 | Lorenzo, A Tragedy In Five Acts |  |
7
ACT I.
SCENE, A Hall in the Duke of Alba's Palace.Enter Seraphina and Guzman.
GUZMAN.
Subdue this silent languishment, these tears,
Which vainly rising to your eye-lids, fall
Back on the heart, as wanting pow'r to flow.
Does it become the Duke of Alba's wife,
Pale, and dejected, thro' the Court of Spain,
To glide a with'ring phantom, and controul
Each festive scene with sullen melancholy?
SERAPHINA.
Alas! my lord! the temper of the mind
Cannot be chang'd by effort, else the smile
8
Should still be jocund as a vernal morn;
But with affections different, nature moulds
Her pliant creatures. If in yon blue vault,
She bids the early lark exulting sing,
She also teaches the poor nightingale
Retired amongst the shelter'd groves of eve,
To trill the tones of sorrow.
GUZMAN.
But answer, Seraphina, did I not
Raise you from fallen fortune, take your hand
Amidst the desolation that weigh'd down
Your father's former greatness? 'Tis to me
He owes his present proud prosperity,
And a kind monarch's uncondition'd favour;
Then shall not gratitude at least repay?—
SERAPHINA.
Whoe'er, my lord! bestows his bounty, merely
To purchase gratitude, deserves it not;
But noble minds receive their great reward,
When those they benefit are render'd happy.
GUZMAN.
Do not full coffers of Peruvian gold
Wait your disposal, and Golconda's gems
Offer their lustre to adorn your charms?
And if you choose, amidst the gorgeous scenes
9
Who shall compare with Alba's lovely lady?
SERAPHINA.
Your rank, your rich possessions, and high state,
Never allur'd my heart, nor can they gain it.
A hapless, tho' a rigid parent's sufferings,
To me were strong persuasions, forc'd me first
To listen to your vows, and then receive—
GUZMAN.
Myself and my advantages, I find,
Were then to thee, but unimportant objects.
SERAPHINA.
O! I had wish'd to dedicate my days
To pray'r and penitence; the pealing choir
Of holy maidens, and the convent's gloom,
Had suited well my soul, so had I paid,
Without a pang, my debt of gratitude
To heav'n, for having veil'd me from the world.
GUZMAN.
Nor is it gratitude alone I seek,
But more, demand affection as my right;
Then do not thus disturb my doubtful heart,
With wild discourse of strong persuasions urg'd;—
E'en at the sacred altar you have sworn
To yield to me your duty and your faith.
10
To be the Duke of Alba's faithful wife,
I swore, and such I am, and such will be:
O you have all my faith, but for my love,
Did I not tell you at that solemn hour,
When, spite of my reluctance and entreaties,
You seiz'd your prey, did I not then declare,
With trembling tongue, I had no love to give?
GUZMAN.
Think you, I knew so little of your sex,
To heed a timid maiden's supplications,
Not to enforce what most she surely wishes.
You all accept the nuptial wreath, with look
Of winning bashfulness; but then, I deem,
'Tis eager passion paints the glowing cheek,
And not the blush of artless modesty.
SERAPHINA.
Your thoughts indeed, and mine, cannot accord,
But sentiments opposing, counteract
That union which religion's laws have sanction'd;
Such is my language of sincerity!
I promise, therefore, Guzman! much to honor,
And to obey you truly—for the rest—
Heaven pardon me, the Will muste'er be free!
11
This frank avowal of essential failing,
Shall not avail you, Madam! Nor will I,
Your rightful lord, content me with obedience.
Prepare to conquer your too stubborn purpose,
And learn to meet my wishes with affection,
Or by yon orb that fires the western sky,
You soon, like his proud beams, shall set in darkness.
SERAPHINA.
O, whither shall I turn for peace or pity?
GUZMAN.
What, have I torn my laurels from the brow
Of bleeding danger, in the thickest fight,
To have them blighted by a woman's frown;
And shall I, practis'd in the seemly arts
Of polish'd life, with ev'ry youthful grace
To win attention from the courtly fair;
Shall I, submissive, meet your cold disdain,
And own myself unworthy to be lov'd?
Hither your father comes, let him approve
This base, injurious scorn.
Enter Fabio.
GUZMAN.
From you, Don Fabio!
12
Your daughter as my pledge of future friendship.
FABIO.
It is most true; and gratefully remember'd.
GUZMAN.
I have perform'd my part, and now you stand
In the first circle of our king's esteem;
But she, for whom I toil'd to reinstate you,
And bade you triumph o'er a host of foes,
Yes, she with open candour, boasts to hate me.
FABIO.
Your words convert attention to amazement.
GUZMAN.
I am, it seems, of an unpleasant aspect,
Of manners coarse, and void of qualities
To make impression on her nice discernment.
Now let the mildew of opprobrious shame,
Wither my full-blown glories, if I bear
The foul reproach.
FABIO.
Daughter! I cannot brook
This vile debasement of my friend, or suffer
That it should pass as proof of filial duty.
13
O, do not further irritate the Duke
By wrong discoursings! Cast a pitying eye
On your own child, your duteous Seraphina;
And let the supposition of that woe,
Which feeds upon her heart-strings, intercede
To soften your displeasure.—
FABIO.
A curse upon the hour which gave thee birth,
The measure of my woes was not complete
'Till that untoward time; I know thee, traitress!
Thou art more various than the shifting gale,
Deceitful as the surface of the deep!
SERAPHINA.
A father's mercy surely might conceal
My errors, rather than thus magnify—
But nature has no voice to plead for me!
FABIO.
Rouze up your flagging spirit, let her find
You can command; a husband ne'er should sigh
Like the wan suitor;—laugh at her caprice;
'Tis but some momentary rage, which hangs
On her vain heart, some secret jealousy
Of beauty more admir'd, or sense superior.
14
O, faithless exposition! cruel censure!
GUZMAN.
E'en now with less humility than sarcasm,
Her tongue explain'd 'twas for your sake alone,
She condescended to bestow her charms
On one so undeserving of the favour.
FABIO.
Despise the fallacy of female words,
Which simulate, and boast conceptions foreign
From the soul's meaning. When you came to woo her,
You may remember how she seem'd to shun
Ev'ry endearment offer'd, and repress
Your ardent hopes by frigid inattention.
GUZMAN.
The recollection stings me at this moment,
And re-excites my then conceal'd vexation.
FABIO.
No sooner had you left her, than her tongue
Would tire itself discoursing in your praise;
As, “what a gallant gentlemen he is,
“So comely, and so courteous, do you think
“I am his best belov'd, speak, dearest father!”
And then, poor soul, she'd weep, and then again
15
Till my cloy'd ear was weary.
GUZMAN.
Can it be?
SERAPHINA.
Ah! mock me not thus fatally, nor thus
Deceive my lord; but with a true endeavour
Expatiate on the trouble of that time.
When first the Duke assail'd me with his sighs,
And in proud preference distinguish'd me;
While you, with no benign observance paid
To my despair, ordain'd I must be his.
Have I not wander'd from the sad abode,
Which then gave shelter to our humbled state,
When the swift stream from Albarazin's hills,
Was driv'n by stormy midnight to the plain,
And there, in solitude, indulg'd my grief?
Or when the summer's Sun in the red East,
Gather'd his burning arrows, have you not
Found me low leaning o'er the chrystal source,
Where infant Tagus from his flow'ry bed
Leaps into life; have you not found me there,
Freighting his early voyage with my tears?
From you, the inmost secrets of my heart
Were never yet conceal'd, and can you urge
That it was a Guzman I ador'd?
16
Ha! then
Some happier mortal, some insidious knave!
With oily tongue, and delicate demeanour,
Had won the affection which I might not merit.
For him you trod the dreary vale, and told
Low-whisper'd sorrows to the sickly moon.
'Tis well disclos'd—Your coldness I could brook,
But that another should usurp my place,
In your soul's wishes, honest pride disdains.
SERAPHINA.
Be tranquilliz'd, my Lord, there is no other.
GUZMAN.
Perchance the adventurous hero now aspires
To Guzman's wife, O speak it if he should,
And tho' to shun my furious indignation,
He fly to central Pyrennean caves,
And herd with wolves, e'en there my sword shall reach him.
SERAPHINA.
Let not the teeming of an anxious brain,
Produce undue suspicion, for I swear
No man alive shares Seraphina's love.—
Then grant this last indulgence, suffer me
In decent privacy, and calm retirement,
17
Which hope no more can flatter; so will I
Pour with unceasing fervour the pure pray'r
For endless blessings on you.
GUZMAN.
Hereafter I'll consider the request.
[Exit Seraphina.
FABIO.
And are we made, then, of such poor materials,
That the most noble natures may be shaken
From their consistence, by each operation
Of feminine pretext? I've heard thee mention'd
As firm in council; and wide-sounding fame
Has told of spirited encounters, where
Thy neighing courser, mid th' embattled ranks,
Bore a true hero, and thy reeking sword,
Fell with a God's displeasure; but I find
These were, alas! but vain and idle rumours;
This hero, and this god, created merely
By the vile breath of unsubstantial praise.—
Shame, shame, my Lord, be worthier of thyself!
GUZMAN.
Be then my monitor, for the cool blood,
Investigates the mode, and rectitude,
That may bring 'vantage, while deceitful passion,
Is but an Ignis-fatuus to the mind,
18
Leads us away far from our proper path,
To the unthought-of, fatal precipice.
FABIO.
Should you assume a sportive gallantry,
Lavish encomium on some other Fair,
And breathe with transport a fictitious fondness:
No more solicitous, if Seraphina
Be adverse or propitious; should you meet her
With exhibition of adopted scorn,
She'd soon become as amorous as the dove,
That with unwearied wing pursues its mate.
GUZMAN.
Shall I then practise mean dissimulation,
To win her slow avowal of regard?
Perish the rash proposal—No, she pray'd
For solitude's seclusion, and I'll grant it;
Then let her pine, and wonder at my absence;
Yet, art thou sure in my surmise alone,
Exists her hatred?—
FABIO.
On my life she loves you; but in childhood,
Her most sincere desirings were disguis'd
By wayward contradiction, and her face,
Shew'd like a mask upon the true intent
That struggled in her bosom.—
19
On Almunecar's shore I have a castle,
Skirted with forests circling to the sea,
Built in the Moorish wars; thither I'll send her,
There may she languish in the moonlight tower,
And eye the midland main, and hear the surge
Roll its loud discord from the coast of Afric.
There may she count the tedious hours, and load
The winding echoes with the name of Guzman,
Who shall be oft demanded ere he come.
FABIO.
The purpose I approve, nor shall her trial
Of perseverance, aught discountenance
My penetration; the result of which,
Will surely be her speedy wavering,
And unconstrain'd disclosure of affection.
I'll bear your pleasure to her, which shall join
A secret sorrow to assum'd content.
GUZMAN.
Then be it so—but the time now should lead us
To the throng'd court, with off'rings of our duty.
FABIO.
My lord! most willingly I follow you.
20
Where the benignant royal Ferdinand,
With fair incitement of exalted kindness,
Expects, and properly commands our presence.
[Exit. Don Guzman.
FABIO.
Nay now, my spirit wretchedly sustains
Its infamy's concealment, and its care.
Yet what is conscience? All can scoff at it,
For who that sits in judgment on himself,
But gives aquittal of those very crimes,
Which others deem most flagrant, for he pleads
Some proper motive, some necessity
Invincible, which none beside consider.
Yet, were it known, that solemnly I promis'd
The Count Lorenzo should espouse my daughter,
And that she wastes her prime in hopeless sighs
For his imagin'd death, while in vile chains
He languishes, and toils thro' the dull day,
At the stern will of unrelenting Moors.
Or should it be disclos'd that I've abus'd
His letter's trust, my ruin were complete!
But have I not discover'd that his father
Was my invet'rate foe, and secretly
The cause of those indignities I suffer'd?
Then let the stripling perish in his bondage,
I will not combat with his destiny,
Nor rescue him to damn my future fame.
[Exit.
End of the First Act.
| Lorenzo, A Tragedy In Five Acts | |