Scene I.
The interior of a church at Ancona. The Duke, in
the garb of a pilgrim, Sibylla and Knights, assembled
round the corpse of Wolfram, which is lying on a bier.
Dirge.
If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then sleep, dear, sleep;
And not a sorrow
Hang any tear on your eyelashes;
Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.
But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then die, dear, die;
'Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye;
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thou'lt meet her
In eastern sky.
Knight.
These rites completed, say your further pleasure.
Duke.
To horse and homewards in all haste: my business
Urges each hour. This body bury here,
With all due honours. I myself will build
A monument, whereon, in after times,
Those of his blood shall read his valiant deeds,
And see the image of the bodily nature
He was a man in. Scarcely dare I, lady,
Mock you with any word of consolation:
But soothing care, and silence o'er that sorrow,
Which thine own tears alone may tell to thee
Or offer comfort for; and in all matters
What thy will best desires, I promise thee.
Wilt thou hence with us?
Sibyl.
Whither you will lead me.
My will lies there, my hope, and all my life
Which was in this world. Yet if I shed tear,
It is not for his death, but for my life.
Dead is he? Say not so, but that he is
No more excepted from Eternity.
If he were dead I should indeed despair.
Can Wolfram die? Ay, as the sun doth set:
It is the earth that falls away from light;
Fixed in the heavens, although unseen by us,
The immortal life and light remains triumphant.
And therefore you shall never see me wail,
Or drop base waters of an ebbing sorrow;
No wringing hands, no sighings, no despair,
No mourning weeds will I betake me to;
But keep my thought of him that is no more,
As secret as great nature keeps his soul,
From all the world; and consecrate my being
To that divinest hope, which none can know of
Who have not laid their dearest in the grave.
Farewell, my love,—I will not say to thee
Pale corpse,—we do not part for many days.
A little sleep, a little waking more,
And then we are together out of life.
Duke.
Cover the coffin up. This cold, calm stare
Upon familiar features is most dreadful:
Methinks too the expression of the face
Is changed, since all was settled gently there;
And threatens now. But I have sworn to speak
And think of that no more, which has been done—
Now then into the bustle of the world!
We'll rub our cares smooth there.
Knight.
This gate, my lord;
There stand the horses.
Duke.
Then we're mounted straight.
But, pri'thee friend, forget not that the Duke
Is still in prison: I am a poor pilgrim.
[Exeunt.
Enter Isbrand and Siegfried attended.
Isbr.
Dead and gone! a scurvy burthen to this ballad
of life. There lies he, Siegfried; my brother, mark
you; and I weep not, nor gnash the teeth, nor curse:
and why not, Siegfried? Do you see this? So should
every honest man be: cold, dead, and leaden-coffined.
This was one who would be constant in friendship, and
the pole wanders: one who would be immortal, and the
light that shines upon his pale forehead now, through
yonder gewgaw window, undulated from its star hundreds
of years ago. That is constancy, that is life.
O moral nature!
Siegfr.
'Tis well that you are reconciled to his lot
and your own.
Isbr.
Reconciled! A word out of a love tale, that's
not in my language. No, no. I am patient and still
and laborious, a good contented man; peaceable as an
ass chewing a thistle; and my thistle is revenge. I
do but whisper it now: but hereafter I will thunder
the word, and I shall shoot up gigantic out of this pismire
shape, and hurl the bolt of that revenge.
Siegfr.
To the purpose: the priests return to complete
the burial.
Isbr.
Right: we are men of business here. Away
with the body, gently and silently; it must be buried
in my duke's chapel in Silesia: why, hereafter.
(The body is borne out by attendants)
That way, fellows:
the hearse stands at the corner of the square: but
reverently, 'tis my brother you carry.
[Exeunt.
