The Bride of Messina, and On the Use of the Chorus in Tragedy | Page 8

looking round in every direction. Suddenly she stands
still and listens). No! 'tis not he: 'twas but the playful wind Rustling the
pine-tops. To his ocean bed The sun declines, and with o'erwearied
heart I count the lagging hours: an icy chill Creeps through my frame;
the very solitude And awful silence fright my trembling soul! Where'er
I turn naught meets my gaze--he leaves me Forsaken and alone! And
like a rushing stream the city's hum Floats on the breeze, and dull the
mighty sea Rolls murmuring to the rocks: I shrink to nothing With
horrors compassed round; and like the leaf, Borne on the autumn blast,
am hurried onward Through boundless space. Alas! that e'er I left My
peaceful cell--no cares, no fond desires Disturbed my breast, unruffled
as the stream That glides in sunshine through the verdant mead: Nor
poor in joys. Now--on the mighty surge Of fortune, tempest-tossed--the

world enfolds me With giant arms! Forgot my childhood's ties I
listened to the lover's flattering tale-- Listened, and trusted! From the
sacred dome Allured--betrayed--for sure some hell-born magic
Enchained my frenzied sense--I fled with him, The invader of religion's
dread abodes! Where art thou, my beloved? Haste--return-- With thy
dear presence calm my struggling soul!
[She listens.
Hark! the sweet voice! No! 'twas the echoing surge That beats upon the
shore; alas! he comes not. More faintly, o'er the distant waves, the sun
Gleams with expiring ray; a deathlike shudder Creeps to my heart, and
sadder, drearier grows E'en desolation's self.
[She walks to and fro, and then listens again.
Yes! from the thicket shade A voice resounds! 'tis he! the loved one!
No fond illusion mocks my listening ear. 'Tis louder--nearer: to his
arms I fly-- To his breast!
[She rushes with outstretched arms to the extremity of the garden. DON
CAESAR meets her.
DON CASAR. BEATRICE.
BEATRICE (starting back in horror) What do I see?
[At the same moment the Chorus comes forward.
DON CAESAR. Angelic sweetness! fear not. [To the Chorus. Retire!
your gleaming arms and rude array Affright the timorous maid. [To
BEATRICE. Fear nothing! beauty And virgin shame are sacred in my
eyes.
[The Chorus steps aside. He approaches and takes her hand.
Where hast thou been? for sure some envious power Has hid thee from
my gaze: long have I sought thee: E'en from the hour when 'mid the
funeral rites Of the dead prince, like some angelic vision, Lit with

celestial brightness, on my sight Thou shonest, no other image in my
breast Waking or dreaming, lives; nor to thyself Unknown thy potent
spells; my glance of fire, My faltering accents, and my hand that lay
Trembling in thine, bespoke my ecstasy! Aught else with solemn
majesty the rite And holy place forbade: The bell proclaimed The awful
sacrifice! With downcast eyes, And kneeling I adored: soon as I rose,
And caught with eager gaze thy form again, Sudden it vanished; yet,
with mighty magic Of love enchained, my spirit tracked thy presence;
Nor ever, with unwearied quest, I cease At palace gates, amid the
temple's throng, In secret paths retired, or public scenes, Where
beauteous innocence perchance might rove, To mark each passing
form--in vain; but, guided By some propitious deity this day One of my
train, with happy vigilance, Espied thee in the neighboring church.
[BEATRICE, who had stood trembling with averted eyes, here makes a
gesture of terror.
I see thee Once more; and may the spirit from this frame Be severed ere
we part! Now let me snatch This glad, auspicious moment, and defy Or
chance, or envious demon's power, to shake Henceforth my solid bliss;
here I proclaim thee, Before this listening warlike train my bride, With
pledge of knightly honors! [He shows her to the Chorus. Who thou art,
I ask not: thou art mine! But that thy soul And birth are pure alike one
glance informed My inmost heart; and though thy lot were mean, And
poor thy lowly state, yet would I strain thee With rapture to my arms:
no choice remains, Thou art my love--my wife! Know too, that lifted
On fortune's height, I spurn control; my will Can raise thee to the
pinnacle of greatness-- Enough my name--I am Don Caesar! None Is
nobler in Messina!
[BEATRICE starts back in amazement. He remarks her agitation, and
after a pause continues.
What a grace Lives in thy soft surprise and modest silence! Yes! gentle
humbleness is beauty's crown-- The beautiful forever hid, and shrinking
From its own lustre: but thy spirit needs Repose, for aught of
strange--e'en sudden joy-- Is terror-fraught. I leave thee.

[Turning to the Chorus. From this hour She is your mistress, and my
bride; so teach her With honors due to entertain the pomp Of queenly
state. I will return with