 | The Confession |  |
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,
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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,
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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.
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