THE WARNING. BEWARE! The Israelite of old, who tore Upon the pillars of the temple laid His desperate hands, and in its overthrow The poor, blind Slave, the scoff and jest of all, There is a poor, blind Samson in this land, Shorn of his strength, and bound in bonds of steel, Who may, in some grim revel, raise his hand, And shake the pillars of this Commonweal, Till the vast-Temple of our liberties A shapeless mass of wreck and rubbish lies. SCENE I. The COUNT OF LARA's chambers. Night. The COUNT in his dressing-gown, smoking and conversing with DON CARLOS. LARA. You were not at the play to-night, Don Carlos; How happened it? Pray who was there? DON CARLOS. I had engagements elsewhere. LARA. Why, all the town and court. The house was crowded; and the busy fans Among the gayly dressed and perfumed ladies Fluttered like butterflies among the flowers. There was the Countess of Medina Celi; The Goblin Lady with her Phantom Lover, Her Lindo Don Diego; Doña Sol, And Doña Serafina, and her cousins. What was the play? DON CARLOS. LARA. It was a dull affair; One of those comedies in which you see, As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Judgment. There were three duels fought in the first act, Three gentlemen receiving deadly wounds, Laying their hands upon their hearts, and saying, "O, I am dead!" a lover in a closet, An old hidalgo, and a gay Don Juan, A Doňa Inez with a black mantilla, Followed at twilight by an unknown lover, DON CARLOS. Of course, the Preciosa danced to-night? LARA. And never better. Every footstep fell DON CARLOS. Almost beyond the privilege of woman! LARA. May not a saint fall from her Paradise, DON CARLOS. and her face Why do you ask? LARA. Because I have heard it said this angel fell, DON CARLOS. You do her wrong; indeed, you do her wrong! LARA. How credulous you are! Why look you, friend, DON CARLOS. Nay, not to be won at all! The only virtue that a Gipsy prizes LARA. And does that prove That Preciosa is above suspicion? DON CARLOS. It proves a nobleman may be repulsed 'Tis late. I must begone, for if I stay You will not be persuaded. |