is feet._] My father?--Oh! my father.

_Alfon._ Rise!
Nay rise: what fears't thou? Wherefore weep, and tremble?
_Thou_ hast no cause for grief! The poisoned arrow
Has pierced no heart but mine! These eyes alone
Need weep for what they've seen! _Thou_ hast not felt
What 'tis to lose all faith in man! to see
Joy and hope die together; and to find,
When all thy soul loved best hung on thy neck,
Each kiss was false, and each sweet smile was hollow!
Well! well! 'Tis past grief's curing! wondrous bitter,
But must be borne! a few short months, and then
The grave mends all.

_Amel._ [_Aside._] Pangs of the dying sinner,
Are ye more sharp than mine!

_Alfon._ More tears?--Perhaps
You tremble, lest my regal wrath should crush
The audacious slave who stole his sovereign's daughter?
No, princess, no! I can excuse the youth,
Nor look from mortals for divine forbearance.
A fairer fruit than ever dragon guarded,
Courting his hand and hung within his grasp,
He could not choose but pluck it.

_Amel._ Oh! I would
My heart would spring before thine eyes, and show thee
Each word thou utter'st, written there in blood!
That it could speak----!

_Alfon._ What could it say? but plead
The youth's fair form, high fame, and great acquirements!
Gratitude that from ruffian hands he saved thee,
Feelings too fond, and thus excuse thy love!
But could it e'er excuse thy long dissembling,
Thy seeming confidence, thy vows all broken,
Thy arts to lull me in a blissful dream,
From which the waking's dreadful! Why deceive me?
Why hide as from a foe thy thoughts from me?
Why banish me thy bosom? didst thou fear me?
Didst fear my power, my pride, my wrath? Oh! was I--
Was I so harsh a father, Amelrosa?

_Amel._ [_Aside._] Heart, sure thy strings are
steel, or they would break!

_Alfon._ Yet 'Tis deserved? I was too fond! too partial!
Still loved thee better than my son, whose heart
Perhaps this partial love has turned against me--
If so, my pain is just!--Daughter I'll chide
No more; nor came I here to chide, but bless thee,
This parchment gives thy lord Medina's dukedom,
With all its fair domains; the dowry promised,
When my fond bosom hoped that princely Arragon----
But that's now passed!--Take it--farewell--be happy----
We meet no more!

_Amel._ [_Covering her face with her hands_] Oh? heaven!

_Alfon._ 'Twere vain, 'twere cruel,
To make thee toil to fan thy love's faint embers,
Since faith is dead; and though I still doat on thee