University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

Before the mountain. Cipriano.
Cipriano.
Now that at last in his eternal round
Hyperion, after skirting either pole,
Of his own race has set the flaming goal
In heav'n of my probation under-ground:
Up from the mighty Titan with his feet
Touching the centre, and his forest-hair
Entangling with the stars; whose middle womb
Of two self-buried lives has been the tomb;
At last, my year's apprenticeship complete,
I rise to try my cunning, and as one
Arm'd in the dark who challenges the sun.
You heav'ns, for me your azure brows with cloud
Contract, or to your inmost depth unshroud:
Thou sapphire-floating counterpart below,
Obedient to my moon-like magic flow:
For me you mountains fall, you valleys rise,
With all your brooks and fountains far withdrawn;
You forests shudder underneath my sighs;
And whatsoever breathes in earth and skies;
You birds that on the bough salute the dawn;
And you wild creatures that through wood and glen
Do fly the hunter, or the hunter flies;
Yea, man himself, most terrible to men;
Troop to my word, about my footstep fawn;
Yea, ev'n you spirits that by viewless springs
Move and perplex the tangled web of things,
Wherever in the darkest crypt you lurk
Of nature, nature to my purpose work;
That not the dead material element,
But complicated with the life beyond
Up to pure spirit, shall my charm resent,
And take the motion of my magic wand;
And, once more shaken on her ancient throne,
In me old nature a new master own.

Lucifer.
But how is this, Cipriano, that misled
By hasty passion you affront the day
Ere master of the art of darkness?

Cipr.
Nay,
By that same blazing witness overhead
Standing in heav'n to mark the time foretold,
Since first imprison'd in this mountain-hold
My magic so preluded with the dread
Preliminary kingdom of the dead,
That not alone the womb of general earth
Which Death has crowded thick with second birth,
But monuments with marble lips composed
To dream till doomsday, suddenly disclosed,
And woke their sleepers centuries too soon
To stare upon the old remember'd moon.
Wearied of darkness, I will see the day:
Sick of the dead, the living will assay:
And if the ghastly year I have gone through
Bear half its promised harvest, will requite
With a too warm good-morrow the long night
That one cold living heart consign'd me to.

Luc.
Justina!

Cipr.
Aye, Justina: now no more
Obsequiously sighing at the door
That never open'd, nor the heart of stone
On which so long I vainly broke my own;
But of her soul and body, when and how
I will, I claim the forfeit here and now.

Luc.
Enough: the hour is come; do thou design
The earth with circle, pentagram, and trine;
The wandering airs with incantation twine;
While through her sleep-enchanted sense I shake
The virgin constancy I cannot break.
(Clouds roll before the mountain, hiding Cipriano.)
Thou nether realm of darkness and despair,
Whose fire-enthronèd emperor am I;
Where many-knotted till the word they lie,
Your subtlest spirits at the word untie,
And breathe them softly to this upper air;
With subtle soft insinuation fair
Of foul result encompass and attaint
The chastity of the rebellious saint
Who dares the Spirit of this world defy.
Spirits that do shapeless float
In darkness as in light the mote,
At my summons straightway take
Likeness of the fairest make,
And, her sleeping sense about
Seal'd from all the world without,
Through the bolted eyelids creep;
Entheatre the walls of sleep
With an Eden where the sheen
Of the leaf and flower between
All is freshest, yet with Eve's
Apple peeping through the leaves;
Through whose magic mazes may
Melancholy fancy stray
Till she lose herself, or into
Softer passion melt away:
While the scent-seducing rose
Gazing at her as she goes
With her turning as she turns,
Into her his passion burns;
While the wind among the boughs
Whispers half-remember'd vows;
Nightingale interpreters
Into their passion translate hers;
And the murmurs of a stream
Down one current draw the dream.
While for hidden chorus, I
At her dreaming supply
Such a comment as her own
Heart to nature's shall atone:
Till the secret influence
Of the genial season even
Holy blood that sets to heaven
Draws into the lower sense;
Till array'd in angel guise
Earthly memories surprise
Ev'n the virgin soul, and win
Holy pity's self to sin.

(The clouds roll away, and discover Justina asleep in her chamber.)
Lucifer
(at her ear).
Come forth, come forth, Justina, come; for scared
Winter is vanisht, and victorious Spring
Has hung her garland on the boughs he bared:
Come forth; there is a time for everything.

Justina
(in her sleep).
That was my father's voice—come, Livia—
My mantle—oh, not want it?—well then, come.

Luc.
Aye, come abroad, Justina; it is Spring;
The world is not with sunshine and with leaf
Renew'd to be the tomb of ceaseless grief;
Come forth: there is a time for everything.

Just.
How strange it is—
I think the garden never look'd so gay
As since my father died.

Luc.
Ev'n so: for now,
Returning with the summer wind, the hours
Dipt in the sun re-dress the grave with flowers,
And make new wreaths for the survivor's brow;
Whose spirit not to share were to refuse
The power that all creating, all renews
With self-diffusive warmth, that, with the sun's,
At this due season through creation runs,
Nor in the first creation more exprest
Than by the singing builder of the nest
That waves on this year's leaf, or by the rose
That underneath them in his glory glows;
Life's fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving
Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.

Chorus of Voices.
Life's fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving
Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
Song.

Just.
These serenaders—singing their old songs
Under one's window—

Luc.
Aye, and if nature must decay or cease
Without it; what of nature's masterpiece?
Not in her outward lustre only, but
Ev'n in the soul within the jewel shut;
What but a fruitless blossom; or a lute
Without the hand to touch it music-mute:
Incense that will not rise to heav'n unfired;
By that same vernal spirit uninspired
That sends the blood up from the heart, and speaks
In the rekindled lustre of the cheeks?

Chorus.
Life's fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving
Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.
Song.

Just.
He beckon'd us, and then again was gone;
Oh look! under the tree there, Livia—
Where he sits—reading—scholar-like indeed!—
With the dark hair that was so white upon
His shoulder—but how deadly pale his face!—
And, statue-still-like, the quaint evergreen
Up and about him creeps, as one has seen
Round some old marble in a lonely place.

Luc.
Aye, look on that—for, as the story runs,
Ages ago, when all the world was young,
That ivy was a nymph of Latium,
Whose name was Hedera: so passing fair
That all who saw fell doting on her; but
Herself so icy-cruel, that her heart
Froze dead all those her eyes had set on fire.
Whom the just God who walk'd that early world,
By, right-revenging metamorphosis
Changed to a thing so abject-amorous,
She grovels on the ground to catch at any
Wither'd old trunk or sapling, in her way:
So little loved as loath'd, for strangling those
Round whom her deadly-deathless arms once close.
Song.

Luc.
Listen, Justina, listen and beware.

Just.
Again! That voice too?—But you know my father
Is ill—is in his chamber—
How sultry 'tis—the street is full and close—
Let us get home—why do they stare at us?
And murmur something—“Cipriano?—Where
“Is Cipriano?—lost to us—some say,
“And to himself,—self-slain—mad—Where is he?”
Alas, alas, I know not—

Luc.
Come and see—

Justina
(waking).
Mercy upon me! Who is this?

Luc.
Justina, your good angel,
Who, moved by your relenting to the sighs
Of one who lost himself for your disdain,
Will lead you to the cavern where he lies
Subsisting on the memory of your eyes—

Just.
'Twas all a dream!—

Luc.
That dreaming you fulfil.

Just.
Oh, no, with all my waking soul renounce.

Luc.
But, dreaming or awake, the soul is one,
And the deed purposed in Heaven's eyes is done.

Just.
Oh Christ! I cannot argue—I can pray,
Christ Jesus, oh, my Saviour, Jesu Christ!
Let not hell snatch away from Thee the soul
Thou gav'st Thy life to save!—Livia!—Livia!
Enter Livia.
Where is my father? where am I? Oh, I know—
In my own chamber—and my father—oh!—
But, Livia, who was it that but now
Was here—here in my very chamber—

Livia.
Madam?

Just.
You let none in? oh, no! I know it—but
Some one there was—here—now—as I cried out—
A dark, strange figure—

Livia.
My child, compose yourself;
No one has come, or gone, since you were laid
In your noon-slumber. This was but a dream.
The air is heavy; and the melancholy
You live alone with since your father's death—

Just.
A dream, a dream indeed—oh Livia,
That leaves his pressure yet upon my arm—
And that without the immediate help of God
I had not overcome—Oh, but the soul,
The soul must be unsteady in the faith,
So to be shaken even by a dream.
Oh, were my father here! But he's at rest—
I know he is—upon his Saviour's breast;
And—who knows!—may have carried up my cries
Ev'n to His ear upon whose breast he lies!
Give me my mantle, Livia; I'll to the church;
Where if but two or three are met in prayer
Together, He has promised to be there—
And I shall find Him.

Livia.
Oh, take care, take care!
You know the danger—in broad daylight too—
Or take me with you.

Just.
And endanger two?
Best serve us both by keeping close at home,
Praying for me as I will pray for you.