University of Virginia Library

THE FALCON, A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

SCENE I.

Outside of a Cottage. Sunset.
Frederigo
alone.
Oh poverty! And have I learnt at last
Thy bitter lesson? Thou forbidding thing
That hast such sway upon this goodly earth,
Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter,
What have I done that thou should'st press me thus?
Let me not say how I did bear me in
Prosperity; much of the good we do
Lies in its secret—But away with this,
For here are skiey themes to dwell upon.
—Now do I feel my spirit hath not quite
Sunk with my fortunes.—'Tis the set of Sun.
How like a hero who hath run his course
In glory doth he die. His parting smile
Hath somewhat holy in it, and doth stir
Regret, but soft and unallied to pain,
To see him quietly sink and sink away,
Until on yonder western mountain's top
Lingering he rests at last, and leaves a look
More beautiful than e'er he shed before:
A parting present, felt by all that lov'd
And flourish'd in his warm creative smile.
Nor unattended does he quit the world,
For there's a stillness in this golden hour
Observable by all; the birds that trill'd
And shook their ruffled plumes for joy to see
His coming in the morning, sing no more:
Or if a solitary note be heard,
Or the deep lowing of the distant beast,
'Tis but to mark the silence. Like to this,
In a great city the cathedral clock,
Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay
Time for a moment, while it calls aloud
To student's or to sick man's watchful ear,
“Now goes the midnight.” Then, I love to walk,
And, heark'ning to that Church memorial, deem
That sometimes it may sound a different tale,
And upwards to the stars and mighty moon
Send hollow tidings from this dreaming world,
Proclaiming all below as calm as they.
The Sunlight changes, and the tints are now
Darkened to purple. Ha! a step: who's there?
A Lady—O Giana!

Giana and her Maid enter.
Gia.
Yes, Sir: you
Have cause to be surprised.

Fred.
Not so, dear lady;
Honour'd I own that my poor dwelling should
Receive so fair a guest.

Gia.
You do forget
Past times.

Fred.
No, Madam, no; those times still live
Like blossomings of the memory, kept apart
For holier hours, and shelter'd from the gaze
Of rude uncivil strangers; and—and they
Are now my only comfort; so lest they
Should fade, I use 'em gently, very gently,
And water'em all with tears.

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

Fred.
Pardon me, Madam: 'twas not well, indeed,
To meet a guest like you with sorrow: you
Were born for happiness.

Gia.
Alas! I fear not.

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

Gia.
You well reprove me:
Light means unfeeling.

Fred.
Yet I meant not so.
Giana! let me perish by your hate
If ever I reproach you: what am I,
Struck by misfortune, and the chilling touch
Of Poverty, an outcast from my fortunes,
Lavish'd and lost by folly—

Gia.
'Twas for me.

Fred.
Oh! no, no: I had many faults whereof
The burthen rests with me: then what am I,
That I should dare reproach you? think no more on't:
Know me your truest servant, only that,
And bound to live and die for you.

Gia.
No more,
But let's enjoy the present.

Maid.
My Lady, Sir,
Is come to feast with you.

Gia.
'Tis even so.

Fred.
I am too honour'd: Can you then put up
With my, (so poor a) welcoming? If the heart
Indeed could lavish entertainment, I
Would feast you like a queen: but, as it is,
You will interpret kindly?

Gia.
Oh! I come
To grace a bachelor's table: that is never
Stor'd but with common viands. Now we'll go,
And rest us in your orchard, Signior.
The evening breezes must be pleasant there;
So, for an hour, farewell.

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

Gia.
'Tis but an awkward entrance, Sir, indeed.

Fred.
You'll find some books in the arbour, on the shelf
Half hid by wandering honeysuckle: they
Are books of poetry. If I remember
You lov'd such stories once, thinking they brought
Man to a true and fine humanity,
Tho' silly folks are wont to jeer them, now.

Gia.
You've a good memory Signior. That must be—
Stay, let me count: aye, some six years ago.

Fred.
About the time.

Gia.
You were thought heir, by many,
Then, to the Count Filippo: you displeased him:
How was't?

Fred.
Oh! some mere trifle: I forget.

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

Fred.
I could not marry to his wish.

Gia.
Was it so?

Fred.
Thus simply: nothing more, believe it.

Gia.
I knew not this before. Adieu!

Exit.
Fred.
She comes to dine—to dine with me, who am
A beggar. Now, what shall I do to give
My Idol entertainment? not a coin:
Not one, by Heav'n, and not a friend to lend
The veriest trifle to a wretch like me.
And she's descended from her pride too—no;
No, no, she had no pride.—Now if I give
Excusings, she will think I'm poor indeed,
And say misfortune starved the spirit hence
Of an Italian gentleman. No more:
She must be feasted. Ha! no, no, no, no,
Not that way: Any way but that. Bianca! Enter Bianca.

This Lady comes to feast.

Bia.
On what, Sir? There
Is scarce a morsel: fruits perhaps—

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

Bia.
Impossible: there is no time. Old Mars, you know,
Frights every bird away.

Fred.
Ah! villain: he
Shall die for 't, bring him hither.

Bia.
Sir!
The falcon?

Fred.
Aye, 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—Once!
Hath he not done it oft? no matter: Now
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen
Worthily.

Bia.
He is here, Sir.

Fred.
Where? vile bird,
There—I'll not look at him.

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

Fred.
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 wast the truest servant—fed me, loved,
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 frolic 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 couldst ride,
None better, on the fierce and mountain winds
When birds of lesser courage droop'd. I've seen
Thee scare the wandering eagle on his way,
(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods
Knew thee and shunn'd thy beak,) and thro' the air
Float like a hovering tempest fear'd by all.
Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down
For me, thy cruel master: aye, and stop
The screaming vulture in the middle air,
And mar his scarlet plumage—all for me,
Who kill'd 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.
Gia.
You think it strange that I should visit you?

Fred.
No, Madam, no.

Gia.
You must: ev'n I myself
(Yet I've a cause) must own the visit strange.

Fred.
I am most grateful for it.

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

Fred.
'Tis but to name it, for you may command
My fullest service. Oh! but you know this:
You injure when you doubt me.

Gia.
That I think:
So, to my errand. Gentle Signior, listen.
I have a child: no mother ever lov'd
A son so much: but that you know him, I
Would say how fair he was, how delicate;
But oh! I need not tell his sweet ways to you:
You know him, Signior, and your heart would grieve,
I feel't, if you should see the poor child die,
And now he's very ill. If you could hear
How he asks after you and says he loves you
Next to his mother, Signior—

Fred.
Stay your tears.
Can I do ought to soothe your pretty boy?
I love him as my own.

Gia.
Sir?

Fred.
I forget.
And yet I love him, lady: does that ask
Forgiveness? Is my love—

Gia.
Now you mistake me,
I thank you for your love.

Fred.
Giana! How!

Gia.
To my poor child: he pines and wastes away.
There is but one thing in the world he sighs for,
And that—I cannot name it.

Fred.
Is it mine?

Gia.
It is, it is: I shame to ask it, but
What can a mother do?

Fred.
'Tis yours, Giana:
Aye, tho' it be my head.

Gia.
It is—the falcon.
Ah: pardon me: I see how dear the bird
Is to you, and I know how little I
Have right to ask it. Pardon me.

Fred.
Alas!
I do, from—from my soul.

Gia.
I feel my folly.
You shall not part with your poor faithful friend.
No more of it: I was cruel to request it.
Signior, I will not take it, for the world.
I will not rob you, Sir.

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

Gia.
Impossible.
I saw it as I entered.

Fred.
It is dead.
Be satisfied, dear madam, that I say it:
The bird is dead.

Gia.
Nay, this is not like you.
I do not need excuses.

Fred.
Gracious lady,
Believe me not so poor: the bird is dead.
Nay then, you doubt me still, I see. Then listen.
Madam, 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 unto 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 abandoned.
Once I had been her lover, how sincere
Let me not say: my name was high and princely:
My nature had not quite forgot its habits:
I lov'd you still: I felt it—Could I stoop
And say how low and abject was my fortune,
And send you fasting home? Your servant would
Have scorn'd 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.

Gia.
What is this?

Fred.
We feasted on that matchless bird, to which
The fabulous Phœnix would have bow'd. Brave bird!
He has redeem'd my credit.

Gia.
(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,
And such as in an hour of pain or peril
Methinks I could repose on.

Fred.
Oh! Giana!

Gia.
I have a child who loves you: for his mother
You've work'd a way into her inmost heart.
Can she requite you?

Fred.
How! what mean you? Oh!
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise
My wretched heart so high, too high, lest it
Break on its falling.

Gia.
But it shall not fall,
If I can prop it, or my hand requite
Your long and often-tried 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 so long. My nature is
Not hard, altho' it might seem thus to you.

Fred.
What can I say?

Gia.
Nothing. I read your heart.

Fred.
It bursts, my love: but 'tis with joy, with joy.
Giana! my Giana! we will have
Nothing but halcyon days: Oh! we will live
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets,
And gaily as the summer fly, but wiser:
I'll be thy servant ever; yet not so.
Oh! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be
Thy Sun of 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 on
My heart, and thou shalt never, 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 birds' song:
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars,
(They are they are, but softer,) and thy shape
Fine as the vaunted nymphs' who, poets feign'd,
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 love, my love!
How fondly will we pass our lives together;
And wander, heart-link'd, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

Gia.
Oh! you rave.

Fred.
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 pleasant calendar.
To day I'll note a smile: to morrow how
Your bright eyes spoke—how saucily, and then
Record a kiss pluck'd from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking: then, thy voice
As rich as stringed 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.

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

Fred.
Oh! not so.
There was a statuary once who lov'd
And worshipped the white marble that he shaped;
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touch'd the pale stone with life, and it became
At last, Pygmalion's bride: but thee—on whom
Nature had lavish'd all her wealth before,
Now Love has touch'd with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou—let me pause,
My breath is gone.

Gia.
With talking.

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

Gia.
The evening's dark; Now I must go: farewell
Until to-morrow.

Fred.
Oh! not yet, not yet.
Behold! the moon is up, the bright ey'd moon,
And seems to shed her soft delicious light
On lovers reunited. Why she smiles,
And bids you tarry: will you disobey
The Lady of the sky? beware.

Gia.
Farewell.
Nay, nay, I must go.

Fred
We will go together.

Gia.
It must not be to-night: my servants wait
My coming at the fisher's cottage.

Fred.
Yet,
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 look 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 dark azure of thy love-lit eyes;
In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside,
'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide,
And in thy polish'd forehead, and thy hair
Heap'd in thick 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.