Emptied itself (They sought my life, Ragozzi!)
Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way
To the deserted chamber of my lord.--
OLD BATHORY, a Mountaineer.
BETHLEN BATHORY, the Young Prince Andreas, sup
posed Son of Old Bathory.
LORD RUDOLPH, a Courtier, but friend to the Queen's party.
[Then to the infant. LASKA, Steward to Casimir, betrothed to Glycine. PESTALUTZ, an Assassin, in Emerick's employ. WOMEN.
And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips,
And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer!
Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty.
As I removed the seal, the heavy arm
Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger
Seem'd pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven!
Lo, I was standing on the secret door,
Which, through a long descent where all sound perishes,
Let out beyond the palace. Well I knew it—-
But Andreas framed it not! He was no tyrant!
Haste, madam! Let me take this precious burden!
[He kneels as he takes the child.
Take him! And if we be pursued, I charge thee,
Flee thou and leave me! Flee and save thy king!
[Then as going off, she looks back on the palace.
Thou tyrant's den, be call'd no more a palace!
The orphan's angel at the throne of heaven
Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee
A Queen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse.
Henceforth a dragon's haunt, fear and suspicion
Stand sentry at thy portals! Faith and honour,
Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted nation:
And, for the iniquity that houses in thee,
False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine
(Fateful conjunction of malignant planets),
Shall shoot their blastments on the land.
Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men,
And when they cry: Lo! a male child is born!
The mother shall make answer with a groan.
For bloody usurpation, like a vulture,
Shall clog its beak within Illyria's heart.
Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant!
They shall be mock'd with sounds of liberty,
And liberty shall be proclaim'd alone
To thee, O Fire! O Pestilence! O Sword!
[Pointing to BATHORY'S dwelling. SAROLTA answering, points to where she then stands.
Here! For on this spot Lord Casimir
Took his last leave. On yonder mountain-ridge
I lost the misty image which so long
Linger'd, or seem'd at least to linger on it.
And what if even now, on that same ridge,
A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening,
As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last
To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost,
Who but Sarolta's own dear lord return'd
From his high embassy?
My tale is brief. During our festive dance,
Your servants, the accusers of my son,
Offer'd gross insults, in unmanly sort,
To our village maidens. He (could he do less?)
Rose in defence of outraged modesty,
And so persuasive did his cudgel prove
(Your hectoring sparks so over brave to women
Are always cowards), that they soon took flight,
And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters,
Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words
Which their own threats provoked.
Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect To the livery of our house?
Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards,
That they have sought to piece out their revenge
With a tale of words lured from the lips of anger
Stamps them most dangerous; and till I want
Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need
Their services. Discharge them! You, Bathory!
Are henceforth of my household! I shall place you
Near my own person.
When your son returns,
Present him to us!
Ha! what, strangers here!
What business have they in an old man's eye?
Your goodness, lady—and it came so sudden-
I can not-must not-let you be deceived.
I have yet another tale, but- [Then to SAROLTA aside. Not for all ears!
Old man! you talk I oft have pass'd your cottage, and still praised
Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms
The gusts of April shower'd aslant its thatch.
Come, you
shall show it me! And while you bid it
Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness
The oil of gladness glittering on the water
Of an ebbing grief.
As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf That hath began to worry the poor lambs!
Till thou hast learnt it! Fervent good old man!
Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on
A face of sternness, alien to my meaning!
[Then speaks to the Servants.
Hence! leave my presence! and you, Laska! mark me!
Those rioters are no longer of my household!
If we but shake a dew-drop from a rose
In vain would we replace it, and as vainly
Restore the tear of wounded modesty
To a maiden's eye familiarized to licence.-
But these men, Laska-
[LASKA starts up from his seat. Has the seat stung you, Laska?
No, serpent! no; 't is you that sting me; you! What! you would cling to him again!
Yes; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him!
you forget the scene of yesterday! Mute ere he came, but then-Out on your screams, And your pretended fears!
Your fears, at least, Were real, Laska! or your trembling limbs And white cheeks played the hypocrites most vilely!
1 Refers to the tear, which he feels starting in his eye. The following line was borrowed unconsciously from Mr Wordsworth's Excursion.
Oh! that's a different thing.
To be sure he's brave, and handsome, and so pious
To his good old father. But for loving him—
Nay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska!
Poor youth! I rather think I grieve for him;
For I sigh so deeply when I think of him!
And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes,
And my heart beats; and all because I dreamt
That the war-wolf had gored him as he hunted
In the haunted forest!
For the best account of the War-wolf or Lycanthropus, see DRAYTON'S Moon-calf, CHALMERS' English Poets, vol. iv, p. 13 0.
She does not know me! GLYCINE.
Oh that she did! she could not then have spoken
With such stern countenance. But though she spurn me
I will kneel, Bethlen-
What have I done? or whom have I offended?
Rash words, 't is said, and treasonous, of the king.
[BETHLEN mutters to himself indignantly.
GLYCINE (aside).
So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god,
The shaft just flown that killed the serpent!
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