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Chorus

(BOHEMUND).

Concord or strife–the fate’s decree
Is bosomed yet in dark futurity!
What comes, we little heed to know,
Prepared for aught the hour may show!

ISABELLA

(looking round).
What mean these arms? this warlike, dread array,
That in the palace of your sires portends
Some fearful issue? needs a mother’s heart
Outpoured, this rugged witness of her joys?
Say, in these folding arms shall treason hide
The deadly snare? Oh, these rude, pitiless men,
The ministers of your wrath!–trust not the show
Of seeming friendship; treachery in their breasts
Lurks to betray, and long-dissembled hate.
Ye are a race of other lands; your sires
Profaned their soil; and ne’er the invader’s yoke
Was easy–never in the vassal’s heart
Languished the hope of sweet revenge;–our sway
Not rooted in a people’s love, but owns
Allegiance from their fears; with secret joy–
For conquest’s ruthless sword, and thraldom’s chains
From age to age, they wait the atoning hour
Of princes’ downfall;–thus their bards awake
The patriot strain, and thus from sire to son
Rehearsed, the old traditionary tale
Beguiles the winter’s night. False is the world,
My sons, and light are all the specious ties
By fancy twined: friendship–deceitful name!
Its gaudy flowers but deck our summer fortune,
To wither at the first rude breath of autumn!
So happy to whom heaven has given a brother;
The friend by nature signed–the true and steadfast!
Nature alone is honest–nature only–
When all we trusted strews the wintry shore–
On her eternal anchor lies at rest,
Nor heeds the tempest’s rage.

DON MANUEL.

My mother!

DON CAESAR.

Hear me

ISABELLA

(taking their hands).
Be noble, and forget the fancied wrongs
Of boyhood’s age: more godlike is forgiveness
Than victory, and in your father’s grave
Should sleep the ancient hate:–Oh, give your days
Renewed henceforth to peace and holy love!

[She recedes one or two steps, as if to give them space
to approach each other. Both fix their eyes on the ground
without regarding one another.]

ISABELLA

(after awaiting for some time, with suppressed emotion,
a demonstration on the part of her sons).

I can no more; my prayers–my tears are vain:–
‘Tis well! obey the demon in your hearts!
Fulfil your dread intent, and stain with blood
The holy altars of your household gods;–
These halls that gave you birth, the stage where murder
Shall hold his festival of mutual carnage
Beneath a mother’s eye!–then, foot to foot,
Close, like the Theban pair, with maddening gripe,
And fold each other in a last embrace!
Each press with vengeful thrust the dagger home,
And “Victory!” be your shriek of death:–nor then
Shall discord rest appeased; the very flame
That lights your funeral pyre shall tower dissevered
In ruddy columns to the skies, and tell
With horrid image–“thus they lived and died!”

[She goes away; the BROTHERS stand as before.]

Chorus

(CAJETAN).

How have her words with soft control
Resistless calmed the tempest of my soul!
No guilt of kindred blood be mine!
Thus with uplifted hands I prey;
Think, brothers, on the awful day,
And tremble at the wrath divine!

DON CAESAR

(without taking his eyes from the ground).
Thou art my elder–speak–without dishonor
I yield to thee.

DON MANUEL.

One gracious word, an instant,
My tongue is rival in the strife of love!

DON CAESAR.

I am the guiltier–weaker—-

DON MANUEL.

Say not so!
Who doubts thy noble heart, knows thee not well;
The words were prouder, if thy soul were mean.