University of Virginia Library

I.

Scene: The Dungeon of Bertram in the Castle of Leoni.
Leoni. Bertram.
Leoni.
Thou sleep'st as one who hath no fear—no grief!

Bertram.
As one who hath no fear; and, for my griefs,
That they permit me sleep at such an hour,
Would show them much more merciful than thou!

Leoni.
I, too, am merciful—will bring thee sleep,
So deep, as will shut out all sense of grief
From thy unlaboring senses.

Bertram.
Be it soon!

Leoni.
Is this thy prayer?

Bertram.
Dost ask?

Leoni.
Enough! Then hear!
To-morrow thou shalt have no charge in life—
The fair sky shall reject thee; the bright sun
Lend thee no succor—and the wooing breeze,
That sweeps so sweetly through yon window grate,
Shall only stir the long grass on thy grave!
Dost hear what I have spoken? Thou shalt die!

Bertram.
'Tis well!

Leoni.
No more?

Bertram.
What more wouldst have? Thy power
To which I may oppose nor prayer nor pleading,
Needs not my vain acknowledgment of grief;—
And fears I have none.

Leoni.
Is all sense of hope
Utterly dead within thee? Does no dream
Rise up before thy fancies, fraught with pleasure,
That life prolong'd may bring thee—happiest hours,
In sunshine or in shade—such as thy bosom
Was once most blest to dream of? Thou hast been
A very bird of the summer, in thy flight,
No less than music. Thou couldst clip the air
With ever-glad embraces; couldst delight
The groves with the spring sweetness of thy song,
And fed'st on all the flowery fields of life,
With never satiate appetite and hope!—
Is thy privation nothing?—the great loss
Of the things visible and glorious, thou
Hast ever sought with such a fresh delight?
The woods and waters—this fair earth and sky,
Glowing in birds and blossoms; and the night
Proud in its starr'd luxuriance; and that moon,
Whose pallid disk looks mournful through yon bars,
As if to yield thee sympathy. A while,
Her beams will gleam upon thy silent grave,
And seek thee through the grasses on its slopes,
And thou know nothing.

Bertram.
Be it as thou sayest.

Leoni.
I tell thee, by the morrow thou shalt sleep
I' the iron grasp of death.

Bertram.
One word for all!
Time ceased with me to-day—and in her grave
Sleep all my earthly morrows.

Leoni.
Obdurate!
Yet would a prayer become thee.

Bertram.
Not to thee!
My prayers are not for life—nor yet for death—
And, if for mercy, but to Him, whose power
Leads through the awful future, in whose shadows
I see no sway of thine! Thou couldst not answer
To any prayer I make thee.

Leoni.
Not for life?

Bertram.
No!
Life were no mercy now. The light which made
My life on earth, now beckons through the gates
Which thou mayst ope, not shut! Thou hast o'erstept
The limits of thy policy. Thy power,
That smote too soon the victim in thy grasp,
Forever lost its sway, in the foul blow,
That rather spoke the madness of thy hate,
Than made its purpose sure. For prayer of mine,
Invoking life for me, denied to her,
Thou wait'st but vainly. Not to mock thy power
Do I contemn thy mercy; but that blessing
Were now no boon to me. I hear the doom
Thy lips have spoken, and I welcome it!—
Will meet it with no struggle and no prayer,
But, in such meek humility of heart—
Not reft of every hope—which best becomes
These bonds, this weakness—conscious that I breathe
In thy forbearance only. Let the axe
Be sharpen'd and in readiness—the neck
Is bared, and bent already, for the blow!

Leoni.
Die in thy pride! I would have wrung the prayer
From thy unnatural bosom, to deny thee;
Would first have moved thee to an abject homage,
That shame, as well as death, might fasten on thee,
Defiling thy past honors; and have shown thee,
Clipping with eager arms about my knees,
While my feet tramp thee to the kindred dust
Which stains thy insolent forehead.

Bertram.
Oh! I know thee!

Leoni.
Thou know'st me! Well! it needs not that I tell thee
Thy doom is written! With the sun, thou diest!