 | Gregory VII |  |
SCENE IV.
—Open space in the Campagna, among the ruins of ancient Rome. Night. The Vatican blazing in the distance. Faint Alarum.Enter Fabio, with troops, meeting a German Officer.
Fab.
Still holds the fight?
Off.
'T is done.
Fab.
E'en now I heard
The ring of arms through the dark ruins echoing!
Off.
'T was but the last gust of a storm outspent—
102
Led on by Gregory.
Fab.
He is not dead?
Off.
Unless a miracle hath caught him up
To the stars.
Fab.
This dizzy moment—it confounds
The beating of my heart and all my thoughts.
I know not if I dare to wish him dead.
Enter Centius.
Off.
My lord, are you wounded?
Fab.
Is the Pontiff slain?
Cen.
'T is doubtful.
Fab.
Sir, beseech you—in few words!
Cen.
(faint and breathless).
With sword and shield, but in no armour clad,
A storm-black charger bore him towards the ranks
Of the Emperor's force. What passions lit his face!
He rushed, breast on, amidst them, man and steed:
No violent Centaur ever shook an arm
So terrible in air! The very clouds
Seemed to come down, although, indeed, you'll say
'T was but the spurned earth's dust.
Fab.
And is he slain?
Cen.
I know not; overthrown with many more,
Like to some raging element he rose,
On all sides devastating. He fought afoot,
Till smitten and speared on every side, he fell:
When, o' the instant, Cardinal Brazute
His form bestrode, and to our gleaming swords
A crucifix opposed. Some desperate monks
With screams then bore him off.
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Voices.
Hail, Emperor!
And conqueror!
Fab.
The saints have blessed our arms.
Emp.
Dagon of Rome! thy heaven-affronting crest
No more shall arch its neck above the world;
Nor Henry's soul, with threatened torments rent,
Tossed by contending surges of his fears,
Hopes, apprehensions, doubts, and dreadful dreams,
Again be steeped in madness and despair.
Gregory, mortally wounded, is borne in by Damianus and Monks; followed by Brazute and other Cardinals.
Rejoice, great line of kings! the serf-born breath
That sullied your enshrined memories,
Now hovers o'er the gulf! Set him down here,
And bid the clarions cease!
Dami.
Lay him down gently.
Gre.
(dying).
I hear the roaring of the Vatican flames!
Its statues fall with Gregory—not its hopes.
Die, heart! die quickly!
Braz.
Clement the Third, we name,
Duly by us elected, Sovereign Pontiff!
Gui.
'T is premature—the Emperor,—
Braz.
It is done.
Voices.
Vivat Sanctus Pater Clemens Tertius!
Dami.
Let not our voices drown his parting sigh;
Oh, be our silence an intense heart's prayer!
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Vivat Sanctus Pater Clemens Tertius!
Gre.
(faintly to Dami).
We have not failed; my breath fills all the place.
Emp.
What hath he murmured, monk, into thy breast?
Gre.
(faintly).
Approach, thou perfect hero, who hath ruled
This day of swords! Approach me with thine ear—
Stoop nearer—I wax faint.
Emp.
(stooping to listen).
What wouldst thou say?
Gre.
(raising himself).
Kiss thou the dust from off thy master's feet!
[Dies.
Funeral Mass without. The body of Matilda, extended upon a bier, is borne across at the back, while the Emperor speaks over the body of Gregory.
Emp.
All falsehood follow thy descending soul!
And in thy fall more reason shall we find
To bow with reverence to the See of Rome,
When pious hands shall sanctify its power!
| Gregory VII | |