THE FAIR PENITENT.

CALISTA, Daughter of SCIOLTO, is betrayed by LOTHARIO. Her Father, unconscious of her shame, forces her to marry ALTAMONT, who afterwards discovers the faithlessness of his Wife, and kills her Seducer. A Room hung with black. On one side, LOTHARIO'S body on a bier; on the other, a table, with a skull and other bones, a book and a lamp on it.—CALISTA is discovered on a couch, in black; her hair hanging loose and disordered. After soft music, she rises and comes forward.

Cal. 'Tis well! these solemn sounds, this pomp of horror, Are fit to feed the frenzy in my soul.

Here's room for meditation even to madness,

Till the mind burst with thinking.

This dull flame

Sleeps in the socket. Sure the book was left

To teach me something;-for instruction, then—
He teaches holy sorrow and contrition,
And penitence. Is it become an art, then?
A trick that lazy, dull, luxurious gownmen
Can teach us to do over? I'll no more on't;

[Throwing away the book.

I have more real anguish in my heart,

Than all their pedant discipline e'er knew.
What charnel has been rifled for these bones?
Fie! this is pageantry;-they look uncouthly.
But what of that, if he or she that owned 'em
Safe from disquiet sit, and smile to see
The farce their miserable relics play?
But here's a sight is terrible indeed!
Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario,

That dear, perfidious-Ah !-how pale he looks!

And those dead eyes!

Ascend, ye ghosts, fantastic forms of night,
In all your different dreadful shapes ascend,
And match the present horror, if you can. . . . .

Enter ALTAMONT.

Alt. Hail to you, horrors! hail, thou house of death! And thou, the lovely mistress of these shades, Whose beauty gilds the more than midnight darkness, And makes it grateful as the dawn of day. Oh, take me in, a fellow-mourner with thee, I'll number groan for groan, and tear for tear; And when the fountains of thine eyes are dry, Mine shall supply the stream, and weep for both.

Cal. I know thee well,-thou art the injured Altamont; Thou com'st to urge me with the wrongs I've done thee. But know I stand upon the brink of life,

And in a moment mean to set me free

From shame and thy upbraiding.

Alt. Falsely, falsely

Dost thou accuse me ! Oh, forbid me not

To mourn thy loss,

To wish some better fate had ruled our loves,
And that Calista had been mine, and true

Cal. O Altamont! 'tis hard for souls like mine,
Haughty and fierce, to yield they've done amiss.
But oh, behold' my proud, disdainful heart
Bends to thy gentler virtue. Yes, I own,
Such is thy truth, thy tenderness, and love,
That, were I not abandoned to destruction,
With thee I might have lived for ages blessed,
And died in peace within thy faithful arms.

Enter HORATIO.

Hor. Now mourn indeed, ye miserable pair!
For now the measure of your woes is full.
The great, the good Sciolto dies this moment.
Cal. My father!

Alt. That's a deadly stroke, indeed.

Hor. Not long ago, he privately went forth,
Attended but by few, and those unbidden.

I heard which way he took, and straight pursued him;
But found him compassed by Lothario's faction,
Almost alone, amidst a crowd of foes.

Too late we brought him aid, and drove them back:
Ere that, his frantic valour had provoked

The death he seemed to wish for from their swords.
Cal. And dost thou bear me yet, thou patient Earth?
Dost thou not labour with thy murd'rous weight?
And you, ye glitt'ring, heavenly host of stars,

Hide your fair heads in clouds, or I shall blast you;
For I am all contagion, death, and ruin,

And Nature sickens at me. Rest, thou world,

This parricide shall be thy plague no more:

Thus, thus I set thee free.

Hor. Oh, fatal rashness!

[Stabs herself.

Enter SCIOLTO, pale and bloody, supported by Servants.

Cal. O my heart!

Well mayst thou fail; for see, the spring that fed

Thy vital stream is wasted, and runs low.

My father! will you now, at last, forgive me,
If, after all my crimes, and all your suff'rings,

I call you once again by that dear name?

Will you forget my shame, and those wide wounds?

hand and bless me, ere I go

Lift up your
Down to my dark abode!

Sci. Alas, my daughter!

Thou hast rashly ventured in a stormy sea,

Where life, fame, virtue, all were wrecked and lost.
But sure thou hast borne thy part in all the anguish,
And smarted with the pain. Then rest in peace:
Let silence and oblivion hide thy name,

And save thee from the malice of posterity;

And mayst thou find with Heaven the same forgiveness,
As with thy father here.-Die, and be happy.

Cal. Celestial sounds! peace dawns upon my soul,
And every pain grows less.-O gentle Altamont !
Think not too hardly of me when I'm gone;
But pity me. Had I but early known

Thy wondrous worth, thou excellent young man,
We had been happier both. Now, 'tis too late;
And yet my eyes take pleasure to behold thee;
Thou art their last dear object.—Mercy, Heaven! [Dies.

ALMERIA, Princess of Granada, is secretly married to ALPHONSO, Son of ANSELMO, formerly King of Valencia, her Father's Rival. ALPHONSO is supposed to have been shipwrecked, but is saved, and lands in Tunis, where, under the name of OSMYN, he joins the Moors. In an attack on Granada, he is taken Prisoner by MANUEL, Father of ALMERIA. ALMERIA goes to the Tomb of ANSELMO, to mourn her supposed lost Husband, who is also attracted to the same spot, to pay devotion to the memory of his Father.

The aisle of a Cathedral.—Enter ALMeria and Leonora.

Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed.

Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice.

Alm. It was thy fear, or else some transient wind Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle.

We'll listen

Leon, Hark!

Alm. No, all is hushed, and still as death-'tis dreadful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,
Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe
And terror on my aching sight; the tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear
Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.
Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place
And silence will increase your melancholy.

Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that.
No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb,

Lead me o'er bones and skulls and mouldering earth
Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them,
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse

Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride
Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought
Exerts my spirits; and my present fears
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me.
Lead me, for I am bolder grown: lead on