University of Virginia Library

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.