University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The wildest Alpine scenery of ice-mountains and precipices covered with snow, in the environs of the Great St. Bernard. The travellers are seen on different heights amid the windings of the rock, slowly descending the pass leading to the Vallais. First, Francis with two Guides exploring the way, and sounding the hollows with long poles: then Agnes by herself, preceding a litter borne by the mountain-peasants: on either side of the litter a female Attendant, followed by a Page.
Agnes.
Agnes.
Oh glorious Sun! illumin'd by thy beams
These wastes of snow, these Alpine solitudes
Have pow'r to sooth me. [advancing, and looking on different parts.]

How distinct each rock,
Smooth-brow'd, or spiring high its tapering peak!
Yon range of wavy sweep, and this that breaks
Eastward in varied forms like floating clouds!
Their hues, how changeful! these, of roseate glow,
Those, azure-dy'd: and some that climb the sky
Fling to the light their summits cop'd with gold!
Oh thou, who spak'st creation into birth,
How glorious, Lord of Nature, these thy works:
How awfully sublime!

Fran.
Each step we tread
Leads to new dangers.

Guide.
Sound that snow-heap'd cave.

Fran.
How fearfully yon tumbling rock o'erhangs
[Turning back to Agnes.
The narrow pass. Beware!

Agnes.
Proceed, good Francis.

Fran.
Here yawns a chasm, down whose depth, the sight
Wanders without repose. I'll gaze no more:
Its very horror, while it shocks the sense,
Most strangely fascinates.
[He advances.
These slippery fragments,
Hurl'd by the tempest from the crags above,
Roll loose beneath me.—Lady, let me aid you:
Lean on this faithful arm.

Agnes.
My foot treads firm.
To those who know not grief such ways are painful.
I have within my soul what mocks at toil.

Fran.
You were in luxury nurs'd, nor have been us'd
To scenes like these: I, in my childhood, rock'd
In want's stern cradle feel these aged sinews,
That never shrunk in war, ache with each step
As slow I labour on. Oh, honour'd lady!
The holy brothers of St. Bernard warn'd you
Not to attempt the pass. Return, I pray.
Yet, yet amid the rocks a lingering echo
Heaves back the slow clang of the convent bell.
It is for you I fear.

Agnes.
My will is fix'd.
Go with the guides, and timely warning give
If aught impede the way. The topmost snow
Stirr'd by the zephyr's breath, may swell before it
To size impassable.

Fran.
I must obey.

Agnes.
[to those who bear the litter.]
Be careful, I beseech you; this steep path
Betrays th'unsteady foot: guard well the litter:
You shall not lack reward. Kind, gentle maids,
Be watchful of your charge. I first, myself,
Will this sharp ridge explore. So may'st thou, Ellen,
Securely pass, and ere death end thy woe
Find peace once more!

Fran.
[to the guides.]
Heard you that sound?

Guide.
Most plainly—
The voice of men advancing.

Fran.
List! again
Up as the gale comes slowly from beneath,
I hear distinct the noise of echo'd steps.

Guide.
'Tis strange in this new season; so far well,
Claude enters.
The rocks below are open.—Welcome, Claude:
It is the provost's guide. Thrice welcome Claude:
How fares the reverend Albert?

Claude.
Heav'n has heard
The convent pray'rs: he looks restor'd to youth:
Another man! 'Twill cheer your heart to see him.
He will be here in th'instant.—Hark, they come.
I haste to warn the convent. Fare you well.

Guide.
Oh happy hour! Heav'n guard his sacred life.

Claude.
[going, speaks to Agnes.]
Lady! I pray you let the litter rest:
And in this cave, that fronts the mid-day sun,
Wait till the train pass by. This narrow ridge
Will else your lives endanger.
[Claude goes.

Agnes.
[to her train.]
Repose awhile, my friends! and in this cave
Set down the litter. Your good Provost comes—
Not these bleak rocks alone, and the Alpine swains
Echo his praises: far and wide his virtues
Call forth the general blessing on his head.
The Provost and his train enter: as the Provost passes, Agnes speaks.
Your benediction, father!

Pro.
Peace be with you!
Those widow's weeds, this melancholy train:—
Daughter, you seem in woe, and pale your cheek
Thro' sorrow more than years: what urgent cause
Compells you to these mountains?

Agnes.
Holy father!
I pray you pardon me, nor deem me one
Rude or untouch'd by kindness, that I leave you,
My tale of grief untold.—These sable weeds
But ill express the anguish of my soul.
But seek not out the cause. The pow'r who tries
The mourner, smites in mercy. Thou hast blest me:
Farewell—

Pro.
Yet, mark me, daughter, no vain wish
To hear what may in utterance grieve thy spirit,
And ill may suit my years: but sacred duties
By heav'n enjoin'd, and sympathy of nature
That bids an old man, vers'd himself in woe,
Feel for the grief of others, prompt my speech.—

Agnes.
When thou dost pray for those who grieve on earth,
Remember me.

Pro.
Yet there are lenient words,
Balm of the soul. Daughter, my way of life
Has been where sinners wept, where sorrow sigh'd,
And anguish groan'd around me: and I know
How willingly the mourner, bow'd with woe,
Broods o'er the secret pang that life consumes.
This must not be: heav'n link'd us heart to heart
To heighten every pleasure, and by sharing
Lessen the load of misery.—Silent still?
Turn not away regardless.

Agnes.
No, good father;
Each word thou speak'st is treasur'd in my soul.
Would I might freely at thy feet pour forth
What weighs upon my heart. I am not one
Infirm of mind who fondly broods o'er woe.
These tears, that will not be supprest, gush out
Not for myself alone. One farewell pray'r.
Trust me, the burden of my grief is lighten'd:
For thou hast pitied me.

Pro.
In silence mourn,
I will not urge thee more. Heav'n sooth thy soul!
But I conjure thee, if thou value life
Turn to our hospitable roof again:
There wait till fitter season may ensure
Thy safe departure. Duty forc'd my step
Now in this hazardous time: not far the roof
That shelters me: but long thy way, and perils
No arm of man can ward, surround the path
Where-ere thou goest. And these lone rocks at times
Are crost by ruthless robbers.

Agnes.
I must on.

Pro.
No roof, no shelter near, nor safe return,
If the dim night-fall steal on thee unwares.
And oft the sun in these unsteady skies
Sinks, ere its close, in tempest.

Agnes.
I must on.
[Pointing to the litter.]
Here lies a hapless woman, one who wastes
Hourly away, worn out with ceaseless woe:
An uncomplaining sufferer, nigh to death:
A native of yon vale; her only wish
Is yet once more to view the peaceful spot
To childhood dear, and there to find her grave
Amid her kin. Farewell.

Pro.
May heav'n protect thee! [Exeunt omnes.