The Works of Mary Russell Mitford

heard

And cold contempt, and bitter pardon-dared
To hurl on me fierce pardon! Ha! he shivers!
His stout limbs writhe! The insect that is born
And dies within an hour would not change lives
With Foscari. I am content. For thee

I have a tenfold curse. Long be thy reign,
Great Doge of Venice!

Doge.

Thanks, gracious heaven! Lead him to instant death.

Enter Zeno and Guards.

Cos.

Ay, I am the Doge;

"T is I

Zeno. Seize Count Erizzo, Guard. Have ye not That am the only murderer of the earthI that slew him. Bring racks and axesDoge.

What spectacle is this ?-Know ye not, Sirs,
That Foscari is guiltless, that the murderer
Is found?

Fos. Hear that! I'm innocent! Hear that!
The murderer is found! Nay, hold me not--
I'm well-I'm strong. Father, there is no stain
In the long line of Foscari! Camilla,
My faithfullest-

Live!
I pardon thee. He pardons thee. Live, Cosmo;
It is thy Prince's last behest. I've been
O'erlong a crowned slave. Go! dross to dross.

[Flinging off the Ducal bonnet. And bruise the stones of Venice! Tell the senate There lies their diadem. Now I am free!

Now I may grieve and pity like a man!
May weep, and groan, and die! My heart may burst
Now! Start not, Zeno-Didst thou never hear

Of a broken heart? Look there.

There's no need.

Is life. Who talked of death? I cannot die In such a happiness. I'm well.

He sinks;

Zeno. All. Seize Erizzo, bind him.

Eriz. The work is done, well done-Signor Donato, I thank thee still for that-and such revenge Is cheaply bought with life.

Cos. Oh, damned viper! Eriz. Ay! Do ye know me? Not a man of But is my tool or victim. I'm your master. This was my aim when old Donato died, And but that Celso dared not cope with Foscari, And sought to catch him in a subtler springe, I had been now your Doge. And I am more. I am your master, Sirs. Look where he lies The towering Foscari, who yesterday Stood statelier than the marble gods of Rome In their proud beauty. Hearken! It is mute, The tongue which darted words of fiery scorn,

Beloved son,

How art thou?

'JULIAN, A TRAGEDY.

ΤΟ

WILLIAM CHARLES MACREDY, Esq.

WITH HIGH ESTEEM FOR THOSE

ENDOWMENTS WHICH HAVE CAST NEW LUSTRE ON

HIS ART;

WITH WARM ADMIRATION FOR THOSE POWERS

WHICH HAVE INSPIRED,

AND THAT TASTE WHICH HAS FOSTERED, THE TRAGIC

DRAMATISTS OF HIS AGE;

WITH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE FOR THE ZEAL

BERTONE, Servant to Count D'Alba.

RENZI, an old Huntsman.

An ARCHBISHOP.

ANNABEL, Julian's Wife.

Nobles, Prelates, Officers, Guards, Murderers, &c.

The Scene is in and near Messina; the time of action two days.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

THEY who in Prologues for your favours ask,
Find every season more perplex their task;
Though doubts and hopes and tremblings do not fail,
The points fall flatly and the rhymes grow stale;
Why should the Author hint their fitting parts,
In all the pomp of Verse, to "British hearts?"
Why to such minds as yours with ardour pray,
For more than justice to a first essay?
What need to show how absolute your power?
What stake awaits the issue of the hour-
How hangs the scale 'twixt agony and joy,
What bliss you nourish, or what hopes destroy?—
All these you feel;-and yet we scarce can bring
A Prologue to "the posey of a ring."

To what may we allude?-Our plot untold
Is no great chapter from the times of old;
On no august association rests,
But seeks its earliest home in kindly breasts,—
Its scene, as inauspicious to our strain,
Is neither mournful Greece, nor kindling Spain,
But Sicily-where no defiance hurled
At freedom's foes may awe the attending world.
But since old forms forbid us to submit
A Play without a Prologue to the Pit;
Lest this be missed by some true friend of plays,
Like the dull colleague of his earlier days;
Thus let me own how fearlessly we trust
That you will yet be mercifully just.

Not even in slumber can he lose the sense
Of that deep misery; and I—he wakes!
Dost thou not see the quivering mantle heave
With sudden motion?

Ann.

Thou hast wakened him.

First brought me here a bride, his royal cousin
Was fixed beside his father's dying bed.

I never saw him: yet I know him well;
For I have sate and listen'd, hour by hour,
To hear my husband talk of the fair Prince,
And his excelling virtues.

Alf.
Did he?-Ah!-
But 't was his wont, talking of those he loved,
To gild them with the rich and burnish'd glow
Of his own brightness, as the evening sun
Decks all the clouds in glory.

Very dear

Ann.
Was that young boy to Julian. "T was a friendship
Fonder than common, blended with a kind
Protecting tenderness, such as a brother

Thy clamorous grief hath roused him. Hence! Be- Might fitly show unto the younger born.

gone!

Leave me!

Alf.

And yet his eyes are closed. He sleeps.
He did not move his hand.

Ann.
How changed he is!
How pale! How wasted! Can one little week
Of pain and sickness so have faded thee,
My princely Julian! But eight days ago
There lived not in this gladsome Sicily
So glad a spirit. Voice and step and eye
All were one happiness; till that dread hour,
When drest in sparkling smiles, radiant and glowing
With tender thoughts, he flew to meet the King
And his great father. He went forth alone;
Frenzy and grief came back with him.
Alf.
Another grief.

And I,

Ann.
Thou wast a comforter.
All stranger as thou art, hast thou not shared
My watch as carefully, as faithfully
As I had been thy sister! Ay, and he,
If ever in this wild mysterious woe

One sight or sound hath cheered him, it hath been
A glance, a word of thine.
Alf.

Ann. He knows not me.
Alf.

He knows me not.

I never heard before

That 't was to meet the King yon fatal night-
Knowingly, purposely-How could he guess
That they should meet? What moved him to that
thought?

Alf. Oh, he hath proved it!
Ann.

Thou dost know them both?

Alf.

To be crowned. They came not.
But wherefore went Prince Julian forth to meet them?
Ann. Father nor cousin came; nor messenger,
From Regent or from King; and Julian chafed
And fretted at delay. At length a peasant,
No liveried groom; a slow foot-pacing serf,
Brought tidings that the royal two that morn
Left Villa d'Oro. Glowing from the chase
Prince Julian stood; his bridle in his hand,
New lighted, soothing now his prancing steed,
And prattling now to me;-for I was still
So foolish fond to fly into the porch

To meet him, when I heard the quick sharp tread
Of that bright Arab, whose proud step I knew
Even as his master's voice. He heard the tale
And instant sprang again into his seat,
Wheeled round, and darted off at such a pace
As the fleet greyhound, at her speed, could scarce
Have matched. He spake no word; but as he passed,
Just glanced back at me with his dancing eyes,
And such a smile of joy, and such a wave
Of his plumed bonnet! His return thou know'st.
Alf. I was its wretched partner.

Ann.
He on foot,
Thou on the o'er-travelled horse, slow, yet all stain'd

Ann. Stranger although thou be, thou can'st but With sweat, and panting as if fresh escaped

know

Prince Julian's father is the Regent here,

And rules for his young kinsman, King Alfonso!

From hot pursuit; and how he called for wine
For his poor Theodore, his faithful page;

Then sate him down and shook with the cold fit

To see thee gently wake from gentle sleep! Art thou not better? Shall I raise thee up?

Nay, Julian, raise thy head.

Jul. Ay, dearest. Have I then been ill? I'm weak. Speak to me, dearest Julian.

Jul.

Pray for me

Rouse him not, dear lady! See how his hands are clenched. Waken him not To frenzy. Oh that I alone could bear This weight of misery.

Ann.

He knows the cause,

And I-It is my right, my privilege

To share thy woes, to soothe them. I'll weep with

thee,

And that will be a comfort. Didst thou think
Thou could'st be dearer to me than before
When thou wast well and happy? But thou art
Now. Tell me this secret. I'll be faithful.
I'll never breathe a word. Oh spare my heart
This agony of doubt! What was the horror
That maddened thee?
Jul.

Within the rifted rocks

Of high Albano, rotting in a glen
Dark, dark at very noon, a father li
Murdered by his own son.

Ann.

And thou didst see The deed? An awful sight to one so good! Yet

Jul. Birds obscene, and wolf, and ravening fox, Ere this-only the dark hairs on the ground And the brown crusted blood! And she can ask Why I am mad!

Hear at once, Innocent Torturer, that drop by drop Pour'st molten lead into my wounds—that glen— Hang not upon me!-In that darksome glen My father lies. I am a inurderer,

A parricide, accurst of God and man.

How shall we soothe this grief?
Alf.

Alas! alas!
Why did he rescue me! I'm a poor orphan;
None would have wept for me; I had no friend
In all the world save one. I had been reared
In simpleness; a quiet grave had been
A fitter home for me than the rude world;

A mossy heap, no stone, no epitaph,

Save the brief words of grief and praise (for Grief
Is still a Praiser) he perchance had spoke
When they first told him the poor boy was dead.
Shame on me that I shunned the sword!

By Heaven,

I am calm now. Thou knowest how buoyantly
I darted from thee, straight o'er vale and hill,
Counting the miles by minutes. At the pass
Between the Albano mountains, I first breathed
A moment my hot steed, expecting still
To see the royal escort. A far off

As I stood, shading with my hand my eyes,
I thought I saw them; when at once I heard
From the deep glen, east of the pass, loud cries
Of mortal terror. Even in agony

I knew the voice, and darting through the trees
I saw Alfonso, prostrate on the ground,
Clinging around the knees of one, who held
A dagger over him in act to strike,

Yet with averted head, as if he feared

To see his innocent victim. His own face
Was hidden; till at one spring I plunged my sword
Into his side; then our eyes met, and he

That was the mortal blow!-screamed and stretched
out

His hands. Falling and dying as he was,

He half rose up, hung speechless in the air,
And looked-Oh what had been the bitterest curse
To such a look! It smote me like a sword!
Here, here. He died.

Ann.
Jul.

And thou?

I could have lain
In that dark glen for ever; but there stood
The dear-bought, and the dear, kinsman and prince
And friend. We heard the far-off clang of steeds
And armed men, and, fearing some new foe,
Came homeward.

Jul.
It could not be a crime to save thee! kneel
Before him, Annabel. He is the King.
Ann. Alfonso ?
Alf.
Ay, so please you, fairest Cousin,
But still your servant. Do not hate me, Lady,
Though I have caused this misery. We have shared
One care, one fear, one hope, have watched and wept Remain upon the ground?

Together. Oh how often I have longed,
As we sate silent by his restless couch,
To fall upon thy neck and mix our tears,

And talk of him. I am his own poor cousin.
Thou wilt not hate me?

Ann.
Save that lost one, who
Would hate such innocence?

Jul.
"T was not in hate,
But wild ambition. No ignoble sin
Dwelt in his breast. Ambition, mad ambition,
That was his idol. To that bloody god
He offered up the milk-white sacrifice,
The pure unspotted victim. And even then,
Even in the crime, without a breathing space
For penitence or prayer, my sword-Alfonso,
Thou would'st have gone to Heaven.
Ann.

That he is dead?
Jul.

Ann.

And did he, then, the unhappy,

Alas! he did.

Jul.
Ann. Oh, it was but a swoon! Listen, dear Julian,
I tell thee I have comfort.

Jul.

Ann.

What?

Approached the city. Jul. Alive? Alive? Oh no! no! no! Dead! Dead! Art thou certain The corse, the clay-cold corse!

I saw him fall. The ground Was covered with his blood.

Ann.

Alive, I think;

But Constance

He will sink under this shock

Didst thou-I would not wantonly recall
That scene of anguish-Didst thou search his wound?

Jul. Annabel, in my eyes that scene will dwell
For ever, shutting out all lovely sights,

Even thee, my Beautiful! That torturing thought
Will burn a living fire within my breast
Perpetually; words can nothing add,

And nothing take away. Fear not my frenzy!

Alf.
Of hope.

« Previous Continue »

Books

The Works of Mary Russell Mitford: Prose and Verse, Viz. Our Village ...