——He cast me down
From the high place my blood had dearly won;
And when I sought his presence, to appeal
For justice there, ’twas vain! My foes had form’d
Around his throne a barrier: e’en my life
Became the mark of hatred; but in this
Their hopes have fail’d—I gave them not the time.
My life!—I stand prepared to yield it up
On the proud field, and in some noble cause
For glory well exchanged; but not a prey,
Not to be caught ignobly in the toils
Of those I scorn. I left him, and obtain’d
With you a place of refuge; yet e’en here
His snares were cast around me. Now all ties
Are broke between us; to an open foe,
An open foe I come.

He then gives counsel in favour of war, and retires, leaving the Senate engaged in deliberation. War is resolved upon, and he is elected commander. The fourth scene represents the house of Carmagnola. His soliloquy is noble; but its character is much more that of English than of Italian poetry, and may be traced, without difficulty, to the celebrated monologue of Hamlet.

A leader—or a fugitive? To drag
Slow years along in idle vacancy,
As a worn veteran living on the fame
Of former deeds—to offer humble prayers
And blessings for protection—owing all
Yet left me of existence to the might
Of other swords, dependent on some arm
Which soon may cast me off; or on the field
To breathe once more, to feel the tide of life
Rush proudly through my veins—to hail again
My lofty star, and at the trumpet’s voice
To wake! to rule! to conquer!—Which must be
My fate, this hour decides. And yet, if peace
Should be the choice of Venice, shall I cling
Still poorly to ignoble safety here,
Secluded as a homicide, who cowers
Within a temple’s precincts? Shall not he
Who made a kingdom’s fate, control his own!
Is there not one among the many lords
Of this divided Italy—not one
With soul enough to envy that bright crown
Encircling Philip’s head? And know they not
’Twas won by me from many a tyrant’s grasp,
Snatch’d by my hand, and placed upon the brow
Of that ingrate, from whom my spirit burns
Again to wrest it, and bestow the prize
On him who best shall call the prowess forth
Which slumbers in my arm?

Marco, a senator, and a friend of the Count, now arrives, and announces to him that war is resolved upon, and that he is appointed to the command of the armies, at the same time advising him to act with caution towards his enemies in the Republic.

Car. Think’st thou I know not whom to deem my foes?
Ay, I could number all.
Mar. And know’st thou, too,
What fault hath made them such? ’Tis that thou art
So high above them: ’tis that thy disdain
Doth meet them undisguised. As yet not one
Hath done thee wrong; but who, when so resolved,
Finds not his time to injure? In thy thoughts,
Save when they cross thy path, no place is theirs;
But they remember thee. The high in soul
Scorn and forget; but to the grovelling heart
There is delight in hatred. Rouse it not;
Subdue it, while the power is yet thine own.
I counsel no vile arts, from which my soul
Revolts indignantly—thou know’st it well:
But there is yet a wisdom, not unmeet
For the most lofty nature,—there is power
Of winning meaner minds, without descent
From the high spirit’s glorious eminence,—
And would’st thou seek that magic, it were thine.

The first scene of the second act represents part of the Duke of Milan’s camp near Maclodio. Malatesti, the commander-in-chief, and Pergola, a Condottiere of great distinction, are deliberating upon the state of the war. Pergola considers it imprudent to give battle, Malatesti is of a contrary opinion. They are joined by Sforza and Fortebraccio, who are impatient for action, and Torello, who endeavours to convince them of its inexpediency.

Sfo. Torello, didst thou mark the ardent soul
Which fires each soldier’s eye?
Tor. I mark’d it well.
I heard th’ impatient shout, th’ exulting voice
Of Hope and Courage; and I turn’d aside,
That on my brow the warrior might not read
Th’ involuntary thought whose sudden gloom
Had cast deep shadows there. It was a thought,
That this vain semblance of delusive joy
Soon like a dream shall fade. It was a thought
On wasted valour doom’d to perish here.
For these—what boots it to disguise the truth?—
These are no wars in which, for all things loved,
And precious, and revered—for all the ties
Clinging around the heart—for those whose smile
Makes home so lovely—for his native land,
And for its laws, the patriot soldier fights!
These are no wars in which the chieftain’s aim
Is but to station his devoted bands,
And theirs, thus fix’d—to die! It is our fate
To lead a hireling train, whose spirits breathe
Fury, not fortitude. With burning hearts
They rush where Victory, smiling, waves them on;
But if delay’d, if between flight and death
Pausing they stand—is there no cause to doubt
What choice were theirs? And but too well our hearts
That choice might here foresee. Oh! evil times,
When for the leader care augments, the more
Bright glory fades away! Yet once again,
This is no field for us.

After various debates, Malatesti resolves to attack the enemy. The fourth and fifth scenes of the second act represent the tent of the Count in the Venetian camp, and his preparations for battle. And here a magnificent piece of lyric poetry is introduced, in which the battle is described, and its fatal effects lamented with all the feeling of a patriot and a Christian. It appears to us, however, that this ode, hymn, or chorus as the author has entitled it, striking as its effect may be in a separate recitation, produces a much less powerful impression in the situation it occupies at present. It is even necessary, in order to appreciate its singular beauty, that it should be re-perused, as a thing detached from the tragedy. The transition is too violent, in our opinion, from a tragic action, in which the characters are represented as clothed with existence, and passing before us with all their contending motives and feelings laid open to our inspection, to the comparative coldness of a lyric piece, where the author’s imagination expatiates alone. The poet may have been led into this error by a definition of Schlegel’s, who, speaking of the Greek choruses, gives it as his opinion, that “the chorus is to be considered as a personification of the moral thoughts inspired by the action—as the organ of the poet, who speaks in the name of the whole human race. The chorus, in short, is the ideal spectator.”

But the fact was not exactly thus. The Greek chorus was composed of real characters, and expressed the sentiments of the people before whose eyes the action was imagined to be passing: thus the true spectator, after witnessing in representation the triumphs or misfortunes of kings and heroes, heard from the chorus the idea supposed to be entertained on the subject by the more enlightened part of the multitude. If the author, availing himself of his talent for lyric poetry, and varying the measure in conformity to the subject, had brought his chorus into action—introducing, for example, a veteran looking down upon the battle from an eminence, and describing its vicissitudes to the persons below, with whom he might interchange a variety of national and moral reflections—it appears to us that the dramatic effect would have been considerably heightened, and the assertion that the Greek chorus is not compatible with the system of the modern drama possibly disapproved. We shall present our readers with the entire chorus of which we have spoken, as a piece to be read separately, and one to which the following title would be much more appropriate.

The Battle of Maclodio (or Macalo.) An Ode.

Hark! from the right bursts forth a trumpet’s sound,
A loud shrill trumpet from the left replies!
On every side hoarse echoes from the ground
To the quick tramp of steeds and warriors rise,
Hollow and deep—and banners, all around,
Meet hostile banners waving to the skies;
Here steel-clad bands in marshall’d order shine,
And there a host confronts their glittering line.
Lo! half the field already from the sight
Hath vanish’d, hid by closing groups of foes!
Swords crossing swords flash lightning o’er the fight,
And the strife deepens and the life-blood flows!
Oh! who are these? What stranger in his might
Comes bursting on the lovely land’s repose?
What patriot hearts have nobly vow’d to save
Their native soil, or make its dust their grave?
One race, alas! these foes—one kindred race,
Were born and rear’d the same fair scenes among!
The stranger calls them brothers—and each face
That brotherhood reveals;—one common tongue
Dwells on their lips—the earth on which we trace
Their heart’s blood is the soil from whence they sprung.
One mother gave them birth—this chosen land,
Circled with Alps and seas by Nature’s guardian hand.
Oh, grief and horror! who the first could dare
Against a brother’s breast the sword to wield?
What cause unhallow’d and accursed, declare,
Hath bathed with carnage this ignoble field?
Think’st thou they know?—they but inflict and share
Misery and death, the motive unreveal’d!
—Sold to a leader, sold himself to die,
With him they strive—they fall—and ask not why.
But are there none who love them? Have they none—
No wives, no mothers, who might rush between,
And win with tears the husband and the son
Back to his home, from this polluted scene?
And they whose hearts, when life’s bright day is done,
Unfold to thoughts more solemn and serene,
Thoughts of the tomb—why cannot they assuage
The storms of passion with the voice of age?
Ask not!—the peasant at his cabin-door
Sits calmly pointing to the distant cloud
Which skirts th’ horizon, menacing to pour
Destruction down o’er fields he hath not plough’d.
Thus, where no echo of the battle’s roar
Is heard afar, even thus the reckless crowd
In tranquil safety number o’er the slain,
Or tell of cities burning on the plain.
There mayst thou mark the boy, with earnest gaze
Fix’d on his mother’s lips, intent to know,
By names of insult, those whom future days
Shall see him meet in arms, their deadliest foe.
There proudly many a glittering dame displays
Bracelet and zone, with radiant gems that glow,
By lovers, husbands, home in triumph borne,
From the sad brides of fallen warriors torn.
Woe to the victors and the vanquish’d! woe!
The earth is heap’d, is loaded with the slain;
Loud and more loud the cries of fury grow—
A sea of blood is swelling o’er the plain.
But from th’ embattled front, already, lo!
A band recedes—it flies—all hope is vain,
And venal hearts, despairing of the strife,
Wake to the love, the clinging love of life.
As the light grain disperses in the air,
Borne from the winnowing by the gales around,
Thus fly the vanquish’d in their wild despair,
Chased, sever’d, scatter’d, o’er the ample ground.
But mightier bands, that lay in ambush there,
Burst on their flight; and hark! the deepening sound
Of fierce pursuit!—still nearer and more near,
The rush of war-steeds trampling in the rear.
The day is won! They fall—disarm’d they yield,
Low at the conqueror’s feet all suppliant lying!
Midst shouts of victory pealing o’er the field,
Ah! who may hear the murmurs of the dying?
Haste! let the tale of triumph be reveal’d!
E’en now the courier to his steed is flying,
He spurs—he speeds—with tidings of the day,
To rouse up cities in his lightning way.
Why pour ye forth from your deserted homes,
O eager multitudes! around him pressing?
Each hurrying where his breathless courser foams,
Each tongue, each eye, infatuate hope confessing!
Know ye not whence th’ ill-omen’d herald comes,
And dare ye dream he comes with words of blessing?—
Brothers, by brothers slain, lie low and cold,—
Be ye content! the glorious tale is told.
I hear the voice of joy, th’ exulting cry!
They deck the shrine, they swell the choral strains:
E’en now the homicides assail the sky
With pæans, which indignant heaven disdains!
But from the soaring Alps the stranger’s eye
Looks watchful down on our ensanguined plains,
And, with the cruel rapture of a foe,
Numbers the mighty, stretch’d in death below.
Haste! form your lines again, ye brave and true!
Haste, haste! your triumphs and your joys suspending.
Th’ invader comes: your banners raise anew,
Rush to the strife, your country’s call attending!
Victors! why pause ye?—Are ye weak and few?—
Ay! such he deem’d you, and for this descending,
He waits you on the field ye know too well,
The same red war-field where your brethren fell.
O thou devoted land! that canst not rear
In peace thine offspring; thou, the lost and won,
The fair and fatal soil, that dost appear
Too narrow still for each contending son;
Receive the stranger, in his fierce career
Parting thy spoils! Thy chastening is begun!
And, wresting from thy kings the guardian sword,
Foes whom thou ne’er hadst wrong’d sit proudly at thy board.
Are these infatuate too!—Oh! who hath known
A people e’er by guilt’s vain triumph blest?
The wrong’d, the vanquish’d, suffer not alone,
Brief is that joy that swells th’ oppressor’s breast.
What though not yet his day of pride be flown,
Though yet heaven’s vengeance spare his haughty crest,
Well hath it mark’d him—and decreed the hour,
When his last sigh shall own the terror of its power.
Are we not creatures of one hand divine,
Form’d in one mould, to one redemption born?
Kindred alike where’er our skies may shine,
Where’er our sight first drank the vital morn?
Brothers! one bond around our souls should twine,
And woe to him by whom that bond is torn!
Who mounts by trampling broken hearts to earth,
Who bows down spirits of immortal birth!

The third act, which passes entirely in the tent of the Count, is composed of long discourses between Carmagnola and the Venetian envoys. One of these requires him to pursue the fugitives after his victory, which he haughtily refuses to do, declaring that he will not leave the field until he has gained possession of the surrounding fortresses. Another complains that the Condottieri and the soldiers have released their prisoners, to which he replies, that it is an established military custom; and, sending for the remaining four hundred captives, he gives them their liberty also. This act, which terminates with the suspicious observations of the envoys on Carmagnola’s conduct, is rather barren of interest, though the episode of the younger Pergola, which we shall lay before our readers, is happily imagined.

As the prisoners are departing, the Count observes the younger Pergola, and stops him.

Car. Thou art not, youth!
One to be number’d with the vulgar crowd.
Thy garb, and more, thy towering mien, would speak
Of nobler parentage. Yet with the rest
Thou minglest, and art silent!
Per. Silence best,
O chief! befits the vanquish’d.
Car. Bearing up
Against thy fate thus proudly, thou art proved
Worthy a better star. Thy name?
Per. ’Tis one
Whose heritage doth impose no common task
On him that bears it; one which to adorn
With brighter blazonry were hard emprise:
My name is Pergola.
Car. And art thou, then,
That warrior’s son?
Per. I am.
Car. Approach! embrace
Thy father’s early friend! What thou art now
I was when first we met. Oh! thou dost bring
Back on my heart remembrance of the days,
The young, and joyous, and adventurous days,
Of hope and ardour. And despond not thou!
My dawn, ’tis true, with brighter omens smiled,
But still fair Fortune’s glorious promises
Are for the brave; and, though delay’d awhile,
She soon or late fulfils them. Youth! salute
Thy sire for me; and say, though not of thee
I ask’d it, yet my heart is well assured
He counsell’d not this battle.
Per. Oh! he gave
Far other counsels, but his fruitless words
Were spoken to the winds.
Car. Lament thou not.
Upon his chieftain’s head the shame will rest
Of this defeat; and he who firmly stood
Fix’d at his post of peril hath begun
A soldier’s race full nobly. Follow me,
I will restore thy sword.

The fourth act is occupied by the machinations of the Count’s enemies at Venice; and the jealous and complicated policy of that Republic, and the despotic authority of the Council of Ten, are skilfully developed in many of the scenes.

The first scene of the fifth act opens at Venice in the hall of the Council of Ten. Carmagnola is consulted by the Doge on the terms of peace offered by the Duke of Milan. His advice is received with disdain, and, after various insults, he is accused of treason. His astonishment and indignation at this unexpected charge are expressed with all the warmth and simplicity of innocence.

Car. A traitor! I!—that name of infamy
Reaches not me. Let him the title bear
Who best deserves such meed—it is not mine.
Call me a dupe, and I may well submit,
For such my part is here; yet would I not
Exchange that name, for ’tis the worthiest still.
A traitor!—I retrace in thought the time
When for your cause I fought; ’tis all one path
Strew’d o’er with flowers. Point out the day on which
A traitor’s deeds were mine; the day which pass’d
Unmark’d by thanks, and praise, and promises
Of high reward! What more? Behold me here!
And when I came to seeming honour call’d,
When in my heart most deeply spoke the voice
Of love, and grateful zeal, and trusting faith—
Of trusting faith!—Oh, no! Doth he who comes
Th’ invited guest of friendship dream of faith?
I came to be ensnared! Well! it is done,
And be it so! but since deceitful hate
Hath thrown at length her smiling mask aside,
Praise be to heaven! an open field at least
Is spread before us. Now ’tis yours to speak,
Mine to defend my cause; declare ye then
My treasons!
Doge. By the secret college soon
All shall be told thee.
Car. I appeal not there.
What I have done for you hath all been done
In the bright noonday, and its tale shall not
Be told in darkness. Of a warrior’s deeds
Warriors alone should judge; and such I choose
To be mine arbiters—my proud defence
Shall not be made in secret. All shall hear.
Doge. The time for choice is past.
Car. What! Is there force
Employ’d against me?—Guards! (raising his voice.)
Doge. They are not nigh.
Soldiers! (enter armed men.) Thy guards are these.
Car. I am betray’d!
Doge. ’Twas then a thought of wisdom to disperse
Thy followers. Well and justly was it deem’d
That the bold traitor, in his plots surprised,
Might prove a rebel too.
Car. E’en as ye list.
Now be it yours to charge me.
Doge. Bear him hence,
Before the secret college.
Car. Hear me yet
One moment first. That ye have doom’d my death
I well perceive; but with that death ye doom
Your own eternal shame. Far o’er these towers,
Beyond its ancient bounds, majestic floats
The banner of the Lion, in its pride
Of conquering power, and well doth Europe know
I bore it thus to empire. Here, ’tis true,
No voice will speak men’s thoughts; but far beyond
The limits of your sway, in other scenes,
Where that still, speechless terror hath not reach’d,
Which is your sceptre’s attribute, my deeds
And your reward will live in chronicles
For ever to endure. Yet, yet, respect
Your annals, and the future! Ye will need
A warrior soon, and who will then be yours?
Forget not, though your captive now I stand,
I was not born your subject. No! my birth
Was midst a warlike people, one in soul,
And watchful o’er its rights, and used to deem
The honour of each citizen its own.
Think ye this outrage will be there unheard?
There is some treachery here. Our common foes
Have urged you on to this. Full well ye know
I have been faithful still. There yet is time.
Doge. The time is past. When thou didst meditate
Thy guilt, and in thy pride of heart defy
Those destined to chastise it; then the hour
Of foresight should have been.
Car. O mean in soul!
And dost thou dare to think a warrior’s breast
For worthless life can tremble? Thou shalt soon
Learn how to die. Go! When the hour of fate
On thy vile couch o’ertakes thee, thou wilt meet
Its summons with far other mien than such
As I shall bear to ignominious death.

Scene II.—The House of Carmagnola.

Antonietta, Matilda.

Mat. The hours fly fast, the morn is risen, and yet
My father comes not!
Ant. Ah! thou hast not learn’d,
By sad experience, with how slow a pace
Joys ever come; expected long, and oft
Deceiving expectation! while the steps
Of grief o’ertake us ere we dream them nigh.
But night is past, the long and lingering hours
Of hope deferr’d are o’er, and those of bliss
Must soon succeed. A few short moments more,
And he is with us. E’en from this delay
I augur well. A council held so long
Must be to give us peace. He will be ours.
Perhaps for years our own.
Mat. O mother! thus
My hopes too whisper. Nights enough in tears,
And days in all the sickness of suspense,
Our anxious love hath pass’d. It is full time
That each sad moment, at each rumour’d tale,
Each idle murmur of the people’s voice,
We should not longer tremble, that no more
This thought should haunt our souls—E’en now,
perchance,
He for whom thus your hearts are yearning—dies!
Ant. Oh! fearful thought—but vain and distant
now!
Each joy, my daughter, must be bought with grief.
Hast thou forgot the day when, proudly led
In triumph midst the noble and the brave,
Thy glorious father to the temple bore
The banners won in battle from his foes?
Mat. A day to be remember’d!
Ant. By his side
Each seem’d inferior. Every breath of air
Swell’d with his echoing name; and we, the while
Station’d on high and sever’d from the throng,
Gazed on that one who drew the gaze of all,
While, with the tide of rapture half o’erwhelm’d,
Our hearts beat high, and whisper’d—“We are his.”
Mat. Moments of joy!
Ant. What have we done, my child,
To merit such? Heaven, for so high a fate,
Chose us from thousands, and upon thy brow
Inscribed a lofty name—a name so bright,
That he to whom thou bear’st the gift, whate’er
His race, may boast it proudly. What a mark
For envy is the glory of our lot!
And we should weigh its joys against these hours
Of fear and sorrow.
Mat. They are past e’en now.
Hark! ’twas the sound of oars!—it swells—’tis hush’d!
The gates unclose. O mother! I behold
A warrior clad in mail—he comes, ’tis he!
Ant. Whom should it be if not himself?—my
husband!
(She comes forward.)

(Enter Gonzaga and others.)

Ant. Gonzaga!—Where is he we look’d for?
Where?
Thou answer’st not! Oh, heaven! thy looks are fraught
With prophecies of woe!
Gon. Alas! too true
The omens they reveal!
Mat. Of woe to whom?
Gon. Oh! why hath such a task of bitterness
Fallen to my lot?
Ant. Thou wouldst be pitiful,
And thou art cruel. Close this dread suspense;
Speak! I adjure thee, in the name of God!
Where is my husband?
Gon. Heaven sustain your souls
With fortitude to bear the tale! My chief——
Mat. Is he return’d unto the field?
Gon. Alas!
Thither the warrior shall return no more.
The senate’s wrath is on him. He is now
A prisoner!
Ant. He is a prisoner!—and for what?
Gon. He is accused of treason.
Mat. Treason! He
A traitor!—Oh! my father!
Ant. Haste! proceed,
And pause no more. Our hearts are nerved for all.
Say, what shall be his sentence?
Gon. From my lips
It shall not be reveal’d.
Ant. Oh! he is slain!
Gon. He lives, but yet his doom is fix’d.
Ant. He lives!
Weep not, my daughter! ’tis the time to act.
For pity’s sake, Gonzaga, be thou not
Wearied of our afflictions. Heaven to thee
Intrusts the care of two forsaken ones.
He was thy friend—ah! haste, then, be our guide;
Conduct us to his judges. Come, my child!
Poor innocent, come with me. There yet is left
Mercy upon the earth. Yes! they themselves
Are husbands, they are fathers! When they sign’d
The fearful sentence, they remember’d not
He was a father and a husband too.
But when their eyes behold the agony
One word of theirs hath caused, their hearts will melt:
They will, they must revoke it. Oh! the sight
Of mortal woe is terrible to man!
Perhaps the warrior’s lofty soul disdain’d
To vindicate his deeds, or to recall
His triumphs won for them. It is for us
To wake each high remembrance. Ah! we know
That he implored not, but our knees shall bend,
And we will pray.
Gon. Oh, heaven! that I could leave
Your hearts one ray of hope! There is no ear,
No place for prayers. The judges here are deaf,
Implacable, unknown. The thunderbolt
Falls heavy, and the hand by which ’tis launch’d
Is veil’d in clouds. There is one comfort still,
The sole sad comfort of a parting hour,
I come to bear. Ye may behold him yet.
The moments fly. Arouse your strength of heart.
Oh! fearful is the trial, but the God
Of mourners will be with you.
Mat. Is there not
One hope?
Ant. Alas! my child!

Scene IV.—A Prison.

Carmagnola.

They must have heard it now.—Oh! that at least
I might have died far from them! Though their hearts
Had bled to hear the tidings, yet the hour,
The solemn hour of nature’s parting pangs
Had then been past. It meets us darkly now,
And we must drain its draught of bitterness
Together, drop by drop. O ye wide fields,
Ye plains of fight, and thrilling sounds of arms!
O proud delights of danger! Battle-cries,
And thou, my war-steed! and ye trumpet-notes
Kindling the soul! Midst your tumultuous joys
Death seem’d all beautiful.—And must I then,
With shrinking cold reluctance, to my fate
Be dragg’d, e’en as a felon, on the winds
Pouring vain prayers and impotent complaints?
And Marco! hath he not betray’d me too?
Vile doubt! That I could cast it from my soul
Before I die!—But no! What boots it now
Thus to look back on life with eye that turns
To linger where my footstep may not tread?
Now, Philip! thou wilt triumph! Be it so!
I too have proved such vain and impious joys,
And know their value now. But oh! again
To see those loved ones, and to hear the last,
Last accents of their voices! By those arms
Once more to be encircled, and from thence
To tear myself for ever!—Hark! they come!—
O God of mercy, from thy throne look down
In pity on their woes!

Scene V.

Antonietta, Matilda, Gonzaga, and Carmagnola.

Ant. My husband!
Mat. O my father!
Ant. Is it thus
That thou returnest? and is this the hour
Desired so long!
Car. O ye afflicted ones!
Heaven knows I dread its pangs for you alone.
Long have my thoughts been used to look on Death,
And calmly wait his time. For you alone
My soul hath need of firmness; will ye, then,
Deprive me of its aid? When the Most High
On virtue pours afflictions, he bestows
The courage to sustain them. Oh! let yours
Equal your sorrows! Let us yet find joy
In this embrace: ’tis still a gift of heaven.
Thou weep’st, my child! and thou, beloved wife!
Ah! when I made thee mine, thy days flow’d on
In peace and gladness; I united thee
To my disastrous fate, and now the thought
Embitters death! Oh! that I had not seen
The woes I cause thee!
Ant. Husband of my youth!
Of my bright days, thou who didst make them bright,
Read thou my heart! the pangs of death are there,
And yet e’en now—I would not but be thine.
Car. Full well I know how much I lose in thee;
Oh! make me not too deeply feel it now.
Mat. The homicides!
Car. No, sweet Matilda, no!
Let no dark thought of rage or vengeance rise
To cloud thy gentle spirit, and disturb
These moments—they are sacred. Yes! my wrongs
Are deep, but thou, forgive them, and confess,
That, e’en midst all the fulness of our woe,
High, holy joy remains. Death! death!—our foes,
Our most relentless foes, can only speed
Th’ inevitable hour. Oh! man hath not
Invented death for man; it would be then
Madd’ning and insupportable: from heaven
’Tis sent, and heaven doth temper all its pangs
With such blest comfort as no mortal power
Can give or take away. My wife! my child!
Hear my last words—they wring your bosoms now
With agony, but yet, some future day,
’Twill soothe you to recall them. Live, my wife!
Sustain thy grief, and live! this ill-starr’d girl
Must not be reft of all. Fly swiftly hence,
Conduct her to thy kindred: she is theirs,
Of their own blood—and they so loved thee once!
Then, to their foe united, thou becamest
Less dear; for feuds and wrongs made warring sounds
Of Carmagnola’s and Visconti’s names.
But to their bosoms thou wilt now return
A mourner; and the object of their hate
Will be no more.—Oh! there is joy in death!—
And thou, my flower! that, midst the din of arms,
Wert born to cheer my soul, thy lovely head
Droops to the earth! Alas! the tempest’s rage
Is on thee now. Thou tremblest, and thy heart
Can scarce contain the heavings of its woe.
I feel thy burning tears upon my breast—
I feel, and cannot dry them. Dost thou claim
Pity from me, Matilda? Oh! thy sire
Hath now no power to aid thee, but thou know’st
That the forsaken have a Father still
On high. Confide in Him, and live to days
Of peace, if not of joy; for such to thee
He surely destines. Wherefore hath He pour’d
The torrent of affliction on thy youth,
If to thy future years be not reserved
All His benign compassion! Live! and soothe
Thy suffering mother. May she to the arms
Of no ignoble consort lead thee still!—
Gonzaga! take the hand which thou hast press’d
Oft in the morn of battle, when our hearts
Had cause to doubt if we should meet at eve.
Wilt thou yet press it, pledging me thy faith
To guide and guard these mourners, till they join
Their friends and kindred?
Gon. Rest assured, I will.
Car. I am content. And if, when this is done,
Thou to the field returnest, there for me
Salute my brethren; tell them that I died
Guiltless; thou hast been witness of my deeds,
Hast read my inmost thoughts—and know’st it well.
Tell them I never with a traitor’s shame
Stain’d my bright sword. Oh, never!—I myself
Have been ensnared by treachery. Think of me
When trumpet-notes are stirring every heart,
And banners proudly waving in the air,—
Think of thine ancient comrade! And the day
Following the combat, when upon the field,
Amidst the deep and solemn harmony
Of dirge and hymn, the priest of funeral rites,
With lifted hands, is offering for the slain
His sacrifice to heaven; forget me not!
For I, too, hoped upon the battle-plain
E’en so to die.
Ant. Have mercy on us, heaven!
Car. My wife! Matilda! Now the hour is nigh,
And we must part.—Farewell!
Mat. No, father! no!
Car. Come to this breast yet, yet once more, and then
For pity’s sake depart!
Ant. No! force alone
Shall tear us hence.
(A sound of arms is heard.)
Mat. Hark! what dread sound!
Ant. Great God!
(The door is half opened, and armed men enter, the chief of whom advances to the Count. His wife and daughter fall senseless.)
Car. O God! I thank thee. O most merciful!
Thus to withdraw their senses from the pangs
Of this dread moment’s conflict!
Thou, my friend,
Assist them, bear them from this scene of woe,
And tell them, when their eyes again unclose
To meet the day—that naught is left to fear.

Notwithstanding the pathetic beauties of the last act, the attention which this tragedy has excited in Italy must be principally attributed to the boldness of the author in so completely emancipating himself from the fetters of the dramatic unities. The severity with which the tragic poets of that country have, in general, restricted themselves to those rules has been sufficiently remarkable to obtain, at least, temporary distinction for the courage of the writer who should attempt to violate them. Although this piece comprises a period of several years, and that, too, in days so troubled and so “full of fate”—days in which the deepest passions and most powerful energies of the human mind were called into action by the strife of conflicting interests—there is, nevertheless, as great a deficiency of incident, as if “to be born and die” made all the history of aspiring natures contending for supremacy. The character of the hero is portrayed in words, not in actions; it does not unfold itself in any struggle of opposite feelings and passions, and the interest excited for him only commences at the moment when it ought to have reached its climax. The merits of the piece may be summed up in the occasional energy of the language and dignity of the thoughts; and the truth with which the spirit of the age is characterised, as well in the development of that suspicious policy distinguishing the system of the Venetian government, as in the pictures of the fiery Condottieri, holding their councils of war—