Sis. She may forgive him yet.
Opas. Ah Sisabert!
Wretched are those a woman has forgiven;
With her forgiveness ne’er hath love return’d:
Ye know not, till too late, the filmy tie
That holds heaven’s precious boon, eternally
To those who fondly cherish her; once go
Driven by mad passion, strike but at her peace,
And, tho’ she step aside from broad reproach,
Yet every softer virtue dies away.
Beaming with virtue inaccessible
Stood Egilona; for her lord she lived,
And for the heavens that raised her sphere so high:
All thoughts were on her—all, beside her own.
Negligent as the blossoms of the field,
Arrayed in candour and simplicity,
Before her path she heard the streams of joy
Murmur her name in all their cadences,
Saw them in every scene, in light, in shade,
Reflect her image—but acknowledged them
Hers most complete when flowing from her most.
All things in want of her, herself of none,
Pomp and dominion lay beneath her feet
Unfelt and unregarded: now behold
The earthly passions war against the heavenly!
Pride against love, ambition and revenge
Against devotion and compliancy—
Her glorious beams adversity hath blunted,
And coming nearer to our quiet view
The original clay of coarse mortality
Hardens and flaws around her.
Sis. Every germ
Of virtue perishes, when love recedes
From those hot shifting sands, the female heart.
Opas. His was the fault; be his the punishment.
’Tis not their own crimes only, men commit,
They harrow them into another’s breast,
And they shall reap the bitter growth with pain.
[Sisabert, walking up and down, abstractedly.
Sis. Yes, blooming royalty will first attract
These creatures of the desert—now I breathe
More freely—she is theirs if I pursue
The fugitive again—he well deserves
The death he flies from—stay! don Julian twice
Called him aloud, and he, methinks, replied.
Could not I have remain’d a moment more,
And seen the end? altho’ with hurried voice
He bade me intercept the scattered foes,
And hold the city barred to their return.
May Egilona be another’s wife
Whether he die or live! but oh!
[Aloud, to Opas.
—Covilla—
She never can be mine! yet she may be
Still happy—no, Covilla, no—not happy,
But more deserving happiness without it.
Mine never! nor another’s—’tis enough.
The tears I shed no rival can deride;
In the fond intercourse, a name once cherished
Will never be defended by faint smiles,
Nor given up with vows of alter’d love.
And is the passion of my soul at last
Reduced to this? is this my happiness?
This my sole comfort? this the close of all
Those promises, those tears, those last adieus,
And those long vigils for the morrow’s dawn.
Opas. Arouse thee! be thyself. O Sisabert,
Awake to glory from these feverish dreams;
The enemy is in our land—two enemies—
We must quell both—shame on us, if we fail.