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Methinks, thou'lt higher prize the confidence
Wherewith I honour thee.

Proceed, Lord Marquis,
Confidence is a costly gift-yet mine

It may be to repay it ere we part. The cold-hearted worldling renews his odious condescensions, and even after reiterated assurances that the love and society of his pupil are all the meed the master desires, can propose to him as a slight sacrifice, to forego, perhaps for ever, that satisfaction, by an immediate separation. The surprise of the artist may be conceived.

Marq. I must speak plainer.-It is said the Count
Would seek with thee, in Germany, painter
Named Anton Leny-dost know where now he dwells ?

Paint. Aye, truly.

Is his history known to thee?
Paint. He is my friend-few secrets are between us.

Marq. Ye may have heard then of his youthful love
For a young high-born beauty-as in manhood
We listen to a nursery tale.

No idle tale
Hath been to him this early love-it forms
The story of his soul-his art's inspirer,
The angel shape that led him pure through life.

Marq. Ye know him well, and warmly plead his cause.
He named the maiden, doubtless ?

Yes! Camilla
Was his beloved one call’d.

Know, 'twas my child,
My only daughter, at whose bright possession
The bold one aim'd. 'Twas mine the ignoble tie
Timely to sever-

Did it bring ye joy
When sever'd ? have ye in your daughter's heart
Ever replaced what then ye tore away?

Marq. The noxious seed will grow though by no hand
Paternal sown-again I see it rear
Its poisonous blade. If ye do wish us well,
Labour with me to root it from the soil.

Paint. Who, I?-and how?

Annihilate the cause
Of the Count's idle journey-well ye know
The painter can be nothing to my child.

Paint. I do not understand-methought a love
So long and deeply tried had gain’d the right
To cherish Hope.

Those who in Fortune's smile
Have ever safely bask'd, may condescend
To overleap rank's boundaries—but we
Who from Misfortune's envious shade return
To a late sunshine-must beware to sink
Again into the herd-shall it be said
Sorrento's pride was thankful to endow
A limner with his sightless daughter's hand ?
No, No!

Paint. And shall a name which genius tends
For future ages, when proud pedigrees
Have slept in dust-not dare to rear itself
To match with thine?

Marq. (proudly.) Excuse me from reply.
Paint. Wilt thou lay waste another paradise


To rear a stately tomb? Dost thou not shudder
To see thy work ? a daughter's grief-quench'd eyes,
That thou shouldst doom them still to weep, till death
Adds its dark shroud to thine ?

Ye think me hard.
I am not so-as for your friend ye plead,
I take a father's part-she shall not weep,
She will be blest-blind, faded though she be,
She is a high-born generous noble's choice.

Paint. How ! promised to another! Who hath dared ?
Marg. Our mutual friend, the Count.

Yon black cross knight?
Marq. He hath forsworn it.

What! his brother's widow ?
Marg. The holy father gives a dispensation.

Paint. No, no! it is not so-ye but deceive me.
Even now, he goes himself to bid the hopeless
Dream joy once more.

Romance is ever readier
To make unbidden sacrifice, than rear
The sober edifice of mutual bliss !
Know that the Count was destined for my child,
Long ere his brother wedded her-To him
In fatal chivalry he sacrificed
With his own hopes—the happiness of all.

Paint. What! twice ?-he loved and yet assumed the Cross?

Marq. And now, when after years of silent pain,
Now, when despising all its rich revenues,
He spurns the knightly cross, and hath achieved
The Pope's high sanction--when, of old possess'd,
Camilla's inmost confidence affords
Love's surest, holiest basis-when through life
So long a lonely pilgrim-now he dares
Embrace his soul's beloved, and for us all
Spread in life's eve a hospitable home-
Upon whose friendly threshold even now
Mild household gods with nuptial wreaths await
The happy pair-cementing once again
Our house's friendship with our children's love-
Now-doth the ghost of early passion rise
Out of the chambers of forgetfulness,
Scaring the guests asunder—and by thee,
By thee evoked. Before thou cam’st, my

Was peaceful and resign'd—but he and thou
Were fellow students—from one spot ye came,
Where this base passion rose--and Memory fann'd
The slumbering spark into a fatal glow.
It but remain'd that ye should idly tell
The Count that still this painter Leny lived,
Thus pouring oil, unthinking, on the flame!

Paint. Aye, aye, he loves her !-all is now explain'd,
Blind that I was ! I might have read it long
In his frank heart.-Hath he confess'd his love ?

Marq. Yes—and my blessing follow'd—but instead
(The wayward one !) of winning with this spell
Camilla's hand at once-he idly hears
Her childish secret-brings to light again
Her shrinking passion--and like that mad mother,
Who saved a stranger with her own child's life-
Distrusts alike his welfare and my hopes,
Plucks the scarce rooted flower of our bliss,
And, 'gainst himself, enters the lists with me.

Paint. Ob, noble heart! in love and victory great
Alike!-on which side shall I fight for thee?

Marq. Dost reverence the Count?

Eo'n as a saint,
Mild and magnanimous—I bow before him.

Marq. And my blind daughter-think'st thou not with him,
Her days may yet know sunshine?

Ask not me!
Marq. I speak confidingly-dost thou not think so?
Paint. Perchance-were her heart free-

The heart forgets
When the Grave interposes--o'er that barrier
No wish can climb: It seeks within the boundary
New ties-mock'd by the dread impossibility
To wake the dead.

The dead! but Anton Leny
Still lives

Marq. Indeed ! say but the word, and then
He's dead. Life has been borrow'd by the grave
To haunt our couch with spectres--wherefore not

Clothe life in death, for a more pious purpose ?
The unfeeling Marquis presses his relentless request with cruel ingenuity,
and at length seals his triumph by the following terrible ordeal.

Well! I set thee
Ev’n in a parent's place-Be thou her father,
Choose for a daughter's bliss. Here stand two men,
Both friends to thee-throw Fortune's gifts aside,
Wave rank and birth-let but their mutual virtues
Decide between them! Who hath truliest loyed,
Who hath with costliest sacrifices earn'd
The right to wed her ? be it thine to say-

Paint. Oh, do not ask me-let thy daughter choose

Marq. Wouldst thou expose her to the cruel strife ?
Ask her to break-ev'n when thus newly offer'd
For her-the poor Count's heart?

The victims crown'd
Stand at the altar-(Pointing to heaven)—'Tis the High Priest's Mice
To choose the purest!

Grant a father's prayer :
Never before did I to mortal bend,
Our peace-our bliss hang on thy lips. He's dead,
Dost hear? he's dead-thou hast but learn'd it now,
Wilt thou

say thus?

Alas! Farewell, poor heart!
Here is mine band,—the painter, Leny-is-dead!

Marq. Thanks for new life! but one petition more?
Paint. What hast thou left me to forswear? Speak on!
Marq. Bid us adieu ! ... When once the knot is tied
That binds us to the Count, thou mayst return.

Paint. Fear not,-1 go-and never to return !

Marq. Thou’rt a high-minded man! Now to thy task ;
Acquaint the Count with thy friend's death-inyent
A motive for departure. I'll to Julia,
Bid her apprize Camilla, and refer her
To thce for confirmation.

Aye-to me!
'Tis good! apply to me; but tell her, tell her,
I charge her to be silent, and believe
Along what now she hcars.

And now, my friend,

My last request-I cannot be your debtor
This fresh compliance adds fresh obligations.
Claim your reward.

Ye are too poor for me,
The painter, Leny, himself will pay me, when
I've dug his grave !

(PAINTER alone) Did I not once before deep bury thce,
Thou wretched Lény? Wherefore didst thou awaken?
Love's morning dawns not yet-'twas dreams alone
Disturb'd thy rest! Be still, and weep not thus,
To sleep again! (A pause) - And must it then be so?
Ask not my heart! it must! fulfil thy task;
Restore a daughter to a father's arms;
Fan, though with dying breath, yon holier flame
Of love, which smoulder'd unperceived
Before thee, though for thee 'twas sacrificed !
It boasts a father's blessing-thine, his curse.
Is't not enough for thee to love her still ;
That she loves thee; that thou didst rear her child;
That thou hast seen her tears flow for thee, ere
Thou seek'st thyself a grave? The churchyard gates
Are closed on thee already! Leny is dead!
Heart! summon all thy strength ; lips, tremble not
To be death's heralds; eyes, lock up your tears;
Cheeks, grow not paler in the parting hour!
There is a time for all things—'twill be yours

To weep, to tremble, to turn pale-to die ! We must pass over, with reluctant ings, and answers, with the fervour brevity, a scene in the Baronial-hall, of youth and long acquaintance, for where the old seneschal eagerly un- the artist's innocence. The Count folds to the Count, and Leonhard, the coldly remarks, that, even if proceedtreasured secret of his vindictive spi. ing from culpable weakness, and not rit, viz. the identity of the private malice, the share of the painter in his mark on the newly finished picture of father's fate must for ever place a bar the Countess, with that on the fa. between him and his pupil. He deter. tal likeness of her husband, brought mines, however, on investigation-defrom the gallows at Naples. The clares, that he will, himself, be the shock of the Count and his nephew avenger, and, in the mean time, enmay be conceived. The young inan, joins secrecy, on pain of his utmost of course, seeks to palliate when he displeasure, on the disappointed secan no longer doubt the evidence of neschal. The latter, left alone, vows his senses ; but the Count, with a to bis dead master's picture, that his grave severity, in painful contrast with murderer shall not escape through the his usual mildness, and still more with mistaken lenity of others. the mortal sacrifice which we know A scene of deep interest ensues. Cathe poor artist to be at that moment milla has been expressing to her son making to his happiness, takes up and the Count her regret and surprise, the matter with all the sternness of a on hearing that the painter talks of judge, and remarks, that ever since leaving them. She fears he may have the discovery of Leonhard's birth, a been slighted by some one, and owns painful mystery had appeared to hang an inexplicable interest in him, and over and disturb the painter. The regret for his departure. She reold retainer breathes nothing but in members his kindness to her child, stant and secret revenge. Poor Leon- and weeps. Poor Leonhard exclaims hard indignantly silences his croak

Leon. Ah, mother ! so could I, if I but dared. The Marquis and Painter now join them, and the former annouvees to the Count his liaving for the present relinquished all thoughts of going to Italy. The Count requests him to remain master of the castle during his absence, as his own journey is irrevocably fixed on. The Marquis-waving that subject-adverts to the necessary departure of the Painter. All look toward Spis narosa, who remains with his eyes downcast. Leonhard asks

Leon. And wilt thou leave me?

The Painter only nods in reply, and Camilla, who had listened intensely for his answer, exclaims

Cam. Oh! speak, that I may hear!
Paint. I must go home.

Art not at home with us?
What tears thee thus from Leonhard ?

The heart
Oft heaves with nameless longings.

An old mother,
Perchance, still hopes ...

Mine hopes no more-she sleeps !
Cam. Perhaps a father-loving sisters-

I've no one-I'm alone.

Oh! make us easy ;
Name but some motive. Ah! a tender secret
Dwells in that silence: Love expecting waits

Paint. No, death hath lighted on my love.
Count. (Aside.)

By heav'n,
Guilt's hue is on his cheek! (Aloud.) If thou must go,
At least thou'lt keep thy word, and marshal me
Upon mine errand

Let me go alone.
Stay here—thy journey would be now in vain.

Count. In vain, say'st thou? I trust not; yet ʼtis plain
Thou art not happy with us-
Marq. (To Count.)

Why torment him?
I know his cause of sorrow. Why conceal
The fatal tidings? He hath lost a friend.

Paint. Aye, on his grave I go to weep.
Count. (Aside.)

'Tis false !
Cam. Oh, do not weep!

When Life's long sultry day
Hath set, Death's night will have its due.

Marq. What was his name? ye mention'd ev'n now.
Count. (Ironically.) You've soon, methinks, forgotten it.
Paint. (Reluctantly.)

Oh, no!
The name of my dead friend was--Anton Leny!

Cam. Leny! Oh, my God! Was he an artist?

Aye-a poor German.

'Tis not so-he lies!
Cam. (Fainting.) My son, Lenardo!

Help! my mother faints!
Paint. (Aside.) Farewell!

Barbarian ! how did she offend thee?
Marq. Come to thy chamber.

Oh! death's wing is cold,
So cold ! his night far darker still than mine,
He's lost to me for ever-he is dumb!

(Exeunt all except Count and PAINTER.
Paint. He's lost to thee for ever-he is dumb!
Count. (Indignantly.) Wretch! sport not with her words —

Oh! I beseech thee,

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