University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—The Convent Cloysters.
Prior and Confessor.
Prior.
Say, hast thou found Alfonso?

Conf.
No, good Prior.
He mus'd not in his cell; nor duly came
To join th' assembled Monks,
Ere the fix'd duties of the Convent call'd
Each to his separate office.

Prior.
'T is most strange!

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

Prior.
Who last beheld him?

Conf.
Anselmo. He, with eye that swam in tears,
Said, that at dawn, while he unbarr'd the gates,
Alfonso darted forth ungreeting by him,
Striking his breast in anguish.

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

Conf.
Alas! my mind misgives me—

Prior.
How?

Conf.
I fear
We shall not see him more. Unhappy man!
His troubled spirit, that oft sorely griev'd us,
Seems, with increase of horrors, day by day,
Rack'd, as the time draws near,
When our good Provost to these walls returns,
To fix anew our duties. Much, methinks,
He dreads the issue of that solemn inquest,
Which, or confirms him in his perilous charge,
His only solace; or for ever drives him
From this lone roof, that long has sooth'd his woe,
Hid from the world. To him he must reveal
The secret of his soul,
That inly preys upon him.

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

Conf.
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 kindliest deeds,
That sooth the woe of others,
The pilgrim, houseless wanderer, and lone stranger,
Could heal the wound that bleeds with inward pangs,
Peace on his soul had shed her lenient balm.
But 'tis not so with him.

Conf.
Oh, 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,
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!

Enter Steward, with Laymen.
Stew.
Haste, my friends!
Rake up the embers, pile the glowing hearth:
The sight shall cheer him, and the crackling blaze
Waft grateful fragrance round. Then, deck the board,
And freely cull what best may furnish out
Our frugal banquet.

[Exeunt Laymen,
Conf.
Whence this sudden haste?

Stew.
(Regardless of the question.)
Ring out the Convent bell, that the loud peal
Recall each absent brother. None must fail
Of their accustom'd duty.

Prior.
Stay, good Steward.

Stew.
The Provost is expected. Nay, 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 through the snow: and, save some pilgrim, bound
On fearful penance, and that mournful train,
Which left at morn the Convent, none have dar'd
The dangerous pass.

Stew.
You know the southern Guide.

Prior.
What! faithful Gaspar! who for many a season
Has claim'd the Convent prize, his custom'd due,
Who from the path first clears the drifted mass?

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

[Exit Steward.
Prior.
Alas! no common call has forc'd good Albert,
Bow'd down with age, to leave, in this rude season,
The shelter of the vale.
'T is not alone to fix our separate charge:
Mandates from Rome, strictly to scrutinize
Each layman, and paid hind that serves the Convent,
(For rumour bruits of bad men harbour'd here,)
Now urge his step.

Conf.
Full well we know his mission,
That shames this sacred roof. Alas! that malice
Should feign, that here the ruffian, and fell murderer,
Unquestion'd guests, have found familiar shelter!
Such haunt not here. Sad years of ceaseless war,
That long have wasted fair Italia's plain,
Turning to dreary waste her fruitful soil,
Have steel'd men's hearts: and, haply, from the camp,
Outcasts, who prowl where late the battle bled,
And pluck, '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,
Save in the pitiless hour, when all are welcome,
Have lawless men found refuge.

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

[Exeunt.