University of Virginia Library

BOOK IV.

SCENE I.

The sea-shore. A few ships are seen passing and repassing in the distance; with a vast number of hawks, puffins, guillemots, and other sea-birds hovering over the cliffs.
A Lunar Rainbow stretches from side to side.
Towards the south, opens a small valley, over which stretches an aqueduct; connecting the outward wall of the castle with the side of the opposite mountain.
Fracastro sitting near the buttress of one of the arches.
Fra.
(examining a rose.)
There is more beauty in this rose's lip,
Than in the bloom of Atalanta's cheek.
The signor said—“there's something in that boy,
I cannot comprehend.” The eye, the lips, the cheek,
Look'd feminine;—and yet it cannot be:
A boy he is; and half an idiot too.
Sweet is the murmur of the surge; and soft
The dove-clad colouring of the marbled clouds,
Which skirt the rainbow. All Circassia, too,
Seems as if wafting blossoms to impreign
Yon vine-clad labyrinths;—such delicious scents
Pass through this valley. “Stay thee here, Fracastro;”
Said the lorn signor. “Stay thee here. Ere midnight
I shall return.” Alas—'tis midnight now. [Takes up some papers, and begins to examine them.

The poet's panacea is the page. [Several nightingales heard among the branches.

Of all the birds, that charm the listening woods,
The best and holiest is the nightingale.
In Greece, in Cyprus, and in Syria,
Oft have I listen'd to their ecstasies;
While o'er the east, in solemn state, the moon
Tinged every cloud with most bewitching hue,
And o'er the shadowy scene such glory threw,
That Nature, on her own magnificence,
In silent rapture gazed. [Strikes the chords of his lyre; on which the nightingales resume their notes.

How sweet this music! surely notes so soft
Ne'er lull'd the night to ravishment. Such sounds,
—The birds' sweet warble, and the sea's soft flow,—
Were never blended in a quire so rich;
Since night first threw her dark, mysterious, veil
O'er Adam's lids; and, from his rifted side,
Blood flowed; Eve sprang to life; and Love
Shed holy raptures o'er the universe.
Each wave gives strength and solemn intonation;
Each bird gives melody and grace; both join'd,
Create a harmony beyond all thought;
And I—I only—seem awake to listen. [Several stags pass under the arches, grazing. Others are seen moving, timidly, among the branches. Some stop to drink at a small fountain, overhung with olives, sycamores, and mountain-ash.

Rove on, ye antler'd tenants of the forest:
I would not gore your haunches for a lyre,
Strung by the fingers of Calliope.
No;—may these scenes to you for ever be
The scenes of plenty and tranquillity.
Ah—would the signor but return! To him
Hope whispers—never! His fate a wilderness
Of doubt and sorrow; and his forehead stamped
With all, that hate and jealousy could wish.
As a lone dervise o'er Numidian wilds,
Tongue-chain'd with heat, pursues his breathless way,
Columns of sand stalk, hideous, to the clouds;
While serpents fork, and bearded lions roar.
At length a mirage charms his visual nerve.
Hope smiles;—the harlot! Soon the simoon comes,
Throwing its sultry winding-sheet; and all
Is one vast, suffocating, scene of death! [A breath of air flows from the valley, scattering a shower of wild rose-leaves; and the lyre, moved by the wind, emits a melancholy sound.

Never did Eolus play upon a harp,
More wildly or more tenderly. Not e'en,
When through the valley of the Hebrus, Thrace
Heard solemn sounds; and every shepherd mourn'd
To see the lyre, and bleeding head of Orpheus,
Borne on its strings adown the echoing stream,
In times long past. In modern days, I've heard,
Lyres only breathe aerial music, when
A lover's spirit springs from earth to heaven.

Rom.
(without.)
Angel of light!

Fra.
His voice!—where? whither? list.

Rom.
(without.)
Angel of light!

Fra.
Yon vast, projecting, rock
Echoes so wildly and so strangely, that
I know not whence these awful sounds—

Rom.
(without.)
Francesca!

Fra.
A spirit seems to animate the mist.
Some fatal thought distracts his feverish brain.
Methought, I heard deep thunder in the distance.
I must away; a storm is gathering near.
Is it not?—yes—it must be! If I pause
One short-lived moment, he is lost for ever.
What canst thou mean?—destruction! Signor;—signor!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Eastern side of the ruins; with Mount Vesuvius rising immediately above; its summit illumined by the moon, now at the full; and its girdle enveloped in clouds; which, in a few moments, rise to the top, and shut it from the scene.
On one side, Sardo, Cerello, Pedro, &c. &c. are

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seen reclining against the outward wall of the Castle, asleep.
On the extreme edge of a promontory, jutting into the bay, Romano is beheld, sometimes bending over the water, and at others stretching his arms towards heaven.
Rom.
As I bend o'er these melancholy waves,
My soul seems starting to a new existence.
If in this bay I throw this worthless frame,
One moment past,—and straight my anxious soul,
Quitting this complicated scene of dust,
Shall join the sainted spirit of Francesca.
Leave me; nay, leave me; leave me to my fate.

Fra.
(entering.)
When waves quit ocean; when the stars quit heaven.
Some demon, signor, strives to master thee.
Pause, and reflect:—the volume of thy life
Lies, like a flower-bud, folded in the winter,
Unseen, unknown.—All mystery!—Be wise.
Passion to-day—repentance on the morrow!
If, by this act, thou couldst command the future;
Then it were wise. But since the future is
Even more charged with mystery than the present,
Live and sustain. Or, if thou must die, let
Thy death be useful: choose an end more glorious.
Haste to Lepanto. There the crescent shines
High o'er the cross; and Venice droops precarious.
Haste, haste; and perish in thy country's cause.

Rom.
(aside.)
I know not whether I'm on earth or air;
In cave or sea; in heaven or in hell.

Fra.
If man loves justice, Heaven respects it too.
We learn more wisdom in the agony
Of one short year, than in all former years
—Though years were ages—if those years are lapt
In the hard quarry of prosperity.
When feel we more true heritors of heaven,
Than when afflictions bend us to the earth,
Modest and awe-struck? Trust to heaven, and live.

Rom.
I stand like Niobe, in a vale of wrong;
Not dull, cold porphyry; but sensitive
As quivering magnet. Say—the justice? None.
Faults? twice ten thousand. Crime? as pure and clear of,
As the white petals of the myrtle, torn
From this grey cliff, and by soft zephyrs borne
No one knows whither. Let us scan one petal. [Takes one from the rock.

Gaze on its unmix'd purity. Not clearer—
I say, 'tis not more clear of spots, than I am.
Why, then, should I be martyr'd thus? Mysterious!

Fra.
Wormwood and upas, tempests and tornadoes;
Tigers and crocodiles, vampires and constrictors;
Blights, mildews, cankers; fevers, dropsy, frenzy;
All—have their uses in the plan, stupendous,
On which the universe is formed. Be sure,
When Fortune steeps a good man in Asphaltus,
'Tis but to medicate his soul for heaven.
If deep the depth, 'twere better—better, still,
The depth were deeper. Hear me, signor; hear.

Rom.
My Pylades; my Nestor; my Achates;
My Mentor and Telemachus! Were fate
Pregnant with every treasure of the world,
Moon, stars, or universe itself, it could,
In the lorn tempest of misfortune, give
No boon so rich, so sacred, as a friend. [Seizes the hand of Fracastro with great fervency; leads him to the bottom of the scene; and there stands, for a few moments, with his eyes turned toward heaven.

May th'all-holy Virgin bless thee! May
Succeeding ages honour thee! May Heaven,
When life has dwindled to the last, last, span,
Reward thy spirit with eternal rest!
I stand admonish'd: Life is no man's own,
To have, or not have, as his passions suit.
Thou dost not know,—and may'st thou never know,—
The secret tortures of a wounded spirit.
Not Philoctetes, in his desert isle;
Ixion, Sisyphus, or Tantalus;
Not e'en Prometheus, rivetted, with brain
Downward to earth, while green salt waves beneath
Gave hideous appetite to vultures, gorging
On his wrung entrails, ever felt such tortures,
As my heart suffers, when my soul reflects,
How many an upright honourable man,
How many a pure and spotless woman holds
My name,—once honour'd,—in disgust and horror.
The poisonous judgments of the base I spurn;
But before those—like yours, my sacred father!
Yours, my dear mother!—yes, like yours, like yours!
I bend in awful reverence. I'm admonish'd.
My judgment slumber'd: think of it no more:
And what thou here hast seen betray to no man living.

Fra.
Never—so help me grace!

Rom.
I'm awe-struck;—palsied.
Not two hours since, I had—again!—a vision.
I feel the agony of it still; and seem,
E'en now, as standing on some midnight watch-tower,
Fearing to fall. I heard a voice cry “Murder!”
“Rise, rise!” “Revenge!” “the scorpion is awake!”
“Arise!” “its sangs drop poison on thy lips!”
I'd rather die,—I would by Heaven!—I'd die,
Rather than thrill beneath another dream
So dread as that. For when I heard those words,
Methought some demon seized my frenzied hair,
Led me, all petrified, down a hanging steep,
And placed me, nerveless, underneath; when, lo!
I felt its waters, drop by drop, fall down
On this bare head; till madness seized my brain:
When, starting upward with the agony,
I called Francesca, and I thought she heard.
On which I rush'd to yon projecting point;
And there stood trembling;—but the rest you know.
I say, I would not—such another dream—
Oh earth, oh grave!—ye were a paradise,
For living nerves, to what my soul did suffer!

Fra.
(aside.)
I must divert him from this sorrow Mark,
Mark, how the moon-beams gild those clouds of jet.
Now roll the volumes in dark masses; now
Venus glows brilliantly; while, towering high,
Orion stretches wide athwart the concave sky.

Rom.
(aside.)
A palm, an almond,—nay a bramble,—stript
Of bud, foliage, fruit; blossom, bark, nay root.
My voice,—'tis shatter'd:—scarce resembling man's:
Like the hoarse twanging of a bow-string; or
A wizard echo from a ruin'd temple.

Fra.
Wilt thou not look? Behold yon glorious scene.

Rom.
'Tis glorious.

Fra.
Did you see it, you would think so.

Rom.
(aside.)
In the clear morning of our lives, when hope
Gilds every circumstance, and life breathes joy,
Sorrow has charms; and melancholy gems,
With drops sublime, the lids of pensive pleasure.
But in life's autumn, like the searching blast,
That o'er the heath the friendless thistle scatters
Hither and thither; it distracts the soul,
And steeps our manhood in the mist of age.

Fra.
See, sir; behold, Vesuvius appears;
Like unto Atlas, Athos, or Olympus;
Huge as a planet:—while, around his head,
Clouds in illuminated fleeces roll,
Like to the fourfold satellites of Jove;
Orb within orb; eclipsing and eclipsed;
Imparting grandeur e'en to heaven itself.

Rom.
Magnificent! oh Nature!—how my heart
Dissolves and thrills, impreign'd with admiration,
When, as I contemplate thy miracles,
I think on death, and woo the distant skies.

Fra.
A flash! another! and another! See,
See, sir; how quickly Nature shifts her forms.
'Tis thus with fortune; gloomy, gay, tumultuous;
Warfare and peace; despair and hope;—a scene
For ever changing, yet for ever constant.

Rom.
(calls.)
Sardo!—He sleeps:—could I but sleep as well,
I'd traverse Syria, and the sultry Ind,
The swarthy Congo, and the solitudes,
—Vast and horrific,—of the parched Sahara.
Lightning again! The echoing thunder roars
Harsh music to harsh bosoms; but to me
A soft, mysterious, melancholy, music.
Ah, Griffen-Grooven! thou 'rt alarm'd I see.
This prophesies a tempest, such as reigns,
Even amid these Apennines, but seldom.
There was a time,—how wild the volumes roll,
Echoing from one deep valley to another;
Now dying in faint murmurs.—Hush'd the scene!

Fra.
So die the tumults of an injured spirit,
When time has lull'd each passion into peace.

Rom.
Mine will ne'er rest, till death dissolves the scene.
When the loud thunder shakes the midnight waste,
O'er vast savannahs of mimosa, near
The reeds of Niger, Gambia, or the Zad;
In his dark hut, the sable savage hears
Th'horrific tumult. Trembling to the sod
Breathless he clings; so I—alas!—I need not
Dwell on the picture:—you're a poet;—you
Can trace a likeness, where the world sees none.
But who are those, that rush, all terrified,
Athwart those ruins?

Fra.
They approach. Good Heaven!
Was ever lightning e'er beheld like this? [A thunderbolt strikes the keep of the Castle, and several fragments fall into the moat below.
[Lorenzo and Lavinia rush from behind; and seeing Romano, &c. stand, for some moments, lost in amazement.

Are we on earth? or stand we in the clouds?
I know not which. All faculty is lost,
In contemplation of a scene so awful.
You, who stand, petrified, entranced; are ye
Of this dull earth? or do these eyes behold
Spirits of air?

Lor.
We ask the same of you.

Rom.
Then ye are mortal. Marco, Sardo, wake!
The world in ruins, and ye hear it not. [Sardo, Marco, &c. &c. start up.

Who art thou, sir? and who this trembling maid?
Are ye from Naples? (aside.)
Let them answer, “No.”

Lav.
We are from Naples; and I hope that name—

Rom.
(aside.)
My oath sits heavy on my heart!—
Thy name!

Lav.
Lavinia, sir.

Lor.
(aside.)
Nay, fear not. Speak:—thy voice
Would draw a tear from Hercules:—speak on.

Lav.
We ask thee nothing, sir, but leave to sit
Beneath these arches, till the storm has spent
The wildest of its fury. This is all
The boon we ask. Support me, or I fall.

Lor.
Lean on this arm, my sweet Lavinia.—Sir,
The maid is sinking with fatigue and fear.

Rom.
(aside.)
Francesca fainted in the arms of Death!
Nothing to me but fury and rack-wheels.
No hope; no justice; neither help, nor pity.
Yet, if he meet one question, as he ought—
There was a nobleman of Venice, who
Once lived at Naples; and his name, Romano.
Where is he now?

Lor.
I know not.

Rom.
Didst thou know him?

Lor.
Not in his person; but in fame—too well.

Rom.
(to Fracastro.)
Did you mark that? I would the earth were naphtha!
Know you the secret of his history?

Lor.
Well.

Rom.
Wouldst thou impart it?

Lor.
Versions of his deeds—

Rom.
Versions are numerous of his deeds, no doubt.
Sit on this column, lady:—thou art weary.
Versions are numerous of every deed,
Good, bad, great, little; known and unknown; thou
Wilt tell the truth. I love the truth, good signor.

Lor.
Not more than I do.

Rom.
Then thou art a wonder.
Lady, permit a chamois-hunter, rough,
Wild as the stag, and graceless as the hawk,
To sit beside thee. It is long since I
Sojourn'd in palaces, 'mid busts and statues,
Torsos, and ensigns of heroic deeds.
'Tis long, too, since I sate in gothic hall,
With lords and ladies, all return'd from chase,
Listening till morn, to hear some minstrel tune
Crusaders' fortunes to his flowing harp.
Nature, for many a long, long, tedious year,
Has form'd my canopy.

Fra.
And he, who once,
Reclined on couch of purple, watch'd the tints
Of day's last scene, while sea-girt Venice rung
With the wild song of happy gondolier:
He, who once sat—all sympathy—'mid the tombs
Of Rome's proud reign, to which the evening star
Gave life and grace and lustre: he,—
Who slept on down, and drank nectarian cream,
Now sleeps on rocks, and quaffs the mountain stream.

Rom.
Pardon, then, lady, if I fail in grace,
And all that renders social life a garden,
Flowing with honey. (To Fracastro.)
Am I fit? nay, tell me—
Say—am I fit to hear a history, fraught
With truth and untruth? I am not. I loathe
To hear my name, mine honest name, abused.
I've drain'd the cup of sorrow to the bottom.
Alas the time! Be curious, and listen.
Let not one solitary word escape
The precincts of thine auricle. Begin.

Lor.
He woo'd a royal virgin to his bed.

Rom.
No lack of fortune, then? no lack of rank?

Lor.
Rich, noble, liberal, and approved: and yet,
The midnight murderer of the wife that loved him.

Rom.
That is a compound, which the world ne'er dreamt of.

Lor.
Rich, noble, liberal, and yet—an assassin!

Rom.
(starting up.)
It is impossible, I say.

Fra.
(to Romano.)
These words,
These looks and gestures, will betray thee, signor.

Rom.
When the soul's rack'd, there's no discretion.—Thanks.
The world is all mine enemy:—Thou knowest it.
Untouch'd, unsullied, I was once a man;
Not in the form and symmetry alone,
But in the honest sanctuary of the heart.
This cursed charge!—Mine ears are all obedience.

Lor.
A few short years—(a child had graced their union)—
Some vile, insidious devil, in his malice,
Whisper'd Romano, that his wife had sent
Three several tokens to Schidoni.

Rom.
(to Fracastro.)
Never!

Fra.
Yet if you wish to hear a tale, unvarnish'd,
Clear in the mirror of its own report,
'Twere best to listen patiently.

Rom.
I will.
That is, if possible. The saw draws blood
At every stroke:—no weeping. I disdain
Tales, that appear improbable and vain.
Once more permit me, lady,—to be seated.

Lor.
If I speak false, correct me. If you know
This history well, why ask me to relate it?

Rom.

Lor.
You've put me out. I know not where I was.

Rom.
You said, Schidoni had received some tokens—

Lor.
Soon after that, Romano gave a banquet,
And many a noble slept within his palace;
'Mongst whom was Signor Angelo, my father.

Rom.
(aside.)
Curious and strange! I well remember him.
He was thy father, was he?

Fra.
(whispering.)
Signor—signor!

Rom.
I knew Romano; and I loved him—therefore—

Lor.
Loved him or not; you ask the truth:—I tell it.
If aught there shall be of offence in that,
Say so:—I cease. At dead of night, as all—

Rom.
He had a child, I think, you said:—still living?

Lor.
The child was miss'd, and has not since been heard of.

Rom.
(aside.)
I am the most, most hapless man that lives!
Go on;—I shall not interrupt again.

Lor.
At dead of night, as all asleep they lay,
Romano stole into the armoury.
Such is the tale; and such is my belief.

[Romano turns from Lorenzo; and moves behind one of the columns, where he stands, unseen by any one, except Fracastro, a few

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moments; caressing his hawk with one hand, and striking his breast, in great agony, with the other.
Fra.
The hawk's entangled. He'll return this moment.
Go on;—he'll hear.

Lor.
As all asleep they lay,
Romano stole into the armoury.
Schidoni saw him. For, on that sad night,
The villain slept,—by artful invitation—

Rom.
Oh, then, you will confess he was a villain?

Lor.
Confess! There never lived a greater; never:
If we except the man of whom we're speaking.

Rom.
(to Fracastro.)
Take thou this dagger:—he afflicts me sorely.
Take it; or else I may disgrace myself.
Now, sir—

Lor.
Upon that memorable night,
Schidoni slept beneath Romano's roof.
He sat up later than his host; and as
He pass'd along the corridor to his chamber,
He saw a shadow on the wall.

Rom.
Saw what?

Lor.
Romano's shadow.

Rom.
(aside.)
Matchless!—matchless!—matchless!
Dost thou believe all this?

Lor.
Why not?

Rom.
Go on.

Lep.
(to Fracastro.)
He smiles! I never saw a smile—

Fra.
A tear
Were bliss—nay rapture—to a smile like that.

Rom.
He saw Romano's shadow on the wall—

Lor.
Then he beheld him stealing to the chamber,
Where his wife lay; as if, distrusting silence,
He fear'd his shadow should betray, and act
As a sure evidence of the horrid deed,
His thought had compass'd; and, 'fore all the world,
Stamp him the model of a fiend.

Rom.
Romano?

Lor.
Ay;—e'en Romano:—once pronounced the best,
Bravest, and noblest of the sons of Venice.

Fra.
Oft have I heard my mother say so, too.

Rom.
May the great gods deliver me! Thy mother?
The grave's a palace, when the soul's a dungeon.
She died,—for which I thank the gods above!—
She died, unconscious of her brother's wrong.

Fra.
(aside.)
My soul weeps balm to hear him speak so fondly
Of my poor mother.

Rom.
Well—the shadow! Nay—

Lor.
He saw him shut the chamber door; and then—

Rom.
What then? Be brief.—He racks my soul!
What then?

Lor.
Loud shrieks of murder echoed through the palace.
The guests all rush'd upon the corridor:
Alarm and horror in each face.

Rom.
The sequel?
(Aside.)
That is, if rage permit my soul to listen.

Lor.
The guests all rush'd upon the corridor;
Where, like a statue, they beheld Romano,
Holding a bleeding dagger in his hand:
That fatal dagger, which had pierced the breast
Of one, who loved him as her life. With eyes
Instinct with fury, and with voice scarce human,
“Where is the fiend, the matchless fiend, Schidoni?”
Rung and re-echoed through the palace. Lost,
Frantic with guilt, at length he saw him. Fierce,
Fierce as a Caffre in the burning zone
Of ebon Afric, when a hideous asp,
As he lies panting in the sultry shade,
Has pierced his veins; and poison'd blood descends
Down from his temples to his matted loins,
In many an agonizing stream;—Romano,
Fierce as the Caffre, sprang upon Schidoni,
Dragg'd him, all breathless, to the fatal chamber;
And, in the presence of the bleeding body,
Laid the foul charge of murder upon him.

Rom.
(aside.)
Ye mighty powers! I hope ye listen. Well—

Lor.
Lost in amazement at the frightful scene,
My father rush'd to wrong'd Schidoni's aid,
Wrested the dagger from Romano's hand,
And, with the aid of others, who were present,
Gave him, all reeking with his wife's warm blood,
Mix'd with large drops of agonizing sweat,
Which burst, all copious, from his breast and forehead,
Into the hands of th'officers of justice.

Rom.
Seize him, I charge ye! Bind him fast. He is
Of that proud, worthless, miserable, harlot,
Naples the curst. All mercy, therefore, dies,
Pity and hope, and every humane feeling.

Lav.
What has he done? what utter'd to offend?
He has said nothing but the sacred truth;
And that, too, at thine own express'd command.

Rom.
Art thou, too, turn'd accuser? Thou—a woman!

Lav.
What, in the name of fortune, canst thou mean?

Rom.
Mean? Said he not, I stabb'd my wife? Deny it?
Said he not that? deny ye that?—He said it.
I'd stake my life upon the word. Fracastro,
Did he not say, I slew my wife? You know it.

Lor.
Not so.—I said—

Lav.
He said, Romano did it.

Rom.
Well—who is he?

Lav.
Who is he?

Rom.
Ay;—who is he?
Who—but the man before thee?

Lor. and Lav.
Thou—Romano?

Rom.
I;—I;—the outcast; the condemn'd, scorn'd, outcast:
The fugitive, the murderer;—the fiend,
Let loose from hell to assassinate an angel.
Yes—I'm Romano; and I love the name;
Although 'tis hiss'd and hooted at in Naples.
Oh the vile race—how I abhor them!—Gods!
I have no language to describe the horror,
With which my soul regards them. Past all speech:
Past all conception. Had they heard my tale,
And through blind error judged me guilty; then,
Although most cruelly, and most fatally, wrong'd;
Then, then, indeed, I had respected, pardon'd;
And, in the anguish of affliction, wept
O'er human judgments. As it is, may earth—
May earthquakes, wars, both foreign and domestic,
Famine and pestilence, visit them for ages!
Haste;—do your duty;—I have said;—it shall be.

[Strikes the earth with great violence.
Lor.
Lions, and pards, and caracals, I've heard of;
Tigers and serpents; but I never yet
Heard of a man, who—

Rom.
Out! The furies! What—
What cares Romān, what you, or any one,
Hears, or has heard? He is a man so wrong'd,
He cares for none;—an empire to himself!
That is my answer; and let that short word
Suffice for thee, for Naples, and for all men.
You!—had not your officious, credulous, father
Rescued the dagger from my grasp, Schidoni,
He,—the villain,—he, the fiend,—Schidoni,
Had lain, all crimson, at my spurning feet.
Marco, come hither.

[Whispers.
Marco
(to Sardo, &c.)
Pray be silent: who
Can hear instructions, if ye murmur thus?
Once more, good signor.—It is done: it shall be.
(To Lorenzo.)
You must with me, sir: ay, indeed you must.
Nay, sir, 'tis vain:—too many for your strength.
You must with us; the signor wills it so.

Lav.
They shall not part us; we will die together.

Rom.
Take the maid hence: I war not with a woman.

Fra.
(to Lavinia.)
No power shall harm thee, as I hope for grace.
I shall defend thee. Come, fair lady; fear not.

[Exeunt.
Rom.
(solus.)
Oh that the father of you boundless deep
Would wrap his spirit in some sea-girt cliff,
Round which the winds, waves, lightnings, and tornadoes,
Might, in fierce chaos, tyrannize for ages!
What sounds are these? a mutiny! Durate.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Corridor of the Castle.
Enter Marco and Sardo, leading Lorenzo, who struggles violently; Fracastro supporting Lavinia; Cerello, and others, following reluctantly. Exeunt.
Enter Romano; gazing anxiously after them.
Rom.
There was a time my soul had shrunk from this,
Like the grey Nylgau of the Caucasus,
Under the strength and hunger of the leopard.
Now,—the unutterable anguish!—now
Storms lose their power, and lightnings all their force.
Soul of my being, what is this? Francesca?
Angel of love! I kneel to hear thine errand.
See, see;—mid yon magnificent expanse,
Like a wing'd spirit, she ascends; while I,
Chain'd to this congregated mass of dust,
Live without life, and breathe as one condemn'd
To every torture, that the soul can bear.
And what beyond can I presume, or hope for?
Till I am purged of that dark crime, which sits,
In awful judgment, on my heart.—T'intrude
My angry passions, my impatient darkness,
Oh most presumptuous! on the God, that made me;
Who gave me rank amid the vast creation,
Hopes to indulge, and duties to fulfil;
Who gave me reason for a guide, and curb,
Over my passions; and who deign'd to use
Me, me,—unworthy as I am!—to work
Some visible portion of his high designs.
—Designs, the final purposes of which
I can distinguish, fathom, or imagine,
No more than petrels, skimming 'twixt two surges,
Can span the width, or sound the depth sublime,
Of the vast ocean, that they glide upon.
Oh monstrous, ignorant, insolent, presumption!
Down on this earth I cast myself. Come, Death,
Come,—thou terrific herald of the grave,—
With all thy mighty multitude of horrors,
Come, and reduce me into nought. Since I
Feel all unworthy of the dust I lie on;
I must be more so of eternal life. [Thunder heard in the remote distance.

The storm still lingers, and the lightning flies.
Would it return, and melt me into nothing!
Annihilation were a boon most strongly,
Nay, e'en most wisely, to be wish'd and pray'd for.
Lie down, tired head, upon this mossy stone;
Close fast, mine eyes, and never wake again;
Rest, rest, my soul, and trouble me no more.

Enter Fracastro.
Fra.
As a lone shepherd, who, on Alpine heights,
Has, from on high, beheld the lightning strike
A bark, deep labouring in the gulf below,
Drives his flock homeward down the craggy steep,
And thanks the fates, his wife and chields are housed,
And comfort reigning round his humble hearth.
So mid the ruins, that around us lie,
We gather wisdom from another's woe,
And read a blessing in our own pure strength.
Could I but give some portion of that strength,
By whispering comfort to his care-worn heart,
I were musician equal to Marsyas.

[Strikes the chords of his lyre.
Rom.
Music brings memory, misery, and madness!

Fra.
(Penseroso).
Enter Lavinia, in a wild and distracted manner.
(Con spirito)
[Thunder rolls with great violence; and the waters are heard rushing from the mountains.

[Exit Lavinia.
[Marco, Sardo, &c. &c. rush in from all quarters of the scene.
Rom.
(rising.)
The moon's eclipsed! Behold her glowing front
Bronzed to an Ethiop with affright and horror.
These sounds must surely wake the slumbering dead.
A storm more awful, never rocked the earth!
Retire;—all nature, in convulsion, seems
Bewilder'd, terrified, and paralyzed.
Death, warfare, ruin, and eternal chaos,
Govern all space. (To Fracastro.)
A deadly nightmare sits
Over my soul, more terrible than death!
T'intrude my passions, my impatient passions—
Hence, hence, retire; and let the tempest fall
On my head sole; my long-devoted head;
Till death itself shall strike, and stop the pulse from beating. [Exeunt Sardo, &c. &c.

Lo—in the vale, below yon crested crags,
Bosom'd in silence, far remote from strife,
The solemn arches of Salvator's cloisters
Rise o'er the darkness; lighting up for matins.
There peace, there faith, there hope, there charity,
Blossom with ever-during love; and there,
Perchance, some grace may vegetate for me.
Guide me, ye lightnings, like some watch-tow'r, hung
To light the midnight vessel on its way,
When winds and waves contend with hideous roar,
Which shall be sovereign of the watry waste.

[Exit.
Fra.
Gone? like an arrow. Sardo! Marco! hither. [They enter.

Let us go watch: He has outlived all prudence.

[Exeunt.
[Thunder heard raging with great violence among the mountains; and then gradually dying away in the distance.