[812:1]Preface, Prologue, and Epilogue do not appear in the 1834 edition.
[812:1]Preface, Prologue, and Epilogue do not appear in the 1834 edition.
[812:2]The long passage here placed within square brackets [ ] appeared in the first edition only.
[812:2]The long passage here placed within square brackets [ ] appeared in the first edition only.
[812:3]of] forMS. R. (ForMS. Rsee p.819.)
[812:3]of] forMS. R. (ForMS. Rsee p.819.)
[812:4]Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
[812:4]Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
[812:5]Tragedy for his theatreMS. R.
[812:5]Tragedy for his theatreMS. R.
[812:6]I need not say to Authors, that as to theessentialsof a Poem, little can be superinduced without dissonance, after the first warmth of conception and composition. [Note byS. T. C., first edition.]
[812:6]I need not say to Authors, that as to theessentialsof a Poem, little can be superinduced without dissonance, after the first warmth of conception and composition. [Note byS. T. C., first edition.]
[812:7]would condescend to point outMS. R.
[812:7]would condescend to point outMS. R.
[813:1]not only returnedMS. R.
[813:1]not only returnedMS. R.
[813:2]and] not onlyMS. R.
[813:2]and] not onlyMS. R.
[813:3]that he] not onlyMS. R.
[813:3]that he] not onlyMS. R.
[813:4]I for the first time sawMS. R.
[813:4]I for the first time sawMS. R.
[813:5]likewise . . . assured] not only assertedMS. R.
[813:5]likewise . . . assured] not only assertedMS. R.
[813:6]but finally (and it is this last fact alone, which was malice for which no excuse of indolence self-made is adduced which determined me to refer to what I had already forgiven and almost forgotten) in the year 1806MS. R.
[813:6]but finally (and it is this last fact alone, which was malice for which no excuse of indolence self-made is adduced which determined me to refer to what I had already forgiven and almost forgotten) in the year 1806MS. R.
[813:7]the] thisMS. R.
[813:7]the] thisMS. R.
[813:8](Private.) Had the Piece been really silly (and I have proof positive that Sheridan did not think it so) yet 10 years afterwards to have committed a breach of confidence in order to injure the otherwise . . . that on the ground of an indiscretion into which he had himself seduced the writer, and the writer, too, a man whose reputation was his Bread—a man who had devoted the firstlings of his talents to the celebration of Sheridan's genius—and who after he met treatment not only never spoke unkindly or resentfully of it, but actually was zealous and frequent in defending and praising his public principles of conduct in theMorning Post—and all this in the presence of men of Rank previously disposed to think highly . . . I am sure you will not be surprised thatthisdid provoke me, and that it justifies to my heart the detail here printed.S. T. Coleridge.P.S.—I never spoke severely of R. B. S. but once and then I confess, Ididsay that Sheridan was Sheridan.MS. R.
[813:8](Private.) Had the Piece been really silly (and I have proof positive that Sheridan did not think it so) yet 10 years afterwards to have committed a breach of confidence in order to injure the otherwise . . . that on the ground of an indiscretion into which he had himself seduced the writer, and the writer, too, a man whose reputation was his Bread—a man who had devoted the firstlings of his talents to the celebration of Sheridan's genius—and who after he met treatment not only never spoke unkindly or resentfully of it, but actually was zealous and frequent in defending and praising his public principles of conduct in theMorning Post—and all this in the presence of men of Rank previously disposed to think highly . . . I am sure you will not be surprised thatthisdid provoke me, and that it justifies to my heart the detail here printed.
S. T. Coleridge.
P.S.—I never spoke severely of R. B. S. but once and then I confess, Ididsay that Sheridan was Sheridan.MS. R.
[813:9]The fourth act of the play in its original shape, and, presumably, as sent to Sheridan, opened with the following lines:—'Drip! drip! drip! drip!—in such a place as thisIt has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.'InMS. IIIthe opening lines are erased and the fourth Act opens thus:—This ceaseless dreary sound ofwater-dropsdropping waterI would they had not fallen upon my Torch!After the lapse of sixteen years Coleridge may have confused the corrected version with the original. There is no MS. authority for the line as quoted in the Preface.
[813:9]The fourth act of the play in its original shape, and, presumably, as sent to Sheridan, opened with the following lines:—
'Drip! drip! drip! drip!—in such a place as thisIt has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.'
'Drip! drip! drip! drip!—in such a place as thisIt has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.'
InMS. IIIthe opening lines are erased and the fourth Act opens thus:—
After the lapse of sixteen years Coleridge may have confused the corrected version with the original. There is no MS. authority for the line as quoted in the Preface.
[814:1]'This circumstance.' Second edition.
[814:1]'This circumstance.' Second edition.
[814:2]The caste was as follows:—Marquis Valdez, Mr. Pope;Don Alvar, Mr. Elliston;Don Ordonio, Mr. Rae;Monviedro, Mr. Powell;Zulimez, Mr. Crooke;Isidore, Mr. De Camp;Naomi, Mr. Wallack;Donna Teresa, Miss Smith;Alhadra, Mrs. Glover.
[814:2]The caste was as follows:—Marquis Valdez, Mr. Pope;Don Alvar, Mr. Elliston;Don Ordonio, Mr. Rae;Monviedro, Mr. Powell;Zulimez, Mr. Crooke;Isidore, Mr. De Camp;Naomi, Mr. Wallack;Donna Teresa, Miss Smith;Alhadra, Mrs. Glover.
[814:3]Mrs. G.'s eldest child was buried on the Thursday—two others were ill, and one, with croup given over (tho' it has since recovered) and spite of her's, the physician's and my most passionate remonstrances, she was forced to act Alhadra on the Saturday!!!Mrs. Glover (I do not much like her, in some respects) was duped into a marriage with a worthless Sharper, who passed himself off on her as a man of rank and fortune and who now lives and feeds himself and his vices on her salary—and hence all her affections flow in the channel of her maternal feelings. She is a passionately fond mother, and to act Alhadra on the Saturday after the Thursday's Burial!MS. H. (ForMS. Hseep.819.)
[814:3]Mrs. G.'s eldest child was buried on the Thursday—two others were ill, and one, with croup given over (tho' it has since recovered) and spite of her's, the physician's and my most passionate remonstrances, she was forced to act Alhadra on the Saturday!!!
Mrs. Glover (I do not much like her, in some respects) was duped into a marriage with a worthless Sharper, who passed himself off on her as a man of rank and fortune and who now lives and feeds himself and his vices on her salary—and hence all her affections flow in the channel of her maternal feelings. She is a passionately fond mother, and to act Alhadra on the Saturday after the Thursday's Burial!MS. H. (ForMS. Hseep.819.)
[815:1]Poor Rae! a good man as Friend, Husband, Father. He did his best! but his person is so insignificant, tho' a handsome man off the stage—and, worse than that, the thinness and an insufficiency of his voice—yet Ordonio has done him service.MS. H.
[815:1]Poor Rae! a good man as Friend, Husband, Father. He did his best! but his person is so insignificant, tho' a handsome man off the stage—and, worse than that, the thinness and an insufficiency of his voice—yet Ordonio has done him service.MS. H.
BY C. LAMB[816:1]
Spoken byMr.Carr
There are, I am told, who sharply criticiseOur modern theatres' unwieldy size.We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,Who think a house can never be too large:Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,5Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;And pleased to mark the grin from space to spaceSpread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.—O might old Betterton or Booth returnTo view our structures from their silent urn,10Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades—Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,He imitates the ways of men above,And apes the actions of our upper coast,15As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:—How might they bless our ampler scope to please,And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.—Their houses yet were palaces to those,Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose,20Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage,Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage,Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage.He who could tame his vast ambition downTo please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,25And, if some hundred auditors suppliedTheir meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear'sHad burst tremendous on a thousand ears,While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands30Return'd the tribute of as many hands!Rude were his guests; he never made his bowTo such an audience as salutes us now.He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise.Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,35[817]Or came to see a youth with awkward artAnd shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.The very use, since so essential grown,Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,40The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest—The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,Where Jaques fed his solitary vein—No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,Seen only by the intellectual eye.45Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,Our Author owes to a more liberal age.Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,50That (be the laurel granted or denied)He first essay'd in this distinguished fane,Severer muses and a tragic strain.
There are, I am told, who sharply criticiseOur modern theatres' unwieldy size.We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,Who think a house can never be too large:Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,5Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;And pleased to mark the grin from space to spaceSpread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.—O might old Betterton or Booth returnTo view our structures from their silent urn,10Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades—Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,He imitates the ways of men above,And apes the actions of our upper coast,15As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:—How might they bless our ampler scope to please,And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.—Their houses yet were palaces to those,Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose,20Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage,Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage,Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage.He who could tame his vast ambition downTo please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,25And, if some hundred auditors suppliedTheir meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear'sHad burst tremendous on a thousand ears,While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands30Return'd the tribute of as many hands!Rude were his guests; he never made his bowTo such an audience as salutes us now.He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise.Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,35[817]Or came to see a youth with awkward artAnd shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.The very use, since so essential grown,Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,40The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest—The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,Where Jaques fed his solitary vein—No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,Seen only by the intellectual eye.45Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,Our Author owes to a more liberal age.Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,50That (be the laurel granted or denied)He first essay'd in this distinguished fane,Severer muses and a tragic strain.
[816:1]A rejected address—which poor Charles was restless to have used. I fitted him with an Epilogue of the same calibre with his Prologue, but I thought it would be going a little too far to publish mine.MS. H.
[816:1]A rejected address—which poor Charles was restless to have used. I fitted him with an Epilogue of the same calibre with his Prologue, but I thought it would be going a little too far to publish mine.MS. H.
Written by the Author, and spoken byMissSmithin the character ofTeresa.
[As printed inThe Morning Chronicle, Jan. 28, 1813.]
Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue,The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;Ay, 'tis just like him!—and thehand![Poring over the manuscript.The stick!I could as soon decipher Arabic!But, hark! my wizard's own poetic elf5Bids me take courage, and make one myself!An heiress, and with sighing swains in plentyFrom blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,'A six years' absence was a heavy thing!'10Heavy!—nay, let's describe things as they are,With sense and nature 'twas at open war—Mere affectation to be singular.Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,Think first of poor Teresa's education;15'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,[818]Where sea-gales play'd with her dishevel'd locks,Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,With no Academies for ladies young—Academies—(sweet phrase!) that well may claim20From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances—And then for reading—what but huge romances,With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.25Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,Instead of—novels founded upon facts!Which, decently immoral, have the art30To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,Dire disimproving disadvantages,And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.35[Looking at the manuscript.But stop! what's this?—Our Poet bids me say,That he has woo'd your feelings in this PlayBy no too real woes, that make you groan,Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,Yet with no image compensate the mind,40Nor leave one joy for memory behind.He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tearThat Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),45By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.
Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue,The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;Ay, 'tis just like him!—and thehand![Poring over the manuscript.The stick!I could as soon decipher Arabic!But, hark! my wizard's own poetic elf5Bids me take courage, and make one myself!An heiress, and with sighing swains in plentyFrom blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,'A six years' absence was a heavy thing!'10Heavy!—nay, let's describe things as they are,With sense and nature 'twas at open war—Mere affectation to be singular.Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,Think first of poor Teresa's education;15'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,[818]Where sea-gales play'd with her dishevel'd locks,Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,With no Academies for ladies young—Academies—(sweet phrase!) that well may claim20From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances—And then for reading—what but huge romances,With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.25Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,Instead of—novels founded upon facts!Which, decently immoral, have the art30To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,Dire disimproving disadvantages,And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.35[Looking at the manuscript.But stop! what's this?—Our Poet bids me say,That he has woo'd your feelings in this PlayBy no too real woes, that make you groan,Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,Yet with no image compensate the mind,40Nor leave one joy for memory behind.He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tearThat Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),45By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.
[S. T. C.]
1797.1813-1834.Velez=Marquis Valdez, Father to the two brothers, and Doña Teresa's Guardian.Albert=Don Alvar, the eldest son.Osorio=Don Ordonio, the youngest son.Francesco=Monviedro, a Dominican and Inquisitor.Maurice=Zulimez, the faithful attendant on Alvar.Ferdinand=Isidore, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a Christian.Naomi=Naomi.Moors, Servants, &c.Maria=Doña Teresa, an Orphan Heiress.Alhadra, wife ofFerdinand=Alhadra, Wife of Isidore.Familiars of the Inquisition.Moors, Servants, &c.
Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged against them, shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing of Moresco apparel under pain of death.
[819:1]Remorse, a recast ofOsorio, was first played at Drury Lane Theatre, January 23, 1813, and had a run of twenty nights. It was first published as a pamphlet of seventy-two pages in 1813, and ran through three editions. The Second Edition, which numbered seventy-eight pages, was enlarged by an Appendix consisting of a passage which formed part of Act IV, Scene 2 ofOsorio, and had been published in theLyrical Ballads(1798, 1800, 1802, and 1805) as a separate poem entitled 'The Foster-Mother's Tale' (vide ante, pp. 182-4,571-4), and of a second passage numbering twenty-eight lines, which was afterwards printed as a footnote toRemorse, Act II, Scene 2, line 42 (vide post, p.842) 'You are a painter, &c.' The Third Edition was a reissue of the Second. In theAthenæum, April 1, 1896, J. D. Campbell points out that there were three issues of the First Edition, of which he had only seen the first; viz. (1) the normal text [Edition I]; (2) a second issue [Edition I (b)] quoted by the Editor (R. H. Shepherd) ofOsorio, 1877, as a variant of Act V, line 252; (3) a third issue quoted by the same writer in his edition ofP. W., 1877-80, iii. 154, 155 [Edition I (c)]. There is a copy of Edition I (b) in the British Museum: save in respect of Act V, line 252, it does not vary from Edition I. I have not seen a copy of Edition I (c). Two copies ofRemorseannotated by S. T. Coleridge have passed through my hands, (1) a copy of the First Edition presented to the Manager of the Theatre, J. G. Raymond (MS. R.), and (2) a copy of the Second Edition presented to Miss Sarah Hutchinson (MS. H.).Remorseis included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[819:1]Remorse, a recast ofOsorio, was first played at Drury Lane Theatre, January 23, 1813, and had a run of twenty nights. It was first published as a pamphlet of seventy-two pages in 1813, and ran through three editions. The Second Edition, which numbered seventy-eight pages, was enlarged by an Appendix consisting of a passage which formed part of Act IV, Scene 2 ofOsorio, and had been published in theLyrical Ballads(1798, 1800, 1802, and 1805) as a separate poem entitled 'The Foster-Mother's Tale' (vide ante, pp. 182-4,571-4), and of a second passage numbering twenty-eight lines, which was afterwards printed as a footnote toRemorse, Act II, Scene 2, line 42 (vide post, p.842) 'You are a painter, &c.' The Third Edition was a reissue of the Second. In theAthenæum, April 1, 1896, J. D. Campbell points out that there were three issues of the First Edition, of which he had only seen the first; viz. (1) the normal text [Edition I]; (2) a second issue [Edition I (b)] quoted by the Editor (R. H. Shepherd) ofOsorio, 1877, as a variant of Act V, line 252; (3) a third issue quoted by the same writer in his edition ofP. W., 1877-80, iii. 154, 155 [Edition I (c)]. There is a copy of Edition I (b) in the British Museum: save in respect of Act V, line 252, it does not vary from Edition I. I have not seen a copy of Edition I (c). Two copies ofRemorseannotated by S. T. Coleridge have passed through my hands, (1) a copy of the First Edition presented to the Manager of the Theatre, J. G. Raymond (MS. R.), and (2) a copy of the Second Edition presented to Miss Sarah Hutchinson (MS. H.).Remorseis included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[819:2]This Tragedy has a particular advantage—it has thefirstscene, in which Prologue plays Dialogue with Dumby. (MS. H.)
[819:2]This Tragedy has a particular advantage—it has thefirstscene, in which Prologue plays Dialogue with Dumby. (MS. H.)
The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada.
Don Alvar, wrapt in a Boat cloak, andZulimez(a Moresco), both as just landed.
Zulimez.No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!Alvar.My faithful Zulimez, for one brief momentLet me forget my anguish and their crimes.If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,5To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I pressThy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!Zulimez.Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,10Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!Alvar.Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet15Ordonio's brother.Zulimez.Nobly-minded Alvar!This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.Alvar.The more behoves it I should rouse within himRemorse! that I should save him from himself.Zulimez.Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:20If that be gentle, it drops balmy dewsOf true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmostWeeps only tears of poison!Alvar.And of a brother,Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort25To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,That this same life, which he conspired to take,Himself once rescued from the angry flood,And at the imminent hazard of his own.Add too my oath—Zulimez.You have thrice told already30The years of absence and of secrecy,[821]To which a forced oath bound you; if in truthA suborned murderer have the power to dictateA binding oath—Alvar.My long captivityLeft me no choice: the very wish too languished35With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babeDrooped at the bosom of its famished mother.But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:40In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,When with abhorrence of his own black purposeThe murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,Fell from his palsied hand—Zulimez.Heavy presumption!Alvar.It weighed not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all;45As we passed by, I bade thee mark the baseOf yonder cliff—Zulimez.That rocky seat you mean,Shaped by the billows?—Alvar.There Teresa met meThe morning of the day of my departure.We were alone: the purple hue of dawn50Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,And blending with the blushes on her cheek,Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light.There seemed a glory round us, and TeresaThe angel of the vision![821:1]Had'st thou seen55How in each motion her most innocent soulBeamed forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st tell me,Guilt is a thing impossible in her!She must be innocent!Zulimez.Proceed, my lord!Alvar.A portrait which she had procured by stealth,60(For even then it seems her heart foreboded[822]Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)A portrait of herself with thrilling handShe tied around my neck, conjuring me,With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred65To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,Till she had won a solemn promise from me,That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold itTill my return. Yet this the assassin knew,Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.70Zulimez.A damning proof!Alvar.My own life wearied me!And but for the imperative voice within,With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I soughtThe Belgic states: there joined the better cause;75And there too fought as one that courted death!Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.The fulness of my anguish by degreesWaned to a meditative melancholy;80And still the more I mused, my soul becameMore doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,Night after night, she visited my sleep,Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!85Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger hereIn the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—The Moorish robes?—Zulimez.All, all are in the sea-cave,90Some furlong hence. I bade our marinersSecrete the boat there.Alvar.Above all, the pictureOf the assassination—Zulimez.Be assuredThat it remains uninjured.Alvar.Thus disguisedI will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife!95If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,And this the hour; her words, her very looksWill acquit her or convict.
Zulimez.No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!
Alvar.My faithful Zulimez, for one brief momentLet me forget my anguish and their crimes.If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,5To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I pressThy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!
Zulimez.Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,10Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!
Alvar.Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet15Ordonio's brother.
Zulimez.Nobly-minded Alvar!This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.
Alvar.The more behoves it I should rouse within himRemorse! that I should save him from himself.
Zulimez.Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:20If that be gentle, it drops balmy dewsOf true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmostWeeps only tears of poison!
Alvar.And of a brother,Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort25To save him?—Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,That this same life, which he conspired to take,Himself once rescued from the angry flood,And at the imminent hazard of his own.Add too my oath—
Zulimez.You have thrice told already30The years of absence and of secrecy,[821]To which a forced oath bound you; if in truthA suborned murderer have the power to dictateA binding oath—
Alvar.My long captivityLeft me no choice: the very wish too languished35With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babeDrooped at the bosom of its famished mother.But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:40In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,When with abhorrence of his own black purposeThe murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,Fell from his palsied hand—
Zulimez.Heavy presumption!
Alvar.It weighed not with me—Hark! I will tell thee all;45As we passed by, I bade thee mark the baseOf yonder cliff—
Zulimez.That rocky seat you mean,Shaped by the billows?—
Alvar.There Teresa met meThe morning of the day of my departure.We were alone: the purple hue of dawn50Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,And blending with the blushes on her cheek,Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light.There seemed a glory round us, and TeresaThe angel of the vision![821:1]
Had'st thou seen55How in each motion her most innocent soulBeamed forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st tell me,Guilt is a thing impossible in her!She must be innocent!
Zulimez.Proceed, my lord!
Alvar.A portrait which she had procured by stealth,60(For even then it seems her heart foreboded[822]Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)A portrait of herself with thrilling handShe tied around my neck, conjuring me,With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred65To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,Till she had won a solemn promise from me,That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold itTill my return. Yet this the assassin knew,Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.70
Zulimez.A damning proof!
Alvar.My own life wearied me!And but for the imperative voice within,With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I soughtThe Belgic states: there joined the better cause;75And there too fought as one that courted death!Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.The fulness of my anguish by degreesWaned to a meditative melancholy;80And still the more I mused, my soul becameMore doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,Night after night, she visited my sleep,Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!85Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger hereIn the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.—The Moorish robes?—
Zulimez.All, all are in the sea-cave,90Some furlong hence. I bade our marinersSecrete the boat there.
Alvar.Above all, the pictureOf the assassination—
Zulimez.Be assuredThat it remains uninjured.
Alvar.Thus disguisedI will first seek to meet Ordonio's—wife!95If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,And this the hour; her words, her very looksWill acquit her or convict.
Zulimez.Will they not know you?Alvar.With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly100Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,My long imprisonment, the scanty food,This scar—and toil beneath a burning sun,Have done already half the business for us.Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.105Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voiceA hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:And what the mind believes impossible,The bodily sense is slow to recognize.Zulimez.'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.110Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,I'll seek our mariners; and in the duskTransport whate'er we need to the small dellIn the Alpujarras—there where Zagri lived.115Alvar.I know it well: it is the obscurest hauntOf all the mountains—[823:1][Both stand listening.Voices at a distance!Let us away![Exeunt.
Zulimez.Will they not know you?
Alvar.With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly100Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,My long imprisonment, the scanty food,This scar—and toil beneath a burning sun,Have done already half the business for us.Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.105Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voiceA hoarser note—Besides, they think me dead:And what the mind believes impossible,The bodily sense is slow to recognize.
Zulimez.'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.110Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,I'll seek our mariners; and in the duskTransport whate'er we need to the small dellIn the Alpujarras—there where Zagri lived.115
Alvar.I know it well: it is the obscurest hauntOf all the mountains—[823:1][Both stand listening.Voices at a distance!Let us away![Exeunt.
[821:1]May not a man, without breach of the 8th Commandment, take out of his left pocket and put into his right?MS. H.(Vide ante, p. 406,To William Wordsworth, l. 43.)
[821:1]May not a man, without breach of the 8th Commandment, take out of his left pocket and put into his right?MS. H.(Vide ante, p. 406,To William Wordsworth, l. 43.)
[823:1]Till the Play was printed off, I never remembered or, rather, never recollected that this phrase was taken from Mr. Wordsworth's Poems. Thank God it was not from his MSS. Poems; and at the 2nd Edition I was afraid to point it out lest it should appear a trick to introduce his name.MS. H.[Coleridge is thinking of a line inThe Brothers, 'It is the loneliest place in all these hills.']
[823:1]Till the Play was printed off, I never remembered or, rather, never recollected that this phrase was taken from Mr. Wordsworth's Poems. Thank God it was not from his MSS. Poems; and at the 2nd Edition I was afraid to point it out lest it should appear a trick to introduce his name.MS. H.[Coleridge is thinking of a line inThe Brothers, 'It is the loneliest place in all these hills.']
[19]Remorse]RemorseEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
Remorse]RemorseEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[20]Remorse]RemorseEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
Remorse]RemorseEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[31]years] yearEditions 1, 2, 3.
years] yearEditions 1, 2, 3.
[35]wish]WishEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
wish]WishEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[36]hope]HopeEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
hope]HopeEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[55]Aftervision! [Then with agitationEditions 1, 2, 3.
Aftervision! [Then with agitationEditions 1, 2, 3.
[56-9]CompareDestiny of Nations, ll. 174-6, p. 137.
CompareDestiny of Nations, ll. 174-6, p. 137.
[59]AfterZulimez(with a sigh),Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
AfterZulimez(with a sigh),Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[86]Yes] AndEdition 1.
Yes] AndEdition 1.
[95]wife]wifeEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
wife]wifeEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[105]since] whenEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
since] whenEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[113]I'll] I willEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
I'll] I willEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
[115]Alpujarras] AlpuxarrasEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
Alpujarras] AlpuxarrasEditions 1, 2, 3, 1829.
EnterTeresaandValdez.
Teresa.I hold Ordonio dear; he is your sonAnd Alvar's brother.Valdez.Love him for himself,Nor make the living wretched for the dead.Teresa.I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain5Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.Valdez.Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,And could my heart's blood give him back to theeI would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!Thy dying father comes upon my soul10With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;[824]I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,While thy poor mother with a mute entreatyFixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,15And with slow anguish wear away thy life,The victim of a useless constancy.I must not see thee wretched.Teresa.There are woesIll bartered for the garishness of joy!If it be wretched with an untired eye20To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,To shape sweet visions, and live o'er againAll past hours of delight! If it be wretched25To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,To go through each minutest circumstanceOf the blest meeting, and to frame adventuresMost terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;[824:1](As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid30Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleftHung with her lute, and played the selfsame tuneHe used to play, and listened to the shadowHerself had made)—if this be wretchedness,35And if indeed it be a wretched thingTo trick out mine own death-bed, and imagineThat I had died, died just ere his return!Then see him listening to my constancy,Or hover round, as he at midnight oft40Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;Or haply in some more fantastic mood,To be in Paradise, and with choice flowersBuild up a bower where he and I might dwell,[825]And there to wait his coming! O my sire!45My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchednessThat eats away the life, what were it, think you,If in a most assured realityHe should return, and see a brother's infantSmile at him from my arms?50Oh what a thought!Valdez.A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.The very week he promised his return——Teresa.Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,After those three years' travels! we had no fears—55The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,The tumult of our joy! What then if now——Valdez.O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!60Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant fancies—Hectic and unrefreshed with rest—Teresa.My father!Valdez.The sober truth is all too much for me!I see no sail which brings not to my mindThe home-bound bark in which my son was captured65By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!Teresa.Oh no! he did not!Valdez.Captured in sight of land!From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-towerWe might have seen——Teresa.His capture, not his death.Valdez.Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale70Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave OrdonioSaw both the pirate and his prize go down,In the same storm that baffled his own valour,And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,75Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,And most delight his spirit, go, make thou[826]His brother happy, make his aged fatherSink to the grave in joy.Teresa.For mercy's sakePress me no more! I have no power to love him.80His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:My love, a timorous and tender flower,Closes beneath his touch.Valdez.You wrong him, maiden!You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well85To character by such unkindly phrasesThe stir and workings of that love for youWhich he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,Nor is it grateful in you to forgetHis wounds and perilous voyages, and how90With an heroic fearlessness of dangerHe roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.Teresa.Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,95A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurriedBeyond myself, if I but hear of oneWho aims to rival Alvar. Were we notBorn in one day, like twins of the same parent?Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!100A six years' absence is a heavy thing,Yet still the hope survives——Valdez (looking forward).Hush! 'tis Monviedro.Teresa.The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?
Teresa.I hold Ordonio dear; he is your sonAnd Alvar's brother.
Valdez.Love him for himself,Nor make the living wretched for the dead.
Teresa.I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain5Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.
Valdez.Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,And could my heart's blood give him back to theeI would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!Thy dying father comes upon my soul10With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;[824]I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,While thy poor mother with a mute entreatyFixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,15And with slow anguish wear away thy life,The victim of a useless constancy.I must not see thee wretched.
Teresa.There are woesIll bartered for the garishness of joy!If it be wretched with an untired eye20To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,To shape sweet visions, and live o'er againAll past hours of delight! If it be wretched25To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,To go through each minutest circumstanceOf the blest meeting, and to frame adventuresMost terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;[824:1](As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid30Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleftHung with her lute, and played the selfsame tuneHe used to play, and listened to the shadowHerself had made)—if this be wretchedness,35And if indeed it be a wretched thingTo trick out mine own death-bed, and imagineThat I had died, died just ere his return!Then see him listening to my constancy,Or hover round, as he at midnight oft40Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;Or haply in some more fantastic mood,To be in Paradise, and with choice flowersBuild up a bower where he and I might dwell,[825]And there to wait his coming! O my sire!45My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchednessThat eats away the life, what were it, think you,If in a most assured realityHe should return, and see a brother's infantSmile at him from my arms?50Oh what a thought!
Valdez.A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.The very week he promised his return——
Teresa.Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,After those three years' travels! we had no fears—55The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,The tumult of our joy! What then if now——
Valdez.O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!60Yes, I am old—I have no pleasant fancies—Hectic and unrefreshed with rest—
Teresa.My father!
Valdez.The sober truth is all too much for me!I see no sail which brings not to my mindThe home-bound bark in which my son was captured65By the Algerine—to perish with his captors!
Teresa.Oh no! he did not!
Valdez.Captured in sight of land!From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-towerWe might have seen——
Teresa.His capture, not his death.
Valdez.Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale70Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave OrdonioSaw both the pirate and his prize go down,In the same storm that baffled his own valour,And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,75Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,And most delight his spirit, go, make thou[826]His brother happy, make his aged fatherSink to the grave in joy.
Teresa.For mercy's sakePress me no more! I have no power to love him.80His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:My love, a timorous and tender flower,Closes beneath his touch.
Valdez.You wrong him, maiden!You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well85To character by such unkindly phrasesThe stir and workings of that love for youWhich he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,Nor is it grateful in you to forgetHis wounds and perilous voyages, and how90With an heroic fearlessness of dangerHe roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.It was not well—You have moved me even to tears.
Teresa.Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,95A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurriedBeyond myself, if I but hear of oneWho aims to rival Alvar. Were we notBorn in one day, like twins of the same parent?Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!100A six years' absence is a heavy thing,Yet still the hope survives——
Valdez (looking forward).Hush! 'tis Monviedro.
Teresa.The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?
EnterMonviedrowithAlhadra.