University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

CONSTANTIA'S House.
LORENZO and LAURA.
LORENZO.
How did my sister go? and when depart?
And which way did she steer her desp'rate course?
Did you not strive to keep her till my coming?

LAURA.
My Lord, I did; as far as I cou'd dare,
And ev'ry anxious argument employ'd,
Which she with seeming acquiescence heard,
And said she wou'd rely on Heav'n's decree;
Then sent me forth to pray Rodolpho's lady
Wou'd come to soothe her melancholy hours.
I chearfully obey'd—but on return,
Found, with astonishment, that she was gone!
No token left behind of her design:
'Twas this fell paper hurried her away.

LORENZO
reads it.
Cruel indeed, and of alarming purport;
What subject's safe, if such dire orders pass
Unfelt, and unresented by a people?

Enter a SERVANT.
SERVANT.
The Prince Colredo—

LORENZO.
Are the dead reviv'd!
Admit him straight— [Enter Colredo.]
You are a sight of joy
To me, tho' here a cause of misery—
The ancient palace of Alberti's race
Is now a desart scene of desolation;
Its master to the Cave of Idra sent,
And poor Constantia fled; we know not whither
This cruel scroll has caus'd her sudden flight.

COLREDO.
Let me behold, and the contents peruse.
[Reads it.
“Leopold,”—that's not the Emperor's hand—

LORENZO.
No?—

COLREDO.
No, by Heav'n! I know it, Sir, as well
As my own hand, and cannot be mistaken.

LORENZO.
But that is Seyfert's signature you'll own.

COLREDO.
It is most sure—and hence do I suspect
Seyfert to be a most flagitious villain;
Therefore I'm hither come for information
Of all relating to th'unhappy duel,
Ere I present me to the Emperor,
Whom Seyfert has induc'd to think I'm dead;
And had his plan succeeded must have been,
Having employ'd a surgeon, not to cure
But poison me—yet under friendship's mask.
The man, too honest for so base a deed,
Deceiving Seyfert, let me know the whole.
This dark transaction soon shall be display'd
In the strong colouring it deserves; and
Prove the means of rescuing Alberti.
Let's send forth scouts to scour the country round,
And bring the fair Constantia to her home.
You'll with me to the court, to join complaints
Against this unprovok'd, this harden'd villain.

LORENZO.
My Lord, let's lose no time in virtue's cause.
We'll call upon Rodolpho in our way,
Whose interest will strengthen our design.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Cave.
Enter EVERARD and FAULKNER followed by Slaves.
EVERARD.
It answers well what fame so loud reports,
And is indeed prodigious!—so useful
Are mechanic laws in all the offices
Of artful life.

FAULKNER.
It is indeed amazing!
And speaks the forward folly of the human heart.

EVERARD.
How luxury with lynx's eye can pierce
Thro' Nature's bowels with a vulture-appetite
And ransack to the centre for a toy!
A shining toy, to dazzle vanity
And glitter on the greedy eye of fashion,
The shame of reason, and her boasted sons.

SLAVE.
Man has many natures in his essence,
That long lie hid and unperceiv'd by him,
But oft start up at rigour's strong command,
Put on strange shapes, and leap the common bounds.
Alas! we know not what distress can do.

EVERARD.
I long to see the sun for thy sad sake,
And make thee in thy own despite yet happy.
Oh! what an extasy to hearts humane,
To lift th'oppress'd with comfort giving hand,
And labour joyful for another's peace.

SLAVE.
Heaven will sure reward thy feeling heart,
When I am mingled with the dust for ever.

EVERARD.
Nay, bend not thus to black despondence, Sir,
Fortune and Count Alberti may bring back
The blissful moments to thy wounded soul
With unexpected speed—look up—be happy.

SLAVE.
The cordial of thy words, if aught on earth
Cou'd lift my sorr'wing soul, wou'd make me happy.

Enter ALBERTI behind with a Lamp, and on seeing EVERARD seems much surprized.
EVERARD.
The Count Alberti I have seen with joy
Applauded, and with laurels cover'd o'er;
He was indeed a man belov'd, and fortune
Bless'd him; if he lives, he is happy still,
And shines in favour at th'imperial court.

ALBERTI.
Ha! hark! do now my ears admonish truly,
Or are those eager eyes inform'd aright?
Oh, Heav'n and earth! it is, it is my friend!

EVERARD.
What means this prying slave? he seems to know me.

ALBERTI.
Is that the voice of friendship so long lost
To my sad organs in this cave accurs'd!
In spite of black despair it is my friend!
I must be satisfied and look him through.

EVERARD.
What wou'd thy sharp inspection thus discover?

ALBERTI.
Is that! is that!—It is my honour'd Everard!

EVERARD.
Ha, thy Everard! Say what sprite art thou?
Yet something grates upon my memory:
I think I've heard that alter'd voice before.

ALBERTI.
Thou hast, indeed! in better time and place.
My name! my name, alas! was once Alberti.

EVERARD.
Was once Alberti! ha! then know'st thou not
The noble Count, my friend, who bears that name,
That honour'd name? he cou'd surely serve thee.

ALBERTI.
I knew him once; but, oh! he's strangely alter'd.

EVERARD.
Not alter'd from his noble nature, sure,
Or happy rank; thou dost betray his worth.

ALBERTI.
Aye, alter'd to the wretch that stands before thee—

EVERARD.
Ha! transform'd to such a thing as thou art!
In such a shape as thine! the Count Alberti!

ALBERTI.
I cannot wonder at thy hard belief:
Thou coud'st not sure expect to find me here.

EVERARD.
What, in the Cave of Idra! Nature now
Has mingled mad extremes in one dark mass,
And all distinction is for ever lost!
Alberti foremost in the lists of glory!
What minister of wrath has brought thee hither?

ALBERTI.
I have a tale to tell thee, Everard, that
Wou'd melt the rocks of Scythia at the sound,
Nay, make the tyrants of this dungeon weep.

EVERARD.
Thy state already racks my tortur'd soul.
Can aught be added to a lot like thine?
What dreadful tale of woe remains behind?

ALBERTI.
A tale unequal'd yet, by talking time,
In all his registers of love and honour.

EVERARD.
Too true I see; by Heav'n it is thyself!
The poor remains, the image pale, the manes
Of my noble friend! Oh, tell! tell me all,
Good Heav'n and earth, what brought thee to this den?

ALBERTI.
An evil chance administer'd my ruin.
My crime was but a soldier's rash career,
Who gave to glory what was wisdom's due.
The Prince Colredo, Gen'ral of the horse,
In rivalship of love and fame I fought,
And left for dead upon th'appointed spot:
Against th'Emperor's severe command, who
Had forbid, on pain of death, the duel—
For this sole act, to which my honour urg'd,
Here am I doom'd to drag a painful life.
Depriv'd of comfort, and of light for ever.

SLAVE.
Oh, how wond'rous are the ways of Heaven!
My lot, my bitter lot resembles thine:
I had a claim, like thee, to better fate.

ALBERTI.
Like me! like me! thou art but half a wretch—

EVERARD.
My hopes are blasted now of thy delivery:
And oh, Alberti! injur'd man, my heart
Must ever bleed for thee.

SLAVE.
Alas! my soul, Sir, wedded unto grief,
With joy attended to thy chearing promise,
But so repress'd by checks of rising fear
As wont with minds in melancholy plung'd.—
I dar'd not let keen rays of hope break forth,
Howe'er illusive to my fancy's eye:
They're now absorpt in disappointment's gloom.—
Yet since the fam'd Alberti's here, why shou'd I
With impious plaints just Providence arraign?
[Looking affectionately at him.
His hapless fate makes me forget my own.

[Exit.
ALBERTI.
My gen'rous friend, enough!
The door of hope, with adamantine bolt,
Is barr'd against my banish'd breast for ever!
This den my bed, these horrid walls my curtains,
These bounds my prospect, and these sights my joy;
This mortal atmosphere my vital gale;
These fumes my frankincense, this vault my heav'n,
Deep groans my music, and these lamps my noon;
Hard stripes my triumph, and this yoke my vict'ry,
My sceptre sorrow, and my crown despair!

EVERARD.
My greatly injur'd! Oh, my wretched friend!

ALBERTI.
Yet here, ev'n here, hath nature left her gates,
Her thousand friendly gates wide open still,
For wretchedness to pass, and lead to death:
What! think'st thou, my Everard, that my soul
Cou'd brook existence on such terms as these,
This love of abject, hated, horrid life?
To bear these bitter marks of nameless woe,
And be a witness of my own undoing;
To cling, to cleave a reptile in the dust,
And own myself a man; a soldier too;
Who fought for glory in the fields of fame,
And gather'd laurels from the lance of death:
Ha! this hand much better knows its office;
A friendly dagger here shou'd write my prompt
Discharge, and quickly free me from this cave.

EVERARD.
I shou'd not wonder at thy bold resolve,
Nor blame the manly, hardy deed when done:
Sure, none but hypocrites, and earth-born worms,
Thy firm thy Roman purpose cou'd arraign,
And call the necessary noble deed a crime.

ALBERTI.
And I had done it long e'er now, my friend,
This vital pulse had ceas'd to beat, these eyes
To see their own sad state; these ears to hear;
This wretched, throbbing, breaking heart to suffer:
And I had been beyond the reach of woe,
And bid at once my horrid lot defiance.—
But, Oh, my Everard! I am chain'd to being
A precious magnet stronger than the earth,
Th'attractive earth, and cent'ral sun, now draws
Me to itself, and makes a heav'n of this
Detested cave, and me an emperor.

EVERARD.
Alas, my noble friend! thy sorrows have
Disturb'd thy better part: thou talkest idly;
How my heart bleeds to see thy mind in ruins!

ALBERTI.
No, no, my Everard, all my thoughts are in
Their proper places, and attend to reason,
And every intellectual pulse beats right,
Now, canst thou guess what reconciles my soul
To this sad state, and brightens Idra's cave?

Enter CONSTANTIA.
CONSTANTIA.
I have not miss'd thee from my side so long,
Since that important day I first came hither:
Oh, say then, what cou'd thus long detain thee?
Or am I grown less pleasing to thy sight?

ALBERTI.
Oh, see the gem, th'inestimable gem!
Whose bright angelic beam annihilates
This nether hell, and makes it all a heav'n!
Oh! unexampled, and immortal woman!
Thou sole delight, thou phœnix of thy sex!
Thou matchless wonder, and thou star of truth!
Where now are all the boasts of ancient story?
Or where is Cato's boasted daughter now?
Look there upon that clouded angel's face,
Oh, my Everard, and thy heart must bleed.

EVERARD.
I stand amaz'd, and know not what I do,
For heaven's sake explain thyself my friend,
And from this wonder draw the veil aside.

ALBERTI.
Throw down that mark of thy abhorr'd condition,
And look upon that human face with joy.

CONSTANTIA.
What saving angel in the shape of man,
Hath paid a visit to a wretch like thee!
If heav'n hath sent thee, say thou art his friend,
And brighten with thy smiles this dark abode.

ALBERTI.
He is my friend, and feels my heart's distress;
Oh, Everard! turn thy eyes upon her,
Eclipsed as she is; yet shining through
The envious gloom that clouds her—Abstract,
My friend, her sad exterior seeming,
With eye intuitive, and read her soul.
Her beauty once was worthy kings to bless,
And spotless angels might compare with her.

EVERARD.
By heav'n, there's something in her air and port
That awes me, thro' the mean disguise she wears;
Nay more, I think I've seen this face ere now,
When no afflictive darkness robb'd the world
Of its resplendent lustre: tell me dethroned
Beauty where thou once did'st reign—for my soul
Wou'd be acquainted with thy sorrows, and
List'ning, heaven knows, wou'd fain redress 'em.

CONSTANTIA.
I think I saw thee at my father's palace
Attending on the Lord Ambassador,
That very day the peace was solemniz'd,
And all Vienna was in joy triumphant;
I think I saw thee with my dear Alberti
On friendly parties—and thy name is—Everard—

EVERARD.
By heaven, my faint conjecture aim'd aright,
The only daughter of the Prince Vanesky—
A curse upon your country's hated laws;
What crime hast thou committed honour'd lady—
Thou lovely innocence, condemn'd to groan
With toiling slaves, and labour in a mine.

ALBERTI.
Her crime, my friend, is virtue in excess,
Beyond example, and without a name:
A voluntary victim she came hither;
She left her father, and her faithful friends,
She left the splendors which her lofty birth
And plenteous fortune gayly flung around her,
With a liberal and unsparing hand;
She left the setting sun, the rising stars,
She left the bloom of nature in its pride,
She left the circling seasons, laughing year—
She left the morning, and she follow'd me
To darkness, danger, and the door of death,
And thought herself a gainer by the change.

CONSTANTIA.
And shall for ever think: this tool, this mattock,
This mark of mis'ry made for peasants hands,
For groaning slaves to grasp, beneath the scourge
Of task-imposing flinty fiends, in forms
Of men: this emblem of calamity,
This instrument of most severe affliction,
This badge of sorrow sharp, I wou'd not change
For the bright sceptre of the Gallic monarch;
Nor quit this dungeon, to be Empress made
Of all the earth, and rule the subject world,
Without my dear Alberti.—Thou, thou art
All to me; my father, friends, my fortune,
Splendor, and the world's applause: thou to me
Art all the seasons, sun, and moon, and stars,
The smiles of nature, and the laughing year.

ALBERTI.
Hear'st thou that, my Everard!—

EVERARD.
Let my looks (my words are lost in wonder)
Answer thee. And art thou of mortal mould,
Can human nature boast a work like thee?
The finish'd labour of thy Maker's hand;
And wou'dst thou here consume thy precious life
Within the horrors of this cave accurs'd?

CONSTANTIA.
Ah, look upon me, worthy Sir! behold,
The marks of a resolv'd determin'd soul
Are deep engraven here. Alas, they were
Not made to witness in a cause like this;
But they are honest. When I forsake thee,
O thou dear matchless man! Bear witness heaven
How I rejoice, how glory in my lot,
And drag my chain with joy, link'd close to thine!
With joy forget the gaudy glitt'ring world,
When yok'd in bondage, and a slave with thee.

ALBERTI.
Now, now, it strikes upon my vital spring,
My soul awakes, and rouses ev'ry pow'r;
Oh, horrid thought! without all hope, all comfort,
Thou shalt not thus be lost, for ever lost
On my account; I here will dig my grave,
And lay me down to sleep at rest for ever,
Nor rob the world of such a saint as thee.
Whilst thou my pride, my heart's ador'd delight,
Shalt once more visit day, and see the sun,
And bless thy parents and thy happy friends,
And bless the joyful world.—By heaven, my Everard,
'Tis sacrilege, 'tis murder to detain her here—
I'd rather die ten thousand deaths than she
Shou'd be a slave; I cannot view that garb
Without distraction!—dreadful words! Oh, never!

CONSTANTIA.
What means this conflict in thy troubled heart?
This hasty, sudden, strange emotion in thee?

ALBERTI.
She must not perish in a sty like this,
Who shou'd converse aloft with angels.—Go,
Go back, and bless mankind with all thy virtues,
All thy beauty, all thy bright example;
Go back, be bless'd, and there forget there liv'd,
There ever liv'd a wretch they call'd Alberti!

CONSTANTIA.
Curse on the counsel vile!—thou thankless, mean,
Cruel, and unworthy man!—Is this then
The grateful, kind, and dear return, for friends.
For fame, for love, for dignity and rank,
And all I've lost, triumphant lost for thee?
Dig deep that grave thou talk'st of now, unkind,
Make room enough for both, for both I say;
O dig it to the centre down—deep, deep.
Far from parents, light, life, the hated world,
And ev'ry thought but thee, my heart's best joy.

ALBERTI.
Why blame my tenderness with such returns?
Thou know'st my life is treasur'd up in thine.

CONSTANTIA.
Thou wou'dst not banish me to pomp and courts,
To parents, friends, to comfort, light, and life;
Thou wou'dst not envy me this bless'd abode,
Nor rob me of the precious Cave of Idra!
Let me dig up that grave, if thy poor hands
Shou'd fail, and softly make that low laid bed
Where undisturb'd we must for ever sleep.
Alberti, was it kind to talk so strange,
Thou treasure of my soul! thy cruel words
Have ta'en away the props of sinking life—
I never felt my bitter lot till now!
Now these sad lamps seem dancing to my sight,
And all their fading glimmer now goes out;
Oh, my Alberti, I shall die before thee!

[Faints.
ALBERTI.
She faints, she sinks, support her, O my Everard,—
Wou'd nature now let down the springs of life
In her and me, and in one happy moment
Cut quick the vital threads of both asunder!
O where is now that dagger which I hid,
And shou'd release from pain—O stay my seraph!
One gale of vital air may call her back:
Come, help to bear her from this loathed cell—
Assist, my Everard, thou art ever good.—