I have not slain thy lover! 'twas thy brother,
And mine that fell beneath my sword; and near
As the departed one, the living owns
The ties of blood: remember, too, 'tis I
That most a sister's pity need-for pure
His spirit winged its flight, and I am guilty!
[BEATRICE bursts into an agony of tears.
Weep! I will blend my tears with thine-nay, more,
I will avenge thy brother; but the lover-
Weep not for him-thy passionate, yearning tears
My inmost heart. Oh! from the boundless depths
Of our affliction, let me gather this,
The last and only comfort-but to know
That we are dear alike. One lot fulfilled
Has made our rights and wretchedness the same;
Entangled in one snare we fall together,
Three hapless victims of unpitying fate,
And share the mournful privilege of tears.
But when I think that for the lover more
Than for the brother bursts thy sorrow's tide,
Then rage and envy mingle with my pain,
And hope's last balm forsakes my withering soul?
Nor joyful, as beseems, can I requite
This inured shade:-yet after him content
To mercy's throne my contrite spirit shall fly,
Sped by this hand-if dying I may know
That in one urn our ashes shall repose,
With pious office of a sister's care.
[He throws his arms around her with passionate tenderness.
I loved thee, as I ne'er had loved before,
When thou wert strange; and that I bear the curse
Of brother's blood, 'tis but because I loved thee
With measureless transport: love was all my guilt,
But now thou art my sister, and I claim
Soft pity's tribute.
[He regards her with inquiring glances, and an air of
painful suspense-then turns away with vehemence.
No! in this dread presence
I cannot bear these tears-my courage flies
And doubt distracts my soul. Go, weep in secret-
Leave me in error's maze-but never, never,
Behold me more: I will not look again
On thee, nor on thy mother. Oh! how passion
Laid bare her secret heart! She never loved me!
She mourned her best-loved son-that was her cry
Of grief-and naught was mine but show of fondness!
And thou art false as she! make no disguise-
Recoil with horror from my sight-this form
Shall never shock thee more-begone forever!
[Exit.
[She stands irresolute in a tumult of conflicting
passions-then tears herself from the spot.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Happy the man-his lot I prize
That far from pomps and turmoil vain,
Childlike on nature's bosom lies
Amid the stillness of the plain.
My heart is sad in the princely hall,
When from the towering pride of state,
I see with headlong ruin fall,
How swift! the good and great!
And he-from fortune's storm at rest
Smiles, in the quiet haven laid
Who, timely warned, has owned how blest
The refuge of the cloistered shade;
To honor's race has bade farewell,
Its idle joys and empty shows;
Insatiate wishes learned to quell,
And lulled in wisdom's calm repose:-
No more shall passion's maddening brood
Impel the busy scenes to try,
Nor on his peaceful cell intrude
The form of sad humanity!
'Mid crowds and strife each mortal ill
