University of Virginia Library

ATALANTIS; A STORY OF THE SEA.

The first edition of “Atalantis” was published in 1832. It has been subsequently revised, and, I trust, amended. I am not satisfied that the dramatic form was appropriately adopted, since it leads to expectations which the character of the poem will scarcely satisfy. The advantage of the dialogue consists simply in permitting that diversification of the descriptive portions, which, in a work so purely fanciful, would seem necessary to prevent monotony.—This poem, with those pieces which follow it, belongs to a class, the standards of which are almost entirely imaginative. The reader who looks here for the merely human sentiment, will find himself at fault. The province of poetry is too various for the application of laws derived wholly from individual tastes; and he who opens the pages of an author must always be prepared to ascend that mount of vision from which he has made his survey. The highest regions of the ideal, are unquestionably such as belong to the spiritual nature. To this nature, exclusively, verse which is solely imaginative must commend itself. It is not the less human, though it may be more remote and foreign, than that which simply appeals to mortal passions, and the more earthly purposes of man and life.

PERSONS OF THE POEM.

• Onesimarchus, a King of Sea-Demons.
• Count Leon, a noble Spanish Knight.
• Mendez Celer, Captain of the Arragon.
• Ogré, a slave of Onesimarchus.
• Mariners, Demons, &c., &c.
• Atalantis, a Princess of the Nereids.
• Nea, her attendant.
• Lady Isabel, sister to Count Leon.
• Zephyr-Sprit.
• Tinina, a Fairy.
• Careta, a Fairy.
• Nanita, a Fairy.
• Loline, a Fairy.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An Islet of the Atlantic Ocean.
ATALANTIS AND ONESIMARCHUS.
Atal.
Get thee hence, monster, I defy thee now,
As late I scorn'd thee. Thy base threats are vain,
And thy lures idle. All in vain thy prayer,—
And, in thy promise, do I nothing see
To move my spirit;—nothing to misguide
My firm persuasion, that so foul a thing
Should have no thought of mine.

Onesi.
I prithee, hold!
Be charier of thy feelings;—have a care,
If thou dost love thyself and wouldst be free!
Beseems thee not this proud authority,
In such condition as I hold thee now.
Look round thee, lovely Atalant!—Survey
My wondrous power, and heed the prison house,
Most fit for thee to flutter in,—not fly!
Thou art my captive, maiden, bound by spells,
Potent as night, that, struggle as thou mayst,
Mock thy best effort, and defy thy hopes.

Atal.
Foul tyrant, I despise thee and thy power,
And laugh at all thy threats. I know thee well,
Thy strength, thy spells, thy hatefulness, and all
That makes thee what thou art!—

Onesi.
Dost know thyself?

Atal.
Ay, my own weakness, now,—yet nothing fear
Thy greater strength in this my overthrow.

Onesi.
Thou fear'dst not this?

Atal.
I did not; yet I knew,
Even ere the moment of captivity,
That thou hadst power for this. 'Twas in my scorn,—
In the full feeling of my pride and strength,
Mocking thy gross dominion,—that I grew
Improvident of caution.

Onesi.
Yet, beware!
Lest a new lesson counsel thee to fears
Thy scorn believes not now.

Atal.
Oh! get thee hence!
Think'st thou I am so shallow, not to know
Thy close impassable limit? Am I not,
Thrice guarded in myself, with power mine own,
Match'd unto thine, and know I not that thou—
Howe'er in captive bound thou keep'st me now,
Having robb'd me of the wand that serves my will,
By a foul trickery worthy of thyself,—
Hast not the might—unless I do forget
My better nature and give way to thine—
A wretched madness, most impossible!—
To graze with licensed breath the idlest hair,
That wantons from my shoulder. Get thee hence,—
I dread thee not, thou monstrous impotence!

Onesi.
Hold! or thou wilt impel me unto wrath,
When I would love thee!

Atal.
Do I fear thy wrath?
And prat'st thou of thy love, thou crooked game-make,
Thou gross deformity!—how I could laugh
At thy rough gambols in an element
Made for pure spirits, and the delicate grace
Of the angelic youth and morning beauty,—
But that a prison laugh is seemly sad,
And turns into a sorrow.

Onesi.
So shall thine,
If thou bethink not oft'ner of thy bound!
Thou art a sprightly and most pleasant child,
But all unlearn'd by crude adversity,
Else wouldst thou teach thyself another mood,
And reason in the guise of circumstance.
Wert thou array'd in panoply of war,
With all thy armies on the equal field,
Naught wanting to thy might, the spoken taunt
Were not unseemly;—now, it hath an air
That ill becomes thy lip and present state.

Atal.
And wouldst thou teach, oh! rare philosopher,
The prudence of compliance with the law,
Of that worst fate, a base necessity?
Why, thou'dst disfigure truth, and all distort
The fairer argument into the foul,
Make right a truckler to expediency
And conjure virtue with the spells of fear,
Till she grows common, a base thing of time,
Having but present office. Thou hast err'd,—
For, but suppose me ignorant of good,
Untutor'd in truth's excellence, and all
That virtue wills to beauty,—thee I know,
And know to hate the lesson thou wouldst teach.

Onesi.
Thou'rt rash, fair damsel, rash and ill advised!
Beware of what thou say'st—to prudence hold;
Remember, when thy spirit would offend,
Thou art the captive to my greater power.

Atal.
Thy greater cunning—thy dishonest guile!

Onesi.
And that is greater power, thou simple child;—
And, as thou art a captive, let thy speech
Mate with thy fortunes. I deny thee now
A farther range than suits my jealous mood;
And I shall guard thee well, and watch thy steps,
And check thee when thou trippest. On thy paths,
My slaves, that never close the eye, attend,
And, though thou seest them not—

Atal.
I see them not!—
Thou dost forget my nature and my power;—
Let me but wave my hand thus, with a will!—
What call you this blear imp?

[She waves her hand, and Ogré becomes visible.
Onesi.
Ha! thou base whelp?
Did I not warn thee?—wherefore didst thou lurk,
Thus nigh, to feel her spells?—but thou shalt learn.
Shall I not have obedience where I rule?
Ho! Runa! Merla! take this sodden slave
And bind him to his pits against the rock,
Till midnight—let the scourge be well applied,
While his shrieks wake the drowsy mariner,
Filling his head with storms, for which they make
Fit music, and foretell!

Ogre.
Master, oh, spare!
The day grows dark, and the night rushes on,
Long ere the accustomed hour. The cruel scourge
Will torture, and the wrath upon the wave,
Will dash me into madness 'gainst the rocks.

Onesi.
Take him hence! away!

Ogre.
Spare me,—'twas my zeal
To serve thee, that o'erstepp'd. But pardon now,
I err not thus again. Be pitiful!
Merla doth own for me a silent grudge,
And will outstretch thy order. He will bind
Both hands and feet, and, with a double thong,
Will tear my flesh, then mock me with keen gibes,
Until I faint, while the cold cavern waves
Do creep about and wrap me!

Onesi.
Not in vain:
Though he doth punish thee as thou hast said,
Thou shalt not perish. Hence with him. Ye stand
As if ye did delight in his discourse,
Insolent with himself.

Atal.
Oh! thou art stern—
A tyrant 'gainst all nature, that will spurn
The kneeling wretch, but for excess of zeal
Doing thy bidding truly.

Onesi.
'Tis for thee
I punish him, fair Atalant.

Atal.
For me!

Onesi.
Hath he not hung too closely on thy steps,
Intrusive, watching thee most narrowly
Beyond my will? Shalt thou not be secure
From what offends thee?

Atal.
'Tis thou offend'st me!
Make me secure from thee, and 'gainst thy slave
I shall have instant remedy.

Onesi.
Still thus!

Atal.
Ay, ever!—while the light lasts of my life,
Thought, feeling, best affection. 'Tis for me
That thou wouldst punish him?—then set him free;—
The wrong that he has done is done to me,
And I forgive it him.

Onesi.
It fits thee well,
This ready spirit of mercy which conceives,
And grants the boon ere spoken. Not so me,
'Twere a poor state, and brief the power, if thus,
O'er-zealous though it be, each slave should leap,
His bound unchasten'd. Hence with him, away!
The scourge shall lessen his o'er-ready zeal,
And midnight seas, and colds, and biting airs
Shall teach him penitence.

[Ogré is led off.
Atal.
Thou cruel king!
Hadst thou by other qualities of grace
Master'd the heart that feels for thee but scorn,
This merciless act of thine had set it free;
Had robb'd it of persuasion of thy worth
In every office; and, from virtuous meed,
Had pluck'd all fair deserving, that had else
Been yielded by just tribute.

Onesi.
Thou wrong'st me;—
And chid'st too harshly the o'ercoming sway,
Which keeps dominion safe, and makes it strong.
Wouldst thou not master? Is the woman heart
Unfriendly to the pleasant tastes of power?
I know thee better,—better know thy sex—
Esteem thee as the rest,—born with the love
Of measureless rule,—the will to reach afar,
Plucking down station, putting strength aside,
Till, in the midst, alone, o'er all thou stand'st,
All fearing, all adoring!

Atal.
How thou soar'st!
And this thy aim, how fruitlessly thy rule
Is wasted on the wretched slave that cowers,
Hopeless and still submissive, to his lord.
Onesimarchus, I despise thee more,
That I have seen thee in the wid'st extent
Of thy dominion.

Onesi.
'Tis well! But thou shalt feel,—
So shalt thou better know,—how great the power
Thou mock'st at, in thy ignorance and pride!
And though, unless by wanton will of thine,
I may not gain possession of thy form,
Yet shall I so constrain thee by my arts,
So work upon thy weakness—so forbid
All bent of inclination,—all desire,—
Curtailing every thought that does not tend
To the fierce satisfaction of my want,—
That thou shalt yield thyself in very dread,
Though thy heart loathe me in its secret mood,
And every sense grow outraged at the fate
To which thou still submit'st.

Atal.
Oh! shallow slave!
This is thy precious scheme! And there thou stand'st,
With thy red gloating eye stretch'd 'yond its sphere,
Glaring with foul and fiend imaginings—
Thy lip, that quivers with voluptuous rage,
Thicken'd with vicious fury,—thy scant brows,
Retreating wide and back, with wool o'erhung,
That links thee with the sooty African
Who wallows in thy worship;—there thou stand'st,
Blinded with beastly hope, that thou canst will
A spirit so pure as mine to leave its sphere,
And come, untended and unlighted, down,
From its bright mansions, to thy pool and cave!
Till now, my thought had been that, with thy power,
There was a sense to give it dignity,
And marshal thy gross attributes with state
Into considerate order. But not now,—
When I look on thee, so incapable,—
So wanting in that art, which, when it lacks,
Strength is a toiling giant up the hills
That never wins the summit—all my hate
Subsides into a feeling less than scorn,
Which cannot yet be pity. Prithee, go,—
Thou dost but move me to unseemly mirth,
Which yet I would not.

Onesi.
Nay! give it vent and words!
Thy wit is lively; thou hast eloquence;
I feel that thou might'st chafe me, were it not
That there will be a season too for me,
When I may answer thee.

Atal.
What canst thou more?
Thou hast done all in stealing me away
From mine own kingdom with thy felon arts:
And this shall find its punishment ere long,
For, even now, in Mergevan, my town,
I do, by precious instincts, see the array
Of thousands, whom my brothers, to the war,
Will haste with meet decision. Thou, methinks,
Hast proved their arms before;—a little while,
The proofs shall be renew'd,—and what shall then
Be thy fond refuge, when their mighty powers
Descend on thee to battle?

Onesi.
Let them come!
I shall be ready then—am ready now!
Thou speak'st with a rare confidence, but know,
I took thee not, thus boldly, from thy realms,
Till I had meetly, with commission'd force,
Prepared for all thy battles. Thou forget'st
The strength I bring—the powers that, in a trice,
From farthest ocean I can call at once,
Where the deep thickens to a bed of reeds;
And from the kings that o'er the whirlpools sway,
Gather'd to my allegiance, by a blast
Upon the shell I bear within my hand.
Thou seem'st to have forgotten too, methinks,
That, by my single arm, thy mother's first,
And thy own brother, fiercest of them all,
Fell, like an infant, impotent, o'erthrown!
What though I lost the conflict, did ye gain?
Was not your city of the rocks destroy'd
By the wild waves, which, in my wanton mood,
O'erwent and left them prostrate;—while thyself,
An infant then, rock'd in a purple shell,
'Twixt two obedient billows, scarce preserved,
Wast borne away, affrighted, in the arms
Of thy most humble follower. This, methinks,
Thy memory lacks, and I repeat it thee,
Not for the glory of mine own exploit,
But to remind me of the groundless hope
On which thou build'st for safety.

Atal.
It is well!
Thou hast chosen for thy wooing a fit style,
And most judicious, when that thou relat'st
Thy bloody traffic with thyself and mine.

Onesi.
Thyself hast moved me to 't.

Atal.
I blame thee not,
Rude monster, for the evil thou hast done,
And sought beyond thy utmost power to do!
'Tis in thy nature. There is on thy front
The character of the beast. Thy savage eye,
Fix'd in thy bloated and unmeasured face,
From which it glares like some red, baleful star,
Upon a dismal, dusk, unspeaking blank,—
Hath mark'd thee strongly. Labor as thou mayst—
Speak, like thy shell, in music—let thy words
Be like the honey dews, that, on the rocks,
Nursed in the hollows, nightly fall from heaven,
A solace for the storm-bird and the gull,—
Yet art thou fatal to the spells thou hast,
And bafflest thine own art. Thou canst not change;
The beast is high o'er all, a monstrous mock,
In contradiction of itself and strength—
So that the very sweets that thou mayst own
Grow poisonous in thy use.

Onesi.
Oh, thou dost well,
And wisely, urging me to anger thus,
Till thou dost dissipate that kindly sense,
At variance with my spirit, which my love,
Bids live in thy behalf. Dost thou not fear,
That, vex'd by thy sharp mock and wanton speech,
My love shall grow to hatred?

Atal.
Be it so!
I heed thee not—thy anger scorn, not fear;—
Thou art of those, being the foe to truth,
That are, when friendliest, most inimical,—
And dost most harm in doing seeming good,
And art most hateful, most injurious,
When most professing love! I fear thee not,—
Though by an active cunning—and yet less,
By active cunning than mine own neglect,—
Gaining the advance upon us, thou hast made
A prisoner and dire enemy of one,
Who, in another chance, and other time,
Had never made so little of her thought,
To waste it on thee.

Onesi.
Wilt thou nothing, then,
To gain thy freedom? Thou wilt surely smile,
Look pleased in some small sort, and speak him well,
Whose power alone can free thee.

Atal.
Trust not that!
I shall be free by other means, and soon!
I barter not my grace for mine own right;—
Lest that the gift, misused, grow valueless!—
Thou hast no boon in all thy store and might
Which I can give thee thanks for. In myself
The means of freedom rest.

Onesi.
[aside.]
Ha! in herself!
I snatch'd from her the powerful wand which made
The elements do her bidding. What remains?

Atal.
A power, which as it teaches me to know
The secret thought thou speak'st not, cannot be
Wrench'd from my firm possession.

Onesi.
We shall see!
Thy instincts may declare my thought, but cannot
Avail to give thee freedom. All in vain
Thy hope, whether within thyself it be,
Or in the armies which thy brothers raise—
Here, powerless in the conflict, useless all;—
For, in the air, I've thrown a circling spell,
Borrow'd from night and silence,—which, being gross,
Far grosser than the elements which make
Your finer tempers, ye may not withstand!
This will resist them! Into this, who comes,
Not fitted like ourselves to meet its power,
Blinded and shorn of strength, falls feebly down,
And straight is thrall'd forever. All around
Our island limit, where the ocean breaks,
This element is scattered;—like a wall,
Shutting out all invasion,—closing all,
Within, from commerce with the realm without!
Thus art thou girdled now. Denied thy wand—
Which, in yon rock, within a mystic frame,
Moulded by midnight spells, in halls where rule
Thousands of spirits dethroned, I have encased
And seal'd with magic, and the mighty word
Given me at creation as a spell,
That consummates my will;—thou canst not break
The narrow circle of thy prison bound,
And taste the finer element, whose breath
Might bring thee to thy power.

Atal.
Thy prudence well
Hath counselled thee of dangers thou must dread—
Dangers best studied in thy strong defence
And wily combinations. But thy art
Is shallow like thy power. A little while,
Watch as thou mayst, the wand is mine again,
And whatsoe'er its faculty, be sure
It shall be raised against thee. Thou shalt be
O'erthrown when most secure; and, like the bird,
Slain by its stronger fellow, as thou saw'st
Upon the morn I fell thy prisoner,
Even from thy topmost pinnacle struck down,
Thy fall shall mate thy arrogance of flight,
Beneath the lowest, low. How should my soul,
Strong among giant spirits, hark or heed
Thy profferings or thy threats? What canst thou do
To bend my purer nature unto thine,
In base extremity, unless I yield,
Wanton, and shorn of the true woman strength,—
Which finds best nutriment in innocence,
And lives mature in its own delicate essence,
A power in due degree with chastity,—
To meet thy brutal want and foul desire,
Thou that art foulest! Thou hast 'vantage won,
And when I slept thou waked'st; and I now,
For a brief season, suffer that I slept,—
That the condition of all negligence,—
When, with a subtle and dishonest foe,
Such as thou art, in certain neighborhood,
We should have watch'd with armament prepared,
And every weapon bright, and high rock lit,
Kindled with sea-spar into ruddiness!
So hadst thou shrunk away, scared by the blaze,
Cowering, with backward terror, till the sun,
Thy nature's dread, thy great antipathy,
Leaping from off his billowy bed at morn,
No cloud about his brow, and strong from sleep,
Drives thee, with glittering shafts that never fail,
Blinded and bellowing to thy marshy gulfs.

Onesi.
Dost thou exult, and is my fate so sure,—
And shalt thou have thy liberty so soon,
As thou dost fancy? Then, a gentler speech
Had better graced thy lips as conqueror,
Over the feeble foe thou canst not fear.
But let me win thee to some fair constraint
Of seeming amnesty. A truce awhile,
To this so keen and profitless retort,
Which keeps us thus asunder. Let us each
Heed reason from the other. Thou hast said,
With hope 'yond expectation, that thou look'st
For soon and certain help. I see not this
Present or in far prospect; nor beyond,
In the imperfect future, can I frame
The aid thou look'st for from thy tribute realms.
These things affright me not as once before,—
My kingdom as it is, all well prepared
To keep its own, and conquer, right or wrong.
Its barriers shut out hope from thee, unless
Thou swerv'st my settled feeling, which thou mayst
By seasonable yielding—so shall both
Our anxious purpose win;—thy freedom thou,
And I, the sweet accomplishment of that
Which flames desire within me! Well I know
My power can go no farther than thou will'st,
In this so dear condition,—but thou art,
My prisoner still—and that may move thy wish,
Not capable of liberty unless
My will shall break thy fetters. Hear me then,
Since this our opposition.

Atal.
Speak! I hear!

Onesi.
Become my bride,—nay, patiently!—smile not—
My queen, if better lists thee. On my throne,—
Thou hast beheld its state,—of emeralds made,
Each one a crowning and a marvellous gem,
Set round the spacious bosom of a shell
Torn from a fierce sea-monster—one who bore
The miracled wonder on his glittering back,
And battled for it as became its worth,
Nor lost it ere his life;—thy hand shall wield,—
Fit hand for such a rule!—a sceptred wand,
Pluck'd from an ocean cave of farthest Ind,
By ancient giants held,—a pillar'd spire,
Of holiest sapphire, which at evening burns
Deeper than ever sunlight, and around
Lights up the sable waters many a league,
From sea to shore, till the scared 'habitants
Fly to their cover in the wood, nor dream
How sportive is the sway of that Sea-Queen,
Who rides the waves and makes them smile by night.

Atal.
Oh! wonderful! most wonderful!

Onesi.
Dost scorn?—
But let me not be anger'd. Hear me still.—
These are but shown thee to declare the fruit,
The effect, perchance, but not the source of might,
So fertile as is mine. But thou shalt know,
That, of the full division of these seas,
One part of which thou hold'st, the great'st is mine;
My realm the wid'st; and, of the numerous powers
That hold dominion in these provinces,
Most are to me as tributary bound,
Sworn to my bidding, subject to my will,
Compell'd for peace and war! These, if I bid,
I gather such array, as leaves my power
Unmatchable by all the tribes that swarm
Thy cities, when the starlight wakes the dance.

Atal.
I know not that! The kingdom which I hold
Though in extent less spacious, is not less
Proportion'd to the incidents of war!
Thou hast wide realm of sea, but scatter'd tribes;
Canst gambol hugely when the waves are smooth,
With uncouth legions; but when sounds the gong,
Struck sharply on our headlands, they go down,
Sudden, in search of shadowing slime and reeds,
Forgetting all their state and mocking thine,
Indifferent where they hide. Thou mayst o'ercome
The sluggish monster, that, upon the deep,
Slumbers at noonday,—winning, with his life
The useless glitter of his cumbrous shell;—
But, for becoming enemy, thou hast
But little armament of serious force,
Save, as I said, in fraud and stratagem.
Art answer'd?

Onesi.
Wouldst thou more?

Atal.
Oh! say thy thought!

Onesi.
Meetly indulgent for a captive maid.—
I will proceed, and leave thee to decide,
Whether, a free and queenly mistress, thou
Ascend'st a monarch's throne and shar'st his rule,
Strong in sustaining majesty and pride,
Or, vainly chafing at thy prison bar,
Rav'st for the freedom that but mocks thy sight,
In gleams of blessed sky, or sudden breath
Of zephyr from the seas, or glimpse of wing,
Lustrous in noonday sunlight, that thou see'st
Disparting the white clouds!

Atal.
Go on! Go on!

Onesi.
Three princely cities own my single rule,—
Hamlets unnumber'd,—homes that, scatter'd wide,
Hath each a mighty circle for a court,
Might clasp your utter empire. Plain and cave
Are thus made rich in dwellings for a tribe.
Each rock hath its high palace. Not a wave
Spans its receding billow but o'erswims
Some golden habitation; where the light,
A mitigated splendor, like the moon,
Without its chill and solitude, comes down
From empires where a thousand suns abide,
Struggling with rival splendors to inflame
A thousand realms like ours. There, subtle gems,
With glories such as starlight flings on earth,
Adorn the innoxious serpents, that for aye
Through the long hours, with toil that mocks fatigue,
Nightly replenishing their founts of light,
Trail through the giant groves, and meet in vales
Whose lavish wealth, in absence of the sun,
Still recompense his beams. There shalt thou see
Rocks, in their own gifts marvellous, at stroke
Of wondrous masters, spring to palaces;
And, at a word, as thou hast cause to know,
Fair islands, flush with flowers, and rich in airs
Of most persuasive odor, break the deeps,
And gather in the sunlight. And again,
Even at the will of him whose sovereign power
Thou mock'st at in thy mood, evanishing,
Forget they had existence;—cheating thus
The gaze of simple mariner, who dreams
That, towards evening, he beholds the land
And cries it to his fellows,—who straight cheer
The hungering hope within them, while they spread
The broad and yellow sail, and urge their prows,
To find at last,—so wills my cunning art—
Some hazy cloud, that hangs with mocking skirts
Where slept the wooing land as night came down.

Atal.
Ay, thou art all a cheat! 'Tis like thyself
To mock the weary heart, and still to vex
The sick soul's expectation. But thy power,
As thou describ'st it in thy fairest speech,
And most imploring aspect, moves not me,
And wins me not in wonder or in love.
The simple mariner who needs the barque,
Which, in their reckless mood, the waves may wreck,
And wanton winds destroy, affords, methinks,
But little trophy, with his bleaching bones,
On desert sands, and isles beyond thy gulf,
To him who conquers thus, even by a will,
Without the joy of conflict. Spare, I pray,
Thy farther story. Breathe, and let me breathe,
Some purer air than that which from thy lips
Assails each wholesome sense with sickliness.

Onesi.
Wilt thou not hear me?

Atal.
Can I else than hear,
Close girt as my poor fortunes find me now?
Wer't in my will, thou shouldst play orator
To things of thy own fashion, not to me!
Thy jewel-headed serpents, the huge beast
Thou rid'st to war, and whom, when met by foes
Thou canst not baffle here, thou send'st to land,
To trample down the cities of the tribes
That only wet their feet within thy waves,
To bring down ruin on them. Go to these,
And tell them of thy prowess and thy wealth!—
Nor these, nor thee I heed, and would not hear.

Onesi.
Thou bind'st thy fetters faster with each word!—
But ho!—That signal breaks my farther speech.
Here are new captives. Prone upon our isle
Comes some adventurous barque that must be stay'd,
And punish'd for its crime. We must not have
Thy presence mock'd with such vile things of earth,
That know not of the rarest beautiful,
Such as adorns thy virtues—makes thy form
Itself a virtue of the beautiful,
That spells all best affections at a glance,
And makes them slaves forever. I must speed
And save thee from these wretches, who shall taste
That power which thou defy'st. But now look forth,
And see the great ship shatter'd into foam;
Fierce, rending wings among its cloud broad vans,
And mounting billows darting up its sides
To drag it down to ruin. Lend thine ear
To the wild music of men's cries;—their shrieks
That the storm mocks, and the ascending seas
Stifle in their own murmurs!—It will need,
Fair Atalant, I leave thee:—yet, ere day
Hath fully, in the chambers of the deep,
Ta'en off his pinions;—ere this gentle eve,
With eyes of ever-dropping dews, hath shut
The sweet unmurmuring flowers,—and bade the night
Summon upon her realm the spirit airs
That all subdue to silence—the voiced things
Of myriad elements and agencies,
That breathe beneath the moon—I shall return
To seek thee with a hope;—ah! not in vain,—
Eager for fitting answer to that prayer
That else must be the stern authority
Of will that breaks resistance. Till that hour,
Thou hast for calm reflection;—let it teach
A sweet response of sympathy to mine,
And love as yielding soft as mine is fond—
Else, let thy fear—

Atal.
Thou know'st I have no fear!
Get thee hence, monster, to thy work of dread,
Since prayer may never move thee. Thou'st no art
To work upon my terrors. My spirit is made
Of essence far more confident than thine.
Rather thou tremble, that, as I am pure,—
For so the ruler that we all obey
Hath will'd it—and most haply will'd it too—
I may command to use the spirits who rule
O'er the unclouded seasons—those who glide,
Through the illumined mansions of the night,
Teaching the stars their watches—those who sway,
With melodies of power, all elements—
And of the zephyr from the south and west,
The voice that comes with morning, and declares
The hour when day shall droop,—can call a spell
To dissipate the darkness, and dispart
Thy blackest shapes of storm.

Onesi.
When thou art free!

Atal.
Alas! that I were free,—then should'st thou feel,
And fly, and learn to spare!

Onesi.
Now, I despise
And, as you speak their agencies, defy
The entire realm of air, the stars, and all,—
Your spirit of the south and of the west,
Your voice of night and morning, and their spells;—
Your tiny tribes, your coral queen—the hosts,
Myriads of lesser power and feebler wing,
That make your choice dominion—all I scorn!
And, but that mine own want would have thee grace
With milder seeming this same prayer of mine,
I should devote thee, heedless of the youth,
The glory and the beauty of thy form,—
Which, to mine eye, foul as you deem its make,
Stands up a rich perfection, born to shine,
In any world of loveliness, the first—
To the same ruin and destruction sure
Thou hold'st for the most hateful enemy.
I love thee not to pleasure thee, or give
A satisfaction craved. I please myself,
And nothing care for others. I play not
The wary hypocrite, but speak my thought,—
My will, even as it rises to my thought;—
Nor seek I for thy love, but only seek
For such equivalent as may suffice,
In love's own absence, my enamored sense.
Thou hear'st me?—and thou know'st me! It is well!
Be wise while thou art wary. I depart.
[Exit Onesi.

Atal.
Ay, go, thou loathsome! Thou hast fill'd the air
With foulness, and my breath is scarce more free
Than the poor form thou hast fetter'd by thy fraud!
Thou, as thy menace, from my thought depart:
I scorn thee and defy thy utmost power!
Thou hast no art to win me to thy will,
And, until I, forgetful of myself,
Do so declare me, thou canst never bend
My spirit to thy purpose. I behold,—
Though in what shape it come I may not see,—
My liberation sure. Awhile, awhile!
Sweet patience in my circumscribed bound,
Give me thy succor. Ere the moon shall soar
Thrice from her saffron chamber—ere the winds,
Sporting thrice round the red embodied day
Shall win him into smiles with melodies—
And, ere the wing'd stars, through the misty vault,
Gleam thrice upon the troubles of the night—
I shall be free this monster's pestilence.
Come hither to me, Nea. Thou, at least,
Art spared me, and he knows not—shallow king!
That knows not his own power, and little dreams,
Of captive but the one. Hither to me,
And let my sad eyes freshen with the sight,
The picture of the gentler clime and race,
In thy perfections, damsel. Wake thy shell,
And with a sweet song from its purple depths,
Call up the happier fancies that preside
O'er the dear hopes we see not. Let me lose
The turbulent thought within me!

SCENE II.

—The same.
Atalantis, Nea.
Nea.
Mistress, here!

Atal.
Thy sweetest song, my Nea.—
Such as he sings, the spirit of the shell,
That brooding in his billows never sleeps,
For longing of his home, and still who hears
Its voices, breathing ever sighs of love,
In echo to his own, by ocean's marge,
Telling of purple islets in the deep,
Where first he won his wings and whence his voice.

SONG OF THE SHELL-SPIRIT.

Atal.
Sweet is the air thou sing'st! Ah! would 'twere true!
Would that our spirit of the shell had power,
Such as thou brag'st of;—it were easy then,
Flung by our billows on this sultry isle,
To conjure up a service at his wings,
Might give us present freedom. Thou hast themes,
Might better suit our state than this, which mocks
Our hearts' best wishes. One of these, my girl,—
Some ditty of old romance, such as our realm—
A spacious province, where the wand'ring thought
And wilder'd fancy, erring, may be lost—
Owns without limit. Thou canst meetly sing
Of bearded-white Ogrear, the giant king,
Who, with the music of his magic horn,
Subdued, and to his pastures midst the rocks,
Guided the monster first, which, in itself,
Is a huge mountain, rolling on the deeps,
Unconscious of his load, though on his back,
Rode the old wizard's tribe—his giant sons
And daughters, an unnumbered family,
That sung in concert to the old man's horn,
Until the monster, drowsing in his path,
Yielded himself, as fast fix'd as an isle,
Through the long summer's day. This were a theme,
Might make us half forgetful that we weep
As fettered as was he. And other themes,—
The gloom that hangs above the prison-house,
Might challenge something from thy memory,
More kindred to the touch of mournful thoughts.
Let thy song teach us of the coming hour,—
Sad time,—when on the perillous journey bent,
We pass the untravell'd valley, till we find,
That other province of delay,—that home,
Of temporary refuge, dark or bright,
As suited to the service we have done,
In past conditions;—other seas, perchance,
Unvex'd by contact with rebellious power,
Such as offends us here;—a happy realm,
Whose provinces are lit by countless smiles,
From the benignant presence of a God,
Whose will is born of love!—or, saddest thought,
Descending from our grade, in baser shape,
Doom'd in the mansions of sea-weed to dwell,
Thence only darting, under cruel impulse,
And chasing, with a terrible agony,
The wild and staring mariner, grown weak,
And hopeless of the shore, his straining balls
Shall never more encounter.

Nea.
None of these!—
Too sad thy fortunes now for themes so sad.—
But I would rather from my memory call,
Some of those ditties sung in happier days,
Which thou hast bid me thrice and thrice repeat,
And ever with the tear within thine eye,
Which spoke thy pleasure—when, upon the close,
Thou didst, unconscious, with mine own chime in
The murmurs of thy melancholy voice,
Till the vex'd waters, wroth with overflow,
Subdued their sullen crests, in service rapt,
And, at thy feet, in murmurs like thine own,
Grew captive to our song. There is one strain
Methinks might glad thine ear, of Coraline—
One of those gentle damsels of the groves,
Whom sometimes we see sporting on the isles,
Amidst the flowers, when first upon the sky
The moon's bright sickle glows. She taught it me;—
It tells of love, and how they love, and speaks
So truly of the passion, that meseems,
It must have first been wrought within our cells,
And borrowed by these warblers of the wood.

Atal.
Sing, if it speaks of love. Such song, methinks,
Must only make more hateful our constraint,
Upon this loathsome isle. I hearken thee.

SONG OF CORALINE.

Atal.
Thy song delights me not—nay, not thy song
That fails, the softness of thy linked words,
Or melody of thy music;—in my heart,
Lies the defect of sweetness—which comes not
To take the shadow from our prison-house.
It is the captive's spirit that complains,
Not Atalantis.

Nea.
Would I could cheer thee, mistress.

Atal.
Thou shalt, my Nea.—Speed thee round this isle,
And mark what thou behold'st. 'Tis not in thee
To shrink from contact with the heavy earth,
Its damp and vapor. But to us, who are
Wrought of more delicate matter, all is gross
That yields this monster tribute.

Nea.
We've some range,
Sweet mistress! and I prithee wend with me,
As near we may, the borders of the sea,
Looking towards our province. Better airs
Methinks, will come to cheer us into smiles,
From waters that we loved; and newer hopes,
As we look out upon the waste beyond,
Will freshen us with strength. Along the sea,
Some little range is left us. There we may
Call up sweet fancies from our dreams of hope,
And feel the wayward spirit wake to life,
Surveying the blue waters and our home!

Atal.
I'll go with thee! I pine for the sweet airs
Of my own Mergevan.

Nea.
They'll seek us out,
With loving consciousness of that we seek.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

The Ocean: the islet of Onesimarchus in the background— a ship in the distance, approaching. The Zephyr-Spirit rides upon the billow.
Zephyr-Spirit.
It is a gallant vessel, and it bends,
To the new islet of Onesimarch;—
That bigot and most brutal arbiter
Of eighty leagues of ocean. He hath rear'd,
In the past day, these undetected rocks,
Whose subtle currents, by his strategy,
Will suck the unconscious vessel to the snare;
Baffling the untutor'd mariner, whose skill
Might vainly hope escape, within the jaws
Of this dread artifice. Now, in the deep,
Will I dispose myself; and, by my art,
Conceal'd in folding billows, in the guise
Of green-hair'd maid of the waters, with a song
Still gently studied to invade his sense,
Will teach him of the danger he may 'scape
By seasonable flight. A human voice
'Tis mine to mingle with these ocean tones.
And, by a sweet mysterious sympathy,
That ever still its benefit declares
To the unslumb'ring instinct, will I teach
The error of his prow. Haply, by this,
His way he may regain, and newly trim
His prone and headlong sail, that, steering thus,
Must soon encounter with the treacherous rocks,
That hunger for their prey. And, to my wish
Of swift concealment from his eager sight,
A sudden cloud is spreading o'er yon heap
Of crested waters. There will I imbed
My many folds of form, while, with my voice,
I frame a music for this mariner,
Not to beguile him with fresh fantasies,
But wake him to the peril in his path.

[Scene changes to the deck of the ship. Count Leon musing at the side.
Leon,
[solus.]
I have been drowsing sure,—yet what a dream,
So strange to earth, so natural to romance;—
And such wild music;—hark!—it comes again.

SONG OF THE ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.

Leon.
Most sweet indeed, but something in the spell
Proclaims it cold. Even were the precious love
Such as this music speaks of, 'twere enough
To palsy passion in the human heart,
And make its fancies fail.—My Isabel.

Enter Isabel.
Isabel.
What wraps you thus, sweet brother? Why so sad,
When thus so trimly speeds our swanlike bark
O'er the smooth waters? But a few days more,
We tread the lovely island that we seek,
Whose bowers of beauty and eternal spring
Recall the first sweet garden of our race,
Before it knew the serpent. Dost thou sadden,
That thus we near those regions? Art thou sick,
Dear brother, that such vague abstraction creeps
Over your eyes, that seem as 'twere in search
For airy speculations in the deep?

Leon.
Thou'rt right!—An airy speculation sure,
Since I can nothing see to speak for it,
And tell me whence it comes.

Isabel.
What is't thou mean'st?

Leon.
A moment,—stay! Now, as I live, I heard it
Steal by me, as the murmurs of a lute
From thy own lattice, Isabel.

Isabel.
What heard'st?—
What is it that thou speak'st of?

Leon.
A strain of song,—
That crept along the waters from afar,
Softly at first, but growing as it came
To an embodied strength of harmony,
That spoke to all my joys. It bore a tone
Slight as a spirit's whisper, born of love
In aspiration,—such as innocent youth
Acknowledges at first, ere yet the world
Hath school'd it through its sorrows to caprice.
'Twas like thy own sweet music, Isabel,
When out among our Andalusian hills,
We play'd the dusk Morisco for a while,
Grown wanton in the moonlight with the flowers
That seem'd to sing us back. Oh! thou shouldst hear,
To sadden with its sweetness.

Isabel.
Thou hast dream'd!
Whence should such music come?

Leon.
Ay! whence indeed,
But from some green-hair'd maiden of the deep,
As still our legends tell us such there be,
That, sitting on the edge of lonely rocks,
Midway in ocean, loose their flowing locks,
And, with strange songs, discoursing to the waves,
Subdue their crests to service.

Isabel.
As the tale
Of Nicuesa pictures. Wouldst thou hear?

Leon.
Sing it, my Isabel.

Isabel.
'Tis something like
Thy fancy,—nay, has been the making of 't,
While thou wert dreaming. But thou didst not dream.

Leon.
Unhappy Nicuesa!

Isabel.
Such his song,
And, with the ocean murmur in thy ears,
Thy fancy, in thy dream, hath made it thine.

Leon.
I did not sleep or dream, my Isabel;—
I heard this wondrous music, even now,
When first I summon'd thee. I grant it strange
That it should syllable to familiar sound,
Boyhood's first fancies, of fair isles that lie
In farthest depths of ocean,—jewell'd isles
Boundless in but imaginable spoils,
Such as boy-visions only can conceive
And boyhood's faith admit.

Isabel.
And still thou dream'st!—
Thy boyhood's legends and thy boyhood's faith,
Grown fresh beneath the force of circumstance,
And the wild fancies of this foreign world,
Still carry thee away,—till thou forget'st,—
As still the wisest may,—the difference
'Twixt those two worlds,—the one where nature toils,
The other she but dreams of.

Leon.
'Twas no dream!
It comes again! Now hark thee, Isabel—
It is no murmur of the deep thou hear'st!
It hath a voice not human,—not unlike—
And sings, as still a spirit might sing, that wills
To do humanity service. Hark!

Isabel.
I do!—
Yet I hear nothing.

Leon.
Sure, I did not dream!
'Twas like the zephyr through a bed of reeds
Sighing as 'twere at cheerlessness of home,
In the approach of winter.

Isabel.
Oh! no more!—
Thou art too led astray by idle thoughts,
Dear Leon;—dost possess thee of the hues,
Shed by the passing cloud, and mak'st thy heart,
Still the abiding place of hopeless fancies
That waste thy strength of will. Thou art too prone
To these wild speculations.

Leon.
Hear it now!
My fancy trick'd me not,—my sense was true,—
It comes again, far off, and very fine,
As the first birth 'twixt silence and his dame,
The mother of the voice. Now, Isabel,—
Thine ears are traitors if they do not feel
That music as it sweeps by us but now.

Isabel.
I hear a murmur truly, but so slight—
A breath of the wind might make it, or a sail
Drawn suddenly.

Leon.
Art silenced? It is there!

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT.
In the billow before thee
My form is conceal'd—
In the breath that comes o'er thee
My thought is reveal'd—
Strown thickly beneath me
The coral rocks grow,
And the waves that enwreath me,
Are working thee woe.

Leon.
Didst hear it, Isabel?

Isabel.
It spoke, methought,
Of peril from the rocks that near us grow.

Leon.
It did, but idly! Here can lurk no rocks
For, by the chart which now before us lies,
Thy own unpractised eye may well discern
The wide extent of the ocean—shoreless all;
The land, for many a league, to th' westward hangs,
And not a point beside it.

Isabel.
Wherefore then,
Should come this voice of warning?

Leon.
From the deep:
It hath its demons as the earth and air,
All tributaries to the master-fiend
That sets their springs in motion. This is one,
That, doubting to mislead us, plants this wile,
So to divert our course, that we may strike
The very rocks he fain would warn us from.

Isabel.
A subtle sprite—and, now I think of it,
Dost thou remember the old story told
By Diaz Ortis, the lame mariner,
Of an adventure in the Indian seas,
Where he made one with John of Portugal,—
Touching a woman of the ocean wave
That swam beside the barque and sang strange songs
Of riches in the waters;—with a speech
So winning on the senses, that the crew
Grew all infected with the melody,
And, but for a good father of the church
Who made the sign of the cross and offer'd up
Befitting prayer, which drove the fiend away,
They had been tempted by her cunning voice
To leap into the ocean.

Leon.
I do, I do!
And, at the time, I do remember me,
I made much mirth of the extravagant tale,
As a deceit of the reason;—the old man
Being in his second childhood, and at fits,
As wild, in other histories, as in this.

Isabel.
I never more shall mock at marvellous things;
Such strange conceits hath after time found true,
That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile
At the most monstrous legend.

Leon.
Nor will I!—
To any tale of foreign wonderment,
I shall bestow mine ear nor wonder more;
And every image that my childhood bred,
In vagrant dreams of fancy, I shall look,
To find, without rebuke, my sense approve.
Thus, like a little island of the deep,
Girdled by perilous seas, and all unknown
To prows of venture, may be yon same cloud
Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky,
Lit by the rising moon. There, we may dream,
And find no censure in an after day,
Throng the assembled fairies, perch'd on beams,
And riding on their way triumphantly.
There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay,
Roving the silver sands of that same isle,
Floating in azure ether, plumes her wing
Of ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues—
While myriads like herself, do watch the chase—
Some truant sylph, through the infinitude
Of their uncircumscribed and rich domain.
There sport they through the night, with mimicry
Of strife and battle,—striking their tiny shields
And gathering into combat; meeting fierce,
With lip compress'd, and spear aloft, and eye
Glaring with desperate purpose in the fight;—
Then sudden—in a moment all their wrath
Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy—
Throwing aside the dread array and link'd,
Each, in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance,
The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp,
The long procession o'er fantastic realms
Of cloud and moonbeam, through th' enamor'd night,
Making it all one revel. Thus, the eye
Breathed on by fancy, with enlargéd scope,
Through the protracted and deep hush of night,
May note the fairies, coursing the lazy hours,
In various changes, and without fatigue.
A fickle race, who tell their time by flowers,
And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps,
And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams,
Speeding through space, even with the scattering light
On which they feed and frolic.

Isabel.
A wild dream!—
And yet, since this old tale of Diaz Ortis,
That moved our laughter once, is thus made sooth,
Perchance, not all a dream.

Leon.
Yet, may we doubt!—
There may be something in this marvel still
Of human practice. Man hath wondrous powers,
Most like a God;—that, with each hour of toil,
Perfect themselves in actions strangely great.
Some cunning seaman, having natural skill,
As by the books we learn hath oft been done,
Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitch'd his voice,—
With gay deceit of unsuspected art,
Leading us wantonly.

Isabel.
It is not so;—
Or, does my sense deceive? Look, where the wave
A perch beyond our vessel, grows in folds
That seem not like the element. Dost see?

Leon.
A marvellous shape that with the billow curls,
In gambols of the deep, and yet is not
Its wonted burden; for, beneath the waves,
I mark the elaborate windings of a form,
That heaves and flashes with an antic play,
As if to win our gaze.

Isabel.
Again—it sings.

ZEPHYR-SPIRIT

Leon.
'Tis passing strange, and it were well to rouse
The master to this marvel. What, ho! there!
Hark ye, good Mendez Celer, lend awhile
Your presence here on deck.

Enter Mendez Celer.
Mendez.
Who summons me?
Ha! brave Don Leon, but thou look'st as wild,
As thou hadst spoke some monster of the deep,
And shipp'd his tidings in a sea of foam.
Hadst thou but weather'd awhile the Indian seas,
As I have done, where, from his fiery steep,
El Norté plunges headlong o'er the seas,
Smiting the billows with his scourge of wings
Till their gray scalps lie flat, methinks thine eyes,
That find a wonder in each hour of change,
Would soon grow slow to marvel.

Leon.
It may be,—
Yet there's a marvel here to challenge well
Thy old experience in these wizard seas.
Here swam a voice that spoke to us in song
Of most prevailing sweetness. There it rose—
Even from yon heap of waters, which thou see'st
Still stirring with an action not their own,
Unlike the rest of the ocean. Thou mayst note
Where the sea rises and the billows toss,
Still swelling in strange folds. 'Tis there it moves,—
From thence the music came.

Men.
What said the song?
A ditty of the marvellous love, I ween,
The girl of the ocean bears thee—was it not?

Leon.
No, in no wise!—the tones it used were soft,
And the words gentle, and the music sweet,
But yet it spoke no love and ask'd for none.—
It rather told of danger to our barque;—
Of rocks in certain and near neighborhood,
And shoals and sands, that, close beneath our prow,
Are lurking to ensnare.

Men.
Bah! good Don Leon!
'Tis, as we say in Palos, a poor devil
That goes without his brimstone.—A dull cheat
Who when he shows his hook forgets the bait.
Your sea-girl was a young one. Mark me now,
There is no land—no single spot of shore
Whereon a plank or spar might lie at ease,
Within a three day's sail of us. I've been
Some thirty years a mariner, and scarce,
In all that time, have been from off the seas
A month or two, at farthest, at a spell;
And this same route o'er which we travel now,
Comes to me as my nightcap or my prayers—
I put not on the one, nor say the other,
Yet both are done, the thanks to Mary Mother,
And I am none the wiser.

Leon.
It is strange
That we should hear this music!

Men.
Not a whit.
I've oftentimes heard from the Portuguese—
I'm rather one myself, belike you know,
My father having stray'd, at a wrong time,
From Lisbon to my mother's house at Palos,
And then it came about that I was born—
(Nothing ill-graced to Lady Isabel;)
And, as I say, it is a standing tale
With the old seamen, that a woman comes—
Her lower parts being fishlike—in the wave;
Singing strange songs of love, that so inflame
The blinded seamen, that they steal away
And join her in the waters; and, that then,
Having her victim, she is seen no more.

Leon.
And is it deem'd, the men thus wildly snared
Become a prey and forfeit life at once?

Men.
So must it be; and yet, there is a tale
That they do wed these creatures; which have power,
So to convert their nature, that they make,
As to themselves, the sea their element;
And have a life renew'd, though at the risk
And grievous peril of their Christian souls,
Doom'd thence unto perdition.

Leon.
And you then
Think nothing of this warning?

Men.
By your grace,
Surely, I hold it the wild lustful song
Of this same woman. She has lost, perchance,—
Since death must come at last who comes to all,—
Her late companion. Would you take his place?
If not, wax up your ears, and sleep secure,
There's naught to fear, and sea-room quite enough.
[Shock—the ship strikes.
God, and thou gracious Mary, what is that?
[Ship strikes again.
We're in our certain course—what may this mean?

Leon.
The vessel strikes—she strikes again and shivers,
Through all her frame, as if convulsed with horror,
She felt herself the pangs we soon must feel!
The devil speaks truth, for once, good Mendez Celer!

Men.
Oh, holy Mary, and thou gracious shield
Blessed Saint Anthony, lend us now your aid;
Speak fairly to the waters—see us through
This sad deceit. Below there—hands aloft!—
Ho, Juan! trim the sail,—out with the lead—
Helm down, Pedrillo—Hernan—luff yet more.
Jesu! She rides again—we yet may swim!
[Vessel strikes heavily upon the rocks.
It is all over! To your prayers at once!
There is no longer hope, nor chance of life,
Unless from the good saints and Mary Mother,
We may have mercy and sweet countenance!
[The master takes a leaden image from his h[illeg.] and prostrates himself before it. Storm rises.
Gracious Saint Anthony, for fifty years
We've voyagéd in company, and now,
I pray thee, in this strait, that thou forsake not
Thy ancient comrade. To thy use I vow—
If thou wilt man our yards, and trim our sails,
And lift our ragged keel from off these rocks,—
A box of Cadiz candles—

Leon.
Be a man!
Rise, Mendez, to the peril and the storm.
Let us do something for ourselves, nor ask
The smiles of heaven upon our fears alone.
Shall we but crouch and perish, with no stroke
Made for our lives! For shame, sir—ply your men;
Nor with an idle prayer, which the waves mock
And the winds laugh at, show our feebleness.
If there be land so nigh, as by our glance,
The eye may seem to conjure, we may try,
The little we can do, to save our lives.
The boats—get out the boats!

Men.
In vain—in vain;
No boat may live in such a sea as that.
Look at this surf, that chafes like a wild beast,
And ramps, like something mad, upon the rocks.
This is the strangest chance I yet have known:—
By the chart we are in the open sea,
And here we meet with land, where land is none.
A moment since, and the whole sea was calm,
Now boils it like a cauldron—and the winds,
That late were almost breathless, now exclaim
In wrath, and yell like fiends above the sea.
Oh, Mary Mother, in this strait befriend!—
To thee, to Jesu, and the saints alone,
May we now look for mercy!

[Storm increases. Ship strikes with increasing violence.
Leon.
So we perish!—
The ship is parting! We must try the boat,
Whate'er the peril from the raging sea!
Better, thus struggling in the embrace of strife,
To meet the fatal enemy, than thus,
With idly folded arms and shivering fears
That mock the very passion in our prayer
With broken utterance most unmeet for heaven,
Await him feebly here. Ho! man the boat.

Isabel.
Leave me not, brother, for a moment now!
There's not a pressing danger, or I do
Greatly mistake the courage in your eye,
That hath no touch of terror in its calm,
And looks the strength of safety.

Leon.
Yet, there is,
Dear Isabel, a danger of the worst,
Now pressing on our lives with terrible wrath,
That needs the soul's best fortitude and hope
To meet with manhood. We may yet escape,
So, take you heart. Look not with such an eye,
Or I may fail at this most perilous hour,
And sink into the woman. Be all firm,
And like our mother, dearest,—nor grow weak,
When I do tell you that the chances gather
Against our fondest hope.

Isabel.
And is it so?—
And you and I, dear Leon,—both so young,
So fond,—so full of life's best promises,—
Thus sudden cut from all—the loved, the loving,—
And by a fate so terrible!

Leon.
Still hope!—
Since combating the fear that ushers death,
We little feel his shaft. Whatever haps,
Be firm, and cling to me. Keep close at hand,
And, with the mercy of God, through every chance,
Dear sister, I devote myself to thee.

Isabel.
I know thou wilt!—I will be at thy side,
Nor trouble thee with my terrors.

Leon.
Noble girl!
My safety shall be thine;—and if I fail,
'Twill somewhat soothe the pang of that sad passage
That still we go together. We have lived,
So truly in one another from the first,
And known no sense of pleasure not inwrought,
With twin affection in our mutual hearts,
That 'twill not move our chiding when the fate
Strikes both in one, and with a kindly blow,
Secures 'gainst future parting.

Isabel.
I'll not chide!
I will be firm,—and yet I dread the rage
And rushing of the waters. How they roar,
And lash themselves to madness o'er our bows!
I dread me, Leon, that my senses fail!
Mine eyes grow blind—I see thee not—Here, here!
My brother, leave me not.

Leon.
I'm here with thee!

Isabel.
Dost hear me when I speak,—dost hear me, brother?
I cannot hear myself. My voice is gone,
Drown'd in that horrible coil of storm and billow
That fain would wrap us all. That crash!—

[Shrieks.
Leon.
Hither!—
I have thee, poor unconscious!—child of sorrow,
That hast no farther feeling of thy woe!
Make way there.

Mariner.
The boat is ready, masters.

[The vessel parts. The seamen enter the boat. Leon lifts Isabel into it.
Men.
Delay not now for me—bear off, bear off,—
I go in no new craft—my log's complete.
This is my ninetieth voyage, and the last,
Though not the longest or most fortunate.
I cannot leave the ship—it is our creed—
Till she leaves me. We've sail'd together long—
And if I 'scaped the present, would not much
Survive her reckoning. Bid me well at home,
And say the manner of my death to all.
Tell old Bertiaz, should you ever make
The shore I never more shall touch again,
(He owns the vessel), that the “Arragon”
(Too fine a name for such a fate as this),
Is Arragon no longer. You may say—
'Twill do me good in my grave—I died in her.

[They leave her—she goes to pieces in their sight.

SCENE II.

—The Boat.
Mariner.
There, she goes down,—the master still in her;
I see him on a spar, and—now he sinks.
Pull there more freely, boys. The swell she makes
May trouble us greatly. Fiercely, all at once,
Mark you, Don Leon, how the waters leap,
And the seas whiten. Here are ugly rocks.

Leon.
The billows rush on madly, as they were
Some battling armies. These are cruel waves,
That, fastening on our sides, still clamber high,
More like the forms of demons, dark and dread,
With fiend malignity and bent on wrath,
Than billows of the ocean. We shall scarce—
Unless good fortune and the blessed saints
Look kindly on us—overcome the space,
Growing as we o'erleap it, that, between,
Now keeps us from yon islet, which I mark,
Dim, in the distance, o'er the swell in front.
Pray ye, strike full your oars and all at once,
Cheerly and bold, becoming fearless men;—
And, if we live, God's blessing on your service,
But lack, ye shall not, your reward on earth.
My arm grows weary with the weight upon 't
Of this most precious burden; while a cloud
Like a thick pitchy wall, right in our way
Rests heavily on the waters, and denies
That I should see beyond. Give way, like men,
And enter the deep darkness unafraid.

[The boat disappears.

SCENE III.

—The ocean waste.
Zephyr-Spirit.
Now, terribly through the waters comes the form
Of that fierce savage and malignant king,
Onesimarch. Behind him gathering rush
Clouds of his brutal followers, clad in wrath,
Howling for prey. Beneath their vexing spells
The deep boils like a whirlpool, and the waves,
So lately still and placid, wrought to rage,
Leap up about the poor ill-fated barque.
Now grappling to her prow, they drag her down,
The billows rushing in; and, wrapt in each,
Some of the monster's followers, well conceal'd,
With fierce and furious might, impel her down;—
Now mount her bending sides, now strike with force
Their own, against her weak and shrieking ribs—
Tear up her planks, and rushing through the space,
Rend her broad back, and o'er the flinty rocks
Drag the too yielding keel until it parts.
Onesimarch, himself, a hungry fiend,
With darker powers endow'd, with sulphur arm'd,
Hurls a perpetual lightning, which distracts
And dazzles the weak eye. He shapes their course,
And guides the tribute legions; working new joys
From out the wrongs he doth, for his own sense,
And for that potentest of all the fiends,
By whom his power is wrought. And now, they chant
A song of terror in the drowning ears
Of the wild seamen, cutting off all hope
That manhood may achieve against its fate.

SCENE IV.

—The same.
Storm. Flight of Sea-Demons, singing.

SCENE V.

—The Boat.
Mariner.
Master, we strive in vain.

Leon.
We can but die.

Mar.
Why toil for it?

Leon.
As one who strikes his foe,
Though conscious that he battles without hope,
And dies in the brave conflict.—Ha! she stirs.

Isabel,
[recovering.]
Horrible sounds are rushing through my ears,
More like the cries of demons, mad for blood,
Than the hoarse billows and the roaring winds.
They dart into my brain, and seem to shout,
Triumphant, oh, my brother, o'er our fate;—
Speak of the sorrow in our father's halls,
That, with an anguish, far too great for speech,
Grows dumb and scorns expression. Could we live—
But live to see him once!—oh, bear me up;—
Desert me not, dear Leon, but entwine,
Closely, thy arm around; nor let these waves,
That seem impatient of their midnight feast,
Suck me into their black and ravenous jaws.

Leon.
Doubt me not, Isabel, in this dark hour!
Think'st thou I could desert thee, precious sweetness,
To whose frail nature and too delicate youth
Sweet elements should minister with love,
Not hunt with hate. I have thee in my arms;
Will hold thee, while they have their hold in life,
And I have thought and sense to will the struggle
That wards the final danger from thy breast.
But, cling to me, my sister.

Isabel.
Will I not?
Why should we think of death?

Mar.
It comes! It comes!

[The boat strikes and goes to pieces.
Leon.
Isabel,—sister!

Isabel,
[faintly afar off.]
Here, Leon, here!

Leon.
Oh, Jesu! lost!

[Scene closes.

SCENE VI.

—The Ocean waste.
Zephyr-Spirit.
'Tis done! The strife is over. Hope is none!
These cruel demons triumph, with a rage
That mocks at mortal strength. Prone to the deep,
I watch'd that hungry slave, Calemmia, seize,
Conceal'd in a dense billow, on the prow;
And, all despite the seaman's sturdy stroke,
The helmsman's firm direction, and the cheer
Of that strong human impulse, which did grow,
Upon the sight of land, into a hope,
Drag her among the sharp rocks, while the surfs
Beat her to pieces. She is scatter'd far—
A spar floats on the wave—a single oar,
Cast high among the sands, alone has reach'd
The mocking shores that wreck'd them. Yet, not so!—
I mark a floating form that struggles still,
With a most human love of life, afar.
Him may I succor, and, with safety now;—
The legions of Onesimarch, being done
Their toil of terror, have, for newer spoils,
Wrapt in a gathering cloud, departed hence,
Leaving all calm again. Curl'd in this wave,
I will beneath him glide, and bear him up;
Till, on the shore, beyond the ocean's swell,
He rests in safety. I can do no more—
Since, in gross contact with the heavy earth,
I lose the subtle power that makes my gift,
And forfeit, of the light ethereal nature,
The buoyant spirit that supplies its wing.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The islet of Onesimarchus.
Atalantis, Nea.
Atal.
This islet hath no quality of joy,
Fair to the sight, or fragrant to the sense,—
No beauty that upon its surface glows,
No treasure that within its bosom sleeps;—
It is the foul'st deception—all is gross,
And tainted with that sinborn leprousness
That marks the soul who will'd it into birth,
And raised its treacherous rocks along the deep.
No innocent beast hath dwelling in this clime,
No valley blooms with verdure. Not a flower
Gems the bleak sands, that, barrenly spread out,
Pain the unsatisfied and wandering eye,
That, seeing naught else, grows weary. Not a bird,
But, as he flies above, subdues his voice,
And, panting in his silence, quickens his wing,
Having a nameless terror. The foul taint
That poisons all things in this tyrant's sway,
Takes from them all their virtue. Not a shrub
Breathes fragrance to the breeze, whose whisper'd plaint
Would woo it still to fondness. Not an air
Enters these bounds, but flags and settles down
Clumsy and wingless; and the very stars
Do seem to leave their places in the heavens,
Looking down on it. Even we, who are
Of a tenacious temper, yielding naught,—
If that our hearts be pure and souls be firm
To the capricious influence,—we lose
Something of that refined and subtler sense,
Which gives us power to meet and match the sway
Of his low cunning and detested art.
How heavy is this silence! What a spell
Comes with the sullen muttering of the winds,
Now sweeping from the waters; and, how sad
Are the faint murmurs of yon moaning sea,
In the far distance chiding, as in grief,
For some new stroke of sorrow! All things yield—
So it would seem—a something to the spell,
That makes his power, and keeps us captive here;
Wrapping us in a circle, not to move,
Or strive, lest it undoes us. The shrill scream
Of one poor gull, that, o'er the whiten'd foam,
Hung with gray wing suspended, breaks no more
Fitfully on the ear;—and all of life
Seems resolute to pay its offering now
To that dread silence, which, in human sense,
Makes up the all of death!

Nea.
Even as thou say'st!—
'Tis a sad spot, fair mistress; sad for us,
That have been wont, in finer element,
To drink the nurture of a better lot.
Ah! how unlike the sweet life of the light,
Blessing the fair dominion thou hast lost;—
Lost for a season only,—yet too long,
Since such a dwelling as we find perforce,
Subdues the heart to sorrows not its own,
Which still must bide in memory. I feel
How dreary is the labor of restraint,
This watching, waiting,—when my wonted use,
Would have me winging an unlicensed flight,
Now in the embracing air, now through the deeps,
Disparting their white billows night and morn,
With no more pause than to adjust my plumes,
Ruffled by zephyrs; then, with fresh device,
Soaring in wilder progress,—sea and sky,
Our ample field, and the delighted tribes,
Their habitants, come forth to share the chase.

Atal.
And lack'st thou now all wonted qualities—
Thy dance, thy song, whose melodies can make
The mad seas sleep when wildest, while the winds
Fold up their cloudy vans to hear thy lay?
Hast thou no strain to fit these drowsy hours
With wings of light and fragrance, while the thought
Grows wanton and forgetful of the grief
That burden'd it with gloom? Methinks, my girl,
'Twere in thy happy spells of verse to find
Some carol of our own domain, to take
The impatient soul, and in delicious dews
Steep the fine sense to sweet forgetfulness.
Sing me some ditty from our Mergevan,
While every flower, in gardens of the past,
Our hands have ever gather'd, the young page,
Whose name is Memory, faithful to his task,
Shall bring anew to joy us in our need.
Give me the song the Flower-Spirit once framed,
When through our gardens, far beneath the sea,
Wall'd in by wildest waters, we pursued,
For the first time, the summer festival.

SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRIT.

Atal.
The ocean hath no calm like what is here—
And, if the waters might unfold to us,
There hath been fearful strife upon their waves.
Here come its tokens. These are broken spars
From some tall ship, that lately sped along,
As oft-times I have seen them, with a grace
And majesty becoming in a queen
Ruling a thousand seas. It is a game
Onesimarch delights in, to destroy
The goodly creatures that do dwell in them—
Shaped like ourselves, though little taught to cope
In knowledge with ourselves. Inferior things
Of lower grade, who, when we have become
The tenants and possessors of a realm
Now far beyond our state, shall rise to ours,
As we enjoy it now. But what is here,
Grasping a shaft, and lifelessly spread out?

[Seeing the body of Leon.
Nea.
One of the creatures of that goodly barque,—
Perchance, the only one of many men,
That, from their distant homes, went forth in her,
And here have perish'd.

Atal.
There is life in him;—
His bosom swells, methinks, beneath my hand,—
With fitful pulse—most faint—now here—now gone!
Alas! I fear it may not come again.
How very young he is—how beautiful!—
Made with a matchless sense of what is true
In manly grace and mortal elegance;
And features, rounded in as soft a mould
As our own, Nea.

Nea.
His eye unfolds.

Atal.
Ah!
Stand aside, girl, and let me look on him.
I see not that he wakes.

Nea.
But now he did.

Atal.
Alas! he sleeps in death! How pitiful
That one so young, and princely in his port,
Should fall so soon a victim. He hath been,
I doubt not, a great noble with his people.
How should it be that such a form as this,
So lovely and commanding in its aspect,
Should rank below the people of our race?
Methinks he is a creature, that, in life,
Might stand compared with any of our chiefs.

Nea.
At least, in outward seeming.

Atal.
And this speaks,—
Where still the brow is lofty, and the form
Familiar, in erect and graceful carriage,—
For that which guides within.

Nea.
He looks well;—
Yet may he be a thing of seeming only,
Wanting in all that higher sense of soul,
Which makes the virtue of true excellence.

Atal.
Oh! I am sure there is no want in him;
The spirit must be true, the sense supreme,
The soul as far ascending, strong and bright,
As is the form they do inhabit in.
Breathe on him, Nea; fan him with thy wing
And rouse him, if thou canst. Oh! could I bring
The life into his cheek. Stay, yet awhile;—
Now, while his senses sleep, I'll place my lip
Upon his own—it is so beautiful!
Such lips should give forth music—such a sweet
Should have been got in heaven,—the produce there,
Of never-blighted gardens.

[Kisses him.
Leon,
[starts.]
Cling to me—
Am I not with thee now, my Isabel!

[Swoons again.
Atal.
Oh, gentle sounds—how sweetly did they fall,
In broken murmurs, like a melody,
From lips, that waiting long on loving hearts,
Had learn'd to murmur like them. Wake again,
Sweet stranger! If my lips have wrought this spell,
And won thee back to life, though but to sigh,
And sleep again in death,—they shall, once more,
Wake and restore thee.

Nea.
You arouse him not.

Atal.
Alas! should life's string, overstrain'd, be crack'd,
No more to be reknit, I forfeit peace
Forever,—never more to hope for joy
In any life that follows.

Nea.
Oh! my mistress,
This passion of grief—

Atal.
Nea, now at last,
I feel that I do love! The sudden fire
Kindles at last, where never yet before
Its spark found nurture. If it be in vain!—
I, that had scorn'd the suppliant before,
I too, must be the suppliant for a love
That's born without a hope. The lesson comes
Too late, and I have but to weep o'er dreams
That have no waking promise for the heart,
And leave it but to tears. Alas! Alas!

[Throws herself upon Leon.
Nea.
Oh! yield not thus, my mistress, to a passion
That never can be blest. The best of love
Still teaches sorrow as his natural gift,
More sure than precious.

Atal.
Know you aught of Love?

Nea.
As of a power that's best esteemed in fancy,
In which he more abides than in the heart.
Love's but an artful tyrant. He first wins
By the most servile flatteries. He can stoop
The better to ascend; and pliant grows,
When most the secret purpose in his soul,
Makes him unyielding. Pleasant is his prayer;—
He will discourse you in the dove's own note,
Cooing and plaining, with such murmur'd sweets,
That pity learns to take the place of doubt,
And paves the way for trust. But, wait awhile,
And soon his habit changes. He grows apt,—
Learns the new lesson his condition makes,
As readily as the old; and, sure of power,
Firm, with free footing walks, where late he crept.
Then, see you heed the master;—who will now
Claim, for his right, that which he lately sued,
As the poor meed of charity; and thus
Step by step upward, with insidious art,
And cunning most unequall'd, doth he rise,
Until you find your neck beneath his foot,
And you become his slave, who once was yours.

Atal.
Oh! terrible,—where heard you this of Love?

Nea.
From many teachers.

Atal.
Did they know him well?
They slander him, methinks.

Nea.
They suffer'd first!
Our minstrels note him thus!—Our maidens, taught
By many a hapless lesson, thus describe
His art and empire. They do further tell,
Beyond his tyrant habits, that his sweets
Are few and failing. Painful, do they say,
Are even the creature's pleasures, since they wake
Such doubts and dread misgiving for their loss,
As even their joys can't equal. The sick soul,
That grieves with Love's delusions, evermore dreams
Dreading its losses. It forever makes
A sombre cloud to gather in the sky,
And glooms the spirit. Looking far beyond
The glory in its gaze, it sadly sees
Countless privations, and far-coming storms,
Shrinking from what it conjures. Let them say
Green youth and greener maidens, as they may,
Of Love and of his raptures:—for my part,
I hold him a disease—a very ache,
And ague-fever, sore and troublesome;
Apt caller forth of tears, and wails, and plaints,
And then of colds, and heats, and fantasies—
Realities most mournful, and, forsooth,
Imaginings, whose strange complexions be
Not a whit kinder. Love's a sorry slave,
And a sad master. As a slave, he steals
The jewel of our nature, and its lights,—
The heart and its affections;—which, having got,
He straight assumes the master:—they, in turn,
Being his willing instruments and doom'd,
When that the tyrant of his play grows sick,
To be the creature's victims at the last.

Atal.
I cannot think this truly said of Love!—
The minstrels do belie him, much, methinks,
For envy of his conquests; and, the maids—
They only do complain, whom he doth slight.
They never knew his nature. They, perchance—
Since what is winning still hath counterfeits—
Have seen some subtle semblance of his form,
His true spirit all being wanting; and were made,
Haply, the victims of some wanton art,
That hath betray'd them. It were wisdom poor,
And a most sad philosophy, to scorn
The blessing, as in nature's exigence,
It might grow forfeit. Better, with this rule,
Not live, since in the end we all must die.
Though there be doubts that love may yet be lost,
Still let me love;—the very doubt but shows
The worth of the possession. Not for me
The sway of kingdoms only. In my heart
There still hath been a void—a vacant place,
That ever seem'd to crave some image there,
Set up for worship. Till this happy hour,
The shrine hath been unoccupied and cold;
Now doth the warmth of a divinity
Suffuse the reluctant nature, and I glow
In the superior consciousness of hopes
That fill me with devotion. Here is one
Might teach me wherefore this.

Nea.
He breathes again;
There's life within him yet.—His lips, they part
In murmurs:—he will live. Shall we now leave him?

Atal.
Leave him, dost thou ask? alas! my Nea,
I cannot if I would. His image takes
Possession of the waste place in my soul,
And fills me with himself. Whether I go,
Or stay,—the fates forbid that we should part;—
And known, perchance, and loved too late, he still
Hath grown to such a presence in my thought,
That, though I lose him in the hour that finds,
I lose him not from love. Now, let us call
The life into his cheek. Some water bring,
Scoop'd out from yonder fountain near the sea.
There, fan him with thy pinions. See, his lips,—
Again they part, how sweetly!—and again,
I stoop to press them with my own that burn
With a strange fervor never felt before.
He wakes!—Ah me, he wakes! His eyes unclose
With a dim beauty. As they open, mine
Sink to the sands. I feel his glances now,
Stealing and searching through my throbbing heart,
Until it hath no secret. Doth he speak?
What says he, my sweet Nea?

Leon,
[struggling to his feet.]
Nay,—no more!—
Ah! sister, is it thou? That terrible thought
That thou wert swallow'd in the ravenous sea,
And the waves over thee! I saw thee sink—
Beheld thy outstretch'd arms—heard thy wild cry
For succor, that I strove in vain to give,—
And, struggling in the surf, 'gainst cruel hands,
That kept me from thee in the fearful hour,
I yielded thee as lost.—I have thee now—
We shall not part again.

[Embracing Atalantis.
Atal.
Ah!—

Leon,
[discovering her.]
Who art thou?
Where is my sister—give her to my arms;
Why dost thou keep her from me when I call?

Atal.
Oh! look not thus upon me, gentle youth:
I have not done thee wrong.

Leon.
My sister?

Atal.
She—
I know not.—

Leon.
Alas! alas! for me!—I am alone.

Atal.
Oh! not alone, for though we know not her,
The sister thou hast lost, we'll seek for her,
And strive to bring her to thy love again.
We too will love thee, if thou'lt suffer us,
And claim thy love in turn.

Leon.
Where am I then?
Oh! tell me, noble lady, tell me true,
What is the shore we stand on—where the ship
That bore us—the old master, and the men,—
And over all of these, the precious maid,
My sister, whom I swore to save from harm,
While strength was in my arms to strive for her.
Alas! that I am here, with life and strength,
And she—thou look'st as thou hadst love and truth,—
Spare me these pangs—withhold her not from me,—
I shall not sink into an agony,
Joy-troubled at her sight. I'm strong to bear
This happiness, if thou hast it to bestow,
And take my blessing for it. Give her me!

Atal.
Alas! thou plead'st to me, dear youth, in vain;
I know not of the gentle maid you seek.
Thou only, of the creatures of the ship,
Hast found the refuge of the shore.

Leon.
She's gone,—
And I survive her! How can I survive?
With what a terror she entreated me,
Never to leave her; and I pledged my soul,
If I had power to save, she should not sink,
Or I should share her fate. My Isabel!
I could not save, and cannot now survive;—
I come to thee,—I come!

[Rushes towards the sea.
Atal.
Forbear! Forbear!
Oh! be not thus the murderer of thyself,
When heaven's own voice hath order'd thee to live.
For my sake as for thine! I kneel to thee.
Do not this wrong unto thyself, I pray,
Nor to the memory of the maid thou griev'st,
Who, if she loved thee, never could be blest,
At this, thy woeful sacrifice. Oh! hear!
Let me implore. Thy sister yet may live,
Cast on some other isle, as thou on this.
We'll seek her hence together, with a hope
That we may find her on the yellow sands,
And win her back to life.

Leon.
Oh! sweet thy words!
I will believe thee, lady, with a hope
That comes on golden pinions; for thine eye
Tells of a true sense prompting thee to speak,
In mercy, with a blessing won from truth;
While in thy voice a delicate music lies,
Spelling all sympathies that fill the heart.
Say, who art thou?

Atal.
My name is Atalantis.
I am a Princess of the ocean waste,
But now a prisoner on this cruel isle,
Which, raised by magic from the hidden deep,
Wreck'd thee and fetters me. I have the sway
Of a large ocean empire which, in sight,
Extends beyond the sight, and far beneath
In winding ways and valleys of the sea.
I keep no state, but, as a captive, pine
In sight of my own kingdom, in the power
Of a dread monarch of the demon race,
A mighty potentate who keeps me here,
Seeking my love.

Leon.
How fell you in his power?

Atal.
'Twere a long speech to tell you of our realms,
The sway that's mine and his respectively,
And the slight space betwixt us; or to dwell
On the opposing powers we each possess:
It is enough, sweet youth, that yestermorn,
I and this maiden, o'er the quiet sea,
Idly disporting in our innocence,
Pass'd from our own dominions into his;
When, straightway he,—being ever on the watch,
And all unmatch'd for cunning—raised this isle,
At once, beneath us. In this sudden strait,
Frighted, I cast aside my magic wand,
Without which, I am nothing; and, with joy,
Knowing its powers, this monster seized it then,
And keeps me now his captive, close fenced in
By thickest spells, which, circling all this isle,
And having with our fine sense deadly hate,
We may not pass, unless he wills it so,
Or I regain my wand. Could that be done,
Its power is such that I could sink this isle,
And, with one stroke in air, undo the spells
Of his foul-brew'd enchantment.

Leon.
It is strange!
Methinks I wander in the Arabian tale,
And wear the enchanted ring.—This demon king—
Where is his castle where he harbors now?
I would behold him, and do battle for you.
I am a knight of Spain, well known in arms,
And wear the honors of the noblest courts,
Shining in Christendie.

Atal.
The arms you wield,
In fight with such as he, would nothing serve:
He deals in subtlest magic, and receives
Spells from gigantic spirits. 'Twas his power
Aroused the storm that overthrew your bark;
And now, on like employment bent, he speeds
Afar upon the ocean, with a host
Of most malignant followers in his train,
Rank for destruction. Could I get my wand,
In which a power of mightiest strength abides,
I'd battle him myself, and drive him back,
And whelm the barren isle which keeps us now!
Nay, more than this,—if that thy sister sleeps
Beneath the waters,—though I may not win
Her spirit back to life—with that same wand,
We both may penetrate the tumbling waves,
Without or hurt or harm,—with vision free,
To find her gentle beauties where they rest
On quiet beds of flowers beneath the deep.
There, with our magic art may we enwrap
Her fragile beauty in protecting spells,
That still her eyes shall shine as when in life,
Her cheeks still glow with love's own red,—her lips,
Though they no more with many a tone of joy,
Made soft by feeling, whisper in your ears,—
Still look the sweetness they have ever worn,
Keeping the wonted freshness that they knew,—
When first they grew to thine. This shall we do,
And more, that nothing that thy sense may seek
Shall lack to make her lovely.

Leon.
Gentle Queen,
If this be so,—do with me as thou wilt,—
I am thy slave,—thy slave!

Atal.
Rather I thine!
If thou wilt love me, this will I perform;
Nay, though thou love me not, I still will do it,
For love I have for thee.

Nea,
[aside.]
No more a Queen!
How doth she yield herself unto this power,
Forgetting her dominion.

Leon.
Gentle Princess,
Shall we not get possession of this wand?
Methinks that I could do 't. But let me hear;
Teach me the way!—I shall not fear to meet
This monster, though with magic panoplied
And all foul arts. Trust then the toil with me,
I am a soldier of the holy cross,
And do defy the fiend and all his works.

Atal.
'Tis a brave spirit, but here can little do,
Save to adventure.—This, indeed, is much!—
Magic must baffle magic. 'Tis for thee,
Still to procure this wand, which thou canst win,
When I have arm'd thee with some little power;
Thou being of earthly essence, with no fear
From contact with the all-infectious spell
Girdling the island round. Within yon rock,
That hangs precipitous above the deep—
That should be far beneath it—by him raised,
With sudden conjuration, at a word—
Seal'd in with spells, and in a curious vase,
Itself a spell, the treasure lies enshrined.
These charms, to me, were naught, could I but reach
The chambers where they lie; for, with this ring,
Which now upon thy hand I place from mine,
I may command all seals, and bid them break.
Onesimarch knows this, and trusts them not;
But placing an earthborn taint upon the air,
He doth restrain my footstep.

Leon.
Let me go—
I will achieve the adventure, or will die.

Atal.
Not yet—it were in vain that you would pass,
With your enfeebled strength, the threatening gulfs
Of leaping waters, that, between this isle,
And the high rocks you aim at, spread themselves.
We must seek other aid—and, what are these,
Auspiciously, that gather on the sands,
In the fine haze of moonlight?

Nea.
Fairy tribes,
That, sporting in the moonbeams, saw below
This new creation of Onesimarch,
And straight came down, still glad in what is new,
To keep their revels on it.

Leon,
[aside.]
Wonders grow,
Fruitful as things of nature.

Atal.
[To Nea.]
This is well;—
Meet to our purpose, at the needful hour,
When they might succor us. We must persuade
The aid and office they will scarce deny
To one who holds them of a kindred race,
Though of another element. Away!
Seek their chief, Nea. Show him all our strait,—
Declare our want, and for his service now,
Pledge our good office at another time.
We wait thee here. [Exit Nea.]
Alas! sweet youth, thou look'st
With such a sadness on me!

Leon.
Not on thee;—
'Tis on my fate I look!

Atal.
I am thy fate!
And thou wilt hate me for it! Oh! forgive!—
If I have won thee now against thy will,
To this wild venture, I do free thee from 't;—
I would not have my freedom, did it bring
A moment's grief to thee.

Leon.
Thou little know'st,
Sweet Princess, of the lessons of my youth,
The training of my people, and the laws
Which make it still our duty as our pride,
To stake the issues all, of life and death,—
All that we pleasure and can peril most,—
In cause of love and beauty. I rejoice
That it is mine to combat thy mishap.
This is a venture of my heart's own choice,
Too precious to be yielded,—and, forgive,—
But little know'st thou of Spain's chivalry,
When thou believest that its valor shrinks
From any odds with fortune. 'Tis with me
A pride to seek for peril; and we hold,
Taught in our schools of faith and courtesie,
That, to the soul, no life is worth a care,
Lock'd up from noble deeds, lapsing away
Like a scant brook, beneath a sunny sky,
Scarce murmuring as it wanders to be lost,
In the embrace of the o'erwhelming sea.

Atal.
Oh! noble, brave philosophy!

Leon.
We fight,
That insolence should meet check and overthrow,
The weak find succor, and the innocent
Be always sure of shelter from the base;—
And, when the peril is sought for one so fair,
Then do our masters teach us, it is one
On which the heavens look down approvingly
And the bright angels cheer.

Atal.
And yet thou griev'st;—
The sorrow grows to dews upon thy lids,
Even while thine eyes flash fire.

Leon.
My grief, alas!
Mark'd in my face, is from the wretched fear,
Now coursing through my brain, that she I seek,
The gentle girl, companion of my youth,
Bland as the moonlight, wooing as the shade,
And sweet as fairy music, deeply lies
Buried in these wild waters—never more,
To bless me with the music of her voice—
The magic of her smile—the calm delight
Of her not troublesome, devoted love!

Atal.
Oh! I have tears to share with thee for her!—
I may not give her back to thee, nor bid
The voice to that young lip, where, like a bird,
That had its life in music with the flowers,
It lapsed in long and loving melodies;
But I will toil in thy service, glad to be,
For thy bereavéd heart and fever'd brain,
Most like to her thou grievest. I will strive,
That thou shalt so esteem me. Not a tone,
Fashion'd by love's own mood, and most like hers,
But I shall teach my language;—not a look,
Worn by her gentlest features, but shall mine
Skilfully take from summer skies and flowers,
Requiting thy sad heart.

Leon.
Oh, sweetest maid—
Thy form is kindred to thy purposes,
And half restores me.

Atal.
All will I restore—
All thou hast lost,—and more. Believe me then—
And stay thy sorrows. I will all replace,
Of thy fond fancies, and, with love as true,
Coupled with better power to serve its hope,
I'll be to thee far more than she thou grievest,
Though her affection, from the innocent hour
Of thy confiding childhood and pure dreams,
Boundless as ocean, like the Mexique waves,
Knew but one course, and ever ran to thee.
Believe me, dearest, thou shalt nothing lose
Of the known raptures. Thou shalt many win,
Not in thy wealth before. Thou shalt not think,
Ere I shall know and satisfy thy thought.

Leon.
Too generous maid.

Atal.
And,—hear me, gentle prince!—
If to thy sleepless, striving memory,
There be some marks, some moods, some images,
Some sweet tone, some fond action, some dear song
Of childhood, or some innocent prank you've known
Together, roving amid natural bowers,—
Teach me the trick of it all;—teach me the tone,
The dear song, the fond action, the gay prank,
Known to thy happiest childhood;—show me the art,
That nothing may be wanting—that I may take
A presence like to hers upon thy sight,
And make thee rich again, possessing her.

Leon.
Thy words are queenliest, like thyself, sweet maid,
And balsam my deep wound,—if not to cure,
To soothe and stay its throbbing. Thou hast said,
In sweet tones, sweetest words, that soften much
The temper of my sorrows.

Atal.
I am glad,
To offer to thy aid, to chide thy grief,—

Leon.
Yet, for this sweet and undeservéd love,
If I look coldly, unbecomingly,—
As feeling not its ministry, nor yet,
Beholding my own lack that makes it dear—
Impute it not, I pray, a crime in me.
I am not cold because my hope is so,
Nor yet ungrateful that I do not joy;—
I shall learn better to requite thy love,
In warmest language, when the pang is gone
Of this sad trial—if it ever goes.

Atal.
What do they call thee?

Leon.
Leon is my name.

Atal.
I'll call thee Leon;—call me Atalant,—
Thy Atalant,—for shall I not be thine?
Ah me! no longer may I be mine own!

Leon.
Beautiful Atalant!—

Atal.
But here they come,
Nea, and with her all the tricksy tribe,
That ride on beams, and travel with the stars;
And sing in place of speech; and fly to walk;
Now here, now gone; garb'd cunningly with flowers,
They know to seem at pleasure; and still bless'd,
With that which were our sorrow—constant change.

SCENE II.

—The Same.
Enter Nea with Fairies. They circle the Princess and Leon singing.
CHORUS OF FAIRIES.

Atal.
Oh! ye are glad to-night, ye merry ones,
With a fresh spirit, methinks. What pleasant hap,
New privilege, or wild inheritance,
Works on your wings such fine delirium?
I somewhat marvel at your happiness,
Though happy always; yet your wont is dull
To the extravagant rapture of your mirth,
And your free song to-night.

Nanita.
Extravagant!
Our mirth, fair Queen, is very soberness;
We are the modestest fairies of the wild,
The gravest, quietest, best of little bodies,
That ever made mischief in a neighbor's fold,
And laugh'd to find our own. Why, people call us
The very prudes of faerydom. We shake
Our heads with gravity o'er state affairs,
And sit in council with old Oberon,
Who, when Titania wakes his jealousy,
Will straight prefer our wisdom to his own;—
As, at such times, indeed, he wisely may.

Atal.
Oh! pray you then forgive me! Now I see
That you are sober and quiet as you claim,
Having but little mirth, and, at no season,
Extravagant in its utterance. Your excess
Lay only in my sadness. 'Twas my grief
That made your joy extreme. Your mood,
Thus born of freedom, little sorts with mine,
That grows with my captivity, and glooms
With the dread aspect of my prison-house.

Loline.
Yet is there much to gladden us to-night.
Have we not newly added to our realms
A goodly island, gracious in extent,
Whose beauteous sands, drawn out in lavish scope,
Persuades the moon's best smile upon our revels.

Atal.
If you knew all,—the story of this isle!—
Yet is there something more, or I mistake ye,
For which ye joy to-night.

Careta.
There is! There is!
Rightly you spoke, fair Princess, when you deem'd
Our joy unwonted. We are bless'd to-night,
Beyond our usual measure. You shall hear.
Perchance you know Zelina,—of our tribe,
The sweetest, merriest creature—full of fun,—
But glad to serve, and, with the happiest art,
To make the service pleasant as the will,
That prompts it to compliance. She is here—
Just freed from a captivity like yours;
Since in her sport, by some undreampt mischance,
She smote Titania's favorite nonpareil,
And broke its gossamer wing. The angry Queen,
For this, our little sister's innocent deed,
Doom'd her a prisoner in the zephyr's shell,
Till the first flowers that blossom in the spring
Should speak her into freedom. Till this time
Her fate was pitiful:—to use no wing,
Murmur no more, and mingle not, in song—
See none to comfort—hear no voice of love—
Dance no capricious revel on the sands,
But, with an unresisting sense, to float
On the tumultuous billows, night and morn,
Until the birth of that same flower of spring!
Found on the pleasantest shore beneath the sun,
Where first he soars in brightness from the seas,
We hail'd its presence, and have set her free;
And, from her prison, with delighted wing,
She soars with us to-night.

Lol.
Nor is this all—
Another captive hath to-night been freed,
We had deem'd lost forever to our sports.
This wanton fairy, sporting in the breeze,
Last moon, alone, was taken prisoner
By that same tyrant-king, Onesimarch,
That locks you in; and, 'twere a fit revenge,
That we should join with you, for these same wrongs,
To punish him in turn. Within yon rock,
He seal'd her up in crystal. By some chance,
Not yet discover'd, all her bonds were broke,
And she is here with us. Tinina!—here!
Behold the maiden. Princess. She knows all
The secrets of this tyrant's ocean-towers,
And, for your wand's recovery, will do
Aught that will seem most needful.

Atal.
[To Tinina.]
Fit a barque,
And make thy wing its sail, to waft this Prince
To the same rock that was thy prison late.
Himself will do the rest. 'Tis there, I learn,
My sceptre is sealed up.

Tinina.
The barque is here,
Even with a whisper, and my wing is ready;
Will 't please you go, my Prince?

Atal.
[timidly.]
Wilt thou go, Leon?

Leon.
'Twill please and make me proud.

Lol.
Tinina, hence!
I give thee winds, and waters, and a star,—
I spell thee with a talisman of safety,—
And crown thee with a will and wing of strength;
Go hence in courage, and be bless'd in service;
And when thy task is done, regain our course,
Which now we take toward the Hundred Isles,
That smile in the Southern Cross. We wait thee there.
Princess, we gladden that our offices
Seem worth thy tasking, and shall find delight,
If that they prosper 'neath thy hope and ours.
Wings, be ye up and wheeling—up, I say!

FLIGHT OF FAIRIES, AND CHORUS.
We are they who fly by night,
When the maiden moon is bright,
And the silver beach is spread,
Out on ocean like a thread,
Meetly for a fairy's tread:
When the air of heaven is balm,
When the ocean waves are calm,
And the flowers of earth grow bright,—
We are they who fly by night!

[Exeunt Fairies.
Atal.
Now, Leon, if the task before thee seem
Unsuited to thy human strength,—

Leon.
No more!
Hold me, I pray thee, Princess, as a man
That better loves the struggle that proves manhood,
Than the base sleep that stagnates all his soul.
I seek the adventure.

Atal.
Then, this sylph will guide;—
Will bear thee safely o'er these tumbling gulfs,
To yon tall rock, now beetling black and vast
Above the whiten'd billows. Boldly speed,
Nothing misdoubting, howsoever strange
The thing that rises threatening in thy path.
The mystic ring that wraps thy finger round,
Hath, in itself, a wondrous faculty,
To shield the wearer from the unlicensed power
Of spirits of evil.

Leon.
Atalant, I go,
Having a better talisman of safety,
In service which is noble, and in prayer
To him who checks and may subdue all spirits,
Than in this hoop of magic. See, this cross,
Which crowns the mortal weapon that I wear,
As life is over death!—this is my shield,
As, in the blade, I find my ample sword;
With these I go unfearing.

Atal.
Would thou went'st
With brow serene—with happier thought than now.

Leon.
Heed not the mood of this most heavy heart,
That clouds the brow thou look'st on. Some few days
Will hush the impatient grief that murmuring cries,
Seeking a loved one lost. When I return,
And thou hast led me where my sister lies,
Though she beholds not as I weep beside her,
Still will I strive to thank thee with a blessing,
Whose eyes shall look but love!

Atal.
Till then I live not!

Tinina
sings.
The wind is on the wave, and the billow rolls away,
And the star that is the guide to the voyager is bright,
But the fickle wind may change, should the voyager delay,
And the star beneath the demon cloud may perish from the sight.
The will, and the wing, are both ready while I sing—
And the service that makes music as for love it labors still,
Hath no murmur for the ear, though it whispers still of care,
And implores that the season be not forfeit to the will.
Then away, then away, ere we meet the coming day,
For the dewy haze is rising like a curtain o'er the sea;—
I have winds and waves and star, but they serve us not in war,
And the present bears the flower that's most precious unto me.

Leon.
The delicate song is sung in my behalf,
A counsel spoke in sweetness, as should be
All counsel for the loved one;—fairy, thanks!—
I'm with thee!—sweetest princess, fare thee well!

Atal.
I dare not bid thee go, but if thou wilt,
My heart has but one bidding—soon return.

[Exeunt Leon and Tinina.
Nea.
Sweet mistress!—

Atal.
Come with me to ocean's edge,—
That we may soonest hail his coming back,
Made happy in his safety.

Nea.
This is love!

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Rock and Tower of Onesimarchus. Ogré chained at the base.
Ogré.
Shall I not have revenge—shall he not feel,
This wanton wrong that he hath put on me,
In his unmeasured wrath? Must I submit
To wear the chains about my limbs, as now;
Still fearing, that, for every erring deed,
I may not 'scape the villain penalty,
But bend my shrinking back to meet the scourge,
When 't suits a fellow-slave to place it there!
I'll be revenged.—Already have I done
Something towards it; for, throughout the hour,
When that his storms were raging o'er my limbs,
Chafed into madness, the dismember'd rocks
I hurl'd into his secret halls above,
And the repeated crash gave token sure
Of a wild mischief—and I rest not here!
He cannot punish me more than he has done,
And, let the tyrant will it so or not,
I leave his service when my limbs are free.
Ha! What are these? How now! What seek you here?
Enter Leon and Tinina.
What is it that you lack? Speak, ere I strike,
And hurl you into pieces with this rock.

Leon.
Thou monstrous slave, what is it that thou sayst?
Dost threaten too? Stand by, and let me pass,
Or thus, I thrust my weapon to thy heart.

Tinina.
Forbear! Thou wert an infant in his grasp,
And he would crush thee at a single stroke.
Show him thy spell of power—but lift thy ring!
See, now, he trembles: keep it thus in sight,
And we shall pass. No strength is in his arm,—
He cannot hurt us now.

[They ascend and enter the rock.
Ogré.
Terrible power!
How has it fetter'd me, and taken away
Each nerve once strung for action. Lo! they come,
And bearing off my master's instruments.—
Well, let them go! I glad me he hath wrong!
I would that he were fetter'd in my place,
And I were free and had no master then;
How would I revel in all goodly things!—
What lusts would I delight in,—food and drink,
Until my senses swim, and sleep i' the sun,
Doing no service more! Ah! here they come.

Enter Leon and Tinina.
Leon.
Slave, wouldst thou have thy freedom, and escape
The tyranny that tramples in this wise,
Loading thy limbs with chains, while the salt sea,
Enflames the galling tortures of the scourge?

Ogré.
That would I, mighty prince.

Leon.
Thou hast it then.
Throw by the chain thou wear'st and follow me.

Ogré.
I'll fling it in the sea. Shall I do more?
Bid me upheave this rocky battlement,
Wherein he keeps his magic, I'll not pause;—
Do thou but say the word.

Leon.
Nay, heed it not!
If she I serve do thus decree, thou mayst,—
Not else.

Ogré.
How now! you are no monarch then?
Whom serve you?

Leon.
The fair princess, Atalantis.

Ogré.
I do remember that she spoke for me,
And would have saved me from this scourge and rock.
A goodly princess—I will worship her.

Tinina
sings.
The bark is on the sea, and the breeze is in the sail,
And the star to guide us onward is now gleaming o'er the steep;
We have won the prize we sought, and the whisper of the gale
Would counsel us, the treasure, we have haply won, to keep.
Then away, then away, ere the tyrant seeks his prey,—
There's a murmur of the ocean that's unfriendly to our flight;
And the cricket at mine ear has a chirrup full of fear,
That but lately sung in music of a confident delight.

Leon.
Even as thou wilt, sweet maiden; let us hence
To her who waits in hope and innocence.

SCENE IV.

The Ocean between the rocks and the Islet.
Atalantis, Leon, and Nea. Onesimarchus approaching with his Legions.
Onesi.
Ha! what is here—what fearful change is this?—
The rock of spells o'erthrown, and Atalant,
Again with wand restored, and, at her side,
The lowly instrument of her release.
I did not guard against a thing of earth,
And he hath wrought this ruin of my hopes.
She smiles upon him too—perchance she loves—
Hell!—that I cannot blast her with a look,
And him, the minion, that hath won her love!—
He shall not live, to triumph in that love,
Enjoying raptures still denied to me.
Rise waters—lift your heads—mount up and soar,
Engulfing all that may not ride upon ye;
And thou, dismember'd shore, again descend,
Down to the oozy depths from whence thou cam'st—
I need thee nothing farther—sink, I say.

[He waves his wand and the island descends.
Atal.
Now, Leon, place thy hand within mine own;
Fear not the billows—hearken not their roar,—
They cannot harm thee, thus accompanied.

Leon.
And ye, fair skies, farewell. Thou fatal isle,
Which robb'd me of my best beloved, farewell!
I sorrow not to see thee downward go,
Troubling no mariner hence. One long last look,
Ye bright clouds, that remind me of my home—
My country, all, farewell. Oh, never more
Shall my eyes gladden with your glimpse again.
Now Isabel, I come!

Atal.
Thou hast no fear,
Dear Leon, from this danger?

Leon.
Little now,
Since, in the wonders that are shown to me,
I yield me to the fullest faith in all
That thou hast promised me.

Atal.
Thou soon shalt see,
How, as to me, these waters shall become
Familiar to thy nature. Thou wilt glide
Unharm'd between their billows, which shall lift
Thy form, with friendly succor, as thou will'st,
Making their arms thy servants.

Leon.
I believe,—
And round thy waist, sweet Atalant, I twine,
Fearless, my confident arm and murmur not.
I would not look upon the skies again,
That witness'd my late ruin; and the seas,
That wrought it all, beget no terrors now.—
We do not sink.

Atal.
Not yet!—Behold afar,
Where, gathering, grow vast legions—angry forms,
Gigantic, that in masses, or alone,
Dart onward, with a glittering panoply
That flames the crests of ocean far and wide,
While roll the constant thunders of the gong,
That calls them still to rise.

Leon.
I see! I see!

Atal.
These are the armies of my own domain,
Led by my gallant brothers. They go forth,
To fight and conquer this Onesimarch,
Who, strong in trick and artifice alone,
Will never meet them in the open field.
Already, see, he shrinks;—his hosts retire,
And his fierce rule departs.

Leon.
The land is gone!

Atal.
Yes, down we sink, and thou art all mine own:
I bear thee on the waters, for a while,
To prove the power I have to succor thee.
Now for the calm retreat, by ocean girt,
And stormy waves protected—now with me!
There in the sunny hours that lapse away,
Like angel messengers, and leave no pain,
Thy heart shall grow to gladness. Life shall be
A sweet, rich, gracious time,—a pure estate,
Beyond the strifes that trouble it with man:—
Free from controlling crowds—free from the jar,
The heat, the noise, the dust of human care.
Nature shall blight thee never, nor disease
Bind thee in loathsome sheets; nor tempests rise
To blasts thy fields, dispute thy fondest hope,
And, from thy wearied and exhausted heart,
Drink the sweet life-blood of thy innocent joy.
The breeze shall rather soothe thee with a breath,
Robb'd from celestial gardens. The blue waves,
Shall roll their tribute honors to thy feet;
Upon their bosom, many an offering placed,
Of fruits, fresh wafted from far Indian isles
Wooing thee with their fragrance. In the air,
Nature shall cast her odors, and thine eye
Shall never ope but to behold some new
And most luxuriant freshness in her form;
And, I shall love thee too, and toil untired
To give thee back the maiden whom thou seek'st.

Leon.
Ah! if thou couldst!—but no! The hope is vain,
And the wish idle. Yet the love thou givest,
Might well compensate, to this baffled heart,
The loss which still it weeps.

Atal.
Oh! do not weep.
I'll love thee in all fortunes. At the morn,
I'll lead thee through our waters, 'mid our caves,
Where, in unconscious brightness, cluster gems
Had set your world on fire. There shall you mark
Glad sea-maids that, attending on our steps,
Fill their deep shells with song; and, when the sun
Shines burningly at noon, in coral groves,
Thy head well pillow'd on my happy breast,
I'll sit and watch thy slumbers, blest to soothe
Thy ever beating pulse, and kiss thy lips,
When, murmuring in thy sleep, thou speak'st the name,
Of her thou still hast loved.

Leon.
No more of her.
I go with thee, sweet Atalant.—We sink!

Chorus of Sea-Nymphs as the island descends.