Shall he to whom I ever fondly look'd
As the grand prop of our most ancient name,
Fix a soul stain upon, and, by one act,
Destroy those honors which have brighten'd round it.
No, by the gods; it shall not, must not, be.
Ye, righteous Heavens! Does my sense deceive me?
I heard a groan! — Ha! perhaps a mother's groan!
"You'll find stern virtue struggling 'gainst a villain;
An injur'd woman in resistance firm."
These were Pirozzi's words. Oh! Heaven, grant it,
But 'tis not in possibility's sphere,
Capacious as it is, that she yet lives.
Was not the fatal potion — Thought, away!
For thou art now my hell!
Where, where can I alight the lamp of hope?
My bosom's dark as is the gloom around me.
Each former ray of expectation
Clouds of despair obscure. Yet, should she live,
O! then, nethermost hell, thy flames hiss forth
Upon the head of her accurst oppressor.
Who goes there? — Pirozzi?
"Veroni — much, much, indeed, I've wrong'd you.
I ask not pardon — No! forever curse me.
Your wife was pure — Ernando never wrong'd you."
Hell, where are thy torments! — O! consummate art!
"The fair attendant of your wife I brib'd:
'Twas me that follow'd to your bridal room.
Never was wife more pure than your Clarentia;
Or friend more faithful than the fall'n Ernando."
Ye mountains fall! and in your ruin hide me!
Gape, oh, hell! and hiss your flames upon me!
What art! what black suspicions! and, oh! God,
What blacker, blacker deeds!
Here turn, Veroni, and in me behold him!
Lov'd by thy youth, lamented by thy age,
Ernando, ever faithful to his seeming,
And conscious feeling of his own weak state,
Can pardon frailty in a contrite friend.