University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Night, a Gallery in a Convent, a large Gothic window in the extremity, through which lightning is seen flashing. Two Monks enter in terror.
1st Monk.
Heaven for its mercy!—what a night is here—
Oh! didst thou hear that peal?

2d. Monk.
The dead must hear it.— (A pause—thunder).
Speak! speak, and let me hear a human voice.

1st Monk.
While the dark terror hurtled distantly,
Lapt in the skirts of the advancing clouds,
I cower'd with head full low upon my pallet,
And deem'd that I might sleep—till the strong light
Did, clear as noon day, shew each object round me.
Relic, and rosary, and crucifix,
Did rock and quiver in the bickering glare—
Then forth I rushed in agony of fear.

2d Monk.
Among the tombed tenants of the cloister
I walked and told my beads,
But, by the momently gleams of sheeted blue,
Did the pale marbles glare so sternly on me
I almost deemed they lived, and fled in horror.

1st Monk.
There is much comfort in a holy man
In such an hour as this.
[Knocking at a door.
Ho, wake thee, prior.

2d Monk.
Oh! come forth, holy prior, and pray for us.

Enter the Prior.
Prior.
All peace be with you!—'tis a fearful hour.

1st Monk.
Hath memory a parallel to this?

2d Monk.
How hast thou fared in this most awful time?

Prior.
As one whom fear did not make pitiless:
I bowed me at the cross for those whose heads
Are naked to the visiting blasts of Heav'n
In this its hour of wrath—
For the lone traveller on the hill of storms,
For the tossed shipman on the perilous deep;
Till the last peal that thundered o'er mine head
Did force a cry of—mercy for myself.

1st Monk.
(Eagerly)
Think'st thou these rock-based turrets will abide?

2d Monk.
Think'st thou they will not topple o'er our heads?

Prior.
The hand of Him who rules the storm, is o'er us.

1st Monk.
Oh, holy prior, this is no earthly storm.
The strife of fiends is on the battling clouds,
The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings,—
This is no earthly storm.

Prior.
Peace, peace—thou rash and unadvised man;
Oh! add not to this night of nature's horrors
The darker shadowing of thy wicked fears.
The hand of Heaven, not man, is dealing with us,
And thoughts like thine do make it deal thus sternly.

Enter a Monk pale and breathless.
Prior.
Speak, thou hast something seen.

3d Monk.
—A fearful sight.

Prior.
What hast thou seen?

3d Monk.
—A piteous, fearful sight—
A noble vessel labouring with the storm
Hath struck upon the rocks beneath our walls,
And by the quivering gleams of livid blue
Her deck is crowded with despairing souls,
And in the hollow pauses of the storm
We heard their perishing cries—

Prior.
Now haste ye forth,
Haste all—

3d Monk.
It cannot be, it is too late;
For many a fathom doth the beetling rock
Rise o'er the breaker's surge that dashes o'er them,—
No help of human hand can reach them there—
One hour will hush their cries—and by the morn
Thou wilt behold the ruin—wreck and corse
Float on the weltering wave.

Prior.
Almighty power,
Can nought be done? All things are possible—
Wave high your torches on each crag and cliff—
Let many lights blaze on our battlements—
Shout to them in the pauses of the storm,
And tell them there is hope—
And let our deep-toned bell its loudest peal
Send cheerly o'er the deep—
'Twill be a comfort to the wretched souls
In their extremity—All things are possible;
Fresh hope may give them strength, and strength deliverance—
I'll hie me forth with you.

3d Monk.
Wilt thou go forth—
Hardly the vigorous step of daring youth
May hold its footing on those wave-washed crags:
And how wilt thou abide?

1st Monk.
'Tis tempting Heaven.—

Prior.
To succour man, not tempt my God, I go;
He will protect his servant.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Rocks—The Sea—A Storm—The Convent illuminated in the back ground—The Bell tolls at intervals—A groupe of Monks on the rocks with torches—A Vessel in distress in the Offing.
Enter the Prior and Monks below.
Prior.
(Clasping his hands).
Holy St. Anselm—what a sight is here!

1st Monk.
Pray for their souls—their earthly part is doomed—

Prior.
Oh! that a prayer could hush the elements!—
Hold, I do espy a hope, a blessed hope—
That wave hath heaved her from the rock she struck on.
Lo, every arm on board is plied for safety—
Now, all the saints to speed.—

1st Monk.
No saint doth hear.
Lo, the recoiling surge drives fiercely o'er her—
In, holy prior, or ere their drowning shriek
Do rive the sense; in, in, and tell thy beads—

Prior.
I will not in, while to that hopeless wreck
One arm doth cling; while o'er the roaring waste
One voice be raised for help—I will not hence.

Monks
above.
She sinks—she sinks—Oh hour of woe and horror!

[The Vessel sinks—The Prior falls into the arms of the Monks. The Scene shuts.

SCENE III.

The Gallery.
Enter the first Monk and the Prior.
1st Monk.
Now rest you, holy prior, you are much moved—

Prior.
(not heeding him)
—All, all did perish—

1st Monk.
Change those drenched weeds—

Prior.
I wist not of them—every soul did perish—

Enter 3d Monk hastily.
3d Monk.
No, there was one did battle with the storm
With careless, desperate force; full many times
His life was won and lost, as though he recked not—
No hand did aid him, and he aided none—
Alone he breasted the broad wave, alone
That man was saved—

Prior.
Where is he? lead him hither.

[The stranger is led in by Monks.
Prior.
Raise to St. Anselm, thou redeemed soul,
Raise high thy living voice in prayer and praise;
For wonderous hath his mercy been to thee—

2d Monk.
He hath not spoken yet—

Stranger.
Who are those round me?
Where am I?

Prior.
On the shore of Sicily—
The convent of St. Anselm this is called—
Near is the castle of Lord Aldobrand—
A name far known, if, as thy speech imports,
Thou'rt of Italian birth—

(At the name of Aldobrand, the Stranger makes an effort to break from the Monks, but falls through weakness.)
Prior.
Tell us thy name, sad man—

Stranger.
A man of woe—

Prior.
What is thy woe, that Christian love may heal it—
Hast thou upon the pitiless waters lost
Brother, or sire, or son? did she thou lovest
Sink in thy straining sight!—
Or have the hoardings of thy worldly thrift
Been lost with yonder wreck?—

[To these questions the Stranger gives signs of dissent.
Prior.
Why dost thou then despond?

Stranger.
Because I live—

Prior.
Look not so wild—can we do aught for thee?

Stranger.
Yes, plunge me in the waves from which ye snatched me;
So will the sin be on your souls, not mine—

Prior.
I'll question not with him—his brain is wrecked—
For ever in the pauses of his speech
His lip doth work with inward mutterings,
And his fixed eye is rivetted fearfully
On something that no other sight can spy.
Food and rest will restore him—lead him in—

Stranger.
(dashing off the monks as they approach)
Off—ye are men—there's poison in your touch,—
[Sinking back.
But I must yield, for this hath left me strengthless.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A Hall in the Castle of Aldobrand.
Enter Pietro and Teresa meeting.
Piet.
Hah! Teresa waking! Was ever such a tempest?

Teres.
The Lady Imogine would watch all night.—
And I have tended on her. What roused thee?

Piet.

Would you could tell me what would give me
sleep in such a night. I know of but one remedy for
fear and wakefulness; that is a flaggon of wine. I
hoped the thunder would have waked old Hugo to
open the cellar-door for me.

Teres.
He hath left his bed. E'en now I passed him
Measuring the banquet-hall with restless steps
And moody fretful gestures. He approaches.

Enter Hugo.
Piet.

Hugo, well met. Does e'en thy age bear
memory of so terrible a storm?

Hug.
They have been frequent lately.

Piet.
They are ever so in Sicily.

Hug.
So it is said. But storms when I was young
Would still pass o'er like Nature's fitful fevers
And render'd all more wholesome. Now their rage
Sent thus unseasonable and profitless
Speaks like the threats of Heaven.

Teres.
Heaven grant its wrath visit not my kind Lady!

Hug.
Heaven grant, Teresa.
She may be still as happy in these halls,
As when she tripp'd the green a rural maid
And caroll'd light of heart—ere her good father's ruin;
Or our Lord saw and loved her!

Piet.
See, if Madam Clotilda be not roused.

Teres.
I'm glad, for she's our lady's loved companion
And most esteemed attendant.

Enter Clotilda.
Clot.
Is the Lady Imogine risen?

Teres.
She hath not rested through the night.
Long ere the storm arose, her restless gestures
Forbade all hope to see her bless'd with sleep.

Clot.
Since her lord's absence it is ever thus.
But soon he will return to his loved home,
And the gay knights and noble wassailers
Banish her lonely melancholy.

(Horn heard without.)
Monk.
(without).
What, ho.

Hug.
There's some one at the gate.
My fears presage unwelcome messengers
At such untimely hours.

Clot.
Attend the summons, Hugo.
I seek the Lady Imogine. If 'tis aught
Concerns her or our Lord, follow me thither.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Gothic Apartment. Imogine discovered sitting at a Table, looking at a Picture.
Imo.
Yes,
The limner's art may trace the absent feature,
And give the eye of distant weeping faith
To view the form of its idolatry;
But oh! the scenes 'mid which they met and parted—
The thoughts, the recollections sweet and bitter—
Th'Elysian dreams of lovers, when they loved—
Who shall restore them?
Less lovely are the fugitive clouds of eve,
And not more vanishing—if thou couldst speak,
Dumb witness of the secret soul of Imogine,
Thou might'st acquit the faith of womankind—
Since thou wast on my midnight pillow laid
Friend hath forsaken friend—the brotherly tie
Been lightly loosed—the parted coldly met—
Yea, mothers have with desperate hands wrought harm
To little lives from their own bosoms lent.
But woman still hath loved—if that indeed
Woman e'er loved like me.

Enter Clotilda.
Clot.
The storm seems hushed—wilt thou to rest, Lady?

Imo.
I feel no lack of rest—

Clot.
Then let us stay—
And watch the last peal murmuring on the blast.
I will sit by the while, so thou wilt tell
Some pleasant story to beguile the time.

Imo.
I am not in the mood.

Clot.
I pray thee, tell me of some shadowy thing
Crossing the traveller on his path of fear
On such a night as this—
Or shipwrecked seamen clinging to a crag
From which some hand of darkness pushes him.

Imo.
Thou simple maid—
Thus to enslave thy heart to foolish fears.

Clot.
Far less I deem of peril is in such
Than in those tales women most love to list to,
The tales of love—for they are all untrue.

Imo.
Lightly thou say'st that woman's love is false,
The thought is falser far—
For some of them are true as martyr's legends,
As full of suffering faith, of burning love,
Of high devotion—worthier heaven than earth—
Oh, I do know a tale.

Clot.
Of knight or lady?

Imo.
Of one who loved—She was of humble birth
Yet dared to love a proud and noble youth.
His sovereign's smile was on him—glory blazed
Around his path—yet did he smile on her—
Oh then, what visions were that blessed one's!
His sovereign's frown came next—
Then bowed the banners on his crested walls
Torn by the enemies' hand from their proud height,
Where twice two hundred years they mocked the storm.
The stranger's step profaned his desolate halls,
An exiled outcast, houseless, nameless, abject,
He fled for life, and scarce by flight did save it.
No hoary beadsman bid his parting step
God speed—No faithful vassal followed him;
For fear had withered every heart but hers,
Who amid shame and ruin lov'd him better.

Clot.
Did she partake his lot?

Imo.
She burned to do it,
But 'twas forbidden.

Clot.
How proved she then her love?

Imo.
Was it not love to pine her youth away?
In her lone bower she sat all day to hearken
For tales of him, and—soon came tales of woe.
High glory lost he recked not what was saved—
With desperate men in desperate ways he dealt—
A change came o'er his nature and his heart
Till she that bore him had recoiled from him,
Nor know the alien visage of her child.
Yet still she loved, yea, still loved hopeless on.

Clot.
Hapless lady! What hath befallen her?

Imo.
Full many a miserable year hath past—
She knows him as one dead, or worse than dead;
And many a change her varied life hath known,
But her heart none.
In the lone hour of tempest and of terror
Her soul was on the dark hill's side with Bertram,
Yea, when the launched bolt did sear her sense
Her soul's deep orisons were breathed for him.
Was this not love? yea, thus doth woman love.

Clot.
I would I had beheld their happier hours,
Hast thou e'er seen the dame? I pray thee, paint her.

Imo.
They said her cheek of youth was beautiful
Till withering sorrow blanched the bright rose there—
And I have heard men swear her form was fair;
But grief did lay his icy finger on it,
And chilled it to a cold and joyless statue.
Methought she carolled blithely in her youth,
As the couched nestling trills his vesper lay,
But song and smile, beauty and melody,
And youth and happiness are gone from her.
Perchance—even as she is—he would not scorn her
If he could know her—for, for him she's changed;
She is much altered—but her heart—her heart.

Clot.
I would I might behold that wretched lady,
In all her sad and waning loveliness.

Imo.
Thou would'st not deem her wretched—outward eyes
Would hail her happy.
They've decked her form in purple and in pall.
When she goes forth, the thronging vassals kneel,
And bending pages bear her footcloth well—
No eye beholds that lady in her bower,
That is her hour of joy, for then she weeps,
Nor does her husband hear.

Clot.
Sayst thou her husband?—
How could she wed, she who did love so well?

Imo.
How could she wed! What could I do but wed—
Hast seen the sinking fortunes of thy house—
Hast felt the gripe of bitter shameful want—
Hast seen a father on the cold cold earth,
Hast read his eye of silent agony,
That asked relief, but would not look reproach
Upon his child unkind—
I would have wed disease, deformity,
Yea, griped Death's grisly form to 'scape from it—
And yet some sorcery was wrought on me,
For earlier things do seem as yesterday,
But, I've no recollection of the hour
They gave my hand to Aldobrand.

Clot.
Blessed saints—
And was it thou indeed?

Imo.
I am that wretch—
The wife of a most noble, honoured lord—
The mother of a babe whose smiles do stab me—
But thou art Bertram's still, and Bertram's ever!

(Striking her heart.)
Clot.
Hath time no power upon thy hopeless love?

Imo.
Yea, time hath power, and what a power I'll tell thee,
A power to change the pulses of the heart
To one dull throb of ceaseless agony,
To hush the sigh on the resigned lip
And lock it in the heart—freeze the hot tear
And bid it on the eyelid hang for ever—
Such power hath time o'er me.

Clot.
And has not then
A husband's kindness—

Imo.
Mark me, Clotilda.
And mark me well, I am no desperate wretch
Who borrows an excuse from shameful passion
To make its shame more vile—
I am a wretched, but a spotless wife,
I've been a daughter but too dutiful—
But, oh! the writhings of a generous soul
Stabb'd by a confidence it can't return,
To whom a kind word is a blow on th'heart—
I cannot paint thy wretchedness. (bursts into tears).


Clot.
Nay, nay
Dry up your tears, soon will your lord return,
Let him not see you thus by passion shaken.

Imo.
Oh wretched is the dame, to whom the sound
“Your lord will soon return”—no pleasure brings.

Clot.
Some step approaches—'tis St. Anselm's Monk.

Imo.
Remember—now, what wouldst thou reverend father?

Enter first Monk.
Monk.
St. Anselm's benison on you, gracious dame,
Our holy prior by me commends him to you—
The wreck that struck upon our rocks i'th'storm
Hath thrown some wretched souls upon his care.
(For many have been saved since morning dawned)
Wherefore he prays the wonted hospitality
That the free noble usage of your castle
Doth grant to ship-wreck'd and distressed men—

Imo.
Bear back my greetings to your holy prior—
Tell him the lady of St. Aldobrand
Holds it no sin, although her lord be absent,
To ope her gates to wave-tossed mariners—
Now Heaven forefend your narrow cells were cumbered
While these free halls stood empty—tell your prior
We hold the custom of our castle still.

[Exeunt.