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.

(Enter Gracia.)

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.

A. Not the child of poverty, Gracia, or the heir of glory and peace, but
of f