Scene I
(Celuta's Bower of Bliss. Enter Count Julian
in Yanassa's garb with his face painted red.)
Count Julian
Here on this Isle are trees of every sort.
The Lemon, Orange, Lentiek, Poplar, Pine.
Large Orange trees, that blossom while they bear,
Burthened with fruit of pure deliciousness,
Like globes of vegetable gold on boughs
Of lustrous emerald growing, flourish here—
Fruit of Ambrosial richness fit for Gods.
(Count Julian pauses, entranced, listening to
distant, though delightful, music, which presently
rises up out of the bosom of the stream.)
The Naiad's Song
In the sky blue zone that bound her
She came skipping to my brink,
While the flowers grew up around her,
As she knelt her down to drink.
Then she fondled with my willows,
While her snowy flesh lay in
The bright bosom of my billows,
Where no other form had been.
Then she whispered words if spoken
Unto mortal ears, would seem
As the bright, the heavenly token
Of her heart in Love's Young Dream.
But, believe me, mortal lover!
I would never trust her more;
For she told me, oftimes
That she never loved before.
And, that, never more, in Summer,
She may bathe her limbs in me,
Is the cause of this sad murmur,
As I hasten to the sea!
Count Julian
Is this some Naiad singing in her stream
Whose solemn cadences fall on my soul,
Little mournful memories of departed days?
Or, is it some sweet song spinn'd off, in beams,
From some bright star, new-born in Heaven in its
First cycle round the Sun above? Or, is
It one of Phoebus' Swans, fresh from the skies,
Carolling the language of Heaven on earth,
The music of the happenings in Heaven?
It floats in crystal echoes down the stream,
Like some sweet golden flow of rich perfumes
From twice ten thousand urns of fragrant flowers,
Flooding my soul with odorous melody!
(Distant music heard again.)
I hear sweet song again! It nicely comes
From Heaven, or some blest place where all is pure;
For it is sweeter than the Naiad's song
Which I believed descended from the skies
Most worthy to be born of Angels' tongues!
For here, in this enchanted Bower, it seems,
Angels, invisible to all beside,
In shining garments, minister to me!
(Distant music again)
It comes again! There must be Spirits here!
No mortal ere sung such song as that—
Sweeter than Syren ever sang! For now
The freshening dew of golden melody
Falls on my more than ravished soul, like dew
Upon parched flowers—or tidings of great joy
To him who has been strickened by the world!
I know that Voice—it beckons me to come—
And I must go—On! on, rapt Julian! on!
It is prophetic of what is to be!
(Exit)
