Miscellanies in Prose and Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Gernando with his young Bride Constantia and her infant sister Sylvia, sailing for the West-Indies in order to join his father, who had been made a Governor in those parts, was during the voyage overtaken by a dangerous storm, which obliged him to land in an uninhabited Island to let his wife and the young child recover themselves from the fatigue they had undergone at sea. While Constantia and her Sister were reposing in a grotto, the unfortunate Gernando and some of his followers were surprized and taken prisoners by a numerous band of pirates that unhappily landed on the Island. The companions of Gernando, who from on board the vessel had a confused

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view of the skirmish, and imagined that the wife and child were carried away at the same time, hoisted all their sails to pursue the pirates; but, having soon lost sight of them, with heavy hearts continued their intended voyage. In the mean time Constantia awaked, and having long sought in vain for her husband, and perceiving the ship was gone, believed herself betrayed like Ariadne, and forsaken by Gernando. When the first impetuous sallies of her grief began to give way to the natural love of life, she considered how she might support herself in a place so remote from all human converse. There for a long time she lived with the little Sylvia on fruits and herbs, the natural produce of the soil, at the same time breeding up her innocent Sister, who was entirely unacquainted with man, in all the hatred and detestation she had herself conceived for the sex. After thirteen years captivity it

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so fortuned that Gernando recovered his liberty. His first care was to return to the Island where he had involuntarily left Constantia, though he had no hopes of finding her alive.

The unexpected meeting of this tender couple is the action here represented.

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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Constantia, Wife to Gernando.
Sylvia, her younger Sister.
Henriques, Companion to Gernando.
Gernando, Husband to Constantia.

149

SCENE I.

A pleasant Part of a small and uninhabited Island with a Prospect of the Sea; several Trees of a foreign Growth, rude Caves or Grottos, and Shrubs with Flowers. On the forepart of the Scene to the right hand is a great Rock, on which is an unfinished Inscription in European Characters.
Constantia wildly apparelled with Skins, Leaves and Flowers, with the Hilt and Part of a broken Sword in her Hand, appears employed in finishing the Inscription.
CONSTANTIA.

What task so arduous, but unwearied toil
At length effects! Hard is this stubborn rock;
Rude is this instrument, and weak the hand
That unexperienc'd guides it: yet behold
My long laborious work how near compleat!
Grant me to finish this, then, Gracious Heav'n!
Release me from a life replete with sorrow.

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Should Fortune e'er, in future times transport
Some traveller to tread these shores unknown,
This rock at least shall from oblivion's pow'r
Preserve my suff'rings and record my story.

[Reads.]

“Constantia, by Gernando's guile betray'd,
“Forsaken here, on this far distant coast,
“Clos'd the sad remnant of her wretched days.
“Whoe'er thou art that read'st these mournful lines,
“If savage fierceness dwell not in thy breast,
“Revenge or pity—

“my disastrous fate.”

These words alone are wanting: let me then
Conclude what yet remains to crown my toil.

[Returns to her work.

SCENE II.

[To her.] SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
My Sister! my Constantia!

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CONSTANTIA.
What imports
Thy breathless haste, and whence my Sylvia's transport?

SYLVIA.
O Sister! I am wild with sudden joy!

CONSTANTIA.
But say the cause.

SYLVIA.
My dear, my lovely fawn,
So many days deplor'd and sought in vain,
Is now return'd.

CONSTANTIA.
And hence thy mighty rapture!

SYLVIA.
And think'st thou this so little? well thou know'st
My fawn's my care, my darling and my friend:
She loves her Sylvia: when I speak, methinks
She hears me with a more than brutal sense:

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She sleeps upon my bosom, courts my kisses,
And still attends me wheresoe'er I go:
Her had I lost, her have I found again,
And think'st thou this so small a cause of joy?

CONSTANTIA.
O happy Innocence!

SYLVIA.
Shall I, my Sister,
For ever hear thy sighs and see thy tears?

CONSTANTIA.
And can I ever dry these weeping eyes?
Full thirteen times has spring renew'd his course,
Since thus abandon'd, and secluded far
From human race, depriv'd of ev'ry comfort,
O Heav'n! without one glimm'ring hope again
To view my lost, my dear paternal shores,
Here have I dwelt and dragg'd a dying life.
And would'st thou, Sylvia, have me yet unmov'd?

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SYLVIA.
But what have we to ask to make us happy?
Are we not Sov'reigns here? This pleasing Isle
Our peaceful kingdom, and the forest herds
Our gentle subjects? Earth and sea produce
Supplies for us: the friendly trees afford
A grateful shelter from the burning heat;
And hollow caves defend us from the cold:
Our will is uncontroul'd by force or law.
If this suffice not, say what more remains
To make us blest?

CONSTANTIA.
Alas! thou can'st not miss
The good thou ne'er hast known: when first we reach'd
These lonely shores, thy lips could scarcely utter
Imperfect sounds, thy young ideas then
Unform'd and unconnected: thy remembrance
Preserves no trace of what we once have been,
No object knows but what this Isle affords.

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I, who was then as thou art now, remember
(O fatal recollection!) what I was,
And with my present state compare the past.

SYLVIA.
Oft have I heard thee boast the wealth, the wisdom,
The arts, the manners, and delights of Europe.
And yet permit me to declare my thoughts,
This peaceful life for me has greater charms.

CONSTANTIA.
Think not description, Sylvia, can inform thee
Of what from sight thou only canst receive.

SYLVIA.
And yet those boasted lands are fill'd with man,
With man, whose species is our deadly foe:
And hast thou not a thousand times declar'd—

CONSTANTIA.
True; I have told thee oft; yet ne'er enough
Of that detested race. Yes, men are cruel,

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Perfidious, impious, treach'rous, more than savage,
Strangers to ties of soft humanity,
Love, faith and pity dwell not in their breast.

SYLVIA.
Then here from them at least we live secure;
And yet—thou weep'st—Oh! if thou lov'st thy Sylvia,
Forbear this grief. What can I do to ease thee?
Do'st thou desire my fawn? Dry up thy tears,
My fawn shall then be thine.

CONSTANTIA.

Alas! my Sylvia,
Constantia has too just a cause for tears.

If I, who by my treach'rous spouse
Here banish'd from mankind remain,
If I'm forbid to weep my woes,
O Heav'n! what wretch must then complain?

But who shall dare condemn my grief
With ev'ry anguish here opprest,
And ev'n deny'd the poor relief
Of pity from a friendly breast.

[Exit.

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SCENE III.

A Ship appears at a distance under Sail. Gernando and Henriques descend into the Boat and land.
SYLVIA
alone.
How obstinate her plaints! her constant sorrow
Afflicts my tender heart: fain would I soothe her,
But pray'rs, advice, and chidings all are vain:
And stranger still, whene'er I offer comfort,
Her tears increase and I'm compell'd to weep.
Yet let me still pursue her— [Sees the ship.]
Heav'n! what means
Yon' tow'ring bulk that rises o'er the sea!
'Tis not a rock—a rock remains unmov'd:
And can so vast a monster cut the flood
With such a rapid motion? See behind
The parted waves are white, its speedy course
Outstrips the gazing eye, while on its back
It bears huge wings; at once it swims and flies.

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Constantia shall instruct me, she can tell
If yonder form is not some wond'rous being
That holds its dwelling in the faithless deep.
At least she knows—Ye Pow'rs! what do I see!
O who are these that now have reach'd the shore?
What shall I do, and whither turn for aid?
My breast is chill'd with fear, I scarce have strength
To fly or hide me from th'approaching danger.

[Hides herself.

SCENE IV.

Gernando, Henriques, in Indian Habits. Sylvia apart.
HENRIQUES.
Is this the land, Gernando, thou hast sought?

GERNANDO.
Ev'n this my friend, its well known image here
Remains engraven by the hand of love:
My beating heart confirms it for the same.

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SYLVIA.
Might I but view their face.—

HENRIQUES.
Perchance, my friend,
We yet may be deceiv'd—

GERNANDO.
No, my Henriques;
This is the fatal place, I well remember
Each craggy rock. Behold the cave where laid
In gentle sleep with Sylvia in her arms
I left my wife, the treasure of my soul!
I left her never to behold her more.
'Twas there the pyrate band assail'd me first;
I here receiv'd my wound; there from my hand
The weapon dropt. O let us haste, my friend,
For each delay is criminal. Do thou
Yon quarter visit; this to search be mine:
This Island stretches to but small extent,
Nor can we wander far. My heart, alas,

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Has scarce a hope to find Constantia here.
Yet fate at least one comfort shall afford;
That precious earth that holds her breathless corse,
Shall form Gernando's tomb.

SCENE V.

Henriques. Sylvia [apart.]
SYLVIA.
To their discourse,
In vain I've listen'd.

HENRIQUES.
Hapless is the fortune
Of poor Gernando, scarce his hand receives
His lovely bride, when call'd to distant climes,
He trusts himself and all he prizes most,
Amidst the faithless deep; then landing here
To seek refreshment for his tender partner
O'erspent and wearied by the tossing surge,

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While sleep seals up her sense, by barb'rous force
Is hurry'd hence to distant lands unknown,
Where many years he mourns a wretched captive,
And hears no tidings of the Fair forlorn.

SYLVIA.
[aside.]
At last he turns, how pleasing is his mien!

HENRIQUES.

Compassion pleads for him in ev'ry breast,
And gratitude in mine. To him I owe
Freedom, the first, the noblest gift of Heav'n.
'Twere cruelty in others not to mourn
His fate, in me 'twere base ingratitude.
The heart that feels not for another's woe,
Is shunn'd by all; but most th'ungrateful mind
Is justly held in universal horror.

The tender tree tho' not endu'd
With gentle sense of human woes,
Is grateful to the parent flood
From whence its genial moisture flows.

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For this he yields a kind return,
And thick in verdant leaves array'd,
When scorching beams of Phœbus burn,
Defends the stream with friendly shade.

[Exit.

SCENE VI.

SYLVIA
alone.

What have I seen? It cannot sure be man;
Its looks would then betray its native fierceness.
Men all are stern and treach'rous, and their mien
Must bear some semblance of the wicked heart.
Nor is't a woman, for the garb it wears
Is fashion'd not like mine or my Constantia's.
Whate'er it be, it has a pleasing form:
My Sister shall resolve me.—Ha! my feet
Refuse to move. O Heav'n! why do I sigh?
What means my beating heart! Can it be fear?
No; were it fear I should not find this pleasure;

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Far diff'rent is the passion which I feel,
This unknown something flutt'ring in my breast.

New joys I find, and yet complain
Amidst a sweet and pleasing pain:
Those looks, alas! but vainly please;
What gives me pleasure, gives not ease.
I run a thousand fancies o'er,
Delightful hopes unfelt before!
And yet I know not whence I sigh,
Or what my distant hopes imply.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

GERNANDO alone, appearing fatigued; HENRIQUES behind.
GERNANDO.

Alas! my mind presag'd her fate too well;
Vain are my toils: in vain I seek, and call
Her much lov'd name: these eyes perceive not yet
The smallest track of her my soul adores.

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But where's my friend?—perhaps more fortunate—
What hoa! Henriques!—Let me seek him—Heav'ns!
I can no further—weariness and grief
Weigh down my strength—here in this friendly rock
I'll rest awhile and wait for his return.
What see I? European characters!
Almighty Pow'rs! behold my name inscrib'd!
Whence this inscription, from what hand unknown!

“Constantia, by Gernando's guile betray'd,
“Forsaken here, on this far distant coast,
“Clos'd the sad remnant of her wretched days.”—

O Heav'ns! I faint—

[To him.]
HENRIQUES.
Speak comfort, my Gernando;
Yet know'st thou aught of poor Constantia's fate?

GERNANDO.
Constantia's dead!

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HENRIQUES.
What says my friend?

GERNANDO.
Read there.

HENRIQUES.

Unhappy fate!

[Reads.]

“On this far distant shore,
“Clos'd the sad remnant of her wretched days:
“Whoe'er thou art that read'st these mournful lines,
“If savage fierceness dwell not in thy breast,
“Revenge or pity—

There the sentence stands
Unfinish'd.

GERNANDO.
There her vital spirits fail'd.

HENRIQUES.
O tragic issue of disastrous love!
Yes, weep, Gernando, for thy tears are just:

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Mine too shall flow in sympathy with thine,
Ev'n rocks shall feel thy grief. But yet, my friend,
'Midst all thy woes one comfort still remains,
(Nor think that comfort little) no remorse
Preys on thy soul: thou hast fulfill'd each duty
Which love, or faith, or reason could require:
But Heav'n was pleas'd to render vain thy cares.
No more remains, but with a pious mind
To bend submissive to this awful stroke,
And fly, as wisdom bids, these fatal shores.

GERNANDO.
Forsake these shores! And whither must I turn?
Where dost thou think I more shall find repose?
O no! here Heav'n has fix'd my last abode,
Here on this spot—

HENRIQUES.
What means my friend!

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GERNANDO.
While life
Informs my breast, I'll breathe the vital air
Constantia breath'd; each object here shall feed
My faithful grief; each moment I'll return
And kiss this rock; here live in ling'ring pain,
With her dear name for ever on my lips,
And dying here complete my cruel fate.

HENRIQUES.
O, my Gernando, what hast thou resolv'd?
Would'st thou abjure thy country and thy friends,
Thy father bent with age—

GERNANDO.
To see me thus
I know would bow his years to earth with sorrow.
Then go, my friend, give comfort to his age,
Be thou for me a son; and if he seeks

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To know my fortune, spare a parent's ear,
Soften the tale, and speak but half my suff'rings.

HENRIQUES.
And canst thou hope that e'er—

GERNANDO.

My friend, farewel.
Attempt not, while my sorrows flow,
With empty words to soothe my woe:
No mortal shall my torments share,
I ask no partner but despair.

On these lone shores what ease could flow
From kind compassion's social woe?
A friend would but increase my pain,
And swell the griefs he felt in vain.

[Exit.

SCENE VIII.

HENRIQUES alone.

We must not yet oppose his rage of sorrow,
But let his passions for awhile subside:

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Then if he still persist in his design,
Force must be us'd to wrest him hence. What hoa!
Some seamen sure attend with yonder bark:
Come forth, my friends—

[Enter two Seamen.

Hear and observe my purpose:
We must by force convey Gernando hence,
Who, wild with grief, refuses to depart.
You know where 'midst yon' rocks the limpid stream
Winds its smooth course; that place o'ergrown with wood
Seems form'd for ambush, there till he appears,
Conceal'd await, then instant rushing forth
Seize him and bear him to your ship. Away!

[Exeunt Seamen.

SCENE IX.

HENRIQUES. SYLVIA.
SYLVIA.
Where is Constantia? still I've sought in vain,
For I have much to tell her.

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HENRIQUES.
Sure I dream,
What wonder strikes my sight? Stay, beauteous nymph.

SYLVIA.
O Heav'ns! art thou return'd?

HENRIQUES.
Why would'st thou fly?
O hear me but a moment.

SYLVIA.
Say; what would'st thou?

HENRIQUES.
But gaze upon thee, speak a few short words,
No more—

SYLVIA.
Then ere thou speak, give me thy promise
Not to come near me.

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HENRIQUES.
Fear not, lovely nymph!
I promise this. What graceful Innocence
Shines o'er her frame!

SYLVIA.
How peaceful are its looks!

HENRIQUES.
But what's in me to cause such mighty fear?
I am no asp, nor savage beast of prey;
A man can surely not affright thee thus.

SYLVIA.
Art thou a man?

HENRIQUES.
I am.

SYLVIA.
O save me, save me!

[Flying.
HENRIQUES.
Yet stay—

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SYLVIA.
[Kneeling]
O spare me; never have I wrong'd you,
Then be not cruel to me.

HENRIQUES.
Rise, my fair one,
Compose thy thoughts, this causeless fear distracts me.

SYLVIA.
[Aside.]
Sure my heart whispers I may trust his faith.

HENRIQUES.
O if thou art gentle, as thy form bespeaks thee,
Say when and where did poor Constantia die?

SYLVIA.
Constantia! Heav'n be prais'd, Constantia lives!

HENRIQUES.
She lives! O lovely Sylvia! Yes, this place,
Thy tender years, all tell me thou art Sylvia;

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Fly to Constantia, while I haste as swift
To seek Gernando.

SYLVIA.
Ha'st thou then with thee
That cruel, that ingrate—

HENRIQUES.
Call him unhappy,
But not ingrate or cruel: O delay not,
'Twere barb'rous to defer, but for a moment,
The tender raptures of this faithful pair.

SYLVIA.
Together let us go.

HENRIQUES.
No: that would ask
A longer time than fits the present purpose.
Seek thou Constantia, bring her to this place,
And with Gernando hither I'll return.

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SYLVIA.
Yet stay awhile—What is thy name?

HENRIQUES.
Henriques.

SYLVIA.
Then hear, Henriques, tarry not too long.

HENRIQUES.
What means this haste, my Fair?

SYLVIA.
Alas! I know not:
I feel a sudden damp at thy departure,
And feel, at thy return, as sudden joy.

HENRIQUES.
And, witness Heav'n! I could for ever hear thee,
Gaze on thy sweets, and dwell with thee for ever.

[Exit.

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SCENE X.

SYLVIA
alone.

What can this mean? He's gone! but still remains
Before my sight: he's gone! but still my thoughts
Pursue where'er he goes: why am I thus
Disturb'd, yet know not where my passions tend.

What is this, alas! I prove,
Pain or pleasure at my heart!
If 'tis pain that thus can move,
O how pleasing is the smart!

'Tis a pain that lulls to rest,
Ev'ry other thought disarms,
Yet awakens in my breast
New desires and soft alarms.

[Exit.

SCENE XI.

CONSTANTIA
alone.

Time flies o'er me with pitying wings,
But time to me no comfort brings:

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Tho' trees and rocks with years decay,
My sorrows ne'er shall pass away!
Still here I live, and mourn in vain
A life of slow-consuming pain:
O let me yield at once my breath,
And lay me gently down in death.

While absent hence, in thoughtless innocence,
My Sylvia wanders, let this hand resume,
Its melancholy labour.

[Returns to her Work.

SCENE XII.

[To her.]
GERNANDO.
While my friend
Leaves me alone to grief, here let me turn
And kiss this precious rock.—But ha! what would
Yon female form! From whence! What can it mean!

CONSTANTIA.
Perchance, Constantia, all thy toil is vain,
And what thou here hast wrought shall ne'er be known.

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GERNANDO.
Constantia! O ye Pow'rs! my wife!

[Embracing her.
CONSTANTIA.
[Turning she knows him.
Ah! Traitor!
I can no more—

[Faints.
GERNANDO.
My life! She hears me not—
O Heav'n! her senses fail—some cooling stream—
Where shall I find—not far from hence I view'd
A crystal rivulet—but must I leave
My treasure thus alone—yes—one short moment
Shall bring me back impatient to her sight.

SCENE XIII.

CONSTANTIA. To her. HENRIQUES.
HENRIQUES.
My friend, who knows not yet his happiness,
Conceals himself from me; where shall I turn

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To trace his steps?—But, see! on yonder rock
Some nymph repasses—'tis not Sylvia—Heav'ns!
'Tis then Constantia—what a mortal paleness
O'erspreads her languid face!

CONSTANTIA
[Coming to herself.]
Ah, me!

HENRIQUES.
—Constantia?

CONSTANTIA
[Without looking at him.]
O leave me, leave me—

HENRIQUES.
Banish this despair;
And live to crown thy consort's faithful love.

CONSTANTIA.
Hence, traitor. Let me, let me die in peace.

HENRIQUES.
A traitor! sure thou know'st me not.

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CONSTANTIA
[Seeing him.]
Ye Pow'rs!
Where is Gernando? Art thou not the same?
Did I but dream before, or dream I now?

HENRIQUES.
Thou did'st not dream before, nor dream'st thou now.
Thou hast indeed beheld thy own Gernando,
And now thou see'st his friend.

CONSTANTIA.
And could he then
Return again to his forsaken wife,
To whom his cruelty—

HENRIQUES.
Alas, thy husband
Forsook not thee, but hence, by ruffian force,
Was hurry'd from his lov'd Constantia's arms.

CONSTANTIA.
Say, when was this?

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HENRIQUES.
When laid in yonder grot
Thy sense was lost in sleep.

CONSTANTIA.
What foes unknown?

HENRIQUES.
A band of pirates, with barbarian rage,
Assail'd him here; awhile his valour stood
Against their fury, till his hand receiv'd
A luckless wound and dropt the sword, then soon
Oppress'd by numbers, he remain'd their pris'ner.

CONSTANTIA.
But wherefore all this time—

HENRIQUES.
Till now detain'd
In cruel bonds, his thoughts alone were free,
And these have never stray'd from his Constantia.

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CONSTANTIA.
O Heav'ns! how have I wrong'd thee, my Gernando!

HENRIQUES.
At length, behold to liberty restor'd,
Gernando comes, behold him all thy own;
Again he comes, a tender faithful husband,
To give thee back thy peace, to calm thy sorrows,
To live and die with thee.

CONSTANTIA.
Where art thou then,
Where art thou, my Gernando?

[Going.]

SCENE THE LAST.

[To them.] SYLVIA. GERNANDO [Apart.]
SYLVIA.
Hold, Constantia.
In vain thou seek'st for thy Gernando there:
For ev'n but now, in tender care for thee,

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Hasting to yonder stream, a sudden force
Assail'd him, and prevented his return.

CONSTANTIA.
Ye Pow'rs! assail'd! by whom? and why?

HENRIQUES.
Forgive me:
The fault is mine. Gernando thought thee dead,
And vow'd to dwell for ever here; and hence,
I gave command to bear him off by force.

CONSTANTIA.
Haste; let us set him free.

SYLVIA.
Yet stay, Constantia,
Already have I told them all the story.

CONSTANTIA.
Must I still wait? Have I not waited long?
So many years elaps'd of tedious sorrow?
'Tis time at length to find a quiet period
To all my woes—

[Going.]

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GERNANDO
[Advancing.]
Here, in these faithful arms
Receive the bliss thou seek'st.

CONSTANTIA.
And can it be?

GERNANDO.
Do I not dream?

CONSTANTIA.
Do I then hold Gernando?

GERNANDO.
Do I embrace my wife, my dear Constantia?

HENRIQUES.
These tears, caresses and imperfect accents
Dissolve my soul in tender sympathy.

SYLVIA.
Tell me, Henriques, wherefore art thou thoughtful?
Gernando sure is kinder far than thou:
Mark how with gentle speech he soothes Constantia,

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While thou in sullen silence seem'st to stand,
Without one word for Sylvia.

HENRIQUES.
Could I hope
That I were dear to thee—

SYLVIA.
If dear to me?
Yes, dearer than my fawn.

HENRIQUES.
Then give me, fair one,
Thy plighted hand, and be Henriques' wife.

SYLVIA.
Thy wife! O no: that were indeed a folly:
So might I, left on some far distant Isle,
Drag on my days in mournful solitude.

CONSTANTIA.
No, Sylvia; my Gernando left me not:
Thou shalt know all: Men are not, as I said,
Faithless and cruel.

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SYLVIA.
When I knew Henriques,
I thought not so.

CONSTANTIA.
Unjustly I accus'd 'em;
But now convinc'd retract my former error.

SYLVIA.
And I retract whate'er I said before.

CHORUS.
When low'ring clouds the skies o'erspread,
Let Hope exalt her chearful head,
And all the threats of Fate despise:
Fortune shall give her malice o'er,
And Constancy's triumphant Pow'r
At length above her suff'rings rise.

FINIS.