University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Ruins of an immense Castle among the Apennines, bordering on the sea; between the arches of which appears a deep glen, lying in the bosom of a vast pile of mountains, capt with snow: some little way up one of which is seen the monastery of Salvator.
Time; Sunset.
A banquet, spread upon the fallen entablatures.
Cerello, sitting with the hawk upon his knee in the distance.
Romano, reclining on one of the fragments, engaged at

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chess with Carlo:—Fracastro revising a MS.; his lyre lying beside him:—Officers carousing.
Rom.
Check to the king.

Carlo.
Check-mate?

Rom.
Check-mate.

Fra.
I'll take the conqueror. A knight or bishop,
To make the' engagement equal?

Rom.
Take a knight.

[Fracastro takes Carlo's seat, and Carlo joins the carousing party.
(Chorus.)
The winds and the waters re-echo our song;
And murmur success, as they wander along.

[Romano quits his seat suddenly; comes forward, and sits at the base of one of the columns.
Rom.
This merriment o'erwhelms me. Yet I've heard,
'Tis wise to mix the graceful with the grave.
These silent emblems of magnificence!—
I've named this paradise the silent glen.
The sun sinks deep; the azure cliffs above
Glow into purple; and the waves beneath
Reflect the varied tintings of the forest.
There bees store nectar; there the woodlark builds;
And doves cling, cooing, to their native perch.
There the lone nightingale hymns vespers; there
The rich nyctanthes scents the evening gale.

[Takes off his sword, breast-plate, and helmet; and places them on one of the architraves.
Fra.
Signor, you quit us. Is it well to leave
The feast, the revel, and the song; and brood—?

Rom.
My friend,—the oil of merriment is gall,
When the soul quickens with an inward anguish.
Sorrow works wonders;—I'm a grey old man. [Pulls a few hairs from his temples.

Ere woe had stolen my golden youth away,
Young with the young, and aged with the old,
Calm was the tenour of my life; and sweet
The placid whisper of all-councilling time.
But why paint pictures, that recal past hours,
Never, no, never to return?—when life
And love were one:—when life and love struck chords
In hallow'd unison. O happy time!
Lost in oblivion; or remember'd only,
As the bright skies of Italy are mourn'd
By those, who, stranded on the fretted coast
Of Nova-Zembla, far remote from man,
Behold cliffs rise, whose tops are lost in clouds,
Eternal snows, and pyramids of ice;
Where nought is heard, but ocean's ceaseless roar;
And nought of animated life is seen,
But huge sea-serpents, and shagg'd arctic bears.
Marco,—observe! Thou know'st, of many an hour,
In silence and in solitude, I cheated
Old weary Time in modelling a statue.
Thou and Bernardo—journey to the quarry.
Bring the loved image. In some sacred niche,
We'll dedicate the marble to the ruins.

[Exeunt Marco and Bernardo.
[An officer comes down from the carousing party.
Offi.

I wonder, sir;—I wonder, you. .should have. . . a liking to. . .that Venetian galley-master there. . . . He'll, one day, be-be-be-tray you, sir There's danger here . . .six. .days out of. . .seven.

Rom.
I want no telescope to see through you.
Mere envy, sir; and nothing else: begone:
Stay not one moment. You're in wine; and show
What you wish sober. I've observed you long.
Nay, sir; no argument: get hence; and seek
For listening dupes, where listening dupes abound.

Offi.
(aside.)
He's turn'd me sober;—I'll straight march to Naples.
May plagues and mildews light upon them both.

[Exit.
Rom.
Baseness I hate in all; but most of all
I do despise a low-bred, envious, man!
Come here, Fracas—; but I'll not stoop to tell him.
List, now; how sweetly, mid yon deep recess,
The notes of this wild instrument will echo;
As if some spirit dwelt within its bosom;
Living in rapture on the rainbow's tints,
Spring's opening blossoms, and th'ambrosial dews,
Which float along the mountain's shadowy van,
Distill'd from hyacinths and the evening air.
There's not an echo in all Italy,
France, Tyrol, Switzerland, or Sicily;
Not e'en the sacred echoes of Olympus,
Can with this vie. It answers from yon forest;
Then from the cliff, impending o'er the torrent;
Whence, passing through the variegated woods,
Which belt Salvator's monastery, dies
In whispers, doubt, and mystery away. [Blows his bugle. Echoes.

Is not that magical?

Fra.
The loveliest sounds,
That ever met my wondering ear.

Rom.
What's that?
Another bugle answers in the distance.

Fra.
Perchance, the lonely wanderers, whom we saw
Climbing a precipice.

Offi.
Perhaps, 'tis Sardo.

Rom.
Who journey'd forward to conduct him hither?

Fra.
Pedro. They come: I know their footsteps well.

Enter Sardo and Pedro.
Rom.
Sardo? Thou art an antelope. Thou hast
Outstript the eagle in his flight. Good news,
I hope, has given good pinions. Welcome.

All.
Welcome.

Sardo.
Signor and signors, I am proud: my thanks
For this, your kind reception. These two letters
Will speak the issue of my embassy.

Rom.
What says the venerable doge of Venice? [Reads.

There's always comfort from the golden Venice.
What news from Mantua? (reads.)
Oh the faith of man!
The Duke seems dubious; he distrusts his means;
His frame is sickly; and he fears the senate.
He thinks, they think me guilty, then! Yet says,
In two years' time—: The emptiness of man!
In two years' time, the world and all that's in it,
May be no better than an empty bubble.

Fra.
I hope, the letters please thee, sir.

Rom.
They must:
Since written by a friend: They're bound by custom.

Voice
(without).
Wīllŏx-ŏ-whōo-hōo.

Cer.
An owl! He'd better not come near my hawk.
Quiet, sir; down: be quiet, griffin-grooven.

Rom.
What noise was that?

Sardo.
I'll tell thee, signor.—Pedro! [Whispers:—Exit Pedro.

As we came hither, we beheld a boy,
Roll'd up, and sleeping like a dormouse, 'neath
The chequer'd shadow of a linden tree.
We raised him gently from his leafy bed,
And brought him hither. He, at first, slept soundly:
But, in the moment he awaked, alarm
Seized on his senses; and such sorrow flow'd,
That we repented, we had brought him with us.

Rom.
Is there not misery in the world enough,
But you must wantonly increase it, sir?
I hate all wanton cruelties:—they're unmanly.

Sardo.
Methought, you'd like him for a page.

Rom.
A page?
The time's gone by for pages.

Fra.
He is here. Enter Pedro leading Floranthe.

He seems no savage; and appears more beautiful
Than does become his sex. Good morrow.

Sardo.
Pause.
Perhaps he'll imitate a bird. He did so,
As we came hither. Imitate the owl.

Flo.
(calls.)
Wīllŏx-ŏ-whōō-hōō!

Rom.
He is an idiot. But I know not whether
We ought to pity, or to envy him.

Flo.
(calls.)
Cūr-lèw!

Rom.
It grieves my heart to see a mind so weak,
Usurp a frame so noble. Give him food.

Flo.
(aside.)

Oh my poor master; my poor unfortunate master! What will you do without Floranthe?

Fra.
Were he not thus accoutred,—as I live,
With locks all tendrill'd like the clustering vine;
With eyes like gazelle's; teeth like Indian pearls;
Neck form'd of snow, and lips like morning's blush;
I should, I swear, have hail'd him for a girl,
Who wish'd for once to act the truant's part,
And gain a sun-burnt countenance at noon,
Looking for birds'-nests. Take this orange, boy.
Throw it away? Pomegranates suit thee better?

Flo.
(plays with two, by throwing them up in the air, and catching them, as they fall.)
Yāhŏŏ—yāhŏŏ—yāhŏŏ—hōō!

Rom.
Do not alarm him farther, my Fracastro.
Let him go whither he may wish.

Fra.
Poor soul!

Flo.
(calls.)
Willŏx-ŏ-whōo-hōo!

Rom.
(aside.)
Now would I give five dukedoms, if I had them,
That I'd been born beneath a woodman's cot,
And been an idiot, like this whimpering boy,
Ere I had left the sacred isles of Venice.

Fra.
What—are you going? Nay—you must not go.

Flo.
I shall go.—I will, I shall; I will, I shall. Whŏ-hōo!

Rom.
Nay let him wander where he will. He's harmless.

Flo.
(aside.)
O me—I was near dropping this dear, dear, portrait. Poō-loō.—Poō-loō!

Fra.
What is he hiding?

Marco.
Let us see.

Flo.
Tŏ-cōō.

Marco.
Come, let us see. What secret hast thou here?

Flo.
A hawk, a hawk, (striking him).
(Aside)
The mean, audacious, man!

Rom.
That serves you right. I am ashamed of you.
Idiots are sacred. We may call them errors,
In the vast scheme of nature; but they are not.
They're framed for use; if 'tis for this alone,
That, bearing human form, they check our pride,
Excite our pity, or alarm our fears,
Lest we, at best, may be but idiots too.

Flo.
(aside.)
Idiot?

Rom.
Let the boy go. He shall be teased no longer.

Fra.
Go, my poor boy; and take my blessing with thee.

Flo.
(aside.)
(Addressing Sardo1, Fracastro2, Marco3, and Romano4.)
[Runs out.

Rom.
'Tis the last wave, that whelms the sinking ship.
I ought to laugh, as you do; but I cannot.
There's something in the manner of this boy,
I cannot comprehend. Go after him:—yet stay.
What right have we to play upon his weakness?
Give me a lute. (Aside)
The skill, I have remain,
Shall charm the scorpion, memory, to peace.

Fra.
Nay, Sardo; bring it. Art thou deaf? 'Tis yonder.

Sardo.
Pardon me, signor. I was thinking how
The boy deceived us. He's no fool, I warrant.

Rom.
Foolish, or wise, we have no right to keep him.
Come, signor Carlo:—no;—let Sardo try.
Come, Sardo; place the pieces, and move quickly;
Or I'm check-mated. Take a knight; begin.
Nay now, I'll venture— (aside.)
Oh this Duke of Mantua!—
He has disorganiz'd my skill. (To Carlo.)
Play you.
Return the knight, and let the field be equal. [Rises; comes forward; and leans upon the shoulder of Fracastro.

This Duke of Mantua,—we were boys together.
Oft have we climb'd the Apennines; and oft
Made the transparent Brenta waft our shouts
And the loud echoes of our winding horns,
As the wild stag swam, panting, down the stream.
He was a suitor to thy mother; but
She thought, she saw a sordid spirit in him.
She knew him better than myself. Two years?
'Tis death to wait; ruin to lean on any.
Give me the lute. I thank thee, sir. Marsyas! [Strikes a few chords.

The full-orb'd moon will be eclips'd to-night.
'Tis nineteen summers, since, as gliding o'er
The balmy surface of Venetian seas;
Our voyage to Naples!—as we coasted near,
And heard soft anthems from the pilgrims, kneeling
At our lov'd Lady of Loretto's shrine,
The moon waned from us; and the stars alone
Gave evidence of light. Just nineteen years!
The moon must, therefore, be eclips'd to-night.

[Retires to a lonely part of the scene.
Fra.
He will not play now, though he holds the lute.
Oh what a picture is a mind in ruins!

Rom.
What? Is it thus? I'm paralyzed. I could
As soon draw syrens from the azure deep,
Or seize the sceptre of the universe,
As draw one note from this all-speaking lute. [Comes forward, intermittingly; sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly; holding the lyre in one hand; and waving his other, with a circular movement, over the crown of his head.

Wretch that I am, what governs me? Perdition.
What right have I to act the mimic?—Lutes?
Will lutes, or harps, or dulcimers, restore
My murder'd wife? my long-lost child? my honour?
Out on all lutes! [Throws it down with great violence.

Haste to your couches: I'll return anon.
There is a moment, sacred to oblivion,
For all, save me. Sleep! sleep! I trust no more
To visions, dreams,—fantastic dreams—and hopes.
(To Fracastro)
Should I ne'er touch this honest hand again;
Nay—start not: but remember, that I once
Thought all men honest; all men kind and true.
Farewell; farewell: the stars will one day move
Backward; and, wandering from their stated spheres,
Darkness and death will sit upon their thrones.
Mind, that I say so. Fare ye well.

[Exit.
Fra.
Your couches!
He's so much alter'd, since we knew him first,
That every word and look and start alarm me.
See, see, a star,—perhaps a world condemn'd,—
Falls from the zenith of the firmament!
Haste to your couches; it portends strange issues.

[Exeunt into the interior of the ruins.