University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The Hall of a Monastery.
Enter Alasco, and the Prior Jerome.
JEROME.
Beware, my friend, lest youthful passion prompt
Thy discontent with Walsingham—in him,
The father's heart beats strongly, and awhile,
May hesitate to yield an only child,
E'en to a son like thee.

ALASCO.
O! wrong me not
By such a thought, good father! nor believe
I hold my passions in so loose a rein
That they should sway me in a cause like this.
Since first in presence of her dying mother,
Thy sacred office sealed Amantha mine,
Have I not patient, waived a husband's claim,
And waiting Walsingham's return, approached her,
As some fair vestal in a hallowed shrine,
For heavenly love reserved, and holy joy.

JEROME.
Most true, my son! thou may'st defy reproach;
But yet, it cannot be that Walsingham
Would fain deny thy suit.

ALASCO.
In words, perhaps,
He has not so expressed him, but 'tis plain,
Whate'er the cause, he meditates refusal.
He now looks coldly on me—cuts me short—
When I would urge his promise, with “well, well,
“Not now—some other time, we'll speak of this.”
And then, he talks at me, with studied speech,
And pointed emphasis—declaiming loud,
Against those sentiments he takes for mine,
Till chafed by his own vehemence, he swears,
The characters he most abhors on earth,
Are factious fools and firebrand patriots.

JEROME.
It is most strange! He cannot, sure, forget
Thy claims upon him—from thy earliest years,
Adopted as his son—“each interval
“Of leisure left him from the toils of war,
“Employed with zeal, to form thee what thou art,
“An honor to thy country, and thy name.”
Why, 'twas the favourite boon he asked of heaven,
To see his daughter triumph in thy love,
And safe beneath the shelter of thy virtues.

ALASCO.
Blessed be the pious foresight that secured
By holy rites, our long affianced faith!

JEROME.
Let us, my son, more nobly deem of Walsingham;
“Some adverse current of the world, perhaps,
“Has, for a moment, turned him from his course;
“But he will soon resume his former track,
“As steady as before.” Full twenty years
Have told their flight, in furrows on my brow,
Since first, reluctant I beheld my niece,
My orphan care, united to his fortunes:
A soldier, foreign to our faith and country,
E'en piety, with prejudice combined,
To wake my fears, and cloud him with suspicion;
But soon his virtues triumphed, and rebuked
The narrow bigotry of clime and sect;
Though of an hasty, and impetuous spirit,
I have ever found him open, just, and generous,
The kindest father, and the best of husbands.

ALASCO.
“To me, his guardian care has long supplied
“A parent's loss; and 'twas my pride to think,
“He meant to draw me nearer to his heart,
“And bless me with Amantha.”
But see, she comes, the angel of my fate!
Enter Amantha.
The star that early lighted me to love,
And warmed my heart with all the beams of beauty!
But sure, some cloud has lately passed thy brow,
And left its sombre trace—How! tears, Amantha?

AMANTHA.
Alas, my friend! I have much cause for sadness.
Methinks each day, a deeper gloom involves us.
Such dark forebodings hang about my heart,
That startled fancy, in the future sees
But vague mischance, and undefined disaster.

ALASCO.
O! yield not to such visionary fears!
“Heaven's smile is on thee—all good angels guard
“The hallowed steps of innocence and virtue.”
Art thou not mine beyond the reach of fate,
E'en by thy father's early sanction mine,
Tho' now he frowns and would withdraw his favor.

AMANTHA.
He would indeed; I fear some envious tale
Has worked suspicion in his mind against thee.
“Thy name, which he first taught my tongue to lisp,
“And by his praises, stamped upon my heart,
“Is grown distasteful to him, and he now
“With rough impatience chides it from my lips:”
Of late, he holds close conference with Hohendahl,
An artful man, and not thy friend, Alasco.

ALASCO.
My friend, Amantha! no, the enmity
Of knaves like him, an honest man may boast,
And take it as a tribute paid to virtue.
“I'm honoured in his hate.”

JEROME.
Beware, my son,
“Of Hohendahl; you've given him that offence
“The wicked never pardon—thwarted his
“Bad passions—baffled and exposed his practices,
“Till rage and shame have rankled in his heart,
“To fiend-like malice.”

ALASCO.
“I regard him not.”

AMANTHA.
A dread instinctive warns me to avoid him;
My spirit shrinks at his approach, and feels
As fear of him were salutary foresight.
He now avows him suitor to my hand,
And boasts my father's sanction.

ALASCO.
Hohendahl!
Impossible! tho' now unjust to me,
The generous soul of Walsingham would spurn
The alliance of a villain on a throne.

AMANTHA.
Then hear, my friend! and judge—with solemn air,
Last night, my father called me to his chamber;
And prefacing, as if with speech obscure,
To sound my inmost thoughts of Hohendahl,
He spoke of him, as one whose friendship claimed
High estimate, and rich return—he hoped
I had not idly pledged my heart too far,
To one unworthy of the gift, and where,
A father's blessing could not follow it.
Amazed—confounded—from my trembling lips
Thy name burst forth with such warm eulogy—
Such frank avowal of unshaken love,
“The fruit of his own culture in our hearts,”
As proved I had nor power to change, nor will.

ALASCO.
And would thy father urge thee to betray me?

AMANTHA.
He is abused, my friend, and thou art slandered.
He thinks thee disaffected to the state,
A crime, with him, including all offence.
Thou knowest his rigid principles.

ALASCO.
I do.
My country's wrongs have been the only string
That ever jarred between us: but in his code,
The soldier's spirit breathes, and all is mutiny
That's not submission.

JEROME.
Do not fear, my children!
We know that Walsingham is not unjust,
Tho' warm and loyal as becomes a soldier;
“Nor should we marvel, if with hostile eye
“He looks on all who thwart established rule.
“Has he not seen the wreck of all his hopes,
“In civil storms?—beheld his ancient house
“Laid prostrate, and in fragments scattered wide:
“While he, an exile, long at tug with fortune,
“Survives, a martyr to the cause of kings,
“And like a martyr, loves his faith the more.”
The present cloud dispersed, his generous heart
Will recognize again Alasco's worth,
And all be well once more.

AMANTHA.
Alas! 'tis plain,
He now has other views, and seems incensed,
“Past sudden reconcilement: in his words,
“There lurks some dreadful meaning, my Alasco;
“As if ill fate hung o'er thee, and thy course
“Rushed madly onward to some desperate end,
“Which claims his pity, while it wakes his wrath.”
He interdicts our farther intercourse,
And warns me, as I prize his peace and blessing,
To think of thee no more.

ALASCO.
Nay then, away
With indecision—thou art my wife, Amantha,
And I will instant claim thee at his hands.

JEROME.
My son, be not too hasty, nor forget
Thy promise to her sainted mother, made
E'en on that altar which received thy vows.

ALASCO.
Could I forget, or violate the trust
Reposed in me by that dear, dying saint,
I were the scorn of men—“but no, good Jerome!
“Her angel spirit prompts me from the skies,
“And warns me of my duty to her child.

AMANTHA.
“O! when I think, how, with a parent's fondness,
“He would exulting, dwell upon thy worth,
“And prophecy the triumph of thy fortunes,
“I scarce can credit this disastrous change,
“That now o'erwhelms our hopes.

JEROME.
Apply once more
To Walsingham, and learn his last resolve:
If he reject thy suit, to favour Hohendahl,
Thy promise is absolved,—demand thy wife,
I will attest thy claim.

ALASCO.
Be it then so.

[Exeunt.