Part 17 (1/2)

My tongue shall speak as prompts my swelling heart; My griefs shall cry to heaven. Why do we lift Our suppliant hands, and at the sacred shrines Kneel to adore? Good, easy dupes! What win we From faith and pious awe? to touch with prayers The tenants of yon azure realms on high, Were hard as with an arrow's point to pierce The silvery moon. Hid is the womb of time, Impregnable to mortal glance, and deaf The adamantine walls of heaven rebound The voice of anguish:--Oh, 'tis one, whate'er The flight of birds--the aspect of the stars!

The book of nature is a maze--a dream The sage's art--and every sign a falsehood!

Second Chorus (BOHEMUND).

Woe! Woe! Ill-fated woman, stay Thy maddening blasphemies; Thou but disown'st, with purblind eyes, The flaming orb of day!

Confess the G.o.ds,--they dwell on high-- They circle thee with awful majesty!

All the Knights.

Confess the G.o.ds--they dwell on high-- They circle thee with awful majesty!

BEATRICE.

Why hast thou saved thy daughter, and defied The curse of heaven, that marked me in thy womb The child of woe? Short-sighted mother!--vain Thy little arts to cheat the doom declared By the all-wise interpreters, that knit The far and near; and, with prophetic ken, See the late harvest spring in times unborn.

Oh, thou hast brought destruction on thy race, Withholding from the avenging G.o.ds their prey; Threefold, with new embittered rage, they ask The direful penalty; no thanks thy boon Of life deserves--the fatal gift was sorrow!

Second Chorus (BERENGAR) looking towards the door with signs of agitation.

Hark to the sound of dread!

The rattling, brazen din I hear!

Of h.e.l.l-born snakes the hissing tones are near!

Yes--'tis the furies' tread!

CAJETAN.

In crumbling ruin wide, Fall, fall, thou roof, and sink, thou trembling floor That bear'st the dread, unearthly stride!

Ye sable damps arise!

Mount from the abyss in smoky spray, And pall the brightness of the day!

Vanish, ye guardian powers!

They come! The avenging deities

DON CAESAR, ISABELLA, BEATRICE. The Chorus.

[On the entrance of DON CAESAR the Chorus station themselves before him imploringly. He remains standing alone in the centre of the stage.

BEATRICE.

Alas! 'tis he----

ISABELLA (stepping to meet him).

My Caesar! Oh, my son!

And is it thus I meet the? Look! Behold!

The crime of hand accursed!

[She leads him to the corpse.

First Chorus (CAJETAN, BERENGAR).

Break forth once more Ye wounds! Flow, flow, in swarthy flood, Thou streaming gore!

ISABELLA.

Shuddering with earnest gaze, and motionless, Thou stand'st.--yes! there my hopes repose, and all That earth has of thy brother; in the bud Nipped is your concord's tender flower, nor ever With beauteous fruit shall glad a mother's eyes,