 | Clementina |  |
12
ACT II.
An Apartment in Anselmo's Palace.Enter Granville and Elizara.
Elizara.
And is it possible? Do I once more
Behold Rinaldo?—
Gran.
Yes, my Elizara;
Yet oh take heed, sweet maid, alone to know me
For what I seem—Th'ambassador of France.
As such alone Anselmo has receiv'd me,
And such my king confirms me.—But declare,
How fares my Clementina?—How does she
Support the oft proclaim'd, the general tale,
That now six moons has rank'd me with the dead?
Eliz.
She bears it like a wife that truly lov'd—
But by what miracle again restor'd
Acquaint me!—for concurring multitudes
Beheld your fall in battle, and reported,
That in a pile of greatly slaughter'd heroes,
A Gallic squadron bore you from the field.
Gran.
I fell indeed amidst the gen'ral carnage,
And lay some hours among the honour'd dead;
For whom the vanquish'd, France's gen'rous sons
Made one bold effort to obtain a grave:
Here a brave youth of that exalted nation.
Close by whose side with emulative fire
I fought for Venice on that hapless day;
13
And by a kind of miracle restor'd me.—
Then to the king in terms of warmest weight,
Proclaim'd my fancied merits.—Royal Lewis
Received the story with a gracious ear,
And pour'd profuse, his favours on Rinaldo.
Eliz.
Why then, O why, distinguish'd thus, thus honour'd,
Did not Rinaldo sooth his sorrowing friends,
And ease the torments of a wife's despair?
Gran.
O Elizara! how my soul has felt
For all the anguish she was doom'd to suffer,
That heaven, which knows the greatness of my love,
Alone can witness.—but the conquering arms
Of widely wasting Ferdinand, cut off
Our commerce with the world—and had not fate,
In two late fields propitious smil'd upon us,
Rinaldo yet, distracted and forlorn,
Had dragg'd a chain of miserable being;
Nor known, as now he shall, th'extatic bliss
Of speaking peace to weeping Clementina.
Eliz.
But whence this transformation?—Why conceal'd
Beneath the garb of France, does brave Rinaldo
So closely seek to hide himself in Granville?
Gran.
For ends of moment.—If the charge I bear
Meets, as I hope, and as I think it ought,
A warm reception from Anselmo—Then
I come determin'd to avow my marriage;
And gracious Lewis will, I trust, remove
The fatal feuds that shake our angry houses.
Eliz.
But shou'd Anselmo disapprove your charge,
What measure then remains to be pursu'd,
And what becomes of weeping Clementina?
Gran.
There my disguise is suited to assist me;
Shou'd he refuse to join the views of France,
14
And my design, to bear off Clementina.
Eliz.
You talk, Rinaldo, with an air of triumph;
Think you the first of our Venetian daughters,
Can in a moment thus be borne away;
Borne from her palace compass'd round with guards,
Surrounding virgins, and a watchful father?
Gran.
My name conceal'd and all my train instructed,
My king's credentials bearing but the title,
Which he himself has giv'n me, and which yet
Has reach'd no ear of Venice but your own,
Can there exist a doubt of my success?
Unknown—unnoticed—unsuspected quite,
A trusty friend shall lead her to the beach,
If Clementina, like myself, disguis'd
Will venture aught to bless her faithful husband.
Eliz.
Rinaldo shou'd pursue a diff'rent course,
A course more suited to his worth and honour.
Now independent, now so rais'd in France,
What can you dread from Venice or its leader?
Your fortunes now are equal to your birth.
Shou'd then your embassy displease Anselmo,
Act like yourself!—throw off this dark disguise,
And nobly claim your wife.—You know his justice,
And know besides he cannot hate you farther.
Gran.
Fain, gentle maid, wou'd I pursue this counsel,
And in the face of day assert my right;
But if the purport of my public business,
Which heaven avert! shoul'd raise Anselmo's anger,
My life, once known, must expiate my crime.
I come, I hope, to bless the state of Venice;
But I come also, with a foreign ruler—
This, you know well, is death by law declar'd;
Nor cou'd th'ambassador of France, preserve
Th'offending subject from the stroke of justice.
15
May heaven indulgent smile upon your hopes!
But oh! I dread, I dread a disappointment.
And see, impatience frowning on his brow,
Hither Anselmo comes.—Let me fly hence,
And bless my friend, with tidings of her lord!
Exit.
Enter Anselmo, with Papers.
Ansel.
Well, Sir, the views of Lewis are at length
Reveal'd; and here, I see, he speaks them plainly.
Gran.
Why, sage Anselmo, this offended brow?
I trust my master's offers have deserv'd
Your highest approbation; for they breathe
Nought but attachment, and regard for Venice.
Ansel.
Is this the basis of his love for Venice?
Has he stood forth a champion for our freedom,
Merely himself to tread us into slaves?
And sav'd us from the arm of haughty Spain,
To make us bear his own oppressive yoke?
Go tell your king, and tell him from Anselmo,
That France and Venice can be friends no more;
Tell him, to us, all tyrants are the same;
Or if in bonds the never-conquer'd soul
Can feel a pang more keen than slav'ry's self,
Tis when the chains, that crush us into dust,
Are forged by hands from which we hop'd for freedom
Gran.
And what idea does my business raise,
Of slaves or tyrants, servitude or chains?
Tis true the gracious Lewis has propos'd
To take the state of Venice to his care,
If sage Anselmo, her illustrious leader,
Approves the scheme of well-concerted empire—
He sees with deep, with nobly-minded sorrow,
How, still expos'd to ev'ry pow'rful neighbour,
16
Hence, with paternal tenderness, he wishes
T'enrol your sons among the sons of France,
And make the subjects of his diff'rent realms,
One equal, common, and united people.
If this be slav'ry—
Ansel.
'Tis the worst of slav'ry,
Tamely to bend our necks beneath the yoke,
And suffer fraud, to talk us out of freedom.—
If we must yield before superior force,
Let us at least deserve the name of men;
Let us fall nobly, if we are to fall,
And give the world in characters of blood,
Eternal causes to lament our fate,
But never one occasion to despise us!
Gran.
Far from my bosom be the abject thought!
To stoop the servile minister of greatness,
Or crouch the advocate for lawless pow'r:
The heir myself of heav'n descended freedom,
I wish the same bright heritage to all.
And inly scorn a brotherhood with slaves.
Yet sure, some form your government must know;
The reigns of state must somewhere be devolv'd;
And he who holds them, name him as you please,
Must be your prince, and you must be his subjects.
Why then, if Lewis solemnly shall swear,
To hold your rights inviolably sacred;
Still to maintain the spirit of your laws,
And never know another line of action;
Why should you turn indignantly away,
And slight the offer of a mighty monarch,
Who knows that form of government is best,
Which best secures the welfare of the people?
Ansel.
Because your monarch, in this very offer,
Seeks to subvert our glorious constitution;
17
Where virtue only, gives superior rank;
And where the genius of descended Rome,
Has levell'd all distinctions but in goodness.
What is his promise to maintain us free?
Sir, we'll maintain that freedom for ourselves;
And to maintain it, we reject your master.
The pow'r, so safe in his benignant hand,
Is safer still, retain'd within our own;
We know the worth of liberty too well,
Ever to cast the blessing basely from us,
Or still more basely to survive our honour.
Gran.
You need not cast the mighty blessing from you.—
The king my master, wishes for no more,
Than such mere title to the realms of Venice,
As to his subjects and the world may warrant,
A warm exertion of continual care
For this his dear ally.—And mark, my lord;
[shewing a paper.
The moment Venice owns him for her sovereign,
This instrument confirms the viceroy's office,
With all the active rule, to great Anselmo
And his heirs for ever—
Ansel.
Am I awake?
Or can I trust my reason?—Patience—Patience!
Are all the bright atchievements of my life
Unable now to save me from disgrace?
Thus to the winds I give the vile proposal:
[tearing the paper.
Thus tear the record of imputed shame;
Nor let succeeding ages be inform'd
That mortal man has dar'd to doubt my honour!
18
No more, my lord! my king I see has err'd,
In off'ring peace and happiness to Venice.
Yet let me mourn for you, her wretched race!
Her slaughter'd sons, and violated virgins;
For you, her shrieking matrons; and for you,
O ye unconscious, unoffending babes,—
Driv'n from your humble yet your chearful homes,
To timeless graves, or everlasting exile!
Anselmo dooms you to this dreadful fate,
And spurns the friendship offer'd to preserve you.
Ansel.
Eternal curses on the baleful friendship,
That seeks to cheat us of our native justice!
And did your mean, your poorly-thinking prince
Suppose Anselmo would betray his country,
Hang up his name to everlasting scorn,
And sell the brightest birthright of a people,
To gain a robber's portion of the plunder!
What cou'd repay me for internal peace,
Or give distinction where I sold my honour?
The wildest prodigal the world can know,
Is he who madly casts away his virtue;
And tho' he gains a sceptre in return,
He's still a wretched loser by the change—
Gran.
Enough, my lord; we end our conf'rence here.—
Venice, 'tis true, admires the good Anselmo,
And trusts her present safety to his wisdom;—
Yet if his fellow-citizens shall hear,
How light their happiness is held, when weigh'd
In glory's grand, tho' too romantic scale,
Well may they mourn this honourable madness,
This dread, tho' bright, delirium of the mind,
Which seeks for safety in assur'd destruction,
And blindly murders nations to preserve them.
19
Whene'er they shew such turpitude of soul,
Make them again an offer of your chains!—
But now, the purport of your business o'er.
And public character thrown wholly off,
In the plain province of a private man,
Let me salute the noble lord of Granville;
And beg, while Venice boasts of such a guest,
He'll not disdain the dwelling of Anselmo!
Gran.
My lord, with equal gratitude and pleasure,
I meet your kindness for my little stay;
My scarce furl'd sails must quickly court the wind,
And bear me back to my expecting master.
Ansel.
Th'assembled senate now requires my presence—
My lord, farewel!—I treat you as a friend.—
I never dealt in ceremony yet; and you'll excuse
Th'unpolish'd manners of Venetian sailors.
Gran.
The gen'rous frankness of your temper here,
Bespeaks a native honesty and wisdom,
That makes me doubly anxious for the state,
And doubly mourn your harsh reply to Lewis.
Ansel.
Mourn not for us, my lord!—a free-born people
Can have but two bright objects of ambition;
A life of honour, or a death of glory:
And when for virtuous liberty they fall,
They share at least the second greatest blessing
Which heav'n e'er pour'd in mercy on mankind.
[Exit.
Gran.
[alone]
How I admire his fortitude of soul,
And love his pride, tho' adverse to my wishes!
Once my own bosom vehemently flam'd
With all the phrenzy of his noble zeal,
And look'd on death more eligible far,
Than ev'n a government of certain bliss,
Beneath the reign of any foreign ruler.—
20
Of fancied virtue and ideal honour—
My Clementina!—
Enter Clementina.
Clementina.
My long-lost Rinaldo!
'Tis he—'tis he, and Elizara err'd not!
The grave has giv'n him back.—All-seeing heaven,
In kind compassion to a wife's despair,
By some benignant miracle has rais'd him;
And these transported arms again enfold
The best belov'd, the most deplor'd of husbands.
Gran.
My life's great bliss! here let me grow for ever.
Clem.
It is too much—I shall run wild with rapture—
How are you sav'd, and wherefore thus disguis'd?
Yet do not answer—partly Elizara
Has told me of your views—and 'tis enough
I see you safe—That providence be prais'd!
Whose mercy sent you at an hour of dread,
To snatch me from destruction!
Gran.
O my love!
I cannot tell you half of what I feel;
Words are too poor.—Yet say, my chiefest good,
Say, do you love with such transcendent truth,
That if the kindness of indulging fate,
Shou'd point out ways of flying with Rinaldo,
To some secure, some hospitable coast,
Alike propitious to our peace and fortune;
Wou'd Clementina, wou'd a wife prefer
The fond, the ardent bosom of a husband,
To the stern mansion of a ruthless father?
21
Wou'd she prefer?—O quickly let him lead her
Thro' dreary wastes, and never-trodden wilds,
Where heat, cold, famine, in their dread extremes,
At each new footstep strike an added horror;
Thro' the noon-blaze of fierce autumnal suns,
O'er burning desarts instantly conduct her;
Or where the stiff'ning nations of the night,
In more than winter freeze beneath the pole;
Thro' these bear off your faithful Clementina;
And tho' a filial anguish drowns her eye,
At what her poor, her rev'rend father feels,
O never question if she loves Rinaldo!
Gran.
Thus let me press you to my grateful bosom.
Thus speak the raptures of my swelling heart!
Clem.
O I have much to tell you of my sorrows.
But what are sorrows now?—The gracious being,
Who from a precipice of guilt and woe,
In this dread crisis, snatch'd me by your hand,
O'erpays me tenfold for my past afflictions,
And all my tears were ministers of joy.
[Exeunt.
| Clementina | |