University of Virginia Library

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.