Page:Peterson's Magazine 1842, Volume I.pdf/11

6 I am apprized of your most secret thoughts. Longer disguise is useless betwixt us. You need not clasp your hands and look imploringly up to heaven. You are in my power, and, having undertook to brave my will, and persuade your lover that you and he could yet circumvent me, you shall know the full extent of that power. I have hitherto wasted my breath in persuading you to wed my nephew—henceforth I will persuade no more; but by St. Mark!—wed him you shall. You have thrown down the gauntlet—we will see who proves the victor. One year," he continued, with increased bitterness, and an ill-concealed rage, "and you will be your own mistress—say you? Ay! if you continue unwed. But mark my words!—before the twelfth part of that time shall have elapsed, you will be the wife of the head of our house. You know me—you know I never trifle. Prepare then for what is inevitable. Tomorrow by early dawn we shall set out for Venice. I leave you to think of the fate you have drawn on yourself," and, with these words, sneeringly bowing, the Duke left the room.

During this interview, the feelings of the lady Beatrice had almost overpowered her reason. The sneering look of the Duke at his entrance foreboded the object of his visit, and his words soon left no doubt of his intentions. Beatrice saw, at once, that she had been discovered and betrayed. The threat of the Duke filled her with no idle fears. She knew that in Venice the power of a guardian was almost illimitable, and that her sex were often made the victims of forced marriages. In the seclusion of the vast palaces of the Venetian aristocracy, deeds were often done which no human tongue ever made public. What wonder then that Beatrice shuddered at the fate impending over her? What wonder that she clasped her hands and raised her eyes to heaven imploringly? Friendless, and alone -with no protection in the law, and watched by the spies of her relentless guardian, so that she could not appeal to the few who might aid her, what escape was there for her? These thoughts rushed through her mind, and almost unnerved her. In vain she attempted to speak—to remonstrate with the Duke—to implore his pity. Her tongue clove to her mouth. She could not speak. And when he had departed, and she sank helplessly on her knees, she was unable to give utterance to a petition for help from heaven, until a flood of tears came to her relief.

Sleep fled the pillow of Beatrice that night. Her situation seemed more hopeless the more she reflected on it. Oh!—she though—if her lover only knew of her peril, how soon would he fly to her rescue. But then the thought occurred to her, what could he do to aid her?-and would not any interference on his part only end in the ruin of both? There were daggers enough in Venice to be bought for fifty ducats to remove all fear that the Duke would be foiled by Adanta. In whatever light she looked on her situation, there was the same absence of hope. Morning found her still fruitlessly revolving the probability of an escape from the peril which threatened her. And during their route to Venice the same thought occupied her mind. When the gloomy portals of the Duke's palace closed on her, she felt as if she was shut up in a living tomb. Nor was her despair mitigated when her guardian, conducting her to her chamber-door, said significantly,

"Here, lady is your home until you become the bride of my nephew. A week hence the ceremony will be performed," and with this warning he departed.

The lady Beatrice gazed around on the strange apartment which had been allotted to her, with the consciousness that, for her, it was only a prison, and she turned with a bitter smile from the tapestry which seemed to mock her desolation. She approached the window and gazed out. The canal was far beneath. She returned to the door and tried the lock. It was fastened. All escape was cut off. She was immured in a prison, from which she would have no escape, until summoned to become the bride of the hated nephew of her guardian.

WHAT! pray for her no more-the loved, the lost? When stood she so in need of pray'rs as now? On the wild sea of stormy passion tost, With lightning flashing shame around her brow? When innocent, my pray'rs avail'd her not, But now in them she must not be forgot!

Tell me no more of injury and pride, Wake not the evil spirits of my heart, I know to feel, and know I must abide The bitter agony of its dread smart; Still is her name so wonted to my pray'r, It seems to have a birthright to be there!

That heart is like a channel for my tears, Have fretted at its core, wasting away The flow'rs that blossom'd on its banks for years, Hope's flow'rs, and love's, brief, beautiful, and gay— And now, alas! it only doth retain The thorn that rankles ever there to pain.

O, how I mind me of her form of light, (Though darken'd o'er by crime and sorrow now,) Shining resplendent as a vision bright, That steals from heav'n to kiss the poet's brow; There was it set in blessings, like a gem Polish'd to grace a seraph's diadem.

And there, though trampled on, detested, spurn'd— It still will shine, but with a fainter ray, As lamps that are by pious love inurn'd, Shed a dimm'd radiance round the mould'ring clay, Yet, all so veil'd, it will be the sole light, That ever breaks the gloom of that heart's night.