University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An apartment in Absalom's house. Abasalom and Hadad in discourse.
Ab.
But you still speak as if a heavy doubt
Burthened your tongue. Be plain. Think you his love
Exceeds a parent's charter?

Had.
Troth, my lord,
I scarce know how to answer. All my hopes
Are so ingraft to yours, that I may see
With jealous eyes. What casts a shade o'er you,
Leaves me in darkness palpable; for I,
With lineal honors, may a jewel lose
Far dearer than Damascus' diadem.

Ab.
Think you—I say—the aim of his fond dotage
Transcends the sacred limits of my rights?

Had.
Why, then, my lord, I must confess, this flux
Of zeal, and duty, and officious homage,
Observable of late, enforces me
To think some ears about the Prince have caught
What else I had believed an envious fable.

Ab.
What fable?

Had.
Such I held it, and, as such,
My duty bade me keep it. Curse the tongue
Whence slanderous rumor, like the adder-drop,
Distils her venom, withering friendship's faith,
Turning love's favor—

Ab.
On, on.

Had.
My lord, a whisper steals about the city,
Not widely known, or current for a truth,
But credited by some,—that, wrought upon
By Joab and the Seer, the King has named
The royal heir.

Ab.
Ha!—and I not know it?

Had.
Twice in the gates, and thrice upon the walls,
Was I saluted yesterday, and asked
If my lord Absalom had heard the rumor.
'T is said, to make the choice irrevocable,
Young Solomon has received, by Nathan's hand,
The private unction.

Ab.
Vengeance!—What! anoint him!—
Trumpet to all mankind the damned deed
That scandals his gray hairs, and robs his life
Of half its lustre!

Had.
O, my lord, that 's past;
And Time, sin's varnisher, hath done his office.

Ab.
Good heaven! his very angel hides his face,
Even at the name of Bathsheba—

Had.
But mark:—
'T is but a rumor, we may hope unfounded:
Though ephod-wearers stroke their beards and smile.

Ab.
Founded or false, it wears a treasonous face,
And looks defiance. Mitred heads, beware!
And younger brothers!—Death! ere Absalom
Tamely behold the lineal ornament
Plucked from his crest,—Jerusalem shall quake!
(Paces to and fro in agitation, then suddenly stops.)
If I have forfeited my birthright, name
The action!—Name the hardship, name the hazard,
That I have shrunk from in the public cause!—
Expound me—show me—on what plea, pretext,
Precedent, yonder harlot's stripling dares
Aspire before the Son of Queens, who girt
His harness in the field ere he was born.

Had.
Let Joab answer.

Ab.
Were there in 't
A face of justice—But to see my rights
Slighted and trampled by a stabbing ruffian,
A father's favor poisoned by the breath
Of an old visionary; be left blank,
Because I scorn to flatter, and protest
My loyalty for favor, strips me bare
Of patience; and I swear, ere brook such wrong,
I'll give their chronicles a bloodier leaf
Than Amnon's.

Had.
Pause not. Snatch the prize
From brows that totter with the mighty burthen.

Ab.
(with surprise.)
Kinsman!—
I threat usurpers.

Had.
Frown not, nor be amazed
That I outstrip you. Hadad's every hope,
Life, royalty, and liberty, and love,
Depend on Absalom. Who knows how soon
Those precious counsellors, who hide the beams
Of royal grace from you, may stigmatize
Damascus as a dangerous neighbour; hint
That I am turbulent, and apt for war,
And may, hereafter, shake the peace of Judah;
Suggest a dungeon safer than a throne,
While Pharpar's lovely vale might bloom as fair
Beneath his Adonijah's sceptre? Else,
Why am I held assurance for the faith
Which Syria never broke?—never, my lord,—
Those levies which gave umbrage were to check
The insolence of Bosra. Not an hour
Stand I assured of life or liberty,
Till Israel's crown empale my kinsman's head.—
Assents he to the alliance, which would rest
The pledge of amity?—If his intents
Be fair, why hesitate?—Can policy
Devise a surer bond to knit the kingdoms?

Ab.
No matter,—King or no King's leave,—she 's thine.

Had.
I'm grappled to your fortunes. But, my lord,
Is not the bond 'twixt child and parent charged
With mutual duties? If my father stint
His love, neglect my nurture, cast me off,
Or give my lawful portion to another,
Am I his debtor still, in reverence, love,
Obedience? or 's the obligation cancelled?

Ab.
Enough,—I'll sift, I'll sift it.

Had.
Might we not
Extract it from the boy?

Ab.
Thou hast a tongue
That strikes like music; thou mightst charm his heart
To drop its secret.

Had.
But how to meet?—The Prophet guards his steps
Close as his shadow.

Ab.
Oft, of late, I see him
Walking the Paradise and neighbouring orchards,
With studious looks, among the plants and flowers,
With but a slave: there you may meet him daily.

Had.
Perhaps Mephibosheth might lend us light:
He watches all things with a dragon's eye.

Ab.
Assail him.

Had.
Promises may make him speak;—
But golden ones.

Ab.
Nay, promise what you must.

Had.
And you be ignorant, my lord,—that 's best.
He carries strength; for Benjamin would cleave
To any cause that served the House of Saul.

Ab.
Go now in search of them. Bid, as you pass,
Ahithophel attend me.

Had.
Yes, my lord.

(Exit.)
Ab.
Can it be?—
Can he still bend on me those eyes, whose beams
Of grace and glory I have coveted
As Heaven, and sought by noblest acts to win.
Still can he greet me with that brow of love,
Radiant as Moses', yet in secret stab?
Stab where he knows 't will rankle to the death?—
If this be so, what need I care for aught?—
I never in my proudest thought aspired
To his soul's grandeur. Death it is to think
How villanous counsels warp the noble mind
From nature's bias!—Cursed be his misleaders!—
The crown is mine,—by birth, by purchase mine,—
And who shall rob me of my glorious right?—

(Exit.)

SCENE II.

The King's Paradise, without the walls. Hadad pacing up and down one of the walks. He stops as he fronts the city.
Had.
'T is so;—the hoary Harper sings aright:
How beautiful is Zion!—Like a queen,
Armed with a helm in virgin loveliness,
Her heaving bosom in a bossy cuirass,
She sits aloft, begirt with battlements
And bulwarks swelling from the rock, to guard
The sacred courts, pavilions, palaces,
Soft gleaming through the umbrage of the woods
That tuft her summit, and, like raven tresses,
Wave their dark beauty round the Tower of David.
Resplendent with a thousand golden bucklers,
The embrazures of alabaster shine;
Hailed by the pilgrims of the desert, bound
To Judah's mart with Orient merchandise.—
But not, for thou art fair and turret-crowned,
Wet with the choicest dew of heaven, and blessed
With golden fruits, and gales of frankincense,
Dwell I beneath thine ample curtains. Here,
Where Saints and Seers denounce,—where the stern Law
Incessant thunders,—where chief Angels watch,
And where the Glory hovers,—one sweet voice
More fills mine ear, one neck of snow more awes me!
Ha! hold—the object of my search approaches—
Now, if the tale be truth—or forged, more like,
By dark Ahithophel

Ahithopel appears to have been the grandfather of Bathsheba. His enmity to David is imputed by the Jews to resentment on her account.

—all 's one!—Ambition
Seethes in his bosom, like the Asphaltic caves,
Whose black and bitter substance, boiling up,
A spark will kindle.—This young minion's eye,
Thick clustering auburn curls, and sanguine cheek,
Reveal the destined worshipper of beauty.
Enter Solomon, attended by two Slaves.
Good morrow, little Prince.

Sol.
Health to you, Sir.

Had.
What fragrant flowers are those you carry?

Sol.
Buds
Of Median myrtle, mandrake flowers, and camphire.

Had.
(scenting them.)
They 're passing sweet.—
What dark-eyed favorite didst thou pluck them for?

Sol.
For no one.

Had.
Ha, methinks they 'd rarely grace
A lily bosom: many an one would pant,
At such a token from a gallant Prince.

Sol.
I plucked them for my herbal.

Had.
Grace defend me,
Ere I had reached your age, I held sweet flowers
Created for no end but to adorn
Young damsels, whose dark locks I loved to braid,
And twine with rosy wreaths, and prank their bosoms.
Intended for the throne, as you are, Prince,
The loveliest virgins in my uncle's court
Caressed me secretly with amorous gifts,
And smiled at favors which I ravished from them.
Should you not like a sweet young loving maid
To toy with, and present with knots of flowers?

Sol.
No.

Had.
But why? it were a harmless pleasure.

Sol.
Because I would not waste my prime in dalliance.
The thrifty proverb bids us plant, in youth,
To blossom in our manhood, and bear fruit,
When we are old. Besides, 't is said by those
Most like to know, 't is not for Princes' sons
To follow wantons, or to love spiced drinks.

Had.
Kings are meant there, or sons of Kings, at least.
On whom the government will rest;—but that,
Perchance, will be your lot?

Sol.
Perchance.

Had.
Nay, more,
'T is said the King has named you to the throne?

Sol.
Things, oft, are said.

Had.
(after a pause.)
But tell me truly, if a beauteous damsel,
Like those young delicates about your mother,
With skin like ermine, cheeks like wind-flowers, hair
Like aragamen, eyes like the gazelle,
Her lips a braid of scarlet—

Sol.
Or like my cousin Tamar.

Had.
Is she so tempting fair?

Sol.
So Hadad thinks.

Had.
Who told you that, my little Prince?

Sol.
Your eyes.

Had.
Speak they so plain?

Sol.
Not speak; they burn.
For when you gaze upon her beauteous face,
I see them kindle like the ruddy lamps
That flame within the tabernacle.

Had.
Well,
Do not all eyes the same, whene'er they gaze
On beauteous woman, Nature's masterpiece?

Sol.
No, not like yours.

Had.
Hold, here 's a box of perfume,
Sent to the King mine uncle from the East,
From far Serendib. Smell it, Prince.

Sol.
'T is rare.—
It glides like magic through me.—Nay, I prithee,
Give 't me again.

Had.
(aside.)
It works.—Behold the lid.

Sol.
Ye powers! what matchless youth and maid are there?

Had.
Venus and Tammuz.

Sol.
Never did my eyes
Behold a sight so lovely.

Had.
Wouldst thou know
Their story?

Sol.
Troth, I would.

Had.
Then sit we here
Beneath this spreading terebinth. And first,
As you 've been straitly watched, and kept so long
In ignorance of things a Prince should know,
I'll tell you by what chance, ere I had reached
Your comely stature, I grew wiser.

Sol.
Do.

Had.
Behind my uncle's palace spreads a park,
With lawns, and glades, sunned plats, and darksome woods,
Through which cool Abana, clear as this fount,
Winds gently past delightful arbours, shades,
And green retirements from the noontide heat.
There, in a solitary nook, o'erhung
With trees of ancient beauty, where the stream
Had scooped a little basin, fringed with flowers
Even to the brim, and screened from observation
By blossomed boughs, and aromatic shrubs
Clustering impervious—

Sol.
Like the very bank
Where these sweet lovers lie.

Had.
Much like it, Prince.
There had I stolen, one day, from my attendants,
And lay along beneath a tuft of henna,
Watching the idle water. Soon, I heard
The sound of voices, soft, and silver sweet,
Approaching in the wood. I kept me still.—
Anon, two heavenly damsels of the Queen's
Entered the little arbour, and sat down
Full in my view and hearing. One was white
As the young lily, with luxuriant braids
Of ebony; the other's blooming cheek,
Like the pomegranate, blushed through locks of gold.
Awhile they talked and laughed, (love all their theme,)
With merry eyes, and bright carnation lips,
Which deepened as they told their amorous stories.
At last, the dark-haired maid proposed to lave
Their limbs and glowing breasts in Abana,
Unsandalled her fair foot, undid the clasps,
And drew the jewelled buskin from a leg
Of ivory, to try the water's—
Enter Nathan, from a walk near them.
—Ha! Prince,
The box!

Sol.
(running to Nathan.)
Look, father, what a beauteous pair!
And smell the perfume Hadad gave to me:
'T is sweeter than the richest aloes.

(The Prophet examines the perfume; then dashes it on the ground.)
Nath.
(approaching Hadad sternly.)
Who, what art thou, foul poisoner?—that durst
Abuse with forms and philters this young prince?—
Who art thou?—Is it for the love of sin?—
Or art thou leagued, for some infernal purpose,
Against the House of David?—Answer, Devil!
Who art thou?

Had.
(pale and agitated.)
One unused to terms like these,
And will requite them, reverend man of God.

Nath.
Glare not upon me with those fiendlike eyes,
Thou haggard, guilt-confounded wretch.—I curse thee—
I curse thee, and defy thee,—in Heaven's name!
Come, boy.

(Exit with Solomon.)
Had.
(gnashing his teeth.)
Would Hell's eternal fire were round thee! Hell's
Undying viper gnawing at thy heart!—
(Pacing violently backwards and forwards, checks himself, as fearful of being observed.)
Whence—wherefore—this detested flesh can front
Worst death, yet quails before a tottering bald-head—
Whence could he come, with such a thief-like step?—
Cursed clods! too dull for aught but thunder—Ha!
Enter Absalom, at a distance.
He comes to know our conference—'T is well—
Gloom and resentment in his mien. He seems
Prepared for darker searching.—When he shakes
Those ominous locks, I know the clime within,
As the wind's temper by the lashing woods.

Ab.
What! hast thou seen him?

Had.
Yes, my lord.

Ab.
What said
The cockatrice?

Had.
Wary and shrewd he seems,
And shunned my questions; lessoned well, no doubt.
Ere I had fully proved him, Nathan broke
Imperiously upon us, and, with threats,
Dragged him away.

Ab.
I'll know, if Hell be moved
To answer.

Had.
Have you seen Ahithophel?

Ab.
He smooths it o'er, but shakes his head, and looks
More than he dares confess.

Had.
What! will not speak?

Ab.
Not plainly, but believes, or doubts, at least;
But I must be resolved. The howling damned
Know not my suffering, for they know their doom,
And steel them to endurance. Thus to live,
With hate and love, revolt and reverence,
Fighting like hungry vultures for my heart,
I cannot, will not, long.

Had.
Now would to grace
Some way—some thought—

Ab.
Hast seen Mephibosheth?

Had.
My lord— (Pauses as in reflection.)


Ab.
What is 't?—Declare thy mind.

Had.
I almost fear—but, were I Israel's Prince,
I knew my counsel.

Ab.
Palter not.

Had.
My lord,
A wondrous man is in Jerusalem,
Arrived three nights ago from Babylon,
Bound into Egypt to consult the Sages
Touching events foretold the Assyrian King.
He draws his lineage and his power from one
Named in your Chronicles, who prophesied
The Star from Jacob, and who trebly blessed
The conquering people whom the Lords of Moab
Called him to curse,—the potent sage of Pethor,
Chief of the ancient Magi. None has since
Equalled his power or piercing eye, till now;
But this far-seeing Mage, 't is said, has viewed
Earth's consummation, and declared what shall be
When the last star expires.

Ab.
What, Balaam-Haddon?

Had.
He 's here; but keeps himself from public view.
A Syrian who had known him, like myself,
In Babylon, observed his caravan
Enter an obscure court. I went, and saw.—
The awful front, and eye oracular
Were his indeed. I would consult him, Prince.

Ab.
(after a brief pause.)
But such an act might blast me. Were it known,
Idolatry! would ring from Dan to Besor.

Had.
Thence, I was doubtful to propose the step;
Not that I held you awed by Moses' threats.
But could not I obtain the intelligence
Without your motion?

Ab.
That, indeed,—

Had.
I burn
To know another thing, more near to you
Than me, which this great Magian could resolve.

Ab.
What 's that?

Had.
What Spirit 't is that serves your father.

Ab.
Spirit!

Had.
Many suppose he holds some God, or Demon,
Bond-servant to his throne, who works his will,
And hath assisted all his mighty deeds.

Ab.
This is believed?

Had.
Many believe it here,
And 't is the current faith of neighbouring Kings.
No marvel it has missed your ear, my lord,
For you pay outward reverence to the Law,
And are his son. Nor is it strange, methinks,
Nor passing reason. Look at his broad realm,
Stretched from Euphrates to the Western Sea,
From Elath to Orontes. Where is Edom?
Philistia? Ammon? Where the Syrian thrones,
Coēval with the world? Who smote the Chaldee?
Broke Elam's bow? and taught the Desert hordes
To shun his dangerous frontier? Who hath scaped
Perils unnumbered; hunted, like a wolf,
From den to den by King and people? Who,
In fourscore stricken battles, bathed his sword
In bloodiest conflict, yet sustains no scar?
Who, weaponless, o'erthrew the Giant? Who
Hath piled the gold and jewels till his vaults
Resemble spirit-mines? Who plucks the trunks
Of Lebanon, and bids them arch his roofs,
Or heaps them in the vale like reeds? Who takes
The spirit captive with his strings, or sweeps
His kinnor till the dizzy soul ascends,
As in a trance of ecstasy? My lord,
Who hath done more than these? in war, in peace,
The minion of the time, excelling all
The Kings of earth, as yonder radiant sun
The inferior orbs of heaven?—A shepherd-boy.

Ab.
True, Hadad, and it irks my inmost soul
To break my faith with such a father. Were
He less, my sin would be so.

Had.
If he wronged me,
Though brighter than the fabled Seraphim,—
Were he the God I worshipped,—I 'd fall off.

Ab.
Misery attends me either way.

Had.
My lord,
Think o'er the history of his birth, whom foes
Would foist above you; imp of an adulteress!
Remember brave Uriah bearing back
His doom, to leave the beauteous harlot free!
Had this been, if the Lord protects his fortunes?
Or such a guilt-avenging Being live?
No,—I would learn by what presiding Genius
He works his wonders;—how subjected first;—
Whether attracted by his minstrelsy;—
Or by some power residing in his star;—
Or how; for various are the ways to win
Ascendency o'er Spirits;—and this power
We know is his; for, while a beardless stripling,
His skill expelled a demon from his master.
Perhaps, my lord, power strong enough exists,
To break the pact, and lure him to your service.

Ab.
Well,—see the Mage: prove if his visioned eye
Can tell us what hath chanced. I 've deeper reason
Than you suspect, to prize their star-taught lore.
Pray him to cast our horoscopes, both mine,
And his, we fear; as for the rest, inquire
Or leave it, as you will. Thou hast not yet
Sounded Mephibosheth?

Had.
Not yet, my lord.

Ab.
Then do not, till we know the present issue.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

The house of Obil. Obil and Malcuth. A knocking.
Obil.
Woman, who knocks there?

Mal.
(looking through the lattice.)
The crook-back Maugrabin.

Obil.
Ha! open, Malcuth, open.

Mal.
Do 't thyself.
The elvish slave shall knock till doom, ere I
Unsheathe a bolt.

Obil.
Peace, shrew. (Opens the door.)


Enter Maugrabin.
Mal.
Spawn of the Nile,
What seekest thou with us?

Maug.
Thy fair company.—
Here, Obil, take this casket,—guard it safely,—
There 's more in 't than would purchase all your tribe,
Nay, every hoof that roams upon the desert.
Trust it to no hand but your master's.

Obil.
Whose?—the King's?

Maug.
Forsooth! thou feed'st his dromedaries,
And he feeds thee. But is it on his gold
Thou found'st the hope to see thy lovely sands
Once more, and view, at ease, from thy broad tent
Camels, and asses, flocks, and herds, and slaves
About thee like the Patriarch? Call him
Thy lord, who makes thee lord o'er others. No;—
Thy master Hadad.

Obil.
I'll obey.

Maug.
(to Malcuth.)
Farewell, sweet leopardess.

(Signs to Obil, who lays the casket on the table, and follows him out.)
Mal.
They 're whispering;—
Now, by our mother Hagar, but I'll see
What wondrous treasure—Lying knave! (Opening the casket.)

'T is nothing but a monstrous key,—enchased
As for some royal sepulchre—Ha! how?—
It will not close—and Maugrabin's returning.

(Throws it down, and exit.)

SCENE IV.

The terraced roof of Absalom's house, by night; adorned with vases of flowers, and fragrant shrubs: an awning spread over part of it. Tamar and Hadad.
Tam.
No, no, I well remember—proofs, you said,
Unknown to Moses.

Had.
Well, my love, thou know'st
I 've been a traveller in various climes;
Trod Ethiopia's scorching sands, and scaled
The snow-clad mountains; trusted to the deep;
Traversed the fragrant islands of the sea,
And with the Wise conversed of many nations.

Tam.
I know thou hast.

Had.
Of all mine eyes have seen,
The greatest, wisest, and most wonderful,
Is that dread sage, the Ancient of the Mountain.

Tam.
Who?

Had.
None knows his lineage, age, or name: his locks
Are like the snows of Caucasus; his eyes
Beam with the wisdom of collected ages.
In green, unbroken years, he sees, 't is said,
The generations pass, like autumn fruits,
Garnered, consumed, and springing fresh to life,
Again to perish, while he views the sun,
The seasons roll, in rapt serenity,
And high communion with celestial powers.
Some say 't is Shem, our father, some say Enoch,
And some Melchisideck.

Tam.
I 've heard a tale
Like this, but ne'er believed it.

Had.
I have proved it.—
Through perils dire, dangers most imminent,
Seven days and nights 'midst rocks and wildernesses,
And boreal snows, and never-thawing ice,
Where not a bird, a beast, a living thing,
Save the far-soaring vulture comes, I dared
My desperate way, resolved to know, or perish.

Tam.
Rash, rash adventurer!

Had.
On the highest peak
Of stormy Caucasus, there blooms a spot
On which perpetual sunbeams play, where flowers
And verdure never die; and there he dwells.

Tam.
But didst thou see him?

Had.
Never did I view
Such awful majesty: his reverend locks
Hung like a silver mantle to his feet,
His raiment glistered saintly white, his brow
Rose like the gate of Paradise, his mouth
Was musical as its bright guardians' songs.

Tam.
What did he tell thee? O! what wisdom fell
From lips so hallowed?

Had.
Whether he possess
The Tetragrammaton,—the powerful Name
Inscribed on Moses' rod, by which he wrought
Unheard of wonders, which constrains the Heavens
To part with blessings, shakes the earth, and rules
The strongest Spirits; or if God hath given
A delegated power, I cannot tell.
But 't was from him I learned their fate, their fall,
Who, erewhile, wore resplendent crowns in Heaven;
Now, scattered through the earth, the air, the sea.
Them he compels to answer, and from them
Has drawn what Moses, nor no mortal ear,
Has ever heard.

Tam.
But did he tell it thee?

Had.
He told me much,—more than I dare reveal;
For with a dreadful oath he sealed my lips.

Tam.
But canst thou tell me nothing?—Why unfold
So much, if I must hear no more?

Had.
You bade
Explain my words, almost reproached me, sweet,
For what by accident escaped me.

Tam.
Ah!
A little—something tell me,—sure, not all
Were words inhibited.

Had.
Then, promise never,
Never to utter of this conference
A breath to mortal.

Tam.
Solemnly I vow.

Had.
Even then, 't is little I can say, compared
With all the marvels he related.

Tam.
Come,
I'm breathless.—Tell me how they sinned, how fell.

Had.
Their Prince involved them in his ruin.

Tam.
What black offence on his devoted head
Drew such dire punishment?

Had.
The wish to be
As the All-Perfect.

Tam.
Arrogating that
Peculiar to his Maker!—awful crime!
But what their doom? their place of punishment?

Had.
Above, about, beneath; earth, sea, and air;
Their habitations various as their minds,
Employments, and desires.

“The fall of Angels, therefore, was pride. Since their fall, their practices have been the clean contrary unto those before mentioned; for being dispersed, some in the air, some in the earth, some amongst the minerals, dens, and caves that are under the earth, they have by all means labored to effect an universal rebellion against the laws, and as far as in them lieth, utter destruction of the works of God.”—

Hooker, Eccles. Polity, b. 1, sec. 4.

Tam.
But are they round us, Hadad?—not confined
In penal chains and darkness?

Had.
So he said;
And so your holy books infer. What saith
Your Prophet? what the Prince of Uz?

Tam.
I shudder,
Lest some dark Minister be near us now.

Had.
You wrong them. They are bright Intelligences,
Robbed of some native splendor, and cast down,
'T is true, from heaven; but not deformed, and foul,
Revengeful, malice-working Fiends, as fools
Suppose. They dwell, like Princes, in the clouds;
Sun their bright pinions in the middle sky;
Or arch their palaces beneath the hills,
With stones inestimable studded so,
That sun or stars were useless there.

Tam.
Good heavens!

Had.
He bade me look on rugged Caucasus,
Crag piled on crag beyond the utmost ken,
Naked, and wild, as if creation's ruins
Were heaped in one immeasurable chain
Of barren mountains, beaten by the storms
Of everlasting winter. But within
Are glorious palaces, and domes of light,
Irradiate halls, and crystal colonnades,
Blazing with lustre past the noontide beam,
Or, with a milder beauty, mimicking
The mystic signs of changeful Mazzaroth.

Tam.
Unheard of wonders!

Had.
There they dwell, and muse,
And wander; Beings beautiful, immortal,
Minds vast as heaven, capacious as the sky;
Whose thoughts connect past, present, and to come,
And glow with light intense, imperishable.
So in the sparry chambers of the Sea
And Air-Pavilions, upper Tabernacles,
They study Nature's secrets, and enjoy
No poor dominion.

Tam.
Are they beautiful,
And powerful far beyond the human race?

Had.
Man's feeble heart cannot conceive it. When
The Sage described them, fiery eloquence
Broke from his lips, his bosom heaved, his eyes
Grew bright and mystical; moved by the theme,
Like one who feels a deity within.

Tam.
Wondrous!—What intercourse have they with men?

Had.
Sometimes they deign to intermix with man,
But oft with woman.

Tam.
Ha! with woman?

Had.
She
Attracts them with her gentler virtues, soft,
And beautiful, and heavenly, like themselves.
They have been known to love her with a passion
Stronger than human.

Tam.
That surpasses all
You yet have told me.

Had.
This the Sage affirms;
And Moses, darkly.

Tam.
How do they appear?—How love?—

Had.
Sometimes 't is spiritual, signified
By beatific dreams, or more distinct
And glorious apparition.—They have stooped
To animate a human form, and love
Like mortals.

Tam.
Frightful to be so beloved!—
Frightful! who could endure the horrid thought?

Had.
(after a pause.)
But why contemn a Spirit's love? so high,
So glorious, if he haply deigned?—

Tam.
Forswear
My Maker! love a Demon!

Had.
No—O, no,—
My thoughts but wandered—Oft, alas! they wander.

Tam.
Why dost thou speak so sadly now?—And lo!
Thine eyes are fixed again upon Arcturus.
Thus ever, when thy drooping spirits ebb,
Thou gazest on that star. Hath it the power
To cause or cure thy melancholy mood?—
(He appears lost in thought.)
Tell me,—ascrib'st thou influence to the stars?

Had.
(starting.)
The stars!—What know'st thou of the stars?

Tam.
I know that they were made to rule the night.

Had.
Like palace lamps! Thou echoest well thy grandsire!—
Woman! The stars are living, glorious,
Amazing, infinite!—

Tam.
Speak not so wildly.—
I know them numberless, resplendent, set
As symbols of the countless, countless years
That make eternity.

Had.
Thou speak'st the word—
O, had ye proved—like those Great Sufferers,—
Shot, once for all, the gulf,—felt myriad ages
Only the prelude,—could ye scan the void
With eyes as searching as its torments,—
Then—then—mightst thou pronounce it feelingly!

Tam.
What ails thee, Hadad?—Draw me not so close

Had.
Tamar! I need thy love—more than thy love—

Tam.
Thy cheek is wet with tears—Nay, let us part—
'T is late—I cannot, must not linger.—

(Breaks from him, and exit.)
Had.
Loved and abhorred!—Still, still accursed!—
(He paces, twice or thrice, up and down, with passionate gestures; then turns his face to the sky, and stands a moment in silence.)
—O! where,
In the illimitable space, in what
Profound of untried misery, when all
His worlds, his rolling orbs of light, that fill
With life and beauty yonder infinite,
Their radiant journey run, for ever set,
Where, where, in what abyss shall I be groaning?

(Exit.)