The same as Scene the first.

Enter E LVIRA .

He parted strangely from me. His black brow
Lower'd like the gathering tempest; and his eye,
In hate or scorn averted, would not deign
One passing glance on me. Can he prove false?
Can all my dark forebodings come to pass?
Yet wherefore should I doubt him? wherefore write
Thus painfully on memory's tablet one
Cold act of grief or haste, while all his love,
All his kind words, and all his generous deeds,
I bury in oblivion. But, alas!
'Tis ever so — for on the sands of life
Sorrow treads heavily, and leaves a print
Time cannot wash away; while Joy trips by,
With step so light and soft, that the next wave
Wears his faint footfalls out. Be hush'd, be hush'd,
My dark misgiving spirit. Well I know
His constant, fervent, and unchanging love —
Like the sweet water-lily, a rude breath
May shake its leaves a moment, but its root
Is far too deep for storms. But here he comes —

Enter J ULIO .

And he seems calmer now. Pray Heaven, it be not
The slumbering of the storm to wake more wildly,
And blast whate'er it breathes on. Dearest Julio,
How pale and wan you look! — What ails my lord,
To turn thus sadly from me?
Jul. Sorrow, sorrow —
Untamed — untameable — undying sorrow!
Elv. Then thou shalt rest in my arms thus, my Julio;
And, as 'tis said reptiles obscene avoid
The sweetness of the rose, or perish near it,
So will I kill the monster sorrow with
My innocent kisses. Wherefore start'st thou thus?
Why dost thou shrink from the embrace of her,
Thy own — thy best beloved — thy wife?
Jul. My wife!
Away, away! — there's guilt in this embrace,
And every burning kiss adds one link more
To the strong chain that fastens round my soul,
And drags it to perdition.
Elv. Ah! so cold!
Gave I my virgin heart for this? — a flower
Mean and perchance unworthy, yet 'twas spotless,
And did not merit to be trampled on
Thus scornfully. Oh Julio, though you loved not,
You might have spared.
Jul. Not loved thee, my Elvira!
That I do love thee, witness these salt tears, —
This worn and haggard brow, — this fever'd pulse, —
Witness this heavy heart, that only tarries
Till its own weight has sunk itself a grave
Of depth enough to hide it. Hast thou pray'd?
Elv. Pray'd, Julio! when?
Jul. To-night, Elvira.
Elv. Nay,
The hour of prayer has not arrived.
Jul. 'Tis folly,
'Tis madness, thus in men to regulate.
By times and tides the offices of prayer,
When every spot we tread on is a grave,
Each breath we draw tainted with charnel vapours,
And every sun that shines serves but to ripen
The seeds of death within us. Ah! Elvira,
While thou art twisting those bright auburn locks,
See, they are turning grey, and this fair hand,
So soft and delicate, while thus I press it,
Is mouldering in corruption.
Elv. His brain wanders!
True, it behoves us all to keep the soul
Hallow'd by frequent prayer; for true prayer opens
The chambers of the heart, for heaven's own breath
To breathe upon the purify. It is
A holy flame, which, kept well-fed, will burn
So bright, that even death's dark cave shall seem
A path of shining glory.
Jul. Then pray, Elvira.
Life is uncertain, and the wheels of time
Crush more than those whose aged limbs refuse
To hurry them before him. I knew one —
Oh! she was fair, fairer than tongue can tell
Or fancy picture! She had just arrived
At life's best season; when the world seems all
One land of promise; when Hope, like the lark,
Sings to the unrisen sun, and Time's dread scythe
Is polish'd to a bright and flattering mirror,
Where youth and beauty view their growing image,
And wanton with the edge. Then her heart whisper'd
All youth's unutterable bliss, and counted
Long years of happiness and health. 'Twas false —
Care did not waste her, nor did sickness blanch
Her cheek untimely; yet the self-same sun
Which rose on her, the happiest in his sphere,
Ere he had finished his diurnal round
Saw her a bleeding corse. Pray, pray, Elvira,
And ask those heavenly powers, who never turn
A deaf ear to the prayer of faith, to fit thee
For sudden death.
Elv. Why, what is this, my Julio?
Why jest thus cruelly with one, whose heart
Loves thee so well?
Jul. Elvira, look on me —
And say, if there's a feature here betokens
A jesting spirit. Fitter for me to dance
Upon my father's grave, or lift this finger
In mad derision, when the angry heavens
Deal their red bolts around, than now to wear
A mirthful brow. Then, for the love of heaven,
Cast every lighter thought aside, and be
As though this spot thou stand'st on were thy grave,
These robes thy cere-clothes, yon wan waning stars
Torches that light thy funeral, and I —
Deem me some solemn messenger to men,
To teach them, by a fearful providence,
That youth is but the triumph of an hour,
And beauty, dust and ashes.
Elv. Ah! methinks
I read thy meaning now. Yet can it be?
What is this awful message, Julio? what
Imports it me?
Jul. Death! Is thy soul prepared?
Elv. For death it is, but not a death like that
I read in thy wild eyes. Oh, pity! spare me!
If thy heart is not turn'd all marble, spare me!
Or say, what is my crime? why must I die?
Jul. I will not shock thy chaste ears with the cause
Which dooms thee to the grave — yet thou must die —
Not by the hand of hatred or revenge,
But, like the tree round which the ivy clasps,
Whose fond embrace is fatal.
Elv. Righteous Heaven!
Receive my spirit, pity, pardon him!
Jul. She's gone, she's gone, and cannot be recall'd;
Nor would I, though my heart is bleeding, wish her
Return'd to stanch its wounds. Forgive this weakness,
All-pitying Heaven! these kisses sure are chaste —
All sinless now our love, pure as th' affections
Of disembodied spirits. Soul to soul,
We'll meet and mingle soon.

Enter M ATILDA , A SPATIA , and Attendants .

Mat. 'Tis the hour at which
He bade me meet him. Ha! what is't I see?
Asp. Oh! sight of misery — my mistress murder'd!
Mat. Thou rash, unthinking boy, what hast thou done?
Jul. Her spirit was a thing to bless and worship,
Shrined in a temple of the fairest clay
The hand of God e'er moulded. But the breath
Of rank pollution dimm'd its purity —
The glory was departed. What remain'd,
But of the violated shrine to make
A memorable ruin?
Mat. Thou art uttering
Dark riddles in my ear.
Jul. She was my wife —
My sister! — Read the sequel in her blood.
Mat. Thy wife!
Oh misery! Hadst thou but breathed
The fatal secret in my ear, this crime
Had ne'er been perpetrated. All was false!
And I but framed the hideous tale to save thee
From this degenerate union.
Jul. Nay, nay, mother;
Surely the covering sky ne'er canopied
A wretch so foul. I pray, unsay thy words: —
Thou would'st not have me curse thee?
Mat. Oh, forgive me. —
Pity me! — 'tis the truth I utter now.
Jul. Then thou'st o'erturn'd the fairest fabric which
The fond idolatry of man e'er rear'd
Sacred to love and joy. Inhuman parent!
The wild bird of the desert wounds itself,
To save its young; the tigress' savage breasts,
That pant for cruelty and blood, yield food
As sweet as charity to the loved offspring
Of her own womb; nay, senseless things, stocks, stones,
Even the warring elements, have a touch
Of tenderness beyond thee: the world shows
Nought thou resemblest, save that poisonous tree,
Which rains a withering dew upon the fruit
Itself has borne.
Mat. Thy sufferings, Julio,
Equal not mine.
Jul. Ah! what have I to do
With life, or its resentments? I am fleeting.
Oh! lay me by Elvira. Let no stone
Tell our sad tale, no sweet flowers bloom about
Our resting-place; but plant it round with ivy,
Which kills the thing it loves; with baneful hemlock,
Whence the same sun, that from all other plants
Draws blessedness and fragrance, can exhale
Nothing but poison; and sad rosemary,
Mocking the winter of the year with perfumes,
Which the first blast that blows will ravish from it,
And waste midst howling tempests.
Mat. Ah! he falls.
Support him — see, his feeble frame scarce holds
His throbbing heart. Oh, Heaven! how fearfully
The soul seems battering down its walls of clay!
Lean thy head here, my son. Alas! alas!
The dew of death is on his brow. His lips
Are moving still, yet yield no audible speech.
If thou hast breath to utter " I forgive thee, "
Speak! He replies not: o'er his bright blue eye
Dark mists are gathering, yet I may, perchance,
Read even there my pardon. Ah! it closes.