University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A Pavilion.
Enter Honoria and Agnes.
Honoria.
It is my Alferenzi, gentle Agnes!
He is the conqueror, and he well deserves
The proud affections of my captive heart!
Oh! didst thou mark him, when his glitt'ring lance,
Like the blue lightning arm'd with threat'ning death,
Rush'd on the bosom of his vanquish'd foe?

Agnes.
Each eye with admiration follow'd him
Thro' all the varying conflicts of the scene!
What is his parentage? his name is noble!

Honoria.
His father is a man of loftiest birth,
A brave Sicilian! This, his only son,
Was train'd to arms, and all Calabria's shores
Have rung with plaudits at his bold exploits!
Illustrious in himself, all outward show
Borrows those graces which it cannot lend,
For he derives no dignity from pow'r,
By fortune less distinguish'd than by fame!
Some few months since in Tuscany we met,
And there profess'd such vows of tender faith,
As neither time nor absence e'er can change.
Hither he came disguis'd, in hopes to win
My father's love by deeds of chivalry;
He has unlock'd the treasure of his heart
To my relentless parent, whose stern mind
Is still devoted to Montalva's heir!

Agnes.
Alas! I know not how to give you counsel.

Honoria.
I did not think that Nature's finest art
Could fashion Reason to sustain such woe!
Heav'n knows there's nothing so forlorn as I!
The sea-beat mariner, who on the shrouds
Hangs at the mercy of the warring winds,
Rock'd by the howling spirits of the deep,
May count him in a cradle of repose,
And think the roaring blast a zephyr's breath,
Compar'd with passion's wild and madd'ning storm!
Amidst the mingling labyrinths of thought,
Bewilder'd Patience turns, and turns again,
Till, hopeless and o'erwhelm'd, she faints and dies!

Agnes.
From childhood uncontrol'd, your soften'd mind
But ill can combat life's perplexing thorns.
Sole mistress of this castle's rich domains—

Honoria.
Aye! There again, oh! most disastrous state!
A mother's care in infancy I lost,
But the sad hour or manner of her death
I never yet could learn; my father's frowns,
Whene'er I press'd inquiry of her fate,
Still aw'd me into silence. Oh! if she liv'd,
Tho' poor, deserted, friendless, and oppress'd,
I would, o'er burning plains, or wastes of snow,
A barefoot wand'rer, seek her out, and bless her!

Agnes.
Strange rumours have been buzz'd abroad, and some
Have dar'd accuse—

Enter Albert.
Albert.
Honoria! is my destiny decreed!
Wilt thou not bend thy footsteps to that altar
Where meek-ey'd pity bathes the wounds of love?

Honoria.
Never! yon host of saints that know my thoughts,
Know they are fix'd, and tow'ring o'er my fate,
Like the vast rocks that bound the stormy main!
Let the fierce tempest of a father's rage
Dash my soul's purpose, as the foaming waves
Waste their vain fury on the flinty shore!
I can with patience bear all human ills;
All that gaunt poverty can heap upon me;
The cold disdain of insolence and pride,
Peace-wounding calumny, or death itself!
Rather than break my vows to Alferenzi.

Albert.
Perdition blast his hopes! the daring villain!
But he shall perish!

Honoria.
What—because he loves?
Oh! do not scatter my wild thoughts to frenzy!
'Tis not the province of a noble nature
To plunge a poniard in the vanquish'd heart!
Stain not thy glowing laurels, won by valour,
With the pale lustre of a woman's tears.
Albert, embattled legions have beheld
Thy dauntless crest bound with immortal wreaths!
Then know, the sword that's steep'd in gallant blood
Should at the fount of pity cleanse its stains,
Ere reason aches to see it! Spare thy foe,
Nor let the poison fell of private hate
Disgrace thy kindred or thy country's fame!

Albert.
I will be calm, if thou wilt bid me hope.

Honoria.
There's not a wretch that breathes but dares to hope.
The wither'd tenant of a dungeon's gloom,
Who, shut unpitied from the face of heav'n
Almost forgets the radiance of the sun!
Still in his prison sees effulgent hope,
That dissipates the horrors of still night,
And bids him smile upon his galling chain!
That pow'r instinctive braves the tyrant's nod;
Secure within itself, the conscious soul
Still feeds on hope, and triumphs to the last!

[Exeunt.