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ALDABELLA.

Ho there! to th' hospital for the lunatics Fetch succour for this poor distrest

BIANCA.

What said I?

Oh pardon me, I came not to upbraid thee.-
Think, think I'll whisper it, I'll not betray thee;
The air's a tell-tale, and the walls are listeners :-
Think what a change! Last night within thy cham-
ber;

(I'll not say in thy arms; for that displeases thee,
And sickens me to utter,) and to-night
Upon a prison pallet, straw, hard straw;
For eastern perfumes, the rank noisome air;
For gentle harpings, shrilly clanking chains:-
Nay, turn not off: the worst is yet to come.
To-morrow at his waking, for thy face
Languidly, lovingly down drooping o'er him,
The scarr'd and haggard executioner.

ALDABELLA (turning away).
There is a dizzy trembling in mine eye;
But I must dry the foolish dew for shame.
Well, what is it to me? I slew him not;
Nay, nor denounced him to the judgment-seat.
I but debase myself to lend free hearing

To such coarse fancies — I must hence: to-night
I feast the lords of Florence.

[Exit.

More sinners for the Devil to prey upon?

There's one a boy some strumpet will enlace him,
And make him wear her loathsome livery.

The other a girl: if she be ill, she'll sink
Spotted to death-she'll be an Aldabella :
If she be chaste, she 'll be a wretch like me,
A jealous wretch, a frantic guilty wretch.
No, no: they must not live, they must not live!
[Exit into a chamber.

After a pause, she returns.

It will not be, it will not be—they woke
As though e'en in their sleep they felt my presence;
And then they smiled upon me fondly, playfully,
And stretch'd their rosy fingers to sport with me:
The boy did arch his eyebrows so like Fazio,
Though my soul wish'd that God would take them to
him,

That they were 'scaped this miserable world,

I could but kiss them; and, when I had kiss'd them,

I could as soon have leap'd up to the moon
As speck'd or soil'd their alabaster skins.—
Wild that I am!-Take them t' another world!
As though I, I my husband's murderess,

In the dread separation of the dead,
Should meet again those spotless innocents!-

Oh, happy they!-they will but know to-morrow
By the renewal of the soft warm daylight. [Exit.

BIANCA.

They 're all lies:

Things done within some far and distant planet,
Or offscum of some dreamy poet's brain,
Ail tales of human goodness. Or they 're legends
Left us of some good old forgotten time,
Ere harlotry became a queenly sin,

And housed in palaces. Oh, earth's so crowded
With Vice, that if strange Virtue stray abroad,
They hoot it from them like a thing accurst.
Fazio, my Fazio! — but we'll laugh at them:
We will not stay upon their wicked soil,
Een though they sue us not to die and leave them.

SCENE IV.

Fazio's House.

BIANCA.

Ah, what a fierce and frantic coil is here, Because the sun must shine on one man less! I'm sick and weary-my feet drag along. Why must I trail, like a scotch'd serpent, hither? Here, to this house, where all things breathe of Fazio? The air tastes of him—the walls whisper of him. Oh, I'll to bed! to bed!- - What find I there? Fazio, my fond, my gentle, fervent Fazio? — No! Cold stones are his couch, harsh iron bars Curtain his slumbers. -Oh, no, no-I have itHe is in Aldabella's arms. ———— - Out on 't! Fie, fie!--that's rank, that's noisome !-I rememberOur children-ay, my children - Fazio's children. T was my thoughts' burthen as I came along, Were it not wise to bear them off with us

ACT V.-SCENE I.

A Street-Morning Twilight.

BIANCA.

Where have I been? I have not been at rest-
There's yet the stir of motion in my limbs.
Oh, I remember-'t was a hideous strife
Within my brain: I felt that all was hopeless,
Yet would not credit it; and I set forth
To tell my Fazio so, and dared not front him
With such cold comfort. Then a mist came o'er me,
And something drove me on, and on, and on,
Street after street, each blacker than the other,
And a blue axe did shimmer through the gloom-
Its fiery edge did waver to and fro-
And there were infants' voices, faint and failing,
That panted after me. I knew I fled them;
Yet could not choose but fly. And then, oh then,
I gazed and gazed upon the starless darkness,
And blest it in my soul, for it was deeply
And beautifully black- -no speck of light;
And I had feverish and fantastic hopes,
That it would last for ever, nor give place
To th' horrible to-morrow. Ha, 't is there! -
'Tis the grey morning-light aches in mine eyes
It is that morrow! -Ho!-Look out, look out!
With what a hateful and unwonted swiftness
It scares my comfortable darkness from me!
Fool that I am!-I've lost the few brief hours
Yet left me of my Fazio! Oh, away,

Away from this cold world?-Why should we breed up Away to him!-away!

Erit.

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The gale, whose flower-sweet breath no more shall To spare hereafter.

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BIANCA.

They live! thank God, they live

I should not rack thee with such fantasies:
But there have been such hideous things around me
Some whispering me, some dragging me; I've felt
Not half a moment's calm since last we parted,
So exquisite, so gentle, as this now—

In earth's black womb-oh, plunge it, plunge it deep, "T will sound more like
Deep, dark! or if a devil be abroad,
Give it to him, to bear it whence it came,
To its own native Hell.-Oh no, no, no!—
He must not have it: for with it he'll betray
More men, more noble spirits than Lucifer
Drew down from heaven. This yellow pestilence
Laid waste my Eden; made a gaudy bird of me,
For soft Temptation's silken nets to snare.
It crept in to us-Sin came with it-Misery
Dogg'd its foul footsteps-ever-deepening Sin,
And ever-darkening Misery.Philario,
Away with it!-away!-(Takes the picture.) Here's
fairer gazing.

Thou wouldst not think these smooth and smiling lips
Could speak away a life-a husband's life.
Yet ah! I led the way to sin-I wrong'd her:
Yet, Heaven be witness, though I wrong'd her, loved
her,
E'en in my heart of heart.

I could sleep on thy bosom, Fazio.
Enter ANTONIO.

Thine hour is come.

ANTONIO.

Prisoner,

BIANCA.

It is not morning yet

Where is the twilight that should usher it?
Where is the sun, that should come golden on!
Ill favour'd liar, to come prate of morning,
With torchlight in thy hand to scare the darkness.

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DUKE.

Any thing not to think on her-Not yet-
They shall not kill thee-by my faith they shall not! What means the wild-hair'd maniac?

I'll clasp mine arms so closely round thy neck,
That the red axe shall hew them off, ere shred
A hair of thee: I will so mingle with thee,
That they shall strike at random, and perchance
Set me free first-

[The bell sounds, her grasp relaxes, and she
stands torpid.

FAZIO (kissing her, which she does not seem to be
conscious of.)

Farewell, farewell, farewell!-
She does not feel, she does not feel!-Thank heaven,
She does not feel her Fazio's last, last kiss!—
One other!-Cold as stone-sweet, sweet as roses.

BIANCA (slowly recovering.)

[Erit.

Gone, gone!—he is not air yet, not thin spirit!—
He should not glide away-he is not guilty
Ye murder and not execute-Not guilty.

BIANCA (moving him aside.)

To ALDABELLA.

By and by

I tell thee, that warm cheek thy lips did stray on
But yesternight, 't is cold and colourless :
The breath, that stirr'd among thy jetty locks,
That was such incense to thee-it is fled :
The voice, that call'd thee then, his soul of soul-
I know it-'t was his favourite phrase of love-
I've heard it many a time myself 't was rapturous;
That mild, that musical voice is dumb and frozen :
The neck whereon thine arms did hang so tenderly,
There's blood upon it, blood-I tell thee, blood.
Dost thou hear that? is thy brain fire to bear it?
Mine is, mine is, mine is.

DUKE.

"Tis Fazio's wife. BIANCA.

It is not Fazio's wife.-Have the dead wives?

[Exit, followed by Philario. Ay, ay, my liege, and I know thee, and well—

SCENE III.

A magnificent Apartment in the Palace of ALDABELLA
-Every appearance of a ball prolonged till morning.
DUKE, LORDS, FALSETTO, DANDOLO, and ALDA-

BELLA.

DUKE

Tis late, 'tis late; the yellow morning light Streams in upon our sick and waning lamps. It was a jocund night: but good my friends, The sun reproves our lingering revelry; And, angry at our scorning of his state, Will shine the slumber from our heavy eyes.

GONSALVO.

Thou art the rich-robed minister of the laws.
Fine laws! rare laws! most equitable laws!
Who robs his neighbour of his yellow dust,
Or his bright sparkling stones, or such gay trash-
And if one steal a husband from his wife,
Oh, he must die, die for the public good.
Do dive into her heart for its best treasure,
Do rend asunder whom Heaven link'd in one-
Oh, they are meek, and merciful, and milky-
"T is a trick of human frailty- -Oh, fine laws!
Rare laws! most equitable laws!

DUKE.

Poor wretch,

Who is it thus hath wrong'd thee?
BIANCA (to the DUKE,

Come thou here.

The others crowd around her-she says to FALSETTO,

There's one, my liege, will sleep more calm than we: Get back, get back: the god that thou adoredst,

But now I heard the bell with iron tongue
Speak out unto the still and solemn air

The death-stroke of the murderer Fazio.

Thy god is dead, thou pitiful idolater.

To DANDOLO (showing her Dress.,

I know they're coarse and tatter'd-Get thee back.

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Thank thee, 't is moist - I thank thee; That Fazio told me ere he died.

(As she raises the goblet to her lips, she sees ALDABELLA,

and dashes it away.)

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But now, there's mode and measure in my speech.
I'll hold my brain; and then I'll tell my tale
Simply and clearly. Fazio, my poor Fazio
He murder'd not he found Bartolo dead.
The wealth did shine in his eyes, and he was dazzled.
And when that he was gaily gilded up,
She, she, I say (nay, keep away from her,
For she hath witchcraft all around her), she
Did take him to her chamber- - Fie, my liege!
What should my husband in her chamber?- Then,
Ay then, I madden'd. - Hark! hark! hark! the

bell,

The bell that I set knolling-hark!-Here, here, Massy and cold it strikes-Here, here. (Clasping her forehead.)

GONSALVO.

Sad woman!

Tear not so piteously thy disorder'd hair!

BIANCA.

I do not tear my hair: there should be pain

BIANCA.

Ay, sir,

The dying lie not- he, a dying man,
Lied not-and I, a dying woman, lie not:
For I shall die, spite of this iron here.
DUKE (to ALDABELLA).

There is confession in thy guilty cheeks.
Thou high-born baseness! beautiful deformity!
Dishonour'd honour! - How hast thou discredited
All that doth fetter admiration's eye,

And made us out of love with loveliness!

I do condemn thee, woman, by the warrant
Of this my ducal diadem, to put on thee
The rigid convent vows: there bleach anew
Thy sullied breast; there temper thy rank blood;
Lay ashes to thy soul; swathe thy hot skin
In sackcloth; and God give thee length of days,
T'atone, by this world's misery, this world's sin.
[Exit ALDABELLA
Bless thee, Heaven bless thee!- Yet it must not be.
My Fazio said we must forgive her - Fazio
Said so; and all he said is best and wisest

BIANCA.

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Samor, Lord of the Bright City.

AN HEROIC POEM.

et o modo spiritus adsit,

Frangam Saxonicas Britonum sub Marte phalanges.

MILTON, Mansus.
the better fortitude

Of patience and heroic martyrdom.

MILTON'S Par. Lost, Book IX.

PREFACE.

THE Historians of the Empire, near the period of time at which this Poem commences, make mention of a Constantine, who assumed the purple of the western empire, gained possession of Gaul and Spain, but was defeated and slain at the battle of Arles. He

had a son named Constans, who became a monk, and was put to death at Vienne.

association to recommend them, I have frequently, on the authority of Camden and others, translated them. Thus the Saxon Gloucester, called by the Britons Caer Gloew, is the Bright City. The Dobuni, the inhabitants of the Vales, are called by that name. Some few sanctioned by old usages of Poetry and Romance I retain, as Kent, Thanet, Cornwall. London is Troynovant, as the City of the Trinobantes.

Some passages in the Poem will be easily traced to their acknowledged sources, the Poets of Greece and Italy; one, however, in the third book, relating to the Northern mythology, has been remarkably anticipated in a modern Poem. The honourable Author may be assured that the coincidence is unintentional, as that part of this Poem was the earliest written, and previous to the appearance of his production.

SAMOR.

About the same time a Constantine appears in the relations of the old British Chronicles and Romances. He was brother of the king of Armorica, and became himself King, or rather an elected sovereign of the petty Kings of Britain,† who continued their succession under the Roman dominion. He was called Vendigard and Waredur, the Defender and Deliverer. He had three sons, Constans, who became a hermit, and was murdered, either (for the traditions vary) by the Picts, by Vortigern, or by the Saxons; Emrys, called by the Latin writers Aurelius Ambrosius; and Uther Pendragon, the father of Arthur. These two Constantines are here identified, and Vortigern supposed LAND of my birth, O Britain! and my love; to have been named King of Britain, as the person of greatest authority and conduct in the wreck of the British army, defeated at Arles. Many, however, of the chiefs in the Island advancing the hereditary right, before formally settled on the sons of Constantine, Vortigern, mistrusting the Britons, and prest by

invasions of the Caledonians, introduced the Saxons to check the barbarians and strengthen his own sovereignty.

The Hero of the Poem is an historical character, as far as such legends can be called History. He appears

in most of the Chronicles, as Edol, or Eldol, but the fullest account of his exploits is in Dugdale's Baronage under his title of Earl of Gloucester. William Harrison, however, in the description of Britain prefixed to Holinshed, calls him Eldulph de Samor. But all concur in ascribing to him the acts which make the chief subject of the fifth and last Books of this

Poem.

BOOK I.

Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose tongue

My song

Most proud, if I abase not.

would speak, its strong and solemn tones
Beauteous Isle,
Float not the taintless luxury of light,
And plenteous! what though in thy atmosphere
The dazzling azure of the Southern skies;
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown
Spreads stainless and unsullied by a cloud.
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine,
And softer climes excel thee in the hue
And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers,
Nor flow thy rivers over golden beds;
Thou in the soul of man, thy better wealth,
Art richest nature's noblest produce thou,
The immortal Mind in perfect height and strength,
Bear'st with a prodigal opulence; this thy right,
Thy privilege of climate and of soil,
Would I assert: nor, save thy fame, invoke,

Most of our present names of places being purely Or Nymph, or Muse, that oft 't was dream'd of old

Saxon, and the old British having little of harmony or

Gibbon, Chap. 31. 1 Lewis, Hist. of Britain.

By falls of waters under haunted shades,
Her ecstasy of inspiration pour'd

Whitaker, Hist. of Manchester.

O'er Poet's soul, and flooded all his powers

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