University of Virginia Library

Act V

Scene I

(The interior of Lamorah's cottage. Count Julian, Ianthe, and the Ten Fair Virgins are examining the riches that he has left behind him).
Count Julian
These, too, are ones—the richest costliest furs,
Of infinite variety of hue,
From milky white to lustrous glossy black—
All damasked with the down of forest Birds.
Richer than those bright Birds of Paradise,
Which, at the Nutmeg Season, fly away
To fruitful India from the Summer Isles—
More gorgeous than those radiant, feathered skins
Brought from the Guinea Isles to the Malays;
Some golden-plumaged in the Tropics dyed—
Others with paler hues dyed in the North—
All intermingled with Mosaic Words—
The life-time work of old Canondah's hands
After Lamorah had prepared the skins.
This did he with some simple Art unknown
To any but himself—born to die
With him.

Ianthe
But here are other untold gems—
Great chests of purest Virgin Gold—
The richest Plate that ever eyes beheld—
Which, from the Names, engraved upon each one,
Show that they were not wrought by Savage hands,
But are the wealth of Spanish Kings, brought by
The Spanish Buccaneers, in days gone by—
The Pirates of the Southern Seas—in Ships
To Florida, in Saint Louis' Fort,
(The Spanish Coffer of Freebooter's wealth—)
They long remained amassed, with Precious Stones,
Until the Savage Myrmadons came down,
In one great human deluge from the North,
Slaughtering them so they were compelled to fly
Leaving these riches in the Indians' hands!
Great Outalissa, son of Miscou, Chief
In Cuscovilla's Valley near the sea—
Was Wood-born Sythean of this mighty host,
Who claimed the treasures as his own. So, when
He died, these fell into Lamorah's hands.

Count Julian
Come, my Celuta! bring the Virgins Ten,
And let us gaze on this rich Barque of Heaven—
The Angel of such terror—such delight—
So beautiful—beyond compare—the work
Of Angels' hands, although not made in Heaven.

(Exeunt omnes).

Scene II

(The Lake of Swans in the background. The Beautiful Car is discovered lying on the shore. Enter Count Julian, Ianthe, and the Virgin Ten).
Count Julian
This car, of Swan-like shape or Crescent Moon,
Was sent by some great Artisan who knew
Well how to fashion things of beauteous shape
Out of the strongest, yet the softest, wood—
Susceptible of polish fine as glass;
For on its varnished sides we can behold
Our faces mirrored back most perfectly
Each, so being represented with Designs
Original—most beautiful—the work
Of some genius too, done in purest gold.
On this side is this beautiful Design;
Eros with Psyche in delusion.
Here, on this other side, is this Design;
Earth pointing Virtue out the way to Heaven.
Bands of attendant Angels hovering nigh.
Within the center of the Car, there is
A large, diaphanous hollow globe of glass,
Rich, crimson-tinged, whirling snow burns into light.
Bright as the noonday sun, pure, vital gas,
Which gives such Moon-like splendor to the globe.
This was the play thing of some Prince or King!
Let loose in some far distant land to fly—
Wafted by God's own breath at this dread hour,
Like an Avenging Angel to destroy,
Bringing glad tidings of great joy to those
Who had been so rebuked in inocence—
Who were God's chosen People, because pure.
Come, let us launch it on the Lake of Swans.
Evora, queen of all the Virgin Ten,
She, being mistress of the light Canoe
At home upon the Fountain of Green Isles,
Where she is called the Queen of Micabou—
Shall make the first voyage in the queenly Barque.
Thus shall Celuta sail out every day,
Wafted in joyful dalliance to the port
Of odorous breezes coming through the Isle,
Shaded at noontime by the Princely Palms
Must canopy the margent of the Lake,
With verdant twilight soothing to the soul.
(They launch the bark upon the lake).
Now let us go into the Bower of Bliss
And seek fair Endea, Prophetess of life.
The Ten Fair Virgins are our captives now—
Sweet Wood-Nymphs of this Dian of the Isle!
Their task is now to minister delight
To you in every possible way they can.
To gather Roses daily in the Bower,
To make the Atar-Gul for your perfumes,
(Wherewith you are to bathe your lily limbs;)
Attend the cygnets in the Valley Reeds;
Gather the Swans' eggs laid upon the Isle;
Make Cymars for themselves of down of Swans,
And Mantilletts of dappled skins of Fawns,
Damasked with prismy down of Humming birds,
Of multicoloured dyes, caught in the Bower;
To fabricate rich articles of dress,
Such as would be an ornament to queens—
Which only queens could buy, (for they are free—
And everything that is theirs—not slaves'—)
Which duties, when imposed, shall be to them
Like loading the purer air with Atar-Gul
From out the Bowers of Heaven.

Ianthe
How glad I am
That all this Island—all this wealth is yours!

Count Julian
But yet t'is like poverty to me
Compared with that inestimable wealth
Shrined in the Casket of Celuta's heart—
(My soul's incarnate Heaven—) pure, virtuous love—
Come let us seek fair Endea in the Bower.

(Exeunt omnes).

Scene III

(The Bower of Bliss. Endea is discovered lying on Count Julian's couch asleep. Enter Count Julian, Ianthe, and the Virgin Ten).
Count Julian
See how her lily-form lies on my couch,
Beneath the healing drugs of balmy sleep,
All odorous with the aeros divine of love—
Breathing out fragrance from her lips of rose,
Which makes the place as cloudy with perfume
As if Celestial Roses filled the Bower—
So softly, meekly, melancholy pale,
She seems an Angel newly made for Heaven!
Love—unrequited love—is killing her!

Ianthe
Ah! nothing earthly yet was ever known
To last, except the changeable in change,
Which is the everlasting round of things!
She is the cloud upon our Heaven of bliss!
At first, it was not larger than her hand;
But now, like Ahab's, it makes dark the sun!

Count Julian
Far as the autumn trees drop leaves of gold—
The frail Mimosa withers at our night—
So sheds she from her soul all hopes of joy,
But in the World to Come—where she shall hear
The Choral Symphonies—God—loving Psalms—
In Cherubimical outpourings burst
From Angel's lips of fire, singing aloud
In myriad Choir of mightiest Songs,
The sweet Evangels of Celestial love.

Endea
(waking)
Oh! Julian! had you loved Celuta less,
And Endea more—she had not died so soon!
For when we lose our precious Heaven on earth
What other world have we to lose but Heaven?
I tell you, I have lost my Heaven on earth!
And, without this, how can my body live?
My body cannot live without this Heaven!
You see it fading—fading day by day!
Still growing nearer to the grave each hour!
Growing each hour more reconciled to death!
For, as the full-robed Moon now wanes in Heaven,
But only to be made the same sweet Moon;
So, in the Eternal Cycles, shall my soul
Revolve upon itself, forever full—
Forever growing to be fuller still—
But never getting full of boundless bliss.
Soon I shall drink of that Lethean Stream.
Which rolls in silence through the Vale of Death—
(The only Fountain of Perpetual Youth
Unto the good—of death to all the bad).
Which Ponce de Leon sought on earth through life,
And never found till death—which all must find—
Then will my sorrows here on earth find rest!
Oh! Julian! put your hand upon my heart!
Feel how it beats! My life is ebbing fast!
It beats too fast for me to live an hour!
Oh! Julian! I have died before my time!
But as my body faints my soul grows strong
Eating the fruit of that Igdrasil
Whose roots are anchored in the depths of Hell!
But whose great gorgeous boughs reach up to Heaven
Spreading umbrageously among the Stars
Bending with Golden Fruit—Ambrosial Fruit—
Such as the Angels feed on in the skies
Watered by that crystalline well of Heaven,
Called Miner, flowing from the Throne of God—
Which is so precious to the human soul,
That he who eats thereof shall never die!

Count Julian
This tree is watered by their great Times,
Called Norms, Giants of Eternity!
Whose Names on forth are Present, Future, Past—
To whom the power is given to comprehend
All things—to conquer all things under Heaven—
Whose task it is to guard this Tree of Life
From Sin's great axe—the slave of Death—who strives
To cut it down that with its ponderous crash
It may destroy the World!

Endea
God grant they may!
For like the blinded Nightingale that sings
All day, thinking that it is the night—all night,
Not knowing that it is not the day—because
His eyes are out—making one live-long night
Of all his life—one endless song of all
This night!—lifting his soul—uplifting song
Out of this world into the faroff skies,
Where God now sits on his sapphire throne,
Arrayed in robes of lightning-fire, above
Th' Empyreal thunder-roll, listening to hear
The Angels pour their rivers of deep song
Down through Heaven's Aromatic Ether Sea,
Honoring the spheric symphony of stars—
In rapturous union—so is my soul
Burthened with sorrow in this Vale of Tears—
Doomed in Grief's night forever more to pine—
Mourning in strains, that instead ring in Heaven,
For days that are denied me here on earth!
He, if the blinded nightingale could see,
He would not sing by day, but in the night—
Making an endless night of all his life—
Through which he sings forever more his grief—
(Coeval—coeternal with his night—)
Until, like my poor soul, he sings his way
Out of this world into the far off skies!
For now the seals are taken from mine eyes—
Couched now to see unutterable things!
Mine eyes are opened to the blissful sounds
Of Angels' songs, sung up in glory now!
The rapturous melodies of ransomed souls
Singing in concert with the Seraphims!
I feel as if I were all spirit now!
And though, upon thy breast, were still in Heaven!
For when shall I see Heaven so dear to me?
Oh! come in death—the death that I now die—
Is it not more than Heaven to be with this?
Here—here—where I could lie forever more!
Oh! Julian! hear me now—When I am dead—
A Willow tree cut down by Death's cold axe!
Your poor, dear Endea, dying for your love!
Cold, lying in the casket of the grave!
Let not the Tree of Memory perish to;
But keep its roots, now growing in your heart,
Watered with Pity's everlasting tears!
Hope shall not perish in the grave, but grow,
Immortal as the soul itself, in Heaven!

Count Julian
The Tree of Memory doth defy the grave,
It is so firmly rooted in my soul,
That, if Death's icy axe should cut it down,
Out of its deathless roots would spring
Another Tree whose boughs should reach to Heaven—
Bearing Ambrosial Fruit—the nectared food
Of Angels—mightier than that Mighty Tree
The Chaldean saw in Visions of the night!

ENDEA
Plant thou th' immortal Myrtle on grave—
The emblem of the soul that cannot die—
To image how you love Celuta now!
I see Faith pointing me the way to Heaven,
Drest in white robes, as white as her own soul—
Bands of Attending Angels hovering nigh!
While yonder come True Minstrels of Peace,
All flying, arm in arm, from out of Heaven
To take me home to God—Now I must die!
Raise up my head, dear Julian! let me die
Upon your breast! There—bold me so awhile!
This bosom could have saved me from the grave!
But then it might have sent Celuta there!
And it would rather send me there than her!
Soft couch on which my head could ever rest
Softer than any that Celuta makes—
Or ever made—or ever will be made!
How strong your heart beats! tolling in your breast,
The knell of your destiny—of mine!
For every life-pulse brings you nearer God—
And, therefore, nearer unto me in Heaven!
For I shall soon be cold—cold in the grave!
Here—lay your hand upon mine now—weak weak!
Does it not weakly toll the death of Hope!
Oh! my Celuta! be not jealous now,
To see me lying on his precious breast!
It is not done to win him from your heart—
I lay me here to die! Here, let me lie—
Pillowed upon his breast—close by his heart—
Until it rocks me into endless rest!
The only time I was taken sick,
That I have felt the least desire to live—
For soon it will be pillowed in the grave!
He cannot love me now—not loving me
In life, he will not love me after death!
Who loves the living cannot love the dead!
Give me some water—cool my parching lips!
For they are dry with icy death! Oh! God!
I see my mother at the Gates of Heaven!
Is she not waiting there for me? I know
She is—drest in rich robes of lightning-fire!
Oh! how she shines! calling me home to God!
Saying, “Come home, my wounded Dove! come home!
For who can pull that arrow from thy heart,
But God? Come home to thine celestial rest!”
And now, dear Julian! I must die! Farewell!

(She dies).
Count Julian
Oh! God! Celuta! look here! look here, love!
Poor Endea faints! give me some water—quick!
For she is dying! Give the cup to me!
Hold up her head! hold up her precious head!
My God! she cannot drink! her eyes are set!
See how they quiver in her head! how bright!
How more than bright! filled with the light of Heaven!

Celuta
She breathes!

Count Julian
No, it was one long easeful sigh
Breathed out—(the last that she will ever breathe—)
To ease her dying heart weighed down by grief!

Celuta
Yes—she is dead! How beautiful in death!
Ten thousand times more beautiful than life!
How placid—how serene—here countenance!
As if her spirit, now in heaven, were here!
As if Heaven's body there were lying here!

Count Julian
See how the clammy sweat beads her pale brow,
Like dewdrops on some withered lily leaf—
By Death's new baptism sealed to endless life!
Pale purple tinging her pure fingers' ends—
Smiting the roseate from its proper place—
The lily-pale usurping of the Rose!
My God! have we not seen an Angel die?
Does she not look as if she were in Heaven?
I never knew before how bright one's eyes
Could look in death! This is enough to make
Us all in love with Death—desire to die!
All Mystery—all Pity—all deep Love—
Divinest in the soul of Man—come here,
And gaze, with mutual awe, most eloquent—most mute—
And let your hearts break over her in grief!
What calmness rests upon her peaceful brow!
What meekness—pity—on her precious lips!
How mutely eloquent—how loudly mute!
Filling in silence more than tongue can tell!
Heaven's Halo radiant round her peaceful brow!

Celuta
This is the place where she beheld you first—
The place whereon she said she wished to die!
Here where she lies, shrined in her milkd-white shroud,
Fair as the crescent Moon, supine in Heaven,
Half hidden by her own self-silvered clouds—
Sweet, saintly image of her soul in Heaven!
Fragrant with flowers that blossomed when she died!
The Ten Fair Virgins gather round to weep—
Weeping aloud—(for they know how to weep!)
For like the falling of pure snow on earth,
Were her last dying words to us around—
We saw her lips move, but we heard no sound!

Count Julian
For in the Temple of her virgin form—
God's holy Temple—full of holiest thoughts—
Her soul dwelt like an Angel dwells in Heaven;
Looking abroad upon the world, with eyes
Dewy with Pity's pensive tenderness!
Pale, saintly lily not yet opened quite,
Whose fragrance still lies folded in the bud,
Troubled by the amorous World all leave
With Pity's tears—lives that must evil flow—
That beauty such as hers must ever die—
Plucked in its freshness by the hands of Death!

Ianthe
Far as the twilight sinks into the arms
Of Night, losing itself in the embrace—
Both blending into one—all darkly still—
Leaving the World in darkness—till the Moon,
Fullfaced, rising in Heaven, rains down her beams,
And Night is overflowed—so did she sink—
Pale—softly silent—in the arms of Death—
Leaving the friends who mourn for her alone—
God's blissful glory bursting on her soul!

Count Julian
Come, my Celuta! wipe away your tears!
This sorrow is too much! (It hurts me so
To see you weep, I cannot help but weep!)
Thawing away our heart in fruitless tears—
Although it is our instinct thus to weep—
(For weeping will not bring her back again—)
But teach our disposition more to weep;
For Sorrow is our teacher how to mourn!
Come, my Celuta, wipe those violet-eyes,
Too much bedewed with Sorrow's thaw—and let
Us sing an Elegy upon her death—
Pouring our souls away in song, not tears—
Until we gladden her pure soul in Heaven!

Ianthe
Write you the Elegy. Give me the harp;
And then accompany me with your sweet voice,
While in sweet alternations of deep grief,
I shake melodious music from the strings,
Singing with my own voice in unison.
Now, my dear Julian, write the Elegy—
Write it with your heart's blood upon your hand,
While beside her, while she lies in death,
With eyes swimming with unshed tears—
Calling it after her sweet name in Heaven,
Where she now dwells—the lily-bell of Love.

Requiem
Now the Voyager has landed
From th' Eternal Light—sea deep,
While her body here has stranded
In the grave no more to weep!

(chorus of Angels)
No more to weep!

God-inspired she heard the silence
Of the Angels' voices say,
In the bright Empyreal Islands
Of the stars—“Love! come away!”

(chorus of Angels)
Love! come away!

To the Pure Earth of the Angels,
Sought by Plato—Blest Abode!
Where the Spheres' Divine Evangels
Wash against the feet of God!

(chorus of Angels)
The feet of God!

Count Julian
Now as she lies here shrouded in purest white,
So let us lift her on her Swan-down bier,
And bear her softly to the Cave, where in
A Vault made by the hands of God—not Men—
Upon a marble slab of Tablet height,
There let us lay her out again to rest—
Where, with these Virgin Ten to help, you can
Embalm her body with the Oil of Rose,
Till, by the Alchemy of your fair hands,
She may become transmuted into life.
Then after kissing her, strew her again
With flowers—the ones that blossomed when she died!

(Exeunt omnes, bearing her out. Reenter Count Julian. He sings to his harp.
Count Julian
(singing)
What is it that makes the maiden
So like Christ in Heaven above?
Or, like heavenly Eve in Aiden
Meeting Adam blushing?—love—
Love, love, love!
What is it that makes the murmur
Of the plaintive Turtle Dove
Fill our hearts with so much Summer
Till they melt to passion?—love—
Love, love, love!
Nothing else but love!
See the Rose unfold her bosom
To the amorous Sun above—
Bursting into fragrant blossom
At his sight—what is it?—love—
Love, love, love!
All the Christian Constellations
Choiring through the realms above,
Soon would cease their ministrations,
Were it not for thee, oh, love!
Love, love, love!
(Exit Count Julian)

Scene IV

(The interior of the Cave. Ianthe and the Virgin Ten are discovered kneeling before the flower-strewn body of Endea. Enter Count Julian).
Ianthe
(rising and embracing Julian)
Oh! Julian! Julian! never wonder more!
In reverential awe bow down before
This faired image of the Lamb of God!
For, oh! the change! the change! the wondrous change!

Count Julian
Have you embalmed her faired form?

Ianthe
We have—
And strewn her corse with flowers—but, oh, the change!
Her form has changed from perishable flesh
To rich, immortal marble—Parian-pure!

Count Julian
Does she retain the outlines of her form?

Ianthe
In all its pure Angelic loveliness—
The oval contour of her lily limbs—
Her Angel-fore, just as we laid her out—
Her fingers perfect, clasped upon her breast—
Her every part, still virgin, all entire—
Fixed to the marble slab on which she lies,
As fresh as if just sculptured from the rock—
A perfect Proxitelian Dream of all
That is most meek, most gentle, most Divine
The rich embodiment of all your Dreams
Of Infinite Perfection, when most rapt,
Of Beauty sleeping in the Arms of Peace!
Come, gaze upon her with your own pure eyes,
And lay your hand upon her brow
And judge then for yourself!

Count Julian
It is most true!
And not less wonderful than true! This is
The Climax of all wonders ever known!
So perfect is the transmutation here—
Done by the Alchemy of God in Heaven—
The integration of her flesh by stone—
By which the molecules have places changed.
This model sculpture—modeled out the stone
That we could not fashion it with our eyes
Did we not lay our hands upon her form
And by two lofty senses prove its time!
Now, so hither it was Grief that did all this,
Or the intenseness of her deathless love,
That so could send her spirits up to God
And stamp Eternity upon her form—
As Niobe was changed to living stone
By her great grief for her dear children's loss—
Smitten by Great Apollo's golden bow—
Pouring his arrows on their heads from Heaven.
While from her eyes eddy everlasting tears—
T' is never than I, or any man, can tell
For what we hear about her being changed
To stone by her unending grief for Thebes—
Is not all fable—but eternal fact!
Suffice it that she lies eternal here—
Coeternal with her beauty is the bloom
Her soul now wears beside God's throne in Heaven
There to perpetuate her virtues here.
And begins the living the reward,
That God was always apt to store for those who love,
And loving dies by love, rather than sin
For here she lies in her immortal state,
As living sculpture written in pure stone,
Revealing in meetest wonder, of the Good,
The Innocent, the Beautiful, the Pure—
For her terrestrial was celestial Life;
Everlastingly filled with too much light from Heaven—
That when she died, she died as Christians die,
Full of the radiant hope of endless rest.

Curtain Falls