I hear a loud shriek,
With the wail of the dead;
And that spirit from thence
To its Giver hath fled!
Some dire event breaks from the womb of time:
To thee the spirit speaks. Hermione,
If yet three days on this forbidden air
Thou breathest, Mantua and her lord
May dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past.
I heed not further question. Well I know
The winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood
To soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not,
Madly ye rush to your undoing; then,
Fair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn;
The loud lament, the chill and desolate wail
Of thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing,
Unpitied, the dun pall of heaven!
Follow me not——
Once more I meet thee:—if too soon, beware!
Thine hours are number'd. [Exit.
hermione.
Three days!—Where shall I fly?—To what lone spot
Can I escape? Has this wide earth no room?—
Measureless woe!—too vast for mortal limit!—
Yon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft
Hath here some secret consequence to which
These bodings tend—cheat! Nay, thou didst affix
Fearful credentials to thy testimony;
They wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze
Which scans the soul, may the unvisited depths
Of mind reveal, its untold subtilties
Unto the eye disclosing. But three days!
Yet once—one sad farewell! [Exit.
SCENE IV.
A Chamber in the Inn.
Carlos on a couch, attended by Giulio.
carlos.
I thank thee, Giulio.
The couch feels easier from thine hand. 'Tis now
But as a troublesome scratch, scarce worth the pains
To work its cure. Another strain—thy lute
Strange chords doth waken, long untuned, forgot,
Slumbering untouch'd within my breast, the sound
Breathes on them sweetly; at its marvellous bidding,
Startled they wake, quivering once more to life.
I love these ancient ballads, they do savour
O' the olden time.
giulio.
Good signor, my poor music
Suits not this garnish'd age:—a simple air
That lives in the heart, and floats o'er the still depths
Of long-lapsed recollections, freshening
Their stagnant surface with soft impulse—this,
Brief skill!—'tis all I claim.
[Touches the chords to a slight prelude.
They are but snatches of old songs, signor;
Broken as fragments of the imperishing columns
Whitening some arid desert; but they are hallow'd
By the same hand that spoil'd them!
carlos.
They are bonds
That with the past yet link our purer thoughts,
Our most unsullied affections. Still
The voice of other years breathes through them,
As the low breeze, while creeping timorously
Around some ancient ruin, wailing there
Sad echoes of departed greatness.
giulio sings.