Fazio, a young, ardent scholar, deeply imbued with a belief in the possibility of transmuting base metals into gold, devotes his time to study amid his retorts and alembics. One evening an old miser, Fazio's neighbor, is set upon by robbers, stabbed and falls dying at the alchemist's door. Fazio carries him into his house, where he dies. Then th poor scholar is tempted to bury the miser's body in his garden, and enrich himself by the almost boundless wealth of the dead man. Giving out that he had discovered the secret of making gold, he runs a career of reckless extravagance. One Aldabella, a beautiful but profligate woman, lures him from Bianca's arms. His wife, actuated by frantic jealousy, denounces him as the robber of the miser. Fazio is arrested, and doomed to die. Then the heart-broken wife relents, and would save her erring husband at all risks. Her efforts are futile. The scenes which follow take place in the interim between the alchemist's condemnation and execution. COSTUMES.-Fazio, a close fitting dress of dark brown or black cloth or velvet. Bianca, a handsome court dress of any rich material, but worn in a disordered manner.1 SCENE-A Prison. FAZIO and BIANCA discovered. FAZ. (L. C.). Let's talk of joy, Bianca; we'lldeceive Beneath thy lattice, sometimes the light dawn Soft in its grey and filmy atmosphere? BIAN. (C.). Oh yes, oh yes!-There'll be adawn to-morrow Will steal upon us. Then, oh then FAZ. Oh, think not on't! And thou remember'st too that beauteous evening Upon the Arno; how we sail'd along, And laugh'd to see the stately towers of Florence Abandon'd its soft whiteness to my pressure? BIAN. Oh yes! To-morrow evening, if thou close Thy clasping hand, mine will not meet it thenThou'lt only grasp the chill and senseless earth. FAZ. Thou busy, sad remembrancer of evil! How exquisitely happy have we two Sate in the dusky and discolored light, Warm in their breathing slumbers, or at play BIAN. Quick, my Fazio! Quick, let me have't-to-morrow thou'lt not speak it. FAZ. Oh, what a life must theirs be, those poor innocents! When they have grown up to a sense of sorrowOh, what a feast will there be for rude misery! Honest men's boys and girls, whene'er they mingle. Will spurn them with the black and branded title, "The murderer's children :" Infamy will pin That pestilent label on their backs: the plague-spot Will bloat and blister on them till their death-beds; And if they beg-for beggars they must beThey'll drive them from their doors with cruel jeers Upon my riches, villainously style them "The children of Lord Fazio, the philosopher." BIAN. To-morrow will the cry begin,-to-morrow It must not be, and I sit idle here! Fazio, there must be in this wide, wide city, Souls not too proud, too cold, too stern for mercy. I'll raise the dead! I'll conjure up the ghost Of that old rotten thing, Bartolo; make it Cry out i' the market place, "Thou didst not slay him!" Farewell, farewell! If in the walls of Florence Be anything like hope or comfort, Fazio, I'll clasp it with such strong and steadfast arms, This silence with strange uncouth sounds of joy. BIAN. (C.) Ah, what a fierce and frantic coil is here, Because the sun must shine on one man less! I'm sick and weary-my feet drag along. Why must I trail, like a scotch'd serpent, hither? Fazio, my fond, my gentle, fervent Fazio ? No! -Cold stones are his couch, harsh iron bars Fie, fie! that's rank, that's noisome !-I remember- Away from this cold world!-Why should we breed up There's one a boy-some strumpet will enlace him, No, no; they must not live, they must not live! Enter into a back chamber, L. D. F. After a pause she returns. It will not be, it will not be they woke As though e'en in their sleep they felt my presence, Though my soul wish'd that God would take them to him. I could but kiss them; and when I had kissed them, I could as soon have leap'd up to the moon, As speck'd or soil'd their alabaster skins. Wild that I am!-Take them to another world- In the dread separation of the dead, Oh, happy they!-they will but know to-morrow [Exit, R. THE ISLES OF GREECE. BYRON. [This impassioned lyric is one of the most fiery, fervent and heroic that even the soul of Byron has ever breathed forth. It is not possible to throw into it too much glowing eloquence, as the speaker recals the days when the antique heroes drew their shining blades for Freedom: Occasionally the voice lowers into sadness when contrasting the present with the past of the country of Leonidas and Plato ] THE isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, The mountains look on Marathon, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow That looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And men in nations;-all were his! He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set where were they? And where are they? and where art thou, The heroic bosom beats no more! "Tis something in the dearth of fame, To feel at least a patriot's shame, Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? What! silent still? and silent all? And answer, "Let one living head, But one arise,-we come, we come;" "Tis but the living who are dumb. In vain-in vain: strike other chords, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet- The nobler and the manlier one? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! It made Anacreon's song divine; He serv'd-but serv'd Polycrates A tyrant; but our masters then The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. |