University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Convent Hall.
Provost.
Pro.
Thou saint in Heav'n!
Thou, who did'st lead Alfonso to these rocks,
Self-doom'd in just atonement for past guilt,
Look down on his affliction.

Confessor enters.
Con.
Holy father!
These unexampled miseries o'erpow'r me:
Forgive these gushing tears. The hapless Julian!

Pro.
Alas! how fares it with him?

Con.
As with one
Not long to live: deep was th'assassin's blow.
Faint with the loss of blood, long-time he lay
In death-like swoon: here human art avail'd:
But who can heal the anguish of the soul,
Save Heav'n that smites in mercy!

Pro.
Say, my brother,
Is he restor'd to reason,
Fitly prepar'd for that eternal state
That knows no change?

Con.
Yes, Heav'n has visited
The contrite man. In Agnes' arms he woke,
Calm as from sleep: in fitter hour I'll tell
Their farewell interview: 'tis graven here.

Pro.
Then grant, all-gracious Heav'n! his sole request!
Oh may poor Ellen's last forgiveness breathe
Peace to his parting spirit.

Con.
Who shall say
What may ensue, if ere they meet again?
Hence flow my tears. At Julian's earnest pray'r,
The virtuous Agnes hangs o'er Ellen's couch,
Watching the moment of returning reason,
That, haply, ere he breathes his last, the voice
Of pardon yet may sooth him.

Pro.
Grant it, Heav'n.

Con.
I left him still'd in meek and holy sadness,
To bear that parting scene: but much I fear
For hapless Ellen.
Her mind may ne'er regain its peaceful mood.
Say, holy father! may they meet again?
Or will not anguish rouse their souls once more
To frantic agony?

Pro.
What Ellen's state?

Con.
I cannot call it frenzy,
And yet she is not in her perfect mind.
'Tis no delirium, where the fever's rage
Boils in the blood, and on the throbbing brain,
Shapes images and scenes of spectred horror:
'Tis the mild error of the sense confus'd,
That plays on cheated fancy: for she seems,
All memory of later woe effac'd,
Blissful as once ere bleak adversity
Had ruffled youth's smooth current.

Pro.
Such things pass
Man's narrow ken: Heav'n wills it.

Con.
Round her couch
She fashions those, who sadly minister,
To the gay partners of her innocent sports,
Poor peasant girls, who cull in spring fresh flow'rs
To wreath their brow, and mix the mirthful dance:
And oft she calls Tortona's dame, who prays
In silence o'er her, her own happy mother,
List'ning with fond attention to the tune
That late she taught her. Me, my mournful duties
Have long familiar made with death-bed woe:
And I have look'd on sinners when despair
Scowl'd, as their eye glar'd fixedly upon me:
But never have I witness'd such a scene;
It quite o'ercomes me: life and death in one
So strangely link'd, and all that's sweet and sad.
Yet—haply as we commune, holy father,
All may be chang'd, and horrid images
Usurp the mastery.

Pro.
Let us haste: our pray'rs
May chase the fiend that haunts the bed of death.

[Exeunt.

Scene the Second

an Apartment in the Convent.
Agnes, Ellen on a Couch, attendant Monks, &c.
Agnes.
Hush! rouse her not.

Ellen.
[in a delirium.]
So—enter in, I pray you,
Strangers and all: it is but once a year
We thus make holiday. Not so—not so—
You trip it awkardly, and mar the measure.
The pipe's not out of tune, your step lacks ear.
Oh—I have scarcely breath at once to dance
And teach the motion.

[Ellen sinks exhausted.
Provost and Confessor enter.
Pro.
[to Agnes.]
Is all quiet with her?

Agnes.
No—but exhausted with the play of fancy,
She peaceful sleeps.

Pro.
[considering her.]
Quite breathless, or I err.

Agnes.
She but reposes: pray you, rouse her not.
I dread what may ensue: a shock too sudden
In painful horrors may unlodge her spirit.
I have been us'd to these fantastic moods,
Long have I watch'd her, and by tender cares
Had smooth'd her passage to eternity:
But this sad day hath all undone. Oh peace!
Her eyes unclose, and bright their eager glare.

Ellen.
Hark! 'twas the shepherd's pipe!
Away! away! haste—to the green hills fly.
I will no longer, while the dog-star flames,
Doze in your sultry plains. The flat air lies
Here, here, like lead upon me: it weighs down
The soul's free wing. Haste, to the green hills, fly.
How daintily the cool breeze fans my brow,
Tangling my locks in many a mazy twine!
Climb o'er yon mountain's peak, that props up Heav'n:
Mind not that mass of snow: so—heave it off.

Agnes.
Compose thyself: here, on my bosom rest.

Ellen.
Speak low—speak very low—only in whispers—
You know not what it is. Stranger! that mass
Which rock-like beetles o'er you, is loose snow.
The mule-bell must not tinkle while it passes:
Its very echo bursts it.
Hail, once more,
My native land! hail sweetest interchange
Of all that chiefly gladdens eye and ear,
Bright lakes, the pine-clad mount, and hill and dale!
Hark! 'twas the Alpine lark that upward trill'd:
Angels may hear it now: 'tis mute to earth:
And oh that sound, most sweet at distance heard,
The hidden waterfall, that in still moon-light
Makes pleasant music to light-tripping elves.
Thou peaceful hut! thou vine, that I have taught
To clasp the rock: and thou my summer bow'r,
Where underneath the green bough's canopy
I sat, nor wish'd for the eagle's stretch of wing,
That swept the upper world: oh never more
Will I away. On you my eye first glanc'd,
On you my dying look shall close in peace:
And there the sod shall rise that hides poor Ellen.
Pray for me—oh, I die.

Agnes.
A cold dew stands
On her pale brow. I ne'er saw this before.

Pro.
'Tis the fore-runner of approaching death.

Sacristan enters.
Sac.
[to Agnes.]
Lady! Alfonso now at life's last close,
Thus speaks thro' me, that he doth feel assur'd
Of Heav'nly mercy, if the death-bed blessing
Of Ellen rest upon him. Canst thou ask it?
Ellen will not deny thee.

Pro.
[bending over Ellen.]
'Tis, I fear,
In vain—I trace—alas! no sign of life.

Agnes.
[kneels.]
Oh Heav'n! in mercy yet awhile keep back
The stroke of death, and to herself restore her:
That one last word may breathe o'er dying Julian,
Peace and forgiveness.

Pro.
Heav'n has heard thy voice:
The recompence of virtue shall not fail,
While God is judge above. Her pulse faint flutters.
Hark! that low sigh,

Ellen.
[recovering.]
I pray you, call me not
From Heav'n's eternal rest! where have I been?
Most lov'd, most honour'd lady! art thou near me?
Then I shall die in peace. But—where—where am I?

Agnes.
Beneath the convent roof with holy men.

Ellen.
[gazing around her.]
Thanks, holy father: a poor peasant's child
Can give no more. For thee, thou Saint on earth!
I have a gift: it is the pictur'd form
Of him, who never for one base as I am,
Should have left thee, whom only angels equal.
Where is it?

Agnes.
You resign'd it, gentle Ellen,
To rescue me from death.

Ellen.
Then, take this kiss:
And—give me thine.

[They embrace.
Agnes.
Ellen—I have a wish,
A pray'r to thee.

Ellen.
Oh may my spirit pass
In granting it!

Agnes.
We soon shall part for ever.

Ellen.
Not so. We meet in Heav'n.

Agnes.
But—there is one—
Poor Julian.

Ellen.
What of him?

Agnes.
Will he be there?
How shall he stand at the appointed day
Before the judgment seat, if thy forgiveness
Rest not upon him?

Ellen.
Oh that now he heard me.
'Twere now no sin to gaze upon this face,
And hear the voice that pardons him.

Agnes.
And canst thou
Endure the meeting? will it not o'erpow'r thee?
He is beneath this roof. Will it not shock thee
Once more to view him? not, as once, alas,
In pride of manhood, but a contrite sinner
Chastis'd by woe: and, such as now I view thee,
Nigh unto death? yet peace at last would sooth him,
Blest by thy pardon.

Ellen.
Heav'n has giv'n me strength.
If he can look on Ellen, hither lead him.
Say, Heav'n is merciful. I pray, delay not:
My breath begins to fail. Be not long absent.
Oh let me, on thy breast, in blessing thee
Breathe out my spirit!

Agnes.
Grant me strength, ye saints!

[Agnes goes out.
Prior.
[looking on Ellen.]
Her head reclines again. Sure, life has left her.

Alfonso led in by Agnes, and supported by the Monks.
Alf.
I pray you, mock me not. Is she not dead?
Lift me, and let me gaze upon her face.
[After long gazing on her.
How calm! e'en so as when I first beheld thee.
It speaks a soul that past in peace with all:
And if thy placid lip has utterance lost,
That look is like a blessing.

Ellen.
Agnes? Julian?
Where are you?

Alf.
Prostrate at thy feet.

Ellen.
Oh, Julian,
In secret oft I pray'd
That thou might'st hear my blessing: Heav'n is gracious.
Give me thy hand: I cannot see thy face,
My eyes grow dim: thy honour'd hand, thou saint!
Thus I unite you. [joining their hands.]
Heav'n has heard my pray'r.
Now—Julian, thou art blest. We meet in heav'n.

[Ellen dies.
Julian.
Father of Mercy! thanks. Support me, Agnes!
Oh that I ne'er had wrong'd thee!

[Julian dies.
Agnes.
Julian—hear me—
His hand now quits my grasp. Farewell! farewell.

[She kneels over them.
Prior.
Rise, virtuous mourner, rise! celestial peace
Be thine! oh thou, who in severest trial,
Firm in thyself, and faultless, shed'st the tear
Lenient o'er human frailty! peace be thine!
[To the Monks bending over the dead bodies.
Brethren! o'er these the solemn requiem breathe!
Then, duly in our cemetery place
Till other burial claims: thou, [to Julian.]
with thy sires,
In sculptur'd tombs: and thou, [to Ellen.]
poor child, with thine,
Nameless beneath the grass-sod.
Soon will pass
Your mortal frames from sight: but long your fate
Shall call down tears from many a stranger guest.
Oft shall they sigh o'er thee, poor peasant girl!
Whose earthly woes, unmerited, await
Heav'n's blissful recompense. For thee, Alfonso!
By thy example, warn the man of guilt,
That Heav'n, who purified thy soul by woe,
And chasten'd with sore wounds, may summon him,
Flush'd from the banquet where sin ranks the guests,
At once before the presence of his God.