have sworn it. After all, There's Ugo says the ring is only paste, For he's sure the Count Castiglione never Would have given a real diamond to such as you; And at the best I'm certain, madam, you cannot Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.
[Exit]
[Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table—after a short pause raises it.]
Lalage
Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this? Thy servant maid!—but courage!—'tis but a viper Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul! [taking up the mirror] Ha! here at least's a friend—too much a friend In earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee. Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst) A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou not Though it be rife with woe. It answers me. It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks, And beauty long deceased—remembers me, Of Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope, Inurned and entombed!—now, in a tone Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible, Whispers of early grave untimely yawning For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not! Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break— Castiglione lied who said he loved—— Thou true—he false!—false!—false!
[While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved.]
Monk
Refuge thou hast, Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things! Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!
Lalage (arising hurriedly)
I cannot pray!—My soul is at war with God! The frightful sounds of merriment below; Disturb my senses—go! I cannot pray— The sweet airs from the garden worry me! Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raiment Fills me with dread—thy ebony crucifix With horror and awe!
Monk
Think of thy precious soul!
Lalage
Think of my early days!—think of my father And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home, And the rivulet that ran before the door! Think of my little sisters!—think of them! And think of me!—think of my trusting love And confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—think Of my unspeakable misery!——begone! Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayer And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith And vows before the throne?
Monk
I did.
Lalage
'Tis well. There is a vow 'twere fitting should be made— A sacred vow, imperative and urgent, A solemn vow!
Monk
Daughter, this zeal is well!
Lalage
Father, this zeal is anything but well! Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? A crucifix whereon to register This sacred vow? [he hands her his own.] Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no [shuddering.] Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man, Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,— I have a crucifix! Methinks 'twere fitting The deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed— And the deed's register should tally, father! [draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.] Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine Is written in heaven!
Monk
Thy words are madness, daughter, And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid— Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine! Pause ere too late!—oh, be not—be not rash! Swear not the oath—oh, swear it not!
Lalage
'Tis sworn!
III
An Apartment in a Palace. POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.
Baldazzar
Arouse thee now, Politian! Thou must not—nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not Give way unto these humors. Be thyself! Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee And live, for now thou diest!
Politian
Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live!
Baldazzar
Politian, it doth grieve me To see thee thus!
Politian
Baldazzar, it doth grieve me To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? At thy behest I will shake off that nature Which from my forefathers I did inherit, Which with my mother's milk I did imbibe, And be no more Politian, but some other. Command me, sir!
Baldazzar
To the field then—to the field— To the senate or the field.
Politian
Alas! alas! There is an imp would follow me even there! There is an imp hath followed me even there! There is—what voice was that?
Baldazzar
I heard it not. I heard not any voice except thine own, And the echo of thine own.
Politian
Then I but dreamed.
Baldazzar
Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp—the court Befit thee—Fame awaits thee—Glory calls— And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear In hearkening to imaginary sounds And phantom voices.
Politian
It is a phantom voice! Didst thou not hear it then?
Baldazzar
I heard it not.
Politian
Thou heardst it not!—Baldazzar, speak no more To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death, Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile We have been boys together—school-fellows— And now are friends—yet shall not be so long— For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me A kind and gentle office, and a Power— A Power august, benignant, and supreme— Shall then absolve thee of all further duties Unto thy friend.
Baldazzar
Thou speakest a fearful riddle I will not understand.
Politian
Yet now as Fate Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low, The sands of Time are changed to golden grains, And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas! I cannot die, having within my heart So keen a relish for the beautiful As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air Is balmier now than it was wont to be— Rich melodies are floating in the winds— A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth— And with a holier lustre the quiet moon Sitteth in Heaven.—Hist! hist! thou canst not say Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?
Baldazzar
Indeed I hear not.
Politian
Not hear it!—listen—now—listen!—the faintest sound And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! A lady's voice!—and sorrow in the tone! Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell! Again!—again!—how solemnly it falls Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice Surely I never heard—yet it were well Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones In earlier days!
