The Roman: A Dramatic Poem

SCENE I.
A Plain in Italy—an ancient Battle-field. Time, Evening.
Persons.—Vittorio Santo, a Missionary of Freedom. He has gone out, disguised as a Monk, to preach the Unity of Italy, the Overthrow of Austrian Domination, and the Restoration of a great Roman Republic.——A number of Youths and Maidens, singing as they dance. 'The Monk' is musing.
Enter Dancers.


Dancers.
Sing lowly, foot slowly, oh why should we chase
The hour that gives heaven to this earthly embrace?
To-morrow, to-morrow, is dreary and lonely;
Then love as they love who would live to love only!
Closer yet, eyes of jet,—breasts fair and sweet!
No eyes flash like those eyes that flash as they meet!
Weave brightly, wear lightly, the warm-woven chain,
Love on for to-night if we ne'er love again.
Fond youths! happy maidens! we are not alone!
Bright steps and sweet voices keep pace with our own.
Love-lorn Lusignuolo, the soft-sighing breeze,
The rose with the zephyr, the wind with the trees.
While Heaven, blushing pleasure, is full of love-notes,
Soft down the sweet measure the fairy world floats.


The Monk advances, meets the Dancers, and points to the turf at their feet.


The Monk.
                                                       Do you see nothing there,
There, where the unrespective grass grows green,
There at your very feet? Nay, not one step!
'Twould touch it! 'twould profane it! Palsied be
The limb that treads that ground! There is a grave—
There is a grave;—I saw it with these eyes—
A grave! I saw it with these eyes! It holds—
It holds—oh Heaven!—my mother!


One of the Revellers.
                                  Peace, good Padre,
Look to thy beads. The turf is level here.
Comrades! strike up! 'Sing lowly, foot——'


The Monk.
                                              Who steps,
Steps first on me. I say there is a grave,
I say it is my mother's: that I loved her,
Ay, loved her with more passion than the maddest
Lover among ye clasps his one-day wife!
And I steal forth to keep my twilight vigil,
And you come here to dance upon my heart.
You come and—with the world at will for dalliance,
The whole hot world—deny me that small grave
Whose bitter margin these poor knees know better
Than your accustom'd feet the well-worn path
To your best harlot's bower. The turf is fair!
Have I not kept it green with tears, my mother?
You lustful sons of lax-eyed lewdness, do you
Come here to sing above her bones, and mock me,
Because my flesh and blood cry out, 'God save them?'
May the Heaven's blight——


One of the Revellers.
                             Nay, holy father, nay,
We would not harm thee. Be it as thou wilt.
Holy Madonna! there is little dust
In this old land, but has been son or mother
In its own day. What ho! my merry friends,
Come, we must dance upon some other grave.
Farewell, good father!


Another Reveller.
                       Save you, father!


Another.
                                          Think not,
We would insult thy sorrow.


The Monk.
                             Well, forgive me.
I pray you listen how I loved my mother,
And you will weep with me. She loved me, nurst me,
And fed my soul with light. Morning and Even
Praying, I sent that soul into her eyes,
And knew what Heaven was though I was a child.
I grew in stature, and she grew in goodness.
I was a grave child; looking on her taught me
To love the beautiful: and I had thoughts
Of Paradise, when other men have hardly
Look'd out of doors on earth. (Alas! alas!
That I have also learn'd to look on earth
When other men see heaven.) I toil'd, but ever
As I became more holy, she seem'd holier;
Even as when climbing mountain-tops the sky
Grows ampler, higher, purer as ye rise.
Let me believe no more. No, do not ask me
How I repaid my mother. O thou saint,
That lookest on me day and night from heaven
And smilest, I have given thee tears for tears,
Anguish for anguish, woe for woe. Forgive me
If, in the spirit of ineffable penance,
In words, I waken up the guilt that sleeps.
Let not the sound afflict thine heaven, or colour
That pale, tear-blotted record which the angels
Keep of my sins. We left her. I and all
The brothers that her milk had fed. We left her—
And strange dark robbers, with unwonted names,
Abused her! bound her! pillaged her! profaned her!
Bound her clasped hands, and gagg'd the trembling lips
That pray'd for her lost children. And we stood
And she knelt to us, and we saw her kneel,
And look'd upon her coldly and denied her!
Denied her in her agony—and counted
Before her sanguine eyes the gold that bought
Her pangs. We stood——


One of the Revellers.
                        Nay, thou cowl'd ruffian! hold!
There's vengeance for thee yet! Dost thou come here
To blast our hearing with thy damned crimes?
Seize on him, comrades, tear him limb from limb!


The Monk.
Yes, seize him! tear him! tear him! he will bless thee
If thy device can work a deeper pain
Than he will welcome and has suffer'd. Tear him!
But, friends, not yet. Hear her last tortures. Then
Find, if ye can, some direr pang for me.
The Robbers wearied, and they bade us hold her,
Lest her death-struggles should get free. She look'd
Upon me with the face that lit my childhood,
She called me with the voices of old times,
She blest me in her madness. But, they show'd us
Gold, and we seized upon her, held her, bound her,
Smote her. She murmur'd kind words, and I gave her
Blows.


One Auditor.
Fiend!


Another.
      Hound!


Another.
            Demon!


Another.
                   Strike him!


Another.
                               Hold him down!
Kill him for hours!


The Monk.
                    Why how now, countrymen?
How now, you slaves that should be Romans? Ah!
And you will kill me that I smote my mother?
Well done, well done, a righteous doom! I smote
My mother? Hold! My mother, did I say?
My mother? Mine, yours, ours!


One Auditor.
Seize him.


All.
          Die, liar!
Die.


The Monk.
But my brothers—will you seize my brothers?
What! will you let that cursed band escape
That hoard the very gold that slew her? Make
A full end. Finish up the work. You cowards!
What! you can pounce on an unarm'd poor man,
But tremble at the gilded traitors!


All.
                                      Name them!
They shall die! Point them out! where are they?


The Monk.
                                                   Here!
You are my brothers. And my mother was
Yours. And each man among you day by day
Takes, bowing, the same price that sold my mother,
And does not blush. Her name is Rome. Look round,
And see those features which the sun himself
Can hardly leave for fondness. Look upon
Her mountain bosom, where the very sky
Beholds with passion: and with the last proud
Imperial sorrow of dejected empire,
She wraps the purple round her outraged breast,
And even in fetters cannot be a slave.
Look on the world's best glory and worst shame.
You cannot count her beauties or her chains,
You cannot know her pangs or her endurance.
You, whom propitious skies may hardly coax
To threescore years and ten. Your giant fathers
Call'd Atlas demigod. But what is she,
Who, worn with eighteen centuries of bondage,
Stands manacled before the world, and bears
Two hemispheres—innumerable wrongs,
Illimitable glories. Oh, thou heart
That art most tortured, look on her and say
If there be any thing in earth or heaven,
In earth or heaven—now that Christ weeps no longer—
So most divinely sad. Look on her. Listen
To all the tongues with which the earth cries out.
Flowers, fountains, winds, woods, spring and summer incense,
Morning and eve—these are her voices—hear them!
Remember how, in the old innocent days
Of your young childhood, these sang blessings on you.
Remember how you danced to those same voices,
And sank down tired, and slept in joy, not doubting
That they would sing to-morrow; and remember
How when some hearts that danced in those old days,
And worn out laid them down, and have not waken'd,
Gave back no answer to the morning sun,
She took them to her mother's breast and still
Holds them unweary, singing by their slumbers,
And though you have forgotten them remembers
To strew their unregarded graves with flowers.
Oh those old days, those canonizèd days!
Oh that bright realm of sublunary heaven,
Wherein they walk'd in haloes of sweet light,
And we look'd up, unfearing, and drew near
And learnt of them what no succeeding times
Can tell us since of joy;—for so, being angels,
They suffer'd little children. Oh those days!
Why is it that we hear them now no more?
And the same destiny that brought us pangs
Took every balsam hence? Did we wake up
From infancy's last slumber in a new
And colder world? My mother, thou shalt answer!
I hear thee—see thee. The same soul informs
The present that look'd once through undimm'd eyes
In Childhood's past. What though it shines through tears?
It shines. What though it speaks with trembling lips,
Tuned to such grief that they say bright words sadly?
It speaks. And by that speech thou art the mother
That bore us! Oh you sons of hers, remember
When joy had grown to passion, and high youth
Had aim'd the shafts that lay in Childhood's quiver,
If you have ever gone out, (and each Roman
Heart must have note of one such better day,)
Full of high thoughts, ambitions, destinies,
And stood, downcast, among her ruin'd altars,
And fed the shameful present with the past;
And felt thy soul on the stern food grow up
To the old Roman stature: and hast started
To feel a hundred nameless things, which Kings
Call sins,—and Patriots, virtues: and self-judged,
Conscious and purple with the glorious treason,
Hast lifted flashing eyes, bold with great futures,
And in one glance challenged her earth, seas, skies,
And they have said, 'Well Done.' And thou hast felt
Like a proud child whom a proud mother blesses.
Ah! your brows kindle! What! I have said well?
What! there are some among you who have been
The heroes of an hour? you men of Parma,
What! you were Romans once! you worse than slaves,
Who, being Romans once, are men of Parma!
Tried on the Roman habit, and could wear it
But a short hour on your degenerate limbs!
Sons of the empress of the world, and slaves
To powers a Roman bondman would not count
Upon his fingers on a holiday!
Do not believe me yet. She is no mother,
Who has but nursed your joy and pride. Remember,
If thou hast ever wept without a heart
To catch one tear, and in the lonely anguish
Of thy neglected agony look'd out
On this immortal world, and seen—love-stricken—
Light after light her shadowy joys take up
Thy lorn peculiar sorrow, till thy soul
Seem'd shed upon the universe, and grief,
Deponent of its separate sadness, clung
To the stupendous dolour of all things,
And wept with the great mourner, and smiled with her
When she came back to sunshine—with the joy
Of a young child after the first great grief
Wherein a mother's holy words first spake
To the young heart of God. But I am dreaming;
You have not wept as I have. Yet remember,
If she hath shown you softer signs than these—
If there are none among you who have given
To her chaste beauty, to the woods and mountains,
And lone dim places, sorrowfully sweet,
Where love first learns to hear himself, and blush not—
Thoughts which you would deny me at confession,
Thoughts which, although the peril of a soul
Hung on their utterance, would have gone unborn
In silence down to hell, unblest, unshriven,
And, in despairing coyness, daring all,
Because they could dare nothing. Like the shy
Scared bird, to which the serpent's jaws are better
Than his rude eyes. And yet you gave them to her,
And these same trembling phantasies went forth,
To meet the storms that shake the Apennines,
And did not fear. And so you call'd her mother,
And so the invisible in you confest
The unseen in her; and so you bore your witness
To her august maternity, and she
Reflected back the troth. Remember, so
Great Romulus and those who after him
Built the Eternal City, and their own
Twin-born eternity—even as the workman
Is greater than the work—stood at her knee,
And brighten'd in her blessing; and remember
If they were sons like you! What! can dead names
Stir living blood? Fear not, my countrymen!
They are not German chieftains that I spoke of.
Tremble not, brethren, they are not our lords.
Our lords! they conquered men. They are some souls
That once took flesh and blood in Italy,
And thought it was a land to draw free breath in,
And drew it long, and died here; and since live
Everywhere else. What! your brows darken! what!
I wrong'd you foully; 'twas no fear that daubed them:
What! your cheeks flush as some old soldier's child,
Glows at inglorious ease when a chance tongue
Speaks of the triumph where his father fell!
What then! these dead are yours! Men, what are they?
What are they?—ask the world and it shall answer.
And you? True, true, you have your creed; you tell me
That twice a thousand years have not outworn
The empire in that blood of theirs that flows
In your dull veins. You tell me you are Romans!
Yet they were lords and you are slaves; the earth
Heard them and shook. It shakes, perchance, for you;
Shakes with the laugh of scorn that there are things
Who lick the dust that falls from Austrian feet,
And call the gods their fathers! Bear with me,
I am not here to reckon up your shames,
I will know nothing here but my wrong'd mother.
I cry before heaven she is yours. That you
May kill me for the part I bore, and then
Do judgment on yourselves. Look on that mother
Whose teeming loins peopled with gods and heroes
Earth and Olympus—sold to slaves whose base
Barbarian passions had been proud to swell
In death a Roman pageant. Every limb
Own'd by some separate savage—each charm lent
To some peculiar lust. The form that served
The world for signs of beauty parcell'd out
A carcase on the shambles, where small kings,
Like unclean birds, hang round the expected carrion,
And chaffer for the corpse which shall not die!
Look on that mother and behold her sons!
Alas, she might be Rome if there were Romans!
Look on that mother! Wilt thou know that death
Can have no part in Beauty? Cast to-day
A seed into the earth, and it shall bear thee
The flowers that waved in the Egyptian hair
Of Pharaoh's daughter! Look upon that mother—
Listen, ye slaves, who gaze on her distress,
And turn to dwell with clamorous descant,
And prying eye, on some strange small device
Upon her chains. In no imperial feature,
In no sublime perfection, is she less
Than the world's empress, the earth's paragon,
Except these bonds. These bonds? Break them. Unbind,
Unbind Andromeda! She was not born
To stand and shiver in the northern blast,
Or fester on a foreign rock, or bear
Rude licence of the unrespective waves.
She is a queen! a goddess! a king's daughter!
What though her loveliness defied the heavens;
Unbind her, she shall fill them! Man, unbind her,
And, goddess as she is, she owns thee, loves thee,
Crowns thee! And is there none to break thy chains,
My country? Is there none, sons of my mother?
Strike, and the spell is broken. You behold her
Suppliant of suppliants. Strike! and she shall stand
Forth in her awful beauty, more divine
Than death or mortal sorrow; clothing all
The wrecks and ruins of disastrous days
In old-world glory—even as the first spring
After the deluge. Why should we despair?
The heroes whom your fathers took for gods,
Walk'd in her brightness, and received no more
Than she gives back to you, who are not heroes,
And have not yet been men. They toil'd and bled,
And knew themselves immortal, when they hung
Their names upon her altars; ask'd no fate
But that which you inherit and disdain
To call it heritage—subdued the world,
And with superior scorn heard its lip-service,
And bade it call them Romans, and believe
Earth had no haughtier name. Be not deceived.
They stood on Roman, you on Parman ground,
But yet this mould is the same ground they stood on.
The evening wind, that passes by us now,
To their proud senses was the evening wind.
These are the hills, and these the plains, whereby
The Roman shepherd fed his golden flocks,
And kings look'd from their distant lands, and thought him
Greater than they. The masters of the world
Heard the same streams that speak to you, its slaves.
These rocks were their rocks, and their Roman spring
Brought, year by year, the very self-same blossoms,
(The self-same blossoms, but they stood for crowns.)
The flowers beneath their feet had the same perfume
As those you tread on—do they scorn your tread?
They saw your stars; and when the sun went down,
The mountains on his face set the same signs
To their eyes as to yours. O thou unseen
Rome of their love,—immaculate and free!
Thou who didst sit amid the Apennines,
And looking forth upon the conscious world,
Which heard thee and obey'd, beheld thy children
From sea to sea! Yes, we are here, my mother,
And here beside thy mountain throne we call thee,
Ascend, thou uncrown'd queen! Yet a few days,
Yet a few days, and all is past. Behold
Even now, the harvest seedeth, and the ear
Bends rich with death. Yet a few days, my mother,
And thou shalt hear the shouting of the reapers,
And we who sharp the sickle shall ring out
The harvest-home. Nay, look not on me, mother,
Look not on me in thy sublime despair;
Thou shalt be free! I see it all, my mother,
Thy golden fetters, thy profanèd limbs,
Thy toils, thy stripes, thine agonies, thy scars,
And thine undying beauty. Yes, all, all,
And all for us and by us. Look not on me.
Ay! lift thy canker'd hands to heaven, earth hath not
Room for so vast a wrong. Thou shalt be free,
Thou shalt be free, before the heavens I swear it!
By thy long agony, thy bloody sweat,
Thy passion of a thousand years, thy glory,
Thy pride, thy shame, thy worlds subdued and lost,
Thou shalt be free! By thine eternal youth,
And co-eternal utterless dishonour—
Past, present, future, life and death, all oaths,
Which may bind earth and heaven, mother, I swear it.
We know we have dishonour'd thee. We know
All thou canst tell the angels. At thy feet,
The feet where kings have trembled, we confess,
And weep; and only bid thee live, my mother,
To see how we can die. Thou shalt be free!
By all our sins, and all thy wrongs we swear it.
We swear it, mother, by the thousand omens
That heave this pregnant time. Tempests for whom
The Alps lack wombs—quick earthquakes—hurricanes
That moan and chafe, and thunder for the light,
And must be native here. Hark, hark, the angel!
I see the birthday in the imminent skies!
Clouds break in fire. Earth yawns. The exulting thunder
Shouts havoc to the whirlwinds. And men hear,
Amid the terrors of consenting storms,
Floods, rocking worlds, mad seas and rending mountains,
Above the infinite clash, one long great cry,
Thou shalt be free!


[The audience have one by one stolen away. The Monk,recovering from his enthusiasm, finds himself alone.


The Monk.
                    Ah solitude! and have I
Raved to the winds?


[A pause.


                     Bow not thy queenly head,
Beat not thy breast; they do not leave thee, mother!
We have no strength to meet the offended terrors
Of thy chaste eyes. Yet a few days, my mother,
And when the fire of expiation burns,
Thou shalt confess thy children. Oh, bear with us,
Hath the set sun forsaken thee? We know
All that thou art, and we are: and if, mother,
The unused weight of the ineffable knowledge
Bendeth our souls, forgive us.


[Another long pause.


                                 Yes, all gone!
And not one word—one pitiful cheap word—
One look that might have brighten'd into promise!
All faint, pale, recreant, slavish, lost. No cur
That sniffs the distant bear, and sneaks downcast
With craven tail and miscreant trepidation
To kennel and to collar, could slink home
With a more prone abasement.


[Another long pause.


                               Kill me! kill me!
Thine hour is not yet come. Then give me mine!
Thou must endure, my mother, I have taken
A meteor for the dawn. Thou must endure,
And toil, and weep.
Oh, thou offended majesty! my heart
Beats here for thee. Strike it! Thou must endure.
I may not, at the peril of my soul,
Give thee aught other counsel; and I would not
For many souls that any man should dare
To give thee this and live. Alas! when truth
Is treason, and the crime of what we do
Transcends all sins but the more damning guilt
Of doing aught beside.


[Another pause.


                       Or is it, mother,
That thou hast chosen ill? That I, the dreamer,
Catch not the language of these waking men?
With our humanity infirm upon us,
My God! it is a fearful thing to stand
Alone, beneath the weight of a great cause
And a propitious time!


[Another pause.


                        Mother!


[A long pause.


                                 Be patient,
O thou eternal and upbraiding Presence,
Which fillest heaven and earth with witness; be
What thou hast been: and, if thou canst, forgive
What I can not forgive; and let me be
What I was. Take, take back this terrible sight!
This sight that passeth the sweet boundary
Of man's allotted world. Let me look forth
And see green fields, hills, trees, and soulless waters
Give back my ignorance. Why should my sense
Be cursed with this intolerable knowledge?
Let me go back to bondage. What am I,
That I am tortured to supernal uses,
Who have not died; and see the sights of angels
With mortal eyes? Unhand me, mother! why
Must I, so many years removed from death,
Be young and have no youth? What have I done
That all thy millions look on thee with smiles,
And I with madness? Why must I be great?
When did I ask this boon? Why is the dull,
Smooth, unctuous current of contented baseness
Forbidden to me only? What art thou,
Magician! that who serves thee hath henceforth
No part on earth beside? That I am doom'd—
Am doom'd to preach in unknown tongues, and know
What no man will believe? To strive, and weep,
And labour with impossible griefs and woes,
That kill me in the birth? That I am thus,
That I am thus, who once was calm, proud, happy,—
Ay, you may smile, you ancient sorrows,—happy.
Stay! happy? And a slave?


[A very long pause.


                            If I must see thee,
If it must be, if it must be, my mother!
If it must be, and God vouchsafes the heart
No gift to unlearn truth; if the soul never
Can twice be virgin? if the eye that strikes
Upon the hidden path to the unseen
Is henceforth for two worlds; if the sad fruit
Of knowledge dwells for ever on the lip,
And if thy face once seen, to me, O thou
Unutterable sadness! must henceforth
Look day and night from all things; grant me this,
That thine immortal sorrow will remember
How little we can grieve who are but dust.
Make me the servant, not the partner, mother,
Of woes, for whose omnipotence of pain
I have no organs. Suffer that I give
Time and endurance for impossible passion;
Perchance accumulated pangs may teach me
One throe of thy distress. How canst thou think
My soul can contain thine?


SCENE II.
Time and Place as in Scene I.
Francesca, a young girl, one of the Auditors in Scene I., has remained hidden among the trees. The Monk, silent, musing.


Francesca
(musing).
While he yet spake I waited for a pause,
And now, if I could dare to hear my voice
In this most awful silence, it should pray
That he would speak again. You heavens, you heavens,
Lend me your language. This progressive thought,
This unit-bearing speech, whose best exertion
Is but dexterity, the juggler's sleight,
That with facility of motion cheats
The eye, whose noblest effort can but haste
The single ball of phantasy, and make
Succession seem coincidence, is not
For such an hour. Lend me some tongue, you heavens,
Worthy of gods: in whose celestial sense
The present, past, and future of the soul
Sink down as one; even as these dews to-night
Fall from a thousand stars.


                             He hears. He turns.
Now, now, ye saints!


The Monk
(turning and perceiving her).
                     Lady, what wouldst thou?


[She is silent.


                                               Child,
What wouldst thou?


Francesca.
                   I have heard thee. Dost thou ask?


The Monk
(pointing to the dancers in the far distance).
 Did they not hear? Daughter, persuade me this, And I will bless thee.


Francesca
(taking a flower from her breast).
Is that rosebud sweet?
luck'd it from a thicket as I pass'd;
One day, perhaps, some cottage plot; but now
Given up to dominance of vulgar thorns,
And weeds of deadlier moral. Yet methinks
'Tis still a rose. Wilt thou receive it?


The Monk.
                                           Ay.


Francesca.
I am that rose, my father, so accept Me.


The Monk.
Child, I will.


Francesca.
              I have heard much to-night
Of Roman deeds, of sages, and of heroes,
Of sons who loved, and sons who have betray'd.
Hath Rome no daughters to repeat her beauty,
Renew the model of old time, and teach
Her sons to love the mother in the child?
Was Rome, my father, built and peopled by
One sex? The very marble of your ruins
Looks masculine. In heart I roam about them,
But whereso'er my female soul peers in
—Even to the temple courts—some bearded image
Cries Privilege. Doth Salique law entail
The heritage of glory? Is there nothing,
Nothing, my father, in the work of freedom
For woman's hand to do?


The Monk.
The past, that book
Of demonstrated theorems, lies open.
Why seek my poor unproved hypothesis,
When God hath solved for thee? Child, choose thy page.
Here bleeds Lucretia. Rome hath now ten Tarquins
(Ten Tarquins, but we call them dukes and kings).
There, Arria. Many a Pætus lives to-night
Who would have given right joyfully to freedom
The Roman heart that makes a sorry slave,
If Arria would have shown him how to die.
Virginia! Appius—nay, we have no state
Where Appius would have deign'd to be a despot.
But that divine idea incarnate in
Virginia's corse, and teeming in the blood
Which quickening in your Roman ground grew up
A national virginity—that glory,
Though it reach up to heaven, may make its footstool
Wherever there is earth enough to die on.
Remember her who——


Francesca.
                     Hear me yet, my father,
And I will light thee to a sterner text
Than thou hast heart to preach from.


                                       Yonder castle
Darkening the hill——


The Monk.
                       Child, the days come when where
The deadliest stronghold of its lordliest keep
Spreads the dank flags, tear-damp, of its most dark
Detested dungeon, thou—not I—shalt see
The wild thyme and the bee.


Francesca.
                             Is there nought writ
Of Tullia, who once drove the car of blood
Over her father's corse? Sir, from those walls
My father rules.


The Monk
(after some silence).
Shall Paul stop preaching lest
Eutychus sleep? In the Damascene way
Shall his eyes shut out light from heaven? Not though
It scorch them blind! Truth is a god, my child;
Rear thou the altar, he himself provides
The lamb. The great judge, Truth, who takes thy verdict,
Avenges a false finding though it save
Thy brother's soul. Truth is the equal sun,
Ripening no less the hemlock than the vine.
Truth is the flash that turns aside no more
For castle than for cot. Truth is a spear
Thrown by the blind. Truth is a Nemesis
Which leadeth her belovèd by the hand
Through all things; giving him no task to break
A bruisèd reed, but bidding him stand firm
Though she crush worlds.


Francesca.
                         Master! I would serve Truth.


The Monk
(meditates, then speaks).
                                                        Oh Freedom! ruddy goddess of the hill,
Say, from that breezy ledge of genial rock,
Where, yet ere twilight, with thine eastward face
Turn'd to to-morrow's sunrise, thou hast laid
Thy joyous limbs, dew-bathed—which day scarce tames
To sleep—oh say, is this pale dreamer thine?
home, poor child, thou hast thy burden; I
Add nothing.


Francesca.
            Thou canst speak in parables,
Or with stern silence stifle the poor heart
That breathes thy words; but, father, I will sit
Here at thy feet.


The Monk.
So does my dog; but do I
Take him to council?


Francesca.
                     Yet thou givest him
To watch thee day and night. Grant me no less.


The Monk.
Oh tyrant's daughter, lovest thou Roman thus?


Francesca.
Ay.


The Monk (musing).
  Can the heart be less than what it holds?
The fetter'd slave that in his fetters slays
His lord, has strength to break them. Arms that break
Their chains have strength to throw them in the sea.
Perchance I have judged ill. Yes. Unattaint,
Perchance, the Arethusan blood of Rome
Hath coursed the conduit of a tyrant's veins,
And from the fetid entrails of the earth
Springs up Diana's fountain.


                              Soul, soul, soul,
Wilt thou again believe? Are figs of thistles?
Hast thou not tasted of the Dead-Sea fruits?
The clouds are midnight with to-morrow's storm:
Wilt thou launch freedom in a cockle-shell?
What! Patriot, dost thou pay the gold of Rome
For phantom ship to skim aërial waves
Or desert mirage? Bah! what falconer
Shall man this butterfly-hawk? Will that nice beak
Stoop to a bloody lure?


                        Poor child, poor child,
The feeblest tongue that freemen use will deafen
These ears where every word went bowing in!
These pamper'd ears, born in the purple chamber
Of silken state, these soft voluptuous ears,
Dainty and fancy-fed, that of the tribe
Of many-visaged language, know alone
That bastard and emasculated speech
That does court-embassies. That perfumed minion,
Which runs the powder'd errands of intrigue;
That slave-born slave, that audible obeisance
Which on the silver plate of compliment
Exchanges rotten hearts. That sleek thrice-curl'd
Prim arbiter of vile proprieties,
Whose wax-light days begin and end with fashion;
That velvet impotent, whose effete passions
Wait smiling the fantastic lusts of kings.


How shall she bear the sound when a strong land
In the rude health of freedom shall say Rome!
Go home, girl, thou hast nought in me, nor I
In thee.


Francesca.
        Thy words stand 'twixt my home and me.


The Monk.
                                                  Hence! Thou shalt pass them.
 Freedom's sentinels
Challenge no feathers.


Francesca.
                       I have heard thy fears,
And fear not. Do the damn'd, my father, shrink
At voice of angel? Shall not the small sense
Of feeblest child sustain the crash of doom?


The Monk.
The day is thine.
a Greek sage once, who stood in spirit
Sublime beside his outraged flesh and blood,
The only calm beholder. He and thou,
Raw girl! have come into one heritage;
He in grey hairs, weary and wise, as sage;
Thou in the flush of unreflecting days,
As woman. With bowed head I stand before thee,
Child! teach me.


Francesca.
                 Mock me not, oh father, mock
Me not. Is it so great a boon to die?


The Monk.
Have what thou wilt—do what thou wilt.


Francesca
(throwing herself at his feet).
                                          He takes me!
You Heavens! he takes me. Master, Teacher, Lord!


The Monk.
I take thee not.


Francesca.
                 Thou canst not drive me from thee!
I see it all! He would even crush the fly
That hums about him. No, my father, no,
I die not thus.


The Monk.
                I take thee not, brave girl,
Thy Country claims thee. That great Rome, for whom
Many have fallen, but how few have died.
That generous country, which, while other lands
Build up their bulwarks of their children's dust,
Of her best sons, in her worst need, asks only
Apotheosis. Dost thou weep to exchange
The mortal for the eternal?


Francesca.
                             Teach me how
To serve her.


The Monk.
             Pay her tithes of the rich love
That bore thee to her feet. That love which triumph'd
In victory like his of Underwalden,
Who buried in his own unconquer'd breast
Th' opposing spears.


Francesca.
                     Father, I am a poor
Weak ignorant. Thy voice falls on my heart
Like heavenly music, but alas, I know not
What words they sing to it in heaven. I pray thee
Give eyes to this blind trouble in my soul,
Set me some task—nay, do not spare me, master,
Some task at which thy bravest is not brave—
Teach me some lesson, in our woman's language,
Of action and endurance; I will say it,
That thou shalt bless thy scholar!


The Monk.
                                    Child! child! child!
Thou art yet young, and foot of babe can do
No sacrilege. But curb these proud beliefs,
There comes a time, when holy bounds o'erstept
May blast thee. Child, freedom hath sanctuaries,
Wherein the chaste hands of her best high-priest
Tremble to serve. Slave! merry smiling slave!
Dancing an hour since to the shameful music
Of thine own chains——


Francesca.
                        Oh father, father, spare me!
Make me her lowest servant——


The Monk.
                                Child, not so.
How should I judge thee? Enoch was the first,
But not the last translated. To both worlds
—The inner and the outer—we come naked.
The very noblest heart on earth hath oft
No better lot than to deserve. And yet,
What laurell'd impotent shall show his head
Beside that uncrown'd giant?


                              No, my daughter,
I think thou hast a place beside the throne.
Behold it near the skies: the golden steps
Of human toil that reach it, and the angels
Ascending and descending. Wilt thou climb?


Francesca.
Oh father!


The Monk.
          Let me breathe thee round the base
Of the celestial steep. I have a task
Such as becomes the neophyte of freedom;
It shall be thine.


Francesca.
                   I clasp thy knees, my father.


The Monk.
Brave girl, it is a Tyro's task; a baptism
That will not drown. The very holiday-work
Of glory——


Francesca.
            May I do no nobler?


The Monk.
                                 Hear it.
Go forth at dawn—as they of old, go forth—
Carry nor purse, nor scrip, nor shoes, salute
By the way no man. Through this sad broad land,
Even from the Alps to the three seas, cry out,
'Rome is at hand!'


Francesca.
                   Father, no more?


The Monk.
                                    No more.


Francesca.
No word of War, Glory, Shame, Tyrants? Nothing
Of this Rome's feature?


The Monk.
                        Did John Baptist know
Whom he foreran? Daughter, thy chains lie there,
Not two hours off. No law forbids thee wear them.


Francesca.
Forgive me, father, I am thine, all thine,
But—nay, frown not—what if men tire of this
Strange cuckoo note?


The Monk.


                     Do two hearts hear the cuckoo
With the same beat? Lend me thy lute, dear girl;
There was a song that in my wanderings
I heard in other years. A wayward song
That caught the murmur of the waterfall,
By which I sang it. But no matter. 'Twill
Find its way where the brawny words of manhood
Might be too rude. I would, my poor disciple,
I had some foot more fit than an arm'd heel
To tread the dwelling of thy woman's soul.
And while we commune, daughter,—for alas,
A patriot militant has no to-morrows—
Hear this first lesson. It may be remember'd
When I am not. Stern duties need not speak
Sternly. He who stood firm before the thunder,
Worshipp'd the still small voice. Let the great world
That bears us—the all-preaching world—instruct thee,
That teacheth every man, because her precepts
Are seen, not heard. Oh, worship her. Fear not
Whilst thou hast open eyes, and ears for all
The simplest words she saith. Deaf, blind, to these,
Despair. That worst incurable, perchance
Some voice may heal hereafter, but none here.
For before every man, the world of beauty,
Like a great artist, standeth day and night,
With patient hand retouching in the heart
God's defaced image. Reverence sights and sounds,
ghter; be sure the wind among the trees
Is whispering wisdom.


                      Now assist me, lute.


[The Monk sings—recitativo—touching the lute at intervals.
There went an incense through the land one night,
Through the hush'd holy land, when tired men slept.
[Interlude of music.
The haughty sun of June had walk'd, long days,
Through the tall pastures which, like mendicants,
Hung their sere heads and sued for rain: and he
Had thrown them none. And now it was high hay-time.
Through the sweet valley all her flowery wealth
At once lay low, at once ambrosial blood
Cried to the moonlight from a thousand fields.
And through the land the incense went that night,
Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept.
It fell upon the sage; who with his lamp
Put out the light of heaven. He felt it come
Sweetening the musty tomes, like the fair shape
Of that one blighted love, which from the past
Steals oft among his mouldering thoughts of wisdom.
And she came with it, borne on airs of youth;
Old days sang round her, old memorial days,
She crown'd with tears, they dress'd in flowers, all faded—
And the night-fragrance is a harmony
All through the old man's soul. Voices of eld,
The home, the church upon the village green,
Old thoughts that circle like the birds of Even
Round the grey spire. Soft sweet regrets, like sunset
Lighting old windows with gleams day had not.
Ghosts of dead years, whispering old silent names
Through grass-grown pathways, by halls mouldering now.
Childhood—the fragrance of forgotten fields;
Manhood—the unforgotten fields whose fragrance
Pass'd like a breath; the time of buttercups,
The fluttering time of sweet forget-me-nots;
The time of passion and the rose—the hay-time
Of that last summer of hope! The old man weeps,
The old man weeps.
His aimless hands the joyless books put by;
As one that dreams and fears to wake, the sage
With vacant eye stifles the trembling taper,
Lets in the moonlight—and for once is wise.
[Interlude of music.
There went an incense through the midnight land,
Through the hush'd holy land where tired men slept.
It fell upon a simple cottage child,
Laid where the lattice open'd on the sky,
And she look'd up and said, Those flowers the stars
Smelt sweet to-night. God rest her ignorance!
There went an incense through the land one night,
Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept;
It pass'd above a lonely vale, and fell
Upon a poet looking out for signs
In heaven and earth, and went into his soul,
And like a fluttering bird among sweet strings,
Made strange Æolian music wild and dim.[Interlude.

A haggard man, silent beneath the stars,
Stood with bare head, a hasty step withdrawn
From a low tattered hut, wherefrom the faint
Low wail of famine, like a strange night-bird,
Cried on the air. He had come forth to give
His dying child, his youngest one, repose.
'Father,' it said, 'you weep, I cannot die.'
There went an incense through the land that night,
Through the hush'd holy land when tired men slept;
It came upon his soul, and went down deep
Deep to his heart, and threw the new-made hay
Upon the coals of fire that ember'd there.
And by the rising flame came pictures fair,
Of old ancestral fields that strangers till,
And patrimony that the spoiler reaps.
Then falls the flame upon the pallet near,
And forward on the canvas of the night,
To the wild father's eye, lights up that landscape
Of love and health and hope which yesterday
The poorest crumbs of the oppressor's feast
Might buy. Oh God! how coarse a crust may be
The bread of life. He breathes the night-balm in,
And breathes it back the red-hot smoke of vengeance![Musical interlude.

There was a lonely mother and one babe,
—A moon with one small star in all her heaven—
Too like the moon, the wan and weary moon,
In pallor, beauty, all, alas! but change.
Through six long months of sighs that moon unwaning
Had risen and set beside the little star.
And now the little star, whom all the dews
Of heaven refresh not, westers to its setting,
Out of the moonlight to be dark for ever.
O'er the hush'd holy land where tired men sleep,
There went an incense through the night. It fell
Upon the mother, and she slept—the babe,
It smil'd and dream'd of paradise.


                                    Thanks, listener.
I am a sorry minstrel. Had my art
Been echo to the nature in thy face
We had heard nobler strains.


Francesca
(sadly).
                              Alas! there only
Is thy child false.


The Monk.
                    Ah! sighing still?


Francesca.
                                        Dear father,
One more forgiveness! Spirits half cast out
Tear the possess'd and cry. Indulgent master,
Complete thy miracle.


The Monk
(severely).
                      Hath the possess'd
Faith to be healed?


Francesca.
                    I could do all for love,
Bleed, die for it,—even to the second death—
I could, I would, I will—but to give flesh
For marble; to be crush'd out of the earth
By some cold image falling from the clouds!


The Monk.
Woman, is this a place for earthly passion?


Francesca.
Not passion, no, not passion. Human light
In the stern idol's eyes—a heart, a pulse
To sanctify the embrace—the love that throbs
Belief—Oh master, master!


The Monk.
                            I am patient,
Strange priestess—how long are these mysteries?


Francesca
(pauses).
Sir, they are even now ended. I say not
Whether the fire be out upon the altar,
Or if the holy portals are self-closed
Against unpitying eyes; but—they are ended.


The Monk.
Child, I have wrong'd thee.


Francesca.
                             Father, say not so.
They are not wrong'd who have no rights. And what
Have I before thee?


The Monk.
                    More, my daughter, more
Than thou or I remembered. Do the stars
Frown on us? Yet that cloud of wayward wishes
The world sent up at vesper-time hangs now
Fevering the heaven between their eyes and ours.
Daughter, forget my sins. Fond Hector, arm'd,
Smiled a paternity too terrible
Even for a hero's child. The earnest soul
Drawing a sword is warrior cap-a-pied,
And this voice, strife-strain'd, catches ill to-night
The pitch of the confessional. Brave girl,
Canst thou trust twice?


Francesca.
                        Do I trust God the less
For an unanswer'd prayer? Command me, master;
'Twas the Promethean madness that essay'd
To warm a clay heart with celestial fire.
I am content to serve.


The Monk.
                       Nay, tell me all.


Francesca.
Not so, my father. No, thou shalt not cross
This threshold. No, thou shalt not stoop so low
As to the lintel of a heart like mine!
Nay, tempt me not. I have received my sorrow,
And am content. The sin was too delicious
For feebler retribution. But, oh, once
To bear what I have borne this hour sufficeth
For one life.


The Monk.
             Thou poor trembling child, be calm.
Truth, partial to her sex, made woman free
Even of her inmost cell; but man walks round
The outer courts, and by the auspices
And divinations of the augur reason,
Knows her chaste will, her voice, and habit better
—With a sure science, more abstract and pure—
Than ye who run by instinct to her knee.
Answer me, child, perchance——


Francesca.
                                 Nay, father, nay,
I am not worthy of thine auguries.
I will confess. I fear'd—forgive me, father,
I did fear that as there have been who flew
Wild with their own inevitable shadow;
The dark monotony from day to day,
Of words that had no image in my brain,—
Great everpresent names that stand for nothing
In heaven or earth, sounds, awful, awful sounds,
For shapes I cannot see, haunting my ears,
Might drive me mad. Is not a whisper, father,
Fearful at night? Are there not some, my father,
Who have been doom'd to drag a skeleton
Rattling behind them? Oh, you heavens, you heavens,
I shall go mad.


The Monk
(musingly).
                Ay, child, those rank weeds, words,
Exhaust the soul.


Francesca.
                  A little love, dear master, It seem'd to me if I could know and love —Though afar off—this Rome of which thou speakest,
It would make life of death.


The Monk.
                              Yes, thou must love her,
There must be fire from heaven or hell to burn
Offerings that burnt were incense, but neglected
Pollute the winds. Thou must love Rome, my daughter,
As she loves thee.


Francesca.
                   Oh, can she love me? How,
Oh, tell me how the mortal can win looks
From the eternal? How the daughters of men
Drew angels down? Alas, thou jestest, father,
She—the espoused of ages—how shall I
Woo her?


The Monk.
        Even as thou makest other loves.
Watch her and wait upon her; let her share
Thy morn and eve, and in the sleep of noon
Dream of her. Have no shame to see her by
Thy bed at night, and to undress thine heart
In her sad gaze.


                 In the dull ways of men
Sitting and walking lonely, let her image
Be thy attendant spirit, and interpret
All things into her language. Haply passing
A ruin'd garden, all of broken statues,
Temples o'er-turn'd, sweet haunts of love and pleasance
Defiled and trodden in the outraged earth,
And blossoms like the noon for radiance, trampled
By foul insulting feet: while over all
The appealing music of wronged solitudes,
Of shades deflower'd and sanctities profaned,
Hangs like a dewy exhalation—then
Look up and say, My country!


                              Wandering through
The lovely ruin, if thy step should strike
On some fair column; prone and moss-interr'd,
Fit for a god to stand on; one of those
That found amid a desert's sands alone,
Should of the wealth of its one witness give
Another tome to history—be reverent,
Tread as thy feet were among graves—and say,
My country!


           Or, oh prince's daughter, if
In some proud street, leaning 'twixt night and day
From out thy palace balcony to meet
The breeze—that tempted by the hush of eve,
Steals from the fields about a city's shows,
And like a lost child, scared with wondering, flies
From side to side in touching trust and terror,
Crying sweet country names and dropping flowers—
Leaning to meet that breeze, and looking down
To the so silent city, if below
With dress disorder'd and dishevell'd passions
Streaming from desperate eyes that flash and flicker
Like corpse-lights, (eyes that once were known on high,
Morning and night, as welcome there as thine,)
And brow of trodden snow, and form majestic
That might have walk'd unchallenged through the skies,
And reckless feet, fitful with wine and woe,
And songs of revel that fall dead about
Her ruin'd beauty—sadder than a wail—
(As if the sweet maternal eve for pity
Took out the joy, and, with a blush of twilight,
Uncrown'd the Bacchanal)—some outraged sister
Passeth, be patient, think upon yon heaven,
Where angels hail the Magdalen, look down
Upon that life in death and say—My country!


SCENE III.
The Neighbourhood of Milan, during a Popular Emeute.
A great band of Insurgents, armed, and singing, pass over. The Monk stands near.


All
(chanting as they march).


Who would drone on in a dull world like this?
 Heaven costs no more than a pang and a sigh;
Dash off the fetters that bind us from bliss,
 Fair fall the freeman who foremost shall die!
Death's a siesta, lads, take it who can!
Wave the proud banners that wave for Milan!


Chanted in song, and remember'd in story,
 Sunk but to rise—like the sun in the wave—
Grandly the fallen shall sleep in his glory,
 Proudly his country thall weep at his grave,
And hallow like relics each clod where there ran
The blood of that hero who died for Milan!


Holy his name shall be, blest by the brave and free,
 Kept like a saint's day the hour when he died!
The mother that bore him, the maid that bends o'er him,
 Shall weep, but the tears shall be rich tears of pride.
Shout, brothers, shout for the first falling man,
Shout for the gallant that dies for Milan!


Long, long years hence by the home of his truth,
 His fate, beaming eyes yet unborn shall bedew,
Beloved of the lovely, while beauty and youth
 Shall give their best sighs to the brave and the true!
On, spears! spur, cavaliers! Victory our van,
Fame sounds the trumpet that sounds for Milan!


[They pass; the Monk steps forth, and stopping some of the rearg uard, speaks.


The Monk.
Would you know
The path of that false tyrant, who enslaved
Your fetter'd land: and, with her outraged beauties
Beaming upon you, made ye glad to die?


Soldier.
Ay, holy father.


The Monk.
                 Would you know the spot
Where, in the shoutings of his maniac triumph,
He calls his blood-hounds round his gory hands,
And cheers them on the prey?


Soldier.
                              Since the noon-sun
Shone on the flying Austrians, we have track'd them,
And burn to sup as we have dined. Speak on.


The Monk.
If I could count you man by man, and horse
By horse, and bayonet by bayonet,
And point the very lurking place—


Soldier.
                                    Nay, speak!
The sun sinks, and Milan herself goes down
With to-night's dews. Speak, speak, good father.


The Monk.
                                                    Fools!
What! do you take me for some Austrian trull,
At service of the first camp follower
That sues her? Do you think I make my council
Of way-side danglers? Dost betray me, fellow?
Thou pale-faced German knave, if thou art aught
That man may name unblushing, hence and bring me
The leaders of this crew.


One Soldier to another.
                           Go fetch the captain
Of the tenth troop.


The Monk.
                    Friend, fetch ten thousand captains,
And march them here to march them back again;
What! dost thou think Milan's great doom is meat
For mouths like thine? Hence, bring your general,
And bid him—as he values absolution
For all that army of unshriven souls
That hope to make their beds in Paradise—
Appear with such attendance as befits
The majesty of freedom. Hence, and tell him
I can show where Milan's great foe is flagrant,
And swear upon my priestly faith, this night
He shall behold him!


[Exit a soldier.
Enter General and crowd of troops.


General.
                     Sir, and reverend father,
Thou wilt forgive me if I am deceived—
A straggler of our army brought—but now—
An imminent commandment. Was it thine?


The Monk.
Mine.


General.
We do trust thou hast not wrong'd us, father:
Each passing moment that goes by us now
Is full of lives.


The Monk.
                  I have not wrong'd you. Hear me.
You say you combat for your country—mine,
Yours, every man's in whom the proud high blood
Of the old time still struggles with the present,
And throbs and blushes at degenerate days:
The country of the Cæsars, and the saints,
And, better still, the land of stirring deeds,
Done by rude hands, and heads as yet uncrown'd
In earth or heaven; the lady of the kingdoms—
The soil on which the gods came down, confounding
Their heaven with ours;—restore me if I wander
From your own words—you strike for this dear country?


All.
Die for it!


The Monk.
           And the tide that flowed from those
Old Roman veins like empire, so that where
The Roman bled he ruled—the blood that soak'd
His sovereignty into the land he fell on,
Flows in you, and you feel it?


General.
                                Reverend father,
Time hastes—the news—thine oath—we must hence—


The Monk.
                                                      Peace!
Wilt thou direct my gifts, rebellious child?
[Turning to the Crowd.
Say, will you hear me? Will you know the spot
Where the foe lurks I swore to show you?


All.
                                           Speak!


The Monk.
You feel the pulses of the Roman blood,
You think the masters of the world begot
Kings, and not slaves—you come forth with the same
Looks, passions, sinews, souls and giant hearts,
Which in your sires stood round your ancient heroes,
And lifted them to glory on their shields,
—Those heroes worshipp'd by the startled earth,
Who seeing them above you, call'd them gods—
You know the same grand instinct of vast empire,
You stand upon the same Italian ground,
You stand on that same ground, the same proud people,
And the inheritors of ancient worlds,
Shout for Milan! What! will you pay your lives
To buy a freedom girt by fewer acres
Than your old consuls would have thrown away
Upon a birth-day gift? What, has this land,
This Italy, grown smaller, and lacks ground
For such a temple as it once upbore?
Or in your base hearts, shrunk with shameful days,
Is there no space to build a Roman glory?
Go to! you feebler sons of feeble days,
You that would totter with the very name
By which men call'd your sires! Go to, you pigmies,
Who have no more resource in your dwarf nerves,
To know the squalor of your futile limbs,
Than you have sight or soul or sense to compass
The awful stature of a Roman people!
Why do I speak of glory? Italy,
This Italy, which in its length and breadth
Scarce served your fathers for a throne to sit on,
Confounds their children with its vast horizon!
And the posterity of those who counted
Conquests by continents, weigh'd out dominion
By hemispheres, and cast a score of kingdoms
As dust to balance the unequal scale,
Wage comfit combats at a carnival!
Coin fatherlands and farthings; and step out
Their mimic royalties, and make toy princes
Glorious in gilt and gingerbread for kings
At school to play with. Husbandmen in crowns,
Great in the lordship of a Roman field,
Affect the despot, and to trembling townships
Nod sovereignty; with equal hand create
A constitution, country, and court-cook,
Will loyalties, and point with awful finger
Which hedge and ditch shall bound a patriotism!
While Romans smile, and sons of Cæsar farm
Well pleas'd what Cæsar would have deem'd too strait
To breed his wild boars for a hunting day,
And call it Empire!


Enter fresh crowds of Soldiers shouting.


Soldiers.
                    Long live the republic!
Long live the commonwealth of Lombardy!


The Monk.
Long live eternal Rome! long live that Rome
Which is not dead but sleepeth! long live Rome!
Men, this is the great year of resurrection!
All who are in their graves shall hear his voice,
And come forth! That which twenty centuries hence
Lay down a hero, shall rise up a god!
Shout, countrymen! and wake the graves; shout, Rome!
Republic! Rise!


Many voices.
                Down with him, down with him. Viva Milano!


General.
A hearing, comrades!


Many.
                     Peace! the General speaks!


General.
Priest, at thy peril——


Many.
                         At thy peril, priest!


General.
Priest, at thy peril, cease these timeless babblings,
Respect thine oath and life. Show us the foe!


Soldiers.
The foe, the foe, the foe——


The Monk.
                               Each silent man,
When I cry Rome! Each false, base-blooded shouter,
When you cry Lombardy!


Soldiers.
                       Base-blooded! false!
Base-blooded! false! give him a ball in the mouth!
Milan! Milan! up muskets!


General.
                           Shoulder arms!


The Monk.
Each self-judged helot, pleased to toil, a Goth,
When he might rule, a Roman! Rome? Rome? Rome?
Bah! by what witchcraft should you know that name,
You Tuscans, Luccans, Florentines, Sardinians,
Parmans, Placentians, Paduans and—slaves?


Soldiers.
Spear him—a pike, a pike!


Some.
                            Hear the priest!


Others
(with great uproar).
                                             Stone him,
Stone him——


The Monk.
             I am a Roman. Let some Vandal
Cast the first stone.


SCENE IV.
Moonlight.
Francesca alone, musing, sitting on a bank beneath trees. Cecco, a friend, enters unperceived, at the close of her soliloquy.


Francesca.
I will but live in twilight,
I will seek out some lone Egerian grove,
Where sacred and o'er-greeting branches shed
Perpetual eve, and all the cheated hours
Sing vespers. And beside a sullen stream,
Ice-cold at noon, my shadowy self shall sit,
Crown'd with dull wreaths of middle-tinted flowers;
With sympathetic roses, wan with weeping
For April sorrows; frighten'd harebells, pale
With thunder; last, half-scented honeysuckle,
That like an ill-starr'd child hides its brown head
Through the long summer banquet, but steals late
To wander through the fragments of the feast,
And glad us with remember'd words that fell
From guests of beauty; sunburnt lilies, grey
Wind-whispering ilex, and whatever leaves
And changeling blossoms Flora, half-asleep,
Makes paler than the sun and warmer than the moon!
Was ever slave so dark and cold as I?
Ah cruel, cruel night! the very stars
Put me to shame! I spur my soul all day
With thought of tyrants, woes and chains, and curse
As oft my pallid and ill-blooded nature,
That will not rage. Oh for some separate slave
To pity every vassal by! Some tyrant
By whom I might set down of all oppressors
That they are thus and thus! Oh that some hand,
Oh that some one hand, faint and fetter-wrung,
Would thrust its clanking wrongs before my eyes,
And I could bleed to break them!


                                  And thou! country!
Thou stern and awful god, of which my reason
Preaches infallibly, but which no sense
Bears witness to—I would thou hadst a shape.
It might be dwarf, deform'd, maim'd,—anything,
So it was thine; and it should stand to me
For beauty. And my soul should wait on it,
And I would train my fancies all about it,
Till growing to its fashion, and most nurtured
With smiles and tears they strengthen'd into love.
But—Santo—this indefinite dim presence
I cannot worship. O thou dear apostle,
Oh what a patriot could Francesca be
If thou wert Rome! Oh what a fond disciple
Should his tongue have whose only eloquence
Was praise of thee! To what a pile of vengeance
One look of retribution in thine eye
Were torch enough! Be still, my heart, be still!
Ah wilful, wilful heart, dost thou refuse?
Nay, be appeased—I bid thee silence, lest
Consenting cheeks attest how well thou sayest!
Too late, too late. Nay, do you crave, you blushes,
Escort of spoken passion, to interpret
Your beauties to the moon, which, pale with love
And watching for the never-coming night,
Mistakes them for some rosy cloud of dawn,
And ends her vigil? Heart, have all thy will!
Santo, I love thee! love thee! love thee! love thee!
Santo, I love thee! oh, thou wild word love!
Thou bird broke loose! I could say on and on,
And feel existence but to speak and hear.
Santo, I love thee! Hear! Francesca loves thee,
Santo, I love thee! oh, my heart, my heart,
My heart, thou Arab mad with desert-thirst,
In sight of water!—think upon the sands,
Thou leaping trembling lunatic, and keep
Some strength to reach the well.


Cecco
(approaching).
                                  What voice is this,
That calls upon a traitor?


Francesca.
                            Thou base stranger,
Thou coward spy! one that will call on him,
Though her tongue pay the forfeit! Yes, vile Austrian,
I call him, I,—I, who to save my soul
Would scorn to call upon the milk-eyed saints
That look from Heaven upon your German deeds
And do not blight you!


Cecco
(drawing near).
                       Sister Roman! well
And timely met.


Francesca.
                Cecco! thy lips are traitors,
And mouth to German fashions. I believed
The hour I sometime pray'd for, come already,
And thee an Austrian spy.


Cecco.
                           Forgive me that
I show'd my passport at a friendly gate,
Despair is a poor courtier. I may waste
Only so many words as may demand
Assistance, if thou hast it, and if not
God-speed! It wants but three short hours of dawn,
I swore to Santo he should have a Bible
Two hours before his time.


Francesca.
                            It wants three hours
Of dawn—thou sworest he should have a Bible
Two hours before his time—Cecco—


Cecco.
                                    Be brief,
For pity. Is there any bold man near
Who has and who dare lend?


Francesca.
                            Be brief, for pity—
Thou sworest he should have—you heavens, you heavens,
What do your clouds hide?


Cecco.
                           I must leave thee.


Francesca
(to Cecco, who essays to go: she shows a poniard).
                                              Cecco,
Tell me; tell all. Ah Cecco—nay, look here
In the moonlight—saints! I can use it!


Cecco.
                                          Strange,
Wild girl, how? know'st thou not as well as I
Vittorio preaching to some Milanese
Who would be patriots if they knew but how,
Spent precious hours in which the German foe
Slipt from the snare? whereat brave Roderigo—
A gallant sword—the greatest libertine
In Milan—seized him. In the castle dungeon
He lies since noon, and with the coming dawn
Dies.


Francesca.
     Dies, dies,—who dies?—pray you, friend, say on;
I am not wont to wander.


[She sinks gently to the earth. Cecco reclines her on a bank and hasten s on. After awhile Francesca sits up.


                         This is well!
That last waltz spent me. Let me see, what gallant
Danced young Francesca down? Nay, he'll boast rarely!
Yet it seems, long ago—long, long ago.
Such dreamless sleep! Thou melancholy moon,
What! have I caught my death-damp of the dews?
Death,—death,—ah!


[A long pause; she sits with her head in her hands.


A gallant sword—the greatest libertine
In Milan?—yes, yes,—Roderigo,—yes—
[Another long pause.
He lies since noon—ay, in the castle dungeon,
And with the dawn—No, no, thou pitiless sun!
Thou durst not rise! Oh sea, if thou hast waves, Quench him!
[Another long pause.
A gallant sword—the greatest libertine
In Milan.—Ah—the greatest libertine?
Who says I am not fair? Ye gods! I curse you:
Why do ye tempt me?


[A very long pause. Cecco passes in returning.


                    It is over, Cecco;
Cecco, I tell thee it is past, is past.
Santo is free. Look thou that horses wait
Near the east gate by sunrise. At the walls
My mission ends. Doubt not. I am not mad,
I hope I am not. Yet one hour of frenzy
Would take me from this hell to heaven. But, Cecco,
I would not buy oblivion, at this moment,
With a right hand that shakes.


                                I tell thee, haste!
Gaze not on me! with all the fiends about me,
I have not sat an hour stock-still for nought;
Begone!


[Exit Cecco.


SCENE V.
The Common Room of an Inn.
Enter, by different doors, a number of Students and Burghers, shouting to each other as they meet and greet.


Each and all.
The news? The news? The news? The news? The news?


One.
I've a good tale.


Another.
                  I better.


Another.
                            I the best.


Another.
Mine caps superlative.


Another.
                       Hurrah! and mine's
A feather in the cap.


Another.
                      Boys! mine's the bird
That grew the feather.


The first.
                       Hear me for my age.


The second.
Me for my honesty.


The third.
                   Me for my beauty!


The fourth.
Me for my wit.


The fifth.
              Me for my eloquence.


The sixth.
                                    Me
For all these.


Another.
              Me for none of them, since naked
Beggars are best arm'd.


Enter Giacco.


Giacco.
                        Halloo!


All.
                                Giacco! Giacco!
Brave Giacco!


Giacco.
             Here's a tale, my comrades!


All.
                                           Hear him!


One.
Hurrah! trust Giacco for a pretty wench
And a good story.


Another.
                  Nay, for certain, Milan
Has no such tell-tale.


Another.
                       Lads! a cup all round,
Giacco does best!


One
(aside).
                  Pray Mary! he knows mine;
Every good saint! it must be mine.


Some.
                                    Now, Giacco!


Others.
Attend! attend! attend!


Others.
                        Silence! Now, Giacco!


Giacco.
There came a man——


One.
                     Ay, 'tis so.


Another.
                                  Very true—
So I say.


Another.
Hear him!


Another.
         Ay, ay, go on, Giacco!


Giacco.
There came a man dress'd like a priest——


One.
                                             The same.


Another.
Yes, 'twas a priest.


Another.
                     Said I not well? ah, ah!
Trust Giacco for a tale.


Giacco.
                         A thin pale man——


One.
A pale thin man.


Another.
                 Yes, pale and spare, I say so.


Another.
Spare, very spare.


Another.
                   The same! the dogs snarl'd at him
As he were bones.


Giacco.
                  He pass'd down Duomo Street——


One.
The very street!


Another.
                 Yes, yes, the place, the place,
The very place—all but the name—good Giacco!


Another.
Giacco forgets a little—Yes, yes, Giacco—
(Aside).
My life on it, he means the place I say!


Giacco.
Walking down slowly——


One.
                        Yes, yes, walking slowly.


Another.
Right, Giacco!


Another.
              Well done, Giacco.


Another.
                                  Ay, I say so;
Oh, 'tis my story!


Giacco.
                   Walking down he enters
A merchant's office hard upon the quay——


One.
Wrong, Giacco!


Another.
              Giacco, thou'rt beside thyself!


Another.
Blind Giacco!


Another.
             Saints and angels!


Giacco.
                                 Why, I saw him——


Another.
Giacco, thou liest!


Another.
                    Turn him out!


Another.
                                  Nay! 'tis flagrant!


All.
Turn him out!


Enter a Village Schoolmaster.


Doctor Scio.
             Men!


Some.
                  Room for the Doctor Scio!


Others.
Chair for the master, there!


Others.
                              Hats off! the Doctor!


All.
Room for the Doctor! Let the Doctor judge!
Take him aside, Giovanni. Tell him all!
Tell him, Giovanni!


Scio
(pompously).
                    Children agapete!
Well-beloved children! trouble not Giovanni!
For as of old the mild mellifluous beams
Of Cytherea on the Prince of Troy
Stole through the broken pane,—as to Endymion,
Through the crack'd casement of consenting cave,
The star-train'd goddess came; so from these wide
And vomitorial windows, belch'd your tumult
To me transgressing.


Some.
                     Hear him!


Others.
                               Well done, Scio!
Hear him!


One.
         Oh learning! what a treasure thou art!


Others.
Hurrah! Speak, Doctor, speak!


Scio.
                               The labourer
Is worthy of his hire. Friends, what is hire?


All.
Wages!


Scio.
      And when, Sirs, does the fatigate
Pellosseous, son of sudorific toil,
Receive his wage? Is it not, friends, the eve,
The sweet stipendiar eve of Saturn's day?
Burghers (to each other).
Didst hear the like? What 'tis to be a scholar!
Scio has my boy—for one.


Scio.
                           And shall we, friends,
Shall we degrade the majesty of Learning
Which I—which I—her infinitesimal
Exiguous representative——


Some.
                             Bravo,
Well said!


Scio.
          Which I—her representative
Exiguous but unworthy——


Some.
                           No, no, Scio,
No, not unworthy.


Others.
                  Don't be modest, Scio;
Unworthy! bah!——


Others.
                   Give us the other words—
Go on, Scio, 'infinite'——


Scio.
                             I say, my friends,
Shall I, the representative of Learning,
Work first and be paid after, like the plodder
In yonder field? My friends, there was a thing,
A tool, an article, friends, a utensil
Known to our fathers by the sacred names
Poculum, cantharus, carchesium, scyphus,
Cymbium, culullus, cyathus, amystis,
Scaphium, batiola, and now by us
Their children, Sirs, albeit unworthy, call'd
A cup.


All.
      A cup, a cup, a cup of wine!
Well done, old Scio! hurrah! a cup of wine
Here for the doctor, oh! a cup of wine.


Enter a Stranger, who stands aside. A Burgher bows to him and speaks.


Burgher
(to Stranger).
A stranger?


Stranger.
           Yes.


Burgher.
                You come in good time, Sir;
Sir, you're a happy man, I give you joy, Sir;
Sir, these are times!—I take it, Sir, few men
Can gainsay that, Sir,—these are times, Sir, eh?


Stranger.
Sir, these are times.


Burgher
(pointing to Scio).
                      You take me, Sir, I see.
Now, Sir, behold that man. I say, Sir, mark him;
Now, Sir, you see a man, a man, Sir.


Stranger.
                                       Sir,
I see a man.


Burgher.
            Just my idea, Sir,—Sir,
I crave your further knowledge, we are friends—
Saints! how a patriot's eye—between ourselves—Sir,
A patriot's eye finds out the man of the age.


Stranger.
There is a nameless something——


Burgher.
                                   Sir, you have it;
My own idea, Sir, from a boy—a something
Indisputably something. Yes, a something
As one might say—to speak more plainly—something,
A something, Sir,—something in the set of the ear——
Many shout.
Scio—Doctor Scio—Silence! The Doctor! Silence!


Enter Lelio, a Student.


Lelio.
Here's news, friends!


Many.
                      How now, Lelio?


Lelio.
                                       Which man here
Tells the best tale?


Many.
                     I. I. I. I. I. I.


Lelio.
Nay, everybody! Write me up a nonsuch!
I can beat everybody. Heroes can
No more.


All.
        A challenge, lads; what ho! a ring,
A ring, a ring, a ring! Champion, step out!
A ring! a ring!


A Student.
                Go call thy daughter, hostess,
Here's that will make her honest.


Hostess.
                                   Sir?


Student.
                                        A ring.


All.
Now, Lelio, now, each man that beats thee wins
His bottle.


Lelio.
           Done. You know the fair Francesca,
Count Grassi's daughter?


All.
                         Are we Milanese?


Lelio.
Well——


One.
        Well?


Another.
             Well! Nay, if she's well, Lelio,
'Tis no such story!


Lelio.
                    Which man has not seen
Young Roderigo Rossi?


All.
                      Or the sun,
The moon—a star or two—the Duomo—well?


Lelio.
Young Rossi and a priest fell out last night.


Several.
A priest—a priest—a priest—


One.
                                My life upon it
The fellow knows my story.


Lelio.
                            On this quarrel,
Our gallant Cavaliero dooms his man
To die at day-break.


Many.
                     By the holy pope,
A foul deed—nay, a foul deed.


One
(aside).
                                Ne'erth less,
By heavens I'm glad on't. This is not my story.
My priest was a true patriot.


Lelio.
                               At midnight——
(Count Grassi's child hath a fair face)


Several.
                                          At midnight,
Count Grassi's child hath a fair face! Fie, Lelio;
Why what a traitor art thou!


Lelio.
                              Attend, I say!
Bold Rossi's lewdness is a proverb——


Several
(pour badiner).
                                         Hold,
Lelio, for pity—there are bachelors here—
We are not all companions in misfortune!
For pity, Lelio!


Lelio.
                 You that shout for pity,
If you be Pity's followers, do her now
Your best allegiance. Good friends, I, her quæstor,
Claim tribute from you. A few tears will pay it.
Listen. The young Francesca, at the price
Of her fair body, bought the captive's life;
The priest is free. Do not cry out. Young Rossi
Craved instant payment. She in her superb
High loveliness, whose every look enhanced
The ransom, sent him from her, glad to grant
Another maiden hour for prayer and tears.
Francesca wore a poniard. She is now
A maid for ever.


Hostess
(to one standing by).
                 How is that, Sir?


Student
(aside).
                                   Hush!
Dead!


Several.
     'Tis a woful story. Poor Francesca!


Scio.
Requiem æternam dona eis Domine!


Several.
Amen. Amen.


Hostess
(aside).
           Dead! 'tis against my conscience;
Dead! and the Signor Rossi! why a comelier
Walks not Milan. Dead—nay, I couldn't have done it!
Well, well, there be hard hearts that slight their blessings.
So comely a young man! The saints preserve me!
Nay, 'twas a sinful blindness.


Lelio.
                                How now, hostess,
Some wine, some wine; wine, wine.


Several.
                                   More wine; now, Lelio,
Who was this monk?—


Lelio.
                     Fill up your glasses, comrades,
Sorrow is thirsty fellowship—eh, hostess?


Several.
Lelio—now, Lelio—name, name, name!


Others.
                                       This priest,
This lady-killing priest!


Lelio
(to one).
                           Hast thou forgotten
A dance with Ginevrà at eve? A priest—


One
The same?


Lelio.
         The same.


One.
                   Vittorio Santo? speak!


Another.
Santo?


Another.
      Vittorio Santo?


Lelio.
                      What! Vicenzo
Barnabà! Ah Tomaseo! are ye also
Of Nazareth? Well done! tell you my story.


Many.
Lelio—hear Lelio—


Others.
                    Hear!


Lelio.
                         It was this Santo.
Dost thou mind, Giacchimo, how, deftly feigning
Sorrows about a grave, he won our ears
And prick'd us on to virtue with the sword
Of our own sympathies? With such shrewd warfare—
Proteus for transformation—Briareus
For head and hands—this strange campaigner carries
The fire and sword of his hot argument
From cot to palace, plain to mountain-top.
The merchant at his ledger, lifting eyes
Bloodshot with lack of sleep—for last night blew—
Sees him beside his desk at close of day,
And thinks the lamp burns dimmer, and believes
The untold loss already. The pale priest,
Opening his silent lips with such an omen
That the faint listener starts, relates how some
Great galleon, gallant on her homeward way—
A floating Ind, mann'd by the pride of Europe—
Storm'd by a scallop fleet of naked pirates,
Bestrews their savage shores, and makes each rock
Arabia. With keen eyes catching the throes
Of his now gasping auditor, the tale
Our stern tormentor fashions so astutely,
That each new fear, enduing, strains it to
Its several shape. Watching each rising hope,
He stings it mad with some especial horror,
And by a track of anguish feels his way
Straight to his victim's heart. In that worst moment
The messenger of doom assumes the angel!
Looks that evangelise, eyes that beam light
Into the soul, till every dead hope glitters
Like a crown'd corpse; a moment's shining silence,
Slow placid words that hurry to a torrent;
Then the gulf-stream of passion! high command,
Entreaty, reason, adjuration;—all
The martial attitudes of a grand soul.
The lavish wealth of infinite resource!
Diamonds thrown broad-cast for denaros!—ay,
That Argosy he spoke of, scatter'd on
The maddest waves of rushing rapid, surging
Headlong through foaming straits, above, below,
Tossing the wealth of kingdoms, hurtles not
With such tumultuous riches as the flood
Of his strange eloquence. And then the scared
And half-drown'd trader—lifting his blind thought
Above the waters, that with sudden ebb
Left him in silence—finds he is alone.
Of all the golden wreck, his struggling soul
Holds fast but this—Rome is that glorious galleon,
Now stranded and forlorn: her freight of honours
Strew'd up and down the world, purpling strange snows
And loading cold barbaric winds with incense.
That night, at home, the merchant tells his story,
Wherewith, still later, madam at her glass
Stirs sleepy Abigail. Sweet Abigail,
Still nearer midnight, garrulously coy,
'Twixt amorous Corydon and her warm charms,
Weaves the gauze meshes of the thrice-told tale.
Next morn on 'Change betimes the story stalks
By blind deaf faces, as a spirit might walk
Among the wooden gods of the sea-kings.
The hour of contract over,—the fierce edge
Of morning appetite now turn'd with gold—
Nature appeased, and the commercial soul
In jolly after-dinner complaisance
Relax'd and smiling,—prosperous ears attend
The merchant never weary of recounting.
'Insured, Sir?' 'I fear not.' 'Heyday, heyday,
A sorry venture!' Then the angry hum
Subsiding, all surround the man of facts.
Sage heads shook much that day. Municipal
Grave brains plagued with strange phantoms, never yet
Free of the city, in the sacred gloom
Of shades official, ached, and retched, and heaved,
To throw the incivic innovation off:
And in the pangs of labour crying out,
Betrayed the parentage. So this strange priest
Made his foes preach for him, till all Leghorn
Hung on his lips. With bold incessant presence
Whereto no shrine is sacred, no stern fastness
Strong, no offended majesty majestic,
No sinner excommunicate, no saint
Holy, no Dives rich, no Lazarus poor,
No human heart unworthy—this strange man—
This cowl'd evangelist, that Monk is not—
(For he preach'd yesterday that not a bare
Untempled spot, unblest, unconsecrate
On earth, but is sufficient sanctuary
For the best hour of the best life;—no cloud
In any heaven so dark that a good prayer
Cannot ascend,)—this polyglot of prophets,
Roams like a manifold infection, shedding
Through the sick souls of men the strange disease
Of his own spirit. Not an art or calling
Wherein men work'd in peace, but at his touch
Spreads the indefinite sorrow. In the field
Halting the team of early husbandman,
He chides him for the German weeds that choke
The Roman crop of glory; bids him seek
The plough of Cincinnatus, and bring forth
Into the sunshine of the age, that soil,
That old heroic soil whence patriots spring!
Hard by the wondering swain, sequester'd close
By summer elms and vines, the village forge
From cheerful anvil all the long day rings
The chimes of labour. Thence at winter night
Shines to the distant villager the star
Of home; to which the homeless wayfarer,
Trudging with fainting steps the storm-vex'd moor,
Turns hopeless eyes, as to the vestal fire
Of sweet impossible peace. Thereby the priest
Pausing, the sturdy smith suspends his stroke
Before the reverend stranger; who accepts
The homage with such liquidating grace
That the stunn'd peasant, unabsolved of duty,
Renews obeisance. Then the pale intruder
Striding some stool, with hand upon the bellows,
Moves the slack fire, and bids the work go on:
Cursing the slave who stoops for prince or priest
The dignity of toil. To the rough music
Setting strong words, he sends with easy skill
Wrongs, hopes, and duties trooping through the soul
Of the stout smith, and there on his own smithy
Blows the rough iron of his heart red-hot.
Seizing the magic time, with sudden hand
He stamps him to the quick;—'Patriot! the hour
Is come to beat our ploughshares into swords,
Our pruning hooks to spears!' The brand driven home,
The apostle vanishes, lest weaker words
Efface the sign.


A Student.
Lelio! dost thou remember——


Lelio.
I know thy thought,—the shopman of the
vale——


Student.
        Nay, Lelio——


Lelio.
                       Now I have it—the stout Tuscan,
With wain o'erloaded——


Student.
                         Not he——


Lelio.
                                    Ah! the maid
Who sang in German——


Student.
                       No——


Lelio.
                              Stay! she who wore
The cameo victory——


Student.
                      Now hear me, Lelio.
When he saw——


Lelio.
                What! when meeting country boys
With laurel and acanthus——


Student.
                              No! the saints!


Lelio.
True, true, the tale of the parch'd field beside
The aqueduct——


Student.
                 Wrong! Holy Mary!


Lelio.
                                   Well——


Student.
Peace, I say, Lelio!


Lelio.
                     Sometime hence, dear friend;
I am not weary. 'Twas of the round tower
Of Vesta, whence the epicurean Time,
Fresh from the feasts of Rome, took but the heart,
And all is there but the celestial flame
That consecrated all——


Student.
                         Have thine own way,
But were I Lelio——


Lelio.
                     Tut, I know thy story.
'Twas of the eve when, meeting by the way
An ancient pedagogue, whose thin, time-worn,
And reverend features (whereabout grey locks
Hung lank as weeds), great names went in and out,
Mournfully populous, like olden heroes
Haunting some Roman ruin; our fierce patriot——
Say I not well?


Student.
                Hast thou in truth forgotten
The village priest?


Lelio.
                    The priest? our priest says little
To alb and stole—whether from shrewd self-knowledge,
Or feeling that all tyrants are familiars,
And that those proud prætorians who subverted
The commonwealth of God would lord it over
An earthly heritage—therefore, good comrade,
Owe us thy tale.


Student.
                 One day——


Lelio.
                             One moment first,
('One day' can spare it). I shall ne'er forget,
When falling in upon a lone wild road
With a fat monk, our patriot, for sheer lack
Of occupation, challenges a war
Of words. Good saints! a firework by a fountain!
A schoolboy's freak played out with cannon balls
And rotten apples! As our Santo's lightnings
Through the thick haze of t'other's sanctity
Singed brow and beard, heavens! how the reverend eyes
(Wrestling with wrinkles and siesta-time)
Did struggle to a stare. And the good man,
Heaving his flesh, buzzed like a portly fly
In thundery weather; our relentless Santo
At parting gives him for to-morrow's text
The whip of knotted cords that cleansed the temple.
'Preach, priest,' he cries, 'that from these sacred bounds,
This outraged temple Italy, each Roman
Scourge those that sell the sacrilegious doves
Of perjured peace. O'erturn, o'erturn,' he cries,
'The tables of those German money-changers,
That make this house of prayer a den of thieves.'
Assaulting thus with rude declaim those ears
Dull with the gentle lowings of fat kine
And soft excitements of refectory-bell,
Our Santo leaves him, ere the saint disturb'd,
In doubt of man or demon, could revolve
Upon his axis.


All.
              Ah, ah! Well done, Lelio!


Lelio.
Our friar on this——


One.
                      Why the saints smite thee, Lelio!
Now, Lelio!—Eh? nay, Sirs, as I'm alive
This was my story!


Another.
                   Give thee joy of it,
Old Giacco, 'twas a sorry tale, now mine——


Lelio.
Friends! we grow solemn. Wine, I say. A song,
A song.


One.
       Ay, something loyal——


Lelio.
                                Worthy friends,
We should do well to purify the air
Whereof these tales were made; forced by our lips
Into unwilling treason.


One.
                        Lelio!


Another.
                               Shame!


Lelio.
Therefore, my merry boys, I vote a ditty,
A well-affected ditty—nay, some say
'Twas writ by Metternich and Del Caretto,
At Schoenbrun after dinner. Nay, no groans!
Sweet friends, no groans! Nay, hear me, friends.


Shouts from many.
Down with him!


Lelio.
No Carbonaro——


Many.
                 Down with him!


Lelio.
                                I call it
The triple crown, or the three jolly kings,
The Devil——


Some.
             Hear!


Some.
                   Hurrah!


Lelio.
                           The Devil——


All.
                                         Hurrah!


Lelio.
The Pope and the Kaiser.


All.
                         Hurrah! Lelio! Lelio!
True to the backbone still! Up with him, boys!
Chair him! a hall! a hall! now, Lelio, now!
Shout cheerly, man—here's thunder for a chorus!


SCENE VI.
A Plain. A Cottage.
The Monk (Vittorio Santo). Two Children (a Boy and Girl). Their Father and Mother (both young) sit at the cottage door. The Monk draws near.


The Monk
(aside).
This is the spot. From hence my eye unseen
Commands their cottage. Hither have I fared
Five times at this same hour, and five times learn'd
To love my nature better. Here I stood,
And felt, when passing gales in snatches bore me
Their evening talk, as if some wayward child
Had pelted me with flowers. She is a poet,
Or in or out of metre. Rome must have her.
A mother too, 'tis well; then there is one thing
The poet will serve. Ah! art thou forth to-day,
Thou little tyrant, that shalt rule for me?
My faith! a lovely boy! holy St. Mary!
Hark how he carols out his royalty,
And, born a sovereign, rules and knows it not.
The father must be mine too; he hath bone
And sinew, and—if the eye's gauge deceive not—
A soul as brawny. Heavy deeds demand
Such carriers. I will win or lose this night.
Let me draw near.


[The Children are sporting. The Girl hides among myrtles, and sings.


Girl.
Whither wingest thou, wingest thou, winny wind;
Where, winny wind, where, oh where?


Boy
(singing).
My sister, my sister, I flit forth to find,
My sister, my sister, the orange-flow'r fair!


Girl.
Since thy songs thy soft sister seek,
What wouldst with her? say, oh say.


Boy.
Oh, to pat her pearl-white cheek,
And court her with kisses all day!


[The Child bursts from her hiding place, and the Children chase each other over the plain.


The Mother.
Husband! the music in my soul would chord
Most sweetly with thy voice. Take down thy lute.


The Father.
Nay, Lila; bid me not do violence
To this calm sunset. List that golden laughter,
Hark to our children! There is music like
The hour. From each to each the heart can pass,
And know no change.


The Mother.
Sing me a song about them,
Kind husband. Sing that song I made for thee,
When once, on a sweet eve like this, we watch'd
As now our joyous babes—I blessing them,
Thou marvelling, with show of merry jest,
How they could be so fair.


The Father.
                            Even as thou wilt,
Dear Lila. If the spirit of these moments
Deem my voice sacrilege, let him forgive
The singer for the poet.


He sings.


Oh, Lila! round our early love,
What voices went—in days of old!
Some sleep, and some are heard above,
And some are here—but changed and cold!


What lights they were that lit the eyes
That never may again be bright!
Some shine where stars are dim; and some
Have gone like meteors down the night.


I marvell'd not to see them beam,
Or hear their music round our way;
A part of life they used to seem,
But these—oh whence are they?


Ear hath not heard the tones they bring,
Lip hath not named their name,
Like primroses around the spring,
Each after each they came.


I should not wonder, love, to see
In dreams of elder day,
The forms of things that used to be,
But these—oh whence are they?


Dost thou remember when the days
Were all too short for love and me,
And we roam'd forth at eve in rays
Of mingled light from heaven and thee?


One gentle sign so often beam'd
Upon us with such favouring eyes,
That every vow we plighted seem'd
A secret holden with the skies.


Now sometimes, in strange phantasy,
I think, if stars could leave their sphere,
And won by the dear love of thee,
Renew the constellation here,


And shine here with the tender light
That glinted through the olden trees,
They would come silently and bright,
And one by one, like these.


How can a joy so pure and free
Have sprung from tears and cares?
I have no beauty—and for thee,
Thou hast no mirth like theirs.


Yet with strange right each takes his rest,
Even when he will, on thy fair breast,
 Nor doubts nor fears nor prays.
The daisy smiling on the lea
Comes not with kindlier trust to be
 eloved of April days.


I look into their laughing eyes,
They cannot have more light than thine—
But treasured by ten thousand ties,
Mine own I know thee, Lila mine.


Wistful I gaze on them and say,—
Fond, checking with a doubtful sigh
The pride that swells, I know not why—
These, these, oh whence are they?


[The Monk draws near.


The Father.
Lila! the same pale priest we saw last eve!


The Mother.
Good husband, bid him here. The dust of travel
Tells that his way was weary. Holy Sir,
Will't please you sit with us? The herds are milk'd.
Our bread is brown, but honest.


The Monk.
                                 Do not ask me.
Are you not happy?


The Wife.
                   Happy! reverend father?
We thank God, and say yes. This day five years
One whom I saw for the first time, through tears,
Came with the flowers. When they began to fade
How my heart sicken'd! But God call'd him not
With them. And though the snows of winter came
He stayed, and held enough of summer with him
To fill my house. Should I not be most happy?
Look on my boy, my merry one! Good father,
Which of the angels do they miss in heaven?
Ofttimes at mass I press him close, and tremble
To the sweet voices, lest at 'in excelsis';
He should remember, and go back.


The Monk.
                                  Oh mother,
That art, and art not, kind! 'Tis a brave boy.


The Mother.
And then he is so gentle and so fond,
And prattles to me sometimes in strange wisdom,
And asks of me in such sweet ignorance,
That teaching him I weep; oft, oft, for joy,
But oft for very grief, that each task leaves
One tiny question less.


The Monk.
                        'Tis a sweet child.


The Father.
Sir Priest, thou knowest well how poor an image
A mother's love will idolize; but this
Dear boy hath put a woman's heart in me,
He is so good, so dutiful—


The Mother.
                             And yet
When he kneels by me at his innocent prayer,
Oft I look down and feel that I have need
To learn of him.


The Monk.
                 Let me bless him.


The Father.
                                   My son,
The priest would bless thee on thy birth-day; boy,
Come bend thee at his knee.


The Monk.
                             Thou little child,
Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope—thou bright,
Pure dwelling where two fond hearts keep their gladness—
Thou little potentate of love, who comest
With solemn sweet dominion to the old,
Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged
With the grave embassage of that dear past,
When they were young like thee—thou vindication
Of God—thou living witness against all men
Who have been babes—thou everlasting promise
Which no man keeps—thou portrait of our nature,
Which in despair and pride we scorn and worship—
Thou household-god, whom no iconoclast
Hath broken,—if I knew a parent's joys,
If I were proud and full of great ambitions,
Had haughty limbs that chafed at ill-borne chains,
If I had known a tyrant's scorn and felt
That vengeance though bequeathed is still revenge,
I would pray God to give me such a son!
Therefore, thou little one, mayst thou sleep well
This night: and, for thy waking, may it be
Where there are neither kings nor slaves. Of all
Thy playmates, mayst thou be the first to die—


The Mother shrieks.
Ah! holy father!


The Monk.
                 Smitten in the bud
Mayst thou fade on the stalk that had no thorns
To save thee from the spoiler—mayst thou—


The Mother.
                                              Mercy!


The Father.
Fiend! murderer!


The Monk.
                 Did you not bid me bless him?


The Mother.
My boy! my happy one! my brighteyed babe!


The Father.
Thou hooded demon! thou hell-priest!


The Monk.
                                       Be patient.
I will take off the blessing; but hear me,
And you shall bid me pray for it again.


The Mother.
Blessing? 'Tis blessing to behold him smile
With his bright, innocent, unconscious eyes,
Which thou wouldst close for ever!


The Monk.
                                    Is that blessing?
Too happy mother! how thou lov'st to weep!
Come hither, child. Nay, daughter, tremble not!
He is a Roman, and can fear no man—
A child, and dreads not death.


                                'Tis the purblind
Dim sense of after years that makes our monsters.
The earth hath none to children and to angels.
Eyes weak with vigil, sear'd with scalding tears,
Betray us, and we start at death and phantoms
Because they are pale. And the still-groping heart
Incredulous by over much believing—
Walking by sight dreads the unknown, and clings
Even to familiar sorrow, and loves more
The seen earth than the unseen God.


                                      Ay, bright one,
Climb near the lips that speak of death. The word
Falls on the sunshine of thy face and casts
No shadow. Thou dost play among the flowers
Morning and even, and the selfsame wind
Fosters and scatters them. Why shouldst thou fear?
Twine thy young arms, thou little budding vine,
Round the old barren oak; 'tis sweet to love thee,
Too sweet. I look upon thy brow of promise,
And see it in the future like some cloud
Uprising from the distant hills, that seemeth
To bear up heaven. This may do more. Contain it.
Contain it and the things which heaven an