University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

CATILINE;

A DRAMATIC POEM, IN FIVE ACTS.

CHARACTERS.

• Catiline.
• Cethegus.
• Lentulus.
• Cecina.
• Valerius.
• Cicero.
• Hamilcar, a Moorish Prince.
• Dumnorix, a Priest, Allobroge.
• Arminius, a Warrior, Allobroge.
• Aurelia, Catiline's Wife.
• Aspasia, a Greek Priestess, loved by Hamilcar.
• Senators, Patricians, Lictors, Priests, Soldiery, Minstrels, &c.

Scene—Rome, its Environs, and the Apennines. Time—Several Days.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Roman Street. A Group of Patricians conversing in front.
CETHEGUS, LENTULUS, ETC.
CETHEGUS
(speaking as he enters).
We loiter here. I come from Catiline,
To give you welcome in his name, and bid
The banquet wait no longer.

LENTULUS.
Has he won?

CETHEGUS.
My life upon't, we're masters of the field!
The people hung on every word he spoke,
As if he were no mortal; but a god,
Sent down in the declining age of Rome,
To teach it ancient glory.

LENTULUS.
'Tis told loftily—

CETHEGUS.
Envious as ever!—'Tis told honestly.
You should have seen him in the Campus Martius,—
In the tribunal,—shaking all the tribes
With mighty speech. His words seem'd oracles,
That pierced their bosoms; and each man would turn,
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face,
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him:
Then some would weep, some shout; some, deeper touch'd,
Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.
The evening came, yet there the people stood,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping, without a wave. You could have heard
The beating of your pulses while he spoke,—
But, when he ceased, the shout was like the roar
Of Ocean in the storm.

LENTULUS.
He lingers yet.
Delay looks ominous.

CETHEGUS.
As I left the plain
That smooth-tongued Cicero was in full harangue;
And, just before I reach'd the walls, I heard
The shouts again. The business must be done.
On, to the palace! On.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Banquet in Catiline's Palace. Couches along the sides. Statues of Jove, Juno, and Minerva, on Thrones at the extremity of the Hall. Singers and Slaves in the distance. The Guests, crowned with Chaplets of Roses and Myrtle, lying on the Couches. The Singers advance and chaunt.
CHORUS.

Catiline suddenly enters the Hall; the Guests shout, “The Consul!” He advances hastily and moodily to the front: they come from the Couches, and surround him; he flings himself into a Chair.
CATILINE.
Are there not times, Patricians! when great states
Rush to their ruin? Rome is no more like Rome,
Than a foul dungeon's like the glorious sky.
What is she now? Degenerate, gross, defiled;
The tainted haunt, the gorged receptacle
Of every slave and vagabond of earth:
A mighty grave, that luxury has dug,
To rid the other realms of pestilence;
And, of the mountain of corruption there,
Which once was human beings, procreate
A buzzing, fluttering swarm; or venom tooth'd,
A viper brood: insects and reptiles only!

[The group draw back in surprise.
CETHEGUS.
We wait to hail you Consul.

LENTULUS
(aside.)
He's undone!

CATILINE.
Consul! Look on me—on this brow—these hands;
Look on this bosom, black with early wounds:
Have I not served the state from boyhood up,
Scatter'd my blood for her, labour'd for, loved her?
I had no chance; wherefore should I be Consul?

LENTULUS.
So: Cicero still is master of the crowd?

CATILINE.
Why not? He's made for them, and they for him:
They want a sycophant, and he wants slaves.
Well, let him have them;—think no more on't, friends.
The wine there! (calls).
—If our tree is stript in Rome,
May it not branch elsewhere? Give me a cup:—
Here's to old Teucer's memory!

CETHEGUS
(starting forward with a cup)
Here, I pledge
Coriolanus!

CATILINE.
No! my hasty friend!
Old Teucer!—He, that, when his country's fields
Could find no room for him, let loose his sail
To the first wind; pitch'd his enfranchised tent
On the first desert shore, and drank his cup
As cheerfully upon the pebbled sand,
As in the sculptured halls of Telamon!
Has not the hymn begun? To supper, friends! [With sudden emotion.

Patricians! they have push'd me to the gulf;
I have worn down my heart, wasted my means,
Humbled my birth, barter'd my ancient name,
For the rank favour of the senseless mass
That frets and festers in your commonwealth:
Ay, stalk'd with bended head and out-stretch'd hand,
Smiling on this slave, and embracing that,
Doing the candidate's whole drudgery.

LENTULUS.
Proud Catiline! (aside).
—'Tis but the way with all.

CATILINE
(turning on him).
What is 't to me, if all have stoop'd in turn?
Does fellowship in chains make bondage proud?
Does the plague lose its venom, if it taint
My brother with myself? Is 't victory,
If I but find, stretch'd by my bleeding side,
All who came with me in the golden morn,
And shouted as my banner met the sun?
I cannot think on't.—There's no faith in earth!
The very men with whom I walk'd through life,
Nay, till within this hour, in all the bonds
Of courtesy and high companionship,
They all deserted me; Metellus, Scipio,
Emilius, Cato, even my kinsman Cæsar,—
All the chief names and senators of Rome,
This day, as if the Heavens had stamp'd me black,
Turn'd on their heel, just at the point of fate,
Left me a mockery, in the rabble's midst,
And followed their plebeian consul, Cicero!

CETHEGUS.
Nay, Catiline, you take this chance defeat
Too heavily; you'll have 't another year.

CATILINE.
No! I have run my course. Another year!
Why taunt me, sir? No—if their curule chair,
Sceptre, and robe, and all their mummery,
Their whole embodied consulate, were flung,
Here, at my feet,—and all assembled Rome
Knelt to me, but to stretch my finger out,
And pluck them from the dust,—I'd scorn them all.—
This was the day to which I look'd through life;
And it has fail'd me—vanish'd from my grasp,
Like air.
I must not throw the honourable stake,
That, won, is worth the world,—is glory, life;
But, like a beaten slave, must stand aloof,
While others sweep the board!

CETHEGUS.
A year is nothing.

CATILINE.
'Tis fix'd!—Past talking now!—By Tartarus!
From this curst day I seek and sue no more:
If there be suing, it shall be by those
Who have awoke the fever in my veins.
No matter!—Nobles, when we deign to kneel,
We should be trampled on. Sinews and swords,—
They're the true canvassers:—The time may come!—
Never for me!—My name 's extinguished—dead—
Roman no more,—the rabble of the streets
Have seen me humbled,—slaves may gibe at me.

LENTULUS.
Then Cicero's victor.

CETHEGUS
(repelling him).
Let him rest.—Away!

CATILINE
(musing).
Crime may be clear'd, and sorrow's eyes be dried;
The lowliest poverty be gilded yet;
The neck of airless, pale imprisonment
Be lighten'd of its chains! For all the ills
That chance or nature lays upon our heads,
In chance or nature there is found a cure:
But self-abasement is beyond all cure!
The brand is there, burn'd in the living flesh,
That bears its mark to the grave:—That dagger's plunged
Into the central pulses of the heart;
The act is the mind's suicide, for which
There is no after-health—no hope—no pardon!—
My day is done. What stops the feast?—Come on.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Grove.—Moonlight.
Hamilcar, alone; he enters abruptly and perturbed.
HAMILCAR.
[He listens.

[Cethegus comes in.
CETHEGUS.
Ho! prince of darkness—emperor of the Nile—
Star-gazer!—you are welcome to them all;—
Rome is no place for you! put on your wings,
And perch upon the moon! You left us all
Just in our glory.

HAMILCAR.
'Twas a noble set!

CETHEGUS.
Rome has none better;—all patrician blood,
Glowing with Cyprus' wine,—wild as young stags—
Bold as bay'd boars—haughty as battle steeds—
Keen as flesh'd hounds—fire-eyed as mounting hawks—

HAMILCAR.
'Twill be a glorious day that lets them soar.
How was 't with Catiline?

CETHEGUS.
He seem'd to feel
The fiercest joy of all; pledged Heaven and Earth
In brimming goblets; talk'd a round of things,
Lofty and rambling as an ecstacy;
Laugh'd, till his very laughter check'd our mirth,
And all gazed on him; then, as if surprised,
Marking the silence, mutter'd some excuse,
And sank in reverie; then, wild again,
Talk'd, drank, and laugh'd—the first of Bacchanals!

HAMILCAR.
That looks like madness (aside).
He has been abused:
The consulate was his by right.

CETHEGUS.
By right;
Ay, or by wrong!—had I been Catiline,
I should have knock'd out Cicero's brains.

HAMILCAR
(advancing to him).
Speak low;
The trees in Rome are spies. It may be done.—
The great Patricians hate him, though some few
Lacquey his steps. Were Catiline but roused
To draw the sword, this talker would be left
Bare as his pedigree.

CETHEGUS
(in surprise).
Raise war in Rome?

HAMILCAR.
No,—but take down the consul's haughtiness;
Make the Patricians what they ought to be,
Rome's masters; and restore the forfeitures
Now in plebeian hands.

CETHEGUS.
Show me but that;
And I am his, or your's, or any man's.
My fortune's on my back; the usurers
Have my last acre in their harpy hands.

HAMILCAR.
You must have Catiline, for he has all
That makes such causes thrive—a mighty name,
One that the youth will cling to; a bold tongue—
A bolder heart—a soldier's skill in arms—
A towering and deep-rooted strength of soul,
That, like the oak, may shake in summer's wind,
But, stript by winter, stands immoveable.

CETHEGUS.
He's a tried soldier.

HAMILCAR.
A most gallant one!

CETHEGUS.
You've seen him in the field?

HAMILCAR.
Ay, fifty times,—
I'the thickest fight; where all was blood and steel;
Plunging through steeds unrider'd, gory men
Mad with their wounds, through lances thick as hail,
As if he took the ranks for idle waves!
Now seen, the battle's wonder; now below,
Mowing his desperate way, till, with wild shrieks,
The throng roll'd back, and Catiline sprang out,
Red from the greaves to the helm.

CETHEGUS.
He shall be ours!
Then, Rome is full of mal-contents; the land
Cumber'd with remnants of the war; the slaves
Will crowd to his first call; then, in his house
He has the banner that the Marian troops
Still worship like a god;—but he will call
The act conspiracy.

HAMILCAR.
Jove save us all!

CETHEGUS.
How now, Hamilcar?

HAMILCAR
(going).
Fare you well, my lord. [He suddenly returns.

Conspiracy! Is not the man undone?
All over bankrupt, broken right and left—
Within this week he'll be without a rood,
A roof, a bed, a robe, a meal to eat!
Conspiracy! He's levell'd;—on the earth!
His last denarius hung upon this day,
And now you have him. This day has dissolved
His last allegiance. Go—you'll find him now
Tormented, like the hound that bays the moon,
Foaming to see the pomp beyond his reach.

CETHEGUS.
He has forsworn the world!

HAMILCAR.
'Tis laughable!

CETHEGUS.
If he draw back!

HAMILCAR.
Draw back! You'll find him flame.
Go to the banquet, ere they all break up;
Yet, should he chill,—provoke him—stir dispute—
Seize on his hasty word. The revellers there
Will take it for command; and thus his name
Be mix'd with tumult, till the lion snared
Is forced to battle.

CETHEGUS.
Then, to Catiline!
I may be king or consul yet.

HAMILCAR.
Away!

[Cethegus goes.
HAMILCAR.
[Draws his dagger.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

A Street: the Portal of Cicero's Palace at one Side. A Crowd of Patricians from the Banquet, with Garlands on their Heads, and Torches and Swords in their Hands, rush in tumultuously, led by Cethegus. They stop and gather round him as he addresses them.
FIRST PATRICIAN.
Silence!

CETHEGUS.
Roman youth!

SECOND PATRICIAN
(keeping back the crowd).
Gallant Cethegus speaks—

CETHEGUS.
Patricians! Shall the tale be told in Rome,
That upstarts should engross the consulate?

FIRST PATRICIAN.
By Romulus! it is a common shame
To every nobleman!

CETHEGUS.
Who's Cicero?
A peasant; an Arpinian. No man knows
This Consul's grandfather. A talking slave,
That makes his bread by squabbles in the courts.

SECOND PATRICIAN.
A dastard! that wears armour in the streets,
To make the rabble roar for him.

CETHEGUS.
Come on!
Yonder's the upstart's house. There's not a rogue
That rubs our horses' heels, or sweeps our gates,
But may be consul now. There's not a year,
But some base Sabine, or Apulian clown,
Will beard us at the elections. All he wants
Is cunning, and low flattery of the tribes,
To seize the fasces.

THIRD PATRICIAN.
We must have him down.

FOURTH PATRICIAN.
We'll fire the house, and give the orator,
More than his father had, a funeral pile.

CETHEGUS.
Now to your work, Patricians! If his guards—

SECOND PATRICIAN
(recoiling).
Troops in the house?

CETHEGUS.
Ay—lictors, Greeks, and slaves!
We'll storm his garrison; we'll make him show
His generalship!

THIRD PATRICIAN
(laughing).
He was a general once.

FIRST PATRICIAN.
Ay, in Cilicia; where he swears he fought—

CETHEGUS.
The highwaymen! [Shouts and laughing.

Now strike—for Catiline!

[They rush within the Gates. The Scene closes.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

THE SECOND DAY.
An Apartment in Catiline's Palace. He enters, reading a Letter, and perturbed.
CATILINE.
(Reads)

“Noble Catiline! where you tread, the earth is hollow, though it gives no sound. There is a storm gathering, though there are no clouds in the sky. Rome is desperate; three hundred Patricians have sworn to do their duty; and what three hundred have sworn, thirty thousand will make good.”

(Reads)

“You have been betrayed by the Senate, betrayed by the Consuls, and betrayed by the people. You are a Roman, can you suffer chains? You are a soldier, can you submit to shame? You are a man; will you be ruined, trampled on, disdained?”

[Flinging away the paper.
[He puts up the poniard.

[Aurelia enters with papers.
AURELIA.
What answer's for this pile of bills, my lord?

CATILINE.
Who can have sent them here?

AURELIA.
Your creditors!
As if some demon woke them all at once,
These have been crowding on me since the morn.
Here, Caius Curtius claims the prompt discharge
Of his half million sesterces; besides
The interest on your bond, ten thousand more.
Six thousand for your Tyrian canopy;
Here, for your Persian horses—your Trireme:
Here, debt on debt. Will you discharge them now?

CATILINE.
I'll think on it.

AURELIA.
It must be now; this day!
Or, by to-morrow, we shall have no home.

CATILINE.
'Twill soon be all the same.

AURELIA.
We are undone!
My gold, my father's presents, jewels, rings—
All, to the baubles on my neck, are gone.
The consulship might have upheld us still;
But now,—we must go down.

CATILINE.
Aurelia!—wife!
All will be well; but hear me—stay—a little;
I had intended to consult with you—
On—our departure—from—the city.

AURELIA
(indignantly and surprised.)
Rome?

CATILINE.
Even so, fair wife! even so: we must leave Rome.

AURELIA.
Let me look on you; are you Catiline?

CATILINE.
I know not what I am,—we must begone!

AURELIA.
Madness!

CATILINE
(wildly.)
Not yet—not yet!

AURELIA.
Let them take all?

CATILINE.
The gods will have it so!

AURELIA.
Seize on your house?

CATILINE.
Seize my last sesterce! Let them have their will.
We must endure. Ay, ransack—ruin all;
Tear up my father's grave,—tear out my heart.
Wife! the world's wide,—Can we not dig or beg?
Can we not find on earth a den, or tomb?

AURELIA.
Before I stir, they shall hew off my hands.

CATILINE.
What's to be done?

AURELIA.
Hear me, Lord Catiline:
The day we wedded.—'Tis but three short years!
You were the first patrician here,—and I—
Was Marius' daughter! There was not in Rome
An eye, however haughty, but would sink
When I turn'd on it: when I pass'd the streets
My chariot wheel was followed by a host
Of your chief senators; as if their gaze
Beheld an empress on its golden round;
An earthly providence!

CATILINE.
'Twas so!—'t was so!
But it is vanish'd—gone.

AURELIA.
By you bright Sun!
That day shall come again; or, in its place,
One that shall be an era to the world!

CATILINE.
What's in your thoughts?

[Eagerly.
AURELIA.
Our high and hurried life
Has left us strangers to each other's souls:
But now we think alike. You have a sword;
Have had a famous name i'the legions!

CATILINE.
Hush!

AURELIA.
Have the walls ears? Great Jove! I wish they had;
And tongues too, to bear witness to my oath,
And tell it to all Rome.

CATILINE.
Would you destroy?

AURELIA.

CATILINE.
It will not come to this.

[Shrinking.
AURELIA
(haughtily).
Shall we be dragg'd,
A show to all the city rabble;—robb'd,—
Down to the very mantle on our backs,—
A pair of branded beggars! Doubtless Cicero—

CATILINE.
Cursed be the ground he treads! Name him no more.

AURELIA.
Doubtless he 'll see us to the city gates;
'Twill be the least respect that he can pay
To his fallen rival. Do you hear, my lord?
Deaf as the rock (aside).
With all his lictors shouting,
“Room for the noble vagrants; all caps off
For Catiline! for him that would be Consul.”

CATILINE
(turning away).
Thus to be, like the scorpion, ring'd with fire,
Till I sting mine own heart! (aside.)
There is no hope!

AURELIA.
One hope there is, worth all the rest—Revenge!
The time is harass'd, poor, and discontent;
Your spirit practised, keen, and desperate,—
The senate full of feuds,—the city vext
With petty tyranny,—the legions wrong'd—

CATILINE
(scornfully).
Yet, who has stirr'd? Woman, you paint the air
With Passion's pencil.

AURELIA.
Were my will a sword!

CATILINE.
Hear me, bold heart! The whole gross blood of Rome
Could not atone my wrongs! I'm soul-shrunk, sick,
Weary of man! And now my mind is fix'd
For Lybia: there to make companionship
Rather of bear and tiger,—of the snake,—
The lion in his hunger,—than of man!

AURELIA.
I had a father once, who would have plunged
Rome in the Tiber for an angry look!
You saw our entrance from the Gaulish war,
When Sylla fled?

CATILINE.
My legion was in Spain.

AURELIA.
We swept through Italy, a flood of fire,
A living lava, rolling straight on Rome.
For days, before we reach'd it, the whole road
Was throng'd with suppliants—tribunes, consulars;
The mightiest names o'the state. Could gold have bribed,
We might have pitch'd our tents, and slept on gold.
But we had work to do:—Our swords were thirsty.
We enter'd Rome, as conquerors, in arms;
I by my father's side, cuirass'd and helm'd,
Bellona beside Mars.

CATILINE
(with coldness).
The world was yours!

AURELIA.
Rome was all eyes; the ancient totter'd forth;
The cripple propp'd his limbs beside the wall;
The dying left his bed to look, and die.
The way before us was a sea of heads;
The way behind a torrent of brown spears:
So, on we rode, in fierce and funeral pomp,
Through the long, living streets, that sank in gloom,
As we, like Pluto and Proserpina,
Enthroned, rode on—like twofold destiny!

CATILINE
(sternly—interrupting her).
Those triumphs are but gewgaws. All the earth,
What is it? Dust and smoke. I've done with life!

AURELIA
(coming closer, and looking steadily upon him).
Before that eve—one hundred senators—
And fifteen hundred knights, had paid—in blood,
The price of taunts, and treachery, and rebellion!
Were my tongue thunder—I would cry, Revenge!

CATILINE
(in sudden wildness).
No more of this! In, to your chamber, wife!
There is a whirling lightness in my brain,
That will not now bear questioning.—Away! [As Aurelia moves slowly towards the door.

Where are our veterans now? Look on these walls;
I cannot turn their tissues into life.
Where are our revenues—our chosen friends?
Are we not beggars? Where have beggars friends?
I see no swords and bucklers on these floors!
I shake the state! I—What have I on earth
But these two hands? Must I not dig or starve?—
Come back! I had forgot. My memory dies,
I think, by the hour. Who sups with us to-night?
Let all be of the rarest,—spare no cost.—
If 'tis our last;—it may be—let us sink
In sumptuous ruin, with wonderers round us, wife!
Our funeral pile shall send up amber smokes;
We'll burn in myrrh, or—blood! [She goes.

I feel a nameless pressure on my brow,
As if the heavens were thick with sudden gloom;
A shapeless consciousness, as if some blow
Were hanging o'er my head. They say, such thoughts
Partake of prophecy. [He stands at the casement.

This air is living sweetness. Golden sun,
Shall I be like thee yet? The clouds have past—
And, like some mighty victor, he returns
To his red city in the west, that now
Spreads all her gates, and lights her torches up,
In triumph for her glorious conqueror.

(Hamilcar enters hastily.)
HAMILCAR.
Do I disturb you? 'Tis the morning's talk,
That some of those who supp'd with you last night
Have been arrested.

CATILINE
(with anger).
And by whom?

HAMILCAR.
The consul!
'Tis said, Cethegus headed an attack
On Cicero's house: his slaves were on the watch,
The rioters seized; and now the rumour goes
That bills of treason will be moved to-day
Against them in the Senate.

CATILINE.
They were rash—
But must be saved.

HAMILCAR.
I think some mighty change—
Some general shaking of the commonwealth,
Is not far off.

CATILINE.
It cannot come too soon.

HAMILCAR.
The heavens and earth are full of prodigies.—
Rome shrinks.—Of late no victim has been slain,
But its blood quench'd the altar. Romulus' wolf
Last night was struck by lightning. Thunderbolts
Have fallen on many temples. Heavy gore
Drops from Jove's statue in the Capitol.

CATILINE
(coldly).
Your wonders are but chance.

HAMILCAR.
Chance can do nothing. There's no turn of earth;
No—not the blowing of the summer wind,
Or the unstable sailing of a cloud,
Much more the destiny of mighty states,—
But hath a will that orders it.

CATILINE.
Let time tell.
Your brain is always rich in fantasies;
Your birth has done it—not the restless time;
The spirit of your fiery land of spells
Is colouring the common things of life
Into mysterious splendour.

HAMILCAR.
And I dream!
All Rome has seen the comet risen by Mars.

CATILINE
(anxiously).
What is't to me?—Yet I have had my dreams.—
Last night I could not rest: the chamber's heat,
Or some wild thoughts—the folly of the day—
Banish'd my sleep:—So, in the garden air,
I gazed upon the comet, that then shone
In midnight glory, dimming all the stars.
At once a crimson blaze, that made it pale,
Flooded the north. I turn'd, and saw, in heaven,
Two mighty armies! From the zenith star,
Down to the earth, legions in line and orb,
Squadron and square, like earthly marshalry.
Anon, as if a sudden trumpet spoke,
Banners of gold and purple were flung out;
Fire-crested leaders swept along the lines;
And both the gorgeous depths, like meeting seas,
Roll'd to wild battle. Then, they breathed awhile,
Leaving the space between a sheet of gore,
Strew'd with torn standards, corpses, and crash'd spears.
But soon upon the horizon's belt uprose,
Moon-like, or richer,—like the rising morn,
A bulwark'd city.

HAMILCAR
(eagerly).
Rome?

CATILINE.
Valerius enters with Papers; Catiline, startled, turns round, exclaiming—

VALERIUS.
Letters from Caius Manlius.

[He gives despatches.
HAMILCAR
(aside).
Now, temptation!

CATILINE.
What do I see?

(Reads)

“We have heard of the comitia:—Come to us, and be once more a hero;—we have ten thousand veterans;—a day's march, and an hour's fighting, will punish your enemies—save your friends—turn the Senate into ciphers— and make you—dictator!”

HAMILCAR
(aside).
That's to his heart's core.

CATILINE
(musing).
To be clear'd at once,—
To taunt the taunter,—lay the proud in the dust,—
To show the fools the man they have disdain'd!—

VALERIUS
(to HAMILCAR).
The tidings seem to stir him.

HAMILCAR
(turning to CATILINE).
Why, my lord,
Your brow grows cloudy, and you clench your hand,
As if it held your spear.

CATILINE
(perturbed).
The news is sudden.

HAMILCAR.
Were you not born in the Calends?

CATILINE
(gloomily).
Well?

HAMILCAR.
Last night
I pass'd an hour upon the battlements;
Mars glow'd in the horizon—Jove sat high
In zenith splendour. Right between their orbs,
The comet, i'the meridian, reign'd over heaven.

CATILINE
(eagerly).
Sign of a leader at his army's head?

HAMILCAR.
Sign of a king! Just then the second watch
Rang from the trumpets in the Capitol.

CATILINE
(aside).
My natal hour!

HAMILCAR.
I drew the horoscope;
The circle of the trine, from Mars to Jove,
Enclosed a throne—but to be won by war!

CATILINE
(musing).
Can the Heavens lie?

HAMILCAR
(loftily).
Summon your augurs—your astrologers—
Your Chaldee men of vision—that for years
Sit on their Babylonish temple tops,
And read no book but the eternal sky.—
Not one of them dares cope, this hour, with me.

CATILINE
(in astonishment).
Hamilcar!

HAMILCAR.
Ay—the African!—the slave!
You knew him not the master of the spells,
That shake the earth's foundations!

CATILINE
(drawing back in surprise).
A magician!

HAMILCAR.
In my own land, and hunting through the hills,
I've sat, from eve to sunrise, in the caves
Of Atlas, circled by the enchanters' fires,
And mingled with them;—men who yearly came,
By compact, to hold solemn festival:—
Some riding fiery dragons,—some on shafts
Of the sunn'd topaz,—some on ostrich plumes,
Or wond'rous cars, that press'd the subtle air
No heavier than its clouds,—some in swift barks,
That lit the Lybian sea through night and storm,
Like winged volcanoes. From all zones of the earth—
From the mysterious fountains of the Nile—
Gold-sanded Niger—India's diamond shore—
From silken China,—from the Spicy Isles,
Like urns of incense set i'the purple sea
By Taprobane.

CATILINE.
Conclave of guilt and power!
Could they fear mortal man?

HAMILCAR.
They honour'd me;
For in my veins they saw the ancient blood
Of mighty necromancers, Afric's kings;
And took delight in showing me their spells,
Immortal essences, amalgams, seals,
Strong talismans, that keep the Egyptian's gold
Shrin'd in the pyramids;—the Brahmin signs,
The mystic Ten, that measure ocean's sands,
The forest leaves, and stars;—the arrowy words,
That guard the slumbers of the genie king
Beneath Persepolis;—all powers of gems!

CATILINE
(strongly agitated).
[Grasping his hand.

HAMILCAR
(loftily).
Years cannot touch those mysteries. I could now
Arch this high hall with fire, or sudden blood;
Cover your floors with vipers. I have power
To summon shrinking spirits from the grave;
To bring the hungry lion from his spoil;
To make the serpent worship at my feet;
To fling th'eclipse's mantle round the moon,
Turning her light to blood; nay, bind a spell
So strong upon the fountains of the air,
That all the stars should sicken, and, unsphered,
Throw night into confusion,—or foretell,
In blazonry like day, the fate of those
Who grasp at empire!

[Fixing his eyes on Catiline.
CATILINE
(gloomily).
I dare ask no sign
That's wrought by necromancy.

HAMILCAR.
I dare work
No sign, if you dared ask it—while I'm here,
A hostage. 'Tis our magic's first, great law,
That none shall wield its wonders but the free.

CATILINE
(musing).
Here's glory, power, ambition's godlike thirst,
Slaked to the full. Then, on the other side,
Exile and foul defeat; a traitor's grave;
Slaughters and scaffolds of my trusting friends.
Oh! for a thunderpeal to right or left,
That I might toss no more upon the rack
Of this uncertainty.

Aurelia enters hastily.
AURELIA.
I have brought tidings for you! Civil war!

CATILINE
(eagerly).
Has it broke out?

AURELIA.
Beside us!

HAMILCAR
(aside).
Tartarus, hear!

AURELIA.
'Tis but this moment the Proconsul Curtius
Has pass'd our porch, borne on his soldiers' necks,
Wounded to death.

CATILINE.
How,—when,—where was 't?

AURELIA.
At Ostia!
An army of disbanded veterans
Last night tore down the gates, and set the fleet
In flames.

CATILINE.
What more—what more?

AURELIA.
The cavalry,
That fled with Curtius, brought a rebel flag;
Your name was on't.

CATILINE.
'Tis destiny!

[Noise without.
HAMILCAR.
It thunders!

AURELIA.
No; you hear the people's shouts!
Rome is all uproar. All the magistrates
Have just been summon'd to the Capitol;
The knights, half arm'd, are hurrying to the walls;
The people at the corners stand in groupes,
Outlying each his fellow,—full of news,
Visions, strange treasons, fearful prodigies,
Till all grow pale and silent with their fear:
Then rides some courier clattering through the streets,
With his spur buried in his panting horse,
And breaks their trance with his swift-utter'd tale.
You'd think another Hannibal was come,
After another Cannæ.

CATILINE
(musing).
Thanks! ye Gods!

AURELIA
(scornfully).
He goes to pray on 't.—Rise, lord Catiline!
Have you been drinking Lethe?

[Shouts without.
HAMILCAR
(aside).
Ay—howl on,
Ye Roman dogs:—Rebellion's in that roar!

CATILINE.
I heard a funeral trumpet, if my ears
Are not bewilder'd.—Hark! it sounds again!

Cecina enters in a military robe.
CATILINE
(hastily turning and approaching him).
Who's this? Cecina! welcome!—what's the news?
Has there been battle? Is the sword unsheath'd?

CECINA.
I come, to tell the Senate that the slaves
Have risen through all Apulia, and are now
Marching to Rome: I fought my way through them.

HAMILCAR
(aside).
The wind is rising; we shall see the storm!

CATILINE.
This is like news! The slaves in arms! To Rome!
This will breed blows! 'Twill try the Senate's brains.
Let their new consuls look to 't. (A trumpet).
Hark! again?
What Roman has bid farewell to the world?

CECINA.
Bear up this grief, my lord, like all the rest.
Your son—

CATILINE.
Sulpicius!

CECINA.
Has been basely slain!

CATILINE.
Great Jove!

[He hides his face in his robe.
CECINA.
The prætor's guards at Baiæ sack'd your house,—
He died upon the threshold: I have brought
His body here, with honour, as becomes
A brave man's memory.

CATILINE
(turning away).
Let the corse come in. [The body is brought in on a bier, carried by soldiers, Catiline rushes over to it.

Cecina, who did this? I'll have revenge!
Villains and murderers! What's the good of life,
If we but live to look upon such sights?
There lies the hope of all my fathers' line!
Our race extinguish'd!—Here's a gaping wound,—
So wide—his life fled through it!—Cicero!
Could you not spare?—Good friends; I'm sick at heart—
This blow has wither'd me. The world's a dream—
Your poniard, sir! (to Cecina.)
My grave must be that bier.

[He flings himself on the body. Lentulus enters.
LENTULUS.
My lord, prepare yourself! A multitude
Are coming to your house,—are in your porch,—
Led by a herald, who, by sound of trumpet,
Is now proclaiming Cicero Supreme—

HAMILCAR.
Dictator! There's the blow! All's lost in Rome!

AURELIA.
In Rome!—But, is the world contain'd in Rome?
Let me be once beyond the walls—I'll find—

CATILINE
(lifting his head from the bier feebly.)
Exiles and slaves!

AURELIA
(with ardour.)
I say, a host of friends,—
Tried hearts, of the true mould for victory:
They swam through blood for Marius,—and for you
They'd rush through fire, were you but—Catiline!

VALERIUS
(and the others approaching him.)
Our troops are in the field,—Mars might be proud
To leave his throne, and be their general!

HAMILCAR.
There are brave friends in Rome!

AURELIA.
He will not hear!

CATILINE
(faintly).
Psha! Masquers, dancers, dicers,—fitting hands
To play the iron soldier! Here's my hope—
My tree cut down. Why struggle for a name,
That, when I perish, perishes! Pale boy!
My health, wealth, heart, my life are on thy bier!

[He falls on the body.
HAMILCAR.
Rome summons you!

AURELIA.
Arise! must we be brain'd
While you lie dreaming there?—Ho! Catiline!
Disgrace is on you,—danger by your side,
Like a chain'd wolf, devouring with his eyes,
Before he's loosed to tear you.

LENTULUS
(approaching him).
He will die.

HAMILCAR
(vehemently).
The new dictator's calling for our heads,—
The lictors are afoot,—the block is ready!

[A knocking is heard, with clamours, and trumpets; the doors are flung open, and a herald enters with soldiery.]
The Herald reads:—

“Lucius Sergius Catiline; by command of the dictator, you are summoned to the temple of Jupiter Stator, at the second hour of the night, to answer solemnly before the Senate to attempts on his life, and other manifold treasons against the majesty of Rome.”

[He retires with the crowd. [Catiline, who had raised himself from the Bier while the Herald read; now advances to a Shrine in the extremity of the Hall, and brings out a legionary Eagle, covered with a black veil. He speaks in a wild and solemn tone.]
CATILINE.
Look, Romans, on this sign, and worship it!
If ever parted spirit walk'd the earth,
Haunting the treasure that it loved in life,
We stand this hour in presence of a thing,
That, bodied to our senses, would let loose
Our strength like water—strike our eyes with night—
Fill the hot brain with the unwholesome thoughts
That shake the reason.—This was Marius' gift!
Given by its master on his dying bed;
A nobler legacy than if his hand
Had shower'd down gold. But 't was upon my oath
Never to lift it in a Roman field.

AURELIA.
You dare not lift it.

CATILINE.
No; for th'ungrateful Rome,
That he had saved. Yet, if I stood in arms
Against her, then but strip this mystery— [He uncovers the eagle.

And the immortal spirit from his throne
Should follow it through battle—till the sword
Had done its work; and helms, on bloody brows,
Were changed for diadems.

HAMILCAR.
Let me adore
The talisman!

[He bends before it.
CATILINE.
Its equal's not on earth!
The metal fell from Heaven in thunder-peals;
'Twas temper'd in strange fire of warriors' bones;
Then shaped, at shuddering midnight, to wild songs,
That made the yawning earth give up her ghosts,
Mix'd with the unhallow'd spirits, that all day
Had toss'd on beds of adamant and fire.

AURELIA.
Let me see spears; leave magic to its fools.

CATILINE.
'Tis spear and shield. When Scipio was repulsed
Before Numantia, Marius, yet a boy,
With but this banner in his bold right hand,
Mounted the breach, and closed the war at once.
When the wild Teutons butchered Cæpio's legions,
He rear'd this banner, till his Roman knights
Dropp'd on their horses' necks, through weariness
Of making corpses. When the Cimbri came,
Reckon'd by hundred thousands, and Rome shrank,
As in the shadow of a thunder cloud;
He rear'd this banner. From that battle's blood
New rivers sprang; the ancient streams were chok'd
With German carnage. Through a winter's nights
Night was like day with piles of burning dead,
Waggons and shatter'd arms, barbaric spoils!
Dissensions rose in Rome; this eagle's wing
Blazed o'er his helmet, and her mightiest swords
Were edgeless in that mystic blaze. He died—
But not till he was master of the world!

HAMILCAR.
I met the chieftains of the Allobroges
To-day in the Forum;—brimful of complaints
Against the Senate's justice.

AURELIA
(with eagerness).
They have troops!—

CATILINE.
And gallant ones. I led them once in Spain.

HAMILCAR.
They talk half rebel, and leave Rome to-night.

CATILINE.
I'll see them first.

AURELIA.
The senate meet to-night,
If you go there, you're lost.

CATILINE
(loftily).
And have I borne
The brunt of Parthian bows and Spanish pikes?
O'er half the world shook hands with grim-faced death,
To shrink before some dozen bearded fools?
By Mars! I'll meet those doting senators,
Aye; stand within their prostrate ring, like one,
More god than man,—that, walking through the storm,
Had homage of the lightnings,—stood unblench'd,—
Arm'd only in his grandeur. I will meet them.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Temple of the Allobroges.
DUMNORIX, ARMINIUS, ETC.
A Cavern: in the Centre an Altar, with Incense, beneath the Statue of a Barbarian Goddess; a golden Axe and Helmet on the Altar; a curtained Recess in the Distance. Gaulish Priests standing before the Altar, with Warriors. They chaunt:—
DUMNORIX.
Break off; I hear a stranger's foot.

ARMINIUS
(goes to the gate and calls).
Who comes?

CATILINE
(without).
A friend to Gaul.

[He enters, with his robe on his face, and advances to the altar. He uncovers his face.
DUMNORIX
(startled).
He is a Roman!

[The warriors surround him.
ARMINIUS to CATILINE
(haughtily).
If you come to share
Our worship, welcome; but if you would act
The spy, you perish. No!—take back your news,
And tell your lords that we are still their slaves,
And meek as ever.

CATILINE.
I have come for both—
And yet for neither. I would join your rites,
If they're for liberty! and I would spy
What clay the hearts are of, that live in chains.

DUMNORIX.
Stranger, those words are dangerous! We are here
Sent by our nation with the annual gifts
To Rome, and to this temple; not to talk
Of things above our wisdom.

ARMINIUS
(eagerly).
Let him speak!
Words are not spears. Who are you?

[To Catiline.
CATILINE.
I'm a man!
And, therefore, I can feel for fellow men.
What would you give for freedom?

ARMINIUS.
Death or life!

CATILINE
(ardently).
For freedom, if it stood before your eyes;
For freedom, if it rush'd to your embrace;
For freedom, if its sword were ready drawn
To hew your chains off?

DUMNORIX.
We must hear no more!
Roman, we are free.—

CATILINE.
Free! and ye stand in Rome!
Free! and ye bring her tribute. Men of Gaul,
I know you to be brave—in honour keen;
Taking no slight, but to be paid in blood!—
And then must I be told, that—when the whips
Of tyranny are ringing on your back;
When you are taunted, beggar'd, buffeted,—
Trampled like dogs; like dogs you'd lick the foot
That tramples you? No! by the avenging Mars!
I know that you are groaning in your souls
Over your abject country. Where's your name?
Swallow'd in Rome! Your land its wanton prey;
Your throne its footstool; your old hallow'd laws
The jest of Roman prætors. Nay; your gods
Are none of yours! This image is Rome's spoil. [Pointing to the statue.

Dragg'd from your capital; yet ye are free!

ARMINIUS.
He speaks the truth. Sir, we are beaten slaves;
Mere tribute-payers; cumberers of the earth;
Cradled in fetters; bred and buried in them.
I heard a Roman say so once.

CATILINE.
And you—
Let him escape?

ARMINIUS.
Why, ay!—into his grave!
I drove a bondsman's dagger through his throat.

CATILINE.
Soldier, your hand! a hundred such as you
Would give an empire freedom! Will you strike?

ARMINIUS.
This is brave speech!

DUMNORIX.
Yet, stranger, where's your pledge?
We are beset with spies.

ARMINIUS
(advancing to him).
Who are you?

CATILINE.
Catiline!

[They start back and gaze on him.
DUMNORIX.
The great patrician!

CATILINE.
Yes; an hour ago—
But now the rebel! Rome's eternal foe!
And your sworn friend! My desperate wrong's my pledge.
There's not in Rome,—no—not upon the earth,
A man so wrong'd. The very ground I tread
Is grudged me. Chieftains! ere the moon be down
My lands will be the senate's spoil; my life
The mark of the first villain that will stab
For lucre. But their time's at hand!—Gaze on!
If I had thought you cowards, I might have come
And told you lies. You have me now, the thing
I am;—Rome's enemy!—and fix'd as fate
To you and yours for ever.

ARMINIUS.
What's to be done?

DUMNORIX.
The state is strong!

CATILINE
(vehemently).
The state is weak as dust.
Rome's broken, helpless, heart-sick! Vengeance sits
Above her,—like a vulture o'er a corpse
Soon to be tasted. Time, and dull decay,
Have let the waters round her pillar's foot;
And it must fall. Her boasted strength's a ghost,
Fearful to dastards;—yet, to trenchant swords,
Thin as the passing air! A single blow,
In this diseased and crumbling frame of Rome,
Would break your chains like stubble.

ARMINIUS.
We have fought
For Rome on plain and mountain, shore and sea.

CATILINE.
What have you for your blood?

ARMINIUS.
Flat slavery!
Lucius Muræna came as proconsul,
And at his heels a host of plunderers;
Prætors and præfects, quæstors,—dregs of Rome,—
Hungry as hounds, and merciless as wolves,
To gorge upon us.—

CATILINE.
And they left you bare?

ARMINIUS.
Stript to the bone!

DUMNORIX.
Our fields are desolate,
Loaded with mortgage and hard usury.
For wine and oil they bear the loathsome weed—
Nightshades and darnels, docks and matted furze.
The plain is now a marsh, breathing blue steams,
That kill the flock; the blossom'd hill a heath;
The valley, and the vineyard, loneliness;
Where the rare traveller sees but mouldering graves,
And hears but brayings of the mountain deer,
That come, unscared, to wanton in the stream.

ARMINIUS
(despondingly).
We have no arms! There's not a spear-head left
In all Helvetia.

CATILINE
(with ardour).
Have you no ploughshares, scythes?
When men are brave, the sickle is a spear!
Must Freedom pine till the slow armourer
Gilds her caparison, and sends her out
To glitter and play antics in the sun?
Let hearts be what they ought,—the naked earth
Will be their magazine;—the rocks—the trees—
Nay—there's no idle and unnoted thing,
But, in the hand of Valour, will out-thrust
The spear, and make the mail a mockery.

ARMINIUS.
Come to our altar. Drink the sacred pledge:—
There lie our kingly emblems, that we brought [Pointing to the axe and helmet.

In bitterness, for tribute. They are yours;
Our blood is yours.

CATILINE
(taking the goblet).
Here's a bold health to freedom!

DUMNORIX
(interposing).
This is too rash—too wild. We must implore
Our native goddess.

ARMINIUS.

HYMN.

(Chaunted by the Priests, &c. &c.)
[As the Chaunt ceases, a low sound of Thunder, followed by remote Music, is heard.
ARMINIUS
(to CATILINE).
That is the signal when the prophetess
Gives the responses. She's a wond'rous one,
A Grecian, from Dodona. She has slept
In the Trophonian Cave,—and stood, 'tis said,
At Delphi, on the tripod.

DUMNORIX.
Hush! She comes!

[The Curtains of the Recess open with a burst of light; Priests and Females, with laurel Wreaths, come forward to Music. Aspasia, the Prophetess, advances with an augural Staff, and crowned with Laurel. After a pause of thought, she bursts out into Recitation, accompanied by faint Music.

RECITATION.

ASPASIA.
Heard you not the earthquake's thunder?
Hark! the depths are rent asunder.
See! the Furies in their cave,
Sitting by a new-made grave:
Fix'd as stone, the upward lightning
Round their eyes of paleness bright'ning,
Fire their crowns; the outstretch'd hand
Sceptred with the funeral brand.

CHORUS.
Mighty Mother of the sky,
Hear a suppliant nation's cry!

RECITATION.

ASPASIA.
The grave is blood; a banner'd host
Are at its side,—plunged in, and lost.
A mighty people touch its verge;
Within the crimson flood they merge;
A golden helm, an axe, a throne,
Gleam through the tossing surge,—they're gone!
Through the cavern, laugh and yell
Shut the Furies' fearful spell.

CHORUS.
Mighty Mother, &c.

[Aspasia turns, and gazes on Catiline.
[The Priests, &c. bend before Catiline.
DUMNORIX.
CHORUS chaunt,

[Aspasia takes the axe and helmet.
ARMINIUS
(to CATILINE).
Now to the field!—The mountain horn shall ring,
And every Alp shall answer;—hollow caves,
And the dim forest-depths, and beds untracked
Of the eternal snows, shall teem with tribes
That know no Roman tyrants,—daring hearts,
Swift feet, strong hands, that neither hunger, thirst,
Nor winter cataracts, nor the tempest's roar,
When the hills shake with thunderbolts, can tire.

[Aspasia lays the helmet on Catiline's head, and places the axe in his hand. The Chorus chaunt, “Hail, King of Gaul!” The Scene closes.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in a Cottage, in the Roman Suburb. Aspasia sitting, listening anxiously; a female Attendant, with a Distaff, at a Table; a Lyre, a laurel Chaplet, and Scrolls of Music in different Parts of the Room. An open Casement. Night.
ASPASIA.
[Listening.

[Aspasia plays, turning from the door. Hamilcar enters. She ceases.
HAMILCAR
(joyously).
Play on, fair Greek; but let it be some song
That has a triumph in 't,—a kingliness,—
Let it discourse of crowns.

ASPASIA.
Why did you stay?

HAMILCAR.
You are a Circe. Last night's prophecy
Has turn'd the brains of the Allobroges;
I come, to thank you for 't.—Their spell is sure!—
You shall be rich.

ASPASIA.
Aye, in my early grave.

HAMILCAR.
No; ere those lips are riper by a week. [He points to the Casement.

Look! where the Ethiop beauty, Night, comes forth,
Veiling her forehead in thick woven clouds;
But soon shall all her glory be disclosed,
From her pale sandal, silver'd by the moon,
To her starr'd turban! She's your emblem, girl!
Look on these gems!

[He throws jewels into her lap.
ASPASIA.
All presents are but pain
To slighted fondness.—Take your jewels back.

[She repels them.
HAMILCAR
(exultingly).
You shall have all that ever sparkled yet,
And of the rarest. Not an Afric king
Shall wear one that you love. The Persian's brow,
And the swart Emperor's by the Indian stream,
Shall wane beside you: you shall be a blaze
Of rubies, your lips' rivals; topazes,
Like solid sunbeams; moony opals; pearls,
Fit to be ocean's lamps; brown hyacinths,
Lost only in your tresses; chrysolites,
Transparent gold; diamonds, like new-shot stars,
Or brighter—like those eyes: you shall have all,
That ever lurk'd in Eastern mine, or paved
With light the treasure-chambers of the sea.

ASPASIA
(gazing on him).
You startle me; you have grown thin of late;
There's an unnatural rapture in your speech—
Fire on your lips, but death in your sunk eye.

HAMILCAR.
Death!—at this moment I could face a lion!
I have the giant strength of hope.

ASPASIA.
Of hope?
The icicle, that melts, even in the ray
In which it glitters.

HAMILCAR.
Things are now afoot,
That shall shake hearts like fearful prodigies;
Strip the patrician's robe from many a back,
And give it to his slave; make beggars rich,
And rich men beggars; drag authority
Down on its knees; they'll wake your commonwealth
With a last thunder-peal.

ASPASIA
(in astonishment).
Some treason's here! [Aside.

Hamilcar, where's this wonder to be done?
In Africa?

HAMILCAR.
No!

ASPASIA.
Is 't in yonder clouds?

HAMILCAR.
(aside).
[He draws his poniard.

ASPASIA.
This cottage is but homely—

HAMILCAR.
'T is a den!
Your halls shall be a pile of gorgeousness;
Tapestry of India; Tyrian canopies;
Heroic bronzes; pictures, half divine,
Apelles' pencil; statues, that the Greek
Has wrought to living beauty; amethyst urns,
And onyx, essenced with the Persian rose;
Couches of mother-pearl, and tortoise shell;
Crystalline mirrors; tables, in which gems
Make the mosaic; cups of argentry,
Thick with immortal sculptures:—all that wealth
Has dazzling, rare, delicious,—or the sword
Of conquerors can master, shall be yours.

ASPASIA.
Those are wild words, my prince!

HAMILCAR.
Words, true as Jove!
You shall be glorious!—Ay, this little hand
Shall, in its slender white, a sceptre bear:—
On this smooth brow, fair as young Cupid's wing,
Shall glitter the rich circle of a crown;
Catching your beauty's splendours, like a cloud
Above the bright pavilion of the morn.

ASPASIA
(doubtingly).
'T is fancy's revel!

HAMILCAR.
No, my nymph of Greece!
I feel the sudden and delighted blood
Swelling my heart—dear, as to sickness health—
Home to the exile—freedom to the slave—
Light to the blind! Am I not by my queen?

ASPASIA.
When will the dream be up?

HAMILCAR
(loftily).
When I am king!

ASPASIA
(she weeps).
Oh! Semele!

HAMILCAR.
In tears! What melts you now?
Such tears are folly.

ASPASIA.
'T was a wandering thought.

HAMILCAR
(sternly).
Let it have speech, and die.

ASPASIA.
It was of one,—
Your brow looks gentler now,—who loved—a king!

HAMILCAR.
Then comes the worn-out moral—She was scorn'd!

ASPASIA.
Too much he loved her! 'T is an ancient tale,
One of the ditties that our girls of Greece
Hear from their careful mothers, round the lamps,
On winter nights; and by the vintage urns,
When grapes are crushing. I have seen the spot,
Still ashy-pale with lightning, where she died.—
She was a Grecian maiden; and, by some,
Was thought a daughter of the sky; for earth
Had never shaped such beauty: and her thoughts
Were, like her beauty, sky-born. She would stray,
And gaze, when morn was budding on the hills,
As if she saw the stooping pomp of gods—
Then tell her lyre the vision; nor had eve
A sound, or rosy colour of the clouds,
Or infant star, but in her solemn songs
It lived again. Oh, happy—till she loved!

HAMILCAR.
By Cupid, no—not happy until then!
Say on.

ASPASIA.
But may not love be misery?

HAMILCAR.
So would the shower, but that the sun will come.

ASPASIA.
And must we have no sun without the shower?

HAMILCAR.
The spring is sweeter for the winter's wind.

ASPASIA.
But does the winter never blight the spring?
Oh! I could give you fact and argument,
Brought from all earth—all life—all history;—
O'erwhelm you with sad tales, convictions strong,
Till you could hate it;—tell of gentle lives,
Light as the lark's upon the morning cloud,
Struck down, at once, by the keen shaft of Love;
Of hearts, that flow'd like founts of happiness,
Dried into dust by the wild flame of love;
Of maiden beauty, wasting all away,
Like a departing vision into air,
Love filling her sweet eyes with midnight tears,
Till death upon its bosom pillow'd her;
Of noble natures sour'd; rich minds obscured;
High hopes turn'd blank; nay, of the kingly crown
Mouldering amid the embers of the throne;—
And all by Love. We paint him as a child,—
When he should sit, a giant on his clouds,
The great disturbing spirit of the world!

HAMILCAR.
Thou cunning Greek, the ruby on thy lips
Is deeper with the tale. 'Tis the true red,
He tips his arrows with. Yes; turn away!—
There is a death to wisdom in those eyes.

ASPASIA
(bending before him).
Speak to me thus, and I will be Love's slave;
I'll build him altars,—he shall have all flowers
Of vale, or hill, or fountain,—and all fruits,
That melt in autumn's baskets; nay, the gold
Of Hesperus' garden were too slight a gift
To honour him. We'll never part again.—
I have forgot of what I talk'd just now.

HAMILCAR.
Of Semele, fair Greek.

ASPASIA.
The tale is done.
She met a stately hunter on the hills,—
Loved him, and wedded him: and passion's flame,
That had bewitch'd her loneliness, now burn'd
Richer in Hymen's lamp. But, one night came,
And with it came no husband,—and she wept;—
Another, and she knelt to the cold moon,
Praying, in pain, the mother's deity,
That she might show him but his babe, and die.
The thunder peal'd at midnight, and he came—
And then she fell upon his neck, and kiss'd,
And ask'd him, why he left her desolate?
His brow grew cloudy,—but at last she wrung
The lofty secret—

HAMILCAR.
Woman's ancient arts!
The tale sounds true.

ASPASIA.
Of his inconstancy?

HAMILCAR.
No; of her sex's teazing. Girl, say on;
Your voice has music in 't. She conquer'd him?

ASPASIA.
He was a god; and to his throne in the stars
He must at times ascend. She dared not doubt:
But love will have wild thoughts; and so, she pined,
And her rich cheek grew pale.

HAMILCAR.
With jealousy?

ASPASIA.
To prove his truth, at length, she bade him come
In his full glory.

HAMILCAR.
And the lover came?

ASPASIA.
He long denied her,—offer'd her all wealth,
Of mine or mountain,—kiss'd away her tears,—
All to subdue her thought.

HAMILCAR.
And all in vain!
Was she not woman!

ASPASIA.
Pity her! 'twas Love
That wrought this evil to his worshipper!
The deadly oath was sworn.—Then nature shook,
As in strange trouble,—solemn cries were heard,
Echoing from hill to hill,—the forests bowed,
Ruddy with lightnings,—in the height of heaven
The moon grew sanguine, and the waning stars
Fell loosely through the sky. Before her rose,
On golden clouds, a throne; and, at its foot,
An eagle grasp'd the thunderbolt. The face
Of the bright sitter on the throne was bent
Over his sceptre,—but she knew her lord!
And call'd upon him but to give one look,
Before she perish'd in th'Olympian blaze.
He raised his eye,—and in its flash—she died!

HAMILCAR.
Those are old fables. You shall be a queen!
Numidia's queen! Throned by my side—your steps
Shall be on gold dust;—pards and lions chain'd
Shall draw your chariot:—you shall have a host
Of vassal monarchs flashing round your march,
Like living towers of gems. [He points to the Casement.

Look there! the hour is written in the sky.
Jove rushes down on Saturn:—'tis the sign
Of war throughout the nations. In the east
The Crescent sickens;—and the purple star,
Perseus, the Ioanian's love, lifts up his crest,
And o'er her stands exulting!

ASPASIA.
The pole is set to midnight.

HAMILCAR.
[He starts up.

ASPASIA
(weeping and clinging to him).
Where would you go?—You have not told me yet.
I'll never part with you.—You go to die!

HAMILCAR.
My death's not made for Rome!

ASPASIA
(suddenly).
Let's fly at once:—
Cast off the desperate business of the dark,
And see to-morrow's sun rise on the sea,
The happiest of all exiles!

HAMILCAR
(trying to disengage himself).
Sweet—farewell!

ASPASIA.
To Greece—to Greece! We shall be light of heart,
As birds in summer skies: fond, as two doves,
That have escaped the fowler's cruel snare;
Our vine and myrtle fence shall be a bound,
That earth's pale vanities, its hatreds, fears,
Fiery ambitions, pining discontents,
Dare not o'erleap: and we'll have dance and song,
And hymn the sun with touches of the lyre,
As morning sows with pearl the Athenian hills.
And we will wander by the evening shore,
And hear the mellow music of the waves,
And read strange fortunes in the speckled sands,
And make sweet pictures in the crimson clouds;
Telling the story of our travel past,
Till the day sinks, forgotten in our talk,
And Hesper's twinkling lamp must light us home.

HAMILCAR.
I shall return.—By all the golden dreams
Of royalty!

ASPASIA
(hanging on him).
But swear—that you will come.

HAMILCAR
(taking her hand, and pressing it to his lips).
By this white hand, thus shook with such sweet fear;
By the deliciousness of this droop'd eye;
By the red witchery of this trembling lip;
By all the charm of woman's weeping love.

ASPASIA.
Here will I stand, until my lord comes back,
Like Memory's statue on the grave of Love!

HAMILCAR.
You shall be Memory, living Memory,
Gazing upon the spot i'the clouds, where Love,
Fresh crown'd, shall on his swiftest wing descend.

ASPASIA
(despondingly).
You will be slain.

HAMILCAR.
I will return—this night! [He draws a paper from his bosom.

Still unbelieving!—Woman, read my heart,
Writ in this scroll. Earth has no deeper pledge:
But keep it like the apple of your eye.
If it is seen, the death of one—or both,
Is sure as destiny.— (He embraces her.)
—Once more—farewell!

[Exit.
ASPASIA
(opening the scroll).
What have we here? Oh, Juno! 'tis in blood!
A list of names:—a plot against the state.
This was the pageant in the cave last night!
The helmet on that Roman's brow.— (Reads)
—“Plunder,—massacre—
Troops from Apulia—Spain!” If it should fail!—
'Tis madness, and must fail. He shall be saved!
For all his wildness and proud fantasies,
I love him!—Now to Cicero!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

THE SENATE HOUSE.
The Temple of Jupiter Stator. The Senate at night; a Consul in the Chair; Cicero on the Floor, concluding his Speech.
CICERO.
Our long debate must close. Take one proof more
Of this rebellion.—Lucius Catiline
Has been commanded to attend the Senate.
He dares not come. I now demand your votes;—
Is he condemn'd to exile?

[Catiline comes in hastily, and flings himself on the Bench; all the Senators go over to the other Side.
CICERO
turns to CATILINE.
Here I repeat the charge, to gods and men,
Of treasons manifold;—that, but this day,
He has received despatches from the rebels—
That he has leagued with deputies from Gaul
To seize the province; nay, has levied troops,
And raised the rebel standard;—that, but now
A meeting of conspirators was held
Under his roof, with mystic rites, and oaths,
Pledged round the body of a murder'd slave.
To those he has no answer.

CATILINE
(rising calmly).
Conscript Fathers!
I do not rise to waste the night in words:
Let that plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right. Let him show proofs,—
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there,
Cling to your master; judges, Romans,—slaves!
His charge is false;—I dare him to his proofs,
You have my answer now! I must be gone.

CICERO.
Bring back the helmet of this Gaulish king! [The Lictors return with the helmet and axe.

These, as I told you, were this evening seized
Within his house. You know them, Catiline?

CATILINE.
The axe and helmet of the Allobroges! (aside.)

Know them; What crimination's there? What tongue
Lives in that helm to charge me? Cicero—
Go search my house, you may find twenty such;
All fairly struck from brows of barbarous kings,
When you and yours were plotting here in Rome.
I say, go search my house. And is this all?
I scorn to tell you by what chance they came.
Where have I levied troops—tamper'd with slaves—
Bribed fool or villain, to embark his neck
In this rebellion? Let my actions speak.

CICERO
(interrupting him).
Deeds shall convince you! Has the traitor done?

CATILINE.
But this I will avow, that I have scorn'd,
And still do scorn, to hide my sense of wrong.
Not he who brands my forehead, breaks my sword,
Or lays the bloody scourge upon my back,
Can wrong me half so much as he who shuts
The gates of honour on me,—turning out
The Roman from his birthright; and for what?— [Looking round him.

To fling your offices to every slave;—
Vipers, that creep where man disdains to climb;
And having wound their loathsome track to the top
Of this huge mouldering monument of Rome,
Hang hissing at the nobler man below.

CICERO.

[The Lictors return with Cethegus, and others.
CATILINE
(startled).
Cethegus!

(aside.)
CICERO.
Fathers! those stains to their high name and blood,
Came to my house to murder me; and came
Suborn'd by him.

CATILINE
(scornfully).
Cethegus!
Did you say this?

CETHEGUS.
Not I.—I went to kill
A prating, proud plebeian, whom those fools
Palm'd on the Consulship.

CICERO.
And sent by whom?

CETHEGUS.
By none.—By nothing, but my zeal to purge
The senate of yourself, most learned Cicero!

[A cry is heard without: “More Prisoners! The Allobroges!” An Officer enters, with Letters for Cicero; who, after glancing at them, sends them round the Senate. Catiline is strongly perturbed. The Allobroges come in, chained.
CICERO.
Fathers of Rome! If man can be convinced
By proof, as clear as day-light, there it stands! [Pointing to the prisoners.

Those men have been arrested at the gates,
Bearing despatches to raise war in Gaul.
Look on these letters! Here's a deep laid plot
To wreck the provinces: a solemn league,
Made with all form and circumstance. The time
Is desperate,—all the slaves are up;—Rome shakes!—
The Heavens alone can tell how near our graves
We stand ev'n here!—The name of Catiline
Is foremost in the league. He was their king.
Tried and convicted traitor, go from Rome!

CATILINE
(haughtily, rising).
Come, consecrated lictors! from your thrones; [To the Senate.

Fling down your sceptres:—take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law.

CICERO
(interrupting him).
Give up the record of his banishment.

[To an Officer. [The Officer gives it to the Consul, in the chair.
CATILINE
(indignantly).
Banish'd from Rome! What's banish'd, but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?
‘Tried and convicted traitor!’ Who says this? [With growing violence.

Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banish'd?—I thank you for 't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour—
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords;
I scorn to count what feelings, wither'd hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you:—here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.
Your Consul's merciful.—For this all thanks.
He dares not touch a hair of Catiline.

(The Consul reads)

“Lucius Sergius Catiline; by the decree of the Senate, you are declared an enemy and an alien to the state, and banished from the territory of the commonwealth.”

THE CONSUL.
Lictors, drive the traitor from the temple!

CATILINE
(furious).
‘Traitor!’ I go—but I return. This—trial!
Here I devote your Senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age,
Or make the infant's sinew strong as steel.
This day's the birth of sorrows!—This hour's work
Will breed Proscriptions.—Look to your hearths, my lords!
For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods,
Shapes hot from Tartarus!—all shames and crimes;—
Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn;
Suspicion, poisoning the brother's cup;
Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe,
Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones;
Till Anarchy comes down on you like Night,
And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave!

THE SENATORS
rise in tumult, and cry out,
Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome!

CATILINE
(indignantly).
It shall be so!— (Going. He suddenly returns.)
—When Catiline comes again,
Your grandeur shall be base, and clowns shall sit
In scorn upon those chairs;—your palaces
Shall see the soldier's revels, and your wealth
Shall go to deck his harlot and his horse.
Then Cicero, and his tools, shall pay me blood—
Vengeance for every drop of my boy's veins;—
And such of you, as cannot find the grace
To die with swords in your right hands, shall feel
The life, life worse than death, of trampled slaves!

THE SENATORS
cry out,
Go, enemy and parricide, from Rome!

CICERO.
Expel him, lictors! Clear the senate-house!

[They surround him.
CATILINE
(struggling through them).
I go,—but not to leap the gulf alone:
I go;—but when I come—'t will be the burst
Of ocean in the earthquake—rolling back
In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well!—
You build my funeral pile, but your best blood
Shall quench its flame. Back, slaves! (to the Lictors)
—I will return!

[He rushes through the portal; the Scene closes.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Cicero's Palace. Attendants. A Secretary at a Table. Cicero is walking in front, occasionally speaking to the Officers.
CICERO.
[The Officer goes.

HAMILCAR enters, chained.
HAMILCAR.
My lord Dictator,—I have to complain
Of insult from your officers. Why these chains?
Why am I dragg'd, at midnight, through the streets?
I claim to be Rome's hostage,—not her slave!

CICERO.
[To an Officer.

HAMILCAR.
Send for your lictors; bring the scourge and screw:
I laugh at torture!

CICERO
(sternly).
All your steps are known,—
You have been leagued with Catiline;—your share,
When this wild work was done, and Rome in flames,
Should be Numidia.

HAMILCAR
(haughtily).
Call the torturers in,—
Try if I writhe. I stir up war in Rome!
What am I here? An alien! captive! stript
Of wealth and dignity! My tribes Rome's slaves,—
My sceptre in her hands!—Conspirator!—
If I could war by piling up the waves,
Or make my soldiers of the shifting sands,
I might be worth your chains.

CICERO.
Look on this scroll! [Showing him the list.

So! it has struck you! Do you know these names?
Glance at the bottom, Moor,—there's one name left,
That you might know. That traitor was, it seems,
To fire my palace.

HAMILCAR.
Some poor forgery,— [Flinging it down.

A trick to frighten dastards!—Bring the scourge.

CICERO.
You shall have agonies! (Calls)
The torturer!

[Aspasia is brought forward.
HAMILCAR
(in astonishment).
Aspasia!

CICERO.
Greek, who gave you this?

HAMILCAR
(rushing forward).
'Twas I!
Where are your dungeons?

CICERO.
Traitor, before morn
Your head is on the scaffold.

ASPASIA
(kneeling to CICERO).
Mighty lord!
Spare him!—Is this your promise before Heaven?
Hamilcar, speak one word.

[Turning and kneeling to him.
CICERO.
He is undone!

ASPASIA.
One word will save us both. The hour you die,
I scorn to live.

HAMILCAR
(to ASPASIA).
Deceiver! let me die,
Rather than live dishonour'd.

CICERO.
Prince, the grief
Of noble hearts for crime is honour's self.—
We must delay no longer,—all is known,—
Your full confession were not worth the breath
That gave it utterance.

ASPASIA.
Die for Catiline?

CICERO.
Why not? The captive for his conqueror.
Twas he that dragg'd the African to Rome.

HAMILCAR
(agitated).
'Tis not forgot,—'tis writ upon my heart,
To wipe away that shame!—I had resolved
To wait till he was emperor here, and then
To stab him on his throne!

CICERO
(urgently).
Take vengeance now!
If you have nature's current in your veins,—
If you have honour for your ancestors,—
If there be aught of human or divine,
That can awake the soul to just revenge,
They all command you. You will be the praise
Of Rome; and when the warrior's memory
Lies in his grave,—yours shall be pedestal'd
In nations' hearts!

ASPASIA
(kneeling to him).
Hamilcar, look upon me. By the faith
That I have borne you in my loneliness,—
By woman's love, that masters death,—but speak!—
I have betray'd you; and your noble blood
Sits heavy on my soul. Speak, or I die.

CICERO.
Rise, woman; the barbarian's heartless,—bound
In treason, stronger than those iron links.

HAMILCAR
(indignantly).
Turn traitor to my friends?

CICERO.
The truest friend
To Catiline is he that lets the axe
Fall on his weary life!—The epicure,
Who sleeps in luxury's lap; who wears no robe,
But from the silk-worm's loom; suffers no air
To come beneath his nostrils, but the breath
Of incense, and the aromatic herbs
That Indian princes pillow on; even he
May love the subtle-frowning messenger,
That comes to close his pleasure-pamper'd life:
But here it comes, a palpable discharge
Of pain and emptiness,—remission quick
Of all the ills that break down bankrupt life,
Kindly exchange for shame, grief, flat despair!

HAMILCAR.
Slay me at once,—strike here!

[Baring his breast.
CICERO
(calls to the Secretary).
[Looks at the letter.

[Aspasia falls into Hamilcar's arms.
HAMILCAR
(grasping at the letter).
Villains!—Is 't true?

CICERO.
You see his seal.

HAMILCAR
(raging).
To Tartarus with my oath!
They all shall die! That spoil shall never be,—
They meet to-night!—The whole conspiracy!

CICERO
(startled).
Where? in the Palatine? at Læca's house?

HAMILCAR.
No!—In the Marian Vault—in arms!

CICERO.
In arms!—
Summon the magistrates;—send couriers out [To the Secretary.

To Veii for the legion;—bid the knights
Keep all their chargers saddled.

HAMILCAR
(wildly).
Let me have
A cohort, and I'll take them—in the fact.—
Dividers of the spoil before 'tis won!—
They would have robb'd me,—trampled on my heart,—
Left me to wail, and howl, and gnash my teeth,
When I had done their drudgery! There's not one,
From first to last, but shall be in this hall,
Within an hour,—in chains!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A Dungeon. Cethegus manacled. He rises from the Pavement.
CETHEGUS.

[He goes in.
[Catiline, Valerius, and others, enter hastily, with swords drawn, and torches.
CATILINE
(calls).
Hallo! Cethegus!

VALERIUS.
He has been slain. Here's blood!

[Looking at the ground.
CATILINE.
'T is old!
[A noise within.
Lift up your torch.

CETHEGUS
(rushing in with a sword).
Now, murderers! which of you will buy my life?

[They recognize him.
CATILINE.
Off with his chains,—we have no time to lose.

VALERIUS
(to CETHEGUS).
We've kill'd the guard.

CETHEGUS.
Good friends, and true! [Taking a paper from the rock.

Take this,— [To Catiline.

'T was thrust into my hand when I was brought
Before the Senate.

CATILINE.
(Reads)

“Be firm; we are your friends, and friends to Catiline.

(Signed)

“Crassus and Cæsar.”

[With frantic exultation.
Then Rome is ours! These names are victory!—
This dungeon's hot.—What time is't o'the night?—
The Senate's pillows shall be red by morn!
Away now with the scabbard! War's let loose!
My falchion shall give law;—I'll have all Rome
Kissing the dust before my horse's hoof.—
Revenge! swift, full, and bloody!— (To Valerius.)
Sir, your hand!

VALERIUS.
Your touch is fever.

CATILINE
(to the rest).
Hunt the city through:
Summon our friends!—Tell them the time is come,
That they have long'd for!—That I'm roused at last!
Break up their banquets,—shake them from their beds.—
Torches and swords!—We'll storm the Capitol! [He looks at the list.

What characters are these, thus writ with flame?— [He turns away, musing.

To smite the proud accuser in the teeth,—
Strip pale Hypocrisy, and show the world
The heart within its cloak,—teach Scorn to weep,—
Trample the trampler,—in the zealot's face
Fling his own brand,—root out the slanderer's tongue!—
Does not the chamber shake?—Look there—look there!

[Tottering, and pointing to the ground.
VALERIUS
(supporting him).
His trouble has exhausted him.

CETHEGUS
(assisting).
He faints.

CATILINE
(starting up, and still pointing to the ground.)
Do you see nothing?

CETHEGUS.
Take him into the air.

CATILINE.
No grave?—no giant form, laid at its length?
Look—look—it rises—Marius in his mail!— [As to a vision.

Thou mightiest and most awful summoner!
Death's majesty,—life's terror,—that hast come,
Passing the gates that none can see and live!
Is not thy visitation gracious?—Hark!
He groans,—and, with a fearful heaviness,
His eye is cast upon the earth:—but speak!—
Great spectre, Demi-god!—I know thou'rt come,
To give our lingering swords the lightning's edge,
And put a soul in our too nerveless flesh,
Fit for Rome's final slaughter?—Answer me!—
He will not speak!—Then, Demon! by thy bed
In burning hell, what wrath of fate is theirs,
Who war against their country?—See! he frowns,—
His eye grows meteor-like,—he rends his mail,—
And, with his dagger, stabs his naked breast!

[He falls into their arms.
VALERIUS.
Bear him away,—in mercy!

CATILINE
(bursting from them, as following the vision).
He rises, darkening all the air!—He's gone!

[He falls—the Scene closes.

SCENE III.

The Sepulchre of the Marian Family. A large vaulted Hall. The chief Tomb in the distance. Tombs at the sides, with Arms piled on them. Roman Nobles in the military Dress; some sitting with Dice and Wine— some sleeping on the Ground, and the Tombs. The Silver Eagle in front, veiled. Lentulus, Cecina, and others, in front of all, conversing. Sounds of gaming and merriment in the distance.
CECINA.
Has the cock crow'd?

LENTULUS
(to CECINA).
Go, stop those clamorous fools!
We shall be heard: they've drank and gamed all night. [Hamilcar enters.

What news brings my Numidian?

HAMILCAR.
Has Catiline come? I saw some sudden stir
In the Palatine.

CURIUS
(reeling forward from a drinking group).
A marriage or carouse?

HAMILCAR.
At first some torches wander'd on the roof
Of the state prison, but they soon went down,—
And, as I left the suburb, twice, or thrice,
I heard a trumpet sound.

LENTULUS
(in alarm).
'T was for the knights!

CURIUS.
Ho! Emperor Lentulus, do you shake already?
It was a jovial riot, I'll be sworn!

[A knocking without.
LENTULUS.
Look to the portal. All be on your guard.

[The Patricians come forward tumultuously, with their swords drawn.
HAMILCAR
(listening).
'T is Catiline's voice!

CECINA.
[Catiline, Valerius, Cethegus, and others, enter. The Patricians cry out,

CATILINE.
Good auspices, my lords!

LENTULUS.
Our midnight work
Is well begun. Your coming makes all sure.

[Catiline, Cethegus, and Lentulus, pass down the Vault, with Maps and Lists in their hands.
VALERIUS
(looking after Catiline).
His look is strange!

CECINA.
Like one that had seen ghosts!
How Lentulus sinks to nothing in his frown!

VALERIUS.
He's desperately changed. More than I thought
Misfortune could have done in twice the time.

CATILINE
(returning).
The night's far gone.

LENTULUS.
Must the blow fall to-night?

CATILINE.
Heavy and home, my lords! All's ready here?

[A general cry of “All!”
CATILINE.
A legion lies at Veii;—we must strike
Before it comes. Give me the plan of the city. [The Patricians stand round him.

Annius, your spearmen, with the cavalry,
Will halt in column by the Milvian Bridge.
Fulvius Nobilior, you will flank the gates
Leading to Veii. Lucius Scævola,
Your place is with the veterans, by the road
Below the Esquiline. Six cohorts, then,
Are left to seize the Forum. None must stir
Till you see blazes from the Consul's roof;
Where I, with Lentulus, and the Marian troops,
Begin the business.

CURIUS.
'T is a tough night's work!
What pay's to glue my sword-hilt to my hand?

CATILINE.
Glue it with blood.

SECOND PATRICIAN.
A proper question, too.
Aye;—what's our hire for knocking out our brains?

CATILINE
(turning on them fiercely).
Just what they're worth, fool! Now, by the infernal gods,
Ye are enough to madden me! What pay?—
Are ye not beggars, outcasts, rebels, slaves;
Crush'd to the earth with debt, neck-deep in ruin;
Lean spendthrifts, shatter'd gamblers, mortgagers,
Down to the very sandals on your feet?
Are ye not this to-night? and, by to-morrow,
May ye not be—

LENTULUS
(interrupting him).
I must be king of Rome!

CATILINE
(contemptuously).
You shall be—ten times king, or what you will.
Give me the map. (He takes it.)
Here lies the whole wide earth:
And in this narrow vault I see earth's lords;
The kings of all its kingdoms. We stand here,
Thus buried—thus in midnight,—more sublime—
A mightier proof and triumph of man's mind,
Than if we dozed away our lives on gold.—
All power is in our hands:—the earthquake's here,
That, bursting, shall shake Rome;—the thunder's here,
That, from its darkness, shall set Earth on fire.—
Here stand we, like the majesty of Jove,
Awake, while the world sleeps, preparing wrath,—
Unheard, unseen, unknown, invincible!

LENTULUS.
What's for yourself?

CATILINE
(furiously).
Revenge!—on all in Rome.
They've made me desperate;—let them watch to-night;—
By Pluto, what they've made me, they shall find me.
Let them expel me now.—Blood and revenge!

[A noise is heard without.
CECINA
(to HAMILCAR).
Did you hear that? It seem'd a clash of arms.

HAMILCAR
(contemptuously).
'T was nothing!

CECINA.
'T was beside us!—There—again!—

HAMILCAR.
'T was but the creaking of the portal gates,
As the wind freshens towards the morn.

[Catiline advances to the Eagle; the Patricians surround it.
CATILINE.
Here, my lords of Rome!
Do homage.—On this javelin's summit dwells
The heart of Rome's first warrior.—Marius' heart:—
The hour that sees it at our army's head,
Sees triumph.

SECOND PATRICIAN
(riotously).
Marius for our omen! No—
He fined me in the senate. Who's for Sylla?

CETHEGUS
(springing forwards with his sword drawn).
Who's for that hoary hypocrite? Come on!

[A tumult.
CATILINE
(striking down their swords).
Cethegus! at your brawls again?—Swords, too!
Back, Curius! He that but frowns first shall die. [Turning away indignantly.

This is the curse of all conspiracy,
To mingle with the refuse of our kind,—
To be the tool of tools, the slave of slaves,—
To patch up ruffian quarrel:—from his cups
To drag the dozing drunkard;—tear the knife
From the assassin's hand;—stir up the base
To manly thoughts; degrade the swelling heart
To necessary villains, that the eye
Had loathed in day-light. Oh, Conspiracy!
To this disgrace thou'st damn'd me;—ay, and all
That ever sank to thee!—Go to your homes;
Go, and be strangled! Traitors!—I'll die here.

HAMILCAR
(suddenly grasping the Eagle).
Who dares to linger? Here towers victory;
Spirit of him, whose heart sits on this spear,
In life and death our leader in the field;
Hear, from the golden throne where Hebe gives
The nectar to thy lip among the stars!—
By all the immortal urns of light above;
By all the altars of the kneeling earth;
By all the rulers of the central fire;
Standard and shrine, I swear to follow thee!
Through sunshine and through storm; through height and depth;
Through the red desert; through the raging sea;
Through frost and fire; through steel and talisman!—

CETHEGUS
(taking the standard).
Through hunger, thirst, wounds, sorrow, scorn, and shame!

CATILINE
(taking the standard; a noise is heard without).
What tumult's there? Look to the gate, Hamilcar. [He goes.

Through conflagration—Roman massacre!

[Solemnly.
[A Shout; the Gates are burst open by Soldiery; the Conspirators fight, and are repulsed. Catiline and Cethegus fight their way to the Portal. Cethegus forces him out, as he struggles to return.
CETHEGUS.
Away, away! To Manlius! To the camp!

[The scene closes.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The Procession of the Conspirators to Death. Night. The Forum, by Torchlight, lined with Troops. A Range of Scaffolds in the distance, with Executioners; the Multitude crowding round them; distant Trumpets sounding from time to time; the Way from the Palatine, by the Via Sacra, illuminated; People in the Balconies and on the Roofs; a rush of the Citizens to the front of the Stage; distant Shouts.
FIRST MAN.
Those shouts are for the Consul. Clear the way!

SECOND MAN.
This is a perilous crowd;—all Rome's abroad.

THIRD MAN.
Long health to Cicero!—But for him, our necks
Would have been headless now.

FOURTH MAN.
The rebels' swords
Would have made sport among the citizens. [A burst of trumpets.

Hark!

FIRST MAN.
They're nigh at last.

SECOND MAN.
They left the Palatine
An hour ago, and scarce could make their way
Through thousands strewing garments on the ground,
And kneeling to kiss Cicero's hand. The air
Is thick with chaplets showering from the roofs
And tapestried casements, where our noblest dames
Send their prayers after him.

THIRD MAN.
Stand back. He comes!

[The Crowd divide; the Procession advances, headed by Trumpets, blowing a funeral March; then follow Troops, Priests, Lictors; Cicero, with a drawn Sword, leading

---

134

Lentulus, in Chains; Senators, in their robes, leading each a Prisoner. As they pass, the dialogue continues.
FIRST MAN.
That's Lentulus, the Cornelian!—Cinna's blood.
A kingly epicure!—See his tangled hair
And flushing cheek, as if the last night's drink
Still fever'd him.

SECOND MAN.
How stately Cicero looks!

THIRD MAN.
If ever man look'd like a god, 't is he!

FOURTH MAN.
If ever man felt like a god, 't is he!

FIRST MAN.
See old Autronius: he was Consul once,—
A jester even in bonds.

SECOND MAN.
Who's he that stoops?—
Pale as a beaten slave.

THIRD MAN.
That's Marcus Cassius;
Last year he canvass'd against Cicero.

FOURTH MAN.
Those two are Sylla's nephews.

FIRST MAN.
How the first
Glares like a tiger chain'd! He would have worn
His uncle's thirstiest sword.—His brother's eye
Is lofty, and he treads the ground like one,
Who would have had his nobler part, and been
Rome's hero.

[The Procession continues to the Foot of the Scaffolds; the Conspirators ascend: the Trumpets give the Signal for Death. The People shout—“Hail, Cicero.—Father of his Country!” The Scene closes.

SCENE II.

Evening. Catiline's Army in the Apennines. An Encampment. A General's Tent in the Centre, with Standards in front, round the Silver Eagle. A Flourish of Trumpets. Cethegus and Valerius come from the Tent.
VALERIUS.
Our work's ill-omen'd; we must sheathe our swords.

CETHEGUS.
Ay—but in Roman bosoms!

VALERIUS
(pointing to the distance).
See that smoke!

CETHEGUS.
Above the out-post?

VALERIUS.
No;—where yonder vines
Festoon the valley.—In that yellow thatch
Now the sunn'd peasant at his supper sits,
With all his babes about him;—then lies down,
Blessing the gods, and thus shuts in the day,
Unpress'd by heavier thoughts than with what face
To morrow's sun shall look upon the sky,
Or in what hive his honey-bees shall swarm,
Or to what elm his vine shall be a bride;
Or whether he shall pipe his woolly flocks
To hill or vale,—or some such gentle care,
To put a healthful motion in his mind.—
I'm weary of the sword.—

CETHEGUS.
Then take the scrip!
You are a music-lover, and sigh Greek.
This comes of evil company. Your lyre
Has broke the rest of many a stately dame,
Who left her curtains tenantless, to gaze,
Where the chill'd minstrel sent his amorous soul
Up through the moonshine.

VALERIUS
(despondingly).
Catiline's undone!

CETHEGUS.
Give me a boar-spear, and my Thracian hounds—
A cross of the Epirot, Pyrrhus' breed,
The noblest of the world! Cethegus asks
No better kingdom than these forest hills.
The sun should never find me in my hut,
Nor evening see me homewards, but with spoil
Of stately venison hanging at my back,
Or boar's head on my spear;—my horn should be
My music,—worth a thousand twanging harps:—
My honest courtiers, my bold brinded dogs,—
My palace pomps, the trophies of the chase,
Antlers and tusky skulls, the eagle's plume,
Vulture and otter, bear, and villain fox,
Hung round my heathy walls!—

[Catiline comes from the tent.
VALERIUS.
Hail, general!—

CATILINE.
That skirmish was disastrous; but the troops
Are of true mettle.

VALERIUS.
We had gain'd the hill,
But for Hamilcar's charge upon our flank.
I knew his furious speed.

CETHEGUS.
Numidian traitor!
He shall be found.

CATILINE.
He's sacred to my sword.—
What of the enemy?

VALERIUS.
They move to-night.

CETHEGUS.
To stop our road to Gaul?

CATILINE.
My road is—Rome!

CETHEGUS.
I have some lingering weakness that half bends
My sword to Gaul.

CATILINE.
(turning on him).
Is it the Roman soul,
Or Rome's brown walls and ditches, that make Rome?
If't is the soul, this spot is the true Rome,
And the proud Capitol's a den of thieves.

CETHEGUS.
When do you march? I'm ready, live or die.—
Ages could not rebuild the Palatine!

[Gloomily.
CATILINE
(with impatience).
You are a Roman citizen! Will Rome
Feed, clothe you; find a roof to screen your head
From the same violence of earth and air
That pelts the beggar? Where's her largess now?
Where holds she her purse open for your hands
To plunge in, and be rich?—Whom should you love?
Him who loves you: and whom pursue to death,
But him who wears a dagger for your heart?

CETHEGUS.
I hate her men.

CATILINE
(contemptuously).

CETHEGUS
(offering his hand).
Catiline!
Those are hard words:—There's not a man on earth
But you, that might have used such bitter speech,
And lived to boast of 't!—Twice you saved my life;
In Spain, and in my dungeon. Now my sword
Is yours for ever!

CATILINE
(clasping his hand).
There!—Let 's die like friends!
My speech was rash; forgive it,—'t was a mind
Stuff'd with distemper'd thoughts that spoke—not I. [A distant sound.

What tumult's there?

VALERIUS.
Some clamour of the camp.

CETHEGUS.
Our murmurers talk of peace!

CATILINE.
Of peace!—Pale fools!—
Have I not cut 'twixt Rome and me a trench,
That it must take our bodies to fill up?
Who calls me hypocrite? The rebel's work
Is blood and plunder! Who draws this for good! [Drawing his sword.

This emblem of all miseries and crimes,—
The robber's tool, that breaks the rich man's lock,—
The murderer's master-key to sleeping hearts,—
The orphan-maker—widower of brides;—
The tyrant's strength—the cruel pirate's law,—
The traitor's passport to his sovereign's throne,—
The mighty desolator,—that contains,
In this brief bar of steel, more woe to the earth
Than lightning, earthquake, yellow pestilence,
Or the wild fury of the all-swallowing sea!

CETHEGUS.
A legion should be posted on the hill.

CATILINE.
Secure the valley. Here we camp to-night. [Cethegus and Valerius go out.

The dew falls heavy; and the rising wind
Moans through the tree-tops like day's funeral song.
Would it were mine!—'Tis happier to be dead,
Than, being what I was, be what I am.
But I am rebel, and must stand to it!—
The dead man's pillow is not scared with dreams;
His day is haunted by no sadder sights
Of visages, grown desperate in his cause;
His fever's cold; he has no heart-ache now;
Has no ambition! [Aurelia is seen in the tent.

How fares my noble dame?

AURELIA.
Well, Catiline,—
And yet—not well. You saw the day go down?

CATILINE.
Like all that went before.

AURELIA.
I thought the sun
Look'd like a warrior dying on the field,—
That those red gushes of the stormy west
Streak'd all with streams of gore!

CATILINE.
Come forth into the air! For thoughts like those
Are medicined best by nature. (She comes.)
Stand awhile.

AURELIA.
This sky's Ionian, not of Italy.

CATILINE.
Night's galley's launch'd,—her cloudy sails are up,—
Yon stars the new-lit lamps upon her prow,—
These perfumed gusts, the breezes that swell out
Her cloudy sails;—and those small, whisper'd sounds,
Thus dying sweet,—the airy surges' swells,
That break before her slow and dusky stem.

AURELIA.
'Twas on a night like this I sail'd by Crete,
When all the waves were lull'd with silver sounds,
And all the mountains moonlike with pale fires
Of Cybele's altars. (A chorus is heard.)
Hark!

CATILINE
(smiling).
Those are our minstrels.—'Tis thus soldiers hail
The dark and frowning goddess of the night,
To guard their pillows from all evil dreams;
For in their rudeness still lives ceremony.
And well may they commend themselves to Heaven, [Despondingly.

Who, flung to sleep in danger's iron grasp,
May never welcome in another morn.

AURELIA
(with impatience).
When do we march for Rome?

CATILINE.
You shall be safe!
All is provided for. A troop to-night
Will see you through Etruria.

AURELIA.
Go!—to-night!
Abandon you in your extremity!
Am I your slave, Patrician? I have stood
Your equal from the first;—have never turn'd
From sorrow, toil, or danger, by your side:
For I was Marius' daughter, and your wife!

CATILINE.
Be wise! The time is short. Go, Roman wife!
A rebel's fortunes are upon my head!
Our home must be the hill-tops and wild caves,—
Our canopy the forest's dripping boughs,—
Our meal the berries, roots, and all strange food,
That famine wrings from the step-mother earth,—
Our rusty swords must be our health, wealth, hope,—
Our life be battle, flight, and stratagem,—
Till all is buried in a bloody grave!

AURELIA.
Misfortune is a fire that melts weak hearts,—
But makes the firmer fire.—Here will I die!

CATILINE.
I have had warnings.—In my last night's sleep,
I thought I saw myself, and you, and all
Flung in one general tomb!

AURELIA.
A dream! no more.
An undigested grape will do as much.—
It was the battle,—'twas the day's turmoil
That left its heavy traces on your brain.

CATILINE.
Perhaps so;—for, in truth, I've been, of late,
Strangely beset, and sunk into the prey
Of midnight hauntings;—not a passing wind—
A cloud—the shadow of a shaken bush—
But makes its mark upon my broken mind.
My sleep has grown a round of horrid things,
Terrors and tortures, that the waking sense
Quivers to think of.—Sometimes I am hurl'd
From mountain tops, or hung, by failing hands,
To precipices, fathomless as hell;—
Sometimes, engulf'd in the outrageous sea,
And down its depths sent strangling,—then flung loose
As many leagues aloft, above the moon,
To freeze along the deserts of the sky;—
Sometimes, in hot encounter with the foe,
I feel a sudden javelin in my heart,
And then I'm crush'd by heaps of dying men,
And hear the battle turning o'er my head,
And, fainting, strive to shout;—then, in this death,
See spirits—and plunge downwards,—till I wake,
Madden'd and blinded, thinking all around
A remnant of my torturers;—and thus, night
Is lost to me,—and sorrow's comfort, sleep,
Is made my agony. [Cecina enters, pale and wounded: Catiline suddenly turns.

What brings that spectre here? Vanish, or speak!

CECINA.
My lord, I am—Cecina!

CATILINE.
Mighty Jove!
What mist was on my eyes?—He bleeds to death!—
Within there!

[Calls.
CECINA.
By and by,—I bear ill news.

CATILINE.
Tell it at once: if we had hearts to break
By piteous tales—we had not lived till now.

CECINA.
You are undone!

CATILINE
(fiercely).
I know it,—banish'd,—robb'd,—
A price set on me,—hunted to the grave,—
But yet not fang'd—not dead!

CECINA.
Your friends in Rome—

CATILINE.
Have they been brought to trial? One day more,
And they shall see me at their prison gates,
Laying their sentence on their sentencers.

CECINA.
My lord, your friends, last night, were—sacrificed!

CATILINE.
(He covers his head with his robe.)

CECINA.
This hour they lie, each in his cell, a corpse.

CATILINE
(calls aloud).
[To an Officer.
[The Soldiers shout,

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Night. The interior of a Roman fortified Camp. Walls, with Towers and military Engines. A palisadoed great Gate; Troops on either side, with Torches. On the left a group of Standards. On the right a General's Tent. Shouts, and Sounds of Battle.
Hamilcar comes in, speaking to an Officer.
HAMILCAR.
I think those shouts are nigh the westward trench.
The Consul's weakest there. (Officer goes.)
And here I stand,
Leaving to others the bold outward fight,
To lurk behind a wall.—I should have faced
The proudest sword on earth—but Catiline's.—
His eye would drink the spirit of my blood,
And make my scimitar a reed.—Who's here? [Shouts, “A prisoner!” Cethegus is brought in.

Cethegus taken—alive!

[In surprise.
CETHEGUS.
(to HAMILCAR).
Dog of an African!
Betrayer!—perjurer!—felon! Give me breath!—
Had not my charger fallen, that villain head
Had been upon my spear.

HAMILCAR
(anxiously).
Is Catiline slain?

CETHEGUS.
How dare you name him?

HAMILCAR.
(with haughtiness.)
Is the rebel dead?

CETHEGUS.
Dead or alive, he's glorious! In the rout
That bore him backwards o'er the fatal trench,
I saw him fighting, with a giant's strength,
Cover'd with wounds,—his corslet beaten off,—
His unhelm'd brow mask'd with his spouting blood;—
The battle's soul,—knight, spearman, general, all;—
Shouting to this man,—grasping t'other's robe,—
Slaying a third,—and ever turning back
To charge the cow'd pursuers—

HAMILCAR
(to the Soldiers).
Set him free. [Cethegus is taken out; shouts and trumpets.

My mind misgives me, or the battle's turn'd!—
Stand to your arms.—What ensign 's in the field?

SOLDIER
(from the Walls).
The Marian Eagle,—and a column comes,
Straight on the Consul's centre. Now, they charge!—
The trench is taken.

HAMILCAR
(hastily).
To the ramparts, all!—
Quick, load the engines,—let the archers shoot,—
Whirl slings,—rain lances,—give them steel i'the teeth;
Fight all, as if, upon his single arm,
Each bore the whole high fortunes of the night.

[Shouts at the Gates. Trumpets.
CATILINE
(without).
Once more!—and put your souls into your blows;
Be iron, like your lances,—fierce as fire,—
Strong as the whirlwind!—Charge!—The word's “Revenge!”

[The Gates are beaten down, and the Works fired; Catiline rushes in unhelmed and wounded; the Troops give way; Hamilcar, after a struggle with himself, bends to the ground; Catiline approaches; he stops before Hamilcar, who strips his bosom.
HAMILCAR.
Strike here, and be revenged!

CATILINE.
Die!

[He lifts his Sword, but turns away; Hamilcar starts on his feet and stabs himself; Catiline stands, gazing at him.
CECINA
(coming in).
Triumph, my general!—For the field's our own.
The Consul's flank is turn'd, and all his line
Are chaff before the wind.

CATILINE
(exclaims).
Onwards!—To Rome!— [Voices of the Captains, in succession, without:

“Onwards!—Onwards!—Onwards!—”

CATILINE.
[Falling.
[She bends over him.

[He falls suddenly, and dies.

SEBASTIAN.

A SPANISH TALE.

I.

Thou land of love and loveliness, what dreams
Of pomp, and beauty, and old chivalry
Haunt the green borders of thy mighty streams,
Imperial Spain! Years and long ages fly,
Leaving the palace and the mountain tower
Buried beneath their purple bed of rose;
But still thy morn in dewy brightness glows,
Still falls thy eve the same enchanted hour;
The same pure splendour lightens from thy moon,
Rolling along that boundless upper flood,
Whose waves are clouds, her solemn-moving throne.
And prouder still, the heart is unsubdued
That made thee from the cuirass'd Roman wring
With naked hands his jewell'd coronal;
And tore the sceptre from the Moslem king,
Sending him, from Granada's ivory hall,
To make with fox and wolf his rocky lair,
And perish in the Alpuxarras bare.
Spain! thou hast had thy day of toils and woes,
And, for the sword, thy hand has felt the chain;
But, when the giant from his slumber rose,
The Frank was swept, like mist, from mount and plain.
Now to my tale, a tale of long past years,
Of pains, and joys, strong faith, and love's bewitching tears.

II.

'Twas night; but now on Turia's glassy wave
The eastern stars a fainter lustre gave,
A chaunt arose, 'twas from the convent-hill,
It linger'd, lapsed, and all again was still;
But, as the matins pass'd, the eastern gray
Wore vermeil tinges—'twas the dawning day.
A flag was floating on the convent tower,
And soon were busy hands in every bower,
Culling the lily and the eglantine,
In their first dews, to wreathe round stall and shrine;
And soon peal'd out, in rich and distant thunder,
The tolling of the convent's far famed bell,
Filling the air above, around, and under,
With the deep music of its mighty swell;
For on this high and holy day, at noon,
Princely Sidonia's daughter was to wear
The robe, that, like the shroud, when once put on,
Leaves the wild heart no more to hope or fear.

III.

'Tis noon, and plumes and scarlet banners gleam
Along the plain, a winding, glittering stream,
Reflected in the Turia's mirror blue;
And now it opens on the nearer view
A splendid cavalcade of youths and dames,
Medina, Arcos, Alvarez, high names
That by Pelagio on his mountains stood,
And never knew a shade of Moorish blood,
But on their plunging lances; deep their steel
Had mow'd the harvest of the Infidel.
Now slowly up the mountain's side they come,
With harmonies, that in the distance seem
Like the bee's music o'er the apple bloom,
Like the low murmurings of a morning dream;
And now the sound is clearer, yet as sweet
As when it flow'd around the mountain feet,
A rich, deep swell of flute and forest horn,
And now and then a stirring trumpet blast,
That bursts and dies away, like lightning borne
Into the bosom of the cloud and past.
The cavalcade has reached the convent height,
Where wait its slow ascent the peasant throng,
Struggling to see, for once in life, the sight
Whose story shall, through many an evening long,
Beguile them of the time, and make the pride
Of him who saw that day's devoted bride.

IV.

V. THE HYMN.

VI.

In the low echoes of the anthem's close
The murmurs of a distant chorus rose.
A portal open'd, in its shadow stood
A sable pomp, the hallow'd sisterhood,
They led a white-robed form, young, delicate,
Where life's delicious spring was opening yet:
Yet was she stately, and, as up the aisle
She moved, her proud, pale lip half wore a smile:
Her eye was firm, yet those who saw it near,
Saw on its lash the glistening of a tear.
All to Sidonia's sainted daughter bow'd,
And she returned it calmly, like one vow'd
To loftier things. But, once she paused; and press'd
With quick, strange force her slight hand to her breast,
And her wan cheek was redden'd with a glow
That spread its crimson to her forehead's snow;
As if the vestal felt the throes that wreak
Their stings upon young hearts about to break.
She struggled, sigh'd; her look of agony
Was soothed, and she was at Sidonia's knee.
Her father's tears of anguish on her fell;
His gentle heart abhorr'd the convent cell;
Even now he bade her pause. She look'd to heaven,
One long, wild pressure to his cheek was given,
Her pale lip quiver'd, could not say “farewell.”—
The bell gave one deep toll, it seem'd her knell;
She started, strove his strong embrace to sever,
Then rush'd within the gate—that shuts for ever.

VII.

The final, fatal rite was duly done,
The tress was shorn, the sable veil put on,
That shades like night the day of hope and youth;
The golden ring was given, the pledge of truth,
That, bound on earth, grows firmer by the grave.
And, down the mountain's side, that splendid wave
Of beauty and bright chivalry is rushing,
To where Sidonia's palace gates are flushing
In the red setting of the summer sun.
And there are high festivities begun,
And flags are streaming from the gilded towers,
And peasant girls are strewing bridal flowers,
And shouts and praises of the brave and fair,
Sebastian and Maria, fill the air.
Sidonia, on that day, was doom'd to part
With two he loved; the nearest to his heart
Had gone to pine her loveliness away
In the cold shadows of the convent day;
And ere upon the clouds that evening died,
Maria was to blush, Sebastian's bride.

VIII.

But as the train had clear'd the chestnut glade,
Again was heard the gallant horseman's vaunt,
Again the mimic tournament was play'd,
And cheering cries were heard, and ladies' taunt
Of knightly gallantry, and grace, and speed.
Stirr'd at the sight, out sprang Maria's steed,
All reins were loosed; her foot was like the wind;
Alone Sebastian follow'd close behind.
Still sate the noble lady saddle-fast:
The plain, the moat were, swift as lightning, past:
The buttress, bridge, were 'scaped by miracle:
At her pavilion's porch the lady fell.
The danger that had braced her lofty heart,
Was gone, but with it the high heart was gone;
In vain the husband's kiss, the leech's art;
Her spirit soar'd from that cold threshold stone.

IX.

Sebastian had not loved, but he could give
The tears of man to beauty's sudden doom.
He felt no cureless agony, though eve
Oft found him lingering by Maria's tomb.
A little month had given her to the world;
Till then a lingerer in the cloister's gloom,
To wed with bloom and birth her birth and bloom,
To live, be happy, and from life be hurl'd.
Sidonia, childless, bow'd his head to fate,
And shut himself in his Valencian hall;
His heart and hall alike were desolate.
His life was buried in the veil and pall.
Sebastian watch'd his misery, as a son
Beside a father's pillow, day by day,
Until he saw the first, keen sorrow done;
Then, to assuage his own, yet unheal'd, pang,
The gentle bridegroom to his saddle sprang,
And wander'd lonely through the land away.

X.

But those were stirring times; for England's lance
Was rushing fiery o'er the fields of Spain.
Before it waved the plume of vaunting France,
Waved, to be rent on mount, and stream, and plain.
Not for herself, fair Albion shook the steel,
That oft had blazed before the Catalan,
Making the squadrons of the Moormen reel;
It led th'Imperial Austrian's hopeless van.
But France was swept before it, as the tide
Before some lordly vessel's plunging prow,
Yet still, though scattered foaming from her side,
Filling her track, tumultuous, baffled, slow.
War raged: and where it rages, is wild woe;
And all its curse was heavy upon Spain;
Her heaven and earth were changed; the crystal well
Was now a grave, a sanguine pit of slain;
The hamlet was a waste, the vineyard dell
Was now the pining peasant's chilling lair;
Along the thymy slope, where gentle eyes
Oft watch'd the rising of the evening star,
Signal of love, and lover's melodies,
Now burst at eve the burning temple's glare;
But glorious England, thine was not the lance
That ever stain'd its brightness with a tear.
And when did haughty, headlong, heartless France
Pause o'er the prostrate in her wild career?
Sebastian saw the wreck; his father's vane
Had waved against the Frank in many a field;
The Austrian bird soon cover'd its red shield;
He called his serfs, a bold and crowded train,
Heard their first shout, and was himself again.

XI.

'T was evening as they reach'd the mountain's brow
That showed them Barcelona in the vale,
And long they paused to see that lovely show;
The sun low levelled on the city pale,
Montjuif's bright brow, the Frenchman's standard hung,
Shame of its battlements; the port's thick sail,
Like clouds upon its sea of sapphire flung,
The white tents scatter'd o'er the fields, like snow
That winter leaves upon the green of spring,
The English martial lines, that seem'd the flow
Of living streams, the verdure crimsoning.
The mighty sun sank down. The citadel
Sent from its battlements the evening peal.
Slow in its smoke the Bourbon banner fell:
From England's twilight camp the answering gun
Sent up its solemn roar, and ere 'twas done
A flourish of bold music, drum and horn,
Follow'd its white, fierce incense up the air.
But from the city other sounds were borne,
Cathedral chaunts, and bells that rang for prayer.

XII.

His troop lay stretch'd upon the mountain heath
Faint with the parching travel of the day.
'T was midnight, hill and vale were hush'd as death.
Anon, a rocket shot a yellow ray,
And died; another and another rose.
The drums beat out; no moment for repose.
A fiery circle ran round Montjuif's height;
The city was a blaze of lurid light.
Up sprang Sebastian, vaulted on his steed,
Spoke the few words that touch the man of Spain,
Then down the mountain rush'd with arrowy speed.
Clear as the morn, the flashings of th'assault
Show'd on the plain the red battalions squared,
The squadrons mounted, that the night's grim vault
Had hidden, till the blaze upon them glared
Like the grim entrails of a mighty mine.
From Montjuif thunder'd still the incessant din,
The shot from loop and bastion shower'd like hail;
Sebastian gave the spur, he pass'd the vale,
He found the English warriors on its brow,
In their close, iron line; with steady gaze
Eyeing the fire, that round them pour'd a glow
Fierce as a furnace, waiting but the word,
To spring upon the battlements;—none stirr'd,
No voice was heard;—at last the word was given;
A shout like thunder echoed England's name!
The Frenchman from the wall, like dust, was driven;
Then sank the clash, the thunder, and the flame.

XIII.

Proud Barcelona, on the sunny shore
That lines with silver Spain's resplendent sea,
What can for sport or splendour vie with thee?
But now, thy day of war and terror o'er,
Like sudden madness burst thy grateful glee.
Thy morning streets were fill'd with pageantry;
At eve thy Rambla rang with dance and song;
Night, midnight found the still unwearied throng
Wandering by seashore, or illumined shade,
Busy with mask, and feast, and serenade.
Sebastian saw its splendours with the eye
Of youth, and health, and recent victory.
But his high heart for nobler pleasures pined,
The joys of mind alone can fill the mind.
War still remain'd; Granada's walls defied
The bold ally that always leads the van;
And never lover long'd to meet his bride
More than he long'd to see the battle's dawn.

XIV.

The order came, to march. On that last eve
There was a banquet in Valverdé's halls,
The city's noblest name. The tapestried walls,
Shower'd light on all the loveliest of the land,
On slender, waving shapes, like flow'rets fann'd
Into new grace by every breeze that blows.
The night flew on, to dance, and lover's talk,
And the light wit that wins the ready smile.
But love's true spirit seeks the secret walk,
And many a pair by garden-bower, and rill,
Wander'd in dreams that one poor hour must sever,
Sweet pain, that balms the heart yet makes it bleed;
By morn the lover must be on his steed;
That parting look might be their last,—for ever!

XV.

Sebastian through the crowd of masquers stray'd,
Winging the wit that round the circle play'd;
Those summer lightnings, flashes of the mind,
That shine, but harm not; arrows rosy twined.
Until he reach'd the garden colonnade,
And drank the luxury of night and shade;
A mingled stream of echoes of the lute,
And the sweet, icy breath of flowers and fruit,
Lemon and grape, and, touch'd with that mild sky,
The pallid gold of the thick orangery.
Against a pillar lean'd his glowing cheek,
His mask was off, and never raptured Greek
Struck from the Parian stone a nobler form;
He look'd among that light and glittering swarm,—
A stranger, from a loftier region sprung;
His crimson Venice hat was backwards flung,
Loosing the raven ringlets round his brow:
And those who saw that cheek's delighted glow,
The smile that then his red lip loved to wear,
Had little thought that thirty years were there.
But there was in his large and brilliant eye
The depth, the fire of rich maturity:
Though in that soften'd hour of earth and heaven,
Th'unconscious glance that from its orb was given,
The melting, melancholy gaze above
Show'd that the heart within was made for love.

XVI.

He saw not that a group had gather'd nigh,
Gazing upon his silence silently.
He heard not, till upon his spirit came,
In a low sigh of agony, his name.
He started, saw a gentle fugitive,
Saw her at distance through the concourse strive,
Pursued, and lost her. But his eye no more
Could in its calmness to that blue heaven soar.
“Oh! but see the lip that breathed that sigh!
Breathed it for him? was't love, woe, mockery?
That young lip must be lovely; soul, high soul,
Was in the sigh that o'er its ruby stole.”
So had one breath disturb'd his spirit's stream,
And such the wanderings that make passion's dream.

XVII.

He roved the sumptuous halls with eager eye,
Met smiles, heard words of gentle gallantry,
Gave o'er the search, and smiled to feel the pain,
That smote him when he found the search in vain.
Then follow'd, listless, where the deeper crowd
Afar, to see some new-born wonder, flow'd,
Scarce hearing the gay levities that past
Through the gay throng, each lighter than the last:—
“Whence came the miracle? from pole or line?—
Some minstrel, freshly bronzed from Palestine,
Famish'd and fetter'd, till the Arab bark,
Flung out the dove, well fitted for its ark.—
Valverdé's taste! that fosters every mime;
The common prey of every son of rhyme.
A woman? Some soft Charlatan from Rome;
Some saint, that wears no veil to hide her bloom.”
On roll'd they, and Sebastian with the tide,
The echo of a distant harp their guide.

XVIII.

Before them rose a large and lofty tent,
Tissued with emblems of Spain's ancient wars;
Through the slight silk the myrtle breathed its scent,
And pour'd their beams the blue and midnight stars.
Raised, like an idol, on the slight ascent
Of a low, central tripod sat a Moor,
The young magician of those sounds: the floor,
The waving walls, were touch'd with tender gloom.
She was unveil'd, and yet the shawl of green,
That wreathed its thick pearl'd fringe her locks between,
Threw shadow, dim and deep, upon her bloom;
But slight the tinge the Afric sun had thrown
Upon her cheek, the eye dark diamond shone.
She sat beneath a lamp of figured gold,
That on her turban pour'd a dazzling flame.
Her minstrel tale of wonder but half told,
Her hand still floating o'er the harp's rich frame;
She gave one glance: her cheek seem'd flush'd with shame.
She cast upon the ground her startled eye,
And swept the harp,—a clash of discord came;
Her bosom through its caftan panted high;
But all her voice was one deep, painful sigh.
The gay assemblage, sympathizing, gazed
On her strange beauty and her sudden pain.
Their plaudits proud her sinking spirit raised,
She bow'd, and, blushing deep, renew'd the strain.
Again her hand, her voice seem'd wandering;—
She dried a tear, and gave her prison'd anguish wing.

XIX.

XX.

She droop'd upon the harp; still paused the crowd,
Witch'd by the thrilling sweetness of her song;
And tears had fall'n on many a bosom proud;
For music has the key of memory,
And thoughts and visions buried deep and long,
Come at the summons of its sweetness nigh!
The silence broke with one relieving sigh.
At length the loud applause awoke, but she,
Before whose feet the gems and gold were flung,
Still on the harp, dejected, fainting, hung.
Sebastian caught her sinking: he had heard
And seen what plunged his soul in reverie,
And now he held her dying! From her eye
A slow tear stole: her startled glance was rear'd
To his stoop'd brow. He felt a shudder run
Through her faint frame:—her gesture said, begone.
His sick heart sank! he left her to the care,
That press'd around with balm and essence rare,
Gave one wild glance, and fled, and was alone.

XXI.

Sebastian wander'd forth; the garden air
Rush'd on his cheek, nor cool'd the fever there;
He gasp'd for breath. A sparry fountain shot
Its waters in the moonlight: by its grot
He stood, as if the sounds his heart would lull;
His face, so sad, so pale, so beautiful,
Fix'd on the moon, that in her zenith height
Pour'd on his naked brow a flood of light:
Shrined, moveless, silent, in the splendid beam,
He look'd the marble Genius of the stream.
Silence around; but when the night wind sway'd,
Or some roused bird dash'd fluttering through the shade:
For those he had no ear; the starry vault,
The grove, the fount, but fed one whelming thought,
Time, fate, the earth, the glorious heaven above,
Breathed but one mighty dream, that dream was love.

XXII.

Sebastian had seen beauty, and his name
Had lighted many a lady's cheek with flame.
Rich, high-born, graceful, such may woo and win,
While courteous words conceal the chill within:
But, with the warrior burning in his blood,
He left the fair pursuers unpursued:
Bound to Sidonia's daughter from his birth,
Laugh'd at the little tyrant of the earth;
Could talk, as others talk, of hope and fear,
But never gave the god a sigh or tear.

XXIII.

But now the world was changed, the die was cast!
“How had he slept so long to wake at last?
What hid the feelings that now shook his soul?
Where was the cloud that gave the thunder-roll?
This, this was life; at last he walk'd in light,
The veil of years was rent before his sight.
'T was not her beauty, though the loveliest there
Was lifeless, soulless, featureless to her;
No, nor her melting voice, nor that slight hand
That her sweet harp with such swift beauty fann'd,
Like magic's silver sceptre, hovering
To wake enchantment from the untouch'd string.
Had he not seen that face before? But where?
He knew not; 't was like music to his ear,
Familiar, but forgotten; phrensy all!
She was a Moor; nay, could he now recall
The features that had madden'd him? Not one.
All was a flash of splendour, dazzling, gone;
A haze of matchless beauty on his eye,
A sense confused, a vision, witchery.
But she had scorn'd him; were not pain, hate, fear,
In her wild glances, when but he drew near?
Smiles for all else? The truth was now too late,
That hour had stamp'd his life; he saw his fate.
Yet—might not fondness, faith, her scorn remove?
And who could hate, where all the crime was love?”

XXIV.

Delicious fantasy! the thought was balm;
His heart, his eye in sudden rapture swam.
Nature was charm'd to him. He could have talk'd
With every star, that in its glory walk'd.
Hope had put life in all unliving things;
He hung above the fountain's rippling springs,
And heard them echo joy; the bud unbranch'd
That his light pressure on the streamlet launch'd,
Bounded in joy; his deep and burning sigh
Rose through the vine-leaves that gave sweet reply.
A sudden meteor sail'd across the heaven,
He hail'd its sign; to him, to him 't was given,
Omen of joy, bright promise of bright years.
“Let fear and folly have their ‘vale of tears.’
Let him be blest with that unequall'd one;
Whoe'er she was, she might, she must be won;
Life would roll on, one calm and blossom'd spring;
Or, if the tempest came, they would but cling
With arms and hearts the closer, till 't was o'er;
Life a long joy; and death, a pang, no more.”
Out burst in speech the lover's ecstasy.

XXV.

A sudden bugle pierced the morning sky.
He started from his dream. The yellow dawn
Wander'd along night's borders, like the fawn,
First venturing from its dappled mother's side;
A timid bound on darkness, swift withdrawn,
Then bolder tried again.—The starlight died;
And now the trumpet to the trumpet cried,
The waggon groan'd, the echoing lash was plied,
The gun roll'd ponderous through the rampart-arch.
The lover's world was o'er! He heard the march:
And shudder'd: but the tramp of crowding hoofs,
The soldier's laugh, the shouting from the roofs,
Where the roused city cluster'd thick as bees;
The rattling drum, the banners in the breeze,
All told the long-wish'd hour. But now 't was doom;
'T was come, it crush'd his heart; but it was come.

XXVI.

He rush'd impatient through the halls of state,
No tidings there; the halls were desolate.
Yet, while his foot was in the stirrup hung,
His word was “tidings of the minstrel Moor”;
His purse was to the bowing menials flung,
Yet “to his boons to come, its weight were poor:
Lived there the man who could but name her name?”
None knew it, where she went, nor whence she came.

XXVII.

Sebastian led the van. The trumpet's thrill
Found a responsive chord within him still;
And when he saw the martial pomp around,
And felt the gallant steed beneath him bound,
And drank at morn the spirit of the air,
He seem'd his comrades' proudest joy to share:
But when at night his weary limbs he threw
On the cool heath, beneath the sky of blue,
Back to the tent his sleepless fancy flew,
And felt the love, the rapture, the despair.

XXVIII.

Grenada's gate was storm'd, the cross of red
Fix'd on the Moorish wall, the Frenchman fled:
Sebastian bleeding to his tent was borne.
First in the charge, the fire, the escalade,
A ball had struck him; agonized and torn,
He saw his standard on the rampart soar,
Join'd in the shout, and sank, and saw no more.

XXIX.

One evening, as the sun was setting sweet,
Making its rays a coronet for the hill,
The Solsierra, at whose flowery feet
Twined like a golden fetter the Xenil,
And the birds sang, and the dissolving heat
Was fann'd by that light, balmy, fluttering breeze,
That shades the azure of Italian seas;
He left his chamber for the mountain bower,
His eyes' delight, and grief, through many an hour,
When sunk upon his couch, he saw it wave,
And thought between them lay his early grave.
But, thanks to nature, and his leech's art,
A peasant follower of the camp, his heart
Had found its firmer pulses, and his cheek
Wore, though still faintly, health's reviving streak.

XXX.

And oft, before he reach'd the summit height,
He paused, in silent, dazzled reverie;
For in the living world no lovelier sight
Of Summer's painted beauty meets the eye.
Above him, one bright blue infinity;
The land beneath him boundless as a sea;
Magnificent with all bright shapes and dyes,
Leagues of tomato, vineyards, orangeries,
And yellow pasture plains that seem'd to rise
And vanish in the far Nevada's blue.
And at his feet, like webs of silver dew,
Glistening and woven through the Huerta's bowers,
From many a Moorish fount the living rill.
And farther off, your brighter, broader streams
Smooth-gliding Vargo, rapid Monachil,
With serpent splendours in the sunset gleams,
Sweeping in pomp, by hills, and groves, and towers.

XXXI.

The mountain where he stood was famous ground,
For there the Caliph's crescent had been riven;
And still the Arab breathes a prayer profound
For the Alhambra's halls, his earthly heaven.
Sebastian rested on the low, red wall
That girds the palace, like the shatter'd pall
Flung round the bed of beauty's last decay.
His eyes upon th'enchanted landscape lay.
A voice, a whisper, trembled by his side,
Faded upon the breathless air, and died!
The sound return'd, and he stood listening
To tones that, mingling with a faint guitar,
Now floated round him, and now faded far,
As if a spirit shook them from its wing.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

Palace of beauty! where the Moorish Lord,
King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword,
Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze.
Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days,
When at thy morning gates the coursers stood,
The “thousand,” milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood,
In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King;
And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood
Of jewell'd Sheik and Emir, hastening,
Before the sky the dawning purple show'd,
Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling.
Lovely thy morn,—thy evening lovelier still,
When at the waking of the first blue star
That trembled on the Atalaya hill,
The splendours of the trumpet's voice arose,
Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war;
But summoning thy beauty from repose,
The shaded slumber of the burning noon.
Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone,
Shooting the sparkling column from the vase
Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze
Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry,
And the rich bordering beds of every bloom
That breathes to African or Indian sky,
Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone;
Then was the harping of the minstrels heard,
In the deep arbours, or the regal hall,
Hushing the tumult of the festival,
When the pale bard his kindling eyeball rear'd,
And told of eastern glories, silken hosts,
Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd:
Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts
Of the far western sea, the sons of blood,
The iron men of tournament and feud,
That round the bulwarks of their fathers swarm'd,
Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall;
Till the Red Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall.

XXXIV.

Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,
That had no rival, and no second?—gone!
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd,
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim,
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim,
Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told.
Where is thy horn of battle? that but blown
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne;
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall;
Brought every charger barded from the stall,
Till all its tribes sat mounted on the shore;
Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour
The living deluge on the fields of Spain.
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain
Upon thy brow—the stain of guilt and gore,
Thy course was bright, bold, treach'rous,—and 'tis o'er.
The spear and diadem are from thee gone;
Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne!

XXXV.

Sebastian wander'd on; he had no thought,
No eye for earthly glories; had that spot
Been Paradise, he would have wander'd on.
He trod the “Court of Lions,” where the rill
Strives through its sculptured bed to trickle still;
No living sound was there; he lean'd beside
The fountain where the Abencerrage died;
And struck, in listless anger, from its brim
The weeds that gather'd o'er it thick and dim.
A footfall touched his ear: a sudden shade
Twined swiftly through the distant colonnade!
He sprang, and follow'd, but his step was mazed
In the deep labyrinth of halls, emblazed
With fretted gold, and purple, and all dyes
Of plant or metal, and inscriptions wan,
Crowding the cupola, and floor, and frieze,
With spell and sculpture, tale and talisman.

XXXVI.

His search was hopeless, and he gave up hope;
And yet would linger there. He left the slope,
And wandered through the rose and tulip vale.
The Houri garden, where ev'n noon look'd pale,
But lovelier far; as woman, when she hears
The name that thrills her heart, and smiles through tears.
And now he stood within the central shrine,
The canopy of peach and nectarine;
The Harem bower; and though, in days gone by,
To look upon its treasures was to die,
Yet many a noble by the cypress wall
Linger'd to hear their twilight music's fall:
For, mingled with the perfumed air, would rise
The rich theorb's, the cittern's melodies,
And, in their pause, some song's soul-touching flow,
Telling that even within that bower was woe.

XXXVII.

All now was loneliness, and he return'd,
With weary steps; but as he glanced again
Along the portal, where the sunlight burn'd
On fairy Arabesque, and painted pane,
And, in the tangled woodbine's crimson train
Wreathing the turban'd marble, lay inurn'd
The last Sultana,—kneeling by the tomb
He saw a shape, 'twas hidden half in gloom;
He saw a cowl, a dazzling, upturn'd eye,
Touch'd with the hue of tear-drops scarcely dry;
He knew that face, 'twas pictured on his heart,
“But one, one word,—or form of earth or heaven,
His passion might be heard, must be forgiven.”
The vision was in prayer; he saw it start;
He swept aside the foliage, saw the bough,
That the light flyer bent, returning slow;
Saw where the sandal press'd the blossoms strown;
The rest was shadow, mystery;—it was flown.

XXXVIII.

There are some moments when the heart stands still;
As if the mighty touch that deigns to fill
Our sands had left them where they last ran down.
Sebastian wander'd through the forest brown,
And vineyard fields, that clothed the mountain's side,
Unconscious as the rill, his murmuring guide;
Till the last evening trumpet, through the grate,
Told him he stood before Granada's gate.
He reach'd his couch, its broider'd canopy
Could charm no slumber to his weary eye.

XXXIX.

He rose, and tried to read; the gorgeous book
Pleased for a moment, then his hold forsook:
He touch'd, with eager hand, his loved guitar,
'Twas tuneless now, his thoughts were straying far;
He sank upon his couch to wear away
A sick man's heavy hours till tardy day.
He spoke in fever. “Fabian, slumberer!
How can you linger? Must I perish here?”
Pain check'd his voice. An humble tone replied;
He raised his eye; the leech was at his side.
“Boy, this is misery;—to the grave to creep!
Oh, half my wealth but for one hour of sleep.
Here, try that pulse, these temple-throbs.—'Tis vain;—
The medicine's not on earth that lulls this pain.”
The wind breathed fresher through the lattice bower;
He ask'd a tale to linger out the hour.
The peasant-leech had none; “nor fay nor knight
Had ever glitter'd on his lowly sight.
Yet on his lord's guitar he might recall
Some song,—his humble skill the skill of all.”
On the light strings his fingers feebly move,
“Sing then,” Sebastian said, “but not of love.”
“My lord shall be obeyed,” the youth replied;
The tone was mingled with offended pride;—
“He scorns not more than I the idle strains
Where perfidy of perfidy complains;—
Woes of weak hearts, that never should be won;
Wrongs of deluders by themselves undone.—
Yet there is one, but scarcely song or tale,
A pageant, now upon my memory pale,
Yet brilliant once.” Sebastian murmur'd, “Sing.”
The peasant bow'd, and chaunted to the string.

XL. ZEPHYR AND THE ROSE-NYMPH .

XLI.

“Where was that pageant play'd?” Sebastian said,
And on the peasant fix'd his eager eye;
“Was 't in Valencia, twelve months since?” a sigh
Closed his quick tone. The peasant bow'd his head.
“Aye,” said the feverish questioner, “that sight
Is yet by many a heart remember'd well.
Who that had seen the festal of that night,
My marriage eve, could next day's woes foretell?
Maria, sweet, unwedded bride, farewell!”
He paused, then said, in faint soliloquy,
“Are there not days that Fate has kept in store,
At once its whole wild weight of grief to pour,
The bitter price of long and prosperous years?
Ruin'd Sidonia! from that hour of tears
Thy heart was heap'd with woe; the distant wave
Rolls over what was once thy noble son.
But she, his best beloved, his hallow'd one,
Whose life consoled him for the double grave;
Better she ne'er was born;—her hard heart gave
The deadliest blow;—he dies the death of shame.
She fled her convent, stain'd her noble name;
Fled, with a menial for her paramour;—
Bane of her house, beyond all earthly cure;—
Undone! in body and in soul undone!”
“Are there no tidings?” said the listener.—“None;
She lives in daring guilt, if yet she lives.”
“What of her sire?”—“He dies, and he forgives.”

XLII.

Sebastian from his couch arose. The moon
Reign'd in full radiance o'er the sky of June,
Far round the vassal stars withdrew their fires.
He lean'd his folded arms and high pale brow
Against the casement's side. The light below
Fell, snowlike, thick, on palace-roofs and spires:
“'Twas a vain world.” He cast his eye above,
And gave the musings way, that scarcely move
Th'unconscious lip: the breathings of the soul.
“How lovely dost thou in thy blue heaven roll,
Shadow of Him whom none can see, and live.
Yet what forbade thy mighty orb to give
His fiery splendours? on night's fearful hour
To lift the image of consuming power?
Sweet moon, that look of soft tranquillity
Was given in mercy to the sleepless eye;
To cheer the tossing brow on fever's bed;
To calm the midnight weeper o'er the dead;
To raise the houseless wretch that sees thy beam,
To thoughts of hours when life shall be no dream.

XLIII.

“Yet is earth's agony too strong for thee!
What terrors does the eye this moment see,
That sees like thine our world? What thousands groan
On fields of slaughter; on the dungeon stone;
Lost in the desert; struggling in the wave;
The wrong'd, the exiled,—all in one, the slave.
Aye! give me rack and flame before the den
Where desperate slavery howls for home again.
Are there no other tortures? Love, true love;
Pang, that the light think light, the wise reprove;
But the true anguish that disdains control;
The folly, fever, phrensy of the soul.
Yet, old Sidonia, art thou gazing now
Upon this comforter? or slumbering low
Where sorrow comes no more? Well hadst thou died,
Laid in the grave thy gentle child beside;
Before that second, deeper wound was given;
There, there the dagger to the heart was driven.
Talk I of suffering! All to thine is tame;
A father's sorrow for his daughter's shame.”

XLIV.

Sebastian paused, and turn'd. “Yet silent? Boy:
Thank Heaven, my blood was spared that base alloy;
Was it not well?” The youth replied, “'Twas well.
She was a wretch. She's dead.” His accent fell.
“What!—have you seen her?”—“Yes, on that proud night,
When every heart, but one, but her's, was light;—
'T was at the palace pageant; on the eve
Of my lord's mournful bridal. Oh forgive—
My careless hand no more shall touch that string.
She clung to life, as shipwreck'd wretches cling,
When the next wave must sweep them from the shore.
Her cheek was whiter than the veil she wore;
She mingled with the festive crowd unknown,
Tasting her desperate joy;—her die was thrown!”—
“The day before her vows! the world was dear;”
“She loved it not; she had high business there.”
“Know you her further story?” “Nothing—No.”
“You weep.” “'Tis childish, weak, but tears will flow.
She was the daughter of the lord I loved;
Sidonia's vassal, could I see unmoved
His loved one sink, beyond my baffled art,
Sink in the sickness of the broken heart?”
“What plunged her in the convent.” “Madness all;
The phrensied piety that's sure to fall.”
“Rash sufferer! but she quickly sought her cure;
She fled, and with—” “Oh, with no paramour.”
“A page was seen—” “No, as yon heaven is high,
She had no paramour! That page was—I.”

XLV.

Sebastian gazed: “Where roves th'unhappy one?”
“She roves no more; her earthly wandering's done.”
“Aye, the loose, outflung follower of some camp,
Blighted by burning noon, and nightly damp;
Her heart a ruin, and her cheek a flame;
Fever or famine closed her course of shame.
Such is the tale; deny it not; 't is proved.
If false, why shun the father that she loved?
Why break her convent vows? She chose her chain.”—
“No ear, save Heaven's, has heard her heart complain;
Oh, had you seen too late repentance heap
The ashes on her dying head!”—“You weep;
She might be pitied—must not be forgiven;
Compassion's human, pardon rests with Heaven;
There let her make her peace: her heart is stain'd;
The step is made that never was regain'd.”
“Yet, if you loved her—”—“Her! presumptuous boy,
Venture no more: love her!—At once destroy
All honour, live in open shame, or fly,
Scared,—wolf-like—from the glance of human eye!
This thwarts and troubles me!—no more of love.”—
He fix'd his look upon the mount above,
From whose bold forehead in the moonlight beam,
Th'Alhambra rose,—a silver diadem.
“Passion of passions, sovereign, sole, sublime!
Earth's only one that scorns to yield to time;
There is thy temple, and this heart of mine
Shall perish into dust upon thy shrine.
Fabian, this eve I've seen within those walls
A form, a mystery, that enchants, appals—
That has hung o'er me like a summer-cloud,
Till my heart burn'd, my feeble reason bow'd;
Made the day's thought, the vision of my bed;
Met me and shunn'd,—been in my grasp and fled,
Till I have dream'd it of the shapes that come
To train the thoughtless for the early tomb.
There Fabian wilt thou see thy master laid?”
The page replied not—his droop'd cheek was stay'd
Heavy upon his knee, as over-wept.—

XLVI.

The moon went down; the fresher breezes swept;
The flowers dropp'd dew; the stars grew white,—'t was dawn
Sebastian sank in slumber, worn and wan,
Till where he stood, the sun's increasing beam
Pour'd in, and broke the unrefreshing dream.
The room around was empty—where the page?—
“Where could he stray—so patient, gentle, sage?”
His chamber was deserted,—he was gone.
“Who saw the truant leave the palace?” None;
Or but a shepherd, who, as moonlight died,
Had seen a corpse along the Xenil glide.

XLVII.

The search was follow'd close and long, in vain.
The rest was faint suspicion, rude surmise,
Where each man brings his mite of prodigies,
And what to all is dark, all will explain.
Few love the favourite, and their hate found food
In his low voice, his tears, his solitude,
Condemn'd him to the grand explainer Time,
And long'd to know the sentence,—and the crime.
Their master felt his loss; but one deep thought
Made all else light; and, duly at each eve,
The pilgrim wander'd to the hallow'd spot,
Where he had seen the vision that would leave
His heart,—yet not until its veins were cold.
But never more did he that page behold.

XLVIII.

Then thoughts of old Sidonia struck his mind,
No child to bless him, none that he could bless,
Life, all but its last bitterness, resign'd.—
Lonely himself, he thought of loneliness,
And turn'd a moment from that mountain shrine,
To be a gentle son to his decline.

XLIX.

Sidonia's courts look'd mournful as when last
He saw them, but not lonely;—menials pass'd,
Frequent and hurrying, though in silence all,
And robed in sable. In the palace-hall
Was pomp as in its proudest days of old;
Yet many a black escutcheon lined the wall.
What wrought the change he knew not, but it told,
Though heavy on the heart had fall'n the blow,
That time or Heaven had check'd the cureless woe.
The old man met him with a smile, but pale,
And welcomed him, yet welcomed with a sigh;
“His daughter had return'd;—his prodigal;”
A sudden tear stood trembling in his eye,
And his lip quiver'd, and his hurried hand
Swept from his brow the drops of misery.
“She came in peace,—still pure,—but came to die.”
Sebastian tried to cheer,—himself unmann'd
To see in his enfeebled frame, how soon,
How surely, Time's slow work by grief is done;
And soothed, and led him gently, as if there
He saw a leaf of Autumn, thin and sere,
That the first breath might flutter from the tree.
“She came in purity—but came to die,”
Was all the old man's voice—still check'd by tears.
Sebastian led him beyond menial ears,
Calm'd him, and heard his brief and bitter tale.
“Floranthe, daughter of his heart and years,
Had come to him at last,—not false or frail,
But worn by pain, and clouded by some woe
That baffled hope;—her life was hovering now
Above the grave.—The sufferer seldom spoke,
Smiled never; hung for hours o'er lute or book,
Loved through the garden shades to stray unseen;
Was all, and more than all, that she had been,
Most gentle, tender, filial; but her eye
Bore in it Death's sure summons,—she must die.”

L.

'Twas an autumnal day, and now the eve
Walk'd on the western heaven, serene and slow.
His guest now left Sidonia; for his flow
Of tears was calm'd; and wander'd forth to leave
His own o'erwhelming sadness for a while.
He felt the balminess of evening's smile,
As from the marble terraces he gazed
O'er the smooth, velvet-verdure of the lawn,
Where the tamed pheasant in the sunlight blazed,
Spreading his eye-dropt pinions; and the fawn
And leveret sported round the ancient trees.
The breath of life was in the breathing breeze.
And he was tempted on through thickets deep,
Scatter'd with rills, and knots of forest flowers,
That to his wounded fancy made such bowers,
As he would have to shadow his lone grave.
He heard a low, soft voice,—a gentle step
On the dried leaves—the struggling sunlight gave
A single beam—that shew'd a female form,
Slight, sable-robed, and veil'd,—“Sidonia's child!
Her woes were sacred.”—And the acacias wild,
And the laburnum blossom's yellow swarm,
Soon gave the intruder shelter from her eye,
But kept him bound,—reluctantly, yet nigh.

LI.

The lady's heart seem'd weary, and she sank,
In sudden weakness, on a velvet bank,
That bore upon its gently rising green
The marble image of a Magdalen.
The victim clasp'd and kiss'd the statue's feet,
And swept their damps with long and raven hair,
Then on her rosary said a whisper'd prayer:
The weeping rite was done; and to the sky,
As if she communed with a spirit there,
She turn'd and spoke—the words came tremblingly;
“And costs it all this bitterness to die?
Oh, how I lived upon his look, his step,
His distant voice, his very garments' sweep:
Gazed on him from my secret shade, until
I felt my brain with growing phrensy thrill:
Then bore away his glance, his slightest word,
From that fond hour among my treasures stored;
My bitter food of thought for nights and days.—
The heart by death alone itself betrays,
And mine was wild and wretched, yet could hide,
Thank Heaven, the pang by which it all but died.
Maria, angel, from thy throne above
Bear witness of my homage to thy love;
Hating the cell, I plunged within the cell,
The boasted cure of those who love too well.
When thou wast borne to thy reward sublime,
And passion was no crime,—oh was 't a crime
To follow my soul's lord through toil and pain,
To face the sword, the pestilence, the chain,
To watch him day and night, as spirits move
Round those they love, mine was no earthly love?—
I made the vow: 't was kept. I lived to see
The price of vows forgotten, Heaven, to thee!
A nun, thy pledged, thy consecrated bride,
A perjured wanderer by a mortal's side!
I was repaid; I sought his eye in vain;
I heard,—the word is desperate,—his disdain.”

LII.

LIII.

Here ends the tale—she died? No; if the world
Is but a vanity at best, a toy,
That, as for each the mighty bauble's twirl'd,
Turns up the chance of sorrow or of joy;
This is its gilded side; the moments given
To love like this are moments lent from Heaven.
The rest I tell not, have no power to tell;
The old man's look, his burst of happiness,
When on his ransom'd daughter's neck he fell;
The blushing daughter's joyous, sweet distress,
The cheerful tumult of the household hall,
The crowding friends, the ceaseless festival:
Nor how that gentle pair would leave them all,
And wander through the garden, and the grove;
And ever, by some unresisted spell,
Find their steps turning to the evening dell:
While o'er them flew the hours with feathery feet;
For such are of the very life of love.
Nor how the lady told the dear deceit
Of the false Moor, and sang the madrigal,
That lured his step within th'Alhambra wall:
Nor how her spirit wither'd on the morn
That stamp'd Sidonia's daughter with his scorn:
Nor the proud lover's wonder that his eyes
Should not have known that shape through all disguise;
Although beneath her noble father's roof,
That shape by stern decorum kept aloof,
Perhaps had never met his hasty gaze.
So lived they in a sweet romantic maze.
Alone, amid the proud and festive throng,
Painless, unless o'erpowering joy were pain,
And oft Sebastian ask'd th'Alhambra song,
And won the wanderer's tale, again, again.

LIV.

But the young vestal's vows?—'Tis well the Pope
Is kind of heart, and fractures many a chain.
I fear, in England they could have no hope,
But dukes and ducats can do much in Spain:
So they were wedded, and life's smoothest tide
Bore on its breast the bridegroom and the bride.

LORENZO DE' MEDICI.

Infant—noble infant—sleep,
While this midnight heaven I sweep.
O'er thee burn a trine of stars,
Jove the sovereign, fire-eyed Mars,
Venus, with the diamond beam.
Babe, thou 'lt wear the diadem,
Wield the victor sword, and win
Woman more than half divine.
On this pure and pencil'd brow
Latent bursts of lightning glow.
Haughty Venice shall be bow'd
When they rend the thunder cloud.
Eloquence is on thy lip,
Now, like roses when they dip
Their budding crimson in the dew;
But, when time shall change its hue,
Law, and truth, and liberty
On its paler pomp shall lie.
What is magic's mightiest wand
To the sceptre in this hand?
Florence, city of the dead!
Cast the ashes from thy head,
At its touch the palm shall bloom
On thy solitary tomb.
Sea! that hear'st the dreary gale
O'er thy lonely billows wail,
When in strength this hand is raised,
Thou shalt wear a crown emblazed;
Gold and glory from the East
Shall on thy green forehead rest,
At thy feet the banners riven
Mark thy foes, the foes of Heaven.
Grave! where ancient genius lies,
What shall bid thy slumberers rise?
Glorious Infant! thou shalt stand,
Sending down thy summons grand
Through its depths, and they shall come
Brighter for the transient tomb.
In thy splendour, timid eye,
Crowns shall lose their majesty;
Dim before the soul enshrined,
The fiery sovereignty of mind.
Child of might, young miracle,
Sweet Lorenzo, fare thee well!

THE ARTIST'S CHAMBER.

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT.

EPITAPH.

SATAN.

FROM A PICTURE BY SIR THOMAS LAWRENCE.

THE PROPHET'S SCIMITAR.

GENIE.
Allah il Allah! high in heaven,
Might to the mightiest be given!
Mohammed, prophet, prince, be thine
On earth Dominion's master-sign.
On thy bold brow no jewell'd band;
No sceptre in thy red right hand;
Forth, and fulfil thy destiny!
The scimitar descends for thee!

CHORUS.
Hail, holy scimitar! thy steel
Is lightning's flash and thunder's peal!

GENIE.
No mortal force, no earthly flame,
Woke in the mine its mighty frame:
Its mine was in the tempest's gloom,
Its forge was in the thunder's womb,
To give its hue the eclipsing moon
In brief and bloody splendour shone,
The comet, rushing from its steep,
Traced through the heaven the steel's broad sweep.

CHORUS.
Prince of the starry diadem,
Where found its blade the burning gleam?

GENIE.
'Twas edged upon the living stone
That lights the tomb of Solomon;
Then, rising, temper'd in the wave,
That floats through Mecca's holy cave;
Above, upon its hilt, were graven
The potent characters of heaven;
Then on the footstep of the throne
'Twas laid, it blazed, the charm was done!

CHORUS.
Now, woe to helm, and woe to shield,
That meets its rushing o'er the field.
Like dust before its edge shall fail
The temper'd sword, the solid mail;
Till, like a star, its glories swell
In terrors on the Infidel;
A sun, foredoom'd to pour its rays
Till earth is burning in its blaze!

THE SONG OF ANTAR.

FROM THE ARABIC.

Ibla, I love thee. On my heavy eye
Thine flashes, like the lightning on the cloud.
I cannot paint thy beauty; for it leaves
All picturing pale. Were I to say the moon
Looks in her midnight glory like thy brow,
Where is the wild, sweet sparkling of thine eye?
Or that the palm is like thy stately form,
Where is thy grace among its waving boughs?
Thy forehead's whiteness is my rising sun;
Thine ebon tresses wreathing it like night,
Like night bewilder me; thy teeth are pearls,
In moist lips rosier than the Indian shell.
But now my world is darkness, for thou 'rt gone!
Thy look was to my life what evening dews
Are to the tamarisk: thy single glance
Went swifter, deeper, to thy lover's heart,
Than spear or scimitar; and still I gaze
Hopeless on thee, as on the glorious moon,
For thou, like her, art bright, like her above me.

INSCRIPTION ON ALEXANDER OF MACEDON.

FROM THE GREEK.

Troy fell with Hector, and no champion's spear,
From that o'erwhelming hour, taught Greece to fear.
With Alexander perished Pella's name;
Thus one great mind is life, and power, and fame.

INSCRIPTION FOR THEMISTOCLES.

FROM THE GREEK.

Be Greece her hero's sepulchre,
Be Persia's fleets the trophy there,
The epitaph be Xerxes' name.
The column, Salamis!—to shame
The weak ingratitude that gave
Themistocles a narrow grave.

ROSOLIA.

A DRAMATIC SKETCH.

Adrian, Ludovico.
Adr.
Ask me no more of her.—
The tale is idle,—past—'tis of the things
That lie i' the heart, as in a monument;
Faded—but holy, not to be disturb'd.
Yet 't were not much to say that she was fair,
No, nor that when she smiled her smile was sweet,
For so said all; nor that her slender form
Was touch'd with grace by Nature. Yonder wave,
Sinking in lines of silver,—this green stem
Bowing its purple clusters o'er our heads;
That willow, swaying in the sunset wind,
Were but its lifeless images.

Lud.
I saw her portrait once. 'T was in your sleep:
It had escaped your bosom.

Adr.
Dared you gaze?
No eye but mine should have beheld that face;
No eye but mine should on that face have wept;
No eye but mine should that dead face have loved;
For by all else its beauty were profaned.
It was my secret pleasure, pain, hope, fear,
My life's deep mystery.

Lud.
It was beautiful,
And I half wonder'd, stranger as I was,
To find my heart so waken'd by that smile.

Adr.

REBELLION.

EPITAPH ON AN OLD CULTIVATOR.

FROM THE GREEK.

Earth, to thy flowery bosom take in love
Thy ancient worshipper! He led the grove
Of olives down yon valley's gentle side.
'T was he who taught the crystal stream to glide
With its low murmur round this bowery vine,
And wreath'd its mossy fount with eglantine.
'T was his pale hand that crown'd the hill with corn,
And planted yon peach orchard; where at morn
The winds grow fragrant!—Strew thy earliest bloom,
And hallow thy old lover in the tomb.

THE ENTRY INTO JERUSALEM.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

THE PAINTER.

RUSTICUS loquitur.
That rock's his haunt.—There's not in all our hills
A hunter that can climb with him. He 'll watch
Before the lark is up; and, staff in hand,
For hours stand gazing, by the eagle's nest,
Like one enamour'd of the rising sun.
And then he 'll make his couch beside a rill:
Which, in his fantasy, he strews with shells,
And hangs with garlands of the weedy flowers.
Some think him love-crost;—others, that he deals
With spirits,—for all such seek loneliness:
And yet I think him holy, for he loves
Our convent walls, and many an evening strays
To see the sunset sleeping on its roof
And its old arches; or but turns away
To pore upon its image in the stream;
And then he 'll spread his book upon his knee,
And make a thousand things of beauty, then
He 'll tear the page, and fling it down the wind.
Here's one of them.—

STRANGER.
This is Lorraine; or he is not on earth.

JACOB'S DREAM.

FROM A PICTURE BY ALLSTON.

ON THE RUINS OF MESOLONGHI.

INSCRIPTION FOR A GROTTO.

A.D. 1500.

THE SIBYL'S TOMB.

FROM THE GREEK.

I was the Sibyl!—In this marble cell
Sleep the pale lips that breathed the oracle.
Death's sceptre stoop'd upon my virgin brow;
Then voice and beauty fled! All's silent now.
Yet still with Hermes and the Nymphs I rove,
Elysian spirit!—I was Phœbus' love.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

Oh how unlike the hour of festival!
That chamber, how unlike the gorgeous hall,
Which saw that hand of faith and fondness given;
'T was on a summer day's delicious even.
Propitious splendour in the purpling skies,
The air all streaming with rich harmonies,
Sent in with fragrance of the closing flower,
Old England's royal pomp in court and bower!
The hall was thick with regal luxury;—
Studding like stars the dome, that look'd a sky,
Cressets of alabaster and of gold,
Waked all that pencil, or that steel could mould.
Central, beside the altar, on her throne,
Sat, diadem'd, the mother-queen, alone.
And round her, hush'd in awful distance, stood
Young beauty, haughty forms of field and flood,
Chiefs, who shall be a glory to all time,
Mix'd with soft shapes, like roses in their prime.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.