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SCENE III. THE INSIDE OF THE CAVE. BASIL discovered lying on the ground, with his head raised a little upon a few stones and earth, the pistols lying beside him, and blood upon his breast. Enter ROSINBERG, VALTOMER, and OFFICERS. Rosinberg, upon seeing Basil, stops short with horror, and remains motionless for some time.

Valt. Great God of heaven! what a sight is this! (Rosinberg runs to Basil, and stoops down by his side.)

Ros. (making a sign for the Officers to retire.) 'Tis but a sentry, to prevent intrusion.

Bas. Thou know'st this desperate deed from sacred rites

Hath shut me out: I am unbless'd of men,
And what I am in sight of th' awful God,
I dare not think; when I am gone, my friend,
O! let a good man's prayers to heaven ascend
For an offending spirit!—Pray for me.
What thinkest thou? although an outcast here,

Ros. O Basil! O my friend! what hast thou May not some heavenly mercy still be found?

done?

Bas. (covering his face with his hand.) Why art thou come? I thought to die in peace. Ros. Thou know'st me not-I am thy Rosinberg, Thy dearest, truest friend, thy loving kinsman ! Thou dost not say to me, Why art thou come?

Bas. Shame knows no kindred: I am fall'n, disgraced;

My fame is gone, I cannot look upon thee.

Ros. My Basil, noble spirit! talk not thus ! The greatest mind untoward fate may prove : Thou art our generous, valiant leader still, Fall'n as thou art-and yet thou art not fall'n; Who says thou art, must put his harness on, And prove his words in blood.

Bas. Ah Rosinberg! this is no time to boast!
I once had hopes a glorious name to gain;
Too proud of heart, I did too much aspire:
The hour of trial came, and found me wanting!
Talk not of me, but let me be forgotten.-
And O! my friend! something upbraids me here,
(laying his hand on his breast.)

For that I now remember how oft-times
I have ursurp'd it o'er thy better worth,
Most vainly teaching where I should have learnt ;
But thou wilt pardon me.-

Ros. (taking Basil's hand, and pressing it to his breast.) Rend not my heart in twain! O talk not thus !

I knew thou wert superior to myself,
And to all men beside: thou wert my pride;
I paid thee deference with a willing heart.

Bas. It was delusion, all delusion, Rosinberg'
I feel my weakness now, I own my pride.
Give me thy hand, my time is near the close:
Do this for me: thou know'st my love, Victoria-
Ros. O curse that woman! she it is alone-
She has undone us all!

Bas. It doubles unto me the stroke of death To hear thee name her thus. O curse her not! The fault is mine; she's gentle, good and blameless.

Thou wilt not then my dying wish fulfil ?

Ros. I will! I will! what wouldst thou have me do?

Bas. See her when I am gone; be gentle with her;
And tell her that I bless'd her in my death;
E'en in my agonies I loved and bless'd her.
Wilt thou do this?

Ros.
Bas. I thank thee, Rosinberg; my time draws

I'll do what thou desirest.

near.

Ros. Thou wilt find mercy-my beloved Basil→ It cannot be that thou shouldst be rejected. I will with bended knee-I will imploreIt choaks mine utterance-I will pray for theeBas. This comforts me-thou art a loving friend. (A noise without.) Ros. (to Off. without.) What noise is that?

Enter VALTOMER.

Valt. (to Ros) My lord, the soldiers all insist to

enter.

What shall I do? they will not be denied:
They say that they will see their noble general.
Bas. Ah, my brave fellows! do they call me so?
Ros. Then let them come!

Enter SOLDIERS, who gather round BASIL, and look mournfully upon him; he holds out his hand to them with a faint smile.

Bas. My generous soldiers, this is kindly meant. I'm low in the dust; God bless you all, brave hearts!

1st Sol. And God bless you, my noble, noble general!

We'll never follow such a leader more.

2d Sol. Ah! had you stayed with us, my noble general,

We would have died for you.

(3d Soldier endeavours next to speak, but cannot ; and kneeling down by Basil, covers his face with his cloak. Rosinberg turns his face to the wall and weeps.)

Bas. (in a very faint broken voice.) Where art thou? do not leave me, Rosinberg

Come near to me-these fellows make me weep:
I have no power to weep-give me thy hand-
I love to feel thy grasp-my heart beats strangely-
It beats as though its breathings would be few-
Remember-

Ros. Is there aught thou wouldst desire? Bas. Naught but a little earth to cover me, And lay the smooth sod even with the groundLet no stone mark the spot-give no offence. I fain would say—what can I say to thee? (A deep pause; after a feeble struggle, Basil expires.)

1st Sol. That motion was his last. 2d Sol. His spirit's fled. 1st Sol. God grant it peace! it was a noble spirit! 4th Sol. The trumpet's sound did never rouse a braver.

1st Sol. Alas! no trumpet e'er shall rouse him

more,

(Raising his head a little, and perceiving Of Until the dreadful blast that wakes the dead.

ficers.)

Is there not some one here? are we alone?

2d Sol. And when that sounds it will not wake a braver.

3d Sol. How pleasantly he shared our hardest toil!

Our coarsest food the daintiest fare he made.

4th Sol. Ay, many a time, i' the cold damp plain has he

With cheerful countenance cried, "Good rest, my
hearts!"

Then wrapp'd him in his cloak, and laid him down
E'en like the meanest soldier in the field.

(Rosinberg all this time continues hanging over
the body, and gazing upon it. Valtomer now
endeavours to draw him away.)

Valt. This is too sad, my lord.

Vict. (recovering.) Unloose thy hold, and let me
look upon him.

O! horrid, horrid sight! my ruin'd Basil!
Is this the sad reward of all thy love!
O! I have murder'd thee !

(Kneels down by the body and bends over it.)
These wasted streams of life! this bloody wound!
(Laying her hand upon his heart.)
Is there no breathing here? all still! all cold.
Open thine eyes, speak, be thyself again,
And I will love thee, serve thee, follow thee,
In spite of all reproach. Alas! alas!
A lifeless corse art thou for ever laid,

Ros. There, seest thou how he lies? so fix'd, so And dost not hear my call.-
pale ?

Ah! what an end is this! thus lost! thus fall'n!
To be thus taken in his middle course,
Where he so nobly strove; till cursed passion
Came like a sun-stroke on his midday toil,
And cut the strong man down. O Basil! Basil!
Valt. Forbear, my friend, we must not sorrow
here.

Ros. He was the younger brother of my soul.
Valt. Indeed, my lord, it is too sad a sight.
Time calls us, let the body be removed.

Ros. He was-O! he was like no other man!
Valt. (still endeavouring to draw him away.)
Nay now forbear.

Ros.
I loved him from his birth!
Valt. Time presses, let the body be removed.
Ros. What say'st thou ?
Valt.

Shall we not remove him hence?
Ros. He has forbid it, and has charged me well
To leave his grave unknown; for that the church
All sacred rites to the self-slain denies.

He would not give offence.

1st Sol. What shall our general, like a very
wretch,

Be laid unhonour'd in the common ground?
No last salute to bid his soul farewell?

No warlike honours paid? it shall not be.

2d Sol. Laid thus? no, by the blessed light of heaven!

In the most holy spot in Mantua's walls

He shall be laid: in face of day be laid;

Ros. No, madam; now your pity comes too late.
Vict. Dost thou upbraid me? O! I have deserved

it!

Ros. No, madam, no, I will not now upbraid:
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is; in gayer scenes,
Where soon thou shalt in giddy circles blaze,
And play the airy goddess of the day,
Thine eye, perchance, amidst th' observing crowd,
Shall mark the indignant face of Basil's friend,
And then it will upbraid.

Vict. No, never, never! thus it shall not be.
To the dark, shaded cloister wilt thou go,
Where sad and lonely, through the dismal grate
Thou'lt spy my wasted form, and then upbraid me.
Ros. Forgive me, heed me not; I'm grieved at
heart;

I'm fretted, gall'd, all things are hateful to me.
If thou didst love my friend, I will forgive thee;
I must forgive thee: with his dying breath
He bade me tell thee, that his latest thoughts
Were love to thee; in death he loved and bless'd
thee.

(Victoria goes to throw herself upon the body but
is prevented by Valtomer and Isabella, who
support her in their arms and endeavour to draw
her away from it.)

Vict. O force me not away! by his cold corse,
Let me lie down and weep. O! Basil, Basil!
The gallant and the brave! how hast thou loved
me!

And though black priests should curse us in the If there is any holy kindness in you,

teeth,

We will fire o'er him whilst our hands have power Tear me not hence.
To grasp a musket.

Several Soldiers. Let those who dare forbid it!
Ros. My brave companions, be it as you will.
(Spreading out his arms as if he would embrace the
Soldiers.-They prepare to remove the body.)
Valt. Nay, stop a while, we will not move it
now,

For see a mournful visiter appears,
And must not be denied.

Enter VICTORIA and ISABELLA.

Vict. I thought to find him here, where has he fled?

(Rosinberg points to the body without speaking. Victoria shrieks out and falls into the arms of Isabella.)

(to Isab. and Valt.)

For he loved me in thoughtless folly lost,
With all my faults, most worthless of his love;
And him I'll love in the low bed of death,
In horror and decay.-

Near his lone tomb I'll spend my wretched days
In humble prayer for his departed spirit:
Cold as his grave shall be my earthy bed,
As dark my cheerless cell. Force me not hence.
I will not go, for grief hath made me strong.
(Struggling to get loose.)
Ros. Do not withhold her, leave her sorrow free.
(They let her go, and she throws herself upon the
body in an agony of grief.)

It doth subdue the sternness of my grief
To see her mourn him thus.-Yet I must curse.—
Heaven's curses light upon her damned father,

Isab. Alas! my gentle mistress, this will kill Whose crooked policy has wrought this wreck!

thee.

Isab. If he has done it, you, are well revenged,

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Ros. Give me thy hand, I'm glad on't, O! I'm glad on't!

It should be so! How like a hateful ape
Detected grinning, 'midst his pilfer'd hoard,
A cunning man appears, whose secret frauds
Are open'd to the day! scorn'd, hooted, mock'd!
Scorn'd by the very fools who most admired
His worthless art. But when a great mind falls,
The noble nature of man's generous heart
Doth bear him up against the shame of ruin;
With gentle censure using but its faults
As modest means to introduce his praise;
For pity like a dewy twilight comes

To close the oppressive splendour of his day,
And they who but admired him in his height,
His alter'd state lament, and love him fall'n.

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I cannot tell thee;

Man. Ah! but he is not now the man he was. Liberal he'll be. God grant he may be quiet. Jer. What has befall'n him? Man. But faith, there is no living with him now. Jer. And yet methinks, if I remember well, You were about to quit his service, Manuel, When last he left this house. You grumbled then. Man. I've been upon the eve of leaving him These ten long years; for many times is he So difficult, capricious, and distrustful, He galls my nature-yet, I know not how, A secret kindness binds me to him still.

Jer. Some, who offend from a suspicious nature, Will afterward such fair confession make As turns e'en th' offence into a favour.

Man. Yes, some indeed do so: so will not he: He'd rather die than such confession make.

Jer. Ay, thou art right; for now I call to mind That once he wrong'd me with unjust suspicion, When first he came to lodge beneath my roof And when it so fell out that I was proved Most guiltless of the fault, I truly thought He would have made profession of regret. But silent, haughty, and ungraciously He bore himself as one offended still. Yet shortly after, when unwittingly

I did him some slight service, o' the sudden

He overpower'd me with his grateful thanks,

And would not be restrain'd from pressing on me

A noble recompense. I understood

His o'erstrain'd gratitude and bounty well,
And took it as he meant.

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I would have left him many years ago,
But that with all his faults there sometimes come
Such bursts of natural goodness from his heart,
As might engage a harder churl than me
To serve him still.-And then his sister too;
A noble dame, who should have been a queen:
The meanest of her hinds, at her command,
Had fought like lions for her, and the poor,
E'en o'er their bread of poverty, had bless'd her-
She would have grieved if I had left my lord.
Jer. Comes she along with him?

Man. No, he departed all unknown to her,
Meaning to keep conceal'd his secret route;
But well I knew it would afflict her much,
And therefore left a little nameless billet,
Which after our departure, as I guess,
Would fall into her hands, and tell her all.
What could I do? O 'tis a noble lady!

Jer. All this is strange-something disturbs his mind

Belike he is in love.

No, Jerome, no.

Man.
Once on a time I served a noble master,
Whose youth was blasted with untoward love,
And he with hope, and fear, and jealousy
For ever toss'd, led an unquiet life;
Yet, when unruffled by the passing fit,
His pale wan face such gentle sadness wore
As moved a kindly heart to pity him.
But Monfort, even in his calmest hour,
Still bears that gloomy sternness in his eye
Which powerfully repels all sympathy.
O no! good Jerome, no; it is not love.

Jer. Hear I not horses trampling at the gate?

(Listening.)

He is arrived-stay thou-I had forgot-
A plague upon't! my head is so confused-
I will return i' th' instant to receive him.

[EXIT hastily. (A great bustle without. Exrr Manuel with lights, and returns again, lighting in DE MONFORT, as if just alighted from his journey.)

Jer. Here is a little of the favourite wine That you were wont to praise. Pray honour me. (Fills a glass.)

De Mon. (after drinking.) I thank you, Jerome,
'tis delicious.

Jer. Ay, my dear wife did ever make it so.
De Mon. And how does she?
Jer.

Alas, my lord! she's dead.

De Mon. Well, then she is at rest.
Jer.
How well, my lord?
De Mon. Is she not with the dead, the quiet dead,
Where all is peace? Not e'en the impious wretch,
Who tears the coffin from its earthly vault,
And strews the mouldering ashes to the wind,
Can break their rest.

Jer. Wo's me! I thought you would have
grieved for her.

She was a kindly soul! Before she died,
When pining sickness bent her cheerless head,
She set my house in order-

And but the morning ere she breathed her last,
Bade me preserve some flaskets of this wine,
That should the Lord De Monfort come again
His cup might sparkle still. (De Monfort walks
across the stage, and wipes his eyes.)

Man. Your ancient host, my lord, receives you❘ Indeed I fear I have distress'd you, sir;

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De Mon. Move what thou wilt, and trouble me To make this cursed noise? (To Manuel.) Go to

no more.

(Manuel, with the assistance of other Servants, sets about putting the things in order, and De Monfort remains sitting in a thoughtful posture.)

the gate.
[EXIT Manuel.
All sober citizens are gone to bed;

It is some drunkards on their nightly rounds,
Who mean it but in sport.

Jer. I hear unusual voices-here they come.

Enter JEROME, bearing wine, &c. on a salver. As he Re-enter MANUEL, showing in Count FREBERG and his approaches DE MONFORT, MANUEL pulls him by the sleeve.

Man. (aside to Jerome.) No, do not now; he will not be disturb'd.

LADY, with a mask in her hand.

Freb. (running to embrace De Mon.) My dearest Monfort! most unlook'd for pleasure!

Do I indeed embrace thee here again?

Jer. What, not to bid him welcome to my house, I saw thy servant standing by the gate, And offer some refreshment?

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Softly a little while: I prithee do.
(Jerome walks softly on tiptoes, till he gets behind
De Monfort, then peeping on one side to see his
face,)

Jer. (aside to Manuel.) Ah, Manuel, what an
alter'd man is here!

His face recall'd, and learnt the joyful tidings.
Welcome, thrice welcome here!

De Mon. I thank thee, Freberg, for this friendly
visit,
And this fair lady too.

(Bowing to the lady.) Lady, I fear, my lord, We do intrude at an untimely hour: But now, returning from a midnight mask, My husband did insist that we should enter. Freb. No, say not so; no hour untimely call, Which doth together bring long absent friends. 'Tis your old landlord, sir. Dear Monfort, why hast thou so slyly play'd, Jer. I joy to see you here-I crave your pardon-To come upon us thus so suddenly?

His eyes are hollow, and his cheeks are pale-
He left this house a comely gentleman.
De Mon. Who whispers there?
Man.

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De Mon. O! many varied thoughts do cross our

brain,

Which touch the will, but leave the memory trackless ;

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Lady. (turning from him displeased to Mon.) You And meets not this man's love.-Friends! rarest are fatigued, my lord; you want repose;

Say, should we not retire?

Ha! is it so?

Freb. My friend, your face is pale, have you been ill? De Mon. No, Freberg, no; I think I have been well.

Freb. (shaking his head.) I fear thou hast not,
Monfort-Let it pass.

We'll re-establish thee: we'll banish pain.
I will collect some rare, some cheerful friends,
And we shall spend together glorious hours,
That gods might envy. Little time so spent
Doth far outvalue all our life beside.
This is indeed our life, our waking life,
The rest dull breathing sleep.

friends!

Rather than share his undiscerning praise With every table wit, and bookform'd sage, And paltry poet puling to the moon,

I'd court from him proscription, yea, abuse, And think it proud distinction.

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[EXIT. JEROME'S

HOUSE; A TABLE AND BREAKFAST SET OUT. Enter De MONFORT, followed by MANUEL, and sets himself down by the table, with a cheerful face. De Mon. Manuel, this morning's sun shines pleasantly:

These old apartments too are light and cheerful.
Our landlord's kindness has revived me much;

De Mon. Thus, it is true, from the sad years of He serves as though he loved me. This pure air

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Freb. Judge for thyself: in truth I do not There are no serpents in our pleasant fields.

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De Mon. Think'st thou there are no serpents in

the world

But those who slide along the grassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social life

Do bask their spotted skins in fortune's sun,
And sting the soul-Ay, till its healthful frame
Is changed to secret, festering, sore disease,
So deadly is the wound.

Man. Heaven guard your honour from such horrid scath!

They are but rare, I hope ?

De Mon. (shaking his head.) We mark the hollow eye, the wasted frame, The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men, But do not know the cause.

Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my

lord!

De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well. I shall be gay too, by the setting sun.

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