Rome.—A Lady’s Apartment, with a Window Open and Looking into A, Garden. Lalage, in Deep Mourning, Reading at a Table on Which Lie, Some Books and a Hand Mirror. In the Background Jacinta (A Servant, Maid) Leans Carelessly upon a Chair

JACINTAYes, Ma’am, I’m here.

LALAGE.I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.Sit down!—let not my presence trouble you—Sit down!—for I am humble, most humble.

chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding hermistress with a contemptuous look. LALAGEcontinues to read.

LALAGE.“It in another climate, so he said,Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”

“No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower—But Ocean ever to refresh mankindBreathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.”Oh, beautiful!—most beautiful!—how likeTo what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!O happy land! [Pauses.] She died!—the maiden died!O still more happy maiden who couldst die!Jacinta!

Again!—a similar taleTold of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play—“She died full young”—one Bossola answers him—“I think not so—her infelicitySeemed to have years too many”—Ah luckless lady!Jacinta!

Here’s a far sterner story,But like—oh, very like in its despair—Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easilyA thousand hearts—losing at length her own.She died. Thus endeth the history—and her maidsLean over her and weep—two gentle maidsWith gentle names—Eiros and Charmion!Rainbow and Dove!——Jacinta!

JACINTAMadam, what is it?

LALAGE.Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kindAs go down in the library and bring meThe Holy Evangelists?

JACINTA.Pshaw!

LALAGE.If there be balmFor the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there!Dew in the night-time of my bitter troubleWill there be found—“dew sweeter far than thatWhich hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”

JACINTA.There, Ma’am, ’s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.

LALAGEWhat didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aughtTo grieve thee or to vex thee?—I am sorry.For thou hast served me long, and ever beenTrustworthy and respectful.

JACINTA.I can’t believeShe has any more jewels—no—no—she gave me all. [Aside.

LALAGE.What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink meThou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.How fares good Ugo?—and when is it to be?Can I do aught?—is there no farther aidThou needest, Jacinta?

JACINTA.Is there no farther aid!That’s meant for me. [Aside.] I’m sure, Madam, you need notBe always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

LALAGE.Jewels! Jacinta,—now indeed, Jacinta,I thought not of the jewels.

JACINTA.Oh! perhaps not!But then I might have sworn it. After all,There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,For he’s sure the Count Castiglione neverWould have given a real diamond to such as you;And at the best I’m certain, Madam, you cannotHave use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it. [Exit.

LALAGE.Poor Lalage!—and is it come to this?Thy servant maid!—but courage!—’tis but a viperWhom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!Ha! here at least’s a friend—too much a friendIn earlier days—a friend will not deceive thee.Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)A tale—a pretty tale—and heed thou notThough it be rife with woe. It answers me.It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,And Beauty long deceased—remembers meOf Joy departed—Hope, the Seraph Hope,Inurned and entombed!—now, in a toneLow, sad, and solemn, but most audible,Whispers of early grave untimely yawningFor ruined maid. Fair mirror and true!—thou liest not!Thou hast no end to gain—no heart to break—Castiglione lied who said he loved——Thou true—he false!—false!—false!

MONK.Refuge thou hast,Sweet daughter! in Heaven. Think of eternal things;Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

LALAGEI cannot pray!—My soul is at war with God!The frightful sounds of merriment belowDisturb my senses—go! I cannot pray—The sweet airs from the garden worry me!Thy presence grieves me—go!—thy priestly raimentFills me with dread—thy ebony crucifixWith horror and awe!

MONK.Think of thy precious soul!

LALAGE.Think of my early days!—think of my fatherAnd mother in heaven! think of our quiet home,And the rivulet that ran before the door!Think of my little sisters!—think of them!And think of me!—think of my trusting loveAnd confidence—his vows—my ruin—think—thinkOf my unspeakable misery!—begone!Yet stay! yet stay!—what was it thou saidst of prayerAnd penitence? Didst thou not speak of faithAnd vows before the Throne?

MONK.I did.

LALAGE.’Tis well.There is a vow were fitting should be made—A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,A solemn vow!

MONK.Daughter, this zeal is well!

LALAGE.Father, this zeal is anything but well!Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?A crucifix whereon to registerThis sacred vow?Not that—Oh! no!—no!—no!

Not that! Not that!—I tell thee, holy man,Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,—I have a crucifix! Methinks ’twere fittingThe deed—the vow—the symbol of the deed—And the deed’s register should tally, father!Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mineIs written in heaven!

Thy words are madness, daughter,And speak a purpose unholy—thy lips are livid—Thine eyes are wild—tempt not the wrath divine!Pause ere too late!—oh be not—be not rash!Swear not the oath—oh swear it not!