And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of-
Now will I kill thee, thankless slave! and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Isi. And all my little ones fatherless

Die thou first. [They fight; Ordonio disarms Isidore, and in disarming him throws his sword up that recess opposite to which they were standing. Isidore hurries into the recess with his torch, Ordonio follows him; a loud cry of "Traitor! Monster!" is heard from the cavern, and in a moment Ordonio returns alone.

Ord. I have hurl'd him down the chasm! Treason

for treason.

He dreamt of it: henceforward let him sleep

A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him. His dream too is made out-Now for his friend.

[Exit Ordonio.

SCENE II.* The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle, with the Iron Gate of a Dungeon visible.

Ter. Heart-chilling Superstition! thou canst glaze Even Pity's eye with her own frozen tear.

* The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from the Tragedy, in the year 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. But this work having been long out of print, I have been advised to reprint it, as a Note to the second Scene of Act the Fourth.

Enter TERESA and SELMA.

Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly,

As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

Sel. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,

That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,
As often as I think of those dear times,

When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day: and how to talk

In vain I urge the tortures that await him,
Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
My second mother, shuts her heart against me!
Well, I have won from her what most imports

In gentle phrase; then bid me sing to you

'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been !
Ter. But that entrance, Selma ?

Sel.

Ter. No one.
Sel.

Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale I

My husɔand's father told it me,

Poor old Sesina-angels rest his soul!

He was a woodman, and could fell and saw

With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel ?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined

With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.

And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.

A pretty boy, but most unteachable

He never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,

But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself:

And all the autumn 't was his only play

To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.

A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,

A gray-hair'd man, he loved this little boy:

The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.

So he became a rare and learned youth:

But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,

Till his brain turn'd; and ere his twentieth year

He had unlawful thoughts of many things:

And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.

But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,

The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.

And once, as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
The earth heaved under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen

Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd

The present need, this secret of the dungeon,
Known only to herself.-A Moor! a Sorcerer!
No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted
Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,
I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborn'd him
To act some part in some unholy fraud;
As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
And that Ordonio meditates revenge!

But my resolve is fix'd! myself will rescue him,
And learn if haply he know aught of Alvar.

A fever seized him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk

Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized,
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobb'd like a child-it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working near this dungeon,
He heard a voice distinctly; 't was the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described,
And the young man escaped.

Ter.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

He went on shipboard

Sel.
With those bold voyagers who made discovery
Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,

And ne'er was heard of more: but 't is supposed.
He lived and died among the savage men.

Enter VALDez.

Val. Still sad--and gazing at the massive door Of that fell Dungeon which thou ne'er hadst sight of, Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shaped it, When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats. Now by my faith, Girl! this same wizard haunts thee! A stately man, and eloquent and tender—

Who then need wonder if a lady sighs

[With a sneer.

Even at the thought of what these stern Domi

nicans

Ter. (with solemn indignation). The horror of their ghastly punishments

Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,

That I should feel too little for mine enemy,

If it were possible I could feel more,

Even though the dearest inmates of our household

Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things areVal. Hush, thoughtless woman !

Ter.

More than a woman's spirit.

Val.

Nay, it wakes within me

No more of this

What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us?

I dare not listen to you.

Ter.

My honor'd Lord,

These were my Alvar's lessons; and whene'er
I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
As if to give a voice to the mute image.

Val.

-We have mourn'd for Alvar.

Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.

Have I no other son ?

Ter.

Speak not of him!

That low imposture! That mysterious picture!
If this be madness, must I wed a madman?

And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it.

Val.

Is this well?

Ter. Yes, it is truth: saw you his countenance? How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear, Displaced each other with swift interchanges? O that I had indeed the sorcerer's power! I would call up before thine eyes the image Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born! His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead, His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips! That spiritual and almost heavenly light In his commanding eye-his mien heroic, Virtue's own native heraldry! to man Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel. Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread Wide round him! and when oft with swelling tears, Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots, Oh, what a grief was there—for joy to envy, Or gaze upon enamour'd!

O my father!

Recall that morning when we knelt together,

And thou didst bless our loves! O even now,

Even now, my sire! to thy mind's eye present him, As at that moment he rose up before thee,

Stately, with beaming look! Place, place beside him
Ordonio's dark perturbed countenance !

Then bid me (Oh thou couldst not) bid me turn
From him the joy, the triumph of our kind!

To take in exchange that brooding man, who never his eye from the earth, unless to scowl.

Lifts up

Vl. Ungrateful woman!

I have tried to stifie

An old man's passion! was it not enough

That thou hadst made my son a restless man,