AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.

I.

ROME. ­A Hall in a Palace.  ALESSANDRA and CASTIGLIONE

Alessandra.  Thou art sad, Castiglione.

Castiglione.  Sad! ­not I.
                  Oh, I’m the happiest, happiest man in Rome! 
                  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
                  Will make thee mine.  Oh, I am very happy!

Aless.  Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
                  Thy happiness ­what ails thee, cousin of mine? 
                  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

Cas.  Did I sigh? 
                  I was not conscious of it.  It is a fashion,
                  A silly ­a most silly fashion I have
                  When I am very happy.  Did I sigh? (sighing.)

Aless.  Thou didst.  Thou art not well.  Thou hast indulged
                  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it. 
                  Late hours and wine, Castiglione, ­these
                  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered ­
                  Thy looks are haggard ­nothing so wears away
                  The constitution as late hours and wine.

Cas. (musing ).  Nothing, fair cousin, nothing ­
                  Not even deep sorrow ­
                  Wears it away like evil hours and wine. 
                  I will amend.

Aless.  Do it!  I would have thee drop
                  Thy riotous company, too ­fellows low born
                  Ill suit the like of old Di Broglio’s heir
                  And Alessandra’s husband.

Cas.  I will drop them.

Aless.  Thou wilt ­thou must.  Attend thou also more
                  To thy dress and equipage ­they are over plain
                  For thy lofty rank and fashion ­much depends
                  Upon appearances.

Cas.  I’ll see to it.

Aless.  Then see to it! ­pay more attention, sir,
                  To a becoming carriage ­much thou wantest
                  In dignity.

Cas.  Much, much, oh, much I want
                  In proper dignity.

Aless. (haughtily).  Thou mockest me, sir!

Cos. (abstractedly).  Sweet, gentle Lalage!

Aless.  Heard I aright? 
                  I speak to him ­he speaks of Lalage? 
                  Sir Count!
         (places her hand on his shoulder)
                             what art thou dreaming? 
                  He’s not well! 
                  What ails thee, sir?

Cas.(starting).  Cousin! fair cousin! ­madam! 
                  I crave thy pardon ­indeed I am not well ­
                  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please. 
                  This air is most oppressive! ­Madam ­the Duke!

Enter Di Broglio.

Di Broglio.  My son, I’ve news for thee! ­hey!
                  ­what’s the matter?
          (observing Alessandra). 
                  I’ the pouts?  Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
                  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute! 
                  I’ve news for you both.  Politian is expected
                  Hourly in Rome ­Politian, Earl of Leicester! 
                  We’ll have him at the wedding.  ’Tis his first visit
                  To the imperial city.

Aless.  What!  Politian
                  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

Di Brog.  The same, my love. 
                  We’ll have him at the wedding.  A man quite young
                  In years, but gray in fame.  I have not seen him,
                  But Rumor speaks of him as of a prodigy
                  Pre-eminent in arts, and arms, and wealth,
                  And high descent.  We’ll have him at the wedding.

Aless.  I have heard much of this Politian. 
                  Gay, volatile and giddy ­is he not,
                  And little given to thinking?

Di Brog.  Far from it, love. 
                  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
                  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it. 
                  Learned as few are learned.

Aless.  ’Tis very strange! 
                  I have known men have seen Politian
                  And sought his company.  They speak of him
                  As of one who entered madly into life,
                  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

Cas.  Ridiculous!  Now I have seen Politian
                  And know him well ­nor learned nor mirthful he. 
                  He is a dreamer, and shut out
                  From common passions.

Di Brog.  Children, we disagree. 
                  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
                  Of the garden.  Did I dream, or did I hear
                  Politian was a melancholy man?

(Exeunt.)

II.

ROME. ­A Lady’s Apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.  LALAGE, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a hand-mirror.  In the background JACINTA (a servant maid) leans carelessly upon a chair.

Lalage.  Jacinta! is it thou?

Jacinta (pertly).  Yes, ma’am, I’m here.

Lal.  I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting. 
                  Sit down! ­let not my presence trouble you ­
                  Sit down! ­for I am humble, most humble.

Jac. (aside).  ’Tis time.

(Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look.  Lalage continues to read.)

Lal.  “It in another climate, so he said,
                  Bore a bright golden flower, but not i’ this soil!”

(pauses ­turns over some leaves and resumes.)

“No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower ­
But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind”
Oh, beautiful! ­most beautiful! ­how like
To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven! 
O happy land! (pauses) She died! ­the maiden died! 
O still more happy maiden who couldst die! 
Jacinta!

(Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)

Again! ­a similar tale
Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea! 
Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play ­
“She died full young” ­one Bossola answers him ­
“I think not so ­her infelicity
Seemed to have years too many” ­Ah, luckless lady! 
Jacinta! (still no answer.)
Here’s a far sterner story ­
But like ­oh, very like in its despair ­
Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
A thousand hearts ­losing at length her own. 
She died.  Thus endeth the history ­and her maids
Lean over her and keep ­two gentle maids
With gentle names ­Eiros and Charmion! 
Rainbow and Dove! ­Jacinta!

Jac. (pettishly).  Madam, what is it?

Lal.  Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
                  As go down in the library and bring me
                  The Holy Evangelists?

Jac.  Pshaw!

(Exit)

Lal.  If there be balm
                  For the wounded spirit in Gilead, it is there! 
                  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
                  Will there be found ­“dew sweeter far than that
                  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.”

(re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)

There, ma’am, ’s the book.
(aside.) Indeed she is very troublesome.

Lal.
(astonished).  What didst thou say, Jacinta? 
                  Have I done aught
                  To grieve thee or to vex thee? ­I am sorry. 
                  For thou hast served me long and ever been
                  Trustworthy and respectful.
              (resumes her reading.)

Jac. (aside.) I can’t believe
                  She has any more jewels ­no ­no ­she gave me all.

Lal.  What didst thou say, Jacinta?  Now I bethink me
                  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding. 
                  How fares good Ugo? ­and when is it to be? 
                  Can I do aught? ­is there no further aid
                  Thou needest, Jacinta?

Jac. (aside.) Is there no further aid! 
                  That’s meant for me.  I’m sure, madam, you need not
                  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

Lal.  Jewels!  Jacinta, ­now indeed, Jacinta,
                  I thought not of the jewels.

Jac.  Oh, perhaps not! 
                  But then I might have sworn it.  After all,
                  There’s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
                  For he’s sure the Count Castiglione never
                  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
                  And at the best I’m certain, madam, you cannot
                  Have use for jewels now.  But I might have sworn it.

(Exit)

(Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table ­after a short pause raises it.)

Lal.  Poor Lalage! ­and is it come to this? 
                  Thy servant maid! ­but courage! ­’tis but a viper
                  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
                  (taking up the mirror)
                  Ha! here at least’s a friend ­too much a friend
                  In earlier days ­a friend will not deceive thee. 
                  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
                  A tale ­a pretty tale ­and heed thou not
                  Though it be rife with woe.  It answers me. 
                  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
                  And beauty long deceased ­remembers me,
                  Of Joy departed ­Hope, the Seraph Hope,
                  Inurned and entombed! ­now, in a tone
                  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
                  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
                  For ruined maid.  Fair mirror and true! ­thou liest not!
                  Thou hast no end to gain ­no heart to break ­
                  Castiglione lied who said he loved ­
                  Thou true ­he false! ­false! ­false!

(While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment and approaches unobserved)

Monk.  Refuge thou hast,
                  Sweet daughter! in Heaven.  Think of eternal things! 
                  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

Lal.
(arising hurriedly).  I cannot pray! ­My soul is at war with God! 
                  The frightful sounds of merriment below;
                  Disturb my senses ­go!  I cannot pray ­
                  The sweet airs from the garden worry me! 
                  Thy presence grieves me ­go! ­thy priestly raiment
                  Fills me with dread ­thy ebony crucifix
                  With horror and awe!

Monk.  Think of thy precious soul!

Lal.  Think of my early days! ­think of my father
                  And mother in Heaven! think of our quiet home,
                  And the rivulet that ran before the door! 
                  Think of my little sisters! ­think of them! 
                  And think of me! ­think of my trusting love
                  And confidence ­his vows ­my ruin ­think ­think
                  Of my unspeakable misery! ­begone! 
                  Yet stay! yet stay! ­what was it thou saidst of prayer
                  And penitence?  Didst thou not speak of faith
                  And vows before the throne?

Monk.  I did.

Lal.  ’Tis well. 
                  There is a vow ’twere fitting should be made ­
                  A sacred vow, imperative and urgent,
                  A solemn vow!

Monk.  Daughter, this zeal is well!

Lal.  Father, this zeal is anything but well! 
                  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing? 
                  A crucifix whereon to register
                  This sacred vow? (he hands her his own.)
                  Not that ­Oh! no! ­no! ­no (shuddering.)
                  Not that!  Not that! ­I tell thee, holy man,
                  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me! 
                  Stand back!  I have a crucifix myself, ­
                  I have a crucifix!  Methinks ’twere fitting
                  The deed ­the vow ­the symbol of the deed ­
                  And the deed’s register should tally, father!
         (draws a cross-handled dagger and raises it on high.)
                  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
                  Is written in heaven!

Monk.  Thy words are madness, daughter,
                  And speak a purpose unholy ­thy lips are livid ­
                  Thine eyes are wild ­tempt not the wrath divine! 
                  Pause ere too late! ­oh, be not ­be not rash! 
                  Swear not the oath ­oh, swear it not!

Lal.  ’Tis sworn!

III.

An Apartment in a Palace.  POLITIAN and BALDAZZAR.

Baldazzar.  Arouse thee now, Politian! 
                  Thou must not ­nay indeed, indeed, thou shalt not
                  Give way unto these humors.  Be thyself! 
                  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee
                  And live, for now thou diest!

Politian.  Not so, Baldazzar!
                  Surely I live.

Bal.  Politian, it doth grieve me
                  To see thee thus!

Pol.  Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
                  To give thee cause for grief, my honored friend. 
                  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do? 
                  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
                  Which from my forefathers I did inherit,
                  Which with my mother’s milk I did imbibe,
                  And be no more Politian, but some other. 
                  Command me, sir!

Bal.  To the field then ­to the field ­
                  To the senate or the field.

Pol.  Alas! alas! 
                  There is an imp would follow me even there! 
                  There is an imp hath followed me even there! 
                  There is ­what voice was that?

Bal.  I heard it not. 
                  I heard not any voice except thine own,
                  And the echo of thine own.

Pol.  Then I but dreamed.

Bal.  Give not thy soul to dreams:  the camp ­the court
                  Befit thee ­Fame awaits thee ­Glory calls ­
                  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
                  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
                  And phantom voices.

Pol.  It is a phantom voice! 
                  Didst thou not hear it then?

Bal I heard it not.

Pol.  Thou heardst it not! ­Baldazzar, speak no more
                  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts. 
                  Oh!  I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
                  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
                  Of the populous Earth!  Bear with me yet awhile
                  We have been boys together ­school-fellows ­
                  And now are friends ­yet shall not be so long ­
                  For in the Eternal City thou shalt do me
                  A kind and gentle office, and a Power ­
                  A Power august, benignant, and supreme ­
                  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
                  Unto thy friend.

Bal.  Thou speakest a fearful riddle
                  I will not understand.

Pol.  Yet now as Fate
                  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
                  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
                  And dazzle me, Baldazzar.  Alas! alas! 
                  I cannot die, having within my heart
                  So keen a relish for the beautiful
                  As hath been kindled within it.  Methinks the air
                  Is balmier now than it was wont to be ­
                  Rich melodies are floating in the winds ­
                  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth ­
                  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
                  Sitteth in Heaven. ­Hist! hist! thou canst not say
                  Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?

Bal.  Indeed I hear not.

Pol.  Not hear it! ­listen ­now ­listen! ­the faintest sound
                  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard! 
                  A lady’s voice! ­and sorrow in the tone! 
                  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell! 
                  Again! ­again! ­how solemnly it falls
                  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
                  Surely I never heard ­yet it were well
                  Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
                  In earlier days!

Bal.  I myself hear it now. 
                  Be still! ­the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
                  Proceeds from younder lattice ­which you may see
                  Very plainly through the window ­it belongs,
                  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke. 
                  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
                  The roof of his Excellency ­and perhaps
                  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
                  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
                  His son and heir.

Pol.  Be still! ­it comes again!

Voice
(very faintly).  “And is thy heart so strong
                  As for to leave me thus,
                  That have loved thee so long,
                  In wealth and woe among? 
                  And is thy heart so strong
                  As for to leave me thus? 
                  Say nay! say nay!”

Bal.  The song is English, and I oft have heard it
                  In merry England ­never so plaintively ­
                  Hist! hist! it comes again!

Voice
(more loudly).  “Is it so strong
                  As for to leave me thus,
                  That have loved thee so long,
                  In wealth and woe among? 
                  And is thy heart so strong
                  As for to leave me thus? 
                  Say nay! say nay!”

Bal.  ’Tis hushed and all is still!

Pol.  All is not still.

Bal.  Let us go down.

Pol.  Go down, Baldazzar, go!

Bal.  The hour is growing late ­the Duke awaits us, ­
                  Thy presence is expected in the hall
                  Below.  What ails thee, Earl Politian?

Voice
(distinctly).  “Who have loved thee so long,
                  In wealth and woe among,
                  And is thy heart so strong? 
                  Say nay! say nay!”

Bal.  Let us descend! ­’tis time.  Politian, give
                  These fancies to the wind.  Remember, pray,
                  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
                  Unto the Duke.  Arouse thee! and remember!

Pol.  Remember?  I do.  Lead on!  I do remember.
               (going). 
                  Let us descend.  Believe me I would give,
                  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
                  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice ­
                  “To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
                  Once more that silent tongue.”

Bal.  Let me beg you, sir,
                  Descend with me ­the Duke may be offended. 
                  Let us go down, I pray you.

Voice (loudly). Say nay! ­say nay!

Pol. (aside).  ’Tis strange! ­’tis very strange ­methought
                     the voice
                  Chimed in with my desires and bade me stay!
             (Approaching the window)
                  Sweet voice!  I heed thee, and will surely stay. 
                  Now be this fancy, by heaven, or be it Fate,
                  Still will I not descend.  Baldazzar, make
                  Apology unto the Duke for me;
                  I go not down to-night.

Bal.  Your lordship’s pleasure
                  Shall be attended to.  Good-night, Politian.

Pol.  Good-night, my friend, good-night.

IV.

The Gardens of a Palace ­Moonlight.  LALAGE and POLITIAN.

Lalage.  And dost thou speak of love
                  To me, Politian? ­dost thou speak of love
                  To Lalage? ­ah woe ­ah woe is me! 
                  This mockery is most cruel ­most cruel indeed!

Politian.  Weep not! oh, sob not thus! ­thy bitter tears
                  Will madden me.  Oh, mourn not, Lalage ­
                  Be comforted!  I know ­I know it all,
                  And still I speak of love.  Look at me, brightest,
                  And beautiful Lalage! ­turn here thine eyes! 
                  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
                  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen
                  Thou askest me that ­and thus I answer thee ­
                  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee. (kneeling.)
                  Sweet Lalage, I love thee ­love thee ­love thee;
                  Thro’ good and ill ­thro’ weal and woe, I love thee. 
                  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
                  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee. 
                  Not on God’s altar, in any time or clime,
                  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
                  Within my spirit for thee.  And do I love?
               (arising.)
                  Even for thy woes I love thee ­even for thy woes ­
                  Thy beauty and thy woes.

Lal.  Alas, proud Earl,
                  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me! 
                  How, in thy father’s halls, among the maidens
                  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
                  Could the dishonored Lalage abide? 
                  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory ­
                  My seared and blighted name, how would it tally
                  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
                  And with thy glory?

Pol.  Speak not to me of glory! 
                  I hate ­I loathe the name; I do abhor
                  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing. 
                  Art thou not Lalage, and I Politian? 
                  Do I not love ­art thou not beautiful ­
                  What need we more?  Ha! glory! now speak not of it: 
                  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn ­
                  By all my wishes now ­my fears hereafter ­
                  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven ­
                  There is no deed I would more glory in,
                  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
                  And trample it under foot.  What matters it ­
                  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
                  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
                  Into the dust ­so we descend together? 
                  Descend together ­and then ­and then perchance ­

Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol.  And then perchance
                  Arise together, Lalage, and roam
                  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
                  And still ­

Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?

Pol.  And still together ­together.

Lal.  Now, Earl of Leicester! 
                  Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
                  I feel thou lovest me truly.

Pol.  O Lalage!
               (throwing himself upon his knee.)
                  And lovest thou me?

Lal.  Hist! hush! within the gloom
                  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed ­
                  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless ­
                  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.
               (walks across and returns.)
                  I was mistaken ­’twas but a giant bough
                  Stirred by the autumn wind.  Politian!

Pol.  My Lalage ­my love! why art thou moved? 
                  Why dost thou turn so pale?  Not Conscience self,
                  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
                  Should shake the firm spirit thus.  But the night wind
                  Is chilly ­and these melancholy boughs
                  Throw over all things a gloom.

Lal.  Politian! 
                  Thou speakest to me of love.  Knowest thou the land
                  With which all tongues are busy ­a land new found ­
                  Miraculously found by one of Genoa ­
                  A thousand leagues within the golden west? 
                  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine, ­
                  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
                  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
                  Of Heaven untrammelled flow ­which air to breathe
                  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
                  In days that are to come?

Pol.  Oh, wilt thou ­wilt thou
                  Fly to that Paradise ­my Lalage, wilt thou
                  Fly thither with me?  There Care shall be forgotten,
                  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all. 
                  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
                  For thee, and in thine eyes ­and thou shalt be
                  No more a mourner ­but the radiant Joys
                  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
                  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
                  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
                  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
                  My all; ­oh, wilt thou ­wilt thou, Lalage,
                  Fly thither with me?

Lal.  A deed is to be done ­
                  Castiglione lives!

Pol.  And he shall die!

(Exit.)

Lal.
(after a pause).  And ­he ­shall ­die! ­alas! 
                  Castiglione die?  Who spoke the words? 
                  Where am I? ­what was it he said? ­Politian! 
                  Thou art not gone ­thou art not gone, Politian! 
                  I feel thou art not gone ­yet dare not look,
                  Lest I behold thee not ­thou couldst not go
                  With those words upon thy lips ­oh, speak to me! 
                  And let me hear thy voice ­one word ­one word,
                  To say thou art not gone, ­one little sentence,
                  To say how thou dost scorn ­how thou dost hate
                  My womanly weakness.  Ha! ha! thou art not gone ­
                  Oh, speak to me!  I knew thou wouldst not go! 
                  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go. 
                  Villain, thou art not gone ­thou mockest me! 
                  And thus I clutch thee ­thus! ­He is gone, he is gone ­
                  Gone ­gone.  Where am I? ­’tis well ­’tis very well! 
                  So that the blade be keen ­the blow be sure,
                  ’Tis well, ’tis very well ­alas! alas!

V.

The Suburbs.  POLITIAN alone.

Politian.  This weakness grows upon me.  I am fain
                  And much I fear me ill ­it will not do
                  To die ere I have lived! ­Stay ­stay thy hand,
                  O Azrael, yet awhile! ­Prince of the Powers
                  Of Darkness and the Tomb, oh, pity me! 
                  Oh, pity me! let me not perish now,
                  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope! 
                  Give me to live yet ­yet a little while: 
                  ’Tis I who pray for life ­I who so late
                  Demanded but to die! ­What sayeth the Count?

Enter Baldazzar.

Baldazzar.  That, knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
                  Between the Earl Politian and himself,
                  He doth decline your cartel.

Pol. What didst thou say? 
                  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar? 
                  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
                  Laden from yonder bowers! ­a fairer day,
                  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
                  No mortal eyes have seen! ­what said the Count?

Bal.  That he, Castiglione, not being aware
                  Of any feud existing, or any cause
                  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
                  Cannot accept the challenge.

Pol.  It is most true ­
                  All this is very true.  When saw you, sir,
                  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
                  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
                  A heaven so calm as this ­so utterly free
                  From the evil taint of clouds? ­and he did say?

Bal.  No more, my lord, than I have told you: 
                  The Count Castiglione will not fight. 
                  Having no cause for quarrel.

Pol.  Now this is true ­
                  All very true.  Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
                  And I have not forgotten it ­thou’lt do me
                  A piece of service:  wilt thou go back and say
                  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
                  Hold him a villain? ­thus much, I pr’ythee, say
                  Unto the Count ­it is exceeding just
                  He should have cause for quarrel.

Bal.  My lord! ­my friend! ­

Pol. (aside).  ’Tis he ­he comes himself!
       (aloud.) Thou reasonest well. 
                  I know what thou wouldst say ­not send the message ­
                  Well! ­I will think of it ­I will not send it. 
                  Now pr’ythee, leave me ­hither doth come a person
                  With whom affairs of a most private nature
                  I would adjust.

Bal.  I go ­to-morrow we meet,
                  Do we not? ­at the Vatican.

Pol.  At the Vatican.

(Exit Bal.)

Enter Castiglione.

Cas.  The Earl of Leicester here!

Pol.  I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
                  Dost thou not, that I am here?

Cas.  My lord, some strange,
                  Some singular mistake ­misunderstanding ­
                  Hath without doubt arisen:  thou hast been urged
                  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
                  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
                  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey.  I am aware
                  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
                  Having given thee no offence.  Ha! ­am I right? 
                  ’Twas a mistake? ­undoubtedly ­we all
                  Do err at times.

Pol.  Draw, villain, and prate no more!

Cas.  Ha! ­draw? ­and villain? have at thee then at once,
                  Proud Earl!
               (Draws.)

Pol.
(drawing.) Thus to the expiatory tomb,
                  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
                  In the name of Lalage!

Cas. (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
         stage.)
                  Of Lalage! 
                  Hold off ­thy sacred hand! ­avaunt, I say! 
                  Avaunt ­I will not fight thee ­indeed I dare not.

Pol.  Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count? 
                  Shall I be baffled thus? ­now this is well;
                  Didst say thou darest not?  Ha!

Cas.  I dare not ­dare not ­
                  Hold off thy hand ­with that beloved name
                  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee ­
                  I cannot ­dare not.

Pol.  Now, by my halidom,
                  I do believe thee! ­coward, I do believe thee!

Cas.  Ha! ­coward! ­this may not be!
(clutches his sword and staggers towards Politian, but his purpose is
changed before reaching him, and he falls upon hia knee at the feet of
the Earl.)
                  Alas! my lord,
                  It is ­it is ­most true.  In such a cause
                  I am the veriest coward.  Oh, pity me!

Pol. (greatly softened).  Alas! ­I do ­indeed I pity thee.

Cas.  And Lalage ­

Pol. Scoundrel! ­arise and die!

Cas.  It needeth not be ­thus ­thus ­Oh, let me die
                  Thus on my bended knee.  It were most fitting
                  That in this deep humiliation I perish. 
                  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
                  Against thee, Earl of Leicester.  Strike thou home ­
               (baring his bosom.)
                  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon ­
                  Strike home.  I will not fight thee.

Pol.  Now’s Death and Hell! 
                  Am I not ­am I not sorely ­grievously tempted
                  To take thee at thy word?  But mark me, sir: 
                  Think not to fly me thus.  Do thou prepare
                  For public insult in the streets ­before
                  The eyes of the citizens.  I’ll follow thee ­
                  Like an avenging spirit I’ll follow thee
                  Even unto death.  Before those whom thou lovest ­
                  Before all Rome I’ll taunt thee, villain, ­I’ll taunt
                    thee,
                  Dost hear? with cowardice ­thou wilt not fight me? 
                  Thou liest! thou shalt!

(Exit.)

Cas.  Now this indeed is just! 
        Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

NOTE ON POLITIAN

 Such portions of “Politian” as are known to the public first saw the light of publicity in the ‘Southern Literary Messenger’ for December 1835 and January 1836, being styled “Scenes from Politian; an unpublished drama.”  These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845 collection of Poems by Poe.  The larger portion of the original draft subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not considered just to the poet’s memory to publish it.  The work is a hasty and unrevised production of its author’s earlier days of literary labor; and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his reputation.  As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered.  The Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of Castiglione her betrothed.

Duke.  Why do you laugh?

Castiglione.  Indeed. 
                  I hardly know myself.  Stay!  Was it not
                  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl? 
                  Of the Earl Politian?  Yes! it was yesterday. 
                  Alessandra, you and I, you must remember! 
                  We were walking in the garden.

Duke.  Perfectly. 
                  I do remember it ­what of it ­what then?

Cas.  O nothing ­nothing at all.

Duke.  Nothing at all! 
                  It is most singular that you should laugh
                  At nothing at all!

Cas.  Most singular ­singular!

Duke.  Look yon, Castiglione, be so kind
                  As tell me, sir, at once what ’tis you mean. 
                  What are you talking of?

Cas.  Was it not so? 
                  We differed in opinion touching him.

Duke.  Him! ­Whom?

Cas.  Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

Duke.  The Earl of Leicester!  Yes! ­is it he you mean? 
                  We differed, indeed.  If I now recollect
                  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
                  Was neither learned nor mirthful.

Cas.  Ha! ha! ­now did I?

Duke.  That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
                  You were wrong, it being not the character
                  Of the Earl ­whom all the world allows to be
                  A most hilarious man.  Be not, my son,
                  Too positive again.

Cas.  ’Tis singular! 
                  Most singular!  I could not think it possible
                  So little time could so much alter one! 
                  To say the truth about an hour ago,
                  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
                  All arm in arm, we met this very man
                  The Earl ­he, with his friend Baldazzar,
                  Having just arrived in Rome.  Ha! ha! he is altered! 
                  Such an account he gave me of his journey! 
                  ’Twould have made you die with laughter ­such tales he
                    told
                  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
                  Along the road ­such oddity ­such humor ­
                  Such wit ­such whim ­such flashes of wild merriment
                  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
                  Demeanor of his friend ­who, to speak the truth
                  Was gravity itself ­

Duke.  Did I not tell you?

Cas.  You did ­and yet ’tis strange! but true, as strange,
                  How much I was mistaken!  I always thought
                  The Earl a gloomy man.

Duke.  So, so, you see! 
                  Be not too positive.  Whom have we here? 
                  It cannot be the Earl?

Cas.  The Earl!  Oh no! 
                  Tis not the Earl ­but yet it is ­and leaning
                  Upon his friend Baldazzar.  Ah! welcome, sir!
                  (Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)
                  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
                  To Rome ­his Grace the Duke of Broglio. 
                  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
                  Of Leicester in Great Britain.
                  [Politian bows haughtily.]
                  That, his friend
                  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey.  The Earl has letters,
                  So please you, for Your Grace.

Duke.  Ha! ha!  Most welcome
                  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian! 
                  And you, most noble Duke!  I am glad to see you! 
                  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian. 
                  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
                  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
                  With your betrothed.  You come, sir, at a time
                  Most seasonable.  The wedding ­

Politian.  Touching those letters, sir,
                  Your son made mention of ­your son, is he not? ­
                  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them. 
                  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here ­
                  Baldazzar! ah! ­my friend Baldazzar here
                  Will hand them to Your Grace.  I would retire.

Duke.  Retire! ­so soon?

Cas.  What ho!  Benito!  Rupert! 
                  His lordship’s chambers ­show his lordship to them! 
                  His lordship is unwell.

(Enter Benito.)

Ben.  This way, my lord!

(Exit, followed by Politian.)

Duke.  Retire!  Unwell!

Bal.  So please you, sir.  I fear me
                  ’Tis as you say ­his lordship is unwell. 
                  The damp air of the evening ­the fatigue
                  Of a long journey ­the ­indeed I had better
                  Follow his lordship.  He must be unwell. 
                  I will return anon.

Duke.  Return anon! 
                  Now this is very strange!  Castiglione! 
                  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee. 
                  You surely were mistaken in what you said
                  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed! ­which of us said
                  Politian was a melancholy man?

(Exeunt.)