Ram. To-morrow all may change;
Be comforted.
Osma. I want nor change nor comfort.
Ram. The prisoner’s voice!
Osma. The metropolitan’s?
Triumph he may—not over me forgiven.
This way, and through the chapel—none are there.
[Goes out.
THIRD ACT: THIRD SCENE.
Opas and Sisabert.
Opas. The royal threat still sounds along these halls:
Hardly his foot hath passed them, and he flees
From his own treachery; all his pride, his hopes,
Are scattered at a breath; even courage fails
Now falsehood sinks from under him. Behold,
Again art thou where reigned thy ancestors;
Behold the chapel of thy earliest prayers,
Where I, whose chains are sundered at thy sight
Ere they could close around these aged limbs,
Received and blest thee, when thy mother’s arm
Was doubtful if it loosed thee! with delight
Have I observed the promises we made
Deeply impressed and manfully performed.
Now, to thyself beneficent, O prince,
Never henceforth renew those weak complaints
Against Covilla’s vows and Julian’s faith,
His honour broken, and her heart estranged.
Oh, if thou holdest peace or glory dear,
Away with jealousy; brave Sisabert,
Smite from thy bosom, smite that scorpion down.
It swells and hardens amid mildewed hopes,
O’erspreads and blackens whate’er most delights,
And renders us haters of loveliness,
The lowest of the fiends: ambition led
The higher on, furious to dispossess,
From admiration sprung and frenzied love.
This disingenuous soul-debasing passion,
Rising from abject and most sordid fear,
Stings her own breast with bitter self-reproof,
Consumes the vitals, pines, and never dies.
Love, Honour, Justice, numberless the forms,
Glorious and high the stature, she assumes;
But watch the wandering changeful mischief well,
And thou shalt see her with low lurid light
Search where the soul’s most valued treasure lies,
Or, more embodied to our vision, stand
With evil eye, and sorcery hers alone,
Looking away her helpless progeny,
And drawing poison from its very smiles.
For Julian’s truth have I not pledged my own?
Have I not sworn Covilla weds no other?
Sis. Her persecutor have not I chastised?
Have not I fought for Julian, won the town,
And liberated thee?
Opas. But left for him
The dangers of pursuit, of ambuscade,
Of absence from thy high and splendid name.