'
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 EZZELIN: 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM.
 
 EZZ E L I N: 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 BY 
 
 TWO BROTHERS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET, 
 
 COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 1880.
 
 CHISWICK press:— C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, 
 CHANCERY LANE.
 
 
 To the Memory of my Brother, 
 EDWARD KAYE JUPP, 
 
 I DEDICATE THIS 
 
 PLAY 
 
 OF 
 
 " EZZELIN." 
 
 *-k,r»oO'
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 BY THE SURVIVING AUTHOR. 
 
 GOOD play needs no preface, a bad play 
 is not improved by one. Whether the 
 play of Ezzelin be good or bad my readers 
 must decide; but I think a short preface is 
 necessary to prevent the whole aim of the drama 
 being misunderstood. It (the drama) may very 
 possibly appear at first sight to have been written 
 as a vindication of the persecuting spirit and 
 policy of the mediaeval Church of Rome, but I 
 must distinctly state that it was not so intended. 
 " Ezzelin " is merely intended to represent a phase 
 of the struggle between the decaying despotism of 
 the Church of Rome and the votaries of the new 
 learning. This latter party, not unnaturally, en- 
 listed on its side all the more ardent and cultured 
 of the youth of Europe, and, inasmuch as no move-
 
 viii Preface. 
 
 ment — whether religious, political, or purely intel- 
 lectual, can be said to work unmixed good, — ad- 
 mirers of the Renaissance and subsequent Reforma- 
 tion must forgive me if I have dwelt in this play 
 rather on the darker than the brighter side of the 
 great movement of the sixteenth century against 
 the ancient creed of Christendom. In the ranks 
 of those who hailed the downfall of scholastic 
 theology and clerical tyranny were to be found 
 many who aimed at annihilation and destruction 
 rather than reform, and had no wish to see the 
 powers formerly exercised by the Roman hierarchy 
 transferred to the ministers of separate Christian 
 bodies. They hailed the Reformation more as 
 the inauguration of a reign of unbridled license, 
 than as the beginning of a new and purer system 
 of religion ; and Ezzelin, the hero of this drama, 
 must be considered merely as a type of this class 
 of destructives — a class which, it is useless to deny, 
 did exist, much to the regret of the chiefs of the 
 reforming party. 
 
 One word, before I close this tediously apolo- 
 getic preface, as to the character of the Inquisitor 
 Dante. Englishmen have never had much admira- 
 tion for the dark and bloody designs and machina- 
 tions of the Inquisition (indeed the very Church 
 which first instituted that baneful tribunal, has of
 
 Preface. 
 
 IX 
 
 late seemed somewhat ashamed of its own progeny); 
 but it may well be believed that among the Inquisi- 
 tors many conscientious and even noble-hearted 
 men were to be found ; fanatics, perhaps, but men 
 who were bitterly needed to check and restrain the 
 paganism of the Renaissance and the lawlessness 
 of the Reformation. Dante, I think my readers 
 will admit, is no vulgar butcher, but a true fol- 
 lower of his great master S. Dominic, or, to use 
 the mediaeval expression current of the fierce 
 followers of that saint, a true hound of the Lord 
 (Domini canis), eager in the pursuit of heresy and 
 crime. 
 
 My brother's early death prevented his doing 
 more than composing a small portion of " Ezzelin." 
 Any faults of style or language, and above all, any 
 anachronisms must be charged on me — not against 
 his memory.
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 Alonzo, an Italian Duke, father of Ezzelin. 
 
 Arnold, a Count, father of Annette. 
 
 Dante, an Inquisitor, friend of Arnold and Alonzo. 
 
 Ezzelin, son of Alonzo. 
 
 Sebastian, a Captain of Mercenaries in the sendee of the 
 
 Inquisition. 
 Uberto, Chaplain to Arnold. 
 Lorenzo da Fiori, a relation of Arnold. 
 Tonio, Arnold's servant. 
 Gonzalo, Antonio, Alonzo 's servants. 
 Andreas, Dante's servant. 
 
 Warder, Soldiers, Messengers, 6-y. 
 
 Annette, daughter of Arnold. 
 
 Lucia, a Nun, daughter of Alonzo. 
 
 Julia, a Nun. 
 
 Women, &C. &-Y. 
 
 The scene lies in the north of Italy, not far from Venice, 
 but changes in two scenes to a Castle in the Tyrol.
 
 EZZELI N. 
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene i. Arnold's Castle (a room). 
 
 Enter Arnold, Dante, and Annette. 
 
 Dante. 
 
 OW sweetly shines the moonbeam through 
 
 yon window ; 
 I ever did prefer the ancient quaintness 
 Of these old, pillar'd, fretwork-roofed halls, 
 To that fine gilded glare, that men delight in. 
 I could have wish'd to pass the hour ere supper 
 Unlighted, save by moonbeams, and to let 
 This holiness of scene pervade our talk ; 
 But this I tell you, that your entertainment 
 Will always come thrice welcome to my soul, 
 In this old knightly-memory haunted castle.
 
 2 Ezzelin. 
 
 Arnold. Nay, then, I deem my castle is thrice 
 honour'd, 
 In winning praise from one so highly gifted 
 As thou art. 
 
 Dante. Such I ever yet have held it. 
 
 But, how now, Annette, have you any news 
 Of Ezzelin ? Nay. Had I thought the question 
 Would make you weep, I ne'er had ask'd it you. 
 
 Arnold. Darling, I will explain the matter for you. 
 Alas ! we've had but bitter news of late 
 (Such as may well excuse my poor child's tears). 
 Ezzelin, we greatly fear, on his way home 
 Is ta'en by pirates. 
 
 Dante. How long back was this ? 
 
 Arnold. Two months we heard no news ; last 
 week a rumour, 
 Too true, I fear. Just now the castle galley 
 Is injured, and I cannot send to seek him. 
 
 Dante. Thank Heaven ! a friend of mine, 
 A privateer, has just put in this morning. 
 I'll bid him follow on the track, and soon 
 You'll hear good news, I trust. 
 
 Arnold. Was ever priest 
 
 Beloved with so good cause ? Could but I thank you
 
 Ezselin. 3 
 
 As you deserve ! — Annette, my child, for shame ! 
 Can you not dry your tears, and find some words 
 To thank this holy man ? 
 
 Annette. I wish I could 
 
 Say what I feel. I cannot. 
 
 Dante. Nay, then go, 
 
 And pour your thanks to Heaven, the true preserver 
 Of him and all. 
 
 Annette. I was going to the chapel 
 
 To pray for Ezzelin, and I came to you 
 To ask your blessing, father. 
 
 Dante. And I grant it. 
 
 \_Exit Annette. 
 She pleases me more than I dared expect. 
 Your chaplain gave me no good words of her ; 
 He said that she was taken with wild fancies, 
 And yesterday she said (for so he told me), 
 She thought she ne'er could love the joys of heaven. 
 For thinking of poor souls that were in hell. 
 
 Arnold. Alas ! 'tis part of this calamity : 
 She is my only child, and I, perhaps, 
 Rate her too highly, but she seems to me 
 A ray, a lovely flower, almost an angel, 
 But for a kind of self-will, and devotion
 
 4 Ezzelin. 
 
 To these wild fancies ; this makes me more regret 
 The loss of Ezzelin ; he was her star, her anchor. 
 She clung to him, as cling the creeping ivies 
 To some strong church tower, when fiends walk the 
 
 night, 
 Rustling their leaves for fear ; he had a mind 
 For strength, and sweetness, far beyond his age, 
 And that she knew. O they were lovers indeed ! 
 What joy I took in them, how I remember 
 Seeing them often in our garden glades, 
 Walking or sitting, with their arms fast twined 
 Around each other, and her eyes of blue 
 Meeting his dark eyes, with sweet earnestness, 
 Unconsciously a picture. Then it seem'd 
 That Ezzelin had no thought, save how to render 
 His Annette happy, and him worthy of her, 
 And Annette's soul was day by day more rapt, 
 To love, to trust, to cling to Ezzelin. 
 And yet I wrong them, none were more beloved 
 By all, and none did strive more earnestly 
 To school themselves, that others might be happy. 
 Well were they known by all around these walls ; 
 In all their sorrows did my vassals come 
 To them for sympathy and kindly aid.
 
 Eazelin. 5 
 
 The little children in the villages 
 
 Would run to meet them as they came along, 
 
 With flowers and humble greetings, nor were 
 
 spurned 
 By either, these poor offerings of affection. 
 But when young Ezzelin's father, Lord Alonzo, 
 Anxiously watching his sou's youth, and eager, 
 (For ever did ambition rule his mind, 
 And though already duke, and sovereign ruler 
 Of more than half a province, where by thousands 
 Obedient vassals own his iron sway, 
 He aims at higher state by Ezzelin's marriage, 
 Alliance with some mighty family 
 High in the service of the emperor,) 
 Saw where his son's affections bent their way, 
 He sent him from this place, and bade him travel 
 To see fresh countries, trusting that the sight 
 And pleasures of the world would soon uproot 
 The old affection, for he vainly deem'd 
 That Ezzelin's love was but a boyish passion, 
 Fleeting and transient, but that love was fix'd ; 
 And since he knew that it was vain to strive 
 Against Alonzo's will, and having not 
 As yet the wherewithal to keep his Annette
 
 6 Ezzelin. 
 
 In such estate as did become his rank, 
 He told his tyrant father manfully 
 That other love than Annette he would not, 
 And though he bent his inclination then, 
 That nothing in the world, save grisly death, 
 Should tear their love apart — Yet say in truth, 
 Desire you to hear more, or does my tale 
 Seem wearisome? 
 
 Dante. Nay, my much honour'd friend, 
 
 I love to hear of such a gallant youth. 
 Deem not that priests (although they may not 
 
 wed) 
 Must shrink from tales like these ; nay, rather, when 
 I hear of love like this, it makes me think 
 Of that far higher love of One above. 
 Think not that earthly love displeases God, 
 Nay, rather, holy is it in His sight ; 
 He placed it in man's heart, and He will bless 
 Those who do rightly use the precious gift. 
 In love of youth and maid to one another, 
 Which prompts them to give up all joys or riches 
 If call'd to do it, we may faintly see 
 The shadowing of that ever perfect love 
 Of Him who died to save His own elect,
 
 Ezzelin. 7 
 
 And calls the Church His bride. But tell me more. 
 What said Alonzo to his son ? 
 
 Afnold. At first 
 
 He raved and threaten'd, and declared the grave 
 Should cover Ezzelin, ere he gave consent 
 To such a union ; but his son, undaunted, 
 Still firmly said that he would never yield, 
 And then Alonzo changed his threatening tone, 
 And told his son to say no more, and smiled 
 In crafty guile, and laughingly replied 
 To Ezzelin's proud glance with soothing words, 
 And told him that he soon would cease to think 
 Of such a simple girl, when he should see 
 A little of the world, and know that wealth 
 Unbounded was his own, and he could choose 
 The proudest maiden of bright Italy, 
 Or some fair lady of the empire, 
 For bride ; then bade him seek his couch at once, 
 And sleep such love-sick fancies off. A youth 
 Like him knew not what love was; he was caught 
 By a fair face, 'twas always thus with boys. 
 They knew not their own minds : but Ezzelin said, 
 " Father, no more of this ; my vows are seal'd, 
 And I will see her ere I go," then turn'd
 
 8 Ezzelin. 
 
 And sought his room — more of the scene I know 
 
 not. 
 Dante. Then Ezzelin did not come to see your 
 
 child? 
 Arnold. Oh yes, he did. In the bright early morn 
 While rosily the east gleam'd, and the clouds 
 In long white fleecy banners stretched across 
 The pale blue summer sky, and on each bush 
 And tree within the dewy castle chase 
 The birds were warbling, came young Ezzelin. 
 And she, my Annette, at her window stood, 
 Looking across the dewy lawns, to watch 
 The rising mists that floated o'er the sward 
 Of the green chase, (that as you know extends 
 With woods on either hand for many a mile,) 
 When her brave lover's form appear'd in sight. 
 Then down the winding castle stair she ran, 
 And o'er the drawbridge, o'er the verdant lawn, 
 Leaving a smooth wet track upon the grass, 
 And met her Ezzelin. I myself had waked 
 Early that morning, and with heated brow 
 Stood at the casement pane, and saw them meet. 
 Ah ! can that scene fade from my memory's eye ? 
 E'en now as I relate, I seem to see
 
 Ezzelin. 9 
 
 My lovely daughter throw herself again 
 Upon her Ezzelin's faithful breast, while he 
 Clasptl her with his strong arms, and thus they 
 
 stood. 
 At such a moment words refuse to come : 
 The only thought that fills the lovers' breasts 
 Is that they hold their dearest thing on earth 
 Within their arms, — the glances of their eyes 
 Speak more than words of fondest eloquence. 
 And thus it was with them : my Annette's eyes, 
 Glistening with tears, were fix'd on Ezzelin ; 
 While he, with such a yearning glance of anguish, 
 Bent his fond look on her. Ah me ! I doubt not 
 That they had fain waited in that embrace 
 For ever ! Calmly play'd the morning breeze 
 Around them, and the sparkling dews still lay 
 Upon the grass in clusters thick as beads ; 
 The birds' sweet songs grew louder, clear the thrush 
 Rang his shrill notes, and from the flaming sky 
 Faintly the mounting lark's sweet song was heard. 
 Unheeding all, lock'd in that tight embrace 
 They stood. At last poor Ezzelin softly loosed 
 His loved one's clinging arms, ami bent his head 
 To her's, as if to whisper words of hope
 
 io Ezzelin. 
 
 And comfort for the future ; then my daughter 
 Bade him farewell, and Ezzelin slowly turn'd ; 
 But when he lost the sight of her he loved, 
 He quickly strode along the level sward, 
 As fearful that his shaking resolution 
 Might fail ; so up the forest chase he went, 
 And soon his form was swallow'd up in mists. 
 But Annette stood, still gazing after him, 
 Rigid like some fair statue, while the breeze 
 Play'd with her golden tresses, till the mists 
 Hid Ezzelin from her view, and then she turn'd 
 Towards her home, but blindly reeling, fell 
 Swooning upon the grass. I saw her fall, 
 And, issuing from the castle, with the help 
 Of her attendants, bore her to her room. 
 But for some time she lay in burning fever, 
 And, Father, sometimes I have fear'd her brain 
 Received a shock that morning, and has not 
 Recover'd altogether, but I know not. 
 She seems so wise and good, that I could think 
 My fears were groundless, save for these wild fancies 
 Of which my chaplain told you. 
 
 Dante. Do not fear; 
 
 I do not think because a maiden dreams
 
 Ezzelitt. 1 1 
 
 That you need think her life is sadden'd. Nay, 
 The young who think at all have ever fancies, 
 Strange and unnatural ; a lonely life 
 With little occupation, and much time 
 For musing, — separated too from one 
 She loves, accounts for all such thoughts as these. 
 I own that I was shock'd at first, but now, 
 Knowing her troubles, do not wonder ; but 
 'Tis long ere she and Ezzelin saw each other, — 
 Is't not? 
 
 Arnold. Full six long years at least. 
 Annette had reach'd her eighteenth year that morn 
 When Ezzelin went, and now is twenty-four. 
 
 Dante. And have you heard much news of 
 Ezzelin ? 
 
 Arnold. But seldom since he went ; but for this 
 capture 
 He had been with us now. Men say, indeed, 
 That he is strangely alter'd ; yet I doubt not 
 His heart still beats as warmly now for Annette 
 As on that summer morn. 
 
 Dante. But do you know, 
 
 Has Ezzelin ever sent you any message ? 
 Men sometimes have forgotten in the whirl
 
 1 2 Ezzelin. 
 
 Of war or pleasure, their first love. Perchance, 
 Although I would not grieve you, it is thus 
 With your fair daughter's lover. 
 
 Arnold (aside). Tis ever thus with these cold- 
 hearted priests; 
 Forced as they are to crush all thoughts of love, 
 They never can believe that other men 
 Can really love : as well to talk of battle 
 To some young convent girl, as talk of love 
 To him. (Aloud.) Nay, father, this light conver- 
 sation 
 Must weary you ; and, hark ! the bell for supper 
 Calls us away. 
 
 Dante. My son, I soon will join you : 
 
 I pray you bid my servant come to me 
 As soon as possible. [Exit Arnold. 
 
 Dante (alone). Poor Arnold ! he is wrapt in 
 Ezzelin ; 
 And though I see he sometimes doubts his love, 
 Will not allow his inmost heart's suspicion 
 To gather strength by hearing me confirm 
 His doubts, yet none the less they haunt his soul. 
 'Tis true, I know not much of Ezzelin, — ■ 
 But well I know his father and his kinsfolk.
 
 Ezzelin. 1 3 
 
 (Ah ! one of them too well ; cease pining, heart !) 
 This Ezzelin comes not of a constant race, 
 But one inconstant as the tossing sea. 
 
 [ Walks to the window. 
 How clear the bay lies now before my eyes, 
 Like a cold plain of azure 'neath the moon, 
 Which seems to spread a holy influence, 
 Calming the heaving deep. May Annette's love 
 Shine like yon moon on Ezzelin, and bind 
 His heart if prone to changing. Ah ! fair maiden, 
 Thou hast known many cares already : hard 
 It is to lose one's dearest friend on earth 
 When death removes him from us ; harder yet 
 Perchance to wait as thou hast done, enduring 
 The anguish of suspense, to see thy lover 
 Embark upon the world's wide, tossing billows, 
 And know not where he is, or if his love 
 Burn constant or be quench'd. I hardly dare 
 To think upon thy future. Can they wed ? 
 Nay, rather, shall they? may not God require 
 The separation of their hearts ? She doubts, 
 So I have heard, and he — well, let it rest, 
 " Sufficient is the evil to the day," 
 And in the Eternal breast the issue lies.
 
 14 Ezzelin. 
 
 Enter Andreas. 
 
 Andreas, despatch a trusty messenger 
 To seek Sebastian ; bid him come to me 
 To-morrow morning, without fail. [Exit Andreas. 
 
 Well, yes, 
 I must see more of Annette, but the bell 
 Calls me away. I must not linger here. [Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. The same room. 
 
 Enter Arnold, Annette, Dante, and Sebastian. 
 
 Dante. 
 fH^fcl^OUNT ARNOLD, this is my good friend 
 Sebastian, 
 The captain of the galley that you see 
 Lying at anchor yonder, like a speck 
 Upon the deep blue waters of the bay. 
 
 Arnold. Captain Sebastian, welcome to my castle. 
 You may perhaps have heard of Ezzelin, 
 Son of old Lord Alonzo, whose domains 
 Lie not far off from mine. 
 
 Sebastian. Count Arnold, I have heard of him, 
 I think j
 
 Ezzeliu, 1 5 
 
 He was Alonzo's only son, a youth 
 Well made and full of courage. 
 
 Arnold. Yes, the same. 
 
 During his journey from Illyria 
 His ship was taken by the Turkish foe, 
 And all on board were captured, but they say 
 The pirate ship was in the fray disabled, 
 And forced to put in port not far from here, 
 And so we heard the news of Ezzelin's capture. 
 The holy father has assured us here 
 That you will follow on the pirate's track 
 If possible, and rescue our young hero. 
 Oh, if you can but bring him back again 
 We never shall forget your services, 
 And anything that I can do for you 
 In bettering your fortunes shall be done. 
 Meanwhile accept my fervent gratitude 
 And my young daughter's thanks, for Ezzelin 
 Is her betroth'd. If you have ever known 
 What 'tis to lose a loved one, you will feel 
 For her. When you return I pray you honour 
 My castle by remaining some few days 
 Our welcome guest. 
 
 Sebastian. I thank you greatly, Count ;
 
 1 6 Ezzelin. 
 
 Methinks were I to slight an invitation 
 To such a castle men could call me mad. 
 And as for Ezzelin, I will do my best. 
 Meanwhile, for your great courtesy, accept 
 A rough old sailor's thanks ; in two short hours 
 My galley will be ready. Now, farewell. 
 
 [Exit, singing. 
 
 The briny deep is the sailor's home, 
 
 The deck is the sailor's bed ; 
 And he slumbers well, though the white waves swell, 
 
 And the tempest roars o'erhead. 
 
 Arnold. A bluff old fellow. 
 
 Dante. Yes, but none the worse 
 
 For that ; — and let me tell you, my good friend, 
 A better man ne'er breathed. He saved my life 
 Not long ago. (Aside.) How well the fellow plays 
 The seaman's part. 
 
 Annette. And how was that, my father ? 
 
 Dante. Ah, Annette ! you, like other girls, know j 
 well 
 The way to reach an old man's heart, — to tempt 
 His vanity, by making him repeat 
 Stories of his adventures, — yet I'm glad
 
 Ezzelin. 17 
 
 To tell you anything; but, Arnold, stay: 
 Would you not like to hear the tale ? 
 
 Arnold. Good father, 
 
 Business about the castle calls for me ; 
 But if you can amuse my daughter Annette, 
 And keep her thoughts awhile fix'd on your stories. 
 I shall be grateful. [Exit Arnold. 
 
 Annette, Oh, my father, say, 
 
 Do you indeed think Ezzelin will be saved ? 
 I know I ought not thus to talk to you ; 
 But O ! you know how one is comforted 
 By hearing words of hope. I have imagined 
 My Ezzelin dead perhaps, or, badly wounded, 
 Lying in anguish on the blood-stain'd deck, 
 With no one near to bathe his smarting wounds ; 
 Or sold to be a slave. O father, father, 
 Tell me you think he will be saved ! I know 
 That God is watching o'er him, wheresoe'er 
 He lies ; yet e'en religion's voice at times 
 Falls cold and dull upon the bleeding heart. 
 This keen suspense will kill me ; I am like 
 One walking through a dark and dreary wood, 
 Following a winding path that ever seems 
 About to end in daylight, yet whenever 
 
 c
 
 1 8 Ezzelin. 
 
 I think I see the sunlight not far off, 
 And hurry forwards, darkness comes again 
 With tenfold gloom and horror ! 
 
 Enter Arnold in armour. 
 Arnold. Look not so frighten'd, Annette; I've 
 determined 
 To join Sebastian in the expedition ; 
 For but this moment did a messenger 
 Come with the tidings that the enemy 
 Were seen not far from here in rapid flight, 
 Speeding across the bay. So I have arm'd 
 A band of stout retainers, and do purpose 
 To aid in the pursuit ; the thought of battle 
 Puts new life in me, and I feel no more 
 The numbing chill of age. Farewell, good father ; 
 I've given orders to my servants here 
 To treat you in my absence as their lord, 
 And bow to your commands. Farewell, my Annette , 
 I trust to see you smile on my return ; 
 A few short days, and you will see me back 
 With Ezzelin safe and sound. 
 
 Annette. Oh, dearest father, 
 
 Indeed you must not risk your life for him.
 
 Ezzelin. 19 
 
 Shame on my woman's nature ! I could wish 
 That I had been a man, to take your place 
 And join in Ezzelin's rescue ! Well, 'tis vain 
 To talk like this — but, father, do not go ! 
 
 Arnold. Come, cheer up, Annette ! do not let me 
 start 
 In such a tearful manner ; tush ! my child ; 
 There will not be much danger — I have been 
 In fifty fights at least without a scratch. 
 A soldier's daughter should not fear like this ; 
 Come, rouse yourself, and give me one fond kiss 
 Before I go. [Embraces her. 
 
 Annette. May all good angels watch 
 Over your head, my father ; now, farewell ! 
 
 Dante {to Arnold). A word with you before you 
 go, my son. [Exeunt Arnold and Dante. 
 
 Annette (alone). They say that trials never come 
 alone 
 In this sad world ; O, surely 'twas enough 
 To grieve for Ezzelin's safety, knowing not 
 If he were dead or living, forced to live 
 In agonizing doubt, with nothing certain 
 To satisfy the cravings of the heart, 
 And ever forced to draw my only source
 
 20 Ezzelin. 
 
 Of comfort from a few detach'd reports, 
 
 Which, like the ghostly lights that dance and flicker 
 
 At night in reedy swamps, but make believe 
 
 To show the truth, and sometimes fill the mind 
 
 With hope awhile, yet soon again Despair, 
 
 Following upon the steps of Hope, as darkness 
 
 Pursues the day, returns with double horror. 
 
 And now not only Ezzelin, but my father 
 
 Is girt by danger ! O ! my heart will break 
 
 Beneath its anguish'd load ! What have I done, 
 
 That I should suffer thus ? Can Heaven be just 
 
 To send me so much sorrow ? Have I ever 
 
 Neglected our religion's sacred rites? 
 
 But yesterday I spent long hours in prayer 
 
 Before our chapel's altar, and to-day 
 
 My heart is stabb'd afresh ! Where shall I turn 
 
 For comfort ? I can strive no more with sorrow. 
 
 Oh Ezzelin ! Ezzelin ! [F/ings herself on the ground. 
 
 Enter Uberto. 
 
 Uberto. What, no one here? I'm sure I heard 
 a voice 
 Of one in sorrow or in pain. What ! Annette 
 Extended on the floor in this wild manner,
 
 Ezzelin. 2 1 
 
 With all her hair dishevell'd, and her clothes 
 Cover'd with dust ! Come, Annette, what's the 
 " matter ? 
 
 Annette {impatiently). Leave me, I say. 
 
 Uberto. If you must throw yourself 
 
 Upon the floor, you surely might have found 
 A better place than this old dusty corner ! 
 You'll get yourself into a mess, I say. 
 Get up ! don't lie there like a naughty child, 
 But tell me what your sorrow is. 
 
 Annette {rising). This place 
 
 Is not the confessional, so leave me ; 
 Or you may stay, and I will go. 
 
 \Crosses the room, a fid exit. 
 
 Uberto. Good heavens ! 
 
 I'm sure that girl is mad ! how can she dare 
 To speak in such a way ? I never yet 
 Heard such impertinence from anybody, 
 And I'll not stand it either. Would her father 
 Were safe return'd from his mad expedition. 
 Plague on these lovers ! men should live like me, 
 And leave the race of women to decay ; 
 And so it should, could I but have my way.
 
 22 Ezzelin. 
 
 Scene 3. The same room. 
 
 Etiter Dante and Uberto. 
 
 Uberto. 
 ES, my good brother, that young girl is mad ; 
 I do believe that love hasturn'd her brain. 
 But now I found her stretch'd upon the 
 floor, 
 And when I gently bade her rise, and tell 
 Her griefs to me, she told me to my face 
 That I was not in the confessional, 
 And that she would not tell me, and then ran 
 Out of the room. 
 
 Dante {smiling). Good brother — pardon me — 
 I do not think you understand the girl. 
 
 Uberto. Not understand her ! why, I've lived as 
 chaplain 
 In this old castle nigh on thirty years, 
 And heard her tell her sins a thousand times. 
 Not understand her ! that's a fine idea ! 
 
 Dante. That girl needs careful management, my 
 brother, 
 Or she will fall away from truth, I fear ;
 
 Ezzelin. 23 
 
 Already she has got some strange ideas, 
 
 And does not fear to question what one tells her; 
 
 But if you rule her well, with such a nature 
 
 As her's, she'll prove a pure and holy lamb 
 
 For the Good Shepherd's pasture. With permission 
 
 From you, I'll hear her at her next confession. 
 
 Uberto. O certainly, I shall be very glad ; 
 She only wearies me with her strange notions 
 About religious mysteries. I hope 
 That you will scold her well for disrespect, 
 And make her do a sharp and heavy penance. 
 
 Dante. Do you know much of Ezzelin, her 
 lover ? 
 
 Uberto. O, he's a fine young man, beloved by all, 
 And pays me great respect. 
 
 Dante. I mean, my brother, 
 
 Is he a faithful son of Rome — one fit 
 To be this maiden's husband ? 
 
 Uberto. I believe 
 
 He's orthodox enough, at least I hope so ; 
 I know his sister is. 
 
 Dante. Well, if he's rescued, 
 
 I'll see to it ; for look you, my dear brother, 
 Heresy is about us ; 'tis in vain
 
 24 Ezzelin. 
 
 We wage against it wars of fierce oppression, 
 And drag its votaries to the burning pile ; 
 This will not stamp it out — we must be wary ; 
 Priests must bestir themselves if they would check 
 The doctrines of the dog apostate Luther. 
 I tell you, Fra Uberto, when I look 
 Around, and see the shepherds of the flock 
 Idle and bent on luxury, and the Church 
 Diseased and rotten, that the thought conies o'er 
 
 me — 
 What if this heresy be God's awful judgment 
 Upon us for our sins ! O, may His Passion, 
 Who on the tree endured the assault of hell, 
 And led the tyrant captive, shield us now 
 From the approaching plague ! To all that's evil 
 The Lutheran doctrine shows a tempting bait. 
 We must watch well our charges, lest the tares 
 Of heresy be sown ; therefore I ask'd you 
 So earnestly about young Ezzelin's faith. 
 
 Uberto. Good brother, you are eloquent indeed ; 
 Your warnings make me shiver ; do you really 
 Believe the Church to be in danger now ? 
 Have you forgotten that the infernal gates 
 Are powerless against her ?
 
 Ezzelin. 25 
 
 Dante. True, while she keeps her first and chosen 
 
 love, 
 And leans on her true Spouse ; but now, alas ! 
 The world, the flesh, the devil hem her round, 
 And she is weak and wavering ; sin's bright glare 
 Dazzles and fascinates her failing eyes. 
 
 Uberto (aside). Tis very hot, listening to this 
 
 fierce priest, 
 And yet I like him for his earnestness. 
 I wish I had some wine. (Aloud.) Well, my dear 
 
 brother, 
 What is the remedy for such a state ? 
 
 Dante. Brother, the remedy lies in ourselves : 
 We must not weary, but be ever working, 
 Bearing the harvest day's fierce heat and burden ; 
 Rest comes at eve ; still 'mid the tossing sea 
 Uprear the Saviour's Cross, and on the Rock 
 Of Ages stand ; 'tis vain to trust in princes, 
 Vain to give up our work to hired soldiers. 
 He calls us now to follow Him, to go 
 E'en as He went, and call to all to come 
 Where only rest is found. Let all men know 
 That we can work for Him Who died for us, 
 Enduring till the end ; so shall the clouds
 
 26 Ezzelin. 
 
 Disperse, and heavenly calm return again. 
 
 Uberto. Yes, this is very well ; but it is time 
 We had some dinner, surely {going). 
 
 Dante. Stay a moment ! 
 
 You told me Ezzelin had a pious sister — 
 What is her name ? 
 
 Uberto. Her name, I think, is Lucia. 
 
 She is a sister in a convent here ; 
 But Annette knows far more of her than I do, 
 They used to be great friends. 
 
 Dante. And is this Ezzelin 
 
 Fond of his sister ? 
 
 Uberto. Yes, devoted to her, 
 
 And she adores him too. 
 
 Dante. Then I will go 
 
 And see her ; sisters often have great influence 
 Upon their brothers. So, farewell. [Exit Dante. 
 
 Uberto. What, go 
 
 All that way fasting ? what a zealous man ! 
 I wish I had such energy. But surely 
 Our meal must be prepared. [Exit Uberto.
 
 Ezzelin. 2"] 
 
 Sce^e 4. A Cell in the Convent of St. Margaret. 
 
 Enter Lucia, alone. 
 
 Lucia. 
 
 ilHE sun is slowly sinking in the west, 
 
 Over the gleaming sea ; as he goes down, 
 He paints the clouds around him with the 
 hues 
 Of amber, gold, and crimson, while afar 
 The snowy eastern cloud groups faintly glow 
 With rosy tints. The quiet time of eve 
 Comes on apace, and soon the silver moon 
 Will rise above the distant woods. How sweet 
 The air is now ! I ever yet have loved 
 The eventide more than the glare of day. 
 For this is not my rest, nor would I have it ; 
 Yet e'en as children love the time which tells 
 Of coming joys, so in the evening's calm 
 I fain would shadow forth the eternal peace 
 Which comes, when in the chilly waves of death 
 Life's sun is set, and He shall bid me welcome 
 Who bids me work for Him beneath the Cross.
 
 28 Ezzelin. 
 
 'Tis growing dark ; the compline hour draws near, 
 Blest hour of prayer, which calls each child of God 
 To bend before the Crucified. 
 
 Enter Julia. 
 Julia. My sister, 
 
 An aged priest desires to speak with you; 
 He waits without. 
 
 Lucia. Then bid him come, my sister. 
 
 Who may this priest be ? 'tis some stranger, surely. 
 
 [Exit Julia. 
 
 Enter Julia with Dante. 
 
 Julia. This is the sister Lucia, reverend father. 
 
 [Exit Julia. 
 Dante. Hail to thee, daughter ! I have come 
 to-night 
 From Arnold's castle, where my home has been 
 The last few days. I am an old acquaintance 
 Of your renowned father, Lord Alonzo. 
 
 Lucia. A friend of my dear father ! can you be 
 The Father Dante ? 
 
 Dante. Even so, my daughter. 
 
 Lucia. Oh ! then you are no stranger ; I have 
 heard
 
 Ezzelin. 29 
 
 My father often speak of you : he loves you 
 And honours you, and he has ever wish'd 
 That I might know you too. 
 
 Dante. Well, now you see me. 
 
 You are Alonzo's daughter, I his friend ; 
 Methinks we need no further introduction. 
 But, in good truth, I should not have supposed 
 That I should find you here. 
 
 Lucia. Why not, my father ? 
 
 Dante. Daughter, Alonzo often used to say 
 That he would never let a child of his 
 Enter a convent. 
 
 Lucia. Yes ; but when my brother 
 
 Left us to travel — but indeed I ought not 
 To trouble you. 
 
 Dante. Fear not ; speak on, my child. 
 
 Lucia. My father ever did oppose my brother 
 In his pursuit of Arnold's daughter, Annette ; 
 And when poor Ezzelin left us, Lord Alonzo 
 Blamed me for having introduced my brother 
 To Annette ; but indeed I did not mean 
 To injure Ezzelin — she was my friend, 
 We loved each other dearly from our childhood, 
 And Ezzelin used to join us in our sports
 
 30 Ezzelin. 
 
 (For he was never happy save with me — 
 Whate'er I loved he loved, and so with Annette). 
 When childhood's guileless time was past, new 
 
 feelings 
 Came o'er my brother and my friend, the seeds 
 Of fondness sown in childhood bloom'd at last 
 When youth arrived into the flower of love. 
 Yet, oh ! what should a maiden vow'd to heaven 
 Know of such feelings ? [Turns away. 
 
 Dante (smiling). Do not grieve, my daughter ; 
 It is no sin to tell of earthly love 
 In other hearts, so that it does not taint 
 Our own. 
 
 Lucia. But, father, sometimes my weak heart is 
 touch'd 
 By the sweet poison. 
 
 Dante. Yes, the Via Crucis 
 
 Is ever mark'd by earth's affections strewn 
 Along its tear-stain'd soil, yet doth it lead 
 To that bright land where love may freely burn 
 In pure unearthly glory. Every tear 
 Wrung from the eyes of those who here below 
 Have torn themselves from love as if from life, 
 Turns to a pearl to star the coronet
 
 Ezzelin. 31 
 
 Laid up for them above, and each new triumph 
 Shall gild with added glory that fair crown 
 They^cast before His feet who died for them. 
 
 Lucia. Yes, if they freely give themselves to 
 God. 
 
 Dante. And is it otherwise with you, my daughter ? 
 Are you placed here against your will ? 
 
 Lucia. No, father, 
 
 When Ezzelin left us I was forced to leave 
 Our home ; my father said that I had ruin'd 
 My brother's prospects, and he could not bear 
 To have me with him, — so I took the veil, 
 And now am reconciled to this my life ; 
 Nor would I change it, yet I cannot say 
 That freely I laid down youth's joys and pleasures 
 Before the cross, and sometimes vain regrets 
 Disturb my soul. 
 
 Dante. " Let the dead bury their dead, 
 
 And follow me." See from above thy couch 
 The Crucified smiles on thy daily path. 
 A brighter smile shall greet thee when at last 
 Thou layest down thy burden at His feet. 
 And canst thou tell if to meek constancy 
 And <• r eet obedience in the course decreed
 
 32 Ezzelin. 
 
 For thee, as fair a crown may yet be given 
 As gleams on those who from their earliest youth 
 Have borne the virgin's lamp. Tis easier far 
 When Heaven calls us on the way we love 
 
 Than when the path demands a sacrifice 
 
 But I have come to-day from Arnold's castle 
 On special business with you. Have you heard 
 Of Ezzelin or Annette? 
 
 Lucia. Yes, my father ; 
 
 Annette has been to see me once or twice. 
 
 Dante. And did you think that she was changed 
 at all ? 
 
 Lucia. No, not at all. She was the same as 
 ever, — 
 A gentle, trusting girl. 
 
 Dante. Is she religious ? 
 
 Lucia. I think so; but you seem to doubt a 
 little ! 
 
 Dante. I do. I fear that Annette is too fond 
 Of dreaming to be safe. She may be gentle, 
 But she is given to questioning what the Church 
 Lays down. But what of Ezzelin, your brother ; 
 Is he a faithful son of Rome ? 
 
 Lucia. Oh, yes ;
 
 Ezzelin. 33 
 
 He always has been so ; most true and fervent 
 In his devotion to our glorious Church ! 
 
 Dante. Thank God for that ! Know you not that 
 your brother 
 Intends, ere long, to wed with Arnold's daughter? 
 
 Lucia. Oh, father ! he will never gain consent. 
 My sire always did oppose their union. 
 I do in truth believe that such a marriage 
 Would drive him to the grave ; he fondly hoped 
 That Ezzelin would soon forget his love. 
 For me, I know not what to say ; my father 
 Is dear to me, I would not have him suffer. 
 Yet Ezzelin will never know what joy is 
 Until he weds his youthful love. But tell me, 
 May a son thus provoke a father's curse ; 
 For Ezzelin will endure his father's anger 
 If they are wed ? 
 
 Dante. Daughter ! the ties of love 
 
 Are stronger than the bands of prejudice. 
 There is no reason for your father's hatred 
 Of Annette. Ezzelin has sworn to love her. 
 He may not break that oath and shun the vengeance 
 Of Heaven ; and Alonzo has no right 
 To curse him. Curses, sent without the sanction 
 
 i)
 
 34 Ezzelin. 
 
 Of God, are powerless as summer lightning, 
 Which flashes midst the clouds, but cannot dart 
 A forked bolt to earth — But do not weep. 
 
 Lucia. I cannot help it. Oh, I vainly hoped 
 That God would smooth our troubles. I have 
 
 pray'd 
 So often that my father's life might be 
 Shielded from sorrow ; for, although he sent me 
 Away from him, he is my father still. 
 Indeed, he thought that I had injured Ezzelin ; 
 He did not mean to be unjust. My father — 
 You can do much, I know — go with my brother 
 To Lord Alonzo, he will hear you speak ; 
 Use your best arts; tell him that Ezzelin's happiness 
 Is centred in this union. He will grant 
 Consent at last, I hope ; and if he does not, 
 Why then they must be wed. But oh, I doubt 
 If Annette's love will prove a consolation 
 To Ezzelin for his father's wrath. But why 
 Look you so pain'd ; have / in aught offended ? 
 Forgive me if I have. 
 
 Dante (with a sad smile). No ; as you spoke 
 A bitter shaft of memory touch'd my soul. 
 Lucia ! thou art not like thy stalwart father ;
 
 Ezselin. 3 5 
 
 Whom dost thou most resemble ? 
 
 Lucia. Before my hair 
 
 Was^shorn away beneath the convent shears, 
 They used to tell me that my face was like 
 A sister of my father's. 
 
 Dante (in an agitated voice). And her name? 
 
 Lucia. Her name was Viola ; she died in Spain, 
 Long, long ago. 
 
 Dante. Yes, many years have pass'd 
 
 Since then ; yet, Lucia, hearken. I desire 
 To have her name remember'd in thy prayers. 
 Wilt thou do this for me? — Now, to our business. 
 You have well spoken, I will see Alonzo ; 
 But, ere your brother marry, it were well 
 He saw you, for you know that wives have influence 
 Over their husbands. Ezzelin may be faithful, 
 But Annette may give way. Foul heresy 
 Prowls round the Church, like wolf around the fold, 
 Seeking God's children, and perhaps might taint 
 Her wavering heart. Now, if you met your brother, 
 And told him in a sweet and tender manner 
 Of these our doubts, his eyes would soon be open'd, 
 And he would watch her well. From you, my 
 daughter,
 
 36 Ezzelin. 
 
 Such words would better come than from myself. 
 
 Lucia. But how can I arrange a meeting, father ? 
 Men may not enter here. 
 
 Dante. I will arrange it. 
 
 {The bell tolls) 
 But, hark ! the bell tolls out the compline hour, 
 And we must part. 
 
 Lucia. But grant me ere you go 
 
 Your blessing. \Knecls, and folds her hands. 
 
 Dante (laying his hand on her head). May the 
 Heavenly Spouse of Virgins 
 Fill thee with His pure love while through the world 
 Thou walkest ; may He give thee grace to follow 
 Where'er He wills, in joy or agony ; 
 May He sustain thee, and when time is past, 
 And at St. Margaret's side thy throne is set, 
 May God's own hand upon thy virgin brow 
 For ever place His coronet unfading. 
 
 [Exeunt Dante and Lucia.
 
 Ezzelin. 37 
 
 Scene 5. A room in Arnold's Castle. 
 
 Annette looking out of window. 
 
 Annette. 
 jIS very dark to-night ; the sable clouds 
 Are hurrying o'er the sky in rapid flight, 
 Driven before the wind ; around the moon 
 They crowd, like sorrows o'er the path of love, 
 Dimming her glory and at times obscuring 
 Her silver round, yet evermore she shines 
 More lovely than before, and e'en the clouds 
 That fain would hide her face are gently touch'd 
 By her soft radiance ; so the bitter troubles 
 That close around a lover oft are soften'd 
 By the sweet light of pure devotion's moon. 
 Oh ! what is trouble, what are pain or grief 
 That meet us in love's spring-time ? Then our 
 
 thoughts 
 Are not our own, we share another's heart. 
 We think, whene'er we see a thing of beauty, 
 " What would hethink of it ? — howwould he like it ? " 
 Till in that path divine we lose our hearts 
 And think with his, gaze with his eyes, and feel
 
 38 Ezzelin. 
 
 His pleasures or his griefs ; and thus my life 
 
 Will be surrender'd to my Ezzelin. 
 
 If he return ! Oh, cruel, cruel if ! 
 
 On that short word my coming fate depends. 
 
 I will not doubt it, lest distraction seize 
 
 My heart. Oh, Ezzelin, Ezzelin ! dearest love, 
 
 Say, are you coming ? does yon cloud-girt moon 
 
 Silver the white sails of the happy bark 
 
 That bears you home ? [Turns to the fire. 
 
 The flame has faded now, 
 And the hot embers cast a deep red glow 
 Upon the tapestry that shakes and sways 
 In the night wind, the arras-painted figures 
 Look as if once again in life they moved. 
 The embroider'd horses champ the bit, the 
 
 knights 
 Look up to their fair ladies ere they couch 
 The deadly lance, that scene so often view'd 
 Brings back the memories of happy days. 
 Would that the future, like the past, could open 
 To those who long for joy ; yet when he comes 
 All will be well, these weeks of grief and sorrow 
 Will seem as nothing then. But I am weary, 
 Weary with watching here. Come to me, Sleep,
 
 Ezzelin. 39 
 
 And bid me dream of Ezzelin. What, if waking, 
 I find him by me ? [Lies down and sleeps. 
 
 
 
 {Enter Ezzelin.) 
 Ezzelin. At last, I stand within the castle walls, 
 And breathe the air she breathes. Each little thing 
 That calls her Mistress, glows before my eyes. 
 (Seeing her.) And there she lies. The darkness 
 cannot blind 
 The eyes of true affection. Ah ! she sleeps. 
 Like some still mountain-lake she seems, whose 
 
 waters 
 Look loveliest in repose. Oh ! would that I 
 Were master o'er her dreams. [Sits doivn by the couch. 
 
 I'll linger here 
 And feast my eyes with beauty. God of sleep, 
 Delay not here too long"! She stirs and murmurs. 
 What does she say ? I will not spoil her rest. 
 Down, down, impatient spirit. See, she moves, 
 Her eyelids open, yet sleep lingers still, 
 Dulling their stainless azure. Come, love ! Annette ! 
 It is no blissful dream — I am beside thee ! 
 
 [Bends over her. She starts up and /lings 
 her arms round his neck.
 
 40 Ezzelin. 
 
 Annette. Tis he ! 'tis he ! I see thee once again, 
 My own, my dearest Ezzelin ; but this moment 
 I dreamt I saw thee lying cold and dead 
 Upon the straw of some drear castle chamber; 
 And, as I gazed on thee, a voice exclaim'd, 
 " This is thy work !" and, shuddering, I awoke, 
 And thou wert here. It was my latest wish, 
 Ere slumber came, that when I woke thy form 
 Might greet my eyes. Thou wilt not leave me now ? 
 Go not away again. I have so much 
 To tell thee, and to hear from thee, and yet 
 Words will not come, I only sit and look, 
 Feeling that this, alone, is perfect bliss. 
 
 Ezzelin. Yes, Annette, six long years seem little 
 now 
 Beside thee. Thou art just the same as ever. 
 Why art thou troubled ? Why that look of pain 
 Upon thy face ? 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin, that horrid dream ! 
 
 Ezzelin. What then? our dreams are naught 
 save fancy's work. 
 
 Annette. But sometimes they come true, you 
 know. 
 
 Ezzelin. Hush, dearest !
 
 Ezzclin. 4 1 
 
 No more of this ; shall this our hour of meeting 
 Be aught but joy ! 
 
 Annette. I hear steps on the stairs. 
 
 They come to spoil our meeting ; it is hard 
 We cannot be alone a little while. 
 
 Enter Arnold, Dante, Uberto, Sebastian, and 
 Servants, with lights. Annette springs up, 
 rushes up to her father, and throws herself into 
 his arms. 
 
 And you are safe, dear father ! Heaven has kept you 
 From every hurt. 
 
 Arnold. Not quite unscathed, my daughter. 
 
 Annette {turning pale). What is the matter, 
 then? 
 
 Arnold. A trifling wound, 
 
 Given by a dying pirate as I strode 
 O'er his body. Do not look so white : 
 Is this the smile you ought to wear when Ezzclin 
 Returns at last? Come, Ezzelin, comfort her. 
 
 (Ezzelin advances and stands by Annette.) 
 
 It does me good to see you two together.
 
 42 Ezzelin. 
 
 Look, reverend fathers, there's a well-match'd 
 pair. 
 Ezzelin. Father Uberto, you, I trust, are well ; 
 Tis long since I have seen you. 
 
 Uberto. Yes, my son, 
 
 I think I'm well, but I am growing old, 
 And people do not treat me as they ought, 
 But shun my counsel. 
 
 Arnold. Father, what- mean you ? 
 
 Uberto. Why, Mistress Annette does not treat 
 me well, 
 She gets quite forward now. 
 
 Arnold. Annette, for shame ! 
 
 How can you bear yourself like this, my child ? 
 It is not maidenly. 
 
 Dante (in a low voice to Arnold). Do not ques- 
 tion her. 
 She did not mean to be insulting ; grief 
 And sharp suspense oft make us lose command 
 Over our tongues. {Aloud to Uberto?) Come, brother, 
 
 do not speak 
 About the matter now. Pray pardon her. 
 (Stepping forward to Ezzelin.) You are the son of 
 Lord Alonzo, Ezzelin.
 
 Ezzeliti. 43 
 
 Have you heard mention of my name by him ? 
 
 Ezzelin {aside). Why is it that they cease to rail 
 at Annette 
 When he forbids it ? Priests are ever busy 
 On other men's affairs. I must be wary, 
 Or he will gain her heart. {Aloud.) Your pardon, 
 
 father. 
 Are you the Father Dante ? 
 
 Dante. Yes, the same, 
 
 Your father's friend. I have already seen 
 Your sister at her convent, and now wish 
 To know you, too, my son. 
 
 Ezzelin. Surely, my father, 
 
 I shall be very glad. 
 
 Dante. Your young betroth'd 
 
 And I are friends already, Ezzelin. 
 
 Annette. Yes, Ezzelin, he has been very kind 
 To me while you were captive, but I fain 
 Would hear your story. 
 
 Ezzelin {looking round). Are you all willing, 
 friends ? 
 
 Arnold. Ay, let us hear it. 
 
 Ezzelin. After the day on which I sail'd from 
 Venice
 
 44 Ezzelin. 
 
 I gave myself to travelling, and journey'd 
 Through several countries, and at last I reach'd 
 The Imperial Court, meaning to push my fortunes 
 In Royal Charles's service ; but the intrigues 
 Of jealous courtiers baffled all my plans. 
 At last, indignant, with my sword I met 
 And slew an officer whose slanderous tongue 
 Aspersed me to his master ; then, unchampion'd 
 By those in power, I was forced to flee. 
 Where should I turn ? War open'd out to me 
 Some hope of fame, so with the French I march'd 
 To Pavia's bloody field ; there taken captive 
 With luckless Francis, I was kept awhile 
 Close prisoner. At last, released, I sought 
 The princely court of Saxony's Elector. 
 ( Dante frowns.) There I remain'd until his death, 
 
 and then 
 Return'd towards Italy, meaning to come 
 Again to you ; but on the way our vessel 
 Was taken by the Turks, and all the crew, 
 Myself among the number, thrown in chains 
 Into the hold, until your rescue came. 
 
 Arnold. We had a desperate fight ; the Turks 
 withstood
 
 Ezzelin. 45 
 
 Our onset with the fury of despair. 
 
 Five times they drove us back, at last we gain'd 
 
 The deck and flesh'd our blades in Paynim blood. 
 
 
 
 I never shall forget how Turk and Christian 
 Reel'd in the death-grasp on the heaving deck 
 Slippery with blood. The dark Mahometans 
 Gave way at last as the brave sons of Venice 
 Press'd on, with dripping swords, the while the 
 
 surge 
 Boil'd round the vessels, as the strife wax'd hot, 
 And many a bleeding corpse was thrown to feed 
 The hungry waves, and, but a little distance 
 From where we fought, the blue sharks hung 
 
 suspended 
 Beneath the sea, the destined tombs of those 
 Who fell in battle. 
 
 Ezzelin. Where we lay we heard 
 
 Your war-cry, and with anxious hearts awaited 
 The issue of the conflict, and we strain'd 
 Our ears to listen to the shouts and tramping 
 And clash of deadly steel. At last I loosed 
 My chains, and broke away and reach'd the deck 
 Just as the Turks were clustering round the mast 
 For one last struggle.
 
 46 Ezzelin. 
 
 Sebastian. Yes, young Ezzelin came, 
 
 Like a young boar amidst the tawny caitiffs, 
 And by my soul I think he gored a few ! 
 
 Dante. Enough of tales of war. Do you not see 
 Annette is looking pale ? what do you purpose 
 To do, young Ezzelin, now ? 
 
 Ezzelin. To seek my father 
 
 Ere many hours have pass'd. I trust that he 
 Will grant my earnest wish. But, hark ! the bell 
 Calls us away. 
 
 [Exeunt all but Ezzelin and Annette. 
 
 Annette. Oh, Ezzelin, must you leave me ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Dearest Annette, 
 
 'Tis but awhile I go ; when I return 
 Then ne'er on earth again, I trust, shall we 
 Be parted. I must go to-morrow. 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin, 
 
 Can you not wait awhile, after to-morrow 
 Will be the feast-day of my patroness. 
 Can you not stay for that ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Your patroness ! 
 
 Then you will be at the confessional 
 To-morrow ? 
 
 Annette. Yes, but not to our good chaplain ;
 
 Ezzelin. 
 I shall confess to Father Dante. Hark ! 
 
 47 
 
 My father calls. Come with me then, dear Ezzelin. 
 You must be friends with Dante. Were all priests 
 But like him earth would be indeed like heaven. 
 Now, do not linger, we must come away. 
 
 End of First Act.
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene i. The Castle Chapel. 
 
 Dante seated. Annette standing by him. 
 
 Dante. 
 Y daughter, you have now, I trust, con- 
 fess'd 
 Your sins, and show'd to me your inmost 
 soul. 
 What shall I say ? One thought alone has fill'd 
 Your heart, one name is written on your soul, 
 The name of Ezzelin. And will you give 
 All, all to him — have you no other service 
 Save to your lover? Do we sojourn here 
 Only for carnal love? I tell you this, 
 That love unsanctified will prove a curse, 
 An ulcerous sore, eating the better nature. 
 All that is good and pure will be dissolved
 
 Ezzelin. 49 
 
 By the hot passion ; yet the love itself 
 Will turn to dust and ashes. 
 
 Annette. Father, father, 
 
 You are too hard. Can that be very bad 
 Which makes us ready to endure all pain, 
 All disappointment, for another's sake, 
 And count our ease and joy of no account 
 Compared with his ? 
 
 Dante. Tis in this way that such as you, my 
 daughter, 
 Deceive yourselves, when love in all its youth 
 First burns within you ; then you kiss the sword, 
 And think its point is honied ; but hereafter, 
 When the first flame dies out, in many cases 
 Your hearts grow cold. Where, then, are all the 
 
 boasts 
 Of perfect self-devotion to your partner, 
 Of meek obedience to his slightest wish, 
 Of constant self-denial, gladly bearing 
 All grief and pain, so only he be happy ? 
 Gone, with the dreams of youth in which they sprang. 
 
 Annette. Forgive me, father. 
 
 May I but ask one question ? 
 
 Dante. Speak, my daughter. 
 
 E
 
 50 Ezzelin. 
 
 Annette. Tis strange to me that one like you, a 
 priest, 
 Vow'd to a single life, should thus exhort me ; 
 And, with all reverence to your sacred office, 
 I marvel greatly whence you learnt the secrets 
 Of such a thing as love? 
 
 Dante (in a changed voice). Annette, Annette, 
 I never thought to have unlock'd my heart, 
 But I will tell you, daughter. Listen well, 
 And know that he who stands before you now, 
 Clad in the sacred garments of the altar, 
 Once loved, and may the fearful tale I tell you 
 Sink deeply in your soul. Down, down, weak heart ! 
 I will — I will! O Saviour, for Thy sake, 
 To warn this child of Thine from heresy, 
 I tell this story ; let my heart-strings bleed, 
 And let the hidden secrets of my soul 
 Endure the searching day, the agony 
 Of all too keen remembrance, so I save 
 One soul for whom Thy precious blood was shed. 
 
 Annette (speaking in a terrified voice). O ! father, 
 do not tell me ; I have err'd. 
 My wicked, wicked scorn and unbelief 
 Have caused me thus to wound thee.
 
 Ezzelin. 5 1 
 
 Dante {sternly). Silence, daughter. 
 I loved her once, a timid, shrinking girl, 
 With azure eyes, clear as the noonday sea, 
 Soft raven hair, and neck as white as snow. 
 I see her now before me with a look 
 Of agony upon her lovely face, 
 Blacken'd with smoke ; and o'er her white-robed form 
 The yellow flames are leaping ! Oh ! depart 
 Vision of horror, in the name of Him 
 
 For whom I did it 
 
 Annette, I loved her ! and she knew it well. 
 Born of a fall'n house, I could not wed her ; 
 Wealth was not mine. I sought the wild career 
 Of arms, and trusted there to gain renown, 
 And then return to win her. How I prosper'd 
 The world knows well ; nor does it suit that I — 
 Vow'd unto Him Who pray'd for those who slew 
 
 Him— 
 Should boast to thee of the high fame I won 
 On many a bloody field ; at last, my aim 
 Achieved, I sought the brother of my low. 
 And ask'd his sister's hand. Ah ! 'twas in vain : 
 She had been faithful, but her iron brother 
 Had sold her to a German Duke, to gain
 
 52 Ezzelin. 
 
 A few bare acres. She was gone ! I saw 
 
 The hand of God was heavy on my life. 
 
 So, deeming that He will'd it, I laid down 
 
 Before the Cross the warrior's helm and blade, 
 
 And hid my sorrows in the robe of serge. 
 
 Say, dost thou ask me if I ever loved-? 
 
 Bear witness nights of racking agony ! 
 
 Bear witness torturing dreams, when at the altar 
 
 I stood beside her, and those azure eyes 
 
 Gazed into mine ! The lonely years roll'd on, 
 
 And I stood high among my brethren, 
 
 A leader 'mid the captains of the faithful. 
 
 Yet, like a lofty oak by lightning blasted, 
 
 'Mid verdant beeches or green underwood, 
 
 I tower'd above the rest ; so when at last 
 
 Dark heresy rear'd up its serpent head, 
 
 We form'd the Inquisition, to protect 
 
 The faithful from its snares, and power was given 
 
 To me to judge the wretched ones who spurn'd 
 
 The Lord Who died for them. Amidst the number 
 
 Of those who would not yield I found her, Annette, 
 
 The loved and lost. O ! that my lips should tell 
 
 This tale of tenfold horror — bear with me ; 
 
 / sentenced her to die, / bade the deaths-men
 
 Ezzelin. 5 3 
 
 Strip her young form, and bind her tightly down 
 
 Upon the straining rack, until the blood 
 
 Oozed from her naked limbs, and those pure lips 
 
 Were blue with agony ; she knew me not, 
 
 But /, more wretched, heard her piercing cries 
 
 And wails of anguish, as the biting cords 
 
 Tore at the joints and wrench'd the tender frame, 
 
 Till the fierce pain exhausted all its store, 
 
 And faintness came upon her ; then they loosed 
 
 The blood-stain'd ropes, and bore her to her cell, 
 
 Only to live a few short days of pain. 
 
 Then the black stake was rear'd ! I see it now ! 
 
 The years have roll'd away ! My brain will burst 
 
 With the fierce conflict, yet the faith shall conquer. 
 
 Annette. I cannot bear this dreadful story, father ; 
 Yet I must listen. O ! had you the heart 
 To see her burn ? 
 
 Dante (leafing up). Yes, yes ; I stood beside 
 The stake while she was fasten'd, and the wood 
 Heap'd up around, but as the hooded butchers 
 Lighted the pile, she gazed upon my face, 
 And knew me. O ! those straining eyes, they pierced 
 My writhing heart ; but then the smoke leap'd up, 
 And the dry wood 'gan crackle with the heat
 
 54 Ezzeiin. 
 
 Of the red, hungry flames. I raised my eyes 
 (I would not look, though midst the roaring flames 
 I heard her call my name) to where on high 
 Above the smoke the image of the Christ 
 Upon the wall behind was hung ; — methought 
 The pale, sad brow look'd stern, the eyes were bent 
 In pitying indignation on my face ; 
 Then I could see no longer, and my head 
 Grew dizzy, and I fell ; and when my senses 
 Return'd, I only saw a blacken'd heap 
 Of ashes, that was all. Amidst those cinders 
 Lay all my dream of love, and yet I tell you 
 I never loved her more than when I bade 
 Those scorching flames consume her graceful form. 
 For God will punish sin, and earthly flame 
 May save from endless fire ; remember this, 
 Thou who now shudderest at my tale of anguish. 
 Perhaps she thanks me now. O grant it, Lord ! 
 Dread Judge, have mercy on me, and receive her 
 Into Thy arms at last, her sin wash'd out 
 
 By Thy redeeming blood 
 
 Thus, Annette, ask yourself, do I not know 
 A lover's pangs ? can I not counsel thee ? 
 My love was e'en as thine, the fruit of passion,
 
 Ezselin. 5 5 
 
 And when it took a better, truer form, 
 
 God proved it thus ! O ! ask of him, my child, 
 
 To grant thee His own gift of perfect love, 
 
 And fear not, when thou kneelest at His feet, 
 
 To tell Him all ; the Virgin's Son knows well 
 
 The tender feelings of a virgin's soul. 
 
 Now go, for I would be alone. [Exit Annette. 
 
 She knows not 
 Alonzo's sister ; in my breast alone 
 Lies the dread secret, yet I fain would have her — 
 Annette, I mean — know that I shall not shrink 
 From any duty ; so, if she be wise, 
 She will not doubt the faith ; and knowing this, 
 She may warn Ezzelin, also, if his heart, 
 As I suspect, has drunken in the lies 
 Of that accursed Luther ; but I must cease. 
 It was God's will. Shall I repine ? a man 
 Complain because the Father wills to punish 
 His sins ? Nay, it is just ; and when the cord 
 Is loosed, and this poor body, wearied out, 
 Seeks its last bed, may I not meet again 
 The lost one, and behold that angel face 
 Sinless before His throne, — no longer stain'd 
 With tears, as when she lay upon the rack,
 
 56 Ezzelin. 
 
 Suffering her punishment, but joyful, wearing 
 Heaven's radiant smile? May she not come to 
 
 meet me, 
 And stretch her hands with earnest thankfulness 
 Towards me for that sharp and fiery torture, 
 Which purged away the sin, and bade her enter 
 In the bright land where tears are wiped away ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Scene 2. The Vestibule outside the Chapel. 
 
 Enter Ezzelin. 
 
 Ezzelin. 
 HY comes she not? The sun is riding 
 high 
 In heaven's deep azure, and my time is 
 short. 
 That priest is keeping her from me ; he knows not 
 A lover's pangs who waits to bid adieu. 
 Will she be there all day ? Why, by my soul, 
 Her sins cannot be many : would I were 
 There to confess her ! Still no sound or motion ; 
 I cannot stay much longer. Hark ! I hear
 
 Ezzelin. 57 
 
 Her gentle footstep on the marble floor. 
 No, 'tis my fancy. That old father Dante 
 Seems fond of hearing her ; small blame to him 
 To dote on Annette, everyone who sees her 
 Loves her. I would I dared to interrupt them, 
 But no, I must not try it. Father Dante, 
 Be quick, I pray you ; I am waiting here ! 
 Hark ! 'tis a footfall now ; by Heaven, she comes ! 
 I thought I heard a sob, — yes, there again. 
 What has he said to her ? O God ! those priests ! 
 No wonder men have oped their eyes at last, 
 And soon will spurn their bondage. 
 
 Enter Annette, weeping. 
 
 Ezzelin (folding her to his breast). Dearest 
 Annette, 
 What is your grief? What moves you thus to weep ? 
 Tell me, my own ! 
 
 Annette. No, no ; I must not, can not. 
 
 Ezzelin. Nay, but you must. O do not sob like 
 that ; 
 Has your confessor been severe ? But fear not, 
 A few short years 
 
 Annette. Nay, Ezzelin, for shame !
 
 5 8 Ezzelin. 
 
 Do not speak thus ; but oh ! I here beseech you, 
 Offend him not. 
 
 Ezzelin. Who, dearest? 
 
 Annette. Father Dante. 
 
 O ! you had better rush upon a line 
 Of pointed spears than strive to have your way 
 When he forbids it ; he is one whose power 
 Is only equall'd by his resolution. 
 And if he thought to serve the Church of God, 
 Naught could prevail against his iron will ; 
 Love, pity, kindness, would be cast aside, — 
 Of that I'm sure. 
 
 Ezzelin. Now, Annette, list awhile ; 
 
 And by your love to me, I charge you here 
 Betray me not. If but thy lips should speak 
 One word of what I tell thee, my young life 
 Would instantly be crush'd. But are we safe 
 From observation here ? 
 
 Atinette. No one comes here 
 
 Save those who seek the chapel. Padre Uberto 
 Is fast asleep. I think this place is safe, — 
 At least, as safe as any. Father Dante 
 Left by another door soon after I did, — 
 At least, as down the vestibule I came
 
 Ezzehn. 59 
 
 I heard his footsteps as he pass'd that way, 
 And then the door was slowly shut. 
 
 Ezzelin. Sit down 
 
 Beside me, dear. You know to-day I go 
 To seek my father, and I hope indeed 
 To win him to my side. If not, I purpose 
 To push my fortunes in the Saxon Court, 
 And find a home for thee. Since first I left you 
 The world has changed. We stand upon the 
 
 brink 
 Of a great crisis. Soon the storm will come, 
 And Superstition with her thralling chains 
 Be swept away. Already in the North 
 Men are preparing for the contest dire, 
 When Truth and Error face to face must meet. 
 The German race is not like ours, inert 
 And satisfied with spiritual bondage ; 
 Their brains are keen to rend away the veil, 
 And view all things. Thou, love, hast often seen 
 How, ere the dawn, the darkest hour comes. 
 That hour is passing : Truth's bright sun will rise 
 In perfect glory, for the morning star 
 Shines bright already. 
 
 Annette. You arc very strange.
 
 60 Ezzelin. 
 
 What can you mean by Truth's bright sun, my 
 
 Ezzelin ? 
 Have you pick'd up these notions in the North ? 
 I do not like you to be serious 
 And thus abstracted. 
 
 Ezzelin. Are you satisfied 
 
 To be no other than a captive, led 
 In priestly chains, and ever more believe 
 All that priests tell you, Annette ? 
 
 Annette. Wherefore not ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Does not your fancy sometimes strive 
 against 
 These spiritual laws, and long to know 
 Why these things are, to search uncheck'd, un- 
 
 hinder'd, 
 The boundless plains of knowledge ? 
 
 Annette. Never yet 
 
 Have I been eager after knowledge,' — love 
 Is all I crave. 
 
 Ezzelin. Yet, even love is chain'd ; 
 
 The so-call'd Church is mistress over this. 
 Does all you have been taught seem right and good ? 
 
 Annette. You speak not as you did, my soul is 
 fearful.
 
 Ezzelin. 61 
 
 What would you have me tell you ? 
 
 Ezzelin. This, in short, 
 
 Say, — have you ever doubted ? 
 
 Annette. Yes ! a little. 
 
 Ezzelin. And so have I ; and now I know your 
 faith 
 Is worse than none. 
 
 Annette. O, Ezzelin ! what mean you ? 
 
 Ezzelin. A miserable lie, a rotten system 
 For gaining power over human souls, — 
 Such is the faith of Rome. I tell you freely, 
 I do not — will not hold it ; and, my Annette, 
 You shall not hold it either. 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Ay, you are frighten'd ; but you need 
 not fear : 
 I will instruct you in the new belief, 
 For I have stood and heard the burning words 
 Of one who, once a monk, has burst his fetters— 
 The Doctor Luther ! 
 
 Annette {making the sign of the cross). What ! the 
 heretic ? 
 
 Ezzelin. So many call him ; and his enemies 
 Would shed his blood, but that full many a German
 
 62 Ezzelin. 
 
 Is ready to protect him. I will fight ! 
 I, Ezzelin ! in his quarrel. He has friends 
 In many a German Court ; to them I'll go, 
 If Lord Alonzo will not do me right. 
 You shall see Luther too. 
 
 Enter Dante suddenly. 
 
 [EzzELm" springs to his feet with a gesture towards 
 his sword ; Annette starts back in dismay. 
 
 Dante. Yes, at the stake ! 
 
 Unless he teaches other doctrines ! Ezzelin, 
 I heard you speak of that apostate monk ; 
 Say, do you know him ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Yes, I know him well ! 
 
 Dante. And like him too ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Yes ! 
 
 Dante. Well, the man can talk ; 
 
 And doubtless what he teaches is attractive 
 To ardent minds like yours. The faith of Christ 
 Is far too poor for lofty intellects ; 
 You must know more. 
 
 Ezzelin. The doctor says he teaches 
 
 That faith of Christ. 
 
 Dante (fro7uning). And do you think so too ?
 
 Ezzelin. 63 
 
 Ezzelin. How should I know? I am no 
 theologian, 
 But I seek knowledge, and he promises 
 To teach men that. 
 
 Dante. Knowledge of good and evil ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Yes, I suppose so ! 
 
 Dante. So did some one else 
 
 Of whom the Scriptures tell. Yet speak, my son ; 
 If you have doubts, I trust / can explain them. 
 Fear not to tell your troubles, — but, my daughter, 
 You must depart. 
 
 Annette. Yes, father. Farewell, Ezzelin. 
 
 Oh ! I shall count the moments till you come 
 Back from your journey. (Comes forv>ard and em- 
 braces him, whispering.) 
 Ezzelin, beware ! he's an inquisitor. 
 
 Ezzelin. Farewell, my best, my dearest, loveliest ! 
 
 \Exit Annette. 
 
 Dante. Now hearken, son. I know the mind oft 
 beats 
 Against the bars of faith ; but when the body 
 Would run to riot, virtuous youths restrain it. 
 Why not the mind as well ? The faith of Luther 
 Is one which speaks to intellect alone,
 
 64 Ezzelin. 
 
 And not to holiness. A mere belief 
 
 In what few doubt is all that he requires. 
 
 He says that Christ has bought us with His 
 
 blood, 
 And through that all-sufficing work our deeds, 
 Either for good or evil, do not matter, 
 So only we believe. Is this a faith 
 To raise a world thus steep'd in wickedness ? 
 Think well of this, young Ezzelin. The serpent 
 Said, " Ye shall be as gods ; ye shall not die 
 Through sin." Such was his teaching ; endless 
 
 woe 
 Was the result. — But now I see you wish 
 To go. Farewell ! and may the perfect wisdom 
 Of the all-gracious Spirit fill your heart, 
 And ever guard you in the narrow way, — 
 The only one that leads to endless life. 
 
 Ezzelin {coldly). Farewell ! \Exit Ezzelin. 
 
 Dante. I thought as much, — he has embraced 
 The doctrines of that cursed renegade. 
 A shrewd suspicion cross'd my mind when he 
 Spoke of his sojourn at the Elector's Court. 
 'Tis well ! They shall not wed ! I'll to Alonzo, 
 And urge him to forbid it. If the youth
 
 Ezzelin. 65 
 
 Refuse to yield, his doom must be the flame. 
 Yet even so may Annette's soul be saved. 
 She must not wed a heretic ! — Ho ! Andreas. 
 He is not there ; I must go forth and seek him. 
 
 Scene 3. Alonzo's Castle. A room. Alonzo 
 alone, walking up and down. 
 Alonzo. 
 KNOW not how it is, my heart is heavy 
 With grave foreboding of a coming ill, 
 And yet my state is rich, and, while I live, 
 
 EHS 
 
 Will ever flourish, for I stand alone, 
 
 Yet always ready, and my will is such 
 
 That none may thwart me. Though my trusty 
 
 soldiers 
 Are few, yet still I fear not mutiny, 
 For, by a little show of firm resolve, 
 I fetter down the hate of thousand hearts, 
 And, by a scanty force of men obedient, 
 Thousand unruly hearts are stay'd in terror, 
 While one wise man rules,dord. Such is Fate's law. 
 That passions wild shall shrink before firm reason — 
 Reason that fears no ill, and feels no pity ! 
 Such is the life I lead — war, war for ever. 
 
 F
 
 66 Ezzelin. 
 
 Fear curbs down hate. Those that hate much, fear 
 
 more, 
 And cowering, first in dread, find out thereafter 
 Obedience is a gain ; while all good men, 
 Preserved from riotous ills, bless the firm hand 
 That binds them but to shield them* Yet to me 
 What gain is this? The love that kind hearts 
 
 moves, 
 The unrestrained joyousness of speech 
 With those no more than us; the joyousness 
 Of those, whom deeds severe, whom iron sternness 
 Have not cut off from the fresh thoughts of inno- 
 cence, 
 Can never more be mine! Cliffs that face tempests 
 Are doom'd to barrenness ; yet, like a cliff, 
 I'll bear my rock-bound front, and face, unmoved, 
 The scowls of hate, the sneers of dark revenge, 
 The cruelty of loneliness, the terrors 
 Which, like an enemy in some citadel, 
 Within the heart itself spread waste and ruin, 
 And lured by proud Ambition's tempting bait, 
 By Hope's sure guidance, by the consciousness 
 Of great deeds done, all foes without, within, 
 I'll face them and I'll rout them ; thus a name
 
 Ezzelin. 67 
 
 I'll leave for time to tell ; and to my son 
 
 FU leave a sure possession won from discord 
 
 By my undaunted toil. Men used to say 
 
 That he had all my virtues, and united 
 
 A gentleness his own. I grudge him naught. 
 
 So may Alonzo's name and that of Ezzelin — 
 
 Of him who won and him who ruled and prosper'd, 
 
 Of him who curb'd a mutinous State to order, 
 
 Of him who led an order'd State in happiness, 
 
 Of him who men had slain because they fear'd him, 
 
 Of him whom men obey'd because they loved him, 
 
 Pass side by side together. Yet two things — 
 
 Two things alone I ask for — Heaven grant them !— 
 
 That I may see him ere I die, and he 
 
 O'er-rule that luckless love which else may ruin 
 
 him. 
 Love, thou wert born the enemy of all good, 
 The world-deep curse, the deadly foe of reason. 
 
 (Enter Gonzalo.) 
 Gonzalo. My lord, the father Dante waits with- 
 out. 
 Alonzo. Admit him instantly. [Exit Gonzalo. 
 
 Why comes he here ?
 
 68 Ezzelin. 
 
 But I must always keep the Church's favour. 
 The fear of endless punishment does much 
 To hold in check the rabble. Here he comes. 
 
 {Enter Dante.) 
 
 Welcome, my friend, I'm truly glad to see you. 
 
 Dante. And so am I, Alonzo, thus to meet you. 
 We have not met for nearly ten long years. 
 
 Alonzo. It must be that at least; do you re- 
 member 
 How first we met ? Yet why recall that time ? 
 I own to you I grieve to think on it. 
 I wrong'd you, Dante, sorely ; but, alas ! 
 Pride and ambition's freezing snows aye hang 
 Around the crest of him who strives to rise 
 Above his fellow-creatures. Yes, I err'd, 
 And, as you know, I sold her to a stranger, 
 Hoping to gain fresh strength. Poor Viola ! 
 A few short years ago she pass'd away. 
 Yet why recall that time ? 
 
 Dante (sadly). Ah ! why, indeed? 
 
 Alonzo. They said she died in Spain ; but no 
 one knows. 
 She disappear'd, I know not where she lies.
 
 Ezzelin. 69 
 
 In vain I sent a trusty courier 
 
 To search the matter out. — Your pardon, Dante ; 
 
 I fear I've wounded you ! 
 
 Dante. Some wounds of youth 
 
 Are quickly heal'd ; but others, Lord Alonzo, 
 Death only cures ; but, for her sake and mine, 
 Speak not again of this. I've lately come 
 From Arnold's castle. 
 
 Alonzo. Does the man still live? 
 
 Dante. He lives ; but I believe his days will 
 soon 
 Be number'd ; he is daring, and has lately 
 Been wounded in a fray, and now his health 
 Has yielded to the shock. 
 
 Alonzo (aside). That is good news. 
 
 (Aloud.) And that young, pale-faced girl, that 
 
 Annette, Dante, 
 Is she there still ? 
 
 Dante. Yes, she is there; but I have news for 
 
 you. 
 Alonzo. Of whom ; not of my son ? 
 Dante. Of Ezzelin. 
 
 Alonzo (aside). By God, this priest has proved 
 my enemy !
 
 yo Ezzelin. 
 
 I see his aim ; he is sent here to force me 
 
 To give consent. {Aloud.) And so you've seen 
 
 my son ! 
 Does he still love that Annette ? 
 
 Dante. You oppose it? 
 
 Alonzo. Do you ? 
 
 Dante. I do most certainly, Alonzo. 
 
 Alonzo. Thank Heaven ! I dreaded you would 
 be my foe, 
 And now you'll prove a friend most powerful. 
 
 Dante. Ezzelin has been in Saxony, and there 
 Has caught the infection of those cursed doctrines. 
 
 Alonzo. Curse on the boy; what shall we do, 
 my friend ? 
 
 Dante. Hark ! here comes some one. 
 
 {Enter Ezzelin. He starts back on seeing 
 Dante.) 
 
 Alofizo. Ezzelin, my son, 
 
 Whence come you ? 
 
 Ezzelin. From Count Arnold's castle, father. 
 
 Alonzo. I thought as much. O you are duti- 
 ful 
 To seek your mistress first ! For six long years
 
 Ezzelin. 7 I 
 
 We have been parted, Ezzelin, and you 
 Treat me like this ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Father, I may have err'd, 
 But love is unrestrain'd by duty's law : 
 Yet pardon me. 
 
 Alonzo. I grant you pardon, freely. 
 
 How have you liked your ramblings, Ezzelin ? 
 When first I let you travel I scarce hoped 
 To see you back so soon. You seem the same 
 As when you left ; the same in every way, 
 I fear me. 
 
 Ezzelin. Yes, unchanged in this at least, 
 I love her still most dearly. 
 
 Alonzo (scornfully). Fie ! my son ! 
 
 Have you not learnt more wisdom than to love 
 A girl like that ? 
 
 Ezzelin. You do not know her, father, 
 
 Or you would love her too. 
 
 Alonzo. The girl is fair, 
 
 I have no doubt ; but know you that her father 
 Is dying, and I will not let you wed 
 Into a falling house. 
 
 Ezzelin. I am no more 
 
 A boy to be compell'd.
 
 72 Ezzelin. 
 
 Alonzo {fiercely). I say you shall not ! 
 
 By every saint in heaven, Ezzelin, 
 You shall not wed that maiden ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Shall not, father? 
 
 Alonzo. Ay, shall not, by my soul ! I think you 
 know me ; 
 My will has reign'd uncheck'd for many years ; 
 I've trodden down each hydra of rebellion 
 That dared to rise : think you I will be thwarted 
 By my own son ? 
 
 Ezzelin. And do you think that I, 
 
 Who face to face have stood with ghastly death 
 In war's stern game, and rush'd with dripping blade 
 Upon the Spanish spears ; — who have inherited 
 Your stern, determined will, can yield so lightly ? 
 I'll wed her, spite of you. 
 
 Alonzo. Beware, my son : 
 
 You are beside yourself with love, young fool ! 
 Or else you had not dared to brave me thus. 
 Get you to bed ; to-morrow I will hear you, 
 When you are wise again. [Laughs bitterly. 
 
 Ezzelin. And do you mock me ? 
 
 From henceforth the parental ties are snapt ; 
 I own you not.
 
 Ezzelin. 73 
 
 Alonzo. Look you, young man ; one word, 
 
 And you shall hear my dungeon's iron door 
 Grate'loud behind you. 
 
 Ezzelin. Threatening will not daunt me, 
 
 Although I know full well your iron nature, 
 How, in your frantic wrath, you drove poor Lucia 
 Out of these walls to seek the convent cell, 
 Where she, who once was bred in luxury, 
 Must pass her days in fasting and rude toil, 
 And e'en submit to scourging, at the word 
 Of cruel priests. 
 
 Alonzo (to Dante). Do you hear this, my friend, 
 What the young scoffer says ? 
 
 Dante. Hearken to me : 
 
 Lucia is well and happy ; in her cell 
 She prays for both of you. Young Ezzelin, 
 If you have ever loved her, do not scorn 
 Her blessed lot ; and as for you, Alonzo, 
 Your harshness has brought forth a happy fruit ; 
 I never yet have seen a holier maiden 
 Than your fair daughter. (To Ezzelin.) Youth, 
 
 thou art too hot ; 
 Love which can brook no crossing is not love. 
 
 Ezzelin (drawing). I'll stay no longer ;
 
 74 Ezzelin. 
 
 Your soldiers dare not seize me, Lord Alonzo ! 
 
 [Exit Ezzelin. 
 
 Alonzo. Ho there, Gonzalo ! bid my guards disarm 
 
 The youth who just has gone. {To Dante.) I will 
 
 confine him 
 Awhile until this fury has abated ; 
 And you, if you be urgent to convert him, 
 May visit him as often as you please. 
 
 [Terrific uproar in the Castle. 
 What is that tumult ? Ho ! Gonzalo, come ! 
 What is it now? 
 
 Enter Gonzalo. 
 
 Gonzalo. Lord Ezzelin has escaped. 
 
 Alonzo. Hell's fury ! Has escaped ! Why did you 
 let him ? 
 
 Gonzalo. He sought a secret passage in the 
 wall, 
 And reach'd the rampart ere your orders came ; 
 The sentinels let him pass, and so he gain'd 
 The street ; but there a soldier bade him stand, 
 For we had signall'd, but Lord Ezzelin 
 Cut down the sentinel, and quickly mounting, 
 Urged his swift horse away, and by this time
 
 Ezzelin. 75 
 
 Has reach'd the open plain ; six horsemen now 
 Are on his track. 
 
 Alcftzo. Ay, that is well ; but hark you ! 
 
 [ Whispers to Gonzalo. 
 
 Gonzalo. Yes, my good lord. (To Dante.) The 
 sentinel is dying, 
 And our good chaplain is not there ; can you 
 Come with me, holy father ? 
 
 Dante. Yes, my son. 
 
 [Exeunt Dante and Gonzalo. 
 
 Alonzo. Oh Heaven, thou smilest on me ! this is 
 well; 
 Had he been taken, I must have confined him 
 Here in the castle dungeon, and the priest 
 Would soon have found him unassailable 
 In his new doctrines, save by flame or torture. 
 Now they will catch him, and convey him hence 
 Unto my German castle, where no priest 
 Has ever enter'd. To the Father Dante 
 I'll say he has escaped, and to Count Arnold — 
 Nay, but I'll think on that anon. [Exit.
 
 j6 Ezzelin. 
 
 Scene 4. A Room in Arnolds Castle. Arnold 
 asleep on a couch, Annette sitting on a low stool 
 beside him. 
 
 Annette. 
 INE days have pass'd, and still he does 
 not come ; 
 Where is he? what has happen'd? Has 
 he gone 
 To seek a home for me ? But no, my heart, 
 Ill-boding, says it is not that which stays him. 
 Oh, if he knew what agonizing fears 
 Rack me, he would not linger thus away. 
 Yes, it is well for men, whose life is action 
 And danger ; they can bear to leave us women 
 A little while ; new scenes, new actions rise 
 And court their minds, till in the giddy whirl 
 Of ever-fresh excitement, time slips past 
 On eager feet, and then, the journey o'er, 
 They seek our sides again. But who can soothe 
 The desolate and forsaken one who pines 
 In forced inaction, till each passing thought 
 Is frausrht with terror of some undefined 
 
 i & j
 
 Ezzelin. 77 
 
 Yet hideous stroke of fate. Could I but sleep 
 Till he returns ! but ah ! it is in vain 
 
 
 
 To hope for this ! I am indeed forlorn : 
 I see the sun blaze o'er the eastern hills 
 With listless eyes, I see the sunbeams fall 
 In burning noonday heat, and then the shades 
 Pass darkening o'er the fields, then in the west 
 The sun dips down ; then comes the yellow moon, 
 And night, with torturing dreams ; such is my life. 
 I, heedless, mark the hours that quickly pass, 
 Yet each new day seems longer than the last. 
 Arnold {waking). Is Annette there ? 
 A?inette. Yes, father ; do you want me ? 
 Arnold. What is the hour, my child ? 
 Annette. 'Tis nigh on sunset. 
 
 Arnold. The sun is setting, and my life sinks down, 
 Following his steps. My Annette, I had hope- 
 To see you and your Ezzelin united ; 
 Not so has Heaven will'd it, for I feel 
 I shall not see another sun. 
 
 Annette. Dear father, 
 
 Do not speak thus, you are not really worse. 
 
 Arnold. Deceive me not \ the fever has abated, 
 But all my strength is gone. I trust to-night
 
 7 8 Ezzelin. 
 
 To make my peace with Heaven. Would that Dante 
 Were here ! 
 
 Annette {in a forced voice). Can we not seek him, 
 father dear ? 
 
 Arnold. No, Annette ; 'twould be vain, my dearest 
 child. 
 If you can bear to hear it, I would speak 
 About your future life : the only one 
 Who lives and bears our name, is one Lorenzo ; 
 I do not know him well, but many summers 
 Have o'er him pass'd ; to him the lands descend 
 Upon my death j you, Annette, will be left 
 An unprotected orphan. In the care 
 Of Dante I have placed you — nay, my child, 
 Weep not like that ! the years will roll away, 
 And we shall meet again. You must not fear 
 Your father's friend. Dante is rather stern, 
 And knows not maidens' ways ; but he is true, 
 And will befriend you, so you but obey 
 His ghostly counsels. 
 
 Annette. Father, but one word ! 
 
 Oh, I beseech you, father, do not let him 
 Force me to take the veil ! 
 
 Arnold. Do not fear,
 
 Ezzelin. 79 
 
 My darling child ! The cloister walls shall never 
 Enclose your graceful form ; those waving locks, 
 So long, so long my pride, shall never fall 
 Beneath the shears. Have you forgotten Ezzelin ? 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin ! Oh no, but if you leave me, father, 
 Thus unprotected, I shall be the prey 
 Of his stern father's wiles. If Ezzelin 
 Would only come, I should be safe ; but now 
 You leave me, and he is not by to help. 
 What if he never come again — must I 
 Trust to a priest ? And Dante does not like me ; 
 Nay, I am sure, that once within his power, 
 The cloister walls would be my prison. Father, 
 Is there no way to save me ? 
 
 Arnold. None but this — 
 
 By marriage, Annette. I had many friends, 
 But I am friendless now ; stern death has reap'd 
 The comrades of my youth ; but this I tell you — 
 Should Ezzelin never come, your only trust 
 Must be in Dante. Wherefore should you fear him ? 
 
 Annette (aside). I dare not tell him how my heart 
 has learn'd 
 To doubt the Church's faith. (Aloud.) What would 
 he do with mc ?
 
 8o Ezzeliti. 
 
 Arnold. Place you as pensioner in some old 
 convent, 
 For it's protection that you need, not money ; 
 I am not rich, but you will have enough 
 To live on without stint or care, my child. 
 But I am weary now. Ho ! Tonio, come 
 And lead me to my room. 
 
 Enter Tonio. 
 
 My dearest Annette, 
 You have been ever good and dutiful, 
 A grateful daughter ; may God's blessing rest 
 Upon your youthful head ! Good night, my child : 
 We'll meet again when morning comes. 
 
 [Exit with Tonio. 
 Annette. O why on me must grief and anguish fall? 
 How long shall this poor heart be pierced and wrung 
 \\ith blow on blow ? what will the next one be ? 
 Oh, I could long for death ! the grave were better 
 Than this intolerable agony, 
 With none to comfort, none to weep with me, 
 No loving breast on which to lay my head, 
 And sob out all my sorrow ; no, not one 
 To say, " I will protect thee !" Here I stand,
 
 Ezzelin. 8 1 
 
 Almost an orphan, and in trembling fear 
 That some black tale will soon invade my ears, 
 rfark ! hark ! a messenger ! Now does my heart 
 Leap up and quiver, as the panting deer 
 Who, wounded, seeks some lonely forest glade 
 To die, and, as he cools his bleeding sides 
 With woodland dews, hears in the distance bay 
 The savage bloodhounds, as their muzzles track 
 His path. O God ! what is it ? if I stand 
 Against the door, their words will reach my ears ; 
 I can but try it. 
 
 \_Leans against the door. A voice is heard without. 
 
 Voice. Hush ! do not speak so loud — Count 
 Arnold's dying. 
 What of Lord Ezzelin ? .... Nay, it cannot be! 
 Oh my poor lady ! Nay, but are you sure 
 It was his body ? 
 
 Another Voice. Ah, 'tis but too true ! 
 I knew him from his childhood ; he is dead ; 
 I saw him stretch'd among the dewy brambles, 
 While the red life-blood drench'd their slender 
 boughs. 
 
 [Annette utters a low groan and Jails 
 senseless on the floor. 
 G
 
 82 Ezzelin. 
 
 Scene 5. Arnold's Castle. Annette sitting 
 
 alone. 
 
 Annette. 
 
 •A 
 
 TjEAD ! dead ! and in the grave ; and I can 
 
 never 
 
 See him again, nor even share his lot. 
 
 Oh ! why were we two made ? or why, if made, 
 
 Allow'd to meet and love ? or if allow'd, 
 
 Why not cut off together ? Can the rose 
 
 Blossom and live when the green stem is snapp'd ? 
 
 Can the heart beat, when from the bleeding trunk 
 
 The head is torn ? No ! in the deadly stroke 
 
 Both die : and why may I not perish too ? 
 
 I cannot live alone ; the cruel blow 
 
 Which tore my murder'd Ezzelin from my side 
 
 Crush'd all of good within me ; would that night 
 
 Were ever o'er me with its shrouding mist. 
 
 Vain, vain desire ; when has mortal grief 
 
 E'er stay'd the fleeting hours ? Could he have come 
 
 But for a moment to my arms again, 
 
 To hear me pledge my never-ending love 
 
 Before the death-god call'd him, I should mourn
 
 Ezzelin. 83 
 
 With far less grief than now. Oh, cruel Death ! 
 Hast thou no pity, none ? Can not the hope 
 Of larger booty tempt thee to give up 
 The prey an instant ; since if he could come 
 I would not stay behind him, — we would seek 
 Thy mouldering cells together. Ah ! I rave. 
 My brain is struggling against the weight 
 That presses on it. Better, yes, far better, 
 When still supine I lay beneath the stroke, 
 So stunn'd that thought and memory fled alike. 
 Now they return again, and add new torture, 
 Stabbing my bleeding senses with the thought 
 Of that last scene amongst those crimson'd 
 
 brambles, 
 When struggling with the murderers he fell, 
 And in the rushing torrent of his blood 
 My heart was borne away. Fain would I seek 
 Oblivion, but it comes not ; and the scene 
 Dances before my eyes, until at last 
 A sickening faintness comes which blunts awhile 
 Fancy's cold knife. . . . Hark ! there is some one 
 
 coming. 
 Why must they come to me ? To be alone 
 Is all I ask, and yet they will not grant it.
 
 84 Ezzelin. 
 
 Enter Dante and Lucia. 
 
 Dante. My dearest child ! my heart has bled for 
 you, 
 For I have heard it all. I know full well 
 In the first hour of grief, 'tis hard to hear 
 A stranger offer comfort ; but, my child, 
 I will not leave the castle ; your dear father 
 Ask'd me to care for you, so if you want 
 To see me I will come at once. May God 
 Turn e'en this bitter trial to your good ; 
 For those on whom He lays the heaviest cross 
 He loves the best. Could we but feel this more, 
 Grief would be welcome. May His benediction 
 Fill you with that calm peace He left to all 
 Who follow in His footsteps. [Exit Dante. 
 
 Annette. Is he gone ? 
 
 Lucia. Yes, dearest, he is gone ! Full well he 
 knows 
 That grief must have its way. 
 
 Annette. The cunning serpent. 
 
 Lucia. Serpent ! Who do you mean ? 
 
 Annette. The father Dante. 
 
 Lucia. Annette, for shame ! grief surely has 
 overcome
 
 Ezzelin. 85 
 
 Your better nature. 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin was your brother 
 
 And my betrothed ; but for that wretched priest, 
 He now had been beside me. I am sure 
 He set Alonzo's mind against our marriage, 
 And I believe hired the bloody wretches 
 Who murder'd Ezzelin. 
 
 Lucia. Annette ! are you mad ? 
 
 Remember whom you speak against ! ( Clasping her 
 
 hands.) O God, 
 Pardon her, for she knows not what she says 
 
 Annette. Know you not Dante's cruel nature, 
 Lucia ? 
 Have you not heard how he condemn'd a maiden 
 To suffer on the rack, and at the stake 
 Yield up her life amidst the ravening flames, — 
 One whom he loved, — because she was a heretic ? 
 That was enough ; if he had but suspected 
 That Ezzelin. . . . O my God ! what am I saying ? 
 Forget it, Lucia. 
 
 Lucia (crossing herself with a shudder). Ezzelin a 
 heretic ! 
 
 Annette. Oh, no ! he was not one. Oh, do not listen 
 To what I say ! I have been very wicked.
 
 86 Ezzelin. 
 
 {Aside.) If they but find out what he thought, his 
 
 body 
 Will be dug up and burnt as if unworthy 
 Of Christian burial. My Ezzelin ! 
 They shall not treat even your cold remains 
 With disrespect. (Aloud.) Forgive me, dearest 
 
 Lucia ! 
 My sorrow is too much for me. I meant not 
 To speak like that of Dante. You are kind, 
 Dear Lucia, thus to come and sit with me, 
 For I need comfort sorely. (Bursts into tears.) 
 
 Lucia (gently). So I thought, 
 
 My Annette. You have had a bitter cross 
 To bear, I know ; but oh ! you need not droop 
 In quenchless grief, for he was pure and good, 
 And every virtue which adorn'd his nature 
 And made you love him, Annette, now shines 
 
 bright 
 In undimm'd radiance in our Father's presence ; 
 For if you loved him when his heart still bore 
 The stains of sin, then how much more may you 
 Love him in Heaven, for the gates of death 
 Cannot keep love from entering, since by love 
 Death's portals first were open'd.
 
 JEzzelin. 87 
 
 Annette. Lucia, tell me, 
 
 You are a nun, and yet you speak as though 
 Ymi had known love like Ezzelin's for me. 
 — Nay ! nay ! I did not mean to wound you thus. 
 Those quivering lips and tearful eyes have told 
 
 me 
 All I would know. 
 
 Lucia (speaking with effort). Before I took the 
 
 veil 
 I shared the common cross of women, Annette. 
 I loved and was beloved when Ezzelin went, 
 And my stern father bade me seek a home 
 Apart from him. We could not wed. I felt 
 I could not have return'd my lover's vows 
 By such a treacherous scheme as let him wed 
 With a deserted and undower'd maiden, 
 For he was poor and so — and so we parted, 
 Never to meet again on earth. I know not 
 Whether he lives or not ; yet every day 
 Brings us both nearer to a blessed union 
 Among the saints. Dear Annette, would you like 
 To take the veil ? 
 
 Annette (excitedly). No, no ! I will not do it ! 
 Are you sent here to lure me to the cloister ?
 
 88 Ezzelin. 
 
 Lucia. But wherefore not, dear friend? What 
 happier refuge 
 Can you discover than the peaceful cell ? 
 Forgive me if I say it, — you are friendless. 
 I know you loved my brother, and you cannot 
 Wed with another. How can you do better 
 Than seek a holy life like ours (rises and clasps 
 
 her hands together) — a life 
 Of constant prayer and deeds of charity, 
 Oft cheer'd by glimpses of the future glory 
 Which crowns a faithful virgin ; and at last 
 Received above, to live for ever blest, 
 Following the Lamb where'er His footsteps lead. 
 Think well on this ; I would not urge you now. 
 May He who smiled on blessed Magdalene, 
 In His dear love persuade you also, dear, 
 To choose the better part ! 
 
 Annette {impatiently). Hark ! some one comes ! 
 
 Lucia. Then I'll withdraw. O think on what 
 I've said ! 
 If you decide to join us, there will be 
 One there at least ready and glad to give you 
 A sister's welcome to your peaceful home. 
 
 [Exit Lucia.
 
 Ezzelin. 89 
 
 Annette. Another wile to lure me to the cloister ! 
 Dante has sent her here. I'd rather wed 
 The worst of men than take the convent veil. 
 Ezzelin would sooner see me thus. 
 
 Entci- Tonio. 
 Tonio. My lady, 
 
 The Signor da Fiori has arrived 
 
 And asks for you. Shall I call Father Dante ? 
 
 Annette {hurriedly). No ! Til receive him ; bid 
 
 him come this way. 
 
 I must be married, Ezzelin; for- thy sake, 
 
 [Exit Tonio. 
 
 My murder'd love, I'll do it. Shall I enter 
 
 One of those houses which support the faith 
 
 Which thou didst hate ? 
 
 Enter Tonio and Lorenzo da Fiori. 
 
 Tonio. Signor Fiori, lady. 
 
 Annette. I bid you welcome, signor, to your 
 
 castle. 
 
 Forgive me for my want of courtesy, 
 
 But you have heard how bitterly I've suffer'd 
 
 Of late, in losing my dear father. 
 
 Lorenzo. Lady ! 
 
 Do not speak thus, I pray you. I once knew
 
 90 Ezzefai. 
 
 Your worthy father ; you, I trust, will honour me 
 By making this your home a little while. [Aside. 
 The girl is pretty, and might soon be taught 
 To be a careful wife. 
 
 Annette. I thank you, signor ; 
 
 Will you retire unto the banquet-hall ? 
 I cannot favour you to-night. 
 
 [Exeunt omnes. 
 
 End of Second Act.
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene i. Lorenzo's Castle (formerly Arnold's). 
 
 A room. 
 
 Enter Uberto. 
 Uberto. 
 |ffepjAY Heaven's plague light upon them both ! 
 This life 
 Is past enduring : O for the golden days 
 When poor Count Arnold lived !— this castle then 
 Was fit for man's abode ; now Lady Annette 
 Sulks all the day, and as for that Lorenzo, 
 If a poor man but tastes a cup of wine, 
 He scowls as if he'd done some fearful deed. 
 What with her temper and his stinginess, 
 I know not how to live. I thought her love 
 For Ezzelin was but stuff. Why did she wed 
 That hoary miser? — not but what I smiled 
 When she pursued him, and the aged gallant
 
 92 Ezzelin. 
 
 Leer'd softly from the corners of his eyes, 
 
 And spoke in courtly phrases, conn'd from books 
 
 In the old library. But now all's past, 
 
 They have been wed a twelvemonth, by my soul ; 
 
 And I — why, all my clothes hang loose and free 
 
 Upon my shrivell'd frame. The only pleasures 
 
 Lorenzo lets me have are idleness 
 
 And slumber ; these, he says, will cost him nothing. 
 
 Ha ! here's a flask of wine. I'll drink it up : 
 
 No one is looking. What a happy chance ! 
 
 Who can have left it there ? [Drinks. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo, in an old robe. 
 
 Lorefizo. No one is looking? 
 
 Indeed, sir monk, I saw you all the time. 
 What have you got ? Good Heavens ! the flask of 
 
 wine 
 I left for strangers ! Hark you, sirrah priest, 
 You only live on sufferance here ; beware 
 What you are doing. 
 
 Uberto. Signor, a man must live. 
 
 A priest indeed is vow'd to self-denial, 
 But even we at times are overcome 
 By thirst and hunger.
 
 Ezzelin. 93 
 
 Lorenzo {scornfully). Thirst and hunger, priest ! 
 Have you not breakfasted ? 
 
 Uderto. Five hours ago. 
 
 Lorenzo. Can you not wait till dinner, then ? must 
 you 
 Be ever drinking ? Why, methinks a man 
 Like you is ruinous. Where is my wife? 
 Priests always know where women are. 
 
 Uberto. I saw 
 
 The Lady Annette pass some time ago. 
 
 Lorenzo. Where was she going, priest — tell me at 
 once? 
 
 Uberto. I know not. 
 
 Lorenzo. What ! you know not ? You shall know. 
 
 Uberto. But here she comes, ask her yourself. 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 
 Lorenzo. Here, Annette, 
 
 Where have you been ? 
 
 Annette. Why do you wish to know ? 
 
 Lorenzo. Have you forgotten I'm your husband, 
 girl! 
 No one shall leave this house without my know 
 ledge ;
 
 94 Ezzclin. 
 
 I do believe I'm always watch'd by spies. 
 You have been in the cellars. 
 
 Annette. No, indeed, 
 
 I have not been there. 
 
 Lorenzo. But I say you have : 
 
 If ever you go there again, I'll turn 
 Your chamber to a prison. You shall stay there 
 Until your cheek grows pale. Tell me, proud girl, 
 Am I the master here or you? 
 
 Annette. Lorenzo, 
 
 I never have been there. You, if you like, 
 May wander in the gloomy rooms below : 
 I'd rather not. — But why are you suspicious? 
 
 Lorenzo. What's that to you ? I choose to be 
 suspicious ; 
 It is my nature. If you wanted love 
 You should have married some young cavalier, 
 
 [Annette turns away. 
 And not a man whose beard is fleck'd with grey. 
 I never took you for a wife, my lady ; 
 All that I wanted was a careful mistress 
 To keep my house and make my servants work. 
 
 Annette (bitterly). Oh, Ezzelin ! would I were 
 dead beside thee !
 
 Ezzelin. 95 
 
 Lorenzo. Ha ! what is that ? Who may this 
 Ezzelin be ? 
 I've Heard you murmur Ezzelin in your dreams ; 
 Now who is he ? Oh, oh !— and do you weep ? 
 Doubtless he loved you once. And now methinks 
 I've heard of him : a passionate young braggart, 
 Who was waylaid and murder'd in his flight 
 From his old father's house. 
 
 Uberto. Signor, for shame ! 
 
 Have you not heard how tenderly she loved 
 Poor Ezzelin ? 
 
 Lorenzo. Speak when you're wanted, priest. 
 
 Ha ! who comes now ? Some plaguy stranger, surely, 
 Who has been here in Arnold's time, and deems, 
 Because he wasted all his means on strangers, 
 That I shall do the same. 
 
 Enter Andreas. 
 
 Who are you, fellow ? 
 
 Andreas. Signor, I come from Father Dante. 
 
 Lorenzo. Well, 
 
 What's that to me ? 
 
 Andreas. He purposes to come here, 
 
 And stay some days perhaps, your guest.
 
 g6 Ezzelin. 
 
 Lorenzo. Indeed ! 
 
 I never ask'd him here ; another trick 
 Of yours, you selfish girl. Have you no thought 
 Save for yourself, that you must thus invite 
 Strangers to eat your husband's bread, and tax 
 His slender means ? 
 
 Atmetle. Indeed, I never ask'd him. 
 
 Uberto (in a low voice to Lorenzo). Take heed 
 to what you say, the father Dante 
 Is one whose name is known throughout the land 
 As one of power unlimited — in fact, 
 He's an Inquisitor. You must not speak 
 About him thus. 
 
 Lorenzo. And so he wants to come 
 
 And stay here, does he ? 
 
 Andreas. So he purposes. 
 
 Lorenzo. Tell him I shall be glad to see him, fellow. 
 
 Andreas. I will, good signor. He will come to- 
 morrow. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Lorenzo. May curses light upon those priests ! 
 
 Uberto (aside). Beware ! your life is in my hands, 
 Lorenzo. 
 
 {Exit Uberto.
 
 Ezzelin. gy 
 
 Annette. Lorenzo, you had best be careful now. 
 
 Lorenzo. And wherefore, madam, I should like 
 to know ? 
 So you must lecture me ? 
 
 Annette. 'Tis for your good. 
 
 Take heed to what you say in Dante's presence. 
 
 Lorenzo. Ha ! ha ! I am not Ezzelin, to be school'd 
 By you. Ha ! ha ! where's that old rogue Ubefto ? 
 What, what, you will not answer ? O I see 
 You're weeping, are you ? Well, begone upstairs, 
 And weep your fill up there. — But nay, you shall not. 
 Stop where you are. [Exit Lorenzo. 
 
 Annette. And I must ever live 
 
 Beside this heartless wretch ! O Ezzelin, 
 I did it for thy sake, and see my fate ! 
 How the old miser taunts me with thy name. 
 My only peaceful time is when I sleep 
 And dream of thee, but O ! the dreadful waking ! 
 To know him by me like some fiendish shape 
 Bred from the spells of nightmare, O ! it is horrible. 
 Chain'd to a man like that, yet with the memory 
 Of those bright, happy days ! When will it end ? 
 When will death come ? One may die any day, 
 And one may live. O come in mercy, death !
 
 98 Ezzelin. 
 
 Thou art the only friend can serve me now. 
 
 Not many young as I seek after thee, 
 
 And yet thy scythe is daily, hourly, reaping 
 
 The flowers of youth ; then do not pass me by, 
 
 Break, break the wither'd stalk that sadly bends 
 
 Over the scatter'd leaves of faded joys. 
 
 Yes, it is strange how bitterly I hated 
 
 That Dante : now the thought of seeing him, 
 
 Of seeing any one whose name is link'd 
 
 To those glad days, is pleasing, and I long 
 
 To see once more the haughty priest who crush'd 
 
 My youthful life, confronted with Lorenzo. 
 
 How will the wretch who calls me wife, endure 
 
 The searching glance of Dante's eagle eye ? 
 
 Yet Heaven is my witness that I tried 
 
 Even to love Lorenzo. Now 'tis past, 
 
 And all my hope is centred in one thing, — 
 
 An early death, a quiet, lonely grave.
 
 Ezzelin. 99 
 
 Scene 2. A room in a castle in the Tyrol. 
 
 Ezzelin (alone). 
 WELVE months have pass'd, autumn re- 
 turns again, 
 And still I linger here a prisoner, 
 And watch each day the sun sink slowly down 
 Behind the fir woods on yon western ridge. 
 Yes, he can travel, he can light the place 
 Where Annette is ; but I, when shall I see her ? 
 Must I die here within these dreary walls, 
 With all my breast still fired by keenest passion, 
 Like some proud eagle girt by cruel bars ? 
 Oh ! madden'd haste ! Oh ! fatal, fatal journey ! 
 Oh! reckless threat! Why did I ever go? 
 Did I not know my father's iron will ? 
 What fury then misled me ? Had I but sought 
 My northern home at once ! The goading thought 
 Is fraught with woe untold, and careless fancy 
 Mocks me with visions of the glorious prize 
 Snatch'd from me. Oh ! she seems to stand before 
 me,
 
 ioo Ezzelin. 
 
 And wave the treasures of her golden hair 
 Before my eyes, while in the azure depths 
 Of her bright orbs a look of sad reproach 
 Dwells, and the accents of that silver voice 
 Speak to me, " Ezzelin, Ezzelin, where art thou? 
 Ah, love ! we had been happy for awhile. 
 I cannot come. What if she deems' me faithless? 
 Oh ! could I but escape ! Tis vain, 'tis vain ! 
 Despair before me points alone to death, 
 And the deep calm around this dreary castle 
 Is maddening ! Oh ! how hard to- see the grass 
 Below my grated window. Were I there 
 They should not bring me here alive again. 
 Curse on the crafty ruffians, and my curse 
 Light heavily upon my father's head. 
 Foul-mouth'd Ambition, blackest spawn of hell, 
 How hast thou wasted many a happy love ! 
 When all the ills, which from Pandora's box 
 Leap'd forth, shall meet around the throne of 
 
 Satan, 
 Each with the record of his ghastly harvest, 
 Few will compete with thee. Yet not alone 
 For Annette's sake I curse thee, stern Alonzo : 
 My heart was full of schemes to aid the cause
 
 Ezzelin. 101 
 
 Of liberty ; — with sword and tongue to work 
 With Hutten and Sickingen in the war 
 With the usurping Church. Now I am here, 
 Like a bright sword rusted and laid aside, 
 My hopes of glory sped .... 
 {An owl screams^) 
 
 Ha ! 'tis the owl, 
 Which hoots the rising moon with gibing scream, 
 Angry that e'en her silver eye should watch 
 His ravening flight across the weedy lake. 
 Behind the wood the moon shines through the 
 
 mists 
 Which late, like white and ghostly spectres, hover'd 
 O'er the still gleam-lit water, now the fogs 
 Are turn'd to blood-red hues beneath the moon. 
 
 (The owl screams again.) 
 
 Where is the night-bird ? Ah ! I see him now 
 Gliding athwart the mists, a dull grey speck ; 
 Now plainer he appears ; his long grey wings 
 Beat the cold air with noiseless touch j at last 
 The lake is cross'd : he hovers o'er the grass, 
 Intent on prey. The timid hares creep forth, 
 And from the distant wood the red fox yelps ;
 
 102 Ezzelin. 
 
 And now the moon has risen, and her face 
 Turns into silver, as she breaks the mists, 
 And a wide flood of light illumes the water, 
 Save where the clear-cut shadows of the hills 
 Rest on its surface. Ah, sweet eventide ! 
 Not even harsh captivity can rob me 
 Of all thy charms. (Starts.) What is that deep- 
 toned sound 
 Which floats towards me on the wailing breeze ? 
 A death-bell tolls ; how strangely sound the notes ! 
 >Tis but some convent bell, which tolls afar 
 The requiem of a nun ; hence Superstition, 
 Vex me not with thy terrors ; in the world 
 Are mysteries enough without the aid 
 Of thine unearthly fancies. [Lies down. 
 
 Scene 3. Lorenzo's Castle, (A room.) 
 
 Annette. 
 ND so he comes to-day ! A year has flown 
 Since last we met; perchance I wrong'd 
 him then. 
 Stern, and devoted to the Church of Rome,
 
 Ezzelin. 103 
 
 He is, I know ; but still he could not stoop 
 To murder. Yet who could have done the deed ? 
 I know not ; let it rest among the crimes 
 Which, hidden from mankind, yet cry for ven- 
 geance 
 Before the throne of God, Tis very strange, 
 But o'er my heart a boding shadow creeps, 
 As if this life of weary, dull despair 
 Were drawing to an end, and some great change 
 Coming towards me. As I look'd last night 
 Out of my casement towards the pine-girt rock 
 They call the Raven's Crag, methought I heard 
 The sable bird croak loud, and, as he ceased, 
 From the white waves afar the sea-gull cried. 
 Then all was still awhile, and then, methought, 
 Across the darkening plain, distinct and clear, 
 A death-bell sounded. Some one's doom is near : 
 Can it be mine ? No, that were far too good 
 For me, ill-fortune's victim ... Do not strive 
 To pierce the mystery. Ha ! who comes here ? 
 
 Enter Tonio, showing in Dante. 
 
 Annette. Welcome, my father ! You have long 
 delay'd
 
 104 Ezzelin. 
 
 Your visit to me. 
 
 Dante. Yes, my daughter; those 
 
 Who guard the fold have little time for pleasure. 
 I deeply grieve that I was call'd away 
 Before your marriage day. Where is your husband? 
 I fain would see him. 
 
 Annette. I will go and fetch him. 
 
 {Exit Annette. 
 
 Dante. I like not this, she seems cast down and 
 bow'd, 
 As if in sorrow unassuaged she mourn'd 
 O'er Ezzelin's tomb. Why did she wed Lorenzo ? 
 Men say he is a miser, and 'tis strange 
 That she should marry where love cannot be. 
 The girl is not inconstant, and she loved 
 Alonzo's son. Her marriage spoil'd my purpose 
 To fold her in the cloister. Ha ! 'twas that ! 
 She must have learn'd my scheme, and fearing 
 
 this, 
 Have ta'en the marriage vows with this old man. 
 A daring thing to do ; it was vexatious 
 I could not stay here when her father died. 
 Our life is ever thus ; the news from Rome 
 Was urgent, and I could not linger here.
 
 Ezzehn. 105 
 
 Enter Uberto. 
 
 Uberto. Welcome, dear brother; times, alas ! have 
 changed 
 Since last I met you here. 
 
 Dante. Methinks they have. 
 
 You do not look as well as you did then. 
 
 Uberto. Fasting is very well indeed at times : 
 But here my life is one continued fast. 
 And not the flesh alone is sorely weaken'd, 
 But the poor spirit also shares its fate. 
 
 Dante. Then it is true what I have lately heard 
 About Lorenzo? 
 
 Uberto. Do not speak of him ; 
 
 It makes me shiver. 
 
 Dante. Then you do not like him ? 
 
 Uberto. Like him ! why, no one ever liked him yet, 
 Not e'en his wife. 
 
 Dante. I thought as much, my brother. 
 
 Uberto. Their wedded life is one perpetual feud. 
 He never speaks to her except to scold her : 
 In fact he never speaks to anybody 
 In other way than this. 
 
 Dante. How does she bear it ? 
 
 Uberto. Poor girl, she seems as if she did not care
 
 1 06 Ezzelin. 
 
 For anything — her heart is almost broken. 
 
 Da,7ite, What did she wed him for ? 
 
 Ubcrto. Heaven only knows ! 
 
 The man's a lean, old, discontented miser, 
 And half a heretic. 
 
 Dante {sternly). This must be look'd to. 
 
 Uberto (aside). Plague on my tongue, and his 
 ill-temper'd zeal. 
 (Aloud.) I only meant to say he does not care 
 About religion ; you must not imagine 
 That he believes in Luther's cursed doctrine. 
 
 Dante. You should exhort him, brother. Pardon 
 me, 
 We must not sleep in dangerous times like these. 
 
 Uberto. He would not listen to me. 
 
 Dante. Warn him, then : 
 
 Say that the Inquisition is not rich, 
 And that a law has given them power to seize 
 The wealth of those who are believed to favour 
 The Lutheran doctrines. 
 
 Ube?'to. Cease ! Lorenzo comes. 
 
 Enter Lorenzo and Annette. 
 Afitiette. This is the father Dante.
 
 Ezzelin. 1 07 
 
 Lorenzo. Oh, indeed ! 
 
 Do you suppose I cannot use my eyes ? 
 There are but two here, and I know Uberto, 
 So that the other must be Dante. Yes, 
 I've heard of him. 
 
 Dante. Nothing but good, I trust. 
 
 Lorenzo. O surely. What's the latest news from 
 Rome ? 
 
 Dante. A general alarm pervades the city 
 Touching the new-born heresies of Luther. 
 Men deem the pontiff casts uneasy looks 
 Towards the north ; the cardinals and bishops 
 Say that the weapons of the Holy Office 
 Are blunted and inactive, gold is wanted 
 To edge St. Peter's sword, the laity 
 Must give their treasure to the new Crusade. 
 And more than this, the Church is now enforced 
 To confiscate the goods of such as favour 
 The new belief, therefore it doth behove 
 All men to seek her favour by their zeal 
 For the true faith ; as for the loose and careless 
 She hath her arm laid bare. 
 
 Lorenzo. Ay, burn them all. 
 
 Dante. I'm glad to see you zealous for the faith.
 
 io8 Ezzelin. 
 
 Tis well, but do not let your zeal outrun 
 The bounds of Christian charity ; the Church 
 Takes not the sword until all other means 
 Have fail'd, e'en as the gardener pray'd his lord 
 To spare the barren vine. 
 
 Lorenzo. Holy man, 
 
 Your words are eloquent, I pray you honour 
 My castle for a little while, in truth 
 I'll do my best to make your entertainment 
 Such as becomes a father of the Church. 
 But I am poor, my lady young and careless, 
 Still, since I know that priests are vow'd to 
 
 fasting, 
 You will forgive me if your fare be scant. 
 
 [To Annette, who looks impatient. 
 Now do not speak, you always spoil my plans. 
 
 Dante. Thanks, signor, do not vex yourself for me. 
 
 Annette. My father, have you heard of Lucia 
 lately ? 
 
 Dante. Alonzo's daughter? Yes. Her Christian life 
 Has won her high preferment in the convent, 
 And when the Abbess died, the nuns elected 
 Lucia to fill her place ; though young in years, 
 Her conduct is esteem'd by all the sisters
 
 Ezzelin, 109 
 
 As fitted for the post. 
 
 Lor-efizo (to Annette). And who is Lucia ? 
 
 Anjiette. A friend of mine. 
 
 Lorenzo. That answer will not do, 
 
 I must know more. 
 
 Dante. You cannot well know more. — 
 
 But hark ! who comes this way ? I hear the tramp 
 Of some fast horse, as if a messenger 
 Charged with important news came towards the 
 castle. 
 
 Lorenzo, By Heaven, I trust 'tis not another 
 stranger ; 
 These visitors will ruin me, I knofr. 
 
 Enter Antonio. 
 
 Antonio (to Dante). O, holy father, I have fearful 
 news 
 To tell you — Lord Alonzo has been murder'd ! 
 Annette (staggers against the 7ca//). Murder'd ! 
 
 O God of Justice, 'tis Thy work ! 
 Dante. Murder'd ! it cannot be ! 
 Antonio. He is not dead, 
 
 But life is ebbing fast, ami he has sent 
 For you in haste.
 
 no Ezzelin. 
 
 Dante. Who did the fatal deed ? 
 
 Antonio. We know not, the assassin leap'd the 
 window, 
 And has escaped. 
 
 Dante (to Lorenzo). Forgive me, worthy signor, 
 But I must go, I trust I come in time. 
 Look to the Lady Annette, she has fainted. 
 
 [Exeunt Dante and Antonio ; Uberto and 
 attendants carry Annette out. 
 Lorenzo. By all the Saints I am well quit of him : 
 She only sent for him to lecture me. 
 
 Scene 4. Alonzo's Castle. A room. Alonzo 
 
 stretched on a couch. 
 
 Alo?izo. 
 
 jjND are they gone at last, the noisy crew 
 Who feign'd to weep around my dying bed? 
 All gone ? O Saints ! to be struck down 
 like this 
 Beneath a murderer's knife, when all my plans 
 Were crown'd with victory ! Am I really dying ? 
 So said the leech. I was not made for death. 
 Cannot the spirit by its iron strength
 
 Ezzelin. 1 1 1 
 
 Support the failing body. All things as yet 
 Have yielded to me, now must death be conqueror ? 
 Nay t if I cannot win the strife, at least 
 I will not tremble. I will die, — I will, — 
 E'en as I lived. Avaunt ! ye boding thoughts. 
 Shall I be made the sport of mocking fiends, 
 Who ruled the passions of ten thousand hearts, 
 And crush'd beneath my heel like writhing worms, 
 Fell spirits from whose schemes Satan himself 
 Had learnt a bitter lesson ; and shall death 
 Subdue me ? Put forth all thy thousand terrors, 
 And since I cannot choose but yield, I'll sink, 
 Yet not dismember'd, like a bark whom waves 
 'Whelm in mid ocean. Ay, these darkening eyes, 
 This sudden ceasing of the raging pain, 
 Tell me too truly that death hovers o'er me. 
 Come, then ! [Faints away. 
 
 Enter Dante and Servant. 
 
 Dante. Leave us alone, my son.— Yes, there he lies, 
 Swathed round in blood-stain'd bandages, who late 
 Possess'd such power as men can rarely gain. 
 Such is the fate of despots. Is he dead ? 
 Upon his brow the fearful sweat of death
 
 112 Ezzelin. 
 
 Stands out in chilly drops. Can I not rouse him ? 
 Alonzo ! 
 
 Alonzo {faintly). Who is there ? I know thy face, 
 But cannot now recall it. 
 
 Dante. I am Dante. 
 
 Alonzo {feebly). Dante? 
 
 Dante. Dante Colonna. 
 
 Alonzo. Ay, the youth 
 
 Who sought my sister. I remember thee. 
 What wouldst thou ? She is wed. 
 
 Dante. Alas ! my son, 
 
 All that is o'er. Hast thou no thought to make 
 Confession of thy sins ? 
 
 Alonzo. Confession, father? 
 
 I cannot do it ! Brain and sense are reeling, 
 I cannot call them up ! 
 
 Dante. And knowest thou not 
 
 The sinner's doom, — the lake of fire, — the worm 
 Which cannot die ; and wilt thou dare to trifle 
 While the red flames are heated for thy soul ? 
 
 Alonzo. I cannot tell them now; had you but come 
 An hour ago — 
 
 Dante. Say only, " I have sinn'd," 
 
 And He who died for thee shall snatch thy spirit
 
 Ezzelin. 1 1 3 
 
 Back from the fiend. 
 
 Alonzo. Yes ; more than that I cannot ! 
 Father, if you will have it, I have sinn'd. — 
 But life goes fast : young Ezzelin, lives he yet ? 
 Will he still thwart me ? In my German castle 
 A year has pass'd over his head — they shall not, — 
 I say, they shall not wed ! [Dies. 
 
 Dante. May God absolve thee ! 
 
 Amidst the penal fires be thy soul 
 Purified quickly, and thy bloody death 
 Warn all who leave the narrow way of virtue 
 To scale the dizzy heights of wild ambition. 
 Alas ! poor wretched man, struck down by God 
 When all thy schemes were crown'd with victory. 
 'Tis ever thus : the bolt is long delay'd, 
 While we wax haughty, and at last forget 
 That He reigns over all. O could we see 
 Behind the clouds of heaven, the angry Judge 
 Grasping the lightning as the years roll on, 
 And the dread doom comes nearer. Ah ! may Christ 
 In His sweet love accept that last confession. 
 
 [Turns to the body. 
 How calm the smile which dawns upon that face 
 Hush'd in death's perfect slumber ! As I gaze 
 
 1
 
 114 Ezzelin. 
 
 Upon those features, sad remembrance comes 
 Of thee, my lost and loved one ! Yes, he wears 
 A smile like thine. I seem to see thee sleeping 
 Upon the dungeon floor, as once I saw thee 
 After the torture, when the rack's sharp anguish 
 Was lull'd by sleep's oblivious charm, and dreams 
 Dispell'd awhile the knowledge of the doom 
 Awaiting thee ; — ay, such fond hopes were mine 
 In manhood's early years. {Takes out the crucifix. 
 
 But Thou hast placed 
 Thy tortured form across the evil way. 
 Despised, rejected, dying for my sake, 
 No earthly love was Thine ! Upon that Tree 
 Let me hang with Thee, till a Saviour's pangs 
 Pierce this weak heart, and such a love as thine 
 Burn through me ; yes, the sacred love of God, 
 Which dares to judge, yet ever wills to save. — 
 Now to my work. The dead man spoke of Ezzelin 
 Before he died — the youth we thought was dead ! 
 Poor Annette, thou wert sore deceived ! Where, then, 
 May Ezzelin be ? Alonzo spoke, I think, 
 Of some old castle. I must speak with those 
 Who have the secret, then I'll send Sebastian 
 To bring the youth to me ; here I'll remain
 
 Ezzelin. 1 1 5 
 
 Until the burial, and perhaps 'twere well 
 To summon to my aid a score of soldiers 
 To help the castle guards, and hold in check 
 The rabble here. — Ho ! Andreas ! 
 
 Enter Andreas. 
 
 Send out 
 To seek Sebastian. Heaven grant that Ezzelin 
 May not prove froward ! 
 
 [Exeunt Dante and Andreas. 
 
 Scene 5. The Castle in the Tyrol. 
 Ezzelin alone, pacing tip and down. 
 
 Ezzelin. 
 
 jY Heaven, this is too much ! I cannot 
 bear it 
 Much longer — nay, I will not ; either life 
 In perfect liberty, or else the grave ! 
 What is my life indeed ? — a sort of death, 
 A slow decay of mind and body also, 
 A weight which presses on the fever'd brain 
 With stern, relentless pressure, or a flame 
 Of burning wrath which sears it ? I, shall I 
 Fear death ? What more of misery can death
 
 n6 Ezzelin. 
 
 Afford ? — nay, then my anguish will be less 
 Than lingering here, like Ixion, ever burnt 
 By my fierce love. What boots my youthful strength, 
 The glorious dreams of usefulness to others 
 Which filPd my heart, how she and I would live 
 To serve mankind ? What boots the thirst for know- 
 ledge 
 At length unclosed to man, and worse, O ! worse, 
 The passionate love by which I vowed to her 
 My strength, my zeal, my talents, ay, my life. 
 I laid them at her feet ; all that God gave me 
 I would have given her. Heaven, hast thou no pity ? 
 Say, can I serve thee here ? were I but free 
 Beside her, I would work alike for thee 
 And for mankind. God ! let thy deadly lightning, 
 The pale blue sword of Heaven, descend and strike 
 This cursed tower, though amongst its ruins 
 My blacken'd form would lie. O ! damned bars ! 
 Can I not break you? [Shakes the bars furiously. 
 
 Nay, you shall give way. 
 Fiends give me strength, if God will not : break ! 
 
 break ! 
 One last attempt for Annette. 
 
 [ Wrenches the bars frantically ; they give way.
 
 Ezzelin. 1 1 7 
 
 It is done ! 
 Now how shall I escape ? — my brain grows dizzy 
 111 used to such success. I will command it 
 And summon up my powers ; 'tis for her ! 
 Where is the sentinel ? Next time he passes 
 I will attempt the leap : the grass seems nearer 
 Than ever. See ! a horseman riding up 
 With news. Good Heavens ! the sentinel has 
 
 vanish'd. 
 The messenger alights, his charger feeds 
 Unwatch'd ; now, now, for freedom and for Annette ! 
 
 \Leaps the window. 
 
 End of Third Act.
 
 ACT IV. 
 
 Scene i. Lorenzo's Castle. A room. 
 Enter Lorenzo, Annette, a?id Tonio. 
 
 Lorenzo. 
 OES the moon shine to-night ? 
 
 Tonio. Ay, surely, signor; 
 
 She's nearly at the full. 
 Lorenzo. I have a journey 
 
 To take to-night, on business of importance. 
 Annette. Will you be long away ? 
 Lorenzo. Now there's a question ! 
 
 I am not journeying on your affairs, 
 But on my own. I shall return to-morrow. 
 Annette. It's growing dark .... 
 Lorenzo (interrupting). And you'll be happy now, 
 Without me for awhile ; but do not count
 
 Ezzelin. 119 
 
 Too much on that. I shall be back to-morrow ; 
 Mind what you do while I'm away. 
 
 [Exeunt Lorenzo and Tonio. 
 
 Annette. Ay, go ! 
 
 I feel as if the clouds were suddenly lifted, 
 And a pale sun-gleam came, when thou art gone. 
 Yes, sometimes vain repinings fill my mind, 
 As if the cloister cell had been a refuge — 
 The peaceful life had sooth'd my anguish'd heart 
 There are some steps we never can retrace, 
 And such was mine ; yet was it not for love 
 I bent my neck beneath the yoke of marriage ? 
 And death alone can break the bridal vow. 
 When some fair being, on whom all things smile, 
 Is struck by Death's cold dart, all prayers are vain 
 To move him; no delay, however pray'd for, 
 Is given. But to me, thou wilt not come ! 
 When the stern death-bell toll'd that fatal night, 
 I hoped it was for me. 'Tis vain, 'tis vain. 
 
 Ezzelin {speaking behind the arras). Annette ! 
 
 Annette (starting to her feet). Oh ! 'tis his voice ! 
 Say, are you come 
 To fetch me ? I am ready : with you, love, 
 I do not fear to go.
 
 120 Ezzelin. 
 
 Enter Ezzelin, from behind the arras. 
 
 Ezzelin. Fear not, my own. 
 
 Annette (interrupting). Oh, no ! I do not fear. 
 Fain would I fall 
 Upon thy breast, but that I fear to clasp 
 Thin air. Is thy grave far from hence ? 
 
 {Recoiling with a shudder. 
 
 Ezzelin. My Annette, 
 
 I am not dead ; it was a wicked lie 
 They told thee, love. 
 
 Annette. O cease, wild heart, to beat ! 
 
 My brain is reeling, ah ! 'tis but some fiend 
 Who takes thy shape ; it is not really thou — 
 Not e'en thy spirit, that were far too blissful 
 For one like me. 
 
 Ezzelin {approaching her). Come dearest, it is I, 
 Weary and soil'd with travel, but myself 
 As real as when we parted. 
 
 Atinette. Speak again ! 
 
 Thy voice is like the sunshine-gleam which breaks 
 O'er some dismasted ship, which floats at will 
 'Midst seething waves, and shows the long'd-for 
 haven
 
 Ezzelin. 1 2 1 
 
 To mariner's weary eyes. And art thou really 
 Ezzelin? 
 
 Ezzelin {taking her in his arms). And will not 
 this persuade thee ? 
 
 Annette {recoiling). Ah, 'tis he 
 
 Again ! Oh, Ezzelin, Ezzelin ! would to God 
 We ne'er had seen each other ! — go ; oh, go ! 
 
 Ezzelin. And is it for a word like this I braved 
 All danger, seeking thee, my guiding star 
 Ever when night was darkest ? Could not thy love 
 Endure a season ? Art thou faithless, Annette ? 
 Then life indeed has lost all gleams of sunshine. 
 
 Amiette {falling on her knees and seizing Ezzelin 
 by the arm). Nay, hear me, Ezzelin ! By 
 every tie 
 Between us, — by those golden days of youth, 
 Ere sorrow came ; by every cruel pang 
 That pierced my bleeding heart when first I heard 
 That thou wert dead, unbend that angry frown, 
 Or thou wilt kill me. Do not turn away. 
 I love, O yes ! I love thee more than ever. 
 But no, I cannot be thy wife — not now — 
 I am 
 
 Ezzelin. Another's ? no ! thou dost not say so, girl !
 
 122 Ezzelin. 
 
 O traitress ! To have ponder'd, grieved, and fought, 
 And does it end in this ? [Draws. 
 
 Where is thy husband ? 
 This steel shall pierce his heart, and then my own, 
 Fair fiend. 
 
 Annette. It is not like thee, Ezzelin ! 
 Wilt thou condemn me ere my tale is told ? 
 
 Ezzelin. I will not wrong thee ; speak, I wait to 
 
 hear. 
 Annette. Canst thou believe that / have done 
 thee wrong? 
 
 Ezzelin, Ezzelin ! was it not for thee 
 
 1 sold myself to bondage, and endured 
 Treatment unworthy of a slave from him 
 Who called me wife, that every night I water'd 
 My bridal bed with tears — to save thy bones, 
 That they might rest in consecrated ground 
 Safe from abuse ? O listen to me now ! 
 
 I tell thee that I heard that thou wert murder'd 
 The night my father died ; a mangled body 
 Was shown me like to thine. What could I think ? 
 I hoped in vain, and strove against despair, 
 But the long weeks roll'd onward, and thou earnest 
 not.
 
 Ezzelin. 123 
 
 What could I do, but let the fatal tale 
 Enter my heart ? Yes, I was left alone, 
 A friendless orphan, widow'd ere a bride, 
 With none to comfort ; and stern Dante came 
 To claim me for the cloister. Then I thought 
 That thy sad spirit had return'd to earth, 
 If that had been my fate, so I choked down 
 The burning tears, and turn'd my griefs to smiles, 
 For marriage was my only refuge. Ezzelin, 
 Thou knowest the zeal of Dante ; wouldst thou 
 
 rather 
 Have found me veil'd and vow'd to superstition 
 Than as I am ? O for thy sake I did it, 
 And thou requitest me thus ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Forgive me, love ; 
 
 Thou hast been faithful ! Annette, listen now. 
 Are we not married by the vows of hearts 
 Long interchanged? Can such weak vows as 
 
 thine, 
 Built upon false foundations, cope with ours ? 
 Has not God join'd us? Thy false marriage vows 
 The doctors of the German Court must loose, 
 For thou art mine, — thou canst not be another's, — 
 Thou dost not love him ?
 
 124 Ezzelin. 
 
 Annette. Love him ! O, dear Ezzelin, 
 
 Would you could save me from him ! 
 
 Ezzelin (pointing to his sword). Wherefore not ? 
 
 Annette. You would not murder him ! 
 
 Ezzelin. But he had best 
 
 Beware how we two meet. But look you, Annette, 
 I broke away from prison, and lay' hid 
 Among the hills of Tyrol for a while ; 
 Then, when night fell, I mounted and rode fast 
 Towards Italy. But yestermorn I reach'd 
 My castle, and I heard that Lord Alonzo 
 Was dead. I enter'd in and claim'd my lawful 
 
 rights. 
 They did not speak of you, so when the dusk 
 Fell over earth, I journey'd here unnoticed, 
 And sought the secret passage to your room. 
 Now when I reach'd my castle, I was told 
 That Dante's bloodhounds had been sent to seize 
 
 me 
 In the Tyrolean prison, and that Dante 
 Waited for me at Venice — yea, in truth, 
 The day before I came had left my castle. 
 My vassals will obey me, but I dare not 
 Remain there long. Say, wilt thou fly with me
 
 Ezzelin. 125 
 
 To Germany ? Brave Francis Von Sickingen 
 
 Will shelter us, and priestly mercenaries 
 
 Dare not invade his lands. Think not of vows, — 
 
 I am your husband ; but the time is short, 
 
 I must escape ere long. 
 
 Annette. You tempt me sorely. 
 
 Ezzelin. Think well : to-night— this hour, thou 
 must decide : 
 Choose 'twixt my faithful love and thy base husband. 
 
 Annette. Parted so long, I cannot let thee go ; 
 It would be worse than ever. Ezzelin, 
 I must be — yes, I am, thine, thine alone. 
 
 [Throws herself into his arms. 
 Ezzelin. How I have long'd for this. The past 
 is gone ; — 
 One drop of love like thine will quench the fires 
 Of thousand sorrows. Let me keep thee here, 
 My own poor wounded dove, come home at last ! 
 
 [ Gazes down on her face. 
 But thou art changed. What have they done to 
 
 thee? 
 Thy brow is worn with sorrow. 
 
 Annette. Oh ! my life 
 
 Has been a hideous dream. The wretched man
 
 126 Ezzelin. 
 
 Whose name I bore has mock"d me with thy name. 
 But thou — why comes that cruel smile again ? 
 Why dost thou handle thus thy rapier, Ezzelin ? 
 
 Ezzrfin. Not for you, love. Look you, to-morrow 
 night 
 I'll come for you ; you must be waiting here. 
 I cannot come before, but do not fear, 
 I will not fail ; my servants will be waiting 
 Not far from hence with horses. 
 
 Annette. But Lorenzo 
 
 Returns to-morrow night, and he will miss me. 
 
 Ezzelin. Fear not ! Lorenzo shall be cared for, 
 Annette. 
 Stain not thy lips by speaking of him, dear. 
 I will engage he shall not miss thee long. 
 Now I must go. Thy sen-ants do not come 
 here? 
 Annette. Never at night ; and none save I and 
 thou 
 Know of the passage. Stay ! Lorenzo knows it : 
 If he discover? 
 
 Ezzelin. He will not betray us ! 
 
 He may not be with thee, perchance. But see ! 
 The moon is high, and I must leave thee now, —
 
 Ezzelin. 127 
 
 But for a day,— at midnight I'll return. 
 Forget not to be here. 
 
 A?inettc. And can I choose 
 
 But count the hours till then ? 
 
 Ezzelin. When thou art safe 
 
 Within my walls, as thou shalt be ere long 
 (Thou knowest I cannot take thee with me now). 
 Then love will be our happy lot again : 
 Farewell till then. 
 
 Scene 2. A Wood not far from Lorenzo's Castle. 
 
 Enter Ezzelin and Servants with Horses, &e. 
 
 Ezzelin. 
 TAXD both of you Avhere hangs the 
 thickest shade. 
 Let not your torches' gleam show e'en so 
 much 
 As doth the glow-worm's lamp or owlet's eye. 
 Ye know full well the work I deign for you ! 
 Watch for some signal from yon little casement 
 Whose tiny light ye see ; when I have done 
 That which I purpose, ye must do the rest. 
 
 [Comes forward out of hearing of the sen ants.
 
 128 Ezzelin. 
 
 Now over all things floats night's dusky veil, 
 And sable clouds are gathering. It is well, — 
 Fit cover for the deed ; and here I wait 
 Before the castle. Grim and strange the towers 
 Stand 'neath the rolling night-clouds ; lights are 
 
 passing 
 Down the long passages : like spectral eyes 
 They gleam from every window. What is that 
 
 noise ? 
 The horn they blow when guests arrive. Lorenzo 
 Has come already. How like a note of doom 
 The sound rings out above the darkening copses, 
 Scaring the owls around ! ... In times like these 
 The mind must draw its only source of counsel 
 From its own depths : I would not ask of her. 
 The guilt — if it be guilt — shall fall on me. 
 Hath he not wrong'd her, — crush'd her youthful 
 
 life, 
 Already pierced by sorrow for my sake ? 
 Taunted her when she wept for me ? O God ! 
 My blood boils at the thought ! If it be guilt / 
 Why is it things are different in the glow 
 Of noonday heat from what they are when night 
 Veils all things ? Is it of a truth, as poets
 
 Ezzelin. 1 29 
 
 In the far North have told, that day alone 
 Belongs to man ; but, when the sun is gone, 
 Tho, powers of ill begin their ghostly reign 
 Beneath the grim white moon ? that woodland trees 
 Change into hags and goblins ? . . . . When I left 
 Annette, the deed I purpose seem'd as light 
 As when we tread with careless foot a worm 
 That lies across our path. Dim sophistries 
 Shrink into naught, and in its fearful nature 
 The deed stands out — I dread to speak the word — 
 And it is murder ! Nay, so harsh a word 
 May not apply to this. Why may a nation 
 Commit a thousand murders, and remain 
 Unpunish'd, while a man may not avenge 
 Foul injury ? All men agree that man 
 May not for private cause assault the life 
 God gave another ; yet, on slight pretexts 
 Of human policy, men march to battle 
 Beneath the approving smile of reverend priests, 
 Bless'd by their prayers ; the while, in stately 
 
 churches, 
 Fond wives and mothers kneel before the Cross 
 Of Him, from whose pale lips a prayer for pardon 
 E'en for His murderers issued in the death pang, 
 
 K
 
 130 Ezzelin. 
 
 And pray for victor}- and Heaven's protection 
 For those who strike to dust their fellow-men ! 
 These do no wrong ! But I may not avenge 
 Poor Annette's tears, and ; scape the wrath of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Yet why should I be nice on points like these ? 
 Dark is the chaos of conflicting creeds, 
 "\Miile each fresh-springing sect allows the sword 
 To back its quarrel. If such a thing be lawful 
 On any grounds, surely my cause is just. 
 I only slay Lorenzo to escape 
 Pursuit, — to save my Annette from the wrath 
 Of Dante. It were worse than criminal 
 To leave her with Lorenzo, — I must save her : 
 Her safety doth demand Lorenzo's death. 
 Then why this weakness ? If the deed be sinful- 
 (I do not say it is, for no one knows 
 Now what is sin or not since Luther taught, 
 And none return to tell us of the truth 
 Of those deep points where theologians jangle : 
 And Luther says to those who hold the faith 
 God can impute no sin, and I believe 
 In Luther's doctrines more than those of Rome)- 
 Well, //"the deed be sin, I can repent
 
 Ezzelin. 1 3 1 
 
 In after-life. Yes, let the future rest. 
 I will not scruple longer, — 'tis his blood 
 I crave for : I will have it. Annette mine, 
 And but Lorenzo's death betwixt us two, 
 A happy life beyond : long years of bliss 
 Made sweeter by the past, due justice wrought 
 Upon my darlings persecutor: — such the prospect 
 ■\Vhich spreads before me. Here, I swear, it shall be ! 
 Down, coward doubts ! hush, ceaseless voice of 
 
 conscience ! 
 I will not hear thee ; ay, beside her wrongs 
 The voice of God were powerless to restrain me. 
 Nor could the snowy robes and golden crowns 
 Of which priests tell, if they are forfeited 
 By this my work, allure me from the path 
 On which I set my feet. 
 
 [The castle clock strikes tu 1 
 The fatal hour strikes. 
 [Glides forward towards a secret door in the 
 •'/, and then turns towards the wood. 
 Hark ! what a roar 
 Of gathering winds sweeps by ; the storm long 
 
 waiting 
 Rages around me. Ay ! my thoughts forbade
 
 132 Ezzelin. 
 
 My senses to perceive the rushing tempest. 
 Roar, winds ! ere morning comes a wretched soul 
 Shall toss among you. 
 
 [Draws his sword and enters tJie door. 
 
 Scene 3. Lorenzo's Castle. A room. 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 
 A?inette. 
 
 ^spHE wind blows cold, and raves around the 
 
 *5§s castle 
 
 ^ Now in low wailing sounds its voice is 
 heard, 
 Now, with a shriek of mingled rage and fear, 
 It rushes on ; the pattering sleet beats fast 
 Upon the wall ; the woven tapestry 
 Now swells, now shrinks. Hark how the castle gate 
 Screams in the wind ! and from the gloomy sea 
 A roaring voice is heard ; athwart the night 
 I see the white crests leaping ; what a crash 
 Of falling trees, and wailing birds, that fly 
 Homeless amid the tempest. How the walls 
 Rock in the blast, which maddens more and more, 
 And screams defiance at the Lord of Storms
 
 Ezzelin. 133 
 
 Who drives it on ! How sudden the storm has risen ! 
 The sky was cloudless but an hour ago. 
 Tis^nearly midnight ; Ezzelin must be near : 
 What if he meet Lorenzo as he comes 
 To search each roorn, and see the bolts drawn 
 
 fast? 
 Ah, I forgot ! Oh fatal, fatal error ! 
 He always comes lure. Oh, my Ezzelin, 
 You will be slain : O God ! what shall I do 
 To save you ? Ah, too late, the hour draws near : 
 O time ! run slow ; midnight ! delay thy wings, 1 
 And let the search be done ere Ezzelin comes. 
 He must not die. My brain reels round with horror. 
 Betray'd by me to death ! The clock unheeding 
 Is on the stroke. I hear Lorenzo's footsteps. 
 What can I do ? 
 
 {The clock strikes. a?id Lorenzo enters. 
 Lorenzo. What are you doing there ? 
 
 Thinking of Ezzelin ? You do wrong to waste 
 A heart so capable of love on one 
 Whom worms are gnawing. 
 
 1 "O lente lente currite noctis equi."' — Marlov 
 (us.
 
 : $4 Esselin. 
 
 E: np s f/ ie arras an d i ea p s j n f f ne 
 
 room with his rword bare). Be not too sure 
 of that : 
 Lorenzo. Ha! who is that? Ho. there ! 
 
 \Runs towards the door. Annette springs to 
 it and locks it, throwing the key among the 
 ■:ds. 
 Lorenzo | turning furiously on her). Harlot, is this 
 thy work ? 
 I'll kill thee for it ! [Bra: 
 
 Annette. Ezzelin, save me ! 
 
 Ezzz'in {rushing on Lorenzo). Villain ! 
 
 Unhand her. 
 
 L:::z; throwing Annette on the ground). 
 
 Trapp*d like a wild beast ! have at you ! 
 
 [T7iey fight, and Lores zo falls. 
 
 Ezz:.'i'!. Lie there, foul beast, and be thy hoary 
 
 beard 
 
 Dabbled in blood ! You would wed youth and 
 
 beauty ? 
 Ha, ha ! you thought you had a helpless girl 
 To deal with, did you ? May the devil rack you 
 With fiercest pain for this. 
 
 L: >■:>:: . Oh ! I am dying !
 
 Ezz-:lin. 1 5 5 
 
 Help ! help ! 
 
 Ezz-i'.in. Tis vii-. r. ig is comp. 
 
 L . Yes, murder er, I :! ou shall never 
 
 Know happines - .ost 
 
 Shall ever stand beside you. And for th 
 
 [To Annette. 
 Cursed harlot, in 1 a I will come 
 
 To drag thee down with me. 
 
 Ezzdin {lifting his rapier . I « i'.l not b 
 More of this graveyard eloquence. Come. Lorenzo. 
 
 ;t act to thee shall be a deed 
 Of mere}-. 
 
 [Stabs Lorenzo furiously again and again. 
 Lerer.\ ::h me quick ! hell 
 
 fire 
 
 :d this tort-. ' E 
 
 Eadm b iping his sword). The deed is dc 
 N : w let the earth receive the blood-staind body, 
 
 I men forget Lorenzo's name. 
 
 ... 
 
 Annet: - Oh, Ezze! 
 
 it have you done ? Lorenzo, where is he ? 
 Ezzelin. Name not his nan . darling ; all is 
 
 o'er
 
 136 Ezzelin. 
 
 Twixt him and thee. His cruel tongue shall never 
 Torment thee in thy sadness. Come to me — 
 Mine, mine at last. 
 
 Annette. O Christ ! that mangled'form 
 
 Stretch'd on the floor, from whose deep wounds 
 
 the life-blood 
 Runs into ever-widening pools of crimson — 
 That — that Lorenzo? 
 
 Ezzelin {stepping forward and throwing a cloak 
 over the body). Turn thy eyes away. 
 Forget his name : those cruel months of grief 
 Shall seem henceforward as some dream of midnight 
 To one who walks amid the morning gales. 
 
 Annette. Love sees no evil in the fiercest act 
 Of him who hath the empire o'er her heart ; 
 Nor I in thine. But oh ! remove the body : 
 That cloak but adds new terrors to my fancy. 
 
 Ezzelin. Love, they will soon be here to whom I 
 gave 
 Charge of the burial. (Listens.) How the night wind 
 
 screams ! 
 ('Tis ever strange to hear the wind at midnight, 
 But never have I heard it rave so loud),* 
 His spirit calls for vengeance to the blast.
 
 Ezzelin. 137 
 
 Annette {shuddering). Talk not like that. O God ! 
 I hear a footstep 
 
 Echojng along the passage. 
 
 Ezzelin. Do not fear. 
 
 Tis but the pattering of the rain outside. 
 Or else my servants are at hand. 
 
 Enter Servants. 
 
 Ezzelin. Take up this carrion, and bear it hence 
 Unto the forest ; in its leafy depths 
 Prepare a grave. Henceforth the " 'lated traveller," J 
 "Who seeks the castle, shall at midnight hear 
 The night-owl scream above Lorenzo's grave. 
 
 [Laughs scornfully. 
 
 Annette. O let us go ! I dread to linger here. 
 Were you obliged to slay him ? 
 
 Ezzelin. But for that 
 
 He would have slain thee. All around is silent, 
 The castle seems buried in sleep ; they know not 
 Their master's fate. It was in this same room 
 We parted, was it not ? 
 
 Annette. No, in the vestibule 
 
 1 '• Now spurs the 'lated traveller apace." — Macbeth.
 
 138 Ezzelin. 
 
 Before the chapel. Wherefore do we wait ? 
 
 Ezzelin. We wait until my servants gain the wood. 
 
 [Looks out of window* 
 The storm has ceased, the clouds are rolling off, 
 And the broad yellow moon will soon appear. 
 Already on the bay I see a line 
 Of gold, which shows where her celestial beam 
 Falls in mild radiance, though to our weak eyes 
 She's wrapt in storm-black clouds; thus many a deed 
 Which seems all black to man, yet casts a glow 
 On some unresting heart, and bids her passion 
 Rest and be still. See, Annette, how afar 
 The edge of yonder sable cloud is bound 
 With a broad line of gold, which deepens yet 
 Brighter and wider as the darkening vapour 
 Shrinks 'neath the moon. And now the moon 
 
 comes forth 
 In undimm'd glory. Round her, in the gap, 
 The stars gleam bright ; full on thy face the moon- 
 beam 
 Streams, and illumes thy brow ; a halo quivers 
 Above thy golden hair, which softly waves 
 In the cool night wind, and I see thine eyes 
 Fix'd on my own. O Annette ! on this night
 
 Ezzelin. 1 39 
 
 I trust our troubles end : soon we shall be 
 
 In Germany together, far away 
 
 From all these fearful memories. My sweet bride 
 
 (For that thou art, howbeit the Romish Church 
 
 Scowls at our union), I in vain would strive 
 
 To know the full perfection of my bliss. 
 
 All I can tell is that thy heart is mine, — 
 
 Yes, really mine at last ; and those sad months 
 
 Have made this time still dearer. Come now. 
 
 Annette : 
 We must not linger here. 
 
 [Turns to lead At-r out, and suddenly starts back. 
 
 "Why did they leave 
 That gory pool to curdle on the floor ? 
 How blue it looks ! the moonbeam dances in it. 
 Come love, away, away, — our horses wait 
 To bear us to my castle. 
 
 [Exeunt Ezzelin and Annette through the 
 
 ■ - ■
 
 140 Ezzelin. 
 
 Scene 4. Lorenzo's Castle, the room of 
 the murder. 
 
 Enter Dante, Sebastian, and Tonio. 
 Sebastian. 
 ORENZO disappear'd, and Annette too, 
 So I have heard ; and when the servants 
 sought 
 
 The room, they found the door was strongly barr'd. 
 They forced the door, and — 
 
 Dante. Well, Sebastian, then 
 
 What happen'd ? 
 
 Sebastian. Nay, I know not : Tonio saw 
 
 The room, not I. 
 
 Dante. Speak, Tonio, then ; what saw you ? 
 
 Tonio. The floor was stain'd with blood ; and on 
 the boards 
 Lay our old Signor's rapier smash'd and broken : 
 The arras was torn down, and searching there 
 We found a secret passage whose dark boards 
 Were stain'd with blood ; upon the chamber floor 
 A pool of gore lay curdling, and the door-key
 
 Ezzelin. 141 
 
 Lay 'midst the wasted brands. 
 
 Dante. There has been murder ! 
 
 Saw you no traces of the Lady Annette ? 
 
 Tonio. No, none whatever. 
 
 Dante. That will do, my son ; 
 
 You may depart. [Exit Tonio. 
 
 Dante (to Sebastian). The thing is plain enough. 
 You should have warn'd Lorenzo when Lord Ezzelin 
 Escaped. 
 
 Sebastian. Escaped ? We never even saw him. 
 I reach'd the castle and they found him gone. 
 He must have leap'd the window, for the bars 
 Were wrench'd away, 
 
 Dante. You might have well been certain 
 
 He would have come here straight, and so he has, — 
 Murder'd Lorenzo, and escaped with Annette. 
 When you came to me with the news that Ezzelin 
 Had broken from the castle, I made sure 
 He would be here, therefore I bade you come 
 With me from Venice. I have here full powers 
 From the Inquisitors to seize them both. 
 Doubtless they are now at young Ezzelin's castle : 
 We must arrest them there. 
 
 Sebastian. But, holy father,
 
 142 Ezzelin. 
 
 Know you not that the vassals there have risen, 
 Furious from famine and neglect, and now 
 Besiege the castle ? 
 
 Dante. That is well, my son ; 
 
 They cannot flee, but have you men enough 
 To put to flight the rabble, and besiege 
 The castle ? 
 
 Sebastian. Yes, I have a force sufficient ; 
 But here's a messenger. 
 
 Enter Messenger. 
 
 Dante. Whence come you, son ? 
 
 Messenger. From young Lord Ezzelin's castle, 
 now beleaguer'd 
 By the infuriate mob. 
 
 Dante. Is Ezzelin there? 
 
 Messenger. Yes, he is there ; but no one ever sees 
 him. 
 He keeps himself apart, with no companion 
 Save a young girl, who seems of noble birth. 
 
 Dante. What is she like ? 
 
 Messenger. She has long golden hair, 
 
 And deep blue eyes. 
 
 Dante. 'Tis Annette, sure enough.
 
 Ezzelin. 143 
 
 But what's your message, friend ? who sent you here ? 
 Messenger. I came to say the convent of St. 
 Margaret 
 Was threaten'd by the rebels. 
 
 Dante. By St. Mary ! 
 
 This must be stopp'd. Sebastian, muster quickly 
 Your soldiers. I will go with you, and march 
 Upon the convent. 
 
 Sebastian. Why not march as well 
 
 Upon Lord Ezzelin's castle after that ? 
 
 Dante. Ay, that were well, use all your best 
 endeavours, 
 And I will join you. 
 
 [Exeunt Dante, Sebastian, &>c. 
 
 Scene 5. A room in Ezzelin's Castle {formerly 
 Alonzo's). 
 
 Enter Ezzelin. 
 Ezzelin. 
 THOUGHT to reap success, and drink 
 
 henceforth 
 From pleasure's choicest bowl ; but O ! 
 dark thoughts 
 
 5fa 
 
 1
 
 144 Ezzelin. 
 
 Intrude themselves upon my harass'd soul, 
 And will not pass away. " Who sheddeth blood 
 By man shall die ! " a voice cries in my ears ; 
 And keen remembrance of the death-scene ever 
 Haunts me. Need I have done it ? Ah ! 'tis vain 
 To plead I only slew him to preserve her. 
 That will not do ; words cannot .mask design, 
 And what was meant is what God looks upon. 
 Yes, things are plain that never were before ; 
 I wrapp'd my vengeance in a subtle web 
 Woven of human sophistries, but God 
 Has torn them from me, and in all its guilt 
 I stand convicted of the sin of murder. 
 
 blood, blood, blood ! O dark, ensanguined 
 
 stream ! 
 Red sap of hatred, do not float around me ! 
 Cannot sweet thoughts of love dispel thy bane ? 
 
 1 thought to burst the ties which kept me sever'd 
 From Annette's side; J slew him, and a sea 
 
 Of crimson sweeps me from her into hell. 
 
 Oh, God ! I have defied Thee, and Thy wrath 
 
 Lights heavily : still, bid it fall on me. 
 
 Spare her, the guiltless. Yet, O Annette, Annette ! 
 
 Would that I ne'er had seen thee ! O that innocence
 
 Ezzelin. 145 
 
 Again were mine ! Have I not dragg'd thee down 
 Into my ruin ? Cease these dreadful bodings ! 
 Where am I ? — in my room ? My head is burning, 
 Yet'I feel chilly ; what a murmur rings 
 Around the castle ! — nay, what am I doing ? 
 Am I devoid of reason ? No, I know 
 These walls, whereon the face of my dead father 
 Frowns on me : here he died. 
 
 Enter Annette. 
 
 Annette. My Ezzelin, 
 
 You look quite wearied out ; come, let me sit 
 Beside you. 
 
 Ezzelin. And you love me still, then, darling ? 
 
 Annette. Love you ? whom should I love but you ? 
 To-night 
 We start for Germany, I think you said ? 
 
 Ezzelin. We start to-night, but I would sleep 
 awhile. 
 Stay with me ; do not go : I cannot sleep 
 Unless you stay with me. [Sleeps. 
 
 Annette. Ah, love at last 
 
 Ought to be ours ; let not deathly thoughts 
 Come 'twixt us two. The past is gone, then why 
 
 L
 
 146 Ezzelin. 
 
 Call it again ? Hark ! Ezzelin stirs and murmurs ; 
 What does he say ? [Bends aver the couch. 
 
 Ezzelin (in his sleep). Yes, blood for blood ! a 
 harlot ? 
 Nay, she is pure. They foully lie who dare 
 Say otherwise. [ Waking. 
 
 Annette, you do too much. 
 You must not always think and care for me. 
 Already your fair features grow quite pale, 
 And your bright eyes are dim ; but do not weep, 
 I love thee better, dearest, than the name 
 That men call honour. 
 
 Annette. Can I choose but weep ? 
 
 Ezzelin, I am unstain'd. 
 
 Ezzelin. Who dares deny it ? 
 
 And if you were an outcast, scorn 'd by all 
 Who ever knew you, you would find a refuge 
 Upon my breast. 
 
 Enter Warder, hastily. 
 
 Warder. Pardon, my lord, I come 
 
 With heavy tidings ; the inconstant rabble 
 Have risen against you. For some time the city 
 Has been upon the verge of revolution.
 
 Ezzelin. 147 
 
 Outcasts from Germany, whose homes were burnt 
 In the rebellion of the peasantry, 
 Head the uprising ; they invest the castle 
 And threaten to besiege you. 
 
 Ezzelin {starting up). But they dare not ! 
 
 They think that I am gentle and unlike 
 My father, do they ? they shall find me still 
 Alonzo's son. Man instant every wall, 
 And let them do their worst : ere set of sun 
 Full many a household shall be fatherless 
 If they persist {staggers back). What has come over 
 
 me? 
 My head is dizzy. Go, good friend ; I'll come 
 And help you soon. [Exit Warder. 
 
 The room is reeling round ! 
 Support me, Annette. [Fails on the couch. 
 
 Annette. He has swoon'd away ; 
 
 I must have help. 
 
 [Exit ; soon after returns with an old Woman. 
 Woman {looking at Ezzelin). I know not what 
 to say, 
 Signora ; he is struck by some disease. 
 
 Annette. Have you no leech ? — oh ! for the 
 Virgin's sake
 
 148 Ezzelin. 
 
 Help me ! 
 
 Woman. No leech, Signora ; old Tommaso. 
 Our chaplain, ran away when Lord Alonzo 
 Was murder'd. 
 
 Annette. Can you not procure assistance ? 
 
 There's money. 
 
 Woman. Money ! it will soon be had 
 
 For nothing, for the rabble are besieging 
 The castle, and I cannot stop with you. 
 I must escape. 
 
 Annette. And will you leave your lord 
 
 Untended, save by me ? 
 
 Woman. He will not need 
 
 Thy care much longer ; death has set his mark 
 Already on his brow. God keep you, lady. 
 
 [Exit Woman. 
 
 Annette. O no ! it cannot, cannot be ! not death. 
 She has deceived me ! my love, my Ezzelin ! 
 Speak to me ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Who's there, my sister Lucia ? 
 
 Amiette. No, I am here — thy Annette ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Ah ! poor Annette ! 
 
 What have they done to her ? 
 
 Annette. Lie quiet, dearest,
 
 Ezzelin. 149 
 
 Till rest restore thee ; thou art over-wearied. 
 
 Ezzelin. How shall we flee ? O, why am I struck 
 down 
 Now, while each moment's precious ? — the old 
 
 bloodhound, 
 Dante, will find us soon, and send his guards 
 To seize us, and our doom will be the stake. 
 Not for myself I dread it, but for thee. 
 O horrible ! to see thy glorious beauty 
 The prey of hungry flames. 
 
 Annette {repressing a shudder). The death thou 
 diest 
 Shall not affright me ; side by side we'll perish. 
 
 Ezzelin. Ay, we may perish side by side indeed, 
 But, after death, will our two souls be placed 
 Together? What if thou art doom'd to spend 
 Eternity with him whose life I took 
 For daring to be with thee here ? 
 
 Annette. Oh, Ezzelin! 
 
 Speak not like that ! you did it for the best. 
 
 Ezzelin {bitterly). Yes, for the best, I made my- 
 self my God ; 
 How the real God requites me you may see. 
 And heavier punishment is yet in store.
 
 1 50 Ezzelin. 
 
 Annette. And canst thou love me still — thy fatal 
 
 curse ? 
 Ezzelin. Love thee ? yes, at the bar of angry God, 
 When from His lips our endless doom goes forth, 
 I never will forsake thee. 
 
 [Annette bursts into tears. 
 Yes, weep thou canst ; 
 I cannot weep. A murderer may not weep ; 
 His tears are drops of blood. 
 
 Enter Warder, hastily. 
 
 Warder. Lord Ezzelin, 
 
 The rebels swarm on every side against us. 
 Fierce, angry men stand marshall'd for the assault, 
 All the worst spirits that thy father ruled 
 Inflame the mob. I cannot hold the castle 
 More than a day. 
 
 [Ezzelin sinks back with a groan. 
 Annette. He cannot hear thee. Thou wilt do thy 
 best 
 To help us, wilt thou not ? 
 
 Warder. I will, Signora. 
 
 [Exit Warder. 
 Ezzelin. This is intolerable! Were I but freed
 
 Ezzelin. i 5 l 
 
 From this o'er-mastering fever, my right arm 
 Should clear a way to safety for us both, 
 Or we would die together. . . . Who is that 
 Up in the corner pointing at us, Annette, 
 With his lean arm ? 
 
 Annette. Tis but thy fancy, Ezzelin. 
 
 Ezzelin. No, 'tis Lorenzo, I can see the wound. 
 He said he'd haunt me. Girl, he was thy husband : 
 Drive him away. 
 
 [Starts up in a terrified manner ; Annette 
 vainly strives to soot lie him. At last he 
 sinks baek exhausted. 
 
 End of Fourth Act.
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i. A room in Lorenzo's Castle. 
 
 Enter Two Officers of the Inquisition. 
 
 ist Officer. 
 
 ND so the rebels burn'd St. Margaret's 
 convent ? 
 2nd Officer. We only came in time to 
 save the chapel. 
 The mob were howling round it, and the sisters, 
 In terror of their lives, lay at the foot 
 Of the High Altar. 
 
 ist Officer. But you came in time 
 
 To save them from the threaten'd violence ? 
 
 2?id Officer. Yes, old Sebastian took good care 
 of that : 
 The nuns were rescued, and the rebels' corpses
 
 Ezzeliii. 153 
 
 Lie thick around the sacred edifice. 
 Sebastian, when our arms at last grew weary, 
 Bade us desist from slaughter, and commanded 
 That I, with twoscore lances, should conduct 
 The sisters here, the while the remnant march'd 
 To the assault of Ezzelin's castle. 
 
 1st Officer. Good, 
 
 That is well done; where are the sisters now ? 
 
 2nd Officer. At vespers in the chapel. 
 
 Enter Dante. 
 
 Dante {to 1st Officer). What tidings bring you ? 
 
 2nd Officer. None yet, most reverend. 
 
 Dante. Are the sisters here ? 
 
 2nd Officer. Yes, in the chapel. 
 
 Dante. That will do, my sons ; 
 
 Retire, and let me know when news arrives. 
 
 [Exeunt Officers. 
 
 Dante (goes forivard to the ivindow). The scene 
 unchanged, as when I trod these floors 
 So many months ago, and saw the moon 
 Shine on the calm blue waters, while around, 
 Each tree and rocky point rose sharp and clear 
 In the cold, silvery light. Now blackest darkness
 
 154 Ezzelin. 
 
 Lies on the scene ; the stars of heaven are hid 
 
 By the grey host of clouds, and winds are still. 
 
 So awful is the calm, it seems to speak 
 
 Of boding tempests coming o'er the sea. 
 
 (For ever doth a fearful calm precede 
 
 The rush of coming storms). Yes, here I stood, 
 
 And mused upon their fate ; in other hands 
 
 The issue lies. O God ! I tried to save them ! 
 
 Now naught remains but stern, unflinching justice 
 
 For both the guilty lovers, and my voice 
 
 Must speak their sentence. Lord, from Thee I took 
 
 The dread commission to absolve or judge; 
 
 Teach me to rightly wield the dreadful sword ! 
 
 Oh ! awful power to a mortal given — 
 
 Yea to a sinner ! and I cannot shun 
 
 The strict account which such a task demands 
 
 At the dread Bar where He shall sit, while earth 
 
 And starry skies roll backwards in dismay, 
 
 While round Him blaze the countless seraphim — 
 
 A sea of angel faces, flashing swords — 
 
 While the red lurid waves of hell toss high 
 
 Upon the left hand, where the wretched gather 
 
 In silent agony. May those dread eyes 
 
 Smile on me then, with calm, approving glance !
 
 Ezzelin. 155 
 
 Will it be so ? Can e'en a Saviour's blood 
 Cleanse all away — that dark array of sins 
 Open and secret ? — nor my sins alone, 
 But theirs, who in the hush'd confessional 
 Have ask'd my counsels, and through them have lost 
 The narrow path ; when these arise to judgment, 
 Will they not plead against me ? Yet one ray — 
 But one — breaks through the clouds, that never yet 
 Have I sought after slothful ease, nor stay'd 
 The work He gave me ; and I know, I know 
 My labour in the Lord was not in vain. 
 Lord, I presume not ! at Thy nail-pierced feet 
 I fain would lay my life, its cares, its sorrows — 
 Yea, e'en its sins ! dare I to hope at last 
 For me the gates may open ? O ! could they weep 
 Whose tears the awful Father wipes away, 
 Would it not be when they behold that Form 
 Their sins have wounded — see the Spotless One — 
 Know that they cannot leave His side again ; 
 And then cast back a shuddering glance of anguish 
 On e'en the least offence which weigh'd Him down 
 Beneath the Cross, or wove the crown of thorn ? 
 Nay, we shall never know the fearful nature 
 Of our black deeds till sin and pain are fled
 
 156 Ezzelin. 
 
 In Heaven's "eternal bowers;" for He will'd 
 Alone to tread the wine-press — He alone, 
 Wearing a heavenly nature, bow'd His soul 
 To wear the loathsome robe of sin's defilement ; 
 On earth we know not half its misery, 
 
 In Heaven all sins are banish'd 
 
 Hark ! the sisters 
 
 Lift up glad voices to the blessed One 
 
 Who saved them. How the flood of holy song 
 
 Swells up in rich, sweet music to the roof 
 
 Of the high castle chapel ! — how it floats 
 
 Among the fretted pillars ! 
 
 Hymn of the Nuns to the Virgin. 
 Single Voice. 
 
 On Calvary, beneath the Cross, the Maiden Mother 
 
 stands, 
 And gazes on the thorn-wreath'd brow, the bleeding 
 
 feet and hands ; 
 Her brow with bitter grief is pale, her eyes with 
 
 tears are dim, 
 But neither human grief nor tears shall turn her 
 
 eyes from Him.
 
 Ezzelin. 157 
 
 Heart-broken, while unearthly pangs her blessed 
 
 spirit rend, 
 She lingers there beside the tree, and meekly waits 
 
 the end. 
 Yet still on Him alone she thinks — her Son — and 
 
 strives to pray 
 The death-hour may be hasten'd, and the chalice 
 
 pass away. 
 
 Full Chorus. 
 Hail heart with sorrows wounded ! 
 
 Hail eyes with tear-drops stain'd ! 
 By mocking foes surrounded, 
 
 By scornful ones disdain'd. 
 
 For us to Jesus pleading, 
 
 Oh ! make our spirits share 
 Thy pangs, and, with Thee bleeding, 
 
 The marks of Jesus wear. 
 
 Single Voice. 
 Fair Virgin Queen, enthroned above, where sorrows 
 
 may not come, 
 And troubled hearts, from care released, rest in the 
 
 Father's home,
 
 158 Ezzelin. 
 
 And virgin souls around the Spouse for evermore 
 
 shall see 
 The glorious One who bore the Cross and set the 
 
 captive free, 
 
 Look down on us, who lowly kneel before the 
 
 golden gate, 
 Who through the midnight watches drear the rising 
 
 dawn await; 
 And grant that though on earth our brows must 
 
 wear the thorny wreath, 
 And we must uncomplaining tread the path of pain 
 
 and death, 
 
 Full Chorus. 
 That when before His throne who bled 
 
 The thorns are laid aside, 
 And crowns of glory deck the head 
 
 Of every faithful bride, 
 
 We too our grateful songs may raise 
 With them, the warfare done, 
 
 And aye in " sinless anthems " praise 
 The Mother and the Son.
 
 Ezzelin. 1 59 
 
 Dante. How sweet the varying strain ! it calls 
 to mind 
 The words of him, before whose dazzled eye 
 The* golden doors of Heaven were oped — who saw 
 The crystal sea, the emerald rainbow blaze 
 Around the jasper throne, and caught the sound 
 Of many waters, as the song unknown 
 Burst from ten thousand times ten thousand voices ; 
 While, like the waves beneath the midnight moon, 
 The white-robed hosts bow'd low before the throne, 
 And cast their starry coronets at the feet 
 
 Of Him who sat thereon ! 
 
 How long, how long 
 
 Wilt Thou delay Thy coming, holy Lord ? 
 
 The skies are dark above us, everywhere 
 
 Foes press around the Church — her chosen rulers 
 
 Are sold to wickedness ! Is this the city 
 
 Which came descending from the highest Heaven — 
 
 Immanuel's bride, robed in the righteousness 
 
 Of saints and martyrs ? yea, men spurn her now, 
 
 Reject her doctrines, batter down her walls 
 
 And mock her children 
 
 Yet from many a heart 
 
 Prayer rises like the dewy breath of morning.
 
 160 Ezzelin. 
 
 Come, Lord, delay not, we are waiting here — 
 Avenge Thy saints, defend Thy chosen bride, 
 Let the star-spangled clouds of midnight flee 
 Before Thy chariot wheels ! 
 Lord, Lord, I trust 
 
 The end is coming. Faith grows less and less ; 
 Men strive to use the Spirit's sword to wound 
 The Church, not to refute the wiles of Satan. 
 And, Father, I would plead for those two souls 
 In danger of Thy wrath. Oh ! turn them yet, 
 For all is possible to Thee. I strove 
 To save them — now I cannot ; be the doom 
 Of the weak flesh the saving of their souls 
 Before Thy Bar ; and steel my shrinking heart 
 Against weak mercy. Thou wilt bear to say, 
 " Depart, ye cursed!" Shall these lips refuse 
 To speak the sentence of Thy bride, which dooms 
 But to a few brief moments of the flame ? 
 God give me strength to do Thy will, whatever 
 May be the cost. 
 
 Enter Officer. 
 Officer. Sebastian has arrived and waits to see 
 you. 
 He brings important tidings.
 
 Ezselin. 161 
 
 Dante. Bid him enter ; — 
 
 Yet, stay, I first would speak to the good chap- 
 lain 
 Ulberto ; let Sebastian wait me here. 
 
 Scene 2. A room in Lorenzo's Castle. Enter 
 Sebastian and 2ND Officer. 
 
 2nd Officer. 
 
 HAT makes the Inquisition interfere 
 About Lorenzo's death ? The Court of 
 Venice 
 
 Is bound to do full justice on the murderer. 
 Sebastian. Aye, but the Court of Venice works 
 too slowly ; 
 Besides, Lord Ezzelin is accused of heresy. 
 That is enough for us : the Holy Office 
 Has warrant for the deed ; if we perform 
 The business of the State, the State must pay us. 
 Why, had we waited till the proud Dalmatians 1 
 
 1 The troops of the State. 
 M
 
 1 62 Ezzelin. 
 
 Were ready for the journey, we had found 
 Our prey escaped. 
 
 2nd Officer. But now you have him safe ? 
 
 Sebastian. Aye, safe enough, him and his lady 
 too. 
 I have not seen him, but a sentinel 
 Is station'd at his door, another watches 
 Below the window, and in every corner 
 Of the long, winding staircase stands a spearman ; 
 A ring of soldiers watch around the castle, 
 Whose camp-fires flare against the chilly dawn 
 That rises o'er the hill-tops. 
 
 2nd Officer. Then you know 
 
 That he is there? 
 
 Sebastian. I heard his voice, and more, 
 
 After the rebels fled, the castle warders 
 Lower'd the drawbridge to the Church's banner, 
 And I found entrance. Well, a warder told me 
 That scarce an hour before, as he was watching, 
 Lord Ezzelin pass'd him, and, in truth, the soldier 
 Deem'd him at first a spectral shape, he seem'd 
 In such strange guise. 
 
 2nd Officer. But why have you not seen him ? 
 
 Sebastian. The father Dante bade me wait for him
 
 Ezzelin. 163 
 
 Before I made the arrest. I know not why, 
 But such were his commands. 
 
 2nd Officer. Where will you take them ? 
 
 Sebastian. We have no lack of dungeons for 
 such guests. 
 Their doom is sure enough ; I always know 
 By father Dante's looks when he means death. 
 Besides, thou knowest Ezzelin's life is forfeit 
 Unto the State for murder. 
 
 2nd Officer. But methinks 
 
 The State would prove more gentle than the 
 
 Church ; 
 The axe or cord are easier than the stake. 
 
 Sebastian. Ay, that is so, I've seen enough of both. 
 
 2nd Officer. Hast ever seen a woman burn'd, 
 Sebastian ? 
 
 Sebastian. Yes, scores of times ; I never like to 
 see it. 
 I think there's something tender in my nature ; 
 A woman seems to me a woman still, 
 Though thrice a heretic. I always damp 
 The straw when females suffer. 
 
 Second Officer. And the smoke 
 
 Soon ends their sufferings ?
 
 i £4 Ezzelin. 
 
 Sebastian. Yes, oft they die 
 
 Before the flame has even scorch'd them. Comrade, 
 Whate'er the Church ordains must needs be right, 
 Nor may we question aught that she requires ; 
 Yet still 'tis strange, when the grey smoke curls up 
 Around some writhing girl, whose piercing screams 
 Ring through the torture-chamber, to behold 
 On the black wall the Virgin's image placed 
 As if she smiled upon the dreadful work ! 
 
 Enter Dante. 
 
 Dante. Deem not she smiles, Sebastian; her 
 meek heart 
 Is wrung by anguish keener than the victim's, 
 And thou art over-bold to speak like this. 
 
 Sebastian. Pardon me, father; but thou knowest 
 ill thoughts 
 Infect our hearts at times. 
 
 Dante. Restrain them, then. 
 
 Think'st thou the Church grieves not for such frail 
 
 children ? 
 I tell thee, couldst thou but endure to gaze 
 One moment down the drear abyss of hell, 
 And see the torments of the damn'd who burn
 
 Ezzelin. 165 
 
 In quenchless flame, thou wouldst be glad if 
 
 aught, 
 However painful to the flesh, could save 
 From that undying fire, and deem a death 
 More easy dearly bought. But come, thy tidings ? 
 
 Sebastian. The castle is surrounded by your 
 soldiers. 
 
 Dante. And know you aught of Ezzelin ? 
 
 Sebastian. Father, they say that for three days at 
 least, 
 Ezzelin has scarce been seen or heard of. Some 
 Tell me that he is ill ; the lady Annette 
 Is with him — this I know. 
 
 Dante. And you are certain 
 
 They cannot flee ? 'Tis well. Now muster quickly 
 Your soldiers. You, Sebastian, have done well, 
 And merit our approval. [Exit Sebastian. 
 
 Dante. So Ezzelin is ill, — at least they say so ; 
 Keeps himself from his servants, and the girl 
 Annette alone is with him. I must question 
 The servants as to what they know : at present 
 Our only certain charge is heresy, 
 And that he may refute. As to the murder 
 I feel no doubt, but proof is not sufficient —
 
 1 66 Ezzelin. 
 
 At least, I think not ; while poor Annette's guilt, 
 Though very black, takes not a hue like his. 
 Heresy, I trust, has not yet tainted her ; 
 And as to murder, I can hardly think 
 
 She joined in it Ha ! I will summon Lucia 
 
 To go with me, and give the unfortunate 
 Unto her charge : she yet may clear herself, 
 And Lucia will do more with her than I. 
 Ho ! Andreas ! 
 
 Enter Andreas. 
 
 Summon the Lady Lucia 
 To meet me here at once. Poor girl ! for her 
 
 [Exit Andreas. 
 'Twill be no pleasant task to see her brother 
 Arrested for a crime like this. O love ! 
 When unrestrain'd by piety or reason, 
 What ills thou workest on a noble nature ! 
 For Ezzelin show'd many a hope of virtue. 
 Poor wretch ! how blighted is the stately promise 
 Of thy young life ! 
 
 Enter Lucia. 
 Lucia. You sent for me, my father ?
 
 Ezzelin. 167 
 
 Dante. Yes, Lucia : I have words of grave 
 import 
 To tell you ; can you bear to hear me tell them ? 
 
 Lucia. Speak ! I will listen ; if I must, I can. 
 [Clasping her hands.) Saint Mary give me strength, 
 
 if, as my heart 
 Forbodes, you have to speak to me of Ezzelin ! 
 
 Da?ite. You love your brother, Lucia : now that 
 love 
 Must prove itself. I grieve to say that Ezzelin 
 Is charged with heresy. 
 
 Lucia. O, father, no ! 
 
 Say anything — yes, anything but this ! 
 My brother ! oh, my brother ! hast thou drunk 
 Of that accursed poison ? Father ! father ! 
 I would have died rather than hear this tale. 
 {Struggles to repress her emotion.) What can I do for 
 thee? 
 
 Dante. Annette is with him ; 
 
 But she, I trust, is guiltless of this crime. 
 I want your aid, my daughter, to discover 
 All that she knows about another matter, 
 Of which 111 tell you while we journey there. 
 
 Lucia. Yes, father, it is well ; I'll come with thee.
 
 1 68 Ezzelin. 
 
 Dante. Come then ! the morn is rising cold and 
 cheerless ; 
 We must not linger here. 
 
 \Exeunt Dante and Lucia. 
 
 Scene 3. A Room in Ezzeun's Castle. 
 
 Ezzelin lying on a couch, Annette sitting by him. 
 
 Annette. 
 n E sleeps awhile ! The fury has abated 
 Which madden'd him; exhaustion's 
 deadening calm 
 Pervades his sinking frame. I thought I loved him 
 Long years ago : what was that love to this ? 
 Dearer, far dearer, in this agony 
 Art thou. O could I only soothe thy pangs 
 Or share them with thee ! in thy pains I'd find 
 Some consolation. Ezzelin ! for thy sake 
 What could be bitter ? Ah ! I fear not now 
 My coming doom. O may kind death remove thee 
 Ere that last vengeance ! Do not say the guilt 
 Alone was thine : I was the cause of all. 
 On me may vengeance come : I can defy it.
 
 Ezzelin. 169 
 
 And when stern Dante's satellites invade 
 Thy dying chamber, they shall find me ready, 
 For I will not remain behind thee long. 
 
 Ezzelin. Why are they there ? 
 
 Annette. Who, dearest? 
 
 Ezzelin. Seest thou not 
 How they are gathering round me — how their eyes 
 Blaze, and their snaky tresses wave and toss 
 Upon the hell-born wind ? Fiends ! fly ! begone ! 
 
 A?inettc. There's no one here, indeed, but you 
 and I. 
 
 Ezzelin. No one but you and I ? then why that 
 noise — 
 Those frantic shouts mix'd with the shriek of wind? 
 A thousand death-cries blended into one — 
 Loud shouts of furious wrath and wild alarm ? 
 They scale the walls {leaps up), we'll hurl them 
 
 down again ; 
 Think you my tower will yield ? Down ! down, I 
 
 say ! 
 And be your direful screams drown'd in the blood 
 Of dying rebels ! Annette, whore's my sword? 
 
 Annette. I cannot keep him back ! Oh, Ezzelin, 
 Cease these wild ravings !
 
 170 Ezzelin. 
 
 Ezzelin. But they shall not hurt you — 
 
 Ay, you shall rather die beneath my blade 
 Than be their prey. My sword, I say ! — my sword ! 
 I will not yield. . . Ah no, 'tis but some dream ; 
 Tis but the wind that raves around the castle, 
 And lashes up the waves. . . Who sits beside me ? — 
 An angel form with waving golden hair 
 And eyes of icy blue. How pale and white 
 She looks ! But who is it? I know I've seen her 
 Before ; where was it ? in the German castle ? 
 No, no ; it was not there. 
 
 Annette. 'Tis I, thy bride — 
 
 Annette. 
 
 Ezzelin. O yes ! 'tis you ; I have been wandering. 
 How goes the day ? 
 
 Annette. The sun is going down, 
 
 Ezzelin. And why are you so pale ? 
 
 Annette {trying to smile). 'Tis nothing, Ezzelin. 
 
 Ezzelin. But you are ill and worn with watching 
 me. 
 Lie down awhile, and let me sit by you. 
 
 Annette. No, I'm not tired, and if I were, by thee 
 It would be sweet to watch. O try to sleep ! 
 You frighten me by the wild things you say :
 
 Ezzelin. 1 7 1 
 
 Sleep while you can, love. 
 
 Ezzelin {lies down and sleeps, but soon starts up). 
 
 Annette, see ! the bar 
 Is set 'twixt earth and heaven, and the Judge 
 Descends amid the clouds. Hark ! hark ! how loud 
 That fearful trump is sounding ! and the ground 
 Swells up and bursts : see ! the dead rise all gory. 
 Lorenzo comes — Annette, he comes again ! 
 I thought I'd slain him. 
 
 Annette (looking round apprehensively). There is 
 no one near us. 
 
 Ezzelin. The sunset glow shines redly on the 
 wall, 
 Darkening the shade above; across the light 
 I saw him pass, and still the red wound stream'd, 
 
 And the blood bubbled up 
 
 Mount, mount and ride ! 
 The chargers scent the dead ; they plunge, and toss 
 The gory leaves aloft. Spur on ! spur on ! 
 Will the night never pass ? See how the trees 
 Stand dark against the leaden skies of midnight ! 
 Ride on ! This ghastly wood must end at last. 
 See the moon gleaming through a sudden rift, 
 White on yon tree, where lie the rolling leaves
 
 172 Ezzelin. 
 
 In many a heap— ha ! fatal spot ! again 
 We pass the grave, love. Annette, look not back ; 
 The steeds of those who bear the dead man's soul 
 Sweep on behind us, and the owlet screams 
 The welcome of the grave. 
 
 Annette. O ! hush, my own ! 
 
 Didst thou not rescue me from cruel taunts 
 And a dead life of misery ? — can the Father 
 Who pities the unfortunate be angry 
 With thee for this ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Cut off from life unshriven ! 
 
 No time to plead for pardon from his Maker ! 
 This weighs me down. How shall I hope for mercy ? 
 Where can I turn ? the blood-red stain of murder — 
 Who can release from it ? And must I perish ? 
 Is there no hope for Ezzelin ? 
 
 Annette. How shall I comfort him ? — for me he 
 did it, 
 Yet still it cannot be the sin he thinks it. 
 Was I not struggling in Lorenzo's grasp, 
 Who would have kill'd me ? Ah, this cruel struggle ! 
 I cannot bear to see it : and I feel 
 My strength is sinking ; yet I must not yield 
 To this strange weakness which creeps o'er my frame,
 
 Ezzelin. 173 
 
 Till all is o'er with him. 
 
 Ezzelin (leaping up). There is no hope ! 
 Despair, be thou my ruler! in thy depths 
 I'll find some courage yet ; unfearing still 
 I drive towards death's sea. Then, dead Lorenzo, 
 Think not to fright me ; for my deadly hate 
 Towards thee when living shall not be diminish'd 
 "When thou art dead — ay, hate can conquer fear ! 
 
 [Seizes his sword and catches up a light. 
 Where art thou, spectral form ? I will unearth thee ! 
 Thy shroud shall feel my rapier's bloody point ! 
 Ha, ha ! my strength returns, and savage vengeance 
 Has nerved me ! Annette, let me go ! you shall not 
 
 hold me ! 
 I'll track him through the bowels of the earth. 
 Stay me not ! 
 
 [Pushes her from him and rushes out of the room. 
 Annette staggers back and falls on the couch. 
 Annette. What is this sudden weakness which 
 comes o'er me 
 When most I need my strength ? I must give way — 
 I cannot stand it longer ! Ezzelin ! 
 Come back ! oh, do not leave me here alone ! 
 I would not thus have left thee, Ezzelin !
 
 1 74 Ezzelin. 
 
 A raging pain has seized my head, and dews, 
 
 Chill as the death-sweat, gather on my brow. 
 
 All, all is dark. He will return again, 
 
 He must ! Oh ! what if he be gone for ever ? 
 
 I must be there when he returns — I must — 
 
 For who will tend his wants, and soothe his anguish, 
 
 Which gains the mastery even o'er his reason, 
 
 If I be helpless ? Oh ! while life remains 
 
 I would be found by him, for I have wrong'd him : 
 
 My love has been his ruin. 
 
 Scene 4. A Room in Ezzelin's Castle. 
 Annette lying on a couch. 
 
 Annette. 
 HAT ! will my beating heart for ever tell 
 Its tale, and strike the pulses in my 
 temples 
 
 Till all my body seems alive with sounds 
 Ringing and bursting ? O ! my forehead burns 
 Hotter and hotter, and I cannot turn 
 To gain relief, I am so very weak. 
 In vain I close my eyes, sleep will not come, 
 I only feel the sickening pulses beat
 
 Ezzelin. 1 7 5 
 
 Like hammers on the brain whene'er I let 
 The lids close o'er the pupils, and I cease, 
 And stare at the grey twilight. Ezzelin ! 
 Say, are you there ? Ezzelin ! Ezzelin ! wake ! 
 He is not there. I am alone — alone. 
 Oh, Ezzelin ! I never loved but you ! — 
 
 O ! do not leave me, husband ! 
 
 See, he comes, 
 And I shall fling my arms around his neck, 
 
 And lay my weary head upon his shoulder 
 
 O ! God ! it is not he, it is another ! 
 Why lookest thou thus, Lorenzo ? 'Twas not I ! 
 Why does the blood still trickle ? — long ago 
 Thy bones were laid among the rotting leaves ! 
 He stretches out his earth-stain'd arms. O ! save 
 
 me ! 
 He holds me ! O those eyes, in which the worms 
 Are crawling, glare on mine ! I will not come ! 
 God pity me ! O ! do not let him have me ! 
 
 Keep off! keep off! 
 
 It is a horrid dream — 
 
 This fever'd couch, and I shall wake to health 
 When daylight comes \ but O ! long hours of dark- 
 ness
 
 1 76 Ezzelin. 
 
 Must pass before the sun, and I may die — 
 
 Die in this darken'd room, while blackest shadows 
 
 Close o'er my form. O ! where is Ezzelin ? 
 
 Ezzelin ! your Annette wants you ! for your sake 
 
 She gave up all — her honour and her God. 
 
 O Ezzelin ! come ! I should not fear to die 
 
 If you were here ; we two would die together, 
 
 And in some lonely wood, where sunbeams fall 
 
 With crimson glories in the summer days, 
 
 And the great moon at night looks down, we too 
 
 Would slumber side by side 
 
 Oh, I am dying ! 
 
 He will not come. I feel that other beings 
 
 Are in this room ; the roof is sinking down 
 
 Towards me, and around my bed I see 
 
 Old faces that I loved— yet not the same : 
 
 They are not angry, but they gaze on me 
 
 With eyes of grave-born earnestness and wonder. 
 
 There stands my Father, there stern Dante frowns, 
 
 And at his side a lovely maiden kneels,— 
 
 Yes, lovely, but her neck is red and scarr'd 
 
 As if by fire, and she looks with sorrow 
 
 Towards me. There is Lucia ! O ! my friend,
 
 Ezzelin. 177 
 
 Speak to me ! See ! she lifts her tearful eyes 
 To Heaven for me. O ! dearest, best of all 
 I ever knew, would that I too had worn 
 
 The robe of serge ! 
 
 Will the day never come ? 
 
 No, not for me ; my soul will soon be gone 
 And fly with flying shadows. Dreams are past, 
 Mists float before my eyes : where shall I go ? 
 The bed is yielding under me, the floor 
 Rises and sinks, and voices seem to ring 
 
 Around my dying bed 
 
 O ! God have mercy ! 
 
 I own my sin — the vow of lawless love 
 Unbless'd by Thee. Have mercy on my soul, 
 Ere she goes forth into the dreary void ! 
 I hunger'd after love, and love destroy'd me. 
 Death comes, he wraps me in his arms . . . forgive 
 
 {Dies). 
 
 Enter Ezzelin, with a light. 
 
 Ezzelin. I will return to her. I cannot sit 
 Alone ; that bloody form is ever near me ! 
 I do not see it — no, I do not see it ; 
 
 N
 
 178 Ezzelin. 
 
 But still I know it hovers round about me. 
 I hear the stealthy footfall of the dead 
 Behind me when I tread the castle stair. 
 But now the door is shut. 
 
 Oh ! here's poor Annette — 
 Asleep ? Yes, fast asleep. How fair she looks ! 
 She was not well to-day. When was it, though, 
 She told me she was ill ? Was it to-day, 
 Or yesterday, or when I walk'd with her 
 In the rose-garden ? Nay, it was not then; 
 At least, I think not — I am never certain. 
 Since last I saw her I have seen such sights ! — 
 Black pirates, torn by sharks, amid the sea-weed, 
 Down far below the water ; while white owls 
 Hooted at them, as through the blood-red mists 
 Which veil'd the autumn moon they wing'd their 
 
 flight. 
 Nay, is that Annette sleeping there ? How cold 
 She feels ! — well, it is cold to-night. Lorenzo 
 Can never rest among those chilly leaves, 
 And so he comes to warm his mouldering bones 
 By Annette's fire. Ha ! ha ! old man, art there ? 
 Come from the corner ! — make us sport, and wake 
 Thy fair one from her sleep ; she dreams of thee !
 
 Ezzelin. 179 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! Now, Annette, rouse yourself 
 And kiss him ; let thy clinging arms embrace 
 Hi§ neck, and thy long golden tresses blend 
 With his white, festering locks. Ha ! get thee gone 
 Back to the midnight wood — fit haunt for him 
 Who stole my love ! Oh ! flames of hell consume 
 Thy wither'd form, and greedy devils tear 
 Thy mouldy entrails ! — thou hast kill'd her, slave ! 
 Annette, awake ! awake ! the cocks are crowing ! 
 No, she is dead — is dead — and I will die 
 Beside her. But a growing chill comes on ; 
 My limbs are held, my body slowly sinks 
 Into weak stupor. Why destroy the body 
 And leave the brain still strong? Oh, pitiless ! 
 A power restrains me, and I cannot move — 
 Not e'en to press, with cold and quivering lips, 
 Her death-pale cheek. {Sinks into a chair and drops 
 
 his sword) 
 But now the night of reason quick approaches, 
 Moonless and starless, and a iloating cloud 
 Bears her from me unto the angel bands. 
 
 [Recovering) he looks around hint. 
 This is my death-stroke ! Life is fading fast
 
 1 80 Ezzelin. 
 
 (Like dreams and shadows when the sun lifts up 
 
 His burning face behind the misty hills). 
 
 Visions of dread are gone, reality 
 
 Comes in their place. Oh ! rather let me know 
 
 The wildest scenes of horror that e'er seized 
 
 The madman's teeming brain, than see the truth — 
 
 This room, this chair, my prison, and my wife 
 
 Dead at my feet ! I cannot turn my eyes 
 
 From her — my darling — cold and ghastly white 
 
 Beneath the glimmering dawn she lies. Lorenzo, 
 
 Happier art thou in thy dim forest grave 
 
 Than I, thy slayer. Come not now to haunt me ! 
 
 Upbraid me not ! A little, little while, 
 
 And I shall be as thou — perchance, with thee 
 
 In the drear spirit-world. There take thy vengeance 
 
 And wreak thy wrongs upon my soul ; and hers 
 
 With thine shall blend to scourge with bloody 
 
 whips 
 The murderer who slew ye both. Oh, Annette ! 
 I, who was thine — yes, thine alone — have kill'd 
 
 thee, — 
 Crush'd thy young life and closed thy glorious eyes, 
 Never, oh ! never to behold thee more 
 In life, my darling ! . . . God, Thy hell has nothing
 
 Ezselin. 1 8 1 
 
 More dread than this — to linger dying here 
 With my dead love beside me, and to see 
 Nothing but that dead face, so pale, so sweet, 
 Until the morning of the day shall come 
 And bring life's eventide ! Oh ! haste thee, death ! 
 Three hours sure have past ! No ! 'tis three 
 
 minutes ! 
 How fast run on our thoughts when death is after ! 
 How would my quivering heart have burst for 
 
 horror 
 Once in a time like this ! But now all's past — 
 The blood, the nerve, the sinew of the soul 
 All turn'd to dust ; my limbs refuse obedience 
 To the fierce dictates of the raging brain, 
 Or that cold steel that glitters on the floor 
 Had snatch'd me from the world. I cannot 
 
 reach it! 
 I must wait here for death. . . . Oh, God ! in 
 
 mercy 
 Blast me with madness; let Thy hell begin ! 
 Better to know the worst than linger here 
 In dread anticipation. ...... 
 
 'Tis in vain 
 That I would think myself beyond the tomb,
 
 1 82 Ezzelin. 
 
 Among the spirits ; all is real around me, 
 All touch'd with life — the trees, the yellow dawn, 
 And the dead form beside me. There the bloom 
 Of life dies out ....... 
 
 * • • ■•••••■ 
 
 Another life must come — the past pursues me, 
 And rages wildly round my fearful soul. 
 Cease, cease, dim shadows! . 
 
 This world is not small — 
 The world of men; there are large desert tracks 
 Where men may dwell unheeded and unwatch'd; 
 But the dark world of spirits, the unknown, 
 Is larger far — a dreary void, to which 
 Death soon will drive me. Shall I not discover 
 Some lonely place where I may safely rest 
 At anchor, while the phantoms of the past 
 
 Seek me and cannot find 
 
 The future looms 
 Like night-clouds, driving o'er the tossing waves, 
 Black and impenetrable ! 
 
 [Starts up, and staggers against the wall. 
 
 The gloomy mists 
 Fill up the room, and wrap me in their folds, 
 Shooting cold chills upon my heart and brain;
 
 Ezzclin. 183 
 
 But Annette's face shines through the murky 
 
 vapours, 
 Like the white moon through night-fogs, when the 
 
 raven 
 Croaks from the ivied crag ! Ha ! ha ! they come ! 
 Dim and uncertain round me, forms of ill — 
 Hideous and mocking faces fill the air. 
 Yet still I see her lying there. I'll turn, 
 I will not look again. The white swan sings 
 Before he dies, and so will I. Come, listen 
 To Ezzelin's death-song, spirits born of evil ! 
 
 {Scratches on the wall with his dagger for 
 some time, and then drops senseless on 
 the floor. 
 
 Scene 5. The same Room. 
 
 Dante {speaking outside the door). 
 
 'EBASTIAN, stay without, and Lucia also, 
 Till I have seen the room. 
 
 Sebastian. The room is still as death; 
 some dreadful deed 
 Has taken place!
 
 1 84 Ezzelin. 
 
 Dante. Ay, you must force the door. 
 
 [T/ie door is forced open, and Dante enters. 
 
 Dante. Tis very still. (Seeing the body) 
 
 What, Annette here, asleep? 
 No, 'tis no sleep ! (starts back) dead ? dead ! t)h, 
 
 God of justice ! 
 And has thy justice fallen ? Wretched girl ! 
 Is this the end of thine unholy love, 
 Thy treacherous marriage, and deceitful vows 
 To dead Lorenzo, when thy weak heart spurn'd 
 The Saviour's gentle call — " Come unto me 
 All ye that labour and are heavy laden, 
 And I will give you rest?" 
 
 Yea, love has been thine idol : thou hast follow'd 
 Along the burning path from sin to sin, 
 Ending in murder and a harlot's bed, 
 Then death at last, uncared-for and unseen. 
 (Seeing Ezzelin stretched on the floor) And there he 
 
 lies, thy guilty paramour, 
 Smitten with drivelling madness. For a face, 
 Fond youth, thy soul was given ; from my hands 
 Your doom is taken, and thy guilty passion 
 And fatal heresies shall cry for vengeance 
 To Him in whose right hand the lurid bolt
 
 Ezzelin. 185 
 
 Gleams ever ready. Thou thrice-damn'd apostate, 
 Luther ! another chain is forged for thee — 
 A heavier weight of wrath to sink thee lower 
 (If yet a lower place is found for thee), 
 By this, thy victims' deaths, Annette and Ezzelin, 
 Betray'd by thee — ay, so the Church foretold, 
 That in the north the seat of Satan lay. 
 What if from Germany the Antichrist 
 Was doom'd to come, in likeness of a priest ? — 
 I know not ! {Tunis to Ezzelin.) 
 Oh, miserable pair ! the dying youth 
 Plays with dead Annette's hair, and fondles it. 
 Yet life remains ; the spark may shine a moment — 
 Salvation yet be Ezzelin's. Saviour, grant it ! 
 {Bends over Ezzelin.) Ezzelin, Ezzelin! speak! 
 can you not hear me ? 
 
 Ezzelin. The night-fiend calls! The gibbering 
 spectres run, 
 And crouch in hollow trees and weedy caverns 
 To hide them from his burning eyes of flame 
 Who comes to drag them down. 
 
 [Lifts his head and glares at Dante. 
 
 Dante {holding up the crucifix). Oh! look, my 
 son,
 
 1 86 Ezzelin. 
 
 Upon the blessed sign ! — that brow was torn, 
 
 Those limbs were mangled for thy sake ; His wounds 
 
 Plead for thee. . . Fiends, give way before His sign 
 
 Who led you captive ! Father, grant Thy child 
 
 One moment of full consciousness to pray 
 
 For pardon ! think upon His death who bought him ! 
 
 Shall that dread toil be wasted P 1 Ezzelin, 
 
 Turn not away ! . . . He will not look ; he buries 
 
 His face among the straw. I'll send for Lucia ; 
 
 Her voice may kindle yet his dying senses 
 
 To know his need of mercy. \_Exit. 
 
 Dante (re-entering with Lucia). I need thee not 
 For sterner duties than a sister's love 
 Would fain bestow ; their doom no more 
 Depends on mortal voice. May He support thee, 
 Who, when the sun was veil'd, knew of this hour, 
 And bore thy sorrows then ! 
 
 Lucia. Oh ! what has happen'd ? 
 
 They are not dead ? 
 
 Dante. Annette is dead, but 
 
 Lucia. Annette? 
 
 Yes : there she lies. O ! see how deadly pale, — 
 
 1 " Tantus labor non sit cassus."— Dies Ir.e.
 
 Ezzelin. 1S7 
 
 How wasted are those features which were once 
 Fairest among the fair. What lines has anguish 
 Traced on that youthful face! the teeth are 
 
 clench'd 
 As if she struggled in death's cold embrace, 
 And that sad smile that lingers on her lips 
 Tells more of pain than rapture ! {Bends over the 
 
 body.) Look, my father ! 
 In her cold hand she grasps the crucifix, 
 As if she fain had press'd it to her lips 
 In the death agony. (Clasps her hands.) .... Thank 
 
 God for i: ! 
 The lamb had wander d far amid the wilds, 
 Yet, in the darkest eventide, He sought her, — 
 The thorn-crowned One, — and led the wanderer 
 home. 
 Dante. God grant it has been so ! God grant 
 her guiltless 
 Of heresy. But, Lucia, leave the dead 
 Unto her Judge and Saviour. Turn to him — 
 The living — who still lingers at the gate 
 Of death. 
 
 Lucia. What! Ezzelin! Where is he, father? 
 Dante (pointing to Ezzelin). There he lies !
 
 1 88 Ezzelin. 
 
 Lticia. Yes, but not living ! See his latest words; 
 He seems to have fallen down in writing them. 
 
 (Reads on the wall.) 
 
 No more ! no more ! the night falls fast, 
 
 The shades drive o'er the sea ; 
 And flies my bark before the blast 
 
 Of drear immensity. 
 The voices of the woeful past 
 
 Are far off following me, 
 But not a look before be cast 
 
 To tell what hence may be. 
 
 Death, with his drooping, shadowy wings, 
 
 And eyes of silence cold, 
 Has launch'd me, while the seagull sings 
 
 Her deathly tales of old. 
 And now the world far from me flies, 
 
 And ghostly billows moan ; 
 The closing twilight of dim skies 
 
 Shall speed me on alone ! 
 
 Dante. There he stopp'd short ! I fear we 
 cannot rouse him 
 Now from his deadly trance.
 
 Ezzelin. i S9 
 
 Lucia. O ! I could weep 
 
 My heart away, and sigh my soul to air 
 To see him, whom I once so prided in, 
 Thus weaker than the weakest, and so stain'd 
 
 With blackest sin unshriven . 
 
 [Ezzelin groans ; Lucia kneeling by him. 
 
 Ezzelin ! 
 Speak to me, dearest, but one word ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Where's Annette ? 
 
 Lucia. Do you not know me ? 
 
 Ezzelin. Annette ! you have watch'd 
 Too long beside me ; you are wearing out 
 Kiss me and good night ! I must see your eyes 
 Look bright again to-morrow. 
 
 Dante. He knows thee not ! 
 
 His thoughts are still with her ! 
 
 Ezzelin. Turn not away. 
 
 Though all men hate you, I will never leave you. 
 Sob out your grief in my arms ; the world is 
 
 nothing 
 When we two are together. 
 
 Lucia, A deadly change 
 
 Is stealing o'er his features ! There is one 
 Standing beside him whom we do not see.
 
 1 90 Ezzelin. 
 
 [To Dante, in a voice of smothered agony. 
 Pray for him ere the spirit quit her frame. 
 
 [Kneels, and clasps her hands. 
 Dante {kneeling by Ezzelin, and supporting him in 
 his arms). Oh, Son of God ! Who on the 
 bitter Cross 
 (When every human sin upon Thee press'd, 
 And the Eternal turn'd His face away), 
 Didst cry, " My God ! my God ! why hast Thou 
 
 then 
 Forsaken me?" think of that fearful hour, 
 And by those seven dread words, and by the love 
 Which loved us from the first, be with this sinner. 
 If it be possible blot out the doom 
 Decreed against him, and in Thy dear hands 
 Receive the parting soul. 
 
 Ezzelin. All is too late ! 
 
 If you must fade then I must follow you. 
 My life has leap'd into its last long flicker, 
 And now is sunk in smouldering. 
 
 Dante. All is over : 
 
 Death's hand's upon him ! 
 Ezzelin. Farewell ! [Dies. 
 
 Dante. At that word
 
 Ezzclin. 1 9 1 
 
 He breathed his soul out. Ay, 'twas well like him 
 Bidding the world farewell. 
 
 Lucia {bursting into an agony of tears). And do 
 we part 
 For ever thus ? Can neither prayer nor suffering 
 Gain thee release ? For ever and for ever 
 Must thou be banish'd from the Father's presence ? 
 ( To Dante.) You are of those to whom the Master gave 
 To bind and loose. Tell me, I here implore you, 
 Is death the end of hope? O! but one word 
 To say my prayers could aid him, and Fd give 
 My life to prayer, and wear the biting scars 
 Of scourges keen, as gladly as a maiden 
 Deck'd out for marriage wears her bridal gems ; 
 And day and night I'd bathe my Saviour's feet 
 With streaming tears ! O Ezzelin ! my brother ! 
 Oh ! had I died for thee it had been well ! 
 Or if thy soul had flown to meet thy God 
 Wearing the robe unstain'd, I had not wept ! 
 But now my lips can hardly speak the words — 
 •• Not as I will, but as Thou wiliest, Father." 
 My heart is broken ; life can never more 
 Be aught but endless sorrow for thy doom. 
 
 [Hides her face in Jier robe.
 
 192 Ezzelin. 
 
 Dante. Would I could comfort thee; but lift 
 
 thine eyes 
 To higher beings than poor sinful man. 
 Dost thou grieve thus for one o'erwhelm'd by sin ? 
 Then think of Him, who bore the scourge, the 
 
 thorns, 
 The blood-stain'd agony beneath the olives ! 
 And yet in vain, for many, was His passion : 
 They will not come to Him ! And look to her, 
 The blessed one ! What are thy pangs to hers ? 
 Pierced through with seven sorrows like a sword ! 
 Yet, Lucia, I can tell thee this : God often 
 By our sufferings works His awful will ! 
 And, who can tell, if to those favour'd ones 
 Who clasp the bitter Cross, like Magdalene, 
 And kiss the bleeding feet, and strive to suffer 
 E'en as He suffer'd, He may deign to grant 
 Their prayers, and let their pangs and tears atone 
 For the black sin of those they love ? 
 
 Yes, Lucia, 
 Thou wilt do well, for Ezzelin's sake, to tread 
 The path of sorrows ; and perchance at last, 
 After long years of suffering, grief, and prayer, 
 All, all may be forgiven ; and thy brother
 
 Ezzclin. 193 
 
 Enter at last those blissful fields of light, 
 Where kicked foes for ever cease to trouble, 
 And wear}- ones have rest 
 
 Lucia (turning towards the body, then clasping her 
 hands, and raising her eyes to Heaven). Then 
 night and day 
 I'll pray ; nor care for weariness or pain. 
 So I may meet thy soul in Heaven again ! 
 
 Finis. 
 
 CHISWICK PE£S* : — C. WHITTISCHA.M AND CO. TOOKS COCRT, 
 CHANCERY LANE. 
 
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