University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The islet of Onesimarchus.
Atalantis, Nea.
Atal.
This islet hath no quality of joy,
Fair to the sight, or fragrant to the sense,—
No beauty that upon its surface glows,
No treasure that within its bosom sleeps;—
It is the foul'st deception—all is gross,
And tainted with that sinborn leprousness
That marks the soul who will'd it into birth,
And raised its treacherous rocks along the deep.
No innocent beast hath dwelling in this clime,
No valley blooms with verdure. Not a flower
Gems the bleak sands, that, barrenly spread out,
Pain the unsatisfied and wandering eye,
That, seeing naught else, grows weary. Not a bird,
But, as he flies above, subdues his voice,
And, panting in his silence, quickens his wing,
Having a nameless terror. The foul taint
That poisons all things in this tyrant's sway,
Takes from them all their virtue. Not a shrub
Breathes fragrance to the breeze, whose whisper'd plaint
Would woo it still to fondness. Not an air
Enters these bounds, but flags and settles down
Clumsy and wingless; and the very stars
Do seem to leave their places in the heavens,
Looking down on it. Even we, who are
Of a tenacious temper, yielding naught,—
If that our hearts be pure and souls be firm
To the capricious influence,—we lose
Something of that refined and subtler sense,
Which gives us power to meet and match the sway
Of his low cunning and detested art.
How heavy is this silence! What a spell
Comes with the sullen muttering of the winds,
Now sweeping from the waters; and, how sad
Are the faint murmurs of yon moaning sea,
In the far distance chiding, as in grief,
For some new stroke of sorrow! All things yield—
So it would seem—a something to the spell,
That makes his power, and keeps us captive here;
Wrapping us in a circle, not to move,
Or strive, lest it undoes us. The shrill scream
Of one poor gull, that, o'er the whiten'd foam,
Hung with gray wing suspended, breaks no more
Fitfully on the ear;—and all of life
Seems resolute to pay its offering now
To that dread silence, which, in human sense,
Makes up the all of death!

Nea.
Even as thou say'st!—
'Tis a sad spot, fair mistress; sad for us,
That have been wont, in finer element,
To drink the nurture of a better lot.
Ah! how unlike the sweet life of the light,
Blessing the fair dominion thou hast lost;—
Lost for a season only,—yet too long,
Since such a dwelling as we find perforce,
Subdues the heart to sorrows not its own,
Which still must bide in memory. I feel
How dreary is the labor of restraint,
This watching, waiting,—when my wonted use,
Would have me winging an unlicensed flight,
Now in the embracing air, now through the deeps,
Disparting their white billows night and morn,
With no more pause than to adjust my plumes,
Ruffled by zephyrs; then, with fresh device,
Soaring in wilder progress,—sea and sky,
Our ample field, and the delighted tribes,
Their habitants, come forth to share the chase.

Atal.
And lack'st thou now all wonted qualities—
Thy dance, thy song, whose melodies can make
The mad seas sleep when wildest, while the winds
Fold up their cloudy vans to hear thy lay?
Hast thou no strain to fit these drowsy hours
With wings of light and fragrance, while the thought
Grows wanton and forgetful of the grief
That burden'd it with gloom? Methinks, my girl,
'Twere in thy happy spells of verse to find
Some carol of our own domain, to take
The impatient soul, and in delicious dews
Steep the fine sense to sweet forgetfulness.
Sing me some ditty from our Mergevan,
While every flower, in gardens of the past,
Our hands have ever gather'd, the young page,
Whose name is Memory, faithful to his task,
Shall bring anew to joy us in our need.
Give me the song the Flower-Spirit once framed,
When through our gardens, far beneath the sea,
Wall'd in by wildest waters, we pursued,
For the first time, the summer festival.

SONG OF THE FLOWER-SPIRIT.

Atal.
The ocean hath no calm like what is here—
And, if the waters might unfold to us,
There hath been fearful strife upon their waves.
Here come its tokens. These are broken spars
From some tall ship, that lately sped along,
As oft-times I have seen them, with a grace
And majesty becoming in a queen
Ruling a thousand seas. It is a game
Onesimarch delights in, to destroy
The goodly creatures that do dwell in them—
Shaped like ourselves, though little taught to cope
In knowledge with ourselves. Inferior things
Of lower grade, who, when we have become
The tenants and possessors of a realm
Now far beyond our state, shall rise to ours,
As we enjoy it now. But what is here,
Grasping a shaft, and lifelessly spread out?

[Seeing the body of Leon.
Nea.
One of the creatures of that goodly barque,—
Perchance, the only one of many men,
That, from their distant homes, went forth in her,
And here have perish'd.

Atal.
There is life in him;—
His bosom swells, methinks, beneath my hand,—
With fitful pulse—most faint—now here—now gone!
Alas! I fear it may not come again.
How very young he is—how beautiful!—
Made with a matchless sense of what is true
In manly grace and mortal elegance;
And features, rounded in as soft a mould
As our own, Nea.

Nea.
His eye unfolds.

Atal.
Ah!
Stand aside, girl, and let me look on him.
I see not that he wakes.

Nea.
But now he did.

Atal.
Alas! he sleeps in death! How pitiful
That one so young, and princely in his port,
Should fall so soon a victim. He hath been,
I doubt not, a great noble with his people.
How should it be that such a form as this,
So lovely and commanding in its aspect,
Should rank below the people of our race?
Methinks he is a creature, that, in life,
Might stand compared with any of our chiefs.

Nea.
At least, in outward seeming.

Atal.
And this speaks,—
Where still the brow is lofty, and the form
Familiar, in erect and graceful carriage,—
For that which guides within.

Nea.
He looks well;—
Yet may he be a thing of seeming only,
Wanting in all that higher sense of soul,
Which makes the virtue of true excellence.

Atal.
Oh! I am sure there is no want in him;
The spirit must be true, the sense supreme,
The soul as far ascending, strong and bright,
As is the form they do inhabit in.
Breathe on him, Nea; fan him with thy wing
And rouse him, if thou canst. Oh! could I bring
The life into his cheek. Stay, yet awhile;—
Now, while his senses sleep, I'll place my lip
Upon his own—it is so beautiful!
Such lips should give forth music—such a sweet
Should have been got in heaven,—the produce there,
Of never-blighted gardens.

[Kisses him.
Leon,
[starts.]
Cling to me—
Am I not with thee now, my Isabel!

[Swoons again.
Atal.
Oh, gentle sounds—how sweetly did they fall,
In broken murmurs, like a melody,
From lips, that waiting long on loving hearts,
Had learn'd to murmur like them. Wake again,
Sweet stranger! If my lips have wrought this spell,
And won thee back to life, though but to sigh,
And sleep again in death,—they shall, once more,
Wake and restore thee.

Nea.
You arouse him not.

Atal.
Alas! should life's string, overstrain'd, be crack'd,
No more to be reknit, I forfeit peace
Forever,—never more to hope for joy
In any life that follows.

Nea.
Oh! my mistress,
This passion of grief—

Atal.
Nea, now at last,
I feel that I do love! The sudden fire
Kindles at last, where never yet before
Its spark found nurture. If it be in vain!—
I, that had scorn'd the suppliant before,
I too, must be the suppliant for a love
That's born without a hope. The lesson comes
Too late, and I have but to weep o'er dreams
That have no waking promise for the heart,
And leave it but to tears. Alas! Alas!

[Throws herself upon Leon.
Nea.
Oh! yield not thus, my mistress, to a passion
That never can be blest. The best of love
Still teaches sorrow as his natural gift,
More sure than precious.

Atal.
Know you aught of Love?

Nea.
As of a power that's best esteemed in fancy,
In which he more abides than in the heart.
Love's but an artful tyrant. He first wins
By the most servile flatteries. He can stoop
The better to ascend; and pliant grows,
When most the secret purpose in his soul,
Makes him unyielding. Pleasant is his prayer;—
He will discourse you in the dove's own note,
Cooing and plaining, with such murmur'd sweets,
That pity learns to take the place of doubt,
And paves the way for trust. But, wait awhile,
And soon his habit changes. He grows apt,—
Learns the new lesson his condition makes,
As readily as the old; and, sure of power,
Firm, with free footing walks, where late he crept.
Then, see you heed the master;—who will now
Claim, for his right, that which he lately sued,
As the poor meed of charity; and thus
Step by step upward, with insidious art,
And cunning most unequall'd, doth he rise,
Until you find your neck beneath his foot,
And you become his slave, who once was yours.

Atal.
Oh! terrible,—where heard you this of Love?

Nea.
From many teachers.

Atal.
Did they know him well?
They slander him, methinks.

Nea.
They suffer'd first!
Our minstrels note him thus!—Our maidens, taught
By many a hapless lesson, thus describe
His art and empire. They do further tell,
Beyond his tyrant habits, that his sweets
Are few and failing. Painful, do they say,
Are even the creature's pleasures, since they wake
Such doubts and dread misgiving for their loss,
As even their joys can't equal. The sick soul,
That grieves with Love's delusions, evermore dreams
Dreading its losses. It forever makes
A sombre cloud to gather in the sky,
And glooms the spirit. Looking far beyond
The glory in its gaze, it sadly sees
Countless privations, and far-coming storms,
Shrinking from what it conjures. Let them say
Green youth and greener maidens, as they may,
Of Love and of his raptures:—for my part,
I hold him a disease—a very ache,
And ague-fever, sore and troublesome;
Apt caller forth of tears, and wails, and plaints,
And then of colds, and heats, and fantasies—
Realities most mournful, and, forsooth,
Imaginings, whose strange complexions be
Not a whit kinder. Love's a sorry slave,
And a sad master. As a slave, he steals
The jewel of our nature, and its lights,—
The heart and its affections;—which, having got,
He straight assumes the master:—they, in turn,
Being his willing instruments and doom'd,
When that the tyrant of his play grows sick,
To be the creature's victims at the last.

Atal.
I cannot think this truly said of Love!—
The minstrels do belie him, much, methinks,
For envy of his conquests; and, the maids—
They only do complain, whom he doth slight.
They never knew his nature. They, perchance—
Since what is winning still hath counterfeits—
Have seen some subtle semblance of his form,
His true spirit all being wanting; and were made,
Haply, the victims of some wanton art,
That hath betray'd them. It were wisdom poor,
And a most sad philosophy, to scorn
The blessing, as in nature's exigence,
It might grow forfeit. Better, with this rule,
Not live, since in the end we all must die.
Though there be doubts that love may yet be lost,
Still let me love;—the very doubt but shows
The worth of the possession. Not for me
The sway of kingdoms only. In my heart
There still hath been a void—a vacant place,
That ever seem'd to crave some image there,
Set up for worship. Till this happy hour,
The shrine hath been unoccupied and cold;
Now doth the warmth of a divinity
Suffuse the reluctant nature, and I glow
In the superior consciousness of hopes
That fill me with devotion. Here is one
Might teach me wherefore this.

Nea.
He breathes again;
There's life within him yet.—His lips, they part
In murmurs:—he will live. Shall we now leave him?

Atal.
Leave him, dost thou ask? alas! my Nea,
I cannot if I would. His image takes
Possession of the waste place in my soul,
And fills me with himself. Whether I go,
Or stay,—the fates forbid that we should part;—
And known, perchance, and loved too late, he still
Hath grown to such a presence in my thought,
That, though I lose him in the hour that finds,
I lose him not from love. Now, let us call
The life into his cheek. Some water bring,
Scoop'd out from yonder fountain near the sea.
There, fan him with thy pinions. See, his lips,—
Again they part, how sweetly!—and again,
I stoop to press them with my own that burn
With a strange fervor never felt before.
He wakes!—Ah me, he wakes! His eyes unclose
With a dim beauty. As they open, mine
Sink to the sands. I feel his glances now,
Stealing and searching through my throbbing heart,
Until it hath no secret. Doth he speak?
What says he, my sweet Nea?

Leon,
[struggling to his feet.]
Nay,—no more!—
Ah! sister, is it thou? That terrible thought
That thou wert swallow'd in the ravenous sea,
And the waves over thee! I saw thee sink—
Beheld thy outstretch'd arms—heard thy wild cry
For succor, that I strove in vain to give,—
And, struggling in the surf, 'gainst cruel hands,
That kept me from thee in the fearful hour,
I yielded thee as lost.—I have thee now—
We shall not part again.

[Embracing Atalantis.
Atal.
Ah!—

Leon,
[discovering her.]
Who art thou?
Where is my sister—give her to my arms;
Why dost thou keep her from me when I call?

Atal.
Oh! look not thus upon me, gentle youth:
I have not done thee wrong.

Leon.
My sister?

Atal.
She—
I know not.—

Leon.
Alas! alas! for me!—I am alone.

Atal.
Oh! not alone, for though we know not her,
The sister thou hast lost, we'll seek for her,
And strive to bring her to thy love again.
We too will love thee, if thou'lt suffer us,
And claim thy love in turn.

Leon.
Where am I then?
Oh! tell me, noble lady, tell me true,
What is the shore we stand on—where the ship
That bore us—the old master, and the men,—
And over all of these, the precious maid,
My sister, whom I swore to save from harm,
While strength was in my arms to strive for her.
Alas! that I am here, with life and strength,
And she—thou look'st as thou hadst love and truth,—
Spare me these pangs—withhold her not from me,—
I shall not sink into an agony,
Joy-troubled at her sight. I'm strong to bear
This happiness, if thou hast it to bestow,
And take my blessing for it. Give her me!

Atal.
Alas! thou plead'st to me, dear youth, in vain;
I know not of the gentle maid you seek.
Thou only, of the creatures of the ship,
Hast found the refuge of the shore.

Leon.
She's gone,—
And I survive her! How can I survive?
With what a terror she entreated me,
Never to leave her; and I pledged my soul,
If I had power to save, she should not sink,
Or I should share her fate. My Isabel!
I could not save, and cannot now survive;—
I come to thee,—I come!

[Rushes towards the sea.
Atal.
Forbear! Forbear!
Oh! be not thus the murderer of thyself,
When heaven's own voice hath order'd thee to live.
For my sake as for thine! I kneel to thee.
Do not this wrong unto thyself, I pray,
Nor to the memory of the maid thou griev'st,
Who, if she loved thee, never could be blest,
At this, thy woeful sacrifice. Oh! hear!
Let me implore. Thy sister yet may live,
Cast on some other isle, as thou on this.
We'll seek her hence together, with a hope
That we may find her on the yellow sands,
And win her back to life.

Leon.
Oh! sweet thy words!
I will believe thee, lady, with a hope
That comes on golden pinions; for thine eye
Tells of a true sense prompting thee to speak,
In mercy, with a blessing won from truth;
While in thy voice a delicate music lies,
Spelling all sympathies that fill the heart.
Say, who art thou?

Atal.
My name is Atalantis.
I am a Princess of the ocean waste,
But now a prisoner on this cruel isle,
Which, raised by magic from the hidden deep,
Wreck'd thee and fetters me. I have the sway
Of a large ocean empire which, in sight,
Extends beyond the sight, and far beneath
In winding ways and valleys of the sea.
I keep no state, but, as a captive, pine
In sight of my own kingdom, in the power
Of a dread monarch of the demon race,
A mighty potentate who keeps me here,
Seeking my love.

Leon.
How fell you in his power?

Atal.
'Twere a long speech to tell you of our realms,
The sway that's mine and his respectively,
And the slight space betwixt us; or to dwell
On the opposing powers we each possess:
It is enough, sweet youth, that yestermorn,
I and this maiden, o'er the quiet sea,
Idly disporting in our innocence,
Pass'd from our own dominions into his;
When, straightway he,—being ever on the watch,
And all unmatch'd for cunning—raised this isle,
At once, beneath us. In this sudden strait,
Frighted, I cast aside my magic wand,
Without which, I am nothing; and, with joy,
Knowing its powers, this monster seized it then,
And keeps me now his captive, close fenced in
By thickest spells, which, circling all this isle,
And having with our fine sense deadly hate,
We may not pass, unless he wills it so,
Or I regain my wand. Could that be done,
Its power is such that I could sink this isle,
And, with one stroke in air, undo the spells
Of his foul-brew'd enchantment.

Leon.
It is strange!
Methinks I wander in the Arabian tale,
And wear the enchanted ring.—This demon king—
Where is his castle where he harbors now?
I would behold him, and do battle for you.
I am a knight of Spain, well known in arms,
And wear the honors of the noblest courts,
Shining in Christendie.

Atal.
The arms you wield,
In fight with such as he, would nothing serve:
He deals in subtlest magic, and receives
Spells from gigantic spirits. 'Twas his power
Aroused the storm that overthrew your bark;
And now, on like employment bent, he speeds
Afar upon the ocean, with a host
Of most malignant followers in his train,
Rank for destruction. Could I get my wand,
In which a power of mightiest strength abides,
I'd battle him myself, and drive him back,
And whelm the barren isle which keeps us now!
Nay, more than this,—if that thy sister sleeps
Beneath the waters,—though I may not win
Her spirit back to life—with that same wand,
We both may penetrate the tumbling waves,
Without or hurt or harm,—with vision free,
To find her gentle beauties where they rest
On quiet beds of flowers beneath the deep.
There, with our magic art may we enwrap
Her fragile beauty in protecting spells,
That still her eyes shall shine as when in life,
Her cheeks still glow with love's own red,—her lips,
Though they no more with many a tone of joy,
Made soft by feeling, whisper in your ears,—
Still look the sweetness they have ever worn,
Keeping the wonted freshness that they knew,—
When first they grew to thine. This shall we do,
And more, that nothing that thy sense may seek
Shall lack to make her lovely.

Leon.
Gentle Queen,
If this be so,—do with me as thou wilt,—
I am thy slave,—thy slave!

Atal.
Rather I thine!
If thou wilt love me, this will I perform;
Nay, though thou love me not, I still will do it,
For love I have for thee.

Nea,
[aside.]
No more a Queen!
How doth she yield herself unto this power,
Forgetting her dominion.

Leon.
Gentle Princess,
Shall we not get possession of this wand?
Methinks that I could do 't. But let me hear;
Teach me the way!—I shall not fear to meet
This monster, though with magic panoplied
And all foul arts. Trust then the toil with me,
I am a soldier of the holy cross,
And do defy the fiend and all his works.

Atal.
'Tis a brave spirit, but here can little do,
Save to adventure.—This, indeed, is much!—
Magic must baffle magic. 'Tis for thee,
Still to procure this wand, which thou canst win,
When I have arm'd thee with some little power;
Thou being of earthly essence, with no fear
From contact with the all-infectious spell
Girdling the island round. Within yon rock,
That hangs precipitous above the deep—
That should be far beneath it—by him raised,
With sudden conjuration, at a word—
Seal'd in with spells, and in a curious vase,
Itself a spell, the treasure lies enshrined.
These charms, to me, were naught, could I but reach
The chambers where they lie; for, with this ring,
Which now upon thy hand I place from mine,
I may command all seals, and bid them break.
Onesimarch knows this, and trusts them not;
But placing an earthborn taint upon the air,
He doth restrain my footstep.

Leon.
Let me go—
I will achieve the adventure, or will die.

Atal.
Not yet—it were in vain that you would pass,
With your enfeebled strength, the threatening gulfs
Of leaping waters, that, between this isle,
And the high rocks you aim at, spread themselves.
We must seek other aid—and, what are these,
Auspiciously, that gather on the sands,
In the fine haze of moonlight?

Nea.
Fairy tribes,
That, sporting in the moonbeams, saw below
This new creation of Onesimarch,
And straight came down, still glad in what is new,
To keep their revels on it.

Leon,
[aside.]
Wonders grow,
Fruitful as things of nature.

Atal.
[To Nea.]
This is well;—
Meet to our purpose, at the needful hour,
When they might succor us. We must persuade
The aid and office they will scarce deny
To one who holds them of a kindred race,
Though of another element. Away!
Seek their chief, Nea. Show him all our strait,—
Declare our want, and for his service now,
Pledge our good office at another time.
We wait thee here. [Exit Nea.]
Alas! sweet youth, thou look'st
With such a sadness on me!

Leon.
Not on thee;—
'Tis on my fate I look!

Atal.
I am thy fate!
And thou wilt hate me for it! Oh! forgive!—
If I have won thee now against thy will,
To this wild venture, I do free thee from 't;—
I would not have my freedom, did it bring
A moment's grief to thee.

Leon.
Thou little know'st,
Sweet Princess, of the lessons of my youth,
The training of my people, and the laws
Which make it still our duty as our pride,
To stake the issues all, of life and death,—
All that we pleasure and can peril most,—
In cause of love and beauty. I rejoice
That it is mine to combat thy mishap.
This is a venture of my heart's own choice,
Too precious to be yielded,—and, forgive,—
But little know'st thou of Spain's chivalry,
When thou believest that its valor shrinks
From any odds with fortune. 'Tis with me
A pride to seek for peril; and we hold,
Taught in our schools of faith and courtesie,
That, to the soul, no life is worth a care,
Lock'd up from noble deeds, lapsing away
Like a scant brook, beneath a sunny sky,
Scarce murmuring as it wanders to be lost,
In the embrace of the o'erwhelming sea.

Atal.
Oh! noble, brave philosophy!

Leon.
We fight,
That insolence should meet check and overthrow,
The weak find succor, and the innocent
Be always sure of shelter from the base;—
And, when the peril is sought for one so fair,
Then do our masters teach us, it is one
On which the heavens look down approvingly
And the bright angels cheer.

Atal.
And yet thou griev'st;—
The sorrow grows to dews upon thy lids,
Even while thine eyes flash fire.

Leon.
My grief, alas!
Mark'd in my face, is from the wretched fear,
Now coursing through my brain, that she I seek,
The gentle girl, companion of my youth,
Bland as the moonlight, wooing as the shade,
And sweet as fairy music, deeply lies
Buried in these wild waters—never more,
To bless me with the music of her voice—
The magic of her smile—the calm delight
Of her not troublesome, devoted love!

Atal.
Oh! I have tears to share with thee for her!—
I may not give her back to thee, nor bid
The voice to that young lip, where, like a bird,
That had its life in music with the flowers,
It lapsed in long and loving melodies;
But I will toil in thy service, glad to be,
For thy bereavéd heart and fever'd brain,
Most like to her thou grievest. I will strive,
That thou shalt so esteem me. Not a tone,
Fashion'd by love's own mood, and most like hers,
But I shall teach my language;—not a look,
Worn by her gentlest features, but shall mine
Skilfully take from summer skies and flowers,
Requiting thy sad heart.

Leon.
Oh, sweetest maid—
Thy form is kindred to thy purposes,
And half restores me.

Atal.
All will I restore—
All thou hast lost,—and more. Believe me then—
And stay thy sorrows. I will all replace,
Of thy fond fancies, and, with love as true,
Coupled with better power to serve its hope,
I'll be to thee far more than she thou grievest,
Though her affection, from the innocent hour
Of thy confiding childhood and pure dreams,
Boundless as ocean, like the Mexique waves,
Knew but one course, and ever ran to thee.
Believe me, dearest, thou shalt nothing lose
Of the known raptures. Thou shalt many win,
Not in thy wealth before. Thou shalt not think,
Ere I shall know and satisfy thy thought.

Leon.
Too generous maid.

Atal.
And,—hear me, gentle prince!—
If to thy sleepless, striving memory,
There be some marks, some moods, some images,
Some sweet tone, some fond action, some dear song
Of childhood, or some innocent prank you've known
Together, roving amid natural bowers,—
Teach me the trick of it all;—teach me the tone,
The dear song, the fond action, the gay prank,
Known to thy happiest childhood;—show me the art,
That nothing may be wanting—that I may take
A presence like to hers upon thy sight,
And make thee rich again, possessing her.

Leon.
Thy words are queenliest, like thyself, sweet maid,
And balsam my deep wound,—if not to cure,
To soothe and stay its throbbing. Thou hast said,
In sweet tones, sweetest words, that soften much
The temper of my sorrows.

Atal.
I am glad,
To offer to thy aid, to chide thy grief,—

Leon.
Yet, for this sweet and undeservéd love,
If I look coldly, unbecomingly,—
As feeling not its ministry, nor yet,
Beholding my own lack that makes it dear—
Impute it not, I pray, a crime in me.
I am not cold because my hope is so,
Nor yet ungrateful that I do not joy;—
I shall learn better to requite thy love,
In warmest language, when the pang is gone
Of this sad trial—if it ever goes.

Atal.
What do they call thee?

Leon.
Leon is my name.

Atal.
I'll call thee Leon;—call me Atalant,—
Thy Atalant,—for shall I not be thine?
Ah me! no longer may I be mine own!

Leon.
Beautiful Atalant!—

Atal.
But here they come,
Nea, and with her all the tricksy tribe,
That ride on beams, and travel with the stars;
And sing in place of speech; and fly to walk;
Now here, now gone; garb'd cunningly with flowers,
They know to seem at pleasure; and still bless'd,
With that which were our sorrow—constant change.