University of Virginia Library

1. Part the first.

LUDOVICO SFORZA.

SCENE I.

—A Street.
Duke of Milan. Ludovico Sforza.
DUKE.
And this proud lady, was she chaste as fair?

SFORZA.
Pure as the flame that burnt on Dian's altar,
And lovely as the morning. Oh! she shone
Like one of those bright shapes of fabling Greece,
(Born of the elements,) which, as men tell,
Wooed mortals to their arms. A form more beautiful,
Houri or child o' the air, ne'er glanced upon
A poet's dream, nor in Arabian story
Gave promise of their vaunted paradise.
Then, her voice was sweet
And tuned to music, bearing with it a charm,
Like numbers floating from the breathed flute,
Caught afar off,—and which the idle winds
Of June, through wantonness at evening, fling
O'er banks and beds of flowers.

DUKE.
And she is dead?

[Isabella appears at a window.
SFORZA.
Dead, dead! No; what is this? quick, tell me, sir.
Yon vision?

DUKE.
Uncle, look upon her,—there.

SFORZA.
I see: the grave gives up its habitant.
It is herself,—her shadow. Can the eye
Resume its lustre, after death has drawn
His filmy veil around it? Look!

DUKE.
My lord?

SFORZA.
She's vanished.

[Isabella leaves the window.
DUKE.
'Tis Isabella, sir; my bride.

SFORZA.
Your bride?
She's very fair. I have seen the face before;
Dreamed of it—somewhere: where? I know not where.
I'll dream no more, but think; and act,—perhaps.

Enter Isabella attended; Piero de Medici, and others.
DUKE.
My Isabella! you have rested well,
After your journey? well? Fatigue seems loth
To harm you; and your eyes are spared, I see,
For many a Milan conquest.

ISABELLA.
There's but one
My duty bids me look to.

DUKE.
And your heart?

ISABELLA.
And—and my heart.

DUKE.
Come hither! a few words—

[They talk aside.
DE MEDICI.
My lord, my lord!

SFORZA.
Ha! my De Medici! welcome.

DE MEDICI.
Thanks, dear Sforza;
Are you so wrapped in dreams you miss your friends?

SFORZA.
No, 'tis my nephew, in a fairy dream,
Forgets me.

DUKE.
My dear uncle, pardon, pardon.
This is my guardian, dearest Isabel:
My father, I should say: I pray you love him.

SFORZA.
Ludovico Sforza, lady, and your knight;
If you will own so poor a one.

ISABELLA.
Thanks, sir.

DUKE.
Look! Those are the Alps, my love.

SFORZA.
Ay; turn your eyes
Here, madam. Look! methinks their snowy crowns
Shine radiantly as they had seen the sun.

DUKE.
The very hills give welcome to my love;
And everything seems happy now, but most
The heart of Milan.

ISABELLA.
You will spoil me, sir.

SFORZA.
This day looks like
The holiday of Nature, madam, and you
The queen of't.

ISABELLA.
Pray, no more.

DUKE.
No more then. Come!
The heat will mar you: let us seek the shade.

SFORZA.
I'll follow.
[Exeunt.
She's gone—and it is night. What! shall I in age
Sink into folly? and this puny boy
To cheat his tutor! It may please him now
To reign in Milan: no, no, that's my care.
Oh! what an eye she has: It is not likely
She will live quiet here: her look forbids it.
She will be Duke: And I— Now had I been
The same Ludovico Sforza who did win,
Some twenty years ago, the prize at Florence,
Perhaps she might have loved me. Love?—that I
Might conquer; or my ambition. Ah, but here
Both spur me on: my path is traced,—but where?
That's hid in the mist of time. I'll think upon't.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—A Room, with a Banquet.
[A year has passed.]
ISABELLA.
Time lags, and slights his duty. I remember
The days when he would fly. How sweet they were!
Then I rebuked his speed, and now—and now
I drench his wing with tears. How heavily
The minutes pass! Can he avoid me? No.
I hear a step come sounding through the hall.
It is the murderer, Sforza. Now, my heart!
Rise up in thy full strength, and do the act
Of justice bravely. So, he's here.

Enter Sforza.
SFORZA.
My love!
O my delight, my deity! I am come
To thank you for being gracious. I am late?

ISABELLA.
No: in the best of times, sir.

SFORZA.
Yet you look
Not gay, my Isabella. Nought has happened
To shake your promise?

ISABELLA.
Be assured of that.
Doubt not, nor chide, my lord. My heart, you know,
Falls faint at times. To-night I'll do my best
To entertain you as you merit.

SFORZA.
Better, I hope, my Isabel.

ISABELLA.
Your grace
May challenge any thing; from me the most.
Although a widow, not divested quite
Of all her sorrows, I am here to smile
Like tearful April on you: but you'll grow
To vanity, sir, unless some stop be put
To your amorous conquests. I must do't.

SFORZA.
You shall,
You shall, my Isabella.

ISABELLA.
Sir, I will.
You shall be wholly mine, till—death shall part us.
I have been full of miseries: they have swelled
My heart to bursting. You shall soothe me.

SFORZA.
How?

ISABELLA.
We'll find a way: nay, not so free, my lord;
I must be won with words, (though hollow;) smiles,
And vows, (although you mean them not,) kind looks
And excellent flattery. Come, my lord, what say you?
I'm all impatience.

SFORZA.
Oh! what can I say?
Thou art so lovely, that all words must fail.
They of whom poets sing men say were shadows;
Thus will they swear of thee.

ISABELLA.
Alas! my lord,
I have no laureate here to lie in rhyme;
So must remain unsung.

SFORZA.
But I will have
Your name recorded in the sweetest verse;
And sculptors shall do honour to themselves
And their delicious art by fashioning thee;
And painters shall devise for us a story,
Where thou and I, love, shall be seen reclining,
Thou on my arm—

ISABELLA.
A happy thought!

SFORZA.
And in
The guise of the throned Juno; I as Jove,
In his diviner moments, languishing
Beneath thy look.

ISABELLA.
She was a shrew, my lord,
That queen o' the heavens, and I—

SFORZA.
Then thou shalt be drawn
Like her who, in old inimitable tales,
Was pictured gathering flowers in Sicily,
And raised to Pluto's throne: methinks she was
A beautiful prophecy of thee; and there
Mountains shall rise, and grassy valleys lie
Asleep i' the sun, and blue Sicilian streams
Shall wander, and green woods, (just touched with light,)
Shall yield their foreheads to some western wind
And bend to bright Apollo as he comes
Smiling from out the east. What more? Why you
Shall kneel and pluck the flowers, and look aside
Hearkening for me; and—I will be there, (a god,)
Rushing tow'rds thee, my sweet Proserpina.

ISABELLA.
An ugly story!

SFORZA.
How, sweet?

ISABELLA.
You would take me
To—Hell then? but forgive me: I am ill;
Distract at times: we'll now forget it all.
Come, you will taste my poor repast?

SFORZA.
Oh, surely.

ISABELLA.
We'll be alone.

SFORZA.
'Tis better. Yet I have
[They feast.
No relish for common viands. Shall I drink
To thee, my queen?

ISABELLA.
To me, sir. This (look on't)
Is a curious wine; and like those precious drops
Sought by philosophers, (the life elixir,)
Will make you immortal.

SFORZA.
Give it me, my love.
May you ne'er know an hour of sorrow.

ISABELLA.
Ha!
Stay, stay: soft, put it down.

SFORZA.
Why, how is this?

ISABELLA.
Would—would you drink without me? Shame upon you!
Look at this fruit: a sea-worn captain, one
Who had sailed all 'round the world, brought it for me
From the Indian isles; the natives there, men say,
Worship it. This.

SFORZA.
It has a luscious taste.
My nephew, when he lived, loved such a fruit.

ISABELLA.
Thanks, spirits of vengeance!
[Aside.
Now you shall taste the immortal wine, my lord,
And drink a health to Cupid.

SFORZA.
Cupid, then.
He was a cunning god: he dimmed men's eyes,
'Tis prettily said i' the fable. But my eyes
(Yet how I love!) are clear as though I were
A stoic. Ah!

ISABELLA.
What ails my lord?

SFORZA.
The wine is cold.

ISABELLA.
You'll find it warmer, shortly.
It is its nature, as I'm told, to heat
The heart. My lord, I read but yesterday
Of an old man, a Grecian poet, who
Devoted all his life to wine, and died
O' the grape. Methinks 'twas just.

SFORZA.
'Twas so. This wine—

ISABELLA.
And stories have been told of men whose lives
Were infamous, and so their end. I mean
That the red murderer has himself been murdered;
The traitor struck with treason: He who let
The orphan perish, came himself to want:
Thus justice and great God have ordered it!
So that the scene of evil has been turned
Against the actor; pain paid back with pain;
And—poison given for poison.

SFORZA.
O my heart!

ISABELLA.
Is the wine still so cold, sir?

SFORZA.
I am burning.
Some water: I burn with thirst. Oh! what is this?

ISABELLA.
You're pale: I'll call for help. Here!

Servants enter.
ISABELLA.
Bind that man
To his seat.

SFORZA.
Ah! traitress.

ISABELLA.
Leave us now,—alone.
[Servants exeunt.
My lord! I'll not deceive you: you have drank
Your last draught in this world.

SFORZA.
My heart, my heart!
Traitress! I faint—faint: ah!

ISABELLA.
I would have done
Some act of justice in a milder shape:
But it could not be. I felt that you must die;
For my sake, for my boy, for Milan. You
Murdered my lord husband. Stare not thus:
'Tis melancholy truth. You have usurped
The first place in the dukedom; have swept down
My child's rights to the dust. What say you, sir?
Do you impeach my story? While you've time,
Give answer.
[He dies.
You are silent? then, are you
Condemned for ever. I could grieve, almost,
To see his ghastly stare. His eye is vague;
Is motionless. How like those shapes he grows,
That sit in stony whiteness over tombs,
Memorials of their cold inhabitants.
Speak! are you sunk to stone? What can you say
In your defence, sir? Turn your eyes away.
How dare you look at me, so steadily?
You shall be amorous no more. Must I
Rouse you? How idly his arms hang. Turn your eyes
Aside. I dare not touch him; yet I must.
Ha! he is dead—dead; slain by me! Great Heaven!
Forgive me; I'm a widow broken-hearted.
A mother too; 'twas for my child I struck.
Yon bloody man did press so hardly on us:
He would have torn my pretty bird from me:
I had but one: what could I do to save it?
There was no other way!

LYSANDER AND IONE.

Lysander. Ione.
(A Wood.)
LYSANDER.
Now, sit.

IONE.
Here?

LYSANDER.
Here:
The embroiderer, Moss, hath wrought you a golden seat.
Disdain her not, the yellow-tressed Moss;
For she is Nature's handmaid, decking aye
Her boddice with bright flowers; and when decay
Winters the rock or tree, her fringed gold
She leaves, to hide the poor thing's poverty.

IONE.
So, there: now kneel and worship.

LYSANDER.
I will; I do: Oh! Heavens of love, I do.
Deep worshipper am I for one so young;
But Love has taught me: he matured my thought;
And so beyond my years I worship you.
Stay; stir not, sweet. Sit here.

IONE.
'Tis a fair place.

LYSANDER.
Ay; Iris hath been here, beloved one.
The rich Spring's almoner is she, who scatters
Upon the grateful world her sweets and flowers.
Bountiful Spring! Is it not strange that men
Will scorn or shun her favours? will bar out
The beauty of the day and vernal airs,
And die in dreams of freedom?

IONE.
You would talk
(And I might listen) till we both forgot,
That I have cares which call me.

LYSANDER.
We will meet
To-morrow early. I will show you all
The secrets of our forest. Every dell
And every leafy nook and cave o'ergrown,
The rock, the river, and the Dryad's oak
We'll see to-morrow. What, if we surprise
A wood-nymph sleeping?

IONE.
This to me?

LYSANDER.
Why, ay;
For then I'll show you how the true heart meets
Beauty unheeding.

IONE.
No, no.

LYSANDER.
You will come.
And I will be your guard, and servant, both;
And, as we pierce the untrodden woods, I'll teach
How you may shun the briery paths and pass
The snake untouched; and we will hear the songs—
Ha! do you smile? why then you'll come.

IONE.
No.

LYSANDER.
Yes.

IONE.
Be not too sure, Lysander. Foolish boy!
To give your heart to me,—to me, poor youth,
A spirit of the waters!

LYSANDER.
You are more;
My queen, my goddess! Sole and peerless queen!
And I your most true subject.

IONE.
I am one
Of old king Nereus' daughters, gentlest boy.
My home lies low beneath the eternal seas.
My country (tho' I sometimes earthward stray)
Is where the mariner's plummet never fell;
Down in the fathomless deep: the wild waves there
Sound not, nor dare the watery creatures come
To gaze upon those calm and sacred sands.
Beyond your reach my home is.

LYSANDER.
Pretty story!

IONE.
Believe it, fond Lysander, and forget me.
But, come; as you have loved me long and well,
Have you not sung my name to all the stars,
And vowed mine eyes were far more bright than they?
A lover? he should tell the skies his love,
And make the air acquainted with his woe;
Should tell to budding morn, to lazy noon,
To waters where the unsunned Dian comes
Dipping her silver feet, all his chaste joy.
But you have done this?

LYSANDER.
Often, oft.

IONE.
Indeed!
How did you name me?

LYSANDER.
Sweet Ione! Fair
And beautiful Ione! fair and dear!
Too dear, because too cold, art thou to me.
Ione! list,—Ione! Pretty name!
Is it not yours?

IONE.
'Tis mine, and you shall sing
A forest song in its honour.

LYSANDER.
Listen, then, love; and with your white hand clear
Your marble forehead from its cloudy hair.
So, thus; your eye bent tow'rds me;
How brightly it burns upon me! Listen, sweet.
Yet, 'tis a melancholy song; confused;
Half dream and half despair. You will but smile at't?

IONE.
Sing on, sing on: I love a wild song. Sing!

LYSANDER.

IONE.
Enough, enough. Your fancy grows too wild:
Reason must tame it, else some sharp reproof.
And so you love me? Pshaw!

LYSANDER.
By all the gods!

IONE.
I'll not believe't: what! you? so young a boy?
'Twill be a pretty tale.

LYSANDER.
But who shall tell it?

IONE.
Why I, and all who hear us; for we are
Encompassed by the sylvan people here;
And not a foolish hope hast thou confessed,
But Echo in her hundred caves has caught
The sound, and told it to the wood-nymphs' ears,
Whence, shaped like whispers from the forest boughs,
(All which, true traitors, shake while they betray
Poor human secrets,) thy mad words are borne
To the great Pan.

LYSANDER.
And he? well, what of him?

IONE.
Oh! he loves all the nymphs who haunt his woods,
And when he finds they wander from their homes—

LYSANDER.
Fear him not; I am here, too sweet Jone!

IONE.
My gentle boy! And so, you love me.—well?

LYSANDER.
Ay, like the stars.

IONE.
Not as a lover—

LYSANDER.
Oh!
I love you like the beauty of the world,
The rose, the—

IONE.
Peace, and hear me, young Lysander.
Some maids, high born as I am, in past times,
(Thus, if no fable, pale (Enone did)
Gave their great hearts to mortals. Mark what followed:
The men they graced forgot them.

LYSANDER.
Shall I swear?

IONE.
What have you done to win a Nereid's love?
Dost know, youth, that the princes of the sea;
Faunus, and many a wood-god; shapes that haunt
The groves and mountains and the running streams,
Have wooed me—me—in vain?

LYSANDER.
Oh, I believe it.
'Tis certain they have done't; and I—even I
Have left my quiet home o'nights, to sing
Your soft sad name beside the noisy sea,
And hearken if in the watery tumult you
Whispered sweet answers. I have come hither, too,
At noon, at dusky eve, on darkest nights,
To seek you. I have let my unguarded sheep
Wander alone upon the mountains drear,
Have left my father (yet I love him well)
To weep my nightly absence; quitted all
Our village feasts and calm domestic meetings,
Here to resort and dream of the sweet Ione.

IONE.
Indeed, my love?

LYSANDER.
Again,—for dear love's sake!
For my sake; thus again.

IONE.
Why, then—my love!

LYSANDER.
Oh! my divine Ione! my heart's queen!
What shall I do to merit all this love?

IONE.
Be constant.

LYSANDER.
Ay, beyond fidelity.
I'll be more true
Than bright Apollo to the summer air,
Than larks to morn, or stars to cloudless eves,
Or sweets to the maiden May. Oh! fear me not.

IONE.
I will not, dear Lysander. You and I
Will haunt these woods together: you shall pass
The busy morning hours amongst the hills,
And tend your father's flock; I in my cave
Beneath the seas must linger out the day;
But ever at night I'll meet you, dear Lysander,
And when stern fate shall lift you to the stars,
I from the salt sea wave will take my flight,
(Great Jove will not reject a sea-maid's prayer)
And dwell with you for ever. Now, farewell.

LYSANDER.
One kiss from that red rose which hides your lip!
One kiss? O love! how sweet; how all too sweet!

IONE.
Peace, peace! Farewell.

LYSANDER.
Until to-morrow morn!

IONE.
Until to-morrow only, then, farewell!

JUAN.

SCENE— The Gardens belonging to a Spanish Castle.
Juan and a Boy.
JUAN.
The night grows foul and dark; and the thick air
Wakes pulses at my heart, which now should sleep.
Hark! the winds draw the curtains of the sky,
Like ministers to lust. Queen Dian, now,
Is with her paramour.

BOY.
Spoke you, my lord?

JUAN.
They'll rock her into slumber. She should watch:
For others may be busy while she sleeps,
And stain her fame with falsehood. The hot air
Weighs on my forehead. Break a lemon branch
And give't me, Lopez. So; how fresh! how cool!
(Tho' all its sweets are fled:) another—Thanks!
I'll bind them round my forehead. What time is't?

BOY.
Near midnight.

JUAN.
Wants it long?

BOY.
Some minutes; the last chimes have just now ceased.

JUAN.
They sounded sadly. Let me hear thee sing
A song; 'twill drive some blacker thoughts away.

BOY.
What sort of song? Shall it be tender? gay?

JUAN.
Let it be full of love, and foaming o'er;
But not a jot of kindness: burning passion;
No more: yes, headlong folly; flames that parch
And wither up the heart: fierce jealousy,
And horrid rage; and doubt and—dark despair!
Sing she you loved was false, and that you grew
Mad, and a murderer; anything.

BOY.
My lord!

JUAN.
Then you may say how she
Was beautiful as Sin, and that her eyes
Shone like the morning; that her arms were smooth,
And gracefully turned, and that her figure seemed
Shaped from the mould of Dian's. You then may tell
How her white bosom rose and sank, at times,
To the music of her passionate heart. But, no;
We'll have no music now; my soul's untuned,
And discord is the only element.
A wife?—When went my wife hence, boy?

BOY.
Sir!

JUAN.
Where is your lady, fool?

BOY.
At prayers, I think.

JUAN.
Excellent, excellent! the times are good
(Must be) when strumpets pray. My bosom now
Swells like the boiling ocean. How could she
Be false to me? to me who loved her more
Than heaven or hope hereafter. How I gazed
Upon her brow, and thought it fairer than
The face of the starry heavens! Begone, and send
Your mistress hither.

BOY.
She's at prayers, my lord.

JUAN.
Ha! true; forgot! no matter: leave me, sirrah,
And place the lamp upon the dial yonder,
And draw the shade around it. Now, go, go.
[Boy goes out.
Now then I am—alone. There's not a sound
To cheer my purpose: It is dark and close.
My soul is dark; imprisoned in—a grave;
Yet, resolute to bear. Shall I revenge?
I'll kill her, tho' the stars dissolve in tears,
And thunder mutters help; and so, all's past.
Having resolved, the bloody part is done;—
And all the rest is mercy. She must perish.
I'll wash away her sins with all her blood.
Yet—if I slay her, I shall surely die.
Die? I am dead already; jealous hate,
Despair, and too much love have poisoned me.
Oh, widow, who hast lost thine all on earth,
What is thy pain to mine? A step?—a step?
She comes then: not alone? ah! not alone.
Now for my hiding-place.

He retires.
Olympia and Bianca enter.
OLYMPIA.
Did I believe in fables, I should think
Some evil hung about me: the black night
Has not allowed one small star to escape,
To light us on our path: who's there? I thought
A figure passed us. Hark!

BIANCA.
I heard nothing.

OLYMPIA.
Nor I: and yet when dæmons walk about,
Their steps 'tis said are noiseless. I could now
Think half my nursery stories true, and spurn
My better reason from me.

BIANCA.
Let us talk
Of something else, dear lady.

OLYMPIA.
Tremble not.
You have no cause to fear; your days have been
Harmless, (I hope so,) and the spirits of ill
Leave innocent life untouched. Look, girl, the worm
Lights her green lamp; and, see! the fountain, there,
Into the night shoots up its silver rain.
How fresh and sweet it is! how musical.
Bianca, get you homewards; I will rest
Here, in the cool awhile.
[Bianca exit.
What a most delicate air this garden hath!
There's scarce a flower or odorous shrub that lives
We have not. There, how clearly I scent the rose;
And now the limes; and now, as the sad wind
Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out
The orange-trees: Their fragrance charms me
Almost to sleep.

Reclines.
Juan enters.
JUAN.
She sleeps at last, then: yet I will not kill
The frail thing sleeping. Why did I delay?
I feared (why did I fear?) to meet her eye:
The eye of her whom justice bids me strike?
Oh! what a beautiful piece of sin is there!
They fabled well who said that woman won
Man to perdition: hark! the thunder mutters;
And lightnings—Rest, wild spirits, I am come
To save ye a worthless task. Now then, my soul!
Rise up, Olympia! (she sleeps soundly:) Ho!
Stirring at last: Rise, Fair Olympia: you
Have much to do to-night. The fates have writ
Your early doom upon their brazen book;
And I must do their bidding.

OLYMPIA.
What is this?

JUAN.
Now by—but I am quiet. You have sinned
Most foully 'gainst your husband: that's not much;
But you have done a deed at which the skies
Blacken: look up.

OLYMPIA.
Dear Juan?

JUAN.
You have made
Me (I forgive that) base: our noble house,
'Till now illustrious, you have stained. Hark, hark!
The voices that you hear amongst the clouds
(But understand not) say ‘confess your sin.’
I wait to hear it.

OLYMPIA.
Oh, your mind is filled
With dreaming terrors. Let us home, dear Juan;
We'll talk to-morrow of this.

JUAN.
Talk? to-morrow?
Now, by the burning passion that doth stir
Vengeance within me, Olympia! This night
You take your leave of earth. Yet, ere you die,
I'll tell you how I loved you; doated—oh!
Grew guilty for you: guilty, do you hear?

OLYMPIA.
Most perfect, sir; I tremble.

JUAN.
Ere you married
I loved you; that you know: your father shook
A poor petitioner away; and you
(Although you owned to love) forsook me. Then
I tried my fortune in the wars: you gave
Your hand to old Ramirez.

OLYMPIA.
I was bid.

JUAN.
My uncle's death raised me to wealth, and then
I came home quickly: you were married.

OLYMPIA.
Well!

JUAN.
Well!
Why then despair possessed me. Madness stamped
His brand upon my brain, and years flamed on,
(You still Ramirez' wife) when I became
A man again: The impudent dotard laughed,
Boasting he had out-schemed a younger man,
Me,—me. My curse upon him!

OLYMPIA.
Peace, no more.

JUAN.
So, you still love him?

OLYMPIA.
Sir, I love him not.
But I disdain the madman that belies him.

JUAN.
Mad? mad? Now shall you die,—die! (do you hear?)
By me, who love you. Mad? I have been mad;
But 'twas because I lost you; you, thrice false one!
Now, being sane, 't shall be my bloody care
To see none rave like me from too much love.
Mad? mad? and you to jeer me? Blighting shame
Weigh on your soul for that.

OLYMPIA.
You have belied
My husband's honoured name.

JUAN.
His name?
I slew him, harlot! stabbed him thro' and thro'.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thou fool, who couldst believe
That common villains struck and robbed him not.

OLYMPIA.
I dream; I hope I dream.

JUAN.
'Twas I. Laugh out!
Yet if thou dost 'twill be at my great woe.
And though thou jeerest me, I deserve it not.
For all was done for thee; and now hast thou
Called back the love I bought at such a price,
And sold it to another.

OLYMPIA.
Sir, 'tis false:
You are all false. How I abhor you now!
Hearken, Don Juan; I have loved you, (how
You will remember quickly;) 'twas an error:
For had I known his blood was spilt by you,
I would have cast you off, as now I do,
For ever.

JUAN.
Speak again.

OLYMPIA.
For ever; ever.

JUAN.
Will-will your paramour come then? Ha, ha, ha!
He waits, and wishes: do not keep him long.

OLYMPIA
(aside).
God! he is mad, indeed. I must escape.

JUAN.
Stay! Stop! but weep not; pray not: wouldst thou pray
To the deaf adder? to the insensate sea?
Look, I am stern, but just; determined, wronged;
A judge, and you the victim.

OLYMPIA.
Let me pass.

JUAN.
Kneel down before the gods. Now answer me.
Lovest thou, or not, (speak truly, for thou speak'st
Thy last words to the world,) this stranger? Quick!

OLYMPIA.
I love him. (Juan cries out.)
But—

JUAN.
Traitress! adultress!
I strike (stabs her)
—and kill my wrongs!

OLYMPIA.
Stay, Juan, stay! but no; 'tis past—and over.
It cannot be:—you've done ill.

JUAN.
You—you are
Not hurt? not slain? Speak!

OLYMPIA.
Save yourself, dear Juan.
That youth—

JUAN.
Yes, yes.

OLYMPIA.
He is my brother.

JUAN.
Hell!

OLYMPIA.
The Inquisition now are watching for him.
Save him.

JUAN.
I will.

OLYMPIA.
By—ah—

Dies.
JUAN.
A pause.
(Voices are heard.)

JUAN.
(Voices.)

JUAN.
Now, first to hide
The body. Body!—is she changed so soon?
Hides the body
And now to fly: yet wherefore? Can they read
In my white visage and unaltered eye
A murder redder than the crime of Cain?
I'll stay, and dream of death. Oh! I have lost
What was my life on earth: what was, alas!
A horrid sound. They come.
Enter Servants.
Whom seek ye? She—
Your lady's gone; gone, do you doubt me? gone

SERVANT.
My lord! a stranger is arrived; her brother.

JUAN.
Who? what? She has none; none.

SERVANT.
My lord, he's at the castle.

JUAN.
Peace! She is gone
On a dark journey. Oh!

SERVANT.
You've cut your hand, sir.

JUAN.
I have cut—my heart.
Leave me; all but Diego.
[Servants go out.
Poor old man,
You were my father's servant; nay his father's.
We prized you, and you served us faithfully;
But now's your service ended. Old Diego!
Long before sun-rise, I shall be—

DIEGO.
My lord!

JUAN.
Quiet, Diego. No foul passions, then,
No turbulent love, nor fierce idolatry,
Nor bitter hate, nor jealousy, shall mar
My solitary rest: I shall be—dead.
The last ('tis pity) of a princely house;
Let not our name be slandered.

DIEGO.
My dear lord!

JUAN.
One old man thought
I should do honour to his name;—that's past:
For look! my star is setting. I am now
The last of a famous line, which backward ran
To the blood of kings and then was lost in time.
Ah! where is now my father's prophecy,
And where my own hopes? withered, withered.

DIEGO.
Alas!

JUAN.
A few more words, and then—and then, good night.
I smote—I smote—now let the black skies fall
And crush me in a moment. Oh! my queen!
My own incomparable wife! My love!
Oh! all my life has been an error: So,
I'll shift a troublesome burden from my back,
And lay me down to sleep.

DIEGO.
Beseech you, home!

JUAN.
We'll do as thou dost say. That rich red draught,
Which filled the frames of aged men with youth,
And strung their sinews like the bracing air,
Were now an useless medicine.

DIEGO.
Noble master!
Let me for once forget my place, dear lord!
And bid you hope for comfort.

JUAN.
Hush, hush, hush!
No more a lord: a vulgar slave am I,
Who caught one look from heaven; but the soft light
Is out, which was my guide; and here I stand
Lost, and in terrible darkness near my tomb.
And angry shadows beckon me; fierce shapes
And fears (which no hope tempers) drag me on.
Look, I must go: yet first we'll make all plain,
And leave the earth a warning. I—the story
Hangs on my tongue. I smote—I—look aside
While I burst forth in guilt. I smote—Oh God!
The tenderest, noblest woman in the world;
And with my cruel dagger cut a road
To a heart where I was lord; but knew it not.
Ay, weep, Diego; thou may'st weep, poor man;
But for myself my tears are dried to dust:
Burnt and scorched up by pain. But let's be still.
Your hand, my last firm friend; I have not yet
Forgotten how you used (bright years ago)
To bear me, then a boy, sport-tired, home.
Bear me so far once more: 'tis your last toil;
And lay me gently on my marble bed,
And ask no man to curse me! All's done. Now
Open your arms, Olympia!

Stabs himself.

THE WAY TO CONQUER.

SCENE— A Room in a Palace.
Prince. Cesario.
CESARIO.
Your highness sent for me?

PRINCE.
I did: Sit down.
You look ill, dear Cesario?

CESARIO.
No, my lord.

PRINCE.
You have been feasting lately? yes, 'tis so:
You were at Count Vitelli's banqueting.
But have a care, it is not good for health.

CESARIO.
You sent for me
In haste, was it not so?

PRINCE.
Not so.

CESARIO.
Then shall I come to-morrow?

PRINCE.
Let it be
To-day, now you are here. Cesario!
Is there not one who lives with old Colonna?
A foreign youth? Dost know him?

CESARIO.
Ay, my lord,
'Tis Pedro—no, Diego,—a dark Spaniard;
A linguist, learned, and noble; a cadet
Of the great house of—of Medina, sir,

PRINCE.
You know him well?

CESARIO.
I know him; yet not well.

PRINCE.
Should'st think him honest?

CESARIO.
Honest, sir? Oh, surely.

PRINCE.
Then he'd not betray
Your uncle, as I hear he has done?

CESARIO.
Sir! He?
He could not be so base: my uncle was
His first and excellent friend.

PRINCE.
I thought the world
Was not so bad. Now listen, Cesario,
And you shall hear a curious history.
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man
Came mask'd unto a rich lord's house, (here in
Palermo;)—Do you hear how Etna mutters?

CESARIO.
It sends a terrible sound indeed, my lord.

PRINCE.
This man petitioned for his life. He said
That he had sworn to act a horrid deed,
And came to make disclosure. The great lord
(His was the life in danger) promised full
Forgiveness: but you do not hear my words?

CESARIO.
Pardon me, sir, I hear.

PRINCE.
The culprit said
A youth on whom this lord had lavished wealth,
And kindness and good precept, had forgot
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears
To those divinest whispers which the soul
Breathes to prevent our erring. He resolved
To kill his benefactor: that was bad.

CESARIO.
Oh! he deserved—

PRINCE.
We'll talk of that hereafter.
Well, this bad man whose mind was spotted thus—
Was leprosied by foul ingratitude,
Had sworn to murder this his friend.

CESARIO.
My lord!

PRINCE.
I see it pains you: yes, for the sake of gold,
He would have slain his old and faithful friend;
Have spurned the few gray locks that time had left,
And stopped the current of his reverend blood,
Which could not flow much longer.

CESARIO.
Are you sure?

PRINCE.
The plan was this: they were to bind him fast,
(To slay him here were dangerous,) and transport
His body to some lonely place.

CESARIO.
What—place?

PRINCE.
I'll tell you, for I once
Was housed there through a storm. A castle stands
Fronting Calabria, on the rough sea-coast.
A murder once was done there, and e'er since
It has been desolate; 'tis bleak, and stands
High on a rock, whose base was caverned out
By the wild seas ages ago. The winds
Moan and make music through its halls, and there
The mountain-loving eagle builds his home.
But all's a waste: for miles and miles around
There's not a dwelling.

CESARIO.
Is't near the—eastward foot
Of Etna,—where Muralto's villa stands?

PRINCE.
Yes, yes; well guessed: I see you know the spot.
Now, dear Cesario, could'st thou think a man,
Setting aside all ties, could do a deed
Of blackness there? Why, 'tis within the reach
Of Etna, and some thirty years ago,
(The last eruption,) when the lava rivers
Went flaming toward that point, this dwelling stood
In danger. I myself stood near the place,
And saw the bright fires stream along, when they
Crumbled the chesnut forests and dark pines
And branching oaks to dust. The thunder spoke,
The rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks,
And poured their stormy cries through every cave.
Each element rose in riot: the parched earth
Staggered and spouted fire—

CESARIO.
Oh! sir, no more.

PRINCE.
Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house,
How ghastly the poor murdered wretch would look;
His hanging head, and useless neck; his old
Affectionate heart that beat so fondly, now
Like a stilled instrument. I could not kill
A dog that loved me: could you?

CESARIO.
No, sir—no.

PRINCE.
Why, how you tremble!

CESARIO.
'Tis a fearful picture.

PRINCE.
Yet might it have been true.

CESARIO.
We'll hope not.

PRINCE.
Hope!
That hope is past. How will the Spaniard look,
Think you, Cesario, when the question comes
Home to his heart? In truth he could not look
More pale than you are now. Cesario!
The eye of God has been upon him.

CESARIO.
Yes:
I hope—

PRINCE.
Beware.

CESARIO.
My lord!

PRINCE.
Beware, how you
Curse him; for he is loaded heavily.
Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world
Will stamp its malediction on his head,
And God and man disown him.

CESARIO.
Oh! no more.
No more, my dearest lord; behold me here,
Here at your feet, a wretch indeed, but now
Won quite from crime. Spare me.

PRINCE.
Rise. I forgive
The ingratitude to me: but men like you
(Base, common, bribed stabbers) must not roam
About the world so freely.

CESARIO.
Oh! that now
You could but see my heart.

PRINCE.
I would not see
Your bosom's base and black inhabitant.
Now listen to me again: speak not, but listen.
This is a different tale. Cesario!
When first you came to Sicily, you were
A little child: your noble father, worn
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time
To beg protection for you ere he died.
Since then, if in your memory I have failed
In kindness tow'rd you, or good counselling,
Reproach me.

CESARIO.
You have been most kind, too kind.

PRINCE.
Once, 'twas in terrible sickness, when none else
Would tread your infectious chamber, (think on that,)
I, though your prince—

CESARIO.
In pity!

PRINCE.
Hear me speak.
I gave that healing medicine to your lips,
Which wanting you had died. I tended you:
And was your nurse through many a sultry night;
For you were quite abandoned—

CESARIO.
Quite, quite, quite.

PRINCE.
Time passed, and you recovered, and could use
Your sword again: you tried it 'gainst my blood,
(My nephew then,) and I forgave it.

CESARIO.
That
Was in the heat of quarrel.

PRINCE.
I have said
That I forgave it. Then a most mean wish
(You wished my wealth) possessed you. I could never,
I own it, have guessed at that.

CESARIO.
Oh! sir, not so.

PRINCE.
Well, then, it was not: but Aurelia's charms
(That cunning Phryne) have o'erwhelmed your sense;
All gratitude and good being gone.

CESARIO.
My lord!
My father! oh, once more believe me. I
Do not deserve you should: but if you can
Once again credit me, may hell's fierce torments—
But, no; I will not pain or shame your love:
Nay more, I will deserve it. I can die
Now, for my mind has grown within this hour
To firmness: yet, I now could wish to live,
To show you what I am.

PRINCE.
Cesario! hear me.
Hear and forget not—what your old friend says.
The world will blame me, but I'll try you still:
You cannot have the heart (I know you have one)
Again to harm me. Once, imperial Cæsar
Upon the young deluded Cinna laid
His absolute pardon: 'twas a weight that he
Could ne'er shake off. Cesario, thus
From my soul I now forgive you.

CESARIO.
Thanks.

PRINCE.
What, ho!
Cesario, faint not. Why, thou'rt weaker now
Than when Aurelia kissed your lip, and won
Your soul to sin. Come:—nay, there's no one knows
Our quarrel. Let us bury it in our breasts,
And talk as we were wont.

CESARIO.
A little time,
My lord, and I may thank you. Now, if I
Might dare to ask it, I would fain retire,
And dwell on all your goodness.

PRINCE.
Farewell, then.

CESARIO.
My noble prince, rest soundly: you have gained
Cesario's soul twice over. If a knave
Should say I wrong you now, believe him not.
If I myself should swear I was your foe,
Discredit me. Oh! once more on my knees,
I thank you: dearest father! look upon
Your prodigal son. Thanks—from my heart.

PRINCE.
Farewell,
Farewell, Cesario. Nay, compose yourself.
Now go. Farewell, farewell.

THE BROKEN HEART.

SCENE I.

—A Room.
Jeronymo. His Mother.
MOTHER.
What have I said that you affect this humour?
Come, look less strangely. Is your anger dumb?
Speak out. Jeronymo?

JERONYMO.
You have done this?

MOTHER.
I did: 'Twas for your good.

JERONYMO
Oh, mother, mother!
You have broke the fondest heart in Italy.
My good, what's that? Is't good that I shall die?
Is't good that I shall pine and fade away,
And take no comfort? None? O yes! Through all
My melancholy days I'll haunt the nest
Where my white dove lies guarded—

MOTHER.
Patience, boy.

JERONYMO.
Until I die, stern mother. I shall die,
Like people smit by lightning, suddenly.

MOTHER.
Live and be crowned with Love.

JERONYMO.
Why so I will,
And wear white roses on my ghastly brow,
And laugh at fate, like that forced bride who fell
Dead on her marriage morning. I'll be gone.
If she be false—Come with me, madam! False?
Sylvestra false? Sylvestra?

MOTHER.
Name her not,
The bitter cause whence all our sorrow springs.
You must not think of her.

JERONYMO.
Not think of her?

MOTHER.
No; she is married.

JERONYMO.
Ha, ha, ha! good mother.
Shame on your cruel jest: be grave—and gentle.

MOTHER.
I told you this before: she's married—married!
Do I speak plain?

JERONYMO.
Too plain, if you speak true.
That you may know I heed your tale, look at me!
Am I not—broken-hearted?

MOTHER.
Oh! sweet heavens.
I have done too much. (Aside)
How pinched and pale he looks!
Jeronymo, my child!

JERONYMO.
Your only child.

MOTHER.
Why do you talk thus? Prythee think on me;
On me, your mother.

JERONYMO.
Surely; for you thought
Of me in absence. I've a grateful soul:
I'll make you heir of all my father's lands,
His gems, and gold, and floating argosies:
All shall be yours; I will not live to leave
Widow or child to rob so kind a mother.

MOTHER.
Peace, peace, you hurt my heart.

JERONYMO.
I swear to do't.
By those dark Three who cut the threads of life!
By Plutus, God of gold! By Minos, judge,
And cruel Cupid! By my own lost life,
And murdered hopes, I swear!

MOTHER.
Oh! Do not talk thus.
If not for me, yet for your father's sake,
Spare me, my son!

JERONYMO.
My father? he is dead.

MOTHER.
But when he lived he was most merciful;
Tempering the angry feelings which will rise
In every mind (and lead in some to ruin)
By draughts of that divine philosophy—

JERONYMO.
O, the brave drink! Abroad, abroad, we had
Huge flasks which all went flaming to the brain.
Dark, sweet, and full of sin; and so I drank,
And drank and drank the livelong day and night,
And chewed the bitter laurel for my food,
Whose roots are watered, as wild poets tell,
By the immortal wells of Castaly.

MOTHER.
Alas, alas!

JERONYMO.
Why that looks well. I love it.

MOTHER.
What do you love, my son?

JERONYMO.
To see you weep,
Although your husband died so long ago.

MOTHER.
I do not weep for him.

JERONYMO.
Not weep for him?
Then shame seal up your mouth. Was he not kind?
Was he not good? he was; and yet you weep not;
Weep you the lazy lonely widow's life?
Tush! you may buy another husband yet.

MOTHER.
I do not wish't. I cannot match the last.

JERONYMO.
You cannot, madam; (That was true at least.)
No, though you gaze from evening dusk, till Morn
Comes climbing up the bright steps of the East;
Nay, tho' you watch for hearts from dawn till dark.
Unmatchable 'mongst men, so kind, so true,
Abhorring falsehood with a natural hate,
And full of pity was he,—but he died;
Good father! how he loved his poor pale son,
And how he feared (do you remember that?)
His race should end with me. He wished—vain wishes!
No child of mine shall ever bear our name,
And make't more noble. Lo, I am the last!
The last, last scion of a gracious tree;
For you, my mother, now have struck me down,
And withered all my branches. So, farewell.

[Going.
MOTHER.
Farewell! Yet stay! Leave pardon with me. Stay!

JERONYMO.
Farewell, and pardon! Blessings (if the son
May bless the mother) rest upon your heart.
Be calm, be happy: think of me no more.

SCENE II.

—Sylvestra's Chamber.
Jeronymo. Sylvestra.
JERONYMO.
So, all is hushed at last. Hist! There she lies,
Who should have been my own. Sylvestra! Hark!
She sleeps! and from her parted lips there comes
A fragrance, such as April mornings steal
From awakening flowers. There lies her arm, (sweet arm!)
More white than marble, on the quilted lid.
'Tis motionless. What if she lives not? Oh!
How beautiful she is! How far beyond
Those bright creations, which the fabling Greeks
Placed on their cold Olympus. That great queen
Before whose eye Jove's starry armies shrank
To darkness, and the wide and billowy seas
Grew calm, was a leper to her. Look, oh, look!
Her beauty (that most pure divinity)
Doth sway the troubled blood till it stands charmed,
Adoring,—Hark, she murmurs. Oh, how soft!
Sylvestra!

SYLVESTRA.
Ha! who's there?

JERONYMO.
'Tis I.

SYLVESTRA.
Who is it?

JERONYMO.
Must I then speak, and tell my name to you?
Sylvestra! know me now: not now? O Pain!
Hath grief indeed so changed my voice; so much
That you—you know me not? Alas!

SYLVESTRA.
Begone!
I'll wake my husband if you move a step.

JERONYMO.
Jeronymo, Jeronymo! 'tis I.

SYLVESTRA.
Ha! speak again: yet, no, no—

JERONYMO.
Hide your eyes:
Ay, hide them, married woman! lest they look
On the wreek of him who loved you.

SYLVESTRA.
Loved me? no.

JERONYMO.
Loved you like life, like heaven and happiness;
Loved you and wore your image on his heart
(Ill boding amulet) 'till death.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas!

JERONYMO.
And now I come to bring your wandering thoughts
Back to their innocent home. Do you not know,
Pale spirits have left their leaden urns, to tempt
Wretches from sin? Some have been heard to laugh
Ghastlily on—the bed of wantonness,
And touch the limbs with death.

SYLVESTRA.
You will not harm me?

JERONYMO.
Why not?—No, no, poor girl! I would not mar
Your delicate limbs with outrage. I have loved
Too well for that; too long; all our short lives.

SYLVESTRA.
Our sad short lives!

JERONYMO.
Sylvestra, you and I
Were children here some few short springs ago,
And loved like children: I the elder; you
The loveliest girl that ever tied her hair
Across a sunny brow of Italy.
I still remember how, though others wooed,
You ever preferred me.

SYLVESTRA.
I did, I did.

JERONYMO.
I think you loved me: How I loved, my heart
Still tells me trembling. So I fain would bring
You comfort ere I go. Speak! the time's short,
For death has touched me.

SYLVESTRA.
You are jesting now?

JERONYMO.
Sweet, I am dying—dying. All my blood
Grows colder as I talk; my pulses strike
More slowly; and before the morning sun
Visits your chamber through those trailing vines,
I shall lie here, here in your chamber, dead.

SYLVESTRA.
You fright me.

JERONYMO.
Yet I'd not do so, Sylvestra.
I will but tell you, you have used me harshly,
(That is not much,) and die: nay, fear me not.
I would not chill, with this decaying touch,
That bosom where the blue veins wander 'round,
Nor should thy cheek, still fresh in beauty, fade
From fear of me, a poor heart-broken wretch!
Look at me. Why, the winds sing through my bones,
And children jeer me, and the boughs that wave
And whisper loosely in the summer air,
Shake their green leaves in mockery, as to say
“We are the longer livers.”

SYLVESTRA.
Kill me not.

JERONYMO.
I've numbered eighteen winters. Much may lie
In that short compass; but my days have been
Not happy. Death was busy with our house
Early, and nipped the comforts of my home,
And sickness paled my cheek, and fancies (wild,
Strange, bright, delusive stars) came wandering by me.
There's one you know of: that—no matter—that
Drew me from out my way, (a perilous guide,)
And left me sinking. I had gay hopes too,
But heed them not; they are vanished.

SYLVESTRA.
I—Oh, heart!
I thought, (speak softly, for my husband sleeps,)
I thought, when you did stay abroad so long,
And never sent nor asked of me or mine,
You'd quite forgotten Italy.

JERONYMO.
Speak again.
Was't so indeed?

SYLVESTRA.
Indeed, indeed.

JERONYMO.
I see it;
The mother's pride, the woman's treachery.
Yet, what had I done Fortune that she could
Abandon me so entirely? Never mind't:
Have a good heart, Sylvestra: they who hate
Can kill us, but no more; that's comfort, dear!
We'll fly from our pursuers, and be quiet.
The journey is but short, and we can reckon
On slumbering sweetly with the freshest earth
Sprinkled about us: There no storms can shake
Our secure tenement; nor need we fear,
Though cruelty be busy with our fortunes,
Or scandal with our names.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas, alas!

JERONYMO.
Sweet! in the land to come we'll feed on flowers.
Droop not, my child. A happy place there is:
Know you it not (all pain and wrong shut out)
Where man may mix with angels. You and I
Will wander there with garlands on our brows,
And talk in music. We will shed no tears,
Save those of joy; nor sighs, unless for love.
Look up and straight grow happy. We may love
There without fear: no mothers there, no gold,
Nor hate, nor human perfidy; none, none.
Sweet one, we have been wronged. My own delight!
Too late I see thy gentle constancy:
Too late thy unstained love. Did'st think me changed?
Why I wrote, and wrote long, fond letters; all,
Steeped all in tears; I wrote, but you were silent.
At last suspicion touched me: I came home;
And found you married.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas!

JERONYMO.
Then I—Then I
Grew moody, and at times I fear my brain
Was fevered; but I could not die, Sylvestra,
And bid you no farewell.

SYLVESTRA.
Jeronymo!
Break not my heart thus; they—I was betrayed.
They told me you had found a face more fair
Than poor Sylvestra's; that (grown false) you had learned
To scorn your poor and childish love; ah, me!
They threatened, swore your heart was breaking; yes,
Because it wanted freedom. Then—look aside—
Then—then they—married me.

JERONYMO.
Oh!

[Cries out.
SYLVESTRA.
What is't? Speak!

JERONYMO.
The melancholy winds, which shun the day,
And mourn abroad at dark, are chaunting now
A funeral dirge for me. Sweet, let me lie
Once on thy breast: I will not chill't, my love,
With my cold cheek; nor stain it with a tear.
It is a shrine where innocent love might lie;
Where murdered love should end. For once, Sylvestra?

SYLVESTRA.
Pity me!

JERONYMO.
How I pity!

SYLVESTRA.
Talk not thus;
Though you but jest, it makes me tremble.

JERONYMO.
Jest?
Look in my eyes and mark how true my story.
Nay look: for on their glassy surface lies
Death, my Sylvestra. It is Nature's last
And beautiful effort, to bequeath a fire
To orbs whereon the Spirit sate thro' life,
And looked out in its moods of thought and joy,
Revealing all that inward worth and power,
Which else would want their true interpreters.

SYLVESTRA.
Why, now you're cheerful.

JERONYMO.
Yes; 'tis thus I'd die.

SYLVESTRA.
Now I must smile.

JERONYMO.
Do so, and I'll smile too.
I do; albeit—ah! now my parting words
Lie heavy on my tongue; my lips obey not;
And—speech—comes difficult from me. While I can,
Farewell. Your hand! I cannot see it.

SYLVESTRA.
Ah!—cold.

JERONYMO.
'Tis so: but scorn it not, my own poor girl.
They've used us hardly—hardly; yet thou wilt
Forgive them? One's a mother, and may feel,
When that she knows me dead. Some air; more air:
Where are you? I am blind; my hands are numbed:
This is a wintry night. So,—cover me.

[Dies.

THE FALCON.

SCENE I.

—Outside of a Cottage. Sunset.
Frederigo
(alone).
Oh! Poverty, and have I learnt at last
Thy bitter lesson? Thou forbidding power
That hast such sway upon this thriving earth,
Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter;
What have I done that thou should'st smite me thus?
An open hand had I in happier times,
And when the feathered Fortune bore me high,
I scattered gifts below.
. . . . . . 'Tis the set of Sun!
How like a hero who hath run his course
In glory doth he die! His parting look
(Too beautiful for death) lights up the west
With crimson, and deep dyes the wandering clouds
With every tint that makes the rainbow fair.
Bright King! not unattended dost thou leave
The world that loved thee: Earth, and all her crowds,
Which late were joyous, pay dumb homage now;
Unutterable stillness, golden calm,
The winds and waves unmoving.
Sometimes one lonely note is heard, which marks
And makes more rich the silence; nothing more!
Thus, in great cities, the cathedral clock
Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay
Time for a moment, while it warns the world
(Sweet sound to those who wake, or watch till morn,)
“Now goes the midnight.” Then I love to walk
And hear that hoarse slow-fading clang grow sweet,
As upwards to the stars and mighty moon
It bears calm tidings from this dreaming globe.
Ah! why may not the poor man ever dream!
A step? who's there? A lady? O, Giana!

Giana and her Maid enter.
GIANA.
You have cause to be surprised, sir.

FREDERIGO.
No, dear lady;
Honoured I own, that my poor dwelling should
Receive so fair a guest.

GIANA.
You have forgotten
The past times then?

FREDERIGO.
No, no; those sweet times live,
Flowers in my faithful memory, kept apart
For holier hours, and sheltered from the gaze
Of rude uncivil strangers; they are now
My only comfort; so lest they should fade
I use 'em gently, very gently, madam,
And water 'em all with tears.

GIANA.
Your poverty
Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo.

FREDERIGO.
Pardon me, madam: 'twas not well, indeed,
To meet such a guest with sorrow: you were born
For happiness.

GIANA.
Alas! I fear not so.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! yes, yes: and you well become it; well.
May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours
Weigh on so light a heart.

GIANA.
You well reprove me;
Light and unfeeling.

FREDERIGO.
Yet I meant not so.
Giana! let me sink beneath your scorn
If ever I reproach you: what am I,
Outcast from Fortune, all my father's gifts
Lavished and lost by folly—

GIANA.
'Twas for me.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! no, no: I had many faults
Whose burthen rests with me: then what am I,
That I should dare reproach you? As I am,
Know me your truest servant; only that;
And bound to live and die for you.

GIANA.
No more.
Let us enjoy the present.

MAID.
My lady, sir,
Is come to feast with you.

GIANA.
'Tis even so.

FREDERIGO.
I am too honoured: Can you then put up
With my (so poor a) welcoming? If the heart
Could spend its wealth in entertainment, I
Would feast you like a queen: but, as it is,
You will interpret kindly?

GIANA.
Oh! I know
I come to a scholar's table. Now we'll go,
And rest us in your orchard for a while.
The evening breezes will be pleasant there:
For a short time, farewell.

FREDERIGO.
Farewell, dear madam:
I hope you'll find there some—ah! 'ware the step.

GIANA.
'Tis but an awkward entrance, sir, indeed.

FREDERIGO.
You'll find some books in the arbour, where you rest.
They are books of poetry. If I remember,
You loved such stories once, thinking they brought
Man to a true and fine humanity.

GIANA.
You've a good memory, signior. That must be—
Stay, let me count: ay, some six years ago.

FREDERIGO.
About the time.

GIANA.
You were thought heir, I think,
Then, to the Count Filippo: you displeased him:
How was't?

FREDERIGO.
Oh! some mere trifle: I forget.

GIANA.
Nay, tell me; for some said you were ungrateful.

FREDERIGO.
I could not marry to his wish.

GIANA.
Was it so?

FREDERIGO.
Thus simply: nothing more, believe it.

GIANA.
I did not know it. Not marry to his wish!

[Exit.
FREDERIGO.
Enter Bianca.

BIANCA.
On what, sir? There
Is scarce a morsel: fruit perhaps—

FREDERIGO.
Then I
Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air.

BIANCA.
Impossible. Old Mars, you know,
Frights every bird away.

FREDERIGO.
Ah! villain, he
Shall die for't; bring him hither.

BIANCA.
Sir? What can you mean?
Our falcon?

FREDERIGO.
Ay, that murderous kite. How oft
Hath he slain innocent birds: now he shall die.
'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital;
And he for once shall do me service. Quick!
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen.
Worthily.

BIANCA.
He is here, sir.

FREDERIGO.
Where? vile bird!
There—I'll not look at him.

BIANCA.
Alas! he's dead:
Look, look! ah! how he shivers.

FREDERIGO.
Fool! Begone!
Fool! am not I a fool—a selfish slave?
I am, I am. One look: ah! there he lies.
By Heav'n, he looks reproachingly; and yet
I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence!
Bianca exit.
Mars! my brave bird, and have I killed thee, then,
Who was the truest servant—loved me so,
When all the world had left me? Never more
Shall thou and I in mimic battle play,
Nor thou pretend to die, (to die, alas!)
And with thy quaint and grave-eyed tricks delight
Thy master in his solitude. No more,
No more, old Mars! (thou wast the god of birds,)
Shalt thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing,
And hunt the air for plunder: thou could'st ride
(None better) on the fierce wild mountain winds
When birds of lesser courage drooped. I've seen
Thee scare the plundering eagle on his way,
(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods
Knew thee and shunned thy course,) and thro' the air
Float like a hovering tempest, feared by all.
Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down,
For me, thy cruel master: ay, and stop
All wanderers of the middle air, for me
Who killed thee—murdered thee, poor bird; for thou
Wast worthy of humanity, and I
Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done
A crime against my race.

SCENE II.

—A Room.
Frederigo. Giana.
GIANA.
You think it strange that I should visit you?

FREDERIGO.
No, madam, no.

GIANA.
You must: ev'n I myself
Must own the visit strange: it is most strange.

FREDERIGO.
I am most grateful for it.

GIANA.
Hear me, first.
What think you brought me hither? I've a suit
That presses, and I look to you to grant it.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis but to name it, for you may command
My life, my service. Oh! but you know this:
You injure when you doubt.

GIANA.
I do not doubt.
Now for my errand: Gentle signior, listen:
I have a child; no mother ever loved
A son so much: but that you know him, I
Would say how delicate he was, how good.
But oh! I need not tell his sweet ways to you:
You know them, signior, and your heart would grieve,
(I feel't,) if you should see the poor child die;
And now he's pale and ill. If you could hear
How he asks after you, and says he loves you
Next to his mother.

FREDERIGO.
Madam, stay your tears.
Can I do aught to soothe your pretty boy?
I love him as my own.

GIANA.
Sir?

FREDERIGO.
I forget.
And yet I love him, lady: am I too bold?

GIANA.
Oh, no. I thank you for your love.

FREDERIGO.
Giana!

GIANA.
To my poor child: he pines and wastes away.
One thing alone in all the world he sighs for;
And that—I cannot name it.

FREDERIGO.
Is it mine?

GIANA.
It is, it is: I shame to ask't.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis yours;
Were it my life. What have I, and not yours?

GIANA.
It is—the falcon.
Ah, pardon me: I see how you love the bird.

FREDERIGO.
I loved him,—yes.

GIANA.
I feel my folly, sir.
You shall not part with your poor faithful bird:
I had no right (I least of all) to ask it.
I will not rob you, sir.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! that you could!
Poor Mars! Your child, madam, will grieve to hear
His poor old friend is dead.

GIANA.
Impossible.
I met him as I entered.

FREDERIGO.
He is dead.

GIANA.
Nay, this is not like you. Why not refuse?
I do not need excuses.

FREDERIGO.
Gracious lady,
Believe me not so poor: the bird is dead.
Listen: you came to visit me—to feast:
It was my barest hour of poverty:
I had not one poor coin to purchase food.
Could I for shame confess this to you?—you?
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved
Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign
To smile on one whom all the world forgot.
Once I had been her lover, (how sincere
Let me not say:) my name was high and princely:
My nature had not fallen. Could I stoop
And say how low and abject was my fortune?
And send you fasting home? Your servant there
Would have scorned me. Lady, even then I swore
That I would feast you daintily:—I did.
My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish
Which Juno might have tasted.

GIANA.
What is this?
We feasted on your noble bird? Good bird!

FREDERIGO.
He has redeemed my credit.

GIANA
(after a pause).
You have done
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er
Forget it, may I not know happiness.
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind,
A heart such as in hours of pain or peril
Methinks I could repose on.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! Giana!

GIANA.
I have a child who loves you. For his mother
You've wrought a way into her inmost heart.
Can she requite you?

FREDERIGO.
How! what mean you?—Madam!
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise
My wretched heart so high; too high: do not—
'Twill break on falling.

GIANA.
But it shall not fall,
If I can prop it, or my hand repay
Your many gifts, your long fidelity.
I come, Frederigo, not as young girls do,
To blush and prettily affect to doubt
The heart I know to be my own. I feel
That you have loved me well. Forgive me, now,
That circumstance (which some day I'll make known)
Kept me aloof. My nature is not hard,
Altho' it seemed thus to you.

FREDERIGO.
What can I say?

GIANA.
Nothing. I read your heart.

FREDERIGO.
It bursts, my love: but 'tis with joy, with joy.
Giana! my Giana! are you mine?
Speak, lest I fear I dream. We—we will have
Nothing but halcyon days. Oh! we will live
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets,
As gaily as the summer fly, but wiser:
I'll be thy servant ever. I will be
The sun o' thy life, faithful through every season,
And thou shalt be my flower perennial,
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose,
My passion-flower, and I will wear thee here,
Here, on my heart, and thou shalt never fade.
I'll love thee mightily, my queen, and in
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest
With music sweeter than the wild wind's song:
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars,
Thyself beyond the nymphs who, poets feigned,
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.
My gentle deity! I'll crown thee with
The whitest lilies, and then bow me down
Love's own idolater, and worship thee.
And thou wilt then be mine, my beautiful?
How fondly will we love through life together;
And wander, heart-linked, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

GIANA.
Oh! you rave.

FREDERIGO.
I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever;
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night.
We will have clocks that with their silver chime
Shall measure out the moments: and I'll mark
The time, and keep love's endless calendar.
To-day I'll note a smile: to-morrow how
Your bright eyes spoke—how saucily; and then
Record a kiss plucked from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking: then, thy voice,
As rich as stringèd harp swept by the winds
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls
On serenader's moonlit instrument—
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be
My household goddess; nay smile not, nor shake
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous:
I swear it shall be so: it shall, my love.

GIANA.
Why, now thou'rt mad indeed: mad.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not so.
There was a tender sculptor once who loved
And worshipped the white marble which he shaped,
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touched the pale stone with life, and it became
Pygmalion's bride: but thee—on whom
Nature had lavished all her wealth before,
Now love has touched with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou—let me pause;
My breath is gone.

GIANA.
With talking!

FREDERIGO.
With delight.
But I may worship thee in silence, still.

GIANA.
The night is come; and I must go; farewell!
Until to-morrow.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not yet, not yet.
Behold! the moon is up, the bright-eyed moon,
And sheds her soft delicious light on us,
True lovers re-united. Why she smiles,
And bids you tarry: will you disobey
The Lady of the Sky?

GIANA.
Nay, I must go.

FREDERIGO.
Then we will go together.

GIANA.
Not to-night.
My servants wait my coming; not far off.

FREDERIGO.
A few more words, and then I'll part with thee,
For one long night: to-morrow bid me come,
(Thou hast already with thine eyes,) and bring
My load of love and lay it at thy feet.
—Oh! ever while those floating orbs are bright
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light.
Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power
Throughout the world: so, dear Giana, I
Will vindicate my own idolatry:
And in the beauty and the spell that lies
In the sweet meanings of thy love-lit eyes;
In thy neck's purple veins, which downward glide,
Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide;
In thy clear open forehead; in thy hair
Heaped in rich tresses on thy shoulders fair;
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense;
In thy most soft and winning eloquence;
In woman's gentleness and love, (now bent
On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument.

THE LAST SONG.

[_]

—The following Song was published in the same year as the foregoing Scene of “The Falcon.”