Dioclesian :: :: University of Virginia Library

If that the never-winking lamps which stud
Yond ebon cupola—and hang, like gems,
Upon the swart mass of nights' dusky hair—
If that those living lights could speak—for ye
I should not need a voice, O! viewless spirits!
That thread the mazes of the dark, and fill

The dim circumference of your master's reign.
O! messengers of Arimanius—
Ye shadow-loving powers; children of night!
Whether ye tread this earthly atmosphere
As 'twere the chequer'd marble; or commix
The subtle essence of your shadowy forms
With the thin blue of ether; or roam deep
O'er the green pavement of the ocean—answer,
I do conjure ye, by the Power ye own;
Who loves not light, save where it is not light,
But will sell knowledge when 'tis bought with pain;
Though lurid be the ray ye cast, afford me
Some glimpse upon the future, short and fearful,
Ev'n as the lightning on the coming wave—
—They answer not.

[He casts a lock of hair into the flame.

Hear me, ye hovering spirits!

Even as these living filaments—this lock—
Born of myself, and by me nourish'd, shrinks
In the embraces of the crackling fires,
And is commingled with the elements
With which ye mingle;—even, so, let some
Dim radiance of your essence commix with
The aspirations of mine spirit. Hark!—
They answer not. The very winds have set,
And 'tis the night of sound. What? have ye died
Ye restless couriers, that on your wings
Still bore the accents of the deep-tongued gloom,
That speaks not much but well? Have ye too died,
As mortal as your echoes?

'Tis not silence—
A voice is moving round me; and the tone
(—Hark! doth it not?—) strikes on the listening ear
More sensibly—as doth some wand'ring strain,

Wild burthen of the raven wing of night,
Low first and sweet—, wax strait into a sound
That the soul thrills again—

First Voice.
The restless airs, that never slept,
Nor deign'd their gauzy wings to fold,
Into their ancient caves are crept,
'Mid which they lay in times of old,
Ere swarthy night
Had risen upon the age of gold.
And had not then been heard the sound
Of wrath, or doubt, or storm, or rage;
But peace the gentle Archimage
Smiled stillness in the eyes around.
Nor tempests yet had found a tongue;
Nor smother'd blood cried from the ground

To blur heaven's blessed light:
Nor grief her fineless requiem sung;
Nor envy, nor despite,
Nor raven-black despair, nor hate detested
Had learn'd, as yet, to blight—
And then—as now—they rested;
Nor flew upon their endless quest,
Restless—like man, who cannot rest!—
—What should this bode?

Second Voice.
The living ether—clasping all—
Which forms yon interstellar blue,
Hath thrill'd, since each resplendent ball
The transport of its motion knew,
With pauseless music sweet and true.
And in the soft tide of that motion,

As 'twere a circling ocean,
Doth many a raptured spirit float,
And bathe, and, with a gentle note,
Aid the harmonious commotion.
Yet, though that liquid Poetry,
That breathed Music, so distill'd,
From order's self, hath ever fill'd
The bright fields of yond pure expanse—
Still, 'mid that heavenly utterance
Yea here, even here!—
The listening night's quick ear
Could list a low insidious discord stealing!
And at the feeling,
Beheld, well pleased, the dim-brow'd Monarch smile.
Now, list! oh! list!—
Hath it not melted like the summer cloud
In the warm breathing of the noon-day air?

List!—List to low and loud;
It is not there!—
What should this bode the while,—
What should this bode?

First Voice.
(Again.)
Beneath th' unfathomable deep,
Far from the tread of wind or wave,
There is an ocean-gemmed cave;
And there would fold the wing and sleep,
Whilst watry war above might rave,
Each storm-presiding spirit,
That doth these shrines inherit,
Whose windings the pellucid waters lave.
Through many a silent solitude,
Through many an arching grove, marine,
With brinish moss bestrew'd,

'Neath branches coralline,
Unharden'd yet by upper air,
Must be that devious way pursued
By aught that enters there.—
There, many a flower of ocean's bosom,
Of many a rich and dappled hue,
Beyond what forest ever knew,
And many a cold but blushing blossom
That velvet path renew.—
Around the dim caves' sea-worn aisles
Is bedded many a living gem;
And many a varied ray from them
Amid the waters smiles;
Like stars within the pure expanse,
Through the pellucid green they glance;
And sparkle in the trembling wave
With light no sun-beam ever gave.

Second Voice.
(Again).
The wavy Sardonyx is there;
The ruby with encarmin'd ray,
Red as the blush of dying day;
The Opal, which in upper air
So beautiful, so variable,
And so unfixed of hue,
Those who the mother knew
Have well y'clept loves' child,
Still exquisite, though changing still.
There, is the Sapphire, mild
As the blue Tyrrhene's summer sleep;
The Chrysoberyl of tint more deep
Than is th' Atlantic's greenest wave,
Where unpolluted waters lave
Some lone, untrodden steep—

There, is the Amethyst, of hue
Tinged from the eye of that sea-flower,
Anemonè;
With many a gem o' the sea,
That touch of day-beam never knew,
Cull'd from the green enamell'd floor.
—But, midst the sea-groves' branches hoar,
Full many a living light will creep,
The glitt'ring insects of the deep,
And tiny radiance pour:
The antique grove these lamps receives,
And hangs, like glow-worms round a bower,
Their sparklets on her coral leaves.

Third Voice.
(More solemn.)

Deep, in that ocean-bosom'd shrine,
That knows nor change of day nor night,

There is a gem, of beam divine,
That sheds around mysterious light;
No time its radiance can damp;
No power shall need its ray relume:
But, like that ever-living lamp
Men found within an antique tomb,
Through countless ages it shall burn,
Till Time himself be in his urn.—

The spirit of that inmost shrine
Why hath he breath'd that voice of wail?
For he hath seen that light grow pale,
And shriek'd and shiver'd at the sign,
And shrunk, as if some higher awe
Pass'd o'er his essence when he saw.—

A star is burning in the air,

Forth from the orient, climbing bright:
It shook from forth its glorious hair,
Like golden drops, the dewy light,
And they have fallen from on high
O'er earth and ocean; air and sky.

They bath'd the hills and vallies green;
And at the touch methought they smiled;
The ocean hush'd his waves so wild
Beneath the glancing ray serene,
Through many a cavern'd depth they glided,
Mined by some primal earthquake's shock,
Deep in the torn and living rock,
Where never earthly light betided,
And dazzled the dark spirits' eyes,
That in the chasm'd fastness lies.

Many Voices.
What should this bode, the while?
What should this bode?—

Amelius.

This music hath no echo! 'Tis too spiritual,
Being no child of earthly tongue, to cast
Such shadow; or be aided or repell'd
By aught substantial. Hark!—what should this be?
What voiced wind is that, which speaks so loud,
Finding a sudden organ; while the elements
Seem to forget their being, and to sleep
As if they, too, were mortal.—

I am spell-stopt:
And apprehension of I know not what,
Methinks hath marbled me. Look: Lo! Behold!

What airy hand hath grasp'd, and drawn aside
The curtains of the sky—lifting the veil
Of the dim-vestur'd night! The clouds are parted.
They fly before that piercing radiance,
That melts the gloom before it. Unto it
The light that's breathed from yond trembling orb,
Burns like a waning and an earthy torch
Amid the stellar fires—Oh! Arimanius!
Is thy reign over, that thy legions thus
Fly from their standards? Answer; so thou canst,
For I no more dare question. I can gaze
No more. Mine eyes are out; as if thy brand
Had scorched up their pure, crystalline life,
To dry and wrinkled darkness.

[He hides his face in his hands.

It is gone.
Wonderful vision! if that thou wast so,—

What dost thou point at? Wast thou not a dream;
A mote o' th' mind; one of those specks that gleam
Before the dim eye of humanity,
The brighter still, the more that we are blind?
No!—'twas most veritable.—O'er my spirit
A sudden night hath fallen, after that snatch
Of super-human day. Yea a chill damp
Methinks is creeping o'er me, as the dews
Fall ever coldest after burning suns;
And the tired flowers, o'erwearied with the beam,
Shrink—when they feel the vap'rous breath of night—
Their tender leaves together. I will gaze
No more—

[He pauses.

How awful is this giant tower.
Some exhalation, e'en now, wraps its top
With a thick darkness. Let me gaze below,

Ere I descend. 'Tis silent all: all save
Impatient airs that wrestle with the clouds,
Or the faint hissing of some meteor's fall.—
Yon downward lights that shew so far beneath,
Gleam through the vap'rous mist, like dim reflections
From some deep wat'ry chasm. There, Dioclesian,
Imperial Anchorite, art thou, haply watching—
Unconscious of the ominous cresset rising—
Unseen of mortals yet—threat'ning thine empire,
All boundless as thou deemest it, from regions,
Where ev'n in fancy yet it never reach'd—
Past human ken; the airy solitudes—
Or realms but peopled by the silent stars.

[He descends.

Scene II.—The Palace of Constantine.

Constantine.
(Alone.)

When that a lute is touch'd by master hand,
Mark but another of the self-same tone,
Meet but the stream of sound, and the waked chords
Make replication and mysterious signal
Of sympathy with the encharmed air.—
So with the spirit. Do its stirrings not
Oft-times but seem the echo of some prompting,
That whisper'd ere the event? Do we not feel
The shadow of a voice come over us
That fain would say—“do thus?”

It is most true.
This exquisite and ever-moving ether

Is rife with unheard tongues: yea syllables
Too fine for human ear, which the roused spirit
Can catch but glimpses of; even as the eye,
Thro' the pure sunshine o'er the mountain's brow,
Will for a moment see the ambient air
Waving, and fading strait again. 'Tis so.
I fear thee, Dioclesian! and yet, wherefore
I know not! Are not monarchs doubly mortal?
As life, so royalty. Power, once laid down,
Like breath, can be resum'd not. Or, if 'tis,
That second youth, like ancient Æson's, breathes
No natural breath, but only walks the world
A strange and fleshly spectre. Therefore brood
Thy waning minutes out, where proud Humility
Keeps state at far Salona—

Hispo enters.

How now, Hispo.

Hispo.
Hail! Cæsar! most august, since him, the first
Who bore that name!

Constantine.
Whence com'st thou?

Hispo.
From Salona;
Whither thou sent'st me.

Constantine.
From Salona, say'st thou?
What bring'st thou from Salona?

Hispo.
Nothing!

Constantine.
No more!

Hispo.
I bring thee news of Dioclesian's health.

Constantine.
Slave! call'st that nothing.

Hispo.
Nothing, Sir, to me.
Being Augustus, it were all in all.—
Not being that, 'tis nought. Unless so far
As 'tis to thee, who art mine emperor.

Constantine.
'Tis well.—How fares with Dioclesian?

Hispo.
Why, well, my Lord—

Constantine.
Long ere I march'd to Rome,
To crush the vain and rash Maxentius,—
Before that smoky and uneven torch
Was trodden out—I saw him at Salona:

Gibbon's elaborate account of Dioclesian's palace, at Salona, is curious. It sufficiently proves the great extent and grandeur of the retirement of the abdicated master of the world. After it, I trust my exaggerations may not be deemed greater than the exigencies of poetry require, or, at least, admit.

The following is an Extract:—

“It covered an extent of ground consisting of between nine and ten English acres. The form was quadrangular, flanked with sixteen towers. Two of the sides were near six hundred; and the other two, near seven hundred feet in length. The whole was constructed of a beautiful freestone, extracted from the neighbouring quarries of Trau, or Tragutium, and very little inferior to marble itself. Four streets, intersecting each other at right angles, divided the several parts of this great edifice; and the approach to the principal apartment was from a very stately entrance, which is still denominated the golden gate.”

Gibbon's Decline and Fall. Chap. XIII.

Where, like some bull, the master of the herd,

Tired of his loves, his fields, his victories,
He laid him down, and bask'd him i' th' sun,
And, with a proud and sullen majesty,
Seem'd chew the cud of empire.

Hispo.
'Twas so, my lord.

Constantine.

Aye, even so,

—(After a pause.)

'Tis said when old Maximian
Would, once again, have join'd grey hairs and empire,
And urg'd him to renew his leadership,
He bade the old Ambition “come and taste
The cabbages he had planted at Salona.”

Hispo.
I have heard as much.

Constantine.
And doth he say so still?

Hispo.
Aye; so he says, my Lord.

Constantine.
“Aye; so he says!”—
Say thou what doth he.

Hispo.
That 's not easily said.
Ask it of those with whom he holds communion;
Conjure an answer to 't from the mute stars;
Read it upon the dim scroll of the night;
Or else, interpret with the babbling airs
That play around his skyish solitude;
With such alone doth he hold converse—

Constantine.
What!

Hispo.
Ask 't of the Manichean Demi-Jove;

Oromasdes, or Oromazes, the Active Principle of Good, and opponent of Arimanius; according to the followers of Zoroaster.

Or him of night; his rival—!

Constantine.
What mean'st thou!

Hispo.
I run before your Highness—have you not
Heard of the “Tower of Giants” at Salona?
I had forgot. 'Twas builded since you wed
Maximian's daughter.

Constantine.
What talk'st thou of towers?—
Has he, like Adrian in his latter days,
E'en made his tomb his pastime?—

Hispo.
(With deep meaning.)

Perchance he hath, my Lord.—

(After a pause.)

Year after year,
A nation toil'd at the enormous pile.
Rock after rock was heap'd, with weariless
And mighty enginery,—till, as the tower

Rose on the giant circle of its base,
And taper'd up into the vast of air,
The huge and quarried masses shew'd like nuts
To him that ey'd them from the depth below.
There doth it frown; while half a province lies
In its wide shadow; as some sea-worn crag,
For ages sever'd from its kindred shore,
That rises, tow'ring o'er its subject rocks
Heap'd wildly round its feet, confused and dim,
Unknown by human footstep, human eye,
Or voice: the lone haunt of the sullen sea;
Black with salt herbage; silent; motionless;
Like shapeless ruins of some city, old,
Spoil'd by the wild and melancholy main.
There rustles, ever, that long, awful pulse,
As ocean beat with life—the solemn swell
That 's never still; and as the waters rise

The surges echo mid the caves below;
While, on its misty head, the coarse, crisp grass
Or small-leaf'd sea flower, heedless of the din,
Springs tranquilly, 'mid the keen brinish air.—
So, o'er Salona's marble splendour, towers
The airy Dioclesian's last retreat;
Uprising, vast, 'mid the dim vault of night;
Dark neighbour of the stars. The journeying clouds
Strike on its massive sides; and on its top
The frozen dews of upper air are shed.—
Unheard by him who watches there, one voice
Of all the living and created things
That its vast shadow canopies.—The laugh
Of wild disport; the louder tongue of rage;
The clash of hoof; the trumpet's brazen call;
All the loud, mingled sounds which cities own—
Reach not yon summit's height—sacred to that
More dark than midnight, and more dread than silence.

Constantine.
Who watches on that tower?

Hispo.
The Magus old;
Disciple of that antique Ptsabaist,

“Tsabaist,” or “Tsabean,” one of the ancient names of the adorers of the Sun, or “Sol Generator”—probably the Mithras of the disciples of Zoroaster: and the primal “Emanator,” or generative First Cause of the Manichean philosophers. Tsabaism seems to have formed part of most of the ancient Mythological systems. The ancient rulers, or Gods of Egypt, as detailed by Manetho, are, according to Syncellus, first, Vulcan and Helios, (or the sun) after whom comes Agatho-Dæmon, or the Active Principle of Good.— For this, see “Origines,” by Sir William Drummond. Vol. II.

Manes, and the Arabian Zorodacht,

Zorodascht is a corruption of Zoroaster. It occurs in the Apocryphal “Gospel of Infancy,” as translated by Sike, Professor of Oriental Languages at Cambridge. The passage is as follows:— “And it came to pass, when the Lord Jesus was born at Bethlehem, a city of Judea, in the time of Herod the king, the wise men came from the East unto Jerusalem, according to the prophecy of Zorodascht.” Vide Apocryphal New Testament.

Whose children were the followers of that star
Which stood at Bethlehem; so wiser far
Than him who hath been blinded to its light;
Their now successor; the unholy seer;
The wonder-worker, and the prince of spells!
Apt scholar of the accursed Porphyry;
Amelius!

Constantine.
He! The Archimage? Who asks
His subtle spirits of the fate of men,
Writ on the small effulgence of a star,
Or harp'd in accents of the whisp'ring wind?

Hispo.
Even he. And there his hoary Neophyte,
The imperial Dioclesian, hour by hour,
When all his mighty palace is asleep,
Will watch the eyes of night; and e'en, as if
He had forgotten that he boasted once
He had himself carved out his latest fates,
Question the tranquil stars; or vainly hope
By spells of power and periapts to charm
An answer from the spirit-haunted air.—

Constantine.
Hast thou seen this?

Hispo.
Night after night, dread Cæsar,
I have watch'd their altars' fire, and seen 't make thick
With mystic incense the sepulchral night;
Waving, a smoky and terrestrial torch,
Amid heav'n's living lights.

Constantine.
When hath this been?

Hispo.
But since his daughter's death, and the dark message
He sent Licinius.

Constantine.
[walking aside.]

Have we not heard that, when revenge doth breathe
Upon the shrivell'd scroll, the characters,
There writ, are fiery still?

(Aloud.)

And is this all?

Hispo.
All, that I know, great Cæsar.

Constantine.
(Aside.)

To consort
With spirit-seekers, and those lying seers
That hold their voiceless converse with the stars,
Or vainly whisper with the reckless air.—

But, say he doth.—It is the rabid wolf
That bays the midnight moon!

(Aloud).

Hispo, art sure
That wrapt Amelius is the thing he seems?—
Consorts he with none else?

Hispo.
With none, my Lord—
Yes—pardon me—I did forget—two more.
—Some fifteen years ago—'twas when his legions,
Then sweeping on, full flush'd with victories,
Trod Adrianople down into the dust,
He saved two infants—two sweet, lonely buds,
Which no eye but the sun's had ever seen,
Untouch'd of aught, save by the summer dews,
Unvisited ev'n by the roving bee
Their solitary sweets.—The boy, a Greek,
As gentle as the youngest Zephyr's breath,

But warm and passion'd as the flowery May;
The girl, a Mæsian; from beyond the ridge
Of pine-clad Hæmus—tall, but beautiful,
Resplendent, as the pure and golden rays
That sport themselves upon her sunny hair.
These hath he rear'd in a sweet solitude.
Nought do they see or hear—unless the flowers,
Scarcely more innocent than they; the streams
Perennial music; the sad nightingale
That darkling sings her woes; the clear still night,
The solemn audience of the countless stars—
And him, their father!

Constantine.
He? how? Dioclesian;
The warrior's warrior; the arch-king of kings;
Whose voice, imperial, over-ton'd and quell'd,
The lordliest breath of this earth's potency,

Turn'd prattler, amid innocents and fools!—
—What phantasy is this?

Hispo.
I know not, Cæsar;
Save that, in their untaught simplicity,
He finds that relish, which, 'tis said, the sage,
Who had o'er-trod the world of luxury,
In simple herbs and water from the spring
At last discovered.

Constantine.
(Disturbedly).

Hispo, 't were impiety
To deem that he and peace should dwell together.
—Think'st thou the sacred dove would nest herself
In such a bosom; or tranquillity
Couch strangely 'mid envenom'd blasphemies,
And sophisms vile and foul, that knot themselves
Like snake with snake, in concord or in ire

Loathsome alike? Hispo, it cannot be—
It is the desperate medicine of a mind
Oe'r worn in persecution, and tir'd out
With tedious cruelty, which hath drunk blood
To utter surfeiting—too criminal
Even for crime. I trust him not. Such thirst,
If quench'd, shall soon revive; for iron hate
Knows not the grey old-age. All else can fade.
The torch of love grows dim with wasting years;
Ambition lags, even like the sudden flood
That spreads itself and pauses; pity's self
Grows dead through custom: friendships, lock'd, will cool;
Long trusting hearts wax strangers; avarice
Be won t' unclench his cramp'd and wrinkled hand;
And bitter envy sweeten. Only hate
Doth speak th' immortal; nor can change nor die.

—We die in hate. Hate dieth not in us,—
Less mortal than its mansion.

Mark me, Hispo,
There 's more in this than seems.

Thou shalt search more,
And further, and more nearly. They who look
Right down into th' abyss of the green deep
See its true colour; else transform'd and changed;
Still tinctured by the over-frowning sky,
Or the blue ether, or the livid cloud,
And deck'd in strange mutations, not its own.
So with the great and the ambitious: those,
Who would know their true texture,
Must look near,—
Or look to be deceived.

Follow me, Hispo.

[Exeunt.

Scene III.—The Gardens of Dioclesian's Palace.

Cæsarion.
(Alone).

Oh, if those duskier sprites that hold in chase
The unfix'd and wand'ring stars—or ride upon
The meteors' wings that flit athwart yon vault,—
Or bask themselves in the dark eye of night—
Or thread her raven hair,—if they had shed
Their influence o'er me, I might sigh e'en thus.
—Can 't be that Nature which our Father says
Is ever beautiful, hath found out dolour
And turn'd her dew to tears!—If that the sounds
The groves breathe forth, be echo of her grief—
If that the Naiads weep beneath their streams—
Although their plaint be music, I am but sad
Like that which doth surround me. For I droop
E'en like the melancholy nightingale

That dotes on grief, and feels a tender joy
In pouring forth, amid the solemn night,
The rich tides of her pure and gentle sorrow.

[Theodora enters.

—My Theodora!

Theodora.

My Cæsarion?—
And yet not mine. That soft-eyed goddess, mild,
With finger ever on her moveless lip,
Is thy companion now. When thou art by me,
Another power is nearer in thy bosom,
And intercepts my smiles. Thou talk'st to me
But with thy lips; the while thy heart holds converse,
And in some other tongue; and when I chide thee
And ask thee of thy sadness—thou deniest it—
Albeit thy flush'd brow contradicts thy smile,
As when we see the sun and moon at once,

'Tis hardly day nor night.

Tell me, Cæsarion,—
Dost thou not love me?

Cæsarion.

Love thee, Theodora!
Ask if the night loves not the lonely star
That gems her dusky forehead—if the stream
Loves not the moon that kisses her cold face
Smiling with purest radiance. Ask the rose
If it affecteth not the gentle dew
Sparkling in its sweet bosom.

Love thee? oh!
If love be sweet content, then love I thee,
My Theodora.

Theodora.
Why then, art thou sad?
Doth not love smile upon that which it loves?

Cæsarion.

I know not that. Long time, methought it did;
But now that soft communion hath refined
Itself to pain—whose element is sighs.
And love, that in itself was once content,
Yearns to love more, and droops dissatisfied;
As if affection would out-grow itself,
And happiness transmute its very being
To some diviner essence.

Yet, oh! wonder not
Bliss may be sad sometimes. The summer gales
Die into languor, 'mid the fervency
Of summer's noon; and the entranced flowers
Bend to each other's arms, and droop the head
O'ercome with their own fragrance—

What would'st thou say?

Theodora.
Have we not oft-times heard our Father say
—Cæsarion—Friendship is the purest joy
Of all beneath the moon? Nor circumstance,
Time, nor the changes of that troublous house
They call “the world” can stifle nor bedim
Its serene lustre—?

Cæsarion.
Ev'n so, Theodora.

Theodora.
And dost thou think that he can be deceived?

Cæsarion.

Methinks he can; for gentle as he is;
Beneficent; all powerful still to bless;
He, too, is, sometimes, sad. Alas! alas!
In this which we call life, our pleasures still
Are bought with pain; and, when they're at the height,

Are almost pain again. Say'st thou that love
Is purer than the cold ray of the moon,
Which gilds, but can corrupt not? Know, that pureness
Hath its peculiar sorrows, ev'n as moonlight
Hath shadows of its own.

Life, Theodora,
Is but a riddle. For, be sure, 'tis true
That pleasure cannot be, but end in pain;
As day is day—but that we look for night—
—These thoughts are not for thee—

Sing me that strain,
Sacred to evening and the soft repose,
Light as the thin and silvery-threaded clouds
That float athwart the moon.

Theodora.
I sing, Cæsarion;

And, as I sing—walk with me—for the day
Fades to its end; and the soft-setting gold
Grows dim—

Hymn.

O! God of sleep, if thou must shed
Thy transient poppies o'er my head,—
And, like yon fading splendor, I
Must sink to rest, and seem to die;
Let, o'er mine eyes, thy gentle thrall
As softly as the 'twilight fall;
And, like the innocent moonbeams, rest,
In silvery quiet, on my breast.

If, on my drowsy ear, must grow
Thy whisper'd silence, faint and low;
Till, every echo less, and less—
I fade into forgetfulness:—

Let, o'er my sense, that mimic death
Come sweet as Zephyrs' fainting breath;
And soft, as is the dying wail,
Plain'd by the widow'd nightingale.

And if amid the voiceless train,
That tend upon thy tranquil reign,
Some dream must wave his shadowy wings,
And hover o'er my slumberings;
Let them be wov'n of tints that rest,
Upon some summer-sea's still breast;
From evening's gentlest breath that fly;
And scarce have life enough—to die.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

Scene I.—Dioclesian's Palace, at Salona.

Dioclesian.
(Alone.)
(He walks about disturbed).

The mind, too, hath its shadows!—Every soul
That lives hath known a night enwrap its day,
And felt th' invading darkness. With great spirits
That night, too, hath its lights. A noble name
Doth shed a moony lustre over it,
Gilding its clouds; and splendid acts like stars
Begem the dim of fortune.

I have known

In mine life's orbit passages ere now
Wherein my sun seem'd set. But that declension
Shew'd natural, in its season and its time,
And led to th' dawn again. The cloud that draws,
E'en now, around my being, is not thus.
My spirit is in eclipse: and the dark tide
That over-shrouds mine orb, enclasping it
In night that knows no day, doth speak of light
O'er shadow'd not, but quench'd; not hid, but buried;
The lustrous essence finding termination
In the dim gulph of nothingness and death;
That second chaos, into which is gather'd
What sprung from forth the first—

I have oft thought
He doth not die who dies at once; whose night
Drops suddenly upon him. 'Tis to die
Indeed, when, in that latter tempest tost,

We watch the waves of fate grow black, and sink
Close-clasped of dark death. Ha! who is there? Enter Amelius.

My friend.

Amelius.
Hail, Sir! To Dioclesian, health!—
Great Sir, you seem disturb'd?

Dioclesian.
'Tis nought, Amelius;—
Dreams—Shadows!

Amelius.
Then as dreams and shadows treat them.

Dioclesian.
(With deep sarcasm).
And how is that?—With pomp of circumstance,
Knee-bendings, adorations, trembling, fear,
As ye do Power—which yet is marrowless,

Vain, unsubstantial, fleeting, insecure,
As those which thou call'st “shadows.”

Amelius.
Be it so.
There 's something yet beyond all this; and Virtue
Firm in itself—for flux of tide or time—
Change,—dissolution;—for mutation, 'midst
Things mutable;—being self-upheld and strong,
In its own being, quails not.

Dioclesian.

These are words.—
Virtue is but a word; a sound; a breath;
Begot o' the air; and which unto its source
Returns again, tost to the reckless winds
As soon as needed not. On this one word
Thou dost hang many more: and what are they?
Shadows of that which is, itself, but shade;

Day-dreams; reflections of reflections; like
A rainbow o' the moon!

No more of this.

Amelius.
Great Sir!

Dioclesian.
Amelius, thou hast thought, I say,
Both long and darkly. Yea; thine active soul
Hath dived into the spirit-haunted deep,
And soar'd amid the peopled realms of air.
What is th' amount of all that thou dost know?
If that this grasp be vain.—If that mine hand
Cheats but its master. If that all I seem
To touch, hear, see—this globe which I have ruled,
Yon stars, 'mid which, methought, my name was writ—
Yea, if all this may be but in the sense;
Dream-like; as unsubstantial and unreal

As specks that float before the blind man's eye,
Shall thy breath-builded sophisms pass for sooth?
If life be but a cheat—and that it is
Let mine make answer. If in sanguine youth
Love knits his tendrill'd sorrows round our hearts,
Like that insidious plant, which, while it clings
Still wreathes its chains with flow'rs. If glory bid
Us build our happinesss on airy fame,
Stayless foundation for such monument.
If sorrow oft be goodness' yoke-fellow;
And fortune smile on villains.—If this be—
Evil thus commix'd with good; with goodness, evil;
As chance or Fate decides.—Amid this chaos,
What boot scholastic forms and subtleties?
Who knows the least, where nothing can be known,
And owns but what he knows, is wisest.

Amelius.

Sir,
A sceptic paradox is worst of all.
He who affirms that nought can be affirm'd,
Stabs his own argument, which, like the babe
Birth-nipt, is dead, ere it hath life.

Whate'er
Touches the sense is sensual, howsoe'er
That stir o' the sense may come. For of the sense
Nought is agnized but what is gross, and sprung
Of Matter; which is Evil; Hylè named

Hylè is “ΥΛΗ” A Greek word signifying primœval matter, which, according to the Manichees, was subjected to Arimanius.

;
Whereof great Arimanius, spirit dark,
Is the impersonate essence;—Zabulus,—
So styled of Christian men.

Zabulus, is a corruption of Diabolus, occurring in the Latin writers. Lactantius says of Donatus, “Novem Proeliis Zabulum, cum Satellitibus suis, debellâsti.” Vide Lactantius de Mort: Pers. Cap. XVI.

Mark now; of virtue

The doctrine of a sort of Double Intellect, or two minds;—one sensual; the other percipient, through some peculiar power independent of the senses;—has been widely spread, and extensively adopted, under a variety of modifications. By the Manicheans one was supposed to contemplate things sensual and evil, or Arimanius; the other, things good, Oromasdes. Plato, and his followers, affirmed that, by this second, subtle faculty, the Deity, or First Cause, was mentally known and apprehended. The Platonizing Christians, afterwards, took up this notion of Plato, with more or less of difference. Justin Martyr, in his “Dialogue with Trypho the Jew,” expressly embraces it, as from Plato; and calls the second, Superior Sensorium, “του νου ομμα”, asserting, that by this “Eye of the Mind,” we discern the First Cause; not as having colour, form, or magnitude, (ου χρωμα εχον, ου σχημα, ου' μεγεθος) which are modes; but the pure essence, indescribable, unspeakable—the One Good and Perfect. This Finer Intellect they seem to have held liable to be obscured by Sin and Evil, and the grosser influences belonging to body. The entire passage in Justin's Dialogue is too long to be quoted, but is highly curious, subtle, and daring, especially in its doctrines, as to the nature of the intellectual principle of the inferior animals. Vid. Justin. Mart. Cum. Tryph. Dialogus. Edit. S. Jebb. p. 15.

We taste not thro' the senses; 'tis perceived
Only thro' that immortal part of us

Which is percipient beyond the sense;
Sprung of the light; and capable of good.
Such is the difference of good and evil.

Dioclesian.
It may be so.

Amelius.

It is sure so, great Sir,
And therefore so believe it.

What would you say?

Dioclesian.
(After a pause.)
Seest thou yond clouds, Amelius?

Amelius.
Aye, my Lord.

Dioclesian.
Nay; look again.

Amelius.
My Lord!

Dioclesian.
Mark me, Amelius—
Such clouds are nature's pursuivants. Pre-cursors—
Dim centinels of the approaching night;
Dark outriders of a more umber'd pomp;—
Mutes—that walk foremost in day's funeral—
Are they not so?

Amelius.
They are, great Sir.

Dioclesian.
E'en so.
Thou answerest well.—I tell thee now, Amelius,
Ev'n as yond shadow-spotted! Heav'n am I—
Thy master's mind is overcast, Amelius,
Ev'n with such clouds as these.

Amelius.
My noble Sir!

Dioclesian.
Are there no omens in the soul, Amelius,
As in the firmament?—Do the clouds o' the mind
Betoken nothing? Hath the dark'ning spirit
No foretaste of a night which is to come?
Can thy philosophy not answer that?
Science occult!—Vain, shallow, wordy cheat!
—Put off the name—and stumble to thy grave,
Blindly, as other men!

Amelius.
(With solemn energy).
The scrolls of time
Are writ on clouds: and it is given to few
To pierce the darkness of the vast “to come.”
The eye that hath been dazzled in the sunshine
Sees worst of all i' the gloom. He who would see
Without the light o' the present, must long learn

To look beyond it,—till the aching balls
Shall reach at length to limn and figure out
The obscure forms of coming destinies,
Which fill that living darkness, thronging dim
Like shadows crossing shadows.—'Mid that gloom
Can the ear drink, what else could touch it not;
As his, who, watching, listens to the waves;
And, in that time of night and silence, hears
Their murmurs, triple-deep.

Dioclesian.
Say, and canst thou
Do this?—can that thought-sunken eye outgaze
The glance of Dioclesian; which ne'er met
The orb it made not shrink; nor not outwent
His ken who look'd the farthest? why should such
A boon, exceeding those of other men,
Which nature knows not, and the gifted lineage

Rich in all else, is poor in, be assigned
To thee?

Amelius.

I know not that. Why should that plant,
Reversing nature's rule, produce the flower
Before the leaf? Is there not many a sound
Too delicate for common ears, which yet
The finer sense will drink? The grasshopper's
Weak pipe

This is an actual physiological truth, that many ears are incapable of being acted upon by sounds of a certain height in the scale, (and by parity of reasoning of a certain depth also) was ascertained by Sir Everard Home. The experiments were published in Tilloch's Philosophical Mag. That such should be the case, indeed, seems to be highly probable, if not demonstrable, a priori.

doth fall unheard on many an ear,
Tuned to a rougher pitch. Why, this should be,
I know not—neither, why mine ear, attuned
Beyond the height that falls to other men,
Hears accents o' the air, and dwells in music,
While other hearts are deaf.—

You are moved, great Sir!

Dioclesian.
What?—Can the fate of Dioclesian
Be shadowed in a sound, to which the pipe

Of the shrill grasshopper, or tiny clarion
Of the brief gnat, that 's seen but with the day
And dies at setting,—were the trump of Mars?
If this can be—lie down at once, and die.
Emperor and slave, what are ye? crawling atoms
That the sun shames to look on; and this world
A speck—a jot,—unheeded as the mote
That wavers in the sunbeam.

Amelius.
(Energetically).

Sir! great Sir—
Say you could add a cubit to your stature;
Aye, and attone that voice imperial, till
Its echoes awed the stars, still you would be
But Dioclesian;—No more.

I pray you,
Now, take me with you.

As we still observe
Things of most price are not of greatest bulk,

But just the opposite: As the diamond's
Small light transcends the granite, which doth floor
The world—so that which we most hear is not
Therefore the best. Yea, and of what is heard
The value doth depend on that which hears
As well as that which speaks.

All motion hath
Ministering sound. From the melodious sphere,
Down to the dreaming Zephyrs' sigh that shakes.
Scarce the light gossamer,—where movement is
Tone must be. But, of that vast harmony,
How little is drunk in by human ear!—
Echos of echos, live and die, unheard;
And we are deaf to many a voiced cloud
And many a deep-tongued wind, that speak to us,
Rolling low music, o'er the firmament
Which doth out-bass the thunder.

Even so.
The greatest that we hear and see, is that
We hear and see, the best; and of all sounds
The best is that which stirreth us the most;
And such, is—music. Are there not sweet sounds
Which gently launch'd upon the buoyant air,
Stir up the ashes of our youth and breathe
Them into flame again? Upon her tongue,
Most inarticulate, yet most distinct,
Doth wait the starting tear—joys' flush—grief's sigh—
The panting of the heart, long dark oppress'd,
Which feels once more the light—Love's ecstacy,
As 'twere his voice that waked it—terror's shriek
Ere murder hath made silence—All! whate'er
Doth shake, depress, exalt, the human heart.
—And how doth music this?—Not for 'tis loud;
For music may be gentle, soft and low,

As is the zephyr's sigh that woos the rose
Fainting in that sweet languor; but because
It speaks e'en with the tongue that passion speaks,
Unworded, but essential: yea its tones
Are nature's universal language; not
Built grossly upon symbols, signs, and types,
As is our human speech, but sprung at once
Of feeling eloquent; pure and undefiled,
Even such a dialect as spirits can talk,—
Spiritual—unlipp'd; unsyllabled; unbreath'd;
An essence far beyond that poetry
Which can but speak by words, and tho' it be
Pure as the sparry and crystalline drops
That sparkle glorious round the glittering cave
Sacred to Phœbus and the Sisters nine,
Is yet terrestrial;—Clogg'd; tamed down; and tied
To baser instruments, which sprung o' the earth,

Are as the earth imperfect. Therefore, Sir,
Those moving spheres, that speak eternally
Their mighty mover, speak in music. Yea;
From that vast harmony downward to the songs,
Of spirits tutelar, that converse with man,
Music doth live throughout the universe,
Impregnating all the melodious air.—
But of that minstrelsy the mortal ear
How rapt soe'er, drinks but some scatter'd tones;
To weak for such immortal symphony.
—For e'en as the forgotten harp, thro' which
A thousand winds have pass'd, and hardly one
Been answer'd by the mute, oblivious string,
So is the human heart; o'er which, alas!
The breath of heaven may breathe, yet stir it not,
Too dull for such communion.

How now, great Sir?

Dioclesian.

If that the living spirits which pervade
Yon vast, earth-clasping space,—from out high heaven
Stoop, to converse with mortals, they may talk
Of me.

[He pauses and then proceeds determinedly.

If they have told of falling states;
Of civil surges; of those storms that sweep,
From off their trophied pedestals, marble kings,
And drown once-mighty names: of vast mutations,
And earth-quake-buried empires—If they have pointed
The ruin of great ones, and the rise of those
Who shall be mighty—let them prophecy
Of Dioclesian; and who hath ears
To hear, even let him hear.

What would'st thou say?
Thy mind is pregnant with dark thought; unfold it.

Amelius.
That which is spoken, must be heard. So be it, [He proceeds in a lower voice, as if suddenly rapt.

—Certain it is—by sound, or sign, or dream—
Most veritable—that the powers of air
Have manifested their essence, and commix'd
With mortal acts. When Rome's first founder died,
The sun was in eclipse, and the earth felt
The darkness of his fate. When Greece was sav'd,
Did not the breed of Æacus seem stand
Above Eginas' Isle, their shadowy arms
Stretching towards Salamis? Ere Actium's fight,
Which did unite the torn and riven world
And give that world to Rome,—a midnight sound,
As of an armed rout forsaking Anthony,

Pass'd through the city.—Yea at that dread hour
When fell Domitian felt the Freedman's steel
The Tyanean sage,

Apollonius of Tyana; of whom many incredible stories are related. A History of his actions and miracles was published by Philostratus, a Greek sophist, patronized by the Empress Julia, the wife of Severus. It contains a tissue of incredible wonders and adventures. The first two books of this singular work were translated into English, with a commentary, by Charles Blount, in the year 1680, and published with the sceptical motto, of Seneca,

“Cum omnia in incerto sunt, fave tibi,
Et crede quod mavis.”

The design seems to have been dropped at the end of the second book, for want of encouragement, and the volume is now rather uncommon.

then i' the forum,
'Tis said, at Ephesus,—as suddenly 'rapt,
With eyes that strain'd on vacancy, and pale
And ashen visage, and strong quivering hand,
Like one that then did see some desperate deed,
Cried loudly—“Strike the Tyrant.”—

Dioclesian.
Ha!—how now?
Thou tremblest.

Amelius.
Mighty Sir!

Dioclesian.
I said, thou tremblest.—

Amelius.
I do!—

Dioclesian.
(scornfully.)

So do not I. My Fate may strike;
But Dioclesian fears not. Come—no more—
These things have too much shaken thee. Thou shalt
Take thy repast with me—Frugal, but not
Less cheerful, though it were the last.

Old man—
Whatever doth hang o'er us, in yond clouds,
Shall fall, i' th' ripeness. But whate'er it be,
Remember this—that Dioclesian—fear'd not.

(Exeunt.

Scene II. (The secluded Gardens of Dioclesian's Palace.)

Theodora and Cæsarion.
Theodora.
What wouldst thou ask our Father, dear Cæsarion?

Cæsarion.
More of that world, which he hath told us of.

Theodora.
And what's that world to thee? Have we not heard
That it is full of pain? and where Pain is
Sin must be.

Cæsarion.
Sayst thou so? Oh Theodora!
And must it be e'en thus? why then methinks
'Twere well that I were in the world, for we
Are yoke-fellows in pain. How 'tis, I know not—
There was a time—when I could watch, with thee,
Gladsome at Eve, the shrinking flowers uphold
Their tender leaves, and see the moon kiss off
Vainly the dew-drops from their heads. But now
Methinks the spirits of the Eve seem sad,
And we partake their tears. Is sadness crime,

Which comes we know not how?—And is it sin
To wear a bleeding heart, which loves the more,
The more it bleeds Is't so?—

Theodora.
Oh! no; no; no;
—I understand thee not—why should it bleed
Or why feel pain? or if thy heart be pained
That which we know not of, we answer not.
Or if we do—I'll answer it with thee
Cæsarion; for whenever thou dost sigh
My heart responds, as doth the aspen fair
To Zephyrs' gentlest breath.—

Cæsarion.
And is this ill?
Why then the Turtle errs, that with her mate,
Doth mourn the dying day and soft lament
His waning orb of brightness—when it sinks;

Aye; and the nightingale, when she will charm
The silver moon with bleeding melodies,
And sets the skies a weeping!

Theodora.
(musingly.)

Have we not
Cæsarion, on a fitful Autumn's Eve,
Oft heard our Father say that in the gale,
When it hath moaned amid the Cypress trees,
Or plain'd above the steeps' green, hollied brow,
There were the voices, of those sprites that love
To sooth the sad night with harmonious sighs
Plaintively sweet, and softly drooping give
Their light and lucid sorrows to the winds,
Too glad to bear such burthen—

Spirits like these,
They say, Cæsarion, make their fragrant homes—
Poor transient homes—amid the drooping leaves

Of the blown rose, just ere it falls; or sleep
'I the water-lily's cup, that sparkles, pure,
With pearly glittering tears, such as the moon
Did weep for dead Endymion. And think'st thou
Such Beings can taste Ill?

Cæsarion.

Sweet Casuist!
They cannot—or methinks if e'er they do
'Tis when they look on thee, and haply pine
That thou wer't of them.

Evening's veil 'gins fall.
Come let us seek our Bower; and as we go,
Tell me where think'st thou these same spirits sport,
That crowd the Empyrean? for to bosoms,
Gentle as thine, they may reveal themselves,
Who shrink from sterner gazers.

Theodora.

Fie, Cæsarion!

Thou triflest now. Yet, I have often deemed
Those meteors swift that glide athwart the night
Must be their Chariots; and methinks they crowd,
To that light mist which circles the bright moon,
To dip their glitt'ring plumes; or haply steal
From the soft-tinted Rainbow; or repose
On the fleec'd cloud, that 'mid its wanderings,
Hath lately touch'd some Indian mountain's top,
With spicy Forests waving; or delight
With folded vesture of their gauzy wings
To dim some twinkling Star, and then anon
Permit to shine again, and so mislead
The eyes of simple mortals.—Beautiful night!
It is a pain to leave thee. Look Cæsarion,
How bright the mild eye of the moon peers through
The Myrtle Grove that crowns yon hill; with silver
Edging the glossy, dark green leaves, and paving

The mossy ground with chequer'd radiance.

Hark!
Cæsarion; is it not the Nightingale
Pouring sweet sadness on the ear of night,
If night it can be call'd, whose living light
Doth seem a twin with day? Listen, Cæsarion—
How sweet the melody mingles with the moonlight,
As they were kindred essences, and brightness
Had sisterhood with sound.—

Nay; Let us go.

[Exeunt.

Scene III. (A Gallery near the Summit of the Tower at Salona.)

Dioclesian.
(Alone.)

Methinks the moon, that rose so bright to night,

Hath hurried to decline; and, as with dread,
Sunk in the Adriatic, that lay smiling
And trembling, like a bride. And now the clouds—
Reft of the beam—and the unstable winds,
'Gin wage contentious strife, and in their war,
Blot the dim hills and distant-glimmering sea.
All now is night. All; save th' eternal stars,
The better part of night—and nought is heard
But the wild voices of the winds, and clouds
Which stoop too near the rugged-bosom'd world,
Brushing the mountain tops, and giant towers,
That emulate the mountains.—

(He pauses).

Gloom! still, gloom!
I gaze into th' Abyss—and from beneath
The vap'rous darkness thickens—as it rose
From some Lernœan Fen; heavy and dank;
Flagging on lurid wing.

(He walks about disturbed).

More darkness?—yea;
Night is, to night, distemper'd and apace
The swarthy monarch frowns! The restless blasts
Are voiced in sympathy—the starry sky
Grows darker. O'er its glittering fields, behold
The Phalanx of the many-winged Clouds
Is making swift aggression. They move on;
And Darkness comes to darkness.

Let it come,—
—And is this all?—doth Fame live, to die thus,
And find such night as this? Shall Dioclesian
Thus wane and dwindle to the common end;
Less than a Dream; and at the best a shade;
Food for Oblivion's unsubstantial maw?
Trod out of Life—nay Being: as the Slave
Whose breath is not his own, or outcast vile
Condemn'd for insufficient food to whine

Still at another's gate; and basely share
With the gorged hound, that, grudging, hoarsely bays
At such companionship? If this shall be,
Then all is baseless, and yond burning stars
But motes that swim before the sightless eye;
Born of the night: and, like their parent, only
Beings of negation; inorganic: void;
Shadow-sprung shadows—

(He pauses again.)

Hark!—Sure the winds do strangely moan to night;
And find a tongue for sorrow, deeper far
Than that they learn'd from Echo, ere she died?
—Thou darkness—that do'st hover o'er mine head,
And, from thy raven and funereal wings,
Drop'st chilly horror—like that baleful dew,
Beneath whose touch who slumbers, leaden trance,
Or death, or shivering melancholy, with cold

And 'numbing hand straight seizes—I do dare thee!
Reveal thyself: and in some palpable form
Give breath to that—which thou would'st have me fear
Ere it be utter'd.—
Ha! what means this commotion? are these wings
Those of the sons of night?—'Tis rushing darkness.
As if that night had conquer'd day; and those
Its legions would o'ersweep the vast of space
And blot out day for ever.

I shrink up—
This voice I hear doth come not of the winds;
Low, and yet loud; subdued, but terrible;
Like whisper'd thunder—

(Amelius appears on the summit of the Tower.)
Amelius.

Whether those airy sighs be sorrow-clogg'd,

Or on their viewless wings waft bliss, behold!
They breathe into the bosom of the flame;
Which, mingling with their essence, in that joy
Quivers—and blushing into ruddier light,
Glows through the thick obscure.

Hear me, ye spirits,
Who do preside over those elements
Whose union is the world. Whether, as gnomes
Ye thread earth's knotty entrails, and encharm'd
'Mid treasures yet unsunn'd, brood o'er the gem
Whose crystals ne'er have breathed prismatic light,
Save from the sparkling of your earthy eyes.
Or, more luxuriant, thro' the sultry night,
Sparkle upon some Indian, summer sea,
And then seek rest beneath its languid depths,
Soft, in the liquid silence. Or more keen
Ye point the polar lightnings, and thro' frost

Urge, on their course, the cold enduring fires,
Across the waste of ever-winged snows.
Or, of a finer essence, bathe amid
The blue of ether; and, 'mongst the lone stars
Take airy voyage; yea, the atmosphere
Gross, of this lower and cloud-clothed world
Walk as a pavement; even as the fly
Doth tread the still pool, with its oily feet
Pacing the marble waters. Potent spirits,
Whatever be your potence,—Hear, I say—
Hear—viewless spirits, hear!— (He listens.)

Answer me. I do hear ye—and mine ears,
Vibrating once to the immortal sound,
Wax deafer than the stricken adder's is
To aught of human utt'rance. Yes: the voice,
I drink, is not of tongue of flesh and blood;

Inorganised, and heard o' the spirit only,
Being uttered of a spirit—ha! are these tears
Which start at the aërial plainings wild
Born of the eye?—Hark! Hark!

Oh! sounds of sorrow!
Oh! air-born accents of some unseen woe!
Building in music deepest heaviness;—
Say, what is it ye mourn?—

First Voice.
(Shrill and very plaintive.)
In olden time, the wings of night
We gemm'd with many a starry splendour;
And from our living thrones of light,
Sprinkled the gloom with radiance tender,
Till, rife with many a trembling ray,
Night smiled into a softer day.
Night was our day, thro' time of old,
And with her went our airy cars;

For still yond setting orb of gold
Made way but for the laughing stars.
Now night is eyeless: and the gloom,
Which was our kingdom, is our tomb.

Second Voice.
Ere while the spheres, which were our thrones,
Floated in music, deeply thrilling,
Till, from innumerable tones,
That boundless harmony distilling,
Rose in a peal, so vast and high,
That but to hear it, were to die.
Now, list!—a voice, whose awful sway
Doth swallow up the starry quires;
Ev'n as the burning eye of day
Drinks in its rays the lesser fires;—
And in that vocal day is found
The night of every other sound.—

Amelius.

Methinks the shadow of an awful voice
Comes darkly o'er my spirit: and, behold!
Some emanation rises thro' the gloom
Dispersing the obscure. Faintly it rises:
But, in its distant beam, the sickly stars
Wane as their lights were dying.

List! again!

Third Voice.

Thro' ages gone, when she, pale queen
Of lights—above our phalanx sparkled,
Untrembling, in her smile serene,
No lesser lamp of glory darkled,
As lesser blooms, that earlier shone,
Still shine, although the rose be blown.
Ah! see, arise a splendor, pale,
Like some young spirit, late unshrouded;

Before that glory, others quail;
And as it brightens, we are clouded;
Yea, shrink from that pervading eye,
And, in its beam, wax dark, and die.

(Mingled voices.)

“What should this bode?”

Amelius.
Hark!—'twas a wail, wild as if in that scream
Fear, from excess of being, e'en had died—.
—Answer, thou unseen darkness, of the dark
The awful sepulchre; answer me, thou light,
Devouring all light else; ev'n dragon-like,
Entombing all thy kind. Speak, oh! dread voice,
First-born of Silence!—Say—what thou would'st say—! (A loud burst of Thunder, after which, a hollow and resounding voice responds)—

“The End!”

Amelius.

My frame dissolves into a deathful dew— (He pauses and then proceeds in a low voice.)

Oh! dreadful voice—thou wast more full of awe
Than that which rose from out the Ionian deep,
Paling the wild Echinades, and shook
The third and cruel Cæsar, who his death
Read in that strange and solemn augury
“That Pan had died;” more full of Destiny
Than His, the mighty orator, who saved Rome;
And when her Parricides had ceas'd to breathe,
Beneath the trembling Rostra, thunder'd forth
Over the living forum, one brief sound,
“Vixerûnt.” (He starts suddenly and gazes from the Tower.)

Ha!—Thro' the unnatural darkness, lo! the light
Kindles, as doth the sudden, ruddy flame

Amid the smoky pyre, that rises thick
From the o'er-loaded altar—

One sole glory
O'er-grows the Empyrean. The pale stars
Are wan before the radiance. They sink;—
They fade!

(In a more powerful voice.)

It sinks:—It fades, to its decline!
And, 'tis “the end,” indeed!

DIOCLESIAN.
(In a loud voice, from the lower part of the Tower.)
Whose star hath fallen?

Amelius.
Thine, Dioclesian! Thine oh! Emperor!
Mine own imperial, and most honor'd master.

Dioclesian.
No Emperor, when the Emperor's star is fallen!
—Come down, old man. It is but labour lost

To question of the fiends. If doom be doom,
Portents are shadows merely; and the thunders
But vain and idle echoes—

(Amelius descends.)

Scene IV.—An apartment in the lower part of the Tower.

Amelius and Dioclesian.
Amelius.
(Entering.)
—As from some fen, where varied pestilence;
Mortal distemperature; rank deathly damps;
Fever; and shivering ague, and gaunt waste,
Breed and commingle—while dim, wavering sprites
Flit to and fro', feeding their bloated forms,
And smearing their thin lips with venomous dew;—
So rose that darkness—whose black vap'rous breath

Did strangle all the stars—yea, 'file and blot
The lucid shadow of the nighted heavens,
To its own squalor; and the firmament
Make murkier than hell.

Dioclesian.
What would'st thou say?

Amelius.
The orb that rose, up through that obscure veil,
Did feed upon the darkness; which so seem'd
To furnish it with light, till what was dark
Had melted into brightness. In that blaze,
The pallid stars grew sicker; and did sink
In unforetold eclipse,—None; no; not one,
But hasted to its setting, as it fled
That awful culmination.

Dioclesian.
I do hear thee—

—This was the star which led the worshippers
Of Zorodascht to Bethlehem; this, that meteor,
That shone above the infant Galilean,
Whom erst Longinus pierced

There is an obscure tradition that the soldier who pierced the side of Christ, was named Longinus. It is at least as probable as some others to which more importance has been attached; and certainly sufficiently so for the purposes of Poetry. This tradition is I think alluded to, amongst other writers, by Sir Thomas Browne.

—and lent its light
When he did hang, resplendent, on the Cross
On Calvary;—all else being dark beside;—
When day was not, and night refused to come,
Scared by that heavier hour,—is 't so?

Amelius.
It is!—

Dioclesian.

Ev'n so.

Why then, what dost thou here, old man?
Thine Emperor is dead—Dethroned by him
Who preaching peace on earth, comes not with peace,
But darkness and a sword. Away. Away.
Why dost thou tarry here? This is no place

For thee—nor me.

Amelius.

I tarry not, my Lord,
Why should I, being transient as the breath
Last in the nostrils of a dying man.
Yet never deem that we can fly our fate;
Nor deem our fate is such as should be fled,
—The time's deep drama hath an interval.
Power cometh—and, behold! the world is changed.
The spirits engraved in tombs of those who died,
In once ignoble martyrdom, by steel,
Or stone, or fire, or flood,—they do uprise
To walk again the Earth: and what was great,
Shrinks at their touch, and crumbles, leaving nought
Unless a name. The Temples and their Gods,
Time-honour'd fanes, and oracles of awe,
Cease and are not: and strong Philosophy,

The air-built Citadels of Wisdom old,
Once fondly deem'd no pregnable retreats;
Yea—from whose bulwarks the Athenian sage
Look'd into Heaven, and he of Citium
Defied despair, and anguish, and even death,
Fade like the forms, which the fantastic mist
Builds on the stayless surface of the stream,
To please the infant morn.

Thus, Domination
Succeeds to Domination: Power, to Power.
Whether for good or evil, the Great One,
Mithras the Emanator; he of whom
These thrones are Œons, merely

Æon is the Greek word “Αιων,” signifying Age; and by a rhetorical figure, made to express any being that is eternal— according to the followers of Zoroaster. The first Æon was the supreme first cause, from whom other Æons, or at least one other, the active principle of good, emanated. After Manes, or Mani, or his followers, engrafted Christianity upon the doctrines of Zoroaster, the definitions of the term, and the number of Æons held to exist, varied with every various sect which sprung up,— whether Christian, or otherwise. Even amongst the gnostic Christian sects the divisions of opinion were endless. The Æons of Basilides differ both in number and nature from those of Valentine; and they again were modified by the followers of Marcus, Bardesanes, snd Marcion. Out of this chaos, only one thing seems clear, viz: that all the tenets partaking of Manicheism, by whomsoever held, partake also of the doctrines of the Oriental Philosophy, and are probably derived from them; resting upon the idea of a supreme principle of good, emanating one or more inferior active benevolent existences; and an independent, self-existing Principle of Matter, self-acting, and signified by the terms Evil, Hylè, or Arimanius. Vide Bayle, Lardner, Mosheim, &c.

, sole doth know.
Meanwhile, to us let it be consolation,
That Evil shall, whatever may betide
Merge into good; and that which seems confused
Grow into order, till great Oromasdes

Triumphs, with blest Eternity, o'er Time—
—Even as a quire of tuneful instruments
Heard in the distance, dimly sound, and strange;
But, to th' approaching Ear, wax regular,
And, like the gradual effulgent morn,
Stealing, in growing Glory, on the eye,
Break into Light and Harmony—

(A Faint and distant Hymn is heard, sung by many voices, which swells louder.)

Hear Goddess—thou of varied crowns;
Hear Goddess—of dominion bland;
Hear—thou of power, 'mid many powers;
For whom the churlish Hyems frowns;
And Spring-time comes, with rosy hand;
And young Favonius scatters flowers.

For thee, wild Winter, coldly plumed,
And of her blooms brown Summer proud,
And Autumn of unnumber'd dyes—
For thee, are all their hues consumed,
And glories;—as the starry crowd
But pomp their Phœbus to the skies.—

Dioclesian.
What strain is that?
Which floats upon the heavy breath of night,
As do the odours of the Summer flowers
Upon the deep sigh of the Thunder storm,
Or 'ere it falleth?—List! again! Amelius.
Methinks it breathes as gentle as the air
That fans the faint leaf of the dying rose,
Yet harms it not. Goodness is still abroad.—

(The Hymn is resumed.)

Mild mother of Proserpina,
For thee the yellow Crocus springs
And rathest Rose of Ivory sheen;
The Primrose seeks the smiling ray;
The Violet hidden perfume flings,
And will be lov'd, though not be seen.

For thee, his curls of delicate hue,
Sweet Hyacinth displays in joy:
For thee her bells the Myrtle bears;
And Daffodils their cups of dew;
The Rose that decks the winged boy
Is thine; and that which Hymen wears.

Their every dye thou shalt assume;
For, without thee, in vain were gem'd
With flowers the Autumn-broider'd plain;
Let the brief Poppy for thee bloom;
And, round thy brow, be diadem'd,
The serried ears of golden grain—

Dioclesian.

It is the youths and maidens, that do chaunt
Their wonted Hymn to Ceres, and invoke
Her influence o'er the all teeming Earth
To send us Fruits and Flowers, and plenteous Grain
From her beneficent breast. Innocent worship!
Oh! it doth rest as gently on mine ear—
As tenderly,—as the too favoured beam,
Which sleeps within the bosom of that Flower,
Who but unfolds her beauties to the moon,

Shrinking from other eye.

Listen, Amelius.

(The Hymn is continued.)

Oh! quench the torches,

Running about with torches, and wild shrieks; were always part of the festival of Ceres, when her image was carried in triumph. Claudian describes the origin of this custom; of which some faint vestiges remain in the celebration of the “Harvest Home,” in the North of England.

“Sic ait; et primâ gressus molitur ab Ætna;
“Exitiique reos flores, ipsumque Rapinæ
“Detestata locum, sequitur dispersa viarum
“Indicia; et plenô rimatur lumine campos,
“Inclinat-que faces ------”

Raptus Proserpinæ. Lib. ii. 438.

burn'd too long;
Nor fill with shrieks the frighted plain,
For Proserpine—no longer here;
It is to do sweet Summer wrong,
And scorn her pleasurable reign,
Who gives a Flower for every tear.

But let the festal virgins raise
The dance, and glide on viewless feet,
To the quick tinklings of the lyre,
'Mid which, no guileful ardor plays,
Nor lingers, dangerously sweet,
The cruel, soft, deceiving fire.

For thee—the voices that are wreath'd
In harmony, should be sweetly wild
As is the evening breath of June;
For thee, the music that is breath'd
From lute or lyre, serenely mild
As is the shadowy harvest moon.

In praising thee, let joy be joy!—
Not sorrow-mingled, passion fed,
Be gratitude's diviner lay:
Love, freed from earthly love's annoy,
By bleeding cares untinctured;—
That best of bliss, where grief's away.

Dioclesian.
How mournfully the strain hath died away;
Even as the swan lamenteth his own end,
In Epicedial music.

(A burst of wild voices.)
Ho!—ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!—ho! ho!

Dioclesian.

Ha! didst thou hear?—These tones were not the echo
Of aught that earth would own!

'Twas horrible!
What was that sound?—

Amelius.
A shriek!—more ominous,
And strange, than is the midnight moth's

The “Death's-head moth,” on being seized, it emits a strange shrill, piercing cry. In Germany they are held as of ill omen.

, that bears
“Death” written on his wings! Methought it ended
In wan and ghastly laughter—

Dioclesian.
Destiny
Doth speak to us more loudly than her wont.— (After a pause.)

Have not those awful powers, whate'er they be,
Which sway this earth, in time of strife and change,

Palpably interfered, to bring about
Their great mutations?

Amelius.
It is chronicled,
Tyrants, in mad despite, have wreck'd themselves,
Whom fortune would not shake. Stain'd murderers
Have run on violent and desperate ends,
And self-made retribution. Plotters deep,
Those selling life for lucre, base betrayers
Of innocent blood—and heartless renegades
That would have stabb'd their country's liberty—
Worst parricides—have striv'n in vain to raise
A race,—wife after wife convuls'd to death
In that forbidden fruitfulness, or else
Their progeny cut untimely off—Proud kings,
Founders of empires—giant conquerors,
Fate has selected from the common herd,

And thrown on fortune's lap, displacing so
The scorned heirs of greatness. In these things
Has Destiny interfered, for good or evil,
With most apparent finger.

Dioclesian.
(Solemnly.)
This is all—
So shall it be with me. Once I did think
Myself a bleeding world's great conservator;
Yea, the foundations of mine peaceful empire
Methought I had cast deeply. Now, methinks,
I may e'en steal obscurely to my grave,
Unchilded of a very memory,—
And court—no premature forgetfulness
In the cold shelter of the wormy ground.
The touch of death hath dried up my blood;
The tide of change o'er-burieth my deeds:
The fanes that I have raised, are dedicate

To other rites; the marble I have carved
Is taught to be ungrateful to my name;
That, which I had exalted is brought low;
And those, whom I have humbled, are upraised.
—I do contend with destiny no more.
Enough for me, let time do what he will,
I yet am Dioclesian. I can hush,
Like the first Julius, when the blade is in;
And draw my robe about me, ere I fall,
Dying still Cæsar—and most silently—
—Come. Follow me, old man.

(They descend).

ACT III.

Scene I.—Constantine's Palace.

Constantine.
(Alone.)

Or ere the trumpet of the thunder bids
The spirit of the storm let loose his winds
And pour his squadrons of fierce rain and hail
Upon the frighted champaign, the scar'd zephyrs
Wing to-and-fro, in terror; the dim groves
Are hush'd and mute in awe; the while green Nature,
Taking complexion from the livid heaven,
Grows dark in expectation. Even so,
When Fate doth thicken, and portentous change
Lours on the nations, do the souls of men

Wax wild; and will forestall the dim event,
With prophecies, and fears, and prodigies
As if the mental eye contemplated
The forward shadow of calamity.
—Such clouds are now abroad. At noon, 'tis said
The sacred sign

This marvel is chronicled as having actually happened during the reign of Queen Mary, The passage occurs in an old Book entitled “Memorial for the Learned,” a quaint collection of singular and not over well authenticated stories. It is this:— “In her second year, on the 15th day of July, there appeared in the skye a Rainbow reversed; the bow turning downwards and the two ends standing upwards.”

and pact of hope to man
Stood in the sky revers'd: and there are those
Who tell that 'neath the blue, unsullied cope,
At Phœbus' height, nor blotted of a cloud,
The grey hair'd shepherds' tranquil sleep have oft
The sudden thunders broken.

We are moved
We know not how nor why; across the mind
Obscure and shadowy thinkings force themselves
Which will cannot forbid—ev'n as the rack
Doth breast and countersail the restless wind,
That blows as if in strife, to beat it back

Or ere the tempest gathereth. What I fear
I know not. Knowing only of that dread
Which hath no tongue to speak, and on whose ear
Albeit open to the veriest breath,
No mortal voice hath dared to breathe; nor heav'n
Vouchsafes to whisper. Mine imaginings
Shift to and fro; nor to the forethought act
Doth the good angel in his former wont
Seem say “success,” in music.

Ha! e'en now,
Methinks, a strain of music. It swells louder

(A distant solemn Symphony and Hymn.)

Behold The Light.

It is proper to observe that this Hymn is in part derived from that of Prudentius (the proto-poet of Christianity,) on the Epiphany. The first lines are these.

“Quicumque Christum quæritis,
“Oculos in Altum tollite,
“Illic licebit visere
“Signum perennis Gloriæ,
“Haec Stella, quæ solis rotam
“Vincit decore ac Lumine,
“Venisse terris nunciat,
“Cum carne terrestrî, Deum.”

Cathemerinon. ΨΜΝΥΣ XII.

'Tis throned in the skies.
Let them behold, to whom alone 'tis due,
The film removed, for ever, from their eyes,
To watch it 'mid yond airy kingdoms blue.

It sets not with the bright leave-taking sun;
With the faint moon it doth not climb on high:
The swarth night bows, with all her shadows dun;
And fair-hair'd morn drops down th' adoring eye.

Sun of the sun. Light's light. King of days king.
Queen of the night, o'er-peering the dim moon.
Unblenched of the angry meteors' wing;
Softer than Eve; and brighter than the Noon!

Hail! Thou eternal standard of our hope.
Let thy sole eye reign with unrivall'd ray.
Quit—all ye vassal orbs Heav'ns trembling cope
And into other empires shrink away.

Constantine.

Beautiful sound! The choir of Neophytes

100

Do chant that lov'd and seasonable hymn
Unto the guiding star, first seen of those
Who found their God in Bethle'm. After this,
Silence seems doubly hallow'd; as if sound,
Of human deed or thought, should hence profane
No more the blessed air—

(The Symphony is resumed).

It swells again.

(Hymn continued).

The thin-breath'd mists have quench'd the Pleiads' light;
The shrouding clouds before Arcturus rest:
But thou smil'st ever from thy zenith's height,
Nor Ocean dares to woo thee to his breast.

The dwarfed stars are out. They fade: they wane.
Down, from the Pole, their glitt'ring cars are driven.

101

Al-Phanik lifts his ruddy brow in vain;

Al-phanik, the star Aldebaran; venerated under that name by the Ancient Arabians. It has been described “Stella rutilans, lucida, &c. Vide Sir W. Drummond's Origines: Arabian Pantheon.

And Lucifer, the bright, hath fall'n from Heaven.

Behold The Light. That Light, th' Arabian sage,
Day-break divine, first saw in heaven aspire;
Still follow'd of that star-awed Archimage,
Till Bethlehem bid rest the journeying Fire.

It redden'd o'er the crimson-parting Day—
Tremble, ye Demons! spawn of night, abhorr'd!
Tremble ye faithless! for to ye that ray
Doth symbol not of Peace—but of a sword.

It mingled with the mild glance of the morn—
Day smiles: the nighted dew in vapour flies.
So melts the night that hung o'er the forlorn,
And the tears pass for ever from their eyes.

102

Behold The Light—oh! Laden—Born of sorrow,
Lift up your eyes, that dwelt amid the dust.
The night hath pass'd away; and lo! our morrow!
Beam of our life, and Lode-star of our trust!

Constantine.
(After an agitated pause.)

There was a tongue within that harmony more
Than those who breath'd it reck'd of; and mine thoughts
Disjointed until now, troublous and dim,
Arrange themselves, and put on form and hue
The prototypes of act;—arising like
The antique Thebes in music. (He pauses.)

Once more, O! Dioclesian, I will know thee
By proof of mine own eyes; and knowing aught
Thou would'st conceal,—that knowledge is the last;

103

And act shall stand for Deem. I trust no more
That feign'd abstraction, and the weariness,
Unnatural, of Empire.—When before
Died strong ambition ever? Cleopatra
A while may mesh a Cæsar in her toils,
And seem to hold him firmly, who, the while
He wantons with her hair, doth forge fresh thoughts
Of chainless domination, which, at height,—
Her beauty stays no more.

Ha! shall I think,
Because the giant Oak doth stoop to earth
His huge and shadowy limbs, the lofty head
Aspires no nearer Heav'n? It cannot be.—
—Greatness may weary, but its heaviest sleep
Hath dreams beyond, which lacquey that repose
For memory i' the waking.—Yon proud man
Builded in Pride his Empire. He reck'd not

104

Of that white Faith, whose chiefest ornaments
Are humbleness and love. Yea: deem'd, in scorn,

It is certain that Dioclesian and his colleague Maximian believed, or affected to believe, that they had succeeded in finally putting down the Christian Religion. Some inscriptions of the period commemorating the overthrow of the Christians, are preserved in Gruter. In this persecution, however, Dioclesian seems to have had strong misgivings. Before commencing it, he is asserted to have applied to the oracle of Apollo. “Misit Aruspicem (says Lactantius) ad Apollinem Milesium. Respondit ille ut divinæ Religionis Inimicus.” An answer which, if correctly given, is one of the best proofs of the power to which Christianity had at that time arrived. Had the Christians been less influential, it is pretty clear the reply would have been different.

That it was drown'd and smother'd in the blood
Of its own saints; and must be ever dumb,
Because their tongues were out. Vain hope! Behold
The seeming dead ariseth, and he reigns
Whom erst they crown'd with thorns. He reigns, and now
He, the Imperial enemy, doth own
Some touch of that worst madness

That Dioclesian was, for a time, deranged, Lactantius is I believe the sole testimony; and the evidence of an enemy is perhaps always to be a little suspected. Gibbon, who quotes the description of his illness, leaves out the concluding sentence in which this charge is contained. He was not likely, of all men, to credit the unsupported testimony of an adversary, because that adversary was one of the Fathers. The sentence is as follows:—

“Et ille Idibus Decembribus morte sopitus animam receperat, nec tamen totam:—Demens enim factus est, ita ut certis horis insaniret, certis resipisceret.”

De Mort: Pers. Cap. XVII.

which they feel
Who hate, but cannot strike.

Enter Hispo.

Ha! thou com'st well!

Hispo.
Better—if well to Constantine august,
Than fate itself could make it.

105

Constantine.
Mark me, Hispo.
I need thee on the sudden. Thou art prompt.
—Dispose, without a moment's pause, two squadrons
Of chosen horse;—men on whom faith may rest
If faith be needed—to escort me hence.
And, ere I go, be sure dispatch closed orders,
To Caius Floculus and to Salinator,
To march their Legions nearer.—Hark! be sure
That they be ready;—aye, and on the sudden,
To move whereto I will.

Hispo.
I fly, my Lord—
And ere I go wait but to be informed,
That mine preparement may accord with it,
How far may point this destination?

106

Constantine.

How far?— (He hesitates.)
True; thou art right.

Thou goest with me—
Even to Salona. Follow me.

[Exit.
Hispo,
(remains.)

Salona!— (with mark'd meaning.)

And whither then?—

Oh! heavy end of greatness!
Thus the once-crown'd, for ever, are beset
With Fear and Envy: nor can e'er again
Trust lean upon that bosom which hath worn
The robe imperial—tho' it wears, no more.
For as the snake that casteth off his skin
Is still a snake; e'n so th' unermined King
Can fling not off his nature, to our fears;—
And men still doubt, and dread.—

[Exit. Hispo.

107

Scene. II.—A Chamber in Dioclesian's Palace.

Dioclesian, reclining asleep. Amelius watching him. Theodora and Cæsarion behind.
Amelius.

Still!—still!—as if nought earthly e'er could break
That marble sleep—as if e'en now Eternity
Had set a seal upon him. Even so.
Thus as the wave, the moment 'ere it breaks
Stands still, so man rests soundest at the last.
Sleep seems to mimic death, as he would pageant
That which must come.

Methinks he smiles in 's slumber.

108

If 't be the last, why should it not be sweet?
Or 'ere care comes we smile; and wherefore not
Or 'ere care goes!—The Sun that kiss'd the hill
I' th' rising, gilds its top at setting—

Ha! (He gazes on him intently.)

What darksome visitation withers up
That heart which never quail'd before? a change
Doth come upon his face. Cold drops of agony
Bedew his brow—his light is in eclipse—
—He is o'er shadow'd by his enemy! (In great agitation.)

Look at his lips!—O! crown imperial!
What art thou now?—oh! robed Emperor,
Where is thy pride; thy pomp; thy majesty?
Thy regnant eye, and port of high command,
How have they faded!—Which is here so vile

109

Who sees that sad distorture, livid, wan,
Will say, “let me be this?” Look not upon him
My children: 'tis no sight for innocent eyes—
Be present, and o'er shade us oh! ye powers
That hate not mortal nature.

Do they hear me?
An awe doth creep upon me—why; I know not—
Like his who gazes first upon the sea,
And feels his being quail, contemplating
Immensity unchangeable.

Theodora.
My Cæsarion,
Didst thou hear aught?

Cæsarion.
Methought I did.

Theodora.
Again!

110

Heard'st thou?—oh 'strain, unutterable! so sweet,
As one would die i' the listening!—

(A distant but clear strain of Music.)
First Voice.
(Very low.)
Full many a bright and sky-born flower,
Born of an amaranthine birth,
A mightier tongue hath bid to lower
And shed its proud leaves on the earth;
And it hath its bright head declined
And shed those leaves, a fragrant shower,
Leaving a living balm behind
Within the lone, ungemmed bower;
But earth was bid that seed retain,
That it might spring in joy again.

Second Voice.
(Rather louder.)
A thousand stars, whose every crest
Stood bright amid yon highest heaven,

111

Have vanish'd at the high behest,
Down from their azure triumph driven;
Sheer, through the ether keen, they flew,
And streak'd with brightness all the west;
But plung'd beneath the ocean blue,
Amid the silent halls—they rest;
And light, amid the coral caves,
Another world beneath the waves.

(The Harmony dies away.)
Theodora.
The strain doth melt away; and, in its death,
Music hath died. Methinks such sounds as these
I have heard, by night, floating above my sleep,
Till I have waked with very ecstacy.
And then methought ev'n Philomela harsh
After that melody; which, still to hear,
I would have slept for ever.

112

Amelius.

Hover o'er us,
Sweet spirits!—

A new change comes over him,
The shadow of death is past. He wakes that never
Shall need so wake again.

Dioclesian.
(Awaking).
Am I i' the earth?—
—Amelius?—yes. I know thee now, Amelius;—
Give me thy hand. I have been far, Amelius.
Even in the realm of Dream.

Amelius.
Why then, great Sir,
Thou'st seen an empire, over which e'en Cæsar
Can claim not Domination

Dioclesian.
'Tis a dread one,

113

And fearful; though its dim inhabitants
Be cold and bloodless shadows. Listen to me,—
The time is short that I shall speak to thee.

Amelius.
My liegest lord!

Dioclesian.
I say the time is short.—
Question no further.—What I can impart,
Hear. What I ask of thee thou wilt perform
For Dioclesian's sake. Such is the end—
—I have seen those, whose wild and awful power
Is hid behind the grave—that dark beyond,
Whose empire lives in silence!

Amelius.
Noble Sir!

Dioclesian.

Mark me—

114

Methought I sat upon that throne
Which the first Cæsar builded. At my feet,
The marble pavement of that lofty hall
Might not be seen, hid by the pageantry—
—The gemmed robes of crouching satellites,
The minions of that empire, which is bounded
But by the circling seas—kings, consuls, lictors,
Satraps, embassadors, governors, tributaries—
A chequered pomp; brighter than all the hues,
That ever autumn tinted. And beyond,
Glittering beneath a smiling summer's sky,
Seen thro' the lofty portals, lay before me,
What might have look'd a kingdom. Stretching champaigns
Ribb'd by the rocky hills—at whose green feet
Seem'd silver rivers flow; now seen, now hid
Amid spice-fragrant forests; threading, beautiful,

115

Their shining course, to the blue distant sea.
—Methought a sudden night came down on all—
The rock-firm pavement vanish'd from my feet—
We were alone—I and the formless dark—
And I did sit, enthroned on vacancy,
As in some feverish, blind and giddy dream,
—I was hurl'd down—and, I did crawl upon
The cold and marble pavement, underneath
What was my throne; on which now sat enthroned
A huge and shadowy form; like his whose name
On earth, is Arimanius. The vast hall
Was lighted but by that dark spirit's eyes
That glared on me like meteors,—troublously. (He shudders and then proceeds,)

Aye—but that gaze did eat into my bones
With more than mortal cold; until th' extreme
Burn'd like the furnace heat, and I felt scorch'd

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And wither'd up the essence of my being
Before the keen fire of those horrid eyes,
Which yet, with fixed glare, did glow on me.
—This was to die, indeed! not of that death
Which men do talk of, as a latter sleep,
The last composure of an outworn frame—
But 'twas to die—and dying still to feel
As breath were the negation, and deep agony
The element of life—

Amelius.
Sir!—noble Sir.
This was a dream.

Dioclesian.
And so is life, Amelius—!
Shadows we follow, from the birth to th' grave,
And are, ourselves, but shadows. If that life
Be woe, then this was real, for life before

117

Drunk never of such pain.

Amelius.
How did this end?

Dioclesian.
Methinks in harmony. Ere thou spok'st to me,
The sounds which seem'd the last within mine ears
Were music; or some accents so akin
That thrilling memory can distinguish not,
Tranc'd in the very sweetness; and, with that,
There came, methought, a balmy light about me,
Gentler than ev'n that melody.

Amelius.
This is strange!—

Dioclesian.

To us who breathe, Amelius, it is strange—
So let it be. Come nearer me, Amelius—
What I have told thee, hear but as the wind,

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At night, that whispers accents in thine ear,
Echoes of something that thou know'st not of,
Nor knowest how to seek; born of the darkness
In which they die. What I shall tell thee now,
Grave on thy heart. It is my last request. (He pauses.)

Amelius—my heart is broke, Amelius;
But mercifully broken. Of that blow,
I only feel the weakness and the wound;
Nought of the smart is left.—And so I die.
—Give me thy hand, for the last time, Amelius. (He takes Amelius's hand, and looks on him fixedly.)

When I forsook mine empire, I did gain
One greater prize; a friend; and that was thou.
—Be thou to them, who, wanting me, would be
As I was—, be to these two innocent ones
A Father. He, who shall succeed to me,

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Shall grant you this for my sake—To find out
Some unpolluted spot,—some Oäsis
Green 'mid the desert the earth's conquerors make;
Some happy Isle,—as once Sertorius wish'd—
As yet unmapped within the Roman world—;
There to breathe out your lives. Thou, in that lore
Of dim, but not unblest, Philosophy,
Which, like the yew is ever beautiful
But ever melancholy—these, in love,
Such as they feel who never yet knew sin.
There shall ye die: happiest because unknown;
Ev'n as the grass that springs beneath the shade
Is ever greenest.

Kiss me, good old man,
Thou breath'st a blessing on me. May it fall.
Now go—and favoring powers watch over ye. [Exit Amelius.

120

Thus Dioclesian dieth—Not too soon—
Who hath survived his fame. Oh! it is gone
Ev'n as the glittering citadels and towers
Which morning builds upon the liquid plain
Of the blue Tyrrhene; by the wanton sun,
Which gilded, soon dispers'd. If that death were
A sleep—I might sleep well; for future never
Shall call upon my name; nor ever tongue
Bless the lov'd sound of Dioclesian—
None;—save these innocent two; who never knew
That name is but a sound.

Cæsarion.
Father.—Dear Father!

Dioclesian.
Children—(I have no other)—My dear children—
Come nearer to me. Now: what would'st thou say?

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Cæsarion.
Why are we brought, O! father, from our home,
To this new world? what must we do?

Dioclesian.

My boy,
Thou com'st to me, only because thy father
Can come to thee no more. 'Tis even so.
List to me, boy. I have oft told it thee
That this our body's frame is but a loan
Which we must yield again; a temporal boon
Quickly to be resumed. All that thou see'st,
Touchest, or hear'st, is brief and full of change;
All: all, save the clear spirit, which cannot be
Or touch'd, or seen, or heard; but which doth live,
When that its mortal vesture is cast off,
Despite of withering death.

For me, that time

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Of change, at length, hath come.

Cæsarion.
Come!

Dioclesian.

Come, Cæsarion!
'Tis so. Let, therefore, what I say to thee
Fall on thy heart, and thereon grave itself,
Ev'n as the last wave furroweth the smooth sand
That felt not its precursors.

I wax faint.
Give me yond goblet—Its strong alchemy
Shall help to smooth that last and painful pass
Which leads from out our life. Thank thee, my boy.
This service is thy last. I drink: nor pour
Libation from my latest cup; oblivion
Heeding no vain oblation.

(He drinks.)

123

Let me be brief.
List to me, my lost boy. Thou losest me,
But therefore sorrow not. Yon grey old man,
Mine other self, shall take ye to his breast,
And, for your father's sake, become your father.
Kiss me, my children. Your tears flow. Again.
Such drops are nature's best of balm. With him
Live in your innocence: and oh! let your love
Smile on its whiteness, as the young morn's eye
Doth tint the blanch'd breast of the virgin snow
But sullies not its surface. This is all.
Mine breath is meted out;—give me your hands,
For now mine eyes grow dim. Hang not upon me,
My children. 'Tis but sleep, and I would rest—
Now, is the last—Grasp my hands, harder, now,
For I am dark. Farewell! bless—bless my children.

124

A distant Chorus of multitudinous Ærial Voices.

—On Calvary behold the light;

It is a tradition even of modern times, that light is seen upon Mount Carmel, or Mount Calvary, prior to great religious changes or events. The late Mr. Granville Sharpe, was, I believe, at considerable pains to enquire into a circumstance of this kind, which was said to have happened some few years before his death.

To heav'n it streams.
Nor envious cloud, nor creeping blight,
Can blot its beams.
The moon hath seen it rise, and deems
Some orb in birth;
The stars behold; and know the gleams
No kin of earth.

On Calvary that silver light
Shone once before;
When day was not, and weeping night
Hung shudd'ring o'er:
Rejoice, ye faithful! as of yore,
Behold it, plain;—

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But tremble, Earth, when comes the hour
It shines again.—

(Dioclesian dies).
Distant and redoubled Thunder; after which a resounding Voice cries,

“It is accomplish'd.”
“Mercy in heaven! peace and goodwill on earth!
If 't be that highest will.”

A pause.
(Theodora and Cæsarion start, as from a confused dream.)
Theodora.
Father!—my Father!—he speaks not.—

Cæsarion.
Theodora,
Alas! he speaks no more.

126

Theodora.
Oh! my Cæsarion,
And is this death?

Cæsarion.
And if it be, Theodora,
Who need have fear to die? Look at the smile—
The faint—sweet, smile that's left upon his lips;
Beautiful, as the streaks that linger in
The sky when Sol hath set—See the closed eyes—
The reverendly clasp'd hands—and say his brow
Be paler than sleep's is, methinks that paleness
Is ten times holier.

Theodora.
Cæsarion,—
And will those lips not speak to us again?

Cæsarion.
Never, my Theodora. Mortal solicitings

127

Shall never more have power to break the ice
Of that cold silence. (A loud blast of Trumpets.)

Whence is that sound? tremble not, Theodora.
Loose not his hands. Tho' death be with him, still
Let us be with him, too—

Enter Constantine, Hispo, Amelius, and Attendants.
Constantine steps forward, and says with a loud voice.
Dioclesian. (After a pause.)

'Tis as thou say'st. Behold those eyes are closed,
That did o'er look the world. That tongue is mute
Whose lightest accent once was fates; which men
Did tremble at. He, who could sway the earth,
Is now himself but clay. Cling not about him,

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Poor, innocent, reft ones;—Those two wither'd hands
Can feel your clasp no more.

(to Amelius.)

These are the two
Thou told'st me of. Come hither, to me, boy.

Cæsarion.
No.—I'll not leave him. I will stay by him,
Till, as he said, ye lay him i' the earth;
And, with the cold and common clay, incorporate
His noble dust.

Constantine.

That's my good, noble boy!
And so thou shalt. Old man, thou art their Father.
Look to them. In the ground first help to lay
This awful, care-worn frame, then seek thee out
Some distant Solitude, where these and thou,
They in the wedded bliss of Innocence,
Thou in thy dreams of vain philosophy,

129

May breathe in quietness your little span.
This for the sake of him who lieth here,
I grant to thee. And may their stainless tears
Unceremonious mourners, sanctify,
And plead for rest on his untrophied tomb.
That cannot be unhallow'd mould from whence
The flowers of Peace shall spring; and Mercy spread
Blessings for ever.

Go, old man, in peace:
And may thy latter musings find that rest
Which Faith alone can give. Begone.—

And now
Whate'er Futurity hath for us in store,
Let every heart, around, respond, in unison,
“Praise to the Highest.”

Many Voices.
“Praise to the Highest.”

THE END.