THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE. FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V.

Scene II.—A Hall of Justice. Camillo, Judges, etc., are discovered seated; Marzio is led in.

First Judge.—Accused, do you persist in your denial? I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? I demand who were the participators In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth.

Marzio.—My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; Olimpio sold the robe to me from which You would infer my guilt.

Second Judge.—Away with him!

First Judge.—Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, That you would bandy lovers' talk with it Till it wind out your life and soul? Away!

Marzio.—Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.

First Judge.—Then speak.

Marzio.—I strangled him in his sleep.

First Judge.—Who urged you to it?

Marzio.—His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelate Orsino sent me to Petrella; there The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I And my companion forthwith murdered him. Now let me die.

First Judge.—This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, Lead forth the prisoner!

Enter Lucretia, Beatrice, Giacomo, guarded.

Look upon this man; When did you see him last?

Beatrice.—We never saw him.

Marzio.—You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.

Beatrice.—I know thee! How? where? when?

Marzio.—You know 't was I Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes To kill your father. When the thing was done You clothed me in a robe of woven gold And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, You know that what I speak is true. (Beatrice advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back.) O, dart The terrible resentment of those eyes On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords, Having said this let me be led to death.

Beatrice.—Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile.

Camillo.—Guards, lead him not away.

Beatrice.—Cardinal Camillo, You have a good repute for gentleness And wisdom: can it be that you sit here To countenance a wicked farce like this? When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart And bade to answer, not as he believes, But as those may suspect or do desire Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: And that in peril of such hideous torments As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now The thing you surely know, which is that you, If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, And you were told: "Confess that you did poison Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:"—and tho' All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief, Yet you would say, "I confess anything:" And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, The refuge of dishonorable death. I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert My innocence.

Camillo (much moved).—What shall we think, my Lords? Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul That she is guiltless.

Judge.—Yet she must be tortured.

Camillo.—I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew (If he now lived he would be just her age; His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) As that most perfect image of God's love That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. She is as pure as speechless infancy!

Judge.—Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, If you forbid the rack. His Holiness Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime By the severest forms of law; nay even To stretch a point against the criminals. The prisoners stand accused of parricide Upon such evidence as justifies Torture.

Beatrice.—What evidence? This man's?

Judge.—Even so.

Beatrice (to Marzio).—Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth Out of the multitude of living men To kill the innocent?

Marzio.—I am Marzio, Thy father's vassal.

Beatrice.—Fix thine eyes on mine; Answer to what I ask. (Turning to the Judges.) I prithee mark His countenance: unlike bold calumny Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends His gaze on the blind earth. (To Marzio.) What! wilt thou say That I did murder my own father?

Marzio.—Oh! Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ... It was that horrid torture forced the truth. Take me away! Let her not look on me! I am a guilty miserable wretch; I have said all I know; now, let me die!

Beatrice.—My Lords, if by my nature I had been So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, And the rack makes him utter, do you think I should have left this two-edged instrument Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife With my own name engraven on the heft, Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, For my own death? That with such horrible need For deepest silence, I should have neglected So trivial a precaution, as the making His tomb the keeper of a secret written On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? What are a thousand lives? A parricide Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! (Turning to Marzio.) And thou ...

Marzio.—Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, Wound worse than torture.

(To the Judges.) I have told it all; For pity's sake lead me away to death.

Camillo.—Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice; He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf From the keen breath of the serenest north.

Beatrice.—O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: What evil have we done thee? I, alas! Have lived but on this earth a few sad years And so my lot was ordered, that a father First turned the moments of awakening life To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; And my untainted fame; and even that peace Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; But the wound was not mortal; so my hate Became the only worship I could lift To our great Father, who in pity and love, Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path Over the trampled laws of God and man, Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker, I have done this and more; for there was one Who was most pure and innocent on earth; And because she endured what never any Guilty or innocent endured before: Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; Because thy hand at length did rescue her; I with my words killed her and all her kin." Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay The reverence living in the minds of men Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! Think what it is to strangle infant pity, Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, Till it become a crime to suffer. Think What 't is to blot with infamy and blood All that which shows like innocence, and is, Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, So that the world lose all discrimination Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, And that which now compels thee to reply To what I ask: Am I, or am I not A parricide?

Marzio.—Thou art not!

Judge.—What is this?

Marzio.—I here declare those whom I did accuse Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty.

Judge.—Drag him away to torments; let them be Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not Till he confess.

Marzio.—Torture me as ye will: A keener pain has wrung a higher truth From my last breath. She is most innocent! Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; I will not give you that fine piece of nature To rend and ruin. (Exit Marzio, guarded.)

Camillo.—What say ye now, my Lords?

Judge.—Let tortures strain the truth till it be white As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.

Camillo.—Yet stained with blood.

Judge (to Beatrice). —Know you this paper, Lady?

Beatrice.—Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, And therefore on the chance that it may be Some evil, will ye kill us?

(Enter an Officer.)

Officer.—Marzio's dead.

Judge.—What did he say?

Officer.—Nothing. As soon as we Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, As one who baffles a deep adversary; And holding his breath, died.

Judge.—There remains nothing But to apply the question to those prisoners, Who yet remain stubborn.

Camillo.—I overrule Further proceedings, and in the behalf Of these most innocent and noble persons Will use my interest with the Holy Father.

Judge.—Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. Meanwhile Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; And be the engines ready: for this night If the Pope's resolution be as grave, Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. (Exeunt.)

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

FRA GIACOMO.

Alas, Fra Giacomo, Too late!—but follow me; Hush! draw the curtain,—so!— She is dead, quite dead, you see. Poor little lady! she lies With the light gone out of her eyes, But her features still wear that soft Gray meditative expression, Which you must have noticed oft, And admired too, at confession. How saintly she looks, and how meek! Though this be the chamber of death, I fancy I feel her breath As I kiss her on the cheek. With that pensive religious face, She has gone to a holier place! And I hardly appreciated her,— Her praying, fasting, confessing, Poorly, I own, I mated her; I thought her too cold, and rated her For her endless image-caressing. Too saintly for me by far, As pure and as cold as a star, Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,— But made for a heavenly crown. Ay, father, let us go down,— But first, if you please, your blessing.

Wine? No? Come, come, you must! You'll bless it with your prayers, And quaff a cup, I trust, To the health of the saint up stairs? My heart is aching so! And I feel so weary and sad, Through the blow that I have had,— You'll sit, Fra Giacomo? My friend! (and a friend I rank you For the sake of that saint,)—nay, nay! Here's the wine,—as you love me, stay!— 'T is Montepulciano!—Thank you.

Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summers Since I won that angel and married her: I was rich, not old, and carried her Off in the face of all comers. So fresh, yet so brimming with soul! A tenderer morsel, I swear, Never made the dull black coal Of a monk's eye glitter and glare. Your pardon!—nay, keep your chair! I wander a little, but mean No offence to the gray gaberdine; Of the church, Fra Giacomo, I'm a faithful upholder, you know, But (humor me!) she was as sweet As the saints in your convent windows, So gentle, so meek, so discreet, She knew not what lust does or sin does. I'll confess, though, before we were one, I deemed her less saintly, and thought The blood in her veins had caught Some natural warmth from the sun. I was wrong,—I was blind as a bat,— Brute that I was, how I blundered! Though such a mistake as that Might have occurred as pat To ninety-nine men in a hundred. Yourself, for example? you've seen her? Spite her modest and pious demeanor, And the manners so nice and precise, Seemed there not color and light, Bright motion and appetite, That were scarcely consistent with ice? Externals implying, you see, Internals less saintly than human?— Pray speak, for between you and me You're not a bad judge of a woman! A jest,—but a jest!—Very true: 'T is hardly becoming to jest, And that saint up stairs at rest,— Her soul may be listening, too! I was always a brute of a fellow! Well may your visage turn yellow,— To think how I doubted and doubted, Suspected, grumbled at, flouted That golden-haired angel,—and solely Because she was zealous and holy! Noon and night and morn She devoted herself to piety; Not that she seemed to scorn Or dislike her husband's society; But the claims of her soul superseded All that I asked for or needed, And her thoughts were far away From the level of sinful clay, And she trembled if earthly matters Interfered with her aves and paters, Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying Above the dim vapors of hell— Bent on self-sanctifying— That she never thought of trying To save her husband as well. And while she was duly elected For place in the heavenly roll, I (brute that I was!) suspected Her manner of saving her soul. So, half for the fun of the thing, What did I (blasphemer!) but fling On my shoulders the gown of a monk— Whom I managed for that very day To get safely out of the way— And seat me, half sober, half drunk, With the cowl thrown over my face, In the father confessor's place. Eheu! benedicite! In her orthodox sweet simplicity, With that pensive gray expression, She sighfully knelt at confession, While I bit my lips till they bled, And dug my nails in my hand, And heard with averted head What I'd guessed and could understand. Each word was a serpent's sting, But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, I sat, like a marble thing, As she told me all!—Sit down!

More wine, Fra Giacomo! One cup,—if you love me! No? What, have these dry lips drank So deep of the sweets of pleasure— Sub rosa, but quite without measure— That Montepulciano tastes rank? Come, drink! 't will bring the streaks Of crimson back to your cheeks; Come, drink again to the saint Whose virtues you loved to paint, Who, stretched on her wifely bed, With the tender, grave expression You used to admire at confession, Lies poisoned, overhead!

Sit still,—or by heaven, you die! Face to face, soul to soul, you and I Have settled accounts, in a fine Pleasant fashion, over our wine. Stir not, and seek not to fly,— Nay, whether or not, you are mine! Thank Montepulciano for giving You death in such delicate sips; 'T is not every monk ceases living With so pleasant a taste on his lips; But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, Take this! and this! and this!

Cover him over, Pietro, And bury him in the court below,— You can be secret, lad, I know! And, hark you, then to the convent go,— Bid every bell of the convent toll, And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul.

ROBERT BUCHANAN.

GINEVRA.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks, Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, And lovers, such as in heroic song, Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, That in the springtime, as alone they sat, Venturing together on a tale of love, Read only part that day.—A summer sun Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, Enter the house—prythee, forget it not— And look awhile upon a picture there.

'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious race; Done by Zampieri—but I care not whom. He who observes it, ere he passes on, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up, As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, An emerald stone in every golden clasp; And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls. But then her face, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart,— It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, Like some wild melody! Alone it hangs Over a moldering heirloom, its companion, An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, But richly carved by Antony of Trent With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; A chest that came from Venice, and had held The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, That, by the way—it may be true or false— But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.

She was an only child; from infancy The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire; Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, That precious gift, what else remained to him? The young Ginevra was his all in life, Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gayety, Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, When all sate down, the bride was wanting there, Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, "'T is but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived,—and long mightst thou have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find, he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless,—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, When, on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished,—save a nuptial-ring, And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra." There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down for ever!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—oh, break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see."

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's blood came and went; He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent; A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,— What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold,—a frozen thing,—it dropped from his like lead,— He looked up to the face above,—the face was of the dead! A plume waved o'er the noble brow,—the brow was fixed and white;— He met at last his father's eyes,—but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,— "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father—oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won; And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought—give answer, where are they? If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light;—be still! keep down thine ire! Bid these white lips a blessing speak,—this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,—then turned from that sad place. His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain: His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

FELICIA HEMANS.

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

Eternal spirit of the chainless mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart,— The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consigned,— To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,— Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar,—for 't was trod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard!—May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.
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