The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby Part 20

What bearest thou, with such o'er-vigilant watch, In that fair bosom?

HERMIONE.

Marry, my heart; what more?

ZORAYDA.

'Tis then but late return'd: the truant once Had left its home--what served thee in its place, Knowest thou yet, gentle dame?

HERMIONE.

I note thy craft: Thou busiest me with questions, hoping thus To catch unheeded words for thine advantage-- I answer nothing.

ZORAYDA.

None I crave, fair maiden.

An empty billet is but poor exchange For the heart's losing!

HERMIONE.

How--a billet! Where?

ZORAYDA.

In that bright bosom, lady. Search it well-- And yet a thing of nought: 'tis but a form, An every-day express of custom'd greeting, But as a precious relic thou dost wear it; And 'tis to thee a coveted possession Of more esteem than the sun-ripen'd gems Golconda bears!

HERMIONE.

Is this my unveil'd thought?

Not thus I'm fool'd. Perchance thy cunning eye, For ever on the watch, hath spied this billet.

'Tis here. What more knowest thou?

ZORAYDA.

Reserve thy scorn, 'Twill soon give place----Hark! [_Distant music._ Ah! start not thus.--Why that frail shudder?

Yon guest within the chamber of thine ear Ere this hath had sweet audience. But come, My pretty spirit, hither speed, and frame Thine uncorporeal organ to the sound Of bodily voice.--[_Music approaches._]--Hark, lady!--ever knew Your ear aforetime yon wild melody?

SONG.

Lady, list to me, Thy gentle spirit I'll be; The fire is my garment, the flood is my bed, And I paint the first cloud with the sunbeam red That rolls o'er the broad blue sea.

Lady, list to me; To the mountain top I flee, There I watch the first wave that comes laden with light, And its soft hue I spread o'er each billow so bright; With its beam I enkindle each heaven-peering height, And the morn's radiant canopy.

HERMIONE.

Mysterious being, say from whence that voice!

But once--and on such feverish perception, The sound did strike, I thought some air-form'd vision, Some fantasy, hot from the teeming brain, Imposed unreal conceptions on mine ear, To which sense held no cognizance. Say where, Thou awful visitor!

ZORAYDA.

'Twas on the terrace, when the charmed moon Hung o'er the trembling stream. And thinkest thou Spirits have not such utterance?--Oft unseen, Upon the viewless air, strange visions float, And voices people the unfetter'd blast, Vouchsafed not save to those who reverence And bow to their high bidding. Now--they speak!

HERMIONE.

And to what import?

ZORAYDA.

Thus the mystic chant.

When the proud eagle Sighs to the dove, And his dark wing spreads o'er her While fluttering with love:

That eagle's bright crest, And that dove's timid eye, Are quench'd in the storm That rolls recklessly by!

That storm the proud eagle Hath swept from his nest: But where is the dove Shelter'd once in his breast?

She clings to his plume, But in death they shall sever; The eagle and dove They have perish'd for ever!

HERMIONE.

The eagle?--Mantua's crest!--But who the dove?

ZORAYDA.

Tempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue If thou break silence!

The spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing Shapes not its voice to aught articulate That human utterance owns. Again--speak not-- 'Twas thus he sang:

A sprite in the moon-beam, A mote in the sun, I dive in the smooth stream, Through the curl'd flame I run.

I see o'er proud Mantua The beacon's red light; As the taper 'tis quench'd In the chill blast of night!

I see from the turret A maiden's dim form, And her white robe waves high On the wing of the storm!

I hear a loud shriek, With the wail of the dead; And that spirit from thence To its Giver hath fled!

Some dire event breaks from the womb of time: To thee the spirit speaks. Hermione, If yet three days on this forbidden air Thou breathest, Mantua and her lord May dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past.

I heed not further question. Well I know The winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood To soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not, Madly ye rush to your undoing; then, Fair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn; The loud lament, the chill and desolate wail Of thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing, Unpitied, the dun pall of heaven!

Follow me not---- Once more I meet thee:--if too soon, beware!

Thine hours are number'd. [_Exit._

HERMIONE.

Three days!--Where shall I fly?--To what lone spot Can I escape? Has this wide earth no room?-- Measureless woe!--too vast for mortal limit!-- Yon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft Hath here some secret consequence to which These bodings tend--cheat! Nay, thou didst affix Fearful credentials to thy testimony; They wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze Which scans the soul, may the unvisited depths Of mind reveal, its untold subtilties Unto the eye disclosing. But three days!

Yet once--one sad farewell! [_Exit._

SCENE IV.

_A Chamber in the Inn._

_CARLOS on a couch, attended by GIULIO._

CARLOS.

I thank thee, Giulio.

The couch feels easier from thine hand. 'Tis now But as a troublesome scratch, scarce worth the pains To work its cure. Another strain--thy lute Strange chords doth waken, long untuned, forgot, Slumbering untouch'd within my breast, the sound Breathes on them sweetly; at its marvellous bidding, Startled they wake, quivering once more to life.

I love these ancient ballads, they do savour O' the olden time.

GIULIO.

Good signor, my poor music Suits not this garnish'd age:--a simple air That lives in the heart, and floats o'er the still depths Of long-lapsed recollections, freshening Their stagnant surface with soft impulse--this, Brief skill!--'tis all I claim.

[_Touches the chords to a slight prelude._ They are but s.n.a.t.c.hes of old songs, signor; Broken as fragments of the imperishing columns Whitening some arid desert; but they are hallow'd By the same hand that spoil'd them!

CARLOS.

They are bonds That with the past yet link our purer thoughts, Our most unsullied affections. Still The voice of other years breathes through them, As the low breeze, while creeping timorously Around some ancient ruin, wailing there Sad echoes of departed greatness.

_GIULIO sings._ There is a wood, there is a cot, There is a gentle river; There is a home where I am not, But where I would be ever.