SCENE I.
A grove adjoining to a castellated building, part of
which only is seen. Several people are discovered
near the window of one of its towers who begin to
sing as the curtain draws up.
Song of several voices.
Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour;
Long have the rooks caw'd round thy tower;
On flower and tree, loud hums the bee;
The wilding kid sports merrily:
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Shineth when good fortune's near.
Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air;
The lulling stream, that sooth'd thy dream,
Is dancing in the sunny beam:
And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,
Will waft good fortune on its way.
Up! time will tell; the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone;
The active day, so boon and bright,
May bring good fortune ere the night.
Enter Page.
Page.
Leave off your morning songs, they come too late;
My lady hath been up these two good hours,
And hath no heart to listen to your lays!
You should have cheer'd her sooner.
1st sing.
Her nightly vigils make the evening morn.
And thus we reckon'd time.
Page.
Well, go ye now;
Another day she'll hear your carols out.
[
Exeunt page and singers severally, by the
bottom of the stage, while
Ulrick
and
Terentia
enter by the front, speaking as they
enter.
Ul.
Thou pleadst in vain: this night shall be the last.
Ter.
Have patience, noble Ulrick; be assur'd,
Hope, lacking nourishment, if left alone,
Comes to a natural end. Then let Aurora,
Night after night, upon the lofty cliff,
Her beacon watch: despondency, ere long,
Will steal upon the sad unvaried task.
Ul.
Sad and unvaried! Ay; to sober minds
So doth it seem indeed. I've seen a child,
Day after day, to his dead hedgeling bring
The wonted mess, prepared against its waking,
'Till from its putrid breast each feather dropt:
Or on the edge of a clear stream hold out
His rod and baitless line from morn till noon,
Eyeing the spotted trout, that past his snare
A thousand times hath glided, till by force
His angry dame hath dragg'd him from his station.
Hope is of such a tough continuous nature,
That, waiting thus its natural end, my life
Shall to a close wear sadly. Patience, sayst thou!
I have too long been patient.
Ter.
Then be it known to thee, despondency
Already steals upon her; for she sits not
So oft as she was wont upon the beach,
But in her chamber keeps in sombre silence;
And when the night is come, less eagerly
She now inquires if yet the beacon's light
Peer down the woody pass, that to the cliff
Nightly conducts her toilsome steps. I guess,
Soon of her own accord she'll watch no more.
Ul.
No, thou unwisely guessest. By that flame
I do believe some spirit of the night
Comes to her mystic call, and soothes her ear
With whisper'd prophecies of good to come.
Ter.
In truth, my lord, you do yourself talk strangely.
These are wild thoughts.
Ul.
Nay, be thou well assur'd,
Spell-bound she is: night hath become her day;
On all wild songs, and sounds, and ominous things
(Shunning the sober intercourse of friends
Such as affliction courts), her ear and fancy
Do solely dwell. This visionary state
Is foster'd by these nightly watchings; therefore,
I say again, I will no more endure it;
This night shall be the last.
Ter.
That Ermingard upon the plains of Palestine
Fell on that fatal day, what sober mind
Can truly doubt; although his corpse, defaced,
Or hid by other slain, was ne'er discover'd.
For well I am assured, had he survived it,
Knowing thou wert his rival, and Aurora
Left in this isle, where thou bearst sov'reign sway,
He, with a lover's speed, had hasten'd back.
All, whom the havoc of the battle spared,
Have to their homes return'd.—Thou shak'st thy head,
Thou dost not doubt?
Ul.
We'll speak of this no more.
I'm sick and weary of these calculations.
We must and will consider him as dead;
And let Aurora know—
Enter
Bastiani.
(
To
Bast.
angrily.)
Why, Bastiani,
Intrud'st thou thus, regardless of my state:
These petty cares are grown most irksome to me;
I cannot hear thee now.
Bast.
Indeed, my lord, it is no petty care
Compels me to intrude. Within your port
A vessel from the Holy Land has moor'd.
Ul.
(
starting).
Warriors from Palestine?
Bast.
No, good my lord!
The holy legate on his way to Rome;
Who by late tempests driven on our coasts,
Means here his shatter'd pinnace to refit,
And give refreshment to his weary train.
Ul.
In evil hour he comes to lord it here.
Bast.
He doth appear a meek and peaceful man.
Ul.
'Tis seeming all. I would with mailed foes
Far rather in th' embattled plain contend,
Than strive with such my peaceful town within.
Already landed, sayst thou?
Bast.
Yes, from the beach their grave procession comes.
Between our gazing sight and the bright deep
That glows behind them in the western sun,
Crosses and spears and croziers show aloft
Their darken'd spikes, in most distinct confusion;
While grey-cowl'd monks, and purple-stoled priests,
And crested chiefs, a closing group below,
Motley and garish, yet right solemn too,
Move slowly on.—
Ul.
Then must I haste to meet them.
Bast.
Or be most strangely wanting in respect.
For every street and alley of your city
Its eager swarm pours forth to gaze upon them:
The very sick and dying, whose wan forms
No more did think to meet the breath of heaven,
Creep to their doors, and stretch their wither'd arms
To catch a benediction. Blushing maids,
Made bold by inward sense of sanctity,
Come forth with threaded rosaries in their hands
To have them by the holy prelate bless'd;
And mothers hold their wond'ring infants up,
That touch of passing cowl or sacred robe
May bring them good. And in fair truth, my lord,
Among the crowd the rev'rend legate seems
Like a right noble and right gentle parent,
Cheering a helpless race.
Ul.
Ay, 'tis right plain thou art besotted too.
Were he less gentle I should fear him less.
[
Exit.
Bast.
He's in a blessed mood: what so disturbs him?
Ter.
What has disturb'd him long, as well thou knowest:
Aurora's persevering fond belief
That her beloved Ermingard still lives,
And will return again. To guide his bark
Upon our dang'rous coast, she nightly kindles
Her watch-fire, sitting by the lonely flame;
For so she promis'd, when he parted from her,
To watch for his return.
Bast.
Ulrick in wisdom should have married them
Before he went, for then the chance had been
She had not watch'd so long.
Your widow is a thing of more docility
Than your lorn maiden.—Pardon, fair Terentia.
Ter.
Thy tongue wags freely. Yet I must confess,
Had Ulrick done what thou callst wisely, he
The very thing had done which as her kinsman
He was in duty bound to. But, alas!
A wayward passion warp'd him from the right,
And made him use his power ungen'rously
Their union to prevent.
Bast.
But though the death of Ermingard were prov'd,
Thinkst thou Aurora would bestow her hand
On one who has so long her wishes cross'd,
A lover cloth'd in stern authority?
Ter.
I know not; Ulrick fondly so believes;
And I, although allied to him by blood,
The playmate also of his early days,
Dare not an opposite opinion utter.
Bast.
Hark there! I hear without th' approaching crowd.
My duty on this public ceremony
I must attend, for honour of the state.
In petty courts like this, on such occasions,
One spangled doublet more or less bears count.
[
Exeunt severally.
