The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby Part 16

One form I cheris.h.!.+ None I wot beside Comes forth at fancy's call. 'Tis not mine own!

DUKE.

Thou speakest riddles.

HERMIONE.

And must ever thus.

Whate'er on this dark theme I could reveal Were mystery still, trackless, inscrutable.

The subtle web in which my fate is bound Time serves not to unravel: all beside Basks in the broad moonlight. All hopes, desires, Each changing hue, as cloud or suns.h.i.+ne sweeps Their varied surface, pa.s.s without concealment Before the eye of watchful day.--

BEATRICE.

And every maid hath some fond secret, Some stored love, that she unwilling keeps Until claim'd thence for its blest owner. Why That face of solemn mystery brought forth, As if thine own were some peculiar fate None ever knew?

HERMIONE.

Our light burden galls More than the heaviest load our neighbours bear.

But we return. The day unwitting slides Adown the cope of yon bright heaven. Few hours Yet come till eve, and Laura looks impatient.

And wherefore thus, bright cousin?--no sly meeting, No time-drawn a.s.signation? Well I know The disrespect thou bearest them, or now My thoughts would judge thee!

DUKE.

Guard well your giddy charge, Most vigilant dame, most excellent duenna, Lest some gay treacherous gallant should beguile Her tender years. Farewell.

LAURA.

I thank your duteous care. Farewell.

[_Exeunt HERMIONE and LAURA, followed by the d.u.c.h.eSS._

DUKE.

A strange wrought mixture thou Of our mortality; mingled, perchance, By nature in some freakish mood, when tired Of that same endless reproduction, man,-- Still to his fellow mortal answering, As, in a mirror, face to face.

FABIAN.

Go you, my lord, to-day, upon the Prado?

DUKE.

To-day?--yes, boy. But I would change this habit, And mix unknown with that gay crowd. 'Tis well-- Hermione, or strange my thoughts misgive me, Now seeks the walk. I'll watch; this paramour Or hers or Laura's I may chance discover.

[_Exeunt separately._

SCENE II.

_A Street._

_Enter CARLOS and BERTRAND._

BERTRAND.

Thou speedest well, thanks to my shrewd invention.

Yon babbling rogue, Stephano, gave me note Of her night walk upon the terrace, where I bribed the keeper to admit ye.

CARLOS.

Thanks, Thrice worthy friend. But I do fear mine errand; Some secret terror burdens mine intent, And heavily droops the wing of my firm purpose.

Dull hope's uncertain beam, foreboding, quivers, While the rude blast, low howling in mine ear The roar of muttering tempests, sweeps it by, And, in that flickering glare, pale spectres glide, A mournful train,--sullen despair, pale woe, And grisly terror, dwell in their pale looks.

Would this dread night were o'er!

BERTRAND.

Some rancorous fiend Possesses thee. Some stroke of sudden madness To thy weak brain hath sped, reversed thy thoughts, Turn'd each unto its contrary,--what once Waked smiling hope, now brings despair,--love, hate!-- Joy, measureless sorrow!--Rouse thee! Once thou wert Of different mood, and, ere thy clouded sun Sinks to his gloomy bed, again his glance Shall be unveil'd. I'll be thy prophet! Haste From this inglorious sleep! As he of old, Thy fetters from thee shake, in terrible might Uprising, when awaked from the soft lap Of indolent love. Thou lovest but too well, Nor mayest thou speed, until she find thee oft, With careless port, braving her frown. Wayward, The maiden scorns true lover's tenderest sigh, And inward pines for some ungracious churl, Who slights such light-won favours. 'Tis the good We might possess we loath and sicken at, For that beyond our reach, we moan and fret, As if our very soul were thither urged, And life itself but hung on its frail tenure.

We'll seek the public walk: (woman e'er follows The giddy crowd, as doth your swift-winged hornet Hunt forth its prey): it will beguile the hours, Till night, with drowsy tongue, calls thee to love And to Hermione! [_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_A Chamber._

_Enter LAURA._

LAURA.

How this little tyrant rules it over me! Again--[_Takes a letter from her bosom_]--I can repeat the words backwards, tell every turn of a letter, count the dots, blurs, and crossings; but--[_In attempting to replace the billet, it drops on the floor unperceived_]--I think the sun creeps backward, and then returns, out of sheer spite and maliciousness.

I must not be on the terrace too soon: I'll have him wait now; it looks more an it were as if I had other business by the nose than dancing to the pipe of a gay gallant. Three full hours yet. Alack, alack! I can neither scold the maids, darn the Venice lace, sort my brother's hose, nor even turn up the plaitings of my own hair. I'll bethink me of the gown I must wear that shall best please my cavalier, and lay it down, to smooth out the folds. Oh, sweet heart! how tender he looked on me at the Prado to-day. Yes,--the same,--I gave him an encouraging glance betimes, lest the youth should wax timorous and melancholy. I hope we may have a quiet night: the sky looks somewhat wild and turbid. [_Exit._

_Enter HERMIONE._

HERMIONE.

How fierce the sun gazes from below that bank of clouds he has just quitted, as if he threatened us at his going with some terrible disaster. His beam wraps the city, as with a mantle of fire bespangled with stars,--here and there a glittering cross studding its purple vestment: one by one they are quenched, and the glowing mantle itself fades. A dark dun haze rests upon the city, and in the west a fiery streak alone tells of the past. I fear me the night forebodes a storm.----Carlos, I find, follows me to Mantua. How the moody wretch and his companion dogged us at the Prado to-day: I doubled more than a hare at its lasts s.h.i.+fts, to keep out of their ken. I had hoped he would have forgotten me ere this; but you may not cram wisdom even down a mallard's throat.--

_Enter SYLVIO._

Whose message bring you here?

SYLVIO.

My Lord Duke sends greeting.

HERMIONE.

Thanks, boy, for his intent. I lack not pleasant compliments.

SYLVIO.

He hopes, lady, the air of our public walk suits well your delicate health, and that your spirits droop not in this gay city.

HERMIONE.

Tell my Lord Duke, when he next goes with the crowd, to veil the dark fringe of his eye, and to fas.h.i.+on the bend of his nose afresh; or the fire of his eye, and his lordly beak, will betray to every idle flutterer the presence of the proud Duke of Mantua. Good b'ye, Sylvio.

[_Exit._

SYLVIO.

I cannot read this haughty damsel. Ah! what have we here?--[_Picks up the paper Laura has just dropped._]--Something, I trow, more legible than maiden's breast.

[_Reads._ "_Say, fairest, canst thou love_,"--I warrant thee--"_or does cold scorn compose the sum of thine affections_"--"_Grown bold_"--"_If thou wilt lend thine ear to my suit on the terrace to-morrow night at this hour_"--A bold suitor, truly--"_I will not offend thee again unless thou judgest in my favour._" "CARLOS."

Good b'ye, lady.--[_Mimicks her._]--The Duke shall enjoy this tender morsel. Tell my Lady Hermione, when she next gives a private meeting to her gallant, to keep her billet safe, to veil the fringe of her bodice, and raise the beak of her stomacher, else their shallow covering will betray to every idle flutterer the secrets of the haughtiest beauty in Christendom. [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_The Terrace. The night dark and tempestuous, with distant thunder._

_Enter CARLOS._