Chapter CV: Act V (3)

ISABELLA. Be blessings on his head Which e'er it be; to him I owe a daughter, Alas! that in this blissful hour, so long Expected, long implored, some envious fiend Should mar my joy! Oh, I must stem the tide Of nature's transport! In her childhood's home I see my daughter; me she knows not--heeds not-- Nor answers to a mother's voice of love Ope, ye dear eyelids--hands be warm--and heave Thou lifeless bosom with responsive throbs To mine! 'Tis she! Diego, look! 'tis Beatrice! The long-concealed--the lost--the rescued one! Before the world I claim her for my own!

Chorus (BOHEMUND). New signs of terror to my boding soul Are pictured;--in amazement lost I stand! What light shall pierce this gloom of mystery?

ISABELLA (to the Chorus, who exhibit marks of confusion and embarrassment). Oh, ye hard hearts! Ye rude unpitying men! A mother's transport from your breast of steel Rebounds, as from the rocks the heaving surge! I look around your train, nor mark one glance Of soft regard. Where are my sons? Oh, tell me Why come they not, and from their beaming eyes Speak comfort to my soul? For here environed I stand amid the desert's raging brood, Or monsters of the deep!

DIEGO. She opes her eyes! She moves! She lives!

ISABELLA. She lives! On me be thrown Her earliest glance!

DIEGO. See! They are closed again-- She shudders!

ISABELLA (to the Chorus).
Quick! Retire--your aspect frights her.

[Chorus steps back.

RORER. Well pleased I shun her sight.

DIEGO. With outstretched eyes, And wonderstruck, she seems to measure thee.

BEATRICE. Not strange those lineaments--where am I?

ISABELLA. Slowly Her sense returns.

DIEGO. Behold! upon her knees She sinks.

BEATRICE.
Oh, angel visage of my mother!

ISABELLA. Child of my heart!

BEATRICE. See! kneeling at thy feet The guilty one!

ISABELLA. I hold thee in my arms! Enough--forgotten all!

DIEGO. Look in my face, Canst thou remember me?

BEATRICE. The reverend brows Of honest old Diego!

ISABELLA. Faithful guardian Of thy young years.

BEATRICE. And am I once again With kindred?

ISABELLA.
Naught but death shall part us more!

BEATRICE. Will thou ne'er send me to the stranger?

ISABELLA. Never! Fate is appeased.

BEATRICE. And am I next thy heart? And was it all a dream--a hideous dream? My mother! at my feet he fell! I know not What brought me hither--yet 'tis well. Oh, bliss! That I am safe in thy protecting arms; They would have ta'en me to the princess, mother-- Sooner to death!

ISABELLA. My daughter, calm thy fears; Messina's princess----

BEATRICE. Name her not again! At that ill-omened sound the chill of death Creeps through my trembling frame.

ISABELLA.
My child! but hear me----

BEATRICE. She has two sons by mortal hate dissevered, Don Manuel and Don Caesar----

ISABELLA. 'Tis myself! Behold thy mother!

BEATRICE.
Have I heard thee? Speak!

ISABELLA. I am thy mother, and Messina's princess!

BEATRICE. Art thou Don Manuel's and Don Caesar's mother?

ISABELLA. And thine! They are thy brethren whom thou namest.

BEATRICE. Oh, gleam of horrid light!

ISABELLA. What troubles thee? Say, whence this strange emotion?

BEATRICE. Yes! 'twas they! Now I remember all; no dream deceived me, They met--'tis fearful truth! Unhappy men! Where have ye hid him?

[She rushes towards the Chorus; they turn away from her.
A funeral march is heard in the distance.

CHORUS.
Horror! Horror!

ISABELLA. Hid! Speak--who is hid? and what is true? Ye stand In silent dull amaze--as though ye fathomed Her words of mystery! In your faltering tones-- Your brows--I read of horrors yet unknown, That would refrain my tongue! What is it? Tell me! I will know all! Why fix ye on the door That awe-struck gaze? What mournful music sounds?

[The march is heard nearer.

Chorus (BOHEMUND). It comes! it comes! and all shall be declared With terrible voice. My mistress! steel thy heart, Be firm, and bear with courage what awaits thee-- For more than women's soul thy destined griefs Demand.

ISABELLA. What comes? and what awaits me? Hark With fearful tones the death-wail smites mine ear-- It echoes through the house! Where are my sons?

[The first Semi-chorus brings in the body of DON MANUEL
on a bier, which is placed at the side of the stage.
A black pall is spread over it.

ISABELLA, BEATRICE, DIEGO.

Both Choruses.

First Chorus (CAJETAN).

With sorrow in his train,
From street to street the King of Terror glides;
With stealthy foot, and slow,
He creeps where'er the fleeting race
Of man abides
In turn at every gate
Is heard the dreaded knock of fate,
The message of unutterable woe!

BERENGAR.

When, in the sere
And autumn leaves decayed,
The mournful forest tells how quickly fade
The glories of the year!
When in the silent tomb oppressed,
Frail man, with weight of days,
Sinks to his tranquil rest;
Contented nature but obeys
Her everlasting law,--
The general doom awakes no shuddering awe!
But, mortals, oh! prepare
For mightier ills; with ruthless hand
Fell murder cuts the holy band--
The kindred tie: insatiate death,
With unrelenting rage,
Bears to his bark the flower of blooming age!

CAJETAN.

When clouds athwart the lowering sky
Are driven--when bursts with hollow moan
The thunder's peal--our trembling bosoms own
The might of awful destiny!
Yet oft the lightning's glare
Darts sudden through the cloudless air:--
Then in thy short delusive day
Of bliss, oh! dread the treacherous snare;
Nor prize the fleeting goods in vain,
The flowers that bloom but to decay!
Nor wealth, nor joy, nor aught but pain,
Was e'er to mortal's lot secure:--
Our first best lesson--to endure!

ISABELLA. What shall I hear? What horrors lurk beneath This funeral pall?

[She steps towards the bier, but suddenly pauses,
and stands irresolute.

Some strange, mysterious dread Enthrals my sense. I would approach, and sudden The ice-cold grasp of terror holds me back!

[To BEATRICE, who has thrown herself between her and the bier.

Whate'er it be, I will unveil----

[On raising the pall she discovers the body of DON MANUEL.

Eternal Powers! it is my son!

[She stands in mute horror. BEATRICE sinks to the ground
with a shriek of anguish near the bier.

CHORUS. Unhappy mother! 'tis thy son. Thy lips Have uttered what my faltering tongue denied.

ISABELLA. My soul! My Manuel! Oh, eternal grief! And is it thus I see thee? Thus thy life Has bought thy sister from the spoiler's rage? Where was thy brother? Could no arm be found To shield thee? Oh, be cursed the hand that dug These gory wounds! A curse on her that bore The murderer of my son! Ten thousand curses On all their race!

CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!

ISABELLA. And is it thus Ye keep your word, ye gods? Is this your truth? Alas for him that trusts with honest heart Your soothing wiles! Why have I hoped and trembled? And this the issue of my prayers! Attend, Ye terror-stricken witnesses, that feed Your gaze upon my anguish; learn to know How warning visions cheat, and boding seers But mock our credulous hopes; let none believe The voice of heaven! When in my teeming womb This daughter lay, her father, in a dream Saw from his nuptial couch two laurels grow, And in the midst a lily all in flames, That, catching swift the boughs and knotted stems Burst forth with crackling rage, and o'er the house Spread in one mighty sea of fire. Perplexed By this terrific dream my husband sought The counsels of the mystic art, and thus Pronounced the sage: "If I a daughter bore, The murderess of his sons, the destined spring Of ruin to our house, the baleful child Should see the light."

Chorus (CAJETAN and BOHEMUND). What hast thou said, my mistress? Woe! Woe!

ISABELLA. For this her ruthless father spoke The dire behest of death. I rescued her, The innocent, the doomed one; from my arms The babe was torn; to stay the curse of heaven, And save my sons, the mother gave her child; And now by robber hands her brother falls; My child is guiltless. Oh, she slew him not!

CHORUS. Woe! Woe!

ISABELLA. No trust the fabling readers of the stars Have e'er deserved. Hear how another spoke With comfort to my soul, and him I deemed Inspired to voice the secrets of the skies! "My daughter should unite in love the hearts Of my dissevered sons;" and thus their tales Of curse and blessing on her head proclaim Each other's falsehood. No, she ne'er has brought A curse, the innocent; nor time was given The blessed promise to fulfil; their tongues Were false alike; their boasted art is vain; With trick of words they cheat our credulous ears, Or are themselves deceived! Naught ye may know Of dark futurity, the sable streams Of hell the fountain of your hidden lore, Or yon bright spring of everlasting light!

First Chorus (CAJETAN).

Woe! Woe! thy tongue refrain!
Oh, pause, nor thus with impious rage
The might of heaven profane;
The holy oracles are wise--
Expect with awe thy coming destinies!

ISABELLA. My tongue shall speak as prompts my swelling heart; My griefs shall cry to heaven. Why do we lift Our suppliant hands, and at the sacred shrines Kneel to adore? Good, easy dupes! What win we From faith and pious awe? to touch with prayers The tenants of yon azure realms on high, Were hard as with an arrow's point to pierce The silvery moon. Hid is the womb of time, Impregnable to mortal glance, and deaf The adamantine walls of heaven rebound The voice of anguish:--Oh, 'tis one, whate'er The flight of birds--the aspect of the stars! The book of nature is a maze--a dream The sage's art--and every sign a falsehood!

Second Chorus (BOHEMUND).

Woe! Woe! Ill-fated woman, stay
Thy maddening blasphemies;
Thou but disown'st, with purblind eyes,
The flaming orb of day!
Confess the gods,--they dwell on high--
They circle thee with awful majesty!

All the Knights.

Confess the gods--they dwell on high--
They circle thee with awful majesty!

BEATRICE. Why hast thou saved thy daughter, and defied The curse of heaven, that marked me in thy womb The child of woe? Short-sighted mother!--vain Thy little arts to cheat the doom declared By the all-wise interpreters, that knit The far and near; and, with prophetic ken, See the late harvest spring in times unborn. Oh, thou hast brought destruction on thy race, Withholding from the avenging gods their prey; Threefold, with new embittered rage, they ask The direful penalty; no thanks thy boon Of life deserves--the fatal gift was sorrow!

Second Chorus (BERENGAR) looking towards the door
with signs of agitation.

Hark to the sound of dread!
The rattling, brazen din I hear!
Of hell-born snakes the hissing tones are near!
Yes--'tis the furies' tread!

CAJETAN.

In crumbling ruin wide,
Fall, fall, thou roof, and sink, thou trembling floor
That bear'st the dread, unearthly stride!
Ye sable damps arise!
Mount from the abyss in smoky spray,
And pall the brightness of the day!
Vanish, ye guardian powers!
They come! The avenging deities

DON CAESAR, ISABELLA, BEATRICE. The Chorus.

[On the entrance of DON CAESAR the Chorus station themselves
before him imploringly. He remains standing alone in the
centre of the stage.

BEATRICE. Alas! 'tis he----

ISABELLA (stepping to meet him). My Caesar! Oh, my son! And is it thus I meet the? Look! Behold! The crime of hand accursed!

[She leads him to the corpse.

First Chorus (CAJETAN, BERENGAR).

Break forth once more
Ye wounds! Flow, flow, in swarthy flood,
Thou streaming gore!

ISABELLA. Shuddering with earnest gaze, and motionless, Thou stand'st.--yes! there my hopes repose, and all That earth has of thy brother; in the bud Nipped is your concord's tender flower, nor ever With beauteous fruit shall glad a mother's eyes,

DON CAESAR. Be comforted; thy sons, with honest heart, To peace aspired, but heaven's decree was blood!

ISABELLA. I know thou lovedst him well; I saw between ye, With joy, the bands old Nature sweetly twined; Thou wouldst have borne him in thy heart of hearts With rich atonement of long wasted years! But see--fell murder thwarts thy dear design, And naught remains but vengeance!

DON CAESAR. Come, my mother, This is no place for thee. Oh, haste and leave This sight of woe.

[He endeavors to drag her away.

ISABELLA (throwing herself into his arms).
Thou livest! I have a son!

BEATRICE. Alas! my mother!

DON CAESAR. On this faithful bosom Weep out thy pains; nor lost thy son,--his love Shall dwell immortal in thy Caesar's breast.

First Chorus (CAJETAN, BERENGAR, MANFRED).

Break forth, ye wounds!
Dumb witness! the truth proclaim;
Flow fast, thou gory stream!

ISABELLA (clasping the hands of DON CAESAR and BEATRICE). My children!

DON CAESAR. Oh, 'tis ecstasy! my mother, To see her in thy arms! henceforth in love A daughter--sister----

ISABELLA (interrupting him). Thou hast kept thy word. My son; to thee I owe the rescued one; Yes, thou hast sent her----

DON CAESAR (in astonishment). Whom, my mother, sayst thou, That I have sent?

ISABELLA. She stands before thine eyes-- Thy sister.

DON CAESAR.
She! My sister?

ISABELLA.
Ay, What other?

DON CAESAR. My sister!

ISABELLA.
Thou hast sent her to me!

DON CAESAR. Horror! His sister, too!

CHORUS.
Woe! woe!

BEATRICE.
Alas! my mother!

ISABELLA. Speak! I am all amaze!

DON CASAR. Be cursed the day When I was born!

ISABELLA.
Eternal powers!

DON CAESAR. Accursed The womb that bore me; cursed the secret arts, The spring of all this woe; instant to crush thee, Though the dread thunder swept--ne'er should this arm Refrain the bolts of death: I slew my brother! Hear it and tremble! in her arms I found him; She was my love, my chosen bride; and he-- My brother--in her arms! Thou hast heard all! If it be true--oh, if she be my sister-- And his! then I have done a deed that mocks The power of sacrifice and prayers to ope The gates of mercy to my soul!

Chorus (BOHEMUND).

The tidings on thy heart dismayed
Have burst, and naught remains; behold!
'Tis come, nor long delayed,
Whate'er the warning seers foretold:
They spoke the message from on high,
Their lips proclaimed resistless destiny!
The mortal shall the curse fulfil
Who seeks to turn predestined ill.

ISABELLA. The gods have done their worst; if they be true Or false, 'tis one--for nothing they can add To this--the measure of their rage is full. Why should I tremble that have naught to fear? My darling son lies murdered, and the living I call my son no more. Oh! I have borne And nourished at my breast a basilisk That stung my best-beloved child. My daughter, haste, And leave this house of horrors--I devote it To the avenging fiends! In an evil hour 'Twas crime that brought me hither, and of crime The victim I depart. Unwillingly I came--in sorrow I have lived--despairing I quit these halls; on me, the innocent, Descends this weight of woe! Enough--'tis shown That Heaven is just, and oracles are true!

[Exit, followed by DIEGO.

BEATRICE, DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (detaining BEATRICE). My sister, wouldst thou leave me? On this head A mother's curse may fall--a brother's blood Cry with accusing voice to heaven--all nature Invoke eternal vengeance on my soul-- But thou--oh! curse me not--I cannot bear it!

[BEATRICE points with averted eyes to the body.

I have not slain thy lover! 'twas thy brother, And mine that fell beneath my sword; and near As the departed one, the living owns The ties of blood: remember, too, 'tis I That most a sister's pity need--for pure His spirit winged its flight, and I am guilty!

[BEATRICE bursts into an agony of tears.

Weep! I will blend my tears with thine--nay, more, I will avenge thy brother; but the lover-- Weep not for him--thy passionate, yearning tears My inmost heart. Oh! from the boundless depths Of our affliction, let me gather this, The last and only comfort--but to know That we are dear alike. One lot fulfilled Has made our rights and wretchedness the same; Entangled in one snare we fall together, Three hapless victims of unpitying fate, And share the mournful privilege of tears. But when I think that for the lover more Than for the brother bursts thy sorrow's tide, Then rage and envy mingle with my pain, And hope's last balm forsakes my withering soul? Nor joyful, as beseems, can I requite This inured shade:--yet after him content To mercy's throne my contrite spirit shall fly, Sped by this hand--if dying I may know That in one urn our ashes shall repose, With pious office of a sister's care.

[He throws his arms around her with passionate tenderness.

I loved thee, as I ne'er had loved before, When thou wert strange; and that I bear the curse Of brother's blood, 'tis but because I loved thee With measureless transport: love was all my guilt, But now thou art my sister, and I claim Soft pity's tribute.

[He regards her with inquiring glances, and an air of
painful suspense--then turns away with vehemence.

No! in this dread presence I cannot bear these tears--my courage flies And doubt distracts my soul. Go, weep in secret-- Leave me in error's maze--but never, never, Behold me more: I will not look again On thee, nor on thy mother. Oh! how passion Laid bare her secret heart! She never loved me! She mourned her best-loved son--that was her cry Of grief--and naught was mine but show of fondness! And thou art false as she! make no disguise-- Recoil with horror from my sight--this form Shall never shock thee more--begone forever!

[Exit.

[She stands irresolute in a tumult of conflicting
passions--then tears herself from the spot.

Chorus (CAJETAN).

Happy the man--his lot I prize
That far from pomps and turmoil vain,
Childlike on nature's bosom lies
Amid the stillness of the plain.
My heart is sad in the princely hall,
When from the towering pride of state,
I see with headlong ruin fall,
How swift! the good and great!
And he--from fortune's storm at rest
Smiles, in the quiet haven laid
Who, timely warned, has owned how blest
The refuge of the cloistered shade;
To honor's race has bade farewell,
Its idle joys and empty shows;
Insatiate wishes learned to quell,
And lulled in wisdom's calm repose:--
No more shall passion's maddening brood
Impel the busy scenes to try,
Nor on his peaceful cell intrude
The form of sad humanity!
'Mid crowds and strife each mortal ill
Abides'--the grisly train of woe
Shuns like the pest the breezy hill,
To haunt the smoky marts below.

BERENGAR, BOHEMUND, and MANFRED.

On the mountains is freedom! the breath of decay
Never sullies the fresh flowing air;
Oh, Nature is perfect wherever we stray;
'Tis man that deforms it with care.

The whole Chorus repeats.

On the mountains is freedom, etc., etc.

DON CAESAR, the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (more collected). I use the princely rights--'tis the last time-- To give this body to the ground, and pay Fit honors to the dead. So mark, my friends, My bosom's firm resolve, and quick fulfil Your lord's behest. Fresh in your memory lives The mournful pomp, when to the tomb ye bore So late my royal sire; scarce in these halls Are stilled the echoes of the funeral wail; Another corpse succeeds, and in the grave Weighs down its fellow-dust--almost our torch With borrowed lustre from the last, may pierce The monumental gloom; and on the stair, Blends in one throng confused two mourning trains. Then in the sacred royal dome that guards The ashes of my sire, prepare with speed The funeral rites; unseen of mortal eye, And noiseless be your task--let all be graced, As then, with circumstances of kingly state.

BOHEMUND. My prince, it shall be quickly done; for still Upreared, the gorgeous catafalque recalls The dread solemnity; no hand disturbed The edifice of death.

DON CAESAR. The yawning grave Amid the haunts of life? No goodly sign Was this: the rites fulfilled, why lingered yet The trappings of the funeral show?

BOHEMUND. Your strife With fresh embittered hate o'er all Messina Woke discord's maddening flames, and from the deed Our cares withdrew--so resolute remained, And closed the sanctuary.

DON CAESAR. Make no delay; This very night fulfil your task, for well Beseems the midnight gloom! To-morrow's sun Shall find this palace cleansed of every stain, And light a happier race.

[Exit the Second Chorus, with the body of DON MANUEL.

CAJETAN. Shall I invite The brotherhood of monks, with rights ordained By holy church of old, to celebrate The office of departed souls, and hymn The buried one to everlasting rest?

DON CAESAR. Their strains above my tomb shall sound for ever Amid the torches' blaze--no solemn rites Beseem the day when gory murder scares Heaven's pardoning grace.

CAJETAN. Oh, let not wild despair Tempt thee to impious, rash resolve. My prince No mortal arm shall e'er avenge this deed; And penance calms, with soft, atoning power, The wrath on high.

DON CAESAR. If for eternal justice Earth has no minister, myself shall wield The avenging sword; though heaven, with gracious ear, Inclines to sinners' prayers, with blood alone Atoned is murder's guilt.

CAJETAN. To stem the tide Of dire misfortune, that with maddening rage Bursts o'er your house, were nobler than to pile Accumulated woe.

DON CAESAR. The curse of old Shall die with me! Death self-imposed alone Can break the chain of fate.

CAJETAN. Thou owest thyself A sovereign to this orphaned land, by thee Robbed of its other lord!

DON CAESAR. The avenging gods Demand their prey--some other deity May guard the living!

CAJETAN. Wide as e'er the sun In glory beams, the realm of hope extends; But--oh remember! nothing may we gain From Death!

DON CAESAR. Remember thou thy vassal's duty; Remember and be silent! Leave to me To follow, as I list, the spirit of power That leads me to the goal. No happy one May look into my breast: but if thy prince Owns not a subject's homage, dread at least The murderer!--the accursed!--and to the head Of the unhappy--sacred to the gods-- Give honors due. The pangs that rend my soul-- What I have suffered--what I feel--have left No place for earthly thoughts!

DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, The Chorus.

ISABELLA (enters with hesitating steps, and looks irresolutely towards DON CAESAR; at last she approaches, and addresses him with collected tones). I thought mine eyes should ne'er behold thee more; Thus I had vowed despairing! Oh, my son! How quickly all a mother's strong resolves Melt into air! 'Twas but the cry of rage That stifled nature's pleading voice; but now What tidings of mysterious import call me From the desolate chambers of my sorrow? Shall I believe it? Is it true? one day Robs me of both my sons?

Chorus.

Behold! with willing steps and free,
Thy son prepares to tread
The paths of dark eternity
The silent mansions of the dead.
My prayers are vain; but thou, with power confessed,
Of nature's holiest passion, storm his breast!

ISABELLA. I call the curses back--that in the frenzy Of blind despair on thy beloved head I poured. A mother may not curse the child That from her nourishing breast drew life, and gave Sweet recompense for all her travail past; Heaven would not hear the impious vows; they fell With quick rebound, and heavy with my tears Down from the flaming vault! Live! live! my son! For I may rather bear to look on thee-- The murderer of one child--than weep for both!

DON CAESAR. Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers For me and for thyself; I have no place Among the living: if thine eyes may brook The murderer's sight abhorred--I could not bear The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.

ISABELLA. Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never Disturb thy breast--ne'er in these halls shall sound The voice of wailing, gently on my tears My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike Of pitiless fate together we will mourn, And veil the deed of blood.

DON CAESAR (with a faltering voice, and taking her hand). Thus it shall be, My mother--thus with silent, gentle woe Thy grief shall fade: but when one common tomb The murderer and his victim closes round-- When o'er our dust one monumental stone Is rolled--the curse shall cease--thy love no more Unequal bless thy sons: the precious tears Thine eyes of beauty weep shall sanctify Alike our memories. Yes! In death are quenched The fires of rage; and hatred owns subdued, The mighty reconciler. Pity bends An angel form above the funeral urn, With weeping, dear embrace. Then to the tomb Stay not my passage:--Oh, forbid me not, Thus with atoning sacrifice to quell The curse of heaven.

ISABELLA. All Christendom is rich In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid; And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers Of the devout are precious--fraught with store Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;-- And on the soil by gory murder stained Shall rise the purifying fane.

DON CAESAR. We pluck The arrow from the wound--but the torn heart Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on A weary life of penance and of pain, To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;-- I would not live the victim of despair; No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air Of liberty and joy. While yet alike We shared thy love, then o'er my days of youth Pale envy cast his withering shade; and now, Think'st thou my heart could brook the dearer ties That bind thee in thy sorrow to the dead? Death, in his undecaying palace throned, To the pure diamond of perfect virtue Sublimes the mortal, and with chastening fire Each gathered stain of frail humanity Purges and burns away: high as the stars Tower o'er this earthly sphere, he soars above me; And as by ancient hate dissevered long, Brethren and equal denizens we lived, So now my restless soul with envy pines, That he has won from me the glorious prize Of immortality, and like a god In memory marches on to times unborn!

ISABELLA. My Sons! Why have I called you to Messina To find for each a grave? I brought ye hither To calm your strife to peace. Lo! Fate has turned My hopes to blank despair.

DON CAESAR. Whate'er was spoke, My mother, is fulfilled! Blame not the end By Heaven ordained. We trode our father's halls With hopes of peace; and reconciled forever, Together we shall sleep in death.

ISABELLA. My son, Live for thy mother! In the stranger's land, Say, wouldst thou leave me friendless and alone, To cruel scorn a prey--no filial arm To shield my helpless age?

DON CAESAR. When all the world With heartless taunts pursues thee, to our grave For refuge fly, my mother, and invoke Thy sons' divinity--we shall be gods! And we will hear thy prayers:--and as the twins Of heaven, a beaming star of comfort shine To the tossed shipman--we will hover near thee With present help, and soothe thy troubled soul!

ISABELLA. Live--for thy mother, live, my son-- Must I lose all?

[She throws her arms about him with passionate emotion.
He gently disengages himself, and turning his face away
extends to her his hand.

DON CAESAR.
Farewell!

ISABELLA. I can no more; Too well my tortured bosom owns how weak A mother's prayers: a mightier voice shall sound Resistless on thy heart.

[She goes towards the entrance of the scene.

My daughter, come. A brother calls him to the realms of night; Perchance with golden hues of earthly joy The sister, the beloved, may gently lure The wanderer to life again.

[BEATRICE appears at the entrance of the scene.

DONNA ISABELLA, DON CAESAR, and the Chorus.

DON CAESAR (on seeing her, covers his face with his hands). My mother! What hast thou done?

ISABELLA (leading BEATRICE forwards). A mother's prayers are vain! Kneel at his feet--conjure him--melt his heart! Oh, bid him live!

DON CAESAR. Deceitful mother, thus Thou triest thy son! And wouldst thou stir my soul Again to passion's strife, and make the sun Beloved once more, now when I tread the paths Of everlasting night? See where he stands-- Angel of life!--and wondrous beautiful, Shakes from his plenteous horn the fragrant store Of golden fruits and flowers, that breathe around Divinest airs of joy;--my heart awakes In the warm sunbeam--hope returns, and life Thrills in my breast anew.

ISABELLA (to BEATRICE). Thou wilt prevail! Or none! Implore him that he live, nor rob The staff and comfort of our days.

BEATRICE. The loved one A sacrifice demands. Oh, let me die To soothe a brother's shade! Yes, I will be The victim! Ere I saw the light forewarned To death, I live a wrong to heaven! The curse Pursues me still: 'twas I that slew thy son-- I waked the slumbering furies of their strife-- Be mine the atoning blood!

CAJETAN. Ill-fated mother! Impatient all thy children haste to doom, And leave thee on the desolate waste alone Of joyous life.

BEATRICE. Oh, spare thy precious days For nature's band. Thy mother needs a son; My brother, live for her! Light were the pang To lose a daughter--but a moment shown, Then snatched away!

DON CAESAR (with deep emotion). 'Tis one to live or die, Blest with a sister's love!

BEATRICE. Say, dost thou envy Thy brother's ashes?

DON CAESAR. In thy grief he lives A hallowed life!--my doom is death forever!

BEATRICE. My brother!

DON CAESAR.
Sister! are thy tears for me?

BEATRICE. Live for our mother!

DON CAESAR (dropping her hand, and stepping back).
For our mother?

BEATRICE (hiding her head in his breast). Live For her and for thy sister!

Chorus (BOHEMUND). She has won! Resistless are her prayers. Despairing mother, Awake to hope again--his choice is made! Thy son shall live!

[At this moment an anthem is heard. The folding doors
are thrown open, and in the church is seen the catafalque
erected, and the coffin surrounded with candlesticks.

DON CAESAR (turning to the coffin). I will not rob thee, brother! The sacrifice is thine:--Hark! from the tomb, Mightier than mother's tears, or sister's love, Thy voice resistless cries:--my arms enfold A treasure, potent with celestial joys, To deck this earthly sphere, and make a lot Worthy the gods! but shall I live in bliss, While in the tomb thy sainted innocence Sleeps unavenged? Thou, Ruler of our days, All just--all wise--let not the world behold Thy partial care! I saw her tears!--enough-- They flowed for me! I am content: my brother! I come!

[He stabs himself with a dagger, and falls dead
at his sister's feet. She throws herself into her
mother's arms.

Chorus, CAJETAN (after a deep silence). In dread amaze I stand, nor know If I should mourn his fate. One truth revealed Speaks in my breast;--no good supreme is life; But all of earthly ills the chief is--Guilt!

THE END

ON THE USE OF THE CHORUS IN TRAGEDY.

A poetical work must vindicate itself: if the execution be defective, little aid can be derived from commentaries.

On these grounds I might safely leave the chorus to be its own advocate, if we had ever seen it presented in an appropriate manner. But it must be remembered that a dramatic composition first assumes the character of a whole by means of representation on the stage. The poet supplies only the words, to which, in a lyrical tragedy, music and rhythmical motion are essential accessories. It follows, then, that if the chorus is deprived of accompaniments appealing so powerfully to the senses, it will appear a superfluity in the economy of the drama--a mere hinderance to the development of the plot--destructive to the illusion of the scene, and wearisome to the spectators.

To do justice to the chorus, more especially if our aims in poetry be of a grand and elevated character, we must transport ourselves from the actual to a possible stage. It is the privilege of art to furnish for itself whatever is requisite, and the accidental deficiency of auxiliaries ought not to confine the plastic imagination of the poet. He aspires to whatever is most dignified, he labors to realize the ideal in his own mind--though in the execution of his purpose he must needs accommodate himself to circumstances.

The assertion so commonly made that the public degrades art is not well founded. It is the artist that brings the public to the level of his own conceptions; and, in every age in which art has gone to decay, it has fallen through its professors. The people need feeling alone, and feeling they possess. They take their station before the curtain with an unvoiced longing, with a multifarious capacity. They bring with them an aptitude for what is highest--they derive the greatest pleasure from what is judicious and true; and if, with these powers of appreciation, they deign to be satisfied with inferior productions, still, if they have once tasted what is excellent, they will in the end insist on having it supplied to them.

It is sometimes objected that the poet may labor according to an ideal-- that the critic may judge from ideas, but that mere executive art is subject to contingencies, and depends for effect on the occasion. Managers will be obstinate; actors are bent on display--the audience is inattentive and unruly. Their object is relaxation, and they are disappointed if mental exertion be required, when they expected only amusement. But if the theatre be made instrumental towards higher objects, the diversion, of the spectator will not be increased, but ennobled. It will be a diversion, but a poetical one. All art is dedicated to pleasure, and there can be no higher and worthier end than to make men happy. The true art is that which provides the highest degree of pleasure; and this consists in the abandonment of the spirit to the free play of all its faculties.

Every one expects from the imaginative arts a certain emancipation from the bounds of reality: we are willing to give a scope to fancy, and recreate ourselves with the possible. The man who expects it the least will nevertheless forget his ordinary pursuits, his everyday existence and individuality, and experience delight from uncommon incidents:--if he be of a serious turn of mind he will acknowledge on the stage that moral government of the world which he fails to discover in real life. But he is, at the same time, perfectly aware that all is an empty show, and that in a true sense he is feeding only on dreams. When he returns from the theatre to the world of realities, he is again compressed within its narrow bounds; he is its denizen as before--for it remains what it was, and in him nothing has been changed. What, then, has he gained beyond a momentary illusive pleasure which vanished with the occasion?

It is because a passing recreation is alone desired that a mere show of truth is thought sufficient. I mean that probability or vraisemblance which is so highly esteemed, but which the commonest workers are able to substitute for the true.

Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely free; and this it accomplishes by awakening, exercising, and perfecting in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world; (which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down with a brute influence;) to transform it into the free working of our spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas. For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth. It rears its ideal edifice on truth itself--on the solid and deep foundations of nature.

But how art can be at once altogether ideal, yet in the strictest sense real; how it can entirely leave the actual, and yet harmonize with nature, is a problem to the multitude; and hence the distorted views which prevail in regard to poetical and plastic works; for to ordinary judgments these two requisites seem to counteract each other.

It is commonly supposed that one may be attained by the sacrifice of the other;--the result is a failure to arrive at either. One to whom nature has given a true sensibility, but denied the plastic imaginative power, will be a faithful painter of the real; he will adapt casual appearances, but never catch the spirit of nature. He will only reproduce to us the matter of the world, which, not being our own work, the product of our creative spirit, can never have the beneficent operation of art, of which the essence is freedom. Serious indeed, but unpleasing, is the cast of thought with which such an artist and poet dismisses us; we feel ourselves painfully thrust back into the narrow sphere of reality by means of the very art which ought to have emancipated us. On the other hand, a writer endowed with a lively fancy, but destitute of warmth and individuality of feeling, will not concern himself in the least about truth; he will sport with the stuff of the world, and endeavor to surprise by whimsical combinations; and as his whole performance is nothing but foam and glitter, he will, it is true, engage the attention for a time, but build up and confirm nothing in the understanding. His playfulness is, like the gravity of the other, thoroughly unpoetical. To string together at will fantastical images is not to travel into the realm of the ideal; and the imitative reproduction of the actual cannot be called the representation of nature. Both requisites stand so little in contradiction to each other that they are rather one and the same thing; that art is only true insomuch as it altogether forsakes the actual, and becomes purely ideal. Nature herself is an idea of the mind, and is never presented to the senses. She lies under the veil of appearances, but is herself never apparent. To the art of the ideal alone is lent, or rather absolutely given, the privilege to grasp the spirit of the all and bind it in a corporeal form.

Yet, in truth, even art cannot present it to the senses, but by means of her creative power to the imaginative faculty alone; and it is thus that she becomes more true than all reality, and more real than all experience. It follows from these premises that the artist can use no single element taken from reality as he finds it--that his work must be ideal in all its parts, if it be designed to have, as it were, an intrinsic reality, and to harmonize with nature.

What is true of art and poetry, in the abstract, holds good as to their various kinds; and we may apply what has been advanced to the subject of tragedy. In this department it is still necessary to controvert the ordinary notion of the natural, with which poetry is altogether incompatible. A certain ideality has been allowed in painting, though, I fear, on grounds rather conventional than intrinsic; but in dramatic works what is desired is allusion, which, if it could be accomplished by means of the actual, would be, at best, a paltry deception. All the externals of a theatrical representation are opposed to this notion; all is merely a symbol of the real. The day itself in a theatre is an artificial one; the metrical dialogue is itself ideal; yet the conduct of the play must forsooth be real, and the general effect sacrificed to a part. Thus the French, who have utterly misconceived the spirit of the ancients, adopted on their stage the unities of tine and place in the most common and empirical sense; as though there were any place but the bare ideal one, or any other time than the mere sequence of the incidents.

By the introduction of a metrical dialogue an important progress has been made towards the poetical tragedy. A few lyrical dramas have been successful on the stage, and poetry, by its own living energy, has triumphed over prevailing prejudices. But so long as these erroneous views are entertained little has been done--for it is not enough barely to tolerate as a poetical license that which is, in truth, the essence of all poetry. The introduction of the chorus would be the last and decisive step; and if it only served this end, namely, to declare open and honorable warfare against naturalism in art, it would be for us a living wall which tragedy had drawn around herself, to guard her from contact with the world of reality, and maintain her own ideal soil, her poetical freedom.

It is well-known that the Greek tragedy had its origin in the chorus; and though in process of time it became independent, still it may be said that poetically, and in spirit, the chorus was the source of its existence, and that without these persevering supporters and witnesses of the incident a totally different order of poetry would have grown out of the drama. The abolition of the chorus, and the debasement of this sensibly powerful organ into the characterless substitute of a confidant, is by no means such an improvement in the tragedy as the French, and their imitators, would have it supposed to be.

The old tragedy, which at first only concerned itself with gods, heroes and kings introduced the chorus as an essential accompaniment. The poets found it in nature, and for that reason employed it. It grew out of the poetical aspect of real life. In the new tragedy it becomes an organ of art, which aids in making the poetry prominent. The modern poet no longer finds the chorus in nature; he must needs create and introduce it poetically; that is, he must resolve on such an adaption of his story as will admit of its retrocession to those primitive times and to that simple form of life.

The chorus thus renders more substantial service to the modern dramatist than to the old poet--and for this reason, that it transforms the commonplace actual world into the old poetical one; that it enables him to dispense with all that is repugnant to poetry, and conducts him back to the most simple, original, and genuine motives of action. The palaces of kings are in these days closed--courts of justice have been transferred from the gates of cities to the interior of buildings; writing has narrowed the province of speech; the people itself--the sensibly living mass--when it does not operate as brute force, has become a part of the civil polity, and thereby an abstract idea in our minds; the deities have returned within the bosoms of mankind. The poet must reopen the palaces--he must place courts of justice beneath the canopy of heaven--restore the gods, reproduce every extreme which the artificial frame of actual life has abolished--throw aside every factitious influence on the mind or condition of man which impedes the manifestation of his inward nature and primitive character, as the statuary rejects modern costume:--and of all external circumstances adopts nothing but what is palpable in the highest of forms--that of humanity.

But precisely as the painter throws around his figures draperies of ample volume, to fill up the space of his picture richly and gracefully, to arrange its several parts in harmonious masses, to give due play to color, which charms and refreshes the eye--and at once to envelop human forms in a spiritual veil, and make them visible--so the tragic poet inlays and entwines his rigidly contracted plot and the strong outlines of his characters with a tissue of lyrical magnificence, in which, as in flowing robes of purple, they move freely and nobly, with a sustained dignity and exalted repose.

In a higher organization, the material, or the elementary, need not be visible; the chemical color vanishes in the finer tints of the imaginative one. The material, however, has its peculiar effect, and may be included in an artistical composition. But it must deserve its place by animation, fulness and harmony, and give value to the ideal forms which it surrounds instead of stifling them by its weight.

In respect of the pictorial art, this is obvious to ordinary apprehension, yet in poetry likewise, and in the tragical kind, which is our immediate subject, the same doctrine holds good. Whatever fascinates the senses alone is mere matter, and the rude element of a work of art:-- if it takes the lead it will inevitably destroy the poetical--which lies at the exact medium between the ideal and the sensible. But man is so constituted that he is ever impatient to pass from what is fanciful to what is common; and reflection must, therefore, have its place even in tragedy. But to merit this place it must, by means of delivery, recover what it wants in actual life; for if the two elements of poetry, the ideal and the sensible, do not operate with an inward mutuality, they must at least act as allies--or poetry is out of the question. If the balance be not intrinsically perfect, the equipoise can only be maintained by an agitation of both scales.

This is what the chorus effects in tragedy. It is in itself, not an individual but a general conception; yet it is represented by a palpable body which appeals to the senses with an imposing grandeur. It forsakes the contracted sphere of the incidents to dilate itself over the past and the future, over distant times and nations, and general humanity, to deduce the grand results of life, and pronounce the lessons of wisdom. But all this it does with the full power of fancy--with a bold lyrical freedom which ascends, as with godlike step, to the topmost height of worldly things; and it effects it in conjunction with the whole sensible influence of melody and rhythm, in tones and movements.

The chorus thus exercises a purifying influence on tragic poetry, insomuch as it keeps reflection apart from the incidents, and by this separation arms it with a poetical vigor, as the painter, by means of a rich drapery, changes the ordinary poverty of costume into a charm and ornament.

But as the painter finds himself obliged to strengthen the tone of color of the living subject, in order to counterbalance the material influences--so the lyrical effusions of the chorus impose upon the poet the necessity of a proportionate elevation of his general diction. It is the chorus alone which entitles the poet to employ this fulness of tone, which at once charms the senses, pervades the spirit, and expands the mind. This one giant form on his canvas obliges him to mount all his figures on the cothurnus, and thus impart a tragical grandeur to his picture. If the chorus be taken away, the diction of the tragedy must generally be lowered, or what is now great and majestic will appear forced and overstrained. The old chorus introduced into the French tragedy would present it in all its poverty, and reduce it to nothing; yet, without doubt, the same accompaniment would impart to Shakspeare's tragedy its true significance.

As the chorus gives life to the language--so also it gives repose to the action; but it is that beautiful and lofty repose which is the characteristic of a true work of art. For the mind of the spectator ought to maintain its freedom through the most impassioned scenes; it should not be the mere prey of impressions, but calmly and severely detach itself from the emotions which it suffers. The commonplace objection made to the chorus, that it disturbs the illusion, and blunts the edge of the feelings, is what constitutes its highest recommendation; for it is this blind force of the affections which the true artist deprecates--this illusion is what he disdains to excite. If the strokes which tragedy inflicts on our bosoms followed without respite, the passion would overpower the action. We should mix ourselves with the subject-matter, and no longer stand above it. It is by holding asunder the different parts, and stepping between the passions with its composing views, that the chorus restores to us our freedom, which would else be lost in the tempest. The characters of the drama need this intermission in order to collect themselves; for they are no real beings who obey the impulse of the moment, and merely represent individuals--but ideal persons and representatives of their species, who enunciate the deep things of humanity.

Thus much on my attempt to revive the old chorus on the tragic stage. It is true that choruses are not unknown to modern tragedy; but the chorus of the Greek drama, as I have employed it--the chorus, as a single ideal person, furthering and accompanying the whole plot--if of an entirely distinct character; and when, in discussion on the Greek tragedy, I hear mention made of choruses, I generally suspect the speaker's ignorance of his subject. In my view the chorus has never been reproduced since the decline of the old tragedy.

I have divided it into two parts, and represented it in contest with itself; but this occurs where it acts as a real person, and as an unthinking multitude. As chorus and an ideal person it is always one and entire. I have also several times dispensed with its presence on the stage. For this liberty I have the example of Aeschylus, the creator of tragedy, and Sophocles, the greatest master of his art.

Another license it may be more difficult to excuse. I have blended together the Christian religion and the pagan mythology, and introduced recollections of the Moorish superstition. But the scene of the drama is Messina--where these three religions either exercised a living influence, or appealed to the senses in monumental remains. Besides, I consider it a privilege of poetry to deal with different religions as a collective whole. In which everything that bears an individual character, and expresses a peculiar mode of feeling, has its place. Religion itself, the idea of a Divine Power, lies under the veil of all religions; and it must be permitted to the poet to represent it in the form which appears the most appropriate to his subject.

SCHILLER'S POEMS

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE FIRST PERIOD

Hector and Andromache
Amalia
A Funeral Fantasie
Fantasie--To Laura
To Laura at the Harpsichord
Group from Tartarus
Rapture--To Laura
To Laura (The Mystery of Reminiscence)
Melancholy--To Laura
The Infanticide
The Greatness of the World
Fortune and Wisdom
Elegy on the Death of a Young Man
The Battle
Rousseau
Friendship
Elysium
The Fugitive
To Minna
The Flowers
The Triumph of Love (A Hymn)
To a Moralist
Count Eberhard, the Groaner of Wurtemburg
To the Spring
Semele

POEMS OF THE SECOND PERIOD

Hymn to Joy
The Invincible Armada
The Gods of Greece
Resignation
The Conflict
The Artists
The Celebrated Woman
Written in a Young Lady's Album

POEMS OF THE THIRD PERIOD

The Meeting
The Secret
The Assignation
Longing
Evening (After a Picture)
The Pilgrim
The Ideals
The Youth by the Brook
To Emma
The Favor of the Moment
The Lay of the Mountain
The Alpine Hunter
Dithyramb
The Four Ages of the World
The Maiden's Lament
To My Friends
Punch Song
Nadowessian Death Lament
The Feast of Victory
Punch Song
The Complaint of Ceres
The Eleusinian Festival
The Ring of Polycrates
The Cranes of Ibycus (A Ballad)
The Playing Infant
Hero and Leander (A Ballad)
Cassandra
The Hostage (A Ballad)
Greekism
The Diver (A Ballad)
The Fight with the Dragon
Female Judgment
Fridolin; or, the Walk to the Iron Foundry
The Genius with the Inverted Torch
The Count of Hapsburg (A Ballad)
The Forum of Women
The Glove (A Tale)
The Circle of Nature
The Veiled Statue at Sais
The Division of the Earth
The Fairest Apparition
The Ideal and the Actual Life
Germany and her Princes
Dangerous Consequences
The Maiden from Afar
The Honorable
Parables and Riddles
The Virtue of Woman
The Walk
The Lay of the Bell
The Power of Song
To Proselytizers
Honor to Woman
Hope
The German Art
Odysseus
Carthage
The Sower
The Knights of St. John
The Merchant
German Faith
The Sexes
Love and Desire
The Bards of Olden Time
Jove to Hercules
The Antiques of Paris
Thekla (A Spirit Voice)
The Antique to the Northern Wanderer
The Iliad
Pompeii and Herculaneum
Naenia
The Maid of Orleans
Archimedes
The Dance
The Fortune-Favored
Bookseller's Announcement
Genius
Honors
The Philosophical Egotist
The Best State Constitution
The Words of Belief
The Words of Error
The Power of Woman
The Two Paths of Virtue
The Proverbs of Confucius
Human Knowledge
Columbus
Light and Warmth
Breadth and Depth
The Two Guides of Life
The Immutable