338

MODERN BRITISH DRAMA.

Rie. SON,

Rienzi and Angelo.

Methinks this high solemnity might well
Have claim'd thy presence. A great ruler's heir
Should be familiar in the people's eyes;

Live on their tongues; take root within their hearts;
Win woman's smiles by honest courtesy,

And force man's tardier praise by bold desert:
So, when the chief shall die, the general love

May hail his successor.

If with thy bride

But thou, where wast thou?

Ang. I have not seen her.-Tribune,Thou wavest away the word with such a scorn As I pour'd poison in thine ear.-Already

Dost weary of the title?

Rie. Wherefore should I?
Ang. Thou art ambitious.
Rie. Granted.

Ang. And wouldst be

A king.

Rie. There thou mistakest.—A king! fair son! Power dwelleth not in sound, and fame hath garlands Brighter than diadems. I might have been

Anointed, sceptred, crown'd, have cast a blaze
Of glory round the old imperial wreath,

The laurel of the Cæsars: but I chose

To master kings, not to be one; to direct

The royal puppets as my sovereign will,

And Rome-my Rome, decree.-Tribune! the Gracchi Were called so.-Tribune! I will make that name

A word of fear to kings.

Ang. Rienzi! Tribune!

Hast thou forgotten, on this very spot,

How thou didst shake the slumbering soul of Rome

With the brave sound of freedom, till she rose,
And from her giant-limbs the shackles dropp'd,
Burst by one mighty throe? Hadst thou died then,
History had crown'd thee with a glorious title-
Deliverer of thy country.

Rie. Well!

Ang. Alas!

When now thou fall'st, as fall thou must, 'twill be
The common tale of low ambition.-Tyrants
O'erthrown to form a wilder tyranny;

Princes cast down, that thy obscurer house
May rise on nobler ruins.

Rie. Hast thou ended?

I fain would have mistaken thee-Hast done?

Ang. No; for, despite thy smother'd wrath, the voice Of warning truth shall reach thee. Thou to-day Hast, by thy frantic sacrilege, drawn on thee The thunders of the church, the mortal feud Of either emperor. Here, at home, the barons Hate, and the people shun thee. Seest thou not, Even in this noon of pride, thy waning power Fade, flicker, and wax dim? Thou art as one Perch'd on some lofty steeple's dizzy height, Dazzled by the sun, inebriate by long draughts Of thinner air; too giddy to look down Where all his safety lies; too proud to dare The long descent to the low depths from whence The desperate climber rose.

Rie. Ay, there's the sting,

That I, an insect of to-day, outsoar

The reverend worm, nobility! Wouldst shame me
With my poor parentage!-Sir, I'm the son

Of him who kept a sordid hostelry

In the Jews' quarter; my good mother cleansed
Linen for honest hire.-Canst thou

Ang. Can worse be said?

say

worse?

Rie. Add, that my boasted schoolcraft

Was gain'd from such base toil, gain'd with such pain, That the nice nurture of the mind was oft

Stolen at the body's cost. I have gone dinnerless

And supperless, the scoff of our poor street,
For tatter'd vestments and lean hungry looks,
To pay the pedagogue.-Add what thou wilt
Of injury. Say that, grown into man,

I've known the pittance of the hospital,
And, more degrading still, the patronage
Of the Colonna. Of the tallest trees

The roots delve deepest. Yes, I've trod thy halls,
Scorn'd and derided 'midst their ribald crew,
A licensed jester, save the cap and bells:
I have borne this-and I have borne the death,
The unavenged death, of a poor brother.

I seem'd I was a base ignoble slave.

What am I?-Peace, I say!-what am I now?
Head of this great republic, chief of Rome;
In all but name, her sovereign; last of all,
Thy father.

Ang. In an evil hour

Rie. Darest thou

Say that? An evil hour for thee, my Claudia!
Thou shouldst have been an emperor's bride, my fairest.
In evil hour thy woman's heart was caught,

By the form moulded as an antique god;

The gallant bearing, the feigned tale of love

All false, all outward, simulated all.

Ang. But that I loved her, but that I do love her,
With a deep tenderness, softer and fonder

Than thy ambition-harden'd heart e'er dream'd of,
My sword should answer thee.

Rie. Go to, Lord Angelo;

Thou lovest her not.-Men taunt not, nor defy
The dear one's kindred. A bright atmosphere
Of sunlight and of beauty breathes around
The bosom's idol.—I have loved-she loves thee;
And therefore thy proud father, even the shrew,
Thy railing mother, in her eyes, are sacred.
Lay not thy hand upon thy sword, fair son-

Keep that brave for thy comrades. I'll not fight thee.
Go and give thanks to yonder simple bride,
That her plebeian father mews not up,
Safe in the citadel, her noble husband.
Thou art dangerous, Colonna. But, for her,
Beware!

Ang. Come back, Rienzi!

A brave defiance in thy teeth.
Rie. Once more,

Beware!

Ang. Take up the glove!

Thus I throw

[Going.

[Throws down his glove.

Rie. This time, for her

[Takes up the glove. For her dear sake-come to thy bride! home! home! Ang. Dost fear me, tribune of the people!

Rie. Fear!

Do I fear thee!-Tempt me no more. This once,
Home to thy bride!

Ang. Now, Ursini, I come—

Fit partner of thy vengeance!

[Exit.

Miss Mitford.

Bertram and Prior, and Guards.

Prior. WHO art thou?

Ber. I am the murderer-Wherefore are ye come?— Prior. This majesty of guilt doth awe my spirit. Is it the embodied fiend who tempted him,

Sublime in guilt?

Ber. Marvel not at me-Wist ye whence I come?

The tomb-where dwell the dead and I dwelt with himTill sense of life dissolved away within me

[Looking round ghastlily.

I am amazed to see ye living men.

I deem'd, that, when I struck the final blow,
Mankind expired, and we were left alone,
The corse and I were left alone together,
The only tenants of a blasted world,
Dispeopled for my punishment, and changed

Into a penal orb of desolation

Prior. Advance, and bind him; are ye men and arm'd? What! must this palsied hand be first on him?—

Advance, and seize him, ere his voice of blasphemy
Shall pile the roof in ruins o'er our heads—

Ber. Advance, and seize me, ye who smile at bloodFor every drop of mine a life shall pay—

I'm naked, famish'd, faint, my brand is broken-
Rush, mailed champions, on the helpless Bertram-

[Guards sink back.

Now prove what fell resistance I shall make.

[Throws down the hilt of his dagger. There-bind mine arms-if ye do list to bind them-I came to yield but not to be subdued—

Prior. O thou, who o'er thy stormy grandeur flingest A struggling beam, that dazzles, awes, and vanishes→→→

Thou, who dost blend our wonder with our curses—
Why didst thou this?

Ber. He wrong'd me, and I slew him—

To man, but thee, I ne'er had said even this-
To man, but thee, I ne'er shall utter more-
Now speed ye swift from questioning to death-

[Guards surround him.

One prayer, my executioners, not conquerors:
Be most ingenious in your cruelty-

Let rack and pincer do their full work on me—
'Twill rouse me from that dread unnatural sleep,
In which my soul hath dreamt its dreams of agony—
This is my prayer, ye'll not refuse it to me—

[As Guards are leading him off, the Prior lays hold of him. Prior. Yet bend thy steeled sinews, bend and prayThe corse of him thou'st murder'd, lies within—

[A long pause. Ber. I have offended Heaven, but will not mock itGive me your racks and pincers; spare me words.

Prior. Brief rest is here allow'd thee-murderer, pauseHow fearful was our footing on those cliffs,

Where time had worn those steep and rocky steps!—
I counted them to thee as we descended,

But thou for pride wast dumb

Ber. I heard thee not

Prior. Look round thee, murderer, drear thy restingplace

This is thy latest stage-survey it well

Lo, as I wave my dimmed torch aloft,

Yon precipice crag seems as if every tread

(Yea, echo'd impulse of the passing foot)

Would loose its weight to topple o'er our heads-
Those cavities hollow'd by the hand of wrath-

Those deepening gulfs, have they no horrible tenant?

Dare thine eye scan that spectred vacancy?

Ber. I do not mark the things thou tell'st me of.— Prior. Wretch, if thy fear no spectred inmate shapes— Ber. [Starting from his trance]

Cease, trifler, would you have me feel remorse?

Leave me alone-nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon,
Speaks to the murderer with the voice of solitude.
Prior. Thou sayest true-

In cruelty of mercy will I leave thee

[Prior retires.

Ber. If thou wouldst go in truth-but what avails it?