University of Virginia Library

Scene the second

the Convent Cloisters.
Prior and Confessor.
Prior.
Say, hast thou found Alfonso?

Con.
No, good Prior.
He mus'd not in his cell, nor duely came
To join th'assembled monks,
Ere the fixt duties of the convent call'd
Each to his separate office.

Prior.
'Tis most strange.

Con.
I have made careful search, and closely question'd
The brethren, one by one.

Prior.
Who last beheld him?

Con.
Juan. At dawn while he unbarr'd the gates,
Alfonso darted forth
Striking his breast in anguish.

Prior.
Heav'n protect him!
Sooth, all ye sainted host, his woe-worn soul!

Con.
Alas! my mind misgives me.

Prior.
How?

Con.
I fear
We ne'er shall see him more. Unhappy man!
Our holy Provost to these walls returns
To fix anew our duties. Much methinks
He dreads the issue of that solemn inquest,
Which here confirms him in his perilous charge,
His only solace: or for ever drives him
From this lone roof. To him he must reveal
The anguish of his spirit. Hapless man!
Fain had he died unknown!

Prior.
Hear, holy Saint!
Thou, who didst found 'mid everlasting snows
These walls, thy earthly residence, look down!
Look down on him whose unremitted zeal
At life's dread risk, has highly minister'd
To thy most blest intent!—Hear, holy Bernard,
Nor to the storm and conflict of dark passion,
Abandon poor Alfonso!

Con.
Yes, my brother,
Service like his, nor wealth, nor worldly honours
Gain or repay: its source is in the heart;
And in the spirit that there prompts to act,
Finds its sole recompense.

Prior.
If fervent pray'rs,
If tears of gratitude by others shed,
The pilgrim and lone stranger, at life's hazard,
By brave Alfonso rescu'd from destruction,
Could heal the wound that bleeds with inward pangs
Peace on his soul had shed her lenient balm:
But 'tis not so with him.

Con.
No—many a time
When the lost travellers, whom his arm from far
Bore 'mid the howling night-storm, whom his hand
Long chaf'd before the hearth, with grateful look
First turn'd th'awaken'd eye on poor Alfonso,
Who hung all pity o'er the seeming corse:
How have I seen him from his dark cheek dash
The tear away, and fly the open'd lip
That pour'd its blessing on him.

Steward enters with Laymen bearing logs, &c.
Stew.
Haste, my friends,
Rake up the embers, pile the glowing hearth
With unctuous pine,
The sight shall cheer him, and the crackling blaze
Breathe grateful fragrance round. Then, deck the board,
And freely cull what best may furnish out
Our frugal banquet.

[Exeunt Laymen.
Con.
Whence this sudden haste?

Stew.
Ring out the convent bell, that the loud peal
Recal each absent brother. None must fail
Of their accustom'd duty.

Prior.
Stay, good Steward.

Stew.
The Provost is expected, and each moment
We look to greet him.

Prior.
All good angels guide him!
But say who brought
The welcome news? for scarce the lower rocks
Peep thro' the snow: and, save some pilgrim bound
On fearful penance, and that mournful train
Who left at morn the convent, none have dar'd
The dangerous pass.

Stew.
You know the southern guide.

Prior.
What, faithful Claude? He, who for many a season
Has claim'd the convent prize, his custom'd due
Who from the pass first clears the drifted snows?

Stew.
The same. He left our long-expected Provost
Now as he slowly up the mountain toil'd.
Farewell; my charge awaits me.

[Exit.
Prior.
Peace be with you!
Alas, no common call, in this rude season,
Has forc'd good Albert, bow'd with weight of years,
To leave the shelter of the peaceful vale.
'Tis not alone to fix our separate charge;
Mandates from Rome, strictly to scrutinize
Each layman and poor hind that serves the convent,
(For rumour dwells on bad men harbour'd here)
Now urge his step.

Con.
Full well we know his mission
That shames this sacred roof. Alas! that slander
Should feign, that here the ruffian and fell murderer
Unquestion'd guests, have found familiar shelter.
Such haunt not here. Sad years of ceaseless wars
That long have wasted fair Italia's plain,
Turning to barrenness her fruitful soil,
Have steel'd men's hearts; and, haply, from the camp,
Outcasts, who prowl when late the battle bled,
And pluck'd, 'tis said, while the warm blood yet flows
The covering from the wound, at times have sought
Night shelter from the storm. Else, never here
Have lawless men found refuge.

Prior.
Go, my brother,
Ere Albert yet arrives, search out once more
Alfonso's lonely haunt. Heav'n guide thy steps!

[Exeunt.