University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The sea-shore after a storm, with the masts of a wrecked vessel seen above the water at a distance, and casks and various chests, boards, &c. floating on the waves. Enter shipwrecked mariners and passengers, followed by Sebastian, who keeps apart from the others.
1st pass.
Well, sirs! to tread on firm dry earth again
Makes the heart glad and thankful.

1st mar.
With good cause;
For a dry grave at home is, after all,
The secret wish and prayer of every seaman,
Ay, even the boldest of us.
None hath so long or roughly lived at sea
As to be careless where his bones are laid,—
In sacred ground, or in the gulfy deep.
And thou, too, thinkst so, if I read thee right.

[To 2d passenger.
2d pass.
Ay, so in truth thou dost; I said my prayers
Devoutly as the tempest louder wax'd,
Nor am ashamed to own it.

2d mar.
Nor needs to be so; seaman as I am,
Let me, as oft as fortune beckons me,
On summer seas or rough December's waves,
Career it boldly with my jolly mates;
But let me die at last in mine own cot,
With all my kinsfolk round me. My poor wife!
She listens to the winds when others sleep,
And thinks,—Well, well! we are all safe on shore.

3d mar.
But, saving this, what have we else to cheer us?
Men on dry land are hungry and lack food;
We cannot live on safety only. See,
Here comes a countryman. Ho! friend, I say!
[Calling off the stage.
(Voice answering without.)
What dost thou say? I cannot hear thy words.

3d mar.
Come hither, if thou hast a Christian heart,
Or any charity; come near, I pray thee.

Enter Pietro.
Pie.
What is your will with me?

3d mar.
I pray thee, friend,
What shore is this? Be there or food, or shelter,
Or Christian pity in these parts? Thou seest
What miserable shipwreck'd men we are.

Pie.
Yes, ye are cast upon a shore, where shelter
And Christian pity never are withheld
From those who want them. Seest thou through the trees
That castle? There a noble lady dwells,
Who will have pity on you.

3d mar.
Thank Providence for this! Your noble ladies,
When once they take to goodness, are most bountiful:
The best of all; the men to them are nothing.

1st pass.
She hath no lord then?

Pie.
He is absent now,
Kept at the king's high court, as it is said,
But my opinion is—

3d mar.
Whate'er it be,
That is not our concern. What is his name?

Pie.
They call him Don Romiero.

Seb.
(advancing hastily).
What saidst thou? Is he absent?

Pie.
He is, but his good lady will relieve you,
Ye need not fear for that.

Seb.
We will not fear. Ye love that lady, then,
Who is, ye say, so good?

Pie.
How should we else? A very brute would love her.

Seb.
Yes, thou sayst well; she was e'en from her birth—
I mean, all ladies sprung from noble blood
Are, from their birth, to generous actions train'd;
At least, it should be so.

Pie.
And is so, friend; for I have oft observ'd
Good birth and breeding, as in my own lady,
With gracious kindness join'd.

Seb.
What is her name?

Pie.
Donna Zorada. Thou hast heard, belike,
How her poor father—

Seb.
(turning away).
No; I hear no stories;
I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil,
Who hears or cares for nothing.

Pie.
(to 3d mar.)
This is no mariner? and he speaks strangely.

3d mar.
The strangest thing is that he spoke at all.
We took him up at sea from a small boat,
Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar,
Like a black cockle on the glimmering waves;
But whether earth or hell had sent him to us,
We doubted much.

1st mar.
Nay; when the hurricane wax'd to its pitch
We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved
To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless,
He hath escaped; and God be praised, we did not.

Pie.
Hush! he returns again. Go on, poor souls,
In lucky hour ye come; for in that wood
Not many paces hence, amongst the trees,
Donna Zorada takes her morning walk;
You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to her:
And, as we go, there are some words of counsel
Which I shall give to you. They may be useful;
For age, and some small share of shrewd observance,
Have made me, though I say it, fit to counsel.

1st mar.
Do so, good man, and heaven reward thy kindness!

[Exeunt all but Sebastian.
Seb.
(alone).
So near her! Led, as by the hand of heaven,
Even to her very door! And I shall shortly
See her again, and hold her to my heart!
My child! my child! Oh! when those gentle eyes
Look on my woe-worn face and alter'd form,
And these coarse weeds, how will thy piteous heart
Swell e'en to bursting! In that wood hard by,—
So near me! Blessed heaven hath brought me here.

[Exit.