University of Virginia Library

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.