trow, Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd. I've bought my freedom at no trifling price. Most potent gold! all that the earth can offer, Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still— Since it appears that holy men for thee Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good. Yet must I first behold my Isidora: Whose startled innocence, like to a rose When charged with dew and rudely shaken, Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt Hath shock'd her purity—now, she rejects The love of one who has been false to Heav'n. She refused to see me; but I have gain'd, By intercession of my doting mother, One meeting, to decide if my estate Shall be more wretched than it was before. If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be A wild career most perilous to the soul— That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain And prowling through the world in search of prey. [Exit.
Scene II.
Isidora's Room in the Guzman Palace.
Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises.
Isid. Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought Of vows made light—nay, mock'd by him, the guide, Th' elected star of my too trusting soul, Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration. And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail Of broken-hearted love. Love—and for whom!— How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid, Thus to embark my heart, my happiness, So inconsiderate—now the barque sinks, And, with its freight, is left to widely toss In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair. Oh! Isidora, is thy virgin heart Thus mated to a wild apostate monk? The midnight reveller, and morning priest, At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl; The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal, The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied. To love this man, I surely have become That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be. Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin? Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel, Nor rise till I be freed of love and him. (Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds.) Anselmo—Virgin holy, will no name But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r? Then let me bind myself by sacred vows: Record it, Heav'n!—Thus do I renounce—— Enter Anselmo. Ans.——All sorrow, my beloved; for grief no more Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss.
(Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly.)
Isid. Nay, touch me not—approach me not, Anselmo. Ans. (looking earnestly at her). Isidora! Isid. Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength In this my hour of peril. Anselmo, That look has reft a heart too fondly thine— But only thine, henceforth, in holy love. Ans. And is not all love holy? that the holiest, Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart; So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast Shall shortly be as snow. Isid. Hear me, Anselmo: It is ordain'd we meet no more. Ans. And canst thou say those words? (Kneels.) See, on the earth I grovelling kneel—my straining eyes seek thine: Turn, turn to me; say not those words again; Thou canst not, dearest. Isid. (her eyes still averted). We must meet no more. Ans. I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now One steady, one unflinching glance, and then If thou'lt repeat those words—I must believe. (Pause.) Averted still!—Oh, Isidora, who, Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast? Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest, Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?— It was—that start declares it.—Curse him, curse him. (Rises.) Isid. (coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo.) Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest. [Anselmo covers his face with his hand.] My better angel hath my mind illumed— Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins, In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes; That silent voice, which every bosom sways, Hath spoken deeply—bidden me abjure Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said, That of us twain, immortal bliss alone Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd, Must on this earth be won by penance strict, Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows. Is it not well, Anselmo—— Ans. Isidora, Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins, Until they shrivel, well? And is it well To find the angel, who hath borne your soul Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd, Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink To everlasting torments?—In bitter truth, These are but nought compared to the fell pangs Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast. Isid. Anselmo, hear me! Ans. Hear me now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must not part! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too: Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates: Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine: But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head. Isid. Oh! horrible, Anselmo—horrible! Ans. Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance? Isid. The violated vow—— Ans. Was made long ere I Knew its power or meaning, and was forced By those who thrust it on me in deceit; For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright. 'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample To unloose, than monks to bind—thou'rt answer'd. Isid. Answer'd, but not content—if false to vows More sacred far;—yet surely not more sacred— For what should be more sacred than the vows Which link the happiness of two in one Till death dissolves the union?—If false To Heav'n, Anselmo—— Ans. Who made me false, then? Isid. Touch not that chord—treat me not as woman, Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms: You know me not, Anselmo; but till late I scarcely knew myself. Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent: Can man absolve from compact made with God? Ans. Isidora, it is now my duty T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty, May haply slide. A maiden in her pride, But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head Of our religion; and what, for ages, Holy men have reverenced and believed, Hath been by her denounced as not her creed. Isid. 'Tis true—'tis true. The sin of unbelief, 'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself, Swayed by my foolish pride. (Turns to Anselmo.) But still, as yet Thou'rt bound, Anselmo—e'en this discourse, Methinks, is sacrilege. Ans. Nay, Isidora, Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss? And is the tender sanction of that saint, Our more than mother, nothing? As monk— And now I scarce am one—it would seem I am an object of your utter hate. Isid. Not hate, Anselmo—'tis a bitter word; Say rather fear—of what belongs to Heav'n. Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st, Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart? What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft? Ans. Not words, but deeds, my Isidora, Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure: The first are due to God. This very night With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul; Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff; Then—— Isid. And then—dear, dear Anselmo. Ans. And then Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed, The monk parades it boldly, and the bride Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord? No, no; they never shall, my Isidora. Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel: Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field, A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain; I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth, But at thy portal light from battle steed. Spain hath around and that within, shall make The monk—a hero. Dost thou not think The plumed helm will better fit this head, Than the dull friar's cowl? My Isidora, Now for a space—a brief one, fare thee well! Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee, As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd Some token that shall cheer me in the fight. I must be worthy of you. Isid. Thou art so. (Embrace.) Anselmo, fare thee well! may Heav'n bless thee! [Exit. Ans. All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes; Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path Where peace and happiness attend my steps! Now must I to the monast'ry repair, There to remain until I'm freed;—but then, To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix: I had forgotten it. Most willingly Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute; And yet I must not. When I was friendless, Reckless of life—a life not worth preserving— I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. [Exit.
