Rev. Henry Hart Milman. FAZIO. Description of BARTOLO, the Miser. FAZIO, BIANCA (his Wife). Fazio. Dost thou know, Bianca, Our neighbour, old Bartolo? Bianca. Oh, yes, yes! That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stained A venture of Bartolo's; not an acre, But he hath cramped it with a mortgage; he, Were some keen thief: and when he locked him in From our high window by mere chance, and saw And, where his wind-rent lattice was ill stuffed With tattered remnants of a money-bag, Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily, And then, as he heard something like a sound, And thanked my God that I had braver riches. BARTOLO, attacked and wounded by Robbers, flies to the House of FA 10 for assistance, where he dies. FAZIO, under the temptation of Gold, goes to the Miser's Dwelling, secures the whole of his Wealth, and buries the Body of BARTOLO in his Garden. The Street near FAZIO's Door.-FAZIO, with BARTOLO'S Gold and Jewels. Fazio. My steps were ever to this door, as though They trod on beds of perfume and of down. The winged birds were not by half so light, When through the lazy twilight air they wheel methinks, The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. The marble pillars, that soared stately up, And socketless, pale eyes look glaring on me. Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe! Thank God !-for what? Poetry perverted to unworthy Uses. Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy, To the gross fancies of the humorsome age; Oh! in a capering, chambering, wanton land, For the initiate.-Hark !-it bursts-it flows! [Exit. FAZIO, condemned to Death for the supposed Murder of BARTOLO, is visited by his Friend PHILARIO on the morning of his Execution. FAZIO and РHILARIO. Faz. I thank thee: 'twas a melancholy hymn, But soft and soothing as the gale of eve― The gale whose flower-sweet breath no more shall me. Oh, what a gentle ministrant is Music To Piety-to mild, to penitent Piety! That lingers in our lazy earthly air, And melts with it to heaven.— -To die: 'tis dreary; To die a villain's death, that's yet a pang. But it must down: I have so steeped my soul In the bitter ashes of true penitence, That they have put on a delicious savour, And all is halcyon quiet, all within.— Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. RICHELIEU. RICHELIEU's Devotion to France. I LOVE my native land— Not as Venetian, Englisher, or Swiss, But as a noble and a priest of France; All things for France-lo, my eternal maxim ! 'The vital axle of the restless wheels That bear me on! With her I have entwined My passions and my fate-my crimes, my virtues- Those who would make their country great. Beyond The map of France, my heart can travel not, RICHELIEU vindicates his Acts as Minister. Adrien de Mauprat, men have called me cruel; I am not; I am just! I found France rent asunder,— The rich men despots, and the poor banditti ;Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple; Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheathsI have re-created France; and from the ashes Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, Civilization on her luminous wings Soars-phoenix-like, to Jove !-what was my art? Genius, some say,--some fortune,—witchcraft, some. Not so; my art was JUSTICE!— |