The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.
How sweet and musical the name of Alvar! Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee, And thou wert dear to him; Heaven only knows How very dear thou wert! Why didst thou hate him?
And yet methinks I have heard the name but lately. O heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck, And weep forgiveness!
Means he the husband of the Moorish woman? Isidore? Isidore?
Spirit of the dead! Methinks I know thee! ha! my brain turns wild At its own dreams!-off-off, fantastic shadow!
I fain would tell thee what I am! but dare not! ORDONIO.
Cheat! villain! traitor! whatsoever thou be- I fear thee, man!
[ALVAR takes the goblet, and throwing it to the ground¦ TERESA (rushing out and falling on ALVAR's neck).
What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword! What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm?
I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest! I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage, And turn it to a motionless distraction!
Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning, Thy faith in universal villany,
Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn For all thy human brethren-out upon them! What have they done for thee? have they given thee
Ordonio! 'tis thy brother.
[ORDONIO with frantic wildness runs upon ALVAR with his sword. TERESA flings herself on ORDONIO and arrests his arm. Stop, madman, stop.
Does then this thin disguise impenetrably Hide Alvar from thee? Toil and painful wounds And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons, Have marr'd perhaps all trait and lineament My anguish for thy guilt! Of what I was! But chiefly, chiefly, brother,
Ordonio-Brother! Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me. ORDONIO (drawing back and gazing at ALVAR with a countenance of at once awe and terror). Touch me not!
Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made The darkness pleasant when thou wakest at midnight? Touch not pollution, Alvar! I will die.
Art happy when alone? Canst walk by thyself With even step and quiet cheerfulness?
He would have died to save me, and I kill'd him-She hath avenged the blood of Isidore! A husband and a father!-
ORDONIO (fiercely recollecting himself).
Let the eternal Justice
Prepare my punishment in the obscure world- I will not bear to live-to live-O agony! And be myself alone my own sore torment! [The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush ALHADRA, and the band of MORESCOES.
I stood in silence like a slave before her, That I might taste the wormwood and the gall, And satiate this self-accusing heart With bitterer agonies than death can give Forgive me, Alvar!
Oh! couldst thou forget me! [Dies [ALVAR and TERESA bend over the body of ORDONIO
I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordain'd it wisely, That still extremes bring their own cure. That point In misery, which makes the oppressed Man Regardless of his own life, makes him too Lord of the Oppressor's-Knew I a hundred men Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
[ALVAR presses onward to defend ORDONIO. This arm should shake the Kingdoms of the World,
Why didst thou leave his children? Demon, thou shouldst have sent thy dogs of hell To lap their blood! Then, then I might have harden'd My soul in misery, and have had comfort.
I would have stood far off, quiet though dark, And bade the race of men raise up a mourning For a deep horror of desolation,
Too great to be one soul's particular lot! Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.
[Struggling to suppress her feelings. The time is not yet come for woman's anguish. I have not seen his blood--Within an hour Those little ones will crowd around and ask me, Where is our father? I shall curse thee then!
The deep foundations of iniquity
Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them; The strong-holds of the cruel men should fall, Their Temples and their mountainous Towers should fall;
Till Desolation seem'd a beautiful thing,
And all that were, and had the Spirit of Life, Sang a new song to her who had gone forth, Conquering and still to conquer!
[ALHADRA hurries off with the Moors; the stage fills with armed Peasants and Servants, ZULIMEZ and VALDEZ at their head. VALDEZ rushes into ALVAR'S arms.
Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide, Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing [Both kneel to VALDEZ
My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless him, Heaven!
Bless, Oh bless my children!
Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee Delights so full, if unalloy'd with grief,
Were ominous. In these strange dread events Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice, That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice. Our inward monitress to guide or warn, If listen'd to; but if repell'd with scorn, At length as dire Remorse, she reappears, Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears! Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late! And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.
Note 1, page 81, col. 1 You are a painter
The following lines I have preserved in this place, not so much as explanatory of the picture of the assassination, as (if I may say so without disrespect to the Public) to gratify my own feelings, the passage being no mere fancy portrait; but a slight, yet not
unfaithful profile of one,* who still lives, nobilitate felix, arte clarior, vitâ colendissimus.
ZULIMEZ (speaking of Alvar in the third person). Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation. He told me, too, how in his early youth,
And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice; There won the love of that divine old man, Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian! Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, By the sweet mystery of lines and colors, Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror, That made the Absent present; and to Shadows Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and motion.
He loved the old man, and revered his art: And though of noblest birth and ample fortune, The young enthusiast thought it no scorn But this inalienable ornament,
To be his pupil, and with filial zeal
By practice to appropriate the sage lessons, Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. The Art, he honor'd thus, requited him: And in the following and calamitous years Beguiled the hours of his captivity.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Sesina-angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel ? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As bang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable- He never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn 't was his only play
To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water on the stumps of trees. A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,
A gray-hair'd man, he loved this little boy:
The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen; and from that time Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.
So he became a rare and learned youth:
But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turn'd; and ere his twentieth year He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him. And once, as by the north side of the chapel They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, The earth heaved under them with such a groan, That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd, A fever seized him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized And cast into that hole. My husband's father Sobb'd like a child-it almost broke his heart: And once as he was working near this dungeon, He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, Who sung a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty. He always doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described, And the young man escaped.
'Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears. And what became of him?
He went on shipboard With those bold voyagers who made discovery Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain, He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, And all alone set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men. 105
Πὰρ πυρὶ χρὴ τοιαῦτα λέγειν χειμῶνος ἐν ὥρᾳ.
But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait? Lo! e'en this eager and unwonted haste But agitates, not quells, its majesty. My patron! my commander! yes, 't is he! Call out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes. Drums beal, etc. the Guard turns out. Enter RAAB KIUPRILI.
THE form of the following dramatic poem is in hum- ble imitation of the Winter's Tale of Shakspeare, except that I have called the first part a Prelude in- stead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resem- blance to the plan of the ancients, of which one specimen is left us in the Eschylian Trilogy of the Agamemnon, the Orestes, and the Eumenides. Though a matter of form merely, yet two plays, on different periods of the same tale, might seem less bold, than an interval of twenty years between the first and second act. This is, however, in mere obedience to custom. The effect does not, in reality, at all de- pend on the Time of the interval; but on a very dif- ferent principle. There are cases in which an inter- val of twenty hours between the acts would have a Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended! worse effect (i. e. render the imagination less disposed What may these wonders prophesy? to take the position required) than twenty years in other cases. For the rest, I shall be well content if my readers will take it up, read and judge it, as a How fares the king? His majesty still lives? Christmas tale.
RAAB KIUPRILI (making a signal to stop the drums, etc.) Silence! enough! This is no time, young friend! For ceremonious dues. This summoning drum, Th' air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter, Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear. Soldiers, 'tis well! Retire! your general greets you, His loyal fellow-warriors. [Guards retire.
EMERICK, usurping King of Illyria. RAAB KIUPRILI, an Illyrian Chieftain. CASIMIR, Son of Kiuprili.
CHEF RAGOZZI, a Military Commander WOMAN.
ZAPOLYA, Queen of Illyria.
THE PRELUDE, ENTITLED, "THE USURP- ER'S FORTUNE."
Front of the Palace with a magnificent Colonnade. On one side a military Guard-House. Sentries pacing backward and forward before the Palace. CHEF RAGOZZI, at the door of the Guard-House, as looking forwards at some object in the distance.
My eyes deceive me not, it must be he!
Who but our chief, my more than father, who
CHEF RAGOZZI.
Pardon my surprise.
We know no otherwise; but Emerick's friends (And none but they approach him) scoff at hope.
Ragozzi! I have rear'd thee from a child,
And as a child I have rear'd thee. Whence this air Of mystery? That face was wont to open Clear as the morning to me, showing all things Hide nothing from me.
CHEF RAGOZZI.
O most loved, most honor'd,
The mystery that struggles in my looks, Betray'd my whole tale to thee, if it told thee That I am ignorant; but fear the worst. And mystery is contagious. All things here Are full of motion: and yet all is silent:
And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears. RAAB KIUPRILI (his hand to his heart).
I have trembling proof within, how true thou speakest.
That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery, Gives splendid arms, pays the commanders' debts, And (it is whisper'd) by sworn promises Makes himself debtor-hearing this, thou hast heard All- (Then in a subdued and saddened voice.) But what my Lord will learn too soon himself.
Ha-Well then, let it come! Worse scarce can
This letter, written by the trembling hand Of royal Andreas, calls me from the camp
This life of mine, O take it, Lord Kiuprili! I give it as a weapon to thy hands, Mine own no longer. Guardian of Illyria, Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself. Thou art the framer of my nobler being: Nor does there live one virtue in my soul, One honorable hope, but calls thee father. Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace Is guarded from within, that each access
Is throng'd by arm'd conspirators, watch'd by ruffians Pamper'd with gifts, and hot upon the spoil Which that false promiser still trails before them. I ask but this one boon-reserve my life Till I can lose it for the realm and thee!
My heart is rent asunder. O my country, O fallen Illyria! stand I here spell-bound?
The bad man's cunning still prepares the way For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi! [Musing to himself-then- Ragozzi! I applaud,
In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward And keeps the life-spark warm of future action Beneath the cloak of patient sufferance. Act and appear as time and prudence prompt thee; I shall not misconceive the part thou playest. Mine is an easier part-to brave the Usurper.
[Enter a procession of EMERICK's Adherents Nobles, Chieftains, and Soldiers, with Music. They advance toward the front of the Stage, KIUPRILI makes the signal for them to stop. The Music ceases.
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