Part 2 / Act 1 — ACT I.—Scene II.

Alc. Weep thou no more! O monarch, dry thy tears! For know, he shall not die; not now shall fate Bereave thee of thy son. Phe. What mean thy words? Hath then Apollo—is there then a hope? Alc. Yes! hope for thee—hope by the voice announced From the prophetic cave. Nor would I yield To other lips the tidings, meet alone For thee to hear from mine. Phe. But say! oh! say, Shall then my son be spared? Alc. He shall, to thee. Thus hath Apollo said—Alcestis thus Confirms the oracle—be thou secure. Phe. O sounds of joy! He lives! Alc. But not for this, Think not that e’en for this the stranger Joy Shall yet revisit these devoted walls. Phe. Can there be grief when from his bed of death Admetus rises? What deep mystery lurks Within thy words? What mean’st thou? Gracious heaven! Thou, whose deep love is all his own, who hear’st The tidings of his safety, and dost bear Transport and life in that glad oracle To his despairing sire; thy cheek is tinged With death, and on thy pure ingenuous brow, To the brief lightning of a sudden joy, Shades dark as night succeed, and thou art wrapt In troubled silence. Speak! oh, speak! Alc. The gods Themselves have limitations to their power Impassable, eternal—and their will Resists not the tremendous laws of fate: Nor small the boon they grant thee in the life Of thy restored Admetus. Phe. In thy looks There is expression, more than in thy words, Which thrills my shuddering heart. Declare, what terms Can render fatal to thyself and us The rescued life of him thy soul adores? Alc. O father! could my silence aught avail To keep that fearful secret from thine ear, Still should it rest unheard, till all fulfill’d Were the dread sacrifice. But vain the wish; And since too soon, too well it must be known, Hear it from me. Phe. Throughout my curdling veins Runs a cold, deathlike horror; and I feel I am not all a father. In my heart Strive many deep affections. Thee I love, O fair and high-soul’d consort of my son! More than a daughter; and thine infant race, The cherish’d hope and glory of my age; And, unimpair’d by time, within my breast, High, holy, and unalterable love For her, the partner of my cares and joys, Dwells pure and perfect yet. Bethink thee, then, In what suspense, what agony of fear, I wait thy words; for well, too well, I see Thy lips are fraught with fatal auguries, To some one of my race. Alc. Death hath his rights, Of which not e’en the great Supernal Powers May hope to rob him. By his ruthless hand, Already seized, the noble victim lay, The heir of empire, in his glowing prime And noonday, struck:—Admetus, the revered, The bless’d, the loved, by all who own’d his sway— By his illustrious parents, by the realms Surrounding his—and oh! what need to add, How much by his Alcestis?—Such was he, Already in th’ unsparing grasp of death Withering, a certain prey. Apollo thence Hath snatch’d him, and another in his stead, Though not an equal—(who can equal him?) Must fall a voluntary sacrifice. Another, of his lineage or to him By closest bonds united, must descend To the dark realm of Orcus in his place, Who thus alone is saved. Phe. What do I hear? Woe to us, woe!—what victim?—who shall be Accepted in his stead? Alc. The dread exchange E’en now, O father! hath been made; the prey Is ready, nor is wholly worthless him For whom ’tis freely offer’d. Nor wilt thou, O mighty goddess of th’ infernal shades! Whose image sanctifies this threshold floor, Disdain the victim. Phe. All prepared the prey! And to our blood allied! Oh, heaven!—and yet Thou had’st me weep no more! Alc. Yes! thus I said, And thus again I say, thou shalt not weep Thy son’s, nor I deplore my husband’s doom. Let him be saved, and other sounds of woe Less deep, less mournful far, shall here be heard, Than those his death had caused.—With some few tears, But grief, and mingled with a gleam of joy, E’en while the involuntary tribute lasts, The victim shall be honour’d who resign’d Life for Admetus.—Would’st thou know the prey, The vow’d, the willing, the devoted one, Offer’d and hallow’d to th’ infernal gods, Father!—’tis I. Phe. What hast thou done? Oh, heaven! What hast thou done? And think’st thou he is saved By such a compact? Think’st thou he can live Bereft of thee?—Of thee, his light of life, His very soul!—Of thee, beloved far more Than his loved parents—than his children more— More than himself? Oh no! it shall not be? Thou perish, O Alcestis! in the flower Of thy young beauty!—perish, and destroy Not him, not him alone, but us, but all, Who as a child adore thee! Desolate Would be the throne, the kingdom, reft of thee. And think’st thou not of those whose tender years Demand thy care?—thy children! think of them! O thou, the source of each domestic joy, Thou, in whose life alone Admetus lives, His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die While I can die for thee! Me, me alone, The oracle demands—a wither’d stem, Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die. My race is run—the fulness of my years, The faded hopes of age, and all the love Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart, And the fond pity, half with wonder blent, Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts So richly is endow’d;—all, all unite To grave in adamant the just decree, That I must die. But thou, I bid thee live! Pheres commands thee, O Alcestis—live! Ne’er, ne’er shall woman’s youthful love surpass An aged sire’s devotedness. Alc. I know Thy lofty soul, thy fond paternal love; Pheres, I know them well, and not in vain Strove to anticipate their high resolves. But if in silence I have heard thy words, Now calmly list to mine, and thou shalt own They may not be withstood. Phe. What canst thou say Which I should hear? I go, resolved to save Him who with thee would perish;—to the shrine E’en now I fly. Alc. Stay, stay thee! ’tis too late. Already hath consenting Proserpine, From the remote abysses of her realms, Heard and accepted the terrific vow Which binds me, with indissoluble ties, To death. And I am firm, and well I know None can deprive me of the awful right That vow hath won. Yes! thou mayst weep my fate, Mourn for me, father! but thou canst not blame My lofty purpose. Oh! the more endear’d My life by every tie—the more I feel Death’s bitterness, the more my sacrifice Is worthy of Admetus. I descend To the dim shadowy regions of the dead A guest more honour’d.... In thy presence here Again I utter’d the tremendous vow, Now more than half fulfill’d. I feel, I know, Its dread effects. Through all my burning veins Th’ insatiate fever revels. Doubt is o’er. The Monarch of the Dead hath heard—he calls, He summons me away—and thou art saved, O my Admetus!

Alc. Here, O my faithful handmaids! at the feet Of Proserpine’s dread image spread my couch; For I myself e’en now must offer here The victim she requires. And you, meanwhile, My children! seek your sire. Behold him there, Sad, silent, and alone. But through his veins Health’s genial current flows once more, as free As in his brightest days: and he shall live— Shall live for you. Go, hang upon his neck, And with your innocent encircling arms Twine round him fondly. Eum. Can it be indeed, Father, loved father! that we see thee thus Restored? What joy is ours! Adm. There is no joy! Speak not of joy! Away, away! my grief Is wild and desperate. Cling to me no more! I know not of affection, and I feel No more a father. Eum. Oh! what words are these? Are we no more thy children? Are we not Thine own? Sweet sister! twine around his neck More close; he must return the fond embrace. Adm. O children! O my children! to my soul Your innocent words and kisses are as darts, That pierce it to the quick. I can no more Sustain the bitter conflict. Every sound Of your soft accents but too well recalls The voice which was the music of my life. Alcestis! my Alcestis!—was she not Of all her sex the flower? Was woman e’er Adored like her before? Yet this is she, The cold of heart, th’ ungrateful, who hath left Her husband and her infants! This is she, O my deserted children! who at once Bereaves you of your parents. Alc. Woe is me! I hear the bitter and reproachful cries Of my despairing lord. With life’s last powers, Oh! let me strive to soothe him still. Approach, My handmaids, raise me, and support my steps To the distracted mourner. Bear me hence, That he may hear and see me. Adm. Is it thou? And do I see thee still? and com’st thou thus To comfort me, Alcestis? Must I hear The dying accents thus? Alas! return To thy sad couch—return! ’tis meet for me There by thy side for ever to remain. Alc. For me thy care is vain. Though meet for thee— Adm. O voice! O looks of death! are these, are these, Thus darkly shrouded with mortality, The eyes that were the sunbeams and the life Of my fond soul? Alas! how faint a ray Falls from their faded orbs, so brilliant once, Upon my drooping brow! How heavily, With what a weight of death thy languid voice Sinks on my heart! too faithful far, too fond. Alcestis! thou art dying—and for me! Alcestis! and thy feeble hand supports With its last power, supports my sinking head, E’en now, while death is on thee! Oh! the touch Rekindles tenfold frenzy in my heart. I rush, I fly impetuous to the shrine, The image of yon ruthless Deity, Impatient for her prey. Before thy death, There, there, I too, self-sacrificed, will fall. Vain is each obstacle—in vain the gods Themselves would check my fury. I am lord Of my own days—and thus I swear—— Alc. Yes! swear, Admetus! for thy children to sustain The load of life. All other impious vows, Which thou, a rebel to the sovereign will Of those who rule on high, mightst dare to form Within thy breast, thy lip, by them enchain’d, Would vainly seek to utter. Seest thou not, It is from them the inspiration flows Which in my language breathes? They lend me power, They bid me through thy strengthen’d soul transfuse High courage, noble constancy. Submit, Bow down to them thy spirit. Be thou calm; Be near me. Aid me. In the dread extreme To which I now approach, from whom but thee Should comfort be derived? Afflict me not, In such an hour, with anguish worse than death. O faithful and beloved, support me still!

Alc. My children! all is finish’d. Now, farewell! To thy fond care, O Pheres! I commit My widow’d lord: forsake him not. Eum. Alas! Sweet mother! wilt thou leave us? From thy side Are we for ever parted? Phe. Tears forbid All utterance of our woes. Bereft of sense, More lifeless than the dying victim, see The desolate Admetus. Farther yet, Still farther, let us bear him from the sight Of his Alcestis. Alc. O my handmaids! still Lend me your pious aid, and thus compose With sacred modesty these torpid limbs When death’s last pang is o’er.

Alas! how weak Her struggling voice! that last keen pang is near. Peace, mourners, peace! Be hush’d, be silent, in this hour of dread! Our cries would but increase The sufferer’s pang; let tears unheard be shed, Cease, voice of weeping, cease! Sustain, O friend! Upon thy faithful breast, The head that sinks with mortal pain opprest! And thou assistance lend To close the languid eye, Still beautiful in life’s last agony. Alas, how long a strife! What anguish struggles in the parting breath, Ere yet immortal life Be won by death! Death! death! thy work complete! Let thy sad hour be fleet, Speed, in thy mercy, the releasing sigh! No more keen pangs impart To her, the high in heart, Th’ adored Alcestis, worthy ne’er to die.

’Tis not enough, oh no! To hide the scene of anguish from his eyes; Still must our silent band Around him watchful stand, And on the mourner ceaseless care bestow, That his ear catch not grief’s funereal cries. Yet, yet hope is not dead, All is not lost below, While yet the gods have pity on our woe. Oft when all joy is fled, Heaven lends support to those Who on its care in pious hope repose. Then to the blessed skies Let our submissive prayers in chorus rise. Pray! bow the knee, and pray! What other task have mortals, born to tears, Whom fate controls with adamantine sway? O ruler of the spheres! Jove! Jove! enthroned immortally on high, Our supplication hear! Nor plunge in bitterest woes Him, who nor footstep moves, nor lifts his eye But as a child, which only knows Its father to revere.

——He cast me down From the high place my blood had dearly won; And when I sought his presence, to appeal For justice there, ’twas vain! My foes had form’d Around his throne a barrier: e’en my life Became the mark of hatred; but in this Their hopes have fail’d—I gave them not the time. My life!—I stand prepared to yield it up On the proud field, and in some noble cause For glory well exchanged; but not a prey, Not to be caught ignobly in the toils Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain’d With you a place of refuge; yet e’en here His snares were cast around me. Now all ties Are broke between us; to an open foe, An open foe I come.

A leader—or a fugitive? To drag Slow years along in idle vacancy, As a worn veteran living on the fame Of former deeds—to offer humble prayers And blessings for protection—owing all Yet left me of existence to the might Of other swords, dependent on some arm Which soon may cast me off; or on the field To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life Rush proudly through my veins—to hail again My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice To wake! to rule! to conquer!—Which must be My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling Still poorly to ignoble safety here, Secluded as a homicide, who cowers Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own! Is there not one among the many lords Of this divided Italy—not one With soul enough to envy that bright crown Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not ’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp, Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize On him who best shall call the prowess forth Which slumbers in my arm?

Car. Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes? Ay, I could number all. Mar. And know’st thou, too, What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved, Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts, Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs; But they remember thee. The high in soul Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not; Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own. I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul Revolts indignantly—thou know’st it well: But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet For the most lofty nature,—there is power Of winning meaner minds, without descent From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,— And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul Which fires each soldier’s eye? Tor. I mark’d it well. I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside, That on my brow the warrior might not read Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought, That this vain semblance of delusive joy Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought On wasted valour doom’d to perish here. For these—what boots it to disguise the truth?— These are no wars in which, for all things loved, And precious, and revered—for all the ties Clinging around the heart—for those whose smile Makes home so lovely—for his native land, And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights! These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim Is but to station his devoted bands, And theirs, thus fix’d—to die! It is our fate To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on; But if delay’d, if between flight and death Pausing they stand—is there no cause to doubt What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times, When for the leader care augments, the more Bright glory fades away! Yet once again, This is no field for us.

Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound, A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies! On every side hoarse echoes from the ground To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise, Hollow and deep—and banners, all around, Meet hostile banners waving to the skies; Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine, And there a host confronts their glittering line. Lo! half the field already from the sight Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes! Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight, And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows! Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose? What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save Their native soil, or make its dust their grave? One race, alas! these foes—one kindred race, Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among! The stranger calls them brothers—and each face That brotherhood reveals;—one common tongue Dwells on their lips—the earth on which we trace Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung. One mother gave them birth—this chosen land, Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand. Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield? What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare, Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field? Think’st thou they know?—they but inflict and share Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d! —Sold to a leader, sold himself to die, With him they strive—they fall—and ask not why. But are there none who love them? Have they none— No wives, no mothers, who might rush between, And win with tears the husband and the son Back to his home, from this polluted scene? And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done, Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene, Thoughts of the tomb—why cannot they assuage The storms of passion with the voice of age? Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d. Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd In tranquil safety number o’er the slain, Or tell of cities burning on the plain. There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know, By names of insult, those whom future days Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe. There proudly many a glittering dame displays Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow, By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne, From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn. Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe! The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain; Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow— A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain. But from th’ embattled front, already, lo! A band recedes—it flies—all hope is vain, And venal hearts, despairing of the strife, Wake to the love, the clinging love of life. As the light grain disperses in the air, Borne from the winnowing by the gales around, Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair, Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground. But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there, Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound Of fierce pursuit!—still nearer and more near, The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear. The day is won! They fall—disarm’d they yield, Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying! Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field, Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying? Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d! E’en now the courier to his steed is flying, He spurs—he speeds—with tidings of the day, To rouse up cities in his lightning way. Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes, O eager multitudes! around him pressing? Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams, Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing! Know ye not whence th’ ill-omen’d herald comes, And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?— Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,— Be ye content! the glorious tale is told. I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry! They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains: E’en now the homicides assail the sky With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains! But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains, And, with the cruel rapture of a foe, Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below. Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true! Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending. Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew, Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending! Victors! why pause ye?—Are ye weak and few?— Ay! such he deem’d you, and for this descending, He waits you on the field ye know too well, The same red war-field where your brethren fell. O thou devoted land! that canst not rear In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won, The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear Too narrow still for each contending son; Receive the stranger, in his fierce career Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun! And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword, Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board. Are these infatuate too!—Oh! who hath known A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest? The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone, Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast. What though not yet his day of pride be flown, Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest, Well hath it mark’d him—and decreed the hour, When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power. Are we not creatures of one hand divine, Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born? Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine, Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn? Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine, And woe to him by whom that bond is torn! Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth, Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!

Car. Thou art not, youth! One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd. Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest Thou minglest, and art silent! Per. Silence best, O chief! befits the vanquish’d. Car. Bearing up Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved Worthy a better star. Thy name? Per. ’Tis one Whose heritage doth impose no common task On him that bears it; one which to adorn With brighter blazonry were hard emprise: My name is Pergola. Car. And art thou, then, That warrior’s son? Per. I am. Car. Approach! embrace Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring Back on my heart remembrance of the days, The young, and joyous, and adventurous days, Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou! My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled, But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile, She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute Thy sire for me; and say, though not of thee I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured He counsell’d not this battle. Per. Oh! he gave Far other counsels, but his fruitless words Were spoken to the winds. Car. Lament thou not. Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me, I will restore thy sword.

Car. A traitor! I!—that name of infamy Reaches not me. Let him the title bear Who best deserves such meed—it is not mine. Call me a dupe, and I may well submit, For such my part is here; yet would I not Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still. A traitor!—I retrace in thought the time When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises Of high reward! What more? Behold me here! And when I came to seeming honour call’d, When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith— Of trusting faith!—Oh, no! Doth he who comes Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith? I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done, And be it so! but since deceitful hate Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside, Praise be to heaven! an open field at least Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak, Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then My treasons! Doge. By the secret college soon All shall be told thee. Car. I appeal not there. What I have done for you hath all been done In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose To be mine arbiters—my proud defence Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear. Doge. The time for choice is past. Car. What! Is there force Employ’d against me?—Guards! (raising his voice.) Doge. They are not nigh. Soldiers! (enter armed men.) Thy guards are these. Car. I am betray’d! Doge. ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised, Might prove a rebel too. Car. E’en as ye list. Now be it yours to charge me. Doge. Bear him hence, Before the secret college. Car. Hear me yet One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death I well perceive; but with that death ye doom Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers, Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats The banner of the Lion, in its pride Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know I bore it thus to empire. Here, ’tis true, No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond The limits of your sway, in other scenes, Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d, Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds And your reward will live in chronicles For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect Your annals, and the future! Ye will need A warrior soon, and who will then be yours? Forget not, though your captive now I stand, I was not born your subject. No! my birth Was midst a warlike people, one in soul, And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem The honour of each citizen its own. Think ye this outrage will be there unheard? There is some treachery here. Our common foes Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know I have been faithful still. There yet is time. Doge. The time is past. When thou didst meditate Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy Those destined to chastise it; then the hour Of foresight should have been. Car. O mean in soul! And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet Its summons with far other mien than such As I shall bear to ignominious death.