No! in this dread presence
I cannot bear these tears-my courage flies
And doubt distracts my soul. Go, weep in secret-
Leave me in error's maze-but never, never,
Behold me more: I will not look again
On thee, nor on thy mother. Oh! how passion
Laid bare her secret heart! She never loved me!
She mourned her best-loved son-that was her cry
Of grief-and naught was mine but show of fondness!
And thou art false as she! make no disguise-
Recoil with horror from my sight-this form
Shall never shock thee more-begone forever!
[Exit.
[She stands irresolute in a tumult of conflicting
passions-then tears herself from the spot.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Happy the man-his lot I prize
That far from pomps and turmoil vain,
Childlike on nature's bosom lies
Amid the stillness of the plain.
My heart is sad in the princely hall,
When from the towering pride of state,
I see with headlong ruin fall,
How swift! the good and great!
And he-from fortune's storm at rest
Smiles, in the quiet haven laid
Who, timely warned, has owned how blest
The refuge of the cloistered shade;
To honor's race has bade farewell,
Its idle joys and empty shows;
Insatiate wishes learned to quell,
And lulled in wisdom's calm repose:-
No more shall passion's maddening brood
Impel the busy scenes to try,
Nor on his peaceful cell intrude
The form of sad humanity!
'Mid crowds and strife each mortal ill
Abides'-the grisly train of woe
Shuns like the pest the breezy hill,
To haunt the smoky marts below.
BERENGAR, BOHEMUND, and MANFRED.
On the mountains is freedom! the breath of decay
Never sullies the fresh flowing air;
Oh, Nature is perfect wherever we stray;
'Tis man that deforms it with care.
The whole Chorus repeats.
On the mountains is freedom, etc., etc.
DON CAESAR, the Chorus.
DON CAESAR (more collected).
I use the princely rights-'tis the last time-
To give this body to the ground, and pay
Fit honors to the dead. So mark, my friends,
My bosom's firm resolve, and quick fulfil
Your lord's behest. Fresh in your memory lives
The mournful pomp, when to the tomb ye bore
So late my royal sire; scarce in these halls
Are stilled the echoes of the funeral wail;
Another corpse succeeds, and in the grave
Weighs down its fellow-dust-almost our torch
With borrowed lustre from the last, may pierce
The monumental gloom; and on the stair,
Blends in one throng confused two mourning trains.
Then in the sacred royal dome that guards
The ashes of my sire, prepare with speed
The funeral rites; unseen of mortal eye,
And noiseless be your task-let all be graced,
As then, with circumstances of kingly state.
BOHEMUND.
My prince, it shall be quickly done; for still
Upreared, the gorgeous catafalque recalls
The dread solemnity; no hand disturbed
The edifice of death.
DON CAESAR.
The yawning grave
Amid the haunts of life? No goodly sign
Was this: the rites fulfilled, why lingered yet
The trappings of the funeral show?
BOHEMUND.
Your strife
With fresh embittered hate o'er all Messina
Woke discord's maddening flames, and from the deed
Our cares withdrew-so resolute remained,
And closed the sanctuary.
DON CAESAR.
Make no delay;
This very night fulfil your task, for well
Beseems the midnight gloom! To-morrow's sun
Shall find this palace cleansed of every stain,
And light a happier race.
[Exit the Second Chorus, with the body of DON MANUEL.
CAJETAN.
Shall I invite
The brotherhood of monks, with rights ordained
By holy church of old, to celebrate
The office of departed souls, and hymn
The buried one to everlasting rest?
DON CAESAR.
Their strains above my tomb shall sound for ever
Amid the torches' blaze-no solemn rites
Beseem the day when gory murder scares
Heaven's pardoning grace.
CAJETAN.
Oh, let not wild despair
Tempt thee to impious, rash resolve. My prince
No mortal arm shall e'er avenge this deed;
And penance calms, with soft, atoning power,
The wrath on high.
DON CAESAR.
If for eternal justice
Earth has no minister, myself shall wield
The avenging sword; though heaven, with gracious ear,
Inclines to sinners' prayers, with blood alone
Atoned is murder's guilt.
CAJETAN.
To stem the tide
Of dire misfortune, that with maddening rage
Bursts o'er your house, were nobler than to pile
Accumulated woe.
DON CAESAR.
The curse of old
Shall die with me! Death self-imposed alone
Can break the chain of fate.
CAJETAN.
Thou owest thyself
A sovereign to this orphaned land, by thee
Robbed of its other lord!
DON CAESAR.
The avenging gods
Demand their prey-some other deity
May guard the living!
CAJETAN.
Wide as e'er the sun
In glory beams, the realm of hope extends;
But-oh remember! nothing may we gain
From Death!
DON CAESAR.
Remember thou thy vassal's duty;
Remember and be silent! Leave to me
To follow, as I list, the spirit of power
That leads me to the goal. No happy one
May look into my breast: but if thy prince
Owns not a subject's homage, dread at least
The murderer!-the accursed!-and to the head
Of the unhappy-sacred to the gods-
Give honors due. The pangs that rend my soul-
What I have suffered-what I feel-have left
No place for earthly thoughts!
DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, The Chorus.
ISABELLA (enters with hesitating steps, and looks irresolutely
towards DON CAESAR; at last she approaches, and addresses
him with collected tones).
I thought mine eyes should ne'er behold thee more;
Thus I had vowed despairing! Oh, my son!
How quickly all a mother's strong resolves
Melt into air! 'Twas but the cry of rage
That stifled nature's pleading voice; but now
What tidings of mysterious import call me
From the desolate chambers of my sorrow?
Shall I believe it? Is it true? one day
Robs me of both my sons?
Chorus.
Behold! with willing steps and free,
Thy son prepares to tread
The paths of dark eternity
The silent mansions of the dead.
My prayers are vain; but thou, with power confessed,
Of nature's holiest passion, storm hi
s breast!
ISABELLA.
I call the curses back-that in the frenzy
Of blind despair on thy beloved head
I poured. A mother may not curse the child
That from her nourishing breast drew life, and gave
Sweet recompense for all her travail past;
Heaven would not hear the impious vows; they fell
With quick rebound, and heavy with my tears
Down from the flaming vault!
Live! live! my son!
For I may rather bear to look on thee-
The murderer of one child-than weep for both!
DON CAESAR.
Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers
For me and for thyself; I have no place
Among the living: if thine eyes may brook
The murderer's sight abhorred-I could not bear
The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.
ISABELLA.
Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never
Disturb thy breast-ne'er in these halls shall sound
The voice of wailing, gently on my tears
My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike
Of pitiless fate together we will mourn,
And veil the deed of blood.
DON CAESAR (with a faltering voice, and taking her hand).
Thus it shall be,
My mother-thus with silent, gentle woe
Thy grief shall fade: but when one common tomb
The murderer and his victim closes round-
When o'er our dust one monumental stone
Is rolled-the curse shall cease-thy love no more
Unequal bless thy sons: the precious tears
Thine eyes of beauty weep shall sanctify
Alike our memories. Yes! In death are quenched
The fires of rage; and hatred owns subdued,
The mighty reconciler. Pity bends
An angel form above the funeral urn,
With weeping, dear embrace. Then to the tomb
Stay not my passage:-Oh, forbid me not,
Thus with atoning sacrifice to quell
The curse of heaven.
ISABELLA.
All Christendom is rich
In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart
May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden
Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid;
And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around
The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers
Of the devout are precious-fraught with store
Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;-
And on the soil by gory murder stained
Shall rise the purifying fane.
DON CAESAR.
We pluck
The arrow from the wound-but the torn heart
Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on
A weary life of penance and of pain,
To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;-
I would not live the victim of despair;
No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile
Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air
Of liberty and joy. While yet alike
We shared thy love, then o'er my days of youth
Pale envy cast his withering shade; and now,
Think'st thou my heart could brook the dearer ties
That bind thee in thy sorrow to the dead?
Death, in his undecaying palace throned,
To the pure diamond of perfect virtue
Sublimes the mortal, and with chastening fire
Each gathered stain of frail humanity
Purges and burns away: high as the stars
Tower o'er this earthly sphere, he soars above me;
And as by ancient hate dissevered long,
Brethren and equal denizens we lived,
So now my restless soul with envy pines,
That he has won from me the glorious prize
Of immortality, and like a god
In memory marches on to times unborn!
ISABELLA.
My Sons! Why have I called you to Messina
To find for each a grave? I brought ye hither
To calm your strife to peace. Lo! Fate has turned
My hopes to blank despair.
DON CAESAR.
Whate'er was spoke,
My mother, is fulfilled! Blame not the end
By Heaven ordained. We trode our father's halls
With hopes of peace; and reconciled forever,
Together we shall sleep in death.
ISABELLA.
My son,
Live for thy mother! In the stranger's land,
Say, wouldst thou leave me friendless and alone,
To cruel scorn a prey-no filial arm
To shield my helpless age?
DON CAESAR.
When all the world
With heartless taunts pursues thee, to our grave
For refuge fly, my mother, and invoke
Thy sons' divinity-we shall be gods!
And we will hear thy prayers:-and as the twins
Of heaven, a beaming star of comfort shine
To the tossed shipman-we will hover near thee
With present help, and soothe thy troubled soul!
ISABELLA.
Live-for thy mother, live, my son-
Must I lose all?
[She throws her arms about him with passionate emotion.
He gently disengages himself, and turning his face away
extends to her his hand.
DON CAESAR.
Farewell!
ISABELLA.
I can no more;
Too well my tortured bosom owns how weak
A mother's prayers: a mightier voice shall sound
Resistless on thy heart.
[She goes towards the entrance of the scene.
My daughter, come.
A brother calls him to the realms of night;
Perchance with golden hues of earthly joy
The sister, the beloved, may gently lure
The wanderer to life again.
[BEATRICE appears at the entrance of the scene.
DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, and the Chorus.
DON CAESAR (on seeing her, covers his face with his hands).
My mother!
What hast thou done?
ISABELLA (leading BEATRICE forwards).
A mother's prayers are vain!
Kneel at his feet-conjure him-melt his heart!
Oh, bid him live!
DON CAESAR.
Deceitful mother, thus
Thou triest thy son! And wouldst thou stir my soul
Again to passion's strife, and make the sun
Beloved once more, now when I tread the paths
Of everlasting night? See where he stands-
Angel of life!-and wondrous beautiful,
Shakes from his plenteous horn the fragrant store
Of golden fruits and flowers, that breathe around
Divinest airs of joy;-my heart awakes
In the warm sunbeam-hope returns, and life
Thrills in my breast anew.
ISABELLA (to BEATRICE).
Thou wilt prevail!
Or none! Implore him that he live, nor rob
The staff and comfort of our days.
BEATRICE.
The loved one
A sacrifice demands. Oh, let me die
To soothe a brother's shade! Yes, I will be
The victim! Ere I saw the light forewarned
To death, I live a wrong to heaven! The curse
Pursues me still: 'twas I that slew thy son-
I waked the slumbering furies of their strife-
Be mine the atoning blood!
CAJETAN.
Ill-fated mother!
Impatient all thy children haste to doom,
And leave thee on the desolate waste alone
Of joyous life.
Oh, spare thy precious days
For nature's band. Thy mother needs a son;
My brother, live for her! Light were the pang
To lose a daughter-but a moment shown,
Then snatched away!
DON CAESAR (with deep emotion).
'Tis one to live or die,
Blest with a sister's love!
BEATRICE.
Say, dost thou envy
Thy brother's ashes?
DON CAESAR.
In thy grief he lives
A hallowed life!-my doom is death forever!
BEATRICE.
My brother!
DON CAESAR.
Sister! are thy tears for me?
BEATRICE.
Live for our mother!
DON CAESAR (dropping her hand, and stepping back).
For our mother?
BEATRICE (hiding her head in his breast).
Live
For her and for thy sister!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
She has won!
Resistless are her prayers. Despairing mother,
Awake to hope again-his choice is made!
The Bride of Messina (play) Page 9
