University of Virginia Library

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!