The Bride of Messina, and On the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy Part 18

DON CAESAR.

My sister!

ISABELLA.

Thou hast sent her to me!

DON CAESAR.

Horror!

His sister, too!

CHORUS.

Woe! woe!

BEATRICE.

Alas! my mother!

ISABELLA.

Speak! I am all amaze!

DON CASAR.

Be cursed the day When I was born!

ISABELLA.

Eternal powers!

DON CAESAR.

Accursed The womb that bore me; cursed the secret arts, The spring of all this woe; instant to crush thee, Though the dread thunder swept--ne'er should this arm Refrain the bolts of death: I slew my brother!

Hear it and tremble! in her arms I found him; She was my love, my chosen bride; and he-- My brother--in her arms! Thou hast heard all!

If it be true--oh, if she be my sister-- And his! then I have done a deed that mocks The power of sacrifice and prayers to ope The gates of mercy to my soul!

Chorus (BOHEMUND).

The tidings on thy heart dismayed Have burst, and naught remains; behold!

'Tis come, nor long delayed, Whate'er the warning seers foretold: They spoke the message from on high, Their lips proclaimed resistless destiny!

The mortal shall the curse fulfil Who seeks to turn predestined ill.

ISABELLA.

The G.o.ds have done their worst; if they be true Or false, 'tis one--for nothing they can add To this--the measure of their rage is full.

Why should I tremble that have naught to fear?

My darling son lies murdered, and the living I call my son no more. Oh! I have borne And nourished at my breast a basilisk That stung my best-beloved child. My daughter, haste, And leave this house of horrors--I devote it To the avenging fiends! In an evil hour 'Twas crime that brought me hither, and of crime The victim I depart. Unwillingly I came--in sorrow I have lived--despairing I quit these halls; on me, the innocent, Descends this weight of woe! Enough--'tis shown That Heaven is just, and oracles are true!

[Exit, followed by DIEGO.

BEATRICE, DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (detaining BEATRICE).

My sister, wouldst thou leave me? On this head A mother's curse may fall--a brother's blood Cry with accusing voice to heaven--all nature Invoke eternal vengeance on my soul-- But thou--oh! curse me not--I cannot bear it!

[BEATRICE points with averted eyes to the body.

I have not slain thy lover! 'twas thy brother, And mine that fell beneath my sword; and near As the departed one, the living owns The ties of blood: remember, too, 'tis I That most a sister's pity need--for pure His spirit winged its flight, and I am guilty!

[BEATRICE bursts into an agony of tears.

Weep! I will blend my tears with thine--nay, more, I will avenge thy brother; but the lover-- Weep not for him--thy pa.s.sionate, yearning tears My inmost heart. Oh! from the boundless depths Of our affliction, let me gather this, The last and only comfort--but to know That we are dear alike. One lot fulfilled Has made our rights and wretchedness the same; Entangled in one snare we fall together, Three hapless victims of unpitying fate, And share the mournful privilege of tears.

But when I think that for the lover more Than for the brother bursts thy sorrow's tide, Then rage and envy mingle with my pain, And hope's last balm forsakes my withering soul?

Nor joyful, as beseems, can I requite This inured shade:--yet after him content To mercy's throne my contrite spirit shall fly, Sped by this hand--if dying I may know That in one urn our ashes shall repose, With pious office of a sister's care.

[He throws his arms around her with pa.s.sionate tenderness.

I loved thee, as I ne'er had loved before, When thou wert strange; and that I bear the curse Of brother's blood, 'tis but because I loved thee With measureless transport: love was all my guilt, But now thou art my sister, and I claim Soft pity's tribute.

[He regards her with inquiring glances, and an air of painful suspense--then turns away with vehemence.

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sions--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 pa.s.sion'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 l.u.s.tre 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 circ.u.mstances 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.