University of Virginia Library

III. PART III.

Scene I.

—A Castle in the Apennines, surrounded by a wild but smiling Country. Chorus of Peasants singing before the Gates.
Chorus.

Enter Cæsar.
Cæs.
(singing).
The wars are all over,
Our swords are all idle,
The steed bites the bridle,
The casque 's on the wall.
There 's rest for the rover;
But his armour is rusty,
And the veteran grows crusty,
As he yawns in the hall.
He drinks—but what 's drinking?
A mere pause from thinking!
No bugle awakes him with life-and-death call.

Chorus.
But the hound bayeth loudly,
The boar 's in the wood,
And the falcon longs proudly
To spring from her hood:
On the wrist of the noble
She sits like a crest,
And the air is in trouble
With birds from their nest.

Cæs.
Oh! shadow of Glory!
Dim image of War!
But the chase hath no story,
Her hero no star,
Since Nimrod, the founder
Of empire and chase,
Who made the woods wonder
And quake for their race.
When the lion was young,
In the pride of his might,
Then 'twas sport for the strong
To embrace him in fight;
To go forth, with a pine
For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth,
Or strike through the ravine
At the foaming behemoth;
While man was in stature
As towers in our time,
The first born of Nature,
And, like her, sublime!

Chorus.
But the wars are over,
The spring is come;
The bride and her lover
Have sought their home:
They are happy, and we rejoice;
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice!

[Exeunt the Peasantry, singing.

III. FRAGMENT OF THE THIRD PART OF THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED.

Chorus.
When the merry bells are ringing,
And the peasant girls are singing,
And the early flowers are flinging
Their odours in the air;
And the honey bee is clinging
To the buds; and birds are winging
Their way, pair by pair:
Then the earth looks free from trouble
With the brightness of a bubble:
Though I did not make it,
I could breathe on and break it;
But too much I scorn it,
Or else I would mourn it,
To see despots and slaves
Playing o'er their own graves.

Enter Count Arnold.
Arnold.
You are merry, Sir—what? singing too?

Cæsar.
It is
The land of Song—and Canticles you know
Were once my avocation.

Arn.
Nothing moves you;
You scoff even at your own calamity—
And such calamity! how wert thou fallen
Son of the Morning! and yet Lucifer
Can smile.

Cæs.
His shape can—would you have me weep,
In the fair form I wear, to please you?

Arn.
Ah!

Cæs.
You are grave—what have you on your spirit!

Arn.
Nothing.

Cæs.
How mortals lie by instinct! If you ask
A disappointed courtier—What's the matter?
“Nothing”—an outshone Beauty what has made
Her smooth brow crisp—“Oh, Nothing!”—a young heir
When his Sire has recovered from the Gout,
What ails him? “Nothing!” or a Monarch who
Has heard the truth, and looks imperial on it—
What clouds his royal aspect? “Nothing,” “Nothing!”
Nothing—eternal nothing—of these nothings
All are a lie—for all to them are much!
And they themselves alone the real “Nothings.”
Your present Nothing, too, is something to you—
What is it?

Arn.
Know you not?

Cæs.
I only know
What I desire to know! and will not waste
Omniscience upon phantoms. Out with it!
If you seek aid from me—or else be silent.
And eat your thoughts—till they breed snakes within you.

Arn.
Olimpia!

Cæs.
I thought as much—go on.

Arn.
I thought she had loved me.

Cæs.
Blessings on your Creed!
What a good Christian you were found to be!
But what cold Sceptic hath appalled your faith
And transubstantiated to crumbs again
The body of your Credence?

Arn.
No one—but—
Each day—each hour—each minute shows me more
And more she loves me not—

Cæs.
Doth she rebel?

Arn.
No, she is calm, and meek, and silent with me,
And coldly dutiful, and proudly patient—
Endures my Love—not meets it.

Cæs.
That seems strange.
You are beautiful and brave! the first is much
For passion—and the rest for Vanity.

Arn.
I saved her life, too; and her Father's life,
And Father's house from ashes.

Cæs.
These are nothing.
You seek for Gratitude—the Philosopher's stone.

Arn.
And find it not.

Cæs.
You cannot find what is not.
But found would it content you? would you owe
To thankfulness what you desire from Passion?
No! No! you would be loved—what you call loved—
Self-loved—loved for yourself—for neither health,
Nor wealth, nor youth, nor power, nor rank, nor beauty—
For these you may be stript of—but beloved
As an abstraction—for—you know not what!
These are the wishes of a moderate lover—
And so you love.

Arn.
Ah! could I be beloved,
Would I ask wherefore?

Cæs.
Yes! and not believe
The answer—You are jealous.

Arn.
And of whom?

Cæs.
It may be of yourself, for Jealousy
Is as a shadow of the Sun. The Orb
Is mighty—as you mortals deem—and to
Your little Universe seems universal;
But, great as He appears, and is to you,
The smallest cloud—the slightest vapour of
Your humid earth enables you to look
Upon a Sky which you revile as dull;
Though your eyes dare not gaze on it when cloudless.
Nothing can blind a mortal like to light.
Now Love in you is as the Sun—a thing
Beyond you—and your Jealousy 's of Earth—
A cloud of your own raising.

Arn.
Not so always!
There is a cause at times.

Cæs.
Oh, yes! when atoms jostle,
The System is in peril. But I speak
Of things you know not. Well, to earth again!
This precious thing of dust—this bright Olimpia—
This marvellous Virgin, is a marble maid—
An Idol, but a cold one to your heat
Promethean, and unkindled by your torch.

Arn.
Slave!

Cæs.
In the victor's Chariot, when Rome triumphed,
There was a Slave of yore to tell him truth!
You are a Conqueror—command your Slave.

Arn.
Teach me the way to win the woman's love.

Cæs.
Leave her.

Arn.
Where that the path—I'd not pursue it.

Cæs.
No doubt! for if you did, the remedy
Would be for a disease already cured.

Arn.
All wretched as I am, I would not quit
My unrequited love, for all that 's happy.

Cæs.
You have possessed the woman—still possess.
What need you more?

Arn.
To be myself possessed—
To be her heart as she is mine.