at every lady, his whole frame trembled; here he stood,
until everything like human shape had disappeared from
the institution, and he had done nothing; he had failed
to accomplish that which he so eagerly sought for.
Poor, unfortunate creature! he had not the eyes of
an Argus, or he might have seen his Juno and Elfonzo,
assisted by his friend Sigma, make their escape from
the window, and, with the rapidity of a race-horse,
hurry through the blast of the storm to the residence
of her father, without being recognized. He did
not tarry long, but assured Ambulinia the endless chain
of their existence was more closely connected than
ever, since he had seen the virtuous, innocent, imploring,
and the constant Amelia murdered by the jealous-hearted
Farcillo, the accursed of the land.
The following is the tragical scene, which is only
introduced to show the subject-matter that enabled
Elfonzo to come to such a determinate resolution that
nothing of the kind should ever dispossess him of
his true character, should he be so fortunate as to
succeed in his present undertaking.
Amelia was the wife of Farcillo, and a virtuous woman;
Gracia, a young lady, was her particular friend and
confidant. Farcillo grew jealous of Amelia,
murders her, finds out that he was deceived, and
stabs himself. Amelia appears alone,
talking to herself.
A. Hail, ye solitary ruins of antiquity, ye sacred
tombs and silent walks! it is your aid I invoke; it
is to you, my soul, wrapt in deep mediating, pours
forth its prayer. Here I wander upon the stage
of mortality, since the world hath turned against me.
Those whom I believed to be my friends, alas! are now
my enemies, planting thorns in all my paths, poisoning
all my pleasures, and turning the past to pain.
What a lingering catalogue of sighs and tears lies
just before me, crowding my aching bosom with the
fleeting dream of humanity, which must shortly terminate.
And to what purpose will all this bustle of life, these
agitations and emotions of the heart have conduced,
if it leave behind it nothing of utility, if it leave
no traces of improvement? Can it be that I am
deceived in my conclusions? No, I see that I
have nothing to hope for, but everything for fear,
which tends to drive me from the walks of time.
Oh! in this dead night, if loud winds arise,
To lash the surge and bluster in the skies,
May the west its furious rage display,
Toss me with storms in the watery way.
G. Oh, Amelia, is it you, the object of grief, the
daughter of opulence, of wisdom and philosophy, that
thus complaineth? It cannot be you are the child
of misfortune, speaking of the monuments of former
ages, which were allotted not for the reflection of
the distressed, but for the fearless and bold.
