University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

A Bower in Stolberg Garden.
Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
Why lingers yet the sov'reign arbitress
Of hapless Herman's fate? Is't that, foreknowing
The dreadful truths he is about to tell,
Her tender nature shrinks from the rude trial,
And bids her shun a wretch unworthy of her?—
Lo! where she comes, all purity and truth.
Now, now she sees me—what a heav'nly grace
Beams o'er her lovely countenance!

Enter Ida.
IDA.
Thou tell'st me
Thou art the victim of calamity.
When I believ'd thee happy I esteem'd thee;
But when thou say'st that premature misfortune
Hath weigh'd upon thee heavily, oh! stay not
To tell the fatal tale. Think me thy friend,
Point out the means by which I may relieve thee.

HERMAN.
Transcendent sweetness! Thou art all perfection,
Pure as yon heav'n, to which we all aspire,
Though conscience tell us we're unworthy of it.
Ah! fix not thus on me thy pitying glance;
Thy tenderness unmans me: I have need
Of all my firmness, to complete the task,
Which stubborn duty has impos'd on me.
Let me implore thee, lady, to vouchsafe
A patient hearing to my luckless story.
I've that to tell thee—but alas! how can I
Detail the horrors of my cruel fate,
Or be the herald of mine own disgrace!

IDA.
I will not credit thee. Thou art too noble
To merit the reproach thy words imply.

HERMAN.
Hear then, and, if thou can'st, disdain me not.
I am the victim of another's guilt;
A father's crimes—I tremble to relate it—
Entail'd a curse on his devoted offspring.
Say, lady, hath perchance the name of Walstein
E'er met thine ear?

IDA.
Walstein dost say? Good heav'n!
He was my uncle's direst foe.

HERMAN.
That Walstein
Was Herman's father. To detail the cause
Which drove him, as an outcast from mankind,
To shun society, and to become
Its bitt'rest foe, would be an idle waste
Of the few precious moments thus allow'd me.
Suffice it then to say, within this forest
He found a refuge. There, in a lone cavern,
A troop of wild banditti held their station.
With them associate, soon superior talent
Made him their leader. Many a toilsome year
Witness'd his lawless reign, and when at length
His days were number'd, on my elder brother
Devolv'd his rude precedence. I meanwhile—

IDA.
Thou Herman—thou the inmate of a cavern!

HERMAN.
From earliest youth such was my destiny.
Yet often would a glancing ray of light
Beam on my soul, and fancied images
Of better recollections cross my mind,
Confus'd and indistinct, like the faint shadows
Of a gay dream, which haunt the wand'ring fancy
Of a poor wretch who wakes to certain woe.
Such certainty was mine. 'Till the blest hour
When I saw thee, no cheering hope appear'd
To pierce the gloom that thus envelop'd me.

IDA.
No more—thou hast already said too much—
Thou the associate of a felon crew!—
In pity oh unsay the dreadful story!

HERMAN.
I knew thou could'st not choose but hate me, lady;
Yet canst thou not detest me more, than I
Detest myself. Though haply I may plead
The errors of my youth were not mine own.
They were mine only legacy deriv'd
From an unhappy father, once class'd high
Among Hungaria's peers. He brought me up
'Mid scenes of guilt; but they could not efface
The principles which nature had implanted
In my young heart. Heav'n had bestow'd one gift,
One precious gift, to save me from perdition.
An elder brother—let me rather call him
My guardian angel—pitied and preserv'd me.
Virtuous himself, he taught me to love virtue.
With him am I about to quit these haunts,
And in some foreign clime, where yet our shame
Is not by rumour blazon'd, seek a fortune
More kindred to our birth and inborn feelings.
To-morrow's sun will witness our departure—

IDA.
Go then, and leave me to despair!—Or if
Thy purposes, brave youth, be those of virtue—
Nay, look not on me thus—I don't distrust thee—
I know, I feel they cannot but be virtuous—
Stay, and support me, Herman, 'gainst a fate,
Which now the knowledge of a worth like thine
Hath render'd insupportable.—Just heav'n!
Condemn me not, for yielding to an influence
I cannot combat.—If thou'st truth or feeling,
Let me implore thee not to leave me thus—
Save me, oh save me, Herman, from destruction!

HERMAN.
Oh rack not thus my bosom! Tempt me not
Beyond the bearing of a man!—I must not—
I dare not understand thee. Thou'rt too pure,
Too dignified, to share the hapless fortunes
Of a lost wretch like me.

IDA.
No, Herman, no—
Thy worth and innate nobleness exalt thee
To a proud eminence, whence with disdain
Thou may'st look down on rank and dignities.
Hence then each idle sentiment of pride!
My soul's above ye! Henceforth let me prove
I am thine equal, Herman, in those feelings
Which have engag'd my heart. Go where thou wilt,
Betide what may, I'll follow thee—become
The faithful sharer of thy humblest fortunes—
I'll aid thee—comfort thee—nay, beg for thee—

HERMAN.
Sure thou'rt some seraph wrapt in human form!
[Embracing her.
Forgive me, lady—Herman for a moment
Forgot himself and thee.—Heav'ns! dost thou weep?
Oh spare me, spare me! Ev'ry pearly drop
Which trickles from those eyes, each sigh which heaves
That bosom, raise a tempest in my soul,
Which mortal constancy cannot sustain.—
Have pity on me, heav'n! I feel my weakness—
My heart proves traitor—But it may not be—
I cannot prove a villain, and undo thee.
Oh! let me fly thee, while I yet have pow'r
To bear the conflict of contending passions.
If I look on thee, if I hear thy voice,
I am no more myself.—May angels guard thee!

[Exit.
IDA.
Stay, Herman, stay!—he's gone!—Alas! with him
My peace and happiness are flown together.
Thou leav'st me, Herman! We may meet no more,
Never again that eye, that voice may cheer me:
But ever present to my suff'ring heart
Shall be the mem'ry of thy gallant nature.
Thus, in the presence of all-seeing heav'n,
To thee eternal constancy I vow.
Though climes may intervene, though trackless oceans
May roll between us, thy still cherish'd image
Shall follow me to solitude, and teach me
To consecrate my soul to thee and virtue!

[Exit.