University of Virginia Library

SCENE XVI.

The Chapel of the Convent.
An altar, &c. The corpse of Honoria on a bier in the middle of the aisle, covered with a white transparent pall, edged with black velvet. As the curtain rises slowly, the nuns, arranged round the chapel, sing a solemn dirge, beginning low, and rising to full chorus. That done, the first nun comes forward, and the other nuns arrange themselves in a semicircle that hides the bier.
First Nun.
Thus have we offer'd up our fervent pray'rs
For the meek spirit of this beauteous maid.
Her mien bespoke her noble; and her breast
Seem'd the rich casket which contain'd a jewel
Glowing with native and resplendent light!
Ere from her fading lip the quiv'ring breath
Fled its fair mansion, to my care she gave
This costly picture: “Take it, pious sister,
“Take it,” she cried, “and keep with holy awe
“The once-lov'd image of my Alferenzi!”
That done, she knelt, and rais'd her eyes to heav'n—
Her piercing eyes—dark as her adverse fortune!
Breath'd a short pray'r, and, like a spotless flow'r,
Bow'd by the pitiless and pelting storm,
Sunk to the earth, and died! [A loud knocking at the convent gate.

Who knocks so loud?

[Alferenzi rushes into the chapel, frantic, pale, and exhausted, followed by the old Peasant.
Alferenzi.
Oh! pious sisters, frown not on my rashness;
I am a man the most accurs'd and wretched!
Driv'n by the deadly storm of rending passions
To this my last asylum! Have ye seen,
Since ev'ning's star peer'd in the golden west,
A drooping angel, agoniz'd with grief?
More sweet than infant innocence, more pure
Than sainted spirits journeying to the sky? [The nun turns from him.

Speak; and, if pity dwells within your breast,
Do not behold me perish!

Nun
(shewing the picture.)
Know'st thou this?

Alferenzi.
Oh! I have found her, for exulting bliss
Springs to my heart, and triumphs o'er despair!
This is the proud meridian of my days,
And my last glowing hour shall set in joy!
Now, call her forth; tell her 'tis Alferenzi;
She will, in pity, answer to the summons.

[The nuns draw back on each side, discovering the bier; one of them throws the pall off the face of Honoria.
Alferenzi
(wildly.)
Hah! Who has done this deed?
Is that her wedding suit? How pale she looks!
Soft; do not wake her; she is sick with sorrow;
The priest is waiting, and the perfum'd bands
Are gaily strew'd about the holy shrine;
I mark'd the spangling drops that hung upon them;
Some said that they were dying lovers' tears;
Were they not right? Soft, soft; where am I?
My senses much deceive me, or that corse,
So beautiful in death, is Valmont's daughter!

Enter Constantia.
Constantia.
Where is the wretch whose bold and impious rage
Has dar'd profane the sacred rites of woe?

Alferenzi.
I came to seek the gem of this world's wonders!
But she, too precious for this hated earth,
Now beams a constellation in that heav'n
Where I shall never see her! Oh! I lov'd her,
Better, far better, than I lov'd my soul,
For in her cause I gave it to perdition!

Constantia.
Ill-fated man! See in this faded form
The wife of haughty Valmont; twenty years
Have pass'd, in silent solitary grief,
Since I beheld my persecuted child.
Oh! my long-lost, my beautiful Honoria!
My earliest comfort, and my last fond hope!
I did not think to close thy eyes in death,
Or bathe thy ashes with a mother's tears!

[Kneels by the corpse of Honoria.
Alferenzi.
Is there on earth a wretch so curs'd as I?
What is my crime, ye ministers of hell,
That persecution, with a scorpion scourge,
Should drive me to the precipice of fate?
E'en there, the fiend will on the margin greet me,
And, as I gaze upon the gulph below,
Where mad revenge stands 'midst the foaming surge,
And smiling feeds upon the hearts of men,
Will snatch me back to linger in despair!
Is there no yawning grave in the green ocean,
No deadly venom in the teeming earth,
No lightning treasur'd in the stagnant air,
To end my weary pilgrimage of pain?

Peasant.
Tempt not the rage of heav'n with impious breath.

Alferenzi
(approaching the bier.)
Yet let me look upon her: 'Twill not be!
A burning torrent rushes thro' each nerve,
And more than frenzy feeds upon my brain!
The villain's sword was steep'd in mortal poison;
Its course, tho' slow, each antidote defies:
Now, now it freezes, and its icy thrill
Checks the faint current of my with'ring heart!
I thank thee, Caitiff; thou indeed wert kind!

First Nun.
Restore him, heav'n!

Alferenzi.
The fiends surround my soul! They are deceiv'd;
My heart-strings will not break, for they have borne
The miseries of love! Away! away! [falls.

Let the same grave conceal our mould'ring ashes;
And if the pilgrim, penitent and poor,
Should drop a tear to consecrate the sod,
I ask no other requiem! Death is kind;
He flings his icy mantle o'er my sense,
And shuts the scene of horror! Oh! farewell!

[dies:
First Nun.
Farewell, sad victims of ambition's pow'r!
Now let us raise to Heav'n our holy song,
For the freed souls of these ill-fated lovers!
While nature shrinks to contemplate the scene,
And stern-eyed justice drops a silent tear,
The angel Pity, bending from the sky,
Shall draw the veil that hides their woes for ever!

[They sing the dirge as the curtain falls, Constantia still kneeling by the bier.