which is not here!—to-morrow, he shall come—
The handkerchief and dagger shall be found;
And then, all disputation will be vain.

Judge.
From these suggestions he may go to jail.

Con.
“Then you'll be deep in mud, as your in mire.”

Judge.
Sheriff! take the prisoner back to jail!

Darby.
Go—

[Pointing after him. Sheriff guards him out to jail.
Judge.
I've heard no evidence can hang that man.

[Court adjourns. Exeunt omnes.

SCENE IV.

—The suburbs of Frankfort.—Darby meets the Doctor.
Darby.
We have but one more evidence on earth;
And, if we fail in this—tis o'er—the thing is done!
And, if I should succeed, my life's at stake!
My fee must be proportioned to my pains?

Doct.
I care not what's the fee—so Conrad dies!

Darby.
I know a man—a poor man—and, a fool!
He'd cut his throat for money—that's the man!
But mark! that man is Conrad's warmest friend!
His name is Arnold—he may take a bribe?—
I'll promise him two hundred pounds—he'll swear!

Doct.
'Tis best do what you can—he killed Alonzo!

[Shakes hands.
Darby.
Now, if he take it, 'twill be well and good,
And if he chance refuse—'tis all the same
I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll make him swear—
'Tis best you be not seen—I'll work it right.

Doct.
A thousand pounds shall be your pay—

Darby.
He hangs.

[Shakes hands. Exeunt Doctor.
Enter Arnold, with a letter in his hand.
Darby.
Good day, to thee, old friend!—what's all the news?
[Shakes hands.
I have not seen you for these many days!
When you and I were boys, we were good friends.
Although, you were not rich—I did not care—
I always like a friend, and ne'er forget him.
I like the poor, much better than the rich—
The rich can get along, you know—the poor,
The best way that they can—what's all the news?

Arnold.
We have no news!
[Looks at the letter.
Poor Conrad's wife is sick!

Darby.
You knew that Conrad was your vilest foe?—

Arn.
No; never, in this world!—that cannot be?
That man has helped me in distress!

Darby.
That may be so;
But not of late?

Arn.
Oh, yes he has, of late—

Darby.
Well, well—that, too, is well enough—he's changed!—
You do not know what use are made of friends;
He feeds you on his money—mind your eye!
He knows what use to put his money to—
He buys his own salvation, at your loss!

Arn.
Why! how's that?

Darby.
He killed Alonzo, did he?

Arn.
I don't believe he did—too good a man!

Darby.
Ah, ha—that proves what I have said—now mark!
He means to prove you killed that man yourself.

Arn.
Why! how?—good heavens! I killed Alonzo?

Darby.
The blame's on you—he'll have you hung stone dead!

Arn.
Good heavens! I never killed the man, on earth!

Darby.
That may be true—but such wont do in court.
You are a poor man—you have no rich friends—
You cannot fee a lawyer—tend your suit—
When dangers come, the poor man's quite forsaken!—
And, without money, man's a scare-crow, here.

Arn.
That is a fact!—what will a poor man do?

Darby.
Well—I can't tell,—do the best he can.

Arn.
Are you concerned that way?

Darby.
Perhaps I may be.
First come, first served—that is the way with me.

Arn.
I have no friends!—thought Conrad was the best—

Darby.
Well; as you seem to be an honest man,
And, I expect, quite innocent of murder,—
I'll undertake your case.

Arn.
Then here's my thanks—
[Bows.
He bade me give this letter to his wife—
How sorry did I feel, to see him weep!
And, when he wrote this letter—see his tears!
[Looks at it.

Darby.
These very tears, my friend, are drops of guilt!
He did not like to die, and leave his wife;
Nor, did he like, though best, to have you hung!
This meeting of two sorrows in his soul,
Broke up his conscience—which, stood forth in tears!

Arn.
Is it possible, so good a man as he—

Darby.
So good!—no odds how good a man may be,
'Tis not his nature not to save his life!—
Perhaps that letter holds some scheme,
Whereby he means to have you hung—let's see—

Arn.
He told me, at the peril of my life,
[Refuses.
To give it to Eudora!—no one else—

Darby.
Are you a fool?—what! die by your hands?
[Takes it and reads.
“Eudora! my dear wife! I would be with thee,
But I am bound in chains!—yes, iron chains!
There is but one resolve can save my life—
Our only hope now rests on Arnold's oath—
If he will swear that Darby kill'd Alonzo!
Then, I am safe—if not, I must be hung!
If you are not too sick, come, stay with me—
Give Darby money, and he'd sell his soul!

Darby.
Give Conrad woman, and he'd sell his life.
There, take it to his wife—come back to court.
Be thou, her friend—in act, but not in need.

[Exeunt Arnold.
Enter Doctor.
Darby.
Well, I've seen our friend—good news—good news—
Without one single cent, he comes to court!—

Doctor.
But, what if he turn traitor—what comes next?

Darby.
By heavens! I made the fool believe he'd hang!
That Conrad had thrown all the guilt on him!
And no alternative was left, but this.
But, mark! he brought a letter—which I read—
Directed to Eudora—'twas a plot—
Now, mind!—if he will swear, 'twill hang them both.

Doct.
Then, all is safe—then, come—go with me home

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE V.

—Court house in Frankfort, as before. Judge, lawyers, &c.
Darby
speaks.
May please this court—we, now, have evidence—
Enter Conrad and Eudora, guarded.
Now, they are here, the same in guilt and mind.
The unjust, for our just and buried friend!
His virtues live, although his heart is dead!
May all good angels guard him home to heaven.
Here is one witness, which the court shall hear.
Arnold! did you not bear a letter, sealed,
Some time ago, to Conrad's wife?

Arnold.
I did.

Darby.
Then tell the court and jury what was in it.

Arnold.
A bold acknowledgment he killed Alonzo!
His only effort was, to bribe me to an oath,
And, by such oath, forsworn, have Darby hung!

Darby.
Then, may please this court! the truth is told.
It needs no glitter—ornament is dross.
Then, render unto virtue what is due.
By all the ties of gratitude and care,
I dedicate him to your charge—the rope.

Con.
That, now, my fate is sealed, I could not think,
Were I not crushed beneath such sinful men!
And this, the last, of such olympic oaths,
The greatest—worst of all—oh, man! frail man!
When thou art base—thou art, of all, most vile!—
There stands my wife, whom I have made my heaven!
Which no man can pollute, however false!
A woman lovely,—loving in the extreme—
Until, insult is on her honour thrown!
From that bright bush, he pluck'd the sweetest rose
That ever bloom'd!—whose virtuous sweets he stole,
Then spurn'd!—because she had no more to steal!
They knew, her virtue was a heaven of love!
A sanctuary, holy,—perfect,—pure!
And, if I die, I die by hands, most foul!
And, not from proof—for they have none—not one!
Then, swear!—as I have liv'd, so let me die!
That, in my death! my soul shall love but one—
That only one, for whom I'd live or die!
You have been auditors to deeds most foul!
They knew Eudora's joy was mine—'twas life!
They knew the prize was worth ten thousand deaths!
And if I die,—my death shall be for love!

Darby.
The jury will retire—here is the writ.
[Hands it.
You know what facts are stated!—then, 'tis death!
Judge to the Jury.
You all have consciences enswayed by hate—
Weigh not the truth in scales of prejudice;
Nor cloud it, when it would, convincing, shine.
If what you've heard possess your minds with guilt,
Then he must die, as surely as he lives.
And now, I charge you, by the worth of souls,
When you retire, be reconcil'd as one.

[The jury retire, and bring in the verdict death.
Judge.
Then Conrad! it behooves me, as thy judge,
To say, thou art condemned, and have to die!—
May heavenly angels guard thee to thy home!

Eudora.
Hast thou no voice to speak the same to me?
Shall Conrad die! and I, his being, live?
I once had tears,—I have no sorrows now!—
This lord of my soul's heritage must die?
Why! if my heart be his, both die in one!
The body ye may kill, but not the soul!—
How has this man become the slave of men?
Because he could not brook that sore disgrace!
Why was this valley maid the scorn of maids?
Because that buried villain stole her virtue!
He smiled amidst the cold disdain of men—
Opened his bosom,—laid me down his heart,
And caged my soul there,—where I lov'd to live;
Then, let us die united—death is sweet!—
[Embraces him.
Then go—farewell! thy wrath on me is done!
[Weeps.
Oh! let me go—without him life is death!

[To the Judge.
Judge.
Yes, ladye! you can go, if 'tis your wish.

Eud.
I swear this heart shall not survive his death!

[Officer guards him out to prison.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—A Jail, in which Conrad is chained, while Eudora is leaning, with one hand on his shoulder, weeping.
Con.
Eudora! darkness gathers round my head!
What gloom is this?—oh! that I were in heaven!
Look at these hands—these tender hands—all chained!
As if my heart found music in their links!
Am I not Chillon's prisoner?—Tasso's friend?
Hear how they sing my requiem!—give me strength!
Eudora! canst thou loose these manly hands?
These hands wreak'd vengeance for myself and thee!
Oh! Darby! thou hast caused poor Conrad's death!
Oh! for the carrol of some heavenly bird!
Sweet nightingale! thou hast complain'd so long!
Sing on, sad bird! for thou shalt sing no more!

[Weeps.
Eud.
Thou hast redeem'd me unto death with thee!

Con.
The same kind deed thou would'st have done for me!

Eud.
To live without thee, would be living death!—
To die with thee, would be eternal life!—
The sweetest death that ever mortal died!
As thou wert with me, in mine hour of pain,
So will I nurse thee in the lap of death!
[Embraces.
As I have been thy pathway to the tomb,
So will I light thee through its darkest shades!
As thou hast been my brother, father, friend!
Then, let us die! absolved of two great pangs—
The foes of virtue, and the traitor's fangs.
Hark! I hear the watchman cry, 'tis morn!

Con.
Then let it come! these hands may then be free!
The greatest load that ever mortal bore!—
Eudora! gentlest of revengeful loves!
Look up to heaven, and smile—rejoice, my love!
As I am thine, then, all thy will is mine!
This life is thine, for thou art in this life!
As I am lost in thee, so am I found!
Hark!—hark!—the guard is at the door—tis done!
[Drum beats.
This morn, we part! and we shall meet no more!

Eud.
I have a tale to tell, too sweet for that.
'Twould send an anthem through thy soul—part? part?
Hast thou not known Eudora's heart, this while?—
Oh! 'tis too deep to fathom, in this world!
Here is one chapter thou hast never read!—
[Shows him a phial of poison.
Look here!—dost thou not see this precious balm!—
This was an angel's gift!—'twill couch all pain!
Through all the fibres of thy manly heart,
Send sleep! immortal sleep! send night!—dark night!
And wake thy morrow in another world!

[Falls on him.
Con.
Oh! Eudora! poor Eudora! Conrad's wife!
[Embraces her.
Thy heart is strong—thy precious soul is wide!
These hands are bound, else I would fly to thee.

Eud.
What I imbibe, the same is sweet to thee,
Though 'twere a chalice, teeming o'er with gall.
This little friend I'll keep, if that should fail.

[Shows him a dagger, which she procured, to kill them, if the poison should fail.
Con.
Oh! Eudora!—'twill drowse away this life!
Then, we must sleep, and thou, within these arms!

Eud.
'Twas for that purpose that I brought it here!

Con.
One short hour more, Eudora? and we part!

Eud.
Part?—never! never! on this side the grave!
This is the marriage banquet of our loves!
Drink thou one half, and I the rest—then, peace!
[He takes the phial and drinks one half.
Thou hast not known me yet—kind woman's love!
This world hath never known fond woman's love!
This is the place that lesson shall be taught!
That, he, who has a wife, may think on me;
And love her, that her love is woman's love!
'Tis that which makes her fear, till tempests rage!
Then, deepest seas roll high with loftiest waves;
But let the storm be calm—and all is love!—
Ye, who have wives, think on Eudora's love!
Love Conrad's wife! and wish Eudora thine!

Con.
Hark! the sounding drum! my time is come!—

Eud.
Then, come, sweet antidote!—come, cure all pain!
Now, will I drink my part, and die with thee!—
[Drinks. Draws the dagger.
But one more rite!—if that expedient fail,
This never shall!—'tis well to have two friends!
I know this world—one, true or false, may fail!
'Tis warm with that which it shall turn to ice!—
[Feels the dagger.
Now, twilight visions gather round my soul,
And gentle slumber weighs me down to night!
Dark angel! make existence night! come down!—

[They lie down in each others arms.

SCENE II.

—A street in Frankfort, where the guard assembles.
Enter Officer and guard.
Officer.
We have our duty to perform at three.
Surround the prisoner at the jail, and stand—
You may proceed, and I will meet you there.
Be resolute!—he may have friends at hand.

[Exeunt omnes.

SCENE III.

—Jail, as before. Conrad and Eudora sleeping. (Drum beats.) Eudora wakes and looks round wildly.
Eud.
Where am I, Conrad?—am I not in heaven?
This can't be heaven! else Conrad would be here!
Oh! give me wings that I may fly to thee!
Thou art not here?—then I will not be there!—
[Drum beats.
I hear a sound!—there are no sounds in heaven!
There, angels sing!—there angels' songs are heard!
I am not there, else Conrad, too, would sing!
[Drum.
Where! where am I, then!—oh! Conrad! come! come!—
[Feels round.
Oh! Conrad! Conrad!—spirits! take me home!
Away to Conrad's home!

[Falls on his breast, and he wakes.
Con.
Eudora!—

[She raises her head.
Eud.
Where! where is that voice?

Con.
Eudora!—love!—

Eud.
Oh! sweet Conrad! thou art here!

[Embraces him.
Con.
Eudora!—'tis too dark for heaven—'tis hell!

Eud.
Wilt thou remain?

Con.
Eudora! wilt thou stay?
Do thou but stay, and I'll remain—'tis death!
'Tis that dark vale through which we pass to heaven!
We are not dead until we pass that shade!
Not dead to life, to earth—alive to heaven!

[Drum beats.
Eud.
Rise, Conrad! rise and see!—'tis dark!—how dark!

[Drum.
Con.
Hark!—the drum!—where are we?—not in heaven!—hark!
[Feels round and looks up.
The guard! the drum!—Eudora's love is gone!

Eud.
No!—I had lost my soul—I have it now!

[Strikes her forehead.
Jailor makes a noise at the door without.
Con.
Be still, Eudora.
[Draws her dagger.
Hold! thou canst not kill?

Eud.
Too weak?—a lion has not strength like this!
[Raises her dagger.
Too weak!—the strength of death, too weak?—now peace!

Con.
Hark! too weak! they come! they come!—strike! strike deep!—

[She stabs him, and he falls.
Eud.
His blood's upon the blade—now meet mine own.

[Stabs herself and falls. Jailor and guard enter.
Jailor.
Heavens! guard, what a sight!—look! look! behold!—
The groans we heard, were murder! they are dead!
Her soul's with his—and both their hearts are dead!

Guard.
What? dead!—Conrad dead? lets see—dead?—he breathes?

Jailor.
Here is the dagger—buried in her heart!
[Pulls it out.
See if he's dead! see if he's cold!—has pulse.

[Feels hers.
Eud.
O—O—O! Conrad!

[Dies.
Con.
Farewell, Eudora!

Guard.
Conrad speaks!—he still has pulse!

[Feels.
Jailor.
Here is the wound! the wound! she's dead! she's dead!

Con.
The wound! the wound! give me my wife! my wife!
[They place her on the bed, and he struggles to rise.
She was too tender! Oh! she could not kill!
[They bear him to her.
Where is her pulse?—her soul? 'tis gone! my wife!
Now, I have lost my wife! Eudora's gone!
Eudora! speak!—oh! speak, my love!—oh! death!
Where is that dagger? strike me! kill me dead!
Let me go with poor Eudora! strike! strike!—

Officer.
We must obey the law—you must be hung!

Con.
Give me my wife! help! oh! heaven! help! my wife!—

[They bear him out to the gallows, and the curtain falls.