Lee, Harriet. The Mysterious Marriage. Ed. with an Introduction by Barbara Darby. British Women Playwrights around 1800. 15 July 2000.

Act III

Scene 1

[A garden belonging to the Castle. Osmond and the Physician.]

Physician.
NUPTIALS so secret and so sudden, blending festivity as it were with tears, and mirth with mortality! By my faith, Master Osmond, but this is strange! the Lady Constantia was surely well beloved?

Osmond.
By the Count most tenderly, and by the Countess to the very extremity of passion. Even now hast she past the live-long night, surrounded by her maids, in grief and meditation; interrupted only by the prayer which they chanted in unison at each returning hour: till morn drew forth a requiem, whose notes swell'd with a harmony so sober and so sad, that methought it might have charm'd the disembodied spirit, and call'd it back to earth! Oh, never was love more perfect, or more true! Joy was not joy, till it was shared with Constantia; nor did sorrow ever cloud the brow of either till she sickened.

Physician.
And that, as I take it, was some twelvemonth past: yet did the deadliness of her distemper never manifest itself till within the last twelve hours; and then with a suddenness!—Hinted you to the Count what we talked of, as to the manner of her death?

Osmond.
I did, Sir.

Physician.
And how received he it?

Osmond.
At first somewhat moodily—yet with a certain strangeness that led me to bolder speech: till, on the mention of poison, he started from his seat with a petrifying frown, chid my presumption, that dar'd rashly question the decrees of heaven—enjoined my silence—and so dismissed me.

Physician.
Even so!

Osmond.
With no further shew of zeal.

Physician.
Alas! that affection should prove a still frailer flower than morality. Yet this passes not so.—Osmond, I do once more repeat to thee, I like not the hastiness of her death. The Lord Albert stands high in the calendar of courtiers, but not of saints; and my mind hath misgivings more than my tongue dare utter. Should the workings of my fancy bear further test, thou shalt know more; in the interim, counsel with they discretion, and obey the mandate of thy lord. Thou art moved.

Osmond.
Truly, Sir, both with amazement and sorrow. There was no heart so mean that it felt not the virtues of the Lady Constantia; nor any, I trow, so base that it would not avenge the innocent.

Physician.
Aye, Osmond, there is the test that lifts the poor man to the prince—the servant to his lord; that alone equalizes ranks, and raises up the weak to befriend that cause which the mighty abandon.—Past not the Lord Sigismond thro' yon trees?

Osmond.
Rather the semblance of the Lord Sigismond—a body without a soul:—a creature so lost, that, seeing him, we might well weep over the wreck of a man; and marvel that the vehemence of one passion should so o'er-master the boasted omnipotence of reason.

Physician.
There are no hearts more true than those that are touch'd with this noble energy: nor any remedy so prompt for our own sufferings, as that of righting the cause of others. Sigismond is discreet and valiant—I will unbosom myself to him.—I have yet some portion of the drugs—I will analyze them.—Theresa must again be questioned.—All shall be examined; and where the black speck is, there must we apply the caustic.—But soft; the Count!—He seems disturb'd too—

Osmond.
I cannot marvel, Sir—Our new-made bridegroom, with love that somewhat oversteps the bounds of plighted honour, sets his loyalty and speed aside; delays his purposed parting till morrow's dawn; and with a certain zeal that clothes a harsh command in gentle phrase, wooes his fair bride with him to court—while she—

Physician.
'Twere best pass on!

Osmond.
Have with you!

Physician.
Towards the castle! [Exeunt.]

[Count Roselva enters, followed by Rodolphus.]

Count Roselva.
I'm sick—at rest—I'll not be further mov'd—
So tell him, good Rodolphus! He doth wrong
The nobleness of his word, to press a suit,
Which in my very heat and zeal of friendship
I did deny to him. My daughter's his,
Fast as the sacred pow'r of oaths can bind her.
For her seclusion and her sequent journey
She had my licence; aye, and his I trow,
Ev'n when he had no privilege to make
The law by which he bound her!
—You've my answer—
Where stays he, Sir?

Rodolphus.
I' the castle, good my Lord;
Where he hath vainly sought you.

Count Roselva.
I would have him
Still seek me vainly! We've conferr'd already;
And I do feel a hasty spleen within,
That bids me shun his presence.—If it suit
With what imports the business of the state,
That he make longer sojourn—all my means
Are at his beck—while gallant preparation
Shall wait him to the court. And for my daughter,
The treasures of her love, and of her fortune,
Will both be his—till then, my word is sacred!
I will not urge her further—So report it. [Exit Rodolphus.]
Osmond!

Osmond [entering].
My Lord!

Count Roselva [to himself].
The heav'ns, methinks, do lour!
And guilt, that still engenders superstition,
Doth whisper that they frown on this day's deed!
—The time is changed, good Osmond!

Osmond.
To a wonder!
The moon, so lately ris'n, is loft.—The air,
Heavy and thick, is sunk to sudden stillness:
While the streaked bosom of yon nitrous clouds
Portends intestine war—[Distant chorus].
"Peace—
"Peace to the lovely and the good!"

Count Roselva.
What music's that?

Osmond.
The villagers, my Lord, still chanting requiems
O'er fair Constantia's grave. A rustic tribute,
With which they meant to wake the silent night,
And hang on beauty's shrine with simple garland,
More wet with tears than dew; the brooding storm
I fear doth mock their humble gratitude,
And urge them homeward! Hark, my Lord, the thunder,
Ev'n now in hoarse and fearful mutterings,
Warns you to shelter! 'Tis but two months past
The rifted bolt did cleave yon solid oak,
And plough the land around.

Count Roselva [to himself].
Why should I shake?—
She's dead—the ravenous grave hath swallow'd her;
Yet all's not well here; and th'offended heav'ns
Do of our granted wishes make a scourge,
To lash us into torture.—She died fairly!
But where's the voucher? A wrong'd heritage!
A nameless orphan suddenly cut off,
Ev'n at the moment—fye!—there's that i' the face on't
Would blast an angel's witness.—Well, we'll in;
There is more war than in the elements;
But where's the shelter? Would she lived again. [Exit abruptly.]

Osmond [solus].
He's deeply mov'd—nor can I wonder at it.
The potent duty that did bind my lady
To yield her hand, had yet no pow'r to quell
Her heart's wild swells:—tears—tremor—and depression,
Ev'n in the presence of the sacred altar,
Chased the bright flush of youth from off her cheek,
And stained the nuptial wreathes!
Good night, Rodolphus!

Rodolphus.
Good night—good night—No time for ceremony!
The storm is at our heels. Hot sulph'rous drops
Dry as they fall upon the earth's parch'd bosom,
Or else conglobe to dust! My Lord's retired!
I've borne the message of your testy Count;
The Countess mocks his suit too.—For mine own part
Having no love thoughts to disturb my slumbers,
My truckle bed is welcome.

[Chorus at a distance].
"Peace!"

Rodolphus.
List, I pray you!

Chorus. "Peace to the lovely and the good!"

Rodolphus.
'Tis heav'nly music, sure!

Osmond.
Alas! mere mortal,
Wailing mortality!

Semi-chorus.
"Rash humanity forbear!
"Heave not a sigh, nor drop a tear!
"When tumultuous feelings rove,
"Warm with hope, with youth, and love;
"When contending passions fly,
"To bend and languish in the eye;
"When the throbbing blood bids start
"Thousand pulses from the heart;
"When the trembling senses seek
"A crimson harbour in the cheek;
"Then is the time to drop the tear:
"Now rash humanity forbear!"

Chorus.
"Peace to the lovely and the good!"

Semi-chorus.
"Pain and sorrow now are o'er:
"The eye that wept shall weep no more.
"No more the anxious heart shall sigh,
"Whelm'd in doubtful extasy.
"Lo, where in their little cell,
"Unwak'd the tranquil senses dwell;
"Steep'd no more in sorrow's flood!
"Peace to the lovely and the good!"

[The chorus dies insensibly away, and the villagers are seen passing through the trees, strewing flowers.—Low thunder.]

[SCENE—The Countess's chamber;—a bed—Lights burning on the table.—The Countess and Theresa.]

Countess.
Thou'rt spent with watching, girl—get thee to bed.

Theresa.
Sooth I'm not weary, Madam!

Countess.
Kind Theresa!
Who thus would'st strain the offices of duty,
Till nature faint. What wonder that thine eyes
Should claim their wonted dues, when mine, ev'n mine,
With tears half glaz'd, with anxious thoughts kept waking,
Feeble and dim scarce lift the heavy lid!

Theresa.
Permit me, Madam, watch you!

Countess.
That were cruel!
Thou'rt human, good Theresa, and dost want
Humanity's soft balm. Why dost thou tarry?
Fear'st thou the storm? Methinks th'enkindled flame,
If to the guilty it doth speak a pow'r
That in reproving shakes them,—yet in breasts,
Whose natural whiteness bears no stain of guilt,
Tho' fill'd with contrite sense of human error,
Should gender nothing, save the holy awe
That sanctifies the bosom. Courage, girl!

Theresa.
Madam, I fear it not.

Countess.
Yet somewhat fear'st thou!

Theresa.
You, and you only.

Countess.
Me! alas, vain greatness!
Hast thou then witchery enough to deck
A puny mortal like myself in terrors?
Speak thine offence!

Theresa.
Behold it, madam! [Pointing to Sigismond, who enters.]

Countess [starting].
How!—
Was this well done, my Lord?

Sigismond.
Was it well done
To bar me from thy presence?—to cut off
Ev'n the faint memory of the hours that were,
And doom me to oblivion? Oh thou false one!
Why didst thou smile to lure me to destruction?
Why did thine eyes blend their sparkling beams
With these fond orbs; and bid my throbbing heart
Burn with a hope so ardent and so fierce,
That life itself, heav'n's own celestial flame,
Grew pale and dim before it?

Countess [tenderly].
Sigismond!

Sigismond.
No sigh—no tear, I charge thee, lest they blast me!
Lest my responsive heart forget its wrongs,
And fondly yield thee its accustom'd echo.
I come to close my great account of anguish!
To banish in one parting—deep-drawn sigh,
All the vast agonies of hopeless passion:
To bid thee live—to joy—to love—to fortune!

Countess.
I pr'ythee spare me, gentle Sigismond!
If thou would'st have my heart forbear to break,
If thou would'st have my tott'ring reason keep
Her throne secure, breathe no kind wish upon me!
Joy—fortune—love—Oh, they were wand'ring vapours,
My tears long since have quench'd!

Sigismond.
Thy tears—Oh heav'n!
Where is the pang should wring from thee those drops?
Hast thou e'er known the gloom of secret anguish,
Or the wild transport of a dawning joy?
Wakes not the boundless universe for thee?
Thee happy Albert leads to grace a court!
Thee, happier still, shall woo in rural shades!
While smiling fortune, and indulgent heaven,
Shall ratify the bliss!—the world is thine!
I had no world but love—no heav'n but hope!
Why didst thou steal upon the treasured store,
And rob the wretched miser while he dreamt
Of years of extasy?

Countess.
Away, forget me!
I would, alas, forget myself!—forget
All worldly hopes—all joys—all fleeting pleasures.
Why com'st thou then like some bright vision by me,
Startling my slumb'ring sense with transient gleams
Of unknown happiness?—the few short hours
Since last we met, a point to happy mortals,
Have been my round of life!

Sigismond.
Dost thou then mourn them?

Countess.
I mourn them not—they were the mark'd of fate;
And filial duty and applauding conscience
Shall bear them white to heav'n:—yet still for thee—

Sigismond [approaching].
For me thy tears! Oh, give the precious balm!
And let me lay it to my burning heart!

Countess.
Away—

Sigismond.
Born to subdue each stormy passion,
Still thou prevail'st—and yet methinks the words
Should be more kind that bid us part for ever!
Some token too—some pledge—

Countess [taking a chain and ornament from her neck].
How much I owe thee,
Honour and inborn gratitude attest!
Thou wert my guardian angel—my preserver!
Oh, that my pray'rs could make this sad memorial
A precious amulet!—that it might shield thee,
Ev'n as a sacred charm, 'mid wars and dangers!
It was Constantia's—wear it at thy heart!
And sometimes, as thou sadly dost peruse it,
Recall the memory of the friends that lov'd thee,
And gem it with a tear!—[Gives it him]

Sigismond.
My senses fail me!
This, said you—this?

Countess.
The wonder!

Sigismond [wild and fearful].
They are the same—[Comparing it with another from his own bosom.]
The form—th' impress—the chain;
The cypher only differing.—Do not mock me!
The Turk that tore me from my native land,
Oft, in my playful hours of childish fondness,
To this sad relic drew the unconscious tear;
And bade me, should my fortunes e'er encounter
Its likeness in some wand'ring fair one's bosom,
Beware a sister there!

Countess [with transport].
All-righteous heav'n,
There is joy yet!—the heirship is restored!
Smile—smile again, Roselva!—ye wide plains
Whose princely wealth my thankless heart so oft
Hath inly mourn'd, put forth your richest treasures!
Rise, ye proud turrets, with unwonted lustre,
And grace your rightful lord!—To heav'n and him,
I bend my knee!

Sigismond [raising her].
What means this wild emotion?

Countess [with sudden recollection].
My father—ruined—lost—betray'd—by me—
Oh my sick heart! [clap of thunder.]

Sigismond.
The fierce and rending tempest
Doth shake thy constancy!

Countess.
Ah no!—the storm
Is here, my Sigismond, to which I bend!—
That fortune yet reserves for thee her treasures,
I do intreat thy credence.

Sigismond.
Thou art faint!

Countess.
Joy hath its agonies! Get—get thee hence!
Of the strange mystery that veils thy fate—
We meet again—[with embarrassment.]

Sigismond.
Oh never!

Countess.
Trust me yes!

Sigismond.
Trust thee, thou dear one!—Oh those heavy eyes!
In sickness and in sorrow lovely still!
May some pure angel, like thyself, be near,
And guard thy slumbers. [Kisses her hand, and exit.]

Countess.
Hear the pray'r, Constantia!
And if enfranchis'd spirits walk on earth,
Let thy fair semblance hover round my bed!
Shield from blasting storm—the midnight ruffian,
And from the realms of sanctitude and peace
Breathe o'er my senses some celestial dream,
May soothe this mortal coil!—Methinks ev'n now
They're rapt in sweet foretaste—heavy—most heavy! [She sleeps.]

[The Scene changes to the arched gallery as before, lighted by a lamp from the roof. Albert enters through his chamber-door, speaking to Rodolphus, whose pallet is visible from the lights within.—Thunder at intervals, with vivid flashes of lightning seen through the casements.]

Albert.
See that the tapers burn—and then to bed.
Are the heavens angry, that they chide us thus?
An 'twere their will to visit sinful heads,
I well might fear now!—Yet the forked flash
Past innocent—and feeble-minded man
Betrays himself.—It is the hour of rest!
And all the mingled sounds that swell'd so late
Thro' the low vaults and hollows of the castle,
Are sunk to stillness.
Thought's fantastic brood
Alone is waking:—present—past, and future,
Wild, mis-shaped hopes, and horrible rememb'rings,
Now rise a hideous and half viewless chaos
To fancy's vision—till the stout heart freeze
At its own retrospect.—Mem'ry, stop there!
Not a jot further!—Rather, thou bright sun,
Thou dazzling future, rise with godlike splendour,
And gild the vast horizon of ambition.
Say it be clouded by a woman's will!
Yet is she woman—therefore to be lured;
A young one—therefore to be bribed by gauds:
And I will tempt her with such golden glories
As her weak sex would grasp at, tho' perdition
Gaped in the gulf between!—This is her chamber!
Perchance she sleeps unguarded—at the worst,
A lover's passion, and a husband's right,
Shall justify th' intrusion!—Who dare bar me?
[The Ghost of Constantia, shrouded in the lightest white drapery, appears before the door, passing the pallet of Rodolphus, who sleeps sweetly.]
Ha! have my senses conjured up a phantom?
Speak, vision, if thou canst! [advancing.]
[She gazes intently, and motions him from her.]
Oh horrible! [He leans against a pillar.]
[Vivid lightning—the Ghost glides into the chamber of the Countess.]
Albert [after a pause]. I am a coward—and my fears have shaped
The thing that is not.—Yet I saw it plain—
Most manifest to view.
Nor, tho' the heav'ns had shower'd down sheets of fire,
Could it have so appall'd me.—What, Rodolphus!
Rodolphus, I say—So, Sir you sleep sound!

Rodolphus [starting up].
Aye, truly, do I my Lord—Sound sleep is the patrimony of honest poverty. My family had the trick on't, and 'twas all my father had to bequeath me. [Thunder.]

Albert [starting wildly].
Soft, Sirs!

Rodolphus
My Lord!

Albert [to himself].
I've faced the deadly cannon
While its dread roaring hath mowed ranks before it:
Have danced unshrinking on the curling billows
When they have dash'd the clouds, and death beneath
Hath worn its grimmest form; and start I now?
Ev'n at the shrouded and the bloodless semblance
That fancy had embodied!

Rodolphus [with great surprize].
He's entranced!
Good—good my Lord.

Albert.
Who's there?

Rodolphus
Heav'n and his saints have mercy on us! How wildly your Lordship looks—Do you see aught, Sir?—These dismal old arches put one in mind of nothing but murders and apparitions.

Albert.
Peace, coward!

Rodolphus.
Beseech you then go in, my Lord: I have some curious relics to guard us, and—hark!—No—it was only the whistling of the wind—And yet methought it was very like a groan.—[observing the perturbation of Albert] By my troth, my Lord, you're pale—i'faith you are so.

Albert [striking him].
Lying fool, begone!

Rodolphus.
Nay, no liar, I swear—nor so much of a fool as not to know that if rank has its privileges, age and fidelity are not without theirs. I humbly wish your Lordship a good night. And when you have a follower more faithful than myself, may heaven and you reward him as he deserves!

Albert.
Stay, sirrah! Mastered every way—come—come—there's gold for thee!

Rodolphus [rejecting it].
Ah my Lord, my Lord, thus does your grandee ever think he can purchase by wealth what he hath lost by discourtesy.—But keep your gold, Sir!—I have somewhat here that tells me I was not born a slave, but a man—A poor one I must own; yet still a man: with feelings that will not be commanded, and opinions that are not to be bought.

Albert.
Thou'rt born a babbling knave, Sir! quit my sight,
Now, and for ever!—Chased by slaves and ideots!
Begone, Sir!
[Thunder. Albert looking after Rodolphus who slowly retires.]
He may brave the thunder storm;
Darkness and midnight bring to him no spectres:
Honest and humble.—Would I were so too!

Rodolphus [still lingering].
Has your Lordship then no further duty to enjoin me?

Albert [in a subdued tone].
None—none—begone, I tell thee!

Rodolphus.
An yet, if it were not too bold, I would fain kiss your Lordship's hand before I quit your service—and—and—By the mass it is cold as death!—Ah, my dear Lord [falling on his knees]—My sweet Lord—My honoured Lord—tell your griefs to your poor servant!—If he be but your servant, yet hath he a heart that would break to relieve yours—and tho' this be the hand the struck me, yet many and many's the time it hath twisted its fingers in my grey locks, while, with childish fondness, you swore ever to love your poor Rodolphus.

Albert.
Thou wilt unman me! Oh, tyrannic guilt,
That dost disclaim all balm of confidence,
And leave the lacerated heart to groan
In solitary anguish!—Happy he
Who sinking on the bosom of a friend
Inhales the honied breath of sympathy,
And yields to short oblivion. [Falls on the neck of Rodolphus.]

Rodolphus.
A murrain o'these half sentences! What signifies a man's telling himself his own griefs!

Albert.
Come—come—all's well again!—'twas but a chill.
Tell me, Rodolphus—the—the fair Constantia—
Art sure she's dead?

Rodolphus.
And buried too—You may well think of her, my Lord; she was a sweet creature; and loved you so truly—I dreamt of her ev'n now—Methought she stood as it 'twere there, and smiled upon me with the same rosy and kind air she was wont to have when I first followed your Lordship to the castle. Troth, her first night's lodging i'the ground is but comfortless. Well, all's one for that—the same storm beats on the grave of the prince and the peasant; and both, perhaps, sleep sweeter than he who lives to mourn them!

Albert.
Wounded by random shafts—Most subtle torture!
Well, well, enough of this.

Rodolphus.
And yet not all either, my Lord, if we could come at the truth—there's a strange muttering i'the castle, as tho' she had not been dealt fairly with—I shall know more anon!

Albert.
Rather know less, Sir!
Curb this intemperate and boorish zeal
That—hark—a noise—Startled again by shadows!

Rodolphus.
Shadow call you it! by my troth then it is the shadow of a drum; and, to my thinking, the voice of the Count.
[Alarm, and shouts without.]
The infidels—the Turks—arm, arm!

Albert.
What should this mean?

Count Roselva [entering].
Havock and desolation!
Ev'n now a savage and a fierce banditti,
Led by the Othman pow'r, invades our lands,
And drives our slaves before it!

Albert. Oh, most welcome!
Welcome thou stern and bloody front of war,
Whose very voice doth wake my lagging spirits,
And brace my unstrung sinews—trebly welcome!

Count Roselva.
Call forth our vassals—let the bridge be look'd to—
Unbar the armoury, and chuse—Oh, Sigismond!

Sigismond [entering].
My noble friend!

Count Roselva.
Thou has a valiant sword!

Sigismond.
And I, be sure, will use it valiantly!
And see, th'inspiring angel comes to greet us.
[The Countess enters from her chamber.]
A thousand flushing terrors in her cheek,
All guardian spirits—sent to summon up
More than the strength of hosts in each beholder.

Albert [interposing roughly].
Oh unmatch'd insolence! Should I bear this,
I were indeed a tame, convenient husband.

Count Roselva.
Heav'n shield my child—these frantic fits, Lord Albert—

Sigismond.
Nay, give the madman scope!—didst thou say husband?
As soon shall soul and deep engrained guilt
Lay claim to heav'n, as thou to her:—a husband!
Oh Albert, I could name to thee a crime,
So deep, so dire, the fiends themselves might start,
And wonder at its blackness! Such a crime
As strikes thee from humanity's fair record,
And cancels every tie.—Let it suffice,
I do attaint thee as a murderer!
And when our swords have thinned yon Turkish host,
And thou return'st, flush'd with familiar conquest,
Ev'n in thy lustyhood and prime of daring,
Will prove it on thy bosom! Should I wrong thee,
May the great God of battles blunt my steel,
And seal a bloody pardon.

Albert.
Rather now
Let fate decide between us! Vagrant boaster!
Think'st thou I'd enter in the listed field,
As knight to knight, with one my name might conquer?
Know as a foe I scorn thee! As an insect,
Whose buzzing noise and sting offends my sense,
I crush thee thus—[Draws; the Count interposes.]

Osmond [entering].
My Lord, the foe advances!
Ev'n now the blaze of distant cottages
Gains on the view.

Count Roselva.
Good Osmond, lead our vassals
Forth by the nearer portal—[To Albert and Sigismond]
Have you hearts?
Myself will head them.—Have you hearts, I say?
Or are they cold, even as the steel ye bear?

Sigismond.
I do confess me guilty!

Albert.
So do I—
Our difference rest awhile upon our swords.—
Rodolphus—.

Rodolphus.
My good Lord! [they confer.]

Count Roselva.
All-seeing heav'n,
If this hour of painful retribution,
Some drop of mercy yet remains to mingle
In the deep draught of sorrow, save my child!
Upon this guilty and time-silver'd head
Discharge the bolt! Oh, blast the wither'd trunk,
But spare the blooming scion. Faithful Osmond,
Thy looks bespeak impatience: we will forth!
Forth! to that strife whence some of us, perhaps,
Will ne'er return! And, oh, my noble guests,
Rivals no more, but brothers of war,
Give me your hands! And if indeed ye cherish
Aught of that gallant passion that doth lead
To guard the helpless, and avenge the injured,
Now let the flame blaze high! A last embrace! [to his daughter.]
Perhaps indeed a last one!—I am lost
In fearful recollection!—Strike the drum!
And let the burning spirit of the war
Exhale these watry vapours—Strike, I saw!
[Alarm—Exeunt separately.—Long and distant drums.]

[SCENE changes to the chapel of the Castle—a perspective view of the altar—On one side a tomb, as lately opened, hung with garlands of flowers.—The Countess enters, followed by Osmond.]

Countess.
Dreary and desolate! The peopled castle,
That late resounded with the hum of men,
Now rings harsh echoes to a single step.
Methinks the pendant banners, as I pass,
Fearful records of many a bloody field,
Wave colder blasts upon me; while the spear
And target, spoils of honourable valour,
Clang self-impelled with horrid dissonance:
The sighing winds come laden with lament,
And nothing reigns but war and devastation!

Osmond.
Beseech you, Madam, hence!—Unwholesome dews
Still hang upon the bosom of the morn,
And taint the breeze.

Countess.
Oh Osmond, night's dank dews,
Or burning noon, alike unheeded, strike
On her whose sense concentred to her heart,
Lives only there! Nay, pr'ythee tell me, Osmond,
In the vast regions of created space,
Is there one spot like this, where I could shelter?
Here the rude clangor of the distant field
Strikes feebly on my senses. Heav'n and friendship
With more than mortal influence guard the ground.
Here lie the sacred treasures of remembrance!
They fade not with yon garlands—Lost Constantia!
Devoted—murdered—Hold, my bleeding heart!
Nor burst beneath the strange, the black idea.

Osmond.
Have comfort, Madam!

Countess.
Still my burning blood,
Bid my tumultuous pulse subside to calmness;
Curb the wild swells that, mounting from my heart,
Threaten my brain! Oh, Osmond, there are crimes
Which, in a mind unversed, and new to horror,
Awake a sense so strange and turbulent,
That reason faints before it.—Ha, what noise!

Uberto [entering hastily].
A messenger, an please you, from my Lord,
Craves audience.

Countess.
Oh, admit him on the instant!
Fool that thou wert to dally—Well, thy tidings? [to the Messenger who enters.]

Messanger.
Most luckless—Prest by the surrounding foe,
My Lord craves instant succour!

Countess.
Heav'n and earth!
Surrounded, say'st thou? Oh, he's lost; he's lost!
Haste, Osmond! Speed thy followers to my father!
Danger and death are on him.

Osmond.
Gentle Lady—

Countess.
Nay, speak not—look not as thou mean'st to dally.
While we, cool sceptics, calculate the danger,
He perishes.

Osmond.
Where doth the combat press thus?

Messenger.
Ev'n in the hollow of the left hand vale,
Where the broad umbrage gains upon the road,
The ambush'd foe rush'd on us.

Osmond.
Noble Madam,
Think of your danger, if, alone and guardless,
I violate the mandate of my Lord,
And leave—

Countess.
Oh, Osmond, there's a mandate writ in heav'n,
That bids me brave all dangers for a father!
I do command thee hence!

Osmond.
Unwillingly
I must obey.—Our last, most faithful band,
Attend me on the walls—and yet—Uberto,
Speed to their chief! Declare the Countess' will,
Back'd by my pow'r; and urge their quickest aid
To save their Lord!—I follow in due season.

Countess [to Uberto].
Fly, I conjure thee!

Uberto.
This way brings us nearest! [Exit with the Messenger—Osmond, unobserved, retires another way through the chapel.]

Countess [looking after them].
Faithful and active! See—alive to danger,
Their fellows haste to greet them. Valiant friends!
Chieftains draw brighter swords; but yours are temper'd
By heav'n's own spirits—truth and loyalty!
Oh, that your steps were wing'd!—At length they're gone,
And my sick heart may live again to hope!
Methinks the renovating balm already
Warms and expands its pow'rs! Essence of life!
Too fine and volatile to be retained!
Spent, while inhaled; and yet so sweetly poignant,
That sense revives upon it! [Turning, she encounters Albert.]
Heaven and earth!
Lord Albert here.

Albert.
Trust me, a sword like Albert's
Had never left the cause till fate had fix'd it!

Countess [faintly].
All's lost—all's gone!—My father—Sigismond!

Albert.
I dare not answer.—Thro' the postern gate
A path yet opens to us free from foes;
Lost in the spoil and plunder of the castle,
They will not heed our flight.—Nay shrink not thus;
There is no other hope.

Countess.
Oh then there's none!

Albert.
Nay, trust me, but there is; and safety too.
My train already hath prepar'd the means
May convoy us—

Countess.
Oh misery!

Albert.
Hark—the spoilers
Ev'n now perchance approach!—Say, darest thou brave them?
Shall this fair form, the prey of ruffian pow'r,
Grace the lewd haram? 'Tis no time for parley!
Thus with a tender violence—

Countess.
Stand off!
There's blood upon thee!

Albert.
Blood!

Countess.
Aye, guiltless blood!
Bethink you, Sir—'tis holy ground we tread on!
And the dread hand of heav'n ev'n now, perhaps,
Is stretch'd in vengeance o'er us! Slept you well?
Did no ill dreams molest—no thunders shake you?
Methinks the warring elements last night
Might from their graves have rous'd the sheeted dead,
And bade them haunt the guilty!—You are pale!
Oh, the dire vigils of a wounded conscience!
I shrink even at the thought on't!

Albert.
Lovely trembler!
Excess of terror hath o'erwhelm'd thy reason.
Recall thy scatter'd powers! Think that thy husband,
Spared from the rage of war, still lives to guard thee.
Ev'n thus, all helpless, hopeless as thou stand'st,
The native rose thus blanch'd upon thy cheek,
And those bright orbs obscured with filial anguish,
Think there's a heart that bats but to protect thee;
That fondly swears—

Countess.
And innocently too!
Oh, Albert, search thy memory! Bid it trace
The black mysterious records of the past.
Question thy heart, if in yon tomb's cold bosom
No form lies hid to whom those vows were due:
No ear lies closed to which that voice was music;
Then shrink into thyself, as I shrink from thee,
With nameless horror—and determined will.

Albert.
Living, at least, thou vainly wouldst appall me!
Nor, though the grave again should render up
Its grizzly phantoms—tho' the first-cleft skies
Bid the blue meteors blaze again around,
And make a hell of earth—shall my firm soul
Shrink from her aim. I'm feared to recollection!
I would have sooth'd thy pride—have woo'd thy passions,
And with a baby tale of love and war,
Have won thee to my purpose—That once foil'd,
Thus I enforce obedience!

Countess.
Help, Oh help there!

Albert.
Thy cries are in vain—No hostile band attends
To bar my will.—Their credulous valor finds
Ample employ! I were indeed an ideot
Idly to stake upon a rapier's point,
A woman's courtesy, or greybeard's will,
That prize for which my daring soul has plunged
Ev'n to the depth of horrors.—Come—be kind,
Think of a court!

Countess [pointing to the tomb].
A grave!

Albert.
Of love!

Countess.
Of murder!
Oh, monstrous sex! Have you not smiles to kill with?
Words that can stab? Deceitful sighs can wither?
But blood must crown the mischief!—Hence for ever!
Fly as thou may'st! for me, tho' thou couldst offer
Unnumber'd worlds, and every world a paradise,
I would not share them with thee!

Albert.
Sayst thou so?
Nay then 'tis past thy choice. Assist me, slaves! [to his attendants, who seize her.]

Osmond [interposing].
Nay, good my Lord—

Albert.
Insolent vassal, hence!

Osmond.
Bethink you, Sir—Nay this then to thy heart! [As Albert attempts to cut him down with his sabre, he draws a dagger and stabs him.]
One faithful guard may do the work of thousands. [She faints.]

Albert [staggering].
It was well aimed—and bloodily enforces
Thy most pernicious precept.—Bind him fast! [to his attendants, who seize Osmond.]
I have strength yet! [Shout and drums at a distance.]
Victory—Victory!

Albert.
It withers at that sound!
And all the vital pow'rs, of late so firm,
Seem snapt at once! [He falls.]
Life—fleeting—treacherous life,
Ebb'st thou so quickly! What remains? Oh thou
Who first hast plung'd into the world of spirits,
And tried the dark unknown—do thou expound it!
Tho' shrouded, rise! Ere from my burning blood
The strange mysterious consciousness exhale,
That makes me dust or—Fiends, stand off—[to Rudolphus, who enters hastily, and with other attendants offers to raise him.]
I live yet—
Damnation's for hereafter! Hark the foe! [Trumpet.]
Oh, how the sprightly note invigorates nature!
This tent is cold—My cloak there!
—To the sunshine!
Cold—cold and damp—Constantia thou'rt aveng'd! [He dies.]

Distant chorus of Peasants, & c.
"Triumphant see the warriors come!
"Strike the cymbal, strike the drum.
"Bid the festive notes agree
"To raise the song of victory.
"Victory—Victory! [Shout.]
"Raise, raise the song of victory!"

[A sprightly march, during which Turkish prisoners, and groups of soldiers enter, bearing banners.]

Sigismond [seeing the Countess].
Silence your drums—the flow'r o' the war is blighted,
And victory's a name!

[The Countess recovers as the Count is led in wounded.]

Countess.
Alas, my father!

Count Roselva.
Wounded ev'n to the death! Lord Albert too!
Hath then the sword of war so quickly sever'd
The ill'starr'd knot?

Osmond.
Not so, my Lord—his fate—

Count Roselva.
Thy face is prologue, Osmond, to some tale,
Which my numb'd senses shrink from; tell it there. [pointing to the Countess.]
My dream of life is o'er—a troublous vision.
And of its mighty host of vast affections
One only lives.—My child—Nay spare this weakness.
Something I had—Bear hence the prisoners!
I yet would live to bless thee.

Prisoner.
Who is he,
That with a master voice thus dares to rule,
Lord of these wide domains?

Sigismond.
Old man, begone!

Prisoner.
Indeed! hast thou forgot me? Did the Pole
That tore thee from me—from thy memory
Blot out my name and features? Thou wert mine,
Ere yet thine ear had hail'd another tie!
How is't I find thee on thy natal lands,
A vassal, where thou should'st command? Be proud!
And bid the minions whom thou seest around,
Kneel to Roselva!

Count Roselva.
Gracious God—what say'st thou?

Prisoner.
I know thee not—yet sure thy aged head
May call to memory the blood-stained night,
When our fierce troops, like grim and angry wolves,
Assailed this castle. From the spoil I bore
Its infant heir. I was the chance of war;
And the same chance restores him! [pointing to Sigismond.—The Count sinks.]

Countess.
Ha, he swoons!

Count Roselva.
Th'avenging arm is o'er me! Oh my daughter,
I feel a strange and anxious flutt'ring here,
That bids me trust his words—thou know'st the tale.
Be generous [to Sigismond].—Be just [to the Countess]—
And may the pow'rs
Seal with my blood a long and blessed union,
Firm as your virtues—tender as your love! [Joins their hands.]
Mysterious providence! ev'n on the spot,
Where sweetly sleeps the victim of my crimes,
Thy justice wakes to fearful retribution!
Oh, for a sleep like hers! Life fades apace!
No tears—no signs [to them] Young, lovely, innocent;
May parting nature find no crime to expiate!
But bear you pure to heav'n! Mine was the guilt;
And be it buried with me!
—One short pray'r!
[He appears to pray inwardly; then sinks into their arms, and expires.]

Semi-Chorus of Peasants and Soldiers.
"The banner drop—invert the spear,
"Grace the fallen warrior's bier;
"His palm is gain'd—His race is run:
"Lo, victory and death are one!
[Full chorus.]
"Yet raise the song to victory!"

[They group their banners, and incline them over the body of the Count as the curtain falls.]

THE END.