University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE—A Convent at Cambray.
Enter Amelia and Isaura.
ISAURA.
Soon, my Amelia! shall the blissful hour
Approach, to bear your holy vows to heaven;
You've pass'd the proof, and hov'ring angels wait
To bid you welcome at the shrine of peace.
Sweet are the joys of pure, celestial love,
When midnight piety pours forth the hymn
Of gratitude and hope! sweet the delights
Of matin prayer, and vesper's solemn song:
Sweet are the sacred silence and content
That reign within these walls—but ah! I fear
My words convey no rapture to your heart;
Methinks you struggle with some hidden grief,
Some worldly wav'rings—speak—conside in me.

AMELIA.
Isaura! dare I utter it to thee?
And yet I've prov'd thy kindness—but, alas!
I know not why perhaps—as the dread time
Comes near, and nearer, to demand my oath,
And to inter me in this convent-tomb;
My fancy shudders, my affrighted soul
Shrinks from the horrid sacrifice.

ISAURA.
What mean you?

AMELIA.
I'm ignorant of my parents, and I'd fain
Discover those who gave me life—I languish
To pay them love and duty, or afford them
Comfort,—if in grief.

ISAURA.
Is this the reason?

AMELIA.
Besides, I've learnt to weigh my own desires,
Have ponder'd much upon this cloister'd state,
Of endless, sad seclusion.—Holy peace
Dwells not within these melancholy walls,
But stifled passion combats with despair.
I will not therefore now devote myself—
For I abhor what once I fondly wish'd.
Nay more—I've had a strange alarm—Last night
As slow I wander'd in the solemn gloom,
Near the lone vault where yonder winding stairs
Lead to the chapel—when the doleful dirge
Was finish'd—yielding up my thoughts to sorrow—
A hollow groan burst dreadful on my ear.
I hasten'd tow'rds the sound, then paus'd, and listen'd;
Again I caught the feeble notes of woe,
That murmur'd in a sepulchre beneath.

ISAURA.
Banish the recollection.

AMELIA.
Tell me why.

ISAURA.
Am I not troubled, think you? does my cheek
Betray no pallid symptom of contrition,
And does my tongue not falter?—O Amelia!
Let this event be buried in oblivion,
Or hid at least in secrecy:—But, lo!
The Abbess comes—If you regard your safety;
If the fair light of day be dear to you;
If dungeons you can dread, or ling'ring death,
Speak not to her of what you last night heard.

Enter Abbess.
ABBESS.
Amelia, I've been seeking thee—Isaura!
Leave us awhile—
[Exit Isaura.
The wish'd-for time draws nigh,
That shall secure your happiness.

AMELIA.
Ah me!

ABBESS.
Soon shall your consecrated soul be Heav'n's:
Meek votary of Religion, 'tis your lot
To be a future angel, and meanwhile
To pass on earth a life unstain'd by evil,
And undisturb'd by care.

AMELIA.
The new Archbishop—

ABBESS.
Has left the court, and hither bends his course:—
The pious prelate will arrive at Cambray
Before the close of day.

AMELIA.
Wretch that I am!

ABBESS.
What matchless glory shall distinguish thee;—
E'en Fenelon, the pious and rever'd,
Shall bind the sacred veil upon thy brow.

AMELIA.
He is reported gen'rous, equitable,
And most humane; zealous, but not severe;
Incapable to force the female heart.

ABBESS.
Thy heart, my child! requires not force, I trust,
To give itself to Heav'n;—no impious murmur
Will it send forth;—no wish hast thou to prove
The vain delights of a deceitful world.

AMELIA.
O hearken, and forgive me!

ABBESS.
Ha! what say'st thou?

AMELIA.
The coming time alarms me.

ABBESS.
How! alarms you!

AMELIA.
And will the vows for ever, ever bind me?

ABBESS.
Doubtless they will.

AMELIA.
The dread idea shakes me.

ABBESS.
Indeed!

AMELIA.
I beg thee grant me some delay,
Nor am I yet prepar'd.

ABBESS.
What do I hear?—
Delay! not yet prepar'd!

AMELIA.
I said, delay—
I do implore thee but for one short month.

ABBESS.
Is't possible?—Is it Amelia speaks,
Whose zeal was so impatient?—What event
Has wrought this sudden, impious change?

AMELIA.
Alas!

ABBESS.
Methinks you hesitate!

AMELIA.
And if I do—
And if perchance I should refuse—would it
Be criminal?

ABBESS.
Dare you thus talk to me!

AMELIA.
Without a blush I dare avow the truth—
For if my tongue should utter the cold vow,
My heart would contradict it—No, I cannot
Enter the trying state,—I cannot bear
To pass a life of death—I wish to seek
The authors of my being—now unknown.
The infant bird on daring pinion soars,
And finds from Heav'n protection; so may I.
But should I take the veil, hope would be lost,
And what were this existence void of hope?

ABBESS.
You think to soften, but you irritate;—
Religion may demand its votary;
Then let no evil wav'rings change your purpose,
Which late was duly and devoutly fix'd.—
Your parents, girl, whose merited, sad fate
You eagerly request to be inform'd of,
Were vicious, poor, abandon'd, despicable;—
Had it not been for holy Charity,
And the pure workings of meek Mercy here,
You would have dy'd in ignominious want,
Or liv'd amongst the rabble of the world,
A child of chance, an unprotected creature;
To anguish doom'd on earth, to worse hereafter.
But from so dire a threaten'd destiny.
My care has rescued, and my kindness sav'd you:—
Yet now you wish to leave me, and refuse
The blest asylum of eternal joy,
Which, while an infant, was prepar'd for you.
Is this the recompence of all my love?
And is it thus you prove your gratitude?—
But 'tis in vain you would oppose my will,
Or counteract your own felicity.

AMELIA.
The earnest supplication of despair
May yet, perchance, prevail—

ABBESS.
Nor tears, entreaties,
Nor e'en resistance, shall befriend you—Heav'n,
Thro' me, has pointed out the proper means,
By which to hide your own and mother's shame.

AMELIA.
Was I debas'd before I saw the light,
And stampt with ignominy, yet unborn?
It cannot be; eternal justice rules.
Since, then, I did not choose my destiny,
I need not blush for what was merely casual.
My lot is certain sorrow, but not shame;
For shame can only mark the criminal,
And a base birth can never be my crime.
Kindly, in truth, you rear'd my infancy,
Nor from my memory shall time erase
The benefit—if such I now can deem it.
Yet have my parents, so despis'd and censur'd,
Giv'n to this heart a sentiment of pride,
Or fortitude, which, howsoever faulty,
Cannot submit to harshness of command.
By mildness led, I was submissive, timid,
And humble, as my station might require;
But now your rigour makes my soul intrepid.

ABBESS.
Nay, check this wild discourse; it ill becomes you.

AMELIA.
Then hear my firm resolve.—I'll not pronounce
The vow thro' fear—my tongue disdains a falsehood.
No,—I will supplicate the righteous priest—
Or, in default of words, will clasp his knees
With dumb expression of such potent anguish,
That he shall feel it as his bounden duty,
To save me from distraction and despair.

ABBESS.
Enough of this—reflect, rash maid, awhile
Upon th'increasing dangers that surround you.—
Altho' the friendship, which I sometime cherish'd,
Is pass'd away—compassion still remains:
But should you urge me further, 'twill subside.
I therefore counsel you a temp'rate conduct—
For know, your call is, stern necessity;
Then force your stubborn will, or dread my vengeance.
[Exit Abbess.

AMELIA.
Her vengeance!—Can so vile a passion dwell
With one who consecrates her days to pray'r?
Surely my sense deceiv'd me, or I heard
Some evil spirit speaking with her tongue.
And what, alas! is my alleg'd offence
To call forth such a threat?—but Nature's weakness,
And that might claim forgiveness—Pow'r supreme!
Who rul'st creation,—thou art not a tyrant,
But all indulgent, all benevolent.
O cannot I 'midst other scenes adore thee,
Than these of chill, sequester'd misery?
I will abjure the ties of violence,
And prove the mind is free. Who's there—Isaura?

Enter Isaura.
ISAURA.
I hasten'd hither to advise with thee—
What hast thou done?—The Abbess is enrag'd—
Hast thou said aught imprudent, or receiv'd
Her mandates with an air of petulance?
If thou hast either, much I tremble for thee.
Her eyes were full of fury and revenge.

AMELIA.
The rigid haughtiness, the fierce demeanour,
Instead of humbling me, excited horror.

ISAURA.
But does she know that your reluctant soul—

AMELIA.
I told her all—laid open to her view
The workings of my heart; my deep dismay,
My fix'd repugnance to monastic life,
Were not conceal'd—then, trembling, I averr'd,
That I would never be induc'd by threats
To take th'abhorred oath.

ISAURA.
What answer'd she?

AMELIA.
She lour'd with angry brow at my discourse,
And mutter'd vengeance.

ISAURA.
What have you resolv'd?

AMELIA.
To keep my word, nor will I ever break it.

ISAURA.
Attend, Amelia, to the truths I utter;—
For I will freely speak.—You see me here,
A victim to my own detested vows:—
Oft-times, indeed, I've led you to suppose
This dull confinement was pure happiness;
Yet 'twas not from deceit I spoke, but pity—
Lest you should feel too soon th'impending weight.

AMELIA.
Alas! I long have fear'd that your poor heart
Was prey'd upon by hopeless wretchedness:
I've mark'd your secret sighs, your silent tears.

ISAURA.
I will not now expatiate on the cause,
Which fatally compell'd me to retreat
Within the walls of this cold monast'ry—
It were a tale of sad severity.
For twice eight years I've counted the dull days
That heavily crept on; and wept my fate:—
Around me all appears a sepulchre.

AMELIA.
O pause a moment, while my sorrows flow!

ISAURA.
You were but in your cradle when I enter'd—
And to watch o'er your infancy has been
My only consolation.

AMELIA.
My soul thanks you.

ISAURA.
But now, in sad return for all my care,
I find you miserable as myself;
Then be not more so:—O belov'd Amelia!
Trust my well-founded fear, nor aggravate
Your suff'rings by an impotent resistance;
For I could prove the danger that attends it;
Could tell you something of most dreadful import—
Of chastisement beyond all thought severe,
That would indeed convince you.

AMELIA.
Ha! convince me!

ISAURA.
It still continues after many years.—

AMELIA.
Explain this mystery.

ISAURA.
I should be silent;
But forc'd obedience yields to my alarm.
Then learn the direful secret.

AMELIA.
Heav'ns! what is it?

ISAURA.
Are we unheard, and unobserv'd?

AMELIA.
Explain.

ISAURA.
The lamentable cries you last night notic'd,—
Those cries—

AMELIA.
I quake with terror; but proceed—

ISAURA.
Speak low—we've ev'ry thing to fear.

AMELIA.
Those cries—

ISAURA.
I waver—

AMELIA.
Waver, do you?

ISAURA.
Yes—Ah me!
I neither can be silent, nor dare speak.

AMELIA.
Alas! this is no season for concealment.

ISAURA.
Those lamentable cries—

AMELIA.
I do beseech thee—

ISAURA.
Were utter'd by a hopeless female, chain'd
In a dark vault beneath.

AMELIA.
What do I hear?—

ISAURA.
A shocking truth.

AMELIA.
Excessive inhumanity!
A hopeless female, said you?

ISAURA.
One, most wretched!

AMELIA.
Does she then know you? have you spoken with her?
Can we relieve her?

ISAURA.
I have often seen her.

AMELIA.
What, in a hideous dungeon?—tell me where.

ISAURA.
Between the chapel and the garden wall,
For sev'nteen years has she been slowly dying;
It is my office, at the break of dawn,
To bear her bread and water, which but serve
To lengthen out her pangs.

AMELIA.
Know you her name?

ISAURA.
I never dar'd to hold discourse with her.

AMELIA.
And are you also ign'rant of her crime?

ISAURA.
I only am acquainted with her woe.

AMELIA.
Ere I'd unite me with this murd'rous band
Of shameless hypocrites, I'd meet perdition.
How her fate interests my troubled spirit!
If you have tenderness or love for me—

ISAURA.
Can you doubt either?

AMELIA.
Lead me to her.

ISAURA.
You—Amelia!

AMELIA.
Yes—nor let us lose a moment.

ISAURA.
How could you assist her?

AMELIA.
I'd soothe her grief,
Mingle my sighs with her's, and wipe the tears
From her dim eyes.

ISAURA.
It is a cruel sight!

AMELIA.
I will not be refus'd.

ISAURA.
Should they discover—

AMELIA.
You love me, and my heart repays your love,—
Grant me this boon; indulge me, kind Isaura!

ISAURA.
I will—Protecting Heav'n, watch over us!

[Exeunt.