University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A Wood;—the Stage darkened;—St. Aldobrand speaking to a page behind the Scenes.
Ald.
Hold thou my good steed, page; the moon is down,
We've far outstript the knights, but slacker speed
Hath found a surer road—where, think'st thou, are we?
Enter St. Aldobrand and a Page.
Vainly I listen through the night so still
For bell that tells of holy convent near,
Or warder's bugle from the battlement,
Or horn of knight returning from the chase—
All is dark, still, and lorn; where deemest thou are we?

Page.
Oh we are nigh a fell and fearful spot,
For by the last gleams of the sunken moon
I saw the towers—

Ald.
What towers are those, boy?

Page.
The ruined towers that 'tis said are haunted—
Dimly they rose amid the doubtful gloom,
But not one star-beam twinkled on their summits.

Ald.
Then, not four leagues divide me from mine home.—
Mine home—it is a pleasant sound—there bide
My dame and child—all pleasant thoughts dwell there—
“Then, while I rest beneath this broad-armed tree,
“Or oak, or elm, in this dark night I wot not—
“It shall be thy sweet penance to rehearse
“All thou hast heard of these most fearful towers—
“The tale will sooth my sleep, nor mar my dreams—

“Page.
Then let me couch by thee—I pray thee do—
“For ever I love 'mid frightful tales i'th'dark
“To touch the hand I tell the tale of fear to”—

[A bell tolls.
Ald.
Hark! 'tis the convent bell, forego thy tale—
The blessed thoughts of home are in that sound
That near my castle's gallant walls doth float—

[Chorus of knights heard faintly from the forest.
Ald.
What voices swell upon the midnight air?

Page.
St. Anselm's knights.

Ald.
Yes, 'tis their pious wont,
When journeying near the sound of convent-bell
'Mid flood or fire, to raise the holy hymn
That chaunts the praise of their protecting saint—
List to the solemn harmony—
Guided by that we may rejoin their company.

[Exeunt.
Chorus heard again, and continues drawing nearer till the scene changes.

SCENE II.

The Convent.
The Prior reading; Bertram views him with the attention of one who envies him, then speaks.
Ber.
How many hours have passed since matin-bell?

Prior.
I know not, till it sound again to vespers.
Time passes o'er us with a noiseless lapse:
Our hours are marked alone by prayer and study,
And know no change but by their mute succession—

Ber.
Yea—thus they live, if this may life be called
Where moving shadows mock the parts of men.
Prayer follows study, study yields to prayer—
Bell echoes bell, till wearied with the summons
The ear doth ache for that last welcome peal
That tolls an end to listless vacancy—
Aye—when the red swol'n stream comes roaring down—
Full many a glorious flower, and stately tree,
Floats on the ruthless tide, whose unfelt sway
Moves not the mire that stagnates at the bottom.
The storm for Bertram—and it hath been with me,
Dealt with me branch and bole, bared me to th'roots,
And where the next wave bears my perished trunk
In its dread lapse, I neither know, nor reck of—

Prior.
—Thou desperate man, whom mercy woos in vain,
Although with miracles she pleads—
Forbear, I say, to taint these holy echoes
With the fell sounds of thy profane despair.—

Ber.
Good monk, I am beholden to your patience.
Take this from one, whose lips do mock at praise;
Thou art a man, whose mild and reverend functions
Might change the black creed of misanthropy,
And bid my better angel half return.—
But—'tis impossible—I will not trouble thee—
The wayward Bertram and his moody mates
Are tenants all unmeet for cloistered walls—
We will find fitter home.

Prior.
Whither wilt thou resort?

Ber.
Is there no forest
Whose shades are dark enough to shelter us;
Or cavern rifted by the perilous lightning,
Where we must grapple with the tenanting wolf
To earn our bloody lair?—there let us bide,
Nor hear the voice of man, nor call of heaven.—

Pri.
Wend not, I charge thee, with those desperate men.
Full well I wot who are thy fearful mates—
In their stern strife with the incensed deep,
That dashed them bruised and breathless on our shores,
When their drenched hold forsook both gold and geer,
They griped their daggers with a murderer's instinct.
—I read thee for the leader of a band
Whose trade is blood.—

Ber.
Well then, thou knowest the worst—
And let the worst be known, I am their leader—

Pri.
Mark what I reed, renounce that horrid league—
Flee to the castle of St. Aldobrand,
His power may give thee safety, and his dame
May plead for thee against the law's stern purpose—
All as thou art unknown—

Ber.
His dame plead for me!—
When my cold corse, torn from some felon wheel,
Or dug from lightless depth of stony dungeon,
Welters in the cold gaze of pitiless strangers,
Then fling it at his gate, whose cursed stones
My living foot treads never,—yet beware
Lest the corse burst its cearments stark, and curse thee—

Pri.
Hush, hush these horrid sounds; where wilt thou bide?
Near us nor knight nor baron holds his keep,
For far and wide thy foeman's land extends.

Ber.
The world hath ample realms beyond his power.
There must I dwell—I seek my rugged mates—
The frozen mountain, or the burning sand
Would be more wholesome than the fertile realm
That's lorded o'er by Aldobrand.
[Exit Bertram.

Pri.
High-hearted man, sublime even in thy guilt,
Whose passions are thy crimes, whose angel-sin
Is pride that rivals the star-bright apostate's.—
Wild admiration thrills me to behold
An evil strength, so above earthly pitch—
Descending angels only could reclaim thee—

Enter 2d Monk.
Monk.
The lady of St. Aldobrand in haste
Craves swift admittance to your sacred cell.

Pri.
She is a gracious, and a pious dame,
And doth our cell much honour by her presence.

Enter Imogine. She kneels to him.
Pri.
The blessings of these sainted walls be on thee.
Why art thou thus disturbed, what moves thee, daughter?

Imo.
Nay, do not raise me with those reverend hands,
Nor benison of saint greet mine approach,
Nor shadow of holy hand stretched forth to bless me.—
I am a wretched, soul-struck, guilty woman.

Pri.
Thou dost amaze me; by mine holy order
I deemed no legends of our cloistered saints
Held holier records of pure sanctity
Than the clear answer of thy stainless life
To shrift's most piercing search—

Imo.
Oh holy prior, no matron proud and pure,
Whose dreams ne'er wandered from her wedded lord,
Whose spoused heart was plighted with her hand,
Kneels for thy prayer of power—I am a wretch,
Who, pale and withering with unholy love,
Lay a shrunk corse in duty's fostering arms,
And with cold smiles belied her heart's despair.
I've nursed a slumbering serpent till it stung me,
And from my heart's true guardian, hid its foulness

Prior.
Thou'st done an evil deed—
For sin is of the soul, and thine is tainted—
But most I blame thee, that from thy soul's guardian
Thou hiddest thy secret guilt.

Imo.
I knew it not—
Last night, oh! last night told a dreadful secret—
The moon went down, its sinking ray shut out,
The parting form of one beloved too well.—
The fountain of my heart dried up within me,—
With nought that loved me, and with nought to love
I stood upon the desart earth alone—
I stood and wondered at my desolation—
For I had spurned at every tie for him,
And hardly could I beg from injured hearts
The kindness that my desperate passion scorned—
And in that deep and utter agony,
Though then, than ever most unfit to die,
I fell upon my knees, and prayed for death.

Prior.
And did deserve it, wert thou meet for it—
Art thou a wife and mother, and canst speak
Of life rejected by thy desperate passion—
These bursting tears, wrung hands, and burning words,
Are these the signs of penitence or passion?
Thou comest to me, for to my ear alone
May the deep secret of thy heart be told,
And fancy riot in the luscious poison—
Fond of the misery we paint so well,
Proud of the sacrifice of broken hearts,
We pour on heav'ns dread ear, what man's would shrink from—
Yea, make a merit of the impious insult,
And wrest the functions of mine holy office
To the foul ministry of earthly passion.

Imo.
Why came I here, I had despair at home—
Where shall the wretch resort whom Heaven forsakes?

Prior.
Thou hast forsaken Heaven.
Speed to thy castle, shut thy chamber door,
Bind fast thy soul by every solemn vow
Never to hold communion with that object—
If still thy wishes contradict thy prayers,
If still thy heart's responses yield no harmony—
Weary thy saint with agonies of prayer;
On the cold marble quench thy burning breast;
Number with every bead a tear of soul;
Press to thy heart the cross, and bid it banish
The form that would usurp its image there—

Imo.
(kneeling)
One parting word—

Prior.
No, not one parting look—
One parting thought, I charge thee on thy soul.

Imo.
(turning away)
He never loved.—

Prior.
Why clingest thou to my raiment?
Thy grasp of grief is stronger on my heart—
For sterner oft our words than feelings are.

Enter 1st Monk and Page.
Monk.
Hail, holy prior, and hail thou noble dame,
With joyful heart I break upon your privacy—
St. Aldobrand before his own good gates
Doth rein his war-steed's pride; the warder's horn
Full merrily rings his peal of welcome home—
I hied me onward with the joyful tidings
To greet his happy dame.

Imo.
My thanks await them.—

Prior.
Now, by my beads the news is wond'rous welcome—
Hath thy brave lord in safety reached his home—
Praise to St. Anselm who ne'er leaves his servants.
My rosary hath been well told for him—
(Clear thy dimmed brow, for shame! hie to thy lord,
And shew a dame's true duty in his welcome.)
Came with thy lord the knights of good St. Anselm
Bearing the banner of their guardian saint
Safe from the infidel scathe?—

Page.
They come with speed—
Though lated in the forest's wildering maze;
Last night their shelter was the broad brown oak—

Pri.
High praise be given—haste, summon all our brethren;
Th'occasion, noble dame, doth call me from thee—
So Benedicite—

[Exeunt.
Imo.
(alone)
That word should mean—
A blessing rest on me—I am not blest—
I'm weary of this conflict of the heart—
These dying struggles of reluctant duty—
These potent throes of wild convulsive passion.
Would I were seared in guilt, or strong in innocence—
I dare not search my heart; some iron vow
Shall bind me down in passive wretchedness,
And mock the force of my rebellious heart
To break its rivetting holds—
[As she kneels, enter Bertram.
Ha! art thou there?—
Come kneel with me, and witness to the vow
I offer to renounce thee, and to die—

Ber.
Nay, it is meet that we renounce each other—
Have we not been a miserable pair?
Hath not our fatal passion cursed, not blessed us?—
Had we not loved, how different were our fates;
For thou hadst been a happy honoured dame,
And I had slept the sleep of those that dream not—
But life was dear, while Imogine did love.

Imo.
Witness my vow—while I have breath to speak it—

Ber.
Then make it thus—why dost thou shrink from me?
Despair hath its embrace as well as passion—
May I not hold thee in these folded arms?
May I not clasp thee to this blasted heart?
When the rich soil teemed with youth's generous flowers—
I felt thee sunshine—now thy rayless light
Falls like the cold moon on a blasted heath
Mocking its desolation—speak thy vow—
I will not chide thee if the words should kill me—

Imo.
(sinking into his arms).
I cannot utter it—

Ber.
Have we not loved, as none have ever loved,
And must we part as none have ever parted?
I know thy lord is near; I know his towers
Must shut thee from my sight—the curfew-hour
Will send me on a far and fearful journey—
Give me one hour, nor think thou givest too much,
When grief is all the boon.—

Imo.
One hour to thee?

Ber.
When the cold moon gleams on thy castle walls,
Wilt thou not seek the spot where last we met?
That be our parting spot—Oh Imogine—
Heaven that denies the luxury of bliss
Shall yield at least the luxury of anguish,
And teach us the stern pride of wretchedness—
“Our parting hour be at the dim moonlight,
“And we will make that hour of parting dearer
“Than years of happy love—what recollections—
“What rich and burning tears—in that blessed hour
“Our former hearts shall glide into our breasts,
“Mine free from care, as thine was light of sorrow—
That hour shall light my parting step of darkness—
Imogine's form did gleam on my last glance,
Imogine's breath did mix with my last sigh,
Imogine's tear doth linger on my cheek,
But ne'er must dew my grave—

Imo.
I am desperate
To say I'll meet thee, but I will, will meet thee;
No future hour can rend my heart like this
Save that which breaks it.—

[The child runs in, and clings to Imogine.
Child.
My father is returned, and kissed and blessed me—

Imo.
(falling on the child's neck.)
What have I done, my child; forgive thy mother.

Ber.
(Surveying her with stern contempt.)
Woman, oh woman, and an urchin's kiss
Rends from thy heart thy love of many years—
Go, virtuous dame, to thy most happy lord,
And Bertram's image taint your kiss with poison.
[Exit Bertram.

Imo.
(Alone)
'Tis but the last—and I have sworn to meet him
My boy, my boy, thy image will protect me.