University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

An Olive Grove, with a ruinous edifice in the background.
Enter Angelina, attended by Agnes.
Angeli.
Heaven sheds its mercy upon those, good Agnes,
Who pity the unfortunate.—Then tell me, tell me—
Why to this ruin I am brought?—Oh Heaven!
My senses are bewilder'd by this mystery.

Agnes.

I am not hard hearted, Signora Angelina,
though I may sometimes appear so:—and one day,
perhaps, I may tell you all, I know of the matter;
which, heaven knows, is little enough.—At present,
I dare not do any such thing.

Angeli.
But, my sweet Agnes; yes, thou knowest, there must be
Something in this, thou never canst approve!
My father gave me to the guardian care
Of Signor Paulo; with the strictest charge,
To guide me safe to Venice. We had travell'd
Scarce five short leagues, when, from the public road,
We turn'd into a forest.—Then we journied
Through the lone windings of a darksome glen,
Re-echoing with hoarse cataracts;—and came,
What time the moon was waning in the west,
Silent and awe-struck, to this ivied ruin.
Tis now five days—But do, my sweetest Agnes,
Say, why I'm hither brought?—I pray thee, tell me.

Agnes.

The Signor will come tomorrow, Signora,
and then he will tell you himself.

Angeli.
The Signor?—what Signor?—who is the Signor?—speak!
Is it Albanio?—Tell me, who it is.

Agnes.

I dare not tell you, Signora. The Signor
will tell you himself.—Have patience till tomorrow
comes.—I pity you, I am sure, from my heart. But
I cannot do, what I dare not do.—But why will you
not listen to the warbling of these birds?—I love
music, Signora. Do you not love music, too,
Signora?

Angeli.

Oh!

(weeping.)
Agnes.

Her sighs and her tears really do go to my
heart, so, that I know not what I shall do.—She
has neither ate, nor drank, these two days!

Angeli.
Agnes!—

Agnes.
Signora!—

Angeli.
Think, my good Agnes, think how hard 'twould be,
Were thy dear father suddenly overwhelm'd
With dire misfortunes:—If thy lover rov'd
An exile from his native city;—and thyself
Taken, like me, unknowing, to this ruin—

Agnes.

I am afraid I must tell her!—and yet, if I
do, what will become of myself?

Angeli.
Come, my good Agnes!—Let us to yon garden.
There let us sit upon a bank of flowers,
Or'neath the scented shade of eglantine,
And tell me all thou know'st!—There's my sweet Agnes.
Ah!—now I love the very name of Agnes.
Come—let me take thine hand.—

Agnes.

What shall I do?—The Signor told me not
to say. If I did, he said, I should live to repent it
all the days of my life.

Angeli.
Repent!—Oh! no.—Thou never canst repent
A virtuous deed; Oh! never—never!—No—
Not if thou live—e'en for a thousand years!
Come then:—There—lean thine arm on one,
Who fain would love thee as a daughter;—come!—

[Exeunt.
Enter Angelo and Propertio.—The latter with a lute in his hand.
Ang.
Here let us sit.—I'm weary!—What a life
An exile leads!—

Pro.
Nay—be not melancholy.
Manfredi lives a far worse life, than thou.—
I would not feel the anguish of his heart,
For all the universe.—Come—cheer thee up
We are not far from Angelina now.
There—take this lute—

Ang.
It is no time for music!

Pro.
Nay, I request thee—

Ang.
Music is design'd
For happier spirits. [Takes the lute.

Ah! the world—the world
Must needs be cruel, since I loathe my lute.
[Tunes a wild flourish.
I could not draw one rich, harmonious, note,
Were it to gain an empire!

[Returns the lute.
Pro.
I have done!—

Ang.
Thou art the noblest of the sons of friendship!
For often hast thou chear'd my sinking heart,
When care has weighed my anxious spirit down.

Pro.
Nay—nay:—It ill becomes thee to indulge,
In such deep draughts of melancholy thought.
I well remember, when,—in love with nature,—
We've wander'd oft within the forest wide,
That screen'd thy father's castle, thou wert wont,
For hours, to loiter near the mossy brook,
That murmur'd music down the deepening glen.—
Fair nature then, in all her wild display,
Shot rapture through thy frame.—Each wood, each vale,
Each torrent, rushing from high cataracts,
Then had their graces and sublimities; but now!—

Ang.
'Tis true!—But when we've mixt with men, and felt
The influence of their passions, it excites,
In our disgust at them, distaste for Nature.

Pro.
It seems to have that influence upon you!
For e'en yon woods, whose very leaves are sacred,
Nor e'en yon mountains, towering up to heaven,
Call forth one note of holy admiration.
I wonder much!—Why!—e'en the setting sun,
(Sublimest image of eternal glory!)
Colours yon clouds with golden tints in vain!

Ang.
Of late, Propertio, I have drunk too deep,
In sorrow's bitter cup!—Yon glowing sun
Ne'er smiled on one, so lovely and so fair;
So fruitful in all virtues of the heart;
And so abounding in the gifts of mind,
As good Fontano's daughter.—

Pro.
Lovelier far
Than fancy e'er can paint!

Ang.
—Where is she now?—
Perhaps the victim of Manfredi's love!
Oh!—Angelina!—Thou art doom'd to ruin!—
Thrilling with horror in the midst of shame;
Unless kind heaven take pity on thy tears!

Pro.
And heaven will do so,—or I'm much deceived!
Didst thou not say, that, near this woody spot,
The ruin stands, in which thy fair-one weeps.

Ang.
Yes!—In a ruin hid with ivy:—there
Manfredi purposes her destiny.—

Pro.
Then let us—

Ang.
Meet the hated monster there?
I've planned it so!

Pro.
Then whence this gloomy mood?

Ang.
Fontano!—Oh my friend!—Fontano's lot
Is yet more melancholy far than mine!—

Pro.
I've heard the dreadful tale; and, hearing, dropt
The tear of tenderest sympathy!—yet since—
But what is this?—A ruin!—Is it here?
Can it be here, that Angelina dwells?

Ang.
This is the spot!—Oh!—Fortune, thou'rt my friend.—
Tread lightly!—List!—come;—let us to yon wood,
And meditate the rescue.—Then thou may'st
Return to save Fontano's house from ruin.

[Exeunt.