Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/Geraldi Sforza
GERALDI SFORZA.
A DRAMATIC TALE, IN FOUR SCENES.
Geraldi Sforza.
Prince Angelo.
Julian.
Carlotti.
Veronica.
Isabel.
Scene I.—A Saloon in Prince Angelo's Palace.
Angelo and Carlotti.
Angelo.
Good day, Carlotti; this is kind, to leave
The splendid pantomime, the gaudy train,
To visit a recluse, whose waning health
Would sink beneath the sun's meridian beams.—
The pageant has commenced?
Carlottis.
Ay, a full hour, my lord;
But is its progress slow. The people throng
In countless multitudes—their eager love
Is not to be restrained—defying blows,
The prancing charger's hoofs, the sbirri's staves,
They crowd around the hero, fill the air
With shouts of Sforza! Sforza! brave Geraldi!—
Seize on his courser's reins, and press their lips
Upon his flowing mantle.
Angelo.
Ah, 'tis like,—
Set up an image to the populace,
Decked with a few vain trophies, they will fall
In mad idolatry to worship it.
Carlotti.
Modest and mild, yet cheerful, Sforza reins
His haughty steed, giving to all the crowd
Warm thanks, and kinder smiles. A gallant train,
The nobles of the city, ride behind,
Bearing the spoils of Tunis, all enwreathed
With laurel foliage: from the balconies,
Filled with the fairest and the noblest dames,
Are flung rich perfum'd scarves, chaplets, and crowns;
And sweet and thrilling voices make the breeze
Melodious with the envied name of Sforza!
Young Julian by his side, seems to enjoy
A second triumph, glorying in the friend
Who taught his arm to wield the sword, and pluck
The never-fading laurels which he wears
So proudly on his brow, from Austria's plains.
They come; I hear the long protracted shout.
Approach the lattice, good my lord, and view
The pageant as it passes.
Angelo.
No, no, no;
It is enough, that from my columned porch
Up to the pediment, green wreaths are hung,
And gold-wrought flags, and silken streamers wave
From every balcony. This will suffice—
I need not undergo a martyrdom—
Expose my person to the mocking gaze
Of the vile rabble, as, in times of old,
The conquered captive graced the chariot-wheels
Of fortune's gilded minion. I confess
My want of fortitude,—I cannot gaze
On my triumphant rival, all unmoved,
Or view the contrast with a Stoic's eye,
When baffled, beaten, chased by land and sea,
I brought the remnant of my soldiers home,
Mid hisses and disgrace.
Carlotti.
The chance of war,
Disease and famine, want and mutiny,
Were all combined against thee.
Angelo.
Here I swear
By all the sacred attributes of heaven!
By all the much-loved honours I have lost!
What man could do I did, to stem the tide,
Which ran so strong against me:—I had died
Upon the field of war, but that I hoped
Some future period would see me rise
From base defeat to glorious victory;
Yet slander loudly hissed with plague-fraught breath
A thousand falsehoods; told of Moorish gold,
Of coward terrors, trifling, weak designs,
Blasted my name, and held me up to scorn.
Carlotti.
A poor return! 'Tis an ungrateful world
Yet let not this depress you; soon, perchance, ⠀⠀
A time may come that shall retrieve the ills
You labour under.
Angelo.
Never, Carlotti;
Never, whilst Julian and Geraldi live.
They are my rival stars, and shine so bright,
I am eclipsed, o'erpowered, sunk in thick
Impenetrable darkness. By my birth
A prince; in person——'tis poor vanity
To plume one's self on mere exterior,
And chance advantages; yet I may boast
A form, cast in as grand and pure a mould
As Julian's, or as Sforza's; and my mind—
By heaven, 'twas fired by virtuous impulses!
What is the reason that I am o'erwhelmed
With disappointment, obloquy, and wrong;
By the base world misjudged, whilst others rise
On the broad wings of fame, and fortune smiles,
And crowns them with her gold and roseate wreaths?
Carlotti.
Withdraw your mind from all its late pursuits;
Seek other channels—love, and politics:
The sciences are open, they may bring
A sweet oblivious balm—at least excite
Strong interest.
Angelo.
Politics and love?
What, if they both were tried, and both had proved
False to my hopes, bright meteors, to invite
My eager steps to drag me deeper down
The dark abyss of shame? Young Julian,
Even in his boyhood, has outstripped me far.
My late negociations, all my toil,
The zeal I manifested to obtain
An honourable peace, deserved success.
Yet were they blighted, and a scornful laugh
Rang through the council, as with honest pride
I spoke of it as ratified; deceived,
O'er-reached by diplomatic wiles, the foe
Amused me with a hollow armistice,
And ravaged all the frontier; Julian,
Like a young lion rushing on his prey,
Flew to avenge the wrong 'gainst fearful odds—
So great, it seemed miraculous. He won
A splendid victory; wrote terms of peace
With his own sword in blood. The emperor,
Amazed at such an unexpected stroke,
Granted at once to this wild, headstrong boy,
Conditions which I never dared propose.
Thou know'st the clamours of the multitude,—
The honours he received, but can'st not guess
My damning tortures; let it pass.—You spoke
Of love—the beauteous Veronica, she
The princess Isabel's chief confidante:—
Dost thou, Carlotti, know her?
Carlotti.
Lives there a man in Naples, be he high
Or low in his estate, who has not pressed,
'Mid whelming crowds on days of festival,
To gaze upon her wondrous loveliness?
She seems a being of another sphere;
Form'd in the skies of those bright dazzling clouds
That hang mid-way in air on summer days,
Fleecy, and soft, and white, as plumage dropped
Fresh from the snowy breasts of those fair doves,
Which drew the car of Venus. The rich tint
Of warm celestial red that bathes the arch,
Morning and eve, of pure unclouded heaven,
Blooms on her cheek, and dyes her ruby lip.
Her eyes, the colour of the firmament,
When in its darkest deepest blue, but far,
Far brighter than its stars. Her glittering locks
Are threads of gold, stolen from the radii
That circle round the sun. Her matchless form,
Her faultless lineaments, fair and delicate,
As sculptured goddesses, yet breathing life
In sighs of melting sweetness, charm the heart,
The eye, the soul of man.
Angelo.
True, true, Carlotti,—
Thou hast described her well.
Carlotti.
To-day, my Lord,
Beside the Princess Isabel, she stood
Amid the fairest of the court, but far
Surpassing all; lovely, and young, and gay,
As the first Helen, when in innocence
She dwelt beneath her father's roof, nor dreamed
That charms have fatal influence. A rose,
But yielding in its beauty to herself,
Decked her white breast; and this, as Sforza passed,
She flung to him, with such a tender air,
So sweet, so delicate, bashful, yet proud,
To give the hero of the day a prize
Beyond his hard-earned laurels; in his cap,
With fond delight, Geraldi placed the rose.
Angelo.
Would, like the flowers that grow on Alpine cliffs,
It had the power to blast him. Veronica!
Oh, Veronica! in thy sunny smile
I had forgotten all my miseries!
I loved her with a mad idolatry,
That would have sacrificed eternal life
To win a sweet return; the cold, proud girl,
With contumelious scorn refused my suit,
Glanced at my late disgraces, and to gall
My rankling wound with venom sharp
As poison from the desert serpent's tooth,
Bestowed her fond affection—pledged her hand
To my detested rival——Agony!
Geral——Geraldi Sforza!——
Carlotti.
Oh, good my lord!
My early patron, thou hast rent my heart
By these sad tales.
Angelo.
I am a man borne down
By lava floods; in vain I struggle; fate
Pursues me; every bright and cheering hope
Whelmed in the burning cataract, my soul
Withers within me. This fair atmosphere,
The breeze, which unto others brings rich balm
And healing on its wings, to me is hot
And suffocating; cursed by heaven and man,
I hide my miserable wasted form
Within my palace walls,
Carlotti.
Can friendship soothe
Thy deep-felt woes?
Angelo.
Yes, yes, Carlotti—give,
Give to my longing soul the means to crush
My hated rivals—let me plant despair
In others' hearts——Julian! Sforza!
And she, that young fair girl——Oh, it were bliss,
Maddening, ecstatic bliss, to see them writhe
In agony like mine!
Carlotti.
Young Julian stands
Upon the brink of ruin, he has spread
His new-fledged wings too near the fervid sun.
Angelo.
What dost thou mean?
Carlotti.
By chance, a lucky chance
I trust it was, I learned that Julian
And the young Princess secretly were joined
In wedlock's bonds; and yesternight, at court,
He dropped this billet, written by the hand
Of Veronica: the outward scroll explains
The reason why the Princess could not pen
The fond effusion.——
Angelo.
Read it to me, quick——
It gives a glorious promise.——
Carlotti.
"Loved treasure of my soul!
"My own Leander, lest thou meet'st the fate,
"The hapless fate of him whom thy fond breast
"Delights to imitate, forbear to-night
"To tempt the perils that await thy steps.——
"Oh, worse than winds and waves will rend apart
"Our tender intercourse: 'tis death to lose,
"Even for one night, thy cherished company,
"But still, still more terrific are the fears
"Which haunt my soul.—I dread our secret known
"To Sforza; his unyielding guarded breast,
"So sternly virtuous, never could excuse
"Our mutual frailty——is it frailty, sweet,
"To love as we have loved?——I'll send thy child
"To visit thee till morn, and it will smile,
"Like her thou lov'st, and twine its little hands
"Amid thy raven ringlets.——Julian,
"Thou'lt think upon me through the long, long night;
"But do not come, the garden-gate is closed,
"And prying eyes are waking."
Angelo.
This wide purse
Is filled with double ducats; take them, friend,
And whatsoe'er thou see'st or hear'st, remain
Silent as death. This billet in my hands
Shall prove a talisman.——The sun is set——
Julian! Geraldi! not another day
Shall your bright triumphs mock my agonies.
Away! away! I languish for the hour
That brings me keen revenge. [Exeunt.
Scene II.—The Sea-shore. Naples illuminated is seen in the distance.
Enter Prince Angelo.
Angelo.
Is not this place secure? The very air
Is drunk with joy, and goads my weary ear
With the loud peal from every steeple's point,
Commixed with human voices: happiness
Seems overflowing from the breasts of all.
The half-starved beggar in the streets forgets
The pangs of hunger, waves his ragged cap
Aloft, and shouts, joy! joy! The song and dance
Go gaily round; and mocking Heaven's bright stars,
Comets and streams of fire ascend from earth.
Why, in the general felicity,
Am I not also blest? I have no friend
To soothe my sorrows; no soft tender breast
Whereon to rest my aching head; no smile
Greets my approach; no gentle voice essays
To win me into sweet forgetfulness.
I am cut off, abandoned, left to pine
In solitary misery. Is there then
No source, no spring of hope, to bring me bliss?
This desolated bosom answers,—No!
Then, like the demon of the air, the fiend
Who raises tempests, revels in the roar
Of hurricanes and overwhelming waves,
Laughs at the shipwreck, feels a wild delight
Whene'er the furious avalanche descends
In ruin o'er bright nature's fairest works,
I will transform these maddening shouts of joy
To bitter lamentations of despair,—
These festal dresses, splendid theatres,
To mourning robes, and scaffolds red with blood:—
My fevered lip shall never more repeat
A prayer, an unavailing prayer, to Heaven.
Spirit of Evil! wheresoe'er thou dwell'st—
Or mid the torrid zone, hatching red plagues
And yellow pestilence, beneath the beams
Of the fierce sun that shines to curse, not bless,
The withered earth; or in the frozen realms
Around the northern pole, nursing bleak winds,
And arming tempests with their fury; or
Deep, deep beneath the centre, flinging forth
Thy golden baits to win the souls of men;
Or gathering amid the elements
Foul poison from dense vapours, forging darts
And thunderbolts, and drawing up to Heaven
The billowy flood, sucked in by sable clouds,
In black gigantic columns, to give back
Their briny cataracts upon the deck
Of some tall stately vessel;—wheresoe'er,
Spirit of Evil, thou delight'st to dwell,
Attend my summons; heart, and mind, and soul,
I now devote to thee: crown with success
My devastating projects.——Who goes there?
Geraldi Sforza! to my wish he comes.—
What can have brought thee to this desert spot—
The hero of the hour?——Expecting crowds
Await thy presence in the blazing streets,
Where torches mimic the broad light of day.
Sforza.
I fly to rest in quiet solitude.
My spirits, weary of excess of bliss,
Here, in this glorious amphi-theatre,
Amid the grand imperishable works
Of Him, the architect of heaven, I feel
The littleness of man. The rolling sea,
Illimitable, fathomless, sublime,—
The lofty mountain, bearing on its breast
Eternal fire,—the green enamelled earth,
With all its silvery streams, its flowery vales,
And vast impervious forests,—that clear sky
Spangled with globes of fire, changeless, and bright,
For ever shining on in majesty
Upon the lovely world below, where man,
The frailest work of nature, bows his head
To unrelenting death. What is my fame,
Compared to those who, in the days of old,
Spread their fierce lightnings to the east and west,
And made their shrieking fellow-creatures slaves?
This scene, the theatre of great exploits,
Remains; but where are they who lost and won
The crimson field? A tale involved in doubt,
A broken bust, a medal half defaced,
Alone are left; and therefore do I come,
Good Angelo, to teach my swelling heart
A lesson of humility.
Angelo.
So young,
And so successful, yet endow'd
With such philosophy, you may defy
The frowns of fate. Misfortunes to a mind
Guarded like yours would lose the power to wound.
Sforzo.
Should storms arise, it may enable me
To bear them like a man; but I have now
A harder task, to check the rising pride
Which fills my soul; blest far above my peers
In love, in friendship, and in war, I feel
My bosom swell in wild tumultuous bliss.
Angelo.
Enjoy the present. Happiness like thine
Falls seldom to the lot of man. Alas!
Perchance even thou art standing on the brink
Of some deep precipice, the dark abyss
Concealed by smiling flowers,
Sforza.
With a friend
So true as Julian, a mistress so beloved,
So faithful, fond, as Veronica, I
Can fear no evil, save the stroke of death;
Nought else can sever hearts so closely joined.
Angelo.
Has Veronica then received your vows
Since your return from Tunis?
Sforza.
On the wings
Of love she flew to meet me ere I reached
The gates of Naples; one sweet hour we spent,
Renewing every promise, every oath
Of truth and constancy.
Angelo.
Hast thou not heard
Aught to alarm thy fears? hast thou not seen
Aught to convince thee that a woman's love.
Is light, and friendship easily effaced
When strong temptation offers?
Sforza.
None have dared
To breathe one venomed slander on mine ear,
One well-framed falsehood of my angel love,
Or my brave matchless friend; and none will dare:
For whatsoe'er his rank, Prince Angelo,
I'd strike the base calumniator dead.
Angelo.
If thou wilt brand the truth with falsehood's name,
Now draw thy sword, and sheathe it in my breast;
For in my dying pangs, with honest zeal,
I'll tell thee thou'rt deceived; false Julian
Now revels in the love of Veronica.
Thy long-protracted absence was a test
Too great for human nature; passion grew;
Youth, beauty, opportunity, combined
To snap the bonds of honour; rumour broached
The tale abroad; there's not a page at court
Who has not seen the pressure of the hand,
The soft caress, the gentle whisper pass,
And Julian sigh, and Veronica smile.
Sforza.
It may be possible, I sink so low
Beneath the worth of Julian; her eye
Might note his form superior, her soul
Pay homage to the virtues which exceed,
Far, far exceed my efforts; and what man
Could coldly turn from Veronica? Gods
Have quitted heaven to woo less lovely maids;
Angels have fallen when strongly tempted; then
Julian is blameless. I will yield her up;
Join at the holy altar kindred souls,
Though my torn heart should split in the attempt.
Angelo.
Young Julian will refuse the gift: his love,
At least, has cooled; and dull satiety
Usurps the place of passion. To thine arms,
To hide her infamy, the false girl
Would gladly fly.
Sforza.
Liar and fiend accursed!
My eager sword thirsts for thy blood; this earth
On which thou stand'st should be thy sepulchre,
But that I pant to drag thy dastard form
To open day, to force thy serpent tongue
Before assembled multitudes to prove
Thine own dishonours[1], clear my injured fame,
And give thee up to obloquy and scorn.
The most deceitful, desperate wretch would fear
To cast a blot on Veronica's name.
Secure in virgin innocence she stands;
The stainless soul that never dreamed of sin
Gives the gay sparkle to her eye, the smile
That plays around her roseate lip,—so pure,
So careless, and so trusting; though ingrained,
Cankered, and leperous sunk, immersed in guilt,
The heart that knows not virtue would confess
That 't was enshrin'd within her spotless breast,—
Like her of old, who, poets sing, could stray
Securely through the desert wilderness
Amid the monsters of the wild, the fierce
And untamed lion, the insatiate wolf,
And ravening tiger, Veronica dwells,
Unscathed by the licentious tongues of men,
And more abandoned women. In a court
Where foul corruption steals, dark guilt has shrunk
Abashed, and dared not touch her angel name.
Angelo.
This honest indignation binds thee still,
Still closer to my heart. Unhappy friend!
Would I could spare thee this calamity;
But honour, god-like honour, fires my soul,
And will not be restrain'd. Read, read Geraldi;
I spoke not without proof.
Sforza.
It is the hand,
The seal of Veronica. (Reads the letter.)
Angelo. (aside)
Ha! it works:
The subtle poison steals through all his veins,
And with his life-blood mingles. How his eyes
Drink up the fatal scroll. Paralyzed
And mute he stands. Where is the hero now,
Who boldly fronted groves of hostile spears?
Stabbed to the heart by a few foolish words.
Why this is luxury my panting soul
Never imagin'd: let me veil my joy;
If I betray my triumph, I shall mar
My well-constructed plot.
Sforza.
Where are the fiends
Who have invaded Heaven, and stolen the forms
Of angels, to deceive my trusting heart?
Oh! false fair devil! shameless wanton! thou,
Thou whom I called my friend, couldst thou too heap
Dishonour on my head,—give to my arms,
My chaste embrace, thy spotted harlot? Heaven,
Lend me thy lightning; 't is not common death
That will suffice my vengeance. Angelo!
I loved them both,—how dearly, these hot tears
Will witness; from my burning eyes they burst
Like drops of melted iron from the breast
Of yon volcano.—Oh! my Veronica!—
Julian!—ye lovely phantoms of my brain!
Must, must I loose[2] ye!?
Angelo.
Such ingratitude,
Such base return for kindness, merits not.
This tenderness.
Sforza.
Rather, good Angelo,
Restrain my arm, than urge my gasping soul
To deeds of horror; limb from limb I'll tear
The dark apostate in her presence; sate
My rav'nous eyes upon her agonies;
Deface the beauty which has dared to cheat
The world with virtue's semblance; monuments
To future ages they shall stand, and leave
A dreadful lesson to posterity.
Angelo.
The night is waning fast; 't is now the hour
When from the palace-garden Julian glides,
Tearing himself from Veronica's arms,
Mid fond complaints, sweet kisses, and hot tears.
Sforza.
The palace-garden say'st thou? It shall be
To both a grave. Come on, Prince Angelo,
And witness my revenge. [Exeunt.
Scene III.—The Palace Gardens.
Julian, Isabel, Veronica.
Julian.
Oh! it is said, my Isabel, that Heaven
Hath closed the gates of Eden on mankind,
And Paradise no longer blooms; but we
Have found, that innocent and faithful hearts
Can make their own Elysium. Bounteous God
Still blesses his creation.—What a scene
Of glory is around us; not a cloud
O'ershades the radience of the summer sky—
Turquoise and gold, the multitudinous stars
Peep from the tender azure; Zephyr's breath,
In gentlest sighs, scatters a silv'ry shower
From the rich blossoms of the orange-trees,
And wafts their precious odours on its wings.
Veronica.
The flowers drop balm, and trooping fairies haste
To gather in their harvest, ere the bee
Hath roused his drowsy head. Soft music steals
From yonder bubbling spring, for little elves
Float in the liquid diamond, singing strains
Of love, and hope, and joy. Oh, the broad day
Hath none of these delights; sweet Fancy shrinks
From the betraying sun, and chooses night
To smile upon her witchery.
Isabel.
'Tis fair,
'Tis wondrous beautiful; but did the night
Come clothed in all its terrors, it must bring
Joy to thine Isabel, my Julian; we
By stern necessity divorced by day,
Breathe and exist but in the twilight hour.
Julian.
My wild idolatry could wish that night
Should reign for ever, and these fairy bowers
Form all our universe. Amid the crush
Of dark tumultuous passions, which the soul
Must combat in its worldly intercourse,
I sigh and languish for the tranquil hour,
That links me with celestial beings—souls
Who know nor sin, nor sorrow, but by name.
Veronica.
Come, we will sit upon this mossy bank;
And though 't were easier to count the stars
Than number our perfections, thou wilt strive
To execute the task. Behold my lap
Is filled with flowers; Flora never owned
A richer treasure, and the prize shall be
The wreath that Isabel delights in. See
What deep bright tints dye these carnations;
Are they too proud and gaudy for thy sweet
Simplicity? Here is the delicate,
The pale pink rose, the gentle hyacinth,
Who, ere the sterile wintry winds are hush'd,
In pity opes her silken bells to chide
The lingering spring; here is the jessamine,
Whose silver stars will suit thy dark locks well;
The gay jonquil, Titania's ample tent,
And violets, where Puck delights to hide,
Isabel.
We must indulge her fancy, Julian.
Repose beside me on this turf; my head
Has sought its dearest pillow on thy breast;
My Veronica feasts her gentle eyes
Upon her fragile treasures: Come now, Love,
Tax thy invention, or thy memory,
With such a tale as suits this hour of bliss.
Julian.
Shall it be framed of love, or war—the lay
Of some soft Troubadour, or armed Knight?
Or shall I steal from Tasso's flowing verse
The story of the warrior maid, or sing
Armida's Paradise less fair than this?
The tower of Ugolino were a tale
Too dark and horrible——
I know not why, but gloomy images
Alone present themselves, unnatural
And fierce revenge, and disappointed love—
But true love, sweet, is seldom fortunate.
Isabel.
Are we not happy, Julian? My heart,
Swelled with the fullness of its bliss, beats high:
Thou'rt mine—I know thou'rt mine. Thy wedded wife—
Oh! as I clasp thee in my arms, I feel
Earth hath no purer blessing in its gift.
Julian.
The early Christian, as he poured his soul
Before the holy altar, reared at night
Mid silent wildernesses, felt a pang
Steal through his breast;—he longed in open day
To worship at the shrine. My Isabel,
I hold thee next to Heaven. My love, my faith,
Disdains concealment: as the martyr died,
Acknowledging his God, I too would brave
All peril, to proclaim before the world
My title to thy love. The hallowed name
Of wife springs to my eager lips, mine arms
Are stretched to clasp thee, and my fond eyes graze
In passionate devotion:—I must check
The tender impulse, play the hypocrite,
And school each guarded phrase to cold respect.
Isabel.
Oh, whilst I hang upon the melody
Of thy loved voice, list to the tender vow,
And wreathe my fingers in the crisped curls
That cluster o'er thy brow, no cankered care
Will dare intrude; and were there no restraint
Upon my foolish fondness, thou would'st soon
Grow weary, Julian, and mope, and pine,
Like a caged turtle for thy liberty.
Julian.
You wrong me by the thought, my beauteous queen;
I were unfit to share the joys of heaven,
If I could tire of Eden. Do not chide—
Thy meek lip knows not chiding; do not sigh
To hear thy Julian confess, even bliss
Like this is dearly purchased; 'gainst my king
I have offended, and my conscious soul
Dares not to commune with its dearest friend,
Geraldi Sforza; from his searching eye
I turn abashed; our free uncumbered speech,
Where thought met thought, and every wish appeared,
Seems cramped and circumscribed.
Isabel.
Thou art my world!
And whilst I hear thee speak, and see thee smile
In fond approval, my devoted soul
Is rapt in bliss. Oh Julian! Julian!
It is not thus thou lov'st me—every day
I bend my knee in impious mockery
Before my father, kiss his hallowed brow
With treason on my lips, and force my tongue
To utter hollow words, mere sounding air.—
My heart subdued, not hardened by my love,
Weeps o'er its filial disobedience, yet
I would not be restored to that sweet state
Of innocence that blessed my youth; 'tis joy
Even to suffer for thee, so entire
And perfect is my love.—Veronica,
Help me to rail against this cold, proud man,
Geraldi Sforza, who usurps my place
Within my husband's heart.
Julian.
She is absorbed
In some sweet dream; dear Veronica wake,
Convince this wayward girl, that she hath wronged
Our gallant friend; pour forth thine eloquence,
Or will thy timid modesty deny
Thy love for brave Geraldi?
Veronica.
Thou hast loosed
My silent tongue, and 'twill now wanton. Praise—
Oh it must fall beneath his worth; he stands
Unmoved on glory's pinnacle; no fierce
And mad ambition fires his even soul,
The meanest objects of creation share
His tenderness and bounty—far above
His own renown he prized his country's peace,
The happiness of others—human life,
By heroes little valued, never fell
A useless sacrifice at his command.
How beautiful, and like a god he stood,
Amid the grateful people he had saved
From war's red scourge; his eagle eye was bent
In gentle fondness o'er them. Chronicled
In brass and marble to a distant age,
His deeds shall proudly stand: but oh, above
Earth's bright renown, for him the widow's prayer
The orphan's blessing shall ascend to Heaven.
Julian.
The dearest meed of valour is the praise
That flows from pure unsullied female lips.
Fair Veronica, 'tis the proudest boast
Of brave Geraldi, that his deeds have won
Thy virtuous love. Kings may bestow rich gifts,
Honours, and titles; Fame may twine a wreath
Of bright and fadeless laurels, and the soul
That covets immortality must prize
The splendid trophies. Yet the human heart
Will sigh for something dearer. What is life
Unblest by sweet affection? Isabel,
Can'st thou imagine aught that could console
Thy Julian for the loss of thy loved smile?
Isabel.
Oh flatterer, as false as thou art fair,
I think thou dost not love me; what new oath
Wilt thou invent? I'll not believe a vow
That I have heard before.
Julian.
Dear Isabel,
I can no longer loiter here, the morn
Is breaking, and this fond, fond kiss alone
Must speak my love. Alas, thy silent tears
Flow faster than my lip can dry them; sweet,
Our separation shall be brief,—at night
I will return.
Veronica.
'Tis time that thou wert gone;
The day is dawning fast; fly, Julian;
I must re-lock the gate, for Isabel
Is grown too careless, and will let the sun
Illume the parting hour.
Isabel.
Farewell! Farewell!
Dear Julian, since it must be so; at night
Remember love thy weeping Isabel.
The Gate of the Garden.
Veronica.
Are they not sland'rous poets who have styled
The god of love a vagrant truant boy?—
'Tis sixteen months, I think, since thou hast played
The faithful fond adoring lover. Fie,
What a bad fashion dost thou set at court.
Nay, nay, confess the truth, thy love is feigned.
Julian.
It is the very essence of my being; life
Were valueless without it; love creates
A Paradise of bliss, and who would wake
From dreams delicious to a dull cold world?
Like the imperishable sun, my love
Burns with a constant, inexhaustible
And ardent fire. Oh, sooner shall the orb
Forsake its pillow on the western wave,
And seek another breast, than I exchange
That snowy bosom———
Sforza rushing forward, and stabbing him.
Sforza.
Traitor! false foul fiend!
Amid accursed spirits thy base soul
Shall howl through dread eternity——Despair!
For 'tis Geraldi Sforza strikes!
Veronica.
Oh heaven!
What dark assassin has usurped that name!
Help, help, he dies.
Enter Isabel.
Isabel.
It is impossible,
Julian, awake; thou art not dead, my life!
My soul! my husband, speak to me!
Sforza.
Husband?
Thy husband, Princess Isabel? No, no.
There stands his guilty wretched paramour.
Julian.
Fly, Sforza, I am dying; thy rash hand
Has slain thy truest friend. My Isabel,
Forgive him; life is ebbing fast.——My wife,
Live for the sake of our unhappy child.
Clasp me again within thy sweet embrace;
I die, my Isabel! These rigid arms
Cannot return thy pressure. Bless thee, Heaven!
Where is Geraldi Sforza? There were words
Still keener than thy sword; my dying breath
Proclaims my unstained friendship.——Seek in flight
Thy safety.——Wipe these heavy damps, my love,
From off my brow. Oh, even thy fragrant breath
Oppresses me. My last, last prayers are―― [Dies.
Isabel.
Wretch!
Complete thy work; bury within my breast
Thy fatal sword.
Sforza.
Hell has again ingulfed
The demon who betrayed me to this deed.
I have not murdered Julian. The fiend,
Though ravenous for blood, had felt a thrill
Of gentle pity in his fire-seared breast,
And staid mine arm.—My Veronica, too,
How cold and pale she lies beside him; soon,
Sweet innocent, thou wilt awake to pangs
Of ceaseless torture.——What wild shriek was there!
Am I the cause? Again it tears mine ears,
Rings through my brain.——It is his wretched wife.
Enter Prince Angelo and Attendants.
Angelo.
Here is the scene of blood; bind fast his arms,
Drag the assasin to a dungeon. We
Have here a mournful task.[Exeunt.
Scene the last.—A Dungeon.
Geraldi Sforza.
The man I loved is dead—a second Cain,
For I have killed my brother. Shall I dare
Invoke Almighty mercy, pray to Heaven,
And plead repentance, who denied my friend
A moment's pause to prove his innocence,
Or make his peace with his offended God?
A mad and brutal fury urged my sword,
I thirsted, panted for his blood, struck deep
The fatal blow, and quenched each spark of life.
Excellent, virtuous, god-like, Julian!
Thou wert too good for this base world, which I
And kindred murderers inhabit.—Dead,
And mine the accursed hand that dealt the blow.
Oh will no pitying angel strike me dumb,
And paralyze my soul, lest my bold lip,
Daring in crime with horrid blasphemy,
Arraign the justice of my fate? That deed,
Will make me reckless of all future sin—
Is not this horror written on my front
In hideous characters? The gaping world
Will crowd to gaze upon the branded wretch
Who bears his guilt imprinted on his brow,
And less detested criminals will bruit
Geraldi's crimes to wondering multitudes.
Enter Veronica.
Give me my murdered friend, wash from my hands
These crimson spots—Oh why, why dost thou look
So like an angel, and yet bear within
The seeds of mischief?
Veronica.
Beloved Geraldi,
Look not upon me with that cold, stern glance;
I have no welcome tidings to impart,
Nothing to soothe thee save my faithful love,
The strong affection which 'mid bliss or woe
Still clings in mournful tenderness, still twines
Like the fond ivy round the blasted tree
That boasts no other verdure.
Geraldi.
Triumph now,
Proud beauty. Thy supremacy o'er all
Thy lovely sex is stamped with blood; thy path
To fame is strewed with richer trophies than
Pale flowers and tender madrigals; thy name
Shall live for ever in the fatal scroll
Recording Julian's death, and Sforza's doom.
Veronica.
My poor Geraldi—let me chase away
Those unkind thoughts, rising, like evil fiends,
To goad thy wounded spirit; this dark cell
Wherein hath pass'd thy lonely hours, the pangs
Of keen remorse have worked a fearful change;
'Tis not thy nature, Sforza—Oh, unbend
That strange contracted brow—my tears, my prayers,
Will they not melt thy much-enduring heart?
Geraldi.
Tell me that Julian lives.—Oh, beauteous cause
Of man's destruction, hence! Thou art not safe
Within a murderer's cell: I love thee not,
I never loved thee, and this callous heart
Is deaf to all thy pleadings: pleasure calls,
And pomp and glory wait thee: 'mid the joys
The world has still to give thee, lose all care
For one who with his dying breath denies
The passion that he lightly feigned, to win
A toy that pleased him in his hour of bliss.
Veronica.
When pleasure winged the frolic day, the world
Seemed fresh and blooming, and my buoyant heart
Looked smiling onwards to succeeding years
As redolent with hope, and peace, and joy—
When thou, a conqueror, singled from a group
Of fairer, brighter, wiser beings, one
Whose only charm was her simplicity;
Stealing her inmost soul away with vows
Tender, and sweet, and winning, as the song
The siren sung of old; dazzling her eyes
With glorious deeds, and seeming in her sight
More than a mortal, whom it were no sin
To worship with such mad idolatry
As Danaë felt, when bursting from the skies
The god descended in a shower of gold—
When with thy passionate, yet melting words
You won my trembling lip to breathe my love,
I did not dream of this. But oh, Geraldi!
Changed as thou art, the wreck of that proud hour,
A broken statue and a fallen star,
Though all the world should scorn thee, and thine heart,
False to thyself, disdain thy truest friend,
I will not leave thee to thy misery,
But to the last sad moment of thy life
Strive with my humble skill to comfort thee.
Geraldi.
Love me, my Veronica! dost thou still,
Still love me? Oh! it is impossible
To veil my feelings in this odious mask!
I have not fortitude to sacrifice
Thy sweet affection, even for thy dear sake.
Angel of mercy! bright celestial saint!
I would have spared thee all the agony
Which thou wilt suffer at my shameful death!
Forgive this weakness, or forget it, sweet,
And think me still a hardened, heartless wretch—
A dark assassin, who could coldly frown
Upon thy matchless tenderness: my crime
Hath merited thy hate. My Veronica,
I have involved thee in my ruin; thou
Wilt never taste of happiness again;
This weak and selfish spirit could not bear
The trial.
Veronica.
Blessed beyond imagination,
I feel thy gentle tears bedew my cheek.
O, Sforza! when I knelt before the king,
Vainly to sue thy pardon—when thy foes
Prevailed against me, this devoted heart
Felt not such keen, such agonizing, pain
As followed thy cold looks, thy bitter words.
Geraldi.
Come to my arms, and lay thy gentle head
Upon my beating heart—a stormy nest
For such a tender dove: safe from all ills
Thou should'st repose, rocked calmly to thy rest,
A guardian angel bending o'er thee; sounds
Of lulling sweetness, soft ambrosial airs,
Instead of these hot tears, these stifled sighs,
And the wild throbbing of my tortured breast.
I shall be calmer soon; but thou, my love,
How wilt thou bear thy sorrows? I have brought
This dreadful blight upon thee; tell me, sweet,
Is there redemption for a deed like mine?
Thy pure orison, Veronica, join,
And, mingled thus, my prayers may reach the skies.
Canst thou, love, soothe me with the blessed hope,
That even my crimes may be at last forgiven?
Veronica.
Oh, it were sin to doubt it, dear Geraldi;
Look up with confidence; unfeigned remorse,
And incense sweet of penitential tears
Are thrice-blessed offerings to the holy saints.
Thou dost accuse thyself too bitterly.
That base incendiary, fell Angelo,
Shall by Omnipotence be justly deemed
The guilty one; like the accursed fiend,
Who gazed on Paradise and saw its bliss,
With unrelenting eye, his pitiless,
Inhuman heart, dealt the fell bolt that smote
To dust the fairy edifice that love
Had fondly reared.
Geraldi.
No, no, my Veronica,
I suffered dreadful passions to invade
The breast so proud of virtue; I despised
My tempter, and this arrogant,
Perverted soul deemed every sin against
Its happiness too great to be forgiven—
I murdered Julian, and it is I
Must answer for the deed—Oh, would the loss
Of all my much-prized honours, could recal
That blow, too justly aimed. It will not be—
The sacrifice of thy dear precious love
Could not bring back to life the friend I slew!
My only hope of pardon is the sense
I feel of my transgression—I regret
Not all the promised joys that bloomed so fair;
I do not wish to shun my punishment;
It is my crime, my crime that I lament.
The God of mercy will forgive me ere
I can forgive myself.
Veronica.
And must I part with thee,
Geraldi, dear Geraldi, never meet
Thy fond impassioned glance? one only hope
To soothe me on my weary pilrimage,
Through this bleak desolated world, the thought
That we may meet in Heaven. My Sforza, say,
Dost thou imagine in the realms of bliss
That we shall know each other?
Geraldi.
My beloved,
The hour of my departure is at hand,
Oh, arm thy gentle bosom to endure
The dreaded moment; would thy faithful heart
Could learn a lesson of forgetfulness!
The sight of thy keen agony alone
Will bind me to this earth.
Veronica.
My Geraldi,
I can endure an age of misery,
If I have hope that we shall meet in Heaven,
And love as we have loved on earth; my soul,
I do conjure thee, tell me, dost thou think
It will be so?
Geraldi.
So near my death, my tongue
Dares not equivocate, though to mislead
Thy spirit with a false belief, would spare,
Thy tender heart a pang, and give me joy
To mitigate thy anguish. Oh, I fear
Our parting is eternal. If in Heaven
The virtuous mother who had left on earth
A much-loved child, should seek it vainly 'mid
The new-created angels, Veronica, where
Would be her Paradise?
Veronica.
'Tis past, 'tis fled;
My only hope is melted into air,
Expect not, ask me not to live, Geraldi,
I never can survive thee.
Geraldi.
Heaven avert
This frightful visitation of my crime,
For mine will be the sin, and at my hands
The souls that I to evil lead, be claimed—
Veronica.
If they would let thee live, my own Geraldi,
Even in this gloomy dungeon, I would bless
My destiny, and never ask again
To view the light of day; it is too much,
Too much of happiness to see thee pine
And wither in this poisonous atmosphere?
And will they, can they tear thee from me, slake
Their hands in thy warm blood?
Geraldi.
My crime demands
The forfeit of my life, and I must bend
With meekness to the just decree—'tis hard,
'Tis painful to relinquish in my prime
The bliss that earth can give, to call thee wife—
To see my children hang about my knees—
Oh, Veronica, murderer as I am,
How dare I dream of such felicity?
Veronica.
Alas! how pale and haggard is that brow,
So lofty once. Sorrow, my best beloved,
Has done the work of age: we should not long
Burthen this cruel world, our stricken hearts
Would break together. I could see thee die
Upon a bed of straw by famine pinched,
With nothing save my tears to quench thy thirst
And bless my fate: how very wretched then
Must be my lot since happiness is shaped
By hopeless anguish in such horrid forms?
Geraldi.
My Veronica, when the laurel wreath
Was twined around my brow, when at my feet.
The brilliant trophies of successful war
Were laid by prostrate kings—in that proud hour ⠀
Fancy portrayed thee as the hero's bride,
Thy timid beauty crowned with dazzling gems,
Thy chariot drawn by thronging multitudes
Eager to pay thee homage, 'mid the sound
Of swelling instruments, but sweeter far
The music of a grateful people's prayers—
A fearful change, my Veronica! barred
Within a noisome dungeon; from thine arms
Dragged to a shameful death. My love hath been
To thee a blighting curse; that form of light,
So like a seraph's, stricken to the dust,
Could I receive my punishment alone
And leave thee happy, I could bear my fate
With decent fortitude—but thus, oh thus,—
My spirit sinks subdued.
Enter the Jailer.
Veronica.
Sforza, he comes!—Thou horrid minister
Of cruel laws, for once be merciful,
And kill me in these arms. Nay, nay, in vain
You strive to separate us, he is mine—
I will not leave him, will not quit my grasp
Till my hewed limbs are severed from their trunk.
In death's convulsive agonies I'll fold ⠀
My loved Geraldi in my strong embrace.
Geraldi.
Dead! is my Veronica dead? Oh, no,
That blessing is denied her. Must I leave
Upon the cold earth that pale lifeless form?
She'll wake and find me gone. Beseech ye, sirs,
See her conveyed to some blest sisterhood
Of holy nuns. One last, and precious kiss,
And then we part for ever. My good friend,
Lend me thine arm; I'm weak, and dizzy: Heav'n,
Take to thy bosom that sweet suffering saint!
It will not hear a murderer's prayer! For me,
My Veronica is accurs'd. Images
Of horror rush upon my brain—lead on,
Lead on to welcome death.——