University of Virginia Library

Enter Alberto and Theodore.
Alberto.
Enter and fear not, trembler. Thou shalt live.

Theodore.
Ay, that I feared.

Alberto.
Dost hear me, boy? I say
That thou shalt live.

Theodore.
I feared so.

Alberto.
Would'st thou die?

Theodore.
If it pleased Heaven, most willingly. I know
That I'm a prisoner. I shall never walk
In the sun's blessed light, or feel the touch
Of the free air, or hear the summer brook
All idly babbling to the moon, or taste
The morning breath of flowers. The thousand charms
Which make in our Sicilian Isle mere life
A thrilling pleasantness, which send a glow
Through the poorest serf that tills the happy soil—
I am shut out from all. This is my tomb.
Uncle, be merciful! I do not ask
My throne again—Reign! reign! I have forgot
That I was once a King. But let me bide
In some small woodland cottage, where green leaves
May wave around me, and cool breezes kiss
My brow. Keep me not in a dungeon, uncle,
Or this dark gloomy chamber. Let me dwell
In some wild forest. I'll not breathe a word
That might be dangerous. No! not to the birds
My songsters, or the fawns my playmates, uncle;
Thou ne'er shalt hear of me again.

Alberto.
Boy! boy!
Cling not about me thus!

Theodore.
Thou wilt have mercy!
Thy heart is softening.

Alberto.
'Tis too late.—To reign,
And he at liberty! I am a child
Myself, that won by this child's gentleness
I seemed to waver. Boy, thy fate is fixed;
Thyself hast said it. Thou'rt a prisoner,
And for thy whole life long; a caged bird.
Be wiser than the feathered fool that beats
His wings against the wire. Thou shalt have all
Thy heart can ask, save freedom, and that never!
I tell thee so in love, and not in hate;
For I would root out hope and fear, and plant
Patience in thy young soul.

Theodore.
And Julia?

Alberto.
Her
Thou ne'er must see again.

Theodore.
Never! Is she
A prisoner too? Not once to say farewell!
Alas! alas! that bauble of a crown,
How it makes kind hearts cruel! Thou wast once
In all my little griefs my comforter,
And now—Not see my cousin Julia once!
Mine own dear cousin Julia! Let me see her
Once, only once!—only to catch one sound
Of that sweet voice, and on that whitest hand
Drop one fond tear, and steal but one of the bright
And wavy ringlets from her brow, and pray
That Heaven may bless her.—Let me see her once,
But once, and then I'll walk back to my prison,
And dream away this winter of a life,
As a silly dormouse in his Christmas nest
Sleeps through his six months' night. Turn not away!
Was thou born pitiless?

Alberto.
No. I have quelled
That dangerous softness. Pretty boy, farewell!
Rest thee content. No harm shall happen thee.

[Exit.
Theodore.
Content! Oh mockery of grief! Content!
Was't not enough to take away my crown,
To mew me up here in a living tomb,
Cut off from every human tie, from thee,
Julia, my cousin Julia; but my jailor
Must bid me be content! Would I were dead!
Forgive me, Heaven, for my impatience!
I will take better thoughts. 'Tis but to fancy
This room a quiet hermitage, and pray
As hermits use through the long silent hours.
I shall be innocent. Sure, he's a friend
That shuts me out from sin. Did he not call me
A caged bird? I've seen one prune himself,
And hop from perch to perch, and chirp and sing
Merrily! Happy fool, it had forgot
Blithe liberty! But man, though he should drag
A captive's heavy chain, even till he starts
To hear his own sad voice, cannot forget.
He wants that blessed gift.—Is not to-day
The gay procession of the vintagers
Ere they begin their annual toil? A relic
Of the old heathen rites! Last year I saw it;
'Twas a fair pageant; one that might have graced
The famous Grecian day, with its long line
Of maidens tripping under the light load
Of grape-piled baskets on their heads, and youths
With pipes timing their steps, and younger girls
And rosy boys dragging the struggling goats,
By flow'ry garlands. Such procession well
Had honour'd the god Bacchus. She was there,
And in her innocent gaiety led on
The virgin troop, distinguish'd but by grace
Unrivall'd, and a wreath of brightest flowers
That crown'd her brimming basket. How she sway'd
Her pretty head to the soft double flute,
Whilst ever as she bent, the coronal
Seem'd like to fall, till with a smiling toss
She flung it up again, and danced along
With such an airiness, as if her step
Belong'd not to dull earth. Oh, loveliest maid,
Must I ne'er see thee more!
Enter Julia, through a secret door.
Who's there? How cam'st thou?
Art thou indeed my cousin Julia? Is't
Thyself, thy living self? I cannot trust
My sight.

Julia
(giving him her hand).
Dost doubt me now?

Theodore.
No. But when first
I saw thee standing with thy pitying eyes
Fix'd on thy face, thou seem'dst an angel! Say
How cam'st thou here?

Julia.
He,—I'll not call him father—
He, who imprisoned thee, forgot, or knew not,
The secret passage, that in one long chain
Links all the western chambers. Constance mark'd
The guarded door. Follow me.

Theodore.
Where?

Julia.
To freedom!
To happiness!

Theodore.
Now, blessings on thy head!
Did I not say thou wast an Angel? Freedom!
Ay, that is happiness. A whole life's service
Were over poor to pay this debt.

Julia.
We stay
Too long. Come with me.

Theodore.
But to leave thee, sweetest,—
Perchance in danger,—for should he suspect—
No! I'll stay here,—my very inmost soul
Thanks thee, my kindest cousin. But I'll stay,
I'll not awaken his unnatural hate
'Gainst thee. He loves thee—but he loved me once—
And mated with ambition, even his child,
His only child, were nothing. I'll stay here,
In my lone prison. Think of me as one
Freed from a cumbrous load of state and care,
Held to the world but by the undying love
That knits my soul to thine. Go and be happy,
And in thy bliss shall I be blest. We still
Shall breathe the same air, Julia. I may catch
From out my window a short stolen glance
Of thy fair form; may hear, when distant doors
Shall chance to open, a brief passing sound
Of thy dear voice; and sometimes thou may'st glide
Even to this gloomy chamber, bringing light,
And life, and joy. A moment since I pined
For liberty. Now I would rather dwell
In a deep dungeon, where such visions come,
Than fill a throne without them. Thou wilt deign
To visit the poor captive, wilt thou not?
Oh, dearest, to be banished from thy sight
Were worse than death. Thou'lt come again? But now
Away! I fear the king.

Julia.
He whom thou call'st such
Is busy at the council. Theodore,
In mercy follow me! I too shall share
Thy flight.

Theodore.
Thou! Thou! Oh sweetest, dearest, best!
I stand as in a dream.—Thou go with me!
Whither? and wherefore?

Julia.
Question not; but come.
There is a Spanish ship in harbour here,
With her sails spread for instant voyage, My Constance
And her bold captain are betroth'd. He waits
With sure disguises, and hath promised us
A safe and pleasant home in fair Castile.
A mountain hut close by a gushing spring,
Where the huge cork trees fling their heavy shade
O'er herds and flocks; and we shall lead a calm
And happy pastoral life; a shepherd thou
With pipe and crook, and I a cottage maid,
A careful housewife. Thou shalt see how soon
I'll learn the rustic craft, to milk my ewes
Or press the snowy curd, or haply mould
The richer cheese. Shalt thou not like, dear cousin,
To be a shepherd on the downy hills,
Tending thy flock all day, and I to bring
Water and country cates, an homely meal,
And sing and prattle at thy side, most like
A mountain bee? I'll wager, Theodore,
I prove the thriftier peasant.

Theodore.
But to bend thee
To poor and servile toil—

Julia.
Poor! I have here
Jewels to buy an earldom. See! a sword too,
To guard us on the way. Take it. Dear cousin,
We waste the hour.

Theodore.
My Julia, tempt me not
To selfish and ungrateful sin. The saints
May witness for me, that I ever loathed
Pomp and its slavery. The lot thou offerest
Hath been the vision of my dreamy hours
All my life long. But thou so proudly reared
So delicately served,—thou born a princess,
And nurtured like a queen, how could'st thou bear
The peasant's lowly lot?—Had I the crown
That once prest my young brow—had I a throne
To share with thee, my fairest—but an exile—
A houseless fugitive,—Alas! Alas!
Tempt me no more, sweet maiden! Stay and reign
In thine own Sicily.

Julia.
I'll stay and die,
Since thou dost spurn me from thee. Fare thee well!
Yet, in thy calmer thoughts,—if thou should'st think
Again on thy poor friend—Oh, deem her not
Bold or unmaidenly! We lived and loved
As brother and as sister.—

Theodore.
Far, far dearer!

Julia.
And as a sister in our mutual grief
I came to thee. Oh, let us fly, dear cousin!
In pity, let us fly! My cruel father—

Theodore.
Cruel to thee?—to thee!

Julia.
Alas, to bind
The subtle traitor Lanza to his cause,
He offers up his child. Another day,
And I must wed.

Theodore.
Give me the sword. Wed! Cousin,
I'll fly with thee to the end of the earth. Wed Lanza!
Wed any man! He must fight well that wins thee,
Boy though I be, my Julia! Haste thee, sweet,
Each moment's worth an age. Away! Away!

Julia.
Heaven speed our steps!

Theodore.
Away!

[Exeunt.