University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The garden of Sulpicius.
Enter Sulpicius and Portia, with flowers in her hand.
Portia.
Was it not well to rise with early morn
And pay my homage to sweet Flora? Never
Were flowers by mid-day cull'd, so fair, so fragrant,
With blending streaky tints, so fresh and bright.
See: twinkling dew-drops lurk in every bell,
And on the fibred leaves stray far apart,
Like little rounded gems of silver sheen,
While curling tendrils grasp with vigorous hold
The stem that bears them! All looks young and fresh.
The very spider through his circled cage
Of wiry woof, amongst the buds suspended,
Scarce seems a loathly thing, but like the small
Imprison'd bird of some capricious nymph.
Is it not so, my father?

Sul.
Yes, morn and youth and freshness sweetly join,
And are the emblems of dear changeful days.
By night those beauteous things—

Portia.
And what of night?
Why do you check your words? You are not sad?

Sul.
No, Portia; only angry with myself
For crossing thy gay stream of youthful thoughts
With those of sullen age. Away with them!
What if those bright-leaved flowers, so soft and silken,
Are gather'd into dank and wrinkled folds
When evening chills them, or upon the earth,
With broken stems and buds torn and dispersed,
Lie prostrate, of fair form and fragrance reft
When midnight winds pass o'er them; be it so!
All things but have their term.
In truth, my child, I'm glad that I indulged thee
By coming forth at such an early hour
To pay thy worship to so sweet a goddess,
Upon her yearly feast.

Portia.
I thank you, father! On her feast, 'tis said,
That she, from mortal eye conceal'd, vouchsafes
Her presence in such sweet and flowery spots:
And where due offerings on her shrine are laid,
Blesses all seeds and shoots, and things of promise.

Sul.
How many places in one little day
She needs must visit then!

Portia.
But she moves swift as thought. The hasty zephyr,
That stirr'd each slender leaf, now as we enter'd,
And made a sudden sound, by stillness follow'd,
Might be the rapid rustling of her robe.

Sul.
A pleasing fancy, Portia, for the moment,
Yet wild as pleasing.

Portia.
Wherefore call it wild?
Full many a time I've listen'd when alone
In such fair spots as this, and thought I heard
Sweet mingled voices uttering varied tones
Of question and reply, pass on the wind,
And heard soft steps upon the ground; and then
The notion of bright Venus or Diana,
Or goddess-nymphs, would come so vividly
Into my mind, that I am almost certain
Their radiant forms were near me, though conceal'd
By subtle drapery of the ambient air.
And oh, how I have long'd to look upon them!
An ardent strange desire, though mix'd with fear.
Nay, do not smile, my father: such fair sights
Were seen — were often seen in ancient days:
The poets tell us so.
But look, the Indian roses I have foster'd
Are in full bloom; and I must gather them.

[Exit eagerly.
Sul.
(alone).
Go, gentle creature, thou art careless yet.
Ah! couldst thou so remain, and still with me
Be as in years gone by!—It may not be;
Nor should I wish it: all things have their season:
She may not now remain an old man's treasure,
With all her woman's beauty grown to blossom. Enter Orceres.

The Parthian prince at such an early hour?

Or.
And who considers hours, whose heart is bent
On what concerns a lover and a friend?
Where is thy daughter?

Sul.
Within yon flowery thicket, blithe and careless;
For though she loves, 'tis with sweet, maiden fancy,
That, not impatient, looks in cheering hope
To future years.

Or.
Ay, 'tis a shelter'd passion,
A cradled love, by admiration foster'd:
A showy, toward nurse for babe so bashful.
Thus in the shell, athwart whose snowy lining
Each changeful tint of the bright rainbow plays,
A little pearl is found, in secret value
Surpassing all the rest.

Sul.
But sayst thou nothing
Of what I wish to hear? What of Cordenius?

Or.
By my good war-bow and its barbed shafts!
By the best war-horse archer e'er bestrode!
I'm still in ignorance; I have not seen him.

Sul.
Thou hast not seen him! this is very strange.

Or.
So it indeed appears.—My wayward friend
Has from his home been absent. Yesterday,
There and elsewhere I sought, but found him not.
This morning by the dawn again I sought him,
Thinking to find him surely and alone;
But his domestics, much amazed, have told me,
He is not yet return'd.

Sul.
Hush! through yon thicket I perceive a man.

Or.
Some thief or spy.

Sul.
Let us withdraw awhile,
And mark his motions; he observes us not.

Enter Cordenius from a thicket in the background.
Cor.
(after looking round him with delight).
Sweet light of day, fair sky, and verdant earth,
Enrich'd with every beauteous herb and flower,
And stately trees, that spread their boughs, like tents,
For shade and shelter, how I hail you now!
Ye are His works, who made such fair abodes
For happy innocence, yet, in the wreck
Of foul perversion, has not cast us off.
[Stooping to look at the flowers.
Ye little painted things, whose varied hues
Charm, e'en to wonderment; that mighty hand
Which dyes the mountain's peak with rosy tints
Sent from the rising sun, and to the barb'd
Destructive lightning gives its ruddy gleam,
Grand and terrific, thus adorns even you!
There is a father's full unstinted love
Display'd o'er all, and thus on all I gaze
With the keen thrill of new-waked ecstasy.
What voice is that so near me and so sweet?

Portia without, singing some notes of prelude, and then a song.
Cor.
Her voice indeed, and this my fav'rite song!
It is that gentle creature, my sweet Portia.
I call her mine, because she is the image
Which hath possess'd my fancy. Such vain thoughts
Must now give place. I will not linger here.
This is the garden of Sulpicius;
How have I miss'd my path? She sings again.
[Sings without, as before.
She wanders fitfully from lay to lay,
But all of them some air that I have praised
In happy hours gone by.

Cor.
O gentle, sweet, and cheerful! form'd to be
Whate'er my heart could prize of treasured love!
Dear as thou art, I will not linger here.

Re-enter Sulpicius and Orceres, breaking out upon him, and Orceres catching hold of his robe as he is going off.
Or.
Ha! noble Maro, to a coward turn'd,
Shunning a spot of danger!

Sul.
Stay, Cordenius.
The fellest foe thou shalt contend with here,
Is she thou callst so gentle. As for me,
I do not offer thee this hand more freely
Than I will grant all that may make thee happy,
If Portia has that power.

Cor.
And dost thou mean, in very earnest mean,
That thou wilt give me Portia—thy dear Portia?
My fancy catches wildly at thy words.

Sul.
And truly too, Cordenius. She is thine,
If thou wilt promise me to love her truly.

Cor.
(eagerly clasping the knees, and then kissing the hands of Sulpicius).
Thanks, thanks! —thanks from my swoln, o'erflowing heart,
Which has no words.—Friend, father, Portia's father!
The thought creates in me such sudden joy,
I am bewilder'd with it.

Sul.
Calm thy spirits.—
Thou shouldst in meeter form have known it sooner,
Had not the execution of those Christians—
(Pests of the earth, whom on one burning pile,
With all their kind, I would most gladly punish,)
Till now prevented me. Thy friend, Orceres—
Thou owest him thanks—pled for thee powerfully,
And had my leave. But dost thou listen to me?
Thy face wears many colours, and big drops
Burst from thy brow, whilst thy contracted lips
Quiver, like one in pain.

Or.
What sudden illness racks thee?

Cor.
I may not tell you now: let me depart.

Sul.
(holding him).
Thou art my promised son; I have a right
To know whate'er concerns thee,—pain or pleasure.

Cor.
And so thou hast, and I may not deceive thee.
Take, take, Sulpicius.—O such with'ring words!
The sinking, sick'ning heart and parched mouth!
I cannot utter them.

Sul.
Why in this agony of perturbation?
Nay, strive not now to speak.

Cor.
I must, I must!—
Take back thy proffer'd gift; all earth could give;—
That which it cannot give I must retain.

Sul.
What words were these? If it were possible,
I could believe thee touch'd with sorcery,
The cursed art of those vile Nazarenes.
Where hast thou pass'd the night? their haunts are near.

Or.
Nay, nay; repress thine anger; noble Maro
May not be question'd thus.

Sul.
He may and shall. And yet I will not urge him,
If he, with hand press'd on his breast, will say,
That he detests those hateful Nazarenes.

Cor.
No; though my life, and what is dearer far,
My Portia's love, depended on the words,
I would not, and I durst not utter them.

Sul.
I see it well: thou art ensnared and blinded
By their enchantments. Demoniac power
Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off;
Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse
With this detested sect. Art thou a madman?

Cor.
If I am mad, that which possesses me
Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught,
Or poets e'er imagined.—Listen to me.
Call ye these Christians vile, because they suffer
Pains nature shrinks from, rather than deny
What seems to them the truth? Call ye them sorcerers,
Because their words impart such high conceptions
Of power creative and parental love,
In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart
Bound with ennobling thoughts? Call ye them curst,
Who daily live in steady strong assurance
Of endless blessedness? O, listen to me!

Re-enter Portia, bursting from a thicket close to them.
Portia.
O, listen to him, father!

Sul.
Let go my robe, fond creature! Listen to him!
The song of syrens were less fatal. Charms
Of dire delusion, luring on to ruin,
Are mingled with the words that speak their faith;
They, who once hear them, flutter round destruction
With giddy fascination, like the moth,
Which, shorn of half its form, all scorch'd and shrivell'd,
Still to the torch returns. I will not listen;
No, Portia, nor shalt thou.

Portia.
O, say not so!
For if you listen to him, you may save him,
And win him from his errors.

Sul.
Vain hope! vain hope! What is man's natural reason
Opposed to demon subtlety? Cordenius!
Cordenius Maro! I adjure thee, go!
Leave me; why wouldst thou pull destruction on me?
On one who loved thee so, that though possess'd
Of but one precious pearl, most dearly priz'd,
Prized more than life, yet would have given it to thee.
I needs must weep: e'en for thyself I weep.

Cor.
Weep not, my kind Sulpicius! I will leave thee,
Albeit the pearl thou wouldst bestow upon me
Is, in my estimation, dearer far
Than life, or power, or fame, or earthly thing.
When these fierce times are past, thou wilt, perhaps,
Think of me with regard, but not with pity,
How fell soe'er my earthly end hath been,
For I shall then be blest. And thou, dear Portia,
Wilt thou remember me? That thought, alas!
Dissolves my soul in weakness.—
O, to be spared, if it were possible,
This stroke of agony! Is it not possible,
That I might yet—Almighty God forgive me!
Weak thoughts will lurk in the devoted heart,
But not be cherish'd there. I may not offer
Aught short of all to Thee!—
Farewell, farewell! sweet Portia, fare thee well!
[Orceres catches hold of him to prevent his going.
Retain me not: I am a Parthian now.
My strength is in retreat.

[Exit.
Portia.
That noble mind! and must it then be ruin'd?
O save him, save him, father! Brave Orceres,
Wilt thou not save thy friend, the noble Maro?

Or.
We will, sweet maid, if it be possible.
We'll keep his faith a secret in our breasts;
And he may yet, if not by circumstances
Provoked to speak, conceal it from the world.

Portia.
And you, my father?

Sul.
I will not betray him.

Portia.
Then all may yet be well; for our great gods,
Whom Cæsar and his subject-nations worship,
Will not abandon Rome's best, bravest soldier
To power demoniac. That can never be,
If they indeed regard us.

Or.
Were he in Parthia, our great god, the sun,
Or rather he who in that star resides,
Would not permit his power to be so thwarted
For all the demonry that e'er exerted
Its baleful influence on wretched men.
Beshrew me! for a thought gleams through my brain
It is this God, perhaps, with some new name,
Which these bewilder'd Nazarenes adore.

Sul.
With impious rites, most strange and horrible.

Or.
If he, my friend, in impious rites hath join'd,
Demons, indeed, have o'er the soul of man
A power to change its nature. Ay, Sulpicius;
And thou and I may, ere a day shall pass,
Be very Nazarenes. We are in ignorance;
We shoot our arrow in the dark, and cry,
“It is to wound a foe.” Come, gentle Portia;
Be not so sad; the man thou lovest is virtuous,
And brave, and loves thee well; why then despair?

Portia.
Alas! I know that he is brave and virtuous,
Therefore, I do despair.

Or.
In Nero's court,
Such men are ever on the brink of danger,
But wouldst thou have him other than he is?

Portia.
O no! I would not; that were base and sordid;
Yet shed I tears, even like a wayward child
Who weeps for that which cannot be attain'd,—
Virtue, and constancy, and safety join'd.
I pray thee pardon me, for I am wretched,
And that hath made me foolish and perverse.

[Exeunt.