Poems

Front matter

CONTENTS.

The Outlaw

THE OUTLAW;

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

THE OUTLAW.

ACT. I.

SCENE I.—Dungeon.

Helvitio chained.

Enter Jailor.

Jailor. Six thousand marks, good master robber, I think thou said'st, this morning? Helvitio, Six thousand marks, old fellow; are they not a goodly ransom for these rusty chains? Jail, Aye! but, my head! My head it sitteth now most firmly on my shoulders. Should'st thou escape, might I not tremble for it? Hel, And should I not?—Six thousand marks die with me.

Jail, But wilt thou swear?—[aside.] What oath can hold a robber?—What pledge givest thou of this forthcoming ransom'? Hel. My word. Jail. A goodly pledge, no doubt, and one most worthy; but Hel. Old man, I am an outlaw; yet I bear A heart that throbs as thine hath never throbb'd; And were my life a ransom for the falsehood, I would, upon the scaffold, lay it down, Rather than sully it—by a base lie! Jail. Well, well! no need to put thee in a passion. Five thousand marks are set upon thy head— But that the soldiers who entrapp'd thee 'll share:— So then, if thou wilt promise me, most truly, To pay six thousand marks into my hands, Three days at farthest, after thy release, Our bargain's made. Hel. I promise thee: Come, come, knock off the fetters!

Jail. Softly; I must file them off; And to do that must get an instrument. I will be with thee anon. >>[Exit Jailor. Hel. Now, by yon Heaven, I almost scorn my Freedom— Bought from this traitorous knave! Would that my own good sword could cleave A passage through these walls. Man, it is said, hath ever Some enduring passion for wealth, and state— Power—fame—or love: Each moveth different natures—such, not mine. Oh! I would be the Eagle, in its flight Soaring to Heaven and sunning its strong pinions Beneath the glorious sun; And when fatigued with gazing on its splendor, My couch should be the high and rugged cliff, Whose dangerous steep man never yet hath clomb; My food, torn from the pale and worthless slave, Whose soul would grudge the given morsel; And, for the music of the tinkling lyre,

Give me the mountain breeze—the sea-bird call— The moaning of the chafed and angry waters. Caught thus, and caged, Whilst sleep bedimmed my senses: My band dispersed—roving I know not whither— And fearful of their captains doom— Death by the headsman's hand. Courage, my heart, I hear my jailor's step, And in that tread lieth freedom!

<>Enter Jailor.

Jail, Softly, softly; thou seem'st in angry mood. Here is the cunning tool—now for thy fetters! [Files them.] They're off.—I'll drop this file nigh by thy straw. Thou'rt free; and here the rope—tie hands and feet;— I will prove me innocent. Knock down the sentinel. God speed! Yet hearken—the six thousand marks. >>[Exit Helvitio.

<>SCENE II.—A Ruinous Castle by the Sea-shore—precipitous rocks—a small boat moored.

<>Enter Baron Alberto and Page.

Page. Around this ruined castle oft, my Lord, I've seen my lady wander; and the weary night O'er-burthen with her sorrow. B. Alber. Deem'st thou her love so perfect, That the edge of this most doting passion Still remains a dagger in her bosom? Love's she him yet? Page. My lord, of whom now speakest thou? B. Alber. [agitated with passion.] Whom speak I of? Knave thou dost know I know not whom I speak of—yet this much know:— He has a serpent's tongue—a smooth and flowery speech— Such winneth woman;—soft and fair The curling moustache, and the clustering locks. Ye marvel that I saw thus much, at such A damning moment? Know then, I noted

With a jealous eye—one hungry for revenge— And marked well, upon my bosom's tablets, Each cozening trait. Page. Oh, my lord, my lord! I pray thee look not thus. B, Alber. [recovers himself.] Speak on young sir; What of thy virtuous lady? Page. For hours she leans 'gainst yonder battlement, With eyes, that weeping, seem two precious gems, Half hidden 'neath the pure and lucid wave, That but enhance their beauty. Believe me, noble sir, she mourns the loss Of thy prized love most deeply. I have seen true and honest grief: My mother wept when my kind father died— So weeps the gentle Lady Isabel. B. Alber. [musing.] It seems as yesterday. I see her now, with modest look, Gazing upon my face—my own fair bride! Was that a brow to write deceiver on? Oh! woman, woman!

Page. [kneeling.] Pardon me, my Lord; I pray thee think it not. Forgive my boldness:—see my gentle lady; It is the hour at which she's wont to walk: Oh! wilt thou not speak peace unto her bosom? Look on her form—wasted by gnawing care; Through her wan slender fingers glide the tears, Forever flowing;—I can ne'er believe That guilt e'er dwelt with so much humbleness! B. Alber. [still musing.] Who spoke of peace? Canst thou bestow such boon? Restore a wanton's purity—a husband's trust? God's blessing on thine head, if thou can'st do it: But no—I tell thee she's as false as hell! I saw the clasping hands—the speaking glance— The tears that fell at parting! Get thee gone, Thou tempting devil! Page. [kneeling.] One word—only one word—Forgive B. Alber. Up, boy; I have resolved to try The lady's boasted constancy. My friends Think me abroad—my rank concealed—

Engaged in foreign warfare:—Report my death, And I will then retire to yonder cave, And play the holy hermit; there I'll wait 'Till time hath proved suspicion true or false.— Boy, thou must hence, and to thy lady say— Alberto's dead; shed tears and counterfeit True sorrow well. Page. Poor lady, 'twill not need; My tears fall truly for her. B. Alter. Give her these papers and this signet ring; This letter—my farewell: Tell her I died, Forgiving her, upon the battle field. >>[Exit Page. If then she leaves this ruined tower, and goes With buoyant heart unto her princely home— Wearing gay smiles when her sad weeds are cast, I will believe her false—and plunge My dagger deep in her treacherous bosom— But hark! what step intrudes >>[Lady Isabella appears at a distance.

[Aside.] 'Tis she, my Isabella; down my heart, Cease thy tumultous throbs; let me retire. >>[Retires behind a rock. I dare not speak—scarce dare I gaze Upon her wondrous beauty. Oh! my love— Far dearer now than when in youth I won thee! Wert thou but true!—Oh, God! oh, God! 'Cast far from me that maddening thought! Give back the freshness of my youthful heart, Ere that false woman ruined every hope, And taught me fell revenge as Heaven's best gift! She speaketh;—no, it is the moaning wind. >>[Isabella enters the castle. So quickly gone. My day 's bright sun hath faded; Night comes apace. On, on, now, to my exile, Beneath yon range of wave-worn rocks.

<>SCENE III,—Room in the Tower.

<>Lady Isabella.

L. Isabel. Three years have passed since my imprisonment. Oh, weary hours, with nought to make their lapse

But my sad tears; yet, with a woman's constancy, I love the cruel heart that thus Could bid me linger far, far from each fond tie. My father, where art thou? Who now will cheer Thy sinking heart, when wintry age creeps on? With tender care watch thy slow faltering steps,— And when that hour of mortal pain draws nigh— As with deep groan the lingering soul springs forth, On its eternal flight,—who then will close thine aged eyes And weep above thy dear remains?—

[Weeps.

<>Enter Amelia.

Ame. Dear lady, weep not so; There may be happy hours in store for thee; E'en now thy page from Dresden hath returned, With messages and pacquet from thy friends. Shall I admit him? L. Isabel. Do so, Amelia.

[Exit Amelia.

Alas, my heart speaks not of hope,

But some great woe weighs, with presentiment, My senses down.

<>Enter Amelia and Page.

Speak, boy, what says my father? Ah! tears! he's dead! My heart Forboded this. Page. No, lady, no: My lord the Duke is well. He greets you kindly, and thus bade me say:— With all good speed bid her to hurry on, Her father sighs once more to bless his daughter. This letter, lady, vouches for my truth— This pacquet and this well known signet ring. >>[Lady Isabella takes the ring. L. Isabel. [rapturously.] My husband's ring! Oh! happy fate! He has at length relented: This letter will explain. [Reads.] Farewell; I died blessing my injured wife— <>[Lady Isabella faints—Amelia goes to her assistance.

Ame. [To Page.] Quick, quick, some water— Throw the casement open. Alas, what aileth thee, dear lady? [To Page.] Hast thou brought tidings of evil import. Page. Our noble master's dead, And much I fear, Our lady will not long survive him. Ame. My lady's but a woman, after all— Although a most discreet and virtuous one.— She hath known much of sorrow, yet lived on; And this new grief but wears another form. [To Page.] See, she revives, bring yonder goblet. Drink, my sweet lady, 'twill restore thy strength. L. Isabel. Cease, good Amelia, I am well, quite well. Leave me to my own thoughts. >>[Exit Amelia and Page. Gone! the last hope that had sustained my spirit! The stream flows on, though winter shred The loveliest blossom that o'erhung its banks: Thus wills the Almighty—good and merciful. Forgive me, Heaven! teach me to bow my heart Unto the will of the All-wise Disposer.

Once more I will endeavor to peruse This sad memorial. [Reads, interrupted by tears.] My husband! Would I had died for thee—and, dying, proved My innocence;—but thus to leave me.— Death! how terrible thou art, Embittered by the thought of treachery.

<>Enter Amelia.

Ame. My lady, did'st thou call? L. Isabel. No, good Amelia; But come hither to me. It was his wish—my lord's last wish— That I should choose my future residence Where it may please me. My choice is made; and here I will remain, Nursing his loved remembrance, and my grief, With such a churlish care, that none shall know A widowed bosom dwells within these walls. My honored father—I must e'en deceive him, Lest, with a cruel kindness, he should call me To the vain pomps I covet not.

But if within a convent's sacred walls He deems I seek a refuge from my woes, 'Twill be a sanctuary which not e'en A parent's love would tear me from. Take thou this casket, which contains Deeds of importance; give it to my page, And let him bear it to the Duke, my father. >>[Exit Amelia—Lady Isabella leans on her couch, her face covered by her hands—Amelia returns. And now, Amelia, can'st thou here remain. Lonely and sad, to watch thy fading mistress? Ame. Dear lady, speak not thus: Rememberest thou the tale thy mother told. When here, upon this now deserted spot, A happy family dwelt; And near a fisherman had reared his hut, And earned a humble living by the sea; Which one dread night threw him a mangled corse Upon the rocky shore. Two lived to mourn him: One, a wretched wife; the other, a young child That knew not death, but played

With the long tangled locks that hung about it's father. Then came thy gentle mother, Lady Anne, And snatched the babe from its sad play, And bore it unto the castle, with its maniac mother. Lady, I am that child, and owe a debt That time can never pay. L. Isabel. Here, then, we will remain, And dwell in solitude; This ruined home is the most fitting bower For my wrecked heart.

[Exeunt.

<>ACT II.

<>SCENE I.—Mountain Scenery—A Hut.

<>Banditti disguised as Mountaineers.

1st. Moun. Still absent! Where roves the bold and gallant heart That oft hath led us on to some rich spoil? Rememberest thou the castle that we sacked,

The trembling band of women,whose shrill screams Still seem to pierce mine ear? 2d. Moun. Well; And our captain bade us lead them gently Unto a neighboring hamlet—with strict command To carry them in safety—bidding us remember He warr'd not with young babes and trembling women. Where roves he now? Angling for some fair fish, And sparkling like a dolphin, when it glares Beneath a sunny ray? 1st Moun. Beware; let us not forget we're mountaineers; Join in the revel and the dance With these wild mountain girls.—

<>Enter Peasant girls.

Hark! what sounds are these? Heard ye not distant shouts? Madeline. It is a band of soldiers on the search for the bold robber, who but late escaped from

prison by a desperate attempt upon his keeper's life. He fled, it was supposed, to this wild spot. 2d Moun. A robber, said'st thou? Mad. Where wert thou bred not to have heard of that famed robber chief? Where are your eyes—your ears? A mountaineer! good faith, I doubt thee much. 2d Moun. I was bred, my pretty Madeline, far from the spot where sparkle thy bright eyes. My ears are here open to list to thy speech; my mouth not too far off to answer thee. >>[Attempts to salute her. Mad. Stand off, my friend; your lips are eloquent, but my rejoinder may apply more strikingly. I doubt no more. 2d. Moun. Stay but a moment, gentle Madeline, I have much to say that may not be said as well on another day. Mad. Say on. 2d Moun. Hast thou e'er loved? Of all thy friends, hast thou found one to whisper in thine ear how fair thou art?

Mad. Loved! oh, yes; most certainly I've loved. I love my mother—love my little dog—my last new ribbon and my scarlet boddice;—and as to flatterers, my dog fawns on me and my mother says I am her pretty Madeline; but, most of all, I love— 2d. Moun. Oh! speak. Mad. I love my own dear will. Ha, ha, ha! 2d Moun. Well; thy dear Will am I. Is it not so? Mad. Hush! hush! you weary me, go hence; here comes my mother with food and drink; refreshyourselves, then will we to the dance. >>[They sit down and take refreshments.

<>Enter Soldiers.

Captain. In time to share your feast my pretty girl? Will you not welcome us with your sweet smiles? Mad. [curtseying.] Welcome to our poor fare. [At this moment the Outlaw is seen cautiously descending the mountain at the lack of the hut—the Captain catches a glimpse of him.

Capt. Forward! my men. Now, by my halidame, there starts our game; the hunt is up;—seize, seize him instantly! >>[Mountaineers gently interpose. Capt. [To Moun.] Stand back, my friends; see you not the robber whom we seek? [Mountaineers remain silent.] Stand back or we will force you from your post.—On then, my men, the sturdy knaves abet him. >>[Mountaineers draw weapons from beneath their dress. 1st Moun. We move not at thy proud request. Free men are we, that hold not to the slavish laws of citizens, but succor the oppressed. Capt. Down, down with them my men! >>[Helvitio joins the Mountaineers—a Skirmish—Soldiers disarmed. Hel. [To Capt.] Rise, my brave foe, nor scorn To take thy life a gift from outlawed hands. For the space of three short hours, Thou and thy men are captives; That time elapsed, thou'rt free to seek again thy victor.

[To Moun.] My friends, we'll meet again, Then will I thank you; now, Each moment counts a death stroke to my life. >>[Exit. Capt. [To Moun.] Thou shalt repent thy most audacious conduct, and the authorities shall look into this wild seditious rising. 1st Moun. See'st thou that bird on yonder lofy tree? Seek it and win it to obey thy will; Or chain the wolf and bid it fawn on thee;— These thou may'st do ere bend our hearts to cringe. Thou art a captive and a captive's part is silence.

<>Enter Madeline.

Mad. Have they all gone—that dreadful looking robber? Oh, oh! I am so frightened. You wicked man, how could you fight. Are any killed. >>[Sees the Soldiers—Screams. 2d Moun. No, no, you silly girl, they are not

dead. What frightens you? Call out your laughing friends. Come let us laugh, dance, sing, and joke and play, Thus pass our time, joy comes not every day. Mad. Dance! no, by my faith, I cannot. See how I tremble. 2d Moun. Come, come; take each a partner for the dance. >>[Dance—Stop to refresh themselves. Cap. Are we at liberty! The time hath past Moun. Away, ye are free. >>[Exit Soldiers—Mountaineers about departing. Mad. Must you go? Well, well, I'll wait awhile for your return, ere I attempt to wed; a dozen hours perhaps: [Goes to the door of the hut.] Say, mother, shall I wait that age for our brave guest? Old Woman. [Comes forward.] Aye, aye, child, I waited long enough for your old father; heaven rest his soul. Mad. Well, then, good friend, I'll promise you, and like some ancient pagan, prize a brazen image.

2d Moun. Sweet Madeline, I swear the brass shall be well gilded ere I bring it back to my young worshipper. >>[Exeunt Mountaineers. Mad. Come, mother, let us work, or else I'll weep—my heart's so heavy. Old Woman. Poor child, you make me think of my young days. Come, scour away, and then we'll to our spinning.

<>SCENE II.—Distant mountains—Soldiers descending—the Shore—a small Fishing Boat sheltered under a shelving rock.

<>Enter Helvitio.

Hel. Thus far I've fled, but now My wearied limbs refuse to bear me; Would I could see some friendly shallop near, To aid me in escaping from my foes. Hah! does my sight deceive me? There is one close moored near yonder rock.— Off, off my bark, thou bearest an outlawed freight. >>[Looses the boat.

My gallant band, your chief from bondage freed, Hastes to rejoin yon; But first redeem my pledge to that base churl, Who, with his shaking fingers, loosed my chains, And bade me send a heavy ransom for it. My sister, 'tis reported, is immured Near this wild spot;— I'll hasten now to seek her; Oft she hath relieved my hard necessities; Praying me, with tears, to turn from my wild course. But for her strict command, this trusty dagger Would, ere this, have pierced her tyrant husband's heart. I go to seek her. >>[Jumps into the boat.—Exit between rocks.

<>Enter Soldiers.

Capt. Thus far, my comrades, fled the bandit chief.— Six thousand marks are set upon his head— A noble bounty for the border wolf;

Would that it now were hanging to my belt, And that rich sum beneath it. The game is worth the toil; Disperse, and hunt the wolf from out his den,— He must have earthed him here. >>[Captain reclines on the rocks.—Exit Soldiers in all directions. What if the wolf should pounce upon me now? I must be watchful; yet my laggard eyelids Warn me to court repose. Well, come what will, I'll sleep. >>[Sleeps. Soldiers seen at a distance scouring the country. [Wakes startled.] Upon my life, I thought his hand was on me! Sleep, thou hast played strange pranks within my brain. It is not pleasant to be taken prisoner, Even in slumber. What, ho! my men! Methinks I lack'd discretion In letting all depart. >>[Soldiers seen returning.

1st soldier. Captain, we have scoured the country and have found no traces yet of the bold outlaw. Cap. No signs, thou said'st? 1st Sol. None; sterile rocks alone have met our view. The night is falling, and a murky one 'twill be In this wild place. Bivouack we here, most noble captain? Cap. No; on to yonder distant range; There, by a mouldering cross Which marks the grave of some poor traveller, Stands a holy convent: Shelter and food to all, unasked, are given. On, comrades, on! I am no salt sea-bird To build my nest on such a crag as this. At dawn, to-morrow, we'll renew our search. >>[Exeunt Soldiers.

<>SCENE III.—View of the castle.

<>Oscarconcealed behind a rock.

<>Enter Helvitio and Lady Isabella. Hel. Sweet sister, how can I repay thy love To one outlawed from all his fellow nobles— Alien from home and to his country's laws?— Nay; seek not thus to change my roving life; It suits my wild and savage temper best. One kiss, sweet one: thou'lt seek our father's halls, And cheer the old man with thy gentle presence. We'll meet again this eve; Have all prepared to meet thy brother's wishes. >>[Exeunt.

<>Enter Oscar.

Oscar. [soliloquizing.] Now, traitress, Can I prove thee false at last; And to thy fond and doting lord I'll fly With these most cheering tidings. Revenge is sweet, and now I've won its taste.

Did'st thou, fond fool, think to reject my suit, And live unscathed? This to thy lord I'll say:— At eve the Lady Isabella meets her paramour; With tears and sobs this morning I saw them parting, And weeping on his shoulder, thus she said: When night her sober mantle throws around Til meet thee on this spot

<>Enter Amelia.

Ame. [Suddenly intercepts Os.] Who art thou, That, with slow and stealthy step, Art stealing round Malvino's lonely tower? Oscar. A way-worn traveller, gentle dame, Who seeks a shelter from the coming storm. Ame. Pursue the path that lieth straight before thee;— Soon will St. Hilda's convent meet thine eye— There may'st thou shelter thee.— The bandit, 'tis reported, are abroad; Their chief, the far-famed robber of the Rhine, Once more is free. Heaven shield thee on thy way. >>[Going.

Oscar. Stay but a moment; who art thou? Speak dame; thou hast a goodly presence. And thy speech breathes of a gentle nature. Ame. Here in thine ear I'll whisper it. Oscar. [Starts.] Hah! Ame. Away, thou'rt safe; but hasten I entreat thee. E'en now I see their glittering weapons gleam With fitful lustre, as each vivid flash From the dark clouds glance o'er them. >>[Exit Oscar. Poor fool, thou flee'st as if a band of robbers were close upon thine heels; and thus I took the high and mighty title of bandit's bride to fright thee from thy purpose. Now go I to the Lady Isabel. I will describe this loitering knave's apparel—his figure—speech. She may, perhaps, unravel this seeming mystery. He looked not like a traveller. >>[Exit.

<>SCENE IV—A room in the castle.

<>Lady Isabella conversing with Amelia.

L. Isabel. Thou hast described that most deceitful friend. Well, my Amelia, when, at our Prince's court, I met his gaze, he did enquire my wealth and parentage—then sought my hand. His sordid suit rejected, with ill-disguised disdain, he vowed revenge. Alas! I tremble when I think of it; he was Alberto's friend; and, when betrothed to my lamented lord, I met this Oscar, he feigned a deep repentance. I believed and trusted him; that faith hath placed me here. 'Twas him abused my once kind husband's ear, with tales of my untruth; and urged him on, 'till, wrought almost to madness, he threw me from him. On that very night, beneath my casement, came my poor Helvitio. I saw him, as in pensive mood I leant, thinking of my lord's anger. I knew him instantly—my poor, poor brother! He came to hear some tidings of our father. My lord overheard our last few words, and seizing me with

furious gesture, held his dagger to my bosom; then Oscar tore him from me and thus said:—Twere poor revenge to murder her, my friend; a lingering life of dose imprisonment will cure the lady's fancies. That same night I was immured here. I fear him, good Amelia; haste to my brother's lurking place, and bring him tidings of coming danger; I will keep watch at yonder casement. >>[Exit Amelia. Lady Isabella advances to the window. In yonder sky the heavy clouds Are driven before the conquering wind; And each bright star comes trembling into sight, Fair as when first I gazed upon their light; But the dark clouds of sorrow that o'ershade My wearied soul—oh! never can they flee, Since the bright sun of my existence set!

>>Enter Amelia.

Ame. Thy brother says, dear lady, fear not for him; he will be with you in one moment's time. Hark! 'tis his step.

<>Enter Helvitio.

L. Isabel. Welcome, my dear, dear brother! But not a moment may'st thou stay with me; I fear that spies are lurking near this spot. My jewels I have here collected for you— No other treasures hath your Isabella. Hel. E'en keep them then to deck thy pretty self.— Nay, I'll not rob thee, love. L. Isabel. Stay, stay, Helvitio. My father holds my rich domain for me; And if thou could'st but find some trusty hand To bear this little billet to him safely, It will procure the sum thou dost require. But, oh! dear brother! think on thy wild life. >>[Helvitiotakes the letter. Hel. My prison'd bird, thou singest very sweetly,— Yet may I not list to thy mournful song. Farewell, and seek a gay and gilded cage Ere some wild prowler of the desert catch thee. >>[Exit Helvitio

<>SCENE V.—A cave.

<>Oscar and Alberto in conversation

Alber. This eve, thou said'st? Oscar. Ay, ay, this very eve. The storm is hush'd—all nature is combined To give his love a hearing! See how that star twinkles, as if it winked to us and said— My friends, I see it all, but keep a lover's secret. Thy wife is passing fair, my lord,— Accomplished in all that doth become A noble lady well; but she lacks discretion: That rare costly gift hath been withheld So fair a casket. Pity 'tis, indeed, It holds not the rich gem. Know you her lover? He wears a manly brow, Embrown'd by foreign sun's; a bold demeanour; Eye that hath the softness of the dove, With the brave eagle's glance. Alber. Enough; or I shall think thee some poor trader. Vaunting thy goods.

Oscar. My friend, I pity thee; in truth I do. Thou art an injured man. Can I behold thee thrown upon this rocky floor— Thy rival basking in thy wife's sweet smiles— Nor wish a dire revenge? Alber. Oscar, beware! thou call'st up a devil! Oscar. Well! then we shall be three to one, With thy ally to aid us! Alber. Madman, desist! My whirling brain's on fire, [Musing.] To plunge my dagger deep, deep into her bosom! No! 'twere too merciful! Her paramour, Bathed in his blood, must meet her eye; Then will I smile, and bid her kiss the lips That made her play the wanton, ere I plunge Her soul into perdition, there to meet him! [To Oscar.] I am resolved; on to the castle. >>[Exeunt.

<>SCENE VI—The castle.

<>Oscar and Alberto concealed near it.

Alter. This is the place! Thou see'st I'm very calm.

Oscar. I do, my friend, Such calms too oft forbode a coming tempest. Hah! what heard'st thou 'neath that open casement? Alber. Naught; naught but words; My lady's gay to-night. I'll climb the broken wall and list awhile. >>[Climbs up. Decends rapidly. Let us begone! Oscar. Alberto! art thou mad! 'Tis now the very hour Alber. Not now, not now! I cannot watch them now! Hark! hear'st thou not her voice again? She prays for me! for me—her lost lamented husband! I do believe thee false, most false. Lord Oscar! 'Tis said thou wert an oft-rejected suitor. Speak, man or devil! Oscar. This to me! But I forgive you, my much injured friend. Let us away; perhaps mine eyes deceived me:—

It might have been the Lady Isabel and her attendant. I pray you pardon me for my too jealous love, And look upon thy friend with kinder eyes. Alberto. [impatiently.] E'en as you will. >>[Exeunt.

<>SCENE VII.—Morning.

<>Enter Helvitio and Banditti.

Hel. Here we'll await them. See, the dawn is breaking; yon mountain top Is tinged with the first smile of the fair sun; All nature springs to greet it. Think ye, my friends, the pallid slave Who sinks, enervate, on his soft and silken couch, Feels the wild joy that thrills through all our frames? Give me the morning air—the midnight revel— The toil—the tumult—and the battle strife,— A quiet grave and most unquiet life! Hark! now I hear the rocky pathway echo With armed heels. Back; and, concealed

Each near some friendly rock, remain Until the foe advance to seize me: Then, on to the rescue! >>[Band conceal themselves.—Helvitio folds his arms.

<>Enter Soldiers.

Capt. Said I not so? There stands the bandit chief, absorbed in reverie: Advance and seize him! >>[Soldiers advance—Robbers start forward—a skirmish—Soldiers beaten off, pursued over the rocks by the Banditti.—Scene closes.

<>ACT II.

<>SCENE I.—Apartment in a palace in Dresden.

<>Duke Malvinoreclining on a sofa.

<>Enter Page, and kneeling presents a letter.

Page. Most noble duke; a wild and savage man,

With garments all disorder'd, as if with travel, Pray'd at the porch to gain a quick admittance; And being denied, produced this dust-soil'd billit. And bade us, by the love we bore his daughter, To place it safe within the Duke's own hand. Duke. [Takes the letter.] My Isabella! My poor, wretched child, it is thine hand; Oh! would thou wert with thy old father. [Reads.] Six thousand marks Ah! perchance to endow a convent. [To Page.] Bid my steward give six thousand marks, With quick dispatch, unto the messenger. >>[Exit Page. My child, could'st thou not serve thy God as well In comforting thy lone and aged parent? My son an outlaw; daughter thus immured, Within a convent's cold and cheerless walls. Oh! what are wealth and rank but glittering toys, Without one child to bid my heart rejoice!

<>Enter Page.

Page. My lord, the money hath been paid. Duke. 'Tis well. Page. Pardon me, my lord, for speaking; But it is said the famous Robber of the Rhine, But lately captured, hath been brought, in chains, To wait thy judgment. Duke. Alas! alas! the penalty is great of worldly power:— Must I condemn this man to death? Take the bright cup of life from his parched lips, And make his wife a widow, and his orphans A bye-word and a stain upon the earth? It must be so! Would that my aged head Was laid in peace beneath the sheltering marble; There are but few to weep for me, And those—alas! I weep for them.