The Complete Works of John Keats: Poems, Plays & Personal Letters. John Keats
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Emperor’s niece,
Who, for your bright sword and clear honesty,
Lifted you from the crowd of common men
Into the lap of honour; save me, knight!
Albert.
How? Make it clear; if it be possible,
I, by the banner of Saint Maurice, swear
To right you.
Erminia.
Possible! Easy. O my heart!
This letter’s not so soil’d but you may read it;
Possible! There that letter! Read read it,
[Gives him a letter.
Albert (reading). ‘To the Duke Conrad. Forget the threat you
made at parting, and I will forget to send the Emperor letters and
papers of your’s I have become possessed of. His life is no trifle to
me; his death you shall find none to yourself.’ (Speaks to himself
’Tis me my life that’s pleaded for! (Reads.) ‘He, for his
own sake, will be dumb as the grave. Erminia has my shame fix’d
upon her, sure as a wen. We are safe.
AURANTHE.’A she-devil! A dragon! I her imp!
Fire of Hell! Auranthe lewd demon!
Where got you this? Where? When?
Erminia.
I found it in the tent, among some spoils
Which, being noble, fell to Gersa’s lot.
Come in, and see. [They go in and return.
Albert.
Villainy! Villainy!
Conrad’s sword, his corslet, and his helm,
And his letter. Caitiff, he shall feel
Erminia. I see you are thunderstruck. Haste, haste away!
Albert.
O I am tortured by this villainy.
Erminia.
You needs must be. Carry it swift to Otho;
Tell him, moreover, I am prisoner
Here in this camp, where all the sisterhood,
Forc’d from their quiet cells, are parcell’d out
For slaves among these Huns. Away! Away!
Albert.
I am gone.
Erminia.
Swift be your steed! Within this hour
The Emperor will see it.
Albert.
Ere I sleep:
That I can swear. [Hurries out.
Gersa (without). Brave captains! thanks. Enough
Of loyal homage now!
Enter GERSA.
Erminia.
Hail, royal Hun!
Gersa.
What means this, fair one? Why in such alarm?
Who was it hurried by me so distract?
It seem’d you were in deep discourse together;
Your doctrine has not been so harsh to him
As to my poor deserts. Come, come, be plain.
I am no jealous fool to kill you both,
Or, for such trifles, rob the adorned world
Of such a beauteous vestal.
Erminia.
I grieve, my Lord,
To hear you condescend to ribald phrase.
Gersa.
This is too much! Hearken, my lady pure!
Erminia.
Silence! and hear the magic of a name
Erminia! I am she, the Emperor’s niece!
Prais’d be the Heavens, I now dare own myself!
Gersa.
Erminia! Indeed! I’ve heard of her.
Prythee, fair lady, what chance brought you here?
Erminia.
Ask your own soldiers.
Gersa.
And you dare own your name.
For loveliness you may and for the rest
My vein is not censorious.
Erminia.
Alas! poor me!
’Tis false indeed.
Gersa.
Indeed you are too fair:
the swan, soft leaning on her fledgy breast,
When to the stream she launches, looks not back
With such a tender grace ; nor are her wings
So white as your soul is, if that but be
Twin-picture to your face. Erminia!
To-day, for the first day, I am a king,
Yet would I give my unworn crown away
To know you spotless.
Erminia.
Trust me one day more,
Generously, without more certain guarantee,
Than this poor face you deign to praise so much;
After that, say and do whate’er you please.
If I have any knowledge of you, sir,
I think, nay I am sure, you will grieve much
To hear my story. O be gentle to me,
For I am sick and faint with many wrongs,
Tir’d out, and weary-worn with contumelies.
Gersa.
Poor lady!
Enter ETHELBERT.
Erminia.
Gentle Prince, ’tis false indeed.
Good morrow, holy father! I have had
Your prayers, though I look’d for you in vain.
Ethelbert. Blessings upon you, daughter! Sure you look
Too cheerful for these foul pernicious days.
Young man, you heard this virgin say ’twas false,
’Tis false, I say. What! can you not employ
Your temper elsewhere, ‘mong these burly tents,
But you must taunt this dove, for she hath lost
The Eagle Otho to beat off assault?
Fie! fie! But I will be her guard myself;
In the Emperor’s name. I here demand of you
Herself, and all her sisterhood. She false!
Gersa. Peace! peace, old man! I cannot think she is.
Ethelbert.
Whom I have known from her first infancy,
Baptized her in the bosom of the Church,
Watch’d her, as anxious husbandmen the grain,
From the first shoot till the unripe mid-May,
Then to the tender ear of her June days,
Which, lifting sweet abroad its timid green,