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Methinks, thou'lt higher prize the confidence
Proceed, Lord Marquis,
The cold-hearted worldling renews his odious condescensions, and even after reiterated assurances that the love and society of his pupil are all the meed the master desires, can propose to him as a slight sacrifice, to forego, perhaps for ever, that satisfaction, by an immediate separation. The surprise of the artist may be conceived.
Marq. I must speak plainer. It is said the Count
Paint. Aye, truly.
Is his history known to thee?
No idle tale
Marq. Ye know him well, and warmly plead his cause.
Know, 'twas my child,
Did it bring ye joy
Marg. The noxious seed will grow though by no hand
Annihilate the cause
Paint. I do not understand-methought a love
Those who in Fortune's smile
And shall a name which genius tends
To rear a stately tomb? Dost thou not shudder
Ye think me hard.
Paint. How ! promised to another! Who hath dared ?
Yon black cross knight?
What! his brother's widow ?
Paint. No, no! it is not so-ye but deceive me.
Romance is ever readier
Paint. What! twice?-he loved and yet assumed the Cross ?
Marq. And now, when after years of silent pain,
Paint. Aye, aye, he loves her !-all is now explain'd,
Marq. Yes—and my blessing follow'd—but instead
Paint. Oh, noble heart! in love and victory great
Marq. Dost reverence the Count?
Eo'n as a saint,
Marg. And my blind daughter-think'st thou not with him,
Ask not me!
The heart forgets
The dead! but Anton Leny
Marg. Indeed ! say but the word, and then
The unfeeling Marquis presses his relentless request with cruel ingenuity, and at length seals his triumph by the following terrible ordeal. Marg.
Well! I set thee
Paint. Oh, do not ask me-let thy daughter choose
Marq. Wouldst thou expose her to the cruel strife ?
The victims crown'd
Grant a father's prayer ;
Alas! Farewell, poor heart!
Paint. What hast thou left me to forswear? Speak on !
Paint. Fear not,-go-and never to return !
And now, my friend,
My last request -- I cannot be your debtor .
This fresh compliance adds fresh obligations.
Ye are too poor for me,
Heart! summon all thy strength; lips, tremble not
We must pass over, with reluctant ings, and answers, with the fervour brevity, a scene in the Baronial-hall, of youth and long acquaintance, for where the old scneschal eagerly un the artist's innocence. The Count folds to the Count, and Leonhard, the coldly remarks, that, even if proceedtreasured secret of his vindictive spin ing from culpable weakness, and not rit, viz. the identity of the private malice, the share of the painter in his mark on the newly finished picture of father's fate must for ever place a bar the Countess, with that on the fa. between him and his pupil. He deter. tal likeness of her husband, brought mines, however, on investigation-defrom the gallows at Naples. The clares, that he will, himself, be the shock of the Count and his nephew avenger, and, in the mean time, en. may be conceived. The young man, joins secrecy, on pain of his utmost of course, seeks to palliate when he displeasure, on the disappointed secan no longer doubt the evidence of neschal. The latter, left alone, vows his senses; but the Count, with a to bis dead master's picture, that his grave severity, in painful contrast with murderer shall not escape through the his usual mildness, and still more with mistaken lenity of others. the mortal sacrifice which we know A scene of deep interest ensues. Cathe poor artist to be at that moment milla has been expressing to her son making to his happiness, takes up and the Count her regret and surprise, the matter with all the sternness of a on hearing that the painter talks of judge, and remarks, that ever since leaving them. She fears he may have the discovery of Leonhard's birth, a been slighted by some one, and owns painful mystery had appeared to hang an inexplicable interest in him, and over and disturb the painter. The regret for his departure. She reold retainer breathes nothing but in members his kindness to her child, stant and secret revenge. Poor Leon- and weeps. Poor Leonhard exclaimshard indignantly silences his croak.
Leon. Ah, mother ! so could I, if I but dared.
The Marquis and Painter now join them, and the former announces to the Count his having for the present relinquished all thoughts of going to Italy. The Count requests him to remain master of the castle during his absence, as his own journey is irrevocably fixed on. The Marquis-waving that subject-adverts to the necessary departure of the Painter. All look toward Spie narosa, who remains with his eyes downcast. Leonhard asks
Leon. And wilt thou leave me?
The Painter only nods in reply, and Camilla, who had listened intensely for his answer, exclaims—
Cam. Oh! speak, that I may hear!
Art not at home with us?
An old mother,
Mine hopes no more-she sleeps !
Oh! make us easy;
Paint. No, death hath lighted on my love.
Let me go alone.
Count. In vain, say'st thou? I trust not; yet 'tis plain
Why torment him?
Paint. Aye, on his grave I go to weep.
'Tis false !
When Life's long sultry day
Marg. What was his name? ye mention'd ev'n now.
Cam. Leny! Oh, my God! Was he an artist?
'Tis not so-he lies!
Help! my mother faints !
Barbarian ! how did she offend thee?
Oh! death’s wing is cold,
(Exeunt all except Count and PAINTER.
Oh! I beseech thee,