University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Room.
Frederigo. Giana.
GIANA.
You think it strange that I should visit you?

FREDERIGO.
No, madam, no.

GIANA.
You must: ev'n I myself
Must own the visit strange: it is most strange.

FREDERIGO.
I am most grateful for it.

GIANA.
Hear me, first.
What think you brought me hither? I've a suit
That presses, and I look to you to grant it.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis but to name it, for you may command
My life, my service. Oh! but you know this:
You injure when you doubt.

GIANA.
I do not doubt.
Now for my errand: Gentle signior, listen:
I have a child; no mother ever loved
A son so much: but that you know him, I
Would say how delicate he was, how good.
But oh! I need not tell his sweet ways to you:
You know them, signior, and your heart would grieve,
(I feel't,) if you should see the poor child die;
And now he's pale and ill. If you could hear
How he asks after you, and says he loves you
Next to his mother.

FREDERIGO.
Madam, stay your tears.
Can I do aught to soothe your pretty boy?
I love him as my own.

GIANA.
Sir?

FREDERIGO.
I forget.
And yet I love him, lady: am I too bold?

GIANA.
Oh, no. I thank you for your love.

FREDERIGO.
Giana!

GIANA.
To my poor child: he pines and wastes away.
One thing alone in all the world he sighs for;
And that—I cannot name it.

FREDERIGO.
Is it mine?

GIANA.
It is, it is: I shame to ask't.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis yours;
Were it my life. What have I, and not yours?

GIANA.
It is—the falcon.
Ah, pardon me: I see how you love the bird.

FREDERIGO.
I loved him,—yes.

GIANA.
I feel my folly, sir.
You shall not part with your poor faithful bird:
I had no right (I least of all) to ask it.
I will not rob you, sir.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! that you could!
Poor Mars! Your child, madam, will grieve to hear
His poor old friend is dead.

GIANA.
Impossible.
I met him as I entered.

FREDERIGO.
He is dead.

GIANA.
Nay, this is not like you. Why not refuse?
I do not need excuses.

FREDERIGO.
Gracious lady,
Believe me not so poor: the bird is dead.
Listen: you came to visit me—to feast:
It was my barest hour of poverty:
I had not one poor coin to purchase food.
Could I for shame confess this to you?—you?
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved
Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign
To smile on one whom all the world forgot.
Once I had been her lover, (how sincere
Let me not say:) my name was high and princely:
My nature had not fallen. Could I stoop
And say how low and abject was my fortune?
And send you fasting home? Your servant there
Would have scorned me. Lady, even then I swore
That I would feast you daintily:—I did.
My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish
Which Juno might have tasted.

GIANA.
What is this?
We feasted on your noble bird? Good bird!

FREDERIGO.
He has redeemed my credit.

GIANA
(after a pause).
You have done
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er
Forget it, may I not know happiness.
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind,
A heart such as in hours of pain or peril
Methinks I could repose on.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! Giana!

GIANA.
I have a child who loves you. For his mother
You've wrought a way into her inmost heart.
Can she requite you?

FREDERIGO.
How! what mean you?—Madam!
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise
My wretched heart so high; too high: do not—
'Twill break on falling.

GIANA.
But it shall not fall,
If I can prop it, or my hand repay
Your many gifts, your long fidelity.
I come, Frederigo, not as young girls do,
To blush and prettily affect to doubt
The heart I know to be my own. I feel
That you have loved me well. Forgive me, now,
That circumstance (which some day I'll make known)
Kept me aloof. My nature is not hard,
Altho' it seemed thus to you.

FREDERIGO.
What can I say?

GIANA.
Nothing. I read your heart.

FREDERIGO.
It bursts, my love: but 'tis with joy, with joy.
Giana! my Giana! are you mine?
Speak, lest I fear I dream. We—we will have
Nothing but halcyon days. Oh! we will live
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets,
As gaily as the summer fly, but wiser:
I'll be thy servant ever. I will be
The sun o' thy life, faithful through every season,
And thou shalt be my flower perennial,
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose,
My passion-flower, and I will wear thee here,
Here, on my heart, and thou shalt never fade.
I'll love thee mightily, my queen, and in
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest
With music sweeter than the wild wind's song:
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars,
Thyself beyond the nymphs who, poets feigned,
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.
My gentle deity! I'll crown thee with
The whitest lilies, and then bow me down
Love's own idolater, and worship thee.
And thou wilt then be mine, my beautiful?
How fondly will we love through life together;
And wander, heart-linked, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

GIANA.
Oh! you rave.

FREDERIGO.
I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever;
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night.
We will have clocks that with their silver chime
Shall measure out the moments: and I'll mark
The time, and keep love's endless calendar.
To-day I'll note a smile: to-morrow how
Your bright eyes spoke—how saucily; and then
Record a kiss plucked from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking: then, thy voice,
As rich as stringèd harp swept by the winds
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls
On serenader's moonlit instrument—
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be
My household goddess; nay smile not, nor shake
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous:
I swear it shall be so: it shall, my love.

GIANA.
Why, now thou'rt mad indeed: mad.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not so.
There was a tender sculptor once who loved
And worshipped the white marble which he shaped,
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touched the pale stone with life, and it became
Pygmalion's bride: but thee—on whom
Nature had lavished all her wealth before,
Now love has touched with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou—let me pause;
My breath is gone.

GIANA.
With talking!

FREDERIGO.
With delight.
But I may worship thee in silence, still.

GIANA.
The night is come; and I must go; farewell!
Until to-morrow.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not yet, not yet.
Behold! the moon is up, the bright-eyed moon,
And sheds her soft delicious light on us,
True lovers re-united. Why she smiles,
And bids you tarry: will you disobey
The Lady of the Sky?

GIANA.
Nay, I must go.

FREDERIGO.
Then we will go together.

GIANA.
Not to-night.
My servants wait my coming; not far off.

FREDERIGO.
A few more words, and then I'll part with thee,
For one long night: to-morrow bid me come,
(Thou hast already with thine eyes,) and bring
My load of love and lay it at thy feet.
—Oh! ever while those floating orbs are bright
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light.
Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power
Throughout the world: so, dear Giana, I
Will vindicate my own idolatry:
And in the beauty and the spell that lies
In the sweet meanings of thy love-lit eyes;
In thy neck's purple veins, which downward glide,
Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide;
In thy clear open forehead; in thy hair
Heaped in rich tresses on thy shoulders fair;
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense;
In thy most soft and winning eloquence;
In woman's gentleness and love, (now bent
On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument.