Olla Podrida. Фредерик Марриет

staid so late? Did but the moon Turn on my anxious features her soft rays, Thou wouldst perceive how fretfulness and tears Have doubled every minute of thine absence. Gasp. And would 'twere day, that thou, sweet love, mightst see The fervid passion stamp'd upon my brow. I dared not disobey thy late command; Yet, did I fret, and champ the bit of duty, Like some proud battle steed arching his neck, Spurning the earth, impatient for the fray. So my young heart throbs with its new delight, That it e'en now would burst its cords asunder, And make one joyous bound into thy bosom. Isid. Say, Gaspar, dost thou fondly, truly, love me? Gasp. Do I love thee, Isidora? If it were not for thee, sweet love, The world would be a blank, and this existence A dreary void, I would not stumble through; But having thee, a paradise it is, So full of perfumed airs and flow'rets sweet, I would resist the angel's flaming sword, If it were raised between our plighted loves, Ere I would be from thy loved presence thrust. Thou art the heav'n of my idolatry! For thee I live and move—for thee I breathe; For thee and for thy love, if thou knew'st all—— Isid. I would know all—there's mystery about thee! Gaspar, thine image here's so deeply graven, That nought can e'er efface it. Trust me, then, love, As I would thee. There's not a thought I own, No, not a fond emotion of my soul— Not e'en the slightest ripple o'er the mind, When calm and pensive as it used to be, But I would tell it thee. O couldst thou view my heart, and see thyself So firmly master of its deep recesses, Thou wouldst be confident. If thou shouldst be ignoble, fear not me, Love shall draw out thy patent of descent, And trace thy ancestry to more than mortal. If thou hast hated, and hast found revenge, Yet fear not me, dear Gaspar. Whate'er priests say, it is a noble passion, And holds an empire in the heart of man, Equal in strength and dignity with love. Be it a tale of sorrow or of crime, (O say 'tis not the last!) still let me share it, That I may comfort thee whene'er we meet, And mourn it only when I grieve thine absence. Gasp. My Isidora, oft thou'st press'd me thus; Since thou wilt hear it, then, it shall be told; But one sad chance, most fatal to us both, Is fetter'd to it. Isid. And what is that, my Gaspar? Gasp. That once reveal'd, we ne'er may meet again. Isid. Then I'll not hear't. Away with prying thoughts So fraught with mischief! Not to see thee more! Then might the angel pour the vial out, That vial of fierce wrath which is to quench The sun, the moon, the host of stars, in blood! Not see thee more! then may they work my shroud, And cull the flowers to strew my maiden corpse. Without thee, Gaspar, I should surely die! Wert thou the ruler of the universe, Commanding all, I could not love thee more! Wert thou a branded slave from bondage 'scap'd— 'Tis now too late—I could not love thee less! Gasp. (aside). One soul so pure redeems a world of sin! Thou Heav'n that I have mock'd, O hear me now, And spare! let her not feel the bitter pangs Of disappointed love! Draw the barb gently, That she may sigh her soul away, and sleep Throughout her passage to a better world!

       Isid. What say'st thou, Gaspar! Gasp. I call'd down blessings, loveliest, on thy head. Heav'n grant my prayers! Isid. I, too, have pray'd for thee, and will again! But speak to me. Why didst thou come so late? How short, methinks, are nights. There's hardly time For those who've toil'd, to gain their needful rest— For those who wake, to whisper half their love. Gasp. Night is our day, and day becomes our night; Love changes all, o'er nature rules supreme; Alters her seasons, mocks her wisest laws, And, like the prophet, checks the planet's course. But from this world of hate, the night has fled, And I must hie me hence. O Isidora! Though my seeming's doubtful, yet remember, 'Tis true as Heaven, I love thee! Isid. I'm sure thou dost, and feeling thus assured, I am content.

      Enter Nina, hastily, from balcony.

      Nina. Madam, the lady Inez pass'd your door, And, passing, tried the bolt, e'en now I hear Her footsteps in the corridor. Isid. We must away, dear Gaspar. Fare thee well! Nina shall tell thee when we next can meet.

      [Exit Isidora and Nina at balcony.

      Gasp. So parts the miser from his hoarded wealth, And eyes the casket when the keys are turn'd. I must away. The world e'en now awakes, and the wan moon (Like some tired sentinel, his vigil o'er) Sinks down beneath yon trees. The morning mist Already seeks the skies, ascending straight, Like infant's prayers, or souls of holy martyrs. I must away. The world will not revolve another hour, Ere hives of men will pour their millions forth,

      To seek their food by labour, or supply

       Their wants by plunder, flattery, or deceit.

       Avarice again will count the dream'd-of hoards,

       Envy and Rancour stab, whilst sobbing Charity

       Will bind the fest'ring wounds that they have giv'n.

       The world of sin and selfishness awakes

       Once more, to swell its catalogue of crime,

       So monstrous that it wearies patient Heav'n.

       I must away. [Exit.

      Act II. Scene I.

      The street before Anselmo's lodgings.

      Enter Antonio.

      If ever fortune played me a jade's trick, 'twas when she brought my wives to Seville. So far have I contrived to keep them separate; but should they meet, they'll talk; and then, woe to that most interesting of all subjects, myself! I am sure to be discovered. Why, in half an hour, their rapid tongues would range o'er half the creation. Now, Beppa is my first wife, and, like all other first choices, the worst. There's vengeance in her, and she'll apply to the authorities; then must I to the galleys. Who wants a wife? I have one—aye two—to dispose of. Here comes a fool I trifle with. (Enter Sancho.) So, comrade, what's your business now? (Mimicking him.) Saint Petronila! you are a faithful servant, ever stirring to do your master's pleasure.

      San. 'Tis not his pleasure that I am upon—it is my own: I go to Donna Isidora's.

      Ant. What dost thou there?

      San. (affectedly). I please a damsel, and she pleases me.

      Ant. I do not wonder at it. Barring a certain too intelligent look that thou hast, thou art a pretty fellow, and made to charm the ladies. Who is this damsel of your choice?

      San. You'll keep my secret?

      Ant. As faithfully as I do all others.

      San. It is the maid of Donna Isidora. I knew her at Toledo, and for years kept her company. During my absence—Saint Petronila strike him with the leprosy!—a certain Lopez, a dirty, shuffling, addle-pated knave, stepped in between us, and married her. She took the poor fool purely through pique, because I did not write to her; and the holy saint knows I had not then learned.

      Ant. (aside). Now would I beat his pate, but that I think the fool may assist me out of my difficulties. (Aloud.) What! love a married woman! For shame, Sancho! I had thought better of you.

      San. I loved her years before she married; and since the marriage, her husband has deserted her, and I have met her often. Nina, for that's her name, has often told me how much she repented of her marriage with the fellow; and could I prove that he were dead, she'd marry me, Saint Petronila directing her, and make a wiser choice in second wedlock.

      Ant. (aside). The cockatrice. (Aloud.) Sancho, I knew this Lopez. He is not quite the person you describe; but never mind. Yesterday, he came to Seville, and told me how much surprised he was to find his wife here.

      San. Then he's come back. Saint Petronila aid me! how unfortunate!

      Ant. (musing aside). I have it! (Aloud.) Sancho, we have ever been the best of friends. I respect you much. I have most joyful tidings for you, and, if you will be counselled by me, Nina is yours.

      San. Indeed! I can't see how. I think I had a better chance before.

      Ant. Tut, man! you've now a certainty. Sancho, your ear—Lopez is dead!

      San. The scoundrel dead! My dear Antonio (embracing