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._ There is a wood, there is a cot, There is a gentle river; There is a home where I am not, But where I would be ever. And adown the green valley the meadows were fair, And the breeze came to woo the young daffodils there.
There is a lip I have not press'd, A heart yet coldly beating; But true love's throb within that breast Will wake at others' greeting. And adown through the valley the morn shone so fair, When the breeze gently kiss'd the young bud blushing there.
And thou wilt light thy taper cold At some gay treacherous eye; Its flame shall still thy soul enfold When lovers' glance shall die! And adown the green valley, while morn shone so fair, The breeze sigh'd, and left the young bud weeping there!
CARLOS. Woman loves not her true lover, A treacherous lewdster best o'ersteps her grace!-- Another, Giulio: I could live in them-- They feed the soul, as doth ambrosia The mighty gods.
_GIULIO sings._ Let me rest mine head, lady, On thy bended knee: Every pulse to thine beats true; I would 'twere so with thee. Sing heigho! Under the willow tree.
My cheek will not harm thee, Start not from thy rest----
CARLOS. Cease!--I do remember me the ballad Thou gavest yesterday. Upon my brain So loud the music rings, this chaunt I hear not.-- Prithee again thy strings touch to the carol.
GIULIO. Yet by your preference I know it not. How name you the ballad?
CARLOS. 'Twas of the pilgrim, and his goodly benison.
GIULIO. Thus? (_Plays._)
CARLOS. The same.
_GIULIO sings._ The chase was done, the feast was begun, When the monarch sate proudly high; And the revelry rode on the wind afar, As it swept from the darkening sky.
No lordly guest----
_Enter BERTRAND._
CARLOS. Welcome. I grew oppress'd from thy long absence-- But why that heavy, that disquieted brow? Some choler, scarce dismiss'd, hath moved thee!
BERTRAND. The Duke--
CARLOS. Didst thou complain to him Touching my wrong?
BERTRAND. I did.
CARLOS. Yet I have heard This prince o'er all his peers hereto extoll'd, The mirror of true courtesy; embodying The proud and chivalrous spirit of his time.-- How spake he?
BERTRAND. Few his words;--but this good sword-- Bitter degradement!----Yon proud Duke, he gave-- When from this recreant hand the traitor fell! He had disarm'd me, Carlos!
CARLOS. He!--You fought?
BERTRAND. Ay, with the Duke--thy mistress' paramour!
CARLOS. The Duke!--_Her_ paramour!-- 'Tis fuel to my hate.
BERTRAND. How fares thy wound?
CARLOS. This?--where?--'tis well.--These garments I shake off, And put on my revenge--its panoply Shall case my bosom.--Henceforth unto all Compunction dead, and steel'd to every touch Of natural sympathy, mine o'ercharged hate, As the veil'd fire, pent in yon gathering cloud, Deep-brooding waits, in fearful silence crouching, Or ere it strike----'Twas for this minion She spurn'd me!
BERTRAND. Such my hate to Andrea. Together and in secret we devise-- Yet not with such precipitate haste, our counsel, As shall defeat its own resolve--some plan To furnish our revenge. [_Exeunt._