University of Virginia Library

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.