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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Almeria in the Mausoleum

By William Congreve (1670–1729)

From ‘The Mourning Bride’

Enter Almeria and Leonora

ALMERIA—It was a fancied noise, for all is hushed.

Leonora—It bore the accent of a human voice.

Almeria—It was thy fear, or else some transient wind

Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle.

We’ll listen.

Leonora—Hark!

Almeria—No, all is hushed and still as death.—’Tis dreadful!

How reverend is the face of this tall pile,

Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,

To bear aloft its arched and ponderous roof,

By its own weight made steadfast and immovable,

Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe

And terror on my aching sight; the tombs

And monumental caves of death look cold,

And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.

Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;

Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear

Thy voice—my own affrights me with its echoes.

Leonora—Let us return; the horror of this place,

And silence, will increase your melancholy.

Almeria—It may my fears, but cannot add to that.

No, I will on: show me Anselmo’s tomb;

Lead me o’er bones and skulls and moldering earth

Of human bodies; for I’ll mix with them:

Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corse

Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride

Of Garcia’s more detested bed: that thought

Exerts my spirits; and my present fears

Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me,

Lead me, for I am bolder grown; lead on

Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again

To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso’s soul.

Leonora—I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret.

The Scene opening discovers a place of tombs; one monument fronting the view greater than the rest

Enter Heli
Heli—I wander through this maze of monuments,

Yet cannot find him.—Hark! sure ’tis the voice

Of one complaining.—There it sounds: I’ll follow it.[Exit.]

Leonora—Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb

The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,

Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms!

What do I see? O Heaven! either my eyes

Are false, or still the marble door remains

Unclosed: the iron gates that lead to death

Beneath, are still wide-stretched upon their hinge,

And staring on us with unfolded leaves.

Almeria—Sure, ’tis the friendly yawn of death for me;

And that dumb mouth, significant in show,

Invites me to the bed where I alone

Shall rest; shows me the grave, where nature, weary

And long oppressed with woes and bending cares,

May lay the burden down, and sink in slumbers

Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold

Me in his leaden arms, and press me close

To his cold clayey breast: my father then

Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia too

Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.

My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,

And range the starry orbs, and milky ways,

Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim

In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss

To my Alphonso’s soul. O joy too great!

O ecstasy of thought! Help me, Anselmo:

Help me, Alphonso; take me, reach thy hand;

To thee, to thee I call, to thee, Alphonso:

O Alphonso!

Osmyn ascends from the tomb
Osmyn—Who calls that wretched thing that was Alphonso?

Almeria—Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me!

Osmyn—Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the grave,

And growing to his father’s shroud, roots up Alphonso?

Almeria—Mercy! Providence! O speak!

Speak to it quickly, quickly! speak to me,

Comfort me, help me, hold me, hide me, hide me,

Leonora, in thy bosom, from the light,

And from my eyes!
Osmyn—Amazement and illusion!

Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers;[Coming forward.

That motionless I may be still deceived.

Let me not stir, nor breathe, lest I dissolve

That tender lovely form of painted air,

So like Almeria. Ha! it sinks, it falls;

I’ll catch it ere it goes, and grasp her shade.

’Tis life! ’tis warm! ’tis she! ’tis she herself!

Nor dead nor shade, but breathing and alive!

It is Almeria, ’tis, it is my wife!