Classic Poem

Ber. What fools are serious melancholy villains!
I play a surer game, and screen my heart
With easy looks and undesigning smiles;
And while my plots still spring from sober thought,
My deeds appear the effect of wild caprice,
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.
What but this frankness could have won the promise
Of young Orlando, to confide to me
That secret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy
To seem too good; I am the careless Bertrand,
The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.
The follies I avow cloak those I hide,
For who will search where nothing seems conceal'd?
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour,
Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow
Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire
Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap
'Twixt me and fortune;—Rivers, how I hate thee!

How fares my noble uncle?
  Guild. Honest Bertrand!
I must complain we have so seldom met:
Where do you keep? believe me, we have miss'd you.
  Ber. O, my good lord! your pardon—spare me, sir,
For there are follies in a young man's life,
And idle thoughtless hours which I should blush
To lay before your wise and temperate age.
  Guild. Well, be it so—youth has a privilege,
And I should be asham'd could I forget
I have myself been young, and harshly chide
This not ungraceful gaiety. Yes, Bertrand,
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes
A rigid inquisition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time
Has shower'd his snow, are then more pardonable,
And age has many a weakness of its own.
  Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild reproof,
Correct the wanderings of misguided youth,
More than rebuke can shame me into virtue.
  Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the lady Julia?
  Ber. She pass'd this way, and with her your fair daughter,
Your Emmelina.
  Guild. Call them both my daughters;
For scarce is Emmelina more beloved
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.
The hour approaches too, (and, bless it Heaven,
With thy benignest, kindliest influence!)
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.
  Ber. Oft have I wondered how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirmed his claim to Julin.
  Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wished to see our ancient houses joined
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
And if he from the field returned a conqueror,
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.
  Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early valour.
  Guild. E'er since the Italian Count, the young Orlando,
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his generous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.
  Ber. Orlando's noble.
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour most romantic, with such graces
As charm all womankind.
  Guild. And here comes one,
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.
  Ber. What, your charming daughter!
Yes, I suspect she loves the Italian Count:
That must not be. Now to observe her closely.

  Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we were speaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accomplished stranger?
  Em. Of Orlando?
Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend,
I do esteem the Count.
  Guild. Nay, he has merit
Might justify thy friendship, if he wanted
The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to blame him.
  Em. What has he done? How has he wroug'd my father?
For you are just, and are not angry lightly;
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.
  Guild. Nay, 'tis not much:
But why does young Orlando shun my presence?
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit
Which lately charmed us all? Rivers will chide us,
Should he return and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What says my child?
  Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend arrived—
Be still, my heart—
  Ber. She dares not use his name.
Her brother's friend!
  Em. When first your noble guest
Came from that voyage, he kindly undertook
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety,
When we believ'd him dead; he seem'd most happy,
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave.
Of late he is less gay; my brother's absence
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose:
Nor is it strange; one mind informs them both;
Each is the very soul that warms the other,
And both are wretched or are bless'd together.
  Ber. Why trembles my fair cousin?
  Em. Can I think
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger,
Nor feel a strong emotion?
  Ber. Generous pity!
But when that danger has so long been past,
You should forget your terrors.
  Em. I shall never;
For when I think that danger sprung from friendship;
That Rivers, to preserve another's life,
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises.
  Ber. And why another's life? Why not Orlando's?
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom.
  Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thoughtless Bertrand,
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice.
  Ber. Stay, my fair cousin! still with adverse eyes
Am I beheld? Had I Orlando's form,
I mean, were I like him your brother's friend ,
Then would your looks be turned thus coldly on me?
  Em. But that I know your levity means nothing,
And that your heart accords not with your tongue,
This would offend me.
  Ber. Come, confess the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover,
Has won your easy heart, and given you his:
I know the whole; I'm of his secret council;
He has confess'd—
  Em. Ha! what has he confess'd?
  Ber. That you are wondrous fair: nay, nothing farther:
How disappointment fires her angry check!
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it,
Your eyes are honest, nor conceal the secret.
  Em. Know, sir, that virtue no concealment needs:
So far from dreading, she solicits notice,
And wishes every secret thought she harbours,
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to Heaven.
  Ber. Yet mark me well: trust not Orlando's truth;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of Florence;
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart
Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue;
He laughs at tales of British constancy.
But see, Orlando comes—he seeks you here.
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale cheeks,
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire,
And all the careless equipage of love,
He bends this way. Why does the mounting blood
Thus crimson your fair cheek? He does not see us;
I'll venture to disturb his meditations,
And instantly return.
  Em. No more; but leave me.
He's talkative but harmless, rude but honest;
Fuller of mirth than mischief. See they meet—
This way they come; why am I thus alarm'd?
What is't to me that here Orlando comes?
Oh for a little portion of that art
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart
Is so unknowing of dissimulation,
So little skill'd to seem the thing it is not
That if my lips are mute, my looks betray me.

  Ber. Now to alarm her heart, and search out his.
  Or. We crave your pardon, beauteous Emmelina,
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts;
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels' wishes,
And gentle as the breast from which they spring.
  Em. Be still, my heart, nor let him see thy weakness.
We are much bound to thank you, cousin Bertrand,
That since your late return, the Count Orlando
Appears once more among us. Say, my lord,
Why have you shunn'd your friends' society?
Was it well done? My father bade me chide you;
I am not made for chiding, but he bade me;
He says, no more you rise at early dawn
With him to chase the boar: I pleaded for you;
Told him 'twas savage sport.
  Or. What was his answer?
  Em. He said 'twas sport for heroes, and made heroes;
That hunting was the very school of war,
Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields,
Preserv'd 'em from the rust of dull inaction,
Train'd 'em for arms, and fitted them for conquest.
  Or. O, my fair advocate! scarce can I grieve
To have done wrong, since my offence has gain'd
So sweet a pleader.
  Ber. So, I like this well;
Full of respect, but cold.
  Em. My lord, your pardon;
My father waits my coming; I attend him.
  Ber. In truth, my lord, you're a right happy man;
Her parting look proclaims that you are blest;
The crimson blushes on her check display'd
A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love:
Discretion strove to dash the rising joy,
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale.
My lord, you answer not.
  Or. What shall I say?
Oh, couldst thou read my heart!
  Ber. The hour is come
When my impatient friendship claims that trust
Which I so oft have press'd, and you have promis'd.
  Or. I cannot tell thee: 'tis a tale of guilt;
How shall I speak? my resolution sickens;
All virtuous men will shun me, thou wilt scorn me,
And fly the foul contagion of my crime.
  Ber. My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh prudence
Which would reproach thy failings: tell me all;
The proudest heart loves to repose its faults
Upon a breast that has itself a tincture
Of human weakness: I have frailties too,
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine.
What! silent still? Thou lov'st my beauteous cousin!
Have I not guess'd?
  Or. I own that she has charms
Might warm a frozen stoic into love,
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world
They had renounc'd, and make religious men
Forgetful of their holy vows to Heaven:
Yes, Bertrand—come, I'll tell thee all my weakness;
Thou hast a tender sympathizing heart—
Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects.
That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold
As marbia images of lifeless saints;
I see, and know the workmanship divine;
My judgment owns her exquisite perfections,
But my rebellious heart denies her claim.
  Ber. What do I hear! you love her not!
  Or. Oh! Bertrand!
For pity do not hate me; but thou must,
For am I not at variance with myself?
Yet shall I wrong her gentle trusting nature,
And spurn the heart I labour'd to obtain?
She loves me, Bertrand: oh! too sure she loves me:
Loves me with tenderest, truest, chastest passion;
Loves me, oh barb'rous fate! as I love—Julia.
  Ber. Heard I aright? Did you not speak of Julia?
Julia, the lovely ward of my good uncle?
Julia! the mistress of your friend, of Rivers?
  Or. Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt;
Display my crime in all its native blackness;
Tell me some legend of infernal falsehood,
Tell me some dreadful tale of perjur'd friends,
Of trust betray'd, of innocence deceiv'd:
Place the dire chronicle before my eyes;
Inflame the horror, aggravate the guilt:
That I may see the evils which await me,
Nor pull such fatal mischiefs on my head,
As with my ruin must involve the fate
Of all I love on earth.
  Ber. Just us I wish.
  Or. Thou know'st I left my native Italy,
Directed hither by the noble Rivers,
To ease his father's fears, who thought he fell
In that engagement where we both were wounded.
His was a glorious wound, gain'd in the cause
Of gen'rous friendship: for an hostile spear,
Aim'd at my breast, Rivers in his receiv'd,
Sav'd my devoted life, and won my soul.
  Ber. So far I knew; but what of Emmelina?
  Or. Whether her gentle beauties first allur'd me,
Or whether peaceful scenes and rural shades,
Or leisure, or the want of other objects,
Or solitude apt to engender love,
Engag'd my soul, I know not; but I lov'd her.
We were together always, till the habit
Grew into something like necessity.
When Emmelina left me I was sad,
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came;
Her soft society amus'd my mind,
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my soul:
'Twas gratitude, 'twas friendship, 'twas esteem,
'Twas reason, 'twas persuasion,—nay, 'twas love.
  Ber. But where was Julia?
  Or. Oh! too soon she came;
For when I saw that wondrous form of beauty,
I stood entranced, like some astronomer,
Who, as he views the bright expanse of heaven,
Finds a new star. I gaz'd, and was undone;
Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina,
Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, trusting Rivers,
Forgot my faith, my friendship, and my honour.
  Ber. Does Julia know your love?
  Or. Forbid it, Heaven!
What! think'st thou I am so far gone in guilt
As boldly to avow it? Bertrand, no;
For all the kingdoms of the spacious earth,
I would not wrong my friend, or damn my honour.
  Ber. Trust me, you think too hardly of yourself.
  Or. Think I have lodg'd a secret in thy breast
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends;
Long have I struggled with the fatal truth,
And scarce have dar'd to breathe it to myself:
For, oh! too surely the first downward step,
The treacherous path that leads to guilty deeds,
Is to make sin familiar to the thoughts.
  Ber. Am I awake? No: 'tis delusion all!
My wildest wishes never soar'd to this;
Fortune anticipates my plot: he loves her.
Loves just whom I would have him love—loves Julia!
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will;
Poor puppet! thou hast trusted to my hand
The strings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin,
And make thee too the instrument of vengeance,
Of glorious vengeance on the man I hate.