University of Virginia Library

1. Part the first.

LUDOVICO SFORZA.

SCENE I.

—A Street.
Duke of Milan. Ludovico Sforza.
DUKE.
And this proud lady, was she chaste as fair?

SFORZA.
Pure as the flame that burnt on Dian's altar,
And lovely as the morning. Oh! she shone
Like one of those bright shapes of fabling Greece,
(Born of the elements,) which, as men tell,
Wooed mortals to their arms. A form more beautiful,
Houri or child o' the air, ne'er glanced upon
A poet's dream, nor in Arabian story
Gave promise of their vaunted paradise.
Then, her voice was sweet
And tuned to music, bearing with it a charm,
Like numbers floating from the breathed flute,
Caught afar off,—and which the idle winds
Of June, through wantonness at evening, fling
O'er banks and beds of flowers.

DUKE.
And she is dead?

[Isabella appears at a window.
SFORZA.
Dead, dead! No; what is this? quick, tell me, sir.
Yon vision?

DUKE.
Uncle, look upon her,—there.

SFORZA.
I see: the grave gives up its habitant.
It is herself,—her shadow. Can the eye
Resume its lustre, after death has drawn
His filmy veil around it? Look!

DUKE.
My lord?

SFORZA.
She's vanished.

[Isabella leaves the window.
DUKE.
'Tis Isabella, sir; my bride.

SFORZA.
Your bride?
She's very fair. I have seen the face before;
Dreamed of it—somewhere: where? I know not where.
I'll dream no more, but think; and act,—perhaps.

Enter Isabella attended; Piero de Medici, and others.
DUKE.
My Isabella! you have rested well,
After your journey? well? Fatigue seems loth
To harm you; and your eyes are spared, I see,
For many a Milan conquest.

ISABELLA.
There's but one
My duty bids me look to.

DUKE.
And your heart?

ISABELLA.
And—and my heart.

DUKE.
Come hither! a few words—

[They talk aside.
DE MEDICI.
My lord, my lord!

SFORZA.
Ha! my De Medici! welcome.

DE MEDICI.
Thanks, dear Sforza;
Are you so wrapped in dreams you miss your friends?

SFORZA.
No, 'tis my nephew, in a fairy dream,
Forgets me.

DUKE.
My dear uncle, pardon, pardon.
This is my guardian, dearest Isabel:
My father, I should say: I pray you love him.

SFORZA.
Ludovico Sforza, lady, and your knight;
If you will own so poor a one.

ISABELLA.
Thanks, sir.

DUKE.
Look! Those are the Alps, my love.

SFORZA.
Ay; turn your eyes
Here, madam. Look! methinks their snowy crowns
Shine radiantly as they had seen the sun.

DUKE.
The very hills give welcome to my love;
And everything seems happy now, but most
The heart of Milan.

ISABELLA.
You will spoil me, sir.

SFORZA.
This day looks like
The holiday of Nature, madam, and you
The queen of't.

ISABELLA.
Pray, no more.

DUKE.
No more then. Come!
The heat will mar you: let us seek the shade.

SFORZA.
I'll follow.
[Exeunt.
She's gone—and it is night. What! shall I in age
Sink into folly? and this puny boy
To cheat his tutor! It may please him now
To reign in Milan: no, no, that's my care.
Oh! what an eye she has: It is not likely
She will live quiet here: her look forbids it.
She will be Duke: And I— Now had I been
The same Ludovico Sforza who did win,
Some twenty years ago, the prize at Florence,
Perhaps she might have loved me. Love?—that I
Might conquer; or my ambition. Ah, but here
Both spur me on: my path is traced,—but where?
That's hid in the mist of time. I'll think upon't.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

—A Room, with a Banquet.
[A year has passed.]
ISABELLA.
Time lags, and slights his duty. I remember
The days when he would fly. How sweet they were!
Then I rebuked his speed, and now—and now
I drench his wing with tears. How heavily
The minutes pass! Can he avoid me? No.
I hear a step come sounding through the hall.
It is the murderer, Sforza. Now, my heart!
Rise up in thy full strength, and do the act
Of justice bravely. So, he's here.

Enter Sforza.
SFORZA.
My love!
O my delight, my deity! I am come
To thank you for being gracious. I am late?

ISABELLA.
No: in the best of times, sir.

SFORZA.
Yet you look
Not gay, my Isabella. Nought has happened
To shake your promise?

ISABELLA.
Be assured of that.
Doubt not, nor chide, my lord. My heart, you know,
Falls faint at times. To-night I'll do my best
To entertain you as you merit.

SFORZA.
Better, I hope, my Isabel.

ISABELLA.
Your grace
May challenge any thing; from me the most.
Although a widow, not divested quite
Of all her sorrows, I am here to smile
Like tearful April on you: but you'll grow
To vanity, sir, unless some stop be put
To your amorous conquests. I must do't.

SFORZA.
You shall,
You shall, my Isabella.

ISABELLA.
Sir, I will.
You shall be wholly mine, till—death shall part us.
I have been full of miseries: they have swelled
My heart to bursting. You shall soothe me.

SFORZA.
How?

ISABELLA.
We'll find a way: nay, not so free, my lord;
I must be won with words, (though hollow;) smiles,
And vows, (although you mean them not,) kind looks
And excellent flattery. Come, my lord, what say you?
I'm all impatience.

SFORZA.
Oh! what can I say?
Thou art so lovely, that all words must fail.
They of whom poets sing men say were shadows;
Thus will they swear of thee.

ISABELLA.
Alas! my lord,
I have no laureate here to lie in rhyme;
So must remain unsung.

SFORZA.
But I will have
Your name recorded in the sweetest verse;
And sculptors shall do honour to themselves
And their delicious art by fashioning thee;
And painters shall devise for us a story,
Where thou and I, love, shall be seen reclining,
Thou on my arm—

ISABELLA.
A happy thought!

SFORZA.
And in
The guise of the throned Juno; I as Jove,
In his diviner moments, languishing
Beneath thy look.

ISABELLA.
She was a shrew, my lord,
That queen o' the heavens, and I—

SFORZA.
Then thou shalt be drawn
Like her who, in old inimitable tales,
Was pictured gathering flowers in Sicily,
And raised to Pluto's throne: methinks she was
A beautiful prophecy of thee; and there
Mountains shall rise, and grassy valleys lie
Asleep i' the sun, and blue Sicilian streams
Shall wander, and green woods, (just touched with light,)
Shall yield their foreheads to some western wind
And bend to bright Apollo as he comes
Smiling from out the east. What more? Why you
Shall kneel and pluck the flowers, and look aside
Hearkening for me; and—I will be there, (a god,)
Rushing tow'rds thee, my sweet Proserpina.

ISABELLA.
An ugly story!

SFORZA.
How, sweet?

ISABELLA.
You would take me
To—Hell then? but forgive me: I am ill;
Distract at times: we'll now forget it all.
Come, you will taste my poor repast?

SFORZA.
Oh, surely.

ISABELLA.
We'll be alone.

SFORZA.
'Tis better. Yet I have
[They feast.
No relish for common viands. Shall I drink
To thee, my queen?

ISABELLA.
To me, sir. This (look on't)
Is a curious wine; and like those precious drops
Sought by philosophers, (the life elixir,)
Will make you immortal.

SFORZA.
Give it me, my love.
May you ne'er know an hour of sorrow.

ISABELLA.
Ha!
Stay, stay: soft, put it down.

SFORZA.
Why, how is this?

ISABELLA.
Would—would you drink without me? Shame upon you!
Look at this fruit: a sea-worn captain, one
Who had sailed all 'round the world, brought it for me
From the Indian isles; the natives there, men say,
Worship it. This.

SFORZA.
It has a luscious taste.
My nephew, when he lived, loved such a fruit.

ISABELLA.
Thanks, spirits of vengeance!
[Aside.
Now you shall taste the immortal wine, my lord,
And drink a health to Cupid.

SFORZA.
Cupid, then.
He was a cunning god: he dimmed men's eyes,
'Tis prettily said i' the fable. But my eyes
(Yet how I love!) are clear as though I were
A stoic. Ah!

ISABELLA.
What ails my lord?

SFORZA.
The wine is cold.

ISABELLA.
You'll find it warmer, shortly.
It is its nature, as I'm told, to heat
The heart. My lord, I read but yesterday
Of an old man, a Grecian poet, who
Devoted all his life to wine, and died
O' the grape. Methinks 'twas just.

SFORZA.
'Twas so. This wine—

ISABELLA.
And stories have been told of men whose lives
Were infamous, and so their end. I mean
That the red murderer has himself been murdered;
The traitor struck with treason: He who let
The orphan perish, came himself to want:
Thus justice and great God have ordered it!
So that the scene of evil has been turned
Against the actor; pain paid back with pain;
And—poison given for poison.

SFORZA.
O my heart!

ISABELLA.
Is the wine still so cold, sir?

SFORZA.
I am burning.
Some water: I burn with thirst. Oh! what is this?

ISABELLA.
You're pale: I'll call for help. Here!

Servants enter.
ISABELLA.
Bind that man
To his seat.

SFORZA.
Ah! traitress.

ISABELLA.
Leave us now,—alone.
[Servants exeunt.
My lord! I'll not deceive you: you have drank
Your last draught in this world.

SFORZA.
My heart, my heart!
Traitress! I faint—faint: ah!

ISABELLA.
I would have done
Some act of justice in a milder shape:
But it could not be. I felt that you must die;
For my sake, for my boy, for Milan. You
Murdered my lord husband. Stare not thus:
'Tis melancholy truth. You have usurped
The first place in the dukedom; have swept down
My child's rights to the dust. What say you, sir?
Do you impeach my story? While you've time,
Give answer.
[He dies.
You are silent? then, are you
Condemned for ever. I could grieve, almost,
To see his ghastly stare. His eye is vague;
Is motionless. How like those shapes he grows,
That sit in stony whiteness over tombs,
Memorials of their cold inhabitants.
Speak! are you sunk to stone? What can you say
In your defence, sir? Turn your eyes away.
How dare you look at me, so steadily?
You shall be amorous no more. Must I
Rouse you? How idly his arms hang. Turn your eyes
Aside. I dare not touch him; yet I must.
Ha! he is dead—dead; slain by me! Great Heaven!
Forgive me; I'm a widow broken-hearted.
A mother too; 'twas for my child I struck.
Yon bloody man did press so hardly on us:
He would have torn my pretty bird from me:
I had but one: what could I do to save it?
There was no other way!

LYSANDER AND IONE.

Lysander. Ione.
(A Wood.)
LYSANDER.
Now, sit.

IONE.
Here?

LYSANDER.
Here:
The embroiderer, Moss, hath wrought you a golden seat.
Disdain her not, the yellow-tressed Moss;
For she is Nature's handmaid, decking aye
Her boddice with bright flowers; and when decay
Winters the rock or tree, her fringed gold
She leaves, to hide the poor thing's poverty.

IONE.
So, there: now kneel and worship.

LYSANDER.
I will; I do: Oh! Heavens of love, I do.
Deep worshipper am I for one so young;
But Love has taught me: he matured my thought;
And so beyond my years I worship you.
Stay; stir not, sweet. Sit here.

IONE.
'Tis a fair place.

LYSANDER.
Ay; Iris hath been here, beloved one.
The rich Spring's almoner is she, who scatters
Upon the grateful world her sweets and flowers.
Bountiful Spring! Is it not strange that men
Will scorn or shun her favours? will bar out
The beauty of the day and vernal airs,
And die in dreams of freedom?

IONE.
You would talk
(And I might listen) till we both forgot,
That I have cares which call me.

LYSANDER.
We will meet
To-morrow early. I will show you all
The secrets of our forest. Every dell
And every leafy nook and cave o'ergrown,
The rock, the river, and the Dryad's oak
We'll see to-morrow. What, if we surprise
A wood-nymph sleeping?

IONE.
This to me?

LYSANDER.
Why, ay;
For then I'll show you how the true heart meets
Beauty unheeding.

IONE.
No, no.

LYSANDER.
You will come.
And I will be your guard, and servant, both;
And, as we pierce the untrodden woods, I'll teach
How you may shun the briery paths and pass
The snake untouched; and we will hear the songs—
Ha! do you smile? why then you'll come.

IONE.
No.

LYSANDER.
Yes.

IONE.
Be not too sure, Lysander. Foolish boy!
To give your heart to me,—to me, poor youth,
A spirit of the waters!

LYSANDER.
You are more;
My queen, my goddess! Sole and peerless queen!
And I your most true subject.

IONE.
I am one
Of old king Nereus' daughters, gentlest boy.
My home lies low beneath the eternal seas.
My country (tho' I sometimes earthward stray)
Is where the mariner's plummet never fell;
Down in the fathomless deep: the wild waves there
Sound not, nor dare the watery creatures come
To gaze upon those calm and sacred sands.
Beyond your reach my home is.

LYSANDER.
Pretty story!

IONE.
Believe it, fond Lysander, and forget me.
But, come; as you have loved me long and well,
Have you not sung my name to all the stars,
And vowed mine eyes were far more bright than they?
A lover? he should tell the skies his love,
And make the air acquainted with his woe;
Should tell to budding morn, to lazy noon,
To waters where the unsunned Dian comes
Dipping her silver feet, all his chaste joy.
But you have done this?

LYSANDER.
Often, oft.

IONE.
Indeed!
How did you name me?

LYSANDER.
Sweet Ione! Fair
And beautiful Ione! fair and dear!
Too dear, because too cold, art thou to me.
Ione! list,—Ione! Pretty name!
Is it not yours?

IONE.
'Tis mine, and you shall sing
A forest song in its honour.

LYSANDER.
Listen, then, love; and with your white hand clear
Your marble forehead from its cloudy hair.
So, thus; your eye bent tow'rds me;
How brightly it burns upon me! Listen, sweet.
Yet, 'tis a melancholy song; confused;
Half dream and half despair. You will but smile at't?

IONE.
Sing on, sing on: I love a wild song. Sing!

LYSANDER.

IONE.
Enough, enough. Your fancy grows too wild:
Reason must tame it, else some sharp reproof.
And so you love me? Pshaw!

LYSANDER.
By all the gods!

IONE.
I'll not believe't: what! you? so young a boy?
'Twill be a pretty tale.

LYSANDER.
But who shall tell it?

IONE.
Why I, and all who hear us; for we are
Encompassed by the sylvan people here;
And not a foolish hope hast thou confessed,
But Echo in her hundred caves has caught
The sound, and told it to the wood-nymphs' ears,
Whence, shaped like whispers from the forest boughs,
(All which, true traitors, shake while they betray
Poor human secrets,) thy mad words are borne
To the great Pan.

LYSANDER.
And he? well, what of him?

IONE.
Oh! he loves all the nymphs who haunt his woods,
And when he finds they wander from their homes—

LYSANDER.
Fear him not; I am here, too sweet Jone!

IONE.
My gentle boy! And so, you love me.—well?

LYSANDER.
Ay, like the stars.

IONE.
Not as a lover—

LYSANDER.
Oh!
I love you like the beauty of the world,
The rose, the—

IONE.
Peace, and hear me, young Lysander.
Some maids, high born as I am, in past times,
(Thus, if no fable, pale (Enone did)
Gave their great hearts to mortals. Mark what followed:
The men they graced forgot them.

LYSANDER.
Shall I swear?

IONE.
What have you done to win a Nereid's love?
Dost know, youth, that the princes of the sea;
Faunus, and many a wood-god; shapes that haunt
The groves and mountains and the running streams,
Have wooed me—me—in vain?

LYSANDER.
Oh, I believe it.
'Tis certain they have done't; and I—even I
Have left my quiet home o'nights, to sing
Your soft sad name beside the noisy sea,
And hearken if in the watery tumult you
Whispered sweet answers. I have come hither, too,
At noon, at dusky eve, on darkest nights,
To seek you. I have let my unguarded sheep
Wander alone upon the mountains drear,
Have left my father (yet I love him well)
To weep my nightly absence; quitted all
Our village feasts and calm domestic meetings,
Here to resort and dream of the sweet Ione.

IONE.
Indeed, my love?

LYSANDER.
Again,—for dear love's sake!
For my sake; thus again.

IONE.
Why, then—my love!

LYSANDER.
Oh! my divine Ione! my heart's queen!
What shall I do to merit all this love?

IONE.
Be constant.

LYSANDER.
Ay, beyond fidelity.
I'll be more true
Than bright Apollo to the summer air,
Than larks to morn, or stars to cloudless eves,
Or sweets to the maiden May. Oh! fear me not.

IONE.
I will not, dear Lysander. You and I
Will haunt these woods together: you shall pass
The busy morning hours amongst the hills,
And tend your father's flock; I in my cave
Beneath the seas must linger out the day;
But ever at night I'll meet you, dear Lysander,
And when stern fate shall lift you to the stars,
I from the salt sea wave will take my flight,
(Great Jove will not reject a sea-maid's prayer)
And dwell with you for ever. Now, farewell.

LYSANDER.
One kiss from that red rose which hides your lip!
One kiss? O love! how sweet; how all too sweet!

IONE.
Peace, peace! Farewell.

LYSANDER.
Until to-morrow morn!

IONE.
Until to-morrow only, then, farewell!

JUAN.

SCENE— The Gardens belonging to a Spanish Castle.
Juan and a Boy.
JUAN.
The night grows foul and dark; and the thick air
Wakes pulses at my heart, which now should sleep.
Hark! the winds draw the curtains of the sky,
Like ministers to lust. Queen Dian, now,
Is with her paramour.

BOY.
Spoke you, my lord?

JUAN.
They'll rock her into slumber. She should watch:
For others may be busy while she sleeps,
And stain her fame with falsehood. The hot air
Weighs on my forehead. Break a lemon branch
And give't me, Lopez. So; how fresh! how cool!
(Tho' all its sweets are fled:) another—Thanks!
I'll bind them round my forehead. What time is't?

BOY.
Near midnight.

JUAN.
Wants it long?

BOY.
Some minutes; the last chimes have just now ceased.

JUAN.
They sounded sadly. Let me hear thee sing
A song; 'twill drive some blacker thoughts away.

BOY.
What sort of song? Shall it be tender? gay?

JUAN.
Let it be full of love, and foaming o'er;
But not a jot of kindness: burning passion;
No more: yes, headlong folly; flames that parch
And wither up the heart: fierce jealousy,
And horrid rage; and doubt and—dark despair!
Sing she you loved was false, and that you grew
Mad, and a murderer; anything.

BOY.
My lord!

JUAN.
Then you may say how she
Was beautiful as Sin, and that her eyes
Shone like the morning; that her arms were smooth,
And gracefully turned, and that her figure seemed
Shaped from the mould of Dian's. You then may tell
How her white bosom rose and sank, at times,
To the music of her passionate heart. But, no;
We'll have no music now; my soul's untuned,
And discord is the only element.
A wife?—When went my wife hence, boy?

BOY.
Sir!

JUAN.
Where is your lady, fool?

BOY.
At prayers, I think.

JUAN.
Excellent, excellent! the times are good
(Must be) when strumpets pray. My bosom now
Swells like the boiling ocean. How could she
Be false to me? to me who loved her more
Than heaven or hope hereafter. How I gazed
Upon her brow, and thought it fairer than
The face of the starry heavens! Begone, and send
Your mistress hither.

BOY.
She's at prayers, my lord.

JUAN.
Ha! true; forgot! no matter: leave me, sirrah,
And place the lamp upon the dial yonder,
And draw the shade around it. Now, go, go.
[Boy goes out.
Now then I am—alone. There's not a sound
To cheer my purpose: It is dark and close.
My soul is dark; imprisoned in—a grave;
Yet, resolute to bear. Shall I revenge?
I'll kill her, tho' the stars dissolve in tears,
And thunder mutters help; and so, all's past.
Having resolved, the bloody part is done;—
And all the rest is mercy. She must perish.
I'll wash away her sins with all her blood.
Yet—if I slay her, I shall surely die.
Die? I am dead already; jealous hate,
Despair, and too much love have poisoned me.
Oh, widow, who hast lost thine all on earth,
What is thy pain to mine? A step?—a step?
She comes then: not alone? ah! not alone.
Now for my hiding-place.

He retires.
Olympia and Bianca enter.
OLYMPIA.
Did I believe in fables, I should think
Some evil hung about me: the black night
Has not allowed one small star to escape,
To light us on our path: who's there? I thought
A figure passed us. Hark!

BIANCA.
I heard nothing.

OLYMPIA.
Nor I: and yet when dæmons walk about,
Their steps 'tis said are noiseless. I could now
Think half my nursery stories true, and spurn
My better reason from me.

BIANCA.
Let us talk
Of something else, dear lady.

OLYMPIA.
Tremble not.
You have no cause to fear; your days have been
Harmless, (I hope so,) and the spirits of ill
Leave innocent life untouched. Look, girl, the worm
Lights her green lamp; and, see! the fountain, there,
Into the night shoots up its silver rain.
How fresh and sweet it is! how musical.
Bianca, get you homewards; I will rest
Here, in the cool awhile.
[Bianca exit.
What a most delicate air this garden hath!
There's scarce a flower or odorous shrub that lives
We have not. There, how clearly I scent the rose;
And now the limes; and now, as the sad wind
Sobs, an uncertain sweetness comes from out
The orange-trees: Their fragrance charms me
Almost to sleep.

Reclines.
Juan enters.
JUAN.
She sleeps at last, then: yet I will not kill
The frail thing sleeping. Why did I delay?
I feared (why did I fear?) to meet her eye:
The eye of her whom justice bids me strike?
Oh! what a beautiful piece of sin is there!
They fabled well who said that woman won
Man to perdition: hark! the thunder mutters;
And lightnings—Rest, wild spirits, I am come
To save ye a worthless task. Now then, my soul!
Rise up, Olympia! (she sleeps soundly:) Ho!
Stirring at last: Rise, Fair Olympia: you
Have much to do to-night. The fates have writ
Your early doom upon their brazen book;
And I must do their bidding.

OLYMPIA.
What is this?

JUAN.
Now by—but I am quiet. You have sinned
Most foully 'gainst your husband: that's not much;
But you have done a deed at which the skies
Blacken: look up.

OLYMPIA.
Dear Juan?

JUAN.
You have made
Me (I forgive that) base: our noble house,
'Till now illustrious, you have stained. Hark, hark!
The voices that you hear amongst the clouds
(But understand not) say ‘confess your sin.’
I wait to hear it.

OLYMPIA.
Oh, your mind is filled
With dreaming terrors. Let us home, dear Juan;
We'll talk to-morrow of this.

JUAN.
Talk? to-morrow?
Now, by the burning passion that doth stir
Vengeance within me, Olympia! This night
You take your leave of earth. Yet, ere you die,
I'll tell you how I loved you; doated—oh!
Grew guilty for you: guilty, do you hear?

OLYMPIA.
Most perfect, sir; I tremble.

JUAN.
Ere you married
I loved you; that you know: your father shook
A poor petitioner away; and you
(Although you owned to love) forsook me. Then
I tried my fortune in the wars: you gave
Your hand to old Ramirez.

OLYMPIA.
I was bid.

JUAN.
My uncle's death raised me to wealth, and then
I came home quickly: you were married.

OLYMPIA.
Well!

JUAN.
Well!
Why then despair possessed me. Madness stamped
His brand upon my brain, and years flamed on,
(You still Ramirez' wife) when I became
A man again: The impudent dotard laughed,
Boasting he had out-schemed a younger man,
Me,—me. My curse upon him!

OLYMPIA.
Peace, no more.

JUAN.
So, you still love him?

OLYMPIA.
Sir, I love him not.
But I disdain the madman that belies him.

JUAN.
Mad? mad? Now shall you die,—die! (do you hear?)
By me, who love you. Mad? I have been mad;
But 'twas because I lost you; you, thrice false one!
Now, being sane, 't shall be my bloody care
To see none rave like me from too much love.
Mad? mad? and you to jeer me? Blighting shame
Weigh on your soul for that.

OLYMPIA.
You have belied
My husband's honoured name.

JUAN.
His name?
I slew him, harlot! stabbed him thro' and thro'.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! Thou fool, who couldst believe
That common villains struck and robbed him not.

OLYMPIA.
I dream; I hope I dream.

JUAN.
'Twas I. Laugh out!
Yet if thou dost 'twill be at my great woe.
And though thou jeerest me, I deserve it not.
For all was done for thee; and now hast thou
Called back the love I bought at such a price,
And sold it to another.

OLYMPIA.
Sir, 'tis false:
You are all false. How I abhor you now!
Hearken, Don Juan; I have loved you, (how
You will remember quickly;) 'twas an error:
For had I known his blood was spilt by you,
I would have cast you off, as now I do,
For ever.

JUAN.
Speak again.

OLYMPIA.
For ever; ever.

JUAN.
Will-will your paramour come then? Ha, ha, ha!
He waits, and wishes: do not keep him long.

OLYMPIA
(aside).
God! he is mad, indeed. I must escape.

JUAN.
Stay! Stop! but weep not; pray not: wouldst thou pray
To the deaf adder? to the insensate sea?
Look, I am stern, but just; determined, wronged;
A judge, and you the victim.

OLYMPIA.
Let me pass.

JUAN.
Kneel down before the gods. Now answer me.
Lovest thou, or not, (speak truly, for thou speak'st
Thy last words to the world,) this stranger? Quick!

OLYMPIA.
I love him. (Juan cries out.)
But—

JUAN.
Traitress! adultress!
I strike (stabs her)
—and kill my wrongs!

OLYMPIA.
Stay, Juan, stay! but no; 'tis past—and over.
It cannot be:—you've done ill.

JUAN.
You—you are
Not hurt? not slain? Speak!

OLYMPIA.
Save yourself, dear Juan.
That youth—

JUAN.
Yes, yes.

OLYMPIA.
He is my brother.

JUAN.
Hell!

OLYMPIA.
The Inquisition now are watching for him.
Save him.

JUAN.
I will.

OLYMPIA.
By—ah—

Dies.
JUAN.
A pause.
(Voices are heard.)

JUAN.
(Voices.)

JUAN.
Now, first to hide
The body. Body!—is she changed so soon?
Hides the body
And now to fly: yet wherefore? Can they read
In my white visage and unaltered eye
A murder redder than the crime of Cain?
I'll stay, and dream of death. Oh! I have lost
What was my life on earth: what was, alas!
A horrid sound. They come.
Enter Servants.
Whom seek ye? She—
Your lady's gone; gone, do you doubt me? gone

SERVANT.
My lord! a stranger is arrived; her brother.

JUAN.
Who? what? She has none; none.

SERVANT.
My lord, he's at the castle.

JUAN.
Peace! She is gone
On a dark journey. Oh!

SERVANT.
You've cut your hand, sir.

JUAN.
I have cut—my heart.
Leave me; all but Diego.
[Servants go out.
Poor old man,
You were my father's servant; nay his father's.
We prized you, and you served us faithfully;
But now's your service ended. Old Diego!
Long before sun-rise, I shall be—

DIEGO.
My lord!

JUAN.
Quiet, Diego. No foul passions, then,
No turbulent love, nor fierce idolatry,
Nor bitter hate, nor jealousy, shall mar
My solitary rest: I shall be—dead.
The last ('tis pity) of a princely house;
Let not our name be slandered.

DIEGO.
My dear lord!

JUAN.
One old man thought
I should do honour to his name;—that's past:
For look! my star is setting. I am now
The last of a famous line, which backward ran
To the blood of kings and then was lost in time.
Ah! where is now my father's prophecy,
And where my own hopes? withered, withered.

DIEGO.
Alas!

JUAN.
A few more words, and then—and then, good night.
I smote—I smote—now let the black skies fall
And crush me in a moment. Oh! my queen!
My own incomparable wife! My love!
Oh! all my life has been an error: So,
I'll shift a troublesome burden from my back,
And lay me down to sleep.

DIEGO.
Beseech you, home!

JUAN.
We'll do as thou dost say. That rich red draught,
Which filled the frames of aged men with youth,
And strung their sinews like the bracing air,
Were now an useless medicine.

DIEGO.
Noble master!
Let me for once forget my place, dear lord!
And bid you hope for comfort.

JUAN.
Hush, hush, hush!
No more a lord: a vulgar slave am I,
Who caught one look from heaven; but the soft light
Is out, which was my guide; and here I stand
Lost, and in terrible darkness near my tomb.
And angry shadows beckon me; fierce shapes
And fears (which no hope tempers) drag me on.
Look, I must go: yet first we'll make all plain,
And leave the earth a warning. I—the story
Hangs on my tongue. I smote—I—look aside
While I burst forth in guilt. I smote—Oh God!
The tenderest, noblest woman in the world;
And with my cruel dagger cut a road
To a heart where I was lord; but knew it not.
Ay, weep, Diego; thou may'st weep, poor man;
But for myself my tears are dried to dust:
Burnt and scorched up by pain. But let's be still.
Your hand, my last firm friend; I have not yet
Forgotten how you used (bright years ago)
To bear me, then a boy, sport-tired, home.
Bear me so far once more: 'tis your last toil;
And lay me gently on my marble bed,
And ask no man to curse me! All's done. Now
Open your arms, Olympia!

Stabs himself.

THE WAY TO CONQUER.

SCENE— A Room in a Palace.
Prince. Cesario.
CESARIO.
Your highness sent for me?

PRINCE.
I did: Sit down.
You look ill, dear Cesario?

CESARIO.
No, my lord.

PRINCE.
You have been feasting lately? yes, 'tis so:
You were at Count Vitelli's banqueting.
But have a care, it is not good for health.

CESARIO.
You sent for me
In haste, was it not so?

PRINCE.
Not so.

CESARIO.
Then shall I come to-morrow?

PRINCE.
Let it be
To-day, now you are here. Cesario!
Is there not one who lives with old Colonna?
A foreign youth? Dost know him?

CESARIO.
Ay, my lord,
'Tis Pedro—no, Diego,—a dark Spaniard;
A linguist, learned, and noble; a cadet
Of the great house of—of Medina, sir,

PRINCE.
You know him well?

CESARIO.
I know him; yet not well.

PRINCE.
Should'st think him honest?

CESARIO.
Honest, sir? Oh, surely.

PRINCE.
Then he'd not betray
Your uncle, as I hear he has done?

CESARIO.
Sir! He?
He could not be so base: my uncle was
His first and excellent friend.

PRINCE.
I thought the world
Was not so bad. Now listen, Cesario,
And you shall hear a curious history.
Keep Diego in your mind the while, and think
That he's the hero of it. Last night a man
Came mask'd unto a rich lord's house, (here in
Palermo;)—Do you hear how Etna mutters?

CESARIO.
It sends a terrible sound indeed, my lord.

PRINCE.
This man petitioned for his life. He said
That he had sworn to act a horrid deed,
And came to make disclosure. The great lord
(His was the life in danger) promised full
Forgiveness: but you do not hear my words?

CESARIO.
Pardon me, sir, I hear.

PRINCE.
The culprit said
A youth on whom this lord had lavished wealth,
And kindness and good precept, had forgot
His better tutoring, and lent deaf ears
To those divinest whispers which the soul
Breathes to prevent our erring. He resolved
To kill his benefactor: that was bad.

CESARIO.
Oh! he deserved—

PRINCE.
We'll talk of that hereafter.
Well, this bad man whose mind was spotted thus—
Was leprosied by foul ingratitude,
Had sworn to murder this his friend.

CESARIO.
My lord!

PRINCE.
I see it pains you: yes, for the sake of gold,
He would have slain his old and faithful friend;
Have spurned the few gray locks that time had left,
And stopped the current of his reverend blood,
Which could not flow much longer.

CESARIO.
Are you sure?

PRINCE.
The plan was this: they were to bind him fast,
(To slay him here were dangerous,) and transport
His body to some lonely place.

CESARIO.
What—place?

PRINCE.
I'll tell you, for I once
Was housed there through a storm. A castle stands
Fronting Calabria, on the rough sea-coast.
A murder once was done there, and e'er since
It has been desolate; 'tis bleak, and stands
High on a rock, whose base was caverned out
By the wild seas ages ago. The winds
Moan and make music through its halls, and there
The mountain-loving eagle builds his home.
But all's a waste: for miles and miles around
There's not a dwelling.

CESARIO.
Is't near the—eastward foot
Of Etna,—where Muralto's villa stands?

PRINCE.
Yes, yes; well guessed: I see you know the spot.
Now, dear Cesario, could'st thou think a man,
Setting aside all ties, could do a deed
Of blackness there? Why, 'tis within the reach
Of Etna, and some thirty years ago,
(The last eruption,) when the lava rivers
Went flaming toward that point, this dwelling stood
In danger. I myself stood near the place,
And saw the bright fires stream along, when they
Crumbled the chesnut forests and dark pines
And branching oaks to dust. The thunder spoke,
The rebel waves stood up and lashed the rocks,
And poured their stormy cries through every cave.
Each element rose in riot: the parched earth
Staggered and spouted fire—

CESARIO.
Oh! sir, no more.

PRINCE.
Fancy, Cesario, in this desolate house,
How ghastly the poor murdered wretch would look;
His hanging head, and useless neck; his old
Affectionate heart that beat so fondly, now
Like a stilled instrument. I could not kill
A dog that loved me: could you?

CESARIO.
No, sir—no.

PRINCE.
Why, how you tremble!

CESARIO.
'Tis a fearful picture.

PRINCE.
Yet might it have been true.

CESARIO.
We'll hope not.

PRINCE.
Hope!
That hope is past. How will the Spaniard look,
Think you, Cesario, when the question comes
Home to his heart? In truth he could not look
More pale than you are now. Cesario!
The eye of God has been upon him.

CESARIO.
Yes:
I hope—

PRINCE.
Beware.

CESARIO.
My lord!

PRINCE.
Beware, how you
Curse him; for he is loaded heavily.
Sin and fierce wishes plague him, and the world
Will stamp its malediction on his head,
And God and man disown him.

CESARIO.
Oh! no more.
No more, my dearest lord; behold me here,
Here at your feet, a wretch indeed, but now
Won quite from crime. Spare me.

PRINCE.
Rise. I forgive
The ingratitude to me: but men like you
(Base, common, bribed stabbers) must not roam
About the world so freely.

CESARIO.
Oh! that now
You could but see my heart.

PRINCE.
I would not see
Your bosom's base and black inhabitant.
Now listen to me again: speak not, but listen.
This is a different tale. Cesario!
When first you came to Sicily, you were
A little child: your noble father, worn
By toil and long misfortune, scarce had time
To beg protection for you ere he died.
Since then, if in your memory I have failed
In kindness tow'rd you, or good counselling,
Reproach me.

CESARIO.
You have been most kind, too kind.

PRINCE.
Once, 'twas in terrible sickness, when none else
Would tread your infectious chamber, (think on that,)
I, though your prince—

CESARIO.
In pity!

PRINCE.
Hear me speak.
I gave that healing medicine to your lips,
Which wanting you had died. I tended you:
And was your nurse through many a sultry night;
For you were quite abandoned—

CESARIO.
Quite, quite, quite.

PRINCE.
Time passed, and you recovered, and could use
Your sword again: you tried it 'gainst my blood,
(My nephew then,) and I forgave it.

CESARIO.
That
Was in the heat of quarrel.

PRINCE.
I have said
That I forgave it. Then a most mean wish
(You wished my wealth) possessed you. I could never,
I own it, have guessed at that.

CESARIO.
Oh! sir, not so.

PRINCE.
Well, then, it was not: but Aurelia's charms
(That cunning Phryne) have o'erwhelmed your sense;
All gratitude and good being gone.

CESARIO.
My lord!
My father! oh, once more believe me. I
Do not deserve you should: but if you can
Once again credit me, may hell's fierce torments—
But, no; I will not pain or shame your love:
Nay more, I will deserve it. I can die
Now, for my mind has grown within this hour
To firmness: yet, I now could wish to live,
To show you what I am.

PRINCE.
Cesario! hear me.
Hear and forget not—what your old friend says.
The world will blame me, but I'll try you still:
You cannot have the heart (I know you have one)
Again to harm me. Once, imperial Cæsar
Upon the young deluded Cinna laid
His absolute pardon: 'twas a weight that he
Could ne'er shake off. Cesario, thus
From my soul I now forgive you.

CESARIO.
Thanks.

PRINCE.
What, ho!
Cesario, faint not. Why, thou'rt weaker now
Than when Aurelia kissed your lip, and won
Your soul to sin. Come:—nay, there's no one knows
Our quarrel. Let us bury it in our breasts,
And talk as we were wont.

CESARIO.
A little time,
My lord, and I may thank you. Now, if I
Might dare to ask it, I would fain retire,
And dwell on all your goodness.

PRINCE.
Farewell, then.

CESARIO.
My noble prince, rest soundly: you have gained
Cesario's soul twice over. If a knave
Should say I wrong you now, believe him not.
If I myself should swear I was your foe,
Discredit me. Oh! once more on my knees,
I thank you: dearest father! look upon
Your prodigal son. Thanks—from my heart.

PRINCE.
Farewell,
Farewell, Cesario. Nay, compose yourself.
Now go. Farewell, farewell.

THE BROKEN HEART.

SCENE I.

—A Room.
Jeronymo. His Mother.
MOTHER.
What have I said that you affect this humour?
Come, look less strangely. Is your anger dumb?
Speak out. Jeronymo?

JERONYMO.
You have done this?

MOTHER.
I did: 'Twas for your good.

JERONYMO
Oh, mother, mother!
You have broke the fondest heart in Italy.
My good, what's that? Is't good that I shall die?
Is't good that I shall pine and fade away,
And take no comfort? None? O yes! Through all
My melancholy days I'll haunt the nest
Where my white dove lies guarded—

MOTHER.
Patience, boy.

JERONYMO.
Until I die, stern mother. I shall die,
Like people smit by lightning, suddenly.

MOTHER.
Live and be crowned with Love.

JERONYMO.
Why so I will,
And wear white roses on my ghastly brow,
And laugh at fate, like that forced bride who fell
Dead on her marriage morning. I'll be gone.
If she be false—Come with me, madam! False?
Sylvestra false? Sylvestra?

MOTHER.
Name her not,
The bitter cause whence all our sorrow springs.
You must not think of her.

JERONYMO.
Not think of her?

MOTHER.
No; she is married.

JERONYMO.
Ha, ha, ha! good mother.
Shame on your cruel jest: be grave—and gentle.

MOTHER.
I told you this before: she's married—married!
Do I speak plain?

JERONYMO.
Too plain, if you speak true.
That you may know I heed your tale, look at me!
Am I not—broken-hearted?

MOTHER.
Oh! sweet heavens.
I have done too much. (Aside)
How pinched and pale he looks!
Jeronymo, my child!

JERONYMO.
Your only child.

MOTHER.
Why do you talk thus? Prythee think on me;
On me, your mother.

JERONYMO.
Surely; for you thought
Of me in absence. I've a grateful soul:
I'll make you heir of all my father's lands,
His gems, and gold, and floating argosies:
All shall be yours; I will not live to leave
Widow or child to rob so kind a mother.

MOTHER.
Peace, peace, you hurt my heart.

JERONYMO.
I swear to do't.
By those dark Three who cut the threads of life!
By Plutus, God of gold! By Minos, judge,
And cruel Cupid! By my own lost life,
And murdered hopes, I swear!

MOTHER.
Oh! Do not talk thus.
If not for me, yet for your father's sake,
Spare me, my son!

JERONYMO.
My father? he is dead.

MOTHER.
But when he lived he was most merciful;
Tempering the angry feelings which will rise
In every mind (and lead in some to ruin)
By draughts of that divine philosophy—

JERONYMO.
O, the brave drink! Abroad, abroad, we had
Huge flasks which all went flaming to the brain.
Dark, sweet, and full of sin; and so I drank,
And drank and drank the livelong day and night,
And chewed the bitter laurel for my food,
Whose roots are watered, as wild poets tell,
By the immortal wells of Castaly.

MOTHER.
Alas, alas!

JERONYMO.
Why that looks well. I love it.

MOTHER.
What do you love, my son?

JERONYMO.
To see you weep,
Although your husband died so long ago.

MOTHER.
I do not weep for him.

JERONYMO.
Not weep for him?
Then shame seal up your mouth. Was he not kind?
Was he not good? he was; and yet you weep not;
Weep you the lazy lonely widow's life?
Tush! you may buy another husband yet.

MOTHER.
I do not wish't. I cannot match the last.

JERONYMO.
You cannot, madam; (That was true at least.)
No, though you gaze from evening dusk, till Morn
Comes climbing up the bright steps of the East;
Nay, tho' you watch for hearts from dawn till dark.
Unmatchable 'mongst men, so kind, so true,
Abhorring falsehood with a natural hate,
And full of pity was he,—but he died;
Good father! how he loved his poor pale son,
And how he feared (do you remember that?)
His race should end with me. He wished—vain wishes!
No child of mine shall ever bear our name,
And make't more noble. Lo, I am the last!
The last, last scion of a gracious tree;
For you, my mother, now have struck me down,
And withered all my branches. So, farewell.

[Going.
MOTHER.
Farewell! Yet stay! Leave pardon with me. Stay!

JERONYMO.
Farewell, and pardon! Blessings (if the son
May bless the mother) rest upon your heart.
Be calm, be happy: think of me no more.

SCENE II.

—Sylvestra's Chamber.
Jeronymo. Sylvestra.
JERONYMO.
So, all is hushed at last. Hist! There she lies,
Who should have been my own. Sylvestra! Hark!
She sleeps! and from her parted lips there comes
A fragrance, such as April mornings steal
From awakening flowers. There lies her arm, (sweet arm!)
More white than marble, on the quilted lid.
'Tis motionless. What if she lives not? Oh!
How beautiful she is! How far beyond
Those bright creations, which the fabling Greeks
Placed on their cold Olympus. That great queen
Before whose eye Jove's starry armies shrank
To darkness, and the wide and billowy seas
Grew calm, was a leper to her. Look, oh, look!
Her beauty (that most pure divinity)
Doth sway the troubled blood till it stands charmed,
Adoring,—Hark, she murmurs. Oh, how soft!
Sylvestra!

SYLVESTRA.
Ha! who's there?

JERONYMO.
'Tis I.

SYLVESTRA.
Who is it?

JERONYMO.
Must I then speak, and tell my name to you?
Sylvestra! know me now: not now? O Pain!
Hath grief indeed so changed my voice; so much
That you—you know me not? Alas!

SYLVESTRA.
Begone!
I'll wake my husband if you move a step.

JERONYMO.
Jeronymo, Jeronymo! 'tis I.

SYLVESTRA.
Ha! speak again: yet, no, no—

JERONYMO.
Hide your eyes:
Ay, hide them, married woman! lest they look
On the wreek of him who loved you.

SYLVESTRA.
Loved me? no.

JERONYMO.
Loved you like life, like heaven and happiness;
Loved you and wore your image on his heart
(Ill boding amulet) 'till death.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas!

JERONYMO.
And now I come to bring your wandering thoughts
Back to their innocent home. Do you not know,
Pale spirits have left their leaden urns, to tempt
Wretches from sin? Some have been heard to laugh
Ghastlily on—the bed of wantonness,
And touch the limbs with death.

SYLVESTRA.
You will not harm me?

JERONYMO.
Why not?—No, no, poor girl! I would not mar
Your delicate limbs with outrage. I have loved
Too well for that; too long; all our short lives.

SYLVESTRA.
Our sad short lives!

JERONYMO.
Sylvestra, you and I
Were children here some few short springs ago,
And loved like children: I the elder; you
The loveliest girl that ever tied her hair
Across a sunny brow of Italy.
I still remember how, though others wooed,
You ever preferred me.

SYLVESTRA.
I did, I did.

JERONYMO.
I think you loved me: How I loved, my heart
Still tells me trembling. So I fain would bring
You comfort ere I go. Speak! the time's short,
For death has touched me.

SYLVESTRA.
You are jesting now?

JERONYMO.
Sweet, I am dying—dying. All my blood
Grows colder as I talk; my pulses strike
More slowly; and before the morning sun
Visits your chamber through those trailing vines,
I shall lie here, here in your chamber, dead.

SYLVESTRA.
You fright me.

JERONYMO.
Yet I'd not do so, Sylvestra.
I will but tell you, you have used me harshly,
(That is not much,) and die: nay, fear me not.
I would not chill, with this decaying touch,
That bosom where the blue veins wander 'round,
Nor should thy cheek, still fresh in beauty, fade
From fear of me, a poor heart-broken wretch!
Look at me. Why, the winds sing through my bones,
And children jeer me, and the boughs that wave
And whisper loosely in the summer air,
Shake their green leaves in mockery, as to say
“We are the longer livers.”

SYLVESTRA.
Kill me not.

JERONYMO.
I've numbered eighteen winters. Much may lie
In that short compass; but my days have been
Not happy. Death was busy with our house
Early, and nipped the comforts of my home,
And sickness paled my cheek, and fancies (wild,
Strange, bright, delusive stars) came wandering by me.
There's one you know of: that—no matter—that
Drew me from out my way, (a perilous guide,)
And left me sinking. I had gay hopes too,
But heed them not; they are vanished.

SYLVESTRA.
I—Oh, heart!
I thought, (speak softly, for my husband sleeps,)
I thought, when you did stay abroad so long,
And never sent nor asked of me or mine,
You'd quite forgotten Italy.

JERONYMO.
Speak again.
Was't so indeed?

SYLVESTRA.
Indeed, indeed.

JERONYMO.
I see it;
The mother's pride, the woman's treachery.
Yet, what had I done Fortune that she could
Abandon me so entirely? Never mind't:
Have a good heart, Sylvestra: they who hate
Can kill us, but no more; that's comfort, dear!
We'll fly from our pursuers, and be quiet.
The journey is but short, and we can reckon
On slumbering sweetly with the freshest earth
Sprinkled about us: There no storms can shake
Our secure tenement; nor need we fear,
Though cruelty be busy with our fortunes,
Or scandal with our names.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas, alas!

JERONYMO.
Sweet! in the land to come we'll feed on flowers.
Droop not, my child. A happy place there is:
Know you it not (all pain and wrong shut out)
Where man may mix with angels. You and I
Will wander there with garlands on our brows,
And talk in music. We will shed no tears,
Save those of joy; nor sighs, unless for love.
Look up and straight grow happy. We may love
There without fear: no mothers there, no gold,
Nor hate, nor human perfidy; none, none.
Sweet one, we have been wronged. My own delight!
Too late I see thy gentle constancy:
Too late thy unstained love. Did'st think me changed?
Why I wrote, and wrote long, fond letters; all,
Steeped all in tears; I wrote, but you were silent.
At last suspicion touched me: I came home;
And found you married.

SYLVESTRA.
Alas!

JERONYMO.
Then I—Then I
Grew moody, and at times I fear my brain
Was fevered; but I could not die, Sylvestra,
And bid you no farewell.

SYLVESTRA.
Jeronymo!
Break not my heart thus; they—I was betrayed.
They told me you had found a face more fair
Than poor Sylvestra's; that (grown false) you had learned
To scorn your poor and childish love; ah, me!
They threatened, swore your heart was breaking; yes,
Because it wanted freedom. Then—look aside—
Then—then they—married me.

JERONYMO.
Oh!

[Cries out.
SYLVESTRA.
What is't? Speak!

JERONYMO.
The melancholy winds, which shun the day,
And mourn abroad at dark, are chaunting now
A funeral dirge for me. Sweet, let me lie
Once on thy breast: I will not chill't, my love,
With my cold cheek; nor stain it with a tear.
It is a shrine where innocent love might lie;
Where murdered love should end. For once, Sylvestra?

SYLVESTRA.
Pity me!

JERONYMO.
How I pity!

SYLVESTRA.
Talk not thus;
Though you but jest, it makes me tremble.

JERONYMO.
Jest?
Look in my eyes and mark how true my story.
Nay look: for on their glassy surface lies
Death, my Sylvestra. It is Nature's last
And beautiful effort, to bequeath a fire
To orbs whereon the Spirit sate thro' life,
And looked out in its moods of thought and joy,
Revealing all that inward worth and power,
Which else would want their true interpreters.

SYLVESTRA.
Why, now you're cheerful.

JERONYMO.
Yes; 'tis thus I'd die.

SYLVESTRA.
Now I must smile.

JERONYMO.
Do so, and I'll smile too.
I do; albeit—ah! now my parting words
Lie heavy on my tongue; my lips obey not;
And—speech—comes difficult from me. While I can,
Farewell. Your hand! I cannot see it.

SYLVESTRA.
Ah!—cold.

JERONYMO.
'Tis so: but scorn it not, my own poor girl.
They've used us hardly—hardly; yet thou wilt
Forgive them? One's a mother, and may feel,
When that she knows me dead. Some air; more air:
Where are you? I am blind; my hands are numbed:
This is a wintry night. So,—cover me.

[Dies.

THE FALCON.

SCENE I.

—Outside of a Cottage. Sunset.
Frederigo
(alone).
Oh! Poverty, and have I learnt at last
Thy bitter lesson? Thou forbidding power
That hast such sway upon this thriving earth,
Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter;
What have I done that thou should'st smite me thus?
An open hand had I in happier times,
And when the feathered Fortune bore me high,
I scattered gifts below.
. . . . . . 'Tis the set of Sun!
How like a hero who hath run his course
In glory doth he die! His parting look
(Too beautiful for death) lights up the west
With crimson, and deep dyes the wandering clouds
With every tint that makes the rainbow fair.
Bright King! not unattended dost thou leave
The world that loved thee: Earth, and all her crowds,
Which late were joyous, pay dumb homage now;
Unutterable stillness, golden calm,
The winds and waves unmoving.
Sometimes one lonely note is heard, which marks
And makes more rich the silence; nothing more!
Thus, in great cities, the cathedral clock
Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay
Time for a moment, while it warns the world
(Sweet sound to those who wake, or watch till morn,)
“Now goes the midnight.” Then I love to walk
And hear that hoarse slow-fading clang grow sweet,
As upwards to the stars and mighty moon
It bears calm tidings from this dreaming globe.
Ah! why may not the poor man ever dream!
A step? who's there? A lady? O, Giana!

Giana and her Maid enter.
GIANA.
You have cause to be surprised, sir.

FREDERIGO.
No, dear lady;
Honoured I own, that my poor dwelling should
Receive so fair a guest.

GIANA.
You have forgotten
The past times then?

FREDERIGO.
No, no; those sweet times live,
Flowers in my faithful memory, kept apart
For holier hours, and sheltered from the gaze
Of rude uncivil strangers; they are now
My only comfort; so lest they should fade
I use 'em gently, very gently, madam,
And water 'em all with tears.

GIANA.
Your poverty
Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo.

FREDERIGO.
Pardon me, madam: 'twas not well, indeed,
To meet such a guest with sorrow: you were born
For happiness.

GIANA.
Alas! I fear not so.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! yes, yes: and you well become it; well.
May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours
Weigh on so light a heart.

GIANA.
You well reprove me;
Light and unfeeling.

FREDERIGO.
Yet I meant not so.
Giana! let me sink beneath your scorn
If ever I reproach you: what am I,
Outcast from Fortune, all my father's gifts
Lavished and lost by folly—

GIANA.
'Twas for me.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! no, no: I had many faults
Whose burthen rests with me: then what am I,
That I should dare reproach you? As I am,
Know me your truest servant; only that;
And bound to live and die for you.

GIANA.
No more.
Let us enjoy the present.

MAID.
My lady, sir,
Is come to feast with you.

GIANA.
'Tis even so.

FREDERIGO.
I am too honoured: Can you then put up
With my (so poor a) welcoming? If the heart
Could spend its wealth in entertainment, I
Would feast you like a queen: but, as it is,
You will interpret kindly?

GIANA.
Oh! I know
I come to a scholar's table. Now we'll go,
And rest us in your orchard for a while.
The evening breezes will be pleasant there:
For a short time, farewell.

FREDERIGO.
Farewell, dear madam:
I hope you'll find there some—ah! 'ware the step.

GIANA.
'Tis but an awkward entrance, sir, indeed.

FREDERIGO.
You'll find some books in the arbour, where you rest.
They are books of poetry. If I remember,
You loved such stories once, thinking they brought
Man to a true and fine humanity.

GIANA.
You've a good memory, signior. That must be—
Stay, let me count: ay, some six years ago.

FREDERIGO.
About the time.

GIANA.
You were thought heir, I think,
Then, to the Count Filippo: you displeased him:
How was't?

FREDERIGO.
Oh! some mere trifle: I forget.

GIANA.
Nay, tell me; for some said you were ungrateful.

FREDERIGO.
I could not marry to his wish.

GIANA.
Was it so?

FREDERIGO.
Thus simply: nothing more, believe it.

GIANA.
I did not know it. Not marry to his wish!

[Exit.
FREDERIGO.
Enter Bianca.

BIANCA.
On what, sir? There
Is scarce a morsel: fruit perhaps—

FREDERIGO.
Then I
Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air.

BIANCA.
Impossible. Old Mars, you know,
Frights every bird away.

FREDERIGO.
Ah! villain, he
Shall die for't; bring him hither.

BIANCA.
Sir? What can you mean?
Our falcon?

FREDERIGO.
Ay, that murderous kite. How oft
Hath he slain innocent birds: now he shall die.
'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital;
And he for once shall do me service. Quick!
I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen.
Worthily.

BIANCA.
He is here, sir.

FREDERIGO.
Where? vile bird!
There—I'll not look at him.

BIANCA.
Alas! he's dead:
Look, look! ah! how he shivers.

FREDERIGO.
Fool! Begone!
Fool! am not I a fool—a selfish slave?
I am, I am. One look: ah! there he lies.
By Heav'n, he looks reproachingly; and yet
I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence!
Bianca exit.
Mars! my brave bird, and have I killed thee, then,
Who was the truest servant—loved me so,
When all the world had left me? Never more
Shall thou and I in mimic battle play,
Nor thou pretend to die, (to die, alas!)
And with thy quaint and grave-eyed tricks delight
Thy master in his solitude. No more,
No more, old Mars! (thou wast the god of birds,)
Shalt thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing,
And hunt the air for plunder: thou could'st ride
(None better) on the fierce wild mountain winds
When birds of lesser courage drooped. I've seen
Thee scare the plundering eagle on his way,
(For all the wild tribes of these circling woods
Knew thee and shunned thy course,) and thro' the air
Float like a hovering tempest, feared by all.
Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down,
For me, thy cruel master: ay, and stop
All wanderers of the middle air, for me
Who killed thee—murdered thee, poor bird; for thou
Wast worthy of humanity, and I
Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done
A crime against my race.

SCENE II.

—A Room.
Frederigo. Giana.
GIANA.
You think it strange that I should visit you?

FREDERIGO.
No, madam, no.

GIANA.
You must: ev'n I myself
Must own the visit strange: it is most strange.

FREDERIGO.
I am most grateful for it.

GIANA.
Hear me, first.
What think you brought me hither? I've a suit
That presses, and I look to you to grant it.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis but to name it, for you may command
My life, my service. Oh! but you know this:
You injure when you doubt.

GIANA.
I do not doubt.
Now for my errand: Gentle signior, listen:
I have a child; no mother ever loved
A son so much: but that you know him, I
Would say how delicate he was, how good.
But oh! I need not tell his sweet ways to you:
You know them, signior, and your heart would grieve,
(I feel't,) if you should see the poor child die;
And now he's pale and ill. If you could hear
How he asks after you, and says he loves you
Next to his mother.

FREDERIGO.
Madam, stay your tears.
Can I do aught to soothe your pretty boy?
I love him as my own.

GIANA.
Sir?

FREDERIGO.
I forget.
And yet I love him, lady: am I too bold?

GIANA.
Oh, no. I thank you for your love.

FREDERIGO.
Giana!

GIANA.
To my poor child: he pines and wastes away.
One thing alone in all the world he sighs for;
And that—I cannot name it.

FREDERIGO.
Is it mine?

GIANA.
It is, it is: I shame to ask't.

FREDERIGO.
'Tis yours;
Were it my life. What have I, and not yours?

GIANA.
It is—the falcon.
Ah, pardon me: I see how you love the bird.

FREDERIGO.
I loved him,—yes.

GIANA.
I feel my folly, sir.
You shall not part with your poor faithful bird:
I had no right (I least of all) to ask it.
I will not rob you, sir.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! that you could!
Poor Mars! Your child, madam, will grieve to hear
His poor old friend is dead.

GIANA.
Impossible.
I met him as I entered.

FREDERIGO.
He is dead.

GIANA.
Nay, this is not like you. Why not refuse?
I do not need excuses.

FREDERIGO.
Gracious lady,
Believe me not so poor: the bird is dead.
Listen: you came to visit me—to feast:
It was my barest hour of poverty:
I had not one poor coin to purchase food.
Could I for shame confess this to you?—you?
I saw the descending beauty whom I loved
Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign
To smile on one whom all the world forgot.
Once I had been her lover, (how sincere
Let me not say:) my name was high and princely:
My nature had not fallen. Could I stoop
And say how low and abject was my fortune?
And send you fasting home? Your servant there
Would have scorned me. Lady, even then I swore
That I would feast you daintily:—I did.
My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish
Which Juno might have tasted.

GIANA.
What is this?
We feasted on your noble bird? Good bird!

FREDERIGO.
He has redeemed my credit.

GIANA
(after a pause).
You have done
A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er
Forget it, may I not know happiness.
Signior, you have a noble delicate mind,
A heart such as in hours of pain or peril
Methinks I could repose on.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! Giana!

GIANA.
I have a child who loves you. For his mother
You've wrought a way into her inmost heart.
Can she requite you?

FREDERIGO.
How! what mean you?—Madam!
Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise
My wretched heart so high; too high: do not—
'Twill break on falling.

GIANA.
But it shall not fall,
If I can prop it, or my hand repay
Your many gifts, your long fidelity.
I come, Frederigo, not as young girls do,
To blush and prettily affect to doubt
The heart I know to be my own. I feel
That you have loved me well. Forgive me, now,
That circumstance (which some day I'll make known)
Kept me aloof. My nature is not hard,
Altho' it seemed thus to you.

FREDERIGO.
What can I say?

GIANA.
Nothing. I read your heart.

FREDERIGO.
It bursts, my love: but 'tis with joy, with joy.
Giana! my Giana! are you mine?
Speak, lest I fear I dream. We—we will have
Nothing but halcyon days. Oh! we will live
As happily as the bees that hive their sweets,
As gaily as the summer fly, but wiser:
I'll be thy servant ever. I will be
The sun o' thy life, faithful through every season,
And thou shalt be my flower perennial,
My bud of beauty, my imperial rose,
My passion-flower, and I will wear thee here,
Here, on my heart, and thou shalt never fade.
I'll love thee mightily, my queen, and in
The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest
With music sweeter than the wild wind's song:
And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars,
Thyself beyond the nymphs who, poets feigned,
Dwelt long ago in woods of Arcady.
My gentle deity! I'll crown thee with
The whitest lilies, and then bow me down
Love's own idolater, and worship thee.
And thou wilt then be mine, my beautiful?
How fondly will we love through life together;
And wander, heart-linked, thro' the busy world
Like birds in eastern story.

GIANA.
Oh! you rave.

FREDERIGO.
I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever;
At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night.
We will have clocks that with their silver chime
Shall measure out the moments: and I'll mark
The time, and keep love's endless calendar.
To-day I'll note a smile: to-morrow how
Your bright eyes spoke—how saucily; and then
Record a kiss plucked from your currant lip,
And say how long 'twas taking: then, thy voice,
As rich as stringèd harp swept by the winds
In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls
On serenader's moonlit instrument—
Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be
My household goddess; nay smile not, nor shake
Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous:
I swear it shall be so: it shall, my love.

GIANA.
Why, now thou'rt mad indeed: mad.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not so.
There was a tender sculptor once who loved
And worshipped the white marble which he shaped,
Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen,
Or some such fine kind-hearted deity,
Touched the pale stone with life, and it became
Pygmalion's bride: but thee—on whom
Nature had lavished all her wealth before,
Now love has touched with beauty: doubly fit
For human worship thou, thou—let me pause;
My breath is gone.

GIANA.
With talking!

FREDERIGO.
With delight.
But I may worship thee in silence, still.

GIANA.
The night is come; and I must go; farewell!
Until to-morrow.

FREDERIGO.
Oh! not yet, not yet.
Behold! the moon is up, the bright-eyed moon,
And sheds her soft delicious light on us,
True lovers re-united. Why she smiles,
And bids you tarry: will you disobey
The Lady of the Sky?

GIANA.
Nay, I must go.

FREDERIGO.
Then we will go together.

GIANA.
Not to-night.
My servants wait my coming; not far off.

FREDERIGO.
A few more words, and then I'll part with thee,
For one long night: to-morrow bid me come,
(Thou hast already with thine eyes,) and bring
My load of love and lay it at thy feet.
—Oh! ever while those floating orbs are bright
Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light.
Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower
Did watch the stars, and then assert their power
Throughout the world: so, dear Giana, I
Will vindicate my own idolatry:
And in the beauty and the spell that lies
In the sweet meanings of thy love-lit eyes;
In thy neck's purple veins, which downward glide,
Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide;
In thy clear open forehead; in thy hair
Heaped in rich tresses on thy shoulders fair;
In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense;
In thy most soft and winning eloquence;
In woman's gentleness and love, (now bent
On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument.

THE LAST SONG.

[_]

—The following Song was published in the same year as the foregoing Scene of “The Falcon.”

2. Part the Second.

PANDEMONIUM.

SCENE— Pandemonium. A vast Hall, dimly lighted, is seen; in the distance a river of fire. A throne and seats around are vacant. A band of Spirits is heard in the air.
CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
Spirits! Angels! Cherubim!
Kings, and Stars, and Seraphim!
Armies, and battalions,—driven
Headlong from the azure Heaven,
By the keen and blasting light,
And the racking thunder-blight,
And the terror of The Ban,
Come! unto our great Divan!
[Hosts of Spirits descend and rise from different quarters. Moloch descends suddenly and takes his station. Chorus resumes.
Come! He comes; the crimson king,
On his broad wide-wandering wing;
As a comet, fierce and bright,
Rushes through a moonless night.
[Belial descends swiftly upon his throne.
He is come, the angel brother,
Fairer, and yet like the other,
As the thought is like the deed;
Swift, but with unerring speed.
[Abaddon descends.
And a third, (amongst a choir
Of thunders) the sublime Destroyer!
Who from blood did take his birth,
And built his fame upon the earth,
Higher than the victor's glory,
Death-propped and made false in story.

[Mammon descends slowly.
SPIRITS.
Who is this,—a flaming error,
Without speed or sign of terror,
Covered by his golden robe?

CHORUS.
[A host of Spirits is heard rushing forwards.
[The light increases: large flowers are seen springing up.

SPIRITS.
[The approach of Satan is seen afar off.
[He is distinguished nearer.
[Satan descends upon his throne, which expands.

GENERAL CHORUS OF SPIRITS.
Hail, all hail!—Thy brethren bowed
Welcome thee from flame and cloud;
Spirits of the wind and thunder,
(Who have lain in sullen wonder
Ever since the great Dismay,)
Stand up again in strong array;
Eagle spirits who face the Sun;
Gods, whose glittering deeds are done
On the crumbling edge of ruin,
When the muttering Storm is wooing
(With love-threats upon his lips)
Earthquake, and the coy eclipse.
Hail! Hail! Hail!—We bring
Great welcome to our exile king!

SATAN.
Spirits, for this large welcome thanks as large!
Hail all!—Since last we met I have been wandering,
Through stars and worlds, to the barred doors of Heaven;
And thence have sailed round the huge globes which lie
Lazily rolling in the twilight air,
And done ye service. On one (a belted world)
I alit, and faced great statures like ourselves;
On one a race of madmen; on another
Women to whom the planets came down at night.
All shapes I looked on; souls of every tinge,
From black ambition down to pallid hope.
Some worshipped the white moon, and some the sun,
Some stars, some darkness, and a host—themselves!
Some bowed before Abaddon's glory: some
Called on our Moloch here, and drank hot blood:
Others to princely Mammon knelt, and watched
His golden likeness; while our Belial (shaped
Like Venus or libidinous Bacchus) reigned
Omnipotent as Death. Even myself a few
Did not disdain.
Spirits! I have sown fear
Deep in bold hearts, and discord amidst calm;
Sharp hate I planted in the soil of love,
And jealousy, that bitter weed which springs
Even in the sky. Pride and revenge I gave
To worms, which else had crawled, whereat they reared
Their curling necks on mountain-tops, and threw
Scorn and rebellious thoughts tow'rd Heaven itself.

ALL.
Hail! Hail!

SATAN.
Since then I have flown across the perilous deep,
Haunted by pain: the crash of rocks uptorn
Sang by me, and the loud mad hurricanes
Roared through the ether, and hot lightnings sought me,
And bellowing in my track the Thunder ran.

MOLOCH.
Still thou art here, unhurt?

SATAN.
Still I am here,
Undaunted and untouched. Now speak, Abaddon!
What hast thou wrought on earth these hundred years?

ABADDON.
That sphere, thou know'st, was Moloch's. When he drove
His red battalions from earth's air, I chained
Outrageous Famine in her den, and fed
The blue Plague till it panted into sleep;
Then to the Earthquake gave a populous town,
And rested from my toil: yet,—to pass time,
I plucked a Seville doctor from his chair,
And, clothed in his lusty likeness, taught through Spain
Averroes and Galen. I talked boldly,
Concocted poisons, and foretold eclipse,
And wed inseparably mind to dust:
So I'd a host of sceptics. What didst thou?

[To Mammon.
MAMMON.
Hearing of a rich Cardinal about to die,
I lay me down beside the Vatican;
And, when I saw his soul escape in smoke
Over Saint Peter's, I uncased my spirit,
And stole into the scarlet churchman's heart.
His corpse was quite oppressed, so many mourned!
Sighs that would ships unanchor, groans which shook
The Palatine and its myrtles, heaved the room:
To stay which storm I rose. You should have seen
The petticoat-mourners! Two sad sons o' the Pope
Cried ‘Curse!’ and dried their grief: the rest all fled.
How well I did with all his stolen wealth,
Becomes not me to mention.

BELIAL.
I have drunk deep
Amongst the Mussulmans; have unveiled looks
In cloisters that made monks forget their beads;
Blown lax siroccos on firm honesty;
And fired with amorous dreams the virgin's sleep.

SATAN.
What says our gravest brother?

BEELZEBUB.
I sate beside
A thronèd king, and was his counsellor:
And we knit laws together, such as bind
Strong hearts unto our side, and some which chained
The panther people, as the witch-moon binds
In terror or mute dreams the raging sea.
Sometimes these links fell shattered; but we glued
The fragments with hot blood, and all grew firm.
At last, that million-headed beast, whose frown
Doth scare even thrones, the riotous rebel Mob
Rose up, and trod my master-king to dust.
I left his fragments on the city gates,
And flew to join ye.

SATAN.
The same burthen still.

MAMMON.
This picture hath two sides; and one is bright.
Wilt thou hear all?—Our gold forgets its power:
It glitters still, looks rich, and smiles; and yet,
Like a false friend, it fails.

ABADDON.
Men multiply
Like worms; but though the strong still slay the weak,
Yet 'tis not much. Some rascal qualities,
Pity, Remorse, and Fear, usurp men's souls.

MOLOCH.
Away! away!

BELIAL.
The church, which late we thought
Grew up too lofty with its load of clay
And toppled to its ruin, now revives.

SATAN.
Ah, Moloch! did I not confide to thee
That dusty planet?

MOLOCH.
I have done my best:
Nay, have done well, too. For a hundred years
The wretches have been fighting, men and boys,
Slandering, thieving, lying, cutting throats,
And drowned their passions in a crimson rain.
Fierce Ignorance in college and church has sate
Throned, and (from fear) respected. Knaves have thriven:
Fools have sprung up and prospered: Truth has perished.
A few poor gaunt-eyed scholars, lean and pale,
Have starved themselves in caves, or preached to air
'Bout matters beyond my capacity.

BELIAL.
'Tis that, good Moloch, which has wrought this ill.

SATAN.
These imps, though small, are cunning. Thy plain virtue
Is no match for their tricks. Our Belial here
Shall waste his leisure there a hundred years.
Wilt thou have comrades?

BELIAL.
One. Our friend here (Mordax)
Will give me his aid perhaps, unless he owns
Some better engagement for the time. Wilt go?

SATAN.
Speak, spirit! Wilt thou follow our great brother?
Mark! if thou dost, though here thou'rt free as wind,
Thou must obey.

MORDAX.
I will obey the prince.

SATAN.
'Tis right.— (To Belial.)
He shall have license and large gifts,
And take what shapes he likes and stretch of power.
Hast thou matured thy plan? Dost thou affect
Any particular quarter of the globe?

BELIAL.
No, so it be but warm; somewhere i' the South.

MORDAX.
If I may speak—

SATAN.
Speak out!

MORDAX.
As there are some
Who in the race of thought outstrip the rest,
And pluck the fruit alone, would't not be well
To make one great example? There is a fellow,
Who, as 'tis boasted, scares the swerving stars,
Hoodwinks the moon, and earthquake and eclipse
Commands by strength of prayer; and he can tame
The tempest, and vast seas, though raging mad.
He untwists dreams: Time he outstrips; and looks
Right through the future. Thus men boast. In fact,
He can read our black language.

SATAN.
How! Who is't?

MORDAX.
A Count of Ortiz, Fernan de Marillo.

SATAN.
He is descended from a meddling stock.
One of his fathers I struck dead with blight
At Cordova. He fain would read our acts,
And learn the qualities of death and fire.
Hie thee to Spain, then, Mordax! Fly, my brother!
There's much to do on earth if this be true.

BELIAL.
'Tis truth, indeed. I have some good friends there,
Inquisitors, and nobles, and cowled monks,
Who, with the common herd, will give us help.

SATAN.
And now, good brother! we will say farewell.
When thou art gone, we will proceed in council.

BELIAL.
Farewell! I'll bring some histories for your ear,
At our next meeting. Long farewell to all!

[Belial and Mordax ascend, and are gradually lost in the distance.
CHORUS.
[Darkness covers the assembly at the conclusion of the Chorus.

THE TEMPTATION.

SCENE I.

—A Street in Murcia.
The Count of Ortiz and Mordax enter, as from a Tavern.
COUNT
(singing).
Wine! wine!
The child of the grape is mine.
We'll nurse it again and again,
Until it array the brain
With wit, or until it expire
In hot desire,
And then we'll drink again, &c.

MORDAX.
Count!

COUNT.
I am well, quite well: the air blows fresh.

MORDAX.
If ever you should go to Lapland (mark!
To Lapland, where lean witches sweep the moon),
I'll lend you a broom to ride on.

COUNT.
Ha, ha!—well?

MORDAX.
I will, by Sathan! You shall be equipped
With expedition for a northern journey.
But speak,—and ere the morning stars look pale
We'll breathe above the Baltic.

COUNT.
Ha, ha, ha!

MORDAX.
I'll take thee there upon a goat's back flying:
Look! amongst all those lights. Dost see'em twinkling?

COUNT.
Away! I could not do an impious deed
Before the eternal splendour of the stars!

MORDAX.
Ho, ho, ho, ho! Now 'tis my turn to laugh.
By Momus, you jest well. Didst ever hear
Of Agaberta, that most famous witch?

COUNT.
No.

MORDAX.
Thou shalt see her. She shall give thee philtres,
So thou mayst change to air, or walk in fire.

COUNT.
Peace, peace! no more. The place seems full of frenzy.
Millions of sparks go dancing through the air:
My brain grows sick and dizzy. How is this?
An armèd phantom seems to gaze upon us!

MORDAX.
That is my master.

COUNT.
What, you piece of cloud?

MORDAX.
Ay, sir, you lofty gentleman. Folks say
He was a gambler once, and dared a stake
Such as before or since was never won.
He lost, indeed—

COUNT.
'Tis gone!

MORDAX.
He came to show
How tenderly he watches over us.
Hark! there are footsteps coming: This way, sir.
They must not track us. Hush!

COUNT.
How the wind wails!

[Exeunt.
Don Ferrand and Inez enter.
DON FERRAND.
Look! where they go, well mated, (rake and knave),
The tavern brawler, and his crookèd friend!

INEZ.
Uncle,—beware!

DON FERRAND.
If the fierce devil still
Sends out his brood to blacken this fair world,
That slave is one; he with the dusk brute visage,
And shuffling gait, and glittering scorching eyes.

INEZ.
But Manuel, sir, has nought in common with him.
The Count of Ortiz, be whoe'er his mates,
Owns something still, methinks, which asks respect.

DON FERRAND.
So! so! You love him still? You, Melchior's daughter,
With half a kingdom for your dowry. Good!

INEZ.
I love him?—Well, I love him. What must follow?

DON FERRAND.
Nothing; all's said: The worst extremity
Of baseness and enduring grief is touched.

INEZ.
Speak gently, sir; and speak more nobly too,
Of one who (though now fall'n) was good and wise:
Valiant he is, sir, and a peer of Spain;
And on his brow wears his nobility!
Why do you scorn him, sir? He ever spoke
Kindly of you: and when my father's fame
And tottering greatness asked for some strong help,
He pledged his honor for his truth, and saved him.

DON FERRAND.
That story wants but truth. If time be given—

INEZ.
If time be given, he'll force the world give back
Its bright opinion, sir, and show him honour.
Oh! then (if he return, and stand redeemed
From his wild youth and be—what he may be)
Soon shall the poor maid cast her mask of pride,
And look, once more, love upon Manuel!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—An underground Cemetery.
The Count and Mordax are dimly scen descending a broad flight of steps in the distance.
MORDAX
(entering).
Adieu, Sir Phosphor! For thy light, take thanks!
We've barred the world out bravely, noble count!

COUNT.
Where are we? What! is this the road? 'tis dark.

MORDAX.
Ay; but as fire is struck from out cold stone,
We'll pluck bright wonders from this world of night.
One of earth's wisest sons, 'tis said, taught men
That they should seek her subtle secrets, not
In their near likeness, but in opposite shapes.

COUNT.
Ho, speak! Who goes? I thought—but no; 'twas nothing.

MORDAX.
'Tis nought. Look up! This is a cemetery.
Take care, else you may stumble on a king.
Holla! Methought I trod on a fool's skull.
This is a learned spot; perhaps a bed
Of full blown doctors:—they are harmless now!

COUNT.
You are a nice observer.

MORDAX.
Oh! I am used
To choose 'tween knave and fool. Dost thou not see,
There,—a pale stream of light, run to and fro,
Threading the darkness?—'tis a madman's wits.

COUNT.
Where are we? Let us go. The air is close:
And noises as of falling waters, mixed
With strange laments and hummings of fierce insects,
Take my ears captive.

MORDAX.
O fine harmony!
'Faith, they have dexterous fiddlers here. Who blows
The trumpet honeysuckle in my ear?
Speak out, Sir Gnome. Hush! hark! That gentleman
Who beats the drum must be a cricket?

COUNT.
'Tis one.

MORDAX.
Right, or a death-watch. Now, sir, what's the matter?

COUNT.
I felt a clammy touch, as cold as death,
Flap on my cheek, and something breathed on me
An earthy odour—faugh! as though the tongue
O'er which 't had passed had fed on worms and dust.
Again,—who goes? Dost thou not hear a trampling?

MORDAX.
Be calm: 'tis but some people from the moon,
Or the star Venus, or from Mercury,
Madmen, or rakes; or monks,—fellows who feed
On air, and rail against our homely dishes.
A plague upon the spiritual rogues,
They always abuse their betters!

COUNT.
Hush,—sweet music!
The air is vital: every pore seems stung
Until it whispers with a thousand tongues!

Voices are heard; faintly at first, but becoming gradually more distinct.
SPIRITS
(below).
Come away! come away!

SPIRITS
(above).
Whither? whither?

SPIRITS
(below).

SPIRITS
(above).
We come; we are coming; but whither?

SPIRITS
(below).
Come hither, come hither, come hither!

CHORUS.
Hark! hark! hark! hark!
A power is peopling all the dark
With wonder; life, and death, and terror;
And dreams which fill the brain with error.
The elves are coming in glittering streams,
Loaded with light from the moon beams;
And the gnomes are behind in a dusky legion,
Hurrying all to their earthen fare:

A VOICE.
Stand, and gaze! for now ye are
In the midst of a magic region!

MORDAX.
Dost hear, Count? Look about! What see you, sir?

COUNT.
I see a vault,—spectral,—immeasurable,
Save that at times its gaunt and stony ribs
Bulge through the darkness and betray its bounds:
And now come countless crowds (millions on millions),
Whirling like glittering fire-flies round about us.
By hell, the things seem human! Let me pass.

MORDAX.
Stay, stay, sir: use more patience: you'll dislodge
These piles of coffins. Kings and counts lie here, sir,
Shouldering each other from their places still.
The villanous lifeless lump of clay—

COUNT.
What's that?
Methought I heard the arches crack:—Look, Look!
The pillars are alive! Each one turns round,
And scowls, as though the weight crushed in his brain!
Dead faces leer upon me; figures chatter;
And from the darkest depths watch horrid eyes!
Let me come near thee.

MORDAX.
Rest here.

COUNT.
Ha! I feel
As though I leant against an iron shape.
Thy sinews (and thy heart?) are firmly knit.

MORDAX.
Never did nerve or muscle yet give way,
From fear, or pity, or remorse, or love!
Never did yet the bounding blood go back
Into its springs, or leave my dusk cheek pale.
But, I'll not boast at present. Some dull day
I'll tell you all I've done,—since Cain went mad.
Meantime, let's see what comes. How fare you now?

COUNT.
I feel more firm since I did lean on thee.
But, hark! the ground labours with some strange birth.
What volumes of dark smoke it sends abroad!
Blow off the cloud!
[Mordax blows, and a Mirror is seen.
What's here? Methinks I see
A mighty glass, set in an ebon frame.

MORDAX.
Right, sir; true Madagascar; black as hate.
Now then we'll show you what our art can do:
Wilt have a ghost from Lapland or Japan?
Speak! for 'twill cost a minute, and some rhyme.

COUNT.
You're pleasant?

MORDAX.
Sir, they'll not obey plain prose.
Whate'er my friends, the utilitarians, preach,
Verse has its use, you see: but listen, senor.
—Come!
Without torch, or trump, or drum,
Every fine audacious spirit
Who doth vice or spite inherit!
By His name, long-worshipped 'round
All the red realms underground,
I bid and bind ye to my spell!
By the sinner who doth dwell
In the temple, like a saint!
By the unbeliever's taint!
By the human beasts who riot
O'er their brothers graved in quiet!

COUNT.
You have a choice collection of quaint phrases.

MORDAX.
I picked 'em up, as men of reputation
Steal musty phrases from forgotten books.
But how's this? 'Wake, dust o' the earth! Are ye deaf?
Mischievous? mad? or spelled? or bound in brass?
Away! a million of you tumbling imps
That jump about here! Hence, and drag before us
A squadron of sea-buried bones. Begone!
Ravage the deep, and let us see your backs
Crack with a ship load from the ooze. Oh, ho!
Dost thou not hear him?

COUNT.
A strange noise I hear.

MORDAX.
It is the Atlantic stirring in his depths.
Dost hear his spouting floods? Hark! Banks and cliffs
Are broken, and the boiling billows run
Over the land and lay the sea-depths bare!
Now shall the lean ghosts laugh and shake their sides,
Cramped by the waves no more!

COUNT.
How the winds blow!

A Throng of Shadows rush in.
SHADOWS.
We come: we have burst the chain
Of slumber, and death, and pain.
The ice bolts could not bind us,
Though they shot through our shrunken forms;
And we left the swift light behind us,
The wrack and the howling storms.

A Group of Spirits descend.
FIRST SPIRIT.
I have trod the frozen mountains.

SECOND SPIRIT.
I have winged the burning air.

THIRD SPIRIT.
I have left the boiling fountains,
Which, like flowers rich and rare,
Spread their leaves of crystal high,
In the lonely polar sky!

A Crowd of Indian Spirits are driven in.
INDIAN SPIRITS.
We are come: we came in legions
From the flat and dusky regions,
Where a wooden God they own.
We have perished bone by bone,
Crushed beneath the giant's car,
While our mothers shouted far,
Over jungle, over plain,
And drowned the discord of our pain!

MORDAX.
You see, sir, you may choose your company.

COUNT.
No more of this; which may be false,—or true.
[Spirits fade away.
Let me see one I know to be now dead.

MORDAX.
Dost see this tawdry coffin? It is now
A prelate's palace,—Bishop Nunez' see.
The poor at last can come quite near this saint:
Nay, 'round him, now the worms are met in council:
Cossus and Lumbricus are chosen presidents;
The one because he is a judge of learning,
And t'other has taste in flesh. Wilt see your friend?

COUNT.
No, let him rest: poor Nunez! What lies here
Beneath this heap of rough and rotting boards?
A felon's body! Well, what shall be done?

MORDAX.
Kick it, as you would spurn an enemy!

[Count touches it with his foot: the boards crumble away and a body is seen.
COUNT.
Ha! Sanchez! Thou false friend! Rise up, ye rocks,
Pillars, and floors of stone! Rise up and crush
The villain downwards! Hell hath let him 'scape.

MORDAX.
This rogue looks paler than his shirt.

COUNT.
Look there!
The name of Sathan is not on his brow.

MORDAX
(looking).
N—o: there's no name.

COUNT.
And yet, in his black heart,
The devil lived, and swayed him like a slave,
And laughed, and lied, and with a glozing tongue
Cheated the world of love.

MORDAX.
What, this poor worm?
What, he with his throat cut from ear to ear?
Ha! ha! O mighty man!

COUNT.
He slew my sister,
So good, so fair, so young!

MORDAX.
I warrant you
The gallant's sorry enough now. Begone! [The figure sinks.
But how's this? you look pale, sir. Lean on me:
I'll be the reed, at least, if not the rock.
But, hush! strange music, like a swarm of bees,
Seems oozing from the ground!

VOICES
from below.
Hush! there is a creature forming:
Earth is into beauty warming;
Between dust, and death, and life,
There is now a crimson strife:
Between fire and frozen clay,
Water, ether, darkness, day,
There is now a magic motion,
Like the slumber of the ocean
Heaving in the sullen dawn!
Is the cloud withdrawn?

A VOICE.
'Tis withdrawn!
Friends and foes are met together,
Like a day of April weather,
Beauty hand in hand with death;
What is wanting?—only breath!

The Shadow of the Body of a Girl rises.
COUNT.
Speak, ere I look. What comes?

MORDAX.
A sleeping girl.
Yet—round her white throat winds a dark red line:
What can it mean?

COUNT
(looking up).
Ha! 'tis herself, dead, dead!
Poor girl, poor girl, too early lost! Was Fate
(Who gives to all the wretched store of years)
A niggard but to thee?

MORDAX.
Now, let her pass.

COUNT.
Yet one look; for methinks it is (though pale)
A pretty picture. When stern tyrants perish,
False slaves, or lustful men, we look and loathe
The ghastly bulks; but Beauty, pale and cold,
(Albeit washed never in Cimolian earth),
Like the crushed rose which will not lose its sweets,
Commands us after death. She sleeps, she sleeps!
Have you no power to wake her from her sleep?
To give the old sad accents to her tongue?

MORDAX.
'Tis past my power.

COUNT.
I'll give thee—

MORDAX.
Noble Count,
Dost think I'm bought with gold?

COUNT.
I'll worship thee—

MORDAX.
Umph! that sounds better. Yet,
I cannot do't; or must not. Wouldst thou have
The dead turn traitors and betray the grave?

COUNT.
Didst thou not swear that I should look through time?
See joy and sorrow? wherefore drag me here?

MORDAX.
Sir, you shall see the future, if you will.
But, patience! This fair thing must vanish first;
And then we'll try your fortune. Say farewell!

COUNT.
(Dirge, during which the Body sinks.)

COUNT.
Now let us look on that which is to be.

MORDAX.
My glass is there: yet, ere you gaze, think well.
The future—

COUNT.
Bid it come, as terrible
As tempest or the plague, I'll look upon't,
And dare it to an answer. Methinks I feel
Swollen with courage or some grand despair,
That lifts me above fortune. Quick! unveil
Your dusky mirror, you, lords of the mansion!

MORDAX.
Base goblins, quick! Unveil your lying glass,
And let my lord look in. Now, noble Count,
What see you?

[Shadows appear on the mirror.
COUNT.
Ha!

MORDAX.
Two figures, like ourselves!
We're linked together, Count?

COUNT.
True; but thy shadow
Wears a strange cunning look and quivering eye,
And the face changes—Ha! from young to old,
From fair to dark—from calm to smiles—to mirth!
From mirth, look! into—Ha! Diabolus?

[Turns round quickly.
MORDAX.
What is't?

COUNT.
'Tis gone!
Methought thou didst assume a fearful visage.
Let me look on thee, nearer: no, thou'rt fair,
As fair as truth.

MORDAX.
No fairer?

COUNT.
Wouldst thou be
Whiter than truth?

MORDAX.
Why,—no: in fact, my notion
Is that she wears a much too cold complexion.
Now, sir, I like the olive,—or the black.
Then, she was naked, too, or poets lie:
Give me some covering, though't be but a mask.

COUNT.
That was a fearful face I saw!

MORDAX.
Forget it.
Let us consult the mirror once again.

[Other Shadows appear.
COUNT.
Heaven! 'tis herself, my love, my dear, dear Inez!
She will be mine. After Love's fears and pains,
The god sits crowned with roses! What are they?

MORDAX.
Your children.

COUNT.
Both?—How fair! no lily fairer.
See, with what matron smiles the mother bends,
Kissing their veinèd temples with her lips!
Mine? mine? all mine? O, Fate, why did I swear
Hate everlasting to thee? I abjure
My rashness at thy feet.

MORDAX.
Had you not better
Dip once again in the dark lottery?
Perhaps this spring may change. But see, what comes?

[The Shadows alter.
COUNT.
A thin shape comes: 'tis like myself; so like,
That, but 'tis younger and more spare and pale,
I'd say—'twas I.

MORDAX.
This phantom never lived.

COUNT.
I'll call it. Thou—!

MORDAX.
Be still! You must not talk
To that which ne'er was flesh. Unto my ears
Confide your transports: We may talk together;
Though not to them. These pigmies are as proud
As a rich tradesman, or a new-made lord.

COUNT.
Who is the vision? Speak!

MORDAX.
It is—your son.

COUNT.
Forbid it, Heaven! Sickness or want hath struck
This pale thin boy with death. Must he then bear
Youth without blossom? without age, decay?
After all childhood's ills and pains endured,
(Before life's sweets are blown) 'tis hard to die.
Let him not perish!

MORDAX.
Do you pray to me?

COUNT.
I had forgot: methought the thing was real.
But, see, he comes alone!. Shew me the rest,
All the fair shapes, and she, the first and fairest,
Whose beauty crowns my dreams, whose heart is mine,
My own! Not all your juggling tricks can shake
My trust in her unmatched fidelity.

MORDAX.
I said not she was false: she is most true.

COUNT.
O, my fast friend!

MORDAX.
But beauty still is frail;
And what dishonour could not, Death has struck!

COUNT.
Ah!

MORDAX.
Stand up, Count! What, fall at the first word?
Why, this is but the future. (Aside.)
The weak fool!

COUNT.
O thou false friend! (He turns his back on me.)
Is there no hope, no way, no—?

MORDAX.
None; yes,—one!

COUNT.
Quick, quick!

MORDAX.
You need but change your livery, Count.
You've served one thankless king in camps and councils,
Have got hard knocks, no rank, and little pay;
Have been dishonoured! What else need be said?
Push him aside, and choose a better master.

COUNT
(pauses).
Umph!—he must be a king.

MORDAX.
He is.

COUNT.
A great one.

MORDAX.
He is a king more vast and terrible
Than any one whose cannon shakes the world.
He hath huge hosts, wide realms, and such a power
As the strong tempest hath when it is wroth.
Fate cannot awe him: Death is sworn his slave.

COUNT.
What devil—

MORDAX.
Hu—sh! You've guessed well. Hark! his name—

[Whispers.
COUNT.
Avaunt! What art thou? Who art thou?

MORDAX.
Your friend!
[The figure of Mordax changes.
Your fellow, too, who'll save all those you love:
But, still, you must be prompt. Your vow runs thus—

COUNT.
I will not hear him. Ears, shut up your sense!

MORDAX.
Choose and be quick, Count; for you're in some peril.
The Inquisitors have scented out your path,
(They are brave bloodhounds), and will soon be here.

COUNT.
I care not.

MORDAX.
But they've racks, which change men's humours.
Then, for the things thou lovest, their graves are open:
Wilt save, or thrust them in?

COUNT.
Be dumb, thou tempter.
Turn your red eyeballs from me. O, 'tis fable,
Black, base, unfounded, false: what else? what else?
Yet, if it be,—and I can save them thus?

[A noise is heard at a distance.
MORDAX.
Hark! they are on thee.

COUNT.
Ha! is death so near?
No matter; let it come. I shake like fear!

MORDAX.
I still can save thee, thee and all thou lovest:
Quick, speak the word.

COUNT.
The word! what word? Speak on.

[Voices are heard without.
MORDAX.
They're at the door. Say thus: “I give my soul—”

COUNT.
Stay! stop! What shall be done? Now, life or death?
The grave for her,—or love? God help me! Ha!
I'm safe: 'twas a wild struggle; but I'm safe.
Fiend! I abjure thee, (falls down),
loathe thee.

OFFICER
(without).
Open the doors,
In the name of the most Holy Inquisition!

MORDAX.
Ha, ha! the holy rogues!— (whispering)
You still may choose,
Life, love, and wealth? or the rack and scaffold? Quick!

OFFICER
(without).
Burst through the doors!
[The doors are broken open, and Officers, &c., of the Inquisition enter.
Ho! seize upon him. Ha!
My lord of Ortiz? Sir, Count Melchior heard
You were beset by some fierce enemy,
And sent us here to save you. Raise him up!
Now, where's your foe? Seize on him!

A VOICE
laughs.
Ha, ha, ha!

OFFICER.
I hear a horrid voice, but nothing see.
Spread yourselves out, and search the vaults with care.
Haste, and let none escape.

COUNT
(faintly).
'Tis vain: he's gone!
Wherefore he came, or who he is, or was—

OFFICER.
We do not ask: Our master bade us say
He'd speak in private with you.

COUNT.
He is wise;
Wise, good, and gentle, as a great man should be.
Bring me before him: I will try to thank him.
I'd go, but cannot.

VOICE
laughs again.
Ha, ha!

OFFICER.
Lean on me.
Now let us haste: Methinks strange sin and horror
Tenant these lonely vaults: Perhaps they sit
Watching the couches of the wicked dead!
Come, let us go: to the Count's house, my lord?

COUNT.
Ay, strait, strait, strait: (Aside)
and strait to Inez' bosom;
Which was (and must once more be) my sweet home!

[Count, &c. exeunt.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

SCENE—The Study of Michael Angelo at Rome.
Michael Angelo and Pupils.
MICHAEL.
So, 'tis well done, Battista; ably drawn.
Do thus, and thou wilt need no marble fame.

FIRST PUPIL.
Look, Michael!

MICHAEL.
Ah! 'tis bad. These colors sleep
Like death upon thy figures: touch them thus.
This flesh is like a cardinal, red and dull:
Thought should lie pale upon the scholar's cheek;
Thus,—thus. And now, my young friend, Cosimo,
Give me thy sketch; nay do not fear me. So!
Why thou hast overwrought this shape, my child,
Cheating (fie on't!) air-travelling Ganymede
Of his boy-beauty. See, 'tis thus: that eye,
Lash't with dark fringe: touch the lip tenderly;
And hide his forehead all in cloudy gold.
See, let him lie thus; helpless; thus, my child;
And clasp the eagle's talon round his arm.
There, it is done. What think'st thou?

SECOND PUPIL.
Oh! 'tis brave,
'Tis brave. Thy eagle is the king of eagles,
As thou art king of painters.

MICHAEL.
Idle child!

SECOND PUPIL.
Shall I win fame?

MICHAEL.
Fame is a bounteous tree:
Upon its branches hang bubbles and gold.
Which wilt thou have?

SECOND PUPIL.
Both, Michael.

MICHAEL.
Art so greedy?
Thou'lt scarcely prosper. Wilt thou be the dog
Who grasped at flesh and shadow, and lost all?
Bring me that head of Faunus, Giacomo:
That—big as a giant, with the snaky locks,
And the wild eyes, and nostrils stretched and blown.
Ha! this is right.

THIRD PUPIL.
'Tis like a Titan, Michael.
None but thyself can master these great shapes.

MICHAEL.
Ha, ha!—There, give it me, good Giacomo.
Why, how thou fix'st thine eye upon its eye:
Wouldst thou wage battle with it, Giacomo?

THIRD PUPIL.
Shall I not copy it?

MICHAEL.
Surely: but take heed:
Mar not the thought which thou dost gaze upon,
Translating it in blind obedience;
But steal the spirit, as old Prometheus won
From Phœbus' fiery wheels the living light.
It is not dainty shadows, nor harlot hues,
(Though flushed with sunset, like Vecelli's gawds,)
Will make a painter. Take great heed the mind
Live in the eye, and the wild appetite
Breathe through the bosom and the sinewy shape.
Come near me. Mark! do not thou miss that turn.

RAFFAELLE enters.
RAFFAELLE.
Good morrow, Michael. How thrive thy designs
For the Pope's chapel?

A PUPIL.
Buonarotti!

MICHAEL.
Ha!
Who speaks?

RAFFAELLE.
Thy pupil. Come I in good time?

MICHAEL.
Look and decide.

[Shows a Picture.
RAFFAELLE.
'Tis grand and beautiful.

MICHAEL.
This visage came upon me while I slept.

RAFFAELLE.
O the rich sleep! Couldst thou not cozen her
To quit her poppies, and aye toil for thee?

MICHAEL.
Methought I lived three thousand years ago,
Somewhere in Egypt, near a pyramid;
And in my dream I heard black Memnon playing:
He stood twelve cubits high, and, with a voice
Like thunder when it breaks on hollow shores,
Called on the sky, which answered. Then he awoke
His marble music, and with grave sweet sounds
Enchanted from her chamber the coy Dawn.
He sang, too—O such songs! Silence, who lay
Torpid upon those wastes of level sand,
Stirred and grew human: from its shuddering reeds
Stole forth the crocodile, and birds of blood
Hung listening in the rich and burning air.

RAFFAELLE.
Didst dream all this?

MICHAEL.
Ay, Raffaelle; and so gazed
On Theban Memnon, that his image sunk
Fixed in my brain. Lo! this is he thou look'st on.

RAFFAELLE.
Sad watcher of the hours, which slowly creep
Through melancholy nights and desert days!
His look oppresses me.—What's he? ah, ha!
'Tis Faunus, is it not? That wreath of leaves,
The crook, the panther skin, the laughing eyes,
And the round cheek—or Bacchus? Ah, 'tis he.

MICHAEL.
No; 'tis the wood-god Faunus.

RAFFAELLE.
A brave god.
Stay!—let me gaze upon it. Thus—ay thus:
You drove your pencil round, and thus—and thus.
I never stood before a face so fine.

MICHAEL.
'Tis a free sketch; I know it.

RAFFAELLE.
Thou shouldst paint
Gods, my good Michael, and leave earth to me.

MICHAEL.
The children and the women thou wilt have:
What need to ask what thou hast won already.

RAFFAELLE.
Hark! there are footsteps coming.

MICHAEL.
'Tis the Pope.

[Pope Julius II. enters, with Attendants.]
POPE.
We come to visit thee, good Buonarotti.

MICHAEL.
Your holiness is welcome.

POPE.
What hast thou done?

MICHAEL.
Since yesterday?—but little, save design:
This head, and that.

POPE.
This takes my fancy much.

RAFFAELLE.
Your holiness is right.

POPE.
So, who art thou?

MICHAEL.
'Tis Raffaelle Sanzio.

POPE.
Ha! and who is he?

MICHAEL.
A painter, holy father; and a good one.

POPE.
What else?

MICHAEL.
Some drawings, which your holiness
Will prize but little. I've been plotting lately.

POPE.
Thine is a tedious art: is't not so, Michael?

MICHAEL.
'Tis hard to compass.

POPE.
Um!—and slow to live.

MICHAEL.
True;—but it lives for aye.

RAFFAELLE.
Right! like Renown,
Which clothes with sun and life the deeds of men;
Building on earth a world which may outlast
Its strong foundation. Give me Fame, on earth;
And, when I leave sweet earth, a finer sphere,
Where Beauty breathes thro' endless summer morns.
Let me have voices, too, heart-wakening words,
All touched like pictures with the soul of thought:
So will I dream over Elysian flowers,
And listen to music, and quaff nectar-dew,
And lie in the light of love, and paint for ever—

POPE.
Peace! peace! what's this?

MICHAEL.
He hath a liberal fancy.

POPE.
He fills his horn fuller than Fortune's.

MICHAEL.
Now I would rather lie on some vast plain,
And hear the wolves upbraiding the cold moon,
Or on a rock when the blown thunder comes
Booming along the wind. My dreams are nought,
Unless with gentler figures fierce ones mix;
Giants with Angels, Death with Life, Despair
With Joy:—even the Great One comes in terror
To me, apparelled like the fiery storm.

RAFFAELLE.
Thy fancy was begat i' the clouds.

MICHAEL.
My soul
Finds best communion with both ill and good:
Some spirits there are, all earth, which only thrive
In wine or laughter: But my nature seeks
Darkness and Night, Power or the death of Power:
A mountain riven—a palace sacked—a town
Rent by an earthquake (such as once uptore
Catania from its roots, and sent it down
To the centre, split in fragments)—Famine; Plague;
Earth running red with blood, or deluge-drowned:
These are my dreams:—and sometimes, when my brain
Is calm, I lie awake and think of God.

POPE.
Michael!

MICHAEL.
A vision comes which has no shape;
None, though I strain my sight, and strive to draw
Some mighty fashion on the trembling dark,—
'Tis gone:—again I draw, again 'tis flown;
And so I toil in vain.

POPE.
But thou must dream
Again for me, good Michael. We must show
A dream that shall outlast the walls of Rome.

MICHAEL.
I'll do my best; but thought is as a root
That strikes which way it will through the dark brain:
I cannot force't.

RAFFAELLE.
What wilt thou paint—a World?

MICHAEL.
Ay, its Creation.

RAFFAELLE.
Make it fresh and fair:
Breathe all thy soul upon it, until it glow
Like day. Clasp it all round with Paradise,
Color, and light, green bowers—

MICHAEL.
I'll make it bare.
Like man when he comes forth, a naked wretch,
So shall his dwelling be,—the barren soil.

POPE.
This must not be. It is not writ i' The Book.

MICHAEL.
Pardon me: I must chase my own poor thought,
Which way soever it turn.

RAFFAELLE.
Still earth should bloom!

MICHAEL.
It should be like the time. I will not paint
Antediluvian Adam when first he sprang
From dust,—strong, active, like the autumnal stag;
But with limbs dawning into sinewy strength.
Nor will I plant the full-blown intellect
On his bright eye, but therein gently unfold
Young Adoration—

RAFFAELLE.
Right! 'Twill grow and blossom.
Now for thine Eve.

MICHAEL.
Um! Must there be a woman?

RAFFAELLE.
‘Must!’—Thou wouldst paint a barren world indeed.
Thou never lovedst.

MICHAEL.
I have: nay, I love still.

RAFFAELLE.
Whom? what?

MICHAEL.
Mine Art.

RAFFAELLE.
Why, so do I: yet I love women too.
Thy humor feeds one sense and starves the rest.

POPE.
A poor economy. The youth speaks well.

MICHAEL.
Perhaps: yet, the first man was born alone,
Companionless, a prodigy like Light.
Birds and the desert brutes awaited him:
Nought else. A world there was (fair if thou wilt);
Yet Eden grew not before Adam rose.
After his birth, indeed, we may have wrought
That pleasant garden, wherein the Devil stole
And tempted Raffaelle's goddess soon to sin.

RAFFAELLE.
Stop there, stop there! The man—

MICHAEL.
Alas! he fell.
He ate perdition from the woman's hand.
Death for himself—(he was not born to die,
But live the lord of this eternal star)—
Death for himself and race, despair and toil,
Peril, and passion which no joy can quench,
Grief here, and Hell hereafter,—these he earned.
Shall I paint all this truly?

RAFFAELLE.
Why not?—yes.

POPE.
Do as thou wilt. Man's life is full of troubles.

MICHAEL.
It is a pillar writ on every side
With fiery figures. Shall we show them all?

POPE.
No: the first fall; no more.

MICHAEL.
Yes, the fierce moral.
That let me do; for I have sketched already
Dark phantasies, and broke up graves, and blown
(In thought) the heart-piercing trumpet, whose loud cry
Shall blast the dreams of millions.

POPE.
What is this?

RAFFAELLE.
The Judgment?

MICHAEL.
Ay, the Judgment.
Look!—In the middle, near the top, shall stand
Jesus, the Saviour: by his side mild crowds
Of followers, and Apostles hovering near.
Here shall be seen the bless'd, and there the damned;
Sinners, whom diabolic strength shall hurl
Down to perdition. Insolent visages,
Born in the reign of Sin, shall flesh their fangs;
Dwarfs, devils, and hideous things, and brute abortions;
Some who make sick the moon, and some who hide
Their monstrous foreheads in a reptile's mask:
Pale Palsy, and crook'd Spasm, and bloated Plague,
And Fear, made manifest, shall fill the wind
With Hell,—for Hell is horror, linked to pain.

RAFFAELLE.
No more. Thou dost bewitch my flesh to ice.

POPE.
No more, good Buonarotti. Now farewell!

MICHAEL.
Farewell!

RAFFAELLE.
Thy figures haunt me, like Disease.
I must go hear some Roman melody,
Accomplished music, and sweet human words,
And bask beneath the smiles which thou dost scorn.
When I am disenchanted—

MICHAEL.
Come again.

RAFFAELLE.
I will: farewell! Father, thy holy blessing.

POPE.
My blessing on thee, son! Michael, farewell!

[Exeunt.

RAFFAELLE AND FORNARINA.

SCENE I.

—A Room in the Palace of the Prince C---.
Raffaelle. Julio Romano.
(The Picture of ‘The Triumph of Galatea unfinished.)
JULIO.
I do not like that head.

RAFFAELLE.
I am sorry for it.

JULIO.
It is too sleek, too soft, too—

RAFFAELLE.
'Tis a woman's.
Wouldst have me paint each muscle starting forth?
Or play the anatomist with her delicate limbs,
As Michael doth? Thou'rt wrong, friend Julio.
Here, in this brawny back, thou seest I have writ
Strength, and a life of toil: but this—'tis Love's!

JULIO.
I do not like it.

RAFFAELLE.
I have done better things;
But let it pass. I want her company,
Without whose smiles my figures turn to stone.
Now, look!

JULIO.
I'faith, that is a dove-eyed Triton.
With what a milk-fed glance he winds his shell!
I would have filled it like the North, and puffed
His broad cheeks out like two tempest-blown billows.
This fellow, now, is like a loving shark,
And wears his spirit in his eyes: 'tis good.

RAFFAELLE.
Dost thou not see that, throughout all this story,
The spirit of Love prevails, in many shapes;
In some most gentle, and in others warm,
Whilst in one form, bare lust alone is seen,
The blood's rebellion, the—

JULIO.
I understand not.
Would all were such as he!

RAFFAELLE.
Pshaw! I had better
Have drawn a herd of bulls lowing about
One white Europa, than another such.
Julio, I tire. I loathe this gaudy prison;
I'll paint no more, unless my love be present.

JULIO.
If thou darest trust thy Venus in my sight—

RAFFAELLE.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!

JULIO.
Then why not bring her hither?

RAFFAELLE.
Hither? I will.
She shall stand here before thee, plain as Truth;
Less stedfast, but as white as untouched Truth,
Whom slander never blew on. Brace thy heart,
Lest she take all by storm.

JULIO.
What is she like?

RAFFAELLE.
Her eye is like a magnet.

JULIO.
What, i' the Pole?
Is it set round with ice?

RAFFAELLE.
With blushing fire;
With crimson beauty, like the death of day
At midsummer. Her look—O Love! O Love!
She treadeth with such even grace, that all
The world must wonder, and the envious weep,
Hopeless to match her ever. How I pined
Through months and months (I was a fool and humble)
Till at the last—I won her! Dost thou hear?
She's mine, my queen; and she shall shine a queen.
I'll clasp her round with gems: Her train shall be
Rich as a comet's,—

JULIO.
Art grown mad?

RAFFAELLE.
I tell thee
I'll pave the way she treads on with pure gold.
She shall not touch the trampled earth, and do
The base dust honor. I'll have Cretan pinions
Wrought for her, and a barb whose task shall be
To outfly the wind. Scarfs, fine as the air,
And dipped in Iris colors, shall be wove,
In Cashmere and the sunny Persian looms,
To be her commonest 'tire. She shall be decked
Forth, as she is, a goddess!

JULIO.
O rare Love!
What a brave dream thou art! Great pity 'tis
These rainbows which we weave from our dull thoughts
Should perish in broad noon.

RAFFAELLE.
Once, I despaired!
(Painting.)
Ha, ha! and saw through tears and cloudy dreams:
What wonder that I erred? But now,—'tis day!

JULIO.
Ay, ay; 'tis what we wish it, day or night:
We make our seasons as we make ourselves.

RAFFAELLE.
There; now I toil no more. While I am gone,
Do thou enrich this panel with some tale.
Let it be gaunt, and wild, dim as a dream:
'Twill well oppose mine own.

JULIO.
I'll do it. Farewell!

RAFFAELLE.
I shall be with thee ere the sun's awake.
Be busy, and farewell!

[Raffaelle exit.
JULIO.
I'll do't, I'll do't.
—Now, shall I paint the devil? Ah, ha!—or drag
Misshapen Chaos from his dark abysm,
And stretch him, like a giant, in the sun?
Or shall I tear the blue from South to North?
Or paint a comet plunging through the wind?
This ‘Triumph’ of our friend's is wanton soft:
But there's high matter in the sea-nymph's story,
Which might become a painter's pencil well.
He should have drawn the Cyclop, as he sate
Uplifted like a crag, and piped his songs
Of Galatea to the watery shores.
Some say that Orpheus-like he charmed dull stones,
Made ocean murmur, and the airy winds
Took captive; but 'tis known he sighed, and sang
The deathful ditties which belong to love;
Calling on Galatea. She the while
Lay mute, and closed (if e'er she heard his strains)
Her soul against his passion. Day by day
He sang, and like the mateless lark called forth
The dawn; and underneath the burning noon
Held mournful celebration; and at eve,
Fatigued by sorrow and wild songs, he wept.
I cannot fill this panel as he bids.

[Sketching.
The Prince C---enters.
PRINCE.
So; where is Raffaelle?

JULIO.
Gone.

PRINCE.
Gone whither? gone?

JULIO.
Ay, marry; Cupid called him, and he went.
You'll find him by the two great lemon-trees,
Which sleep beside the fountain in his garden.
H' 'as brought his brown girl there for summer talking.

[Paints.
PRINCE.
'Sdeath! what art thou doing, sirrah?

JULIO.
Um! as my master bade me. I have tried—

PRINCE.
Tried? ay, and failed. Get thou to Raffaelle, fellow.
Bid him sketch for thee each particular,
The scene, the groups, the—all. I will not have
My palace painted by a meaner hand.
Bid him come here (if it must be) with his—mistress,
And paint with Cupid's colors.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—The Garden of Fornarina, in the Suburbs of Rome.
Fornarina and Attendants.
FORNARINA
Will he not come?

FIRST ATTENDANT.
Be patient.

FORNARINA.
He'll not come.
The moon, the feigning, fickle, slandered moon
Will surely come; and every trooping star
Be present at his post in the dark sky;
And not a wind that wooes the orange leaves
Will dare be absent: But he—false, oh false!
Mark, wenches, if ye love—but do not love:
Yet, if ye do, fetter your lovers fast;
Bind 'em in chains, for love will fail like ice
In summer sunbeams: Trust no smiles, no oaths;
Bury your hearts beneath demurest frowns;
And tremble not, nor sigh, if you'd be safe.
Sing me a song, my child; I am not well.

[Second Attendant begins to sing.
FIRST ATTENDANT.
Hark! hark!

FORNARINA.
He's here. Mother of love, he's here.
Come! come away! I'll fly him like a deer.
Now if he finds me—Ah! thou faithless one,
[Raffaelle enters.
Art come at last? I will not look on thee.

RAFFAELLE.
Then I must punish thee (kisses her).
Look up!

FORNARINA.
Thou false one!

RAFFAELLE.
Did I not hear the nightingale in the thorn,
Just as I entered? Why, what gloom is here?
No welcome? none?—Ladies! who make our nights
Starry as heaven when no cloud's upon it,
Shine and smile sweetly, as ye love us. Shame!
What is this sullen sorrow, which so dulls
Your brightness? Let rain fall, if rain must be,
And straight grow clear again. Look up, sweet heart!

FORNARINA.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! What seest thou, now I look?

RAFFAELLE.
A world of mischief in those night-black eyes,
And peril on thy mouth.

FORNARINA.
Now, art thou not
A most false lover? Thou didst promise me
Thou wouldst come long before the sun went down;
And lo! he is departing.

RAFFAELLE.
The great sun
Falls from his fiery strength! This purple light,
Traveller of the late sky, will soon—how soon!
Pass to another world. I love this light:
'Tis the old age of day, methinks, or haply
The infancy of night: pleasant it is.
Shall we be dreaming!—Hark! The nightingale,
Queen of all music, to her listening heart
Speaks and the woods are still. Sorrow and joy,
Pleasure that pines to death, and amorous pain
Fill (till it faints) her song. What sweet noise was't
Came up the garden as I entered it?

FORNARINA.
The sweetest noise on earth, a woman's tongue;
A string which hath no discord.

RAFFAELLE.
Let me hear it.
Come! a soft song! a song!

SECOND ATTENDANT.
What shall it be?

FORNARINA.
Second Attendant sings.

RAFFAELLE.
This music falls on me like silver showers,
And crowns me, now the toilsome day is over,
With sweets akin to slumber.

FORNARINA.
Many thanks!
I think Marcella's voice grows sweeter daily.

RAFFAELLE.
She'll meet pale Philomel in her haunt, and try
Whose tongue is fleetest. Where was't she did learn?

FORNARINA.
Beside a river, when she was a girl,
Mocking its music, as the cuckoo's tongue
Is mimicked oft by wandering urchin boys.
Sometimes she cast her voice upon the winds,
And then strove with the waters; till, at last,
She sings as you have heard. Thanks, girls! now leave us.

[Attendants exeunt.
RAFFAELLE.
How soft a prelude are sweet songs to love!
I should be humble, but those sounds have crept
Into my blood and stirred it. After music
What should be heard but kisses? Take thy due.

FORNARINA.
Tush! Tush!

RAFFAELLE.
Come nearer to me,—near. Mad Jove
Ne'er loved white Leda with such tenderest heart,
Nor Dis (forsaking his Tartarean halls)
Pale Proserpine, as I do rage for thee.
Come nearer, thou wild witch! nearer, I say.
Be to me as the green is to the leaf,
Crimson to roses, juice to the fresh plant,
My life, my strength, my beauty.

FORNARINA.
I am here.

RAFFAELLE.
I love thee; dost thou hear? I languished for thee.
Ay; I have left sweet praises for thee,—gold,
Thrilling ambition, and the crowned delight
Which waits upon bold men who dare and do.
Near, near; I have left—ha, ha!—a Triton winding
His brawny arms around a shapeless nymph,
God Cupid without eyes, fish without tails,
And Galatea naked as the dawn.
What is it that I see in those black eyes
Beyond all others?

FORNARINA.
Love! 'Tis love for thee!
But, what didst paint to-day?

RAFFAELLE.
A team of dolphins,
A brace of Tritons and a crooked shell,
And some thoughts else,—which I forget. These things
Shine well enough for men below the moon:
But I have taken flight for Venus' aery,
Where I must rest to-night. Our patron prince
Will wax most wroth when he doth learn my absence.
No matter; he must cool.

FORNARINA.
But thou hast left
Thy friend, thy pupil, him—what is his name?
Thy uncouth, clever scholar?

RAFFAELLE.
Julio Pippi.
Troth, he's as rough as winter. Here he is!
[Julio Romano enters.
Why, what has brought thee here?

JULIO.
Oh! princely frowns,
A vulgar word or two, a Roman oath.
Rather than toil for these same well-fed dogs,
With a gold badge and a line which runs to Adam,
I'll visit a wolf, and starve. Your lord, your prince
Disdains my pencil, Sir; commands me stop.
I'll paint him with a flaming robe in Hell,
And give him a dog-fish's head.

RAFFAELLE.
Heed him not, Julio.
If he contemn thy labor, he's a fool;
And so no more of him. Thou shalt paint for me.

JULIO.
I will. Shall't be an earthquake? or a storm?

RAFFAELLE.
Neither; yet something which will suit thee well.
Dost love a marvel?

JULIO.
Do I? By the Gods,
Who dreamt upon Greek clouds Olympus-high,
I love a quaint, wild, wonder-stirring tale.
Let it be Goth or Roman, what care I,
So that each line be stuffed with witchery.

RAFFAELLE.
Then this will suit thee. Now, mark well the story.
—'Tis said that in some land, I think in Spain,
Rising upon you like an awful dream,
A wondrous image stands. 'Tis broad and gaunt,
Tall as a gaint, with a stormy front
And snaky hair, and large eyes all of stone;
And armed (or so it seems) from head to heel,
With a crook'd falchion and enormous casque;
And links of marble mail, which once were brass;
And spurs of marble; and marmoreal limbs,
All bent, like one who staggers. Full at the East
It glares like a defiance, lowering, bold;
And scorn still lurks about its stedfast eye;
And on its brow a devilish courage sits.
This statue, as 'tis told, was once a king,
A fierce idolater, who cursed the moon
And hated heaven, yet owned some hellish sway:
A strange religion this, and yet it was so.
Well; he was born a king, as I have said,
And reigned o'er armèd millions without law:
He sold brave men for beggar gold, and stained
The innocent youth of virtue: he robbed altars;
Ate, like Apicius; drank, like Afric sands,
Rivers of wine; then fell to frenzy. At last
Swarming rebellions (like the Atlantic stirred
To madness by the bellowing of great storms)
Rose up, and lashed to wrath by horrid wrongs,
Hunted the tyrant from his brazen throne;
Hunted him like a wolf from cave to cave,
Through rocks and mountains, and deep perilous glens,
Day after day, night after night, until
His soul burst out in curses. On one dull dawn,
Which showed him, lurking, to relentless foes,
He flung some terrible reproach at Heaven;
Laughed at its God, 'tis said, and cursed the Sun;
Whereat the broad eye of the Day unclosed,
And stared him into stone!

JULIO.
Oh! this is brave.
I'll strain my wit but I will do this for thee.
Farewell!

[JULIO exit.
RAFFAELLE.
Farewell! Farewell!

[Exeunt.

THE FLORENTINE PARTY.

SCENE—The upper part of a Meadow near Florence. It runs sloping down to a River, and is sheltered at the top by a small Wood of Olives and Chestnut-trees, and ornamented in various ways. Fiesolé is in the distance.
Pamphilus, Philostratus, Dioneus; Neiphila (as Queen), Pampinea, Fiametta, Emilia, Philamena, Elissa and Lauretta, entering as from behind the Wood.
NEIPHILA.
Come on, come on! A little further on,
And we shall reach a spot where we may pause.
It is a meadow full of the early spring:
Tall grass is there which dallies with the wind,
And never-ending odorous lemon-trees;
Wild flowers in blossom, and sweet citron buds,
And princely cedars; and the linden boughs
Make archèd walks for love to whisper in.
If you be tired, lie down, and you shall hear
A river, which doth kiss irregular banks,
Enchant your senses with a sleepy tune.
If not, and merry blood doth stir your veins,
The place hath still a fair and pleasant aspect:
For in the midst of this green meadow springs
A fountain of white marble, o'er whose sides
Run stories, graven by some cunning hand,
Of pastoral life, and tipsy revelry.
There will we, 'midst delicious cates, and wines
Sparkling and amorous, and sweet instruments,
Sing gentle mischief as the sun goes down.
Quick! but a few steps more, 'round by this copse
Of olives and young chestnuts (to whose arms
The vines seem clinging, like so many brides)
And you will reach't. Ha, stay!—Look! here it is.

FIAMETTA.
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!—Look! how Philostratus
Buries his forehead in the fresh green grass.

PAMPHILUS.
Hail, vernal spot! We bear to thy embrace
Pleasures that ask for calm: Love, and Delight;
Harmonious pulses where no evil dwells;
Smiles without treachery; words all soft and true;
Music like morning, fresh and full of youth;
And all else that belongs to gentleness.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Come! Sit by me!

DIONEUS.
Sit!

NEIPHILA.
Sit all!

DIONEUS.
Thus; in a circle.
So, that is well. Now, where is Tindaro?

NEIPHILA.
Ho, Tindaro, our servant!

PHILOSTRATUS.
Laggard knave!
Here, fellow Tindaro! The queen doth call thee.

TINDARO
(entering).
‘Call?’ marry! Had she borne—

PHILOSTRATUS.
How? How, bold knave?
Dost dare affirm she cannot bear?

TINDARO.
Not I.
Not I, by Bacchus! She can bear, no doubt;
Is fruitful as a vineyard; that's past doubt.
But, signor, I have borne on these poor shoulders,
Two trunks—look, look!—crammed full of wines and dainties;
Two lutes; a viol; besides some ten—

DIONEUS.
Tush! Tush!
Where are the tables?

TINDARO.
On Corvino's back;
And Stephano doth bring the boards for chess;
And Grasso hath the music.

[Servants enter, laden.
DIONEUS.
Place all here.
Thus; in a circle. Now, awake the wines!
And spread these cloths upon the level ground,—
Ho! there: take heed! thou wilt unstring my lute.
Now, where's the viol di gamba? Place it here.
Now, get ye gone unto yon chestnut-tree,
And share your wine in honesty. Away!

[Servants exeunt.
NEIPHILA.
Here will we rest, with all our court about us.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Lauretta and Elissa, come this way.

DIONEUS.
Stay, Fiametta.

FIAMETTA.
With Pampinea?—Well.

PAMPHILUS.
Here let us rest, tender Emilia,
And on this grassy hillock crowned with flowers,
Rest thy white arm. Now let the violets gaze
Their fill, and drink the blue light from thine eyes;
Now let the thievish winds their sweet wealth steal
From the dark riches of thy hair. Look up!

DIONEUS.
Fair Fiametta, dost thou hear him talk?

FIAMETTA.
He sings, methinks. Or, is't his voice is sweet?

DIONEUS.
'Tis sugared o'er with flattery. Now, for me!
[Aside.
The nightingales which haunt about these woods
Grow hoarse, methinks.

FIAMETTA.
How so?

DIONEUS.
They lose their music
(Else say their skill) before your honied words.
Tush! what's a rose? I'll crush these gaudy leaves.
How coarse their crimson is beside thine own!
Had I but lilies, I would burn them strait,
As a white peace-offering to thee. Come! wilt love me?

PAMPINEA.
He is a mockbird, and but imitates
The poetry he hears in falser prose.
Turn him to me, and leave him.

FIAMETTA.
No; not so.
He might afflict thy leisure with his groans.
And shouldst thou chance to love him—

PAMPINEA.
I? Ha, ha!
I hate him like a poison plant. Methinks
His very laugh is perilous.

FIAMETTA.
I will medicine't;
Not as men steal the poisonous juice from serpents.
I'll let him talk, till his last drop of danger
Be spent, and he is harmless. Look upon me!
What! wilt thou love me?

DIONEUS.
Ay; by foam-born Venus!
By all these clinging, creeping, curling vines!
By Love! I swear it. As the bee doth gather
Wealth from the rose's lip, I'll steal from thine.

NEIPHILA.
You sing too much in pairs. Break up! break up!
And in the place of tender falsehoods tell us—

LAURETTA and ELISSA.
LAURETTA
Ha, ha! Ha, ha!

NEIPHILA.
What's that which moves your mirth?

LAURETTA.
Ha, ha! ha, ha! It is an amorous story
Philostratus has read us, out of book.

NEIPHILA.
We live all here in honest fellowship.
He who is worth a jest or owns a song
Holds it in trust for this community.

DIONEUS.
Ay, no close purses, Sir; no hoards of words;
No merry tales: nor serious; no dull songs,
Learned of the cuckoo underneath a pine,
And buzzed in private to a crazed guitar.
All is our own. So, speak, Philostratus!

NEIPHILA.
Speak, without more ado.

PHILOSTRATUS.
I? By my soul,
I never tried to tell a tale till now.
I cannot tell it; nay, if you will have
A maudlin story, why prepare your eyes;
We'll have salt tears enow. Once on a time—

FIAMETTA.
Out on thee. That's the schoolboy's stale beginning.

DIONEUS.
I've heard it fifteen hundred times and more.
Beggars unfold such 'neath our valets' windows
At a penny apiece, and they account it dear.

PHILOSTRATUS.
I knew how it would be. So, come! I'll drink
A bumper of Greek wine and hold my peace.

LAURETTA.
What! vanquished by a man that wears slashed satin?
Tush! thou a soldier! Talk no more of love.

PHILOSTRATUS.
I'll tell it, by these teeth! Once on a time—
(Oh! you are still now); well, once on a time,
There lived a king—

DIONEUS.
Prodigious.

PHILOSTRATUS.
An old man,
Who wedded (somewhat rashly) a young wife.

DIONEUS.
I cannot hold my wonder.

FIAMETTA.
Peace, you parrot!

PHILOSTRATUS.
Well, Sirs; this wife being young, as I have said,
Loved one as young, a black-haired curly man,
Almost a Moor: some women love such men.

DIONEUS.
His name?—I see't. He squinted somewhat, thus;
A pleasant cast; Go on, and damn thyself!

PHILOSTRATUS.
She loved this curly fellow: he liked her:
The end was that they met. Each night tall Tormes
Stole to her chamber, when king Philip slept,
And lay upon his pillow. Some time Love
Hoodwinked our ancient king; but he, being prone
Unto suspicion, as most monarchs are,
Soon read in Helen's looks and Tormes' smile
That he was cuckold.

DIONEUS.
'Tis a filthy name.

PAMPHILUS.
'Tis so: but we must fix on bad and good
Names fit for each: we wreak our scorn, methinks,
Too much on words, and pass beside the deed.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Well, Sirs: Our king, being bred to tricks of state,
And burying anger in a sure revenge,
Watched, waited, and surprised the twain asleep.
Yet, being in darkness (lest his lamp might scare
That guilty pair away), he could but know
Two sleepers lay there: whether girl or man
Was but a guess. On this, to mark the one
Whose hair was coarser than the queen's, (the man,)
What does he, Sirs, but clips—look! shears the locks,
(Then worn in clusters) close into the crown.
This done, goes back and sleeps.

DIONEUS.
An easy fellow!

PHILOSTRATUS.
Well; Tormes 'wakes: and with a yawn—just thus—
Rubs his broad palm athwart his neck. Behold!
He starts: the curls are gone! The queen weeps showers;
Yet suddenly reviving (while her dull swain
Puzzleth in vain, o'er this, then that device)
Bids him haste back, and whispers in his ear.
He laughs, shouts, dons his clothes; and to the room
Where all his mates (equerries) lie in dreams,
Hurries, and closely clips each sleeping crown
Bare as his own. Ha, ha! The morning comes,
And our great monarch hath a crop-eared levee!
He looks; one, two, three, all are shorn alike.
Scarce can he hold his wonder: Yet, (being wise,
And wishing not to spread his own disgrace)
Quoth he—‘Let him who did this act be dumb,
And do't no more!’—which said, all go their way.
Then, as the story goes, by slow degrees,
The king forgave his queen: this touched her heart;
And she requited him, at last, with love.

DIONEUS.
I do not like your story.

PHILOSTRATUS.
'Tis not mine;
But an old record of a woman's wit.
The moral—

DIONEUS.
We'll forgive't. Some other time,
A twelvemonth hence, when we have had our suppers,
We'll sleep upon't, while thou unravell'st it.

NEIPHILA.
Now, who drinks Aleatico?

PAMPHILUS, DIONEUS, and PHILOSTRATUS.
I—I—I—

NEIPHILA.
Here, ladies, here are grapes, (spread out your arms!)
Purple as evening; figs, and cakes, whose tops
Make dull the whiteness of our frosted Alps.

[They feast.
PHILOSTRATUS.
Bring here the foreign wines!

[To the Servants.
NEIPHILA.
Will none enrich
Our banquet with a song? O shame upon ye!

PHILOSTRATUS.
[Sings.

DIONEUS.
Let't be full, and rich, and bright,
Dazzling our eyes with liquid light.

PAMPHILUS.
Then't shall be wild Champagne,
Which soars and falls again,
Crowning the drinker's brain
With dreams all night.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Or Sherry? sparkling Sherry?
Which makes the drinker merry,
With its fine Borachio flavor?

DIONEUS.
Or Canary?

PHILAMENA.
No, that's old;
So is Sack, whose kiss doth savour
Of the wit that's past and told.

DIONEUS.
Let't be full, and rich, and bright,
Like a gem of liquid light.

PAMPHILUS.
Let it be, (if like a stone,)
Like the diamond alone,
Dazzling the night!

[During this song the tables are removed.
NEIPHILA.
And now, sweet sister, where is thy sad story?
For sad it must be, if thy mind doth speak
Its natural music, and no erring star
Bewitch thee to unhealthy merriment.

PAMPHILUS.
I do not think with you: a merry story,
Methinks, is harmless as a tale that's sad.
Yet, speak, Emilia!

EMILIA.
Once,—in Florence, here,
In that part which looks toward the hills Pistoian,
There dwelt a lady. She was very fair,
Young, rich, a maiden, noble, tender, free.

DIONEUS.
O Jupiter!

PHILOSTRATUS.
O Vulcan, hammer me i' the head!
I'm budding.

DIONEUS.
What! i' the head? he must have horns.
Is he a goat? or—

PHILOSTRATUS.
Peace! my love's a budding,
Crimsoning, all blushes, like a three days' bride.

NEIPHILA.
Silence in court! Say on, Emilia.
Was she loved, this lady?

EMILIA.
By two noble youths:
Guidotto one, a high-born Cremonese,
And one a Pavian, Mutio Imola.
Both dwelt in-Florence, where this lady came
With old Certaldo, when those tedious wars
Which vexed the city slept, and men were free
To come from exile to their natural homes.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Call me her name! My head could never bear
These vague surmisings. ‘Lady’—was she tall?
Meek? fair? Give me her name, and strait I see her:
Else is she but a sound.

EMILIA.
'Twas Agatha.
And very fair she was, and very meek;
Tall too, and bent her as yon poplar bows
To the sweet music of the river airs:
And so it was she whispered.

PHILOSTRATUS.
What, in music!

EMILIA.
Ay, Sir; for what is music, if sweet words
Rising from tender fancies be not so?
Methinks there is no sound so gentle, none,
Not even the South-wind young, when first he comes
Wooing the lemon flowers, for whom he leaves
The coasts of Baiæ; not melodious springs,
Though heard i' the stillness of their native hills;
Not the rich viol, trump, cymbal, nor horn,
Guitar nor cittern, nor the pining flute,
Are half so sweet as tender human words.

PAMPHILUS.
Thou'rt right, dear lady. Pity speaks to grief
More sweetly than a band of instruments;
And a friend's welcome, or a smiling kiss,
Outflourishes the cornet's bridal note.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Go on, go on!

EMILIA.
These rival youths were friends;
Till Love, which should be free from all harsh thoughts,
Set hate between them. Then, rank jealous cares
Sprang up, and with them many a sharp device,
Plots, quarrels, serenades, wherein the sword
Outmatched the cittern. Each had potent friends:
One band the guardian sued, and one the maid;
But neither prospered. In the meantime, the youths
Tired of complaints, and fights which bred but blows,
Resolved to steal what fortune held from them.
One bought the serving-woman's soul with gold,
While mischief won the man: Thus, each had help.
But, tedious 'twere to speak, from day to day,
Of feasts, and watchings; how the Pavian frowned
Like sullen thunder o'er his rival's hopes;
How with mad violence he traced his steps;
Forced ceaseless quarrel, and out-clamored all
The winds in anger. Even the lady's presence
(That altar before which Love loves to lie,
Defenceless, harmless, all his wrongs put off,)
Was sullied by the Pavian's contumely.

PAMPHILUS.
What did Guidotto?

EMILIA.
When his rival left
Certaldo's palace, he—whose gold had won
The lady's serving-maid to help his suit,
Stole, ushered by the lamping midnight moon,
Unto her garden, where, with learned strains,
He taught the echoes all to speak his love;
Complained not; smiled not; but with tremulous words,
And looks where sadness strove with humble hopes,
Adored the lady.

PHILOSTRATUS.
Ho! I see it all.
I see't. What woman yet did e'er withstand
These modest mournful gentlemen?

DIONEUS.
Hear! Hear him!
How he doth trumpet all his virtues!

NEIPHILA.
Hush!
Let's know the rest.

EMILIA.
'Twas as yon jester says.
Guidotto won the heart of Agatha.

NEIPHILA.
Ay; but the end?

EMILIA.
One night, the Pavian (warned
O' the guardian's absence) burst the palace doors,
And with a riotous crew, whose chief he was,
Stood 'fore the lady's eyes. Once more he told
His burning story; once more swore to die;
Vowed, menaced, sighed, implored, yet moved her not.
On this, grown desperate, with one arm clasped round
Her fainting figure, he bore her through the halls:—

PHILOSTRATUS.
Ha, ha! Now where's the modest, moonlight lover?
The twanger of guitars, the—?

EMILIA.
Peace! He stood
Like flaming anger in the ravisher's path:
And drawing forth his sword, he bade him hail,
For he was come to save him.

PAMPHILUS.
What did the other?

EMILIA.
Rushed on his nobler rival; swore some oaths;
Frowned and denounced destruction. With sure hand
Guidotto warded, and returned his threats,
And for each blow repaid him with a wound,
At last, the Pavian fell.

PHILOSTRATUS.
The end? the end?

EMILIA.
The end was (would 'twere better) such as happens
In common tales. 'Twas shown by some strange marks,
Which chance, or nature, in her sport, had drawn
Beneath the lady's breast, marring its white,
And by a story which Certaldo told,
(All well confirmed) that Agatha was, in truth,
Own sister unto Mutio Imola.

PHILOSTRATUS.
And so Guidotto won, and there's an end?

EMILIA.
He wed indeed the gentle Florence lady.
But for the Pavian; he (who loved so well
'Midst all his anger) when he heard that tale,
Betook him to far lands or savage haunts.
Some said, he bled a martyr to his faith,
In Syrian countries; fighting 'neath the flag
Of Godfrey or the lion-hearted king:
Others that he had fled beyond the woods
Near to Camaldoli; fed on roots; and dwelt
Somewhere upon the unsheltered Apennine.
Certain it is, a hermit like to him
Was known thereafter. In the caves he lived,
Or tops of mountains; but when winds were loudest,
And the broad moon worked spells far out at sea,
He watched all night and day the lonely shores,
And saved from shipwreck many mariners.
At length—he died; and strangers buried him.

DIONEUS.
Had he no friends?

EMILIA.
In some lone cemet'ry,
Distant from towns (some wild wood-girded spot,
Ruined and full of graves, all very old,
Over whose scarce-seen mounds the pine-tree sheds
Her solemn fruit, as giving ‘dust to dust’)
He sleeps in quiet. Had he no friend? Oh! yes;
Pity which hates all noise; and Sorrow, like
The pale-eyed marble that guards virgin mould;
And widowed Silence, who will weep alone;
And all sad friends of Death, were friends to him!

NEIPHILA.
Is there no more?

EMILIA.
No more. My tale is told.

NEIPHILA.
Then let us seek the fresh green river-banks,
And rest awhile under yon plane-tree's shade.
Our fair Emilia there will touch her lute;
And with a song, where love shall sweeten wisdom,
Bid us take comfort. After such sad stories
What can be heard, save music?—Follow me!

[Exeunt.

THE VICTIM.

. . . . [High in the parching sun, where Ganges old
Sweeps by the jungles, and broad billows scatters
Upon the burning shores of Hindostan,
Rose a great temple; in no puny age
Fashioned, but built, like Babel, 'gainst the skies.
Based on a rock, and cut in granite stone,
Its pillars and Titanian capitals
Heaved their enormous bulks, till each o'erlooked
Wide India. To some God, whose name is lost,
This wilderness of stone was dedicate.
Millions of quick-eyed slaves, with dusky brows,
All wreathed in white, came here in the old time,
And on the prostrate marble bent, and swore
Allegiance to A Name! Then, amidst storms
Of blood and tears, 'rose Siva, at whose feet
Widows were slain; maidens, whose hearts were warm
With summer love, old age and infancy,
Shrank in his blazing altars, and left gold
Unto the temple's saints for priestly prayers.
Then prayed the priests; and then, while darkness lay
On the dull world, the fierce-eyed Saivans did
Mysterious rites, and their nocturnal songs
Went sounding through the long stone-carvèd aisles
Of Elephanta to brute Juggernaut.
And soon this superstition far outspread:
From Oude to the Deccan; over black Bahar;
From the Arab Seas, across to rank Bengal,
It sprang and flourished; and wherever else
Base human folly crouched to baser guile,
It reigned and made its martyrs. . . . There is one
Far famous in its stories, from whose life,
And from whose death, and from whose after fame,
Some learn a lesson. When the droughts are great,
And their squat idols sit unmoved, the priests
Call on the saintly Muttra. To please him,
They burn a virgin, and scream loose love songs,
And curse the Rajah, Dhur-Singh, long since dead.
He, while he lived, wise prince, did good towards all:
He lived, untouched by grief, for many years;
And, when he died, left children virtuous,
A happy land, which owned his rule was just,
And slumbered in the Indian's Paradise.] . . . .

SCENE I.

—A Garden, near the Ganges.
Rhaida waiting.
RHAIDA.
The sun has set, and now should Meignoun come,
My dear, dear shepherd! All day long he leaves
My soul to wander; but at dark he comes,
Lovelier than night, to his poor Hindoo maid.
Look! On the holy altars flames the fire,
Which holy priests now feed with myrrh and flowers:
That is his signal—hark! he comes, he comes!
No,—no: O, faithless shepherd! 'tis the rush
Of the great Ganges, who doth love her lord
(Her ocean husband) more than thou lov'st me.
Fond fool, he will not come; yet, soft!—he's here!
He is here, and I wrong him. O Meignoun!

Meignoun enters.
MEIGNOUN.
My heart! my dear one!

RHAIDA.
My—my own! (falls into his arms.)
You're come?

MEIGNOUN.
Ay, but I soon must leave thee, sweet Hindoo!
With scarce a kiss from thy rich lip, must I
Seek the great City. Even now, my friends
Are waiting for me on the river banks;
And I must sigh—farewell!

RHAIDA.
Go,—go: farewell!

MEIGNOUN.
To-morrow I will come to thee betimes;
And I will bring with me the nuptial lamp,
And the bright bridal jewels—

RHAIDA.
Come thyself.
O thou, who art beyond all gems to me!
Bring me thyself; or (if thou wilt aught else),
E'en bring one lotus lily for my breast,
And swear upon't that thou wilt love me ever.

MEIGNOUN.
I'll do't, thou jealous girl; yet I have sworn,
A thousand times already, 'neath the stars,
To love,—and I do love thee.

RHAIDA.
Swear't again.
Never too often can a lover vow:
So once more vow, and I will list to thee
With ears more greedy than the mother owns,
When on her first-born's stammering words she hangs,
And thanks sweet Heaven for Music. Wilt thou love me?

MEIGNOUN.
I love thee now.

RHAIDA.
But ever, ever love me?

MEIGNOUN.
I love thee, and will love thee. Tush! not so
The summer nightingale shall haunt the rose:
Not Kunya (when 'mongst village maids he dwelt,
In his bright boyhood, and did woo, and win),
E'er loved as I will love. I'll bear thee hence
A bride more envied—

RHAIDA.
O thou vain, vain shepherd!

MEIGNOUN.
How?—but you chide me well: I had forgot.
I dreamt, as oft I dream, and sometimes hope.
A shepherd? that was true; yet, in past times,
The shepherd's sword hath cut its way to power.
I'll come and re-demand thee.

RHAIDA.
'Twill be vain.
And yet, if thou wouldst cast this cloak aside,
And tell us thy true name and parentage—?

MEIGNOUN.
Suppose, sweet, I should be that fierce Decoit,
Whose very name is terror to the land,
The river-robber, Kemaun?—Dost thou shrink?
Fear not: your Rajah tracks him where he lurks,
In the dark jungles. He has braved the law;
And powerful hands are on him.

RHAIDA.
Let him go.
You smile! ha! what art thou? Speak! Have I given
My whole heart to—

MEIGNOUN.
A robber? Dream not so.
Yet,—being a robber, he's a potent one;
Next to your prince in power. But I must go:
And, ere I go, one word of your fierce father:
I swore (as thou rememberest) to come back,
And from his lips force gentler words. Now, mark!
That hour is near; and, for the subtle slave
Who whispered lies in thy harsh father's ear,
I'll bring his fit reward.

RHAIDA.
He is too base—

MEIGNOUN.
[Voices are heard singing at a distance.

RHAIDA.
Must you go?

MEIGNOUN.
Dost hear the river surging 'gainst its banks?

RHAIDA.
It murmurs like a tender bride, methinks:
“Leave me not, love,” it says, “so soon this night,
When heaven looks kind on earth, and earth is happy.”

MEIGNOUN.
The storm is coming. If I more delay
We shall not 'scape the ambush. Love, farewell.

[Exit quickly.
RHAIDA.
His step grows faint,—and fainter; all is still.

[Listening.
Muttra comes out of a thicket of shrubs.
MUTTRA.
So, he is gone. Come forward; all is quiet.

The Zemindar enters.
ZEMINDAR.
Now, now, where is she? Ah, look where she stands,
The fool, still dreaming of that base Decoit,
That water robber, whom I more abhor
Than poison: but I'll wake her. Girl!

[Strikes her.
RHAIDA.
Ah, father.

MUTTRA.
Ho, ho! ho, ho!— (Aside.)
She will burn famously.
Those snaky locks, with which she snares men's hearts,
That tongue, with which she scorns them—she scorned me.

ZEMINDAR.
What, are you dumb?

MUTTRA
(aside).
Not yet: but soon she shall be.
Her ancles, silver-bound, her round soft arms,
Her bosom with his white love leaves upon it,
All shall consume: the priests are ready for her;
The flames are hungry, and my heart's ablaze
With a brave fury. (To Zemindar)
—Shall both die by fire?

ZEMINDAR.
Go in, and wait. (Rhaida exit.)
What say you? both by fire?
No; she may burn, because her blood will wash
A dark blot from my house: but he—come near!
I've dug a hole beneath my peepul trees,
And in't we'll tumble him. To-morrow night,
When his blood beats hot, we'll shut him up.

MUTTRA.
Ho, ho!
What alive? alive?

ZEMINDAR.
Ay, full of life and lust.
We'll cool his dreams, the while we quench his courage.

MUTTRA.
I love thee: good! But he will die—too soon?

ZEMINDAR.
No: I have fenced his grave all round with stone,
And pierced the lid with holes. Thro' these same holes,
The music of his screams shall soothe our ears.
Three days and nights I'll live beside his grave,
And listen—while he starves.

MUTTRA.
O brave! O brave!
Come, let us look upon this pretty place.
Come on, come on. Beneath the peepul trees?
Was it not there? This is the shortest path.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—Same place. Time, the next evening.
Muttra and the Zemindar are passing along; Kemaun meets them.
KEMAUN.
Stay, stop! a word with you.

ZEMINDAR.
What dog is here?
A Pariah? Strike him down.

KEMAUN.
'Tis not ill said;
But hard blows must be struck ere that be done.
What say you,—shall we fight?

MUTTRA
(to the ZEMINDAR).
Peace! do not touch him:
'Tis a strange fellow; very brave and honest,
But strange, as you may see. He brings me news
Of matters afar off, and (with your leave,)
I would be private with him. Farewell, now;
[Zemindar exit.
I'll follow soon. Now, then, is all prepared?

KEMAUN.
Who is that little withered, winter thing,
Whose knees go knocking by the bamboo stalks?

MUTTRA.
'Tis the Zemindar.

KEMAUN.
So!—I'll take his money
With a free heart. Nature has written dupe,
And cheat, and miser, in his reptile looks:
That's well; we'll strip him of his golden skin,
And tie him to a tree. His girl, you say—

MUTTRA.
May live; yes,—'twill be better she escape.
(Aside.)
She touched my humour, as she moved away:
Methought her walk was like an antelope's;
Her eyes are jewel-like; sweet words she has;
Soft limbs, bright ringlets, and a swan-like gait.
My mind is changed; I would not have her burn,
Till she grows old, and then—the wood may blaze.

KEMAUN.
And, if I rescue her?

MUTTRA.
And keep her for me,
I'll show thee where her father hides his gold.

KEMAUN.
Good; thou shalt have a third: that and the girl
Thou'lt fairly earn by thy bold treachery.

MUTTRA.
How, treachery?

KEMAUN.
Ay,—oh, that offends thee? Tush,
We on the river care not for such things:
We speak our minds and stab; a plain good way,
And saves a load of trouble. Now I'll leave thee.
My rogues are skulking in the thicket there,
And wait for orders. When this horn is blown,
[Gives it.
I'll come and make the priests stare.

MUTTRA.
Do not drag
Their curse on me.

KEMAUN.
Oh no. I know thou art
Half priest, and three parts saint, and all a knave.
Do I not know thee, Muttra? thou hast done—

MUTTRA.
Bad deeds, I know't, but I do mortify
My flesh with fast, and score my back with stripes;
Have I not lain on the jagged iron,—ha!
Cankered my tongue? and swung upon a hook?

KEMAUN.
Peace, you blind cheat, how dare you brag to me?
What! taunt me with your virtues?

MUTTRA.
I have done:
Let us not quarrel, who are now allies.
Retire, and wait the signal. Nay, retire.

KEMAUN
(aside).
Now let me have both gold and girl, and then—

[Exit.
MUTTRA.
The cut-throat infidel robber!—he is gone.
I breathe more freely. He will do the sin,
And I reap the sweet profit: that is right.
When all is won, I'll lead the Rajah where
The villain hides: none know where 'tis but I.

Messenger entering.
MESSENGER.
The priests are waiting for thee, holy Muttra.
The victim which you promised hath not come.
Haste! for the Rajah will be there to-day,
And sacrifice to Siva.

MUTTRA.
Say I come.
[Messenger exit.)
'Twill be a glorious day. The Rajah come?
Well, we must wait until he leave the shrine,
And then do our design. Now, what's the matter?

Kemaun, entering.
KEMAUN.
The wood's surrounded: half the Rajah's troops—

MUTTRA.
Fear not; 'tis nothing. He does sacrifice;
And all his Court attend: 'tis ever thus.
Go, hide your men; there, 'midst the underwood;
And when the Rajah's gone, I'll blow the horn.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Hindoo Temple.
Priests are officiating, and votaries kneeling.
CHORUS OF PRIESTS.
Pour the attar,—more and more!
Flowers, and leaves, and spices heap;
Gums, and oils, and odours pour,
Lest the burning altar sleep!
Look, it sinks—the holy flame!
Why is not the victim brought?
Once, if called, the Hindoo came
Swifter than the flight of thought!

A HINDOO.
I am here, as soon as sought.

OTHERS.
I am here;—and I;—and I:
There are none who shrink or fly.

CHORUS.
Why doth the doomèd victim stay?
Full of sin is base delay:
Quick, or soon shall sound a curse,
Amidst the thunder of our verse.
Call her with resistless voice!

CHIEF PRIEST.
Come!

The Zemindar, Rhaida, and Muttra, are seen approaching.
CHORUS.
She comes. Rejoice, rejoice!

AIR.
Soothe her soul with song,
Like a silver shower,
Sweet, and bright, and strong:
'Tis her conquering hour!
Let the music steal,
Like a hidden river,
Through her, till she feel
Crowned and blessed for ever!

The Zemindar crowns his daughter.
RHAIDA.
Why am I brought here?—Ha! what means the crown?
I am no victim sentenced to the fire.

CHIEF PRIEST.
Come forward!

RHAIDA.
Hark, he calls on some one. Hush!

ZEMINDAR.
He calls on thee!

RHAIDA.
Ah! no, no: kill me not.

[Falls.
CHIEF PRIEST.
Whence comes this! Was she not prepared? 'twas wrong.
The Rajah will himself come here to-day,
And pray for aid in some great enterprise;
Till then we shall not stain the altar foot.
Take her aside, meantime, and counsel her.

[Rhaida is taken out.
VOICES without.
VOLICES
The Rajah comes! the Rajah!

A PRIEST.
Hear'st thou the shouts? he comes.

CHIEF PRIEST.
I hear them, brother.
The bold, freethinking Dhur-Singh, comes, I know;
But here, in our own temple, he must droop
His lion aspect and obey the law.
Hail, Maharajah!

The Rajah enters, attended.
RAJAH
(to an Officer).
See they be secure.
Health to the priests of Siva! I am come
To share your holy rites, and offer prayers,
Woods, leaves, and spices, (for I shed no blood,
Save that of foes,) before a God's great shrine.
Bring here the basket. Look, I offer these;
Myrrh, aloes, sacred oils, rich sandal-wood,
And flowers, which you confess even Siva loves:
Take them; and pray that I may free the land
(Else all at peace,) from murderous men, who've turned
Our holy Ganges to a place of spoil,
Robbed the poor peasant, slain the sucking babe,
Fired happy homes, and wheresoe'er they've been,
Left death, and violation, and despair!

[The presents are offered.
CHIEF PRIEST.
The offerings are accepted. See, they burn.
And now, great Rajah, we will sacrifice
A living creature at the altar foot,
A maid who ne'er was wooed, betrothed, nor won.
Go, fetch the victim.

[Priest goes out.
RAJAH.
Doth she wish to burn?

CHIEF PRIEST.
Her father brings her. On his house a blot
Hath dwelt for a hundred years; no good stays with him;
His acts ne'er prosper; he is loved by none;
His dreams are bad; his peasants starve; his friends—
He hath no friend; and therefore (and because
He loves great Siva) doth he this day bring
His daughter for a maiden sacrifice.

RAJAH.
Methinks himself should smart for his own sins.
And she?

CHIEF PRIEST.
She trembles. Human blood will shake,
Sometimes, in dread of the last agony;
But we will pray such fault may be forgiven,
And bid her father fast for one whole day:
She shall not die in vain.

Priest enters with Rhaida, the Zemindar, &c.
PRIEST.
The maiden's here.

CHIEF PRIEST.
Come forward. Girl, approach.

RHAIDA.
O spare me, spare me!

RAJAH
(tenderly).
Come hither, Rhaida!

RHAIDA
(screams).
Ha!—who spoke to me?

ZEMINDAR.
The Rajah spoke. (Aside.)
Methinks I know his voice.

RHAIDA.
Where? Where? The Rajah? Ha, Meignoun! 'Tis he!
I'm safe, I'm safe!

[Sinks on her knees.
RAJAH.
Did they not say this girl
Was unaffianced?

CHIEF PRIEST.
Ay, unwooed, unsought.

RAJAH.
They told thee false, and they deserve to die.
She is affianced; nay, she should have been
This night a bride.

CHIEF PRIEST.
Whose bride, O Rajah?

RAJAH.
Mine.
Come forward, Rhaida. Look! I take her hand,
And in your holy temple own her mine.
Priest, seek some other victim.

(Kemaun enters by stealth, and mixes with the crowd. The place is surrounded by troops.)
CHIEF PRIEST
(pauses).
Mighty Rajah,
I grieve that 't should be thus; but she is doomed!
The God himself, in his own voice, hath asked
A victim, and I dare not disobey:
I dare not offer one of less degree.

RAJAH.
Then must we strait do justice. Stand apart!
[Kneels.
Terrible Siva! if this maid be thine,
Devoted, and not slain by human hate,
Speak to thy servant, who now kneels before thee.

CHIEF PRIEST.
Arise! The marble hath a thousand tongues,
And might, if so it willed, now answer thee.

RAJAH.
Peace, holy man, do I not know't? The God,
Whose strong divinity is masked in stone,
Is free as air; his spirit still hath power
To will, and make his marble limbs obey,
His marble tongue to speak. Is it not so?

CHIEF PRIEST.
'Tis so.

RAJAH.
Then speak, O Siva! If thy wrath
Demand this maiden for thy altar fires,
Speak, and she comes. But, if no word of thine
Be heard in answer, I pronounce her—free!
Behold her! She was lured by falsehood hither;
And they who brought her have affronted thee,
By offering a false martyr. She is wooed,
Won, almost wed; and by thy awful law,
Is unfit for the altar. Terrible God,
If thou delightest, as 'tis said, in blood,
Yet sure thou lov'st it most when justly shed.
Know, we have now a victim fit for thee;
One who, though priest and saint, deserves to die.
Spare, then, this innocent maid!—Once more, if thou
Speak'st not, she's free. No answer? Maid, approach!
The God whom now we worship gives no sign.

CHIEF PRIEST.
The sign you call for, yesternight was made;
And I did see it.

RAJAH.
Was the victim named?

CHIEF PRIEST.
No name: a victim only.

RAJAH.
He shall have
A saintly victim, who is doomed to die;
Doomed by the law and me.

[Claps his hands. Muttra and Kemaun are secured.
PRIESTS.
This place is sacred, Prince.

RAJAH.
Peace, peace, vain men.
Justice is done in heaven; why not here?
Bring forth the prisoners. Men, stained black with crimes,
(All by confession and strong proofs made plain)
Prepare, for ye must die! Kemaun, thou hast
One lonely virtue, an undaunted mind:
For this (so much I reverence valiant hearts),
I give thee choice how thou wilt die to-day.
Speak, and begone!

KEMAUN.
The robber's death for me.
A tamer end would blot the fame I've earned:
Death and renown be mine!

RAJAH.
Take him away.
[Kemaun exit, guarded.
For thee, thou baser villain, death by fire:
That is thy doom, which none shall mitigate.
(To Officer.)
Stay thou, and see it done. He is the worst,
More base, more false, more without touch of pity,
Than ever I did think a man could be.
One more there is; her father.

OFFICER.
Must he die?

RAJAH.
No; let him live; but in a foreign land.
We will not touch a hair that's kin to her.
[Turns towards Rhaida.
And now, thou tenderest heart, and loveliest bride,
That ever made the world more beautiful,
Bright'ning with smiles the aye-recurring Spring,
What shall be done with thee? Why, thou must go
Unto a prison; look! to these fond arms;
Whilst I, thy Prince, shall feel more honoured,—more,
With thee thus near me, sweet,—than were I crowned
With garlands, red with conquest, or now hailed
By all wide India as her chosen King!

3. Part the Third.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE FIRST DAY OF THE YEAR.

As one who enters on a road
The end whereof no sight can reach;
Where they who bear Sin's heavy load
Are numberless (so sages teach)
As sands upon the wild sea-beach:
Where Showers and Sunshine, Night and Day,
Like Ghosts go glimmering on their way;
Where Friends and Foes, where Right and Wrong,
And all that doth to Life belong,—
The shadowy Past, the grim To-come,
Around our footsteps sink and soar;
Where Death goes beating on his drum;
And that great Sea without a shore
Gleams in the distance, while a Voice
Cries out, ‘Let no one here rejoice!’
So I, now blind with hope and fear,
Enter upon thy paths, O year!
Thy paths, which all who breathe must tread,
Which lead the Living to the Dead,
I enter; for it is my doom
To tread thy labyrinthine gloom;
To note who 'round me watch and wait;
To love a few; perhaps to hate;
And do all duties of my fate.

MARCH: APRIL: MAY.

THE PICTURE.

THE PARISH DOCTOR.

ABOVE AND BELOW.

A GARDEN SCENE.

PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

CELATA VIRTUS.

AN ACQUAINTANCE.

EX FUMO.

PLATONIC.

THE SEXES.

QUESTIONS TO A SPIRITUAL FRIEND.

AN INTERIOR.

SEEING.

HEARING.

PHRYNE.

MAUVAISE HONTE.

LOVE—

(Moderato).

LOVE—

(Tempestoso).

TO A FOREIGN ACTRESS.

PARTHIAN LOVE.

FAR NIENTE.

TO JOHN FORSTER.

WITH SHAKESPERE'S WORKS.

EPISTLE

FROM AN OBSCURE PHILOSOPHER.

LE SCÉLÉRAT.

THE VICTOR.

THE KING IS DEAD.

TO A MYTH.

VANITY FAIR.

JACK TURPIN.

OLD LOVE.

A COMPLAINT.

A PETITION.

LIFE.

In our youth we learn; in our manhood act.
What more? Alas, what more
Is in all Life, Fiction, Fact,
Than to see and hear, toil and strive to soar,
For evermore!
What doth Life contain? what doth bind us here,
In its thorny round?
Is it Hope,—that fadeth? Is it wizard Fear
That enchains our spirits with its whispered sound?
In what cavern drear
Are Life's pleasures found,
When—strewn like leaves around—
Thousands pine and sigh
For a home on high,
Some for gentle rest, beneath the daisied ground?

A WORD ON BEHALF OF WATER.

SENT TO MISS JULIA ---.

ON YORICK,

A LITTLE SPANIEL.

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

SONG.

[“Tell me what hath bound thee]

SISTERS OF MUSIC.

THE SPOT OF GREEN.

PRISON POETRY.

AFTER DEATH.

POVERTY.

O Poverty! O Poverty!
Children all of Poverty!
Thou who tak'st thy humble stand
Trading in the public way!
Thou, with needle in thy hand,
Toiling from the birth of morning
Till the death of day!
Thou who labourest in the harvest
For the wealthy farmer's gain!
Thou whose pen must run for ever,
(Ever in a merry vein,)
Thorough days and nights of pain!
Thou whom Hunger's talons clutch,
Or Palsy smiteth with her crutch!
Thou who seek'st the 'Spital's bed,
Stumbling o'er the quick and dead!
Beggar of the sightless eye,
Martyr of the wind and storm,
Brother of each passer-by,
Who doth bare his shrunken form
To the Winter's cruelty!
Thou,—whate'er thy shape or feature,
Or thy name unknown, or nature,
Natural child of Poverty!
Know—that there are they who give
Their pity to all things that live,
And suffer; that in every heart
There is still a better part;
That at last the winter yieldeth,
And the ice is conquered,—won
By the glory of the Sun;
That the evil of the earth
Dieth in a nobler birth;
That all sorrow and all pain
Are but travelling shadows vain,
Fading in the mists of Time,
Like the poet's passing rhyme!

THE ALL-SUFFICIENT.

EVENING SONG.

THE PAST.

VAGUE WISHES.

LOVE FOR LOVE.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SONG.

LOVE-BIRD.

HERMELIN.

SONG.

[Sick am I, sweet love, to-day]

PAST AND PRESENT.

A COMMON CHARACTER.

SONG FOR ALL SEASONS.

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

“Why do you love?”

FORSAKE ME NOT.

Forsake me not, forsake me not,
When I am dead!
Leave me not, tho' life be fled,
But tend me to the last:
And tell me, when my love is shed,
And my morn is overcast,
Shall I be by all forgot,
Like a flower whose stem is broken?
Ah, watch beside me, gentle maid,
Let me not in earth be laid,
Till a token
Be enwreathed around me,
Binding me to those who stay
Still beneath the sunny day;
Like the love that bound me
To your heart, so long ago;
When the phantom, Death, did call,
Whispering from beneath his pall,
With a voice 'tween joy and woe,
Long ago! long ago!

FROM THE LAMP.

TO THE LAMP.

A FAREWELL TO VERSE.