Classic Poem

Another Apartment in the same.

MATILDA sola .

His heart is spell-bound. This pale girl has woven
Her fascinations round it, till it beats
For her, and her alone. Her hand shall moulder
In the cold grave ere it shall wed with Julio's.
Shall the last scion of that stately tree,
Whose top-branch dallied with the winds which ne'er
Blew on the world below, bow its proud head
To the base dust beneath it? Shall disdain
Point its lean finger at Savona's sons?
Sons who will blush to hear their grandsire named,
And when they weep upon their mother's grave,
Weep less for grief than shame? Perish the thought!
Assist me, woman's ready wit, to tell
My fabricated tale so speciously,
That the fond boy shall shudder at the vision
My potent art shall raise. But he approaches.

Enter J ULIO .

Well met at length, sir. You have led my feet
A weary round in search of you — at last
To find you thus: — Savona's heir thus wasting,
In the inglorious lap of dalliance,
His youth's best hours, forgetful of the fame
Achieved by his forefathers.
Jul. Wherefore, mother,
Lure my unwilling steps to fame's proud temple?
Ambition's prize, when gain'd, is but a shadow.
The sorrows and the sufferings of the world,
Its pleasures, and its business, and its cares,
One wild chaotic tempest raise, in which
Man's but a leaf, a fragile leaf, the sport
Of every blast, and fame a feeble voice,
Heard only 'midst the pauses of the storm,
And silenced soon for ever.
Mat. Vain, weak boy!
Thou too hast learn'd the puling sophistry
Of these degenerate times. Against ambition
Thou too must rail, and her high-minded votaries
Affect to scorn. Because thy feeble eyes,
When they would gaze upon the glorious sun,
Mark nought but darkling motes, deem'st thou the eagle
With stedfast ken undazzled views not there
Unutterable glories? But I come not
To play the casuist with thee now. I come
To warn thee from a hideous precipice;
To tell thee that each step thou tak'st is desperate,
Each breath thou draw'st pollution — but my words
Are wasted on a listless ear. Perchance
Thou know'st me not.
Jul. I know thee for the being
Whom most I love and honour — the dear fountain
Whence flows the blood that fills these veins — the guide
And guardian of my infancy. I know, too,
Thou art the arbitress of my destiny,
With power to make the title which I hold
An empty honour, reft of the domains
Enjoy'd by my forefathers.
Mat. Know you that?
Know too that those domains shall ne'er descend
Upon a beggar's offspring. Yes, the blood
Whence thou art sprung thou may'st be justly proud of
But better were it moistening the dull earth,
Than feeding in thy veins an odious passion
For a base churl's descendant — for a thing,
Vile as the dust we tread on — one, who rear'd
And nurtured by the bounty of our house,
Would, like a poisonous plant, pollute the stream,
On whose fair banks 'twas nourish'd.
Jul. Pardon, madam,
The fiery blood I owe you; but I must not
Listen to these wild charges. Poor Elvira
Deserves not your reproaches, nor did she
Spring from a sire less honest, though less noble
Than Julio de Savona's.
Mat. Thou may'st say
As noble too, and err not.
Jul. Nay, this irony
(Pardon me) is ill placed. Old Gaspard's virtues
Were numerous, and, when with virtue join'd,
Old age is honourable. The spirit seems
Already on its flight to brighter worlds;
And that strange change which men miscall decay
Is renovated life. The feeble voice
With which the soul attempts to speak its meanings,
Is, like the skylark's note, heard faintest when
Its wing soars highest; and those hoary signs,
Those white and reverend locks, which move the scorn
Of thoughtless ribalds, seem to me like snow
Upon an Alpine summit, only proving
How near it is to heaven. Thus felt my father,
And richly with his benefits endow'd
The old man till the grave closed over him;
Nor rested there, but to his daughter show'd
A parent's care, and even upon his death-bed
Bade me be kind unto the poor Elvira,
And love her as a sister.
Mat. You would therefore
Make her your wife. But, Julio, listen to me:
I did not mean to make these lips th' accusers
Of your dead sire. His after-life atoned,
By many a year of love and happiness,
For one repented crime. I had intended
To take the secret with me to the grave.
But you are pressing towards a yawning gulf,
Whence I have tried by gentler means to lure
Your blind rash steps — the time is therefore come;
And, though Rinaldo's ghost should rise to frown
My lips to marble silence, I must speak
The story of his shame.
Jul. Merciful Heaven!
What does this fearful prelude tend to?
Mat. Hear me.
Gaspard's wife was a being such as those
Which poets dream of. A soft, sylph-like form,
With step so light, it hardly seem'd to crush
The fragile globes of dew that, tremulous,
Gleam'd on the bladed grass — A face, not pale,
But Parian marble could not match its whiteness;
And eyes whose timid lustre seem'd to shun
The worship they inspired, and seek the shade
Of those sweet lids, which o'er them softly fell,
Like downy coverings dropt from Love's own wings,
To keep his altar sacred. These were charms
Which taught your father's heart to stray, and proved
Her ruin whom they graced.
Jul. Nay — wherefore pause?
There is a hideous chasm in thy tale;
My heart would leap across it, but 'tis black,
And full of gaping horrors. Say — the offspring
Of this unhallow'd passion was —
Mat. Elvira!
But why, thou love-sick boy, stand thus transfix'd,
Speechless and bloodless? Rather, offer thanks
To Heaven for pointing out in time the ruin
Which threaten'd thee. Oh! hadst thou consummated
The fearful crime — hadst thou profaned the bonds
Of holy matrimony — (Nay, wherefore shudder?
'Tis but the shadow of a horrible rock,
Which thou hast pass'd in safety) — then no hue
That wan despair could breathe upon thy face
Could speak thy horror truly. Thou would'st be
A wretch from whom the young and innocent
Would flee as from a pestilence — and she,
Whom thou hast loved so tenderly, so truly,
Would be a by-word and a scorn: — th' unfeeling
Would taunt her with her misery, and the kind
Shudder as she past by them, and pray God
To hide her in the grave. — ( He swoons .) — But Julio, Julio!
My son! Oh Heaven! I fear I've gone too far.
The arrow I but meant to graze his breast,
Has sunk into his heart. No — he revives —
He sees me: — My dear Julio!
Jul. My Elvira!
Oh! I have had a fearful dream.
Mat. Nay — nay —
Shake off these childish fancies — it is I.
Jul. This dream has strangely troubled me. Methinks
That I could sleep again — ay, sleep for ever.
Oh! I am cold as the cold grave.
Mat. His fit
Returns. I dare not call for aid. This tale
Would be a fit theme for each babbling slave,
To charm a gaping rabble with! The blood
Comes back into his cheek, and his eye bends
A steadier gaze upon me.
Jul. Ha! my mother.
Mat. 'Tis I indeed — here — rest your head awhile.
I did not think this tale could so have shaken you.
Jul. 'Twas but a passing pang. I am well now,
And calm — ay, as the tempest — but no matter!
Mat. I see you cling to this black passion still:
Let me not think my son can hesitate
What course to follow now.
Jul. Nay — nay — you wrong me;
But I must see Elvira. Meet me here
But one hour hence, and you will see how much
Your son can sacrifice to virtue.
Mat. Well,
Heaven strengthen you, and teach you gratitude
For this deliverance!
Jul. Ay, deliverance
Into the pit you warn me from. Elvira!
Lost — fallen into a sea of infamy.
Would I were in my grave! — But that's a rest
Too peaceful for me yet: — no, I must press
The thorns of this rough world more closely still,
Ere I can know how peaceful is the couch
That's spread beneath them. This unhallow'd stain
Must be wash'd from her. But what cleansing power
Can take away its foul spots? Blood — blood — blood!